Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jimin sighed softly as rain drummed steadily against the window in front of him. He focused on a single droplet, watching as it slid slowly down the glass, distorting the city’s colors into blurred streaks of light. From where he stood, high above the streets, the city was a picture of beauty—a sprawling network of neon lights and busy avenues that pulsed with life, even in the rain. The muffled hum of the city’s constant activity reached him faintly, almost soothing in its consistency. This was the heart of South Korea. 

 Seoul.  

 His gaze lingered on the view as he slowly lifted his mug to his lips, the rich aroma of coffee mingling with the cool air that seeped in from the slightly cracked window. He blew gently on the surface of the drink, savoring the warmth before taking a careful sip. But the moment of calm was short-lived. The sharp cry of a police siren pierced the quiet, a sudden and jarring sound that pulled him back to reality. The siren zipped out of the department below, a stark reminder of the ugliness hidden beneath the city’s beautiful surface. 

 He exhaled and leaned against the window. The city below pulsed with light, but none of it reached him. Commissioner Park Jimin—the youngest ever to hold the title in the Seoul Metropolitan Police Department—was a man with a reputation, one that was both admired and feared. His rise through the ranks had been nothing short of astonishing, a journey that began fresh out of high school when he joined the academy at just seventeen.  

A few years after graduating, he found himself partnered with rookie officer Ha Sungwoon. Though slightly older, Sungwoon had limited experience, with only a handful of minor successes under his belt and no involvement in major investigations. When they were paired together, many within the department dismissed them, often relegating the two to cold cases and routine patrol shifts. 

Yet Jimin refused to be underestimated. Both rookies shared an unyielding drive to prove themselves. By the time Jimin turned twenty-one, they had accomplished the unthinkable: together, they dismantled Seoul’s most dangerous crime syndicate, toppling the notorious Stray Clan and taking down Jeon Jung-Hyun the leader of Jeon Industries. The operation should have cemented their places in the force. But only one of them made it out—leaving Jimin hailed as the city’s hero overnight. 

But that was four years ago. 

 Now, at twenty-five, the weight of that day still lingered in the shadows of his mind, as heavy as the rain clouds outside. 

 He ran a hand through his slightly tousled black hair, the strands falling back into place from hours spent pouring over case files. Despite the weariness that clung to him, Jimin’s appearance remained striking. His plump lips and chubby cheeks gave him a baby-faced charm that seemed almost at odds with his role as commissioner. Though his soft features and slender frame often drew surprised reactions, his eyes—sharp and unyielding despite the dark circles beneath them—told a different story, one of a man who had seen too much for his age. 

He wore a crisp white button-up, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that, while more slender than muscular, spoke of a quiet strength. A leather holster rested against his side, the weight of the firearm giving an all-familiar heaviness of never having the heart to use it. Even in his disheveled state, there was an undeniable allure about him, a magnetic pull that made it hard for others to look away. 

His reflection in the glass stared back at him, a silent witness to the storm brewing within. For months the city began to murmur, the streets alive with hushed rumors and half-truths—whispers that a secret heir has taken over Jeon Industries. The very entity that’d been quiet since the investigation had once again become the source of his sleepless nights, his memories gnawing at him like an unhealed wound. It seems Jeon Jung-Hyun had an illegitimate child before his death and now the rumors spoke of Seoul’s new Kingpin—an heir who was ready to take the reins of a legacy that Jimin and Sungwoon had tried so desperately to dismantle. 

Jeon Industries was a name that has always carried formidable weight, both in the shadowy underground of Seoul and on the global stage. As the largest adult entertainment conglomerate in South Korea and the third-largest in the world, its influence was undeniable, stretching across continents and markets with a reach that few could rival. Their influence seeped into every corner of the city, from the flashy high-rises to the murky back alleys. 

The Jeon family had long reigned supreme over Gangnam, one of the most affluent and prestigious districts in Seoul. Their empire was a powerhouse, built on the lucrative—and often seedy—foundations of the adult entertainment industry. Jeon Industries dominated the market with its nightclubs, which served as fronts for illegal dealings, sex toy warehouses that doubled as storage for illicit drugs, lotteries that laundered dirty money, and adult films that masked a far more insidious trade—prostitution. 

For years, Jeon Industries operated with near-impunity. No matter how close the authorities got, the case always seemed to slip through their fingers, lost in a labyrinth of legal loopholes and technicalities that Jeon Industries had perfected navigating. Jeon Jung-Hyun had mastered the art of staying just out of reach, his operations so meticulously concealed that not even the most dogged investigators couldn’t pin him down. The company’s official records were clean, the front-facing operations impeccable, but beneath the surface, there was a festering network of corruption, one that reached far beyond Seoul. 

But everything changed one fateful night. 

Jimin had received a tip—a rare, golden opportunity to catch Jeon Industries in the act. A deal was going down between the notorious Stray Clan and Jeon Industries, a high-stakes exchange that could finally bring the Jeon Jung-Hyun to justice. It was the break they had been waiting for, and Sungwoon, along with Jimin, moved quickly. They stormed the location, intent on taking down two of Seoul’s most dangerous criminals in one fell swoop. The sting operation was supposed to be swift and decisive, a clean victory that would cripple the criminal underworld. 

But nothing went according to plan. 

The mission had been successful—at first. With all of Stray Clan in cuffs, the entire operation neared its conclusion as Jeon Jung-Hyun was practically surrounded when chaos broke shattering the fragile victory.  

Gunfire erupted, sharp cracks echoing through the fog-drenched shipping yard. The air was thick with the scent of rain and salt, visibility cut by the towering stacks of rusting cargo containers. Officers shouted over the storm; orders lost in the deafening clang of bullets ricocheting off steel.  

In the confusion, JungHyun struck.  

Jimin barely felt it—an arm coiling around his throat, a brutal yank backward. Cold steel pressed against his temple.  

“Back off!” JungHyun barked, dragging Jimin deeper into the maze of containers, using him like a human shield as the squad scrambled for cover. The steady drizzle had soaked through Jimin’s uniform, his breath fogging in the bitter night air.  

They stumbled further into the labyrinth until the sounds of pursuit grew distant.  

A glint of movement.  

Jimin twisted.  

Pain jolted through his shoulder as he wrenched free, adrenaline overriding fear. His elbow cracked against JungHyun’s wrist, the gun knocked loose, skidding across the wet concrete. Before he could think, Jimin had it—fingers curling tight around the weapon, arm outstretched, the barrel aimed squarely at JungHyun’s chest.  

Jeon took a step back, then stilled.  

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, eyes narrowing with cruel amusement.  

“You got some balls, kid. I’ll give you that. But…”  

JungHyun’s gaze swept him, lingering on the tremor in his hands, the way the gun wavered ever so slightly.  

“You don’t have it in you to kill a man.”  

He took another step back, calm, testing.  

“Don’t move!” Jimin’s voice cracked, but his stance held. His heart thundered, his finger flexing against the trigger. Just pull it. End this.  

But he didn’t.  

“Come on, kid. Put the gun down. Let me go. Nobody else has to get hurt tonight.”  

In the distance, the crunch of boots on gravel.  

“S-Sungwoon! He’s over here!” Jimin shouted, voice hoarse with desperation.  

JungHyun’s eyes narrowed.  

Then—too fast—he lunged.  

A flicker of motion as his hand dipped toward his ankle.  

“NO!”  

The deafening crack of gunfire shattered the rain-soaked air.  

Jimin flinched, blinking as JungHyun stumbled back, a bloodstain blooming across his chest. His body sagged, collapsing against the container wall before crumpling to the ground.  

Silence.  

Relief flooded Jimin’s lungs—just for a heartbeat.  

He spun around, stomach plummeting as Sungwoon swayed on his feet, a spreading red stain soaking through his uniform.  

A weak smile ghosted his lips before his knees gave out.  

“SUNGWOON!!”  

He had him in his sights but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't take the shot. And in the end, it was Sungwoon, his partner, who not only saved his life but lost his own in return. Jimin could never forget the last thing his partner said to him.  

Sungwoon lay slumped in his arms, head cradled gently against Jimin’s chest as rain soaked through their uniforms. His face was pale, lips trembling, and his breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps.  

“You did it...You did it, Woon,” he whispered, a faint, broken smile on his lips. “You’re a hero... Just like you always said you would be.”  

Sungwoon chuckled weakly before instantly wincing “Jimin...You’re the hero. You know it has to be you.”  

Jimin shook his head violently eyes filling with tears, his hands pressed harder against the wound on his stomach, desperate to keep him here. "NO! Woon, you're gonna be okay! just stay with me—"  

But Sungwoon’s eyes were losing focus. He knew his time was running out. His voice found strength, even as the pain stole his breath.  

"No, Listen to me Jimin. You alone took down Jeon Industries. No one can know the truth. This city needs a hero. Not...not another tragedy. Not a martyr."  

Jimin’s tears spilt as he pressed harder against the wound, desperate to stop the life draining from his friend. "Don't—don't say that. Stay with me. You're gonna be okay—"  

Sungwoon’s head shifted weakly in his arms, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet Jimin’s. He gave the faintest smile, his hand twitching to grasp Jimin’s wrist.  

“Jimin you will always be my partner and dear friend." His voice cracked; pain etched into every word. "Seoul needs you. Be the hero now. Promise me... Don’t let this be for nothing.”  

Jimin’s breath caught, his entire body trembling as he watched the light fade from Sungwoon’s eyes.  

“Remember, hero’s never die.”  

The hand clutching his wrist fell away.  

And just like that, Sungwoon was gone.  

Jimin couldn't refuse Sungwoon’s dying wish so he took the credit—all the credit—and became the hero that Seoul needed. The man who took down the feared leader of Jeon Industries. Jimin and Sungwoon always believed that with the head of the snake cut off, the rest of the empire would crumble. But it seems like they were wrong.  

Jimin took another sip of his coffee, the comforting aroma doing some good in easing his troubled mind.  He tore his eyes away from the rain-soaked streets below and turned his attention back to the case board in front of him. Newspaper clippings and photos were tacked haphazardly across it, creating a chaotic collage of his current case. Seoul had always had its problems, but this… This was something different, something darker. 

His gaze stopped on a photograph of a young man’s body, bound tightly in a black leather BDSM bodysuit, the brand owned by Jeon Industries. The straps were cinched around the victim’s ankles and wrists, each buckle fastened with meticulous precision. A full mask covered their face aside from a ball gag crudely lodged in their mouth. Jimin put his coffee down, the taste souring in his mouth. His fingers hovered over the edge of the desk, gripping it just a little tighter as he forced himself to examine the next photo.  

A stark, clinical shot from the victim’s autopsy. A large, cauterized branding of a Playboy Bunny was seared into the young man’s pale chest, the symbol a grotesque contrast against his lifeless skin. An icy chill ran through Jimin as he stared at it. This wasn’t just another piece of evidence; it was a message. The Playboy Bunny logo was unmistakable, a symbol carried by many of Jeon Industries’ performers as tattoos. But here, burned into flesh, it took on a far more sinister meaning. 

The victim was Lee Changsun, 21 years old. His last known whereabouts: The Golden Hare, one of Jeon’s most notorious clubs in the heart of Gangnam. He was the fifth victim in a string of murders that had begun to terrorize the city. All the victims were between the ages of 21 and 35, abducted from different parts of Seoul, yet with an unmistakable pattern—a Playboy Bunny branding and BDSM gear, all linking back to Jeon Industries. 

Jimin had been looking into Jeon Industries for months, ever since the first whispers of an heir had begun circulating through Seoul’s underworld. The reappearance of the Jeon name, once thought buried with its former patriarch, had set off alarm bells. Each rumor was more unsettling than the last, painting a picture of an even more dangerous Jeon then Jung-Hyun. 

A few weeks ago, Jimin had received an anonymous tip. At first, he’d been skeptical—it wasn’t the first time someone had claimed to have insider information on Jeon Industries. But this tip was different. It had details, names, locations—information only someone close to the operation could know. Eventually, the anonymous tipper revealed himself as a bartender at The Golden Hare named Yoongi. The bartender was desperate but credible, mainly fearing for his own life. 

Jimin had been cautious, verifying what he could before making any moves. Yoongi, now his contact, had been instrumental in piecing together the club’s operations. For weeks, Jimin had used him to gather intel, feeding him questions that would seem innocuous to anyone listening in. The goal was always the same: find out when and where Jeon would make an appearance. 

A raid was Jimin’s next move, the culmination of weeks of preparation. But there was one crucial piece missing. He needed confirmation that Jeon would be at The Golden Hare tonight.  

Jimin’s gaze drifted back to the vision board, his eyes tracing the connections between the victims. Each string, each photograph, each piece of evidence led to one place—Jeon Industries. The faces of the young men stared back at him, a grim reminder of what was at stake. Their ages varied, but they were all cut down in the prime of their lives, each marked with that same twisted branding. His breath caught as his eyes settled on the last piece tacked to the board—an image of a low-resolution figure in a suit, caught on camera as he slipped into a sleek black car. The figure’s face was obscured, but Jimin knew who it was supposed to be. The elusive heir to Jeon Industries. 

Jimin’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. He turned to see one of his officers standing in the doorway, a stack of files in hand. 

“Commissioner, sorry to bother you, but we need your signature on these warrant requests,” the officer said, his voice tinged with urgency. “And there’s also a briefing scheduled with the district attorney. They need your input on the new protocols for bomb threats.” 

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his hair as he reluctantly pulled his attention away from the board. He took the files from the officer and gave a quick nod. 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside him. 

As the officer left, Jimin cast one last look at the case board. Tonight, he thought. Tonight, they would make their move. 

Deciding to step away for a moment, he left his office and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. 

A familiar tension settles over him as he entered the men’s bathroom, the fluorescent lights flickered slightly. He was alone, and for that, he was thankful. Public restrooms always made him uneasy, especially with the thought of someone else being there. He hated the lack of privacy. He didn’t even glance at the row of urinals along the wall—the mere thought of someone standing beside him mid-stream sent a cold prickle of anxiety down his spine. 

Jimin made his way to the last stall at the far end, the door creaking softly as he pushed it open. A small sense of privacy washed over him as he stepped inside, locking the door behind him with a sigh. 

Ever since Jimin could remember, he always had this strange sort of ‘phobia’. He wasn’t sure why it affected him so deeply or why the vulnerability of being seen—or worse, heard—felt so wrong. He had never sought therapy for it, never unraveled where the discomfort stemmed from. It was simply a part of him, an inconvenience he had learned to endure in silence. 

Facing the toilet, Jimin fumbled with his fly. His chest felt tight, his heart beating just a little faster despite the solitude. Only when the steady sound of his stream hit the water did his body finally begin to unwind, the tension coiling in his gut slowly unraveling. 

When he finished, he cleaned up quickly, flushing and stepping out of the stall. At the sink, he watched the water swirl in the basin as he washed his hands, the soap bubbles dissipating just as the tension had moments earlier. 

 As Jimin left the bathroom, the weight of his responsibilities slowly settled back onto his shoulders until a sharp vibration from his phone in his pocket startled him. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen—an unknown number. His heart skipped a beat, a mixture of anticipation and dread tightening in his chest. He knew who it was. 

Swiping to answer, Jimin raised the phone to his ear. “Talk to me.” 

A voice, hushed and tense, crackled on the other end. “Commissioner, it’s me… he’ll be here tonight. All cams are set.” 

Jimin’s pulse quickened. He clenched the phone tighter, the brief calm he’d found in the bathroom now a distant memory. “You’re sure?” 

“Positive. He just confirmed it himself. He’s coming in around 10pm. If you’re going to make your move, it has to be tonight.” 

Jimin nodded, though the contact couldn’t see him. “Good work. Stay low and don’t do anything that could draw attention to yourself. I’ll take it from here.” 

The call ended with a click, leaving Jimin standing in the hallway, his mind racing. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. The pieces were finally falling into place, and tonight, he would face the heir to the Jeon empire. 

Jimin quickly pocketed his phone, his steps purposeful as he headed back towards his office. The urgency of the situation demanded his full attention, but he first needed to address the cop who had approached him earlier about the meeting and paperwork. 

He found Officer Kang, the one who had asked for his help, in the bullpen, bent over a stack of documents. Jimin approached him, his expression serious. “Kang, I need you to postpone that meeting and push the paperwork back to tomorrow.” 

Kang looked up, a question forming in his eyes, but before he could speak, Jimin continued, “We’re moving tonight. The raid is on.” 

Kang’s eyes widened, the significance of Jimin’s words sinking in. “Understood, sir. I’ll take care of it.” 

Jimin gave a curt nod and turned on his heel, making his way towards the center of the precinct. He could feel the adrenaline beginning to build, his mind already several steps ahead, planning and anticipating the night’s events. He reached for his radio, the weight of the night ahead pressing down on him. 

“This is Commissioner Park,” Jimin’s voice echoed through the precinct as he activated his radio. “I want all units briefed immediately. The raid on The Golden Hare is happening tonight. I need SWAT on standby—fully geared and ready to roll in. We’re not taking any chances.” 

The precinct, which had been relatively quiet, suddenly buzzed with activity. Officers scrambled to their feet, the air thickening with a sense of purpose and urgency. Phones rang off the hook as calls were made, a SWAT team was notified, and vehicles were prepared. The energy shifted dramatically, every officer aware that tonight was different—tonight was the culmination of months of work, a high-stakes operation that could make or break careers. 

Jimin paced back to his office, gathering his thoughts as the sounds of the precinct morphed into a symphony of controlled chaos. He grabbed his jacket, mentally running through the plan once more. Every detail had to be perfect. The element of surprise was on their side, and they had to exploit it to the fullest. 

“Park!” One of the senior detectives, Lee, approached him, a steely determination in his eyes. “SWAT’s on their way, ETA fifteen minutes. What’s the play?” 

Jimin took a deep breath, steadying himself. “We stake the place out, Jeon won’t be there til 10pm. Alpha team covers emergency exits and wait for his arrival. We don’t move in until has a visual and  we get a positive ID from Yoongi. I want Jeon INSIDE.From there we move in fast and hard. No casualties. I want Jeon in cuffs and brought in for questioning. This is our chance to nail this bastard tonight and put an end to this.” 

With the plan set in motion, Jimin felt the tension in his body give way to a focused resolve. He had been waiting for this moment for months, and now it was within reach. 

Choi’s eyes narrowed—not with surprise, but with quiet calculation. He tilted his head slightly, as he observed the screen as it glowed faintly against the dark walls of the study.  

"You were never supposed to get this far." 

His voice was low, spoken only to the screen. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just… done. 

He reached for the phone beside him. A sleek black device. Secure line. Only one contact. 

One ring. 

“I’m listening.” 

The man didn’t bother with greetings. 

“The feds are planning a raid tonight.” 

There was a beat of silence. 

“You assured me the investigation wouldn’t get this far.” Jay said eventually. Cautious. Testing. 

Choi’s gaze remained fixed on the screen. Jimin was already gone from the room, but the image lingered. 

“It won’t. I need you there tonight.” 

Jay’s jaw flexed. No names. No context. But he knew. 

He turned toward the window, eyes scanning the city’s fractured lights below. 
“I thought you had him on a tight leash.” 

A faint pause. Measured. 

“He is. But someone is feeding him information.” 

Jay exhaled softly on the other end. 

“He’s sniffing too close?” 

“Closer than I’ll allow.” 

Jay let silence linger, then asked, 

“Elimination?” 

Choi rose from the chair, slow and smooth. He moved to the window. Seoul stretched below like an organism—alive, loud, forgettable. 

“Not yet. He’s still useful. But I need him off the board. Somewhere quiet. Controlled.”  

Jay narrowed his eyes. 

 
“So not death. Just... off-grid.” 

Choi’s voice dipped into something glacial. 

“Exactly. Get rid of him.” 
  

Jay’s mouth curved around something cruel. 

 
“Then I’ll make sure of it.” 

“Good. Be at The Golden Hare 10pm.” 

And with that final order, the line went dead. 

Chapter Text

The air smelled like money soaked in sin—a scent as intoxicating as it was damning. Red drapes hung heavy over velvet walls, muting the dim glow of chandeliers that flickered overhead. Conversation murmured like static, broken by the soft clink of glass and the quiet exchange of numbers between bidders. 

The stage was drowned in a deep red glow. From above, a single white spotlight beamed down at its center, piercing through the crimson like a blade waiting for its next victim. 

He always hated these things. 

At a table, a man stared coldly at his drink. Condensation traced slow trails down the crystal tumbler, beads catching the light as they slid toward his fingers. He turned the glass—once, deliberate. Reflections flickered in the glass, red bleeding into the bourbon’s amber depth. 

His black suit was tailored with precision, every line sharp enough to draw blood. No tie. Just two buttons undone at the collar, hinting at collarbone and a pulse that didn’t rise for anyone. 

He looked younger than most in the room, but no one here was stupid enough to confuse youth with inexperience. His face was carved in contradiction—soft angles, cold eyes. 

His hair was inky black, parted with precision, a few strands falling just close enough to feel unintentional. Twin hoop earrings caught the light when he moved—if he moved. His mouth didn’t bother with expression. No smirk, no frown. Just a warning written in silence. 

And those eyes—icy, half-lidded—watched everything while pretending to watch nothing. The kind of gaze that pinned you in place before you even knew you’d been seen. 

A single drop of condensation slid down his glass as his focus stayed locked on his bourbon. 

It was either the bourbon or the stage, and he preferred not to waste his attention 

 “Jeon.” 

His gaze slid to the right where Yunho sat. An amused look playing on the mans face as he observed Jungkook closely before shift his gaze back to the stage. 

“You look like you want to put a bullet in your skull.” Yunho remarked, lips curling into a smirk as he swirled the amber liquid in his own glass. 

Jungkook exhaled slowly, bringing his whiskey to his lips. “Tempting,” he muttered, voice deep and slow. 

Yunho chuckled, reclining slightly in his chair. “You never did like these things.” 

Yunho thrived in places like this— where cruelty wasn’t hidden, just well-dressed. Unlike Jungkook, he wasn’t just attending; he was enjoying. 

A shift rolled through the room—not loud, not sharp, but felt. Glasses lowered. Conversations tapered off. The chandeliers hummed under dimmed current as all attention quietly redirected to the front. 

From somewhere behind the stage curtain, a man stepped forward into the edge of the spotlight.  

Daesung. 

Tall. Lean. And dressed in an unapologetically eccentric suit—deep plum velvet with asymmetrical lapels and faint gold embroidery tracing musical notes down one sleeve. His shirt was sheer black, his collar pinned with a brooch shaped like a serpent devouring its tail. No tie. Just intent. 

He always smiled. 

Even when he didn’t need to. 

Especially when he didn’t need to. 

He moved like a man used to being watched—measured, deliberate, rehearsed. His voice was smooth, warm, and utterly detached. The kind that made you want to agree before you understood the cost. 

“Lot seventeen,” he announced, his voice steady, low enough to draw attention, not demand it. “Female. Twenty-two. No modifications. No prior ownership.” 

Silence reigned in the pause that followed. 

The red glow deepened. Behind him, the curtain parted just enough for movement. 

Daesung’s gaze scanned the crowd, not seeking approval—only compliance. His gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, patient. 

“Blindfolded, sedated, and prepped for transport,” he continued. “She will not resist. Please refrain from early bids until display is complete.” 

Then he stepped aside. 

And from the shadows, she was brought forward. 

Two handlers in matte black emerged from the shadows, dragging a girl between them. 

She couldn’t walk. Her feet barely touched the floor, legs buckling with each step. A blindfold pressed hard against her face, her head hanging low, arms bound cruelly behind her back. 

She wore only a matching black bra and panties—thin, delicate, almost translucent under the spotlight’s impending glare. At the base of the platform, her knees gave out. She crumpled without a sound, landing in a half-kneel, half-collapse, trembling just enough to prove she was alive. 

“This one’s interesting,” Yunho muttered, swirling the golden liquid in his own glass before taking a slow sip. “A little scrawny, but that face will sell for a nice sum.” 

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, uninterested. “If you’re that invested, place a bid,” he murmured, voice low, apathetic. 

Yunho chuckled, amused by Jungkook’s distaste. “Come on, don’t pretend you’re above all this.” 

Jungkook shot him a glance, dark eyes unreadable over the rim of his glass. “I don’t pretend. I am.” 

On stage, the girl didn’t move. But her mouth parted—just enough to breathe. Or maybe beg. 

Jungkook didn’t blink. He sipped his drink. 

Yunho smirked but didn’t argue. The two of them had different appetites, different poisons. Yunho indulged in every vice, whereas Jungkook preferred his thrills to be more... controlled. This place—this event—felt like something he tolerated rather than partook in. 

The inside of the SWAT truck was silent—tense, wired, waiting. 

No one spoke. No one moved. Just the soft hum of gear and the throb of adrenaline beneath armor. Hands hovered near weapons. Eyes flicked to him. 

Waiting for one word. 

His word. 

Jimin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the surveillance feed. The screen lit his face in pale static, casting deep shadows across sharp features. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. He looked like a man wired together by resolve and rage, stitched up by unfinished business. 

The Golden Hare pulsed on-screen, the place itself had ornate gold trim lining the walls, marble floors gleaming even under surveillance static. Its patrons moved like gods in exile. Cocky. Comfortable. Dangerous. Nothing but Politicians. CEOs. Ghosts in tailored wool. Killers with silk-lined pockets.  They walked those floors like they’d been blessed by lawlessness itself.   Every person reeked of immunity.  

But he wasn’t there for them. 

Just one. 

Jeon Jungkook. 

The name vibrated through his skull like a drumbeat. His jaw locked. His spine stiffened. Eyes narrowed until they cut.  

Yoongi had done everything short of selling his soul to get these cameras up. Main floor. VIP lounge. Back corridors. It wasn’t airtight—hallway blind spots, staff-only nooks—but it was enough. 

Enough to make a move. 

Still, his gut twisted. The Golden Hare was a truly a palace, but tonight, if the stars aligned just once, maybe it would all go up in flames. 

The earpiece crackled. 

“Crowds are thick tonight,” Yoongi’s voice rasped beneath the steady thump of bass. “Same usual faces. Securities tight. Two at the main door. Four more scattered. Saw two heading into the back hall.” 

Jimin didn’t blink. Just stared at the screen. Watching. Measuring. Shadows moved in corners. Some moved like patrons. Some didn’t. 

“They expecting heat?” he asked quietly. 

“Maybe. Or company. VIP wing’s been shifting heavy all night. Heard chatter about a ‘business arrangement.’” 

Jimin’s knuckles whitened against his knees. “What kind of arrangement?” 

“Didn’t say. I’m trying to pull more—keep the channel clear.” 

“Copy.” 

His jaw clenched. Business deal meant more than cash. It meant territory, power, leverage. And if Jeon was the one arranging it—then this wasn’t a transaction. It was an alliance. And alliances meant escalation. 

If they were right... then they were already late. 

Jimin's eyes flicked to another feed—this one showing the entrance. A parade of faces filed in, each more polished than the last. Suits. Gowns. Laughter in slow motion. None of them looked dangerous. 

All of them were. But it wasn’t their guy. 

Jeon Industries alone was dangerous enough. But if tonight was about merging syndicates—then the city wouldn’t bend. 

It would break. 

“Yoongi,” Jimin said, voice smooth despite the fire building beneath it, “ask around. Keep your tone casual. Flirt with the patrons if you have to—just get me something solid.” 

“On it.” 

Jimin leaned back an inch. Just enough to shift his spine against the metal wall of the truck. Just enough to breathe. 

The weight pressed down on him all at once—thick, heavy, suffocating. This wasn’t just another raid. It was a line in the sand. A chance to dismantle the empire that kept rising no matter how many times they struck. A chance to redeem a name that still bled in his mouth. 

Sungwoon. 

The word didn’t pass his lips, but it echoed loud behind his teeth. That night hadn’t left him. Wouldn’t.  

He clenched his fist against his thigh, tight enough that the tremble stilled. 

Not again. 

This time, it had to be different. No hesitation. No ghosts at his back. 

His heartbeat slowed. 

Steady. 

“Team Alpha,” he said, voice even but steel-wired beneath the calm, slicing through the comms like a scalpel. “Move into position. Cover all secondary exits. No one leaves without my say.” 

The response came like a hum of machinery winding to life. 

“Understood, Commissioner.” 

“East exit secure.” 

“West side moving.” 

One by one, the markers on the grid shifted—red dots blooming into place around the perimeter like blood blooming through linen. Smooth. Quiet. Surgical. 

This time, they were ready. 

The last Alpha unit fell into position. Tight formation. Zero gaps. Everything by the book—his book. The kind written in failure and rewritten in obsession. 

“Hold positions,” Jimin ordered, his voice lowering like a hand resting on a trigger. “Do not engage until I give the word. Repeat—wait for my command.” 

The final chorus of confirmations faded, leaving behind a silence so tight it had edges. 

