The K-pop industry doesn't nurture stars. It devours them, polishes their bones, and parades them under spotlights as proof of perfection.

And Taehyung?

He learned early how to devour it back.

It was never just about fame for him. Not the blinding lights, the screaming fans, or even the towering record-breaking charts. It was about power. Control. Creating art so immaculate, it forced the world to watch—even when it burned him from the inside out.

Now, with a solo empire under his name and a luxury label that trains idols like weapons, Kim Taehyung is untouchable. Cold-blooded in the boardroom. A god on stage. The industry bowed not out of respect, but fear. He demanded perfection—and he got it.

So when he saw him, everything shifted.

Not in some soft, poetic, love-at-first-sight way. No. That wasn’t how Taehyung functioned.

He was just scrolling through submissions—videos of hopeful trainees groveling for a spot in his elite program—when a clip caught his eye.

Grainy footage.

A shitty dance studio.

Horrible lighting.

And in the middle of it all: Jeon Jungkook.

Hair sweat-drenched, body cut with defiant grace, movements sharp like shattered glass. And eyes—those damn eyes—like he dared the world to touch him. Taehyung leaned forward.

The boy didn’t perform like he wanted to be accepted.

He performed like he couldn’t care less if he was rejected.

It pissed Taehyung off. But It intrigued him more.

“Who is this?” he asked, voice low and unreadable.

His assistant fumbled for the file. “Jeon Jungkook. Trainee from Zenith Entertainment. Small company. Barely has funding to feed its staff.”

“Not anymore,” Taehyung said flatly, already pulling out his phone. “Buy it.”

The assistant blinked. “The whole agency?”

Taehyung’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Every last brick.”

–––

Three weeks later, Jungkook was standing in the sleek, chrome training halls of V-Verse Entertainment, staring at the company logo like it personally insulted him.

He didn’t want to be here.

He didn’t want him.

“Mr. Kim has requested you to attend the choreography session today. He’ll be observing,” the staff member said.

“Observing or playing puppet master?” Jungkook muttered.

She flinched. “He’s...very hands-on.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “More like controlling. Tell him I’m not some lapdog.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she whispered and scurried off.

Jungkook turned, jaw tight, heart thumping with rage and adrenaline. He’d worked too hard, clawed too far, to become someone’s project. He knew what Taehyung’s type was—perfect, obedient idols, easy to brand and easier to break.

Well, he wasn’t one of them.

And if Kim Taehyung thought he could just toss a leash around his throat—

The door opened.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

And then he walked in.

Kim Taehyung.

Dressed in black from head to toe, sharp jawline casting shadows, rings glinting under cold white lights. His gaze swept the room, then landed on Jungkook like a hunter spotting prey.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow.

He just crossed his arms and tilted his head with mock innocence. “So, this is the control freak who bought my life.”

Taehyung’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smirk. “And you must be the stray I picked up from the alley.”

Jungkook’s blood simmered. “I’m not here to be tamed.”

“Good,” Taehyung murmured, walking forward. “Tamed idols are boring. I prefer something... volatile.”

He circled Jungkook like he was inspecting merchandise. Jungkook stood still, spine straight, eyes locked with his like a challenge.

“Strip,” Taehyung said suddenly.

Jungkook blinked. “Excuse me?”

“For measurements,” Taehyung said calmly. “Your current styling is tragic. I want full control over your wardrobe. Your body is a brand now. My brand.”

“Go to hell,” Jungkook shot back, fire rising behind his eyes.

Taehyung leaned in close—too close. “Baby boy, you’re already in it.”

–––

The war started that day.

Jungkook would show up late to training, only to find the doors locked on purpose.

Taehyung would rewrite his song lyrics without telling him, making subtle changes to expose vulnerability Jungkook never wanted on display.

Jungkook would purposely mess up choreography during recording, smirking at the cameras.

Taehyung would pause the footage, replay it with a click of his fingers, and whisper in his ear: “Again. This time, don’t dance like a brat who needs punishment.”

Sometimes, late at night in the studio, Jungkook would catch Taehyung watching him through the glass. Not with approval.

But hunger.

Something dark and slow-burning. Like obsession.

And when he asked, “Do you enjoy controlling me?”

Taehyung simply smiled. “I enjoy watching you try to break free.”

–––

But fame had its cost.

With every viral stage, Jungkook’s popularity exploded. His fan cams dominated social media. Fans called him a “visual savage.” Stylists gushed about him. Other idols flirted.

And that’s when things changed.

Taehyung didn’t smile when he saw Jungkook laughing with a backup dancer.

Didn’t speak when he caught someone touching his wrist too long.

