Beautiful Crime || DoTae

Chapter Eight

Tuesday, August 30th 2161, 18:07.

Chinatown, Cheongnam, South Korea.

A throbbing headache just beneath the surface of Taeyong's skull brought him back to the land of the living. Beneath him, the ground was hard and cold, leaving his body strained and uncomfortable as he raised his hand to massage his temple in search of some relief from the state that he found himself in. He felt awful.

He could hardly remember what had happened before he'd fallen asleep, but he knew that it couldn't have been good. He recalled an office. Or was it a restaurant? It was hazy. Did it actually happen, or was it all a dream? He remembered pulling a trigger. He remembered the spray of blood against a bare concrete wall.

Taeyong opened his eyes, only for a wave of pain to rush straight to his eye. It disorientated him as the dull light from a bare lightbulb sunk into his retina, almost blinding in comparison to the darkness that had once filled his mind. He pushed himself up from the concrete ground, feeling the smooth surface brush against his fingertips in a way that he was certain he hadn't experienced in a long time. He allowed his gaze to fall from the ceiling over his head, only to find two distinctly flesh and bruised hands most certainly attached to his body.

Panic sunk in before reason was able to awaken inside of him.

His eye darted around the room aimlessly, but Taeyong didn't even know what he was looking for. He felt his stomach twist as he blinked and discovered an old, ragged mattress and one singular discoloured blanket in the corner of the room, with only a bucket and an empty glass beside it—not even a towel or a change of clothes. Taeyong staggered to his feet, a thin yet heavy chain coiled around his ankle, leaving red and bruised flesh in its wake.

An ear-piercing creak filled the room, and Taeyong's attention immediately shot in the direction of the door as a wave of cold air rushed over him, prickling against his bare chest as a man stepped into the room, his hair greying at the roots and his neck heavily tattooed in a language that he couldn't even begin to decipher. Taeyong retreated to the back corner of the room, creating space between himself and his visitor. However, when he expected to reach the wall, he didn't, and he tripped over a raised area of the floor, which sent him backward onto the uneven surface.

He felt his back crack from the impact.

A smile appeared on his visitor's face, and Taeyong took a deep breath, confused, but aware of what he must do. He glanced down at the black skinny jeans tightly wrapped around his waist and reached for the buttons and zipper shielding him from the world.

But as he tugged at the zipper, Taeyong realised that he was wrong. He wasn't in the basement of the Namjeong Clan's Headquarters, he was in Chinatown. He stared down at his cybernetic arm with a furrowed brow. If he hadn't already lost his mind, he was sure that it had already packed its bags and was ready to leave at any moment.

It hadn't all been a dream, of course it hadn't. Why did he even think that for a moment?

Was it the long-lasting effects of whatever had been done to him the night before, which had skewered his perception and interfered with the biochip in his brain?

"I'm not here for your services, Lee Taeyong. I'm here to ask something of you, since you stormed in here and shot half of my men," said the large, tattooed man. "We've been searching for you."

"What?"

"Am I speaking a foreign language? I told you that we need your help," the man repeated. "You're not in a position to fight this, and I'm sure you know that. If you refuse to help us, or try any funny business, the girl will die."