THE CONCUBINE || TAEKOOK ||

SIXTY

The Dungeon — Night

The torches burned low in their sconces. The air was cold, thick with the smell of mold and rust, and the silence was broken only by the drip of water somewhere in the darkness and the faint rustle of chains.

Jungkook's steps faltered as he descended the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, suffocating, relentless.

He stopped before the cell. The bars were thick, rusted, the lock heavy. Inside, huddled on a narrow cot, was his mother. She was not the woman he remembered. Her hair was grey, unwashed, hanging in tangles around her face. Her robes were plain, the fine silks stripped away, her jewels confiscated. She looked small, frail, broken.

But her eyes her eyes were the same. Sharp, cold, calculating.

Jungkook stood at the bars, his hands clasped behind his back, his face composed. He would not let her see what she had done to him. He would not let her see the grief that had hollowed him out, the rage that burned in his chest.

"Mother," he said, and his voice was steady, though his hands trembled.

She looked up at him, and for a moment, something flickered in her eyes recognition, perhaps, or longing, or regret. Then it was gone, replaced by the cold emptiness that had been there since he entered.

"Jungkook." Her voice was thin, brittle, the voice of an old woman who had screamed herself hoarse. "My son. Forgive me."

The words hung in the air between them. Jungkook wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to reach through the bars and shake her until the lies fell away, until the truth came out, until he understood how she could have done what she did.

Instead, he stood still, and he spoke.

"I cannot," he said. "Not after what you have done."

Hara's eyes narrowed. Her hands, bound before her, tightened into fists. "What have I done?" she spat, and her voice was sharp now, cutting. "It is your father's fault. He made me this way. He is the reason for all of this."

Jungkook's breath caught. "No," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "You made your own choices. You chose to betray me. You chose to send men to kill Taehyung. You chose to murder my son. Father had nothing to do with—"

"Your father!" Hara's voice rose, cracking, wild. "He never loved me. He never looked at me. From the day we married, he was cold, distant, locked in his study with his books and his letters. He loved a man, Jungkook. A man. He wanted to marry a man, and he settled for me because his father forced him."

She laughed a sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the walls.

"You want to know why you were born? Your father was jealous. His lover's wife had given birth, and he wanted to prove that he had moved on. That he was happy. So he came to my chamber. Once. One night. And you were the result."

Jungkook's hands curled into fists. His nails bit into his palms, drawing blood. He did not speak. He could not.

"I raised you alone," Hara continued, her voice rising. "Your father never looked at you. He never held you. He was always gone, always with that man, always pretending that we did not exist. Your sister died because of him. I was struggling with the pregnancy."