The city didn’t sleep, not because it was alive—but because something was always dying.

It was 3:47 a.m. when Detective Jeon Jungkook stood over the latest corpse, steam rising from the asphalt like the city itself was trying to exhale the rot. Rain clung to his black coat, his boots soaked through, but his eyes—sharp, cold, unreadable—didn’t waver from the body at his feet.

Female. Late twenties. Same cut, same staging. Pale skin slit from ear to ear like a cruel smile. A delicate red thread tied tight around her left ring finger.

Like a promise she never made.

“Third one this month,” his partner muttered beside him. “Think it’s the same guy?”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His jaw tightened. His eyes shifted to the alley’s end, where a sliver of warm light leaked from the café across the street. Hellebore. Pretentious name. Beautiful lighting. Immaculate glass windows.

And always—always—him.

Kim Taehyung.

He stood behind the counter like a painting in motion, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, fingers pouring espresso with reverence. Like the act of serving coffee was holy. His gaze flicked up—slowly, deliberately.

Right into Jungkook’s.

They held each other like that for a beat too long. Then Jungkook turned away first. Always.

He didn’t remember when it started—this obsession. Maybe after the second murder, when Taehyung showed up at the scene uninvited. Said he couldn’t sleep, brought coffee. Jungkook had taken it. Said nothing. Drank it anyway.

Now he was drinking it every morning.

And maybe… dreaming about the man who served it.

Later that morning, Jungkook entered Hellebore. The bell above the door chimed softly, delicate as a warning.

Taehyung looked up, and smiled.

“Detective,” he greeted, voice low and unhurried. “Thought you’d be sleeping off the dead.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“Neither do the guilty.”

That earned a pause. Jungkook stepped forward, the space between them thick with silence. His eyes scanned the pristine countertop, the perfect alignment of cups and saucers. Too clean. Too precise.

Just like the crime scenes.

“You always this poetic at dawn?” Jungkook asked.

Taehyung cocked his head. “Only for you.”

There it was again—that electric pulse beneath the skin of every word they exchanged. Taehyung slid him a cup without asking. Black. No sugar.

Jungkook took a sip, never breaking eye contact. “Why were you near the alley this morning?”

“I live upstairs,” Taehyung answered smoothly, leaning in. “But maybe I just like following you.”

The heat between them flickered, then flared.

Jungkook could feel it. The tension. The danger. The question behind every glance: Do you know what I did?

The answer behind every smile: Do you want me to?

He reached into his coat, pulled out a small plastic bag, and placed it on the counter. Inside was a photograph: the victim’s hand. The red string.

Taehyung’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Pretty. Romantic, even.”

“You think killing someone’s romantic?”

Taehyung’s eyes darkened, a slow grin spreading across his lips. “Only when they deserve it.”

Something twisted inside Jungkook’s chest. Lust, maybe. Or fear. The line between them was fraying fast.

“You always this calm around murder?”

Taehyung leaned in, voice a breath against his ear. “Maybe it’s not the murder that excites me, detective.”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched on the cup. His gun felt heavy beneath his coat. His blood, heavier.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said lowly.

Taehyung’s lips brushed the rim of his own cup. “Good. I’m tired of playing it alone.”

...----------------...

Characters

For the ghost in the mirror.

The one I tried to chase, cage, kill, and kiss.

You taught me that love isn’t red like roses.

It’s red like blood.

And I’d bleed again if it meant finding you in the dark.

—JJK

...

...

For the boy who broke first.

I watched you long before you saw me.

You were beautiful in ruin—

all cracked edges and trembling hands,

just waiting to be claimed.

You never had a choice.

You were always mine.

—KTH

The fourth victim was discovered on a Monday.

Throat slit, eyes closed, a red thread coiled around her left ring finger like a promise broken mid-sentence.

Jungkook stood over her body, the city pressing in around him like a fever dream. Somewhere nearby, espresso steamed and jazz played through rain-speckled glass. He could smell it—rich and bitter, drifting from the same goddamn café every time.

Hellebore.

He ran the names again. All four victims had visited it within a week of their deaths. The coincidence tightened into a knot at the base of his skull.

He returned the next evening.

