The steering wheel creaked softly under Jeongjin’s grip, his knuckles tightening every time he thought about the scene from earlier. He wanted to yell, to scold, to shake sense into the boy slumped in the passenger seat beside him, but he held his tongue. He had done this long enough to know that shouting never worked on Taehyung. His son had a strange immunity to lectures, like the words bounced off his perfectly combed hair and slipped away before they could land in his brain.

The car smelled faintly of disinfectant from the hospital, and beneath it, the lingering scent of the ramyeon cups Taehyung had sneakily eaten last night in the car, something Jeongjin still hadn’t forgiven him for.

Taehyung, of course, didn’t notice the storm in his father’s chest. His mouth was running as fast as his injured arm would allow.

Tae: “Appa, you should have seen the way he came at me first. He’s a loser, seriously. And then that principal, ugh! Suspending me? Like, excuse me, did he not see my arm? Shouldn’t the other guy be suspended twice? This is favoritism, I tell you. Whole college is against me.”

Jeongjin shot him a sharp glance from the corner of his eye, and Taehyung leaned back, unbothered, the sling around his arm crinkling against his hoodie. His ankle was still swollen, his knees scraped, and his arm wrapped in heavy white bandages. He looked more like a casualty from a battlefield than a college student who got into a dumb fight during class.

So what actually happened was that Tae had gotten into a fight with one of his classmates, and it hadn’t ended well. Somewhere between the shoving and punches, he’d fallen hard. His arm wasn’t broken (But he was convinced it is) but the injury was bad enough to leave him crying on the ground, clutching it while his ankle bled from the scrape.

By the time Jeongjin arrived, Tae was sobbing like a little kid, unable to move his arm. Without wasting a second, his father and a couple of his friends rushed him to the hospital, the fight and the anger momentarily forgotten.

Now, hours later, Tae sat in the car on the way back home, his whole arm wrapped in bandages. His cheeks were streaked with the dried remains of tears, but his voice hadn’t quieted down. He kept cursing the boy he’d fought with, and even the principal who had suspended both of them for a week.

It wasn’t fair, and Tae made sure everyone knew exactly how unfair it felt.

He groaned again dramatically and ignored his father's glares, tilting his head toward the window as his blabbering continued.

Tae: “Appa, my arm hurts so bad. That doctor was so rough, like he had no feelings at all. He twisted it like I was some kind of machine part. I swear he was trying to kill me.”

Jeongjin: “You were crying like a baby, Tae,” Jeongjin muttered, unable to hold back anymore. “The whole ward heard you.”

Tae: “I was in pain!” Tae defended, eyes wide as if that excused everything. “And besides, crying is natural. Even tigers cry when they’re hurt. I’m still a human being, aren’t I? You can’t expect me to be a robot.”

Jeongjin pressed his lips into a thin line, a sigh escaping. He wasn’t angry. He had stopped being angry at Taehyung years ago. The boy’s recklessness was part of who he was. But there were moments, like today, when the fear crept in, what if it had been worse? What if it hadn’t just been an injured arm? What if he... He shivered at the thought and gripped the wheel tighter.

His mind wandered to the hospital bills tucked away in his wallet. They hadn’t even cleared last month’s electricity properly, and now this. The sales at his little store were down, and customers kept delaying payments. He wouldn’t tell Taehyung, though. Never. The boy had grown up thinking the world revolved around him, and Jeongjin had let it happen because he couldn’t bear to say no.

Jeongjin: “Stop talking for a while, will you?” His father finally said, his tone was sharper this time. “Think about how your mother is going to feel when she sees you like this. She’ll cry herself sick.”

That made Tae falter. For a whole five seconds, the car was blissfully quiet. Then a tiny whimper escaped him, followed by a fresh wave of complaints like he hadn't even heard his father.

Tae: “Appa, my arm really hurts. You have no idea. And that doctor—ugh, don’t even start. He jabbed the needle in like I was some pin cushion.”

Jeongjin just shook his head.

In less than five minutes, they pulled into the parking space in front of their building. It wasn’t anything grand, just an old structure with fading paint, but it was home. Jeongjin killed the engine, stepped out, and went around to open the passenger door. Despite his exhaustion, despite the bills piling up in his mind, he reached out and carefully helped his son out of the car like he was some royal prince.

Tae leaned against him slightly, though he’d never admit he needed the help. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement as they walked toward the elevator. Inside, the air smelled faintly of detergent and someone’s fried food. Tae wrinkled his nose, making a face.

Tae: “Appa, cover me up when we get in, okay? Omma will freak out again. She’ll probably faint this time.”

Jeongjin: “You should be worried about her fainting because of you, not asking me to cover for you,” Jeongjin replied, pressing the elevator button.

Tae: “I just don’t like it when she clings,” Tae muttered under his breath, eyes on the glowing numbers as the elevator climbed. “She tears up at everything. I’m not a baby.”

He didn’t fear his mother (just like he didn't fear his father) and he didn’t really care if she worried either. What bothered him was her clinginess, the way she teared up over the smallest things, always hovering too close. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, but he was the kind of kid who found himself easily annoyed by a parent who cared too much, yet crumbled into loneliness if they didn’t care at all.

It was complicated, and maybe even ungrateful, but that was just who Tae was.

The doors slid open, and they stepped into the familiar hallway leading to their apartment. Their home was small but cozy, four rooms squeezed into the space: one for Taehyung, one for his parents, a guest room no one really used, and another room that always stayed closed, always empty. Tae never questioned it much, it was just there, gathering dust.

He made his signature pitiful face, tilting his head toward his father with wide, pleading eyes that silently begged: cover me, Appa.

But before his father could say anything, the balcony door opened, and his mother, Jihu, stepped inside. She froze when her eyes fell on Taehyung’s bandaged arm.

Jihu: “Tae!” she gasped, rushing forward, her little gardening gloves still on her hands. “Baby, what happened? Oh my God, your arm, your ankle—what happened? Did you fall? Did you fight again? Did you break it?”

She fired questions like bullets, fussing over him before he could escape. Her hands touched his bandages, his face, his forehead. She looked ready to cry.

Tae (groaned): “Omma, it’s fine, stop fussing.”

Jihu: “It’s not fine!” she insisted, tugging him toward the couch. “Sit down, right now. Don’t move. You must be in pain. Did you eat anything? Do you want something? Oh, my poor baby.”

Jeongjin: “Jihu,” Jeongjin said gently, slipping off his shoes, “he is ok, he just got into a fight. He fell and hurt his arm. The doctor said it’s not broken. He just needs rest.”

His wife shot him a sharp look as if it were his fault for not protecting their son from the entire world. She continued to hover around Taehyung, pecking his forehead, stroking his hair, and bustling toward the kitchen to warm milk.

Tae slumped on the couch, rolling his eyes. He loved his parents, he really did, but sometimes their endless sugar felt suffocating. He wanted to be yelled at, scolded, maybe grounded like normal kids. But no matter what he did, they never got angry. They just worried, wrapped him in softness, and treated him like he was still a little boy. He would never understand why.

He stretched his legs on the couch, wincing a little at the ache in his ankle. His father passed by with a stern look that clearly said, don’t even think about sneaking out this week. Then Jeongjin disappeared into his room, the faint sound of papers rustling following hiim indicating that he was going back to his store.

His mother reappeared with a steaming glass of honey milk, settling beside him.

Jihu: “Drink it, Tae. It will make you feel better.”

He took it with a dramatic sigh and groaned,

Tae: “Omma, I don’t need honey milk. I need people to stop suspending me for no reason.”

Jihu:“But you got into a fight, didn’t you?” she said softly, brushing his hair back.

Tae took a sip and leaned back, muttering under his breath.

Tae: “Still unfair.”

The apartment felt too quiet after the fuss died down. His mother fluttered around cleaning up, humming under her breath, while Taehyung lay sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling. A whole week stuck here, with no friends, no classes, and worst of all, no clubbing. To him, it felt like prison.

He didn’t know yet that what awaited him back at college would make this feel like heaven.

Meanwhile, across the city, a man was unlocking the door to his new home.

Min Yoongi stepped inside, setting his bags down with a quiet sigh. The house wasn’t huge or luxurious, but it was his. White walls, wooden floors, sunlight spilling through wide windows. It felt peaceful. Behind him, a frail but sturdy lady shuffled in, her hair tied in a loose bun.

Yoongi: “Careful, Granny,” Yoongi said, rushing back to take her arm. “You shouldn’t carry anything heavy.”

Granny smiled at him, her eyes wrinkling.

Granny: “I’m not made of glass, Yoongi. You always worry too much.”

Yoongi: “I have to,” he said, guiding her to the couch. “You’re all I’ve got.”

She settled with a sigh, stroking the fat, grumpy cat that immediately jumped onto her lap. Yoongi went to the kitchen, filling the kettle and rummaging for the familiar tin of tea leaves. The sound of boiling water filled the air, and for a moment, he allowed himself to relax.

This was Seoul. A new start. A new chapter.

He carried the tray back, placing it gently on the table. Granny took her cup with both hands, sipping slowly.

Granny: “You know,” she said after a while, her voice thoughtful, “this city is where I found you. Right here in Seoul. You were so small, crying on the pavement. Calling for your mommy.”

Yoongi listened silently. He had heard this story countless times, but it still stirred something deep in him.

Granny: “I asked you where your home was, but you were too little to answer,” Granny continued. “I went to the police, but they said no missing child was reported. So I took you with me. I thought maybe your parents left you there.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly. He remembered the day she confessed that the last part wasn’t true, that she never reported him to the police because she couldn’t bear to give him up.

Granny was sixty-five now, her memory not as sharp as it once was. Sometimes she even forgot her own stories, the ones she used to tell over and over again. But to Yoongi, she was everything. She was the one who had raised him, the only family he had ever known, and he loved her more than words could say.

He had been only three years old when Granny found him (As she says). She told him that he was sitting on the pavement, his tiny legs sprawled out, crying and calling for his mommy. He was too little to explain where he lived or who his parents were, and Granny, lonely and childless, hadn’t been able to walk away. So she took him home, fed him, and little by little, raised him as her own son.

For years she told Yoongi that his parents had abandoned him, that she had gone to the police but no missing report had ever been filed. He believed her, until his final year of college, when she finally confessed the truth.

He hadn’t been abandoned. He had been lost. His Eomma and Appa were there one moment, and gone the next. Granny admitted she had never gone to the police. A part of her had been too selfish, too scared of losing him once she had found him.

Yoongi had been angry at first. But anger didn’t last long against the love he had for her. She was his mother in every way that mattered, and in the end, he forgave her.

They lived in Jeju all their lives, until Yoongi was offered a teaching position in Seoul. Granny moved with him, of course. But the job wasn’t the only reason Yoongi agreed to go back. Granny had told him once that she found him in Seoul, and that gave him a small, stubborn hope. Maybe, just maybe, he would find his real parents there.

