𝗥𝗲𝗱 | JJk ✔️

20| Masque-raid

Is it wrong that the only thing—person you can think of right now is Jungkook?

Especially considering the fact that you're on your way to meet a psychopath, right now is not the time to be wondering if Jungkook found enough bandages to wrap around his bloody arm.

Jeez. Should you even be thinking of that bunny-faced brat?

Your thoughts are cut off by a click that cracks at your locked door. You jolt, watching the chauffleur turn to you timidly. "Here you are, miss," he says, nodding politely for your dismissal. 

Now, under the coral light of the car, you realize that the chauffeur is in fact very young. Sixteen to eighteen at most.

You blush with embarrassment, remembering that you called him a dickass earlier. Clearly, he's too young to be affiliated with the Snakes. And he doesn't look Spanish at all. His features are pure Korean. "Thanks," you tell the boy, stepping out awkwardly.

Without a sound, the limo glides off, leaving you utterly and mercilessly alone. Only now do you feel the subdued fear start to boil in your gut, simmering through your bones as you gaze at the massive ballroom before you.

Yes. It's actually a damned ballroom.

Swear to god... if Sam called you here only to dance with you, then you won't leave until you dance the life outta him.

Heartbeat lumped in your throat, you enter through the small set of white staircases. You don't bother knocking, feeling your fingers tremble around the icy doorknob that you twist.

This isn't supposed to get scary yet. But given that there's no source of lights around, you're going to excuse your dramatic take on this.

Gulping, you enter, hearing the massive door groan wider. But before you could take another step in, you quickly go through your pathetic plan in your head.

First, give yourself over to Sam. Second, let Jihoon go. Third... well, there isn't really a third one. If you die, you die. But you'll try to shoot him before anything.

Best plan ever. Note the sarcasm.

Inhaling sharply, you push the door open wider, sliding your body to the side in case Sam tries to shoot you as a way of welcome.

When you don't hear a sound, you peek inside, taking in the dark-academia-themed ballroom with a bar in front of you.

An empty ballroom, devoid of any guards or hidden spies hung like monkeys over the chandeliers above your head. Somehow, this terrifies you more.

Did the chauffeur drop you off at the wrong location?

"Y/N," your dad's voice suddenly comes to your right, his voice sending vibrations beneath your feet. You snap around, watching Sam walk in boldly through the foyer. 

Ah.

This motherfucker.

He's wearing an olive leather jacket over an off-white shirt that's tucked under his black ripped jeans. There's a cocky smile to his face that you ignore, eyes falling behind him in hopes to see your dad.

Baffled when you don't see him, you turn to Sam, jaw tight. "I swear to God—Where is he?"

"I'm an imitator," interrupts the Spanish man proudly.

It takes a second for your brain to put the pieces together. Sam smiles delightedly at your reaction.

"And I think I did a fairly good job at imitating your dad; considering how you ran all the way here for nothing."