"If you don't get your filthy hands off of me, I will cut them both off when I get the chance," I screamed, thrashing against the restraints. My body bucked, desperate to break free from the tight grip around my arms and legs.
"I thought you said she wouldn't put up much of a fight," a voice rasped, laced with frustration. The grip on my arm tightened, shoving me forward into a chair. Plastic zip ties cinched around wrists and ankles, binding me to the back. A black cloth was tied over my eyes, blinding me. The last clear memory was walking home from the shops. Then, two men in black masks had shoved me into a van, dragged me across concrete that scraped and bruised my arms.
The blindfold was ripped away. I blinked against the sudden light, taking in the room. It was small, musty, yet surprisingly well-furnished. A chandelier glittered overhead, casting elegant shadows across a dining table centered in the room, surrounded by seven chairs. "You'll wait here while we get the boss," the man spat, his face still hidden.
"It doesn't look like I have much choice," I muttered, eyes flicking to the ties. He left without another word. I began calculating escape routes. The window was to my right – third floor. Breaking bones was the likely outcome. The door was solid, locked. Useless. I scanned for a weapon, anything I could use.
My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. A man filled the frame. He was tall, with jet black hair falling across bright brown eyes. A white dress shirt tucked into black jeans, held by a silver belt. A small mole on the end of his nose softened his sharp features. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment." His voice was deep, raspy, delivered with a chilling confidence. He sounded rehearsed.
"Nice to meet you too," I shot back, annoyed I couldn’t extend my hand for a sarcastic handshake. "I’m Hanna."
"I know who you are," he said bluntly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "Are you going to introduce yourself, or just stare at me?" I scoffed. He moved closer, bending down, hands in his pockets, aligning his eyes with mine. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" He tilted his head, a predatory smirk playing on his lips. The man radiated an unsettling confidence. I laughed, nearly toppling over in the chair.
"Are you being serious?" I choked out between laughs. "Honestly, I’ve had scarier dreams about failing math." I forced myself to breathe steadily, watching him lift his hand. It hurtled towards my face, a blur of speed. My eyes squeezed shut, bracing for impact. But the sound never came. Silence stretched, then a teasing smirk. "I thought you weren't afraid of me? Not so big and mighty now, are you?" He laughed, a cruel edge to his voice.
"Just some ground rules, Hanna. I'm in charge here. You speak to me, and treat me with respect." His voice deepened, a low growl. I bit back a retort. This was a narcissist, building walls around himself, using aggression to conceal vulnerability.
He leaned close, his face inches from mine. I noticed a scar that ran from the corner of his left eye into his eyebrow. The skin around it was discolored, suggesting it hadn’t healed properly. "Respect is earned, you know." He began to roughly untie my arms and legs. "Exactly. So if you were me, you'd learn to close that pretty mouth of yours. Follow." He beckoned with his index finger, striding towards the door. I opened my mouth to protest, but his glare silenced me.
"Where are we going?" I asked, following him into a corridor lined with red carpet. Paintings hung on the wall, depicting famous artists. They were muted and dusty, lacking substance. "You're going to meet the others," he responded, grabbing my arm to pull me forward. I slowed to examine a painting, trying to wriggle free. He suddenly released my hand, sending me stumbling backwards. My head slammed into the corner of the frame.
"You know, I just realized I never fully introduced myself. How rude of me," he laughed, leaning into my face, a smile plastered on his lips. He rubbed the throbbing spot on my head. "I'm Kim Taehyung." The tip of his nose brushed mine as he gripped my arm, dragging me further down the corridor.
The room we entered smelled of smoke, burning my throat and watering my eyes. A poker table dotted with cards dominated the center. Six men stood around it, engrossed in their game, oblivious to our arrival. "What the fuck are you doing, Jungkook? I said no smoking in the poker room," Taehyung roared, instantly drawing the six men’s attention.
"Shit, sorry, Tae," a young boy dropped his cigarette, stomping it repeatedly until it was extinguished before tossing it into a bin. I’d never felt more uncomfortable. Six pairs of equally handsome eyes trailed over me.
"These men right here are who keep this mafia gang on its feet. We go by the name of BTS," Taehyung spoke proudly, unaffected by the attention. My eyes widened. A mafia gang. I'd heard whispers, fragments of stories. Under no circumstances were you to get involved. Too late now, I guessed.
"That's a pretty shit name, don't you think?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I was asking for a death wish, but I suspected I was already on Taehyung’s list.
"I said the same thing," a shorter man muttered, a bright blonde with gums showing as he laughed lightly, prompting the others to join in.
"Did I ask for your opinion, Yoongi?" Taehyung’s voice boomed, silencing the laughter. "Once you're done giggling like little school girls," he continued, "how about you introduce yourselves to Hanna. We wouldn't want to give off the wrong impression." He settled into a cushioned chair, stretching his legs wide, leaning forward, hands clasped. I discreetly rolled my eyes.
"I’m Namjoon. Fun fact, I can hack into anything. Literally anything," he flashed a smile, dimples flashing. It was hard to see past the innocence.
"I’m Seokjin, but just call me Jin. I specialize in firearms." Jin was devastatingly handsome, radiating arrogance. His eyes raked over my body, a smirk tugging at his lips. I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
"Min Yoongi," the blonde said with a shrug, clearly uninterested in introductions. "Is that all you're going to say?" A red-haired boy nudged him, prompting him to continue. Yoongi glared at him. "I don't need to say anything else." The redhead sighed. "I’m Hobi," he added with a small smile.
"I’m Jimin, but call me whatever you like," he walked over, taking my hand in a handshake I was too shocked to respond to. Jimin oozed sex appeal. His thighs strained against his jeans, his long hair tied in a half ponytail. "You're really not the bad boy you think you are," Yoongi deadpanned. Jimin turned to elbow him, but hesitated, letting his arm fall back to his side.
"Why don’t you introduce yourself, Kook?" Taehyung spoke from his chair, cutting off the childish banter. The black-haired boy turned to Taehyung with a blank expression. He looked the youngest, but despite his build, he seemed out of place. The others had tough edges; he looked almost innocent.
"I’m Jungkook. We were both raised in an orphanage." My face twisted into a deeper frown, anger rising. I'd been shuffled between foster parents, discarded like an object. I'd experienced everything – hits, drugs, verbal and physical abuse, the emotional scars. I'd learned to survive alone.
The seven of them looked at me expectantly, waiting for my introduction. What was the point? They already knew everything. "I’m Hanna, and I don’t know why the fuck I’m here."