HALLUCINATION

Kim Seokjin had always known about Jungkook’s temper, but he never imagined it would spiral this far.

He should have foreseen disaster the moment Jungkook insisted on helping the drunk investor after that scene. The monotone voice, the chilling calm in his eyes—it was obvious Jungkook had more than mere assistance in mind for Mr. Yeong. How had Seokjin overlooked the signs? When Jungkook took matters into his own hands, the outcome was never good.

By some stroke of fortune, Seokjin had trusted his instincts and checked on him, arriving just in time to stop Mr. Yeong from losing his voice permanently. Violence was never Seokjin’s answer. He preferred diligence, relying on his composed demeanor to navigate crises. Force was a last resort, and even then, he avoided shedding innocent blood.

But Jungkook abandoning his principles over a drunken man’s insults? It was simply unacceptable.

Seokjin paced the marble floor in long, hurried strides, the sharp taps of his shoes echoing his frustration. His fingers scrolled feverishly through his phone, desperate to reach someone.

“Maybe he left, Seokjin,” Namjoon suggested, concern etched into his brow. “Can you just calm down?”

Seokjin halted mid-step, shooting him a sharp glare. “Don’t tell me to calm down. Not now. I know I saw him with some woman. He’s probably off screwing her brains out—I’m 200% sure.”

He jabbed at his phone screen for what felt like the hundredth time, only for the call to go straight to voicemail again.

With a hiss of annoyance, he clenched his eyes shut and left a scathing message. “You jerk! You have two minutes to get to my studio if you want to keep your third limb intact.”

Namjoon winced. Seokjin’s threats were usually playful, but the tightness in his flushed face and the sharp edge in his voice left no room for doubt—he wasn’t joking. Namjoon knew better than to underestimate him when he was this furious.

But as Seokjin set a literal countdown on his watch, Namjoon sighed. Seokjin was nothing if not punctual.

“Seokjin,” Namjoon said, shaking his head, “do you really have to?”

Seokjin didn’t need to look up to catch the incredulity in Namjoon’s voice. The words carried the weight of reason. He was being rash. This wasn’t the calm, collected man who handled crises with a steady hand. Namjoon was right; now wasn’t the time to lose control.

If he wanted to fix the mess currently lying on that plush sofa, he needed to pull himself together.

Seokjin exhaled deeply, forcing the tension from his shoulders. Then, without a word, he strode over to where Namjoon sat on the mirrored sofa, parallel to the coffee table, and placed his phone down.

“Let me take care of him,” Seokjin said, his voice calmer now.

Namjoon, who had been working quietly after pulling Seokjin back from the edge, nodded and handed him the first aid kit. Seokjin sat beside him, positioning himself to tend to the wound.

The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant filled the air as Seokjin poured the liquid onto a cotton ball. His nose wrinkled at the smell, and across from him, Jungkook sniffed in a similar reaction. They were both sensitive to strong scents.

A brief smile tugged at Seokjin’s lips, but it disappeared just as quickly when his gaze fell on Jungkook’s bloodied face. The sight of it soured his mood instantly. He wanted nothing more than to scold Jungkook, who now avoided his eyes, clearly feeling the consequences of his actions.

“Jungkook,” Seokjin began, but the door creaked open, cutting him off.

Yoongi stormed in, frustration evident in every step.

“There better be a damn good reason for you to threaten me like that, Seokjin,” Yoongi said flatly, still catching his breath. He looked as if he had rushed over—his shirt buttons were misaligned, and his previously gelled hair stuck out in all directions. He must have taken Seokjin’s threat to heart.

Yoongi’s eyes met Seokjin’s, and the seriousness in Seokjin’s usually gentle gaze told him everything he needed to know. Something was wrong.

As he scanned the room, the situation became clear. On the sofa lay Mr. Yeong’s unconscious body, blood seeping from his mouth as Namjoon silently wiped it away. He would have asked for an explanation, but the sight of Seokjin bandaging Jungkook’s bruised hand made the story click into place.

Yoongi let out a low, disbelieving laugh. Jungkook was unbelievable, as always.

He had been plotting to ruin Mr. Yeong financially after the investor’s public display of homophobia, but Jungkook had clearly beaten him to it—and in a far more direct way. Though it wasn’t surprising. Violence had always been Jungkook’s instinct when someone threatened the people he loved, especially Seokjin.

Yoongi reached out to clap Jungkook on the shoulder, but Seokjin’s stern glare stopped him mid-motion.

“What exactly do you find funny, Yoongi?” Seokjin asked, his tone icy.

“Nothing, nothing.” Yoongi coughed, poorly masking his amusement.

But as he examined Mr. Yeong’s face—now embedded with shards of mirror and mottled with bruises—he couldn’t help but admire the brutal handiwork. A twisted sense of humor and a medical degree gave him an odd appreciation for it.

“Your young, innocent Jungkook is growing up. You must be proud, Seokjin,” Yoongi smirked, accepting the tweezers Namjoon handed him.

“Just shut up and do your job, Agust D,” Seokjin snapped.

Unfazed, Yoongi grinned. “Well, I feel like a proud father myself. Good job, son,” he quipped at Jungkook before returning to his work.

