He straddled the seat, shoved the helmet aside, and twisted the key with a snap.
The engine roared to life beneath him like it knew...
he needed to burn something.

The tires screamed as he peeled out, skidding into the road like he didn't give a single fuck about his own pulse anymore.

And he didn't.

His jaw clenched tight, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Jungkook's hands gripped the throttle and twisted hard.
The wind hit his face like a slap-sharp, cold, harsh against his skin.
The world became a blur-
traffic lights, buildings, horns, faces-none of it mattered.

Not when his heart felt like it had caved in.

He blew past a red light, tires scraping the asphalt.

A car honked loud---too close, way too fucking close.

The side mirror of a sedan clipped his handlebar, made the bike wobble dangerously-
but Jungkook didn't flinch.

Didn't slow.
Didn't even breathe.

He was furious.
But it wasn't rage anymore.

It was something worse.
Something that sank heavy in his chest like a stone.

Sadness.

And that sadness?
It hurt more than the punch he threw.
More than anything his father ever said.

Because Hana wasn't just angry.

She meant it.

Dead to me.
He said it first.
But somehow, he felt like the one buried.

The bike sputtered. Then gave out entirely.

Jungkook didn't bother checking.
Didn't even glance at the fuel meter.

He just swung off it, hands shoved into his pockets, and kicked the tire out of instinct.
The metal groaned under his boot, but he didn't feel better.

He left it there.
Middle of the street.

His eyes drifted to the sidewalk, catching sight of a lone bench tucked beside a dim streetlamp, half-hidden by the shadow of a dead tree.

He stared at it like it might vanish if he blinked.
Like it might disappear the way everything else had.

Then he walked over. Sat down.

A deep breath pulled from his chest-one that felt more like surrender than relief.

He leaned back, spine hitting the cold wood. Head tipping up.

The sky above was blank. A washed-out grey, no stars.
Just this huge, empty thing stretching endlessly above him.

Fitting.

Jungkook didn't move.
Didn't think.
He just sat there.

Heavy. Quiet.

Alone.

A soft patter broke the quiet.

Jungkook's eyes dropped from the sky as a little boy darted across the pavement, sneakers thudding gently against concrete.

He stopped a few feet away, crouched, and picked up a coin-small and rusted, barely worth anything.

"Can I keep this?" he called, running back toward a woman standing by a cart, likely his mother.

She shook her head, ruffled his hair.

It was nothing.

A passing moment.

But something in it...

Keep this?

The words echoed differently in his head.

His jaw clenched, a slow shift rippling through the fog that had been numbing his brain for the last hour.

He sat up, blinked once.

Then it hit him.
Keepsake.

His throat tightened.

The hospital.
The guy.
He had left him there.

Fucking unconscious.
Alone.
No name, no contacts, no one.

Jungkook dragged a hand down his face, the weight of it all crashing back with sudden force.

He muttered a curse under his breath and stood.
This night really didn't know how to let him go.

He pushed off the bench, already moving.

Streetlights passed in streaks as he flagged down a taxi, voice clipped when he gave the name of the hospital.
The driver asked something halfway through the ride, maybe trying to make conversation---Jungkook didn't register a word.

His fingers tapped against his thigh, restless.
A hollow knot tightened in his stomach the closer they got.

Why was he even going back?

The guy wasn't his problem.
Wasn't anything.
A stranger with a death wish. Barely spoke like a human.

Still.

Jungkook leaned forward in his seat as the building came into view.

He tossed the fare at the driver before the car even stopped fully and got out, moving fast through the sliding doors, ignoring the nurse who gave him a confused look near the reception.

The hallway was quieter now. Dim.

He headed straight for the room.

No idea what he expected.
Just knew he had to check.

Had to see.

The second Jungkook pushed the door open, the cold air hit him first.
Then the stillness.
Then---nothing.

The bed was empty.
Sheets half-pulled, blanket bunched at the end like someone had left in a hurry.

Jungkook's hands curled into fists.
His jaw locked tight.

He spun around, stormed back down the hall.

"The guy that was here," he snapped, stopping at the front desk. "Where the fuck is he?"

The nurse glanced up, startled. "The patient from earlier?"

"Yeah. The one you drugged to sleep and left unconscious."

She blinked, defensive now. "Sir, he was already awake when you left. He asked to be discharged. Signed himself out."

"What?"

"After you left," she repeated, calmly---too calmly for Jungkook's rapidly snapping patience. "He left the building."

Jungkook grit his teeth so hard his head throbbed.
"He was injured," he spat. "You just let him walk out?"

"He said he was fine. And it's not a prison, sir. We can't stop someone from leaving."

His nails dug into his palms.
Un-fucking-believable.

He turned away, pacing a few steps like he might actually scream.

His chest was burning.
That freak could barely stand when he last saw him.

Now he was gone.

Jungkook slammed his hand down on the counter, the sharp sound making everyone nearby flinch.

