Chapter Text
The stale air of The Rusty Nail clung to Min Yoongi’s skin like cheap cologne as he stumbled out into the rain-slicked alley hours later.
His mouth still tasted like whiskey and her—that sharp tang of salt and sex lingering on his tongue where she’d bitten him during their final kiss.
He’d waited until the bar emptied, hoping to catch another glimpse of red silk and dark eyes in the neon gloom.
Nothing.
Just piss-stained concrete and crumpled beer cans reflecting fractured city lights.
"Just tonight," she’d said.
Like it was fucking poetry instead of a knife twist in his gut.
He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, inhaling until his lungs burned.
The smoke did fuck-all to cleanse the memory of her heat around him, the way she’d screamed his name against bathroom tiles while strangers pounded on the door for their turn.
"Min Yoongi!"
Like she owned it.
Like she owned him.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
Sunlight stabbed through Yoongi’s skull at 7:03 AM.
Kim Architectural Engineering Company’s chrome-and-glass tower loomed outside his shitty apartment window—a monument to everything he’d failed to become. Another day as Kim Jae Ha’s secretary.
Another day filing permits for bridges he’d designed in school notebooks while Jae Ha sneered "stick to typing, Min."
He showered in scalding water, scrubbing until his skin felt raw.
Couldn’t wash off the phantom press of her nails down his back though.
The scent of jasmine and sweat clung to his subconscious like rot.
The elevator ride to the 42nd floor tasted like bile.
Jae Ha’s domain—all white marble floors polished to a blinding sheen and walls lined with awards for designs Yoongi had tweaked in midnight revisions before Jae Ha slapped his name on them.
The boss’s door stood ajar when Yoongi arrived, coffee in hand (black, two sugars—because even groveling had specifications).
Then he saw her.
Perched on Jae Ha’s mahogany desk like a fucking trophy.
Legs crossed, ankle swinging lazily in crimson Louboutins.
The same legs that had locked around his hips in a grimy bathroom stall last night.
Same cascade of dark hair spilling over bare shoulders where he’d left purple bruises beneath silk.
Same smirking mouth that had whispered "fuck me like you hate someone else."
Yoongi froze.
The coffee cup trembled in his grip.
Scalding liquid sloshed over his knuckles—he didn’t feel it.
Jae Ha swiveled his leather throne toward her, oblivious.
"Ah! Yoongi! Early as always."
His voice oozed condescension.
"Come meet someone special."
He hooked a hand around her waist, pulling her flush against his Armani suit.
Pride dripped from his grin like syrup.
"This stunning creature is my wife."
His fingers tightened possessively on her hip bone—the same hip Yoongi had dug his fingers into while slamming her against cracked tile.
"Kim Jimin."
Jimin’s eyes met Yoongi’s.
Cold amusement glittered in them—a snake watching prey stumble into its den.
No flicker of recognition.
Just icy detachment as she extended a manicured hand.
"A pleasure," she purred.
Her perfume—jasmine and something expensive—hit Yoongi’s nostrils.
Identical to last night’s scent mingled with bar smoke and his own sweat.
Yoongi’s gut clenched.
He forced himself forward, mechanically shaking her hand.
Her skin felt cool and smooth—a cruel contrast to how she’d burned against him hours earlier when he’d hissed "you take cock like you were made for it."
Now here she was—untouchable aristocracy wrapped in designer wool and married to the man who’d crushed Yoongi’s career into paperclips and spreadsheets.
Jae Ha chuckled, mistaking Yoongi’s silence for awe.
"Speechless? Can’t blame you."
He leaned in conspiratorially, breath reeking of mint and privilege.
"Kept her hidden too long, I know. But some treasures are meant for private viewing."
His hand slid lower on Jimin’s ass—a vulgar display of ownership that made Yoongi’s teeth grind.
Jimin just arched into the touch like a satisfied cat.
The coffee cup cracked in Yoongi’s grip now—brown stains blooming across his cheap white shirt sleeve like toxic flowers.
Jae Ha frowned at it.
"Clumsy today? Clean yourself up before the Osaka meeting."
Dismissal dripped from every syllable as he turned back to Jimin.
"Darling, wait in my lounge? I need to discuss mediocrity"—he shot Yoongi a loaded glance—"with our secretary."
Jimin slid off the desk with liquid grace.
As she passed Yoongi toward the private lounge door, her shoulder brushed his arm—a fleeting contact that screamed of deliberate provocation under Jae Ha’s oblivious gaze.
Her voice dropped to a whisper only Yoongi could hear:
"Bathroom stall three still smells like us."
Then louder, saccharine-sweet for Jae Ha:
"Don’t be long, oppa."
The lounge door clicked shut behind her.
Jae Ha immediately whipped out his phone—some vapid golf conversation buzzing through—but Yoongi was already stumbling toward the executive washroom down the hall.
Locking himself inside a stall that smelled like antiseptic and regret instead of sweat and sex.
He braced shaking hands against cold marble walls—the same way he’d braced against flimsy bathroom partitions while Jimin rode him screaming "yes Yoongi yes fuck your little secretary anger into me—"
Vomit surged up his throat—acid and whiskey remnants burning his sinuses as he retched into the pristine toilet bowl.
Flawless porcelain mocked him; Kim Jae Ha probably imported it from Italy while Yoongi scrubbed mold from his apartment tiles last week.
He spat violently into swirling water—trying to expel last night’s taste mingling with today’s horror.
Jimin’s kiss lingered like a brand: deep and devouring after they’d finished fucking—"remember this mouth," she’d breathed into him before vanishing forever (except not forever—now it belonged to him).
Footsteps echoed outside—sharp clicks of Jae Ha’s handmade Oxfords stopping by the sinks.
Yoongi froze mid-retch, praying the stall door hid him completely as he heard Jae Ha humming some smug pop tune while washing his hands for precisely twelve seconds (Yoongi knew; he’d timed it during other humiliations).
Water ran—a sleek faucet worth more than Yoongi’s monthly rent—then silence stretched like razor wire until Jae Ha’s voice cut through:
"Yoongi? That you gagging in there?"
A chuckle bounced off marble tiles as Yoongi choked on air instead of vomit this time—trapped between disgust and raw terror while his boss waited just feet away from where he’d debased himself with Mrs. Kim fucking Jimin mere hours earlier…
The memory slammed into Yoongi like a physical blow as he clung to the cold marble of the executive bathroom stall, the acidic burn of vomit still coating his tongue.
It wasn’t antiseptic he smelled anymore – it was The Rusty Nail.
Stale beer, cheap gin, and the cloying sweetness of broken dreams.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
Hours Earlier: The Rusty Nail
He’d been slumped at the bar’s far end, drowning his engineering demotion in a river of cheap whiskey.
The amber liquid did nothing to wash away the bitter taste of Jae Ha’s sneering pronouncement earlier that day:
“Your bridge design? Amateur hour, Yoongi. Stick to answering my phones and fetching coffee. That’s all your hands are good for.”
The glass in his grip felt flimsy, inadequate. Just like him.
That’s when she appeared.
Not walking – sliding onto the stool next to him.
A ripple of red silk skirt riding high on impossibly smooth thighs.
He felt her presence before he saw her fully – a wave of expensive jasmine cutting through the bar’s funk, undercut by something sharper, dangerous.
“Rough day?”
Her voice was low, husky smoke over gravel. Not a question.
An observation.
Yoongi turned his head slowly.
Neon signs – Budweiser, Miller Lite – flickered across her face, illuminating high cheekbones and dark eyes that held no warmth, only a predatory curiosity.
Her lips, painted a deep, bruised plum, curved in a smirk that didn’t reach those eyes.
She looked out of place amidst the chipped formica and sticky floors, a sleek panther in a junkyard.
“Something like that,”
Yoongi muttered, raising his near-empty glass.
“Celebrating failure.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound like breaking glass.
“Failure’s underrated. It makes people… desperate.”
Her gaze traveled down his body – the rumpled shirt, the loosened tie, the tense line of his shoulders beneath cheap fabric – then back up to meet his bleary eyes.
“Desperate can be fun.”
He felt a spark ignite low in his gut, fueled by cheap liquor and simmering rage.
“Fun? What’s fun about being ground into paste by some arrogant prick who thinks he shits gold?”
Her plum-colored lips parted slightly.
“Revenge,” she breathed, leaning in close enough for her scent to overwhelm him completely – jasmine and beneath it, something feral.
