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chimcess · 8 days ago

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⚔︎ Chapter Two: Your Name's Buck, Right? Pairing: Taehyung x Reader Other Tags: Assassin!Taehyung, Assassin!Reader, Assassin!Jimin, Dad!Jimin, Assassin!Yoongi, Gang Leader!Yoongi, Assassin!Namjoon, Swordmaster!Hoseok, Chef!Hoseok, Pimp!Seokjin Genre: Assassins! AU, Exes!AU, Lovers to Enemies, Action, Comedy, Suspense, Martial Arts, Drama, Thriller, Romance (if you squint), Heavy Angst, Violence, Age Gap, 18+ only Word Count: 22.2k+ Summary: A former assassin awakens from a four-year coma after her ex-lover Taehyung tries to kill her on her wedding day. Driven by revenge for the loss of her unborn child and stolen life, she creates a hit list and embarks on a ruthless mission to take down everyone responsible. Warnings: graphic violence, grief, implied SA, stabbing with IV drip, bashing head in with a door, stolen car, very crude language, revenge plot, past relationships explored, previous reader and Yoongi, smut, backshots, friends with benefits, more than likely poorly translated Korean, my bad, bickering, swords are here, guns too, crying, seething anger, PTSD flashbacks, implied CSA, more backstory, pedophilia referenced multiple times, blood and gore, all of the content warnings really, dead dove: do not eat, seriously this really only gets darker as we go along, throwing knives at someone, I love Hoseok in this one, he's one of my favorites here, attempted murder, actual murder, ripping tongue out with teeth, jealousy, character in a coma, body scars, no one here is really a good person morally or otherwise, I don't think I missed anything but let me know if I did... A/N: Happy 4th!

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It was raining hard in El Paso. The storm hit Mesa Street in sheets, the streetlights flickering weakly through the downpour. Their halos cast brief, warped shadows on the wet asphalt. Cars crawled through the flooded intersections, tires cutting through the water. Windshield wipers slapped against the glass in frantic rhythm, and hazard lights blinked in every lane. Some drivers had given up, pulling to the curb with their turn signals on. Others huddled in their seats, squinting through the storm.

Three floors up at El Paso General, the building rattled with the force of the storm. Room 304 sat at the end of a beige hallway that looked like it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the walls lined with buzzing vending machines. The air inside smelled of mothballs, bleach, and old paper. The room was still. The bed was neatly made around the body, the tubes connected, and machines hummed in a steady lullaby of survival: a soft beep, then another. No flowers, no cards, no voices waiting for her to wake up.

The name on the chart: Rhonda Portnoy.

A man had come to identify her—Bill White. Big guy, quiet. Hard to place. He came four days after the paramedics had brought her in. Signed the papers, listened to the surgeon’s rundown without blinking. He didn’t ask about the swelling, the coma, or the chances of waking. He just signed and left. Took the baby with him.

A girl. Born premature. Five days in NICU under blue lights and wires, machines breathing for her. Then Bill came back, this time with a duffel bag, and left with the infant like it was just another errand. No photos, no family, no questions. Just a man walking out of a hospital with a newborn like he was clocking out.

The nurses wondered, as they do. Did Rhonda even know she’d had a baby? Did she remember the wedding? The white dress, the flowers, the crowd that never made it to the reception. Tommy Groban was the groom. Shot in the chapel before the vows. Most of the family went with him. Blood on the church floor, champagne never popped. Rhonda took a bullet to the head, but somehow lived.

At first, they called it a miracle. News vans lined the street, reporters scrambling for the scoop. The Bride Who Lived. The story wrote itself. There were cameras, tabloids, a viral ambulance video. But Rhonda never woke. No blink, no cry. So the miracle faded. Headlines dried up. The cameras moved on to other tragedies. The world forgot.

Now, there was just the hum of machines, the rain beating against the windows, and a silence that had stopped waiting. Four months of it. No visitors, no changes. The air in the room had turned stale, a sour, chemical smell—like melted plastic or a burnt match. The kind of air that clings to you.

She lay there, untouched by time except in the way it drained her—soft muscles, drained color, a body left to maintenance. A life on pause. The monitor kept its steady beat, like a metronome counting nothing. The IV kept dripping, a drop at a time, into a vein that never twitched. The staff kept up their routines, but none of them expected her to wake.

Down in the rain, a black car slid into the hospital lot. It idled for a moment before dying, the only sound the ticking of cooling metal and the steady slap of wipers. Then, the door clicked open. A red umbrella unfurled, sharp and efficient, the kind of movement that came from practice, not panic. Yellow boots splashed into the ankle-deep water, followed by the woman herself—tall, composed, wrapped in a bright coat that seemed out of place in the washed-out world around her. She didn’t rush. The rain hit her shoulders, her face, and slid down her cheeks, but she walked as though it was nothing.

The ID badge clipped to her collar read: R. Stone, RN. The name meant nothing. The photo was blurry enough to avoid suspicion, and the laminate caught the light just right. It was a good fake—hospital-grade, correct barcode, and even the weight was spot on. The automatic doors slid open for her, just like the night before when she’d tested the entry points, counted the cameras, and watched the shift change.

Inside, the hospital buzzed under fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant. The floor was too shiny, and the dry, sterile air barely masked the faint mildew and copper tang that lingered beneath.

Janice sat at the desk, barely awake, scribbling through a crossword with two untouched coffees beside her. Her scrubs were wrinkled, shoes discarded, feet swollen in pink compression socks. She didn’t look up when the woman walked by.

“Late shift?” she muttered, more out of habit than curiosity.

The woman gave a tight, professional smile, empty and practiced. “Always short-staffed.”

Janice grunted and scratched at the puzzle, too tired to question anything.

The woman moved quietly down the hallway, her footsteps soundless on the linoleum. Her pace was steady, her eyes sharp beneath the brim of her umbrella. She didn’t break stride as she passed the nurse’s station, the vending machines, the rooms marked with numbers no one cared to remember. She turned into the restroom, and the door clicked softly behind her. The lock slid into place.

The mirror caught her slowly—first her shoulder, then her face—drawing her in like a photograph developing in real time. The umbrella lay crumpled at her feet, leaking water into the grout. Her soaked coat hung from her shoulders, rain dripping from her elbows, her mouth set in a firm, unreadable line. She moved with a calculated grace, the kind earned by discipline or violence—every action precise. She peeled off the coat, folded it tight, and sealed it in a plastic bag with practiced ease.

She sat on the edge of the sink, pulling on white stockings that snapped against her thighs. The fabric was slick, uncomfortable, but she wore it anyway. Next came the white nurse's shoes—standard-issue, ugly—and she slipped them on without ceremony.

The uniform was a near-perfect match for the hospital’s own. Just enough wear in the seams to pass unnoticed under tired eyes. She adjusted her cap, smoothing an invisible wrinkle on her chest, flat palm over the fabric, breath held. Her reflection stared back. One eye icy and sharp. The other hidden behind a clean white patch, sealed at the edges with surgical tape. Her lips were bright, rose red, her face symmetrical and flawless. She looked like someone who knew how to get away with anything.

From her duffel, she retrieved a stainless steel tray, placing it carefully on the counter. On it, a single glass syringe. Next to it, a vial of something clear and viscous—mercury without the shine, more shadow than liquid. She held it to the light, but it didn’t reflect. She rolled it in her palm, watching the liquid slither from one side to the other. Then, with steady hands, she drew it into the syringe—no bubbles, no tremble. When the plunger reached the mark, she flicked the needle once. A bead swelled at the tip like a tear.

“Goodbye forever,” she murmured to herself.

She capped the needle and slid the syringe into a pocket sewn just for it. A final check in the mirror, fingers brushing over her collar, her sleeves, her eyes—no flaws. Perfect.

She stepped into the hallway, the same sterile hallway she’d walked through the night before. Hospitals had a way of staying the same—clean floors, the smell of bleach and antiseptic, the hum of machines behind thin walls, carts squeaking, and somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved through it like she belonged. The ID badge clipped to her collar caught the light as she walked, the tray in her hands steady, unshaken. If anyone bothered to check, the ID would pass. The name wasn’t hers, but the photo was. It didn’t matter—there were no fingerprints on file, no records of any kind. Just a trail of dead ends. Brandi had gotten good at leaving them.

She walked with purpose, tall and commanding, her shoes silent against the linoleum. People glanced up, saw what they expected, and looked away. She didn’t try to hide—she just blended in, looking exactly how they thought she should look.

Years ago, she used to fight behind a warehouse in Modesto. Bare-knuckle, no gloves, no rules. The air smelled like piss and cigarettes, and she wasn’t angry, she was just fast. She fought to feed her sister, Presley, when there were no shifts left at the liquor store. She did what she had to do. Then Taehyung found her. He’d watched her knock out a man twice her size in under eight seconds, and the next day, he showed up at her door. He promised her an escape, a place for Presley, a life away from everything that had always chewed them up.

The next morning, her boss was found dead, and Brandi left with Taehyung before the sun came up. She didn’t look back.

Taehyung called her California Mountain Snake. Not because of where she came from, but because of how she moved—quiet, fast, and lethal. She didn’t charm or slither; she waited, struck, and disappeared. Y/N, though, had laughed when she heard the name. "Those snakes don’t even bite, right? Copycats. Harmless," she’d mocked. That pissed Brandi off, but Taehyung stepped in, stopping her before she went too far.

Y/N was better. Brandi knew it. Faster, smoother. When Taehyung looked at her, he saw everything. He gave her the keys to everything—everything Brandi wanted, everything she’d worked for. Brandi had loved him, fiercely, foolishly. And when Y/N walked in, everything changed. Brandi’s world tilted, and nothing was the same.

Brandi thought she could take Y/N on, but in the end, she was wrong. Thirty seconds, one slip, and Brandi was down. Y/N didn’t gloat. She didn’t have to. Brandi took her hand, but hated herself the whole way up.

Years passed, and through it all, there were pictures—Presley in a costume, Presley with cake smeared on her face, Presley on stage. Brandi studied each one like it might explode, then locked them away. She never reached out. She never tried to find Presley. That deal had been made long ago. Presley was alive, and that’s all Brandi wanted to know.

That life was worth less than shit on the bottom of her shoe.

Brandi stepped into the hall, the same quiet hall she'd walked down the night before. Hospitals didn’t change. The floors were too clean, the air dry with the scent of bleach and disinfectant, and the buzz of fluorescent lights was constant. Behind the walls, machines hummed. Somewhere, someone was crying.

She moved with purpose, tray in hand, badge on her chest swaying with every step. It would pass any scan. A perfect fake. The name, the photo, everything matched the records, even the barcode. No one would notice the difference. Brandi had spent years perfecting the art of vanishing in plain sight.

Now, she walked down the hallway to room 304. The door was old, the nameplate crooked, clinging by rusted screws. “Rhonda Portnoy.” The name pissed her off. Soft. Stupid. She knew what she was walking into. The door opened without resistance. Inside, the room was too still. The light overhead flickered, buzzing a sick yellow. One tile sagged, curling at the edge. Outside, rain smeared the windows. Inside, the machines hummed, the oxygen hissed, and the monitor beeped in an endless rhythm, like time moving without weight.

Y/N lay in the bed, unmoving. Eyes open, mouth slightly ajar. Hands folded over the blanket. She didn’t blink. Didn’t stir. Just stared at the ceiling. Brandi knew this person. Not the body. Not the shell. But the woman who used to burn bright.

Brandi stepped in, like a witness, like a judge. She set the tray down, and the cold metal clicked. The syringe gleamed in the low light. It was the end. The final step. The thing that would stop all the waiting.

She looked at Y/N—not the body, but the ghost of the woman she used to be. The one who fought and burned everything in her path. Now, there was nothing but breath and machines. No fire. No soul. Just a hollow shell.

“I don’t think I ever liked you,” Brandi said, her voice rough, the words tasting like ash. “Actually, no. I hated you.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, her fingers gentle in a way they hadn’t been in years. “But I respected you.”

Brandi set the syringe in her hand, tapping it once, twice. She moved to the IV line, found the vein without looking. The plunger was ready. The silence was thick, and for a second, Brandi wondered if she could hear Y/N's heartbeat. Then, she whispered, “Dying in your sleep... that’s a mercy we never get.”

She hesitated. Just for a moment, her thumb pressing against the plunger, ready to end it.

“My gift to you.”

But then, the phone rang.

It cut through the silence like a knife. Sharp. Wrong. Unwanted. The monitor beeped in confusion, struggling against the sound. Brandi froze, her hand still holding the syringe.

Brandi froze mid-step, every muscle locked tight. The syringe in her hand didn’t waver, but she could feel the rage crawling up her spine. The phone buzzed again, sharp and insistent. She reached into her coat pocket, slow and methodical, and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Brandi.”

His voice. The name. It sliced through her like an old wound, reopening everything. The tension inside her shifted—subtle, inward—but it wasn’t calm. It was controlled. Her jaw ticked. She couldn’t hide the disgust in her chest. The air seemed thicker now, too thick to breathe.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice dead, stripped of everything. “She’s out. No change. I’m standing over her.”

There was a pause before Taehyung’s voice came back.

“I changed my mind.”

Brandi’s body didn’t move, but the words hit her like a sucker punch. She felt something freeze inside her. She didn’t even know how to react.

“What do you mean?” she growled, every word cutting through her teeth.

“Pull back.”

The laugh that slipped from her was broken, hollow. No warmth. Just a dry rasp that seemed to fill the room with its emptiness. She didn’t know if she was laughing at the absurdity or at herself. But she had to say it.

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Now you’re switching it up?”

“It was always mine to switch.”

The words hit like a crack down her spine. She turned on her heel, pacing in tight circles, the anger bubbling inside her. Her heels snapped against the floor, louder with each step. The syringe still hung in her fingers. The tray sat cold on the counter, untouched. The whole world was shifting. The one person she thought she could rely on had just changed everything.

“You don’t owe her anything,” Brandi snapped. “You don’t owe her shit!”

There was a pause. Her voice dropped low, a breath caught in the middle of everything.

“You don’t owe her shit.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. And then Taehyung’s voice came again—steady, sure, cutting through everything.

“You all beat the hell out of her, but you didn’t kill her. I put a bullet in her head, and her heart kept beating. You saw that yourself. With your own beautiful blue eye, didn’t you?”

Brandi didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. The truth hit her hard. She felt it, deep in her chest.

“We’ve done things to that woman,” Taehyung continued, his voice gravelly, each word dragging. “And if she wakes up, we’ll do more. But we don’t sneak in like rats and kill her in her sleep. That’s beneath us.”

A beat of silence.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Phoenix?”

Brandi stopped dead in her tracks. The syringe slipped in her hand, and her fingers tightened around it, knuckles turning white. Her jaw flexed, her body vibrating with the change in the room’s air. The tension was unbearable now.

She looked at Y/N, still there, still lifeless. But there was something in the room now. A heaviness. An awareness. Y/N had been here before, and now she was just a breath away from death. Or mercy.

Brandi inhaled. Slow. Like she was preparing to vanish.

“I guess,” she said, the words slipping out like poison.

Another pause, and then Taehyung pushed.

“Do you really have to guess?”

Her eyes flicked to the peeling paint on the wall, the dark stains on the ceiling tile. She couldn’t answer, but she didn’t need to.

“No,” she whispered. “I know.”

She stood there, still, in the silence of the room. For the first time since walking in, Brandi felt it. The pull. The twisted history. The venom of memory that had never quite let her go. Y/N’s presence, even in her coma, felt like something was still alive—something that refused to die.

Taehyung’s voice cut through the silence again. Soft. Sweet. That tone he always used to get what he wanted.

“Come home, honey.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. The tension drained from her body. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath. The syringe dropped slightly in her hand. Her shoulders slumped.

“Okay,” she breathed.

Taehyung never had to convince her of anything. All he had to do was speak like that. Sweet as bourbon, rough as salt. He made her feel like she belonged—even if it wasn’t real.

“I love you very much.”

Brandi’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her heart was heavy, but she had no choice but to speak the words.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Bye-bye.”

Brandi stood in the doorway, feeling the weight of her decision, but not moving. She wasn’t sure what had changed, but something had. The tension in the room settled on her shoulders, thick and suffocating.

Her fingers clenched around the syringe, but they didn’t tremble. She was pissed. Her jaw tightened as she stood there, watching the woman in the bed, the one who used to own every room she walked into, reduced to nothing more than a body being kept alive by machines.

Y/N used to be the most dangerous woman in the world. Now, she was a husk. Just a body on a bed, still breathing in sync with a machine.

Brandi looked at her for a long moment. She remembered the girl Taehyung brought home back in 1990. The woman she became over the following ten years. But this wasn’t her. This wasn’t the girl who made men stumble over their words and women step back. The very same woman who’d kill an entire crew single-handedly and walk away without a scratch.

Brandi stepped closer to the bed. Her shoes made no sound on the floor. She stood there for a while, watching the rise and fall of Y/N's chest. The machines hummed and beeped in time, but it was all lifeless. The air in the room felt thick, like it had been soaked in bleach and blood for too long. A scent she could never wash out.

When she spoke, it was slow, almost measured. “Made me come all the way out here,” she said, her voice low and cold. “Steal a uniform. Forge the badge. Walk through a fucking thunderstorm. Just to stand here and get told to stand down like I’m a motherfucking intern.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, because there wasn’t one. Y/N’s body didn’t respond. It was just there, lying in the same position it had been for months.

Brandi’s mouth twitched. “Only good thing about it, is that I can see how fucking pathetic you are.”

Her gaze dropped to Y/N’s face. The woman who had once made her want to tear her apart now looked so small, so… ordinary. The once sharp cheekbones, the daring eyes, all softened into nothing. There was no power left in her. No fire. Just a faded memory of what she used to be.

Brandi’s expression hardened. The softness drained from her voice. “You shouldn’t wake up,” she muttered. “Now that I get a good look at you?” Her voice turned whisper-thin, sharp. “You’re not even that pretty.”

Her eyes scanned Y/N’s face, dissecting it. The curve of her nose, the slack jaw—it wasn’t beautiful anymore. It wasn’t anything. Just like the bitch in the coma.

“Face like that only works from a distance,” Brandi said, a dry laugh escaping her lips. “Put you under real light, and what’ve we got? Crooked nose. Plain face. Probably snore. Probably drool. Probably stink.”

Brandi stood still, her body tense as she watched the woman in the bed. No anger now, just a cold, deep disappointment. Her head tilted, almost mechanically. “My skin’s better,” she muttered. It wasn’t a boast, just a blunt fact. A reminder of what Y/N used to be—and what she was now.

Without thinking, she straightened, the syringe still in her hand, the metal catching the dim light. The weight of it felt familiar, like it had always been hers, like it had always belonged there.

Then Y/N coughed. It wasn’t a breath or anything close—it was a wet, hollow sputter, the kind of sound something rotting makes as it falls apart. It didn’t echo. Didn’t make a noise that felt alive. Just existed for a moment. A fleck of it hit Brandi’s cheek—warm, damp, and undeniable. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. She just froze. Her limbs locked up, rigid as stone. Slowly, her hand rose to her face, not out of alarm, but something worse—disgust. She touched the wet spot like it had insulted her.

Her jaw clenched. Her lips went flat. Her nostrils flared like she could smell something dead.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with venom. “No, you didn’t.”

She reached for the gown, grabbed it with a sudden pull, yanking it. The body shifted, limp and unresisting, the tubes pulling tight, the tape curling at the edges. Y/N’s head snapped to the side. The machines screamed in alarm, a chorus of metal shrieks, the lights flashing red.

Brandi didn’t give a shit.

She drew back, then swung—once, fast, a punch to the jaw. Her knuckles hit hard, rattling teeth that didn’t even seem to remember what pain was anymore. Another strike, higher—right to the temple. A clean hit. One last punch to the chest, right above the sternum.

The machines screamed louder, stuttered, then picked up their normal rhythm again.

Brandi stood over the bed, fists clenched, her chest rising and falling, slow and even. She leaned in close, her breath brushing against the dead skin that still felt warm. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“If you ever—” she said, each word like it had been carved from stone. “—drag yourself out of this bed—ever—”

Her voice faltered for a split second, her anger only increasing with every word.

“I’ll kill you myself, bitch.”

Brandi let go. Just shoved the body back into the bed like she was returning a broken piece of furniture. Y/N collapsed, limbs slack, arms hanging off the bed.

Brandi didn’t move right away. One breath, slow and deep. She smoothed her uniform, resetting herself. Her face remained blank. She needed to calm down if she wanted to speak with Taehyung once she left. He would be angry if she knew what had just happened.

She glanced at Y/N one last time before she turned and walked away, leaving the room behind. The door clicked shut behind her.

The hallway buzzed with the cheap hum of fluorescent lights. Polished floors, blank walls, machines beeping like it meant something. Nurses moved with practiced urgency. Strangers talked too loud about nothing that mattered. A hospital doing its best impression of control.

Brandi didn’t pause. Didn’t look back. As far as Taehyung was concerned, the job was done. Whether she liked it or not.

She’d made it ten steps before a door cracked open behind her. A young doctor spilled into the hallway, wild-eyed and bloodied, dragging a gurney like momentum might save the patient.

“We’re losing him!” he shouted, voice high and breaking. “Nurse! Help me!”

Brandi kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. One loafer in front of the other. Behind her, the alarms screamed louder. Code blue or red or whatever color meant dying. Machines panicked. Nurses scrambled.

“Tough titty,” she muttered. Just loud enough for the tile to hear. “I quit.”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Not for the blood, not for the chaos, not for the sound of lives cracking open behind her.

By the time anyone thought to ask who she was, she was already gone. All that remained was the echo of her whistling her way out of the front door. And even that didn’t last.

The room was dim. Fluorescent light flickered overhead, throwing thin shadows across the white walls. The air was stale and smelled heavily of ammonium. No one had touched the furniture. The scuff marks on the tile looked frozen in time. A nurse had come by at seven. That was it. The night shift forgot she was even there.

Y/N lay motionless in the narrow hospital bed, swallowed by stiff, scratchy sheets that hadn’t been changed in days. Her body was frail—little more than skin stretched thin over bone, nearly weightless. Her eyes stayed open, dry and unblinking, staring at the water-stained ceiling tiles like they might shift into something that made sense.

Her hair was dry and brittle. It broke off in soft clumps, collecting in the creases of the pillow like dust. She hadn't moved in years. Four of them—long, silent years.

Just above her left temple, a crescent scar curved across her forehead, its edges pale and raised. Beneath it, a metal plate—an ugly, necessary thing. The bullet had missed the vital parts of her brain by millimeters. A miracle, the doctors had called it. But still, she hadn’t woken.

Her vitals were normal. Brain activity, too. Nothing about her looked wrong—except for the fact that she wasn't there. It was like her body had been waiting for her to come back.

The room was quiet except for the machines. One kept time with a soft, patient beep. Another hissed every few seconds, pushing medication into the thin line that disappeared into her arm. A third clicked, slow and metronomic.

A mosquito drifted through the still air. It landed on her forearm, then bit in, feeding on its easy meal.

Then, miraculously, she moved. At first, just a flicker in her fingers. Small. Almost imperceptible. It could’ve been a twitch. A reflex. But it came again—sharper, more deliberate. Her hand lifted and then dropped.

Slap.

The mosquito was crushed. A smear of red on translucent skin. Her hand hovered, trembled, then brushed the remains aside.

Her eyes blinked. Once. Twice. They focused.

She was awake.

Her body convulsed upright in one sudden, panicked jolt. A scream tore out of her—raw, cracked, like something rusted breaking free. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, gasping waves. Breath came in hard and uneven. Her lungs, unpracticed in the chaos of living, struggled against the rhythm machines had held for years.

Her eyes darted around the room. White walls. Fluorescent lights. Machines still whirring, still unaware. A camera in the corner. A door with no window. Nothing familiar.

Then the memories hit.

A chapel. Roses in bloom. Music playing low. A man’s voice—warm, certain. Then light. Then pain.

Her hands flew to her head, digging into her hair. She found it. The scar. The plate. Hard and unnatural beneath her fingertips.

Tap. Tap.

Tink. Tink.

Her throat felt scorched, her voice barely a sound. “My baby,” she rasped.

She clawed at the thin hospital gown. Her fingers slid over her stomach—soft, unfamiliar, hollow. Then they stopped. A scar. Long. Healed. Her hands froze.

The room didn’t. The machines went on without her.

She looked down at her palm and began tracing the lines, slow, methodical—like she was reading tea leaves. One. Two. Three. Four.

Her gaze shifted to the wall across from her. A calendar hung there, pages curled and yellowed at the edges. The year: 2004.

“Four years,” she whispered. The words felt foreign in her mouth.

Something deep inside her cracked.

Her chest tightened. The weight of her own breathing pressed in, sharp and raw. Her lungs fought to remember how to expand, how to fill. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Her shoulders began to tremble—small, uneven shakes, like a warning before a storm.

Then the tears came. Fast. Violent. Not graceful. Not cinematic. They gushed down her cheeks, soaking the pillow, her gown, her tangled hair. Her mouth opened in a wordless cry, her jaw shaking with the effort of trying to make sound happen. Her face, blank for years, folded under the force of emotion—creases of pain, of memory, of things lost.

She reached for the gown again, gripped it in both fists. Twisted hard. The fabric pulled tight across her lap, straining, threatening to tear. Her body convulsed—not from sobs, but from something deeper, more primal.

Beep. Hiss. Drip.

The machines didn’t pause.

She wept. Everything she’d once had—gone. Erased. A life folded closed and filed away somewhere she couldn’t reach. And now here it was, back in front of her, impossible to look at without shattering.

She had carried a heartbeat that wasn’t her own. Protected it. Loved it.

Now there was silence beneath her ribs. Just the machines. Just the room. Just her.

Then she heard it. Step… step… step. Distant, muffled at first, but unmistakable. She froze mid-cry, her swollen eyes snapping open, not with hope, but recognition. The cadence. It cut through the haze of her emotions and hit her with a force that made her heart stutter. Taehyung. The name surged in her chest, filling her entire being. Her mind seized the sound, molding it with memories that had been locked away for far too long. She saw him then—his black leather boots striking the floor with that exact rhythm she had heard before, a sound so ingrained in her mind that it was etched into her very bones. The image played behind her eyes like a film reel, the memory of the chapel flooding back—his presence walking down the aisle, the distant sound of wedding bells ringing, the roses scattering beneath his feet. And then, gunshots. Screaming. Blood on white.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she almost believed he was there, just beyond the door, walking toward her like it was a lifetime ago, before everything fell apart. But then, another set of footsteps joined the rhythm—quieter, irregular, wrong. Step… step… squeak. No boots. Rubber soles. She barely moved her head, just enough for her ear to catch the subtle shift in sound. Reeboks. A hospital orderly. Not him.

Her body remained frozen, suspended in the collision between the haunting memory of him and the harsh reality of the present. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to spin around her, the walls closing in. The illusion of Taehyung’s presence still lingered, fighting for dominance in her mind, refusing to let go of the ghost it had conjured.

And then the voice came, breaking the fragile thread of her thoughts. “She’s right in here.” It was too nasal. Too flat. It wasn’t him. But her brain twisted the words, distorting them with his intonation, layering them with his deeper, smoother voice. The sound of his voice—familiar and warm—cut through the confusion, and her body involuntarily flinched. It wasn’t him. But in that moment, logic didn’t matter. The mind could be cruel, playing old reels at the worst possible times, trapping her in a memory that wouldn’t let go.

Outside the room, there was muffled conversation. Then, three figures appeared behind the frosted glass of the door. One in scrubs, two in mismatched uniforms that had no hospital logos, no stethoscopes. Their presence was commanding—broad, upright, and expressionless.

Her breath narrowed into controlled, shallow gasps. Panic wasn’t an option now. She couldn’t afford to be seen, to make a sound, to break the stillness that had fallen over the room. They couldn’t know she was awake.

In one swift, practiced motion, she snapped back into the bed, flattening herself against the pillow. Her body went limp—limbs slack, jaw loosened. Her eyes fluttered closed, but just barely. A sliver remained, enough to see, enough to plan.

The door opened, and the orderly stepped in first, speaking over his shoulder to the two men who followed. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t even acknowledge her existence. His attention was fixed on the clipboard at the foot of the bed as he scribbled something down, his movements automatic. One of the men scanned the room with a practiced sweep, his eyes flicking from corner to corner, searching for anything that might pose a threat. The other stood stiffly near the door, his posture rigid and watchful, as if expecting trouble to spring out from the walls at any moment.

Y/N remained motionless. Her eyes didn’t blink, didn’t shift. She didn’t breathe a hint of movement. But she saw. She was aware of everything around her. The subtle bulge beneath the jacket of the man closest to her—the unmistakable outline of a weapon tucked under the fabric. She committed their profiles to memory. The way they stood, the way they carried themselves—too controlled, too silent to be hospital staff. Too deliberate, too tense to be just guards.

Her gaze was unfocused, not really on them. Her mind wandered elsewhere—back behind them, past them, to a place where a phantom figure still loomed. The memory of Taehyung remained, his presence almost tangible in the air, as if he were still standing in the doorway, just out of sight. His image slipped away from her every time she tried to concentrate on it, like water running through her fingers. But his footsteps lingered, echoing in the background, following her even here, in this cold, silent room. She felt them, deep in her bones, haunting her with the weight of unspoken things.

She didn’t move. She didn’t even try to force herself into the world she had left. She was a shadow now, a body that wasn’t really alive, a presence that was forgotten in the space between the past and whatever future she hadn’t yet found.

The men moved around her, completely oblivious, as if she were nothing more than a fixture in the room—an object no one had bothered to remember. That was her advantage. Let them think she was nothing, that she was still just a body on a bed. She would let them believe it, until she could learn more, until she had the strength to act, until she had a plan.

She waited, every breath measured, every muscle tense but still. Her eyes were closed, but the world kept moving around her. The door opened wider, the sounds of the hallway spilling in. Footsteps, distant voices, the hum of hospital life carrying on without interruption. And in her mind, the chapel reappeared—the soft crunch of rose petals underfoot, the unmistakable rhythm of steps she had once known too well, then the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot. Blood spilled over white satin, and pain flared in her abdomen. The last breath of a second heartbeat—the one that had been taken from her.

The orderly turned slightly, moving to the foot of the bed, like he was on autopilot. His motions were bored, almost lazy, as if checking her vitals was just another item on a list of things he had to do. His eyes didn’t meet hers. His hands moved through the motions with no real intention behind them. He glanced at the clipboard, shifted it as if pretending to read.

The men behind him hung back near the door, towering and silent. Their size was enough to make their presence known without a single word. The first man scanned the room again, looking over the machines, the walls, the hall outside. His eyes lingered on nothing, but it was clear he was calculating. The other focused entirely on her—the body in the bed, the woman who hadn’t moved in years. He was watching, waiting, assessing. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

Her body remained still. She let her limbs fall limp, let her face slacken with the same blank stare she had worn for so long. But her mind was anything but still. Behind that vacant expression, her thoughts raced. She studied every detail, took stock of every tiny thing. The faded tattoos on one man’s forearm. The way the other’s jacket hung lopsided, weighed down by something hidden underneath. The stench of old sweat and cigarettes clung to their clothes, giving them away. These were not hospital men. Not staff. Not guards. They didn’t belong here. Yet, here they were.

Her eyes were open, wide, unblinking. She let them take her in, let them think they were in control. The game wasn’t over yet.

The orderly shifted, moving to the side of the bed. He pulled the thin hospital sheet back, the rough fabric crinkling as it was dragged. He lifted her gown with a slow, deliberate motion, a kind of crude ceremony. His eyes flicked to the men as he did so, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he were showing them something worth their attention.

“Now is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw, or is that the cutest little pussy you ever saw,” he said, chuckling like it was a joke between old friends.

One of the truckers—tall, with a pitted face and a voice like gravel—nodded approvingly. The other—shorter, squatter, his arms crossed—shrugged with affected disinterest.

“I’ve seen better,” he muttered.

Y/N didn’t blink, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Not quite a flinch. More like contempt. Barely controlled.

The orderly scoffed, not missing a beat. “Yeah, in a movie - maybe. But I know damn well this is the best pussy you ever saw you had touchin’ rights to. The price is seventy five dollars a fuck gentlemen, you gettin’ your freak on or what?”

He held out his hand. The taller trucker reached into his pocket, peeled off a folded wad of cash, and slapped it into the man’s palm.

The orderly turned back to them, his face dropping into something close to professional. “Alright, listen close. Here’s the rules; Rule number one; no punchin’. Nurse comes in tomorrow and she got a shiner - or less some teeth, jig’s up. So no knuckle sandwiches under no circumstances.”

Both men nodded.

“And by the way, this little cunt’s a spitter. It’s a motor reflex thing but spit or no, no punchin. Now are we absolutely positively clear about rule number one?”

“Yeah,” The taller trucker says.

The other one just nods again.

“Rule number two; No monkey bites, no hickeys - in fact no leaving no marks of no kind. But after that, it’s all good.”

The Orderly finished counting the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Her plummin down there don’t work no more, so feel free to cum in ‘er all ya wont. Keep the noise down. Try not to make a mess, and I’ll be back in twenty.”

More nods.

He pointed toward the door. “Keep it quiet. No yelling. Don’t knock over anything. And clean up after yourselves.”

Then, as he turned to leave, he paused, reached into his satchel, and pulled out a half-empty jar of Vaseline. He handed it off like an afterthought, barely concealing his amusement.

