16 November, 2022
9:45 PM
Location: Eden Club, Gyeonggi- Province, Seoul, South Korea

The club was closed for the night. No music. No lights. Just broken glass and heavy breathing.

Jungkook's chest rose and fell in sharp bursts as he stood near the bar, blood dripping from his knuckles. The broken bottle lay in pieces at his feet. His eyes were wild---red-rimmed, unblinking.

Yoongi took a step forward, slow. "Jungkook, we'll find them. Just-"

"No."

Another bottle flew, shattered against the wall. Beer and glass sprayed over the floor.

"No, no, no-" Jungkook's voice cracked around the words, something between rage and despair. He ran a hand through his hair, tugged hard, as if the pain would make something clearer. "They left. The very next fucking morning."

Yoongi tried again, more careful this time. "You were grieving. We didn't know-"

"That's not an excuse!" Jungkook turned on him, eyes blazing. "I let them go. While I was sitting in front of a goddamn coffin, they were fleeing."

His chest heaved. His voice broke low, almost a whisper. "They killed her. And I let them get away."

Yoongi stepped closer again---too close.

Jungkook shoved him.

Yoongi stumbled back, caught off guard, barely kept from hitting the ground.

"Yoongi," Jin warned sharply from across the room. He moved forward, placing himself between them.

"Don't," Jin said flatly, eyes on Yoongi. "Let him burn it out."

Jungkook didn't even hear them.

He was pacing now, fists clenched, muttering under his breath.

"They think they won. They think they got away."

His voice dropped, rough and sharp.

"I'm going to find them," he said, low. Certain. "Every single one of them."

He looked up, and for a moment his eyes were dead still.

"And I'm going to erase the Kim name from this fucking country."

Jin didn't speak right away. Just stepped forward, slow, like he was approaching a wire ready to snap.

His voice was even. "Yes. And we'll help you."

Jungkook turned to him, eyes glassy but sharp. "I'll kill them."

Jin didn't flinch. Just nodded once.

"I know."

He reached out, slow---like handling an animal too close to the edge. His hand landed on Jungkook's shoulder, warm and grounding. He didn't squeeze. Just held it.

"Come on. Sit."

Jungkook didn't move at first. His chest still heaved, eyes locked somewhere past the cracked bottle shards and beer-soaked floor.

Jin guided him, hand still firm. And Jungkook let himself drop onto the couch like his body gave out.

Leather creaked. His hands dangled between his knees, fists clenched, shoulders rising and falling like a machine that couldn't power down.

Yoongi finally stepped closer again, slow but sure, and dropped down beside him with a thud.

His voice was quieter now. "I'll have my guys dig through customs. Someone had to process their departure."

Jungkook didn't answer.

His jaw locked, knuckles bone-white. His eyes were fixed on the far wall like he wanted to punch straight through it and drag the Kims out from the other side.

Yoongi glanced at Jin. They both knew better than to push. Not now.

Jungkook finally moved.

A slow, short nod.
Once.

The kind you barely catch unless you're watching for it. His voice didn't come. .

Jin exhaled, stepped back, letting his hand drop.
Yoongi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

The room was quiet again.

But the air?

Still crackled with violence.

Silence sat heavy in the room, thick like smoke that didn't know how to lift.

Jin left for a moment.

The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge behind the bar, the slight drip of spilled beer sliding down glass onto the floor.

Yoongi broke it.

"Did you know them all?" His voice wasn't loud---just enough to puncture the stillness.

Jungkook didn't look up at first. He blinked slow, once, like the words had to be pulled through a fog before they landed.

He shook his head. "Only Tae-won. Seen him. That's it."

Yoongi clicked his tongue and pushed himself up from the couch. He walked to the far end of the room, pulled a cable from the side of the screen mounted on the wall, and connected it to his phone.

The screen blinked to life. Faint glow in the darkened club.

Yoongi's fingers moved fast, scrolling through browser tabs, news articles, half-hidden archive posts. Media reports. Tax files. Charity pages. Anything that carried a name.

He stopped at one.

"Here."

A photo filled the screen---press conference style. Flash bulbs in mid-burst. A woman stood in front of a podium, smile pristine. Long hair swept into a twist, pearls around her neck.

Yoongi pointed.

"His wife. Seo Ji-yeon. Married into money, but she's smart. Moves things from the background. She's not just pretty; she's the one who managed the real estate side of their empire."

He tapped to the next image.

"This guy's their secretary. Personal aide, ex-bodyguard. You'll probably meet him before anyone else if you go after the family. Name's Nam-il. Not a pushover."

Another image.

"Manager. Handles the money laundering, overseas deals. Travels often. I'm having someone track his flight patterns."

Jungkook's gaze didn't move.