He stirred his tea slowly as he stared at granny.

Yoongi: “Granny, do you think I’ll ever find them?”

She smiled sadly in return.

Granny: “If fate allows, Yoongi. If fate allows.”

The next morning, Yoongi drove to the college where he would start teaching. He parked, signed the documents, shook hands with the department head. Everything seemed normal, calm, quiet. He thought maybe this chapter of his life would be peaceful.

He had no idea that in just a few days, a whirlwind named Kim Taehyung would storm into his carefully built world and turn everything upside down, especially his patience and sanity.

____

The week dragged by like it was made of stone. Taehyung thought suspension would be fun. At first, he had even celebrated the idea, throwing his arms up in mock victory when his father had announced he wasn’t allowed to go to college for real. A week at home sounded like heaven, sleeping late, playing games, eating all day, no homework, no boring lectures. But that was on day one. By day three, he was rolling across the living room floor like a dying starfish, begging for something, anything, to happen.

His mother never left him alone, always fluttering around, checking his arm, checking his ankle, checking his temperature, even when he swore he was fine. His father didn’t yell, didn’t scold, but kept watching him with those eyes that told him to behave. Taehyung was used to being spoiled, but even he had a limit. He started missing his friends, missing the noise of the bus, missing even the boring college canteen food.

So when Monday came, he woke up early, his heart beating with excitement. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was almost… happy to be going back to college. He got dressed carefully, ignoring the way his arm ached whenever he moved it too quickly. Pulling his shirt over his head, he looked at himself in the mirror, puffed his cheeks, and nodded. He was ready.

He opened his bedroom door quietly and started tiptoeing toward the front door like some kind of spy escaping enemy territory. Halfway across the living room, his father’s voice froze him.

Jeongjin:“Eat breakfast before you go.”

Taehyung groaned, spinning on his heel and whined.

Tae: “Appa, I’ll be late!”

Jeongjin: “You won’t be. Sit.”

Grumbling, he slumped into the chair at the dining table. His mother appeared instantly, her face lighting up as if he had just returned from a long war. She set a plate down in front of him with a bright smile.

Jihu: “Eat well, Tae. And listen, don’t get into fights today, okay? Stay focused in class, eat your lunch, don’t go with strangers, and please text me when you reach.”

Tae: “Omma,” Tae groaned around a mouthful of rice. “I’m not your three-year-old baby who’ll get lost or kidnapped. I’m eighteen, almost adult. I know everything.”

He hadn’t meant to sound harsh, but the irritation slipped out. And just like that, the smile dropped from his mother’s face. Her lips trembled, her eyes glistened, and Taehyung froze. He knew that look. He had touched a nerve.

She turned away slightly, blinking fast.

Jihu: “My first child…” she whispered under her breath, voice shaking.

Guilt slammed into Taehyung like a truck. He hadn’t meant that. Not like that. He pushed back his chair quickly, wrapping his good arm around her shoulders.

Tae: “Omma, I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, pressing his cheek against her head. “I’m sorry. I’ll be careful. I’ll text you. Don’t cry, okay?”

She sniffled, forcing a smile as she pecked his forehead.

Jihu: “Promise me, Tae.”

Tae: “I promise.” He smiled sheepishly and sat back down, shoving another bite into his mouth.

When he finished, he stood up, brushed his hands on his jeans, and walked toward the door. He paused, then reached into his father’s coat pocket, and pulled out some cash. His father raised an eyebrow at him from across the room.

Jeongjin: “Going to rob me in broad daylight now?”

Taehyung gave a sheepish grin in return.

Tae: “Just pocket money, Appa. I’ll bring change.”

Jeongjin: “You never do.”

Taehyung winked and sprinted out of the house before his mother could smother him with another round of hugs. The cold morning air hit his face, and he grinned wide. Finally, freedom.

At the bus stop, two familiar figures stood waiting. His besfriends. Wooshik spotted him first.

Wooshik: “Tae!”

Tae: “Wooshik! Dukhyun!” He ran toward them, ignoring the ache in his arm, and wrapped them both in a tight hug. “God, I missed you guys.”

Dukhyun: “You look like you just came out of jail,” Dukhyun laughed.

Tae: “I was in jail,” Taehyung declared dramatically. “A jail called home. You have no idea how miserable my week was. My mother wouldn’t leave me alone, my father kept staring at me like I was about to commit another crime, and I swear the couch has a permanent dent from how much I lay on it.”

The three of them laughed, boarding the bus together. They rushed to the back seat, as always, claiming it as their territory. The ride was filled with noisy chatter.

Tae: “I swear,” He continued, “if I stayed one more day in that house, I’d have jumped off the balcony.”

Wooshik: “Please don’t,” Wooshik said dryly. “Your father will come for us if you do.”

Then Tae asked about Jimin, the boy he had gotten into a fight with. Dukhyun told him that Jimin was also hurt and had been crying when his mother picked him up that day.

The moment Tae heard that, he felt utterly satisfied with himself. Even with his own arm bandaged and aching, he seemed almost pleased with the news. To him, Jimin wasn’t just a random classmate he got into a fight with, he was his greatest enemy. And knowing that his enemy had walked away hurt as well felt like a small victory.

Taehyung smirked and then leaned back.

Tae: “So, now tell me everything else. What did I miss?”

Dukhyun: “Bad news first?” Dukhyun asked.

Tae: “Always,” Taehyung nodded with a grin.

Wooshik (grimaced): “Mrs. Lim got transferred.”

Taehyung froze.

Tae: “Wait- What?”

Wooshik:“Yeah. She’s gone. Some new guy is teaching math now.”

Taehyung’s jaw dropped.

Tae: “No. No way. Mrs. Lim was the best. She always gave me passing marks, even when I failed.”

Dukhyun: “Exactly,” Dukhyun muttered. “That’s why you loved her.”

Tae: “She was sweet,” Taehyung said, ignoring him. “She was patient. She even let me nap in class sometimes. How could she leave me like this?”

Wooshik: “Because she wanted peace,” Wooshik said. “This new guy is terrifying. Strict. He punished me and Dukhyun both. Twice. And we didn’t even do anything.”

Taehyung’s face fell even more.

Tae: “Great. Just great. I already hate him. What’s his name?”

Wooshik: “Don’t know. He’s new. But trust me, he’s scary.”

Taehyung slumped in his seat, sulking for the rest of the ride. He muttered under his breath, sending silent curses at the new teacher he hadn’t even met yet.

He loved Mrs. Lim, she was the sweetest teacher, always kind to him, always slipping him passing marks even when he was bound to fail. She never made him feel dumb for struggling in math. Instead, she patiently helped him through it, and Tae would constantly pester her, declaring she was his favorite teacher.

Now, hearing that she had left, a heavy gloom settled over him. He was already convinced he hated the new teacher, even without meeting him. The entire ride to school, he was sulking and silently praying that the replacement would meet some unlucky fate and leave just as quickly.

When they reached the college gates, he spotted Jimin across the yard. The boy stood with his friends, his arm in a sling, glaring at Taehyung like he wanted to strangle him.

Taehyung glared back, his lips curving into a smug smile. He loved getting under Jimin’s skin. Without breaking eye contact, he strutted into the building.

The first two lectures passed as usual. Boring notes, half-listened lectures, doodles in the margins of his notebook. But everywhere around him, people were whispering about the math teacher. Everyone looked nervous, clutching their notebooks like shields. Taehyung rolled his eyes. How scary could one guy be?

Just as the third lecture was about to begin, a clerk appeared at the door. “Kim Taehyung, Park Jimin. Principal’s office. Now.”

Groans echoed through the classroom. Taehyung dragged himself out of his seat, muttering curses. Jimin got up too, his glare burning a hole into Taehyung’s head.

They dragged their feet behind the clerk, already knowing exactly what the principal was going to say. Another lecture about fighting, the usual warnings, and all the blah blah they’d heard a hundred times before.

The two of them bickered the entire way down the hall.

Jimin: “I’ll kill you,” Jimin snapped.

Tae: “Not if I kill you first,” Taehyung shot back.

Jimin: “You’re pathetic.”

Tae: “You’re shorter.”

Their voices rose, filling the corridor, until Taehyung suddenly collided with something solid. He stumbled, falling on his butt, his injured arm slamming into the wall. Pain shot through him, and he whimpered loudly.

Tae: “Damn it!” he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut.

When he opened them, a tall man stood above him, arms crossed, eyes sharp and unamused. His face was pale, his gaze piercing, and his expression screamed authority.

Taehyung knew immediately he was a teacher because he wasn't wearing a uniform. But he didn’t care. He glared up at the man, muttered another curse, and pushed himself to his feet. Shoving past him, he stormed toward the stairs without another word.

He could feel the man’s eyes on his back as he walked away.

The principal’s lecture was long and boring, all about responsibility, discipline, and setting examples. Taehyung tuned half of it out, counting the tiles on the floor instead. By the time it was over, both he and Jimin were itching to escape.

When they stepped out of the office, both again looked ready to tear each other apart. But for the sake of survival, they held back, deciding to at least make it to class in one piece.

But as they walked back to class, they were already at each other’s throats again.

Jimin: “You started it!” Jimin hissed.

Tae: “You hit me first! You even broke my arm, you midget!” Taehyung shot back.

Jimin: "Your arm is not broken, you bitch!"

They reached their classroom door still arguing, but the moment they saw the scene, they froze.

Their class, which was never quiet, not even with a teacher around, was sitting in complete, pin-drop silence. Students sat rigid in their seats, eyes fixed on the front of the room.

The room was silent. Completely silent. On the whiteboard, a man was writing equations in neat handwriting. Outside the door, almost ten students stood with their hands raised in the air as punishment. Among them were Wooshik and Dukhyun, their faces red with embarrassment.

Tae swallowed hard, a nervous knot forming in his stomach. Just from the sight alone, he could tell how terrifying this new teacher was going to be.

He and Jimin walked to the door together and muttered, “May I come in, sir?” But Tae’s words got stuck in his throat the moment he saw the man’s clothes.

The man turned, and Taehyung’s stomach dropped. Because... It was him. The same man he had bumped into at the stairs, cursed at, glared at, and shoved past without a second thought.

His eyes met Taehyung’s, cold and sharp, and Taehyung knew instantly that he was screwed.

Jimin: “May I come in, sir?” Jimin asked again.

The man’s lips curved, but not in a smile. “Yes. You can.” he said.

Taehyung swallowed hard. The way those eyes followed him as he stepped inside told him everything he needed to know. His miserable week at home was nothing compared to what was coming.

He was completely, utterly, absolutely doomed.

Jimin: “May I come in, sir?” Jimin asked again.