“Oh by the way, not all the time, but sometimes this cunt’s cunt can get drier than a bucket of sand. If she’s dry, lube up with this and you’ll be good to go. ”

He smirked.

“Bon appétit, boys.”

The door clicked softly behind the orderly, the sound too quiet to be anything but deliberate. It wasn’t the kind of sound that should have been heard—it was the finality of a lock being turned, the certainty of isolation. To Y/N, it felt like the cold embrace of a deadbolt sliding into place. Now, it was just her and them.

Inside the room, the two men laughed—low and wrong, the kind of laughter that carried nothing but malice. It wasn’t amusement. It was nervous energy, the kind that signals the start of something that shouldn't have been allowed. Warren, the larger of the two, fumbled with his belt, hands clumsy, tugging at the leather strap beneath his stomach. He didn’t glance at her; he didn’t need to. She was nothing to him. Furniture. Inventory. Part of the room he’d already written off.

Y/N blinked.

It wasn’t deliberate. Not a flinch. Not fear. Just a reflex. A quiet reclaiming of her body after so long, a whisper of life. Her lashes flickered, just enough to stir in the dim light. But it was enough.

Gerald saw it first. His voice, still playful but with a sharp edge, cut through the haze of laughter. “Hey, Warren... she just blinked.”

Warren didn’t even look up. His focus was still on his belt, the effort slow and unfocused. “He said she can’t blink.”

“I know what he said,” Gerald replied, quieter now, voice dropping an octave. “But I saw it. I’m not imagining it.”

Warren grunted in response, the sound of his pants dropping loud in the tense silence. His hands were heavy, fumbling with his jeans. “Just nerves, man. You’re jumpy. You think I care if her eyelid twitched?”

Gerald didn’t answer. He stood still near the foot of the bed, uncertainty in the way he held himself, his eyes flicking to Y/N like he didn’t know what to make of what he had seen.

Warren, irritated, moved to the bed. His bulk sank it with a groan, his knees pushing into her frail body. Y/N didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She was stone beneath him. The gown pressed cold against her skin, but she didn’t let herself react. Her muscles were tight, rigid, holding on to the stillness like it was the only thing she could control.

Her heart hammered in her chest. The only thing alive in her body.

She stared past him, eyes dull and empty. A mannequin. A shell. Her mind was a hundred miles away from the man above her, but it wasn’t in peace. She was a captive, caught between the body she couldn’t move and the memories that still haunted her.

Warren shifted his weight, letting out a grunt of discomfort. “Hey, Gerald.”

Gerald blinked, his arms folded as if trying to block out the awkwardness of the moment. “What?”

“This ain’t no damn peep show,” Warren muttered, eyes narrowing. “Go wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“Aww, c’mon, you serious right now?” Gerald’s voice was petulant, but it didn’t last long.

Warren’s glare darkened. “Dead serious. Get out.”

Gerald muttered under his breath and shuffled toward the door, his shoulders slumping as he cast one last glance at Y/N before slipping out into the hallway.

The door clicked behind him with finality, leaving the room empty save for the sounds of machinery. The steady pulse of the heart monitor, the hiss of the ventilator, and the hum of the fluorescent light above filled the silence. The air in the room felt colder now, heavier, like the space had closed in on itself.

Warren turned back to her, his eyes roaming over her body with a sneer. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, bending close as he leaned over her. His breath was sour, stale tobacco and decay, and his eyes gleamed with something ugly. “You really are pretty up close. Like a doll somebody left in the attic.”

He positioned himself over her, hands braced on either side of her head, blocking her view of the ceiling as his lips parted. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his breath heavy as it neared her.

And then, without warning, she moved.

It wasn’t hesitation or uncertainty. There was no struggle. It was raw action, fast and decisive. Her arms shot up from the bed with brutal precision, hands locking into the back of his greasy hair, yanking his face down toward hers. Her mouth opened, and in an instant, her teeth sank into his tongue.

The sound was immediate—a sick, wet crunch, followed by a strangled, guttural shriek. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and coppery, coating her tongue and throat. Warren jerked back, howling in pain, his hands clawing at his face in panic. The scream was garbled, unrecognizable—his mouth no longer formed words.

He stumbled, tripping over his own pants, blood streaming between his fingers.

Y/N sat up with the suddenness of a corpse reanimated. Her chest heaved as her chin, slick with blood, turned. She spat the severed piece of his tongue onto the floor, the sickening thud echoing in the room.

She didn’t flinch.

Her eyes locked onto him—clear, blazing with life, a fire ignited in her chest.

With a practiced motion, she ripped the IV from her arm. Blood welled from the site, but she didn’t even flinch. The sting barely registered. All she could feel was the rush—the flood of adrenaline, every muscle alive and ready to move.

Warren, now trying to crawl backward across the bed, was still shrieking through gurgles, his eyes wide with disbelief, his hands still clawing at his mouth.

She didn’t wait.

She launched herself at him, throwing her body forward and slamming him down flat against the mattress. She straddled his chest, her fists planted firmly above him. The IV needle, now in her hand, glinted with cold steel under the harsh fluorescent light. She drove it into his left eye.

His scream tore through the room—a pure, primal sound that reverberated off the walls. He bucked beneath her, thrashing, but she held tight, twisting the needle deeper. There was resistance, then a soft, wet pop. His limbs stiffened, his spine arched—and then, with a sickening finality, he went still.

It wasn’t the stillness of sleep. It wasn’t the stillness of unconsciousness.

It was the stillness of death.

But she wasn’t done.

Gripping the collar of his shirt, Y/N shoved his weight sideways. His body rolled toward the edge of the bed, and with a twist of her hips, she sent him crashing into the metal bedframe. The impact rang through the room, a hollow, awful crack that punctuated the silence that followed.

Y/N crouched at the edge of the bed, her body splattered with his blood, her gown clinging to her like a second skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale burning, each exhale heavy with the weight of what she had just done. Sweat beaded at her brow, her vision pulsing with adrenaline, sharp and distorted. She scanned the room quickly, making sure there were no more surprises.

Outside, Gerald paced. He’d heard the shift—a grunt, followed by a scream, then nothing. His instincts told him something wasn’t right.

He banged on the door. “Hey! Hey, man, keep it down in there! I can hear your ass from out here!”

Silence.

One second. Two. No answer. No more sounds. Just a deep, unsettling quiet that settled in his gut like a bad omen.

Something wasn’t right.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, he pushed it open.

“Come on, Warre—”

The sentence died in his throat, stifled by the overwhelming stillness of the room. His eyes scanned the scene, trying to make sense of what was unfolding. His mind struggled to process the violence before him.

Warren was on the floor, crumpled in a heap beside the bed, his limbs twisted unnaturally, like a broken puppet discarded on the floor. Blood pooled beneath his head, so bright and red it looked surreal against the pale linoleum. The bed was in shambles—ripped sheets, soaked blankets, and machines strewn across the floor as if they had been cast aside in the chaos. But the woman…

She was there. Exactly where they had left her. She was flat on her back, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Motionless.

Gerald blinked, his confusion deepening. His gaze flicked between the bodies, trying to find some logic in the mess. There was too much blood, too little movement. Everything was wrong. He took a tentative step forward, unsure of what he was seeing.

Y/N blinked. It wasn’t a flinch. It wasn’t involuntary. It was deliberate. Her eyes moved, and in the next instant, she acted.

Her arm shot upward in a blur of motion—fast, practiced, explosive. She grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him toward her with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He stumbled, thrown off balance, and pitched forward, only to meet the cold steel of the IV needle still slick with Warren’s blood. It sank into his temple, and a sickening crunch echoed in his ear. Metal piercing flesh. The kind of sound that made your stomach twist.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She twisted the needle, driving it deeper.

Gerald’s body jerked, spasming uncontrollably. His mouth fell open, but no sound came out—just a bubbling, choking gurgle, like drowning in air. His limbs kicked and flailed, but it was too late. His body sagged, heavy and lifeless, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Y/N released him.

He dropped to the ground beside Warren, a wet lump of dead weight.

For a moment, Y/N stayed still. Her breath was shallow, her body streaked with blood. The adrenaline buzzed through her, but there was no time to savor it. The two men, both much larger than her, lay dead around her, and she hadn’t moved more than a few feet from the bed she had been trapped in for years. But it wasn’t over.

With a quick, fluid motion, she ripped the blood-soaked sheets off the bed and swung her legs over the side. Her bare feet hit the cold tile with a slap, and she tried to stand—

Her knees buckled beneath her. Her body folded like dry paper, crumpling to the floor. Pain shot through her ribs as she hit the hard surface, and a tray of instruments scattered, clattering across the tile like metal rain. Tubes snagged on her ankle, tangling in a mess she couldn’t escape.

She lay there, her cheek pressed against the freezing floor, gasping for air. Her legs didn’t move. They were numb—foreign. They didn’t feel like her own. Panic surged, but she forced it down. Now wasn’t the time. Survival wasn’t going to wait for her fear.

She closed her eyes, focused on her breath.

One second. Two. Just enough to recalibrate.

Then, she heard it.

Footsteps. Not Warren. Not Gerald. Her heart skipped in her chest.

Taehyung?

His name echoed in her mind like a shot fired in the distance, but she didn’t speak it. She couldn’t afford to. Instead, she focused. She focused on what she could control.

Her head turned, just enough to see who was coming.

Gerald's body lay sprawled on the floor beside her, his jacket hiked up from the fall. His belt—still intact—held a trucker’s knife in a worn leather sheath. Y/N’s hand shook as she reached out, her fingers brushing the cool steel. With a steady grip, she grabbed the hilt and pulled.

Click.

The blade snapped open with a clean, satisfying sound. The noise cut through the air, sharp and empowering.

In the hallway, she heard an elevator chime. The doors slid open with a squeak, and footsteps followed, each one slow, deliberate—the orderly. Y/N pressed herself flat against the floor, sliding against the wall next to the doorframe. Her body screamed in protest, muscles strained and protesting the movement, but her grip on the knife didn’t waver. It was steady, cold.

The footsteps stopped. The door opened.

The orderly paused, the mess before him catching his attention. Blood pooled on the floor. Bodies were scattered. Sheets shredded and twisted. The horror of the scene struck him, but not her. Not yet.

“Oh, shi—”

The words never finished. Y/N struck.

In one swift motion, she cut down, the blade slicing through the air with precision. It hit his Achilles tendons—both of them—splitting through flesh, tendon, and bone. His scream tore through the corridor, high-pitched, desperate, and ragged. He collapsed, his legs giving way, folding beneath him as his body crashed to the floor.

Y/N didn’t give him a moment to recover. She crawled toward him, her muscles burning with the effort, teeth clenched against the strain. She grabbed a fistful of his uniform, blood smearing across the floor as she dragged him into the room. His legs twitched uselessly behind him, his body weak and limp.

With a growl, she pulled him toward the door and slammed his head into the frame.

CRACK.

The sound of bone hitting wood filled the room. His scream was muffled, but it only pushed her further. She did it again.

CRACK.

And again.

CRACK.

Each blow sent fresh waves of blood splattering across the floor. His body jerked, limbs twitching in a desperate attempt to escape, but Y/N held him steady. His breath came in ragged gasps. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. And then, they locked onto her.

And he saw her.

His face twisted in terror, raw and unfiltered.

Y/N crouched over him, her breath labored, strands of hair plastered to her face with blood and sweat. She wasn’t just looking at him—she was seeing him. She was past the point of mercy.

“Where’s Taehyung?” she rasped, her voice jagged, like shards of broken glass.

His lips trembled. “I—I don’t… I don’t know—”

She slammed his head into the doorframe again.

CRACK.

He gasped, his body shuddering in pain.

“I saw him,” Y/N growled, voice thick with fury. “Here. In this room. You tell me where he is—or I’ll beat your brains in until you can’t lie anymore.”

“I swear—I don’t—”

SLAM.

The room was quiet now, heavy with the weight of the silence that followed the last blow. Blood seeped from his face, dripping steadily, his breathing short and labored. Y/N didn’t speak. She just stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she caught a glint of something at his neck. A flash of gold caught in the dim light. A thin chain, delicate despite the blood and grime clinging to his skin.

Her hand shot out, quick and sure, and she yanked the chain with all the force she had left. The link snapped with a sharp ping, the tension sending the pendant swinging into her palm. She didn’t hesitate as she examined it. It wasn’t jewelry.

It was a coke straw.

The metal was cold, smooth, worn down by years of handling, the mouthpiece tinted from use, heat, habit. It wasn’t meant to be noticed. It wasn’t flashy. It was personal. Private. And it was deeply familiar.

Her blood ran cold as she realized what she was holding.

She’d seen this before. She’d seen it hang from a neck like this, swinging and tapping against a collarbone in the dim light. Taehyung had worn it, a signature of sorts, like it was part of him. The click of it against his lighter echoed in her mind. The way it swayed when he leaned in close, whispering things that blurred the line between promise and poison.

Now it was here. In her hand. On this man.

Y/N stared at the straw for a long moment, the world shrinking down to that single object—its shape, the cool metal, the heat from the skin it had touched. She felt her chest tighten as she looked down at him.

“Where,” her voice was low, the words cold and cutting, “did you get this?”

His eyes, wide with panic, flickered up to meet hers. His lips barely moved, strained by shock and pain.

“It’s mine,” he gasped.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at him. And then, she laughed—no humor, just disbelief, sharp and biting.

“Bullshit,” she hissed under her breath.

Her hand tightened around the doorframe, ready to slam it down again, but something caught her eye. Ink.

She saw it on his hands, faded but still visible. Amateur tattoos. Crude block letters, likely done in a backroom or some dark corner of a prison. The letters stood out against his skin like scars.

B.U.C.K.

F.U.C.K.

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. She wasn’t just shocked by what they said, but by what they meant.

Her eyes locked on the tattoos, and in that moment, her mind slipped away from the present. It slid into something older, something darker. The memory hit her like a wave.

The room was dim, bathed in the cold glow of security flashlights that cut through the shadows. Y/N lay there, helpless. Trapped in her own body, floating somewhere between a dream and oblivion, unable to move, unable to scream. And then, he’d appeared.

He stood at the foot of her bed like a storm she couldn’t escape, his presence dominating the space. His voice had been thick with a Southern drawl, slick with overconfidence.

“Well, ain’t you just the slice of cutie pie they all said you was,” he’d said, his words dripping with a disturbing kind of charm. “Ma’am, I’m from Longview, Texas. My name’s Buck. And I’m here to fuck.”

She hadn’t been able to respond then. She couldn’t even move. She had been frozen in that hospital bed, paralyzed, unable to fight back. But now, the tables had turned.

Now she was awake.

The memory of him—his tattoos, his boots, the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with rot—had haunted her for far too long. But this time, she wasn’t trapped in a dream. This time, she was fully in control, and he was here.

Her vision snapped back to the present. She looked down at him, cold fury simmering in her eyes.

“Your name’s Buck, right?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost too calm, as if she were confirming the simplest of facts. “And you came to fuck.”

He froze, recognition flashing in his eyes even as blood poured from his wounds. His body trembled, a sick realization sinking in: she knew exactly who he was, and he wasn’t going to make it out alive.

“Right?” she pressed, louder now, a challenge in her voice.

“Wait-”

Her grip tightened on the doorframe, her muscles coiling, ready for what came next. And then, with a sharp motion, she brought the door down.

CRACK.

The sound was deafening, final, wet. It ended him. He didn’t move after that—not a twitch. His body was still, lifeless, his breath stilled forever.

Y/N stayed crouched there for a moment, her body slumped slightly, arms trembling from the force of it all. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Her legs were still numb, unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else. But she didn’t care. He was gone. The weight of him was gone.

The room was silent again, the sterile hum of machines the only sound. The world outside continued to spin, oblivious to the violence that had just unfolded within these walls.

Slowly, she leaned over the body, her fingers working to find something useful. She brushed against the cracked leather of his pocket, tugging out a battered wallet. It smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. The faded gold letters on the outside still read, BIG EL PASO PIMPIN’. She curled her lip in disgust and opened it.

A wad of bills, mostly ones and fives, damp from the heat of his body, sat in the wallet. Y/N didn’t hesitate. She shoved them into the inner pocket of her scrubs without a second thought. Her hand brushed against the front pocket next, and she found the keys.

They weren’t just keys. A bulky plastic fob dangled from the ring, shaped like a tacky novelty license plate. Bright yellow, with pink flames licking the sides. PUSSY WAGON in a loopy, absurd font.

Her fingers tightened around it. It was vulgar, ridiculous. But it was hers now, and it was her way out.

She pocketed the keys quickly, then shifted her focus to Gerald’s body. Her arms felt like lead. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath. But she dragged herself across the floor anyway, leaving a trail of sweat, blood, and fury behind her. She found the knife where it had fallen, still open, the blade slick with old blood. She wiped it clean on Gerald’s pants, then gripped it tightly once more.

She looked back at Buck’s body, still lying in a heap. One more thing to take.

With a grunt of effort, she began to peel his uniform off him. The fabric was damp, clinging to his body, still warm from his flesh. She worked one sleeve off at a time, her arms shaking with the effort, but she didn’t stop. It didn’t matter if the clothes fit. It didn’t matter if they were clean.

It wasn’t about comfort. It was about freedom.

When the last piece of his uniform came off, she pulled it on. It wasn’t smooth, her movements clumsy, but she was determined. Her legs still refused to work. Numb. Unresponsive. But her mind was sharp. Her arms were strong. Her will was unwavering.

She might have to crawl out of here, but she would get out. And she would take whatever she needed to make it happen.

The elevator doors opened with a low hiss, like something ancient trying to stretch itself awake. Flickering fluorescent lights spilled into the dark, damp parking garage, revealing a cracked, oil-streaked concrete floor, stained from years of neglect. The air felt thick—heavy with diesel fumes and dust, as if even the air had given up on movement, resigned to a stagnant existence.

Y/N’s wheelchair shot forward with swift precision. The wheels clicked rhythmically as she pushed, each rotation sending a jolt of pain through her arms. She gripped the rims hard, her palms blistered, pushing herself relentlessly. Her shoulders burned, muscles protesting, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the ground, her scrubs sticking damply to her back. The oversized fabric bunched awkwardly around her hips, borrowed from a dead man’s body. Her legs hung motionless in front of her, pale and stiff, like lifeless mannequins strapped to the chair. No feeling. No response. Just dead weight.

At least her arms were working.

The garage stretched out before her, a dim maze of columns and half-lit corridors. Cars sat like dormant creatures, their shapes ghostly beneath the flickering lights. The shadows seemed deeper down here, every sound sharper. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, louder than the hum of the overhead lights or the distant whir of a ventilation fan.

She maneuvered through the rows, the wheelchair tires rolling over debris and cracks in the concrete. Every few feet, she stopped, scanning the vehicles—make, model, color—matching them to the image etched into her mind. It was in here somewhere.

And then she saw it.

A yellow Chevrolet Silverado, sitting low to the ground against the far wall, half-hidden in the shadows. It stood out like a neon sign in the dark. Red flames curved across the sides, peeling at the edges, as if the paint had been burned on. The word PUSSY WAGON sprawled across the tailgate in bold, fluorescent-pink cursive. Obscene. Ridiculous. Unmistakable.

Her chest tightened. It was real. Not a hallucination, not a memory. After everything—after him, the blood, the pain, and the years locked away—there it was. Still there. Still waiting.

Her hand slipped into the baggy pocket of her scrubs, fingers closing around the key ring. The plastic fob dangled out—gaudy and yellow, shaped like a miniature vanity plate. The same absurd font gleamed beneath the garage lights. She stared at it for a second. Just a moment. Then, without hesitation, she pushed herself forward.

Her wheelchair wheels clicked faster, urgency spiking inside her. When she reached the truck, she didn’t pause. She slid the key into the lock and turned it. The sound of the mechanism snapping open hit her like a blow. Simple. Clean. But to her, it split the world in two. Before and after. Caged and free.

The door creaked open. Warm, stale air rushed out—thick with the smell of vinyl and old sweat. It hit her like the breath of a sleeping animal disturbed too soon. She reached up, bracing one arm against the seat, the other gripping the doorframe. Her fingers slipped a few times, but the third time she caught it.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she forced herself upward, her elbows scraping against the metal. Every inch of her body resisted, but she didn’t stop. She gritted her teeth, a grunt escaping her lips as she pulled with everything she had left. With one final surge, she collapsed into the cab.

Her body hit the backseat in a jumbled heap, her head crashing against the cracked vinyl with a dull thud. Sweat streamed down her face, slipping into her eyes, her arms hanging limp at her sides, trembling from the strain. For a moment, she just lay there, panting like she had run a marathon, the exhaustion from the last few hours crashing over her in waves.

Her legs lay stretched out across the seat, stiff and lifeless, like two pale pillars frozen in time. Her bare feet were caked in dirt, toes pointed upwards in the stillness, as though her legs had never moved at all. She stared at them, her mind reeling with the disconnect between her and her body.

So close. So far.

She nudged the wheelchair with her heel, watching it roll a few feet before tipping sideways and crashing to the floor with a metallic clang that reverberated through the empty garage, loud and jarring like a gunshot. The sound hung in the air, then settled into silence.

Alone. Hidden, for now. Buried in the belly of this forgotten, cold space.

Her eyes shifted to her right foot, her gaze fixating on her big toe. She stared at it as though it held the key to something important, something she had forgotten how to reach.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered. Her voice cracked with desperation.

Nothing.

She repeated it again, quieter this time, as if the words could somehow coax movement. “Wiggle your big toe.”

Still, nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. She focused harder. Her breath slowed, measured. It was that one small piece of her. That tiny bridge between mind and limb. She needed it to move. Just that one thing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

“Wiggle your big toe,” she said, the words now coming with the cadence of a chant, a desperate plea, a silent demand for her body to obey.

No movement.

She wasn’t going to give up. She couldn’t. That toe had four years of sleep to wake up from. And she was going to wake it, no matter how long it took. She wasn’t going back to the bed. She wasn’t going back to that place, that silence. She had a truck, keys, cash in her pocket, blood on her arms, and names in her head—names like prayers she hadn’t spoken yet.

She had a mission now.

But as she concentrated, her thoughts shifted, deepening into something darker, older, more familiar. She wasn’t in the garage anymore. Not fully. The stale air, the cracked vinyl seat, the flickering lights—they all blurred at the edges of her awareness as something colder and heavier slid into her mind like smoke, creeping beneath a locked door.

The faces returned. Not as ghosts. Not as visions brought on by trauma or fever. No, they came as memories—names, histories, real people who had been part of her life. Each face slipped into her mind like a puzzle piece finding its place, fragments of a life she had lived, of betrayals that had shattered it. They came without order, but their presence was a fire all the same.

Yoongi Min.

He had once been her calm in the chaos. Cottonmouth. The quiet one. Always the sharpest in the field, the one who spoke the least but saw the most. For a time, he had been one of the few people she allowed to see her without armor. He was precise, elegant in his violence, the kind of man who would leave a room of people dead without saying a word. She had trusted him, even loved him once, before everything had blurred and bled together.

They had shared secrets, missions that required silence, that left them covered in blood and dirt, unable to speak of the things they’d done. He had been her friend, one of the only ones she had left.

And yet, when the time had come to make a choice—when her name had been spoken in that room—he had stayed silent. He hadn’t argued, hadn’t asked questions. He had simply let it happen. Worse, he had known about her daughter. And still, he had let it happen.

He would be the first.

Not because he was the easiest target, but because he had known exactly what they were doing and had done nothing to stop it.

Then there was Jimin Park.

Copperhead. Her mirror image, her partner in crime, the quiet rebellion in a world of rigid obedience. Jimin was the one who made her laugh when everything else felt like it was sinking. They had trained together, fought side by side, and trusted each other with a loyalty forged in the fires of their past. They both had wanted out—once, briefly, they had even believed it was possible. She had helped him disappear. Off-grid, out of Mexico, up into the hills of California with some girl who dreamed in watercolor. Big eyes, kind voice, a future untouched by blood.

She wondered if he was still there.

She hoped he was.

If he was, it meant he’d made it out. Truly escaped. If he wasn’t, finding him wouldn’t take long. Jimin, for all his sweetness, had a sharp edge. He’d made enemies on the West Coast, and all she’d need was a name, a rumor, a whisper, and she’d find him.

But if he had stayed quiet, like Yoongi? If he had known what they were doing to her and walked away? Then that edge of his wouldn’t be enough to save him.

Her hands curled into fists in her lap, then released.

Brandi Phoenix. California Mountain Snake.

Cold. Beautiful. Calculating. Brandi wore her hatred like perfume—light enough to be unnoticed but poisonous beneath the surface. From the moment she stepped into the fold, Brandi had resented her. For her skill. For her rank. For the space she filled beside Taehyung. For simply existing where Brandi wanted to be.

Their fights were legendary—venom in their words during missions, fists behind closed doors. Brandi was a storm in heels—always circling, always striking. There had been no mystery in her betrayal. It had been coming for years. Brandi had needed only the excuse.

And she got it.

That confrontation would come. Eventually. It wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be subtle. Brandi wouldn’t beg for her life. She’d fight to kill, and Y/N had no illusions about that.

And honestly, she welcomed it.

But Brandi wouldn’t come easy. She’d be close to Taehyung, as always. If Y/N wanted one, she’d have to face the other. When that time came, she’d need to be ready for both.

Then there was Namjoon.

Namjoon Kim. Sidewinder.

Taehyung’s older brother. Stoic, haunted, built like a fortress but just as empty. Namjoon had never truly belonged to their world—not the way the others did. He had inherited the family legacy, a weight he never wanted. Over time, it had slowly broken him, year by year.

He hadn’t been cruel. But he hadn’t been kind, either. He’d simply been... resigned. Watching his own story unfold from behind a wall of glass.

And yet, he had been there. He had participated. He hadn’t stopped it.

That was enough.

She wouldn’t make him suffer like the others would. Her rage didn’t burn as hot for him. But he would die. Quietly. Quickly. No warnings, no speeches. Just a clean ending for a man who had stood silent while she was buried alive.

And then, always at the center of it all, was Taehyung Kim.

The Snake Charmer.

The leader. The architect. The one who had bound them all together with whispered promises and elegant plans. He had trained them, molded them into something more than human. He had spoken of legacy, eternity, while hiding a blade behind his back.

He had touched her like she mattered.

He had promised her a future—a shared future.

A life.

And then, with cold precision, he had signed the order. Clinical. Exact. The same hand that once traced lazy circles on her skin had sentenced her to four years of silence, stillness, stolen breath, and severed motherhood.

He was the father of her child. Her lover. Her executioner.

No one else came close.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the pain wash over her. The constant ache in her body had become familiar, a pulse deep within her muscles and bones, a reminder of the years spent in stillness. But beneath the physical suffering, deeper than any physical wound, was the rage. It wasn’t hot anymore. It didn’t burn like it used to. It cut. It was cold, sharp, focused. She opened her eyes, her gaze fixing on her foot again.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but steady.

Nothing.

Her foot stayed still, lifeless. But something in her shifted. There was no disappointment in her face. Only determination.

The silence around her grew thicker, but she was anything but still inside. She could feel the fire inside her, the rage pulsing beneath the surface. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t free yet, but she would be. She would feel the ground beneath her feet again. She would move again. It would start with her toe. Then her foot. Her knee. A step. Then a run. And when she ran, she would hunt.

She knew where to start. Yoongi Min. If he was still alive, he'd be in Korea. And she would find him. She would look him in the eye, and the last thing he’d see would be her.

His face appeared in her mind without effort—soft features, a strong chin, pale skin with freckles in the summer, though he never tanned. His hair was as black as a raven’s feather. He moved like a cat, always calm, always assessing.

Yoongi’s life hadn’t been easy, though he would never admit it. His father never laid a hand on him, but he hadn’t seen his entire family slaughtered, either. Yoongi’s first real encounter with death had come when he was just eleven years old, in the summer of 1981. She couldn't recall the exact date, but she knew it had been hot. He’d told her once, many years ago, how warm the room had been, the sweat dripping down his back, his breath shallow.

Yoongi had been hiding beneath a rusted iron cot in a small apartment on the outskirts of Busan, the kind of place where the ceiling leaked when it rained and the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors’ every move. He was small, too small for the horrors he’d already seen, too small for what was unfolding now.

He curled into a ball beneath the bed, his limbs bent like fragile paper, wedged between an old pair of sneakers and a half-empty tin of candy. His mother’s candy, the kind she used to sneak into his backpack, telling him to chew quietly during class. Yoongi held his breath, his hands clamped tightly over his mouth, as the cold wood floor pressed into his ribs. Dust filled the air and his nose.

Above him, the room was chaos. His father, still in uniform, sweat darkening his shirt, was fighting three men. They were strangers, but not unfamiliar. They wore dark suits, polished shoes. The kind of quiet that came with practiced violence. They were members of the Chilsung-pa, a crime syndicate as old as the neighborhood itself. These men were no thugs. They were trained, hardened, and they were here with purpose.

One of the men carried a blade longer than Yoongi’s forearm. Another moved with the calm assurance of someone who didn’t need to rush—because he never needed a second swing.

The first man lunged. His father, once a sergeant, met him head-on, muscle and instinct colliding. The sound of their struggle filled the room, the shuffle of feet, the crash of furniture. The man’s neck snapped loudly, cleanly, like a branch breaking in a storm.

But it wasn’t enough.

The other two were faster, smarter. Steel gleamed in the dim light. It cut through air, then flesh.

Yoongi couldn’t see the details—only flashes of motion, grunts, and the spray of blood. Red splattered across the walls, the floor, the photograph of his grandfather pinned crookedly to the wall. His father made a sound—half snarl, half gasp—and then he collapsed. A heap of blood and breathlessness.

Yoongi didn’t scream. His voice had vanished somewhere in the violence. He didn’t blink. He didn’t cry. He just watched, frozen, as the world around him shattered.

They dragged his mother into the room, barefoot and frantic, wild with fear and anger. Her resistance was relentless, a last stand against everything that had already broken her. She fought like someone who still believed there was a way out—kicking, clawing, her body a whirlwind of desperation. Her curses filled the air, her cracked lips spitting venom. Her teeth snapped at the hands that tried to control her. But even in her fury, they moved her with ease. The bed loomed ahead, and she was shoved toward it.

Yoongi watched from his hidden spot, trapped under the bed, unable to move, unable to help. His eyes were locked on the struggle above him, his heart hammering in his chest. Her foot struck one of the men holding her, and for a moment, it seemed like she might break free. But then came the backhand—hard, sharp. It landed with a hollow crack, and she crumpled.

They didn’t hesitate. Two of them hauled her up by the arms, dragging her limp body the last few steps. She was crying now, but not out of fear—this was pure, unbridled fury. Her body shook with the force of her grief as she was thrown onto the bed. The mattress sank under the weight, groaning with the strain. The bedsprings screeched, the dust falling through the seams in the wood.

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. He could smell her—citrus and talc, warm and familiar. But that scent was quickly overtaken by the metallic stench of blood and sweat and something darker, something far worse. He clamped his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears, hoping for silence.

It didn’t help.

The noises started—sickening, unrelenting. The sound of bodies colliding. Her screams started out defiant but quickly turned into broken gasps, half-screams, choked sobs. The kind of sound you make when all hope is gone, when you’ve lost everything that could save you.

Yoongi was frozen. Trapped in his own body, not by fear, but by the sheer magnitude of his helplessness. His hands balled into fists so tight his nails broke the skin on his scalp, but his body refused to move. His teeth ground against each other, the pressure building until a molar cracked, but he barely noticed. He pressed his face into the splintered floorboards so hard his nose bled, warm blood trickling down his lip and pooling in the dust beneath him.

But none of it mattered.

The bed above him dipped and rose, groaning under their weight. The rhythm of the violence was sickening, steady, relentless. The sounds—every thrust, every scream—carved themselves into him, deep, permanent. It was like being marked, like each noise was a chisel, shaping him into something different.

Time stopped. The seconds stretched into eternity, each one slow and distorted. Reality blurred like smoke, like the edges of a dream slipping into something darker. He felt as though he was underwater, struggling to reach the surface, but never getting any closer.

And then, through the chaos, came a whisper. A sound so small, so broken, it nearly crushed him.

“Yoongi…”

Her voice. His mother’s voice. It was a breath, a prayer, shaped by pain and defeat. Her words were barely audible, muffled by her suffering. She wasn’t just calling out to him; she was reminding herself that he was still there. Still alive. Still hers.

That one word broke him. It shattered the last of his resolve. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t help her. He couldn’t do anything.

So, he stayed there. Silent. Hollow. No tears left.

He was still staring into the dark when the blade came down. It sliced through the mattress with a sickening crack, cutting through flesh and bone with a brutal, decisive force. The sound of it—sharp and final—was one Yoongi would carry with him for the rest of his life. His breath stopped in his throat, his body freezing in the moment, as if everything had paused with the strike. The tremor that shook the frame seemed to ripple through the world itself, as if the earth itself winced in response to the violence.

Blood soaked through the mattress slowly, cruelly. The warmth of it was thick, spreading downward like it had all the time in the world, creeping into every fabric thread, darkening the cotton, turning it maroon, then black. One drop fell through the mattress and landed beside Yoongi’s eye. Then another, splattering his cheek. It didn’t stop—more followed, dripping onto his lips, his forehead, like a slow rain.

The blood clung to his skin as though it had been there forever, like his mother’s touch had once clung to his hand. And just like that moment—he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t fight it. He lay still beneath the bed, covered in her. Still, he made no sound. No scream. No breath.

