Chapter 2

The fourth victim was discovered on a Monday.

Throat slit, eyes closed, a red thread coiled around her left ring finger like a promise broken mid-sentence.

Jungkook stood over her body, the city pressing in around him like a fever dream. Somewhere nearby, espresso steamed and jazz played through rain-speckled glass. He could smell it—rich and bitter, drifting from the same goddamn café every time.

Hellebore.

He ran the names again. All four victims had visited it within a week of their deaths. The coincidence tightened into a knot at the base of his skull.

He returned the next evening.

The café was slow at night. Shadows clung to corners. Jazz dripped from unseen speakers. The man behind the counter moved like he belonged to the dark—slow, graceful, deliberate.

Jungkook didn’t know his name yet.

But the barista knew his.

“Detective,” the man greeted, sliding an Americano across the counter with a lazy smile. “No sugar, no cream. You strike me as someone who prefers the bitter end.”

Jungkook stiffened.

“I didn’t order.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence sat heavy between them, thick with unspoken things.

“You serve all your customers this personally?” Jungkook asked.

Taehyung shrugged. “Only the ones investigating me.”

He leaned forward, voice low and warm. “You’ve been watching me for three days. I figured it was time to say hello.”

Jungkook stared at him, throat dry. “I’m here for the coffee.”

Taehyung smiled like he could taste the lie. “Aren’t we all?”

The second time Jungkook came in, the café was closed.

He wasn’t there for the coffee.

He found Taehyung alone, back turned, wiping down the counter. A black turtleneck clung to his frame. The lights were low. The door had been unlocked.

“Should I call this breaking and entering?” Taehyung asked without turning.

“I’m not here to play.”

“You never are. That’s why it’s so fun.”

Jungkook crossed the floor in three quick steps, grabbed Taehyung by the wrist, spun him around. Taehyung let it happen, eyes glittering.

“You think this is a game?”

“I think you’re obsessed,” Taehyung whispered. “And obsession always ends one of two ways—fucking or killing.”

Their mouths crashed before Jungkook could stop himself.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind.

Teeth and tongue, fists in fabric, Taehyung’s back slammed to the counter, Jungkook’s thigh slotted between his. The kiss dragged heat from every nerve ending—fast, filthy, fucked.

Jungkook bit down hard on Taehyung’s lower lip. Taehyung moaned.

Then whispered, “You want to fuck your suspect? Or do you just want to be caught?”

Jungkook froze.

Something cracked inside him. He stepped back like he’d been burned.

“This is a mistake,” he growled.

“Which part?” Taehyung asked, wiping the blood from his lip with a smirk. “Getting hard while pinning a killer… or wanting to pin one down?”

Jungkook returned the next day with a warrant.

But the back room was spotless. No hidden photographs. No red string. No secret shrine.

Just shelves. Just coffee beans. Just silence.

Nothing to justify the pulse thundering in his throat.

But he knew what he’d seen the night before. A grainy photo—him, watching from his car across the street. Taken through glass. Taken in secret.

He wasn't losing his mind.