"The Shadows Between Us"

The third day came wrapped in silence. The storm was gone, but the quiet that followed felt unnatural—like the town itself was holding its breath.

Taehyung’s small pottery studio smelled of wet earth and clay. Usually, the scent comforted him. Today it pressed on his chest, heavy, suffocating. His fingers molded the damp clay on the wheel, but his eyes kept wandering to the door. To the place where Jungkook had stood the night before.

Jungkook hadn’t returned. He had left early in the morning, but something in Taehyung told him it wasn’t over. People passed through town all the time, yet no one lingered in his thoughts the way Jungkook did. His mind kept circling back to those eyes—too dark, too knowing.

And that chest. That flicker of red that couldn’t possibly be real.

Taehyung pressed harder into the clay, the wheel spinning faster. His heartbeat matched its rhythm.

It was nothing. A shadow. You’re imagining things.

But no matter how he repeated it, his body didn’t believe.

That night, Taehyung tried to distract himself with tea and books. He pulled an old volume from his father’s shelf—“Legends of the Forgotten”—a collection of half-believed folktales passed down in his village. He had flipped through it before as a child, laughing at stories of demons, restless spirits, and old gods.

Now, the words didn’t feel funny.

One story caught his attention. “The Man with the Red Seal.” His throat went dry. He skimmed:

> “Marked by blood in the center of his chest, he walks the earth unchanged by time. He seeks what was taken, he waits for what was promised. When you dream of him, he is already near.”

The book slipped from his hands, thudding against the floor.

Taehyung froze. His breath came shallow, uneven. It was only a story. Just a coincidence. But… his dream. That red mark.

He rubbed his arms, fighting the chill. “Don’t be stupid, Tae. It’s just a book.”

But the words wouldn’t leave him. When you dream of him, he is already near.

The knock came at midnight.

A single, deliberate sound at his door.

Taehyung’s heart stopped. No one came at this hour. His first instinct was to stay quiet, pretend he wasn’t there. But his legs betrayed him, carrying him slowly to the door, as if pulled by something unseen.

When he opened it, rain had begun again, fine mist rolling off the street. And there he was.

Jungkook.

Drenched once more, but standing perfectly still, as if the rain hadn’t touched him at all. His dark eyes lifted, meeting Taehyung’s.

“Sorry,” Jungkook said softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Taehyung’s voice caught. “What… are you doing here?”

“I was passing through.” His lips curved faintly. “It seems the storm doesn’t want me to leave.”

Something about the way he said it made Taehyung’s skin prickle.

He stepped aside before he could stop himself. “Come in.”

The night stretched long. Jungkook sat in the corner of the workshop, his gaze occasionally sweeping over the shelves of pots, over Taehyung himself. He didn’t speak much, but the silence wasn’t empty—it was filled with tension, like the air before lightning struck.

Taehyung tried to keep busy, shaping clay, but his hands shook. He could feel Jungkook’s eyes on him. Watching. Weighing.

Finally, he broke. “Why… why do you keep showing up?”

Jungkook tilted his head, thoughtful. “Why do you keep letting me in?”

The words hit harder than they should have. Taehyung had no answer.

For a long time, they stayed in silence. The only sound was the spinning wheel and the storm outside.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Taehyung saw it again.

The mark.

Jungkook shifted, his shirt pulling against his chest. Just for a heartbeat, the lamplight revealed it—the faint, kite-shaped stain glowing beneath pale skin.

Taehyung’s breath caught. He nearly dropped the clay.

When he looked again, it was gone. Just shadow, just light.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to him, sharp, knowing.

“You look pale,” Jungkook murmured. “Are you afraid of me?”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. “No,” he lied.

A small smile played on Jungkook’s lips. “Good.”

That night, Taehyung dreamed again.

But this time it wasn’t only the faceless man. The dream shifted, darker. He was in his workshop, but everything was wrong—pots shattered, clay dripping like blood onto the floor. The air thick with iron.

And then, behind him, the whisper again.

“Don’t run from me.”

He turned—and for the first time, the faceless man almost had a face. The outline of a jaw. Dark hair falling over his eyes. But just as Taehyung reached out, the mark on his chest burned bright, searing his vision—

Taehyung woke gasping, heart hammering against his ribs.

And from the hallway, he swore he heard it again. Footsteps. Slow. Passing by his door.

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