The warehouse smelled like rust and smoke. V stood in the middle of it all, coat draped over his shoulders, eyes cold and sharp like a blade. His men lingered behind him, guns hidden but ready. On the other side, Jungkook walked in with the same careless confidence he always carried, leather jacket clinging to his frame, a smirk tugging at his lips.

The air was heavy. Too quiet. Too dangerous.

“This wasn’t the price we agreed on,” V said flatly, sliding a folder across the table. His voice was calm, but there was poison in it.

Jungkook leaned down, flipping through the papers without even pretending to care. “Prices change,” he replied, voice low, almost mocking. “You should know that better than anyone.”

V’s jaw tightened. The years apart hadn’t changed Jungkook—still arrogant, still reckless. But seeing him here again after everything they’d been through… it pulled something inside V he didn’t want to name.

“Don’t play with me,” V said, his tone sharper now.

“And don’t waste my time,” Jungkook shot back, eyes lifting to meet his. For a second, the noise of the warehouse seemed to fade, and it was just them—two men with too much history, too much bitterness.

Then, the first gunshot cracked the silence.

Chaos erupted.

Bullets flew across the warehouse, echoing like thunder. V’s men drew their guns, firing at the rival gang that had been hiding in the shadows. Jungkook’s side did the same, the deal exploding into blood and violence. Shouts, screams, metal clanging—it was a storm of fury.

V ducked behind a stack of crates, pulling out his pistol with steady hands. He aimed and fired without hesitation, dropping one of the enemies. His eyes flicked to Jungkook across the floor. Jungkook was moving fast, like a shadow, shooting down anyone in his way. The smirk was gone now—replaced with something darker, sharper.

For a moment, their eyes met through the haze of smoke and flashing gunfire.

Hatred burned there—years of betrayal, anger, unspoken words. But under that hatred, something else flickered. A memory. A pull. Something V wished he could kill as easily as pulling a trigger.

Another explosion shook the ground, snapping him back. He pressed forward, shouting orders to his men, but his gaze kept returning to Jungkook. Always him. Even in the middle of bloodshed.

The fight dragged on, brutal and unrelenting. Bodies hit the floor, blood stained the concrete, the air reeked of gunpowder. V reloaded, sweat dripping down his temple, when suddenly he saw one of the rivals aiming straight for Jungkook’s back.

“Jungkook!” The warning slipped out before he could stop himself.

Jungkook spun, firing his gun just in time to drop the man who had aimed at him. His brows furrowed for a second, his gaze snapping back to V. The look said everything—Why warn me? Why care?

Neither of them had the answer.

By the time the smoke cleared, only a few men were left standing. Both sides had taken heavy losses. V stood, chest heaving, gun still in hand. Jungkook wiped blood from his cheek, eyes never leaving V.

“Still the same,” Jungkook muttered, almost to himself.

V’s lips twitched into the faintest bitter smile. “You’ve changed.”

The tension between them was heavy, thicker than the smoke still hanging in the air. Enemies, yes. But the way their eyes lingered said otherwise.

The deal had gone wrong. The blood on the ground was proof of it. But for V and Jungkook, this was just the beginning.

The rain hit against the glass windows like it wanted to come in, like it knew the kind of story Taehyung carried inside him. He sat there, staring out, cigarette burning between his fingers but never reaching his lips. He didn’t smoke much—just liked watching the thin line of smoke curl up and vanish. It reminded him of himself. Something here, then gone.

Taehyung wasn’t born cold. He was made that way.

Back then, before the mafia, before the guns and money, he had been just a boy. A boy with soft hands and a smile that could’ve been innocent, if life had let it stay that way. But life didn’t.

His father’s drunken shouts filled his earliest memories. The way glass bottles shattered against the walls. The way fists felt against his skin—sharp, heavy, unending. His mother was never there to shield him; she was too broken herself, too busy surviving in her own hell. So Taehyung learned early that crying got him nowhere. He learned silence. Silence was safer.

At school, people only saw the bruises he hid behind long sleeves, the quiet boy who never joined games. They never knew he was too busy figuring out whether tonight he’d get dinner or another scar.

One night, it went too far. His father threw him against the corner of the table, splitting his lip and cutting deep into his side. Taehyung remembered lying on the floor, blood pooling, wondering if maybe this was it—maybe life was finally done with him.

But life wasn’t.

