Kyung barely got a step back before Jungkook lunged.

No warning.
Just a sound---low, guttural-and then the thud of flesh against bone as Jungkook decked him across the face.

Kyung hit the ground hard, head cracking against the floor, dazed.

Jungkook didn't wait.

He dropped to his knees and swung again---
a punch so fucking hard it made Kyung's teeth rattle across the floor.

Another.
Then another.
His hands were slick, and he didn't know if it was from blood or sweat or both-he just knew it wasn't enough.

"You dare to touch her."
His voice was low, shaking, more breath than sound.

He grabbed Kyung by the collar-lifted him---then slammed him back down.

The thud shook the floor.

"She's dead because of you."

Kyung tried to speak. Jungkook cut him off with a knee to the ribs.
Hard.
Then again.

"Shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up-"

His voice cracked.

His hands were fists again.
Red. Raw.
Still swinging.

Something cracked---cheekbone, probably.
Didn't matter.

He reached for the nearest thing.
A pen.
Didn't care. He jammed it into Kyung's arm without thinking.

Kyung screamed---finally.

Jungkook didn't even blink.

"Thought she'd stay quiet, huh? Thought I wouldn't find out?"

He gripped the pen tighter. Drove it deeper.

"You threatened her. Like a fucking coward."

Kyung choked. Begged.

Jungkook shook his head.

"Too late."

He looked around, saw a knife on the counter. Walked over, calm now.
Picked it up.

Came back.

Sat down beside Kyung's half---breathing body.

He stared at him for a second. Just stared.

Then dragged the blade once---slow---across his stomach.
Not deep. Just enough to make him feel it.

Kyung howled.

Jungkook leaned in close.

"Remember that sound," he whispered, eyes blank. "It's the last thing you're ever gonna make."

Kyung was wheezing now.
Barely able to breathe.
Every inhale made that wet, rattling sound---like his lungs were trying to leak.

Jungkook didn't speak for a moment. Just watched.

Listened.

To Kyung struggling.
To his body twitching.

Then, slowly, Jungkook grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head up.
Kyung winced, his lip split, eyes swollen half-shut.

"Still breathing?" Jungkook muttered. "Tougher than you look."

He took the knife.
Pressed it under Kyung's fingernail.

Kyung flinched. A garbled sound crawled out of his throat.

Jungkook didn't wait.

He slid the blade under---deep.

Kyung screamed. Full-bodied. Pure pain.

Jungkook didn't even blink.

"Let's see how many of these you can take."

One nail.

Two.

By the third, Kyung was crying.
Actual sobs.
His body jerked with every touch.

Jungkook sat back on his heels, breathing heavy.

He looked down at the blood. At Kyung.

"Guess she should've let me kill you sooner."

He reached forward-knife dragging along Kyung's collarbone this time.
Not deep. Just slow. A cut that wasn't meant to bleed fast. Meant to stay with you.

Kyung was trembling. His mouth opened, useless.

"You're not scared enough," Jungkook said, voice dead calm. "You don't look like someone who knows they're gonna die."

He flipped the knife in his hand.

Pressed it right over Kyung's heart.

"And I'm tired of looking at you."

The blade went in.
Deep. Straight through.

Kyung jerked once--
legs kicked--
then nothing.

Jungkook stayed kneeling.
Breathing.

Everything in him should've felt lighter.

It didn't.

It just felt quiet.

And cold.

But the rage-
that was real.
Still there. Still boiling.
Still screaming inside him like a voice that refused to die.

He stared at Kyung's dead body.

Broken.
Stilled.
A mess of silk, blood, and bones caved in from fists meant to kill.

But even now---
after everything,
after watching the life drain from that bastard's eyes-

It wasn't enough.

"Fuck," Jungkook breathed, hoarse and shaking. "Fuck-"

He gritted his teeth as he stood, staggering back from the body, his legs barely holding him.

He looked around the Kyung's room.
At the pristine apartment. The wine glasses. The untouched ashtray. The expensive rug soaked in crimson now.

Everything felt wrong.

Too clean.
Too fucking untouched.

He snapped.

His hand grabbed the nearest glass---hurled it against the wall.
The sound of shattering wasn't loud enough.
Nothing was.

He tore the lamp from the table, sent it crashing to the floor.
Ripped the paintings off the wall.
Smashed bottles.
Flipped the table.

Still---
his chest ached.

Still---
nothing.

He turned, eyes bloodshot, and kicked Kyung's body.

Hard.
Then again.
And again.

