ABOUT THIS STORY
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☆ MMC x Reader
☆ Multi-Pov (Yours + Jungkook's)
☆ Short Chapters (~1.5k words)
☆ Published 5th / 15th / 25th each month
☆ Smut / Hurt-Comfort /Angst
☆ Romance is slow burn but sex is fast
☆ Early Access Available

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This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and situations are purely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional. The characters are not based on real individuals, and no connection to actual persons is intended.

This story contains questionable actions and themes that do not reflect my personal beliefs, values, or approval. They exist solely for the sake of the plot and narrative development, and are not meant to be endorsed or encouraged.

Bottom line: it’s fiction. Take it for what it is — a fictional story created for entertainment purposes.

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Dr. Kang's office is cold, sterile. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling cast a harsh white glow that makes your eyes sting.

Sitting across from his desk, you immediately sense that something is off. Dr. Kang is usually warm and smiling, but this time, his expression is cold, detached.

Not once does he glance in your direction. His eyes drift across the monitor while his wrinkled fingers type slowly on the keyboard. Impatience churns inside you, but you try not to let it show.

Then, as the printer starts making metallic noises and the rollers push out a sheet of paper, you realize the moment has come—the thread is about to snap, and the sword of Damocles is about to crash down on you.

"Your condition hasn’t worsened, miss," he says, clearing his throat. "You’ll likely be able to live a long and healthy life, as long as you follow the treatment."

It’s such good news that you struggle to believe it’s real. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you wonder if your usually infallible sixth sense has betrayed you this time. You reach out for the paper—only to realize it’s an invoice.

The sum at the bottom is astronomical, far more than you’ve ever earned in years of work. Your blood turns ice-cold in an instant. You're so shaken that you feel like you're about to come.

"Is this the price I’ll have to pay for a lifetime supply of medication?" you ask, your voice trembling. You try to sound calm, composed, but you’re on the verge of crying.

"Unfortunately, I’m afraid these are the costs for this current month only, miss."

It feels like someone has struck you on the back of the head with a shovel. Your fingers grip the invoice, crumpling the paper.

"I understand it’s an extremely high amount, but these are cutting-edge drugs, experimental medicines that we manage to import into South Korea through special agreements with the United States. Of course, this translates to significant expenses that your insurance doesn’t cover."

The doctor pauses. Noticing the shock on your face, he adds, "Naturally, you could opt for another treatment plan, one covered by your insurance. In that case, however, your life expectancy would drastically shorten. We’re talking about roughly three months."

You could have imagined anything, but not that you’d be handed a death sentence. There’s no way you can come up with such a sum—no job in the world could make you earn that much in such a short time. You wonder if Dr. Kang could afford it in your place. You’re sure that hospital pays ten times less than what the doctor just asked you to pay.

"You don’t have to give me an answer right away, miss. Take your time. Consider all your options."

"Of course," you say. It’s as if the voice coming from your lips isn’t even yours. You feel dizzy, confused. You stand up, fold the paper into thirds, slip it into your handbag, and give a half-bow.

"Thank you for seeing me."

The doctor sighs. It’s clear he feels pity for you. He’s been treating you for years, and for a long time, he thought your illness had stabilized completely—it was a real tragedy when you collapsed six months ago. Because of that, you lost your job and your health deteriorated quickly. You thought you were going to die, but then you started feeling better, and your health stabilized. However, you never thought that staying alive would require so much money.

You leave the doctor's office. You walk through the corridors like a ghost. You don’t notice the people around you, nor the voices. Everything feels fake and unreal, as if you’re trapped in a dream.

You exit the hospital.
The sky above your head is gray, the air is cold. You descend the stairs and cross the square, then walk along the sidewalk until you reach the bus stop.

All you can think about are the words the doctor said. If you don’t follow the treatment, you’ll be lucky to live a couple more months. You wonder what the point is in waiting until then to die. Maybe it’s better to end it now, before your health crashes again. After all, it wouldn’t take much, would it? You could just throw yourself into the Han River. The waters are so cold at this time of year that everything would end in an instant.

Of course, it would be easy. But the people who care about you would be devastated—your grandparents would be left alone, with no one to take care of them, and your younger brother would be forced to return from England, where he’s studying to become a surgeon, to be by their side.

