Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.

Seneca the Younger

JENNIE

"No," Lisa says for the fifteenth time.

"Are you serious?!" I demand. "You can't just trap me here, Lisa. I'm getting stir crazy. My voice doesn't even sound like my voice anymore. I never agreed to stay cooped up in your tower like I'm freakin' Rapunzel or something." I laugh sardonically. "Do I need a prince to come rescue me? I'll be sure to ask Jiyong once he dethrones you."

Usually, I wouldn't talk to Lisa like this, but between the stir craziness and the fact that she has actually been letting me get away with talking back, I don't pull my verbal punches, and oh i've got my nickname privilege too.

Lisa sends a scowl my way. It's ugly and beautiful all at once. "You can leave once Jimin comes."

Jimin is my new stylist. Lisa hired him the day after I moved into her place. I woke up that morning to a gorgeous, well-groomed Asian man pressing measuring tape around my breasts.

The first words out of his mouth were, "Girl, I wish I had tits as big as yours."

Then, he pulled me out of the bed and proceeded to measure my body in places I didn't know needed measuring. Two days later, he came back with a bunch of fabric for fittings, but I haven't seen him since. And I also didn't realize my freedom depends on him.

"Jimin?!" I say, though it's more like a yell. "Oh, my goodness! You are such a jerk! This is about my clothes?! You didn't seem to have a problem with how I dress when YOU TOLD YOUR COLLEAGUES THAT WE'RE ENGAGED!" I wince, embarrassed by how shrill my shouting got towards the tail end of that sentence. Because I can't help myself, I add, "Unbelievable!" and stomp my way to the gym.

I was floored when I found out that Lisa's gym isn't just a gym, though it also has all the standard equipment and more. It's a UFC gym, too, with fighting equipment, a sparring ring, and enough punching bags for me to punch and kick away my anger. That's been useful lately, since I'm angry a lot now.

Because after I realized that I didn't run from Lisa, I also realized that I'm not as afraid of her as I initially thought I was. It's like the fear that was there only existed because I let it, but once I recognized that it was just a construct, it evaporated. It also helps that, lately, she has been pissing me off to the point where even fear can't stop me from standing up for myself.

Hell hath no fury like a woman trapped, or whatever the saying is.

I'm not afraid of Lisa, which is good for me and bad for her. It's good for me, because I'm able to stand up for myself now. It's bad for her, because she's giving me a lot to stand up to. First, she hired Jimin without asking, which is awesome and akin to having my own fairy godmother, but that's not the point. She didn't ask me if I wanted new clothes. She just decided I did.

Then, when I tried to go to class on Monday, she told me that I can't. No reason was given, just a "no." I tried to leave anyway with Mino hot on my heels, but apparently there's a biometric scanner to access the elevator.

And guess who doesn't have access?

Me.

When my glare cut to Mino, he held up his hands and said, "Can't do it. Gotta pay the bills."

I growled and stomped my way back to Lisa, where I demanded she let me out. When she gave me an infuriating "no" again, I lost it, kicking and punching whatever part of her I could. I didn't even scratch her, which only pissed me off even more. Instead, she stepped around me, easily lifted me up by the waist, dropped me into the gym, and told me to "have at it."

Two Sundays have passed since then, and that has been our routine every day since. I wake up and ask if I can leave. She says, "No." I scream and yell until my throat hurts, then I try to escape. I inevitably fail and stomp back to her.

Because my voice is usually gone from my morning scream sessions, I resort to kicking and punching. She drops me off in the gym, where I kick and punch every bag in sight. Eventually, Mino gets tired of my poor form and teaches me to fight properly. I've even gotten better.

Yesterday, when one of my punches landed on Lisa's stomach, I swear she smiled for a second before it was gone. Today, I'm not even bothering to escape. I head straight to my very own pink punching bag, which Lisa surprised me with yesterday. I may have printed out a picture of her face on the office printer last night and taped it to the bag for target practice. I'm actually excited to test it out.

If Lisa really wants to make it up to me, she'll either let me out of here or have a punching bag that looks like her custom made for me. Because as fun as punching a picture of her is, it's certainly not the same.

When I'm done with my fighting, I head to the office and log onto Lisa's desktop, which is way faster than my laptop. It's a Black Enterprises product, after all. I open up the picture of Lisa on Photoshop, a close up of her face I found on the internet, and edit some bruises onto her face. I digitally give her a busted lip and a black eye, because I can. When I print it out, I smile and proudly show it to Mino, who rolls his eyes.

