The cold metal clinked as the door creaked open.

Taehyung flinched, instinctively backing into the corner of the room like a wounded animal. His wrists were raw from the restraints he’d spent hours struggling against, and his breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in panicked rhythm. Every inch of his body ached—not from any recent punishment, but from fear itself.

And then he saw him.

Jungkook stood in the doorway like a shadow—silent, composed, yet filled with rage that was far more terrifying than any scream. His obsidian eyes bore into Taehyung with a heat that scorched the air between them.

“You promised you wouldn’t run,” Jungkook said, voice low and even. “But not once. Twice.”

Taehyung shook his head violently, tears already slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to—please. Don’t cage me again. I’ll listen, I swear. I’ll do anything, just—please, not the cage.”

Jungkook stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft but final click. The sound was more damning than a slam.

“Anything?” he echoed, a bitter laugh twisting his lips. “You said that before. And yet… here we are.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry—I really am. I just panicked—I couldn’t breathe—please, Jungkook, I’ll stay, I won’t try again, I promise—”

“Lies.” Jungkook grabbed his wrist—too hard. Taehyung winced but didn’t pull away. He knew better now.

“Let go,” he whispered, but it was without force. There was no room for defiance anymore, not when Jungkook’s grip felt like a shackle itself.

Jungkook pulled him to his feet and began dragging him down the corridor. The hallway was dim, the only sound their footsteps and Taehyung’s hitched breath. His heart pounded in his chest like a warning drum.

He knew where they were going.

“No,” Taehyung whimpered. “Please don’t take me there. I’ll be good, I swear—don’t take me to the Red Room.”

But Jungkook didn’t speak again. He simply led him down into the darkened lower floor of the house—past locked doors, past empty rooms, to the one door that filled Taehyung with dread. A red “X” was painted over the wood. It was symbolic—a warning, a curse, and a promise.

The Red Room.

The moment Jungkook opened the door, Taehyung’s stomach turned.

The room was immaculate. Every toy, whip, restraint, and paddle was arranged with meticulous order, as though each had been chosen with love. The scent of leather and metal was sharp in the air. It was a shrine—devoted not to pleasure, but to power.

Jungkook pulled Taehyung inside and locked the door behind him.

“No one’s coming for you,” he said softly, brushing his hand through Taehyung’s hair. “You are mine, Taehyung. You always were. This—” he gestured around them—“is where you learn that.”

Taehyung tried to run.

He didn’t get far—only a single step before Jungkook slammed him against the padded wall and fastened his wrists to the leather cuffs. The restraints were too familiar. Taehyung struggled out of instinct, but he already knew it was pointless.

“Jungkook, please—” he sobbed. “I can’t take this anymore. I hate it—I hate you—I hate—”

Jungkook silenced him with a collar, fastening it tight around his throat.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against Taehyung’s ear. “You’ll learn to love me, even if I have to carve it into your soul.”

Time didn’t exist in the Red Room.

There were moments—long stretches of pain disguised as discipline, of shame disguised as submission. Jungkook was methodical, never loud, never angry in the way others were. He moved like an artist painting a picture only he could see. Paddle. Rope. Plug. Gag. Each moment designed not to arouse, but to remind Taehyung of what he was: a possession. His.

But it didn’t feel like desire.

It felt like desecration.

There was no pleasure, not even a flicker of it. Taehyung’s body burned, not from want but from humiliation. His tears were silent, his cries muffled by restraints. The touches weren’t rough enough to scar, but just painful enough to break something inside him.

And Jungkook… he didn’t even seem aroused. He seemed focused, as though he were performing some sacred ritual. Possessive. Obsessed. But not in love.

Not truly.

When it was finally over, Jungkook unfastened the restraints and cradled Taehyung’s limp form in his arms. He pressed a kiss to his temple, gentle and sickeningly tender.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me. Even if you want to die. You belong to me.”

Taehyung didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His body was trembling, mind fogged and blank with horror. The part of him that wanted to scream had gone quiet. What was the point?

As Jungkook carried him back to the bedroom, arms protectively tight around him, Taehyung stared at the ceiling.

This wasn’t love. This was madness.

And he was trapped inside it.

Taehyung sat on the edge of the bed, wrists bruised, thighs aching. The dim lights cast long shadows across the wooden floor, dancing around him like ghosts of the things he’d endured.

It was still night. It always seemed to be night in this place.

He stared at the wall. Blank. Cold. Silent.

The same way he felt inside.

He didn’t know how long Jungkook had been gone, but when the door opened again, Taehyung didn’t flinch. He didn’t cry or plead. He simply waited.

Jungkook entered carrying a tray—water, food, a clean towel. He placed it on the nightstand, his expression unreadable.

