Chapter Text
Morning seemed to arrive carrying the weight of a new day with it. But for Jungkook, even opening his eyes felt like a task too heavy to complete. Sunlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains, painting uneven streaks of yellow and black across the tiled floor. Every inch of his body protested the idea of movement—begging him to stay buried beneath the covers and let his already lethargic body rest.
But Jungkook was bound to obligations. He had appointments booked today. Responsibilities that wouldn’t pause just because his bones felt like they were filled with lead.
With considerable effort, he dragged himself out of bed and toward the bathroom. It had been a few days since that night and he neither had the will nor the strength to force his brain to replay the chaos again. Thinking about it felt just as exhausting as living through it.
He remembered informing the gangster about his mistake after a long internal battle that whole night and around early morning, a message had arrived: everything has been settled. No one would come after him. But the warning that followed had been unmistakable—don’t pull a stunt like that again.
Jungkook hadn’t asked how it was handled. Or what exactly had been done. He was painfully aware of the kind of world that man operated in. The methods and the bloodless assurances that were rarely bloodless at all. It didn’t shock him.
It only relieved him. For now, at least.
After getting ready, he stepped into the elevator without any hindrance. The silence inside Jimin’s apartment registered faintly in his mind—too quiet, too empty—but he brushed it off just as quickly. He must be somewhere else, Jungkook reasoned. He didn’t have the energy to dwell on it.
They hadn't seen each other since that night. Jimin wasn't even in his apartment. And Jungkook was relieved to not see his face for now. He expected it—for them to turn like this because according to him, neither of them wanted to confront each other at this moment. They both were wounded.
What he didn’t expect, what his tired brain certainly hadn’t prepared him for was Park Jimin walking into his shop barely a few minutes after him after days of being completely vanished from his life.
Jimin wore a wide grin on his beautiful face, eyes bright with mischief, his walk carrying a subtle cockiness that felt deliberately curated to get under Jungkook’s skin.
“Good morning, Jungkook-ssi,” Jimin greeted sweetly, as if nothing in the world was amiss. He ignored Jungkook’s frozen posture completely and slid into one of his usual seats like he owned the place.
Jungkook stared at him, mind blank for a full second longer than comfortable. “Jimin,” he finally said, voice stiff with disbelief as he turned fully toward the journalist. “What are you doing here?”
Jimin looked up at him, smiling softly, eyes crinkling into crescents. “We still have a week left of our deal.”
For a moment, Jungkook looked like he’d grown two heads. “Are you fucking with me right now?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. He felt his composure beginning to crack, irritation bleeding into his tone.
Jimin tilted his head innocently, blinking once. “No,” he said lightly. “You do a good job at that yourself. Why would I try?” A smirk tugged at his lips, his voice laced with unmistakable suggestion. He was behaving as if there wasn't anything wrong between them—as if everything was in place, as if he hadn't just broken Jungkook completely after the reveal.
It didn’t faze Jungkook. If anything, it lit a fuse.
“Jimin—” Jungkook started sharply, jaw tightened. “I seriously have no energy. I can't—” He stopped himself, exhaling harshly through his nose. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Jimin’s smile dimmed, but only slightly. “And why not?”
“Because I told you I need time,” Jungkook snapped. “I can’t forget anything.”
I can't forget I was the reason your mom died.
I can't forget you are the reason I didn't die that night.
“Me too,” Jimin snapped back before quickly clearing his throat. “I mean I can't forget that I still have one week left.”
Jungkook glared at him, clenching his jaw tight. “You weren't coming here for so long anyways,” he scoffed.
“But now I want to resume,” Jimin shot back, his tone suddenly firmer. He straightened, elbows resting on the table. “You don’t get to decide when I stop.”
A tense silence stretched between them.
“Look, Jungkook… I know you’re feeling angry and exhausted.” His gaze held Jungkook’s steadily now, stripped of teasing. “I won’t say you don’t have the right to feel that way. You do…But don’t shut me out because of it. Just let me do my job, yeah?”
“What's the use now, Jimin?” He said tiredly. “I already know you were never really interested in the case,” he looked away. He couldn't see Jimin as memories of that night of reveal came into his brain. “You got your truth already. What do you want from me now? Just leave me alone.”
He didn't know what emotions were on the journalist's face as he didn't dare look at him. Finally Jimin answered with conviction.
“You don't know that and whether I want to make a report or not, we had a deal, Jungkook. You can't just turn your back on it,” he sighed. “It's just one week, Jungkook, then we will go back to our own paths.”
At that Jungkook turned to look at him.
Jimin's eyes flickered with something dangerously close to pleading. “We’re almost done anyway.”
Jungkook clenched his jaw, fighting himself more than Jimin. He hated how convincing he sounded. He hated how weak he was. He knew Jimin could ask anything with those eyes and Jungkook wouldn't be able to deny him so he relented.
