10

", , !" cursed Minho as he flipped the mattress off of the bed. Taemin's stupid hat was nowhere to be found, and he'd nearly turned this room completely upside down in his desperate search. He grabbed the raggedy quilt that covered the bed and shook it out for a third time, but had no luck.

"!" he said louder than he probably should have. Were it not for the general ruckus he was creating tossing this room, he might have heard the clunking footsteps in the hall that passed the door, paused a few feet away, then returned.

Minho froze at the sound of shouting from the other side of the thin wall. "Oi!" the accented voice called out. "There's somebody 'ere! Archie, did you even check this one?"

Minho's eyes darted to the still open window, but he couldn't move a step. That damn hat was still somewhere in this room, and it pissed him off more than anything to know that if he'd just let Taemin go as he wanted, he could have snatched it up and been back on the horse in all this time Minho had spent just bumbling around. 

He was slowly realizing that he was actually quite at playing the hero, not that he'd ever had a chance to practice before with Minseok always around.

An angry fist hammered against the door. "Open up!" called that same voice. "I just want to have a nice quick chat with you, alright?"

Rather keen on keeping his bones unbroken and his blood inside his body where it belonged, Minho moved to the window to make his escape. Taemin could survive the disappointment of losing his hat, but Minho wasn't sure he could survive what was on the other side of that door. 

He was straddling the frame—half in, half out—when a heavy boot and the leg it was attached to came crashing through the flimsy, damp-weakened wood of the bedroom door. A hulking form emerged from the splinters, kicking away the chair that had been propped up against the knob as a useless security measure.

"I know you," the man sneered. He spit on the dusty floor beside him, then pressed a fist into his palm, cracking his knuckles in a show of intimidation. "You're one of Aloysius' boys."

Exercising brain over brawn, Minho summoned up that perfect excuse that had gotten him out of so many confrontations. 

"What? Sorry, I don't speak English," he said in perfect English, and his words had the desired effect.

Confusion momentarily stunned the Big Dragon, who just blinked at him dumbfounded. Minho had planned to dart away in this moment of distraction, and the exhilaration he had in proving himself to not be a complete surely would have spirited him away swiftly to safety. However, before a single muscle could twitch, Minho spied the prize he'd come to risk his life for.

The hat was pinned under the discarded chair. The stupid ing hat had been hanging on the chair most likely, and Minho hadn't even bothered to glance in that direction.

I can't disappoint Taemin, Minho thought, though he'd resolved to do that just a second ago. That was before he spied a chance to redeem himself, and Minho, like many men, was prone to take unnecessary risks when his pride had been wounded.

He swung his right leg back into the room and waited for the perfect moment to make his move.

The large man lunged at him, and Minho dexterously dodged him with a quick feint to the right. His would-be attacker stumbled on the bed frame, and his goliath-sized body came crashing down on the exposed bars with a crack. Minho scooped up the hat and stowed it safely inside the inner pocket of his jacket. He clutched onto the rungs of the fallen chair and hefted it over his head, turning towards the fallen man. He was pulling his gun out of its holster—a sawed off shotgun by the looks of it. Before he could pull the trigger and redecorate the walls with Minho's viscera, Minho chucked the chair with all his force at the man. He brought his arms up defensively to protect his exposed face, and the gun went clattering to the ground. The chair broke into pieces.

Minho scampered to the window to make his escape, throwing himself head first through the opening. His motion was disrupted, however, by iron-like fingers that wrapped around his ankle and yanked him back. There was a rip of fabric as his pants tore. His ribs smashed against the window frame, knocking the air from his lungs, and his exposed stomach was scraped raw on the rough wood as his shirt rode up. He let out a silent cry as he fell like a corpse on the bedroom floor. He scrambled to fight back, turning his body before he was pinned down and throwing a punch at the man, but he swung wide. Minho didn't have time to catch his breath and try again before those same massive fingers closed around his neck and began choking the life out of him.

Thumbs pressed into his windpipe and Minho couldn't even make a sound. His vision was framed with dense bubbles of black, and his own strength was no match for the man who had him in his grip. His fingers wouldn't budge no matter how hard Minho pulled at them. He flailed his legs out, hoping a wild kick might make contact with a point of vulnerability. He thought his eyes might explode out of his head, but with the tiniest sliver of perception he had remaining he spotted a possible hope: Strapped to the Dragon's ankle was a sizable combat knife, and it was well within reach.

Minho summoned up the shreds of his strength, grabbed hold of the knife's handle, and drew it from its sheath. Like a