Blood Ink ✔️

61: You Aren't Yours

Jungkook holds your hand, so tight it's like he's dying.

His fingers almost cut off your circulation, keeping you warm despite the wave of chilled air that pours over you in the entryway to the cavernous room that you're currently approaching.

Your heels click on the marble floors of the hotel ballroom, the chandelier lights glimmering off of the pristine surfaces in tiny starbursts that disappear as your shadows pass over.

It's cold here.

"Sirs, ma'am," says a tuxedoed server upon your entrance.

He's clad in a simple black waistcoat and slacks, dismal in comparison to the extravagant evening gowns and apparel whirling in a tornado of wealth behind him.

He waves the three of you to a stop just inside the doorway, quickly running a small device over your figures from an arm's length away.

You glance questioningly at Yoongi, who tilts his head with pursed lips and mutters, "Metal detector."

Ah, that's right.

This is a ceasefire - no weapons allowed.

The metal detector remains silent as it scans you, signaling the lack of weaponry on your persons. Normally, before this entire adventure, it would have reassured you that you were safe.

Now, all you want is for Yoongi to have a gun shoved down the back of his pants and Jungkook, a knife inside his jacket.

As swiftly as the server had appeared, he melts into the sparkling background, cutting a bow as he goes.

You pause to take a deep breath.

Here it is.

Somewhere in this building is a man with silver hair and a sweet disposition, bound and held captive against his will. Also somewhere in this building are four men sneaking around, clad in tuxedos and desperate to find their brother.

And then there's the three of you.

The distraction.

Yoongi, pale and unaffected in his tux jacket and dress shirt, the bow tie that was circling his neck earlier now mysteriously missing to give him a lazy air.

Jungkook, stiff and straight-cut, and more sober then you've ever seen him before. It's like someone's drained all the emotion from him in lieu of cool blankness. He's a darkly handsome statue, embossed with inky tattoos and black eyes.

There's you. Red-clad and sweating, an anxious mess of fearful imaginings. If Jungkook and Yoongi didn't have a tight hold on either side of you, you might sprint for the door.

It's a good thing you were chosen, too, because to the people in this room, you're apparently very distracting.

When you advance forward, arm in arm with Yoongi, hand intertwined with Jungkook's, people watch you.

You aren't sure if it's because some of them recognize the men at your sides or because the three of you are far too young to be here; either way, it feels like there a sort of gravitational field around you, drawing people's reluctant gazes your way.