“…Fine,” he muttered at last, voice reluctant. “Just…don't disturb me.”
Jimin’s lips curved into a small, victorious smile.
They settled into a brittle silence after that, each pretending to focus on their own work. Still, Jungkook could feel Jimin’s gaze on him—fleeting but persistent, like a touch he couldn’t shake. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. One glance at Jimin was enough to drag emotions from a place Jungkook didn't want to revisit.
He was bent over the client’s bare chest, carefully etching the man’s birth flower into skin, steady hands betraying nothing of the turmoil coiling beneath his ribs. Jimin, however, had drifted closer, perching beside the chair with an open, almost innocent fascination. His eyes followed every movement—the slow glide of ink, the precision of Jungkook’s fingers—as if the process itself had mesmerized him.
It was quite amusing how Jimin wasn't really interested in tattoos before because he was totally focused on observing Jungkook or making him speak but now that he had nothing like that to do so he was looking at the ink with a childlike interest. Jungkook chose to ignore the way his composure seemed to slip around him.
What Jungkook couldn’t ignore was the way the client kept looking at Jimin.
He didn’t need experience to recognize interest when he saw it. The lingering glances. The poorly disguised admiration. Each time the man’s eyes lingered a second too long, Jungkook’s jaw tightened, his irritation bleeding into his work. The needle dipped just a fraction deeper now and then—not enough to ruin the tattoo, but enough to remind the man to stay still.
“Do you have a tattoo?” the man asked.
The question itself was harmless. His tone wasn’t. It was forced and lowered deliberately, roughened like a cheap performance meant to impress.
Jungkook’s grip tightened around the machine.
Jimin, focused on the needle tracing lines into skin, either didn’t notice or chose not to. He answered honestly, eyes still fixed on the design.
“No,” he said, wincing slightly. “But it looks very painful.”
The man chuckled. “It isn’t.” His gaze dragged over Jimin in a way that made Jungkook’s jaw tick. “You should try it sometime. It’d look really good on your skin.”
Jungkook inhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his hand to stay steady. The buzzing machine was the only thing keeping him grounded.
Jimin finally glanced up—first at Jungkook, just once—and something mischievous flickered across his face.
“Oh?” A playful smile curved his lips. “Thank you so much for the compliment.” He sweetened his voice deliberately, syrupy and innocent in a way Jungkook knew was entirely calculated.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as irritation burned hot in his chest.
“Can you both be fucking quiet?” he snapped without looking up. “You’re messing with my grip.” His glare cut between them sharply with a warning.
Jimin snorted under his breath. Jungkook caught it but he didn’t find it funny.
A few minutes later, Jungkook wiped his hands, setting the machine aside, trying and failing to ignore the way the man had angled his body closer to Jimin.
“So,” the man said casually, leaning back against the counter, eyes locked on Jimin. “Are you single?”
Jimin blinked once, then glanced at Jungkook. Jungkook was already looking at them, his expression was dark, unamused and dangerous.
Jimin turned back to the man, shrugging lightly. “Unfortunately.”
Jungkook scoffed under his breath.
Jimin’s head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jungkook said flatly, jaw tight.
Jimin studied him for a beat, then hummed and turned back, clearly enjoying himself a little too much.
After a few more minutes of idle chatter, Jimin finally seemed bored. He waved politely. “Well, it was… nice talking to you.”
He turned to leave—
A hand shot out and the man grabbed his wrist.
Jimin stumbled a step, eyes flying up in surprise. “Hey—”
“Since we talked so much,” the man said, leaning closer, voice dropping again, “don’t you think it’s a good time to exchange numbers?”
That was it. Jungkook moved before the thought even finished forming. He was across the room in seconds, prying the man’s hand off Jimin with brutal force.
“Don’t fucking touch him,” Jungkook hissed.
“What the—”
Jungkook shoved him back, slamming him hard against the edge of the counter. The sound cracked through the shop.
“You don’t grab people,” Jungkook growled, eyes cold and lethal. “Especially not in my place.”
The man’s face was drained of color. “I—I was just—”
“Get out,” Jungkook cut in sharply. “Now.”
The man didn’t argue. He scrambled away, muttering curses under his breath as he bolted for the door, nearly tripping over himself before disappearing out of the shop.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Jungkook was breathing hard.
Jimin slowly flexed his wrist, then looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips twitching like he was holding back a smile.
“That,” Jimin said lightly, “was dramatic.”
Jungkook didn’t reply. He just stared at him.
“Do you find this funny?”
“Well, isn't it?”
“Jimin you—” Jungkook stopped himself, closing eyes and breathing heavily before setting his burning eyes on the man again. “If you wanna do this, do it outside of my shop.”
