The air in the underground lounge of the Black Fang headquarters was thick with cigar smoke and blood-slick power. Crystals on the chandelier above shimmered like diamond tears, dripping over a velvet ceiling. Soft jazz played in the background, the kind that wrapped around your throat like a silk noose.

Kim Taehyung stood silently in the corner of the room, wrists bound in fine leather cuffs, his head bowed but his spine unyielding. Even as the men around him bartered his life like livestock, he looked more regal than broken. The tailored suit on his lithe frame screamed high-end, but the hollowness in his eyes told a story of betrayal.

He’d known his father was ruthless. But he hadn’t expected to be sold off like a chess piece.

"Jeon Jungkook," said Park Jinwoo, the broker orchestrating the deal. His voice carried the weight of casual violence. "The boy’s a gift. From the Kim syndicate. Their way of showing loyalty."

Jungkook didn’t respond immediately. Seated with his legs crossed, the young mafia boss of the Black Fang syndicate studied Taehyung like one might inspect a rare artifact—valuable, but ultimately replaceable. His fingers tapped slowly against the glass of his whiskey.

Taehyung finally lifted his head. Brown eyes met coal-black ones. A charge passed between them, crackling like lightning over dry bone.

They recognized each other.

Not from this world of cold-blooded power, but from another time. Another life.

“Taehyung?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, barely audible over the music.

Taehyung’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Hello, Jungkook.”

Ten years ago, they had been children running through the gardens of the Jeju estate, kicking up dust and secrets. Jungkook was the quiet son of a syndicate lieutenant; Taehyung, the golden prince of the Kims. Taehyung had taught Jungkook how to steal mangoes from the greenhouse. Jungkook had taught Taehyung how to throw a punch.

They had loved each other, once.

But that was before.

Before bullets instead of bedtime stories. Before betrayals signed in blood. Before Taehyung’s father handed him over like currency.

"He’s not a gift," Jungkook said finally. “He’s bait.”

Jinwoo laughed nervously. “Come now, Jeon. Don’t be dramatic. He’s beautiful. Smart. Useful."

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave Taehyung’s. “He’s Kim Minsoo’s son. The same man who tried to have me killed two years ago.”

“And yet,” Jinwoo replied, “the boy is yours now. Consider it poetic justice.”

Jungkook stood slowly. His presence was like a blade—sleek, polished, and capable of splitting a man in two without staining his white shirt. He walked toward Taehyung, and the room fell into hush.

He stopped only inches away. His hand reached out and gripped Taehyung’s chin, tilting it up. “Why didn’t you run?”

Taehyung didn’t flinch. “Because I don’t run. I survive.”

Their breath mingled. Too close. Too familiar.

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. “You’ll regret staying.”

“I already do,” Taehyung whispered.

Later that night, Taehyung was led to the master quarters—an opulent room that smelled of expensive cologne and death. Jungkook didn’t speak as he closed the door behind them. Instead, he poured two drinks. One he handed to Taehyung.

“To old ghosts,” Jungkook said, raising his glass.

Taehyung drank. The burn of it settled deep in his bones.

“You're mine now,” Jungkook said. “But don’t confuse ownership with affection.”

Taehyung’s voice was quiet, but sharp. “I wasn’t the one who looked at me like I was a memory.”

Jungkook turned away.

Outside, thunder rolled across the Seoul skyline. Inside, two broken boys stared at each other through the bars of a golden cage.

And so the game began.

Morning came without warmth. Seoul’s skyline bled grey against the frost-bitten windows, and inside the suite, the silence was as sharp as glass. The first thing Taehyung noticed when he opened his eyes wasn’t the silk sheets or the unfamiliar ceiling. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that vibrated with unspoken threats.

He rose slowly, body stiff, mind clearer than expected. Jungkook was nowhere to be seen. His side of the bed was untouched, the couch undisturbed. Only a note sat on the nightstand: “Don’t leave the room. – J.”

Taehyung scoffed, crumpling the paper. He went to the en-suite bathroom, splashed his face, and stared into the mirror. The man staring back wasn’t a prince anymore. There was still beauty—bone structure like it was carved by artful gods—but his eyes had changed. Sharp, defensive. Tired.