"You let a half-dead guy walk out like it's nothing?" he growled, eyes dark. "He could barely fucking breathe this morning."

"Sir, we can't hold patients against their will," the nurse snapped back, standing now, though her voice trembled slightly. "He signed the release form. He walked out. There was nothing unusual noted-"

"Unusual?" Jungkook barked a laugh that had no humor. "You think bleeding out of your damn feet is usual?"

"Sir, please calm down-"

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down."

Another nurse came over, whispering something urgent. Maybe asking if they should call security.

Jungkook didn't care.

He leaned in over the counter, voice dropping, slow and sharp. "You let someone that fucked up walk out alone? No ID, no phone, no emergency contact."

The staff froze, unsure what to say.

He stepped back just slightly, but his eyes still burned into the nurse's like a threat.
"You better hope nothing happens to him," he said, voice cold now. "Because if it does-"

He didn't finish.

His fists were tight at his sides, chest rising with every furious breath.

He turned sharply and stormed off before they could spit out a policy or procedure or anything else that sounded like bullshit.

He wasn't done.
Not even close.

He was going to find that freak-
if only to beat his ass for making him feel this fucking worried.

Jungkook stormed out of the hospital, fists jammed into his hoodie pocket like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

His boots hit the pavement hard.

Each step heavier than the last.

He didn't have a direction.

Didn't even know what he was doing.

But his eyes scanned the sidewalk.
The parking lot.
The corners of the street, the dim alleys, even the benches half-lit by flickering lights.

It felt... stupid.
Irrational.

Like he was chasing nothing.
Someone who clearly didn't want to be found.

But still, his pace didn't slow.

The guy had no phone. No shoes.
Was barely breathing the last time he saw him.

It gnawed at Jungkook's nerves like something feral.

He rubbed the back of his neck, turning another corner, eyes darting everywhere.

No sign.

No silhouette.
No white shirt blending into the fog.

Still-

‧ .ㄨ🕷ㄨ. ‧

The bass thudded low, vibrating through the floor beneath his boots, but Jungkook wasn't listening.

Didn't care for the music, the lights, the people grinding half-naked under strobes.

He sat slouched in the leather booth, bottle in hand, eyes unfocused---like he wasn't even there.

Across the table, Hoseok watched him, brows furrowed, nursing his own drink but clearly more interested in Jungkook's self-destruction.

"Slow down, man," Hoseok said, leaning forward. "You're already half gone."

Jungkook didn't respond.

He just picked up the bottle---whiskey, barely half-full anymore---and brought it straight to his lips.

No glass. No toast. No thought.

Just drinking.

Each burn down his throat was a distraction.
A small silence.
A few seconds where the noise in his head quieted.

Hoseok sighed, frustrated but not surprised.
He'd seen this side of Jungkook too many times.

Meanwhile, Mingyue, barely present even when he was present, was on the couch beside them, half-laughing, hand full of someone's ass, mouthing something vulgar to a dancer who didn't care.

And Jungkook just kept drinking.

Because if he drank enough, maybe he'd forget the look in his sister's eyes.

Or the feeling of searching the night for someone who didn't want to be found.

A shadow moved into his peripheral.

Jungkook didn't look up.

He felt the shift in the air before the body was even close-
syrupy perfume, heels clicking against the tile, that slow sway designed to sell attention.

"Hey, handsome..." the voice came soft, sultry, brushing against the haze in his head.

She leaned in, close enough for her hair to tickle his shoulder, lips barely inches from his ear.
"You look tense. Want some help relaxing?"

Mingyue whistled low, clearly entertained.
Hoseok gave her a warning glance, but she didn't notice---or didn't care.

Jungkook's hand tightened around the bottle.

"I'm good," he said flatly, voice cold and unreadable.

She smiled anyway, sliding closer, her hand ghosting up his arm.
"You sure? One dance."

Wrong place.
Wrong time.

The alcohol had already loosened the lid on everything he'd buried.
And this-
this little sales pitch wrapped in glitter and perfume?

It hit the wrong nerve.

His head turned slow, eyes finally meeting hers---dead, sharp, and done.

"Get the fuck away from me," he said, voice low, slow, dangerous.

The smile faltered.

Mingyue's laugh choked off.

Even Hoseok sat up straighter.

"I-" she started, blinking, confused.

"I said get lost," Jungkook growled, setting the bottle down with a loud thud.

She took a step back, startled now.
Another.
And then she was gone, heels clacking faster this time as she disappeared behind the curtain of smoke and lights.

Jungkook didn't watch her leave.
Just picked up the bottle again and drank like nothing happened.

The burn this time felt almost earned.

Hoseok exhaled through his nose, leaning forward, "You didn't have to be so fucking rude."

Jungkook didn't look at him.

"Seriously," Hoseok continued. "No need to snap like that. She was doing her job."

The lights caught in his glass as he swirled what was left.

