Soft light from his device illuminated the dimly lit room, casting flickering shadows on the walls. But the contents on the screen in front of him were not so soft.

Hate. Hate. Everywhere.

A never-ending flood of comments, articles, and thought pieces dissecting him like a specimen under a microscope.

"Disgusting."
"He deserves to rot."
"Six years too late, asshole."
"How dare he even show his face?"
"Cancel him for good. People like him don't change."

It was relentless. Ruthless. Unforgiving.

But didn't he deserve it?

Maybe. Maybe he did.

But his family didn't.

His father, his brother—they hadn't spoken about it, but the weight of his mistake sat on their shoulders too. It was in the way his father's once-proud name was now dragged through the mud. The way Seokjin had to endure the whispers at every social gathering, his career now questioned simply for being his brother.

And the worst part? They were experiencing this hatred again. 

Never in his life had Namjoon seen such severe repercussions for a single moment of arrogance.

He had fought battles in court, where hardened criminals were given second chances, where liars and manipulators walked free—but in the court of public opinion, there were no appeals, no defense attorneys, no retrials.

There was only one sentence: guilty forever.

But that day... the day he saw her walking away...

How could he have just let her go? How could he have watched her disappear without letting her know?

Because if he did... if he had stayed silent, if he had just let her vanish into the crowd as if she had never meant anything to him...

He was sure he wouldn't have survived.

Not the suffocation.

Not the weight of six years spent in regret.

Not the torment of emotions he had buried alive, rotting inside him like an open wound that never had the chance to heal.

So, he stopped her.

And till this day, he had been dealing with the repercussions of that choice.

Because the world did not care for regret. The world did not care that he had spent six years drowning in self-hatred, suffocated by the words he could never take back. The world did not care that he had changed.

All they saw was the villain.

The man who had once stood at the top of the world, only to be dragged down by his own actions.

And no one was willing to let him stand again.

The device slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud on the carpeted floor. His vision blurred, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of it all.

The words on the screen had become unbearable, each comment clawing at the fragile remnants of his sanity.

He was just a man. Another man with an overactive mind, consumed by anxious thoughts.

But tonight... tonight, those thoughts felt unmanageable.

A month had passed. A month of scrutiny, of ridicule, of being torn apart and reshaped into a villain for public entertainment. He should have been prepared—he had seen the worst of people, studied their patterns, their cruelty, their thirst for someone to crucify.

And yet, it still astonished him.

Why did they find this so interesting?

Was the world so devoid of content? Were they that desperate for a new scandal, a fresh carcass to pick apart? Maybe because the elections weren't anywhere near, they had decided to roast whatever fell into their laps.

Even if that meant ripping apart Korea's top attorney.

Even if that meant turning a personal moment into a nationwide spectacle.

But none of that compared to the moment that haunted him the most.

Her face.

That day, amidst the noise, the whispers, the suffocating murmurs—his eyes had only been on her.

Fishing for a reaction. Searching for something—anything—that would tell him he hadn't just made things worse.

He had never expected an answer from her. He didn't owe one.

But he had made sure she knew. She had to know.

Sometimes, though, in the dead silence of his apartment, he wondered if he had forced his feelings on her.

And now he was guilty of that too.

Not that he had much time to dwell on it. Because before he could even gauge her reaction, before he could process the mess he had just created—

He was punched.

An unforgiving, bone-rattling punch from her brother, sending his world spinning 360 degrees.

And by the time he managed to get his bearings, to pull himself back to reality—

She was gone.

No words. No lingering glance. No trace of her except the ghost of her presence, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

And in that moment, Namjoon knew.

He had no chance.

Not for her forgiveness.

Not for redemption.

And maybe... not even for himself

Because of the relentless paparazzi attacks on the Kim Mansion, Namjoon had no choice but to move into his apartment—one that was practically in the next city over from Seoul.

His father never wanted him to go through this alone again. The first time, it was his punishment. But this time, it was different. This time, he had a choice. Yet, in the end, he had to let Namjoon leave—for the sake of his nine-month-old grandson, who was now being unfairly dragged into the mess.

Namjoon would never openly admit it—not with his pride standing in the way—but the silence of this apartment was eating him alive.

The cold, empty walls felt like they were caving in, pressing against his lungs every time he sat still for too long. It wasn't just loneliness. It was something worse. Something suffocating.

The once-perfectionist Kim Namjoon now sat slouched on a floor that hadn't been mopped in God knows how long, surrounded by his closest companions—half-empty bottles of alcohol.