The silence in the classroom was so thick you could almost lean against it. Tae had never heard his classmates this quiet, not even during exams. Every pair of eyes was glued to the front of the room, where the man in the sharp black suit was finishing an equation on the whiteboard. His movements were precise, and his posture was rigid. This, Taehyung realized with a sinking feeling, was the new math teacher.

And he was the guy Tae had just glared, shoulder-checked and cursed out in the hallway.

His mouth went dry as he tried to force the words out as well.

Tae: “M-may I come in, sir?” he stammered, his voice sounding so small in the hushed room.

The man didn’t turn around immediately. He finished writing the final symbol with a quiet scritch of the marker before slowly placing it down on the tray. Then, he turned. His eyes, dark and unnervingly calm, swept over Jimin first, then landed on Taehyung. And a flicker of recognition passed through them.

Yoongi: “Yes, you may,” He said in a low voice, eyes fixed on Tae.

Taehyung swallowed hard. The way those eyes followed him as he stepped inside told him everything he needed to know. His miserable week at home was nothing compared to what was coming.

He was completely, utterly, absolutely doomed.

Jimin scurried to his seat like a mouse escaping a hawk. Tae tried to do the same, his head down, hoping to become invisible. He slid into his chair successfully. The professors eyes followed them as thry took their seats.

Yoongi: “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he began, walking slowly to the center of the room. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I am Professor Min Yoongi by the way andI have been teaching this class for a week. And yet, I see two new faces today. Would you care to introduce yourselves and explain your absence?”

Jimin, ever the teacher’s pet even when he was in trouble, shot his hand up.

Jimin: “Park Jimin, sir. I was suspended.” He said it with a surprising amount of pride.

Professor Min’s eyes shifted to Taehyung then.

Yoongi: “And you?”

Taehyung squirmed in his seat, avoiding eye contact with the professor.

Tae: “Kim Taehyung. Also suspended.” He mumbled the words, hoping they’d get lost on the way to the front.

Yoongi: “Suspended,” Professor Min repeated, as if tasting the word. “A simultaneous week-long vacation for both of you. How convenient. And what was the reason for this shared time off?”

The class held its breath. Jimin, seeing an opportunity to make Taehyung look worse, blurted out,

Jimin: “We got into a fight, sir!”

A few students winced. Professor Min’s eyebrow twitche.

Yoongi: “A fight,” he repeated as he looked from Jimin’s sling to Taehyung’s bandaged arm. “I see it was a productive one. Did you at least settle your differences?”

Neither of them answered. The silence was answer enough.

Yoongi: “I see,” Professor Min said softly. He began to pace slowly in front of the whiteboard. “Well, while you were away settling your… differences… the rest of the class was learning about quadratic equations and polynomial functions. I trust you are both caught up on the material you missed?”

Jimin (nodded eagerly): “Yes, sir! I studied at home!”

Professor Min’s eyes landed to Taehyung again.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung’s mind went blank. Studied? He’d spent the week complaining about his arm and watching dramas.

Tae: “I… uh…”

Professor Min didn’t wait for a full answer. The slight frown was enough.

Yoongi: “I see.” He stopped his pacing and looked directly at Taehyung. “Stand up.”

A cold dread trickled down Tae’s spine. He slowly got to his feet, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

Yoongi: “Now,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “I want you to climb onto your chair.”

A confused murmur rippled through the class.

Tae (blinked): “What? Why?”

Yoongi: “The chair, Kim Taehyung. Now.”

The tone left no argument. It was ice-cold and left no room for negotiation. Heart hammering and face already burning with a mixture of confusion and humiliation, Tae placed his good hand on the chair back and awkwardly hoisted himself up. He wobbled slightly, his injured arm throbbing in protest.

Yoongi: “Arms straight up in the air,” he instructed, his face completely unreadable.

Tae: “But my arm—” Tae started to protest.

Yoongi: “Is clearly capable of being raised, as you demonstrated so forcefully in the hallway not ten minutes ago,” Yoongi cut him off, his voice sharpening just a fraction. “Arms up.”

And then Taehyung understood. This wasn’t about the suspension. This was about the stairs. This was about shoving past him and muttering that curse under his breath. This was payback.

Humiliation washed over him. He could feel every single pair of eyes in the room on him. He slowly, painfully, raised both arms above his head. The stretch sent a fresh wave of ache through his injured limb, and he bit his lip to keep from making a sound.

Yoongi: “You will remain there for the duration of the class,” Yoongi said, turning his back on Taehyung as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. “It should give you ample time to reflect on the importance of watching where you’re going. And perhaps on the value of respect.” He picked up the marker and turned back to the whiteboard. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The discriminant.”

And just like that, the lesson continued. Professor Min’s voice was calm and measured as he explained complex mathematical concepts, as if there wasn’t a student standing on a chair with his arms in the air like a ridiculous human antenna.

The class, terrified into absolute submission, followed along, no one daring to even glance in Taehyung’s direction.

For Taehyung, the next forty minutes were a special kind of torture. His arms began to shake almost immediately. His injured shoulder screamed in protest, and a dull ache spread down to his fingertips. His good arm wasn’t doing much better. The position was unnatural, and every second felt like an hour. He focused on the clock above the door, watching the minute hand drag itself around the face with agonizing slowness. He tried to distract himself by thinking of anything else, the new video game he wanted, what he would have for lunch, the look on Jimin’s face when he’d gotten hurt, but the physical discomfort was too overwhelming.

A few times, he tried to subtly lower his arms just an inch, to relieve the burning in his muscles. And each time, without even turning around, Professor Min would say, “Arms high,Taehyung. I can hear you slacking.” It was uncanny and utterly terrifying. Taehyung was convinced that Professor Min has some super power or maybe two hiden pair of eyes at back of his head.

When the bell finally rang, Taehyung’s whole body sagged with relief.

Yoongi: “You may get down,” Yoongi said, not even looking at him as he gathered his notes.

Taehyung practically fell off the chair, his arms dropping to his sides like dead weights. They felt heavy and numb and were buzzing with a painful pins-and-needles sensation. He slumped into his seat, utterly defeated.

Professor Min addressed the class.

Yoongi: “The homework for tomorrow is problems one through twenty-five on page eighty-four. I expect full solutions, not just answers.” He adressed the class, then his eyes found Jimin and Taehyung. “For our two returning students, you will also complete all the assigned work from the past week. I will expect it all on my desk at the start of tomorrow’s lecture.”

Jimin (nodded vigorously): “Yes, sir! Of course, sir!”

Professor Min’s gaze finally settled fully on Taehyung, who was miserably rubbing his aching shoulder.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

Taehyung looked up, a spark of defiance trying to ignite in his eyes despite his exhaustion.

Yoongi: “Sit up straight,” Yoongi said in a voice low. “You will respect your teachers. You will complete the work. And you will keep your attitude in check. I will not tolerate any disrespect from any of my students. Is that clear?”

Taehyung wanted to scream. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell this pale, stern nightmare of a man exactly what he could do with his quadratic equations. But the memory of the last forty minutes was too fresh, the ache in his body was too real. The words died in his throat, and all that came out was a weak, sullen, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Min gave a short, curt nod, then turned and left the classroom. The moment the door closed behind him, the room erupted into a cacophony of released tension and chatter. And the first thing Taehyung heard was Jimin’s mocking laughter.

Jimin: “Wow, Taehyung,” Jimin sneered, walking over to his desk with a stupid smirk. “You looked great up there. Really suited you. Maybe you should try out for the circus.”

Taehyung shot to his feet, his chair screeching backward.

Tae: “Shut up, shortie! Or I’ll put you on the ceiling next time!”

Jimin: “Oh, I’m so scared,” Jimin taunted, poking at Tae's bandaged arm. “What are you gonna do? Cry to your mommy again? I heard you wailing all the way from the nurse’s office.”

That was it. Tae lunged, his good hand grabbing a handful of Jimin’s hair.

Tae: “You wanna finish what we started?!”

Wooshik and Dukhyun immediately jumped between them, pulling them apart.

Wooshik: “Hey, hey, knock it off! You just got back!” Wooshik hissed, shoving Tae back. “Do you want another suspension? Or worse, another session with Professor Min?”

The mention of Professor Min was like a bucket of cold water. Both boys froze, their anger momentarily overshadowed by a shared, primal fear. They glared at each other, chests heaving.

Tae: “This isn’t over,” Tae muttered, snatching his backpack from the floor.

Jimin: “It never is with you,” Jimin shot back, adjusting his own sling with a wince.

The rest of the school day was a blur of misery for Taehyung. His body ached, his pride was in tatters, and the mountain of make-up work he had to do felt utterly impossible. Everywhere he went, he heard snickers and whispers. “There’s the guy who stood on the chair…” He felt like a walking spectacle.

The bus ride home was the opposite of the joyful one that morning. He sat slumped by the window, silent while Wooshik and Dukhyun tried, and failed, to cheer him up.

Dukhyun: “Look on the bright side,” Dukhyun offered weakly. “At least you didn’t have to do any math in class today like me."

Taehyung just groaned and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

He dragged himself through the front door of his apartment, looking more defeated than he had after the actual fight. His mother was in the living room, folding laundry. She took one look at his face and her own fell.

Jihu: “Tae? Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked, dropping a shirt and coming over to him. “Did something happen? Did your arm hurt again? Did you fight with Jimin again?”

The concern in her voice, the gentle way she touched his face, was the final straw. The story, mixed with all his frustration and humiliation, came tumbling out in a messy, dramatic flood.

Tae: “It was horrible, Omma!” he wailed, letting her lead him to the couch. “The new math teacher is a monster! A complete and total monster!” He threw himself onto the cushions, burying his face in a pillow. “Mrs. Lim is gone! And this… this Min Yoongi guy replaced her! He’s evil!”

Jihu sat beside him, her hand rubbing comforting circles on his back.

Jihu: “Shhh, tell me what happened.”

Taehyung lifted his head, his eyes wide with indignation as he starr at his mother.

Tae: “First, he made me and Jimin say why we were suspended in front of the whole class! Then he asked if I’d done the work from the week I missed! How was I supposed to do it? I was injured!” He sat up, getting more animated. “And then—and then he made me stand on my chair! On the chair, Omma! With my arms in the air! The whole class! Because I accidentally bumped into him in the hall before class and didn’t say sorry right away! My arm feels like it’s going to fall off!”

Jihu’s eyes widened in shock.

Jihu: “He made you stand on a chair? For the whole class? With your injury? That’s… that’s too much!”

Tae: “It was!” Tae agreed, nodding like a kid. “He’s so mean! And he gave me, like, a thousand pages of homework to do by tomorrow! He’s trying to kill me! I hate him! I wish Mrs. Lim would come back. She was nice. She never made me stand on chairs.” He slumped against his mother’s side, playing the role of the persecuted victim to perfection. “My life is over, Omma. I’m going to fail math. I’m going to have to stand on that chair every day. I’m never going back.”

