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runariya · 3 months ago

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My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 1

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: panic, trauma, blood, physical violence such as punch!ng, de@th of both parents + witnessing it + footage, Dojin has influence over law enforcement and whatnot, mentions of underground fight club and mafia, mentions of wounds, jealous Jungkook, autopsy lap, mentions of bodies, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 5.1K

a/n: okay Angels, here's the first chapter *yeeey*! It's just a little warm-up to the story. Hope you enjoy ☺️ a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • masterlist • 02

The warmth of the September sun wraps around you like a tender embrace as you sit on the wide field of grass of the campus park with your closest friends. The day is nothing short of perfect, yet their conversation drifts past you, lost in the gentle chorus of birdsong from the tall and old trees above. You close your eyes and breathe deeply, letting the sun’s rays and the dappled shadows of leaves play across your flushed skin. Somewhere in the distance, church bells toll at lunch hour, their echo both a call to mess and a cue of time’s steady march. It’s a peaceful moment, one that you savour with quiet reverence, knowing all too well that such moments are fleeting.

Taehyung rests his heavy head in your lap, his hair soft beneath your fingers as you play with his curls all while he relaxes before your next class. You remember the days when you begged him not to ruin his hair with dye, and back then, he didn’t listen. But now, he leaves it natural, save for the perm that enhances the curls you adore so much. It’s a small victory, even though this victory didn’t arise from you, but won through his newfound obsession with colour analysis, face shapes and whatnot which you’re thankful for nonetheless.

But as your fingers weave through his hair, your mind drifts back, step by reluctant step, to a night you’d rather forget—a night with the sight of Taehyung’s hair dyed an electric blue. You remember standing at the door of his family’s home, drenched in the blood of your parents, clutching the CCTV footage your father had obsessively recorded of your house’s every room. You never understood his need for those cameras, but that night, you were as grateful as you were traumatised.

Taehyung had opened the door after you rang their door bell repeatedly like a madman, his freshly dyed hair framing a face shocked to the core as he took in your pale, frightened expression and the dried blood covering you. Without a moment’s hesitation, he yanked you inside behind him by the front of your shirt, quickly glancing around to see if any neighbours were watching, and immediately shut the door behind you as if trying to shut out the nightmare you had brought with you.

“Oh my God, ___! What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, his hands hovering above your shoulders, his eyes searching your body for injuries.

Fresh tears left your eyes then, carving paths through the blood on your cheeks. You didn’t recognise your voice, feeling utterly alienated by its rawness as you stuttered out, “Auntie…Uncle…”

“MUM! DAD!” Taehyung belted without a second guess, he had always understood you, even when words failed.

He dragged you into the living room where his parents froze at the sight of you, the shock in their eyes mirroring the horror in your own fragile heart.

“What happened? ___, where are your parents?” your aunt inquired, her voice trembling before she even knew what happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, couldn’t force the words past the lump clogging your throat. How could you tell her what had happened not only to her sister but your whole family?

Instead, you forced your hand up, clutching the CCTV footage with all your strength, terrified it might disappear. It took every ounce of your willpower to pry open your cold fingers and offer the device to them.

On high alert, your uncle and aunt stepped closer. Your aunt, unable to tear her eyes from your dilated vibrating pupils, remained frozen by your side. With concern etched across his face, your uncle gently took the device from your trembling hand, retrieved his laptop, and plugged the footage in at the coffee table, all the while your aunt stayed close, her gaze never leaving you.

“Honey, should we get you cleaned up?” your aunt bid you softly, attempting but stopping just after she moved to caress your hair as she always did, sensing you were too fragile to be touched.

You shook your head, only pointing to the laptop for her to just watch. She turned just in time to see the front door of your house being kicked in on the screen, in another frame, your father shoving you into a closet in a desperate attempt to protect you.

Slowly, you all gathered around the laptop as if hypnotised by it’s screen, the room falling silent as the footage played, each of you transfixed by the horror before your eyes. The door to your parents’ bedroom burst open on the screen, and as Dojin with his bodyguards began their brutal assault, your uncle’s grave voice broke through the spell, “Taehyung, take ___ upstairs and clean her up.”

“But, Dad…”

“Now!” he boomed, and with difficulty to get his eyes off the screen, Taehyung led you away from the gruesome repeat of a nightmare.

In the bathroom, he cleaned you with a soft cloth, washing the blood from your hair over the sink as best as he could, all while moving quickly. After, he brought you a fresh set of his clothes to change into, meanwhile you sat motionless on the closed toilet seat, staring ahead like a broken and lost doll.

When you finally emerged, clean and dressed, the house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of your aunt’s anguished sobs echoing from downstairs. Her cries tore at your heart, ripping open the fresh wound that was your new reality.

You had become an orphan in the blink of an eye. Dojin had taken your parents from you, the people who had meant everything to you, without a moment’s warning or a care in the world.

You sat down at the top of the stairs, where Taehyung held you as you silently wept, his gaze fixed on the distant flickering of the laptop screen. From where you sat, the details were blurred, but you could still make out the terrible truth captured by the CCTV cameras.

Soon after they finished watching the recording, you all drove to your house. You couldn’t quite grasp why; they had seen the footage to the end and knew there was no one left to save. You remember sitting in the backseat with Taehyung, watching the houses you passed, each one brimming with life and laughter, happy families enjoying their evening together. All the while, your world had come to a standstill, shattered into pieces like fragile glass, leaving everything around you feeling devastatingly meaningless.

Throughout the drive, your uncle tried calling the police. The first time he reached an officer, the line abruptly disconnected as soon as he mentioned your parents’ names.

“He just hung up.” Your uncle frowned, glaring angrily at the display on the centre console.

“Maybe the signal was lost. Try again,” your aunt reasoned quietly, trying to hold on to hope, though her voice had already faded into a broken whisper. But as the subsequent calls went unanswered or were immediately declined, it became painfully clear that the mayor’s influence reached far and wide, and with it, any hope of retribution was snuffed out.

