Taehyung is pretty sure that somewhere among his papers, the doctors told him to eat regular, healthy meals, avoid excessive strain, and stay away from stressful situations.
It’s ironic, then, that he’s eating cup noodles after a sleepless night spent brooding.

He blows on the noodles before slurping them noisily. It’s half past nine in the morning, Jungkook has already left for work, and the house is silent. Sunlight streams through the large windows, flooding the living room with brightness, yet he can’t seem to enjoy the nice weather. His mood is so dark that everything feels irritating.

He really does like living in this house. It’s more spacious and comfortable than anywhere he’s ever lived—probably more than anywhere he ever will. It’s in a prime location, connected to anything he might need, with a concierge at the entrance watching over the building day and night. He honestly couldn’t ask for more.

And yet… it’s hard to stay at peace when the thought keeps hammering in his head that just a few steps from where he’s standing, Jungkook fucked someone else.

He drinks the last of the spicy broth from the cup, then exhales in frustration as he gets up from the stool and walks to the kitchen cabinet where the trash bin is hidden. He tosses the plastic container inside before heading to the sink to wash the chopsticks.

He watches the water swirl down the drain.

If he decides to stay at Jungkook’s place, he’ll have to abide by his rules and habits. That means, yes—Jungkook could, or rather, will almost certainly bring omegas home every other night. He might decide to fuck them on the kitchen table, on the couch, in the bathroom, even against the door of Taehyung’s bedroom—and he would always have the right to do so. After all, this is his house.

Some might argue that, all things considered, it’s a pretty good deal: in exchange for a few noisy nights, Taehyung gets free room and board, including utilities like electricity and hot water. And most importantly, he gets an alpha who not only is willing to protect him but actually wants to.

From an outsider’s perspective, anyone would tell Taehyung to just buy a pair of earplugs and quit the drama. Hell, even Taehyung himself would give that advice.

He can’t explain it—this attachment. It feels like he’s growing more obsessive over Jungkook with each passing day, as if he’s come down with some strange illness. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. He never wanted a boyfriend, never wanted commitments or attachments. Jungkook is sexy, good in bed, kind, and has an intriguing personality, but that shouldn’t change anything.

So why does it?

He hates himself for understanding so little about his own feelings, for being so inconsistent with the person he always claimed to be.

Maybe he’s been lying to himself all along—with all that talk about wanting to stay single forever, spending every weekend until he’s sixty having fun in a carefree, uninhibited, and reckless way. After all, hadn’t he met Jungkook during a foursome? So what’s with this sudden bout of traditionalism?

He sighs.

Thinking about it over and over won’t help. He just has to accept things as they are—unnecessarily complicated, sure, but somehow still working, and for that, he’s grateful. It’s obvious he can’t stay with Jungkook forever. Hell, maybe he doesn’t even need to stay the whole week.

Hasn’t he always lived alone? And quite successfully, at that?

All he really needs is a self-defense class, a can of pepper spray, a surveillance system, and a little more muscle mass. Once he has those things, he’ll be perfectly capable of sending Miguk—and any other lunatic—right back to whatever sewer they crawled out of.

Sorting out this one part of his life would solve a whole mess of problems in one clean snap of his fingers. Plus, he could finally sleep soundly without having to hear another omega screaming for the very thing Taehyung himself wants.

He turns off the water.

Better get moving while he still feels determined, he thinks.

He crosses the living room, walks down the hallway, and slips into the small bedroom. He didn’t bring much to Jungkook’s place, so it doesn’t take long to gather his few belongings and shove them into a duffel bag, making sure to pull the zipper all the way to the end.

After all, what better day than today to get out of here?

It’s a beautiful day, too—the sun shining over a quiet Seoul.

He thinks about calling a taxi but also considers taking public transport. A walk in the park might be nice—some fresh air, a bit of nature, a moment of peace before heading home. His apartment has probably gathered a good layer of dust, and whatever’s in the fridge is definitely spoiled by now. As soon as he gets home, he’ll keep himself busy cleaning and restocking groceries. He’ll be back to his routine in no time.

He grabs his leather jacket from the hanger and slips it on. Shoes on, sunglasses perched on his nose.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he seems like the same Taehyung as always, and it feels strange. He feels so different inside that he was almost certain it would show on the outside, too.

Swinging the duffel bag over his shoulder, he suppresses a small groan. A sharp pang in his abdomen reminds him to be careful—his wound still has stitches. But the pain fades quickly.

With renewed determination, Taehyung steps out of the room and, in just a few strides, reaches the apartment door.

“This is it,” he murmurs to himself.

Maybe he should leave Jungkook a note, something dramatic placed just so? No, a simple message on KakaoTalk will do. There’s no need for theatrics—he’d only end up making a fool of himself.

He turns one last time to look at the apartment.

From where he stands, looking back over his shoulder, he can see the exact spot where, just last night, Jungkook had sent some lucky omega straight to heaven. The memory alone fills Taehyung with an urgent need to get out.

His hand grips the doorknob—

And something inside him snaps.

His heart pounds once, hard and deep, a single beat that freezes him in place. His eyes widen as ice floods his veins, a cold so sharp it turns into clammy sweat, soaking his clothes.

The knife.
The elevator.
The pain.
The blood.
The screams.
The poisoned wine.
His hands on him.
Miguk’s breath.
The threats.
Slut!
The knife.
The elevator.
The blood.
The knife.

Taehyung collapses to his knees. His palms slam against the floor, his head spinning, his stomach twisting with a nausea so violent he feels like he’s about to throw up. His ears ring, his hearing muffled, his head lolling side to side.

With a dull thud, he lets himself drop fully onto the floor, the back of his head knocking against it—but he doesn’t feel a thing.

He stares at the ceiling, his heartbeat slamming in his ears, in his temples, in his throat. He lies there, gasping like a fish, for what feels like minutes. Then, whatever had snapped inside him… settles. The fear ebbs, leaving him shaken but clear-headed.

He rolls onto his side. His duffel bag lies on the floor, abandoned against his bent knees.

“Fuck,” he snarls, kicking it hard to vent the nerves.

He can’t believe it.

He can’t believe he just had a full-blown panic attack over the mere thought of stepping out of Jungkook’s apartment.

Something is clearly wrong with him. He needs a therapist—or ten. The way his body just reacted was… insane. Unpredictable. Over the top.

Dragging himself to his feet, he feels utterly defeated. Miguk isn’t anywhere near him, and yet, for some reason, it still feels like he’s being hunted. He hates himself for being this dramatic, this weak, this vulnerable. Shame coils in his chest, thick and suffocating.

He hauls his duffel bag back to the bedroom, drops it onto the floor, and sinks down at the foot of the bed. Pulling his knees to his chest, he rests his forehead against them.

Then, he starts crying.

He doesn’t even know what he’s mourning.

Maybe he just misses his life—the old one. The one where his biggest worries were which outfit to wear for another wild night at the ABO gay club. The one where Alphas weren’t something to fall in love with, and psychotic men didn’t want to kill him just because he wouldn’t sleep with them.

He wishes he had a time machine.

To rewind it all. To start over. To forget.

He remembers those carefree nights.

He remembers what it felt like to be light, untouchable.

And he hates the person he’s become.

He hates who he is now.