"The Bite In The Dark"

The morning light came too soon. Taehyung sat in the silence of his pottery studio, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He hadn’t slept—not really. Not after that dream. His throat ached from the gasp that had ripped him awake, and his chest still throbbed with panic.

And Jungkook—

Gone.

No trace of him. No footprints on the damp ground outside. No shadow slipping through the misty streets. Nothing but absence.

The only proof that anything had happened at all was the phantom sting at the nape of his neck. He touched the spot gingerly, fingertips trembling, but the skin was smooth. No wound. No bruise. No blood.

And yet… he could feel it.

The pressure of teeth sinking into his flesh. The shudder that had run through his body. The warmth of breath against his skin. It had felt so real that even now, awake in the pale light, his body flinched at the memory.

Taehyung buried his face into his knees, eyes burning.

“Why me?” he whispered to the empty room.

He tried to convince himself it was only stress. Clay dust in his lungs, too many sleepless nights, the stormy weather weighing heavy. That was all. His imagination, feeding on loneliness.

But his heart refused to agree. Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw him again—the faceless man. Standing too close. Whispering things Taehyung shouldn’t remember.

Don’t run from me.

By noon, Taehyung forced himself to work. His hands were clumsy on the wheel, clay collapsing again and again under his trembling grip. He cursed softly, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

The village outside was alive with chatter—merchants calling, children laughing, the hammering of blacksmiths. Normal life. And yet, in his corner of it, Taehyung felt as if he were in another world entirely.

He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to open. Half-hoping.

But Jungkook didn’t return.

That night, exhaustion dragged him down fast. His body wanted sleep, even if his mind screamed against it. He fought, pacing the room, drinking tea, splashing his face with cold water. But when the clock struck midnight, his eyelids betrayed him.

Darkness.

The dream came like a tide.

He was in his workshop again, but wrong. Always wrong. Clay pots shattered across the floor, shards glistening sharp as glass. Water pooled black as ink. The wheel spun on its own, faster and faster, screeching against the silence.

And then—him.

The faceless man. Standing at the far end of the room, shadow wrapped around him like a cloak.

Taehyung’s body froze, though his heart thundered.

“Stay away,” he whispered, though no sound came out.

The man tilted his head. Slowly, he began to walk forward. Every step echoed louder than thunder, though his feet never touched the ground.

Taehyung tried to move, to run, but the floor seemed to hold him in place. Clay clung to his ankles like shackles.

Closer. Closer. Until the man stood behind him. He couldn’t see his face—never his face—but he felt the presence, towering, pressing, dangerous.

Warm breath brushed the side of his neck.

Taehyung shuddered. His lips parted, breath shallow, trapped between fear and something else he didn’t want to name.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

“You’re mine.”

And before Taehyung could scream, sharp teeth sank into the curve of his neck.

White-hot pain jolted through him, but so did something else—something dizzying, like fire curling through his veins, like warmth flooding into a place inside him he hadn’t known was empty. He gasped, clawing at the man’s arm, but it only pulled him closer, the bite deeper, until his knees buckled.

Tears streamed down his face, and the world spun.

The man held him tighter. His faceless head buried in Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Don’t wake yet.”

But the pain, the pleasure, the terror—it all shattered at once.

Taehyung bolted upright in his bed.

His chest heaved, tears wetting his face. He clutched the blanket in fists, heart pounding so violently it hurt.

The bite. He could still feel it. Raw, throbbing, like teeth had pierced flesh. His fingers shot to his neck, frantically searching for proof.

Nothing.

Not a scratch. Not a drop of blood.

But the phantom ache was there. Realer than reality.

He collapsed forward, pressing his face into his hands, shoulders shaking. Why him? Why these dreams? And why did it feel so… intimate? So alive?

The studio was empty when he staggered to it at dawn. Empty in a way that hurt.

Jungkook was gone. Again.

And though Taehyung told himself he should be relieved—that maybe the stranger was nothing, maybe the dreams were just dreams—his chest ached with something else entirely.

A hollow grief.

Because some part of him knew Jungkook was tied to it. To all of it.

The bite. The shadows. The faceless man.

For the rest of the day, Taehyung drifted through tasks like a ghost. His neighbors called to him, waved, but he barely responded. He worked clay, but nothing held shape. He burned his hands on the kiln fire, too distracted to notice until it stung.

At sunset, he sat outside, staring at the horizon. The sky bled red and gold, and for a moment, he thought he saw someone standing at the edge of the forest.

A tall figure. Watching.

He blinked, and it was gone.

But the phantom bite burned again.

That night, Taehyung didn’t even try to resist sleep. He lay down, eyes wet, heart aching. He pressed his palm against the back of his neck where the invisible wound throbbed.

“Why me?” he whispered again.

The shadows gave no answer.

But deep in his bones, he felt it.

This wasn’t over.

It was only the beginning.

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