After showering, he dressed in the clothes laid out for him—black turtleneck, fitted pants, and a collar.

A collar.

Not just a fashion statement. A message. Property.

He touched the leather, then let his fingers drop. He would wear it. For now.

When Jungkook returned, it was late morning. He entered with the sound of heavy boots and the scent of blood and bergamot trailing behind him. A blade still hung on his hip. His black shirt was splattered—just enough to send a message.

“You went killing before breakfast?” Taehyung said, voice dry.

Jungkook looked at him, eyes unreadable. “Business.”

Taehyung sat on the arm of the couch, arms crossed. “Did I behave well while you were gone, Master?”

Jungkook flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but Taehyung caught it.

“Don’t test me today,” Jungkook warned, loosening the strap on his wrist holster. “You’ll find me less merciful than last night.”

“I’ve never mistaken you for being merciful.”

Breakfast was served on a mahogany table in the corner—fruit, bread, eggs, smoked meat. Taehyung ate quietly. Jungkook didn’t.

He watched.

Every sip of juice. Every slow chew. Like he was memorizing Taehyung’s habits for strategic advantage.

Finally, Taehyung looked up. “You think watching me will tell you how to control me?”

Jungkook’s smirk was humorless. “I already control you. You’re here, wearing my clothes. In my bed.”

Taehyung set down his fork. “Ownership is not control. You can chain a man’s body and still lose his soul.”

“And are you so certain yours isn’t already mine?”

Taehyung stood. “You’ll never break me, Jungkook. You might bend me. Burn me. But break me? You’ll have to kill me first.”

A pause. Then Jungkook stood too, slow and lethal. “I don’t want to kill you, Tae. I want to keep you. That’s worse.”

The words chilled the room.

That afternoon, Taehyung was shown the estate. A fortress hidden in the folds of Gangnam, guarded by walls and steel and men with soulless eyes. Surveillance in every hallway. Rooms filled with secrets.

“You’ll stay here,” Jungkook said, leading him to a library lined with rare books and hidden liquor cabinets. “You can read. Drink. Do what you want—except leave.”

“Generous of you,” Taehyung muttered.

“I’m not cruel. Just cautious.”

Taehyung turned to him, eyes sharp. “Then stop playing games. Tell me what you really want.”

Jungkook stepped closer. “I want revenge. On your father. On the syndicate that betrayed me. And I want you—to remember who I was… and see what I’ve become.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. “You’re not that boy anymore.”

“No. And neither are you.”

Night fell again. And with it came chaos.

A call. An emergency.

One of Jungkook’s lieutenants had been ambushed. A rival faction. Blood. Guns. Screams over the line.

Jungkook barked orders, gathered his men. He moved like a storm—precise, furious. But before he left, he returned to the suite. Taehyung was at the window, watching the city blink.

“I’m going out,” Jungkook said.

Taehyung didn’t turn. “Be careful.”

It was instinctive. Honest. And it stunned them both.

Jungkook hesitated, then walked over. He cupped Taehyung’s face, not roughly, not gently. Just… touch.

“Don’t disappear,” he said.

“I couldn’t even if I tried.”

Hours passed. Taehyung sat in the dark, thinking. Remembering. Wondering what kind of man Jungkook had become—and what kind of man he would need to be to survive him.

The door creaked open near dawn.

Jungkook returned, blood on his shirt, knuckles bruised. He looked like a painting of violence. And exhaustion.

Taehyung rose. Without thinking, he moved forward. Touched Jungkook’s face. “You’re hurt.”

Jungkook leaned into the touch. Just a moment.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“Liar.”

Jungkook pulled him in suddenly—one arm around Taehyung’s waist, the other behind his neck. Their bodies collided, heat against heat.

And then he kissed him.

Fierce. Desperate. Regretful.

Taehyung didn’t push him away.

Not yet.

Later, as they lay in silence, breaths still erratic, Taehyung whispered, “Why did you kiss me?”

Jungkook’s voice was gravel. “Because I wanted to remember what it felt like… before the world ruined us.”

And Taehyung, eyes closed, replied, “Then kiss me like I’m still your safe place.”