It was over.

Not just the violence. Everything.

The room seemed to hold its breath, a heavy pause that hung thick in the air. Then, one of the men spoke, his voice low and calm, almost bored. Yoongi couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t want to. His mind had gone white, the kind of empty stillness that comes when everything around you has shattered. He floated somewhere above the horror, detached from the mess unfolding above him. But still, his eyes didn’t leave them.

He saw the man move to the side of the bed, wiping the blade clean on the edge of a pillow. Watched as he straightened his tie, adjusted the cuffs of his suit as if he were stepping out of a business meeting, not a slaughterhouse. The man’s face was composed—cold, calculating. A scar marked his right cheek, a thin line, old and worn. The kind you get when you’ve been in the thick of it, up close, and survived. His eyes were dead—dark, lifeless coal that had long since lost their light.

Shin Ji-Sung. They called him Boss Shin. Yoongi never forgot that face. Not then. Not ever.

He stayed there, unmoving, until the door slammed shut behind them, until their footsteps faded into the stairwell, and the quiet resumed. The rain had started again, tapping lightly against the glass, like it knew it couldn’t do anything but bear witness.

Only then did Yoongi crawl out. His knees slid in the blood as he pulled himself forward, inch by inch. His movements were slow, mechanical, drained of everything but the force of will. When he reached the edge of the bed, he stopped. He looked up.

His mother’s body lay twisted, her eyes wide open but unseeing. One arm hung over the edge of the bed, her fingers curled toward nothing. Her mouth was slightly open, as if still trying to say his name.

Yoongi stared at her for what felt like forever—minutes, hours, maybe more. He couldn’t tell. His own mouth was open, but no sound came. Not a cry. Not a breath. Just a hollow, unbearable stillness.

Yoongi was eleven years old, half-Korean, half-Japanese, a base kid—an accident in a country that barely acknowledged his existence. But even at that young age, something inside him survived. It wasn’t his innocence—he lost that the moment he was forced to witness violence beyond comprehension. It wasn’t his sense of safety—he never had that to begin with. But something deeper, something colder, remained. A promise. Silent. Absolute. Forged in blood and etched into the marrow of his bones.

He would survive. That was his truth. And when the time came, he would rise. The men who had done this to him—he would find them. All of them. He would track them down, one by one, and make them bleed.

The world had broken him in so many ways, but it had also shaped him. He had learned to live with the pain, to swallow it whole and keep moving forward, even when every instinct told him to stop. And one day, that hunger for retribution would fuel him. He would find Boss Shin. The man who had sealed his mother’s fate and shattered his life. The man who would pay in ways he couldn’t yet fully comprehend. But Yoongi would make sure he bled. He’d make it hurt.

In the cruelest twist of fate—or perhaps the cruelest design—Yoongi wouldn’t have to search far. Boss Shin, for all his power, for all the fear his name inspired, carried one fatal flaw. A craving. A hunger for boys who looked just like Yoongi. And in time, Yoongi would give him exactly what he wanted. He would become the thing that haunted Boss Shin's every nightmare. And when he did, there would be no escape.

By the time Yoongi Min turned thirteen, he had stopped being a child. He had learned to stop asking questions, to lower his gaze, and let silence speak for him. He had perfected the art of stillness—watching without being seen, listening for what wasn’t said. He had learned to hear the meaning beneath words and the threat behind a smile. He spoke less but saw more.

But what he had learned most of all was patience. Not the kind you’re taught in school or the kind that’s scolded into you by tired parents. This was something darker. A patience that comes when you’ve been hollowed out, when the only thing keeping you upright is the shape of the rage you’re saving for later.

He waited. Not for days or months, but for years. He moved through the system like smoke—foster care, state programs, shelters with locked food cabinets and bars on the windows. He was polite, obedient, invisible. Until the moment came.

And when it came, it wasn’t gentle. It came with blood.

The room reeked of false luxury—gold-leaf frames on the walls, velvet drapes drawn tight against the light, the lingering scent of expensive cologne. It was all soft, muted. Except Yoongi.

Boss Shin, the man on the bed, was nearly asleep, his eyes heavy from wine and narcotics, his body limp from a life of routine depravity. His breath came shallow and uneven, a smugness laced in every exhale.

Yoongi stood over him. Smaller than he would ever be again—thirteen years old, narrow-shouldered, wiry, but taut with focus. His hair was jet-black, tied back beneath a wig, and he wore a schoolgirl’s uniform—pleated skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks. He had spent weeks preparing. Days enduring. It wasn’t shame; it was strategy. Because Shin liked boys who looked like girls. Everyone knew that. And Yoongi had made sure Shin noticed him.

Now he was here.

Yoongi climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress without a sound. Shin’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, the haze of his stupor thick around him.

And then the blade came down.

There was nothing delicate about it. No finesse, no grace. It was raw. A thick military-grade combat knife, taken from a dead man months ago, plunged into Shin’s chest with a grunt of effort. The steel slid between his ribs. Shin’s eyes snapped wide, and a wet gasp tore from his throat.

Yoongi didn’t stop.

He twisted the blade. Blood erupted—hot, arterial—splattering across his neck, his chest, the pale blue sheets. Shin thrashed, his body arching in agony, but Yoongi held him down, straddling him like iron. The man’s strength already began to fail, his nails scraping futilely against Yoongi’s skin.

Yoongi watched it all. Not with hatred. Not even with satisfaction. But with cold, clinical detachment.

This wasn’t revenge. It was correction. A realignment of the world.

When the light finally left Shin’s eyes, Yoongi pulled the blade free and exhaled. The silence that followed was brief.

Shouts thundered from the hallway. Heavy footfalls. Yoongi moved quickly, slipping off the bed and into the shadows beneath it, blending into the folds of the velvet bedskirt like he had rehearsed a hundred times.

The pistol was already in his hand, taped beneath the bedframe for days, waiting. A small .22, stolen, modified for close-range, silent, deadly. It felt cold in his hand, familiar. He didn’t need to think. He was ready.

The door crashed open, the hinges groaning under the weight of the men rushing in. Two of Shin’s enforcers. Guns half-raised, but their bravado faltered as soon as they saw the scene inside. Blood-soaked sheets, their boss’s lifeless body slumped across the velvet pillows, red dripping from the mattress and pooling on the floor. They froze, not with grief, but confusion. Fear. Real, raw fear that shot through their chests like ice.

They didn’t see Yoongi yet.

He was hidden beneath the bed, crouched in the shadows. His knees pressed to his chest, pistol steady in his hand. Silent. Still. Waiting.

The first man stepped forward, cautiously, barking orders at the dead. His boot heel thudded just inches from Yoongi’s face.

Bang.

A clean shot to the chest. The sound cracked through the air like thunder. The man dropped instantly, a startled gasp leaving him as he flailed briefly before crumpling onto the marble floor. Blood pooled beneath him.

The second man reacted in panic, shouting and lunging toward his gun.

Yoongi was faster.

He rolled left, coming up on one knee, and fired twice.

Bang. Bang.

The first bullet ripped through the man’s throat, the second hitting him in the shoulder mid-fall. He spun into the doorframe, hitting it hard, and slumped to the ground, coughing up blood. His body twitched once, then stilled.

Yoongi stood slowly, his movements controlled, calm. There was no thrill in his actions, just the weight of inevitability. The pistol hung loosely in his hand, blood drying on its grip. In his other hand, the knife remained, still warm and dripping.

His breath was steady, his eyes cold. No fear. No exhilaration. Just motion.

The suite was filled with the scent of death now. The thick, coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat and fear—fear that filled the air with every dying breath. It clung to the velvet curtains, soaked into the carpet, streaked across the cream-colored wallpaper like blood-written script.

Yoongi moved through the rooms methodically. He knew this place. He knew the layout. The blind spots. The shift changes. He’d memorized everything.

The guards were nothing. Complacent. Half-drunk. Slumped in side rooms, slack faces illuminated by the glow of TV screens. He ended each of their lives with the same quiet efficiency. A gun to the head. A knife to the throat. No cruelty. Just necessity.

There were no screams. No pleading. Just footsteps, soft thuds, a few strangled gasps—and then silence.

When it was over, the suite was still. Nine dead. One boy standing. Yoongi didn’t pause to admire it.

He moved through the same route he had come in: down the hallway, past the empty kitchen where the cooks had abandoned their posts, through the swinging back door that led to the stairwell. He descended three flights in silence.

No one stopped him. No one even looked. The staff knew enough to avoid the scene. Whatever had happened in that room, it was better left unseen.

He stepped out into the alley just as the rain began to fall again. Soft, warm drops washing away the blood from his bare calves but not from his hands. A cab waited at the curb, just as planned.

The driver didn’t ask questions.

Yoongi slid into the back seat, the worn leather sticking to his bloodied thighs. The wig, matted and soaked, was shoved into a plastic bag beside him. His socks were damp, crusted with blood, but his eyes were clear. Sharp. Focused. He sat still, watching the rain blur past the window as the cab pulled away. Tires hissed on wet asphalt.

He didn’t look back. Not once.

There would be no news reports. No police inquiries. No rumors of retribution whispered through the backrooms of politicians or mob bosses. Boss Shin had surrounded himself with loyal men—men willing to die for him, and the ones left standing would know the cost of speaking his name. It was a code. A simple one. You spoke his name, you joined him in the grave.

Justice, as Yoongi understood it, had been served. Not through courts or lawyers or long, drawn-out appeals. Not behind prison walls or slow deaths at the hands of officials. No, it had come in the form of a blade, a gun, a thirteen-year-old boy, and a vow whispered in the dark. Simple. Final.

And yet, as the city lights flickered by, streaked across the rain-smeared window, Yoongi didn’t feel peace. He didn’t feel anything at all. The blood had been spilled, and the world had kept turning, indifferent to what had been done. To what he had done.

By the time Yoongi Min turned twenty, his name had become an echo, heard only in the darkest corners. His name wasn’t on any official documents. It wasn’t part of any police briefings or secret intel files. It didn’t show up in headlines or trending topics. Yoongi’s name existed in whispers, passed between powerful men who only ever spoke of him in shadows. They never looked at him directly, never dared to. They only saw the consequences of his presence—the bloodshed, the chaos, the power shifts that seemed to follow in his wake.

Yoongi didn’t have a country. No flag to swear loyalty to. No passport, no fingerprints. He had no past anyone could prove. But he had a record. Not an official one. No papers to file. His record was a trail of disappearances, accidents, and sudden, unexplained shifts in power. A collection of bodies scattered across continents. And those who saw Yoongi Min knew it was already too late. Those who didn’t? They were the ones he preferred.

He was a ghost with a pulse. A master of stillness, of precision, and of murder. The kind of man who didn’t need orders. He needed only coordinates.

On a rooftop in the blistering heat of a Central American capital, Yoongi lay flat against the sun-baked concrete. He had been there for hours, and he would stay as long as it took. Sweat trickled down his face, caught by the bandana beneath the brim of his cap. His black-gloved hands gripped the matte body of a custom-built sniper rifle, the stock pressed tight against his shoulder. The barrel extended out beyond the ledge, covered with a heat-shielded tarp that blended seamlessly into the rooftop’s gravel.

The scope was adjusted with practiced precision. The crosshairs found their target without hesitation. Yoongi didn’t guess. He calculated. Every move, every angle, every second was mapped out in his mind before he made it.

Three stories below, a silver SUV inched through midday traffic, its armored exterior reflecting the sunlight. The SUV was flanked by two motorcycles, the lead bike carrying two men in mirrored sunglasses, the second one already scanning rooftops too late. Yoongi watched as the SUV slowed to a stop at a red light. The noise of the street, the shouting of a vendor trying to sell mangos, the squawk of a parrot from a balcony, all of it faded into the background. It was chaos, a mix of life, sound, and color. But in the scope, there was only stillness. Only precision.

The backseat window caught the sky for a split second before dipping down, revealing his target: General Ernesto Gaviria. Former intelligence chief turned cartel-backed politician, with private prisons and private armies to his name. He’d once been a revolutionary. Now, he was just a parasite feeding off the system he helped create.

Gaviria was laughing, his head tilted back, his stomach heaving in amusement, a man who hadn’t fought a battle in years—or perhaps never had. Two women sat beside him, their bodies rigid and poised in a way that made it clear they were well-practiced in the art of silence and beauty. Miss Panama and Miss Venezuela. Their sashes shimmered under the light, the fabric clinging to bodies sculpted with wealth and threats.

The general's hands rested casually on his knees, a pose of entitlement, the kind of careless dominance that came from too much power. Yoongi exhaled slowly, his breath measured, pushing out the heat, the noise, the weight of the past. His finger found the trigger. It curled around it like a whisper, soft but steady.

And then, with the crack of the rifle, it all shattered.

The sound was sharp, godlike, a roar that cut through the thick, humid air. The shot sliced the afternoon in half. Inside the SUV, the top of the general’s skull disappeared in a burst of red mist, a violent bloom of blood, bone, and gray matter that exploded upward, splattering the ceiling with gore. The noise was muted by the glass, but the image—crystal clear, forever etched—would never fade.

The woman to his right screamed, recoiling as if struck. The other froze, her mouth open, eyes wide with the horror of what she'd just witnessed. Yoongi didn’t watch. He didn’t need to. He was already moving, his body in motion before the chaos began to unfold below him.

The casing rolled near his elbow, catching a brief flash of sunlight before falling silent on the rooftop. He dismantled the rifle with mechanical precision, his movements smooth, practiced. Each action was like muscle memory—barrel unscrewed, stock folded, scope detached and secured. The rifle slid into a slim, matte-black case, nondescript, efficient, forgettable.

He didn’t confirm the kill. He never did. He knew.

By the time the chaos bloomed beneath him—sirens wailing, screams cutting through the air, armored boots pounding against pavement—Yoongi was already gone. He was down the stairwell, through a service door, and around a corner into the skeletal remains of an abandoned church. The cameras never worked there. It was a place no one could trace.

In less than sixty seconds, Yoongi changed clothes—dusty jeans, a bleach-stained T-shirt, a cheap knockoff Dodgers cap. He walked into the market square like he belonged, just another face in the crowd that moved like water, undisturbed by disaster.

The cab that picked him up blended in, too. The driver said nothing. The cash was exact. The route was direct. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Yoongi was already out of the city, no trace, no trail. He didn’t leave behind a name spoken aloud or a footprint anyone would follow. He was just another ghost, fading into a world full of them.

Another job done. Another name crossed off a list no one would ever see.

For Yoongi, it wasn’t personal. It never was. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel something. In the space where others might find relief, guilt, or satisfaction, Yoongi Min felt only one thing: momentum. And it was pushing him somewhere darker.

At twenty-three, Yoongi Min became the latest name on an infamous ledger—a list that didn’t exist on paper, kept out of sight in rooms the world preferred to pretend weren’t real. It wasn’t an organization, not really, but a design—precise, efficient, built for one purpose: death. Officially, they were known as the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, but in the underworld, they were simply called the Vipers. A name that spread like poison through intelligence channels, whispered in black-market ports, and muttered by the dying who understood what it meant to be hunted by one of them.

Now, Yoongi stood in a windowless room, somewhere outside any country that mattered. The space around him was cold and sterile—unpainted concrete walls, a single overhead light casting long, calculated shadows. There was no clock, no insignia, no way to tell if they were underground or above the clouds. The silence hung heavy, pressing against the air like it carried weight.

Yoongi didn’t break it. He stood alone at one side of the table, still and deliberate. His frame was narrow but lean, his body honed, not hardened. Black boots, black pants, black shirt—no adornments, no flash. He didn’t look dangerous in the way most people would imagine. He looked precise, like a man who knew the exits before he entered the room, who understood the angles and could turn anything into a weapon if needed. He wasn’t there to impress anyone. He was there to belong.

Across from him sat Taehyung. Older, with sharp features and a clean-cut look that seemed timeless. He looked like he belonged to every decade and none at all. His eyes, however, were sharp and studying, as if he could see through Yoongi and straight into his bones. He sipped tea from a porcelain cup with a calmness that suggested he’d ended more lives than heart disease. His suit was dark and crisp, but unbuttoned—relaxed, but not in a way that suggested comfort.

“I’ve heard stories,” Taehyung said at last, his voice smooth, warm, and quiet enough to pull attention. “I don’t usually believe them. People romanticize this work too much. But your record?” He gave a small, appreciative nod. “That—I believe.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t smile. He didn’t blink. He just watched—his silence as controlled as the room was filled with power.

Beside Taehyung, Y/N leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. She was younger then, early twenties, her jawline still sharp with defiance. The blood on her hands hadn’t yet dried into ritual. Her hair was longer, tied back loosely but with intent. She wore scuffed boots, a jacket two shades too dark for the room, and eyes that didn’t stray from Yoongi. There was no warmth in her gaze, no judgment. Just calculation. She wasn’t impressed, but she wasn’t dismissive either. She was reading him, watching every muscle shift, every subtle movement.

After a moment, she tilted her head and spoke, her voice dry. “He doesn’t talk much.” She paused, then added, “Is that part of the act, or do you just enjoy being cryptic?”

Yoongi’s voice, when it came, was low—measured and quiet, almost like the tail end of a threat that hadn’t been fully spoken yet. “I talk when it matters.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in challenge, but in recognition. She knew exactly what kind of man stood before her.

Across the table, Taehyung let out a slow exhale, his eyes glinting with something that might’ve been amusement. He set his teacup aside and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his posture casual but calculating. “Cold,” he said, eyes never leaving Yoongi. “Controlled. Surgical. But you’ve never worked on a team. Not like this.”

Yoongi nodded once, the gesture brief but firm. “Then I’ll adapt.”

There was no arrogance in his voice. Just a quiet certainty. A fact.

Taehyung glanced sideways at Y/N, as though looking to her for confirmation. She didn’t break her gaze from Yoongi, not a blink, not a shift. The air between them was thick, charged, but she remained silent.

Taehyung turned back to Yoongi. “He’s fast,” he said, a statement that seemed almost to float between them. “Not emotional. Not reckless.”

There was a beat of silence, then Y/N gave a small, reluctant nod, just enough to signal that she had made up her mind. “Then give him a name.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate. “Cottonmouth.”

The name landed in the room like a verdict, heavy and sure. Yoongi didn’t flinch. He didn’t acknowledge it with any outward response. It didn’t matter. The name slid into him, as if it had always been there, waiting to be said. He accepted it without question, without ceremony.

No formal welcome. No applause. No blood oath. Just a room full of silence. And a name.

And a shift.

By the end of the week, Yoongi had a new passport, new directives, and a kill list that spanned five continents. His first target was dead in three days. His second never even made it off the runway. No one ever saw his face, but governments knew when he passed through. They just didn’t know how to prove it.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t leave traces. He didn’t miss.

He left for Korea after that, and Y/N was sent to him a few months later. Taehyung had been too busy to teach her about swords and Yoongi had taken her under his wing. Within the six months she was there, their relationship went from nothing to meeting up in his bath room. They would explore one another for hours, and Yoongi made her feel good.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had done that.

There were no declarations, no promises, no softness. Just need. Just impulse. Just adrenaline, control, and something neither of them ever bothered to name. It didn’t matter that she belonged to Taehyung’s crew. At that point, she didn’t belong to anyone.

She was his Rabbit, and over the years they’d grown an understanding. Taehyung sent them on missions together frequently after her time with Pai Mei the year after she’d left Busan. In those hotel rooms she’d find herself able to slip away from being Black Mamba. With Yoongi, she’d felt like she was back home in Abbeville and he looked at her the same way Sam Wallace had before he’d died.

One of her favorite memories came without much effort.

In an out of the way hotel room overlooking a vantage point, Y/N clutched the bedsheets as she was pounded from behind by a smirking Yoongi. Y/N fought down her groans, not wanting to give her showman a teammate the satisfaction of vocalizations, even though she knew that Yoongi could feel how wet she was and how deep he was getting hit.

"Anata no soba---" Yoongi began before clearing his throat, pulling out. "Get on your side."

Y/N sighed at the unwelcome interruption as she lied on her hips, raising her leg like a tame dog as Yoongi entered her again, torturously working back up to his original tempo as Y/N fought to keep her breathing under control, the disappointment and anticipation being all a part of the kill for her friend. She found her right breast being squeezed as he began to pick up speed, sneaking there when she was distracted.

"Tch!" Y/N betrayed her surprise as Yoongi kept hammering away in her, tweaking her erect nipple in between his fingers. Y/N gave up, letting out a subdued moan as she came. Yoongi, not really surprised in any sense of the word, turned his head to pridefully peck her on the lips.

Afterward, Yoongi moved with the quiet finality of a man who was used to following through. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush—just slipped out of bed, his bare feet barely making a sound against the worn hotel carpet. The room, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, felt still in his absence. The click of the bathroom door, followed by the soft hiss of running water, filled the space between breaths.

Y/N lay on her back, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they might somehow form a map of something that made sense. Her chest rose and fell slowly—not from exertion, but from the familiar weight of being close to someone and still feeling the air too thick to fully exhale. Her skin hummed, warm and flushed, but not from love, not from longing—just connection. The kind that lingers long after the adrenaline is gone.

The faucet stopped. A moment later, the door creaked open. Yoongi returned with two bottles of water—one of which he tossed to her without needing to say anything. She caught it mid-air, cracked the seal, and drank deep. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice a low hum of acknowledgment.

He slid back into the bed beside her with the ease of someone who had long since mastered the art of not being noticed. His skin was cool from the tap, and when his arm brushed hers, she shivered just slightly. He was already folding into the sheets like he’d always belonged there.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low and nonchalant. The kind of check-in between old friends who’d long stopped asking just to be polite.

She smirked. “I’m good.”

They lay there in the quiet for a moment—just the hum of the city seeping through the barely working air conditioner, the occasional honk from traffic five floors below. Then Yoongi turned toward her, propping his head up on his arm, eyes catching hers in the dim light.

“Your breathing was off,” he said, his tone almost casual.

Y/N gave him a sideways glance. “You keeping stats on me now?”

“Maybe,” he said, his eyes flicking to her with an almost imperceptible smile. “You usually exhale on the upstroke.”

She snorted. “Creep.”

He shrugged. “Observant.”

A quiet laugh passed between them, easy and familiar. She nudged his shoulder with hers, and he leaned into it slightly. Their bodies fell back into the same rhythm they always had—no tension, no need. Just proximity. His hand settled on her waist, fingers drumming lightly against her hip.

“You ever gonna tell me what you think of Taehyung?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.

Yoongi sighed through his nose. “He’s interesting. Don’t care for him much outside of work.”

“You jealous?”

He scoffed. “No. He’s not my type. I like pretty boys, baby.”

She rolled her eyes. “You think I’m gonna sleep with him?”

“I think you might,” he said, his voice unexpectedly honest. “But not for the reason you think.”

“Oh?”

“You’re strategic. You don’t get close unless you mean to. But with him... I don’t know. Maybe it would just feel easy. Wouldn’t be for love, I could tell you that right now.”

She was quiet for a long moment, fingers absently tracing the ridge of his forearm. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “You think I’m trying to survive him?”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He studied her face in the dim light, then reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with unexpected tenderness.

“I think you survive everyone,” he said, his words settling between them. “Even the ones who don’t want you to. Even me.”

Y/N blinked, then looked away, irritated with herself for the way his words hit too close to home. She hated it when he said things like that—too real, too quietly, like he didn’t mean to drop it in her lap but couldn’t help himself.

She liked to think herself in love with Taehyung Kim. Why else would she put up with his ass? It’s obviously real love because he disgusts her and puts up with him willingly when not many others would. Maybe Brandi would, but Brandi was insane and didn’t care about his more… unsavory traits. At least, none that she ever showed. She had to be in love with Taehyung. It was the only way any of this made sense. Even when she stopped thinking about him the second Yoongi came to visit, she knew that she loved him.

Y/N did not want to think about it anymore. It was too confusing.

She rolled toward him, curling into his side until her forehead pressed gently against his collarbone. He didn’t flinch. He just adjusted the blankets with one hand and wrapped the other around her back.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled.

“You’re cold,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

They stayed like that for a while—tangled in sheets and silence. No urgency. No plans. Just the kind of closeness that comes from knowing someone too long and too well to lie to them.

Y/N felt his breathing start to slow beneath her cheek. His hand continued its slow rhythm against her back, each gentle motion lulling her closer to sleep.

“Yoongi?” she whispered.

“Mmh?”

“Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kissed her hair again, slower this time.

“For what?” he murmured.

“For always coming back.”

He was quiet for a moment before pulling her a little tighter. “Where else would I go?”

Y/N smiled, her eyes slipping closed. She didn’t know what this was between them, and she didn’t need to. Not that night or any other night.

Their relationship ended three years later, when Y/N and Taehyung started seeing each other differently. Or, as Taehyung had put it, she began acting like a grown woman. The others said he’d just waited until she was old enough to avoid looking like a creep. Y/N didn’t dwell on it. She’d always been with older men. This wasn’t new.

Yoongi, ever practical, accepted the shift, acknowledging their sexual relationship had run its course. Lynn Easton, his longest friend and most prized possession, swooped in to care for him like a mother. She was glad to be rid of Y/N’s presence. Jealous little rat. They left Mexico for Korea, returning only for missions tied to Taehyung’s operations. The bond between Yoongi and Y/N wasn’t the same, but it remained, still strong despite the distance. Y/N cared for Yoongi, and she knew he felt the same.

Four years ago, in the year 2000, on a West Texas morning beneath a bleached sky, a wedding turned into a massacre. It was meant to be quiet, intimate—far from politics, cameras, and consequence. The chapel, small with whitewashed walls and hand-carved pews, was made for whispered vows and fragile beginnings. The bride chose every detail: pale ribboned flowers, a sun-worn guitarist in the corner, an officiant who spoke briefly, knowing this was something sacred, not to be overstretched.

There were only a handful of guests—people she trusted, loved. No reporters. No guards. Just light spilling through stained glass, the faint hum of music threading through the silence. Everything was still. And then, the doors opened.

The gunshots were everywhere. In less than a minute, eight people were dead: Tommy’s parents, his sister, a last-minute college friend, the guitarist who didn’t even drop his instrument before he fell, the man with the Bible who’d asked them to join hands. And then Tommy himself.

The bride, dressed in white, life growing inside her. She didn’t see who fired first, only felt the light leave her and something tear through her chest like fire. The impact folded her in half. Her knees buckled, fingers reaching for something that wasn’t there.

She fell hard, stained-glass light still dancing around her as she hit the floor. Blood soaked her lace midsection, blooming quickly—bright at first, then darkening, the white dress drinking it in. From the floor, she saw him.

Not the one who shot her. That was Brandi—smiling like she was doing God’s work. No. It was the other one. The one who didn’t smile. The one who moved like smoke.

Yoongi Min.

He hadn’t fired the shot that dropped her, but he had ensured no one else could rise to stop it. His job was taking out her groom. Silenced pistol in hand, he moved through the chaos with the precision of someone far removed from it all. No tremor in his hand. No hesitation. He stepped over the dead without a glance.

When she writhed on the floor, bleeding, breathless, Yoongi held her down. He didn’t spit at her, insult her, or speak. He just pinned her shoulders to the blood-slick wood while Brandi Phoenix did what she did.

None of them expected a heartbeat to survive that day. They didn’t rush to leave. No panic. No second glances. No double-checking for survivors. They were professionals. The job was done. Eight confirmed kills. One silenced chapel. No cries. No movement.

They should’ve killed nine, but they didn’t. Because Y/N didn’t die.

She remembered everything. Not in flashes, not like a dream, but in brutal clarity. The crack of gunfire echoing off vaulted ceilings. The splintering pews. The sound of bodies hitting the floor. Her own strangled gasp as the bullet hit, knees buckling like broken beams.

She remembered the color of her blood, soaking through the lace of her dress—bright at first, like a flare, then darkening. The smell—the mix of roses, gunpowder, and iron. The weight of another body near hers, warmth spilling onto her bare shoulder. The sticky wetness. The stillness.

Yoongi Min stood over her, not a drop of blood on his face. Blood caked her lashes, but she saw him clearly. His face unreadable, no curiosity, no cruelty—just focus. He didn’t look at her like a woman or a target. He looked at her like a loose end. He helped the others finish her off once the others were taken care of.

Then came the darkness.

Four years. Four years of machines, wires, and strangers’ prayers. Two times, she was declared brain-dead. Two times, a doctor marked the time on a clipboard and walked away. She was kept alive by a nurse’s pity—hidden, forgotten, buried alive. Until the moment she started to wake.

It wasn’t pretty. It didn’t come all at once. It was slow, violent, like pulling herself from wet concrete—blind, gasping. Her mind clawed its way back long before her body did, trapped inside, screaming silently.

Now, she lay curled in the backseat of a stolen truck beneath a blanket that smelled of engine grease and stale air. Parked between desert scrub and rusted fences. The road behind her was gone, the road ahead uncertain. Her body was broken—foreign. Her skin too tight in places, numb in others. Her muscles sagged, deflated. Her legs, stiff as wax, stretched out. Her fingertips tingled. Her breath shallow, lungs relearning survival.

But her mind—her mind was wildfire.

She could feel the hum of memory beneath her skin, relentless and alive. Her pulse thudded in her neck, fast and heavy, reminding her she was alive. She couldn’t remember her face anymore, couldn’t picture her reflection. But she remembered everything else. The echo of her name, shouted just before it was drowned out. The scrape of her nails against the chapel floor, as she tried to crawl. The flutter beneath her ribs—her child—growing still. And Yoongi Min. Silent. Still. Pressing her down while someone else tore her apart.

She hadn’t died. And because of that, because they hadn’t finished the job, they would all pay.

Her body lay in the dark, breath shallow, skin slick with sweat gathering in the hollows of her spine, soaking into the seat beneath her. The air in the truck thick—humid with oil, dried blood, and the sour scent of fading adrenaline. Outside, the desert heat pulsed like a living thing. Inside, time collapsed into nothing but stillness and breath.

Her eyes drifted down her body. Slowly. Deliberately. Past the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Down to her right foot, unmoving. Pale. Slightly curled at the toes. Still. Dumb. Useless.

It looked like it belonged to someone else—like it had been sewn onto her by mistake.

Her jaw tightened, and her hands curled into loose fists on her thighs. Every nerve in her body screamed with confusion, as though someone had rewired her and then left without a trace. She took a slow, steadying breath, thick with resolve. Whatever had been done to her, whoever had taken control of her body, they would pay. She would walk again. She would hunt them down. And when the time came, there would be no mercy. Yoongi might have been the shadow in the chapel, but she was the fucking hurricane.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the simple command could bridge the distance between her and the action she craved.

Her eyes narrowed, focus tightening like a vice. She stared at her foot, willing it to move, as if sheer force of will could make it obey.

“Wiggle your big toe,” she repeated, louder this time, her voice sharp with impatience.

Still nothing.

Then—

A tremor.

Just a flicker. A subtle, almost imperceptible twitch that disturbed the dust on her skin.

She blinked hard, heat rushing behind her eyes, the sting of tears threatening. Her throat tightened. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle around her, like the stillness after an explosion.

The toe had moved.

And that was enough.

Her cracked lips parted, voice raw and thin. “The hard part’s over,” she muttered to herself, her words barely a rasp. “Now let’s get the rest of these piggies moving.”

It took an hour just to sit up.

Every second felt like war.

Her arms trembled beneath her, muscles unfamiliar and weak. Her shoulders burned, her breath shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she didn’t blink it away. She focused only on the task ahead: moving. Dizziness pulled at her, nearly swallowing her whole. Twice, her vision blurred, her fingers going numb. But she kept going. One breath at a time.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she was upright.

Slumped forward, shaking, soaked in sweat, gasping like she'd been pulled from the sea. Her hospital gown clung to her, a reminder of the fragility she still carried. But she was sitting. That was something. That was power.

She let her head fall forward, staring at her left leg.

“Your turn,” she whispered.

She focused, hard. Her body wasn’t responding; it was remembering, like each limb needed to reacquaint itself. Her left foot didn’t move at first. Then, a twitch. A faint tremble in her calf. A sudden jerk in her thigh, more seizure than progress.

But it was something.

“Again,” she murmured, voice shaky. “Come on.”

Her hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. She slapped her thigh—once, twice. Hard. Not out of frustration, but command.

Another minute passed.

Another tremor.

She let out a breath that caught in her throat, threatening to choke her before she smothered it with the back of her hand. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. But the tears came anyway. Not from fear or pain, but from the weight of it all. Years of silence, stillness, being trapped in a body that didn’t obey. She breathed through it, let the tears fall, wiped them away, and kept going.

By hour seven, the tremors were constant, though still uncoordinated and unpredictable. Her limbs were waking up in fits and starts, like a machine that hadn’t been used in years, sputtering to life. Her muscles spasmed, kicked, locked up, then released. At one point, she reached for the window frame for balance, but instead collapsed sideways, her shoulder slamming into the door, rattling the hinge. She gasped, cursed, and kept going.

By hour ten, one leg dangled over the side of the seat, scraping the truck floor uselessly—a dead weight. But it was down. It was gravity. It counted. Then, with a grunt, the other leg followed—slow, twitching, her breath ragged as she forced it over the edge. Her body ached like it had been beaten from the inside out, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

By hour thirteen, she was ready. The truck was stifling, the air thick with heat and the smell of sweat. Her gown clung to her skin, her back soaked through, hair matted to her forehead. The seat beneath her was stained with sweat and grit from where she’d braced herself. Her hands were filthy, coated in dirt from every inch of the cab she’d used to steady herself. But now, she had two feet on the floor. Her heart pounded in her chest, a warning reverberating in every bone.