But that night, Jungkook found his choreography schedule replaced.

“Room B3. Private. With Mr. Kim.”

He showed up annoyed—and left with legs shaking, breath ragged, lips bitten from how close they’d gotten in that suffocating room.

Still no kiss. Still no confessions.

Just tension that clung like smoke.

–––

The industry watched the two of them with curiosity and fear.

The prodigy idol turned emperor.

The defiant rogue turned rising star.

Together, they were unpredictable. Dangerous.

And somewhere between the control and chaos, the sparks turned into wildfire.

But in the world of velvet chains—where power is currency, desire is weaponized, and love is the biggest vulnerability—

only one thing is certain:

The show has only just begun.

“You changed the choreography again.”

My voice echoed through the sleek, mirrored dance studio—sharp, clipped, and way too calm for the storm building behind my eyes. I've been practicing for a solo song even before debuting as a group, I had a lot of things on my plate.

Group rehearsals, photoshoots, upcoming ads (He made it solo for me), single after a few months and he keeps making changes for perfection.

Taehyung didn’t look up from where he sat, legs crossed like royalty on the elevated platform, fingers lazily scrolling through his iPad. His black shirt hugged him like a threat. His ring glinted under artificial lights as he adjusted his grip. I hated how I noticed such insignificant things.

“I did,” he said simply, not even sparing a glance. “The last version didn’t make you look hungry enough.”

My jaw ticked. “I’m not a goddamn stray dog.”

“No,” Taehyung replied, finally lifting his gaze—dark and gleaming like onyx. “Dogs are loyal.”

I took a step forward, sweat-slicked hair falling over my forehead. “You don’t fucking own me.”

Taehyung set the iPad aside and stood, moving like the floor obeyed him. “You’re under my company. On my stage. Wearing clothes I approved. Singing lyrics I rewrote. And dancing to steps I choreographed.” His voice dropped to a whisper, velvet and venom. “Tell me again how you’re not mine.”

My breath hitched—just for a second. And Taehyung caught it. He always did.

We stood toe to toe now, and the air between us buzzed like static before a thunderstorm. Taehyung smelled like expensive cologne and danger. His presence pressed down like a weight i refused to kneel under.

“Keep dreaming,” i said, eyes narrow.

“I do,” Taehyung murmured, a smirk pulling at his lips. “About breaking you.”

Before i could snap back, the studio door opened.

Sera Choi, a mature/close to middle aged women and our group manager, peeked in like she was trying not to breathe too loud. “Sorry—uh, they need you both at the rehearsal hall. Stage layout briefing.”

Taehyung didn’t look away from me and answered “We’ll be there.”

Manager Choi blinked “Together?”

Taehyung’s smirk widened. “Always.”

I felt the unsettling chill at the sudden husk in his voice but I'd be damned if I dared point that out.

I simply didn't care.

The ride to the Rehearsal hall was silent.

I sat pressed against the window of Taehyung’s private blacked-out van, arms crossed, legs twitching with bottled-up fire. Taehyung lounged beside me like we weren’t one wrong word away from spontaneous combustion.

“Should’ve taken my bike,” i muttered to myself but the silence was too loud the arrogant man beside me caught it.

Taehyung lazily scrolled his phone. “And let those paparazzi get a full body shot of you in sweats with your ass peeking out during that high kick? No, thank you. I have image standards.”

I kicked the back of the seat in front of him.

Taehyung didn’t flinch.

“Acting like you care about my image,” I grumbled.

He leaned closer. “I care about what’s mine.”

There it was again.

That word.

Mine.

It annoyed me and did everything I hated.

It's been 4 weeks and 3 days since I became a trainee at the V-Verse Entertainment and every week felt like a decade and everyday felt like a year to me with taehyung's commanding and authoritative presence.

From how many days I've endured him till now, I noticed.

He has a habit of muttering this word to me. 'mine' He said it like it was already carved into my skin, stitched between his ribs, and settled into the back of his throat every time i tried to spit fire. I fucking hate this. Hate him.

I turned “If you want a puppet, go carve one out of the woods.”

“I did,” He replied, eyes scanning my face. “But it didn’t move like you.”

This bastard has a way with his words. Which is extremely unpleasant since they are directed specifically at me.

The silence that followed was dangerous.

i turned away, my jaw tight.

From the corner of my eye i saw him grin.

The briefing was a blur.

The rehearsal hall smelled like dust and adrenaline. Light rigs hung half-assembled above the glossy stage floor, cables snaking across the ground like black veins. A dozen staff members moved around in controlled chaos — stylists, sound techs, choreographers.

I hated how quiet it went the second he walked in.