"Is this what you wanted?!" he roared, voice tearing through the apartment.
"You fucking took her from me, and you think this is enough?!"

He slammed his foot into Kyung's ribs again, a sickening crunch following.
Still no release.

Still that pressure in his skull, that buzzing in his ears like his mind was tearing apart from the inside.

He stumbled back, dropping into the nearest chair, blood smearing across the upholstery.

His hands trembled in front of him-open, cracked, burning.

Nothing.

Still nothing.

Because killing Kyung didn't bring her back.
Didn't change the gravestone.
Didn't erase the last thing he said to her.

And in that silence,
surrounded by destruction-
Jungkook's rage didn't die.

It just turned colder.
And settled in deeper.
Because now---now he knew.
And that made it worse.

So much worse.

It wasn't a business deal.
Wasn't his father's manipulation this time.
Wasn't some cold-blooded transaction the Jeons were infamous for.

Lee Kyung.

That piece of shit.

He'd blackmailed her to marry him.

And Hana?
She wasn't in love.
She wasn't covering up for their father.
She was just trapped.

She said it to protect everything.
And Jungkook?

He left.

He fucking walked away---
told her she was dead to him.

Because he thought it was her choice.
Because he let his anger speak louder than her fear.

He blamed their father.
Cursed him.
Swung fists, threw accusations.

And all that time, she was screaming for help in silence.

Jungkook let out a breathless, broken sound---
somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands covered in blood and shaking hard.

How could he not see it?

The image of her at the engagement-
that tight smile. The ring she wouldn't look at.
The way her eyes didn't hold light.

She wasn't agreeing.

He gritted his teeth, jaw locked until it hurt.

"I left her," he whispered, eyes burning.
"I fucking left her... to him."

All this time---
he'd been choking on grief, burying guilt, letting fury drive him.

And it wasn't enough.

Because the real shame?
The one burning deepest?

He failed her.

Not just once.

He failed her when she needed him the most.

And now---
now the man who'd stolen her life was a corpse on the floor.

And Hana?

She was still gone.

No revenge could bring her back.
No blood could make it right.

Jungkook didn't cry.
Not this time.

Because he didn't deserve to.

All he could do was sit there-
drenched in the evidence of what he'd done,
surrounded by the echoes of what he didn't.

And let the guilt start to rot everything left alive inside him.

He sat there for what felt like lifetimes.
Minutes. Hours. Maybe longer.
Everything outside of that blood-stained room ceased to exist.

His fists were open now, slack on his knees. Blood drying under his nails, caked in the creases of his knuckles. The weight of what he'd done didn't land with noise.
It settled quiet. Heavy. Final.

Then---
his eyes flicked down.

A glimpse of black.
A thread.
Wrapped around his wrist.

The thread.

From him.

Jungkook's breath hitched.

He slowly brought his hand up, the movement stilted---like it took more strength than it should've.

The thread was soaked.
Drenched in blood.

Darkened. Sticky. Like it had soaked in everything he'd become in the last hour.

And suddenly---
his stomach turned.

Nausea twisted deep inside his gut.
The room tilted.

He stumbled to his feet, chair screeching behind him.
Eyes darting around.

No, no no no-
Not this.

He rushed to the bathroom---nearly tripping over a broken bottle-
slammed on the sink and shoved his hand under the water, scrubbing furiously.

The blood clung.

He rubbed harder.
Fingernails digging into his wrist.
His other hand shaking as he turned the water hotter, hotter---
skin going raw, the thread pressing into his skin.

It wouldn't come clean.

"Fuck-" he hissed, voice cracking.

The thread clung stubbornly.
Soaked through, discolored with blood.
Not his own. Not anymore.

His lips parted, eyes narrowing.

Why did this feel so... wrong?

He kept going. Harder. Rubbing the pads of his fingers along the knot.
That little, uneven knot.
Like it meant something.
Like if he washed it enough, it would go back to how it was---thin, clean, untouched.

There was no reason for the weight building in his chest.
It wasn't valuable.
Wasn't gold or silver.
Wasn't even tied properly.

Just a frayed black thread,
given to him by a man who barely spoke.
Who didn't flinch at a knife but tied this---this---on his finger without a word.

And now it was stained.

Jungkook swallowed hard, rubbing slower now.
More careful. Almost gentle.

He didn't think about why.
Didn't ask himself why his hands had started trembling or why the water kept running long after the blood had thinned.

He just kept cleaning.
Over and over.

As if that thread wasn't just string.
As if staining it would ruin something he hadn't figured out he was holding onto.

