Chapter 95: The Heir in Silk

 

The pendant lay in V’s palm like a whisper of war, deceptively delicate for what it meant. A blade wrapped in the curve of a silver orchid—it was artistry, yes. But beneath its gleam, it throbbed with generations of blood.

 

Jungkook's voice barely carried across the soft rumple of sheets, but it might as well have been thunder in the quiet bedroom.

 

“My parents named me Jeon Jeongguk,” he said, lips forming the syllables like a memory. “But to them, I was always Koo. Their sweet little artist. Their puppet. Their... weapon.”

 

Taehyung leaned back slightly, drawing Jungkook into his lap as V remained sitting, his posture stiff, the pendant still between his fingers. Jungkook didn’t resist. He curled into the warmth of his Dada’s robe like he always did, but this time, his eyes were far away. Focused. Haunted.

 

“You were hidden,” Taehyung murmured against Jungkook’s temple. “To protect you?”

 

“To shape me,” Jungkook corrected softly. “They believed the syndicate fell apart because emotion got in the way. So they raised me without any.”

 

He reached for the pendant again, his fingers grazing V’s palm in a brush of intimacy that made V finally look up.

 

“I wasn't allowed to make friends. I wasn’t allowed to speak freely. Every time I cried, they made me paint it out. If I felt angry, I was sent to the lower basement. I thought it was punishment, but now... I think they were studying me.”

 

“Studying you?” V echoed, voice sharper now, a razor edge forming beneath the silken calm he usually held.

 

Jungkook nodded once. “They wanted to see how I’d break. What my mind would do with too much silence, too much darkness. Eventually, I created a second version of myself.”

 

“The one that...” Taehyung hesitated, remembering the cold glint in those eyes. The twist of that smirk. “The one that showed up the night of the storm?”

 

Jungkook’s expression turned unreadable. “He’s the one who always knew how to survive. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t care who bleeds.”

 

V’s fingers closed around the pendant.

 

“Where is he now?”

 

Jungkook exhaled slowly. “Asleep.”

 

“Can he wake up at will?” Taehyung asked, concern flickering behind his warm eyes.

 

Jungkook shrugged, the movement too light. “It’s more like... he decides when I’m not enough.”

 

Silence fell again, thick with too many unspoken fears. Then Jungkook’s voice, barely above a whisper:

 

“He remembers everything they did to me.”

 

And neither of the twins said a word. Because what could they say? What comfort could they offer for the kind of pain that forged a second soul?

 

The next morning, the twins didn’t leave Jungkook alone—not even for a moment. While Taehyung arranged for the security systems to be doubled, V contacted a man known only as Silas—an underground informant whose name hadn’t been uttered in years. It was a quiet call, one held in the study with the blinds drawn.

 

“I need to know who’s been asking about the Orchid. And I need to know now,” V said, voice low, dangerous. “Because if anyone’s coming for Jungkook, they’re walking into hell.”

 

Meanwhile, Jungkook sat in the east-facing sunroom, sketchbook in hand, eyes glazed over as charcoal danced across the page.

 

He didn’t know why he was drawing it.

 

But he had to.

 

A manor—large, Gothic—perched on a cliff, its iron gates bleeding into black mist. There was a symbol carved above the archway. Not an orchid.

 

A crown of thorns.

 

“Koo?”

 

Taehyung’s voice stirred him.

 

He blinked, dazed. Then looked down at the sketch and immediately dropped the pencil.

 

“I’ve never seen this place before,” he said, throat dry. “But my hand... just knew how to draw it.”

 

Taehyung took the book gently, studying the details.

 

“We’ll find out what it is.”

 

Jungkook reached out, tugging the man’s robe with a quiet plea.

 

“Stay close.”

 

Taehyung leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Always, baby.”

 

That night, something shifted.

 

Not in the air.

 

In them.

 

Because neither twin could sleep without one hand resting on Jungkook’s bare skin. Without whispering quiet reassurances. Without feeling the weight of the pendant resting under Jungkook’s pillow.

 

V pressed his forehead to the boy’s nape, whispering promises in the dark.

 

“I won’t let them take you back there.”

 

Taehyung curled close from the front, thumb stroking Jungkook’s hip.

 

“We’ll burn the past if we have to.”

 

And Jungkook, caught between them, with their warmth and scent and steady breathing, felt something bloom in the hollowed parts of his chest.

 

Not safety.

 

Not peace.

 

But something deeper.

 

Belonging.

 

But beyond the borders of their estate, eyes were watching. A man in a crisp linen suit leaned against the hood of a black car, binoculars pressed to his face.

 

“So the twins are guarding him full-time now,” he mused.

 

“Should we approach?” his partner asked from the driver’s seat.

 

“Not yet.”

 

He lowered the lenses and smiled thinly.

 

“We’ll wait until he starts asking questions. Because once Koo opens the past, he’ll need answers. And we’ll be the only ones who can give them.”

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