"You know how this place works," he said. "No one's here because they're happy to give their ass to strangers."

Jungkook's jaw clenched.

He did know.
More than anyone.
Knew what this world was, what people gave up just to keep breathing in it.

But that didn't mean he had to fucking entertain it.

He didn't say anything.

Didn't argue.

Just stood.

Hoseok sat back in silence, watching him without a word.

Jungkook grabbed his jacket, shoved it over his shoulder, and walked out.

The cold night air hit him sharper than the alcohol, cutting through the thick burn in his throat.

He leaned against the side wall of the club, the bottle still gripped tight in one hand, his other tucked in his pocket like it was holding him together.

He drank again.
Didn't taste it.

Just wanted silence.

But of course, he didn't get that.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket.
Once.
Twice.

Then again.

The vibrations crawled under his skin like something alive.

He yanked it out, glanced at the screen.

Father.

Of course.

He didn't think---just ended the call and shoved the phone back.

Took another drink.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Again.

Persistent fuck.

Jungkook's jaw flexed, teeth grinding as the phone kept going off like it had no intention of giving up.

He pulled it out again, stared at the screen---his father's name glowing back at him like a trigger.

And then-

He threw it back.

Full force.

The phone hit the wall with a harsh crack, then clattered to the concrete in pieces.

The sound was sharp.
Final.

But not satisfying.

Not enough.

His breath came out rough, chest tight.

He didn't want to talk.
Not to that man.
Not ever again.

That man didn't get to call him.
Not after everything.
Not after trying to sell him.
Not after selling out Hana.

Jungkook pressed the bottle to his lips again and drank until the burn turned numb.

‧ .ㄨ🕷ㄨ. ‧

The banging didn't stop.
It got worse.
Fist pounding against the door like the person on the other side had no sense of self-control or volume.

"Jungkook!"
More knocking.
Followed by another shout, unmistakably Hoseok's voice.
"Open the fuck up!"

Jungkook groaned, dragging the pillow over his face, body aching like he'd been hit by a train made of regret and bad whiskey.

"Fuck off..." he muttered into the pillow.

But Hoseok didn't fuck off.

Another series of knocks, louder this time.
It felt like the entire damn apartment was shaking.

"Jungkook, I swear to god-"

"Fucking hell!" Jungkook barked, sitting up with a groan, wiping a hand down his face.

His head pounded, mouth dry, everything feeling about ten degrees too loud.

He stumbled toward the door, still in last night's clothes---shirt twisted, hair a mess, eyes barely open.

He unlocked it, yanked it open with a glare.

"What the fuck is wrong with-"

Hoseok stood there, clearly pissed.
He didn't even wait for Jungkook to finish.

"Do you even check your messages anymore?" Hoseok snapped, pushing past him into the apartment.

Jungkook blinked, hungover brain lagging behind.
"My phone's dead."

"No shit," Hoseok said, glancing around. "You fucking killed it."

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck, still half-asleep, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Why are you yelling this early?"

"It's 2 p.m." Hoseok shot back. "No. Did you see the news?"

Jungkook stared at him with bloodshot eyes, deadpan.
"What the fuck now?"

His patience, like his phone, had already been shattered.

"If you came all the way here just to shove more drama in my face---get the fuck out," Jungkook snapped, pointing to the door.

Hoseok didn't respond.
He just walked past him, grabbed the remote from the table, and turned on the TV.

The screen flickered to life---bright, loud, intrusive.

Jungkook's fist tightened.

He was this close. This close to punching Hoseok in the back of the head and tossing him out for good measure.

But then—
his breath hitched.

Because his eyes locked on the screen.

And everything stopped.

The news anchor's voice kept going, detached and polished, like they weren't reporting the collapse of someone's entire fucking world.

"-Jeon Hana, youngest heir to the Jeon Empire, was fatally shot late last night. Authorities confirm the incident took place shortly after the engagement celebration ended. Reports suggest it was a targeted attack. A direct assassination."

Jungkook's knees nearly buckled.

His breath stuck somewhere between his lungs and throat, refusing to move.

Shot?

Shot?

The word rang in his head, again and again, until it blurred into static.

The engagement party.
Last night.

He wasn't there.

He'd walked out.
He was right ther and he left.

His fists trembled.

Behind him, Hoseok stayed quiet. For once.

Jungkook swallowed hard, but it didn't help. The dryness in his throat felt suffocating.

His voice finally came out, cracked and empty.

"Hana?"

No answer.
Only the screen.

"Hana?" he called again, louder now, like maybe the TV would take it back.

But the broadcast kept playing.

And Jungkook stood there, heartbeat thundering in his ears, face hollow.

He didn't cry.
Didn't collapse.

He just stood in the middle of the room-
rage, grief, guilt all crawling up his spine like ice-

as the world confirmed what he never thought it would say:

Jeon Hana is dead.