Jimin smirked. “Well, what's the fun in that?”
Jungkook bristled, ready to snap when another client entered the shop.
Jimin looked at him amusingly and then turned back to his seat. Jungkook wanted to ask why he was doing it or why he couldn't just leave him alone but he couldn't form any words. It felt as if his throat was closed off.
For a few minutes, he didn’t disturb him. Jungkook didn’t dwell on it for long. He turned his attention back to work, focusing on the booked clients waiting for him. Some time later, Jimin’s phone rang.
The change in his expression was immediate. The sharp focus melted into something taut—apprehension flashing across his features. In the very next second, he pushed back his chair and stood, phone clenched in his hand.
“I need to take this,” he muttered, already moving toward the door.
Jungkook, in the middle of showing a set of designs to a woman, glanced up, irritation flickering across his face. “I don’t care what you do,” he grumbled, dismissive.
Jimin stopped mid-step.
He turned back to face Jungkook, lips parting as if something hovered on the edge of his tongue. For a brief second, it looked like he might say it. Then he blinked, shook his head once, and left the shop without a word.
And if Jungkook’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from view—well, no one needed to know that.
Dohan entered the shop around seven, just when Jungkook had almost made up his mind to close the studio and head to the hospital.
The visit itself wasn’t unexpected. The officer had a habit of dropping by every now and then. What set off every alarm in Jungkook’s head, however, was the absence of warmth in Dohan’s eyes. That familiar easy friendliness was gone.
And worse, he had come empty-handed.
No poly bag. No flimsy excuse of snacks or drinks to justify lingering around the shop. It was his usual tactic, one Jungkook had grown used to. Today, there was nothing.
That alone told him enough—Dohan wasn’t here for small talk.
Jimin, oblivious to the tension—having never interacted with Dohan enough to read him—stood up immediately, his face lighting up with a bright, genuine smile.
“Oh! How are you, Dohan-ssi?” Jimin greeted him casually. “It’s been a while.”
Dohan didn’t answer him right away.
His entire focus was pinned on Jungkook, who had been observing him from the moment he stepped inside. After a beat, Dohan smiled and to anyone who didn’t know him, it would have looked genuine. Friendly, even.
But Jungkook wasn’t just anyone. He’d known Dohan for two years now. Long enough to differentiate between a real smile and one worn like a mask.
“Yeah,” Dohan finally said, dragging the word out, eyes never leaving Jungkook. “It’s been really a while,” he smiled, tilting his head. “I was being too easy on you, Jungkook, wasn’t I?”
The tone seemed to finally get Jimin's attention by the way he frowned, the bright smile slipped off his face and he went silent.
“Where were you on the 29th's night, Jungkook?” He asked out of nowhere, tone cold and sharp.
Jungkook didn't even blink and answered nonchalantly. “I was at my apartment.”
Dohan scoffed under his breath, lips curling in faint disdain, but he didn’t comment on it further. Instead, he shifted his attention toward Jimin, who was now standing stiffly beside the counter, clearly thinking hard.
“Was he?” Dohan asked. His voice was deceptively calm. “Was he at his apartment, journalist?”
Jimin looked up.
For a split second, something troubled flickered across his face—calculation, hesitation. Then it was gone, smoothed over so seamlessly it was almost impressive.
Like water flowing over stone. Jungkook wasn’t surprised. He’d seen Jimin do this before.
“Well,” Jimin said evenly, “Jungkook is lying.”
The words hit like a gunshot.
Jungkook snapped his head toward him so hard his neck throbbed.
Dohan stiffened. “What?” His face turned ice cold as he glanced at Jungkook before snapping his attention back to Jimin, teeth grinding. “What do you mean, he’s lying?”
“Yes,” Jimin continued calmly, unfazed by Jungkook’s glare. “Jungkook is lying because he was in my apartment.”
Jungkook stared at him in disbelief.
“And we were having drinks,” Jimin added, then paused, tilting his head slightly. “Well… mostly drinking.”
Jungkook felt a strong urge to slap the grin out of the journalist's face.
They settled in a very uncomfortable silence. Only the heavy breathing of all three men echoed inside the shop. The buzz of the lights overhead suddenly felt louder, harsher. Dohan paced a few steps away, rubbing his jaw as if trying to physically rearrange the puzzle in his head.
“Seokjin-ssi and Taehyung-ssi visited me this morning,” he said suddenly.
Jungkook’s jaw tightened.
“They told me everything,” Dohan continued, turning back toward him.
Jungkook’s eyes dropped—not to the floor, but to nowhere in particular. His hands clenched at his sides.
“I didn’t believe them, Kook,” Dohan said, his voice softening unexpectedly. He stepped closer. “I didn’t want to believe them when they came to me earlier.”
He reached out and placed a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder.