His soul twisted---tight and ugly---watching the thread cling to his skin, limp and stained.
It looked frayed now.
Like it had soaked in too much of the wrong kind of weight.

Jungkook shook his head once.
Hard.
As if the motion alone could undo it.

He lowered the water pressure, hand cupped under the stream as he cleaned the thread again, slower this time.
So fucking gentle.

The same hands that had caved in a man's face not an hour ago
now moved like they were afraid to damage something.

He turned his wrist carefully, fingers running along the soaked string.
The blood was coming off.
Finally.

It pooled into the sink---
dark water circling the drain, disappearing like it was never there.

Jungkook reached for a towel, careful not to press too hard.
He held his wrist in his palm and dabbed at the string.
Quiet.
Focused like he was treating a wound, not fabric.

He didn't understand why his chest felt tight.
Why he kept glancing down to make sure it hadn't loosened.

He just... didn't want it ruined.
Didn't want to lose this.

Even if it was just thread.
Even if it came from someone who never asked for his name.
Even if the knot meant nothing.

He dried it like it did.

~~~

The clatter of plates barely registered.

Jungkook sat motionless on the couch, his fingers draped over his knees, eyes unfocused and distant. His shirt hung loosely off his frame, and the bruises on his knuckles had started to heal in dark, ugly shades.

He looked up only when the scent of food touched his senses---faintly, like it was happening in someone else's life.

Jin walked in first, placing the tray on the coffee table with a quiet firmness.

"Eat,"

Jungkook didn't move.
Didn't even blink in his direction.

Hoseok followed, dropping down beside him with a sigh deep enough to make the walls feel it.

"Come on," he said, nudging his shoulder. "You've barely touched anything in days."

Still, Jungkook stayed still.
His voice didn't come out until Jin added, quieter,
"Not eating isn't going to avenge her. And if she's watching you now... this isn't what she'd want."

Jungkook blinked, slow.

His throat was dry. He swallowed, but it hurt. "I'm not... starving myself," he muttered.

His voice sounded far away even to him.

"I just... don't feel like eating."

He glanced toward the plate, then looked past it.
As if it wasn't food, but a concept he couldn't make sense of anymore.

Eating. Living.
None of it mattered.

He didn't say that part out loud.

Jin nudged the plate closer, the warmth of the food curling softly in the air between them.
Jungkook stared at it.

His stomach didn't turn--
because it hadn't felt anything in days.
But his chest---
that ached. Like something was lodged deep inside it, pressing against his ribs every time he so much as tried to exist.

"Just eat a little," Jin said, quieter this time, no lecture in his tone. "You need it."

Jungkook looked at him, just once.

Then at the food.

He picked up the spoon.

The first bite felt wrong in his mouth.
His throat closed around it, like his body was rejecting the idea of nourishment.
Like it didn't belong in a world where Hana no longer existed.

He chewed slowly.
Forced himself to swallow.

It hurt.

Physically.
His chest clenched so tightly it made his eyes sting.

Still, he took another bite.
It wasn't hunger.

It was obedience.
Avoidance.

Jin smiled softly---casual, almost teasing as he patted Jungkook's shoulder.

"That's right, dude," he said, voice light. "Doesn't have to be a feast. Just don't fade out on us."

Jungkook didn't reply.
Didn't look up.

He kept chewing, jaw tight, hands shaking just slightly as he scooped another bite.

It tasted like nothing.
But he ate anyway.

Because fading?
He was already halfway there.
And no one seemed to notice the rest of him was already gone.

He just ate it.

Jin gathered the dishes quietly, not making a sound. Hoseok stayed seated, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching Jungkook with something caught between caution and frustration.

The silence hung a little too heavy before Hoseok finally broke it.

"The marriage..." he started, voice level, "wasn't arranged."

Jungkook's jaw flexed---tight, sharp, a twitch that was almost a flinch.

"You fought your father for nothing."

Then he fell silent.

Didn't have to add weight to what was already crushing Jungkook's chest.

The rest... Jungkook had pieced together himself.

Bit by bit.
Day by day.
After she died.

When her smile had already been carved into stone and buried six feet under.

He hadn't even meant to look for answers at first.
But grief makes you dig.
Makes you claw through shadows hoping to find someone else to blame.
And what he found-

It wasn't what he expected.

There was no arranged deal.
No business exchange signed over dinner.

Kyung wasn't handed his sister.
He cornered her.

He was blackmailing her.
Had something to use against them.

From a year ago.
From the time Hana accidentally took drugs.

Kyung had leverage over her.
Pictures. Videos. Enough to destroy her.
To destroy their family name.

Hana would've never let that happen.

She cared about the Jeon name.
Cared about their father's image, even when Jungkook didn't.

So she gave in.
Said she was in love.
Lied with grace like she'd been practicing it her whole life.

And Jungkook?

He swallowed the lie.
Walked out.

Only to stand over her grave days later with blood on his hands and a weight in his chest that would never leave.

It hadn't been Kyung who pulled the trigger at that party.
But it didn't matter.

Kyung deserved it.

Every shattered bone.
Every breath torn from his lungs.

Because if he hadn't cornered her-
she might still be alive.

And Jungkook might not be the monster he was now.

He had screamed at his father.
In front of her grave.
In front of strangers.
In front of the whole damn world.

He raised his hand.
Swung first.
Said the words you can't take back.

You killed her.

That's what he'd said.
With his whole chest.
With enough hate to split the sky.

But he hadn't known.
He hadn't cared to know.
He just assumed---because that's what he always did when it came to that man.

He'd let years of resentment boil over,
let grief blind him.

And now, every time he thought about that day---
his knuckles colliding with the man who gave them both life---
he could feel her in the silence.

If Hana were alive...
She would never forgive him.

She loved their father.
Always did.
Even when Jungkook couldn't.
Even when he cursed the Jeon name and walked away.

She stayed.

Loyal, composed, always trying to carry more than she should.

She didn't see him the way Jungkook did.
She didn't want vengeance.
She wanted peace.

And instead, he gave her a war.
At her grave.

He could still hear her voice in his head---gentle, exasperated, tired of cleaning up after his rage.

"You always think you're the only one hurting."

Now he was.

And she was gone.

