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My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Prologue & Moodboard

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: panic, detailed description of physical violence such as punch!ng, stabb!ng, rap!ng, gore, de@th of both parents + witnessing it, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 1.8K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

masterlist • 01

You had thought it was another evening you’d spend with your parents as you always did. Being raised in a suburb of Busan, your family lived a life slightly above average. And being a stay-at-home mom, your mother had done her best to raise you to be a kind and empathetic girl, ingraining humility and gentleness towards all living beings into you. Your father, working hours and hours, from dawn to sunset as the secretary of the mayor of Busan, had provided the carefree and safe childhood everyone wishes for their children.

You had thought it would be another evening like it always was. When you came back from school, having done your homework, just rounding off the evening with family dinner, chatting away about things that happened in each of your lives. Happy faces, warm smiles on both of your parents’ faces while you had told them about classes, friends, and your extracurricular activities.

You had thought it would be like every other evening. The most loved people in the world supporting and motivating you to stay on course to get your dream job as a paediatrician someday. To show children who suffer the help and gentleness they needed and you easily could provide.

You had thought it would be like every other evening. But life had other plans for you.

It started when your mother had started cooking, and you had just plated the table, as the conversation between your mother and you flowed in the air like the spices cooking away on her stove. 

But your father burst through the front door. Car keys in hand, his suit and tie were crumpled, his hair disheveled, and his glasses barely holding on by their hinges as he ran with fast steps and uncontrollable heaving towards you, grabbing you by the arm and doing the same to your mother.

“What’s wrong?” your mother had screamed multiple times as he dragged you to their bedroom, closing the door and securing it with the heavy dresser standing nearby after locking it.

His blown-out pupils had frantically searched the room, for what, you didn’t know. Eventually, he nearly threw himself into their closet, opening it to drag out a suitcase.

“I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have. We need to leave,” he had pressed out between his heavy breaths, yanking clothes from their hangers and throwing them messily into the suitcase.

Your mother was the first to move after that, running towards the closet as well, to help your father pack.

“Where to? What should I do?” The panic had settled into you by now. Knowing your life as you knew it had ended with your father’s arrival. You didn’t know what to do, your clothes being in your room, you knew not to leave their side.

Your questions were never met with an answer when the front door of your little house had burst open. The bang reverberated through the closed door and walls. Your parents had halted their movements at once, the colour draining from their faces as multiple footsteps were heard down the hallway.

“Hide in the closet,” your mother had urged you, but you couldn’t move. You didn’t want to leave your parents’ side, no matter the cost.

When you didn’t move, your father rushed to you, just as the first impact of someone against the barricaded door was heard, and forced you with an iron grip only a father could have into their closet, closing the doors silently after.

You sat there in the darkness, under the dresses of your mother, every dress worn on occasions of happiness and warmth, hand over your mouth to stop the heavy sound of your panicked breathing. Through the slats of the closet, you could see your father hugging your mother securely as she silently wept into his chest.

“I’m sorry, darling. I love you.” Your father’s voice was thick with tears you never heard nor seen before, and you knew then that whatever happened next would never have a good outcome.

Eventually, the door opened enough for three men to enter the bedroom. The dresser, being violently pushed inside to make way for them, screeched as loud as an approaching train, making you push yourself further into the closet but not being able to look away.

You recognised one man as the mayor of Busan, Park Dojin, before him, slightly to each side of him, his two bodyguards stood tall. Even though your view was restricted due to the slats, you still could see their cold eyes with death written all over their faces, making you wish for a better outcome than you knew was inevitable.

“I told you not to run,” Dojin sneered at your father, as both bodyguards went for your parents, holding them in tight as they struggled with all their power to break free.

Your mother’s screams were the most horrible to hear. Her struggle tore at your heart and soul, cutting so deep that you thought you were going to die with her. She cried for your father, cried for Dojin to spare him, her, them. Her pleas rang loud, unrelenting, but you knew, as well as all others present, that it was all in vain.

The first who acted was the bodyguard holding your mother, you later learned that his name was Kim Sangwook, and threw her face first against the wall opposite where you sat. As she crumbled to the floor, face bloodied from just one hit, she sobbed further for sparing. Sangwook and Dojin both didn’t care as they stepped towards her and kicked her multiple times. Stomach, breasts, face, back, legs. Your father thrashed in the hold of bodyguard number two, Kim Chulsoo, but he stood no chance against the taller and bigger man.

Your eyes couldn’t leave your mother’s beaten form. The kicks were so severe that every swelling turned into open cuts in seconds. Her face didn’t even show any signs of pain, which you thought was due to her knowing that both you and your father were watching.

After minutes of beating your mother, eventually, Dojin had enough. He raised one hand in a halt, which caused Sangwook to stop immediately, and got into a squatting position, grabbing your mother’s bloodied hair, falling in wild wet strands into her once beautiful face, as he presented his doing to your father with a menacing smile.

“That’s for running away when you shouldn’t have.”

Your father resumed yelling at the three men; not once had he stopped during his wife’s beating.

“I think you still haven’t learned your lesson.” The laugh that escaped Dojin was one of pure terror. One that was written in nightmares. One that was written for Satan himself.

Dojin stood up, pulling your mother with ease with him to stand, but she barely could hold her own weight. Knees weak, her feet collapsed despite her best effort.

It didn't stop him from punching her violently in her stomach. Her cough afterward sprinkled crimson drops all over the carpeted floor. He punched her four more times, each one with more force, but she never once showed pain despite the severity of her injuries. 

With each blow against her, your soul broke more and more until everything you could feel was pain. 

It was when Dojin threw her face first against your parents' bed, and him beginning to unbuckle his trousers that you couldn't look on any longer. 

And despite your best effort to keep your eyes closed, hands on your ears trying to drown out the sounds of Dojin raping your mother while your father sobbed in madness and helplessness, they still fluttered open too often. Witnessing the cruelest scene a child of sixteen years could see. 

It took him an eternity to fill her up and let her weep in silence after. Your father, by then hanging defeatedly in the arms of Chulsoo, forced to watch with said man’s hand gripping his jaw. 

With all your might, you willed your tears to fall silently, swallowing every sob that had tried to escape your parched throat. The closet suffocated you in your panic, its warmth, only multiplying your inner hysteria to the point of unrestricted insanity.

You really thought that that was it. That that was everything Dojin came for. He had delivered his message and would finally leave, but you were wrong all along as he again gripped the hair of your mother, his cum dripping out of her on the carpet, smearing with her blood, as he slapped her thirteen times in her face, until she collapsed unconscious before his feet. 

“You think that suffices?” Dojin’s voice chilled your body. “I think there’s no coming back from being a coward like you are.” 

And with that, he pulled an automatic knife out of his jacket’s pocket. Its sharp thin blade shined and reflected the light into your eyes, blinding you momentarily with the tears swimming in your lashline. 

Dojin bent down to your mother, who was lying in a puddle of her own blood, face unrecognisable. As he lifted her head with her hair and put the blade to her neck, a shrill ringing in your ears drowned out the yelling of your father. 

With one swift movement, Dojin slit your mother's throat open, her blood pumping with her pulse out of her neck. Your father's cries for her to forgive him and that he loves her, couldn't reach your ears, as her blood pooled slower and slower out of her until her last breath was made. 

There she lay, the woman who had showered you with love and kindness your whole life, destroyed by a man who should protect his community.

You remembered how you had shaken violently from adrenaline and shock. How every breath burned your insides to ashes. How deep within you, something had changed.

Dojin soon resumed his mission of destroying your father by beating him up himself, while held by Sangwook and Chulsoo. Your father didn’t fight back, and you’re now sure he forgot about your existence after he watched his wife, his purpose in life, die.

It took Dojin another thirty minutes, during which he punched and stabbed your father to the point of unrecognisability until you watched your father succumb to his wounds as well.

“Search the house for his daughter. If she’s here, kill her.” 

You should have been panicking after the order was given, but all you could do was stare with empty eyes and shallow breaths as the dead eyes of your parents stared into nothing.

It bordered on a miracle that the three men didn’t find you sitting in the closet and eventually left the scene as if nothing had happened.

You had thought it was another evening you’d spend with your parents as you always did.

But years later, standing in the anatomy lab as a med student, you still remember every detail.

And there’s nothing anyone can do until the blood of Park Dojin, Kim Sangwook, and Kim Chulsoo is dripping down your hands.

masterlist • 01

a/n 2: lmk what you think in any way you like! please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

taglist: @darkeneddiary @dumbheadblog

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

Masterlist: My Beloved Villain (JJK)

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn, F2L2E2? rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, panic, detailed description of physical violence such as punch!ng, stabb!ng, rap!ng, gore, de@th of both parents + witnessing it, k!lling, autopsies, eventual smut, more tba summary: You had thought it would be another evening like it always was. But years later, your only aim is revenge. Nothing can stop you until their blood is dripping from your hands. word count: tba (ongoing)

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

🩸 Prologue & Moodboard

🩸 Chapter 1

🩸 Chapter 2

🩸 Chapter 3

🩸 Chapter 4

🩸 Chapter 5

🩸 Chapter 6

🩸 Chapter 7

🩸 Chapter 8

🩸 Chapter 9

🩸 Chapter 10

🩸 Bonus:

Spotify Playlist

character asks

drabble requests & ‘ask the characters’ are open

a/n 2: please lmk if you would like to be added to the taglist 💕

All Rights Reserved © @runariya 2024

Sneak Peek: My Beloved Villain • Chapter 1

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: slightly jealous JK summary: You had thought it would be another evening like it always was. But years later, your only aim is revenge. Nothing can stop you until their blood is dripping from your hands.

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • masterlist • 01

“Huh?” you ask, glancing around the group, feeling a little disoriented but Jennie’s raised eyebrow brings you fully back to the moment.

“I asked if you and Tae are dating or what? You live together, and now this,” Jennie says, gesturing to where Taehyung is still snuggled against your thigh, his laughter finally subsiding into quiet giggles as your fingers still absentmindedly play with his hair.

You snort, amused by the absurdity of the question. Before you can answer, Taehyung starts laughing again, the sound bubbling up like a toy doll—the kind that never seems to run out of laughter, perhaps something like a Laughing Elmo, the comparison would definitely fit perfectly. The ridiculousness of it all hits you, and you can’t help but join in, your laughter mixing with his in a joyful belting that rings through the air.

When the laughter finally dies down, you wipe the tears from your eyes, still grinning as you look back at Jennie and Jungkook. Jennie’s expression is a mix of irritation and curiosity, a reaction that doesn’t surprise you. She’s never hidden her infatuation with Taehyung, a sentiment she’s held since your freshman year. But what does surprise you is the similar look on Jungkook’s face—something close to annoyance that gives you pause. You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to stifle the last remnants of giggles that threaten to escape.

“We’re cousins, Jen,” you say, the words slipping out between breaths as you attempt to regain your composure.

The surprise on Jennie’s face is immediate, her mouth dropping open slightly, while Jungkook’s expression softens into one of mild disbelief. Yoongi, who’s been silent all this time, glances your way with a knowing smirk, his eyes glittering with amusement. Hoseok, Taehyung, and you can’t help but start laughing again, the absurdity of the situation too much to keep in.

“Oh…” is all Jennie manages to say, a flush of pink rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug, still smiling as you reply, “No one really does. It doesn’t matter much, does it?”

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours once more, a subtle smile playing on his lips, his eyes shining with something that looks like relief. You don’t quite understand why the relief is so evident in his gaze, but it has a calming effect on you as well. You send him a small smile in return, a silent exchange that’s broken only when Yoongi groans and begins to rise from the grass, his movements slow and letargic, like an old man who has trouble moving with age.

“We’ve got class, kids. Get up,” Yoongi announces, his voice dry as he stretches, his joints cracking loudly in the otherwise quiet air.

prologue • masterlist • READ FULL CH. 1 HERE

a/n 2: I'm sooo thrilled to share this story with you! please lmk your thoughts and if you would like to be added to the taglist 💕

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 1

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: panic, trauma, blood, physical violence such as punch!ng, de@th of both parents + witnessing it + footage, Dojin has influence over law enforcement and whatnot, mentions of underground fight club and mafia, mentions of wounds, jealous Jungkook, autopsy lap, mentions of bodies, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 5.1K

a/n: okay Angels, here's the first chapter *yeeey*! It's just a little warm-up to the story. Hope you enjoy ☺️ a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • masterlist • 02

The warmth of the September sun wraps around you like a tender embrace as you sit on the wide field of grass of the campus park with your closest friends. The day is nothing short of perfect, yet their conversation drifts past you, lost in the gentle chorus of birdsong from the tall and old trees above. You close your eyes and breathe deeply, letting the sun’s rays and the dappled shadows of leaves play across your flushed skin. Somewhere in the distance, church bells toll at lunch hour, their echo both a call to mess and a cue of time’s steady march. It’s a peaceful moment, one that you savour with quiet reverence, knowing all too well that such moments are fleeting.

Taehyung rests his heavy head in your lap, his hair soft beneath your fingers as you play with his curls all while he relaxes before your next class. You remember the days when you begged him not to ruin his hair with dye, and back then, he didn’t listen. But now, he leaves it natural, save for the perm that enhances the curls you adore so much. It’s a small victory, even though this victory didn’t arise from you, but won through his newfound obsession with colour analysis,  face shapes and whatnot which you’re thankful for nonetheless. 

But as your fingers weave through his hair, your mind drifts back, step by reluctant step, to a night you’d rather forget—a night with the sight of Taehyung’s hair dyed an electric blue. You remember standing at the door of his family’s home, drenched in the blood of your parents, clutching the CCTV footage your father had obsessively recorded of your house’s every room. You never understood his need for those cameras, but that night, you were as grateful as you were traumatised.

Taehyung had opened the door after you rang their door bell repeatedly like a madman, his freshly dyed hair framing a face shocked to the core as he took in your pale, frightened expression and the dried blood covering you. Without a moment’s hesitation, he yanked you inside behind him by the front of your shirt, quickly glancing around to see if any neighbours were watching, and immediately shut the door behind you as if trying to shut out the nightmare you had brought with you.

“Oh my God, ___! What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, his hands hovering above your shoulders, his eyes searching your body for injuries. 

Fresh tears left your eyes then, carving paths through the blood on your cheeks. You didn’t recognise your voice, feeling utterly alienated by its rawness as you stuttered out, “Auntie…Uncle…”

“MUM! DAD!” Taehyung belted without a second guess, he had always understood you, even when words failed.

He dragged you into the living room where his parents froze at the sight of you, the shock in their eyes mirroring the horror in your own fragile heart.

“What happened? ___, where are your parents?” your aunt inquired, her voice trembling before she even knew what happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, couldn’t force the words past the lump clogging your throat. How could you tell her what had happened not only to her sister but your whole family?

Instead, you forced your hand up, clutching the CCTV footage with all your strength, terrified it might disappear. It took every ounce of your willpower to pry open your cold fingers and offer the device to them.

On high alert, your uncle and aunt stepped closer. Your aunt, unable to tear her eyes from your dilated vibrating pupils, remained frozen by your side. With concern etched across his face, your uncle gently took the device from your trembling hand, retrieved his laptop, and plugged the footage in at the coffee table, all the while your aunt stayed close, her gaze never leaving you.

“Honey, should we get you cleaned up?” your aunt bid you softly, attempting but stopping just after she moved to caress your hair as she always did, sensing you were too fragile to be touched.

You shook your head, only pointing to the laptop for her to just watch. She turned just in time to see the front door of your house being kicked in on the screen, in another frame, your father shoving you into a closet in a desperate attempt to protect you.

Slowly, you all gathered around the laptop as if hypnotised by it’s screen, the room falling silent as the footage played, each of you transfixed by the horror before your eyes. The door to your parents’ bedroom burst open on the screen, and as Dojin with his bodyguards began their brutal assault, your uncle’s grave voice broke through the spell, “Taehyung, take ___ upstairs and clean her up.”

“But, Dad…”

“Now!” he boomed, and with difficulty to get his eyes off the screen, Taehyung led you away from the gruesome repeat of a nightmare.

In the bathroom, he cleaned you with a soft cloth, washing the blood from your hair over the sink as best as he could, all while moving quickly. After, he brought you a fresh  set of his clothes to change into, meanwhile you sat motionless on the closed toilet seat, staring ahead like a broken and lost doll.

When you finally emerged, clean and dressed, the house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of your aunt’s anguished sobs echoing from downstairs. Her cries tore at your heart, ripping open the fresh wound that was your new reality.

You had become an orphan in the blink of an eye. Dojin had taken your parents from you, the people who had meant everything to you, without a moment’s warning or a care in the world.

You sat down at the top of the stairs, where Taehyung held you as you silently wept, his gaze fixed on the distant flickering of the laptop screen. From where you sat, the details were blurred, but you could still make out the terrible truth captured by the CCTV cameras.

Soon after they finished watching the recording, you all drove to your house. You couldn’t quite grasp why; they had seen the footage to the end and knew there was no one left to save. You remember sitting in the backseat with Taehyung, watching the houses you passed, each one brimming with life and laughter, happy families enjoying their evening together. All the while, your world had come to a standstill, shattered into pieces like fragile glass, leaving everything around you feeling devastatingly meaningless.

Throughout the drive, your uncle tried calling the police. The first time he reached an officer, the line abruptly disconnected as soon as he mentioned your parents’ names.

“He just hung up.” Your uncle frowned, glaring angrily at the display on the centre console.

“Maybe the signal was lost. Try again,” your aunt reasoned quietly, trying to hold on to hope, though her voice had already faded into a broken whisper. But as the subsequent calls went unanswered or were immediately declined, it became painfully clear that the mayor’s influence reached far and wide, and with it, any hope of retribution was snuffed out.

When you arrived, your house was already burning down in hot raging flames, the crackling drowning out your inner screams. The police present dismissed you once more, leaving you more powerless and desperate than you ever felt.

Weeks passed as you lived with your relatives. Taehyung gave up his bed for you, sleeping on an inflatable mattress nearby. You recall fragments of the funeral, the strain of attending school while keeping your grades intact, and the mask you wore for the public as you fought against the official statement that your parents had perished in a fire caused by a forgotten stove. But after weeks of crying, mourning, and desperately seeking justice—whether through the authorities or the media—all your efforts proved futile.

One night, unable to bear the helplessness any longer, you lay awake until the weight of your anger and agony drove you to action. You dressed in silence and ventured into the city, determined to find someone who could help. The despair and fury within you pushed you toward desperate measures, and you knew then that justice would have to be taken into your own hands to rid the city of its devil.

It took seven nights before you stumbled upon an underground fighting club, where Kim Seokjin, the owner and Godfather, took an immediate interest in you. To your surprise, he listened to your story and agreed with your perspective, though he refused to let you fight alongside what he disdainfully called “those Neanderthals.” Instead, he trained you in private. It was during your first session, when you were obviously hurt for the first time in your life, that you discovered a rare condition you had inherited—one that left you unable to feel pain.

NTRK1, a mutation in your genes that prevents the development of certain nerve cells. You learned that your mother shared this mutation, explaining her stoicism on that fateful night, and that your father had been a carrier of the same mutation.

It was truly absurd how this condition swiftly elevated your skills, almost as if it were in agreement with your darker side and wanting to pull you to your full potential. You learned with remarkable speed and efficiency, especially how to assess the severity of your injuries without the sensation of pain as a guide.

Nearly two years later, Taehyung uncovered your secret as he caught you throwing up blood in the toilette after you arrived home early in the morning from training when the sun hasn’t even risen just yet. The confrontation was intense, but he eventually accepted your decision after days of radio silence and evil side-eyes, and supported you as best as he could, even if it meant simply covering for you in front of his parents or hiding your bruises with makeup where you couldn’t reach them. 

When you started medical school, you were relieved that Seokjin allowed you to leave with an arsenal of weapons of your choice, though you knew all too well that his acceptance came with a debt attached.

The vibration of Taehyung's laughter pulls you out of your thoughts, bringing you back to the present, where the sounds of the world around you slowly come back into focus. The gentle rustle of leaves, the distant tolling of church bells, and the low hum of conversations among other students fill your consciousness once more. You open your eyes, blinking against the dappled sunlight that filters through the trees above, and glance down at Taehyung. 

His laughter is infectious, his face half-hidden behind one hand as if trying to contain his mirth, but failing miserably. His other hand clutches his stomach, his entire body shaking with the force of his laughter. His eyes are squeezed shut, and the corners crinkle with joy, the lashes fluttering as his laughter bubbles over like a tsunami hitting the shore. His lips, stretched wide in a broad grin, reveal the perfect rows of his white teeth, something you both inherited from your mothers, and the sound that escapes him is rich and full-bodied, resonating deep in his chest, a melody that never seems to tire. It’s the kind of laughter that makes you want to join in, regardless of whether you know the joke.

You tear your gaze away from him and look up, taking in the scene around you. Your friends are gathered in a loose circle on the grass, all high-achieving students like yourself, brought together by your shared aspirations and ambitions. ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ they say, and on the surface, it might appear true. But only Taehyung knows what truly lies beneath your carefully constructed exterior, the only legacy of your happy childhood. 

Like you, Taehyung was a remarkable student in high school, his ambition clear as he set his sights on a career in the medical field as well. In those early semesters of med school, his passion for perfection became his guiding force, leading him to specialise in plastic surgery—a choice that suits him as seamlessly as a lid fits its pot. Taehyung embodies beauty, his eye for aesthetics almost uncanny, each detail observed with an artist's precision. His finesse in sculpting is flawless, and the way he’s able to seamless stitch skin up—a skill he’s honed on you over the years, using you as his more or less willing test subject after all the injuries you endured—stands as a testament to his natural talent and the field he’s chosen, one where art and science blend in perfect harmony.

Yoongi is sprawled out lazily on the grass to the left of you both, one arm bent behind his head as he taps away on his phone with the other. His expression is indifferent, almost bored, as if the conversation around him holds no interest. But you know better. Yoongi is always listening, always aware. His sharp, calculating mind misses nothing, a quality that makes him perfect for the path he’s chosen—neurosurgery. He carries himself with a quiet confidence, a subtle superiority that others might find off-putting, but which you have come to admire. His brilliance is undeniable, his genius almost intimidating, and in many ways, you’ve taken a leaf out of his book, learning to project the same calm authority when needed. 

Next to him sits Hoseok, or Hope as everyone of the friend group calls him. He’s also engrossed in Yoongi’s phone, his face full of concentration as if the device was his or holds the secrets to the universe. Hope is destined to be a heart surgeon, a choice that fits him as well perfectly. He once told you that he wanted to mend broken hearts, to give hope and love to those who needed it most. It’s a noble goal, and one that suits his gentle, empathetic nature. Yet, at this moment, he’s as distant as Yoongi, the two of them forming a quiet duo on the edge of the group, absorbed in their own worlds.

Jennie sits directly across from you, her eyes fixed on you with an expectant expression. She’s a vision of meticulous care, her skin glowing under layers of sunscreen, her large sun hat casting a protective shadow over her beautiful, doll-like face. Jennie is training to be a dermatologist, and it shows. Her otherworldly radiance aligns perfectly with her chosen field, as does her keen eye for aesthetics and detail. She’s the kind of person who never steps into the sun without a shield, and you can spot others like her scattered across the field, equally guarded against the elements. It’s amusing, really, how easily you can identify someone’s future specialty with just a glance.

And then there’s Jeon Jungkook, the quietest of the group but perhaps the most intriguing. He’s sitting not far from Jennie and on your right, his dark hair parted neatly in the middle, the short strands catching the sunlight and shining with a healthy sheen. His eyes, large and expressive, are fixed on you with an intensity that never fails to catch you off guard. He rarely speaks, yet there’s a quiet strength in his presence, a steadfastness that draws you in. 

Like you, he’s pursuing a career in trauma paediatric surgery, a demanding path that you’ve shared since the beginning of your studies. Though you don’t talk much, there’s an unspoken understanding between you as the only two students specialising in this extremely rare field, a bond forged through countless hours in the same classes, the same labs, and the same late-night study sessions. His gaze remains locked on yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The eye contact is so intense it leaves you a little breathless, a little unsettled, his dark eyes holding yours with a quiet question you can’t quite decipher as he cocks his head to the side. He’s toying with his teeth, his lower lip caught between them as if he’s waiting for something—for you to say something, to answer a question you didn’t hear.

“Huh?” you ask, glancing around the group, feeling a little disoriented. Jennie’s raised eyebrow brings you fully back to the moment.

“I asked if you and Tae are dating or what? You live together, and now this,” Jennie says, gesturing to where Taehyung is still snuggled against your thigh, his laughter finally subsiding into quiet giggles as your fingers still absentmindedly play with his hair.

You snort, amused by the absurdity of the question. Before you can answer, Taehyung starts laughing again, the sound bubbling up like a toy doll—the kind that never seems to run out of laughter, perhaps something like a Laughing Elmo, the comparison would definitely fit perfectly. The ridiculousness of it all hits you, and you can’t help but join in, your laughter mixing with his in a joyful belting that rings through the air.

When the laughter finally dies down, you wipe the tears from your eyes, still grinning as you look back at Jennie and Jungkook. Jennie’s expression is a mix of irritation and curiosity, a reaction that doesn’t surprise you. She’s never hidden her infatuation with Taehyung, a sentiment she’s held since your freshman year. But what does surprise you is the similar look on Jungkook’s face—something close to annoyance that gives you pause. You clear your throat awkwardly, trying to stifle the last remnants of giggles that threaten to escape. 