She took a shallow breath—pained, but enough—and then she pushed.

Her legs shuddered beneath her, like old, rusted machinery fighting to move. Her thighs jerked with violent tremors. Her knees buckled—not from her weight, but from the shock of standing. Her back arched, muscles protesting. Her fingers dug into the seat, nails biting into the leather, arms straining to keep her upright. Every tendon screamed. Every nerve burned.

Her breath caught, high in her chest. Her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, urging her back to the place where nothing moved, and everything was still. But she didn’t let it. She fought it.

She stood.

Her body bent forward like a reed battered by a storm, elbows locked against the truck seat, spine curved with the strain. Her legs shook violently, unfamiliar with their own weight, but she was up. Her eyes fluttered closed, sweat soaking her lashes. Her lungs rasped, desperate for air. Her body swayed once—enough to threaten collapse—but she caught herself, held steady by willpower alone.

With a voice cracked from hours of silence, she whispered, "The hard part’s over."

There was no triumph in her tone. No victory. It wasn’t a declaration—it was a vow. Then, she smiled. Not wide. Not bright. It was a smile forged from iron and exhaustion—bent at the corners, all teeth and rage. A smile born from blood and memory. A smile no one had seen in four years. A smile like steel pulled from fire. And now, she was fire.

When the first light of morning touched the horizon, soft and golden against the desert, Y/N swung open the backseat door. The hinges groaned under the weight of the moment, and the air outside smelled of dust, fuel, and the heat to come. Her bare foot hit the pavement first, the shock of raw skin against gravel stinging. She winced. The earth was tender, soft like it had never been touched, but she didn’t stop. She settled her heel, then her arch, then her toes. She hissed through her teeth, then brought the other foot down beside it.

Both feet. On the ground. Standing.

She took a breath. It hurt. Her ribs protested, her chest constricted, but it was a breath nonetheless.

And then, she began to walk.

Her gait was uneven, her balance uncertain. Her knees locked at odd angles. Her arms reached for anything to steady herself. She looked like a newborn deer—legs and uncertainty, driven by furious determination. Each step was a silent scream. Each second, a battle. But she kept going. Around the truck, her hand dragging along the scorched metal, her palm leaving a smear of sweat against the door. She reached the driver’s side, gripped the hot steel with one hand, and reached for the handle with the other.

She pulled the door open and climbed in.

The seat was too high. Her hips protested. Her back pulled tight with the warning of strain. But she got in.

It felt surreal—sliding into that seat again. A place that once belonged to someone else, someone cruel, someone arrogant. Someone whose blood still stained the floorboards beneath her bare feet. She could still smell Buck—cologne of bad whiskey and burnt plastic. Fast food wrappers rotting in the door pocket. Cigarette butts jammed into the ashtray.

The keys were still in the ignition, dangling from the garish yellow “PUSSY WAGON” tag. She reached for them, fingers closing tight around the plastic. The key turned with a low mechanical thunk.

The engine coughed to life, then roared—a deep, guttural sound, like an old beast shaking off its sleep. The dash lights flickered, and the vents blasted warm air into her face. The whole truck vibrated beneath her.

She gripped the steering wheel, hands steady for the first time in a long while. Her gaze flicked to the dashboard, where a pair of sunglasses rested, shoved against the edge of the windshield. Plastic. Cheap. Gold-rimmed knockoffs. Elvis-style. Gaudy. Stupid.

Without thinking, she reached for them, turned them over in her hand, then slid them on. They sat crooked. She adjusted them, fixing the angle until they felt right. Now, they were perfect.

She glanced up into the rearview mirror. The woman staring back wasn’t the one who’d bled out in a wedding dress. She wasn’t the one who had cried silently in a coma or been broken into pieces.

No, this woman had bruises under her eyes, chapped lips, skin stretched tight against bone. A large scar on her forehead where they’d taken the bullet out. But her eyes—they were alive. They were awake, alert, burning with something cold and sharp.

Y/N reached for the gearshift. Her hand didn’t shake this time. She dropped it into drive, the truck lurching forward with a growl as gravel kicked up behind her.

It was time to start the list. Eight names. One by one. And the first name was Yoongi Min.

Taglist: @haru-jiminn @fancypeacepersona @futuristicenemychaos @cranberrycupcake @mar-lo-pap @wannaghostbts @solephile @paramedicnerd004 @stargirl-mayaa @calmyourtitts7 @bjoriis @11thenightwemet11 @screamertannie @everybodysaynoooooo

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yoongle--boongle--pie · 5 months ago

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Pechsträhne Masterlist

MOVED ACCOUNTS!

Find updated account @yoongleboonglepie

This masterlist will not be updated moving forward. Please refer to new account!

Love Y'all!

Genre: Horror au, paranormal au, hurt/comfort, slow burn, romance, psychic au, friends to lovers, Mystery, BTS ot7 x reader

Rating: 18+: Keep that in mind as this is at its core a paranormal/heavy theme rooted in history and myth, and some things are emotionally disturbing or spooky. Read at your own discretion as I will only be putting trigger warnings for things that can pose severe safety risks to those affected. All else, like I said it is a spooky and mystery au.

Y/n Wörner left the Wörner Hotel and Estate nearly 5 years ago in an attempt to run away from a family argument that put a firm divide between her and her parents. She was managing fine, for the most part -save for the constant existential crisis of what she should do with herself and her life. That was until an invitation for the 150th anniversary of their family hotel ended up shoved in her mailbox on Thursday morning, and for no rational reason she found herself running back; unable to stop the pull to return home to her family and friends who live on the grounds. Once she arrives, however, it becomes inarguably apparent that things are very wrong. The ghosts of her long past family who were once friendly, are now vengeful and violent. Her friends are divided by secrets, mystery, and fear- changed in tandem with the ghosts she used to love. She has to relearn how to balance who she knew her friends as children, and who they have become in the recent years as a result of the darkness that threatens to drown them in its wake. She knows that something is threatening her home and her friends, but she doesn't know what. And if there's one thing about Y/n Wörner, it's that she's not a quitter. No ghost or demon will stop her from getting the answers she needs- even if it means they have to try and kill her before she gets to them. Because what does she have to lose?

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Main story,

Chapter 1 - 2/16/2025

Chapter 2- 2/19/2025

Chapter 3- 2/22/2025

Chapter 4- 2/24/2025

Chapter 5- 3/1/2025

Chapter 6- 3/10/2025

Chapter 7- 3/15/2025

Chapter 8 - 3/20/2025

Chapter 9 - 3/28/25

Chapter 10 - 4/6/2025

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Pieces of Red String for you to Follow if you Dare...

Namjoon Character Moodboard

Seokjin Character Moodboard

Yoongi Character Moodboard

Hoseok Character Moodboard

Jimin Character Moodboard

Taehyung Character Moodboard

Jungkook Character Moodboard

Pinterest Boards

Historical Archives and Notes of Y/n Wörner

Photos of rough outline of the estate (not hotel)

Morse code clues, chapters 7 and up: x x x x

Find chapter playlists here:

Spotify

Youtube music

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Do not repost anywhere or steal my writing. Thx.

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peoniesnro · 11 months ago

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Chapeter Index

In Another Universe

Synopsis- When you're just another iteration of Park Jimins girlfriend in a different universe.

Genre- Parallel universe au/ Strangers to ??/ Smut/ Angst/ Fluff/ Infidelity

Warnings - Smut / Infidelity/ Language

Status - Ongoing

Taglist?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Chapter #1. Park Jimin

Chapter #2. A Lil' Roll

Chapter #3. Perfect Strangers

Chapter #4. F.R.I.E.N.D.S

Chapter #5. A beautiful memory

Chapter #6. A day in paradise

Chapter #7. GOOD FUCKING BYE!

Chapter #8. The Burning Pit of Fire

Chapter#9. Make It Right

Chapter#10. The Other Woman

Chapter#11. Jeon Jungkook

Chapter#12. RUINED and DESTROYED

Chaprer#13. Falling Deep and Down

Chapter #14. Beginning of the END

Chapter#15. His Happy Ending….

Chapter#16. Changed!

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thesexydevils · 24 days ago

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✨ Moodboard Drop: The Game of Quiet Storms ✨

Dark. Obsessive. Psychological. She's the calm. They're the storm.

🖤 Prologue out now

🔗 AO3 🔗 Wattpad

📖 Chapter One drops Friday.

🔞 Mature themes | Content warnings apply 🚫 Do NOT copy or repost

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mauveisroyalexo · 3 months ago

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C H A P T E R - F O U R

Summary: As the crossing ceremony draws near, Akira experiences great highs and even greater lows. Some, of which, leads her to danger…

Warning: strong language, breeding kink, heavy smut, strong violence, angst, parallel polyandry relationships, omegaverse, a/b/o, slow burn, trauma/healing themes, abusive family. mention of blood, extreme violence, sexual themes, heavy petting, physical abuse, etc. dni if you are not over 21.

(“”) italics is Bangtan speaking South Korean.

(“”)bold italics is the beginning of a new section.

(‘’)bold is the inner wolf speaking.

WC: 13,233

Previous | Next

“Are you excited for your date tonight, Akira?”

Looking up from her dress, Akira smiled towards her grandmother, “I am, ma’am. Taehyung told me to dress up so I’m trying to figure out what to wear.” Her sweet giggle made Genevieve smile. Entering further into the bedroom, Genevieve took a seat on the bed,

“I know things have been difficult for a while, little wolf.” Akira stopped what she was doing, sensing a soft edge in her grandmother’s voice, “With how your father ran his home and how he almost ruined your chances with your new pack. Things will get better, and soon, you’ll be with them.”

“Grandmother, what’s wrong?” Akira knew by the look on her face that it was serious.

“Your family will not come to your ceremony.” Akira plopped down next to her grandmother with a huge sigh,

“It’s alright grandmother. I kinda figured that they wouldn’t come. I thought after all of this, mama would be there…” Genevieve could see the sadness on her granddaughter’s face, “You know what? This hasn’t been a traditional courting anyway. I apparently have seven mates and I’m a human. None of this has been normal. Let’s not have a ceremony, grandmother.”

Genevieve rebuffed, “Little wolf—.”

“No, really, let’s not worry about it.” Akira interrupted, “I know planning something as big as this, with seven other people, it can be a hassle. I don’t want you to stress yourself over one night. We won’t have to have a ceremony. How about you and I just do dinner instead? I know the guys would love it, they enjoy you.” Akira smiled softly, shrugging her shoulders. Genevieve watched as Akira stood back up and picked up a black, long sleeved body hugging dress that reached to her ankles. “I better get ready, Taehyung will be here soon.” Akira might have been smiling when she went to the bathroom to change, but deep down, she was hurting. Despite how her family always treated her, she still loved them. She at least thought that her aunts and uncles would attend, but knowing that no one from her family would attend hurt more than she thought.

Still determined to have a wonderful date on this gorgeous Saturday night, Akira quickly finished getting ready, designing her braids in a half ponytail and slipping on a fluffy, oversized hunter green sweater. Her necklace danced in between her breasts that sat high in her dress. The oversized sweater slightly hung off her shoulders, but it still highlighted her curvy silhouette. Just as she was finished putting on her earrings, Akira could hear the doorbell ring from her room’s bathroom. She smiled, hurriedly turning out all the lights and grabbing her purse before rushing to the living room. There, she saw Taehyung and her grandmother smiling, most likely from something funny that happened.

“Shiiibal—I mean, you look great, Akira.” Taehyung gulped, straightening his stance abruptly. Akira’s lashes fluttered, cheeks puffed as she smiled. “Are you ready to go?”

Akira nodded, “I’m excited!” Taehyung smiled, walking over and reaching out his arm to her. Akira turned to her grandmother, “Night grandmother, I’ll be back by curfew!”

Like a gentleman, Taehyung opened the door for her. The sleek suv had an all black leather interior to contrast the white exterior. Akira couldn’t count how many cars she’s been in since courting started with the Bangtan pack. “Tae?”

Taehyung’s eyes widened at the nickname. No one besides family and friends had ever used such an informal name for him, “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked..”

“No, no, it’s just…” Taehyung trailed off, his lips widening into a boxy smile, “No one’s ever said my name as sweetly as you.” Akira quickly covered her face in embarrassment, making Taehyung laugh. He grabbed her hands, brought both of them to his lips and kissed the back of them, “You’re sweeter than I thought you were.”

“Oh god, Tae.” Akira scoffed, laughing as she tried looking away. Once the intense flirting ceased, Taehyung started the car. The drive into the city wasn’t long, but still pleasant nonetheless. Akira asked questions about his childhood, why he got into fashion, how he ended up in Bangtan, etc.. She loved hearing him speak, and in turn, he loved hearing her laugh.

“It’s just how it was growing up. One by one, each of our family’s moved into the same neighborhood and because our eommas got along so well, they decided that they would form our familial pack. We became like brothers; our siblings were each other’s siblings and when it was decided that we'd leave South Korea for Smeraldo Valley of all places, we each packed up and left. Our parents liked the quiet here. I think Jimin and I were 14 maybe?” Taehyung shrugged as he drove, more city lights clearer as he drove into the heart of the city.

Akira smiled gently, “I like that. I like that you all stuck together, and that you still kept your traditions with you. It’s rare to see families like that.” Akira trailed off, sighing as she looked out the window. Taehyung hesitated, but he asked, “What about your family?”

Akira shrugged, “We used to have traditions but as we got older, it stopped. Or should I say, they stopped. Half the time, I was excluded.” Taehyung watched a sad smile form on her face. He felt an ache in his chest, “But it’s not like I missed out on much. What my family lacked, my grandmother upheld. I spent most of the important moments with her, and that’s all I care about.” Pulling to a stop at a red light, Taehyung reached over and grabbed Akira’s hand. His thumb ran smoothly across the back of her, making shivers trace down her spine.

Once they arrived at their destination, a dimly lit bistro that featured a live band with elegantly dressed waiters and hostesses. Akira was in awe. Taehyung, watching from the side, smiled at her reaction. “This place is beautiful, Tae.”

“Meh, you’re more beautiful.” He replied. If Akira could blush, she would. Instead she turned her face away from him. After stopping in front of the restaurant, the valet quickly ran to Taehyung’s car door. Taehyung handed him the kiss as he hopped out before smoothly walking over to Akira’s side. After helping her out of the car, Taehyung held his arm out for Akira to grab. Walking in, Akira noticed that once again, people with reservations sat and waited for their table while Taehyung breezed on through. Even the hostess greeted him with a smile, “The usual, Mr. Kim? And will you be gracing us with your voice tonight? You know the guests love it.”

“Aish, not tonight, I’m with my lovely date, but maybe another time.” Taehyung laughed, to an area of the bistro he’s familiar with. It concluded to Akira that either he frequented the place a lot, or it was one of the few restaurants Jin owned. Walking near the stage, a reserved booth sat with clam shell-like padding. “Sooo we just gonna ignore that back there? You sing?” Akira giggled. Taehyung helped Akira up the steps and into the booth, sliding in behind her, “Yes, yes we are.”

“But I wanna hear you sing!” Akira whined playfully.

“Another time, in private, just for you.” Taehyung promised.

Akira could tell Taehyung was suddenly shy about it, so she dropped it. Akira looked around at all the patrons, decked out in their best dressed, “This place looks busy, I feel like I’m still underdressed.” Akira tugged on her sweater, pulling closer to her.

“You’re not, I assure you.” Taehyung shrugged off his jacket, revealing a black turtleneck to match his slacks. Not even two minutes in and a waiter was present at their table with menus ready, it made Akira jump with surprise. “I’ll have the amaretto sour, and the lady will have?” Both the waiter and Taehyung turned to Akira. Fumbling slightly, she replied,

“O-Oh! Um, I’m not much of a drinker…I’ll just have a Cherry Coke, please?” Akira sank a little in her seat. The waiter nodded with a polite smile then headed to the bar. Akira looked over her menu, noting how expensive everything looked. Well, expensive to her, probably not to anyone else. “There’s so much, I wouldn’t know what to choose.”

“What are you feeling tonight, then?” Taehyung asked, barely glancing at his menu before looking over at Akira. She shrugged,

“I’d never been here, you tell me.” Akira turned, holding out the menu to him. Taehyung smiled, pointing out a dish, “The Steak Diane is really good, I think you’d like it.” Akira nodded in agreement. She liked when she didn’t panic on a decision, it made her relax. The waiter came back with the drinks and took their order. Akira moved closer to Taehyung, watching the grenadine and cherries dance in her drink. “So are you excited for the crossing over ceremonies? They’re coming up pretty close.”

Akira shrugged, “I’m, um…I’m not invited to Naomi and Jackson’s ceremony.” Taehyung’s eyes dilated, protest at the tip of his lips when Akira said next, “My father doesn’t want me there, he thinks I’ll distract from their big day.” Akira stared at her drink, twirling the straw around slowly, “Honestly, after the first dinner, I’m starting to agree with him…

“I care about Naomi. I don’t want her day ruined because of my drama. I don’t wanna overshadow that, and if that means not going, then I just won’t go.” Akira sighed, taking a sip of her drink,, “I’ve even decided I don't want a ceremony of my own since everyone decided not to come.” Taehyung gawked,

“What? Why would you forgo your day just because they’ve decided not to celebrate you?” Taehyung seemed hurt by the thought. Akira felt guilty, but she knew that in her heart, she wasn’t seeing the special day like everyone else was, “Tae, I get that this type of thing is special, I do. And if I were a wolf and understood it more, I would be thrilled to participate, but the truth is, I’m used to not being celebrated, so my family not showing up is no surprise to me. I don't want my grandmother and your families going through all this hard work just for it to be wasted. I would rather do something with just us, like a dinner or something.” Akira shrugged again, “I don’t need fancy, Tae,” Akira chuckled grimly, “I’m not that special.”

“You’re wrong.” Taehyung replied darkly, “You are special, Akira. You’re special to us, and that means more than what you think. Why should you diminish yourself and your self-worth because your family can’t see how amazing you are?” Stunned, Akira couldn’t reply, “If they can’t wrap their heads around that, they’re not worth your heart, Akira. They’re not worth sacrificing your happiness or selfishness for.”

“Tae…” Akira shook her head and looked away. Taehyung grabbed her chin, making her look at him,

“Tell me you truly don’t believe you deserve better.”

“I…I don’t know…” Akira replied honestly, “I don’t know what I deserve…”

Taehyung sighed, “Jagiya, I wish you could see what we see. I wish you see how much you deserve better just like every other good person in this world.”

Akira tilted her head, “Damn, you’re good.” She had to hand it to him, he definitely had a way with words. Taehyung licked his lips as he leaned on close to peck her on the cheek. They stared at each other in silence as he continued rubbing her chin, before the waiter came back to take their order. Akira, feeling embarrassed at being caught, pulled away and looked away. Taehyung ordered for their table and then centered his attention back to Akira, “Tae, you’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful.” Quick reply made Akira groaned with awkwardness.

“Stop it.”

“It’s the truth—.”

“Tae.” Akira warned.

“Jagiya.” He replied with an even tone. Akira frowned. “Akira, the point of tonight is that I get to spoil you and you don’t get to complain, however I choose to do it.”

“But Tae—.”

“Omega.” Akira’s body straightened at the sudden command, which Taehyung took note of. Humans shouldn’t be able to do that, no matter the level of an alpha or beta in a pack. “As I was saying…You don’t get to complain. Whether that be spoiling you in compliments or presents, my job as your alpha, especially tonight, is to take care of you.” He tilted her head upwards by the chin, staring longingly at her plump lips, “I get to call you beautiful because you are, indeed, as beautiful as you are on the inside and on the outside. No one’s taking that from you.” Akira felt her insides warm and melt at his touch. She could stare into his mismatched colored eyes for the rest of the night and still feel shy. “Do I make myself clear, Akira? No more disrespecting yourself. When you do that, you disrespect Bangtan.”

“Yes Tae.” Taehyung looked at her expectantly, making Akira gulp, she whispered back, “Yes, Alpha.”

— — —

“And you’re sure she told you that she doesn’t want a crossing over ceremony? Like at all?”

Gathered around in the living room with his brothers, Taehyung nodded immediately as he stared up at his hyung, “She told me herself that since her family refuses to celebrate her crossing, she doesn’t want one. Thinks that her father is the reason they agreed to it. Her grandmother was doing all the preparations, not even her mother was helping. She feels like she’s a burden and will distract from Naomi and Jackson’s ceremony and also made the decision not to attend theirs.” Taehyung had just finished his date with Akira and dropped her off at her grandmother’s. The air in the room thickened as the members of Bangtan drew silent, “Namjoon hyung she’s so heartbroken. She keeps trying to hide it but it’s obvious.”

“It’s true, Joon-ah.” Yoongi sighed, pushing back his hair, “She didn’t say it explicitly but it seems her father is very controlling of her. He didn’t even allow her to finish high school.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.” Hoseok cursed, seething as he turned away, hands landing on his hips.

“I hate this family.” Jungkook grumbled, eyes twitching a slight red hue.

“Jungkook-ah.” Jin warned softly, pulling his hyung card, “Go take a breath.” Jungkook huffed, leaving the room. “Jimin, go with him, please?” Jimin nodded, running after Jungkook. The sound of clothes dropping and bones cracking in the background gave way to the howls of the wolves leaving their den. Hoseok sighed, pacing back and forth as he pinched his brows. Namjoon looked stressed, leg jumping up and down as his brain worked overtime. Jin spoke again finally, “Her family has really worked a number on her.”

“It’s her father. I have no doubt in my mind that he’s abusive.” Namjoon mumbled.

“He is.” Yoongi interrupted, “Any man who only singles out just one of his kids is abusive. Jin said he threatened her. He took only Akira out of school. He’s dangerous towards her. He hates her because she’s a human.”

“That’s not her fault.” Taehyung whined.

“It’s not, but to him, it might as well be.” Yoongi continued, “Whatever issues he has with humans, he’s taking it out on her, and I guarantee it’s been happening for years. We need her here with us, Joon.” Yoongi turned to Namjoon, who looked deep in thought.

“Right now, she’s with her grandmother. That’s the safest place for her until all of this is over, we can’t break the rules.”

“Screw these damn rules, they are hurting her!” Yoongi grew agitated, the red of his eyes glimmering. Sensing the tension rising, Hoseok intervened,

“Listen, I agree with you hyung, we all do. But what proof do we have? We bring it to our parents, to the counsel and then what? For all they know, the dinner was an isolated incident. And no one in her family is going to go against her father. We have to play by the rules.”

“You didn’t feel what I felt from her, hyung.” Taehyung shook his head. The bleak stare in his eyes made them concerned, “It felt like her soul was dying.”

Silence engulfed the room. They could faintly hear Jungkook howl at the moon, obviously far away but still listening. Jin looked up at Taehyung, who clearly looked like he was going to cry, “What are you saying, Tae?”

Taehyung looked down at his hands, shaking his head softly, “I’m saying I’m afraid she might hurt herself.”

“That’s insane.” Yoongi scoffed.

“It’s not.” Hoseok disagreed, “If you dealt with daily abuse, wouldn’t you find a way out?”

“Enough.” Namjoon silenced them all, suddenly getting upset. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to believe that Akira would ever harm herself, nor did he want to believe that she would ever leave them heartbroken, “We leave it alone for now. She’s safe with her grandmother, I know that for a fact.”

“How can you be so sure?” Taehyung questioned.

“Because her grandmother is a Divine.” All three heads shot to Namjoon. Eyes widened in surprise, a Divine was living among them.

“A Divine? How do you know this?” Hoseok was skeptical.

“She told me. During one of our visits, I saw her use her magic. They’re ancient magic, very rare, even her family hasn’t heard of them, I don’t think they realize she is one. Only a few have seen them. With that type of power, Akira is safer with her grandmother.” A Divine is considered a demigod of sorts. Children of the lycan goddess mother, Akashi. Believing that her love for children sparked the creation of demigods, Divines. She planted a few seeds of love. And they grew and had seeds of their own and so on. To be a Divine means tremendous power flows through you. Namjoon wasn’t so worried.

“I can’t believe it.” Jin seemed the most surprised out of everyone. He had heard the legends before but didn’t believe they were true. “Do you think Akira knows? She has to know.”

“No.” Namjoon replied, “ And I don’t think that’s our story to tell. But the main thing right now is knowing she’s safe. We’ll deal with the rest once it happens.”

— — —

“You’re always so beautiful every time I see you, Akira. I can’t tell you how lucky I feel to see your face.”

Hoseok originally was supposed to go next for his date with Akira, but sadly something came up at work. Naturally, Namjoon, Jungkook, and Jimin fought for the spot, while Jin patiently waited for his time. Namjoon pulled the hyung card, outranking them both and left Jungkook and Jimin pouting.

“Namjoon, please..” Akira mumbled shyly, burying her face into his chest as she giggled. Namjoon stood with her outside a movie theater, waiting in line to see the latest Marvel movie. His arms wrapped securely around her waist, bringing her closer to him. She was small in his hands, no higher than Yoongi or Jimin. He made her giggle and swoon and blush; her cheeks were hot and aching from smiling. “I get shy every time I’m with you.”

“So what? I find it cute.” His deep voice rumbled, making Akira shiver. After the line moved up and you got your tickets, Namjoon brought you to the concession stand. “Order whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want? You sure ‘bout that?” Akira questioned cutely. Namjoon just smiled,

“Yes beautiful, whatever you want.” He stood behind her, engulfing her with his body. Secretly, he wanted his scent to mask hers, making sure others knew she was his. But in reality, he just really liked holding her. And Akira really liked letting him hold her. She liked the safety she felt with him, how she felt warm in his arms. He provided a comfort that hadn’t been known to her in years.

“Mmm, Joonie I want popcorn, some raisinettes, and a sprite, please?” Akira turned her head, looking up at him. Namjoon smirked, staring down at her,

“Joonie huh?”

“I hear the boys call you that all the time. I can call you by your name if—.”

“Don’t you dare.” Namjoon interrupted playfully, “I don’t want any formality between us.” Namjoon pecked the side of her head. He ordered for them and within minutes, Akira was over by the butter station, pouring butter on her popcorn. But then Namjoon had to run to the restroom.

“I told you you should’ve just used the restroom before we left, it’s a 3 hour movie.” Akira laughed, watching him groan as he ran inside. Akira felt she dressed cutely today: her white, long sleeve turtleneck hidden beneath a black overall dress with matching black chunky heeled boots. Her braids were down today, softly pushed back by a white headband. Akira didn’t know it but she was 90s fine. The girl that a Dewayne Wayne or an Eddie Winslow would date, if 90s men weren’t shallow. Yet every time she felt even just a little bit confident, there was someone to snatch it away.

“Yeah that’s her! I heard she was here with Kim Namjoon!”

“Seriously?? What the hell does he see in that whale?”

“I heard that she’s his mate. For the WHOLE pack!”

“My god I feel sorry for them. They have that thing as a mate.”

Suddenly Akira didn’t feel as confident as she had before. Not with the constant whispering and stares. She pulled at her skirt; eyes staring at her brown skin and teeth plunging down on her plump bottom lip. Tears started swelling in her big round eyes. Akira decided she no longer wanted to see the movie.

“Get up.” A deep voice conjured her out of her subconscious. Akira slowly raised head to Namjoon, staring back at her. Akira slowly stood. Her fears and sadness, squashed by a single kiss. She was taken aback by the sudden feel of his lips. The aggressiveness shocked her nervous system; a chorus of gasps surrounding them. Namjoon held the back of her neck with one hand while circling her waist the other. Relaxing into the kiss, Akira slowly brought her arms around his neck; his tongue seeking entrance between her lips. Getting lost in her scent blooming, oozing sticky mapley sweetness, Namjoon suddenly pulled away. His eyes red like hellfire, searching the room for those that wished to speak ill of his mate.

Heads turned to avoid eye contact, clearly afraid of the head Alpha. Beneath Namjoon, Akira stood, absolutely buzzed, high off his strong scent alone. Her eyes doubled in size, and she could barely stand, leaning into his chest for help. “J-Joonie?” Namjoon retreated back to his love, her soft voice calming his nerves, “Yes, beautiful?”

“What was that?” Akira asked tentatively.

“Just letting it be known that you are mine. And if anyone has a problem with it, they can damn sure bring it to me.” Namjoon cut his eyes at a group of people passing by, all scrambling to avoid his gaze. “Are you alright, beautiful?”

“I think so. Just a little dizzy.” Namjoon held her waist firmly, watching her dilated eyes return to normal. Namjoon let her go, regrettably, then picked up the snacks,

“Ready for the movie?” He asked nonchalantly.

Akira blinked, astounded and confused.

— — —

“Namjoon? As much as I enjoy making out with you, and believe me, I do…I don’t think this is a good idea.”

It certainly wasn’t a good idea for Akira and Namjoon to go parking and make out in his car. And it definitely wasn’t a good idea to be straddling his lap while his seat is down. Akira’s dress rose beneath her ass, just lightly tickling where Namjoon’s fingers gripped her thighs. Namjoon, lips plump and glossy, skin blotchy from overheating as they have fogged up all the windows. Namjoon frowned in confusion, “Why not, baby?”

Akira could’ve nearly melted at the new pet name, and nearly melt she did. His fingers rubbed underneath her thighs, turning her skin hot. “Joonie, please.”

“You gotta use your words, baby.” Akira whined, making him chuckle. Slowly, Namjoon sat up. Akira fell to his lap, the wet spot of her underwear nearly touching his clothed crotch. Namjoon tipped toward, kissing along Akira’s chin to her lips again. “C’mon. Talk to me.”

“I d-don’t—mmm, I don’t wa-mm—fuck,” Akira moaned, feeling Namjoon roll her hips against his, fingers fully disappearing beneath her dress as he grabbed her ass. Akira felt overwhelmed. The hardness she felt brushing against her clit made her whimper. “J-Joon!”

“Yes baby?” He whispered, breath hot against her ear as he bit down playfully. Akira’s eyes rolled to the back of her head; Namjoon squeezed her ass again, his fingers lowered dangerously towards her lower lips. He couldn’t even let her speak as his lips found hers again , devouring every moan she offered him. He moved her hips at a faster pace, making her thighs tense. He couldn’t get enough of the way she smelled. That sweet, syrupy scent was heaven sent. Made him think of warm, cozy nights, hot chocolate dancing on his tongue with a plate of cookies nearby. His deep voice made her drip even further, making his inner wolf growl. “I don’t wanna trigger you.” Akira moaned loudly as she pulled away from his lips, the next wave of her hips against his crotch brushed firmly against her clit. She gripped his shirt, willing him to stop for a moment, “Please Joonie.”

“Babygirl,” Namjoon plucked her by the chin, making her look at him, “you won’t trigger my rut, I promise. I have great control of that.”

Akira stared on, doubtful, “I-I…” Akira exhaled deeply, “If I do, I don’t think I can—.”

“Shh, shh,” Namjoon interrupted, shushing her, “I would never ask you to help me out in that way, Akira. Especially like this.” Akira sat straight. Reminded of the talk she had with Naomi, she suddenly remembered what triggering a rut would do. What it all entailed. Akira looked away from Namjoon, rising up off his lap and sitting back in the passenger seat, fixing her dress. Whatever it was, Namjoon knew he fucked up. Aside from the sweetness of her arousal, there was the burnt smell of sugar, no doubt the smell of sadness coming from Akira. “Akira, if I insulted you, I never meant to, I promise I didn’t.” Namjoon looked over at her folded up body. Her feet tucked beneath her legs, and her embarrassed expression fixated on her thighs, “I just don’t want your first time to be because of a rut. And I especially don’t want it to be anywhere that isn’t comfortable for you.” Fed up with the silence, Namjoon reached over and gripped her chin, making Akira look at him, “I want your first time, whether it be with me or one of the guys, it should feel special. Not rushed and definitely not during the most triggered moment of someone’s life. I respect you too much to take that moment away from you just because of a week’s worth of raging hormones.”

“It’s…it’s not that.” Akira spoke softly, reaching up to remove his hand, “I know you don’t want that for me, I appreciate it, but…” Her fingers danced over his, playing with each one, “God this is embarrassing..”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.” Namjoon assured her.

“…How do you deal with them? Your ruts?” Akira watched as Namjoon breathed in deep at the question, obviously not prepared for it. Akira was afraid of the answer she knew she’d get, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“You’re asking me if I’ve ever slept with anyone for it.” Namjoon realized, turning his hand to grab hers. “Akira, I want complete honesty between us.”

Akira worried, “So do I, Joonie..”

“I have in the past. We all have.” Akira exhaled briefly, staring down at his large hand, “I can’t lie to you. When our rut comes, we do get help from some…friends we know. No strings attached, just helping each other from time to time.” Unintentionally, Akira squeezed Namjoon’s hand. Was she embarrassed? Saddened? Jealous? Akira wasn’t sure. “Akira? If you’re upset, I would understand…” Silence, “Say something.”

“I…understand it.” Akira spoke softly. Namjoon was surprised, “I was told that it’s not a pleasant experience. Almost unbearable.” Akira pouted, “It’s not my business, I know that…Joonie, what you and the rest of the guys do to ease that part of your life is your business. And…when the time comes, I won’t interfere with whatever deal you have going on with your friends.”

