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igwb · 10 days ago

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A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (II.)

"keeping guns in his locker, and he denies it, like it's actually important, but he lied 'cause i sure did watch him."

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: you thought jungkook would be different, that he would show you another side of men but as the days passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not be as different as the rest.

word count: 23K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarcal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, violence, child abuse, jk becoming suspicious & his story explained (my poor bby♡)

playlist: the boy with the thorn in his side, forwards beckon rebound, chihiro

author's note: this isnt a one shot! you can find the first part here;

part I. part II. part III.

You were still floating in the haze of last night when the first rays of sunlight slipped through the thin, ineffective curtains. Blinking against the light, you let out a small chuckle, still unable to fully process what had happened. But the warmth in your chest quickly faded when you reached out beside you and found nothing but empty sheets.

Panic set in almost immediately. Your heart pounded as you threw the covers off, your mind racing to the worst possible scenario. Not again. Not after everything.

“Stupid Jungkook,” you muttered under your breath, rummaging through your backpack in search of a clean pair of jeans, your hands shaking slightly. “If those men don’t kill you on Friday, I swear I’ll be the one—”

“So now you wanna kill me, sugar?”

His voice came from behind you, laced with amusement, and you spun around so fast you almost tripped. Standing there, hair damp from the shower, bare chest glistening with leftover droplets of water, Jungkook smirked at you. He was wearing only his jeans, belt still unbuckled, looking completely unbothered. Meanwhile, you felt like a complete fool for immediately assuming the worst.

“You idiot,” you huffed, smacking his thigh in frustration. But your annoyance was quickly replaced with concern as your eyes traveled down to his stomach. The bruise from last night was even worse in the daylight, a deep, ugly shade that made your chest tighten. His eye was nearly swollen shut now, and the cut on his lip, just beneath his piercing, looked painfully raw.

How many times had he come home looking like this? How many more times would he have to if he didn’t find a way out? You hated seeing those dark bruises stain his golden skin, and you silently vowed to never let it happen again.

“Come on, we need to go to the pharmacy and clean that up,” you said, nodding toward the bruises on his stomach and face.

Jungkook scoffed, grabbing a towel and tossing it lazily onto the bed. “We don’t have money for that, honey,” he reminded you, his tone almost mocking, but there was something bitter underneath. The reality of the situation was suffocating.

Your shoulders slumped as you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. He was right. Even something as simple as treating a wound required money—money neither of you had anymore.

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the situation finally settled in. Last night had been a blur of warmth and safety, but now, reality was creeping in, forcing you to face the consequences of everything that had led you here.

“What do you owe them?” you finally asked, voice quieter than you intended.

Jungkook hummed in response, seemingly unbothered as he settled between your legs, his fingers lazily playing with the hem of your t-shirt, occasionally brushing over your belly button. His touch was light, teasing, and he chuckled like a child amused by his own game.

“Jungkook,” you sighed, grabbing his hands to still them. “Be serious.”

He only smirked in return, clearly enjoying how easy it was to distract you. Instead of answering right away, he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before pulling away entirely, walking toward the small table by the window.

You sat up, watching his back, frustration bubbling inside you. How could he act so casual when the situation was this dire?

“800,000 won,” he finally admitted, his voice flat.

The number hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your stomach drop. “Jungkook,” you gasped. “Are you serious?”

“I’m glad you’re not overreacting,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the table, refusing to meet your gaze.

Your hands clenched into fists against the sheets as you tried to wrap your head around it. 800,000 won. And only one week to get it.

“How the hell are we supposed to find that kind of money?” you asked, panic creeping into your voice.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just exhaled slowly, as if he had already accepted the inevitable. But you weren’t ready to give up yet.

There had to be a way.

Jungkook ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “I may have some ideas,” he admitted, though his voice lacked any real confidence. “But if it goes wrong… it’ll be even worse.”

You stepped beside him, glancing out of the motel window. The view wasn’t anything special—just dim streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks—but it gave you something to focus on instead of the panic creeping into your chest. The thought of what would happen if you didn’t find the money made your stomach twist painfully.

No. That wasn’t an option.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. “I might have an idea too,” you said, turning back to him. “But you need to accept it without throwing a tantrum.”

Jungkook scoffed, crossing his arms over his bare chest, smirking at you like he wasn’t standing on the edge of a cliff. “Go on, then,” he challenged.

You hesitated for only a second before speaking. “My mom can—”

Before you could even finish, Jungkook pushed himself off the table with an angry scoff, pacing around the small room.

“For real?” He spat your name, his frustration dripping from every syllable. “You seriously wanna go back there and ask them for money? The same people who threw you out like a goddamn dog?”

You sighed, bracing yourself. You knew he’d react like this.

“My mom would do it,” you insisted, gripping his shoulders firmly, forcing him to look at you. “She’d do anything just to piss off my dad. I’m sure of it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as he poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the way he always did when he was trying to hold something back. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “I don’t want your stupid daddy’s money.”

Shrugging off your hands, he stepped back, putting space between you. His expression hardened, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “I’d rather die than accept a single won from a man who disrespects women.”

His words hit like a slap, and for a second, you just stared at him. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that pride wouldn’t save him when those men came knocking—but another part understood. Understood why Jungkook would rather take a beating than owe a man like your father anything.

Still, you refused to just stand there and let him throw away his only chance.

“So what? You’re just going to accept your fate?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. The thought alone was impossible to stomach.

Jungkook let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Fuck yes, why not?” he threw back sarcastically, his expression unreadable.

Your fingers twitched at your sides—you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. But before you could, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course not,” he muttered.

“I’ll work my ass off like a goddamn man,” he added, finally tugging a t-shirt over his bruised torso.

Something in you twisted at his words. The way he spat out the word man like it was something that determined his worth, like it meant he had to suffer to prove himself. It made you want to gag. You were starting to hate everything about toxic masculinity, especially when it came from him.

You pulled on your jeans, grabbed another shirt, and threw it over your head before standing tall in front of him. “Then I’ll work too,” you said, voice firm with determination. “I’ll help you find the money myself, without asking anyone. And you won’t have a say in it.”

Jungkook leaned against the table, watching you with an amused smirk, one eyebrow slightly raised. He couldn’t believe how stubborn you were—so angry, so determined, so ready to prove yourself. It was frustrating, maybe even reckless. But at the same time, something about it made him want to fight even harder, made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Where exactly do you think you’ll work, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it. His mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility—the one job he would never, ever associate you with.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, tying your sneakers. “A bar, a coffee shop, anywhere that’ll take me.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched at that. A bar. He could already picture it—drunken men, leering stares, hands that didn’t know boundaries. The thought alone made his stomach turn. But he knew better than to argue, knew better than to act like one of those men who tried to control women. You had already lived under that suffocating grip for too long.

After a long pause, he sighed, running a hand through his damp hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Go to Sukchul.” His voice was serious now. “He’s the only man I trust to take good care of you.”

“What about you?” you shot back, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. Your heart softened at the thought—if you had to work somewhere, at least it would be with Sukchul, the old man who had always treated you kindly. A place where you felt safe, where you wouldn’t have to put yourself in dangerous situations just to survive.

Jungkook shrugged, a casual smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll find something else. Don’t worry about me,” he assured you before leaning in to kiss you softly. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together effortlessly. “Let’s go, independent woman,” he teased with a grin, pulling you towards the door.

You couldn’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest. The words sounded beautiful—almost unreal—coming from a man.

As you walked hand in hand toward the old man’s shop, a small flicker of hope started to take root in your chest. It was fragile but steady, growing with every step. Maybe—just maybe—things would turn out okay. Maybe Jungkook would be safe, and you would be too. If you worked hard enough, if you pushed through, you could gather the money, put this nightmare behind you, and finally start the life you both deserved.

But you didn’t dare voice your thoughts. Speaking them out loud felt like tempting fate, like inviting the universe to take it all away before it even had a chance to happen. So instead, you just squeezed Jungkook’s hand a little tighter, letting the warmth of his skin ground you.

He glanced down at your hands as you swung them gently between you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “What’s that for?”

You only shook your head with a small smile, unwilling to break the moment with words. Instead, you let the quiet understanding settle between you, filling the space with something that felt an awful lot like hope.

The soft chime of the bell echoed through the small shop as you stepped inside. Almost immediately, Sukchul emerged from behind the counter, his pace slow and measured as always, but his grin widening at the sight of Jungkook.

“Ah, Kook!” he greeted, his voice carrying a note of relief. He gave Jungkook a firm tap on the shoulder before turning to you with a small smile of acknowledgment. He might not remember your name, but he knew who you were—and that was enough.

Jungkook, still holding your hand, lifted it slightly toward the old man, his grip tightening just a little. “She wants to work with you,” he said, his voice tinged with something shy, almost hopeful.

Sukchul’s gaze flickered between the two of you, his expression unreadable at first. He let out a low chuckle, then turned on his heel, making his way back behind the counter.

A long moment stretched between you, heavy with anticipation. You knew you weren’t the usual type to work in a place like this. Maybe he’d refuse. Maybe he’d laugh at the idea.

But then, finally, he spoke.

“I’d be happy to have you by my side,” he said simply.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped in a quiet sigh of relief.

Jungkook immediately bowed, a deep, respectful gesture, and you followed suit, gratitude filling your chest. You had no idea what the coming days would bring, but at least for now, there was a plan. There was a chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Jungkook turned you around gently, his hands resting on your arms as he looked into your eyes. His voice dropped lower, softer, filled with something raw and real.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he murmured, leaning in as if to kiss you. But at the last second, he seemed to remember Sukchul was still nearby, so instead, he awkwardly patted your head, making you roll your eyes with a small laugh.

As he turned to leave, you instinctively grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt, your fingers curling around it as if holding onto him could stop him from going.

“Wait, Jungkook,” your voice came out shakier than you intended.

He stopped immediately, turning back with concern already etched into his bruised face. You could see it in his eyes—he thought you were going to back out, that you were going to tell him you couldn’t do this after all. That you didn’t have to.

But that wasn’t it.

“Where are you going?” you asked instead, your gaze traveling over his face, trying to memorize every detail like he might disappear the second he stepped out that door. The thought unsettled you, that terrible, lingering fear that one day, he might not come back.

“Finding work, sugar,” he said with an exaggerated grin, despite how swollen his lip was and how his eye was nearly shut. The sight was so ridiculous you couldn’t help but smile.

“Be careful,” you warned, your grip tightening for a second. “Don’t do anything too dumb.”

He chuckled, but before he could respond, you glanced over your shoulder, checking to make sure Sukchul was no longer behind the counter. And when you saw that he wasn’t, you quickly leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jungkook’s lips before he could react.

It was soft, fleeting, but enough.

You couldn’t help the wide smile stretching across your lips as you walked back to the motel, crisp bills clutched tightly in your hands. You kept counting them over and over again, as if the numbers might change, as if seeing them again would make it all feel more real.

There was something deeply satisfying about it—money earned by your own hard work, not given, not borrowed, but yours.

80,000 won. You were certain of it. But still, you counted again, just to be sure.

If things continued at this pace, you could gather two-thirds of Jungkook’s debt on your own. And if you added whatever money he managed to make, you might even have more than enough—for him, for you, for whatever came after this.

You pulled the lollipop Sukchul had given you from your lips, the sweet taste lingering as you smiled up at the neon lights flickering above the streets. The same ones that once felt suffocating, their artificial glow a reminder of everything you hated about this place.

But now?

Now, they didn’t seem so bad. Now, they marked the streets you walked with purpose, the world you were learning to navigate on your own terms.

This place would be your home for the next week.

Maybe even longer.

You push the door fully open, stepping inside with a proud grin, still shaking the bills in your hand. The door hadn’t been locked, which meant Jungkook was home. Your eyes flicker to the worn-out boots by the entryway, a sight that immediately reassures you.

“Kook!” you sing-song, excitement bubbling in your chest. “Look!”

But he doesn’t turn right away. His back is to you, shoulders tense, his movements rushed as he fumbles with his backpack. Something about the way he moves—quick, deliberate, almost frantic—makes your smile falter.

You slow your steps, watching him more closely now.

“Jungkook,” you say again, this time more firmly.

At last, he turns. His breath is uneven, and as he moves, you catch the subtle motion of him tucking something behind his belt before hurriedly pulling his shirt down over it.

“Hey,” he exhales, as if trying to sound normal, but you don’t miss the way his voice strains, like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How was it?”

Your fingers tighten around the money in your hand.

Something is wrong.

You shake your head, pushing away the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. You don’t want to let whatever he’s hiding ruin the happiness still buzzing in your chest. Instead, you toss the bills into his hands, watching as his eyes widen slightly before a slow, proud smile spreads across his bruised lips.