“We’re cousins, Jen,” you say, the words slipping out between breaths as you attempt to regain your composure.

The surprise on Jennie’s face is immediate, her mouth dropping open slightly, while Jungkook’s expression softens into one of mild disbelief. Yoongi, who’s been silent all this time, glances your way with a knowing smirk, his eyes glittering with amusement. Hoseok, Taehyung, and you can’t help but start laughing again, the absurdity of the situation too much to keep in.

“Oh…” is all Jennie manages to say, a flush of pink rising to her cheeks in embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”

You shrug, still smiling as you reply, “No one really does. It doesn’t matter much, does it?”

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours once more, a subtle smile playing on his lips, his eyes shining with something that looks like relief. You don’t quite understand why the relief is so evident in his gaze, but it has a calming effect on you as well. You send him a small smile in return, a silent exchange that’s broken only when Yoongi groans and begins to rise from the grass, his movements slow and lethargic, like an old man who has trouble moving with age.

“We’ve got class, kids. Get up,” Yoongi announces, his voice dry as he stretches, his joints cracking loudly in the otherwise quiet air.

Reluctantly, you all begin to gather your belongings. Jennie links her arm through yours as you stand, a gesture that’s as familiar as it is comforting. Taehyung trails behind her, still chuckling softly to himself, while Jungkook falls into step beside him, slightly to your side. It’s something you’ve noticed before—Jungkook always seems to gravitate toward you when the group is together, as if drawn by some invisible force. You’ve dismissed it as a byproduct of your shared major, nothing more than a coincidence of proximity. But there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder if there’s something more to it, something unspoken that lingers in the spaces between you.

Yoongi and Hoseok lead the way, Hope talking animatedly as always, his hands gesturing in the air as he makes a point. Everyone instinctively makes space for Yoongi as he walks, his presence commanding a quiet respect that few others can match. The group moves as one, a well-practised rhythm that speaks of years spent together, each of you falling into your familiar roles as you head toward the autopsy lab.

The path is well-trodden, the grass worn down by the passage of countless students over the years. The midday sun sits high in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the campus, the air thick with the full warmth of the day. Despite her sunscreen and wide-brimmed hat, Jennie still shields her face with her free hand. You walk in silence for the most part, the only sounds the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant chatter of other groups making their way to their respective classes as well.

As you approach the lab, the building standing proud in its massive built, its stone facade weathered by time, ivy creeping up the walls in a silent conquest. The heavy wooden doors stand open, the cool air inside beckoning after the warmth of your lunch break as you step inside, the familiar scent of antiseptic and old books hitting you immediately, a smell that’s become synonymous with your studies. 

The group disperses slightly as you each head to your lockers, retrieving the necessary equipment for the class. Jennie is still linked to your arm, her earlier embarrassment forgotten as she chatters away. Taehyung is beside her, humming to himself as he pulls on his lab coat, his hair a dishevelled mess from where you’ve been playing with it.

Jungkook, as always, lingers close by, his presence natural, almost indispensable. His movements are precise, each action deliberate as he retrieves his lab coat and other small materials, methodically preparing for the class ahead. There’s an ease to the way he handles everything, a confidence that doesn’t leave you room to breathe steady. Even in these seemingly mundane moments, he exhibits a meticulousness that reflects his commitment to mastering the complexities of the field, and it’s this very dedication, this quiet intensity, that first drew you to him.

You’ve always admired his unwavering determination that reflects your own, the way he approaches each task with such care, precision and intelligence. It’s no wonder that over time, those feelings of admiration began to multiply like tumour cells, developing into a quiet crush that you’ve never quite managed to shake. His character, his relentless pursuit of excellence, and that calm, assured demeanour—these are the things that have captivated you, leaving you secretly drawn to him in ways you’ve yet to fully understand. Even now, as his gaze occasionally drifts in your direction, though he says nothing, there’s a desire for him you can’t ignore, a magnetic pull that keeps your attention fixed on him, even as you all prepare for the class ahead.

You exchange a few words with Yoongi and Hoseok, the latter of whom is still engrossed in whatever conversation he’s been having with Yoongi, though it’s clear Yoongi’s mind is already in the lab, his focus sharpening as the thrill to dissect draws near. The energy in the room shifts as everyone dons their lab coats, seriousness descending as you prepare for the new semester.

You step into the autopsy lab with your friends and two other students whose names escaped you long ago, the cold, sterile air immediately wrapping around you like an welcome embrace you longed for all summer break as your steps squeak on the tiled and freshly cleaned floor. The harsh fluorescent lights bathe the room in its pale glow, illuminating the gleaming steel of the dissection tools and tables that stand waiting, four in total, each an empty stage for the work that will soon begin. Mr. Choi stands by one of the tables, looking as though he could be mistaken for a cadaver himself, his skin drawn and pallid, eyes sunken into deep sockets. His expression is as lifeless as the bodies soon to be laid out before you.

"Good morning, everyone," he greets, his voice a flat monotone that does little to lift the sombre atmosphere as you and the others line up instinctively, muscle memory guiding you to your usual places from previous semesters. Without a word, he tosses a small tub of Vicks VapoRub toward Yoongi, who catches it with effortless accuracy, not even glancing up from his phone. 

As Mr. Choi begins his customary review of the last semester, recapping the techniques and knowledge you’ve all supposedly mastered, the tub of ointment makes its way down the line. One by one, each student takes a small amount, dabbing it beneath their noses—or in Taehyung’s case, smearing it more liberally into his nostrils—to block out the inevitable stench of decay and death that permeates these walls. When it reaches you, you pass it straight to Jungkook, not bothering to use any yourself. Jungkook's tattooed hand hovers in place when he realises you’ve skipped it, his brow arching in that familiar, questioning way.

“You sure?” His voice is low, soft, the kind of voice that always makes your pulse quicken slightly. He holds the tub out to you, lingering a moment longer than necessary as he waits for your response.

You shake your head, declining the offer with a small, dismissive gesture. “’S fine, thanks,” you murmur. The smell of death has never bothered you—not since the night you were bathed in your parents' blood, not since Seokjin showed you what true decay smells like and what the sound of an infinite number of flies sound like. In some twisted way, the scent is almost comforting now, a reminder of your secret purpose.

Jungkook’s eyes search yours briefly, but he doesn’t press further. “Okay,” he says, his voice just above a whisper as he takes a small amount of the ointment and rubs it along his perfect Cupid’s bow, the menthol sheen catching the light momentarily before he caps the tub and passes it along to Ben.

“This semester, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Choi resumes, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic note of enthusiasm—or perhaps it’s just your imagination, “we’re going to spice things up a little. You’ll be working in pairs—well, I’ll be assigning the pairs—and together, you’ll dissect two of our friends here over the course of the semester. Each pair will be responsible for writing a detailed report on both dissections, and these reports will determine your final grade for the class.”

The room erupts into a low murmur of excitement, with a few claps and cheers punctuating the otherwise grim mood. You join in half-heartedly, your mind already racing ahead, wondering who you’ll be paired with. Ideally, you’d be matched with Taehyung, Yoongi, or Jungkook—people whose work ethics and routines align with yours, whose presence wouldn’t be a distraction. But as the names are called, you can feel your anticipation teetering on the edge of anxiety.

Mr. Choi pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his lab coat, squinting at the list of names. “First pair: Ben and John.”

One of the unfamiliar students immediately speaks up, correcting in a flat tone, “My name’s Juan, sir.”

There’s a smattering of laughter around the room, and you feel Taehyung lean in toward you, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers, “Same same but different.”

Jungkook chuckles quietly beside you, and you have to elbow both of them, suppressing your own giggles like the hypocrite you are. The room settles down as Mr. Choi offers a terse apology, the faintest hint of embarrassment colouring his otherwise lifeless expression.

“Next pair,” Mr. Choi continues, “I would call this one mind and heart.” He chuckles at his own joke, though the room remains silent. “Yoongi and Hoseok.”

The two men exchange a high five, their smiles wide as they pull each other into a brief hug, their deep friendship between them clear in their mutual excitement. You can’t help but smile at the sight—there’s something infectious about their excitement, something that makes the dark work ahead seem like a walk on rainbows. 

Mr. Choi scans his list again. “Next pair, our future beauty doctors: Jennie and Taehyung.”

Your eyes shift to Taehyung and Jennie as they turn to each other, their faces lighting up with matching smiles that seem to glow with a warmth that could almost outshine the harsh overhead lights. It’s a look that makes you realise something you hadn’t noticed before—an attraction Taehyung seems to have for Jennie that you’ve been oblivious to until now. You silently root for them, hoping this shared project might be the catalyst for something more.

And then it hits you, like a slow dawn creeping over the horizon. The only ones left are you and Jungkook. The realisation wipes the smile from your face, leaving you with an odd mix of anxiety and anticipation twisting in your gut.

“And last, but certainly not least,” Mr. Choi announces, “our future superheroes who will someday save all the children: ___ and Jungkook.”

Your heart skips a beat as you turn to face Jungkook, who’s already looking at you with a grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. His ears, you notice, have turned a vibrant shade of red, a sure sign that he’s just as affected by the pairing as you are. That gleam of triumph in his eyes, the kind that says he’s more than pleased with this outcome, makes your own smile waver. You force yourself to reciprocate, though you’re acutely aware of how hard it’s going to be to stay focused on your work with him so close, day after day. Something you previously ignored in its fullest. There’s something between you, something unspoken but oh so real, an longing that you can’t afford to let bloom. Not when you know that no sane person would ever truly love a killer, someone who hides a part of themselves so dark and twisted that full honesty is an impossibility.

Mr. Choi continues, oblivious to the turmoil beneath your composed exterior. “You’re free to use the lab whenever you need to. The first autopsy and report must be completed and handed in within six weeks.” He strides over to the cadaver cooler and, with a theatrical flourish, pulls open two of the stainless steel doors. The sound of the vacuum seal breaking echoes through the room, and two bodies slide out on their own, propelled by the sudden rush of air.

Glancing around at the faces of his students—some pale with nerves, others flushed with excitement—a ghost of a smile playing on Mr. Choi’s lips as he quips, “May the odds be ever in your favour.”

prologue • masterlist • 02

a/n 3: lmk what you think in any way you like! 👀

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 2

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, detailed description of external autopsy and working with cadav€rs, mentions of underground fight club and mafia, mention of rap€, trauma, blood, detailed description of physical violence such as punch!ng, k!lling someone, mentions of wounds, detachment, a little bit of fluff, lies, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 6.4K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • masterlist • 03

The autopsy lab falls silent as everyone takes in the sight of the bodies, but your thoughts are circling around like a roundabout, gaining in speed with every turn while your gaze drifts back to Jungkook. His earlier joy has mellowed into a focused determination, the same look you’ve seen in him so many times before, but now, knowing you’ll be working side by side with him for the foreseeable future, it feels different—more intense, more charged, more dangerous.

You drag your eyes away, forcing yourself to focus, but even as Mr. Choi starts giving more detailed instructions about the cadavers, your mind keeps circling back to the same thought: how are you going to survive the next few months without losing your grip on the carefully maintained but broken facade you’ve still got somewhere in you?

The answer, as always, remains elusive, slipping through your fingers like water, leaving you with nothing but the cold certainty that this will be harder than any other project you’ve faced before. And yet, a small, treacherous part of you can’t help but look forward to it, to the chance to be near Jungkook, to see if whatever this is between you will grow or wither under the weight of the secret you carry. 

As Mr. Choi's instructions continue to wash over you, you can't help but steal another side-glance at Jungkook. He's focused, his eyes still warm but clearer as he listens intently. The sight sends a pang through you—admiration, yes, but also a deep, gnawing worry. He’s everything you used to be and somehow to the outside world still are: open, kind, brilliant in a way that shines like the sun after a long night. What would he think if he knew the truth? If he knew about the nights you spent in darkness, longing to be bathed in the blood of the guilty, driven by a vengeance that had long since consumed you, rushing like heroine through your veins?

You take a deep breath, trying again to steady yourself. There’s no room for weakness now, not when you’re about to step into a new role for him—partner, confidant, equal. You can’t let your feelings for him, whatever they might be, get in the way. You have to be stronger than that, for both your sakes.

Mr. Choi finishes his speech with a final, ominous reminder about the importance of accuracy and thoroughness in your reports, his gaze lingering on each of you as if to drive the point home. Then, with a curt nod, he gives a go for the class, leaving you all to your thoughts and the quiet hum of the cooling units.

As the group begins to disperse for the assignment, gathering their materials and exchanging murmurs about it, you find yourself rooted to the spot, your mind still whirling with everything that’s just transpired in less then thirty minutes. It’s only when Jungkook’s warm hand touches your back, giving you a gentle push, that you’re pulled back to the present.

“Come on,” he smiles, his voice light, though you can sense the excitement in his tone. “Let’s get it, yeah?”

You nod still a little absentmindedly, allowing him to lead you to your designated body. Lost in your thoughts, you barely registered that Yoongi and Hope have already begun their examination, their movements synchronised like the ticking of a clock. A few feet away, Jennie and Taehyung are absorbed in their own conversation, voices hushed but animated as they discuss the immaculate condition of their cadaver’s skin, debating whether it had once belonged to a model or beauty influencer. Ben and Juan however stand frozen before their own table right beside yours, staring at their lifeless cadaver with wide, frightened eyes, unsure where to begin.

Taking a deep breath, the sterile, cleansing scent filling your lungs as you take your designated place beside the cold, metal dissection table, your eyes trained on the white cloth draped over your cadaver, hiding it still from view. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, a silent question hanging in the air between you as he now stands tall on the other side of the dissection table.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice soft, almost hesitant as he slips his hands into the sterile gloves, the latex snapping softly against his skin, while you follow suit, your fingers sliding into the cold material as well. 

You meet his eyes, offering a small, almost mechanical smile as you nod. “Ready.”

With a careful, almost reverent motion, Jungkook reaches out and lifts the cloth, revealing the body beneath. His movements are gentle, as if the man lying there might still feel something, as if he might stir awake at the slightest disturbance. You watch him with a detached curiosity, wondering why he bothers with such care. The man on the table is dead, a lifeless shell. Whatever humanity he once had is long gone. Would you have handled death as gentle as Jungkook does if you weren’t who you’ve become? You don’t dwell much on it, seeing no point in feeding into an alternative reality long forgotten.

The face of the man is revealed, his features slack in death, and something unfeeling and calculating clicks into place within you. There’s something familiar about him, something that triggers a buried memory. You shut down, pushing away the remnants of the smile you’d forced moments ago, your expression hardening as you’re consumed by the darkness that lurks within you. 

It’s that darkness that seethes repeatedly in your mind that the man lying before you resembles the first man you ever killed. And it’s that same darkness that forces you with an iron grip around your throat to look back. You try to resist, suffocating the flicker, but it only burns brighter until you’re engulfed in the burning flames of your past. 

The room was barely lit with a single desk lamp, the air suffocating your young airways with the acrid scent of cigarette smoke, walls stained with dampness, dark streaks creeping down like veins in a dying leaf. The sound of muffled cheers and shouts echoed through the small, grimy office, a space tucked away in the bowels of Seokjin’s underground fighting club. 

Seokjin stood by the window, shoulders broad and imposing even if he wasn’t doing much but looking outside and smoking silently. His dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms that hinted at his strength, occasionally flexing with every drag of his cigar. His black hair was sleeked back as usual, and his face—sharp, chiseled, almost inhumanly perfect—void of any emotions, trained to be a mask of cool animosity. He had a presence that commanded everyone's attention, fear, power, a dangerous allure that drew you in and held you captive years ago.

“He raped her,” Seokjin grumbled through the smoke slowly escaping his lips, his voice low, honeyed, yet laced with something so much more darker. His eyes, like shards of obsidian, glinted with malice as he glanced from the moonlight at you. 

You shifted uneasily in your seat, the worn leather creaking beneath you, you were acutely aware of the dampness in the air, of the smoke curling from the ashtray on the desk, of Seokjin’s piercing gaze that seemed to strip you bare like it always did. 

He continued then, his voice becoming more and more compelling, “So, for your plan to be fruitful, it’s time to learn how to capture a man much stronger and taller than you.”

“Right,” you responded, though your voice wavered with uncertainty. You knew he was right, but the prospect of what you have to do made your stomach churn and your heart scream. 

Seokjin’s lips curled into a menacing smile, one that you’d grown familiar with during the time spent together. It was the kind of smile that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure, a smile that told you he saw you as something to be moulded, shaped, and honed into a weapon of his design. A trophy to be displayed, a beautiful raw diamond ready to be cut and polished into something lethal.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he murmured, his tone deceptively gentle as he stepped behind you, massaging your tensed shoulders with his cigar resting between his full, rosy lips. “My men and I will be nearby. If something goes wrong, I’ll be right behind you.”

The words were meant to be comforting, but the smile he sent your way twisted them into something else entirely. You nodded, swallowing your doubts and fear as you steeled yourself for what has to be done. You had no choice; you were too deep in and too close in being ready for your revenge. 

Later that night, you found yourself standing in the shadows outside a small, nondescript grocery store while its neon sign flickered weakly in the foggy cool air. You watched your target—a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a gait that spoke of confidence, of someone who didn’t fear the dark nor what’s hiding in it. He paid for his groceries with a bored expression, and headed down a narrow, barely lit alley, all while oblivious of the predator lurking in the darkness, of the eyes that followed his every move.

You slipped into the shadows, your steps silent, your presence undetectable. You were like a wraith, moving fluidly through the night, your breath shallow, your heart racing, charged, pounding like a drum calling for war. Every muscle in your body was tense, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. 

The man turned down another alley, this one narrower, darker, foggier, the perfect place for an ambush. You quickened your pace, your fingers tightening around the rough rope coiled in your hand. 

When you were close enough, you struck. 

Without warning, you lunged forward, the rope slicing through the air as you aimed to wrap it around his neck in a swift, decisive swing. But he was quicker than you’d anticipated, his instincts catching you off guard. He spun around just in time, his hand shooting out like a snake, his fingers clamping around your wrist in a punishing grip that restricted your arm, the muscles pulsating, signalling pain where you didn’t feel any. The force of his grip made you stumble, your balance faltering as you struggled to regain control.

Your mind raced, calculating your next move even as your body fought to keep up. The rope slipped from your grasp, useless now as you twisted your body, your free hand striking out towards his throat. The hit connected, and he grunted, his grip loosening just enough for you to wrench your wrist free. Your joint locked from the point of contact, but you pushed it aside, focusing on the man before you.

You circled him like a cat to its mouse, your eyes narrowed, every muscle in your body coiled tight with anticipation. He was bigger, stronger, his broad frame still towering over you despite his slouched form. You knew you had to be smarter, faster—use his size against him. With a growl, he lunged at you, his massive arms swinging in a wide arc meant to take you down in one blow, but you were quicker this time, slipping under his arm without a second thought.

Turning, you landed a swift kick to the side of his knee, your foot connecting with a satisfying crunch. He staggered, his leg buckling slightly, but he didn’t go down, his resilience unnerving, his strength seemingly undiminished by the hit. He growled, a low, guttural sound, and you saw the flash of anger in his eyes. He was done playing games.

But so were you.

Before you could fully react, he charged, his body flashing before your eyes as he slammed into you with the force of a freight train. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, sending you crashing into the brick wall behind, the rough surface scraping against the skin on your back, but you barely registered the blood seeping through your shirt. You ducked just in time to avoid his fist, which smashed into the wall where your head had been a split second earlier, leaving dust raining down the brick wall.

Blood roared in your ears as you ducked and weaved, dodging his powerful blows by inches. He was relentless, each punch fuelled by aggression, each missed hit only making him more furious and faster. His fist finally connected with your ribs, a sickening crunch echoing through the alley as air rushed again out of your lungs. You gasped, your vision blurring momentarily, but you couldn’t afford to stop, not when you had the advantage of not feeling the damage he has done to you. Another punch grazed your jaw, the force sending you spinning to the ground like a puppet.

Your lip split open then, the taste of copper pooling in your mouth as you hit the cold pavement. He hovered over you, his shadow silhouetting against the faint light. Desperation crashed through you, adrenaline drowning out any other thought as you rolled to the side just as his boot came down where your head had been. You scrambled to your feet, ignoring your locked muscles and the numb throbbing in your side, the blood dripping from your mouth.

You feigned a retreat, backing away to lure him in. He took the bait, rushing at you with all the ferocity of a wild animal, too dumb to think clearly but only on instincts. But you were ready. As he closed the distance, you sidestepped at the last moment, using his momentum against him. Grabbing the rope again, this time with both hands, you swung it over his head, catching him around the neck as he stumbled past you.

His hands flew to the rope, trying to pull it away, but you were already behind him, tightening the noose with every ounce of strength you had left. He thrashed, his body convulsing as he tried to shake you off, but you held on, your grip like an vice, your mind focused solely on bringing him down and capturing him.

He swung his arm back, his elbow connecting with your side, right where he’d punched you earlier, but it didn’t faze you the slightest. You twisted the rope tighter, using his own weight to pull him off balance. His breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps, the sound like a wild animal caught in a trap with nowhere to escape.

He managed to land another hit by pure luck, his fist slamming into your shoulder, but his movements were growing weaker, more desperate. You felt the rope digging into your palms, the coarse fibres cutting into your skin. Ignoring the blood tickling down from your hands to your elbows, you twisted only harder, faster. His struggles slowed, his movements becoming jerky, uncoordinated.

“KILL HIM!” Seokjin’s voice boomed from the shadows, echoing around you from wall to wall. 

“I CAN’T!” You screamed back, the severity of the situation and the order settling into every pore. 

“I said, KILL HIM! You won’t be able to kill anyone else if you haven’t done it before!” 

Sweat dripped down your face, mixing with the blood trickling from your lip. You knew Seokjin was right—he was always right—but the truth of it twisted something deep inside you, making you want to cry, to run, to abandon it all and disappear forever and never look back. But you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t. The muscles in your arms protested from the effort, your joints locking even further in protest, but you didn’t stop. The man’s resistance finally began to fade, his hands falling limp at his sides. With one last, desperate gasp, his body went slack, collapsing to the ground with a heavy thud.

You stood over him, panting, spent, your breath coming in ragged bursts mixing with the fog engulfing the whole scene. Bending down, you grabbed him by his head with both of your small bloodied hands, and with one forceful move, turned it sideways until his neck broke. Your vision swam as the adrenaline began to wear off, the numb pressure in your ribs and shoulder intensifying with a vengeance, making moving hard. You were battered, bruised, bloodied, but you’d done it. The man lay dead at your feet, the rope still wound tightly around his broken neck.

The night was silent once more, the sounds of your struggle already fading into the darkness. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing and keep the tears at bay as you wiped the blood from your split lip. The victory felt hollow, the darkness that followed after a kill creeping into your mind, suffocating your weeping heart and soul.

Then, from the shadows, Seokjin finally emerged, his face lit by the pure joy he felt seeing you kill for him. He surveyed the scene with a sparkling gaze, as if he was gifted the most precious present in the world.

“Well done, angel,” he nearly cheered, his voice dripping with wicked pride.

You nodded, but there was no triumph in your heart, only the echo of violence and the chill of the night. The darkness within you had grown, fed by the blood spilled, the life taken. As you stood there, the rope and body to your feet, you couldn’t help but wonder how much more of your soul you’d have to sacrifice before it was all over.

The memory fades, leaving you indifferent and withdrawn as you stare down at the body on the autopsy table. The resemblance to the man you’d killed all those years ago is uncanny, but you push the thought aside, knowing better than to let it distract you. 

Jungkook, unaware of the dark thoughts swirling in your mind, begins reading the personal information from the file in his hand. “Beomseok is a forty-year-old male, found deceased in his apartment. No signs of forced entry, cause of death undetermined. He had three children, two daughters and a son. All go to college. His wife is thirty-seven years old, her name is…”

“Jungkook?” you interrupt, your voice cold, devoid of any warmth.

He looks up at you, his eyes wide with curiosity, maybe even a touch of concern. “Hm?”

“I don’t care,” you say flatly, cutting him off. The look on his face tells you that your tone has caught him off guard. He’s never seen you this detached before, this devoid of the kindness you usually radiate.

He hesitates, searching your face for an explanation, but finds none. “Okay, yeah, right,” he finally says, his voice tinged with confusion, not knowing what to do or say. He quickly sets aside the clipboard, his demeanour shifting as he realises you’re not in the mood for personal talk. 

You step closer to the body, your gaze clinical as you begin the external examination. “Let’s just begin.”

Jungkook nods, following your lead as you start with a careful inspection of the outer appearance. 

You begin with the hands, lifting them to examine the nails, the skin, the joints. “No signs of defensive wounds,” you note, your voice steady as you turn the hand over, checking the palms. “No calluses either. He didn’t do much manual labor.”

“Right,” Jungkook agrees, leaning in to inspect the hands himself. “His skin is smooth, well-maintained. Maybe he had an office job, something that didn’t require much physical work.”

You move on to the arms, examining the veins, the muscle tone. “The veins are collapsed, consistent with post-mortem changes. No track marks, no signs of intravenous drug use.”

Jungkook nods, jotting down notes as you speak. “Skin turgor is decreased, typical of someone who’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. No petechiae on the conjunctiva, so it’s unlikely he was strangled.”

You shift your attention to the torso, running your fingers along the chest, feeling for any abnormalities beneath the surface. “No broken ribs, no bruising. The sternum is intact.”

