BTS - cold and strict brothers

The air in the penthouse dining room was suffocatingly formal. The clink of silver cutlery and the faint rustle of stock reports felt louder than any shouting match ever could. Seven grown men, impeccably dressed in bespoke suits and cashmere, sat like board members presiding over an empire—unreachable, cold, and entirely wrapped up in their own high-stakes survival.

You stood at the threshold of the dining hall, your knapsack clutched defensively across your stomach. The sharp, rhythmic cramps radiated down your thighs, making your knees feel unsteady. The panic had been building since you woke up twenty minutes ago to find your bathroom cabinet completely empty—not a single wrapper, no spare box, nothing. You had used a wad of coarse paper towels just to make it down the hall.

You had no wallet. No card. No coins to stop at a convenience store on the way to school. There was literally nowhere else to turn.

Your knuckles turned white against the strap of your bag.

"Oppa," you whispered, the word sticking to your dry throat.

Jin didn't glance up from the encrypted tablet he was swiping through. "If this is about school fees, Namjoon’s office clears wire transfers on the first of the month."

"It's not school fees," you choked out, your voice trembling so much it caught Jungkook’s attention.

The youngest enforcer looked up from his black coffee, his dark, sharp eyes narrowing in irritation. He had a faint, healing cut across his cheekbone from some underworld business the night before, and his patience was already razor-thin. "Then what? We don't have time for a guessing game. Some of us actually have real work to do today."

"Don't loiter," Suga said quietly, his voice raspy with exhaustion without even lifting his head from his folded arms. "Say what you need and leave."

Your cheeks burned with an agonizing, humiliating heat. The silence of the vast, marble room felt like it was crushing your ribs.

"I... I need pads," you blurted out, the words desperate and small. "Sanitary pads. I don't have any left. None at all."

A dead, awkward stillness dropped over the long table.

For a second, nobody moved. The word hung between them like a foreign language they had never bothered to learn.

Jimin was the first to react, setting his porcelain teacup down with a light clink. His expression shifted into mild distaste, his brows knitting in immediate discomfort. "What on earth are you talking about? That’s what you interrupt breakfast for?"

"I don't have any," you pleaded, the tears threatening to spill over your lower lids, your voice rising in sheer panic. "My period started and the cabinet in my bathroom is empty. I don't have any money to buy a box. I can't go to school like this, I'm going to—"

"Quiet down," Namjoon commanded, adjusting the gold wire of his glasses with a sharp, calculated frown. His tone wasn't sympathetic; it was the voice of a lawyer dealing with an unseemly breach of decorum. "There is no need to make a scene at the table over personal hygiene. That is something you manage privately."

"How am I supposed to manage it privately when you don't give me any money?!" The shout tore from your chest before you could stop it, fueled by sheer, frantic humiliation.

Taehyung’s head snapped toward you, his dark eyes dead and chillingly stern. "Watch your tone with your brothers."

"She’s just being dramatic," Jungkook scoffed, leaning back in his leather chair with an exasperated roll of his eyes. "Use toilet paper or whatever. Figure it out. At eighteen I was taking bullet fragments out of my own arm, and you’re standing here shouting over schoolgirl problems like the world is ending."

"Jungkook," J-Hope murmured, though his tone was merely procedural, not defensive of you. He checked his black tactical watch, his face devoid of warmth. "The perimeter sweeps are finished. The convoy moves in eight minutes. We don't have room in the schedule to divert a driver to a corner pharmacy."

Jin finally set his silver fountain pen down with a sharp, definitive click. The patriarch of the Kim family leaned back, his gaze fixing on you with cold, unyielding authority.

"You live in a ten-million-dollar estate with private security, top-tier schooling, and a full pantry," Jin said, every syllable hard as stone. "Yet every few months you stand here looking helpless, expecting us to drop our schedules to micromanage your domestic chores. If the staff overlooked restocking your bathroom, you write a memo for the housekeeping ledger like an adult."

"Housekeeping comes on Fridays, Jin!" you cried, a single hot tear finally spilling down your flushed cheek. "Today is Tuesday! I have to leave the house in five minutes!"

"Then you handle it at school," Jin replied coldly, picking up his documents and rising from his chair, signaling that the entire Kim empire was moving on. "Ask the school nurse. You are an eighteen-year-old woman, not a toddler. Learn self-reliance. Now get your coat and go to the car."

The school day was an endless, waking nightmare.

The rough bundle of toilet paper you had stuffed into your underwear shifted, tore, and gave out before third period even began. By the time you worked up the courage to slip into the nurse’s office, the infirmary door was locked with a neat, laminated note: Attending off-campus district seminar until Thursday.

You had spent the remaining hours trapped in your seat, your muscles locked rigid, terrified to stand, terrified to breathe. When the final bell rang and you rose from the wooden chair, the dark, undeniable stain on the back of your navy pleated skirt felt like a brand burned into your skin. You tied your thin, threadbare cardigan around your waist, but the knitted wool barely covered the hem. Every footstep down the bustling school corridor, every whispered laugh from a passing group of girls, felt like an arrow straight to your chest.

By the time the black sedan pulled up to the Kim estate gates, you were trembling so violently your teeth clicked together.

You shoved past the iron gates, through the towering double mahogany doors of the mansion, wanting nothing more than to sprint up the grand staircase and disappear into the safety of your bedroom.

You didn't make it to the stairs.

The lower floor wasn't empty. In the grand sunken living room, an impromptu meeting was underway. Folders were spread out on the dark marble coffee table, laptops glowed, and the faint scent of expensive bourbon hung in the air. Jin stood near the arched window, his phone pressed to his ear, while Namjoon and Suga pored over real estate contracts. On the large sectional, Taehyung was polishing a black leather holster, and Jungkook was adjusting the wraps around his bruised knuckles.

The sound of your heavy, frantic footsteps echoed loudly against the marble.

"You're late," Jin said, lowering his phone with a sharp, displeased look. "The security protocol states you enter through the rear corridor if—"

His words cut off.

You had made a desperate beeline for the carpeted stairs, but as you turned the corner into the foyer's bright chandelier light, the cardigan around your waist slipped. It slid down your hip, snagged on your school bag, and tumbled to the polished floor.

The back of your skirt was plain as day.

A stark, rust-red patch, wide and unmistakable, soaked through the pleated navy fabric, with faint smears drying down the pale skin of your inner thighs.

The entire living room went deathly still.