Without hesitation, he steps closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The warmth of it lingers, making it harder to question him.

You throw yourself onto the bed, stretching out with a deep sigh. Your feet ache from standing all day, and before you can even complain, Jungkook is already sitting at the edge of the bed, taking your foot into his hands and massaging it gently.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. The quiet care in his touch. The way his thumb presses into the sore spots with just enough pressure to ease the pain.

“What did you do?”

His fingers pause for half a second before continuing, and you catch the way his tongue rolls over his lip ring—a habit of his when he’s thinking too hard.

“I found something that’s gonna pay so well,” he says, exaggerating his tone like he’s telling you the best news in the world. His voice is dramatic, playful even. “After this, when my life isn’t hanging by a thread, we could even go to Jeju.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly throws himself onto you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. He presses a quick kiss to your lips before rolling onto his back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if lost in thought. Then, almost hesitantly, he speaks.

“Wait… are you even planning on staying with me after… that?”

You blink at him, taken aback by the question. As if he really thought you’d just walk away.

Without a second thought, you turn onto your side, cupping his face between your hands, your fingers spread wide across his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his jaw slightly tense.

“Of course, idiot,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You really think you’re getting rid of me that easily?”

At your words, a slow smile stretches across his lips—one of those rare, genuine ones that make his eyes crinkle at the corners. He shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief, before pulling you down into another kiss, this one deeper than the last.

It starts soft—gentle presses of his lips against yours—but then he tilts his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your waist, and the kiss turns heated. Your hands slip down from his face, tracing over his jaw, his throat. You feel the way his pulse stutters under your touch.

Jungkook groans softly when your lips trail down to his neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. His fingers twitch against your hip, gripping a little harder like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he breathes out, voice raspier now, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips as your fingers trace the lines of his torso. You settle onto his thigh, your grip tightening on the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it over his head. But just as you start to lift the fabric, Jungkook’s hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Wait,” he breathes out, clearing his throat before pushing himself up into a sitting position.

You frown, searching his face for an explanation. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. His jaw clenches, his tongue running over his lip piercing—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. And then, without meeting your eyes, he shakes your hands off his shoulders and looks away.

Something twists in your chest at that.

“Jungkook,” you say more softly now, your voice dipping in concern. “Talk to me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “I just—” He stops himself, clicking his tongue in frustration before forcing out a dry laugh.

You sat back on your heels, watching him pace the small room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair, his jaw clenched.

“You’re acting like a freak right now,” you huff, frustration bubbling in your chest. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Jungkook stops abruptly and turns to you, his eyes filled with something unreadable—fear? Guilt? Desperation? He crosses the space between you in two strides, his hands landing on your shoulders, his grip not tight but firm enough to ground you.

“You have to trust me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, pleading. “Please.”

His gaze searches yours, wide and vulnerable, and your heart clenches at the way he’s looking at you—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if you don’t say the right thing.

You inhale sharply, exhaling through your nose as you hold his stare. Every instinct in you screams to push for answers, to demand the truth. But instead, you sigh, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” you breathe out, the word heavy on your tongue.

But deep down, something in your chest tightens—a lingering feeling that whispers you shouldn’t let this go.

The bell above the door chimed and without hesitation, you made your way to the storage room to greet the old man. It was only your third day working at the shop, but seeing Sukchul had already become a source of comfort—something familiar in the midst of all the uncertainty. You were grateful it was him and not someone else.

The morning had started like the others: waking up alone in the motel room, Jungkook already gone. You didn’t ask questions anymore, at least not out loud. He was doing whatever job he had found, the one he still refused to give you any real details about. But you trusted him—you had to.

“Hey, darling,” Sukchul greeted, his voice warm as he stepped inside, carrying a large box in his hands.

You quickly moved to take it from him, placing it on the counter with ease. “What’s this?” you asked, already prying open the lid.

The moment your eyes landed on the contents, a breath of excitement escaped you. “Damn,” you whispered in awe, carefully lifting one of the vinyl records from the stack. The sleeves were slightly worn but well-preserved, the kind of treasures collectors would fight over.

“You like them?” Sukchul chuckled, watching your expression with amusement.

“Like them?” You shook your head, flipping through the records with admiration. “It’s my dream to have a collection like this.”

The old man hummed in response, moving to help you unload the box onto the shelves.

“And a shop like yours, too,” you added, glancing around the store with fondness. It wasn’t big or flashy, but it had character. It felt like a place where people came to escape, to find something special among the shelves.

Sukchul shot you a knowing look. “Good thing you’re close with Kook, then.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate as he wiped down a shelf before carefully placing a record in its new spot.

“He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got,” he admitted after a moment. “I don’t have kids of my own, so I always figured I’d leave this place to him someday.”

You stilled at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. The thought of Jungkook inheriting this place—of having something stable, something that truly belonged to him—made you smile. He’d never had that before.

“He’d be so happy,” you murmured, meaning it.

Sukchul turned to you then, his sharp eyes softening as he observed you. “You kids seem to get along well,” he remarked, a teasing glint in his gaze.

Your cheeks flushed instantly, and you tried to busy yourself with the records, but the old man’s knowing grin only grew wider.

“Jungkook, he’s a good boy,” Sukchul’s voice cuts through the silence, making you freeze in place. There’s something in the way he says it, a tenderness in his voice that you hadn’t expected. As he speaks, you can feel yourself hanging on to every word, though you try not to. There’s something invasive about hearing these details, but it’s too late—you’re already drawn in, craving every piece of the puzzle that is Jungkook’s life.

“Life hasn’t been easy on him,” Sukchul continues, his gaze distant as he sets down a record. “His mother was a sweetheart,” he smiles softly, his eyes softening as he remembers her. “But his father… he was a terrible man.” The words hang heavy in the air, a mixture of sorrow and regret, as Sukchul pauses to remember her and the man she had married.

You glance down, your stomach twisting. For a moment, you can’t help but picture your own father in place of Jungkook’s—so much darker, colder. You know deep down that Jungkook’s father was far worse than yours. At least your father never killed your mother. But sometimes, the lines blur, and you wonder if the cruelty, the hatred, is so far removed from the day-to-day suffering that it almost feels too normal.

You try to shake the image of your own home from your mind, but it’s hard. You know all too well how many men beat their wives, how many women live in fear, trapped. The thought of it makes you feel nauseous. You hate the idea that one day, it might be your own mother in the same situation as Jungkook's one. That fear, that uncertainty—it clings to you, even as you try to push it away.

Sukchul’s voice pulls you back to the conversation, his tone quieter now. “With Jungkook, too,” he adds, his face darkening as he finally addresses the truth you hadn’t dared to ask about.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. “What do you mean?” You can feel your heart beat harder in your chest. Your mind flashes back to what Jungkook had told you—his father didn’t care about him. He wasn’t even worth the effort because he was a man, too strong to be controlled.

Sukchul turns to you, his expression somber, yet kind. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to share more. Finally, he speaks again. “His father never wanted him to be anything but a shadow,” he says quietly. “He never treated him like a son. He only saw him as something to control, to break. It was all about power for him. Jungkook couldn’t win against that kind of man.”

Your throat tightens at his words. Jungkook’s entire life, it seems, has been spent fighting for his humanity, trying to scrape together any sense of self-worth against a backdrop of rejection and violence. It makes you ache for him in a way you can’t even describe. And it makes you want to wrap your arms around him, to tell him that he’s safe now, that he doesn’t have to fight alone anymore.

You swallow hard and, without realizing it, you find yourself asking the question you’d been dreading to ask. “How was his father with him, exactly?” The words come out almost in a whisper, as though you’re afraid the answer might shatter you.

Sukchul’s eyes soften when he meets your gaze, but his voice remains steady. “His father… he didn’t care for him at all. Jungkook was never good enough, not strong enough, not obedient enough. His father’s love came with a price, and Jungkook couldn’t—and wouldn’t—pay it. That made him weak in his father’s eyes.”

The revelation hangs in the air between you both, the silence thick with the unspoken reality of what Jungkook has lived through. And for a long moment, you don’t know what to say. There’s nothing you can say that will make it better. The truth is painful—too painful for you to bear.

Sukchul seems to notice your hesitation, the discomfort settling on your face, and he gives you a small, sad smile. “I don’t mean to burden you with all of this, but Jungkook deserves to know that not everyone is like his father. He deserves to know that there’s kindness left in the world.”

You can feel the weight of his words sinking into you. You nod, but inside, your heart is heavy, weighed down with the knowledge that Jungkook, despite all of his strength, has carried so much more than anyone should have to. And yet, he’s still standing. Still fighting.

“I’ll make sure he knows,” you finally say, your voice steady, though your heart feels like it’s shattering all over again. You have to be strong for him, just like he’s been strong for everyone else.

Sukchul looks at you, nodding in approval. “I know you will.”

After a few moments of heavy silence, you finally find the courage to ask the question that’s been gnawing at you. “Do you know where his father is now?” you ask, your voice tight, betraying the anxiety building in your chest. The thought of Jungkook ever facing that man again—of him being forced to confront the one person who had caused him so much pain—was unbearable. You could never imagine allowing that to happen. Jungkook deserved so much more than to face the one who had made him feel weak, worthless, and alone.

Sukchul scoffs, a harsh sound that seems to come from deep within his chest. “Far away from here,” he mutters, as if the thought of that man is enough to ignite the anger and frustration that Jungkook has carried with him for so long. The old man rolls his eyes, a bitter expression clouding his face. “After he…” He stops for a moment, closing his eyes as if to shield himself from the painful memory, his hands pausing mid-air. For a brief second, it feels like the room itself holds its breath, waiting for him to continue.

“He just left,” Sukchul finally says, his voice breaking slightly. “Didn’t care that his son would have to grow up alone, without a home. Without anyone to protect him. He just disappeared into the night, like a coward.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You already knew the man was terrible, but hearing Sukchul’s account of his abandonment, of the way he let his son suffer without a second thought, makes you feel a surge of anger you didn’t know you had. It’s a cruel thing to do to any child—to just walk away and leave them to face the world with nothing but empty promises and the ghosts of a broken past.

A sense of sadness fills you, the reality of Jungkook’s past hitting you even harder now. How could anyone do that to their child? To leave them like that, abandoned and unwanted? The injustice of it all stirs something deep within you—something protective. You would never allow Jungkook to feel that kind of abandonment again. You would never let that man back into his life.

The evening air was cool against your skin, but the warmth in your chest kept you steady as you walked, your thoughts consumed with Jungkook. It was like the universe had shifted slightly, and now, no matter what happened, it seemed like every thought, every breath was centered on him. He was everywhere, woven into the very fabric of your days, more than just a presence—he was a part of you, a beautiful part that had attached itself to you in ways you never imagined.

You had never believed in love at first sight, or any of the romantic notions that people dreamed about, but with Jungkook, everything felt different. He had snuck into your life quietly at first, but now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to want him close. To need him there, to be near him. It was like he had filled spaces inside of you that you didn’t even know were empty. And even though you had been through so much together already, you knew you were only just beginning to learn about each other. Yet, despite that, you already felt something strong, something undeniable, growing between you two.

You paused in front of a beautiful garden, the delicate, fragrant flowers stretched out before you, their colors vibrant against the evening sky. The scene was peaceful, untouched, as if this little part of the world belonged to no one but the flowers and the stars above. It was the perfect place to find something for Jungkook—something meaningful, something that would show him what you felt inside. You may not have money anymore, but you knew the one thing you could give him that would speak volumes: a gesture, a symbol of your love.

With slow, deliberate steps, you moved forward, heart pounding a little faster with every inch closer you got to the garden. The flowers, in all their glory, seemed to call to you, and you could feel the same quiet, certain energy of the night wrapping itself around you. You weren’t sure what kind of flowers you were looking for, but something about the idea of picking one felt right. It felt simple. Pure. Just like the first night you shared together under the mountains, with only the moon above to witness your connection. That was when everything started to change. That was when you first felt the deep, unspoken bond begin to form between you.

You glanced around, making sure no one was watching, hoping your luck would hold out. The thought of being caught didn’t scare you, but the idea of ruining something so small and meaningful just because you took it for granted made you cautious. The garden, despite its beauty, was not yours, and you knew it was wrong to take something from it without permission. Still, the feeling in your chest pushed you forward.

Reaching down, you carefully plucked a soft purple flower from the ground, its petals delicate between your fingers. It felt like a promise, like a piece of your heart in bloom, a small offering to someone who had unknowingly grown so deep within you. It wasn’t about the flower itself, but the gesture. The thought behind it.

You couldn’t wait to see his face again, to hand him this small, beautiful token of your feelings. You just knew he’d appreciate it. You hoped it would be a moment you’d both remember.

