Head down. Steps quiet.
Jungkook followed.

Like a second spine, like smoke under his heels. Two full days---forty---eight straight hours-and this was the first time the freak stepped out of that rotting apartment.

Jungkook had barely moved in those two days. Camped out across the street. Eyes on that window. Watching through a crack in the curtain as Kim Taehyung... painted.
Not once. Not for a few hours.
Constantly.
No food. No sleep. No breaks that Jungkook could catch.

Just brush to canvas. Stroke after stroke like he was clawing something out of himself.

It would've been impressive if it wasn't so unhinged.

Jungkook had seen obsession.
He'd lived it.
But this?

This was madness wrapped in paint-stained fingers. And the worst part?
It didn't even seem like he was trying to make something beautiful.

He was making something else.
And whatever it was, Jungkook didn't care.

Because that freak-
his keepsake.
No.
Kim Taehyung--
wasn't going to get the peace he was chasing.

Not until Tae-won came crawling back.

Because he would.

Jungkook had dug up the papers himself.
Tracked through encrypted business filings and dead-end bank records.

All that wealth? All those properties, investments, generational legacy?

Every fucking cent was in the name of the youngest.

Kim Taehyung.

Tae-won didn't just leave behind a son.
He left behind a bank account.
And once the trail cooled down---he'd return for it.

Of course he would.

Even Jungkook's father didn't know. Didn't know the boy was still here, walking the same streets. Breathing the same air.

They all assumed he was gone.
That the Kim bloodline had vanished.

But not Jungkook.

Not after that day.
The grave. The thread. The look in those dead eyes.

He hadn't just found him.

He'd remembered him.
And started pulling at the silence until it unraveled.

Found the arrest. The release.
He was still in jail when the Kims fled the country.

So of course they left him behind.

He wasn't part of the plan.

But now?

He was the plan.
Jungkook's only card.
The bait.

He just had to keep him alive long enough to use it.
Even if that meant following him like a goddamn ghost.
Even if every step made him want to rip the freak apart.

Taehyung moved like he was weightless. Not graceful---just empty.

He had the canvas in hand. Not wrapped. Not protected.
Bare. The wet paint shimmered slightly under the city lights as he walked. Carried like it didn't matter if it got ruined, like it was already done with him.

Jungkook followed at a pace behind.
Hood pulled low. Hands deep in his jacket.
His eyes fixed on the back of that thin frame moving ahead of him like a shadow with no source.

And then he stopped.

Outside the Dongsung Gallery.

Jungkook slowed, blinking once, then again.

The place wasn't fancy, but it wasn't trash either. Mid-tier. Known for taking in strange art and stranger people. Dim white walls, tall glass windows, a few pieces always on rotation in the front.

Taehyung didn't glance at any of them.

Didn't stop to look at the abstract installation twisting through the front window.
Didn't glance at the sign posted beside the glass door---New Artists Exhibition Open for Review.

He stood there for a moment.

The painting hung loosely at his side. Still unwrapped. Still wet around the edges.

Jungkook's brows knit slowly.

He wasn't here to visit.

He was here to deliver.

He reached the back entrance, nodded once at the man beside the door-security, uniformed, stiff---and slipped inside like he belonged there. No ID shown. No questions asked.

Gone.

Just like that.

Jungkook's steps faltered as the door shut with a soft metallic click behind him.
His jaw tightened.

He couldn't follow. Not from there.
He wasn't walking through that front lobby either---too many eyes, too many cameras. He didn't even know what kind of permission freak-boy had, or why the gallery let someone like him walk in with something that still smelled like oil and solvent.

He circled the side of the building.
Gravel crunched beneath his boots.
Concrete walls stretched plain and blank on this side, a narrow alley littered with cigarette butts and one empty delivery cart.

No entrances.

But then--
He stopped.

A narrow fixture jutted out of the wall.
It wasn't a window. Not a vent.
More like a decorative architectural slit---an attempt to look modern. A curved opening sealed with clear glass, maybe for lighting or aesthetic.

It wasn't much.

He stepped close.

The glass was thin, a little fogged from the cold, but he could see inside.
And there he was.

Taehyung.
Leaning over a table.
Canvas in hand.

His back was to the glass, the collar of his shirt stained with something dark---paint, maybe, or charcoal.
He said something to a woman standing beside him, then motioned to the piece.

The woman stepped closer, nodding. She didn't flinch at the image.

Jungkook squinted.
He couldn't see the painting from this angle.
Only caught glimpses of color. Of movement.

Taehyung didn't look back.
Didn't know he was being watched.
Didn't know the eyes tracking him hadn't blinked in minutes.

