The spider was crawling over his chest again.
It made slow, aimless circles---up to his collarbone, over the hollow of his throat, disappearing behind his neck only to reappear along his jaw. Every time it moved, Jungkook’s skin crawled from where he sat outside the apartment, eyes fixed to the sliver of space through the cracked blinds.
Four fucking days.
Not a single bite of food. Not even water—
as far as he could tell.
Taehyung either lay on the mattress like something already dead, fingers curling absently in the spider’s legs, or he sat in front of a canvas, dragging brush strokes that had long stopped resembling anything human.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up.
Didn’t exist, really. Just flickered. Like something between the living and not.
Jungkook’s boot tapped against the floor of the stairwell. The sound echoed. Annoying. Repetitive.
But his nerves were shredded.
He’d tracked every hour of this freak’s routine. What little there was of it.
There was no food delivery.
No takeout bags.
No plates.
Not even water bottles.
It wasn’t just neglect.
It was a fucking countdown.
His skin was translucent now. The curve of his spine visible through the thin white fabric of his shirt. He moved like gravity was optional---like he could stop responding to it at any second.
Jungkook leaned forward, jaw clenched, watching Taehyung press another stroke into a canvas that already looked ruined. Fingers dipped in some murky color he probably mixed with whatever was left of red. Or brown. Or black.
Maybe blood.
He didn’t fucking know anymore.
All Jungkook knew was this:
He’s going to die.
Whether it’s tonight, or tomorrow, or when his lungs finally forget to keep working--
This freak, this blank-eyed lunatic, this keepsake--
was going to disappear.
And that couldn’t happen.
Jungkook hadn’t come this far, dug this deep, lost this fucking much---just to have his one tie to Tae-won’s throat bleed out on some shitty mattress.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing back from the wall with a muttered curse.
He didn’t give a shit if the freak didn’t want to live.
He wasn’t asking.
Jungkook needed him alive.
For revenge.
For leverage.
Jungkook stood up. The decision already made.
Tonight, the freak eats.
Or Jungkook breaks his jaw forcing it.
Either way—
Buzz.
Jungkook didn’t check the screen.
He didn’t need to.
The buzz alone told him who it was.
He cursed low under his breath, pressing his thumb hard against the power button and killing the screen entirely. Just black now.
No more vibrations.
No more calls.
No more warnings.
But it didn’t help.
Because his father wasn’t someone you ignored.
Not for long.
If he wasn’t answering the phone, they’d come knocking.
And not gently.
He could already feel it.
In the way the air had been heavier since yesterday.
The way two new faces showed up on the corner near the laundromat pretending to argue about parking.
The way a black car sat for three hours across the street without headlights.
His father's men.
Not yet.
But almost.
And when they came?
They’d come for him.
But if they found Taehyung---
If they realized who he really was---
That was the problem.
Because Jungkook had seen what happened when his father wanted answers.
The man tied to a chair days ago. The shooter. The way flesh peeled back from bone.
The way teeth rattled before words ever left the throat.
Slow-brutal torture.
And this freak?
This frail, pale, sleep-deprived shell of a person--
with his ribs poking out and a goddamn spider for company?
He wouldn’t last a minute.
One question.
One cut.
Gone.
Jungkook’s fingers curled into a fist as he leaned back against the alley wall, the sharp edge of exposed brick digging into his spine like something deserved.
He shouldn’t care.
But he did.
Fuck.
He needed a plan.
Fast.
The problem wasn’t just hiding Taehyung now.
It was the noose tightening around them both---too many eyes, too many threats, and the freak inside that apartment looked ready to dissolve if the wind blew too hard.
Jungkook gritted his teeth.
His head was a fucking mess.
He pressed his palms to his face, sliding them up into his hair, dragging down.
They couldn’t stay here.
He couldn’t keep watching.
And he couldn’t---absolutely fucking couldn’t---let his father find him.
The keepsake might have been handed to him by fate.
But keeping him alive?
That was Jungkook’s problem now.
~~~
The stink hit him first.
Rotting.
Jungkook froze at the threshold, his hand instinctively lifting to cover his mouth.
It wasn’t just bad. It was feral—
the kind of rot that clung to your skin, crawled down your throat, and made your lungs question their job.
He stepped in.
The door was half open, hanging off its hinge. No creak. Just the low groan of metal tired of being held in place.
The apartment looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.
The floorboards were warped, some of them split.
A leak in the ceiling was forming mold in the corner.
