Chapter 6 || "Professor Kim: A victim. A Survivor. A Saint." || BOOK 2 OF PHOENIX IN HIS ARMS.
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It was nearing midnight. The grand Kim Mansion lay
cloaked in darkness, its towering structure veiled in stillness under the
moon’s gaze. Most of the household was deep in slumber, shadows playing gently
along the wide corridors and high ceilings, as only the dim golden sconces lit
corners of the mansion like a breath held in quiet reverence.
The air was calm. Peaceful.
But somewhere on the third floor, behind a slightly ajar
study room door, a pair of sharp eyes gleamed beneath the soft light of a desk
lamp. A figure sat unmoving at his mahogany desk, posture straight, expression
unreadable—save for the single twitch of his jaw every now and then.
Kim Taehyung was not asleep.
He never could sleep—not without his bunny nestled in his arms.
And tonight, that bunny was missing.
His phone screen flickered as a soft voice filtered through
the line, “I conformed it with the picture you send me. Its Jungkook for sure.”
Taehyung’s lips curved—not in relief, but in something
darker. Something knowing.
“He told everyone this morning that he was going to his
friends’ house for a sleepover. So what is he doing at the mansion at midnight?”
Taehyung's voice was low, smooth, but every syllable laced with something
dangerous. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as if he could already
see the brat sneaking in through the shadows.
He sighed, setting his pen down.
“I’m trusting you with him,” he said quietly. “Stay until he
either enters his friend’s house or returns here. He should not even get a scratch
or else…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight behind it made the
other end of the call go silent.
He ended the call, setting the phone down with a soft clink.
His expression was unreadable, but the way his fingers tapped the armrest said
everything.
“You dared do something you weren’t allowed to, baby brat,”
he murmured to himself, eyes glinting with amusement and warning. “You’ll get a
good lesson for that. If not for someone recognizing you… you would’ve hidden
it from me, wouldn’t you?”
A slow, wolfish smirk curved his lips.
Then, he turned back to his work—on the surface, calm and
composed, but the room seemed to grow colder, darker, as if responding to the
shift in his mood.
Just a few hours later, the peaceful stillness was
shattered.
The front doors of the Kim Mansion creaked open, and a
bundle of oversized clothing and messy hair stumbled inside with a whiny voice
that echoed through the marble entryway.
“Hyungiiiiiiiii—” came the long, drawn-out cry, and a
dramatic thump followed as Jungkook—dressed in an overlong jacket that
nearly swallowed him whole—tripped over his own feet and collapsed straight
onto the floor.
His lips were pursed into a deep pout, one eye squinting
accusingly at the ground as he remained sprawled out like a wronged kitten.
“You…” he whispered, pointing a finger at the floor beneath
him. “You did this, bad floor. Very bad floor. You tripped me. You—hurt
me!”
With the melodrama of a Shakespearean actor, Jungkook
smacked his tiny palm against the cold marble—once, twice, thrice—each
time more pitiful than the last. But the marble, as cold and unfeeling as his
husband’s punishments, did not budge.
“Ow!!” he yelped, looking down at his reddened hands in
betrayal. “Y-you… You hit me back?! How dare you! You hit Kookie? Kookie
is a baby! You bad floor!”
Tears pooled in the corners of his big doe eyes, and with a
dramatic sniffle, he began to wail softly while rubbing his stinging hands,
still lying there like a fallen prince.
“Imma tell Hyungie. He’ll scold you. He’ll beat you,”
he mumbled with a pout, rocking slightly in place as he wiped his eyes with the
sleeves of his jacket. “You don’t know who my hyungie is. He’s a professor! A big
scary one. He’ll pull your ear, bad floor.”
After a moment of theatrical mourning and whispered threats,
Jungkook gathered his strength and rose—well, more like wobbled—on
unsteady legs, sniffling and muttering curses under his breath.
But fate wasn’t done with him yet.
Just as he turned toward the hallway, arms swinging lazily
and vision slightly blurred, his forehead slammed directly into one of
the thick white pillars lining the entrance.
A soft thud, followed by a loud “Aaaah!”
And there he was again—on the floor, this time holding his
forehead dramatically while glaring up at the unmoving marble structure as if
it had declared war.
“YOU—” he pointed again, staggering to his feet with sheer
righteous fury. “You bad man! Standing in the middle of the house like
you own it. You think you’re some big boss or what?! HUH?! You made me fall!
You hit my butt!”
He rubbed his backside with an exaggerated pout, tears ready
to fall again.
“You didn’t even say sorry! RUDE!” He sniffled and scolded
the pillar, completely unaware of how ridiculous he looked. “Move aside or I’ll
tell Hyungie. My hyungie will scold you for hurting his baby. He will!
He’s scary and very smart and… he’ll… he’ll—he’ll pull your ears so hard,
you’ll cry. Just wait.”
When, unsurprisingly, the pillar did not respond, Jungkook
stomped his foot like an indignant child, arms flailing, face puffed in
outrage.
“I’m going to COMPLAIN!” he declared, stomping off in a
zig-zag line, still muttering under his breath. “Bad floor… bad pillar… whole
house ganged up on me… I’m the baby… this is abuse… I need cuddles, not
marbles…”
And with that, the house returned to silence, save for the
soft pat-pat of Jungkook’s socks as he wobbled down the corridor, unaware that
a certain pair of dark eyes were already waiting in his private home office—silent, amused, and already planning exactly how to punish
the lying brat.
.
.
.
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