Chapter 107: The Architect’s Bloodline

 

The storm broke over the city at midnight, thunder raking across the rooftops like claws on skin, lightning illuminating the skyline with savage grace. It wasn’t just a storm—it was a premonition, one soaked in something darker than water. In the heart of the Kim syndicate’s high-rise headquarters, silence reigned—thick, tense, waiting.

 

Jungkook stood before the window, watching the city bleed neon through rain. His reflection was faint in the glass, but his presence was sharp. No longer the boy in chains, no longer just Koo the artist, no longer just the mafia king reborn—he was all of it. He was becoming.

 

Behind him, V lounged on the edge of the king-sized bed, a thick leather folder in hand, flipping through surveillance photos and old contact files. Taehyung leaned against the frame, barefoot, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he stared at a name on the digital tablet in his hand.

 

Han Jae-seok.

 

A name Taehyung hadn’t spoken in a decade.

 

“You trained under him,” V said at last, voice low but sharp. “He was your mentor before Father took him out of the line.”

 

“He wasn’t just a mentor,” Taehyung muttered, eyes burning. “He was a strategist. A killer. And a traitor.”

 

Jungkook turned, moving slowly toward them, wet lashes blinking as lightning cast silver light across his bare chest.

 

“Is he the one sending messages?” he asked, tone devoid of fear.

 

“No.” Taehyung looked up. “But his son is.”

 

Silence fell.

 

Then V stood, folder snapping shut in his hand.

 

“Jae-seok had a son?”

 

“Secretly. Raised outside the country. But trained in the same shadows. The messages we’ve been receiving—the encrypted symbols in the warehouse, the bodies left arranged like art—those aren’t just threats. They’re invitations. He wants us to come find him.”

 

Jungkook stepped closer, until he was between both twins, his fingers finding the hem of Taehyung’s shirt, gently tugging at it.

 

“Then let’s accept.”

 

The next evening, the three of them arrived at the underground gallery in the heart of Busan. It wasn’t listed on any registry, hidden behind a ramen shop, accessible only through a coded elevator. It wasn’t really a gallery.

 

It was a museum of death.

 

As the elevator doors slid open, the floor beneath their feet changed from steel to glass. Below them, bones lay encased—some animal, some human. Sculptures made of rusted blades and shattered porcelain lined the walls. It was grotesque. But beautifully designed.

 

And in the center of the room stood a single pedestal.

 

Upon it: a sculpture.

 

It was Jungkook.

 

Or rather—a twisted, hollow interpretation of him. Life-size, cast in dark wax, bound in chains, with a metal flower blooming from his chest.

 

The plaque at its base read:

“A Caged Creation. Dedicated to the King Who Forgot His Crown.”

 

V’s hands clenched at his sides.

 

Taehyung’s jaw locked.

 

Jungkook stared in silence.

 

Then he spoke, voice deathly soft. “He was there. He watched. He knew everything that happened in that place. The bruises… the painting… the silence…”

 

A man stepped from the shadows behind the sculpture.

 

He was tall. Impossibly still. Dressed in a three-piece suit, silver cufflinks glinting like fangs.

 

“Kim Jungkook,” he said, bowing slightly. “My father called you a masterpiece. He never told me that his favorite muse would one day come looking for him.”

 

“Are you his son?” Jungkook asked.

 

The man smiled.

 

“My name is Jiheon. I am the last piece of the Architect’s bloodline.”

 

Jungkook stepped forward.

 

The twins didn’t stop him.

 

Jiheon continued, “I’ve waited ten years to meet you. You see, while my father was torturing you, I was watching. Learning. Every scar he carved into your skin, he recited to me like poetry. I grew up on your pain, Jungkook. It shaped me.”

 

Jungkook’s voice was a razor’s edge. “Then let me shape you in return.”

 

In a blur, Jiheon pulled out a switchblade.

 

In another breath, V’s gun was drawn, cocked, and aimed at Jiheon’s temple.

 

But the man didn’t flinch.

 

“I’m not here to kill you,” Jiheon said, stepping back with eerie calm. “I want to invite you. There’s a bigger gallery opening next week. One no one has seen in fifteen years. It will showcase every piece my father ever made… and the finale will be you.”

 

Taehyung lunged—but Jiheon was already gone, back through the hidden door, sealed with a hiss.

 

Later that night, back at the compound, the air was thick with storm and bloodlust.

 

The three didn’t speak much—until Jungkook stepped into the shower, water cascading down his inked skin, and the twins followed without hesitation.

 

Taehyung pressed him against the glass, lips trailing up his neck. “He touched what was ours. Years ago. We’ll erase it.”

 

V kissed his spine, hands anchoring Jungkook’s hips. “He thinks he knows you. He doesn’t know the part of you that breaks steel with his eyes.”

 

Jungkook turned in the water, droplets clinging to their faces. “Then show me. Remind me what’s mine.”

 

It wasn’t violent.

 

It was deliberate.

 

Hands mapping over faded scars. Kisses pressed to every place that had once hurt. Jungkook stood between them, worshiped in heat and steam, as they reminded him not just of love, but of belonging.

 

When he came undone, it was with their names on his lips.

 

Not as rulers.

 

Not as kings.

 

But as his.

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