Chapter 100: Ashes and Answers

 

The painting was ash before it even hit the ground.

 

Ripped cleanly, jagged down the center like the symbolic severing of every tether Jungkook had once bowed under, it fell with the weight of a thousand unspoken memories—his skin, his fear, his forced silence, all unraveling before a room full of ghosts dressed in designer suits.

 

He didn’t flinch.

 

Even as the sharp tang of burned canvas wafted in the air. Even as murmurs began to rise from the wealthy, the elite, the so-called collectors who had come to bid not on art—but on him.

 

Taehyung’s hand rested subtly on the small of his back. V stood a breath away from his side, his fingers twitching at the cuff of his coat as if restraining a darker instinct. Neither twin moved until Jungkook did—because this stage belonged to him now.

 

And he stepped forward again, slowly.

 

Voice low.

 

“I hope you enjoyed the show,” Jungkook said, eyes sweeping over the audience like a silent reckoning. “Because there won’t be another.”

 

He paused.

 

And smiled.

 

It wasn’t innocent.

 

It wasn’t soft.

 

It was the kind of smile that promised war.

 

—

 

They left without resistance.

 

V’s contacts had already locked down the exits, rendering any authority in the room obsolete. The guards melted into the background. The audience remained seated, stunned and unwilling to be the first to breathe too loudly.

 

By the time the black sedan rolled away from the underground theater, Jungkook had gone quiet.

 

He sat between them in the back seat, fingers tangled in Taehyung’s, head resting against V’s shoulder. Neither twin spoke. There was no need to ask if he was okay—they already knew the answer would be layered.

 

“I remember now,” Jungkook finally murmured, voice barely audible over the purr of the engine. “That painting. I… I drew it after my last solo gallery. The night my parents locked me in the studio. They told me to give them something raw—something sellable.”

 

His voice cracked but he didn’t stop.

 

“They called it art. Said pain sells better than prettiness. So I painted pain. I painted what it felt like to be theirs.”

 

V exhaled slowly through his nose, the only sign of his building fury.

 

Taehyung, however, turned fully toward Jungkook, gently cupping the back of his head. “You don’t owe them anything anymore,” he said. “Not your memories. Not your body. Not your pain.”

 

Jungkook looked up at them, eyes glassy.

 

“Then why does it still hurt?”

 

Taehyung kissed his forehead, right where the worry lines lingered.

 

“Because it mattered. But now we make something new.”

 

—

 

Back at the mansion, they burned the remains.

 

Taehyung held Jungkook’s hand as they stood in the garden, watching the canvas curl and twist inside the stone firepit. The night air was cold but Jungkook didn’t shiver—V had wrapped a thick blanket around him and stood behind, arms encircling his waist from the back, chin on his shoulder.

 

The flames danced higher.

 

Ashes floated.

 

And Jungkook closed his eyes.

 

Letting go.

 

Until—

 

A buzz.

 

V’s phone lit up, casting a glow across their faces.

 

It was a name neither twin expected to see again.

 

Yohan Park.

 

A high-level broker from the Seoul underground—reclusive, powerful, and deeply tied to Jungkook’s lost years. A man rumored to trade not just in art, but in identities.

 

V tapped the screen. Speakerphone.

 

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” Yohan’s voice drawled through the speaker. “Then again, when your little prince tears apart a five-million-dollar painting in front of half the Syndicate, it gets people talking.”

 

Jungkook stiffened.

 

Taehyung’s hand tightened around his.

 

“What do you want?” V asked coldly.

 

Yohan chuckled. “To offer a name.”

 

That silenced the wind.

 

“I know who leaked the piece. Who sent it to auction. And I know what else they took.”

 

V’s voice was low. Dangerous. “Why would you help us?”

 

“Because they double-crossed me, too. And because I like keeping the score even.” A pause. “The name is Lee Dojin. Used to work under your father. Now he’s freelancing. Still thinks he owns pieces of Koo’s soul.”

 

Jungkook’s eyes darkened.

 

Taehyung stepped forward. “Where?”

 

“He’s in Macau. Operating under a gallery front. Name’s Lumiere. Collects underground art. And blood debts.”

 

Silence again.

 

Then Jungkook whispered, “When do we leave?”

 

—

 

The jet touched down in Macau less than twenty-four hours later.

 

It was night again. The city shimmered with luxury—casinos glittering, streets humming, but beneath it all lay a pulsing tension. The kind that whispered of power plays and unspeakable deals.

 

Lumiere Gallery stood in the heart of the historic quarter.

 

Grand.

 

Minimalist.

 

Deceptively elegant.

 

Inside, it was cold and white, every wall lined with rare paintings—many unsigned, many stolen.

 

And then there was the private room in the back.

 

They found it within minutes.

 

Jungkook’s sketchbooks.

 

Originals.

 

From years ago.

 

Dozens of them.

 

Unlabeled. Catalogued.

 

Being sold.

 

His knees buckled.

 

But V was already moving.

 

Through the hall.

 

Through the hidden stairwell.

 

And there—on the top floor—

 

Stood Lee Dojin.

 

A man in his fifties, sharp smile, trimmed beard. Dressed in silk.

 

He turned when the door slammed open.

 

And stilled when he saw who entered.

 

The Kim twins flanked the doorway like wolves.

 

But Jungkook—

 

Jungkook stepped between them slowly.

 

He wasn’t trembling anymore.

 

“You took what was mine,” he said quietly.

 

Lee Dojin smiled, even then. “You always were a prodigy. But you were born to be owned.”

 

It happened fast.

 

Too fast for Taehyung or V to stop it.

 

Jungkook lunged.

 

No hesitation. No mercy.

 

He slammed the man against the marble display case, hand tightening around his collar, face close, breath burning.

 

“You don’t own me,” he hissed. “Not my hands. Not my art. Not my past.”

 

His fist crashed forward.

 

And the display shattered like glass under thunder.

 

—

 

They didn’t kill Lee Dojin.

 

Not yet.

 

But when they left the gallery, the vault had been emptied. Every sketch. Every painting. Every trace of Jungkook’s stolen legacy reclaimed, packed into steel crates and driven straight onto the jet.

 

V watched the skyline from the back of the transport vehicle.

 

Taehyung leaned his head against Jungkook’s.

 

And Jungkook—smeared with a bruise on his knuckle, eyes sharp as stars—breathed easier than he had in years.

 

It wasn’t over.

 

Not yet.

 

But for the first time in a long time—

 

He felt free.

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