Anger never builds; it only tears down. In the heat of a single moment, it can feel like strength, an armor to hide behind. But when the fire fades, all that's left are the ashes of what once mattered. Anger doesn't solve anything-it devours patienc...
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“Stars can’t shine without darkness, so glow anyway.”
Chapter 04: Thoughts
The funeral ended, but Taehyung’s mourning did not.
When everyone else bowed for the last time, offered their condolences, and slowly drifted back into the flow of their own lives, Taehyung remained still. He stood by the altar until the incense burned out, until the air was thick with smoke, until his legs nearly gave out beneath him. Even when people tried to gently usher him away, he refused. To leave meant to accept, and he couldn’t—not yet.
The house was unbearable when he returned to it. The silence pressed against his ears until he wanted to scream. All he could see was his mother in every corner. Her shoes are by the door. Her coat was still hanging on the rack. A cup she had left unwashed on the sink. None of it seemed real. He half-expected her to step out from her room, call him for dinner, or scold him for leaving his socks on the floor.
But she didn’t. And she never would again.
That night, Taehyung sat in the living room alone, lights turned off, with only the pale glow of the street lamp slipping through the curtains. He pressed his face into the scarf his mother had left behind, inhaling the faint trace of her scent, his tears soaking the fabric. He cried until his chest ached, until his voice cracked into silence. His body trembled, and still he could not stop.
Days blurred into nights. Time lost meaning.
Every morning, he woke up expecting to hear her voice—only to be met with silence. He would call out “Eomma,” just to hear his own voice bounce back to him. He couldn’t stop the habit of setting an extra pair of chopsticks on the table when he cooked rice, couldn’t stop looking at his phone expecting a message from her, couldn’t stop turning his head every time the door opened, hoping against hope that she’d be there.
Sleep was no refuge. Nightmares replayed the scene over and over—the knock on the door, the sound of the gunshot, his mother’s blood staining the floor. Sometimes, he dreamed of her whispering his name, telling him not to cry, and those dreams broke him even more because when he woke up, the bed was empty and cold.
His grief took root in his body. He stopped eating properly, his appetite gone. He grew thinner, his cheeks hollowed, his skin dull. The neighbors whispered about him—how pitiful he looked, how he seemed like a ghost wandering through his own life. But Taehyung didn’t care. Their pity meant nothing. No one could understand what it felt like to lose the only person who had stood by him through every hardship.
And then—there was the memory.
Her last word.
“Jungkook.”
At first, it confused him. It didn’t fit. But the more he replayed it, the more it carved itself into his heart. She hadn’t said his name, hadn’t asked for him—she had called for Jungkook. Why? What was Jungkook to her in that final moment?
The questions tormented him. They grew louder with each passing day, until they drowned out everything else. His grief turned sharp, jagged, twisting into something darker.
He remembered the warmth of her hand in the ambulance, how she clung to life, how desperately she tried to say more but couldn’t. And the only word she gave him—the only clue she left—was Jungkook.
That had to mean something. It had to.
Taehyung convinced himself it was not just a coincidence. It couldn’t be. If Jungkook wasn’t responsible, then why would his mother say his name? The thought that it might have been meaningless—that her death might be senseless—was too unbearable. He couldn’t accept that possibility. He needed Jungkook to be guilty. Because if he wasn’t, then Taehyung had nothing. No target for his pain. No way to make sense of the cruel emptiness swallowing his life.
So he held onto that name, clutching it like a weapon.
Grief had hollowed him out, but vengeance began to fill the cracks. It was easier to be angry than to be broken. It was easier to promise himself justice than to face the truth that he was alone.
At night, when he stared at his reflection in the mirror—eyes bloodshot, lips pale, dark circles heavy beneath his gaze—he whispered to himself:
“I’ll find out the truth. I’ll make him pay. I swear it.”
But sometimes, when the house was too quiet, when the ache in his chest grew too heavy, the mask of determination would slip. He would curl on the floor with his mother’s scarf in his arms, sobbing until his body gave out. And in those fragile hours, he knew deep down—he wasn’t just fighting for justice. He was fighting because it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Because without that hunger, he had nothing left at all.
Jungkook leaned back in his chair, staring at the untouched documents scattered across his desk. The numbers blurred together, meaningless in the face of the silence that gnawed at him. Days had passed since Kyushu’s call, and he had waited for her at the café, convinced she would appear at any moment. But she never came.
At first, he had told himself she was being cautious. Maybe she had changed her mind, decided it was too risky, and would contact him again when the time was right. But the longer he waited, the more that reasoning withered. No messages. No calls. No signs. Just a void.
Jungkook dragged a hand down his face, frustration simmering in his chest. “Eomma… where are you?” he muttered under his breath. The silence in his office seemed to echo the question back at him.
A sudden knock on the door shattered his thoughts. He flinched slightly, irritation flashing across his face.
“Come in,” he said curtly, releasing a long, tired sigh.
The door swung open, and Jungkook’s expression darkened further. Standing there was Mr. Han, one of his late father’s former business partners. The man’s tailored suit couldn’t hide the smugness radiating from him as he stepped inside, holding a file but clearly having no interest in business matters.
“Jungkook-ah,” Mr. Han greeted warmly, though it felt more like an intrusion than a courtesy. “Still working yourself to death, I see. You should be thinking about your future. About stability.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He already knew where this was going. Mr. Han had been circling him for months now, not for deals, not for expansion, but for one simple, irritating reason: his daughter.
“You’re still young, but you won’t always be. My daughter is a good match—smart, beautiful, and raised properly. She would make a fine wife for a man like you.”
Jungkook’s pen snapped in half between his fingers. Ink bled onto the documents, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even look at them.
“I’ve already told you,” he said coldly, his tone sharper than intended. “Marriage is not my priority. Not now.”
Mr. Han chuckled as though dismissing his words, waving a hand. “Of course, of course. But it’s only natural, isn’t it? A man of your stature should already have someone by his side. People are talking, Jungkook. And rumors, well…” He smirked. “They can weaken even the strongest reputation.”
The words grated on Jungkook’s nerves, pressing against the storm of thoughts he was already drowning in. Kyushu’s face flashed in his mind—her worried tone, her plea for him to protect her son, the sudden cut of silence. The pressure in his chest only grew heavier.
