10
Third Person Pov
The atmosphere in the hall was suffocating not with noise, but with silence that rang louder than words ever could.
Power pulsed like static through the air.
Men in tailored black suits lined the perimeter of the grand room, rigid and still human sentinels stationed like shadows. Aides, assistants, and security guards stood with perfect posture, eyes forward, mouths sealed.
No one moved unless commanded. The floor beneath them gleamed like obsidian, reflecting the high ceiling chandeliers and the ruthless precision of the meeting’s mood.
At the center, like a black sun around which the tension orbited, sat Jeon Jungkook.
Reclined on a sleek, obsidian-leather couch, he looked like he belonged to a different species altogether something carved from control, not born from warmth.
His left arm rested lazily across the couch’s edge, fingers lightly brushing a Montblanc pen. The pen glided between his fingers slowly, methodically, like a bored king entertaining a toy.
But his eyes cold, sharp, and fathomless remained locked on the man across from him.
The AhnTech Motors manager looked like he was about to drown in his own sweat. The air-conditioning hummed gently, but it might as well have been a furnace to the man seated opposite Jungkook. His hands trembled faintly over the tablet in his lap as he pushed out the final pieces of his pitch.
“If… if we follow through with this launch calendar, the first model could be unveiled by Q4, sir, with pre-orders opening early next quarter. We’ve also planned a pre-marketing rollout—" he trailed, glancing up hopefully, eyes searching Jungkook’s face for the faintest twitch of approval.
There was none.
Jungkook remained perfectly still, the pen ceasing its motion, caught between two fingers.
Not a blink. Not a breath.
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
And then, after several excruciating seconds, it was Kim Seokjin ever the second in command, with a voice polished by diplomacy...who spoke.
“The timeline is ambitious,” Seokjin said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “But reasonable. Still, I’d prefer to hear what Jungkook thinks.”
The manager turned again, too fast, too eager like prey hoping the predator had changed its mind.
Jungkook finally shifted.
He sat upright, spine straight, shoulders sharp, setting the pen gently on the table in front of him with a soft click that echoed like a verdict.
“You overlooked the supplier costs for advanced dashboard integration,” Jungkook said, voice a low baritone without the slightest inflection of emotion. “They've increased by 18.4% since your last analysis.”
The manager’s throat bobbed. “We uh, we did account for projected hikes—”
“You accounted for 10%,” Jungkook cut in, voice like glass shattering softly under velvet. “You padded the difference with inflated software output estimates, hoping no one would notice.”
The man’s smile faltered. “I assure you—”
“Your software team lost eleven engineers last month,” Jungkook continued, unmoved. “Four of them were senior developers. You’re promising delivery metrics based on resources you no longer possess. That makes you either desperate or delusional.”
The assistant beside him paled. The secretary stopped taking notes entirely.
“And worst of all,” Jungkook’s voice dropped even lower, “you came into my company, into this room, expecting to bluff your way through a pitch–as if my time is cheap.”
The manager visibly withered. “We’ll rework the numbers. I--I promise, Mr. Jeon—”
“You’ll rework everything,” Seokjin said firmly, tone less kind now. “And if you waste our time again, you won’t get a second chance.”
The meeting was over. Its execution had been swift, sharp, and utterly public.
A statement, not a discussion. A decision, not a negotiation.
Jeon Jungkook leaned back in his chair like a man who’d merely flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve.
The tailored black suit he wore held not a single wrinkle, not a strand of thread out of place.
His fingers were loosely interlaced in front of him, the way one might rest after a performance. But this was no theater.
This was his court.
The polished obsidian floor below mirrored everything like black glass cold, still, deceptive. You could almost believe it was quiet beneath the surface until you realized it was merely hiding sharks.
Across from him, the AhnTech manager stood slowly clumsily. His once-confident posture had wilted under pressure, like a flower left too long in poisoned water. He straightened, or tried to, shoulders trembling, limbs twitching like they no longer obeyed him.
He was trying to preserve what little dignity remained, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
“Th-thank you for the opportunity… Mr. Jeon.”
He bowed low, sweat clinging to the back of his collar despite the room’s chill. The temperature inside was perfectly controlled, but shame had its own weather system.
