Chapter 5: Shadows of the Past

The human brain isn’t made to forget everything.

Not truly. Not when memories are carved in the scent of sun-warmed grass and laughter that echoed through narrow alleyways at dusk. Not when the shadow of someone’s hand still lingers at the edge of your own. Even when time twists it. Even when pain paints over it.

Taehyung remembered.

Even if Jungkook pretended not to.

It started with the hallway outside the archive room — a place Taehyung rarely went, tucked deep in the bowels of the estate, filled with files and faded ledgers and secrets only worth keeping if someone had something to lose. But that night, chasing a whisper of information about his father’s dealings, he wandered too far.

And there it was.

A corner of the hallway, unremarkable but familiar. The walls were repainted now, darker. The sconces more elegant, the floor no longer scuffed tile but polished obsidian. But the dimensions were the same.

He ran his fingers along the wall until they found the tiny chip in the corner of the baseboard.

Still there.

Still exactly where his knee had slammed into it that summer night they’d raced down the corridor as children, Taehyung half-laughing, Jungkook one step behind and grinning like the world hadn’t yet broken him.

A sudden breath caught in Taehyung’s throat. Not from pain. Not from fear.

From grief.

Back then, it had been simpler.

Jungkook had lived in the guest wing while his mother negotiated trade deals with Taehyung’s father. He’d been quiet, intense, a boy with bruises he wouldn’t explain and a fascination with puzzles Taehyung never understood. But they’d been inseparable. Two shadows darting between rooms too large for them, finding refuge in silence and companionship that didn’t demand explanation.

They'd carved their initials beneath the old greenhouse table. Told secrets under a quilt of stars. Stolen oranges from the kitchen and made juice in the middle of the night. Jungkook had once taught Taehyung how to braid a rope from scraps of silk — “for escape,” he’d said, dead serious.

Back then, he’d smiled without cruelty.

Loved without knowing it was dangerous.

Taehyung wandered back to the greenhouse.

It had long since fallen into disuse — glass panels cracked, overgrowth thick with vines and dust. But the table remained. Warped, stained, and half-collapsed on one side. He brushed aside dead leaves and found the carving.

T + J

Enclosed in a jagged heart, half-faded but still legible.

He didn’t cry. That would’ve been too easy.

He sat there for hours, knees pulled to his chest, letting the silence press in. Remembering the weight of Jungkook’s head on his shoulder that night he’d confessed he hated his father. The way he used to hold Taehyung’s hand at night when the thunder got too loud.

He remembered promising Jungkook that they’d never change.

He laughed at the irony now.

Later that evening, he was summoned.

Jungkook rarely used direct commands anymore — he preferred subtle control — but tonight, the message was clear: Come. Now.

Taehyung entered the main drawing room without knocking.

Jungkook sat alone, a decanter of whiskey in one hand, sleeves rolled up, shirt collar open. He didn’t look like a mafia boss right then. He looked like a man wrestling with ghosts.

“Why were you in the greenhouse?” Jungkook asked without looking at him.

Taehyung didn’t flinch. “Why do you care?”

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to him. “I asked a question.”

“So did I.”

They stared across the room, war not in their words but in the silence between them. Then Jungkook rose and walked slowly toward Taehyung.

“You still remember it all, don’t you?” he said quietly.

Taehyung’s breath hitched — not visibly, but Jungkook saw it.

“I remember everything,” Taehyung replied. “You act like it was a different life. Like we didn’t lie on rooftops and talk about freedom.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “That boy died.”

“No,” Taehyung said, stepping closer, anger flaring. “You killed him.”

Something in Jungkook’s expression cracked.

“You think I had a choice?” he snarled. “You think I asked to become this?”

“You think I did?” Taehyung’s voice rose. “You think I asked to be sold off like cargo? To be your property? Do you know what it felt like when they handed me to you and I thought— for one stupid second— that you would protect me?”

Silence.

Sharp. Bleeding.

“I never wanted to protect you,” Jungkook whispered.

“Liar,” Taehyung said, eyes burning. “You were the only place I ever felt safe.”

And that — that broke something between them.

Not in the way things shatter and end.

But in the way a lock clicks open after years of rust.

Jungkook looked away first. Poured another glass of whiskey. His hand shook.

Taehyung didn’t move.

He didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since their reunion, Jungkook said something not cruel, not cold — but quiet.

“I still remember too,” he said. “And I wish I didn’t.”