Neither Seokjin nor Jungkook acknowledged him, but that didn’t stop Yoongi from chuckling to himself.

He was already bracing himself for the inevitable verbal onslaught from Seokjin, who would no doubt scold him for introducing Jungkook to the brutal underworld. After all, it was Yoongi who had led him down that path, teaching him to seek justice through means that were anything but fair.

Beyond being Seokjin’s closest friend and the primary investor in his company, Yoongi held a title known only to a select few—a name whispered in fear among criminals yet untraceable to any real identity: Agust D.

Law enforcement knew the name, but no one knew the man behind it. No one except Seokjin. Even Namjoon and Jungkook had only uncovered Yoongi’s double life much later in their friendship.

Bound since their teenage years, Seokjin and Yoongi had faced every obstacle together, never hesitating to eliminate threats to their bond. And in the process, Seokjin became the one thing Yoongi had always needed—a friend who saw beyond the shadows. His unwavering trust and kindness cemented Yoongi’s loyalty in a way no blood oath ever could.

Recalling the time Seokjin brought Jungkook into their lives always led Yoongi into deep contemplation. He had opposed Seokjin’s decision to adopt the boy, sparking their first and only argument. Though Yoongi had considered refusing outright, he couldn’t ignore the loneliness and pain in Jungkook—an aching reflection of his own past with Seokjin.

What intrigued Yoongi most about Jungkook was the boy’s burning desire for vengeance, a fire he himself had once shared with his stepmother. That familiarity, laced with an unsettling sense of recognition, compelled Yoongi to take Jungkook under his wing. He taught him how to navigate the cruelties of society, how to turn them into weapons rather than weaknesses.

Yoongi trained Jungkook in combat—boxing, taekwondo, and even the careful handling of his prized Beretta 92FS. Under his guidance, Jungkook became a force to be reckoned with, a figure who could inspire fear with just a glance.

Seokjin sighed deeply, casting a glance at Yoongi before turning his attention back to Jungkook. It felt almost surreal to reflect on their past.

“Show me your cheek,” Seokjin ordered, his voice firm.

Jungkook obeyed, tilting his face to the right but still avoiding Seokjin’s gaze. He could feel the weight of Seokjin’s stare—silent yet piercing. It was as if Seokjin was compelling him to confront the unspoken tension between them. But he remained stubbornly silent, his fist clenching as the alcohol burned against his skin.

Seokjin hissed in sympathy at Jungkook’s discomfort and muttered a quick apology. His fingers trembled slightly as he carefully pressed the adhesive tape to Jungkook’s face. The brief contact sent an unexpected warmth through the cold space between them.

Jungkook blinked, studying Seokjin’s face. His thick eyebrows were drawn into a deep frown, and his expression carried something beyond anger—something raw. It was a look that mirrored Jungkook’s own suffering.

Jungkook had always been shaped by Seokjin. His emotions were molded by the man’s influence, and lately, one of those emotions had begun to take an unfamiliar form. The sharp sting of disappointment, not just in himself but in Seokjin’s eyes, cut deeper than any wound.

“I ruined your night, didn’t I?” Jungkook broke the silence for the first time that evening.

“It’s my fault, and I apologize,” he mumbled, his voice laced with guilt.

Seokjin stared at him in disbelief. He hadn’t expected Jungkook to speak, let alone apologize. While he had hoped for different words, hearing Jungkook’s guilt-ridden confession twisted something deep inside him.

“Hey, nothing’s ruined, okay? Don’t blame yourself,” Seokjin reassured him. “I’m not upset with you. I just worry about you. You’re my Achilles’ heel, Jungkook. The thought of anything happening to you crushes me.”

He reached for Jungkook’s hand, his thumb tracing soothing circles over his skin. “I want you to promise me something.”

Jungkook tensed, already guessing what Seokjin was about to say. He tried to cut in. “But Jin, what Yeong did was intolerable—”

“Forget about Yeong, Jungkook. Just listen to me.” Seokjin’s voice took on a sharper edge, his tone unyielding. “From now on, you’re not to engage in any violent activities. That includes accompanying Yoongi on his... business.”

At the mention of his name, Yoongi, who had been busy suturing Yeong’s tongue, paused and scoffed. “Business?”

He shot a glance at Namjoon, whose expression silently conveyed, Typical Seokjin. They exchanged a shrug before returning to their tasks in silence.

“Jungkook, please promise me,” Seokjin repeated, his voice caught between desperation and authority.

Irritated, Jungkook pulled his hand away and stood up. He shifted uncomfortably before muttering, “I’ll catch some fresh air,” then walked out without another word.

Seokjin’s heart pounded with unease.

“Namjoon, can you send someone after him? He’s not in the right state of mind.”

“Yes, sir,” Namjoon replied. But if Seokjin had fully grasped the depth of his own apprehension, he might have insisted on keeping Jungkook closer.

Outside the mansion, Jungkook didn’t seek the familiar comfort of his apartment. Instead, he climbed into his black SUV and sped away from the suburbs, heading for a club where no one would recognize him.

