Killer Cruise

Chapter 32

Your POV:

2 hours went by, no ones returned yet, Taehyung grew antsy, pacing back and forth in front of the door. He even paced while eating his dinner, looking through the peephole every now and then.

"Taehyung," I softly call out, taking small steps towards him "rest,"

With a shake of his head he continues pacing. It was to be expected. Stepping in front of him, I point towards the chair, he walks past me as if I were an inanimate object, not even looking my way.

Unbelievable, the medical staff said he still needs rest and has to take antibiotics, both of which he has not done.

"Kim Taehyung!" My sharp tone finally garners his attention. He turned, for a fraction of a second, all waves of emotion frozen over into a single icy glare.

My confidence shriveled "Sorry...," my voice came out much less stronger than before, the only thing that didn't deter is my determination. He can't be overexerting himself, not now, he's a target the killer could come after him at any given moment and he needs to be in tip-top shape to fend for himself.

I step in front of him again, holding my arms up to prevent him from walking right past, pointing towards the peephole then myself "I will look, okay?"

His feet pause, the ice completely melting off, leaving the usual confused Taehyung standing before me.

I point at myself then to the ground we stood on "I will wait here," then I point at him then towards the depths of the room "you go there, rest, shower, do whatever,"

With a little more bargaining and convincing he eventually shuffles towards the bathroom and as promised, I stare out the peephole, keeping an eye out for the rest of them.

A few mindless minutes went by until a low yelp errupted from the bathroom followed by a tortured groan. My feet abandon my promise, rushing towards the source of the noise.

There isn't a vent there right?

Knocking on the door and receiving no reply, I then turn the doorknob bursting through the door. I find Taehyung down on his knees in front of the vanity, shirt strewn across the bathroom, his right hand gripping a large splotch of violet with yellowing edges on his left shoulder.

What the heck, that is not small, the medics mentioned he had no serious bruises.

I cautiously approach his hunched over form, assessing him, the veins along his neck strain against his skin as he bites down on his lips, seemingly holding in another yelp, a muffled grunt escaping him instead. More than half of his face covered in shaving cream, a thin trail of blood from a nick on his chin.

Grabbing a tissue off the vanity I gently press it against the cut, it's the least I could do. As his breathing steadies and his jaw relaxes, his right hand shifts to take over, holding the tissue himself. Slowly he rises up to his feet, grip on his shoulder loosening.

Stepping aside, his left hand goes for the shaving blade, an attempt to lift it up to his face again only results in his arm convulsing in pain, the razor falling with a clink into the sink.

He must be a lefty.

After a few more failed attempts he finally gives up, facing me whilst looking absolutely defeated, the makeshift shaving cream beard making him look like a very sad but gorgeous Santa Claus.

"I'll help," I pick the razor up, rinsing it before bringing it to his chin. Slight shame hangs on his features, regardless he leans forwards.

I've never shaved a face ...I guess theres a first time for everything? My hand moves slowly, trying their best not to nick him, my other hand lightly pressing below his jaw to keep his skin taut.