And as you made your way back to the motel, flower in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar flutter in your stomach. A feeling that you knew by now was love, the kind that was growing, blooming, and maybe, just maybe, it would last.

As you stepped in front of the motel, the last thing you expected was for someone to collide into you, knocking you off balance. The impact was sudden, forcing the small flower from your grasp, sending it fluttering to the ground. Before you could even reach for it, a heavy boot came down, crushing it beneath careless steps.

You froze, your lips parting in silent disbelief as you watched the petals crumple under the weight of the stranger’s stride. He didn’t stop, didn’t even spare you a glance. Just kept walking, his broad shoulders cutting through the dimly lit hallway, his presence an unmovable force that paid no mind to anything in its way.

Your first instinct was to snap at him, to demand he at least acknowledge what he had done. But you knew better. Men like him—cold, indifferent, towering with an air of entitlement—never bothered with consequences. They moved through life unchallenged, their carelessness something the world had long since learned to excuse.

So, you bit your tongue, swallowing down the sharp words burning in your throat. It wasn’t worth it. Not here, not now. You had never been the type to cower in front of Jungkook, had no trouble standing your ground with him, but with a man like this? A stranger whose power came not from love but from the silent threat of what he could do? No. You weren’t stupid.

You simply clenched your fists at your sides and watched as he disappeared out the door. Moments later, the roar of an engine filled the air, his car speeding off into the night. The tires kicked up loose gravel, a few stray stones skidding toward you, as if mocking the way you had been so effortlessly dismissed.

Only when the dust had settled did you finally allow yourself to exhale. Slowly, you crouched down, reaching for what was left of the flower. It was ruined now—the delicate petals torn, the stem bent and broken beyond saving. The small, simple gift you had wanted to give Jungkook had been destroyed in a matter of seconds, crushed underfoot like it had never mattered at all.

“Motherfucker,” you muttered under your breath, the words tasting bitter as they left your lips.

You stared at the flower for a long moment before finally letting it go, watching as the wind carried the damaged petals away. There was no salvaging it, no way to undo what had been done. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t matter. Maybe Jungkook didn’t need a flower to understand what you felt for him.

With that thought, you straightened your back, brushing the dust from your clothes before stepping forward. Whatever tonight had in store for you, one thing remained certain—you couldn’t wait to see him again.

The door to your room was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness spilling into the dimly lit hallway. Your steps faltered as a cold dread crept up your spine. Something felt wrong.

Your breath hitched when your gaze dropped to the doorknob—small droplets of blood smeared across the metal surface, stark and unforgiving against the cheap, peeling paint.

For a moment, you couldn’t move.

Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea creeping up your throat as your mind raced through the worst possibilities. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to turn around, to run, but your feet betrayed you, moving forward before you could think twice.

With trembling fingers, you pushed the door open, careful not to touch the bloodstained knob.

“Jung—” His name barely made it past your lips, coming out in a shaky whisper before you heard it—low, pained groans and quiet curses slipping through the partially closed bathroom door.

Panic surged through you, your heartbeat deafening in your ears as you rushed forward.

Your breath caught in your throat the moment you saw him. Jungkook was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the shower with his legs stretched out in front of him. His bare chest rose and fell heavily, glistening with sweat. His hands—his hands were covered in blood.

Your eyes traveled lower, stomach churning at the deep gash across his right side. A needle and thread were clutched between his fingers, the makeshift stitches half-done, his skin raw and angry where the wound split open.

He lifted his head at your sudden presence, his dark eyes hazy but sharp, assessing your expression.

“Shit,” he muttered, pausing in his work as he took in your pale face.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your backpack slipping from your shoulder, forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Your hands hovered uselessly over his wound, shaking too much to even reach for him.

“What the hell happened?” Your voice wavered, but you barely noticed.

Jungkook let out a breathy chuckle, though it was strained, his lips twisting in something that wasn’t quite amusement. “It’s nothing, sugar. Just a scratch.”

Your stomach flipped. A scratch? His skin was split open, bleeding freely, and he called it a scratch?

Your fingers twitched, aching to press against the wound, to help in any way you could—but the sight of so much blood made your head spin. The coppery scent was overwhelming, and suddenly your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat.

Jungkook must’ve noticed, because his bloodied hand reached for yours, gripping it weakly. “Don’t pass out on me,” he murmured, a teasing edge to his voice despite the obvious pain he was in.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay grounded. You had to push past the nausea. You had to help him.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you met his gaze. “Let me do it.”

You had a million questions running through your mind—where had he been? What had happened? Who had done this to him? But none of them mattered right now. Right now, all you cared about was stopping the bleeding.

With shaky fingers, you grabbed the needle, barely holding it at the tips to the blood. Jungkook’s breath was ragged, but he still managed to guide you through it, his voice tight with pain.

The first attempt was disastrous.

As soon as the needle pierced his torn skin, Jungkook let out a strangled groan, his hand instinctively gripping your wrist in a bruising hold. His body tensed, muscles flexing under the strain, and he hissed out a string of curses that made your heart clench with guilt.

“Shit, fuck—!” His jaw clenched, breath coming out in sharp gasps.

“I’m sorry, Kook, I’m so sorry—” Your voice cracked as you tried again, forcing yourself to stay steady despite the way your hands trembled. The sight of his blood, the sound of his pain—it made you want to break down.

But you couldn’t.

So you sucked in a deep breath, gritted your teeth, and pushed through the nausea pooling in your stomach.

You had to do this.

Swallowing back your nerves, you guided the needle through his skin, this time steadier, smoother. Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t protest.

“You’re doing good, sugar,” he murmured, voice hoarse but laced with reassurance. “Just keep going.”

And you did.

As soon as you finished stitching his wound, you dropped the needle onto the floor like it had burned you, your fingers shaking from the tension. Without a second thought, you yanked your t-shirt over your head, using the fabric to wipe away the blood smeared across his stomach. You hated the sight of it—the deep red against his skin, the way it felt warm and sticky under your touch. It made your stomach twist painfully.

Jungkook exhaled a ragged breath, his head falling back against the cold tiles of the shower wall. His whole body trembled, his muscles rigid as he fought against the pain.

“Jungkook,” you called softly, but his eyes remained shut. Panic flared in your chest. You gave his cheek a couple of light slaps, trying to keep him alert. “Hey, don’t pass out on me—stay with me.”

A small, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he forced his eyes open, lids heavy with exhaustion. His hand found your bare waist, his grip weak but reassuring.

“I’m good, baby,” he murmured, though the way his body swayed against yours said otherwise. “Just… gimme a second.”

“Can you stand up?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He nodded sluggishly, and without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his waist, bracing yourself as he leaned against you. His weight was almost too much, but you gritted your teeth and held firm.

“Alright, come on,” you encouraged, guiding him out of the bathroom step by step.

You barely made it to the bed before Jungkook collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the worn-out sheets. You stayed by his side, still holding onto him, as if letting go meant he’d disappear.

You guided his head onto your chest, and he settled against you without hesitation, as if this was where he belonged. His left arm wrapped loosely around your waist, his breath warm against your skin. The weight of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, was the only thing keeping you grounded. His soft fingertips brushed against yours, a quiet reminder that he was here—that he was still breathing, still alive.

But the thought of what could have happened if you had arrived just two minutes later made your stomach clench painfully.

You closed your eyes, your fingers gently combing through his silk hair as your mind wandered. If you were to lose him, if he were to slip through your fingers like smoke, you knew you wouldn’t survive it. The thought alone was unbearable.

Then, your mind drifted back to Friday.

Your gaze flickered down to his face, the bruises darkening his skin, the way his eyelashes rested so delicately against his cheek despite the pain he had endured. He looked so soft like this, so human. How could anyone want to hurt him? How could someone look at Jungkook—someone whose heart was so big, whose presence was so warm—and wish to kill him over something as meaningless as money?

His life was worth more than that. More than anything.

Your grip around him tightened instinctively, pulling him impossibly closer. You blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill, but they burned in the corners of your eyes, stubborn and unrelenting.

If Jungkook reminded you of a flower, it would be a rose.

A beautiful, delicate thing—so vibrant, so captivating—that you would reach out and take it into your hands, breathing in its scent, feeling the softness of its petals. But roses had thorns, and Jungkook was no exception. He had built his own armor, layer after layer, sharp and unforgiving, to protect himself from a world that had tried to crush him too many times. And if you weren’t careful, if you held on too tightly, those thorns would cut you open.

And yet, knowing all of this, you still couldn’t let him go.

Your night had been restless, haunted by the lingering fear that clung to you like a second skin. Every time you drifted off, you would wake up again—eyes immediately searching for him, ears straining to catch the soft rhythm of his breath. You held your own breath each time, waiting, listening, only allowing yourself to exhale when you heard the steady rise and fall of his chest. It felt almost maternal, like checking on a newborn, making sure he was still there, still alive.

But now, sleep was out of reach.

The thought that someone could come and hurt him again—or worse, hurt you both—left your stomach twisted in knots. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself to push the thoughts away, but they only pressed harder against your mind.

Beside you, Jungkook shifted, a low sigh slipping past his lips as he blinked an eye open. His voice was rough with sleep when he spoke. “Can’t sleep?”

You hummed in response, turning your head to look at him. He pushed himself up, sitting against the headboard as he turned on the small bedside lamp. The dim glow softened his bruised features, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

“Why?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

A scoff left your lips. Sometimes, you hated how he tried to brush things off, how he pretended to be unfazed, like his own life didn’t carry the same weight as everyone else’s. And more than that, you hated the world for making him believe it.

“Because I came home and you were covered in blood, Jungkook,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

He only shrugged, leaning onto his side with a small wince, propping his head up with his hand. “I’ve had worse, you know?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t care. You still got hurt, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

For a second, he just looked at you, then a lazy grin spread across his face—one of those stupid, playful grins that usually made you want to kiss him. But right now, it only made you more frustrated.

“You’re cute,” he teased, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your stomach. “You care that much about me?”

You took a slow, shaky breath, staring at where his fingers danced over your skin. When you finally answered, your voice was quieter but firm.

“Yes. I do.”

His lips traced a slow path along your shoulder, leaving warmth in their wake. You shivered under his touch, but before he could go any further—before you lost yourself completely in the haze of him—you spoke.

“Who was it?”

Jungkook sighed and flopped onto his back, fingers absentmindedly drumming against his stomach. “Some asshole I got into trouble with,” he muttered, his voice laced with nonchalance.

Your brows furrowed. “Some asshole?” You turned onto your side to face him, searching his expression for anything that might give you a clearer answer. “How many men have you gotten yourself into trouble with, Jungkook?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. You know how they are—bruise their ego just a little, and suddenly, they act like you’ve declared war on their entire bloodline.”

You frowned, suspicion creeping into your voice. “And what did you do this time? Stole from him, too?”

The words had barely left your mouth before Jungkook shot up, the casual demeanor melting off him in an instant. His dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with something sharp and unforgiving.

“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “So it’s always me, huh?”

You opened your mouth, ready to explain that you hadn’t meant it that way, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“It’s them,” he bit out. “They’re the problem. The rich bastards like your daddy.” His voice dripped with mockery, the words landing like a slap.

Your spine stiffened, and anger coiled hot in your chest. “Maybe you should be more careful,” you shot back, sitting up now, your pulse hammering in frustration. “You act like the whole world is against you, but—”

You watched as he threw the sheets off himself, standing up despite the pain that made him clutch his stomach. His eyes burned with something sharp, something reckless.

“I won’t let myself get walked over like you did your whole life.”

His words cut deeper than any wound.

The words echoed in your chest, setting fire to every nerve in your body.

You shot up from the bed, heart hammering against your ribs as anger surged through you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as if you were too naïve to understand. “It means I won’t sit back and take shit from people just because they have power. I won’t bow my head to some rich asshole who thinks money makes him untouchable. Not like—”

He stopped himself, but you knew what he was about to say. Not like you.

Your blood ran cold. “You think I had a choice?” you spat, voice laced with disbelief.

Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He hadn’t lived in your skin, hadn’t spent years learning how to survive in a world that never let you win.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless,” you shot back, voice shaking.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Are you serious? You think I don’t know what it’s like?” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I grew up with nothing. I had no home, no family, no safety. My own father beat me bloody and left me to rot, he killed my mom because he felt like it, and you wanna talk to me about power?”

You swallowed hard, your anger twisting into something else. Something closer to guilt. But the fire inside you refused to die.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Survival isn’t just about fighting, Jungkook. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when not to.”

His eyes softened for a second—just a second—but then his walls shot back up, and he scoffed. “Yeah? And what has that ever gotten you?”

