Sweet Thirst

Chapter 19

Author POV:

In the dimly lit street, the air heavy with an unsettling silence, He examined the boy keenly. He was horrified and looked at the heart-wrenching sight. In the cold embrace of the asphalt, lay a fragile five-year-old boy. His small frame was starkly contrasted against the harsh reality of his injuries - gaping wounds on his cheek, chest, and shoulder oozing with the crimson evidence of a violent encounter.

Emotions flooded him, overwhelming his senses. A mixture of fear, sorrow, and a raw, unexplainable connection to the injured boy gripped his heart. The innocence robbed from the unconscious child seemed to resonate with the depths of his own compassionate soul.

Tears welled up in Taehyung's eyes as he cradled the injured child in his arms, the weight of the small, battered body pressing against his own. The warmth of the blood-soaked skin beneath his trembling fingertips left an indelible mark on his consciousness. A chilling breeze carried the echoes of a nightmarish event that had transpired, leaving both boys ensnared in its aftermath.

Despite the gravity of the situation, an unexpected surge of protection coursed through the kind boy's veins. A fierce determination replaced his initial shock, fueled by an unspoken promise to shield the defenseless child from further harm. The street, once a mundane thoroughfare, transformed into a battlefield of emotions where empathy and an innate sense of responsibility clashed with the harsh reality of the wounded child's condition.

Taehyung's sobs intensified, each cry tearing through the stillness of the night. His shoulders shook uncontrollably, and his tears fell freely, merging with the crimson stains on the injured child's delicate skin. The weight of the scene pressed upon him, and he cried so heavily that his lungs gasped for air between heart-wrenching sobs.

The anguished sounds echoed through the desolate street, a haunting melody of pain and empathy that transcended the physical wounds before him. His blond hair clung to his tear-streaked face, a visible manifestation of the emotional storm raging within. In that moment, vulnerability and strength interwove, creating a tapestry of raw humanity.

His cries seemed to resonate with the wounded child as if the collective pain of both souls merged into a symphony of shared sorrow. The street bore witness to the collision of innocence and brutality, as his tears became a poignant testimony to the depth of his compassion and the profound connection he felt with the small, broken figure in his arms.

In the haze of unconsciousness, Jungkook found himself suspended in a realm between dreams and reality. A fleeting moment of awareness graced him, and he managed to pry his heavy eyelids open for a mere second. Blurry images danced before him, and in that fleeting glimpse, he caught sight of a golden light.

The golden strands of hair belonged to someone who looked like a boy and shimmered like a halo, illuminated by the passing headlights of cars in the dimly lit street. Despite the disorienting blur, there was an ethereal quality to the scene, as if a guardian angel had descended to offer solace in his darkest hour.

As Jungkook struggled to make sense of his surroundings, a deep, soothing voice reached the recesses of his consciousness. The words were muffled, but the warmth in the tones resonated with an undeniable sincerity. It was a voice that seemed to cry out for him, carrying an unexpected weight of empathy that touched something deep within his battered soul.

In that fragile moment of awakening, a profound realization washed over Jungkook. He had never anticipated that someone would cry for him, especially not a stranger amid a desolate street. The kind boy's tears became an unexpected lifeline, a connection that defied the isolation he had grown accustomed to.

As unconsciousness once again claimed him, Jungkook carried with him the lingering echoes of that golden light and the gentle, tear-laden voice. In the realm of dreams, where reality and imagination intertwined, he clung to the belief that maybe, just maybe, there was someone who cared enough to weep for a soul as wounded as his own.