The first thing he noticed upon entering was the swirl of disco lights overhead, casting shifting patterns over a crowd of drunken revelers. They moved in a chaotic rhythm, lost in their inebriation—foolish, he thought, and ripe for gossip. Regretting his decision to come, he made his way to the bar, where a group of partygoers immediately surrounded him, offering drinks. He declined their invitations with a curt shake of his head and ordered his own.

“One Bacardi,” he said to the female bartender, whose undeniable allure seemed to command the room. Her revealing corset drew countless eyes, and her playful demeanor lured in even more.

“And what about you, Mr. Blond?” she asked, turning to the man seated to Jungkook’s right.

“Octopussy. But without the ‘octo,’ please.” The man’s grin was all mischief, a crooked tooth digging into his full lips.

The bartender rolled her eyes, unimpressed, and moved on to the next customer.

“You’re a regular, Jackson,” she stated matter-of-factly.

But the lovesick man took it differently.

“You understand me so well, Rhea,” he said, flashing a hopeful grin. Jackson had been trying to woo Rhea for months, seizing every opportunity during his visits. “Did you think about my proposal?”

Rhea exhaled sharply, her patience wearing thin. “Jackson, I’m tired of saying no to you. When will you get that I’m not interested in a relationship with you or anyone else? I have responsibilities to manage. Please try to understand.”

“But I like you, Rhea. Why don’t you give us a chance?” Jackson pleaded as she started preparing the drinks.

“I shouldn’t have hooked up with you,” she shot back.

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Jackson stiffened. “Are you saying that night was a mistake?”

“Yes, I am!” Rhea yelled over the pulsing music. “I wouldn’t have led you on if I’d known you’d turn into an asshole. What kind of man can’t take a simple rejection?”

Frustrated, she slammed the bottle of liquor onto the bar counter.

A few customers jumped at her outburst, casting curious glances and exchanging muffled chuckles. Among them was the manager, who immediately called for her to meet him in the office.

Rhea sulked as she handed off her orders to a fellow bartender, but not before shooting Jackson a glare filled with accusation.

Jackson sat there, jaw clenched, absorbing the humiliation she had just inflicted. He might have let it go, drowning his sorrows in his drink, but one thought gnawed at him: Rhea was the one who had approached him first.

It had been the night of the homecoming bash. His friends had covered the expenses, and he had just graduated with a master’s degree in fashion design.

Rhea was on night duty, just as she was now. She had served cocktails to him and his friends and casually complimented his outerwear. That small remark led to easy conversation, and by the end of her shift, she was part of their group.

The night was still young, and adventure beckoned. They downed two bottles of rich scotch, giggling through silly drinking games. Jackson and Rhea had paired up for everything. They even played hide-and-seek and ended up squeezed into a restroom stall, where they lingered for over an hour.

Those moments with Rhea were among the most memorable of his life. He had hoped she felt the same.

But now, it seemed, she did not.

Jackson needed to understand why that unforgettable night had become a mistake in her eyes. He downed his drink in one swift gulp and stumbled toward the restroom, where he had last seen her enter.

Meanwhile, the blond man at the bar watched the drama unfold with amusement. “Wow, I just witnessed a classic Wattpad scene play out in front of me,” he remarked, swirling his cocktail, which was disappointingly weak. As he nodded along to the music, his gaze drifted to the dance floor. Tilting his head, he muttered, “Did those cringey books allow children in bars?”

Realizing he was talking to himself, he shrugged and went back to nursing his drink.

Jungkook, who had been disinterested since his arrival, instinctively shifted his gaze toward the dance floor—his second big mistake of the day.

Among the throng of bodies, slick with sweat, stood a woman he hadn’t seen in twelve years.

Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, soft bangs shading her forehead. A blue ID card was clipped to the chest of her formal attire, but Jungkook didn’t need to read it. He already knew the name on it: Choi Areum.

He blinked, trying to clear the haze clouding his vision, willing her to disappear. But she remained. Her bloodshot eyes locked onto his, her presence undeniable.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his heart quickening as he tore his gaze away.

What was she doing here? Was it even really her, or just an illusion? The alcohol must have finally taken hold, playing tricks on his mind. That had to be the answer.

Yes, it had to be.

So why was he suddenly drenched in cold sweat, his pulse erratic?

Questions swirled, overwhelming him and threatening to drown his thoughts. He shut his eyes tightly as if willing the chaos away, cursing under his breath.

After what felt like an eternity—maybe a minute, maybe more—his breathing slowed, and his mind cleared.

Reluctantly, he glanced back, hoping Areum would be gone.

But she was still there.

Her expression was unreadable, her eyes pleading, as a single tear traced a path down her cheek.

Jungkook stared, his frown deepening. Before he could react, she turned away, her gaze shifting elsewhere.

He followed her line of sight and spotted a young boy, no older than seven, darting through the crowd.

Jungkook whipped his head back toward Areum, but she was gone.

His chest tightened with confusion. What had just happened? Did she want him to follow the boy?

For a moment, he hesitated. But something told him this was the only way to find answers.

Without another thought, Jungkook rose to his feet and started after the boy.