Professor is "MINE" || Taekook

Part9

"I expected you here," Mr. Kim said as he stepped into the office room of Kim-Line Creations, one of the world's leading architecture firms renowned for its innovative designs and high-quality building supplements. His words hung in the air, heavy with authority and expectation, the same as always.

Taehyung stood at the entrance, his face blank, offering no indication of the emotions simmering beneath the surface. Without a word, he strode forward, closing the distance between himself and his father. Mr. Kim, already rising from his chair, moved toward his son, his posture composed but charged with purpose.

"I trust you understand your responsibilities," Mr. Kim began, his voice smooth, almost pleasant. "And that you will meet my expectations like the good son you are." His tone was coated with a sickly sweetness, but the smile on his lips betrayed the subtle cruelty behind his words. The darkness in his eyes revealed this wasn't a conversation—it was a command, a veiled threat wrapped in false affection.

Taehyung's jaw tightened. For a brief moment, his fingers twitched behind his back, betraying the calm exterior he worked so hard to maintain. His hands, hidden from view, trembled and glistened with sweat as the weight of his father's words bore down on him. Yet, when he spoke, his voice carried a confidence that felt foreign even to him. "Don't worry, Dad," he said firmly. "I won't disappoint you."

Mr. Kim's smile widened, though it lacked warmth. "Good," he replied, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I'm calling my assistant now. He will show you around the company and familiarize you with the operations. After that, you can go home. Rest well, because tonight we're attending a business party. I expect you to be on time and prepared."

Taehyung resisted the urge to roll his eyes, choosing instead to nod curtly. The speech was as mechanical as the man delivering it—devoid of true connection, just an endless list of demands.

He turned on his heel, his polished shoes clicking softly against the sleek tiled floor, and walked out. Waiting just outside the office was the assistant, a young man with an eager expression, his posture stiff with nerves. Taehyung barely acknowledged him with a glance as they began the tour.

The assistant's voice droned on about the company's achievements and the importance of their current projects. Taehyung followed, his mind only half-present. The pristine hallways of Kim-Line Creations were as grand and imposing as the man who built them—glass walls, intricate lighting, and an air of calculated perfection that mirrored Mr. Kim's personality.

Inside, Taehyung wrestled with an overwhelming mix of emotions: frustration, unease, and the ever-present yearning for freedom from the chains of expectation. He could feel the invisible weight of his father's eyes, even when they were not in the same room. No matter where he went, Mr. Kim's shadow loomed over him, a constant reminder of the role he was forced to play. He had always dreamed of a life filled with art and music. His heart thrived on vibrant colors and soothing melodies, inspired by the countless paintings he had created and the playlists of his favorite artists he cherished. As a teenager, he was full of life, carrying dreams as vast as the sky. He wanted to paint his world in hues of his imagination, to sing and let his voice reach souls.

But those dreams shattered the night his father decided they were nothing more than childish fantasies. Taehyung could still feel the sting of the cold evening air as he stood helpless, watching his father burn his posters, his sketches, and his paints in front of him. The flames devoured every piece of his heart, and with each crackle of the fire, his ambitions turned to ash. His father didn't stop at the destruction of his art; he ensured that Taehyung's spirit broke along with it.

That same night, his father dipped his fingers into the bright paints, the ones Taehyung loved so much, and turned them into tools of punishment. With the sharp ends of his paintbrushes, he struck Taehyung's fingers, demanding the words, "I will never paint again." Each word was dragged out of him by the sharp, biting pain of each strike. The bright colors he once cherished blurred in his teary vision as his blood mixed with the paint, staining the floor.