Chapter 82: Whispers in Ink

 

The headlines didn’t scream.

 

They hissed.

 

It started small—an op-ed tucked beneath a politics column in one of the city’s older dailies. A piece titled “The Crown in the Gallery” published under an anonymous pen name: “V.R.” It was elegant, speculative, and filled with nearly poetic observations about the intersection of wealth, anonymity, and power in the art world.

 

But halfway down the column, one line made V freeze mid-pour over morning coffee:

 

“In the velvet of secrecy, the world’s most elusive artist walks hand in hand with danger. His silence is not innocence. His red suit was not unseen.”

 

The paper trembled slightly in V’s hands.

 

He read it again. And again.

 

Down the hall, Jungkook was curled into the cushions of the reading nook with Taehyung, humming softly as he traced his fingertip over a pop-up children’s book. He looked so small there, lips forming the shapes of stories he couldn’t quite read aloud.

 

“Daddy!” he called out, not noticing the paper clutched in V’s stiff fingers. “Dis one has dragons! Dey got wings like real real big!”

 

Taehyung laughed, brushing a hand through Jungkook’s soft hair. “That’s because they are real. But only the best boys get to ride them.”

 

“Me’s best,” Jungkook beamed, then stuck out his tongue with a grin that nearly knocked the morning sunlight out of the room.

 

V folded the paper in half.

 

Silently, he walked over and handed it to Taehyung. Their eyes met—brief, sharp, wordless.

 

Taehyung read it. His jaw clenched.

 

Jungkook blinked between them, watching something heavy pass invisibly through the air.

 

“Daddies…?” he whispered. “You sad?”

 

“No, baby,” Taehyung said quickly, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. “Just grown-up stuff.”

 

“I can help.”

 

V crouched beside him, voice low, fingers stroking his knee. “You help just by staying close, star.”

 

—

 

By midday, four copies of the article had been dissected, and a dozen more appeared across different sites.

 

Each one more precise than the last.

 

The second article referred to “a mysterious youth nestled between twins of fortune,” while the third hinted at “a childlike muse with storm in his eyes.” It described mannerisms. Outfits. Body language. Even recalled the tilt of Jungkook’s masked head from the gala.

 

The fourth had a sketch.

 

Not a photo.

 

But a charcoal drawing that looked far too close to Koo’s side profile.

 

“I’m going to burn this city,” V whispered.

 

Taehyung didn’t stop him.

 

They had taken every precaution.

 

They had kept Jungkook hidden, guarded, protected. His identity as Koo was still unlinked from his face publicly. But now… it was starting to fray.

 

“Do you think it’s someone from the gala?” Taehyung murmured.

 

V nodded. “Or someone paid to follow us. This isn’t random. It’s a leak. A slow one. Drip by drip, they’re trying to see what sticks.”

 

Taehyung crossed the room, grabbing the fireproof folder that held information from their internal surveillance team.

 

And that’s when the knock came.

 

Not a ring.

 

A knock. Barely audible. One… two… three.

 

Both brothers turned.

 

Downstairs.

 

Front entrance.

 

A moment later, a staff member radioed through their private line.

 

“There’s a courier here. No name. Says it’s urgent. No return address.”

 

V and Taehyung exchanged one look.

 

Jungkook was tucked safely upstairs in his nest of pillows and picture books. Niki was with him, reading to him gently while stroking his hair.

 

“Send it in,” Taehyung ordered.

 

The package was wrapped in brown paper, no markings except a wax seal shaped like a snake swallowing its tail.

 

Inside?

 

A velvet box.

 

And within it—

 

A single earring.

 

Blood red. Vintage. Recognizable.

 

V stared at it.

 

The twin of the one he’d lost years ago in the South Harbor massacre—the one he killed for.

 

His past was clawing back to the surface.

 

And it was sending gifts.

 

—

 

That night, V stayed beside Jungkook as he slept, arms tightly around his waist, lips against the boy’s neck, heart roaring like a silent beast. He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.

 

Taehyung sat in the library, staring at the chessboard he never finished playing, a tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him.

 

“They’re circling us,” he murmured aloud, voice hollow.

 

Outside, the winds rose. The windows rattled.

 

And across the city, at a small printing press tucked beneath an abandoned bookstore, a man in an ivory mask scrawled his next article under candlelight.

 

He dipped his pen.

 

And began to write:

 

“When power falls in love with art, the gallery becomes a battlefield.”

 

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