Taehyung didn’t need to raise his voice; the air adjusted for him. He stepped up to the center, black coat trailing, tablet in hand, eyes scanning the stage like it was another empire he owned.

Manager Choi followed him, holding a clipboard tight to her chest. Behind them came four other trainees — Haneul, Jiwoo, dex and Minjae — all whispering to each other, probably about the same thing everyone whispered: how I was Taehyung’s favorite.

If only they knew.

“All right,” Taehyung’s voice cut through. “We’ll walk through the camera blocking for the debut unit performance. Positions.”

I moved automatically, sliding into my mark. And my group mate too took their positions.

“Lighting team,” Taehyung said, without looking up, “I want spotlight trails to follow Jungkook’s motion on chorus two. He moves differently. He needs to be tracked precisely.”

A few heads turned at that. Yeah. There it was. The favoritism rumor growing legs.

“Sir, that’ll require manual follow cams,” one of the cameramen offered, hesitant.

“Then do it,” Taehyung replied flatly. “He’s worth the adjustment.”

My jaw clenched. He’s worth the adjustment. God, he made it sound like I was a malfunctioning machine he’d still decided to keep.

The music cue started — heavy bass, sharp synth line. We moved through the first sequence. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right either. Taehyung’s gaze pinned every mistake, every hesitation. I could feel it burning between my shoulder blades even when he wasn’t speaking.

“Stop,” he said finally, raising a hand. “Jungkook, your angle on eight is late by half a count.”

I exhaled hard. “That’s because of the lighting delay—”

“No,” he cut in, tone soft but slicing clean through. “You’re reacting. Don’t react. Lead. The stage follows you, not the other way around.”

The crew glanced between us. I hated the way they looked — like watching a teacher correct a favorite student.

“Again,” he said.

We ran it again. And again. By the third repeat, sweat crawled down my neck. Haneul stumbled slightly on a turn, earning a sharp word from the dance director.

“Take five,” Taehyung ordered.

Everyone scattered for water, stretching out sore muscles. Everyone except him. He stayed near the stage monitors, reviewing the playback footage. His thumb dragged across the screen, slow and deliberate.

I knew I should’ve walked away too. But of course, I didn’t.

“You enjoy watching yourself scold people?” I asked, stepping up beside him.

He didn’t glance up. “You assume I enjoy it. I don’t enjoy incompetence.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Must be exhausting being perfect.”

“It is,” he said simply, and that smug little half-smile ghosted across his face.

Before I could snap back, Jiwoo approached timidly, clutching his bottle.

“Sir, for the second verse — should I keep the back turn or face front when the lights shift?”

“Front,” Taehyung said without missing a beat. “You’re the frame. He’s the focus.” He pointed at me.

Jiwoo paused for a second and left with a face that unsettled me.

I swallowed the strange weight in my throat.

After the break, the director called for a full run-through — cameras, lights, everything.

Music boomed. We moved. I hit every beat this time, refusing to give Taehyung a single excuse to correct me. My muscles screamed, but my timing was perfect.

When the last note faded, the crew actually clapped a little. Even Taehyung didn’t speak for a moment. He just looked at me — long enough that something inside me twisted tight.

“Better,” he said finally. “Almost convincing.”

“You want convincing?” I snapped before I could stop myself. “Then stop watching me like a hawk and let me breathe.”

The entire hall froze.

You could practically hear everyone’s hearts drop.

Manager Choi’s eyes widened. “Jungkook—!”

“No, let him,” Taehyung said softly.

He stepped down from the platform, crossing the floor until he stood right in front of me.

“You think my attention is suffocating?”

His tone was calm — too calm.

“Then earn the right to be ignored.”

He turned to the others, expression unreadable.

“Take five more minutes. Everyone except Jungkook.”

Every set of eyes darted to me, then to him. No one dared to argue. One by one, they filed out, leaving the stage echoing with footsteps and silence.

“What the hell is your problem?” I hissed the second the door shut.

“My problem,” Taehyung said, circling me slowly, “is that you still haven’t decided whether you want to fight me or impress me.”

“I don’t want either.”

“You want both.”

He stopped behind me. I could feel his presence more than I see it — like gravity shifting.

“You’re reckless,” he murmured. “But the camera loves it. That’s why I chose you. You remind me that chaos can be beautiful, if someone powerful enough holds the reins.”

“You don’t hold mine.”

“We’ll see.”

The door opened then, and Manager Choi’s voice broke the charge in the air.

“Mr.kim, PD-nim needs you for the investor briefing.”

Taehyung didn’t move for a beat. Then he straightened, mask sliding back into place.