Jungkook did.

But in the corner of the room, the collar still hung on the chair. Waiting.

A week had passed in the cage of luxury, and Taehyung was beginning to feel the shape of his confinement. It wasn’t the cold steel of prison bars. It was silk sheets and imported wine, the too-soft hush of money cushioning every edge. It was the way Jungkook watched him—not as a man watches a lover, but as a hawk watches prey it hasn't decided whether to kill or tame.

He played his role well. The obedient possession. The beautiful pet.

But beneath the surface, Taehyung was already weaving his web.

He studied the patterns of Jungkook’s days: his meetings, his moods, the men who came and went. He kept track of the guards—how often they changed shifts, which ones looked away when he passed. Taehyung had been trained to observe, to survive. And if he couldn’t escape… he would conquer.

One morning, he prepared breakfast for Jungkook. Not as an act of submission, but a challenge.

The bowl of spicy beef broth steamed between them. Jungkook, fresh from a workout, shirt damp and collar open, eyed it with suspicion.

“You cooked?”

“I supervised,” Taehyung replied with a smile. “Let’s call it a peace offering.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “I don’t eat peace. I devour war.”

“Then consider this a ceasefire. Temporary, of course.”

He took a cautious spoonful.

Halfway through the bowl, he paused. His brow furrowed.

“Did you…” he looked at Taehyung sharply. “Poison this?”

Taehyung blinked innocently. “Would I do that?”

“I think you would. What is this burning in my throat?”

“Capsaicin. From ghost peppers. Good for circulation.”

Jungkook dropped his spoon, coughing. “You’re insane.”

Taehyung sipped his tea serenely. “You always wanted a fiery relationship, didn’t you?”

Despite himself, Jungkook laughed. It was short, rough, and quickly stifled—but real.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Tae.”

“I’m not playing,” Taehyung said softly. “This is war. One of us just hasn’t realized it yet.”

Later that day, Jungkook summoned him to a meeting. It was a sit-down with two of his lieutenants and a financier from an allied family. The room was thick with testosterone and tension.

Taehyung took a seat by the window, silent and elegant, watching.

Jungkook’s voice was sharp. “There’s a leak. Someone is feeding intel to the Min clan. I want names.”

His men shifted uncomfortably. The financier, a sleek man named Ryu, tried to deflect. “Leaks are normal in our line of work. The important thing is—”

“No.” Jungkook’s voice cut like glass. “The important thing is loyalty. Which I will test personally, if I must.”

He glanced at Taehyung then—just for a second—and something passed between them.

After the meeting, Jungkook caught him in the hallway.

“You were listening,” he said.

“I always listen.”

“Did you hear anything useful?”

Taehyung tilted his head. “I heard Ryu lie.”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“I watched his pupils. His breath hitched every time he mentioned Min.”

“Useful,” Jungkook murmured. “Very useful.”

He reached out, brushed Taehyung’s hair back. The touch was soft, almost tender.

Taehyung didn’t flinch. “Don’t mistake usefulness for loyalty.”

“I don’t. I mistake it for leverage.”

That night, Taehyung found himself in the rooftop greenhouse. It was one of the few places in the estate that felt untouched by blood and war.

He stood among jasmine vines and moonflowers, staring at the city’s bruised skyline.

“You’re not hiding, are you?” Jungkook’s voice behind him.

Taehyung didn’t turn. “Not from you.”

Jungkook stepped beside him. “What are you hiding, then?”

Taehyung looked at him. “Hope. It’s foolish, but I keep hoping you’ll remember who we were.”

“I remember.” Jungkook’s voice was quiet. “You were light. And I… I was the shadow that followed you.”

Silence.

Taehyung said, “You still are. But I’ve learned how to blind the dark.”

They stood in the moonlight, two broken things pretending not to break.

Then Jungkook asked, “Why did you poison me?”

Taehyung smiled faintly. “Because you need someone who doesn’t fear you. Who can touch your monsters and still stay.”

Jungkook leaned in, voice a whisper. “And you think that’s you?”

“I know it is.”

Their eyes locked.

And for a second, the war between them paused.

Not because it ended.

But because neither of them wanted to win.