Jungkook mirrors your actions, his touch gentle as he presses down on the abdomen. “No distension. Rigor mortis is fully locked in the limbs, but I think it’s starting to resolve soon. Livor mortis is fixed, so he’s been dead for several hours.”

“Skin shows no significant lesions,” you add, your voice detached as you lift the man’s head to check the scalp. “No signs of blunt force trauma to the head…nor neck.”

Jungkook watches you carefully, his brow furrowed. He can tell something is off, that you’re more distant than usual, but he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he continues with the examination, his voice softer now. “The pupils are fixed and dilated, no signs of hemorrhage in the sclera.”

You nod, acknowledging his words as you move to the legs, checking for any signs of injury or abnormality. “No edema, no signs of deep vein thrombosis. He was healthy, at least externally.” 

“Initial external examination of the front shows no obvious signs of trauma,” Jungkook summarises for you to write down. “No petechial haemorrhages, no contusions, no lacerations… he looks peaceful, doesn’t he?”

You don’t answer, your attention focused on your notes, but still noticing Jungkook watching you closely, his gaze following the movement of your pen. 

“He does,” you finally reply. “But looks can be deceiving.”

Jungkook glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he tries to lighten the atmosphere. “Always the pragmatist, aren’t you?”

You give him a brief nod, not meeting his eyes. Instead, you focus on jotting down the notes and handing him the clipboard.

"Let's continue with its back."

"His," Jungkook interjects, his gaze surprised, stunned even, tinged with a light sheen of anger. You can see in his eyes that he doesn’t comprehend this detachment of yours, and perhaps he never will. So you pull back, meeting him not just halfway, but where he stands, knowing it’s a small concession you’re willing to make. And at the and of the day, it truly doesn’t matter to you. 

"His back," you correct, watching as his expression shifts again, returning to his default warmth and care.

Jungkook gently shifts the body on the table, his movements careful, almost reverent, as if not wanting to disturb whatever peace the dead might still hold. "Let’s see your back," he whispered softly, his voice low with a subtle mix of respect and anticipation. You look on, switching your eyes from Jungkook to the body. It’s remarkable how respectfully he handles the dead, his personality still deeply ingrained and showing despite this environment. 

It triggers something deep within you, your kind self clawing and pounding against the locked doors of your mind, desperate to break free, to surface and take control again. But you push it back with a force that betrays your fear, making certain the locks are secure, fastened tightly so that part of you never escapes when it’s not needed. 

The body rolls onto its front with a muted thud, and you both fall into a practiced rhythm, your mind secured into that distant space where emotions need to be  locked away. 

"The scapulae are intact, no signs of trauma," Jungkook murmurs, his fingers gently tracing the bony ridges beneath the skin. The taut flesh stretches over the spine, the vertebrae visible like a faint chain beneath the surface of dead skin. 

"Livor mortis is pronounced along the lower back," he continues, pointing out the purplish mottling that has settled, staining the skin in uneven patches. "Consistent with the body lying supine after death."

You nod, leaning in to inspect it more closely, your fingers gliding over the skin beside Jungkook’s, checking for anything out of place. "No signs of movement post-mortem," you add, your voice clinical. 

You pause, catching a slight tremor in Jungkook’s voice, the faintest hint of something personal creeping through his professional exterior, but the flash in his eyes disappears as fast as his tremor. "I don’t see any indications of a struggle, no bruising or abrasions."

He nods, his eyes scanning the back with a careful intensity. "No obvious signs of external trauma," he echoes, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Time of death estimate aligns with the rigidity and the lividity. Likely around eight to ten hours ago."

Your fingers continue their examination, pausing at a small blemish—a freckle, now just another detail in the report. "The muscles are indeed stiff, rigor mortis fully set in as you said,“ you observe, your tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing a routine case of a textbook, though your mind is miles away. "This aligns with your estimate. The body’s been undisturbed."

Jungkook glances at you, a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he asks, "Do you ever wonder about who they were? What their life was like?"

You meet his gaze, the question hanging in the air like an unwanted intruder. A part of you wants to answer, to slip into the role of the person he knows, but the darker side of you has already taken over and doesn’t back down. "No," you state, your voice cold, dismissive. "It doesn’t matter now. We’re here to determine how they died, not who they were."

He blinks, surprised by the sharpness in your tone, but nods, accepting your words. "Right," he agrees, though there’s a hesitation there, a moment where you see the empathy in him, something you can’t afford. 

Each question from Jungkook reverberates through the hollow chambers of your mind, calling again and again for the part of you that you’re trying so desperately to cage while handling death. His words are like keys, unlocking the doors you’ve bolted shut, making that lighter side of you stir and rise, stronger, louder, more insistent with every syllable he utters. 

It’s a delicate dance, this push and pull within yourself, a balance you have to master if you are to navigate the semester by his side. You realise with a growing sense of dread and exhaustion that you must learn quickly—how to respond to him without slipping too far into the gentle persona he knows, for your own sake and mind, and without letting the killer within emerge fully from the shadows. The lines are beginning to blur, the edges of your dual selves bleeding into each other, and you wonder if and how long you can keep them separate.

Without a warning, a deafening slap echos through the room, the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting tile. Instinctively, you turn to find Ben and Juan standing helpless beside their dislodged cadaver, its lifeless body sprawled across the floor. The clumsy attempt to turn it had clearly gone awry in all its glory. 

Jungkook, always quick to lend a hand, rounds your table, but you halt him with a firm, “Stop.” He freezes mid-way, eyes wide as he looks back to you, and the room stills. Everyone’s attention hovers on you, suspended in the silence as if waiting for some deeper explanation. 

You break the tension, your voice the coldest it’s every been. “It’s their body. They need to learn how to handle it properly themselves—and if not, they should learn how to correct their mistakes.” 

The words leave your mouth without hesitation, even though your lighter side inside you protests at the detachment. Jungkook, visibly taken aback, stares at you as though he’s seeing a stranger. Still, he returns to his place beside the table, not leaving his eyes stray from you as you  watch as Ben and Juan awkwardly manoeuvre their cadaver back onto the table.

Once everything resumes and you turn back, Jungkook leans in, his voice soft but filled with disbelief. “What was that? You always help. That wasn’t like you.”

You meet his gaze, your expression hard, impenetrable. “This isn’t a textbook, Jungkook. It’s a human body. If they can’t handle it, maybe they should reconsider their career.”

Jungkook stands there, visibly shaken by your words, mouth open, his brows furrowing as he wrestles with the dissonance between the person he thought he knew and the one now standing before him. Sensing the weight of his confusion, you steer him back to the project, eager to salvage him from the spiraling thoughts that threaten to cloud his mind and risk further questions.

"Let’s move on," you say, already stepping back from the body, the examination of the back complete anyway. "We’ve got a report to do as well."

Jungkook’s eyes linger on you for a moment, as if trying to read the thoughts behind your composed exterior. "Yeah," he says finally, his voice softening. "How about we grab some coffee? We can work on the report together."

You pause, the unexpected offer catching you off guard. But then you nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

"Sure," you say, already pushing the darker thoughts to the back of your mind. "Coffee sounds good."

You strip off your gloves with a smooth flick of your wrists, the latex snapping as it peels soaked with sweat away from your skin, the cadaver’s earthly remains now tucked into the cooler's sterile abyss. The faint metallic hiss of the door sealing shut behind goes unnoticed by you as you gather your belongings. Jungkook is at your side, silent but watching, his eyes following your movements with prying concern that he doesn’t bother to hide. As you both step into the corridor and finally onto the park, the oppressive air of the lab seems to lift like a spell, and when the afternoon sun greets your frozen skin, it is as though in an instant a switch is flipped inside you. The darkness within you recoils with a hiss, retreating like a vampire scorched by daylight. And it’s when you inhale deeply, that the warmth of the sun floods your senses with clarity, like fresh air filling a long-forgotten room.

Jungkook falls into step beside you, slowing his pace, though you notice his mind is still wrapped around the events of the past class. The two of you head towards the coffee shop on campus, a quiet cozy stroll that allows the tension of the lab to dissipate off your muscles. You glance over at him, catching his profile, the way his dark hair shifts in the light breeze while his arms swing softly with every step he takes. You’re the first to break the silence, sensing the need to soften the edges of your awkward interaction.

"How was your weekend, by the way?" you ask, keeping your tone light, as if the lab and its strange, unsettling energy was years behind you both.

Jungkook blinks at the question, almost as though he hadn’t expected it. „Huh?“ 

"I noticed your absence in the group," you try softly, gentle, like the way he knows you. "Even though you're mostly quiet, you're always… there, you know? Present. But you weren’t this weekend.“ The words linger for a while, your honesty catching him obviously off guard.

„Oh, it was good," a small smile tugs at his lips. "Spent it with my family. My brother came home from overseas, so it was a bit of a reunion."

You nod, your eyes sweeping over the campus as you walk the short distance, enjoying the moment with Jungkook to its fullest. His cheeks flush a faint shade of pink, but he masks it by pushing open the door to the coffee shop, holding it for you with an air of politeness that feels almost bashful. Inside, you step up to the counter and place your orders, the familiarity of the ritual, despite your friend group not being complete, settling your nerves entirely. You slide into a worn booth, Jungkook across from you, his gaze soft but still attentive as it always is.

And for the first hour, the two of you dive into the report, dissecting the details of the external autopsy while joking occasionally. As the work dwindles down, you lean back in your seat, stretching slightly mirroring Jungkook. With the weight of the first part of the report lifted, the conversation between you begins to shift into something lighter, more personal. It’s a natural transition, easy in a way you hadn’t expected after the tension of the lab or rather being alone with him. Jungkook talks about his family again—about his brother’s plans job, about the little traditions they’ve maintained. You find yourself smiling at the warmth in his voice, enjoying him having a complete, healthy and happy family.

"You know," you tease, a small smirk on your lips, "this feels a bit like a date, doesn’t it?"

Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly, his cheeks once again dusted with that faint blush. He shifts in his seat, chuckling nervously. "It could be… if you wanted it to be," he replies softly, eyes locked steadily onto yours, though there’s an unmistakable shyness in the way he looks at you, as if he’s bracing for rejection but daring to still hope.

For a moment, you falter. The thought lingers, hangs in the space between you, tantalising in its simplicity, but the weight of your split reality crashes against it like a tidal wave. You can’t afford to entertain such possibilities—at least, not now, not when your plan isn’t executed and completed. Your mind whirls with the implications, the future, the darkness still lurking inside you, waiting for night to fall again.

Instead of answering, you look down at your coffee, watching the way the light reflects off its surface, wondering what drove you to even tease him in the first place. It’s easier to ignore the undercurrent of feeling, to push it aside. But Jungkook, undeterred by your silence or just hoping to save what’s left, continues the conversation, his voice mellow despite not receiving an answer. And tt’s easy, this back-and-forth of conversation, the small confessions of likes and dislikes of mundane things, the simple joys of everyday life. Without you noticing, he’s peeling back layers with each sentence, not realising himself how dangerous it could be if he got too close.

His next question catches you off guard. "I never asked," he begins, his tone curious, light. "How did you get into medicine?"

You glance up, your heart stuttering in your chest. You should have seen this coming. Jungkook’s eyes are wide with expectation, with a yearning to know you, perhaps the you beneath the layers of control and masks. But you can’t give him that—not yet, not ever, if you can help it.

"Medicine?" You feign a thoughtful expression, playing dumb as if you hadn’t already anticipated where this conversation was headed.

"Yes… no, just generally. What brought you here?" His eyes are earnest, filled with the desire to understand. 

It hits you, he wants to hear your story, wants to hear which arrows have pierced you, which made you bleed, sometimes less, sometimes until no blood was left. For a fleeting moment, you want to, you want to tell him all, offering the the broken pieces of your heart and soul up with trembling hands for him to take. You imagine him standing before you, fixing them how you know he’d be able to, letting him be the one, who fights your battles where you’re too weak to even protect yourself from the blows. To stand tall before you, so you finally can heal. 

But it’s only a fleeting moment that passes like the seasons, and so you hide away and lie „I’ve always been fascinated by the human body. I guess it just seemed like a natural choice—to want to help people."

It’s the safest answer, the one that reveals nothing of the truth.

Jungkook looks at you for a long moment, as though he senses there’s more, but before he can press further, a sudden commotion draws your attention. A girl nearby stumbles, her books scattering across the floor in a chaotic mess and without hesitation, you rise from your seat, moving to help her gather them up. 

„Here let me help,“ it’s instinctive, the part of you that seeks to protect and aid still very much alive despite it all.

"Thank you," the girl breathes, her voice filled with relief as you hand her the last of her papers. She smiles up at you, eyes shining with gratitude.

"You're welcome," you reply warmly, returning to your seat right after. Jungkook watches you, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and the newfound confusion. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze lingering on you as though he’s trying to piece together the contradictions you continue to present for the first time to him.

You settle back into the booth, your thoughts swirling again, but you catch sight of the setting sun and the time on your phone, and pack your things, briefly looking him in his dark eyes. „I have to go.“

Jungkook’s brow furrows slightly. "I thought we could grab dinner, maybe…?" His voice is hopeful, laced with a quiet plea which makes your heart squeeze on itself.

„I really can’t,“ you reply, the smile on your lips wavering. "I’ve got something to take care of." Before he can protest, you add quickly, "But another time! I’d love to…if you would still like to…“

„Of course!“ He stands with you without much thought. His hesitation is clear in the way his hands fidget at his sides, but after a short moment he steps closer, and for the first time, he pulls you into a hug. It’s brief, tentative, but warm, his arms wrapping around you with a gentleness that nearly breaks you in half.

You stiffen slightly but manage to return the gesture, pulling away quickly before the contact lingers too long. "Goodnight, Jungkook," you say, not meeting his eyes but offering him one last smile before turning on your heel and heading out the door.

The campus is quiet as you make your way back to your dorm, the sun now beginning to dip behind the horizon. And as the darkness creeps over your path, so too does the other side of you—the side that laughs menacingly within the corners of your mind, knowing that tonight, blood will be spilled. The first name on your list awaits, and nothing will stop you from striking.

prologue • 01 • masterlist • 03

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki, @hagridshaircare 

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 3

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: attempted murd€r, foul language, detachment, inner conflicts bordering on schizophrenia, fluff, slow burn, please lmk if I forgot something word count: ~ 5.1K

a/n: okay, so here's the deal...I've successfully and irreversibly deleted 2k words of this chapter while editing *yey* And I'm not capable of writing it again, so this chapter's a little shorter than intended. Hope you're enjoying it despite its short length...here goes nothing...🥲

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • masterlist • 04

The night around you feels charged as you move along the shadowed path, the whispers of Suyeomggang River just below the ridge line of trees. The moon hangs heavy and swollen in the sky, a pale sentinel casting a sickly cold light over the riverbank, water lapping against the railings with an almost lazy indifference, a black mirror that reflects the stars in shattered fragments. You can feel the cool breeze off the river, taste its dampness in the air, hear its calling darkness from its depth.

You’ve been preparing for this for years, it’s like tonight everything falls into place, as if everything is perfect, the night wrapping around you like an invisible cloak, the silence so deep it feels like a part of you, an extension of your being grasping in every direction. The training, the planning, the sleepless nights spent perfecting every detail—all of it has led you to this exact moment. You slip through the darkness underneath the canopy of overhanging trees, the leaves whispering above you as if they know what’s about to happen and are trying to keep the secret within themselves. Every step precise, measured, the ground beneath your feet making not a single sound as you follow the trail of Kim Sangwook, the first name on your kill list.

It had to be him. You chose him with the precision of a surgeon’s blade, the first man who laid his filthy, despicable hands on your mother. His crime, as well as Park Dojin’s and Kim Chulsoo’s, wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual, an affront to the very blood that runs through your veins, poisoning it to its DNA. 

For months, you’ve watched Sangwook, studied his habits, learning the cadence of his days not to avoid him, but to calculate his weaknesses. He’s arrogant, unafraid, too comfortable in his routines to second guess himself and his safety. You know exactly where he’ll be most vulnerable, and it’s here—this river trail, this desolate stretch of night where no one comes after the sun has set, where only the distant sound of the city and nature bears witness to what will transpire. 

You have been patient. You are always patient. And tonight will be no different. 

You’re dressed in black, a second skin tailored to your body, slim-fitting and functional, with hidden pockets for your shurikens and whip coiled at your side. You considered a face mask but knew better—too easy to lose in a fight. Instead, you’ve sewn yourself a sleek, fitted mask that covers only your cheeks and brow, leaving your mouth and nose exposed to breathe freely, knowing better than to weaken yourself. 

Ahead of you, Sangwook walks, oblivious. He’s whistling—a tuneless, off-key noise that grates against your nerves, but you force yourself to block it out. His pace is lazy, his stride confident. He doesn’t look behind him, doesn’t even suspect that he’s being watched. You follow him like a shadow, each of his steps mirrored by yours but cloaked in silence. The trail curves ahead, leading to a darker stretch where the trees thicken and the river slips out of view. You know this spot—it’s where he’ll be most isolated, most vulnerable.

The darkness inside you twists and writhes, a beast of malice that groans and growls, aching for the taste of blood, its hunger a throbbing force that drowns out any shred of gentleness that lives inside you, pushing it so far down that it might as well have never been there at all. There is nothing left within you now but cruelty, sharp and ruthless, devouring the softer parts of your soul, leaving behind only the savage desire to destroy, to break, to consume without mercy.

You crouch slightly, bending your knees as you brace yourself to pounce. Every muscle in your body is taut, ready to explode into motion with your command. You’re so close now, your fingers twitching with the anticipation of wrapping your whip around his throat, of pulling him into the shadows where he belongs and never will escape from. The moment stretches out before you, the world narrowing to just you and him, to this moment, to this beautiful, beautiful moment. 

But then—hands, strong and cold, seize you from behind, and your breath stutters. Your instincts scream danger, but you’re too late. Your body is wrenched backwards, your planned attack on Sangwook slipping through your fingers like air, as he continues his walk, unaware, disappearing into the black abyss of the night, saved by sheer dumb luck.

A grunt of frustration escapes your lips, but you push the sound away as you focus on the here and now. The arms around you are like steel bars, locking your movements, restricting you, but not for long. You twist your body violently, your elbow driving backwards into your captor's ribs with full force. The impact reverberates through your bones, but the man barely falters, tightening his grip even further. Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as you struggle, thrashing against the strength that holds you, your heart racing by pure survival instinct. 

With a quick shift of your weight, you slam the heel of your combat boot down hard against his instep, and finally, you feel him flinch. It’s just enough. His grip loosens, and you slip free, stumbling forward but catching yourself before you fall to the ground. You whip around, panting silently, every muscle ready for the next strike.

Before you stands a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in black from head to toe, a black face mask covering the lower half of his face, his eyes squinting at you with angry intensity beneath the brim of a equally black cap. His chest heaves slightly from your brief struggle, but you can tell by his stance that he’s no amateur, even though his face mask tells a different story.

“Who the fuck are you?” you snap, your voice cutting through the night, sharp and impatient after your plan so gracefully failed. 

The man scoffs, clearly unimpressed by your question. "I’m Pulse," he replies, his voice low and gravelly, laced with arrogance. "And with whom do I have the pleasure?"

The name rings a bell, and your mind clicks—Pulse. You’ve heard of him before, the so-called ‘hero’ who stalks the streets of Busan, swooping in like some self-righteous crusader to save the day. A ridiculous figure, some holier-than-thou idiot who thinks he can make a difference in a world that’s long past saving. You can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes your lips, suppressing a role of your eyes. He’s nothing more than a man playing dress-up, chasing glory under the guise of justice.

“Stasis,” you say through a mocking smile full of teeth, your tone dripping with derision. The name you gave yourself and the one you call him are a joke, a reflection of the absurdity of this whole pointless situation and himself. “Nice to meet you, Dulls.”

His eyes narrow further above his mask, gaze burning into you with his wounded ego. He clearly wasn’t expecting to run into someone like you tonight, and so he takes a step closer, his voice steady but laced with warning you can’t seem to take serious at the slightest. "This isn't how you make the world better. You shouldn’t be hurting people."

You can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes your lips, can’t help but to keep mocking him. "You don’t say."

Silence falls between you as your words reach him, as if he’s weighing his next words carefully, shifting through his thoughts, unsure of what to say next. Meanwhile, the beast inside you bares its teeth, gnashing against the cage of your control, howling for blood, demanding that you kill him right here and now. But you force it down, force yourself to remember that there’s a time and place for slaughter, that not every impulse of it deserves to be fed, not every throat needs to be torn open—only those who’ve earned it. 

Pulse’s anger seems to dissolve into the night, slipping away like smoke, as if he’s sensed the monster stirring within you, as if he’s frying to soothe it with patience and understanding.

"I won’t hurt you."

Despite better judgement, you straighten at that, as Pulse’s voice carries a promise that you know better than to believe. It drips with false reassurance, and you’ve long since learned that such words are nothing but bait. You don’t trust him, won’t allow yourself to be lulled into a sense of security that clearly isn’t there. Instead, you begin to circle him to gain back the control he tried ripping out of your hands, testing the resolve behind his words, scanning him for weaknesses, pushing at the edges of his composure. 

He stands rooted to the ground, immovable, like a tree whose roots have burrowed deep beneath the earth while the silent dance of power shifting back and forth continues. His cap shadows over his eyes, but you can still feel the burn of his gaze, still feel him asserting you. He watches you with an intensity that you don’t need to see to know; it lingers on your skin, prickling violently in the danger that he is to you.

„What are you doing?“ he finally says, his voice as soft as the night wind.

There it is. That kindness. That unbearable warmth that radiates off him like heat from a furnace, the same warmth that makes you want to recoil. His question is laced with the assumption that you can be saved. He speaks to you as though you're redeemable, as if you're nothing more than a misunderstood soul. As if the rivers of blood on your hands could be washed away by words alone.

„What does it look like I’m doing?“ you let the question hang in the air, more for your own amusement than any real attempt at conversation.

As you keep circling him, you take in every detail. He’s fit, his posture straight and sure, radiating confidence without arrogance. He seems young—perhaps the same age as you, or a little older, but it’s hard to pin down. His body speaks of strength, of long-honed discipline, but what bothers you is the life in his eyes, the youthfulness that disgusts you. There’s something unbearably naive in the way they looked at you before he hid them behind his cap, something untouched by the darkness you’ve come to know so well. Innocence like that has no place in your world. It’s a weakness, a flaw, and yet… he wears it as if it’s armour, shielding him from the filth around him.

You search for cracks in that armour, scrutinising his stance, looking for even the slightest imbalance—a weight leaning to one side, a twitch of muscle, any tell that would betray a vulnerability. But there’s nothing. His body remains steady, a fortress devoid of weakness. He doesn’t flinch as you move, doesn’t tense, not even when you brush close enough to feel the heat radiating off his back’s skin. His breathing is even, his pulse—steady.

Your eyes land on the faint rise and fall of his carotid artery, barely visible beneath the skin of his neck. It beats in a slow, calm rhythm, betraying no sign of fear or anticipation. It unsettles you. Every instinct you have is honed to control, to find the weak points in others, to bend them to your will with a word or a glance. But with him, nothing breaks. Nothing shifts. He stands as though the world could crumble around him and he’d remain unscathed.

„You don’t have to do this. You can stop, Stasis. There’s still time to change.“

Your frustration grows, curling like cigarette smoke in your chest. You’ve played this game before, unraveling the minds of those who thought they could stand against you. It’s a dance you know well—watching them falter, unravel, as the fear begins to claw at their insides, instincts kicking in. But with him… it’s as if you’re circling a stone, lifeless and unaffected by the tempest you try to stir.

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t break. 

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as he turns his eyes to follow your figure for the first time. And you see, that he’s truly like this—believing in the good in people, believing that change is as simple as a choice, as though it’s something that can be made over tea, some crackers and kind words. You almost admire his naivety. Almost.

"Change?" you repeat, a thin smile curling at the corner of your lips. "You speak of change as though it’s some inevitable truth. Some law of nature." You stop a few feet before him, being wiser than to drain your energy by pacing around him. "But nature is indifferent, Dulls. Things end. People die. No amount of hope can alter that."

He looks at you with those eyes again—those damnable eyes filled with that persistent, maddening compassion. It's almost enough to make you laugh out loud again.

„That’s not true.“

You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips. "You know that it’s only your god complex speaking out of you, right?"

"God complex?" he echoes, brows furrowed, disappearing behind his cap.

You ignore his question entirely, the words meaningless to you now after everything’s unraveled so spectacularly, your plans detonating in your face like fireworks that left nothing but failure in their wake. Without a second glance, you turn on your heel, your patience worn dangerously thin, dismissing him as you throw over your shoulder, “Don’t waste your time, buddy.”  

But he doesn’t let it go. “I know you’re not like this. I know there’s good in you, Stasis. You don’t have to be this person.”

You pause, something in his voice forcing you to stop, and with a soft, humourless laugh, you turn your head just enough to catch him in your peripheral, a shadow of a smile playing at your lips. “You still don’t get it, do you?” you murmur, the words laced with barely concealed disdain, with the cold, hard truth. “Some people are beyond saving.”

For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Like he might push harder, fight against the walls you’ve built around yourself. But then he stops. The tension in his shoulders eases, and he sighs, long and deep, as if the weight of the world presses down on him.

Without another word, you step back into the shadows, your figure melting into the darkness where it belongs. The moonlight barely touches you now, your body nothing more than a fleeting spectre in the night. You hear Pulse behind you, his footsteps hesitant, as if he’s debating whether or not to follow.

