My strict Professor 3

The night had been long and sleepless for Yoongi. After the tidal wave of relief had receded, leaving him emotionally drained and holding his granny’s hand on the sofa for hours, a cold, hard anger began to form in his chest. Someone had done this. Someone had deliberately flattened his tires. Someone had made that monstrous, cruel phone call. The pieces clicked together with a terrible but obvious logic. The timing, right after he had left a furious and humiliated Kim Taehyung in his office. The childish, vicious nature of the prank. It had to be him. Who else would hate him that much? Who else was that reckless, that impulsive, that utterly without regard for consequences?

The anger that burned in him was different from the frustration he felt in the classroom. This was a deep and personal fury. That boy had weaponized the thing Yoongi cherished most in the world. He had taken the fear of losing his only family and used it as a plaything. It was unforgivable. And Yoongi was going to make the boy pay.

The next morning, Yoongi didn’t wait for the school day to follow its normal course. He didn’t send a note. He didn’t call Taehyung to his office during a free period. He went straight to the his class.

The first-period class was just settling down, the low hum of chatter filling the room. It died instantly when Professor Min appeared in the doorway. His face was pale, his eyes dark and burning with a cold fire that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees. He didn’t look at the teacher. He didn’t acknowledge the class. His gaze zeroed in on one person.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

The name wasn’t yelled, but it cut through the silence like a knife.. Every head turned to look at Tae, who froze mid-sentence in whatever story he was telling Wooshik.

Yoongi: “With me. Now.”

Taehyung’s blood ran cold. He had never seen Professor Min look like this. The usual sternness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous. This wasn’t the annoyed teacher. This was something else entirely. A fear, the kind he’d never felt before, clenched in his stomach. He slowly, mechanically, pushed his chair back and stood up. His legs felt like jelly as he walked toward the door.

He followed the professor’s rigid back out of the classroom and down the silent hall. The walk to the office felt like a march to the gallows. Yoongi didn’t say a word. He just opened his office door, gestured for Tae to enter, and then followed him in. The sound of the lock clicking into place behind them was the most terrifying thing for Tae.

Yoongi: “Stand in the corner. Face the wall.”

The command was flat, devoid of any emotion except a simmering, controlled rage.

Tae’s heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his ears. He moved to the familiar spot, his body trembling. He couldn’t help himself. In a tiny, terrified voice that didn’t sound like his own, he whispered,

Tae: “W-what did I do, sir?”

The reaction was immediate and terrifying.

Yoongi: “Just do what I said!” Yoongi shouted. His voice was filled with so much raw anger that Tae flinched as if he had been physically struck. He snapped his mouth shut, tears of fear already springing to his eyes, and faced the wall, raising his arms.

And so he stood. The minutes dragged into hours. The first hour was pure fear, his body tense, listening to every sound behind him---the scrape of a chair, the rustle of papers, the slow breathing of the furious man at the desk. The second hour was pain. His shoulders screamed. His legs ached from standing perfectly still. A cramp began to form in his calf. Every time he dared to shift his weight even slightly, or let his arms droop a fraction of an inch, that voice would slice through the silence.

“Don’t move.”

“Arms up.”

The commands were sharp, cold, and terrifying. There was no discussion, no lesson, no attempt to teach. This was pure punishment. Almost revenge.

Tae had never experienced anything like it in his entire life. His parents had never treated him like that. Never yelled at him. Never terrified him like that. Their worst scolding was a disappointed sigh. They had never raised a hand to him, never raised their voices in true anger. This was a different world. This was a cold, hard authority that saw his defiance not as childishness, but as a personal offense that demanded a severe response. He felt smaller and more powerless than he ever had. The tears that tracked down his cheeks were no longer just from physical discomfort; they were from a deep, bewildering feeling of being utterly crushed.

When the bell for recess finally rang, Tae’s whole body sagged with a relief so profound it made him dizzy.

Yoongi: “Come here.”

