The night was quiet, except for the faint dripping of water outside Taehyung’s little pottery studio(CLAY & SOUL). Clay dust hung in the air, mingling with the sweet, earthy scent of wet terracotta. He had worked himself to exhaustion again — head resting on his arm, the table still scattered with unfinished clay bowls, his breath soft and uneven as if trapped between two worlds.

And then came the dream.

It was different this time. Vivid. Alive.

Taehyung was no longer in his studio but somewhere dark, cold, and endless. A man stood before him, faceless in the shadows but painfully close. Taehyung’s chest tightened when their bodies pressed together, warmth clashing with an unknown chill that seeped from the man’s skin. Their lips brushed—not quite a kiss, not quite a touch—but it made Taehyung’s heart stumble.

His trembling hand drifted across the stranger’s chest, fingertips grazing bare skin until they stopped on something strange. A mark.

Bright, burning red.

Almost kite-shaped.

Etched onto the very center of his chest like it had always belonged there.

The moment Taehyung’s fingers traced it, the man inhaled sharply, tilting his head back as though the touch alone ignited fire in his veins. A shiver ran down Taehyung’s spine—pleasure, fear, desire all tangled into one. He wanted to see the man’s face, to memorize it, to know who haunted his sleep. But before he could...

RING. RING.

The phone shattered the dream into pieces.

Taehyung jerked awake, sweat clinging to his forehead. His chest rose and fell heavily, his eyes stinging as though he had been crying in his sleep. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, startled to find real tears smearing across his skin.

Why?

Why was he crying over a dream?

The phone continued to buzz insistently. He grabbed it with clay-stained fingers and pressed it to his ear.

“...Hello?” His voice was hoarse.

“Mr. Kim? This is Mrs. Hwang,” the familiar voice of his regular customer chimed. “The vases—are they ready by tomorrow?”

Taehyung forced a breath. “Y-Yes… they’ll be done.”

He ended the call quickly, leaning back against his chair. His hands shook. His body felt heavy, and yet his chest—right where he had touched that red mark—burned faintly as if the dream had left behind a scar of its own.

“Who are you?” he whispered to the silence.

The rest of the day crawled by. Taehyung worked quietly, shaping clay that seemed colder than usual. Every scrape of the pottery wheel echoed in the room, every drop of water felt louder. He couldn’t shake the memory of that mark. It felt familiar. Too familiar, like it belonged to someone waiting for him beyond the thin veil of reality.

And that night, as the rain finally started pouring outside, the studio door creaked open.

Taehyung looked up, startled. A stranger stood at the threshold. Tall, broad shoulders hidden beneath a damp coat, raven-black hair sticking to his pale forehead. His sharp eyes glowed faintly even in the dim light, and though his presence was quiet, it pressed heavily into the air like a storm about to break.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” the man said, his voice deep, velvet-smooth but laced with something ancient. “I… need a place to stay. Just for tonight.”

Taehyung blinked, unsure why his pulse quickened. “Who… are you?”

The stranger gave the faintest smile, one corner of his lips curving as if he knew something Taehyung didn’t. “Jungkook,” he said simply.

Taehyung didn’t know yet.

Didn’t know that the red mark in his dreams was hidden beneath the very shirt Jungkook now wore.

And so it began.

The storm hadn’t stopped. Rain hammered against the windows of Taehyung’s little studio, drowning the world outside in a relentless rhythm. Inside, the air was heavy, too heavy for a room so small. Taehyung felt it the moment Jungkook stepped in—the atmosphere bending, warping, as though the space itself had to adjust to fit him.

The stranger—Jungkook—stood silently, water dripping from his coat. His eyes scanned the shelves stacked with pots and clay figures, but they lingered longer on Taehyung.

“You’re… a potter?” Jungkook’s voice was calm, curious.

Taehyung swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud his own heartbeat was. “Y-Yeah… it’s my family’s work. I just keep it alive.” He rubbed the clay off his palms, nervous. “You… want to stay here tonight?”

Jungkook nodded once. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Taehyung hesitated. It wasn’t like him to let strangers in, especially during storms when the town itself seemed haunted. But something about Jungkook’s presence pulled him in—a magnetism he couldn’t explain. Against his better judgment, he stepped aside.

“You can stay. The guest room’s upstairs.”

Jungkook’s lips curved, faint and unreadable. “Thank you.”

As Jungkook moved past him, Taehyung noticed it. The air grew colder. Not like a draft from the storm, but a chill that crept under his skin, sinking into his bones. Goosebumps ran up his arms, yet Jungkook didn’t seem bothered by the wet clothes clinging to his body.

Later that night, the house was quiet except for the rain. Taehyung sat at his worktable, pretending to focus on the clay, but his hands trembled. He couldn’t stop replaying the dream, the red mark, the faceless man—and now Jungkook.

Why did his name feel so… heavy? Why did his voice sound familiar?

He shook his head. You’re overthinking, Taehyung. It’s just a dream. Just a stranger.

But when he finally went upstairs, passing by the guest room, he paused. The door was half-open.

Jungkook stood inside. His coat was gone, his damp shirt clinging to his chest. The faint lamp light cast shadows across his pale skin, and for a fleeting second, Taehyung swore he saw something—something almost glowing, just beneath the fabric, right in the center of his chest.

That mark.

Taehyung’s breath hitched. He blinked, and it was gone. Just a shadow, a trick of the light.

But Jungkook had noticed him.

“Can’t sleep?” Jungkook’s voice broke the silence.

Caught, Taehyung stammered, “I—I was just… making sure you’re comfortable.”