Jihu held him close, making soft, sympathetic noises as she rubbed his back.

Jihu: “Oh, my poor boy. That does sound awful. A teacher shouldn’t be so harsh.” She kissed the top of his head. “Don’t you worry. You’ll feel better after some food. I made your favorite kimchi stew. And I’ll help you with your homework, okay?”

Taehyung sniffled, a little of his performance becoming real as her kindness soothed his ruffled feathers.

Tae: “Really, Omma?”

Jihu: “Of course,” she said smiling. “We’ll get it done. Now, go wash up. Food is almost ready.”

As Taehyung trudged toward his room, his spirits slightly lifted by the promise of food and help, Jihu stayed on the couch, her smile fading into a faint frown. She wasn’t a confrontational person, but the image of her son, injured and forced to stand on a chair, didn’t sit right with her. She picked up her phone, scrolling through the college’s website until she found the faculty directory. There he was. Professor Min Yoongi. She noted his name and the email address listed beside it.

She wouldn’t say anything to Taehyung, not yet. But perhaps a gently worded email from a concerned parent wouldn’t hurt. Just to ask about the make-up work, of course. And maybe, to subtly mention that her son was still recovering from a rather serious injury.

The comforting smell of kimchi stew did little to lift the cloud of indignation hanging over Taehyung. He shoveled food into his mouth, the story of his horrible day spilling out between bites, each retelling becoming more dramatic and detailed for his father’s benefit.

Tae: “And then he just stood there, Appa,” Tae said, his voice whiny with pouting exaggeration. He sniffled for effect, widening his eyes to look as wronged as possible. “He looked at me like I was a bug. A bug he was about to squish. He didn’t care about my arm at all. He made me stand there until the bell rang. My shoulders still feel like they’re on fire. I am going to sue him."

Jeongjin listened, chewing his rice slowly. He watched his son’s performance, the theatrical sniffles, the pout that had worked on them since he was a toddler. He saw the genuine frustration there, too, mixed in with the act.

Jeongjn: “A teacher made you stand on a chair?” Jeongjin finally said, his tone was neutral. “For the whole class?”

Tae: “Yes!” Tae insisted, slamming his good hand on the table lightly. “Just for bumping into him! That midget only had to say he was sorry and sit down. It’s not fair! He’s got it out for me, I just know it.”

Jeongjin: “Maybe you shouldn’t have been running in the halls,” Jeongjin offered, a simple, logical statement that sent Tae into a fresh wave of sputters.

Tae: “Appa! Whose side are you on? He’s a monster! And he gave me, like, a million pages of homework from the whole week! It’s due tomorrow! It’s impossible! How can you take his side!?"

Jihu, who had been quietly stirring her stew, looked up and offered a warm smile.

Jihu: “I’ll help you after dinner, Tae. We’ll get it done together baby.”

Tae groaned, slumping back in his chair with a pout.

Tae: “It’s math, Omma. You know I don’t get it. It’s like a different language. A stupid, boring language.”

After dinner, true to her word, Jihu sat with him at the small dining table, textbooks and notebooks spread out between them. Taehyung’s initial frustration soon melted into a familiar, glazed-over confusion. His mother pointed at numbers and symbols, speaking in a patient and soothing voice, but the words just swirled around his head without sticking. An ‘x’ here, a ‘y’ there, strange swooping curves that were supposed to be functions. It was useless.

Jihu: “See, baby, you just have to isolate the variable,” Jihu said for the third time, her finger tracing a line on the page.

Tae stared blankly at the page.

Tae: “Why? Where did it go? Why is it isolated? It looks lonely.”

Jihu sighed softly, a small worried frown on her face. Her son wasn’t a bad kid, not really (as she believes). He was just… lost when it came to this. And this new teacher sounded so severe. Her protective instincts, always simmering just below the surface, bubbled over. She couldn’t stand the thought of this Professor Min crushing her son’s spirit, injured arm or not.

While Taehyung battled with a particularly stubborn equation, his head drooping lower and lower, Jihu slipped away to the living room and opened her laptop. She found the college’s contact page, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She just wanted to explain. To make him understand.

Dear Professor Min, she typed, her words careful and polite.

My name is Jihu, I am Kim Taehyung’s mother. He told me about the incident in class today and I am so sorry for his behavior in the hallway. He can be impulsive, but he doesn’t mean any harm.

I am writing to you just to kindly let you know that he is still recovering from a rather significant injury to his arm and shoulder from last week’s fight. He is in a lot of discomfort, though he would never admit it. He also struggles a great deal with mathematics and often becomes very frustrated with himself. I worry that his frustration comes across as rudeness, but it truly is not his intention.

I would be so grateful if you could perhaps go a little easier on him. He is a good boy at heart, just a little lost sometimes with his studies. Thank you for your understanding.

Sincerely, Kim Jihu

She read it over twice, nodded to herself, and hit ‘send’. A small wave of relief washed over her. There. She had done something. She had advocated for her son.

Back at the table, Tae had lost the battle. His head was pillowed on his textbook, his breathing deep and even. He was fast asleep, a tiny line of drool threatening to land on a half finished polynomial. Jihu’s heart squeezed. She gently closed the book and let him sleep. The homework could wait.

The next morning, Tae woke up with a jolt, remembering the mountain of work he hadn’t done. Panic seized him for a moment before he shrugged it off. So what? He’d just tell the professor his arm hurt too much to write. It was basically the truth. The guy couldn’t punish him for that, could he?

He walked into math class with a false sense of confidence, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Professor Min, who was already writing on the board. As the lesson began, Professor Min’s flat voice cut through the room.

Yoongi: “Place your homework from page eighty-four on the corner of your desks. I will be checking it.”

A rustle of paper filled the room. Taehyung kept his head down, doodling idly in his notebook. Professor Min moved through the rows, his sharp eyes scanning papers, occasionally making a quiet checkmark with his pen.Then he stopped at Taehyung’s desk and stared down at thr boy.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung. Your homework.”

Taehyung looked up, putting on his best pitiful face.

Tae: “I couldn’t do it, sir.”

Yoongi: “And why is that?”

Tae: “My arm,” Tae said, gesturing to the bandages with a well-practiced wince. “It was hurting too bad last night. I could barely move it. I tried, but I just couldn’t hold the pencil.” He laid it on the desk, hoping for a shred of sympathy.

Professor Min looked down at him, his expression utterly unchanged. There was no anger, no annoyance, just a cool, assessing gaze.

Yoongi: “I see,” he said. His eyes flickered to Taehyung’s notebook, where he had been effortlessly doodling a detailed cartoon character just moments before.

Yoongi: “Your injury seems selective. You can hold a pencil for art, but not for algebra.”

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. How did he—?

Yoongi: “Join the others at the back of the class,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pointed to where three other students were already standing, having also failed to complete the assignment.

Humiliation burned Taehyung’s cheeks. So much for his excuse. He grabbed his notebook and slunk to the back of the room, joining the line of failures. He stood there for the entire lecture, fuming. The quiet scratch of the marker on the board, the respectful silence of the class, the occasional correct answer from stupid, know-it-all Jimin, it all grated on his nerves. This man was impossible. He was a robot. A heartless, cruel robot. Taehyung hated him more than he had ever hated anyone in his entire life.

When the bell finally rang, the relief was immediate for everyone but Taehyung. He was gathering his things, planning a furious escape, when Professor Min’s voice stopped him.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung. A word in my office. Now.”

A cold dread trickled down his spine. His office? This was worse than standing in the back of the class. This was unknown territory. Had he finally pushed it too far? Was he getting expelled? His heart hammered against his ribs as he followed the professor’s retreating back out of the classroom and down the hall.

Professor Min’s office was small and starkly neat. A single desk, a bookshelf filled with intimidating math books, and a single framed picture of an older woman with a kind face and a fat cat on her lap. There were no personal touches, no mess. It was just like him. Ordered and cold and boring.

Yoongi: “Sit,” Yoongi said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. He sat down himself, folding his hands on the wood surface.

Taehyung sat, perching on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt. He expected yelling. A lecture. A detention slip so he braced himself.

Yoongi: “I received an email from your mother last night,” he began, his voice quieter than it was in class, but no less intense.

Taehyung’s blood ran cold. His mother? She’d emailed him? What had she said?

Yoongi: “She is very concerned about you,” he continued. “She says you are in a great deal of pain from your injury. That you struggle with mathematics and become frustrated. That you are a good boy at heart.”

Each word felt like a tiny slap. His mother had laid all his weaknesses bare to this man, this monster. She had told him Taehyung was bad at math. She had made him sound like a helpless, pathetic child. The humiliation was so complete, so utterly devastating, it stole the air from his lungs. He could only sit there, staring, his face burning with a mixture of shame and anger.

Yoongi: “She worries about you a great deal,” Yoongi said, his dark eyes watching Taehyung’s reaction closely. “It is clear she loves you very much.”

Taehyung found his voice, and it came out as a low, furious hiss.

Tae: “She shouldn’t have done that.” he muttered under his breath but Yoongi heard him anyway.

Yoongiv “Perhaps not. But her intention was to protect you. A mother’s instinct.” He paused. “She asked me to be gentle with you. To go easier on you.”

A tiny, foolish spark of hope flickered in Taehyung’s chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe the torture was over.

But that spark was instantly crushed with Yoongi's next words.

Yoongi: “I will not be doing that,” He said, his voice firm this time. “The world will not go easy on you, Taehyung. Your injury is not an excuse for a lack of effort. Your frustration is not an excuse for a lack of respect.” He leaned forward slightly. “What I will do is this: you can come to me for help. My office hours are posted on the door. If you do not understand the work, you ask. You do not give up. You do not make excuses. You do not sleep in class.”

He looked at Taehyung, and for a split second, Taehyung thought he saw something else in his eyes. Not anger, not even disappointment. Something heavier.

Yoongi: “You will also stop the fighting. You will keep your attitude in check especially. I am sorry to say but you are mannerless, and it does not suit you. Your mother deserves a son who does not make her worry like this. If you were my student acting this way for any of my colleagues, the punishment would be far more severe than standing on a chair."

The words were like gasoline on the fire of Taehyung’s anger. How dare he? How dare he talk about his mother? How dare he act like he knew anything about him? The offer of help felt like an insult to him.

He shot to his feet, his chair screeching backward. He didn’t say a word. He just glared, his eyes shining with unshed tears of pure rage, and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him with a bang that echoed down the empty hallway.

He didn’t speak to his mother that night. When she asked how his day was, he just glared at her and shut his bedroom door. Later, he heard her gentle knock, her worried voice asking if he was okay.

Tae: “Why did you email him? Why did you tell him I’m stupid? I hate you!” he yelled through the door.

The hurt silence on the other side of the door was louder than any of his yelling. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly swallowed by his all-consuming anger. She had humiliated him. She had made everything worse.