The command was quiet. Tae turned around, his movements stiff and painful. He shuffled to the front of the desk, unable to meet Professor Min’s eyes. He looked down at his own shuffling feet, his face blotchy and wet with tears, his bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. He looked like a very young, very scared child.

Yoongi looked at him, at the clear imprint of his misery, and for a moment, the cold anger was the only thing he let himself feel. He stood up, walked around the desk, and stood in front of the boy.

And then he did it.

His hand moved almost at its own will. The slap cracked against Tae’s cheek hard.

It wasn’t a beatdown. It was a single, shocking act. But for Taehyung, it was a cataclysm.

The world stopped. The sting on his cheek was nothing compared to the psychological earthquake that followed. No one had ever hit him. Ever. His parents had never so much as spanked him. This violation of his Yoongi broke something inside him. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, his hand slowly coming up to his reddening cheek, his eyes wide with a shock so deep it was beyond tears for a moment.

Yoongi didn’t see the shattered look in his eyes. He was too busy unleashing the words he had been holding back all morning.

Yoongi: “You think you’re clever?” he snapped with a venomous voice. “You think flattening my tires was a funny joke? You think calling me and lying about my mother… about her dying… was something to giggle about?”

Tae’s breath hitched. Tears roll down his cheeks as he let out a tiny sob. He knew. He knew everything.

Yoongi: “I stood in my parking lot and believed my only family was dead because of you,” Yoongi’s voice trembled with a mixture of fury and the remembered horror. “I ran across this city thinking my world had ended. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Any idea at all?”

He leaned in closer, and Tae instinctively shrank back.

Yoongi: “You are a spoiled, vicious, thoughtless brat. Your parents have done you no favors by never telling you ‘no.’ But I am not your mother. I am not your father. I will not tolerate your disgusting behavior. If you ever, ever pull a stunt like that again, I won’t bother with this office. I will drag you to the principal myself and make sure you are expelled so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?”

Tae could only manage a tiny, jerky nod. The dam broke then. The initial shock wore off, and the sobs came, they were great, heaving, messy sobs that shook his whole body. They were the kind of cries that came from a place of complete overwhelm, of fear, of pain, of humiliation, and of a profound and world-shattering realization that he had crossed a line into a darkness he never knew existed.

Yoongi: “Get out. Go to your class.” Yoongi said, his own anger finally spent, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion.

Taehyung turned and fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking too badly to work it properly. He finally yanked the door open and stumbled out into the hallway. He didn’t care that students were milling about for recess. He didn’t care about anything. The sobs kept coming, loud and uncontrollable, hiccupping out of him as he walked blindly down the hall.

Wooshik and Dukhyun saw him first. Their jokes died on their lips when they saw the state he was in---the red cheek, the tears streaming down his face, the utterly broken expression.

Wooshik: “Tae? Hey, what happened?” Wooshik asked, rushing to his side.

Dukhyun: "Why did Professor Min call you? What did he do? Why are you crying? Tae?" Dukhyun asked, following right behind Wooshik.

Tae couldn’t answer. He just shook his head, crying too hard to form words.

Jimin spotted him from across the hall, a teasing remark ready about him finally getting what he deserved. But when he saw Tae’s face, the words died. This wasn’t the usual angry, post-punishment pouting. This was something else. This was real distress. Jimin just stared, his own smirk fading into a look of uneasy confusion. He didn’t say anything and just walked past him quietly.

Taehyung pushed past his friends and went into the classroom. He collapsed into his chair, buried his face in his arms on the desk, and cried. He cried through the entire recess and the remaining two lectures, his body shuddering with the force of his sobs. His friends and teachers hovered around him, patting his back awkwardly, asking worried questions he couldn’t answer. They had never seen him like this. He was always so loud, so defiant, so… unbreakable. Now he just looked broken and they doesn't know what to do.

When the final bell rang, he wordlessly shoved his books into his bag, not even bothering to zip it, and walked out of the school. He ignored Wooshik calling after him, telling him the bus was leaving. He just started walking, his head down, his shoulders slumped. He looked smaller, younger than his eighteen years, a lonely figure walking along the busy sidewalk and crying like babies.