He was almost impressed with himself, in a twisted way. How was he still breathing after all the consumption?

How was he still alive?

It had been over a month since he last saw his family. Since he last talked to his father. Since he last laughed with his nephew.

And now, he was too ashamed to meet their eyes.

He wished he could disappear entirely.

The irony?

The only thing tethering him to this world was the hatred being thrown his way.

One sadistic part of himself found solace in it, feeding off the torment like it was some form of self-inflicted justice.

Maybe this was what he deserved.

Maybe this was his atonement.

Ironic but the only connection to this world he had was this hate he was receiving. one sadistic part of himself was taking pleasure in what was happening to him maybe that was his guilty side which always whispered you deserve it 

"Which version of love did you give me?" he mumbled, staring blankly into the void, his words slurred yet heavy with meaning.

Not that he was expecting an answer.

The only response he got was silence—the kind that seeped into his bones, filling the cracks that had formed over the past six years.

Well, not entirely silent. He still had one companion left. Nature.

People say talking to plants helps them grow, that they thrive off words of affirmation and care.

But then, why did his plant look just like him?

Wilted. Drained. On the verge of collapse.

Namjoon's drunken gaze lingered on the fragile leaves, his chest tightening at the reflection they cast of his own state.

And just like that, fresh tears welled up in his eyes.

This time, he didn't bother wiping them away.

Instead, he took another sip from the bottle.

"I don't deserve you, I know," he whispered, as if you were right there in front of him, as if the emptiness around him could somehow carry his words to you. "I never did."

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips, followed by another sip of alcohol that burned its way down his throat.

"Always saw you as my competition... realized my love only when I lost you." His voice wavered, thick with self-loathing. "I lost you."

The words felt heavier each time they left his mouth, like they were etching themselves into his very existence.

He ran a trembling hand through his disheveled hair, his swollen eyes darting toward the dimly lit city skyline beyond the window. How many nights had he spent like this? How many more would follow?

"This hate... it won't last longer than my existence," he murmured. "I'll wait, even if it takes a lifetime—I'll wait for your forgiveness, for your acceptance, sweetheart."

His lips curled into a half-smirk, half-grimace, a painful contrast of emotions swirling inside him.

"Call it my obsession with you or my devotion." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"I love you, Y/N... and you have to accept me." 

"I expected you to be glowing, but... you look dead, Attorney Min," he rasped, amusement dripping from every syllable. His words, crafted to provoke, met only silence.

Unmoved, you watched as he leaned forward, shackles clinking against the metal table.

"I—I regret what I did, Min Y/N. I killed that boy..." he whimpered, voice trembling—only for the act to shatter into a hollow, manic laugh. His head tilted back, his shoulders shaking as if this was all some cruel, inside joke.

You didn't react.

His appearance had changed—bulkier, more ink spreading over his skin like the past clawing to stay relevant. His once-short hair had grown out, now lazily tied into a bun.

But it wasn't his body that held your attention. It was his eyes.

Empty. Unrepentant.

Even caged, stripped of his power, he still grinned.

"I needed this vacation, by the way. Thanks to you, I got it," he sneered, lips curling in amusement. "Prison food isn't half bad. And the men here?" He leaned back slightly. "They listen better than the fools I had outside."

You simply stared, unwavering, as if he were nothing more than dust on your sleeve.

"Is that supposed to make me react?" Your voice was quiet, but razor-sharp. "Should I flinch? Should I care?"

His smirk twitched—just for a fraction of a second.

And that was enough.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table between you. "Let me tell you something, Kim Taehyung," you murmured, voice like a blade pressed against his throat. "You don't scare me. Not in here. Not out there. Not ever."

His grin twitched, but he recovered quickly, tilting his head.

"You think you've won?" he mused, tapping his fingers against the table. "You think locking me up means you're safe?" He chuckled darkly. "I have people. Connections. You'll be watching over your shoulder for the rest of your life, sweetheart."

You exhaled, unimpressed. "Then let them come."

The amusement drained from his face.

Leaning back, you smoothed the sleeve of your coat. "Unlike you, I don't make threats—I make promises."

His smirk wavered.

"And I promise you," you said, rising to your feet, "this is just the beginning of your downfall."

You slid a thick stack of papers across the table. He didn't move.

"Sign."

His eyes flickered over the official seals stamped across each page. "Your properties, your assets, your offshore accounts—all seized. Your business? Dissolved. Your men? Either arrested or fleeing like rats." You tilted your head. "You're nothing more than a name on paper now."

Taehyung leaned back, shackles rattling as he smirked. "Ah, here she is—the famous Attorney Min." His voice was low, taunting, yet hollow.

