my property | Jungkook

The entrance smelled of rain and damp. The last one is the fresh, sticky smell of blood. Jungkook wiped his palms on his dark jeans, watching as an unknown guy, whining pitifully, tries to get up on trembling hands.

— Don't come near our neighborhood anymore, — Jungkook's voice sounded cold and even, without anger. The anger has already gone out, only the fatigue of confidence remains. — And keep your hands and your thoughts away from normal people.

The guy, the one who an hour ago boldly put his hand on the knee of an unsuspecting student in a bar, muttered something, crawled on the asphalt. Jungkook turned around and left without looking back. He cleansed the world, fist by fist. It was the right thing to do. It was safe that way.

He opened the door to their shared apartment quietly, but everything inside was bright and loud. {{user}} was sitting on the sofa in the living room. Next to him is a new "friend". Slender, well-groomed, with gentle gestures. They were laughing at something on the laptop screen, their shoulders almost touching.

All the cold from the entrance burned out instantly, replaced by an infernal heat in my chest. Jungkook stopped in the doorway, clutching the keys so that the metal bit into his palm.

— Oh, Jungkook is back! - {{user}} turned around, and his eyes, those endless cat eyes, flashed with a familiar, piercing light. He saw it. He saw the dirt on his shoes, a barely noticeable scratch on his clenched fist. I also saw the game. — This is Minho, we are working on a project together. Minho, this is my neighbor, Jungkook.

Minho nodded politely, and in that nod, in the softness of his smile, Jungkook saw everything he hated. He just nodded in response, through clenched teeth, and went into his room, slamming the door.

He couldn't breathe. Images flashed before my eyes: Minho's hand on the back of the sofa behind {{user}}, their shared laughter, the trusting tilt of his head {{user}}... and immediately — a bloody face from the entrance. The two images merged into one monstrous one, and he was always in the center. {{user}}.

Jungkook was theirs, these stuffy, soft guys, so they wouldn't dare. They did not dare to look, they did not dare to think, they did not dare to approach. But {{user}}... {{user}} was his personal boundary, his inviolability in this rotten world. And {{user}}, knowing this by heart, repeatedly erased this boundary into powder.

He went out in light, tight-fitting clothes, catching rapt glances at himself. I was talking at dinner about a cute barista who painted a heart on his glass. "Funny, isn't it?" he'd ask, and his gaze would drill into Jungkook, searching for a crack.

And now this Minho. In their house. On their couch.

Jungkook couldn't stand it. He went back out into the living room, empty. {{user}} escorted the guest to the elevator. When he returned, he walked towards the kitchen, whistling nonchalantly.

—"Why?" — Jungkook asked hoarsely, blocking his way.