“You need to eat,” he said gently.

Taehyung turned his head away.

“I said, eat.”

Silence.

A shadow flickered in Jungkook’s eyes. He grabbed Taehyung’s chin, forcing him to look at him.

“Are you punishing me now?” Jungkook asked with a bitter smile. “Ignoring me after I’ve given you everything?”

Taehyung’s lips parted, dry and cracked. His voice was low. “You’ve taken everything.”

Jungkook froze.

Then, in a flash, he pushed Taehyung down onto the bed, straddling him with terrifying calm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” he whispered. “You think this is punishment. You think I enjoy your suffering.”

He reached over to the nightstand and retrieved the familiar key.

“But I’m going to show you what true surrender means.”

The Red Room had changed since the first time Taehyung saw it.

Now he knew every inch of it. Every hook on the walls. Every glint of silver. Every rope and chain. It was a temple to domination, and Taehyung had become its unwilling devotee.

Jungkook pulled him in, leading him with the leash attached to his collar. Taehyung followed. Not because he wanted to—but because resistance was met with agony. And worse than pain… was disappointment in Jungkook’s eyes.

Taehyung didn’t know why he cared about that.

Jungkook positioned him in the center of the room, locking his wrists above his head, ankles spread and restrained to the floor. The vulnerability was instant, inescapable. He stood naked in front of Jungkook, stripped of dignity, of will, of everything.

“Tonight,” Jungkook said, circling him like a predator, “I’m not going to punish you.”

Taehyung tensed.

“I’m going to teach you how to feel.”

Jungkook opened a black drawer and pulled out something sleek and glistening—a silver wand with multiple attachments. Taehyung’s eyes widened as realization dawned.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, Jungkook, not this.”

Jungkook paused, studying him.

“This isn’t about pain anymore,” he said. “It’s about control. And I want your body to know who it belongs to.”

“No—don’t—”

But the restraints were already locked.

And Jungkook didn’t stop.

The first touch was electric.

Not pleasure.

Not exactly.

More like betrayal. Of his own body.

Taehyung clenched his jaw as the vibrator pressed against his inner thigh, slow and rhythmic. His body jerked in reaction, instinctive and unwanted. Jungkook watched every twitch, every flicker of sensation with terrifying intensity.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That’s mine. That reaction. That body. Mine.”

Taehyung shook his head. “Stop it. Please…”

But Jungkook didn’t.

He changed the speed—slow to fast, fast to slow. Taehyung gasped as unwanted sparks shot through him, shame rising like bile in his throat.

“No…” he moaned. “No, I don’t want this.”

“But your body does,” Jungkook said softly.

Tears spilled down Taehyung’s cheeks. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Jungkook replied. “Because even if your mind says no, your body is already mine.”

It wasn’t just the vibrator. It was Jungkook’s hands, his whispers, the way he knew exactly where to touch, exactly how to manipulate every flicker of resistance. It wasn’t pleasure. It was defeat disguised as arousal.

Taehyung hated himself for it.

His body betrayed him again and again—and Jungkook rewarded every response with a kiss, a stroke, a soft word.

“You hate me,” Jungkook whispered into his ear, “but you’ll never leave me.”

Taehyung sobbed.

Because deep down, he feared it was true.

When it ended, Taehyung collapsed into Jungkook’s arms, exhausted and broken. Jungkook cradled him like a lover, stroking his hair, pressing soft kisses to his forehead.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Soon, you’ll stop fighting me altogether.”

Taehyung didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Jungkook carried him back to the bedroom, undressed him gently, wiped the sweat and tears from his skin. The tenderness was worse than the torment.

Because a part of Taehyung—just a sliver—began to crave it.

And that terrified him more than anything.

As Jungkook tucked him into bed and lay beside him, their bodies pressed close, Taehyung’s mind drifted into a haze.

He wasn’t free.

He wasn’t loved.

He was owned.

But in the silence of the night, held tightly in Jungkook’s arms, Taehyung began to wonder—

If he stayed long enough…

Would he still want to escape?

Or would he start wanting to stay?

Long before chains, before locked doors and whispered commands—there was laughter.

There was light.

There was them.

Taehyung stood under a cherry blossom tree, a camera in hand, sunlight painting soft pink glows across his cheeks. Jungkook remembered this moment as vividly as the scars on his own skin. Taehyung had been radiant that day—smiling without restraint, eyes full of warmth, like the world had never touched him cruelly.

And Jungkook… had already been drowning.

“Hold still,” Taehyung said with a playful pout, snapping another picture. “You keep moving, the photo will blur.”

“I hate cameras,” Jungkook murmured, turning his head to the side.