“Akira,” Namjoon sighed, “baby, I can’t speak for everyone else but my self control is a lot better than it used to be. I don’t need nor want help for it. And I wouldn’t disrespect you like that.” Akira bit her lip, unsure of what to say. Namjoon let go of her hand and grabbed her chin gently, “You are the lady of the house now. You’re the pack omega, our home is your safe space. You don’t ever disrespect the safe space of a den omega. I wouldn’t dream of bringing another woman in when I have you, even if you don’t help me with my rut.”

“But I don’t wanna see you in pain.” Akira frowned.

“Same goes for you.” Namjoon countered back. Akira’s eyes once again welled with tears. Namjoon brushed his forehead against hers, the gesture a sign of vulnerability, “You're my mate, you’re way too important to me now.”

“So what am I supposed to do? I never see male wolves go into a rut, I usually get sent away to my grandmother’s with my sisters.” Akira, for all her family's faults, was sheltered from a lot of things. She never got to see them turn, she never experienced their heats and ruts, she never saw a lot of things.

“When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.” Namjoon reassured her. The look in her eyes had Namjoon falling in love with her. Akira felt so lost and so confident all at the same time. Her time with them felt like a little bit of time peace in an otherwise violent world. She wanted that peace to last for the rest of her life, “Something else is on your mind, I can tell. Spill it, beautiful.”

“A couple of weeks ago, I heard my uncle talking about rebel packs picking up the nomads and recruiting them. I will admit, I don’t know much about what’s happening but I know enough to know that that’s not good, is it Joonie?” Namjoon sighed then nodded, pulling back some. “Is this why the summits are really held? Not just for moving omegas and betas to other packs, but to form alliances?” Namjoon had to hand it to her, Akira really paid attention to her surroundings.

“It’s more complicated than that, but yeah. It’s so that smaller packs can have protection from the rebels. They want to gain control over the human population as well as the werewolf population. They want to segregate the humans and eventually have complete control over them. It hasn’t happened in Smeraldo yet, but it’s working its way here. They’re coming from the east, taking over smaller groups. Packs have started forming alliances to maintain the order we have now but some turn.”

“Well then I’m confused.” Akira pondered aloud, "If your pack is the most powerful, how would these other packs take over in the east?”

“Our.” Namjoon corrected, smiling softly, “And we're the most powerful In Smeraldo. Outside, we are one of 100. We’re influential, yes, but there’s more of us out there. Do you remember how we told you that the Wang pack was our brother pack?” Akira nodded, following along, “It’s not just because Jackson and I and our brothers grew up together. We’re a part of an organization called The Collective. There’s a hundred packs with ties and connections around the world to make our society work. We help each other. Bangtan is second in command, followed by Jackson’s pack.”

“Who’s the first?” Akira looked so enthralled by the new information that Namjoon indulged her curiosity,

“The Choi pack. There’s seventeen of them, not counting their mates.” Akira’s eyes widened tremendously, “We might be third generation wolf, but our generation started The Collective when we noticed there were deaths surrounding our kind. We assumed hunters but some of them were wolf-related. In order to protect each other and our families, we created the organization. Our familial packs followed suit, wanting to protect everyone. But I guess…somewhere out of the hundred or so of us, some have splintered off. We have certain rules and regulations and if they no longer follow—.”

“They rebel.” Akira finished. Akira looked away, “That’s why my father pushed us. He’s scared.”

“I won’t align myself with him if that’s not what you want.” Namjoon promised, “My main concern is you.”

“I know, and I wouldn’t ask you to, it's just…” Akira trailed off, her thoughts a complete mess. She didn’t want her family to be a part of this society Namjoon and few others created, selfishly, she didn’t want to share. But truthfully, she knew deep down, even with all the scars they left, she couldn’t hurt them. “I think about the children. My grandmother. My mother…” Akira looked down at Namjoon's hand. She turned it over palm side up, “I wouldn’t compromise their safety, no matter how I feel about my family. They don’t deserve that.”

“Doesn’t your family have connections of their own?”

“Yes, but only because of my grandmother.” Akira shook her head, facing Namjoon, “Out of respect for my grandfather, his family was one of the founding families of Smeraldo, like, decades ago. Out of a few hundred or some black werewolf packs in the country, ours has been the most influential among our community. But after he died, things kinda changed. No one ever bothered my grandmother. I guess her magic kinda made people weary, but it also kept some families safe. And then outsiders came in,”

“You mean like me? I’m not originally from here, you know that.” Namjoon expressed. Akira nodded,

“I know. The city expanded and it seemed like my grandmother could…relax. I guess once she noticed that she didn’t have to fear anything anymore, she could be ok. Still kinda closed herself off a little, but it’s not as bad.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Namjoon hesitated before speaking again, “how did he die? Your grandfather.

Akira pursed her lips before a heavy sigh brought her heavy chest forward, “He was killed. By humans.” Akira spoke almost in a whisper as she looked back down at Namjoon’s hand, “Grandmother refuses to go into detail about it and I could never ask my father, he seemed angry any time it was mentioned. But I know she truly loved him. So much that the thought of even entertaining another man would’ve made her skin crawl. I think he was her mate. He died when my father was really young, maybe 11 or 12. She used to say loving Booker was the greatest gift she ever got, and nothing could compare to that. She had four children, my father being the oldest. But Booker Joseph Batiste was her everything.” Namjoon could feel her hands shaking. The small sniffle was enough for him to reach across and hold her wet cheeks, “Joonie..”

“Tell me what’s wrong, Akira.” Namjoon worried.

“Is that what it’s like? Having a mate?” Akira raised her head, the watery look she gave him made his chest ache, “The greatest joy you can ever have in the world, until it’s taken from you, and all you have is constant pain for the rest of your life? It seems so awful.” Akira sniffled again, finding tears sliding down her face, “My grandmother constantly mourns him. She rarely ever smiles and I think she’s waiting to die one day just to be with him. I don’t wanna live like that.”

“I think your grandmother’s love for your grandfather was more than just being mates. I think she loved him so deeply that losing him would’ve hurt more than any of us could imagine. I can’t tell you how to feel about us Akira because you’re entitled to your own feelings but as for us, as for me…I feel as though I’ve fallen in love with you.” If it weren’t for his super hearing, Namjoon would’ve never heard the tiny gasp escape from her lips. Akira never had someone fall in love with her before. She’d never been on a proper date, let alone thought of boyfriends until these men drifted into her life. How could they possibly be in love with her already? How could she possibly feel the same?

“You barely know me, how can you fall in love with me?” Akira whispered back, shock still lingering over her.

“I know enough.” Namjoon chuckled, stroking her face. “In the few months that we've talked to each other, I know a lot of things. I know that you like the rain because it’s soothing to you. I know your favorite fruit is strawberries. I know you like having music playing when you cook, and I know when you’re happy, you smell like hot cocoa instead of chocolate chip cookies, when you’re just feeling okay.” Akira’s breathing faltered, surprised by all of this, “You think I don’t know you, but I do. I know some things, not all, and I wanna learn more. That’s why I know I love you, Akira.” More tears fell down Akira’s face as Namjoon left her speechless. She didn’t know what to say, yet she didn’t really have to say anything. He swiped her cheeks lovingly, with a soft smile on his face. Akira felt overwhelmed. She hadn’t received this type of attention or love from someone before and sadly, it showed.

Akira leaned in closer and naturally, Namjoon followed. Their lips met and molded together. Her tiny gasps made his wolf growl with pleasure, ‘Need her, need our omega.’ Namjoon groaned, “I need to take you home soon. If I don’t, my wolf might come out.”

“I thought you said you could control it?” Akira panted, slightly dazed from the kiss.

“Yes, but you make it very difficult to.” Namjoon groaned, pressing his forehead against hers. Akira giggled, sweet and bubbly as Hoseok first described it. Namjoon kissed her cheek and forehead before fixing his seat and starting the ignition. He drove her home in a comfortable silence, one where Akira held his free hand the entire ride.

— — —

“Hobi, I never pictured you as a picnic kind of guy.”

Sitting in the middle of the city park, under a large oak tree with a large blanket, lunch and snacks was Akira and Hoseok. To make up for missing their date night the night before, Hoseok wanted to take Akira on a nice lunch date. Was it an impromptu date? Yes, but Hobi knew Akira wouldn’t have minded. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Hoseok smirked, making Akira grow shy, “But sometimes, on days like this, I like to be outdoors. Helps clear my head.”

“I take it Joonie told you about our date last night.” Akira sighed, putting down her steak sandwich, all of the food Hoseok made by the way. Akira felt like she left with a lot more questions than answers last night, and it was painfully obvious on her face at the moment.

“More or less. But he’s not the only one, princess.” Hoseok dropped his head, trying to get Akira to look him in the eyes, “What’s this I hear you don’t want a crossing over ceremony.”

“…Taehyung told you?” Akira fiddled with her fingers, looking down at her shorts.

“We don’t keep secrets in Bangtan, princess. And while I think I understand why you don’t want it, just know it’s not just your ceremony, it’s ours too. And we wanna proudly show you off.” Hoseok watched as Akira pouted, a soft sour look on her face,

“I didn’t think about that.” Akira mumbled, “I just…I didn’t want the fuss, you know? I know that my grandmother and your mothers are planning this event for us and I’m forever grateful for it but…I just can’t get behind the excitement of it. I don’t feel the joy I thought I would feel.”

“Because you feel like there’s nobody there supporting you?” Hoseok questioned. Akira fiddled with her bracelet, particularly the Sun charm. Hoseok smiled at that. Hoseok laid down and stretched his arms out, “C’mere princess.” Akira hesitated at first but laid her head on his stomach, “You have a right to feel that. But there is always somebody supporting you, princess. We’re all here.”

“I get that but—.”

“No buts, omega.” Hoseok playfully scolded, to which Akira slightly pouted. He liked that she responded to him like a normal omega would. He liked that she obeyed them in the sense that it was willingly and not by force. His eyes traveled her body. From the position, face covered by her visor. The matching black biker shorts stretched over thick thighs, extending just beneath her oversized cream colored t-shirt. Her gold puzzle piece necklace dangling down her chest. Hoseok picked up a strawberry, dangling the fruit in front of her lips, “Open, princess.” He heard her tiny gasp before she followed suit, opening her plump rose colored lips. Hoseok fed her more fruit as they talked. An hour later, positions switched as they both relaxed under the shade of the oak tree. Hoseok laid his head on her thigh. Akira ran her fingers through his hair. They talked and talked, about nothing and everything all at once.

“I think next to rain storms, this is probably one of my favorite things. Just being here, out in nature, clearing my thoughts. Thank you Hobi. I really enjoyed today.” Hoseok opened his eyes and smiled up at her. “Can we do this again, Hobi? Soon?” Hoseok groaned as he sat up. He looked over at Akira once more, taking a hand to pluck at her chin, “Sure thing, princess. But I have to let Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook take you on a date first, they haven’t had their turn yet.”

“Wouldn’t want to upset them then, huh?” Akira giggled.

“No, you don’t.” Hoseok laughed, “Jin is the more patient out of the three, he likes the anticipation. Jimin has a temper like a toddler and JK gets jealous when he’s not getting attention.”

“Oh lawd, he knows he has to share me, right?” Akira laughed again.

“Yes, but he’s the baby. The pup always had to share, but with you, it’s different.” Hoseok shook his head, “He feels very strongly about you and honestly, I can’t blame him. We all do. He’s the most protective of you.”

“Is that how you all feel? Do you feel overly protective of me too, Hobi?” Akira tilted her head back, feeling the slight breeze drift across her neck. Her eyes closed and the ends of her braids tickled at her wrists. Soon she felt a presence looming over her, but she dared not open her eyes, familiar with the spiced mahogany and bergamot scent rolling off Hoseok’s body. The brush of his lips made her gasp as they pressed against her exposed neck. He pressed firmly but gently from her clavicle to behind her ear. Akira’s breath labored, “Of course I do. Werewolves are always protective of their mates. But you, princess..” Hoseok growled near her ear, making her eyes slightly roll close and the barest of moans slip from her lips, “You’re different. We want to protect you and never let you go.” Hoseok reached up and grabbed Akira’s chin, turning her head towards his. His lips melted against hers, trapping in her sweet moans.

Akira raised her hand to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his long hair. Public outing be damned, Hoseok and Akira made out like teenagers. Akira tugged at his hair, a guttural growl deep from within, sent shivers all through Akira’s body. Hoseok’s wolf was definitely trying to escape, ‘Omega smells so sweet. Please omega.’. Hoseok pulled back slowly, chucking to himself. Akira panted with a small frown, “What?”

“My wolf. He wants you just as bad as I do.” Akira blinked rapidly, sitting straighter as the tidbit surprised her, “He’s craving something sweet.” Hoseok smirked, making Akira bite her bottom lip and look away.

“Hobi, stop it.” Akira giggled. Oh how he loved that sound already. Hoseok leaned in again, nipping at her neck and her cheek, making her giggle again.

“No, you taste too good.” Hoseok refused. Akira gasped again, playfully pushing at his chest. They stayed a few moments later packing up and heading back to Akira’s home. For once, she had a free night, no dates. She had a lot of decompressing to do,

“Hobi?”

Hoseok looked at her just as he pulled up to her home, “Yes princess?”

“Can you talk to your wolf? Like, have actual conversations with him? Can your wolf communicate with others, too?” Akira turned to him, expecting an answer.

Hoseok smiled, “Yes. He’s primal, naturally but he can communicate and yes, he can talk to other wolves, but only those that are in our pack or our familial pack.”

“You know what’s funny? I used to pray that I had a wolf of my own.” Akira chuckled grimly, looking down and away at her charm bracelet, “That maybe I wasn’t different from my family, maybe she was just shy or mute. But when I realized I wouldn’t be one, I saw how quickly things in my family changed. I was alone. They didn’t know how to deal with me and honestly, I didn’t know how to deal with me either. I guess…deep down…I knew the day we found out would be the day everything would change.” Akira shrugged grimly once more before turning to Hoseok again, “I really have had the best week, with all of you. I haven’t felt this special in a very long time. Thank you, Hobi.” Her soft voice made his ears twitch as Akira leaned over and gave him a soft kiss.

Akira soon hopped out of the car and headed inside. Hoseok was beside himself. He couldn’t describe it but maybe this feeling of brokenness, this hollowness…maybe it’s exactly what Taehyung was trying to explain to them. He felt her pain. Greater than any feeling he’s ever felt. It brought tears to the man’s eyes as he drove away, not wanting to leave her.

— — —

“I can’t do this anymore! They’ve taken over everything, it’s practically not my ceremony anymore!”

Akira watched as her sister Naomi paced up and down her bedroom. She shortly came to visit after having an argument with their parents about her crossing over ceremony. Once again, Naomi’s pleas weren’t heard and, feeling overwhelmed, she ran to the one place she felt safe: her grandmother’s. “I just wanted something small but they’re making it into this grand thing! Jackson understood that, why couldn’t they?”

“I don’t know, Naomi, I wish I did.” Akira spoke quietly, feeling sad that her sister felt overshadowed by such a thing. She knew that feeling all too well, and still couldn’t find a way to help her. “What has Jackson said?”

“He’s trying to be understanding and see everyone’s side, but he knows how much I hate attention so he’s trying to be firmer with them. Still, he respects his elders too much.” Naomi plopped down in a chair, crossing her arms over her chest, “How’s things with grandmother, has she been planning yours?”

Akira nodded, “At first, I told her I didn’t want one since no one was coming, but since I talked to the guys, I changed my mind. Grandmother is in town now, going over things with their mothers.”

“I wish I could be there but Jackson and I are going away right after our ceremony. He thought I could use the time away to relax.” Naomi sighed, fiddling with her bangle, a gift from Jackson, “I just wish we had a say. To do it our way, without interference. At least grandmother lets you have a say.”

Akira sighed, “Yes, but I’m barely involved with it honestly. I’ve been busy trying to get through all these dates, I still have a date with Jimin this Friday, one this Saturday with Jin and one with Jungkook, Sunday.” It had been a week or so since Akira’s last date with Namjoon and Hoseok. And a week before that, with Yoongi and Taehyung. Now, her long anticipated wait was nearly over with the last three remaining members of her pack. She could hardly stand the wait.

“My, my, haven’t we been busy, little sister.” Akira tilted her head slightly, not sure if Naomi meant the bitter tone she used. Still, she responded back as normal,

“My situation isn’t like yours. You have one mate to look after, I have seven. You have more time to focus on Jackson and vice versa. Which is why, I think you should put your foot down and tell them that you want something small and intimate that reflects you and Jackson, not your families. You’re a Beta, your input should matter most, shouldn’t it?”

Naomi frowned, crouching over in her seat, “You really think I should?”

“Yes, I do.” Akira nodded emphatically, “Naomi, you’re gonna spend the rest of your life with that man. Shouldn’t you both have a moment where you reflect on the moment that you two became each other’s mates? It’s supposed to be about you two, not everyone else. You’re stronger than you think Naomi, you really are.” If only Akira could believe her own words for herself.

“You really believe in me, don’t you?” Naomi stared up at Akira. Akira smiled simply, nodding.

“I always believed you could do anything, Naomi. I looked up to you the most when I was younger.” Akira smiled, looking away. On her nightstand was a very old picture in a silver picture frame. The glass was cracked from the time their father threw it at a wall near Akira’s head, but it was still intact. The picture of three little girls, all in dresses with their hair done up for a birthday party. A little Naomi, just at four years old, two front teeth missing, all smiles next to a smiling seven year old Justine who held two year old Akira. The same bright eyed look in her eyes as now. Naomi followed Akira’s train of sight, looking at the cracked picture frame.

“You kept this?” Naomi got up and walked over to the nightstand. She picked up the picture frame, gliding her fingers over the glass. Akira mumbled a soft ‘yes’ with a light sigh. Naomi didn’t realize she could feel the agony her baby sister carried. The weight of it filled the bedroom as she glanced at Akira, who, unbeknownst to her, had shed tears in her eyes as the memory of that day replayed in her mind. The oddest thing happened. For Naomi, it felt as though she could feel her sister’s pain, “I think this is the only picture of the three of us together.”

“Yeah, it kinda is. It’s the only one I have of you two smiling…” Akira felt her throat starting to close. “I remember the night he threw it. I don’t know what I did, maybe I said or did something to make him angry. I was 12, I didn’t know. I just remember him throwing it at me, but he missed, and then walking over to me. I got whipped with his shoe that time, not the belt. I remember I nearly blacked out cause it was one of his hard bottom shoes? You know the ones with the red underside? Then he locked me in the coat closet until I could behave better.” Naomi’s horror-filled reaction was something Akira expected, “You weren’t there, you were at cousin Nikki’s for a sleepover. Maybe that’s what I did to make him angry, maybe I whined about not being able to go? I don’t know.” Akira shrugged, wiping a stray tear, “Anyway, Justine, Malik and Braxton were there. They just went to their rooms. They never really got in trouble much now that I think about it…” Akira's laugh was hollow as it was dark, chilling Naomi’s spine, “Anyway, it had to have been hours later cause the sun was up when mama let me out after she found me. Nobody told her where I was, she spent the night playing cards with our aunties and some friends. She didn’t even say anything to him. Just pulled me out and hugged me tight.”

Akira felt this sudden darkness take over and Naomi felt it too. The room felt smaller and smaller by the minute, “Try as I might, no matter how hard I tried being quiet and obedient, it wasn’t enough for him. Every little thing I did made him angry.” Akira looked up at Naomi, whose eyes filled with their own tears, “That was my favorite picture. Just the three of us. I don’t remember that day but I do remember feeling safe with the two of you. You know I looked through grandmother’s pictures and after age 10, I think I'm only in five? All the important pictures, the birthday parties, weddings, holidays…I’m not there. It’s as if I never existed…” The choked voice grew quieter, softer. Naomi burst into tears while Akira disassociated completely, staring at a blank wall ahead. When Akira came to, she grew aware of Naomi hugging her. This time, Akira hugged her back, although hesitantly.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t do more. I should’ve done more.” Naomi sobbed.

“What could you do, Naomi, you were a child just like me.” Akira patted her back, “Listen,” Akira pulled away at arm's length, “I never had your strength. In some ways, I’m a lot like mama in that way. You are strong enough to tell them your boundaries. And if they cannot accept it, then that’s their problem, not yours. If you want your ceremony the way you and Jackson want it then do it. It’s your night, not theirs.” Naomi nodded then hugged Akira again. They sat for another hour until Naomi had to leave for a dress fitting. The darkness stayed with Akira for the rest of the day, and she couldn’t shake it. All the memories she blocked out started flooding back to her, so much so that she couldn’t stop her crying. With a shaky breath, Akira called the only person she could think of, “Joonie?”

On the other end of the line, Namjoon could barely hear Akira’s voice as the Bangtan meeting room filled both his and the Wang pack grew rowdy. Yoongi caught sight of Namjoon’s concerned face as he tried exiting the room unnoticed. The rest of his members were in deep conversation, but he too slipped out unnoticed. Namjoon slightly paced out in the hall just as Yoongi closed the door behind him, “Babygirl I need you to breathe and tell me what’s wrong.” The sweet nickname alerted him to you, ‘Omega is upset! Is she hurt?!’.

“Stay where you are ok? I’m coming to get you.” Namjoon hung up then pulled his car keys out of his pocket. There was no way Yoongi wasn’t going with,

“I’m coming with you.” He knew his wolf wouldn’t settle until he laid eyes on you. Not in the mood for arguing, Namjoon said nothing as Yoongi followed him to the car. They wouldn’t normally leave without telling everyone where they were going, but the moment your scared voice traveled through Namjoon’s ears, there was no time for thinking. He just simply wanted to get to you. “What happened?!”

“I don’t know, she was crying and all she said was that she didn’t want to be alone.” Namjoon sped through traffic to reach the outer city limits to get to Akira at the urging of his wolf. He didn’t care how many laws he broke, as soon as he heard her cries, he fought off every instinct that wanted to run to her in his wolf form. After about thirty minutes , he finally made it to the Batiste estate and he entered the code to the gate, and drove past Akira’s old home to her grandmother’s. The minute Akira heard the car pull up, she ran outside to meet Namjoon. He didn’t even shut off the car before climbing out of the driver’s side and running smack into her, pulling her into his arms until her legs crossed around his waist.

“Joonie!” Akira buried her face in his neck, the tears never ending. Yoongi slowly climbed out of the car as he watched Namjoon cradle her to his body. One arm locked around her middle, holding her in place while the other tried brushing her tears away, “Shh, I’m here now Akira. And look, even Yoongi came along.” Akira looked up from the crook of his neck and stared at Yoongi. Yoongi’s heart broke seeing her face slowly redden and her tiny nose got the worst of it. He walked over and Akira let go of Namjoon and started crying harder once Yoongi held her. He kissed the side of her head, cheek bruising against her hair, “Tell us what happened, sweetheart.”

Akira tried calming her breathing as Yoongi wiped her face, “I-I c-cou—couldn’t stop.” Akira blew out a breath as she tried to focus, “I couldn’t stop thinking about my family and realized how much abuse I put up with. It wasn’t just my father, it-it—.” Akira could feel herself about to cry again. Yoongi shushed her again, pulling her closer. His calming scent pushed out more as he tried to calm her. Akira tried breathing on her own, the hyperventilating hiccups slowed dramatically. “I can’t be here right now, please, please—I don’t wanna be here!”

“It’s ok, you don’t have to be. Get what you need so we can go.” Namjoon had already decided he wasn’t leaving her alone. Akira never let go of Yoongi's hand. He followed her up until she stopped at her bedroom door; a sour look still remained on her face as she grabbed a sweater, house keys, and wrote a small note for her grandmother later. She then grabbed her phone and hurried out the door. By the time they arrived back at Bangtan home, Akira was fast asleep. Namjoon carried her in and slept on the couch for hours,“She’s been sleeping for a long time, is she supposed to sleep this long? Should we wake her?”

Around Akira, the Bangtan pack stood, hovering quietly as Jungkook worried about her sleeping. The slightest shiver had Jin throwing a blanket over immediately. The meeting long over once they realized Namjoon and Yoongi left. They watched Akira snuggle further into the couch, twisting slightly. Namjoon sighed,

“She was really upset earlier so no, don’t wake her.” Jungkook nodded, listening to his hyung. “I didn’t realize how deep her trauma with her family was.”

“None of us did.” Hoseok replied, “Whatever this is, it extends much deeper than her father’s reasons.”

“I have no doubt her brothers are behind it.” Taehyung added as he watched Yoongi lift Akira’s head up and place it on his lap. One by one they each sat, surrounding her, “Especially Malik, I can feel it.”

“Why do you suppose they do it? Her siblings, I mean.” Jimin questioned, worry brushed across his face as he watched Akira frown in her sleep. The tiny whimpers alerted them, making Yoongi rub her shoulder.

“Fear of rejection from their father most likely.” Jin shrugged, “It happens with a more dominant alpha, they will scare submission into their pack. He probably uses Akira as an example of what will happen if they don’t submit. Her being human was just an added bonus.” Jin surmised, watching as Akira settled against Yoongi, curling her body further into a ball.

“I wonder what prompted this attack.” Jimin worried.

“Her sister Naomi was there, I could smell her.” Yoongi replied, “Maybe they were talking and got into it, I don’t know, but whatever it was, it left Akira crying.” He ran his fingers across her now tear stained cheek. Akira snuggled closer, feeling how warm he was.

“I swear this family of hers leaves so much damage in their wake.” Jimin groaned, annoyed. “I know it’s selfish but maybe when she’s with us, we can convince her to cut them off.”

“I have no doubt she would.” Jin spoke calmly, “Doesn’t seem like it would take much effort on her end at this point.”

“So how do we fix it?” Taehyung asked.

Jin sighed, “That, I’m not sure of.”

— — —

“What do you think, guys? Do I look good enough for my date with Jimin?”

Akira was all excited for her date with Jimin this warm Friday evening. After spending time in their den, Akira felt as though the anguish she felt days before were gone. She had never been to their home, but she instantly felt safe and comfortable. It made her thrilled for her date, “I hope it’s not too much.”

He wanted her dressed up so he sent a dress and heels for her. Akira had never been in designer clothing so beautiful that it felt feather light on her skin. She couldn’t believe that he had such a good eye for details, getting her measurements just right. She twirled around in her dress when Namjoon asked, giving him, Taehyung, Hoseok, Yoongi, Jin and Jungkook a show. The dress was a deep navy floor length dress with a sweetheart neckline, butterfly sleeves, and two long slits near the thighs. The dress hugged her curves, making her statuesque.

“Fuck me she looks incredible” Yoongi murmured deeply, his accent sounding richer through the phone, making Jin swat his arm. Akira tilted her head, frowning a little,

“What? You guys don’t like it? Jimin picked it out for me…” Akira’s frown deepened, twiddling with nails.

“No, babygirl you look stunning, truly.” Namjoon assured her, making the others agree immediately.

“Jimin did an amazing job, fuck.” Jungkook tilted his head, trying to see all of Akira’s curves. Taehyung rolled his eyes before smacking Jungkook upside his head, making him howl and Akira gasp,

“Don’t objectify her, fool.” Jungkook pouted in the camera, making Akira pout as well.

“Nooo, it’s ok Kookie, thank you for the compliment.” By now, the familiarity between the eight of them had grown, making nicknames a common thing. Akira’s nicknames ranged from babygirl to jagiya, all sweet and endearing. “I feel kinda nervous. I always feel nervous on our dates.”

“Why, you’ve been on four now.” Hoseok laughed, making Akira giggle.

“It’s because it’s a different feeling with each of you. It’s a first date each time. Each one feels special to me…” Akira stared at the floor. Each man blushed at her sweet words, even Jin and Jungkook, who have yet to have their dates with her. They couldn’t wait their turn.

“Well I think Jimin will be nothing but a gentleman with you, and he’ll be very excited for tonight as well.” Jin expressed, bowing slightly. Before Akira could reply, a bubbly response waiting to be spilled, she—along with the guys—heard a loud bang; the sound of a door crashing made Akira jump with fright. The force rattled the walls, nearly making her phone fall off the ledge of the full length mirror in her room, “Akira, what’s going?’ What was that sound?!” Namjoon panicked.

Akira stuttered, “I-I d-don—I don’t know—!”

“AKIRA!!!”

Akira’s eyes widened as recognition struck her. She knew that voice. Knew it well. “Father?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Akira was all alone, her grandmother out with her mother, trying to fix final touches for Naomi’s ceremony. What could he possibly want with Akira if he washed his hands of her?

“Akira, get out of the house!” Hoseok screamed over FaceTime.

“We’re on our way to you, just get out of the house!” Jungkook screamed, leaving the camera’s view.

“AKIRA I KNOW YOU’RE HERE! I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, I CAN SMELL YOU!” Her father Joseph growled, holding back his wolf.

“Baby, if you can hear me, I’m going to mute us, you just keep us on the phone!” Namjoon urged her. Shakily, Akira grabbed her phone and nodded. She quickly sent a message to her grandmother, before the door to her room blew off, splintering at the seams, making her scream. Joseph and Malik stood at her doorway; her father visibly shaking with anger.

On the other end of the phone, her pack froze in horror at her scream. They could hear Joseph shouting obscenely at her, raging at something that he felt was her fault, “YOU HAD TO RUIN YOUR SISTER’S MOMENT, HUH?! YOU COULDN’T LET HER HAVE A CEREMONY WORTHY OF GODS?!” Akira backed away from him, nearly tripping from her dress if it wasn’t for Malik grabbing her roughly. He almost looked ashamed but it was quickly masked with cold green eyes.

“Ah! Malik let go of me! I don't know what you’re talking about!” “Akira’s phone dropped to the floor, still on call with Namjoon. Once Jimin was told what was happening, he quickly got dressed from his shower and raced downstairs to join them in their van. Jin drove, racing through the streets, passing through red lights to get to her. Meanwhile, Hoseok flinched at the sound of Akira’s screams as Joseph slapped her. “Please, I don’t know what’s happening!” Akira cried.

“This, you devious little piece of shit!” Joseph pushed a piece of paper in her face, nearly bruising her nose, “YOU’RE THE FUCKING REASON NAOMI RAN OFF WITH JACKSON! YOU ARE A CURSE ON THIS FAMILY, I FUCKING SWEAR!”

Tears trailed down her face, hiccups escaped as Malik threw her down on the floor. Akira picked up the paper, her eyes widening at each line;

Dear Father,

I know that you and mama and Jackson’s parents made this grand event for us. While we’re grateful and appreciative, it’s what neither of us wanted. I have always been a simple woman, and have never craved attention-seeking moments like this family does, time and time again. After talking with Akira, she made me realize that my vision for our crossing over ceremony was what I always wanted. And that my voice mattered, even when drowned out by you and mama. She is the sole reason Jackson and I decided we want to do what’s best for us. Her belief in me made me realize I have a voice, and I intend to use it. Jackson and I will not continue with the spectacle that is this crossing over ceremony. In a way, we’ve decided to elope. Please don’t be angry.

Naomi.

Akira couldn’t believe what she was reading. Curse her trusting nature, she hated herself for giving Naomi the benefit of the doubt. She now realizes that the one trick Betas always had was to be cunning. They always planned ahead, every step meticulous. She had been used as a pawn the moment Naomi got wind of their parents’ ceremonial plans. The ultimate scapegoat that fueled their father’s hatred of Akira. “No…N-No, father I knew nothing about this, I swear—AH!” A punch landed square to her jaw as Joseph socked her. Akira tries crawling away, begging him to not hurt her, “Father, I didn’t tell her to run, I swear!”

“I am no longer your father, you little runt! From now on, the name Batiste is stripped from you! You had every intention of causing trouble, Naomi wouldn’t lie about this!” Akira gasped as Joseph reached out and grabbed her by her hair. Her cries echoed on the other end of the phone that Namjoon nearly crushes, trying desperately to control his wolf.

“Even with all the lights we speed through, we won’t get there in time.” Yoongi growled, eyes flickering their dark brown to blood red. Each passing second, they could hear Akira scream in agony. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh; deep groans escaping from her as her father did who knows what to her.

Meanwhile, Akira laid on the floor, curled in a ball as she tried to ward off another kick to the ribs. Joseph Batiste was angrier than he had ever been, pissed beyond all belief. Blood trickled from her lips as she tried shielding herself from his and Malik’s attacks. Her ears were ringing, leaving her slightly disoriented. With a little bit of strength, Akira tried crawling to the door, but Malik stopped her, stepping on her dress. The fabric ripped, making the one of the slits widen and stretch. “You know, since the day you were born, you have been a stain on my life. A human shit stain that’s been the bane of my existence—I knew I should’ve taken you out to the woods and left your ass for dead the day you didn’t present as a wolf!” Spittle flew from Joseph’s lips as he got in Akira’s face. Akira cried once more, whimpering then wailing, shouting her innocence, “I never told Naomi to run! I never told her to disobey you, please, plea—!” Akira gagged as Joseph grabbed her by the throat, punching her and slapping her until she nearly fought unconsciousness.

“YOU’RE A FUCKING LIAR! AND WHAT’S WORSE IS YOU’RE A FUCKING MISTAKE!” Akira tiredly let go “I was perfectly content with the four children I had, but no, your mother just had to have another! I should’ve made her abort your sorry ass!” Another slap made blood splatter onto the floor. Weakly, Akira started going limp. Joseph took his rage out on her, kicking her and slapping her repeatedly until crying stopped. Blood smeared on the floor and on her tattered dress; contusions and scratches littered her body. Joseph wouldn’t stop until Malik stopped him,

“Father, that’s enough, we have to go.” Neither realizing that Akira’s phone had scattered beneath the bed, still on call with the Bangtan pack. They were stunned into silence; their faces twisted in horror as Jin had to pull over from driving, becoming sick at the sounds of gurgling agony and cracking of bones. Joseph had beaten Akira before, but never to this extent. Never to the point where she was on the verge of losing consciousness. Even Malik had seen enough.