Jungkook froze, his hands still half-tangled in athletic tape, his eyes widening in pure shock. Suga paused mid-turn, a thick stack of invoices hanging loosely between his fingers, his jaw dropping just a fraction.

Namjoon took off his glasses, his face completely pale as his sharp mind ground to a dead, horrified halt. For all his millions, his legal degrees, and his tactical strategies, the sight of his youngest sibling standing in the center of their pristine home, visibly bleeding through her school uniform, was something he couldn't rationalize or file away.

"What..." Jimin started, stepping into the room with a glass of scotch, his effortless, mocking demeanor shattering the moment his gaze dropped to the mess on your skirt. The glass tilted dangerously in his hand. "...what is that?"

The silence in the room was deafening.

Hot, furious, humiliating tears blurred your vision. You snatched the dropped cardigan from the floor and pressed it against your back, your entire body shaking with sobs that tore straight out of your chest.

"I told you," you gasped, your voice breaking in agony, looking straight at Jin's stunned, frozen face. "I begged you this morning. I told you I didn't have anything. I told you the nurse wasn't there."

Taehyung stood up slowly from the couch, the holster in his hand forgotten. His cold, stoic mask cracked, replaced by a raw, startled helplessness. "You... you were serious?"

"I asked for one box of pads!" you screamed, all the neglect, all the years of surviving on threadbare clothes and empty pockets boiling over into the vast, silent mansion. "I didn't ask for a luxury car! I didn't ask for designer clothes! I just needed five dollars so I wouldn't bleed through my clothes in front of my entire school!"

Jin didn't move. For the first time in ten years, the infallible, untouchable head of the Kim family looked completely paralyzed, his hand slowly lowering to his side as the full, sickening weight of what they had ignored crashed down upon him.

The front doors slammed shut with a heavy, final thud that rattled the glass panes of the grand foyer. Outside, the low rumble of twin turbocharged engines signaled the morning convoy pulling away, leaving the sprawling penthouse wrapped in a cold, echoing silence.

You were left behind. You hadn't gone to school; after Jin told you to "learn self-reliance" and walked out, your legs had simply given out from a mix of feverish cramps, sheer panic, and burning humiliation. The driver had waited outside for ten minutes, honked twice, and then left under J-Hope's standing orders that nobody waited on anyone.

Upstairs in your bedroom, the silence felt thick enough to suffocate you.

You had rolled up layers of rough bathroom tissues inside your worn-out underwear—an uncomfortable, scratchy makeshift fix that barely gave you any sense of security. You changed out of your uniform skirt into a pair of washed-out grey track pants whose drawstring had snapped two years ago.

Shivering, you curled yourself tightly into the corner between your mattress and the wall. In your lap rested Mr. Fluffy.

Mr. Fluffy was a faded, patchwork plush rabbit with one dangling button eye and a frayed felt ear that had been stitched back on with mismatched black thread when you were eight. Its fur was flat and coarse from a decade of being cried into, washed with generic sink soap, and squeezed against your chest. Your mother had bought it for you at a department store just three weeks before the crash. It was the only thing in this ten-million-dollar estate that actually belonged to you.

You rocked gently, pulling the tattered plush against your collarbone, your fingers tracing its worn fabric.

"They didn't listen again, Mr. Fluffy," you murmured into its matted ear, your voice cracking in the quiet room. "I asked... I really did. I swallowed all my pride and stood in front of all seven of them and told Jin Oppa that I had nothing left."

A soft, ragged sob hitched in your throat.

"They thought I was making a scene. Jungkook told me to stop being dramatic... he said at eighteen he was pulling out bullet fragments, and I was just whining about 'schoolgirl problems.' Namjoon said I had to handle it privately." You pressed the plush against your face, the damp tears soaking into the threadbare fabric. "How am I supposed to buy pads when they don't give me a single coin? I looked under the couch cushions, Fluffy. I looked in every coat pocket. I had ninety cents. A box is five dollars."

You leaned your head back against the cold wall, knees drawn up to your chest, staring at the ceiling with dull, exhausted eyes.

"Mom wouldn't have let me bleed through my clothes. Mom would have known I needed clothes that fit, or a bra that doesn't poke wires into my ribs every time I breathe. They buy luxury watches and sports cars, but they treat me like a ghost who doesn't need to eat or clean herself. I think... I think they just wish I died in the car with Mom and Dad so they wouldn't have to look at me."

You closed your eyes, clutching the ragged toy until your knuckles were white, entirely unaware of the small black lens mounted near the smoke detector in the corner of your ceiling.

---

Fifteen miles away, in the armored executive board room of the Kim syndicate’s central headquarters, the silence was suffocating for an entirely different reason.

J-Hope sat at the head of the surveillance terminal, his hand frozen mid-air over the keyboard. When the biometric sensor alerted him that the youngest Kim hadn't boarded the school transport, his primary protocol was security: check the interior mansion feeds to verify no breach or kidnapping had occurred.

He had patched the high-definition audio and video from your bedroom onto the main wall monitor.

Now, all seven brothers were staring at the screen.

Jin was standing near the conference table, a fountain pen dangling loosely from his fingers, his face completely drained of color. The cold, unshakeable patriarch looked as if someone had physically struck him across the face.

Namjoon had his glasses off, his knuckles pressed hard against his mouth, his sharp, analytical mind utterly short-circuiting as every broken phrase you whispered echoed through the boardroom speakers with crystal clarity. A box is five dollars. The phrase hammered into him like a sledgehammer. He managed a nine-figure portfolio daily, cutting costs by hundreds of thousands, yet he had denied five dollars for his sister's basic human dignity.

Suga hadn't moved an inch. He sat slumped in his leather swivel chair, his dark eyes fixed on the ragged, patched rabbit in your arms. His breath came shallow and tight. He remembered that toy. He remembered their mother buying it. He remembered holding you in the hospital waiting room while you clutched that exact same rabbit ten years ago—before he let the underworld turn him into stone.

"Fuck," Jungkook breathed, the word shaking on his lips. His aggressive posture had vanished; he looked small, pale, and sick to his stomach, staring at the screen where you curled into a ball. "She... she was really using paper towels? Because she didn't have five dollars?"

Jimin turned away from the screen, running both hands violently through his styled hair, his face twisted in raw horror and self-loathing. "We didn't give her an allowance. None of us. Not once in ten years."

"She said..." Taehyung’s voice was barely a rasp, his dark, enforcer eyes welling with rare, horrified moisture as your cracked whisper echoed through the speakers: I think they just wish I died in the car with Mom and Dad.