"Fucking nonsense!" Jungkook roared, voice breaking through the suffocating silence.

He didn't even realize when he moved----his hand shot out, grabbed the helmet from the couch-

And crashed it into the TV.

The screen shattered in an instant, glass cracking loud, pieces raining down as sparks hissed beneath the crushed plastic.
The voice cut off mid-sentence.
Finally.

All that remained was the sound of his own breath-
heavy, ragged, unstable.

He stood still for half a second, the remains of the helmet still clutched in one hand.

Then he turned.

Eyes locked on Hoseok-bloodshot, wild, and completely unhinged.

"What the fuck, Hoseok?"
His voice cracked, and then climbed into a full-throated scream.

"What the fuck is this? Some kind of joke?"

Hoseok's mouth opened, but no sound came.

Jungkook's hand trembled as he pointed at the broken TV.
"That's not fucking funny. You think that's funny? Saying- saying that shit about my sister?"

His voice dropped, lower, more dangerous.
The kind of quiet that always came before someone got hit.

"You hear me?" He was yelling again. "Don't pull this twisted shit on me---don't fucking joke about her!"

But Hoseok didn't flinch.
Didn't try to defend himself.

Because in that moment-
Jungkook wasn't screaming at him.

He was screaming at the truth.
And it wasn't budging.

Jungkook's chest heaved like he couldn't get enough air. Like something inside him had been ripped out and replaced with fire.

He paced, hands shaking, dragging them down his face, through his hair-
then slamming them into the wall, into the doorframe, into anything solid just to feel something.

"Fuck- fuck!" he shouted, voice cracking now, throat raw.

His knees nearly gave as he dropped to the floor, back hitting the edge of the sofa.

"Lie," he muttered.
To the air.
To the silence.
To the flickering memory of her laugh in his ears.

"This isn't real. This isn't-"
He choked.
"She was fine."

He saw her. Yesterday.
In white.
Staring at him like he didn't belong.
Telling him to leave.

Telling him she loved him.

Jungkook punched the floor.
Again.
And again.
Knuckles cracking, skin splitting open, blood dripping onto the wooden boards as his whole body shook.

"Fucking bastard-"
He didn't even know who he was cursing anymore.

Kyung?
His father?
The shooter?
Himself?

Maybe all of them.

He wanted to scream until his throat tore apart.
He wanted to kill someone.
He wanted to undo time with his fists.

Jungkook stood---staggered, more like---wiping blood from his knuckles like it didn't even matter.

His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast to be stable. But his voice came quiet.

"This is all fucking nonsense."

Hoseok didn't say a word.
He just watched, tense and still, as Jungkook moved like a man possessed.

"She's fine," Jungkook said again, louder now, grabbing his keys off the counter. "She's fucking fine."

He threw the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges and stormed out of the apartment.

The air outside did nothing to cool the blaze in his chest.

He practically threw himself into the driver's seat, fingers gripping the wheel with white knuckles.
The engine roared to life and the tires screeched as he tore out of the lot, cutting through traffic without thought.

The lights were just colors.
The signs meant nothing.

He knew where he was going.
Back to that goddamn mansion.

Because she was there.
She had to be.

Not a single part of him was ready to believe otherwise.
Not when the last thing she said to him.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.
His fingers trembled against the steering wheel.

"Fucking vultures," he spat, eyes burning.
"Lying pieces of shit---talking like they know anything."

He'd make them pay.
Every last one of them.

Anyone who spoke about his sister in past tense-
he'd bury them.

But first-

He'd see her.
Hana.
Standing. Breathing.

She had to be.

The mansion came into view like a ghost through the haze---silent, looming, drenched in a kind of stillness that didn't belong to the Jeon estate.

Jungkook barely parked the car before he was out, door left swinging open as he marched up the marble steps. His boots slammed into the stone, echoing with a rage that hadn't cooled---only sharpened.

The front door wasn't locked.

"HANA!" he shouted, voice booming through the emptiness.

Nothing answered.

He stormed inside, eyes wild, breath ragged. The same floors he used to run on as a kid now felt unfamiliar. Off. Too polished. Too quiet.

"Where is she!?" he yelled into the silence, turning into the main hallway, accidentally knocking over a vase with the swing of his arm. It shattered behind him, glass scattering across the marble.

A maid peeked from behind the stairwell, face pale.

Jungkook turned on her instantly. "Where is my sister?"

The woman flinched but didn't answer---just stared at him with something between pity and fear.

Jungkook's heart slammed in his chest like it wanted out.

"No," he whispered. Then louder---angrier. "No. Don't fucking look at me like that."

He turned, took the stairs two at a time.

He needed to see her. To hear her voice.
To prove every word on that news broadcast was bullshit.

He made it to her room.

The door was open.

Empty.

No dress.
No makeup scattered on the vanity.
No scent of her perfume in the air.

Just silence.

