𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐃 || kth

DIECESIETE

JIHAE

I didn’t wake up thinking today would suck. But then again, when you’re stuck in the body of a walking Greek statue with a million-dollar smile, every day sucks. 

The moment I stepped into the studio, I knew I was doomed. Taehyung’s manager—a sharp-dressed woman who looked like she ate stress for breakfast—clapped her hands as soon as she saw me. “Taehyung, you’re late! Again.” 

“I’m not—” I clamped my mouth shut. No use explaining to her I wasn’t Taehyung. “Traffic,” I grumbled instead, shoving my hands into the pockets of Taehyung’s ridiculously expensive coat. How the hell did he breathe in this thing? 

“You’ve got five minutes to get ready,” she snapped before turning on her heel. 

I stared after her, feeling a surge of irritation. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t care about the shoot. I cared about Yoongi, the bills, and how we were going to switch back. But here I was, in front of flashing cameras and a room full of people who acted like Taehyung was the second coming of Christ. 

“Mr. Kim, we’re ready,” someone called. 

I trudged to the set, glowering at the white backdrop and the crew. Everyone was so shiny, so polished, like they’d all been dipped in gloss. As soon as I stepped under the lights, a guy with a clipboard started barking orders at me. 

“Relax your shoulders. No, tilt your head slightly. Smile! Not too much, not too little. And for God’s sake, Taehyung, stop slouching!” 

I gritted my teeth, trying to follow his instructions, but everything felt wrong. My body didn’t move the way I wanted it to, and the constant critiques grated on my nerves. 

“Can you not look so... tense?” the photographer snapped. 

That was it. I dropped the sultry pose I’d been attempting and glared at him. “You try being me for a day and see how relaxed you feel,” I shot back. 

The room went dead silent. The photographer blinked at me like I’d just grown a second head. 

“I—I mean, it’s just a photoshoot,” he stammered. 

“Oh, is it? Thank you for that groundbreaking insight. Maybe next time, you can also not nitpick every damn breath I take!” 

“Taehyung, calm down,” the manager hissed, pulling me aside. 

“Calm? Calm? I will sue every single person in this room for harassment!” I shouted, pointing at the bewildered photographer. The crew started whispering, and I swear I heard someone say, “Is Taehyung okay? Is he going through something?” 

I stormed off the set, chest heaving, and threw myself onto a nearby couch. God, I hated this. The fake smiles, the constant perfectionism, the expectation to act like I cared about any of it. 

The manager marched over, arms crossed. “What the hell was that?” 

“What was what?” I snapped. 

“This,” she gestured to the set. “You’ve been gone for a week now, Taehyung. If you don’t get it together, you’re going to lose work.”