And things did get worse. A few days later, Professor Min was announced as their new homeroom teacher, their class incharge. Taehyung’s personal nightmare had just been promoted.

It became a routine. Any small infraction, a muttered insult to Jimin, a disrespectful eye-roll to another teacher, a prank pulled on a friend, and the command would come: “Kim Taehyung. Professor Min’s office. Now.”

He would trudge down the familiar hall, his stomach a knot of dread and defiance. The punishment was always the same. “Stand in the corner. Face the wall. Arms in the air.” And he would stand. For what felt like hours. His arms would scream, his shoulders would burn, and his eyes would sting with angry, frustrated tears that he refused to let fall. He would stare at the blank wall, plotting elaborate and impossible revenges, his hatred for Professor Min solidifying into a cold, hard stone in his chest. This man wasn't just a teacher; he was a jailer, a torturer, the villain of his story. And Tae was determined to never, ever give him the satisfaction of winning.

The two months that followed were a slow, grinding torture for Tae. Professor Min’s presence was like a constant gray cloud over his life, and math class was the daily downpour. The initial fiery anger had banked into a low, constant simmer of misery. He was tired. Tired of the punishments, tired of the sharp tone of voice that seemed reserved just for him, and tired most of all of the numbers and symbols that refused to make any sense in his head.

He was standing in the corner of Professor Min’s office again. His arms, which had long since healed, were raised above his head out of pure, conditioned habit. This time, it was for talking back to the history teacher. It was always something.

Professor Min was at his desk, grading papers with quick, efficient slashes of his red pen. The silence was heavy, broken only by the scratch of the pen and the faint hum of the fluorescent light above. Taehyung’s arms began to ache, a familiar, dull throb.

Yoongi: “You can put your arms down,” He without looking up. “And come here.”

Surprised, Taehyung lowered his stiff arms, rubbing his shoulders. He warily approached the desk.

Professor Min slid a notebook across the polished surface. It was open to a page filled with Taehyung’s messy, half-hearted attempts at the previous night’s homework. Red marks covered it like wounds.

Yoongi: “You didn’t even try the last five problems,” he stated with a flat voice.

Taehyung shrugged, looking at a spot on the wall behind the professor’s head.

Tae: “Didn’t get it.”

Yoongi (sighed): “Sit.”

Taehyung sat, slouching deeply in the chair, preparing for another lecture.

But it didn’t come. Instead, Professor Min pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself.

Yoongi: “We’re going to go over it. Pay attention.”

And he began to explain. He started from the very beginning, breaking down the concepts into smaller, simpler steps. His voice was still stern but it lacked its usual cutting edge. He was actually trying to teach him.

But to Taehyung, it was just noise. The numbers swam on the page. ‘X’ and ‘Y’ were not variables to be solved; they were personal enemies. He’d listen for a minute, his brow furrowed in concentration, and then he’d get lost. The frustration would build, and his questions would come out all wrong.

Tae: “But why does the ‘y’ go over there?” he’d ask, pointing at a step that seemed to have happened by magic. “Who decided that? It was fine where it was.”

Yoongi would have to take a slow quiet breath every time he answered.

Yoongi: “It’s not about where it wants to be, Taehyung. It’s about algebraic rules. You isolate the variable.”

Tae: “Isolate it from what? Its friends?” Tae muttered, a childish sarcasm edging into his voice.

Another problem. Another attempt.

Yoongi: “Okay, so if you divide both sides by four…” He said, writing it out.

Tae: “But why four?” Tae interrupted as he tilted his head, looking absolutely innocent. “Why not five? It’s a nicer number. Four is so… uneven.”

Professor Min’s pen stilled. He closed his eyes for a brief second. Taehyung could see the muscle in his jaw tighten. The patient teacher was fading, and the stern professor was fighting his way back to the surface.

Yoongi: “It is four,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous one “because that is the coefficient in front of the variable. It is not a matter of preference.”

Tae: “I just don’t get it,” Tae said, throwing his hands up in defeat, his voice whiny. “It’s stupid. Why do I even need to know this? I’m never gonna use it. Am I gonna go to the store and ask for ‘x’ pounds of apples?”

That was the final straw. Yoongi’s patience, which had been stretched thinner than a wire, snapped.

He slammed his hand down on the desk. The sudden, sharp crack made Taehyung jump violently in his seat, his heart leaping into his throat.

Yoongi: “Enough!” Yoongi’s voice wasn’t a yell, but it was a hard, cold crack of sound that was somehow worse. “Stop acting like a brat! This is not a game! This is not a joke! Your willful ignorance is not charming, it is exhausting! Now, either you sit there, you shut your mouth, and you try to learn, or you go back to the corner for the rest of the hour. Your choice.”

Taehyung flinched back as if he’d been struck. The professor had never yelled like that before. The anger in his eyes was so intense, so real. Taehyung felt a sharp sting behind his own eyes. His lips began to wobble traitorously. He bit down on them hard, glaring at the desk, refusing to let the tears fall. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Yoongi saw it. He saw the wobble, the sheen of unshed tears, the way the boy’s bravado crumbled into something young and wounded. This kid. The anger drained from his face as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of profound weariness. He sighed, a long, heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of the world and picked up his pen again.

Yoongi: “Let’s try it one more time,” he said, his voice quiet now, all the fire gone out of it. “From the top.”

He explained it again, slower, with even more patience than before. Taehyung, humiliated and shaken, listened in silence. He still didn’t get it, not really but he was too afraid and too proud to ask another question.

When the end-of-the-day bell rang, signaling the end of Taehyung’s punishment, he practically leaped out of the chair.

Yoongi: “Wait,” Yoongi said and gestured to a tall stack of notebooks on the corner of his desk. “Take these back to the classroom for me. The janitor will lock up. I have to leave immediately.”

Taehyung stared at him. More errands? Was this part of the punishment too?

Yoongi was already grabbing his coat and bag, his movements rushed and uncharacteristically flustered. He looked… worried.

Yoongi: “I have to get home,” he muttered, more to himself than to Taehyung. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t say another word, just hurried out of the office, leaving Taehyung alone with the stack of notebooks.

Taehyung stood there for a moment, confused by the professor’s abrupt exit. And then an idea began to form. A glorious, terrible idea for revenge. The man had just yelled at him, humiliated him, made him feel small and stupid. And now he was in a hurry? This was the perfect opportunity.

A slow, wicked smile spread across Taehyung’s face. He grabbed the stack of notebooks and carried them to the empty classroom, dumping them unceremoniously on the teacher’s desk. His mind was racing, plotting.

He ran to the window that overlooked the faculty parking lot. There it was. Professor Min’s simple, dark sedan. He looked around. The lot was mostly empty. This was his chance.

He sprinted down the stairs and out into the parking lot, his heart pounding with a thrilling mix of fear and excitement. He pulled his house key from his pocket, its sharp point perfect for the job. With a quick, guilty glance around, he knelt by the driver’s side front tire and jammed the key into the rubber valve cap, twisting it until he heard the sharp, satisfying hiss of air escaping. He did the same to the other three tires. A perfect, flat set of tires. Let’s see him hurry home now.

Giggling to himself, he ran back into the school, his mind already planning the phase two of his plan. He found Wooshik and Dukhyun loitering by their lockers.

Tae: “Give me your phone,” he demanded, breathless from running.

Wooshik: “Why?” Wooshik asked, handing it over cautiously.

Tae: “Just watch,” Tae said, his eyes gleaming with malicious joy. He climbed the stairs to the empty, windy rooftop. He dialed Professor Min’s number from the contact list on the school’s website, which Wooshik had saved for some forgotten project.

The phone rang twice before it was answered.

Yoongi: “Hello? This is Professor Min.” He sounded out of breath, probably already at his car.

Taehyung pitched his voice higher, putting on a fake, panicked tone.

Tae: “Hello, is this Min Yoongi?”

Yoongi: “Yes, who is this?” Yoongi’s voice was tight with impatience.

Tae: “This is… this is Nurse Kim from Seoul General,” Tae stated, covering the phone to stifle his giggles. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but there’s been a terrible accident. Your mother… she took a very bad fall down a flight of stairs. I’m so sorry… she didn’t make it. You need to come to the hospital immediately.”

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Then, a sharp, choked intake of breath.

Yoongi: “What? No. That’s… that’s not possible. I just spoke to her—”

Taw: “I’m so sorry, sir. Please, you need to come now.” Tae couldn’t hold it in anymore. A giggle escaped him.

He heard a ragged, broken sound from the other end, then the line went dead. Tae burst into laughter, doubling over on the rooftop.

Tae: “You should have heard his voice!” he said to his friends, who were looking at him with a mixture of awe and unease. “He totally bought it! Serves him right!”

Meanwhile, Yoongi stood frozen in the parking lot, the world tilting on its axis. The phone slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the ground. His mother. His granny. The one person who had always been there. She didn’t make it. The words echoed in his head.

He stumbled toward his car, his vision blurring, and then he saw them. Four flat tires. A cold, sick realization washed over him. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was connected. Someone had done this. Someone had called him.

But the horror of the news pushed all logic aside. He didn’t have time to think. He spun around, his breath coming in short panicked gasps. The bus-stop. He sprinted toward the main road, his legs pumping, his heart hammering against his ribs like a wild bird. He saw the bus pulling away from the curb, its taillights disappearing into the traffic.

Yoongi: “No! Wait!” he screamed, but it was gone.

There was no other choice. He started to run. He ran like he had never run before, his dress shoes slapping hard against the pavement. The city became a blur of noise and motion around him. Tears he didn’t even feel were streaming down his face, mixing with the cold sweat on his skin. Images flashed in his mind: Granny’s smile, the way she hummed when she cooked, the feel of her hand on his forehead when he was sick. Gone. It was all gone. A fall down the stairs. She must have been so scared. He should have been there. He never should have left her alone.

The run felt like an eternity. His lungs burned, his side cramped with a sharp stitch, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He finally skidded to a halt in front of his house, fumbling with his keys, his hands shaking so badly he could barely get the key into the lock.

Yoongi: “Granny! GRANNY!” He threw the door open, his voice a raw, broken sob.

There was a moment of silence. Then, a familiar, gentle voice called from the living room.

Granny: “Yoongi? Is that you? Why are you shouting, you’ll scare the cat.”

He stumbled into the living room, his chest heaving. And there she was. Sitting on the sofa, wrapped in her favorite knitted shawl, the fat cat purring contentedly in her lap. The television was on, showing her favorite historical drama. A cup of tea steamed on the side table. She looked perfectly fine. A little pale perhaps, but alive. Whole.

The relief that crashed over him was so immense, so physical, that his legs gave out. He sank to his knees on the rug in front of her, great, wrenching sobs tearing from his chest. He buried his face in her lap, his whole body shaking, clutching the fabric of her shawl as if he were drowning.