Blank canvases stacked like broken bones near the window, and the walls were stained with what looked like ink or worse.
And yet this—this—was where a Kim was living?
A son of one of the wealthiest families on the peninsula?
Jungkook’s jaw clenched.
Not the time.
He moved fast—through the narrow hall, past the kitchen that was just a sink full of rusted spoons and a microwave missing its door.
His boots thudded against the warped wood as he reached the bedroom.
Empty.
“Fuck—”
The sheets were still tangled from where the freak had last curled into them.
That damn spider was perched on the headboard, unmoving, as if it were also waiting.
Jungkook’s eyes scanned the room.
Canvas.
Brushes.
One cracked mirror leaning sideways against the wall.
And blood.
Smears of it. Near the mattress. Not fresh—but not old either.
He stepped closer.
Bent down.
Pressed his fingers to the floor.
Still damp.
Not a lot. But enough.
He looked up. Something in his chest turning slow and tight.
He’d left the freak for five minutes. Five fucking minutes.
And now—
Gone?
Where the hell would he even go?
Jungkook backed out of the room, chest rising and falling faster now.
His eyes flicked down the hallway. The door had been open. Anyone could’ve come in.
Or he walked out himself.
Which made no fucking sense.
Because the last time he saw him, he looked like one push could knock him out of existence.
Something’s not right.
He turned sharply, re-entered the front room, scanning again. This time not for Taehyung—but for clues.
Window cracked.
A brush rolled to the floor.
And next to the door—
Footprints.
Thin, bloody ones.
Fading.
Outward.
Gone.
He stood there for a second---frozen---before it snapped.
Jungkook spun on his heel, boots slamming against the floor as he stormed back into the living room.
Drip.
Drip.
He stopped.
Didn’t mean to—but his body knew something before his brain did.
Water.
Close.
He turned.
Sound was coming from the back--
Hall narrow. Air thicker.
The apartment was breathing different here.
The bathroom door was cracked. Light spilled out across the warped floor, pulsing faintly.
Jungkook moved forward like he was stepping toward something that could bite.
His fingers touched the door.
Pushed.
Just a little.
The smell hit him first---hot, sharp, metallic. The kind that stuck to the back of your tongue. Mold curling under tile. Damp air curling under skin.
Then the steam.
Then—
Him.
Jungkook blinked once, but it didn’t go away.
Keepsake.
In the tub.
Naked.
Head tipped back against the wall, lips parted slightly, throat long and too still. His hair was soaked, stuck to the curve of his jaw, water sliding down his collarbones like the body was still learning how to be a body.
The light flickered above.
It took a full five seconds before Jungkook realized he hadn’t moved.
His foot was still on the tile.
The door creaked a little more open.
Keepsake didn’t flinch.
Didn’t open his eyes.
Didn’t even shift when the spider crawled up over the edge of the tub, stopping near his ribs.
Jungkook stared.
It wasn’t the bath.
It was everything else.
The blood still under Taehyung’s nails. The shallow rise of his chest. The faint bruises blooming purple at his hips. How the water wasn’t clean---just cloudy, like it had peeled something off of him.
He looked… already dead.
Or like something trying to imitate what the living looked like.
Jungkook opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He stepped in.
Slow. Boots loud against the tile now. No point in hiding.
The air didn’t move. The steam didn’t clear. The freak didn’t speak.
He stopped a few feet away. Arms heavy at his sides. Every inch of his body drawn so tight it felt like his bones might snap from the inside.
“You trying to fucking die clean?” he said.
Voice didn’t even sound like his own.
Taehyung didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because this wasn’t a bath.
This was a coffin he climbed into himself.
Click of a tongue.
Sharp.
Jungkook stepped forward, each footfall heavy enough to shake something loose in his own chest.
His hand reached out---grabbed the freak’s arm.
Wet.
Sticky.
Flesh too cold for someone still breathing.
The skin under his palm felt wrong. Not dead, but not right either. Like touching a candle that had melted halfway and never stopped.
His grip tightened.
Harder than he meant to.
A soft hiss escaped Taehyung’s mouth. Barely there. Like pain wasn’t a scream, but an exhale. His eyes opened---slow. Heavy-lidded.
Just one blink.
Right at him.
No confusion. No fear. Just… there.
He didn’t look down.
Didn’t want to see what parts of this body were bruised, or cut, or done pretending to hold themselves together.
He grabbed the towel off the rail---ripped it down, snapped it once like it’d done something wrong, and threw it over the freak’s body.