You clenched your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “It got me here. With you.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. For the first time since the argument started, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say.

For a moment, the room was silent except for your ragged breaths. Then, without another word, he turned his back to you, running a hand through his hair.

“I need some air,” he muttered, grabbing his hoodie from the chair.

Your stomach dropped. “Jungkook—”

But he was already walking to the door. And when it shut behind him, you felt like he took all the air with him.

You pulled the sheets over yourself again, as if they could shield you from the cold that had nothing to do with the breeze slipping through the cracks of the motel window. The air felt heavier now, thick with the weight of words that had cut too deep, leaving wounds neither of you knew how to tend to.

You knew you’d go to him eventually. You always did. No matter how heated the argument, no matter how much his words stung, something in you would always pull you back to him. But right now? Right now, you couldn’t face him.

You understood why he was angry. Jungkook had never been given the privilege of stability, of safety. He’d fought for everything, carved his place in the world with clenched fists and bloodied knuckles. And in his eyes, you—no matter how much you had suffered—would always be someone who had been given a life he never had.

But that didn’t mean his words hadn’t hurt. It didn’t mean he had the right to make your struggles feel small. He knew what it was like to live in a world that saw you as something lesser, something disposable.

You curled into yourself, biting your lip to keep the emotions at bay. The night stretched on, silent and still. Somewhere outside, Jungkook was probably pacing, cursing under his breath, maybe kicking at the gravel in frustration.

And eventually, you would go to him.

Eventually, you would remind him that you weren’t his enemy.

You don’t even make it two minutes before grabbing your sweater and denim, the cool air pressing against your skin as you step outside. Jungkook is sitting on the edge of the small stone wall in front of the motel, his fingers curled around a cigarette, smoke drifting in the night air.

The moment you step closer, his eyes ignores you, and you can see the tension in his face. You can’t help but scoff, “Very mature, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, maybe I should ask for some education from them if I’m so—” he starts, but before he can finish, you jump on the wall beside him, shooting him a pointed glare. He immediately gets the message and shuts up, the smirk that had been tugging at his lips fading.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s slowing down, the world falling away just to make space for the two of you.

“Im sorry,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking the silence between you. “I shouldn’t have asked you to shut down when I know how much it hurts.”

Jungkook’s body stiffens slightly before he throws the cigarette on the ground. He then shifts, moving his head to rest gently on yours, and for a moment, everything feels right again, as if this is exactly where you both needed to be.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. You can hear the sincerity in his words, feel the weight of them pressing against you as much as the silence that had hung between you earlier.

In the stillness of the night, you both let your mistakes hang in the air, unresolved yet somehow understood.

Jungkook turns your head gently, his lips pressing against yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. It isn’t rushed or demanding—just a reassurance, a silent promise that you’ll both be okay.

You’re not used to this kind of gentleness. The idea that problems could be solved without shouting, without fists, without bruises. That love could be given without fear. Your parents had always shown you that things were fixed with a slap, not a kiss. But with Jungkook, it was different. It was easy.

As you both make your way back to the room, his fingers laced through yours, a quiet warmth settles in your chest. But just as you reach the door, your body suddenly tenses.

Your heart stops.

Your grip on Jungkook’s hand tightens as your breath catches in your throat.

Because there, just a few steps away, walking out of the motel in the dead of night—

Is your father.

Jungkook felt it immediately—the way your entire body stiffened, how your fingers gripped his with a force that was almost desperate. Your breath hitched, your eyes wide and unblinking as you stared at the tall figure walking ahead.

Your father moved with his head hung low, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, his steps unhurried but purposeful. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen.

But you saw him.

And suddenly, as much as you had tried to ignore it, as much as you had spent years avoiding the thought—there was no doubt anymore.

He was like them.

Like every man who saw women as disposable.

Like every man who took what he wanted and walked away without looking back.

Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. Because you knew. Even without seeing the room he had come from, even without hearing the exchange of money or the whispered goodbyes—you knew.

Your father was no different.

You turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer, your breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. The weight of it—the truth, the disgust, the betrayal—pressed down on your chest, suffocating.

Jungkook pulled you into him, nestling you against the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around you protectively. The moment the first tear slipped down your cheek and dampened his skin, he felt his own heart shatter.

His jaw clenched as his dark eyes followed the man’s retreating figure, his hands twitching at his sides. If you weren’t here, trembling, vulnerable in his arms, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would’ve walked straight up to that man and made him feel just an ounce of the pain he had inflicted.

Even though your father was nothing but a stranger to him, Jungkook already knew what kind of man he was. The type who would look down on someone like him. Who would scoff at his anger, his presence, his existence.

But Jungkook didn’t care.

He hated the man.

More than before.

More than he hated most men.

Because he had seen what that man had done to you. And Jungkook could never forgive that.

The day dragged on endlessly, every second stretching into what felt like an eternity. The usual warmth you found in working with Sukchul had faded, replaced by a dull, persistent ache in your chest. It was Wednesday now, and for two days straight, your mind had been consumed by thoughts of your father. But more than him, you thought of your mother.

Did she know?

Did she turn a blind eye, or had she convinced herself of a lie to keep surviving?

The rhythmic ticking of the clock echoed in your ears, a reminder of time slipping away. No matter how much you tried to push it from your mind, Friday loomed closer. And with it, Jungkook’s fate.

You had gathered a decent amount of money. Enough to give him a chance. But what about Jungkook? He was still so vague about his job, refusing to give you details no matter how many times you asked. The only thing he kept repeating was how well it paid.

You trusted him. You really did.

But you also knew that blind trust wasn’t enough—not when his life was at stake.

And you were done staying in the dark.

Whatever he was doing, you had to know. Because if he was putting himself in danger, you weren’t going to stand by and let it happen.

Jungkook had been acting strange.

Leaving before you even had the chance to wake up. Coming home when you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying—and failing—to fall asleep.

Your mind was a battlefield of worst-case scenarios, endless possibilities circling in your head like vultures, each one worse than the last. And the only thing that ever silenced them was his presence beside you.

But lately, even that had become a rarity.

The only time you caught a glimpse of him was when he would slip into the bathroom, careful not to make a sound. He thought you were asleep, but you weren’t. You would watch him through the mirror, noting the fresh bruises blooming on his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he splashed water onto his face.

And it was killing you.

That was why, the moment you woke up that morning to find his side of the bed cold and empty, you made a decision.

You were going to follow him.

Sukchul hadn’t questioned it when you told him you wouldn’t be coming in today. The moment you mentioned Jungkook, worry flashed in his eyes, but he only nodded.

“Go,” he said simply, as if he understood everything without needing an explanation.

And so you did.

You followed him from a safe distance, careful to keep your steps light and your presence unnoticed.

Jungkook walked with purpose, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his posture tense. Every few steps, he glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the streets as if he expected someone to be watching.

He was cautious. Too cautious.

It only made your anxiety grow.

What was he so afraid of? Who was he looking out for?

And more importantly—what was he about to do?

You watched as Jungkook disappeared into the alleyway, your heart pounding in your chest. You hesitated, afraid that if you followed too closely, he’d catch you. So you stayed put, counting the minutes.

One… two… three…

When he finally emerged, something was different.

His backpack was gone. And so were his clothes.

The black hoodie he had been wearing was replaced by a fitted long-sleeve t-shirt, and his usual denim had been swapped for a pair of black trousers. Only his boots remained the same.

You swallowed hard as you watched him climb the stairs of a random apartment complex, his movements quick and precise, like he knew exactly where he was going.

Your pulse quickened as you rushed into the alleyway, eyes darting around for any trace of Jungkook. Then, you spotted it—his backpack, carelessly discarded into a rusted bin like it meant nothing. A cold pit formed in your stomach as you hesitated for a second before reaching inside, fingers fumbling through the fabric. His hoodie, his jeans—everything he had been wearing earlier.

Before you could process the unsettling thought, voices echoed from the stairwell above. You barely had time to duck behind the bin, pressing your back against the cold wall as you strained to listen.

“Our typical motherfucker,” an unfamiliar voice sneered, his tone dripping with amusement. Laughter followed, mingling with another—Jungkook’s. The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, even as your mind screamed for answers.

“Do what you want with him. She doesn’t give us anything special to follow,” the man continued, his words cryptic, yet ominous.

Your fingers curled into Jungkook’s hoodie, knuckles turning white. She? Who were they talking about? And him—who was the man they were discussing?

Then, Jungkook’s voice cut through the tension. Steady, indifferent. “Consider it already done.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t recognize him in that moment. There was no warmth, no hesitation—only cold certainty. It terrified you.

You waited, pressing yourself against the cold metal bin, your heart pounding in your chest. The voices above grew quieter, and you risked a glance toward the staircase just in time to see the unfamiliar man disappear into the apartment complex.

He was young—not much older than Jungkook—but old enough to have seen things, to have done things. He carried himself with a kind of confidence that came with experience, but not the kind built from a stable life. No wedding ring, no signs of a man with a family waiting for him at home. Just another lost soul in this world, much like Jungkook.

The silence stretched on, two minutes of nothing but the distant hum of the city.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, you carefully stepped out of your hiding spot, your body tense as if expecting someone to jump out at you. Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up, your only goal now to find him. You had to.

It wasn’t hard to spot him amidst the busy crowd. His dark hair stood out, and his black outfit seemed out of place among the well-dressed people around him. He looked like he was trying to blend in, but his attire only made him stick out even more. He wasn’t trying to hide. His gaze flicked down to a paper in his hand, eyes scanning it before he kept walking, heading toward a neighborhood that reminded you of your old one. A place that felt familiar but distant now.

He came to a stop in front of a house. It was tucked away, hidden by overgrown bushes, and he crouched down, his movements quick and purposeful. You stood there, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him unzip his backpack and pull out something that made your heart skip a beat.

He took out a shoulder holster with a practiced ease, strapping it onto his chest. The gun, heavy and cold, gleamed in his hand for a brief moment before he slid it into place. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. The action was so casual, like it was second nature to him now.

Jungkook, who had always seemed so full of contradictions—so gentle and yet capable of such violence. It was like watching someone you loved slowly lose themselves, piece by piece, to a world you didn’t understand.

You felt the urge to approach him, to call out and tell him to stop, to beg him to leave whatever this was behind, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not when you saw the man he was becoming in front of you.

Instead, you stood frozen, watching from behind the corner of a building, your heart heavy with fear and a sense of loss you couldn’t shake off. You wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how.

Jungkook never had a say in his own life. His father never let him forget how weak he was, how useless he seemed to be, and how he wasn’t manly enough. The words were like daggers, sharper because they came from the one person he should have been able to look up to, to feel safe with. He was only eleven when his father’s cruel words first cut deep.

But it wasn’t just his father who shaped his world. His mother, gentle and loving, always knew when he needed her most. She would be there, a soft light in the darkness of his father’s criticisms. Whenever he cried, feeling small and lost, she would hold him close, reassuring him that it was okay to be sensitive, to feel deeply. “Don’t tell your dad,” she would whisper, “and let’s go get ice cream.” And so, with a small hand clasped in hers, they would slip away from the house, the weight of his father’s harshness momentarily forgotten.

They shared secrets, laughter, and tears over ice cream, the simple joys of childhood that Jungkook would cling to, knowing they were the only moments where he didn’t have to be someone else. His mother taught him that he was allowed to feel, that his gentleness wasn’t something to hide or be ashamed of. It was something his father despised, but to Jungkook, it was the one thing that made him feel human, feel real, even in the face of all the hate he received from the person who should have been his protector.

Jungkook’s hatred toward men began when he was just seven years old, the first time his father’s fist landed on him. It wasn’t just a bruise on his skin; it was a scar that dug deeper into his heart. From that moment on, he began to associate every man, every male figure, with the same cruelty. His teachers, classmates, even strangers on the street—whenever they got too close, his body would tense, and he would start crying, clutching his thumb tightly against his mouth as if that small act could offer him any comfort, any sense of safety in a world full of men he no longer trusted.

His mother, always the protector, would rush to the school whenever his cries grew uncontrollable. He had become a disruption in the classroom, but it wasn’t his fault—how could it be? His emotions had a way of spilling out when the fear took over, when the memories of his father’s abuse resurfaced. She’d gather him in her arms, her touch gentle as she ran a hand through his hair, soothing him in the only way she knew how. Then, without any explanation to the teachers, she’d take him home. She couldn’t bear to tell them the truth. She couldn’t risk them taking him away, the only thing that kept her from falling apart. Jungkook, despite everything, was her only hope, her only reason to keep going.

She knew the truth, deep down. She was acting out of fear, selfishly keeping her son close because he was the one thing in that house that made her feel like she wasn’t completely alone. She could never admit it, though. She never let anyone see how desperate she was to protect him, even if it meant staying in a home that was more prison than sanctuary. Every time she took him away from school, every time she shielded him from the world outside, it was because she didn’t want to risk losing him—her child, her hope, her salvation.