He just stared. At the screen. At the faces.

As if carving them into the back of his skull.

The light from the monitor lit the side of his face in harsh lines---cheekbone, brow, jaw all tight and clenched.

Every new photo added weight to his chest. A little more fire under his skin.

Names didn't matter. Not yet.

But faces?

He'd remember every single one.

Yoongi scrolled one last time. Paused.

"This one's the right hand," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Handles everything illegal under their table---gambling, drugs, smuggling. Barely shows up in records, but he's the one pulling strings for the dirty work."

His thumb hovered, then slid.

Another image loaded.

Yoongi's voice dipped lower. "And this..."

He hesitated.

"He only has one kid. Son. Kim Taehyung. Twenty-six. Doesn't do press Or make public appearance. Doesn't handle business publicly. But he's the rightful heir. Their last piece on the board."

There was a beat.

"I pulled a photo from one of their old passports. It's the only one with a clear face."

Yoongi tapped the screen, and the photo filled it---low-resolution, official, clinical. A single profile image in a government-stamped frame.

Jungkook hadn't been looking.

His fingers were clasped between his knees, tension still knotting down his spine.

Yoongi pointed at the screen anyway.

"Jungkook."

Jungkook's eyes lifted lazily, more out of instinct than interest.

He looked at the photo.

One blink.
A breath.
And then-
Stillness.

The kind that didn't settle. The kind that locked.

He blinked again, slower. Something in his jaw shifted. A slight tilt of the head. His brows didn't move. His chest didn't rise.

But his mind?

His mind just snapped.

"...no," he muttered.

Yoongi turned to him. "huh..."

Jungkook's throat was dry. His tongue moved against the roof of his mouth like he was trying to spit something out.

But nothing came.

Because the face on the screen---
Those monolids.
That expression.
That carved silence.

"...Keepsake."

The word slipped out of Jungkook's mouth like a secret he hadn't meant to say. Quiet. Raw.

Yoongi turned sharply, brows pinched. "You know him?"

Jungkook didn't answer. Just shook his head once---slow, disconnected---like even he wasn't sure what that meant.

He got up.

His feet moved on their own, carrying him toward the screen.

The glow hit his face full now. He stood there, inches from it, eyes locked on the pixelated image of Taehyung.

Of Kim Taehyung.

Yoongi stood behind him, waiting for something---an explanation, a reaction, a single goddamn word that made sense.

But Jungkook said nothing.

Did nothing.

He just stared.

His breath shallow.
His fists loose at his sides.

"Jungkook...?" Yoongi's voice cut through, quieter this time. Hesitant.

Still no response.

Jungkook's head gave the faintest shake---like he was trying to knock something loose inside it. His jaw flexed. The sound in his skull had turned to static. Not a thought. Not even rage. Just blank space and the slow realization crawling down his spine like ice.

He remembered-

His stomach twisted.

No thoughts. No plans.
Just a ringing.

And Kim Taehyung's face staring back at him through the screen.
Unbothered. Cold.

Untouched.

Yoongi's eyes narrowed, head tilting slowly as he took in the unraveling mess in front of him.

"Kim Taehyung," Jungkook muttered again---more like spat it. The words tasted like venom.

Then he turned fast, a whip of movement, pointing at the screen like it accused him back. "That's not him."

Yoongi's brows lifted. "That's his passport. Son of Tae-won."

"No."
Jungkook's voice cracked. Rough and raw like something was tearing inside him.

He shook his head. Again. Slower this time. As if each motion chipped away at the fragile calm he barely had left.

"No, it can't be."

His tone shifted---lower now. Bitter. Desperate.

"This is someone else. That's not him. That's not-" he choked, took a breath, like the next words burned going down. "That's my keepsake."

Yoongi's head jerked slightly. "Your what?"

Silence hung like a held breath. One second. Two.

Then Jungkook's hand shot up, fingers wrapping tight around his own wrist. The thread was still there. Black. Thin. Innocent. A damn thread.

He dug his fingers into it like it was a wound that needed reopening. Rubbed it hard enough to burn skin. His teeth clenched.

"My keepsake," he growled. Voice breaking now. "It's my keepsake. Not Kim Taehyung. That's not who he is. It's not-"

His voice cracked.

He stood there, shaking, thread between his fingers like it was holding his last nerve together.

Yoongi stared at him, eyes dark and unreadable. "What the fuck are you talking about, Jungkook?"

But Jungkook wasn't listening anymore.

His jaw clenched as he stared at the screen again.

That face. Those monolids. That calm fucking emptiness.

It wasn't possible.

But it was.

It was.

______

The air in the apartment was heavy. Still. Like even the walls were holding their breath.