It stuck to his skin. Barely covered anything.
Didn’t matter.
He turned.
Stormed out.
Down the hallway. Back through the rot and the paint-stained floors and the walls that breathed mold.
The towel slipped slightly down one hip.
Jungkook didn’t fix it.
Just moved.
Straight to the bedroom.
The bed was cold. Still tangled in sheets, spider perched on the headboard like it hadn’t blinked once since he left.
Jungkook kicked the sheets back.
Dropped him.
Not roughly. But not gentle either.
More like putting something down before it burned through his hands.
The towel shifted again. Jungkook turned away before he could see too much.
He wiped his hands on his jeans, breath short, blood hot.
He wouldn’t let this freak die.
No matter how much he wanted to.
No matter how easy it would be to walk away and let the silence swallow everything.
Because Keepsake wasn’t allowed to disappear.
Never.
He turned again.
Eyes locked on the freak’s face.
Still pale. Still half-gone. A damp curl of hair clung to his temple, and the towel barely clung to his hips.
Breathing---barely.
Jungkook’s jaw flexed.
He needed food.
Now.
Or this walking corpse would finally stop pretending.
He spun on his heel, boots pounding against the warped floor as he stalked into the kitchen---if it could even be called that.
His fingers yanked open every cabinet.
Empty.
Fridge? A graveyard. Nothing but a broken light and a smell that turned his stomach.
Sink full of rusted spoons. A cockroach darted behind a mug, and he didn’t even flinch.
Cupboard under the counter---nothing.
No cans. No instant ramen. No half-eaten bags of rice.
Not even water.
No water.
Not a single goddamn bottle.
He slammed the cabinet shut hard enough to rattle the hinges.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, hand dragging down his face.
It was impossible.
Impossible to keep someone alive in this place.
It wasn’t an apartment---it was a slow death chamber. Just dressed up in paint and rot.
He stalked back to the bedroom.
His boots thudded again against the floor. Fast. Heavy.
When he pushed the door open--
The spider was there again.
Resting on the freak’s stomach.
Its legs moved lazily, curling over Taehyung’s navel like it had marked its territory.
Jungkook stopped in the doorway, rage flashing hot through his chest.
He wanted to crush it. Right then. Snap its legs one by one and smear what was left across the wall.
But not now.
Not the time.
He stepped inside.
Keepsake didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
The spider twitched once, but didn’t run.
Jungkook ignored it. For now.
And turned toward the corner---cardboard box half-collapsed under the weight of fabric.
Jungkook crouched, yanked the lid open.
Clothes. Neatly folded. Untouched.
Not the kind of shit that belonged in a place like this.
The fabric caught the low light---soft, expensive. Some silk, some cashmere. Deep blacks, sharp whites. Tailored. Flashy, even. Like someone had packed a suitcase meant for marble floors and penthouse parties, then left it to rot in this mold-ridden coffin.
Jungkook grabbed a shirt. A pair of pants.
He walked back to the bed, the fabric draped over his arm like it mattered. It didn’t.
He sat down on the edge of the mattress. The freak didn’t stir.
The towel had started slipping lower.
Jungkook didn’t look. Didn’t want to look.
He reached under the cold weight of him, slid one arm around his back, the other under his knees---fingers curling around a hipbone that jutted too sharp beneath the skin.
He lifted him slightly.
Dead weight.
Like dressing a corpse.
The shirt went on slow. Arms limp. Neck slack. No resistance. No help.
Just dead fish softness, head tilted, lashes unmoving.
Jungkook’s hands moved with tight precision, jaw locked.
He'd never dressed someone.
His eyes paused.
The shirt was open. And there it was again.
That scar.
Down the center of Taehyung’s chest. Clean. Surgical. Long.
Almost too precise.
Jungkook stared for a second. Just a second.
Something about it felt… off.
Like it split more than just skin.
He shook his head. Shut the thought down.
He started buttoning the shirt.
One. Two. Three.
Quick, clipped movements. Hands efficient. Like if he didn’t focus on the task, he might do something worse.
Once the shirt was done, he reached for the pants.
His hand brushed skin again---cool and soft and wrong.
He moved faster now.
No thoughts.
Just finish the job.
Because this body---
This body didn’t feel like it wanted to stay alive.
So Jungkook would do it for him.
He pulled away.
The clothes were on now---shirt buttoned, pants clinging loose to narrow hips. Every inch of fabric hung too heavy, like it belonged to a mannequin, not a man.