"My money wasn't just lying around to be picked up in a month," he muttered, a twisted sense of pride clinging to him like a parasite. "You really think everything I built could disappear just like that?"

You met his gaze, unshaken. "Think?" A slow smirk curved your lips. "No, Kim Taehyung. I know."

His fingers drummed idly against the table, the smirk still there—but thinner now, stretching against something fragile. "Tch. You make it sound like I've lost everything."

"You have." Your voice was steady. Cold. Absolute. "Even beggars have hope. You don't."

For the first time, the smirk disappeared completely.

Silence.

His laughter echoed through the dimly lit room, low and mocking. He didn't move to sign the papers, simply staring at them like they were some insignificant jokes. "And what if I don't sign?"

You exhaled sharply, as if dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "Then you'll be taken to court once again, dragged through another humiliating process, where these very documents will be signed with or without your consent. The difference?" You leaned in, your voice dropping to a whisper. "You get to choose whether you leave this room with an ounce of dignity left."

His jaw clenched.

"Sign it, Taehyung," you murmured, voice laced with finality. "Or don't. It changes nothing for me. But for you?" You straightened, fixing your suit jacket before stepping back. "Every second you refuse is another second of your defeat being broadcasted to the world. Your choice."

For the first time, something in his expression wavered.

Taehyung's smirk stretched wider, but his eyes betrayed him. He was pushing, testing, waiting for a crack in your composure.

"A bitch like you only knows how to lick boots," he sneered, voice dripping with venom. "So, tell me, Y/N, how many warmed beds did it take to bring me down?"

Silence.

You stared at him, unblinking, like he was nothing more than a pathetic whisper of his former self. Then, a slow, amused exhale escaped your lips—not a laugh, but something colder, something dismissive.

Taehyung tensed.

You leaned back in your chair, tapping your fingers idly against the table. "Funny," you murmured, gaze never leaving his. "You were untouchable once. Feared. Worshipped. And yet, here you are, throwing schoolyard insults because it's all you have left."

His jaw clenched, the chains around his wrists rattling slightly as his hands fisted against the table.

"You want to know how I did it?" You tilted your head, studying him like an insect under glass. "The same way you built your empire—power, connections, money." A slow smirk curled at the corner of your lips. "Only difference? I did it better."

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Taehyung's grin faltered, his fingers twitching toward the pen.

Without another word, you slid the papers closer, stood up, and straightened your coat.

"Sign them," you said coolly, turning your back to him. "Or don't. Either way, you lose."

Taehyung grabbed the pen, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he had finally come to his senses. That he would sign the papers without another tantrum.

But then—click.

He flicked the pen open, turning it between his fingers with that same infuriating smirk.

His gaze darkened as he whispered to himself, almost as if conversing with the ghosts in his own mind. "That little boy... really became my destruction?"

And then—his expression twisted.

"I DON'T THINK SO—"

The words barely left his lips before he lunged.

In a flash, he caught your wrist, slamming it against the table, his grip iron-tight. The pen in his other hand moved swiftly—aiming straight for your throat.

But Taehyung had forgotten one thing.

You were always ten steps ahead.

Before the pen could even graze your skin, a sharp, electric crackle filled the room.

His body jerked violently as volts coursed through him.

Your left hand was already at his throat, the taser pressed mercilessly against his skin, rendering him completely immobile. His body spasmed under the shock, eyes widening as realization set in—he had walked straight into a trap.

A cruel smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned down, voice a whisper of ice.

"You forgot who I am, didn't you?"

Taehyung's body convulsed, his breath coming in ragged pants. The smirk was gone. His expression was frozen in something unfamiliar—helplessness.

You straightened, smoothing out your sleeve before gripping his hair tightly, yanking his head up.

"Min Y/N," you murmured, your tone dripping with amusement. "Daughter of Min Suk-Ja and the only sister of Min Yoongi—the most ruthless business tycoons Daegu has ever seen."

You wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of your hand before fisting his hair even tighter, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"And you thought you could attack me?"

The door burst open.

Armed officers stormed in, their footsteps echoing against the cold, sterile walls of the detention center. Without hesitation, they restrained Taehyung, shackling him down onto a waiting stretcher.

You took a step back, adjusting your coat as you watched them work.

"Officers," you called out, tilting your head. "Kim Taehyung has officially lost it. I trust you'll handle him as a mentally unstable prisoner from now on."

Your voice was devoid of sympathy. Cold. Absolute.