“But now…” Dohan’s voice wavered. “Taehyung-ssi said he saw you… doing that… with his own eyes.”
His eyes were glassy now. Jungkook turned his face away.
“Are you the psycho killer they’re talking about?” Dohan asked, his voice breaking. “Tell me they’re wrong.”
He squeezed Jungkook’s shoulder gently.
“Tell me, buddy.”
Jungkook couldn’t respond. His throat felt clogged, tight, like it was closing in on itself. Emotions surged violently in his chest—anger, frustration, something dangerously close to guilt—and he was sure he would have confessed then and there—
If not for Jimin to suddenly jump and answer instead of him.
“What the fuck is wrong with Taehyung?” Jimin snapped suddenly. He stepped forward, inserting himself between their conversation, his tone sharp with offense.
“I said Jungkook and I were drinking at my house,” he scoffed. “So how exactly did Taehyung see Jungkook—unless Jungkook had learned to exist in two places at once?”
Dohan’s hand dropped from Jungkook’s shoulder. His expression hardened instantly, warmth evaporating.
“I’ve been way too easy on you,” he said coldly, eyes burning as they locked onto Jungkook. He stepped back toward the door. “And I guess it was my mistake to think you’d changed.”
He reached into his coat and slammed an envelope onto the counter. “But I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Jungkook glanced at it briefly. It had an official letterhead. His jaw ticked.
“Your curfew’s been shortened,” Dohan continued. “Seen outside after nine and you’re back where you belong.”
His eyes flicked to Jimin for a brief second before returning to Jungkook. “Criminals always leave some traces, Jungkook,” he said flatly. “And traces are meant to be traced.”
He yanked the door open. “Oh—and officially,” he added without turning back, “I can visit you anytime. Night and holidays don't matter,” he paused. “Thought I’d re-inform you, just in case you forgot.”
With one final glance, he stepped out and let the door slam shut behind him. The bell chimed again and the shop fell silent.
“I fucking knew it,” Jungkook muttered after a long time, running a hand through his hair and cursing under his breath. Frustration was simmering through his veins.
However, Jimin, whose mouth never seemed to stop was unusually quiet even after Jungkook's angry words, made Jungkook look at him in confusion.
He was still looking at the now closed door with confusion and uncertainty. His eyebrows were knitted together and he looked very troubled for some reason.
“What happened?” Jungkook asked.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
Jungkook looked at him suspiciously before sighed and grabbed his keys. “Anyways, come on, I am closing the shop now.”
Jimin finally looked up. “Where are you going?”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Again, none of your business.”
Jimin muttered something under his breath before finally exiting the studio.
Jungkook, without wasting any time, rode straight towards the hospital. It was already seven-thirty and only half an hour was left for the closing of visiting hours.
Entering the hospital room, Jungkook looked amusingly at the motionless figure of the man laying on the bed, staring at him blankly, probably waiting for Jungkook to sit down as usual and talk randomly about his sadistic desire to kill him after his full recovery but he just kept staring at the man.
He snorted. “I am not here to talk today, Jong-Il.”
The detective's eyes widened for a fraction. The panic was clear in his eyes.
Jungkook scoffed. “I ain't killing you now.”
He went towards the closed windows, glancing outside and a huge satisfied smirk curled on his lips before he opened the latch silently. He let out a laugh and turned back to face the man, taking slow steps towards him not before closing the blinds.
“Well, I was here to confirm something and guess I confirmed it already,” he drawled, eyes dragging up and down the man's form. “Doctors informed me that you aren't recovering anytime soon.”
He sighed sadly, standing beside him. “Guess I have to wait a long time now.”
The man on the bed visibly relaxed and Jungkook found it sadistically joyful in making the detective like this. He brushed his now visible hair softly which was once completely hidden by bandages. The detective flinched, making him raise an eyebrow amusingly.
“Get well soon, Sang Jong-Il.”
With that he left the hospital heading straight towards his apartment. He rubbed his face with both of his hands before leaning back on the couch, arms coming up around his eyes. He was so tired so he decided to take a small nap.
***
The night air had remnants of the rainy season as it was cold and chilly. The streets were filled with small puddles of water and the sound of footsteps constantly splashing the water were the only sound in the otherwise silent night with a distant hum of vehicles somewhere in the street.
A shadow moved with purpose past the closed shops and slept houses. His breathing was erratic not due to fear but anticipation. He had a very dark hood on, covering almost all his face into shadows.
The hospital arrived and he stood looking at the building—or more like that one window—with amusement. He had been waiting for this very night for so long.
So without wasting any second, he hurriedly took steps towards the building before standing directly down the window. It was almost five storeys above him. Looking around once, he began the climb in silence.