When you arrived, your house was already burning down in hot raging flames, the crackling drowning out your inner screams. The police present dismissed you once more, leaving you more powerless and desperate than you ever felt.

Weeks passed as you lived with your relatives. Taehyung gave up his bed for you, sleeping on an inflatable mattress nearby. You recall fragments of the funeral, the strain of attending school while keeping your grades intact, and the mask you wore for the public as you fought against the official statement that your parents had perished in a fire caused by a forgotten stove. But after weeks of crying, mourning, and desperately seeking justice—whether through the authorities or the media—all your efforts proved futile.

One night, unable to bear the helplessness any longer, you lay awake until the weight of your anger and agony drove you to action. You dressed in silence and ventured into the city, determined to find someone who could help. The despair and fury within you pushed you toward desperate measures, and you knew then that justice would have to be taken into your own hands to rid the city of its devil.

It took seven nights before you stumbled upon an underground fighting club, where Kim Seokjin, the owner and Godfather, took an immediate interest in you. To your surprise, he listened to your story and agreed with your perspective, though he refused to let you fight alongside what he disdainfully called “those Neanderthals.” Instead, he trained you in private. It was during your first session, when you were obviously hurt for the first time in your life, that you discovered a rare condition you had inherited—one that left you unable to feel pain.

NTRK1, a mutation in your genes that prevents the development of certain nerve cells. You learned that your mother shared this mutation, explaining her stoicism on that fateful night, and that your father had been a carrier of the same mutation.

It was truly absurd how this condition swiftly elevated your skills, almost as if it were in agreement with your darker side and wanting to pull you to your full potential. You learned with remarkable speed and efficiency, especially how to assess the severity of your injuries without the sensation of pain as a guide.

Nearly two years later, Taehyung uncovered your secret as he caught you throwing up blood in the toilette after you arrived home early in the morning from training when the sun hasn’t even risen just yet. The confrontation was intense, but he eventually accepted your decision after days of radio silence and evil side-eyes, and supported you as best as he could, even if it meant simply covering for you in front of his parents or hiding your bruises with makeup where you couldn’t reach them.

When you started medical school, you were relieved that Seokjin allowed you to leave with an arsenal of weapons of your choice, though you knew all too well that his acceptance came with a debt attached.

The vibration of Taehyung's laughter pulls you out of your thoughts, bringing you back to the present, where the sounds of the world around you slowly come back into focus. The gentle rustle of leaves, the distant tolling of church bells, and the low hum of conversations among other students fill your consciousness once more. You open your eyes, blinking against the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees above, and glance down at Taehyung.

His laughter is infectious, his face half-hidden behind one hand as if trying to contain his mirth, but failing miserably. His other hand clutches his stomach, his entire body shaking with the force of his laughter. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the corners crinkle with joy, the lashes fluttering as his laughter bubbles over like a tsunami hitting the shore. His lips, stretched wide in a broad grin, reveal the perfect rows of his white teeth, something you both inherited from your mothers, and the sound that escapes him is rich and full-bodied, resonating deep in his chest, a melody that never seems to tire. It’s the kind of laughter that makes you want to join in, regardless of whether you know the joke.

You tear your gaze away from him and look up, taking in the scene around you. Your friends are gathered in a loose circle on the grass, all high-achieving students like yourself, brought together by your shared aspirations and ambitions. ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ they say, and on the surface, it might appear true. But only Taehyung knows what truly lies beneath your carefully constructed exterior, the only legacy of your happy childhood.

Like you, Taehyung was a remarkable student in high school, his ambition clear as he set his sights on a career in the medical field as well. In those early semesters of med school, his passion for perfection became his guiding force, leading him to specialise in plastic surgery—a choice that suits him as seamlessly as a lid fits its pot. Taehyung embodies beauty, his eye for aesthetics almost uncanny, each detail observed with an artist's precision. His finesse in sculpting is flawless, and the way he’s able to seamless stitch skin up—a skill he’s honed on you over the years, using you as his more or less willing test subject after all the injuries you endured—stands as a testament to his natural talent and the field he’s chosen, one where art and science blend in perfect harmony.

Yoongi is sprawled out lazily on the grass to the left of you both, one arm bent behind his head as he taps away on his phone with the other. His expression is indifferent, almost bored, as if the conversation around him holds no interest. But you know better. Yoongi is always listening, always aware. His sharp, calculating mind misses nothing, a quality that makes him perfect for the path he’s chosen—neurosurgery. He carries himself with a quiet confidence, a subtle superiority that others might find off-putting, but which you have come to admire. His brilliance is undeniable, his genius almost intimidating, and in many ways, you’ve taken a leaf out of his book, learning to project the same calm authority when needed.

Next to him sits Hoseok, or Hope as everyone of the friend group calls him. He’s also engrossed in Yoongi’s phone, his face full of concentration as if the device was his or holds the secrets to the universe. Hope is destined to be a heart surgeon, a choice that fits him as well perfectly. He once told you that he wanted to mend broken hearts, to give hope and love to those who needed it most. It’s a noble goal, and one that suits his gentle, empathetic nature. Yet, at this moment, he’s as distant as Yoongi, the two of them forming a quiet duo on the edge of the group, absorbed in their own worlds.

Jennie sits directly across from you, her eyes fixed on you with an expectant expression. She’s a vision of meticulous care, her skin glowing under layers of sunscreen, her large sun hat casting a protective shadow over her beautiful, doll-like face. Jennie is training to be a dermatologist, and it shows. Her otherworldly radiance aligns perfectly with her chosen field, as does her keen eye for aesthetics and detail. She’s the kind of person who never steps into the sun without a shield, and you can spot others like her scattered across the field, equally guarded against the elements. It’s amusing, really, how easily you can identify someone’s future specialty with just a glance.

And then there’s Jeon Jungkook, the quietest of the group but perhaps the most intriguing. He’s sitting not far from Jennie and on your right, his dark hair parted neatly in the middle, the short strands catching the sunlight and shining with a healthy sheen. His eyes, large and expressive, are fixed on you with an intensity that never fails to catch you off guard. He rarely speaks, yet there’s a quiet strength in his presence, a steadfastness that draws you in.