Jimin leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving the screen, jaw locked like it was bracing for a hit. On the grainy feeds, Alpha Team melted into shadows like they were born in them—no wasted motion, no sound. Just black uniforms folding into alleyways and stairwells like wolves disappearing into the tree line. 

He’d built it this way. 

Minimal chaos. Maximum control. 

His breathing matched the steady pulse of the monitors. Inhale. Exhale. Watch. Wait. The camera feeds fluttered under club lights and low smoke, each shot painting a fractured mural of wealth and decay.  

And yet—no sign of Jeon. 

That thought festered. 

Jimin’s eyes scanned again. Nothing but patrons moving like royalty, too smug, too rehearsed. He switched feeds—VIP lounge, private halls, bar... Yoongi was there. Wiping glasses.  If something was off, he’d tell him. And still, the club moved like a well-oiled lie. 

A cold exhale hissed through Jimin’s teeth. His own reflection flickered in the monitor. Drawn. Pale. A jaw set too tight. Eyes that hadn’t blinked in minutes. 

His fingers hovered near the comm unit, twitching like they itched for the breach order. 

The earpiece crackled. 

Yoongi’s voice buzzed through static. “He’s meeting with the CEO of 2pm Talent group. That’s all I could get.” 

Jimin’s spine stiffened. 2PM? The name scraped across his memory like glass. A few of the victims—three, maybe four—had carried the same business card. No logo, no name. Just a phone number scrawled in silver ink across thick black matte. Each time he dialed, it rang once and went dead. Disconnected. A dead end. He’d filed it away as a relic—maybe a junk lead, maybe nothing. 

But now? 
Now it was everything. 

 If both were meeting— then Jeon must have beat him to it—this had to be his next target. 

He sat forward, voice cutting like a command. “Team Bravo, move into position. Primary all exits—no body in or out.” 

He didn’t have to say more. 

Boots hit metal. Gear shifted. The back doors swung open and Bravo deployed into the night—black silhouettes peeling off into formation. Fluid. Quiet. Like the night had rehearsed this. 

Back inside, Jimin watched them disappear into the shadows like ink in water. 

A breath. Then the comms answered: 

“North exit secure.” 

“Back alley in position.” 

“South locked.” 

Good. 

All exits secure. 

“All stations holding,” someone said, tension creeping beneath the calm. “Orders, sir?” 

Jimin’s voice was calm. Precise. 

“Hold. Stay sharp. We don’t move until I give the signal.” 

The feed stilled. The air inside the truck turned heavier. Denser. 

The club pulsed. 

But still—no Jeon. 

Then a shift. 

“Movement,” someone whispered. “Black SUV.” 

Jimin’s attention snapped to the far feed. A vehicle rolled into the alley, slow, deliberate. Tinted windows. Engine purring like it had secrets. 

His fingers darted across controls, switching feeds, zooming in. 

Before the screen could focus, it flickered. 

Then black. 

“What the—” Jimin’s voice cracked open. His hands flew to the console. Buttons. Switches. Backup relays. 

Nothing. 

Static tore through the comms, then silence. 

Comms down. Cameras down. 

No eyes. No ears. 

Jimin’s breath came faster. He punched a few more commands. “Alpha, Bravo—do you copy?” 

Nothing. 

He stared at the dead screens, the pressure in his chest mounting like water rising behind a dam. This was his system. His plan. And it was falling apart in real time, with his teams blind and cornered outside. 

“Come on,” he growled, slamming his hand against the console again. 

Still nothing. 

Everything was unraveling. 

And outside? 

Something was coming. 

Outside, the night was thick with shadows—alive with the quiet churn of something waiting to strike. Each Team held their positions like ghosts, their forms tucked into corners and behind dumpsters, every man trained, every angle covered. 

Then they began to vanish. 

North exit first. 

One step too slow, one breath too loud, and the silence swallowed him. No warning. No flash. Just the dull, final sound of a body collapsing into pavement. 

The west flank never even twitched. A shadow moved where there hadn’t been one before. A gloved hand caught the man’s jaw. The impact was swift, brutal—head smacked against concrete, eyes rolled back, breath gone. 

It wasn’t a firefight. It was a culling. 

Every takedown came like clockwork. Precise. Surgical. Each body dropped without a scream, without a shot fired, the air never once disturbed by panic or warning. Just the clean sound of lives being shut off. 

By the time the last man at the south exit was dragged into the dark, the club’s perimeter was a graveyard of unconscious men and silent pavement—lit only by the slow flicker of neon bleeding out from the club’s rear door. 

Inside the SWAT truck, Jimin’s hands moved faster, his focus sharper, panic curling at the edges of his thoughts like smoke trying to slip under a sealed door. 

The screens were still dead. Static. Useless. 

“Yoongi, report,” he said into the comm, the edge in his voice masked under ice. 

Silence. 

He hit the console. Nothing. Again. Nothing. 

Another curse burned his throat, but he swallowed it, choosing movement instead. His fingers curled around his sidearm as he made for the rear of the truck, the cool steel of the gun a strange comfort. Every step was deliberate. Controlled. 

He cracked the door open. 

And the night greeted him with someone already waiting. 

A man stood there. Tall, lean, dressed like silence given form. His expression unreadable, but his presence—heavy. Intentional. 

“Hello, Commissioner,” the stranger said, voice slow and measured. No malice. Just inevitability. 

Jimin raised his weapon. 

Too late. 

Shadows peeled from the alley, not stumbling or shouting, but moving—precise, practiced, and already too close. 

The first lunged. Jimin spun, parried, broke the man’s wrist with a sharp twist and sent him sprawling. 

The second ducked in from the right. Jimin countered with an elbow to the gut, then drove his knee into the attacker’s ribs. A crack followed, then a grunt of pain. 

The third grabbed him from behind. Arms like steel cables locked around his torso. Jimin snarled and slammed the back of his head into the man’s face. A spray of blood, a crunch, but the grip held. 

No time to think. He pivoted hard, using momentum and fury to fling the attacker face-first into the side of the truck. 

Three down. 

Then the fourth struck—a baton, hard and fast, straight into his ribs. Jimin grunted, pain flashing white behind his eyes. He stumbled. His gun—gone. 

Still, he didn’t stop. 

He turned and dropped the man with a hook to the jaw and a sweep to the knee, watching the figure collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. 

And still, the stranger stood there. Arms folded. Amused. 

Then the punch landed. 

It came without warning—fast, brutal, perfectly placed. Jimin’s breath died in his throat. His knees gave out. He folded forward, gasping as bile clawed its way up his throat. 

“Brave,” the man muttered. “But predictable.” 

Jimin swung wildly, aiming for the throat. 

Another figure caught his wrist. 

“Enough.” 

A sharp twist. A blow to the temple. His vision fractured—white-hot, then black. 

The pavement met him with teeth. The world spun. The night blurred. 

Voices above him. Distant. 

“I had him, you know,” Jackson growled. “Didn’t need your help.” 

A scoff. “Sure. And now you get to scrape your men off the pavement. Get him in the trunk.” 

Hands grabbed at him. Dragged him. He couldn’t move. Could barely think. His body limp, the heat of blood sliding down his temple as his gun holster was ripped from his belt. 

The SUV’s trunk yawned open—lined in heavy black plastic, clinical and cold. 

They dumped him in without ceremony. 

SLAM. 

The darkness was instant. Total. 

Back outside, Jay watched the remains of each team being gathered like trash. Blood streaked the concrete. Some were breathing. Most weren’t moving. 

A man returned with a red canister. The scent of gasoline thickened the air as it splashed—over limbs, over metal, over the truck itself. A match flared. 

Jay didn’t blink. 

He stared at the wreckage, his face a mask carved from granite. 

Then—he dropped the flame. 

WHOOMPH. 

Fire erupted, climbing skyward in greedy spirals. The truck lit up like it had always been meant to burn. Heat distorted the alley air. Paint peeled. Rubber screamed. And somewhere deep inside, both teams turned to ash. 

Jay’s phone buzzed. 

“Yeah,” he said, voice smooth and flat. “It’s done. The package is en route.” 

He slid into the SUV, the flames dancing in his eyes as he turned to the driver. 

“Drive.” 

Jackson hit the gas. 

As they pulled away, the fire painted the night behind them. Jay didn’t look back. He just reached for his lighter again, flicked it open, and murmured into his phone. 

“Jeon should thank his lucky stars. And Choi…” A slight smirk. “Always a pleasure doing business.” 

With that he hung up. 

The girl hadn’t moved. Not an inch. 

Jungkook set his glass down. 

“Late,” he murmured. 

Yunho didn’t look away from the stage. “Fashionably, I’m sure.” 

Jungkook’s jaw flexed, eyes cold. “Jay was never fashionable. Just arrogant.” 

He leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting from the girl on stage to the shadows beyond her, like he might spot something no one else could. But all he saw were the same leering faces, the same money-coated predators bidding on lives like they were vintage wine. His drink sat untouched now, beads of condensation sliding toward the coaster. 

Jay Park was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. He already changed the meeting ‘The Hare’ to this hellhole. 

He wasn’t the kind of man who missed appointments—not with Jungkook. And certainly not when that appointment involved murdered employees, burned bodies, and a brand scorched into flesh that screamed Jeon Industries louder than any signature. 

Jungkook’s fingers tapped once on the table. A slow, metered beat. The kind that signaled thought. Or fury. Or both. 

Yunho finally tore his eyes from the stage, noting the twitch in Jungkook’s jaw. “Still thinking it’s him?” 

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. Just stared into the middle distance, the red glow of the stage painting his features in muted crimson. 

“Five dead,” he said finally, voice low and razor-flat. “All recruited by Jay.” 

Yunho raised a brow. “Coincidence?” 

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward him—slow, deliberate, frigid. “You know I don’t believe in coincidence.” 

He remembered the first photo Jimin had sent him—not that Jimin knew it had landed in his inbox. The leather bodysuit. The gag. The branding. 

The Playboy Bunny. 

That image had carved itself into his memory like a second spine. Not because of the gore. He’d seen worse. Lived worse. But because the branding was deliberate. Mocking. A message written in skin. 

His brand. His company. His responsibility. 

And every victim had been funneled into his orbit by one person. 

Jay Park. 

Talent supplier. Street recruiter. The charming devil who knew how to find pretty faces and broken souls and convince them that sin could be seductive. That pain could pay. 

But now, those faces were turning up dead. And Jay? 

Jay was running late. 

Yunho sighed and tipped back the rest of his drink. “If you’re so sure it’s Jay, why not kill him already? You’ve had reasons before. Shittier ones.” 

“Because I’m not....I want to hear it from his mouth,” Jungkook said, eyes narrowing. “I want to see if he lies to me.” 

Yunho chuckled under his breath, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking once more to the girl on stage. She still hadn’t moved. Not even when the bidding started. Not even when the numbers began to climb. 

“She’s probably not gonna last the night,” he mused. “Too much sedation. Daesung’s losing his touch.” 

Jungkook didn’t answer. 

He was already checking his watch. Again. 

Another five minutes. 

If Jay didn’t show by then, he wasn’t coming through the front door. 

And if he wasn’t coming through the front door... 

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. 

He might already be making a mess somewhere else. 

Another slow drag of silence stretched between them. 

Jungkook’s watch ticked over the mark. 

And then—movement. 

From the edge of the room, just beyond the velvet curtain framing the lounge, a figure stepped through the haze. 

Jay Park. 

Hair slicked back, black-on-black suit tailored like armor. He walked with that signature blend of swagger and sin, the kind of man who looked like he sold lives on weekdays and bought souls on weekends. His expression was easy—too easy for a man who was thirty minutes late to a meeting that could’ve changed the city's entire balance of power. 

Jungkook didn’t stand. Didn’t move. Just watched him approach like a lion clocking a rival at the watering hole. 

Yunho, of course, looked delighted. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered under his breath, lips quirking. 

Jay reached the table, one hand casually tucked in his coat pocket. “Apologies, gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth as lacquer. “Had... other business to handle.” 

He gestured to the open seat like it was his own throne and sank into it without waiting for permission. 

“I see you started without me.” He nodded toward the nearly empty bottle on the table. 

Jungkook stared, unblinking. “You’re late.” 

Jay smiled, all teeth. “Yes, something urgent required my assistance.” 

 “I might believe you. But you’ve wasted more than enough of my time.” 

Jay raised a brow, clearly entertained. “Straight to business then? What happened to small talk?” 

“You know what happened,” Jungkook said quietly. 

Jay’s smile faltered. Just for a beat. “Right.” 

Then he leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach. “You’re talking about the boys who went missing. The ones showing up in body bags and branded like cattle.” 

Yunho whistled low. “Graphic.” 

“Accurate,” Jungkook snapped. 

Jay turned his head slowly, studying him. “I didn’t kill them, Jeon. Let’s just get that out of the way.” 

“I know,” Jungkook replied. “But you hired them. You scouted every last one. And now they're all dead—bound, gagged, marked.” 

Jay didn’t flinch, but his smile thinned. “You want answers. Answers cost.” 

Jungkook reached down, unlatched the briefcase under the table, and snapped it open just enough for the gleam of 2 billion won to speak for him. 

Jay blinked once, slowly. “You brought a bribe.” 

“Money talks.” 

Jay chuckled, shaking his head. “That depends on how much you’re paying.” 

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something lower, silkier. “The Chinese have been taking over parts of  Itawon.” he said. “Not sure who the new group is but the leader goes by Suho. I’d say that’s worth... a hundred million.” 

Yunho scoffed. “That’s barely worth a ten.” 

Jay’s eyes slid to him. “Good thing you’re not paying.” 

Jungkook didn’t speak, but something flickered behind his stare. 

“The Chinese are none of my concern. I need information on Choi.” 

Jay took another slow breath. “Now, that will cost you—I’d say ... five hundred million — for a name.” 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. “A name?” 

Jay grinned. “A good one.” 

A long pause. 

Jungkook gave a slow, curt nod. Just reached into the briefcase and removed another 5 stacks. Jay didn’t touch it. Just smiled wider. 

Jay tapped two fingers against the table. “Jisoo” 

“Stop playing,” Jungkook said coldly. Snatching the cash off the table. 

“I’m not,” Jay said, voice soft, smile gone. “You’re asking me to risk my life, Jeon. The people running this? They’re not just clients. They’re investors. You think this ends at some freelancer like me? You’re thinking too small.” 

Silence returned. Thicker this time. The weight of truth hanging between ice and alcohol. 

Jungkook’s jaw flexed again. 

“Now,” Jay went on, almost lazily, “you really want something juicy? Something that gets you closer to whoever’s pulling the strings? Then we’re talking seven figures more. And maybe dinner.” 

Yunho laughed, low and slow. “You’re either the boldest rat alive or the dumbest one.” 

Jay didn’t blink. “I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” 

“You think this is a negotiation,” Jungkook said calmly, voice low. “It’s not.” 

Jay tilted his head. “Could’ve fooled me." 

Jungkook leaned in finally, just enough for their eyes to meet at level. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Start talking, or I walk.” 

Jay held the stare. For a second too long. 

“Relax, Jeon,” he murmured. “You’re not the only one who wants this information. I’m just making sure I survive it.”. 

Yunho downed the rest of his drink, eyes still on the stage, clearly more interested in the next lot than whatever dance of deception was happening at the table. 

Jay chuckled to himself. 

 “You ever think about how much cleaner life would be if you just stopped caring?” 

Jungkook’s eyes cut to him—sharp enough to slice through pretense. But before either could speak again, a hush swept through the room like static before a storm. 

His phone vibrated once in his jacket pocket—barely audible under the low murmurs. He didn’t check it. Not until it buzzed again. And again. Three rapid pulses. 

Emergency. 

A quiet breath through his nose. Jungkook stepped back from the table, drew the phone out, and pressed it to his ear, voice low. 

Yoongi spoke first. Tight. Urgent. “We have a problem.” 

Just then, Daesung returned. 

He stepped into the spotlight as the crowd leaned forward. Even Yunho sat up straighter. 

Jungkook’s gaze sharpened. “What kind of problem?” 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Daesung purred. “What we have next is... rare.” 

“A raid,” Yoongi said. “At the club.” 

A beat of silence. Daesung let the tension dangle. 

“Who authorized it?” Jungkook asked. 

“I don’t know yet. But the lead on the ground—” Yoongi’s voice faltered for half a second. “—was Commissioner Park.” 

“A VIP lot.” 

A ripple of reaction moved through the room. Low murmurs. Scratching pens. Jungkook’s jaw clenched.  

“You’re telling me the feds personally walked into my fucking building?” 

Daesung smiled thinly. “Male. Mid-twenties. Unaltered—though minor bruising occurred during transport. Government-grade conditioning. Due to the subject’s status, his face must remain concealed… but his body speaks for itself. He’s fully sedated. And ready for acquisition.” 

“They never made it in,” Yoongi said grimly. “Someone hit the convoy. Hard.” 

A pause. 

The curtain parted again. The handlers returned—this time, carrying someone. 

A body hung limp between them, arms dragged forward in a mockery of surrender. A black hood was pulled tight over his head, a gag still jammed beneath the cloth. No face. No identity. Just faint breathing. 

His shirt was torn, half-hanging, bruises already blooming across pale skin. 

His wrists were bound in front—useless, theatrical. A prop. 

Jungkook’s gaze sharpened. 

The handlers lowered him gently to his knees at center stage, then stepped back. 

Jungkook ended the call without a word. 

Click. 

The phone vanished into his jacket like a knife back into its sheath. Jungkook moved without urgency—slow, precise, like a man counting every breath between detonations. He returned to the table as if nothing had happened, as if the stage wasn’t pulsing under hot lights, as if the air hadn’t turned electric with something he hadn’t named yet. 

Jay watched him approach, one brow lifted, amusement curdling at the corners of his mouth. 

“You knew about the raid,” Jungkook said. 

It wasn’t a question. 

Jay didn’t blink. “I did.” 

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he didn’t sit. “How?” 

Jay tilted his head, fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass. “Because someone kept calling a dead number.” 

Jungkook stayed silent. 

Jay kept going, voice casual, but with a tight coil beneath it—like a man offering truth only because denial cost too much. 

“Your victims. The ones that started vanishing. They all had the same card in their wallet. Blank. Just a number. Commissioner Park was the one calling it. Over and over. Looking for something. For me.” He took a sip. “That’s how I knew someone was sniffing. I didn’t want to be involved. I really didn’t. But you know how it is—” 

He gestured lazily toward the stage, toward Daesung, who was still basking in the attention of murmuring elites. 

“—sometimes you gotta cover your ass. Especially when the cop who won’t shut up turns out to be talking with someone on the inside.” 

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, 

Yoongi. 

 But his voice stayed even. “So you killed him?” 

Jay laughed, short and sharp. “Jesus, no. I’m reckless, not suicidal. You think I’d murder Choi’s guy? No. I didn’t kill him. I just made sure he didn’t talk.” 

A pause. 

“I gave him to Daesung.” 

That made Jungkook’s eyes shift—small, sharp. “You what?” 

Jay nodded toward the stage. “Told him to package the little prince up nice and tight. Said he was clean, valuable, untraced. All true. Figured it’d keep him quiet, or at least out of my fucking business.” 

He leaned back, like he’d just dropped off a package instead of a human being. 

“And besides…” A sly smile crept across his lips. “You should be thanking me.” 

Jungkook turned toward the stage. 

The light cut harsh across pale skin and mottled bruises. The figure knelt still, gagged, unmoving head bowed beneath a black cloth hood drawn tight around the throat. No face. No eyes. Just breath and silence and something trembling just beneath the surface. 

But something clicked. 

The size. The build. 
The faint black fringe of hair peeking from beneath the edge of the bag, damp with sweat and clinging to the nape of his neck. 

It hit him like a slow, suffocating wave. 

Jungkook’s pulse thudded once, hard. 

“…That’s him,” he said quietly. 

Jay gave a crooked grin. 

“This one,” Daesung said slowly, reverently, “is a gift. A specimen. A statement. High-ranking. Clean. Untraceable.” He let the words sink in. “The kind of acquisition that vanishes before headlines form.” 

Whispers swept the room like wildfire. A few patrons were already murmuring numbers to assistants, scribbling figures on napkins. 

Jay leaned into Jungkook’s ear, tone low, almost amused. “See were both on the same side.” 

Jungkook didn’t move. 

The crowd was buzzing now. Someone called out, “Five million!” 

Another followed. “Ten!” 

The handlers adjusted his posture, propping him slightly upright for the audience’s benefit. His head lolled against one shoulder, the black hood shifting just enough to reveal the edge of a split lip beneath the gag—red blooming against fabric like a secret trying to bleed through. —but the moment warped, twisted in Jungkook’s eyes. Time blurred at the edges. He wasn’t looking at a broken cop anymore. 

He was looking at a map. 

A piece on the board that no one knew was still in play. 

Choi’s lap dog.  His shield. His liability. 

The commissoner didn’t know it yet, maybe never would, but he was the closest thing Jungkook had to a direct line. A crack in the wall. If Choi trusted him—if Choi needed him—then Jungkook had leverage. 

Not a corpse. 
Not a scandal. 
A tool. 

“Fifteen million!” 

“Twenty!” 

He could get information out of him. Break him open. See who pulled the strings. 
And then strangle the whole operation with it. 

Jay smirked. “Look at them. Like dogs with a scent.” 

The hum of the auction floor faded beneath the throb of strategy forming in his mind. Slow. Icy. Final. 

Jungkook didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. 

He stood. 

No words. No signal. Just motion. 

He stepped away from the table, fingers curling around the silver handle of the briefcase resting at his feet. 

He picked up the briefcase—still unlatched, filled to the brim. Cash glinted under the ambient light —before snapping shut again. Loaded. Ready. 

Jay watched him, eyebrows slowly lifting. “Wait—what are you—” 

But Jungkook was already walking. 

Through the rows of whispering devils and feasting kings. Past the velvet curtains and masked indulgence. Each step rang like a closing door. 

He reached the front without fanfare. Without force. 

Just presence. 

And the case. Heavy with enough money to buy silence. Or a war. 

He stopped at the foot of the stage. 

Briefcase in hand. Shoulders squared. Silent as judgment. 

The crowd stilled around him like prey sensing a predator enter the clearing. No one whispered. No one breathed. All eyes turned to him—but his eyes locked on theman kneeling center stage. 

The Commissoner. 

Head down. Shoulders shaking ever so slightly from the strain. A black gag drawn cruelly between his lips. Still unconscious. 

Daesung’s gaze flicked toward the front of the stage. And when he saw who had stepped forward—when he saw him—his smile curled wider, sharper, something between admiration and alarm. 

“Well,” he purred, his voice swelling just enough to reclaim the room, “look who’s graced us tonight.” 

He stepped closer to the edge of the stage, hands behind his back, the spotlight chasing his every movement like it owed him rent. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a true connoisseur,” Daesung drawled. “A man who doesn’t waste time with small lots. A man who knows value when he sees it.” 

He nodded toward the briefcase in Jungkook’s hand. “No need for bidding wars, I assume?” 

Without a word, Jungkook hoisted the briefcase and tossed it open at Daesung’s feet. 

The money spilled out like a declaration. 

“One billion won,” Jungkook said, voice cutting through the room like frostbite. “Final offer.” 

Silence slammed over the room like a lid. No one spoke. No one blinked. You could hear the fizz of the champagne going flat. 

Daesung crouched, gloved hand flipping through the stacks, lips parting just slightly. “Verified,” he murmured. 

Jay blinked slowly, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. 

Jungkook turned just enough to look over his shoulder. “Yunho.” 

“Yes, boss?” 

“Take him.” 

Yunho stood smoothly and started toward the stage, his expression a curious mix of confusion and shock. 

Jungkook looked to Daesung one last time, eyes unreadable. “We’re done here.” 

And as he turned, gaze sweeping the stunned room one last time, he delivered the final line with ice in his voice and steel in his spine. 

“And Jay...” He paused. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

Chapter Text

The cigarette burned slow between Jeon Jungkook’s fingers, its ember casting a faint, pulsing glow that matched the rhythm of his thoughts—calm and methodical.  

He sat behind the monolith of a desk like it was a throne—massive, dark walnut, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Not a speck of dust on it, except for the neatly stacked files sprawled open in front of him. Paperwork. Contracts. Death warrants disguised as ledgers. He flipped a page with surgical precision, eyes scanning the lines with that same dead-calm detachment that had built an empire and buried everyone who underestimated him.  

The office around him was dark, lit only by the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. Glass walls framed the skyline, but he paid it no attention. The city was just background noise. A reminder of the kingdom he ruled from forty stories up.  

He stayed focused on the files.  

The paperwork never ended.  

The cigarette hissed softly as he brought it to his lips again. He didn’t inhale deep. Just enough to feel something.  

Across from him, Yunho lingered by the shelf, arms folded, jaw clenched.  

“What do you plan on doing with him?” Yunho said finally, voice low.  

Jungkook didn’t look up. Just flicked through another page, eyes flickering once.  

He thumbed the ashtray, watching the ash collapse like bone dust. He exhaled once, slow. Smoke coiled around his words.  

“I haven’t decided.”  

Yunho scoffed. “You just purchased Seoul's ‘Golden Boy’ for one billion won. That’s not a fuck-it-and-forget-it type of move.”  

Jungkook glanced up, bored. “You always talk this much when you’re nervous?”  

Yunho’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.  

Jungkook returned to the paperwork spread before him. Blueprints. Shipment manifests. A kill list dressed up as a corporate schedule. “We’ll start with information,” he said. “Then punishment.”  

“And if he doesn’t talk?”  

Jungkook flicked ash off the end of the cigarette.  

“He will. And I trust that you’ll handle his interrogation.”  

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t praise. It was authority handed off like a blade still dripping from the last job.  

Yunho gave a short nod. Nothing theatrical—just enough to mark the weight of the order. “I’ll make sure he understands what kind of war he walked into.”  

“Good.”   

Jungkook smirked without humor. “Make him bleed. But don’t break the merchandise.”  

Yunho’s lip twitched into a grin.  

“I can handle that,” Yunho said. His voice carried no doubt, but there was something else beneath it. A low hum of interest. The kind he reserved for a real challenge.  

A beat passed. Jungkook’s pen scratched a note into the margin of a blueprint. For a moment, it looked like the matter was done.  

But Yunho’s voice came low, slow.  

“You think he was working for someone?”  

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave the page. “Maybe but Choi wouldn’t burn his strongest political piece on the board.”  

Yunho exhaled through his nose. A bitter scoff. “Then someone put a hit on him. Someone Big.”  

“Exactly,” Jungkook said. “And someone with power. Not some street-level opportunist. It takes balls to snatch a commissioner out of a sanctioned raid with half the city watching.”  

Yunho stepped closer, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Jimin’s got a reputation. He may not be clean, but he knows how to make it look that way. He’s not the type to make this kind of mistake unless he was set up.”  

Jungkook finally looked up, cigarette still between his fingers, the smoke curling like a noose.   

There was a soft knock —three clean taps, like a man who knew not to overstep.  

The door cracked open.  

Changmin leaned in, dry and efficient. “Yoongi’s here.”  

“Bring him in.”  

Yoongi entered as silence returned.  

No jacket. Just a plain black tee and dark jeans. Hands in his pockets. His presence quiet, but heavy. Like a man used to being underestimated—and making people regret it.  

The door shut behind him with a final click .  

Jungkook didn’t speak at first. He stared at Yoongi like one might study a chessboard after realizing the pawn had teeth.  

Then, without preamble: “How did the commissoner ”—he dropped the paperwork, leaned back in his chair—“end up in Jay Park’s possession?”  

Yoongi shrugged. “You know how Jay is. Opportunistic. Snake with a Rolex.”  

“Don’t fuck with me.” Jungkook’s voice dropped a note. “You were embedded at The Hare, to be my eyes and ears.  If there is any possibility that someone is leaking intel, i need to know about it.”  

Yoongi nodded once. “I’m the one who tipped the feds.”  

Silence snapped between them like broken bone. Yunho shifted his weight—shoulders straightening like a pitbull catching the scent of blood.  

Jungkook’s body stilled entirely. The smoke froze mid-spiral. “You what?”  

“I had to make sure the Commissioner was clean,” Yoongi said calmly. “I needed to make him overplay his hand.”  

Realization crossed Jungkook’s face.  

“You knew the Commissioner would get burned...”  

“Only if he was dirty.” Yoongi stepped forward, expression unreadable.  

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. “You gambled with my name. My people. You involved the commissioner-NO the FEDs into our operation.” 

Yoongi looked at him now, sharp and unflinching.  “I didn’t know he worked for Choi. He was circling too close anyway. You think I’d waste a pawn like the commissioner without reason?”  

“So, you tossed him into Jay Park’s hands instead,” Jungkook said, voice cold, low.  

“There is no way I could have known Jay would involve himself with a high-risk job like that. Its suicide. Especially to auction him off.” Yoongi replied.  

“For someone who was hired to keep eyes on The Hare, you sure don’t know a lot of things.” Yunho growled.  