The shadow detached itself from the alley wall and reached for the first hold—an exposed drainage pipe slick with rain. Fingers wrapped around rusted metal, skin burning as weight shifted upward. The pipe groaned softly, a tired, aching sound, but it held.
One floor.
A foot pressed against the brickwork, searching, slipping once before finding a narrow crack in the concrete. The figure pulled himself up, muscles in his arms trembling briefly before settling into control. He moved close to the wall, chest brushing cold stone, minimizing his outline against the faint glow of the hospital windows.
Second floor.
A security light flicked on below. He froze.
Hanging there, suspended in nothing but grip and balance, he flattened himself against the building. Breathing slowed. Heartbeat steadied—not gone but disciplined. The light swept across the wall, blind and careless, then clicked off again.
The third floor came with the first real danger. The pipe ended abruptly, forcing him to transition. One hand released, shot upward, caught the edge of a narrow window ledge. Fingertips screamed in protest as his entire weight dragged against skin and bone. His shoe scraped concrete loudly. He waited. Counted to five.
When no alarms rang, he hauled himself higher, forearms straining as he shifted sideways, inch by inch, until he reached another pipe—thinner, weaker. He tested it once then twice then chose to trust it anyway.
Wind cut across the side of the building, tugging at his clothes, trying to peel him loose and drop him into the dark below. Sweat dampened his palms despite the cold. He wiped one hand against his thigh, never breaking contact with the wall.
Down there, the pavement waited patiently for him to fall.
At the fourth-floor windows, silhouettes moved inside—nurses passing, a shadow of a doctor stretching. He turned his head away, pressing his cheek against the concrete, willing himself to become part of the building. He moved only inch by inch at a time.
Finally—fifth floor.
The window he needed sat just above eye level, its light dimmer than the others and curtains drawn. A room meant to be quiet.
He pulled himself up until his face hovered inches from the glass. His breath fogged it for half a second before he forced it still.
Below him, nothing. Above him, everything he came for.
Muscles burned as he held himself there, balanced between falling and entering. The building seemed to breathe beneath him, a living thing resisting intrusion.
The shadow didn’t rush. He waited, listening to the heartbeat of the hospital—machines, footsteps, distant voices—before easing the window open just enough to slip inside.
The window's latch was already open.
And for a brief moment, he just stood there watching the man stirring on bed before a dark and twisted smirk adorned his features and he finally started taking deliberate steps towards the hospital bed.
The paralysed figure had his eyes closed with small streaks of moonlight illuminating his face through the now open curtains of the window.
He slid onto the stool beside the bed and drew a newly bought knife from beneath his hoodie. The blade caught the low light as he spun it once in his palm, casual, practiced. Then he placed the sharp tip against the patient’s cheek and dragged it slowly across the skin.
The man twitched.
He smirked. The faint reaction was enough to curl his lips into something ugly.
He set the knife down on the bedside table with deliberate care and reached for the gloves. His gaze dropped to his hands, posture loose, almost languid. He peeled the thin satin free and began easing it over his fingers, the material whispering softly as it stretched. Every movement was measured and almost boring.
Time felt thick and predictable, waiting for the inevitable to pass.
Then—
It happened in a blur.
One moment his attention was on the glove sliding over his knuckle.
Next, the knife was gone.
A hand—unsteady but desperate—snatched it off the table and lunged toward him, steel flashing with intent—
But Jungkook moved faster.
Without even looking, he caught the detective’s wrist mid-air, fingers locking around it with crushing certainty, stopping the blade an inch from his throat.
Only then did his eyes lift.
Not to a paralysed man.
But to one breathing hard, muscles trembling, very much awake.
As if he’d been waiting all along.
So was Jungkook.
Jungkook twisted the man’s wrist with calculated cruelty, feeling tendons strain beneath his grip. The sound that tore out of the detective wasn’t quite a scream—more like a choked, broken gasp, dragged unwillingly from deep in his chest.
“You think you’re slick, detective?” Jungkook sneered.
The knife slipped from Jong-Il’s weakening fingers, clattering against the tiled floor with a sharp metallic clang that echoed far too loudly in the small hospital room. The sound rang in Jungkook’s ears like a warning bell.
“Y-you bastard!” Jong-Il hissed, eyes blazing.
Jungkook pulled him out of the bed and abruptly released him. The detective staggered back, clutching his wrist, breathing hard, staring up at Jungkook with a volatile mix of fury and fear. Jungkook straightened slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world.
A low, vicious laugh escaped his lips. He shook his head once, almost disappointed, before turning his back on the man entirely.
He walked to the window.
The glass was still open. Cool night air brushed his skin as he reached out and shut it firmly, the latch clicking into place. The room dimmed instantly, the interior lights reflecting against the dark pane. Outside, the hospital grounds lay drenched in shadows, streetlights bleeding weak amber halos into the foggy night.
