"Ha," he sighs, a large hand running down his face.

Truth be told, he wasn't actually so worked up or bothered about it, yet he can't help but feel a little lethargic anyway.

Disappointed, more like, is the right word for the feeling. He is a perfectionist, after all, in his craft.

He should've been more careful.

He knows this - clearly so - but the circumstances at the time of the happening made it almost impossible.

How was he supposed to know she would retaliate? It's never happened before and, given the afflictions he had caused, he didn't think it was possible.

His mind adrift in the memory, a thumb comes up to the corner of his masked mouth and brushes over the spot where a bruise from the scuffle had blossomed and withered rather quickly.

He's thankful he put in the extra effort to get the evidence of his injuries to heal as fast as possible.

No words could describe how disgusted he felt looking in the mirror and seeing the mark left on him.

It is not allowed. No one is allowed to hurt him.

Ungrateful bitch.

The voice inside his head seethes and curses, his blood simmering again. He would be dishonest, though, if he said he wasn't mildly impressed.

It was the first time anyone tried to fight back, and tenacity is a trait he always admired.

Oh Yoon-ah.

She had some spirit in her.

Admired or not, impressed or unimpressed - she ultimately wound up the same as the rest and that's what mattered.

His eyes shutting, his head falls softly into his chilled palms. His curls hang over his fingers and brushes against the back of his hands, the sensation featherlight.

He's suddenly doused with euphoria and he tries to counter the fervid feeling with a deep inhale.

He remembers her so vividly; the kind smile lingering on her lips, looking at him like a divine deity ready to grant his supplication.

Why had she been so open to him? Was it truly a display of her naivety or was she so arrogant to think no harm would come to her?

Whatever it was, he was thankful - even if she repaid his favor with a literal slap in the face.

He reconciles that he can't be so mad at her though - sometimes nice people forget to be kind too. He just hopes - wherever she is - that she understands why it had to be done.

Licking his cold lips, he languidly lifts his head and opens his eyes.

He toys with the silver ring wrapped around his finger but pays no mind to the small red blots encased in bruises strewn against the valley of his battered knuckles.

A finger runs through the bumps of the small cuts littered around his otherwise smooth hand and he finds a larger bruise in his exploration.

A searing pain jumps at him as he rams his thumb on the injury, only pushing him to dig on it harder.

He remembers her so vividly; she looked like an angel.

Even with the perpetual look of terror on her pale, bloodied face that night, her mindless screaming, the violent thrashing, the feeling of her bones against his fists, the warmth of her blood splattered against his skin, or her ridiculous pleading.

Really, she did still look like an angel even on the brink of death.

He almost feels bad relishing in the memory; he's almost disappointed with himself and how his heart flutters remembering the girl gurgle and gag - her eyes nearly out of her head, the petals soaked crimson and every ragged breath she tried to take, the purple flower flitted from where they peaked out through her laceration.

His reverie suddenly breaks once he hears a familiar voice. It's more than enough to pull him from the morbid but sickeningly transcendent image in his head.

The sweet voice that had enthralled him the very first time he heard it.

It renders him feeling the exact same way, even if the sound of it has kissed his ears so many times now.

Moving quickly but faultlessly, he makes an effort to lower the cap on his head until he's certain his identity cannot be made out. He leaves a big enough gap for his eyes to peer through his long, dark eyelashes, though, since he did not want to miss even a single second of her.

There she is.

Though his reckless mistake caused a national address and fed the police a few crumbs, he is so happy.

He is so happy it brought him to her.

At first, he thought it strange how she came to this cafe every single morning and almost always at this exact same time - 7 AM.

He realized soon enough that it's because of the barista - a man who looked to be around the same age as him, although significantly shorter and considerably more fresh-faced.

From how long she takes when she is in front of the line and the wide smiles they exchange in their conversation, it doesn't take much to figure out that they are very close.

Park Jimin.

24 years old, originally from Busan- just like him. A graduate student taking up his Master of Arts degree in Dancing, trying to make ends meet by working two part-time jobs.

He lives in a small apartment building in the shabbier parts of Seongdong-gu, probably because it's the best he can afford while attending Hanyang University on a scholarship.

He's participated and won various dance competitions, particularly in contemporary pieces. He's tried to audition for agencies but it seems that none have accepted him; it's also probably why he's been going home later than usual.

He wouldn't be surprised if Park Jimin spent whole nights practicing because - just like him- he is a pedant in his art.

From where he is seated, he watches her intently, eyes trailing after her black boots and the dress shoes walking beside her.

He brings his gaze up to the other halves of their bodies when he knows he won't be seen staring.

This is new.

She usually frequents the cafe alone but she is with someone today - the tall, young man she is always with. The man who practically lays at her feet, always at her beck and call.

Disgusting.

Kim Seokjin.

All he bothered to know about the him is his age - 27- and that he lives a more than stable life as an operational manager for a big company. Other than that, he had no interest in learning more.

His relationship with her is an open book, anyway. Even an idiot can tell how head-over-heels the man is for the woman who looks like she doesn't want anything to do with him.

He leans back on his seat, the metal chair grinding on the pavement producing a loud and sharp screech that definitely bothered the people sitting around him.

Unfazed by the unpleasant looks, he stretches his long legs out since they've been constricted under the table too small for his tall frame.

How kind of her, he thinks, to tolerate such a desperate person.

She won't have to put up with him soon.

Despite his left leg that had gone numb from how he was positioned, he gets up when the two enter the cafe - Kim Seokjin holding the door open for Min Song-hee.

It's a shame he can't continue on with his morning routine today since he's adapted to it already, but it is alright.

There are still so many things to do, so many things to prepare for.

Her hidden intentions, the lying, the secrets she keeps behind her smile - it's killing her, but she won't have to deal with those ever again soon too.

It's what she deserves.

Jeon Jungkook stuffs his hands deep into his jeans, his tongue poking at his cheek as he starts walking from the block. He fishes for his cellphone.

His head whips around suddenly, though, because he sees a figure out at the corner of his eye peering from the curb - but it disappears immediately when his gaze falls to where it was.

[A/N: I wish I could update this story more huhu I love it so much but school sUcKs ;( anyway, HERE IT IS! A little glimpse into the madness...?]