Jungkook bent down.
Slid his arms under again.
Lifted.
The weight barely registered. What did register was the way the body slipped.
Head lolled. Fingers dragged along his arm. Chest folded too easy, like the bones forgot they were supposed to hold anything up.
Jungkook froze mid-movement.
Paused.
Just for a second.
His grip shifted.
Instinct.
He adjusted the freak’s shoulder with one hand, slid the other under his thighs, cradling him higher---closer.
Better.
Gentler.
Taehyung’s head dropped against his collarbone, hair brushing Jungkook’s neck.
The breath that left him was warm. Faint. And for a split second, something in Jungkook stalled.
A flicker.
Soft.
Too fucking soft.
He looked down. Met the curve of that pale cheek. The lashes resting like a secret. The kind of expression only the unconscious wore---unguarded, unsettling.
His chest tightened.
Jaw clenched.
Then--
the haze cracked.
Hard.
Jungkook’s mouth set into a line.
He shifted his grip again---firmer now, colder---and stepped toward the door.
Just carried the freak out.
Like a burden.
Like a warning.
Like something he’d kill to protect, even if he didn’t want to.
~~~
Footsteps echoed down the hall—fast, heavy, deliberate.
The sharp beep-beep of a passcode.
A click.
Then the door swung open.
Jungkook stepped inside, shoulder knocking it shut behind him, arms full.
His hand reached out in the same motion---slapped the light switch.
Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Warm. Too bright.
He exhaled hard, breath catching in his chest as the apartment blinked to life around him.
Clean. Sharp lines. Wood floors. Leather. Nothing out of place.
The smell of sterilized quiet. No damp. Just... absence.
He hadn’t been here in a week.
Because he’d been breathing next to something else.
Something fragile. Something dying. Something he couldn’t seem to fucking leave.
Jungkook tightened his grip around the body in his arms. Kept it close as he moved.
Through the living room. Past the kitchen. Down the short hall toward the bedroom.
The walls here didn’t breathe mold. The floor didn’t creak like it was grieving.
He pushed the bedroom door open with one foot.
Walked in.
Bed still made.
He stepped forward.
Lowered the freak onto the sheets.
The fabric dipped.
Jungkook stared.
Taehyung didn’t move.
Didn’t wake.
Just settled there like he belonged to the mattress. The room. The whole fucking world.
Jungkook straightened.
Stood there.
Blank.
The light hummed behind him. His fists twitched once at his sides.
Now what?
The freak was in his bed.
In his space.
Alive---but barely.
He didn’t know what came next.
He hadn’t thought that far.
And that was the problem.
He didn’t want to think about why he brought him here in the first place.
Jungkook’s chest was tightening---too fast, too sharp.
It wasn’t panic. It was pressure. Building.
Because standing here, staring at this mess of a body half-curled on his sheets, he knew--
Food wouldn’t fix this.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
What the freak needed was treatment.
Real.
Immediate.
He pulled out his phone.
Screen lit. Fingers moved fast.
One contact.
Hoseok.
Call.
Two rings.
Then—
“What the fuck, dude. Where have you been—?”
Jungkook didn’t wait.
“Bring a doctor.”
Silence.
“To my place.”
More silence.
“Fast.”
Then he ended the call.
Didn’t wait for questions.
Didn’t have the bandwidth for why right now.
He slid the phone back into his pocket, eyes never leaving the pale shape on his bed.
The sheets were already soaked at the collar---Taehyung’s hair dripping slow into the fabric.
Breath shallow.
Body still.
Jungkook stood there.
Breathe.
Just that.
So faint it barely counted.
Jungkook stood still, eyes locked on the barely-there rise of Taehyung’s chest.
In. Out. Slow. Uneven.
Proof of life. Nothing more.
Minutes dragged. Thick. Slow. Like time forgot how to move.
Then--
Ding.
The doorbell snapped the silence in half.
Jungkook moved. Quick strides through the living room, boots quiet on the wood. He reached the door, yanked it open.
Exhaled.
Hoseok stood on the other side, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess---behind him, Dr. Ahn. Coat already on, bag in hand, eyes sharp like he’d walked straight out of a ring and into this.
“You’re fine,” Hoseok said, brows lifting. “What the hell? You call me like someone cracked your ribs.”
Jungkook shook his head once, tight.
“Come in.”
No explanation. Just turned and walked.
They followed. No more questions.