~~~

The apartment was silent.

Night had crept in without him noticing---casting long shadows across the floor, cold through the windows.

Jin and Hoseok had left hours ago.

Now it was just him.
Alone.
Lights off.

The glow from the streetlight bled in through the curtains, dust catching faintly in the air.
Jungkook sat on the couch, unmoving.

Staring at nothing.

Or---maybe not nothing.

His gaze was low, fixed on his wrist.

The thread.

That thin, uneven little knot.

He didn't even realize his fingers were touching it----razing it, turning it gently like he was checking if it was still there.

It was.
Frayed from water, almost dulled in color.

But it was still tied.
Still holding.
Still... his.

It hadn't loosened.
Not when his fists bled.
Not when his world collapsed.
Not when the only person he cared about was buried.

It was stupid.
Just a thread.

Given to him by someone he didn't understand, barely knew, and maybe didn't want to.
But in this moment---
he sat there.
Touching it.
Breathing slow.

As if this thread was the last thing holding him together.
And maybe, it was.

Stillness of the night was broken by a dull knock. One, then another.

Jungkook didn't move right away.
Just turned his head toward the sound like it was some mild inconvenience.
Probably Hoseok again---back to check if he ate or hadn't thrown himself off a roof.

He sighed, pushing himself off the couch with tired limbs.
The apartment was dim behind him, all quiet, the city's glow pressing faint lines through the blinds.

He swung the door open with one hand.
The sight wasn't what he expected.

It wasn't Hoseok.

Three men stood in the hallway---two in uniform, one in plain clothes.
The closest one stepped forward immediately, like he'd been waiting for the moment.
"Jeon Jungkook?" he said, though he already knew.

The badge flashed.
So did the cold glint of cuffs.

The officer didn't wait.
He grabbed Jungkook's wrist hard, yanking it forward with practiced force.
Like he expected a fight.

Jungkook's body moved instinctively, like muscle memory.
But it wasn't resistance.

It was resignation.

He blinked---slowly.
His heart didn't race.
His eyes didn't widen.

Of course... it would come to this.

"Mr. Jeon," the plainclothes officer said, tone firm, low,
"You're under arrest for the murder of Lee Kyung."

The hallway felt smaller.
Or maybe it was the way the words hung.

Murder.
Kyung.
Arrest.

Jungkook barely heard the rest---something about his rights, lawyers, procedure.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't ask who turned him in.
Didn't lie.
Didn't explain.

He just nodded once.

And let them take him.

The cruiser ride was quiet.

No sirens. No rush.

Just the low hum of the engine, the faint crackle of the police radio, and the cold press of metal against Jungkook's wrists. His head leaned against the window, city lights bleeding into his skin in fractured lines. They passed buildings he didn't register, streets he'd driven himself a hundred times.

Now he wasn't behind the wheel.

He didn't speak. The officers didn't either.

