I'm dangerous
too powerful

Have you ever wanted to throw something?

No, not just throw; to break something—maybe to pick up that glass or that vase and smash it against the floor, the wall, the cupboard, hear the satisfying smash as it breaks into thousands of tiny pieces, feel a similar ball something hard and choking in your chest be crushed? To feel it, the sudden burst of emotion, to 'take it out' on someone, to feel the appeasing pain as your knuckles hit flesh, the broken bones under them, the spatter of blood on your skin, warm and wet? Have you ever felt that angry?

Well, I have.

And unlike most people, I didn't have to hold it in and wait for it to dissolve.

I lifted the baseball bat as the man came at me, eyes widening as he realized I was armed. I could see the other henchmen behind him—so that's why there were no bouncers at the back door—and hefted the bat, feeling its reassuring weight in my hands, the smooth grip in my fists. As the man skidded to a stop, terror in his eyes, I smiled—no, I grinned, a manic grin that came without telling me—and swung the bat.

If you've never had the pleasure of breaking a vase, you might wonder, how does it feel? I can tell you that.

It feels fucking great.

The bat connected with his skull with a pleasant thwack, and his head whipped sideways. An unstoppable feeling rose in my abdomen, a feeling that was so great that my chest felt like it was expanding to accommodate it. Satisfaction. The scene unfurled in slow motion in front of my hungry eyes, the specks of blood flying from his mouth, the perfect sound of something cracking and breaking. Yes, this was much better than a knife, which came and went silently, dissatisfying. Much, much better.

Then time went back to normal, and the man fell to the floor like a ton of heavy bricks, not to move again. I stepped over his body, careful not to ruin my handiwork, and moved towards the other men with a rictus grin on my lips, probably looking like a psychopath. Some drew their guns, but most ran. Smart decision.

For the next few seconds, my mind was blank with pent-up rage, dizzy with the desire to feel the jarring recoil against my bones as the baseball bat smashed against noses and chests, and a groin. The bullets were easy to miss. It was as if my subconscious had taken over, and was taking control over my body with my conscious mind asleep. It was exhilarating—my vision was tinted red, and when I ultimately emerged from the hallway, I was a raving mess, bloody and grinning.

It took a few moments for me to come back to my senses. I dropped the bat, chest heaving, curling and uncurling my fingers to feel the slight ache in my bones from the repeated attacks. I checked my clothes. They were bloody, but I was intact, as surprising as that was.

Okay, I thought, blinking. Suddenly, I felt a little queasy. Now that I remembered the situation I was in, panic was beginning to set in again. No, no, no. I couldn't let it take control of me again, not after such an enlivening experience. Power through it, I told myself, closing my eyes for a few seconds to remember the look on Jungkook's face. Don't think about it. Find the eye of the storm.

As much as I hated him, I finally felt like I understood what he had been trying to say. And that it might actually work.

When I opened my eyes again, the world was steady. I swallowed against the dry patch in my throat, and ran towards the elevator. Without the men obstructing my path, I could have followed Taeyong and jumped from the hole in the glass, but I wasn't sure if all the men would stay down. They had guns, and I wasn't going to risk it.

Common sense and self-preservation kicked in as I entered the elevator, and when I finally stepped out, there was a knife in my hand, gun within reach at my thigh holster.

Thankfully, there was no one at the entrance. I gave myself ten seconds to survey the area, knife out in front of me as I looked from side to side, walking slowly and carefully, always with my back to a wall. The hallway on the right—the one where I had found Taeyong—was empty.

I pursed my lips.

What about the boy who had led me to him? The escort? The room he had come out of was right in front of me, but I wasn't sure if it was safe to check. I wasn't a savior, I wasn't even an everyday person, but I couldn't lie that I was tempted.

You don't know him, the more cynical side of me hissed. You don't even know if there's a Lee clan member in the room with him, or if he might turn on you within seconds. If you try playing hero, you'll both die.

But I couldn't just walk away.

My heartbeat was so loud as I went to the door, I wondered if it was audible outside. As if someone was strumming my heartstrings like it was a guitar. It wasn't musical, though, there was nothing beautiful about it. It was the sound of fear, and nothing more.

I pushed open the door, gun drawn, but there was no boy inside. It was occupied only by a slight figure turned away from me, a girl. I stopped short, heart turning to lead in my chest. A young girl, wearing fishnets, her hair in two high cheerleader ponytails—with streamers and everything. She turned towards me, and I saw that her arms and legs were bare.

Oh god. My heart dropped into my stomach, horror and revulsion taking its place between my lungs, and I felt the oddest sensation, like I was being choked, but from the inside. She had glitter on her skin, around her eyes. Pretty, narrow eyes, innocent and sweet. Oh god, no. Fuck no.

At first, her lips lifted into a smile as she saw me. A fake smile, I could tell easily, as I'd seen a lot of those, but well-practiced. I lowered the gun, and her smile faded, turning into shock. Horror. The first time I didn't feel good about being feared.

I felt queasy.