“Dirty, messy revenge. Taken out on someone else.”
Her knee brushed against his thigh under the bar.
Deliberate.
Insistent heat.
“You look like you could use some mess.”
His control, already frayed by humiliation and whiskey, snapped.
He slammed a crumpled bill on the bar, not even counting it.
“Outside,” he growled, grabbing his jacket. “Now.”
She followed him, that smirk fixed in place, through the crowd of oblivious drunks and towards the dim hallway leading to the restrooms.
The air grew thicker, hotter, smelling of urine and industrial cleaner trying and failing to mask decades of neglect.
He didn’t make it outside.
He shoved open the door to the men’s room – a cramped space with cracked yellow tiles, a flickering fluorescent light buzzing like an angry wasp, and three flimsy metal stalls.
It was empty except for the stink and the dripping faucet.
He whirled around just inside the door, slamming it shut behind them.
She was already on him.
No hesitation.
Her body pressed flush against his, one hand fisting in his hair, yanking his head back, while the other snaked down, fingers finding the hard ridge of his cock straining against his trousers through cheap wool.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the sensation electric and brutal.
“Yeah,” she breathed against his throat, her teeth scraping his skin.
“Fuck.”
She pushed him back hard against the door. It rattled in its frame.
“All that anger… let it out.”
Her hand worked him roughly through the fabric.
“Who pissed you off, huh? Imagine him.”
She bit down on the tendon where his neck met his shoulder – sharp pain laced with shocking pleasure.
“Now fuck me like you hate him.”
Her words were gasoline on the fire inside him.
Jae Ha’s smug face flashed behind his eyes – the dismissive wave of his hand, the contempt in his voice.
Stick to typing.
With a guttural snarl, Yoongi reversed their positions.
He spun her around, slamming her face-first against the cool, filthy tiles of the stall wall beside the first grimy toilet.
The metal partition vibrated with the impact.
“Hands on the wall,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
She obeyed instantly, bracing herself, arching her back and pushing that perfect ass in its red silk against him.
He didn’t fumble. Rage made his movements viciously efficient. One hand shoved the silk skirt up around her waist, revealing bare skin and a scrap of black lace thong.
He hooked his fingers into it, yanking it down her thighs with a sharp rip.
The flimsy fabric tore.
“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back harder.
His own zipper sounded obscenely loud in the small space.
He didn’t bother with foreplay, didn’t care if she was ready.
His cock sprang free, hard and aching.
He spat crudely into his palm, slicking himself roughly once, twice.
Then he gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and drove himself into her in one brutal thrust.
“Christ!” she screamed – not pain, pure abandon.
Her head thumped back against his shoulder as her body stretched to take him. Hot, wet, impossibly tight.
He set a punishing rhythm immediately, slamming into her with every ounce of his pent-up fury.
Each thrust rocked her body against the tiles.
The cheap metal stall groaned and rattled like it might collapse.
He fucked her like he wanted to break something – break her, break Jae Ha, break the fucking world that kept shoving him down.
“That’s it!” she cried out, her voice raw and high above the slap of skin on skin and the buzz of the dying light.
“Fuck your anger into me! Use it! Harder!”
Her encouragement was filthy fuel.
He pistoned harder, deeper, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, certain he’d leave dark purple fingerprints.
Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the smell of sex and mildew and her expensive perfume turned primal.
“Tell me your name,” he grunted against her ear between ragged breaths, wanting some scrap of identity to hate beyond this anonymous body.
She laughed breathlessly, pushing back to meet his thrusts with equal force.
“No names… just fuck me… Min… Min Yoongi…”
He froze for a split second inside her.
She knew his name? He’d mumbled it earlier at the bar, drunk and angry.
“Say it again,” he demanded, resuming his brutal pace with renewed ferocity.
“Yoongi!” she shrieked as he hit a spot that made her legs tremble.
“Fuck! Min Yoongi!”
She chanted it like a prayer or a curse as he pounded into her, each cry of his name driving him closer to the edge.
He felt her inner walls begin to clench rhythmically around him, a hot, fluttering vice grip.
“Yoongi!” she screamed again, the sound echoing off the tiles as her body bowed and shuddered violently against him.
Her climax triggered his own.
With a roar ripped from somewhere deep and dark, he buried himself to the hilt and came in thick, pulsing spurts, emptying every ounce of frustration and rage into this nameless woman pinned against a bar bathroom wall.
They stayed locked together for a moment, panting harshly, slick with sweat.
The stall reeked of sex and desperation. Slowly, feeling hollowed out and strangely calm amidst the ruin of his anger, Yoongi pulled out.
He leaned his forehead against her damp shoulder blade, breathing in her jasmine and sex scent.
She turned slowly within the circle of his arms.
Her lipstick was smeared around her swollen mouth, her hair a wild tangle.
That detached amusement was back in her dark eyes, but beneath it was something else – satisfied possession?
She reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair again, pulling him down.
The kiss wasn't gentle.
It was deep and devouring, claiming.
Her tongue pushed past his lips with a ferocity that mirrored their fucking.
She tasted of whiskey and salt and himself.
It was shocking in its intimacy after the brutality.
When she finally broke it, gasping slightly, she held his gaze.
Her thumb swiped roughly across his bottom lip, smearing her ruined lipstick.
"Remember this mouth," she breathed, her voice wrecked but intense.
"Remember what it felt like on you."
Then she pushed him back with surprising strength.
She straightened her torn underwear as best she could, smoothed down the red silk skirt with deliberate slowness despite its creases and damp patches.
She didn't look at him again.
Without a word, she unlocked the stall door and slipped out into the grimy hallway.
Yoongi sagged against the cold tiles, listening to the sharp click of her heels fade away.
"Just tonight," he whispered to the empty stall, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth.
He hadn’t even seen her face properly in the light.
Back in the Executive Washroom - Present Day
The memory was a physical assault.
That devouring kiss in the filthy bar bathroom – her mouth claiming his just hours ago – superimposed itself over her icy handshake in Jae Ha’s pristine office.
Kim Jimin. Wife of Kim Jae Ha.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
He retched again into Jae Ha’s imported Italian toilet bowl, bringing up nothing but bile and self-loathing.
Her whispered taunt echoed in his skull: "Bathroom stall three still smells like us."
He could still feel the ghost of her hips under his hands, hear her scream his name while her husband sat just floors above them in his chrome tower of stolen designs.
The doorknob rattled sharply.
“Yoongi?”
Jae Ha’s voice cut through the door, laced with impatience and disgust that mirrored Yoongi’s own inner turmoil.
“Get your pathetic ass out here! We have mediocrity to manage!”
The porcelain sink felt unnaturally cold under Yoongi’s palms, a stark contrast to the feverish heat crawling beneath his own skin.
He braced himself, knuckles white, staring into the unforgiving mirror of Jae Ha’s executive washroom.
The reflection was a ruin.
Sweat beaded along his hairline, plastering dark strands to his forehead.
His eyes, bloodshot and shadowed with exhaustion and self-revulsion, stared back with a hollow vacancy.
The cheap coffee stain spread across his sleeve was a visual scream against the pristine white cotton – a declaration of his place in this gleaming prison.
He twisted the gold-plated faucet (imported, obviously) and icy water gushed forth.
Cupping it in trembling hands, he splashed it violently onto his face, once, twice, three times.
The shock of cold was a physical slap, momentarily scattering the ghosts of Jimin’s moans and the phantom pressure of her body against his.
He scooped more water into his mouth, swishing it around like mouthwash after cheap whiskey, trying to scour away the lingering taste of vomit… and the memory of her taste.
Jasmine, sweat, salt.
He spat into the gleaming basin, watching the murky water swirl down the drain.
It didn’t help.
The scent of her seemed embedded in his sinuses.
He gripped the edges of the sink, head bowed, taking deep, ragged breaths that shuddered through his frame.
Pull yourself together, Min Yoongi.
The command was a brittle whip-crack in his mind.
You need this job.
You need the money.
You have nowhere else to go.
The rhythm of the mantra was familiar, beaten into him over years of swallowed pride and deferred dreams.
Engineer?
That ship had sailed the moment Jae Ha saw his bridge design and laughed, calling it a ‘playground structure.’
Now he was Min Yoongi, Secretary.
Errand boy.
Coffee fetcher.
Handler of mediocrity.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
He straightened slowly, forcing his spine rigid despite the tremor in his muscles.
He met his reflection’s gaze again, deliberately smoothing his expression into the blank mask he wore like armor.
