Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The roar was not just noise; it was a physical entity, a seismic wave of sound that compressed the air and vibrated through the steel of the cage floor. It was the collective breath, rage, and anticipation of twenty thousand souls, all focused on the man in the blue corner: Jeon Jungkook.

A blinding white strobe light flashed, momentarily silhouetting his figure. He was the reigning Light Heavyweight Champion of the MFC’s International Mixed Martial Arts Tournament, a title he was about to defend for the nth time. The announcer’s voice, raw and amplified, boomed through the speakers, battling the cacophony.

“Fighting out of the blue corner… He is the youngest fighter in history to hold this title! A dangerous blend of Tae Kwon Do precision, devastating boxing power, and unparalleled aggression! With a professional record of 19 wins, 0 losses, and 18 knockouts! He is the Tyrant! He is The Emperor! The undisputed, undefeated, and universally feared, the angelic deadly monster, the one and only… Jeon JUNG-KOOK!”

A collective roar erupted. Fans leapt to their feet, waving banners, chanting his name. And there he stood. Calm. Controlled. Handsome. Muscular. A perfect specimen of human form, but every inch of him radiated lethal intent. The tattoos on his right arm caught the light, winding across his bicep like serpents poised to strike.

They didn’t just see a fighter. They saw a beast, wrapped in human skin.

Jungkook did not react to the hysteria. He stood still, centered in his corner, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. His manager, Kim Namjoon, adjusted the tape on his wrist, muttering technical advice that Jungkook barely registered. The Champion was already detached, existing in a cold, quiet void where only his opponent and the objective—absolute victory—mattered

Jungkook’s eyes scanned the arena, unflinching, unyielding. Every gaze that landed on him seemed to shrink under his presence. His lips twitched—barely a smirk—but it was enough to set the crowd buzzing, a shiver of anticipation running through the stands. No one moved him. No one could.

He was twenty-five years old, possessing the startling beauty of youth paired with a body honed into a lethal weapon. The lighting caught the intricate, dark tattoo sleeve winding down his right arm, emphasizing the coiled, muscular body underneath his championship robe. His face, often described by media as "angelic but deadly," was currently devoid of any expression—a perfect, cold demeanor that masked the utter savagery he was about to unleash.

On the massive screens suspended above the ring, replays of his past knockouts flashed: a brutal high-kick, a sudden, concussive right cross, a standing guillotine that left his last challenger unconscious before he hit the mat. He was known for his relentless pressure, a fighter who didn’t just win, but dismantled his opponents. He was fear, distilled and packaged.

Across the cage, the announcer’s voice grew rougher, more strained with excitement.

“And his opponent… the challenger… known for his power and aggression… The Bull!”

His opponent, a grizzled veteran named Marco ‘The Bull’ Rossi, was tough, capable, and currently sweating through his mouthpiece before the bell even rang.

The Bull stepped forward, a massive man whose muscles bulged under the harsh lights, veins tracing like rivers across his skin. Confidence radiated from him, raw and primal. He cracked his knuckles, glaring at Jungkook like he intended to demolish him, right there, in front of thousands.

Jungkook’s smirk deepened ever so slightly as he took in the man. He could feel it—the rush of blood in his veins, the thrill that came only when he knew someone else would bleed. He could read The Bull’s stance like an open book. The way his shoulders tensed, the slight shift of weight, the glimmer of arrogance in his eyes… he was going to fall just like all the others.

When the cage door locked with a heavy clank, the sound was swallowed by the crowd’s anticipation. The referee called them to the center.

Start the last warning of the rules. Then the bell rang, sharp and unforgiving

On the commentator's booth, the veteran analyst, Jin-Young, spoke over the buzz:

“Look at the distance between them, Kevin. Rossi is trying to project confidence, but Jeon is already in his head. That coldness… it's what earns him the alias Tyrant. He makes the sport look personal, even though it never is for him.”

“Absolutely, Jin-Young,” the American co-commentator, Kevin, responded, his voice tight with excitement. “Jungkook doesn't fight the man; he fights the concept of losing. He can adapt to boxing, wrestling, jiu-jitsu—he’s the full package. He’s the reason he is considered the strongest man in the world right now.”

Then the Bull charged, like an animal sensing prey, swinging a massive right hook. Jungkook stepped inside the swing with effortless grace, the movement so fluid it almost looked like dance. The hook grazed past him, and he countered with a right jab that snapped The Bull’s head to the side. A hiss of pain escaped the man’s mouth. The crowd roared even louder.

Jungkook’s reflexes were too sharp. He stuffed the takedown instantly, using his superior core strength to sprawl and drive his hips down. He pinned Rossi against the fence, creating separation with a short, brutal elbow strike that landed just above Rossi’s eye.

The crowd gasped. The media pit flashed with dozens of cameras. Blood immediately bloomed, a dark crimson line running down Rossi’s cheek.

Jungkook smirks at the sight of blood. 

“First strike, first blood!” Kevin yelled, his voice rising in pitch.

Jungkook maintained his position, his breathing deep and controlled. He was methodical. He punished Rossi’s position with short, sharp punches to the ribs and temple, chipping away at the foundation. Rossi managed to reverse position, pushing Jungkook off the cage.

“I’m going to end you, kid!” Rossi snarled, spitting out a fleck of blood and his mouthpiece.

The insult, delivered in the heat of battle, did not pierce the champion’s focus. It only fueled the cold, terrifying engine that drove him.

Jungkook slid back, his posture shifting into a classic boxing stance. He faked a left jab, drawing Rossi’s guard high, and then slammed a vicious, snapping low kick into Rossi’s lead thigh. The impact was sickeningly loud. Rossi staggered, his leg momentarily useless.

Russi sent another swing. Another miss. Jungkook ducked under The Bull’s arm and launched a spinning back elbow into the man’s ribs. The sound of impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot. The Bull staggered, caught off balance, and instinctively raised his guard. But Jungkook was already closing in, eyes gleaming, teeth gritted just slightly, a predator savoring the hunt.

Jin-Youngs shout erupted the stage “Oh my god! He’s ruthless! Look at him go—precision strikes, absolute control!”

“You can see it in his eyes. He’s smiling… and it’s terrifying.” Kevin agrees. 

The Bull swung again, desperate now. But Jungkook was already inside, knees driving, elbows slicing, fists landing with a dull, bone-crunching thud. The man’s defense crumbled like paper in a storm. Every grunt, every gasp of pain, every spray of blood sent a thrill through Jungkook. He loved it. He had always loved it.

The referee shouted, “Break!”

Jungkook stood back, breathing steady, muscles coiled and ready, eyes still locked on his opponent. The Bull’s chest heaved, sweat and blood mixing into a dark sheen across his skin. He looked up at Jungkook, rage and fear battling in his gaze.

Jungkook’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. Blood would flow again, and he would be the one to draw it.

The crowd was on their feet, shouting, screaming, living and dying with every punch. Cameras flashed, commentators stammered, but Jungkook didn’t see them. The lights. The noise. The chaos. None of it mattered. Only the ring. Only the fight. Only the exquisite thrill of dominance that came from being the handsome beast everyone both adored and feared.

And as The Bull raised his fists once more, Jungkook leaned slightly forward, letting the anticipation build.

He was ready.

He was alive.

He was unstoppable.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, the air thick with sweat, anticipation, and fear. Jungkook’s gaze never wavered from The Bull, his opponent’s chest heaving, knuckles bloody, eyes wide with desperation. Every fiber of Jungkook’s body screamed readiness, every muscle coiled like a spring—but this time, something different shimmered in the air: the Bull would land a blow.

It came like a lightning strike. A looping right hook, wild but fueled by sheer determination, connected with Jungkook’s jaw. The impact rattled his head slightly, a sharp, unexpected sting exploding through his cheekbone. The crowd gasped, and for the first time that night, a whisper ran through the arena:

“He—he actually got him!”

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed. A split second. That was all it took. He felt the heat spike, the blood rushing in his veins. But the hit did not break him. It didn’t slow him. The sting only sharpened the edges of his focus. He adjusted, recalculated, and stepped forward, his smirk returning almost instantly. He had felt the hit, and he liked it.

Kevin stands from hit seat at the sight.  “Unbelievable! Jungkook actually got hit, and—wait, look at that! He didn’t even flinch after that!”

Jin Young also feels the heat “This is why he’s unstoppable. He’s not just strong; he’s precise, ruthless, and he learns faster than anyone can keep up with.”

The Bull, sensing his advantage, tried to press forward again, fists swinging like hammers. Blood and sweat mixed on his skin, his desperation evident. But Jungkook was already inside. Every step calculated, every movement predatory. Knees, elbows, feints—The Bull had nowhere to hide.

He closed the distance, feinting with his compromised right hand, then delivering a lightning-fast right uppercut that snapped Rossi’s head back. As the challenger stumbled backward, disoriented, Jungkook moved in for the finish, throwing a devastating, full-power left cross jab.

"The knock out left jab!" Kevin shouted. eyes wide. 

A left-hand punch so precise, so devastating, that the crowd had been waiting for it from the very first bell. The punch that had earned Jungkook his fearsome reputation.

The punch landed flush on Rossi’s jaw. The sound was like a baseball bat hitting a pumpkin—a dense, final thwack.a bone cracking those near the stage heard it.

Rossi’s eyes rolled back in his head before his body hit the canvas. He was out instantly, sprawling out on his back, his limbs twitching once before settling into chilling stillness

The referee dove in, waving his arms frantically, shielding the downed man from the phantom follow-up strikes that Jungkook was already cocking.

KO: Round One. 3 minutes, 12 seconds.

The arena fell into stunned silence for a heartbeat, then exploded into chaos. Fans screamed, cameras flashed, commentators nearly lost their voices.

Kevin is feeling the energy too excited to see it in person “And there it is! The left jab! The one we’ve all been waiting for! That’s it! That’s all she wrote!”

Jin Young is now standing as well  “The Bull is down! He’s out cold! That precision… that timing… it’s unreal. The champion is the definition of unstoppable!

Jungkook stood over the unconscious challenger, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. There was no exhilaration, no triumphant shout. He simply looked down at the man he had just erased, the cold demeanor returning full force, the terrifying emptiness in his eyes confirming the maniacal focus of his craft. He was a machine built for war, and the victory was merely a predictable result of the algorithm.Then he smirked. Dark.Cold. Some media even got to capture it felt the shiver on their bones. 

Blood, sweat, and the faint tang of adrenaline hung in the air. Jungkook didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t shout. The crowd’s adoration and the flashes of the media were irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the ring, the fight, and the perfect execution of that jab—the one everyone had waited for, feared, and admired.

This was the feeling he chased, the rush he lived for—the control, the fear, the absolute dominance.

He allowed the referee to raise his hand, his expression still utterly neutral. He accepted the belt, the heavy leather and gold strap feeling inconsequential around his waist. He was the champion. He was always the champion.

He did a quick, mandatory interview at the edge of the cage, the lights and cameras flooding him.

“Jungkook, that was a brutal knockout. Do you have any message for your opponents?”

He leaned into the microphone, his voice cutting through the noise, sharp and chilling

“I am the Emperor. Everyone else is a pretender. Step in the cage, and you will lose.”

No smile. No wave. Just a threat, delivered as an undisputed fact. The media loved it. The headline practically wrote itself: Tyrant Promises Pain.

Phones flashed like strobe lights. Some fans screamed his name in worship, others in fear, but none of them could look away.

They never could.

“How does someone that pretty become this terrifying?” one woman whispered to her friend, voice trembling with excitement.

“It’s not human,” another muttered. “He’s not even fighting — he’s hunting.”

Down by the barricades, a group of rookies from a smaller MMA promotion stared in silence.

Down by the barricades, a group of rookies from a smaller MMA promotion stared in silence.

“That’s the level,” one of them finally said. “That’s what world-class looks like.”

“World-class?” his teammate scoffed. “That’s not just world-class. That’s Jeon Jungkook.”

[TV Broadcast: MFC Sports Network]

“He’s called many things — ‘The Emperor,’ ‘The Tyrant,’ ‘The Perfect Storm.’ 'Angelic Monster' 'The beast' But whatever name you choose, there’s no denying Jeon Jungkook is rewriting combat sports history.”

The screen flashed with highlights: elbows cracking against skulls, spinning kicks dropping men twice his size, his arm raised again and again under the arena lights.

“At his age, Jungkook has defended his title multiple times, with nineteen consecutive wins — now twenty. Experts say he’s the most complete fighter of his generation.”

“Not just complete,” another commentator added. “He’s terrifying. There’s no weakness — not in his striking, not in his grappling, not even in his mentality. The kid doesn’t just want to win… he wants to destroy.”

The next fight of the evening was scheduled to start, but half the crowd was still talking about the last one.

“Did you see the way he smiled when the blood hit the mat?”

“Like he was enjoying it.”

“He was enjoying it.”

“God, he’s beautiful.”

Beautiful. Savage. Untouchable.

-----

It hadn’t always been like this.

Years ago, Jeon Jungkook was just another rising name — the youngest Korean fighter to qualify for the MFC main roster, known more for his looks than his record. Most analysts predicted he’d fizzle out after a few decent showings.

Then came his debut.

[Flashback — Seoul, Years Ago]

The arena was smaller back then — barely five thousand seats — but the energy was the same. Jungkook’s opponent, a veteran named Choi Gwangho, had mocked him openly at the press conference. “Pretty boy should stay on magazine covers. The cage is no place for someone like him.”

It took Jungkook one minute and forty-two seconds to end Choi’s career.

The first punch broke his nose. The second dislocated his jaw. A third, fourth, fifth — a storm of calculated violence that left Choi unconscious before he even hit the ground

“He’s… he’s not normal,” the commentator had whispered back then, too shocked to shout. “This kid isn’t fighting to win. He’s fighting to erase.”

From that night forward, his nickname was sealed: The Tyrant. Soon, more names were given as one feels not enough to show how he is in the ring. 

Present Day — Seoul Dome, Post-Fight Lounge]

“Another clean finish,” Yoongi said scrolling through social media on his phone. “They’re calling you a monster again.”

Jungkook said nothing, stripping the tape from his wrists. His knuckles were raw, skin split where his glove hadn’t cushioned the impact. He didn’t bother with ice.

“Does it bother you?” the Hoseok pressed. “The whole ‘Tyrant’ thing?”

“Why would it?” Jungkook replied, voice even. “They’re not wrong.”

Namjoon — his manager, and one of the few people alive who could speak to him like a human being — walked in with a clipboard. “Medical’s clear. Minor cuts. And the board approved your next defense match in Osaka.”

“Good.”Namjoon studied him for a moment. Most fighters looked exhausted after a fight — even champions. Jungkook looked like he’d just warmed up. His breathing was normal, his eyes alert. If anything, he looked disappointed that it was over so soon.

“Do you ever stop?” Namjoon asked quietly.

Jungkook’s gaze drifted to the bandages wrapping his hands. “Namjoon studied him for a moment. Most fighters looked exhausted after a fight — even champions. Jungkook looked like he’d just warmed up. His breathing was normal, his eyes alert. If anything, he looked disappointed that it was over so soon.

“Do you ever stop?” Namjoon asked quietly.

Jungkook’s gaze drifted to the bandages wrapping his hands. “No. Not till I end them all”

The next morning, headlines flooded every sports site on the internet:

“JEON JUNGKOOK: BEAUTIFUL BEAST DEFENDS TITLE IN 1ST ROUND KNOCKOUT.”

“TYRANT OF THE OCTAGON: JEON JUNGKOOK’S DOMINANCE SHOWS NO SIGN OF ENDING.”

“HE DOESN’T FIGHT — HE EXECUTES.”

Clips of the knockout went viral across social media. Analysts dissected every movement. Commentators argued whether anyone alive could challenge him. And through it all, one sentiment echoed again and again:

He doesn’t belong to this world.

And they were right.

Because while other fighters saw the octagon as a stage, Jungkook saw it as a hunting ground. While others feared defeat, he craved the kill. Every punch, every choke, every drop of blood was a reminder that this was where he was meant to be.

And though the world called him a beast, a monster, a tyrant — Jeon Jungkook knew the truth.

He was just getting started.

Chapter Text

The bell over the front door of Ironclad Apex Force chimed softly as the morning sun cut through the glass walls of the training facility. To outsiders, it looked like any other professional gym — rows of heavy bags, racks of gloves and pads, polished floors, and an octagon at the center gleaming under harsh white lights.

But for the fighters who trained there, Ironclad was a crucible. It was where Namjoon — former champion turned head coach — forged killers.

And at the heart of it all, it was where Jeon Jungkook reigned.

And then, he walked in.

Black hoodie pulled low over his face, gym bag slung casually over one shoulder, Jungkook didn’t look like the man who had crushed an opponent’s ribs less than twenty-four hours ago. He looked quiet. Focused. Unbothered.

But the silence that followed him wasn’t admiration. It was caution.

Because inside Ironclad, Jungkook wasn’t just the champion. He was the benchmark — the standard no one could reach.

The gym smelled of sweat, leather, and rubber. Sunlight streaked through the high windows, dust motes floating lazily over the polished mats and worn wooden floors. But Jungkook didn’t notice. He never did.

In the far corner of the facility stood Ring C, a regulation cage slightly larger than the others. No one else was allowed to use it. It had been built — reinforced, widened, padded with stronger steel — specifically for him.

“That’s his ring,” one of the new recruits whispered, eyes wide as Jungkook stepped inside. “No one touches it.”

“Not unless they want to die,” his sparring partner muttered back.

Minutes later, the sound of leather cracking against canvas filled the gym.

Each strike was heavier than the last. The heavy bag — a 180-pound cylinder designed to endure years of punishment — swung violently from the ceiling as Jungkook’s fists tore into it.

THUD.

From the adjacent mat, where he was drilling defensive head movement, Min Yoongi, a seasoned featherweight, paused. Yoongi was often stoic, but even he couldn’t ignore the percussive violence emanating from the ring.

“A hundred dollars says that bag doesn’t last the hour,” Yoongi muttered, adjusting his sparring headgear.

Jung Hoseok, a lighter, whip-fast bantamweight known for his high-energy drills, winced as the bag swung wildly. “I’ll take that bet, but only because it’s a reinforced model. Still, just imagining taking one of those kicks... I don’t think there’d be a bone left to set.”

Hoseok shook his head, looking at Jungkook, who was now unleashing a relentless torrent of left crosses. “He’s terrifying. I’ve seen guys leave the mat shaking after just one round of sparring with him. How is he doing that 24 hours after a title defense?”

"Because he’s not human, Hobi,” Yoongi replied flatly, returning to his drill. “He’s a machine built to win. He doesn’t feel pain. He only registers weakness.”

Jungkook heard none of it. He was deep in the void, focused only on the leather and the satisfying snap of his knuckles against the dense material. He needed to drive the pain out of his right arm through sheer intensity, overwhelming it with adrenaline and fatigue.

He threw a powerful left uppercut, followed by his signature, full-torque right cross. The punch was strong—it still moved mountains—but it lacked the final, rotational kill that only his uninjured left could deliver. He was relying on brute force, not technique.

The seams started to stretch.

THUD.

The top leather began to fray.

THUD.

And then — a final SMACK — and the bag burst slightly at its base, sand leaking onto the floor. Jungkook’s chest rose and fell steadily, sweat dripping down his sculpted shoulders, his right arm slicing through the air again and again with brutal perfection.

Yoongi and Hoseok exchanged a look. "I guess I win the bet," Yoongi deadpanned.

Hoseok simply sighed, looking at the destruction. "This is why we can't have nice things, Jungkook. Or a career."

One of the junior trainers let out a low whistle. “That’s the third one this week.”

“Fourth,” another corrected. “We had to replace one yesterday too.”

They watched in stunned silence as Jungkook adjusted his wraps, unfazed, and moved on to the next bag like nothing had happened.

“Do you ever wonder,” one of the fighters murmured to his teammate as they leaned against the wall, “what it’d feel like to take one of those punches?”

“Yeah,” the other replied, grimacing. “It’d feel like dying.”

They weren’t exaggerating. Every jab was crisp and precise, but it was the sound — the bone-deep weight — of his shots that made even seasoned fighters shift uncomfortably. His kicks slammed into the bag with a hollow, thunderous boom, the kind that made the steel chains above rattle. If that had been a ribcage instead of canvas, it would’ve splintered.

And it wasn’t just his power — it was the rhythm. Controlled. Relentless. Like a metronome of destruction.

“Can you imagine a human body taking that?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither. And they try.”

Namjoon stepped into the room just as Jungkook shifted his stance. He watched from a distance, arms folded, analyzing the flow of movement.

"No one stop him?" he asked everyone in the room. 

"Ask as if that is possible Joon" It was Yoongi who answered. "You know the kid. He likes to show off"

“Jeon,” Namjoon called, voice calm but firm. “Cut it out.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted just slightly, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “I’m warming up.”

Everything about Jungkook’s technique was textbook — footwork light, core engaged, hands perfectly aligned — but there was something else. Something subtle.

A wince. Barely noticeable. But Namjoon saw it.

“Stop,” he called out.

Jungkook ignored him and threw another jab.

“I said stop.” Namjoon’s voice hardened.

With a sharp exhale, Jungkook halted, gloves still raised, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths.

“Left arm,” Namjoon said, approaching the cage. “You flinched.”

“It’s nothing,” Jungkook replied simply, rolling his shoulder as if to dismiss the concern.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed. “It’s not nothing. That’s scar tissue reacting. You push too hard and you’re going to tear it again.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Namjoon snapped. “You’re not twenty anymore. You can’t just heal overnight.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted, dark and unyielding. “I can’t kill with my right.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“My right hand,” Jungkook said calmly. “It’s strong. But not strong enough. It can’t end fights the way my left did.”

The room went silent. Even the fighters pretending to train nearby froze, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping.

"What are you? A monster?" Hoseok asked as he leans to the wall. 

Yoongi smirked. "He is"

"Stop encouraging the kid" Namjoon warned the two. 

It was common knowledge inside Ironclad — Jeon Jungkook was a natural southpaw. His left hand had always been his weapon, the one that shattered jaws and sent opponents to the ER. But two years ago, an overextended hook in a title defense had torn a ligament in his shoulder. The surgery had healed the injury, but not the man. Since then, his dominance had come from his right — powerful, yes, but never devastating.

“You’re still the most dangerous fighter alive,” Namjoon said firmly. “You don’t need—”

“I want it back,” Jungkook cut in, voice cold. “I want them to feel it again.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

No one spoke when Jungkook returned to the bag, switching stances despite Namjoon’s warning. Southpaw. Left lead. The room collectively held its breath.

THUD.

A left jab snapped out — fast and precise, but noticeably slower than his right.

THUD.

Another. The bag shuddered but didn’t swing as violently.

THUD.

And then, with a low growl under his breath, Jungkook twisted his hips and unleashed a left hook — not as explosive as before, but enough to make the bag sway like it had been hit by a truck.

“Shit,” someone whispered. “If that lands on someone’s skull—”

“They’re not getting up.”

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew he couldn’t stop him. Jeon Jungkook didn’t listen — not to trainers, not to doctors, not to anyone. He would keep pushing until his body broke… or until someone else’s did first.

---

Later that afternoon, the gym quieted as sparring rounds ended and the last of the rookies filed out. Only Jungkook remained, still hammering away at the heavy bag long after his scheduled session was over. Sweat dripped from his jaw, muscles taut and trembling under the strain, but his eyes — those sharp, unrelenting eyes — hadn’t dulled once.

Namjoon leaned against the doorway, watching him.

There were moments, brief and fleeting, when he almost forgot who Jungkook was. When he looked at the kid who had walked into Ironclad at nineteen — quiet, polite, unsure — and asked for a chance. But those moments vanished every time he saw him like this.

This wasn’t a man training for a fight.

This was a predator sharpening his teeth.

"Namjoon?,” Hoseok approached, keeping his voice low. “You think he’s ready for Osaka?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on Jungkook, on the way his gloves split the air with terrifying precision.

“Ready?” he murmured. “He’s past ready.”

Hoseok nodded slowly. “And the opponent?”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a humorless smile. “Doesn’t matter who they put in front of him.”

Hoseok hesitated. “You ever think about what happens when there’s no one left to fight?”

Namjoon’s eyes softened for just a second. “That’s what scares me most.He might fight himself."

Namjoon exhaled slowly. There it was again — that terrifying honesty. Jungkook didn’t fight for glory, or money, or even legacy. He fought because it was the only place where the beast inside him could breathe.

Namjoon walks towards the ring not after he left his words to Hoseok "For noe, my focus is on his left shoulder"

As Namjoon gets near the ring he again speaks. “Cut it out,” Namjoon finally said, voice calm but firm. “You’re favoring the left too much. That shoulder—”

Jungkook flinched slightly, the faintest hesitation, and Namjoon’s sharp eyes caught it immediately.

Jungkook ignored him, moving again, right arm snapping forward. “I’m fine.”

“Not enough,” Namjoon said, stepping closer. “You need balance. Precision. Raw strength from one arm isn’t enough to finish.”

Jungkook stopped mid-strike, smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His eyes, dark and calculating, flicked toward Namjoon. “And you think I’ll listen to others now?”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “I don’t need you to listen. But someone new is coming. A physical therapist.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Confused, almost amused. “Another one? I told you I don’t want one. The last one was gone in forty-eight hours after I made him hold pads for a round. He cried, Namjoon. I made him cry.” Jungkook's mouth curved into a faint, hostile smile, seeing it as a twisted source of pride.

“This one is different,” Namjoon insisted. “And you’re going to cooperate.”

“Why? Did Jin finally give in?” Jungkook asked, mentioning his friend, the only PT Namjoon trusted.

Namjoon’s gaze didn’t waver. “You don’t listen to Jin. And to those 10 other pt you had. " Namjoon confirmed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Jin, a highly respected sports therapist, was also a close friend, and he knew Jungkook’s temperament better than anyone. “He flat-out told me he values his sanity more than my fee. But Jin did introduce me to this new guy. This is different. Maybe this time, the new one can beat the record.”

Jungkook’s smirk deepened. His eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. Forty-eight hours. Gone before even finishing the first session. It was almost funny. A record to break, a challenge to survive.

“Let them try,” he said softly, voice low, almost predatory. “I’m not waiting for anyone to keep up.”

He turned back to the punching bag, already coiling his muscles for another strike. SMACK. The leather tore further, stuffing spilling onto the mat. Each punch was a reminder: he was unstoppable, untouchable, a force that no one—no therapist, no coach, no challenger—had yet tamed.

Namjoon entered the ring despite Jungkooks action. Namjoon pushed the file of Park Jimin into Jungkook's hand as soon as he stop throwing punches and kicks “Look at his credentials. They are outstanding. He specializes in rotation and mobility—precisely what you need.”

Jungkook flipped the file open, his eyes briefly scanning the picture of the smaller, soft-featured man before snapping it shut. He scoffed, tossing the file back.

Namjoon watched quietly, knowing that introducing someone new wasn’t about instant obedience. It was about pushing Jungkook to survive longer, endure more, and sharpen the weapon he already was.

And Jungkook? He didn’t care about anything except the next strike, the next bag, the next moment to prove that he didn’t just fight. He dominated.

"Let us see if he can survive" Jungkook smirked.

Jungkook saw this entire ordeal as a game. A test of wills. He was the reigning champion of the MMA world; he certainly wouldn't lose a battle of intimidation to a physical therapist. It was an amusing, low-stakes distraction.

Namjoon, however, was done playing. He knew how to hit the Tyrant where it hurt: his career.

“Oh, no. We’re done with the games, Jungkook,” Namjoon said, his voice dropping, steel hard and serious. He stepped closer, ensuring the champion understood the gravity of the threat.

“Well, if the new PT is gone in 48 hours, you can say goodbye to the Osaka fight. I will cancel it. Permanently. I will tell the MFC you are mentally unstable and physically unable to compete until further notice. You will sit on the bench for a year, heal properly, and learn some damn respect.”

"Dare me" Jungkook answered coldly and Namjoon only answered in silence but his glares confirmed it. "I am" 

The threat was effective. Jungkook’s eyes flared, a genuine spark of cold fury igniting behind the flat stare. The Osaka defense was his chance to conquer the Asian circuit, a step toward global expansion he’d been planning for months. Namjoon knew that a threat to his dominance was the only thing that mattered.

He clenched his fists, the muscles in his alpha-like jaw pulsing. He didn't smash the cage or yell. He simply absorbed the challenge, a dark promise hardening in his posture.

“He starts Monday, then,” Jungkook stated, his voice a dangerous monotone. “And if he does what he’s told, he might survive the week.” before he give one last punch to the new punching bag he just placed and it erupted. 

He walked past Namjoon, leaving the manager standing next to the yet another destroyed heavy bag—the collateral damage of the Emperor's frustration.

Before Jungkook can open the door, he looked back to Namjoon. "If he doesnt follow, you better make surr he has sufficient medical assistance once he lies in those hospital beds"

With that, Jungkook left the gym.

Park Jimin. Jungkook committed the name to memory. The new PT wasn't a distraction; he was a necessary hurdle. And now, thanks to Namjoon, he was also a hostage in the Champion's high-stakes game.

Chapter Text

Park Jimin’s morning began as it always did: bleary-eyed, coffee in one hand, a clipboard in the other, and the lingering weight of a thousand little obligations pressing on his shoulders.

Seoul Medical Hospital had long since stopped feeling like a sanctuary of care and instead resembled a relentless machine that demanded perfection from everyone who walked its corridors.

Jimin navigated the hallways with practiced efficiency, nodding politely to nurses and technicians, offering quiet words to patients who asked. To anyone watching, he was the picture of professionalism: composed, collected, even-tempered. But behind that calm exterior, his mind raced constantly, cataloging bills, tracking loan deadlines, calculating whether the salary from this hospital would stretch far enough to pay his grandmother’s mounting medical expenses.

His footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floor as he paused outside the physical therapy wing, rubbing a hand over his temple. He had been up since five, tackling patient files, consulting with doctors, and double-checking reports for accuracy. And yet, there were more patients waiting, more forms to complete, and no real break in sight. He could feel the exhaustion threading through his body like a quiet ache, one he had learned to ignore because the alternative — stopping — was simply not an option.

He paused outside the therapy wing, rubbing his temples. The stack of files in his hands felt heavier than usual, each patient note a reminder that he wasn’t just managing other people’s health — he was balancing the fragile life of someone he loved with the relentless demands of his own life.

A soft laugh behind him made him turn interrupting his thoughts before he could retreat further into them.

“Jimin-ah, busy as always, huh?”

Jimin turned to see Kim Seokjin, his senior, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, one hand holding a mug of coffee, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His tone was teasing, light, almost mischievous, but the sharpness in his eyes suggested he wasn’t here just to chit-chat.

“Just finished charting Mr. Choi’s rotation. Stability is increasing, range of motion is at sixty percent,” Jimin said, slipping into the chair opposite Jin, his voice already tight with residual tension. He was exhausted. He had worked a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, and he knew the dreary routine of his second job at the convenience store was looming.

Jin set down his mug on a near table, his expression softening with genuine concern as he looked at Jimin. “Baby chick, you look like you haven’t slept since forever. You’re losing all your baby cheeks.” Jin reached out and gently pinched Jimin’s cheek, a gesture of familiar affection. “You’re too thin. And those dark circles are not chic.”

Jimin pulled back slightly, a small, weary pout forming on his lips. The compounding pressure of his life—the crushing weight of his Grandmother’s hospital bills and the shadow of the loan sharks caused by his father and more to pay his grandmothers bills—was visibly etching itself onto his face. He always prided himself on his appearance, a professional standard he tried to maintain despite the sleepless nights.

“It’s the night shifts at the convenience store, Hyung. They’re slow, but the fluorescent lighting is terrible,” Jimin mumbled, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Jin said, voice teasing but sharp-eyed. “You’ve been running yourself ragged again.”

Jimin frowned, clutching the files tighter. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

“You ‘manage’ like a baby chick tries to fly,” Jin said, smirking.

Jin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a serious, confidential tone. “That’s what I’m here to talk about. We need to talk about your life choices. Specifically, the ones that involve wearing a polyester vest and selling expired ramen at 3 AM,” Jin said, setting a stylish leather briefcase on the table.

Jimin simply sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s the only way to cover the interest payment this month, Hyung. Just spit it out. What ridiculous favor do you need?”

Jin grins wider. "I think I’ve found you a way out of the late-night misery, Chim.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow, wary. “A better night shift?”