Yoongi’s tone didn’t waver. “I’m a loan shark; I don’t get involved in faction wars. I was just doing this as a favor for the Kim’s”  

“Yes, V and Jisoo assured me you could be trusted.”  

“I gave you leverage.”  

“ You gave me a fucking liability. ” Jungkook rose from his chair like a blade unsheathed. “I don’t care how useful he might be—he’s a goddamn political nuke. And now he’s tied to us. ”  

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. “Then why buy him?”  

Jungkook stepped closer, close enough for the smoke between them to thin. His voice dropped to a threat. “Do you want to die, Min Yoongi?”  

A lesser man would’ve swallowed. Yoongi didn’t.  

“If I did,” he said softly, “I would’ve stepped into Choi’s gun line six months ago.”  

They stared at each other in silence, two kings in different games—one built on control, the other on financial risk.  

Eventually, Jungkook exhaled through his nose. Walked back to his desk. Stubbed out the cigarette with a little more force than necessary.  

“Leave.”  

Yoongi left without another word.  

The door shut behind him with the soft finality of a coffin lid.  

Silence returned—broken only by the muted buzz of city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Jungkook stood still for a beat, fingers flexing once at his side before he turned slightly, eyes settling on the reflection of the skyline behind the glass.  

“I want the world to think Park Jimin is dead.”  

Yunho, still standing off to the side, cocked his head—just a fraction. No smirk this time. Just cool consideration.  

“And when Choi starts sniffing around? That auction wasn’t exactly a private dinner party. He’s gonna hear whispers.”  

“The commissioner’s identity was concealed, no face, no name. All Choi will know is either the commissioner is dead or missing.” Jungkook said, voice low, measured, as he reached for the second cigarette he never intended to smoke. “Bodies burn fast when you dump enough accelerant. But teeth don’t lie. Get some from the commissioner. The back molars.”  

Yunho raised a brow but said nothing. He didn’t flinch at the request—he’d pulled out worse for less.  

“Give them to Yoongi to scatter in the ashes of the scene. Let them find just enough.” Jungkook lit the cigarette, took a long drag, exhaled smoke like it helped him think straighter. “Jay did us a favor, whether he knows it or not. That fire buried the commissioner's team, the truck, and the digital trail. If we feed the right rumor... Choi will take the bait.”  

Yunho stepped forward slightly, arms folded. “And what if Daesung gets cocky? Tells Choi he auctioned off a living, breathing SWAT officer to the Jeon Jungkook?”  

Jungkook turned his head—just a little. Enough to give Yunho a glance edged with frost. “If Daesung talks, I only have one throat to cut.” He flicked ash into the tray. “Jay talks?” A slow inhale. “He implicates himself in kidnapping a federal asset. Not even Choi could shield him from that fallout. It’d be open season.”  

Yunho snorted. “You’re betting on self-preservation to keep Jay in line.”  

“I’m not betting. I’m counting on the fact that Jay’s smart enough to keep his own balls attached.”  

Yunho nodded, satisfied. “Teeth it is, then.”  

Jungkook finally turned from the window, stepping back toward the desk, smoke trailing behind him like shadow.  

“Be brutal enough to scare him,” he said. “But not enough to break him—yet. I want his mind intact. At least until we dig out whatever information he has on Choi.”  

Yunho’s grin returned, crooked and sharp. “You just gave me the perfect excuse to play dentist.”  

Jungkook didn’t smile.  

“Make it hurt,” he said. “But make it clean.”  

Day One  

Jimin jolted upright, a ragged breath tearing from his throat—but catching, sharp, against the gag stuffed deep between his teeth. Panic surged like voltage through every nerve. and everything rushed in at once: the cold press of steel under his back, the tight bite of a gag pulled too hard between his teeth, the gnawing pulse of pain behind his eyes like someone had driven a nail through his skull and left it there to throb.  

He sat up too fast.  

The chain snapped taut at his wrists with a high, metallic rattle. He gasped through the gag, nearly falling back onto the thin mattress again. His hands were cuffed in front of him—sturdy police-grade steel—and attached to a long chain bolted to the floor of what looked like a… shipping container?  

Steel walls. No windows. One rust-locked door. And everything smelled like sweat, rust, piss, and stale diesel fumes.  

Where the fuck was he?  

He yanked the gag down with raw, trembling fingers, gasping in a sharp breath as if oxygen itself had answers. “ HELLO?! ” he shouted, voice hoarse, raw around the edges.  

Nothing answered.  

His heart jackhammered against his ribs. His breath came fast, uneven. Too fast. Too loud.  

A single flickering bulb hummed overhead, casting long, stuttering shadows that crawled along the walls like ghosts waiting for their cue. The air was thick—moist with rust, rot, and recycled breath. Stale like something had died in here and no one had noticed. Or maybe they had—and left it anyway.  

He shot to his feet—too fast. Dizziness slammed into him like a bat to the skull. His knees buckled and caught themselves just before collapse.  

He threw himself at the wall—BANG.  

“HEY!” he barked again, louder this time, slamming his cuffed fists against the nearest wall. The chain groaned, but didn’t give. The sound reverberated through the container, bouncing back at him with cruel indifference.  

“Where the fuck am I?!” he shouted, louder now, his voice ricocheting inside the metal coffin like a scream inside a tomb. “Answer me!”  

No answer. Just the bulb. Buzzing. Flickering. Watching.  

His fists struck again. Then again. The chain jerked and rattled, scraping his wrist until skin broke. A thin smear of blood painted the steel link red.  

He didn’t care.  

Adrenaline flooded his system. Not the good kind. The edge-of-blackout kind.  

His head throbbed harder now—memory flickering like busted footage behind his eyes: Alpha and Bravo moving into positions. Yoongi’s voice on comms. Dead feeds. The SUV. The man in the alley—A fist to the side of his skull.  

The floor falling out beneath him.  

And then— darkness.  

Now he was here. In a box. Chained. Disarmed. Disgraced.  

He spun back toward the center of the container. Took inventory like a man preparing to fight bare-handed in a knife room.  

Steel cot. Thin mattress. Sink. Toilet. A mirror bolted too high to shatter.  

Nothing else.  

Just the chain. The gag. The flickering light overhead and a silence so total it began to ring in his ears.  

This wasn’t a cell.  

This was a holding box.  

They could’ve killed him. But someone wanted him alive. And Jimin had a sinking feeling who.  

Suddenly the container door rattled. A bolt scraped back. Metal hinges groaned.  

The door opened just wide enough for one man to step inside.  

He didn’t look like one of the men from the raid. This guy was new. Unfamiliar. Although he had the same confident posture—the kind that said he’d done this before — This man had a different energy. Clean clothes. Buttoned collar. Black wool coat draped casually over his shoulders like the cold didn’t touch him. Tall. Lean. Broad in the chest, but not thick  

The man stepped in fully, letting the container door fall shut behind him with a clang . “You look like shit.” He sounded delighted. “Which is honestly impressive, considering how pretty that file photo of you was.”  

The man kept talking. “Name’s Yoochun, sweetheart” he said. “I’m sure we’ll get acquainted.”  

Jimin’s hands flexed in the cuffs. The chain attached to the floor clicked softly.  

“Call me sweetheart one more time, and I'll make sure we get really acquainted”  

“Oh? Is that a threat Commissioner?”  

“No, it's a promise.”  

He lunged.  

It wasn’t clean. Wasn’t smart. Just raw instinct riding a broken engine.  

Fists first. Then elbows. One landed hard—right into Yoochun’s ribs with a satisfying thud that stole the smug out of his tone.  

But the rest? Sloppy. He swung like gravity had him by the ankles. Sedatives still tugged at his nerves like invisible chains. Every move just a beat too slow.  

Yoochun grunted, stumbled, then slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle the whole damn container. Steel met spine with a dull crunch. Jimin choked on a curse, teeth flashing in pain.  

Before he could twist out, Yoochun grabbed his wrist and yanked the chain like he was reeling in a fish. Jimin staggered forward, off-balance, breath ragged.  

“Still got fire,” Yoochun sneered, voice close enough to smell. “Cute.”  

Jimin’s knee came up without warning.  

Cracked right between the bastard’s legs.  

Yoochun hissed—sharp, shocked—but didn’t go down. Just stumbled back a half step, eyes flaring wide. His expression changed fast—from smug to mean.  

The backhand came without wind-up.  

It landed hard. Jimin’s head snapped sideways. Heat bloomed across his cheek, raw and instant. For a moment, everything blurred. Static washed in behind his eyes.  

He didn’t think.  

He just moved.  

The next time Yoochun reached for him, Jimin caught his arm—both hands, still cuffed. He didn’t aim. Didn’t plan. He twisted .   

Hard.  

There was a pop. Not clean. Ugly. Sharp enough to make Yoochun scream .  

Jimin didn’t stop.  

He shoved forward with the twist, driving the man back with his shoulder and all the rage he had left. Pain lanced up Jimin’s arm from the strain, but he didn’t care.  

Yoochun’s boot skidded, shoulder hit the wall.  

“FUCK—!”  

The scream echoed in the container, loud and raw.  

“What the fuck is going on!?”  

The voice didn’t come from inside the container.  

It came from the warehouse.  

Low. Cold. Absolute.  

Yoochun froze. Breath stuck halfway in his chest.  

Jimin turned his head. He could tell from the way Yoochun backed off, hand cradling his wrist, eyes averted. This man was higher. Meaner. And not here to talk.  

He stood just outside the container’s doorway, sleeves rolled, shirt half-unbuttoned, expression unreadable. The warehouse lights cast deep shadows behind him, stretched long across the cement floor.  

He stepped inside slowly.  

Yoochun’s jaw twitched, eyes wild. “He broke my fuckin’ wrist.”  

Yunho’s eyes slid to Jimin. He didn’t ask if it was true. He didn’t ask how. He just moved.  

In two strides, he was in front of Jimin. No hesitation. No warning.  

He grabbed Jimin by the collar and slammed him back against the steel wall. The impact rang like a bell—deep and final.  

“You’ve got three seconds to stop testing my patience,” Yunho said, breath hot against Jimin’s cheek. “After that, I stop pretending I care what happens to your face.”  

Jimin didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.  

He smiled. Just a little.  

Blood ran from his nose. His split lip opened wider when he grinned.  

Then he was grabbed .  

The man moved fast—caught Jimin by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall so hard the metal rang out.  

The breath left Jimin’s lungs on impact. His knees buckled. The chain rattled loud against the floor.  

“You want to act tough?” the man said, voice low but deadly. “Then you can act tough when I drag your ass across the fucking floor.”  

He didn’t wait for a response.  

He grabbed the chain and pulled.  

Jimin stumbled forward. Fought to stay upright. But the man yanked again—harder this time—and Jimin hit the ground.  

Palms slammed into concrete. Knees scraped. The cuff chain jerked his arms forward before he could brace properly.  

“Get the fuck up,” the man ordered.  

Jimin pushed up—halfway—before the chain went taut again and pulled .  

This time, he couldn’t stop it.  

He was dragged.  

Feet skidding behind him, heels scraping, one shoulder banging off the edge of the container door as the man hauled him out. The warehouse air hit colder, sharper. The shift in light made his eyes squint.  

He twisted, tried to plant his feet.  

Didn’t matter.  

The man just kept pulling.  

Every few steps, Jimin managed a half-step of resistance—then lost it. The chain snapped him forward like a dog being yanked by the neck. His wrists throbbed. Ankles slipped on loose concrete.  

He tried to grab the edge of a crate they passed.  

The man kicked his hand off.  

“Move,” he barked. “Or I’ll make sure the next place you wake up doesn’t have a floor.”  

He didn’t answer.  

Didn’t grunt, didn’t curse. Just locked his jaw and dragged his heels harder.  

So the man stopped giving warnings.  

Jimin was ripped forward. Again. Harder this time—momentum slamming his hip into the corner of a crate. The pain shot up his side, but he didn’t cry out. Wouldn’t.  

Not for them.  

The warehouse floor stretched wide and cold, concrete echoing every drag and scuff like an announcement. Metal rang from somewhere above. Machinery clunked and clicked to life in the distance. Overhead, industrial lights buzzed faintly. They weren’t on. Just humming.  

Then the light changed.  

It hit him like a slap—too bright, too direct. A single harsh spotlight overhead.  

The man didn’t slow.  

Didn’t even give him a second to adjust.  

He yanked Jimin forward and threw him.  

The chair caught him mid-fall.  

Steel. Hard angles, no padding. Restraint loops on every limb.  

Jimin twisted on impact, tried to roll off, but the man was already on him.  

His cuffs were removed.  

A hand slammed down on his chest. Another pinned his throat—not choking, just pressing. Holding.  

Jimin bucked hard. The chair groaned under him.  

Too slow.  

The first cuff locked his right wrist down.  

Thick leather. Buckled tight.  

He got one hand up. Swung wild—almost caught the man in the face.  

Didn’t matter.  

Strap two—left wrist. Tight enough to burn.  

“Get the fuck off—!” His voice cracked raw. Rage, not panic. Still fighting.  

Ankle restraint. Right side. Then left.  

Cinched to the legs of the chair.  

Jimin thrashed. He couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t lean. Couldn’t twist. Couldn’t kick.  

Breath hissed between his teeth. His chest heaved.  

“So, this is the part where you ask me questions and I tell you to go fuck yourself, yeah?”  

Jimin’s voice cracked like an old hinge—hoarse, wrecked—but laced with that same old venom. The kind that got him into this mess.   

Yunho didn’t smile. Not really. His mouth twitched—barely a shadow of it—but nothing more. He didn’t need to.  

The silence between them hung thick, pregnant with what was coming. The kind of silence that had weight. That took up space. That made a man sweat even when he didn’t bleed.  

But Jimin was already bleeding.  

The air buzzed faintly under the overhead light, that one exposed bulb swaying just enough to send shadows crawling like roaches across the concrete floor.  

Yunho stepped forward.  

A slow, measured closing of distance that said everything.  

A man like that didn’t move unless he knew how it would end.  

“There won’t be any questions today,” Yunho said, voice dry as a blade left in sun.  

Jimin blinked. Blood clung to the corner of his lip. He spat, hard, red droplets spattering onto the floor like signatures.  

“Skipping foreplay? Damn. You mob guys really don’t know how to build tension.”  

That got a twitch. Barely. A glint of amusement in Yunho’s eyes. Not enough to warm anything. Just the glint of a hunter recognizing a cornered animal still baring its teeth.  

“You’re mouthy,” Yunho said. “For someone who got his whole unit wiped.”  

He tilted his head.  

“But no. This isn’t foreplay. This is setting expectations.”  

He raised a hand. No more than two fingers.  

From the edge of the dark, another man emerged. Gloved. Younger than expected. Pretty in the way glass is pretty—until it cuts you.  

“That is Jaejoong, he will be assisting me today.”  

He rolled out a dark canvas satchel across the table like a man setting the dinner table.  

Steel gleamed in the sickly light. Forceps. Dental spreader. Gauze. Thread. All lined up like instruments in an orchestra of pain.  

Jimin’s heart slammed against his ribcage. He jerked against the restraints. The chain rattled. The chair squealed.  

Yunho didn’t blink.  

Instead, he pulled a folding chair up in front of Jimin, turned it backward, and sat—arms resting on the top rail, like he had all the time in the goddamn world.  

“You think silence is strength,” he said, low. “But silence doesn’t protect. It damns.”  

His voice was quiet now. Measured. Like a priest reading last rites.  

Snap.  

Jaejoong clamped Jimin’s jaw open with mechanical precision. A metal spreader cranked between his teeth—one notch, then two, then three—until his jaw ached open, veins bulging in his neck.  

“I want you to remember this pain.” Yunho’s eyes didn’t leave Jimin’s.  

Jaejoong reached for the forceps.  

 Click.  

The metal bit into gum, locked on a molar.  

Crack.  

The first tooth came out with a sick, fibrous pop—like cartilage being torn from bone. Jimin screamed around the metal, throat scraping, blood flooding like a faucet turned inside-out.  

His body bucked. The chair scraped back half an inch before the chain yanked it to a halt.  

Yunho raised a single finger.  

“That’s for walking into my city like you had a fucking clue.”  

Second molar.  

Click. Crack.  

Jimin’s head slammed back. Blood ran down his chin like wine from a broken bottle. He was choking on it but still breathing. Still burning.  

Yunho raised two fingers. “That’s for thinking you were the predator.”  

His voice dipped colder.  

“You were bait.”  

Click. Crack.  

Third molar gone.  

Jimin’s whole body twisted. For a second, he looked like he’d fainted.  

Jaejoong slapped him hard across the face. The sound echoed.  

Yunho didn’t flinch.  

He leaned in, and Jimin caught the scent of steel and smoke and something faintly antiseptic.  

“This one,” Yunho said, holding up four fingers, “this one’s for me.”  

Click. Crack.  

The scream this time wasn’t witty. It wasn’t angry. It was just sound. Raw and human.  

Jaejoong let the spreader fall to the floor with a hollow metallic clatter.  

Jimin sagged forward, arms limp. Blood streamed from his mouth in heavy ropes. He twitched once, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t.  

But his eyes still burned.  

Yunho rose. Dusted off his coat like he was shaking out dust, not blood.  

“You think this is about breaking your body?” he asked, low.  

“It’s not.”  

He leaned in one last time.  

“I’m punishing your stupidity. And stupidity,” he said, stepping back into the dark, “makes men disappear.”  

He turned to Jaejoong.  

“Stitch him. Clean him. Then send him back to the unit.”  

Jimin didn’t protest. He couldn’t. Not anymore.  

The first stitch hit, and he flinched.  

By the third, he was unconscious.  

Yunho watched as Jimin sagged in the chair, head tilted, lashes trembling with the last traces of consciousness. Blood clung to his chin in long, syrupy threads. The gauze Jaejoong packed in his mouth was already soaked red.  

Still not broken.  

Still didn’t scream for mercy.  

Yunho’s eyes lingered for a moment.  

The commissioner looked like he should’ve folded after the first tooth.  

But he didn’t.  

Yunho’s eyes narrowed slightly. No scowl. No fury. Just the faint twitch at the corner of his jaw. He looked again—at the bruised cheek, the stubborn line of Jimin’s jaw even in unconsciousness.  

He’d expected the defiance. All cops had it. But this?  

This wasn’t conviction.  

It was pride. The dangerous kind.  

The kind that didn’t bleed easy.  

For a man who looked so fucking soft… Yunho didn’t like being wrong.  

He inhaled once through his nose. Slow. Controlled.  

Then, wordless, he walked back to the table.  

A black cloth pouch lay open beside the bloodied instruments.  

One by one, he picked up the teeth—crimson-rooted, still slick.  

Dropped them into the pouch. Cinched it closed.  

Day Two  

The door opened with a bang of metal on concrete.  

Jimin didn’t walk out—he was dragged by a different man this time. Seems he did a number on Yoochun. The commissioner felt slightly smug as he was pulled by the chain again, the man yanking him like a half-dead animal from the makeshift holding cell. Jimin’s bare feet scraped the floor, every step uneven. His head hung low, not from surrender—just blood loss and fury. His jaw was still swollen. Gauze stuffed in his mouth yesterday dampened red.  

The warehouse light hit like an interrogation itself. White. Flat. Unforgiving.  

This time, the setup was different.  

The chair was the same—metal, bolted down—but now a second chair waited on the other side.  

Something about that made it worse.  

Jimin tried to twist away.  

The man uncuffed him before shoving him forward.  

He hit the chair hard, ribs first. Tried to swing an elbow on instinct.  

The man caught it effortlessly before he slammed his wrist down against the armrest.  

Click. Leather restraints snapped shut again. 
One. 
Two. 
Three. 
Four. 

By the time Yunho entered, Jimin was strapped in tight. Chest rising in shallow bursts. Dried blood still crusted to his lip. Eyes wide and black.  

Yunho said nothing at first.  

Just sat down.  

Across from him.  

Jimin stared at him with disgust that ran deep as marrow.  

Yunho smiled faintly, folding his hands in his lap.  

Then slid a thin, silver needle from his breast pocket.  

It caught the light like a scalpel.  

Jimin didn’t flinch.  

“I’ll make it simple,” Yunho said. “You answer. I don’t use this.”  

He turned the needle slowly. Just once. Between his fingers.  

“Name.”  

Jimin licked blood from his lip.  

Said nothing.  

Yunho jabbed the needle into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.  

Jimin inhaled sharply. 
But didn’t scream. 

The needle stayed embedded—thin, cruel, barely visible once it was in.  

“Age.”  

No response.  

The needle twisted.  

Jimin exhaled through his nose. His lip curled.  

Yunho smiled again. “Birthplace.”  

Silence.  

He pulled the needle out.  

Stuck it into the inside of Jimin’s arm this time—just below the elbow.  

Jimin twitched.  

Still said nothing.  

Yunho’s voice was almost bored. “Home address.”  

Nothing.  

“Blood type.”  

Jimin let out a breathy, broken chuckle. “How many dates before you usually get this intimate?”  

Yunho didn’t reply.  

He pierced the tip of Jimin’s middle finger. A slow, painful push beneath the nail.  

Jimin’s whole body arched.  

Still—no scream.  

The needle came back out.  

Yunho wiped it clean with a cloth. Methodical.  

Then finally, his voice cooled.  

“Lee Minseo,” he said. No question mark. Just the name. Flat.  

He held up a photo.  

Black and white. Newsprint. A headline above it:  

‘LEE MINSEO CONFESSES TO SWAT AMBUSH—COMMISSIONER PARK STILL MISSING’  

The photo showed a man in cuffs, flanked by guards. Hollow-eyed. Mid-confession.  

Yunho tapped it once.  

“Ring a bell?”  

Still no answer.  

“Lee Minseo claims he coordinated the attacks. Hired mercenaries to intercept law enforcement assets working with Jeon Industries. He gave names. Described tactics.”  

Yunho slid another paper across the table. A transcript excerpt.  

‘Commissioner Park? He got away. I didn’t even see him until the truck was already on fire.’  

He waited.  

Jimin breathed.  

Then: “That man’s full of shit.”  

First words. Rough. Hoarse. But solid.  

Yunho tilted his head slightly.  

Jimin leaned forward—or tried to. The straps held him firm.  

“I don’t know who the hell that is. Probably a fall guy hired by Jeon himself. It's obvious that he’s hiding shit from you.”  

Yunho stayed quiet.  

Jimin’s voice sharpened.  

“And you’re stupid enough to let him.”  

Yunho’s jaw ticked. But he didn’t move.  

Jimin kept going.  

“You think you’re in charge? You’re not. You’re just a blunt instrument. Jeon points, and you swing. You don’t even know what the fuck is going on.”  

Still no reaction.  

So Jimin pushed harder.  

“You think you got it all figured out? What—you gonna rip out more teeth today? Break more bones? It doesn’t change the fact you’re just a dog. Dressed up in daddy’s suit.”  

That did it.  

Yunho rose slowly. Not rushed. Just… changed.  

The silence was gone now. Replaced by something colder.  

He walked up to him.  

No words.  

Then a fist.  

Jimin’s head snapped sideways, the impact sharp enough to send blood arcing from his lip. His body slammed against the restraints.  

Another hit. This one to the gut. Deep. Mean. Not designed to injure. Just to hurt.  

Jimin gasped. Not in surrender—just reflex.  

He spat again. This time directly onto Yunho’s shoe.  

Yunho’s foot hit him across the side of the face.  

Then it was instantly light out.  

Day Three  

Same routine. Different weight.  

Jimin didn’t fight when the same man came for him.  

He didn’t have to.  

The bruises already mapped across his body said enough. Each step scraped old pain into new.  

Dragged again. Hauled like a sack of wet bones down the same stretch of warehouse floor. Crate corners. Scuffed concrete. Cold air.  

Chair.  

Strapped in, tighter this time.  

Yunho was already seated on the other side, he had a manilla folder. He didn’t look up. Just opened it. Lazily flicking through the papers.  

“Name.”  

Jimin scoffed. “I’m sure you know it by now.”  

“Age.”  

“Too old for your bullshit.”  

“Place of birth.”  

“Are we really doing this again?”  

Yunho looked up slowly.  

Jimin’s lips curled—not quite a smirk, but something close. There was blood in his mouth again. He didn’t care.  

“Thought I’d humor you this time,” he said. “After all, it was kind of satisfying watching you lose your shit yesterday.”  

A pause.  

No reaction.  

Jimin leaned back in the restraints, as far as they allowed. “You hit like a guy who gets told ‘no’ a lot.”  

Still, Yunho didn’t blink. Just turned a page.  

“Let’s try something different.”  

The tone was colder now. Flat. Clinical.  

He held up new photo across from him.  

A copy of Jimin’s academy graduation. Clean suit. Salute. Smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  

Jimin’s expression didn’t change.  

“Top of your class. Dual commendations. But no family at the ceremony.”  

Jimin’s jaw ticked. “Get to the point.”  

“You grew up in an orphanage. No known relatives.”  

Yunho’s voice was low. Measured.  

He flipped another page.  

“Your mother passed when you were young,”  

Jimin’s breath caught.  

Just for a second.  

Yunho saw it.  

“Cancer. You were alone for a while. Your father remarried. Didn’t last. Four years later he overdosed.”  

No answer.  

“Don’t want to talk about that?” Yunho’s head tilted. “Too personal?”  

Still nothing.  

He leaned in.  

“That kind of loss rewires a person. Makes them crave control, doesn’t it? Did Choi promise you that? He make you think that if you held everything tight enough, nothing else will fall through?”  

“I don’t—”  

“So now,” Yunho said softly, “you’re here. Stripped of your uniform. Stripped of control. And what’s left? Just a boy in pain.”  

Jimin’s head snapped up.  

His voice was low. A growl.  

“You know nothing about me, and I don’t know who the fuck Choi is.”  

Yunho tilted his head.  

Silence.  

Then Yunho stood.  

Closed the folder.  

"Junsu, take him. We’re done for today day.”  

Finally catching the man’s name. Junsu came forward. Unstrapped Jimin without care. The moment the last strap clicked loose, Jimin tried to lunge—but got shoved hard before cuffing him again.  

Yunho gave no speech.  

No threat.  

No punishment.  

Just… dismissal.  

Like Jimin wasn’t worth it anymore.  

Junsu didn’t have to drag him this time as he opened the steel door to the shipping unit and shoved Jimin back in. He locked the chain to the bolt on the floor before he left, locking the container shut.  

A food tray sat beside the bed. A plastic bottle of water.  

He stared at it.  

For a moment, nothing.  

Then—without warning—he let out a sound. Guttural. Brutal.  

He grabbed the tray and hurled it at the wall.  

Water splashed. Rice scattered. The metal clattered so loud it echoed like a gunshot.  

Jimin screamed—full force, from the gut. A sound that was part rage. part grief.  

 The scream echoed in the metal box, louder than it had any right to be.  

Then silence.  

He sat down.  

HIs cuffed hands curled tight in his lap.  

Chest heaving.  

“I will get outta here.”  

Chapter Text

He didn’t fight when they came for him.  

Not because he’d broken.  

Because he was conserving what strength he had left.  

Again, the shuffle through the steel-bellied corridor. Again, the cuffs biting raw into his wrists, the faint clink of metal echoing like a funeral procession inside a mausoleum. The warehouse hadn't changed—but the air had. It tasted stale now. Thicker. Less oxygen, more tension. Like the space itself was holding its breath. Watching.  

The chair waited for him in the middle of the room. Same spot. Same rusted bolts anchoring it beneath the industrial beam that cut the ceiling in half like a guillotine on standby. The stink of old oil, mold, copper, and stale sweat was worse than before—like memory had fermented in the walls and gone rancid.  

Yunho didn’t sit this time.  

He stood at the side table, sleeves rolled to the forearms, black gloves snapped tight around knuckles built for work. Surgical in posture. Brutal by profession.  

“You’re refusing to nourish yourself,” he said simply, voice smooth as concrete dragged across asphalt. “Are you truly that stubborn?” Not a question. Not really. It landed like background static—annoying, ambient, and meant to wear you down by sheer repetition.  

Jimin smirked. He knew he was referring to the meal left by his bed days ago, the mess still left splattered against the wall of the container.  

“Oh, you’re worried about me now? I didn’t take you for the nurturing type.”  

He didn’t have to look at Yunho to know the man hadn’t flinched. Yunho never flinched. He paced instead—slow, even—like he was killing time with each step, or maybe hunting something only he could smell.  

“I’m not,” Yunho replied, circling once. “But Jeon wants you alive. That’s the part I’m obligated to deliver.”  

He came to a stop just behind the chair. The stool scraped against the concrete as he dragged it into place—deliberate, unhurried.  

 “Until you’re no longer useful, that is.”  

Yunho didn’t sit across from him. He sat next to him. Close enough to reach, not close enough to comfort.  

“You’ve made your position clear,” Yunho said. “You’re not eating. Not drinking. So, I’ve decided to assist you.”  

He glanced over.  

Jimin blinked. A bead of dried blood cracked on his bottom lip.  

