The silence in Jeon Jungkook's penthouse in the heart of Gangnam was not merely quiet it was suffocating, absolute, a living entity that pressed against the walls and clawed at the air.

Three sprawling floors of obsidian luxury rose above the glittering Seoul skyline, yet tonight it felt like a tomb carved from shadows.

The penthouse was designed with a dark aesthetic that mirrored the man who owned it: sleek black marble floors that swallowed every footstep, walls painted in deep charcoal and midnight graphite, accented only by the cold gleam of chrome fixtures and the occasional blood-red velvet throw that looked more like a wound than decoration.

Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in heavy black-out curtains blocked out the world, but tonight one set had been left parted just enough for moonlight to slice through like a silver blade.

The first floor housed the cavernous living area minimalist leather sofas the color of storm clouds, a grand piano that no one had touched in months, and a kitchen of stainless steel that gleamed like surgical instruments under recessed lighting.

The second floor was Jungkook's domain: his studio, gym, and private cinema, all bathed in the same relentless darkness.

The third floor, the most isolated, held the master suites. And it was here, in the farthest corridor, that the quiet became unbearable. Not a single sound from the city below penetrated the triple-glazed glass.

The only noise that dared exist was the occasional plink of a single drop of water falling from the faucet in the unused guest bathroom three doors down. It echoed through the marble halls like a heartbeat that refused to die slow, deliberate, mocking.

Jungkook moved through those corridors like a ghost in his own home. His bare feet made almost no sound against the cold stone, yet each step felt weighted with deliberation.

He was dressed in simple black sweats and a matching hoodie, the hood pulled low over his raven hair, but even in the dimness his tattoos peeked out ink that told stories he would never share with the world.

His idol life stages, cameras, screaming fans felt a million miles away right now. All that existed was this hallway, this door, and the woman behind it.

He had walked this exact path countless times in the last few months. Every night, every dawn, every hour when guilt and rage twisted inside him like barbed wire. He hated her. God, how he hated her. Yet he kept coming back.

His hand hovered over the matte-black door handle, fingers trembling just slightly not from fear, but from the storm of emotions he refused to name.

He drew in a slow breath, the air tasting of nothing, and turned the knob. The door opened without a creak, as if even the hinges feared disturbing the stillness.

Her master bedroom had once been a softer world.

Jungkook remembered the day the decorators finished it creamy ivory walls, blush-pink accents, plush cream carpets that felt like walking on clouds, and a four-poster bed draped in silk that caught the sunlight like honey.

She had laughed then, spinning in the center of the room, arms wide, calling it her "little piece of heaven." That laughter was gone now.

The room had been stripped bare and repainted in the same dark palette as the rest of the penthouse: walls the color of midnight, heavy velvet drapes the shade of dried blood, furniture reduced to a single king-sized bed with black sheets and a single nightstand.

The carpet had been torn up, leaving only the icy marble floor.

It was night now, deep into the small hours, and the only light came from the massive arched window that opened onto the private balcony overlooking the Han River.

Moonlight spilled in like liquid silver, cold and indifferent, painting everything in ghostly hues.

And there she was.

Y/n lay on the floor in the exact center of the room, curled on her side like a broken doll someone had discarded.

Her once lustrous hair now dull and tangled spilled across the marble like spilled ink.

She wore nothing but an oversized black shirt that had once been his; it hung off her frail frame, exposing the pale skin of her legs.

Old blade cuts marred her arms, her thighs, even faint silvery lines across her collarbones scars from months ago when the pain inside her had grown too loud to bear.

She had taken a razor to herself again and again, not to end it all in one go, but to bleed out the agony she could never voice.

Because he had never given her answers. Because every time she begged, he had only offered silence or cruelty.

She looked lifeless. A fool caught in limbo. Moonlight flickered across her pale, translucent face, catching on the hollows of her cheeks, the sharp jut of her jaw, the faint blue veins beneath her skin.

Even ruined, she was heartbreakingly beautiful ethereal in a way that made Jungkook's chest tighten with something dangerously close to regret. But she was thinner now, dangerously so.

Her collarbones stood out like knife edges; her wrists looked delicate enough to snap with a single touch.

He had seen the food tray left by the maid outside the door earlier steaming soup, fresh fruit, rice that had long gone cold and untouched. She hadn't eaten in days.

Again.

Jungkook scanned her slowly, his dark eyes drinking in every detail. She had become even thinner than the last time he checked on her.

Her breathing was shallow, barely lifting her chest. When he had entered, she hadn't registered him at all. Not a twitch, not a glance.

It was as if his presence was invisible, as if he were nothing more than another shadow in this tomb of a room.

She looked exhausted in a way no sleep could fix soul deep weariness that had hollowed her out until only a shell remained.

Her eyes, once warm and full of quiet hope, now held nothing.

Months of crying had dried them up; months of begging for answers "Why are you so cruel to me, Jungkook? Why did you marry me if you hate me this much?"had left them vacant.

