𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 || 𝐉𝐉𝐊

chapter sixty-eight

Honestly, idk what the issue is with some readers. The chapters have 4k+ reads, but the minimum amount of 650+ votes feels impossible to reach in 2 weeks or more.

Ykw, keep yourself in the author's place and think once. I am writing such long chapters and ain't getting even the bare minimum.

But be thankful to all the Instagram BAW followers of mine who completed the Instagram target. That's why you are getting this chapter. Otherwise, I wasn't going to post until the targets get completed.

Anyways, it's the longest chapter I've ever given, so happy reading.

★

“Go on now,” she breathed. “And…meet your end.”

The air turned to glass in my lungs. I couldn’t pull it in, couldn’t push it out. My chest hitched, a frantic, useless motion. My eyes were stretched wide, dry from the wind and raw with fear, my lips parted in a silent, desperate ‘O’—searching for a word, any word, that could be a key to turn this lock. But nothing came.

Nothing at all.

All I could do was watch. Watch as her hand, steady and deliberate, rose. The cold, hard circle of the gun’s muzzle pressed against the center of my chest, right over my pounding heart.

I felt the unforgiving metal through the thin cotton of my shirt, a brand of finality.

A violent swallow tried to dislodge the stone in my throat. My hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms—a tiny, sharp pain to ground me in a world that was about to vanish.

This is it. This is my end.

I squeezed my eyes shut, a last, feeble defense. A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a burning path down my cheek. The wind caught it, chilling it instantly.

And behind the darkness of my eyelids, he bloomed.

Jungkook.

Not the memory of a face, but the feeling of him. His laugh, a sound that used to warm me from the inside. The quiet intensity of his focus when he was lost in thought. The way his hand felt, laced with mine, solid and real. If this was the last reel of my life, he was the only picture I wanted on the screen. My mind, my heart, clung to him like a prayer.

Goodbye, Jungkook.

I didn’t speak it. I carved it into the silent, terrified chambers of my heart. The last name. The last thought. My offering to the void.

I stood, a statue at the precipice. The wind pulled at my hair, a gentle, mocking caress against my cheek. My eyes stayed closed, my lips pressed into a thin, resigned line. I was ready. Or as ready as anyone could be.

If this was the story written for me, then every page before had led here. There was no escaping the final period.

The silence stretched. One second. Two.

Then—

“Y/n!”

His voice. It tore through the night, through the wind, through the hollow drumbeat of my own fear. It was a sound more real than the ground beneath me, sharper than the gun at my chest.

My eyes flew open. A sharp, involuntary gasp ripped from my throat.

And there he was.

Not a memory. Not a ghost. Jungkook. Real and solid, a few paces back on safe ground, Ethan a tense shadow beside him. His face was a portrait of pure, undiluted terror, his body coiled as if to spring. Seeing him was like being struck by lightning—a jolt of pure, electric life.