“…You’re not serious.”  

But he was.  

He met Jimin’s eyes now, calm and cool.  

“Think of it as... forced hydration.”  

Yunho nodded as Jaejoong stepped into the room, quiet and efficient, pitcher in hand, gray towel folded like it came from a hotel, not a torture chamber.  

Jimin’s body tensed as they moved behind him.  

“You’re proud,” Yunho said.  

He didn’t say it with contempt.  

He said it like he understood it. Like he’d once worn it too—cut from the same cloth but sharper with age. He stood over the table, the towel in hand, letting it unfold slowly between his fingers. The fabric hung heavy. Damp already.  

“But pride?” he continued, eyes fixed on the man strapped in front of him. “Pride makes men do stupid things. Things like starving themselves to make a point no one’s listening to.”  

He leaned down, just a touch. Close enough for his breath to stir the sweat-damp hair clinging to Jimin’s brow.  

“But you haven’t figured out your place yet, Commissioner.”  

The chair tilted. Jaejoong adjusted the back with practiced indifference. Metal shrieked as it gave. Jimin's spine bent back over the edge—exposed, throat bared, ribs shifting with every tense breath. His hands flexed in the cuffs, veins raised under the skin.  

Yunho took his time.  

“You won’t drink water on your own?” Yunho asked. “Then I’ll be happy to help.”  

“No—” Jimin snapped, the word barely formed before—  

The towel dropped.  

Hard.  

No ceremony. No pause. Just the weight of damp fabric over his face and then—  

The first pour.  

It wasn’t gentle. It was punishment. Immediate. Inevitable.  

Water surged through the cloth, flooded his nose, his mouth, his lungs. There was no space between breath and suffocation. No line between reflex and terror.  

Jimin choked immediately. Legs spasmed. Arms strained. His throat seized like it was being wrung out from the inside. The chair rattled beneath him, but the straps held. His muscles locked. Twitched.  

Yunho didn’t blink.  

He leaned down, watching every twitch with clinical curiosity.  

“Isn’t that refreshing?”  

Jimin bucked harder. The sound that came out of him was pure desperation—wet and ragged. His head thrashed against the restraint. The towel stayed firm, like it was welded to his skull.  

Another pour.  

The water filled his body again, forced its way inside. His chest convulsed. His lips split trying to scream through soaked cotton. Every gasp turned into a swallow. Every breath drowned.  

Yunho leaned in, voice low. “Don’t worry, you’re not dying. You just think you are. That’s the point.”  

Jimin bucked again, weaker now. Not from surrender, but depletion. His limbs flailed, less precise. His breath—when it came—was broken. Spasmodic. Wet.  

Yunho stood slowly.  

Let the towel linger another beat.  

Then he pulled it off with a single jerk.  

Air returned all at once—too fast. Too sharp. Jimin coughed violently, spewing water and bile across his chest. His face was crimson, soaked. His jaw slack.   

Yunho stood, calm. Peeled his gloves off and tossed them into the bucket.  

“See?” he muttered. “Nice and hydrated.”  

He leaned close again, crouched just enough to speak directly into Jimin’s ear.  

“This isn’t torture,” he said. “This is hospitality.”  

He dropped the towel to the floor with a wet slap.  

“Next time, take what’s given.”  

He stood fully now and nodded to Jaejoong.  

“Put him back in the box.”  

And with that, Yunho walked out, leaving Jimin trembling, soaked, breath catching in small, ragged gasps.  

DAY 6  

The warehouse smelled like static.  

Same walk. Same concrete. Same rotten-industrial silence split by boots and breath. No shouting. No sound but metal dragging skin and shoes scuffing concrete like ritual.  

Jimin was dragged in like dead weight—slumped between two of Yunho’s men. He looked like hell. Worse. His body sagged, but not broken. Not yet. His head lolled, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded but burning just beneath.  

He was breathing.  

Which meant he was still in the game.  

Sweat tracked down his temples. His shirt clung to him, darker around the collar, streaked with salt and blood. His wrists were cuffed again, tighter this time—more punishment than restraint. The skin around the bone was swollen, raw, torn open in slivers.  

And Yunho?  

Yunho wasn’t bored today.  

He looked focused.  

Satisfied.  

The kind of satisfaction that came just before the real work began.  

The chair scraped loudly across the floor as they forced Jimin into place. Straps snapped shut with mechanical finality. Tight around the chest. Tighter at the ankles. A belt across the thighs—so tight it might as well have been nailed through him.  

Electrodes were already waiting. Taped to his ribs. His wrists. The soft, vulnerable skin at his ankles. Wires ran like veins from his body to the machine beside him—something halfway between an execution panel and a glorified car battery. Scratched metal housing. Exposed wires. A single knob at the center.  

Yunho didn’t sit.  

He stood.  

Hands gloved. Sleeves rolled. One boot planted beside the control unit, like it belonged to him. Like this was his desk, and pain was his paperwork.  

He turned the dial just slightly. The machine hummed.  

“You’ve had time to think,” Yunho said, quiet, measured. “I hope you used it wisely.”  

Jimin’s head rolled to the side. He breathed through his teeth, then looked up—eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.  

“No lawyer?”  

Yunho’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just the faintest ghost of amusement—there and gone in the same breath.  

“You’re cracking,” Yunho said, voice low, voice certain. “I can see it.”  

He turned to the machine. Dialed it to the first setting—barely a whisper of current.   

“Let’s try something simple,” he murmured.  

He crouched beside Jimin, patient. Close. “Your first operation,” he said. “Stray Clan. Jeon Junghyun. Who gave the order. Who signed off.”  

Jimin didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.  

He didn’t give him anything.  

Click.  

The first jolt came fast.  

It wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t drawn out. Just a snap of voltage across frayed nerves—clean and surgical.  

Jimin’s body jerked hard. His back arched.  But he said nothing. Just breathed hard through grit teeth and stared.  

Yunho didn’t flinch.  

He adjusted the dial like a man turning a page.  

“Who in Seoul signed off on the intel? When did you start working for Choi?”  

The name was bait. Heavy, deliberate.  

Jimin let the blood run down from his nose to his lip before he moved. Just a tilt of the head. Just enough to spit a clot to the side and smile, teeth pink.  

“Who the fuck is Choi?” he rasped.  

Click.  

The next current jumped higher. The straps groaned. Jimin twisted, arms flexing. A low groan cracked loose from somewhere deep in his chest—but still, no plea. No surrender.  

Yunho stepped around the chair. Stood directly in front of him.  

“You’re not stupid. You don’t take down a man like Jeon Junghyun alone.”  

He raised the current.  

Shock. Burn. Snap.  

Jimin’s whole body jumped again. Limbs convulsed in the restraints. Breath came ragged and fast. Eyes half-lidded, but locked forward.  

Yunho lowered his voice.  

“I’ve seen cops break faster for less,” he said. “But not you.”  

The dial ticked up another notch.  

Jimin tensed before it even hit.  

Then—snap.  

His body locked, a puppet pulled tight on steel wire. Muscles spasmed beneath skin slick with sweat. His eyes squeezed shut, then forced themselves open again.  

Yunho stepped in front of him. Calm. Still.  

“You managed to kill my old boss.”  

His thumb rolled the dial again—slow, deliberate.  

“The least I can do is honor his death with a little retribution.”  

The hum of the device climbed higher.  

Jimin’s breaths turned shallow. His fingers twitched at his sides, nerves fried to live wires.   Drool trailed down his chin.  

Still, his eyes were sharp. Tracking.  

Yunho tilted his head. Studied him.  

And smiled.  

“But I should thank you,” he said quietly.  

He crouched to eye level again. Close enough for the heat between them to feel like friction.  

“I got his empire. His title. His city.”  

He let it sit there. Let it hang.  

“I became God the second Jeon died.”  

It didn’t come all at once.  

It crept up—a cracked breath, a cough twisted wrong in his throat. Then it rose. Grew. Shifted.  

Laughter.  

Low at first. Gravel-wet. But then it climbed—fractured, unclean. A sound ripped out of somewhere no man should reach. Ugly and defiant.  

Jimin was laughing.  

He laughed through the blood flowing from his nose. Through the tremble in his arms. Through the raw sting of wire and electricity still humming in his bones.  

Yunho froze.  

The room stilled with him.  

Then came the voice—shredded and soaked in blood, but clear enough to cut.  

“Jeon’s back.”  

The words landed like a fist.  

Yunho blinked once. Tight. Sharp.  

Jimin spat red onto the floor. Grinned, teeth pink. “And you?” he coughed, grin splitting wider. “You’re just a fucking temp.”  

Yunho’s jaw locked.  

“I bet you thought you won,” Jimin rasped. “Sat in his chair. Drank from his glass. Fucked his leftovers.”  

He laughed again—louder now. Madder.  

“Pretended that name—Jeon—belonged to you.”  

A twitch pulsed in Yunho’s temple.  

Jimin leaned forward against the restraints, barely holding his weight. Still laughing. Still bleeding.  

“But the second his son walked in,” he gasped, “you became his bitch.”  

Click.  

Yunho hit the dial.  

The next jolt cracked down like lightning. Jimin howled—but the sound collapsed into more laughter, guttural and wet. Spasms rolled down his limbs like ripples through a dying wire.  

Yunho’s hand twitched again.  

“Shut up,” he said, but his voice was tight now—wired thin.  

“You’re a fucking lapdog,” Jimin coughed, breath wheezing between broken laughter. “You’ll always be a lapdog.”  

Click.  

More power.  

Jimin’s body slammed into the chair like a car crash. Leather groaned. Metal scraped. His chest shuddered with each convulsion—but the sound he made wasn’t a scream.  

It was still laughter.  

Yunho’s face cracked.  

“I said shut the fuck up!”  

The dial turned.  

All the way.  

A final surge screamed through the wires—merciless. The chair rattled, sparks jumped. Jimin’s back arched, fists locked, neck craned skyward like some pagan offering under industrial light.  

One second. Then two.  

Then—  

Collapse.  

Everything went still.  

Jimin’s body slumped forward. Head down. Blood dripping slow off his chin in heavy, deliberate drops.  

The machine fizzled with a sad pop and died.  

Yunho didn’t move.  

Didn’t breathe.  

Just stared at the slumped figure in the chair—silent now, unmoving.  

Only the sound of dripping blood filled the room.  

Drip.  

Drip.  

Drip.  

No more laughter.  

Smoke still hung in the air. The sharp tang of blood. And silence—thick, grim, absolute.  

Then it hit him.  

No rise in the chest. No twitch of fingers. Just slack limbs. A head dropped like a severed string.  

Yunho moved.  

Fast.  

Two fingers to the side of Jimin’s neck. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked.  

Nothing.  

No thump. No twitch. No life.  

“Fuck,” Yunho hissed—low and tight.  

He pressed harder. Knuckles white. Skin to skin. Come on.  

Then—  

There. A flicker.  

Weak. Barely there. But it was real. A beat.  

Alive.  

Yunho exhaled. Rough. Shaken. He yanked his hand back like he’d been burned and wiped it down his thigh, streaking blood across tailored fabric.  

“Junsu!”  

Boots echoed from the dark.  

Junsu stepped into the spill of light, gaze sharp.  

“Take him back,” Yunho snapped. “And make sure he doesn’t fucking die.”  

No questions. No hesitation.  

Junsu moved.  

Straps unclipped. Electrodes peeled. Jimin’s body slumped into his arms like wet cloth—heavy, blood-wet, unconscious. His head lolled against Junsu’s shoulder, mouth parted, blood still threading from one nostril. His chest rose and fell. Barely.  

One of the wires tore loose with a soft snap.  

Neither of them spoke.  

Junsu disappeared into the shadows with the body of a man still somehow breathing.  

Yunho didn’t follow.  

He turned his back to the chair. To the table. To the machine still humming its last dying buzz.  

He stood in the dark and let it settle in.  

After all that?  

Six days. Pins and needles. Pulled teeth. Electric hell.  

And the bastard hadn’t given him a single fucking name.  

Not even one.  

The boardroom smelled like leather, steel, and nerves. Rain whispered down the glass walls in thin, greasy streaks, softening the Seoul skyline into shadows. Inside, the air was still. Controlled.  

Jungkook didn’t speak first.  

He never did.  

He sat at the head of the table in a charcoal suit tailored like armor. One leg crossed, eyes on the portfolio in front of him—blueprints, logistics manifests, quarterly burn reports. The calm of a man who already knew the answers to questions that hadn’t been asked yet.  

  It was the one to his left—lean, crisp, and calm like a blade left on ice.  

Seokjin.  

Dark gray suit. White shirt so starched it could cut. No tie. Wireframe glasses that caught the light just enough to hide what his eyes were doing behind them. And those eyes—sharp, patient, unreadable.  

He didn’t lean. Didn’t fidget. He didn’t even look up from the tablet resting against his knee.  

He just spoke.  

“Mr. Na,” Seokjin said, smooth as lacquer, “you’ve mentioned your loyalty. You've mentioned your concerns. What you haven’t mentioned is anything actionable.”  

The shareholder blinked. “Excuse me?”  

“You said this company is under fire,” Seokjin continued. “You’re correct. You said you’ve been a supporter for decades. Also correct.” Now he looked up. “But unless you're bringing data, accusations, or the name of someone better suited to absorb your shares, I’d suggest you consider why you're sitting in this room in the first place.”  

“I’ve been loyal to this company since before you were old enough to drink, Jeon,” Na said, knuckles white around his fountain pen. “But this—this PR nightmare? It’s unsalvageable. A missing Commissioner. Your father’s name in every headline. And now they’re dragging your brand into a string of homicides.”  

Seokjin spoke first. Smooth. Surgical.  

“And yet,” he said, “your stocks are still outperforming every other stakeholder on the board.”  

“That won’t last,” Na snapped. “Once the next headline hits—”  

“Mr. Na,” Jungkook said quietly.  

Na froze mid-breath.  

Jungkook didn’t look up. He flicked through another page of paperwork.  

Then finally lifted his eyes.  

“You’re worried about the press. The optics.”  

Na said nothing.  

“You want reassurance.”  

“I want stability.”  

“You want a fall guy.”  

Na flinched.  

Jungkook smiled. Barely.  

“The man responsible for the murders has already confessed. He’ll be made public by week’s end. No connections to Jeon Industries. Not official. Not unofficial.”  

Na looked between them. “This commissioner’s disappearance—”  

“—is irrelevant,” Seokjin cut in smoothly. “And temporary.”  

Na’s jaw tightened. “You expect the world to believe Jeon Industries had nothing to do with it?”  

“We don’t expect them to believe anything,” Jungkook murmured. “We expect them to forget.”  

Na stood, but slowly. Testing the air. “If this isn’t cleaned up—publicly, cleanly—I'll be forced to pull my share. Permanently.”  

“You’re free to walk,” Jungkook said, brushing invisible lint off his lapel. “But don’t expect to crawl back in when the tide turns.”  

“But the public—”  

“Doesn’t matter,” Seokjin said. “Public opinion is like vapor. Dangerous when trapped. Harmless when released.”  

“And if they don’t forget?” Na shot back.  

Jungkook stood. Not with anger. With intent.  

“If they don’t forget,” he said, smoothing his jacket sleeve, “then we remind them of something worse.”  

A pause.  

Jin stood too, collected the tablet, and nodded once. “This meeting is over.”  

Na hesitated. He’d been dismissed—politely, but unmistakably.  

Jin didn’t bother watching him leave. He just turned to Jungkook and said:  

“He’ll stay. He’s too greedy to jump ship before dividends drop.”  

Jungkook’s jaw twitched as they made their way towards the elevator.  

The elevator ride up was quiet.  

Jungkook lit a cigarette with the same hand he’d just shaken a shareholder with. Seokjin stood beside him, tablet tucked beneath his arm, lips set in a tight line. The smoke spiraled toward the ceiling, curling like a fuse in waiting.  

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.  

The doors opened with a chime.  

Jungkook stepped into his office—and stopped.  

Yunho was already there.  

Leaning against the far window, arms crossed, sleeves rolled to the forearm like he’d been doing work with his bare hands. The skyline framed him like a cautionary tale—black suit, crooked smirk, and blood still drying under one fingernail.  

“Jeon,” Yunho said without turning around.  

Seokjin’s entire posture shifted.  

Gone was the smooth consigliere. The mask hardened. Shoulders stiffened. Chin lifted in that subtle, warning way. Cold returned to his face like a second skin.  

Jungkook didn’t need to say anything.  

Seokjin already knew.  

“I’ll leave you to it,” Jin said coolly.  

He passed Yunho without looking at him. Yunho didn’t look at him either. Not once. The air between them was radioactive.  

Jin stopped by the doorway.  

“You’ll need to review the Gala security team list. I’ll send it to your desk,” he said, strictly business.  

Jungkook didn’t look at him. Just exhaled smoke and waved two fingers.  

Seokjin left. The click of the door behind him was soft, but final.  

Only then did Yunho move.  

“Still keeping the pretty one out of the loop?” he asked, finally turning. “Guess old sins still sting.”  

Jungkook stepped past him, dropped into his chair, and crushed the cigarette into the glass tray like he wanted it to scream.  

“He betrayed blood, he doesn’t get to touch mine.” He said simply. “However, to the company he valuable. He will continue to serve under me.”  

Yunho didn’t push the subject. Just shrugged. “Fair enough.”  

Yunho lingered by the desk, arms folded again—but tighter this time. Less relaxed. Less sure.  

“He still isn’t talking,” he admitted. “Six days. Teeth. Needling. Sleep deprivation. Nothing.”  

Jungkook didn’t blink. He lit another cigarette. Inhaled. The silence between them burned slower than the tobacco.  

“I don’t give a fuck what he’s not doing,” Jungkook said, voice low, steady. “What are you not doing?”  

Yunho’s jaw flexed. “He’s trained. This isn’t just some cop with a badge and a hero complex. He knows how to take pain. Knows how to hold a lie.”  

Jungkook scoffed. “Sounds like excuses.”  

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. Smoke framed his face like the ghost of a fire.  

“You used to be good at this. Now? You’re wasting time, oxygen, and my payroll.”  

Yunho straightened slightly, jaw tight. “You think you can do it better?”  

Jungkook’s eyes cut through him. “I think if I have to go there and handle the commissioner myself, you won’t like what happens next.”  

A tense beat.  

Yunho turned slightly—just enough to nod and take the hit without showing his teeth.  

But before he could leave, Jungkook’s voice dropped.  

Cold. Sharp. Surgical.  

“By the way,” he said, blowing out a slow stream of smoke, “your men talk too much.”  

Yunho froze.  

Jungkook didn’t raise his voice.  

“Electrocution?” he said, like it was just a word on a menu. “Uncontrolled. Off the dial. Heart stopped. Body limp.”  

He tapped ash into the tray.  

“Sound familiar?”  

Yunho’s lips parted slightly. His shoulders locked.  

Jungkook stood.  

He didn’t raise his voice.  

But the silence wrapped around it like a noose.  

“You’re not my father,” he said. “And this empire?” He gestured around them. “It was never yours. You were a stand-in. A placeholder. A warm body holding a cold throne.”  

He stepped close—too close. Close enough Yunho remembered how dangerous Jeon blood could really be.  

“You don’t get to lose control. Not with my assets. Not in my name.”  

The cigarette sizzled out in the ashtray.  

“You fuck up again,” Jungkook whispered, “and I won’t bury you like a soldier. I’ll erase you like a stain.”  

Yunho didn’t speak.  

He couldn’t.  

He just nodded once—stiff, silent, and left with the weight of something heavy dragging behind him.  

The door closed. Jungkook sat back down.  

The silence returned—but this time, it bent to him.  

As it should.

Day 7  

The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet.  

Not silent in the peaceful sense—silent in the way graveyards were. In the way morgues whispered between the walls. No wind, no drip, no groan of metal this time. Just stillness. Like the whole building was holding its breath, waiting for something to go wrong.  

Same floor. Same drag. The same fucking chair.  

Bolted dead center like an altar for sacrifices. The scuff marks from the last round of torment still spiderwebbed out from its base. No straps today. No buzzing wires. No surgical kits unrolled with ceremony.  

Just the chair. And Yunho.  

He stood on the far end of the room, shadow-wrapped, with something small and glinting between his fingers.  

A vial.  

Thin. Glass. Amber liquid sloshing inside like bargain-shelf whiskey. Barely an ounce, but it caught the overhead light like it mattered more than gold.  

“Truth serum,” he said, voice like gravel dragged across tile. Flat. Matter-of-fact. “Barbiturate blend. Government used to use it. Old Cold War shit. Highly unreliable.”  

He stepped closer, each footfall tapping against the concrete like a metronome counting down something ugly.  

Jimin sat slumped in the chair. Gaunt. Lips split. Cheeks hollowed out by hunger and defiance. He hadn’t eaten in days. Hadn’t spoken in longer. But his eyes were still sharp. Still alive in that maddening way Yunho had come to hate.  

He didn’t look afraid.  

He looked bored.  

That smug fucking tilt of his head. That ghost of a grin, like Yunho was the one wasting his time now.  

Yunho crouched beside him without warning—fluid and unceremonious, like a man adjusting a broken machine. One gloved hand caught Jimin by the throat, turning his head with a sharp jerk. The other brought the needle to his neck.  

Prick.  

The amber liquid vanished into his bloodstream in seconds.  

Jimin’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. Not visibly. Just blinked once. Slow. Tired.  

“Barbiturates lower inhibition,” Yunho muttered, still crouched beside him. “Scrambles short-term memory. Distorts time. Makes liars sloppy.”  

He let go of Jimin’s throat and stood.  

The chair creaked as Jimin shifted—just a breath of movement.  

“Let’s see what leaks out.”  

Yunho’s voice cut the room like a dull scalpel—measured, indifferent, too tired to pretend anymore. He didn’t sit at first. Just stood there, arms folded, watching Jimin like a man watching ice melt in real time.  

The drug wasn’t fast.  

It didn’t drop like a hammer.  

It seeped.  

Slow. Creeping. Like smog bleeding into clean air.  

Jimin’s posture shifted first. Subtle slack in the shoulders. Chin dipped. Breaths came deeper, slower. Not sleep—but close. That narcotic limbo between waking and unraveling.  

His eyes stayed open—barely. Glassy now. Filmed over like he was underwater. He looked… cracked. Not broken, not yet—but softer in a way no knife or wire had managed to make him. The defiance still flickered behind his gaze, but now it was dim. Distant.  

Yunho finally moved. Dragged a chair across the floor with a long screech of steel on concrete. Sat across from Jimin. Legs spread. Elbows resting on his knees.  

He pulled a small recorder from his coat pocket. Clicked it on.  

“Name?”  

A pause.  

Then, barely a whisper—dry, dispassionate:  

“…Park Jimin.”  

“Age?”  

“Twenty-five.”  

“Occupation?”  

“Police Commissioner.”  

Each word fell like it was pushed, not spoken. Like someone else was saying it through him. No resistance. No edge. But no soul, either.  

Yunho leaned in. Eyes narrowing.  

“Do you work for Choi?”  

A flicker. Jimin blinked—slow. Foggy. But the answer came the same way.  

“No.”  

Yunho’s fingers hovered near the dial on the recorder.  

“Are you protecting someone?”  

“…No.”  

“Who’s behind the murders?”  

That one earned a twitch.  

The edge of Jimin’s lip curled, just faintly. Barely there.  

“Jeon.”  

Yunho didn’t flinch. But the air in the room tightened.  

He kept his voice flat. Uninterested.  

“Jeon who?”  

“Jeon Jungkook.”  

Silence.  

Not long. Just long enough for Yunho to decide if this was still the serum talking—or if it was something worse.  

Belief.  

He adjusted in his chair.  

“Did you kill Jeon Junghyun?”  

Jimin didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted—past Yunho, past the light.  

He wasn’t looking at Yunho anymore.  

He was watching a ghost.  

Then:  

“…No.”  

It landed like a dropped scalpel.  

Clean.  

Precise.  

Unforgivable.  

Yunho froze.  

“What?”  

No echo.  

No emphasis.  

Just that one word bleeding into the air.  

But Jimin didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.  

“I didn’t kill him.”  

The confession was quiet. Simple. Almost gentle.  

“But I let the world believe I did.”  

The recorder kept rolling. The red light blinked.  

But Yunho?  

He didn’t move.  

Because whatever war he thought he’d won over the last seven days?  

Just shifted.  

And Jimin—barely breathing, glass-eyed and bleeding—had just pulled the trigger.  

With words.  

The silence that followed wasn’t silence.  

Yunho straightened, slow. Bone by bone. Like something dangerous was waking up behind his ribs.  

“Then who?” he asked, low.  

Jimin blinked. His gaze wasn’t glassy anymore. It was wet. Distant. Something in the fog had cracked—and now it poured.  

“…Ha Sungwoon.”  

That name hit the room like a gunshot wrapped in velvet.  

And then?  

Jimin wasn’t there anymore.  

His body was, sure. Slouched in the chair, neck slack, arms limp. But the rest of him—mind, memory, whatever was left of the man behind the badge—was somewhere else.  

Gone.  

The concrete vanished. The light dimmed. His breath caught.  

“He wasn’t supposed to shoot.” he whispered, almost to himself. “But I couldn’t take the shot.”  

Yunho didn’t move.  

Didn’t blink.  

Because this wasn’t posturing. Wasn’t manipulation.  

It was a live wire humming in real time—too raw, too disordered to be rehearsed. No edge. No armor. Just nerves unraveling, one by one.  

“And the raid?” Yunho pressed, quieter now. Like he didn’t want to scare it off.  

Jimin’s voice dropped, hollow. “It was supposed to be clean. Controlled. Two teams, in and out.”  

“And Jeon Jungkook?”  

Jimin’s mouth parted, but no sound came. Just breath. Just ache.  

“He was meeting somone,” he rasped. “A CEO, But it didn’t matter. I just needed a name. A face. ”  

The serum dragged him deeper now. Slower blinks. Slack jaw. His adrenaline was gone. His armor? Peeled off. What sat in front of Yunho wasn’t a cop, or a martyr, or a symbol.  

Just bones and memory.  

Just a man in pieces.  

And for the first time in days—Yunho didn’t feel angry.  

He felt nothing at all.  

He reached forward. Clicked off the recorder. The silence it left behind was too loud.  

The commissioner wasn’t who the city thought he was.  

Maybe he never was.  

A liar? Maybe.  

A fool? Definitely.  

A victim? Possibly.  

But what Yunho saw now was something else entirely.  

An unaware pawn.  

He stood. Didn’t speak. Just turned and motioned to Junsu, who stepped forward like a shadow folding itself into the light.  

“Back to the unit,” Yunho said, voice empty. Stripped down to the steel underneath.  

Junsu nodded. Moved toward the chair.  

Jimin didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. His head just lolled to the side—like the weight of the truth had finally done what all the pain couldn’t.  

It broke him quietly.  

Not loud.  

Not cinematic.  

Just real.  

Just sad.  

Just the sound of a fall that started long before he ever hit the floor.  

That was the last time.  

No more chair.  

No more questions.  

No more hands on his face or blood on the floor.  

Just silence.  

Not peace—never peace. Just the kind of stillness that set in after the last scream faded and no one bothered to come back for the echo.  

The container door groaned open once a day now. Same time. Same hands. A metal tray scraped across the concrete floor with mechanical precision.  

Water.  

Cold rice.  

No cutlery. No extra glances.  

Jaejoong didn’t speak. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t meet Jimin’s eyes.  

He slid the tray in. Shut the door. Gone before the silence noticed it had been interrupted.  

The water, Jimin drank.  

Not out of obedience—out of instinct. Out of spite, even. Dying of thirst would’ve been too clean. Too poetic. And Jimin wasn’t anyone’s tragedy.  

But the food?  

Untouched.  

Left to rot.  

Because eating meant survival, and survival meant compliance. And Jimin wasn’t compliant. Never was.  

Let the rice mold. Let the roaches find it. Let them all think he was slipping.  

He was slipping.  

Because pain, they understood.  

Defiance, they could handle.  

But a man sitting alone for days with nothing but silence and still choosing to endure?  

That was something else entirely.  

That was a storm gathering at the bottom of a well.  

That was patience.  

And patience was dangerous.  

The city looked different from up here.  

It always did.  

Lights bled across the skyline in rows of gold and electric blue, smudged by fog, blurred by distance. Traffic below moved in slow, obedient streams. To the world, Seoul was still ticking like a perfect machine.  

But up here—perched on the rooftop of a half-renovated luxury high-rise, wind curling like smoke around their collars—it was silent. Too high for sirens. Too far for shouts. Just the hum of altitude and the low scrape of soles shifting on gravel.  

Jay stood at the edge, hands in his coat pockets, hair slicked back tight, face a clean slate. Choi kept a few paces behind, lighting a cigarette with that cheap brass lighter he never replaced, even after making his first billion. The flame caught, flickered, and then the ember glowed orange.  

“They bought it,” Choi said casually, watching the horizon. “Whole damn department. Hook, line, body count.”  