Jin grinned wider, holding the envelope out as if it were treasure itself. “I’m talking about twice your current salary. No more late-night shifts. No second job at the convenience store. Enough to cover your grandmother’s bills and finally give you a chance to sleep more than four hours a night.”

Jimin froze. Twice his salary? The idea was almost too good to be true. For a man like him, drowning in hospital work and late-night part-time jobs just to keep his grandmother alive, this offer was a lifeline.

“Twice my salary…” he muttered, almost to himself. "I am not selling my body hyung" he looked at Jin with serious face 

Jin laughed at this. "Of course not!" Jin said, leaning against the wall with a smug little smirk. “And all I ask is that you accept a position as a personal physical therapist.”

Jimin’s brow furrowed. “For…?”

Jin’s grin widened. “A client. Private contract. Six months. The compensation is a joke, Chim. A life-changing joke."

Jimin eyed the document with inherent suspicion. He was a professional, and he knew massive compensation always equaled massive complication. He was immediately reluctant. There had to be a catch.

“A contract for what? And who is the client?” Jimin asked, wary.

Jin's eyes sparkled with an amusement that Jimin couldn't quite place. “The client is… high-profile. And the terms are simple, but absolute. Read them.”

Jimin reluctantly broke the seal. He didn't look at the salary first; he went straight to the terms of engagement. His professional anxiety immediately flared.

Exclusive Commitment: Therapist must dedicate 100% of professional working hours to the client. No other employment is permitted.

Location Mandate: Therapist must be available at the client’s primary training facility (Ironclad Apex Force) daily from 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM, and for emergency calls during off-hours.

Home Visits: Upon passing the initial 48-hour evaluation period, the therapist must be available for evening and weekend sessions at the client's private residence.

Travel Requirement: Therapist must travel with the client's team to all scheduled national and international competitions.

Jimin’s jaw dropped. He looked up at Jin, horrified.

“Exclusive? Hyung, this means I have to give up the hospital! And the convenience store! It’s practically a whole day commitment. Who is this demanding? Are they injured or just insane?”

Jin merely chuckled, leaning back in his chair, enjoying Jimin’s genuine shock. He deliberately chose not to reveal the client’s identity yet—he wanted Jimin to focus on the luxury of the terms, not the terror of the man

“They are high-end, Jimin-ah. They pay for exclusivity. They want you on call, living and breathing their health. Look at the upside. No more smelling like stale fryer oil. No more risking a lawsuit at the hospital. Just one client, one injury, one goal.”

Then, Jin moved in for the kill, appealing directly to Jimin’s sheltered life and his dreams of giving his grandmother comfort.

“And look at this, Jimin-ah: You also have to join the fights to give PT before his fights. You get a ringside seat. More importantly: You get to fly free from one country to another on the client’s dime. Private jets, five-star hotels, the works. Think about that. You, who never once done before even boarded an international flight—you'd be seeing the world. All expense paid.”

The thought of escaping Seoul, the city that felt like a cage of debt, was momentarily intoxicating. But the responsibility was terrifying.

“But the commitment is too much! What if I fail? What if the client is impossible to work with? I can’t risk losing my jobs for a contract that could be terminated in a week! I need stability, not high-stakes gambling.”

Jin finally pointed to the compensation line, his voice softening, becoming the concerned mentor again. “You don't understand. If you take this, the debt is gone in few months. G-O-N-E. You could put your grandmother in an even better, private-pay facility. This is not gambling, Jimin. This is forced financial freedom.I won't be offering this to you if I know you cant do it"

The colossal figure stared back at Jimin. He pictured the loan shark's cold eyes, his grandmother's frail hand, the constant, sickening fear. He stared at the terms: exclusive... travel... home visits...

“Who is the client, Hyung?” Jimin whispered, finally ready to face the caveat.

Jin grinned, the expression a mix of pity and excitement. “The MFC Champion, Jeon Jungkook. The Emperor. The Angelic Monster. The Tyrant.”

Jimin blinked. Jeon Jungkook?

The words didn’t strike immediately. Jimin had heard the name before, perhaps in passing: a champion fighter, someone famous in MMA circles, but his knowledge was minimal. He didn’t know the stories, the headlines, the viral fight clips. He had no image of the man beyond a vague understanding that he was talented, highly disciplined, and apparently in the top tier of the international fighting world.

“Oh,” Jimin simply said, the sound small and lost. “The handsome fighter.”

Jin laughed, a loud, booming sound. Amused that Jimin didn’t know fully who Jungkook is yet—that he only recognized his handsome face, not his infamous brutality.

“The handsome fighter, yes. Now sign it, Chim. Go home. You start Monday. And don't tell anyone you had to Google ‘Tyrant MMA’ tonight.”

Jimin takes a pen and re-reads the contract. "I mean... job wise, I can do it"

“Exactly,” Jin said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re smart, capable, professional. And I know you need this money more than anything. That’s why I offered it to you first.”

Jimin hesitated only a moment longer. Financial necessity had a way of overriding fear, of silencing doubt. Twice the salary, no overtime, a chance to finally breathe. He nodded quickly. “Okay… I’ll do it.”

“Perfect,” Jin said, his grin unwavering. “You’ll start tomorrow. Everything else — schedule, records, contacts — it’s all here.” He tapped the envelope. “Just sign, and it’s done. Don’t overthink it.”

He took a shaky breath and signed the contract, sacrificing his stability for his family's survival. He was now tethered to the most feared man in combat sports, and he still didn't know the true price of his new, elite salary.

----

That evening, however, reality began to seep in.

Jimin sat at his small apartment desk, the envelope now opened, the folder spread out in front of him. He took a deep breath and, out of idle curiosity, began researching his new employer.

The first few results were simple: Jeon Jungkook’s record, news headlines, viral clips of fights.Pictures. 

“Undefeated… light heavyweight champion… twenty consecutive wins… multiple title defenses…” Jimin muttered, eyes widening as he scrolled through article after article. Each headline painted a picture of a man not just skilled, but ruthless. “The Tyrant… The Angelic Monster… most dangerous fighter in the world…”

A chill ran down Jimin’s spine. He clicked on a fight clip, expecting perhaps a display of technique or athleticism. What he saw instead made his stomach twist into knots.

The arena was packed; cameras flashed as the two fighters circled each other. And then Jungkook moved.

He was graceful, almost casual, until the punch landed — a crack like a gunshot. The opponent stumbled, gasping, blood already appearing along the corner of his mouth. Jungkook’s face was unreadable, calm, composed — almost gentle in its precision — until the opponent tried to recover. And then the second, third strikes came, vicious but perfectly controlled, and the man collapsed, unconscious.

The audience roared. The commentators shouted. But the thing that froze Jimin in place was the expression on Jungkook’s face: a small smirk, subtle but undeniably cruel, the kind of smirk that enjoyed the domination, the suffering, the control.

Jimin’s hands trembled slightly as he leaned back in his chair. His heart pounded. He had just agreed to become this man’s personal therapist. He was supposed to be close to him, helping his shoulder, guiding his recovery… possibly in the cage, on the mats, maybe even during training sessions where the man’s full power was unleashed.

A shiver ran through him. “Halmoni… what have I done?” he whispered into the empty apartment.

---

The next morning, he wasnt even able to go to hid second job at the convenience store. He can't concentrate. He need to see Jin as soon as possible. Jimin sprinted through the hospital corridors, nearly colliding with a nurse before skidding to a stop outside Jin’s office. He rapped sharply on the door.

“Hyung! Hyung! I… I can’t do it!” he burst out as soon as Jin appeared. “I… I can’t! You didn’t tell me! He’s a… a killer in the ring! A beast! What if he punches me? What if I make a mistake? I’ll be out of this world before I can even pay my debt, before I can even help grandma!”

Jin looked up from his paperwork, amused, unbothered by the frantic energy in Jimin’s voice. He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly, shaking his head. “Relax, baby chick. Calm down.”

Jimin’s cheeks flushed, his hands twisting the strap of his bag. “Relax? Hyung, he’s Jeon Jungkook! Did you see those videos? That smirk when someone’s bleeding? That… that domination!”

Jin sighed, standing to approach him, and placed a hand lightly on Jimin’s shoulder. “I saw them. I know exactly who he is. But listen to me — he’s not going to hit you. You’re his physical therapist. You’re not his opponent. Your job is to help him, guide him, strengthen him — professionally. You won’t be in danger unless you make it your own problem.”

Jimin’s shoulders slumped slightly, but worry still clung to his features. “But… what if…”

“Baby chick,” Jin interrupted gently, pinching his cheeks lightly in a familiar gesture. “You need this money. Twice your salary, no late shifts, no second job, sleep, stability. Grandma’s hospital bills? Covered. You want to risk all of that over a little fear?”

Jimin glared, but the pinch forced a reluctant laugh from him. “You’re literally using money to lure me to a beast.”

“And it’s working, isn’t it?” Jin said, grinning. “Come on. Face reality. You need this, and you can handle it. You’re competent, professional, and smart. You will survive.”

Jimin’s hands fell to his sides, and he exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in his body loosen just slightly. Jin was right. He needed this job — for his grandmother, for himself, for a chance to breathe. Fear or not, he couldn’t let it control him.

But he can't erase the image of Jungkook smirking. Jimin was shaking, his carefully constructed professional composure completely demolished. "What if I won't survive?"

Jin met his panic with a heavy, steady gaze. He knew this would happen. He knew Jimin, the man who was both fiercely loyal and easily intimidated.

“Sit down, Jimin-ah. Let’s talk about that loan, shall we?” Jin spoke, his voice low and devoid of warmth. This was not the mentor; this was the hammer.

“You’re terrified. I get it. The media sells terror. But let me tell you what else is terrifying, Jimin. Do you remember the interest rate on the money you borrowed? It increases exponentially next month. Your grandmother’s care needs are also increasing. Your two salaries combined barely cover the costs if you get paid for every overtime shift.”

Jin leaned forward, his eyes boring into Jimin’s. “You accepted this contract because that lump sum payment is the only thing that ends your nightmare. If you walk away now, you are left with no hospital job, a letter of termination, and a mountain of debt that will consume you. You will lose your license to practice because you'll be too tired to function, and you will lose the ability to care for the only family you have left.”

He spread his hands wide, a gesture of absolute finality. “This isn't about the Tyrant, Jimin. This is about survival. You are the professional. You are meticulous. You are calm. You treat the shoulder, you take the money, and you leave. The terms I negotiated are the only reason you can pay off that debt and ensure your grandmother's safety.”

“I’m manipulating you, yes,” Jin admitted, his face hard. “But I’m doing it to force you into a position where you can save yourself. You are one bad PT session away from being pulverized by the champion, but you are also one full paycheck away from being debt-free and sleeping soundly for the first time in years.”

Jimin stared down at his hands—the small, skilled hands that were his trade, now trembling with fear. He saw the cold logic in Jin’s words. His fear of Jungkook was less potent than his fear of failure and financial ruin.

“I… I can’t quit the hospital yet,” Jimin mumbled, clinging to the last piece of his old life.

“The contract is exclusive, Jimin,” Jin reminded him, his voice firm. “You are Jungkook’s property for six months. Now, go home. You need to be well-rested. You need to be sharp. Your first test is Monday morning at Ironclad Apex Force. And your goal is simple: Do not quit in the first forty-eight hours.”

Jimin finally stood, his posture rigid. The terror was still there, a cold, heavy lump in his chest, but beneath it, the hardened core of the desperate professional had taken over. He would face the beast. He had no other option.

“I… I’ll do it,” Jimin admitted quietly. “But… Hyung, if I get hurt…”

Jin raised an eyebrow, smirk intact. “You won’t. I’ll be watching. And even if you did… well, you’d have learned something important, wouldn’t you?”

Jimin huffed, cheeks still pink from both embarrassment and lingering anxiety. “I guess…”

Jin clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Good. Now, stop worrying. Tomorrow is your first day. Be prepared. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.”

Jimin nodded, gripping the folder that Jin had given him the day before. Inside were schedules, medical history, training notes, and contact information. His palms felt sweaty despite the weight of responsibility he carried with him.

As he walked back to his room, his mind raced: the cage, the training, the monster he was about to face, the responsibility of ensuring his patient’s body remained in top condition… and yet, beneath the fear, a small spark of determination ignited.

He had no choice. He had to make this work.

Because sometimes, desperation could forge courage before it was ready.

Chapter Text

The morning air of Seoul was crisp and unforgiving as Park Jimin arrived at Irconclad Apex Force, the private training facility of the reigning MFC Champion.

The gym’s exterior was a monolithic slab of black steel and tinted glass, radiating a cold, impenetrable exclusivity that seemed to mock the warmth and compassion of his usual workplace, Seoul Medical Hospital.

Its dark facade all glass and concrete, banners of champions fluttering in the October wind. The building was alive with the deep, rhythmic thud of fists against leather and the occasional sharp bark of a trainer correcting a fighter. Even from the sidewalk, he could hear the echo of violence inside — a sound that made his heart stutter and his grip on his bag tighten.

Jimin, dressed in a neat, unassuming set of grey scrubs and a white therapist's jacket, felt desperately small and utterly out of place. He was the healer entering the temple of the destroyer.

It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours since he’d signed the contract. Forty-eight hours since Jin had flashed that easy smile and told him it was a “career-changing opportunity.” Forty-eight hours since he’d said yes, blinded by the promise of a salary that could finally lift his grandmother’s medical bills off his back.

Now, standing here, the weight of it felt heavier than anything he had ever carried.

He checked his bag for the tenth time, ensuring the specialized tools—the goniometer, the myofascial release instruments, the anatomical charts—were all present. He was anchored by one terrifying, unshakeable truth: the colossal, life-saving salary Kim Namjoon offered was the only thing standing between his grandmother’s long-term care and financial ruin. He could not fail. He could not quit.

Stepping inside, the vast, warehouse-like space hit him with an immediate, sensory overload. The atmosphere was dense, heavy with the metallic tang of sweat, polished rubber, and the deep, resonant aura of relentless physical effort. Honestly, inside, the world he stepped into felt like another planet entirely.

Ironclad wasn’t a typical gym. It was a cathedral of violence.

Rows of heavy bags hung from the ceiling, each swaying with the force of punishing strikes. Fighters grappled on mats, their bodies slick with sweat, while others sparred in open cages — fists flying, breath heaving, eyes burning with hunger. Every corner of the facility seemed to hum with energy, with ambition, with the kind of intensity Jimin had only ever read about.

And yet, even with the chaos, the place felt… controlled.

There was discipline in every movement. Precision in every strike. This wasn’t just training — it was the forging of weapons.

“Park Jimin?”

The voice snapped him out of his daze. He turned to see a man approaching — tall, broad-shouldered, with calm eyes that looked like they had seen everything and judged none of it. Kim Namjoon, Jeon Jungkook’s manager, and the man who had personally summoned him here. He has seen his pictures as he "learned" more about Jungkook in the web last night. 

“Y-Yes, sir.” Jimin bowed quickly, nerves tripping over his tongue.

“Namjoon’s fine,” the man said with an easy smile, extending a hand. “I’m glad you came. You’re a lifesaver, Jimin-ssi, truly,” Namjoon admitted, his voice dropping slightly. “Finding a suitable PT who understands the high-velocity demands of the MFC is incredibly hard, let alone one Doc Jin vouches for. I owe Doc Jin a lot if you can stay. Frankly, you're a miracle. 

His handshake was firm, grounding. Jimin felt some of the tension in his chest ease — just slightly.

"Ah! Should I call you Doctor Jimin or Doctor Park?" Namjoon noted with respect. 

Jimin shakes his head "No. I.. im not yet an official doctor. Plus, if I can call you Namjoon-ssi you can also call me Jimin. Maybe it will ease the situation?"

“Nonesense of you not being a doctor yet. I Doc Jin mentioned you are the best. Only doctors were the best right? But if you prefer it that way, Welcome to Ironclad Jimin-shi. Let’s start?.”

Namjoon led him deeper into the facility, past the main training floor and down a hallway lined with framed photographs. Jimin’s eyes skimmed over them — snapshots of champions, trophies raised high, headlines screaming victory. But one name appeared more than any other.

Jeon Jungkook.

The same cold, handsome face stared back at him from poster after poster. Sometimes bloodied, sometimes smiling faintly with a gold belt slung over his shoulder. But always triumphant. Always standing above the rest.

Namjoon noticed the way Jimin’s gaze lingered. “I assume you’ve done your research.”

Jimin swallowed. “A little.”

That was a lie. He had spent most of the previous night glued to his phone, watching videos and reading articles — every punch, every knockout, every brutal takedown replaying in his mind until sleep refused to come. The man they called The Tyrant wasn’t just a fighter. He was a storm. And Jimin was about to step right into the center of it.

They entered a glass-walled conference room overlooking the training floor. Namjoon gestured for Jimin to sit.

“Before anything else,” Namjoon began, leaning back in his chair, “I want you to understand exactly what this job entails. It’s not your typical hospital PT work.”

Jimin nodded slowly, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“You’ll be responsible for Jungkook’s conditioning, recovery, and rehabilitation. That includes pre-fight prep, post-fight therapy, and managing his existing injuries — particularly his left shoulder. It’s an old issue, but if aggravated, it could end his career.”

Jimin’s brows knit slightly. “And… he still fights with that injury?”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched into something between a smile and a sigh. “He fights because of it. He’s stubborn like that.”

He continued, voice steady and professional. “The contract you signed requires your full commitment. That means no other jobs — not the hospital, not the convenience store Doc Jin mentioned. You’ll be with Jungkook during training hours, which often means all day. If he needs therapy after hours, you go to his house. If there’s an overseas fight, you’re on the plane.”

Jimin nods.

Namjoon continue. "MFC tournaments take place all over the world. You’ll travel with the team — flights, accommodations, everything covered.”

It was the kind of thing Jimin had only dreamed about. He’d never even been on a plane before. But the thought didn’t excite him as much as it should have — not when every word Namjoon spoke made the weight on his shoulders grow heavier.

“And one more thing,” Namjoon added, his tone sharpening. “Jungkook is… different. He doesn’t like small talk. He doesn’t tolerate lateness. And he definitely doesn’t appreciate people underestimating what he does. You’ll see things here that will test you — physically, mentally. I won’t lie to you about that.”

Jimin’s throat felt dry. “I understand.”

Namjoon studied him for a moment, as if trying to gauge the truth in his words. Then he nodded, satisfied.

“Good. Let me introduce you to the team.”

They stepped out of the conference room and back into the organized chaos of the training floor. Jimin followed Namjoon closely, trying not to look too out of place. Heads turned as they walked by — curious eyes, some friendly, some amused.

“New guy?” someone called out from the mats.

“Brave,” another chuckled. “Did they tell you who you’re patching up yet?”

“Be nice,” Namjoon warned over his shoulder. “He’s new.”

A tall woman with cropped hair and a wicked grin approached first, offering Jimin a fist bump. “I’m Haneul. Boxing coach. If you ever need to hide, my corner’s safe.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said a shorter man with cauliflower ears, tossing a towel around his neck. “I’m Daeho. Muay Thai. I give better medical advice than most doctors.”

“Lies,” Haneul shot back. “He once told a guy to walk off a concussion.”

Laughter rippled around them — light and easy, the kind that loosened the tight coil in Jimin’s chest. He managed a small smile, bowing politely to each person he met.

They were intimidating, yes — every one of them looked like they could break him in half — but they were also warm in a way he didn’t expect. It made the gym feel a little less terrifying.

“Don’t worry,” Haneul said, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “We’ll take care of you.”

“Until he shows up,” Daeho added under his breath, earning a glare from Namjoon.

Jimin tried to laugh, but the words sank deep.

He.

The name they didn’t have to say.

The words clung to Jimin like a shadow as the laughter around him faded into the background.

Namjoon didn’t correct them this time — he only gave a faint shake of his head and led Jimin toward the far side of the training floor, where a line of cages stood like iron beasts waiting to be fed. Jimin’s eyes caught on one in particular, larger than the rest, its floor pristine, its ropes newer, its padding replaced. No one dared use it now, even though the rest of the gym buzzed with activity.

“That one’s his,” Namjoon said quietly, following Jimin’s gaze.

Jimin swallowed. “Jungkook’s?”

Namjoon nodded. “We call it the Emperor’s Cage. Nobody trains there but him. Not unless he asks.”

It was absurd, Jimin thought, that a single fighter could command a space like that — a whole ring dedicated only to his presence. But the reverence in Namjoon’s tone left no room for doubt.

The other fighters seemed to sense Jimin’s unease. Haneul reappeared, tossing him a sports drink as if she’d known exactly when he’d need the distraction. “Don’t look at the cage too long. You’ll psych yourself out.”

“Or worse,” Daeho added with a smirk, “he’ll walk in and think you’re challenging him.”

Jimin nearly dropped the bottle. “I—I wasn’t—”

They both laughed, and Namjoon sighed, though his lips curved upward slightly.

“Relax, Jimin-ssi,” Namjoon said, softer this time. “Everyone feels like that their first day. You’ll get used to it.”

Will I? Jimin thought, clutching the bottle like a lifeline.

They moved further into the gym. the manager executed a deliberate maneuver, steering Jimin toward two other fighters who had paused their drills—a brief, tactical attempt to inject a lighter mood into the suffocating environment.

Min Yoongi, a lean, focused featherweight with the look of someone perpetually analyzing angles, stopped wrapping his hands to acknowledge them. “You must be the new specialist,” Yoongi greeted him, his tone flat but professional. “Yoongi. We’re all banking on you, you know. Keeps the big man happy, keeps the prize money flowing.”

Next to him, Jung Hoseok, a lighter bantamweight whose movements were full of nervous energy and quick, genuine smiles, offered a welcoming nod. “Hoseok. Welcome to the Ironclad Apex Force family. Just try to keep him off the heavy bag until about four PM, yeah? Our eardrums appreciate it.”

Hoseok’s attempt at humor was an oasis of normalcy. Jimin managed a small, grateful smile. “Jimin. It’s an honor to be working here. I hope to ensure your teammate is in peak condition for his next bout.”

Yoongi’s expression darkened slightly as his gaze drifted toward the central Cage. “Just remember this, Jimin-ssi: He is always fine, until he’s not. He doesn’t register pain the way we do. He registers it as weakness. You’re not here to be his friend; you’re here to be his conscience. Good luck.”

Namjoon quickly stepped in, cutting the conversation short. "Don't mind them. Come"

They moved toward a quieter area off the mats, a corner with neatly arranged equipment, a treatment table, and a small office tucked behind glass walls. Jimin realized this must be where he’d spend most of his time — tending to bruises, taping joints, easing aches. It was familiar enough to ground him.

“This will be your station,” Namjoon explained. “Athletes come here when they need work between rounds or after training. But your main responsibility is Jungkook. If he’s in the building, so are you.”

Jimin nodded, his throat dry. “Understood.”

“Good.” Namjoon’s expression shifted — not unkind, but serious enough that Jimin straightened instinctively. “Now, a few ground rules. One: don’t approach Jungkook unless you need to. Two: if he tells you to stop, you stop immediately. And three…” Namjoon paused, searching for the right words. “Don’t take anything personally. He’s not the easiest person to work with.”

That was putting it lightly, Jimin thought. He remembered the clips he’d watched — Jungkook’s eyes, sharp and merciless, the cruel smirk when an opponent fell bleeding at his feet.

“What if he—” Jimin hesitated, the question catching in his throat. “What if he doesn’t want me here?”

Namjoon met his gaze steadily. “Then it’s my job to make sure he understands why you’re here. Not yours. Just do your work, keep your head down, and you’ll be fine.If he ever gets mad, let me know but I'll be here always anyway so I will be dealing with his anger. Your focus is solely on his health”

Fine. The word felt flimsy, like a thin bandage stretched over a wound that refused to close.

Still, Jimin forced a small nod. “I’ll do my best.”

Namjoon’s eyes softened for the first time, the corners crinkling with something like reassurance. “That’s all I ask.”

Namjoon continued the tour again, introducing Jimin to coaches, nutritionists, and a handful of fighters who weren’t too absorbed in sparring to wave. Most were polite, if a little amused — as if they were waiting to see how long he would last.

“Don’t mind the jokes,” one of the wrestling coaches told him kindly. “It’s just their way of testing you. Everyone here’s been through the fire. They’ll warm up once they know you’re sticking around.”

Still, the teasing never stopped.

“So you’re the one who’s gonna keep our Emperor patched up, huh?”

“Careful, don’t tape him wrong or he might tape you to the mat.”

“Better start doing push-ups now, you’ll need the strength to survive the glare.”

They laughed, not unkindly, but Jimin’s smile always came a beat too late, a shade too thin. He wanted to look composed, professional — a real therapist, not someone who’d stumbled into the lion’s den by mistake. But every joke about Jungkook cut a little deeper into the knot of anxiety in his stomach.

In few minutes after his arrival and wuick tour, the Fighters broke off into smaller groups, some heading to showers, others reviewing drills. Jimin found himself seated at the sidd, flipping nervously through the medical kit Namjoon had set up for him. The familiarity of gauze, tape, and cold spray steadied him.

He reminded himself of the numbers — the paycheck, the bills it could cover, the relief it could bring his grandmother. That was why he was here. That was what mattered.

Not Jungkook.

Not the cage.

Not the whispers that still hung in the air like smoke.

“Hey,” Haneul’s voice broke his thoughts. She leaned against the table, arms crossed, studying him with a curious tilt of her head. “You’re quieter than I expected.”

Jimin blinked. “Ah… sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” She grinned. “It’s kinda refreshing. Most rookies try to act tough their first day. You look like you know exactly what you signed up for.”

He forced a laugh. “I’m not sure I do.”

Haneul’s grin widened. “Good answer.”

Before he could respond, the air shifted.

It was subtle at first — a dip in conversation, the faint creak of the front doors swinging open. Then it rolled through the gym like a wave, pulling every gaze toward the entrance. Voices hushed. Gloves stilled. Even the rhythm of punches on heavy bags faltered.

Jimin’s pulse spiked. He didn’t need to ask who it was.

Namjoon straightened nearby, his easy smile fading into a mask of composure. “Well,” he murmured under his breath, “speak of the devil.”

The doors slammed shut behind him, and Jeon Jungkook walked in.

The man Jimin had seen only through glowing screens and shaky fight recordings was now very real — and infinitely more intimidating in person.

He wasn’t dressed like a champion. There was nothing showy about him at all. Black joggers clung to long legs, a charcoal-gray hoodie. A duffel bag was slung across his back. Earbuds nestled in his ears, the faint bass of music just barely audible in the silence.

What caught Jimin’s attention most wasn’t the clothes — it was the way Jungkook moved. Every stride was precise, calculated, and unhurried. He carried himself like someone who knew the space already belonged to him. There was no glance toward the watching crowd, no nod of acknowledgment, not even a flicker of awareness in their direction. He simply existed — and the room bent around that existence.

“He always runs to the gym,” Namjoon whispered from somewhere near Jimin’s shoulder. “No car. No driver. Just a ten-kilometer sprint before every session.”

“He jogs here?” Jimin’s voice was too soft to be heard.

“Every second counts, he says. Everything has to be training.”

As if to prove her words, Jungkook crouched near the wall, setting his duffel down with the same unhurried control. One by one, he stripped away the layers: the hoodie first, revealing plain sleeveless top darkened with sweat, arms corded with lean muscle, tattoo on his right arm to his upper chest and faint scars that told their own stories. Then the earbuds, which he coiled neatly and tucked into his bag's pocket. He rolled his shoulders once, a smooth, feline motion, and scanned the space with eyes that were dark and sharp and utterly cold.

Namjoon was the first to move.

“Had a good jog?” he called out, voice deliberately light, as if speaking to anyone else.

Jungkook’s head tilted slightly. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips — not warm, not friendly, just there, like a reflex he didn’t care to suppress.

“Beat the last record,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a boast. It was a fact.

Jimin’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t even started training yet, and already Jungkook was treating a ten-kilometer run like a warm-up.

The champion walked toward the cage — his cage — rolling his wrists, loosening the muscles in his neck. His gaze fell on the newly installed punching bag hanging heavy and pristine in the corner. He approached it without hurry, like a hunter circling prey.

“This better be stronger than the rest,” he muttered under his breath.

But Namjoon heard him. He always did.

The coached just sighed quietly, half amusement, half exasperation curling his lips. “We just put that one up this morning,” he said, though he knew it wouldn’t matter. Nothing ever lasted. No matter how reinforced the bag was, no matter how expensive the materials, Jungkook’s kicks and fist would rip it apart. They always did.

Namjoon turned then, his gaze seeking out the small, stiff figure lingering by the treatment table. Jimin hadn’t moved an inch since Jungkook walked in. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of his clipboard. His throat bobbed once. Twice.

God, he looks like he’s about to pass out.

Namjoon sighed inwardly. The introduction would have to wait. If he let Jungkook speak first, the poor kid might run out the door before the day was over.

“Hey,” Namjoon said quietly, stepping closer to Jimin with a reassuring smile. “Don’t overthink it. He’s intense, yeah — but he’s still just another fighter. Once you see how he trains, it’ll make more sense.”

Another fighter? Jimin wanted to laugh. Nothing about the man standing a few meters away looked ordinary. Jungkook radiated something far sharper, far heavier than any athlete Jimin had worked with. It wasn’t just strength — it was hunger. Focus. A brutal, single-minded purpose that seemed to consume everything around him.

Still, he nodded, though his legs felt like lead.

Then the sound came.

A single, thunderous THUD that split the air like a gunshot.

The heavy bag swung wildly on its chain, the entire steel frame groaning under the force. Jimin’s heart lurched into his throat. He hadn’t even seen the kick — one moment Jungkook was stretching, the next the bag was swaying violently as if struck by a sledgehammer.

The gym fell utterly silent.

The fighters who had been joking moments before froze mid-motion. One of the younger trainees, halfway through wrapping his hands, forgot the rest of the bandage. Even Namjoon, seasoned and unshakable, only shook his head slowly, a resigned smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s his warm-up,” he murmured to Jimin, almost apologetic.

Warm-up.

Another kick. Another deafening CRACK. The sound wasn’t just heard — it was felt, reverberating through the floor beneath Jimin’s shoes. Each blow seemed to grow sharper, heavier, crueler. He could almost imagine what it would do to human bone.

“Goodness,” Haneul breathed somewhere behind him. “That poor bag’s not gonna make it till lunch.”

Jungkook didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge the stares. Didn’t glance once at the new face standing frozen by the treatment table. He was lost in the rhythm — kick, pivot, step, kick — each movement precise and devastating, each exhale a silent promise of violence.

This was the man they called Tyrant.

This was the beast that ruled the cage.

And this was the man Jimin had to touch, train, treat — and somehow survive.

Namjoon clapped him gently on the back, breaking his trance. “Welcome to the team, Jimin.”

Jimin swallowed hard, his eyes still locked on Jungkook as another brutal THUD echoed across the gym.

What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter Text

The charts were thicker than he expected.

Thicker, heavier — almost intimidating on their own.

Jimin sat alone in the staff office tucked into one corner of Ironclad medic room, elbows braced against the long metal desk, a cup of now-cold coffee forgotten beside him. In front of him lay the medical records of Jeon Jungkook — reigning world light heavyweight champion, “The Tyrant,” and, starting today, his first ever private client.

He had skimmed over patient files hundreds of times before. Post-op rehabilitation cases, chronic lumbar strain, ACL reconstructions — all familiar territory. But this wasn’t a typical case. Every line of data, every entry scribbled in a doctor’s handwriting felt heavier than the last. This was the anatomy of a weapon, catalogued in ink and numbers.

Patient: Jeon Jungkook. Age: 25.

Primary concern:Chronic left shoulder instability. History of anterior dislocation and partial supraspinatus tear (Grade II). Residual scapulothoracic dyskinesis noted.

Secondary notes: Bilateral quadriceps overdevelopment, mild iliopsoas tightness, lumbar paraspinal hypertonicity. Recommend ongoing preventative care.

Jimin’s eyes moved steadily down the page, lips parting slightly as he mouthed each term.

“Anterior dislocation… supraspinatus partial tear…” He traced a finger down the section marked Rehabilitation Timeline noting the year of the initial injury — two years ago, mid-season. A brutal takedown, according to the incident report, the opponent’s weight twisting Jungkook’s shoulder beyond its normal range. The injury was severe enough to sideline most fighters for months.

Jungkook had returned in seven weeks.

Seven. Weeks.