The walk toward home was a blur of misery. Every few steps, a fresh wave of sobs would hit him. He remembered the slap, the feel of it, the sound. He remembered the look in Professor Min’s eyes, the pure hatred. He remembered the words: vicious, thoughtless brat. They echoed in his head, and each time they did, a new sob would escape.

Meanwhile, back in his office, Yoongi sat at his desk, the silence feeling heavier than before. The image of Taehyung’s face, right before he had started sobbing, wouldn’t leave him. It wasn’t the face of a defiant bully. It was the face of a terrified kid. He thought of the email from Taehyung’s mother. Be gentle with him. He becomes frustrated. A knot of guilt began to twist in his stomach alongside the fading anger. Had he been too harsh?

When the school ended, he packed up his things and drove home, his mind completely troubled. As he was driving through the afternoon traffic, his eyes caught a familiar figure walking on the sidewalk ahead. It was Taehyung. And even from the car, Yoongi could see the boy’s shoulders shaking. He was still crying.

Yoongi’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The guilt twisted sharper. He couldn’t just drive past. He pulled the car over to the curb a little ways ahead of him and got out.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

Tae looked up at the voice, his eyes red and swollen, his face a mess of tears. When he saw who it was, he froze like a deer in headlights. Then he took a stumbling step backward, a fresh wave of fear flashing across his face.

Tae: “I… I’m just going home,” he stammered, his voice thick with tears.

Yoongi: “Come on, I’ll drive you,” Yoongi said after a moment, his tone softer than he intended.

But Tae shook his head violently, backing away further.

Tae: “No. No, it’s okay. I’ll w-walk.”

He was crying in earnest again, hiccupping sobs that made his whole body tremble. He started to push past Yoongi, his movements uncoordinated and panicky, like a toddler having a meltdown.

Yoongi reached out, not to grab him hard, but to steady him. The moment his hand touched Taehyung’s arm, he felt the heat radiating through the boy’s skin. He had a fever. Probably from standing for hours in a state of high stress, or from the sheer emotional wreckage of the day.

Yoongi: “You’re sick,” Yoongi said, his concern now overriding everything else. He couldn’t leave a sick, sobbing student alone on the street. The memory of his mother’s email telling him to be gentle haunted him.

Tae: “Let go!” Tae cried, trying to weakly push Yoongi’s hand away, but he was too exhausted and upset to put up a real fight.

Just then, a man walking with his dog slowed down, frowning at the scene.

Man: “Is everything alright here?” he asked, his tone suspicious, looking from the sobbing teenager to the adult trying to maneuver him.

Yoongi felt a flush of frustration. He sighed, putting on his best responsible-adult voice.

Yoongi: “It’s fine,” he said, offering the man a tight, weary smile. “He’s my brother. He’s not feeling well, had a bad day at school, and he’s throwing a bit of a fit. You know how teenagers are.”

The man looked skeptical for a moment, but then nodded slowly, apparently deciding it was none of his business, and continued on his way.

With the bystander gone, Yoongi made a decision. He couldn’t reason with Taehyung in this state. The boy was too stubborn and too out of mind. So he bent down, and before Tae could protest further, he scooped him up. Taehyung was surprisingly light. He was all limbs and angles, and he went limp now, too exhausted and feverish and emotionally spent to fight anymore. He just cried quietly, his face buried against Yoongi’s shoulder as he was carried to the car.

Yoongi opened the back door and gently laid him down on the seat. Taehyung curled into a ball immediately, his body still shaking with silent sobs. Yoongi closed the door, got into the driver’s seat, and started the car. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the heartbreakingly small figure in his back seat, and for the first time, he wondered if, in his rage, he had become the monster Taehyung always said he was.

He sighed and looked ahead, driving through the busy traffic. The quiet hum of the car engine was the only sound, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had just happened. In the backseat, Taehyung’s sobs had quieted, but his breathing was still hitching, the occasional soft, sad sound escaping him as he curled into himself.

Yoongi kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his own anger now completely gone, replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. The sight of the boy, so small and broken-looking, was doing a number on his conscience.