It's ridiculous. I know. A few weeks ago, I was attending labs at a prestigious Ivy League research university and turning in insightful essays on the practical applications of MITE research in the Human Genome Project. Today, I'm photoshopping bruises onto my warden/fake fiancé's face, because I can't do it in real life. I'm also proudly showing it to my bodyguard, who doubles as my prison guard, like I expect it to be framed on the fridge or something.

Wait…

I reboot the printer, print out another copy and write a giant "A" at the top right corner in red Sharpie. I hear Mino groan when he sees what I'm doing, but I ignore him. I take the tape with me, because Lisa doesn't strike me as the type to have refrigerator magnets laying around. I'm taping my masterpiece onto the shiny, stainless steel surface of the gigantic hunk of metal that's our fridge when Lisa descends from the stairwell with Rosé trailing closely behind like the little brown noser she is.

Obviously, my relationship with Rosé is the one thing that hasn't changed. Well, if possible, we hate each other more now. She scowls at me every morning when she goes into the bedroom to wake Lisa up at 5 A.M. like an annoying human rooster.

She doesn't like that I sleep on the bed while she sleeps on the floor, but I guarantee she would like it even less if we both sleep on the bed… because I absolutely refuse to sleep on the floor. Hell, I think Lisa deserves to sleep on the floor for holding me prisoner here. I certainly don't feel bad about our sleeping arrangement.

"What are you doing?" Lisa asks, approaching Mino and I.

I take a couple steps back and admire my master piece, mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. I tilt my head to the side, like I'm admiring priceless artwork at the Louvre, and say in a heavy, fake French accent, "Ze black eye is wonderfulzee done, is zeet not?"

I slide a glance at Lisa's face. She's looking at the picture, her lips twitching. She's trying to hide her amusement, but it's there. I know it. I can see it in her brown eyes, which are lighter than usual. Making Lisa smile is another way I try to win this fight we've got going. As you can see, I've really lost it when I think I can win a fight with this woman by making her smile.

I need to get out of here.

I have no idea why I'm being held hostage, too. I'm being fed well, and she's actually treating me better than I expected. Apparently, my teachers know that I haven't been attending class and have been emailing me my homework assignments and sending me lecture slides and notes, which is odd and definitely not in accordance to university policy, which states that a student must withdrawal from a class after two unexcused absences.

After missing several weeks of class, I have definitely been absent more than two times. I should be kicked out of these classes, but instead I'm getting the VIP treatment. My teachers are even sending me emails with phrases like, "I'm looking forward to seeing you soon!" in them.

Not soon enough.

"Tastefully done," Lisa says.

That's another surprise I've learned.

Lisa has a sense of humor.

It's subtle, but it's there.

I drop the French accent. "I think I can easily get a six-figure bid for it."

I cross my arms and walk from one side of the fridge to the other, pretending to look at it from multiple angles. I hear Rosé humph in annoyance, which almost makes me lose it, but I'm able to reel my laughter in.

I step back next to Lisa. "I'd say it's worth a quarter of a million dollars. At least."

Lisa taps her chin with her pointer finger, her face mimicking a thoughtful expression. "It's missing something," she says. Then, she pulls out a paper from the binder in Rosé's hand and sticks it onto the fridge, covering her photoshopped face in the process.

In Lisa's picture is a rooster, wearing nude Louboutin stilettos. Its feathers are even the exact shade of Rosé's hair. There's an alarm clock hanging around its neck, set to 5 AM. The background of the picture is pitch black, clearly still night time.

That's it.

I lose it.

I'm nearly in tears on the floor, laughing my ass off, not even caring that I just lost this stupid game I think I'm playing. When I look back up, Lisa's replacement picture is still there. I laugh again. Lisa and Mino are smiling, but Rosé has a constipated expression on her face.

I don't think she gets that she's the rooster, waltzing into Lisa's room at five every morning, uninvited and unannounced. She doesn't get why this is funny, but that's okay. I think hearing her laughter would break my already delirious brain anyway.

I lift the picture away from the fridge, moving it so it's beside my master piece. "They should be sold as a set."

"Ugh, do you have to act like such a child?" Rosé says, her voice extra snarky today.