Like you, he’s pursuing a career in trauma paediatric surgery, a demanding path that you’ve shared since the beginning of your studies. Though you don’t talk much, there’s an unspoken understanding between you as the only two students specialising in this extremely rare field, a bond forged through countless hours in the same classes, the same labs, and the same late-night study sessions. His gaze remains locked on yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The eye contact is so intense it leaves you a little breathless, a little unsettled, his dark eyes holding yours with a quiet question you can’t quite decipher as he cocks his head to the side. He’s toying with his teeth, his lower lip caught between them as if he’s waiting for something—for you to say something, to answer a question you didn’t hear.

“Huh?” you ask, glancing around the group, feeling a little disoriented. Jennie’s raised eyebrow brings you fully back to the moment.

“I asked if you and Tae are dating or what? You live together, and now this,” Jennie says, gesturing to where Taehyung is still snuggled against your thigh, his laughter finally subsiding into quiet giggles as your fingers still absentmindedly play with his hair.

You snort, amused by the absurdity of the question. Before you can answer, Taehyung starts laughing again, the sound bubbling up like a toy doll—the kind that never seems to run out of laughter, perhaps something like a Laughing Elmo, the comparison would definitely fit perfectly. The ridiculousness of it all hits you, and you can’t help but join in, your laughter mixing with his in a joyful belting that rings through the air.

When the laughter finally dies down, you wipe the tears from your eyes, still grinning as you look back at Jennie and Jungkook. Jennie’s expression is a mix of irritation and curiosity, a reaction that doesn’t surprise you. She’s never hidden her infatuation with Taehyung, a sentiment she’s held since your freshman year. But what does surprise you is the similar look on Jungkook’s face—something close to annoyance that gives you pause. You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to stifle the last remnants of giggles that threaten to escape.

“We’re cousins, Jen,” you say, the words slipping out between breaths as you attempt to regain your composure.

The surprise on Jennie’s face is immediate, her mouth dropping open slightly, while Jungkook’s expression softens into one of mild disbelief. Yoongi, who’s been silent all this time, glances your way with a knowing smirk, his eyes glittering with amusement. Hoseok, Taehyung, and you can’t help but start laughing again, the absurdity of the situation too much to keep in.

“Oh…” is all Jennie manages to say, a flush of pink rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug, still smiling as you reply, “No one really does. It doesn’t matter much, does it?”

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours once more, a subtle smile playing on his lips, his eyes shining with something that looks like relief. You don’t quite understand why the relief is so evident in his gaze, but it has a calming effect on you as well. You send him a small smile in return, a silent exchange that’s broken only when Yoongi groans and begins to rise from the grass, his movements slow and lethargic, like an old man who has trouble moving with age.

“We’ve got class, kids. Get up,” Yoongi announces, his voice dry as he stretches, his joints cracking loudly in the otherwise quiet air.

Reluctantly, you all begin to gather your belongings. Jennie links her arm through yours as you stand, a gesture that’s as familiar as it is comforting. Taehyung trails behind her, still chuckling softly to himself, while Jungkook falls into step beside him, slightly to your side. It’s something you’ve noticed before—Jungkook always seems to gravitate toward you when the group is together, as if drawn by some invisible force. You’ve dismissed it as a byproduct of your shared major, nothing more than a coincidence of proximity. But there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder if there’s something more to it, something unspoken that lingers in the spaces between you.

Yoongi and Hoseok lead the way, Hope talking animatedly as always, his hands gesturing in the air as he makes a point. Everyone instinctively makes space for Yoongi as he walks, his presence commanding a quiet respect that few others can match. The group moves as one, a well-practised rhythm that speaks of years spent together, each of you falling into your familiar roles as you head toward the autopsy lab.

The path is well-trodden, the grass worn down by the passage of countless students over the years. The midday sun sits high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the campus, the air thick with the full warmth of the day. Despite her sunscreen and wide-brimmed hat, Jennie still shields her face with her free hand. You walk in silence for the most part, the only sounds the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant chatter of other groups making their way to their respective classes as well.

As you approach the lab, the building standing proud in its massive built, its stone facade weathered by time, ivy creeping up the walls in a silent conquest. The heavy wooden doors stand open, the cool air inside beckoning after the warmth of your lunch break as you step inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old books hitting you immediately, a smell that’s become synonymous with your studies.

The group disperses slightly as you each head to your lockers, retrieving the necessary equipment for the class. Jennie is still linked to your arm, her earlier embarrassment forgotten as she chatters away. Taehyung is beside her, humming to himself as he pulls on his lab coat, his hair a dishevelled mess from where you’ve been playing with it.

Jungkook, as always, lingers close by, his presence natural, almost indispensable. His movements are precise, each action deliberate as he retrieves his lab coat and other small materials, methodically preparing for the class ahead. There’s an ease to the way he handles everything, a confidence that doesn’t leave you room to breathe steady. Even in these seemingly mundane moments, he exhibits a meticulousness that reflects his commitment to mastering the complexities of the field, and it’s this very dedication, this quiet intensity, that first drew you to him.

You’ve always admired his unwavering determination that reflects your own, the way he approaches each task with such care, precision and intelligence. It’s no wonder that over time, those feelings of admiration began to multiply like tumour cells, developing into a quiet crush that you’ve never quite managed to shake. His character, his relentless pursuit of excellence, and that calm, assured demeanour—these are the things that have captivated you, leaving you secretly drawn to him in ways you’ve yet to fully understand. Even now, as his gaze occasionally drifts in your direction, though he says nothing, there’s a desire for him you can’t ignore, a magnetic pull that keeps your attention fixed on him, even as you all prepare for the class ahead.

You exchange a few words with Yoongi and Hoseok, the latter of whom is still engrossed in whatever conversation he’s been having with Yoongi, though it’s clear Yoongi’s mind is already in the lab, his focus sharpening as the thrill to dissect draws near. The energy in the room shifts as everyone dons their lab coats, seriousness descending as you prepare for the new semester.