Jimin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. That kind of recovery wasn’t just rare—it was borderline reckless, a defiance of human biology. It spoke volumes about the Champion's immense pain tolerance and, more worryingly, his profound disregard for professional limits. And it told him more about the man than any interview or headline ever could.

“He probably ignored half the protocols, substituted rest with compensatory overload,” he murmured, flipping to the imaging reports.

There, in the grayscale MRI scans, he could see the evidence—scar tissue faintly visible along the rotator cuff, signs of compensatory hypertrophy (overgrowth) around the deltoid and biceps tendon insertion. The shoulder had healed—but not perfectly. The chronic instability, the scapulothoracic dyskinesis (improper movement of the shoulder blade)—these were the ghosts of protocols ignored, now manifesting as a time bomb.

Another section caught his attention.

Observation: Dominance shift. Left-hand bias pre-injury. Increased reliance on right upper extremity noted post-injury. Possible kinetic chain imbalance.

So that was why. Jimin’s brow furrowed. Jungkook was a natural southpaw, his left side the primary engine for his devastating power strikes. The injury had forced a partial switch in his fighting posture. It explained the subtle change he’d noticed when reviewing footage last night—heavier reliance on right hooks, a more orthodox guard, slightly less explosive rotational torque on the left. The injured left side.

And that shift came at a cost.

He scribbled quick notes into his own notebook, his mind already formulating a deep-dive, multi-faceted treatment plan:

Left glenohumeral joint: reduced end-range external rotation. Target: posterior capsule mobilization.

Rotator cuff complex: residual weakness, likely supraspinatus and infraspinatus underactivation. Target: Neuromuscular re-education and stabilization drills.

Scapulothoracic mechanics: potential compensatory dyskinesis → monitor for impingement risk. Target: Dynamic stabilization, serratus anterior and lower trap activation.

Right shoulder & biceps tendon: risk of overuse strain due to compensatory load. Target: Fascia release and protective strengthening.

His pen hovered mid-air for a moment.

There was more.

The lower sections of the file catalogued what most therapists might ignore — smaller, subtler red flags.

Down in the “general observations” section, he saw signs that most people would ignore: tight hip flexors (probably from explosive kicks), tension in the back, and tiny signs of strain in the hips. They weren’t injuries yet — but they could become injuries if nobody paid attention..

“This is… a time bomb,” Jimin whispered. “A perfectly built machine, but a machine that’s close to breaking if pushed too far.”

He flipped to the final page: Proposed Therapeutic Plan. It was sparse. Basic. Almost insultingly so. Whoever had written it last had taken the easy route — Too basic. Simple stretches, light exercises. Nothing that addressed the deeper problems.

Jimin’s jaw tightened. That wasn’t going to cut it.

If he was going to keep this man’s career from crumbling, he’d have to go deeper — deep muscle release, posture correction, strengthening weak spots, and balancing both sides of the body.

His eyes drifted to the clock.

11:48 a.m.

Had he really been sitting here for three hours?

The door creaked open before he could process the time. Namjoon stepped inside, knocking lightly against the frame. His usual easy expression was tempered by a note of seriousness today.

“Deep in the rabbit hole, huh?” the manager said, glancing at the stack of files scattered across the desk. Namjoon’s smile was wide, his dimples showing, conveying a genuine delight that Jimin was finally here.

Jimin blinked, startled. “Oh — yeah. Sorry, I… lost track.”

“Don’t apologize. That’s a good sign.” Namjoon leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Means you’re already taking this seriously. I know Jin-hyung wasn't exaggerating about your thoroughness.”

“I just…” Jimin hesitated, tapping his pen against the page. “I want to make sure I don’t miss anything. His left shoulder’s obviously the main concern, but there are signs of overuse which might be a developing imbalances, too. If we don’t address them now, they could lead to—”

“Future problems. Career-ending problems,” Namjoon finished for him, the faint smile remaining but the eyes showing a flash of seriousness. “Yeah. That’s why I wanted someone like you, Jimin. Someone who looks past the immediate pain to the structural deficit. Someone who won't be scared off by the complexity. I owe Jin a lot if you can stay.

The younger man flushed slightly, ducking his head. “I’m just doing my job.”

“And now it’s time to *really* do it.” Namjoon checked his watch. “First PT session starts in ten minutes. The room’s ready. He’s already there.”

Jimin’s heartbeat stumbled.

Already there.

Already waiting.

He stacked the charts neatly, tucking them under one arm as he rose to his feet. His palms felt clammy. No matter how much he read or prepared, there was no substitute for the real thing—for laying hands on a living, breathing fighter who could very well end his career with one misplaced joint mobilization.

He was courageous, but shaking inside, the professional veneer barely concealing the realistic reaction of a therapist facing a notorious champion.

“Any last advice?” he asked, trying for casual but failing.

Namjoon’s grin was small, but reassuring. “Be professional. Be precise. And most importantly — don’t tremble.”

Jimin blinked. “Don’t… what?”

“Trust me.” Namjoon pushed off the wall and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “He doesn’t care if you touch him. He’s been poked and prodded by medical teams since he was eighteen. But if he thinks your hands are unsure — if you feel like you don’t know what you’re doing — he’ll stop the session right there. And he *will* make sure you never touch him again. Your hands are your power, Jimin. Show him they are certain.”

"I'm not gonna lie. His third PT was sent to ER when he misjudge the massage and muscles position. The moment Jungkook felt the pain, the PT's hand was broken. Not severe but enough to keep him in rest for months"

The words lodged somewhere deep in Jimin’s chest.

Not threatening. Just the truth.

“Right,” he said, exhaling slowly. “No trembling. Just technical assessment.”

“That’s the spirit.” Namjoon started toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get this first one over with.”

Jimin followed, clutching the folder a little too tightly as they walked down the long hallway toward the restricted section of the gym. Each step echoed against the concrete floors, louder than it should’ve. His mind repeated the details he’d memorized: shoulder injury, muscle imbalance, tension points. But none of that changed the fact that the man waiting for him wasn’t just a patient.

He was the strongest fighter on the planet.

And Jimin was about to lay his hands on the weapon that made him that way

---

Jimin’s hands were clammy as he approached the private therapy room. He carried only a small medical bag, neatly organized with lubricating gel, resistance bands, and basic tools for assessment.

Every step echoed against the gym’s polished concrete, magnifying the tension in his chest. The farther he walked, the heavier the weight of Jungkook’s reputation pressed on him: undefeated, merciless, a fighter whose body had survived more than most could imagine, yet still bore the scars of countless battles.

The treatment room was small, soundproofed, and sterile. Jungkook was already there, stripped down to training shorts, sitting on the edge of the treatment table. He was magnificent, a densely muscled sculpture, yet his posture was one of coiled impatience. His dark, complex tattoo sleeve was exposed, tracing the path of the very muscles Jimin needed to assess.

Jungkook didn't look up when they entered. He simply pointed to his left shoulder with his healthy right hand. “Forty-five minutes, Namjoon-hyung. Then I’m hitting heavy bag. I don't have time for talk.”

Namjoon clapped the Champion gently on the back. “Be nice, Kook-ah. This is Park Jimin-ssi. He’s the best. He’s here to make sure you make it to Osaka.”

Jungkook finally lifted his head, fixing Jimin with a gaze that was utterly cold, analytical, and dismissive. It was the same hostile focus Jimin had seen trained on a downed opponent in the fight footage. He saw the small, soft-featured therapist, registered the threat to his time, and immediately dismissed him.

“The last one quit after I made him hold pads for a light kick. Don't waste my time, Park Jimin,” Jungkook repeated the threat, his voice low and flat.

Jimin took another steadying breath. This was it. The moment of truth. He walked to the table, ignoring the aggression, focusing only on the technical task.

“My job is to stop you from incurring a career-ending injury, Jeon Jungkook-ssi. Not to hold pads,” Jimin stated, his voice calm, clear, and perfectly devoid of emotion. He placed his charts down and prepared his tools. “I need to start with active range of motion. Please sit up straight. Raise your left arm slowly out to the side. As high as you can without pain.”

Jungkook sighed dramatically, making it a performance of utter boredom and defiance. He slowly raised the injured arm. Jimin watched the shoulder blade: the obvious improper movement of the shoulder blade. The shoulder blade moved too quickly and tilted incorrectly, demonstrating the poor firing pattern of the surrounding stabilizers.

“Restriction noted at 115 degrees of abduction,” Jimin stated, logging the figure. “Now, back down slowly.”

He then moved to the part he dreaded: palpation. He needed to feel the structures, assess the muscle tone, and locate the exact muscle as he confirmed there was still weakness in the key shoulder tendons — the ones that help lift and rotate his arm

Jimin gently guided the arm into a neutral position and placed his hands on the Champion’s left shoulder. The contact was profound. The muscle under his fingers was dense, not just strong, but tightly guarded. He could feel the latent power, the potential for explosive movement contained within that frame. It was terrifyingly alive.

Jimin was amazed. Just how much of training has his body gone through?

He pressed his thumb into the soft muscle just above Jungkook’s shoulder blade, searching for the main tendon that lifts the arm.

Jungkook didn’t flinch, but the muscle beneath Jimin’s hand tightened like steel.

He kept going with the gentle mobility test, slowly rotating Jungkook’s arm inward and outward. But as soon as he pushed the arm outward to its limit, he felt a solid wall of resistance — the joint refused to go any farther.

“Pain level?” Jimin asked, eyes locked on Jungkook’s shoulder, watching for the smallest sign of discomfort.

“Zero,” Jungkook answered instantly — a lie, judging by the way his jaw tightened.

“You’ve got a pretty strong block at the end of the movement,” Jimin said calmly, ignoring the lie. “That usually means the joint is stiff and there’s some leftover scar tissue. We’ll start with gentle stretching today to help loosen it. If we don’t, there’s a good chance your shoulder could pop out again. Dislocation. "

The word dislocation finally got the Champion’s attention. He fixed Jimin with a chilling glare.

“Don’t touch the capsule. Strengthen the muscle,” Jungkook commanded, his voice suddenly sharp. “That’s what the last guy tried. Stick to what you know.”

“The last guy didn't understand that you cannot strengthen a weak muscle when the joint is incorrectly aligned,” Jimin countered firmly, not raising his voice, but maintaining his professional authority. His internal fear was still rampant, but the medical truth gave him courage. “I need to address the structural problem first. I am not here to follow your training routine; I am here to correct your physiology. This is the protocol, Jeon Jungkook-ssi. You have 48 hours to complete the initial assessment and start the stabilization exercises"

Namjoon who is watching the whole deal suddenly speaks "Or we can cancel the Osaka. The choice is yours.”

Jimin held his gaze, waiting for the explosion. The Tyrant studied the therapist, then looked away, his jaw working. The challenge had been issued, and for the first time, the Champion was forced to recognize the unassailable power of the man holding the unbreakable leash of his career.

“Fine,” Jungkook eventually spat out, the single word dripping with hostility. “Do your structural nonsense. But if this compromises my training tomorrow, you answer to Namjoon-hyung.”

Then Jungkook glares at Jimin smirking "Or I can make you go back to hospital. For a different reason tho" 

"Jungkook." Namjoon warned. "Please continue Doc." 

Jimin nods.

Minutes passed. Slowly, deliberately, the session progressed. Jimin guided rotations, resisted movements, monitored posture and alignment, and gently activated the neglected stabilizers in the shoulder and core. He corrected his own technique in real-time, silently thanking Namjoon for the brief intervention.

Jungkook’s breathing remained steady. His expression remained neutral — almost unreadable — but the subtle tension in his muscles spoke volumes. This man, a world champion, allowed Jimin access to his body because he recognized competence. Hesitation would have ended it instantly.

After nearly two hours of work, Jimin stepped back, sweaty and tired, but satisfied. He had completed both the assessment and the active portion of therapy — all in one session, as required. "That’s… everything for now,” he said quietly, gathering his supplies.

Jungkook exhaled, almost imperceptibly. He sat up on the medical bed, still silent, still unreadable. A slight frown remained, but there was no sign of anger — only the faintest acknowledgment of work completed.

Jimin allowed himself a small, internal sigh of relief. He had survived First Contact. He had placed his hand on the weapon, and it hadn't fired. Now, the real work—the long, grinding battle for the Champion’s mobility and his own financial freedom—was about to begin.

“You handled the session well,” Namjoon said quietly, stepping closer. “No complaints, no disruptions. That’s… rare. Most PTs don’t last five minutes before he pushes them away or tests their hands.”

Jimin exhaled, a mix of relief and lingering tension. “I just… tried to stay precise. Professional. Every movement counted, and I focused on… proper technique, keeping pressure controlled.”

Namjoon nodded, understanding the unspoken fear behind the words. “Exactly. You followed protocol, maintained composure, and observed subtle cues. That’s what he respects. Keep that mindset. Future sessions will build on this.”

Jimin nods as he packed his bag, hands still slightly shaking. As he stepped out of the room, the other fighters were waiting, watching him. Hoseok was the first to break the silence.

“Whoa… you’re the first person to finish a PT session with him without crying or running out,” he said, clapping.

Even Yoongi chuckled, some of the others nodding in agreement. Jimin blinked, confused, until Namjoon approached, smirking.

“Angry? Oh, he’s angry alright,” Namjoon said quietly. “But it’s just his pride. He can’t be bratty right now — not when he knows what I’ll do if he is. You handled him well. Day one survived.”

---

The gym was unusually quiet as Jimin stepped out into the evening air. Seoul’s streets glowed with neon reflections on wet asphalt, the chill of the night brushing against his tired skin. Two hours inside had felt longer than any workday he’d had at the hospital. His bag felt heavier than it actually was, as if stuffed with every ounce of nervous energy he had carried into that room.

He walked to the bus stop. As he think of what happened today.

Jimin shook his head with a small, exhausted smile. I didn’t run. I survived, he thought. But that didn’t erase the tension, the sharp gaze of Jungkook that had followed him like a predator’s shadow the entire session.

Once he arrived and went inside his small apartment, the quiet was almost shocking. The narrow living space smelled faintly of instant noodles and old laundry. Bills lay scattered on the table next to a well-worn notebook where he jotted reminders of his shifts at the hospital and his second job at the convenience store.

He sank into the single couch, tugging his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up immediately: a message from Jin.

“Survived day one?”

Jimin’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He typed slowly, uncertain how to express the strange mix of relief and lingering anxiety.

“I think so… he’s… intimidating. Silent. Every movement feels like a test.”

Almost instantly, Jin called. The ringtone pulled him from the couch, and he jumped slightly, gripping the phone tightly.

“Hey, baby chick,” Jin’s voice teased, familiar and warm. “Relax. You survived. That’s more than most can say on their first day.”

Jimin let out a small, nervous laugh. “He’s… I don’t know… he’s not like anyone I’ve ever treated before. I kept checking my hands, my touch. What if I messed up?”

“You didn’t. I know you worried, but you stayed composed, followed protocol, and—most importantly—you listened. That’s the key.” Jin’s tone softened, just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Jimin leaned back, closing his eyes. “It’s… hard. I’ve never had someone like that. Every movement counts, and I… I can’t mess up. Not with him, not if I want to help my grandmother. Not if I want to survive this job.”

There was a pause on the other end. Jin’s voice dropped slightly, more serious than usual. “You’re stronger than you think, Jimin. This is just day one. He’s… demanding, yes, but he’s precise. He doesn’t tolerate nonsense, but he also doesn’t punish competence. You showed him that today.”

Jimin exhaled, relief mingling with exhaustion. He glanced around his apartment: a tiny space, cramped, filled with reminders of responsibility — bills, worn furniture, the soft hum of a refrigerator. His grandmother’s hospital bills weighed heavily on him, a constant reminder of why he had accepted this job in the first place.

“And… Jin,” he added quietly, “thanks. For making me do this.”

Jin chuckled softly. “I didn’t make you, baby chick. You needed it. And don’t worry, you’ll do fine. Just keep your head, your hands steady, and remember — he respects skill above all else.”

Jimin smiled faintly, feeling a bit lighter. The phone call ended, leaving him in the soft glow of his apartment lights.

Outside, the city buzzed, unaware of the quiet battles being fought in a tiny apartment on a quiet street. For Jimin, the night was a rare moment of reflection, a pause between the chaos of the gym and the demands of reality. And somewhere in that reflection, he found a bit of confidence, knowing he had met the first challenge — and lived to see it through

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of Jimin’s apartment, a pale, golden wash crawling slowly across the modest room. He blinked awake, not to the shrill buzz of an alarm or the bone-deep ache of exhaustion, but to something far more unfamiliar — silence. And rest.

For the first time in months, his body didn’t feel like it was fighting to stay upright. No dull throb in his lower back from the hospital’s long night shifts, no faint tremor in his legs from standing behind a convenience store counter until dawn. Just a pleasant heaviness in his limbs and the faint, almost foreign, sensation of muscles that had recovered

He lay there for a moment, staring at the hairline crack on his ceiling. So this is what it feels like… to not be dying of fatigue. The thought was almost laughable. Once upon a time, a good night’s sleep was the norm. Now, it felt like a luxury — one afforded by the fact that he no longer had two jobs grinding him into dust.

It should have felt like a relief. But instead, guilt seeped into the edges of his thoughts.

How many hours could I have worked instead? How many more bills could I have chipped away at?

His grandmother’s face — pale, smiling weakly beneath the sterile glow of a hospital room — flickered in his mind. The machines that kept her stable, the medication schedule taped to her bedside, the quiet inevitability in the doctor’s voice when they’d explained that “constant care” wasn’t just recommended — it was necessary. Terminal. That word had been a hammer, one that hadn’t stopped ringing in his chest since.

Jimin pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, inhaling deeply. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet. The room was small — one bedroom, a kitchenette, a bathroom the size of a closet — but it was his. And every month, keeping it was becoming harder.

He shuffled into the kitchen, turning on the electric kettle. The hiss of boiling water filled the silence, soon followed by the bitter scent of instant coffee. He held the chipped mug between his palms, watching the steam curl upward. A normal morning — yet there was a weight to the air he couldn’t shake.

This job… it has to work. No matter how terrifying he is. No matter how much my hands shake. I can’t afford to screw this up.

The thought was still lingering when a sharp, rhythmic knock broke the quiet. Three quick raps, a pause, then two more. Jimin froze mid-sip, his stomach twisting. That knock — he knew it too well

Mr. Han.

The knocks came again, a little louder this time, and Jimin sighed before setting his mug down on the counter. He smoothed his hair quickly with his fingers, trying to look less like someone who had just rolled out of bed, and crossed the short distance to the door.

“Coming,” he called, voice still rough with sleep.

When he opened it, the familiar, weathered face of Mr. Han greeted him. The landlord stood there with his usual slightly hunched posture, a faded cardigan pulled over his shoulders despite the warming season. His eyes — kind but tired — swept over Jimin briefly before softening.

“Morning, Jimin-ah,” the old man said, his tone gentle but edged with purpose. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, Mr. Han. Please, come in.”

Mr. Han waved a hand dismissively. “No need. I won’t be long child.” He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the wooden cane he always carried. “I just… wanted to talk about the rent.”

Jimin’s chest tightened. He had been expecting this, of course — the quiet knocks, the polite reminder. Still, hearing it spoken aloud made his stomach sink.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured, lowering his gaze. “I—I know I’m behind. Two months now.”

Two months,” Mr. Han repeated softly. “You’ve always been on time before. Always polite, always respectful. I know things must be hard, and I don’t want to pressure you. But…” He sighed, the lines around his eyes deepening. “I have bills, too, you understand. I can’t hold the unit forever if nothing comes in.”

The words were delivered without anger, but they still hit Jimin like a blow. He clenched his hands at his sides.

“I understand. Please… if you could just give me until payday,” he said, voice small but earnest. “I’ll receive my first salary from the new job soon. Once that’s in, I promise I’ll cover everything — the missed payments, the late fees, all of it.

Mr. Han’s eyes softened further, and for a moment he simply looked at the young man standing before him — eyes tired but determined, posture tense but respectful. He had known Jimin for years now. Seen him drag himself home at dawn from the hospital, seen him leave again after barely an hour of rest to work another shift. He wasn’t lazy. If anything, he was working himself to the bone.

“I believe you,” Mr. Han said finally. “You’re a good kid, Jimin. And I know you’re trying. That’s why I’ve been patient. But you understand I can’t stretch this forever. Another month — until the end of this one. That’s as much as I can give.”

Relief and anxiety crashed together inside Jimin’s chest. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure you get it before then.”

The landlord smiled faintly and patted his arm. “I trust you will. Take care of yourself, Jimin-ah. And… try not to let the weight of the world crush you, hmm?”

Jimin managed a shaky smile. “I’ll try.”

When the door closed behind Mr. Han, the silence that followed felt heavier than before. He stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the cool wood, inhaling slowly. End of the month. That was three weeks away. Three weeks to make sure everything didn’t fall apart.

I can do this, he told himself. I have to.

He pushed away from the door and moved back toward the kitchen, determined to shake off the heaviness clinging to him — but his phone buzzed on the counter before he could even pick his mug back up. One glance at the screen stopped him cold.

[Hospital Billing Department] – Reminder:

Outstanding balance for Patient: Park Haneul

Total due by: September 25

Failure to remit payment may result in changes to ongoing care plans.

His breath caught. He read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something less devastating the third time. But they didn’t. They stayed the same — cold, clinical, merciless.

Haneul.

His grandmother.

The steady presence who raised him, who patched every scraped knee and soothed every heartbreak, who taught him that even in a life full of hardship, kindness wasn’t a weakness — it was strength. The woman lying in a hospital bed now, tethered to machines and IV drips, fighting a battle he couldn’t hope to win for her.

The cost of that fight stared back at him in black and white. And the clock was already ticking.

Jimin sank slowly into the nearest chair, his hands trembling around the phone. He knew it was coming. He knew this would happen. Yet knowing hadn’t prepared him for the suffocating pressure in his chest, or the way the edges of the room suddenly felt too close.

Two months’ rent. Hospital bills. Food. Transportation. It all stacked up in his mind like a tower made of glass, one wrong move away from shattering completely.

And there was still him — Jeon Jungkook. The reason he’d taken this insane, nerve-wracking job in the first place. The man who could solve all of this if Jimin just held on long enough… or end it all if he failed.

Jimin sat frozen in the small chair, the phone still clutched in his hand as the words from the hospital’s billing reminder echoed in his mind. His apartment, once quiet and familiar, now felt suffocating. Every little sound — the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of traffic outside, even the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet — seemed louder, sharper.

I can’t fail. I just can’t.

His thoughts raced. The two months of unpaid rent, the looming hospital bills for his grandmother, the endless hours he’d already poured into work — none of it seemed enough. He swallowed hard, letting his throat unclench.

He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the wall, eyes closing briefly. He tried to focus, tried to calm the storm inside him, but it was relentless. Every scenario spiraled quickly in his mind: What if I can’t get the salary in time? What if something happens at the hospital and I can’t cover it? What if…

A deep inhale. A slow exhale.

No.

He opened his eyes, letting the reality settle in. Panic, fear, and guilt were all valid — but useless. What he needed now was a plan, and more than that, resolve.

I took this job. I can do it. I have to.

He pushed himself upright, the chair scraping lightly against the floor. He walked over to the counter, picking up his mug of coffee again. The warmth seeped through his fingers, grounding him. For the first time, he let himself feel that small, quiet sense of control. One choice at a time, one step at a time — that was all he had.

His phone buzzed again. A message from Jin this time:

"Second day nerves? Don’t overthink. You’ve got this. Focus, steady hands, and remember — he respects skill. If he is a bitch tell me and I'll amputate his arm."

Jimin smiled faintly, a tiny spark of reassurance flickering inside him. Jin’s words reminded him why he had taken the risk, why he had accepted this position. It wasn’t just the salary — though that was vital — it was the opportunity to do something that mattered, to use his skills in a place where precision, knowledge, and calm would actually make a difference.

He opened his notebook, flipping through the medical notes he had started compiling the night before. Each observation, each note about muscle tension, ligament strain, or shoulder restriction reminded him of the responsibility he carried. The stakes weren’t abstract anymore — they were tangible. Each adjustment he made, each movement he observed, could help or hinder the strongest man in the world.

A small shiver ran down his spine, not from fear, but from awareness. This was real. Every second mattered.

He glanced around his tiny apartment once more. Bills stacked on the counter. His grandmother’s hospital information folded neatly next to them. The weight of obligation pressed on him, but it also steeled him.

I can’t run. I won’t run. Not now. Not ever.

He grabbed his bag, sliding the worn straps over his shoulders. Inside: notebook, tablet, pens, and a small thermos of water. He didn’t need much. He needed focus.

Before leaving, he double-checked the door, ensuring it was locked. He looked down the narrow corridor of his building, the faint smell of cooking drifting from a neighboring apartment, the morning sun casting muted shadows across the hallway. It felt ordinary. Mundane. Safe. But he carried the weight of everything on his shoulders anyway — rent, bills, his grandmother, and the looming presence of the man whose body he was now responsible for maintaining.

As he stepped out into the corridor, he paused. He imagined Jungkook in the gym: silent, exacting, every movement precise, every strike calculated. The memory of that first session still lingered — the controlled intensity, the cold, assessing gaze, the barely-there cracks of muscle under strain.

Every second counts, he reminded himself.

The streets were alive with the usual Seoul morning bustle — taxis honking, pedestrians weaving through each other, the smell of roasted coffee beans from a nearby café. Yet Jimin felt a kind of calm amid the chaos. Not complete calm — that would be impossible — but the steadiness of a person who had faced panic and chosen focus over despair.

I can do this. I must do this. I will do this.

With that mantra echoing quietly in his mind, he moved faster, each step measured, purposeful. He would face the day, the gym, and the man who demanded everything. And he would survive.

Even if his heart raced. Even if his hands trembled slightly.

He was ready.

And he knew, deep down, there was no turning back

----

The streets of Seoul hummed with morning activity as Jimin walked toward the gym, tablet in one hand, notebook tucked under his arm, and a water bottle rattling faintly against the side of his bag.

His body was alert, muscles awake in a way that hospital shifts and convenience store work had never allowed. For the first time, he wasn’t running on exhaustion. Instead, he felt a controlled tension, a readiness, tempered with the nervous excitement of someone about to step into a new world entirely.

The familiar sign of Namjoon’s gym loomed ahead, its bold lettering catching the sunlight. Even from the street, Jimin could hear the low thump of gloves against leather, the shuffle of feet, and the muffled grunts of men exerting themselves in the ring. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood — all things that belonged to a gym that had trained champions.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.

Immediately, the atmosphere pressed against him. Athletes moved between rings, adjusting pads and stretching. Some were new, their movements hesitant; others were veterans, shoulders squared, eyes focused, sweat already dampening the collars of their shirts. It was organized chaos, but a chaos Jimin quickly began to parse: timing, rhythm, focus. Each movement spoke of experience, skill, and anticipation.

“Jimin!” Namjoon’s voice cut across the room, calm but firm. He gestured for Jimin to follow him to a quieter corner. “Good, you made it. I thought you won't be coming back. You are a miracle worker! I’ve already sent Jin-hyung a thank you gift that will bankrupt me,” Namjoon chuckled, his easy coach persona fully engaged. “What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?”

Jimin closed his notebook, his expression serious. “I’ve reviewed the kinetic chain data. I need to see how his body recruits those stabilizers under maximum duress. Manual testing is one thing, but I need to observe his muscle recruitment patterns during high-impact, rotational movements.”

Namjoon’s smile widened, radiating pleasure at Jimin's proactive approach. “That is great! And you are in luck. You are up for a show. The scheduling gods smiled on us. Today, we are planning to go a bit sparring.”

Jimin nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I… I understand, coach. I’ll take notes carefully.”

Namjoon smirked. “Careful, yes. But also watch closely. You’re not just here to observe, you’re here to understand. Every punch, every kick, every rotation — it tells you something about him, and about how we keep him safe.”

The mention of safety made Jimin’s stomach twist. Even with protective gear, Jungkook wasn’t just strong — he was precise, calculated, deadly based on the videos he have seen. Observing him wasn’t just an exercise in PT; it was a test of nerves.

Namjoon led Jimin out to the main mat area. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Jungkook was already pulling on his own gear—a lightweight mouthguard and boxing gloves—while his opponents were being meticulously encased in safety equipment.

“We try to make sure they survive the day,” Namjoon muttered, a casual remark that chilled Jimin to the bone.

The manager gestured to the two comfortable chairs set up near the edge of the mat, perfect for viewing. Yoongi and Hoseok were already there, chatting with the relaxed familiarity of veterans settling in for dark entertainment.

“Jimin-ssi! Come join us! You get the ringside view today,” Hoseok called out, waving him over with infectious energy. He patted the seat beside him.

“Welcome to the peanut gallery,” Yoongi added, his face fixed in a dry, expectant smirk. “This is the part of the job where we see who lives and who needs a doctor.”

Jimin sat down, feeling desperately out of place. He was shaking inside, but forced himself to maintain a neutral expression, pulling out his notepad to focus on the technical aspects. He was just doing it for the money, but watching the physical reality of the "Tyrant" in action felt like paying the price upfront.

"First sparring observation?” Yoongi asked, eyebrow raised. “Relax. Don’t die on your first day.”

Hoseok chuckled, nudging Jimin lightly. “Yeah. It’s fun to watch, though. You’ll see the Tyrant in action — all calm, all precision. It’s… terrifying and mesmerizing at the same time.”

The athlete sparring with Jungkook wore all protective gears all over his body and head—thick, shock-absorbing helmets, heavy shin guards, large sparring gloves, and comprehensive body pads. Jungkook wore only gloves and his own mouthguard. The contrast was stark: they were shielded from the weapon; he was the weapon.

“He calls this ‘The Safety Drill,’” Yoongi informed Jimin, clearly finding the situation fun in a morbid, veteran way. “It means he’s going to use his full power, but mostly target the pads.”

“Mostly is the operative word,” Hoseok whispered, leaning toward Jimin. “Watch his left foot. See how fast he sets his base? It’s magnificent.”

"Is it fair?" Jimin asked which earned laugh from the two.

Hoseok leans to Jimin. "Was never fair. But hey. Its a win -win situation. Jungkook gets to release his energy, the " kids" gets to be trained and ready for the pain they may get on real match." 

Jimin's gulps at it as he looks at Jungkook who stepped into the ring like a storm. His posture was casual yet commanding, the muscles of his arms and chest rippling even in a relaxed stance. His eyes scanned the ring coldly, assessing, calculating. There was a predator’s air about him, calm but lethal, as if he weighed the lives of those around him and found them wanting.

Jimin felt his stomach tighten. He had read charts, studied videos, but nothing prepared him for the live presence — the aura — of a man who could crush, dominate, and dismantle in seconds.

They were just sparring, technically. A friendly session. A warm-up.

But no one in the room believed that.

“Alright, boys,” Namjoon’s voice rang out from ringside, loud and authoritative. “Light spar. Controlled strikes. Remember, Minho’s match is next week.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink.

Minho nodded once, though Jimin could see the faintest tremor run through his fingers. He was no amateur — a strong striker with a promising future — but standing in front of Jungkook, even he looked like prey.

The bell rang.

Minho circled first, testing the waters with a few light jabs. Jungkook barely moved. His eyes — dark and unnervingly still — followed every motion with surgical precision. Then, with a shift so small Jimin almost missed it, he stepped forward.

One punch

A single, clean right cross.

It slammed into Minho’s guard with a thud that rattled the floor. Even through the gloves, the impact was brutal — enough to send Minho stumbling two steps back.

“Shit,” Hoseok muttered under his breath. “That was supposed to be light.”

Yoongi chuckled. “That was light.”

Namjoon leaned slightly toward him. “Watch the left shoulder,” he said quietly. “Notice the subtle compensation. His right side carries most of the power now. But observe — see how his core engages to stabilize the strike? That’s the difference between devastating force and injury.”

Jimin’s pen moved almost unconsciously. Every rotation of Jungkook’s hips, every shift in weight from heel to toe, every contraction of shoulder stabilizers, latissimus dorsi, and core muscles — he noted it all. He marveled at the control. Even when power surged through his strikes, there was precision, balance, economy of motion.

Jungkook moved again. 

A flash of motion, and the punch landed — controlled but thunderous. The impact sent a tremor through the opponent’s torso; the padding absorbed the blow, but Jimin could see the subtle ripple through the muscles, the micro-adjustment in Jungkook’s stance, the recalibration for the next strike.