Granny: “Yoongi! My boy, what is it? What’s wrong?” Granny asked, her voice laced with alarm and confusion. She dropped her knitting and placed her hands on his heaving shoulders. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

He couldn’t speak. He could only cry, all the terror and the panic and the unbearable grief he had felt for the last twenty minutes pouring out of him in a torrent of tears. He cried for the horrible phone call, for the flat tires, for the long, desperate run, but most of all, he cried for the few minutes he had lived in a world where she was gone. He held onto her, weeping like the lost little boy she had found on the street all those years ago, desperately grateful that his world was still whole.

The night had been long and sleepless for Yoongi. After the tidal wave of relief had receded, leaving him emotionally drained and holding his granny’s hand on the sofa for hours, a cold, hard anger began to form in his chest. Someone had done this. Someone had deliberately flattened his tires. Someone had made that monstrous, cruel phone call. The pieces clicked together with a terrible but obvious logic. The timing, right after he had left a furious and humiliated Kim Taehyung in his office. The childish, vicious nature of the prank. It had to be him. Who else would hate him that much? Who else was that reckless, that impulsive, that utterly without regard for consequences?

The anger that burned in him was different from the frustration he felt in the classroom. This was a deep and personal fury. That boy had weaponized the thing Yoongi cherished most in the world. He had taken the fear of losing his only family and used it as a plaything. It was unforgivable. And Yoongi was going to make the boy pay.

The next morning, Yoongi didn’t wait for the school day to follow its normal course. He didn’t send a note. He didn’t call Taehyung to his office during a free period. He went straight to the his class.

The first-period class was just settling down, the low hum of chatter filling the room. It died instantly when Professor Min appeared in the doorway. His face was pale, his eyes dark and burning with a cold fire that made the temperature in the room seem to drop several degrees. He didn’t look at the teacher. He didn’t acknowledge the class. His gaze zeroed in on one person.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

The name wasn’t yelled, but it cut through the silence like a knife.. Every head turned to look at Tae, who froze mid-sentence in whatever story he was telling Wooshik.

Yoongi: “With me. Now.”

Taehyung’s blood ran cold. He had never seen Professor Min look like this. The usual sternness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous. This wasn’t the annoyed teacher. This was something else entirely. A fear, the kind he’d never felt before, clenched in his stomach. He slowly, mechanically, pushed his chair back and stood up. His legs felt like jelly as he walked toward the door.

He followed the professor’s rigid back out of the classroom and down the silent hall. The walk to the office felt like a march to the gallows. Yoongi didn’t say a word. He just opened his office door, gestured for Tae to enter, and then followed him in. The sound of the lock clicking into place behind them was the most terrifying thing for Tae.

Yoongi: “Stand in the corner. Face the wall.”

The command was flat, devoid of any emotion except a simmering, controlled rage.

Tae’s heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his ears. He moved to the familiar spot, his body trembling. He couldn’t help himself. In a tiny, terrified voice that didn’t sound like his own, he whispered,

Tae: “W-what did I do, sir?”

The reaction was immediate and terrifying.

Yoongi: “Just do what I said!” Yoongi shouted. His voice was filled with so much raw anger that Tae flinched as if he had been physically struck. He snapped his mouth shut, tears of fear already springing to his eyes, and faced the wall, raising his arms.

And so he stood. The minutes dragged into hours. The first hour was pure fear, his body tense, listening to every sound behind him---the scrape of a chair, the rustle of papers, the slow breathing of the furious man at the desk. The second hour was pain. His shoulders screamed. His legs ached from standing perfectly still. A cramp began to form in his calf. Every time he dared to shift his weight even slightly, or let his arms droop a fraction of an inch, that voice would slice through the silence.

“Don’t move.”

“Arms up.”

The commands were sharp, cold, and terrifying. There was no discussion, no lesson, no attempt to teach. This was pure punishment. Almost revenge.

Tae had never experienced anything like it in his entire life. His parents had never treated him like that. Never yelled at him. Never terrified him like that. Their worst scolding was a disappointed sigh. They had never raised a hand to him, never raised their voices in true anger. This was a different world. This was a cold, hard authority that saw his defiance not as childishness, but as a personal offense that demanded a severe response. He felt smaller and more powerless than he ever had. The tears that tracked down his cheeks were no longer just from physical discomfort; they were from a deep, bewildering feeling of being utterly crushed.

When the bell for recess finally rang, Tae’s whole body sagged with a relief so profound it made him dizzy.

Yoongi: “Come here.”

The command was quiet. Tae turned around, his movements stiff and painful. He shuffled to the front of the desk, unable to meet Professor Min’s eyes. He looked down at his own shuffling feet, his face blotchy and wet with tears, his bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. He looked like a very young, very scared child.

Yoongi looked at him, at the clear imprint of his misery, and for a moment, the cold anger was the only thing he let himself feel. He stood up, walked around the desk, and stood in front of the boy.

And then he did it.

His hand moved almost at its own will. The slap cracked against Tae’s cheek hard.

It wasn’t a beatdown. It was a single, shocking act. But for Taehyung, it was a cataclysm.

The world stopped. The sting on his cheek was nothing compared to the psychological earthquake that followed. No one had ever hit him. Ever. His parents had never so much as spanked him. This violation of his Yoongi broke something inside him. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, his hand slowly coming up to his reddening cheek, his eyes wide with a shock so deep it was beyond tears for a moment.

Yoongi didn’t see the shattered look in his eyes. He was too busy unleashing the words he had been holding back all morning.

Yoongi: “You think you’re clever?” he snapped with a venomous voice. “You think flattening my tires was a funny joke? You think calling me and lying about my mother… about her dying… was something to giggle about?”

Tae’s breath hitched. Tears roll down his cheeks as he let out a tiny sob. He knew. He knew everything.

Yoongi: “I stood in my parking lot and believed my only family was dead because of you,” Yoongi’s voice trembled with a mixture of fury and the remembered horror. “I ran across this city thinking my world had ended. Do you have any idea what that feels like? Any idea at all?”

He leaned in closer, and Tae instinctively shrank back.

Yoongi: “You are a spoiled, vicious, thoughtless brat. Your parents have done you no favors by never telling you ‘no.’ But I am not your mother. I am not your father. I will not tolerate your disgusting behavior. If you ever, ever pull a stunt like that again, I won’t bother with this office. I will drag you to the principal myself and make sure you are expelled so fast your head will spin. Do you understand me?”

Tae could only manage a tiny, jerky nod. The dam broke then. The initial shock wore off, and the sobs came, they were great, heaving, messy sobs that shook his whole body. They were the kind of cries that came from a place of complete overwhelm, of fear, of pain, of humiliation, and of a profound and world-shattering realization that he had crossed a line into a darkness he never knew existed.

Yoongi: “Get out. Go to your class.” Yoongi said, his own anger finally spent, leaving behind a hollow exhaustion.

Taehyung turned and fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking too badly to work it properly. He finally yanked the door open and stumbled out into the hallway. He didn’t care that students were milling about for recess. He didn’t care about anything. The sobs kept coming, loud and uncontrollable, hiccupping out of him as he walked blindly down the hall.

Wooshik and Dukhyun saw him first. Their jokes died on their lips when they saw the state he was in---the red cheek, the tears streaming down his face, the utterly broken expression.

Wooshik: “Tae? Hey, what happened?” Wooshik asked, rushing to his side.

Dukhyun: "Why did Professor Min call you? What did he do? Why are you crying? Tae?" Dukhyun asked, following right behind Wooshik.

Tae couldn’t answer. He just shook his head, crying too hard to form words.

Jimin spotted him from across the hall, a teasing remark ready about him finally getting what he deserved. But when he saw Tae’s face, the words died. This wasn’t the usual angry, post-punishment pouting. This was something else. This was real distress. Jimin just stared, his own smirk fading into a look of uneasy confusion. He didn’t say anything and just walked past him quietly.

Taehyung pushed past his friends and went into the classroom. He collapsed into his chair, buried his face in his arms on the desk, and cried. He cried through the entire recess and the remaining two lectures, his body shuddering with the force of his sobs. His friends and teachers hovered around him, patting his back awkwardly, asking worried questions he couldn’t answer. They had never seen him like this. He was always so loud, so defiant, so… unbreakable. Now he just looked broken and they doesn't know what to do.

When the final bell rang, he wordlessly shoved his books into his bag, not even bothering to zip it, and walked out of the school. He ignored Wooshik calling after him, telling him the bus was leaving. He just started walking, his head down, his shoulders slumped. He looked smaller, younger than his eighteen years, a lonely figure walking along the busy sidewalk and crying like babies.

The walk toward home was a blur of misery. Every few steps, a fresh wave of sobs would hit him. He remembered the slap, the feel of it, the sound. He remembered the look in Professor Min’s eyes, the pure hatred. He remembered the words: vicious, thoughtless brat. They echoed in his head, and each time they did, a new sob would escape.

Meanwhile, back in his office, Yoongi sat at his desk, the silence feeling heavier than before. The image of Taehyung’s face, right before he had started sobbing, wouldn’t leave him. It wasn’t the face of a defiant bully. It was the face of a terrified kid. He thought of the email from Taehyung’s mother. Be gentle with him. He becomes frustrated. A knot of guilt began to twist in his stomach alongside the fading anger. Had he been too harsh?

When the school ended, he packed up his things and drove home, his mind completely troubled. As he was driving through the afternoon traffic, his eyes caught a familiar figure walking on the sidewalk ahead. It was Taehyung. And even from the car, Yoongi could see the boy’s shoulders shaking. He was still crying.

Yoongi’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The guilt twisted sharper. He couldn’t just drive past. He pulled the car over to the curb a little ways ahead of him and got out.

Yoongi: “Kim Taehyung.”

Tae looked up at the voice, his eyes red and swollen, his face a mess of tears. When he saw who it was, he froze like a deer in headlights. Then he took a stumbling step backward, a fresh wave of fear flashing across his face.

Tae: “I… I’m just going home,” he stammered, his voice thick with tears.

Yoongi: “Come on, I’ll drive you,” Yoongi said after a moment, his tone softer than he intended.

But Tae shook his head violently, backing away further.

Tae: “No. No, it’s okay. I’ll w-walk.”

He was crying in earnest again, hiccupping sobs that made his whole body tremble. He started to push past Yoongi, his movements uncoordinated and panicky, like a toddler having a meltdown.

Yoongi reached out, not to grab him hard, but to steady him. The moment his hand touched Taehyung’s arm, he felt the heat radiating through the boy’s skin. He had a fever. Probably from standing for hours in a state of high stress, or from the sheer emotional wreckage of the day.

Yoongi: “You’re sick,” Yoongi said, his concern now overriding everything else. He couldn’t leave a sick, sobbing student alone on the street. The memory of his mother’s email telling him to be gentle haunted him.

