Taehyung

Before, he used to look at me like I was some obstacle — the gatekeeper to his success. Cold. Resentful. Controlled rage.

But now… there’s something else.

Something curious.

A spark of understanding, maybe. Or suspicion.

Like he’s finally realized there’s more to my control than cruelty.

And that, I realize, is dangerous. Because the moment he starts seeing me instead of fearing me, the control I have over this entire dynamic could crumble.

I’ve built empires on silence and precision. On knowing when to move and when to stand still. Yet a single glance from him makes me forget both.

During evaluation, Lighting director had tried to scold Jungkook about blocking the mere light and I had almost lost my control. I had snapped without thinking. It's not like I regret doing that.

I was aware that Me snapping wasn't professionalism. But It was instinct.

No one talks down to Jungkook in my presence.

No one.

And everyone should know it.

After the session, I head straight to the conference room upstairs. My schedule’s lined wall-to-wall, but there’s one meeting I’ve been putting off — logistics for the group’s post-debut housing.

Manager Choi’s already there, along with the head of accommodation and trainee management.

“You wanted to finalize living arrangements for the new group,” the accommodation manager starts. “Standard dorm setup, two rooms, shared kitchen, near the studio—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I want private apartments. Five units in the same complex. Near the main V-Verse building.”

There’s a pause. Papers rustle.

“Private apartments?” Choi repeats, raising a brow. “That’s not our usual policy.”

“They’ll debut under my label,” I say simply. “I decide policy.”

The manager fumbles for a reason to argue. “Sir, that’ll increase cost by nearly—”

“Cost is irrelevant. Comfort is efficient.”

I don’t explain further, but Choi knows me too well. She leans back in her chair, eyes sharp. But she doesn't say anything. For now.

After the head of accommodation leaves, choi sits up.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Jungkook, would it?”

Her tone is teasing, but the question lands heavier than she realizes.

“It has to do with all of them,” I answer. “The dorms are too cramped. Too many trainees in one space.”

“Mm,” she hums, unconvinced. “You didn’t seem concerned about that when other groups debuted.”

“This group is different.”

She laughs under her breath. “You mean he’s different.”

I don’t respond. There’s no point.

She knows she’s right — but I won’t give her the satisfaction of hearing it.

Truth is, I let the dorm arrangement slide for a reason.

They needed to bond. Jungkook needed to feel included.

He’s always been a solitary creature — like I was.

Too proud to ask for help, too focused to seek warmth. The kind of boy who looks at success like it’s the only thing that will love him back.

So I watched.

Let him struggle, argue, laugh. Let him find his footing among people who didn’t understand how his mind works.

I told myself it was a management strategy. But the truth?

I just wanted to see what made him soften.

Later that evening, I step into my office. The skyline outside glows in the reflection of the glass walls — Seoul sprawling beneath me, alive and glittering.

Power. Control. My kingdom.

And yet all I can think about is a single trainee’s gaze.

It’s pathetic.

I sit behind my desk, glance at the folder labeled ‘JJK01 — Evaluation Report.’

His scores are flawless. The notes from choreographers and vocal trainers read like love letters disguised as technical feedback.

I flip through them absently, until I reach one of the still photos taken during rehearsal.

Jungkook mid-step, expression focused, sweat beading on his temple.

That same look.

Curious.

I trace the edge of the photo with my thumb before forcing myself to set it down.

This isn’t how I operate.

Obsession doesn’t suit me — or maybe it does, too well.

I’ve built my empire by controlling my impulses. But with him, it’s different. It’s not just about possession for pleasure. It’s about keeping him safe.

Because if the world ever chewed him up the way it did me, I’d never forgive myself.

The first time I saw his practice video — before he even joined the company — I felt it. That spark. The kind that tells you someone’s going to change everything.

And I was right.

He’s been undoing me since the moment he stepped into my orbit.

I tell myself I’m protecting an asset. A brand.

But deep down, I know it’s not that simple.

There’s a part of me that wants to shield him from everything — critics, stress, sleep deprivation — but also a darker part that wants to own him, own every side of him that the world doesn’t get to see.

The tiredness in his eyes, the way he bites his lip when he’s concentrating, the rare, unguarded smiles that slip when he forgets to be perfect.

It’s selfish. It’s human.

And I stopped apologizing for being both a long time ago.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey, lean back in the chair, and close my eyes.

His look from earlier plays again behind my eyelids — the curiosity, the silent question.

Maybe he’s starting to understand that my control isn’t about dominance. It’s about care disguised as discipline.

Maybe he’s finally seeing me.

And for the first time in years, I don’t want to hide from it.

Manager Choi messages to confirm the new housing contracts. I reply with a single line:

“Make sure Jungkook’s unit has balcony access and soundproofing. He works late.”

Her reply comes fast:

“You mean they work late.”