She had finally reached her breaking point. After years of enduring the torment, the silence, and the fear, she couldn’t take it anymore. That night, Jungkook’s sobs pierced through the thin walls of their small, crumbling home. His fragile heart, always so sensitive, had been crushed once again by a classmate’s cruel words. He had always been so easy to hurt, so vulnerable to the world around him. And now, in the midst of the quiet night, his cries filled the house, echoing in his mother’s ears as she sat in the dim light of the living room.

His father, meanwhile, was oblivious to the pain his son was enduring. He sat slumped on the couch, a can of beer in his hand, the bottle nearly empty as he let the alcohol do the talking. He could hear his son’s wails, but they did nothing to stir his conscience. His response was anger.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his words slurring as he tossed his beer glass against the wall. The loud crash made Jungkook’s mother flinch, her body instinctively tensing at the sound. Her eyes were wide with panic, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. She was so used to the violence, the rage, but every time it happened, it shattered her all over again. She bit her nails, trying to distract herself from the helplessness creeping in.

Jungkook’s cries only seemed to fuel his father’s anger. He shot up from the couch, his body stiff with rage, and as he stumbled toward the door to their son’s room, he spat, “I swear I’ll kill him.”

The words hit her like a slap. In his drunken haze, he was threatening their son—her precious boy. The thought of him going into that room, storming in with the same fury he always carried, was too much to bear.

In a surge of desperation, she stood up, her legs shaky, and rushed to intercept him. With hands trembling but determined, she grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to hold him back. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, “It’s my fault he’s like this…”

Her eyes welled up with tears, her chest tight with helplessness. She couldn’t let him hurt their son again. Her heart was breaking for both of them. She had always been the one to protect him, but this time, the realization hit hard. She had kept him safe, but she had done it by shielding him too much, by not stepping in sooner, by not protecting him from the monster in their home. And now, it was coming to a head.

“I protected him too much,” she whispered through a choked breath, her words falling heavy between them. “Kill me!” she suddenly shouted, her voice raw with anguish. “If someone has to die, it’s me!”

Her heart ached with the weight of her plea. She would take it all if it meant saving him, if it meant saving her son. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness—all of it could be on her. If it meant keeping Jungkook safe, she’d sacrifice herself. But instead, her husband just stared at her coldly, the alcohol still clouding his judgment.

Without another word, he left the living room, leaving her standing there, her legs weak beneath her. Her body trembled as she heard the door close behind him, but she knew this moment of peace would not last. It never did. It was only a matter of time before he would come back for their son again.

With the echo of his footsteps fading away, she let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to release. But it wasn’t over. It would never be over until they were away from this place. She rushed to Jungkook’s room, where the muffled sounds of his cries filled her ears, and found him sitting on the bed, his small frame trembling. His eyes were wide, filled with confusion and fear, his cheeks flushed from crying.

“Mom?” he whispered, his voice fragile, like he wasn’t sure whether to expect comfort or more pain. His once bright eyes were now bloodshot and swollen from crying.

“Baby,” she croaked, crouching down beside him, her hands shaking as she gently touched his face. Her heart broke all over again at the sight of him, at how small he seemed, at how much pain he carried for someone so young.

Without another word, she reached for his little backpack and began packing it with the things that would bring him comfort. His favorite bunny plushie, the one his father always mocked him for carrying, the one he held onto for dear life every night when his father’s rage threatened to engulf him. She stuffed it into the bag along with a few other familiar things—his drawing book, a set of colored pencils, a worn-out blanket.

“Do you want to go eat ice cream?” she asked, forcing a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She needed to give him something, anything to cling to.

Jungkook, still sniffling, nodded, his eyes wide and uncertain, but he took her hand and followed her out the door. His trust in her, in the only person who had ever truly protected him, was unshaken. And as they walked down the hallway, heading for the door that would lead them to a temporary escape, she promised herself that she would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Even if it meant leaving everything behind.

She would protect him—no matter the cost.

Together, they made their way to the Han’s house. The Han family had always been kind to them. Sukchul, the grandfather, was the only man Jungkook seemed to have any trust in, and Hyerim, his wife, had always treated them with such warmth. In a world where men had mostly let them down, the Hans were a beacon of normalcy, a reminder that not all men were like the one she was trying to escape.

When they arrived at their modest home, she didn’t need to say much. As soon as she knocked, Hyerim opened the door, her face immediately reflecting concern as she saw the state of her and Jungkook.

Without hesitation, she explained what was happening, and although Hyerim didn’t ask for details, her eyes spoke volumes. She could see the fear, the desperation in her friend’s face, and without another word, Hyerim handed her the keys to the car. She knew the urgency in her voice, the panic that was barely held together by the need to protect her son.

“Take care of him,” Hyerim said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “You know you can always come here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tight with gratitude.

Jungkook didn’t speak a word as they got into the car. He climbed into the passenger seat silently, his eyes blank, too exhausted and hurt to ask what was going on. She could feel the weight of his silence, how heavy the air between them had become in such a short time. She could only imagine what he was thinking, how much he was trying to hold it together. He was only a child, and yet, he had carried more weight than any child should ever have to bear.

As she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, her foot pressed hard on the gas. The car shot forward, the tires screeching slightly as she sped through the familiar streets. Her heart was racing, the thudding in her chest a constant reminder of what was at stake.

Her eyes flicked over to Jungkook every few moments, trying to read him, trying to figure out what was going on behind the blank stare. But he wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze straight ahead, his hands clenched in his lap, his fingers twitching from the anxiety. She wished she could tell him everything would be okay, but she didn’t know if she could promise that. She didn’t know if anything would be okay until they were far away from here, until they were safe.

Jungkook never imagined his twelfth birthday would be spent in such a grim, cramped motel room—dust settling on the worn furniture and the stale smell of the air making his stomach churn. It wasn’t the day he had dreamed of, and it certainly wasn’t what he deserved. But in that moment, as he sat there on the edge of the bed, his heart softened just a little when his mother stepped into the room, holding a small cupcake, the candle flickering brightly on top of it.

“Happy birthday to you, my Kookie,” she said, her voice a little shaky but filled with love. The bright smile she gave him was the only thing that kept the room from feeling completely bleak, though the exhaustion in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. She tried not to let her mind wander to the price she had to pay to be here with him, the sacrifice it took to rent that bed for the night, to get that cupcake and candle. Every penny counted, and every smile from Jungkook was a reminder of the reason she kept going, even when the weight of the world was crushing her.

She had hoped, for his birthday, they could at least sleep somewhere safe, somewhere clean—something that felt like normal for once. The car had been their home for the last week, and Jungkook’s complaints had become a constant soundtrack in the background of her thoughts. He hated it. She hated it too, but there was little she could do.

She couldn’t work a traditional job, not with the way things were. So, she did what she had to. She gave what she could. Her body, her warmth, her time—anything to scrape together enough for them to survive. She tried not to think about the toll it took on her, tried not to think about how the men who walked away after they were done with her left her feeling empty inside. But it was worth it. Every single time Jungkook’s smile lit up, every time she saw him happy for a moment—she told herself it was worth it.

And now, watching him blow out the candle, making a wish with a shy grin, she realized something. No matter where they were, as long as they were together, there was still a kind of magic in the moment. For just a second, they were free from the weight of their circumstances.

Jungkook’s eyes met hers, and in that brief exchange, she saw the love and trust he had for her, despite everything. It made all the sacrifices worth it.

“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, his voice soft, but the sincerity in it made her heart ache. She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she replied, her voice trembling, but she pushed through it. She smiled at him, a genuine smile this time, because, in this moment, they were okay. For now.

Jungkook grinned, and for the first time in a while, his eyes sparkled with a light that wasn’t dimmed by fear or doubt. That was all she needed. That smile, that moment, was enough to get her through another day.

“Let’s eat it,” she said, grabbing a fork and cutting into the cupcake, the frosting smearing slightly as she handed him the first piece.

Together, they ate, the simple sweetness of the cupcake offering a rare moment of peace in their chaotic world. Even in the worst circumstances, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was all they needed.

The moment the door crashed open, the world seemed to shift into something dark and unrecognizable. His father’s presence filled the room like a storm, overwhelming everything in its path. Jungkook’s mother froze, her body tense with dread, knowing exactly what was coming.

“You fucking slut,” he spat, his words sharp and venomous, as he threw the small table with the cupcake across the room. The sweet, innocent little moment they’d managed to create was shattered instantly, just like everything else in their lives. “How dare you fucking go away from me?” His voice was dripping with disgust and rage, and it wasn’t just directed at her—it was like he hated everything she was, everything she did, everything she tried to be.

Jungkook, his tiny heart pounding with terror, scrambled to hide behind the headboard of the bed. His hands trembled as he pressed them over his ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds, trying to block out the reality of what was happening in front of him. He held his bunny plushie close to his chest.

The shouts, the punches, the cries of pain—all of it blurred into a sickening hum in Jungkook’s ears. He closed his eyes tightly, curling up into himself, hoping somehow that by shutting everything out, he could make it stop. But it didn’t stop. The sound of his mother crying, the muffled thuds of slaps and punches, each one more violent than the last. His heart ached with each passing moment as he cried silently, feeling utterly helpless, knowing that he couldn’t protect her, couldn’t protect himself.

Time seemed to stretch on forever, and it felt like the darkness had swallowed everything whole, leaving only the pain and terror. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, there was a sudden, chilling silence. The shouting stopped. The sounds of the violence ceased, and all that remained was the thudding of his own heart in his chest, a reminder that he was still there, still alive, still hurting.

And then his father appeared in front of him, his face twisted with disdain, his presence looming like a suffocating shadow. Without a word, he walked up to Jungkook, his hand raising before coming down with a hard slap. The force of it left Jungkook reeling, his cheek stinging as he stumbled back. His father didn’t even look at him after that. He just stood there, cold and distant, as if Jungkook’s existence meant nothing at all.

“You’re nothing but a disturbance,” his father muttered, his voice devoid of emotion, as if the words didn’t even matter anymore. “Do whatever you want. You won’t last long in a world like that anyway.”

And with that, he left. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving nothing but a trail of destruction in his wake. Jungkook was left there, in the aftermath, his mother’s lifeless body beside him.

Jungkook’s anger grew like a fire that could never be extinguished. From the moment he witnessed the violence his father inflicted on his mother, he made a vow in the deepest corners of his heart: to never trust another man, to never allow himself to be vulnerable to the kind of cruelty that men like his father carried.

As he grew older, his anger transformed into something else—something sharper, darker. His pain drove him to make himself into something different, something stronger. He covered his body in tattoos, a visual representation of his defiance and his anger. Piercings adorned his face, as if he could pierce through his pain and somehow make it more bearable. The more he changed on the outside, the more he pushed his rage inward. He looked for fights, not just with men who would give him trouble, but with anyone who dared to challenge his perception of himself.

He sought out men to fight, people who he knew would be easy to rile up. He would provoke them, knowing they would retaliate. But the real satisfaction wasn’t in the violence itself—it was in proving to himself that he could overpower them. Jungkook knew, deep down, that when it came to men, he could never let his guard down. He had to be stronger than them. He had to make sure they knew that no matter how hard they tried to break him, he could stand up for himself.

When he threw punches, he always scoffed at how easy it was. Men like them—pompous, self-assured—were nothing more than a punching bag. They relied on their strength to intimidate, but when faced with someone who didn’t flinch at the thought of pain, someone who had endured far worse, they crumbled. Jungkook relished in that moment of power. It felt like justice—like every man who hurt someone would eventually pay for it, in one way or another.

That was how Jungkook found himself standing in the pristine halls of a vast, cold house, the walls echoing with emptiness. His mind was sharp, his thoughts focused solely on the task at hand. It wasn’t his first mission, and it wouldn’t be his last, but something about this one felt different. The woman’s plea had shaken him, her voice cracking under the weight of years of suffering. He’d heard similar stories before—stories that made his blood boil, that set a fire in his chest.

She had barely told him anything—just enough to point him in the right direction, just enough to know where he needed to go and who he had to face. But it was enough. Jungkook didn’t need much more than a name, a face, and the knowledge of what had been done. He didn’t need to ask questions or hear the full story. He already knew what kind of man he was dealing with.

He reached the room where he knew the man would be. His heart didn’t race; it didn’t need to. He wasn’t afraid of men like this anymore. He had learned to channel his anger into something productive. It was about precision, about being the action behind the words that so often fell on deaf ears.

He opened the door without hesitation.