“Resume full choreography tomorrow,” he said to me, businesslike. “And don’t be late again.”

He brushed past, the faintest trace of cologne lingering behind him. Manager Choi gave me a worried look before following him out.

And just like that, the world started spinning again — staff returning, chatter rising. But I couldn’t move. Not yet.

Because for the first time, I realized Taehyung wasn’t just testing me.

He was teaching me exactly how to dance to his rhythm — whether I wanted to or not.

.

.

.

TBC~

[Age of characters]

Taehyung- 32

Jungkook- 20

Sera choi- 44

Haneul- 21

Jiwoo- 21

Minjae- 21

Dex- 22

[Note: The debut group has no name right now and Jungkook is the leader of the group]

...JUNGKOOK...

The air in the trainee dorm was thicker than the practice hall had ever been.

The moment I stepped inside, the conversation stopped like someone hit mute.

Haneul was sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone, Jiwoo was flipping through lyrics, Minjae leaning against the wall with his protein shake, and Dex—our oldest—sat at the table with headphones dangling around his neck.

None of them looked at me.

Typical.

“Wow,” Haneul said finally, eyes still on his screen. “Our golden boy returns.”

I dropped my bag near the door. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

“Nah,” Jiwoo muttered, not glancing up. “We’re just wondering how it feels to have Taehyung hyung write your entire schedule like a personal assistant.”

“You think I asked him to?” I shot back.

“No,” Minjae said, arms crossed. “You don’t have to ask when you’re his favorite.”

Dex didn’t say a word, but the look he gave me said enough—don’t start this.

Too late.

“You all keep acting like favoritism gets me free passes,” I said, voice rising. “Do you think getting called out in front of fifty people is fun? You think being treated like a puppet is something I asked for?”

“Come on, Jungkook,” Haneul snorted. “You get solo lessons, private evaluations, extra practice time with the company owner. The rest of us are just background dancers in your debut plan.”

“Then work harder,” I snapped.

Silence.

The kind that feels like a punch.

Haneul’s jaw ticked. “You don’t get it, do you? We work hard too. But no matter what we do, Taehyung-hyung will always pick you first. You could trip on stage and he’d still call it performance art.”

“Maybe he sees something in me you don’t,” I said coldly. “And that’s not my fault.”

Jiwoo looked up then, a smirk tugging his lips. “Yeah? Maybe he just likes the look of you.”

That hit a nerve I didn’t know was there.

I moved before thinking, a chair scraping the floor as I stood. “Say that again.”

“Why? Struck a chord?” Jiwoo grinned, standing too. “It’s not a secret. Everyone sees how he stares at you. We just don’t know why.”

“Jiwoo, stop,” Dex warned quietly.

“No, let him talk,” I said, stepping forward. “You think I haven’t earned my place here? You think I’m here because I—”

The dorm door swung open.

“Enough.”

Manager Choi’s voice cut through the room like thunder.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, sharp eyes flicking from one trainee to another. The kind of silence that follows authority settled fast. Even Haneul put down his phone.

“I could hear you idiots from the hallway,” she said flatly. “Congratulations. You’ve just proven why Taehyung doesn’t waste his time watching group practice.”

She looked straight at Haneul first.

“You think Taehyung favors Jungkook because he likes him more?” A scoff. “Please. He favors him because he has his reasons”

She shifted to Jiwoo next.

“You talk big, but when Taehyung gives criticism, you shrink. Jungkook argues, yes, but he listens. That’s why he improves faster than you.”

Jiwoo’s smirk faltered.

Then her tone softened—not kind, but deliberate.

“And for the record,” she continued, “he has no one. No family here. No one to rely on outside these walls. You all go home on holidays—he doesn’t. He trains.”

My chest tightened.

How the hell did Taehyung even know that? I made sure to never bring up...my past.

Choi wasn’t finished.

“Taehyung recognizes that,” she said. “Because he was the same. Except worse.”

That sentence landed like a bomb. The room went dead quiet.

“You mean…?” Minjae started.

“You don’t need the details,” Choi interrupted. “But I’ve known Taehyung for more than a decade. You see a CEO. I saw a kid who built himself out of nothing but hunger and defiance. He sees that same fire in Jungkook. That’s not favoritism. That’s respect.”

She turned toward me then, eyes softening just slightly.

“And as your manager,” she said, “I suggest you stop wasting energy fighting with each other. Because Taehyung doesn’t keep weak-minded teams. If you can’t handle a little imbalance, you won’t survive your debut.”

She glanced at her watch. “You’ve got vocal training in ten minutes. All of you. Go.”

The others moved slowly, quiet for once. Bags rustled, water bottles clicked, footsteps shuffled toward the door.