Taehyung clicked his tongue. “Then stop being so damn photogenic.”

Jungkook had smiled at that. A real smile. The kind that came so rarely it hurt.

They’d been friends. Just friends, in the beginning. Taehyung had transferred to Jungkook’s university in the middle of the semester, a bright storm of color and confidence. He’d sat beside Jungkook in one lecture and decided—without permission—that they would be close.

“You have sad eyes,” Taehyung had said the second time they spoke.

Jungkook had blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Like… haunted eyes. Like you’re here but not really. That’s cool. Mysterious.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

“Well, you’re not boring either.”

Jungkook had hated him instantly for how easily he broke through walls. And loved him for it just as quickly.

They spent afternoons sprawled across the library floor, studying and stealing glances. Taehyung doodled in his notebooks. Jungkook watched him. Neither of them said anything. But everything was already being written.

Taehyung didn’t know it then—but Jungkook was already obsessed.

He memorized the way Taehyung tied his shoelaces. The way he chewed the end of his pen when he was nervous. The way his eyes sparkled when he talked about music, or art, or dreams that sounded far too beautiful for someone like Jungkook to understand.

He was so alive.

So free.

And Jungkook knew—he couldn’t let that go.

Not when everything in his world was falling apart.

It was late spring when things began to change.

Taehyung had been seeing someone—a soft-spoken photography major named Minjun. They held hands in the quad. Laughed under the trees. Jungkook watched from afar, a storm brewing in his chest.

He couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t eat.

He couldn’t breathe.

Taehyung had given him hope. Light. A reason. And now he was giving it to someone else.

One night, Jungkook snapped.

He showed up at Taehyung’s apartment, unannounced, eyes wild with something dark.

“I need to talk to you,” he’d said, voice shaking.

Taehyung had let him in. He always did.

They sat on the couch in silence for a while before Jungkook finally spoke.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Taehyung blinked.

The room held its breath.

“Jungkook…”

“I know,” Jungkook interrupted. “I know you’re with someone. I just… I had to say it. Before it ate me alive.”

Taehyung looked down, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

Taehyung whispered, “You should’ve told me sooner.”

Jungkook’s heart skipped. “Why?”

“Because maybe I wouldn’t have chosen someone else.”

For a moment, hope bloomed.

Then Taehyung added, “But we can’t now. Not like this. Not when I’m with him.”

That’s when something inside Jungkook broke.

It was subtle. Quiet. But irreversible.

He waited. Weeks. Then months.

Minjun disappeared.

No one asked questions. Taehyung cried for days. Jungkook comforted him.

He held him.

He watched him sleep.

He fed the obsession until it turned into something unholy.

Until one night, Taehyung passed out from exhaustion and Jungkook stood over him, hands shaking as he whispered, Mine. Mine. Mine.

The fantasies turned into urges. The urges turned into plans. He knew Taehyung wouldn’t choose him.

So he would take him.

Back in the present, Taehyung sat on the window seat of the bedroom, staring out at the moonlight casting silver shapes across the garden. His knees were pulled to his chest, and he looked so fragile—so much like the boy Jungkook had once loved.

But this wasn’t love anymore.

This was something else.

Jungkook stood in the doorway, watching him.

“You remember him?” Jungkook asked.

Taehyung didn’t turn. “Minjun?”

A nod.

Taehyung’s voice was hollow. “He vanished. Like he never existed.”

Jungkook stepped closer. “He didn’t deserve you.”

Taehyung finally turned to face him, eyes sharp. “And you do?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “I kept you safe.”

“You stole me.”

“I loved you.”

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

Silence crackled between them like a wire pulled too tight.

“You were mine before you knew it,” Jungkook whispered.

Taehyung’s hands clenched. “I trusted you.”

“And you still can,” Jungkook said, stepping forward.

But Taehyung backed away.

“You want to rewrite the past, Jungkook? Fine. Let me tell you what I remember.”

He stood now, chest heaving. “I remember laughter. I remember friendship. I remember the boy who helped me carry books and told me the stars looked like dreams.”

A tear slid down his cheek.

“And now I see a man who locks doors. Who punishes me for breathing. Who looks at me like I’m a painting he can’t wait to ruin.”

Jungkook reached out.

Taehyung slapped his hand away.

“I may be here,” he whispered. “But my soul isn’t. You haven’t won.”

Jungkook stood frozen, fingers curled into fists.

For the first time in a long while… he didn’t know what to say.

Because he hadn’t expected Taehyung to still have fire.

And somewhere, deep inside the twisted maze of his obsession—

That fire thrilled him.

Because it meant there was still something left to break.

And maybe…

Something left to love.