Inside, the man was lounging on a leather chair, a drink in hand, as if he owned the world. His arrogance was palpable, his face one of entitlement. The moment Jungkook stepped in, his eyes lifted, narrowing in confusion, then in recognition.

“Who the hell are you?” the man sneered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jungkook’s calm, unyielding expression. He could tell something was different—this wasn’t just some random intruder. This was someone with a purpose.

Without warning, Jungkook moved. In an instant, he was standing in front of the man, his fist connecting with the side of his face with a force that sent him crashing to the floor. The man gasped for breath, looking up in disbelief.

The man tried to stand, reaching for a weapon, but Jungkook was quicker. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease, his fingers tightening around the fragile neck.

“You’re nothing,” Jungkook whispered, his voice icy cold. “You’re weak. And you’ll never hurt anyone again.”

In his world, women held the power, providing clear instructions on how they wanted things to unfold. Jungkook’s role was simple: to carry out their demands without question. And what they asked for, more often than not, was the death of their husbands.

Without a second thought, he drew the gun from his holster and fired, the bullet finding its mark between the man’s eyes.

Within minutes, other men arrived to handle the aftermath, taking care of the body. That wasn’t his responsibility. He was the one who acted, the one who made sure the job was done. The action-taker.

You ran back to the motel, your heart racing, before you could see him leave the house. You were overwhelmed with confusion. Jungkook, in your eyes, wasn’t capable of violence. Even though you knew he had been in fights before—like that one time in the alley when they took his bike, or when you walked into the motel to find him stitching up his own wounds—he always seemed to be the one getting hurt, not the one causing it.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. The image you had of him—gentle, kind, a boy who’d never harm anyone—suddenly shattered, leaving you with a cold, unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake.

He came home earlier than usual, his presence filling the room before you even heard his footsteps. The moment his hands slid around your waist, you felt a sudden urge to pull away, but you stayed still, frozen in the warmth of his touch. He was dressed in his usual attire, and that ever-present playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as if nothing had changed, as if everything was still light and carefree.

“You had a good day?” His voice was soft, almost soothing, but it didn’t reach you the way it normally did. He plopped down onto the bed casually, kicking off his boots and setting his backpack beside him. His movements were so natural, so familiar, but all you could focus on was the sight of that backpack. The same one that probably carried the remnants of his darker side—the side you hadn’t truly seen, but felt creeping at the edges of your mind.

Your gaze lingered on it, the thought of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and who he’d become when he wore that outfit—the one that made him capable of violence—made your stomach twist with a sense of dread. It was all too much. The image of the gentle, playful Jungkook you thought you knew was starting to crack, splintering into something darker, something you hadn’t expected.

“Sugar?” His voice cut through your thoughts, a note of concern creeping in as he noticed your unusual silence. He furrowed his brows, a frown beginning to form. “What’s wrong?” The words were simple, but they felt like a lifeline thrown to you in the midst of a storm, and you weren’t sure whether to grab onto it or let it slip through your fingers.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky as you sank down onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. The weight of everything pressing on you felt suffocating, like you could hardly breathe.

Jungkook crawled over to you, concern etched deeply on his face. He reached out, gently placing his hands on your shoulders, his touch warm and comforting in contrast to the turmoil inside you. He kissed the top of your head softly, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back slightly.

“Hey, what happened? Was it Sukchul? Did he do something to you?” His voice was soft, filled with a quiet urgency, as though he needed to fix whatever was wrong. His eyes scanned your face for any sign of distress, and the thought that anything could have happened to you made his mind race in a hundred directions. He wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t sure of anything, but one thing was clear: he needed to protect you, even if it meant doing whatever it took.

You pushed him away gently, your body tense as you looked up at him with wide, almost frantic eyes. “Fuck, Jungkook, no,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He frowned, a furrow appearing on his brow as he leaned in slightly, trying to bridge the distance between you. “You need to tell me if something happened, something I don’t know about. If someone—”

“So what? You’ll kill him too?” The words came out before you could stop them, sharp and biting, a rush of anger and hurt spilling from you. The instant you spoke, you froze, the weight of your own words hanging in the air. You shut your mouth quickly, as if regretting the outburst, but the tension still lingered, suffocating.

Jungkook’s eyes went wide at your words, as if they struck him deeper than anything else you could’ve said. He opened his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no sound came. He stepped back, his lips trembling slightly, as if trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

Jungkook’s grip tightened on your wrist, his fingers almost painfully firm, but his eyes… his eyes were soft, filled with something close to desperation. He was silently pleading with you, begging for you to understand.

“What do you mean?” His voice trembled, barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud might make it all too real. His breath was shallow, like he was holding on to something, afraid that if he let go, the truth would spill out in ways he couldn’t control. Not that he didn’t trust you, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing him as something you should be afraid of.

You refused to meet his gaze. The weight of his hold made it feel like the air was closing in around you. You tugged at your wrist once more, but he didn’t release you. His eyes were still fixed on you, pleading for understanding, for something he wasn’t sure how to explain.

“Jungkook, please,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as the distance between you felt insurmountable. You didn’t know what you were asking for, didn’t know how to stop the flood of emotions rushing through you.

Then, in an instant, he stood up abruptly, and the sudden motion made you flinch, your heart racing in your chest. His tone was sharp, as if trying to convince both of you that there was nothing to fear. “Wait, seriously? You think I would hurt you?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and frustration, the kind of frustration that came from feeling misunderstood.

“I don’t know you.” The words came out in a rush, raw and honest. It felt like a slap in the face, but it was the truth. You didn’t know him, not the way you needed to. You only knew the parts he chose to show, the parts that made you feel things you couldn’t quite put into words. But the rest? The side that might be capable of violence, of things you couldn’t even imagine? You didn’t know that Jungkook, and that thought was enough to make your heart ache.

You stepped back slightly, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t control, trying to create some kind of distance from the confusion swirling in your mind.

“Well maybe if you let me explain—”

“What do you want to explain?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, but there was a tremor of fear in it that you couldn’t hide. “That you’re a monster just like every other man here?” Your words hit him like a punch, and you could see the flinch run through him. His eyes darkened, a coldness creeping into them as he heard you compare him to the very thing he hated most—his rival, the men he despised.

“Do you even do this for money, or for your own pleasure?” you asked, your voice trembling, but the anger inside you was hard to ignore now. You needed answers, and you needed them to be true, no matter how much it hurt.

The question seemed to throw him off, as if you had hit him with something unexpected. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though the lie he had been telling himself and others was on the tip of his tongue. But this time, the lie stayed stuck. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to you, not now.

“Be honest for once,” you said, your breath shaky but your eyes not leaving his. You could see the hesitation in his face, the battle between his usual deflection and the truth that was forcing itself out.

Jungkook lowered his head, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. It was in that moment, in the silence that stretched between you both, that he finally spoke the words you were terrified of hearing.

“Because I want to. Money is a plus.”

The words hit you like a wave, your body freezing in place as the meaning behind them sank in. If he was doing it for money, you could almost understand, because you knew his life in danger. But this? This was different. This felt like a choice, and it was a choice that made your stomach twist.

You grabbed your backpack, your hands shaking as you hastily packed your belongings, trying to escape the suffocating tension in the room. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight, and the only thing you knew was that you had to leave.

Jungkook was there, his presence overwhelming, his hands gently cupping your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. Those eyes. The same doe-eyes you had come to love, the eyes that once made your heart flutter, now filled with pain and confusion.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words breaking through the thick air, on the verge of tears. His fingers trembled as they hovered near your cheek, begging for an answer that made sense, but there was no way to make sense of this.

“I want to go home,” you muttered, your voice shaky, trying to pull away from his grasp as you moved frantically around the room, gathering the rest of your things. You could feel your chest tighten with each step, each moment that passed.

“Home? You can’t be serious,” he scoffed, disbelief clouding his voice. “Your father’s a bastard and—”

“At least he’s not a fucking killer!” you snapped, your words cutting through the air like a knife. You turned to face him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest, your body trembling with anger. “Don’t tell me what’s right for me when you should be the one I should be running away from!”

You grabbed the plastic bag with the money you had won and you tossed it at his feet, the crinkling sound of the bag hitting the floor echoing in the silence that followed.

“Here,” you spat, your chest heaving with rage. “Take that.”

He didn’t even acknowledge the money as it fell at his feet. Instead, he dropped to his knees, his body sagging, and his head hung low. His silence was deafening, the weight of your words settling in the space between you both.

“The money I fucking worked for your stupid life!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the sheer intensity of your emotions.

He stayed kneeling, the tears you had been holding back now threatening to spill. His lips parted, but nothing came out. You had shattered something inside him—something that even he hadn’t been ready to confront.

And you couldn’t stand there anymore. You couldn’t stand to watch him fall apart, because the truth was, you were falling apart too.

You closed the door behind you with a quiet click, the weight of it sinking deep into your chest. Each step you took away from the motel felt heavier than the last, as if the walls were closing in around you. Shame clung to your skin, suffocating you with every breath. You didn’t even know if you were still welcome in your own home anymore.

Your father’s words rang in your ears, a reminder of how unwanted you had become in his eyes. His cruel dismissal was something you’d never be able to forget, but despite it all, the thought of returning home was the only thing you could hold onto right now.

With every step, you wondered if your return would only confirm that you were nothing more than a burden, unwanted and lost. But you kept walking anyway. Because it was the only place left where you might find something to hold onto. Even if it was just the walls, the stale air, the broken pieces of a home that was no longer yours.

You felt a strange mixture of relief and guilt when you saw your mother open the door. Her expression was cold, and her eyes narrowed when she saw you standing there, but she quickly pushed the door wider, letting you in without a word. There was no warmth, no embrace, only a faint flicker of something behind her eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

“He isn’t here,” she said curtly, not bothering with a greeting, her tone sharp and detached. Her movements were quick, almost frantic, as she grabbed you by the shoulders and steered you into the house, guiding you towards your room without a second thought. “You shouldn’t be here. What happened?” The faintest trace of concern flashed in her eyes, though it quickly vanished behind her guarded expression.

The words were stuck in your throat for a moment before you spoke, the realization of what you had learned about men “I was wrong,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “They’re not one better than the other.”

Her hands were on your chin before you could even react, forcing you to look at her. Her fingers dug into your skin with surprising strength as she locked her gaze onto yours, her eyes searching you in a way that made you feel exposed. “Does he hurt you?” she asked, her voice calm but there was an edge to it—a raw, demanding edge that you had never heard before.

The words flew from your mouth without hesitation, fueled by the raw confidence and certainty you felt in that moment. “Never.” The anger in your response surprised even you, as if your own heart had built a wall in defense, not just for Jungkook but for yourself. You were almost angry that she would ask such a thing, even though, deep down, you knew why she was concerned.

Her grip loosened slightly, but her face remained stern. She looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing the truth in your eyes. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, her voice a bit softer, yet still tinged with that same determination. “Then he is better than them,” she said, her words almost resigned, as though she had already come to that conclusion in her mind.

“Your father made it clear, he doesn’t want you there,” your mother finally says, her voice low and resigned as she stands up from the bed. She walks over to the window, peeking through the blinds to see if your father’s car isn’t parked outside. She lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t keep you hiding here for long. Things would be terrible for me if I did.”

She gestures towards the bruises on her arms. Your body tightens with rage at the sight, and something inside you burns. Anger floods your chest, but you stay silent, the truth sinking in. She had to keep quiet. She had no choice.

She presses her fingers to her temple, brows furrowing as though she’s trying to come up with an escape, a way out. “My hairdresser…” she starts, her voice suddenly shifting. You look up at her, confused. She smiles, but it’s not the smile you’ve grown used to. It’s something unfamiliar, almost like she’s found the solution to her problem. A spark of something new. “You know Park Yejin, right?”

You nod slowly, your mind struggling to catch up. Yejin was the small woman your mother always went to for her haircuts. The one place where your mother could be herself, if only for a moment, away from the suffocating presence of men. Yejin’s shop wasn’t just a place for hair—it was a sanctuary for women. A place where they could sit together, laugh, and share stories without fear of being judged or watched. It was the rare space where they could be free, even if just for a little while.

You remember the joy in your mother’s eyes whenever she returned from those visits. She would always speak about Yejin with such warmth, telling you how the other women in the neighborhood would gather there, all of them gossiping and laughing, sharing a rare kind of freedom.

Your mother’s eyes gleam now as she thinks of something, a plan forming in her mind. “She’s a good person,” she continues, almost to herself. “She wouldn’t turn you away.”

“I’ll come to see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice filled with an odd sense of finality as she moved toward the window. She opened it wide, the cool air rushing in. “Climb out here, follow the same path, and you’ll find her.”