‧ .ㄨ🕷ㄨ. ‧

The sky was gray. Fitting. Like even the heavens couldn't bring themselves to be bright that day.

The cemetery stretched quiet and wide, damp earth soaking under boots, and the kind of silence that made everything louder---every breath, every heartbeat, every step toward the grave that had her name on it.

Jungkook stood at the edge of the gathering, shoulders tense, eyes shadowed.
He barely registered the cluster of people around the fresh plot.
His father there, hands folded in front like he wasn't standing over his daughter's fucking grave.

None of them looked at him.

Not a single one acknowledged his arrival.

Didn't matter.

Jungkook's eyes were locked on the headstone.

Jeon Hana.
Beloved daughter. Cherished sister.
A single date marking the end of everything she ever was.

He couldn't move.
Couldn't think past the way her name looked carved in stone.
Final. Cold. Permanent.

A part of him still expected her to walk out from behind a tree. To tell him it was another elaborate manipulation.
That she was mad at him.
That she forgave him.

Anything but this.

His chest tightened.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.

No one cried.
No one screamed.

They just stood there. Like it was a formal inconvenience.

Jungkook took a step forward.

The people around shifted, gave him space like he was something dangerous.

He didn't look at them.

He just stood in front of her grave, staring down at her name.

No wind.
No noise.
Just a quiet ache so deep it made him feel hollow.

The silence didn't last.

Of course it didn't.

Jungkook had never known peace---not in this house, not in this family.
And definitely not now.

He stared at the grave a second longer, chest rising unevenly, hands still shaking at his sides.

Then his eyes lifted---slowly, like a fuse burning out—
and landed on the man standing a few feet away.

His father.

Stone-faced. Dressed in black like he knew how to mourn.

Jungkook's throat closed around a thousand unsaid things.

His fingers twitched.
Jaw clenched.
And when he finally stepped toward him, the people around began to whisper.

Mr. Jeon barely shifted.

Jungkook's voice came low. Raw. Poisoned.
"You did this."

His father blinked once. "Keep your voice down."

Wrong answer.

Jungkook's fist slammed into his chest, shoving him back a step.
"You fucking did this," he growled louder, voice cracking. "Don't stand there like you didn't."

Security twitched but didn't move.
Everyone else stepped back.

"I told you she didn't want this. That man was a fucking snake-"

"She made her choice," Mr. Jeon snapped, composure breaking, eyes flaring just slightly. "Don't insult her memory just because you're too emotionally unstable to accept it."

And that was it.

That one fucking word.

"Unstable?" Jungkook barked a bitter laugh, stepping closer. "You think I'm unstable? You made her lie---like she owed you her life."

He shoved him again, this time hard enough to draw gasps.

"You pushed her into this. You tried to marry her off like she was a fucking asset. She wasn't your daughter---she was a transaction."

Mr. Jeon's hand twitched, like he wanted to raise it.

"Don't you dare," Jungkook hissed. "Don't even fucking think about it."

A heavy silence stretched.

No one spoke.
No one stepped between them.

Because no one dared touch the version of Jungkook standing there-
grief carved into his face, bloodshot eyes wild, voice full of something dark and cracked.

The punch came out of nowhere-
sharp, brutal, and personal.

Jungkook didn't hold back.

His fist collided with his father's jaw, the sound cracking through the cemetery like thunder.
Mr. Jeon's head snapped to the side, glasses nearly falling, composure fracturing.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

The guards moved instantly---rushing toward them, hands out.

But Jungkook wasn't finished.

"YOU KILLED HER!" he shouted, voice wrecked, spit flying as he struggled against the arms grabbing him. "YOU FUCKING KILLED HER!"

Two men grabbed him by the arms, trying to pull him back---
but Jungkook thrashed like a wild animal, body burning with fury that had nowhere left to go.

"I'll kill you," he growled, chest heaving. "YOU HEAR ME?! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

With one violent jerk, he threw off one of the guards and surged forward again, eyes locked on the man who raised him.

This time, he grabbed Mr. Jeon's collar, dragging him forward like he wasn't his father-
like he was the enemy.
Which, by now, he was.

But Mr. Jeon didn't falter.

His hand snapped up, grabbing Jungkook's wrist and twisting it until bone groaned under pressure.

Then-
he hit him.

A punch right to the face.
Fast. Clean. Surgical.

Jungkook's head snapped back, body jerking as pain shot through his skull---but he didn't fall.

The second Jungkook steadied himself, he lunged again—
not like a son, but like a man with nothing left to lose.

This wasn't a punch fueled by anger.
This was grief.
Rage.
The shattering of everything he had left.

He drove his shoulder into his father's chest, knocking him back. Mr. Jeon grunted, but he didn't fall-
he retaliated immediately, landing another blow to Jungkook's ribs. Quick. Precise.

But Jungkook didn't feel it.

He swung again, fists wild, teeth gritted.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't measured.

It was vicious.

