SINCERELY YOURS. ᵏᵖᵒᵖ

the colour red [kim namjoon]

request: Omg could you please write mafia!joon??? Where (M,n) is a doctor and finds him hurt and takes him in? Thank youu

note: my apologies for delaying your request so long, but enjoy! (also i hope you can't tell i've never written a mafia/gang/etc fic before haha,,)

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— you find a stranger bleeding in an alley. as a doctor, you find it your duty to help him, however suspicious he might be.

word count: 1.6k

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You grab the top of a large black bag, knotting it securely. Looking out the window, you note that the light is fading fast. You've been so busy making the most of your rare day off that simple tasks like taking out the trash had moved to the far recesses of your mind.

You slip on some sneakers, ignoring the loose laces, and hold the rubbish bag looped around two fingers as you open the front door of your flat and head into the elevator.

The block of flats you reside in is nicer than average — you spend so long in the hospital on your feet and you had decided a nice place to come home to was a fair choice. Despite the relative luxury your job affords you, the building still doesn't have a rubbish chute, which you grumble about mentally.

The narrow alley to the left of the main entrance holds the things the owners don't want out front and is where a large, dark green dumpster lives, hidden around the corner and in the shadows.

As you approach the bin, you hear shuffling slightly further away and a groan of pain. Through the rapidly-coming darkness, you discern the figure of a person struggling to stand up, leaning heavily against the wall before collapsing again.

You close your eyes, sigh, then drop the rubbish bag by the closed bin. It's close enough to its target, anyway.

Hurrying over, you call out, "Hey, do you need help?"

"Some would be appreciated," the stranger says, strained. It's a man. He looks up and his eyes widen. "Whoah there, big guy."

You offer your hand and the man takes it. You pull him to his feet and he drapes his right arm over your shoulders, with yours automatically going to his own to support him.

Now that he was standing, you can see you're both around the same height, and you wonder what was with the name he chose for you.

Glancing down, you see red. A lot of it. It seeps into the white shirt he wears, blossoming around a tear near his stomach. "You're hurt. We should head to the hospital—"

"No. No hospitals," he interrupts, then adds, "please."

"Okay, uh," you say warily, "I can try. We'll head up to my apartment."

"Yeah. Sounds good. Thanks."

You take the back entrance to the building, avoiding the front desk, and step into the elevator.

In the better light, you notice the man's left leg is limp and there's a small hole in the thigh of his black trousers. Blood drips from his hairline and covers one side of his face and neck, disappearing as it reaches his once-white collar. From all the crimson staining his skin, you can confidently say he's hurt in at least three places.

Luckily, the apartment block houses mostly upper-class citizens who often work late into the night, and the floor you live in is empty of people who might notice you taking a bleeding man into your home.

You take the man into your flat, half-dragging him. His breathing has become more ragged. When you lay him on the couch and place a pillow beneath his head, he winces.