6. Chapter 6 #2
My lungs burn like I’ve inhaled fire. Sweat stings my eyes and my legs are starting to shake, muscles screaming from the sustained sprint.
I’m in good shape—have to be for the fights—but this is different from three rounds in the ring.
This is a full-on marathon through Seoul’s back alleys with my life on the line.
Best-case scenario, Suha just wants to beat the shit out of me. Break a few bones, teach me a lesson about boundaries and consent and not fucking with crime bosses. I can handle that. I’ve taken beatings before, worse than anything one angry alpha could dish out. Probably.
But worst case... I don’t want to think about it.
My foot catches on uneven pavement, and I stumble, barely catching myself against a wall.
My palm scrapes against concrete and comes away bloody, but I push off and keep running.
My vision is starting to tunnel, black spots dancing at the edges.
I need to lose them. Need to find somewhere to hide, to catch my breath, to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.
I almost make it.
The mouth of the alley opens up ahead, spilling out onto a busy street where I can already see the blur of pedestrians, the flash of car headlights, witnesses and safety and escape.
My legs pump harder despite the burning protest in my muscles, despite the way my lungs feel like they’re being shredded from the inside.
Victory tastes sweet on my tongue, so close I could reach out and grab it.
Something sharp pricks the side of my neck.
The sensation barely registers before my entire body just..
. stops. My legs fold beneath me like someone yanked all the bones out, and I’m crashing toward the pavement with zero ability to catch myself.
The impact drives the air from my lungs in a harsh wheeze, rough concrete scraping against my cheek, my palms. I can feel everything with perfect awareness—the grit digging into my skin, the way my chest heaves trying to pull in oxygen, the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs—but my body refuses to respond to a single command.
Move. Get up. Run.
Nothing happens. My fingers won’t even twitch.
Panic floods through me because I can’t move but I can still feel the heavy footfalls approaching, can still hear the rustle of expensive fabric. A shadow falls across my prone form, and I manage to roll my eyes upward, tracking the movement.
Suha stands over me, looking like he just stepped out of a photoshoot for some high-end fashion magazine.
His black suit is immaculate, not a hair out of place, his breathing completely even, obviously not having done any of the chasing.
In his hand is what looks like a sleek, handheld dart gun, matte black metal and modern in design.
He regards me with the kind of casual interest someone might give a mildly interesting insect.
Then he crouches down beside me, movements smooth and unhurried, and plucks the dart from my neck with the same care someone might use removing a splinter. He holds it up, examining it in the dim alley light.
“Paralytic serum,” he says conversationally, his voice smooth and cultured with just a hint of Seoul’s upper-class accent. “Off-market. Very effective, as you can see. You’ll be able to feel everything, but your voluntary muscle control is completely gone. Should wear off in a few hours.”
I try to speak, to curse him out, to do anything, but my jaw won’t cooperate. All that comes out is a strangled sound in the back of my throat.
Suha’s expression shifts then, the casual mask dropping away to reveal something cold and furious underneath.
He leans closer, close enough that I can see the dangerous glint in his dark eyes, the way his jaw tightens.
When he speaks again, his voice drops to a venomous hiss that makes my stomach plummet.
“‘See you again next rut. Don’t worry, I know how to find you.’” He repeats my own words back to me with a perfect, mocking drawl. “But what if I find you first?”
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. What the hell was I thinking leaving that note? My brain screams at my body to move, to run, to do something, but I’m trapped in my own useless flesh, forced to just lie there while Suha stares down at me with barely contained rage.
He straightens up, brushing imaginary dust from his knees, and gestures to his men who have materialized around us like well-dressed ghosts. “Grab him.”
Rough hands seize me, hauling me up like I weigh nothing.
The zip ties bite into my wrists and ankles as they bind me, the plastic digging into skin I can feel but can’t protect.
My head lolls uselessly as they carry me, my body completely limp and unresponsive.
I catch glimpses of the alley spinning past, the darkening sky above, Suha walking ahead of us with his hands in his pockets like this is just another Tuesday evening for him.
They carry me to where an expensive black car is parked at the mouth of the alley, engine purring quietly. The trunk pops open with an electronic beep, and they hoist me up. In the split second before they dump me inside, I catch sight of the license plate.
The same one I photographed weeks ago.
The irony would be funny if I wasn’t so completely terrified.
They drop me into the trunk without ceremony, and I land in an awkward heap, my cheek pressed against rough carpet.
The paralytic keeps me from adjusting my position, from doing anything except lying there like a broken doll while one of the suits leans in to check my bindings.
His face is blank, professional, completely unbothered by the fact that they just kidnapped someone in broad daylight.
The trunk slams shut, plunging me into darkness.