"J-Hope," Jin said. His voice wasn't authoritative; it was cracked, hollow, and shaking with an urgency no corporate takeover or gang war had ever dragged out of him.

"The cars are downstairs," J-Hope said immediately, slamming his laptop shut, already reaching for his keys.

Jin turned toward the door without another word, his immaculate composure shattered to pieces, practically breaking into a run. "Clear the convoy. We're going home right now."

The heavy, wrought-iron gates of the Kim estate creaked open on silent hydraulics, parting just wide enough for {{user}} to drag herself through.

The sprawling concrete driveway—usually gleaming, swept clean for the brothers' fleet of matte-black Maybachs and low-slung Lamborghinis—felt ten miles long. The late afternoon sky was bruised with heavy autumn clouds, spitting an icy, needle-thin drizzle that soaked into {{user}}'s skin, but she couldn't bring herself to move any faster. Every single step sent a sickening flare of agony through her cracked ribs.

{{user}} was a complete, shredded mess.

The prestigious private academy blazer—the one her brothers had paid exorbitant tuition for, just so they wouldn't have to think about her education—was practically ruined. The thick navy wool had been violently ripped at the shoulder seam, hanging by a few frayed threads. One of the lapels was torn half-off, covered in muddy grey scuffs from where she had been shoved repeatedly against the brick wall behind the school gym.

Her white button-up underneath fared even worse. The top two buttons were ripped clean off, the collar smeared with a sickening mixture of wet gravel, dirt, and dark rust-red smears from her own split lip. Her pleated skirt was hitched, filthy, and torn at the hem. Through the shredded mesh of her black tights, her knees were raw, purple, and bleeding sluggishly from where the bullies had kicked her legs out from under her while a circle of students watched and laughed, taunting her about being an invisible charity case living off brothers who didn't even know she existed.

Her left eye was swollen half-shut, a dark violet hematoma spreading across her cheekbone. Blood had dried down her chin and into the hollow of her collarbone. The worst part was her bag: the cheap canvas backpack had snapped at both straps, forcing {{user}} to clutch it against her bruised chest like a broken shield, her fingers scraped to the quick, trembling violently with shock and cold.

Inside the grand mansion, the warm glow of recessed halogen lights and the faint aroma of expensive roast lamb and vintage Bordeaux drifted through the hall.

The towering mahogany doors weren't locked. With trembling, numb hands, {{user}} pushed the heavy panel open, barely managing to slip inside without making the brass hardware clatter. Her shoes were soaked, tracking thin, watery smudges of crimson and mud onto the imported Italian white marble.

She just wanted to make it to the service stairs. If she could just climb the back staircase, lock herself in the tiny room on the third floor, and scrub the blood off before anyone noticed, she wouldn't have to hear them tell her how weak, disgraceful, or loud she was.

"You're forty minutes past curfew."

The voice was low, silky, and cut through the quiet air like a honed razor.

{{user}}'s heart dropped straight into her stomach. She froze mid-step, her breath catching in her bruised chest with a sharp, wheezing gasp.

In the sunken lounge directly to the right of the foyer, all seven of them were gathered.

A high-stakes syndicate review had evidently just wrapped up. On the wide walnut table sat open dossiers, stacks of bearer bonds, satellite maps of the district docks, and three stripped handguns undergoing routine maintenance.

Jin sat at the center of the leather sofa, adjusting the platinum cufflinks on his charcoal suit, an unlit cigar between his fingers. To his right, Suga leaned back against the cushions with a glass of whiskey in hand, his dark eyes half-lidded and weary. Namjoon was leaning over a series of legal contracts, running a thumb across his jaw, while J-Hope was methodically sliding a polished 9mm magazine into a glock with practiced, terrifying ease.

Near the fireplace, Jimin was checking his reflection in a small silver mirror, complaining under his breath about a delayed shipment, while Taehyung lounged sideways across an armchair, idly tossing a gold coin into the air and catching it. Jungkook was sitting on the floor with his back against the hearth, stretching his legs, wrapped in an oversized black designer hoodie that cost more than {{user}}'s entire year's worth of school supplies.

None of them had looked up properly yet. To them, the soft sound of the door closing was just an annoyance—the quiet sister returning from her little, inconsequential world into their fortress of blood and billions.

"J-Hope told the gate guards to log every late entry," Namjoon said without lifting his eyes from the paperwork, his tone flat, formal, and dismissive. "If you cannot manage the basic schedule of a secondary school student, we will have to restrict your library privileges. Explain why the driver was left waiting at the north gate for nearly an hour."

"I... I walked," {{user}}'s voice came out as a broken, hoarse rattle, barely louder than a whisper.

The strange, fractured pitch of her voice made Suga’s glass pause inches from his lips.

Down on the rug, Jungkook scoffed, irritated by the interruption. "You walked? What kind of idiot walks in the rain when there's an armored town car sitting outside? Are you trying to get picked up by rival scouts just to spite us? Stand up straight and—"

Jungkook turned his head to glare at her.

The words died in his throat.

The sneer on his face didn't just fade—it vanished completely, replaced by an expression of sheer, paralyzing shock. His mouth parted, his eyes widening into round, disbelieving circles as his gaze traveled from the puddle of bloody water at {{user}}'s feet, up her torn, mud-caked uniform, to the brutalized, purple swelling across her face and the dried blood coating her split lip.

"What..." Jungkook choked out, his voice cracking violently. He scrambled up from the floor so fast his boot caught the coffee table, sending an empty crystal tumbler crashing onto the rug. "...what the fuck is that?"

The sharp curse made everyone look up at once.

Jin froze. The silver lighter slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the marble floor with a sharp metallic clang that echoed through the vast, vaulted ceiling. The head of the Kim empire, a man who had watched rival cartels burn to the ground without blinking an eye, went totally, ghastly white.

Suga dropped his glass. The crystal shattered, amber liquid soaking into the five-thousand-dollar Persian rug, but he didn't even glance at it. His dark, cold eyes were locked onto the deep, violet-black bruising mottling {{user}}'s throat and the blood drying into her collar.

"Who did that to you?" Taehyung’s voice wasn't just cold; it dropped into an octave so pitch-black and guttural it didn't even sound human. He was on his feet in a fraction of a second, the gold coin clattering against the hearth, his pupils dilated into terrifying slits.

Namjoon stood up slowly, the legal documents in his hands crumpling in his tightening grip until the heavy parchment tore in two.

