11. 2
The suit beneath his palms felt cold. Smooth. Stiff with wealth.
And colder still was the man inside it.
His breath hitched, barely audible. His body trembled subtly tension held deep in the muscles, just beneath the surface.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
Didn’t know what was expected of him now. Only that he was here.
That he had been pulled like an object.
Held like a possession.
Then Jungkook moved.
And when he spoke, his voice was almost… gentle.
“This will hurt a little.”
Soft. Measured. Almost kind.
The words should’ve offered reassurance. Instead, they dropped like a stone in Taehyung’s gut.
His brows drew together faintly. Eyes widened, not in alarm yet but confusion.
His lips parted slightly.
He didn’t understand.
Not yet.
Jungkook leaned to the side, calm and effortless, and slid open the slim drawer built into the nearby table.
From inside, he retrieved a small black case. Taehyung watched in silence, breath shallow.
Then came the sound.
A low mechanical click followed by a hum.
The soft, electric whir built into a steady, unmistakable buzz.
And suddenly, all the blood drained from Taehyung’s face.
His body stilled.
His head turned and he saw it.
A tattoo machine.
Fresh needle attached. Wire plugged in.
Ink glinting at the tip like something holy and wrong all at once.
No.
His reaction was instant.
“No no.....what are you doing?”
His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real.
It was fear.
Genuine and vulnerable and fragile in a way Jungkook hadn’t heard in a long time.
But Jungkook didn’t even look at him.
Didn’t blink.
“Lift your shirt.”
The words came soft. Controlled.
Deadly.
Taehyung stayed frozen. Staring.
His heart crashed against his ribs like thunder, he tried to shift on Jungkook's lap only to froze when Jungkook's grip tightened around him.
His voice cracked as it left him. “Mr. Jeon… don’t. Please. This isn’t—”
“Lift it.”
Same tone. Same calm.
But now it carried something heavier beneath it. Steel beneath silk.
Taehyung swallowed hard. His throat burned. His chest rose, breath shivering through parted lips.
“I don’t want this,” he whispered. “don’t.” He wasn’t resisting. He was pleading..."You are drunk."
A quiet, desperate voice from a place inside him that hadn’t broken yet but was close. So close.
"Drunk enough to be honest. Sober enough to remember."
His hand reached for Taehyung’s waist firm, not brutal. No bruises left behind.
Just enough pressure to remind him:
That he could. That he would.
That Taehyung’s body was no longer his own in this room.
And finally finally Jungkook looked at him. His gaze was still.
Empty of warmth.
But full of certainty.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t protest again.
He just… breathed. And that breath stuttered in his chest like something giving out.
Then came the final sentence
Just an offer from the devil’s mouth.
“Run.”
Jungkook’s voice was a whisper laced with a threat.
“I dare you.” A pause.
“It won’t matter. I’ll brand you anyway. On your spine so it aches when you crawl. On your throat so everyone knows who choked the freedom out of you. Maybe even lower so every step you take reminds you– you’re ruined.”
He gripped Taehyung’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
“You were never getting out of this. Not clean.”
Taehyung stared. And understood. This wasn’t a threat. This was a game where both answers led to a loss.
Because if he ran Jungkook would chase.
And if he stayed. He’d be marked.
Owned. Again. So he didn’t move.
Not because he surrendered.
But because he was tired.
He had spent every ounce of fight in other wars. In hospital corridors under flickering lights.
In whispered reassurances beside IVs.
In counting pills and bills with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
In wiping Gyubin’s tears when his little body couldn’t take another injection.
“Do it,” Taehyung said, his voice steady, eyes unflinching as they met Jungkook’s.
He wasn’t trembling. He wasn’t begging.
He was just... done.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he allowed Jungkook to lift his shirt.
The fabric peeled away like a final layer of resistance, exposing bare skin to cold air and colder hands.
Taehyung wasn’t weak.
He was empty.
Taehyung stiffened slightly, chest rising with quiet restraint. He could feel it.
The hum of the machine.
Low. Mechanical.mn. Steady as a pulse.
Even before the needle touched, the vibration curled against his skin like a warning.
And then
It pierced.
The first sting was sharp blinding in its immediacy. A white-hot bloom of pain that radiated out like fire crawling under the surface.
His body jerked instinctively.
Back arching. Muscles clenching.
His hands tightened in the folds of Jungkook’s shirt, desperate for something to hold something real in the middle of a moment that didn’t feel like his own.