The café was slow at night. Shadows clung to corners. Jazz dripped from unseen speakers. The man behind the counter moved like he belonged to the dark—slow, graceful, deliberate.

Jungkook didn’t know his name yet.

But the barista knew his.

“Detective,” the man greeted, sliding an Americano across the counter with a lazy smile. “No sugar, no cream. You strike me as someone who prefers the bitter end.”

Jungkook stiffened.

“I didn’t order.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence sat heavy between them, thick with unspoken things.

“You serve all your customers this personally?” Jungkook asked.

Taehyung shrugged. “Only the ones investigating me.”

He leaned forward, voice low and warm. “You’ve been watching me for three days. I figured it was time to say hello.”

Jungkook stared at him, throat dry. “I’m here for the coffee.”

Taehyung smiled like he could taste the lie. “Aren’t we all?”

The second time Jungkook came in, the café was closed.

He wasn’t there for the coffee.

He found Taehyung alone, back turned, wiping down the counter. A black turtleneck clung to his frame. The lights were low. The door had been unlocked.

“Should I call this breaking and entering?” Taehyung asked without turning.

“I’m not here to play.”

“You never are. That’s why it’s so fun.”

Jungkook crossed the floor in three quick steps, grabbed Taehyung by the wrist, spun him around. Taehyung let it happen, eyes glittering.

“You think this is a game?”

“I think you’re obsessed,” Taehyung whispered. “And obsession always ends one of two ways—fucking or killing.”

Their mouths crashed before Jungkook could stop himself.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

Teeth and tongue, fists in fabric, Taehyung’s back slammed to the counter, Jungkook’s thigh slotted between his. The kiss dragged heat from every nerve ending—fast, filthy, fucked.

Jungkook bit down hard on Taehyung’s lower lip. Taehyung moaned.

Then whispered, “You want to fuck your suspect? Or do you just want to be caught?”

Jungkook froze.

Something cracked inside him. He stepped back like he’d been burned.

“This is a mistake,” he growled.

“Which part?” Taehyung asked, wiping the blood from his lip with a smirk. “Getting hard while pinning a killer… or wanting to pin one down?”

Jungkook returned the next day with a warrant.

But the back room was spotless. No hidden photographs. No red string. No secret shrine.

Just shelves. Just coffee beans. Just silence.

Nothing to justify the pulse thundering in his throat.

But he knew what he’d seen the night before. A grainy photo—him, watching from his car across the street. Taken through glass. Taken in secret.

He wasn't losing his mind.

Unless Taehyung wanted him to.

That night, he dreamed of blood.

Not a victim’s. His own.

He was fifteen again. The body at his feet. A girl. Screaming. Silence. Red string on her finger.

He woke up shaking.

The past wasn’t buried. It was clawing its way back up.

And Taehyung—he knew.

The rain came in sheets the night Jungkook followed Taehyung.

No warrant. No backup. Just a half-dead cigarette and the taste of that kiss still clinging to his mouth like sin.

Taehyung walked with purpose-no umbrella, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly tilted toward the sky like he was inviting the storm in. Jungkook stayed just far enough behind to be a ghost, but close enough to breathe him in. The scent was faint even through the wet air: clove smoke, bergamot, something dark beneath the sweetness.

He tailed him all the way to the warehouse district. Abandoned storage units. Rusted signage. Concrete halls where sound didn't echo-it drowned.

Taehyung didn't knock. Just slipped inside one of the units, the door yawning open like a mouth. Jungkook waited sixty seconds. Then followed.

What he found wasn't a killer's lair. Not exactly.

It was a shrine.

Photos-hundreds-lined the walls in precise symmetry. Victims, yes. But more than that: himself.

Jungkook at work. Jungkook at home. Jungkook watching Taehyung through the café window. Candid shots. Surveillance angles. Moments that should've belonged to privacy. Or dignity.

And in the center of it all: a single framed photo of a boy, maybe thirteen, smiling in the sun. The edges of the frame were wrapped in a red thread.

Jungkook's heart stopped.

He hadn't seen that face in over a decade.

"Hello, Jungkook."

He turned slowly. Taehyung leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"It's not breaking and entering if I left the door open."