The assistant and secretary scrambled to gather their belongings, tablets clattering against each other, files nearly slipping from their arms. They didn’t even look at Jungkook no one dared. The silence in the room was sharp enough to bleed.
They had barely turned toward the towering double doors, relief just beginning to creep into their bones, when
A soft, deliberate sound echoed across the marble.
Footsteps.
Unhurried. Barefoot.
Every head in the room turned as if summoned.
There descending the sweeping staircase like a ghost drawn to chaos was Taehyung.
He didn’t belong there. Not in that moment. Not in this war room of glass and greed and quiet execution.
He wore an oversized, grey-brown shirt that hung off his frame like borrowed softness.
The sleeves completely swallowed his hands, and the hem reached mid-thigh.
His feet were bare, the pads of them brushing soundlessly against the cold marble with every step.
Sunlight from the massive windows poured over him, gilding his loose brown hair and glowing skin until he looked otherworldly. ... almost too delicate to be real.
His head was down, lost in thought. His lips were parted, pink and soft, as if he’d been humming something only he could hear. He wasn’t meant to be seen. Not here. Not now.
But he was seen.
And how.
Jungkook noticed him first.
Not directly but in the reflection of the black glass table in front of him. The shape, the sway of movement, the soft motion of fabric.
The moment flickered across his face like a passing eclipse there and gone. But his eyes darkened.
The AhnTech manager’s eyes snapped to the stairs the instant Taehyung appeared, and everything in his face changed.
His breath caught.
The paperwork. The guards. Jungkook. All of it disappeared from his attention.
His pupils widened slightly. His lips parted.
He stared. Like a man seeing art for the first time.
His assistant noticed it next. Her eyes flicked between her boss and the descending boy, confusion blooming across her features.
Seokjin’s gaze cut toward the manager, and then to Taehyung.
His jaw clenched.
Not because of Taehyung but because of who was watching him.
Jungkook shifted slightly so subtle it was barely perceptible and lifted his hand in a quiet, almost casual flick.
A security guard stepped forward from the wall, as if conjured from shadow. In his hand, a black leather binder. On top of it, a golden pen.
He approached Jungkook with practiced silence, bowed, and offered the documents like a sacrament.
Jungkook didn’t look up.
He took the folder, flipped it open, and passed it toward the manager.
“You didn’t sign,” he said flatly.
No warmth. No venom. Just a truth spoken aloud.
The manager blinked startled out of his trance. “I—yes. Of course.” His voice cracked under pressure.
Taehyung had reached the middle landing now, steps faltering.
He finally noticed them.
The room. The silence. The eyes.
His own widened slightly. Not in fear but in uncertainty, like someone realizing they had wandered into the wrong scene of a dream.
He looked directly at Jungkook.
Just for a second.
That one second held galaxies. Chaos. Memory. Fire.
And then he looked away.
Quickly. Like he regretted it.
The manager was handed the pen. His fingers clutched it too tightly, knuckles white as he flipped to the final page.
The nib touched the paper.
And then
A strange hiss.
Soft. Barely audible. Like a whisper from the air vents.
The pen clattered from his hand.
He blinked. His eyes widened.
One hand reached up, fingers clawing at his shirtfront. “Wha… what was that?” he choked out.
His assistant took a step toward him instinctively.
He stumbled. His knees buckled.
The veins in his neck protruded.
“Sir?” the secretary gasped.
The manager doubled over. A strangled sound escaped his throat like a dying machine. He gritted his teeth and dropped to one knee.
Foam began to froth at the corners of his mouth.
Taehyung stood frozen on the steps, one hand gripping the banister. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
The manager’s eyes lifted to Jungkook—wild, disbelieving, filled with horror.
“Did you just… did you poison me?” he rasped.
Jungkook didn’t react.
Like he’d seen this a hundred times before.
“Should’ve kept your eyes on the documents,” he said softly, his voice smoother than silk yet colder than death.
The man convulsed again.
Seokjin didn’t move. His arms stayed folded, eyes fixed on the scene like it were merely another line item in the quarterly report.
The manager collapsed fully, both knees crashing against the floor.
His breath was faltering now.
