❛You're mine. And If I don't get you, no one can.❜
In which our little psycho protagonist somehow makes the world's 𝙨𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 most dangerous criminals develop an unhealthy obsession for her.
➻ Alternative Universe
➻ Crime Noir Fiction
➻ Action...
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🥀ⱤɆ₴ɄⱤ₣₳₵ɆĐ 🥀 "The past is never where you think you left it."
༺♥༻❀༺♥༻
*Jungkook's P.O.V*
The underground boxing ring was buried beneath a crumbling warehouse, hidden in the city's underbelly. Hundreds of people packed the suffocating space, the air thick with sweat, blood, and stale cigarettes.
Flickering fluorescent lights cast uneven pools of sickly yellow, barely illuminating the ring—a battered relic with frayed ropes and a stained canvas that had seen more blood than mercy. Shadows clung to the walls, pressing in like silent spectators to the brutality unfolding within.
The slap of fists against flesh echoed like a war drum, each brutal hit sending shockwaves through the throng. The energy was feverish, the air vibrating with tension, as if the very walls struggled to contain the violence within.
This was a place where the broken came to bleed, and sometimes, to die.
In the center of it all stood Jeon Jungkook, his body slick with sweat and bruises. His intense gaze locked on his opponent, muscles coiled and ready. With each calculated movement, he was more beast than man, every punch a deadly precision aimed to destroy.
The sound of fists colliding with flesh was deafening, but in Jungkook's mind, everything else faded into a thick haze. His opponent's blood spattered across the canvas, the scent of sweat and iron filling his nostrils.
Yet none of it registered. He didn't hear the crowd. He didn't see the referee's frantic movements. All he could hear, all he could see, was the thought that had consumed him.
"The latest news, sir."
His knuckles crashed into his opponent's ribs again, the sickening crack of bone barely making a dent in his focus.
"The infamous vigilante."
Each punch came harder, faster. The man beneath him couldn't fight back. His hands were limp at his sides, his head lulled to the side, but Jungkook didn't stop. His arm moved like a machine, driven by a relentless force that had nothing to do with the fight in front of him.
"Scar."
His fist slammed into the man's face, the blow so brutal it snapped his head back. Blood flew. But Jungkook couldn't stop. The image of her—Y/N—flickered in his mind, her face a blur of beauty and power.
"Is not dead."
The crowd's cheers were drowned out by the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. His arm felt like it was moving on its own, the force of his punches becoming reckless, savage.
"She's come back."
Another hit. His fist smashed into the man's face so hard that the sounds of bone fracturing rang out. He heard the crack, but it only spurred him on. He couldn't stop. Couldn't pull back. He was lost in the rhythm of the strikes, consumed by a flood of thoughts—fragments of a woman he thought was gone.
