Red Thread (Taekook)
The dream
The theory that people who are destined to meet are connected by a red thread.
The wind howled like a wounded creature. Sand lashed his skin. His bare feet pounded across the stone path, bleeding with every step, but he didn’t stop.
he was running.
His voice tore through the night air, breathless, frantic.
“Taehyung”
but the person he was running after didn’t turn.
The man in silver armor, streaked in ash and blood, walked farther away with each step, swallowed by fire and shadows. His silhouette blurred at the edges, like a memory being pulled from his grasp.
“Please, don’t leave me!” he cried again, his voice cracling.
The temple bells rang behind him — sharp, condemning. His anklets jingled like chains. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched.
And then — he fell.
His knees crashed into the earth. Dust choked his throat. The sharp pain in his chest had nothing to do with his body. It was heartbreak — wild and unbearable.
He looked up.
They surrounded him. Silhouettes in red and white, eyes full of fire, spitting words like poison.
“He’s defiled the gods.”
“Tainted. Cursed.”
“The virgin dancer touched by a man. Burn his name from the scrolls!”
Hands pointed . Mouths cursed. Noone helped him rise . his ghungroos had broken , beads scattered like blood across the earth.
unknown
But I loved him...
He whispered — to himself, to the gods, to no one.
The sky cracked with thunder.
He screamed.
But it wasn’t heard.
Jungkook sat up in bed with a gasp, heart pounding like war drums.
His sheets were twisted around her legs. Sweat clung to her skin. His chest rose and fell like he had run miles.
he looked down at her hands.
They were shaking.
The room was dark, silent — safe.
But he could still hear the voices. Feel the dust. The sting of disgrace.
The same dream — always the same — growing sharper every time.
And that name on his lips...
Present jungkook
Taehyung.....
he whispered it without understanding why.
Who was he?
Why did his soul scream for him like it had lost him a thousand lifetimes ago.
Morning crept in slowly, casting pale light through the cracks in the rusted windowpane.
The small apartment stirred with silence. It wasn’t much — just a dim one-room flat tucked behind a noisy street in the older part of the city. The paint on the walls was peeling, like old wounds refusing to heal. A single ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, clicking every third turn like a ticking clock that forgot how to count time.
In the far corner was a cramped kitchen — a cracked stove, chipped ceramic plates stacked over a sink full of yesterday's regrets. The smell of dust, paint, and old wood lingered like it belonged there.
And the bedroom…
It was a space barely big enough for the loneliness it carried. A thin mattress lay on the ground, covered with a faded blanket that once had roses on it — now it was just a ghost of color. The walls were empty except for a single nail,In the far corner was a cramped kitchen — a cracked stove, chipped ceramic plates stacked over a sink full of yesterday's regrets. The smell of dust, paint, and old wood lingered like it belonged there.
And the bedroom…
It was a space barely big enough for the loneliness it carried. A thin mattress lay on the ground, covered with a faded blanket that once had roses on it — now it was just a ghost of color. The walls were empty except for a single nail,where a worn pair of ballet slippers hung like a memory no one asked for.
This was his home.
Chapter 2
He carried a dancer’s name, but not a dancer’s life.
Jungkook stood by the cracked mirror nailed to the wall, staring at his own reflection like he didn’t recognize it. Pale skin, sharp collarbones, dark eyes that held too much silence. His black hair curled over his ears, messy and unwashed. His lips were chapped. His hands — veined, calloused, tired — still shook from last night's dream.
He was an orphan long before he lost his parents.
They had died in a fire when he was five. No one told him how. No one told him why. His grandparents took him in — if you could call it that. He was more servant than child. They made him sweep floors, clean gutters, fetch food… but never gave him any.
They beat him when he cried. They beat him when he didn’t.
He learned silence early.
And he learned to dance… even earlier.
Dance was the only place he didn’t feel like a mistake. He taught himself from broken DVDs and stolen YouTube time in cybercafés. At seventeen, he ran away — with nothing but his feet, his pain, and a pair of stolen shoes.
Now, he danced in cheap theatres, tourist cafes, college halls. Not for passion.
For rent. For food.
For survival.
This morning, Jungkook's place
The alarm buzzed softly at 5:00 AM.
Jungkook opened his eyes with a slow, heavy blink. The dream still clung to his eyelashes like morning mist — not fully gone, not quite real.
He sat up, stretching his arms over his head, joints cracking like dry leaves. His small room was filled with pale light, creeping through the lace curtains that fluttered with the breeze.
No luxury.
Just simplicity
He moved quietly, like he was afraid to wake something sacred.
Washed his face. Brushed his long, dark hair into a bun. Tied the red thread around his ankle — a habit he didn’t question anymore.
Then he placed his feet on the cold floor, stood tall, and began his stretches
Back straight. Arms poised. Eyes forward.
Discipline over emotion.
Movement over memory.
Even when his body ached, even when his soul screamed for something more than this life, he danced — because that’s all he had.
Tonight’s performance wasn’t at a theater or studio — it was in a private hall bathed in dim gold, guarded by men with guns instead of ushers. Jungkook had accepted the offer only because the pay was too good to refuse; one night of dancing would cover his rent , his groceries....
Chapter 3
Far from his little studio, in a city where power ruled louder than law, he stood at the top floor of a high-rise that cast a shadow over the skyline.
The name whispered in underground circles, printed in police reports, and feared in every back-alley deal.
He was the kind of man no one looked at directly unless they wanted to die or fall in love — maybe both.
And he looked like sin dressed in poetry.
Eyes like smoked glass — sharp, dark, unreadable — as if carved by night itself.
His nose was regal, proud.
Lips full and slightly downturned, giving his face a cold, serious stillness.
A jawline cut with precision.
Hair dark brown, thick and tousled, brushing against his lashes and the nape of his neck.
And his skin — porcelain with a golden warmth, as if the sun had tried to kiss him once but couldn’t get too close.
He wore a black silk shirt, slightly unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to reveal veins and a gunmetal watch ticking like a countdown.
He didn’t speak much.
Didn’t need to.
His silence was enough to make men bow and women look twice.
He didn’t inherit power — he took it.
After his elder brother was assassinated in a betrayal that still stank of blood, taehyung took the throne of korea's underworld — not with celebration, but with vengeance.
He built his empire like a machine — clean, ruthless, quiet.
Only fear.
He didn’t smile often, but when he did — it felt like a promise and a warning at once.
And yet, there were nights he stood by the window of his penthouse, staring down at the city lights — silent, still, like he was searching for something no bullet could reach.
He had everything.
Power. Wealth. Loyalty.
But something inside him remained untouched.
Unclaimed.
As if his soul still remembered the feel of someone’s hand slipping away in another life.
Kim taehyung didn’t care for parties. To him, they were nothing more than gilded cages — all smoke, laughter, and hollow glasses, where men wore loyalty like masks and women whispered power like perfume. Tonight’s event was no different: another high-society gala thrown in the name of alliances and image. A formality. A performance. Something his advisors insisted he attend to "keep appearances." He was going for the same reason he wore a gun under silk — because it was expected. Yet, as he sat in his black car, city lights flickering past the tinted windows, something tugged at him. Not logic. Not obligation. Something deeper. Older. Like a string tied around his soul… pulling him toward the unknown. He didn’t believe in destiny. But tonight, fate had already written his name on the guest list — in ink only a red thread could see.
Author
Thank you sooo much for the support
Author
lovee yaaaa girlies 💋
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