Tae: “Let go!” Tae cried, trying to weakly push Yoongi’s hand away, but he was too exhausted and upset to put up a real fight.

Just then, a man walking with his dog slowed down, frowning at the scene.

Man: “Is everything alright here?” he asked, his tone suspicious, looking from the sobbing teenager to the adult trying to maneuver him.

Yoongi felt a flush of frustration. He sighed, putting on his best responsible-adult voice.

Yoongi: “It’s fine,” he said, offering the man a tight, weary smile. “He’s my brother. He’s not feeling well, had a bad day at school, and he’s throwing a bit of a fit. You know how teenagers are.”

The man looked skeptical for a moment, but then nodded slowly, apparently deciding it was none of his business, and continued on his way.

With the bystander gone, Yoongi made a decision. He couldn’t reason with Taehyung in this state. The boy was too stubborn and too out of mind. So he bent down, and before Tae could protest further, he scooped him up. Taehyung was surprisingly light. He was all limbs and angles, and he went limp now, too exhausted and feverish and emotionally spent to fight anymore. He just cried quietly, his face buried against Yoongi’s shoulder as he was carried to the car.

Yoongi opened the back door and gently laid him down on the seat. Taehyung curled into a ball immediately, his body still shaking with silent sobs. Yoongi closed the door, got into the driver’s seat, and started the car. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the heartbreakingly small figure in his back seat, and for the first time, he wondered if, in his rage, he had become the monster Taehyung always said he was.

He sighed and looked ahead, driving through the busy traffic. The quiet hum of the car engine was the only sound, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions that had just happened. In the backseat, Taehyung’s sobs had quieted, but his breathing was still hitching, the occasional soft, sad sound escaping him as he curled into himself.

Yoongi kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his own anger now completely gone, replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling in his stomach. The sight of the boy, so small and broken-looking, was doing a number on his conscience.

Yoongi: “Taehyung,” he began, his voice much softer than it had been in the office. It sounded strange, even to his own ears. “Look… what you did… the tires, that phone call… that was…” He struggled to find the right words. Scolding him again felt wrong now. “You can’t do things like that. You understand that, right? It’s not a joke. What you did… it hurts people. Really hurts them.”

He saw Taehyung’s shoulders tense up slightly, but the boy didn’t turn around.

Yoongi: “I shouldn’t have hit you,” Yoongi said, the admission feeling both difficult and necessary. “A teacher should never do that. It was wrong. I was… I was very angry and very scared because of what you did, and I lost my temper. I’m sorry for that part.”

He was trying to be reasonable. He was trying to explain, to make the boy see the cause and effect, to make him understand the gravity of his actions without just terrorizing him. But the words seemed to just hang in the air, unanswered.

Yoongi: “Taehyung?” he tried again. “Can you tell me your address? I need to take you home. Your parents must be worried.”

There was no response. Just the quiet, shaky breathing that made yoongi frustrated. He glanced back again and asked.

Yoongi: "Are you listening to me? I need to know where you live.”

Still nothing. Worried now, Yoongi pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned fully in his seat.

Yoongi: “Taehyung?”

The boy was asleep. Or passed out. His eyes were closed, his tear-streaked face was pale, and his breathing, while still a little hitching, was deep and even. The emotional exhaustion and the fever had finally pulled him under completely.

Yoongi sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul. He almost groaned out loud. What was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t drive around the city with an unconscious student in his backseat. He didn’t know where he lived. He couldn’t just shake him awake; the kid looked completely wiped out.

There was only one option, as inconvenient and complicated as it was but it was the only option he had left. He put the car back in drive and headed for his own home.

Pulling into his driveway, the reality of the situation hit him. He had a passed-out student in his car. He got out, opened the back door, and looked at Taehyung. The boy was dead to the world. With another sigh, Yoongi leaned in and carefully gathered him up. Taehyung was light and he slumped bonelessly against Yoongi’s chest. He carried him into the house, grumbling under his breath about the absurdity of it all, but a thread of genuine concern was woven through his annoyance. The boy was burning up.

He laid Taehyung down gently on the living room sofa, propping a cushion under his head. The boy didn’t stir.

The sound of movement brought granny shuffling out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

Granny: “Yoongi? Is that you? I thought I heard the car—” She stopped short, her eyes widening in shock at the sight in front of her.

Granny: “What in the world…?”

Yoongi turned to see his granny standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes were wide with shock as she took in the scene: her grandson depositing a strange, unconscious young man on her sofa.

Granny: “Ya! Yoongi! What is this? Who is this boy? Did you kidnap someone?” she asked, her voice a mixture of alarm and disbelief.

Yoongi ran a hand over his face, feeling a massive headache coming on.

Yoongi: “No, Granny, I didn’t kidnap him. He’s one of my students.” He said in a tired voice.

Granny: “Your student? Why is he here? And why is he sleeping? Is he dead?” she asked, peering worriedly at Taehyung’s still form.

Yoongi (sighed): “He’s not dead. He… He is just... sleeping, granny."

Granny: “And why is he… asleep?” she asked, coming closer for a better look. She gasped softly when she saw Taehyung’s red, puffy eyes and pale complexion. “He’s been crying. Yoongi, what did you do?”

The direct question made him wince.

Yoongi: “I… I punished him. At school. I was too harsh. He… he did something really bad, Granny, something awful, and I got very angry. I yelled and I… I hit him.” The confession tasted bitter.

Granny’s face fell. She looked from Yoongi’s guilty expression to the sleeping boy on the couch.

Granny: “You hit a child?” she asked, her tone heavy with disappointment. “Yoongi…”

Yoongi: “I know, I know,” he said, cutting her off. He didn’t need the lecture right now. “He cried himself sick and passed out in my car. I didn’t know where he lived. I had to bring him here. He has a fever, I think.”

Granny: “He looks like a baby,” she murmured, stepping closer to the couch and brushing Taehyung’s sweaty hair back from his forehead. Her touch was gentle. “So young. And he has a fever? You made a child so upset he got sick? What is wrong with you?”

Yoongi had no answer. He just stood there, feeling smaller under granny’s gaze than he had in years.

Granny’s expression softened from disappointment to concern. She leaned over and placed a cool, wrinkled hand on Taehyung’s forehead.

Granny: “He’s burning up, poor thing.” She muttered softly. “He’s just a boy. Look at him. Why were you so harsh?”

Yoongi again didn’t have an answer. He just shook his head, the guilt eating at him. He watched as his granny bustled away to the kitchen, muttering about finding her remedies.

That’s when he noticed the cat. Lilly, their fat, fluffy white cat, had jumped onto the couch and was curiously sniffing Taehyung’s limp hand. Then she started licking his fingers with her rough pink tongue, purring loudly.

Yoongi: “Lilly, no. Get down,” Yoongi said, shooing the cat away. She gave him a indignant meow but jumped off the couch, settling on a nearby armchair to watch with judgmental green eyes.

Alone with the sleeping boy, Yoongi just stood there for a moment, watching him. In sleep, all the defiance and brattiness was gone. He just looked young. Too young. And sick. Yoongi’s own words echoed in his head: vicious, thoughtless brat. They felt wrong now. He had been vicious himself. He had been the adult, and he had lost control.

He needed to call the boy’s parents. They must be out of their minds with worry. He gently patted down Taehyung’s pockets and found his phone. The screen lit up, but it was password locked. He tried a few basic combinations like 1234, 0000, etc but nothing worked. He sighed, putting the phone back.

Then he remembered the email. Jihu. Taehyung’s mother. He went to his room, booted up his laptop, and found her email from months before. He typed a quick, professional message, trying to sound calm and in control.

Mrs. Kim, this is Professor Min. Taehyung is with me. He became ill at school and fell asleep in my car before he could tell me his address. He has a slight fever but is resting now. Please send me your address and I will bring him home immediately.

He hit send and waited, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. He imagined a frantic mother, pacing the floor. He wouldn’t blame her if she called the police.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Professor Min, thank you for letting me know! We were so worried! He didn’t come home on the bus and he wasn’t answering his phone! Is he okay? What happened? Why does he have a fever? Is he hurt!? Our address is 23 Skyline Apartments, building B, apartment 304. Please, let me know if he needs a doctor. Please, should I come get him? Please tell me he is alright.

The email was filled with exclamation points and worry. Yoongi felt another pang of guilt. We were so worried. He wrote back a short reassurance that he would bring Taehyung home soon and that he just seemed tired and feverish.

He is resting. He is not hurt. I will bring him home shortly.

He headed back downstairs, the address saved on his phone. The scene in the living room had changed. Taehyung was awake. He was propped up slightly on the couch cushions, looking dazed and confused, his eyes glassy with fever. Granny was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, holding a small bowl of steaming, dark liquid that smelled strongly of herbs and something bitter.

Granny: “Here, sweetie, just a few sips,” Granny was saying in her gentlest voice. “It will help with the fever. It’s yucky, but it works.”

Taehyung looked at the bowl like it was poison. His lower lip trembled, and he looked like he was about to start crying again from sheer confusion and discomfort.

And Lilly was back, having taken advantage of Yoongi’s absence. She was perched on Taehyung’s legs, kneading his jeans with her paws, purring like a little engine.

Yoongi sighed, walking into the room.

Yoongi: “Lilly, I said get down from him. He is not a toy." He gently lifted the cat off and placed her on the floor. She meowed in protest, refusing to be deterred, and glarred back at Yoongi. Then she jumped and managed to climb onto the back of the sofa and was now attempting to perch on Taehyung’s head, purring loudly as if trying to show what she is capable of.

Granny: “No, no, you silly creature, get down from there!" Granny scolded the cat with a glare then turned to look at the other cat. "Yoongi! keep that creature away from him; she’ll try to sit on his face and suffocate him.”

Yoongi: “Hey, get off,” Yoongi grumbled, gently shooing the cat away. The animal gave him another indignant look but jumped down, stalking off with its tail in the air, completely satisfied with herself.

He then looked at Taehyung, who had flinched slightly when Yoongi approached. The fear was back in his eyes, mixed with the feverish haze.

Yoongi: “You’re at my house,” Yoongi explained, keeping his voice low and calm. “You passed out in the car. You have a fever. My mother is trying to help you.” He gestured to the bowl. “You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to. I got your address from your mum. I’ll take you home in a few minutes, okay?”

Taehyung just stared at him. Then his eyes drifted down to his own lap. He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even seem to process the information fully. He just sat there, looking small and lost and utterly defeated.

Granny looked at Yoongi, her expression saying, See what you did?

And Yoongi did see. The fire of defiance that had always burned in Kim Taehyung’s eyes was completely gone. It hadn’t been extinguished by a firm lesson; it had been snuffed out by fear. The boy wasn’t just scared of getting in trouble anymore. He was scared of him. Yoongi had wanted to teach him a lesson, to shock him out of his spoiled behavior. But looking at the silent, broken boy on his couch, he realized with a sickening lurch that he might have gone too far. He hadn’t just punished him; he had broken his spirit.

