Chapter 1: The Trade

The air in the underground lounge of the Black Fang headquarters was thick with cigar smoke and blood-slick power. Crystals on the chandelier above shimmered like diamond tears, dripping over a velvet ceiling. Soft jazz played in the background, the kind that wrapped around your throat like a silk noose.

Kim Taehyung stood silently in the corner of the room, wrists bound in fine leather cuffs, his head bowed but his spine unyielding. Even as the men around him bartered his life like livestock, he looked more regal than broken. The tailored suit on his lithe frame screamed high-end, but the hollowness in his eyes told a story of betrayal.

He’d known his father was ruthless. But he hadn’t expected to be sold off like a chess piece.

"Jeon Jungkook," said Park Jinwoo, the broker orchestrating the deal. His voice carried the weight of casual violence. "The boy’s a gift. From the Kim syndicate. Their way of showing loyalty."

Jungkook didn’t respond immediately. Seated with his legs crossed, the young mafia boss of the Black Fang syndicate studied Taehyung like one might inspect a rare artifact—valuable, but ultimately replaceable. His fingers tapped slowly against the glass of his whiskey.

Taehyung finally lifted his head. Brown eyes met coal-black ones. A charge passed between them, crackling like lightning over dry bone.

They recognized each other.

Not from this world of cold-blooded power, but from another time. Another life.

“Taehyung?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, barely audible over the music.

Taehyung’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Hello, Jungkook.”

Ten years ago, they had been children running through the gardens of the Jeju estate, kicking up dust and secrets. Jungkook was the quiet son of a syndicate lieutenant; Taehyung, the golden prince of the Kims. Taehyung had taught Jungkook how to steal mangoes from the greenhouse. Jungkook had taught Taehyung how to throw a punch.

They had loved each other, once.

But that was before.

Before bullets instead of bedtime stories. Before betrayals signed in blood. Before Taehyung’s father handed him over like currency.

"He’s not a gift," Jungkook said finally. “He’s bait.”

Jinwoo laughed nervously. “Come now, Jeon. Don’t be dramatic. He’s beautiful. Smart. Useful."

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave Taehyung’s. “He’s Kim Minsoo’s son. The same man who tried to have me killed two years ago.”

“And yet,” Jinwoo replied, “the boy is yours now. Consider it poetic justice.”

Jungkook stood slowly. His presence was like a blade—sleek, polished, and capable of splitting a man in two without staining his white shirt. He walked toward Taehyung, and the room fell into hush.

He stopped only inches away. His hand reached out and gripped Taehyung’s chin, tilting it up. “Why didn’t you run?”

Taehyung didn’t flinch. “Because I don’t run. I survive.”

Their breath mingled. Too close. Too familiar.

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. “You’ll regret staying.”

“I already do,” Taehyung whispered.

Later that night, Taehyung was led to the master quarters—an opulent room that smelled of expensive cologne and death. Jungkook didn’t speak as he closed the door behind them. Instead, he poured two drinks. One he handed to Taehyung.

“To old ghosts,” Jungkook said, raising his glass.

Taehyung drank. The burn of it settled deep in his bones.

“You're mine now,” Jungkook said. “But don’t confuse ownership with affection.”

Taehyung’s voice was quiet, but sharp. “I wasn’t the one who looked at me like I was a memory.”

Jungkook turned away.

Outside, thunder rolled across the Seoul skyline. Inside, two broken boys stared at each other through the bars of a golden cage.

And so the game began.

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