Jay didn’t answer. His eyes were still on the city. The weight of it. The illusion of control.  

Choi stepped forward, smoke trailing. “Lee Minseo was perfect. No ties, no real loyalty. Just enough desperation to take the fall like a good little soldier.”  

Jay gave a half-smirk. “Dead men don’t talk.”  

“Exactly,” Choi said, exhaling. “And the Commissioner? Gone. No one left to question the story.”  

He paused.  

Then looked over. “Smart move, faking the death. Those teeth at the scene? That was art. Gave the media something to chew on. Closed the file for good.”  

Jay turned his head slightly. “Yeah. Lucky, huh?”  

He lied easily. Smooth. No tell. But behind the calm, a flicker of something: Teeth?  

He hadn’t planted any.  

Choi didn’t seem to notice. Or care. He stepped closer to the edge now, peering down with the idle interest of someone who owned more square footage than he could remember.  

“The timing’s right,” Choi murmured. “Storm’s passed. You should lay low. Keep the heat off.”  

Jay gave a slow nod.  

“And you?” he asked, tone deliberately casual.  

Choi smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me. I was never here.”  

Jay looked out again.  

The city pulsed beneath them, unaware.  

Two weeks.  

Twenty one days since the raid.  

Since the blood. Since the chair. Since truth serum and the silence.  

And still—no answers.  

Inside the container, time had collapsed into a rhythmless haze. No sun. No voice. Just water and steel and the soft scuff of Jimin’s foot dragging over concrete when sleep refused him. He looked less like a man and more like the outline of one—faded at the edges, bones pushed too close to skin. But the bruises were gone. Cuts sealed. The yellowing around his jaw had faded.  

His body was healing.  

Which meant they were getting ready to do something else.  

He didn’t know what.  

Not until the lock clicked.  

Not until the metal creaked open and a figure stepped through the threshold without ceremony.  

Junsu.  

No tray. No water. No glance.  

Just a black case in one hand and a syringe in the other.  

Jimin’s whole spine tensed at the sight. His body—fragile, running on nothing but will—still snapped to alert like a wire drawn tight.  

“No,” he croaked, voice cracking. “You’re not sticking me with shit—”  

He lunged.  

Or tried to. His knees barely cooperated. The chain slowed him mid-swing. But his shoulder hit Junsu anyway—glancing blow, nothing more—but it made the man grunt. Made him stumble back half a step.  

Then Junsu grabbed him by the back of the neck.  

And slammed him into the wall.  

Not hard enough to knock him out. But enough to remind him that strength was not something he had anymore.  

Jimin writhed, teeth bared, fingers clawing at Junsu’s wrist—  

—but the needle slid in anyway.  

Straight into the side of his neck.  

And that was it.  

One second he was fighting, snarling like a wounded dog—  

The next, his legs buckled. His head lulled to the side. Arms dropped limp.  

He collapsed against Junsu like a rag soaked in sweat and fury.  

Junsu caught him before he hit the ground.  

He clicked open his phone.  

“Target’s sedated,” he said. “Ready to prep and move for transport.”  

A pause. Then a quiet click as the call ended.  

Elsewhere—on the top floor of Jeon Industries—Jeon Jungkook hung up without a word.  

The phone dropped onto the desk beside him, screen dimming as it landed.  

He leaned back in his chair, rings clinking against the leather armrest. Long fingers steepled beneath his chin. Eyes unreadable.  

He’d waited long enough.  

The moment had finally arrived.  

He whispered to no one, “If you want something done right...”  

And when he stood?  

It was slow.  

Deliberate.  

The kind of stillness before a storm hits the skin.  

“You have to do it yourself.”  

Chapter Text

Soft, pale light filtered through the panoramic windows of Jeon Industries, washing across polished concrete floors. The building was busy but always calmer during this time of day.  

It was almost evening. Fingers tapped casually on keyboards. Phones buzzed occasionally but nothing like the morning rush.   

Inside the top-floor suite, time seemed to crawl.  

Jungkook sat behind his desk in tailored dark slacks and a charcoal dress shirt, the top button undone beneath a loosened silk tie. His sleeves were rolled with surgical precision, forearms taut, veins coiled beneath smooth skin. The soft light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet exhaustion in his eyes.   

A thick stack of reports lay in front of him, numbers scrawled in red pencil along the margins—his own corrections, his own hand. He flipped a page without looking like he cared to see it.  

Across from him, Seokjin stood mid-sentence, posture impeccable, voice level as always as he read from the day’s scheduling briefs.  

“Studio B won’t be available until next week while Lust in Lace finishes shooting.”  

Jungkook didn’t even look up. “Why can’t they move the last few scenes to Studio A?”  

“Studio A is still under—”  

The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass.  

Jin flinched. Jungkook didn’t.  

Yunho stormed in—no knock, no apology. Just a locked jaw and eyes burning with restrained fury.  

“He’s been moved,” he said tightly, voice low but fraying at the edges. “My men just informed me. I’m no longer in charge of the interrogation.”  

Jungkook all but ignored him.  

He adjusted his sleeve with surgical calm, eyes still scanning the column of figures on the open folder in front of him. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows carved his profile in clean lines—less silence than steel.  

Across the room, Jin hesitated. The air had changed.  

He started to speak — thought better of it. Then stayed silent.  

Slowly, Jungkook’s gaze tore from the report and locked on Jin.  

He raised two fingers. Then, a flick—barely a gesture, but unmistakable.  

Dismissal.  

Jin understood immediately. He gathered the papers and exited without a word.  

The door closed.  

Only then did Jungkook glance up—finally meeting Yunho’s eyes.  

The silence stretched, taut as wire.  

“You’re upset,” Jungkook said flatly. Not a question. A statement. A challenge.  

Yunho didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked behind a clenched expression. The kind of anger that knew exactly where the line was—and how much it cost to cross it.  

“You gave the order,” he said at last.  

Jungkook didn’t blink. “I did.”  

“And you didn’t think that warranted a conversation.”  

“I didn’t,” Jungkook said smoothly. “Because it wasn’t one.”  

Silence again—thick now, almost suffocating. Yunho held his ground, but the air between them had shifted. The hierarchy was no longer implied. It was enforced.  

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, folding one leg over the other with careful ease.  

“What warranted a conversation,” he said slowly, “was your decision to use sodium thiopental on the Commissioner.”  

Yunho’s mouth tightened.  

“That serum’s unreliable,” Jungkook continued. “At best, it amplifies suggestion. At worst, it fabricates memory. You know that. I know that. But you still pumped a high-value asset full of it.”  

“I needed something to work with,” Yunho muttered, jaw twitching.  

“You needed patience,” Jungkook corrected. “But that’s never been your strength, has it?”  

The insult was quiet. Surgical.  

Yunho’s eyes flickered—just a flash of something raw—but he didn’t speak.  

“You rushed,” Jungkook said. “You got desperate. And now you expect me to work twice as hard to separate truth from compliance.”  

Jungkook rose to his feet—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to remind Yunho that the office, the city, the family—it all belonged to him now.  

“You were efficient when you worked for my father,” he said, stepping around the desk. “But efficient isn’t the same as precise . He tolerated brute force. I don’t.”  

He stopped just short of Yunho’s shoulder, voice dropping an octave.  

“This isn’t your empire anymore either. You don’t get to run interrogations like a street enforcer.”  

Yunho’s fists clenched at his sides, shoulders coiled like he was swallowing something sharp.  

“You think you can break him without blood?”  

Jungkook didn’t look at him.  

“I don’t need blood,” he said quietly. “I need answers I can use.”  

A beat.  

Yunho’s breath caught. His pride was splintering, cornered by precision, logic, and the cold truth of his replacement.  

Then—  

He snapped.  

“Ha Sungwoon.”  

Jungkook stilled.  

Slowly—**calm as death—**he turned to face him.  

“…Who?”  

Yunho stepped forward, jaw tight, eyes flickering with something volatile.  

“It’s what the Commissioner said under the serum. That a man named Ha Sungwoon killed your father. Not him.”  

Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at him.  

Yunho pressed on, voice lower now, but no less urgent.  

“The Commissioner said he made the public believe he was the hero.”  

Silence flooded the room.  

Jungkook’s expression didn’t crack—but something inside him shifted . Cold eyes narrowed with calculation. A flicker of uncertainty. Or something darker.  

Yunho took a step back, watching him.  

“I wasn’t going to bring it up,” he muttered. “Because I thought it was bullshit. Delirium. But you wanted to separate truth from compliance?”  

He spread his hands. “Well. That’s what he said.”  

Jungkook said nothing.  

The weight of that name— Ha Sungwoon —was starting to ring a bell.  

Jungkook didn’t move. But his eyes, dark and unreadable, stayed fixed on Yunho.  

“That officer,” he said slowly, “was found dead at the scene.”  

Yunho gave a sharp nod. “I know.”  

“And this is the first I’m hearing of any speculation that he was involved in the investigation, not just backup.”  

 Jungkook continued voice turning to glass.  

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”  

Yunho’s jaw twitched. “Because I didn’t believe it. Still don’t. But you wanted me to take the serum at face value. That’s what came out. I thought you should know.”  

Jungkook stared at him. Long. Flat. Calculating.  

And then—  

“No.”  

Yunho blinked.  

“No?”  

“There is too much speculation,” Jungkook said. “And nothings concrete. You think I’m going to stop everything because the golden boy cried a new name in a drugged haze?”  

His voice sharpened—quiet but lethal.  

“The last thing I’m going to do is waste time chasing ghosts.”  

Yunho held his ground. “Then what? We just ignore it?”  

“No,” Jungkook said. “We bury it. For now.”  

He turned his back on Yunho and returned to his desk, spine straight, fingers already moving look at more reports.  

“If the name means something,” he added, colder now, “Someone will talk. Have Hoseok look into it.”  

Yunho frowned.  

Jungkook’s tone stayed even. “Quietly. I want to know if anyone at Bad Bunny remembers a Ha Sungwoon . Hoseok can get someone to pull his record and look into anything off-the-books. Escort lists, private booths, dancer rotations—anything that doesn’t show up in the official logs.”  

Yunho crossed his arms. “You know nothing stays quiet when people are asking questions.”  

“True,” Jungkook said, “but Hoseok knows how to dig without making noise.”  

It was true. Hoseok had been Vice Boss under Yunho during his short reign. Trusted. Methodical. And Bad Bunny had practically become his territory once Jungkook took over. He knew the building, the staff, the floors no one talked about. If there was a whisper in that club's walls, Hoseok could hear it.  

Jungkook’s fingers drummed once against the desk.  

“If there’s something there, I want it.”  

Yunho nodded stiffly. The confrontation had fizzled into cold logistics—but the power dynamic remained etched in stone.  

“And Yunho,” Jungkook said, just as the older man turned to leave.  

Yunho glanced back.  

“Next time you barge into my office,” Jungkook said without looking at him,  

“Don’t expect to walk out.”  

Jungkook watch as Yunho stiffened before the door clicked shut behind him.  

Jin gave him a quick side glance before he reentered the office, quietly.  

“Cancel everything,” Jungkook said flatly.  

He stood slowly.  

Seokjin stopped mid-step. “Everything?”  

Jungkook moved around the desk, gathering his things.  

“All meetings. All calls. Let the staff know I’ll be out for the rest of the evening.”  

Jin hovered, uncertain. “Should I ask where you’re going?”  

Jungkook didn’t answer as he pulled out a cigarette.  

He lit it with a flick—slow, deliberate, like it wasn’t habit but ritual. The flame caught with a soft snap , kissing the end with a low glow. For a moment, he just held it between his fingers, letting the burn settle.  

Then he inhaled.  

Deep. Controlled.  

Like he needed it to hold something down.  

The smoke curled into his lungs like silk—bitter at first, then warm. Earthy. Familiar.   

He let it sit in his chest for a beat. Then two.  

Finally, he exhaled—long and slow, through his nose.  

The smoke drifted upward in ribbons, pale and shapeless, dancing in the amber light of the office as he at the skyline—glowing like an open wound across the city.  

 Only then did his gaze shift, lazy and heavy-lidded, toward Jin.  

Not fully. Just a side glance. A cut of dark lashes and hollow calm.  

“The Burrow.”  

In this city, nothing is pure. The rain tastes like rust. Neon lights flicker over alleyways soaked in regret, and the nights are long enough to forget who you were. Behind closed doors, everything unspoken finds its voice. This is where the real games begin.  

In The Burrow.  

The Burrow wasn’t just a club. It was a confessional for the godless. The kind of place where power got traded in bruises, and names didn’t matter—only what you could take, what you could endure, and how loud you screamed while doing it.  

The lights were low. Always. Backlit in violet and soaked in sex. A throne of black leather. A cross, bolted to the wall, arms open like invitation. Beds built in cages. 
Restraints hang like jewelry. Crops laid out with the reverence of silverware. 
This place wasn’t designed for comfort. It was built for obedience. 

Control was an art form. Not just in the way a wrist is bound, or a body is positioned. It’s in the stillness of a gaze that undresses you without touch. It’s in the measured cadence of a voice that makes you drop to your knees with a single word. Jungkook doesn’t just take control—he becomes it.  

Black trousers hugged low and sharp, cut to frame the arrogance of his stance. His shirt hung open like a promise he wouldn’t keep, half-slicked to his skin by sweat that shimmered across his collarbones like liquid sin.  

His sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms— bare, veined, and roped with lean muscle —arms that could hold you down or lift you apart without effort.  

In one hand, he held a riding crop.  

Black leather. Precision-stitched. Worn in the center from repeated use, not time.  

A weapon—but not for pain. 
For correction. 

The crop hung low, his fingers curling once around the hilt in a slow, silent flex. Not a threat. 
A promise. 

Behind him, the room pulsed in violet and blood-red haze. The Burrow’s inner sanctum glowed like a sinner’s cathedral—leather glistening under low neon arcs, scent of oiled restraint heavy in the air. Chains clicked once on the far wall as the sub on the bench shifted—spine arching, breath catching. Her wrists were cuffed above her head, trembling.  

Jungkook’s eyes never left her. But he didn’t move.  

He didn’t have to.  

His gaze dragged across the room like a collar—tight, invisible, impossible to shrug off. A look that stripped more than clothes.  

The guards at the door didn’t so much as flinch. Suits crisp, eyes forward, guns holstered but obvious. Nothing in this room surprised them. This was Jeon property. Jeon rules.  

Jungkook tilted his head once. Cold gaze. Unmoving.  

Then, finally—  

“Count.”  

One word. Crisp. Controlled. It didn’t echo, it landed.  

The woman choked. “S-seven—” 
Too soft. 

He moved.  

The crop snapped once against the inside of her thigh—barely a whisper, but precise. Enough to realign her breath, not her skin.  

“Louder,” he said. “Mean it.”  

This wasn’t punishment.  

It was standard.  

She flinched, shoulders rising. “Seven, Sir!”  

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed just slightly.   

Good.  

Taehyung watched from across the room, stretched out on a velvet couch with all the composure of a man watching a mildly interesting TV program. His legs were crossed; one ankle balanced on the opposite knee. Taehyung had long ago learned to tune out the screams and moans of this place. They weren’t noise to him. They were ambiance.  

But right now, his focus was narrowed. Not on the submissive panting beneath the crop. Not on the crowd pressed into dark corners in various states of bliss and bondage.  

Kim Taehyung, better known here as “V” or—more infamously— They called him The Dungeon Cupid . The man who could see your kink before you could spell it. He played matchmaker for pain, love, power, and surrender. And he never missed his mark.  He had seen every flavor of dominance walk through this club. Sadists. Sensualists. Performers. Pretenders.  

But Jungkook?  

He played in the quiet space between cruelty and obsession. He punished like he was solving a problem. Or creating a new one.  

“Kook,” he drawled lazily, eyes gleaming. “You’re hitting her like she betrayed you.” Taehyung said casually.  

Jungkook didn’t flinch. But the next strike hit harder.  

“Say what you came to say.”  

Taehyung’s smirk curved, indulgent. “You're tense.”  

“I’m busy.”  

“I know. That’s why I came now.” Taehyung took a slow sip from the glass, then let the silence stretch—tight as piano wire. “Yoongi told me what happened.”  

Jungkook’s jaw ticked.  

“I was two seconds from gutting him,” Jungkook muttered.  

Another hit.  

Taehyung raised a brow lazily. “For what exactly? Playing both sides or getting caught?”  

Jungkook’s jaw twitched. His grip on the crop flexed, and the next strike came down with more anger than aim.  

“You think this is funny?” he growled.  

“Not funny,” Taehyung said, lounging deeper. “Tragic. Risking the club? That part pissed me off. You could’ve had feds crawling over ‘The Hare’ if Jay hadn’t stepped in.”  

“He crossed a line.” Jungkook said coolly. “Tipped off a federal operation.”  

“And brought you a priceless pawn wrapped in a bow,” Taehyung finished, tone light. “Risky move. But it paid off.”  

Jungkook’s voice was a low hum of restraint. “He could’ve told me.”  

“He could’ve. But would you have let him do it?”  

Jungkook turned then—slowly. Steady. His stare dropped on Taehyung like a blade laid across a throat. “I don’t need his methods. I don’t trust men who enjoy being useful more than they enjoy being loyal.”  

Taehyung didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “You’re not mad because he gambled. You’re mad because it worked.” he said. “But if he really wanted to fuck you over? He would’ve handed the commissoner to Choi.”  

Silence. Tighter now.  

The sub whimpered again. Jungkook didn’t move.  

“You have the commissioner. In captivity. Breathing because Yoongi handed him to you. Don’t rewrite that.”  

Jungkook’s fingers drummed against the crop. The sub was shaking now, forgotten but not dismissed. Her mascara streaked like bruises across her cheeks.  

“I was still going to kill him,” Jungkook said quietly.  

“That would not have been in your best interests,” Taehyung replied with no inflection. “Yoongi’s protected. Jisoo’s orders.”  

Jungkook’s eyes cut to him sharply.  

“You think I give a shit about what my sister says right now?”  

“No,” Taehyung said. “But you do give a shit about your empire.”  

Another beat.  

“Let me handle Yoongi,” Taehyung added. “He needs a reminder. Not a bullet.”  

Jungkook exhaled through his nose. Stepped back.  

“Give him a firm reminder,” he said.  

Taehyung smirked. “My firm reminders involve a gag and thirty minutes of Breath play.”  

Jungkook almost smiled. Almost.  

The crop cracked again. The sound sliced the air, a clean arc of leather against skin. The woman jerked beautifully, a sound catching in her throat—half-moan, half-cry. Her thighs trembled, knees spread obediently, back arched on instinct.  

Jungkook’s voice slid out low and calm.  

“Color.”  

“Green,” she gasped. Breathless, eager. That perfect edge of pleasure and fear.  

Another crack.  

She moaned deeper this time, the kind that came from somewhere low and coiled, hips twitching against the restraint.  

“Daddy…”  

It was soft. Instinctive. An eager, needy slip.  

He paused.  

His expression didn’t shift, but the stillness was sudden—dense. The temperature dropping two degrees.  

Jungkook didn’t speak at first. Didn’t even look at Taehyung, who raised one brow and stayed silent.  

Instead, Jungkook stepped forward—one slow step. Then another. The crop now idle in his grip.  

He reached down, curled his gloved fingers into her hair—not violently, just firm, steady, enough to lift her face until she was forced to meet his eyes.  

“What did you just call me?” His voice was quiet, measured. “Say that again,”  

The girl froze. “I—sorry, I didn’t—”  

He leaned in, the shadow of his body wrapping around her.  

“I said,” he repeated, “say it again.”  

Her voice cracked. “Daddy—I mean—sir, I’m sorry. I—”  

He tightened his grip. Not enough to hurt, just enough to own.  

“Don’t ever confuse me with a man who wants to raise you.”  

His gaze sharpened, unreadable.  

“I’m not here to nurture. I’m not here to soothe. I’m not here to wipe your fucking tears after a spanking.”  

His words were brutal—intimate.  

“I’m here to own you.”  

She swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir…”  

“That’s the only title you’ll use.”  

Her voice was barely audible. “Yes, Sir.”  

He let her go.  

Not with disgust.  

With discipline.  

She didn’t slump. She didn’t whimper. She adjusted her knees, straightened her back, repositioned herself. A good sub. Lesson learned.  

“You’re dismissed.”  

She bowed her head, whispering an apology as she backed away before being led away by another house dom.  

Taehyung finally broke the silence, his voice amused, lazy. “I warned her not to call you that.”  

Jungkook didn’t answer. Just rolled his neck, tension still bleeding off him like smoke. It wasn’t the word. It was what it meant. The softness. The sentiment.  

“ I’m not interested in being anyone’s fantasy.”  

“Too bad,” Taehyung said with a grin. “You’re everyone’s.”  

The playroom lights brightened.  

His fun was done.   

He rested his crop on a nearby table.  

“You’ll like the new one I lined up for tomorrow,” Taehyung said casually, like they were discussing wine pairings and not human submission.  

Jungkook didn’t look up. Just poured himself water, uninterested . “I doubt it.”  

“Oh, but this one’s different,” Taehyung said, dragging the word out like a silk tie across skin. “Photogenic. Polished. Big eyes. Natural curves. Background in marketing. Jin’s going to pop a champagne cork when he sees her—she’s a PR dream.”  

Jungkook exhaled, sipping. “Then let Jin date her.”  

Taehyung chuckled. “She’s not for Jin. She’s for you. You’ve scared off your last three subs, and one of them’s still in therapy.”  

“She safeworded too early,” Jungkook muttered, more annoyed than apologetic. “Told me she liked pain and then cried when I used the cane.”  

“Rookie mistake,” Taehyung said, amused. “She liked the idea of pain. She didn’t know what it meant to give up control.”  

Jungkook went quiet for a beat. That silence that meant something was tightening beneath the surface.  

Control.  

That was always the crux of it. Not love. Not warmth. Submission. Real submission. The kind that ran deeper than safe words and bedroom obedience. The kind that meant trust me even when you hate me. That rare kind. That impossible kind.  

He’d had flings. Playroom scenes. Soft things. Pretty things. Some cried. Some screamed. A few even begged to stay. But no one lasted. They all reached their breaking point. Or worse—his.  

Taehyung watched him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “She knows the rules,” he said. “This one isn’t some sugar baby playing with rope. She’s vetted. Trained. Hard limits clear. She wants structure, not cuddles.”  

“Then she won’t call me ‘Daddy’?” Jungkook muttered.  

Taehyung laughed, head thrown back. “You’re never gonna let that go, huh?”  

“I run a crime empire,” Jungkook said, stone serious. “I don’t get called Daddy. ”  

“You say that like you haven’t had more therapy-worthy moments in this club alone than half the subs in Seoul.”  

“I don’t want devotion,” Jungkook said, setting the glass down. “I want discipline.”  

There it was. The line in the sand. The eternal frustration.  

The women came in soft, with pretty bruises and prettier lips, cooing about obedience and boundaries—and they left shaking, undone, broken by the quiet way Jungkook unraveled them.  

Because Jungkook didn’t want someone to love him.  

He wanted someone to survive him.  

And Taehyung knew it.  

“I’ll bring her by the office. Noon,” Taehyung said, pushing off the lounge. “Let Jin dress her up for the Gala. You’ll like her, Kook. If nothing else, she won’t waste your time.”  

“And if she does?”  

“Then you get to break another toy,” Taehyung smirked. “And you do love your toys.”  

The air shifted.  

A door opened at the far end of the corridor—just a breath of motion, but it pulled every thread of tension taut.  

Yoongi stepped inside. 
Black shirt. Hands in his pockets. Eyes unreadable and unread. 

He didn’t look at Jungkook. 
He looked at Taehyung. 

Taehyung’s entire posture changed. Not visibly—but inward. A flicker in his jaw. A straightening of his spine.  

“There you are,” he said, voice cool and casual. “I thought you weren’t coming.”  

“Didn’t know I was expected,” Yoongi replied, voice low and unhurried.  

“You always are.”  

Yoongi didn’t smile.  

Jungkook set down his glass. “I have business to handle.”  

Jungkook disappeared through the exit, coat trailing behind like a shadow that had somewhere better to be.  

Silence lingered a beat too long.  

Taehyung moved first, stepping into Yoongi’s space with that quiet confidence he wore like silk.  

“He’s still mad,” Taehyung said, voice low.  

“He always is,” Yoongi said, barely blinking.  

“Now then, shall we begin?”  Taehyung said, smile fading.   

The car door closed with a soft, final click. 

The city outside kept bleeding color, violet smearing across the window tint as Jungkook sat back and rolled his jaw.

The engine barely hummed. 

The world stayed still.  

Then the phone rang—sharp, single buzz.  

Hoseok.  

Jungkook answered without a word.  

“I’ve got nothing,” Hoseok said, no preamble, no sugar. “I’ve turned over every stone I could find on Ha Sungwoon—birth records, banking, online presence, anything that looked like it might squeak. There’s nothing there.”  

Jungkook didn’t blink. “That’s not possible.”  

“I know. Believe me, I know. But it’s like someone wiped him before we ever thought to look.”  

Jungkook exhaled, slow. “So we’re blind.”  

“Almost,” Hoseok said. “We know he and Jimin were partners. We know he died at the docks the night your father was cornered. And that’s where it gets fuzzy.”  

“Fuzzy how?”  

“Yunho said he used serum on Jimin during the interrogation,” Hoseok said, voice tightening. “Claims Jimin said it was meant to be him. But the whole thing’s shaky. Half memory, half trauma flashback. No mention of Choi. Just blood and rain.”  

“And Stray Clan?”  

“All locked up. One might’ve been there. Might’ve seen something. I don’t have a contact on the inside. One thing is for certain. The  Commissioner isn’t working for Choi.”  

A silence passed. Heavy.  

Hoseok sighed. “It’s like we’re chasing ghosts, Guk. Shadows of a night no one wants to admit happened.”  

“Someone always remembers,” Jungkook said, quiet and cold.  

“Maybe. Or maybe someone’s making sure no one can.”  

Chapter Text

The elevator hissed open like a wound. 

Jeon Jungkook stepped into the heart of his kingdom’s underbelly—the ground floor of Jeon Industries. Not the part that showed up on investor decks or tax filings. This was the marrow. Concrete veins. Industrial silence. A place built to bleed things out. 

The elevator sealed behind him with a soft thunk, locking him in with the ghosts that never left this floor. 

The air was colder here. Not by temperature, but by history. Walls that had seen too much and still asked for more. Overhead, the lighting was minimal—strategic, not weak. Pooled yellow fluorescents hummed like insects over crime scenes. They lit the path forward but never the corners. 

Jungkook walked like gravity owed him an apology. 

Tailored in black —Tom Ford, the fabric molded to every hard line of his frame, sharp enough to cut through silence. However, his frustration hummed. 

Three weeks. 
Three fucking weeks since he handed Park Jimin over to Yunho. 

The truth? 

Yunho had failed. 

Not entirely. Not fatally. But enough to make Jungkook question whether the old guard still had teeth—or just bark. The reports trickled in like excuses dressed as updates: Resilient. Stubborn. Uncooperative. Words that meant nothing. Words that bought time. Time Jungkook no longer had. 

And yet, through every line of bureaucratic smoke, the picture sharpened: Jimin wasn’t breaking. The only one cracking was Yunho. 

He could see it—feel it—in the shift of tone. The edge in Yunho’s words. The desperation bleeding through between the lines. First it was tooth extraction. Then needling. Then waterboarding. He’d even pushed too far—electrocuted the commissioner to the brink of death. And when that didn’t work? 

He resorted to truth serum. 

Truth serum. 

An unreliable relic of Cold War theater. The move of a man out of options, out of strategy, and dangerously close to losing control. 

That’s when Jungkook knew. 

Yunho had reached his limit. 

And it was time for him to step in. 

Jungkook had waited. Longer than he should have. He’d trusted legacy—Yunho, his father’s right hand. The man knew how to make people talk. Or scream. Or vanish. 

But Jimin had not cracked. He bled. But didn't beg. 

Which meant something had to give. 

And tonight? It wasn’t going to be Jungkook. 

His gaze locked immediately on the figure slumped in the center of the room. One overhead bulb swung gently above, casting harsh, circular light that carved the shape out of darkness like something half-formed. 

 The sharp click of his polished shoes echoed against the concrete floor as he approached him.  

He walked passed Yunho who stood amongst the other men who stood guard during his absence. 

At the auction, the commissioner’s face had been covered. Just a black hood.  Just another body in chains. 

He hadn’t needed more than a glance then. 

But now? 

Now he saw him. 

The bulb above creaked as it shifted, shadows crawling across the bruised, bound frame in flickers of light. 

 A single glance was enough to draw Jungkook to a halt.  

Not out of shock. 

But study. 

His head tilted slightly, this wasn’t what he expected. But expectations didn’t matter. 

This? 

This fragile-looking thing was the source of all this trouble? 

The man who spearheaded the raid on The Golden Hare? 