Jungkook’s voice reached him one final time. Calm. Measured.
“Next time,” he murmured, “keep your eyes off what doesn’t belong to you.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
The assistant let out a scream.
Two guards stepped forward with the eerie precision of well-oiled machines. They grabbed the man under the arms and began dragging his twitching body away. His legs scraped limply behind him. The foam from his lips left a ghostly trail.
The assistant lunged forward, but a third guard blocked her.
“No—no! Let me go!” she cried.
The secretary backed away, clutching her tablet to her chest like it could shield her from the chill creeping into the room.
The heavy side doors opened with a creak, and the body was dragged into the shadows.
Then shut with a final, metallic thud.
Silence.
Like nothing had happened.
Taehyung still stood motionless, hand tight around the railing.
His heart thundered in his chest.
And Jungkook… finally turned his gaze to him.
For the first time directly.
No reflection. No glance.
Just those obsidian eyes meeting his.
Reading him.
And deciding nothing needed to be said.
A silence so complete, even the hum of the AC sounded like thunder.
The kind of silence that rings in your ears. That wraps around your throat like a noose. That lingers even when you try to breathe past it.
Taehyung stood halfway down the staircase, barefoot and unmoving.
Below, where the AhnTech manager had collapsed only moments ago, the floor gleamed again wiped clean by invisible hands that worked fast and without emotion. Like it never happened.
But Taehyung had seen it.
He had seen the way the man’s fingers twitched. The way his body spasmed, his knees buckled, the foam that bubbled from his lips. The horror that contorted his face right before he crumpled like a broken marionette.
From a pen.
Just a pen.
Taehyung didn’t know how. Didn’t want to.
All he knew was Jeon Jungkook hadn’t even moved.
He hadn’t lifted a brow. Hadn’t raised his voice. Hadn’t broken eye contact with his screen.
And a man had died.
Just like that.
That realization twisted something inside Taehyung. Something deep. Something instinctive.
Fear.
Not the kind that makes you scream or cry.
The kind that keeps you still. Makes your skin crawl. Makes your lungs forget how to breathe.
Because if a pen in this man’s hand could end someone’s life without warning...
What else was he capable of?
What other unseen weapons sat on that table with the espresso cups and gold pens and tablets and contracts?
What if one day Jungkook didn’t like the way Taehyung looked at him?
What if he simply decided he was inconvenient?
Would it be that easy?
A flick of the wrist. A nod.
Would anyone stop him?
Would anyone even care?
The thought made Taehyung’s fingers grip the stair rail tighter.
The wood felt cold under his touch.
Below, Jungkook remained where he had always been seated lazily on the black leather couch, one arm hooked across the top, the other holding his tablet loosely in his hand. He had resumed scrolling, the light from the screen casting a faint glow on his sharp features.
His expression was blank. Disinterested.
As if no one had died. As if no one had screamed.
As if Taehyung hadn’t just stood there, witnessing murder.
Taehyung remained for a few more seconds, every bone in his body screaming to move, to disappear, to breathe, to say nothing at all.
Eventually, he forced his feet to carry him forward.
He crossed the last few steps like a ghost, toes brushing over the marble floor that had become, in his eyes, a graveyard of silent violence.
The tension in the air was razor-sharp, even if no one said a word.
Jungkook.
He hadn’t looked at him once. Not since Taehyung appeared.
But Taehyung didn’t dare believe it.
He could feel the weight of those eyes. Even when they weren’t on him.
He lingered near the edge of the room, clutching the hem of his shirt, heart hammering like it wanted to escape his chest.
Still, he forced himself to speak.
“D-Director Kim?” His voice cracked. It came out quieter than intended barely a whisper.
Seokjin, already gathering his briefcase, turned at once. “Yes, Taehyung?”
There was no judgment in his voice. No impatience.
Taehyung appreciated that more than he could say.
“I—I know this isn’t... urgent,” he began, voice trembling just slightly. “But I was wondering if we could talk about Gyubin’s school.”
A silence.
Like a subtle drop in barometric pressure.
Like the second before lightning strikes.
Jungkook didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But Taehyung knew.
He was listening.
Seokjin gently closed the file in his hands, giving his full attention now. “School?”