Yoongi: “Taehyung,” he began, his voice much softer than it had been in the office. It sounded strange, even to his own ears. “Look… what you did… the tires, that phone call… that was…” He struggled to find the right words. Scolding him again felt wrong now. “You can’t do things like that. You understand that, right? It’s not a joke. What you did… it hurts people. Really hurts them.”

He saw Taehyung’s shoulders tense up slightly, but the boy didn’t turn around.

Yoongi: “I shouldn’t have hit you,” Yoongi said, the admission feeling both difficult and necessary. “A teacher should never do that. It was wrong. I was… I was very angry and very scared because of what you did, and I lost my temper. I’m sorry for that part.”

He was trying to be reasonable. He was trying to explain, to make the boy see the cause and effect, to make him understand the gravity of his actions without just terrorizing him. But the words seemed to just hang in the air, unanswered.

Yoongi: “Taehyung?” he tried again. “Can you tell me your address? I need to take you home. Your parents must be worried.”

There was no response. Just the quiet, shaky breathing that made yoongi frustrated. He glanced back again and asked.

Yoongi: "Are you listening to me? I need to know where you live.”

Still nothing. Worried now, Yoongi pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned fully in his seat.

Yoongi: “Taehyung?”

The boy was asleep. Or passed out. His eyes were closed, his tear-streaked face was pale, and his breathing, while still a little hitching, was deep and even. The emotional exhaustion and the fever had finally pulled him under completely.

Yoongi sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. He almost groaned out loud. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t drive around the city with an unconscious student in his backseat. He didn’t know where he lived. He couldn’t just shake him awake; the kid looked completely wiped out.

There was only one option, as inconvenient and complicated as it was but it was the only option he had left. He put the car back in drive and headed for his own home.

Pulling into his driveway, the reality of the situation hit him. He had a passed-out student in his car. He got out, opened the back door, and looked at Taehyung. The boy was dead to the world. With another sigh, Yoongi leaned in and carefully gathered him up. Taehyung was light and he slumped bonelessly against Yoongi’s chest. He carried him into the house, grumbling under his breath about the absurdity of it all, but a thread of genuine concern was woven through his annoyance. The boy was burning up.

He laid Taehyung down gently on the living room sofa, propping a cushion under his head. The boy didn’t stir.

The sound of movement brought granny shuffling out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

Granny: “Yoongi? Is that you? I thought I heard the car—” She stopped short, her eyes widening in shock at the sight in front of her.

Granny: “What in the world…?”

Yoongi turned to see his granny standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes were wide with shock as she took in the scene: her grandson depositing a strange, unconscious young man on her sofa.

Granny: “Ya! Yoongi! What is this? Who is this boy? Did you kidnap someone?” she asked, her voice a mixture of alarm and disbelief.

Yoongi ran a hand over his face, feeling a massive headache coming on.

Yoongi: “No, Granny, I didn’t kidnap him. He’s one of my students.” He said in a tired voice.

Granny: “Your student? Why is he here? And why is he sleeping? Is he dead?” she asked, peering worriedly at Taehyung’s still form.

Yoongi (sighed): “He’s not dead. He… He is just... sleeping, granny."

Granny: “And why is he… asleep?” she asked, coming closer for a better look. She gasped softly when she saw Taehyung’s red, puffy eyes and pale complexion. “He’s been crying. Yoongi, what did you do?”

The direct question made him wince.

Yoongi: “I… I punished him. At school. I was too harsh. He… he did something really bad, Granny, something awful, and I got very angry. I yelled and I… I hit him.” The confession tasted bitter.

Granny’s face fell. She looked from Yoongi’s guilty expression to the sleeping boy on the couch.

Granny: “You hit a child?” she asked, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Yoongi…”

Yoongi: “I know, I know,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t need the lecture right now. “He cried himself sick and passed out in my car. I didn’t know where he lived. I had to bring him here. He has a fever, I think.”