Jungkook leaned in slightly.
Breath still.
Waiting.

A figure entered the frame--
broad shoulders, expensive coat, gel-slicked hair that screamed gallery investor rather than artist.

He pulled the chair out with a scrape and dropped into it across from Taehyung.

Jungkook tensed, eyes flicking between them. He couldn't hear anything-no sound carried through the sealed glass.

The man reached forward, grabbed the painting from the table like it was nothing more than a rolled-up flyer. He looked at it for less than five seconds.

That was all.

His mouth curled.
Not in a smile.

Something twisted. Mocking.
He scoffed---Jungkook could see it. That kind of mouth movement was universal.

Then--
He tossed the canvas down.

Not a drop. Not a careful slide.
A full throw.

It slapped the floor, paint-side down. A wet noise. Probably smeared half of it right there.

Jungkook blinked.
Stared.

The man stood, stepped around the table--
and stomped on it.

Once.

Twice.

Heel to canvas.

Jungkook's hands clenched around the edge of the narrow glass opening. His nails scraped the inside of his gloves. Breath caught hard in his throat.

Two fucking days.

No sleep. No food.
He watched that freak smear his fingers into pigment like it was all he had left in the world.

And this bastard--
Another stomp.

Jungkook's jaw locked so tight it clicked.
His vision blurred.

He still couldn't see Taehyung's face.

Couldn't see anything but those ruined strokes under a polished shoe.

The man moved in.

One step.
Close. Too close.

His hand dropped onto Taehyung's shoulder---flat, possessive, casual in the kind of way that wasn't casual at all.

Jungkook's entire body went still.

Fingers curled into fists more.

From where he stood, that single touch was enough to light every nerve in him on fire.

The man leaned down, lips brushing close to Taehyung's ear, speaking low.
Whispered something.
Grinned while he did it.

His other hand lifted, sliding forward like he was about to pull him in-arms wrapping over both shoulders now.

Jungkook's jaw flexed so hard it ached.

He didn't know what made his blood boil more---the ruined painting, or this fucker's hands on him.

But before the man could get closer--

The woman from earlier snapped something sharp, cutting the air.

Her hand gripped the man's sleeve and yanked him back with more force than expected.
She pointed.
At Taehyung.

Her mouth moved fast. Controlled. Displeased.

Jungkook couldn't make out what was said.
Didn't need to.

Whatever it was, it made the man raise both hands in mock surrender. He muttered something and backed away.

The woman turned to Taehyung.

Said something else. Short. Final.

Taehyung?

He didn't reply.
Didn't nod.
Just turned.

And walked away.

No glance back.
No hesitation.

Like none of it mattered.

Like the smeared canvas and the unwanted touch never happened.

But Jungkook--
He was still staring.

Burning.

He didn't move.

Not even after he saw Taehyung exit from the same back door-shoulders slightly hunched, hands tucked into his coat, the ruined painting left behind.

He watched the figure disappear down the same stretch of road they'd walked two nights ago. No one else followed. No one called after him.

Just silence.

Just the flickering light above the gallery door.

Jungkook didn't follow.

His boots stayed planted outside the wall. Right beneath that narrow slit of glass. The thin curve that showed too much.

He didn't know why he didn't go after him.
Usually he did.

But this time--
he stayed.

Outside.
Alone.

The wind picked up, brushing past his hood, tugging the hem of his jacket. Cars passed behind him. Headlights stretched shadows long across the pavement.

Still, he stood there.

Hands shoved deep into his pockets. Jaw clenched. Mind loud.

Not with thoughts---just images.

A boot on paint.
Fingers on a shoulder.
That mouth too close to an ear.

Not watching anything now.
Just... waiting.

The man stepped out of the gallery, finally-just as the streetlights flickered and another hour passed into nothing but darkness of night.

Jungkook didn't breathe. Just watched.

A goodbye was exchanged. Some weak smile. A wave. Then the man turned, shoes tapping lightly on wet pavement as he drifted away into the dark.

Jungkook followed.

Slow at first. Quiet steps. Not because he needed to be---just because he could.

The alley swallowed them both. Narrow. Damp. Not a single soul in sight. The kind of silence that let every breath echo.

Then the man stopped.

Turned. Like he felt it.

Their eyes met.

Jungkook didn't blink.
Didn't even pretend to hide.

He just kept walking.

The man's face shifted from confusion---
to panic.

He ran.

Too late.

Jungkook broke into a run, boots slamming into pavement. The alley stretched long, sharp turns and scattered garbage, but the man wasn't fast enough. Not even close.