Taehyung nodded, swallowing hard. His throat felt tight. “He hasn’t attended since last year. I couldn’t afford the tuition back then. After his diagnosis... things got worse.” He looked down, fidgeting with a loose thread on his oversized sleeve. “He keeps asking when he can go back.”
Another silence.
Not uncomfortable. Just long.Measured.
Seokjin leaned back slightly, arms folding over his chest. “You want us to help with the admission?”
Taehyung spoke quickly. “I know it’s sudden I know it’s asking too much. I just thought, maybe… if there’s any way. Even a small school nearby. Somewhere he can just....be a child.”
His voice broke slightly at the end.
He hadn’t meant it to sound so desperate.
But this wasn’t just about school. This was about giving his son some kind of normalcy. A future. A sense of belonging.
And Taehyung had run out of places to ask.
“Where is he now?” Seokjin asked, his voice steady and kind.
Taehyung blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness. “He’s... he’s in the garden. He’s planting flowers. Said he wants them to bloom before winter.”
Seokjin’s face softened for the first time.
“He’s seven, right?”
Taehyung smiled faintly, the kind that trembled at the corners. “Yes.”
Seokjin stood up and straightened his cuffs. “I’d like to meet him, if that’s alright.”
Taehyung’s eyes brightened, just barely. “Of course. He’d be happy.”
He turned toward the glass door, his hand already reaching for the handle. The morning sunlight was brighter outside. Softer. More real.
But then
He looked back.
Just once. Just a glance.
He shouldn’t have.
Jungkook hadn’t moved. His posture was the same. One leg crossed, the tablet still in his hand, the unread message glowing against his fingers.
But his thumb had stopped swiping.
And his eyes weren’t on the screen.
They were fixed on the coffee table.
But not reading.
Watching.
A stillness more terrifying than any scream. A predator that didn’t need to bare teeth.
Taehyung’s breath caught.
He looked away instantly. His heart dropped back into his stomach.
He turned back toward the door, following Seokjin into the garden. The glass door clicked shut behind them.
But in his chest, the unease lingered.
Because back in that room, behind the silence and the scent of black coffee and cold marble
Jeon Jungkook remained seated.
Still. Calm. And terrifying.
And Taehyung could feel it:
He was always watching.
.
.
The garden stretched wide beneath the mellow gold of late afternoon.
It smelled of earth wet, living, honest. The air was thick with the scent of grass recently cut and soil recently turned.
Everything felt softer out here. As if the estate itself had drawn a curtain between the ruthless cold of its marble halls and this one private patch of green where time dared to slow.
Taehyung walked beside Seokjin in silence, their footsteps muffled against the gravel path. A few dried leaves scattered near the hedges, curling like secrets.
The silence wasn’t awkward, just… full. Full of something unspoken.
Seokjin didn’t press. And Taehyung didn’t explain.
As they passed under the shadow of a tall cypress tree, faint humming reached their ears light, tuneless, and utterly innocent. Not the drone of bees, but something smaller.
A child’s voice.
They turned the bend and found him.
Gyubin.
Crouched in the middle of the flower bed like a little guardian of the earth, his shirt slightly too big, sleeves damp from playing with the watering can. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pursed in concentration.
He was humming to himself loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to be lost in thought.
Completely immersed in his small, curated universe of soil, pebbles, and hope.
Seokjin slowed, coming to a halt at the edge of the grass. He tilted his head, a quiet smile curving his mouth. “He’s focused,” he observed softly.
Taehyung's lips twitched. “He loves this,” he said, voice gentler than it had been all day. “Every morning he checks if something’s grown. Even if it hasn’t, he talks to the soil like it’s shy.”
Seokjin huffed faintly, the sound almost fond. “He gets that from you?”
Taehyung didn’t answer, but he crouched down beside the flower bed, his fingers brushing lightly over a wilting leaf like he was shielding it from the wind.
Seokjin stepped forward. The tip of his polished shoe barely touched the garden’s edge before he knelt down and tapped the boy on the shoulder.
Gyubin startled slightly. He’d been holding his breath while pouring water, and now puffed out his cheeks as he turned only to light up when he saw Taehyung nearby.