Granny: “He looks like a baby,” she murmured, stepping closer to the couch and brushing Taehyung’s sweaty hair back from his forehead. Her touch was gentle. “So young. And he has a fever? You made a child so upset he got sick? What is wrong with you?”

Yoongi had no answer. He just stood there, feeling smaller under granny’s gaze than he had in years.

Granny’s expression softened from disappointment to concern. She leaned over and placed a cool, wrinkled hand on Taehyung’s forehead.

Granny: “He’s burning up, poor thing.” She muttered softly. “He’s just a boy. Look at him. Why were you so harsh?”

Yoongi again didn’t have an answer. He just shook his head, the guilt eating at him. He watched as his granny bustled away to the kitchen, muttering about finding her remedies.

That’s when he noticed the cat. Lilly, their fat, fluffy white cat, had jumped onto the couch and was curiously sniffing Taehyung’s limp hand. Then she started licking his fingers with her rough pink tongue, purring loudly.

Yoongi: “Lilly, no. Get down,” Yoongi said, shooing the cat away. She gave him a indignant meow but jumped off the couch, settling on a nearby armchair to watch with judgmental green eyes.

Alone with the sleeping boy, Yoongi just stood there for a moment, watching him. In sleep, all the defiance and brattiness was gone. He just looked young. Too young. And sick. Yoongi’s own words echoed in his head: vicious, thoughtless brat. They felt wrong now. He had been vicious himself. He had been the adult, and he had lost control.

He needed to call the boy’s parents. They must be out of their minds with worry. He gently patted down Taehyung’s pockets and found his phone. The screen lit up, but it was password locked. He tried a few basic combinations like 1234, 0000, etc but nothing worked. He sighed, putting the phone back.

Then he remembered the email. Jihu. Taehyung’s mother. He went to his room, booted up his laptop, and found her email from months before. He typed a quick, professional message, trying to sound calm and in control.

Mrs. Kim, this is Professor Min. Taehyung is with me. He became ill at school and fell asleep in my car before he could tell me his address. He has a slight fever but is resting now. Please send me your address and I will bring him home immediately.

He hit send and waited, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. He imagined a frantic mother, pacing the floor. He wouldn’t blame her if she called the police.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Professor Min, thank you for letting me know! We were so worried! He didn’t come home on the bus and he wasn’t answering his phone! Is he okay? What happened? Why does he have a fever? Is he hurt!? Our address is 23 Skyline Apartments, building B, apartment 304. Please, let me know if he needs a doctor. Please, should I come get him? Please tell me he is alright.

The email was filled with exclamation points and worry. Yoongi felt another pang of guilt. We were so worried. He wrote back a short reassurance that he would bring Taehyung home soon and that he just seemed tired and feverish.

He is resting. He is not hurt. I will bring him home shortly.

He headed back downstairs, the address saved on his phone. The scene in the living room had changed. Taehyung was awake. He was propped up slightly on the couch cushions, looking dazed and confused, his eyes glassy with fever. Granny was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, holding a small bowl of steaming, dark liquid that smelled strongly of herbs and something bitter.

Granny: “Here, sweetie, just a few sips,” Granny was saying in her gentlest voice. “It will help with the fever. It’s yucky, but it works.”

Taehyung looked at the bowl like it was poison. His lower lip trembled, and he looked like he was about to start crying again from sheer confusion and discomfort.

And Lilly was back, having taken advantage of Yoongi’s absence. She was perched on Taehyung’s legs, kneading his jeans with her paws, purring like a little engine.

Yoongi sighed, walking into the room.

Yoongi: “Lilly, I said get down from him. He is not a toy." He gently lifted the cat off and placed her on the floor. She meowed in protest, refusing to be deterred, and glarred back at Yoongi. Then she jumped and managed to climb onto the back of the sofa and was now attempting to perch on Taehyung’s head, purring loudly as if trying to show what she is capable of.

Granny: “No, no, you silly creature, get down from there!" Granny scolded the cat with a glare then turned to look at the other cat. "Yoongi! keep that creature away from him; she’ll try to sit on his face and suffocate him.”

