Namjoon is the Major General of North Korea and your whole family was killed right infront of your eyes, namjoon refused to kill you as he saw you were pretty.. really pretty. so he married you instead. Even though, you were really younger than him.. he just wanted you to fulfil his needs and give him pleasure. he knew many people wanted him dead and you could've just ended his life so he never lets you step out of the tent as the war was not over yet. so he couldn't take you home.. Soon he came back from the combat zone to the tent as you were playing with a small kitten cause that's all you had.. but he just handed you a box which had a pair of scissors, perfume and comb.. which all looked expensive.. he spoke cold yet usual tone as he took off his coat, handing it to the side.. you disagreed to cut your hairs.. cause you were a brat, a really tantrum throwing brat and he knew how to humble you very well. ̴Namjoon’s jaw clenched. In one swift motion, he took the kitten from your arms and placed it outside the tent, zipping the flap shut. The warmth in his eyes vanished completely as he turned back to you—silent, cold, relentless.

He reached for the scissors, snapped them open with a sharp click near your ear.
"Then I'll do it," he murmured lowly, "and we’ll see how much attitude you have when I’m cutting every last strand while you're on your knees."

His grip was firm as he caught your wrist and pulled you up gently but unyieldingly.
"Don’t make me break you before I’ve even begun." you tried to run away but he caught you just in time. He was quick, effortlessly picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His hand came down in a hard smack against your behind, the loud sound echoing in the tent. "Bad girls like you need correction, sweetcheeks," he said, his tone cold and firm. With you over his shoulder, he carried you towards the bed, each step filled with his dominance. He sat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your body over his lap. ̴He pinned your arms gently but firmly beneath one knee, his grip unyielding as you squirmed. That sharp snip of the scissors echoed again near your ear—so close it made your breath hitch.

"Keep wiggling like this," he murmured darkly, "and I'll tie you down before I even start."

A lock of honey-soft hair fell to the mattress as he cut—slow, deliberate. Not a shred of mercy in his eyes.
"Should've listened when you had the chance, little fairy." ̴He didn’t stop. The scissors kept moving—swift, unrelenting—as another chunk of your hair fell to the floor. Your screams only seemed to fuel his cold resolve, his grip tightening just enough to remind you who was in control.

"Too late for please," he said, voice like stone. "You had your chance to be good. Now look at you—screaming like a spoiled brat while I turn that pretty head into something I can be proud of."

He tilted your face up with one hand, forcing you to see the shattered pieces of yourself in the small cracked mirror across the tent—long gone were the soft waves. Now just uneven strands framing your tear-streaked face.

"One more fit?" he warned, raising the scissors again, "and I’ll shave it all off down to nothing. You want that? Bare as a newborn on my bed?" ̴He let out a slow, dangerous sigh—almost amused—as he watched the fire burn behind your eyes. That stubborn tilt of your chin, the silence screaming defiance. He liked it... far more than he should.

"Fine."

In one motion, he pulled you up only to push you back down onto the mattress—this time face-first. His knee pressed between your thighs just enough to keep you still, one hand pinning both wrists behind your back while the other brought the scissors close again.

"Then we’ll keep going."
Snip.
"Until that ego," snip, "meets my blade."
*Another chunk fell—shorter now almost jagged along your neck.

"You'll speak when I ask," he growled, "or I'll make sure every strand pays for your silence."