FATE'S GAME | | BTS FF (18+)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KIM TAEHYUNG

The engine cut, but the silence inside the car felt heavier than any roar.

I stared at the rearview mirror, watching the city lights blur behind us. The world outside was moving, oblivious to the storm crashing inside my chest.

Ishita's words echoed in my mind—the woman who used to hum, the one who cared for her when no one else did.

My mother.

How many years had I spent burying that memory? Convincing myself that the pain was sealed away with her death?

But now, the cracks were wide open.

I glanced sideways at Ishita. Her face was pale, eyes wide but steady. For a moment, she looked less like the Choudhary heiress and more like a frightened child searching for truth.

The truth I was still chasing.

"Ishita," I said softly, breaking the thick silence. "If she was with you... it means she didn't disappear alone."

Her breath hitched, and I reached out, hesitating only a second before letting my fingers brush her hand.

"We need to find out who she was. Why she left you, and how she's connected to all this."

She nodded, but I saw the weight settle in her shoulders, the unspoken question hanging between us: Can we really trust anyone?

I clenched my jaw. Trust wasn't a luxury I had. Not in this family. Not in this life.

But with Ishita  maybe it could be different.

The car door opened, and the cold night air rushed in. We stepped out together, but the mansion felt colder than ever.

Behind us, the city lights flickered like distant stars. Ahead, the war wasn't just between the Kims and the Choudharys.

I led Ishita into my study. The room was quiet and serious—just like the moment.

I opened a drawer and pulled out an old photo. It was worn, edges bent.

I handed it to her.

She looked closely. Her breath caught.

The girl in the photo was her. Younger. Standing in the corner of what looked like a garden, hair in a braid, clutching a sunflower.

Next to her—a woman with kind eyes and a quiet smile.

Gentle hands resting on Ishita's small shoulders.

Ishita blinked, and her lips parted like the memory had punched the air from her lungs.

"That's her," she whispered. "That's the woman I remember. She used to hum that lullaby... and braid my hair... I didn't dream her."

I nodded once. "You didn't."

She looked up sharply. "But how do you have this? This photo?"

I hesitated.

Then, slowly, I walked to the safe and unlocked it. I pulled out the rest: the USB drive, the locket etched with the letter K, and the crumpled envelope addressed in handwriting I'd once memorized as a boy.

"I got this few days back," I said quietly. "Dock 17. A crate. A message."

Ishita's eyes flicked to the objects on the desk, her expression a blend of awe and confusion.

"My mother's alive," I continued. "Or was, recently. And she was with him."

I pulled out the other photo—the one with Arjun Choudhary standing beside her like he owned her pain and my father was there as well .