“I had my suspicion about you for sometime,” Jungkook said casually, smirking at his own reflection. “Got it confirmed thanks to this.”
He pointed at the window.
Yesterday, something felt… wrong. He remembered standing right here, catching movement in the reflection—something too subtle to register at first. He felt as if he saw the detective moving his leg. He’d dismissed it then. But a few hours ago, he’d seen it clearly. A neck craning and eyes watching him through the glass.
Not a patient or a wounded man clinging to life. But a predator buying time.
Jungkook exhaled slowly. He hadn’t had the luxury of a big heart tonight.
“Well,” he began, turning around, voice sharp and mocking, “let’s stop this race—”
The world exploded.
In a split second, Jong-Il was on him.
Jungkook barely had time to register the sudden weight before his back slammed into the cold, unforgiving tiles. The impact knocked the breath clean out of his lungs. Pain bloomed up his spine as his head narrowly missed the floor.
Then came the cold. A knife pressed against his throat.
Jungkook froze.
The detective straddled his waist, knees pinning him down, chest heaving. The man’s eyes gleamed with something feral now, his lips curling into a sick, triumphant smile.
“Guess our poor Jungkookie is big now,” Jong-Il cooed softly, mockery dripping from every syllable.
Rage flared and he reacted on instinct. Using the man’s unstable balance and weakened body against him, Jungkook twisted hard, rolling them. The air rushed back into his lungs as their positions reversed. Jong-Il hit the floor with a grunt, shock flashing across his face.
Jungkook ripped the knife from his hand and hurled it blindly across the room. It skidded somewhere out of sight.
“Yes,” Jungkook growled, leaning down, voice low and lethal, “and this Jungkookie isn’t that same helpless boy.”
The detective’s eyes burned. His chest rose and fell erratically.
“Just fucking leave—!” Jong-Il screamed.
The sound was cut off instantly. Jungkook clamped a hand over his mouth, pressing down with brutal force. He leaned closer, lips curling into a cold smirk.
“Shut up, detective,” he whispered. “You don’t want people getting curious about our private time… right?”
Jong-Il thrashed beneath him, legs kicking wildly, heel scraping against Jungkook’s shin. Jungkook slapped him hard. The sound cracked through the room.
He seized both of the man’s wrists with one hand, pinning them above his head, while trapping his legs with his own.
“I don’t fucking have time,” Jungkook said flatly. “Let’s get you where you belong, yeah?”
He leaned closer, teeth bared.
“Hell.”
He released Jong-Il’s mouth and wrapped both hands around his throat. The skin was warm and vulnerable.
“You lied with this throat,” Jungkook snarled, tightening his grip inch by inch. “I’ll take your ability to speak forever.”
The detective’s eyes widened in terror. His hands clawed at Jungkook’s arms, nails biting into skin, leaving burning scratches but Jungkook didn’t loosen his hold.
Then—
Jungkook's attention accidentally shifted towards the window and he froze. Taehyung and Seokjin were standing there, on the road before entering the hospital.
Jungkook's brain spiralled.
What if they enter here? What if they see—
That hesitation cost him everything. The detective surged upward with a sudden burst of strength, shoving Jungkook back. The grip on Jong-Il’s throat broke and instantly, hands replaced it. Around Jungkook’s neck.
He gasped as pressure crushed his airway.
“B-bitch!” Jong-Il barked, eyes wild. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
The hold tightened. Jungkook clawed at the man’s arms, trying to push him away but the detective possessed an unexpected amount of strength for someone who just woke up from his death bed.
Jungkook's body felt wrong—heavy and sluggish. The strength he’d relied on moments ago betrayed him now. His lungs burned.
Each attempt to breathe was agony. A sharp, searing sensation exploded across his neck, like needles being driven into his skin. His vision blurred at the edges. Tears streamed down his face, unbidden. He scraped his fingers against the tiled floor, nails screeching uselessly, desperately searching for leverage or anything but there was nothing.
The room dimmed. Sound dulled in a distant hum. His movements slowed until even lifting his hands felt impossible.
Then he felt… light.
As if he was floating.
The pain faded, replaced by an eerie calm. For the first time in his life, his thoughts quieted.
So this was it.
His promise echoed weakly in his mind. His family’s faces blurred together.
He hadn’t fulfilled it.
Everything went into vain. All the pain, all the sacrifice…so this was how his life also ended up betraying him just like others?
He felt his eyes sliding shut, the darkness creeping in fast, but then—a figure came out of nowhere like a violent blur and a vase shattered brutally against the detective’s head, the impact cracking porcelain and bone as the weight crushing Jungkook was wrenched off him.
Jungkook immediately doubled over, collapsing forward as a fit of savage coughing tore through him, his throat burning like it had been scraped raw, every attempt at breathing coming sharp and painful, his vision swimming while unseen hands pressed against his back, rubbing in frantic circles as someone whispered urgently into his ear, though all he could hear was the high-pitched ringing drowning everything else out.