Jungkook opened his mouth, but nothing came. Just a rasp of breath.

"You remember him, don't you?"

The boy. That summer. The woods. The argument. The rock in Jungkook's hand.

His voice was barely there. "Your brother."

Taehyung smiled. Not gently.

"Used to be. Now I'm just... someone else. Someone who watched the world forget him. Someone who watched you forget."

Jungkook stumbled back a step. "You're not supposed to be here. That boy-he-"

"Died," Taehyung finished for him. "But so did I, Jungkook. I just came back meaner."

He stepped forward, and Jungkook let him. Couldn't not.

Fingers reached for his jaw, cold and firm. "You were always so good at pretending it didn't happen. Did Daddy scrub it clean for you? Did the police play blind?"

"I didn't mean to-"

"You did. You killed him."

Jungkook's breath shook. "Then why haven't you turned me in?"

Taehyung tilted his head. "You think I want justice?" He leaned in, mouth at Jungkook's ear. "I want you to remember. Every day. Every breath. I want you to look at me and feel it tear you open."

His lips brushed Jungkook's throat.

"I want you to need me," he whispered. "The way you need pain."

They ended up at Jungkook's apartment.

Not with soft confessions. Not with redemption. With hands on hips, backs against walls, teeth on collarbones.

Taehyung fucked like he was reclaiming something.

Jungkook let him.

There was no rhythm. Just heat and motion. Bruises bloomed like flowers. Fingers left crescent moons. Jungkook bled from a bite to the shoulder and came with Taehyung's name on his lips like a punishment.

After, he lay there, bare chest rising and falling, eyes unfocused.

Taehyung sat beside him on the bed, a small knife in hand.

Jungkook didn't flinch.

"Do it," he said hoarsely.

The blade kissed his chest-just beneath the collarbone. A shallow cut. Red welled up, thin and elegant.

Taehyung watched it with reverence.

"You only feel alive when it hurts, don't you?" he murmured.

Jungkook nodded.

"So do I."

They didn't speak for a while.When Taehyung finnally did,it was quiet

didn't kill the first two."

Jungkook turned his head. "What?"

"The first two victims. I didn't touch them."

"But the third-"

Taehyung's lips curled faintly. "He reminded me of you."

Jungkook sat up, heart jackhammering.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Taehyung whispered. "Or are you just hoping I am?"

The rain outside had stopped, but the silence it left was heavier than thunder.

Taehyung kissed the cut on Jungkook's chest, slow and deliberate.

Then curled beside him in the sheets, like lovers do.

Jungkook wakes first.

The apartment is dark, save for the city glow leaking through the blinds. Taehyung sleeps beside him like a curse laid to rest-one arm draped across Jungkook's abdomen, face half-hidden in the pillow. For a moment, it almost looks innocent.

But there's blood dried on Jungkook's chest.

The ache in his muscles isn't just exhaustion. It's aftermath. Of sex. Of confessions. Of something deeper and colder that still hasn't thawed.

He slips from the bed and dresses silently. His badge feels heavier in his coat pocket than it ever has.

He steps out into the hallway and calls in a trace.

On Taehyung.

No existing records. No digital footprint prior to five years ago. No mention of a dead sibling-only a redacted file tied to his father's old firm. The entire past scrubbed.

Manufactured.

Back at his desk, Jungkook spreads the photos from the shrine across the table. Arranges them chronologically. Tries to find a pattern that isn't just obsession.

One detail catches his eye.

The last victim-the one Taehyung might have killed-had a note folded in his wallet.

A poem. Four lines. Handwritten.

He pulls it from evidence and lays it next to the cut on his chest in the mirror.

The writing matches.

He should turn Taehyung in. Should haul him in for questioning, blood still under his nails.

But he doesn't.

He goes home instead.

Taehyung is awake when he arrives.

Naked beneath the sheets, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers. Smoke curls toward the ceiling like a warning. He doesn't ask where Jungkook's been.

"You stayed," is all he says.

Jungkook shrugs off his coat. "I always do."

They don't talk about the poem. Or the blood. Or the way their story is circling the drain.

Instead, Jungkook climbs into bed beside the man who's either going to destroy him or save him by doing so.

And he lets it all burn a little longer.