The one behind Yunho’s flailing temper? 

The so-called hero who took down his father’s empire—and buried him with it? 

His gaze narrowed—just slightly. 

Sharp. Clinical. 

He’d expected rugged. Military, maybe. Scarred, square-jawed—something that looked like it had earned the legend. 

But this? 

A faint smirk curved at the corner of his mouth. Brief. Cruel. 

There had to be something missing. 

He stepped closer, his shadow folding over the man like a curtain—thick, inescapable. 

The Commissioner was bound at the wrists, arms lashed tight to the chair. The rope dug harsh into pale skin, leaving angry welts—evidence of struggle, or softness. Maybe both. 

His head hung low, chin resting against his chest. Damp strands of black hair clung to his forehead, the sheen of sweat catching the light just enough to make him look fevered—almost vulnerable. 

His features, framed in inky damp hair and defiance gone still, were far too delicate for someone in his position. 

Intriguing. 

The word slithered through Jungkook’s thoughts before he could stop it. 

His brows furrowed. Annoyance flared sharp in his chest—hot, immediate. 

“This is who’s been giving you trouble?” he murmured. The words slid out slow, coated in disbelief. 

Yunho shifted slightly in the shadows, posture tight. 

“He’s not as easy as he looks.” His voice was level, but that undercurrent of defensiveness betrayed him. 

“The Commissioner’s tougher than you'd expect.” 

Jungkook let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound echoing like a crack through the vast, quiet space. 

“Tougher?” he repeated, voice dipped in disdain. He took a slow step forward, gaze raking over the bound figure in front of him. 

“He looks like he’d cry if the wind blew too hard.” 

He crouched, smooth and unhurried, until he was level with the chair. The leather of his gloves creaked softly as he reached out, fingers finding the commissioner’s chin. 

The grip was firm—unforgiving. He tilted it upward, forcing Jimin’s face into the light. 

The full picture came into view. 

Faint bruises marked the delicate planes of his face, blooming along high cheekbones and the soft curve of his jaw. A split in his lower lip revealed dried blood, but even that couldn’t hide the plumpness beneath—cherry-colored and far too full. 

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. 

That look was still there. 

Even unconscious, he wore defiance like armor. 

It irritated him. 

And deepened his intrigue. 

Jimin stirred faintly at the contact, the smallest tremor rippling through him. 

Jungkook’s smirk returned—slower now. Almost lazy. 

“Troublesome,” he murmured, voice like velvet pulled taut. “No wonder my men underestimated you.” 

His gaze lingered. 

Still. 

Assessing. 

Possessive. 

“He’s more than just a pretty face,” Yunho said, stepping forward. 

His tone was firm—too firm. Defensive. The tension in his shoulders no longer restrained, but rising, threaded with irritation. 

“You haven’t seen him awake, Jungkook. You weren’t here when he nearly broke Yoochun’s wrist. Handcuffed. Bleeding. He didn’t even flinch.” 

Jungkook finally turned, one brow lifting with cold amusement. His voice, when it came, was quiet—but final. 

“You may leave.” 

Yunho hesitated—a fraction of a second, barely visible. 

But Jungkook saw it. 

The clench of his jaw. The breath caught behind obedience. 

Still, he obeyed. 

With a sharp nod, Yunho turned and strode out, the sound of his boots echoing briefly before vanishing into the Burrow’s cavernous silence. 

The elevator doors slid shut behind him. 

Jungkook stood slowly. 

Then, without warning, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of black hair. The strands curled around his gloved fingers as he yanked them back—sharp, deliberate. 

Jimin’s head snapped up with a strangled groan. 

“Wake up,” Jungkook said, voice low and icy—slicing through the silence like a blade. 

The jolt ripped him from the drugged fog. His body jerked instinctively, a pulse of pain flaring through his scalp. His face twisted, breath catching as his lashes fluttered against pale skin. 

For a moment, the light above fractured into halos. 

Jungkook’s fist remained tangled in Jimin’s hair, holding his head up like a trophy as he watched him struggle to focus. 

The sedative still dragged heavy in his blood, syrup-thick and suffocating. —but Jungkook’s grip, and that voice, cut through the haze like a slap. 

“I said. Wake. Up.” 

Jimin’s eyes flew open—wide this time, raw and wild with fury. 

The haze cracked.  

Their gazes locked. 

Jungkook tilted his head slightly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. That defiance. That heat.  

Jimin’s eyes were sharp. 

Alive. 

Burning with a fury that didn’t belong to that face. 

Even now. 

Battered. Bound. Drugged. 

He stared at him like a threat—exciting Jungkook more then it should’ve. 

His jaw flexed. 

Intriguing no longer covered it. 

This man was enticing. 

Jimin’s muscles trembled from the sedative, his chest rising with a shallow breath. But his mind was present—sharp, furious. His gaze narrowed, lips parting as blood dried across them in a split crust. 

Jeon Jungkook. 

The name had come with warnings. Whispers in dark corners, muttered in fear, reverence, or both. A shadow stitched in silk and silence. Calculated. Unshakable. Untouchable. 

But even those grim rumors hadn’t done him justice. 

Now, face to face, it was worse. 

Jungkook’s presence bore down on him harder than the ropes binding his wrists—more suffocating than the air in his lungs. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t need to. 

His dominance radiated—quiet, crushing. 

And Jimin felt it. 

Felt it settle like a hand around his throat. 

But instead of fear, it sparked something else entirely. 

Anger. 

Resentment. 

Rage. 

“Jeon, you bastard!” Jimin spat, voice strained but crackling with venom. 

His eyes—dark, furious—locked onto Jungkook like the glare alone might set him on fire. 

Jungkook didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t blink. 

His expression remained icy, unmoved—save for the faintest flicker of disdain in his gaze. 

“Careful now Commissioner.” 

 
His voice didn’t rise, didn’t shift. Just settled deeper. 

 
“You’d be smart to choose your words wisely with me.” 

Jimin bared his teeth. 

His lips curled into a snarl as he leaned forward, restraints pulling taut, wrists screaming beneath the rope. 

“Fuck you,” he hissed. 

Every syllable dripped with contempt 

The room stilled. 

Jimin’s words hung in the air like a dare, sharp and reckless—meant to provoke. 

But Jungkook didn’t rise to meet them. 

For a moment, his silence was almost more unnerving than a response, his gaze sharpening like a predator measuring the fight left in its prey. 

Then, without warning, his gloved hand twisted deeper into Jimin’s hair. 

A brutal yank—clean, practiced—forced Jimin’s head back, his neck arching with the movement. Pain lanced through him, a low, instinctive groan escaping between clenched teeth. 

Jungkook moved in. 

Not rushed. 

Not angry. 

Just close. 

“You know, Commissioner,” he murmured, voice cool and measured, “I’m a patient man.” 

He leaned in until their skin nearly touched, breath brushing Jimin’s cheek—soft, deliberate, cruel. 

“But if there’s one thing I don’t allow…” 

His voice dipped further, low enough to disappear into Jimin’s ear. 

“It’s disrespect.” 

With a sudden, fluid violence, Jungkook yanked Jimin’s head to the side, forcing his neck into a brutal, unnatural angle. His grip in the commissioner’s hair remained unforgiving—root-deep and calculated. 

Jimin’s jaw clenched, a tremor slicing through him as pain lit up his spine. But he didn’t cry out. Didn’t give him that. 

“Do I make myself clear, Commissioner?” 

Jungkook’s voice was a whisper, but it landed like a weight—a quiet pressure that crushed rather than cut. Calm. Controlled. Lethal. 

The proximity was unbearable. 

This wasn’t Yunho. 

Yunho didn’t get this close. He observed. Delegated. 

But Jungkook? 

His breath ghosted across Jimin’s jaw—warm, measured, making his presence suffocating. But even still, —Jimin’s defiance didn’t so much as flinch. 

“Crystal.” 

The word hissed from his lips like venom, sharp and biting. 

Jungkook straightened, his gloved hand releasing its grip on Jimin’s hair with deliberate slowness. The commissioner’s head dipped forward—but only slightly. His spine held. His glare, even through the veil of exhaustion, burned like a threat. 

Jungkook’s lips curled into a faint smirk. Not pleased. Not proud. Just… entertained. 

“That’s yes, sir,” he murmured—cool, automatic. 
It slipped out on instinct, a correction he usually reserved for submissives mid-scene. 
But here, it came unfiltered. 
Reflex. 
Impulse. 
Something about the fire in those eyes demanded to be tamed. 

He folded his arms, his silhouette casting long shadows across the room, authority coiling around him like smoke. 

“I need you to tell me who Ha Sungwoon is,” Jungkook said. 
His voice was calm. Too calm. 
Measured like a knife being weighed before use. 

He began to circle. 

Slowly. 

Each step deliberate. A metronome of pressure. 

The scrape of his soles echoed like a countdown. 

Jimin tracked him with his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. The cords in his neck strained, his wrists twisted in the rope, but his gaze stayed locked—burning with a fury that refused to dim. 

“And if he killed my father that night?” Jungkook’s voice dropped lower—closer to the skin now. A whisper made of metal. 

Silence. 

Then Jimin’s face contorted. 

“Your father—” 
he spat the words, voice hoarse, venom-laced— 
“was a back-alley thug with a god complex.” 

Each word landed like a slap. 

“He didn’t build this city. He bled it.” 

A breath. Sharp. Measured. 

“He slaughtered people. Sungwoon included.” 

His voice cracked slightly—but not from weakness. From fury barely held back. 

“I killed him that night.” 
A beat. 
“And honestly…I didn’t do it fast enough.” 

Jungkook came to an abrupt halt. 

He turned sharply to face Jimin, the force of his gaze enough to make the air between them feel heavy.  

“Men like you...” he said slowly, his voice low.  

“You build your careers off destroying men like my father. And you call it justice.” 
His gaze sharpened, voice colder now. 
“You think you're heroes. Self-righteous little soldiers hiding behind badges and cause.” 

Jimin’s jaw clenched. 
His body tensed, his chest rising with breath he couldn’t seem to swallow. 

“Your father wasn’t a great man,” he bit out. 
The words cracked like gunfire—fast, unfiltered. 
“He was a butcher. Just like you.” 

“I’ve worked with great men. Men who bled for the truth.” 
A tremor rose in his voice. 

 “My partner died taking down filth like him. Like you.” 

The room seemed to hum with tension. 

 Jungkook’s expression remained unreadable, his icy mask betraying nothing of the thoughts that swirled behind his dark eyes.  

Slowly, he stepped closer, his movements unhurried, yet brimming with purpose. 

“Except when it’s yours, right?” 
Jungkook’s voice cut through the air—quiet, clean, surgical. 
“Your so-called justice?” 
A pause. 
“They called off your search party.” 

Jimin went still. 

No twitch. 
No breath. 
Just a sharp flicker behind his eyes—there, then gone—like a crack forming beneath the surface. 

Jungkook saw it. 
Of course he did. 

“Oh.” 
A beat. 
“That surprised you.” 

His smirk returned—but smaller now. Tighter. 
Meaner. 

Jimin’s head dipped. His hair fell over his eyes, veiling the tremor in his jaw as the words sank in. 

When he spoke, his voice came low—half-broken. 
“I—I don’t believe you.” 

Jungkook exhaled softly. Almost like a laugh. 
But colder. 
Hollow. 

“You should.” 

He didn’t raise his voice. 
He didn’t need to. 

“Because they already have.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Jimin’s voice cracked out—sharp, instinctive. But it faltered at the edges. 

Jungkook didn’t answer immediately. 
Instead, he leaned in. 
Slow. Intentional. 
His presence suffocated the space between them, a wall of tailored restraint and heatless gravity. 

“Those teeth Yunho took?” 
His voice was soft. Almost curious. 
“You think that was for sport?” 

His lips curled. Not in a smile— 
—in something meaner. Sharper. 
A flash of teeth with no warmth behind it. 

“Let’s just say…” 
A pause. His head tilted. 
“…that’s all they thought was left of you.” 

Jimin’s head jerked up. His eyes locked onto Jungkook’s, wide with disbelief, burning with defiance—but underneath it, a tremor of uncertainty. 

“You’re lying.” 
The words came out fast. Too fast. 

Jungkook didn’t blink. 

“Your convoy was found burning at the scene, Commissioner.” 
The correction landed like a blow. 
Clean. Unyielding. 

He raised a hand. 

A single snap echoed through the room—sharp, final. 
A guard stepped forward wordlessly, tablet in hand. 
Jungkook took it without looking. His gaze never left Jimin. 

There was no satisfaction in his face. 
Only that gleam. 
That flicker of cruelty. 

Without a word, Jungkook placed the tablet on the battered table between them. 
Its screen glowed dimly in the stark room, flickering with the reflection of the overhead bulb— 
—casting warped shadows across the strain tightening Jimin’s face. 

He didn’t explain. 
He didn’t warn. 
Just let the moment sit. Fester. 

Then— 
his gloved finger hovered. 
A breath. 
A pause. 

Click. 

The screen came to life. 

The sharp digital clarity clashed violently with the suffocating silence of the room. 
A press conference. 
The Seoul Police Department’s insignia burned blue and gold behind the podium. 
And then— 

Jimin’s breath hitched. 

The Chief. 
Flanked by uniformed officers in mourning black. 
His expression carved from stone. 
Eyes rimmed red, but voice steady. 

“We honor the brave men who lost their lives during the investigation.” 
“Their sacrifice—along with Commissioner Park’s relentless pursuit of justice—will never be forgotten.” 

The room rang with silence. 

Jimin’s throat tightened. 
He couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe. 

There—on the screen— 

A memorial. 
Silent. Bleeding in grayscale. 

Rows of white lilies. 
Flickering candles. 
A sea of black-and-white portraits laid out like tombstones. 
Too many names. Too many faces. All of them lost under his command. 

And then— 

His. 

Park Jimin. 
The name scrolled by beneath his photo—his official ID portrait. Cropped, formal, stripped of expression. 
Dead eyes. 
Dead name. 
Dead man. 

It landed like a punch to the gut. 
No blood. No gasp. Just pressure. 
Spreading tight across his chest— 
—coiling up his throat like a noose. 

His pulse faltered. A tremor rippled through his shoulders. 

The screen shifted again. 

This time—to a place Jimin knew far too well. 

The Golden Hare. 

Once red-lit and riotous. Now cordoned off, sterile under crime scene tape. 
Cameras zoomed, officers paced in the background. 
And there—at the edge of the chaos—stood him. 

The bartender. 
His informant. 
His only ally inside. 

Dressed in black. Expression downcast. 
A rehearsed tremble in his voice. 

“I tried to tell him it was a setup,” he said, just enough quiver to be believable. 
“But he wouldn’t listen.” 
“He was a hero. Always looking out for people.” 

Jimin’s stomach dropped. 

The bile of betrayal rose hot in his throat. 
He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. 

That face—the one he trusted—was now 
the nail in his coffin. 

Jimin’s blood turned to ice. 
Not fear—not yet. 
It was colder than fear. 
It was the absence of hope. 

His chest hollowed. 
The breath caught halfway up his throat, too jagged to release, too real to swallow. 
The footage still flickered on the screen. 
A lie. 
But a convincing one. 
Seamless. Clean. Final. 
Even he would have believed it. 

No one was coming. 
Not because they failed him. 
Because they’d already mourned him. 

Behind him, Jungkook leaned in again. 

His voice brushed Jimin’s ear like silk cut with glass. 

“I made you a martyr, Commissioner.” 

Six words. 
And they shattered everything. 

A martyr? 

That was the one thing Sungwoon didn’t want. 

His dying wish—their final agreement—was silence. 
No glory. No headlines. No twisted narrative. 
Seoul didn’t need a tragedy. 
It needed a savior. 

Jimin had promised—sworn—to carry that truth alone. 
To let the city believe he was the one who brought justice. 
Because Sungwoon had already paid the price. 

But now? 

Jungkook had dragged that sacrifice into the dirt. 
Had twisted it into spectacle. 
Had made Sungwoon’s death meaningless. 

Jimin’s breath hitched, chest rising in uneven waves. 
The rope bit into his skin, but he barely felt it. 

What he felt—truly felt—was the moment it all collapsed. 

The vow. The mission. The reason. 

Gone. 

Rewritten with a single broadcast. 
One lie. One beautiful, believable lie. 

His voice trembled when it came—shaky, frayed, furious: 

“You… bastard.” 

His wrists twisted against the rope. 
Skin burned. 
Knuckles paled. 
He strained—pointlessly. Violently. Desperately. 

Hatred flared under his skin, so hot it almost masked the pain. 

“Why?!” 

His head snapped up. 
Eyes burning. 
Breath uneven. 
A defiant snarl breaking through the ruins of his composure. 

“Why are you doing this?!” 

Jungkook straightened slowly. His expression remained blank—ice carved into human shape. Authority radiated from him without effort. 

His eyes didn’t waver. 

“I thought you were something that you weren’t .” 

Each word landed like a verdict. 

“You’re Choi’s partner but it’s become clear to me that you were nothing but a pawn. A disposable piece on a board you never understood.” 

He began to circle again—measured, patient, dissecting. 

“Its fragile isnt it? Your ideals. Your precious justice. Your illusion of meaning.” 

He paused behind Jimin, voice lowering—not in volume, but weight. A scalpel now. 

“All it takes is a single push—and everything you are collapses.” 

Jungkook stepped back into view, casting his silhouette across the flickering screen. The video continued behind him: memorial footage, solemn tributes, a city mourning a man who was still alive. 

“You were blinded by delusions propped up by cowards. Men who abandoned your cause the moment your heart stopped beating.” 

His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger. In study. 

“You were used, Commissioner.” 
Jungkook’s voice was quiet—too quiet. Like a confession made without guilt. 
“Whether you knew it or not, Choi let you play hero. He let you throw yourself into the fire. A pretty symbol. A optics play.” 

He stepped forward again, slow and steady, like he was approaching something weak. Pitiful. But fascinating. 

“But I’m going to show you the world for what it is.” 
“Who the real players are.” 
“What they really do when no one's watching.” 

His voice dropped—lower, crueler. 

“And once you finally see the rot... the filth... the hypocrisy... you’ll have a decision to make.” 

Jimin thrashed against the ropes. His shoulders flexed, muscles straining, his teeth bared with a snarl that could’ve belonged to a wounded animal. 

“You think you can break me with this?” he spat. “Is that what this is? Some twisted ego trip over a guy thought I worked for?! You think this’ll change anything?!” 

Jungkook didn’t blink. 

He only smiled. 

But it was the kind of smile that had nothing to do with amusement—and everything to do with ownership. 

“No, Commissioner.” His voice was velvet over a blade. 
“It’s much worse than that.” 

He took one step closer. Another. 

“I own you now.” 

A pause. 
Lethal. 

“I paid a billion won for your head.” 
“So you’re not the hero in this story, Park Jimin.” 

He leaned in. Almost whispering now. 

“You never were.” 

The words hung between them—dense, suffocating. A threat veiled as choice. 

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His eyes remained locked on Jimin’s, unblinking, drinking in the resistance. 

“Someone wanted you gone, Commissioner,” he said at last, his tone turning lazy—almost bored. “And I intend to find out who.” 

He took a step back, just one. Enough to shift the air. 

“So here’s the offer.” A pause. A shrug. 
“Die a hero… or live long enough to become what you hate.” 

Jimin’s breath sawed through his teeth, rage shaking through every bound limb. 

“I’d rather rot in hell,” he snarled. 

Jungkook smiled—barely. It wasn’t warmth. It was confirmation. 

“I thought you’d say that.” 
“You’ve got more guts than I expected.” 

He moved forward again—not rushed, not loud. Just inevitable. Until he was close enough to feel Jimin’s breath stutter against his own. 

“So I’ll give you what you want,” he whispered. 
“You’ll rot.” 

Another beat. 

“Slowly. Thoroughly. I’ll peel it back, piece by piece—every layer of that righteousness you think protects you.” 
“And when there's nothing left but the ruin of a man who thought he mattered…” 

He leaned in, just slightly—enough for the whisper to feel like a brand. 

“Call it compensation.” 

His eyes darkened. 

“For killing my father.” 

Despite the pain lacing every nerve in his body, Jimin’s sneer held. His lips curled—defiant, taunting—as he hissed through clenched teeth, 

“You don’t scare me. I’ve faced worse than you.” 

His voice dropped, low and venomous. 

“You’re just a spoiled child playing kingpin. A little boy choking on his father’s shadow.” 

Jungkook didn’t move at first. Just stood there, still. Silent. 

Then—something snapped. 

His jaw tightened, lips flattening into a line. One sharp step forward. No theatrics. Just cold fury. 

“I’ve had enough of your mouth.” 

His voice was low. Measured. Deadly. 

He leaned in—close enough for their breath to touch, for the space between them to vanish beneath the weight of authority. 

“You are the child here.” 
“As long as you breathe, you will show me respect. Am I clear now, Commissioner?” 

Jimin didn’t flinch. His eyes burned—twin coals under a mask of blood and contempt. 

“Yes.” 

The word came flat. Disrespectful. A weapon. 

Jungkook’s lip twitched. A flicker of something uncoiled in his gaze. 

“That’s yes, sir.” 

He leaned closer—too close. 

“I said, that’s yes, si—” 

Crack. 

Jimin’s body surged forward, a violent jolt of instinct overriding pain. His forehead collided with Jungkook’s mouth—bone to lip, sharp and jarring. The sound echoed, wet and final. 

Jungkook staggered back with a grunt, one hand flying to his face, blood already welling between his fingers. 

“Fucking hell—” 

Blood welled on his bottom lip, copper spreading across his tongue like heat blooming in darkness. Jungkook brought his fingers to the cut—calm, clinical—and pressed his thumb to it, smearing the red across his skin in a slow, patient motion. 

His eyes lifted. 

Locked onto Jimin’s. 

Not furious. Not yet. 

Just quiet. 

And then—he smirked. 

The sound that escaped him wasn’t quite a laugh. Too low. Too bitter. 

“They said you had spirit,” he murmured, his voice dry, almost amused. “Didn’t say you were stupid.” 

His lip split wider as he spoke, blood rising again. He licked it off slowly. 

“But I’m not surprised. Pigs like you always bite before the slaughter.” 

The amusement drained from his features. Something colder took its place—controlled, methodical. Jungkook straightened slowly, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. His forearms tensed beneath smooth skin, veins taut like wire. 

He adjusted his cuffs with a flick of his wrist. Not rushed. Not theatrical. Just precise. 

“Rope,” he said, voice crisp, like a command etched in stone. 

The guards hesitated—barely a breath—but it was long enough to make the room feel tighter. One of them moved, wordless, and placed the coil at Jungkook’s feet. 

“Leave us.” 

The words rang out low, final. 

No one argued. 

The command lingered in the air—unyielding, unquestioned. 

Jungkook’s men exchanged brief, uneasy glances before retreating toward the elevator, their boots echoing against the concrete. The mechanical hiss of the doors sliding shut carved out a line in the moment—sealing them in, cutting off the outside world. 

What remained was silence. 

But it wasn’t empty. 

It tightened. 

Jungkook knelt. Picked up the rope. Slowly. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at Jimin. Just turned the coil over in his gloved hands, fingers brushing the coarse fibers with quiet precision. It was almost gentle. Ritualistic. 

And then—his gaze lifted. 

Sharp. Steady. Unforgiving. 

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat before he could stop it. 

With a sudden flick, Jungkook tossed the rope onto the table. It landed with a dull, deliberate thud. 

Jimin flinched. 

It wasn’t the sound. 

It was the intent. 

Jungkook took a single step forward. Then another. Slow. Purposeful. The distance between them shrank with each movement, yet he said nothing. His silence pressed down with more weight than a scream ever could. 

Something had changed. 

Not just in the room—but in him. 

Before, Jungkook had been dangerous. Now, he was inevitable. 

And Jimin—still bound, still proud—felt his spine straighten beneath that gaze, instinct bracing for what came next. 

As Jungkook approached, Jimin braced for the blow. 

He’d seen it coming in the tight set of the man’s jaw, the hard glint in his eyes. A punch. Maybe a kick to the ribs. He clenched his teeth, eyes shut, muscles taut, breath caged—waiting. 

But it never came. 

Instead— 

Click. 

The tension in his left wrist vanished. 

His eyes snapped open. Disbelief flickered across his face as he saw Jungkook crouched beside him, fingers methodically working the knot loose. No sadism. No mockery. Just silence and intent. 

Then—freedom. 

Jimin’s hand dropped limp for half a second. And then instinct exploded. 

He swung—fist arcing up, wild and fast, straight for Jungkook’s jaw— 

Caught. 

Mid-air. 

Jungkook’s gloved hand closed around his wrist with bone-deep precision, stopping the blow like it was nothing. 

Jimin’s breath hitched. His eyes widened. 

His whole body faltered—suspended in that brief, horrifying second when an animal realizes it’s not the predator in the room. 

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. It pierced straight through him. 

Gone was the smug amusement. In its place: something colder. Hungrier. 

He didn’t speak right away. Just held Jimin’s wrist suspended, locked in place like it belonged to him. 

And then— 

A smile. 

Not soft. Not human. A promise. 

“You've got balls Commissioner. But how far does it truly go?” 

His voice barely rose above a whisper— 

—but it hit like a blade drawn slow across the skin. 

Jimin’s pulse slammed against his ribs, breath quick and uneven as the grip around his wrist held firm—unyielding. Jungkook didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink as he began to untie the second restraint. It was like unwrapping a gift he’d already claimed. 

The moment the second knot fell loose—Jimin exploded. 

He swung again, wild and fast, driven by pure, frantic defiance. 

But once more—caught. Effortlessly. 

Jungkook’s hand snapped up like it had been waiting for him. The impact never came. Only the suffocating grip around his fist, locking him in place. 

“Pay careful attention,” Jungkook purred, low and deliberate, his voice coiling with dark amusement. “This will be your first lesson from me.” 

In one seamless motion, Jungkook seized both of Jimin’s wrists, shifting his hold—just one hand now, pinning them together with the ease of someone tying back a ribbon. 

Jimin froze for a fraction of a second, stunned by the raw force behind it. 

Then he thrashed. 

Twisting. Yanking. Kicking at the chair. His chest heaved as he fought—wild and furious—but Jungkook didn’t budge. 

The more Jimin fought, the steadier Jungkook became. 

“Let go,” Jimin snarled, his voice breaking with fury, body trembling under the pressure. 

When there was still no answer—no mercy, no slip in grip—he cracked. 

“Let me go, you fucking bastard!” he roared, voice raw and ragged, his body wracked with resistance that had nowhere to go. 

Jungkook didn’t even blink. 

In one fluid motion, he yanked Jimin to his feet like he weighed nothing—iron grip still clamped around his wrists. Before Jimin could brace himself, Jungkook’s arm coiled tightly around his waist, dragging him flush against his chest. 

The contact was blistering. 

Jimin’s breath hitched as his ribs collided with Jungkook’s torso, the warmth of his body seeping into him like a trap. It wasn’t just closeness—it was possession. The steel of Jungkook’s hold made it clear: he could crush him if he wanted to. 

And he wasn’t letting go. 

Jimin’s brain scrambled for balance, for air, for pride—anything to hold onto. 

“W-What are you—” he choked out, but the words faltered under the pressure, dissolving into heat and silence as Jungkook shifted. 

“Number one. Dominance” 

Without warning. Or ceremony. 

Just the sudden tilt of the world as Jungkook turned, lifted him clean off the floor, and slammed him down against the cold metal table. 

Jimin’s back arched on impact, the shock of icy steel against flushed skin making him gasp. His head spun. His knees kicked reflexively—but Jungkook didn’t budge. The younger man towered above him, his body casting a heavy shadow across Jimin’s sprawled form. 

Jimin’s wrists were pinned above his head in one relentless hand. The other braced beside his ribs, locking him down. Not just physically—but psychologically. Utterly. 

He had fought bigger men. Stronger men. But this was different. 

The way Jungkook moved wasn’t brute force—it was orchestral. Precise. Every step calculated to strip him. Not of his clothes—but of control. 

The table under Jimin felt too narrow. The air too thin. His heartbeat thundered, the pulse at his throat betraying him. 

This wasn’t violence. 

It was correction. 

 The commissioner thrashed violently, legs kicking out in a last-ditch effort to break free. But Jungkook stepped between them—hard—forcing them apart with his knee and silencing the resistance with sheer presence. 

“Number Two—” he began, his tone low and lethal. 

Jimin’s eyes flew wide just as Jungkook shifted his weight down, pressing him flat against the table. The cold metal bit into his spine, the sudden force knocking the air from his lungs in a stunned gasp. His limbs locked tight under the weight, his wrists still caged high above his head in Jungkook’s vice-like grip. 

“Strength,” Jungkook finished, voice curling against the shell of his ear. 

The heat of it—his breath, his mouth, his nearness—made Jimin flinch. 