He led them down the hallway, toward the bedroom---toward the reason the air in the apartment felt heavier than usual.
The moment Dr. Ahn stepped inside, his pace slowed.
His eyes landed on the body in the bed.
And didn’t move.
“Who is he?” Hoseok asked from behind, voice lower now. More serious.
Jungkook didn’t look back.
“Doesn’t matter,” he growled. “Just treat him.”
He turned toward Dr. Ahn, jaw clenched.
The doctor gave a single nod---no questions, no hesitation.
He dropped the bag by the bedside, already pulling on gloves. His movements were fast. Clean.
He leaned in, fingers brushing aside the damp collar of the shirt Jungkook had barely managed to button earlier.
Checked the pulse first.
Then the eyes.
Then the ribs.
Each touch slow, deliberate---mapping a body that didn’t know it was falling apart.
Jungkook stood off to the side.
Watching.
Still.
Like if he blinked, the freak might disappear again.
Ahn paused mid-check, fingers lifting from Taehyung’s wrist.
He turned to Jungkook, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong with this person?” he asked, voice sharp. “He hasn’t eaten in days. His vitals are a mess. Muscle loss, dehydration---his body’s on the verge of collapse. Where the hell did you even find him?”
Jungkook’s stare didn’t shift. His voice came out flat, dangerous.
“Mind your business and fucking treat him.”
Ahn scoffed under his breath. “I am treating him. But this---this is almost a corpse.”
Jungkook’s eyes darkened. Entire body still.
Then---movement.
Fast.
He grabbed Ahn by the collar, yanked him back, and slammed him against the wall so hard the plaster cracked behind his spine.
“Fix my keepsake!” Jungkook barked, voice raw, teeth bared. “Or I’ll blow your fucking skull open!”
The click was unmistakable.
Gun drawn.
Muzzle pressed hard to Ahn’s temple.
The doctor froze, breath caught, eyes wide.
“Jungkook—!” Hoseok’s voice cracked behind him.
A second later, he was there---pulling, grabbing---fingers wrapped around Jungkook’s wrist, yanking the gun away.
“What the fuck, man?!”
He wrenched it free, tossed it to the floor behind them.
“Calm the fuck down! Let him work!”
Jungkook didn’t move at first.
Just stood there.
Chest heaving.
Knuckles white.
Ahn still pinned to the wall, barely breathing, sweat beading at his temple.
“Look at him,” Hoseok hissed, stepping between them. “You think that person survives another night if you blow the only guy who can help his head off?”
Silence.
Jungkook’s jaw ticked.
Then---slowly---he stepped back.
Hands at his sides.
Eyes locked on the bed. On the body that hadn’t moved. On the weight of something he couldn’t carry, but couldn’t fucking drop.
“Just fix him,” he said again, quieter now.
Not a plea.
A warning dressed as a whisper.
Ahn jerked back, one hand flying to his collar, fixing it with a sharp tug.
He glared hard---at Jungkook. But he didn’t say a word.
Just breathed once.
Then turned back to the bed.
Back to the body.
Back to the problem.
He knelt down, opened his case, pulled out the IV pack without hesitation. Hooked the bag. Glucose. Clear and slow.
The needle slid into the arm with practiced ease, tape pressed over fragile skin.
Jungkook dropped down.
Right there---onto the edge of the bed.
Near Taehyung’s head.
Close enough to hear his breath.
Close enough to see the thread of color under his skin.
Close enough to watch.
The drip started.
One pulse.
Two.
The liquid vanished into his veins like it was being swallowed by a void.
Ahn moved to his feet---gently turned them, pulled supplies. Tweezers. Gauze. Antiseptic.
The cuts were worse than they looked---glass had embedded in places, dried blood sealed over open wounds. It wasn’t carelessness. It was intentional neglect. A body abandoned by its own owner.
Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave the line in Taehyung’s arm.
He just sat there, body heavy, fists loose.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like if he stared long enough, maybe something would shift.
Maybe the freak would come back from wherever the fuck he’d gone.
His finger moved.
Barely. Just a twitch.
Then it curled---slow, tight---around his own wrist.
Jungkook’s eyes flicked down.
There it was.
The thread.
Black. Thin. Frayed at the edges.
Still there.
Still tied.
Still holding.
His grip tightened.
A slow breath dragged out of his chest like it hurt to take in. His thumb brushed the knot---small, almost pathetic in its size. But it never came undone.
Not once.
