Ace For Hire // BTS Reader Insert

42

"Last box." You told yourself as you set another file box down onto your coffee table.

Patting dust off your hands you spared your phone a small glance, wondering if you should call one of the boys. Ask about their progress on the notebook, and maybe even check in on Jimin. Since last night really showed you a more vulnerable side of him. The same kind of vulnerability that you were afraid was being exposed to the other seven already.

The only reason you weren't anxiously making the call debate on your phone was because you couldn't help but feel Taehyung stare down the two of you the whole drive back to their base while Jin lectured both of you on how getting to the get away vehicle on time was important.

At the same time with Hobi and Jungkook bombarding the two of you with questions purely out of concern, in someway it was endearing to you how Jungkook kept repeating 'Hyung' whenever Jimin didn't answer right away or tried avoiding a question. With Hobi casting you worried looks that you would response with a small smile for reassurance. After last nights events, you took time to really go over everything you threw into file boxes in the abyss of your coat closet. You looked at the letter note you wanted to forget about, the same one that began with Dear [Y/n], if you found this, then that means, you know I'm dead. I don't know how I died, I'm writing this just in case my line of work does kill me. After a really close call yesterday, I thought it wouldn't be right to leave you in the dark after my death, but I also can't shine the light on you. If I did you'd be in the same knee deep trouble I'm in-

And that's about where you stopped reading. But that changed today, you had to, no, you needed to finish reading it. Somewhere there's something that should give you the closure. Daring even to suggest the ridiculous possibility that maybe once you read the letter you could hang up your guns and knives and go to college or something equally as norm. But that still didn't change the fact someone killed your dad, posed him to look like suicide, and got away with it.

Well is trying to get away with it.

If he is even dead. Mentally facepalming at the utterly stupid idea you conjured, you folded and tuck the note away. Glancing at the boxes, figuring you could start their to give yourself a buffer for whatever disappointment or heart wrenching conclusion your dad left for you.

Resuming back to a tennis game of staring at the four battered cardboard boxes back and forth that sat crookedly on the table. It was then your phone vibrated with a small familiar text notification ping going off. Noticing you missed a text from contact 'AssHat', you tossed your phone into the back pocket of your jeans. You plopped back onto the couch as you pulled your hair back into a messy ponytail, your eyes drifting from box to box. Reaching to the unlabeled brown box that was on your furthest right, you flicked the lid off and stared inside. At first glance, it looked like junk, it was junk. But important junk still, everything in these boxes were some key or clue to the answer you needed.

Taking a deep breath, you grabbed a handful of random assorted papers off the top of the stack. Flipping over the first glossy paper, you came face to face with a pair of boobs spilling over barely functional bra as you read the strip club flyer with removeable coupons lining the bottom portion. Exhaling through your nose, you stood up and made your way over to your kitchen. Nope, not prepared for emotional trauma or stripper scarring.

Opening your fridge you skimmed your eyes over the bare shelfs, as if you have a lot of options to pick and choose, before grabbing a water bottle. Using your feet to close the door as you walked back over. Pretending that your dad had a strip club flyer sitting with his other work material for "work" related reasons. Picking the flyer back up, you flipped it to the backside for anything written or anything that was important about the paper ad besides the underdress woman posed on the front of it.