I stayed behind.

“Manager Choi,” I said quietly. “What you said about… Taehyung’s childhood. What did you mean?”

She sighed, tucking the clipboard under her arm.

“Ask him yourself someday,” she said. “Just be ready for the answer.”

And then she left.

I sat down, elbows on my knees, head spinning.

Taehyung had known I had no one—and instead of pitying me, he saw me. That realization hit hard in a way I didn’t want to admit.

For the first time since stepping into V-Verse, I wasn’t angry at his control.

I just wanted to understand why he saw so much of himself in me.

...TAEHYUNG...

Power has a sound.

It’s quiet. The kind of silence that makes others wait to speak.

I’ve spent years learning how to fill rooms with that silence.

“Mr. Kim,” the French investor says, smiling too wide. “Your offer is aggressive. You’re essentially asking us to give up controlling stakes—”

“I’m not asking,” I interrupt, calmly. “I’m informing you that this is how it will proceed.”

He freezes.

They always do.

No one expects softness from me, but they forget I built V-Verse from the ashes of my own name.

“You’ll keep your brand,” I add, leaning back. “And in return, I’ll make sure you exist beyond Asia. Do we have a problem with that?”

His assistant glances at him nervously.

He clears his throat, shakes his head.

“No, Mr. Kim. We…don’t.”

“Good.” I smile. “Then we’re done here."

The meeting room empties. Another city, another empire added to mine.

Sometimes I think about how quiet it was when I first started. No lights, no cameras, no voices chanting my name — just me, a trainee with too much ambition and no one to tell me when to stop.

Now, when I walk through hotel lobbies, heads turn. Celebrities, investors, CEOs — they lower their voices. I’ve become the kind of name people whisper about.

I worked for that silence.

Earned it.

Commanded it.

But lately…

there’s another sound that keeps following me.

One that refuses to shut up in my head.

His laugh.

Jungkook’s laugh.

I pour myself a drink, staring at the skyline of Paris through the glass. The city lights shimmer — almost mocking, like they know what I’m thinking about.

He’s probably in rehearsal now.

Sweat dripping down his neck, hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted as he counts steps. He doesn’t even realize how distracting he is. Or maybe he does — he’s bratty enough to weaponize it.

I close my eyes, remembering his last evaluation.

The way he looked at me — defiant, sharp, too beautiful for his own good.

When I told him to redo the choreography, he actually glared at me.

Brat.

I’d wanted to remind him who he was talking to — and yet, I’d ended up watching the way his jaw tightened, how every muscle in his body moved like rhythm was his oxygen. I can control companies, trends, markets…But him?

He’s chaos wearing a pretty face.

My phone buzzes.

A message from Manager Choi.

"Group conflict handled. Jungkook stood his ground as usual. But I may have said more than I should have about his past. And yours. You’re welcome."

I sigh. Of course she did.

I type back:

"You’re getting too comfortable with what’s confidential."

She replies instantly:

"You’re getting too obvious with who you favor."

I smirk despite myself.

Maybe she’s right.

But it’s not favoritism. It’s inevitability.

I walk over to the mirror near the minibar and loosen my tie.

Even in my reflection, I can see it — that edge of hunger behind my eyes that doesn’t fade with success.

I’ve spent years controlling every piece of my life: who I see, what I sign, how the world perceives me.

But Jungkook…he’s the one thing that refuses to obey.

He challenges me in every way that matters. He burns too bright, too fast, and I want to be the one who decides how far that fire spreads.

“You’ll thank me one day,” I whisper to the empty room. “For making you mine before the world could.”

My phone buzzes again.

A message from an unknown number that only I recognise.

Attached: a video clip.

Jungkook’s dance practice from the V-Verse studio — tonight.

He’s alone, moving to a track I don’t recognize.

There’s a kind of raw emotion in him — frustration, exhaustion, maybe loneliness.

He doesn’t know someone’s recording.

And he definitely doesn’t know it’s being sent to me.

I watch, transfixed.

Every movement is too deliberate, too angry, too perfect.

And when the music ends, he just stands there, breathing hard, eyes red, whispering something I can’t hear.

I replayed it three times.

My throat feels tight.

Then I text Choi again.

"I want the final group evaluation postponed. Jungkook’s overworked."

"You’re babying him", she replies.

"I’m protecting an investment"

That’s the lie I tell everyone.

Maybe even myself.

I set the glass down and look back at the skyline.

The whole world thinks I built this empire because I crave control.

But control isn’t the goal — it’s the chain that keeps everything from falling apart.

And right now, the weakest link in that chain…

is the boy who makes me want to lose control completely.