Yoongi: “Hey, get off,” Yoongi grumbled, gently shooing the cat away. The animal gave him another indignant look but jumped down, stalking off with its tail in the air, completely satisfied with herself.

He then looked at Taehyung, who had flinched slightly when Yoongi approached. The fear was back in his eyes, mixed with the feverish haze.

Yoongi: “You’re at my house,” Yoongi explained, keeping his voice low and calm. “You passed out in the car. You have a fever. My mother is trying to help you.” He gestured to the bowl. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to. I got your address from your mum. I’ll take you home in a few minutes, okay?”

Taehyung just stared at him. Then his eyes drifted down to his own lap. He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even seem to process the information fully. He just sat there, looking small and lost and utterly defeated.

Granny looked at Yoongi, her expression saying, See what you did?

And Yoongi did see. The fire of defiance that had always burned in Kim Taehyung’s eyes was completely gone. It hadn’t been extinguished by a firm lesson; it had been snuffed out by fear. The boy wasn’t just scared of getting in trouble anymore. He was scared of him. Yoongi had wanted to teach him a lesson, to shock him out of his spoiled behavior. But looking at the silent, broken boy on his couch, he realized with a sickening lurch that he might have gone too far. He hadn’t just punished him; he had broken his spirit.

The silence was thick and uncomfortable. Seeing Taehyung so withdrawn, so unlike his usual loud self, was making Yoongi’s guilt feel like a physical weight on his chest. He needed a minute to think, to get away from the proof of what he’d done.

Yoongi: “I’m… I’m going to take a quick shower,” Yoongi announced, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet space. He looked at his granny. “Just… let me know when he’s feeling a bit more awake, and I’ll take him home.”

Granny just nodded, her attention fully on the feverish boy, gently coaxing him to take another sip of the bitter soup. Yoongi retreated upstairs, the hot water doing little to wash away his unease.

By the time he came back down, clean and dressed in fresh clothes, the evening light was starting to fade. He found the living room empty. He heard voices from further inside the house and followed them.

He found granny giving Tae a slow, gentle tour of their small home. Taehyung was walking slowly, still looking pale and a bit unsteady, but more aware now. His eyes, though, were distant, like he was only half-listening.

Granny: “...and this is the kitchen,” Granny was saying, her voice warm. “Not very big, but it’s enough for an old lady and her grumpy grandson.” She chuckled. “Do you like to cook, dear?”

Tae shook his head slightly.

Tae: “No, ma’am,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

Granny: “Ah, a smart boy. Let others do the work,” she said with a wink. She led him back toward the living room, pointing out various knick-knacks. Taehyung’s gaze drifted around the room but kept getting pulled back to one wall, a wall Granny called her “memory wall.” It was a chaotic, beautiful collage of hundreds of photographs, a visual history of her life with Yoongi. There were pictures of a tiny Yoongi on his first day of school, a teenage Yoongi looking sullen with a graduation cap, Yoongi and Granny at the beach in Jeju, countless birthdays and holidays.

Taehyung was staring at it, a faint frown on his face, as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Yoongi: “Alright,” Yoongi said, stepping into the room. “I’m ready. We should get you home before your parents call the national guard.”

Granny immediately turned and fixed him with a stern look.

Granny: “Absolutely not! You will not send this boy home on an empty stomach. It’s nearly dinnertime. He will eat first.”

Yoongi: “Granny, his parents are waiting,” Yoongi argued, though it was a weak protest.

Granny: “They can wait another hour,” she said firmly, hands on her hips. “We have a guest for the first time since we moved to this city, and you want to kick him out? Nonsense! He needs proper food, not just my bitter medicine. We’re having dinner.”

Yoongi sighed, knowing better than to argue with her when she used that tone.

Yoongi: “Fine. Dinner. Then we go.”

He noticed that Taehyung hadn’t even looked at him during this exchange. His eyes were still glued to the memory wall, his head tilted slightly. He seemed fascinated by something, but Yoongi just shrugged it off. The kid was probably still out of it from the fever.

