NCT Ten | Mafia

I won't let him.

Layla's P.O.V

Mr. Reyes standsat the front of the class, talking about the Aztec culture. He shows us a chart of pictograms—little picture symbols that combine to create meaning. That's what the Aztec people used for communication instead of letters that make up words. But why he came to my work to talk about it. How it relative to my fashion stuff... Jeez those people make not sense all.

 -_- 

Somebody says they're like emojis. Reyes wants us to discuss that. From the way he says it, you can tell he doesn't agree. I can hardly bring myself to care, because I'm way too focused on what I found out last night. Only twelve hours since my world got blown apart.

Even now I want to imagine that Dad never visited that basement, that he wasn't truly a part of that horrified business. Maybe he was just someone's contractor, without knowing what was happening. The pieces of paper with their numbers and letters—they don't tell the whole story. But I'm not sure there can be shades of guilt when children are being hurt. Maybe it's like Ten says, that everyone who looked the other way is just as guilty.

Right then my phone buzzes. A text. Discreetly I slide it out from under my notebook.

STEP OUTSIDE.

On my phone it says BLOCKED where his number should go. Ten.

My heart begins to pound.

He was always going to come for me, but not like this. Not at work. may not know every last detail about him, but I know he's careful. I know he waits and watches. I know he likes to control his environment.

So why here and now?

Alarm shoots through me. Something's not right.

There's a part of me that thinks about telling Mr. Reyes that I'm afraid. What would he do? Lock down the work? We've been having drills with all the work shootings that have been happening, special procedures we're supposed to follow in order to stay safe.

But there's no drill that would keep Ten from doing whatever he wants to do. No safety when he's around. Maybe not even for him.

I shiver as I remember his words from so long ago—I'm the winter nobody ever saw coming.

I scroll over to the Contacts page and look through all the names. Yeri and Jeonghan. Dad. So many people in my life who would be angry at me for what I'm about to do. I feel bad about my mom, because I think she'll worry the most. But I can't grow up to be her, even if there are some parts about her I respect. I can't smile for the cameras at society events, pretending everything's okay, now that I know there are boys kept in basements.

There's a new number on my phone, one I've never called.

It's the phone number for Detective Wonwoo. He's been calling me every day, leaving messages. Some of them kind. Some of them stern. "I know you're worried about what will happen to Stone," he said in the last one. "But I'm not out to hurt him, understand? I'm trying to stop him from hurting anyone else."

As arguments go, it's a persuasive one. Especially since I know the man Ten would hurt is my father.

Light streams in from the tall windows. Just a month ago the trees in the park across the street were still mostly bare, dark limbs dusted with green buds. The leaves are fully in now, vibrant green treetops shifting in the breeze.

Time moves on. The clock ticks. Stone won't wait forever.

I pull out my binder and open it a crack. There's the document I stole from my dad's office. The one that proves he owned the houses on either side of the house with the fireflies. He owned them during the time when Ten was kept in that basement.

It's damning.

So often in the hours since I found it, I imagined sending it to Ten. But then I'd hesitate, remembering what happened to Taeyong. If I show it to Ten, he'll kill my father. But if I don't, what happens to those boys? I curl my trembling hands into tiny balls under my desk. I can't not save them.

Then I get an idea. A middle way.

My mom insisted that I keep Wonwoo's number on my phone, a kind of panic button in case something goes wrong. She means something bad like Ten coming for me, and that's bad, but nothing like what's on this sheet of paper.

My throat fills with acid as I point my phone at the paper and snap a picture.

"What's that?" Yeri hisses at me.

The last thing I need is her curiosity. "It's nothing. My notes from last period. I don't want to lose them."

She snorts. "I thought it would be something interesting. Maybe a slam book."

A slam book, something filled with nasty rumors and swear words. "What would you write about me?" I find myself asking, even though I already know.

Her eyes meet mine, at once guileless and a million years old. She is the kind of girl who will rule those society parties when she's older. I don't begrudge her that. If anything, I feel a deep sadness that I couldn't be her, for my mother's sake. "I'd say you were a good girl," she says with a little huff of laughter. "Can't stop doing the right thing even if it kills you."

My chest feels strange, like a thing that's thick and hollow, expanding, filling with air.

I start a new text. This one has the photo of the document, along with the words. He'll need protection. That's the deal.

Then I send the evidence convicting my father to Detective Wonwoo.

Those boys deserve justice, but not vengeance. There's a difference. Maybe my father was part of the people who hurt him, even if that makes me want to throw up. Or maybe he knows something that can help nail them. Either way I have faith in Detective Wonwoo's insane determination, if nothing else in this world.

And I won't let Ten kill my father.

I can do the right thing, but that's where I draw the line.

There are boys being held against their will out there,I text at the end. Make my father lead you to them.

I'm up and running to the door even as I ask to go to the bathroom. My phone and the evidence are still sitting on my desk, hidden in plain sight.

Mr. Reyes says something that sounds like yes, so I grab the hall pass from its hook on the door.

I'm barely in the hallway when a hand closes around my wrist.

I look up to meet Ten's brown eyes, more cold than blazing today. Features harder, somehow. Everything about him feels more distant. Maybe even suspicious.

Wherever we're going, it isn't going to be a cuddle session in a remote cabin.

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