You step into the autopsy lab with your friends and two other students whose names escaped you long ago, the cold, sterile air immediately wrapping around you like an welcome embrace you longed for all summer break as your steps squeak on the tiled and freshly cleaned floor. The harsh fluorescent lights bathe the room in its pale glow, illuminating the gleaming steel of the dissection tools and tables that stand waiting, four in total, each an empty stage for the work that will soon begin. Mr. Choi stands by one of the tables, looking as though he could be mistaken for a cadaver himself, his skin drawn and pallid, eyes sunken into deep sockets. His expression is as lifeless as the bodies soon to be laid out before you.

"Good morning, everyone," he greets, his voice a flat monotone that does little to lift the sombre atmosphere as you and the others line up instinctively, muscle memory guiding you to your usual places from previous semesters. Without a word, he tosses a small tub of Vicks VapoRub toward Yoongi, who catches it with effortless accuracy, not even glancing up from his phone.

As Mr. Choi begins his customary review of the last semester, recapping the techniques and knowledge you’ve all supposedly mastered, the tub of ointment makes its way down the line. One by one, each student takes a small amount, dabbing it beneath their noses—or in Taehyung’s case, smearing it more liberally into his nostrils—to block out the inevitable stench of decay and death that permeates these walls. When it reaches you, you pass it straight to Jungkook, not bothering to use any yourself. Jungkook's tattooed hand hovers in place when he realises you’ve skipped it, his brow arching in that familiar, questioning way.

“You sure?” His voice is low, soft, the kind of voice that always makes your pulse quicken slightly. He holds the tub out to you, lingering a moment longer than necessary as he waits for your response.

You shake your head, declining the offer with a small, dismissive gesture. “’S fine, thanks,” you murmur. The smell of death has never bothered you—not since the night you were bathed in your parents' blood, not since Seokjin showed you what true decay smells like and what the sound of an infinite number of flies sound like. In some twisted way, the scent is almost comforting now, a reminder of your secret purpose.

Jungkook’s eyes search yours briefly, but he doesn’t press further. “Okay,” he says, his voice just above a whisper as he takes a small amount of the ointment and rubs it along his perfect Cupid’s bow, the menthol sheen catching the light momentarily before he caps the tub and passes it along to Ben.

“This semester, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Choi resumes, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic note of enthusiasm—or perhaps it’s just your imagination, “we’re going to spice things up a little. You’ll be working in pairs—well, I’ll be assigning the pairs—and together, you’ll dissect two of our friends here over the course of the semester. Each pair will be responsible for writing a detailed report on both dissections, and these reports will determine your final grade for the class.”

The room erupts into a low murmur of excitement, with a few claps and cheers punctuating the otherwise grim mood. You join in half-heartedly, your mind already racing ahead, wondering who you’ll be paired with. Ideally, you’d be matched with Taehyung, Yoongi, or Jungkook—people whose work ethics and routines align with yours, whose presence wouldn’t be a distraction. But as the names are called, you can feel your anticipation teetering on the edge of anxiety.

Mr. Choi pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his lab coat, squinting at the list of names. “First pair: Ben and John.”

One of the unfamiliar students immediately speaks up, correcting in a flat tone, “My name’s Juan, sir.”

There’s a smattering of laughter around the room, and you feel Taehyung lean in toward you, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Same same but different.”

Jungkook chuckles quietly beside you, and you have to elbow both of them, suppressing your own giggles like the hypocrite you are. The room settles down as Mr. Choi offers a terse apology, the faintest hint of embarrassment colouring his otherwise lifeless expression.

“Next pair,” Mr. Choi continues, “I would call this one mind and heart.” He chuckles at his own joke, though the room remains silent. “Yoongi and Hoseok.”

The two men exchange a high five, their smiles wide as they pull each other into a brief hug, their deep friendship between them clear in their mutual excitement. You can’t help but smile at the sight—there’s something infectious about their excitement, something that makes the dark work ahead seem like a walk on rainbows.

Mr. Choi scans his list again. “Next pair, our future beauty doctors: Jennie and Taehyung.”

Your eyes shift to Taehyung and Jennie as they turn to each other, their faces lighting up with matching smiles that seem to glow with a warmth that could almost outshine the harsh overhead lights. It’s a look that makes you realise something you hadn’t noticed before—an attraction Taehyung seems to have for Jennie that you’ve been oblivious to until now. You silently root for them, hoping this shared project might be the catalyst for something more.

And then it hits you, like a slow dawn creeping over the horizon. The only ones left are you and Jungkook. The realisation wipes the smile from your face, leaving you with an odd mix of anxiety and anticipation twisting in your gut.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Mr. Choi announces, “our future superheroes who will someday save all the children: ___ and Jungkook.”

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to face Jungkook, who’s already looking at you with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. His ears, you notice, have turned a vibrant shade of red, a sure sign that he’s just as affected by the pairing as you are. That gleam of triumph in his eyes, the kind that says he’s more than pleased with this outcome, makes your own smile waver. You force yourself to reciprocate, though you’re acutely aware of how hard it’s going to be to stay focused on your work with him so close, day after day. Something you previously ignored in its fullest. There’s something between you, something unspoken but oh so real, an longing that you can’t afford to let bloom. Not when you know that no sane person would ever truly love a killer, someone who hides a part of themselves so dark and twisted that full honesty is an impossibility.

Mr. Choi continues, oblivious to the turmoil beneath your composed exterior. “You’re free to use the lab whenever you need to. The first autopsy and report must be completed and handed in within six weeks.” He strides over to the cadaver cooler and, with a theatrical flourish, pulls open two of the stainless steel doors. The sound of the vacuum seal breaking echoes through the room, and two bodies slide out on their own, propelled by the sudden rush of air.