The gym went silent. Even the background clatter seemed muted, replaced by the low, measured breathing of athletes watching the master at work.

Round after round, Jimin’s notes grew longer: observations on weight distribution, torque generation, kinetic chain from foot to fist, and subtle compensations for the left shoulder. His hands shook only slightly as he recorded data; his mind raced with analysis and awe.

Yoongi whispered occasionally: “Notice how he reads the other fighter before they move. It’s like he’s inside their body.”

Hoseok added, “And watch the timing. Even at full force, he doesn’t overcommit. Every strike is calculated, every kick measured. That’s why no one’s ever caught him off guard.”

Jimin barely registered their comments. He was too focused, studying every twitch, every contraction, every micro-shift that could indicate potential strain or injury.

Then, the power came. Jungkook cornered Minho, and unleashed a rapid-fire combination. He didn't just hit the pads; he drove through them.

WHUMP! CRACK!

The sound of the blows landing on the protective padding was bone-jarring. Minho, the athlete against him, stumbled backward, his headgear absorbing a massive right hook. The sound was so concussive, Jimin physically flinched, even from ten feet away.

"Oh, that one will leave a bruise on the lungs,” Hoseok winced, yet his eyes were glued to the action, analyzing the technique.

Minho grunted, staggering, but Jungkook wasn’t done. A spinning back kick whistled through the air and cracked against Minho’s torso protector — loud enough to make everyone flinch. Jimin felt the breath leave his own lungs as Minho crumpled to one knee.

“Shit…” Hoseok muttered. “I heard that one.”

“Check the bag later,” Yoongi added casually. “I bet it’s dented.”

Namjoon stepped forward, but Jungkook held up a hand without looking at him. He wasn’t finished.

Minho dragged himself upright, shaking out his arms. To his credit, he didn’t back down. He lunged forward again — a desperate flurry of punches that were more pride than technique.

Jungkook slipped the first. Blocked the second. Then, with surgical cruelty, he stepped inside Minho’s guard and lifted him off the mat with a perfect shoulder throw. Minho hit the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated through the floor.

The room erupted — not in cheers, but in a low chorus of disbelief.

Namjoon called the time. The round was over. The sparring partner lay motionless for a few seconds before groaning and slowly attempting to sit up.

Namjoon walked to the edge of the mat, checking Minho then giving Jungkook a high-five before gesturing to Jimin.

"Jimin-ssi, any immediate takeaways?" Namjoon asked, fully aware of the crushing spectacle Jimin had just witnessed.

Jimin took a shaky breath, forcing the terror to remain internal. He stood up, clutching his notepad like a shield. He had seen the killer in the ring, but he had to speak to the athlete.

“I have several, Hyung,” Jimin said, his voice regaining its professional steadiness. “The right-hand jab is still being thrown with a compensatory high elbow, indicative of the impingement. More concerning is the rotational deficit on the left kick. He is generating power from the hip but is being slowed by the lack of full capsule mobility. It’s creating a visible break in the kinetic chain on the follow-through.”

He looked directly at Jungkook, who was toweling off, his gaze sharp and questioning

“Jeon Jungkook-ssi, your power is undeniable,” Jimin continued, meeting the Champion's intensity. “But your body is fighting itself. You lost time on the left kick because the shoulder capsule refused to fully open and allow the torso to rotate completely. We need to fix the capsule and retrain the stabilizers if not,—will be slower and eventually cause a tear.”

Jungkook listened, his expression unreadable. He had been looking for a weak reaction, for a gasp of horror. Instead, he got cold, clinical analysis.

Then, Jungkook smirked. "You say a lot doc. Want to try sparring with me? Maybe you'll see how it can be slower in person "

"Do it and I will end the deal. We are within 48 hours. You know what will happen" Namjoon warned as he pushed Jungkook a few inches away from Jimin. 

Jungkook snorted. "Take a joke hyung." He said to Namjoon. before looking back at Jimin. “So, what’s the prescription, Doc?” Jungkook finally asked, the question laced with residual hostility.

“A... another mobilization session, followed by intensive, corrective stability work,” Jimin replied instantly. “We focus on the small muscles today, so the big muscles don’t break you tomorrow.”

Jungkook glared for a moment, then gave a curt, reluctant nod. "Fine. Forty-five minutes. Don't waste my time."

As the Champion walked away towards his stuff to drink some water, Yoongi gave Jimin a slow, approving nod. “You didn’t flinch much, Jimin-ssi. You called him a kinetic break. That's a good day's work.”

Jimin watched Minho, the sparring partner being helped off the mat, his exhaustion and pain a visceral reality. He swallowed hard. The fear was still there, but so was the data. And the data was his anchor. He had a job to do, and the massive weight of his financial needs made him an immovable object in the face of the Tyrant's terrifying force.

-----

The treatment room, usually an oasis of sterile calm, felt tense and heavy as Park Jimin prepared for the post-sparring session. The air seemed to hold the residue of the violence witnessed on the mat—the force, the impacts, and the Tyrant's relentless energy.

Jeon Jungkook entered, moving with a noticeable, though slight, stiffness. His hostility had softened into a bone-deep exhaustion, but his silence remained a challenge. He climbed onto the table, his skin flushed and slick with a mix of sweat and adrenaline, and lay prone on his stomach without being asked.

Jimin took his position, pulling on his gloves. He began by palpating the Champion’s lower back and glutes, the foundation of the immense power he had just displayed.

“We’ll start by loosening up the tight muscles along your lower back,” Jimin explained quietly, his voice steady and professional. “All that twisting power you use for your kicks has made those muscles stiff. We need to release that tension before it turns into a serious back problem.”

Jimin’s hands, having survived the morning’s nerve-wracking mobilization, now moved with professional confidence. He applied deep, sustained pressure along the thick columns of muscle running parallel to the spine. The muscle fibers beneath his touch were knotted and tight—the physical evidence of repeated, maximum effort.

Jungkook did not speak, but Jimin could feel the deep, involuntary tension in the Champion's body. His breath hitched only once, a sharp, quick intake of air when Jimin hit a particularly dense adhesion near his hip.

Jimin paused, not letting the pressure ease. “Pain scale?”

“Don’t ask,” Jungkook muttered, his face turned toward the side, his voice muffled against the table cover

You’re using the muscles at the back of your body more than usual,” he said softly, running his fingers along Jungkook’s hamstring as he worked. “There’s a bit of tight tissue building up near where the muscle starts. It’s nothing serious yet, but we should keep an eye on it if you keep pushing this hard.”

Jungkook only answered with a quiet hum.

Jimin shifted to his lower back, using a small tool and firm pressure to glide over the muscles there, breaking up any stiffness before it could turn into a bigger problem. Jungkook let out a deep breath, his shoulders sinking a little more into the table.

For a moment, Jimin forgot who was lying there. The tension of earlier — the brutal efficiency, the blood, the merciless precision — felt far away. Right now, Jungkook was just another patient. Another body with its own limits, its own vulnerabilities. Flesh and bone, no matter how deadly.

Still, there were reminders. Subtle ones.

Every so often, Jungkook’s muscles would twitch beneath his hands — a reflexive, instinctive readiness. Like even in stillness, he was prepared to strike. And each time Jimin felt those tendons coil under his fingertips, a shiver ran down his spine.

“Take a deep breath,” he said softly, pressing down on a tight spot near Jungkook’s shoulder blade. Jungkook followed without a word.

The knot loosened with a small, satisfying pop.

The last twenty minutes were spent on a recovery massage — slow, steady strokes meant to boost blood flow and help the body heal. Jimin’s hands moved with ease, adjusting pressure without thinking. The silence between them grew calm, broken only by Jungkook’s steady breathing and the rhythm of Jimin’s touch.

“You’ve got good muscle movement,” Jimin said at last. “Hardly any scar tissue, even with how hard you train. That’s rare.”

Jungkook cracked one eye open "You talk al lot dont you?"   Namjoon fake cough by this comment. Jungkook grunted. "I didnt punch him. I just talk"

Jimin decided  not to comment but continue with the session instead. A few more passes. A final round of joint rotations. And then it was done.

“Session complete,” Jimin said, stepping back and removing his gloves. “I’ll compile a full report for Namjoon-hyung, but overall, there’s no acute damage. "

Jungkook sat up, rolling his shoulders experimentally. There was no word of thanks, no small talk. Just a slow nod, the faintest crack of his neck, and then he was on his feet again — silent, collected, unreadable.

Without another glance, he left the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Jimin was left alone with Namjoon and the faint smell of massage oil and the ghost of adrenaline still lingering in the air. His knees felt weak. His hands trembled — not from fear, but from the weight of what he had just done.

“Holy cow…” he muttered under his breath, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I actually survived that.”

"Yes Jiminssi. Aand you did great. Doc" Namjoon answered. smile on his face. the terror still a cold knot in his stomach, but the satisfaction of having done his job—and securing his grandmother’s safety—was a powerful antidote. He had survived another day in the lion's den.

Chapter Text

 Morning light filtered through high windows, slicing beams across mats and rings when Jimin arrived in the Irconclad Apex Force.

For once, Jimin wasn’t late. In fact, he had arrived earlier than usual, eager to get a head start on reviewing Jungkook’s therapy notes, preparing for the day.

He was here earlier than usual, but not early enough. His rationale was simple—the Champion was unpredictable, and Jimin needed the silence of the early hour to review charts, prepare his mobilization tools, and mentally fortify himself for the third day. 

But the moment he stepped into Ironclad Apex Force, he froze.

Jungkook was already there. Alone.

The silence of the vast warehouse was punctuated by the horrific, rhythmic violence emanating from the center.

The sound of punches against the heavy bag was relentless. Thwack. Each strike echoed sharply, a whip crack in the empty corners of the gym. Kicks followed — high, precise, brutal — the bag shuddering violently with every blow.

Heat seemed to radiate from Jungkook’s body, shimmering faintly in the morning light, and the room felt smaller, heavier.

 Jungkook was attacking the heavy bag with a terrifying, singular focus. He wasn't warming up; he was purging.

WHUM-CRACK!

Jimin froze, his heart slamming against his ribs. He was a professional, but witnessing this raw, unbridled destruction alone, without the buffer of the gym's usual crowd, was visceral and frightening.

Jimin lowered his head instinctively, walking quietly toward the adjacent preparation room. He didn’t want to disturb the athlete. He barely breathed as he stepped across the worn floor, every second measured.

Just as Jimin reached the hallway leading to the treatment room, a sound louder than the rest—a final, massive blow—made the very floor vibrate.

A whack from the bag, a big noise from the other, stronger, that startled Jimin. The Champion had stopped.

Jimin instinctively flinched, his shoulders tightening. He dared not look up, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole

“Morning, Doc.”

The voice cut through the rhythm of pounding leather. 

Jungkook’s smirk was slow, deliberate. Eyes dark, calculating, unreadable. “Isn’t it rude not to greet your patient?”

Jimin hesitated. There was something in that gaze — a glimmer that made him instinctively retreat, even though he was standing still. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t entirely friendly. He felt the same sharp edge of predatory focus he’d seen in the ring during sparring, now directed at him.

The amusement in the Jungkook's eyes was cold and calculating, a clear signal that the psychological games were back in play, intensified by the solitude of the empty gym.

Jimin immediately bowed deeply, a gesture of deference that felt both necessary and humiliating. “M-morning, Jungkook-ssi. My apologies. I just didn’t want to disturb your session.”

"Nonsense.” Jungkook’s voice was smooth, yet each word cut through the air with the weight of command. “You’ve been disturbing me for two days now. I just want to remind you…”

He paused, the smirk curling back onto his face. For a heartbeat, it was mischievous, almost playful. Then, almost imperceptibly, the light in his eyes shifted. The smirk faded, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity — the same look Jimin had glimpsed during sparring.

“Namjoon-hyung’s silly blackmail is only good for forty-eight hours,” Jungkook said. Each word struck with quiet precision. “After that…” His gaze lingered on Jimin, a silent promise of consequences, before it returned to the bag.

“Have fun, Doc.” The words were casual, but the underlying threat clung to the air.

And just like that, Jungkook resumed — punches and kicks slamming the bag again, the thuds rattling the floor and walls. No pause, no hesitation. As if nothing had happened.

Jimin remained frozen at the edge of the room, notebook forgotten in his hands. The sound was almost overwhelming now: the rapid-fire strike of fists, the high whip of kicks, the heavy exhale of a man testing every fiber of his own strength. Sweat gleamed on Jungkook’s arms, muscles flexing with calculated precision, his eyes sharp, focused. Every movement screamed discipline and control, yet carried the quiet menace of a predator.

Jimin exhaled shakily and started walking toward the treatment room, legs moving on autopilot. He needed to focus — therapy plan, warm compresses, range-of-motion notes — anything to drown out the pounding in his chest.

Jimin stumbled into the treatment room, his professional facade utterly shattered. He leaned against the closed door, taking several long, ragged breaths. He looked at the medical charts in his hands—the detailed plans for mobility, stabilization, and muscle re-education. They felt fragile and useless now.

I am doing this for the money. I am doing this for Grandma.

He repeated the mantra, trying to re-anchor himself.

With a deep breathe, Jimin went out of the room again to start watching Jungkook practice as needed for their session later.

Jimin is walking to the bench when Jungkook speaks. 

“Hey, Doc.”

The words froze him mid-step.

Jungkook didn’t even look at him this time. His fists still tore into the bag, the rhythm only growing harder, faster, angrier.

“Grab me some water.”

It wasn’t a request.

It wasn’t even a demand.

It was an order — casual, dismissive, as if Jimin wasn’t a licensed professional but an errand boy.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “…Of course.”

Jimin turned back, walking toward the cooler in the corner of the gym. He could feel Jungkook’s presence like a weight pressing down on him — the rhythmic violence of the bag, the sharp hiss of breath with every strike. His hands trembled as he unscrewed the cap of a chilled bottle.

He’s pissed, Jimin thought. He’s really pissed and I didn't even do anything wrong to make him that pissed. What the heck. 

The realization wasn’t accompanied by fear of physical harm — not exactly. It was deeper, colder. It was the knowledge that Jungkook was no longer playing nice. That whatever invisible leash Namjoon had on him was gone now, and this was the man everyone whispered about.

The Tyrant.

Jimin approached slowly, bottle in hand. Jungkook stopped mid-combination without warning, snatching the water from his grip without a word. His glove brushed Jimin’s fingers — just barely — but the contact felt like a warning in itself.

“Thanks.”

The word was mechanical, flat. He drank half the bottle in a few gulps, then tossed it carelessly aside, water splashing across the floor.

And without another glance, he went back to the bag.

This time, Jimin didn’t move. He stood rooted to the same spot, watching silently as Jungkook unleashed himself.

There was no rhythm anymore. No controlled drills or structured training sequences. It was chaos — brutal, relentless, unrestrained. Every strike seemed to hit harder than the last, as if he were trying to destroy not just the bag but the very idea of restraint.

The chain rattled with each blow. The metal stand creaked. Sweat sprayed off his knuckles as he struck, over and over, jaw clenched, muscles flexing with terrifying efficiency.

Jimin’s chest felt tight. It wasn’t just the sheer violence of it — it was the feeling that Jungkook wasn’t even here anymore. That his mind was somewhere darker, angrier, and he was dragging Jimin into that space with him.

“Don’t stand there,” Jungkook muttered without looking back, between strikes. “It’s annoying.”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “S–Sorry.” He stumbled back a few steps, creating distance but unable to tear his gaze away.

He’d seen fighters before — some more aggressive than Jungkook, some just as brutal — but this was different. There was a precision to the anger. A cold, clinical edge beneath the rage that made it more terrifying than blind fury.

Every pivot of his foot, every shift of weight, every calculated breath — it wasn’t just a man venting his frustration. It was a predator sharpening his claws.

Minutes bled together.

Jimin eventually found himself seated on the bench near the wall, notebook forgotten beside him. He told himself he was observing — the way Jungkook’s hip rotation powered his kicks, the kinetic chain transferring force from core to limb — but that was only half the truth.

The real reason he couldn’t look away was because this was the man everyone warned him about. The one behind the cold headlines and ruthless highlight reels. The Tyrant. And now, stripped of pretense and politeness, Jimin was finally seeing him.

And somehow, It was mesmerizing. And terrifying.

This was no ordinary training session — it was a performance of precision, a demonstration of why Jungkook wasn’t just strong, but lethal. Every joint and tendon worked in perfect synchronicity. His glutes and hamstrings fired like pistons as he drove power from the ground up. The rotation of his torso maximized torque, and the subtle contraction of his forearm flexors controlled the strike’s trajectory down to the millimeter.

So this is how he moves, Jimin thought, heart pounding. Every part of his body is a weapon.

Jungkook didn’t look at him once, but Jimin felt the weight of his presence like a gravity field — pulling, suffocating, warning. It was the kind of focus that said: Don’t speak. Don’t interfere.

The door to the gym hissed open, and Namjoon’s voice sliced through the relentless rhythm.

“Ya, why are you so early?”

Jungkook didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance back. His only response was a particularly vicious elbow that made the bag jerk backward on its chain.

Namjoon chuckled as he walked in, setting his bag down by the wall. “You’ve been here long enough to beat the sun. What’s gotten into you?”

Then his eyes shifted — and for the first time, he noticed the other figure near the wall.

“Oh — Doc!” Namjoon’s grin widened as he waved, clearly delighted. “You’re early too. Did you two plan this without telling me?”

The question was teasing, light, but Jimin couldn’t answer. His throat felt dry. His eyes darted instinctively to Jungkook — silently asking for permission he wasn’t sure he needed.

The fighter never looked his way.

“Ah, I see how it is,” Namjoon laughed, clapping his hands together. “Since you’re both here, we might as well make use of the time.”

Jimin blinked. “Huh?"

“Let’s talk about Osaka,” Namjoon said simply, leaning back against the ring ropes. “We’re less than a month out. I finished watching your opponent’s last match, Jungkook-ah. We should start strategizing.”

At the mention of the fight, Jungkook’s movements changed. They didn’t soften — they sharpened. Each blow landed harder, faster, like he was already dismantling his opponent in his mind.

“I want you here for this too, Jimin-ssi,” Namjoon continued, his tone now businesslike. “It’s important you understand the demands this match will put on his body. Once we plan our approach, you’ll have a clearer idea of how to tailor both pre-fight and post-fight treatments.”

The suggestion caught Jimin off guard. “You… want me involved in strategy?”

“Not in the tactical sense,” Namjoon clarified with a wave of his hand. “But everything Jungkook does in the ring is connected to his physical conditioning. You knowing how he intends to move — what kind of sequences he’ll rely on, which muscles will take the brunt — will help you predict potential points of strain before they become a problem.”

He stepped closer to the bag, tapping his temple as Jungkook delivered a devastating roundhouse. “Like that, for example. His left hip joint absorbs a lot of rotational stress when he throws kicks at full power. If his glutes or iliopsoas aren’t properly mobilized pre-fight, we’re risking microtears. And those tiny tears can spiral into full-blown injuries mid-match.”

Jimin nodded slowly, his mind already piecing together preventive protocols. “Understood. I’ll make sure to include targeted fascial release and PNF stretches in the pre-fight prep, and—”

“Good,” Namjoon interrupted, clearly pleased. “And you’ll see even more once we go over footage together. I’ll break down his usual fight tempo — where he tends to explode, where he conserves — and you’ll learn how his physiology ties into those decisions.”

Tempo. Explosiveness. Recovery windows. Jimin scribbled mental notes as quickly as his brain could form them.

A sharp BANG pulled his attention back to the present.

Jungkook had switched to knees — vicious, piston-like strikes that drove into the bag with horrifying force. His breathing was controlled, jaw clenched, eyes locked on an invisible enemy only he could see.

Namjoon sighed, shaking his head. “He’s in that mood again.”

Jimin hesitated.  "mood?”

“The ‘I’m going to break everything in my path’ mood,” Namjoon said dryly. “It happens before big fights. And usually when he’s… annoyed.”

The glance Namjoon shot him was brief but telling.

Jimin’s stomach twisted. Is this my fault? What did i even do?

He had no way of knowing, but the thought burrowed deep anyway. Every fiber of Jungkook’s body radiated irritation — not outward, not childish — but deep, simmering anger.

“Anyway,” Namjoon continued, snapping Jimin’s attention back. “We’ll have to schedule a couple of observation sessions before Osaka. I want you watching his sparring closely — how his kinetic chain behaves under pressure, how he recovers between rounds. You’re a professional; you’ll see things even we don’t.”

The compliment was genuine, but Jimin barely heard it.

Because Jungkook had stopped hitting the bag.

And for the first time since Jimin entered, he looked directly at him.

There was no emotion in those eyes. No acknowledgment. Just cold, unreadable calculation — the kind that stripped away all illusion that this was a partnership.

“Strategy all you want, hyung,” Jungkook said quietly, tossing his sweat-soaked towel aside. “But I don’t need plans to win.”

“You still need a body that can handle your ego,” Namjoon countered easily, undeterred by the bite in Jungkook’s tone. “And that’s where he comes in.”

Silence.

The air felt heavier now — thicker, harder to breathe. Jimin had never been more aware of the thin thread holding this dynamic together.

Namjoon clapped his hands again, deliberately breaking the tension. “Alright, enough death glares. Jungkook, cool down and shower. Jimin, review the preliminary therapy plan and we’ll go over fight footage in the afternoon.”

But Jungkook didn’t move. He just stared at Jimin for another beat — long enough for the silence to stretch and coil — before delivering one final, brutal kick that nearly tore the bag off its mount.

Only then did he grab the towel and sling it over his shoulder.

“Fine,” he muttered, brushing past them both and heading toward the far end of the gym.

“That’s his way of agreeing,” Namjoon sighed. “Don’t take it personally. He’s just… annoyed.”

Jimin simply looked back at the heavy bag, still swinging gently, the leather torn and leaking grains of sand. He had survived the morning purge, and now, he was being drawn even deeper into the Tyrant’s world.

Namjoon taps his shoulder. "Why don't you help him first with the cooldown? Maybe it can help you two with your patient doctor relationship" Namjoon grins. 

Yeah right. I'll get eaten. 

He swallowed, palms slightly damp. His heart was steady—years of hospital work had trained him for this—but his mind screamed caution. Jungkook’s mood was unreadable, a quiet storm coiled beneath skin and muscle.

The champion’s eyes flicked up briefly, cold and unimpressed, but he said nothing. Instead, he stretched his legs out in front of him, leaning back slightly against the bench, waiting. That glare though—dark, piercing, as if Jimin’s presence itself was an inconvenience—remained fixed on him.

“Stop being an ass this early,” Namjoon said from where he stood, folding his arms. “He hasn’t even done anything yet.”

Jimin exhaled quietly. This is fine. Just another patient, he reminded himself. A patient who could probably crush my windpipe with one hand, but a patient nonetheless.

He stepped forward, carrying his kit, and knelt slightly beside Jungkook.

“Excuse me,” he said softly, almost instinctively seeking permission even though Namjoon had already given it. Jungkook didn’t reply. A grunt—low, guttural—was all the answer he offered, but it was enough.

The cooldown began with gentle myofascial release—slow, steady pressure along the deltoids and down the length of the triceps, easing the built-up tension from repetitive impact. Jimin’s hands were steady this time; not trembling like on the first day. He had learned the rhythm of Jungkook’s breathing, the subtle ways his body responded. A faint grunt when the pressure was just right. A sharp exhale when he loosened a knot buried deep in muscle fiber.

Jungkook’s silence filled the room more than words could. Every now and then, his eyes tracked Jimin’s movements, assessing. Judging. He wasn’t suspicious—just alert, like a predator watching an unfamiliar presence in its den.

Namjoon lingered for the first few minutes, leaning against the ropes of the adjacent ring. He observed both of them—Jimin’s focus, Jungkook’s stoicism—then finally checked his watch and pushed off.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said. “Finish up and head there after.”

The moment Namjoon left, the room grew heavier. No voices. No footsteps. Only the rhythmic press of Jimin’s hands against hardened muscle and the low, animal sound of Jungkook’s breathing.

By now, other athletes had started trickling into Ironclad Apex Force. They kept their distance, tossing glances from the doorway. Seeing Jungkook allow someone—anyone—to work on him so closely was a rare sight. 

"Good Morning Doc Jimin." Minho greeted first the others followed. And Jimin simply bows as a response while he continue his session with Jungkook. 

His focus remained on the work: gentle passive stretches to decompress the shoulder joint, targeted kneading along the latissimus dorsi to release residual tension, careful mobilization around the scapula.

When he reached a tight band near the supraspinatus, Jungkook’s body tensed subtly.

“Breathe,” Jimin murmured before he could stop himself.

A hard glare shot his way. It wasn’t angry—just sharp enough to remind him of his place.

"That's it. Im dying. I had a good life. I'm sorry Halmoni I'll go first"

Still, Jungkook followed the instruction, inhaling slowly through his nose and letting out a slow exhale. Another grunt. Another non-verbal acknowledgment.

Saved.

Minutes passed like that—Jimin working, Jungkook silent, the tension between them coiling and uncoiling with each pass of his hands. Finally, when he was satisfied the fighter’s muscles had cooled down enough to prevent post-training stiffness or microtears, he stepped back.

“All done,” he said quietly.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He rolled his shoulders, the motion fluid and heavy with restrained power, then rose to his feet. Bones cracked faintly as he stretched, a sound that sent a ripple of unease through the onlookers. Without a word, he grabbed his towel and disappeared into the locker room.

Jimin exhaled deeply once he was gone. His shirt clung to his back with sweat—not from the physical effort, but from the intensity that radiated off Jungkook the entire time.

"Doc Jimin! Smile! He hasnt break your neck yet!" It was Hoseok who comments it and the others laugh. Somehow, he is getting used to their comments. 

The gym’s chatter picked up again, but Jimin barely heard it. He packed his things with mechanical precision and headed toward Namjoon’s office.

Namjoon was setting up the footage on a large screen.

“Good timing,” Namjoon said, motioning for Jimin to take a seat. “Let’s get to work. Once Jungkook finished his shower" 

Jimin nods as he sits by far end of the sofa. 

Jungkook arrived little no later.shower done, hair damp and pushed back, a plain black T-shirt clinging to his frame. He leaned against the wall with arms crossed, expression neutral but eyes sharp. 

 The screen flickered to life with the feed of Jungkook’s upcoming opponent from Osaka—a seasoned striker with a reputation for relentless offense. The man’s past fights rolled one after another: high kicks, fast jabs, devastating clinches.

“I don’t need a strategy,” Jungkook muttered, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Namjoon said dismissively. “Humor me.”

Despite his words, Jungkook watched intently. Every move, every feint, every tell from the opponent—he absorbed it all. His gaze sharpened with each replay, and though he didn’t speak much, the subtle nods and slight shifts of his posture betrayed how closely he was paying attention.

“He overcommits on the left hook,” Namjoon pointed out. “Look—every time he throws it, his guard drops. Counter window here.”

A low hum of acknowledgment.

“And he doesn’t like being pressured into the cage,” Namjoon continued. “You push pace, he panics.”

Another nod. Jungkook’s fingers tapped lightly against his bicep, a rhythm that only came when he was deep in thought.

Jimin sat quietly, observing from the side. There was something mesmerizing about the shift—how the cold, unapproachable fighter transformed into a calculating tactician in front of the screen. He wasn’t just a brute strength athlete; he was precise, analytical, frighteningly intelligent. Every note Namjoon made, Jungkook processed. Every flaw in the opponent’s technique, he dissected silently.

At one point, Namjoon turned to Jimin. “You see how he pivots here? That torque is going to put a lot of demand on the hip flexors and lower back. You’ll want to prep those areas pre-fight and focus on recovery there post-fight.”

Yes, sir,” Jimin said, jotting it down.

The session continued for nearly an hour, breaking down every nuance of the fight. Jungkook spoke less than ten words the entire time, but his presence said enough. Focused. Dangerous. Ready.

When the footage ended, Namjoon clapped his hands once. “That’s the plan. We adapt, we exploit his gaps, and we don’t give him room to breathe.”

Jungkook just nodded, standing up without a word. He stretched once more, neck rolling side to side with faint pops. Then he glanced briefly at Jimin—expression unreadable, a faint flicker of something passing through his eyes before he turned and walked out.

For a long moment, the room was silent. Jimin stared at the empty doorway Jungkook had just disappeared through, his pulse still a little faster than normal. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or fascination that had taken root somewhere deep inside him. Maybe both.

Namjoon let out a low chuckle. “You’re doing good, Doc,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just… try not to take the glares personally.”

Jimin huffed out a small, shaky laugh. “I’m getting used to it somehow.”

“Good. Because this was the easy part,” Namjoon replied, half-joking, half-serious. “It only gets harder from here.”

And as Jimin stepped out of the office into the loud, charged energy of Ironclad Apex Force, he couldn’t help but feel that Namjoon was absolutely right.

“

Chapter Text

Jimin arrived late to Ironclad Apex Force the next day. "Late" was relative—only five minutes past his scheduled time—but it was enough to feel the panic tightening in his chest. His usual meticulous preparation had been sabotaged by a primal, crippling fear: a text message received thirty minutes prior.

The text was brief, brutal, and devoid of polite language: PAYMENT DUE IN 3 DAYS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN LIQUIDATION.

The loan sharks were no longer sending veiled threats; they were issuing an execution notice. The massive salary from Namjoon was his only lifeline, but it was scheduled to be paid weekly, starting at the end of the first week—still several days away. Jimin needed the funds now, or his life, and his grandmother’s safety, would be forfeit. He felt the cold pressure of the time limit squeezing his throat.

The gym was already stirring when he arrived. A few early athletes were warming up, the familiar sounds of jump ropes and mitt slaps echoing across the polished concrete floors. Despite his anxiety, Jimin felt a small flicker of comfort at the sight—here, surrounded by people, the weight in his chest felt lighter.

“Morning, Doc!” Hoseok called from the treadmills, waving as he jogged. “You’re bit late huh?”

“Morning,” Jimin replied with a quick bow, forcing a smile. His voice cracked slightly, betraying his nerves.

"At least he is still here. Someone’s dedicated,” Yoongi murmured as he passed by, towel slung around his neck. “Hope you’re ready for another day in hell.”

Jimin laughed nervously, unsure if it was meant as a joke.

Namjoon appeared a few minutes later, clipboard in hand, and gave him a small nod of approval. “Morning Doc. We’ll go over the muscle maintenance plan before he gets here.”

“Is… he not in yet?” Jimin asked, trying to sound casual. His throat was dry.

“Nope,” Namjoon said, glancing toward the main entrance. “He probably went for his usual morning run. You’ll hear him before you see him.”

The casual tone did little to calm Jimin’s pulse.

He set his bag down in the adjacent treatment room, laying out the equipment with meticulous precision. Everything had to be perfect. No misplaced tools. No mistakes. Every detail mattered—because one slip, one wrong press of his hand, and Jungkook would see it as incompetence. And incompetence wasn’t tolerated.

He had just finished organizing and went out of the room to grab a water when a sudden hush fell over the gym.

It was almost imperceptible at first—the rhythmic thud of fists slowed, conversations trailed off. The shift in atmosphere was subtle but undeniable, and Jimin felt it crawl across his skin like static.

Then the doors opened.

Jungkook stepped in, hoodie damp from sweat, gym bag slung over one broad shoulder. His chest rose and fell steadily, earbuds still tucked into his ears, and the faintest mist of morning chill clung to him like steam off a freshly sharpened blade. He didn’t acknowledge anyone as he crossed the room. Didn’t glance left or right. He moved with the focus of a predator who didn’t need to announce his presence—because everyone already knew he was there.

Jimin swallowed hard.

The contrast always unsettled him. Jungkook’s face was infuriatingly young, almost angelic if not for the hard line of his jaw and the ink that trailed down his right arm, black and sharp against skin that looked like it had been carved from stone. But the softness ended there. Every step was purposeful. Every shift of muscle screamed power barely leashed.

The moment he pulled out his earbuds and tossed his bag aside, the tension in the room doubled.

Namjoon raised a hand in greeting. “Morning, champ. Long run?”

Jungkook grunted—a noncommittal sound that could’ve meant anything—and walked past without slowing. He peeled off his hoodie and let it drop to the bench, the tight black shirt beneath clinging to every sculpted line of his torso. His hair clung damply to his forehead, and his jaw flexed as he rolled his shoulders.

Not a glance. Not a word. Just cold, brutal presence.