Dinner was a quiet, awkward affair. Granny had made a simple but hearty stew and rice. She chatted away, asking Taehyung gentle questions about where he lived, what his parents did, if he had any hobbies. Taehyung answered in short, polite sentences, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

Granny: “Do you have any brothers or sisters, dear?” Granny asked, passing him a bowl of rice.

Taehyung shook his head, staring at his food.

Tae: “No. It’s just me.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “Well, there was… my parents had another son before me. But he… he died when he was little. Drowned at the beach.”

A somber silence fell over the table. Granny made a soft, sympathetic sound.

Granny: “Oh, you poor things. I’m so sorry. That must have been so hard for your family.”

Taehyung just nodded, pushing a piece of vegetable around his bowl with his chopsticks. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t seem sad, just matter-of-fact, like he was repeating a story he had heard many times but had no personal connection to.

Yoongi ate in silence, watching him. The boy’s quietness was unnerving. He was so different from the loud, defiant pest who had plagued his classroom for months. This version of Kim Taehyung was… fragile. And Yoongi felt responsible for breaking him.

After dinner, Granny insisted on packing some leftover cookies for Taehyung “for the road,” and made him promise to visit her again when he was feeling better. She gave Yoongi a look that clearly said, Be nice to him.

Finally, they were in the car. The drive to Skyline Apartments was completely silent. Taehyung stared out the passenger window, watching the city lights blur past. Yoongi tried once to break the ice.

Yoongi: “Feeling any better?” he asked.

No response. Tae didn’t even seem to hear him.

Yoongi: “Look, about today…” Yoongi started, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? Sorry I terrorized you so badly you got sick and passed out? It sounded ridiculous. He gave up and drove the rest of the way in silence.

They pulled up to the apartment building. Taehyung moved to get out, but he was still wobbly. Yoongi quickly got out, grabbed Tae's schoolbag from the backseat, and came around to his side.

Yoongi: “I’ll walk you up,” he said.

Tae didn’t argue. He just let Yoongi guide him into the building and toward the elevator. He seemed too tired to protest.

When they reached apartment 304, Yoongi was about to ring the bell when the door flew open. Jihu and Jeongjin were there, their faces etched with worry that instantly melted into relief.

Jihu: “Taehyung-ah!” Jihu cried, pulling her son into a tight hug, peppering his face with kisses. “My baby! We were so worried! Why didn’t you call? Are you okay? Your face is so warm!”

Jeongjin was right behind her, his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, his own worry evident.

Jeongjin: “What happened, Tae? Professor Min said you were sick.”

Tae, for the first time since the office, seemed to come alive a little. He leaned into his mother’s embrace, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

Tae: “My head hurts, Omma,” he whined, his voice taking on that childish tone he used with his parents. “And my whole body aches.”

Jihu: “Oh, my poor boy,” Jihu cooed, leading him toward the living room couch. “Come, come, lie down. Jeongjin, get the thermometer and a blanket. And some water.”

Jeongjin hurried off. Yoongi stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding Taehyung’s bag. He watched the scene unfold, the immediate, smothering love, the effortless way Taehyung slipped back into the role of the cherished son. A sharp, unexpected pang of longing shot through him. This is what it was like to have parents. This is what he had missed his whole life.

Jihu: “Professor Min, please, come in, come in!” Jihu said, noticing him still standing there. “Thank you so much for bringing him home. We can’t thank you enough for looking after him.” Her gratitude was so genuine, so warm, that it made Yoongi’s guilt flare up again.

Yoongi: “It was no trouble,” he mumbled, stepping inside and placing the bag by the door. He just wanted to leave, to escape the overwhelming family scene.

Jihu: “Nonsense! You must have been so worried yourself. Let me get you some tea,” Jihu said, bustling toward the kitchen.

Yoongi: “Really, it’s okay, I should be going—” Yoongi started, but Jeongjin reappeared with a blanket and a bottle of water.

Jeongjin: “No, no, stay for a moment, Professor,” Jeongjin said, his voice firm but friendly. “We owe you a great debt. Our son can be a handful. For you to take care of him like this… we are very grateful. Just gimme a moment, I will be back, had to find fever reducer." Then he disappeared into the room to find some medicines.