When they pulled into the precinct lot, everything moved in a haze. The doors opened. One of the uniforms gave him a nudge---nothing rough, just procedure. He stepped out, wrists still cuffed behind his back, the weight of it pulling at his shoulders as he was led through the side entrance.

The air inside smelled sterile. Cold. Like metal and detergent.

No one looked at him too long.

Murder charges had a way of making people keep their heads down.

He was taken through booking. Name. Prints. Photo. His eyes didn't blink when the camera flashed. The red mark near his temple from the fight with Kyung was still faintly visible.

He didn't care.

When they walked him down the hall, the cuffs came off. A door opened. A small space with steel bars and a hard bench.

That was it.

The officer didn't say much---just closed the bars behind him and walked away.

Jungkook stood there for a long second.

Then sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, head dropping forward.

The silence inside the cell was heavier than the one in his apartment.
He could hear his own breathing. Could feel his pulse in the raw skin of his wrists.

And on his left one---still tight, still holding---was the black thread.

He stared at it.

Everything else had been taken. His name. His weapons. His clothes.
But not this.

Somehow, they'd missed it.

He didn't know if that was irony.

All he knew was---he was here now.
And there was no turning back.

The night had been too loud.
Not outside. Not in the cell.

But in his head.

Thoughts crashing like waves, one over the other. Every image, every word, every scream. Every face that no longer breathed.
He'd thought he wouldn't sleep.
He was right.

But somehow the hours passed.
One blurred into the next until they stopped meaning anything.

And then---
footsteps. Sharp. Heavy. Not rushed.

Jungkook didn't look right away.

It wasn't until the sound stopped in front of his cell that he turned his head, slow and quiet, like even that motion took more effort than he had.

Mr. Jeon.

Standing there, suit pressed like always, expression cold.
No words. Just those eyes.

Sharp. Disappointed.

The same look Jungkook had seen his whole life---like he'd fallen short of something he never signed up for.

But now, that look was worse.
More loaded.
Because this time, Jungkook wasn't just the son who failed to obey---

He was the son accused of murder.

Jungkook let out a low breath.
A quiet, humorless huff.

He leaned back against the cell wall, spine grazing the cold metal.

"Didn't expect you," he muttered, voice rough from silence. "Thought you'd be too busy saving face to show up in a place like this."

His father didn't move.

The fury was there---thinly veiled, pressed behind the calm like it always was.
But what sat underneath it?

Maybe even Jungkook didn't want to know.

So he looked away first.
Eyes dropping to the floor.
Or maybe to the thread on his wrist again.

Something in him still holding onto that when everything else had slipped.

"Go ahead," Jungkook said after a moment, a slow exhale.
"Say it. That I ruined everything."

"You fucking moron," Mr. Jeon gritted out, voice low and sharp like a edge pressed flat. "Ruined what? Yourself? You don't even know what you've done."

Jungkook shook his head, jaw ticking.
"Don't talk like you give a shit," he muttered.

He pushed himself up, walked slowly toward the bars, the concrete dragging beneath his boots.
Stopped when he was standing face to face with him---only metal between them.

Mr. Jeon didn't even try to soften his voice.

If anything, he looked like he might snap and drag Jungkook through the bars himself.

"You reckless bastard," he hissed. "You wiped someone out and-- what? Thought it was all? You left clues. You didn't even bother to clean-"

He cut off with a frustrated growl, dragging a hand over his face.

Jungkook stood still.
Chest rising. Not breathing.
Until the words clicked.

You wiped someone out.

His spine stiffened.
It wasn't the tone.
It was the assumption.
The confirmation.

He already knew.
He did it.

Jungkook took a step back, slow, like the ground shifted beneath him.

His father didn't care if he did it.

He only cared how sloppily it was done.

The metal clanged as Mr. Jeon's hand shot through the bars, fisting Jungkook's collar in one violent motion.
Jungkook's jaw slammed against the cold iron. The impact wasn't harsh---but it was enough to sting.

He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, eyes locked with the man in front of him.

Mr. Jeon didn't hold back.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he hissed, voice low and scalding.
"You went out to avenge her with this level of idiocy? Is that how worthless your brain is?"

Jungkook blinked slowly. The words didn't hurt---they never had.
They landed. But they didn't sink.

He pulled back from the grip with a sharp jerk, shaking loose.
The air between them turned colder.

He looked at his father for a long second.
And what hit him harder than anything---was what wasn't said.

There was no why.

Mr. Jeon didn't ask why he killed Kyung.
Didn't ask what Kyung had done.
Didn't seem to care that all.