Jimin tried not to stare, but it was impossible not to. The man standing in front of him was the same person who’d been in countless headlines—“The Emperor Breaks Another Record,” “Tyrant Takes Down Opponent in 47 Seconds.” And yet here he was, standing a few meters away, radiating an aura so intense that Jimin’s body instinctively wanted to shrink from it.

Their eyes met for a brief second. Jungkook didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. He just looked—like he was measuring, calculating, deciding whether Jimin was worth his time.

Then, with a dismissive breath, he turned away and headed straight for the ring.

Jimin’s heart hammered in his chest.

Cold. Completely cold.

Whatever fragile civility had existed the last two days was gone. The man before him now wasn’t just a patient—he was The Tyrant, stripped of restraint and softness.

And Jimin knew, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that today… the real test was about to begin.

Then his phone buzzed.

It was another text. No words, just a chilling image: a photo of a darkened storefront, the glass of a neighbor's shop shattered. A clear message that the loan sharks were close and their patience was gone.

The fear snapped, replaced by a desperate, reckless resolve. The carefully constructed wall of professional pride crumbled. Jimin decided to push his luck and forget his pride. He couldn't wait three more days.

Jimin located Namjoon near the manager's desk, speaking quietly with Yoongi. Jimin approached, his hands clasped tightly, his throat dry.

"Coach," Jimin interrupted, his voice tight and uneven. "Could I speak with you? Quickly. Privately."

Namjoon immediately sensed the desperation, his easy smile fading. He nodded to Yoongi, who immediately took the hint and walked toward the mats. "Of course, Doc. What's wrong?"

Jimin tried to formulate a composed, professional request, but the words tumbled out in a panicked rush.

“It’s… um. It’s nothing serious, well, it is but uh..,” he started, eyes darting anywhere but Namjoon’s face. “Just—uh—I wanted to ask if there’s… any way my first salary could be given a little earlier than scheduled?”

Namjoon’s look comes serious. “Earlier?” he repeated. “How early are we talking?”

“Just… maybe in two.. no three days?” Jimin said quickly, too quickly. The words tumbled out before he could think them through. “Or even a part of it. An advance, I mean. I wouldn’t normally ask this but—it would resolve a life-threatening immediate situation. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't a matter of survival. I know I haven't earned it yet, but I promise, I will work twice as hard to repay your trust.I’ll even do extra sessions if you need. I’ll stay longer. Anything"

Jimin blabbered, his breath catching, unable to meet Namjoon's steady gaze. He couldn't bring himself to mention the loan sharks or his grandmother. He simply poured out his need, sacrificing his pride on the altar of desperation.

Namjoon listened patiently, his expression shifting from concern to deep contemplation. "Jimin-ssi, I understand. I can see this isn't a frivolous request. The amount is substantial, but your contract is valuable, and you are currently irreplaceable."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I can't just wire the funds, but I can certainly work to arrange a significant advance. Give me an hour to make some calls. I can definitely help you, but you need to focus on your job right now. You are indispensable."

Jimin felt a wave of dizzy relief wash over him. "Thank you, Hyung. Thank you so much. I..."

Before Jimin could continue his desperate gratitude, a sudden, sharp, and very loud noise from the far side of the gym cut through their conversation. It wasn't the rhythmic thud of a bag.

CRACK! THWACK-THUD!

The noise was followed by a sharp, guttural cry of pain that was quickly stifled—a sound Jimin instantly recognized as a fighter’s involuntarily response to injury, instantly suppressed by training.

Both men turned sharply.

On the mat near the far wall, Jungkook was sitting on the floor, one hand gripping his thigh, his expression twisted slightly in irritation. At his feet lay a broken practice dummy—its foam torso split clean in half, shredded from the sheer impact of a kick that had clearly been far too strong for it to withstand.

“Ah, not again…” Namjoon sighed under his breath. “That’s the third one this month.”

Jimin’s eyes darted between the ruined dummy and Jungkook, who was now flexing and unflexing his calf muscle with clinical detachment. Cramp, he realized immediately. Overuse. Maybe dehydration. But mostly, sheer brute force.

“Cramp?” Namjoon called out, crossing the mat toward him.

“Nothing serious,” Jungkook muttered, his voice tight. “Just overextended.”

“Still needs attention.” Namjoon gestured to Jimin. “Doc, he’s all yours.We'll talk about the advance payment later. For now, we must focus on the Tyrant."

Jimin snapped back to professional attention, the desperate money plea temporarily overridden by his therapist's instinct. He grabbed his kit bag. The Champion was injured, exposed, and vulnerable. And Jimin's survival now depended entirely on his ability to fix him.

--

By the time he reached the mat, Jeon Jungkook was already pulling himself up. He was leaning heavily on the steel ring of the octagon, his face still etched with the residual sting of the cramp. He refused all assistance, his immense pride dictating that he walk himself to the treatment room, despite the obvious difficulty.

Jungkook limped to the table and swung his legs up with an unnecessary force that spoke volumes of his frustration, lying on his back. His eyes, though weary from his morning exertion, were sharp and fixed on Jimin.

Jimin did a rapid assessment: the pain was located in the left calf, a severe gastrocnemius cramp, likely due to dehydration and the explosive, high-torque striking in the cold morning air.

“We need to manually stretch the muscle fiber and flush the area,” Jimin explained, pulling on his gloves. He gently began to stabilize Jungkook’s ankle and apply firm, steady pressure to the length of the calf muscle, attempting to coax the fibers to release.

The moment Jimin’s hands began to work, Jungkook started his critique.

“Too slow, Doc,” Jungkook scoffed, his voice flat. “This isn’t a spa. I need to be back sparring this afternoon.”

Jimin ignored the tone, focusing on the taut, unyielding muscle. “We are targeting the precise point of contraction. Manual manipulation requires a specific speed to prevent tearing. Your tolerance for pain is high, but your muscle integrity is not infinite.”

Jungkook scoffed again. “You call this pressure? Too soft. How can my muscle be fixed if there is no pressure? You’re wasting my time.”

Jimin bit back a sharp response. He pushed deeper, his fingers searching for the most constricted knot. He knew the pressure was intense, but Jungkook’s ability to "turn off the pain" meant he constantly demanded more.

Jimin swallowed and continued, trying to find the balance—enough pressure to release the tension without risking a strain.

A few minutes later, as he shifted his position to mobilize the joint, Jungkook scoffed again. “Wrong angle.”

“I’m following the natural line of—”

“You’re not reading the muscle. If you were, you’d know that’s not where the tightness is.”

Jimin bit down on his tongue, the sting of humiliation blooming hot behind his eyes. He was reading the muscle. He knew what he was doing. But no matter what he tried, Jungkook found something to criticize.

The next few minutes were agonizing. Jungkook continued to mock, his insults a low, constant hum: "Are you even pushing, Doc? My grandmother gives better pressure. Get serious." Jimin felt his professional composure fraying under the relentless assault, his previous fears about incompetence amplified by the loan shark's deadline. He had to be perfect, yet the patient was actively working to break him.

In few, Jimin finally felt the large muscle fiber begin to yield, the painful knot loosening. The acute danger was over.

“Okay, the cramp is releasing,” Jimin confirmed, pulling a thick, thermal wrap from the counter. “We are going to finish by applying moist heat to the area to aid circulation and flush the final toxins.”

He scrambled toward the treatment table, fumbling with the kettle and cloth, his hands clumsy from the pressure of trying not to mess anything up. He poured the hot water into a bowl, checked the temperature once, twice, three times, then turned—just as Jungkook shifted unexpectedly -- perhaps to get more comfortable, perhaps a deliberate challenge. He inadvertently bumped sharply into Jimin's arm, which was holding the hot, dripping towel.

Jimin let out a sharp, choked gasp. The unexpected jolt caused him to jerk, the basin tipping violently. The hot water splashed onto the floor and across the table near Jungkook’s thigh. The water wasn't scalding, but it was hot enough to be instantly alarming.

Jimin's immediate terror was directed at the Champion. “I—I am so sorry, Jungkook-ssi! Are you—”

Jungkook snapped.

The exhaustion, the pain, the forced immobility, and now, the perceived incompetence and threat of being burned by the small, clumsy therapist—it was the perfect catalyst for his volatile rage.

Jungkook moved with blinding speed. He didn't even look at the water that had splashed on his thigh; his focus was entirely on Jimin. He surged upward, knocking the spilled basin completely aside.

"You idiot!" Jungkook roared, his eyes wide and black with pure fury. He slammed his hand hard against Jimin's chest, pushing Jimin back against the wall with staggering force. The action was purely reactive, a violent expression of dominance.

The towel and the water fell forgotten to the floor, splashing Jimin's hand with the remaining heat. Jungkook could care less.

He advanced, his face contorted into the most terrifying mask Jimin had ever seen—the Tyrant unleashed. His right arm, the powerful, tattooed one, shot out toward the wall next to Jimin’s head, and he slammed his fist into the sheetrock.

CRASH.

The sound was explosive, a sickening thud followed by the crumbling sound of plaster. Jungkook punched the wall beside Jimin, leaving a deep indentation in the drywall. His face was inches from Jimin’s, breathing heavy and hot.

“Get out,” Jungkook hissed, his voice a low, terrifying snarl. “You are incompetent. You are dangerous. You are a waste of my time. You are trying to sabotage me! You will quit, now, or I swear I will make sure you are gone before tomorrow. I warned you to stay out of my way!”

Jimin could only tremble, pinned against the wall, paralyzed by the sudden, terrifying violence. The fear was absolute, transcending the fear of debt and the fear of his grandmother's illness. This was the raw, immediate terror of a predator.

Just before Jungkook could deliver his next threat, the door to the treatment room burst open.

Namjoon had heard the roar and the terrifying CRASH of the punch. He froze for a split second, taking in the scene: the overturned basin, the shattered drywall, and the towering, enraged Champion pinning the trembling, pale therapist against the wall.

“JUNGKOOK! STOP!” Namjoon roared, his voice cutting through the tension with pure, managerial authority.

Namjoon surged forward, using his own bulk and authority to intervene. He grabbed Jungkook's shoulder and biceps, forcibly rushing to push Jungkook away from the now trembling Jimin.

Jungkook was like a wild animal, resistant to the break. He fought Namjoon's grip for a second, his muscles rigid, before the manager's calm, firm pressure, combined with the presence of an authority figure, finally broke his focus.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jungkook stepped away without resistance, though the storm in his expression hadn’t faded. “Teaching him what this job actually is.”

“You’re teaching him fear,” Namjoon snapped. “That’s not the same thing.”

The fighter scoffed, grabbing his bag. “If he can’t handle this, he shouldn’t be near me.”

And with that, Jungkook turned and walked out, leaving Jimin frozen in place, knees weak and breath shallow.

Jimin leans against the wall, shaking uncontrollably, his hand stinging from the residual heat of the water. His contract, his desperation, his career—all felt utterly irrelevant in the face of the brutal, physical threat he had just faced. He had witnessed the unbridled fury of the Tyrant, and he knew, with chilling certainty, that this man was capable of anything.

In that moment of absolute, paralyzing fear, the entire edifice of his necessity crumbled. The loan sharks, the imminent threat of liquidation, the hospital bills, his grandmother’s needs—all the terrifying, crushing financial realities that had forced him here vanished. They were replaced by a single, blinding, overwhelming imperative: Quitting.

I can’t live like this with constant fear.

The thought was a powerful, irresistible tide. He needed out. He couldn’t subject himself to this unpredictable, physical volatility. He had faced a killer unleashed, and the price of the salary was clearly his own sanity and safety.

Anywhere but here.

He pictured the sterile, predictable routines of Seoul Medical Hospital, the late-night quiet of the convenience store. He could still go back. He could manage. He would figure it out. He would take on two or three extra shifts. It would be hard, but it wouldn’t be lethal.

The silence after Jungkook’s departure was heavy, pressing down on the room like a weight. Jimin remained frozen where he stood, back pressed against the wall that had almost taken the blow meant for him. His breaths were shallow and rapid, his chest rising and falling as though the air itself had turned to stone.

Namjoon approached him slowly, cautiously, like one might approach a wounded animal. “Jimin,” he said softly, placing a steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jimin’s eyes darted upward, wide and unfocused. “I… I can’t do this,” he whispered, voice trembling. “He’s going to hit me. He’s—he’s not human, Namjoon ssi. I can’t—”

“Listen to me,” Namjoon interrupted gently but firmly. “He’s not going to hit you. Not ever. Jungkook has issues—more than a few—but crossing that line? He won’t. I promise you that.”

But the reassurance didn’t stick. Jimin was still shaking his head, still murmuring, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” as if the repetition could anchor him to some kind of safety.

Namjoon sighed deeply and guided Jimin to sit on the edge of the treatment table. “You’ve done more in these three days than most people ever could,” he said, crouching so they were eye-level. “But maybe… today is enough. Go home early. Clear your head.”

Jimin blinked, confused. “But the session—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Namjoon interrupted. “I’ll handle the rest. And I’ll make sure you’re still paid in full for today. In fact, I’ll try to process that early payment you asked about. But please, Jimin… just think about whether you really want to walk away from this.”

The words were careful, deliberate. He wasn’t begging Jimin to stay. He wasn’t guilting him into it. He was giving him permission—to choose, to breathe, to not be swallowed by the monster that was Jeon Jungkook.

Jimin swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you….”

“Go,” Namjoon urged gently. “Take the rest of the day.”

---

The moment the door closed behind Jimin, Namjoon ran a hand over his face, the weight of the situation finally crashing into him. He exhaled a long, tired sigh before pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing a familiar number.

“Hyung,” he said when the call connected. “It’s me.”

“Joon?” Jin’s voice was casual at first, then sharp when Namjoon explained what had happened. There was a long silence on the other end before Jin spoke again—cold, clipped, and furious.

“I swear to god, I will amputate that kid,” Jin hissed. “What the hell is wrong with him? He better start treating people like actual people and not like they’re his parents who were only there to use him!”

“Hyung—”

“No, listen to me,” Jin snapped. “Jimin’s a good kid. If you lose him, it’s on Jungkook. And if Jungkook keeps this up, he’s going to lose more than just a physical therapist. He’s going to lose his entire career.”

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose, the dull throb of a headache blooming just behind his eyes. “I know. I know, hyung. I’ll talk to him.”

“You better.” Jin’s voice softened slightly. “And Joon… if Jimin needs someone, I’m heading over. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Thanks, hyung.” Namjoon exhaled again. “Talk to you later.”

“Good luck,” Jin muttered darkly before hanging up.

--

The gym was quieter now. Most of the other athletes had either left or were keeping a wary distance from the far end of the training hall, where Jungkook was perched on a bench, towel draped over his shoulders, water bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He didn’t look angry anymore—just detached. Distant. Like none of what had happened even mattered.

Namjoon approached slowly, each step measured.

“Was that necessary?” he asked without preamble.

Jungkook didn’t look up. “If he can’t handle that, he shouldn’t be here.”

“That wasn’t a test,” Namjoon said, voice low but steady. “That was cruelty.”

Finally, Jungkook lifted his gaze. It was unreadable—flat, cold, a mask carved from something older and harder than arrogance. “I don’t need someone who flinches when things get hard. I don’t have time to babysit.”

“You don’t have time to alienate the only person who’s been willing to put up with you, either,” Namjoon countered. “Do you know how many physical therapists have quit on you in the past few years? And you just scared away the first one who might have actually lasted.”

“He spilled boiling water on me.”

“I don't see any burns on your skin,” Namjoon shot back. “He on the other hand, does.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Namjoon took a step closer. “I know what you’re doing. You want to see if he breaks. You want to prove he’s just like the others. But tell me something—what happens when you finally find someone who doesn’t? What happens when you push and push and they still stay?”

The silence that followed was telling. Jungkook’s eyes flickered—something unreadable, maybe even vulnerable, flashing briefly before it was buried again under indifference.

“I don’t need him to stay,” he muttered finally. “I just need him to do his job.”

“And right now,” Namjoon said quietly, “he’s too scared to.”

Jungkook’s hand tightened around the water bottle, the plastic crinkling under his grip. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just stared at the floor like the conversation wasn’t happening.

Namjoon sighed, straightening up. “You think this is strength, Jungkook. But it’s not. It’s fear. And if you don’t figure out the difference, one day you’re going to wake up and find no one left standing in your corner.”

He turned to leave, pausing only once before the door.

“Think about what kind of fighter you want to be,” he said over his shoulder. “Because right now, you’re not fighting your opponents—you’re fighting everyone who’s trying to help you.”

And with that, Namjoon walked out, leaving Jungkook alone in the empty gym, the sound of his own heartbeat echoing louder than any punch he’d ever thrown.

Chapter Text

The air in Seoul was cool, almost too gentle for the kind of day Jimin had just endured. The weight of Jungkook’s words — the way his fist had slammed into the wall beside him — still echoed in his chest with every step he took. It was as if each footfall pressed that memory deeper into his skin. He walked with his head low, hands shoved into the pockets of his thin jacket, trying to shake off the trembling that had yet to fully leave his fingers.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and for a moment, he considered ignoring it. But when the screen lit up with “Jin hyung” the corners of his lips tugged weakly upward despite the heaviness in his chest.

“Hyung?” he answered, his voice quieter than usual.

“Baby chick!” Jin’s tone was deliberately too bright — the kind of forced cheerfulness Jimin knew only appeared when the older man was trying to distract him. “What are you doing? Want to grab a drink at a pojangmacha?”

The suggestion was so abrupt that Jimin blinked in confusion before a small, involuntary giggle escaped him. “Hyung, it’s still too early for that. They’re not even open yet.”

“Then I’ll go to your place,” Jin declared without missing a beat. “We’ll drink there. And then, when they are open, we’ll go to the pojangmacha and drink again. I’m so stressed today, baby chick. I need a drink.”

It was ridiculous — so Jin — and yet Jimin’s throat felt tight at the sound of it. Because he understood. Jin wasn’t stressed. Not really. Or at least, not about anything that had to do with him. But Jin was offering what Jimin needed most right now: a reason to breathe. An excuse not to drown in his thoughts.

Jimin bit his lip, glancing at the pale sky above him. “You’re really that stressed, hyung?” he teased softly, playing along.

“Unbelievably. Tremendously. My hair is practically graying as we speak,” Jin groaned. “I need alcohol or I’ll die.”

The corners of Jimin’s lips curled a little more, even if the laugh that followed was faint. “Okay, okay. I’ll clean my apartment a bit before you come. But I’m warning you — there’s not much to drink here.”

“That’s fine. I’ll bring the good stuff,” Jin replied, his voice gentler now. “See you soon, baby chick.”

“Yeah,” Jimin said quietly. “See you, hyung.”

---

By the time he hung up, the ache in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it had dulled. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, and for the first time since leaving the gym, he felt like he could breathe without shaking.

Jimin didn’t need Jin to say the words. He didn’t need him to ask what happened or offer empty reassurances. Jin knew — he always did — and instead of forcing Jimin to talk, he just showed up. He made space for him to feel small and scared without having to explain why.

And as Jimin turned down the familiar street that led to his small apartment, his steps felt a little less heavy. The day still hurt — the humiliation, the fear, the way Jungkook’s eyes had burned through him — but maybe, just maybe, he could survive it.

Because he wasn’t alone. Not completely.

And sometimes, that was enough.

--

The sun had already started its slow descent by the time Jimin reached his small apartment. It was a cramped little space tucked into the second floor of an aging building — a single room with peeling wallpaper, a narrow kitchen, and a tiny window that let in just enough light to make it feel less suffocating. But for Jimin, it was home. It was the place he could drop the heavy mask and let his shoulders slump.

And today, the weight he carried felt heavier than usual.

He sighed as he kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment. There was still a faint tremor in his hands as he set his phone down on the counter and rolled up his sleeves. Jin was coming over — and if there was one thing Jimin knew about Jin, it was that the man loved food with his drinks.

“Fried chicken and tteokbokki,” Jimin muttered to himself, rummaging through the fridge. “At least I can do that much…”

Cooking was something he could control. Something predictable — unlike his job, unlike the threat of the loan sharks, the fear for his grandmothers hospital bill, the constant reminder of the rent, unlike the terrifying man whose fist had nearly broken the wall beside his head earlier today.

The oil sizzled loudly as he dropped the marinated chicken pieces into the pan. The familiar sound and smell were oddly comforting, grounding. He focused on the rhythm — stir, turn, flip. Stir, turn, flip. It was easier than thinking.

By the time the doorbell rang, the apartment was filled with the savory scent of fried chicken and spicy tteokbokki simmering on the stove. Jimin wiped his hands on a towel and shuffled to the door.

“Hyung!” he greeted, forcing a smile.

Jin stepped inside, already carrying a small bag clinking with soju bottles and snacks. But the moment his eyes landed on the kitchen counter, his jaw dropped.

“Yah!” he barked, setting the bag down with a dramatic thud. “What’s all this? Chicken? Tteokbokki? You didn’t have to cook for me!”

Jimin blinked, genuinely confused. “You said you were stressed. I thought food would help.”

“Of course food helps, but I didn’t come here to be treated!” Jin nagged, hands flying animatedly. “I said let’s drink, not let’s have a five-star dinner cooked by an overworked baby chick!”

Jimin giggled despite himself, ducking his head as he carried the chicken to the table. “It’s not five-star, hyung. It’s just… chicken.”

“Chicken that took time and effort,” Jin shot back, crossing his arms but clearly touched. “You should be resting, not burning yourself out again.”

It was only then that Jin’s sharp eyes caught something that made his tone change. He grabbed Jimin’s wrist before the younger could pull away, frowning deeply at the scattered red marks on the back of his hand.

“Yah, what’s this?” he demanded.

“Huh?” Jimin blinked, genuinely confused.

“This!” Jin pointed, holding Jimin’s hand up. “Burns. Don’t tell me you didn’t even notice this?!

Jimin looked down at the marks as if seeing them for the first time. The skin was slightly inflamed, and now that Jin mentioned it, there was a dull sting radiating from them. “Oh… I guess I didn’t feel it,” he murmured.

“Didn’t feel it?” Jin scoffed, exasperated. “What’s next, are you going to lose an arm and say you didn’t notice?. And here I thought I teach you well being my favorite junior"

“Hyung,” Jimin said sheepishly, trying to pull his hand back, but Jin wasn’t having it. He tutted under his breath, marching to the bathroom and coming back with a small first aid kit he always insisted on keeping in Jimin’s apartment.

He dabbed ointment onto the burns, grumbling all the while. “Aish, this kid. Can’t even live without injuring himself. Do you have any idea how much I worry about you? You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”

“Sorry,” Jimin whispered, smiling faintly.

“Sorry doesn’t heal burns,” Jin huffed. But there was no real anger in his tone — only worry. Still, he didn’t push. He didn’t ask why Jimin’s hands were trembling slightly or why his eyes looked so distant. He didn’t mention the heaviness hanging around Jimin like a storm cloud. Jin knew better than to pry when the younger wasn’t ready.

Instead, he taped the bandage gently and gave his cheek a light flick. “There. Now sit down before you accidentally set yourself on fire.”

Jimin laughed softly, obediently taking a seat at the small table as Jin started opening the soju bottles. The atmosphere was lighter now — not bright, not cheerful, but warm enough to breathe in.

And for the first time since that terrifying moment in the gym, Jimin felt the corners of his chest loosen. Maybe just a little. Maybe enough.

He poured Jin a shot and handed it over. “Cheers, hyung.”

“Cheers,” Jin said with a grin, clinking their glasses together. “To surviving another day.”

“To surviving,” Jimin echoed. And for tonight, that was enough.

--

By the time the small clock on Jimin’s kitchen wall ticked past 6 pm, the apartment was a quiet, cozy mess — empty soju bottles lined the counter, two beer cans rolled idly near the sink, and the faint scent of fried chicken still hung stubbornly in the air.

Jin had surrendered to gravity. Slumped over the low wooden table, cheek pressed to the cool surface, he was mumbling incoherent strings of words — fragments of complaints, dramatic sighs, and something about how “soju was invented by devils.” His once-crisp shirt was wrinkled, tie discarded over the back of a chair, and his usually immaculate hair was sticking out in a way that made Jimin snort.

“Hyung,” Jimin said, his voice light and teasing as he leaned closer, “I thought we were going to pojangmacha.”

He poked Jin’s cheek playfully, giggling when the older man groaned and swatted his hand away without even lifting his head.

“Don’t fight me, baby chick,” Jin slurred, his words slightly tangled but still carrying his usual dramatic flair. “I may be drunk… but I can still go there… and fight for drink.”

Jimin burst into soft laughter, clutching his stomach as Jin gave him the most unimpressed glare his droopy eyes could muster — before slumping forward again with a heavy thud against the table.

“Just… once the world stops spinning…” Jin mumbled into the wood. “For now… let hyung rest…”

“Alright, hyung,” Jimin whispered, still smiling, his voice a mixture of fondness and gratitude. “Rest.”

The evening light spilling in through the small window turned golden, painting the little room in warm hues. Jimin leaned back against the wall, still a little tipsy but far more sober than Jin, his mind quiet for the first time all day.

For now, there were no fists slamming into walls, no threatening messages, no heavy thoughts about money or failure.

There was just Jin — loud, ridiculous, comforting Jin — snoring softly with his head on the table.

The laughter faded into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable. The golden light from the window painted the little apartment in amber, softening the edges of the clutter, the dishes left in the sink, the papers he had yet to file. It almost felt peaceful — something Jimin hadn’t felt in days.

He reached for his glass, only to find it empty. Setting it down, he let out a long breath and watched Jin sleep, his lips twitching into a small, sad smile.

“Hyung…” he whispered, almost to himself. “What do I do now…”

It was a question he’d been swallowing all day.

The silence stretched, and maybe it was the soju, or the exhaustion, or just the safety of knowing Jin wouldn’t remember half of this conversation tomorrow — but the words started tumbling out before Jimin could stop them.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” he admitted softly. “I really tried, hyung. I told myself I could handle it. That I could be strong. But today…”

He swallowed hard, the image of Jungkook’s fist slamming into the wall right beside his face flashing in his mind. His heart skipped at the memory — not in fear, but in that heavy, bone-deep dread that hadn’t left him since.

“Today I thought… he was really going to hit me.”

Jin stirred slightly at the sound of his voice, a small hum escaping his throat, but didn’t wake. It was enough to make Jimin keep talking.

“I know I should be used to hard patients by now. I’ve dealt with worse moods. Angrier people. But Jungkook…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “He’s different. He’s not just angry. It’s like he enjoys breaking people. And I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive that.”

His hands twisted together on his lap, the faint burn on his palm from the spilled hot water still stinging.

“I keep thinking… maybe I should just quit,” he whispered. “Before he actually hurts me. Before I completely lose myself trying to fix someone who doesn’t even want to be fixed.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but once they were out, they refused to stop.

“I know you’d be disappointed,” Jimin murmured, his voice breaking into a quiet laugh that wasn’t happy at all. “You always told me I had a gift. That I cared more than most. And I do care. God, I care too much, maybe. But… what if caring isn’t enough this time?”

The room answered him with silence, only broken by Jin’s soft, rhythmic snores.

Jimin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty glass between his hands. His chest ached, his breath felt shallow, and for a moment he hated himself for feeling like this — weak, small, afraid.

“But I’m so tired, hyung…” he confessed quietly. “So damn tired of being scared of my own patient.”

The clock ticked again, steady and unbothered, as if mocking how his entire world felt like it was about to crumble.

After a while, Jin stirred again. His head lifted just enough for him to peer blearily at Jimin through heavy lids. “...You’re too loud,” he mumbled. “Hyung’s trying to sleep.”

Jimin choked on a laugh, wiping quickly at his eyes before Jin could see the wetness there. “Sorry, hyung.”

“...And you’re not quitting,” Jin slurred without opening his eyes again. “You’re not allowed to.”

“Hyung…”

“Not because I’d be disappointed,” Jin continued, voice drowsy but serious in a way that made Jimin’s chest tighten. “But because you don’t give up halfway. Not you. Not Park Jimin.That's why you become Physiotherapist right? You dont want the people to give up on themselves when their body is not working. You want to help them."

He slumped back into the table before Jimin could reply, the weight of drunken sleep claiming him again.

Jimin sat there, silent, staring at Jin’s sleeping form.

He wanted to argue. To say that Jin was wrong — that maybe this time, quitting was the only way to protect himself. But the words wouldn’t come. They never did when Jin said things like that.

And maybe… just maybe… a part of him still didn’t want to give up yet.

Jimin sighed and reached over to gently pull a cushion under Jin’s head. “Good night, hyung,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something between gratitude and despair.

The night deepened, the city outside settling into its usual rhythm. And in that small apartment, Park Jimin sat quietly beside his sleeping friend, the weight of tomorrow pressing on his shoulders — knowing that when the sun rose again, he’d have to face Jeon Jungkook once more.

And this time, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it through.

---

"Hyung, you’re heavy,” Jimin muttered between huffs, his knees wobbling under Jin’s dead weight as he half-dragged, half-carried him across the room. Jin’s arm hung over Jimin’s shoulder like a sack of rice, and his feet barely lifted off the floor as they shuffled toward the bedroom.

It took several failed attempts — one resulting in Jimin almost toppling over and another where Jin mumbled something about “chicken fighting aliens” — before he finally managed to get the older man to the bed. With one last heave, Jin landed face-first on the mattress with a loud thump.

“Ah, hyung,” Jimin groaned, collapsing beside him. “If I didn’t care about your back and neck tomorrow, I’d have left you on the floor.”

The room was dim and quiet after Jin’s soft, alcohol-laced breathing settled into rhythm. Jimin lingered beside the bed for a moment, gently tucking the blanket higher over Jin’s shoulder even though the older man was far too gone to notice. There was something oddly grounding about the simple gesture — one last small task before he was left alone with his thoughts again.

When he closed the bedroom door behind him, the silence felt heavier than before. It wasn’t comforting silence. It was the kind that clung to your skin and pressed against your ribs.

The kind that made every sound — the hum of the fridge, the faint rustle of the curtains — feel too loud.

Jimin rubbed the back of his neck, sighing softly as he padded barefoot into the living room. The night had stretched longer than expected, and exhaustion tugged at every part of him. But sleep was a distant idea. Even before tonight, rest had been hard to find. His mind refused to shut down — a constant loop of what-ifs, regrets, and unanswered questions chewing through the edges of his thoughts.

He dropped down onto the couch with a low exhale, his body sinking into the worn cushions. Maybe tomorrow he’d think about everything properly. Maybe tomorrow he’d figure out what to do next.

Then his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

At first, he ignored it. Probably a useless notification — spam, email, or some app he’d forgotten to mute. But then it buzzed again, and something about the timing made his stomach twist. With a small frown, he reached for it.

The screen lit up with a bank notification.

And for a heartbeat, Jimin’s lungs forgot how to work.

> **₩**,***,*** credited to your account ending in 1013.**

> **Reference: Advance Payment — Namjoon.**

He blinked. And blinked again.

No matter how many times he read the numbers, they didn’t change.

The breath he’d been holding burst from his chest in a shaky exhale.

“What… what the—”

The phone nearly slipped from his trembling fingers. This wasn’t the amount he’d asked for. Not even close. He’d been hesitant even requesting the advance in the first place — just enough to cover overdue bills, rent, and a bit of breathing room. But this? This was several times that. It was the kind of money he’d only ever seen on paper, the kind that could erase months of financial worry in a single line of text.

His hands started to shake harder.

He had never — never — seen that much money under his name before. It was overwhelming, dizzying. The room suddenly felt too small, too quiet, too unreal. He gripped the phone tighter as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

“This can’t be right,” he whispered to the empty room, voice breaking at the edges. “This… this has to be a mistake.”

His heart raced as panic surged through his veins. The logical thing to do was wait — think it over, breathe. But logic drowned beneath the roar of his pulse. He couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t keep this if it wasn’t meant for him.

Before he could stop himself, Jimin was swiping through his contacts. His thumb hovered over the screen for half a second — just long enough to doubt whether calling this late was a mistake — and then he pressed call.

The dial tone rang once. Twice.

“N..namjoon-ssi?” His voice cracked the second the line clicked. “I— I’m sorry for calling this late, but—”

“Jimin?” Namjoon’s tone was calm but alert, like he’d been expecting this. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I just got a notification,” Jimin stammered, breathless and unsteady. He pushed a trembling hand through his hair, pacing the length of the living room without realizing it. “The advance payment — I mean, the money — it just came in. But this isn’t… this isn’t what I asked for. It’s way too much. There must’ve been some mistake.”

