Meant Nothing

The apartment was quiet.

Not peaceful—just hollow.

Kim Taehyung sat on a thin floor mattress, cradling a bowl of instant porridge, blowing softly on the steam though he hadn’t eaten all day. His mother lay in the corner, tucked beneath a worn blanket, her breaths shallow and slow. The oxygen tank beside her gave a dull hiss every few seconds, the only sound in the entire room.

Taehyung lowered his spoon.

He couldn’t eat—not while his mother was slipping away a little more every day.

He was twenty-two, too young to feel this old. The weight of debt, of hospital bills, of skipped meals, lived in the curve of his spine and the dark circles under his soft eyes. Once, people used to call him beautiful. Now, he could barely look in a mirror without flinching.

He ran his fingers through his overgrown hair, then gently rose to his feet and adjusted his mother’s blanket. Her skin was cold. Her lips cracked. But her hand twitched faintly in his.

“I’m here, eomma,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I’m still here.”

A knock at the door jolted him.

He blinked. No one ever visited. Not here, not anymore.

He opened the door slowly, peeking out.

A tall man in a black coat stood there, expression unreadable, posture sharp. Clean-cut. Expensive cologne. Out of place in this broken building.

“You’re Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung nodded slowly, stepping back.

The man didn’t enter. Instead, he pulled an envelope from his coat and held it out.

“My employer would like to speak with you. In person.”

Taehyung frowned, eyeing the envelope. “Who…?”

“You were seen at the hospital. Speaking with Mrs. Jeon Lisa.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened. “That woman? She… remembered me?”

“She did. And she believes you may be able to help her with something important.”

Taehyung hesitated. His instincts told him to refuse. He wasn’t anyone. Just a poor boy with a sick mother and no future.

But the man added, “You’ll be compensated for your time. Just a conversation. Nothing more.”

Money.

Even the promise of it made Taehyung’s chest tighten.

He looked back at his mother’s fragile frame. The oxygen tank was nearly empty. They’d cut off her medication soon if the bills weren’t paid.

Taehyung took the envelope with trembling fingers.

“Where… do I go?”

The man handed him a neatly folded card. “Tomorrow. 11 a.m. Dress… respectfully. You’ll be meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Jeon.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, lowering his gaze. “O-okay.”

The man nodded once, then turned and walked away.

Taehyung closed the door and leaned his forehead against it, the card clutched in his hand.

He didn’t know what they wanted. Or why they wanted him.

But he was desperate. And desperate people stopped asking questions.

He looked down at the card again.

Jeon Jungkook.

The name meant nothing to him.

But by tomorrow, it would mean everything.

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