His head jerked to the side, jaw tight, breath shallow. Anything to avoid meeting those eyes. But the momentary flicker of something other than rage—uncertainty, maybe even fear—flashed across his face. 

And Jungkook saw it. 

‘Cute.’ 

The word slid through Jungkook’s mind like a whisper, gone before it could grow teeth. He wouldn’t indulge it. Not yet. But the image—the vulnerability, the shimmer of submission—settled like an ember in his chest. It was enough to make him linger. 

With measured calm, Jungkook reached for the rope. 

His eyes never left Jimin’s face. 

Every twitch of muscle, every flicker of resistance, every breath caught between rage and panic—he drank it all in like it belonged to him. The way Jimin looked beneath him, pinned and furious and helpless, would be carved into memory. 

The coarse drag of the rope against his skin hit Jimin like fire. Not heat—but alarm. Every fray scraped a new thread of panic loose in his chest, and he bucked hard beneath Jungkook, breath hitching. 

His wrists strained, fists clenched, but the younger man didn’t budge. Jungkook’s body remained a wall—unyielding, patient, immovable. 

“Number three,” he said, voice like the snap of a lock. 
“Control.” 

The knot pulled tight. 

Jimin jerked against it—hard—but the rope held. Tighter. Final. The pressure sliced through the illusion of freedom with surgical precision, the fibers cutting hotter the more he fought. 

And he did fight. 

Desperately. 

Frantically. 

“Get off me!” 

But his tone broke halfway through the plea, splintered by panic and something darker: the horror of being completely, undeniably bound. 

Jungkook only exhaled through his nose, slow and patient. The rope went taut in his hands like reins. 

And Jimin—tied, trembling, and glaring up with all the fire he had left. 

Each knot came like a sentence passed—deliberate, methodical. Not just binding, but instructive. As if Jungkook were threading meaning into every twist of the rope. 

Jimin's chest rose in sharp, erratic bursts. 
What is this—?! 

His gaze shot from the rope digging into his skin to Jungkook’s face, searching for any sign of hesitation—of humanity. But Jungkook’s eyes were fixed, precise. Cold. There was no lust, no rage—only certainty. Every motion was too clean. Too calm. 

It didn’t feel like restraint. 
It felt like ritual. 

A pulse of nausea tightened in Jimin’s gut. 

“Stop it! Let me go!” he shouted, voice raw with panic. His body writhed beneath the pressure, hips jerking, muscles flaring—but the bindings didn’t budge. 

Then he saw it. 

Just for a breath—a flicker. 
A pause in Jungkook’s hand. 
Something uncertain. Something… haunted. 

But it passed. Snuffed out before it could take shape. 

And then the rope moved again. 
Tighter. 
Lower. 

Jimin’s breath caught as it coiled around his thighs—once, then again—pulling outward with brutal precision. His legs spread under the force, wide and involuntary, hips trapped against the cold table. The friction of the rope against his inner thigh made his skin flinch, a fresh burn of shame blooming across his face. 

His legs were open. Exposed. And not by weakness—but by deliberate hands. 

He stiffened, chest heaving, eyes burning into Jungkook’s. 
It was the first time in his life he’d ever been forced open. 

“W-What are you doing?!” Jimin gasped, his voice cracking at the edges, raw with disbelief. 

His muscles strained beneath the binds, but the ropes didn’t give—not even slightly. The tension didn’t just trap him physically—it grew, like a noose tightening around his mind. Panic surged through his chest in cold waves. He pulled harder. Useless. 

Jungkook tied the final knot with a quiet certainty, his fingers moving with practiced precision. 

“Number four,” he murmured. 
A pause. 
Then— 
“Power.” 

The word was whispered. Soft. Almost affectionate. 

And yet it landed harder than a slap. 

Jimin froze, his breath stuttering in his throat. That voice—it didn’t match the moment. It didn’t match the violence of what had just occurred. But that was the point. The calmness was the cruelty. 

Jungkook sat back slightly, straightening just enough to see. Not casually. Not idly. Intentionally. 

And he looked. 

Not in a way that acknowledged Jimin’s humanity. Not in awe. Not even lust. He assessed him. 

Like a painting to be studied. Like prey displayed and primed. 

Jimin’s chest rose sharply with each breath, but he couldn’t move. Not a limb. Not even a shift of his hips. The bindings held him wide open—spread, exposed, stripped of control. 

Jungkook’s gaze dragged over him slowly, from throat to thighs, lingering on every rope, every flushed patch of skin. The silence stretched unbearably. 

It wasn’t just humiliating. It was intimate. Violently intimate. 

And Jimin couldn’t stop him. 
Couldn’t close his legs. 
Couldn’t hide anything. 

He squirmed involuntarily, the motion small, pathetic—and noticed. 

Jungkook’s lips twitched faintly, almost imperceptibly. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval. Something worse. 

Admiration. 

“You will remember this lesson.” 

Jungkook’s voice was soft. Almost coaxing. 

He leaned in—too close. 

Jimin flinched. Not visibly. Not much. Just enough that Jungkook could feel it. 

“Now, when I give you an order…” 
A pause. 
“…you say, Yes, Sir.” 

The words weren’t barked—they settled, like velvet over steel. Too calm. Too intimate. Too controlled. 

His breath brushed Jimin’s ear, warm and deliberate. Not accidental. Not wasted. It coated Jimin’s skin, made his breath catch and heart thud violently in his chest. He clenched his jaw. Held still. Refused to lean away—refused to flinch again. 

The ropes bit into his arms, grounding him in the reality of it—what he looked like, what Jungkook saw. 

And worse—what Jungkook was waiting for. 

“Say it.” 

Jungkook’s tone shifted—no longer indulgent. Not quite cruel. But sharp. 

“Say, Yes, Sir.” 

Jimin’s fingers curled into fists. His lips parted. The word teetered on the edge of his tongue—obedience, survival, humiliation. 

And then he swallowed it. 

“...No.” 

Not loud. Not screamed. 
But solid. 

It cut through the room like a blade. 

A silence followed—thick, pulsing with heat and dread. 

Jungkook didn’t blink. But his gaze darkened—like something vital inside him shuttered. 

What filled the void wasn’t rage. 

It was resolve. 

“Since the start of your little crusade, you’ve been a thorn in my side,” Jungkook murmured, voice low but laced with heat. “And I gave you grace. More than once.” 

He paused—then stepped back. 

The space between them expanded suddenly. The pressure in Jimin’s body snapped all at once as Jungkook moved from between his legs, and the relief was dizzying. His thighs trembled from the strain, breath stuttering as he felt the ache of forced stillness ebb from his hips. 

Jimin instinctively shifted, dragging himself upright. His shoulders were tight, his chest heaving, but he sat on his knees—hands resting, bound, in his lap. Even this tiny act of reclaiming posture felt like a rebellion. 

Jungkook watched him. Silent. Calculating. 

“If nothing else…” he said at last, circling slowly behind him, “I’m a petty man.” 

His tone dropped as he passed over Jimin’s shoulder, breath brushing his ear like a warning. 

Jimin didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. 

The tension clung to the room like smoke. Every step Jungkook took felt intentional, a noose tightening with soundless pulls. 

“You may be two years my senior,” he said, voice quieter now—more dangerous. “But your behavior…” 

He stopped just in front of him. 

Lifted his thumb. 

And casually wiped the dried blood from his own lip, eyes locked on Jimin’s the entire time. The gesture was almost casual. Almost. But there was something in his gaze—pride, relish, retribution. 

“…can’t go unchecked.” 

Jimin’s pulse surged as Jungkook closed the distance, fingers trailing deliberately down the front of his shirt. Each pass burned—not sensual, not gentle, but electric with threat. Jungkook could feel it: the erratic flutter of Jimin’s chest, the subtle flinch beneath his fingertips. Panic bled beneath the surface, barely contained by pride. 

Then—a jerk. Sudden. Brutal. 

Jungkook gripped the ropes at Jimin’s wrists and wrenched him from the table in one seamless pull. Jimin’s body twisted midair before slamming to the concrete with a bone-rattling thud. 

“AHH—!” The cry burst from him, unfiltered. 

Pain lanced through his limbs. His shoulder jarred. His knees scraped. His lungs stuttered as he gasped for air. And before he could even orient himself— 

He was dragged. 

Jungkook’s fist clenched the ropes and pulled—slow, cruel, unrelenting. The floor tore at Jimin’s shirt, grit biting into his skin as his body scraped across the concrete like an object, not a man. His breath hitched in disbelief, in fury, in humiliation. 

“You’ve made your choice, Commissioner,” Jungkook said at last, his voice casual, almost amused. “You wanted to be defiant.” 

He stopped walking. The rope went slack for a moment. 

Then Jungkook looked down at him—at the once-revered Commissioner of Seoul, face-down on the floor, limbs bound like a criminal. 

“And since ‘Sir’ was so hard for you to say…” His lips curled faintly. “Let’s try something easier.” 

A beat passed. The silence was suffocating. 

“You’ll call me hyung,” Jungkook murmured, voice silky with malice. “Until you earn the right to call me anything else.” 

Jimin’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just control anymore—it was something darker. Something personal. The way Jungkook moved, the way he looked at him—it wasn’t tactical. It was sadistic. A calculated unraveling. 

They stopped beneath a massive industrial crane, its shadow swallowing the floor in long, skeletal lines. Jimin’s body ached, scraped and bruised from being dragged. And yet it wasn’t the pain that chilled him—it was the sick anticipation curling in his gut. Whatever came next… he wasn’t ready. 

“Last chance, Commissioner Park.” Jungkook’s voice rang out, sharp as metal. “Tell hyung you’re sorry.” 

The word—hyung—slammed into him like a slap. Jimin flinched, breath hitching. The ropes cinched tight, suspending his arms, wrenching his weight upward just enough to leave his muscles burning. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, heart pounding loud enough to drown out thought. 

Jungkook stepped close. His voice dropped low, almost coaxing. “Say it, Jimin.” 

A beat passed. 

Then: “G-Go fuck yours—self…” Jimin rasped, voice barely audible. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, shame clinging to every syllable. His lips quivered. But the words came out anyway. 

The air stilled. 

Jungkook’s fingers closed around his shoulder, firm and possessive. The smirk on his face was slow, indulgent. He didn’t even flinch. 

“Yeah.” The word fell flat—cold now. All amusement gone. “We’ll see how long that attitude lasts.” 

In one smooth motion, Jungkook hoisted him by the wrist tie—clean, practiced, like lifting weight off the ground. Jimin cried out, his body swinging helplessly in midair. The pressure forced his legs apart. His shirt rode up. His form exposed. 

Humiliated. 

“You should be honored,” Jungkook said softly, his tone now almost reverent. “That I’m allowing you the chance to apologize. Most don’t get that luxury.” 

Jimin couldn’t speak. His mouth opened, then shut. His body trembled—suspended, stretched, displayed. His pride cracked. 

Jungkook leaned in, voice dripping venom. 

“Until you’re ready to apologize to me properly…” He stepped back with deliberate ease. 

“…I guess you can just hang out.” 

Jimin felt the rope jerk—just slightly—as Jungkook secured the final knot to the industrial crane’s iron hook above them. There was a brutal precision to it, a kind of quiet professionalism that made Jimin’s blood run cold. The last knot didn’t just bind him—it sealed him. 

His arms were stretched, suspended. His body sagged just enough to strain every muscle. His shirt clung to his sides in tatters, breath sawing in and out of his lungs. And for the first time, the full weight of his position—his fall—hit him. 

Jungkook took a step back, gaze raking over Jimin’s form with slow, lingering satisfaction. The silence was deafening. Even his footsteps felt measured—meant to echo. 

Then he smiled. A slow, mock-casual grin that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Enjoy your night, Commissioner.” 

The words were soft, almost offhand. But they hung in the air like a brand, scorching. 

Jungkook turned. No threats. No parting blow. Just a wave—dismissive. Like Jimin wasn’t even worth punishing further. 

And with that, he walked toward the elevator. Each confident step echoed against the concrete, growing fainter and fainter until all that remained was the low mechanical hum... 

…and the sound of Jimin’s own panicked breathing. 

As the elevator doors slid shut with a mechanical hiss, silence returned—total, oppressive. The dim industrial light flickered once overhead before settling into a cold, sterile glow. It wasn’t just a room anymore. It was a cell. A stage. A grave. 

Suspended from the crane, Jimin’s body hung awkwardly—arms aching, legs numb, back bowed under the weight of exhaustion and humiliation. The ropes bit into his skin with every subtle sway, each movement a cruel reminder: this is what you've become. 

His breath trembled. Shallow. Hitching. Ragged. 

Then the first tear fell.  

Chapter Text

“Commissioner Park Jimin, found dead.”  

The anchor’s voice cut through the room like a knife as the glass slipped from her fingers. 

Shards exploded across the tile as the screen blared from the wall-mounted TV. The words echoed like a bell toll. “Commissioner Park Jimin; found dead in a targeted ambush during a high-stakes raid, on The Golden Hare.”  

Footage from weeks ago looped behind the report; charred wreckage, smoke curling into the night sky, the Seoul Metropolitan Police crest flickering on scorched tactical gear. No body was recovered. Just dental remains. Enough for the headlines. 

And now? 

A fucking memorial reel. 

“A public servant, a true hero, and Seoul’s golden boy.” 

She just stared. Lips parted. Breath sharp. 

 Then, behind her 

 “Bom.” 

A man was framed in the doorway like he’d been waiting for a cue. Tie loosened. Jacket folded across one arm.  

 Her voice cracked before she even spoke. “What have you done?” 

“Bom—” 

“No,” she snapped, spinning around so hard her heel caught the carpet. “ No. Don’t say my name like that. Don’t act like this is just… something that happened. He’s on the news, Seunghyun. There’s a fucking memorial!” 

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her. 

"You and Jiyong promised me!" she said, breath hitching, fury sparking off her skin. “You fucking promised me he wouldn’t be touched. That Jimin would be kept out of it.” 

Choi’s eyes didn’t flinch. “We did.” 

Her voice hitched. “Then why is the whole city mourning him like he’s a national tragedy?” 

Choi glanced toward the TV with that same curated neutrality he wore at press events and fundraisers; the kind of face sculpted for deniability. 

“I didn’t authorize this.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I didn’t, Jay just did his job. A little too well, maybe, but he made Park Jimin disappear. Like we agreed.” 

She scoffed. “That was never the deal.” 

“No?” Choi tilted his head. “Because from where I’m standing, that’s exactly what you asked me for. Silence. Protection. Distance.” 

“He’s dead , Seunghyun.” 

“No,” he said, calm as ever. “He’s invisible.” 

“He was getting too close. I told you, if he starts getting too wrapped up with Chaebols my hands would be tied. I barely got you out, remember?” 

He continued. 

“You know what it’s like,” Choi said. “Once you rattle the wrong cage, you can’t  walk away. They don’t forget that, even when you burn your past down and wear a new face.” 

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice sharp with remembered pain. 

Choi didn’t flinch. 

“We helped you change everything to disappear. Become someone else. For your own safety. If S.Coups or Siwon find out you’re alive, it won’t be the commissioner you have to worry about.” 

There was a long silence. Bom’s jaw worked. Her shoulders rose and fell like she was holding something down; rage, grief, or maybe both. 

She looked at him, eyes full of the kind of grief that simmers just beneath fury. “That’s not the point.” 

“No,” he said softly. “But it is the price.” 

Another pause. The TV droned on behind them, Jimin’s face lit by the flicker of false memory. 

“This changes things,” she whispered. 

Choi tilted his head. 

“Bring him to me.” she said, lower now.  

His silence was an answer. 

“I don’t care where he is.” 

She continued. 

“I want to see him.” 

There was a another before he sighed. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“…she’s punctual, photogenic, Ivy League adjacent, and; miracle of miracles. She doesn’t flinch at protocol.” 

Taehyung’s voice carried with casual precision as he swept into Jungkook’s office like he owned the air. He didn’t knock. He never did. 

Behind him, Dove entered with quiet poise. Black blouse. Slit skirt. Pale skin. Her posture was perfect. Head bowed just enough to signal submission, but her eyes,when they lifted, were trained straight on Jungkook. A study in curated restraint. Her heels didn’t stutter.  

But Jungkook didn’t look up. 

He was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled, collar open, a fountain pen resting between his fingers like a blade waiting for use. The morning reports were still open. Figures. Declines. PR hits from the Commissioner’s so-called “death.” None of it surprised him. 

“She’s a waste of my time,” Jungkook said flatly. 

Dove didn’t blink. 

Taehyung exhaled like he’d heard this ten times already. “You haven’t even looked at her.” 

Jungkook’s gaze flicked up. Finally. Slowly.  

 The room went still.  

 He didn’t move. Didn’t gesture. Just studied her with the same quiet deliberation he gave to quarterly projections and kill orders. 

“I’ve seen her.” Jungkook said. “She’s curated. Not convincing.” 

“She’s trained, ” Taehyung said, tension building beneath his smooth tone. “She’s been in high-control D/s dynamics for three years. Fully vetted. Clear boundaries. And she’s good under scrutiny. Which you need right now.” 

She said nothing.  

 Didn’t need to.  

 Her presence said everything.  

 Controlled. Conditioned. Gift-wrapped obedience with a silent challenge underneath. 

“I don’t need press candy,” Jungkook replied, bored. “I need silence and clean numbers.” 

Dove finally spoke. “Mr. Jeon.” Her voice was low, elegant. Polished. “I understand discretion. I understand image. I’ve signed the NDA, studied your file, and I know better than to think I’ll be treated like a girlfriend or a PR prop. This is service. Nothing else.” 

Jungkook studied her like an equation. “And what makes you think I’m interested in being served?” 

“You wouldn’t have let me through the door if you weren’t.” 

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped across the armrest, eyes resting on her like she was another spreadsheet he had to parse. He wasn’t impressed; but he was observant.  

 No fidgeting. No cutesy, bratty posturing. Just discipline.  

 Polished, elegant, pristine.  

Taehyung moved to lean against the desk, clearly fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Kook, she’s not a risk. She’s not emotional. She doesn’t want a ‘Daddy.’ She wants rules. Structure. The things your last three melted down over.” 

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to Dove again. “Take off your heels.” 

Dove obeyed silently. Stepped out of them, toes pressed to the cold concrete. She didn’t ask why. Didn’t hesitate. 

“Good,” Jungkook said, almost absently. “Now leave.” 

Dove looked at Taehyung. Taehyung looked like he might snap the pen off Jungkook’s desk. 

That’s when Seokjin moved. 

He stepped in from the side of the room he’d been there the whole time— always watching and managing. 

He bent down without a word, picked up Dove’s heels—Italian leather, red soles dulled slightly from the walk in. 

“Here,” Seokjin said, offering them to her with a small, measured smile. “We’ll get those back on once you’ve seen the place.” 

Dove accepted the shoes without looking at Jungkook. She didn’t need to. He’d already dismissed her. She understood how men like him operated; authority without affection, dominance without diplomacy. 

Seokjin stepped closer, ushering her with a palm lightly pressed to her back. Just enough pressure to say we’re moving on, without ever saying a word. 

“I’ll take you for a quick walk-through, of this floor but-” he said smoothly. “This floor is op, floors below are development, and ground floor is private. You’ll want to understand the building flow if you’re going to be seen in it.” 

He was already leading her toward the door before Taehyung could spit fire again. 

Dove glanced once, briefly, back over her shoulder. But Jungkook hadn’t moved. He was already flipping through a new set of papers, like she’d never entered the room. 

The door clicked shut behind them. 

Jungkook didn’t look up from his desk. Just flipped a page in the quarterly report like nothing had happened. 

Taehyung didn’t let the moment breathe. 

“I saw what happened yesterday.” 

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t move. 

Taehyung grinned, knowing exactly how to press. “I’ve got cameras in the ground floor.” 

That made Jungkook pause; barely, but enough. 

Taehyung pushed off the desk, voice low and lazy. “Don’t look so scandalized. They’re for… safety. Kink-related emergencies. Or maybe I just like watching the messes you make.” 

Now Jungkook looked up, slow and sharp. “You’re sick.” 

“And you put on a show.” 

Jungkook didn’t flinch. “Be more specific.” 

“Oh, I will.” Taehyung stepped away from the desk, slow and deliberate. “You think I don’t recognize a scene when I see one?” 

Taehyung didn’t sit. He just leaned, posture casual but his stare razor-sharp. 

“That wasn’t an interrogation. That was training. You had him tied like a debutante sub.” 

“It was restraint—” 

“It was rope play. Every knot timed like a lesson. You were all over him, you looked like a man tasting something he didn’t want to admit he liked.” 

Jungkook’s jaw twitched. A tell. A silent warning. 

Taehyung didn’t care. He pressed forward. 

“And by the end?” Taehyung’s brow lifted. “It looked like you were the one begging him . Sir, was it?” 

The air crackled; tight, volatile, one second from detonation. 

And then the door opened. 

“Well. PR disaster or not,” Seokjin said smoothly, stepping back in like nothing was wrong; though his eyes clocked the tension immediately. He carried it off with professional grace, holding Dove’s heels in one hand and a tablet in the other. “It seems Taehyung’s matchmaking is still the only division in your empire that never underperforms.” 

Dove followed behind, calm and silent. If she felt the shift in the room, she didn’t show it. Her eyes went to Jungkook like a submissive trained to sense mood first, instruction second. 

Taehyung’s smirk curled again; less amused, more victorious. He didn’t say another word. Just stepped back from Jungkook’s desk, unhurried, like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade on the floor between them. 

Jungkook’s gaze flicked toward Seokjin, then Dove, and then—finally—settled into a cold stillness again. The ice had refrozen. 

She didn’t wait to be acknowledged. Just walked three measured steps forward, stopped at a polite distance from the desk, and bowed slightly at the waist. 

“I understand discretion. I understand discipline. I’m told you don’t care for theatrics, so I won’t waste your time.”  

 Another pause.  

 Then softly:  

“But I will say this; I’m good at what I do. And I don’t break.” 

“What’s your safe word?” 

“Glass.” 

“And if I ignore it?” 

“I don’t safe word lightly.” 

That... almost landed. But Jungkook blinked it away. The walls were already back up. 

 Jin cleared his throat. “You should bring her to the gala.”  

 Now Jungkook looked at him.  

 Jin shrugged one shoulder. “You need a win, and the city needs to see you’re not some heartbroken warlord burning the place down over daddy’s ghost. That narrative is everywhere.”  

 “She’s gorgeous,” Jin added. “She’s composed. She’s clearly trained. You walk in with her on your arm; you don’t look angry. You look… in control.” 

Jungkook finally spoke.  

 “8am tomorrow, my office. You’ll be briefed.”  

 That was it.  

 Dismissal, command, and acknowledgment in one breath.  

“Thank you, sir.” 

 Dove bowed again before finally retrieving her shoes from Seokjin’s grasp and taking her leave. 

Taehyung didn’t follow immediately. He lingered just long enough in the doorway; one hand on the frame, eyes still on Jungkook. 

“And let me be real clear; if that man says Hyung ?” His voice dropped, flat and final. “That’s your red.” 

A beat passed. 

“It’s up to you what you do after that. But I’ll tell you this—” 

He straightened his spine. Smoothed his sleeve like it had dared wrinkle. 

“Some toys are one-of-a-kind—break it, and there are no replacements.” 

The weight of it landed. Heavy. 

Then, lighter, like a grin with a razor tucked behind it, he added: 

“Give Dove a chance, Kook. She’s not the commissioner. But she’s something you can play with.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. 

Didn’t expect one. 

Just turned and walked out, the door whispering closed behind him with surgical finality. 

And Jungkook? 

Jungkook stayed seated. 

Eyes on the last page of the report in front of him; some soulless percentage about brand recovery, but not seeing it. Not really. 

His fingers tapped once. 

Then again. 

A rhythm born not of thought, but of memory.

 The music was low; something synthy and slow, bleeding into the plush shadows of the room. A shot of tequila rested in Jay Park’s hand, fingers tapping the rim while his eyes flicked lazily over the velvet-bound menu on the table. 

Then his phone rang. 

Unknown Number.  

He knew better. 

He threw back the shot before the glass hit the table a little too hard. 

He answered anyway. 

“Yeah.” 

“There has been a change of plans. Where is Park Jimin?”  

Jay froze. 

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. 

Then a smile. Smooth. Slippery. All teeth and no truth. “Damn, Choi. That’s how you say hello now?” 

“Not the time.  I have a new buyer. Their offering double.”  

Jay’s mind kicked into survival mode, heart beating like a getaway car stalling at the light. 

“I mean, technically the sell is final,” Jay drawled, adjusting his tone like a DJ fading into a softer track. “Wherever he is, he ain’t making noise. That’s what you wanted, yeah?” 

“Spare me. Who is the buyer?”  

Jay’s smile cracked for just a second. 

“Gonna need to talk to Daesung about that. He handled the hand-off; buyer logistics, site cleanup, the whole works.” 

“I’ll call Daesung myself.”  

“Wait—hold up.” Jay sat forward, trying not to sound like he was panicking. “He’s not gonna pick up if you come in hot like that. Let me reach out. I’ll get you what you need.” 

A pause. 

Tight. Silent. Threatening. 

Then— 

“You have twenty-four hours.”  

Click. 

Jay pulled the phone from his ear, stared at it like it had just pulled a gun on him. 

The silence was sharp. Too sharp. 

He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a slow, careful exhale. 

Then his gaze dropped to the screen again. A single contact name stared back at him.  

He shouldn’t. 

Reaching out could cost him everything. Choi’s watching now. Jungkook’s watching always. 

But if Choi gets to Daesung first... 

Jay swore under his breath. Fingers hovered above the screen. 

Sometimes survival wasn’t about playing smart. 

It was about playing first. 

And Jay Park? 

He always played dirty.

Silence stretched, tight and sharp. 

Across the desk, Seokjin laid out a folder with quiet precision. Quarterly reports. Loss projections. Damage assessments. Each page another pulse reading on an empire bruised but not bleeding. 

“The Golden Hare’s Q1 drop puts us under by 14.3%,” Jin said, tapping the line item without flinching. “Primary cause: reputational fallout. Secondary: discretionary spending pullback in VIP tiers.” 

Jungkook didn’t look up. He flipped to the next page instead. 

“Media?” 

Jin nodded once. “Six mainstream outlets, twenty-eight social threads. Trending tags were suppressed early, but there’s chatter. Most of it’s just noise, but there are a few influencers with reach.” 

“We’re projecting a 12.8% drop in discretionary income for Q2.” He tapped a figure with the blunt edge of a pen. “High-profile clients are stalling their return to Jeon properties. Even The Golden Hare’s numbers are lagging.” 

Jungkook barely glanced at the spreadsheet. “Why?” 

Jin didn’t miss a beat. “The city’s still mourning.” 

Silence. 

He let the words hang there. Not out of respect; but calculation. 

“Park Jimin was a symbol,” he went on. “Clean cop. Golden boy. Youngest commissioner in history. You don’t bury someone like that without the public dragging a shrine behind him.” 

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping once—twice—on the armrest. His expression didn’t shift, but something behind the eyes darkened. 

“News is vague,” Jin continued. “No body. No statement. Just rumors about a failed raid and a cover-up. That ambiguity? It’s killing us. The public still believes in him.” 

“Good PR doesn’t die easy,” Jungkook murmured. 

“Especially when it’s tied to law and image.” Jin clicked his pen closed. “He was clean. Untouchable. The kind of man civilians and middle-tier crime lords like to believe in. They don’t want to gamble at clubs run by the people who might’ve gotten him killed.” 

There was a pause. 

Outside, the city gleamed in the daylight—too clean from this height to show the rot underneath.  

Seokjin stayed seated, hands folded neatly over the report. But his eyes tracked Jungkook’s every step. 

“You do realize how this looks,” he said evenly. “To anyone with a brain, you’re the prodigal son finishing what his father couldn’t.” 

Jungkook didn’t answer. 

“Jimin puts Jeon Junghyun behind bars. Becomes the face of reform. A war hero with a badge. Then four years later, you crawl out of exile, take your father’s empire—and he vanishes.” 

Jin raised an eyebrow, like a man stating the obvious. Not accusing. Just observing the math. 

“You think it’s poetic,” he added, “but to the public? It’s operatic. You didn’t just retaliate—you turned into the villain of your own press cycle.” 

Jungkook’s jaw ticked once. A shift in the glass behind him caught the glint of his rings. 

“And before you say it,” Jin continued, “yes, your hands are clean on paper. No link to the failed raid, no evidence tying you to the disappearance. But you know as well as I do—optics don’t need evidence. They need a story. And the one on the streets?” 

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping like a verdict. 

“You’re not the man who took power. You’re the man who killed Seoul’s hero to do it.” 

Jungkook exhaled slowly through his nose. Not denial. Not confirmation. Just calculation. 

“Do you want damage control,” Jin asked, calm, “or retribution?” 

Jungkook’s voice, when it came, was a low, cutting hum. 

“I want both.” 