Jungkook sat there----on the cold floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up but tense like springs ready to snap. The only sound was a faint, constant ringing in his ears. Sharp. Piercing. Almost metallic.

His gaze was locked on his wrist.

That thread.

That fucking thread.

It lay against his skin like it didn't know what it meant. Like it wasn't soaked in everything he wanted to forget. His fingers moved before his thoughts did---snatching at it, gripping it so tightly the tendons in his hand flexed. He yanked once.

It didn't snap.

He pulled harder.

Still there. Like a curse. A joke. Something wrapped too deep to tear away.

His chest rose and fell too fast. His breath hitched in a way that didn't feel human. Like the sound of grief and rage getting tangled together, clawing to get out.

Keepsake.

He whispered it first. Then louder.

Keepsake.

Louder.

Keepsake.

It started sounding foreign. Twisted. Sour in his mouth.

Until the word didn't mean anything at all.

Until it just made him sick.

His hand hit the floor. Then again. Fist pounding hard like he could drive the feeling out through bone and concrete.

Keepsake.

He wasn't that.

He was Kim Taehyung.

The blood in Jungkook's veins turned to acid just hearing it.

Son of Kim Tae-won.

The bastard behind the trigger. Behind the bullet. Behind her.

Behind the only thing Jungkook gave a fuck about.

Now gone.

Because of them.

And him.

His keepsake-
Was the son of his sister's murderer.

The scream that left his throat wasn't loud.

But it was raw. Soaked in something so much darker than hatred.

Jungkook stared at his hand.

Fingers trembling. Skin red where the thread dug in from how hard he had pulled. But it stayed. Just like everything else he couldn't get rid of.

That thread- thin, black, meaningless to the world- was all that was left from him.
From Taehyung. From the freak who once wrapped it around his wrist with those dead, glassy eyes and walked away like it meant something.

And Jungkook had worn it.
Kept it.
Believed in it.

Now it sat there, digging into his skin like a brand. Like it owned him.

His jaw clenched as he stared at it.

Not yet.
He couldn't tear it off yet.

It would stay.

It would burn.

He'd rip it off only after he ripped them all out.
One by one.

Every Kim.

Every last one who carried that name.
That blood.
That stain.

They destroyed his world---
Slaughtered what kept him standing.
And left him with this.

Hate was too soft. Too fragile a word.

This wasn't hate.
This was war.

And the thread would stay---

Until there was nothing left to stain it.

~~~

17 November, 2022
2:43 AM
Location: Olgovo Estate, Dmitrovsky Moscow Russia

The silence in the room was thick, the kind that settled in after the screaming.

Just the sound of steel pulling from flesh. Slow. Wet. A final breath shuddering out of somewhere behind the broken ribs.

A lighter flicked.

The flame danced up for a brief second, casting orange across the bloodstained wallpaper and the hollow face of the man holding it.

He didn't even glance at the bodies.

Just lit his cigarette like the air wasn't still choking on iron and terror. The light trembled, reflected in the glossy wet on his face.

It wasn't sweat.
It was blood.

He took a slow drag.

The smoke curled around him, and in that moment of dim clarity, the horror became real.

Two boys---young. Wrapped in pain.
One slumped over, ribs carved open like something gutted for show.
The other barely breathing. Barely human.

Neither of them looked alive enough to scream anymore.

Only thing still moving was the smoke.
And the hand holding the knife---calm, steady, already ready for more.

He tossed the cigarette to the floor, ember dimming against blood-streaked tiles. The knife clinked quietly as he set it down on the counter beside the sink---careful, clean, like it hadn't just been inside someone's spine.

His steps were slow, not out of exhaustion but calculation. Like he knew there was no rush. No one left to run.

He peeled the blood-soaked shirt off, shoulder muscles shifting under pale, red-smeared skin. The fabric landed near the sink with a damp thud. He twisted the faucet. Water hissed to life, cold and sharp.

He splashed his face once. Twice.

Didn't flinch when the sting hit the split on his lip.

Behind him, footsteps crept into the space. Lighter than his. Hesitant. Careful not to interrupt the quiet that had settled like smoke in the room.

A soft source of light followed---yellow, almost golden. Maybe a flashlight. Maybe a hallway bulb flickering to life.

It landed across his back.

The bones of his spine caught the glow, shadows slipping around them like ink sliding over paper.

And then it settled. Just below his nape.

A tattoo.
A spider.

Small, black, the legs curling sharp and mean-
like it wasn't crawling down his back, but
waiting.

Not for prey.

For command.

~~~

19 November, 2022
11:54 PM
Location: Yongsan District, Seoul
South Korea

The streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting a pale yellow pool onto the pavement. It flickered once, briefly blacking out the alley before humming back to life.

The figure in black didn't move.