His knuckles split open on bone, blood smearing across Mr. Jeon's face as another punch landed-
temple, cheek, mouth---he didn't care. Didn't see anymore.

Just red.

Mr. Jeon fought back just as brutal, cufflinks snapped off, suit torn at the collar as he landed a fist to Jungkook's gut, another to his jaw.

They crashed into a stone bench, shoving, gripping, elbows cutting in like knives.

Security tried again---three men this time, shouting, pulling, but neither moved.
They were locked in it.

"You let her die!" Jungkook screamed, voice hoarse, spitting blood. "You fucking used her!"

"You don't know anything!" Mr. Jeon bellowed, pinning him back. "Stop this all. Grow the fuck up!"

"She was your daughter!"

They hit the ground, gravel scraping skin, punches still flying.
Clothes torn.
Faces wrecked.
A graveyard turned battleground.

Finally, it took four guards to wrench Jungkook off-
he was still fighting, still kicking, still burning.

Mr. Jeon stood, blood dripping from his mouth, breathing hard.
His tie hung loose, one eye already swelling.

They stared at each other.
Both bloody.
Both ruined.

And something between them---whatever had still lingered—
died right there next to her grave.

‧ .ㄨ🕷ㄨ. ‧

The world was quiet again.

No shouting, no fists, no guards pulling him back.
Just the wind, and the cold earth beneath him, and the weight of everything he’d lost.

Jungkook sat there, knees pulled in, fingers curled around the edges of the grave like if he held on tight enough, it’d bring her back.

His eyes were locked on her name.
The way the letters were etched. Too final.

He lifted a trembling hand, brushing his fingertips over the carved letters, and his breath caught---
like the air didn’t want to stay in his chest anymore.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.
Voice broken.
Thin.

His forehead dropped against the stone.

"I didn’t mean what I said that night..."

He remembered her eyes.
How angry she looked.
How he’d shouted...
You’re dead to me.

The words still echoed in his head like they belonged to someone else.

He crumbled forward, arms wrapping around the headstone, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice muffled. “I’m so fucking sorry…”

Tears didn’t fall.

They never did.

But he shook---
silent, desperate, clinging to a piece of stone like it was the last part of her still breathing.

And for a long time, Jungkook just stayed like that.
A broken brother hugging a grave, in a world where Hana no longer lived.

Thunder cracked above him like the sky was tearing itself open.

The first raindrops fell soft.
Then harder.
Then relentless.

Within seconds, Jungkook’s clothes clung to his skin, soaked through---
but he didn’t move.

Didn’t care.

He just held the gravestone tighter, arms locked around it like if he let go, it would vanish too.
Like her name would fade from the surface, and she’d be gone all over again.

The cold seeped into his bones, but the ache in his chest was worse.

He pressed his cheek to the stone, breath trembling.
“I’ll be good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I swear, I won’t fight anymore, I won’t---just come back.”

His fingers curled against the marble, white-knuckled.

“Please, Hana. Just once.”

The thunder echoed again, a low roar in the sky—
and still, the only sound he heard was the silence beneath it.

“No more yelling,” he muttered. “No more bullshit. Just---come back. Yell at me. Slap me. Anything. Just don’t leave me like this.”

The words broke apart as his throat closed.

And then, finally-
after everything...
a single tear slid down his cheek.

It mixed with the rain, disappeared into the soaked fabric of his shirt.

But it was real.

His forehead pressed hard to the cold marble, knees slipping in the wet grass,
his entire body trembling,
shoulders hunched against the rain that now poured like punishment.

The sob crawled up his throat slow, raw,
ugly.

He tried to swallow it down,
bite it back,
bury it like he did with everything else.

But it came anyway.
Quiet at first.
A shudder in his chest.
Then another.
Then—

“Hana—”
It came out as a breath, broken.
Then louder.
“Hana, I’m sorry...”

His voice cracked as another sob pushed out,
this one harsher...
like it was tearing straight through his ribs.

His fists pounded once against the ground beside the stone.
Then again.
The wet earth gave under the force, mud clinging to his fingers,
but he didn’t stop.

“It’s my fault,” he gasped out, voice splintering.

He choked, shaking so hard he could barely sit upright anymore.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

The thunder cracked again, but it didn’t matter.
The storm outside was nothing compared to the one inside him now.

He sobbed harder---louder...
the kind of crying that didn’t care who heard,
the kind that only came when there was nothing left to lose.

He held the stone like it was the last piece of her that existed.
Rain fell.
Tears fell.

And Jungkook broke.

Slowly.
Painfully.
Completely.

He didn’t know how long he had been staying there.

Minutes.
Hours.
Days?
Time didn’t exist anymore.

“I’m sorry...”
He said it again.
And again.

Barely breathing between the words,
like if he stopped, she’d slip further away.

“I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. Please... please don’t go like this.”

His voice was hoarse now, worn raw by the storm and screaming and grief that wouldn’t stop eating through him.