But he won’t.

You know he won’t.

Sitting at the small dining table in your shared dorm with Taehyung, the morning feels sluggish, lethargic in its stillness of early hours, sun barely peeking over the horizon just yet. Both of you and Taehyung eat breakfast—just some half-hearted cereal from the bottom of the box which expiration date you rather not learn, the crunch of each spoonful drowning out the low noise of a morning show called ‚Good Morning Busan‘ playing in the background. Taehyung, barely awake, eyes half-lidded and tired, mindlessly munches his way through his bowl while you absently stir your spoon through yours, your mind still circling the failure of the night before like you did to Pulse.

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung grumbles through a mouthful of cereal, voice still thick with sleep, his curiosity nudging through the haze. “You came back pretty quick last night. Weren’t you successful?”

“No,” you reply with a dramatic sigh, your tone flat, biting back the frustration that’s been bubbling under your skin like boiling water since your plan failed miserably. “Got interrupted.”

He pauses mid-chew, eyes opening just a little more as he frowns. “By whom?”

“Pulse.” The name alone is enough to make your eyelid twitch with irritation. “That wannabe hero.”

A sleepy chuckle escapes him, the sound half-amused, half-groggy. “Wannabe hero?” Taehyung repeats, raising an eyebrow. “You sound pissed.”

“Of course I am,” you snap, the frustration rising to the surface again, until it spills over. “I’ve been planning this for months, Tae, and he just… ruins everything. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than patrol around to feed his ego?”

Taehyung snorts at that, choosing not to poke at the simmering frustration in your voice, knowing it’s better to let you vent than to fuel the fire. He knows you well enough by now to understand that there’s no point in trying to reason with you when you're like this, so he just lets you stew, quietly eating the rest of his cereal. 

The silence deepens once more after your short outburst, as you finish eating as well. With an irritated huff, you stand and shove your bowls into the dishwasher before grabbing your bag and shoes, preparing to head to class. Taehyung follows, equally silent, slipping on his shoes as you grab the remote to turn off the TV. But just as your finger hovers over the power button, something on the screen catches your attention, halting your finger mid-press.

It’s him. It’s Pulse. His face, or rather his eyes, open and earnest, fill the screen as he speaks to a reporter, full of the kind of naive kindness that makes your skin crawl. “It’s not about honour,” he says, voice calm and oh so friendly. “It’s just doing what I can to help the mayor and police and keep the city safe. Protect its people.”

His words grate against something inside you, that calm righteousness sparking your anger all over again. You want to scream, to throw the remote straight into the TV and smash his sanctimonious face, but all you can do is stand there, teeth grating violently against each other, and turn the TV off with an aggressive jab of the button, yeeting the remote right after somewhere onto the depths of the couch. Without a word, you push through the door, Taehyung trailing lazily behind you with his loafers worn like slippers, as you both step out into the cold morning air. The chill brushes against your face in an instant, cooling your burning blood, and helping to dull the force of your fury.

After a few moments of quiet, Taehyung breaks the silence with a low chuckle, fully awake now from the brisk air. “I take it back,” he smirks. “Didn’t realise Pulse was so chummy with the devil.”

“I told you,” you mutter darkly, still fuming faintly, “he’s just another egotistical nitwit who doesn’t even understand what he’s protecting. Doesn’t understand that he’s part of the problem.”

Taehyung hums in agreement, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “So, what are you gonna do about him?”

You sigh, the weight of the question sinking into you. For a moment, you think about just ignoring him, writing him off as a nuisance who managed to catch you off guard this once but won’t be an issue again. “I don’t know,” you say with a scoff, the frustration still clinging to your voice. “Maybe I’ll just ignore him. He caught me by luck, anyway. It’s not like I’ll see him again… either way, I need to focus on taking down Sangwook and the others.”

Taehyung only hums at that, but you can’t seem to slow down just yet.

You scoff again, shaking your head in disbelief. “Pulse.*What kind of a name is that? He should call himself Blip. Stupid moron.”

Taehyung bursts out laughing, the sound echoing through the empty street, probably waking everyone in the neighbourhood, and the absurdity of it all finally cracks a smile on your face, too. “You know, I called him ‘Dulls’ last night. Didn’t go over well.”

Your laughter rises to match his, tears collecting at the edges of your eyes as you share the only moment of triumph, your tension slowly easing away with every breath.

Just then, Jungkook jogs up to join you, his soft hair bouncing with each step, and he grins at the two of you as though he’s been part of the joke all along. His presence is like a fresh breeze cutting through the remnants of your irritation, lightening your mood even more.

“What’s up?” he asks, his voice bright and curious. “What’s so funny?”

“She’s bashing Pulse,” Taehyung responds, barely holding back his laughter.

Jungkook’s smile falters, his brow furrowing as his gaze shifts into mild disapproval. “Why?”

You shrug, your mood already too high from the shared humour. “I don’t like do-gooders who have no idea what they’re doing,” you explain simply, dismissively, hoping to steer the conversation away from the topic before it stirs more irritation.

But you catch the slight tick in Jungkook’s jaw out of the corner of your eye, that tiny tightening that tells you he doesn’t see things the way you do. He’s too kind, too gentle, to understand the cynicism you’ve earned through scars on your mind and body. He probably sees Pulse as some noble protector, someone fighting for justice, unaware of how useless that brand of idealism is in the face of real, disguised evil. Sensing the shift in his mood, you deftly change the subject, not wanting to get into an argument so early in the day. “So, do you think med ethics will be any less torturous this semester?”

Taehyung sighs dramatically, rubbing his face with a groan. “I’m just trying to get through it. If I can pass and collect my attendance points, that’ll be enough.”

Jungkook chuckles softly. „True,“ though there’s still a trace of unease in his eyes, his smile not quite reaching them. You all fall into a quiet rhythm as you walk, the campus and some students coming into view as the conversation shifts to lighter things. And when you finally reach the lecture hall, you immediately spot Yoongi and Hoseok seated in an empty row, deep in conversation. They acknowledge your arrival with a brief glance, uninterested in breaking their rhythm as the three of you head towards them. Taehyung leads the way, his eyes scanning the tables before stopping just short of sitting down, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, where’s the coffee? Whose turn was it?”

Hoseok glances up, barely holding back a grin. “Jennie’s, but I think she’s late again.”

Just as you’re about to step into the row as well, hurried footsteps echo from behind. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Jennie dashing around the professor, a tray of coffee in hand, nearly tripping over herself in her haste. Before you can fully process it, she’s yanking Jungkook back by his shirt, latter letting out a short yelp while she squeezes past the narrow gap between him and the tables, bulldozing her way through without much care. She brushes by you too, nearly crushing your thighs against the hard edges of the chairs, mumbling a half-hearted “sorry” that you know she doesn’t mean, before plopping herself down beside Taehyung with a satisfied grin. 

You exchange a bewildered look with Jungkook, his expression mirroring your own disbelief, while Taehyung, completely unfazed, is already deep in hushed conversation with Jennie, grinning like he’d been waiting for her all along. Yoongi and Hoseok lean over Taehyung to grab their coffees, neither of them paying any mind to personal space.

“Alright, if everyone could please sit down, we’ll begin,” the professor calls through the room, and you quickly slip into the seat beside Jennie, Jungkook sitting down right next to you still fixing his shirt’s collar. Both of you pull out your laptops in near-perfect synchronisation, and after handing Jungkook a coffee, you quietly sip your own as the lecture begins. 

It doesn’t take long into the lecture, when Jungkook nudges you softly with his elbow, a small, warm pressure that disrupts the stillness in your thoughts and concentration. You nudge him back, acknowledging his presence, though your gaze remains forward, fixed on the professor, though you're not really seeing him now.

Jungkook leans in slightly, his voice so low it barely reaches your ears. “You know, I’ve been thinking about yesterday… and I just wanted to let you know, it’s okay if you don’t want to date me or anything. Don’t feel pressured or anything like that…” His voice trails off into uncertainty.

For a moment, you're stunned, not having expected this. Your thoughts reel back to yesterday, to that quiet moment shared over coffee. It was one of the few times you’d felt at ease, like you belonged somewhere, even for a little while. Jungkook had made you feel… seen. Appreciated, even. There was something about the way you looked at each other, listened to each other, that made you feel like you weren’t just playing a part in someone else’s story, but actually living in your own. 

You realise then, that you long for such a connection. Long for a connection with him. You’ve denied it for so long, convinced yourself you didn’t need it, didn’t deserve it. How could you, after everything you’ve done and everything that you plan to do? Building something with Jungkook on a foundation of lies feels reckless, not fair even. How could you let him get closer, knowing he doesn't know the real you? No, not the real you, but a part of you. A part, that feels like poisoned soil where he tries to plant a garden. 

Yet, there's another voice inside you, quieter but insistent: Why should your dark side dictate your life, your future? Why shouldn’t you let yourself have this light, this chance to be happy? You aren’t made of shadow entirely, you never were, and something in you yearns for Jungkook like a flower aches for sunlight. What if—just even for a while—it doesn’t have to matter?

“I would love to go on a date with you,” you whisper softly, your voice barely louder than his, wanting to take the chance for once. You feel warmth blooming in your chest and cheeks, a rush of blood that you haven’t felt in so long, and you fight to keep a smile from overtaking your lips.

And despite the mutation that shields you from physical pain, the storm of emotions coursing through you is undeniable proof of you still being alive—an inescapable, aching force reminding you that you are not the hollow shell you sometimes wish to be, but simply a feeling human. Every emotion—fear, joy, longing—rattles through your bones like a sized twelve earthquake, shaking you down to the foundation. You realise, that with your agreement, the gates to the warmth has been pulled open completely, flooding your veins without mercy, though the warmth is something different, something brighter. It spreads slowly, like the glow of the sun rising after a long, brutal night. 

Love and hope, fragile and intoxicating, winds its way into the dark crevices of your being, a sensation you’ve craved for so long that its presence is almost overwhelming. It’s everything you lost, everything that was ripped from you when your childhood was robbed from you, leaving only jagged fragments of yourself behind. And now, against all odds, it’s here again—this feeling of belonging, of connection—and it fills the void that has festered within you for years. It is what you’ve longed for since the day your innocence was stolen, and though it terrifies you, it also makes you feel more alive than you have in years.

A disbelieving, but happy puff of air escapes Jungkook’s lips. “You mean that?” His words carry a hopeful surprise, as if he hadn’t truly expected you to say yes.

For a brief moment, evil, dark doubt creeps back in, whispering that you should push him away, that your darkness will only hurt him in the end. But then, another thought pushes through the shadows: maybe this is your chance to follow the light, to give yourself permission to feel something real, something good. And for once, you let that thought win. “Yes,” you murmur softly, surrendering to the happiness with a silent sigh.

Without a word, Jungkook’s hand finds yours where it rests on your thigh, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. The warmth of his touch settles you, like a calm wave washing over a restless shore. He draws your connected hands over to his thigh, letting them rest there, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring circles across the back of your hand. “We’ve got classes all day,” he murmurs, his voice light with excitement, “but do you want to go out tomorrow night?”

“That would be great,” you whisper, glancing at him briefly. The smile you’ve been fighting finally breaks free, curving your lips as a soft tenderness spreads through you.

Jungkook beams, his own smile bright and unguarded as he strokes your hand with his thumb. “Cool. Tomorrow it is,” he nods, his voice light with pure, innocent joy. “I’ll pick you up.”

And in that moment, you feel truly happy, in a way you haven’t allowed yourself to feel for years. It’s a strange feeling, both exhilarating and terrifying to its core, like standing on the edge of a cliff with your toes hanging over, unsure if the fall will break you or set you free. But it feels good. It feels right. It feels as though there might be a future for you after all—one not swallowed whole by despair and darkness. 

Yet even as you savour the warmth spreading through and around you, a small whisper of uncertainty lingers. You don’t know if you’ll regret this, if letting Jungkook into your life will end up being the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But for now, for this fleeting moment in your short life, as your fingers remain intertwined with his, you let it wrap around you, and allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s still some light left worth saving in you after all.

prologue • 01 • 02 • masterlist • 04

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like!

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki, @hagridshaircare 

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 4

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn fic rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, fluff, inner conflicts between good and bad, thoughts about murder, lies, date night, fluff, Jungkook is a hopeless romantic (let me live, I can't write him any other way), detailed description of assass!nation and fighting, pls lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 7.3K

a/n: not edited - sorry 🥺

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • masterlist • 05

Like morning dew burning off beneath the warmth of the sun, the anticipation for your upcoming date with Jungkook became a soothing balm, easing the sting of your failed plans as they fade into insignificance. The thought of it has been with you all day yesterday, lurking at the corners of your mind, filling you with an unfamiliar, innocent lightness. There is something about the idea of being with him—outside of your daily routines, in a space where you can allow yourself to relax, just for a moment—that makes everything else seem distant and irrelevant. 

And as the hours of the day passed in a series of shared classes, the world shrunk to just the two of you, a comfortable rhythm that left you both physically drained but somehow still energised by the sheer presence of one another. His attentiveness, the way he slid a snack bar onto your desk just when your energy had begun to wane in the afternoon, made you feel like a simple girl worth of care. And though you don’t often let yourself indulge in such sweet feelings, you couldn’t help but hope that you’ll find a way to return his kindness tenfold.

Now, in your very first class of the next day, you sit side by side in the lecture hall, fingers quietly tapping at your laptops as you take notes on the professor’s monotonous ramblings. It’s the same droning voice you’ve been subjected to since the class started an hour ago, and the coffee that once kept you alert is losing its grip quicker than you hoped it will, leaving you teetering on the edge of exhaustion and resignation before the day even started. Every word of his feels like it's passing through a fog, and you find yourself struggling to focus as the professor drones on and on and on. 

It’s only when an incoming email notification pops up in the lower-right corner of your screen, and, almost in perfect synchronicity, you notice the same alert flash on Jungkook’s laptop beside you, that the fog barely lifts. The click of typing halts as you and Jungkook pause, exchanging brief glances with raised eyebrows before turning your attention back to the notification.

The subject line catches your attention first, sent from the university’s secretariat. The body of the email, however, is harder to grasp in its entirety, your eyes skimming the opening lines, as you catch only fragments—words like visit, top-students, and mayor. A deep sense of unease begins to build in your chest, even before the loud rap of knuckles against the lecture hall door interrupts the class.

Instinctively, you look up as the door creaks open, revealing the dean standing in the entranceway. His gaze sweeps over the room, disinterested in most of the students until it lands on you and Jungkook. His face splits into a smile so fake it looks like it was sculpted by hand, each muscle strained into place where you know they’ve never been there before. He exchanges a few words with the professor—empty pleasantries at best—before addressing the room in a louder voice.

“Jungkook, Y/N,” he calls over all the heads sitting in front of you, “you’re dismissed for the rest of the day. Please, follow me immediately.”

The wild noise of your inner darkness roars to life, a deafness that fills your ears and clouds your senses. The discomfort ripples through your body, tightening your grip on your laptop, but you can’t focus on anything other than the way your heartbeat has quickened. You don’t trust this sudden summons, don’t trust in you not having the control. Not at all.

“Come on, let’s go,” Jungkook whispers, nudging you lightly with his elbow as he begins to pack up his things. His smile is small but proud, as though this is a reward, a recognition of his hard work.

You follow him on autopilot, closing your laptop with a dull *thud* that echoes across the silent lecture hall. You barely notice the eyes on you as you both rise from your seats, barely register the beginning of curious murmurs or the professor’s lackluster attempt to regain control of the room. The only thing that barely grounds you is the presence of Jungkook beside you, his excitement not affecting you in the slightest.

When you step outside, you’re met by your friends, the rest of the group classified as “top students”. Yoongi and Jennie stand with bored indifference, neither seeming particularly interested in the sudden shift in the day’s events. Hoseok, on the other hand, mirrors Jungkook’s enthusiasm, his smile wide and full of good-natured anticipation. But it’s Taehyung who catches your eyes. He throws you a glance—concerned, questioning if you’re okay—but you shake your head subtly, silently willing him to stay calm. Whatever is happening, you’ll figure it out soon enough. 

The dean doesn’t give you much time to think, as he’s already moving, expecting you all to follow like obedient ducklings. “Mayor Park will be arriving in half an hour,” he explains hurriedly, his voice clipped with stress. It’s only now that you notice the small sweat beads on his temple and neck, his white dress shirt turning translucent under his arms. “The press will be here as well, so be prepared for a spectacle. Mayor Park is here to meet you all, give some motivational speech, and for the usual PR. It’s crucial that you present yourselves well. You’ll be representing the university, so do not embarrass us! Go grab your lab coats and make yourselves look respectable. We’ll meet back at the main building in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes, you hear me—no later!”

“Yes, Dean Yoon,” comes the collective response, though it’s more out of habit than genuine respect.

As the dean disappears down the hallway, the group begins heading towards the autopsy building to retrieve your lab coats. There’s some tension hanging over the group, though everyone seems to handle it differently.

“This is such a waste of time,” Yoongi mutters under his breath, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walks beside you. “Like any of us care about some politician showing up to stroke his own ego.”

Jennie chuckles softly, flicking her hair over her shoulder, grazing your face as she walks before you. “It’s all for show. He doesn’t care about us either. We’re just props to make him look good in front of the press.”

“Props in lab coats,” Hoseok adds with a laugh. “But hey, free publicity, right?”

Jungkook is still smiling, his steps lighter than usual as he walks beside you as well. “I think it’s kinda cool. It’s not every day you get to meet Mayor Park, right? Maybe it’ll be fun.”

Yoongi gives him a pointed side-eye but doesn’t argue. Jennie just shrugs, her expression one of mild amusement as she looks over her shoulder, while Hoseok just grins, clearly not as bothered by the situation as Yoongi is. Taehyung, however, remains quiet, his usual playfulness subdued as he walks close behind you. You can feel his concern on your back, even though he says nothing, which you’re grateful for. 

The enthusiastic conversation between Hoseok and Jungkook resumes all the way to the lab and while retreating your coats, but you stay quiet, lost in your own thoughts as you make your way to the autopsy building. The upcoming meeting with the mayor sits truly and utterly wrong with you, it disturbs your mind and peace, an unease that you can’t shake, making you restless, jumpy even. You hate not having control, especially when he’s involved, but you try to focus on the present, on the normalcy of walking with your friends, and preparing for nothing other than yet another tedious formality in your academic life. But it’s hard, the discomfort remains and clings to you like fluff to an old sweater. 

The others still continue their conversation, Hoseok teasing Jungkook about his excitement, while Yoongi mutters something sarcastic about politics, but still, you just can’t seem to pay attention as the words fly over your head, your mind too preoccupied with the ominous feeling that’s been growing inside you since the dean’s arrival.

The walk back to the main building feels longer than it should, each step weighted down by the knowledge of what’s, or rather who’s waiting for you. As you near the entrance, the sight of the press setting up their cameras and microphones inside only heightens your unease. The dean is already there, waiting for you with a forced smile plastered on his face, his eyes darting between the clock and the approaching figure of Mayor Park’s entourage.

You all line up in a neat row inside the grand lobby of the main building, the sterile scent of freshly cleaned floors filling your senses, while the cameras are being prepped before you. The silence among you as you stand there doesn’t do much to make your thoughts clearer, every train of thought again and again broken off by the occasional shuffle of feet or the rustling of lab coats as you adjust yourselves into position. The others stand with varying degrees of interest and boredom, but you can’t seem to focus on yourself, can’t shake the consuming tension that’s been knotting tighter in your intestines since this fuss began.

Just as you get your breathing to even out, the grand doors swing open, and Mayor Park enters with a flourish, his well-tailored suit pristine under the lobby lights. He walks with a politician’s disgustingly practiced grace, his smile wide and calculated for the cameras now running. But your focus isn’t on the cameras. No—your gaze locks onto the three figures walking your way, your inner demon waking as if never slept to begin with.

The darkness spreads within you in milliseconds, making your skin prickle as your focus settles into one of a sniper. You’re eyes lock on Sangwook, his presence reminding you bitterly of the night you almost had part of your revenge, the night Pulse interrupted, the reason you’re still fighting this war at its beginning, still caught at the beginning of the shadows, still haunted by unfinished business. You can feel the darkness rising even more within you, clawing at your insides, hungry, restless like you’ve been the past half an hour.

But you force it down. Not here. Not now. Not with Jungkook standing beside you, not with your friends all around you, and certainly not with the press before you, cameras poised to capture every moment of this charade. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you bite back the urge to confront the devil and his companions. This isn’t the time for vengeance. You have to regain and stay in control. You have to keep up the act.

As Mayor Park steps forward to greet each of you in turn, offering hollow words of encouragement and praise, you school your expression into something neutral, something polite. But inside, the storm rages on, a battle between the light you’ve been trying so desperately to embrace and the darkness that has been your constant companion for so long. And when it’s your turn to shake Mayor Park’s hand, you can feel everyone's eyes on you, as if watching, waiting.

His hand lingers before you, PR-smile still fixed on his face, but his eyes—they are as empty as they were on that fateful night, void of anything possibly human. For a moment, you consider leaving him there, hand outstretched and waiting, watching the false warmth fade from his expression. But against your instincts, against your demon raging inside you, you reach out.

You clasp his hand strongly, calculating your movement, as your grip tightens deliberately around the base of his hand. And when for a millisecond his eyes flicker down to where your hands are joined, you know you’ve pressed the Ulnar nerve just right, sending sharp jolts of pain shooting through his pinky and ring finger, showing him that you did not break, that you rose from the ashes of the very flame he set to your family.

“It’s good to finally meet after all these years,” he says, his voice dripping with saccharine mockery. “Your father was such a loyal employee.”

The words, the false description of your father’s job, are poison, seeping into your veins, igniting the fury into a massive fireball that explodes under your skin. Loyal. A word meant to twist the knife deeper. You hold your smile, hollow and cold, a ghost of something real. Jungkook stands beside you, his confusion barely concealed as his gaze shifts between you, the mayor, and the tension between your clasped hands.

Dojin leans closer, tightening his grip, voice dropping to a near whisper as his disgusting perfume engulfs you. “You know, you look just like your mother. Truly angelic.”

Something inside you snaps. But the smile on your lips only widens, growing more hollow, more sinister. The words slither through your clenched teeth. “Funny, isn't it? It almost sounds like you’re seeking absolution in my resemblance to her. How quaint.” Your voice is laced with venom so sweet it almost passes as kindness.

For the briefest of moments, his smile falters, and beneath it, the rage—the same rage that lit up his eyes all those years ago—flares up, hot and visceral. But he masks it quickly, releasing your hand, and turns away to spout his lies to the press, painting the air with rehearsed phrases that drip with insincerity.

Jungkook leans in then, his voice soft but still filled with honest concern. "What was that?" His words are gentle, but his eyes are searching, trying to piece together the puzzle of your interaction.

You tilt your head slowly towards him, the smile still lingering on your lips, twisted and lunatic. “Just what it looked like,” you murmur, offering no more. The truth is buried too deep, and even if you tried, you know he wouldn’t understand the whole expanse of it all without disclosing everything. Sensing the wall you’ve built, or realising for the first time that there is one, Jungkook says nothing more, though you feel his eyes linger on you.

As the circus of an event winds down, the room empties, leaving behind nothing but the fading echoes of empty speeches. You drift with your friends towards the door, slipping back into the flow of meaningless chatter, though your mind remains miles away. Right before you step outside, you catch a fragment of the faint conversation of Dojin and his bodyguards, but it’s Jungkook who draws you back, his body shifting into your line of sight, blocking your view of the men who ruined you.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” you ask, your voice distant, as if you’ve just returned from some far-off place.

Jungkook repeats himself, his tone gentle, patient. “I was asking if you’re okay.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” you reply, the lie slipping easily off your tongue, though your mind screams otherwise. 'Save me,' you think, but Jungkook doesn’t hear what you cannot say, and instead, he watches you again for a beat longer, blinking in his concern. But eventually, he lets it go, leaving the darkness surrounding your mind in peace. 

Standing before your closet, your fingers linger over hangers as you wrestle with a rising panic. The wardrobe, once a reliable collection of your well maintained comfort, now seems to mock you with its lack of options. It feels absurd, really—the way you’ve spent nearly an hour staring at clothes that have never failed you before. But this time, the stakes are higher. This isn’t just another day, another class, or another mindless hangout with friends. This is a date with Jungkook, and not just any date—your first real date. The thought sends your mind spinning in circles, reexamining every outfit with a critical eye that never seems satisfied. 

You keep telling yourself you’re overthinking it, and maybe you are, but as the minutes slip by, your nerves cling tighter around your brain. A decision must be made, and eventually, as time conspires against you as well and forcing your hand to make a forsaken choice, you settle on something that has always made you feel like the best version of yourself—simple yet chic. The outfit flatters your silhouette just enough to remind you that beauty can be effortless when it’s honest, so you pull it on, check yourself in the mirror, and despite the chaos in your head, you can’t help but feel a spark of confidence. You might have just overthought your way into something that actually works—yey! 

Makeup follows, the ritual of it calming your frayed nerves, brushstrokes turning anxious energy into something delicate and intentional. By the time you’re done, you hardly recognise the reflection staring back at you, though you’re not sure if that’s because of the makeup or the sight of yourself as you once were.

A knock at your door pulls you from your thoughts, and you take a deep breath, smoothing your outfit one last time before going to open the door. But when you pull it open, you’re not met with Jungkook's familiar face, not at first. Instead, an enormous bouquet of white hydrangeas and roses takes up most of the doorway, its sheer size almost comical in its grandeur.