Keepsake had tied it there.
Just reached out that night, in the graveyard---same blank eyes, same dead calm---and wrapped it around Jungkook’s wrist like it meant something. Like he knew Jungkook would never take it off.
And he hadn’t.
Even now.
He hadn’t.
Because back then—
he’d been vulnerable too.
And this thread?
This thread had held him.
Even at his lowest. Even when grief clawed through his chest and guilt tore him limb from limb.
He’d kept it.
Promised himself it was temporary.
He’d burn it.
Once Hana was avenged.
Once Tae-won was dead.
Once the family that shattered everything he ever loved was ash at his feet.
And this son---this son of the man who ordered her death—
He would die too.
No exceptions.
No mercy.
Everyone would die.
And when they did—
He’d cut the thread.
Burn it.
Watch it curl into smoke.
And maybe, finally,
he’d breathe again.
Ahn stood, knees cracking slightly as he straightened. He pulled the gloves off slow, each snap echoing louder than it should’ve in the quiet room.
“He’ll live,” he said, voice clipped. “But barely.”
Jungkook didn’t answer. His fingers were still curled near the thread, jaw tight, eyes on the drip.
Ahn slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Serious bed rest. Nutrients Meals. Fluids. His system’s eating itself trying to keep running. One wrong move, and that body won’t get back up.”
Jungkook nodded once.
Dr. Ahn gave a final glance toward the bed. Then turned. Left.
Door clicked behind him.
Silence again.
Except Hoseok stayed.
He hadn't moved much since stepping into the room, still by the doorway, arms folded, leaning against the frame like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be part of this or not.
His eyes stayed on the bed.
On the mess.
The body curled beneath clean sheets in someone else’s clothes.
That pale face. That dead-weight stillness. That air of something that didn’t belong anywhere, let alone here.
And Jungkook---sitting next to it like a guard dog made of knives.
Hoseok exhaled through his nose, slow.
Probably wondering the same thing anyone would.
Who the fuck is this?
Because he’d known Jungkook for years.
And Jungkook didn’t have people.
Not really.
No friends. No one but them---him, Yoongi, Seokjin, maybe Namjoon if the timing was right.
And now this?
This half-dead stranger in his bed?
Hoseok’s gaze dropped to Jungkook’s hand---still clutched near his wrist.
Saw the thread.
Didn’t ask.
He finally turned.
Said nothing.
Just stepped back into the hall and disappeared down it, the sound of his footsteps muffled by wood and weight.
Jungkook didn’t move.
Didn’t look up.
His gaze stayed fixed on the body beside him---chest rising slow, like the lungs weren’t sure they wanted the air. Like they were rejecting it the same way Jungkook’s own chest felt too tight to breathe.
The IV kept dripping.
A bead of sweat traced down Taehyung’s temple, slow, like time trying to remind them both it still existed.
Jungkook just sat there.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
Somewhere behind him, soft sounds. Movement. The clink of a spoon. A drawer opening.
Minutes passed.
Then footsteps again.
Hoseok returned.
This time, tray in hand. Steam curling from the bowl---white rice porridge. Simple. Plain. Warm.
He held it out.
Didn’t speak.
Jungkook took it without looking. Fingers wrapped around the edges like he was holding something fragile.
He nodded once.
A thank you without words.
Hoseok lingered for a moment---eyes flicking between them---but said nothing. Then he stepped back.
Jungkook placed the bowl carefully on the bedside table.
Waiting.
For keepsake. To wake up.
He would feed him then.
His eyes flickered down—
and there-
Small. Black. Crawling.
Jungkook blinked once.
Disbelief. Disgust. Both.
The fucking spider.
Creeping out from beneath Taehyung’s shirt collar like it lived there.
When the hell had it slipped in—
how had it—
He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening.
It was slow. Confident. Taking its sweet fucking time as it moved along the faint line of Taehyung’s chest. Legs clicking gently against skin that still hadn’t regained color.
Jungkook’s hand twitched.
That was it.
Enough.
He reached forward---two fingers raised, ready to snatch it.
Crush it.
End it.
But then--
He froze.
His eyes flicked upward--
and locked.
Lashes fluttered.
Just once.
Then again.
Those eyes opened, hazy, unfocused---but open.
Dead. Glazed.
Faint shimmer.
And they looked straight at him.
At Jungkook.
Him.
The breath caught in his throat.
Hand still raised mid-air.
Caught between violence and something he didn’t have a name for.
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