It wasn’t just the pain.
It was the permanence. The weight of what it meant. He was being marked.
Branded. Not with violence, but with elegance. Not with rage, but with cold intention.
He bit down hard on his lip, silencing the sound building in his throat.
He wouldn’t cry. Wouldn’t scream.
But his body trembled against the strain.
The machine didn’t stop.
Its steady buzz filled the room like a slow death knell, carving with agonizing precision. Each line dragged with composure. Unrushed. Intentional. Cruel in its patience.
Jungkook didn’t speak.
Didn’t look at him.
He worked in silence.
Focused. Unfeeling.
Like Taehyung was canvas.
Nothing more.
A surface. A possession.
The needle traced its path one stroke after another etching pain into memory.
Not the skin. The memory.
Because no matter how deep the ink went, the pain reached farther.
And Taehyung endured it all without a sound. When it ended, it was not with ceremony.
Just a click.
The machine powered off. The sudden silence landed like a collapse heavy and final.
Jungkook reached for a cloth.
Sterilized. Damp. He wiped away the ink and blood with methodical strokes, cleaning the wound like it was something clinical. Not intimate.
Not sacred.
Just maintenance. Then he leaned back again, the chair creaking slightly beneath him.
Hands calm. Breath steady.
The mark was fresh.
The skin around it red, irritated, slightly swollen from the trauma but already, the shape had taken form.
An elegant, curling script etched just above the waist, where any normal shirt might end. It was deliberate. Taunting.
Hidden unless Taehyung lifted his shirt.
Unless someone lifted it for him.
And he would remember it was there, always, just beneath the fabric. Watching. Breathing. Burning.
But Taehyung didn’t look down.
He couldn’t. He didn’t need to.
He could feel it.
Still warm. Still raw.
Still pulsing like something alive inside him.
It belonged to him now. To Jungkook.
And Jungkook? He didn’t speak.
Didn’t offer comfort.
No praise. No apology.
Just sat there, still and composed ike this had been inevitable all along.
Like nothing had changed.
When in truth, everything had.
Then he spoke.
Flat. Cool. Heavy like the closing of a door you can’t reopen.
“Look at it.”
No edge. No threat. No emotion.
Just inevitability.
A command dressed like a statement.
Taehyung didn’t move.
His body remained still back rigid, shirt still rumpled and half-pulled up over his abdomen. The hem hung loosely in soft folds, like a curtain suspended mid-fall.
The air felt too sharp against his skin now. Too real.
He didn’t want to look.
He already felt it.
The burn pulsed in sync with his heartbeat sharp, rhythmic, relentless.
His breath hitched every time his lungs expanded, stretching the tender skin.
But worse than the pain… was the meaning.
Because he knew.
Even without seeing it.
Even without hearing Jungkook say it.
He knew what was there.
He wanted to shut his eyes.
To leave the room. The house.
The life.
But then
Jungkook’s hand returned.
Not cruel. Not even demanding.
Just… present.
His fingers rested near the tattoo close enough to feel, far enough not to wound.
But the message was clear:
You’re not going anywhere until I say so.
Taehyung’s jaw clenched. His breath trembled in his throat, catching like a sob he wouldn’t let rise.
Then slowly
With fingers that felt foreign and cold, like they belonged to someone else entirely,
he reached down.
And tugged the hem of the shirt higher.
Exposing it. Looking.
Because he had to.
Because that was the rule in this room: silence was allowed. Disobedience was not.
There it was.
And that was the point. It wasn’t for him. It wasn’t for art. It was a declaration. A warning. A cage.
Mine.
Taehyung stared. Unblinking.
His vision blurred at the edges not from tears, but from the weight of everything pressing inward.
The ceiling. The silence. The name.
His fingers trembled, still clutching the fabric.
He was shaking with everything he wasn’t allowed to say.
With everything he wasn’t allowed to feel.
Shame. Anger.
Grief. Humiliation.
A thousand voices screaming in his mind while his lips stayed pressed into a thin, breathless line.
Jungkook didn’t speak.
Because the ink had already spoken for him.
His voice finally broke through the heavy silence raw and fragile, like something torn free from a place that never wanted to let it go.
“Why would you do this?”
No edge. No outcry.
Just the quiet crackle of exhaustion the brittle tone of a heart desperately trying to hold itself together while fracturing inside.
Jungkook said nothing at first.
He reached for the whiskey glass beside him.