There was a short pause on the other end. Then Namjoon’s voice, steady and deliberate: “It’s not a mistake.”

Jimin stopped mid-step. “…What?”

“It’s not an error,” Namjoon repeated, his voice gentle but firm. “I approved the transfer myself.”

The words hit harder than he expected. Jimin’s chest tightened, his grip on the phone slick with sweat. “But— but it’s too much. I didn’t ask for this. I only needed a fraction of it, and even that felt like too much to begin with. I—” He swallowed thickly, words tripping over one another. “I can’t accept this. I don’t want to take advantage of—”

“You’re not taking advantage of anything.”

The calm certainty in Namjoon’s tone silenced him.

Jimin’s breaths came unevenly, and for a moment all he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Listen to me,” Namjoon said after a brief pause. “The amount was intentional. It’s not just the advance you asked for — part of it is additional compensation. For what happened. For everything Jungkook put you through. It’s not a bribe, and it’s not meant to pressure you.”

Jimin squeezed his eyes shut, teeth sinking into his lower lip. “It feels like pressure.”

“I understand why it might,” Namjoon admitted. “But it isn’t. This isn’t about buying your forgiveness or forcing your decision. This is me — us — trying to do what’s right. You were hurt. You were put in a position you never should’ve been in. And no amount of money can erase that, but it’s one of the few ways I can try to make things even.”

The sincerity in his voice cracked something open in Jimin’s chest. His throat tightened painfully. “Even?” he whispered. “How could this ever be even?”

“It’s not,” Namjoon said simply. “But I want you to know you’re valued. That your time, your effort, your trust — they mean something. Whether you come back or not.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and deliberate. Jimin’s breathing slowed, though the trembling in his hands hadn’t stopped. He lowered himself back onto the couch, legs too weak to keep standing.

“Jimin,” Namjoon continued, quieter now, “you’re under no obligation to return. If this is the end of our professional relationship, then that’s what it is. I’ll respect that. But if you choose to come back — as Jungkook’s personal trainer, under new terms, with all boundaries in place — that option is open. The decision is yours. Always.”

Jimin pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to steady the sting behind them. His voice came out small. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Namjoon replied. “Not tonight. Not until you’re ready.”

Silence stretched on the line, broken only by the faint sound of Jimin’s uneven breathing.

It was too much — the money, the kindness, the weight of everything that had happened. And yet beneath the swirl of confusion and guilt and disbelief, there was something else flickering quietly in his chest: relief. Gratitude. And something dangerously close to hope.

“Thank you,” he murmured at last, voice trembling. “For… for explaining. For trusting me with the choice.”

“You deserve nothing less,” Namjoon said softly. “Try to get some rest, Jimin. Whatever you decide, I’ll support it.”

The line clicked softly as the call ended, but the words lingered long after.

Jimin sat there, phone limp in his hand, staring blankly at the darkness of his apartment. The notification still glowed faintly on his screen — a string of numbers that could change everything — but for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like a door. One he hadn’t expected to be open.

And for the first time since he’d walked away, Jimin let himself wonder — not with fear, but with cautious, fragile curiosity — whether stepping through it was something he could do.

---

The silence felt different now.

It wasn’t the heavy, suffocating quiet that had pressed against Jimin’s chest earlier — it was lighter, softer somehow, as if the air itself had shifted. The phone still rested loosely in his hand, screen dimmed to black, but the words Namjoon had spoken echoed in his head long after the call ended.

*The decision is yours. Always.*

It should have scared him. The weight of choice, the responsibility of it — all the unknowns that came with deciding whether to stay away or step back in. But instead, what he felt most wasn’t fear. It was… space. Space he hadn’t had in years. Space to breathe.

His gaze dropped back to the bank notification still glowing faintly on the screen, and the number stared back at him like a dream he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

It wasn’t just money. It was months of his life, maybe years, being handed back to him piece by piece.

His chest tightened as reality began to settle into place, each thought hitting harder than the last.

Two months. Two entire months of rent — the ones he’d been juggling, stretching, avoiding. The landlord’s polite but firm reminders had started to sound more like warnings lately. The envelope he’d tucked into the drawer — unopened, because he couldn’t bring himself to look at another overdue notice — was waiting. But now, he could pay it. Today. He could clear the slate before it turned into something worse.

Then there was the hospital.

His hands started to tremble again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something warmer, deeper — something that made his vision blur. The hospital bills for his grandmother — the woman who had raised him, who still smiled every time he visited despite the pain she tried so hard to hide — had been growing month by month, a weight he carried alone. He’d been terrified to check the latest balance. Terrified to see how far behind he was.

Now he could walk into that hospital with his head high. He could sign a check, settle everything, and watch that burden dissolve into relief. He could make sure his grandmother's treatments continued without interruption. No more excuses. No more skipped payments. No more guilt when she told him not to worry.

A shuddering breath escaped him, half a sob, half a laugh. “I can… actually do it,” he whispered into the empty room, though no one was there to hear it.

And then there were the loan sharks.

The ones who lurked in the corners of his thoughts even when he tried not to think about them. The ones who left messages that weren’t really threats but felt like them all the same. He’d been playing a dangerous game with them — paying just enough to keep them quiet, avoiding eye contact in places he knew they watched.

He couldn’t pay them off in full, not yet. But this… this was enough to make them stop. To make them back off. Enough to buy himself time — precious, precious time — without the shadow of fear crawling down his spine every time his phone rang from an unknown number.

For the first time in so long, he could think about the future without the immediate panic of how he’d make it to next month. For the first time, the word savings wasn’t a fantasy. He could tuck some of this money away. Not much — but enough. Enough to know that if things went wrong, if life threw another blow his way, he wouldn’t be starting from zero again.

The thought alone made his eyes sting.

He sank deeper into the couch, his body trembling as he stared up at the ceiling — the same ceiling he’d stared at night after night, counting cracks instead of sheep, trying to silence the relentless voice in his head asking how he was going to survive.

There was a jagged little line near the corner, one he’d traced with his eyes so many times he knew every uneven edge. It had always felt like a metaphor for his life — fractured, splitting wider with time, something he had no means to fix.

Now, for the first time, he thought maybe he could.

His lips parted in a shaky exhale, and before he even realized it, warm tears were sliding down his cheeks. They weren’t the desperate, choked sobs of hopelessness. These were quieter, slower — the kind that slipped out without permission because the heart had finally, finally found a crack big enough to breathe through.

He didn’t wipe them away.

“Halmoni…” he whispered, breaking softly against the silence.

It was a prayer more than a word — a tiny offering to the woman who had given him everything and asked for nothing. The woman who had believed in him when he didn’t believe in himself. The woman whose wrinkled hands still held his when he visited, telling him it would all be okay even when it clearly wasn’t.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to call her right now and say, *You don’t have to worry anymore. I’ve got it. We’re okay now.* But he didn’t trust his voice to hold steady enough to speak.

So instead, he just let the tears fall, one after another, until the weight in his chest loosened and the knots in his shoulders finally, blessedly, began to unravel.

When he turned his head, his gaze landed on the closed bedroom door down the hall.

Jin, who had offered him the job when no one else did.

Jin, who had believed he was capable of more than just scraping by.

Jin, who had opened a door that Jimin had been too afraid to knock on himself.

A shaky smile ghosted across his lips. He wasn’t sure if Jin had done it out of pity or faith, maybe a little of both. But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that it had brought him here — to this moment, to this chance, to this strange, fragile sense of relief blooming inside him.

For so long, Jimin’s life had been a constant fight — a relentless, exhausting push against circumstances that always seemed just slightly bigger than he was. But for the first time in years, the fight didn’t feel like it was crushing him.

For the first time, he could see beyond the next bill, the next deadline, the next threat.

For the first time, he could breathe.

He lay there for a while, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as if they might rearrange themselves into something new. And maybe they already had. Maybe the cracks were still there — maybe they always would be — but they didn’t look so hopeless anymore.

They looked like proof that he’d survived.

And as another tear slid down his cheek, Jimin realized something he hadn’t let himself believe until now: survival wasn’t the same as living.

Maybe, just maybe, he was finally allowed to start doing both.

--

-

Chapter Text

The clock on the far wall ticked louder than usual.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked toward it for the sixth time in the past ten minutes, though he already knew what it would say.

8:27 am

Still no sign of Jimin.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. The dull pressure behind his eyes had been building since he woke up — the kind of stress-born headache that refused to leave. The gym was already buzzing with morning energy, the sound of gloves hitting pads, sneakers squeaking against the mat, and trainers calling out drills. And yet, for all the noise, Namjoon’s attention was fixed on one empty spot by the door.

“Still no sign of him?” a voice asked from behind him.

Yoongi came to stand beside him, hands in his pockets, his usual lazy drawl carrying just a hint of curiosity.

Namjoon shook his head, fingers sliding back to knead the tension from his temple. “No. Nothing. I guess… he’s really not coming.”

Yoongi’s brows rose slightly. “You think he quit?”

A sigh escaped before Namjoon could stop it. “Would you blame him if he did?” he muttered. “After everything?” His gaze dropped briefly to the clipboard in his hand before he tossed it onto the nearest bench. “I told myself I’d understand if he walked away. I even prepared for it. But—” He paused, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s still disappointing. I thought maybe… I don’t know. Maybe we’d see him today.”

“Maybe he’s just late,” Yoongi offered, though his tone suggested he didn’t quite believe it either.

“Maybe,” Namjoon murmured, but the faint hope in his chest was already dimming. “But I can’t afford to keep waiting. There’s too much going on. Too much to fix. And then there’s Jungkook.”

He glanced toward the training floor, where Jungkook was working alone.

Or rather, destroying the equipment.

The rhythmic thwack of his fists and feet against the heavy bag echoed through the room — sharp, precise, and relentless. Sweat clung to his skin, muscles flexing and tightening with every impact, but there was no fatigue in his movements. If anything, he was moving harder and faster the longer he trained.

“He’s been like that since he came in,” Namjoon muttered. “Did every drill I threw at him — running, jumping jacks, planks — and didn’t say a word the whole time. No complaints, no questions. Just… silence.”

Yoongi folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the younger man. “He’s not angry,” he said after a moment. “Look at his face.”

Namjoon followed his gaze. Jungkook’s expression was unreadable — not furious or frustrated, just focused, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw set tight. But every punch landed harder than the last. Every kick snapped with a ferocity that didn’t belong to routine training.

“He’s thinking too much,” Yoongi said quietly. “And he’s not talking about any of it.”

Namjoon nodded grimly. “That’s what worries me. He’s been bottling everything up since Jimin left. I thought he’d be relieved, or angry, or something. But this?” His eyes lingered on the younger man, whose chest was heaving but whose fists still didn’t stop. “This is worse. He’s not dealing with it. He’s drowning in it.”

They watched in silence as Jungkook landed another brutal combination — jab, hook, kick — the chain suspending the bag groaning under the force. The sound of his gloves connecting with leather filled the gym like a heartbeat, steady and violent.

Namjoon opened his mouth, ready to call an end to the session before Jungkook injured himself, when the door to the gym suddenly swung open.

Both he and Yoongi turned instinctively.

The air shifted.

Jimin stood in the doorway, bent over slightly, hands braced against his knees as he sucked in ragged breaths. His cheeks were flushed, hair sticking to his forehead, and his chest heaved like he’d sprinted the whole way here. And maybe he had — his clothes clung to him in places, damp from sweat or the morning humidity.

“Huff… ah… co– huff… coach…” he managed between breaths, bowing hastily as he tried to speak. “Sor– ah… sorry… I had to bring… huff… Jin-hyung to his place… he… he lives too f– far…” He sucked in another desperate gulp of air. “Ah! Had to run… hah! I’m sorry I’m late!”

The words tumbled out in one breathless rush, sincerity woven into every syllable. His head dipped into a full ninety-degree bow, chest still rising and falling as he fought to catch his breath.

For a second, no one moved. The gym seemed to freeze, time pausing on the sight of Jimin standing there, flushed and panting, but there — not gone, not absent. Here.

Namjoon felt the tension in his chest unravel all at once. The breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipped out in a long, shaky exhale. His lips twitched before he could stop them, a slow smile pulling at the corners.

“Doc…” Yoongi muttered, almost under his breath, a rare softness tugging at his usual dry tone.

The stillness broke when Hoseok crossed the floor in a blur, a wide grin lighting up his face. “Doc!!!” he shouted, and before Jimin could react, he was swept into a tight hug that nearly lifted him off his feet.

“Hoseok—!” Jimin wheezed, stumbling back half a step, but the laughter bubbling around them drowned out his protest. One by one, the others began to gather, clapping him on the back, calling his name, cheering like a missing piece of their team had just been returned.

Namjoon couldn’t help but smile wider, the weight that had been sitting on his shoulders for days finally loosening. It wasn’t just relief — it was something warmer, something steadier. It was hope.

What none of them noticed, at least not right away, was that Jungkook had stopped.

The heavy bag swung lazily now, momentum fading as his fists lowered. His breathing was heavy, sweat dripping down his temples, but his gaze was locked — unwavering — on the scene unfolding by the door.

On Jimin.

There was no anger in his eyes. No annoyance, no resentment. Just something deeper, quieter, more complicated than either Namjoon or Yoongi could name. It was the look of someone who had been holding his breath without realizing it — and now, finally, could exhale.

“Looks like your hunch was wrong,” Yoongi murmured beside Namjoon, his lips curving into the faintest smirk.

Namjoon chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve never been happier to be wrong.”

They stood there together, watching as Jimin was swallowed up by the team’s energy — his laughter mixing with theirs, his smile breaking through the exhaustion that still clung to him. The gym felt lighter, brighter, like someone had turned the lights up without touching a switch.

But even as the laughter grew louder, Namjoon’s eyes drifted back to Jungkook.

The younger man still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t said a word. But the tension in his shoulders was gone, the rigid line of his jaw softened. His gloves hung loosely at his sides, and for the first time since Jimin left, there was a faint — almost invisible — flicker of peace in his expression.

Namjoon didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

“Alright, alright — enough hugging!” Namjoon’s voice boomed across the gym, half stern, half amused. He clapped his hands loudly, the sound echoing against the walls. “Back to training, all of you!”

The chorus of groans was immediate.

“Aww, come on, coach—”

“But Doc just came back—”

“Can’t we celebrate a little longer?”

Namjoon raised a brow, crossing his arms with mock authority. “We’ll celebrate after you can beat Jungkook in a sparring match.”

The room went dead silent.

Several heads turned toward the younger fighter who is now working on the bag, his expression as unreadable as ever. Hoseok muttered a curse under his breath. Another athlete groaned dramatically.

“Guess we’re never celebrating, then,” one of them mumbled, earning a few chuckles.

“Stop whining and move!” Namjoon barked, though his grin betrayed his amusement. The team scattered back to their stations, the familiar sounds of gloves hitting pads and sneakers squeaking filling the air once more.

With the noise returning to normal, Namjoon turned his attention back to Jimin, who was still catching his breath near the entrance. There was something about the way the younger man stood — shoulders squared but hands fiddling nervously at his sides — that tugged at Namjoon’s chest. Determined but still unsure. Like a soldier stepping back into battle after a long break.

He walked toward him, his smile softening. “Glad you chose to come back, Doc.”

Jimin lifted his head, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I won’t give up, hyung,” he said, voice steady despite the slight tremor of nerves beneath it. “Not because you… paid me a lot,” he added quickly, cheeks coloring faintly. “But because I know I can still do it.”

Namjoon’s chest warmed. That — that right there — was why he had hoped Jimin would return. Not because they needed a trainer. But because Jimin needed to believe in himself again.

Jimin’s gaze drifted past Namjoon then, over to the far side of the gym where Jungkook stood. The younger man wasn’t slamming the bag anymore. His punches were slower now, more controlled, his movements deliberate and almost… relaxed. He wasn’t looking their way, but Jimin’s eyes lingered on him anyway.

“I’ll make him believe I can do it,” Jimin murmured, almost to himself. “I won’t give up.”

Namjoon’s grin widened. “Atta boy, Doc.”

Without warning, Namjoon slung an arm around Jimin’s shoulders, steering him gently across the floor. “Come on,” he said. “If you’re really back, then we’ve got work to do.”

They walked together toward the center of the gym, the energy shifting subtly around them as they approached Jungkook’s training space. The rhythmic thud of gloves against leather slowed, then stopped entirely as Jungkook sensed their presence. But he didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just reset his stance and began another round of clean, precise strikes — each one strong enough to make the heavy bag sway but not enough to betray what he was feeling inside.

Namjoon stopped just short of the ring, hands sliding into his pockets as he looked between Jimin and Jungkook.

“I need you here, Jimin ssi,” he said plainly, his voice carrying the weight of both trust and expectation. “We can’t have the champ risking an injury before Osaka. I want to make sure he’s in peak condition — and you’re the only one I trust to make that happen.”

Jimin nodded quickly. “Yes, coach.”

“Good,” Namjoon continued. “Which brings us to the next thing.” He clapped his hands once, rubbing them together like he was about to discuss something exciting. “Osaka. We’re about few days out, and I need to start finalizing flights and accommodations. So…” He turned toward Jimin with an expectant smile. “I’m going to need your passport so we can get your ticket sorted.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Umm…” Jimin’s voice dropped, soft and hesitant. “I… don’t have a passport, coach.”

Namjoon blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t?”

Jimin’s ears turned pink almost instantly. He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact as a sheepish smile crept across his face. “I’ve never… gone abroad before. I didn’t think I ever would, so I never applied for one.”

There was a sound then — not quite a laugh, more like a sharp puff of air through the nose. A single, suppressed sound that broke the rhythm of the room.

Both Namjoon and Jimin turned.

Jungkook was still facing the punching bag, but his lips were curved — just slightly — in the ghost of a smirk. He didn’t look their way, but the amusement in his eyes was obvious.

Namjoon narrowed his gaze. “Yah,” he said, grabbing the towel slung over his shoulder and tossing it in Jungkook’s direction. It hit him square in the back. “Stop eavesdropping and focus on that punching bag.”

The younger man let the towel fall to the floor without comment, but there was a faint glimmer of mischief still tugging at his mouth as he resumed his strikes — lighter now, almost playful.

Namjoon turned back to Jimin, his expression softening immediately. “Don’t worry about it,” he said firmly. “We’ve got you. We’ll help with the application. It’s about time you get a passport anyway — Japan’s just the start.”

Jimin swallowed hard, his heart skipping. “Thank you, hyung,” he murmured, the embarrassment still lingering but softened by Namjoon’s reassurance. “I’m sorry. I should’ve prepared…”

Namjoon chuckled, patting his shoulder. “Prepared? Jimin, few days ago I wasn’t even sure you’d come back after your first day with us. A passport’s the least of my worries.”

That pulled a shy laugh from Jimin, and Namjoon’s smile grew at the sound. It had been too long since he’d heard that.

“Just think of it this way,” he said, lowering his voice slightly. “You’re not just here to help him.” He nodded toward Jungkook, who was still pretending not to listen. “You’re part of this team now. And teams grow together. So we’ll handle this one step at a time.”

Jimin’s chest felt warm — heavier than it had in a long while, but in a comforting way. The embarrassment was still there, yes, but it was wrapped now in something softer: gratitude. Hope. The tiny, fragile spark of excitement that maybe — just maybe — this new chapter of his life could hold more than he’d dared to imagine.

His eyes flicked once more toward Jungkook. The fighter’s movements were still precise and strong, but the harshness from earlier was gone. His punches weren’t angry anymore. They were measured. Controlled. Like someone whose storm had passed — or at least, quieted.

And though Jungkook didn’t glance his way even once, Jimin’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t quite name.

He would prove himself.

Not just as a trainer. Not just as someone who could keep up.

But as someone worth believing in.

Namjoon gave his shoulder one last firm pat. “Come on, Doc. Let’s start planning this properly. We’ve got Osaka ahead of us.”

Jimin nodded, exhaling a breath that felt both heavier and lighter all at once. “Yes, coach.”

---

---

The sharp snap of gloves against gloves echoed through the gym, each collision followed by the soft scuff of sneakers pivoting across the mat. The sparring ring was alive with motion — Jungkook’s body cutting through the air like a coil released, Namjoon’s measured defenses and counterstrikes pushing him just enough to make him work.

Jimin stood by the ropes with his notebook in hand, the tip of his pen hovering just above the page as his eyes followed every movement.

“Right shoulder’s dropping again,” Namjoon said, circling Jungkook with a trainer’s eye. “Tuck it closer to your chin or you’re leaving your jaw open. Snap your hips to the side for better and bolder kick. Don't hesitate”

Jungkook grunted in acknowledgment, shifting back on his feet and correcting his stance. Jimin’s pen moved across the paper immediately:

Foot placement stable. Heel-to-toe transition smooth. Core activation consistent during pivot,” he murmured under his breath as he wrote.

“Slight external rotation lag on left shoulder during jab — probable rotator cuff stiffness. Need to address posterior capsule mobility.”

“Better,” Namjoon called. “Now reset and try that sequence again. 

Jungkook obeyed, his movements fluid and precise. The muscles in his legs coiled and released with clean efficiency, and the air rippled with the sharp sound of contact. Even from where he stood, Jimin could see the subtle changes — the weight shift was tighter, the center of gravity steadier. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it was progress.

He looked up again. Jungkook slipped under a jab and countered with a left hook — powerful, but a fraction of a second late. The left shoulder again. It was subtle, something a casual eye would miss, but Jimin had been watching that shoulder for weeks now. Even when Jungkook was at his most controlled, the weakness showed itself in small ways — the slight delay, the barely-there hitch in his follow-through, the way his scapula didn’t quite retract smoothly.

“Compensatory recruitment from deltoid and upper trapezius,” Jimin noted. “May be overworking secondary muscles — risk of strain if not corrected.”

Namjoon barked an instruction from inside the ring.

“Guard up, tighter! Your follow-through’s leaking power again!”

Jungkook grunted in reply, his feet shifting. This time, when he threw the punch, Jimin could see the deliberate adjustment — the extra engagement from his obliques, the tighter kinetic chain. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. His muscle memory was adapting, slowly.

“Good,” Namjoon said, raising a glove to parry a jab. “But watch your distance. You’re closing in too early.”

Another note:

“Hip rotation improved — still slightly late on left-side initiation. Recommend dynamic hip flexor stretches pre-spar.”

“Knee stability consistent. No valgus collapse during pivot.”

“Breathing control good. Oxygen efficiency improved since last session.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked up briefly from his page. He had to admit — this was different from the usual sessions he’d witnessed before. Jungkook was focused, silent, and fiercely present. The raw, brooding energy from earlier in the week was still there, but it was channeled now, sharpened into discipline. It was the kind of change that made Jimin’s chest tighten with something almost like pride.

He shifted his stance, leaning slightly closer to the ring ropes as Namjoon slipped past a quick hook and countered with a light tap to Jungkook’s ribs.

“Too slow on the guard recovery,” Namjoon said. “You’re letting openings linger.”

> ✅ Guard recovery delay ~0.4s — potential exploitation point.

The scribbles filled the page — posture angles, center-line positioning, recovery times, possible conditioning focus. All of it would become part of a new program once he pieced them together later. But between the technical notes, smaller, more personal observations snuck in without permission.

> – Movement seems lighter today.

> – Less tension in the jaw.

> – Breath steadier. Maybe… calmer?

Jimin pressed the pen against the page, staring at those last words for a beat longer than necessary. Calmer. It was strange how noticeable it was — the way Jungkook’s shoulders weren’t locked in aggression anymore, the way his strikes weren’t fueled by anger but by precision. It was as if the storm that had been raging inside him had finally begun to settle, even just a little.

The sparring round ended with Namjoon calling, “Time!” and lowering his training gloves. Jungkook stepped back, chest heaving slightly, sweat dripping from his temples. He gave a short nod — the silent, familiar acknowledgment of a fighter absorbing feedback — before climbing out of the ring.

“Good work,” Namjoon said, clapping him on the back. “Review the footage later. There’s still polishing to do.”

Jungkook nodded again, expression unreadable, before heading toward the bench to grab his towel.

Jimin remained by the ropes, finishing the last of his notes — recommended mobility exercises, cooldown protocols, mental focus drills. He flipped the notebook closed with a small sense of satisfaction. It had been a productive session — not just for Jungkook, but for him too. For the first time since returning, he felt like he was *doing his job* again. Like he was part of the rhythm here.

He was packing up his notes when something suddenly landed on top of the folder with a soft thud.

It was small. Cylindrical. Silver and green.

A burn relief ointment tube.

Jimin blinked, momentarily confused, before looking up.

Across the gym, Jungkook was toweling off his hair, the damp strands sticking out messily as he ran the cloth through them. His duffel bag was already slung over one shoulder, and he was gathering the rest of his things with deliberate, unhurried movements.

He didn’t look in Jimin’s direction. Not once.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t break his rhythm.

But Jimin didn’t need him to.

There was no one else within arm’s reach of the ring. No one close enough to have tossed the small tube his way. And even if there had been, Jimin knew. He knew

His gaze fell back to his own hand — the one still wrapped in a thin layer of bandages, faintly visible beneath his sleeve. He could almost feel the memory of that day prickling against his skin: the scalding rush of boiling water, the sudden hiss of pain, the fear, the anger from Jungkooks eyes. 

And now… this.

His chest tightened as his fingers curled gently around the tube. It was nothing, really. A simple, small thing. Something anyone could have done without thinking twice. And yet, for Jimin, it was everything

It was the first unspoken gesture since everything had fallen apart.

A sign — tiny and clumsy and wordless — that Jungkook had noticed. That he cared.

Even if he couldn’t bring himself to show it outright.

Jimin’s lips parted, the corners of his mouth tugging upward before he even realized he was smiling. It wasn’t a broad, triumphant smile — just a small, soft one that reached his eyes, warm enough to thaw something that had been frozen in his chest for weeks.

His gaze followed Jungkook as the younger man slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit, still without a single glance back. The fear was still there, tucked deep in Jimin’s chest — fear of another fight, fear of failing again, fear of being unwanted. But above it, stronger and steadier, was something else.

Hope.

He tightened his grip on the ointment, the faintest laugh slipping out under his breath as he whispered to no one in particular.

“Thank you.”

The gym door swung shut behind Jungkook a second later, the sound soft but heavy — not an ending this time, but something that felt like a beginning.

---

-

Chapter Text

The days slipped by quietly — not uneventfully, but without the chaos Jimin had once braced himself for.

Jungkook was… unchanged. Still the same cold, unbothered, sharp-edged storm he’d always been. The same glare when Jimin spoke too much during training. The same grunt of disapproval when a stretch didn’t hit the range he wanted. The same blank expression when Jimin called out adjustments during sparring.

But he never crossed the line again.

No threats. No scathing words. No walls closing in around Jimin’s throat.

And for now, that was enough.

It was a strange sort of peace — a fragile, uncomfortable one — but Jimin clung to it like a rope. The familiarity of Jungkook’s temper no longer scared him. He’d learned to navigate around the cold silences and one-word answers. If Jungkook glared, Jimin simply adjusted the plan. If he grunted, Jimin noted the dissatisfaction and recalibrated. They moved around each other like planets in orbit — never colliding, but never truly drifting apart.

The rest of the gym, though, was a different story.

Jimin had become part of the rhythm there. Hoseok often dragged him into mid-break conversations, Yoongi sometimes stayed behind after sessions to ask about rehab protocols, and the younger fighters loved listening to his simplified breakdowns of body mechanics. Even Namjoon — whose leadership usually felt intimidating — had warmed into something more like mentorship, always asking for Jimin’s opinion before finalizing training plans.

"Final look over on this plan, Jimin," 

Namjoon would normallysay, handing over a clipboard, a gesture that spoke volumes. The weight of his own identity—the fear of being discovered, the shame of his past—began to lift, replaced by the weight of competence. He was Park Jimin, PT and Strategist, and in this space, his past didn't define his value.

He was settling. He was breathing.

Breathing without that ever-present weight on his chest.

And for the first time in a long while, life outside the gym was settling too.

The overdue rent — paid.

The loan sharks — appeased, at least for now.

And the constant, gnawing fear of running out of money — quieted, if only temporarily.

---

The train hummed steadily beneath him as Busan’s cityscape spread wider outside the window. Jimin pressed his forehead gently against the cool glass and exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Two days. Just two days before they flew to Osaka. Two days before training intensified beyond anything they’d done so far.

And two days to spend where it mattered most.

“Next stop: Busan Central Station,” the overhead announcement echoed.

He closed his notebook — filled with scribbled observations and training plans — and slipped it into his bag. For once, he wasn’t here to be a physical therapist, a strategist, or a problem-solver. Today, he was just a grandson.

---

The hospital hadn’t changed. Same too-bright white lights, same faint scent of disinfectant clinging to the air, same soft shuffle of slippers down polished floors. It had always felt cold to him, clinical — but today, it didn’t feel suffocating. Today, it felt manageable.

“Ah, Mr. Park,” the receptionist greeted when he approached the counter. “You’re here for Mrs Haneul Park’s bill? You're arranging the quarterly payment?”

“The next two months,” Jimin corrected, bowing. He laid the stack of bank notes on the counter, a physical representation of his weeks of silent, grinding work. 

It took nearly fifteen minutes — countless signatures, receipts, and paperwork — but when he stepped away from the counter, the weight that usually crushed his chest felt just a little lighter. He was used to falling behind, to bargaining, to apologizing for being short. But this time, the balance wasn’t zero. This time, he was ahead.

He was still thinking about that when the nurse explained the changes to his grandmother’s treatment.

The words were clinical — “non-responsive,” “higher dosage,” “advanced therapy,” — but their meaning landed with the heaviness of bricks. The regular chemotherapy wasn’t working anymore. If they wanted to keep fighting, they’d need to try a more aggressive approach. More sessions. Higher doses. Higher cost.

The old panic crept up in his chest again, but he pushed it down. Not now. He’d already paid half of the new treatment plan upfront — enough to begin. Enough to give her a fighting chance.

He bowed deeply to the nurse. “Thank you. Please… take care of her.”

Then, with a deep breath, he turned toward the familiar hallway at the end of the ward.

---

“My little Minnie!”

The moment Jimin pushed the door open, the frail figure on the bed was already shifting, trying — and failing — to sit upright. He was across the room in two steps, gently pressing a hand to her shoulder before she could strain herself.

“Halmeoni, stay still,” he said, smiling despite the lump in his throat. “The doctor said no sudden movements, remember?”

“Oh, hush,” Haneul waved him off with a laugh that was still bright, still her, even through the rasp of age and illness. “I’m not made of glass, you know. Come here, let me see my favorite boy.”

He obeyed without argument, leaning down so she could cup his cheeks with hands that felt thinner now than they used to. Her skin was warm — always warm — even against the cool air of the hospital room.

“You’ve lost weight again,” she scolded softly, squinting at him. “Are they feeding you at that fancy job of yours? You look like a gust of wind could blow you away.”

Jimin chuckled. “I’m eating fine, Halmeoni. I’m actually eating more than before.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, unconvinced. “You’re lying to make me feel better.”

“I’m really not.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I even started cooking again. Kind of. Sometimes.”

That earned him a soft chuckle — the kind that always made his chest ache. “Ah, my Minnie cooking… The kitchen must be terrified.”

“Hey!” Jimin protested, laughing. “I’m not that bad anymore.”

The laughter faded into a comfortable silence as Jimin sat beside her bed, fingers unconsciously reaching for her hand. The IV line running along her wrist made his heart clench, but he squeezed her fingers gently anyway, grounding himself in the simple reality of being here.

“I paid for the next sessions,” he murmured after a while, his voice quieter now. “They said the treatment will change… higher dose, maybe more difficult, but… we’re going to try.”

Haneul’s smile softened. “You always worry too much.”

“I don’t.” He shook his head. “I should worry. That’s my job.”

“Your job is to live your life, Jimin,” she said, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’ve already done more for me than I could ever ask for. You don’t need to—”

“Don’t say that,” he cut in gently, his throat tightening. “Don’t. You’re my family. You’re everything.”

There was a long silence after that — not awkward, but full. Haneul’s eyes glistened as she looked at him, and Jimin blinked back his own tears, the weight of everything pressing softly against his ribs. All the sacrifices, all the long nights, the fear, the guilt — it all felt worth it in this room, in this small moment.

