Chains in Silk

Jimin’s footsteps echoed against the polished floors as he stormed out of the dining hall, his chest tightening with every breath. The corridors of the Park residence had never felt so suffocating, every portrait on the walls watching him with quiet judgment.

He shoved his door open and slammed it shut, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. His fists pressed against the wood, knuckles white. His heart wasn’t just breaking—it was raging.

Marriage. To Min Yoongi.

A stranger, bound to him not by choice, but by a contract written in debts and desperation.

His father’s voice echoed in his head: “It’s for survival, Jimin. For the company. For us.”

“For us?” he spat into the silence, bitter laughter spilling from his lips. “Or for you?”

He sank onto the bed, head bowed, but his tears never fell. They burned instead, fueling the storm brewing in his chest.

If his father thought he could hand him over like a pawn, he’d make damn sure he didn’t play like one.

If I’m going to drown, Jimin thought, jaw tightening, then I’ll be the storm that takes them down with me.

The hours dragged. His room became his cocoon, his walls absorbing his silence. His father and stepmother did not disturb him—they knew too well this habit of his, of locking himself away when the world threatened to crush him.

But Beomgyu returned home from college, the weight in the air pressing on him the moment he stepped through the door. After freshening up, he went straight to his brother’s room.

“Hyung? Are you there?” he knocked lightly. No response. He tried again, voice firmer. “Hyung.”

The silence on the other side only deepened his unease. He knew this pattern—Jimin shutting out the world, his silence not weakness but armor.

Beomgyu’s chest tightened. He turned away and found Mrs. Park in the living room, adjusting a vase that didn’t need adjusting.

“Mom, what happened? Why does everything feel… wrong? What happened to hyung?”

Mrs. Park froze. “Oh, Beomgyu, did you freshen up? Let me set dinner—”

“Mom.” His voice cut through, sharp with worry. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes flickered with hesitation. She couldn’t bear to tell him outright, knowing his temper, so instead she gave him fragments. “You know the state of the company. Your father… had to make a decision. One that will affect us. And your brother.”

Beomgyu’s fists clenched. He understood enough. His mother was hiding something—but if Jimin wasn’t talking, then he’d wait. Later. Alone.

That night, Jimin’s door finally creaked open. He found his father waiting in the hallway, as though he’d been standing there for hours.

“Jimin,” Mr. Park said quietly.

Jimin’s eyes hardened. “Don’t. Don’t try to explain it away.”

His father’s shoulders sagged. For the first time, he didn’t look like the towering figure Jimin had grown up fearing and admiring in equal measure. He looked… tired. Old.

“It wasn’t just for me,” Mr. Park said, voice rough. “It was the only way to save everything. To save you.”

Jimin laughed, sharp and bitter. “Save me? By selling me?” His gaze cut through him. “You chose survival over me. Fine. But don’t expect me to bow my head and smile.”

His father flinched.

“If this is the path you’ve forced me into,” Jimin went on, voice steady with quiet fury, “I’ll walk it my way. Not yours.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned back into his room and slammed the door.

Later, Beomgyu caught him sitting by the window, staring at the night sky.

“Hyung…” Beomgyu’s voice was soft. “Is it true? Are you—”

“Yes.” Jimin didn’t look at him. “I’m marrying Min Yoongi.”

The name dropped like lead between them. Beomgyu’s face twisted. “That cold bastard from the papers? Hyung, you can’t—”

“I can,” Jimin cut him off. His eyes met his brother’s then, fire burning beneath the calm. “And I will. But don’t mistake that for surrender, Gyu. Some battles aren’t fought with fists—they’re fought with patience. Trust me on this.”

Beomgyu swallowed, seeing not defeat in Jimin’s eyes, but defiance. It terrified him. And yet, he couldn’t help but believe him.

Across the city, Min Yoongi stood in his office, Seoul’s skyline sprawling beneath him like a chessboard. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass—sharp suit, sharper eyes.

On the desk behind him lay a folder with the name Park Jimin embossed across the top. He hadn’t opened it yet. He didn’t need to.

This marriage was not about the boy. It was about strategy. Consolidation. Survival.

Still, whispers of Jimin tugged at his mind—the beauty, the temper, the stubborn streak that clashed with the delicate image of an omega.

Yoongi smirked faintly. “A storm, huh?”

The door opened softly. Seokjin stepped in, a stack of documents in hand. He glanced at the untouched folder before settling beside him.

“You made quite the impression tonight,” Seokjin said, half-amused. “The boy has fire.”

Yoongi didn’t look away from the skyline. “Fire burns out when it has no fuel. He’ll settle.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

A pause. Yoongi finally turned, the shadows cutting sharp lines across his face.

“Then he’ll learn that survival isn’t about wanting,” he said quietly, “it’s about enduring.”

The words lingered, heavy with finality. Yet in the depth of his gaze—hidden even from himself—flickered something unspoken. A glimmer. A warning. Perhaps even… curiosity.

He reached for the switch, plunging the office into darkness. Only the city lights burned on, and with them, the storm he had just dared.

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