A Visitor from the Past

The penthouse was silent. It was a kind of silence that usually felt like luxury, but today, with the rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Kensington apartment, it felt like a tomb. Jungkook had been gone for hours, locked away in a boardroom in Canary Wharf, leaving me with nothing but my thoughts and the constant, rhythmic movement of the baby against my bladder.

My phone vibrated on the marble island, startling me. The number was blocked, but the message was the same as the one from the clinic: I’m at the cafe on the corner. You look like you need a friend, Tae. Not a jailer.

My heart hammered against my ribs—a mix of terror and a desperate, starving need for a connection that wasn't Jungkook’s suffocating intensity. I shouldn't go. Jungkook had been very clear about my "safety." But the air in this apartment felt too thin to breathe. I grabbed a cashmere coat, wrapping it around my heavy, protruding middle, and slipped out the door.

The café was warm, smelling of roasted beans and wet wool. And there, tucked into a corner booth, was Jimin. He looked exactly the same as he did in Seoul—sharp, pretty, and vibrating with that familiar, dangerous energy.

"Tae," he breathed, standing up as I approached. He didn't just hug me; he placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me into the seat with a familiarity that made my skin prickle. "My god, look at you. You’re glowing, but you look so… fragile."

"I'm just tired, Jiminie," I said, my voice sounding small. "Being seven months pregnant is no joke. My ankles are basically balloons."

Jimin smiled, that slow, manipulative curl of his lips. He reached out, his fingers tracing the taut, swollen skin of my belly where it pressed against my sweater. It was an intimate touch—too intimate for a friend—but I was so starved for someone who treated me like a person rather than a prized possession that I didn't pull away.

"He’s huge," Jimin whispered, his eyes dark with something I couldn't quite read. "Does he know how much he’s taking from you? Does Jungkook even touch you, or does he just worship the 'heir'?"

"He loves us both," I defended, though the words lacked conviction.

"Does he?" Jimin leaned in, his thumb dragging across the underside of my bump, a sensation so electric it made me gasp. "Because from where I’m standing, you look like a bird in a golden cage, Taehyung. I remember when you used to dance until dawn in Seoul. Now? You’re just a vessel for his legacy."

His words hit a raw nerve. I felt a tear prick my eye, and Jimin was there instantly, his thumb catching it, his touch lingering against my cheek. He was so soft, so attentive, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was being watched or managed. I felt... seen.

"I missed you," I whispered, the guilt gnawing at me.

"I'm here now," Jimin murmured. "And I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone, Tae."

I was so wrapped up in the conversation, in the feeling of being wanted by someone who didn't demand my entire soul, that I didn't check the time. I didn't check my phone. I didn't realize that the world outside was darkening, and that my "protection" was coming home early.

Back at the apartment, the silence wasn't empty anymore; it was heavy. Jungkook walked through the mahogany doors, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened. He expected to find me on the sofa, resting as commanded.

He found the suite empty.

I felt a sudden, sharp coldness in the air, a instinctual shift that made my baby kick violently in protest. My phone, tucked in my pocket, lit up. It was a message from Jungkook. It wasn't a question of where I was. It was a command.

I am home, Taehyung. The door is unlocked. You are not here. You have ten minutes to return, or I will burn this entire city down to find you.

My blood ran cold. The café suddenly felt very small, and Jimin’s hand on my knee felt like a branding iron. I looked at the door, then back at Jimin, who was watching me with a smug, knowing smile.

The game had changed. And Jungkook was already on the hunt.

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