"{{user}}..." Namjoon whispered, the word trembling on his tongue as all seven killers stared at their broken sister. "...who touched you?"

The third-floor library of the Kim estate felt suffocating, the stale air thick with the faint scent of polished oak, old leather, and a heavy downpour beating relentlessly against the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Tucked into the far corner beneath the towering mahogany bookshelves, {{user}} sat curled tightly on the velvet window seat, her knees drawn right against her chest. Inside the deep front pocket of her faded, oversized black hoodie, her fingers were locked around the slender plastic casing of a pregnancy test. Two sharp, undeniable crimson lines glared up from the digital readout window. Five weeks.

Nausea rolled through her stomach in sour, dizzying waves, but the morning sickness was nothing compared to the ice-cold terror clawing at her throat.

The father was Felix Lee.

Felix wasn't some shadowy outsider or distant stranger. He was the sole heir to the Lee Syndicate, the Kim empire’s most crucial and formidable military ally. Decades of joint operations, shared ports, and mutual blood pacts ran between the two bloodlines. More than an ally, Felix was practically family to her brothers: Jungkook’s best friend since their teenage sparring bouts on the underground mats, Suga’s most trusted logistics partner, and a young man who had the run of the Kim compound with a security clearance higher than half of Jin’s personal guard. He shared drinks with Jimin, ran counter-intelligence drills with Namjoon, and was viewed by all seven brothers as an elite, untouchable brother-in-arms.

To them, Felix was their golden peer—lethal, charming, and fiercely respected.

To {{user}}, he had been the only person in this gilded fortress who ever looked at her and saw a human being instead of a burdensome ghost. During the endless days when her own brothers ignored her empty pockets, her worn-out clothes, and her silent tears, Felix had quietly noticed. He had slipped warm meals into her hands when the kitchen staff forgot her tray, brought her emergency essentials without embarrassing her, and listened to her voice when her own flesh and blood walked right past her in the halls. What had begun as a quiet sanctuary of whispered conversations on the estate’s fire escapes had turned into something deeper, softer, and deeply private.

And now, she was carrying his child.

She knew how the Kim dynamic worked. Her brothers were possessive, hyper-vigilant, and ruled by strict codes of hierarchy. Finding out that their eighteen-year-old sister—whom they treated like an invisible child—had crossed the line with their closest inner-circle friend and underworld partner would tear the roof off the estate. She was terrified they would brand her a disgrace, cast her out, or turn their lethal fury onto Felix, shattering the alliance that kept them all alive.

The heavy brass latch of the double doors clicked open.

{{user}} flinched violently, her breath catching in her throat as she scrambled to tuck her legs further beneath her hem.

Jin strode in first, radiating the immaculate, unyielding authority of the Kim family head. He was dressed in a tailored three-piece charcoal suit, a silver fountain pen clipped to his vest, his sharp gaze cutting across the room with effortless command. Right beside him, Namjoon held an open legal leather folder, adjusting his gold-rimmed glasses as he spoke in low, measured tones about offshore freight terminals.

"If the Lee family ratifies the southern port treaty before Friday, we secure the shipping lanes through the second quarter," Namjoon was saying, his voice pragmatic and calm. "Felix signed off on the security details this morning before he went down to the armory with Jungkook."

Behind them walked Suga, loosening the knot of his dark silk tie with an air of lethal exhaustion, rings clinking softly against the heavy crystal tumbler of iced water in his hand.

Jin stopped dead in the center of the library rug. His eyes, dark and assessing, locked onto {{user}} sitting huddled against the rain-streaked glass. His brows drew together in a stern, displeased line.

"{{user}}," Jin said, his voice flat, formal, and authoritative. "The housekeeper noted you missed breakfast and haven't left this wing since noon. If you are unwell, speak up. Lingering in the dark does not substitute for schoolwork."

"I... I'm fine," she choked out, her voice thin and ragged, failing miserably to sound normal. "I just wanted to read."

Namjoon closed the folder with a dry snap. His analytical gaze narrowed behind his lenses, taking in the bead of cold sweat running down her pale temple, the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and the desperate, defensive way her arms wrapped around her midsection. "Your pupils are dilated and your breathing is irregular. You look like you're in shock."

"I'm fine, really—"

The heavy oak doors were shoved open wider, and footsteps echoed off the hardwood floor.

Taehyung walked in, idly twirling a set of car keys around his slender finger, followed closely by Jimin, who was adjusting the cuffs of an ivory silk shirt with a faint, bored sigh. Bringing up the rear were J-Hope and Jungkook. Jungkook had a black towel draped over his broad shoulders, fresh off the training mats, his tattooed arms bare and glistening with sweat.

"J-Hope says the south perimeter needs three more patrol rotations," Jungkook spoke up, his voice rough and competitive. "Felix wiped the floor with two of the new recruits in five minutes. He's down in the gun range right now testing the new Sig Sauers with the boys—"

Jungkook’s voice trailed off. His sharp instincts immediately caught the tense, rigid silence in the library. His gaze flicked to {{user}}, curled like a wounded bird against the cold window pane.

"What's going on here?" Jungkook’s tone shifted instantly from cocky to razor-sharp, his dark eyes narrowing. "Why is she looking at us like we're about to put a bullet in her?"

"{{user}}," Suga's low rasp cut through the room. The underboss had set his glass on a side table and taken two slow, measured steps toward her. His eyes were pinned entirely on the deep pocket of her hoodie, where her hand was visibly clenching something hard and narrow. "What is in your pocket?"

"Nothing," {{user}} gasped, pressed hard against the glass, hot tears finally spilling over her lashes in sheer, uncontrolled panic. "Please, Suga Oppa, it's nothing, I promise—"

"Take it out," Jin commanded, taking a step forward, his voice dropping into that deep, patriarchal tone that brokered zero defiance anywhere in Seoul. "Now, {{user}}."

"No! Please don't!" she sobbed, breaking down completely as the suffocating weight of the secret crushed her. She curled into a ball, trying to bury the object against her ribs. "Please, just let me go to my room! Don't look, please don't look!"

The hysterical terror in her voice made the atmosphere in the room freeze.

J-Hope’s relaxed posture vanished, his jaw tightening into cold alert. Jimin’s teasing expression wiped clean off his face, replaced by a sudden, unsettled frown.