The disgust was still there, a sick churning in his gut, but he buried it deep, locking it behind the shutters in his eyes.
He adjusted his stained tie, uselessly trying to flatten the creases Jae Ha would inevitably sneer at.
He smoothed his damp hair back with wet hands.
Just get through the day.
Do the job. Collect the paycheck.
Forget.
The walk back to Jae Ha’s office felt like crossing a minefield blindfolded.
Every step echoed too loudly in the unnervingly silent hallway.
His polished shoes clicked on the marble, a metronome counting down to humiliation.
He paused outside the heavy oak door, taking one final, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the frantic beat of his heart against his ribs.
He could hear Jae Ha’s voice inside, muffled but unmistakably smug.
Yoongi pushed the door open.
Jae Ha was still seated in his throne-like chair, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, one hand gesturing grandly at thin air. “—exactly! Tell Osaka we won’t accept anything less than top-tier materials. Kim Architectural Engineering doesn’t cut corners.”
He winked theatrically at Yoongi as he entered, as if sharing a private joke about the very concept of cutting corners while stealing entire designs.
And Jimin.
She was perched elegantly on the edge of the plush cream sofa in his private lounge area, visible through the still-open adjoining door.
She held a delicate porcelain cup – probably containing tea costing more than Yoongi’s lunch for a week.
Her legs were crossed, one red-soled Louboutin dangling provocatively.
She wasn’t looking at Jae Ha.
Her dark eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Yoongi as he entered.
The weight of her gaze was a physical thing – heavy, assessing, utterly devoid of the frantic heat from the bar bathroom or even the icy amusement from their introduction.
It was… neutral.
Observational.
As if he were an interesting insect that had crawled onto her expensive rug.
It was somehow worse than hatred or mockery. It stripped him bare.
“Ah, Yoongi!”
Jae Ha barked, slamming the phone down without a goodbye.
“Finally decided to rejoin the workforce? Get me the Osaka contract drafts. The final drafts I approved yesterday.”
He leaned back, steepling his fingers.
“And while you’re fetching that… another coffee. Black. Two sugars. Try not to baptize yourself in it this time.”
The casual cruelty was expected.
Routine, even.
But today, under Jimin’s unnerving stare, it landed like a scalpel carving into raw nerve endings.
Yoongi’s jaw clenched so tight he felt a muscle jump.
“Yes, sir,” he managed, the words tasting like grit.
He turned towards his own smaller desk positioned outside Jae Ha’s direct line of sight but fully within his domain.
As he passed the lounge doorway, Jimin shifted slightly.
The movement drew his eye.
The slit in her skirt – not the red silk of last night, but a sophisticated charcoal grey wool today – parted just enough to reveal a glimpse of smooth thigh above her stocking top.
On that pale skin, stark and undeniable against her flesh even under the office’s cool lighting, were three distinct, faintly purple bruises in the unmistakable pattern of fingerprints.
His fingerprints.
Yoongi’s stride hitched for a microsecond, bile rising again in his throat.
He felt dizzy.
He could feel the texture of her skin under his fingers again, the desperate pressure he’d exerted as he slammed into her… right before she’d screamed his name against those filthy bathroom tiles.
The memory wasn’t abstract anymore; it was imprinted on her skin, displayed casually in her husband’s office.
He forced his eyes forward, focusing on the cheap laminate surface of his desk.
The Osaka contract file was right where he’d left it.
He snatched it up, the thick folder a tangible anchor in his spinning world.
“The coffee, Yoongi,”
Jae Ha reminded him lazily from his desk.
“Don’t dawdle.”
Numbly, Yoongi walked to the state-of-the-art espresso machine tucked into a corner alcove – another obscene display of wealth dedicated to caffeine.
His hands were shaking again as he fumbled with the expensive capsules, trying to slot one in.
The machine hummed softly, a sound utterly incongruous with the violence replaying in his head: Jimin’s gasp as he tore her underwear, the slap of skin, her chant of Min Yoongi!
He placed Jae Ha’s perfect black coffee on the coaster next to his elbow without a word, avoiding any contact.
He then placed the thick contract file squarely in front of him.
“Finally,”
Jae Ha sighed dramatically, ignoring the coffee for the moment and flipping open the file.
He scanned the top page – the cover sheet for the Osaka Seaway Bridge project. Yoongi’s eyes flickered over it involuntarily.
The elegant lines of the suspension design… they weren't Jae Ha’s.
They were his.
Refined over weeks of late nights and stolen hours at his tiny apartment desk, fueled by ramen and desperate ambition.
Jae Ha had dismissed the initial concept outright months ago, then presented a miraculously similar (but slightly worse) version weeks later as his own ‘breakthrough.’
Jae Ha tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on a structural calculation table Yoongi had painstakingly verified.
“Hmm. These load-bearing specs seem tight.”
He looked up at Yoongi, his expression one of bored condescension.
“What do you think, secretary? You handle numbers all day. Can steel Grade S355J2W+N handle 2,500 kN/m² sustained over twenty years with a safety margin? Or is that asking too much?”
It was a setup.
Jae Ha knew Yoongi knew.
He loved these little games where he forced Yoongi to verbally validate the theft of his own work while reinforcing Yoongi’s ‘place.’ The correct answer – that Grade S355J2W+N could, but barely, and Grade S460ML was far superior for long-term fatigue resistance – burned on Yoongi’s tongue.
Admitting he knew would expose his deeper understanding, inviting only more suspicion and scorn.
He swallowed hard, feeling Jimin’s gaze still boring into him from the sofa.
He could almost sense her amusement from here.
“I… I’d have to consult the material specifications handbook again, sir,”
Yoongi mumbled, staring at a point just past Jae Ha’s shoulder.
“To be absolutely certain.”
Jae Ha snorted dismissively.
“Of course you would.”
He flipped a page dismissively.
“Just get me the handbook later. We need to be certain. Can’t have mediocrity undermining Kim Architectural Engineering’s reputation.”
He took a slow sip of his coffee.
“Unlike some… substandard efforts… we deliver excellence.”
The insult was layered, pointed not just at Yoongi’s supposed incompetence as an engineer but at his entire being. Substandard effort.
Like answering phones?
Like fetching coffee?
Like fucking your wife in a dirty bar bathroom?
Yoongi kept his face utterly blank, the mask firmly in place even as acid churned in his stomach.
“Understood, sir.”
From the lounge came a soft sound.
Jimin had set her teacup down on its saucer with a deliberate clink.
She uncrossed her legs slowly and stood up, smoothing her skirt down over those damning bruises hidden beneath expensive wool.
“Darling,” she said, her voice smooth as honeyed venom as she walked towards Jae Ha’s desk.
“You’re working him too hard.”
She stopped beside Jae Ha’s chair, placing a possessive hand on his shoulder.
She looked directly at Yoongi as she spoke to her husband.
“Poor Min Yoongi looks positively grey.”
Her lips curved into a smile that didn't touch her cold eyes.
“Perhaps you should give him an easier task? Something less… taxing on his nerves.”
The double entendre hung in the air like poisoned smoke.
Taxing on his nerves.
Did she mean engineering calculations?
Or the sheer, gut-wrenching horror of standing feet away from her after last night?
Jae Ha chuckled obliviously, patting her hand.
“Nonsense, my treasure! Mediocrity thrives under pressure! Isn’t that right, Yoongi?”
He grinned up at Jimin with fawning adoration.
“Besides, we have that critical meeting with the Osaka delegation in thirty minutes. Yoongi needs to ensure all our schematics are perfectly aligned and ready for the presentation.”
He turned his grin on Yoongi.
It was predatory.
“Flawlessly. No mistakes. Kim Architectural Engineering expects perfection from everyone.”
His gaze flickered down pointedly at Yoongi’s coffee-stained sleeve.
“Even from our secretaries.”
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
The Osaka meeting wasn't a meeting.
It was an execution.
The air in the chrome-and-glass conference room hung thick and poisoned, heavy with the stench of Jae Ha’s bombast meeting the icy precision of Japanese corporate formality.
Three executives from Osaka Heavy Industries sat like statues carved from volcanic glass – Tanaka, silver-haired and impassive; Watanabe, young with eyes like chips of flint; and a silent third whose name Yoongi hadn't caught, radiating disapproval like cold radiation.
Jae Ha’s booming voice, meant to dominate, had instead bounced off their stoic silence, exposing every shallow assumption, every corner cut in the ambitious waterfront proposal spread across the table.