Left alone for a moment, Yoongi’s eyes instinctively scanned the room, taking in the comfortable, lived-in space. And then his gaze landed on the wall behind the couch where Taehyung now lying.

It was a gallery of family photos, much like Granny’s wall, but neater, more organized. There were several frames. One showed a beaming Taehyung, probably from middle school, his smile wide and carefree. Another was a wedding photo of Jihu and Jeongjin, looking young and happy. A third was a recent family portrait, the three of them together.

But it was the fourth and fifth frames that made Yoongi’s breath catch in his throat.

The fourth held a picture of a baby. A happy, chubby-cheeked baby with dark hair and big, curious eyes. It was a sweet, normal baby picture.

But the fifth frame… the fifth frame held a photo of a little boy, about three years old. He was wearing a specific blue and white striped shirt and tiny denim overalls. He was being carried in the arms of a younger Jeongjin, while a younger Jihu stood beside them, smiling down at him. The little boy was laughing, his gummy smile full on displaym

Yoongi knew that photo. He had an almost identical one on Granny’s memory wall. He knew that shirt. Granny had kept it, folded in a box of his baby things. He knew that laugh. It was him.

His heart stopped. His blood ran cold. He stared, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. That was him. In this house. With these people. What was his picture doing on their wall?

Tae, sensing the sudden shift in the room, followed Yoongi’s frozen stare. He looked at the wall behind him, at the pictures he had seen every day of his life. He saw the baby picture of the brother he never knew. He saw the picture of his brother as a toddler with their parents.

And then his own brain, fuzzy with fever, finally made the connection it had been struggling to make back at Yoongi’s house. The three-year-old in that photo on the wall… he had just seen him. On Professor Min’s memory wall. The same picture. The same clothes. The same laugh.

His eyes, glassy with fever, widened in slow-motion realization. He looked from the photo of the three-year-old in the picture, to Professor Min’s pale, shocked face. The same eyes. The same nose. The same… everything.

The pieces, impossibly, horrifyingly, began to click into place.

The brother his parents never talked about. The one who drowned. The one whose room was always kept closed. The one whose picture his mother sometimes cried over.

He never drowned.

And Professor Min.

The man who had been so harsh, so cruel to him.

The man whose mother he had pretended was dead.

The man who had just slapped him, made him stand for hours, and reduced him to a sobbing mess.

The man whose picture was on their wall.

The math he couldn’t understand suddenly solved itself in the most terrifying way possible.

Professor Min was the baby in the picture. Professor Min was his parents' first son. Professor Min was his brother. The brother who was supposed to be dead.

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. A silent, shaky gasp escaped him.

Yoongi heard the sound and his eyes snapped down to meet Taehyung's. The boy was staring at him, his face as white as a sheet, his fever forgotten. His expression was a mirror of Yoongi's own: utter, world-shattering shock.

Yoongi’s own eyes were wide, his face pale as a sheet. He was looking from the photo to Taehyung, and then to the photos of Jihu and Jeongjin, and back to Taehyung, his mind reeling, the world tilting on its axis.

For a long, endless moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. The only sound was the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen and Jeongjin humming as he searched for medicine in another room.

The world had shrunk down to this living room, to these two people connected by blood and history and a terrible, long-held secret, staring at each other across a space of a few feet, with the evidence of their shared past staring back at them from the wall.

All the anger, the resentment, the fear, the punishments, it all melted away, replaced by something so huge and so confusing that neither of them could begin to process it. The man Taehyung had hated and feared for months wasn't just his strict professor.

He was family. He was the ghost his mother cried for. He was the brother Taehyung never knew he had.

And Yoongi was looking at the spoiled, bratty student he had resented and punished, and seeing him not as a nuisance, but as his little brother. The little brother who had grown up in the home he should have had, with the parents he should have known.

They stared at each other across the room, and the realization sank in. They are brothers. The angry professor and the bratty student were brothers.

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