Jungkook was across the room before anyone else could react. "What the hell are you hiding?" he demanded, not with cruelty, but with the rough, aggressive instinct of a mafia enforcer suspecting an infiltration or a threat. He caught her trembling wrist, pulling her arm back from her pocket. "Let go of it, {{user}}—"

"Jungkook, don't grab her," Jimin barked, stepping forward.

"Let go!" she screamed, her fingers slipping in the struggle.

The white plastic stick slipped from her sweat-slicked palm. It bounced once on the soft velvet cushion and clattered down onto the hardwood floor right at Jin's polished Italian leather shoes.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Outside, lightning flashed across the grey sky, illuminating the stark white plastic and the unmistakable, bright pink lines on the display.

Jin froze. The supreme head of the Kim syndicate, who hadn't flinched in the face of loaded rifles, stared down at the small object as if it were an explosive with a burning fuse. Slowly, methodically, he bent down and picked it up between his thumb and index finger.

Namjoon leaned over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the test. For three agonizing seconds, his brilliant mind failed to process the reality. When it did, the color completely drained from his face.

"Two lines," Namjoon murmured, the words barely audible, sounding hollow and dazed. "That's... that's positive."

"What?" Jungkook's voice cracked, dropping from an aggressive snarl into pure, disbelieving shock. He looked from the stick in Jin's fingers to {{user}}, who was trembling so hard her forehead was pressed against her knees, weeping hysterically into her denim jeans. "A... a pregnancy test? She's—she's pregnant?"

"Are you out of your mind?!" Jimin yelled, running both hands violently through his blonde hair, his voice pitching high with raw panic and disbelief. "She's eighteen! She's still in school! Who touched her?!"

"Who entered this house?" J-Hope’s voice was dead, calm, and terrifyingly cold, his hand dropping straight to the holstered Glock at his hip as his eyes darted toward the door. "Was the estate breached? Who was in her quarters?"

"Taehyung, lock down the gates," Suga growled, his voice guttural and black with rage, the veins in his neck bulging as he stepped over to the window, towering over {{user}}. "Nobody leaves this compound alive until I get a name."

"I asked you a question, {{user}}!" Jin roared. The composure of the cold, corporate CEO was completely shattered; his face was flushed, his chest heaving with furious, protective panic as he gripped the plastic stick so hard it threatened to snap in his fist. "Who did this to you?! Who laid a hand on my sister?!"

"Don't kill him!" {{user}} shrieked through her ragged, breathless sobs, covering her head with her bruised, scraped arms as if expecting a physical strike. "Please, please don't kill him! It was my fault, it wasn't an attack, I wanted to—"

"Name!" Jungkook snarled, slamming his fist against the heavy mahogany shelf with enough force to crack the wood, his eyes wild and bloodshot with rage. "Give me the fucking name before I tear this city apart looking for him! Whose child are you carrying, {{user}}?!"

The third-floor master suite of the Kim estate—once an unused guest wing of cold marble and untouched mahogany—had been transformed over the last twelve weeks.

The heavy, suffocating silence of {{user}}'s childhood had cracked open the moment the truth had come out. When the storm had cleared, there was no denying the political and familial reality: the Kim and Lee empires were now inextricably bound. To protect the territory, silence rival whispers, and keep the child legitimate under syndicate law, Jin and the Lee patriarch had arranged an immediate, closed-door civil union. No press, no public galas—just legal signatures stamped with syndicate seals, binding an eighteen-year-old high school senior to twenty-six-year-old Felix Lee, the ruthless, golden heir of the southern ports.

Shortly after the vows were inked, Felix’s father departed for an indefinite campaign across Europe to oversee the syndicate's continental arms routes. Left with the sprawling Lee family fortress, Felix had flatly refused to leave his young, fragile wife behind with impersonal security guards and domestic maids. His joint military and logistical operations with the Kim brothers were centered right here, within theKim estate's high-security perimeter. So, Felix moved in.

He took over the entire east wing with {{user}}, establishing a private sanctuary inside the lions' den.

Now, three months along, the first subtle curve of a bump was beginning to show against {{user}}'s slender frame beneath her soft oversized knit sweaters. The morning sickness had begun to dull, replaced by an exhaustion that clung to her bones, and the bewildering reality of wearing a diamond-and-platinum band on her left ring finger while living under the exact same roof as her seven older brothers.

Downstairs in the main dining hall, the midday dynamic had fundamentally shifted, though the tension remained thick enough to cut with a combat blade.

The long table was set, but it was no longer just the seven Kim brothers conducting cold, detached business.

At the head sat Jin, impeccable as always in a charcoal tailored suit, a porcelain teacup in hand as he reviewed domestic accounts. To his right, Namjoon was cross-referencing legal filings for port jurisdictions. Suga sat back, nursing an espresso with half-lidded, sharp eyes, while Taehyung, J-Hope, and Jimin were seated down the flank, murmuring over private security shifts. Jungkook sat near the foot of the table, turning an unsharpened tactical knife end over end on the polished wood, his eyes dark, guarded, and perpetually unsettled by the sudden presence of his best friend permanently installed in his childhood home.

The elevator doors at the end of the corridor slid open with a soft chime.

Felix stepped out first. At twenty-six, he carried the unmistakable presence of an apex syndicate heir—broad-shouldered in a fitted black cashmere turtleneck, sleek trousers, and a custom holster tucked discreetly under his shoulder. His silver-blonde hair fell slightly over his brow, framing sharp, striking features dusted with faint freckles, but the lethal edge he showed to enemies was entirely absent as he turned back to offer a warm, grounding hand.

"Careful with the step, darling," Felix murmured, his deep, resonant Australian baritone carrying effortlessly through the quiet hall. His hand was broad, calloused from weapon grips, but exquisitely gentle as his fingers laced through {{user}}’s, anchoring her against his side. "I asked the chef to prepare ginger tea and soft poached eggs. Just see what you can stomach."

{{user}} walked beside him, wrapped in a plush, cream-colored cardigan Felix had bought her within forty-eight hours of moving in. Her posture was still hesitant, carrying the muscle memory of ten years spent walking on eggshells around her brothers. Her small hand rested subconsciously against the slight roundness of her lower belly, her eyes wary as they approached the long table.

Every single pair of eyes shifted toward them.

The sight of their eighteen-year-old baby sister visibly pregnant and wearing a wedding band—guided tenderly by the very man they had traded gunfire alongside for years—was a pill the seven brothers still choked on every single day.