“I should’ve left,” he whispered, forehead pressed so hard to the gravestone it ached. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve protected you—”

The rain soaked his clothes, clung to his skin, plastered his hair to his forehead.

But Jungkook didn’t feel it.
Didn’t feel anything but the ache growing inside his chest, deeper with every word.

He hugged the stone tighter, arms trembling.

“Please come back.”
His voice cracked---childlike, broken.

He sounded like a boy again.
A boy who’d just lost the only person that kept him tethered to anything.

“I’m sorry...”
His voice faded to a whisper.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry...”

It became a mantra, barely words anymore---
just air and heartbreak and something too heavy to carry.

And through the thunder,
through the rain,
through the ghost of her name carved into stone,

Jeon Jungkook wept.

And didn’t stop.

The rain kept falling.

Cold. Steady.
Drenching the world in gray.

But suddenly---
there were no more droplets hitting his face.

No more sharp taps against his skin.
Just the soft patter of rain around him, not on him.

But he didn’t register it.

His body curled tighter against the stone, breath trembling, chest heaving with sobs that grew rougher, more broken.
He clung to the grave like it could forgive him.

His voice cracked through the sound of falling water.

“I miss you...”
Another sob.
“I miss you so much I can’t fucking breathe...”

And he didn’t see it.

Didn’t see the figure standing behind him.
Soaked to the bone.
Silent.

Didn’t see the pale hand extended over him, shielding his face from the sky.
A sleeve clinging to slender fingers.
Rain dripping from the man’s jaw, hair dark and slick from the storm.

Keepsake.

He stood there like a statue, unmoving---not saying a word, not drawing attention to himself.

He just held his arm steady, letting the downpour soak him while Jungkook stayed curled beneath him, lost in a grief so deep he didn’t notice anything at all.

If Jungkook had opened his eyes---just once—
he would’ve seen the faint shimmer of those monolid eyes.

Blank. Tired.
But there.

It was faint---
a shimmer at the edge of his vision.

Jungkook sniffed hard, dragging the back of his hand across his face, and blinked through the blur.

And then he saw it.

Saw him.

A figure above him.
Soaked, still, with an arm stretched out---shielding him from the rain.

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

Slowly, like something unreal unfolding in front of him, he lifted his gaze.

Keepsake.

Standing over him like a shadow.
Rain cascading down his shoulders, dripping from his chin, eyes dark under the weight of the storm.

He blinked once.

Then, without a word, he moved.

He lowered himself to the ground, knees sinking into the mud beside the grave---beside Jungkook.
He didn’t seem to care about the wet earth, the cold, or the dirt that now stained his clothes.

He just sat there.

Face blank.
So blank it almost looked peaceful---but his eyes?

His eyes didn’t move.
Didn’t flicker.

They stared straight into Jungkook.
Unblinking. Deep. As if reading every cracked edge of him.

For a long time, Jungkook couldn’t register it.

Couldn’t wrap his head around why Keepsake was there.
Didn’t have the space in his mind to even question it.

His brain felt full of static, grief thick like fog behind his eyes.
And yet---
there he was.

His Keepsake.
Soaked to the bone, mud staining his pants, his palm still faintly hovering like he hadn’t quite let go of shielding Jungkook from the rain.

Jungkook blinked at him. Once. Slowly.
Then again.

His gaze dropped---just for a second.
To the drenched shirt clinging to the guy’s chest.
To the pale fingers resting in the dirt.
To the way he sat there like he belonged in the rain.

And then his eyes lifted again---meeting those dark monolids.
Blank. Watching.

Jungkook’s throat worked, like he wanted to speak.

What the fuck are you doing here?
That’s what he meant to say.
But nothing came out.

Instead, he turned his head slowly, gaze falling back to her name on the stone.

Everything in him crumbled again, softer this time.
Less rage.
More ache.

And so, he stayed quiet.

Jungkook didn’t notice the shift at first.
Didn’t hear the rustle of fabric, the way the rain slowed to a hush against Keepsake’s sleeve.

He just stared at her name.

Still.
Hollow.
Heavy in a way he didn’t know how to carry.

Then, a voice---low, smooth, wrapped in vocabulary too delicate for the mud they were sitting in---broke the air between them.

“What sorrow... could summon tears from a virile man?”

The words barely registered.
Jungkook heard them, but didn’t get them.
It was the tone, not the meaning, that reached him---too polished, too detached, like the guy wasn’t asking a real question but diagnosing a condition.

Jungkook blinked, lips parting like maybe he’d respond.
He didn’t.

Instead, he felt something warm press against his cheek.

A hand.

Keepsake had lowered his arm---finally---and now his palm rested gently on Jungkook’s face.
Fingers cold from the rain.
His thumb brushed once, slow and deliberate, beneath Jungkook’s eye.

Not soft. Not tender.
Like he was... checking.
Testing the wetness there. Measuring it like data.

