Taehyung doesn’t think it would be this hard to talk to the police. To be honest, he has no idea what to expect because he’s never been in such an absurd, harrowing situation before. Those men aren’t much older than him—maybe thirty-five or thirty-six—they’re calm, composed, professional. They explain everything clearly to make sure Taehyung understands, but to him, it’s like eavesdropping from behind a closed door. The words come muffled; the only thing he can focus on is the ringing in his ears. They keep talking, talking, talking, but they’ve already said the one thing that truly matters, and everything else is just background noise. Miguk is still at large. They haven’t managed to arrest him. They have no idea where he’s hiding.

When the officers leave, Taehyung stays in that almost catatonic state for several minutes. Lying on his side in that hospital bed, he feels like an animal. He can’t think of himself as a person anymore; he’s just a wounded beast being cared for by others. There’s nothing to do, nothing to occupy his mind. Only the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the occasional groan, and the rhythmic beep of the machine attached to his index finger. Taehyung flexes his finger as he watches the machine. Why are they still monitoring him?

He learns that the injury isn’t too severe—luckily, no organs were affected. The main problem was blood loss and the subsequent difficulty in finding omega blood compatible with his. His complex biology makes his case more peculiar and delicate. The doctors tell him that if he were human, he would already be discharged, but in his situation, caution is never too much.

The days pass.

His mother visits often, at least once a day, while his father only accompanies her sometimes. Today, she arrives with a bouquet of fresh flowers in her hands. Taehyung almost feels sorry about it. He had watched the old bouquet wither day by day in its vase and felt incredibly similar to it, even though, unlike the flowers, he’s healing instead of deteriorating. Only his mood seems to wither.

His mother throws the dry flowers into the trash and replaces them with the new ones—daisies, mimosas, a couple of tulips. They’re beautiful, completely different from the white roses that had been there just a moment before. And so, as often happens, a question arises spontaneously in Taehyung’s curiosity: “Who brought those flowers? Was it you?”

His mother blinks quickly. She looks at Taehyung, then at the roses in the trash. Finally, the corners of her thin lips, lined with the first hints of wrinkles, lift into a smile. “A young man. He was so worried about you…” The tone in her voice suggests something more. Taehyung feels his cheeks sting.

“Did he tell you his name?”

She nods, smoothing the flowers with her hands as she arranges them in the vase. “He said his name was Jimin.”

Ah.

Any illusions Taehyung might have had in those few minutes vanish.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate Jimin’s gesture—on the contrary—but.

But.

“Jimin is a close friend of mine,” Taehyung says with a sigh as he sits up. His abdomen twinges slightly. He adjusts a pillow behind his back and stretches his legs, while his mother keeps smiling slyly. She sits on the edge of the bed and covers his hand with hers.

“You can talk to me about it, you know?”

Ugh.

Taehyung rolls his eyes to the ceiling and turns his hand to squeeze hers. “I mean it, Mom. He’s just a friend, nothing more. He’s an omega,” he adds, a bit embarrassed. Talking about these things with a mother is never easy, especially when your mother is human. She seems to think for a moment before connecting the dots and understanding what her son is implying. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Too bad. He’s such a handsome young man…”

“He’s a wonderful person, incredibly sweet, and I owe him everything. But no wedding bells for me and Jimin.”

Then, almost hesitantly, he asks, “No one else came to visit?”

His mother shakes her head. “No. My dear, don’t dwell on these things… Don’t worry about who’s here or who isn’t. The only thing that matters is that you’re okay. You should focus on getting better.”

Easier said than done. Taehyung tries to force a smile. The last thing he wants is for his mother to worry about him. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb and then loosens his grip. “I’d like to have my phone back. Do you have it, by any chance?”

His mother nods. “Of course! Or rather, no, dear, you have it. I just forgot to…” She leans over and reaches for the drawer of the metal bedside table. She grabs the handle and pulls it slightly, the drawer sliding smoothly along its tracks. Taehyung’s iPhone has a thin crack across the screen, but otherwise, it seems fine. The charger is also inside the drawer. His mother helps him plug it in and then hands it to him. Taehyung turns it on. For a moment, nothing appears on the screen, but then dozens of notifications start popping up. Messages from friends and colleagues wishing him a speedy recovery, others asking in surprise what happened. Taehyung slides the phone under the sheets and focuses back on his mother. “I’ll deal with it later when I’m alone. Right now, I just want to be with you.”

Hours later, dinner is served. In the hospital, everything is bland and colorless. It’s as if any colors other than white, gray, and pale brown are forbidden in this place. Taehyung eats boiled rice with grilled fish, picking at the tender meat with chopsticks while listening to a TV program. He’s alone, but nurses occasionally come into the room to give him pills, check his temperature, or examine his wound. Taehyung has seen it for the first time. It’s a cut about four centimeters long, thin. It doesn’t look bad—it almost seems like a scratch. The real damage was internal.

After finishing his meal, the nurses return to collect the trays and bring him a glass of chamomile tea. Taehyung sips it and finally picks up his phone. Reading all those messages or replying to all those people feels impossible. He doesn’t even want to, although he finds their concern almost touching. The truth is, talking about what happened to him is still… too intense. He wants to isolate that memory. He doesn’t want to think about what happened; he just wants to focus on healing quickly so he can leave the hospital and return to his life.

One thing, however, he does do. He reads the names of every single person who contacted him and feels an emptiness in his chest when he realizes that not a single message is from Jungkook.

He doesn’t understand.

How is it possible that Jungkook hasn’t written to him, not even once?

He opens the chat with him, his fingers trembling. Jungkook’s last connection was just a couple of minutes ago. Taehyung takes a deep breath. He feels a weight on his chest that might as well be anxiety. Then, his fingers move over the screen. He writes and deletes over and over. He hasn’t thought about what to say, what kind of message to send him. In the end, he opts for something simple and straightforward.

“I woke up. I’m okay. I’m sorry. How about you? How are you?”

Taehyung hugs the pillow, sets the phone on the bedside table, and closes his eyes. His heart races in his chest. The chamomile must be kicking in because suddenly, the hospital room begins to shift in shape and color and turns into Jungkook’s bedroom. Jungkook stands by the window, warm sunlight streaming in. He isn’t wearing a shirt, his sculpted physique looking more like a statue than ever. Taehyung could watch him for hours, lying in his bed, naked between his sheets. Then he half-closes his eyes. The room is bright for real, but Jungkook isn’t there. He’s still in the hospital.

He sits up, groaning as the stitches pull at his skin. Then he reaches for his phone. No notifications. There must be a mistake. Taehyung opens Jungkook’s chat, his brow furrowed, a strange sense of nausea twisting his stomach.

Message seen 9 hours ago.
Last active 3 minutes ago.

It doesn’t make sense.