Her words were clear, almost rehearsed, as though she had thought this through many times before. Without hesitation, you nodded and swung your leg over the windowsill. Your heart pounded in your chest, unsure of what you were walking into, but trusting her in a way that only a child could.

Following the directions your mother had given you, you made your way through the winding streets. The same familiar neighborhood that you had grown up in, where everything felt safe and comforting, but now it seemed different. You were walking through it with a new purpose, your thoughts swirling with confusion and uncertainty. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you kept moving forward.

Finally, you reached Park Yejin’s shop, nestled between two other small buildings. The warm light from inside filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow onto the sidewalk. You could see the faint silhouettes of women inside, their laughter and chatter muffled by the walls. This was it. This was where your mother had found her moments of freedom, her small haven away from the chaos.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, lifting your hand to knock on the door. The moment felt surreal, as if everything was leading you to this point. The woman who had been your mother’s safe space, now holding the key to your escape.

You quickly explained your situation, the words tumbling out as you felt the weight of everything that had led you here. Park Yejin, without hesitation, opened the door wider, letting you in without a single question when you mentioned your mother’s name. It was as though she already understood.

She guided you inside, offering you a glass of water, the cool liquid a soothing relief as it ran down your throat. She led you to the back of the shop, where a soft beige couch rested against the wall. The simple, cozy space seemed like a world away from the chaos you had just left behind.

Without a word, she handed you a blanket, its warmth wrapping around you like a hug. It was the first time today that your heart finally began to slow down, the tension in your chest starting to ease.

You sank into the couch, the exhaustion of the day catching up to you. Your mind raced with everything that had happened—your mother, Jungkook, the things you’d said, the things you’d learned. It was all too much.

“Rest,” Park Yejin said quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re safe here.”

You nodded, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and drift into a fragile, peaceful sleep.

Kim Taehee was a woman consumed by anger, a rage that had burned within her from a very young age. A rebellious spirit that refused to bow to the limitations society and family imposed on her. She had always known, deep down, that she didn’t want to fall into the same destructive spiral her mother had lived. Yet, despite her fierce resolve, she eventually found herself bound by the very chains she swore to avoid when she chose to marry Lee Minhyeok.

At first, everything seemed perfect. He was kind, promising her the life of luxury and security she had always dreamed of. Beautiful houses, expensive jewelry, and a life of comfort that seemed too good to be true. For a while, it was a fairytale—she felt cherished, important, and above all, loved. She thought she had found a man who truly cared for her. But like all fairytales, this one was fleeting.

The moment she gave birth to their daughter, everything changed. Minhyeok, once so attentive and loving, became distant and indifferent. He had gotten what he wanted—a child. He had only ever wanted one, and after that, her role was reduced to nothing more than the mother of his child. No longer the wife, no longer the woman. She was just a vessel, a caretaker for their daughter, nothing more. The love they once shared withered away, and Taehee found herself trapped in a marriage that had lost all its meaning. She became everything she despised—just like her own mother.

Her rebellious fire, the one that had always burned so brightly within her, only grew fiercer with time. She was no longer content with being a mere shadow of herself. The woman who once dreamed of a life of autonomy and power now sought more than mere survival. She sought freedom, control, and, above all, the power to change her fate.

As she climbed the stairs of the apartment complex, a smile tugged at her lips. Her lipstick, a deep red, was perfect—bold, unapologetic, just like her. She had long fantasized about a space where she could take charge, a place where she could dictate her terms, and the men inside would bend to her will. She had imagined this for years, but now it was becoming a reality.

It was almost a dream came true when while Kim Taehee sat in the salon chair, her hairdresser carefully wrapping a curler into her hair, she half-listened to the hum of the hairdryers around her. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the magazine she was flipping through. It was the only place where she could exist without the weight of her marriage bearing down on her—without the suffocating presence of her husband.

Her friend, who had been quietly getting her hair done at the station beside her, leaned in close. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, filled with an air of secrecy. “Taehee,” she began, her eyes scanning the room before settling back on her. “My husband… he’s dead.”

At first, Taehee froze, she was ready to apologize. But then her friend began to laugh, and with that, something inside Taehee clicked. The air between them shifted, and she could see the satisfaction in her friend’s expression.

Taehee let out a soft laugh too, unsure whether it was from disbelief or the strange relief creeping into her chest. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “What do you mean? How did that happen?”

Her friend leaned back, looking around as if checking for anyone else who might be listening before she spoke again, this time in more of a confidential whisper. “I did it. I had him killed—paid men to do it for me. Men who’ll do anything for money. I told them everything, everything they needed to know. And now, I'm free.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with unspoken truths. Taehee’s heart pounded, the reality of what her friend was saying sinking in. “You really had him killed?” Taehee murmured, her voice shaky, but inside, a new excitement was building.

“Yeah, Taehee. Just like that. We made the deal. They took care of it. And now I can do whatever I want, without him breathing down my neck. I'm free.”

Taehee let the words settle in her mind. It was almost too surreal to comprehend—until she looked around at the other women in the salon, who had gathered to listen. The three of them erupted into laughter, mocking the situation, laughing about the man’s death, about how easy it seemed. In a space where women often shared their secrets, their frustrations, and their gossip, this was just another story, another tragedy turned into something absurd.

But Taehee’s mind was far from the laughter around her. While the others continued to mock her friend’s late husband, she was lost in thought. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with ideas and possibilities. Could it really be that simple? Could she also find a way out? A way to be free from the suffocating grip of her marriage?

For the first time in years, the spark of rebellion flickered in her chest, rekindled by the stories of men willing to kill for a cause—willing to erase the obstacles standing in the way of freedom. In that moment, her mind was already racing, already devising plans for her own escape. She didn’t have all the pieces yet, but she knew one thing: if others could do it, so could she.

She looks at the paper in her hand, her friend’s handwriting scrawled across it with the address she was supposed to go to. With a deep breath and a heavy heart, she knocks on the door.

The door opens, and a young man stands there, his sharp, cat-like eyes studying her with a penetrating gaze. For a second, the silence between them feels thick, almost suffocating, before he steps aside and gestures for her to enter. The click of her heels echoes through the small apartment as she steps inside, the faint smell of smoke and the dull hum of city life seeping through the walls.

On the couch, another man lounges lazily. He’s younger than the first, dressed in a tight black shirt, one long sleeve and the other bare. His chest is adorned with a holster, and he’s smoking quietly, the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers.

Taehee notices his disheveled appearance—his eyes are red, his hair a mess, and there are bruises on his face. His doe-eyed gaze seems oddly familiar, but she can’t place where she’s seen him before.

The first man finally speaks, his voice deep and calm, as he sits himself down at a desk, his eyes never leaving her. “So,” he begins, folding his hands in front of him, “I’m sure you know what we’re doing.”

She meets his gaze, unsure of how to respond but knowing there was no turning back now.

Taehee shook her head, finally finding the strength to stand taller, her posture changing as she squared her shoulders.

She took a cigarette from her own packet, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips. The small, familiar motion grounded her, and the smoke was almost comforting as it filled her lungs. Exhaling slowly, she leaned back against the wall, her voice steady but firm as she began explaining how she found them—and why she needed their help.

“My husband,” she began, her voice low. “I need him gone. And I don’t care what it takes.”

The man sitting at the desk—his eyes calculating, patient—nodded, absorbing her words. He didn’t interrupt, letting her speak freely. When she finished, he leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge, “what makes you think you can trust us? And why now? What changed?”

Taehee straightened, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve been living in a prison for too long. I can’t keep pretending that things will get better. I need him out of my life, once and for all. You’re my only way out.”

The man at the desk exchanged a glance with the other one, the one with the bruised face. He took a long drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on Taehee.

“We’re not in the business of doing favors,” the man at the desk said, his tone sharp. “But if you’re serious, we need to know everything—how, when, and where. Every detail matters. One wrong move, and it all falls apart.”

Taehee nodded, her expression cold but determined. “I know what’s at stake. I’ll give you everything you need.”

She watched as the man jotted down some notes, preparing to make her request a reality. The weight of her decision was heavy, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was finally taking control of her life.

She provided them with every detail they needed—when he would be home, where he usually spent his time, the places where he could be found without delay. Her heart raced with a dark sense of satisfaction, the anticipation growing as she laid out the plan.

“Make him suffer,” she said, her voice steady but cold, as she tapped the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on the desk. Her gaze never wavered as she continued, her words laced with a cruel finality. “Don’t kill him right away. I want him to feel every ounce of pain before the end. Let him beg for mercy.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and it was almost unnerving—this smile wasn’t the kind of expression you’d expect from a woman in her position. The two men exchanged a glance, their eyes flicking between each other, both surprised by her intensity. Most women who came to them were broken, scared, or hesitant. But this one—this woman—was different. She was calm, almost eager for the outcome.

Jungkook, however, was more focused on something else. He wasn’t just listening to her words; he was studying her every movement, every subtle change in her expression. He knew her. There was something about her that seemed familiar, something that resonated deep within him. As he watched her speak, something clicked—a recognition. Her posture, her coldness, her sharpness—it all reminded him of someone. You.

The way she held herself, the fire in her eyes, the way she seemed untouchable despite everything she had been through—it was eerily similar to you. He could see it now—the rebellious spirit, the drive to survive.

It wasn’t just a sense of familiarity—he knew her.

His gaze sharpened, and he stepped forward, slowly crossing the room toward her. There was no mistaking it now. This was her. This was the mother he had heard so much about.

“Any children we should be aware of?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, his tone more serious than before. His eyes were fixed on her face, studying every detail, looking for any sign that she was lying. He couldn’t afford to miss anything.

“My daughter is safe,” she said firmly, and Jungkook let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was relieved, but that relief didn’t last long.

“But while that fucker is still alive,” she continued, her voice growing colder, “I can’t guarantee she will stay safe. I need him out of my life. I need him gone so I can protect her, to care for her the way a mother should.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between them. His thoughts aligned with hers. It was everything he needed to know before he spoke again.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, the resolve clear in his voice.

The older man nodded in agreement, and with that, the plan was set. Jungkook knew his next move, and nothing would stand in his way.

It would happen on Thursday night. Tomorrow.

Your mother had told them everything—how he always came home early that day, how work finished earlier than usual. On Thursdays, he was often exhausted, too drained to even raise a hand against her. It was the one night where silence filled the house instead of violence. The perfect day to strike.

But after it was Friday and it wasn’t just any other day for Jungkook.

It was the day he, too, would have to face the men who wanted him dead. A confrontation he had been preparing for, one he had always known was inevitable. But that didn’t matter. Not right now.

He had a job to do first.

He would make sure the bastard was gone before he even thought about his own fate. If he had to die, so be it—but not before he saw this through. Not before he knew that you were safe.

If finishing this mission meant risking it all, then he would. Without hesitation.

“Still okay?”

It was the first thing he asked when Jungkook stepped into the dimly lit apartment. He always checked in before they did something they couldn’t take back.

Jungkook gave a firm nod, not a hint of hesitation in his movements. He double-checked his gun, ensuring it was fully loaded before strapping the holster securely across his chest. His fingers slipped into his half-finger gloves, tightening them as if they were part of a ritual.

“I did,” he said, his voice steady, offering silent reassurance to the older man.

There was a pause before the man exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette, observing him through the haze of smoke.

“You seem different today,” he finally noted, tapping the ash into an overflowing tray.

Jungkook didn’t respond, merely raising an eyebrow as he adjusted the straps across his shoulders.

The man sighed, his tone turning more serious. “Listen, Jeon.” Jungkook’s fingers twitched at the sound of his last name. He hated it—hated what it reminded him of, who it tied him to.

“The woman paid well. She’s determined. If you mess this up, it won’t end well.”

“I know,” Jungkook said simply. His voice carried no doubt, no room for error. He clapped the older man on the shoulder before stepping toward the door.

Outside, the night awaited.

Jungkook was grateful the streets were empty. He always preferred to do this kind of work under the cover of darkness. Sometimes, he didn’t have a choice—some targets lived their lives in broad daylight, forcing him to move under the sun. But tonight, the absence of light was a relief. He could already feel guilt creeping into his chest, tightening its grip around his heart.

He thought of you. Your face. Your eyes, the way they looked at him before you left. Did you know? Had your mother told you what she had planned? He hoped—God, he hoped—you did. Because if you knew and hadn’t tried to stop it, maybe that meant you understood. Maybe, in some twisted way, you agreed with what he was about to do.

The house loomed ahead, dark and silent except for a single light near the entrance. Just as your mother had said. A signal. An invitation.

It was unsettling how methodical she was, how she had orchestrated everything from start to finish like she had done this before. He had worked with desperate women before—women who barely spoke above a whisper when they gave him their husbands’ schedules, who hesitated, who broke down before the deed was even done. But your mother? She was something else entirely.