Jungkook’s lips curled, unreadable. “I am. You don’t need to worry.”

Yet his eyes lingered on Taehyung—long, steady, like he could see more than what was on the surface. Like he could peel open his thoughts and drink them whole.

Taehyung felt his chest tighten. “Goodnight, then.” He hurried to his own room, heart pounding.

But sleep didn’t come easy.

When Taehyung finally drifted off, the dream returned. The same faceless man. The same closeness. The same burning red mark glowing under his touch. Only this time… he heard something. A whisper, low and breathless against his ear:

“You’ve found me.”

Taehyung gasped awake, shivering. His room was dark, yet he swore he heard footsteps in the hallway. Soft. Slow. Passing by his door.

He sat frozen, barely breathing, until the sound faded.

The next morning, the storm had cleared, but the unease hadn’t. Jungkook was already awake, standing by the window as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Morning,” Taehyung said carefully.

Jungkook turned, his expression calm but his eyes dark, bottomless. “Thank you… for letting me stay. I’ll be gone soon.”

Taehyung felt a pang in his chest he couldn’t explain. Why did he care if Jungkook left? They had only just met. And yet…

Before Jungkook walked out, he glanced back once more. His lips parted as if to say something, but instead, he only gave a faint smile—one that left Taehyung’s stomach in knots.

And then he was gone.

But Taehyung knew.

This wasn’t the end.

This was the beginning of something he couldn’t escape.

The third day came wrapped in silence. The storm was gone, but the quiet that followed felt unnatural—like the town itself was holding its breath.

Taehyung’s small pottery studio smelled of wet earth and clay. Usually, the scent comforted him. Today it pressed on his chest, heavy, suffocating. His fingers molded the damp clay on the wheel, but his eyes kept wandering to the door. To the place where Jungkook had stood the night before.

Jungkook hadn’t returned. He had left early in the morning, but something in Taehyung told him it wasn’t over. People passed through town all the time, yet no one lingered in his thoughts the way Jungkook did. His mind kept circling back to those eyes—too dark, too knowing.

And that chest. That flicker of red that couldn’t possibly be real.

Taehyung pressed harder into the clay, the wheel spinning faster. His heartbeat matched its rhythm.

It was nothing. A shadow. You’re imagining things.

But no matter how he repeated it, his body didn’t believe.

That night, Taehyung tried to distract himself with tea and books. He pulled an old volume from his father’s shelf—“Legends of the Forgotten”—a collection of half-believed folktales passed down in his village. He had flipped through it before as a child, laughing at stories of demons, restless spirits, and old gods.

Now, the words didn’t feel funny.

One story caught his attention. “The Man with the Red Seal.” His throat went dry. He skimmed:

> “Marked by blood in the center of his chest, he walks the earth unchanged by time. He seeks what was taken, he waits for what was promised. When you dream of him, he is already near.”

The book slipped from his hands, thudding against the floor.

Taehyung froze. His breath came shallow, uneven. It was only a story. Just a coincidence. But… his dream. That red mark.

He rubbed his arms, fighting the chill. “Don’t be stupid, Tae. It’s just a book.”

But the words wouldn’t leave him. When you dream of him, he is already near.

The knock came at midnight.

A single, deliberate sound at his door.

Taehyung’s heart stopped. No one came at this hour. His first instinct was to stay quiet, pretend he wasn’t there. But his legs betrayed him, carrying him slowly to the door, as if pulled by something unseen.

When he opened it, rain had begun again, fine mist rolling off the street. And there he was.

Jungkook.

Drenched once more, but standing perfectly still, as if the rain hadn’t touched him at all. His dark eyes lifted, meeting Taehyung’s.

“Sorry,” Jungkook said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Taehyung’s voice caught. “What… are you doing here?”

“I was passing through.” His lips curved faintly. “It seems the storm doesn’t want me to leave.”

Something about the way he said it made Taehyung’s skin prickle.

He stepped aside before he could stop himself. “Come in.”

The night stretched long. Jungkook sat in the corner of the workshop, his gaze occasionally sweeping over the shelves of pots, over Taehyung himself. He didn’t speak much, but the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with tension, like the air before lightning struck.

Taehyung tried to keep busy, shaping clay, but his hands shook. He could feel Jungkook’s eyes on him. Watching. Weighing.

Finally, he broke. “Why… why do you keep showing up?”

Jungkook tilted his head, thoughtful. “Why do you keep letting me in?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Taehyung had no answer.

For a long time, they stayed in silence. The only sound was the spinning wheel and the storm outside.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Taehyung saw it again.

The mark.

Jungkook shifted, his shirt pulling against his chest. Just for a heartbeat, the lamplight revealed it—the faint, kite-shaped stain glowing beneath pale skin.

Taehyung’s breath caught. He nearly dropped the clay.

When he looked again, it was gone. Just shadow, just light.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to him, sharp, knowing.

“You look pale,” Jungkook murmured. “Are you afraid of me?”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. “No,” he lied.

A small smile played on Jungkook’s lips. “Good.”

That night, Taehyung dreamed again.

But this time it wasn’t only the faceless man. The dream shifted, darker. He was in his workshop, but everything was wrong—pots shattered, clay dripping like blood onto the floor. The air thick with iron.

And then, behind him, the whisper again.

“Don’t run from me.”

He turned—and for the first time, the faceless man almost had a face. The outline of a jaw. Dark hair falling over his eyes. But just as Taehyung reached out, the mark on his chest burned bright, searing his vision—

Taehyung woke gasping, heart hammering against his ribs.

And from the hallway, he swore he heard it again. Footsteps. Slow. Passing by his door.