Joseph huffed and puffed like the big bad wolf he claimed to be as Akira laid motionless on the floor, “May you remember the day you no longer remained a Batiste. You are dead to me.” He seethed, giving her one last kick, this time to the face. Malik flinched, turning away. The wet squelch of blood pouring onto the floor made him gag, “Father let’s go, grandmother will be home soon.”

Joseph and Malik left the room, leaving Akira laying on the floor. Her gurgled gasps as she struggled to breathe was the only thing Bangtan could hear as Yoongi took over driving, racing to her home. He knew they’d make it there before her grandmother, who they unfortunately had to explain all this to. Once they finally made it to the compound, Yoongi quickly typed in the code and sped past several houses to get to Akira. He couldn’t even park without the guys jumping out immediately, racing through the broken front door. The smell of blood alerted them, making them call out for Akira. Jungkook raced down a hallway until he reached the doorway of her room, recoiling back with a loud curse before calling for Namjoon, “JOON!”

Each head popped in Jungkook’s direction, racing down the hall until they were met with a gruesome sight. Body tangled on the floor in a small pool of her own blood, Akira laid gasping. A small white letter a few feet away from her. Dress torn and stained; the strong coppery smell permeated the room.

“Oh my fuck!” Namjoon cursed, reeling away before turning back to enter the room. He kneeled down in front of Akira, her line of vision temporarily blurred. She could sense a presence but couldn’t see them, making her tense and whimper loudly, “Shhhh, it’s us beautiful, it’s us.” He whispered delicately. Tears blurred in her eyes but no sound other than a whimper could escape. Her throat raw from being squeezed too tight. Eyes swelling and blurring over to where she couldn’t make out who was in front of her.

Suddenly a car pulled up, “Sounds like her grandmother pulled up.” Taehyung uttered coldly.

“Akira! Akira, little wolf where are—oh my god!” Her grandmother’s gasp was horrified at what she saw.

“Careful, we don’t know if he severed anything.” Hoseok told Namjoon as he went to pick up her body. Usually never one to show his emotions, Namjoon fought back tears as his mate laid on the floor in pain. Carefully? He grabbed hold of her hand,

“Baby, can you hear me?” He asked gently. Shakily, Akira squeezed his hand. “Can you speak?” Her hand remained lax. “Can you wiggle your toes?” They watched as her toes slowly curled from both feet.”

“I can smell her father and Malik all through this room. They did this, didn’t they?” Her grandmother questioned, eyes glimmering faintly of a purple hue. With bowed heads, some with tears in their eyes, the men nodded yes. The sudden rush of steps had them all in a tense stance as a shrill scream left Miriam's lips. Dealing with final touches for Naomi’s ceremony, Miriam asked Genevieve to tag along and to naturally see how Akira was doing. When Genevieve received the message she got, Miriam responded quickly by hopping in the car with her, no questions asked. It was her daughter that was in danger after all. “Oh god, who did this?!”

“Take a wild guess.” Jungkook turned coldly, staring furiously at her. Jin held him back, telling him to calm down. Namjoon gently placed one hand under Akira’s neck. Her whimpers grew louder as pain shot through her body. While Namjoon made a move to pick her up, Hoseok saw a glimmer of white through his bloodshot eyes. He picked up the piece of paper, corners stained and smudged with blood. He read over it, cursing under his breath as he realized what had happened,

“Did you know about this?” He questioned her mother, turning to her with the most foul expression he could give, “Hm? Did you know that Naomi and Jackson eloped?!!”

“What?!” Miriam baulkes, snatching the letter out of his hand. Miriam and Genevieve read it carefully, anger flashing before their eyes before the realization hit that Naomi’s leaving triggered Joseph’s anger. “S-She eloped…She ran away?!”

“We need to get her to a hospital, now.” Namjoon urged.

— — —

“Three broken ribs, orbital bone fracture, sprained wrist and ankle, plus, surprisingly, a mild concussion. Not to mention a broken nose and a swollen larynx from her throat being nearly crushed—we’re lucky you got here in time or the internal bleeding could’ve been worse.”

The doctor looked around the hospital room as the saddest expressions he'd seen filled the space. Genevieve held her granddaughter’s hand. Yoongi paced the floor, restless, while everyone found a seat where they could. Namjoon sat on the side of Akira, watching her rest. Miriam sat outside the room, crying, as if not believing her husband could do such a thing. It had been hours since Akira came out of surgery, and the worse had yet to come.

“You said she’s your mate?” The doctor asked, looking at Namjoon.

“Yes.” All seven men answered, surprising the doctor. He sighed,

“You said she was attacked? Why hasn’t she been mated then?”

“Yes, she was randomly attacked and she’s a human. We can’t bite her, plus our crossing ceremony wasn’t until the end of the month.” Namjoon answered aggressively, already agitated by the doctor’s questioning, trying to avoid the actual truth of the matter. Namjoon wanted to handle Joseph on his own, no police involved. He delicately moved hair out of Akira’s face, “We followed the rules. She should’ve been with us soon enough.”

“Given the extent of her injuries, you’ll need to keep an eye on her a lot more once she’s released. We’ve also irrigated her eyes so that she could see, some debris was in there. Her vision might be hazy for a couple of days.” After the doctor explained the aftercare Akira would need, he left. Silence engulfed them. The steady beep of the heart monitor droned on as they breathing labor either withheld or steadied.

“She’s gonna be ok.” Jungkook tried to rally his mind with his heart, willing for a positive outcome as tears welled in his eyes, “She’ll be ok.”

“Yeah pup,” Jin whispered, his hand clapping Jungkook’s back, “She’ll be fine, it’s alright.” Jin pulled him into a hug as his lips trembled, tears finally breaking for a release.

“She’s living with us once she’s released from the hospital. It’s not up for discussion.” Namjoon spoke calmly, yet there was an eerie edge to his voice. A darkness that only his pack understood. He spoke directly to Genevieve, “And your son? He’s as good as dead.”

Genevieve didn’t flinch, “You see me stopping you?” She muttered back, “Whatever happens now, it’s out of my hands.” She turned to her granddaughter, a steely coldness to her voice, “Because if he isn’t dealt with, I’ll take the motherfucka out myself.” The son she raised was no longer there. Any trace of her husband, lost within him.

The men all stood around, shocked and bewildered. They had never seen a mother turn on their own child before. Everyone assumed that Genevieve was a sweet, doting grandmother, but no one knew that she ran everything. “Leave everyone else to me.” Genevieve Batiste was an OG. And her son forgot who he was fucking with, “Don’t worry, little wolf. It’s being handled.” She leaned over and whispered to Akira. Kissing the top of her head, Genevieve then stood straight, grabbed her bag, and exited the room, the men quickly moving out her way. Jimin checked the hallway, seeing Genevieve and Miriam leaving.

“You really think she’s gonna let her own son get killed?” Taehyung questioned, shock and confusion written on his face.

“For Akira, she’d burn the earth.” Yoongi muttered quietly.

They all stared at Akira in silence. Jin slowly walked to the other side of the bed, resting his hands on the bed. They watched as her chest rose and fell softly. Concern blanketed them at her quiet wheezing, as if she was struggling to breathe. Once the beatings began, Akira did the only thing she knew how to do, and it was to disassociate. She stopped fighting. She had given up and let Joseph take control. And since then, she’s been unconscious ever since. She could disappear and feel safe in her own dreams because it was there, Joseph could not hurt her. Malik couldn’t hurt her. Naomi couldn’t hurt her.

No one could.

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jjungkookislife · 6 months ago

Note

i NEEEEEEDDDDD hobi smut #2

Hands

pairing: hoseok x hispanic! f. reader

warnings: bondage, unprotected sex

prompt smut - 02 - "Keep your hands away or I'll fucking tie them behind your back."

"No empieses," Hoseok said as he rolled his eyes. "Be good for me."

You giggle as you resist him. "Y si no?"

"Keep your hands away or I'll fucking tie them behind your back."

Hoseok huffs as he reaches into the drawer. He takes out two sets of ribbons. He uses them to tie your hands behind your back.

"Mi amor," you frown, but Hobi ignores you. He tugs you to him, your back pressed to his chest, and he smiles.

"Si?" You want to bite the smile off his tri-lingual ass.

Soon, your face meets the pillows, your hips meeting his with each thrust as your eyes roll to the back of your head. He grips the ribbons hard, cursing your name with each thrust.

#jjungkookislife drabble night #hoseok drabble #hoseok smut #j hope smut #hoseok x reader insert #jjungkookislife drabble game

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goldenmadam · 1 year ago

Text

Reader Profile | A Cure for Us

Reader Character Profile

Age: 26

Species: Human - Genetically modified -Obedience

The reader is you. You in this story will be referred to with female pronouns and female parts. As the author I will try to write the story where referring to specific features such as skin color, hair etc, will be vague.

You have been sheltered by your mother your whole life, with minimal interactions with others. You received your education by homeschool and college courses.

You are tired of living your life indoors, with your mother as your only company, it's time to take a stand and find your independence.

But, you'll soon learn that there is reason in your mother's madness. The world is a dangerous place when you are forced to follow everyone's beck and call.

"It's for your own good Y/n... you'll understand someday."

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ravenempress101 · 1 year ago

Text

Weep for me~Wooyoung

Words:1.4k

⛔️Rating M 18+⛔️

☣️ Warnings ☣️: ⛔️READ AT YOUR OWN

Genre: demon!wooyoung x human!reader

RISK VERY MATURE!!!⛔️ explicit tattoo description, forceful grabbing, eating out, piercings, advancements,descriptive of eating out,thrusting, description of size, demon pocessive, evil Wooyoung, demon Wooyoung

Authors note: omg I did another one had to do a Wooyoung one especially a dark one. Thank you for liking my others. My inbox always open I love all of you and I say “enjoy” 😍

So are you here to take me to hell or something? Y/n asked her voiced dripped with desire as a smirk plastered on her face

Wooyoung trailed his venomous black eyes at her thick chocolatey frame, has his heels click to the floor, his raven hair tied in a man bun. A black suit laced his body unveiling his “man down” black ink tattoo that snaked down his arms and the other inks peaking through his neck. He circled you like a predator warming up to its prey.

Y/n eyebrows furrowed at this man that standing there with a cold look. Just by his tattoos and the piercing on his lip that y/n knew he was dangerous.

No” Wooyoung boomed, “I’m not going to take you anywhere”

Y/n eyes rolled to the back of her head and a hard sigh escaped from her lips. “Then what are you doing here?”

Wooyoung muscular built erupted into a fit of laughs of how pathetic you were to him. He wasn’t gonna stop until he got what he wanted.

“Do you remember anything about your past?” Wooyoung asked instead of answering the question.

Y/n head shook from side to side as her head traveled with thoughts of what could’ve been and what would’ve been still her throughts ran lifeless to his question

“I don’t remember anything,”she said, sighing in defeat.

What about me?” Wooyoung projected

Y/n trailed her eyes over the orbs and then the chiseled nose, her eyes found her way toward the beauty mark that decorated his caramel cheek and then a slight smirk that her globe ran over, hypnotized at his heavenly features. A treacherous shell but angellike features that she didn’t recognized

“should I know you?“ Her words hanging in the air of silence Wooyoung halt his steps infront of you.

Yeah,” Wooyoung said, stepping closer to her. “You should.

Y/n’s heart began accelerating faster as he drew nearer. She took a step back, bumping into the wall behind her. “Who are you?”

Baby girl you don’t remember me at all? Sounding alluring

“Not one bit” y/n exclaimed as her boba eyes blinked rapidly taken aback at the man’s words

Woo young reached out and captured your wrists. He placed them above your head and pinned them against the wall, holding you ransom

“Maybe this will help jog your memory”

Y/n’s body inhaled deeply as he pressed his warm body against hers and positioned his lips near her neck. His icy breathe grazed her and his length grew pressing between her legs making her body exhale with a breathly moan

“Don’t worry I won’t hurt you” Wooyoung words dance on your neck and then his lips on your ear as a airy kisses presented “not yet anyway”

His own tounge grazed your ear, y/n shivered from the wetness that he generated for her and then her panties down below.

Wooyoung withdrew his frame and his bottom lip went in between his teeth “Now let’s try this again,” The tattooed male said, pulling away from her slightly so they were staring into each other’s eyes. “Do you remember me now?”

Y/n gritted her teeth in stressed at this dangerous guy and then proceeded to look puzzled at him

No”she whispered giving up the fight with her mind.

That’s okay,” Wooyoung boomed releasing her hands. “I’ll remind you.”

His face scrunched up and his demoner toughned as he grasped your delicate shoulders and lifted you off the ground and threw you into the air where you landed on your dovet bed. Y/n started her heels on the bed running away from Wooyoung but he captured your ankle and now he was between your legs.

“Please let me go” y/n pleaded as he placed his calloused finger on the hem of your dress and his digit slither into the side of your panties forcing them down your leg.

Cavity fondle your fold his muscle shaped into figure 8s. Wiggling his tongue, swirling between folds. He came up from his torture that he erupted on yourself

“Mhmm darling that’s not what you said 3 years ago and you still taste like heaven”

Wooyoung’s finger on his bottom lip and licked his bottom heart shaped of your juices. Y/n convulsed at he devious action. Her mind still wandered who this man was infront of her. His touch his licks his antics never clicked with him. Not that she knew

The muscular man nailed his palm on the black tie undoing it. A formal long sleeve shirt loosen, ripping it off as the buttons drifted on to the floor. His pants followed unbuckling his belt and pants pooled to the floor along with the boxers traveled right behind.

A finger on his man bun allowing his luxurious locs to descend into his face. Y/n was at awe at this man who looked soothing now but still has some greediness to him she really wants to remember him but can’t.

His eyes bore at your powerful frame seductively as he tore down the middle your dress.towering over your body, all his tattoos visible. His hand finds it’s length seized around it and accelerates up and down coating the shaft in pre cum.

Wooyoung heartshappes are captured on the side of your neck. His kisses are delicate , softening a spot. Then y/n Sobs from the warmth digging his teeth in your flesh and sucks blue and purple making there way on your skin.

The dangerous man streams down back to your clit an strides up and down. Y/n arches her back at the sensation of his tongue like he pulled a string of mind control, her legs vibrates at his muscle goes in her and he slurped inside and her hands flew to his soft hair tugging from the pure pleasure.

Wooyoung ughhhh nooo” y/n screamed as he ate inside her. Y/n fisted his hair started to scrabble away from his demon antics. Wooyoung arm flew to her love handle crushing it y/n’s frame stilled in his rough hold. She could feel her high coming and he wasn’t stopping. one more rough kiss to her inside and y/n spewed all her juices on his tounge. He licked her clean.

“The mess you made for me, your body knows what’s home is baby girl but how come you can’t remember?”

Wooyoung dangles soul kisses to your chubby stomach and then he set a kiss on one of your poked out pierced nipples. massaging the other position a slender finger and flicked it a groaned escaped from her dazed body. The Carmel gentleman long tongue sucked and wiggled the sliver metal inside his warm mouth. lining up at your wet entrance. Wooyoung advanced in her, splitting her walls open. Y/n felt her stomach bulge with his enourmous length inside her. He quicken his pace where she could feel him break her. then he ejected out of her and then he went back in at a alarming stabbing pace.

“Your so big nuhhhh I can’t feel my legs”

Y/n cried from his overwhelming jabs. Wooyoung erupted in deep dark laugh continuing her inner part. The man’s brown orbs darken and his skin turning a grayish color. His heartshappes plastered on your lips slipping his tongue in your mouth fighting for dominance.

the kiss deepened that’s when y/n sparked something in her mind. Y/n fell into the rough kiss as her orbs transformed into a storm of black. pulling away from the kiss and the jabs lessen

“I do know you ugh you were the love that I needed why did you make me forget you”

Y/n groaned and felt her high lacing her body. His muscle flexed siren your orgasm. His thrusts got sloppier.

“I missed you my love” Wooyoung whispered and then y/n high came crashing down on her as she screamed her milky fluid spewed on his length and her arousal leaked out on to him. Wooyoung followed behind as he did a couple of more thrusts. His robs of his warmth coated your squishy inside.

sighed, feeling conflicted. Part of her wanted to be angry with him, but another part of her was happy to see him again. She had missed him too, even if she hadn’t known it until now.

“I’m mad at you,” she told him.

“I know,” Wooyoung said, shrugging. “But I don’t care.” He planted kisses all over her embodied and his laughs fell on to her chocolate skin.

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k-nayee · 11 months ago

Text

Lashes Kim Line + Jungkook

wc: 1.7k

Dreamer M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

𝐘𝐎𝐔 stumble into your bedroom with a tired sigh, body sagging in exhaustion from working all day.

"Hey baby," The sound of your lover's voice reaches your ears as you finally kick off those dammed heels, "tough day?"

You could only let out a dry laugh at his question. "Yeah, you could say that. Was this close to finally beating Mal's ass though."

Already knowing who you were talking about, he chuckles. "That lady from HR? What she do now?"

Rolling your eyes, you walk towards the closet, giving him a quick peck on the lips before continuing on. "The bitch gon have the audacity to make the only unit consisting of Asian and Black people do a racial diversity and inclusion seminar due to the complaints of microaggressions being made."

If it weren't for the frustration laced in your voice, the stiff and rough movements of you changing into comfier clothes made it apparent of your anger.

Knowing its best to just let you burn it out instead of trying to calm you down, he hypes you up. "You lyin! She did that? Mmmm mmm mmm! Trifling as hell for that..."

You turn to face him with wide eyes, hand on your hips. "Right?! As if we weren't the ones who made the fucking complaints in the first place! Ended up having to do overtime to make up for the work we missed all day."

He only shakes his head in disappointment. "I'm not surprised."

"Yeah, would've been high-tailed my ass outta there if the pay wasn't too good to give up." You grumble, sliding into bed to get ready for sleep.

Twisting and turning around to get comfortable, you stop at the heavy feeling of someone gazing at you.

"Why are staring at me like that? I got something on my face?"

He breaks out of his trance and give you a sheepish smile. "I just realized you still had makeup on. You sure you wanna sleep in it?"

A moment of silence pass before you let out a groan. "Damn! Forgot I had some on. Was so tired I skipped my whole night routine."

Throwing the off the blankets with a sigh, a pout appears at thought of being in the bathroom longer than you wanted.

"You know...I-I can help. Especially since you don't wear that much makeup."

You freeze at his proposal, eyes narrowed at the pros and cons.

"And you'll be done much faster~"

At those words, you immediately give in. "Okay I guess"

"Yes!" He jumps up in excitement and scurries after you like a lost puppy. "So what I'm gonna do? Will I put on the face mask? Rub in your face serum? Ooo! Can you do me too—"

"Wooooah! Slow down! We taking one step at a time. So to start, you can help take off my eyelashes."

SEOKJIN

The excitement he had in the beginning quickly faded away into nervousness once he was actually doing it.

"Okay...so...do I just—"

"Yes Jin. For the last time, I promise it doesn't hurt when taking them off. Just use the cotton ball I gave you, put some coconut oil on it, and wipe it on my upper and lower lashes."

'Oil? What if she get some in her eyes? Is she sure about a cotton ball? Won't a q-tip work better?' Despite being confused and having many questions, he carefully follows your instructions.

Ten minutes pass of him slowly dabbing at the glue that's on your real lashes to ensure everything will come off.

Even though you're touched at how careful he's being, your fatigue causes you to become impatient, lips pursed to prevent yourself from cursing him out.

Right as he's done with the first eye, you step back with a bright smile. "Alright! I can take it from here babe."

Jin looks at you in confusion, though internally happy with no longer having to do the next one. "But I didn't get to the second o—"

"Don't worry about it! You did so well I realized how bad I usually do it myself. So Imma start practicing," spewing out the first bullshit that came to mind, you push him out the bathroom door.

Jin could only blink, raised hands still holding the cotton ball and removed eyelash. "O-okay. Let me know if you need help with—"

"Won't be necessary. See you in a little bit!" Before he could get another word out, you shut the door in his face.

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TAEHYUNG

"Okay Tae, all you gotta do is put some oil on the cotton ball, rub it on the lashes, and viola~ them bad boys coming off."

Taehyung could only narrow his eyes at the instructions. "Why can't you just take them off? I saw you do it before."

You scratch the side of your with a sheepish grin. "I did do that huh? Okay, let's just pull 'em of—"

"Aight, bet." Just as he finish those words, he reaches up and rip them off.

Mouth gaped open in shock, your mind tries to process what just happened. It wasn't until Taehyung's poking broke you out of it.

"Motherfucker! You almost pulled out my real ones!" You exclaim while rubbing your eyes.

He visibly deflates at the realization at what he'd done. "Sorry, I was too excited."

Seeing how genuine he was, you decide to forgive him.

"You know," as he continues to pout, you discreetly pick up the eyelash glue and another pair of lashes, "I can put some on you if ya want~"

Perking up at the sight of the materials, Taehyung's excitement appears. "Really?! Can you get me some bigger ones while you're at it?"

"Alright, but you have to hold still if you want me to do them right."

He scrambles to the toilet seat and sit down with no hesitation. After minuets of constant scolding to get him to stop squirming, you're finished putting them on.

"All done!" With a clap of your hands, you step back to take in the final result.

'Damn! He pretty as fuck!' You almost couldn't believe how good he looked with them on, a twinge of jealously shooting through your mind at how natural it seemed.

"Soooooo...how do I look?"

Shaking your head to get rid of the jealous thoughts, you look at him with giddy smile of your own, pulling him up to the mirror. "Why don't you come see for yourself?"

A low gasp of awe escapes the vocalist as he studies the long lashes on his face. "This. Is. So. COOL!"

Bouncing on his feet in excitement, he runs out of the bathroom with a big smile.

"Wai-where are you going?!"

"Oh nothing..." He pokes his head back into the bathroom with a mischievous grin. "Just finna go fuck with Yoongi and give him some butterfly kisses."

"See that's why you keep getting your ass beat! You know he hates it when you mess with him."

"Nah, he ain't gonna do shit. Besides, I'm too cute to get hit" With an air kiss and a flutter of his lashes, he runs out of the room once more, "toodles~ be back in an hour."

"This dumbass right here!"

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NAMJOON

"Um ____?"

"Yes Joon?" Back facing him as you collect your cleaning materials, you're unable to see his fidgeting.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?"

You let out a small laugh and turn towards him with a smile. "Of course! Now come here so you can help."

With small timid steps, he's finally in front of you.

"Now," you lift up the bottle of coconut oil and a cotton ball, "all you need to do is put some of this oil on the ball and wipe it like this."

Carefully wiping some of the oil on your upper and lower lashes, you wait a moment and simply pull the lash extension off. "And tada~ As easy as pie. I took the liberty of doing one for demonstration. You think you can do it?"

Seeing how simple the action was, Namjoon gives a dimpled smile. "Sure, of course."

"And to lessen the pressure, I'll have my eyes closed." Following through with your words, you close them. "Ready when you are..."

Namjoon's nerves gets the best of him once more and causes his mind to blank out for a moment before shaking his head.

'Alright Joon, its a simple task. Just dab the eye and take them off. What's so hard about that?'

Shakily picking up a clean cotton ball, he rubs it on your lashes.

'Rub the cotton ball on the eye? Check...Now to just take it off.'

Your brows slightly furrow when he rubs your eye with the soft material. The usual feeling of the oil weighing on your eyes was absent. 'Damn...this feeling kinda dry'

"Hey Joon?"

He subconsciously lets out a hum as he continue to focus on taking your lashes off. 'Just take it off like a bandaid. Aaaaaand...'

"Did you remember to add oil to the cotton ball?"

'NOW!'

"FUCK!"

Namjoon rapidly blinks at the sound of your scream as he breaks out of his trance. "Huh?"

"Joon!" Your pained cries fill the bathroom as you hold your eye in pain. "What the hell did you do?!"

Looking down at his hand, he sees that he succeeded in taking off the lashes. Only to do a double take when seeing a smaller set with small white hair follicles attracted to the bottom. "Oh..."

....he ripped off your real eyelashes

"GODDAMITNAMJOON! YOU HAD ONE JOB!"

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JUNGKOOK

"C'mon ____, you taking too long! Hurry up!"

You roll your eyes at Jungkook's constant pestering. "Kook calm down! Just let me oil the lashes up first."

It was Jungkook's turn to roll his eyes. "You doing too much. If you just don't rip them off!"

"Rip them off?! Do it look like I wanna be bald in the eyes?"

He smacks his lips at your words. "I've seen people do it plenty of times. Just a lil pull and they off."

"Do I look like other people? If everybody else jumping off a bridge, you gonna do it too?"

"But ____!" Jungkook lets out a whine, stepping closer to you with a pout as he eyes the lashes.

Picking up on what he was going to do, you immediately back away with thrown up hands. "Back the fuck up Kook! I know what you trying to do. You rip off my lashes and imma beat yo ass."

He steps back with a sigh. "Fine."

"That's what I thought." You turn back around and grab the cotton ball and coconut oil, ready to start the process.

As you pour the oil on the ball, you fail to notice Jungkook sneaking up beside you.

"Hey ____?"

"What?"

After a moment of silence, you look at him with furrowed brows, mouth pull into a sneer of irritation. "Dude I just said what! Stop playing arou—"

"YEET!"

Quicker than you could react, Jungkook grabs both of your lashes and yank them off.

"WHAT THE FUCK KOOK!?"

He cackles at your angered expression, holding the fake lashes in his hands as if they were a trophy. "Told you they'll come off~"

You swiftly look in the mirror only to silently release a sigh of relief when seeing that your real lashes are still intact.

"You better be lucky I ain't missing nothing! Cause if I was, I'm cutting your shit off too...that and your eyebrows. Gone end up looking like Voldemort in this bitch!"

"Yeah yeah," he brushes off your warning with a flip of the wrist, "let me know when you need some more help 'kay?"

"Tough titty, cause this the last time you ever gonna help me!"

37 notes · View notes

yoongleboonglepie · 3 months ago

Text

Pechsträhne Chapter 1

BTS x Reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter playlist-Youtube music

Chapter Playlist-Spotify

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A/N: I can't even describe how excited and proud of myself I am to finally get this out on paper. My brain has been riddled with this story ever since I had a dream that inspired it. I can't wait to share this with y'all! I'm going to be figuring out how to make a masterlist tonight that I will keep updated with the main story, along with any extra goodies like playlists or Pinterest boards if anyone would be interested in any of that stuff. Please enjoy. Lots of love ~ Delyn <3

word count: ~13k

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You have been invited to celebrate with us!

The Wörner Hotel and Estate is celebrating 150 years of providing excellent service to all of our guests, and we want you to be a part of it! Built in 1875 by German settlers Matthäus and Felizitas Wörner, it is a nature lover’s dream; nestled between the edge of Michaux State Forest and historic Gettysburg Pennsylvania. This luxury hotel is the perfect balance between historical and luxury. We have everything you may need from live entertainment, multi-room suites, a freshly updated swimming pool, 24-hour room service, daily activities or fitness classes, valet parking, onsite grocery, and more. And with over one hundred acres of gorgeous grounds to explore, you’ll never get bored! Well, what are you waiting for? There’s no greeting warmer than at The Wörner Hotel and Estate!

Y/n’s fingers fiddled with the gold embossed invitation absent-mindedly, her eyes finding it difficult to keep their attention on anything else other than the piece of paper that felt so heavy in her lap. She had fought herself incessantly about what to do with it since it had wedged itself haphazardly into her mail slot, a physical embodiment of what a thorn in her side it was. Its arrival shouldn't have caused as much emotional turmoil as it did. She should have expected it, she had told herself repeatedly in order to calm her nerves, which worked about as well as a sinner praying their way through a last-ditch effort to make it to heaven. And despite what this invitation may say, Wörner Hotel and Estate seemed like anything but heaven to her right now - Hell would be a more fitting name. Seeing the sketched out image of the hotel printed on the bottom shot her back into her childhood memories of sitting short and wide-eyed as she watched different guests all busy up the stairs to enjoy their vacation, or where the tours would disappear onto the different walking trails. Only turning her attention away when she realized they had not noticed her presence, to whatever toys she set up on the front veranda that day- usually animal figurines whose feet and faces had been gnawed off by the family dog, or severely mistreated Barbies.

She floated through all of her memories of growing up in the hotel with great resistance: Stampeding through the gardens with the staff children after cold elementary school days; Guests that just never seemed to leave; Her parents lavish parties in the ballroom; Phantom touches in the lobby; Swimming in the lake up at the state park on warm summer nights with her sisters and younger brother and pigging out on smores late into the evening.

Her younger sister’s death.

Ghostly figures in long hallways, reaching their hands out to grab her. Always watching.

Her friends. Her fight with her parents.

Everything she didn’t want to remember had been stamped with a wax seal and thrown back into her orbit against her will. She hasn’t spoken to her parents in four years as of this past Christmas, and her younger brother Roland has become increasingly difficult to keep on the phone for longer than 10 minutes before he loses interest in their conversations. Her elder sister Amelia, only three years older than y/n herself, has been radio silent since the night Y/N left the hotel and didn’t return. Their relationship was barely kept afloat by obligatory texts on holidays and birthdays.

All this makes Y/n wonder why they ever thought she would go back and why they even sent this invitation to her? Who still even worked there? And what in god's name took over her mind to have her bag packed with a rushed explanation to her two very confused roommates, and seated on the first Amtrak train from D.C back to Pennsylvania? Maybe it was the residual emptiness of missing her family from the past holiday season, or maybe it was a nagging feeling in her stomach that told her she needed to.

The train slowed down as it reached some small station outside the border of Pennsylvania state lines that Y/N can’t be bothered to hear the name of. She glanced out the window to watch a few stragglers shuffle on and off of the train car in front of her thoughtlessly, their impatient and rushed steps of no real interest to her.

With it being mid morning on a weekday, she had just missed rush hour and consequently the train wasn’t as busy. This gave her space and time to think about what to text to her driver-whoever that is-which she hasn’t done yet and probably should. She only had less than an hour before she arrived at the Philadelphia station, and the drive from the hotel was almost triple that. With a gentle jolt, the train begins to pick up momentum again, its grinding metal and loud engine squealing at her to hurry up.

Biting her lip, she pulls out her phone and looks at the messy pen scribble of her mother’s handwriting on the bottom of her invitation: a phone number she doesn’t recognize and a short “Call if you need a ride :)” message next to it. The friendliness of the smiley face seemingly contradictory of the basic impersonal invitation she was sure they sent to anyone and everyone.

Maybe they didn’t expect her to come and they just felt obligated to send it? Turning the thought over in her head, she shook it away with a shudder. It was too late to have these doubts now-the hum of the train beneath her seat and the “Welcome to Pennsylvania!” sign making that abundantly clear. Punching the number into her phone, she hit the call button before she could give herself time to second-guess it. It rings once. Twice. A third time. Only stopping when the receiver tells her the number can’t be reached and to try again later.

“Fuck.” Y/N curses under her breath, remembering that she is, in fact, in a metal tube speeding through tunnels and trees that really push the boundaries of her average cell phone line. She types the number in again and waits this time until the train pulls into another small stop right at the southernmost part of Pennsylvania. She had not maybe 30 minutes (if she was lucky) before her train ride would come to its dreaded end. Thumbing the call button, she waited. This time it rang only twice before an overly enthusiastic voice answered on the other line.

“A warm greeting from The Wörner Hotel and Estate! Front desk and lobby services, this is Seokjin speaking. How may I assist you today?” His voice was smooth and light on the ears, but it hit her as anything but light. The name made her entire form tense up, and a nervous sweat prick at her brow. The reality of what she was doing truly settling into her system as the voice of an old friend forced her to face the consequences of her actions head-on. It's fine, She told herself, he probably doesn't even care. It's been years...

“Hello? May I help you?” He quipped again, a bit less perky than the first time.

Realizing that she hadn’t responded she choked out “Yes! Yes, one moment please!” She mentally face-palmed herself for such a clumsy response. “This is Y/N. Y/N Wörner. Anslem and Mariah’s daughter.”

A moment of fuzzy silence met her ears causing her to shift anxiously in her seat. She was in the process of checking the phone screen to see if he had hung up when shuffling noises on the other end of the line jolted her phone back to her ear and his silver-tone voice cut through the static.

“Oh! Yes forgive me-Mrs. Wörner had mentioned you might reach out.” He let out a smooth chuckle before continuing on. “I assume you are calling for transportation services?” If he was surprised, his tone didn’t show it.

Y/N nodded, before catching that he could not see her with a “Yes, please!”

“Great! What’s the pick up address?” Y/N could hear the smile in his words and she flushed with embarrassment at how not put together she sounded. What a wonderful "first" impression she's giving him of her adult self.

“It’s going to be the Philadelphia Amtrak station.” Her eyes flitted to the trees dotted with new buds outside her window, finding their gentle sway in the wind soothing enough to qualm her racing heart.

“Awesome... And what time will your train be arriving at the station, Ms. Wörner?” She heard the click of a pen, and the scratch of its ink on the paper.

“Well, you see about that…” She trailed off as the train began to leave the small station, the pen scratching mimicking her pause. “Maybe 20 minutes or so?” She laughed nervously at her own obvious lack of foresight. If he had managed to scrounge up any good impression of her during their call, she had just metaphorically tossed it out of her train window.

