Chapter 3: Stillness and Steel

The scratching sound of the brush finally stopped.

"Done," Taehyung announced.

The single word hung in the air like a gavel striking a judge's desk.

My body screamed in protest. I had been sitting on that hard wooden platform for three hours without moving. My broken rib throbbed in a steady, sickening rhythm. My legs were numb. The sweat on my back had dried into a cold, sticky film under the open robe.

Taehyung set the palette down. He wiped his hands on a rag, completely ignoring me again. The intense, burning obsession in his eyes vanished, replaced by that wall of indifference.

It was like he had flipped a switch. The "Artist" was gone. The "Master" was back.

I tried to stand up.

"Ahh," I hissed through my teeth.

My knees buckled. My muscles had locked up from the tension and the injuries. I stumbled forward, my bare foot slipping on the smooth floor.

I braced myself for the impact of the hard wood.

But it never came.

A hand—strong and unyielding—caught my arm.

I looked up. Taehyung had moved with supernatural speed. He was holding me upright, his fingers digging into my bicep. He wasn't gentle, but he was stable.

"Careful," he murmured, his voice flat. "I need you in one piece for tomorrow."

"My legs..." I gritted out, humiliated by my weakness. "They’re asleep."

"You have excellent discipline," Taehyung noted, looking at my face. He wasn't complimenting me; he was evaluating me. "Most people fidget after twenty minutes. You sat still through the pain. Like a statue."

"I'm used to pain," I spat, trying to pull my arm away. "It's the only thing that's real."

Taehyung’s grip tightened for a fraction of a second. He pulled me closer, just an inch, forcing me to look at the painting on the easel behind him.

I gasped.

It wasn't finished, but the outline was there. It was me. But it wasn't the me I saw in the mirror.

The Jungkook on the canvas looked... holy. The bruises were rendered in lush purples and golds. The blood looked like rubies. He had made my suffering look like something religious.

"Is that how you see me?" I whispered, disgusted and mesmerized at the same time. "Broken?"

"I see the tragedy," Taehyung corrected. He let go of my arm. "Cover yourself. You are shivering."

I pulled the white silk robe tight around my chest, hiding the scars, hiding the "art."

"Follow me," Taehyung ordered. "You need to eat. If you lose weight, it ruins the continuity of the painting."

The Dining Room

The transition from the studio to the dining room was a blur of marble hallways and expensive shadows.

The dining table was long enough to seat twenty people. I sat at one end. Taehyung sat at the head.

The maid placed a bowl in front of me. It was porridge. Bland. Nutritious. Warm.

I stared at it. My stomach roared, reminding me I hadn't eaten since before the fight.

"Eat," Taehyung said. He wasn't eating. He was sipping a glass of dark red wine, watching me again.

"I'm not a dog," I muttered, picking up the spoon. "Stop watching me eat."

"I own the view, Jungkook," Taehyung replied smoothly. "I paid three hundred million for it. I will watch whatever I please."

I slammed the spoon down. Clatter.

"Why me?" I asked, my voice shaking with anger. "There are a thousand pretty boys in Seoul. Why did you buy me?"

Taehyung swirled his wine. He looked into the dark liquid as if reading the future.

"Because the others are empty," he said softly. "They smile because they want my money. They pose because they want fame."

He looked up. His gaze pierced right through me.

"But you... you look at me with murder in your eyes. You hate me. And yet, you sit there and eat my food because you want to survive."

He stood up and walked toward me. The sound of his footsteps on the marble was like a ticking clock.

He stopped behind my chair. I stiffened. I could feel his body heat radiating against my back. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.

"I want to capture that," he whispered. "I want to paint the moment that fire in your eyes finally goes out."

I shivered violently. It wasn't from the cold this time. It was fear. He didn't just want to paint me. He wanted to break me.

"Eat," he commanded again, straightening up. "Then go to your room. The maid will show you the way."

The Bedroom

I ate. I hated myself for it, but I ate every bite. I needed the strength.

The maid led me to the guest wing. She opened a door to a room that was nicer than any hotel I’d ever seen. King-sized bed. Grey velvet curtains. A window overlooking the city lights below.

"Goodnight, sir," she whispered, and quickly backed out.

I heard the door close.

Click.

Then, a second sound. A heavy, metallic thud from the other side.

I froze.

I ran to the door. I grabbed the handle and twisted.

It wouldn't move.

"Hey!" I shouted, pounding on the wood with my fist. "Open the door!"

Silence.

"Taehyung!" I screamed. "You can't lock me in!"

I heard footsteps approaching from the other side. They stopped right in front of the door.

"I told you, Jungkook," Taehyung’s deep voice came through the wood, muffled but clear. "You are not a guest."