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PAINTED IN BLOOD

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PAINTED IN BLOOD

Chapter 1: The Canvas of Flesh

Blood tasted like old pennies.

I spit it out onto the concrete floor. It was red and thick.

"Get up, JK!" the crowd screamed. "Kill him!"

I shook my head to clear the dizziness. The man standing in front of me was twice my size. He was a mountain of muscle called 'The Butcher.' He had just cracked my rib.

My chest burned. My left eye was swelling shut.

But I didn't feel fear. I felt alive.

The Butcher swung his fist. It was slow. Sloppy.

I ducked. The air whooshed over my head.

I didn't waste energy. I stepped inside his guard and drove my elbow into his throat.

Crunch.

The Butcher gagged and stumbled back. I spun around and kicked his knee. He went down with a heavy thud that shook the cage.

He didn't get back up.

The bell rang.

"Winner! The Underground Prince! Jeon Jungkook!"

The crowd roared. They threw money and beer cups into the cage. The noise was deafening. It sounded like a pack of wolves.

I stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my back. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand.

I hated them. I hated the noise. I hated the smell of cheap cigarettes and desperation. But I needed the money.

I looked up toward the VIP balcony. Usually, the rich men up there were cheering, drinking champagne, and betting on our lives like we were racehorses.

But tonight, one man was different.

He was standing in the shadows of the highest box.

He wasn't cheering. He wasn't drinking. He was perfectly still.

He was wearing a dark grey suit that looked like it cost more than my entire life. His hair was black, slightly curled, falling over his eyes.

And he was holding a sketchbook.

While everyone else was screaming, this man was... drawing.

He looked up from his paper.

Our eyes locked.

Even from this distance, I felt a chill run down my spine. His eyes were dark, sharp, and cold. He didn't look at me like a fighter. He looked at me like I was a piece of meat. Or a statue.

He slowly raised a charcoal pencil and pointed it at me. Then, he tilted his head and smiled.

It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a predator finding a wounded animal.

I shivered, breaking eye contact. I turned and limped out of the cage.

The Locker Room

The adrenaline was fading. Now, the pain was coming.

I sat on the wooden bench in the locker room. It smelled of mold and sweat. I grabbed a bottle of water and poured it over my head, washing away the blood.

"Good fight, kid."

My boss, Mr. Kang, walked in. He was a greasy man with gold rings on every finger.

"Where is my money?" I asked, wincing as I pulled off my hand wraps. "I won. That's two thousand."

Mr. Kang didn't hand me an envelope. He just stood there, looking nervous.

"About the money, Jungkook..."

I stood up. "Don't tell me you bet it away again."

"No," Kang said, sweating. "But... your father’s debt. The interest went up."

"I paid the interest!" I shouted, stepping forward. "I fight every week for you!"

"It’s not my debt anymore," Kang whispered. "I sold it."

"You what?"

"I sold your contract. To him."

Kang pointed to the door.

The metal door creaked open.

The air in the room changed instantly. The smell of sweat vanished, replaced by the scent of expensive cologne—sandalwood and cold rain.

The man from the balcony walked in.

Up close, he was terrifyingly beautiful. His skin was pale and flawless. His suit was sharp enough to cut. He looked completely out of place in this dirty hole.

He looked at Mr. Kang. He didn't speak. He just flicked his fingers.

Two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped forward and dragged Mr. Kang out of the room. Kang didn't even fight. He looked terrified.

Now, it was just me and the stranger.

"Jeon Jungkook," the man said. His voice was deep, smooth, and low. It vibrated in the small room.

I clenched my fists. "Who are you?"

"I am Kim Taehyung," he said. He took a step closer, his shiny leather shoes avoiding the bloodstains on the floor.

He looked at my bruised chest. He looked at the cut on my lip. He looked at my swollen eye.

Most people looked away from my injuries. He stared at them. He looked fascinated.

"You are a mess," Taehyung murmured. He reached out a hand.

I flinched back. "Don't touch me."

Taehyung froze. He looked surprised that I dared to move away. Then, a dark amusement filled his eyes.

"Defiant," he whispered to himself. "Perfect."

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it on the bench.

"That is your debt," Taehyung said. "Three hundred million won. Your father borrowed it from the wrong people. And now, I own it."

My legs felt weak. Three hundred million. I could fight for a hundred years and never pay that back.

"I don't have the money," I gritted out. "Kill me if you want. I have nothing."

"I don't want money," Taehyung said softly.

He stepped into my personal space. He was taller than me, just slightly, but his presence filled the room.

He reached out again. This time, he was too fast. His hand—long, elegant fingers—gripped my chin. His grip was surprisingly strong. He tilted my face up.

He studied my bloodied lip like it was a masterpiece.

"You have a face that holds pain beautifully," Taehyung said. "I am an artist, Jungkook. And I am currently... uninspired."

He ran his thumb over the cut on my lip. It stung.

"I have a proposition," he said. "Come with me. Live in my house. Be my model for thirty days. Let me paint you. Let me use you."

"Use me?" I snarled, trying to pull away. "I’m not a whore."

"For my art," Taehyung corrected sharply. His eyes darkened. "If you last thirty days, the debt is erased. You walk away free."

"And if I refuse?"

Taehyung let go of my chin. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my blood off his fingers, looking at me with cold indifference.

"Then my men outside will break your legs," he said simply. "And then they will find your grandmother."

My blood ran cold. He knew about Halmoni.

I looked at him. He was a monster wrapped in silk.

I had no choice.