Seokjin guffawed on the other end of the line and openly sputtered out a “20 minutes?! That's an almost 3 hour drive, miss. I will send someone out right away, but will you be alright waiting?” Y/n could tell he was trying his best to cover up his anxious outburst with concern, and the formality in his phrase feeling foreign and uncomfortable to her ears.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll grab something to eat and hunker down on a bench. It’s my fault for not calling sooner…” Y/N’s voice trickled out as she realized how this might make them look to her parents-making a guest wait for longer than they would approve of. She made a mental note to herself that she would just happen to forget to mention it during any conversations with them.

“Alright then Ms. Wörner. Your driver will reach out to you via text to share their information, location services, and a description of their vehicle. " She heard the unmistakable clicking of frantic computer keys as the previous anxiety in his tone faded and his customer service voice took over once again. "Please have your phone on hand with notifications on in case they need to reach you with any questions. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

“No, that is everything. Thank you, Jin.” The nickname spilled from her lips with a practiced ease that surprised her own self, but he carried on like he didn’t seem to notice.

“Wonderful! I will see you later in the evening.” She could hear him typing something into his computer before the clacking ceased and a moment of silence enveloped them again. This time the silence felt eerily wrong and awkward. She could almost hear the sharp exhale before his voice drifted through the phone at a volume so quiet she almost missed it.

"I'm sorry- I couldn't catch that." She laughed trying to lighten the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“It’s…” He paused, seemingly weighing the sound of his own words on his tongue. “It’s good to have you back, Y/n.”

The dial tone signaled that the line had ended, but she still found herself holding the speaker to her ear much longer than she needed to. The way he said her name with so much heaviness had her whole world spinning. It was both nerve-wracking and comforting that he remembered her. It meant she hadn’t been gone long enough for anyone to truly forget as easily as she had wished they could-for she should know better than to expect from them what she could never do within herself-and she couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

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Hi there, Y/N! I am about 15 minutes out from the station. I will park out front in the pick up line- black Hyundai, license plate no. JHP-0613. See you soon!! :) - Hoseok J.

Y/n used a greasy finger to swipe the notification bar down to read the message. So Hoseok ended up staying to work at the hotel too? She tapped the straw of her empty soda cup to her lips in thought. She would’ve bet money that he would’ve at least been working in the live entertainment part of the hotel; destined to follow in his parents’ footsteps more so than one of their chauffeur drivers.

His father, Jeonghun Jung or Mr. Jung, had been an exceptional live swing and jazz singer in the evenings in the main restaurant on the property, the Adelaide, with his mother Misuk Jung performing duets with him on rare occasions. Hoseok had been his mother’s favorite dance partner during her weekly swing dancing classes, and he had done wonderful stage work even at a young age. He should’ve had a straight shot to take their place once they retired, and they couldn’t possibly still be performing these days at the rate they had with their age, Y/n mused. Unless things really had changed drastically while she had been away. It made her wonder if everyone had stayed at the hotel except for her.

She scoffed at the thought. Last she heard the Min’s boy applied to a college up in New York, and Jins cousin always was a smart kid-he must’ve left first chance he could. They had been more of her sister's crowd even though their age gap wasn't that drastic-having grown in distance from Y/n herself once high school made that small age gap seem wider than it was.

Shaking her thoughts away, she wiped the grease of her fast food meal on her pants and typed a simple “Great! See you then.”

She swung her bags onto her shoulders with a grunt, and leisurely strolled through the station, only pausing to toss her soda cup away in a nearby trash can. Y/n pushed through the exit and found a spot for herself near the pick-up line that wasn't too uncomfortably close to other passengers awaiting their rides.

Taking in her surroundings, she eyed the bridge leading up to the station and watched all the pedestrians walking their own beat into the cement. The thing about Pennsylvania is that anywhere in the ungodly large state feels familiar. Maybe it’s the constant stark contrast of natural beauty and old cement monstrosities, or perhaps it’s the feeling that every place in this humid state is haunted with its own age and existence. Being surrounded by the bustling nature of Philly’s atmosphere reminded her of taking trips here with her family, having walked the same sidewalk following the bridge to and from the train station many times.

A rhythmic vibration grew in volume and stole her attention away from her surroundings as a sleek black car pulled into the spot closest to her. The hip-hop song cut off as the driver's side door opened and a head of long wavy brown hair framing a wide heart shaped grin popped out from within.

“Y/n! Wow!” He let out a short whistle as he leaped onto the sidewalk with ease, and traipsed over to wrap her in a tight hug before she could protest. “It’s been waayyy too long.”

Her arms loosely wrapped themselves around his small waist, and all she could smell was orange blossom and pine-The latter being one of the signature smells surrounding the estate and the former being purely just how she remembered Hoseok. For a few moments the smell took her back to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him and his mother, a large mug of mulled orange tea, and their backs bent over a card game with crisp autumn air permeating the room from an open window. At that time it had been nearly impossible to keep him off his feet after he had suffered an injury from playing too roughly with the other boys. He had been practically melting from boredom, and had lost a lot of his usual shine from being sheltered in on himself. A shine that radiated off of him like a thousand suns at the present day.

“Ugh, not long enough." She lamented, and he released her from the hug with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Save that attitude for your folks, not me.” His eyes trailed from her and the backpack and overstuffed carry on bag digging into her shoulders, before his warm brown eyes found hers again with a click of his tongue. “Is that all you brought? I figured for such a long stay there would at least be a suitcase-hell even a second backpack.”

Y/n tilted her head at him, confused. “ Such a long stay?”

Hoseok raised a brow at her response and chuckled. “I mean, yeah. I assume you’re staying for the entire anniversary celebration schedule-are you not?” He gestured to the straps on her shoulder, and she immediately shrugged them off and into his waiting hands. The relief her shoulder blades felt was unmatched at the moment.

She hesitated in her response, choosing instead to watch him pop the trunk and place her bags in. She hadn’t actually thought about how long she’d be here, she realized. Weirdly enough, her mind felt too fuzzy to bother worrying about another thing today-so she waited for his eyes to glance up at her over the open trunk to give him a shrug.

“I didn’t think that far ahead, if I’m being honest.”

He let out a boisterous laugh and slammed the trunk shut. “Seriously, you must not have changed that much.” Continuing to chuckle, he rounded the side of the car to the passenger side, and swung the door open in a dramatic gesture and a flash of his blinding smile. “After you, Ms. Wörner.”

With a smile and a shake of her head, she settled into the front seat. He closed the door once certain she was fully in the car, and skipped to the driver side door and swung himself in and slammed the door in one swift move.

“Are you always this casual with all your passengers?” Y/n turned to face him with a teasing smile.

He snorted. “God, no-I like having my job.” He flicked the turn signal on for only a half second before swerving into the passing lane, immediately keeping pace with the other philly drivers. The hip hop song resumed at a lower volume than before, filling the car with a laid back atmosphere. “I have all my passengers sit in the back whenever possible. They can be really…” He paused trying to find the right word while switching lanes to take a westward exit. “Annoying.” he concluded.

“And I’m not 'annoying' to you?” Y/n laughed, thinking about the amount of times he had referred to her as such as a child.

“You?” He let his eyes flicker to her briefly, sliding a sly smile on his face before returning his gaze to the road. “Never.”

The drive went by quickly with such an engaging driver by her side. He was sure to ask all about her time in D.C., and she readily supplied him with answers. She told him all about her starting school, then in turn dropping out after her first year after feeling like no major fit her goals (if she even knew what those were anymore). A fact she was usually much too embarrassed to share, but he took it with no judgement. Instead taking the conversation elsewhere, like her current hobbies and interests, or prodding into her dislike for her roommates with exaggerated humor. She didn’t realize how much she had missed talking with him. Why didn’t she reach out to him? To any of them? She wondered.

As if her brain liked being cruel her to when she was finally able to slip into states of peace, it forcefully pulled one of her last prominent memories of him.

Her face was hot and wet as she stomped out of the private dining room. The gentle sway of Nat King Cole that used to be her favorite around this time of year had become her least favorite thing in the world at the moment, each note hitting her ears sharply. Her head pounding in retaliation to what was once a subtle volume now seeming like it bounced tauntingly in her skull, telling her to have a ‘Merry Christmas”. If she wasn’t so angry she would’ve laughed at the irony. She didn’t get far down the festively lit hall before she ran face first into Hoseok, his hands still damp from having just been washed bracing her shoulders, and his concerned voice muffled by her own blood rushing through her ears. She met his worried and imploring eyes, his wavy hair only just gracing his brows back then, and all she saw reflecting back in his eyes was her own swollen and disheveled reflection. Then his face fell into the same shape everyone else in the dining room had. Pity.

She hated it. It made her skin crawl, and her stomach bubble in self-defensive rage. He was looking at her the same way Mr. and Mrs. Min just had. Like the Jeon and Kim families had. Like Hoseok’s parents had. It made her sick.

“Did you know too?” She spat out.

He stuttered at her sudden intensity. “W-what? What are you-”

She pushed her finger into his chest sharply. “Don’t you lie to me, Hoseok Jung.”

A moment of stillness gripped them both in a heavy hand that's fingers were closing in on them, one at a time in a tight fist, trying to take its time suffocating them. His eyes flickered back and forth between both of hers and then she saw it-his chin crinkled just so-and it gave him away to her in an instant.

She let out a wet angry laugh that sounded closer to a sob. “So you too, huh?” She took a staggered step back, feeling like with every step the floor was pulling her deeper. Like it was trying to pull her through the floorboards so it could swallow her whole. At this moment she wanted it to. “Did everyone know?”

“Y/n, listen I-” His eyes were glassy, saying more to her than his words could.

“Save it.” She shoved past his outstretched hands and began the pathetic walk of shame back to her room. She hated crying in front of people, and it seems like everyone in the house had gotten a front row seat and an encore. She heard him call out for her, but it didn’t stop her. She didn’t have the strength to face any more betrayal than she already had.

“Y/n? You still with me?” Hoseok took one hand off the wheel to playfully wave it in front of her face.

She pushed his hand and her memories away in fake annoyance with a gentle ‘sorry’.

He shook it off with a laugh.

“So what about you? Your parent-are they still performing at the Adelaide?” Y/n snuck a sideways glance to judge his response.

He let out a heavy sigh. “Ah…no not really. My dad will sometimes sing some of his old classics on busy weekends, and my mom switched from swing classes to waltzing lessons. But otherwise they’re mostly retired from the entertainment industry and doting on my sister. Old age and achy bones and all that.”

Y/n nodded along, trying not to ask the burning question of why he hadn’t taken their spot. Before the question could sear it’s way off her tongue he spoke again, seeming to read her thoughts.

“You remember the Kims 2.0? Not Seokjin and Namjoon kinda Kims. The new Kims." He gave her befuddled expression a brief sideways glance and continued to clarify. "Thinking about it, I guess you probably didn’t get to spend as much time with them before you were sent off to all those different schools. And they were usually gone around the holidays as his parents don’t care too much for Christmas. They were only around for a couple months before they hired their son permanently.”

Y/n’s face scrunched in thought as she tried to remember their arrival. “The Kims 2.0?”

Hoseok hummed. “Yeah. They were hired after y-” He seemed to catch himself “After I broke my leg-sometime around there. They do stage planning and such. They travel a lot and work remotely from California most of the time though.”

When Y/n didn’t give him much of a reaction he clicked his tongue and moved on.

“Well, their son, Taehyung-he’s got this singing voice that’s undeniably born for big band and jazz-they would’ve been a fool not to give him the job the second he turned 21. It didn’t take much convincing for him to take my dad’s place.” There was tension in his tone that he seemed to be trying to cover with his usual nonchalance. But she could pick up on his discomfort-the a passage of time doing nothing to rust what had once been second nature-and decided to change the topic.

“Huh. I guess the name sounds familiar…but tell me,” she turned her body to face him and folded her hands in her lap. “Who else stayed behind?”

“Once a gossip, always a gossip.” He rolled his eyes, but another small genuine smile was breaking across his face.

When he didn’t start talking immediately, she gave him an expectant look.

“Alright, I’ll spoil the surprise, geez.” He turned the car onto an exit, signaling their time on major highways ending and the time of battlefield side roads and wooded winding paths etched into the scenery. Satisfied with that, she turned her head to look out her window- she could see the main town of Gettysburg in the distance, outlined by the setting sun.

“Seokjin works the desk and maintains the lobby, as you are aware. Usually I work as a valet or chauffeur. But sometimes I pick up random jobs around the place when I’m not busy: like working the pool or picking up shifts at the convenience store and gift shop. Pretty much anywhere they need me.” He turned off the main road that would’ve sent them straight through downtown Gettysburg, and veered onto the start of the long scenic back roads that led to the Hotel and Estate. “Sometimes even giving Yoongi a hand with electrical issues when he needs-”

“Yoongi? I thought he went to a university in New York?” Y/n couldn’t contain her disbelief.

“Oh, yeah. He did, but came back about 3 years in. Said something about needing to figure some things out before he went back to finish.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Anyways, our Jiminie is one of our tour guides and the historian” Hoseok cooed, “You should pop into one of his tours of the property in the morning! I don’t know if anyone has gotten around to telling him about you coming back yet.”

The way he said coming back with such finality settled heavily in her stomach-like he had expected her to come back-like he was expecting her to stay. She rolled her eyes at her own thoughts; that was definitely just her anxiety speaking.

“Jungkook works housekeeping right now-but he’s been weighing going into security training. I’m sure he's just ecstatic to hear about you. “ Hoseok wiggled his eyebrows aggressively and gave her a teasing smile.

“Oh shut up with that, he was always just my good friend.” Y/n flushed lightly, knowing full well Jungkook had not seen her as just a friend throughout their childhood. Always trailing after her like a puppy because for some reason her awkwardness, lack of social skills, and very strict way of organizing her animal figurines must have really drawn him in. He hadn’t ever actually said anything to her about it, choosing instead to be a good friend who was a great shoulder to lean on. But even with obliviousness being a top skill on her metaphorical resume, she had been able to tell.

“Uh huh. You tell yourself that, Mrs. Jeon~”

“Oh my god! We were FIVE. Playing house was serious business back then and you know it-we even got divorced twice. TWICE! Does the word divorce not mean anything to you?” Y/n couldn’t contain her laughter by the end of her defense, and neither could he.

“What was the first one about again?”

Y/n waved her hand dismissively “Oh-he wouldn’t let me name our pretend pet dolphin Shoeshine or something like that. Said the dolphin needed a more distinguished name.”

“Damn, that really does sound like very serious business.” He cackled.

“Don’t act like you’re innocent here!” She spun her entire body in her seat to face him “I also married YOU once. AND Yoongi.”

He gave a loud overdramatic gasp. “So you admit to cheating on me? All these years I wondered…what a shame.”

They dissolved into a fit of giggles before a comfortable silence settled in the vehicle. Glancing back over at him to quip another remark about their fake marriage, she paused. He seemed to want to say something else with the way his mouth tightened before opening momentarily-then snapping it shut with pursed lips. He must’ve decided to just say it, his voice breaking the silence.

“Your sister is still off in Europe, so we haven’t seen her since the last time you were both back for the holidays.” He flexed his fingers against the wheel to ease the budding tension from his body. She could tell he was avoiding bringing up what happened during that holiday visit that caused her sister to run to foreign college programs- and she couldn’t blame him. Their reluctance to speak of the topic made it easy for him to quickly move on.

“Roland goes to school nearby for now, but I don’t see him often enough to give you much more than that.” He offered with an apologetic shrug. “And last but not least-Namjoon has taken up landscaping maintenance and gardening. He does a great job with it too-It is what he went to school for after all.” Hoseok chuckled, trying to keep the mood light again.

“So he did make it to school?” Y/n quipped in.

“Yeah, he did some hybrid program that had him in and out of California to study Botany and Horticulture, with a minor in some sort of plant management….something. You can ask him about the specifics.”

“Huh.” Y/n fell back in her seat, her shoulders sagging against the seat.

“What?” He glanced over at her as he made a right turn onto the gradual hill that snaked it’s way to the front lawn gates.

“It’s just…” She saw the gates of the driveway in the distance and her heart tightened painfully in her chest. “Everyone stayed. I was so sure most of you would’ve banked the second they got the chance.” Everyone but me.

His grip tightened on the wheel.

“We tried, but it’s almost like this place-” He paused with a sharp exhale. “-you just feel like you never want to leave.”

His words were genuine, but his smile was not. It was the first smile she’d seen from him today that didn’t meet his eyes

Pulling into the gate she felt her heart somehow squeeze tighter, and she tried to shake away the unsettling feeling that found a home in her chest at his words. Instead turning her attention to the old metal gates that were always propped open to welcome its endless flow of guests. The long front lawn decorated in hardy shrubs dotted inbetween with budding nursery plants, the soil around them was still loose and fresh, probably new additions to welcome the coming of spring. Her eyes surveyed the clash of the familiar and unfamiliar. The plants looked different than the usual flora species she remembered them traditionally planting, it looked like someone was experimenting with a new layout-probably Namjoon- she concluded. Hoseok took the gravel road at a relaxed place, giving her time to take it all in. The outside of the hotel remained the same- A combination of colonial and old European romance. Boxy, yet elegant, and still unimaginably huge. Her eyes flitted from the front stairs and followed to the right around to the side veranda built onto the sloping hill, so you can gaze down into a heavy tree line and over the-

“What the fuck is that?” Y/n pointed at a rounded protrusion from the right side of the building towards a dome of glass panels where the outdoor pool used to rest.

“What? The pool?” He slowed the car to a stop so she could get a better look at it. “They built a greenhouse dome around the outside portion of it to extend its year round use. It’s really nice inside. Next shift I work at the pool, I'll come grab you and you can keep me company while I keep an eye out for drowning children.” After she had a few moments to take in the new addition, he put the car into motion, snaking his way through the roundabout and stopping at the base of the stone steps.

“Here we are!” He sang unbuckling both of their seatbelts. He hopped out of his seat the instant he put the car in park, and shut the door behind him without sparing her a glance. She heard the trunk open, and the shake of the car that made her sway in her seat as he pulled her stuff out of the trunk. In any other circumstance, she’d think he was trying to be annoying, a classic move on his part of avoiding her gaze and leaving her in the dust to see who could make it to the front doors first. But this time she could tell he was giving her space to take it in, and for that she was grateful.

She took a deep breath and gripped the door handle with three fingers. She watched through the window as Hoseok started carrying her bags up the stairs at aleisurelye pace, taking his own time in order to give her more. She felt the handle give under her hands, and the rush of chilly early spring air brushed against her skin, and the symphony of bugs and the sound of the tree branches dancing in the breeze met her ears.

The hair on her limbs stood up in succession, sending chills across her entire form. One of her feet met the ground, and the crunch of gravel felt so loud in her ears. It rattled her bones and made every muscle coil up, like an animal preparing to run from danger. She stood, putting both feet on the ground, an intense feeling getting stronger the closer she got to the stairs. Her heart thrummed in time with each one of her steps, and her ears began to ring. Hoseok had already made it to the doors, and was conversing with a luggage boy. Why did he feel so far away all of the sudden? The air suddenly felt as though it was closing in on her with each pace and the ringing in her ears was so loud, she thought they might bleed.

The bottom of her shoes met the first stone step with a thud, and suddenly all was quiet. She froze, unable to move any further. No more bugs, no sway of the tree branches in the wind. The ringing in her ears had ceased. Only the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat remained, which felt so small in comparison to this open ended silence. She couldn’t even hear Hoseok’s distant voice talking to the men standing at the doors; it was like they weren’t even there anymore. Glancing up, she found that they were in fact no longer there.

The space they had occupied showed no sign of life. The doors were still open, yet no light emitted from the windows or the threshold. She was alone. The door was still open, but was now occupied by a pulsing darkness that felt both overwhelmingly alive yet utterly empty. The silence became suffocating.

The dark blue of the spring night sky no longer felt peaceful-it felt dangerous. It was as though she had a thousand eyes on her from all directions, waiting with baited breath for her to fall right into their hungry, gaping mouths. From her right side, a cloud of cold air curled around her leg and weaved itself between her palm and fingers, coiling itself tighter around them like it was holding onto her and keeping her from turning back. The gravel road gave way with a crunch behind her, and then she heard it. A whisper so quiet it almost blended into the chill breeze.

“Welcome home.”

Suddenly the world snapped back into motion, nearly knocking her off her feet with its force. The bugs resumed their song, and the trees their swaying dance. Her chest was rising rapidly as her eyes searched frantically at the warmly lit windows, and the once dark and empty door now bursting with a warm inviting glow. In front of it her eyes landed on where Hoseok stood, giving directions to the luggage boy as he handed them her bags. Suddenly wanting nothing more than to be near him and the inviting light of the lobby, she sped up the stairs as fast as her legs could take her.

“-private estate. You can put them on the second-floor landing. Thank you.”

By the time she reached him, her heart was beating out of her chest and she had begun to sweat-from nerves or the speed at which she pushed herself up the stairs she couldn’t tell.

He turned his head to speak to her and did a double take.

“Woah- what happened to you? You look like you might be sick.” His hand gently brushed his hand across her forehead to check her temperature, and his other hand held her forearm to steady her. She was sure it must’ve come back damp but he didn’t comment on it, instead choosing to remain quiet with his mouth twisted in contemplation. His eyes flickered over her shoulder down to the car, and paused there for a moment before meeting hers. Abruptly, he turned and stepped through the front doors of the lobby.

The high white stone and gold ceiling outlined in ornate crown molding, brightly lit with a large chandelier hanging proud over the lobby seating was as grand as she remembered. Hoseok didn’t give her time to marvel over it, his shoes clacking loudly on the polished floor as he beelined for the check in desk located against the back wall, passing all of the seating and the barreled ceiling hallway to her left that led to the theater hall below them. The large wooden board behind the man behind the counter’s wide frame was dotted with golden keys hanging from their large metal rings- “it keeps the charm!” her father had insisted when they talked about changing to key cards. She watches the man behind the desk reach one and swipe the one hanging under the number 203, handing it to the family he was checking in. Her eyes’s mesmerized by the way the rest of the keys glittered in the yellow glow of the extravagant light fixtures mounted next to it.

Her father let her sit in during their meeting with staff and other executives during the discussion about what updates they’d like to see in the next 10 years. She had taken the opportunity very seriously- her favorite Clifford the Big Red Dog pencil with a frog shaped eraser gripped purposefully in her small hands, scribbling down notes she deemed worthy in a batman themed notebook. The moment Mr. Jeon had suggested a keycard system, and the room was divided between moving with modern technology, or keeping the surviving key system they’d had since the first guest stayed in the hotel. She remembered the way her father, after sitting with his brows creased deep in thought, turned his gaze to her and grinned. “What does the future inheritor of the Wörner estate say?”

“I can help the next person.” Seokjin’s clear tone brought her into the present, jolting her heart that had just barely managed to calm itself from whatever happened outside.

His warm brown almond shaped eyes and friendly smile made her heart feel warm with nostalgia-giving her a much needed distraction. He gave her a once over and his face immediately fell into a look of irritation as he turned to Hoseok, who sauntered up to the edge of the desk.

“Checking in a Ms. Wörn-”

“What did you do to her? I sent you because I thought you’d be a good fit to make her feel comfortable, not to torture her!” He reached his hand up and gently smacked Hoseok upside the head.

“Hey!”

“Hey what? I knew I should’ve sent Namjoon instead.” He turned to his left, muttering something along the lines of sending a clown to do the lord's work as he rummaged through what looked like a mini fridge tucked under the desk.

“Ugh Jin, pull it together.” He reached over the counter to poke Seokjin’s puffed out cheeks, and the latter immediately brought his hands up to swat him away. “And anyways, I’d give Namjoon five seconds into Philly before he would’ve gotten into an accident. He doesn’t know how to drive in cities.”

Seokjin stood back up, nudging the mini fridge door closed with his hip, a can of water in his hands and scowl on his face directed at Hoseok’s cheeky grin. Turning his attention back to y/n his face did a complete 180, lighting up in a friendly smile again. He held the aluminum can out for her to grab, and she reached for it with grateful shaky hands, cracking the top open to take a large swig of the cool liquid.

“Sorry about him Ms. Wörner, you know how he can get.”

“Please, call me Y/n-don't be a complete stranger.” and “I didn’t do anything to her!” were spoken over one another.

“Oh yeah? What happened then? Did some other fool talk her ear off for 3 hours?”

Y/n couldn’t stop herself from nearly choking on her water as she fought back a laugh at the two. The combination of their familiar banter and the refreshing water pulling her back into a more relaxed state.

“No.” Hoseok plucked a piece of invisible lint from Seokjin’s red jacket. “She tripped.” Seokjin slapped his hands away again, before eyeing him suspiciously.

“She tripped?” He straightened his coat off instinctually after he pried Hoseok’s fingers from fiddling with it.

“Yes. She tripped.”

They seemed to engage in some sort of silent conversation, their eyes following each other as they flickered back and forth to her and the front door behind her. Seokjin relented with a sigh, and turned to Y/n his smile on his lips yet again.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear about that. Be sure to watch your step in the future, we don’t need anything happening to you during your first time back.” He turned to his computer screen for a moment, before moving around to exit the lobby desk. “Let me show you to your room.”

“I can handle that-” Hoseoks smug smile was wiped off his face by a stern glare from Seokjin. He raised his hands up and surrendered the lead to Seokjin.

He led the three of them up one of the dual staircases that led to the second half of the lobby ecasing both sides of the front desk, each step feeling more familiar than the last. Once at the top, she saw the convenience store and gift shop to her right, and next to that their small cafe-The Edelweis-with its white floral logo lit up but the seats mostly empty. To her left was a barrelled ceiling hall identical to the one on the level below them, only this one had restrooms lining the left side wall, and a wide red carpeted hallway that led to the right and straight to the Adelaide. She could faintly hear the smooth floating trumpet of a Kitty Kallen song serenading its patrons, and the aroma of the extravagant and diverse menu making her stomach grumble in interest. She’d be sure to stop in tonight if she had time, her mouth practically watering at the thought of freshly made pasta, birria-inspired pot roast, and rustic French bread with their signature gochujang, honey, and herb butter. A melting pot of a restaurant that stands as a physical embodiment of all the different people whose hands helped maintain the hotel to what it is today.

Seokjin had his hands clasped comfortably behind him as he walking, keeping his back straight. Y/n took this time to inspect his new look: His dark hair not too short but not too long, kept neat and out of his eyes under his cap. His shoulders had widened, and his jaw grew into that which made his face look older and more mature- the last of his boyishness gone in everything except the jovial glow in his eyes. The three of them traversed in silence. Well-what was silence until Hoseok got fidgety.

“I can’t wait for you to see the estate’s new look. They updated the color so it’s no longer the old dingey red that's in the main hotel. It practically looks like a new building.”

Seokjin gave a weary look between the two of them, but didn’t comment. He just continued to lead them down one of the side halls on either side of the main elevator, and out into the open square courtyard that the two arms of the back of the hotel wrapped around. Y/n nearly tripped over her own feet to keep pace with how fast he seemed to walk across the cobblestone. Weaving expertly around the small flower garden and seating area where a few guests were lounging about, enjoying the gentle babble of the water fountain. He nodded politely to them and tipped his hat, which they returned. With swift steps they made it out of the courtyard and up the gravel path to the Estate house. Stopping at the navy blue and gold embellished doors, he pulled out a key from his pocket and slid it in the keyhole. If Y/n didn’t know any better, he seemed to be on edge- stuck in a conundrum of being in a rush yet somehow also reluctant to open the door. But as for why she couldn’t quite piece together.

The doors swung open and her breath caught in her throat. She had found her answer.

What used to be the old dated, red wallpaper, was now a soft sky blue- brightening up the white molding and making the golden details shine. The wooden floors had been repolished, and a dark blue antique patterned rug ran through the main hall and disappeared into the rest of the downstairs. Everything was fresh, bright, rich, and confronting. Just like she had drawn out when she was a teenager.

The thought made her both swell with pride, and awakened a dormant rage. Forcing those feelings away she followed their steps, past the large dining room to her left and the study to her right. With each doorway she passed, she could see snippets of the new designs-her designs-sticking to the blue tones and gold embellishments. A nod to the Wörner heritage, and to the tea set brought to the United States by Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s fourth great grandfather that had a permanent home in their dining room display cabinet. Its grayish blue accented cups and saucers are a symbol of the symbiotic relationship between the two families that had been going strong for nearly a century.

Making their way up the grand staircase to the landing, she saw her bags resting on one of two navy plush armchairs. The elegant blue from below continued up throughout the landing and down both halls on either side of her, perfectly complementing the oil-painted mural of wispy clouds and classically painted figures draped across the landing’s ceiling.

“So, what do you think? Nice right?” Hoseok did a small whistle and a turn. “Makes it feel so much brighter and less like The Haunted Mansion with all of those deep moody reds.”

Seokjin stood quietly, his head slightly down and his neck flushed. He probably knew that this had been her idea. Her design. With his parents being so involved in the affairs of the hotel and estate, they would know everything, and subsequently so would he. Hoseok remained oblivious to the awkward energy in the room, so Y/n plastered a smile on her face in order to save everyone from the lingering discomfort.

“It really does. Just makes it more inviting.” She managed to get the words out without sounding too forced, a feat she had to pat herself on the back for. Tearing her eyes away from the walls to look at the two of them, she could practically feel Seokjin’s shoulder’s relax as he bounced to pick up her bags with two hands.

“Your room has remained mostly untouched at your parent’s request. I’m sure you can change that though if you wanted to.” Seokjin smiled. Y/n realized as she watched him stand still, that he was probably waiting for her to lead the way to her room. Muscle memory led her there-down the hall on the right-hand side of the split landing to follow the bend to the left all the way to the back corner room.

She could hear their soft footsteps behind her, so she knew she didn’t have time to freeze up now. Gripping the bronze worn doorknob with vigor, she pushed open the door with a bit more force than she had meant to, causing the door to bounce off the door stopper before coming to a slow stop at an angle.

“Geez, what’d that door do to you?” Hoseok remarked, earning a stiff elbow in the ribs from Seokjin.

Ignoring the two of them, she stepped into her old room. It was exactly as she remembered it. The golden bed frame wound with battery-operated lights from her high school years, her comforter a natural forest green, complemented by an array of burnt orange and white leaf-patterned pillows. The walls a serene sage green and peppered with photos from her childhood and high school. Kicking a flipped corner of her patterned woven rug out, she took a slow lap around the room, stopping to run her hands over the calendar, 4 years out of date, still open to December. On the 25th box were a few doodles of trees and cookies she had done in a tipsy haze the night of Christmas Eve. Seokjin cleared his throat, startling her.

“Where would you like me to set these?”

“Oh! You can just toss those on the bed. Thanks.” she gestured absent mildly in the direction of the bed.

He did as he was told, while Hoseok just leaned against the doorframe, glancing around the room seemingly lost in thought.

“Dinner in the estate is still served at 7:30, so you have a bit of time to get settled if you’d like to join us. You don’t have to eat here, you can always go to the Adelaide or wherever you’d like. But I’m sure your parents are looking forward to seeing you tonight.” Seokjin bowed gently, and began to retreat. Without thinking, Y/n walked over and put a hand on his arm.

“Thanks, Jin. I really appreciate everything today. I missed you all.” Y/n met his eyes, hoping to convey her sincerity.

“No problem Ms. Wör-”

Y/n cut him off with a playful groan. “ Enough of that- you’re still my friend, no need for fancy titles or anything like that.”

His ears twinged pink as he gave her a shy nod and smile. The customer service persona was gone, and in front of her stood the sweet and quiet Seokjin she remembered as a kid.

“Great! I’ll see you at dinner then. 7:30?”

He fixed his coat again, and the confident persona took over once again.

“Of course you’ll see me there. You know me, always on time.” He gave her a small salute and passed Hoseok (who had been silently watching the exchange) giving him a curt nod as he left the room. Hoseok watched him go until he was out of sight, and turned back to face Y/n.

“You doing okay with all of this?” He asked, gesturing to her with his chin.

“Yeah I am. I should probably wash the bedding though, don’t you think? Four years of sitting in a dusty room probably has them feeling pretty stale.” Y/n laughed dismissively. She unzipped her bag and began to pull stuff out onto the stiff comforter.

“I didn’t just mean your room, but that’s good to hear. I can let the laundry service know for you on the way out.” She met his gaze again for a good long minute-waiting for him to crack a joke of some kind- but he didn’t.

“Oh.” She paused, trying to wrack her brain for a good response. How was she doing with all this? Honestly she couldn’t tell, her day had been a complete whirlwind so far. It was like something had drawn the curtains on her anxiety and emotions so she couldn’t feel them at the moment. If she really thought about it, she couldn’t put her finger on why she had been so nervous in the first place. Right now, she felt good in the estate-like she was supposed to be here. “I’m really not sure. I feel fine, I think…” She trailed off with a shrug.

He hummed in agreement, but he didn’t seem to buy it.

“Well if you need anything, I’m down the hall on the left side of the landing now.”

“Awww. We aren’t neighbors anymore?”

His smile came back again, and he laughed. “Oh don’t you wish.” He pushed himself up from the door frame and stretched his arms above his head until she heard something pop. “But fortunately for you, I’m Jungkook’s problem now.”

“Shucks, what am I ever going to do with all this peace and quiet.” Y/n snapped her fingers in feigned disappointment.