Jungkook is barely visible behind it, but he leans to the side, a soft, tentative smile on his face, his eyes gleaming with a brightness that catches your breath so painfully good, you have to suppress a choke. You’ve seen him look at you countless times, but this time, there’s something different in his gaze—something that makes the air between you crackle with emotions never spoken of.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice light, almost playful.

Your face splits into a wide grin, the sight of him nearly lost behind the monstrous bouquet sending a ripple of giggles through you. “Kook, you really didn’t have to.” But even as you say it, you know how much it means. He always knows how to surprise you, how to make you feel cherished in ways that words sometimes fail to capture.

His smile softens, eyes sparkling as he steps forward, handing you the bouquet which you barely can engulf. “I wanted to,” he says simply, and there’s an earnestness in his voice that makes your heart beat just a little bit stronger. “You deserve the world and more.”

You stare at the flowers, your heart swelling as a few tears threaten to blur your vision. “I… I’m speechless, Kook. This is…” you laugh, your voice shaking just enough to betray the emotion within you. “But why this size? That’s so expensive!” 

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he watches you cradle the bouquet in your short arms. “I’ve seen you scrolling through Pinterest enough times to know what you like,” he teases. 

The flush that creeps up your neck feels like a deep red now, your face burning as you attempt to play it off. You turn towards the kitchen, the flowers still balanced poorly in your arms. “I’m going to need a bigger vase for these,” you joke, though you’re already searching for a bucket, anything large enough to hold them.

Jungkook follows behind, his presence filling the small space of the dorm with warmth you didn’t know was missing. As you find a suitable bucket and begin filling it with water, you steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. His cheeks are flushed now, too, but it’s the way his eyes never stray from you that makes your heart flip. There’s something different about him tonight. He’s always been kind, always attentive, but now it feels like every glance carries weight, like there’s a depth to his affection that wasn’t there before, or maybe you just never noticed it as clearly until now.

And it’s true—you’ve had a fondness for oversized bouquets ever since that one evening, deep into Dojin’s election campaign, when your father came home later than promised. He had been swept up in the political race and, in the chaos, forgot to call ahead. Your mother, of course, wasn’t angry. She knew him well enough to recognise that his silence wasn’t intentional. Still, despite his exhaustion, your father returned the night after with a massive bouquet, much like the one Jungkook had just given you, though your father’s was overflowing with red roses.

“Here, let me help.” Jungkook steps up behind you, effortlessly lifting the now full bucket from the sink as though it weighs nothing. “Where should I put it?”

“My room,” you answer softly, already reaching for some wrapping paper to wrap around the bucket’s base. “I need to dress this up. I don’t want to ruin the aesthetic.”

Jungkook follows you to your room, heaving the bucket and flowers onto your desk while you immediately start wrapping around it. He spins lazily in your desk chair, making you giggle despite the nerves that still flutter within you. As you carefully tie a ribbon around the makeshift vase, your voice, hesitant and quiet, resonates through the silence and small space between you. 

“So… why hydrangeas and roses?” you ask, casting a glance at him, curious to hear his reasoning.

Jungkook stops swirling, his feet grounding him as his cheeks flush with again with faint colour. “Ah, well… they reminded me of you,” he admits, his voice growing quieter with each word while his hands run up and down his thighs. “I mean, their meanings reminded me of you.”

Your fingers still against the ribbon as you turn to face him more fully, the question evident in your gaze. “Their meanings?” you repeat softly, not sure what to make of his answer.

Jungkook doesn’t look down, still his shyness intensifies. “White hydrangeas symbolise grace… and heartfelt emotions,” he murmurs, his voice cracking slightly. “And white roses… they represent purity, innocence… and new beginnings.”

You think you might faint at his words, your innocent self celebrating deep within you at the thought of a new beginning. Could this—what’s happening between you and Jungkook—be more than just a first date? Could it be the start of something new, something untouched by the darkness that has followed you for so long? You’ve spent so much time buried under the burden of your past, so much time chasing shadows and vengeance, that the idea of starting fresh feels almost foreign and too soon. But with Jungkook… maybe, just maybe, you could find a new way forward.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion as you reach for him. Jungkook takes your hand without hesitation, his thumb tracing gentle patterns over your knuckles. His eyes never leave yours, and in their depths, you find something you never thought you’d feel again—hope.

“Let’s go,” Jungkook says quietly, pulling himself to his feet, his fingers still entwined with yours as you leave your dorm and walk off into the early night. 

The restaurant Jungkook has chosen is familiar, a cozy little Italian place you’ve visited before with your friend group. But tonight, it feels different from all the times spent here. There’s a quiet intimacy to the way the lights cast an amber glow over the tables, and the soft strains of music seem to weave around the two of you, creating a cocoon that shields you from the rest of the world and everything that haunts you. 

Jungkook pulls out your chair for you, a small gesture that makes your heart explode into confetti, making you fall for him deeper and deeper. His kindness isn’t new, but tonight, it feels magnified, every little thing he does carrying more weight than usual. As you both settle in, you can’t help but feel the shift in the air between you—the way it softly hums with something more than just friendship, something deeper and sweeter.

“I was thinking about what you said earlier,” Jungkook begins as he picks up the menu, his eyes scanning the options but his attention clearly divided. “About how… you don’t always feel like you deserve nice things.”

You freeze for a moment, the words catching you off guard. You weren’t expecting him to bring it up again, especially not tonight. You’d mentioned it just this once, offhandedly, in a situation that felt light at the time, but apparently, Jungkook hadn’t forgotten.

“I just… I want you to know that you do,” he continues, his voice settling around you like a warm blanket. “You deserve so much more than you give yourself credit for.”

You smile, though it’s small, tentative, as you look down at the menu in your hands. It’s not easy to accept his words, not with the weight of your past still clinging to you like tar, but his sincerity makes it harder to dismiss them outright. He means what he’s saying—he truly believes you deserve more than the shadows you’ve been living in. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice quiet as you meet his loving gaze.

Jungkook nods, smile widening as he reaches across the table to take your hand. His touch is warm, grounding you in a way that makes you feel more present, more here. You’re not sure when you started feeling this way about him—when his presence became something that could chase away the darkness. But sitting here with him now, with his hand in yours, it feels like maybe this was meant to be all along. 

The conversation flows easily after that, the two of you slipping into the familiar rhythm you’ve always shared, but there’s something new underneath it all, a current of something stronger, something that feels a little like the beginning of love. It’s in the way he smiles at you when you laugh, the way his fingers linger against yours when he hands you the bread basket, the way his eyes soften into puddles of shining stars when you catch him staring at you across the table. 

"It does feel different, doesn’t it?" you ask, fingers playing with the edge of your napkin.

"Yeah," he says, leaning forward slightly. "But good different."

You nod, letting your gaze fall to the candle flickering between you. "It does. We’ve been here so many times. But it—" You pause, smiling softly. "It feels special tonight."

Jungkook grins, cheeks flushed as he glances at the menu. "So, tell me something I don’t know about you."

You bite your lip, thinking. "Well, my childhood was... complicated." You choose your words carefully, keeping the truth buried beneath layers of vague recollections. "My parents, they passed away when I was a teen."

He looks up from the menu, his expression gentle. "I read about that fire. I didn’t want to bring it up... I’m really sorry."

You offer him a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "It’s okay. My mom was cooking dinner that night... things just went wrong." The words are light, brushed off like the remnants of a distant memory. You’re careful not to let him see the truth that festers beneath.

He nods slowly, his gaze searching yours. "And after... you lived with Taehyung?"

"Yes," you say, exhaling a soft breath. "His family took me in. We’ve been close ever since childhood." You lift your glass, taking a small sip before continuing. "And now... here I am, med school and all."

Jungkook chuckles lightly. "You're amazing, you know that? Everything you've been through... and you're still standing strong."

You meet his eyes, feeling a warmth spread through you, something fragile but blooming despite the faul soil. "Thank you. How about you?"

“My childhood? It was… pretty normal, I guess. My parents were always around, super protective. Especially my mom. She used to hover a lot,” he says with a soft laugh, a warm, nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “She’d always pack me lunch, even in high school. And not just a sandwich or something small. I’m talking full-on bento boxes, with little designs in the food. It was kind of embarrassing back then, but now I look back and miss it, you know?”

“Oh, I can tell, you’re still eating like a bottomless pit.” You joke, knowing he likes it when you’re this playful. 

He glances at you then, you expect him to laugh with you, but his smile is dimming a little as he continues. “My dad… he was strict, but he just wanted the best for me. Pushed me hard, made sure I always had something to work towards. But… I was a bit of a handful,” he admits with a grin. “I think I drove them crazy sometimes, always running around, never sitting still. My older brother had it together, but me? I just wanted to do everything at once.”

“That’s totally normal, Kook, don’t beat yourself up for this.” You reach for his hand, cradling it to soothe any doubt he has in himself. 

His gaze softens as he shrugs, almost shy. “They gave me a lot, though. Support, love… I was really lucky.” He hesitates for a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet yours after staring at your joint hands. “But I didn’t always appreciate it back then. You know how it is when you’re young… you don’t really see everything they do for you until you’re older.”

“Yeah.” You don’t know what to say, don’t know how to stir the conversation away from this heavy topic. You appreciate his honesty, you really do, but it’s the bitter taste of you holding back the truth, that blocks your thoughts from forming. 

Thankfully, Jungkook leans back in his chair, his expression softening as he studies you. "So, what do you like? I mean, aside from making everyone in class jealous with your grades?"

You laugh, a genuine sound that cuts through your mind’s fog. "I like simple things, really. Music, books, late-night walks... And you?"

"I’m pretty much the same. Music, of course... and working out, boxing. But I’m guessing you already know that," he adds with a sheepish grin. "It helps me clear my mind, you know?"

"Yeah, I get that," you reply, nodding. "Sometimes, you need something to take the edge off. For me, it’s those cute kitten videos."

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow. "I didn’t know that."

You shrug. "Well, now you do."

He smiles, a tender smile that makes you want to capture it like a polaroid. "I like learning things about you."

You return his smile without a beat, your heart light and singing as you say "And I like sharing them with you." And the conversation doesn’t seem to crease after that. 

By the time the meal is over, you’re both lingering in your seats, reluctant to let the night end. You know you’ll have to return to your dorm eventually, but for now, you’re content to stay in this moment a little longer, to savour the warmth that fills the space between you.

As Jungkook walks you back to your dorm, the night cool against your flushed skin, you can’t help but feel a sense of contentment settle over you. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way—since you’ve allowed yourself to feel this way. And as you reach your door, turning to face him, you realise that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something good. 

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence swirls around you, but it’s not uncomfortable, filled with all the things you want to say but don’t quite know how to express. He steps closer, his hand finding yours once again, and for a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, the gesture so sweet, so tender, that it makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“Goodnight, ___,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, your voice barely more than a breath.

As you watch him take a step back, your heart feels light, full in a way it hasn’t been in years. There’s still so much you don’t know—so much uncertainty about what the future holds—but for the first time in a long time, you feel hopeful. Maybe this is just the beginning, but it feels like a good one.

As Jungkook walks away backwards, still smiling at you, still reluctant to let the night end, something shifts within you, and it’s like the light that forced your brightness within you to shine in its full force, dims with every step he takes, taking it and all the warmth with him as if it always was his to begin with. The smile on your face turns brittle, plastic, and a hollow sensation settles in your chest. Behind the mask of sweetness and light that you’ve worn for the evening, the impatience of the demon within you grows, gnawing forcefully at the edges of your control. The demon magnifies, stretching and clawing, until all remnants of joy and happiness dissolve into the endless void aching for revenge. 

You step inside your dorm, and as the door clicks shut, the smile falls from your lips like a discarded veil at a wedding. You waste no time, and strip off the clothes that made you feel beautiful just moments ago and replace them with the black gear you’ve come to associate with your truth and fate.

Something inside you flips, like a switch toggled into place, and just like that, you’re gone—no longer the person who had been with Jungkook at dinner, no longer the person who basked in his warmth. You’re someone else now. Someone darker. Someone deadly. There’s no joy left. No happiness. Only a singular, burning purpose that consumes everything else. The void inside you aches for release, for the satisfaction of revenge, and it’s all you can feel now.

You begin to prepare methodically, stretching your muscles and joints, warming your body for what the night demands from you. You remember the conversation you overheard between Dojin and his stupid bodyguards—Chulsoo will be alone tonight. The thought lingers. You wanted to start with Sangwook, to make him the first, but maybe fate is offering you a different path. Maybe this is a sign that Chulsoo, taller and stronger though he may be, is meant to go first. It doesn’t matter in the end; they will all fall. Every last one of them.

You slip out of your dorm and move through the neighbourhood, undetected, a shadow among shadows. It’s a path you know well, the routine of it bringing you a twisted kind of joy. The city’s pulse begins to pick up as you near the bustling nightlife, where buildings stretch higher into the sky and people crowd the streets, oblivious to the darkness lurking in their midst. You stick to the alleyways, your steps light, your movements fluid, until you reach the first landmark—an alley beside a Chinese restaurant. 

You pull yourself up onto the trash bins outside, the narrowness of the space making it easier to scale the walls like you’ve done countless times before. From there, it’s a series of practiced motions—small leaps from one rooftop to the next, each building taller than the last as you make your way toward your destination.

At last, you arrive at the balcony of Chulsoo’s office, your landing soft and graceful, almost feline in its silence. The city buzzes far below, but up here on this skyscraper, it’s eerily quiet. The office is dark except for the dim night lighting of the building, casting long shadows across the room as if painted with charcoal. You glance around to make sure no one is near, your senses tuned to the slightest disturbance. The night is lonely, just as you’d hoped.

You slip behind one of the balcony posts, peering inside through the glass. The office’s low lighting is enough to spot what you came for. There, seated at Dojin’s desk, is Chulsoo. He’s lounging in the chair with his feet propped up on the desk, watching a football game on his phone. The back of him faces you, his attention completely absorbed in the small screen.

You test the sliding door’s lock silently, and to your satisfaction, it moves without resistance. Unlocked. Another careless mistake on his part, another beautiful wrapped gift to you. The door opens just enough for you to slip inside, the noise of the city creeping in faintly, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s wearing earphones—his second mistake. It feels like luck is on your side tonight, but you know better than to trust in fortune. You’ve come too far for that.

The demon inside you snarls in anticipation, laughing menacingly as you creep up behind Chulsoo. You catch your reflection in the darkened screen of Dojin’s computer—the mask you wear, its smile wide and empty, mirroring the cold emptiness and lunacy within you. Childhood remains oblivious, lost in the game playing on his phone, unaware of the storm about to descend upon him.

In one swift motion, you lock your arms around his throat, pulling him into a headlock. His phone slips from his hand, clattering to the floor with a broken screen. His body reacts instinctively, muscles straining against yours as he thrashes. But it’s his feet—still propped on the desk—that give him the leverage he needs. With a powerful push, he throws himself backward, sending both of you tumbling to the ground. You hit the floor hard, the weight of his body crashing into yours, pinning your legs awkwardly beneath the chair.

But you only grit your teeth against it, refusing to let it slow you down. Chulsoo wrestles to free himself from your grip, and you dig your elbow into his front, trying to regain the upper hand. He’s taller than you, stronger, and he uses his size to his advantage, rolling over in your hold to straddle you, his hands finding your throat in an instant. You twist beneath him, trying to slip free, your body burning with the effort as your vision starts to blur. 

You manage to kick the chair out from between you, throwing his balance off just enough to create an opening. In a flash, you’re on your feet again, lunging for him. The fight spills out of the office, your bodies colliding with walls and furniture as you grapple for control. Everything happening all at once—punches and kicks, blocks and dodges, the sound of grunts and gasps echoing through the empty office space. Chulsoo grabs a heavy glass ashtray from the desk, swinging it wildly at your head. You duck just in time, the ashtray shattering against the wall behind you.

He’s relentless, coming at you with the kind of brute force that could only come from someone used to winning fights by sheer size and strength alone. But you’re quicker, more agile. Every time he lands a blow, you counter it with something sharper, something faster. The office transforms into a battlefield, chaos reigning as desks are overturned, chairs sent crashing to the floor, papers swirling in the air like torn shreds of white flags that will never be surrendered. The metallic tang of blood fills your mouth where one of his punches grazed your lip, but you taste it with satisfaction, the pain fuelling your determination even further. 

Chulsoo grabs you by the collar, throwing you towards the door that leads to the staircase. You crash into it with a heavy thud, the impact sending the door flying open, while feeling your joints blocking through your back and ribs. A low “Uff” escapes your lips as you hit the railing behind you, the cold metal biting into your spine. But there’s no time to catch your breath—Chulsoo charges at you, full force, his eyes wild with the intent to finish you off.

At the last second, you spin out of his path, and he crashes into the railing with a sickening thud. He staggers, dazed, and you seize the opportunity, wrapping your arm around his throat from behind yet again, pulling him into another chokehold. You tighten your grip, feeling the demon within you thrashing against the cage of your control, hungry for the kill. You could end him right here, with your bare hands. It would be easy. It would be satisfying. But something goes wrong.

Chulsoo’s foot slips against the slick floor, his balance faltering. Before you can tighten your hold, he stumbles backward, his body teetering dangerously over the edge of the railing. His eyes widen in panic as he tries to grab hold of something, anything, to stop his fall. But there’s nothing to hold onto.

With a final scream, he tips over the railing, his body plummeting into the abyss below. The sound of his fall echoes through the stairwell, punctuated by the sickening thud of his body hitting the railings on the way down. You watch, frozen, as his limp form finally crashes to the ground below, a twisted heap of flesh, bone and blood.

This isn’t how you wanted it to end.

The rage that fills you is immediate and scorching. The demon inside you roars, seething with frustration, its hunger again left unsatisfied. This was supposed to be precise, fucking controlled. You were supposed to kill him with your own hands, not let him fall like some clumsy idiot. This… this is unsatisfying to all end. Again.

You grip the cold metal of the railing with white-knuckled fury, your mind spinning with barely contained rage that courses through your veins. Every inch of you aches for release, for some way to expel the unforgiving heat that burns beneath your skin. But there’s no outlet. There’s only the hollow victory of Chulsoo’s broken body far below.

The door behind you creaks open, and you feel him before you even turn around.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to school your expression. When you finally turn, your face masks, twisted into a smile that never reaches your eyes—a smile that could only belong to someone who no longer cares.

Pulse stands there, his eyes wide with shock as he surveys the scene. He knows immediately that he’s too late. His shoulders slump, the weight of his failure settling over him like a shroud. You can see the realisation dawning in his eyes—he’s failed to stop you this time. 

Without a care, you walk towards him, your steps slow and. Graceful where no grace is found. He watches you approach, his gaze searching for something—an explanation, perhaps, or a hint of remorse. But there’s nothing for him to find. You’re empty. The void inside you yawns wider.

As you pass him, you glance up at him with that same twisted smile, teeth painted in your own blood and murmur, “You’re too late, Dulls. Try harder next time, yeah?” You give his chest a light pat, a condescending gesture that only deepens the devastation in his eyes.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t react. He just watches you disappear into the night, unsatisfied and unseen as you came, leaving nothing behind but the wreckage of your vengeance.

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • masterlist • 05

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like! And to spice things up even more, we'll do a little game through the story:

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

Like what you read? Check out my other work here!

All Rights Reserved © @/runariya 2024

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki, @hagridshaircare 

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 5

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: covering up of wounds, thoughts about past mud€r, awkward morning, lies, fluff, 700 in 3 Jungkook because I couldn't not write it, inner conflicts between good and bad, detailed description of inner autopsy, scalpel in thigh, blood, stitching without local anaesthesia, drinking, fluff, OC drops a hint to her dark side, Jungkook is oblivious in so many ways it physically hurts, smut, f!ngering, worshipping, oral (m. receiving), protected s€x, OC rides him (it's the way that you can ride~), pls lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 7.6K

a/n: I thought I'd upload tomorrow as a present for ✨ Jungkook Day ✨ but I’m going to be busy, so here’s the chapter a little early. It’s a bit of a treat, mostly fluff and smut, pushing the plot forward, so ENJOY! After this one, we’ll be spiralling fast and hard 🫢 Please don’t come at me!

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • masterlist • 06

The next morning, you stand in your small shared bathroom that after all these years still feels too small, the kind of tight space that seems to crowd you when you’re already feeling a little claustrophobic. You’re staring into the mirror, eyes a little distant, trying to assess the damage from last night, trying to make sense of everything that happened in the darkness of night. The faint bathroom light flickers once, just as if it’s mimicking the wavering thoughts in your head, and you finally focus on yourself again. 

Your neck isn’t much of a problem, the slight pinkish bruise barely visible when the light isn’t catching just right, so masking it with some make up isn’t much of a problem. You can make it disappear entirely, almost like nothing happened. Almost. What does concern you however is the little cut on your swollen, puffy bottom lip. The skin is stretching tight over the small cut that’s stubborn in its defiance, refusing to be ignored. It’s not big, nor is it deep, but it’s prominent in the way it catches the light, just enough that someone standing close to you might notice. Someone like Jungkook.

Brushing teeth only added to the inflammation, which you gladly don’t feel, but will be adding to the problem of covering up. You curse softly under your breath, wondering how you’ll manage to keep it truly hidden, to dodge any questions about why your lips look like you’ve been punched in the face, what you actually have been.

You rummage through your cosmetics bag, hands shaking a little more than you’d like to admit as you pull out a small tube of liquid plaster, dapping it accurately on it so it’s somehow a smoother surface. The rich plum balm next, gliding over your lips, darkening the pink flesh until it matches the colour of the bruised skin perfectly. The cut disappears, camouflaged, and for a moment, you feel satisfied like you’ve won some small, meaningless victory over your reflection. The mask is in place, or maybe just good enough as is it.

You sigh deeply, letting the air out of your lungs as if it could take away the heaviness that has settled in your chest, but it doesn’t. You look at yourself once more, turning your head side to side, searching for flaws you might have missed. You look…normal, more or less. Tired, though. There’s no hiding the shadows beneath your eyes, the slight droop to your shoulders. You haven’t slept well. Not because of the kill itself—strangely enough, that part almost brought a sense of clarity, like you’d purged something toxic from your system with a detox diet—but because of Pulse. 

The memory of his eyes haunts you still, the way they were full of devastation, that strange sadness that clung to him, lingered in your thoughts like a stain in your favourite shirt you can’t scrub out for the life of you. He shouldn’t bother you this much. He shouldn’t. You’ve done worse last night, seen worse in your entire life. But there’s something about him that keeps gnawing at you, lodged in your mind, needles that are too deep to pull out, and it’s irritating in a way you can’t quite describe.

Why does he have this power over you? It’s irrational, maddening if you think about it long enough. You find yourself asking over and over again if you’ve met him before, if maybe, in some way, he isn’t a stranger at all. You can’t pinpoint it, but there’s something. Something in the way his eyes looked at you, something in the way his presence affects you even now, long after the night has ended. You hate it. You hate him for making you feel this way. It’s like there’s a vice wrapped around your chest, and every time you think of him, it tightens, constricting just a little more until you go wild.

But there’s no time to dwell on it now. You push the thoughts away with a forceful shove, leaving them scattered behind you like you did yesterday with him standing there. No, today is not the day to think about him or anything that happened last night. You’ve got classes to get to, and you’re definitely running late right now. You take one last glance at the mirror, nod to yourself, and step out of the bathroom, trying to ignore this irritating feeling that’s settled over your head.

But of course, as soon as you open the door, the universe decides to throw you another curveball. Jennie is standing there, right outside the bathroom, completely oblivious to the concept of modesty, wearing nothing but Taehyung’s oversized shirt. Your brain freezes for a second, and all you can do is blink, trying to process the scene in front of you. Jennie looks just as startled, her wide eyes locked on yours, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights right before its doom. 

“No. Fucking. Way.” You mutter under your breath, the disbelief seeping out of your pores. This can’t be real. But it is, and the longer you stand there, the more awkward it becomes. Jennie doesn’t move. You don’t move. And then, because the universe apparently thinks this situation isn’t awkward enough already, Taehyung steps out of his room and stops dead in his tracks as well. His eyes flick from you to Jennie, then back to you, and you can see the exact moment his brain short-circuits.

It’s almost comical, the way the three of you are just standing there in this ridiculous triangle of shock and embarrassment. But then, you’re the first to break free from the spell. You grin, sidestepping Jennie and making a beeline for the front door. You toss a hand over your shoulder as you call back, “I didn’t see shit.” Your voice is light, teasing, and you can’t help but giggle as you slip out the door.

But of course, you did see something. And it’s enough to make you file this away for later, something to question Taehyung about when the time is right. You’ll have to sit him down and roast him properly for this—though, knowing yourself, the topic will eventually circle back to Jungkook, and how your friendship shifted too.

You’re walking down the usual pathway to your classes, when you spot Jungkook. He’s ahead of you, but even from a distance, you can tell something is off. He’s slouched, shoulders hunched forward, his usual confident stride replaced by something slower, heavier. Your heart skips a beat, but maybe you’re just imagining things, so, you jog the rest of the way to catch up to him.

“Kook! Wait!” you call out, breathless as you finally reach him. “You wouldn’t believe what I just walked in on!”

But the words die on your lips the moment you get a good look at him, and you’re painfully reminded that your first instinct is always right. He’s not the Jungkook you know. There’s something…different. His eyes are distant, unfocused, his expression hollow in a way that makes your stomach twist on itself, making the bright smile that had been on your face fade, replaced by a deepening worry as the seconds tick by.