Only a finger of amber liquid remained.
With a single, controlled tilt, he swallowed it down. The crystal clicked against the wood with sharper force than necessary as he set the glass down.
His eyes locked onto Taehyung’s..
“Because names don’t disappear when contracts end.
Taehyung blinked once. Then twice.
The weight of those words sank slower than the burning pain beneath his skin.
Jungkook leaned forward slow, deliberate his hand resting on his knees.
His voice dropped to a low murmur, like a secret forced into the open.
“One day, you’ll leave.”
Taehyung’s heart skipped not in surprise, but in recognition.
He had thought about it. Dreamed of it.
Packing quietly, taking Gyubin somewhere far from here. Somewhere safe.
Jungkook’s voice softened into a cruel lullaby.
“You’ll walk out of this house.
You’ll try to rebuild. To start over.
You’ll meet someone.”
His tone grew sharper.
“Someone soft. Someone kind.
Someone naive enough to think you’re untouched.”
Taehyung’s fingers clenched the silk fabric at his sides.
“And when they undress you,” Jungkook whispered, voice tightening, “when they touch you… when they believe you’re finally theirs…”
His hand moved again.
This time, a deliberate press against the still-red tattoo.
Taehyung stiffened, every muscle tightening like a taut wire.
Jungkook finished the sentence like closing a contract.
“They’ll see me first.”
A silence followed.
Not dead too alive.
Thick, suffocating.
Taehyung could hear his breath catch.
His pulse hammering in his ears.
The way the air pressed heavily between them.
He stared at Jungkook.
And, for the first time in a long while he didn’t feel afraid. He felt violated. Angry.
So angry that even the pain beneath his skin seemed to fade in comparison.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes narrowed, burning not wide or teary.
“You think…”
His voice dropped low, stripped bare of pretense, “…anyone could still want me after this?” His eyes burned not with tears, but with fury held back too long.
No theatrics. No plea.
Only bitter, bone-deep truth.
Not seeking sympathy he didn’t want it.
He said it because it hurt.
Because Jungkook had taken something essential from him–his dignity, his confidence and worse, convinced him that no one would ever want what remained.
Jungkook didn’t blink.
“That’s the point.”
The final, brutal nail.
Then, softer but no kinder:
“No one will touch you.
Not because I’ll stop them…
But because I’ve already ruined you.”
Taehyung froze. For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Because those were the cruelest words he’d ever heard.
And somehow, Jungkook had said them like a fact. Like math. Like weather.
Like something too normal to fight.
But Taehyung didn’t fall apart.
Not in front of him. He inhaled, long and deep.
And then slowly, deliberately he stood.
His knees were shaky, his skin flushed, and his stomach throbbed with the sting of fresh ink. But still, he stood.
No words. No curse. No pleading.
Hw didn’t slam the glass off the table. He didn’t scream.
He reached for the shirt’s hem and pulled it back down one motion, quiet and sure. The tattoo disappeared beneath the fabric.
But it still burned underneath.
He turned away without looking back.
Walked toward the door without stumbling. His spine straight. His fists clenched.
Taehyung stopped at the doorway.
His bare feet sank into the thick velvet rug, but the coldness of the room still crept up his legs, chilling him from the inside out.
His hand clutched the edge of the white shirt tighter the only thing shielding him from the man in the other room fingers curling into the fabric until his knuckles turned a deathly white.
The sting at his waist throbbed now, angry and raw, a reminder of the cruel fingers that had grasped him there not long ago. A reminder that even silence left bruises.
“My trophy slut.”
It rang in his ears like static. Like the aftermath of a slap.
He stood there for a long moment, eyes unfocused, chest heaving as something old and familiar boiled in his gut not sadness. Not grief.
Rage.
It started in his fists first, tightening.
Then he saw it.
Tall. Pale. Ceramic, with hand-painted florals near the neck.
Something in him snapped.
He moved before he could think. Before reason could intervene.
His fingers wrapped around the vase, lifting it from the table with more gentleness than it deserved. His breath hitched as the cold porcelain settled into his palm like a weapon waiting for purpose. His chest burned with something tight and furious.
He turned sharply on his heel and stormed into the room.
The balcony doors were open, wind ruffling the edge of the curtains.
And Jungkook stood there back turned, cigarette between his fingers, shirt unbuttoned halfway, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it in thought.
He didn’t turn.
Didn’t need to.
As if Taehyung’s rage was too insignificant to acknowledge.