His steps were loud. Desperate. Sloppy.

Jungkook's were calculated.
Quick.
Hungry.

And closing in.
He caught him just at the curve of the alley--
fingers locking around the back of the man's coat and yanking him back with full force.

The man's body jerked, spine twisting mid-run.
Then--
crack.

His head slammed against the wall with a sick thud before he crumpled to the ground.

Didn't even have time to breathe.

Jungkook approached without a word.
His steps were slow.
Measured.
And then he kicked.

Right across the face.

A sharp, wet crack echoed against the brick. The man groaned, hands barely twitching up to protect himself.

Jungkook didn't stop.

He shifted forward---foot pressing hard at the man's leg, and then--
full weight.

The scream that tore out was muffled against blood and gravel.
Jungkook didn't react.

Another kick.
Lower. Into the bend of the knee.

The man howled, body curling slightly before Jungkook shoved him back down with his boot.

Click of tongue. Jaw clenched.
"You stepped on his work," Jungkook muttered, voice horse.

The man sobbed something unintelligible.

Jungkook raised his foot again.
Another kick--
this one lower, crueler.

The man screamed, curling slightly, hands twitching over his ribs like it would protect anything. Jungkook's eyes flicked down.

To his hands.

Those same filthy hands that touched him.
Wrapped around his shoulders.
Pulled him close.
Leaned in like he owned a single part of him.

Jungkook's chest tightened.
Rage pressing into the hollow of his ribs.

He exhaled. Long. Slow.
As if trying to tame the storm behind his eyes.

Then, without a word, he bent down--
grabbed the man by the collar, not even caring how he clawed at the ground--

And began to drag him.

His boots scraped loud against concrete.
The man whimpered, slurred something between a plea and a cough, but Jungkook didn't stop.

Didn't speak.

Didn't even look down.

He just pulled him deeper into the dark.
Where no one would hear.
Where no one would come looking.
Where nothing was left but lesson.

‧ .ㄨ🕷ㄨ. ‧

The box sat quiet in his palm.
Red. Compact. Almost pretty.

Jungkook stared at it a moment longer, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Then he crouched, set it neatly in front of the door. No hesitation. No pause.

He rang the bell once.

And walked off.

Not far---just around the side of the building, boots hitting the damp stone with measured calm. He found the same window, the one he'd stared through before, and leaned slightly, just enough to see.

Inside, the room was still dim. Curtains drawn halfway. A streak of soft light cut across the wooden floor.

Taehyung shifted under the blanket---slow, sluggish, like the world hadn't demanded anything from him in days. He sat up. Rubbed his eyes. Head down as he padded barefoot across the room, loose shirt sliding off one shoulder.

He opened the door.

Blinked once at the small red box.

Picked it up with both hands.

Jungkook's foot tapped---slow at first. Then a little harder.

Taehyung shut the door again.

He returned to the middle of the room, dropping onto the edge of the bed, the box held in his lap like it didn't quite belong.

His face was blank.

Expression unreadable.

Jungkook leaned closer to the window, chest tightening in anticipation.

Taehyung didn't open it yet.
Just stared.
Like he was trying to guess what it might be.

Jungkook leaned closer, eyes narrowing-

Something moved.

Small at first. Crawling across the floor, up the side of the mattress, quiet as breath.

His brows knit.
A spider.

But not the kind you brush away with a flick.
This one was massive-pitch black, thick-legged, body glinting under the weak light.

It climbed Taehyung like he wasn't even there.

Up his knee, over his thigh, toward his chest.

Jungkook stiffened.
But inside the room--
Nothing.

No flinch.
No reaction.
Taehyung didn't even blink.

The spider crept up his shoulder, took its sweet time exploring the curve of his collarbone... before settling right on top of the box in his lap.

And Taehyung?

He just looked at it.

Like it was nothing new.

His hand lifted slowly.
Fingers brushed across the spider's back-
not to swat it--
but to pet it.

Soft. Careful.

Jungkook felt his entire brain short-circuit.

"The hell," he muttered under his breath, breath catching as he stared in disbelief.

It wasn't just the spider.
It was the calm.
The stillness.
The absolute lack of human instinct.

Like this wasn't strange at all.
Like it happened every day.
Like that thing belonged to him.

Jungkook pulled back from the window, heart racing.

His fingers flexed once at his sides.

Keepsake wasn't just off.

He was something else entirely.

Jungkook's gaze snapped back to the window as he caught the movement--
the spider shifted aside, legs clicking faintly against the cardboard.

Taehyung's fingers moved to the lid.

Slow.

Steady.