Jungkook’s knife stopped spinning on the table with a dull thud. His jaw clenched, his eyes tracking the way Felix’s arm instinctively wrapped around {{user}}'s waist to pull her chair out. For ten years, Jungkook had treated her like she was weak; now, seeing his closest comrade treat her like something rare and untouchable stirred an uncomfortable, silent burn in his chest.

"You're down late," Jin spoke, setting his porcelain cup down on its saucer. His voice retained its deep, authoritative timber, but the icy cruelty of the past was gone, replaced by a strange, stiff awkwardness he hadn't yet figured out how to shed. "The doctor from Seoul National is scheduled for her thirteen-week ultrasound on Friday. Namjoon cleared the clinic wing on the second floor so she doesn't have to travel."

Felix pulled the plush chair out, waiting until {{user}} was seated comfortably before taking the seat directly beside her, not leaving an inch of distance between them. He rested a protective hand over hers on the linen cloth, his thumb lightly brushing the silver band on her finger.

"We appreciate the arrangement, Jin," Felix replied, his deep voice smooth, polite, yet entirely unyielding as an equal patriarch. "Her vitals have stabilized this week, but she needs quiet. I don't want security drills rattling the east wing before midday."

Suga shifted in his chair, his dark, calculating gaze flicking from Felix's possessive posture to the pale, nervous flush on {{user}}'s cheeks. "The training perimeter moved to the lower basement three weeks ago, Felix. Nobody is disturbing her." Suga paused, his voice dropping into a dry, gruff mumble as he reached across the table, sliding a small bowl of fresh, sliced citrus fruit toward {{user}} without looking directly at her. "Eat the oranges. The maid said it helps when your stomach turns."

Jimin leaned back, crossing his legs with a soft rustle of silk, observing {{user}} with an expression caught between guilt, curiosity, and protective wariness. "You're barely showing, but you still look like a breeze could knock you over. Are you actually finishing the meals Felix has delivered?"

{{user}} shrank back slightly under the sudden, heavy attention of all eight lethal men in the room, her fingers tightening in Felix’s grasp.

Felix felt the slight tremor in her hand instantly. His expression hardened just enough to send a quiet warning down the table, his thumb stroking soothing circles over her knuckles.

"She’s doing fine," Felix said, his voice dropping an octave, low and steady as he leaned in close to whisper against {{user}}'s ear so only she could hear: "Breathe, sweet girl. You're completely safe. Tell me what you want to eat."

Seven months in, and {{user}}’s belly was frankly ridiculous.

Carrying twins meant she didn't just walk anymore; she rocked side to side in an aggressive, wide-stanced waddle, wearing one of Felix’s oversized silk hoodies that stretched taut over the massive, round dome of her stomach. Her ankles were puffy, her lower back was constantly aching, and because she was officially Mrs. Lee, she had weaponized her status to become the absolute biggest menace in the house.

Felix was down in Busan on a four-day syndicate sweep, which meant {{user}} had zero filter, zero chill, and full legal immunity. The brothers couldn't lay a finger on her, couldn't yell at her, and were utterly at the mercy of her tyrannical, pregnant brat behavior.

Right now, she was stubbornly waddling down the third-floor corridor toward the grand marble staircase, completely ignoring the elevator.

"I swear to God, she’s doing this on purpose," Jungkook groaned under his breath, practically jogging to catch up. He was wearing an apron over his workout tank because he’d just spent forty-five minutes peeling grapes—by hand—because {{user}} declared the skins "felt offensive."

"{{user}}, stop! Use the fucking elevator!" Jungkook snapped, then caught himself, wincing as he looked at her belly. "I mean—please! Why are you heading for the stairs?! You have the center of gravity of a bowling ball right now, you're gonna tumble down and Felix will skin me alive!"

{{user}} stopped right at the top step, turned around with maximum effort, and rested both her hands on the heavy shelf of her belly, sticking her chin up. "I don't want to use the elevator. It smells like Jimin's cheap cologne."

"Excuse me?!" Jimin gasped from the landing below, clutching his chest in theatrical offense. He had been rushing up with three different fuzzy blankets she had demanded and then rejected. "That is Tom Ford, you ungrateful little gremlin! It costs more than the car you made Taehyung wash yesterday!"

"It's choking my babies," {{user}} huffed, rolling her eyes, deliberately taking one slow, dramatic step toward the grand stairs just to watch them lose their minds.

"Don't you dare touch that banister!" Jin shouted, sprinting out of the study with his tie undone and sleeves rolled up, looking like a man who hadn't slept in three days. The cold, untouchable head of the Kim empire looked completely unhinged. "Do not take that step! What do you want? What is it this time?!"

"I want the salted caramel mousse from that bakery in Cheongdam," {{user}} declared smugly, rocking on her heels. "The one with the gold flakes on top. And I want it right now. And I want someone to carry me down because my feet hurt."

"You literally had spicy ramen twenty minutes ago!" Suga yelled from the hallway, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved in his pockets, glaring daggers at her even though he looked terrified that she might trip. "You're a menace. A literal terrorist living in our house. When Felix gets back, I'm billing him for mental anguish."

"Go ahead," {{user}} pouted, crossing her arms over her chest, puffing her cheeks out. "I'll just tell him Suga Oppa glared at me and made the twins kick my ribs. He'll love that."

Suga’s jaw twitched. He muttered a string of filthy curses under his breath, but he was already pulling his phone out. "Taehyung! Get the car. Drive to Cheongdam right now before she starts fake crying again."

"I'm already getting the keys!" Taehyung's voice echoed up from the garage intercom, sounding frantic. "Tell her not to jump!"

"I'm not jumping, idiot, I just want to sit on the big couch!" {{user}} whined, stomping one slippered foot, then instantly groaning and grabbing her lower back as the twins shifted. "Ow. See? They're mad because you guys are annoying me."

Namjoon looked like he was having an aneurysm. He threw a stack of multimillion-dollar port contracts onto a side table, marched up the last few steps, and stood in front of her with his arms out like he was corralling a chaotic toddler.

"Okay, brat, that's enough," Namjoon huffed, entirely done with her games but too terrified to be rough. He carefully, gingerly gripped her by her elbows, making sure she didn't lose balance. "Turn around. Turn that huge stomach around right now. Jungkook, grab her legs."

"Wait, what?!" Jungkook protested, rushing over. "Why do I get the kicking end?!"

"Because she likes you less, now pick her up!" Jin commanded, hovering right behind them like an anxious mother hen, hands fluttering everywhere to make sure nobody dropped her. "Careful! Watch her head! Don't squish the bump!"

