Chapter 2: The Glass Tomb

The car was silent.

It was a black Maybach with tinted windows. The leather seats were soft, smelling of new money. I sat on the edge of the seat, careful not to let my bloody clothes touch the pristine interior.

Taehyung sat next to me. He was reading a French magazine, his legs crossed elegantly. He didn't look at me once during the forty-minute drive.

It was infuriating. He had just bought my life, and now he was ignoring me like I was a piece of luggage.

We drove up into the hills of Hannam-dong, where the air was cleaner and the houses had gates higher than prison walls.

The car stopped in front of a massive structure made of concrete and glass. It didn't look like a home. It looked like a modern art museum. Or a mausoleum.

"Get out," Taehyung said, closing his magazine.

The Entryway

The front door unlocked with a digital chime.

I stepped inside. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror shine. I could see my own bruised reflection looking back up at me. The house was freezing cold.

"Shoes," Taehyung ordered.

I kicked off my worn-out combat boots. They left a faint smudge of dirt on the marble.

Taehyung stared at the smudge. His jaw clenched.

"Maid," he called out softly.

An older woman appeared instantly from a side door. She didn't look at me. She kept her head bowed.

"Clean that," Taehyung pointed at the dirt. "And burn his clothes."

"Hey!" I protested. "That's my jacket. My leather jacket."

Taehyung turned to me slowly. He stepped close, invading my personal space again. The smell of sandalwood was suffocating.

"You don't own anything here, Jungkook," he said, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "Not your jacket. Not your name. And for the next thirty days... not your body."

He gestured to the maid.

"Take him to the guest wing. Shower. Scrub him until the water runs clear. If I see one speck of dirt on him when he enters my studio, you are fired."

The maid nodded terrified. She grabbed my arm. "This way, sir. Please."

I looked at Taehyung. I wanted to punch that perfect, arrogant face. But the memory of his threat—my grandmother—held me back.

I let the maid pull me away.

The Shower

The bathroom was the size of my entire apartment.

I stood under the scalding hot water for twenty minutes. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw. The water swirling down the drain was pink with dried blood.

I watched it disappear. I felt like I was washing away my armor.

When I stepped out, there were no clothes waiting for me. Just a white silk robe.

I put it on. It was soft, light, and felt alien against my scarred skin. I looked in the mirror. My lip was split. My eye was purple and yellow. My torso was a map of old scars and fresh bruises.

I didn't look like a model. I looked like a victim.

There was a knock on the door.

"Master is waiting," the maid whispered.

The Studio

I was led down a long hallway to the top floor. The door at the end was heavy oak.

I pushed it open.

The room was massive. The ceiling was entirely glass, revealing the night sky and the moon. The room smelled of turpentine, linseed oil, and something metallic.

Dozens of canvases were stacked against the walls, covered in white sheets. I couldn't see what was painted on them.

In the center of the room was a wooden platform. And next to it, an easel.

Taehyung was standing there. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up his white sleeves to his elbows. His forearms were veined and strong—surprising for an artist.

He was mixing red paint on a palette. Slash. Slash. Slash. The sound of the palette knife was sharp.

He looked up.

His eyes swept over me, taking in the white silk robe, my damp hair, and my bruised face.

"Better," he murmured.

He pointed to the wooden platform.

"Sit."

I walked over. The wood was cold under my bare feet. I sat on the edge of the platform, pulling the robe tighter around me.

"What are you going to paint?" I asked, my voice echoing in the large room.

"Silence," Taehyung commanded.

He picked up a brush. He stared at me. He didn't blink. It felt like he was dissecting me with his eyes.

"Open the robe," he said.

I froze. "What?"

"The robe," Taehyung said calmly. "Open it. I need to see the canvas."

"You said you wanted to paint my face," I argued, clutching the fabric.

"I said I wanted to paint pain," Taehyung corrected. "And your face is only half the story. The rest is written on your ribs."

He set the brush down. The silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.

"Do not make me ask twice, Jungkook."

My heart hammered against my ribs. My hands shook. Slowly, I loosened the belt.

The silk slid off my shoulders. It fell to my waist.

I sat there, half-naked, exposed under the cold studio lights. The air conditioning bit at my skin.

Taehyung didn't leer. He didn't look at me with lust.

He looked at me with hunger.

He walked closer. He stood right in front of me, between my knees. He reached out and traced the long, jagged scar on my abdomen—a souvenir from a knife fight three years ago.

His fingers were freezing cold.

I shuddered.

"Beautiful," Taehyung whispered. His voice was breathless, almost reverent. "So much violence in one body."

He looked up into my eyes. For the first time, I saw something behind his cold mask.

Obsession. madness.

"Don't move," he whispered. "Don't breathe. Just... exist for me."

He turned back to his easel and began to paint.

For hours, the only sound in the room was the scratch of the brush against the canvas and the sound of my own terrified heartbeat.

I was trapped in the glass cage. And the monster was painting my soul.

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