Glancing around at the faces of his students—some pale with nerves, others flushed with excitement—a ghost of a smile playing on Mr. Choi’s lips as he quips, “May the odds be ever in your favour.”

prologue • masterlist • 02

a/n 3: lmk what you think in any way you like! 👀

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki

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runariya · 3 months ago

Text

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 3

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: attempted murd€r, foul language, detachment, inner conflicts bordering on schizophrenia, fluff, slow burn, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 5.1K

a/n: okay, so here's the deal...I've successfully and irreversibly deleted 2k words of this chapter while editing *yey* And I'm not capable of writing it again, so this chapter's a little shorter than intended. Hope you're enjoying it despite its short length...here goes nothing...🥲

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • masterlist • 04

The night around you feels charged as you move along the shadowed path, the whispers of Suyeomggang River just below the ridge line of trees. The moon hangs heavy and swollen in the sky, a pale sentinel casting a sickly cold light over the riverbank, water lapping against the railings with an almost lazy indifference, a black mirror that reflects the stars in shattered fragments. You can feel the cool breeze off the river, taste its dampness in the air, hear its calling darkness from its depth.

You’ve been preparing for this for years, it’s like tonight everything falls into place, as if everything is perfect, the night wrapping around you like an invisible cloak, the silence so deep it feels like a part of you, an extension of your being grasping in every direction. The training, the planning, the sleepless nights spent perfecting every detail—all of it has led you to this exact moment. You slip through the darkness underneath the canopy of overhanging trees, the leaves whispering above you as if they know what’s about to happen and are trying to keep the secret within themselves. Every step precise, measured, the ground beneath your feet making not a single sound as you follow the trail of Kim Sangwook, the first name on your kill list.

It had to be him. You chose him with the precision of a surgeon’s blade, the first man who laid his filthy, despicable hands on your mother. His crime, as well as Park Dojin’s and Kim Chulsoo’s, wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual, an affront to the very blood that runs through your veins, poisoning it to its DNA.

For months, you’ve watched Sangwook, studied his habits, learning the cadence of his days not to avoid him, but to calculate his weaknesses. He’s arrogant, unafraid, too comfortable in his routines to second guess himself and his safety. You know exactly where he’ll be most vulnerable, and it’s here—this river trail, this desolate stretch of night where no one comes after the sun has set, where only the distant sound of the city and nature bears witness to what will transpire.

You have been patient. You are always patient. And tonight will be no different.

You’re dressed in black, a second skin tailored to your body, slim-fitting and functional, with hidden pockets for your shurikens and whip coiled at your side. You considered a face mask but knew better—too easy to lose in a fight. Instead, you’ve sewn yourself a sleek, fitted mask that covers only your cheeks and brow, leaving your mouth and nose exposed to breathe freely, knowing better than to weaken yourself.

Ahead of you, Sangwook walks, oblivious. He’s whistling—a tuneless, off-key noise that grates against your nerves, but you force yourself to block it out. His pace is lazy, his stride confident. He doesn’t look behind him, doesn’t even suspect that he’s being watched. You follow him like a shadow, each of his steps mirrored by yours but cloaked in silence. The trail curves ahead, leading to a darker stretch where the trees thicken and the river slips out of view. You know this spot—it’s where he’ll be most isolated, most vulnerable.

The darkness inside you twists and writhes, a beast of malice that groans and growls, aching for the taste of blood, its hunger a throbbing force that drowns out any shred of gentleness that lives inside you, pushing it so far down that it might as well have never been there at all. There is nothing left within you now but cruelty, sharp and ruthless, devouring the softer parts of your soul, leaving behind only the savage desire to destroy, to break, to consume without mercy.

You crouch slightly, bending your knees as you brace yourself to pounce. Every muscle in your body is taut, ready to explode into motion with your command. You’re so close now, your fingers twitching with the anticipation of wrapping your whip around his throat, of pulling him into the shadows where he belongs and never will escape from. The moment stretches out before you, the world narrowing to just you and him, to this moment, to this beautiful, beautiful moment.

But then—hands, strong and cold, seize you from behind, and your breath stutters. Your instincts scream danger, but you’re too late. Your body is wrenched backwards, your planned attack on Sangwook slipping through your fingers like air, as he continues his walk, unaware, disappearing into the black abyss of the night, saved by sheer dumb luck.

A grunt of frustration escapes your lips, but you push the sound away as you focus on the here and now. The arms around you are like steel bars, locking your movements, restricting you, but not for long. You twist your body violently, your elbow driving backwards into your captor's ribs with full force. The impact reverberates through your bones, but the man barely falters, tightening his grip even further. Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as you struggle, thrashing against the strength that holds you, your heart racing by pure survival instinct.

With a quick shift of your weight, you slam the heel of your combat boot down hard against his instep, and finally, you feel him flinch. It’s just enough. His grip loosens, and you slip free, stumbling forward but catching yourself before you fall to the ground. You whip around, panting silently, every muscle ready for the next strike.

Before you stands a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in black from head to toe, a black face mask covering the lower half of his face, his eyes squinting at you with angry intensity beneath the brim of a equally black cap. His chest heaves slightly from your brief struggle, but you can tell by his stance that he’s no amateur, even though his face mask tells a different story.

“Who the fuck are you?” you snap, your voice cutting through the night, sharp and impatient after your plan so gracefully failed.

The man scoffs, clearly unimpressed by your question. "I’m Pulse," he replies, his voice low and gravelly, laced with arrogance. "And with whom do I have the pleasure?"

The name rings a bell, and your mind clicks—Pulse. You’ve heard of him before, the so-called ‘hero’ who stalks the streets of Busan, swooping in like some self-righteous crusader to save the day. A ridiculous figure, some holier-than-thou idiot who thinks he can make a difference in a world that’s long past saving. You can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes your lips, suppressing a role of your eyes. He’s nothing more than a man playing dress-up, chasing glory under the guise of justice.

“Stasis,” you say through a mocking smile full of teeth, your tone dripping with derision. The name you gave yourself and the one you call him are a joke, a reflection of the absurdity of this whole pointless situation and himself. “Nice to meet you, Dulls.”