No sadness, no warmth, no spark. Just an energy-less woman suspended between life and death, floating in the cold moonlight like a ghost who hadn't yet realized she was gone.

The silence stretched. The single drop of water somewhere in the penthouse fell again plink and Jungkook felt it in his bones.

He took one step closer, testing the water. His shadow fell across her body.

She didn't flinch. Didn't shift her posture. Not even a flicker of recognition crossed her face.

He took another step, boots silent on the marble. Still nothing.

The woman he had married, the woman he had systematically broken, lay there as if the world had already ended for her.

Jungkook crouched slowly in front of her, knees hitting the cold floor. Up close, the scars on her arms looked even more brutal jagged, faded pink lines overlapping older ones.

Some were fresh enough that faint scabs still clung. He could smell the faint metallic tang of old blood mixed with the sterile scent of the room.

Her lips were cracked, colorless. Her breathing was so faint he had to lean in to hear it.

"Maid," he called softly, voice low but carrying through the open door into the hallway. The word echoed.

A moment later, one of the night-shift maids appeared at the threshold, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She had clearly been listening. "Bring a hot new tray. Soup, rice, anything warm. Now. And fresh water."

The maid nodded frantically, bowing before disappearing. Jungkook heard her footsteps hurry away, and then the soft, muffled sound of crying from the corridor two maids, whispering through tears.

"She was so lively... even when she was hurting, she smiled at us. She thanked us for every little thing. Loved everyone. And now... look at her. Like a flower someone stepped on."

Jungkook ignored them. He reached down, sliding one arm under Y/n's knees and the other behind her back. She weighed almost nothing light as air, fragile as glass.

He lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest. Her head lolled against his shoulder, hair brushing his jaw. She didn't resist. Didn't cling.

Just hung limp in his arms like a rag doll. He carried her to the bed and set her down gently on the black sheets, arranging her limbs so she wouldn't slip off. The mattress dipped under her slight weight.

No matter how cruel he had been no matter how much venom he carried in his heart for her he would not let her die easily. Not yet. She was his. Ruined by his hands, but still his.

He stood and crossed to the en-suite bathroom, returning moments later with the medical box he had restocked just two days ago. Inside were fresh gauze, antiseptic, bandages, ointment everything he had hoped he wouldn't need again.

He knelt beside the bed now, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt carefully to expose the worst of the cuts on her arms and thighs. The moonlight painted her skin silver, making the scars look almost beautiful in their tragedy.

"You keep doing this to yourself," he murmured, voice quiet but steady as he dabbed antiseptic on the deepest cut. "Every time I think you've hit bottom, you find a new way to bleed. Why? Because I won't give you the answers you want?" He cleaned the wound with precise, almost gentle movements, his idol-trained hands surprisingly steady.

"You begged me for months. Cried in my arms, on your knees, in this very room. And I gave you nothing but silence and pain. I know." She stared straight past him, eyes fixed on the moonlight streaming through the window. Not once in the last three days since she had locked herself in here and collapsed onto the cold floor had she looked at him.

Not when he brought her water. Not when he sat beside her for hours. Only the moon held her gaze now. The maid returned silently, placing a steaming tray on the nightstand hot miso soup, soft rice porridge, sliced fruit, warm bread.

She lingered for a second, eyes filling with fresh tears as she looked at Y/n's lifeless form, then backed out, closing the door with a soft click. Outside, the muffled crying continued.

Jungkook picked up the spoon, dipping it into the soup. The steam rose in delicate curls. He brought it to Y/n's lips. "Eat," he said softly. "You haven't had a single meal in three days. Your body is shutting down. I won't allow it."

No reaction. Her lips didn't part. She didn't even blink. The soup cooled on the spoon as he held it there.

He tried again, voice firmer. "Y/n. Open your mouth. Just a little."

Still nothing. The spoon trembled slightly in his hand not from weakness, but from the storm inside him. He set the spoon down, then reached up and gently but firmly turned her face toward him with two fingers under her chin.

Her skin was ice-cold. She looked straight through him, eyes glassy, unfocused, as if he were made of glass. As if he didn't exist.

"Look at me," he whispered, thumb brushing her cheek. "You want to know why I hate you? Why I married you? Don't you, baby?" No reaction. Her gaze remained distant, locked somewhere far beyond him.

He leaned closer, breath ghosting across her lips. "I can tell you the truth. The real reason I made you suffer every single day since the wedding. Why I tore your world apart piece by piece. But first... look at me. Or give me any sign...any tiny sign...that you are still here. That you can hear me."

The silence stretched again. The drop of water fell somewhere in the distance plink. Moonlight shifted across her face. Then, finally, something. A feather-light hint. The tiniest flutter of her lashes.

A barely-there twitch in her fingers against the sheet. It was nothing more than a ghost of movement, but it was there. She had registered him. Just enough.

Jungkook's voice dropped to a raw whisper, dark and heavy with centuries of unspoken pain.

"I did this cause in my past life you stole everything from me, everything even love of my life also"