Jacket zipped to the chin. Gloves tight around his fingers. A cap pulled low. Face covered, except for a narrow slit over the eyes. Breath steady behind the fabric.

Across the road, footsteps echoed.

A man turned the corner, alone.

Silver shirt. Fitted, light-catching. Almost sheer where the streetlight hit it.
Black dress pants. Ironed sharp.
Shiny leather shoes, tapping with every step.

Hair dark. Neatly parted. The strands barely moved with the breeze.
One hand held a phone loosely. The screen glowed, but his eyes weren't on it.

He walked without glancing sideways. Straight down the path. Passed two closed shops and a line of parked cars. No coat. No bag.

Behind a dumpster, the masked figure shifted slightly---just enough to lean into the wall's shadow again.

One breath.
Then another.

He didn't follow.

Not yet.

Then he did.

After one breath---shallow, sharp, clenched at the top of his chest---he moved.

The figure ahead had already disappeared around the bend, swallowed by the narrow stretch of unlit street.

Jungkook didn't rush.
Didn't need to.

He turned from the alley wall, his boots pressing softly into gravel and damp pavement. The buzz of the streetlamp behind him faded with each step.

His jaw locked tight.
Teeth grinding behind the mask.

No sound but the rhythm of his own footsteps and the distant hum of a vending machine somewhere behind a convenience store.

He passed the parked cars. Passed the flickering window of a second-floor bar. Didn't look up.

Only forward.

Down the dark where silver disappeared.
Where he would follow.
Where keepsake went.

His steps slowed---then stopped.

Across the narrow street, under the pale glow of a hallway bulb, the door creaked open.

The figure stepped inside without looking back. No hesitation. No scan of the surroundings.

He didn't lock the door. Just shut it behind him with a soft click.

Jungkook crossed the street without sound.

The concrete gave way to dirt patches where the pavement cracked. He didn't glance at the door again---he wasn't here for entrances.

He turned left, then right around the corner of the building. The window was already open. Third unit. Low enough to see inside.

A curtain shifted with the breeze.

He stopped there.
Still.
Quiet.

The room beyond was dim, lit by a weak floor lamp with a crooked shade. A shirt was tossed over the back of a chair. A stack of paper lay on the floor, fanned like it had been dropped and never picked up.

But Jungkook wasn't looking at any of that.

His eyes locked on the figure just inside the threshold.

He watched him walk in.

Drop onto the bed.
Curl inward.

No light switched on. No shoes kicked off. No phone checked.

Just stillness.

Back to the world.
Back to the window.

Breathing quiet.
Shoulders unmoving.

Nothing else.

Jungkook stared.
And the room stared back with silence.

He stepped back.

One last glance at the open window---
and then he turned.

His boots scraped against the edge of the wall, hitting concrete again as he walked away.

No sound behind him. No sound ahead.

Just the echo of a name in his head, louder than anything else.

Keepsake.

It used to mean something.
Now it tasted like rust.

He muttered it once, barely above breath, and the bitterness crawled up his throat.

Not keepsake.

Kim Taehyung.

The name played louder in his skull. Heavy. Sharp.
More brutal than the blood that had stained his shirt days ago.

Kim Taehyung.
Only son of Kim Tae-won.
Heir to the family that disappeared like ghosts the morning after Hana was buried.
The family that left behind silence and a dead daughter.

But not all of them ran.

Not him.

Jungkook's hand shot up, gripping his own hair, fingers yanking until his scalp stung.

His breath hitched once, loud in the empty alley.
Everything was slipping. Logic. Thought.
All of it thinning under one thing:

Rage.

Stripped down to bone.
Raw.
Unforgivable.

It didn't take long.

A few hours. A couple of calls. One crooked face in the underground who owed Jungkook more than he liked to admit.

And just like that-
he had him.

Taehyung.
Kim fucking Taehyung.

Living in a crumbling apartment block on the edge of Yongsan. Water stains down the walls. Rusted balcony railings. Neighbours who didn't ask questions.

A far cry from the silk-lined mansions the Kim family used to flaunt.

But then again, he couldn't exactly ran away, could he?

He'd been in jail.

Same as Jungkook.

Some bullshit charge buried in the system---Jungkook didn't care to dig. Petty crime? Intent to harm? He didn't look. Didn't need to.

The difference was-

Jungkook got out.

Because his father had the bars opened.

Taehyung?

His father ran.

Tae-won packed his people and left the country like smoke. Left behind a few handlers to keep eyes on his precious son. Manage him until he was useful again.

Because that's what this was.

He would come back eventually---
once the heat died down, once no one remembered Hana.

And when he did?

He'd want his son right where he left him.

Waiting.
Obedient.
Alive.

Jungkook's lip curled.

Not if he got there first.