It took several seconds of wheezing, of choking air back into his lungs, before his mind finally caught up to reality and he realized the hands grounding him belonged to Park Jimin.
“Deep breath. You are okay. Keep breathing,” Jimin kept murmuring, his voice firm and controlled, though Jungkook could hear the strain beneath it, the urgency he was trying to hide.
Jungkook lifted his head slowly and looked at Jimin kneeling in front of him, his vision still unfocused. “Jimin… what are you doing—here?” he asked hoarsely, the words scraping out of his ruined throat.
“Of course I followed you, you idiot,” Jimin snapped without hesitation.
Jungkook frowned, confusion cutting through the haze. “But how did you even get here?”
“That’s not important right now,” Jimin said, rolling his eyes before his expression softened again as he scanned Jungkook’s face. “Are you okay?”
Jungkook wheezed and nodded, his breathing uneven but steadier now, though his throat felt like it was still on fire.
Jimin grabbed his arm and pulled him sharply. “Come on, we have to leave. Seokjin and Taehyung are here.”
Shit. He had almost forgotten about them.
The thought barely finished forming when a low, wet groan reached his ears and his head snapped up just in time to see the detective stirring, fingers closing around a jagged, blood-slick shard of the shattered vase as he pushed himself up and lunged toward Jimin.
Jungkook’s eyes widened and instinct took over completely as he seized Jimin by the arm and shoved him away with brutal force, the journalist stumbling back with a startled yelp that turned into a sharp hiss as his shoulder slammed into the wall.
Jungkook barely managed to twist aside as the shard slashed through the space where he had been, and he caught the detective’s ankle mid-motion and yanked hard, the man losing his balance and crashing onto the slanted floor with a heavy grunt as the broken piece of porcelain skidded from his hand.
Jungkook didn’t hesitate for even a second; he lunged for the knife he had thrown earlier, still half-hidden beneath the hospital bed, and drove the blade straight into the detective’s right side of the neck, the motion swift, precise, and terrifyingly final.
He heard a sharp, broken gasp tear from Jimin at the same moment he realized he himself was panting violently, his chest heaving as his grip on the knife finally loosened and the body beneath him began to gurgle wetly, blood bubbling at the man’s lips as his eyes rolled back, the brief seconds of agony stretching unbearably before the life drained out of him completely.
Jungkook closed his eyes and leaned back against the bed frame, breathing hard, his head falling back as the weight of what had just happened settled over him, the room plunging into a suffocating silence that lasted only a few seconds before a small, broken whimper cut through it and dragged his attention back.
He opened his eyes to see Jimin kneeling beside the corpse, reaching shakily into his pants, and Jungkook’s brows drew together in confusion until Jimin pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the detective’s palm carefully, methodically, tears spilling down his soft cheeks and dripping onto the blood-smeared floor.
“Jimin?”
Jimin only shook his head, his jaw clenched. “We need to make it look like suicide,” he said, his voice trembling despite the certainty behind the words, before lifting the man’s now-cleaned right hand and forcing it to close around the knife’s handle.
“It’s not necessary—”
“The hell it’s not,” Jimin snapped, jerking his head up sharply to glare at him, his eyes red and swollen from crying. “Taehyung and Seokjin had a man assigned to watch over you—do you even know that?”
Jungkook’s eyes widened as the meaning crashed into him all at once, the color draining from his face. Fuck.
“What—?”
“Thankfully he didn’t see you slipping out of the building,” Jimin continued in a rushed whisper, “but he did see you leaving the area, so he followed you, and now—” his voice dropped even lower, “they’re both here to catch you red-handed.”
Jungkook blinked, his mind scrambling uselessly as the reality of his carelessness sank in, the weight of his mistake pressing down on his chest. He hadn’t thought. Not even once.
Jimin moved again, dipping his fingers into the pooling blood and dragging them across the floor in harsh, deliberate strokes, and Jungkook leaned closer despite himself, his stomach twisting as he read the words forming beneath Jimin’s shaking hand.
I quit!
The letters were thick and uneven, written boldly in blood. Jungkook looked up to find Jimin already on his feet, reaching out and extending his hand toward him. Jungkook stared at it stupidly, frozen.
“Come,” Jimin hissed under his breath, urgency lacing every syllable. “We need to hurry.”
Jungkook snapped out of it and grabbed the offered hand, and Jimin didn’t hesitate for even a second, immediately dragging him toward the door—only for both of them to freeze abruptly.
Footsteps. Too many of them. Closing in fast.
