Chapter 1: The Cage

The cold metal clinked as the door creaked open.

Taehyung flinched, instinctively backing into the corner of the room like a wounded animal. His wrists were raw from the restraints he’d spent hours struggling against, and his breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in panicked rhythm. Every inch of his body ached—not from any recent punishment, but from fear itself.

And then he saw him.

Jungkook stood in the doorway like a shadow—silent, composed, yet filled with rage that was far more terrifying than any scream. His obsidian eyes bore into Taehyung with a heat that scorched the air between them.

“You promised you wouldn’t run,” Jungkook said, voice low and even. “But not once. Twice.”

Taehyung shook his head violently, tears already slipping down his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to—please. Don’t cage me again. I’ll listen, I swear. I’ll do anything, just—please, not the cage.”

Jungkook stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft but final click. The sound was more damning than a slam.

“Anything?” he echoed, a bitter laugh twisting his lips. “You said that before. And yet… here we are.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry—I really am. I just panicked—I couldn’t breathe—please, Jungkook, I’ll stay, I won’t try again, I promise—”

“Lies.” Jungkook grabbed his wrist—too hard. Taehyung winced but didn’t pull away. He knew better now.

“Let go,” he whispered, but it was without force. There was no room for defiance anymore, not when Jungkook’s grip felt like a shackle itself.

Jungkook pulled him to his feet and began dragging him down the corridor. The hallway was dim, the only sound their footsteps and Taehyung’s hitched breath. His heart pounded in his chest like a warning drum.

He knew where they were going.

“No,” Taehyung whimpered. “Please don’t take me there. I’ll be good, I swear—don’t take me to the Red Room.”

But Jungkook didn’t speak again. He simply led him down into the darkened lower floor of the house—past locked doors, past empty rooms, to the one door that filled Taehyung with dread. A red “X” was painted over the wood. It was symbolic—a warning, a curse, and a promise.

The Red Room.

The moment Jungkook opened the door, Taehyung’s stomach turned.

The room was immaculate. Every toy, whip, restraint, and paddle was arranged with meticulous order, as though each had been chosen with love. The scent of leather and metal was sharp in the air. It was a shrine—devoted not to pleasure, but to power.

Jungkook pulled Taehyung inside and locked the door behind him.

“No one’s coming for you,” he said softly, brushing his hand through Taehyung’s hair. “You are mine, Taehyung. You always were. This—” he gestured around them—“is where you learn that.”

Taehyung tried to run.

He didn’t get far—only a single step before Jungkook slammed him against the padded wall and fastened his wrists to the leather cuffs. The restraints were too familiar. Taehyung struggled out of instinct, but he already knew it was pointless.

“Jungkook, please—” he sobbed. “I can’t take this anymore. I hate it—I hate you—I hate—”

Jungkook silenced him with a collar, fastening it tight around his throat.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against Taehyung’s ear. “You’ll learn to love me, even if I have to carve it into your soul.”

Time didn’t exist in the Red Room.

There were moments—long stretches of pain disguised as discipline, of shame disguised as submission. Jungkook was methodical, never loud, never angry in the way others were. He moved like an artist painting a picture only he could see. Paddle. Rope. Plug. Gag. Each moment designed not to arouse, but to remind Taehyung of what he was: a possession. His.

But it didn’t feel like desire.

It felt like desecration.

There was no pleasure, not even a flicker of it. Taehyung’s body burned, not from want but from humiliation. His tears were silent, his cries muffled by restraints. The touches weren’t rough enough to scar, but just painful enough to break something inside him.

And Jungkook… he didn’t even seem aroused. He seemed focused, as though he were performing some sacred ritual. Possessive. Obsessed. But not in love.

Not truly.

When it was finally over, Jungkook unfastened the restraints and cradled Taehyung’s limp form in his arms. He pressed a kiss to his temple, gentle and sickeningly tender.

“You’re mine,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me. Even if you want to die. You belong to me.”

Taehyung didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His body was trembling, mind fogged and blank with horror. The part of him that wanted to scream had gone quiet. What was the point?

As Jungkook carried him back to the bedroom, arms protectively tight around him, Taehyung stared at the ceiling.

This wasn’t love. This was madness.

And he was trapped inside it.

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