Jin nodded once, already pulling the next folder from his case. “Then we’ll need a public miracle. Fast. A controlled leak. A softer face. And maybe…” he paused just long enough to let the implication settle, “...a new hero.” 

Jungkook didn’t reply. 

He just stared at the skyline—where the sunlight washed the towers gold, like nothing beneath it had bled for weeks.

The city buzzed below, a low hum of traffic and neon washing over the rooftop like static. The sun was starting to set but Seoul was always watching, always hungry—but here, high above the noise, everything felt… still. 

Too still. 

Yunho leaned against the railing, coat unbuttoned, tie loose. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, untouched, the ash threatening to drop with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying. 

Behind him, the elevator gave a soft ding. 

Jay Park stepped out like the night owed him something—black slacks, bomber jacket, that same smile that never quite reached his eyes. Hands in his pockets. Nothing in them but problems. 

“You look like shit,” Jay said casually. 

Yunho didn’t turn. “You look like a stain I forgot to clean.” 

Jay laughed—light, amused. “Still got that bite. Thought Jeon neutered you.” 

Yunho’s jaw tightened. 

Jay came up beside him, leaned against the rail. Close, but not too close. “How’s the ground floor treating you? Or did he finally stick you in a storage closet and throw away the key?” 

Silence. 

Jay pressed in, tone softening. “We’ve done good work together, you and me. Made men disappear. Made numbers talk. You used to own this city’s underbelly, Yunho. Now?” 

He glanced sideways. “You’re collecting dust.” 

Yunho exhaled. Flicked ash into the wind. “Get to the point.” 

Jay didn’t hesitate. “You have something I want. The Commissioner.” 

Yunho’s silence deepened. But Jay could feel the crack forming. 

“And me?” Jay said, smile curling. “I know what you want.” 

Yunho glanced at him finally, eyes sharp—but not cold. Curious. 

“You want your seat back. You want control. Not as Jeon’s bitch.” 

Jay’s voice dropped, syrup-smooth. “So name your price.” 

The wind picked up. 

The cigarette dropped. 

Yunho didn’t stomp it out. 

He just looked at Jay. Eyes hollow, bitter, starved for something more than relevance. 

“You sure you can pay it?” he asked. 

Jay grinned. “You’re not gonna like the answer.” 

Yunho’s lips twitched. 

“I never do.” 

Chapter Text

The sun didn’t burn here.  

It kissed.  

Soft golden warmth dripped from the sky, melting across Jimin’s cheeks as he chased his mother through the grass. His legs were short, fast, clumsy. He tumbled once and laughed; arms flung wide like a boy who’d never known fear.  

His father was behind them, grinning in that crooked, handsome way—shirt sleeves rolled up, tie askew, camera swinging from his neck. “Got you!” he shouted, and Jimin shrieked as strong hands grabbed him up by the waist, lifting him high into the air.  

“Appaaaaa!” he screamed, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.  

“You’re too fast for me,” his mother huffed playfully, crouching beside them to press a kiss to Jimin’s flushed forehead. She smelled like fresh laundry and tangerine shampoo. Her hair was pulled back in a braid, loose strands fluttering in the wind.  

The trees around them shimmered like paper lanterns. Cherry blossoms hung in clusters overhead, though it wasn’t spring.   

They collapsed into the grass together, all three of them. Wind rippled the field like a sigh. His mother plucked a blade of green and tucked it behind Jimin’s ear. His father leaned on one elbow, gaze soft. The world smelled like cut grass and sky. Jimin’s cheeks hurt from smiling.  

Time didn’t tick forward—it just floated.  

Eventually, Jimin sat up. “Let’s play a game!”  

His mother arched a brow. “Like what?”  

“Hide and seek!” He jumped to his feet, eyes wide with mischief. “I’ll count! You guys hide!”  

His father groaned dramatically. “But your mom always cheats.”  

“I do not!” she gasped, swatting him.  

“You hide in the same place every time—behind me.”  

“It’s called strategy,” she shot back, smirking.  

Jimin laughed so hard he fell over again, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Then he scrambled upright and clamped both hands over his eyes.  

“I’m counting now! One… two… three…”  

Their laughter echoed. He could still hear it, faint, carried on the breeze as he counted. “Four… five…”  

Then—  

Silence.  

Soft. Complete.  

“…Six?”  

The grass under his feet felt different. Colder. The air stilled.  

“…Seven?”  

He lowered his hands.  

The field was gone.  

He was standing barefoot in a hallway.  

Wallpaper curled from the corners. The bulb overhead flickered—once, twice—then held. Faint shadows pooled like ink across the seams of the floor. This was his old family home. His chest tightened.   

“…Eomma?”  

No answer.  

He padded forward.  

His steps made no sound. The light above buzzed low. He peeked into the kitchen: empty. The air smelled like rice gone cold. A single bowl sat on the counter, spoon still resting inside it.  

“…Appa?”  

He turned toward the living room.  

The couch was still there. Brown and slouched with age. The curtains were drawn, letting in a stale kind of daylight. And there, in the center of it all, sat his father.  

Shoulders hunched. Tie loosened.  

Hands trembling.  

He held a photograph in both palms like it would splinter if he breathed.  

And he was crying.  

No sound. No movement. Just the soft, ragged tremble of a man already emptied.  

“Goeun…” he whispered.  

Again.  

And again.  

The name bled from his mouth like a wound that wouldn’t close.  

Jimin didn’t blink. His throat locked tight. The floor felt further away than it should’ve.  

He’d seen his father like this before. Too many times. Too young to understand what grief did to a man. Too young to know his mother wasn't ever coming back.  

He’d told himself not to cry.  

His mother used to say it all the time: 
“Don’t cry. You’re a big boy.” 

And big boys didn’t cry.  

But his father did.  

Even when Jimin didn’t.  

And somehow… that made it worse.  

The tears came anyway.  

Hot. Fast. Unforgiving.  

He dropped to his knees in front of the couch, shoulders curling in. Small fists pressed to his eyes like he could stop the flood. Sobs clawed up through his chest, hiccupping through his fingers, splitting him open.  

“I’m…” he choked, breath broken. “...a big boy…”  

No one answered.  

Only the silence.  

Only the ache.  

He cried until the sound of it echoed in his palms.  

And then—  

Silence.  

When he finally pulled his hands away, the living room had changed.  

The couch was still there—but the cushions were sagging deeper now. A half-empty bottle of soju was balanced on the edge of the coffee table, sweating against a warped coaster. The curtains were drawn tighter. The air smelled like sweat, stale air, and something chemical. Something wrong.  

His father was still there; he looked older now.  

And he wasn’t crying.  

Just slouched back, face pale and eyes too wide. He stared at the TV like it was playing something only he could see. His lips moved, but nothing came out.   

Next to him, a woman stood.  

Not Jimin’s mother.  

She’d been gone for a while.  

Younger. Thinner. Mascara smudged under one eye like she hadn’t slept.  

Her arms were crossed tight. Voice sharp.  

“You said you were done.”  

He didn’t answer.  

“You told me you were clean!”  

Still nothing. His gaze just slipped to the side, unfocused.  

She stepped back, grabbing her bag with jerky hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit back and watch you destroy yourself.”  

His father flinched—but still didn’t move.  

“You need help,Minjun” she snapped. “Not me. Not another woman to fix you. Real help.”  

She stormed toward the door.  

Then paused.  

Turned.  

And looked directly at Jimin.  

His chest constricted.  

She stared for a second—face softening. “I’m sorry, kid.”  

Her voice was quiet. Meant to be kind.  

Jimin said nothing.  

Then she was leaving.  

Jimin’s father surged upright.  

“Wait—no—no, don’t go, don’t go, baby please—”  

He stumbled after her, barefoot, crashing into the table. The bottle tipped, rolled, clattered to the floor.  

“Please—please, I’m—fuck, I’m trying—!”  

He tried to follow.  

But the door swung closed—hard.  

And he just stood there.  

Stunned. Fragile. Breathing through his nose like he could hold in the ache if he clenched hard enough.  

Then slowly, his body folded.  

He slid down the doorframe, back dragging against the wood until he hit the floor. His knees bent, hands cradling his face. No theatrics. No screaming. Just… a soft, broken sound.  

A man unraveling.  

“I’m sorry…” he whispered into his palms. “God, Goeun, I’m sorry…”  

His breath hitched.  

“I tried—I tried to stay clean, I swear—I just…”  

Another tremble.  

“I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t—I can’t keep going like this.”  

Jimin stood frozen in the hallway. Watching. Small. Barefoot.  

His voice came out small. Fragile. “Appa…?”  

The man didn’t look up.  

“Not now, Jimin,” he muttered, voice shaking. “Please—not now.”  

Jimin’s voice cracked. “Appa—wait, please—!”  

Then he pushed himself up again—jerky, like his body barely obeyed. He staggered down the hall without looking back. Barely steady. One hand dragging against the wall.  

His feet slapped against the hardwood as he ran, breath catching in short, desperate bursts. “Appa, please don’t—wait!”  

But his father didn’t slow down.  

The bathroom door slammed shut before Jimin could reach it. The sound snapped through the hallway like a verdict. He stumbled to a halt, nearly crashing into the door, palms landing flat against the wood. His forehead followed, pressing against it with a low thud.  

“Please…” he whispered. “Just—just wait…”  

The handle didn’t turn.  

No answer came.  

Jimin’s eyes squeezed shut. Chest heaving. Fingers splayed against the grain of the door like he could still will it open.  

Then—silence.  

When he opened his eyes again—  

The door had changed.  

So had the air.  

It was colder now, damp and stale.  

The hallway was gone.  

Now it was a room— small, cramped, dimly lit by a flickering bulb overhead. 
The walls were lined with rust-stained tile. The floor reeked of bleach and mildew, warped from years of overflow and neglect. 

However instead of silence, he was met with familiar childish laughter.  

Jimin staggered backward, breath hitching. He turned to find no exit. No window. Just mops leaning like corpses in the corner, and a crusted bucket sat half-full of something that used to be water.  

 Their laughter was muffled through the door but even still the caught the hint of cruelty to it.  

His stomach turned.  

He reached for the knob.  

It wouldn’t budge.  

He yanked. Pushed. Nothing.  

Panic surged. He slammed his fists against the door, voice cracking open.  

“Open the door!”  

No answer.  

He pounded harder. “Let me out! I said—open it!”  

The laughter didn’t stop.  

Hands curled into fists, he threw his weight into the door. Over and over.  

“Stop fucking around! Open it! I’m serious!”  

But the door held.  

And the darkness pressed in tighter.  

“Or what? You gonna piss yourself again?”  

The laughter swelled, high and sharp, like it knew.  

His breath shook. His voice broke.  

“No! J-Just let me out Seongjun—please—!”  

The laughter fractured—cut short by a voice. Stern. Adult. Angry.  

“What are you boys doing out here?”  

The sound of scrambling footsteps followed. A shuffle. A thud. Then Seongjun’s reluctant voice, dripping with mockery.  

“Alright, alright—Think little Mochi’s had enough.”  

The lock clicked.  

Jimin didn’t even have time to brace before the door flew open.  

He tumbled forward with a cry, knees slamming the tile. The light outside was too bright—his eyes burned as he hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.  

The teacher gasped. “What the—Park Jimin?!”  

Their sneakers squeaked as they walked off—elbows nudging, snickers trailing like smoke.  

Jimin gasped once, dragging air back into his lungs. His cheeks burned. The scent of bleach, mildew and wood polish clung to his skin like shame.  

A hand touched his shoulder.  

He flinched.  

“Hey. It’s okay,” a soft voice said. “You’re alright.”  

He looked up—eyes wide, lashes clumped with unshed tears.  

The teacher bent slightly beside him, brow furrowed.  One palm gentle on his arm. “Did they lock you in there?”  

He hesitated.  

She didn’t wait for an answer.  

“You know I have to report this to the headmistress.”  

“No,” Jimin said quickly. Too quickly. “Please don’t. It’s fine.”  

“It’s not fine,” she said firmly, but not unkind. “You didn’t get locked in the janitor’s closet on your own. They locked you in there.”  

Jimin stared at the floor, jaw tight, throat burning.  

“I don’t want to make trouble,” he muttered.  

“You’re not,” she said gently. “They are.”  

She gave his arm a light squeeze. 
“Let me tell her. It won’t come from you. I’ll make sure of that.” 

He swallowed.  

She hesitated, then added—gently but firm, “What happened to you… that kind of bullying? It’s very common for freshmen.” 
Her voice dropped just enough to land without pity. 
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Then, finally, he nodded.  

“…Okay.”  

She smiled softly.   

“You’re brave, you know,” she said quietly.  

He didn’t answer. Just nodded again.  

As he started to leave, he turned back once.  

“Thank you,” he whispered.  

She smiled again.  

He turned to go—  

And slammed into someone.  

His body jolted. Breath caught.  

But the classroom was gone.  

Jimin blinked—once, twice—mind still reeling from the teacher’s soft voice.  

Now?  

He was back at the orphanage.  

In his old room.  

Except—  

He wasn’t alone.  

Someone was standing in front of him.  

Seongjun.  

Older now. Taller.  

Jimin froze.  

The boy sneered. “I knew it.”  

Jimin’s lips parted, confused. “Knew… what?”  

Seongjun didn’t answer right away.  

He turned.  

And in his hand—  

Jimin’s blood ran cold.  

Held high like a victory banner, stretched taut between two fingers, was a pair of teen-sized Goodnites.  

Brand new. Unworn. But unmistakable.  

The Spiderman print popped bright against the pale pastel fabric—bold, juvenile. The elastic waistband, wide and clearly made to fit a teenager, declared everything without a word. This wasn’t a toddler’s pull-up.  

It was his.  

Jimin’s stomach flipped.  

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.  

Seongjun’s eyes widened, equal parts stunned and delighted. “Oh… oh this is too good.”  

Jimin took a step forward. “Give it—”  

The boy backed away, grinning like he’d just won a prize.  

Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.  

“Hey! Yo, come here! Guys—you need to see this!”  

“No—!” Jimin lunged, but it was too late.  

Footsteps thundered up the hallway.  

Three more boys piled in—brows raised, eyes narrowed—until they spotted what was in the older boy’s hand.  

And then?  

Laughter.  

Ugly. Loud. Piercing.  

One of them doubled over, wheezing. Another smacked the wall like it was too good to be true.  

“Holy shit—is that a diaper?”  

“Look at the baby print—”  

“Wait, wait, you’re like 16!”  

“Oh my god, Jimin…”  

Jimin couldn’t breathe.  

His legs locked, throat constricting, every nerve lighting up with horror.  

He wanted to vanish.  

Run.  

Hide.  

Do Something!  

But he couldn’t move.  

He could only stand there—eyes wide, cheeks burning, staring at his Goodnites clutched in Seongjun’s hand like a trophy.  

Like proof.  

Like the final nail in the coffin of the secret he’d buried for years.  

And the laughter kept going.  

Like it would never stop.  

“You wet the bed, huh?”  

Seongjun’s voice rang out—mocking, sharp. “That why you wear these?”  

He dangled the Goodnites again, fingers twisting the waistband, letting it snap with a taunting flick.  

The boys circled him now. Too fast. Too close.  

“That why you pee yourself when you're scared?”  

“Baby Jimin, still wearing diapers~ I bet the orphanage lady has to change him.”  

“Bet you piss yourself all the time.”  

“I don’t!” Jimin snapped, voice breaking as he tried to push through the ring of bodies. “I’m not a baby!”  

But hands caught his arms.  

Two of them—tight grips yanked him back, held him firm as he kicked. Another boy grabbed his shoulder, shoving him until he stumbled. They were laughing harder now, surrounding him like wolves.  

“Then what is this, huh?” Seongjun taunted, holding the pull-up closer to Jimin’s face. “You wear this for fun? I bet you’re wearing one right now.”  

“Let me go—!” Jimin shouted, voice rising into panic. “You’re lying! I don’t—”  

“Say it, then,” the boy mocked. “Say, ‘I wet my diaper cause I’m a little baby.’”  

“I don’t! I don’t—I’m not a—!”  

His voice cracked. His chest heaved. His limbs thrashed uselessly against the hands that pinned him.  

He tried to yank free again—but the world tilted.  

The room around him blurred. The orphanage walls pulsed, bent at the seams—until the paint peeled itself away and the light overhead snapped into shadow.  

The hands that held him changed.  

Gripped tighter.  

Bigger.  

Cruel.  

And suddenly—  

He was on his back.  

Flat against a table, wrists pinned above his head.  

Jimin gasped—chest jerking, panic climbing up his throat like fire.  

“How adorable,” a voice murmured—low, deep, and devastatingly familiar.  

Jeon.  

Jimin’s stomach dropped.  

“Is someone scared,” Jungkook whispered, his mouth close enough to feel.  

Jimin’s breath stuttered. “N-No—”  

“Aw, don’t be scared, you might have an accident.”  

The words slithered into his ears like poison.  

“I—no—I said no—!”  

But Jungkook just smiled.  

Cruel. Patient.  

“That trembling says otherwise. You can’t hide from me. Even the way your thighs keep clenching is obvious”  

His grip tightened on Jimin’s wrists, dragging them higher.  

“Go ahead. You can be honest.”  

“I’m not—I’m not a baby—!”  

“You keep saying that comissoner,” Jungkook said softly, “but your pull-ups tell a different story.”  

Jimin’s body jolted. His legs tried to kick—but they were caught.  

Everything was caught.  

“You gonna cry now?” Jungkook murmured, voice like silk over steel. “Or are you gonna let  daddy change you like a good little boy?”  

He woke with a sharp inhale.  

Chest rising too fast. Eyes snapping open.  

Everything was dim. Familiar. But wrong.  

He was in his old bed again.  

Back in his family home.   

Dust drifted in the air like ash. The ceiling above him was stained, paint bubbled from humidity. Somewhere, faintly, a pipe groaned.  

His body jerked upright.  

A brutal pressure knotted in his lower abdomen—deep, sharp, swelling with urgency. He clutched his stomach, legs tensing, feet scrambling for the floor.  

He stumbled through the narrow hall. Bare feet slapping against tile.  

He turned the corner.  

His father was still in the bathroom; the door was shut.  

Jimin couldn’t wait.  

He reached for the knob. Cold metal. Clammy in his shaking grip.  

It turned.  

He pushed.  

The door swung open.  

And time stopped.  

The bathroom lights flickered overhead. Buzzing, faint.  

The body on the floor didn’t move.  

Skin pale. Eyes wide. A needle embedded in the soft crook of his arm. His lips were parted—foam still fresh at the corner. One leg bent beneath him, the other collapsed outward like a puppet discarded mid-scene.  

Jimin’s chest collapsed in.  

His knees locked. Lungs stopped working.  

His vision swam violently. Eyes darted—floor, hand, arm, face, mouth, needle, needle, needle—  

His breath came in gasps now. Wet, heaving. Each inhale sharper than the last. Hyperventilation setting in, every beat of his heart a gunshot against his ribs.  

He staggered back.  

Didn’t feel the first burst of warmth.  

But it came.  

A sudden slackening of the muscles just below his navel. His bladder let go in a sharp release.  

Urine streamed down the inside of his thighs—hot, unstoppable.  

It soaked through the crotch of his boxers, poured down the backs of his legs in twin rivulets. Warm streaks trailed along the curves of his calves, dripping from his knees in a staggered rhythm as his body gave out on itself.  

His breath caught.  

He didn’t notice the wetness.  

Not really.  

His vision blurred again—fully now. Not from tears.  

From horror.  

And then it broke loose.  

A single, bloodcurdling scream ripped from his body. Not a word. Not a cry. Something deeper. Wrenched from the pit of his lungs.  

It tore through the bathroom like glass shattering underwater.  

And still—  

the puddle kept growing at Jimin’s feet.  

His eyes snapped open.  

No sound but breath—shallow, wet, and uneven. His body trembled in place, not from fear anymore, but from the simple failure of muscle. Every inch of skin throbbed, rubbed raw by friction and time. Sweat had dried into salt. His arms burned. His spine ached. His bladder screamed.  

Every rope led back to his wrists; arms pulled high above his head, secured in ties that looped into a hook from the crane. The weight of his entire body had been hanging from that joint all night.  

His knees were still bent at a cruel, splayed angle, thighs forced wide and trembling, calves roped up and out until his joints locked in place like a puppet left strung too long.  

“Mmn… ngh—” A low moan escaped his throat as he tried shifting to ease his bladder.  

Wrong choice.  

The moment his muscles flexed, the ropes responded with a pull—tightening at the bend of his knees, tugging his wrists taut above him, and sending a bolt of fire through his strained shoulders.  

“Ah—ahh…!” His eyes cracked open in a rush of panic.  

His heart slammed against his ribs, fast and erratic, like it was trying to beat its way out of his body. Each pulse roared in his ears louder than the silence around him.  

The pressure from his need grew.  

Persistent. 
Throbbing. 
Urgent. 

His gut twisted.  

No. No, no, no—  

Not now.  

Not like this.  

He was a grown man now. A Commissioner.  

His bladder throbbed. He tried to stay still.  

But staying still meant feeling everything —the dull stretch in his knees, the fire in his shoulders, the slick chill where sweat had pooled in the dip of his back. And worst of all, the pressure building low and tight behind his pelvis, forcing heat toward the tip of his cock until—  

He whimpered. Barely a sound.  

Shame colored his face hot. His teeth pressed into his bottom lip.  

He wasn’t gonna wet himself.   

However, the room was still dead silent.  

No footsteps. 
No guards. 
No sound from the elevator. 

“Hello…?” he croaked.  

No answer.  

Just the low, creaking stretch of rope under his weight. 
The metallic hum of the hook overhead. 
And the loud, deafening pulse in his bladder. 

Panic bloomed like acid in his lungs. 
How long had he been here? 
How much longer would Jungkook leave him strung up like this? 

And could he hold it that long?  

The pressure behind his zipper pulsed again. 
Harder. 
Hotter. 

The stress of the situation was making it worse.  

Fear boiling just under the surface of his rising panic.  

He’d been through this before, but it hadn’t happened in some years. Not since therapy. Not since the academy.   

Therapy taught him how to regulate the panic, how to ground himself when the adrenaline spike made his bladder clench.   

He did not piss himself when he was scared.   

Except he did.   

He used to.  

He squeezed his eyes shut.  

Ground yourself. Name five things you can see. Breathe in for four, out for seven. You’re in control. You’re in control—  

But he wasn’t.  

He couldn’t move. 
He couldn’t close his legs. 
He couldn’t grip himself, couldn’t clench his thighs, couldn’t even curl forward or lean into the pressure. 

He was suspended. 
Exposed. 

His eyes cracked open. 
He couldn’t stop shaking now. His legs trembled violently, not just from exhaustion—but from the rising, involuntary panic that bloomed behind his ribcage. Every breath made the pressure worse. Every twitch spread heat into his hips. 

He clenched down hard, but the ropes resisted—pulling his legs even further apart in response to his desperate flinch. A burning wave rippled across his bladder, tightening his core, coiling into a pit of sick heat just above his waistband.  

Ding.  

The sound punched through the silence like a bullet.  

His breath hitched.  

The elevator.  

For a moment, he couldn’t process it—couldn’t believe it had actually moved. That there was someone finally coming .   

Jimin released a shaking sigh of relief.  

The mechanical hum of descending cables vibrated faintly through the walls.  

Then—  

The elevator door clanged open.  

Footsteps on the concrete floor of the corridor.  

Each step landed heavy but measured.  

One after the other.  

And then—  

Shoes. Black leather. Sleek, polished.  

Stepping into view.  

Jimin’s stomach dropped.  

He didn’t need to look up.  

He knew exactly who it was.  

Irritation distracted Jimin from his growing need momentarily.  

Jungkook came to a stop—just within reach.  

Not close enough to touch him.  

Just close enough to look.  

His eyes scanned slowly down Jimin’s body—taking in the torn uniform, the strained ropes, the trembling thighs locked wide open. And finally, his gaze settled between them.  

Jimin didn’t flinch.  

Didn’t blink.  

Didn’t look away.  

If he gave ground now—even a breath—he’d lose more than dignity.  

But Jungkook tilted his head slightly and said, low and flat—  

“Jay Park.”  

The name fell like a stone into the silence between them.  

“CEO of 2PM Talent Group—”   

Jimin’s breath hitched.  

“— That’s who I was supposed to meet at The Golden Hare that night.”  

His voice was calm. Direct. No theatrical pauses. No emphasis. Like he was reading off a report.  

Jimin blinked, slowly.  

“Meeting got moved,” Jungkook went on, voice cool as steel. “Last minute. Underground location. Private access. He insisted.”  

Jimin’s brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled against the cuffs overhead, but the ropes didn’t give.  

“He knew,” Jungkook said simply. “Jay knew you were planning to raid The Hare.”  

The words sank in like knives.  

 Quiet. Intentional.  

Jimin’s pulse spiked but this time, not from panic.  

 Not from desperation.  

But from realization .  

The men who attacked him...  

 But hearing it from Jungkook’s mouth—spoken without malice, without mockery—felt like being stabbed with the truth.  

“So I’m going to ask you once,” Jungkook said, stepping closer. His voice dropped just slightly—low enough to hit like thunder, quiet enough to demand listening.  

“What did you see that night?”  

Jimin stared back, his mouth slightly open, his breath shallow.  

Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver.  

“Jay Park knew about your raid before I did.” he said. “He took out your entire team.”  

“He didn’t do that alone. That makes him dangerous and makes you sloppy.”  

Jimin swallowed hard. The urge to twist away returned—his instinct to hide, to clench, to run.  

But he couldn’t move.  

 He couldn’t flee.  

All he could do was hang there, humiliated, exposed, and cornered —not just by ropes now, but by truth.  

The silence between them curdled—thick, heavy, and ugly.  

Jimin’s eyes locked onto Jungkook’s with a sharp, unflinching glare. His jaw was set so tight, the muscle along the side of his face quivered from restraint. The heat behind his eyes wasn’t just anger anymore—it was resolve . Cold. Ruthless.  

Jungkook stood still. 
Waiting. 

Jimin said nothing.  

The only sound was Jimin’s breath—harsh through his nose, measured through clenched teeth. He didn’t blink. Didn’t tremble. Not outwardly.  

But inside— 
Inside, his bladder pulsed again. 

The pressure reignited—brighter now. More urgent. Like a knife being twisted slowly just beneath his beltline.  

But he refused to move .  

Wouldn’t give it power. Wouldn’t shift, wouldn’t clench, wouldn’t twitch.  

“I’m not asking twice,” Jungkook said, quieter now. “That raid was a setup.”  

Still, Jimin said nothing.  

“You walked into it like an idiot,” Jungkook went on, stepping closer, “and someone tipped him off. Either someone on your team, or someone in his pocket. So again—” his eyes narrowed, voice sharpening, “—what did you see?”  

Jimin finally opened his mouth.  

Slowly. Controlled.  

But his voice came cold as ice:  

“Let me down.”  

Jungkook didn’t move.  

“Now.”  

Another beat of silence.  

“You want answers?” Jimin spat, still calm—but every word edged in steel. “Start by treating me like a fucking person.”  

His arms trembled from strain—but his eyes stayed sharp. 
He didn’t beg. 
He didn’t explain. 
And he sure as hell didn’t admit what his body was threatening. 

Jungkook took a half-step forward.   

“So that’s your game?” Jungkook asked flatly. “Freedom, in exchange for information?”  

Jimin’s jaw tightened further. 
He didn’t respond. 

Jungkook tilted his head. The silence clearly hadn’t unnerved him.  

If anything, it pleased him.  

“You know,” he said calmly. “You put yourself in this mess.”  

He circled Jimin— 
One slow, deliberate step at a time. 

“And if we’re being honest. You’re completely out of your depth commissioner. You’re not brave.”  

A pause  

“You’re childish.”  

 Jimin stayed still. Arms trembling in their cuffs, legs twitching from bloodless strain. His uniform clung in tatters. His thighs were slick with sweat and heat. His bladder pulsed beneath his beltline—demanding attention.  

But Jungkook didn’t notice.  

 Didn’t know.  

Jimin wasn’t going to last much longer.  

The tremble in his legs had gone still, not from relief—but from exhaustion. A dead weight settled into his thighs. The fight was draining from him, muscle by muscle, moment by moment. Each second added pressure. Each heartbeat reminded him of how full he was, how unforgivingly full .  

“You ruined lives, Jimin.”  

A chill ran down Jimin’s spine. Hearing Jungkook speak his name for the first time.  

“Some already hate you for it. But it doesn’t matter, right? You’re Seoul’s Golden boy. Even in death”  

Jungkook moved back in front of him. His eyes narrowed, voice slow, deliberate.  

“But if I find that there is any validity to what you confessed while on that truth serum…”  

He leaned in slightly as Jimin’s breath hitched.  

“If that dead cop — Ha Sungwoon — is truly the one who killed my father…”  

Jimin’s eart threatened to pound out of his chest, his bladder contracted .  

“Your legacy is finished…”  

Another step closer.