{{user}} let out a dramatic, high-pitched giggle as Jungkook and Namjoon awkwardly hoisted her into the air, carrying her down the wide stairs like an oversized, extremely expensive sack of flour.

"You guys are so slow," {{user}} mocked from Jungkook's grip, smugly patting his cheek. "Felix carries me way smoother than this."

"Felix can carry you to an asylum," Jungkook grunted through gritted teeth, straining under the extra weight of two fully grown seven-month babies. "Shut up and don't wiggle, you're heavy as hell!"

"I'm telling him you called me heavy," she grinned, completely thriving on the chaos.

"I hate you," Jungkook groaned, though the second they reached the living room, he set her down into the mountain of pillows on the sofa as gently as if she were made of thin glass. "I genuinely hate you."

"Water," she demanded instantly, kicking her slippers off and wiggling her toes at Jimin. "With crushed ice, not cubes. And make it quick, Uncle Jimin."

Jimin let out an outraged squawk, but he was already marching toward the kitchen anyway. "I am going to poison your ice, you little monster!"

The entire VIP surgical wing of the Kim-Lee medical pavilion was completely locked down. J-Hope had placed twelve armed enforcers at every stairwell, while all seven Kim brothers paced outside the double doors of the operating theater like caged predators.

Through the thick observation glass, they looked like an absolute wreck. Jin had discarded his suit jacket hours ago, his tie undone as he checked his watch every forty seconds. Jungkook was literally pacing grooves into the linoleum, chewing his thumbnail down to the skin, while Suga sat with his elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands, silent and sick with worry.

Inside the sterile, brightly lit theater, it was pure organized chaos.

{{user}} was prepped on the operating table, shivering under the thin surgical blanket, the lower half of her body completely numb from the spinal block. A sterile blue drape was hoisted across her chest, blocking her view of her enormous stomach. Felix was sitting right beside her head on a small metal stool, completely geared up in surgical scrubs, a paper hairnet covering his blonde curls.

His knuckles were white where he held {{user}}'s trembling hand. Felix's deep Australian voice was a low, steady rumble right beside her ear, completely tuned out of the medical chatter around them.

"I’m right here, sweet girl," Felix murmured, leaning down to press his lips against her damp hairline. He was pale beneath his freckles, his eyes dark with fierce, protective terror, but his hand was rock steady. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on mine, darling. You're doing so good."

Above the blue drape, the lead obstetrician was doing the mandatory pre-incision ultrasound to confirm the babies' positions.

The wand moved across the slick gel on the massive dome of {{user}}'s belly. The screen flickered.

The doctor stopped.

The room went eerily still. The ultrasound tech blinked, adjusted the contrast, and leaned in closer.

"Wait a second," the doctor muttered, his brows knitting sharply. "Hold the prep. Doctor Kang, look at this transverse angle right behind the fundus."

Felix’s head snapped toward the monitors instantly, his mafia instincts flaring. "What is it? What’s wrong with her?"

"Not wrong, Mr. Lee," the doctor breathed, his eyes wide behind his plastic face shield as he measured a third distinct, rapid flutter on the audio Doppler: thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump. "There’s... there is another heartbeat. A third gestational sac was tucked entirely behind the posterior wall. You are not having twins."

The doctor looked over the screen with an expression of sheer disbelief. "It's triplets."

"Triplets?!" Felix choked out, the untouchable, lethal syndicate heir suddenly sounding completely winded, his eyes widening into dinner plates as he stared at the screen.

Even through the anesthesia and exhaustion, {{user}}’s eyes fluttered open. She let out a weak, triumphant little gasp, squeezing Felix's hand with all the bratty energy she had left.

"I told you," she whispered hoarsely, a faint, smug smirk tugging at her pale lips. "I told Jungkook... I wasn't heavy... it's just babies."

"Jesus Christ, darling," Felix let out a breathless, half-sob of a laugh, kissing her cheek, her forehead, her knuckles. "Three of them. You absolute maniac."

Outside the glass, the brothers saw the shift in the room. Jungkook pressed his face right against the observation window, tapping frantically. Jin grabbed the intercom receiver mounted to the wall, his voice booming through the theater speaker in pure panic.

"Doctor! What's the delay?! Why haven't you made the incision?! What's happening?!"

The head nurse stepped over to the wall mic, hitting the switch. "Mr. Kim, calm down. The patient is stable. We've just detected a third infant. The delivery is triplets via emergency C-section. Commencing incision now."

The silence on the other side of the glass was instantaneous.

Jungkook literally dropped his phone on the floor. His jaw fell slack, looking like he’d been hit with a stun grenade. "Three?!" he squawked, his voice cracking into a high pitch. "There were THREE in there?!"

Jin's hand went completely limp against the wall, Namjoon had to physically grab Suga’s shoulder to keep him from falling over, and Jimin was clutching his face with both hands, mouthing three in sheer, unadulterated horror and awe.

Back on the table, the surgeon called out commands with rapid, practiced precision.

"Scalpel. Suction ready. Let's get these babies out safely."

{{user}} felt a strange, heavy pressure across her abdomen—a bizarre sensation of tugging and pulling with zero pain. The monitors chimed steadily in the background. Felix never let go of her hand for a single fraction of a second, his other hand gently smoothing back the sweaty strands of hair from her forehead, whispering endless words of love and reverence into her ear.

"Almost there, my love. You're so brave. You're doing incredible."

A sharp, wet cry suddenly pierced through the hum of the theater.

"Baby A is out! A healthy boy, 2.1 kilograms!"

Before {{user}} could even catch her breath, another shrill, furious wail cut through the air.

"Baby B! A second boy, 2.0 kilograms!"

And less than forty seconds later, an equally loud, indignant scream echoed off the sterile tiles.

"And Baby C is out! A third boy, 1.9 kilograms! All three airways completely clear!"

Tears spilled freely over {{user}}'s lashes as the heavy weight in her chest finally dissolved into pure, overwhelming relief. Beside her, Felix’s broad shoulders trembled. For the first time since she had met him, the terrifying Lee Syndicate heir was openly weeping, pressing his forehead against hers, his voice thick with tears.

"Three boys, darling," Felix choked out, his baritone trembling with pride and raw adoration. "Three little heirs. You did it, Mrs. Lee. You really did it."