Tanaka placed a single sheet of paper on the polished ebony surface with glacial precision.
"Mr. Kim," he said, his accented English devoid of inflection, "the discrepancies between your structural load projections and our geotechnical survey of Sector C are… irreconcilable within the current framework. The liquefaction risk renders your foundation design untenable."
He didn't say 'unsafe'. He didn't need to.
The implication hung heavier than the city smog outside the panoramic windows.
Jae Ha’s smile was a rictus straining against volcanic pressure.
"Tanaka-san, details! Our engineers assure me—"
Watanabe cut in, his voice flat as a guillotine blade.
"Your engineers assured you bedrock at fifteen meters. Our core samples show saturated sand and silt down to twenty-eight. Pilings must penetrate stable strata. This necessitates a complete redesign of the subterranean levels."
He slid a tablet forward.
A cross-section bloomed on screen, crimson zones pulsing ominously beneath the proposed tower footprint.
"Your proposal does not account for this."
Yoongi’s throat tightened.
He saw the flaw Watanabe highlighted – a fundamental miscalculation based on outdated data he had flagged weeks ago, buried under Jae Ha’s insistence on aggressive timelines.
He leaned forward slightly, the words scraping his throat raw.
"Sir, if we shift the tower footprint east by seven meters, we intersect the granite shelf indicated in their appendix F. We could salvage the core structure if—"
"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"
Jae Ha’s roar detonated, shattering the tense silence.
He didn't look at Yoongi.
His furious, bloodshot eyes remained locked on Watanabe, but his entire body vibrated with rage directed at the interruption, the correction, the insubordination.
Spittle flew, landing on the pristine tablecloth.
"You dare lecture me? In my boardroom? With your… pedantic… nonsense?"
He slammed his fist down.
Water glasses leaped, ice cubes skittering like shrapnel.
"Your survey is fear-mongering garbage! Designed to stall!"
Tanaka remained unmoved, a monolith of polite finality.
He steepled his fingers.
"Our survey adheres to Japanese National Building Code 7.3, which governs this project. We require a revised proposal addressing these fundamental geological constraints."
He paused, his gaze flicking almost imperceptibly towards Yoongi.
"Your associate demonstrates awareness of the relevant data. Perhaps his input would be valuable moving forward?"
The trap snapped shut with surgical precision.
Yoongi wasn't just useless; he was the proof of Jae Ha’s negligence.
Jae Ha’s face purpled, the vein at his temple throbbing like a live wire.
The humiliation of being corrected, of his ignorance laid bare by his own subordinate in front of the clients he’d flown in to dominate, was complete.
His head snapped towards Yoongi, eyes bulging with pure, incandescent hatred.
"YOU!"
The word was a physical impact.
"Fucking… parasite! Brain-dead statue! Why are you even breathing? Couldn't anticipate one fucking question? Not one useful insight?"
His voice rose, cracking with fury, echoing off the glass walls.
He surged to his feet, looming over Yoongi, his expensive sandalwood cologne warring with the sour stench of rage rolling off him.
"Worthless sack of shit! A leech sucking up resources! GET OUT!"
He jabbed a thick, trembling finger towards the door.
"Get your pathetic, incompetent ass out of my sight! Compile every scrap of data we have on those Osaka zoning variances – every soil report, every seismic analysis, every fucking byte – and have it on my desk by 5 PM! Not one second later, you gutter-born failure, or pack your shit and crawl back to the ditch you slithered out of!"
Yoongi absorbed the vitriol like bullets.
His face was granite, the only movement the faintest tremor in his clenched jaw.
Humiliation, scalding and profound, warred with impotent rage beneath his skin.
He gave a curt, silent nod that felt like snapping his own neck, gathered his untouched notepad, and turned stiffly.
The heavy conference room door clicked shut behind him, muffling but not silencing Jae Ha’s impotent roar directed at the retreating backs of the Osaka executives.
Yoongi didn't walk away immediately.
He leaned against the cool plaster wall of the corridor, head bowed, breathing ragged.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted with sickening speed.
The furious bluster vanished, replaced by a cloying, oily sweetness that curdled Yoongi’s stomach worse than the shouting.
He heard the soft shuffle of expensive shoes on carpet, then Jae Ha’s voice, suddenly soft, dripping with saccharine devotion:
"Darling? My beautiful treasure?"
Yoongi heard the rustle of silk, the sigh of leather as Jae Ha presumably sank onto the plush sofa near the window.
"Forgive that unpleasantness. Dealing with incompetents… it drains a man."
A wet, sloppy sound followed – the obscene, resonant smack of a deep, possessive kiss. Yoongi could visualize it: Jae Ha’s thick tongue invading Jimin’s mouth, his hands pawing greedily at her waist, pulling her onto his lap mere feet from where Yoongi stood, still vibrating from his evisceration.
"Mmm, you smell divine,"
Jae Ha murmured, the sound thick with lust. "Like victory. Forget those small-minded bureaucrats. Your presence alone elevates this room."
Another wet kiss, accompanied by a soft, breathy gasp – Jimin’s? – and the rustle of fabric.
"My perfect jewel. My obsession."
The words were whispered, fervent, dripping with unhealthy fixation.
"Tell me you missed me today, even during that tedious meeting. Tell me."
Yoongi pushed himself off the wall, bile scalding his throat.
He couldn't stay.
He couldn't listen to this grotesque pantomime of devotion mere moments after being torn apart.
He stumbled down the hall towards the dubious sanctuary of his own cramped office, the sounds of Jae Ha’s obsessive murmurs and wet kisses fading behind him, replaced by the frantic pounding of his own pulse in his ears.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
He reached his door – cheap wood veneer peeling at the edges.
He shoved it open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind him with a force that rattled the flimsy particleboard walls.
The click of the lock engaging was a fragile victory.
The office was small, dominated by a sturdy metal drafting table piled high with blueprints and reference books.
A single window looked out onto a grimy airshaft.
The air smelled of dust, stale coffee, and the sharp tang of graphite.
Yoongi leaned back against the locked door, chest heaving.
The silence was a fragile thing, already poisoned by the echoes of Jae Ha’s rage and his sickening, possessive whispers to Jimin.
He needed oblivion.
He needed the clean, logical lines of his work.
He needed to vanish.
With trembling hands, he fished his phone from his trouser pocket.
The screen lit up – a few missed notifications, irrelevant noise from a world that had just tried to crush him.
He jabbed the power button, holding it down until the screen went black.
Utter silence.
No buzzing, no pings, no connection to the dragon’s den down the hall or the viper coiled within it.
He tossed the dead brick onto a precarious stack of architectural journals.
It landed with a soft thud.
He crossed the small space in two strides to his drafting table.
He swept aside a half-empty mug of cold coffee, ignoring the brown ring it left on a stray invoice.
His sanctuary awaited.
He pulled out the heavy oak stool, its leather seat worn smooth by years of use.
He switched on the powerful articulated drafting lamp; its bright, white beam banished the gloom of the airshaft view, creating a pool of intense focus on the large sheet of vellum pinned to the board.
Before him lay the intricate, half-finished elevation of a concert hall facade – his passion project, his escape.
Delicate pencil lines traced soaring arches and complex geometric patterns dancing across the paper.
Calculations filled the margins – stress loads, material coefficients, angles of incidence for acoustics.
It was a world of pure logic, predictable forces, elegant solutions.
A world where Jae Ha’s bluster and Jimin’s predatory gaze held no power.
Yoongi picked up his favorite mechanical pencil – weighty, precise, comforting.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of paper, graphite, and dust.
The tremor in his hands slowly subsided as he focused on the clean point touching the vellum.
He leaned forward, his entire world narrowing to the intersection of lead and paper, the intricate dance of line and calculation.
The hum of the lamp was the only sound.
The complex geometry of the facade became his fortress walls.
The numbers in the margins were his moat. Here, amidst the charts and calculations and drawings, he could bury the echo of Jae Ha’s roar, the phantom sensation of Jimin’s breath on his neck, the suffocating weight of their toxic orbit.
Here, he could disappear.
His pencil moved, tracing a delicate filigree pattern, each line a defiant act of survival.
The Osaka execution, Jae Ha’s obsession, the looming 5 PM deadline… they existed outside the bright circle of light.
For now, there was only the paper, the pencil, and the intricate, beautiful world he was building line by line, number by number.
Time lost all meaning inside the fortress of Yoongi’s drafting table.
