Kris wakes to his body wrapped in pristine white sheets, an obnoxious, continuous beeping noise, and a dull throb that grasps at the back of his neck, stretching to the lower part of his head. He sits up with a grunt, limbs tingling at the movement. As he looked around, he noticed that this wasn't the same room as before. He felt disorientated.

Light filters in from large windows that make up most of the wall, tickling the marble tiles that cover the floor. A simple white rug decorates the floor, placed between two leather sofas. He spots a dehumidifier to his wide, permeating the air with scented fumes of something his nose doesn't recognize. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes and tries to move.

The last thing he remembers is his outburst at Minseok and blacking out—a chill ran down his spine as he recalled the gloved hands upon his skin, the plunging of the needle, injecting some sort of substance into him. He pushed the thought aside.

He needed to get out of there. Whoever these criminals, or businessmen that Minseok had referred to were, weren't good news. Kris came to a conclusion that this had something to do with Baekhyun—it had to—he was the only tie to any kind of illegal business that kris had gotten involved with.

However, no matter how much Kris thought about it, the idea just didn't make sense. Sure Baekhyun had been avoiding him but the senior would never do anything that would put Kris into danger, and from what he'd seen, Kris was sure that Baekhyun always played it safe. He never mentioned having enemies or rivals—if anything, Baekhyun was a pretty neutral person.

But there was nothing else Kris could think of. Carefully, on shaky legs, Kris came to a standing position, using the railing of the bed as support. It felt like it'd been weeks since he'd opened his eyes and the bandages covering his head didn't help him feel any better. Kris tries for the sofas, searching for anything. Empty.

The coffee table in between, atop the rug is also empty aside fomr a tv remote. Kris frowns at the object. There is no television in sight - maybe it's a remote for something else.

Creeping to the left, Kris spies the exit. A closed, smooth wooden paneled door, with a keypad resting where a handle should've been. Approaching it, Kris doesn't even have to touch it to know that he's locked in.

Frustrated and annoyed, he kicks the door. It doesn't even budge. Kris goes for another tactic.
With his strong shoulder facing the exit, Kris rams his body into the hard wood. When it doesn't move or even signal he tries again. After about eight attempts, Kris slumps, back against the door, to a sitting position, elbows resting upon his knees. He buries his face in his hands.

The right side of his body throbs and his headache feels even worse than when he'd woken up. He's in a strange place and for what reasons, he's could never guess. Confused, hopeless and scared, Kris curls up against the