Jungkook’s heart lurched into his throat and panic surged through him as he almost turned toward the window, a reckless, terrible idea flashing through his mind, but before he could move, Jimin caught his shoulder soundlessly and slammed him back against the wall beside the door, pressing in close, holding him there as the footsteps drew nearer.
“What—?” Before Jungkook could complete Jimin put a palm over his mouth and glared at him before looking out through the vision panel.
“Shut up,’’ he hissed and pressed into him to make their figure small.
Jungkook without much thought put his hands on his hips, instinctively. Jimin's breath hitched and he glanced at him back. Jungkook was suddenly acutely aware of their sudden proximity. The way their hips were flushed together, the way Jimin's hand clasped over his mouth.
Even in this grave situation, he couldn't help but admire the way his cheeks slowly reddened, his red eyes twinkle and his plump lips—god those lips. Jungkook couldn't forget their taste the last time he kissed him. They were addictive.
They came back to present when they heard some voices just outside of the room. Jimin's eyes widened and he pressed more into him, almost crushing him. He put a finger on his lips in a gesture to say: be quiet.
“Is this the room?” It was Taehyung's voice.
“Yes, I bet I saw him entering this room's window,” an unknown voice replied.
Jungkook felt a chill ran down his spine.
Someone was watching me.
“If you are lying—”
“Open the door, Taehyung. We will know if he is lying or not,” Seokjin's voice cut him, impatiently.
The door flung open and both Jimin and Jungkook held their breaths. Jungkook involuntarily pulled Jimin more into him—he was practically hugging him now.
A loud gasp tore through one of the men. The silence was almost deafening. Jungkook was scared, not because he would very much get caught but because Jimin was with him. He couldn't let anyone touch Jimin. The thought of Jimin behind bars shivered him. He would die rather than let anything like that happen.
“Call the officers!” Seokjin's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade as all three men entered further into the room followed by some frantic replies from Taehyung.
Jungkook was already prepared. He would surrender and take all the blame on himself. And practically, it was him who killed the detective so he was ready to admit his crime if that could save the man in his arms. But—
Jimin suddenly grabbed his hand and quietly dragged him out of the room when the men in the crime scene had their backs on the door.
Jungkook only had a second to feel the panic when Seokjin turned sensing something before Jimin turned the corner, hands tightly clasped to his in an almost bruising strength. He didn't stop there. Jimin kept dragging him down the hallways and towards the stairs. Their breathing and the sound of shoes hitting the blocks were the only noise echoing in the empty stairway.
They reached the ground floor and Jimin took him towards the staff's washroom before entering the door with no hesitation as if he had already decided the escape route. Jungkook tried to ask him but halted when he saw Jimin freeing his hand and going to open one of the windows at the corner.
“Did you enter the hospital from here?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
This seemed to grab Jimin's attention as he finally turned to look at him. His eyes held so many emotions that Jungkook almost choked. Jimin's eyes showed fear and Jungkook was sure it wasn't for his own self.
Jimin nodded stiffly and turned to fully open the window. He then came back to hold his hand and took his towards the now open window.
“Come on, jump,” he practically commanded. “You go first.”
“No, Jimin I—”
“Just fucking go, Jungkook,” snapped Jimin.
Jungkook froze, searching Jimin's face for any type of hesitation before moving towards the window without further argument. Jimin seemed to be very furious and he didn't want to anger him further.
The night's air was chill and unforgiving. Jungkook held the window sill and in one swift move swung his legs over it and jumped out of the window, landing on his legs on the other side. Jimin followed seconds after him, standing beside him.
It all felt like a déjà vú. Just like this time, Jimin saved him from that burning house twelve years ago. The only difference was, he didn't know that boy back then and hated him his entire life but now he was practically head over heels for the same boy.
Life sometimes plays such devastating games that even you couldn't recognise yourself.
“Jimin—”
“Let's go. Eunwoo is waiting for us in the car,” he grabbed his hand and started walking towards the back of the building. He didn't meet his eyes as if he was controlling himself.
Jungkook sighed and chose to stay silent. The name of the man—Eunwoo—was enough to sour his entire mood. He knew Jimin must have told everything to the man but that understanding wasn't enough for him to like the man. He didn't like him at all.
Moreover, the fact that Jimin voluntarily chose to put himself in his matter didn't leave Jungkook's mind. He already warned the journalist to not interfere in his matter and give him space but it seemed Jimin was stubborn as hell. He would make sure to give him his piece of mind.
They found Eunwoo's car parked at the very hidden corner of the small street. A sleek black hundai. They reached it and slipped inside the vehicle with Jimin in the passenger seat while Jungkook, to his great disdain, in the back.
Eunwoo seemed to share his sentiments towards him if the way he glared at him through the rear-view mirror before starting the engine of the car was an indication that the man didn't like him either.
There was a very tense silence in the car that no one was eager to break. The aftermath of what just passed crashed over them heavily.