His Darkest Desire ||Taekook||

chapter one

17 years ago
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The basement breathes in silence, cloaked in cryptic gloom, where only a dim glow brushes the weary, battered walls with ghostlight. He narrows his eyes, vision straining through the hush, though dread coils tighter with each breath drawn among unfamiliar men. Not a whisper escapes him—his body stone, his voice buried—while the world before him unfolds in muted horror. Then, like a shadow breaking form, a nameless figure steps forth and seizes his father, fingers clutching fabric with cruel intent.

"Two months past due, old man—you should've paid what you owed." The man's voice is low and sharp, like a blade drawn in anger, as he jerks his father's collar with a scowl carved deep into his face.

The little boy gasps, shrinking further behind his mother's back, eyes wide as the scene unravels in front of him. At eight, a child should be chasing sunlight, laughter clinging to his heels—but joy has no place in his world. His childhood, wrapped in silence and shadows, is a fragile thing, kept hidden from the world he's never been allowed to know.

Maybe now he begins to wonder why frightful things happen the way they do—why fear always finds its way in like smoke through cracks, why the world seems to break open only in rooms like this. His mother's body trembles against him, each shiver a silent cry he can feel in his bones. He doesn't look up at her face—he doesn't need to.

The horror is there in the way she barely breathes.
The nameless man moves with rage uncoiled, shoving the boy's father to the floor. A sickening thud echoes, followed by the sharp thump of a boot meeting flesh. The father curls in on himself, gasping, and still the man doesn't stop.
And the boy just watches—eyes wide, heart aching—wondering, in his own quiet, eight-year-old way, if this is what it means to grow up.

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His mother's scream tears through the room, sharp and broken, and it sends his small heart racing. Panic blooms in his chest like a fire with no air, and to his dismay, he shuffles backward until his back hits the cold, cornered wall. There's nowhere left to hide. His body trembles uncontrollably, a fragile thing caught in the teeth of chaos.

"Please... I'll make up the money by next week. My family—"
His father's plea is cut short by another brutal kick, this one landing with a sickening force that steals the breath from the room. He doubles over, wheezing, his voice crumbling into the concrete like dust.

The little boy huddles behind his mother, swallowed by the shadows, his small frame pressed tightly to the wall. Tears carve silent rivers down his flushed, red-streaked cheeks, but he doesn't make a sound. His wide, innocent eyes remain fixed on the chaos, too afraid to blink, too helpless to look away. The figures before him blur into silhouettes—the man and his father locked in a cruel dance—and he wishes, with all his might, to shut the world out. But the world doesn't stop.

"A week?!" the man roars, voice thunderous. "I gave you more than enough time to pay me back—but your screwed-up ass never gave a damn. Now look what you've brought on yourself."
He steps closer, eyes flashing. "Let me make this simple for you."

Then, suddenly, his gaze shifts—drifting past the father, past the pleading, toward the mother. Toward the boy.
The nameless man's eyes follow the trail of trembling limbs and desperate breaths to the place where the woman shields her son. And when he sees them—huddled in the dark like broken things—he smirks.

The mother gasps, clutching her child tighter, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she could anchor him to safety. But her arms are shaking, and so is he.

"V... hide behind me," she whispers, her voice barely a breath, eyes wide as she watches the man begin his slow, deliberate stride toward her son. Her body shifts to shield him fully, arms trembling, heart pounding loud enough for both of them. She doesn't dare move—just prays, silently, that her husband will rise. That he will protect them.