Jungkook flinched slightly, brows knitting.

He didn’t pull away.

But he didn’t lean in either.

Just stared ahead, jaw tight, chest hollow.

The contact wasn’t comforting.
It wasn’t supposed to be.

It just was.
Keepsake touching him like a puzzle piece he couldn’t name.

Jungkook blinked slowly, the dampness in his lashes catching the gray light.

Something brushed against his hand...

Delicate.

His eyes drifted downward, pulled by the sensation.

There, against his knuckles, Keepsake’s fingers moved with practiced care---barely touching, almost reverent.
A thin piece of black thread looped around his finger, held between pale fingers that barely seemed alive in the cold.

Jungkook stared as the thread was tied into a small, imperfect knot.

Not tight.
Not binding.

Just… there.

A thread.

He blinked again, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion.
His lips parted like he was going to ask something but no words made it out.

Because Keepsake said nothing.
Didn’t explain.

He just finished tying it, eyes lowered, movements steady---
like this meant something to him, even if Jungkook had no clue what was happening.

Jungkook stared at the string.
At his finger.
Then up at the guy beside him.

Still blank-faced.

“What are you…” Jungkook muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t pull his hand away.

Keepsake rose from the mud like it never clung to him at all.
No weight.
No sound.

He simply stood-
and turned,
and began to walk away.

No glance back.

Just fading into the wet grayness of the graveyard like he’d never been there in the first place.

Jungkook stared after him, eyes heavy, fingers curling slightly.

The thread was still tied around his finger.

It wasn’t tight, but somehow it ached.
Like it tethered him to something he didn’t ask for.
Something he wasn’t sure he wanted.
But couldn't bring himself to cut.

His gaze dropped to the flowers---damp, white, the petals soaked from the rain and touched by the soil that still wept for his sister.

Slowly, he picked them up.

His legs moved before his thoughts did.
He stood, boots squelching in the mud.

“Keepsake.”

The name fell from his mouth without meaning to.
A breath.
A tether.

The man stopped.

Didn’t turn fully---just turned his head, eyes shadowed beneath strands of wet hair.

Jungkook stepped forward, arm lifting.
He offered the flowers.

His hand was still shaking.
He didn’t even know why.

The guy looked down at the flowers.
Stared.

Long.

As if they were written in a language he didn’t understand, or a gift from a world he’d never belonged to.

Then-
he looked away.
Didn’t take them.
Began to walk again.

Jungkook’s heart kicked,
a quiet panic curling under his ribs.

He moved fast.

Mud splashed at his ankles as he caught up,
reached out,
grabbed the guy’s hand.

It was cold.
Still wet.

He pressed the flowers into his palm.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
Just placed them there and held them.

Like if he let go,
this strange, unreal thread between them would vanish.

Jungkook didn’t know where the words came from.

He barely heard them himself---
low, rough, almost swallowed by the soft hum of rain still falling around them.

But they came.

As his hand lingered over Keepsake’s, fingers brushing cold skin,
he pressed the flowers tighter into his palm---

and said, quietly,
voice cracked at the edges,

“Don’t die.”

The rain fell harder for a second,
like it paused just long enough to hear it too.

Keepsake blinked.

Once.

His eyes, still blank, lifted slowly—
meeting Jungkook’s.

There was no shock there.
No emotion.

But there was something.
Stillness.
A shift too subtle to name.

Jungkook held his gaze.
Fists clenched at his sides, breathing uneven.

He remembered saying the opposite.
Telling this guy to die.
Yelling it with so much venom he nearly tasted it.

And now?

Now his voice had broken---pleading---with the same mouth that once told him to disappear.

“Don’t die,” he repeated, softer.
Like maybe if he said it enough, it would matter.
Stick.

Keepsake stared for another moment, silent.

Then, slowly...
he looked down at the flowers in his hand.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t nod.
Didn’t react at all.

Jungkook’s grip tightened around the guy’s hand---
not forceful, but enough to keep him there.
Enough to say, stay, even if the word never left his lips.

For a moment, the guy didn’t move.
But something in his posture shifted.

A tremble.
Subtle, almost imperceptible.

Like he might pull away.
Like his body was still wired for escape.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

And then---finally---his fingers curled around the flowers.
Soft.

He held them.

Accepted them.

Jungkook felt something loosen in his chest.
His own grip softened, but didn’t fall away.

He was still holding on when the shout broke the silence.

“V!”

A voice.
Sharp.
Calling through the graveyard, from somewhere distant but moving closer.

Keepsake turned his head slightly, that same eerie calm slipping over him like a second skin.

He didn’t glance back at Jungkook.
Didn’t say a word.

He just started walking.

And slowly...
their hands began to separate.

Finger by finger.
Warmth slipping from his skin.

Until Jungkook’s hand fell limp at his side.
Empty.

Rain pattered on.
The flowers were gone.

So was he.