Chapter 2
He carried a dancer’s name, but not a dancer’s life.
Jungkook stood by the cracked mirror nailed to the wall, staring at his own reflection like he didn’t recognize it. Pale skin, sharp collarbones, dark eyes that held too much silence. His black hair curled over his ears, messy and unwashed. His lips were chapped. His hands — veined, calloused, tired — still shook from last night's dream.
He was an orphan long before he lost his parents.
They had died in a fire when he was five. No one told him how. No one told him why. His grandparents took him in — if you could call it that. He was more servant than child. They made him sweep floors, clean gutters, fetch food… but never gave him any.
They beat him when he cried. They beat him when he didn’t.
He learned silence early.
And he learned to dance… even earlier.
Dance was the only place he didn’t feel like a mistake. He taught himself from broken DVDs and stolen YouTube time in cybercafés. At seventeen, he ran away — with nothing but his feet, his pain, and a pair of stolen shoes.
Now, he danced in cheap theatres, tourist cafes, college halls. Not for passion.
For rent. For food.
For survival.
This morning, Jungkook's place
The alarm buzzed softly at 5:00 AM.
Jungkook opened his eyes with a slow, heavy blink. The dream still clung to his eyelashes like morning mist — not fully gone, not quite real.
He sat up, stretching his arms over his head, joints cracking like dry leaves. His small room was filled with pale light, creeping through the lace curtains that fluttered with the breeze.
No luxury.
Just simplicity
He moved quietly, like he was afraid to wake something sacred.
Washed his face. Brushed his long, dark hair into a bun. Tied the red thread around his ankle — a habit he didn’t question anymore.
Then he placed his feet on the cold floor, stood tall, and began his stretches
Back straight. Arms poised. Eyes forward.
Discipline over emotion.
Movement over memory.
Even when his body ached, even when his soul screamed for something more than this life, he danced — because that’s all he had.
Tonight’s performance wasn’t at a theater or studio — it was in a private hall bathed in dim gold, guarded by men with guns instead of ushers. Jungkook had accepted the offer only because the pay was too good to refuse; one night of dancing would cover his rent , his groceries....
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