Prologue – The Lives Before This One

“He dies in every lifetime.

And I always love him right before he does.”

-×-×-

The first time it happened, Jungkook was too exhausted to fight it.

The day had been a blur of stage lights, rehearsals, and hollow interviews — the kind where every question is a dance, every smile is curated. He got home past midnight, showered in silence, and collapsed on the mattress still damp with sweat.

That night, he didn’t dream.

He remembered.

-×-×-

It began in heat. Not metaphorical warmth — but fire, real and roaring.

Smoke thickened around his ankles. The walls glowed orange, coughing out light and ash. Sand bit into the arches of his feet as he ran. Behind him, the world cracked open.

A palace — he thought — but wrong. Not opulent. Sacred. Wounded.

He didn’t know where he was.

Only that he had to find someone.

Ahead, through the heat shimmer, a boy was running barefoot, draped in crimson silk, long hair matted to his neck, face blurred by distance and memory.

The boy turned back once.

Eyes dark like burnt sugar.

“You’re late again,” the boy said.

“You always are.”

The ceiling collapsed between them.

Jungkook screamed.

And woke with the sound still in his throat, sitting bolt upright in his bed, heart jackhammering against his ribs. The air was cold. The fire was gone.

But the name lingered on his tongue—

“Taehyung.”

-×-×-

He didn’t tell anyone.

Not his manager, not his stylists, not even his therapist — the one on HYBE’s payroll who once said, “Memory distortion is common in sleep-deprived creatives.”

The dream returned two nights later.

-×-×-

This time:

The smell of oil paint.

The studio was dim and hot, slatted sunlight slipping in through warped glass. Jungkook sat half-nude on a stool, the fabric of his trousers stuck to his thighs, while a man painted him in silence.

No music. No small talk. Only the wet glide of brush on canvas and the occasional sound of breath.

Jungkook didn't recognize the face of the man at first. He was focused, severe, absurdly beautiful — long fingers stained blue, mouth pressed into a line that meant restraint or fear or longing.

Then their eyes met.

And Jungkook's chest hurt.

"Don't move," the man said.

Jungkook didn't.

But his heart screamed.

Some part of him knew what would happen next — that this moment was sacred and final and already broken. He knew that he would leave. That his silence would destroy something fragile.

That the painting would remain — but the boy would not.

-×-×-

Dream three was worse.

The rope bit into his wrists. Cold stone under his knees.

He was in a church, or maybe a courtroom. The line between the two blurred in dreams. He wasn’t alone. Dozens watched.

A boy knelt beside him. His mouth was sewn shut. Real thread. Real blood.

Taehyung.

He remembered the name this time. Not just the sound — the meaning.

His eyes searched the crowd. They searched Jungkook.

And Jungkook did nothing.

He didn't speak. Didn't scream. Didn't run forward.

The boy was dragged out into the snow, still silent, still looking at him.

The executioner raised a torch.

Flames took the shape of memory.

And Jungkook woke up sobbing, the scream still lodged behind his teeth.

-×-×-

They kept coming.

Dreams that weren’t dreams — fragments.

A flicker of white linen and revolution banners.

The weight of a bayonet in his hand.

Taehyung pressed against a window, whispering, “Don't forget me this time.”

Another life. Another era.

A black-and-white hospital room.

The sound of EKGs.

A final kiss.

No heartbeat.

-×-×-

In every life, it was Taehyung.

He didn’t always look the same — but he felt the same.

There was a moment in each memory when Jungkook knew:

That’s him. That’s the one.

Sometimes they touched.

Sometimes they kissed.

Once, they married.

Twice, they bled together.

Always, it ended the same way.

Always, Jungkook forgot.

-×-×-

The worst dream came days later.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t betrayal.

It wasn’t death.

It was a bed.

A small apartment. Seoul. Rain on the windows.

Taehyung sat on the edge, barefoot, tuning a guitar.

Jungkook walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. Pressed his nose into the skin of his shoulder. Whispered something.

Taehyung turned, touched his face.

“You’re soft in this one,” he whispered.

“Don’t stay soft. The fire always comes.”

And then the sirens wailed.

The smoke curled under the door.

Jungkook couldn’t get it open.

Taehyung was coughing, collapsing.

The flames licked the window.

Too late.

Too late.

Again.

-×-×-

When he woke, Jungkook sat in the dark, drenched in sweat, one word pounding behind his ribs:

"Why?"

Why did he know the sound of that voice?

Why did his fingers tremble when he heard Taehyung’s name on the radio?

Why did he cry reading lyrics he didn’t remember writing?

And why, when they finally met again in a rehearsal hall—

When Taehyung stood there, calm, composed, heartbreak carved into the soft lines of his face—

Why did Jungkook feel like he was too late?

Again.

-×-×-

Somewhere in the city, in a quiet apartment that smells like incense and regret, Taehyung writes in a locked document called:

“The Grimoire of Pain.”

And he types the same line he’s written in every life before:

“He always forgets.”

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