Chapter 109: The Final Gallery

 

The invitation came laced in venomous beauty.

 

A solid black card, embossed with molten silver calligraphy, arrived at the Kim Corporation’s private office through a security envelope no one saw delivered. It simply appeared—on V’s desk, next to Jungkook’s newest sketchbook, catching the afternoon light like it belonged in a painting.

 

The Final Gallery: Witness the Resurrection of the Shadow Prince.

Midnight. April 14th. Seoul Contemporary Arts Complex.

Formal Attire Required. No Masks.

 

It was addressed not to Jungkook.

 

Not to Koo.

 

But to all three of them.

 

Kim V. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook.

"Let the world see who bleeds first."

 

Jungkook stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window in the penthouse suite as dusk turned the city to gold, his fingers ghosting the glass, the card burning silently on the table behind him.

 

Taehyung moved quietly, placing a hand on Jungkook’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder from behind. “It’s a trap.”

 

“It’s always a trap,” V added from the couch, his legs stretched, a hand slowly rotating a crystal glass of untouched whiskey. “But this one has an audience.”

 

Jungkook nodded slowly. “He’s making it public now. This isn’t about us anymore. It’s about spectacle.”

 

“It always was,” V murmured. “A gallery soaked in war, dressed in art. He wants the world to see who the real king is.”

 

Taehyung’s arms tightened gently around Jungkook, grounding him. “Then let them see.”

 

Jungkook turned, eyes gleaming. “We give them a show they’ll never forget.”

 

April 14th. Midnight.

 

The Seoul Contemporary Arts Complex had never looked darker.

 

Outside, a line of luxury cars glinted under harsh spotlights, the press cordoned back by steel barriers and black-suited security. Cameras flashed. Whispers traveled fast through the elite crowd gathering at the entrance.

 

But inside… inside was silence.

 

Until the doors opened.

 

And the three of them stepped through.

 

Kim V led them in—obsidian suit, sharp lapel, a long onyx coat lined in blood-red silk. Taehyung mirrored him in deep navy, every detail precise, a golden pin at his collar shaped like a tiger's eye. And Jungkook—dressed in midnight velvet, loose curls falling softly over his forehead, a single pearl hanging from his ear, and ink-dark eyes that carried the storm of centuries.

 

Every head turned.

 

The crowd parted.

 

People didn’t know who Jungkook was. They still thought him a muse, a mystery. But tonight, something ancient bled through his presence. Something untouchable.

 

And no one—no one—could look away.

 

The gallery was shaped like a labyrinth.

 

Walls of glass framed with black steel. Spotlights flickered above every piece, illuminating twisted sculptures, shadow-soaked canvases, and motion-triggered installations that bloomed like wounds when approached.

 

Each painting was signed the same way.

 

J.

 

Not Koo. Not the soft, mysterious identity known only in elite circles. But J.

 

The signature of someone resurrected.

 

Every piece was designed to bleed memory—burned buildings, fractured family portraits, twisted reflections of Jungkook’s own face covered in moth wings and ash.

 

And at the center of the gallery, beneath a single, humming spotlight, was the final piece.

 

A massive installation.

 

Not canvas.

 

Not sculpture.

 

A mirrored cage.

 

Inside: Jiheon.

 

Bound.

 

Bloody.

 

Smiling.

 

Gasps rippled through the audience. A hundred cameras clicked. Phones lifted. News reporters whispered urgently into mics as the sculpture began to move.

 

Because Jiheon—breathing, real, very much alive—was on display.

 

And in his lap, was a microphone.

 

He looked up, blood trickling from his mouth, his voice crackling through the gallery speakers.

 

“Welcome,” he said. “To my confession.”

 

Chaos threatened the edges of the crowd. But security—controlled, paid, or silenced—kept the gallery locked. No one left. No one dared to move.

 

Jiheon raised his head, eyes locked on Jungkook.

 

“You want to know who the monster is?” he asked softly. “You came for a finale. Let me give you the truth.”

 

His voice turned venomous.

 

“I didn’t steal Jungkook’s life. He gave it to me. When he left the fire. When he let his mother burn. When he painted over the truth. He created me. And I—”

 

The sound of a bullet clicking into place silenced everything.

 

V stepped forward.

 

The crowd parted once more, like the ocean making way for ruin.

 

Jungkook followed behind, silent. Taehyung circled the other side of the cage like a wolf.

 

Jiheon laughed.

 

“Still a trio. Still pretending your bond makes you strong. But strength,” he spat, “is isolation. Sacrifice. Power comes from standing alone.”

 

Jungkook stepped up to the glass. His face—calm. Unshaken. Regal in its softness.

 

“You never understood the art, Jiheon,” he said, voice low but carried by the mic. “You mistook pain for mastery. Chaos for control.”

 

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the gallery, then the live cameras broadcasting across the globe.

 

“You thought exposing the scars would shame me. But you don’t know what it means to survive.”

 

Taehyung’s voice, cold and clear, cut in. “You caged yourself. Not him.”

 

And V, stepping beside Jungkook now, added, “This gallery isn’t your finale.”

 

He turned to Jungkook. “Tell them.”

 

Jungkook smiled—slow, devastating.

 

“This gallery is my debut.”

 

Jiheon didn’t scream.

 

Not as the sedatives kicked in from the injection hidden in the mirrored pedestal.

 

Not as the blackout shutters fell, cutting the cameras. Not as the emergency exits opened only for selected guests—the rest trapped behind reinforced walls, forced to witness the curated collapse of a man who thought himself untouchable.

 

The twins moved in sync, covering Jungkook, flanking him with the cold assurance of predators at rest.

 

And Jungkook, calm, regal, glowing with that rare untouchable light, stepped away from the installation and turned to face the world.

 

“Thank you,” he said into the microphone. “For witnessing truth.”

 

And then he walked out.

 

As Jiheon fell unconscious behind him—stripped, defeated, and forgotten.

 

That night, the media lost its mind.

 

Headlines screamed about the mysterious trio who unmasked a mafia art dealer, a stolen identity, a fake gallery legacy built on blood. Jungkook’s art became priceless overnight. Koo trended globally. The gallery was sealed off as a crime scene.

 

But no one could touch the three who walked out.

 

Because they owned the silence.

 

They wrote the ending.

 

And now…

 

They were free to begin again.

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