No, that wasn't the point.

Because in this man's world, the only crime Jungkook committed was getting caught.

His father wasn't furious because Kyung was dead.

He was furious because Jungkook had done it badly.

Because he left trails. Because he didn't clean up.

Because he was in jail.

Jungkook's jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

The shame in Mr. Jeon's eyes wasn't about the Jeon name.
Or the business.
Or the empire.

It was about Jungkook.

And somehow, that said everything.

"You're not mad I killed him," Jungkook said quietly, voice low like gravel.

"You're just mad I didn't kill him well enough."

Mr. Jeon let out a breath that was half scoff, half laugh---
amused in the most condescending way possible.

"Look at that," he muttered, voice sharp with mock surprise,
"at least one of your brain cells survived the self-destruction."

Jungkook didn't respond.

He just stood there, watching him.
It wasn't anger that filled his chest now.
It wasn't regret. Or pride. Or even guilt.

It was something far stranger.
A quiet sort of unease.
A disconnect.

Because for the first time... his father wasn't talking about profits.
Wasn't yelling about reputation.
Wasn't screaming over shares or scandal or headlines.

He was yelling about him.

His mistakes.
His recklessness.
His life.

Not for the family's image. Not for their empire.
Just for the fact that Jungkook ruined himself.

And maybe that shouldn't have felt strange.
But it did.

Because Jungkook couldn't remember the last time his father was angry for anything other than business.

Or maybe... he'd just never noticed.

Maybe, all along, he was too busy expecting to be nothing more than a legacy or liability.
And now, here they were.

A father yelling through bars,
and a son who couldn't tell if this was anger or something dangerously close to concern.

He blinked. Once.

And said nothing.

Mr. Jeon finally stepped back with a long, slow sigh---
the kind that felt like it scraped something deeper than air from his lungs.

He didn't say another word.
Didn't throw one last insult or offer a final threat.
He just turned his back and walked off, shoes clicking against the concrete like the conversation never happened.

Jungkook's lips parted.
He didn't even realize it at first.

Maybe he was going to call after him.
Some part of him---too quiet to admit---wanted to.

But the sound never came.
He bit down hard on the urge, jaw locking, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth.
He didn't call him.

And as he turned to go back to the bench, footsteps echoed again.

Another man stepped into view---
sharply dressed, familiar face, every hair in place and briefcase clutched like it held the universe.

Mr. Han.

Jeon family's long-time lawyer.
The man who cleaned up messes and made ugly things presentable.

"Jungkook," Mr. Han greeted in his usual tone-calm, clipped, transactional.

Jungkook didn't reply.

Mr. Han stepped closer, flipping open a folder he had tucked under his arm.
He scanned a few lines and didn't bother sugarcoating anything.

"We both know what happened," he said, almost conversational. "But what matters is how it's presented."

He held up a page. "We can argue premeditation wasn't involved. That the altercation was provoked. Temporary loss of control. Mental distress. Sympathy play. I'll spin what I can."

Jungkook stared.

This wasn't about truth.

This was about framing the blood on his hands to look like a smear of emotion
instead of vengeance.

Mr. Han didn't look fazed.

He just adjusted his watch and kept reading.

Because in this world?
Even murder was a story.
And someone always had to write it well enough to survive.

Mr. Han flipped through a few more sheets, quick, efficient, his fingers stained faintly with ink at the tips.

"The hearing's in two days," he said. "You'll be taken in the morning---standard security detail, nothing flashy. When the judge asks, you'll speak only what we've practiced. Keep your answers short. Don't add. Don't explain."

He looked up, adjusting his glasses.

"Emotion sells, Jungkook. But too much of it makes you look unstable. You just be... human."

Jungkook sat on the edge of the bench now, elbows on knees, head bowed slightly, listening without truly hearing.

He wasn't thinking about court.

Not really.

He was thinking about blood on his hands,
his sister's ring on someone else's finger,
and how easy it had been to make it all disappear.

Mr. Han stepped back, closing the folder neatly.

"Everything else---evidence, statements, angle---I'll handle it."

He paused for a beat, glancing at Jungkook like he wanted to say something human, something comforting.

But that wasn't his role.

He cleared his throat instead.

"Take care of yourself," he said, as formally as if he were offering condolences at a funeral.

Then he turned, coat shifting, shoes clicking away into the dim hall until there was nothing left.

Jungkook sat there a little longer.

The cell was quiet again.
The silence crept back in, slow and suffocating.

Two days.

He closed his eyes.

