"How do you raise a house full of psychopaths, Dr. Choi?" she asked, looking back through the glass at the small boy.
"Very carefully, Dr. Min. Very carefully."
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Dr. Choi."
Minho arched a brow, studying the young woman sitting in the tattered booth across from him. Saying he agreed to meet her was a stretch. Forced would be more appropriate. The coffee shop was near deserted. People didn't want to eat in a place with sallow lighting, cracked vinyl booths, and vinyl floors that sounded like velcro when you walked on them. Once the place had probably been vibrant, but now, it was a shell of its former self—the coffee shop that time forgot. The smell of stale coffee, grease, and pancakes wasn't unpleasant but did seem overwhelming.
Outside, a vicious storm raged, condensation blotting out the windows, making the outdoors seem post-apocalyptic when lightning crashed, illuminating everything on the other side of the glass. Thunder boomed ominously, rolling towards them, before dissipating again, creating this cozy pocket of anonymity around the back booth where they sat.
Minho had thought a great deal about the kind of person who would dare to blackmail him, but never once had he imagined it would be the girl sitting across from him. She was young, but she had a wariness about her, a cynicism etched in her steely gaze that made Minho both curious and uneasy.
She dressed like any normal teenager—jeans and a Kiss t-shirt, a black unzipped sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, leaving just a heavy fringe of inky black bangs visible. She was pale—not fair skinned, just lacking sunlight. She had husky blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across her pierced nose. She reminded him of his youngest, Adam, though she was much older.
She seemed...not nervous, exactly. More resigned. Like she didn't like what she was doing but she had no choice. Blackmail was a tedious thing, no doubt. He'd expected his blackmailer to be some hulking ghoulish figure full of malice and rage. Minho could have dealt with that easily. But this... This was far more unnerving. There was nothing so dangerous as somebody who had nothing to lose, and she looked like she had nothing to lose.
When she didn't continue, Minho said, "What is it I can do for you..." He let the question linger, hoping she would fill in the blank, but she just stared at him until he asked, "Do you have a name?"
She quirked up a well manicured brow, a small smirk curving across full lips painted the color of dried blood. "Doesn't everybody?"
"Can you tell me yours?" Minho prompted.
She thought on it for a moment. "You can call me Calliope."
Minho tilted his head. "Because that's your name, or because you don't want to tell me your name?"
"Yes," she said, deliberately obtuse.
Minho laced his fingers together on the scarred wooden table between them. "How can I help you, Calliope?"