“So,” she said eventually, breaking the heaviness with a mischievous little smile, “tell me about your job. Is that senior of your what is his name again? Jan? is he still bullying my minnie mouse? the patientd handsome? Do they listen to you?”

"Jin" Jimin corrected. "And actually, I have a new job now. I'm.... a personal PT of a fighter Halmeoni under ine group of fighters."

Mrs Park claps by it. "Much better! Are they handsome?"

Jimin laughed, shaking his head. “Some of them, yes. Others… not so much.”

“Not so much?” Her brows rose. “That is a bummer. How about someone who doesn’t listen, anything?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, lips curling into a reluctant smile.  “He is... Stubborn. Complicated. But brilliant. And yes, he doesn’t listen.”

“And you think you can fix him?”

“It’s not about fixing,” Jimin insisted, maybe too quickly. “It’s about understanding. Giving him the path. He’s pushing himself so hard right now. He’s going to break.”

Haneul hummed knowingly, her eyes twinkling. “You always did like a challenge.”

“It’s not like that,” Jimin said quickly — too quickly.

“Of course not,” she teased, though her voice softened almost immediately. “Just… don’t lose yourself trying to fix someone else, okay?”

“I won’t,” he promised.

And sitting there, with her hand in his and the faint hum of hospital machinery around them, Jimin believed it. For the first time in months — maybe years — he believed that maybe, just maybe, things could turn out okay.

---

---

..

The city lights were a glittering, indifferent sprawl beneath him. From his floor-to-ceiling windows, the view from the penthouse was breathtaking, a testament to the ruthless perfection that defined Jeon Jungkook. He wasn’t looking at the view, though. He was looking at his own reflection—a chiseled study in cold control, superimposed over the electric chaos of Seoul.

He was sitting on a low leather sofa, the silence of the vast, minimalist space heavy and absolute. The only thing that broke the sharp lines of the décor was the silver tyrants ring he still wore—a cruel joke he played on himself.

Jungkook wasn't tired, exhaustion was an indulgence he rarely permitted himself, but his mind was running a circuit it couldn't complete. It kept looping back, not to the Osaka fight analysis, not to trainings but to the meticulous, frustrating presence of his new PT.

Park Jimin.

The name, stripped of the title, was just two syllables, yet it echoed with a persistent, unwanted clarity. He found himself cataloging Jimin’s efficiency, the subtle resilience that had cracked under Jungkook's intentional intimidation.

It was the way Jimin adjusted the straps of his gloves during training, the sudden, light pressure of his fingers that was gone before Jungkook could flinch. It was the constant, unbothered professionalism that met every grunt, every icy stare, every demanding silence. Jimin didn't cower, but he didn't challenge either; he simply recalibrated.

But the loop always snapped back to the same image: Jimin trembling trapped between him and the wall. His eyes looking directly at Jungkook tears behind it. 

"Get out,” Jungkook hissed, his voice a low, terrifying snarl. “You are incompetent. You are dangerous. You are a waste of my time. You are trying to sabotage me! You will quit, now, or I swear I will make sure you are gone before tomorrow. I warned you to stay out of my way!”

His words are sharp enough to make sure the PT will quit. 

He then remembered Namjoon's words. Was that necessary?”

Of course. He is useless. 

Namjoon’s voice, calm and cutting, wormed its way into the silence: "You think this is strength, Jungkook. But it’s not. It’s fear. And if you don’t figure out the difference, one day you’re going to wake up and find no one left standing in your corner"

Aren't they all already?

Jungkook flinched internally, a near-imperceptible tightening around his mouth. Namjoon, his friend and manager, was the only one who dared to voice it.

“I know what you’re doing."

"You want to prove he’s just like the others.'

What if he is.

The truth about why Jungkook seemed determined to alienate every person who got close to him.

It stemmed from the past, from the people who had raised him in the ring. His parents. The early trainers. They had seen him not as a son, or a person, but as a resource. A flawless, moneymaking machine whose emotions were weaknesses, whose loyalty was bought, and whose presence was conditional. They were there only to use him, to strip him down to his most profitable parts. And when the money slowed, they were gone.

His previous trainers and medical team 2 years ago. Who in a snap was able to sell their loyalty to the opposing team and chose to break him instead of help him. 

When Namjoon was still not his main coach.

"Its just a shoulder. no issue. "

"that just shoulder can mean you ruining his dreams as well"

"who cares? if you dont agree to it then dont get your share on the profit we gain from the opposing team. This is how our world works Namjoon ah. Profit. "

Jungkook unconciously touched his left shoulder as he closed his eyes before he opened it slowly. He looked back at his reflection, the cold certainty settling over him again.

Think about what kind of fighter you want to be,” he said over his shoulder. “Because right now, you’re not fighting your opponents—you’re fighting everyone who’s trying to help you"

What if I'm wrong?

the traitorous thought whispered.

What if he actually cares about the plan, about the work?

That in the moment Jungkook's star wavered, or the demands became too much, he would be gone, just like the others. The quiet, unnerving competence was just a better façade.

He crushed the thought ruthlessly. There were no exceptions.

He is Tyrant. The champion. He will keep it that way. He will prove to everyonr he can stay on top. That those who abandoned him. Those who used and left him will see it. 

He will crush them. 

One by one. 

Limbs by limbs. 

Coldness. 

Anger. 

Nothing else. 

And his only strategy regarding Park Jimin was to maintain the distance, to leverage the PT's skill, and to wait for the inevitable betrayal—the moment the PT finally gave up, broke down, or walked away. 

For now, he will treat him as how the other wished him to be treated. If he snaps, then he will be killed. Erased. just like those people who abandoned and left him. 

Chapter Text

The morning air in Osaka was cool — a crisp bite of late spring clinging to the wind that brushed against their faces the moment they stepped out of Kansai International Airport. The Ironclad team moved quietly, their black duffel bags slung over shoulders, the logo stitched neatly on their jackets catching faint sunlight. No one talked much. It wasn’t necessary. They had come here for one purpose only.

Jimin followed behind them, keeping close to Hoseok and the other athlete members. His hands were tucked inside his jacket pockets, a mix of nerves and focus pressing in his chest. It was his first time out of the country — and though the streets outside the terminal looked normal enough, everything still felt new, foreign, and fast.

Namjoon was already coordinating with the local promoter as Daeho checked their schedule on his tablet. Jungkook, on the other hand, walked wordlessly at the front, a duffel hanging off his shoulder, earphones plugged in. He didn’t glance back, not even when Hoseok was joking about the vending machines having better protein bars than their gym back home.

When the shuttle pulled up, Jungkook was the first to climb in, taking the seat near the window. The ride to the hotel was silent, except for the hum of the engine and Daeho's low voice explaining logistics.

“Two days of adjustment training, then we enter controlled cut mode,” he said. “Keep water high today and tomorrow. Meals prepped as usual. After that…” He didn’t finish — everyone knew the rest.

The training camp was not a gym; it was a self-contained fortress. Set amidst rolling, green hills far from the urban sprawl, the compound was enclosed by high walls, offering absolute privacy and security. It was a place designed for singular focus, a gilded cage built to hone a weapon.

The facility was immaculate: state-of-the-art training rooms, a full-sized Olympic pool, specialized nutrition kitchens, and spartan, yet luxurious, living quarters. There was a palpable sense of historical significance—champions had been forged within these walls for decades.

As they stepped out of the van, the air felt different—thinner, charged with the energy of preparation.

Namjoon immediately laid down the schedule: a light, restorative meal, followed by one day of mandatory, complete rest. No weights, no striking, no sparring. Just psychological decompression and physical preparation for the intense phase beginning the next morning.

"Jimin, your duties are minimal today," Namjoon instructed. "Supervise the meal to ensure optimal carb and protein loading, then you are officially off-duty until our first mobilization session tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. Rest. Meditate. Do whatever you need to do, but rest."

Jimin nodded, immensely relieved by the reprieve. He knew the purpose of the day was as much for the staff as the fighter. They needed to gather their strength for the grinding, high-demand schedule ahead.

After dinner—a precise, bland affair of grilled fish and steamed vegetables—Jimin retreated to his assigned room. It was minimalist, clean, and dominated by a large window overlooking the quiet, manicured grounds.

After dinner—a precise, bland affair of grilled fish and steamed vegetables—Jimin retreated to his assigned room. It was minimalist, clean, and dominated by a large window overlooking the quiet, manicured grounds.

He tried to distract himself. He called his grandmother, keeping his voice light and cheerful, assuring her he was safe and working well. He didn't mention Osaka, Jungkook, or the money. He kept the conversation strictly to home, comfort, and the weather.

He knew that tomorrow, the gloves would be off—literally and figuratively. The full, brutal intensity of fight preparation would begin, and Jungkook would be running on high-octane focus, pushing his body to the very brink of the injuries Jimin was being paid to prevent.

Jimin looked at the scar on his hand—a tiny, fading red mark from the hot water—and felt the tremor return. He needed to find his own anchor here, his own source of strength. He knew the answer wasn't in Namjoon’s protection or the money, but in his own unassailable professionalism. He had to be smarter, calmer, and more technically precise than Jungkook was volatile.

But Jimin also smiles. The ointment Jungkook gives -thrown to him actually work. The mark is fading faster than normal. He didnt even feel the pain moments after he use it. 

Jimin was about to take his notebook to write about his possible schedule for tomorrow when a knock was heard. As he opened the door, he sees Hoseok. Holding a beer in one hand, smiling. 

"The Tyrant is locked away. We can be mere mortals for a few hours," Hoseok declared, popping the cap off a large bottle of Sapporo with a practiced flourish. He handed one to Jimin, who accepted it with a relieved smile.

"Is this even allowed?" Jimin giggles. 

Hoseok only huff as he took Jimins arm to drag him to the common area. "Namjoon understood the necessity of a psychological release before the grueling final phase. The rule was simple: one night of "cheat" food and bonding, strictly moderated for the fighter and his corner. "

When Jimin and Hoseok arrived in the common area, the rest are there except Namjoon, Daeho and Jungkook.

There are large platters of crispy, perfectly fried Karaage, steaming bowls of instant ramen that smelled gloriously unhealthy, and several buckets filled with ice and imported Japanese beer.

"I need this," Jimin admitted, taking a long, grateful sip. The bitter, refreshing taste was an immediate balm to his frayed nerves. "Ah! that hits the spot!"

This earned a cheer and laugh from the other fighters. 

Yoongi, already relaxed, was meticulously arranging his Karaage pieces on a small plate. "I'm only having one beer. It's too much work to flush the toxins later," he muttered, though his eyes betrayed his contentment.

Minho, clapped Jimin on the shoulder, his expression warm. "This is important, Doc. You see the extreme discipline required here. But you also need the balance. You're part of the team, not just his physical therapist. Unwind."

"Plus Jungkook's not around so chill" one athlete commented and everyone laughs as Jimin looks around. "He won't be joining? How about the coaches?"

Hoseok gives Jimin another glass. "Jungkook never joined this kind of fun. Kid's boring whenever a fight is near. Coach Namjoon and Daeho are already sleeping. We are all practically free tonight"  he grins

"with limitations" Yoongi adds and Hoseok nods. "Yeah and that. "

--

The small gathering quickly descended into comfortable chaos. They turned on the gym's massive flat-screen, settling on a ridiculous Japanese variety show that required no comprehension to be hilarious.

Yoongi surprised them by being the instigator of an impromptu game of Truth or Dare, though his 'dares' were limited to doing ten fast push-ups.

"Hoseok-ah, truth or dare?" Yoongi asked, a lazy smirk on his face.

"Dare!" Hoseok shouted, already on his feet, his energy restored by the fried chicken.

"Sing your favorite K-Pop ballad while holding the longest plank possible."

Hoseok dropped into a perfect plank and belted out a surprisingly beautiful, off-key rendition of a dramatic pop song, ending only when his core finally gave out in a fit of gasping laughter.

Jimin found himself laughing harder than he had in weeks. The exhaustion was still there, but the fear had receded, replaced by genuine camaraderie. He watched the athletes, usually the strict kids, relax and enjoy the absurdity, completely letting down their guard.

Then the focus shifted to Jimin.

"Doc!, truth or dare?" Heejin one of the athletes asked, a playful challenge in his voice.

Jimin hesitated, feeling the combined weight of the three athletes' gazes. "Truth."

"What is the most annoying thing about Jeon Jungkook's physiology?" Heejin asked.

Jimin took a deliberate bite of Karaage, savoring the crunch before answering. "His rotational power is world-class, but his scapular stabilizers are criminally underdeveloped. It's like putting a Ferrari engine in a bicycle frame. The fact that he's convinced his power compensates for his structural weakness is infuriating."

The technical, clinical assessment drew impressed nods.

"Infuriating, yes," Yoongi agreed. "But also makes him who he is."

"ANOTHER ROUND!!" 

-----

The demanding phase of the Osaka training camp began precisely at 5:00 a.m. The first sound to pierce the quiet morning air of the secluded fortress was the shrill, insistent whistle of Namjoon.

Jimin, despite the brief respite of the previous night, felt the familiar tightening of anxiety. He quickly pulled on his training gear and joined the rest of the team gathered in the main courtyard. The athletes of Ironclad Apex Force stood ready—a mix of fighters and dedicated sparring partners.

The atmosphere was immediately serious, dominated by the upcoming tournament. Jungkook, now stripped of his traveler’s hoodie and in full training gear, stood separate, his gaze fixed on the distance. He was preparing for the Featherweight division fight.

Nearby, Hoseok bounced on the balls of his feet, his usually bright demeanor replaced by focused energy. He was slated for the Bantamweight division.

The Muay Thai specialists—Jaeha (Flyweight) and Ryeoshin—stood with their coach, Daeho, their movements precise and controlled even before the session began. The other athletes were there to support, train, and act as mirrors for the main fighters.

"Five miles," Namjoon's voice boomed, cutting through the silence. "Focus on your breathing. Conserve energy. Think about your rhythm. This is a warm-up, not a race. Yoongi, handle the hydration prep with Jimin. Move to positions."

Jungkook tossed his duffel to the side, already wrapping his hands while Hoseok stretched beside him, grinning.

“Featherweight’s got that killing look again,” Hoseok teased, leaning close with a mischievous smirk. “Should I run behind you today or ahead, champ?”

Jungkook didn’t look up. He just adjusted his wraps, slow and deliberate. “You better be ready, hyung.”

The tone was calm — too calm — and everyone nearby stilled for a half second. Hoseok’s grin faltered. Behind them, Minjae muttered under his breath, “Oh, we’re screwed.”

Yoongi looked up from his tablet. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Hoseok defended quickly, though even he knew the rule: teasing Jungkook before cardio meant suicide for everyone else.

Namjoon’s whistle broke the air. “Start the run. No complaints.”

Hoseok jogged backward for a few steps, calling out, “Don’t miss us too much, doc!”

Jimin raised a hand in mock salute, shaking his head.

He didn’t notice another Jungkook’s glance as he passed by—brief, sharp, then gone.

And just like that, they were off —the entire group moved out in a tight, disciplined formation, following a dirt track that wound through the surrounding green hills while Jimin stayed. 

Jungkook was, predictably, the pace-setter. He didn't sprint, but moved with a long, effortless stride that ate up the ground. Even at a controlled pace, his movement was a study in efficiency—every muscle firing precisely, wasting no energy.

Jimin watched him before they could go out of his sight, not as a threat, but as the human engineering problem he was there to solve. He watched for the subtle shifts in his stride, looking for the tell-tale sign of hip tightness, the slight over-extension of the right arm swing that signaled a compensatory pattern. No sign yet, Jimin noted. The night’s stretch and the mandatory rest worked.

Jungkook led the group, pace punishing from the first minute. Hoseok groaned but followed, along with the other MMA athletes, their synchronized strides echoing like a drumbeat.

--

When the joggers returned, the gym’s atmosphere changed. The door burst open with the sound of heavy breathing and footsteps slapping against the mat. Jungkook was the first inside — sweat dripping down his jawline, shirt clinging to his back. Hoseok stumbled in after him, gasping.

“Same old monster,” Hoseok muttered, huffing. “Doesn’t even know what ‘break’ means.”

Jungkook only grabbed his towel, wiping sweat from his neck before glancing in Jimin’s direction — a brief, unreadable look that made Jimin’s fingers still on the clipboard. Then he turned away, grabbing his water bottle.

Namjoon’s voice broke through the hum. “Good. Now warm down. Stretch, hydrate, and be ready for pad work in twenty. Hoseok, stop dying on my floor.”

Hoseok groaned, face still buried in his towel. “No promises.”

Jimin stepped closer with Yoongi, handing over the labeled bottles one by one. His movements were efficient — check pulse, check hydration, note observations. When he reached Jungkook, the fighter was sitting near the ring ropes, expression blank, breathing steady.

“Your Heart rate recovery’s quicker than expected. That’s good,” Jimin murmured, kneeling briefly to place the bottle beside him. 

Jungkook didn’t answer, but his hand brushed the bottle in acknowledgment. It was small, wordless, but enough.

Yoongi glanced at the two, arching an eyebrow at Jimin once they moved away. “Still giving you the silent treatment?”

Jimin shrugged. “He’s focused. It’s fine.”

But his voice was softer than usual.

--

The rest of the day dissolved into organized brutality. The athletes moved into high-intensity pad work and heavy bag drills.

Daeho, the Muay Thai coach, drove Jaeha and Ryeoshin through brutal rounds of clinching and knee strikes, the thwack of shins against pads echoing across the gym.

Meanwhile, Namjoon oversaw Hoseok and Jungkook. Hoseok, quick and agile, moved like a blur, perfecting his footwork.

Jungkook moved with controlled fury, driving explosive force into the heavy pads. Jimin, standing near Namjoon, watched with clinical detachment. Every strike was precise, but Jimin could still see the slight hitch in the left shoulder on the final extension of the kick—the micro-compensation that spoke of underlying weakness.

He focused on Jungkook’s form — the smooth rotation of his hip during a low kick, the alignment of his shoulders during a cross.

The precision was staggering. Jungkook moved like a metronome — everything calculated, efficient, honed through repetition. Yet there were cracks Jimin could see — subtle stiffness in his left shoulder, the slight hesitation when twisting fully through the hook.

He scribbled quickly:

Left scapular rotation: 90% range. Limited by fatigue. Maintain massage protocol, avoid aggressive compression.

Namjoon’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Doc, what’s your read?”

Jimin straightened. “Minor shoulder stiffness, Coach. Nothing serious, but I’ll check after cooldown.”

Namjoon nodded approvingly. “Good eye. Keep monitoring.” Then he moved to start the sparring with Jungkook with him this time as he asked Hoseok to rest for the meantime.  

From the corner of his eye, Jimin caught Jungkook looking his way when Hoseok sits beside him drinking a bottled water huffing from the intense workout— not with hostility, but something harder to define. Maybe irritation. Maybe curiosity. It was brief, gone before he could even pretend he hadn’t noticed. So Jimin looks at his notes. Pretending he is reading.

He lifted his eyes again—this time catching the subtle rotation of Jungkook’s left shoulder during a high-kick drill. It was almost invisible, the way he slightly favored the right side on descent. Most people wouldn’t see it. Jimin did.

He wrote faster.

Residual tension. Possible delayed strain. Observe after sparring.

“Damn, you’re serious with those notes.” Hoseok said opening another sports drink. “You write like you’re solving a crime.”

Jimin chuckled softly. “Injuries are like that. They always leave clues before they happen.”

Hoseok whistled low. “Remind me not to mess around when you’re watching.”

Jimin smiled again but didn’t answer. His gaze returned to Jungkook, who was now sparring with Namjoon—gloves on, movements sharp, quick, and unnervingly precise.

Namjoon didn’t hold back, either. His jabs were clean, his footwork measured, but Jungkook’s response was faster every time. Their exchange was steady at first, then picked up rhythm—thuds of gloves meeting pads, air cutting from the force of a kick.

“Nice. Keep your guard higher,” Namjoon barked.

Jungkook’s eyes stayed locked, breath even. “I am.”

“Don’t argue. Just do it. Show me a punch and kick combination”

A grunt. Then Jungkook shifted, stance lower, shoulder rolling with the next punch. Jimin’s pen paused. The adjustment was good—fluid. Almost too smooth for someone who once refused any kind of correction.

Namjoon pushed the drills harder — reaction sets, speed kicks, body blows. Jungkook moved with an intensity that drew every eye. Every strike hit clean, every pivot precise. The sound of his gloves echoed through the room, sharp and rhythmic.

Jimin couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just physical power — it was control, discipline. The kind that came from years of doing something until it became part of your pulse. And yet, beneath that strength, Jimin still noticed it — the faint hitch in the left shoulder each time Jungkook threw a punch too high, the microsecond delay on recoil.

The sparring ended with Namjoon’s final tap on Jungkook’s glove. “Good. That’s enough for now.”

Jungkook stepped back, sweat dripping down his jawline, chest heaving. He nodded once, wordless, and turned away. Namjoon clapped his shoulder lightly.

“Go cool down,” the coach said. “You’re keeping your form better. Don’t push it too far yet. Weight cut starts soon. Doc, You can start with you recovery check up for Jungkook in five. Hoseok, come up here. You are next.”

A faint nod. Jungkook didn’t look at anyone as he walked past the benches. He dropped his grappling gloves, grabbed his water bottle, and towel-dried his hair. The air around him was calm—professional, impersonal.

--

The therapy room smelled faintly of menthol and liniment — clean, quiet, and just slightly sterile. The walls were painted pale gray, the kind that muted even the sound of breath. Jimin moved around the space with practiced ease, setting out the essentials: towel, elastic band, gel, notes.

He had done this dozens of times before, but it still felt different when the door shut behind him and he realized it would just be the two of them.

His fingers hesitated on the clipboard. The silence pressed close, not uncomfortable yet, just weighted — like standing near a flame that hadn’t decided whether to warm or burn.

He tried not to think of the last time they were this close — that awful moment when hot water spilled over his skin, Jungkook’s anger sharp and wordless, the sting of pain that felt less physical than personal.

He pushed the memory away, burying it under the steadiness of his job.

A few minutes passed before he heard footsteps.

Jungkook entered without knocking — sweat still clinging to his neck and body. His breathing was steady now, but his skin still radiated heat from training. He rolled his left shoulder in a slow, deliberate circle, testing it.

Jimin straightened automatically. “You can sit.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He reached for the towel on the chair, wiped his face once, then cracked his neck and shoulder with a low, precise movement before finally lowering himself onto the treatment bed.

“Is it painful?” Jimin asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. “Just irritable,” he said shortly, tone cool but not sharp. Then, without another word, he leaned back and stretched out on the table, eyes closing as if signaling he was done with conversation.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of Jimin’s gloves. He studied Jungkook’s posture — shoulders slightly elevated, left arm resting closer to the body, chest rising evenly

He began the assessment quietly, pressing the tips of his fingers along the deltoid and pectoral connection, mapping out the lines of tension. The muscle felt tight — not in injury, but in overuse. Jimin’s touch was gentle, controlled.

“Lift your arm for me,” he said softly.

Jungkook obeyed without opening his eyes. His movement was fluid until the midpoint — that familiar flicker of resistance near the top.

“There,” Jimin murmured, more to himself. “Same point as before.”

“Hmm.” Jungkook’s response was barely audible, a hum in his throat.

Jimin pressed a little deeper, searching for the knot beneath the muscle fibers. Jungkook’s body tensed briefly before exhaling. Jimin felt the shift — the small surrender of muscle giving way to pressure.

“You’ve been compensating,” Jimin said quietly, noting it on his pad. “You adjust your stance to protect this side.”

“That’s my job,” Jungkook replied, still with his eyes closed. His voice was low, calm, but it carried a faint edge — not defensive, just matter-of-fact.

Jimin glanced up at him for a moment. The younger man’s face was unreadable — sweat-damp hair falling over his forehead, jaw set but relaxed.

“That’s not sustainable,” Jimin said. “If you keep forcing that shoulder under fatigue, it might—”

“It won’t.” Jungkook’s eyes opened this time, dark and steady, cutting through the space between them. “I know my limits.”

Jimin met the gaze for half a second longer than he meant to. Then he looked away, exhaling quietly. “I’m just saying it’s better not to test them.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. His eyelids lowered again, but the silence between them didn’t feel as cold now — more like a truce.

Jimin continued the treatment, kneading slowly along the shoulder line, using careful rotations to ease the joint’s stiffness. Each time he shifted his angle, Jungkook’s breath would deepen slightly, the taut rhythm of his body softening under touch.

He worked in silence — the kind that didn’t demand words.

When he was done, Jimin stepped back and removed his gloves. “You’ll feel lighter in a few hours."

Jimin waited, then added softly, “I’ll apply a light compress after dinner. It’ll help with the inflammation.”

Jungkook finally opened his eyes again, meeting his briefly. “Alright.”

That was all. No thanks, no comment — just that one word, quiet but genuine enough to make Jimin’s chest feel strangely light.

As Jungkook sat up, pulling on his hoodie, Jimin caught the faint scent of the menthol cream on his skin mixing with sweat and detergent. For someone who rarely spoke, Jungkook’s presence filled the room completely.

When the door clicked shut behind him, Jimin realized his shoulders had been tense the entire time. He exhaled, pressing a palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat settle.

He looked at the empty table, the faint outline of where Jungkook’s head had rested.

It shouldn’t have felt like a step forward — but somehow, it did.

Chapter Text

The next few days blurred into the kind of rhythm only fighters knew. Morning, sweat. Noon, drills. Night, exhaustion that didn’t quite reach sleep.

For Ironclad, Osaka had always been familiar — their second home before big fights — but for Jimin, the place felt like a ritual ground. The scent of disinfectant and mats, the clatter of gloves, the rhythmic slap of kicks against pads — everything pulsed with purpose.

He learned to move within the flow of their world.

By six every morning, the fighters were out in the cold air, running along Nakanoshima Park’s river path — grey sky, breath steaming, sneakers hitting pavement in near-perfect unison. Jungkook led the pack. Hoseok followed, his grin fading the longer they ran. Jaeha and Ryeoshin kept a steady pace behind, their Muay Thai discipline visible even in a jog. The other athletes just few seconds behind. 

Namjoon and Daeho trailed at the back, speaking in low tones, stopwatch in hand.

Jimin stayed with the support team, carrying towels, bottled water, electrolyte packs. He wasn’t running, but he could feel his pulse rising with them — the heavy rhythm of their discipline.

By the time they returned to the gym, everyone was drenched. Training didn’t stop. It shifted.

Morning sessions flowed into striking drills — light but sharp. Hoseok’s mitts cracked against Namjoon’s focus pads, sweat flicking through the air with every cross. Jaeha and Ryeoshin practiced elbows and sweeps under Daeho’s sharp voice. Jungkook trained in silence. Every move precise, mechanical.

He barely spoke, only nodded when Namjoon corrected his posture. His hits weren’t fueled by rage anymore — just control.

Still, when Jimin watched him, he could sense the restraint under the precision — like a storm coiled tightly in his chest.

After every round, Jimin was there with the towel and his clipboard. He checked vitals, range of motion, hydration levels. Jungkook barely acknowledged him except for curt nods, but he didn’t ignore him either. That, for Jimin, was progress.

The days rolled forward like that — a loop of repetition and endurance.

By midweek, they began technical sparring. The gym turned louder, bodies colliding, gloves cracking against ribs and pads. Jungkook sparred with Yoongi and another athlete. His rhythm was clean, fast, reactive. Even Namjoon couldn’t hide the faint pride in his eyes.

But between rounds, Jimin noticed things no one else seemed to — the way Jungkook’s left arm stiffened slightly after a long hook, how he subtly shifted weight off his injured shoulder when parrying. Small signs, invisible unless you were looking for them.

Jimin noted everything. Every micro-tremor, every subtle favoring. His notes filled pages — angles, muscle fatigue, temperature readings. He was learning Jungkook’s body like a map.

By the time evening came, the gym would fall into quiet recovery mode.

The air smelled of muscle rubs and steamed vegetables. The fighters sat scattered across the room, eating measured portions — plain chicken, rice, greens. No sodium now. No oil. Hoseok groaned dramatically over his food; Jaeha just shot him a glare and kept eating.

Jungkook didn’t say a word. He ate in silence, headphones on, the quiet authority of someone whose entire body knew what was coming.

Jimin would glance at him sometimes during dinner, then quickly look away — not wanting to seem too attentive, but unable not to be.

When the last plate was cleared, Namjoon clapped his hands together. “Alright. Tomorrow’s pre-cut prep. You all know the routine. I want you at 75 to 80 percent target weight by tomorrow night.”

The room fell into stillness.

It wasn’t new — they’d done this before. But the moment that phrase was said, everything changed. Training was one thing; cutting was another. It meant pain, precision, and a silent war with your own body.

“Jimin,” Namjoon said, “I’ll need your numbers tomorrow. We have enough medical personnel on the team but I need your report as well for the hydration index, body fat readings, blood pressure for each fighter before and after every session. Especially Jungkook.”

“Yes, coach,” Jimin replied, already writing it down.

Namjoon nodded, then turned to the athletes. “Sleep early. Eat what’s on the list and nothing else. We start at dawn.”

No one argued. They all knew what came next.

The next morning, the tone of the camp changed.

Silence replaced banter. Meals were smaller — rice portions cut, water measured to the milliliter. Jimin watched the transition happen in real time, the energy shifting from team camaraderie to inward survival.

He started with Hoseok — checking vitals, noting dehydration starting to set in. Hoseok still smiled, though thinner now, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I’m fine, doc. You’ll see.  Jungkook can’t be the only one showing off.”

Jimin smiled faintly, “You’ll both regret that tomorrow.”

Next was Jaeha and Ryeoshin — both calm, laser-focused. Their discipline reminded Jimin of soldiers. Controlled breathing, minimal words.

Then Jungkook.

He was the last to step onto the scale. The morning light hit his shoulders, every muscle defined under the thin shirt. 68.4 kilograms.

Namjoon noted it. “You’ve got 3.9 to go. Manageable.”

Jungkook nodded once, no reaction. His eyes didn’t even blink at the number.

Jimin recorded it quietly. He looked at Jungkook’s hydration reading and felt his stomach tighten — still safe, but the margins were closing fast.

Training resumed, but this time it wasn’t about strength or skill. It was control.

They ran in sauna suits under the rising sun, breath sharp and heavy. Hoseok cursed under his breath. Jaeha’s lips cracked by noon. Ryeoshin’s skin glistened like polished glass. And Jungkook — he didn’t slow down.

Namjoon yelled for pace; Jungkook pushed harder. His T-shirt clung to him, soaked through, every movement mechanical precision.

By afternoon, Jimin’s readings told the truth — sodium down, hydration dropping, body temperature climbing.

He approached Jungkook with the monitor. “You need to slow down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re cutting too fast. Your readings—”

“I said I’m fine,” Jungkook repeated, without raising his voice. But the firmness in his tone made Jimin pause.

Namjoon looked between them but didn’t intervene. “Monitor him closely, Jimin. If he drops too quick, pull him out for a cooldown. I’ll handle him after.”

“Yes, coach.”

So Jimin did — quietly watching, logging, handing towels, measuring recovery times. He wanted to say more, but he knew better.

Evening arrived, and the fighters sat around again, this time quieter. Hoseok’s usual grin had vanished. Ryeoshin looked pale. Jungkook was still alert — too alert, the kind of energy that comes from pushing past the body’s signal to stop.

Jimin placed a small electrolyte pack by his tray without a word. Jungkook’s eyes flicked to it, then to him, but he said nothing. He didn’t reject it either.

By the time lights went out, Jimin sat alone in his room, reviewing data under the lamp’s glow. His notebook was full of numbers, but all he could think about was the look in Jungkook’s eyes — focused, sharp, relentless.

The pre–weight cut phase had begun.

And this was the part no one could help him with.

---

The gym was quieter than usual next morning. Even the air seemed thicker, heavier — as though it knew what day it was.

Jimin woke before his alarm. The clock read 5:42 a.m., but his mind was already alert. The final 24 hours had begun.

The last twenty-four hours before the official weigh-in were universally known as the most brutal phase of a fighter’s camp. It was a purely physiological and psychological battle, a desperate, final push to shed the last, stubborn kilograms required to hit the contracted weight limit.

Downstairs, the athletes were gathering one by one. There was none of the usual chatter, no teasing, no laughter. Just the sound of fabric rustling and bare feet against the mats. The smell of sweat and eucalyptus liniment had become a kind of background weather — something you lived inside.

