Speeding Into Trouble || Taekook

44

Taehyung moved slowly through the dimly lit house, every step tugging at the wounds that still lingered in his body.

His face bore fading scabs, his ribs ached beneath his shirt, and though the bruises had begun to yellow, they throbbed like reminders carved into his skin.

The silence of the house pressed down on him until even the smallest sound seemed too loud.

Then the doorbell rang—sharp, insistent, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

His mother hurried to the door, her steps fast and shaky. The moment she pulled it open, her scream tore through the night.

"NO! What happened to him?!"

Two of Mr. Kim's guards staggered at the threshold, dragging their boss between them like a carcass. His body hung limp, every step they took jostling his mangled frame. He was barely recognizable as a man anymore, let alone the feared tyrant of the city.

His once-imposing frame was nothing but ruin — ribs cracked beneath every shallow breath, skin flayed open in lashes that oozed blood.

His clothes, once sharp and spotless, were reduced to shredded rags glued to his body with sweat, blood, and filth.

His face was a grotesque mask of swelling — one eye swollen shut, the other glazed over, flickering weakly like a candle about to burn out.

His lips were split and crusted with blood, teeth knocked loose, a trail of crimson dribbling down his chin with every rattling cough.

His legs barely touched the ground, one knee twisted at an unnatural angle from the beating. Deep burn marks seared across his thigh, the flesh blistered and blackened, filling the air with the rancid stink of cooked skin.

Every breath was a battle, ragged wheezes rattling through cracked ribs, each inhale sounding like it might be his last. His head lolled forward, too heavy for his neck to hold, drool and blood dripping onto the floor beneath him. He looked less like a man and more like a pile of meat strung together by sheer spite.

And worst of all — his pride, the cruel arrogance that had once radiated from him — was gone. His eyes, swollen but still faintly open, carried no defiance.

Only fear. Only the haunted look of a man who had been forced to kneel in hell and beg for mercy... and had received none.

"We found him," one guard said, struggling to hold his composure. "In the alley behind Black Swan Bar. Dumped there like trash. He was barely breathing."

Taehyung's mother's face twisted—not just with horror, but with something deeper, darker, buried for years. Still, her voice rang out, trembling with urgency, "Get him inside! Hurry! Call the doctor!"

They lowered him onto the living room floor. His chest heaved shallowly, each breath rattling like broken glass. His face was a grotesque mask of bruises and blood, his body limp and near lifeless.

She fell beside him instantly, pressing her trembling hands to his wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. But her expression faltered—grief warring with something sharper. She had endured years of his cruelty, silently carrying scars no one else could see.

And for the briefest second, seeing him like this, she felt something she dared never admit aloud: relief.

"Who did this to you?" she demanded, her voice breaking—though not from love, but from duty.

Mr. Kim's head lolled weakly to the side, his speech slurred by liquor and blood. "Dark... dark everywhere..." His lips twitched into a grotesque grin, almost laughing. "Rats... masks... teeth in the dark..." His body shook with a wet cough, spitting blood to the floor.