“Oh I don’t know about that, your new neighbor is a night owl so I’ve heard.” He began to saunter back out of the room with a teasing smile.

“Oh yeah? And who is that?” She stuck her head out of her doorway to peer at him as he made his way down the hall.

“Yoongi. He insisted on moving to this hall when he came back so I traded with him.”

_________________________________________

Hoseok was true to his word, the cleaning service showing up not 10 minutes after he had made his leave. Once she had thanked them profusely and handed them her linens, she made sure to waste all the time she could by puttering about her room and giving it a gentle face lift, doing anything to keep her mind occupied and away from both her parents and whatever the fuck she had experienced out front. Removing the outdated calendar was first, then putting away all her belongings in color order (multiple times), before tucking her bags beneath the bed-which is where she was in the process of doing now- seated on the floor with her bags folded over her knees, and head tilted in confusion. She had lifted the bed skirt up to shove the bags under there to be forgotten indefinitely, when something being in her way stopped her in her tracks.

There, centered under her bed, was a small wooden box that was sure she hadn’t left in that spot. It was her old childhood jewelry box, one of which she purposefully avoided taking with her. With trembling hands, she pulled it out and unlatched the lid.

Laying inside the velvet lined side right where she had left them, were all of the pictures she owned that had anything to do with her younger sister. She picked up the first one and held it up to look at it more closely, even though she knew that she shouldn’t.

Three girls, close in age and wearing a set of matching dresses only differing in color, were lined up on the front porch of the hotel, the front lawn behind them was flourishing with flora and littered with toys. The photographer-she thinks it had been Mrs. Jung- had to have been standing in the open doors of the lobby when it was taken. Posing obediently on the right-hand side was Amelia, the eldest, wearing a large toothy grin and one arm tossed awkwardly over Y/n’s bent form. The 4-year-old Y/n in the photo had her arms wound tightly around the youngest in the photo, Matilda. Matilda’s small hands were clasped around a stuffed horse, and she was sporting the signature awkward and messy grin of a nearly 3-year-old toddler.

Y/n felt her throat tighten as she held up the next photo: the one of Matilda’s last Christmas. No one in the photo had known that at the time of course-so the photo did not reflect the mood it now elicited from most onlookers.

It was teeming with the unbridled joy of over a dozen children posed in front of that year’s lavishly decorated tree, all of them buzzing with impatience to open the overflowing pile of presents spilling into the bottom edge of the photo. She could recognize the faces of a few of both her own distant cousins that had joined in the festivities that year speckled in between her sisters, and the boys who lived in the house, and Hoseok's sister. She spied Hoseok's wild boyish grin standing next to herself, his eyes looking sideways instead of at the camera. Jimin was posed sweetly, sitting sandwiched in the front on the floor between young Jungkook and a boy she didn’t really recognize. One of Jin and Namjoon’s cousin’s who had come to visit for the holidays on occasion? Or perhaps Taehyung, the boy Hoseok mentioned earlier... She wasn’t entirely sure.

Her eyes slid to the Kim boys standing politely off to the right with Amelia. She only just caught Yoongi’s head poking up over Namjoon's shoulder, a small forced smile on his face the most he was able to do for a photo he had adamently detested being in.

Y/n traced Matilda’s small face with the tip of her finger, her arms spread out above her head as she mimicked the star on top of the tree. Clearing her throat of the ball that had formed there, she shoved both photos back in the box, her eyes just catching the photo of a newborn Matilda draped across her own small lap before she shut the lid and slid the clasp back in place.

She only had a few minutes before she had to make an appearance at dinner, and she wasn’t about to go in looking like a blubbering mess.

Shaking her shoulders out and pinching her cheeks, she shoved her folded bags beneath her bed and rose to her feet with the box in hand. Walking over to the large closet, she opened the door and popped the box on the top shelf, promptly shutting the door on both it and the feelings it had dug up. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths before walking into the small ensuite bathroom to freshen her hair and splash cool water on her face. Looking at her own reflection, she tried to give herself a pep talk.

“It’s just dinner. You can do this. If all else fails, just eat in silence and leave early-but you have to go.” She moved to leave the room but paused, giving heself a stern pointed finger through the reflection. "And keep it together tonight. No matter what happens, don't flip the table."

Giving herself one more affirming nod, she stood up straight and left her bathroom. She grabbed her phone from where she had discarded it on the bare mattress and tucked it into her pocket while she slipped from her room.

Her path was illuminated by golden wall sconces, making it easy to retrace the steps she had taken earlier- not like she couldn’t walk through these halls blind folded if she had to. The distant chatter emitting from the dining room grew louder with each step, causing a nervous burn to bubble up into her throat at the impending reunion.

Stepping quietly up to the archway, she lingered outside the propped doors and peeking around the frame. Her parents weren’t in their seats yet, which made her release a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding at the brief respite the universe had given her.

The table was donned in a clean blue tablecloth and gold embellished napkins and plates, a glass of chilled white wine at each seat. Hoseok was seated on the opposite side of the table from the door, his glass pinched between a few fingers and leaning heavily onto Namjoon’s shoulder, laughing at something on his phone. Namjoon was also smiling, his dimples on display for all to see. He looked about the same as she remembered- cropped brown hair still damp from a shower, strong yet soft face, and taller than the rest of them. The only thing that seemed different was that his shoulders had almost doubled in width, probably from lugging around wheelbarrows and sacks of soil and compost all day.

To his left was who she had to assume was Jungkook, judging by his rounded eyes and nose. He had her doing a double-take: His hair was much longer than he had kept it when they were younger, and fell in waves down to his cheeks and down the back of his neck. He had also seemingly bulked up like Namjoon, and grown another 3 inches in height since they had last spoken.

The remaining seats were empty. No sight of the Seokjin or the rest of them anywhere.

Hoseok must’ve felt her nerves leaching from her form, as his eyes suddenly met hers from across the room causing his eyes to light up and a sly smile to break across his face.

“Oh Y/N! Come sit near me.” He flailed his hand wildly, attempting to beckon her over to join in on the fun.

Namjoon’s eyes shot up from his phone to connect with hers, and he put his phone into his pocket and came to a clumsy stand.

“Y/N.” His dimpled smile was overtaken by shock, as he came around the table to pull her into one of his signature bear hugs.

“H-hey.” Her response was muffled by his sweater as he crushed her to his chest. She could hear Hoseok giggling at her awkwardness and it made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Namjoon released her from the hug and ruffled her hair affectionately. “It’s good to see you again. I didn’t know you were coming back.”

Y/n laughed uncomfortably and fiddled with the edge of her sweater. “I mean, technically I didn’t either until this morning.”

He gave her a quizzical look but seemed to go with not asking any questions for now, instead moving to the side so she could wave in Jungkook’s direction.

“Hi, Jungkook.”

His eyes gave her a once over before flickering down to play with the frayed edges of his placemat. “Hi.”

“Oh Jungkook, don’t be shy! She’s just as weird and annoying as she always was.” Hoseok chirped from his seat.

Y/n let out a defiant sound. “I am not! You said yourself earlier today that I could never be annoying.”

Jungkook's eyes flickered between the two of them, and let a small smile grace his features.

“Who, me? I’d never say something so preposterous.” Hoseok held a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Preposterous? That’s a big word for you.” Namjoon chimed in, scoffing while he plopped into his seat with a humored scrunch of his face.

Y/n laughed at Hoseoks sputtered defense, the way they fell back into a comfortable banter eased the ice settling over her skin at the impending arrival of her parents and reminded her of the things she had missed from home and hadn't let herself dwell on for years.

She took a seat across from Namjoon, and slid her chair into place even if it made Hoseok send her a pout at her act of betrayal for not sitting with him. She felt content listening to Namjoon and Hoseok jesting with each other, and let her eyes wander through the royal blue and gold dining room to examine every inch of detail in the room. It filled her with pride to see what she had envisioned come to life, even if she was still mulling over the details of how it came to be. During their journey around the room, her eyes found Jungkook’s, who had been stealing sideways glances at her from his seat since she’d sat down. He quickly averted his eyes, pretending he had been looking at something over her shoulder instead. Or at least, she had thought he was pretending.

“Do you like the updated design? I’m a bit bummed that I missed getting to show you myself.” Her mother’s voice sounded from behind her.

She whirled sharply to take her in-and it made her heart squeeze. People don’t talk about the hard parts of not talking to a family member. Everyone likes to talk about the part where they don’t miss them anymore, or when they couldn’t care less about a triumphant praise of their past self's decision making. But they don’t talk about the years you miss out on or the collateral damage of losing connections with those in shared circles- her mother's face carrying just a couple of new wrinkles that weren’t as prominent before a a glaring piece of evidence to the years missed between them. Four years of laughter that etched her laugh lines deeper into her cheeks, or smiles that left permanent crinkles in her eyes that she didn’t get to see.

Y/n clambered to her feet, and she felt her mother’s eyes following her every movement.

“I do. They look just as lovely as I’d have imagined.” Y/n managed to force the syllables off her tongue in what she assumed sounded genuine, but she couldn’t tell if her mother saw right through her or not like she used to.

“I’m glad.” She tilted her head to gaze around the room. “Your father spared no expense to match it to your descriptions as best he could.” She took a tentative step closer, and that’s when Y/n recognized something she didn’t expect: Her mother, Mariah Wörner-one of the most confident, intelligent and strongest women she had ever known-was just as nervous as she was. The way her fingers held onto her own elbows from where her forearms crossed in front of her like a lifeline gave it away. She had expected her to be angry. Hysterical. Enraged. Disappointed. Or even some combination of any of those to take hold of her and spit out insults in fiery waves into her skin or stare daggers into her spine. But instead, her mothers eyes were shaky and uncertain. Scared.

Y/n didn’t know how to answer her, and floundered for a moment in the sudden silence that enveloped the room. The men seemingly distracted by their own devices, trying hard to not look like they were paying attention.

“Your father is cooking tonight, he insisted that he make something for you on your first night back.” Her mother floated over to her usual seat towards the end of the table, and nervously shuffled into her seat.

“Oh that’s-” Y/n tried to reign in the sudden strong urge to cry, “That’s nice.” She melted back into her seat, feeling like her soul was floating outside of her body.

“Roland is at a friend's house until Monday. After this spring, we are looking at enrolling him in the same middle school you went to in Hershey. As such, he’s trying to soak up all the time he can with his friends.” Her mother let out a melodious laugh. “And you know me, I can’t ever say no to you guys.”

Her sentence hung heavily on Y/n’s consciousness. You didn’t have a problem with that the last time we spoke, Y/n thought to herself bitterly, but she held her tongue to keep it from slipping out.

Her mother occupied herself with unfolding her napkin and resting it on her lap. The silence lingered, the only sounds being the rustle of fabric as people shifted uncomfortably in their seat.

Y/n wanted nothing more than to both ask a million questions and reignite the argument where it left off, or to run into her mother’s arms and apologize for not giving them another chance to explain themselves. Her conflicting emotions felt overwhelming, feeding into her dissociation.

Her father burst through the doors separating the dining room from the kitchen, a handful of hot pads stacked in his hands. He looked tired, his brow furrowed as he scanned the room. He stopped looking around when he met Y/n’s eyes, and she saw his own harden in determination.

Here it comes. She thought to herself, bracing herself for him to start reprimanding her. He began to make his way towards her, tossing the hot pads on the table leaving Namjoon to frantically try to catch them before they slid into his chest.

Y/n began to stand up to greet him, but barely made it six inches off of her seat before her father wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders. He smelt of butter, garlic, and spices as he held her tightly to his chest- it’s as if he thought the moment he let go she would run.

It took her a moment to realize that he was hugging her, not holding her hostage. Y/n let her arms robotically wind their way loosely around her father's back, not fully conscious of her own movements. For a moment she wondered if she had fallen asleep upstairs and that this was all a dream, or if she had actually tripped out front and hit her head. He surely should be yelling at her by now. After a few seconds of silence he let go of her, and gripped her shoulders tightly in his hands.

“Dad- what’s-”

“I don’t care.” His voice was warm and firm.

“I don’t understand what you mean?” Y/ns hands grabbed at her father's to try and remove them. She began to feel self-conscious of the way everyone was looking at this open display of vulnerability. She tried to take his hands off of her shoulders to stop herself from crying at the closeness that she had missed.

“All of this-” He gestured a finger wildly between Y/n, her mother, and himself, “-I don’t care about that right now. I missed you. Let’s move that aside for tonight and just enjoy dinner, yeah?”

She felt her eyes burning, and swallowed to keep herself in check. She nodded.

Her father broke into a giddy smile, and he released her. “Toll!” He spun around and quickly made his way through the swinging door, disappearing with a faint “Wunderbar!”. Only for his head to pop out again not more than a second later, a stack of cork hot pads in his hands that he tossed onto the table with a flying arc. “Can you guys spread those out? I’m going to bring everything out here.” With that, his head disappeared into the kitchen again.

Namjoon began to pass the hot pads around and Jungkook stood up to help him evenly distribute them. Not thirty seconds had passed before her dad came back out-a large tray of German potato dumplings, Kartoffelklöße, and placed them in the center. He winked at her and walked briskly back to the kitchen to carry out an array of what Y/n recognized as some of her old favorites.

Crispy roasted brussel sprouts, honey garlic carrots, buttered corn, and pan seared chicken to go with the dumplings. When he placed the last tray, he sat at the head of the table closest to the kitchen, practically glowing with pride at the feast he had prepared. Her dad didn’t waste his time beginning to fill up his own plate, stacking dumplings and chicken on top of each ether with haste. He looked up at her when he noticed she wasn’t moving.

“Bitte, iss!” He gestured exuberantly to the display, and picked up his fork to shovel the first bite in.

The rest of the table began to help themselves, and Y/n followed suit. A more comfortable silence fell over the table now that everyone had distracted themselves with curating their own plates. They had made it into a few minutes of clanking silverware and the occasional clear of someone's throat without so much as a word. But Y/n didn't mind-it gave her plenty of time to dissociate even further from the reality she had naively thrown herself into.

“Will Jin be joining us?” Her mother broke the silence, glancing from her plate to Hoseok as she pushed a carrot around her plate.

Hoseok looked up from cutting his chicken, the shake of the table cloth near his bouncing leg being the only sign of nerves he let himself show.

“He was supposed to be, but Jimin roped him into dinner at the Adelaide. He has been trying to find someone to sit with him tonight so he’s not by himself, and after being turned down by Yoongi for the dozenth time he moved onto his next victim.” He shoveled another bite into his mouth quickly, hoping to avoid being the only one speaking.

“What about the others?” Y/n didn’t realize it was her own voice until she felt her mother’s gaze on the side of her face.

“Last I heard Yoongi was called for an urgent maintenance call about an hour ago, so who knows when he’ll be back.” He shrugged, and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “His parent’s have been back in Korea since the Lunar New Year. They’ve only been coming back for maybe 6 months of the year-if that. One of his cousins had twins last year so, more of a reason to keep visiting.” He paused to take a sip from his glass of his wine. “My folks are down at the Adelaide. They usually eat there for dinner anymore, or they drive to my sister’s place. Something about finally getting to enjoy the environment and not having to be the environment.”

Y/n nodded, trying to stay engaged with anything other than her confused state of mind at the moment. This is not how she expected her first interaction with her parents to go.

“My aunt and unc-Jin’s parents-Have been traveling mostly.” Namjoon piped in letting Hoseok have a break, reaching over to grab another dumpling. “They all but retired this past January, and have been trying to make the most of it together. Though they haven't officialy gone through the process to finalize it, and I personally think they are hanging on until this year is over. Mr. Jeon has been off teaching a semester or two up at MIT. He has been trying to convince the architecture professor to bring some students down here to come visit the hotel and estate-he likes to bounce ideas off of fresh minds.”

Y/n hummed in response, turning her attention to the flavors bouncing off of her tongue. She took a risk and snuck glances at both parents. They were exchanging their own private looks; her mother’s was worried, and her father’s was nothing short of elated. Her father’s hand rested gently atop her mother’s, his thumb drawing soothing circles onto he skin. She caught her father’s gaze and he grinned, his eyes crinkling just like she used to remember, if not even brighter.

She took another bite of corn to keep herself from crying.

_________________________________________

The rest of dinner was surprisingly uneventful. Her father had been true to his word, and avoided making dinner awkward, while also not acting like he was forcing positivity down everyone’s throats. His laughter was loud and genuine, and he always left discussion open for Y/n to contribute if she wanted to, and didn’t bat an eye if she didn’t. He was, in every sense of the word, beaming. It was as if the idea of her just being at the table with him again made his day. And that realization is what led her to where she is now - huddled damp in her towel on her freshly washed and made bed, sniffling away the last of her emotional breakdown in the shower. They had missed her. They had wanted her here. And she chose not to come back. A new wave of fresh tears built up in her eyes before she could stop them again, as her spiral started its cycle all over again.

Guilt. Hope. Anger. Calm. Over and over again.

She left because of them-what they had done was unforgivable in her eyes. But here they were, wanting to sew back together a rip they made. Should she not give them the chance?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock so soft on her door that she just brushed it off as the house settling itself. She refused to let herself linger on anything that might make her heart race, trying to keep her feet planted in reality-One paranormal experience was more than enough for her today.

It did light a fire under her to move, taking it as her sign to pull herself together by tossing on an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts so she could curl up under the covers for the rest of the night and ignore everything in favor of sleep. Stopping by the cracked closet door to give it a gentle shove closed, and finished the last steps over to her bed. But just as she was pulling the comforter's edges down, she heard the knock again, cementing the sound as definitely not the house settling. Padding softly over to the door, she opened it just a crack to see who was interrupting her self-pitying time.

Her mother was standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. Her hair was pulled up and away like she had always done before bed, like she had intended to do the same thing as Y/n before she had found herself outside of her door.

“Are you…alright?” Y/n opened the door a bit more to get a better look at her. Her eyes were rimmed red, her face was weary and sagged from fatigue. They really must’ve had the same plans.

“May I come in?” Her mother’s eyes swung from left to right, checking over her shoulder for anyone that may be listening in. Y/n wordlessly moved the side and opened the door just wide enough to let her slip through. Her mother quickly turned to shut the door behind herself, and slid the lock into place. Once she heard the click of the door close, she let out a breath of relief before turning to face Y/n.

“We need to talk.” Her mother folded her arms over herself.

Y/n snorted. “Understatement of the century.”

“I’m being serious, Y/n.” This is truly the most nervous she had ever seen her mother, causing Y/N to rein herself in again with a sigh.

“Look mom, I’m really tired right now. I just want to go to bed. Can we talk about this another time?” Y/n tried to keep her tone even. She was just getting out of the angry phase of her cycle, she didn’t need it reignited.

“No, we have to discuss it now. It’s crucial.”

Y/n sighed and plopped onto the foot of her bed with a huff. She looked up at mother expectantly, waving her hand for her to continue. “Well, say what you need to say then.”

Her mother pinched her nose between her fingers. “Y/n, I didn't come here to fight. I came here to….” Her mother paused, choosing her next words carefully. “I came here to give you some advice.”

“Advice?” Y/n's eyebrow rose in disbelief.

“Yes.” Her mother pulled her silk robe closer around her form.

“And this couldn’t wait for tomorrow because…?”

Y/n watched as she exhaled sharply through her nose, a telltale sign that she was growing impatient. “I’m sure that you’ve missed all of your friends -and rightfully so- but it’d be in your best interest that you keep some distance between a select few of them.”

Y/n recoiled at her mother’s words, her own coming out before she could stop them. “Excuse me? And who would the ‘select few of them’ be?”

Her mother’s eyes met Y/n’s with authority, and her response was short and stern. “Yoongi.”

“Are you serious?” Y/n gaped at her in disbelief.

“Jungkook too.”

“I can’t believe you’re being serious right now.” Y/n shook her head, her rage beginning to bubble to the surface.

“Y/n please listen to me-”

“Oh yes, please! Share with the class just as to why I can’t talk to my friends.” Y/n gestured to the empty room .

“I…” Her mother’s face fell, as did her voice. “I can’t.”

Y/n could’ve heard a pin drop from the front door it was so silent.

“Get out.”

“Please, you have to just trust me-” Her mother began to plead with her.

“No. I don’t have to do anything. You said you didn’t want to argue, yet here you are. Making decisions for everyone else and not bothering to give anyone else your reasoning.”

“Y/n-”

“God, I was so stupid to think that maybe you had changed based off of one dinner. Nope. Now you're in my room, giving me orders and being secretive just like always.” Y/n’s voice began to rise in volume, and her mother took a cautious step towards the door.

“That is not true. I care about you. I love you! I’m just trying to protect you,” Her mother tried to reach for her, but Y/n side-stepped out of her reach.

“Protect me?! Protect me from what?” Y/n was so enraged, that her eyes began to water again much to her own embarrassment.

Her mother stared into her eyes, opening and closing her mouth repeatedly.

Y/n let out a dry laugh. “Let me guess, you can’t tell me.”

“You wouldn’t understand-”

“Bullshit. I would. You just don’t want to tell me.” Y/ns shoulders began to deflate.

“That is not true.” Her mother pointed her finger at Y/n with venom.

“Then tell me.”

“Why can’t you just listen to me, why must you always make this so difficult.” Her mother threw her hands up into the air in exasperation.

“ME? I’m the one being difficult?”

“Yes!” Her mother hissed out from her clenched teeth.

“You’re the one that sent the invitation to me!”

“That was your father’s idea- I wanted to-” Her mother started but Y/n cut her off again.

“Oh so you don’t want me here then?”

Her mother’s eyes were alight with fury. “That is not what I said. If you’d let me finish-”

“No, actually I think I’ve heard enough. This is fucking ridicu-”

“That is enough.” Mariah’s tone was cutting, and final. She stomped towards Y/n and gripped her upper arms in her long hands. “You will listen to me.” Y/n had never seen such rage in her mother’s eyes, not once. “Do not think that for one second turning you away all those years ago doesn’t haunt me, or that a single day went by where I didn’t think of you. You will do as I say, and you will not ask questions. I will not-” Her voice cracked, forcing her to pause. “I can not lose you again. I will not lose another child.”

The way her mother’s eyes bore into her own, and the way her hands gripped onto Y/n's shoulders with such desperation knocked the air out of her lungs. She was still angry, yes, but she couldn’t find it in herself to yell at her mother-not when she looked so vulnerable and small in front of her. Two words she’d have never used to describe her mother. Her mother’s hands released themselves from her shoulders, and she walked herself with dragging feet towards the door and unlocked it with a trembling hand.

“I can’t tell you what to do, you’re right. But please at least try to trust me, if not even just a little.” Her tired eyes looked at Y/n over her shoulder with so much defeat, that slowly morphed into one that was resolute. Distant and cold. “Keep your door locked at night. And if you think you hear your father walking around the house during the night…” Her mother paused within the threshold, debating her next words. “Don’t get out of bed, and don’t, under any circumstances, open the door.”

_________________________________________

Next Chapter

Toll- Great!

Wunderbar- Wonderful!

Bitte iss! -Please eat!

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cutest-bunny-writings · 1 year ago

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The Missing Paper Clause Chapter Index

Summary: As a psychologist working for the military in a secret compound on an island in the middle of nowhere, it's your job to maintain and analyze the emotional states of every specimen brought into the programs that happen within the compound. Suspicions start to arise when you keep getting brushed off and being told you're irrelevant more often than not. Specimens start arriving from undisclosed locations and you keep getting barred from paperwork that you need to help you do the job you are brought here to do. So why not take matters into your own hands.

Notes: I'm going to try my best to not completely forget this thing exists, but I'm also not making any promises. But I hope you guys like this, because it's using all my creative juices.

Chapters: 7/?

Chapter 1: New Arrival

Chapter 2: Notes on Specimens and Insulting Coworkers

Chapter 3: A Cute Nurse and an Illegal Phone Call

Chapter 4: Feminine Attachment Hypothesis

Chapter 5: Personal Recreational Ruse

Chapter 6: Impatience and a Patient

Chapter 7: The Ideal Vessel

#reader insert #x reader #kim namjoon x reader #min yoongi x reader #kim seokjin x reader #kim taehyung x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jung hoseok x reader #park jimin x reader #ot7 x reader #bts ot7 x reader #sci fi fic

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inkedwithcharm · 1 month ago

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Of Paws and Quiet Hearts | Park Jimin

Chapter Two: Soup, Stars, and a Shivering Heart

The rain hadn’t quite stopped.

It was more of a mist now — fine, silver droplets that danced like whispers against windowpanes.

Y/N stood at the edge of Jimin’s porch, holding a shivering bundle of fur close to her chest.

The dog — a small, malnourished terrier mix they’d rescued just as the fair was shutting down — hadn’t been chipped, hadn’t had tags, and hadn’t stopped trembling since they’d found her curled under a bench.

“We couldn’t leave her alone in the storm,” Jimin had said, his voice threaded with quiet certainty.

So here they were.

At Jimin’s house.

“I’m sorry it’s a bit messy,” Jimin murmured as he unlocked the front door, kicking off his shoes and turning on a small lamp in the corner of the hallway.

It wasn’t messy.

It was warm.

Lived-in.

Home.

The space smelled faintly of pine and rosemary. A small record player sat in the living room beside a row of well-worn books. Blankets were thrown casually across the couch, and half-dried herbs hung by the kitchen window.

Jimin gently took the dog from Y/N’s arms and wrapped her in a soft towel, whispering to her like she was a frightened child.

“You’re okay now,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”

Y/N stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary, watching him.

There was something about Jimin in his own space. He wasn’t just the gentle vet anymore. He was Park Jimin — quiet, thoughtful, soft around the edges, but grounded like old trees and safe corners.

“Do you want to take a shower?” he asked suddenly, glancing up at her. “You’re soaked.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I have spare clothes — probably too big — but you’ll be more comfortable while I make soup.”

“Are you… are you always this perfect?”

He flushed instantly, looking down at the trembling dog in his arms. “I just like taking care of people.”

The shower was warm, and the borrowed clothes were even warmer — an oversized navy hoodie that smelled faintly of cedar and mint, and a pair of plaid flannel pants that dragged past her ankles.

Y/N found herself in Jimin’s kitchen twenty minutes later, barefoot, damp hair tucked behind her ears, watching him chop carrots like he was composing music.

“Can I help?”

He looked up and smiled, handing her the ladle.

“You can be in charge of stirring.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while. The kind of silence that doesn’t press or demand, just is.

Outside, the rain had softened into a slow drip. Inside, the kitchen filled with the scent of garlic, broth, and something almost nostalgic.

Jimin handed her a steaming mug of soup and gestured toward the couch.

The rescue pup — now swaddled in a blanket and freshly named Mochi thanks to Jungkook’s earlier text (“Name her after something round and soft and beloved. Like me. You’re welcome.”) — had curled into a tight ball in Jimin’s lap.

“She hasn’t stopped trembling,” Y/N said softly.

“She will,” Jimin replied. “She just needs time.”

Y/N glanced at him, then down at her soup.

“She’s like me,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “Tense. Always expecting something bad to happen.”

Jimin turned his head, and for a moment, he didn’t speak.

Then—

“I used to be like that too,” he said quietly. “My last city job was… a lot. Fast-paced. Cold. You give and give, and no one looks up to see if you’re running on empty.”

Y/N looked at him. “Why’d you leave?”

“I think I was afraid if I stayed, I’d forget how to feel.”

His gaze lingered on hers, deep and soft and filled with something unspoken.

“And now?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“Now,” he said, “I remember every day. Every time a dog licks my hand. Every time someone new finds their way here and begins to heal.”

He didn’t say her name.

He didn’t have to.

She was sitting right there.

Later, with the dishes done and the soup settled in their bellies, Y/N found herself curled into one end of the couch. Jimin was on the other end, legs tucked beneath him, with Mochi now asleep between them.

“I don’t remember the last time I sat still like this,” she murmured.

Jimin looked over at her. His eyes were soft, unreadable.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you really come here?”

Y/N hesitated.

The truth was heavy, like rain-soaked clothes you can’t take off.

“I think I was running. From a version of me that was always bracing for the next blow. I forgot what it felt like to just exist without apologizing for taking up space.”

Jimin’s expression didn’t shift — no pity, no shock — just quiet understanding.

“You’re safe here,” he said.

And when he said it, Y/N believed him.

The night deepened.

The storm had passed.

They ended up sitting outside under the covered porch, each holding a mug of tea. The wind had cooled, and the air smelled of wet earth and distant pine.

Jimin tilted his head back to look at the sky.

“The stars are peeking through,” he murmured.

Y/N followed his gaze.

And then — without thinking — she leaned her head against his shoulder.

He didn’t flinch.

He just tilted his head slightly, resting it against hers.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Because in that moment — surrounded by stars, by silence, by a healing dog named Mochi and two tired hearts — Y/N realized something:

Sometimes, love doesn’t crash into your world like lightning.

Sometimes it arrives like soup on a cold night.

Warm.

Steady.

And exactly what you didn’t know you needed.

But that morning had a different hum.

Y/N felt it the second she walked in.

The kind of shift that presses at your ribs before it even has a name.

She was halfway through refilling the bandage drawer when Jin stuck his head into the supply room. “Uh. You might want to come out here.”

“Is Mochi okay?”

“No, she’s fine. It’s just…” He hesitated. “…someone’s here to see you.”

Y/N furrowed her brows. “A client?”

“Nope,” Jin said, lips pursed. “Definitely not.”

The lobby was quiet.

Too quiet.

Jungkook was frozen behind the counter, an open treat jar in his hand, looking like he’d just seen a ghost. Beside him stood a man in a pressed navy coat, a leather briefcase in one hand, and a smirk that instantly made Y/N’s stomach drop.

No. Not him.

“Hi, Y/N,” the man said smoothly, like no time had passed.

Y/N blinked. “Daniel.”

Jimin appeared from the hallway then, holding a clipboard and humming under his breath. The second he saw the scene, he stopped. His eyes flicked to the stranger, then to Y/N — and something tightened in his expression.

Not anger. But alertness. Like a dog rising to its paws, sensing a storm.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Daniel said, glancing around. “Working at a… vet’s office?”

“I like it here,” Y/N said simply. Her voice was quiet, even. Controlled.

Daniel’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You left without saying a word. Vanished. We were all wondering what happened to you.”

“I needed to leave,” she replied. “You know why.”

“I think you overreacted.”

Jimin stepped forward then — quiet, steady — and placed a hand lightly on the edge of the counter.

“Hi,” he said, voice warm but firm. “I’m Dr. Park Jimin. Y/N works here now. If you have something to discuss, maybe take it outside.”

Daniel gave Jimin a quick once-over, his smirk sharpening. “You’re the vet?”

Jimin didn’t blink. “And the owner. We take emotional health seriously here — for pets and people.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

The quiet strength in his voice.

The way he didn’t speak for her but stood with her.

Daniel, clearly sensing he wouldn’t get what he came for, gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You always did run from hard things, Y/N. I hope the country air makes you braver.”

He turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with a soft chime that felt far too gentle for the earthquake he’d caused.

The clinic was still for a moment.

Then Jungkook said, “I’ve never wanted to trip someone with a leash so badly in my life.”

“Jungkook,” Jin scolded, but with no real force. “We use harnesses now.”

Y/N gave a shaky laugh — too brittle, too thin — and turned toward the hallway. “I just… need a minute.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

The supply room was small and dimly lit. Y/N sank to the floor between two shelves, pressing her palms against her eyes until the world blurred behind stars.

She didn’t hear the door open.

She didn’t have to.

Jimin always moved gently.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting down beside her, knees brushing. “Want to talk?”

“No,” she whispered. “Yes. I don’t know.”

He waited.

Not pushing.

Just being.

After a moment, she spoke. “He was my ex. We were… we worked together. Lived together. For a long time I thought I loved him.”

Jimin said nothing, but his presence was a steady hum beside her.

“But he didn’t love me,” she continued. “Not really. He loved what I did for him. The way I softened his image. Cleaned up his messes. Made his life easier.”

Jimin was still, but she felt his breath change. A deeper inhale. A slow exhale.

“One day I realized I didn’t even recognize myself. So I packed a bag and left.”

“That was brave,” Jimin said quietly.

“It didn’t feel brave. It felt like drowning.”

“Leaving still counts,” he replied. “Even if your lungs are full of water.”

Y/N turned her head. Their faces were close now — closer than ever. His eyes weren’t just warm. They were fierce in their tenderness. Like he’d fight the whole world just to make sure she had peace.

“You didn’t have to stand up to him,” she whispered.

“I did,” Jimin said. “Not because I think you needed saving. But because I couldn’t watch him talk to you like that and not say something.”

Her chest cracked open like thin ice beneath spring.

“Jimin.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

A slow smile bloomed on his lips. “That’s good. Because I’ve never met anyone like you either.”

And just like that, the air changed again.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just a ripple — soft and certain.

The moment you realize something is shifting from care to something else.

From safety to affection.

From friendship to a slow, glowing love.

They didn’t kiss.

They didn’t even touch.

But when Y/N finally leaned her head on Jimin’s shoulder, he let it stay there.

And when he gently took her hand — their fingers barely laced, breath synced — she didn’t pull away.

Because sometimes, healing doesn’t happen all at once.

Sometimes it begins like this:

A hand.

A silence.

A heart learning how to beat without flinching.

Chapter Three (Finale)

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yoongle--boongle--pie · 5 months ago

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Pechsträhne - Chapter 1

P.S: I moved accounts! So all further updates will be posted to @yoongleboonglepie! Much love