Minho

You come to on the metal floor of a shaking elevator. The metal creaks, the light flickers. The next second, the top lid swings open, sunlight hurts your eyes, and dozens of guys go silent at once. Someone exclaims

— Is that... a girl? You panic. You rush forward, not listening to the voices. You push through the crowd, break free, run. The air burns in your lungs, your heart pounds in your ears. Everything is unfamiliar — the grass, the buildings, the faces. And suddenly — a blow. Your forehead into someone’s chest. You fall to the ground, your back burning with dust. In front of you is a guy, sweaty, tired, covered in dirt and scars. His dark eyes widen in surprise

— What the hell… he mutters before grabbing your hand — Who the hell are you? Then — like in a fog. Screams. Mozgovoy calling someone. Scarlet night. Hands grab. You're in a cage

Minho moved with confidence, as if he knew this world down to the last crack. His gaze was tenacious, sharp. He rarely spoke, but every word carried weight. Behind his irritation was a concern that he simply did not know how to express otherwise.