The silence was thick and uncomfortable. Seeing Taehyung so withdrawn, so unlike his usual loud self, was making Yoongi’s guilt feel like a physical weight on his chest. He needed a minute to think, to get away from the proof of what he’d done.

Yoongi: “I’m… I’m going to take a quick shower,” Yoongi announced, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet space. He looked at his granny. “Just… let me know when he’s feeling a bit more awake, and I’ll take him home.”

Granny just nodded, her attention fully on the feverish boy, gently coaxing him to take another sip of the bitter soup. Yoongi retreated upstairs, the hot water doing little to wash away his unease.

By the time he came back down, clean and dressed in fresh clothes, the evening light was starting to fade. He found the living room empty. He heard voices from further inside the house and followed them.

He found granny giving Tae a slow, gentle tour of their small home. Taehyung was walking slowly, still looking pale and a bit unsteady, but more aware now. His eyes, though, were distant, like he was only half-listening.

Granny: “...and this is the kitchen,” Granny was saying, her voice warm. “Not very big, but it’s enough for an old lady and her grumpy grandson.” She chuckled. “Do you like to cook, dear?”

Tae shook his head slightly.

Tae: “No, ma’am,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

Granny: “Ah, a smart boy. Let others do the work,” she said with a wink. She led him back toward the living room, pointing out various knick-knacks. Taehyung’s gaze drifted around the room but kept getting pulled back to one wall, a wall Granny called her “memory wall.” It was a chaotic, beautiful collage of hundreds of photographs, a visual history of her life with Yoongi. There were pictures of a tiny Yoongi on his first day of school, a teenage Yoongi looking sullen with a graduation cap, Yoongi and Granny at the beach in Jeju, countless birthdays and holidays.

Taehyung was staring at it, a faint frown on his face, as if trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Yoongi: “Alright,” Yoongi said, stepping into the room. “I’m ready. We should get you home before your parents call the national guard.”

Granny immediately turned and fixed him with a stern look.

Granny: “Absolutely not! You will not send this boy home on an empty stomach. It’s nearly dinnertime. He will eat first.”

Yoongi: “Granny, his parents are waiting,” Yoongi argued, though it was a weak protest.

Granny: “They can wait another hour,” she said firmly, hands on her hips. “We have a guest for the first time since we moved to this city, and you want to kick him out? Nonsense! He needs proper food, not just my bitter medicine. We’re having dinner.”

Yoongi sighed, knowing better than to argue with her when she used that tone.

Yoongi: “Fine. Dinner. Then we go.”

He noticed that Taehyung hadn’t even looked at him during this exchange. His eyes were still glued to the memory wall, his head tilted slightly. He seemed fascinated by something, but Yoongi just shrugged it off. The kid was probably still out of it from the fever.

Dinner was a quiet, awkward affair. Granny had made a simple but hearty stew and rice. She chatted away, asking Taehyung gentle questions about where he lived, what his parents did, if he had any hobbies. Taehyung answered in short, polite sentences, but his mind seemed elsewhere.

Granny: “Do you have any brothers or sisters, dear?” Granny asked, passing him a bowl of rice.

Taehyung shook his head, staring at his food.

Tae: “No. It’s just me.” He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “Well, there was… my parents had another son before me. But he… he died when he was little. Drowned at the beach.”

A somber silence fell over the table. Granny made a soft, sympathetic sound.

Granny: “Oh, you poor things. I’m so sorry. That must have been so hard for your family.”

Taehyung just nodded, pushing a piece of vegetable around his bowl with his chopsticks. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t seem sad, just matter-of-fact, like he was repeating a story he had heard many times but had no personal connection to.

Yoongi ate in silence, watching him. The boy’s quietness was unnerving. He was so different from the loud, defiant pest who had plagued his classroom for months. This version of Kim Taehyung was… fragile. And Yoongi felt responsible for breaking him.

After dinner, Granny insisted on packing some leftover cookies for Taehyung “for the road,” and made him promise to visit her again when he was feeling better. She gave Yoongi a look that clearly said, Be nice to him.

Finally, they were in the car. The drive to Skyline Apartments was completely silent. Taehyung stared out the passenger window, watching the city lights blur past. Yoongi tried once to break the ice.

Yoongi: “Feeling any better?” he asked.

No response. Tae didn’t even seem to hear him.

Yoongi: “Look, about today…” Yoongi started, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? Sorry I terrorized you so badly you got sick and passed out? It sounded ridiculous. He gave up and drove the rest of the way in silence.

They pulled up to the apartment building. Taehyung moved to get out, but he was still wobbly. Yoongi quickly got out, grabbed Tae's schoolbag from the backseat, and came around to his side.

Yoongi: “I’ll walk you up,” he said.

Tae didn’t argue. He just let Yoongi guide him into the building and toward the elevator. He seemed too tired to protest.

When they reached apartment 304, Yoongi was about to ring the bell when the door flew open. Jihu and Jeongjin were there, their faces etched with worry that instantly melted into relief.

Jihu: “Taehyung-ah!” Jihu cried, pulling her son into a tight hug, peppering his face with kisses. “My baby! We were so worried! Why didn’t you call? Are you okay? Your face is so warm!”

Jeongjin was right behind her, his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder, his own worry evident.

Jeongjin: “What happened, Tae? Professor Min said you were sick.”

Tae, for the first time since the office, seemed to come alive a little. He leaned into his mother’s embrace, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

Tae: “My head hurts, Omma,” he whined, his voice taking on that childish tone he used with his parents. “And my whole body aches.”

Jihu: “Oh, my poor boy,” Jihu cooed, leading him toward the living room couch. “Come, come, lie down. Jeongjin, get the thermometer and a blanket. And some water.”

Jeongjin hurried off. Yoongi stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding Taehyung’s bag. He watched the scene unfold, the immediate, smothering love, the effortless way Taehyung slipped back into the role of the cherished son. A sharp, unexpected pang of longing shot through him. This is what it was like to have parents. This is what he had missed his whole life.

Jihu: “Professor Min, please, come in, come in!” Jihu said, noticing him still standing there. “Thank you so much for bringing him home. We can’t thank you enough for looking after him.” Her gratitude was so genuine, so warm, that it made Yoongi’s guilt flare up again.

Yoongi: “It was no trouble,” he mumbled, stepping inside and placing the bag by the door. He just wanted to leave, to escape the overwhelming family scene.

Jihu: “Nonsense! You must have been so worried yourself. Let me get you some tea,” Jihu said, bustling toward the kitchen.

Yoongi: “Really, it’s okay, I should be going—” Yoongi started, but Jeongjin reappeared with a blanket and a bottle of water.

Jeongjin: “No, no, stay for a moment, Professor,” Jeongjin said, his voice firm but friendly. “We owe you a great debt. Our son can be a handful. For you to take care of him like this… we are very grateful. Just gimme a moment, I will be back, had to find fever reducer." Then he disappeared into the room to find some medicines.

Left alone for a moment, Yoongi’s eyes instinctively scanned the room, taking in the comfortable, lived-in space. And then his gaze landed on the wall behind the couch where Taehyung now lying.

It was a gallery of family photos, much like Granny’s wall, but neater, more organized. There were several frames. One showed a beaming Taehyung, probably from middle school, his smile wide and carefree. Another was a wedding photo of Jihu and Jeongjin, looking young and happy. A third was a recent family portrait, the three of them together.

But it was the fourth and fifth frames that made Yoongi’s breath catch in his throat.

The fourth held a picture of a baby. A happy, chubby-cheeked baby with dark hair and big, curious eyes. It was a sweet, normal baby picture.

But the fifth frame… the fifth frame held a photo of a little boy, about three years old. He was wearing a specific blue and white striped shirt and tiny denim overalls. He was being carried in the arms of a younger Jeongjin, while a younger Jihu stood beside them, smiling down at him. The little boy was laughing, his gummy smile full on displaym

Yoongi knew that photo. He had an almost identical one on Granny’s memory wall. He knew that shirt. Granny had kept it, folded in a box of his baby things. He knew that laugh. It was him.

His heart stopped. His blood ran cold. He stared, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. That was him. In this house. With these people. What was his picture doing on their wall?

Tae, sensing the sudden shift in the room, followed Yoongi’s frozen stare. He looked at the wall behind him, at the pictures he had seen every day of his life. He saw the baby picture of the brother he never knew. He saw the picture of his brother as a toddler with their parents.

And then his own brain, fuzzy with fever, finally made the connection it had been struggling to make back at Yoongi’s house. The three-year-old in that photo on the wall… he had just seen him. On Professor Min’s memory wall. The same picture. The same clothes. The same laugh.

His eyes, glassy with fever, widened in slow-motion realization. He looked from the photo of the three-year-old in the picture, to Professor Min’s pale, shocked face. The same eyes. The same nose. The same… everything.

The pieces, impossibly, horrifyingly, began to click into place.

The brother his parents never talked about. The one who drowned. The one whose room was always kept closed. The one whose picture his mother sometimes cried over.

He never drowned.

And Professor Min.

The man who had been so harsh, so cruel to him.

The man whose mother he had pretended was dead.

The man who had just slapped him, made him stand for hours, and reduced him to a sobbing mess.

The man whose picture was on their wall.

The math he couldn’t understand suddenly solved itself in the most terrifying way possible.

Professor Min was the baby in the picture. Professor Min was his parents' first son. Professor Min was his brother. The brother who was supposed to be dead.

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. A silent, shaky gasp escaped him.

Yoongi heard the sound and his eyes snapped down to meet Taehyung's. The boy was staring at him, his face as white as a sheet, his fever forgotten. His expression was a mirror of Yoongi's own: utter, world-shattering shock.

Yoongi’s own eyes were wide, his face pale as a sheet. He was looking from the photo to Taehyung, and then to the photos of Jihu and Jeongjin, and back to Taehyung, his mind reeling, the world tilting on its axis.

For a long, endless moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. The only sound was the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen and Jeongjin humming as he searched for medicine in another room.

The world had shrunk down to this living room, to these two people connected by blood and history and a terrible, long-held secret, staring at each other across a space of a few feet, with the evidence of their shared past staring back at them from the wall.

All the anger, the resentment, the fear, the punishments, it all melted away, replaced by something so huge and so confusing that neither of them could begin to process it. The man Taehyung had hated and feared for months wasn't just his strict professor.

He was family. He was the ghost his mother cried for. He was the brother Taehyung never knew he had.

And Yoongi was looking at the spoiled, bratty student he had resented and punished, and seeing him not as a nuisance, but as his little brother. The little brother who had grown up in the home he should have had, with the parents he should have known.

They stared at each other across the room, and the realization sank in. They are brothers. The angry professor and the bratty student were brothers.