You get on the bus and sit in the back. You're so shaken that you can't even cry, but your hands won't stop trembling. You pull out your phone from your pocket. You open Reddit—the only social platform that’s ever given you answers to the questions that have plagued you.

You start searching for the highest-paying jobs, but all you find are professions that require degrees you don’t have. After your parents died, your grandparents had to cover all the expenses, and there wasn't enough money for both you and your brother to study. You sacrificed your education for his.

You sigh. You decide to open the page dedicated to Seoul and create a new thread. You explain that you're desperate and need a well-paid job urgently—but as you're typing, you decide it's all pointless. Why bother? You know full well that no one would ever pay you that much, not anywhere in the world.

You delete the thread and are caught by a trending title.

“Sexually harassed by my boss. AMA.”

You shudder at the thought that such things can still happen. You open the thread and start reading the post.

"I agreed to work for someone in a high-ranking government position. Officially, my role was supposed to be that of a secretary, but as soon as I started working, I realized the skills required were something entirely different. X-XX asked me for paid sexual favors. He had all kinds of perversions. He offered to pay me 20 million won a day, and when I refused, he offered 30 million. I’m not reporting him because he’s too powerful, and I could never win against him. We live in a corrupt country."

The comments are all expressions of sympathy, support, people encouraging the poster to report or name this person, others offering to join a protest or uprising. However, the original poster hasn’t responded to any of them, not even with an upvote.
Your heart pounds in your chest. It’s true, the situation feels terrible, humiliating, and dangerous, but in the end, is there really anything worse than dying in three months? Than destroying the lives of your family, creating a trail of pain and despair that will eventually clip the wings of the person you love most, your brother?
You don’t hesitate for a second. You contact the original poster and write to them.

"Hi. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m a terminally ill person. Today I received an exorbitant bill from the hospital, unfortunately, these are the only treatments available for me to survive. I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through, but for me, someone who can afford to pay this much would represent a guarantee of survival. Please give me the contact information for this person. I’m not lying. I’m sending you the hospital bill as proof of my sincerity."

With all the hesitation that exists on the internet, you don’t know if this person will respond. To be honest, you don’t even know if they were telling the truth or if the story was completely fabricated just to attract attention. But… what’s the harm in trying, right?
Your message is seen, and the person starts typing. You hold your breath until the message finally appears on your screen.

"Wow. I’m so sorry for what you're going through. I really wish things were different, but I understand how desperate the situation must be. I took a look at the bill. I can confirm that by doing what he asks, you could get more than what you need. I hate that man, and I think he’s despicable, but I’ll help you. Never say who gave you the contact. His name is Jeon Jungkook, and his number is 0588-888-777. He works for the National Intelligence Service. Take care of yourself."

The fact that it was so easy to get what you wanted makes you suspicious. You even wonder if this might be a sign from your parents from heaven—but then you question why your parents would want to put you in the hands of such a terrible man just to keep you alive.

Now that you have the number, you don’t know what to do. Should you really contact this person, or would it be better to back out?

You bite your lower lip, thinking. Then you realize that the bus has arrived at your stop. You stand up suddenly and get off the bus as soon as it stops. You’ve started running, so you pick up your pace; you absolutely can’t risk catching a cold!

You duck into a narrow alley full of garbage bags, then dig through the bottom of your purse for your house keys. It’s a semi-basement apartment with a single room, a cramped bathroom, and a kitchen where the cabinets are all broken.

You shut the door behind you and sigh, relieved you didn’t get too wet.

Maybe that apartment would seem bleak to many, but you’re used to it. You run your hands through your hair and slip off your shoes, then climb onto a stool to grab a cup of instant ramen from the cupboard — the only thing you can afford, since you haven’t been able to find a job since your last hospitalization.

You turn on the kettle, and when the water heats up, you pour it into the bowl and wait for a few minutes. Then you sit on the futon and start eating. Hanging in front of you is a calendar. Three months. If you don’t make a decision soon, you’ll be dead by June.

You eat the noodles and sip the broth, then pick up your phone again.

It makes no sense to hesitate any longer.

You open the Reddit chat and press on Jeon Jungkook’s phone number.

The call goes through.