The rhythmic scrape of his pencil against vellum, the hypnotic dance of numbers filling the margins, the intricate latticework of the concert hall facade taking shape under his hand – it was a narcotic.
The raw fury in his throat after Jae Ha’s evisceration dulled to a low thrum.
The phantom sensation of Jimin’s gasp during Jae Ha’s wet kisses dissolved into the clean geometry of load-bearing calculations. The 5 PM deadline was a distant storm cloud, ignored.
Here, bathed in the stark white light of the drafting lamp, there was only structure, logic, control.
The airshaft window faded to a gray void.
Then came the click.
Sharp.
Metallic.
Utterly alien in his cocoon of focus.
Yoongi flinched as if electrocuted, his pencil skidding a jagged line across the delicate facade drawing.
His head snapped up, eyes bleary and slow to adjust from the pinpoint focus of the lamp.
The office door stood ajar.
Framed within it was Jimin.
She’d changed.
Dramatically.
Earlier, in the periphery of Jae Ha’s domain, she’d been the cool executive wife – sleek dress, hair a perfect cascade.
Now… now she looked rumpled, flushed, like a painting disturbed.
Her usually flowing dark hair was hastily pinned up in a messy knot, loose strands escaping to curl damply at her temples and nape.
She wore different clothes – a simple cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers that looked fresh from a garment bag, yet they hung on her with a strange stiffness, as if donned in haste.
But it was her neck that snagged Yoongi’s gaze, yanking him fully out of his mathematical trance.
Against the pale skin, just above the high collar she’d clearly chosen for coverage, bloomed a constellation of dark, mottled bruises.
Deep purples and angry reds.
Fresh love bites.
Or hate bites.
The imprint of Jae Ha’s possessive fury, his obsessive need to mark what was his, mere minutes after publicly destroying Yoongi mere meters away.
Why is she here?
The question detonated in his skull, loud and panicked, drowning out the last echoes of structural harmonics.
His sanctuary was invaded, poisoned by her presence and what it screamed about the last half hour.
He didn’t speak.
Couldn’t.
His hands moved automatically, frantically.
He slammed his precious mechanical pencil down hard enough to crack the vellum near his ruined line.
He swept stray reference books into a crooked pile.
Grabbed empty coffee mugs, cold and sticky, shoving them towards the back of the desk. It was a futile, chaotic attempt to build a barrier, to reclaim some semblance of order against this violation.
He refused to look at her directly, keeping his eyes fixed on the mess he was making of his own workspace.
Jimin stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her with another soft click.
The lock didn't engage this time.
The air shifted, thick with the cloying scent of her expensive jasmine perfume, undercut now by something else – a faint musk, the lingering metallic tang of sex, and the acrid bite of Jae Ha’s sandalwood cologne clinging to her skin and clothes like a brand.
She moved with a deliberate slowness towards his drafting table, placing a small, lacquered black bento box onto the only clear corner he hadn't managed to clutter. The smell hit him immediately – sweet teriyaki sauce, steamed rice – nauseatingly domestic and utterly grotesque given the context.
"You didn't eat," she stated, her voice unnervingly calm, almost detached.
Her eyes, dark and unreadable pools, scanned his face, lingering on the tightness around his mouth, the faint tremor in his hands as he shoved a blueprint tube aside.
"So I brought you this."
She nudged the bento box an inch closer to him with a perfectly manicured finger.
"Just eat some."
A sound ripped from Yoongi’s throat.
Harsh. Guttural.
Not quite a laugh, more like the bark of a wounded animal caught in a trap.
It was pure disbelief, scraping raw on the way out.
His head finally snapped up, meeting her gaze fully for the first time since she entered.
The contempt he saw swirling in her eyes?
Or was it reflected in his own?
It didn’t matter. It boiled over, hot and acrid.
"Eat?"
The word was a curse.
He gestured wildly at the bento box, then swept his hand towards the door, towards Jae Ha’s office, towards the unseen stains on the leather sofa.
"How? How do you know I didn’t eat anything?"
His voice climbed, rough with a tension that vibrated in the cramped space.
"Were you checking? Between rounds? While your husband was busy leaving his fucking calling cards all over your neck?"
He stabbed a finger towards the dark bruises visible above her collar, his own knuckles white.
"Is that part of the service? Bringing lunch to the help after you’ve finished getting railed by the boss in his office?"
The vulgarity hung in the air like poison gas. Crude.
Raw.
Stripping away every pretense.
His chest heaved.
He hadn't meant to say it like that – not the specific words, not the venomous contempt that coated them.
But it was out.
Spilled like the invisible filth staining his sanctuary.
He saw her flinch.
Not much.
Just a microscopic tightening around her eyes, a fractional stiffening in her posture.
But it was there.
Proof the barb had sunk in.
The perfectly composed mask had cracked, revealing… what?
Fury?
Shame?
Or just cold calculation reassessing the playing field?
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by Yoongi’s ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs.
The meticulously drawn concert hall facade lay forgotten beneath his fist, irreparably scarred by the jagged pencil line his shock had torn across it.
She didn’t flinch at his venom.
Didn’t recoil.
Her dark eyes, flat and unnervingly focused, held his.
The silence after his outburst wasn’t shock; it was the eerie calm before a predator strikes.
Without breaking eye contact, she took a deliberate step backwards.
Her hand reached out, found the flimsy lock on the cheap office door, and clicked it home.
The sound was final, sealing them in.
Then, with the same unnerving precision, she walked to the single grimy window overlooking the airshaft.
The thin, dusty curtains rasped shut, plunging the small office into near darkness, fractured only by the stark, unforgiving beam of the drafting lamp.
The pool of light now felt like a stage, a spotlight on an impending atrocity.
She turned back to him.
In the harsh light, the bruises on her neck looked livid, brutal.
The messy hair, the hastily donned clothes – they weren't signs of vulnerability now, but trophies of conquest, evidence of the power she wielded through the man who owned them both.
She crossed the short distance silently. Before Yoongi could react, comprehend her intent beyond the locking of doors, she was on him.
Both hands clamped onto his shoulders – not tenderly, but with a grip like steel talons, anchoring him to the stool.
Then she leaned in, fast and hard.
Her lips crashed against his. Not a kiss. An invasion. Hot, insistent, tasting of expensive jasmine perfume, the metallic tang of Jae Ha’s saliva, and something else – a raw, desperate hunger.
Her tongue forced its way past his rigid lips, probing, demanding.
Yoongi froze.
Pure, unadulterated shock locked his muscles. His mind screamed static.
What the fuck?
What the absolute fuck?
This wasn’t seduction; it was assault wrapped in silk.
Revulsion surged, a tidal wave of disgust so profound it shattered the paralysis.
He exploded upwards, shoving her off with all his strength.
It wasn't gentle.
It was pure, panicked recoil.
She stumbled backwards, losing her balance on the cluttered floor.
Her hip slammed into the edge of his desk, scattering pens and coffee-stained papers.
She landed hard on her ass on the thin carpet, legs splayed, a startled gasp ripped from her throat.
For a second, she just sat there, breathing hard, the flush on her cheeks deepening to crimson, her chest heaving visibly beneath the cream silk blouse.
Her body was trembling, not with fear, but with a coiled, furious energy.
Her eyes, when they snapped back to his, weren't wet with tears.
They burned with cold, calculated fury.
"What's wrong with you?"
Yoongi rasped, his voice raw, trembling with the force of his contempt.
He loomed over her, his own breath ragged.
"What the fuck are you doing? Is your damn pussy that insatiable? Need another filling already? Couldn't wait for your husband to recover?"
She didn't scramble up.
Didn't cry.
She just stared up at him from the floor, a feral intensity in her gaze.
The flush wasn't embarrassment; it was the heat of battle.
When she spoke, her voice was low, controlled, but vibrating with a terrifying certainty that cut through his rage like ice.
"Fuck me," she said, the words flat, absolute.
"Right here. Right now."
She didn't move.
Yoongi let out a choked bark of disbelief.
"Are you insane? Get out!"
Her lips curled into a thin, dangerous smile that didn't touch her eyes.
"Or," she continued, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper,
"I will scream. I will scream until they break down this door. And I will tell everyone… everyone… that you raped me."
The words hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs.
He staggered back half a step.
"Just imagine," she pressed on, her eyes locked on his, pinning him like a specimen, "Jae Ha’s rage. What do you think he will do to the man who raped his precious wife? His obsession?"
She let the word hang, letting him visualize the volcanic fury.