“What’s wrong?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You can see the sadness in his eyes, the exhaustion that drips from him like mud. It mirrors your own feelings, but his seem deeper, darker, like he’s sinking into something you can’t reach.

“Nothing,” he says, but the word is empty, devoid of meaning. “I might skip class today.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Skip class? You never skip class. Kook, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are red, bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept in days, his muscles tense, coiled like a spring that’s ready to snap any minute. The unease inside you grows tenfold, spreading through your veins like wildfire. You replay yesterday’s date in your mind, sifting through every moment, every word spoken, every touch shared, searching for any clue, something that might explain his sudden shift. But all you can think of is that maybe, somehow, he regrets it. Maybe he regrets being with you, and the thought alone drowns you more than any ocean could.

“If it’s about yesterday,” you start, your voice hesitant, your thoughts stumbling over each other in their desperation to make sense of it all, “if you regret the date, we can still be friends, you know?”

For a moment, he’s completely still. Then, like a switch has been flipped, his whole demeanour changes to his usual self. His shoulders relax, his eyes lose some of that haunted distance, and he reaches out for you, pulling you into a tight embrace, squishing you against his firm pecs. His voice is firm when he speaks, simple and resolute. “No.”

“No?” you echo, stunned. You don’t know how to process the sudden shift, hell, even the last twenty-four hours.

“No,” he repeats, more gently this time. “It’s not about us, I promise.” His lips brush against your hair, his arms wrapped securely around you as if he’s trying to shield you from something you can’t see. “I want this. I want us.”

You feel yourself relax into him, the unease slowly seeping out of your body as naive relief floods in to take its place. “I want us too,” you murmur softly, leaning into his warmth even more.

Jungkook pulls back slightly, his hands cupping your face as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with something that feels so much like devotion it almost makes you tear up. “I forgot to ask you something,” he teases, his voice lighter now, almost playful. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

His smile is lazy, like he already knows the answer, which you have to admit he does. Your heart skips a beat again, but for a very different reason this time. “Of course,” you grin up at him despite yourself still not trusting his mood swing. 

“Good,” he winks with a playful smirk. “May your boyfriend kiss you then?”

You giggle, unable to help yourself, the sound is bright and airy in the morning light. It’s ridiculous, the whole situation is ridiculous, but it feels so right. So normal. So him. So you. “Yes, please,” you whisper, and when his perfect lips meet yours, it feels like coming home. It’s soft, warm, everything you didn’t know you needed until this very moment. He tastes like comfort, like safety, like love.

And for that moment, you allow yourself to forget the world. To forget Pulse. To forget the shadows that still linger on the edges of your mind. For now, it’s just you and Jungkook, and that’s all you need and have. 

When you finally pull apart, he’s smiling down at you with nothing but affection in his eyes. “You sure you won’t come to class?” you try softly, hoping maybe he’s changed his mind too. 

But the moment you say it, you regret it. You can see the switch begin to turn again, his expression slowly shifting back to that distant look, the one that makes you feel like you’re losing him to something you can’t fight. 

“Nah,” he says after a pause, his voice quieter now. “Or… unless you want to work on our project?”

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice light. “We can do it another day.”

He shakes his head slowly, but there’s still that wall between you, something that he won’t let you see. “I’ll come by later,” he says, his voice distant again. “We can work on it then.”

“You sure?” you ask again, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m sure,” he says, leaning down to kiss you one last time before you part ways. And even though something inside you still feels unsettled, you hold onto that moment, to the warmth of his lips, the softness of his touch, and the hope that whatever is weighing him down, you’ll figure it out before it eats him alive. 

The day drags on after that like thick honey without Jungkook beside you, every class feeling like an endless void of monotony. You find yourself standing now alone outside the autopsy lab in the late afternoon, waiting for him, though you can’t help the quiet doubt creeping in—he's late, for the first time ever, and part of you wonders if he'll even show. To pass the time, you and your friends huddled mere minutes ago to plan a semi-surprise birthday party for Jungkook at the Italian restaurant, you volunteering to do the speech. It was light, fun, a bit distracting, a way to fill the gaps he’s left in your day, but somehow you couldn’t seem to fully join the excitement as you plotted out the details, even though it’s a way to celebrate the person who has become so important to you.

Across the courtyard, you see a couple stroll by, hand in hand, their laughter soft and intimate, and for a moment, a quiet contentment settles over you. You no longer feel that familiar twinge of sadness when you see couples like this, but are reminded of how lucky you really are, how someone as special as Jungkook has walked into your life. That warmth sits with you, and you think it permanently has settled within you by now, as you glance back down the path.

Then, you spot him. Jogging towards you in a black t-shirt, his hair tousled and damp with sweat, Jungkook’s muscular frame catches you completely off-guard. His late arrival suddenly makes sense. He must’ve lost track of time at the gym, and now, here he is, rushing to meet you with that apologetic smile. But your eyes can’t fixate on his face—his muscles are somehow more prominent than ever, veins tracing lines up his tattooed arm like rivers on a map, pulsing with every step. You’re not even sure when your mouth dropped open, but it stays that way as he finally reaches you, breathless and sweaty.

“Sorry I’m late,” he pants, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, his breath fanning your face with every exhale. He steps back but keeps his hand on the small of your back, his touch doing nothing more than searing where he touches you.

Your throat feels as if it’s turned to sandpaper, dry and useless, but through a miracle unknown, you manage to stammer out, “Did you work out since this morning?”

Jungkook quirks an eyebrow, his lips quirking with amusement. “Yeah, why?”

“Kook, it’s been over five hours,” you exclaim, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Yeah,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s an undeniable glint in his eyes. He knows exactly what effect he’s having on you. “I’ve been hitting my new goal.”

“What goal?” you implore, your curiosity piqued, though your attention keeps slipping back to the way his shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, as though it might tear at any moment.

“700 in the big three,” he replies, smirking with that lazy arrogance that only makes him more irresistible.

“700 in the big three,” you echo, the words floating out of your mouth automatically as your brain struggles to catch up. You can’t even properly process what he’s saying; you’re far too busy ogling him like some kind of starstruck fool.

“700 in the big three,” Jungkook repeats, his tone teasing now, the humour barely concealed behind his smirk. He watches you with that glimmer in his eyes, this confident, playfully condescending glimmer you never seen before on him.

It takes you a second—a second too long, really—but the realisation hits you like a punch in the guts. “700 kilograms in the big three lifts,” you murmur, the numbers looping in your head over and over like a broken record, the image of him lifting so much weight making your knees useless. And with each repetition, your heart rate picks up, your mind spiralling in ways that are anything but clinical. 

Jungkook watches your reaction with an amused glint, his laughter barely contained as he steps closer. “You good?” he asks after a moment, his smile widening at the stunned look on your face.

You nod—well, more like a broken bobblehead—completely overwhelmed. There’s something primal about the way he’s standing there, his raw masculinity sending your hormones into overdrive. And then, just when you think you might be able to regain some sense of control, or rather sanity, he leans down, his breath hot and still slightly quick against your ear, and rasps, “Shall we head inside?”

The words are innocent, off topic, so simple, so ordinary, but coming from him, in this moment with this tone, they feel like a challenge, like a provocation. Your body practically trembles at the sound of his voice, and your brain, already hazy from his presence, finally surrenders with waving flags. You’re helpless—utterly defeated by the sheer being of Jeon Jungkook—and at this point, you’d happily surrender to him again and again, for as long as he wants you to.

“Yes,” you breathe out, the word barely audible, more of a moan than an answer. You’re not even sure if you say it aloud or if it’s simply a thought that escapes your lips. But Jungkook hears it, and the atmosphere between you shifts in an instant. His body tenses, his eyes darkening with a hunger you’ve never seen in him before. It’s utterly raw and intense, and for a split second, you think you might combust under the weight of his gaze. There’s no softness, no tenderness in his eyes now—only desire, pure and unfiltered.

„Another time, ___.“ He doesn’t say anything else, as if he just answered your unspoken conversation, and gently guides you inside the building, his hand never leaving the small of your back. When you and Jungkook step into the lab, the freezing air of it cools you both significantly down, and as the door closes behind you, you try to gather your scattered thoughts, reminding yourself that you’re here to work, to be somehow professional enough to do the project. But with Jungkook beside you, radiating power and confidence, you know it’s going to be an uphill battle to stay focused on anything other than him.

Around you, everyone is already deep into their work, carefully peeling back layers of skin and bone in their inner autopsies. The only ones lagging behind are Ben and Juan, still caught up in their external examinations, fumbling slightly as they try to catch up. You don’t let it slow you down, though—you’ve already lost enough time. Without a word, you and Jungkook move, quickly pulling your gloves on and retrieving your body from the cooler unit. And just like last time, you find yourselves standing across from each other at the autopsy table, the cold steel beneath your fingertips again triggering you demons to come out and play. 

Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, kind and calm, and for a brief second, the darkness takes a step back, but it’s not enough when you look away, knowing better than to stand here with your emotions in overdrive. You can still feel the empathy radiating from him, a soft pressure against the walls you’ve carefully built around yourself, but you shut it out, wrapping yourself in the cold. It’s easier this way—safer.

And when that darkness within you finally consumes you fully, twisting its way through your thoughts, you feel the weight of your own hypocrisy. You’re the one who flips the switch now, pulls away, hides what lies beneath the surface. You realise then, slowly but oh so painfully, that it’s not just him keeping secrets. It’s you too, guarding those parts of yourself, refusing to let him in where it matters most. You shut him out, even as you crave his closeness, and in those moments, you know that the subtle divide between you isn’t just on him—it’s the walls you’ve built around your own heart, too.

“We should begin,” you note devoid of all the emotions it held before.

Jungkook nods, and so you reach for the scalpel, its cool handle familiar in your palm. You still feel his searching eyes on you, but you don’t look up, instead you slice the torso’s skin in the usual Y-shaped incision, down from the shoulders to the sternum, and meeting at the xiphoid process before extending down to the pubic symphysis. After peeling back the loose skin, muscle and tissue, you then begin cutting through the thin layers of fascia still clinging to the ribcage, exposing the pale white bones of the ribs.

Jungkook moves to the medical tool trolley, his gloved hands reaching for the rib shears. “Shall I...?”

“Yes,” you reply, stepping back slightly to give him room.

He carefully positions the rib shears between the ribs and begins clipping through the bones with a controlled strength, each snap of bone sending a soft vibration through the instrument. Jungkook works carefully, each snap of bone gentle, as if even now, he seeks to preserve some kind of dignity in death. It unnerves you a little, but as the sound echoes not only in the quiet room but inside your mind too—a crisp, definitive crack, similar to the thuds of Chulsoo as he hit the railings when he flew down the staircase, even though there’s no mess following the sound this time, only a slight shift in the body as the ribcage gives way under the pressure—you know there’s no chance for your emotions to be triggered.

With the ribcage removed, the torso opens before you like an unwelcome revelation, the organs lying in a strange, suspended silence, if waiting for you. The heart—the centre of all life, now still, now just another part of the anatomy to be examined—rests beneath the thin membrane of the pericardium, ready to be freed.

“The heart first?”

“Yes,” you nod with your voice sounding far away, almost hollow in your own ears. You reach for the scalpel again, making the first careful incision into the pericardium. The thin protective layer peels back, exposing the heart fully now, its grey, decayed mass sitting heavy in the cavity. And you wonder, if someone were to cut you open, would your heart, still beating, look the same? Rotten and past repair?

But you shake it off, “Forceps,” your tone more an automatic request than an engagement with him, the word just a tool to continue the work. Jungkook hands them to you, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers brush against yours, sending an unexpected jolt through you. You swallow it down with all your might, feeling utterly exhausted by now while you use the forceps to  gently peel back the rest of the pericardium.

Jungkook leans closer, his brow creased with concentration, his voice quiet as he observes the enlarged heart carefully. “It’s bigger than normal. Maybe hypertrophy.”

“Most likely. Possibly undiagnosed hypertension or cardiovascular disease,” you agree, letting the clinical words form a barrier between you and the moment. You trace your eyes over the heart’s pale surface, noting the thickened walls, the silent history of the body it once powered.

Jungkook nods, his hands moving carefully as he begins to sever the heart’s connections to the body, everything done tender, as though he’s cradling something fragile in his hands. When the heart is finally free, he lifts it with care, placing it in the tray. “We should weigh it,” he suggests, glancing at you with a gentle question in his eyes, one that lingers in the air between you, full of more than just the cold facts of death.

„Hm.“ You nod, watching as he places the heart on the scale. The weight flashes across the small digital display, confirming what you both already suspected.

“It must have strained him,” Jungkook sighs quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as though he’s speaking to the heart itself, or perhaps to the ghost of the person it belonged to.

“Yes,” you reply absently, your mind trying to ignore his empathy. You can’t afford to feel it, not here, not now.

“Next, the lungs?” 

But Jungkook’s suggestion hangs unanswered in the air, lost in the moment. There’s a sudden yelp behind you, and before you can react, Ben stumbles into your cart, knocking it violently over. A scalpel—thankfully still clean and sanitised—clatters off it and embeds itself in your thigh. The room goes still, breaths held, as everyone stares at the darkening spot of blood slowly spreading across your jeans. You feel the strange weight of the blade in your thigh, though there’s no pain. It’s just... uncomfortable, having a blade lodged in your leg. You sigh, long and heavy, while Jungkook exhales shocked, “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply slightly angered, though the room remains frozen. “Tae, do you have your kit with you?” 

All eyes are on you, including the professor’s, who looks more pale than the body on the table. You limp to a chair at the back of the room, Taehyung already swapping his gloves before casually grabbing his first aid kit. Jungkook hovers nervously, while Ben, on the verge of fainting, stammers out apologies. You wave them off half-heartedly, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice. As Taehyung kneels before you and rips your jeans open around the scalpel, you say, “No worries, I can feel no pain. It’s no big deal.” But inside, you’re simmering with irritation at Ben’s incompetence.

Ben, looking horrified, blurts out, “What do you mean?! You’re hurt!”

Taehyung doesn’t miss a beat, yanking the scalpel out with not a care in the world, the metal clinking to the floor as you barely blink. He hums a soft tune as he begins cleaning the wound and stitching it up, while you explain, “NTRK1. I can’t feel pain. At all.”

Everyone is stunned to the core, everyone just able to stare as Taehyung works calmly, as if nothing unusual is happening. There’s a little bit of guilt within you, seeing Jungkook’s shocked expression, realising you should’ve probably told him and the others before now. But what’s done is done, and really, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not such a big deal.

When Taehyung finishes, he pats your good thigh with a small smile, „All done,“ and starts packing up his kit, leaving you sitting there, feeling more awkward than anything else.

„Could you all please just keep going?“ you try not to snap, but you know the irritation and exhaustion are clearly visible now.

“Let’s get drinks tonight,” you turn to Jungkook, knowing it’s no use, the weight of the day, hell the weight of the last few days, presses down on you too much, the accumulated stress leaving you wanting nothing more than to melt away in the comfort of something strong and cold.

“With the gang?” Jungkook asks still a bit shocked, but his eyes soften as they always do when you’re tired like this, as though he’s already prepared to do whatever it takes to lift your spirits.

You shrug, not really caring who tags along. “I don’t care. I just need a drink.”

Jungkook grins, nodding, and without missing a beat, he turns to the others. “Yo, we’re going out. You coming with?”

Everyone agrees with enthusiastic nods except for Hoseok, who’s laughing nervously as he looks at the clock. “This early?”

Jennie rolls her eyes at him and chimes in, “Oh come on, you can have your Sprite,” but then mutters under her breath with a mischievous smirk, “with vodka.”

You laugh softly, standing up and limping towards the locker room to change out of your scrubs. Jungkook is right there beside you after he put the cadaver into the cooler, his arm hovering protectively at your side, ready to catch you if you stumble. A line forms between his eyebrows out of concern, but you want to ease that worried look from his face, not wanting him to fret over something that feels so routine to you.

“Kook, I’m fine,” you reassure him, flashing a small smile. “I don’t feel anything; it’s just my muscle acting up.”

He shakes his head a little, his mouth pulling into a line as he watches your movements. “It’s still strange to me. All these years, I didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” you reply softly, not meeting his eyes for a second, afraid he’d discover more of what’s hidden. 

“Don’t be. It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

After a few more steps, your leg starts to loosen up, and soon enough, you’re walking normally again. By the time you reach the familiar doors of your regular pub, it’s like nothing had ever happened.

The early evening moves swiftly, conversations flowing as easily as the drinks, everyone excepting your condition by the time food is served. The moment Jungkook and you announce that you’re dating, the group bursts into cheers and clapping, Yoongi muttering a sarcastic “about time” under his breath, though you don’t miss the glances Taehyung keeps casting in your direction, his brow creased with concern. You know it’s only a matter of time before you’ll have to talk to him, reassure him that everything’s okay—he just wants the best for you, after all. You’ll need to convince him that keeping certain things from Jungkook is still the right choice, for now at least.

Especially when Jennie, sitting beside Taehyung, is caught in the crosshairs of your teasing. Leaning back in your chair, you smirk over the rim of your drink and ask her slyly, “So, Jennie, seeing anyone lately?”

She shoots you a withering look, muttering a quick and firm “no,” while you catch the warning in her and Taehyung’s eyes. You hold back a laugh, already planning weeks of teasing them.

The night continues with light banter, and the worries and struggle of the past few days seem to dissolve into the air like the hot steam of your food. Being here with Jungkook and the rest of your friends, there’s a warmth that wraps around you, a kind of quiet contentment that settles deep in your bones. This, you think, is what you’ve needed. Just this—the laughter, the closeness, the easy way Jungkook drops his arm around your shoulder, always finding your free hand or brushing soft kisses on your temple and hair.

A few drinks in, after you and Jungkook have both had a couple of glasses, he leans in close, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not a question, and there’s something in his eyes, something inviting that makes it impossible to say no. You smile, knowing full well you’re both about to become the subject of endless teasing from your friends, but you don’t care. You bid them goodnight, waving off their playful remarks, your mind already too focused on Jungkook’s big, callused hand wrapped around yours, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room and universe worth paying attention to.

When you step outside, the night air is refreshing, cutting through the slight buzz you’ve got going from the drinks, sobering you up until there’s nothing left but happiness. The two of you walk side by side, hands swinging between you, and there’s this lightness in your chest you haven’t felt in days. You’ve always known that Jungkook brings a certain calm to your life, a kind of peace you’ve never really had before, but tonight it feels especially strong.

He’s laughing as you mimic one of your professors, trying your best to imitate the man’s deep, grumbling voice and exaggerated gestures. Jungkook throws his head back, his laugh echoing down the quiet street, and the sound of it makes your heart feel even more lighter. His hand squeezes yours as you twirl around, your movements carefree and loose, your inhibitions melting away as you let yourself bask in this moment, in him.

You leave his hand, spin a few times around a lamppost nearby, feeling the gentle night breeze on your flushed face. You’re not drunk nor buzzed anymore, just pleasantly warm, and in the soft glow of the streetlights, everything feels almost dreamlike. You’re smiling, Jungkook is too, and for once, you’re allowing yourself to be fully in the moment, free from the shadows that usually cloud your mind.

You really want this to work, really want him to know, so you start “Will you still be with me when I’ve killed someone?” The words slip out of your mouth as you spin, a strange mix of jest and sincerity lacing your tone. You try to keep the smile on your face, but there’s an uncertainty in your eyes that betrays you.

Jungkook laughs, catching your hand mid-spin, pulling you into his chest. He holds you there, his strong arms wrapping around you, his warmth enveloping you. “We’re going to be doctors,” he states with a grin. “Of course we’re going to kill someone by accident.” He pauses, brushing his thumb gently over your cheekbone as he cradles your face in his hands, his voice lowering into something tender, intimate. “And when that time comes, I’ll still be right here, standing next to you.”

Jungkook’s words repeat in your mind, and part of you aches to believe him. But there’s that vile voice inside, always nagging, always spreading doubt, reminding you of what you are, what you hide beneath it all. If he knew, would he really stay? you wonder if his patience and kindness could stretch this far, past the monster you are. It’s hard to imagine, yet you can’t help but cling to the hope that he’ll love you enough someday to not walk away. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am, because there’s nothing you could do that can make me leave.” And after a short pause, when his eyes drown you with their tenderness, he says the three words you didn’t expect. “I love you.” 

You’re floating, aren’t you? His eyes are so full of sincerity, it’s almost intoxicating, lifting you higher with every glance until you reach cloud nine where he awaits you. It’s too much, too good, but you let yourself get swept up in it, let the light of him fill you. The doubts are still there, of course, whispering their poison. But right now, you ignore them. You turn a blind eye to the darkness and deaf ears to the demon inside, because for once, you just want to feel this—this joy, this love—without the fear dragging you back down to the cold, hard floor.

„I love you too, Jeon Jungkook.“

And then he kisses you, a touch full of joy, soft with confidence and love. His lips meet yours, stealing your breath and offering his in return, and for now, everything fells right. You melt into his form, losing yourself as you gently suck on his plush bottom lip, and in that tender exchange, you feel whole.

When he parts, there’s a playful glint in his eyes „I think I forgot something.“

„Hm?“ you hum, still dazed from everything he is.

„Some weight for the 700.“ 

In one swift move, he sweeps you into his arms, cradling you effortlessly, and you can't help but laugh, breathless from the sudden rush. “You’re crazy,” you giggle, but the sound falters as you catch the predatory glint in his eyes. 

His gaze locks onto yours, and with each step he takes toward your dorm, your heart skips. “Oh, I am,” he murmurs, voice low. “Don’t think I forgot how you drooled over me.” 

Your laughter fades into silence, heat rising in your cheeks as wetness begins to pool between your thighs, his strength alone making your body respond instinctually.

When you finally make it back to the dorm and slip into your room, the space is drenched in darkness, save for the soft glow of light filtering in from the outside world. But you barely notice; all your attention is on Jungkook, his lips never leaving yours, hands roaming over each other’s clothed bodies with a heat that drowns out everything else. His breath is warm against your mouth, his tongue sliding over yours, and in each kiss, you taste him, feel him—everything he is, everything you crave.

His hands glide up your sides, fingers catching the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head, and you do the same, your eyes falling on his bare torso. You always knew he was strong, but now, with the soft light catching the curve of his muscles, it’s like he’s carved from something divine—each breath making his body shift and flex with a power that steals your breath all over again. His gaze drops to your breasts, your lace bra pushing them up, but he doesn’t linger for long before kissing you again, guiding you backwards until your legs hit the edge of your bed. You fall together, crawling onto the mattress as if you’re made for this, made for each other.

He trails kisses down your body, his lips oblivious of the scars that litter your skin in the dim lighting, and there’s a tenderness in his touch that feels almost reverent as he carefully pulls your jeans off, mindful of the fresh wound on your thigh. His hands move over your skin as though he’s worshipping you, like you’re something fragile yet unbreakable, and it’s so unfamiliar it makes you nearly tear up.

You can’t take it anymore—you grab him by the neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back to kiss you as you fumble with his belt, his trousers quickly discarded with a kick of his leg. His lips move to your neck, tiny love confessions brushing against your skin between kisses, and when he finds the sensitive spots that make you moan, his hand slips beneath your underwear, fingers sliding over your wetness, his middle finger slipping inside you with ease as his palm presses against your clit. Your moan spills into his mouth, and he responds with a deep grunt that vibrates through his chest and into you, making your head spin even more.

“You’re so drenched,” he whispers, voice rough with desire, his finger slowly pumping in and out, each word sending waves of bliss through your body.

Your hands wander down his strong body, both of you discarding the last of your clothing in no time. His cock is to die for, long and girth like you never seen before, pulsing with dark veins making it even bigger, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes you dizzy with want, every coherent thought slipping away as you take in the sheer beauty of him, his body and mind utter perfection.

“I love you,” you breath, pushing him gently onto his back with your small hands on his firm chest, straddling his tiny middle. Your arousal drips onto him, making him moan beneath you, his hands gripping your hips as you lean down to kiss his neck, sliding lower until your tongue teases his small, dark nipples. He bucks his hips into the air, the soft groan from his lips music to your ears.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whisper as you kiss your way down his body, eyes locking onto his cock when you finally reach it. His gaze follows you, full of lust yet still brimming with undeniable love.

You wrap your tiny hand around him, biting your lip as you keep eye contact, waiting for his reaction. His hips buck involuntarily, and that’s all the confirmation you need. You take him into your mouth, the weight of him sliding over your tongue, hitting the back of your throat as you work the rest of him with your hand. His moan fills the room, deep and guttural, one of his hands gripping the sheet while the other’s gripping your hair as he gasps, “Oh my god.”

And oh my god indeed. He tastes like heaven, feels like a dream as you pick up the pace, sucking harder, giving him everything he deserves until his abs tense and his thighs tremble. He stops you then, pulling you up to his mouth, kissing you deeply as your hands fumble for the nightstand. You quickly hand him a condom, watching as he bites it open, his hands shaking slightly as he rolls it on.

“Shouldn’t I prepare you more? It might hurt,” he murmurs, concern painting his face.

But you shake your head, kissing him softly. “I’m good. I won’t feel it,” you say, positioning yourself over him.

He pauses, his hands gripping your shoulders, eyes wide. “You won’t feel it?” he’s nearly squeaking full of disbelieve.

You laugh softly, realising your wording was off and correcting yourself. “No, I’ll feel it, just not the pain. Remember?”

