The pitch-black night always narrowed visions, made them see without really seeing anything other than the illusions with which the brain fed the stream, succeding in creating images that didn't exactly relate to reality, but from it, they were inspired, feeding the emotions with a big spoonful of lies and a splash of truths, leaving a sour aftertaste and heartburn.

Bourbon doesn't exactly help heartburn, on the contrary, it increases the reflux of gastric acids, slowly burns the esophagus. And when it encounters unknown emotions along the way, which have occupied the bloodstream with their poison before the alcohol could penetrate and earn a place, a war takes place, and a feeling reminiscent of vomiting begins to choke the chest with an overpowering pain that is only dulled by an explosion as a form of release.

Taehyung wondered if an explosion would help his case or worsen the state of his wounded pride as he sat on the couch in the living room, accompanied by silence and darkness and parasitic thoughts. The house seemed calm if looked at from the outside, exceptionally quiet without the lights that usually served esthetic purposes, without the guards that were usually found in multiple corners, and without his car that usually occupied the runaway, just a few steps away from the front door. Taehyung was alone, with only his bottle of brown liquid to keep him company, only the darkness and silence of the house were his defenders against the carnage of monstrous thoughts and a few pixels printed as vignettes.

Merciless images.

For they never gave way, never gave his drink a place to help him fall asleep and forget the ringtone of his cell phone that chimed every time another image reached him, never gave him time to digest the first before he was forced to swallow the second, and he wondered, amidst the chaos that played out in his head, if he had the right to say no, I don't want to open my mouth, I don't want to eat.

The last beep of his phone had sounded about fifteen minutes ago, but he still held the device in his hand, contemplating the details of the scene, the colors of the brochure, the warmth it radiated, the placement of arms against waists and shoulders, and the hand that stroked hazelnut, and the mouth that seemed to whisper comfort that was no match for the grief he caused, and he became charged, hand trembling, almost dropping the phone, and in a moment of incomprehension he questioned the reasons for his condition and the blandness of the taste of the drink he always thought was delicious.

The gray, toxic fog caused by his cigarette eased the pounding of his heart, but the filter became wet between his sweaty fingers, reminding him of his heartburn and bringing questions back to his mind. Questions about topics that included you and Min Yoongi in the same sentence.

And the cigarette was quickly extinguished and tossed into the ashtray, along with her friends who were the first to meet demise, and his phone replaced it in his hand, the sound of quiet static contrasting with the rapid heartbeat loud enough to speak sense into his head that nonetheless, went unheard.

"What's the issue? Do you have a view with a clear explanation?"

"Nothing more than what I sent in the pictures, sir; a few drinks and conversations; there's a lot of talking going on."

See, the thing is, he couldn't understand himself, and yet he was trying to understand your actions. This only led to an even bigger dilemma and more anger, so he hung up on the man who was dutifully doing his job, threw the phone away, and reached again for the cigarette he had cheated on not five minutes ago, delving into his chaotic thoughts, fetching for answers he knew weren't there, to begin with.

Because really, there wasn't much to think about. Your marriage was a sham, and he had no right to demand loyalty when he was the first never to give it. After all, he was the one who made you realize that, indeed, life was all about give and take.

He liked to blame it on Min Yoongi, reckoned that he wouldn't mind so much if his wingman sent him pictures from Jimin's bedroom of you cuddled between his arms, but no, pictures of you with Min Yoongi in an innocent setup were a big fat ass no. A knife to his chest, and fuck, it hurt, it ruptured the organs and caused bleeding, and ouch, now he was in pain, and he had to scream, yell, break everything he saw, throw it against the wall, do all that and let you submit to his rage.

Because, after all, and above all, you were his.

But about his state, you couldn't give less of a fuck. Not when you'd ripped your chest open and squeezed your heart between your hands to muffle the beats that screamed Jimin with every gush of blood.

So on the ride home, you were accompanied by old memories in sepia and warm contrasts and the words of reason Yoongi had planted in your foggy brain. Your drive was silent, and so was the house as you stepped inside the foyer, and you couldn't thank the universe more for your husband's absence, but you figured you'd be happier if you could throw his scent out the window too.

The lights remained off by your choice on your way to the stairs until a small table lamp was turned on, illuminating your path in orange hues that didn't warm you up, on the contrary, creeped you out.

"Why so early? Should have stayed the night?"

You sighed, and it was out of sheer annoyance, as you turned your body to locate the voice. It has been a long time since you clearly told him that you didn't want to talk to him anymore, that you'd rather deal with Jungkook directly when it comes to the plan you were involved in, because his subtle and indirect excuses for what happened at the cabin obviously weren't accepted.

"If I had known you were here, I would have stayed. You have a phone, use it to communicate this kind of substantial information next time."

And toward your previous direction you led, uncaring about his retort, until his voice forced the halt of the momentum. "I know our marriage is just ink on paper, and don't get me wrong, I wish for it to stay that way. But the name attached to your first name is my family name, my pride, and honor, and while I don't want to interfere with your libertine lifestyle, 'cause you see I'm an open-minded individual, your thirst is showing, and don't get me wrong, you can bend over tables or lay right straight on the floor if so you wish," he paused in the middle of his speech as he eyed you with a vicious look filled with something stronger than anger, but less visible than it, hands buried in the depth of his pockets, Taehyung stood tall before your unforgiving gaze, cold spheres almost smoky as they received your hate and silenced bullets that were seemingly ready to end his time in this world if it had been possible to kill someone with a look, "but you will have to tame that hunger to uphold my name as the good wife you are supposed to be, Doctor, 'cause you see, I don't usually share activities with my employees, or objects for that matter."

