GAME ON. (JIKOOK)

3. Rose

Jungkook felt his heart race, the adrenaline pumping through his veins as the dancer's words struck a chord deep within him. It was an unexpected admission, one that sent a ripple of doubt through his carefully constructed walls.

"Get to the point," he growled, not willing to back down, even as uncertainty gnawed at him.

The dancer smiled, a slow, enticing smile that promised both danger and delight. "The point, darling, is that you need to tread carefully. The deal you're chasing is more complicated than you realize, and you might just find yourself in over your head."

Jungkook's grip slackened for a moment, and he searched his eyes for any sign of deception. "What do you mean?" he pressed, his voice low, suspicion threading through every word.

"Let's just say," the dancer replied, a hint of amusement in his tone, "not everyone is who they seem. And trust is a rare commodity in this world."

Jungkook, still riding the high of adrenaline, shoved the dancer against the wall again—this time with a brutal force that reverberated through the small, dim room. The dancer's head snapped back, his breath escaping in a sharp gasp, but his earlier defiance faltered for a split second. Jungkook's fingers tightened around the dancer's slender wrists, intending to restrain him further, to crush the false sense of power he exuded. But something caught Jungkook's attention—a faint line, almost invisible against the pale skin of the dancer's wrist.

A single, fine slit. Old, but not too old—healed just enough to suggest it had been made a few weeks ago. It was barely visible in the low light, but to Jungkook's trained eyes, it was as clear as day.

The change was immediate. Gone was the smirking, insolent confidence from moments ago. The dancer's bravado slipped, just for a heartbeat, replaced by something far more vulnerable—a flicker of fear, or perhaps regret, flashing in his wide eyes. Before the dancer could pull his hand away, Jungkook yanked him closer by the wrist, inspecting the mark with grim curiosity.

"What's this?" Jungkook demanded, his voice low and dangerous, but edged with something more—an undertone of concern. The dancer's face paled, his lips parting as if to offer a quip, but the words never came.

Jungkook didn't wait for an answer. In one swift, practiced motion, he pulled a pocketknife from his jacket, the blade glinting ominously in the scant moonlight. Without hesitation, he pressed the edge against the faded wound, reopening the slit with a ruthless precision. The dancer's reaction was immediate—a sharp, pained cry broke from his throat, but before he could fully scream, Jungkook clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

His eyes filled with tears, not just from the physical pain but from something deeper, something darker that swirled beneath the surface. Jungkook could see it now—the fracture in his facade, the way his body trembled against his hold, the way fear twisted his features into something fragile.

"Are you being forced?" Jungkook's voice softened, though his grip remained firm. He bent closer, eyes narrowing as he searched the later's face for any hint of truth, any crack in the armor he'd been hiding behind. "Tell me. Is someone controlling you?"

But the dancer's response was maddeningly the same. His muffled words, spoken against Jungkook's palm, came out breathless, broken. "I'm just a messenger."

Jungkook gritted his teeth, frustration boiling to the surface. He had heard it all before—the same phrase, over and over, like a broken record. "Enough with the messenger bullshit." His patience snapped, and he pressed down on the reopened wound, squeezing it harshly. Blood surged from the cut, dripping down the dancer's pale wrist and staining Jungkook's fingers crimson. The scent of iron filled the small space, mixing with the damp musk of the room.