The box opened with a quiet rustle.
No hesitation.

Jungkook watched the pale hand slip inside--
grip something.

And then lift.

His smirk sharpened. Spread.

A severed hand.
Pale skin. Fingers limp.
Still glistening at the wrist, where the meat tore rough and uneven. Blood soaked the bottom of the box, still fresh enough to smear.

It hit the air with a wet sound.

Taehyung stared at it.

Expression blank.
Head tilting slightly-curious, not horrified. Not even fazed.

He held the wrist up for a moment, studying the veins, the curve of the thumb.

Jungkook bit the inside of his cheek, eyes gleaming.
That was the hand.
The one that had dared to lay a filthy claim on what wasn't his.

Who leaned in too close.
Who grabbed his shoulder like he could own it.

Now---his hand sat limp in Taehyung's fingers.

The blood dripped.
A soft tick against the floor.

And still---no scream.
No disgust.
Just silence.

Jungkook leaned into the glass, watching. Waiting. Almost breathless.

His keepsake held the severed hand like it was nothing.
As if it made sense.

The silence was deafening.

Jungkook's eyes followed every shift--
every slow motion of those pale fingers placing the hand gently back inside the box.
Lid closing with a soft thud.

That was it?

That was fucking it?

No tremble.
No pause.
No reaction at all?

His jaw ticked.
The smirk faded.

His hand moved to his back, fingers curling around cold metal.
Gun drawn.
Lifted.
Eyes locked through the window.

Click.

Crack.

Bang.

The shot ripped through the quiet--
shattering glass, splintering it just inches from Taehyung's head.

A spider scurried off the bed, vanishing into the dark.

Jungkook didn't move.
Held his aim.
Waited for it--
the scream, the flinch, the drop to the floor.

But--

Taehyung just turned.

Eyes sweeping the broken glass scattered across the wooden floor.

And stared at it.

Blank. Like he'd knocked over a cup of water.

Not a muscle moved.
Not even a flicker in those damn monolids.

Jungkook's finger twitched on the trigger.

Still--nothing.

Taehyung tilted his head once, slowly--
looked up at the fractured window.

Right where Jungkook stood in the dark.
Hidden. But not really.

Their eyes didn't meet.

Because Taehyung didn't search for him.

He just blinked.

As if glass didn't just explode inches from his skull.

As if a bullet wasn't meant for his warning.

As if none of it meant a fucking thing.

Jungkook lowered the gun slightly.

Chest heaving. Jaw clenched.

What the fuck was this man made of?

He moved.

Keepsake rose from the bed with that same weightless slowness, as if the world around him barely registered.

Jungkook's eyes tracked lower--
the soft crunch of glass under bare feet.
Not fast, not cautious. Just... movement.

Shards sliced open skin without resistance.

One. Two. More.

Blood bloomed in soft, wet circles under each step.
And he kept walking.

Like it didn't hurt.
Like pain wasn't a thing that applied to him.

Jungkook's breath caught in his throat.
Not out of shock. Not even rage.

Something else.

Something wrong.

His hands clenched tighter around the gun, knuckles white.

The floor---stained now.
Little smears of red following Taehyung's every step.
Messy. Raw. Wrong.

Jungkook's mind clouded.
The same hands that tore flesh two nights ago... now froze.

Not when he cut a man.
Not when he snapped bone.
Not when he wrapped a gift soaked in blood.

But now?

Watching this.

Blood on his floor.
His keepsake's blood.

He didn't flinch when it came from others.
But now, his fingers twitched.

Something in his brain sparked wildly.
Louder than logic.
More violent than guilt.

Why the fuck aren't you stopping?

The thought hit him uninvited. He couldn't even finish it.

Because his gaze was still locked on those feet---
bleeding.

Quietly. Continuously.

And it was unbearable.

Keepsake stopped mid-step.

The soft drag of torn skin and glass finally came to a halt.

Jungkook's breath sat heavy in his throat as he watched from the shadows, every inch of his body wired.

Taehyung crouched down slowly.

His hands reached into the red box, careful fingers curling around the canvas Jungkook had folded beneath the severed hand. He pulled it out gently, like it was delicate, almost reverent.

He unrolled it across the wooden floor---blood drops flicking along its length. The edges stuck to the floor briefly, then settled flat.

Still silent.

Then he picked up the brushes.
A tangle of them---thin, blunt, worn out. The bristles were bent, frayed like they'd fought something and lost.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes.

What the fuck was he doing?

Keepsake---Taehyung---reached back into the box.
Fingers touched the severed wrist again.
He lifted it with both hands, tilted it.