And waited.

~~~

The metal clicked open, and Jungkook instinctively rubbed at the skin around his wrist---
raw, red, a faint bruise forming where the cuffs had dug in too long.

The courtroom still buzzed behind him---reporters whispering, flashes from cameras, murmurs floating like static in the air.

Today's trial was...
good, if that's what you could call walking out of a courtroom after being accused of murder.

Bailed.
Thanks to Mr. Han, who spun his rage into trauma and the stabbing into a split-second loss of control.
Self-defense of dignity. Of family. Of grief.

The judge had bought just enough of it.
For now.

Jungkook didn't look back at the room.
Didn't look at Mr. Lee either---though he could feel that man's stare burning like acid into his back.

Mr. Lee's son was dead.
Jungkook had made sure of that.

And no amount of courtroom theater would make Mr. Lee let that go.

Jungkook could feel the weight of it---
a war brewing.

It wasn't over.

And what twisted him more wasn't even that.

It was the way his father stood just a few feet ahead, body still, jaw tight, eyes cold---
not looking at Jungkook like a criminal.

But like a weapon he'd no longer pretend to keep sheathed.

The driver pulled the car to the curb---sleek, black, tinted like always.

Mr. Jeon climbed in first, smooth and sharp in every movement.
Before the door could shut, he looked at Jungkook-
sharp glare, unreadable.

"Get in."

That was it.

No congratulations.
No scolding.

Just a command.
Like always.

Jungkook stared for a second.
Then walked forward.

And slid into the car beside the man he used to call father.

The door clicked shut. The engine hummed low.

The silence had barely settled before Mr. Jeon spoke.

"Keep it low from now on," he said without looking at Jungkook. "Don't get reckless. Let the case die quietly. We'll have it dismissed soon enough."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Jungkook gave a small nod.
Empty, automatic.

Not that he planned to obey.
He never did.

But something else clawed at his mind---something colder than courtrooms, deeper than that.

His jaw tensed as he leaned slightly forward, voice low.

"Who shot her?"

The words hung for a second.
Then Mr. Jeon replied, calm as ever, eyes ahead.

"He's in our hands."

"But he hasn't opened his mouth yet."

Jungkook's hands curled into loose fists on his lap, but his face didn't change.
Not much.

He turned his eyes to the rearview mirror, catching his own reflection---
and the sharp cut of his father's profile next to it.

If the man who pulled the trigger was still breathing,
then Jungkook had something left to do.

His sister's grave hadn't gone quiet in him yet.

And until it did---
He wouldn't stop.

The car didn't go home.
Didn't turn toward the city or the estate.

Jungkook noticed the shift only when the buildings thinned, streetlights vanished, and cracked asphalt turned to dirt beneath the tires.

Mr. Jeon didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.

Jungkook sat straighter.
Eyes narrowing as they passed through rusted gates, overgrown weeds brushing the sides of the car.

An old industrial lot---long abandoned, forgotten by the city.

The car stopped beside a warehouse half-swallowed by shadows.

"Get out," Mr. Jeon said flatly.

Jungkook obeyed this time.

They stepped inside.

The smell hit first---sweat, blood, and metal that hadn't been cleaned in a long time.

Inside, it was dark except for a single hanging bulb swaying slightly.
It buzzed.
Flickered.

And under it sat him.

The man was slumped in a chair, wrists tied, shirt soaked in blood that had dried in patches.
His face barely looked human anymore---bruised, swollen, jaw likely broken.
Skin cut open in places that didn't bleed anymore.
He wasn't screaming.
Didn't have the strength to.

He was breathing.
Barely.

Jungkook stared.

Slowly.
Eyes drinking in every inch of the man.

His voice, when he spoke, was lower than anything he'd used in court.

"This him?"

Mr. Jeon didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

Jungkook's eyes darkened---
a slow, sinking shift like something in him had been swallowed whole.

He took a step forward.

The air in the warehouse was heavy. Dust clung to every breath. The light overhead flickered once, casting the man's broken face in fragments.

"Just don't kill him yet," Mr. Jeon's voice came from behind. Calm. Cold.
"He hadn't spilled who hired him."

Jungkook's jaw clenched.

That was the difference between them.

His father wanted answers.
He wanted blood.

He took another step. And another.
His boots echoed across the concrete, slow, deliberate.
The closer he got, the louder the pounding in his skull became---rage flooding in, thick and hot and impossible to think through.

This was him.

The man who pulled the trigger.
The one who ended her breath.

