Imagine a freeze frame, you standing in the middle of an empty room.

There's a gun on the table a few feet away from you, a sleek grey revolver in the exact middle of the wooden plane - and you have to get it. You need to.

But there's a little problem.

There's a similar revolver, cocked and fully loaded, aimed at your temple, ready to blow your brains out.

The holder has a blonde eyebrow cocked, but his eyes aren't on yours. They're focused on a black-haired male's, eyes cold.

There's a blue-head peeking in through the window, but everyone is too occupied to notice. On top of that, the door is half-open, and a gray-haired boy is position behind it, paused mid-barrel.

You know all these people. You wish you didn't.

Lower lip tucked under your front teeth, you have a slightly pensive - and panicked - expression on your face as you wonder what sins you must have committed in your past life to get stuck in a situation like this.

Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides, gaze fixed at the metallic object on the wooden table on the other end of the room - and you want it.

You need it.

Now imagine the scene unfreezing.

The gray head barrels into the room the exact moment the blue one jumps inside, roaring a spontaneous battle cry. The blonde at your side flinches, caught off gaurd at the sudden invasion, and his confusion gives you just enough time to dodge his gaurd and run towards the wooden table that is your salvation.

The blue-haired boy, unfortunately, bumps into the gray one, muttering profanities under his breath as he lands on his butt. The other, though ruffled, manages to choke out a, "No swearing, Yoongi!"

You reach the table, immediately grabbing the gun and pointing it at the black-haired man, the trigger slipping a little in your sweaty palms. "Don't move."

The feeling of the weapon in your hands is unfamiliar, and you become distinctly aware of the slightly suffocatingly humid atmosphere, and the uncomfortable way your shirt is sticking to your side like a second skin.

The blonde's eyes are razor-sharp as he raises his gun once again.

The blue-haired boy, who now has a name, looks at you, eyes frantic. "Run, Y/N, run!" He screams.

"No!" You yell back. "I'm not leaving you!"

The blonde licks his lips as he points the gun at your face.

All thoughts of your promise abandoning you, you turn, rushing out of the room in the manner of Usain Bolt.

"Y/N!" Four voices scream behind you.

"I'm done!"

Could you imagine that?

But I guess the story really started when you kicked a girl in the crotch.