Blood, thick and slow, clung to his skin.

And then---he dipped his fingers into the cut.

Rubbed them across the exposed meat of the wrist.
Wet. Red. Warm.

Jungkook's stomach coiled, something sharp rising in his chest.

Then he touched the canvas.

Stroked a line---slow, uneven.
Another. Another. A half smear. A blotch.
With his fingers.

No brush.

Just blood.

Painting. With blood.
A fucking human hand.

Jungkook blinked once.

He didn't understand what he was seeing.

Not even a little.

But he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Taehyung kept working---calm, blank, quiet.

Like this was normal.
Like the blood on his fingers was just another color.

Jungkook didn't move.
Didn't breathe.

He stood behind the building, one eye still fixed through the shattered opening, watching through the sliver of night and broken glass.

Inside, Taehyung was quiet---like a part of the floor itself.

He moved only to smear more blood on canvas, fingers dragging rough lines across the blank space. No rhythm. No symmetry. Just movement.

He dipped again.

Wrist to canvas.

Red trailed in streaks, and then circles.
Symbols maybe. Or nothing at all.

Jungkook tried to make sense of it, but he couldn't.
The image wouldn't come together.

His eyes dropped for a moment, tracking-
And there it was.

The spider.

That same inky black body slinking out from behind a shelf. Legs twitching with eerie precision as it crept along the floor. Toward him again.

It scaled the foot.
Up the shin.
Paused at the knee.

Keepsake didn't react.

Didn't flinch when it climbed his chest.
Didn't bat it away as it tiptoed across his neck.

The thing crawled over his collarbone and finally nestled itself just behind his ear---like it belonged there.

Perched. Still.

Taehyung dipped his fingers again into the bloody wrist.

Jungkook's throat tightened.

It wasn't just the painting.
Wasn't just the spider.

It was the stillness.
The disturbing normalcy of it.

The way Keepsake moved like this was just another night.
Another act.

Another page in a life where this wasn't strange at all.

Jungkook leaned closer--
but the longer he looked, the less he understood.

And the more he wanted to.

He jolted-
the low, sharp vibration against his thigh cutting through the moment like a blade.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, yanked the phone out of his pocket and ducked behind the nearest corner, away from the window, away from him.

The screen lit up:
Yoongi.

He answered it with a grunt, voice low.

"What."

"Where the fuck are you?"

"You're not home. You're not with Hoseok. You're not even hiding," Yoongi snapped, words fast and low. "Where the fuck are you, Jungkook?"

"Nowhere," Jungkook muttered, voice flat.

"Bullshit. I tracked your phone." Yoongi didn't wait for a response. "What the hell are you doing in Yongsan?"

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking to the street ahead-empty.

The back window of the building still cracked open in the distance.

"You don't need to know," he said.

"You're out on bail, not fucking vacation. You pull something reckless, they'll lock you down before you even see a courtroom-"

Jungkook's finger hovered near the end call.

"Don't-" Yoongi cut in, sharp. "Your father's looking for you. He came to the club. He's pissed."

Jungkook's grip on the phone twitched. "Let him be."

"He won't just 'be,' Jungkook. This isn't just about you anymore. He thinks you're planning something-"

"He's not wrong."

Silence.

Yoongi didn't speak for a second.

Then quieter, "Don't throw it all away."

Jungkook didn't answer.

He looked back-toward the gallery, toward the building where the freak sat painting with blood like it was ink.

He clicked his tongue, voice low.

"I already did."

And hung up.

He stepped back into the alley like a shadow reclaiming its shape.

The broken window caught a sliver of moonlight, glass jagged at the edges, shimmering faintly like teeth.

His eyes narrowed--
then widened.

There, across the center of the pane---scrawled in wet, smeared blood--
were words.

Uneven. Dragged by fingers, not a brush.
Not neat, not clean.
Deliberate.

КПЕРВЫЙ ПОДАРОК

The letters curled and slashed across the surface in a language that meant nothing to him. Not at first.

It wasn't Korean.
Not English.

The strokes were sharp. Cold. Foreign.

Jungkook's breath caught in his throat as he stared at it.
Red still fresh. Still dripping slowly toward the lower edge of the glass.

Keepsake was gone---no longer in the room.
But this?

This was left for him.

A message.

Taunting.

A warning?

Jungkook didn't understand the words,
but something in his gut twisted.

His fist pressed against the wall beside the window.
The cracked glass. The dried blood under his nails.
The cold silence inside.

What the fuck are you doing...

He whispered it to no one.

But that phrase---still bleeding on the glass--
felt like an answer.