Jungkook stood in front of him now.

The man's head lolled forward, barely conscious---if at all.
No recognition in his eyes. Maybe not even fear.

It didn't matter.

Jungkook's hands curled into fists at his sides.

And for a second, he swore he could feel Hana.
Not in the room. Not like a ghost.

But like a hole in his chest that wouldn't ever fill again.

And it was going deeper now---
that fury, that black hole inside him.

Because Jungkook didn't just want blood anymore.

He wanted answers.
Names.
Lines to follow until there was nothing left of the people who dared to lay a hand on his sister.

He would erase their names from the fucking earth.

He grabbed the man's jaw, fingers digging into bruised skin, forcing his head up.

The man groaned, low and broken, lips trembling but not moving.

Jungkook leaned in close.
Too close.

"Who hired you?" he growled, voice scraping against his own teeth.

A sigh echoed behind him. Mr. Jeon.

Of course.
If only it were that easy.

No one hired gun talks before bones are snapped into memory.

Jungkook didn't care.
He wasn't Mr. Jeon. He didn't wait for leverage.

His grip shifted---hand sliding to the man's throat.
Hard. Tight.

The chair creaked beneath the weight.

"Tell me!" he roared, voice sharp enough to cut the air.

The man gagged, legs twitching weakly beneath him.

Still---
no answer.

Just wheezing.
Blood bubbling at the edge of his lips.

But Jungkook didn't stop.

His fingers were back on the man's collar, yanking him forward only to slam him against the back of the chair. His voice didn't shake when he growled, "Name. Give me the fucking name."

No answer.

Jungkook's breath hitched---not from hesitation, but from the surge behind his ribs. That low roar inside him getting louder. Deeper.

His sister's laugh. Her ring. Her hand in his the last time they spoke.

And then her grave.

He moved again.

A punch. Knuckles splitting open, blood sticking. Another hit. Then another. And somewhere between those motions, the world started to blur. He couldn't hear Mr. Jeon anymore. Couldn't feel the sweat on his neck or the sting in his knuckles.

Just-

"Name."

His voice was hoarse now. Lower. Hollow.

The man choked on his breath, and for a moment Jungkook saw something shift behind the swollen eyelids. Not fear. Not guilt.

Recognition.

That's all it took.

Jungkook grabbed the man's blood-slicked shirt and hauled him up like dead weight. "Say it."

A name finally spilled. Muffled. Cracked.

"Kim's."

The word barely slipped past the man's split lips-wet, slurred, hanging heavy in the still air like it didn't belong to human language.

Then, rasping-
choking on his own blood, he forced it out:

"Kim Tae-won."

Jungkook stilled.

His knuckles loosened, but his fists stayed clenched at his sides, like his body hadn't caught up with his mind.

Kim Tae-won.
Head of the Kim Empire.
Jeon's long-time rival.
Power, oil, and blood money.

They had always circled each other---Jeons and Kims---two kingdoms that never shared the same sky. There were threats. Mergers. Silent wars in boardrooms.

Jungkook turned, eyes cutting toward his father.

Mr. Jeon hadn't moved at first-his posture still sharp, hands behind his back.

Then he finally looked up.

And the expression that crossed his face---wasn't shock.
It wasn't even rage.

It was something quieter.

Like fury had drained him dry.

His eyes didn't meet Jungkook's as he turned and walked out.
Fast.

Jungkook was alone with the man---
the breathing mess of flesh that once held a secret.

He turned his head, looking at him one last time.

He was still alive. Barely.
But Jungkook didn't care anymore.

Not enough to say anything. Not enough to hit him again.

He just stood there in silence.
And then...
he left, too.

Not before dragging what was left of the man's body out back.
Burying it with his own bloodied hands.

No name. No grave. No prayer.

Just dirt.
What he deserved.

He didn't know how long he'd been walking.

Street after street blurred together, shadows smearing under his eyes. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely felt it. His ears were still ringing from the warehouse---
from the name.

Kim Tae-won.

It played in his skull like a fucking taunt. Something low and ugly and unforgettable.

Jungkook's hands wouldn't stay still.

They kept twitching. Clenching. Like they were already searching for something to hold on to, something to crush.

He didn't need to understand the why.

He didn't care if it was about territory, money, boardroom bullshit.

They had her name in their mouths.
They made her a target.

And now... now there was nothing else.

He didn't have a plan. Or an end goal.

Only a direction.

And a single thought consuming everything he was.

He'd make them pay.

All of them.

He wasn't grieving anymore.

He was hunting.

Kim's.
He would wipe out their entire bloodline.