Taehyung’s steps slapped the marble.
Quick. Furious. Uncontrolled.
“I hate you!” he spat, voice cracking as he raised the vase, arm trembling from the force behind it. “I fucking hate you—!”
But the vase never came down.
Jungkook turned slowly, like he had all the time in the world and caught his wrist mid-air.
Effortless. Brutal.
Taehyung gasped, the impact stinging up his arm like fire. The vase slipped from his hand and dropped between them. It didn’t shatter just clattered and rolled onto its side like a fallen soldier.
Silence followed.
Jungkook didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
His grip was iron.
His eyes, colder than glass.
Then, in one fluid motion, he twisted Taehyung’s wrist, turned him around, and shoved him forward.
Taehyung stumbled, his thighs hit the edge of the mattress, and fell face-first onto the bed, his cry muffled by the sheets.
Pain flared through his wrist and up his spine as Jungkook leaned down, trapping him there one arm pressing his shoulder blade into the mattress, the other planted beside his head, caging him in.
He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
His face turned to the side, cheek dragging against the expensive linens.
“Don’t—don’t touch me,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with salt and fire.
Jungkook didn’t budge.
His mouth hovered by Taehyung’s ear now, breath warm, words icy.
"You done?”
Taehyung tried to squirm, humiliated beyond words, but Jungkook’s grip didn’t falter. His hold was calm. Secure. Bored.
“You amuse me.” Jungkook muttered low and dangerous
Taehyung stiffened, tears pricking his eyes.
“Throw things again... I’ll make sure next time, you really don’t have a room to cry in.”
Taehyung swallowed, lips trembling.
He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to. But the tears stung anyway.
The words sliced deeper than anything else. They cut where it hurt where he was still bleeding inside.
Then Jungkook leaned back, grabbed his wrist again, and dragged him up forcing him to his knees on the bed, facing the headboard, panting and dazed.
He didn’t push him. Didn’t strike him.
But the air around them throbbed.
Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand trailed down Taehyung’s arm.
And let go. Like he’d lost interest.
Like he had won. He adjusted his cuff, smoothed the hem of his sleeve.
“Try something like this again…” he said, voice eerily soft.
A beat of silence.
“…and I won’t stop at humiliation.”
Taehyung’s blood ran cold.
His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t dare move.
“I’ll break your fucking fingers,” Jungkook whispered, stepping close enough that Taehyung could feel the heat of his body at his back, “one by one."
A pause.
“And I’ll make you thank me for leaving your mouth untouched.”
Taehyung turned his head slowly, stunned, lips parted.
The world blurred behind the burn in his eyes.
But Jungkook wasn’t finished.
He stepped forward regal, composed like a judge delivering his final verdict.
“You think I care about your hate?” His voice curved like a blade. “You think that word holds weight in this room?”
Taehyung bit his lip hard enough to taste iron. His hands balled into fists on his lap, white-knuckled.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly, as if looking at something pitiful.
“Here’s the truth you keep choking on.”
He leaned in, voice slow.
“You don’t hate me.”
A pause.
“You hate yourself… for needing me.”
Taehyung broke then. Not out loud.
Not with sobs. But with the silence of someone who had no way left to fight.
He sat there, tears streaming quietly down his face, lips trembling, thighs exposed and chilled from the wind. His shame, his hurt all of it laid bare.
Jungkook turned his back.
Didn’t offer a glance. Didn’t linger.
He reached for the cigarette he’d left on the windowsill, relit it, and walked out jsmoke curling behind him like the ghost of every cruel word he’d ever spoken.
He didn’t look at Taehyung again.
Didn’t need to.
Only said, as the door swung shut
“Cry somewhere else.”
Taehyung sat motionless at the edge of the bed, hands resting limply on his knees as silent tears traced slow, bitter paths down his cheeks.
“Why… why me? What did I ever do…”
He choked on the words, tears blurring his vision, voice trembling with hurt.
The raw sting on his waist pulsed with every breath Jungkook’s name now etched into his skin like a permanent confession he never gave consent to. But he didn’t reach for it.
Everything felt too heavy, too loud inside his chest. So he simply let himself fall sideways onto the mattress, curling in on himself, legs drawn close, spine trembling with the force of the sobs he refused to voice.
And there, in the quiet of the CEO’s room surrounded by everything cold and immaculate...Taehyung cried. Softly. Hopelessly. Like something precious had been stripped away, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever get it back.