Chapter Text
There were two very different worlds breathing under the same Seoul sky.
One reeked of gunpowder, blood, expensive cigars, and the kind of silence that came only after a scream.
That was Jeon Jungkook’s world.
A world of shadow where power wore Italian leather and morality was just a decorative myth. He moved through the underbelly of the city like a ghost—too dangerous to be real, too real to be ignored. Sharp suits hugged muscle and menace, and ink bloomed up his throat like a secret rebellion. His presence was a loaded gun with a heartbeat.
He ruled it all with eyes like winter and a silence that made men sweat bullets.
Across the city, across universes, really, was a corner of Seoul that smelled like sugar, rain-washed concrete, and raspberry candy.
That was Kim Taehyung’s world.
It was tucked into a narrow street, behind a crooked iron gate and a leaning sign that read BLOOM & BREW in fading gold paint. Inside, fairy lights blinked like shy stars and mismatched chairs held the weight of poets, loners, and the dangerously hopeful. Jazz dripped from the speakers like honey, and every latte came with a little foam heart and, occasionally, unsolicited emotional advice.
Here, cups had names and personalities. Muffins had warning labels ("Don’t trust the blueberry, he’s dramatic")
Two worlds. One of blood. One of bubble tea.
Jeon Jungkook, 27 years old and a Mafia Boss. He sat at the head of a long table, a glass of whiskey balanced between two tattooed fingers. The room was low-lit, filled with the smell of smoke and tension. Maps were spread across the table, red Xs marking places that no longer existed thanks to Hoseok’s good aim and Yoongi’s hacking brilliance.
"This deal with the Russians isn’t clean," Namjoon muttered, pushing up his sleeves. "Something’s off."
"When is anything ever clean?" Yoongi drawled from his spot on the couch, laptop glowing on his lap, gum in his mouth, hoodie half-zipped.
"Boys, don’t make me inject all of you with sedatives just so I can hear myself think," Seokjin said from the minibar, pouring himself a cup of chamomile tea like it was vodka.
Jungkook stayed quiet. Watching. Calculating.
That’s what he did best.
He didn’t speak unless necessary. Didn’t smile unless someone was about to die. And he definitely didn’t care about anyone.
Or so he thought.
Kim Taehyung. 23 years. Profession, Daydreamer. Weapon, Whipped cream.
It was mid-morning at Bloom & Brew. Rain slid down the foggy windows in slow-motion, and Taehyung leaned over the counter, chin in hand, watching the world as if he could change it just by loving it harder. Jimin, pink apron and all, was trying very hard not to dump an oat milk latte over his head.
"Jiminie, do strawberries have feelings?"
Jimin blinked. Twice.
"Tae, for the love of Prada, not this again."
"But what if they scream when we blend them? Just really quietly?" Taehyung asked, serious.
Jimin pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him. "If you start naming the muffins again, I swear to God, Taehyung, I will hide your plushies."
"You monster."
Despite the threats, they worked well together. Like sugar and spice. Jimin was all sass and confidence, hips swaying even when there was no music. Taehyung? Taehyung was glitter in human form. Gorgeous, soft-looking, a little too pretty for his own good. The kind of pretty that made old ladies squint and ask if he was a girl. Taehyung just smiled and asked if they liked his lip gloss.
Taehyung wasn’t clueless. Not even close. He was soft by choice, not by accident.
Some people mistook his glitter for naivety, his flower-print shirts and sparkly lip gloss for a mind that floated above reality. They were wrong. Taehyung understood darkness, he just refused to live in it. He knew exactly how cruel the world could be. That was why he made the effort to be kind. To notice things. To care. Not because he was oblivious but because he knew how much it mattered.
He wasn’t dumb. He just… thought differently.
Where others saw subtext, Taehyung saw face value. He took things literally because that’s how his mind worked, practical in the oddest ways. When someone said they were drowning in work, he offered them a towel. If a customer joked that the espresso was so strong it could punch them, he looked genuinely concerned about potential injuries.
He once asked Jimin if heartbreak could cause actual cardiac damage and offered to look up emergency contacts just in case.
He wasn’t joking.
That’s what made him disarming. Dangerous, even, in his own way.
He listened. He believed people. He saw straight through lies because he never bothered pretending, he understood the game.
People underestimated him because he was chaos wrapped in pastel, with a mind full of constellations and questions no one else thought to ask.
Back to the Other Side
"This kid’s been sniffing around the docks," Hoseok announced, striding into the room like he’d just stepped off a runway themed organized crime and leather jackets. His hair was still damp from the rain, curls sticking to his forehead, and he smelled vaguely of gasoline and trouble. He tossed a photograph onto the table like it owed him money. "You want him scared or gone?"
Jungkook didn’t respond right away. He picked up the photo, eyes narrowing. The kid in the picture couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, all gangly limbs and misplaced confidence, captured mid-snoop behind a shipping container. A rat with sneakers and a death wish.
"Gone," Jungkook muttered, voice as calm and final as a closing casket. "But make it poetic."
Hoseok’s grin spread slowly, wide and feral. He clapped once, loudly. "So… flaming car and toss him in there?"
"Surprise me."
"That’s my favorite genre," Hoseok said, already pulling out his phone to text someone who probably only responded to emojis and body part counts.
Namjoon looked up from a tablet with thirty open documents and one existential crisis. His glasses were perched on the edge of his nose, his sleeves rolled up like a man trying to appear put-together while slowly dying inside. “We need a vacation,” he said, rubbing at his temple like it was holding in his last three brain cells.
Seokjin, lounging at the minibar like a housewife in a mafia drama, raised his cup of chamomile tea with the solemnity of a man drinking straight vodka. “We need therapy,” he said, as if it were a diagnosis. “Group sessions. With snacks.”
Yoongi, half-buried under a hoodie and approximately two weeks of sleep debt, didn’t even look up from his laptop. His fingers tapped lazily on the keys, some code running in the background that would probably crash a small country’s power grid. “We need both,” he deadpanned. “And a pet. Maybe a turtle. Something low-maintenance but emotionally grounding.”
“Turtles live forever,” Seokjin replied. “We’ll be in jail by then.”
“Exactly,” Yoongi said.
Namjoon looked up, alarmed. “Wait, are we getting arrested?”
“No, but you said we need a vacation,” Seokjin replied. “If we go to prison together, technically it’s a group retreat.”
Hoseok snorted. “You’re assuming we’d be in the same block. Jin-hyung would definitely be in minimum security for emotionally traumatizing the guards with passive-aggressive tea quotes.”
Seokjin raised a brow. “I am an elite emotional terrorist.”
“I call top bunk,” Yoongi muttered.
Meanwhile, Jungkook hadn’t moved. He sat there in silence, smoke curling upward from his cigarette like a dark halo, watching the storm clouds press against the windows like they were trying to get in. His face was unreadable. Sharp. Still. A statue carved by someone angry and very good with knives.
He didn’t speak unless it was necessary. He didn’t laugh. And he sure as hell didn’t care for banter when a war was looming over the skyline like a promise.
There were too many things moving in the shadows. Deals with cracked edges. Names that kept showing up on dead men’s phones. The Russians were too quiet. The docks too loud. People who were supposed to be afraid had started to get curious.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate, the cigarette burning low between his fingers.
There were enemies closing in.
And not one of them would see him coming.
He didn’t have time for distractions.
But fate doesn’t give a damn about your schedule.
Because in exactly seven days, Jeon Jungkook would walk into a sugar-scented cafe looking for a safe house.
And walk straight into Kim Taehyung.