His eyes narrow further above his mask, gaze burning into you with his wounded ego. He clearly wasn’t expecting to run into someone like you tonight, and so he takes a step closer, his voice steady but laced with warning you can’t seem to take serious at the slightest. "This isn't how you make the world better. You shouldn’t be hurting people."

You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes your lips, can’t help but to keep mocking him. "You don’t say."

Silence falls between you as your words reach him, as if he’s weighing his next words carefully, shifting through his thoughts, unsure of what to say next. Meanwhile, the beast inside you bares its teeth, gnashing against the cage of your control, howling for blood, demanding that you kill him right here and now. But you force it down, force yourself to remember that there’s a time and place for slaughter, that not every impulse of it deserves to be fed, not every throat needs to be torn open—only those who’ve earned it.

Pulse’s anger seems to dissolve into the night, slipping away like smoke, as if he’s sensed the monster stirring within you, as if he’s frying to soothe it with patience and understanding.

"I won’t hurt you."

Despite better judgement, you straighten at that, as Pulse’s voice carries a promise that you know better than to believe. It drips with false reassurance, and you’ve long since learned that such words are nothing but bait. You don’t trust him, won’t allow yourself to be lulled into a sense of security that clearly isn’t there. Instead, you begin to circle him to gain back the control he tried ripping out of your hands, testing the resolve behind his words, scanning him for weaknesses, pushing at the edges of his composure.

He stands rooted to the ground, immovable, like a tree whose roots have burrowed deep beneath the earth while the silent dance of power shifting back and forth continues. His cap shadows over his eyes, but you can still feel the burn of his gaze, still feel him asserting you. He watches you with an intensity that you don’t need to see to know; it lingers on your skin, prickling violently in the danger that he is to you.

„What are you doing?“ he finally says, his voice as soft as the night wind.

There it is. That kindness. That unbearable warmth that radiates off him like heat from a furnace, the same warmth that makes you want to recoil. His question is laced with the assumption that you can be saved. He speaks to you as though you're redeemable, as if you're nothing more than a misunderstood soul. As if the rivers of blood on your hands could be washed away by words alone.

„What does it look like I’m doing?“ you let the question hang in the air, more for your own amusement than any real attempt at conversation.

As you keep circling him, you take in every detail. He’s fit, his posture straight and sure, radiating confidence without arrogance. He seems young—perhaps the same age as you, or a little older, but it’s hard to pin down. His body speaks of strength, of long-honed discipline, but what bothers you is the life in his eyes, the youthfulness that disgusts you. There’s something unbearably naive in the way they looked at you before he hid them behind his cap, something untouched by the darkness you’ve come to know so well. Innocence like that has no place in your world. It’s a weakness, a flaw, and yet… he wears it as if it’s armour, shielding him from the filth around him.

You search for cracks in that armour, scrutinising his stance, looking for even the slightest imbalance—a weight leaning to one side, a twitch of muscle, any tell that would betray a vulnerability. But there’s nothing. His body remains steady, a fortress devoid of weakness. He doesn’t flinch as you move, doesn’t tense, not even when you brush close enough to feel the heat radiating off his back’s skin. His breathing is even, his pulse—steady.

Your eyes land on the faint rise and fall of his carotid artery, barely visible beneath the skin of his neck. It beats in a slow, calm rhythm, betraying no sign of fear or anticipation. It unsettles you. Every instinct you have is honed to control, to find the weak points in others, to bend them to your will with a word or a glance. But with him, nothing breaks. Nothing shifts. He stands as though the world could crumble around him and he’d remain unscathed.

„You don’t have to do this. You can stop, Stasis. There’s still time to change.“

Your frustration grows, curling like cigarette smoke in your chest. You’ve played this game before, unraveling the minds of those who thought they could stand against you. It’s a dance you know well—watching them falter, unravel, as the fear begins to claw at their insides, instincts kicking in. But with him… it’s as if you’re circling a stone, lifeless and unaffected by the tempest you try to stir.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t break.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as he turns his eyes to follow your figure for the first time. And you see, that he’s truly like this—believing in the good in people, believing that change is as simple as a choice, as though it’s something that can be made over tea, some crackers and kind words. You almost admire his naivety. Almost.

"Change?" you repeat, a thin smile curling at the corner of your lips. "You speak of change as though it’s some inevitable truth. Some law of nature." You stop a few feet before him, being wiser than to drain your energy by pacing around him. "But nature is indifferent, Dulls. Things end. People die. No amount of hope can alter that."

He looks at you with those eyes again—those damnable eyes filled with that persistent, maddening compassion. It's almost enough to make you laugh out loud again.

„That’s not true.“

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. "You know that it’s only your god complex speaking out of you, right?"

"God complex?" he echoes, brows furrowed, disappearing behind his cap.

You ignore his question entirely, the words meaningless to you now after everything’s unraveled so spectacularly, your plans detonating in your face like fireworks that left nothing but failure in their wake. Without a second glance, you turn on your heel, your patience worn dangerously thin, dismissing him as you throw over your shoulder, “Don’t waste your time, buddy.”

But he doesn’t let it go. “I know you’re not like this. I know there’s good in you, Stasis. You don’t have to be this person.”

You pause, something in his voice forcing you to stop, and with a soft, humourless laugh, you turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, a shadow of a smile playing at your lips. “You still don’t get it, do you?” you murmur, the words laced with barely concealed disdain, with the cold, hard truth. “Some people are beyond saving.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Like he might push harder, fight against the walls you’ve built around yourself. But then he stops. The tension in his shoulders eases, and he sighs, long and deep, as if the weight of the world presses down on him.

Without another word, you step back into the shadows, your figure melting into the darkness where it belongs. The moonlight barely touches you now, your body nothing more than a fleeting spectre in the night. You hear Pulse behind you, his footsteps hesitant, as if he’s debating whether or not to follow.

But he won’t.

You know he won’t.