"Prison would be a mercy. A vacation. He’ll bury you so deep in lawsuits, criminal charges, and professional ruin… you won’t see daylight again. Companies? Forget it. Who hires a convicted rapist? Or even just accused? The stain never washes off."
She paused, letting the horror sink in.
"You have everything to lose. Your career. Your freedom. Your life as you know it."
Her voice hardened into flint.
"If you try to lie? Try to say I came onto you? Who do you think they’ll believe? The Chairman’s beautiful, traumatized wife? Or the disgruntled, recently-humiliated junior architect known for his temper? You’ll fall. And you’ll fall forever."
The truth of it was a vice crushing Yoongi’s chest.
It wasn't just possible; it was inevitable.
Jae Ha’s power, his obsessive protectiveness over Jimin – it was a weapon she wielded with chilling precision.
Denial was suicide.
Resistance was a trap.
The stark, brutal reality of his powerlessness washed over him, cold and suffocating.
He had no moves.
No escape.
Only destruction or… compliance.
Helplessness choked him.
A wave of nauseating despair rose in his throat.
He looked down at her, sprawled on the floor, looking up at him with those predator's eyes, radiating triumph and contempt.
The drafting lamp cast deep shadows on her face, highlighting the cruel set of her mouth.
He didn't speak.
Words were useless.
With a sound that was half groan, half surrender, he dropped to his knees on the thin carpet beside her.
His movements were stiff, mechanical, driven by terror and a searing self-loathing.
There was no tenderness, no hesitation born of desire.
This was execution by other means.
He didn't kiss her.
He didn't touch her face.
His hands, trembling violently now, went to the clasp of her high-waisted trousers. His fingers fumbled, clumsy with panic and revulsion.
The button popped open.
The zipper rasped down.
He yanked the trousers and the scrap of silk beneath them down her hips in one brutal motion, exposing her.
The smell of sex – Jae Ha’s sex – hit him afresh, mingling with her perfume, thick and cloying in the confined space.
He fumbled with his own belt buckle, his fingers numb.
His cock was limp, unresponsive, a traitorous piece of flesh refusing to cooperate in this nightmare.
Panic surged higher.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcing himself to remember the threat, the ruin screaming towards him.
He thought of prison bars. Of Jae Ha’s purple face contorted in murderous rage.
Of his blueprints shredded, his name synonymous with filth.
With a grunt born of pure terror, he forced himself hard.
He didn't prepare her.
Didn't care.
He grabbed her hips, digging his fingers into the soft flesh above the bruises Jae Ha had left, ignoring her sharp intake of breath.
He positioned himself and slammed forward.
She was tight, dry.
He felt her body resist, clench involuntarily around the brutal intrusion.
A choked gasp escaped her lips – pain?
Surprise?
He couldn't tell, didn't care.
He just drove deeper, forcing his way in with ruthless, punishing thrusts.
It was harsh, ugly friction.
The sound was obscene in the small office: the slick, wet drag of flesh against unyielding flesh, his ragged gasps for air, the creak of the cheap floor beneath his knees.
He fucked her with his eyes screwed shut, not seeing her face, not wanting to see the victory or the pain or whatever flickered in those dark eyes.
Each thrust was an act of self-mutilation, driven by the primal need for survival that overrode every instinct of decency.
He focused only on the brutal mechanics of it: the shove forward, the grinding pressure, the withdrawal.
Again.
And again.
Faster.
Harder.
Trying to get it over with.
Trying to bury the screaming terror beneath the physical exertion.
The taste of bile rose in his throat again, mixing with the scent of sweat and sex and betrayal thick in the air.
The only rhythm was the frantic pounding of his own heart and the harsh slap of flesh meeting flesh on the thin carpet next to the ruined blueprint.
The brutal rhythm slammed to a halt. Yoongi’s body locked rigid, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as the orgasm hit – not pleasure, but a violent, involuntary spasm of release deep inside her.
It felt less like climax and more like being forcibly emptied, a final, humiliating surrender.
He stayed frozen for a long moment, hunched over her, his forehead pressed against the rough industrial carpet beside her hip, his hands still gripping her flesh hard enough to leave fresh bruises over the old ones.
His breath came in ragged, tearing gasps that shuddered through his entire frame.
Inside her, the hot pulse of his release felt alien, a violation layered upon violation.
The wet heat seemed obscene against the harsh friction that had preceded it.
Slowly, the frantic pounding in his ears began to recede, replaced by a terrifying numbness.
A hollow vacuum where rage and terror had been. The kind of stillness that comes after a building collapses, leaving only dust and ruin.
He became aware of the sharp ache in his knees from the hard floor, the cold sweat chilling his skin despite the stifling air of the locked office, thick with the mingled stench of sex, sweat, her jasmine perfume, and Jae Ha’s sandalwood.
He could smell himself on her.
On himself.
He needed to move.
To break contact with this nightmare.
With a grunt that scraped his raw throat, Yoongi pushed himself back off her, disengaging with a slick, awful sound that made his stomach clench.
He rocked back onto his heels, his hands dropping limply to his sides.
He didn’t look at her immediately.
He couldn’t.
He stared down at his own shaking hands, stained with graphite dust from his drafting table, now looking grotesquely dirty.
He fumbled with his trousers, yanking them up over his hips, the fabric rough and uncomfortable against his spent flesh.
The zipper rasped shut, a feeble attempt at reclaiming some shred of dignity.
Only then, forcing air into his constricted lungs, did he raise his head.
She lay exactly where he’d left her on the thin carpet, sprawled next to the leg of his drafting table.
Her high-waisted trousers and underwear were still tangled around her thighs, exposing the dark triangle of pubic hair glistening wetly with his come and her own fluids.
Her cream silk blouse was rucked up above her waist, revealing the pale skin of her stomach and the livid marks blooming on her hips from his desperate grip.
The messy knot of her hair had come partially undone, dark strands plastered to her damp temples and neck.
The love bites Jae Ha had left stood out like brands against her skin.
But it was her eyes that held him frozen.
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t looking away in shame or anger.
She was staring directly at him.
Her dark gaze was unnervingly lucid, piercing through the gloom outside the drafting lamp's harsh beam.
There was no trace of tears, no residual flush of exertion or passion.
Her face was composed, almost mask-like, but her eyes… they burned with an intensity that cut through the numbness wrapping Yoongi.
It wasn't hatred.
It wasn't triumph.
It was something colder, more calculating.
An evaluation.
A predator assessing wounded prey after the kill.
Her breathing was steady now, controlled. She made no move to cover herself or push him further away.
She just lay there, exposed, vulnerable in posture but radiating an unsettling power from those dark, unwavering eyes fixed on his face.
She watched him collect himself, watched the tremor still lingering in his hands, watched the dawning horror and utter helplessness etch itself deeper onto his features as the reality of what he’d just done – what he’d been forced to do – crashed over him anew.
The silence was absolute, oppressive.
The only sounds were their mingled breathing – his still ragged, hers unnervingly even – and the faint hum of the drafting lamp above them, illuminating the scene like a crime spotlight.
Dust motes danced in its beam, settling on the ruined blueprint beneath them, on her discarded clothes, on the sheen of sweat cooling on their skin.
Her gaze didn't waver.
It held him pinned as effectively as Jae Ha’s threats.
It said, without words:
See? You are mine now too.
In a different way.
Deeper.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her lower lip, the only crack in that chilling composure.
Yoongi felt a fresh wave of nausea rise, thick and sour.
He wanted to vomit.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to grab her and shake her and demand why.
But he did nothing.
He just knelt there on the cheap carpet, feeling the cold seep up from the concrete floor beneath, trapped by the locked door, the drawn curtains, and the terrifying clarity in Jimin’s dark, unblinking eyes.
The bento box sat forgotten on the corner of his desk, the smell of teriyaki now clashing grotesquely with the stench of sex and despair.
Finally, slowly, deliberately, she moved.
Not to cover herself.
She lifted one hand, ignoring the trembling in her own fingers that mirrored his, and brushed a stray lock of damp hair back from her forehead.
Her eyes never left his face.
"Get up," she said, her voice low, perfectly level, devoid of inflection.
It wasn't a request.
It was an order issued to a subordinate who had just performed a distasteful but necessary task.
"Clean yourself."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through her gaze as she looked pointedly at the wetness glistening between her own exposed thighs.
"And remember," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper that carried terrifying weight in the silence, "who owns your silence now."
