[ complete ] 𝐌𝐀𝐅𝐈𝐀'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 || 𝐉.𝐉𝐊 𝐅𝐅

52. Min Yoongi.

The morning light spilled through the curtains, soft and golden. It painted shadows across her skin.

She was still asleep, curled beside me like a fragile secret. Her fingers wrapped around my arm like I was something worth holding onto.

A fucking irony.

I brushed a strand of her hair off her face and stared at her for a long moment. Her warmth, her breath against my chest, her belly carrying our child—it should’ve calmed me.

But it didn’t.

Not when ghosts clawed at the edges of my mind.

Not when her face haunted my sleep again.

Suyeon.

I sat up, careful not to wake my wife. My hand reached for the folded photo on the side table. Her smile was soft, innocent, too pure for the world that destroyed her. I stared at it for a second longer before slipping it into my coat pocket.

There were things left unsaid.

Things that needed to burn.

☞︎︎︎༄

Yoongi’s house hadn’t changed. Still the same cold air. Same rusted smell of steel and regret.

The moment I stepped inside, I saw the rage flare in his eyes.

“Jungkook,” he spat, his hand already pulling the gun from behind his back. “You got some damn nerve showing up here after what you did.”

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

I simply closed the door behind me and walked to the couch like I owned the place.

"I’m not here to fight, Yoongi." I sat down slowly, clasping my hands in front of me. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t be standing at your front door like a guest."

His gun didn’t lower.

"Why the hell did you come? To laugh in my face? To remind me that Suyeon’s death still rots unanswered while her murderer sleeps in silk sheets?"

My jaw clenched.

I looked up at him, calm, deadly calm.

“You told my wife I was the one who killed her.”

“I saw the body, Jungkook. You were found at the goddamn warehouse, blood on your hands. And you never said a word.” Yoongi’s voice cracked with emotion. “You just watched them take her away like a coward.”

I let him rage.

Let him spit.

Because what came next would shatter him.

When he finally stopped yelling, I pulled out the envelope from my coat and tossed it on the table.

It landed with a dull thud.

Yoongi stared.

“What is this?”

“Tapes,” I said coldly. “Play them.”

He hesitated.

Then snatched the envelope and slid the first tape into the old player. The screen flickered to life.

And hell bled through the speakers.

Suyeon’s cries. Muffled laughter. Shadows moving. Screams. The sound of skin hitting skin. Her begging. A voice—low, slurred, cruel.

A voice he knew.

Yoongi froze.

“Turn it off,” I said. “You’ve heard enough.”