Realisation floods his features, and he chuckles lightly embarrassed. “Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry.” His eyes drift down to where your juices drip onto his pelvis. “Okay.”

With that, you slowly sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he’s fully nestled inside you. The moan that escapes both of you is loud, filling the room as the overwhelming sensation of being joined like this crashes over you, throwing both your heads back. He fits perfectly, filling you in a way that makes everything else fade away, and when you start to move, it’s like you’re floating, flying in heaven, each drop of your hips sending you higher.

Jungkook matches your rhythm, thrusting up into you with an unrelenting drive, his stamina pushing you further and further until the room seems to shimmer in all the colours of the rainbow. You watch him, mesmerised by the way his muscles flex, the sheen of sweat on his skin making him look like some otherworldly being. And then it hits you—your climax tearing through you with a long moan as your juices spill out around him, soaking everything in their path.

Jungkook’s eyes lock with yours, his pace quickening as he chases his own release, his voice hoarse as he gasps out, “I love you,” before his orgasm hits, spilling into the condom as you ride out the waves of your own high together. It takes what feels like forever to finally come down, and when you do, you collapse onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily, hearts pounding in sync. No walls between you.

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • masterlist • 06

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like! please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕

a/n 4: The next chapter will have a time skip, so there won’t be scenes like Jungkook’s surprise b-day party. However, drabble requests and character asks are open, though it might take me some time to write them ☺️

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My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 6

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: DDDNE, foul language, denial, a little bit of fluff, drugging, detailed description of r@pe, blo0d, gore, punch!ng, carving, cum, anger issues, shur!ken, kick!ng, f!ghting, realisation, wishing of being d€ad, pls lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 4.2K

a/n: pls don't hate me—hate the characters instead 🙂

a/n 2: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • 05 • masterlist • 07

Two weeks go by, and with each passing day, you find yourself and Jungkook drawing nearer, though you had always believed, in the depth of your long friendship, that there was no further closeness to be gained. Yet still, there you are, sharing not just your days but, more often than not, your nights as well. There’s a certain way in which time fades into insignificance when you’re together, and though the light of day holds nearly no barriers for the way he maps your body, it’s the cloak of night that allows you to strip down more than just all of your clothes—it is there, in that twilight intimacy, that you feel you might finally be able to touch the entirety of his soul and him yours. He rearranges you completely in those moments, a cartographer of your flesh and spirit alike.

Taehyung, on the other hand, has had that difficult conversation with you far too many times to count—each instance his eyes filled with that same uncertainty, the struggle not only on his face but yours too as he questions whether telling Jungkook the truth, baring your past and present alike, is truly the right course of action. You’ve known for a long time it isn’t fair to leave Jungkook in the dark, not when this darkness is part of who you are, tethered to you in ways you sometimes wish it weren’t. It’s not easy to admit that parts of you have been moulded by decisions you never wished to make, paths you walked out of necessity rather than real choice. You can almost see how Jungkook might listen, his usual patient, understanding self—but with every moment you imagine his reaction, you also see him turning away, running when the truth becomes too much to bear.

And so, though you know you can’t be selfish in love—especially not when it’s him—each time you try to tell him, the words seem to stick in your throat like glue. You’ve tried so many times, only to falter at the last moment, unable to bear the idea of that carefree, incandescent smile slipping from his face. So, you promise yourself that you’ll tell him tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Always tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow, each new day bringing with it a fresh round of procrastination and a fresh wave of guilt for the secrets you continue to withhold.

Gradually, you convince yourself that your relationship hasn’t yet reached the point where it can withstand such a confession, blinding yourself to the reality that the beginning of love is precisely when such truths should come to light. And yet, deep down, you know you’re deceiving yourself, creating a shelter of denial in which you hide from the storm that must eventually break.

At the same time, you’re beginning to sense that Jungkook too harbours his own secrets. There are nights when he quietly slips away, his reasons vague and evasive. He doesn’t share everything, and you’ve noticed it. Sometimes, he avoids your bed, though he never quite admits why, sidestepping your questions with a soft smile or a gentle touch. It’s something you don’t press him on—those absences leave you with the solitude you need to focus on the darkness you still carry and use to scheme, to map out your next move, like a chess player preparing for the final play that will topple the board eventually.

Those nights, while Jungkook is elsewhere, you roam the shadowed streets and buildings around Dojin’s office, gathering information about him, timing Sangwook’s weakest moments too, plotting when and how both will fall. And sometimes, on those nights, you catch a glimpse of Pulse, who never comes close, but you feel his eyes on you, the burning of his gaze a silent threat to dare make a move. He watches from a distance, still a spectre lingering on the edge of your plans, and his presence haunts you—his gaze lingers on your skin and mind since two weeks ago, like a thorn embedded too deeply to remove.

But when the nights are spent in Jungkook’s arms, curled against his warmth, the world feels different—quieter, almost safe. You listen to his soft, steady breathing as he sleeps beside you, utterly unaware of the poison bubbling inside you. Yet even then, as his embrace cocoons you, your mind remains restless. You lie awake, feeling torn between two worlds, wondering whether the path you’ve chosen is worth the price you might have to pay. Are you wasting precious time revenging your beloved parents? Or are you, in some twisted way, moving closer to the freedom you crave?

You let yourself dream, if only for a moment, that perhaps the happy ending is simply the softening of your being, the ability to remain gentle despite the rough hands life has dealt you. Perhaps it is a calm nervous system, a peacefulness that cannot be threatened. Perhaps the happy ending is you moving on with Jungkook by your side, where you finally reclaim the love you’ve lost, but always wanted back. Perhaps the happy ending is you embracing change, is you going in the direction of the person that grows you and moves you and magnitates your spirit.

But even as you entertain that hopeful vision, a darker force pulls you back. It wraps around you like it’s one with you, refusing to let go, as though with every step you take towards Jungkook, it drags you back three. For every word of love he whispers to you, a thousand doubts rise in your mind. Each time he brings you to the peak of ecstasy, it only pushes you deeper into a chasm you fear you’ll never climb out of.

The silence that followed Chulsoo’s death—the way it was wiped clean from the media, hidden from view so as not to tarnish Dojin’s image—only served to feed the fire of your revenge. That burning desire for justice, or perhaps just for release, is still there, gnawing at you like an unquenchable hunger of thousand starved demons. And so, despite everything, you find yourself returning to your plans, hoping that, in the end, they will finally give you the salvation and freedom to carve out the future you so desperately desire with Jungkook.

And now, two weeks later, it’s all set. Every piece has fallen into place. You called in a favour with one of Seokjin’s IT specialists, a man who owed you a debt for helping his daughter years ago with her SATs. It was a small thing back then, but now, that kindness has ripened into something vital, something almost fated. He fabricated a message, making it seem as though Dojin himself had ordered Sangwook into a night shift at the office. You thought long and hard about how to exact your revenge, and the answer came to you like a whisper in the dark—a plan perfectly devised to balance the scales that tipped over so many years ago. 

So here you stand now, darkness flowing through your veins like it never has before, alive and pulsing and fatal. You’re in Dojin’s office, with Sangwook before you, drugged and unconscious in the chair, his head lolling to one side, bound by the anaesthetic you pilfered from the lab days ago. Everything is ready—the second scene has been set. And the only question that remains is whether, when the final scene comes to an end and all is said and done, will the path truly be cleared for the future you dream of with Jungkook by your side. But you lock that thought away, deliberately procrastinating again until your demon screams ‘action’. 

Sangwook hovers in the haze of barely held consciousness when your boot collides with his side, sending him sprawling to the floor with a graceless thud. His face catches the weight of the fall, and though a pained groan escapes him, you find yourself devoid of sympathy, feeling nothing but the cold resolve that fills the room like silent smoke. The office is as barren as you anticipated, a hollow shell of corporate sterility, its emptiness bearing silent witness to the reckoning about to unfold, a ghost of a place where no one will hear the echoes of what you are about to do.

“You know,” you murmur, your voice a dangerous lull that barely masks the venom beneath, “I saw you smiling while he raped her. Perhaps it’s time you discovered how it feels to be on the other side, hm?” You crouch beside him, your fingers ghosting over his cheek, now wet with drool and slack with stupor. His eyes, bleary and unfocused, swim beneath heavy lids, his breath a sickly rasp that rises and falls in broken stutters.

You kick him again, flipping him from his side to his stomach with the ease of someone handling dead weight. His groans are quieter now, more distant, but you pay them no mind. You’ve come prepared for this moment, the cable ties rigid in your hands as you bind his wrists behind him, securing them with an efficient brutality. Once the ties are tight enough, cutting into his skin with a satisfying snap, you shift his body once more, forcing his hips up so that he kneels with his face pressed into the cold, indifferent floor, his knees scraping against it with a dull sound. 

With a nudge of your foot, you spread his legs apart, widening the space between them as you reach into your hidden pocket and retrieve one of your shuriken. The blade gleams faintly in the low light as you slice through the fabric of his trousers and boxers, leaving his exposed ass an ugly, vulnerable thing that turns your stomach. You swallow the disgust, pushing it down, focusing instead on the cold fury that hums inside you like a living thing.

From another concealed pocket, you pull out an oversized black vibrator, letting it dangle in the air between your fingers like a grotesque trophy. You wave it lazily in front of Sangwook’s face, his glazed eyes flickering with some faint recognition. “Oh no,” you say, voice dripping with a mocking faux-innocence, “I think I forgot the lube.” You pout, a cruel smile twisting your lips that aren’t hidden by your mask. “Looks like history repeats itself more than I thought.”

You move back behind him, your heart beating calmly despite the anticipation of what you have prepared next. And with a force born of all the pent-up rage you’ve carried for so long, you ram the vibrator into his exposed asshole, not bothering with gentleness or care. 

The effect is immediate—Sangwook’s scream tears through the silence of the office, a visceral sound that cuts through the fog of drugs clouding his mind. His body convulses, buckling against the intrusion, but you press your hands into his hips, forcing him to remain in position as you reach for the duct tape from your pocket, securing the vibrator firmly in place. His flesh resists, bleeding around the object, the blood flowing freely, but you push it deeper still, the tape tightening until you’re certain it won’t budge.

The blood, the pain, his broken sobs—all of it comes together to create an image that stirs something dark and primal within you, something that has long been caged but now finally feels liberated. His pitiful sounds mirror the cries you remember, the cries that haunt you from this distant, unbearable night, and for the first time in so long, you feel a strange, twisted sense of peace begin to settle inside you. It’s a perverse kind of satisfaction, seeing him brought low, powerless, humiliated. His sobs fill the room like symphony meant for masses, and with every tear that falls from his face, with every tremor that wracks his body, you feel your breath coming a little easier, feel that demon within you finally soothe itself into something manageable.

You stand back, watching with a detached sense of curiosity as snot and tears pool beneath Sangwook’s face, mixing with the blood that drips steadily from his ass. His humiliation is complete—the blood, the shame, even his unwanted orgasm staining the floor beneath him, the fluids mingling into a sickening mess. He can barely withstand it anymore, and you sense that his endurance is nearing its end, the agony almost enough to make him pass out. Almost.

You step forward and rip the vibrator free from his body with a vicious yank, taking the duct tape with it, peeling away skin and hair in the process. The sound is gruesome, the ripping noise followed by another hoarse scream from Sangwook, his head lolling against the floor. The satisfaction swells inside you, filling the space in your chest that has long been empty, and for a brief, shimmering moment, it feels as though you’ve finally taken something back from the world that once stole everything from you.

But this isn’t the end—not yet. You can’t let this be another act buried by Dojin’s power, another silenced death hidden from the eyes of the world. So you push Sangwook’s slack body back onto the chair, his head rolling from side to side in drugged disorientation. You calculate the dose just right, ensuring that though his body is weakened, his mind remains painfully clear, aware of every agonising second.

“It felt good, didn’t it?” you mock, your laughter low and dripping with menace. You step closer, forcing his face upward until his dulled, tear-filled eyes meet your own, your gaze lifeless as steel. “You remember what happened after, don’t you?” His silence is met with a sneer as you push his face aside and reach for your shuriken once more, the blade glinting in your hand as you rip open his shirt, exposing the heaving rise and fall of his chest, every breath laboured and uneven. Blood still pours from the wounds you’ve already inflicted, but you don’t care. “But first, let me leave a note, yeah?” The blade hovers for a moment over his skin before you press it against him, carving deep, big letters into his chest with more force than necessary.

‘Father, don’t forgive them, for they know what they do.’

The blood spills over your writing, cascading down his body in thick rivulets, pooling once again on the floor beneath him, mingling with the other stains of his disgrace. You step back and admire your handiwork, feeling an odd, almost surreal sense of fulfilment as you gaze upon the wreckage you’ve created.

It feels like freedom—like the release you’ve been chasing for years. You don’t care if anyone else understands it, don’t care if Jungkook would understand. In this moment, the world shrinks to this room, to this man, to this beautifully orchestrated vengeance. And for the first time, you feel as though this is the right path, the only path that could ever set you free. You toss the bloodied shuriken to the ground with a resounding clang, the sound echoing in the hollow space like a final punctuation to this violent symphony.

And then, you strike—fist meeting flesh again and again, until Sangwook’s face is nothing but a pulpy mess of blood and bone beneath your knuckles. Each punch sends a wave of release through you, every hit drawing out the grief that’s lain dormant inside you for so long. Tears blur your vision, and you let them fall, unheeded, as you continue to rain down blow after blow, releasing years of pain in a single, savage outpouring.

But suddenly, the sound of faint movement is heard through your frenzy, and your instinct kicks in. You spin on your heel and release a shuriken in one fluid motion, sending it hurtling towards the intruder behind you. It misses its mark by a hair’s breadth, embedding itself into the wall beside Pulse’s head. He stands there, watching, his eyes wide with shock, his expression stricken. But despite everything, despite the violence, despite the blood, his gaze remains—soft, empathetic, as though he can still see something within you worth saving.

“What the hell do you want?” you scream, voice raw, feeling too close to madness, eyes narrowing at the sight of him standing there, his presence alone an irritant to your senses. The sight of Pulse—of this man, this moron—makes your blood boil with a heat that consumes every rational thought, every shred of patience you might’ve had left.

“You can still stop Stasis,” he says softly, his words slipping through the chaos like a breeze through fire, and there’s something infuriatingly calm in his tone that makes your fists curl tighter. “It’s not too late.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, voice dripping with venom, “I don’t have time for your bullshit.” You spin back to Sangwook, channeling the surge of anger into your fists, striking him again—he groans, barely a sound escaping his bloodied lips, but it’s enough to quell the fire in your veins, if only for a fleeting moment.

“This isn’t the right way,” Pulse insists, his voice still thick with that maddening compassion, that softness you cannot bear to listen to any longer.

“Oh, fuck off!” you spit, turning back towards him, seething. “What the hell do you know about anything?”

“I don’t need to know everything,” he replies, his voice unwavering. “I only need to know that it’s not too late.”

“Not too late?!” you bark, flinging your arms into the air, exasperation dripping from every word. “Do you even hear yourself? Don’t waste my fucking time with this fuckery—go fetch some petty pickpockets if you’re feeling heroic.”

You start to turn away, fed up, ready to pour all your anger back into Sangwook’s trembling body, but Pulse’s voice hooks you mid-step, tugging at something inside you, and despite yourself knowing better, you pause, facing Pulse once more. He stands there, almost pleading with you, a figure so at odds with the carnage around him. “I can help you,” he says, voice much gentler now. “You don’t have to do this.”

A low, biting laugh slips from your throat, raw and empty, more like the growl of something wounded than the echo of any true amusement. “Help me?” you sneer, the corners of your mouth twisting into a cruel smile. “Oh, I’m doing just fine helping myself.”

“That’s not helping,” he says quietly, and there’s a softness to his words that feels like nails on a chalkboard, like he’s trying to pierce through the layers of darkness that have long since engulfed you. “If you could just—”

But you don’t let him finish. You spin around again, but this time something’s different. Something cold and sharp slashes through the air in your mind, halting you in your tracks. Sangwook sits still, the rise and fall of his chest no longer there, his eyes now glassy and fixed on nothing. It’s as though the world shifts beneath your feet. His wounds, they’ve finally claimed him, and you missed it—the exact moment when life left him, when that miserable soul slipped away.

“He’s dead,” you whisper, though the words are nothing more than a breath, laced with an anger so potent it seethes from your pores. The demon inside you roars with a feral intensity, its presence so loud, so overwhelming, you reckon the entire city must hear it. But your blood, it doesn’t run cold—not in the way people speak of fear or regret. No, your blood burns hotter than ever before, an inferno raging through your veins, pushing you beyond the boundaries of reason, of sanity, into a space where you never been before. 

“He’s dead!” you shout, the fury shaking your body and walls, vibrating through every nerve as you reach for your shuriken. One after another, you hurl them towards Pulse with reckless, unrestrained violence, each throw fuelled by the white-hot rage that blinds you to everything else but this freak standing before you. Most of them miss, slicing through the air uselessly, but one grazes his side, drawing blood and a sharp hiss from his lips. You see the pain flash in his eyes, but it’s not enough. “You fucking idiot!” you scream, voice cracking under the weight of your fury. “You had to ruin everything!”

You launch yourself at him, driven by that blinding fury, your body moving faster than your mind can comprehend. The force of your kick catches him squarely in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, but Pulse—fuck him—manages to scramble back to his feet, dodging and deflecting every punch, every savage blow you aim at him and his stupid face. He’s skilled, a professional, and you can see that now in the way he moves with ease, with a calm that only makes the inferno within you rage hotter, more fiercely.

You land a hit against his face, a sharp crack against his cheekbone, and for a moment, his composure slips. His eyes narrow, the warmth in them replaced by a cold anger, a frustrated irritation that mirrors your own. And then, for the first time, he strikes back. His fist connects with the side of your head that makes your vision blur for a moment, but that’s all it is—a moment. You recover quickly, shaking off the dizziness, your lips curling into a smug smirk as you catch the flicker of disbelief in his gaze.

“Jealous it didn’t faze me?” you taunt, your voice dripping with poison ready to take him down, your breath coming fast and shallow, though you force it to remain steady, to keep the superiority alive.

“As if,” he growls, his tone clipped, though there’s a flicker of frustration behind his words, a crack in that calm façade he wears so well.

The fight escalates, a brutal dance of fists and kicks, bodies slamming into walls and furniture bruising you both more than the actual hits. He throws you around like you weigh nothing, a mere doll, but you hit back with equal force, aiming for his weak spots with precision born from years of knowing where it hurts most. You’re both panting heavily now, bruised and bloodied, but where his strength begins to wane, your twisted advantage of feeling no pain holds firm. 

“Give up Stasis,” Pulse gasps, his voice ragged with exhaustion, but still, there’s that damn plea in his tone, that maddening refusal to break.

“Never,” you spit, a wicked smile twisting your lips as you fling your last shuriken towards him. It grazes the edge of his face mask, slicing through the straps with a clean cut. The mask falls to the floor silently,  in slow motion, leaving his face exposed to the dim, flickering light of the room.

And in that moment, the world stops last. 

The air is sucked from your lungs as you stare at him, your heart plummeting into an abyss that you thought you’d already reached the bottom of. His face—his face is the face you know so well. A face you’ve kissed, a face you’ve held in your hands, a face that, until this moment, you believed belonged to someone pure, someone who hadn’t been touched by the darkness that now consumes you. Jungkook. It’s Jungkook standing before you, bruised, bloodied, and trying to stop you.

You take a step back, your limbs trembling with the force of the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but more than that, they tremble with the force of your breaking heart. “No,” you whisper, barely audible, the word slipping from your lips like a plea to the universe itself. But Jungkook doesn’t hear it, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He doesn’t see the devastation in your eyes, the cracks forming in your soul as the reality of this nightmare sinks in.

“You’ve finally had enough, haven’t you?” he taunts, voice cold, cutting, as he steps towards you, uncaring that his mask has been stripped away. His steps are slow and menacing in a way you’ve never seen from him before.

You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t seem to make sense of the world anymore. Jungkook—your Jungkook, your friend, your lover, the man who filled your life with light and warmth for years—is standing here as Pulse, the man who’s tried to stop you, to save you, from the path you’ve chosen. It breaks you, fracturing the remaining parts of your soul, and for the first time since your parents died, you feel as though you’re drowning all over again.

There’s nothing left to do, nothing that could possibly fix this, fix you both, nothing that could make the universe undo its cruel joke. So you do the only thing you can think of and what you should have done years ago—you run. You turn and bolt, fleeing from this nightmare, desperate to escape the truth that has gutted you so deeply you wish you had died with your parents. 

You run, hoping the darkness will swallow you whole before the pain can.

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • 05 • masterlist • 07

a/n 3: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like! MBV-Game Part II:

a/n 4: please send me a message, ask or comment if you would like to be tagged for upcoming chapters 💕 also - character asks and drabble requests are open

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All Rights Reserved © @runariya 2024

taglist: @darkeneddiary, @dumbheadblog, @jksusawife, @jayhoneybeecomb, @kookienooki, @hagridshaircare 

My Beloved Villain (JJK) • Chapter 7

pairing: hero!Jungkook x villain!female reader genre: dark romance, gore, villain!AU, hero!AU, slow burn rating: MDNI, 18+ warnings: mental and emotional breakdown, vomiting, OC is deranged, threatening a friend, mentions of murder, mentions of survivor's guilt, minor blood, kind of self harm but not really idk, minor violence, mentions of guns and mental killing, non-con kiss, Seokjin returns hihihihi, pls lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 6.6K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. Content errors related to med school are not excluded. Please do not use this story as your own. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • 05 • 06 • masterlist • 08

You try to flee from the agony, but it clings to you, insidious like an unwanted shadow. Leaving Pulse behind, or perhaps more accurately, leaving Jungkook behind, feels futile, for as soon as the door to your dorm closes with a heavy thud, that fragile dam within you, painstakingly constructed, gives way under the weight of its burden. Grief, ancient and visceral, coils around you like a serpent, twisting itself through your veins, flooding every corner of your being with its oppressive force. It's that same, bottomless grief that first strangled you when your parents were wrenched from this world all those years ago, and now it returns with terrifying precision, suffocating you beneath the unbearable consequence of your actions.

You think, in some distant part of yourself, that you can almost hear your heart being torn asunder, the slow, agonising rip of it reverberating within your chest, so excruciating that it steals the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping, shattered between the sobs and screams that tear their way out of your throat. The walls close in, unbearably tight, pressing inwards until you feel as though you might be crushed beneath their relentless force, and in that suffocating moment of panic, you claw at your mask as though it alone is to blame for your torment. You tear it off with frantic hands, your fingers trembling as they grip the edge of your bodysuit, and you pull, you pull with a kind of desperate fury, the fabric splitting beneath your fingers as though it's the only thing holding you together. And in the madness of it all, as your mind spins out of control, you are haunted by the endless flood of memories that crash merciless over you.

They come to you in disjointed and searing fragments, fragments of a life that seems so achingly distant now, a life spent with him, a life spend with Jungkook. The years you shared in that strange, beautiful friendship, the hours of classes, the late-night study sessions that bled into laughter and stolen glances. The nights out, surrounded by your circle of friends, where the music would pulse through your veins like a drug, and somehow, always, you would find yourself dancing with him, just the two of you lost in your own rhythm. Your first date, the tentative steps of something more, the way his hand felt when it first closed around yours, the softness of his lips when they met yours in that first kiss. Every memory flickers behind your eyes like an old film reel, playing out in vivid detail, only to be consumed by flames, each precious moment burning away until nothing remains but ash.

You convinced yourself, that you had chosen the right path, that this was the only way forward, blind to the wreckage it would leave behind. You thought, perhaps naively, that you had no other choice, but now you watch helplessly as the future you once envisioned is consumed by the very flames you ignited. And there he is, the love of your life, the one who stood in your way, who tried—again and again—to stop you from venturing down this road of ruin, and yet, you were too blinded by your own conviction to see him clearly. It is unbearable, this realisation, unbearable in a way that nothing else has ever been, and it breaks you anew, shattering the remaining pieces of yourself that you thought could no longer be broken. You believed, foolishly, that you had already reached the bottom, but now the floor opens up beneath you once again, and you find yourself falling, bleeding, crumbling into the abyss.

You don’t even realise Taehyung is there at first, kneeling before you, his voice piercing through the haze, but still distant, as though he is calling out from another world. He shakes you, his hands gripping your arms with a desperation you barely register, and through your sobs, you hear him scream your name, demanding that you return to the present, to this unbearable reality you so desperately want to escape.

“Whose blood is it?!” Taehyung’s voice cracks, his hands now slick with the blood that stains your bodysuit, the dark red smearing against his impeccable skin as he shakes you once more.

“Jungkook,” you press out, the word little more than a broken sob that falls from your lips, barely coherent, but it is enough. 

He freezes, his mind scrambling to piece together what you’ve just said, to make sense of Jungkook’s name tangled in the web of violence and revenge that brought you to this point. “What happened?” he asks, his voice hoarse, confusion and fear having taken over him.

“Pulse,” and even the name feels like a blade driving into your chest, twisting and cutting deeper. “He’s Pulse.”

And that’s when you collapse, completely, utterly, into Taehyung’s arms. He holds you tightly, his arms wrapped around your trembling frame as you weep and scream, each sob, each cry more gut-wrenching than the last. He doesn’t need to ask, doesn’t need to finish the question that hangs between you—he can see it written all over your face, the blood, the anguish, the guilt. You look as though you’ve taken a life, and in a way, you have. But not Jungkook’s. No, not his.