The silence stretched, thick with the stench of violation and the cold aftermath.
Yoongi remained kneeling, the cheap carpet fibers digging into his knees, his gaze locked with Jimin’s unnerving stare.
The numbness was a fragile shield, already cracking under the weight of her predatory assessment.
Then, she moved.
It wasn’t sudden.
It was deliberate, unnervingly controlled.
Ignoring her own state of undress – the trousers bunched around her thighs, the glistening mess between her legs, the bruises stark against her pale skin – she pushed herself up onto one elbow.
Her movements were fluid, almost graceful, belying the violence that had just transpired. Her dark eyes never left his face.
She reached out.
Not to cover herself.
Not to push him away.
Her hand, trembling faintly but with purpose, lifted.
Her fingers, cool despite the stifling heat of the room, brushed against the rough stubble on his cheek.
The touch was startlingly intimate, a jarring contrast to the brutality moments before.
It lingered for a heartbeat, tracing the line of his jawbone, a gesture that felt less like affection and more like… possession. Marking territory already claimed.
Yoongi flinched violently.
A raw sound escaped him, a choked gasp of revulsion.
His own hand shot up instinctively, fingers curling into a fist aimed to shove her invading touch away.
To break this horrifying contact.
But his hand froze mid-air, trembling violently inches from her wrist.
What would change?
The thought slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.
Pushing her away?
Now?
After what he’d just done?
After what she held over him?
Her words echoed in the hollow silence of his skull:
"Who owns your silence now?"
Pushing her away wouldn't erase the act. It wouldn't erase the threat.
It wouldn't un-ring the bell of her accusation, primed and ready to shatter his life.
Jae Ha’s fury wouldn't be tempered by resistance; it would be fueled by it.
Resistance now was just another form of suicide, slower, perhaps, but just as final.
Denial was impossible.
Escape was a fantasy.
His raised hand hung suspended in the air, a monument to his utter helplessness.
The fist unclenched slowly, fingers trembling. The instinct to repel warred with the crushing reality of his cage.
Survival screamed louder than dignity.
Louder than disgust.
He saw the flicker in her eyes – not surprise, but cold satisfaction.
She saw his calculation, his surrender.
Her hand, still resting lightly on his cheek, exerted the faintest pressure, guiding him forward.
Yoongi didn't move under his own power.
He felt pulled, like driftwood caught in a relentless tide.
His body obeyed the unspoken command, leaning in, closing the small distance.
His lips met hers.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't hesitant. It was a desperate, hungry devouring.
A frantic attempt to drown the screaming horror inside him in the physical sensation.
He kissed her with a ferocity born of self-loathing and terror, his mouth crushing against hers, his tongue forcing past her lips with the same brutal urgency he’d used moments before.
He tasted the salt of his own sweat, the lingering bitterness of bile, the cloying jasmine perfume, and beneath it all, the faint, metallic ghost of Jae Ha.
It was repulsive.
It was intoxicating in its sheer, destructive necessity.
He kissed her like a man trying to consume his own damnation.
And Jimin… she met him.
Not with resistance, but with a fierce, demanding hunger of her own.
Her hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss.
Her other hand found his hip, fingers digging in, nails scraping skin through the thin fabric of his trousers.
A low moan vibrated in her throat, swallowed by his mouth – not a sound of pleasure, but of raw, insatiable need. More.
She arched her body up off the floor towards him, pressing her bare torso against his clothed chest.
The heat of her skin, the dampness, the scent of sex intensified.
Her legs, still tangled in her clothes, shifted, opening wider in silent, urgent invitation.
Her grip on his neck tightened, demanding he deepen the kiss, demanding he give her everything he had left, every shred of his terror, his rage, his broken self.
Yoongi responded blindly.
His hand, the one that had hovered in futile resistance, now plunged into the messy knot of her hair, fingers tightening, pulling her head back to expose her throat, the bruises dark against her skin.
He kissed her harder, deeper, biting at her lower lip, a feral counterpoint to her demanding grasp.
His other hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers brushing the waistband of her bunched trousers before delving lower, tracing the wet heat between her thighs, finding her swollen flesh already slick again.
A choked gasp escaped her, her hips jerking against his touch.
"Again," she breathed against his mouth, the word hot and desperate.
"Now. Harder."
The command was absolute.
There was no pretense of seduction, no illusion of mutual desire.
Only the raw transaction of power and survival.
Yoongi didn't hesitate.
The numbness was gone, burned away by a frantic, self-destructive energy.
He shoved her back down onto the carpet, not gently.
His hands fumbled with his own trousers again, the zipper rasping harshly.
He didn't pause.
He positioned himself over her, ignoring her gasp, ignoring the way her body tensed momentarily at the renewed intrusion.
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt in the wet, yielding heat.
There was no tenderness.
No rhythm beyond the frantic pounding of his own pulse.
Only the harsh slap of flesh, the ragged symphony of their breathing – his desperate gasps, her sharp, bitten-off cries that sounded suspiciously like pain mixed with something darker, hungrier.
He fucked her with his eyes open this time, staring down at her face contorted beneath him, her lips parted, her eyes wide and fixed on his with that same terrifying intensity.
Her hands clawed at his back, pulling him down, urging him on, demanding he obliterate everything – the shame, the fear, the crushing weight of his own ruin – in the violent, meaningless friction.
The drafting lamp cast their writhing shadows large and grotesque against the closed curtains, a silent, obscene puppet show in the locked, airless tomb of his office.
The bento box sat untouched, a mocking monument to the mundane horror they had left far behind.
· · ─ ·❀· ─ · ·
The silence after Jimin left wasn't empty; it was a physical weight pressing down on Yoongi’s lungs, thick with the stench of their coupling—sweat, sex, jasmine, and the bitter tang of his own fear.
He sat slumped in the ruined cave of his drafting chair, vinyl creaking like old bones. The curtains were still drawn tight against the dying light, turning the room into a grimy terrarium lit only by the green glow of his desk clock: 6:47 PM. Five o’clock had bled out on the carpet hours ago.
He fumbled for his cigarettes with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
The cheap plastic lighter sparked once, twice, finally catching.
He sucked the flame into the tobacco, the first drag hitting his lungs like broken glass. It didn’t calm shit.
Smoke coiled in the stale air, a grey ghost trying and failing to smother the other smells – her smell, clinging to his skin, his clothes, the back of his throat.
His lips burned.
Not pleasantly.
A raw, abraded throb where her teeth had scraped, where his own desperation had mashed them against hers in that final, hateful kiss before she’d slipped out, silent as a predator leaving a kill.
He dropped his head into his hands, fingers clawing into his scalp.
Greasy hair, damp with sweat that wasn’t just exertion. It was the cold sweat of pure fucking terror.
How?
The question was a dull axe blow against his skull.
How did he end up here?
Kneeling on industrial carpet grit, rutting into Jae Ha’s wife like an animal?
He hadn’t meant any of this.
That first touch in the conference room – smoothing her skirt?
A reflex, stupid politeness.
He’d have sooner tongued a live wire than deliberately touch her if he’d known the price.
Known it would lead to her cornering him here, that sly, poisonous smile, the whispered threat that wasn’t a whisper at all but a knife held to his throat:
"Tell him I forced myself on you. See who he believes."
The memory of her voice, cool and certain, sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him.
She’d known.
From the fucking start, she’d known exactly how this would play out.
And now?
Now he was well and truly fucked.
Trapped in a vise tighter than anything Osaka Heavy Industries could engineer.
One word from her, one tearful accusation delivered to her vengeful husband, and Yoongi wasn’t just out of a job.
He was looking at ruin.
Criminal charges. Jae Ha had judges in his pocket thicker than the Osaka proposal folder still lying discarded on the desk corner.
Yoongi glanced at it.
The pristine cover was smudged now.
Dust?
Or had he knocked it onto the floor during… it?
A symbol of his professional life, trampled just like everything else.
Frustration ignited in his gut, a white-hot coal burning through the numbness. Nothing.
Not a single goddamn thing was going right.
Not this shitty project he’d poured months into, only to have Jae Ha eviscerate him over a decimal point in front of the whole team.
Not this soul-crushing job that felt less like a career path and more like indentured servitude to a capricious, purple-faced tyrant. And certainly not… this.
The ultimate clusterfuck.
He hadn't just stepped in it; he'd drowned in a septic tank of his own making, dragged under by Jimin's deceptively soft hands.
He took another savage drag, the ember flaring bright in the gloom.
