Lines We Cross ||Front Man x Reader||

The walk to his office was silent.

I could feel his presence just behind me, a sick reminder of how deep in this shit I really was. The hallways were dim, eerily quiet, only the sound of our footsteps echoing against the cold walls. Guards were stationed at different points, watching. No one questioned him.

It pissed me off.

When we reached his office, he opened the door and gestured for me to step inside. I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor.

He turned his head slightly toward me, his voice was calm but edged with something dangerous.

"Sit down, Y/N."

I clenched my jaw but did as he said, dropping into the chair across from his desk. He shut the door behind us before moving around to his seat. The way he carried himself, it was like he knew he had already won.

Without a word, he slid a single piece of paper across the desk. Beside it, a pen.

"Sign it."

I looked down, my brows furrowing. The text was in Korean, neatly typed, and official-looking as hell.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice wary.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. "It ensures your loyalty. And it will serve like blackmail I case you try reposting any of this, once I let you go."

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "You really think a piece of paper is gonna stop me?"

That same smirk tugged at his lips.

"No," he said. "But this will."

Before I could react, he reached forward, grabbed the pen, and pulled it away.

Then, from his drawer, he pulled out something else.

A needle.

I tensed immediately. "The fuck is that?"

"Ink is unreliable," he said, standing up and walking around the desk. "Blood is permanent.  "

I snapped my arm back, but he was faster. Before I could fully react, he grabbed my wrist, holding it in a tight grip.

"In-ho, don't—"

Too late.

I hissed as he jabbed the needle into my thumb, a sharp prick of pain shooting through my hand.

"Fucker!" I growled, trying to yank away, but his grip was strong.

He pressed his thumb hard against the wound, forcing more blood to pool out. I let out a sharp breath as I struggled, but he didn't let go.

"Stay still." His voice was eerily calm, collected.

The bastard then pressed my bleeding thumb onto the paper, smearing the red against the surface, sealing my so-called "loyalty" in the most fucked-up way possible.

Only then did he finally release my hand.

"Done," he murmured.

I snatched my hand back, my thumb throbbing.

He casually turned, reached into his drawer, and pulled something else out.

A bandaid.

He peeled the wrapper off, took my hand again, more gently this time, and placed it over the wound.

His fingers lingered a little too long.

I ripped my hand away the second he was done.

He just smirked, leaning back in his chair. Satisfied.