Jungkook Oneshots

Until the Last Kill

           "𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 —
                           𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱."

You cross your legs neatly, the sound of your heels tapping against the marble floor like a metronome in the otherwise too-quiet clinic. The receptionist gives you a tight-lipped smile—she's been eyeing you ever since you walked in.

Your red lipstick might've been too much. Or maybe it's the attitude.
Either way, she doesn't matter. She's not your concern.
Not today.

You smile back, sweetly enough to win a pageant. "Miss Belle for Dr. Hyun," you chirp.

Fake name, fake ID, real motive.

She nods, typing something into her computer without looking at you again. The door clicks open a moment later, and there he is — Dr. Min Hyun, tall, well-groomed, and disgustingly smug.
You know that face. It's been in your memory since you were 14.
Back then, he testified that your mother was "delusional."
Back then, he buried the truth for money.

You rise with a sultry smile. "Doctor."

"Miss Belle," he says with a practiced grin. "Please, come in."

The office smells like expensive leather and bad decisions. Bookshelves line the walls, degrees hang like ornaments, and that old armchair he gestures toward? You know how many victims have sat in it. People who tried to tell the truth. People he helped silence.

You sit, legs crossed. Casual. Confident. Dangerous.

"So," he starts, settling across from you. "What brings you in today?"

You tilt your head, lips curling. "Trauma."

He raises a brow. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really," you say, fishing something from your purse. "But I would like to talk about this."

You hold up a small, capped syringe.
Fast. Clean. Lethal.

He barely gets a word out before you've already moved.

One smooth stride, one jab to his neck. His eyes go wide as the paralysis sets in. He tries to scream, but you cover his mouth.

"Shh," you whisper against his ear. "I'm helping you... finally be honest."

You let him fall back into his own chair — poetic, really. His breathing slows. You crouch beside him, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a delicate white feather. You tuck it into his hand.

"Five down," you murmur.

On his desk blotter, you scribble your message in red ink.

'The law failed you. I won't.'

A quick glance at your watch. Three minutes flat.

You move to the coat rack, grabbing his spare lab coat and slipping it on. A surgical mask covers your face. Clipboard in hand, glasses on.
You're just another doctor.

You open the door and walk past the receptionist, who barely glances up.
"Patient had a panic episode," you lie smoothly. "He's asked not to be disturbed."

"Of course," she says.

You step into the elevator.

The doors close.