It was the mafia who found him first. Not out of kindness, no. They saw a desperate kid with sharp eyes and no one to protect him. Perfect to shape, perfect to use. But for Taehyung, it was still better than the hell he came from. At least here, the rules were clear. At least here, pain meant survival.

He grew up fast. Too fast. The boy disappeared, and in his place came the cold, ruthless V—the name he gave himself like armor. V didn’t flinch. V didn’t cry. V didn’t break.

Still, scars don’t vanish. Sometimes, when he undressed, he caught sight of them in the mirror. The thin lines across his ribs, the faint marks on his back, the cigarette burns on his arms. Memories carved into his body, proof of the boy he once was.

People only saw the mafia prince now. Sharp suits, dangerous smirk, eyes that could freeze fire itself. But underneath, he was still that boy who had once begged for kindness and got fists instead. He carried that misery in silence, locking it away because showing weakness meant death in this world.

That night, after the deal went wrong, after seeing Jungkook again with all that burning hatred in his eyes, Taehyung lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The gun was on his nightstand, as always. Safety within reach. But his chest ached with something else—something he hated to admit.

Seeing Jungkook had cracked something open. It dragged him back, not to the beatings, not to the blood, but to the one time someone had smiled at him like he mattered. Back when Jungkook had been different. Back when they’d both been different.

Taehyung closed his eyes, jaw tightening. He couldn’t afford to feel. Feelings were dangerous. Feelings made him weak. And weak was the last thing V could ever be.

So he buried it again. Like he always did.

Outside, the rain kept falling, just like it always had.

The mansion was always too quiet at night. The silence pressed down like a weight, broken only by the hum of distant city traffic or the occasional echo of footsteps in the hall. Tae sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the faint scars that trailed across his arms. He never liked looking at them, but sometimes it felt impossible to look away. They reminded him of what he had survived, of what he could never escape.

For someone so feared in the mafia world, he felt small when he was alone. Cold. Fragile. Like the darkness would swallow him whole if he blinked too long.

And then, like he always did, Jimin walked in.

“Tae.” His voice was soft, almost like he was afraid to break something delicate. He leaned against the doorframe, his presence instantly filling the emptiness of the room. Jimin never needed to say much—he just was. Light, calm, warm in ways Tae didn’t know he needed until it was there.

Tae didn’t look up. “What do you want?” His tone was sharp, defensive. That was how he always covered himself. Push before you could be pushed. Hurt before someone could hurt you.

But Jimin didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he walked closer and sat beside him, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. Tae could smell the faint scent of soap on his skin, clean and comforting, like Jimin carried a piece of peace wherever he went.

“I don’t want anything,” Jimin said simply, his lips curving into that soft smile that always seemed to cut through Tae’s walls. “You looked… lost. So I came.”

Tae let out a bitter laugh. “I’m always lost. You should be used to it.”

Jimin shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t get used to seeing you like this.”

Something in his voice made Tae’s chest tighten. Jimin wasn’t pitying him. It wasn’t sympathy. It was something stronger, something that felt terrifying—like Jimin saw him, the real him, under the scars and the cruelty and the layers of ice he had built to survive.

And the scariest part? Jimin didn’t run away.

Tae finally glanced at him, and for a moment, it was too much. The way Jimin’s eyes held him, steady and unwavering, like he could carry all of Tae’s pain without breaking. It was both comforting and suffocating.

“You shouldn’t care about me this much,” Tae muttered, almost whispering. “I’ll ruin you.”

But Jimin only leaned back, resting his arms behind him casually, as if they weren’t sitting in the middle of all the shadows Tae dragged everywhere. “Maybe I don’t mind being ruined,” he said softly, but there was something in his tone—something dangerous, something that didn’t match the warm boyish smile.

It was moments like this that reminded Tae: Jimin wasn’t as simple as he looked. There was an edge under the softness, a sharpness hidden beneath the light. He could be kind, yes, but he was no stranger to darkness either.

That made him even harder to push away.

Tae swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to tell Jimin to leave, to stop making him feel things he had buried so deep. But instead, all he could whisper was, “Stay.”

Jimin’s smile widened, and he nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

And for the first time that night, Tae didn’t feel completely alone.

The shadows in the room didn’t vanish, but they softened—just a little. And maybe, just maybe, Jimin was the only light strong enough to remind him that even in darkness, there could still be warmth.