Sitting at the small dining table in your shared dorm with Taehyung, the morning feels sluggish, lethargic in its stillness of early hours, sun barely peeking over the horizon just yet. Both of you and Taehyung eat breakfast—just some half-hearted cereal from the bottom of the box which expiration date you rather not learn, the crunch of each spoonful drowning out the low noise of a morning show called ‚Good Morning Busan‘ playing in the background. Taehyung, barely awake, eyes half-lidded and tired, mindlessly munches his way through his bowl while you absently stir your spoon through yours, your mind still circling the failure of the night before like you did to Pulse.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung grumbles through a mouthful of cereal, voice still thick with sleep, his curiosity nudging through the haze. “You came back pretty quick last night. Weren’t you successful?”

“No,” you reply with a dramatic sigh, your tone flat, biting back the frustration that’s been bubbling under your skin like boiling water since your plan failed miserably. “Got interrupted.”

He pauses mid-chew, eyes opening just a little more as he frowns. “By whom?”

“Pulse.” The name alone is enough to make your eyelid twitch with irritation. “That wannabe hero.”

A sleepy chuckle escapes him, the sound half-amused, half-groggy. “Wannabe hero?” Taehyung repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You sound pissed.”

“Of course I am,” you snap, the frustration rising to the surface again, until it spills over. “I’ve been planning this for months, Tae, and he just… ruins everything. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than patrol around to feed his ego?”

Taehyung snorts at that, choosing not to poke at the simmering frustration in your voice, knowing it’s better to let you vent than to fuel the fire. He knows you well enough by now to understand that there’s no point in trying to reason with you when you're like this, so he just lets you stew, quietly eating the rest of his cereal.

The silence deepens once more after your short outburst, as you finish eating as well. With an irritated huff, you stand and shove your bowls into the dishwasher before grabbing your bag and shoes, preparing to head to class. Taehyung follows, equally silent, slipping on his shoes as you grab the remote to turn off the TV. But just as your finger hovers over the power button, something on the screen catches your attention, halting your finger mid-press.

It’s him. It’s Pulse. His face, or rather his eyes, open and earnest, fill the screen as he speaks to a reporter, full of the kind of naive kindness that makes your skin crawl. “It’s not about honour,” he says, voice calm and oh so friendly. “It’s just doing what I can to help the mayor and police and keep the city safe. Protect its people.”

His words grate against something inside you, that calm righteousness sparking your anger all over again. You want to scream, to throw the remote straight into the TV and smash his sanctimonious face, but all you can do is stand there, teeth grating violently against each other, and turn the TV off with an aggressive jab of the button, yeeting the remote right after somewhere onto the depths of the couch. Without a word, you push through the door, Taehyung trailing lazily behind you with his loafers worn like slippers, as you both step out into the cold morning air. The chill brushes against your face in an instant, cooling your burning blood, and helping to dull the force of your fury.

After a few moments of quiet, Taehyung breaks the silence with a low chuckle, fully awake now from the brisk air. “I take it back,” he smirks. “Didn’t realise Pulse was so chummy with the devil.”

“I told you,” you mutter darkly, still fuming faintly, “he’s just another egotistical nitwit who doesn’t even understand what he’s protecting. Doesn’t understand that he’s part of the problem.”

Taehyung hums in agreement, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “So, what are you gonna do about him?”

You sigh, the weight of the question sinking into you. For a moment, you think about just ignoring him, writing him off as a nuisance who managed to catch you off guard this once but won’t be an issue again. “I don’t know,” you say with a scoff, the frustration still clinging to your voice. “Maybe I’ll just ignore him. He caught me by luck, anyway. It’s not like I’ll see him again… either way, I need to focus on taking down Sangwook and the others.”

Taehyung only hums at that, but you can’t seem to slow down just yet.

You scoff again, shaking your head in disbelief. “Pulse.*What kind of a name is that? He should call himself Blip. Stupid moron.”

Taehyung bursts out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty street, probably waking everyone in the neighbourhood, and the absurdity of it all finally cracks a smile on your face, too. “You know, I called him ‘Dulls’ last night. Didn’t go over well.”

Your laughter rises to match his, tears collecting at the edges of your eyes as you share the only moment of triumph, your tension slowly easing away with every breath.

Just then, Jungkook jogs up to join you, his soft hair bouncing with each step, and he grins at the two of you as though he’s been part of the joke all along. His presence is like a fresh breeze cutting through the remnants of your irritation, lightening your mood even more.

“What’s up?” he asks, his voice bright and curious. “What’s so funny?”

“She’s bashing Pulse,” Taehyung responds, barely holding back his laughter.

Jungkook’s smile falters, his brow furrowing as his gaze shifts into mild disapproval. “Why?”

You shrug, your mood already too high from the shared humour. “I don’t like do-gooders who have no idea what they’re doing,” you explain simply, dismissively, hoping to steer the conversation away from the topic before it stirs more irritation.

But you catch the slight tick in Jungkook’s jaw out of the corner of your eye, that tiny tightening that tells you he doesn’t see things the way you do. He’s too kind, too gentle, to understand the cynicism you’ve earned through scars on your mind and body. He probably sees Pulse as some noble protector, someone fighting for justice, unaware of how useless that brand of idealism is in the face of real, disguised evil. Sensing the shift in his mood, you deftly change the subject, not wanting to get into an argument so early in the day. “So, do you think med ethics will be any less torturous this semester?”

Taehyung sighs dramatically, rubbing his face with a groan. “I’m just trying to get through it. If I can pass and collect my attendance points, that’ll be enough.”

Jungkook chuckles softly. „True,“ though there’s still a trace of unease in his eyes, his smile not quite reaching them. You all fall into a quiet rhythm as you walk, the campus and some students coming into view as the conversation shifts to lighter things. And when you finally reach the lecture hall, you immediately spot Yoongi and Hoseok seated in an empty row, deep in conversation. They acknowledge your arrival with a brief glance, uninterested in breaking their rhythm as the three of you head towards them. Taehyung leads the way, his eyes scanning the tables before stopping just short of sitting down, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, where’s the coffee? Whose turn was it?”