Jungkook made his presence known with a quiet knock, and almost immediately, the door creaked open. She stood there, her manicured fingers pressing lightly against her lips, a silent nod directing him inside.

It was easy. Too easy.

Most times, he had to break in, move like a shadow through unfamiliar halls. But here? Here, he was welcomed like a king into the home of a man he was about to kill.

She didn’t speak, just pointed toward the living room. And there he was—sprawled on the sofa, mouth hanging open, his breath a slow, rumbling groan.

Completely unaware that his life had just run out of time.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered around the house, taking in every detail with sharp precision. But when his eyes landed on the family portrait hanging on the wall, his breath caught in his throat.

It looked like something out of a picture frame catalog—perfect, polished. A family that seemed whole. Your hands rested on your father’s shoulder, your smile bright, your eyes shining. You were beautiful.

But Jungkook knew better.

To anyone else, that smile could be convincing. But not to him. He had seen your real smile before—the one that made your nose scrunch, your eyes crinkle at the corners, the one where your teeth showed in an unguarded, genuine laugh. The one you gave when you were truly happy.

This? This was rehearsed. Controlled. A mask.

Your mother watched him, her brows furrowed in silent observation. He had been calm, detached, efficient throughout the planning of this whole thing. But now, he was standing there, staring at a photograph with more care than he had shown the entire night.

Then, she followed his gaze. Her daughter.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Her lips parted slightly as she finally recognized what had been nagging at her since the first moment she saw him—the familiarity in his face, in his eyes. Doe-eyes, fixated on the girl in the photograph.

It was him. The man you had clung to and the one you had apparently run away from.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Your mother’s voice was quiet, almost testing.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He tore his gaze away from the portrait, shaking his head quickly as if to rid himself of the distraction. Focus.

He felt like an idiot for letting his thoughts drift when he was supposed to be here to kill a man.

“I’m doing it for her,” your mother murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a quick glance toward the living room, ensuring he was still asleep. Then, with unwavering certainty, she met Jungkook’s gaze. “So think about her while you do it.”

Jungkook didn’t respond—he only gave a sharp nod before stepping forward.

It should have been easy. It had always been easy. But now? His heart felt heavier than it ever had before.

Your mother lingered by the doorframe, watching intently, her arms crossed as if bracing herself for what was to come. She wanted to witness it—the moment the man who had caged her for so long finally felt powerless. She was waiting for Jungkook to make the first move, for the violence to begin.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked one last time to the family portrait on the wall. His breath came out slow, controlled, but his chest burned with restrained emotion. His gaze locked onto yours—the same eyes that had glared at him with betrayal as you walked out of the motel room. The same eyes that had widened in fear when you realized what he was capable of.

Then, he thought about your father.

The man who had thrown you out into the night like you were nothing. The man who had slaped your cheek without remorse. The man who had made you suffer in ways Jungkook couldn’t even begin to understand.

And suddenly, the guilt in his chest burned into something else entirely.

Without hesitation, he seized the sleeping man by the collar, yanking him upright. The sudden movement jolted him awake, but before he could even process what was happening, Jungkook threw him down with brutal force. His back slammed against the corner of the coffee table, the sharp crack of bone meeting wood echoing through the silent house. A muffled groan of pain escaped him as he writhed on the floor.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward.

Jungkook’s fist met the man’s face with brutal force, knuckles splitting against skin and bone. The impact jolted through his arm, but he barely felt it. The man beneath him groaned, weakly trying to grab Jungkook’s wrist in a feeble attempt at defense. It was useless. Jungkook didn’t stop. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he threw another punch. And another. And another.

A sharp, ringing laughter broke through his daze.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His vision, which had been tunneled on the bruised and bloodied face beneath him, flickered to the side.

Your mother was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, legs crossed, a cigarette between her manicured fingers. Her lips curled into a smirk, eyes alight with something that unsettled him. She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as she tilted her head.

“Add more pain,” she murmured, her voice smooth, almost amused.

Jungkook’s grip on your father’s throat tightened instinctively. The man beneath him coughed, a wet, gurgling sound as blood dribbled from his mouth. His swollen eyes barely opened, his expression a mixture of confusion and agony.

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

He looked at her.

His stomach twisted.

This was not the reaction he had come to expect. He had seen women filled with rage, with desperation, with grief. Women who sought vengeance through gritted teeth, who flinched at the sight of blood but swallowed their fear for the sake of justice. Women who paid him because they had no other choice.

But she? She was different.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t trembling.

She was enjoying it.

Jungkook could see it in the way her lips curled, the way her eyes gleamed with something almost… eager. The way she leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted a closer look at the damage he was inflicting.

It unsettled him.

He thought he was the monster. The killer. The animal. He had believed it himself, accepted it, worn it like a second skin. But now, sitting here, watching this woman—your mother—smile at the suffering before her, he felt something foreign settle in his chest.

Disgust.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the real monster in the room.

Jungkook’s mind was spiraling.

He couldn’t understand it. You were their daughter? You, who recoiled from violence, who looked at him with something close to fear when you found out what he had done? How could someone like you come from people like them—one cruel, the other heartless?

His breath shuddered as he loosened his grip.

The man beneath him gasped sharply, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths, his body trembling from pain but still clinging to life.

A sharp sound of heels clicking against the floor.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Your mother’s voice sliced through the air, cold and sharp as she loomed over him. The amusement in her tone was gone, replaced with something more threatening. She stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray with unnecessary force, eyes narrowing in fury.

“I want him dead.”

Jungkook stayed still.

His body felt heavy, his hands limp at his sides. He was kneeling over your father, straddling him, his head hanging low. He could finish it—one final blow, a bullet to the skull, an end to it all.

But he couldn’t.

Not when he saw your face in his mind.

You may have hated your father. You may have wished him gone, but death? Death was different. It was permanent. Unforgiving. No matter how much he deserved it, Jungkook knew the weight of it would stay with you. He knew the burden of living with the knowledge that someone took your parent away from you. That someone played god with their life.

And that someone would have been him.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His jaw clenched.

He couldn’t do that to you.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your mother’s voice dripped with venom now, her patience thinning.

“I—”

A flash of movement.

Pain exploded across his jaw as your father, fueled by desperation, threw a weak but determined punch. His knuckles collided with Jungkook’s face, sending his head snapping to the side.

The room seemed to still for a moment.

Jungkook inhaled slowly, tasting blood. Then, exhaled.

Your father had the upper hand now.

Jungkook barely had time to react before another punch landed, this one more forceful, knocking his head back. Pain burst through his skull, sharp and dizzying.

“Who the fuck are you?” your father roared, voice raw with anger and desperation as he grabbed Jungkook by the collar, shaking him.

Jungkook’s fingers fumbled for his holster, for the cold metal of his gun. His vision was blurry, but he knew if he could just—

CRACK.

The sound was sickening.

The weight on top of him slumped suddenly, heavy and lifeless.

Jungkook blinked rapidly, his breath ragged, tasting blood on his tongue. He smelled it first—the thick, metallic scent of it filling his nostrils—before he saw it.

Your mother stood above them, her chest heaving, fingers tightly clasped around the heavy glass ashtray. Its edges were darkened, slick with blood.

Jungkook’s body stiffened as he processed what just happened.

The back of your father’s head was caved in. Blood pooled onto his shirt, soaking into the fabric like ink spreading over paper. His body was completely still. Silent.

Jungkook spit out blood onto the floor, his breath shaky. His ears were ringing.

For the first time since entering this house, he wasn’t sure what terrified him more—what he had done, or what she had done.

There was no turning back now.

One of your parents was gone. Erased from existence in an instant. And even if Jungkook hadn’t been the one to deliver the fatal blow, he had still been part of it. He had still held the gun in a way.

The weight of it crushed him.

He felt sick—dirty. Like the blood soaking into the carpet had somehow seeped into his own skin.

And what made it worse—what made his stomach churn with something close to disgust—was that your mother didn’t seem to care.

She let the ashtray slip from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the floor sharp and final. She didn’t tremble, didn’t even hesitate. There was no shock on her face, no guilt in her eyes. Only cold satisfaction.

Jungkook sank onto the floor, ignoring the lifeless body beside him. His chest heaved, his mind racing.

“What the fuck was that?” she snapped, voice sharp and accusing. “I paid you, and you—”

“I can't hurt her!” The words ripped out of him, raw and desperate. His hands clawed at his hair as he doubled over, his body shaking with sobs.

He was a monster.

And the worst part?

He had no idea if you would ever forgive him.

At that, her frantic pace came to a halt. It was as if the weight of her actions finally struck her—like she was just now realizing the gravity of what she had done. Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Oh no,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Fuck, what did I do?”

Jungkook could only watch in disbelief, his eyes narrowed. She was a lunatic, pacing frantically around the room, her fingers tugging at her hair like she was losing her mind. She had been so cold, so calculated, but now… now she was unraveling, and it was only making him more confused.

Without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands gripped his face, and the sensation made his skin crawl. He hated it. He had always loved it when you touched him, your fingers gentle and warm, but this? This was suffocating. The coldness in her touch was a stark contrast to anything he had ever known.

“Listen,” she urged, her voice a mix of desperation and confidence, her eyes scanning his face like she was studying him, gauging his reactions. “She can’t know it was me.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

“I’m her only parent now,” she continued, her grip tightening on his face as if she could will him to understand. “I promised her—I promised I would take care of her. And now I will. No matter what it takes.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw her hands off of him, demand she understand the mess she had made. But instead, he was silent. His heart raced with guilt, with confusion, and with fear. Fear for you—because in the end, this wasn’t about her. It was about you.

“It was you, you did it, okay?” she snapped, her hands tightening around his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.

Jungkook recoiled, pulling his head back in disbelief. “What—” he began, swatting her hands away, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You heard me,” she said, standing tall, her voice cold and firm. “I’ll give you money, whatever you want, but—”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Jungkook stormed toward her. His anger surged, raw and uncontrollable, as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the kitchen. The force of his movements made her stumble slightly, but she didn’t falter, only meeting his eyes with an icy stare.

“I don’t want your money,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How can someone like you even think you can take care of her? A cold, heartless bitch like you?”

Your mother’s hand lashed out with lightning speed, striking him hard across the cheek. The sharp sting of the slap burned his skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight of her words.

“Because you can?” she retorted bitterly, her voice laced with venom. “With all the blood on your hands? Don’t act like you’re any better than me.”

Jungkook froze. Her words cut deeper than the slap ever could. His hands trembled with rage, but now, something else gnawed at him. Something darker. What was he doing? How could he judge her when he was no different? His actions were just as guilty, and the weight of it hit him like a ton of bricks.

“So either you run away, leave her life, or I tell the police it was you,” she threatened, her voice sharp, each word cutting through the air like a blade. “They won’t ask any questions. You scream trouble,” she sneered, her eyes scanning him with a judgmental gaze. “You’re the perfect culprit.”

Jungkook’s heart raced, a mix of anger and panic flooding his chest. He could already feel the weight of her words sinking in. She was right—his appearance, his bruised face, the tattoos and piercings that made him look like nothing more than a criminal; to anyone who didn’t know him, he was the ideal scapegoat. All she had to do was point the finger, and he’d be the one to take the fall.

He refused to be imprisoned for something he didn’t commit. It would be unjust, unequal—everything he had spent his life fighting against. He wanted fairness, not a life where he was sent to jail simply because he had nothing—no money, no home, no power.

“I’ll leave her,” he finally says, the words heavy in his chest. The thought of running away again feels different this time, more painful. He had spent his entire life moving, escaping, but now, it felt impossible to walk away. For the first time, there was something worth staying for—someone to care for, someone to love.

Your mother smiled, her hand resting coldly on his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. “When will the men come to take care of the body?” she asked, her voice almost casual, her smile unnervingly calm.

Before Jungkook could respond, she pushed him out of the door with a swift, practiced motion. He stumbled back, feeling a mixture of anger and confusion. Inside, she sat down on the couch again, eyes focused on the lifeless body of her husband, as if waiting for the next step to unfold—calm, patient, and completely detached.

He stood frozen, his body tense and rigid, eyes locked on the door. Anger surged through him, every fiber of his being clenched as if ready to explode.

“Jungkook?”

The sound of your voice hit him like a punch to the gut. His heart stopped, his palms suddenly drenched in sweat. His thoughts became a blur, a chaotic storm of confusion and guilt. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn around, to face you.

Your voice—quiet, shaky, full of vulnerability and worry—pulled him back from the storm inside his head. He wanted to answer, wanted to make things right, but all he could do was stand there, paralyzed by the weight of the moment.

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