Jimin

She enters the motel, her eyes scanning the space until they land on me. She approaches me cautiously, her eyes locked on mine, and I can see the fear and uncertainty etched on her face.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice low and rough. My tone is not welcoming, and I can see the hesitation in her step.

"I had to see you," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I had to know you're okay." Her eyes search mine, looking for any sign of hope or reassurance. But I know I can't offer her that. Not now. Not when I'm consumed by my desire for revenge against the cartel.

"I'm fine," I say, my tone flat. But it's a lie. I'm far from fine. I'm driven by my rage and grief, and I don't know how to escape it.

She looks at me, her eyes searching for something, anything, that might give her hope. But I know I can't offer her that. Not now. Not when I'm so lost in my own darkness.

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice cold, my tone detached. I know I'm pushing her away, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not sure if I can let her in, not when I'm so consumed by my own emotions.