“He’s alive,” you manage to force out between the sobs, though your voice is weak, trembling. “He doesn’t know who I am… but I do.” The words come out in fragments, barely strung together, as if your very mind is unable to piece it together, causing the room to begin spinning, your stomach lurching with a sickening twist.

You scramble to your feet, feeling the bitter and acrid taste rise in your throat, you shove Taehyung aside as you stumble towards the sink, your body convulsing with the need to purge everything inside you. Vomit spills from your mouth, your body vibrating with the effort, and yet Taehyung is there again, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back as you retch and sob, the two actions indistinguishable from one another in your defeat. It feels endless, this purging of body and soul, as though you are trying to expel the very grief that consumes you, but it will not leave, no matter how violently your body tries to rid itself of it.

Eventually, time loses meaning. There is no calm, no peace, only detachment, a numbing of the senses as you sink into the void, the emotions blunted by exhaustion. You find yourself hours later on the couch, staring at nothing, your body still covered in grime and blood, as though you have been marked by your own sins. Taehyung sits with you, silent now, listening as you recount the events in a voice that no longer feels like your own. By the time you finish, there is nothing left of you—nothing human, nothing whole. Just an empty shell, waiting to crumble or drift away in the vast.

Two days pass, two agonising days where the world outside your dorm seems irrelevant, shrinking into nothingness, where time is a concept you aren’t willing in taking part in. You don’t leave, not even for a breath of fresh air, not even to stand in the doorway and remind yourself that you are still alive. No, you remain cocooned in the darkness of your room, where the only thing you manage to do is sleep, or more accurately, drift in and out of unconsciousness, and breathe scarcely, the rise and fall of your chest the sole reminder that life hasn’t fully abandoned you just yet. Simply existing, a laborious task you undertake simply because you have no other choice, every other function too arduous, too monumental. 

Jungkook's texts remain unanswered, each one lighting up your phone screen only to be ignored, their presence quiet, persistent, like ghosts hovering on the periphery of your vision, waiting for acknowledgment that never comes. And even if you’d try, you can’t bring yourself to open them, to confront the reality they represent.

Taehyung, ever the watchful guardian, told you that Jungkook stopped by yesterday, that he stood at your door looking confused—no doubt—and bruised—literally—and that Taehyung had sent him away, stating you were just sick and wouldn’t want him to be too. You can’t help but wonder what kind of expression Jungkook wore, whether his eyes were filled with hurt because you clearly push him away, or if perhaps he had begun to understand, just as you have, that things between you have shifted into an irretrievable space. 

And yet, even as you lie there in your bed, wrapped in the suffocating embrace of your own thoughts, you find yourself going over and over how to tell Jungkook the truth. You turn the idea over in your mind until it becomes clear that there’s nothing left to lose, nothing at all. There’s no point anyways, and so, you stop thinking, stop agonising over the what-ifs and the should-have-beens, and instead, you allow the darkness to engulf you, to consume you whole, until it’s all that remains. Numbness takes over, a cold and unfeeling balm to your pain, and with that emptiness filling you, you eventually rise from your bed, pull on some clothes without bothering to cover the bruises that mar your skin or the dark circles under your eyes.

As you step out of your room, your foot hesitates mid-air, pausing just shy of the threshold as the sound of voices drifts from the shared living room. Instinctively, you retreat, pressing yourself against the cool surface of the wall, the texture rough beneath your fingers as you strain to catch the low, muffled tones of Taehyung and Jennie. They’re clearly deep in conversation, and something in the way their voices dip and linger tells you this is no light-hearted chat.

Taehyung speaks first, his deep voice full of emotions despite the effort he’s making to keep it steady. “So… you don’t want to be in a relationship with me.” His words are more like a statement, the hurt buried within them barely masked, but you know him too well—you can hear it, the crack in his voice that betrays the vulnerability he’s trying to hide.

Jennie responds with an awkward laugh, one that grates on your nerves, all too familiar in its attempt to smooth over tension with a flippant wave of indifference. “Tae, I thought we were clear—this was always just about sex.” You don’t have to see her to know that she’s probably fluttering her eyelashes, flashing that disarming smile she uses to manipulate her way through life, her nonchalance acting as a shield against any genuine feeling.

“If that’s what you want,” Taehyung murmurs, quiet, almost resigned, and it’s that tone—that quiet, aching acceptance—that pushes you to finally move.

Without thinking, you step out from behind the wall, your eyes locking onto Jennie as you pass them sitting there on the couch, Taehyung’s face unreadable but painfully familiar to you in its vulnerability. You stop, your gaze empty as you fix Jennie with a stare sharp enough to cut her throat open. “If you keep fucking him, I’ll kill you,” you say, your voice calm, cold, the words sliding out with a deadly simplicity that should startle even you.

Jennie’s eyes widen, a gasp leaving her tinted lips as she recoils ever so slightly, as though your threat has physically struck her. Her bravado falters, her laughter dying on her lips as she leans back, putting space between you as if she can escape the venom in your words.

Taehyung stands abruptly, his voice barely a whisper but laced with disbelief as he says your name, the sound of it more like a plea. His wide eyes search your face, bewildered, confused, as though he can’t quite believe what just happened, can’t understand why you, of all people, would be the one to say something like this.

You glance at him, unbothered, because you know—know too well—that he’ll never defend himself, never push back against the people who hurt him, who chip away at his heart until there’s nothing left but quiet resignation. He’s never been good at protecting himself, not his feelings, not his soul, and if he can’t do it, then someone has to, and somehow that someone is always you.

“What?” you reply, your voice tinged with boredom, your gaze flicking lazily between the two of them. “Don’t act like you don’t know who I really am.” You don’t give them another second of your time, don’t bother explaining yourself further, because what’s the point? You turn on your heel and walk out of the dorm, the door closing behind you with a finality that feels like an exhale.

The dark outside surrounds you in an instant, yet even in the fading light you can still make out the leaves that litter the autumn ground beneath your feet, the trees towering above like mourners at some grim funeral. It’s as if the world is still grieving alongside you, each leaf falling like a tear, the trees shedding them as though they too feel this sorrow you once had. The sky is scattered with stars, glimmering faintly like remnants of a forgotten dream, and for a fleeting moment, you find yourself mulling over the notion of wishing upon a star, even though you know deep down it’s pointless. You’re a million years too late, the star dead, burned out, nothing more of what it once was. And somehow, that feels fitting, because in a way, so are you, hollowed out inside, no hope left, your own light snuffed out long before you even realised it was fading.

The project—the one you’ve been working on with Jungkook—has reached its halfway point, but even that feels distant now, irrelevant. Still, there’s something that pulls you towards the autopsy lab, something about its sterile coldness that calls to you, perhaps because it mirrors the chill that’s settled in your bones. Perhaps you think the dead can offer you some comfort, some understanding in their quiet repose, their eternal stillness a strange balm to your unrest.

As you step into the lab, it feels like a small breath of relief, like the tension that’s gripped you for days has eased, if only a fraction. The room is empty, silent, and for the first time in what feels like an age, you are alone. There is a stillness here that doesn’t ask anything of you, that doesn’t demand you feel or react. Here, death surrounds you, but it’s not the kind of death that wounds, not the kind that carves into your soul and leaves you hollowed out. It’s just there, silent and constant, and somehow, that brings you a kind of peace. 

Your fingers find a scalpel, twirling it absentmindedly between your hands as you lean against the cold metal of the lab table. The subtle vibration of your phone in your back pocket pulls you out of the temporary trance, and instinctively, you fish it out, your eyes blinking against the brightness of the screen as you try to focus on the messages that have accumulated. 

(two days ago) JK: Hey love, are you late?

(two days ago) JK: Class already started. Where R U?

(two days ago) JK: Love? What’s wrong?

(two days ago) JK: I’m coming by later

(two days ago) JK: Why isn’t anyone opening the door?

(two days ago) JK: Tae said you’re sick, I’ll come by tomorrow with some medicine

(two days ago) JK: I miss you sm

(two days ago) JK: I love you too

(one day ago) JK: Tae send me away, what’s wrong, love? 

(one day ago) JK: I really need to talk to you, I love you

(six hours ago) JK: pls just answer

(one minute ago) JK: ____, pls just talk to me…

Another one from Jungkook, his name flashing up at you. But this time, there’s nothing—no flicker of emotion, no surge of fear or guilt or  longing or anything at all. You feel nothing. You type out a quick response: “I’m at the lab.” That’s all you send. No explanation, no apology, just the plain, detached truth. You shut off the phone and toss it onto the cart beside you, feeling its weight leave your hands as you turn back to the scalpel. You press it lightly to your finger, piercing the skin just enough to let a drop of blood well up, watching it with a strange, idle fascination as it forms, dark and red, before slowly sliding down the curve of your fingertip.

It’s almost amusing, this strange condition, this numbness that’s now emotional as well. You should feel something—pain, guilt, sorrow—but all of it has slipped away. And yet, despite the numbness, there’s still something within you that recognises the faint trace of emotion, of what it once meant to be human. It’s a reminder, a cruel one perhaps, that you were once capable of feeling, of connecting, of living. But maybe you weren’t born for that. Maybe you weren’t born to live at all. Some people aren’t, after all. Some are born to fight, born to endure, not because they’re strong or brave, but because the universe has decreed it. You think of them now, those souls with grit and fire coursing through their veins, the ones destined to face trial after trial, each one leaving them more broken than the last. Perhaps you’re one of them. Perhaps that’s all you’ve ever known—how to fight, how to struggle, not to live but how to survive in a world that seems determined to tear you apart. It’s not the life you would have chosen, but it’s the life you’ve been given. And so you fight, because it’s all you know how to do.

Jungkook arrives not long after. You hear him before he even enters the room, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing through the building, the breath catching in his throat as though he’s run all the way here. He stands in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room until you feel them land on you, standing still as a statue by the bench.

“___, I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” he says, his voice soft, almost pleading. There’s something in his tone, something that should stir something within you, but you remain still. 

You don’t turn to face him, don’t even flinch at the sound of his voice. Instead, your eyes remain fixed on the blood still slowly trickling from your finger, a crimson thread winding its way down your hand, wrist, down your elbow and you hum in acknowledgment, but nothing more. He’ll learn the truth soon enough. There’s no point in turning around, no point in explaining what he will inevitably discover on his own.

“I really need to tell you something,” Jungkook continues, taking a cautious step forward but stopping short of closing the distance between you, as if afraid to bridge the distance entirely. He hesitates, and you can hear the struggle in his voice, the way it trembles with what he’s about to say. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for so long, but I kept putting it off. I was scared, I didn’t want to ruin things, but I can’t hide it anymore. I don’t want to destroy what we have by waiting too long.”

His words falter, and there’s a beat of silence before he continues, the truth finally breaking free. “I... I’m…”

The words are barely out of his mouth when you cut him off, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Pulse,” you say, laying the scalpel down on the bench with a soft clink. You sense his shock before you even turn to face him. You can feel it in the stillness that follows, in the way the air between you seems to shift with disbelief, and soon enough his shocked face confirms it.

“How... how do you know?” he stammers, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never told—”

But his words die in his throat as you slowly turn around, your eyes meeting his with a gaze so empty, so devoid of the warmth he once knew, that you see the shift in him immediately—the softness in his eyes melting into shock, then horror, as his gaze travels over the bruises that litter your face, your skin, the evidence of the battle still fresh on your body. His lips tremble, his hands shake, and you watch as the realisation dawns on him, the truth crashing down with brutal clarity.

"No," he whispers, his head shaking in denial as he takes a step back, and it’s then you realise the calm that always surrounded you both wasn’t peace at all, but merely the stillness at the eye of your hurricane, and with that single step away, he finally stands face to face with the unforgiving devastation you truly are, the full force of your destruction crashing over him. “No!” He roars, the sound of it echoing through the lab as he explodes into a fury you’ve never witnessed in him before. He throws carts to the ground, his fists slamming into the walls with a force that rattles the sterile instruments around you. “I should have known! I should have fucking known!”

He paces the room like a caged animal, his hands pulling at his hair, his voice a raw, desperate scream that reverberates in the air. It should be painful to witness, his heartbreak, his sense of betrayal—it mirrors the devastation you felt when you first uncovered the truth yourself. But you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything at all. You don’t feel the pain, the heartbreak, the regret that should accompany this moment. There’s only emptiness inside you, a deep, cavernous void where your heart once was, that has swallowed everything else. The darkness that you’ve allowed to consume you has taken root, and nothing remains but its cold, unrelenting grip, nothing Jungkook says or does can touch you now.

“You fucking bitch!” he screams, storming towards you in a blind rage. His hands find your throat, shoving you back against the cold metal of the table, his arm pressing against your neck with a force that should terrify you, but you feel nothing. His face is burning in anger, his teeth bared as he leans in close, his breath hot against your skin. “You played me,” he spits venomously through clenched teeth, his eyes wild with fury. “You played me so fucking well.”

His grip tightens, cutting off your air, but you remain still, staring at him with a detached calm as the edges of your vision begin to blur. Even as he strangles you, even as your body screams for oxygen, there’s no fear, no pain, no emotion at all. You’re nothing more than a shell now, a lifeless body of the person you once were, and nothing he does can change that. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of your mind, the softer version of yourself pleads for mercy, begs you not to give up, not to let it all die. But that voice is faint now, overpowered by the demon that stands before it, pushing it to the ground, gun drawn and ready, its finger on the trigger.

“I fucking hate you,” Jungkook snarls, his voice breaking as he releases you, pushing away from you as if the very sight of you sickens him. He turns to leave, his steps quick and furious just to escape the truth you know there’s no escaping from. 

And it dawns on you, gentle yet impossibly clear, creeping in with a quiet force that nearly makes you laugh, that you loved him so deeply, so fiercely, that you didn’t even see it, didn’t realise until now, standing here in this strange fallout between you, that he never truly loved you back—not in the way you had convinced yourself he did; you had always believed he cherished you like a palace, a place he revered, something precious to hold onto, but now the truth shows itself crystal clear—he treated you more like a hospital, a temporary refuge, a place to heal, because love-sick people leave when they’re cured, right? And in that laughable clarity, you understand he was always bound to walk away.

“So I was right,” you say coldly, your voice devoid of emotion, as though speaking from the depths of a grave. “You won’t stand by my side.”

He freezes, his shoulders shaking, though whether it’s from silent sobs or a fresh wave of anger, you can’t tell. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t offer any reply. He simply starts walking again, leaving you behind like you always knew he would.

The door slams shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the empty lab like a gunshot. But you can’t tell if the echo that lingers in the air is from the door slamming or from the trigger finally being pulled.

The rest of the week unfolds with an unexpected lightness, as if the weight of pretending to care has finally lifted, and with it, the burden of social interaction. You drift further from your friends, from everyone, really, isolating yourself in a solitude that feels more like a relief than a punishment. It's not loneliness that gnaws at you but a clarity, the kind that comes only when you’re alone, when the world quiets and you can hear your own thoughts again—thoughts that are singularly fixated on bringing down Dojin, the last piece in the game you’ve been playing for far too long. There's no rush, no looming deadline, but the hunger inside you, that insatiable beast, demands closure, and so do you. You want him gone, and you’ll do whatever it takes to silence the monster, him and yours, once and for all.

Jungkook, meanwhile, avoids you like a plague. He’s taken to sitting as far from you as possible in lectures, his presence reduced to a shadow, one that doesn’t dare cross yours. His eyes never stray in your direction, not once, as if the very sight of you is more than he can bear, as if your existence itself scorches him. It’s funny, in a way—how you once believed he’d be the one to walk through the fire for you, to catch you when you fall. But now you know the truth: the flames have already consumed you, and you didn’t fall, not really. You hit the bottom so hard that no one could have caught you even if they’d tried.

So when you see him now, surrounded by girls eager to take your place, the campus women who’ve noticed that your so-called relationship has been broken off, it doesn’t stir anything in you. No jealousy, no bitterness. Just indifference. You’re almost glad for him, that he’s trying to move on, though you can’t help but notice that he turns them all away, not one succeeding in breaking through his stoic defences. But it doesn’t matter. Not to you.

What does matter, what flickers a spark of irritation deep within you, is finding Jungkook standing in the entryway of the canteen with the class sweetheart by his side, the two of them blocking the door as if they’re the gatekeepers to something precious. You consider turning around, but your body reminds you that it needs sustenance, even if your mind couldn’t care less. You push forward, your expression a blank slate, and when you reach them, you shove Jungkook aside with a rough push to his back. “Move aside, dulls,” you mutter, walking past without a backward glance, not caring to see their reaction the slightest. 

The canteen is quieter than usual, making it easier to get your food. You spot your friends gathered at their usual table, Taehyung waving you over, his expression hopeful despite the tension that still lingers between you, his reasoning of ‘overstepping of his boundaries’ just not cutting it for you. But you don’t feel like dealing with any of them—not Hoseok’s boundless energy, not Yoongi’s unnervingly perceptive gaze, and certainly not Jennie’s presence, still simmering from your last interaction. You walk past them, choosing an empty table in the corner, and begin picking at your food, though each bite feels more like a chore than anything satisfying.

You don’t get far before Yoongi slides into the seat next to you, uninvited as usual, his presence so quiet yet so impossibly loud. He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there, and you feel his smirk before you even look up. 

“Scared of sitting with the cool kids?” he teases, his voice as light as ever, though you know better than to take him at face value. His words are always layered, always digging at something deeper.

“Nah fam, I’m good over here,” you mutter, barely glancing at him, your focus still on the plate in front of you.

Yoongi hums in response, but he doesn’t move. He stays, his silence probing at your patience, waiting for you to crack, and, as usual when it comes to him, it doesn’t take long before you do.

“What do you want, Min?” you snap, raising your eyes to meet his, though your irritation barely fazes him.

He clicks his tongue, leaning back casually as if this whole interaction is merely a game you didn’t know you were partaking in. “You don’t need to hide, you know. I already know.”

You blink at him, your brow furrowing. “Pardon?”

“I said, I know. About you. About Jungkook.” His words hang in the air, deliberate, and for a moment, you’re sure you’ve misheard him. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

His eyes don’t waver. “I know you’re Stasis. And I know Jungkook’s Pulse.” He says it so casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, but it hits you like a punch to the gut. You swallow hard, the food in your mouth turning to paste, impossible to get down as his revelation sinks in.

Your gaze darts past him, back to the table where your friends sit, laughing as if nothing is wrong, as if everything is normal. Jungkook is with them now, his back to you, and even from here, he doesn’t glance your way. Hoseok waves at you after he notices you looking, his smile bright and infectious, but you can’t muster anything in return. When you turn back to Yoongi, his expression is unreadable, his eyes dark and knowing.

“I assume you’re distancing yourself for his sake,” Yoongi continues, his tone measured, “but it’s not doing either of you any good. He doesn’t hate you for what you are. Neither do Taehyung or I.”

“I’ve killed people,” you state, your voice low, a taunt more than a confession, daring him to react.

Yoongi merely shrugs. “We’re all aware.”

It’s like he’s discussing something mundane, like the fact that you’ve taken lives is no more significant than the colour of the sky. And then he adds, after a pause that stretches too long for your taste, “I’m not saying it’s okay. I’d rather someone else had done it for you, to be honest. It’s not something I’d ever wish on your soul. But Dojin and his minions… they deserved it. Worse, even. Still, it shouldn’t have been you.”

His words leave you colder than you expect, not because they hurt, but because they don’t. It’s the first time anyone has said something like that to you—something that acknowledges the weight of your actions without condemning you entirely. Not even Taehyung had ever been this direct, this understanding. And that’s the thing about Yoongi, he has this uncanny way of seeing straight through to the core of people, into the deepest parts of their brain, of understanding them in a way that feels more like insight than judgment.

But you can’t let him or his words get to you. Not now. He’s always been the rational one in the group, the quiet observer, and while you can handle his understanding, you know others won’t. You know Hoseok or Jennie would react the same way Jungkook did, and that thought alone is enough to make you brush Yoongi’s words aside, smirking in an attempt to deflect, too curious for your own good. “How did you find out, anyway?” 

Yoongi laughs softly, his shoulders shaking with that silent, almost boyish chuckle of his. “That’s for me to know, and for you to never find out,” he laughs, his gummy smile flashing before he rises from his seat, giving you no time to respond as he walks back to the others, leaving you sitting there, bewildered.

You watch him go, wanting to call after him, demand an explanation, but you don’t. Instead, you shake your head with your lips pressed into a straight line, raising your brows in disbelief. You startle and let your features fall flat immediately. It's an expression Jungkook first made years ago, one that the rest of your friend group quickly adopted—and now, without thinking, you did it too. It’s a small, almost unconscious act, but it’s what makes you realise just how deeply you're intertwined with them, Jungkook included, even when you try to distance yourself, to protect them from your darkness and the hurt it brings. 

You steal another glance at the group, your eyes drifting almost reluctantly until they land on Jungkook, and for the first time since everything fell apart, since the truth came crashing down and shattered whatever love remained between you, he catches your gaze, however briefly, though it feels like an eternity stretched across a single heartbeat; his eyes, once so full of warmth and kindness, now seem empty, void of all the light they used to carry when looking at you, and in that split second of connection, you feel the distance between you both stretch immeasurable, as though the person you once knew has disappeared entirely.

You think bitterly about what Jungkook would expect from you now, what he might be waiting for—an apology, maybe, for hiding the truth. But apologising is something you’ll never do, not when he’s guilty of the same. He hid his own truth from you, kept you in the dark when you both should’ve been standing on even ground. So, no, you won’t be the first to break, to pretend your betrayal outweighs his. You had already seen it in his eyes, the way he’s shut you out, like there’s nothing left to salvage between you. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe you crossed that line long ago, and no apology, no confession, will ever change that.

A cynical thought slices through your mind, oh so cruel—you wonder if, deep down, he thinks you shouldn’t have survived at all. He doesn’t know about your survivor’s guilt, but it wouldn’t matter. In the end, the result is the same. To him, you’re as good as dead. What difference would it make if you hadn’t made it through that tragedy? He won’t say it, of course—he’s not cruel like that—but you can’t help but think it’s there, hiding beneath the surface. The broken pieces between you feel irreparable, like there’s no version of this story where you come out alive in his eyes, and that truth settles in your chest like lead as you stand and leave, not caring for your plate. 

After lunch, you sense the shift in Jungkook, the way his gaze lingers on you, probing, as though he’s piecing together something Yoongi might’ve whispered after returning to their table, a subtle change you try to ignore even when the last class ends and he doesn’t approach you; you tell yourself it’s nothing, brush it off like everything you always do these days, until the moment you hear your name echo across the campus, pulling you to a halt on your way back to the dorm.

The early night is crisp as you turn around, your breath fogging before you, Jungkook’s footsteps slow, the night wrapping around the two of you like some kind of reluctant truce, his face softening into something resembling resignation, or maybe kindness, a far cry from the cold indifference he’s worn since the fallout, and you tilt your head, still not quite sure what’s changed, what’s suddenly drawn him back after he made it very much clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

But before you can even form a thought, there’s that voice—too familiar for your own comfort, coming from behind, cutting through the moment like it’s nothing, “Knock, knock.”

Jungkook freezes, and you, swallowing the urge to roll your eyes, force out a sharp, “Not now, Seokjin,” trying—and failing—to keep the annoyance from your tone. 

“Oh, but my little angel, I think now’s just perfect,” he murmurs, his voice dropping beside your ear as he drapes his arm around you with lazy ease, the overpowering scent of his cologne mixing with the bitter smoke of his cigar dangling from his lush lips. You remain locked onto Jungkook’s gaze, only to find anger flaring there now, replacing any hint of warmth that had surfaced just moments ago.

“You owe me, my pretty angel,” Seokjin whispers with that disgusting calm, fingers tightening around your face as he forces it to meet his, and despite all the time that’s passed, despite the years since you last saw him, he looks exactly the same, not a single day older, as though he’s stepped out of your past untouched by time.

“I said not now, Jin,” you grit through clenched teeth, fighting to shake off his grip though you know full well that you can’t overpower the man who trained you, the one whose taken advantage of your broken soul so easily. 

“Do as I say, or you’re history,” he hisses, eyes flaring with that dangerous craze you’ve learned not to provoke. You knew this day would come, the day you’d have to settle your debt, but as it stands before you, all you can think of is how much you wish you could push it off, how desperately you’d hoped for more time without knowing. 

Jungkook steps forward, sensing your discomfort, but what happens next leaves both of you frozen—Seokjin pulls you closer, his lips crushing against yours, forcing his tongue past your lips, the acrid taste of smoke flooding your senses until your eyes sting with the vile intrusion. He’s never done this before, never crossed that line, but years apart could’ve twisted him into a darker madness, something far more dangerous, and as he pulls back, you can only wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, resigned, as he leads you towards the sleek black car waiting nearby behind you. 

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, bitterness lacing every word, fully aware that tonight will be another step down the path that has turned you more and more into the very demon you were shaped to become.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Seokjin replies, casual as ever, unbothered as ever “now get in the car—you know I don’t fancy seeing you with one of the Neanderthals.” 

You open the passenger door, casting one last stoic glance back towards Jungkook, still standing where you left him, his face no longer hard with anger, but softened, full of regret, and in that moment, you realise there’s something else he’s been hiding from you all along.

prologue • 01 • 02 • 03 • 04 • 05 • 06 • masterlist • 08

a/n 2: hope you've enjoyed it👀 lmk what you think in any way you like! MBV-Game Part III:

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