Jungkook
The morning light meant nothing.
It slipped through the broken slats like a cruel joke—golden and warm, painting a world he couldn't feel anymore.
His body ached. His soul, worse.
The damp floor beneath him reeked of mold and abandonment. The blanket he'd found in the trash barely covered half his body, but he didn't shiver.
He was too used to the cold now.
He sat up slowly, wincing. Every part of him felt bruised—not just his skin, but the places that used to hold hope. Places that had once fluttered when Taehyung looked at him.
Taehyung.
He whispered the name to himself like a curse.
Then dragged himself up, limbs stiff and swollen, to splash cold water on his face from a rusted tin bowl he'd filled with rain.
The water stung. It always did.
But maybe it would wash away the memory of him.
He didn't know why he still went to the café.
Maybe habit. Maybe desperation. Maybe because a part of him still clung to the lie that someone might care.
He pushed open the door, breath trembling.
And froze.
Another boy wore his apron.
Laughed behind his counter.
Touched the espresso machine like it was his.
"…What?" he whispered. "Why is he…?"
The manager heard him.
And everything snapped.
"You think you can just walk in here after vanishing?!" the older man shouted, storming forward. "You think we waited for you?!"
Jungkook flinched. "I—I was sick. I couldn't—"
"Sick? You mean busy getting f**ked by that freak you ran off with?"
The slap hit before he could even breathe.
Then another.
Then fists.
"You worthless brat! I gave you everything!" the man yelled, punching him in the ribs. "And you threw it away for some twisted love story!"
Jungkook fell.
Hard.
Blood dripped from his lip onto the white floor tiles.
No one helped.
No one moved.
They just stared.
Like he was filth.
Like he deserved it.
His tears burned but he didn't wipe them.
He just crawled out the door and ran.
Halfway home—if that haunted, empty space could be called home—he heard the footsteps.
Then the voice.
"You're the boy Taehyung ruined, right?"
He turned.
Four men in suits. Cruel smiles.
"I—I don't know what you mean…"
"Let's remind him whose property he is."
A fist landed in his gut.
He bent forward—then a boot slammed into his chest.
He choked on blood. On panic.
On betrayal.
They didn't stop.
Punches. Kicks. Bruises blooming like flowers.
They spit on him as they left.
"Trash like you never belonged to him anyway."
No one helped.
Minho didn't come.
Namjoon didn't call.
And Taehyung—
The man who once kissed him like he was precious—
Didn't even look for him.
Two weeks later, the knock came.
The landlord.
"You're two weeks late. Pay or get out."
"I… I don't have it yet. Please, I just—"
"Not my problem."
He was dragged out with nothing but a torn bag of clothes. Tossed onto the pavement like trash.
No one looked at him.
No one asked if he was okay.
He tried Namjoon's place.
The door opened. Eyes met.
Then darkened.
"You chose him," Namjoon said coldly. "Live with it."
The door slammed.
Just like that…
He had no one.
He wandered until the city blurred. Until his legs gave out. Until he found an abandoned shack on the outskirts—rotted wood, shattered windows, a door that screamed when it opened.
It became his shelter.
His punishment.
He curled into the corner, arms wrapped around his bloody knees.
No heater.
No food.
Just silence.
And ghosts.
He didn't cry.
He just stared.
Into nothing.
Because that's what he had become.
Nothing.
No more dreams.
No more stars.
Just a broken boy in a dying house…
Waiting for someone who never came.
End of Chapter 16