"You—" She raised a hand to her mouth, pretty eyes wide, glitter on her lashes that fell like rain as she blinked. "You look like—"

"And that's enough bonding time," a sudden voice rasped in my ear. I jerked, lifting my knife, but there was already a gun at my temple, pressing hard enough to form a bruise. The girl got to her feet, shaking slightly. Her knuckles were white, knees together. She looked like a schoolgirl, for god's sake, maybe she wasn't even an adult yet. I felt tears gather in my eyes.

I had let myself be distracted, and another time, maybe I would've cursed at myself for it, but at that moment, all I felt was shame. Remorse and guilt, an acrid self-hatred that corroded my insides.

"I'm sorry," I said in a choked whisper, blinking hard and fast as I looked at the girl, her visage getting blurry as the tears merged. "I'm so sorry."

"All right, that's enough," the man hissed again, and I flinched. I recognized that voice. It was Hyojong, head of the bikers, yet another person I had not expected to run into. I stilled myself as much as possible, but it was hard to fight back the disgust I felt at being touched by him. "Turn around."

I turned, slowly, arms raised at my sides. His words were slurred, and there was the same unusual smell on him, drugs and gasoline. He always smelled like shit. High Jack, the bikers used to call him. I almost smiled.

He looked exactly the same too, red eyes and mocking grin, slight stubble, the scraggly yellow hair. What I felt when I saw him wasn't nostalgia, not exactly, but a remembrance that was neither sweet nor longed for.

"You look like shit," I said dryly.

He grinned. The worst thing about facing him was that I could never tell what mood he was going to be in. Hyojong could laugh at your joke and bury a knife in your jugular all in a span of thirty seconds, and I said this because I had seen it happen.

He was a dealer, he was feared, but he wasn't the most powerful physically. The only reason I had never dared cross him—I had rather run than face him—was because he was quick. Sharp and deadly. His aim wasn't the best, but even if you had the best technique, it was hard to last long against him. He didn't kill with a single bullet, no. If you died by his hands, you died bleeding out from thousands of little paper cuts all over your body.

"You can't kill me," I breathed as he marched me out the door and into the hallway. "You're not allowed to."

We had arrived at the casino. The place had been emptied out. There hadn't been too many people there before, either, but it seemed desolate now, as if everyone had been shooed out. Not too long ago, either.

"No," he agreed, pushing me to my knees. My face burned, with rage or shame, I couldn't decipher. "But we can hurt you as long as your heart keeps beating."

We? I frowned, looking at the carpeted floor, pressed under my knees. The gun left my temple just as I understood what he was talking about. We.

"That's right," a new voice said cheerfully, and I blanched. I would have known that voice anywhere, even without looking up. "So, how do you think we should start?"

I tensed as Minho knelt in front of me, smiling a Cheshire cat smile. He looked smug, but I noticed the slight crookedness of his nose and the scar tissue at his cheek with pleasure. I had left my mark.

I didn't see Hyojong move, but I saw his shadow on the floor. Taking that moment to react, I spun into a standing position, elbow out, hoping desperately to get an opening.

He caught my arm.

I sucked my breath in, surprised, as he pushed against my upper arm, twisting me away from his body and towards Minho. If I hadn't been so disorientated, I would have managed to land at least one hit, but I was completely out of my comfort zone. Minho's forearm smashed against my solar plexus, and I was on the floor before I realized it, flat on my back, gasping, trying to blink away the tears in my eyes.

Minho pushed his knees against my shoulders, pinning me down. My knife had been knocked out of my hands, but I tried to scratch at him, get purchase, do anything, but the tips of his boots dug into my hands before I could use them. I glared up at him, lips pulled back into a snarl, but he only laughed.

There was something crazy about that laugh. I'd heard people use the word 'crazy' to describe laughs before, but they didn't know what they were talking about it. Minho sounded psychotic, derisive, every sound like a jab to the chest.

"Look at you," he purred, licking his lips as he lifted a knife—my knife—and laid the tip against the corner of my lips. "Pretty little thing, landing exactly where you were supposed to be. Under me."

I could taste the metal of my blood in my mouth, and for a moment, I was worried that I was going to choke on my own blood. I tried, desperately, to think a way out of the situation, but all the trains led to one place. There was no way out of the situation.

"You put a pretty scar on me, so it's only fair that I'd pay you back," he said, softly, dangerously, and I felt the last of my hope die. I wasn't getting out of here. No one knew where I was. "Only the scars might not be, well, pretty."

I tried to breathe, but he was pressed against my chest. Panic, again, rising like a wave of salt, roaring blood in my head.

"Let's start with a butterfly," he muttered, licking his lips. I closed my eyes. "That's only fair."

I felt the tip of the knife touch my cheek, cutting open the skin. The first bead of blood rolled down to my jaw, and the place exploded.

──────

yass we love cliffhangers (well at least i do)

i'm so excited for the next few chapters because they're going to be a RIDE. trust me, you're not ready in any way or form. THERE'S SO MANY SURPRISES IN STORE !! anyone wanna guess?

it's been a long time since i asked for theories but here we are, at an important turning point in the story, and i gotta ask: who do you think the girl is? the blond escort? what's gonna happen next?

wattpad, for some reason, always deleted my a/ns so i'm sorry if you expected a double update :') but hey, at least you get to read one (1) shitty note so it's not all bad

love and barely held-in excitement,
Manx.