Chapter 4: Hayeon

I stood up, ignoring the boy's outstretched hand. My eyes moved quickly from him to the two men standing by the car. The once-bustling crowd had dispersed, leaving me alone with the boy and his men. Before I could think of running, a hand gripped my arm tightly.

I hissed in pain and turned to face the bulky man who had been chasing me.

"You little thief," he growled, his grip like iron. I dangled uselessly in his hold, scowling.

"Return what you stole," he barked, shaking me for emphasis.

I glared at him but refused to speak.

"If you don't, I'll call the police!" the man yelled, his voice booming.

The boy stepped into view, his expression dark and deadly. His sharp gaze silenced the man's threats almost instantly.

"If you come with me, I can get you out of this mess," the boy said, his tone calm but laced with warning.

The bulky man's frustration was palpable. His veins bulged against his bald head as he glared between us. My options were limited, but I'd rather take my chances with the boy than deal with the authorities.

"Fine," I spat, my voice tight.

The man released me, but before I could react, he clutched his stomach. Blood spilled from a wound I hadn't even seen happen. His insides spilled onto the pavement as he crumpled to the ground.

I stared, wide-eyed, as the boy calmly grabbed the dead man's shirt and wiped the blood from his small knife. He slid the blade back into his pocket, then reached for my hand.

"This way," he said, opening the car door for me.

I hesitated but eventually climbed in. One of the suited men handed a stack of cash to a nearby onlooker, likely silencing any questions. The other man hauled the dead body into the trunk with practiced ease.

I had seen death before. I had even caused it. But this boy—his efficiency, his calmness—was something else entirely. Still, I wouldn't let him intimidate me.

"So, what's your name?" the boy asked, leaning casually against the car door.

I studied him for a moment, his young face betraying none of the ruthlessness I'd just witnessed. "Hayeon," I answered flatly.

"Hayeon," he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue as if testing it. He touched his lips thoughtfully, then gave a small nod.

I turned away, staring out the window. The two men got into the car, and the one with a lean build and brown skin turned around in his seat.

"Azail," he said, addressing the boy.

The boy—Azail, I assumed—glanced up. They began arguing in a language I didn't understand, their tones sharp but controlled. When they finally stopped, the man in the passenger seat sighed, and the driver pulled away.

The ride was silent after that. I didn't know where they were taking me, but anything had to be better than dealing with the police. Still, my thoughts raced. Maybe they were part of the yakuza. Or a gang. But what kind of gang would have a child as their leader?

About twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a private plane.

It was sleek and pristine, white with gold trim that gleamed under the sunlight. One word slipped out before I could stop myself: "Stunning."

"You should see the inside," the boy muttered, smirking slightly. "Come on."

He gestured for me to follow, but I hesitated.

The boy paused, shaking his head as if annoyed. "I told you I'd get you out of trouble. You'll be safe with me," he said softly, his voice unexpectedly gentle.

There was something unsettling about his tone. It sounded sincere, but his eyes told a different story: I didn't have a choice.

Reluctantly, I climbed the stairs. The moment I stepped inside, I felt completely out of place. The interior was immaculate—white leather seats, velvet-like carpet, and a faint, pleasant scent I couldn't place.

My eyes landed on a tray of candy, and without thinking, I darted forward. Collapsing into a seat, I stuffed my face, not caring about appearances.

When I finally glanced up, the boy was sitting across from me, staring. Embarrassed, I wiped my chocolate-covered mouth with my sleeve.

He handed me a napkin, and I took it slowly, wiping my face properly this time.

"My mother always told me to eat properly," I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

"You should put your seatbelt on, sticky fingers," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I frowned, fumbling with the belt. He sighed, standing to click it into place for me. I watched as he settled into the seat next to mine, his presence strangely calming.

Moments later, six other men boarded the plane, including the two familiar ones. Their stern demeanors made my throat tighten, but I pushed the feeling aside.

The plane taxied down the runway, and soon, the roar of the engines filled my ears as we lifted into the air.

My heart raced, and I gripped the leather armrest tightly. The sensation was overwhelming—I couldn't breathe. My chest felt tight, and I clenched my eyes shut, silently wishing my mother were here.

Then, I felt a hand slip over mine.

I opened my eyes to see the boy—his expression slightly awkward but sincere. He didn't say anything, just held my hand until the plane leveled out.

I exhaled deeply, finally able to relax.

"Never flown before, huh?" he asked, his tone more curious than mocking.

I shook my head quickly, still catching my breath.

"And you..." I hesitated. "Where are we going, Azail?"

His eyes widened slightly in surprise. "My name is Revien," he corrected.

"Revien," I repeated, nodding. I looked away, realizing our hands were still joined. I pulled mine free, clearing my throat.

"Revien, where are we going?"

He tapped the spot where my hand had been moments before, his gaze unreadable.

"My home. A place where you'll become something new," he said, his voice calm but firm.

His words sent a chill down my spine.

"My father, Mikha'il Ra Gual, will ensure it. Be warned—I saved you, but he'll remake you."