“Good evening,” he said politely, straightening up and brushing dirt from his palms.
“Evening,” Seokjin replied with surprise. “What are you planting?”
Gyubin’s face lit up. “Peonies!”
“Ah,” Seokjin said, eyes twinkling. “Why peonies?”
Gyubin placed his hands behind his back with all the gravity of a child about to deliver his favorite line. “Because they’re pretty. Like Appa.”
Taehyung froze beside him, fingers caught mid-adjusting the small collar of his son’s shirt.
A flush crept up the back of his neck. He ducked his head, choosing to pretend his hand needed adjusting more than it actually did.
Seokjin, however, didn’t laugh.
He watched.
Under the heavy orange light, Taehyung looked softer than he ever had inside the house.
His hair curled gently across his brow, the tips kissed by sun.
His hands, dirt-smudged now from crouching beside Gyubin, were delicate almost reverent in the way they fixed the boy’s collar.
There was nothing rehearsed about the way he smiled at his son. Nothing curated.
Just real.
Something shifted in Seokjin’s chest, just slightly, but he cleared his throat and rose to stand again.
“They’ll grow well,” he said mildly, brushing invisible dust off his blazer, “especially if they’re planted with that much care.”
Taehyung offered a polite smile in return tight, composed, almost practiced. But his eyes didn’t lift.
It was the kind of smile that said thank you and I know what this costs me.
“I heard you want to go back to school?” Seokjin asked, turning to the boy again.
Gyubin nodded eagerly. “I do! I miss books. And drawing. I used to read about dinosaurs. I still remember all the names!”
Seokjin laughed, genuine now. “You’re a smart one. Which one’s your favorite?”
“Stegosaurus!” the boy announced proudly. “Because it has cool plates on its back. Like armor!”
Taehyung chuckled quietly and tapped his son’s nose with a soft finger. “I thought you liked Triceratops last week.”
“I changed my mind, Appa.”
“Of course you did,” Taehyung whispered with a smile, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind Gyubin’s ear.
Seokjin watched the moment like a silent observer of a life he could never live. There was no wealth in that touch. No negotiation. No motive. Just love uncomplicated, unguarded.
There was something unsettling about it.
Not because it was threatening. But because it wasn’t.
Because it was rare.
Because it made all the rooms of power and silence and threat they walked through every day feel… hollow.
“You’ll be in school soon,” Seokjin said finally, quietly. “I’ll talk to someone. We’ll find a place nearby.”
Gyubin gasped, pure delight blossoming in his face. “Really?!”
“Yes.”
In a blink, he had launched himself toward Taehyung.
Taehyung caught him instinctively, laughing softly as the boy’s arms wrapped tight around his neck. He buried his nose in Gyubin’s shoulder, inhaling the warm, grassy scent of his son something grounding, something that reminded him he was still human.
“Say thank you to Mr. Kim,” he murmured.
“Thank you!” Gyubin chirped over his shoulder, still hugging him.
“You’re welcome,” Seokjin replied.
The breeze stirred again, brushing their clothes and swaying the taller flowers in the corner. A couple petals loosened and floated across the gravel path.
Taehyung lingered in the hug longer than he meant to. When Gyubin finally pulled back and returned to his peonies, Taehyung stood beside Seokjin once more hands folded loosely in front of him, gaze quietly observing his son’s small garden.
He didn’t speak.
Not out of defiance.
But because, somewhere deep inside, he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
Jungkook hadn’t given him permission.
“You’re good with him,” Seokjin said suddenly, breaking the quiet.
Taehyung blinked. “I just… try my best.”
“Still,” Seokjin added after a beat, his voice calm but edged with something thoughtful. “Some people try and still fail.”
The words landed like a soft thud between them.
Taehyung didn’t reply.
He couldn’t tell if it was a compliment… or a warning.
Seokjin looked at him again, but this time his eyes lingered. There was curiosity there.
Because Taehyung wasn’t like the others in that house.
He didn’t navigate power the way they did. He didn’t wear armor.
He just loved.
And maybe that was more dangerous than anyone knew.
Because love didn’t ask for control.
It just existed quietly, stubbornly, like the peonies blooming in Gyubin’s soil.