Taehyung's body twitched as the last remnants of the Taser's paralysis wore off, his fingers curling into fists. His jaw clenched so tightly it could crack.

"F... Fuc... bi...tch..." he slurred, voice hoarse, throat raw.

You let out a soft chuckle, turning to the doctor who had been silently observing from behind the one-way glass.

"He's saying goodbye to me," you remarked with a smirk. "How touching."

The doctor nodded, professionalism masking any reaction. "Miss Min, Kim Taehyung's past behavioral patterns do indicate signs of a severe mental disorder."

You let his words settle, your victory now set in stone.

"So, it's official," you mused, your gaze flickering toward the restrained man. "Kim Taehyung is unfit to testify against himself. Which means..." You turned back to the officers. "The police can seize his assets without needing his signature."

A slow, victorious smirk ghosted over your lips, "He has a right for his attorney but we received his message of complying with us fully Mr. Kim has no objections left"

Taehyung could do nothing but watch.

His empire, his wealth, his name—it was all slipping from his fingers. And this time, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

You turned to leave, but then—you remembered something.

Pausing mid-step, you slowly turned back, your heels clicking against the floor as you approached his stretcher.

Taehyung, strapped down, could do nothing but stare.

You didn't look at him. Instead, your cold, piercing gaze locked onto the officers holding him down.

"Oh," you said lightly, as if remembering a trivial detail. "Do tell him to attend the funeral."

A heavy silence filled the room.

And then, with the cruelest smirk, you delivered the final blow.

"His father committed suicide last night."

The silence shattered.

Taehyung's body lurched against the restraints, his eyes going wild as reality sank in like a knife to the gut.

And the scene after that?

A mess.

His screams echoed down the halls.

But you didn't spare him another glance.

You had already won.

 "It's over now, Mr. Byun," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. The cold, sterile walls of the hospital room swallowed the sound, making the silence louder than ever.

You sat at a distance from the stretcher where Mr. Byun lay, his body frail, his breaths shallow. Lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, as if he was already halfway to the other side.

"Your son can rest in peace now."

Two months ago, when you had been kidnapped by the Mafia King, Mr. Byun had suffered a heart attack. The weight of helplessness had crushed him that night—the only person who had fought for his son's justice was you, and he had believed you were dead too.

He had accepted defeat.

And his heart had given out.

You hadn't even known of his condition until recently, when Baekhyun—his eldest son, Baekho's older brother—had finally reached out to you.

Even now, you could barely bring yourself to look at him.

Because you had survived.

And in a way, you felt guilty for that.

Justice had been delayed. Too delayed.

"Kim Taehyung and his father are over now..." Your voice was quiet, but the words carried the weight of every battle you had fought. You exhaled softly. "I think... this was your justice, Mr. Byun."

For a long moment, he didn't speak.

And then, in the weakest whisper, a single question slipped from his trembling lips.

"What... about his body?"

The air turned ice-cold.

Your fingers curled into fists as your heart clenched painfully in your chest.

"They..." You swallowed, the words barely making it past the lump in your throat. "They disposed of Baekho's body in the Han River. The police tried everything but still—"

"So, they couldn't find it," he murmured, cutting you off.

A hollow silence followed.

"Y... Yes," you admitted, voice barely above a breath.

Guilt sat heavy on your shoulders, pressing down until it felt like you might break.

But then—his lips curved into the faintest, weakest smile.

"D... don't be guilty, Ma'am." His voice wavered, thin and fragile like glass. But his eyes—they held something else. Something you hadn't expected. Peace.

"You did the work of God for me," he whispered. "My son got his peace. And I..." His breath hitched as he lifted a trembling hand. "I got mine."

Tears slid down his weathered cheeks as he slowly, painfully, joined his hands together in a shaking bow.

"T... Thank you."

A shiver ran through you.

Without thinking, you surged forward, grasping his hands before they could fall apart.

"You shouldn't be thanking me, Mr. Byun," you whispered, gripping his fragile fingers tightly. Your throat burned as your vision blurred. "This case... it changed my life. Completely."

And as his tired eyes met yours, for the first time in a long, long time...

You weren't sure if it had changed you for the better or worse.

No matter how superior a man believes himself to be, he may build his own miracles on earth—but that still does not grant him the right to take another's life.

Because life is a gift from God, and no human has the power to take that life.

Not even us.  

And those who dare to do so...

They always repent.

________________________________________________________

TBC 

I believe I am early this time...? 

I lob you ❤️

live your life with a head high, because no problem is that big to end this adventure named ...life

By the way, I found this AI pic ...so drool over it with me?