13 Destinies | BTS

2. Faulty Accusations

誤った告発

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"How in the flipping hell did that car explode?"

"We could have literally died if we stayed in that car any longer," Reverie said grimly and ran a hand through her dark hair. We all looked equally shook. And it didn't make it any better that the scene kept replaying in my mind.

"That was traumatising. I hope the man's okay."

"Natasha, we literally saw the car blow up into flames. How the hell do you expect the man to survive? It's better off if he dies rather than go through the pain of all those burns," Azuha said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh look, it's Mrs. Choi," Inara said, rather happily. She was still drunk. I gazed at the angry woman who stood at the front door of the dormitory with a scowl and a venomous glare etched on her face. The way she looked at us irked me. Her face was as purple as usual, and the vein on her forehead—which I am a great admirer of—was pulsing furiously.

"Inara, do us all a favour by keeping your mouth shut," Azuha hissed lowly, to which the silver-head nodded vigorously in fear.

And then it began. "Where were you?" Mrs. Choi deadpanned, channeling her inner sourness. We trudged along in silence, which, for the record, was a rare miracle. The woman slipped her eyes from me to Inara. Oh she knows.

Azuha, our trusty Inara-carrier, knew from experience what was going to happen next. Like a deranged bodyguard, she slapped a hand over Inara's mouth and slinked away with a crooked grin. The rest of the girls followed.

For a foul moment, I thought I could slip by as well. But sometimes, my hopes are a bit too high. The piggy-eyed woman grabbed my arm with nails that surely doubled as daggers. Naturally, I attempted the daring feat of arm liberation, but no, she had to lean in and grace my ear with her dulcet tones. "You and your minions better play nice, unless you're aiming to become professional packers."

Do you ever want to hold someone under water till the bubbles stop? Yeah, me too, right now.

"But Mrs. Choi, everyone here comes late at night and you don't care at all. Why is it a problem if we do it?" I asked indignantly, trying to refrain myself from biting the old lady's large nose off.

"Because your father has strictly forbade you from going out at night. Do you want me to call him and clarify it better to you?" She snarled into my ear.

I mustered my best grimace while wiggling my arm in a futile attempt to escape. Ah, but then came her whispered symphony of disdain. "Oh kid, your daddy's footing the bill for my wonderful babysitting. So, do me a favor, preserve my paycheck, will ya?" And, oh look, a sprinkle of her saliva flew into my ear as a bonus. How delightful.

Her words were like mosquitoes on a summer night. Annoying, persistent, and almost impossible to ignore. But I knew talking back would bring in more trouble. She was going to report everything I say to my father, word for word.

I freed myself from her clutches with a grand display of nonchalance and trudged away, battling the urge to roll my eyes right out of their sockets.

So, turns out Daddy dearest was paying for this spectacle. Surprise, surprise. Who knew he'd go to such lengths to keep the puppet strings taut? Ah yes, that's me – only a showpiece to showcase the perfection that he desires for the world to see. A living, breathing marionette for his amusement. Only to keep the great legacy going.

I tugged a strand of hair behind my ear and pushed open the door to our dorm. And soon, absolute chaos could be heard.

Not again.