If I'm being honest, I am acting like a child. To be fair, I haven't left the penthouse in almost a month. I've had to skip out on all of my lunch dates with Doyeon, who must hate me by now. I haven't felt the sun on my skin in ages.

I even found myself trying to sunbathe by leaning against the window in a bikini. It wasn't a good idea. I learned that I'm afraid of heights. Mino, of course, thought it was hilarious and always asks me when I'm going to do it again.

Because she already thinks I'm being juvenile and it's actually true, I decide that until I'm allowed to return to civilization, I don't care.

So, I mimic her pose and voice and mock her words, "Ugh, do you have to be here right now?"

It's not even a half decent burn, but Rosé doesn't care. I can read Harry Potter to her, and she'll still be angry. That's when you know someone's hatred is irrational. How does one possess a beating heart and not enjoy Harry Potter?! Seriously, there's a special place in Hell for those Harry Potter one-star reviewers on Amazon and Goodreads.

"Maybe you should go," Lisa tells Rosé while I'm busy making up a 10th circle of Hell for Harry Potter haters.

Her eyes widen and irritation flashes through them, but she doesn't say anything. She walks out the door, slamming it on her way out. I try to chase after her, hoping I can escape with her, but a strong arm slides around my waist and pulls me back. I'm flush against Lisa's powerful chest.

"Seriously?! She's hooked into that biometric thingy and I'm not?!" I abandon the little pride I have left and whine. "I have to get out of here, Lisa. It's been so long. Please, please, please, please, please. I don't even know what it smells like outside anymore."

"Pollution," Mino says, helpfully.

That lands him an attempted uppercut.

I miss, of course.

I'm not even usually a violent person. I swear. I just can't stand being trapped in one place for this long. I've always been on the move, either from foster home to foster home or country to country. I don't think I can handle this for much longer.

Hell, I don't think I'm handling it right now.

Lisa's place is huge, but it's not freedom. I want my freedom. I'm going crazy without it. I have a newfound respect for prisoners. How do they do it? How do they handle it? I'm stuck in a twenty-thousand square foot luxury apartment, and it's driving me crazy.

Last week, the highlight of my week was when I hid under Lisa's desk for 13 hours, waiting for her to come in so I could scare her. I was asleep by the time she got there and pretty much wasted my entire day for nothing. Lisa ended up carrying my sleeping self to the bed.

Sighing, Lisa hands me a box. "It's a prototype for our newest set of virtual reality glasses. It'll help with the craziness for a little bit. I've already programmed a bunch of games and scenic activities in it. Here are the controls for it."

I take the pair of gloves she hands me. They have little metal circles all over them, which I assume works like a controller.

"They're ugly," I tell her, though I'm flattered she's trusting me with them. That she thought to do this for me… Even though she's the one trapping me here.

"It's a prototype, Jennie." There's a darkness in her eyes as she says, "Plus, beauty is overrated."

The words are weird coming from her mouth, considering she's the most physically beautiful person I've ever met. Unsure of what to say to that, I instead look through the list of apps she programmed into the VR console. There are dozens of them, all catered towards my interests, but a few catch my eyes quickest:

Jennie's Lab

From sodium monofluoroacetate to batrachotoxin and everything in between, experiment with dangerous chemicals you wouldn't normally be able to in real life.

Adventures for Jennie

From the bright and frosty peaks of Machu Picchu to the mysterious and dark depths of the Mariana Trench, the world is your oyster, Jennie Kim.

Jennie's Kitchen

Any tool, any appliance, any ingredient—it's all yours. Make your dream

cake or favorite lasagna without the mess.

Dozens of apps—Jennie's Lab, Adventures for Jennie, Jennie's Kitchen, and so many more—are all named after me and catered towards my interests, mostly things about me I've only mentioned briefly since I've known her. I can't believe she remembers all these things about me.

There's an app of a virtually sold out Madison Square Garden arena meant for getting rid of stage fright. I mentioned my stage fright to her once in passing. Another app is intended to teach me to play the triangle. I barely even remember telling her that I can't play any instruments—"Not even the triangle," I said, at the time. It has never been brought up again.

Just like the subjects of most of the apps. It's alarming and flattering that she's been paying so much attention to me, to the things I tell her and the things I don't.

My God.

She did all this for me.

But she also trapped me here.

How should I feel about this?

I'm not sure, but I do know my heart is racing a marathon a minute, and when I glance up to thank her, zhe's already gone.

Like the enigmatic ghost she is.