Lawsuit | KSJ FF

Ren

To say that the room was poorly lit would be an understatement.

The single source of lightning came from a weak yellowish lightbulb hanging from the barely two-meter high ceiling, right above the head of a person tied to the shabby wooden chair.

The person's clothes were in tatters, showing the pale bruised, and scratched knees and hands. The poor being was unaware of her whereabouts due to the cloth covering her face. She was trembling.

Her feet were bare and freezing against the cold, wet concrete flooring.

Footsteps echoing in distance made her flinch as she moved her head left and right in search of the source of the sound.

"Is she still alive?"

The raspy voice echoed.

"For now, sadly."

Another harsher, hoarse voice that she recognized instantly replied.

The footsteps stopped for a brief moment, introducing the key jangling followed by the combination of metal sounds inside the doorknob and wooden creaks.

They were approaching her, and now she could almost feel the warmth of their bodies and breath next to her. One stood in front of her, and the other behind.

"Didn't your parents teach you how to behave, young girl?"

The guy squatted in front of her, sniffing her before he stood up straight again.

"Sato Misa... or should I call you Watanabe Ren?"

"She won't say a word. She's barely alive, but her tongue is still hidden well behind the teeth."

Replied a guy with a hoarse voice.

"Maybe we should take out her teeth then," he snickered, causing the girl to almost hyperventilate.

"That's not a way to treat a lady now, is it? Show me her face."

Obediently, the guy standing behind her lifted the rough material from her head, revealing a bruised face, covered in smeared blood, makeup, and tears. The girl quickly glanced across the room, only to realize that she was in some underground room with no way to escape.

She cautiously turned her head around to check whether her torturer was the guy she saw at the mention. As soon as his face entered her peripheral sight she knew it was him. Min Yoongi, the infamous assassin. Yoongi was a spitting image of how his looks were described on the street. All black and leather, cap throwing shade on his eyes and face hidden under the black mask.

And right in front of her stood Jung Hoseok, the young lord of prostitution, bribery, drugs, and gambling in South Korea. He wore tight black jeans, black leather boots, and a navy bomber jacket. His hair was messy, hands hidden in pockets, and the corners of lips curved upwards.

An hour earlier he'd been at Taehyung's and Jungkook's place to check the status of the goods and have a, since recently, regular fight with the others. An hour before that he'd been at Minji's place. She was a simple, graceless girl, one of many pawns Hoseok's cautiously been using as his alibi.

She was dramatic in the way she looked and talked, her small, heart-shaped face was framed by swirls of orange hair and small pearl earrings. There was something dramatic in the way she moved around the room as Hoseok was getting ready to leave, almost as if she was a protagonist played by Vivien Leigh and he was her Laurence Oliver in an old, black and white Hollywood movie.

She was stomping over the latest editions of Vogue, Harper's Baazar, and Vanity Faire, random strands of lace and silk and threads, as if they were nothing to her at the moment. Minji felt like she was a lost French fashion girl, finding her voice and new, postmodern epochal centerpiece. And Hoseok was her muse for months now.