Hoseok glances up, barely holding back a grin. “Jennie’s, but I think she’s late again.”

Just as you’re about to step into the row as well, hurried footsteps echo from behind. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Jennie dashing around the professor, a tray of coffee in hand, nearly tripping over herself in her haste. Before you can fully process it, she’s yanking Jungkook back by his shirt, latter letting out a short yelp while she squeezes past the narrow gap between him and the tables, bulldozing her way through without much care. She brushes by you too, nearly crushing your thighs against the hard edges of the chairs, mumbling a half-hearted “sorry” that you know she doesn’t mean, before plopping herself down beside Taehyung with a satisfied grin.

You exchange a bewildered look with Jungkook, his expression mirroring your own disbelief, while Taehyung, completely unfazed, is already deep in hushed conversation with Jennie, grinning like he’d been waiting for her all along. Yoongi and Hoseok lean over Taehyung to grab their coffees, neither of them paying any mind to personal space.

“Alright, if everyone could please sit down, we’ll begin,” the professor calls through the room, and you quickly slip into the seat beside Jennie, Jungkook sitting down right next to you still fixing his shirt’s collar. Both of you pull out your laptops in near-perfect synchronisation, and after handing Jungkook a coffee, you quietly sip your own as the lecture begins.

It doesn’t take long into the lecture, when Jungkook nudges you softly with his elbow, a small, warm pressure that disrupts the stillness in your thoughts and concentration. You nudge him back, acknowledging his presence, though your gaze remains forward, fixed on the professor, though you're not really seeing him now.

Jungkook leans in slightly, his voice so low it barely reaches your ears. “You know, I’ve been thinking about yesterday… and I just wanted to let you know, it’s okay if you don’t want to date me or anything. Don’t feel pressured or anything like that…” His voice trails off into uncertainty.

For a moment, you're stunned, not having expected this. Your thoughts reel back to yesterday, to that quiet moment shared over coffee. It was one of the few times you’d felt at ease, like you belonged somewhere, even for a little while. Jungkook had made you feel… seen. Appreciated, even. There was something about the way you looked at each other, listened to each other, that made you feel like you weren’t just playing a part in someone else’s story, but actually living in your own.

You realise then, that you long for such a connection. Long for a connection with him. You’ve denied it for so long, convinced yourself you didn’t need it, didn’t deserve it. How could you, after everything you’ve done and everything that you plan to do? Building something with Jungkook on a foundation of lies feels reckless, not fair even. How could you let him get closer, knowing he doesn't know the real you? No, not the real you, but a part of you. A part, that feels like poisoned soil where he tries to plant a garden.

Yet, there's another voice inside you, quieter but insistent: Why should your dark side dictate your life, your future? Why shouldn’t you let yourself have this light, this chance to be happy? You aren’t made of shadow entirely, you never were, and something in you yearns for Jungkook like a flower aches for sunlight. What if—just even for a while—it doesn’t have to matter?

“I would love to go on a date with you,” you whisper softly, your voice barely louder than his, wanting to take the chance for once. You feel warmth blooming in your chest and cheeks, a rush of blood that you haven’t felt in so long, and you fight to keep a smile from overtaking your lips.

And despite the mutation that shields you from physical pain, the storm of emotions coursing through you is undeniable proof of you still being alive—an inescapable, aching force reminding you that you are not the hollow shell you sometimes wish to be, but simply a feeling human. Every emotion—fear, joy, longing—rattles through your bones like a sized twelve earthquake, shaking you down to the foundation. You realise, that with your agreement, the gates to the warmth has been pulled open completely, flooding your veins without mercy, though the warmth is something different, something brighter. It spreads slowly, like the glow of the sun rising after a long, brutal night.

Love and hope, fragile and intoxicating, winds its way into the dark crevices of your being, a sensation you’ve craved for so long that its presence is almost overwhelming. It’s everything you lost, everything that was ripped from you when your childhood was robbed from you, leaving only jagged fragments of yourself behind. And now, against all odds, it’s here again—this feeling of belonging, of connection—and it fills the void that has festered within you for years. It is what you’ve longed for since the day your innocence was stolen, and though it terrifies you, it also makes you feel more alive than you have in years.

A disbelieving, but happy puff of air escapes Jungkook’s lips. “You mean that?” His words carry a hopeful surprise, as if he hadn’t truly expected you to say yes.

For a brief moment, evil, dark doubt creeps back in, whispering that you should push him away, that your darkness will only hurt him in the end. But then, another thought pushes through the shadows: maybe this is your chance to follow the light, to give yourself permission to feel something real, something good. And for once, you let that thought win. “Yes,” you murmur softly, surrendering to the happiness with a silent sigh.

Without a word, Jungkook’s hand finds yours where it rests on your thigh, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. The warmth of his touch settles you, like a calm wave washing over a restless shore. He draws your connected hands over to his thigh, letting them rest there, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles across the back of your hand. “We’ve got classes all day,” he murmurs, his voice light with excitement, “but do you want to go out tomorrow night?”

“That would be great,” you whisper, glancing at him briefly. The smile you’ve been fighting finally breaks free, curving your lips as a soft tenderness spreads through you.

Jungkook beams, his own smile bright and unguarded as he strokes your hand with his thumb. “Cool. Tomorrow it is,” he nods, his voice light with pure, innocent joy. “I’ll pick you up.”

And in that moment, you feel truly happy, in a way you haven’t allowed yourself to feel for years. It’s a strange feeling, both exhilarating and terrifying to its core, like standing on the edge of a cliff with your toes hanging over, unsure if the fall will break you or set you free. But it feels good. It feels right. It feels as though there might be a future for you after all—one not swallowed whole by despair and darkness.

Yet even as you savour the warmth spreading through and around you, a small whisper of uncertainty lingers. You don’t know if you’ll regret this, if letting Jungkook into your life will end up being the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But for now, for this fleeting moment in your short life, as your fingers remain intertwined with his, you let it wrap around you, and allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s still some light left worth saving in you after all.

prologue • 01 • 02 • masterlist • 04

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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