Over by the heated pediatric carts, the nurses swaddled the three tiny bundles in soft blue flannel blankets. Outside the glass, all seven Kim brothers were pressed against the window like helpless little kids, completely forgetting their weapons, their billion-dollar empires, and their pride. Jungkook had his sleeves wiped across his red eyes, and even cold-hearted Suga was smiling with tears running down his cheeks as they watched their three identical little nephews being cleaned up.

The nurse brought the first baby over to {{user}}'s chest, resting the tiny, warm bundle against her neck.

{{user}} nuzzled the soft cheek of her newborn son, then turned her tired, smug eyes toward the observation window, looking straight at Jungkook through the glass.

Slowly, weakly, she lifted three tiny fingers in a wave, mouthing the words through the window:

Told you so, idiot.

The nursery in the Kim estate had been converted from a sprawling VIP guest salon into an absolute combat zone of plush blankets, motorized swings, and scattered burp cloths.

At two months old, the three little Lee heirs possessed the lethal lungs of their mafia lineage. When one started wailing, the other two treated it as a declaration of war. Right now, all three were screaming at deafening, ear-piercing decibels.

{{user}} was seated in the wide velvet armchair, her nursing camisole pulled down, looking disheveled, exhausted, and completely overwhelmed. In her left arm, Baby Minho was latched tightly, sniffling while nursing with desperate hunger. In her right arm, Baby Seungmin had secured the second breast, his tiny fists buried into her sweater as he gulped down milk.

That left Baby Felix Jr., tucked securely in the crook of Jungkook’s panicked, tattooed arms right beside the chair, shrieking bloody murder with his face flushed a furious, mottled red.

The problem was simple: {{user}} only had two breasts. And Baby C had inherited his father’s stubborn, uncompromising temper—he flatly, violently refused the silicone nipple of the anti-colic bottle.

"He won't take it! He's not taking it!" Jungkook shouted over the wall of wailing, looking like he was trying to defuse a live plastic explosive. The underworld hitman was sweating through his black designer hoodie, gingerly trying to angle the bottle toward the baby's mouth. Junior slapped the bottle away with a tiny, furious flail of his arm, screaming even louder. "He spit it out again! {{user}}, he's gagging at it! He knows it's rubber!"

"I don't have a third boob, Jungkook!" {{user}} cried out, near tears from sheer exhaustion and hormones, trying not to jostle the two babies currently feeding on her. "What am I supposed to do?! He has to take the bottle!"

Around the room, eight lethal syndicate leaders stood in a paralyzed semi-circle, looking entirely outmatched by five kilograms of screaming infant.

Jin had a sterile burp cloth draped over his custom Armani shoulder, looking completely manic as he checked the temperature on a secondary bottle of pumped breastmilk against his wrist. "The temperature is precisely thirty-seven degrees! Why is he refusing it?! Is the flow rate wrong?! Namjoon, did you buy the slow-flow or the medium-flow teats?!"

"I bought every single flow rate manufactured on the Eurasian continent!" Namjoon barked back defensively, frantically flipping through a baby manual on his iPad with one hand while holding a warm water bath in the other. "The manual says nipple confusion can trigger oral aversion! We need to simulate skin-to-skin contact!"

"Then take your shirt off, Namjoon, do something useful!" Jimin yelled from the changing table, hands over his ears, looking like he was on the verge of a sensory breakdown. "My head is going to explode! How can something that small produce that much volume?!"

"Give him here," Suga rasped, stepping forward with his sleeves rolled up, looking dark, exhausted, and grim. He reached down and took Junior from Jungkook's rigid arms, supporting the newborn's neck with surprising, instinctive care. Suga bounced him gently against his broad chest, rocking his hips in a slow rhythm. "Hey. Stop screaming. You're an heir, not an air raid siren. Drink the milk."

Junior didn't care about the Kim underboss's terrifying reputation. He arch-backed against Suga's chest, turned purple, and let out a shriek so shrill that Taehyung flinched all the way over by the door, dropping a pacifier onto the rug.

"He's rejecting Suga hyung too!" Taehyung gasped, scrambling to pick up the pacifier. "Sterilize it! J-Hope, boil water!"

"The water is already boiled!" J-Hope snapped, his tactical alert turned entirely onto infant pacification. "He doesn't want the dummy, he wants her!"

Felix rushed in through the double doors, having just finished an encrypted call with the harbor docks. He tossed his holstered sidearm straight into a secure lockbox by the entryway, stripped off his heavy leather coat, and took in the chaos in half a second: his wife trapped in the chair with two hungry boys, and his namesake screaming his head off in Suga's arms.

"I've got him," Felix's deep Australian baritone cut smoothly through the noise. He crossed the room in two strides, carefully taking Junior from Suga.

The moment the baby felt his father's broad chest and smelled his skin, the frantic wailing hitch-sobbed for a split second, though tears were still streaming down his chubby cheeks. Felix sat down on the edge of the ottoman directly in front of {{user}}, his knees bracketing hers, bringing Junior right up against {{user}}'s collarbone so the baby could feel her scent and warmth.

"There we go, mate," Felix murmured softly, nuzzling Junior's downy hair, his thumb stroking the boy's jawline to trigger the rooting reflex while holding the warm bottle steady. "Look at Mummy, darling. She's right here. You're safe."

Felix leaned over, pressing a tender kiss against {{user}}'s sweaty temple, his free hand lightly rubbing her bare shoulder. "You're doing amazing, sweetheart. Deep breaths. We're right here."

Junior snuffled, his little nose brushing against {{user}}'s neck. Tricked by her proximity and soothed by Felix’s steady heartbeat, the baby finally parted his lips and clamped down onto the bottle nipple, letting out a heavy, shuddering sigh as he began to drink hungrily.

The deafening scream cut off into rhythmic, quiet sucking sounds.

A heavy, breathless silence collapsed over the nursery.

Jungkook slowly slid down against the wall, sitting flat on the carpet with his head tilted back, exhaling like he’d just survived a three-hour gunfight. "Holy shit. I would rather fight twenty armed men in an alley than do that again."

"Someone get her water," Jin ordered in a breathless, hoarse whisper, pointing weakly at the pitcher on the counter. "And don't anyone make a sudden sound. If one of them wakes up, I'm resigning from the family."

"You're a rockstar, {{user}}," Jimin whispered in awe, gingerly stepping over discarded burp cloths. "Three of them. You're actually insane."

{{user}} leaned her head back against the velvet cushion, trapped beneath two sleeping infants at her chest while Felix held the third against her collarbone, a faint, exhausted smirk touching her lips. "I told you guys... you wouldn't survive five minutes without me."