The smoke tasted like ash and failure.
His knuckles ached.
Had he gripped her that hard?
Or had he punched the floor?
He couldn't remember.
It was all a blurred nightmare of heat and pressure and that terrifying gleam in her eyes – not pleasure, but ownership.
He looked down at himself. His shirt hung open, buttons missing, revealing a red scratch raked diagonally across his collarbone.
Her doing?
Or had he caught it on the desk corner?
His tie was a twisted noose.
The knees of his trousers were dark and embedded with carpet fibers, miniature tombstones marking where he’d knelt.
A shudder ran through him, violent and uncontrollable.
He dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, grinding it out with unnecessary force.
The office felt contaminated.
The air itself felt thick with the residue of what happened here.
He needed out.
Needed to move.
Needed to do something besides sit in this stinking tomb of his own ruin.
His eyes snapped back to the Osaka folder.
Fix it. Jae Ha's final, spit-flecked roar echoed. Fix it by five.
It was nearly seven.
But maybe… maybe… if he could just get the revised figures to Jae Ha now, grovel effectively enough… maybe it could be a tiny piece of leverage.
A pathetic shield against the nuclear winter Jimin could unleash.
It was a threadbare hope, but it was the only one he had.
He pushed himself up from the chair, his body protesting – muscles stiff, joints aching dully from the strain, from the unnatural positions, from the sheer fucking weight of it all.
He yanked at his ruined shirt, trying to tuck it in, fumbling with buttons that weren't there.
He straightened his tie into a semblance of order, a pathetic attempt at normalcy.
He snatched up the Osaka folder. It felt heavier than before.
Tainted.
Like everything else in this room.
The thick silence pressed in, thick with the ghosts of what just happened – the phantom ache in his hips, the raw sting on his lips, the cloying jasmine and sex smell that seemed baked into the fucking walls.
Yoongi stood by the door, Osaka folder clenched like a shield in his trembling hand.
His office felt like a crime scene he couldn’t escape.
The urge to bolt was primal, but something rooted him there – the gnawing dread that Jae Ha’s wrath tomorrow would be infinitely worse if he showed up empty-handed.
He looked down at the manila folder.
Dust smudged the cover near the bottom edge.
Grit from the carpet?
Or… worse?
A cold sweat prickled across his neck.
He couldn’t hand this over looking like it had been through a war zone.
Not on top of everything else.
Driven by a sudden, desperate need for control – any control – he pivoted sharply, abandoning the door and striding back to his desk.
The cheap vinyl chair groaned as he shoved it aside.
He slammed the folder onto the scarred wood surface, its impact echoing dully in the small room.
His fingers fumbled at the flap, peeling it open with jerky movements.
Inside… order.
Crisp white paper.
Neat columns of figures.
Complex load calculations scrawled in his own precise, angular handwriting.
The final summary sheet – the one Jae Ha had demanded fixed by five – sat on top. Revised.
Completed.
Signed off.
Yoongi stared.
A sound escaped him – not quite a laugh, more like a choked gasp of disbelief.
It scraped his raw throat.
Finished.
He’d actually finished the goddamn revisions.
When?
During the blur of panicked focus before Jimin showed up?
Before she’d turned his office into a trap and his life into a smoking crater?
It felt absurd.
Cruel, even.
The universe dangling competence in his face while simultaneously shoving his head into the toilet.
A hysterical bubble of something – relief?
Madness? – rose in his chest.
He hated this job, despised Jae Ha, and now he was clinging to this stupid folder like a lifeline because the rent was due and prison cells were notoriously bad for paying bills.
He snapped the folder shut.
The cover still looked grubby.
Evidence.
He scanned the chaotic desk.
Drafting tools, half-empty coffee mugs, crumpled scraps of paper… and a box of sterile, individually wrapped alcohol wipes he kept for cleaning lenses or smudges off blueprints.
He ripped one open.
The sharp, medicinal scent of isopropyl alcohol cut through the miasma of sex and smoke like a scalpel.
He scrubbed at the folder’s cover with frantic, circular motions.
The cheap cardboard soaked up the liquid, turning darker, but the grime lifted.
Dust.
Mostly dust.
He flipped it over, scrubbing the back, the edges.
He buffed it dry with the clean side of the wipe, then another, until the manila surface was smooth, unblemished.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Like it hadn’t been lying discarded on the floor while he was being blackmailed into oblivion.
He ran his thumb over the clean cover.
A grim, exhausted smile twisted his lips.
Luck?
More like the universe’s sick punchline.
He hugged the folder briefly against his chest, the rigid edges pressing into his sternum.
A pathetic anchor in the shitstorm.
One deep breath.
The air tasted foul.
Time to move.
He grabbed his battered leather briefcase from beside the desk, shoved the pristine Osaka folder inside, and snapped the clasps shut.
He didn’t bother with his jacket, still draped over the ruined chair.
He just needed out.
Now.
His hand was on the doorknob when his gaze snagged on it.
Sitting primly on the corner of his desk, untouched:
Jimin’s goddamn lunch box.
The pretty floral pattern mocked him.
The source of this entire nightmare.
The container of poison disguised as a bento.
Revulsion, cold and sharp, washed over him.
He couldn’t leave it here.
Couldn’t have it found in his office.
Proof.
Without a second thought, he snatched it up.
The ceramic was cool, impersonal.
He didn’t look inside.
He didn’t want to know what culinary landmine she’d brought today.
He just clutched the damn thing in his free hand like radioactive waste and yanked open his office door.
The hallway was a tomb.
Pitch-dark except for the weak emergency exit signs casting long, skeletal green glows at distant intervals.
His footsteps echoed monstrously loud on the linoleum as he hurried towards the executive wing.
No need for stealth; the place was deserted.
The oppressive silence pressed in, amplifying the frantic thud of his own heart.
Jae Ha’s heavy oak door loomed.
Yoongi didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t knock.
Didn’t fumble for the light switch.
He just turned the cold brass knob – unlocked, as before – and pushed.
The thick door swung open onto absolute darkness.
He stepped inside just far enough to see the looming shape of the massive desk in the gloom.
He strode to it, dumped the Osaka folder squarely in the center of the polished mahogany surface – a silent offering to the absent god of his destruction – turned on his heel, and walked straight back out, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft but definitive click.
Done.
Professional obligation fulfilled.
Now for the other piece of evidence.
He retraced his steps through the dark maze of cubicles and corridors, clutching the lunch box.
His own office door was still ajar.
He ducked in only long enough to grab his keys from the desk drawer, then slammed it shut behind him, locking it with a decisive turn.
He wouldn’t be coming back tonight.
Maybe ever.
The main entrance foyer was marginally brighter, lit by the sickly yellow glow of streetlights filtering through the glass doors. The security desk sat just inside, a fortress of monitors and clipboards.
Old Man Park, the night guard, was slumped in his swivel chair, bathed in the harsh blue-white light of his smartphone screen. Some noisy game blared tinny sounds into the quiet – gunfire or explosions. Park didn’t look up.
His wrinkled face was slack, mesmerized by the digital carnage.
Yoongi moved like a shadow across the marble floor.
He didn’t slow.
Didn’t make eye contact.
He reached the security desk.
Park remained oblivious, thumbs jabbing furiously at the screen.
Without breaking stride, Yoongi set the floral lunch box down on the edge of the worn laminate countertop, right beside a half-empty Styrofoam cup of cold tea.
He placed it deliberately, firmly.
Park startled slightly at the soft thump, his eyes flicking up from the screen for a fraction of a second.
He registered Yoongi’s presence with bleary disinterest, then his gaze dropped back to his phone.
"Working late, Min-ssi?" he mumbled, the words slurred with distraction.
His thumbs kept moving.
Yoongi didn’t answer.
He didn’t even look at the guard.
He just kept walking, pushing through the heavy glass doors out into the damp, diesel-scented chill of the city night.
He didn’t look back at the building.
He didn’t look back at the lunch box sitting on the guard’s desk.
He just hunched his shoulders against the cold wind cutting through his thin, disheveled shirt, and walked faster, disappearing into the indifferent flow of pedestrian traffic, the sterile smell of the alcohol wipe still faint on his fingers, the phantom taste of jasmine and violation thick on his tongue.
The pristine Osaka folder sat alone in Jae Ha’s dark office.
The poisoned bento sat ignored on the guard’s desk.
And Yoongi walked, carrying nothing but the crushing weight of what he’d done.