You couldn't name that feeling rage, for what you felt wasn't just triggered by his words but was the result of the price your family put on you. He was right, or so you thought, but you couldn't just sit down and sip the remains of his bottle and say you agreed with him simply because you couldn't bring yourself to care about his rants. You couldn't call it anger, that poisonous feeling, but you would categorize it as demeaning, degrading, and just plain misogynistic. Like father, like son.

So the intake of breath brought words, brought reactions, and in a moment, you wished you had Yoongi by your side; you would have fucked him raw just to give your husband the taste of his words and an efficient retort that wouldn't have cost you so much energy.

"Right. I completely understand and I'm glad you're so open-minded, Mr. Kim. As for the rest of your monolog, I wasn't really listening 'cause, you see, I'm tired. Good night."

"You better listen when I'm being kind," it was his touch that forced you to stop your steps again, his unfriendly grip on your forearm that you beckoned would leave a bruise if he didn't let go immediately. There was a look in his eyes, a frown between his eyebrows, and a smirk on his lips that contradicted the aforementioned details, and you came to the conclusion that the devil existed and, in his body, resided. "I don't want to scare you."

"And I'm not afraid of you or your name." Your words were delivered in the vicinity of his lips, there, where breaths that smelled of bourbon mingled with others that smelled of white, sweet wine, and he found himself thinking if the faint scent you carried was that of his employee. "I don't count the heads your lover gives you before you reach your marital home, so don't force me to. Get back to your problems, and leave the details of my life out of your head. You've already meddled in my life uninvited."

At that moment, you waited for his palm to make contact with your skin as his hand flew high above his head. You looked closely, and with squinting eyes, he saw what you flashed earlier in the honey-colored spheres: Fearlessness, disrespect. "Go ahead, it's not the first time anyway." You spoke as his arm remained suspended in the air, palm splayed and flagrant, eyes like the deepest abyss of hell, and a frown between them deeper than the Han, "Don't you dare, Yunjae. Don't you dare play this game."

"Watch me, Taehyung."

The lightness of your steps was different from the frozen state he was in as you walked up the stairs to your bedroom. And he thought to himself that hell is nothing but sweet revenge cooked by a hater and served by the victim.

Crying.

You've been doing that a lot lately. The dim light of your room, wavering vaguely between purple and blue, embraced the highly toxic, salty solution, and you thought a word of gratitude and maybe a few words of appreciation were something the thick walls of the room owed you. Something that if it didn't happen, no matter in which form, you would wear the badge of the ungrateful, greedy bitch with shame.

You cried a lot. A verb in the past tense, for now, you smiled, chin high and proud, cheeks defined by the subtleness of movement. You smiled -smile- a verb in the present tense.

See, you were a firm believer that self-pity is only justified and cute if it lasts for an appropriate amount of time, and even if you overdid it a little, it didn't detract from the connection with the subtle curl of your lips and the sparkle in your eyes.

Shiny, for they were still colored in glassy ruby and still wanted to spill more, but you reckoned if concealer can hide imperfections, then a smile should also be able to hide shades of emotion that are better off there, in the confines of the room, in the company of dark blues and a brighter purples in comparison.

The first step was a shower, the second a trip to the beauty salon to shred the old skin and create a new one to fit the new entourage, but the third was definitive, the one that sealed the scene with a movie director's exclamation, the one who was in similar form with a nut half the size, the one that was the engine of your body whose mechanisms you are still studying, the logical organ you wished you had explored more in the nights you spent researching human anatomy. Your third step was conclusive and consisted of high heels and high-end suits that suited you more than necessary, and within days of embracing the new introduction of style and life, you came to a final agreement: Power isn't so bad.

"This needs to be approved by the board urgently. Arrange a meeting with Hyungan Holdings and keep me posted."

"I will see to that, Mrs. Kim."

Taehyung completely agreed with you. He would have even told you that you were right if you had given him the chance; too bad you blocked his attempts every time he approached you.

Too bad he avoided you too.

There was a feeling akin to regret but also bordering on hate he felt whenever he glimpsed you; hence, he made it a point to come home at late o'clock every night and wake up at an ungodly hour every morning. Taehyung admitted that he had succumbed to his feelings that night, and even when he wanted to pretend that these unexplainable feelings were nothing but a drunken state, he was reminded that, in the back of his brain, stored far and deep in an undiscovered area, those were very much real and disturbing, cutting his ties with the present gifted to him by the girlfriend who tried to elicit a movement, a sound, from his frozen body every time she touched his lithe muscles and less than soft skin.

"Damn, doctor, I bet old man Kim would freak if he found out," Jungkook expressed as he walked into your office, a wide grin playing around his lips, followed by a whistle and a subtle double check, "Wow, I didn't know you were into riding."

The black and red Kawasaki motorrad gear molded to every cranny and crevice in your body in a way Jungkook never thought possible, and in a moment of surprise, he wondered if a glove could fit a hand the way the leather molded to your body. "And now you know. What brings you here unannounced, Jeon?"

It wasn't a rarity to see one of your partners in your office, in fact, it was so common that you hardly missed their features. Goryo Holdings depended on the big dogs who ran it, after all, and you were one of them. Jungkook wasn't used to seeing you like this, though, stripped of formal dark suits and loosely buttoned shirts and clad in a fabric that was anything but appropriate for such a large conglomerate.

"To break the good news, what else for?"

"Right. And now that you've done that, you can see yourself out. I'm leaving."

"What's the rush for? Let's discuss the deal before you go. I doubt you'd do that with your husband."

"Indeed, I won't. Plus, I'd rather act than talk. You'll have to excuse me, Jungkook; I have a date."

"A date? You? Now, before old man Kim dies?"

"Yes. A date, Jungkook."

UNEDITED** cause I'm drunk.

An update in honor of my birthday and a very sweet reader who requested it. I love you. Yes, you!