Namjoon and Daeho stood by the whiteboard near the entrance, checking notes, nodding occasionally. They didn’t have to say much. Every athlete knew their task today wasn’t about learning. It was about control — the final test of their own bodies.

Jungkook sat near the far end of the mat, tying the straps of his gloves with mechanical precision. His expression hadn’t changed much in days — calm, detached, entirely inward. Hoseok, usually the one to fill the silence, only glanced up at him once before looking back down, jaw clenched.

When Namjoon finally spoke, his voice was even, calm, but the tension underneath was unmistakable.

“Today’s goal is maintenance,” he said. “Minimal talk. Listen to your body. If you feel anything off, report to the medical team immediately.”

A few nods. Nothing else.

Jimin was acutely aware of the danger. The fighters, already depleted from weeks of intense training and caloric management, were now entirely fasting—no food, minimal sips of water. Their bodies were running on fumes, and their minds were pushed to the edge of delirium.

Then the day began.

The fighters moved through drills like ghosts — focused, efficient, quiet. The thud of gloves on pads echoed against the walls, each sound sharper than usual. Jimin could feel the difference in their rhythm. They were slower, not from lack of skill, but from deliberate pacing. Every ounce of energy was accounted for.

Jimin stood in the dimly lit training room, watching the spectacle. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with humidity and the metallic scent of sweat. The fighters were clad in several layers, most notably the heavy sweat suits and thick plastic wraps designed to force every last milliliter of water out of their pores.

Every now and then, he would go from one athlete to another, checking vitals. Pulse rate, oxygen levels, hydration readings. He and the other medical staff would exchange information making sure everyone is in line woth the reports. The numbers told a story that words didn’t have to. Everyone was dipping — safely for now, but undeniably low.

Jaeha’s lips were pale, movements rigid with control. Ryeoshin’s shoulders twitched faintly with fatigue as she practiced kicks, but her eyes were razor-focused. Hoseok’s breathing was louder than it should’ve been; his usual grin had disappeared.

And Jungkook —

He was still steady. Not unscathed, not comfortable — but steady. His movements were smaller now, tighter, conserving power. Every breath was measured, drawn from somewhere deeper than lungs.

Namjoon called for breaks at fixed intervals, and Jimin used every minute to assess. He pressed fingers against pulse points, checked muscle tone, examined sweat patterns, logged everything.

“Any dizziness?” he asked Hoseok quietly.

Hoseok shook his head but didn’t look up. His shirt was plastered to his skin, chest heaving.

“Just tired.”

Jimin noted it. “Slow your pace after the next set.”

Hoseok gave a half-smile. “Don't worry doc. Its normal for us. Fighter's life. Plus I can't let Jungkook show off on his own. I got to show Jungkook wasn't the only fighter of the year" 

Across the room, Jungkook caught the words but didn’t respond. He just adjusted his wraps and went back to shadowboxing, his reflection in the mirror expressionless.

The hours bled together.

By late morning, the gym had grown hot — the kind of heat that sat on your skin and refused to leave. The air was thick with humidity and the faint metallic taste of sweat.

Namjoon gave short, clipped instructions, voice echoing against the mat. Daeho monitored the Muay Thai fighters in silence, only speaking to correct form.

The rest of the staff moved with clinical precision, like nurses in a triage ward.

Jimin found himself falling into rhythm — wipe, measure, record, encourage. Repeat. His shirt clung to his back, the clipboard damp at the edges. But his focus stayed sharp.

He knew what this day meant.

He’d read about it, watched documentaries, seen fighters go through it on screens — but witnessing it in person was different. It wasn’t cinematic. It was silent and human and raw.

When he looked at Jungkook, he saw something beyond pain. It was commitment stripped of emotion — a body turned into a machine with a single directive: reach the number.

By noon, Namjoon called it.

“Alright. Enough for now. Cool down, check your readings, then rest for two hours. We’ll do another weigh-in at fifteen-hundred.”

Jimin exhaled, wiping his forehead as he followed the team into the adjoining recovery room.

The walls were quiet, save for the sound of controlled breathing. Some of the athletes lay flat on mats, eyes closed. Hoseok leaned against the wall, head tilted back, sweat still trickling down his neck.

Jimin crouched beside him. “Heart rate’s high.”

“I know.” Hoseok opened one eye. “Feels like I’ve been running for a week straight.”

“You kind of have.”

That drew the smallest laugh — a dry, breathless one — before Hoseok closed his eyes again.

Jimin moved next to Jungkook, who was seated against the far wall, forearms resting on his knees, head down. His chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm.

“Your vitals?” Jimin asked.

“Stable,” Jungkook said, eyes still closed.

Jimin didn’t argue. He took the readings himself — they were, technically, stable. Lower than he liked, but not critical.

“You’re on track,” Jimin said softly.

A slight nod. That was all.

There was nothing more to say.

The afternoon devolved into an agonizing waiting game. The athletes paced, huddled under blankets, or lay on the mats, periodically stepping onto the scale for a quick, private check.

Jimin noted the physiological battle: their cognitive function was compromised, their muscles twitched with spasms, and their irritability was at a peak. One young fighter, struggling to hit the mark, snapped at a coach for breathing too loudly.

Jungkook, however, maintained a dangerous silence. His body was suffering intensely, and the forced stillness was torturing him more than any physical exertion.

Jimin could only admire the athletes' dedication. This wasn't training; it was asceticism. They were trading temporary misery for a professional necessity. He saw each athletes pushing through light shadowboxing drills, their movements slow and labored, their faces drawn and pale. They moved in silence, conserving every breath.

As evening approached, the team gathered in the main gymnasium for the final team scale. This was the last check before they transitioned to the official commission weigh-in venue.

Namjoon stood ready, his face etched with worry. The atmosphere was thick with anxiety.

One by one, all athletes did it. They stripped down, stepped onto the digital scale, and Namjoon quickly recorded the number.

Each time, the tension in the room was the same — the stillness of people waiting to see if their work had been enough.

“Good,” Namjoon murmured after Hoseok. “Perfect

Each successful hit was met with a quiet nod of approval, a shared relief that transcended words.

Then came Jungkook.

He stepped onto the platform in silence, bare feet steady. The digital numbers blinked to life, flickering for a moment before settling.

Namjoon leaned closer. His eyes softened just slightly. “Sixty-six point one.”

Target reached.

A quiet exhale rippled through the room. Hoseok grinned weakly from the side, muttering something like, “Of course he did.”

Jimin just stood there, staring at the number. The logical part of his mind tallied the metrics — the drop, the hydration deficit, the safe margin. Everything was within threshold. But the human part of him could only think: he really did it.

Jungkook stepped down, expression unchanged. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t smile. Just grabbed the towel Jimin offered and wiped his neck.

"We just need to maintain it till the official scaling in a few hours," Namjoon reminded them, his voice softer now. "No water, no food until the commission scale verifies it. Then, we start the rehydration protocol. Go back to your rooms. Absolute rest."

“Got it,” Jungkook said quietly.

The rest of the team dispersed to cool down, stretch, or sit in silence. Jimin stayed behind to record data, his hands still slightly trembling — not from fear, but from the weight of witnessing what he just had.

They had all reached their marks. Every single one.

Now all they had to do was hold the line.

---

Jimin is walking through the room with his clipboard, doing rounds. His steps were light, his movements automatic now — the trained reflexes of a professional keeping fragile systems in line.

When he reached Jungkook’s corner, he paused. The door is slightly opened allowing him to take a peek.

Jungkook wasn’t sleeping. He sat on the floor, back to the wall, sweat suit still zipped up to the neck. His eyes were unfocused, half-distant. The air around him shimmered faintly from body heat.

“Hey,” Jimin said quietly, kneeling beside him. “You should lie down.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He was breathing slow, deliberate, like counting seconds.

“You’ll burn more energy upright,” Jimin continued softly. “Coach said—”

“I know,” Jungkook cut in. His voice was calm but dry. “I’ll rest soon.”

Jimin studied him for a moment, resisting the urge to push further. Then he set his clipboard down and reached for Jungkook’s shoulder — carefully, like he was touching something fragile.

The skin under his palm was burning. The shoulder, though healed from the old injury, still twitched faintly when pressed.

“You shouldn’t strain this much,” Jimin murmured.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

For a second, the faintest smile ghosted Jungkook’s lips — not amusement, not arrogance. Just something that looked like understanding.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he said quietly.

“Neither do you.”

That silenced them both. The air between them felt heavy, humid, filled with quiet respect neither wanted to name.

Jimin lowered his hand and stood. “Fifteen more minutes. Then rest. That’s an order from your PT.”

Jungkook didn’t answer, but when Jimin left the room, he saw from the corner of his eye that Jungkook finally slid down the wall, letting his body go still.

Chapter Text

The venue for the official weigh-in was a brightly lit, sterile conference room at a large Osaka hotel. Rows of cameras lined the barricades; the hum of microphones filled the air. Every surface gleamed under the white light — the scale, the banners of the organizations, the polished floor.

The atmosphere, however, was anything but calm. It was charged with tension, aggression, and the brittle energy of fighters who were starving, dehydrated, and seconds away from confirming the contract for their next battle.

Jimin had never seen anything like it.

He stood just behind Namjoon and the Ironclad fighters, clipboard pressed against his chest. Around them, athletes were stripped down to fight shorts, their bodies cut and honed, veins standing like ridges beneath skin.

It was more ritual than procedure — a display of months of pain condensed into a single number on a digital screen.

Namjoon stood like a sentinel beside the group, calm but unreadable. Beside him, Daeho quietly watched his Muay Thai athletes.

One by one, the undercard fighters made their weights. The process was tense but professional. The brief face-offs were generally contained—a few intense glares, minor posturing, and polite distance. The fighters successfully made weight, their staredowns ending in mutual, professional nods of intimidation.

The entire event, however, was merely prologue for the main event: the Tyrant, Jeon Jungkook, versus the challenger, Kaito "The Viper" Kimura.

When the announcer called, “Featherweight Division – Jungkook Jeon, representing Ironclad MMA,” the crowd erupted with whistles and flashes.

Jungkook stepped forward.

He moved with the cold precision of someone used to the spotlight but indifferent to it — gaze straight, expression flat. He wore his warm-up hoodie unzipped halfway, the Ironclad emblem catching the light as he walked.

Jimin could hear the faint click of camera shutters syncing with every step.

Jungkook stepped onto the scale removing his hoodie and showing off his hard earned body.  The digital display blinked once, twice, then locked on: 66.0 kg.

Perfect.

The officials nodded, murmured approval, and motioned for the face-off.

And then came the voice from the other side of the stage.

Featherweight division. The challenger. Kaito Kimura . The Viper swaggered forward — taller by a few inches, tan, with bleached hair and tattoos crawling down his arms. He smiled for the crowd, not for the cameras. The kind of smile that dared someone to hate him.

He hit the scale. 66.0 as well. Perfect symmetry.

The announcer gestured for both fighters to step to the center for photos.

Jimin felt it — the air change, the weight of the moment pressing against his ribs. Every camera in the room focused on those two men, bodies stripped down to the purest definition of will and restraint.

The two men stepped into the center of the stage for the intense man-to-man staredown.

Jungkook was statuesque, his dark eyes locked on Kimura, radiating lethal stillness. He was a wall of silent fury.

Kimura, however, was already in performance mode. He crowded Jungkook, leaning in until their chest were barely an inch apart.

Kaito's smile widened, his eyes glinting with something sharp and amused. Jungkook’s stare didn’t move. He stood perfectly still — not cold, not angry. Just… unshaken.

Kaito tilted his head, muttering something under his breath — something only Jungkook could hear. Whatever it was, Jimin saw the faintest movement in Jungkook’s jaw, like a muscle locking tight.

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave Kaito's. For a long second, the silence stretched — crowd noise thinning until only the sound of a camera clicking remained.

Then Kaito smirked and lifted his chin, mocking Jungkook’s height difference, pretending to wipe imaginary dust off Jungkook’s chest.

The crowd loved it — flashes burst like sparks, reporters leaning forward.

But Jungkook didn’t move. Not a breath. Not a flinch. Just the faint twitch of one eyebrow.

Jungkook smirked — small, sharp, and utterly calm.

That single movement flipped the tension. Kaito's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat, realizing he wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted.

He reached out and lightly tapped Jungkook’s chest, a deeply disrespectful gesture. “Twenty-five minutes of pain, Champion. That’s all you are. And tomorrow, I’m taking everything.”

Suddenly, Kaito smirked—a wide, venomous, delighted grin—and then slowly, deliberately, he raised a middle finger right into Jungkook’s face, holding it steady for the cameras. The gesture was pure provocation.

The crowd gasped. It was a massive escalation of trash-talk.

But Jungkook's smirk just widen. Clearly entertained by Kaito's attempts. 

Frustrated by his failure to trigger the Tyrant, Kaito quickly pivoted his attack toward the target that had always made the Champion vulnerable: his control and his team.

Kaito dropped his hand, and as the officials moved to separate them, he leaned in for one final, toxic whisper directed only at Jungkook.

“Heard about your new little pet therapist at the back,” Kaito murmured, his eyes flicking maliciously toward the corner where Jimin and Namjoon were standing. “The cute one, the nervous one. Was he your personal doctor? I bet he is better on my bed than he is on a massage table. Maybe I’ll ask him to fix my groin strain after I retire you tomorrow. I can probably pay him more than you can give. I heard that is how your previous team abandoned you right?"

The insult was calculated, homophobic, and designed to breach the wall of Jungkook's focus by targeting his personal team.

Jungkook’s face instantly darkened. The mask of indifference shattered. The silent, cold predator vanished, replaced by a volcanic rage.

Kaito didn't wait for the reaction. He extended his fist to slightly bump Jungkook’s shoulder one last time, making contact—and then, with a final act of utter contempt, he spit the gum he had been chewing into the air.

The wad of gum flew back, landing with a wet splat directly onto the barrier, just behind where Namjoon and Jimin were standing. The action was specifically aimed at Jungkook's support system.

That was the final trigger. The insult to his focus, the attack on his team, and the deliberate filth aimed at Namjoon and the nervous therapist.

Jungkook was instantly, violently pissed off.

He roared—a guttural, animal sound that silenced the entire room—and his fist was already up high, cocked, and ready to punch Kaito in the jaw.

Kaito, who had already turned to walk off stage, stopped, grinned widely, and raised his arms in a mock posture of surrender. He seemed to be delighted by it. After all, not everyone could trigger the Tyrant into losing control in public.

The stage immediately erupted into chaos. Officials rushed forward, but Namjoon was faster.

He surged past the barrier, his face contorted in alarm, and grabbed Jungkook’s raised arm and chest, simultaneously shouting. Namjoon intervened, pulling Jungkook backward with all his massive strength, twisting the Champion away from the opponent before the illegal punch could land.

“STOP IT! JUNGKOOK! NOT HERE! NOT NOW!” Namjoon yelled, wrestling the powerful, raging body of the Champion.

Jungkook fought Namjoon’s grip, his entire body convulsing with the need to strike. His eyes, burning with pure, focused hatred, were locked onto the swaggering Kaito.

Kaito just laughed—a dry, satisfied cackle—and bowed theatrically to the crowd. He had won the psychological round. He had forced the Champion to break his discipline and display his emotional vulnerability to the cameras.

Jimin, meanwhile, stood frozen, the disgusting wad of gum sticking to the barrier inches from his face, the vile insult echoing in his ears. He was terrified, but he forced himself to focus. Namjoon was struggling to control the fighter.

Before the situation could escalate, the officials have ended the face off and asked for both fighters to step down. 

When Jungkook finally turned, Namjoon released him. The younger fighter’s shoulders rose and fell with quiet control.

“You good?” Namjoon asked.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, eyes still fixed where the Viper had disappeared. “Yeah,” he said. “Ready to kill.”

“Good. Because tomorrow, you settle it where it matters.”

Jungkook didn’t answer — just picked up his towel and slung it over his shoulder, brushing past Jimin on the way down the steps.

The confrontation was over, but the message was clear: Kaito had found the Tyrant's emotional weakness, and tomorrow's fight was now dangerously personal.

Chapter Text

The air backstage in the Osaka arena was a charged mix of disinfectant, sweat, and adrenaline. The roar of the crowd was a distant, muffled tide. The initial undercard fights were underway, the sound of rhythmic thuds and the announcer's electric voice filtering into the private waiting room.

The room was bustling: managers adjusted equipment, coaches strategized in low, intense murmurs, and assistants ferried water and recovery drinks.

The Ironclad athletes gathered in their designated waiting room. Mats, towels, and ice packs littered the benches. Hoseok was pacing in circles, shaking out his arms, eyes sharp with focus. Jungkook sat quietly at the far corner, earbuds in, towel over his head. Yoongi leaned against the wall, calm as ever, scrolling through his phone while other Ironclad fighters were out watching the initial bouts live, giving Hoseok and Jungkook some space.

Namjoon stood in the center, checking schedules, communicating with organizers. Everything ran like a machine — sharp, disciplined, and serious.

And then, like someone flipped on a light switch—

The door burst open.

A breeze of perfume and camera-ready confidence swept in with him. Kim Taehyung filled the doorway — model posture, a grin like a headline, the kind of presence people noticed even half-asleep. He was exactly what the tabloids promised: impossibly put together, effortless charm, and a laugh that made the small room feel sunnier.

“Your day is now blessed,” he announced with a theatrical bow, voice bright in the cramped backstage space. “With my never-ending beauty and impeccable aura. Be grateful.”

Kim Taehyung strode in like he owned the world.

Hoseok’s face lit up like a stadium. “Taehyung!” he shouted, and leapt forward as if the idol had been expected all along. The others smiled and drifted toward him — people who were used to Taehyung turning up with a grin and a story. Jimin, who had only seen photos and late-night clips, watched quietly from the corner, trying to take everything in without being starstruck.

In an instant, the sterile, heavy atmosphere cracked. His voice, bright and musical, echoed across the concrete walls. He was in a long beige coat despite the heat, hair perfectly styled, glasses perched on his nose like a final accessory to chaos.

Hoseok blinked, then grinned wide. “You actually came, you crazy man!”

Taehyung raised his arms like a performer stepping onstage. “Miss your win while I’m in Japan? Never! My beauty cannot be confined to a runway alone. It must witness glory!”

“Glory?” Hoseok muttered dryly “You mean blood and sweat?”

“That’s art too, hyung!” Taehyung declared, clutching his chest dramatically. “Don’t ruin my poetic moment.”

He then came straight to Jungkook’s side, eyes alight. “I missed the show,” he said, teasing, “and I heard about your… outburst yesterday. You know, when the news came out that you nearly punched that Japanese trash-talker yesterday, I thought — ah yes, my sweet calm friend has evolved into a storm"

Jungkook’s answer was quiet, clipped. “You’re still loud.”

Taehyung gasped in mock offense. “And you’re still allergic to affection.”

Jungkook offered a single, deadpan glare and nothing else. That one look was all Taehyung needed to laugh. “Oh! Still as lethal as ever.” He nudged Jungkook’s shoulder playfully — a move Jungkook tolerated only because Taehyung had earned a certain informal pass with a handful of the team.

“You only use me to get to Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook snapped once, flat but not angry. “Stop dragging me into your fan missions.”

Taehyung’s grin softened into a mischievous, sheepish look. “A man’s gotta try, right? And don't expose me too much on mah man” He pointed with a dramatic flourish toward where Yoongi sat, only three meters away, entirely focused on the playlist on his phone. Taehyung’s cheeks colored for the briefest second — the shy little tell he never managed to hide despite the bluster.

Yoongi glanced up, smirked privately, and pretended not to notice the little scene. Hoseok whooped and shoved Taehyung in affectionate exasperation. “You coward,” he teased. “Say something to him, for once!”

Taehyung rolled his eyes and turned to the room. It was the first time Jimin realized how close Taehyung actually was to this group — jokes flew, rough familiarity, a dozen warm insults and grins exchanged like badges of membership. He didn’t just know them; he belonged in a way that surprised Jimin.

Then Taehyung spotted Jimin.

“Oh! Oh my god.” Taehyung pointed dramatically. “Who is this precious creature?”

Jimin froze mid-note, startled by the attention. “Ah — I’m Jimin. Physical therapist for—”

“For him?!” Taehyung’s eyes widened as he pointed at Jungkook like it was the most shocking revelation of the century. “You survived him? You exist?!" Taehyung then looks at Namjoon. "Jungkook has a new physical therapist?"

The room broke into light laughter. Even Namjoon smiled faintly.

Jimin bowed, embarrassed. “Ah, I just… try my best, sir.”

“Sir?! No, no, no. Don’t do that. I’m Taehyung.” He practically skipped toward him, then—without hesitation—wrapped Jimin in a tight, spontaneous hug.

“Thank you,” Taehyung said sincerely, tone soft but warm against the noise. “For not giving up on him. For being so cute. Oh my god, you’re adorable. I might just put you in my pocket.”

“Wha—” Jimin’s ears turned red instantly, stammering. “Ah, um—please don’t?”

Taehyung only laughed harder, swaying him lightly before letting go. “You’re officially my new favorite person. You can keep up with Jungkook. That automatically makes you Ironclad’s hero.”

Jungkook, still in his seat, muttered lowly, “Idiot, stop scaring him.”

“I’m not scaring him! I’m bonding!” Taehyung countered with mock indignation.

Taehyung sat back beside Jimin, voice gentler this time. “You’re really something, Jimin. Jungkook doesn’t let people near him easily. If you’ve gotten this far, that means he trusts you — even if he won’t admit it.”

Jimin blinked, startled. “…I don’t think so. He’s still—”

“—cold? Yeah.” Taehyung smiled knowingly. “But that’s his language. Don’t take it personally. Just… keep doing what you do.”

Then, he grinned. “Seriously. You’re brave. And adorable. Do you have social media? Manager! Write this down. We’re friends now. Okay, so what’s your number? I need updates. And photos. Especially if Jungkook ever smiles.”

“I—I don’t think—”

“Nope! Too late. Friendship accepted.”

Namjoon groaned from across the room. “Taehyung, let him breathe.”

“Can’t! He’s my favorite now,” Taehyung declared. “Sorry, team, I’ve claimed him.”

The entire room dissolved into laughter. Even Yoongi cracked a smirk from his corner. For the first time that day, the atmosphere lifted. The air, heavy with nerves and tension, now shimmered with light chatter and teasing.

Jungkook finally removed one earbud, glaring sideways. “You’re a walking migraine.”

“Correction — a glowing migraine.” Taehyung leaned back, satisfied. “You’ll thank me later when you win, my icy little legend.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t argue — which, in Ironclad terms, meant Taehyung won. Instead, Jungkook asked for water as he stretched his arms. 

Taehyung’s eyes lit, admiration plain as he watched Jimin reach for a bottle of water and hand it to Jungkook with practiced, unshowy efficiency. Then, even more quietly, Jimin rubbed a few easy rotations into Jungkook’s trapezius — not a full treatment, just the kind of touch that loosens shoulders and speaks competence.

Taehyung grinned like someone witnessing a small miracle. “Can anyone get a picture? Pinch me, manager—” he said, and then caught himself, laughing. “No, no. Don’t do that. I just — I’m stunned. You quietly do so much work. Jungkook doesn’t snap, you don’t... It’s magic." Which earned another laughter from everyone. 

The laughter still lingered when Hoseok began wrapping his hands. The monitors in the room played the ongoing Muay Thai matches — fast, brutal, filled with energy. Namjoon crouched beside him, checking his gloves, the coach’s focus settling back into place.

“Three rounds, same rhythm. Don’t overcommit early,” Namjoon said. “Trust the setup, Hoseok.”

Hoseok nodded, already rolling his neck side to side, exhaling through his nose like a bull ready for the cage. “Got it, coach.”

Just as they were about to leave, the door opened again — this time not with Taehyung’s theatrics, but with one of the assistants from Ironclad’s Muay Thai division, her face pale.

“Coach Namjoon,” she called softly. “Coach Daeho just got back. The girls— they’re in the next room.”

The tone in her voice made everyone stop.

Namjoon’s expression shifted instantly, the smile he had seconds ago gone. He exchanged a quick look with Yoongi before standing up. “What happened?”

The assistant hesitated. “Both girls made it through… but Jaeha— she took a bad hit. Elbow to the temple. Doctor says it’s not severe but…”

Namjoon didn’t wait for the rest. “Jungkook, Hoseok — hold for a minute,” he said before striding out.

Jimin followed without thinking, his instincts as a PT kicking in.

The corridor outside the Ironclad rooms was a blur of movement — staff, medical crew, organizers rushing between fighters. When they reached the door to the adjacent room, Jimin caught the low hum of conversation and the faint smell of antiseptic.

Inside, Coach Daeho stood by the treatment table, face tight and unreadable. The younger fighter, Ryeoshin, sat on the bench with gauze around her leg, silent but steady.

Jaeha, however, was the focus. She sat upright, a medic pressing a cold compress to her swollen cheek. Her lip was split, brow stitched, one eye already bruising dark. Despite the injuries, she was trying to smile.

“Coach,” she greeted weakly as Namjoon entered.

Namjoon exhaled, crouching beside her. “You did good,” he said gently. “You made it all the way. That’s what matters.”

She laughed softly, wincing. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

Jimin stayed by the door, watching quietly. The sight hit him harder than he expected. He’d seen bruises, sprains, fractures — but seeing someone young, trembling, still trying to stay proud through the pain... it was different.

He caught Daeho’s glance across the room — calm, but shadowed by frustration and worry. The Muay Thai coach gave a single nod, one professional to another.

“She’s stable,” Daeho said lowly. “No concussion signs yet. But she’ll be out for a while.”

Namjoon nodded grimly. “We’ll handle it when we’re back in Seoul. Make sure she rests. No more gym for at least three weeks.”

“Understood.”

The medic finished dressing Jaeha’s brow, giving her a small mirror. She laughed dryly when she saw the damage. “Guess I’ll need new profile pictures.”

That earned a quiet chuckle from Namjoon, though his eyes stayed hard. “You fought clean. You fought brave. That’s Ironclad enough.”

The medic helped her lie back again, adjusting the ice pack. Outside, the muffled sound of the announcer’s voice could be heard — the crowd cheering for the next match.

Hoseok’s match.

Namjoon straightened. “I need to go.”

Daeho nodded once. “Go win one for her.”

Namjoon gave Jaeha’s shoulder a reassuring pat before turning to Jimin. “Head back to the room. Make sure Jungkook keeps his body warm.”

“Yes, Coach.”

When Jimin returned to their room, the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The earlier laughter had cooled into quiet focus again. Hoseok was standing by the door, gloves on, bouncing lightly on his heels.

Jungkook sat in his corner still, though his towel was gone now — his eyes open, steady, sharp. When he noticed Jimin, there was a faint flicker of curiosity in his gaze, but he didn’t ask. He could guess.

Namjoon came in a moment later, expression unreadable but voice firm. “Alright. Hoseok — it’s your turn. Make it count.”

Hoseok nodded, jaw set. “For Jaeha.”

Namjoon’s hand clapped his shoulder once. “For all of us.”

Then, with Yoongi following as corner support, they headed out.

Taehyung leaned whispering to Jimin, “What happened?”

Jimin lowered his voice. “Jaeha lost. Badly.”

Taehyung’s playful expression softened. “Damn.” He sat down beside him quietly, no jokes this time. “She’s tough, though. They all are.”

Jimin nodded faintly. His hands were clasped in his lap, fingers tight. “Yeah.”

And as the distant roar of the crowd erupted — Hoseok’s entrance — Jimin realized the laughter earlier had been a brief, borrowed light.

Because in this world, every smile had a bruise behind it.

----

The lights dimmed across the Osaka Dome. A bass-heavy beat thundered through the speakers, shaking the mat beneath the ring as camera lights flared.

The host’s voice echoed through the speakers, crisp and commanding:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a three-round fight in the Bantamweight Division — brought to you by RIZ-X International MMA! Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner—”

The spotlight cut across the ramp where Jung Hoseok walked, head bowed, gloves already strapped tight.

"---representing Ironclad MMA, South Korea, standing at 170 centimeters, weighing in at 61.1 kilograms. With a professional record of 9 wins and 2 losses — a former national lightweight contender — known for his dynamic movement and precision striking…

He is Jung ‘The Mirage’ Hoseok!”

The screen flashed slow-motion clips of Hoseok’s past fights — his evasive head movement, a spinning kick finish, his wide, confident smile before entering the cage.

From the blue corner, Namjoon followed closely behind, towel draped over his shoulder, expression cool and locked in.

“Let’s go, Hobi,” Yoongi muttered under his breath from the stands, arms crossed. He decided to watch this live. 

Then the spotlight shifted to the red corner.

And his opponent — fighting out of Tokyo Combat Gym, representing Team Yakimuzae. Standing at 169 centimeters, weighing in at 61 kilograms even. With a professional record of 8 wins and 1 loss — a powerhouse striker with the heart of a brawler…

Introducing Kazuma ‘The Wolf’ Sato!”

Kazuma emerged to the pounding rhythm of heavy metal, chin lifted high. The crowd exploded — a local favorite. He shadowboxed on his way to the cage, shouting something to the audience, feeding off the adrenaline.

[Broadcast Booth]

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the co-main event here in Osaka Dome,” the English commentator announced, voice buzzing with energy. “This matchup’s going to be fire — South Korea’s Jung Hoseok versus Japan’s own Kazuma Sato. Both fighters within the top ten of Asia’s bantamweight rankings.”

His partner, a retired MMA fighter, chuckled low.

“Yeah, Hoseok’s known for that evasive, slick movement — ‘The Mirage,’ right? Because you swing, and suddenly he’s gone. But Kazuma—he’s all pressure. He’ll keep walking you down until you break.”

“Exactly. Two different styles. One dances, one bites.”

Inside the cage, the referee called both fighters to center.

“Alright gentlemen — you know the rules. Protect yourself at all times. Obey my commands. Touch gloves if you want.”

Hoseok extended his gloves politely.

Kazuma stared, lips curling, before tapping once. The tension snapped between them like static.

They backed off.

The bell rang.

Round One.

Kazuma came forward instantly, high guard, cutting off Hoseok’s angles. Hoseok stayed light, bouncing, fainting with his shoulders, testing range.

A jab—Hoseok slipped.

A kick—checked clean.

A counter—crisp left hook to the ribs.

The audience roared.

“Good shot from the mirage!” the commentator called. “He’s already reading the distance.”

Namjoon, outside the cage, was calm but sharp.

“Keep that distance. Don’t trade early.”

Kazuma smirked and feinted again — faster this time. He closed distance with a flurry, hooks flying. Hoseok ducked, pivoted, and landed a clean low kick on exit.

The sound cracked through the arena.

Yoongi leaned forward in his seat. “He’s setting up that rhythm already.”

Namjoon raised a hand, signaling tempo — his coaching subtle but precise.

By mid-round, Kazuma caught Hoseok with a clean right hand to the jaw. It wasn’t hard enough to drop him, but it snapped his head back. The crowd roared again.

“Nice shot from Sato!”

Hoseok wiped the corner of his mouth with his glove, smiling faintly.

“Stay composed,” Namjoon warned.

The last thirty seconds turned frantic — Hoseok’s footwork tightening, Kazuma chasing. The round ended with both trading fast strikes against the cage, neither backing down.

Bell.

The crowd went wild.

Round Two.

Kazuma pressed early again, throwing kicks to the body. Hoseok parried one, answering with a spinning back kick that grazed Kazuma’s ribs. The audience erupted, shouting his name — even some Japanese fans clapping in appreciation.

“Woo! That was close!”

In the Ironclad corner, Namjoon’s expression didn’t change. “Breathe. Keep your rhythm. You own the footwork — make him miss.”

And Hoseok did. Every time Kazuma lunged, Hoseok slipped just outside, landing fast counters. Jab. Hook. Leg kick. Jab again.

It was a dance — one fighter chasing, the other making him pay for every inch.

Yoongi muttered, “That’s our boy. Keep cutting that line.”

Kazuma grew frustrated, breathing heavier. He swung wide, trying to corner Hoseok — but Hoseok ducked, turned his shoulder, and landed an uppercut from nowhere.

The crowd exploded.

“Oh! Beautiful counter from The Mirage!”

Namjoon finally shouted once. “Now push him! Don’t stop!”

Hoseok pressed forward, landing two solid body hooks before the round ended.

Bell.

Kazuma stumbled slightly as he returned to his corner. His team fanned him with towels, shouting instructions.

Round Three.

The final round opened with both fighters bruised, sweat dripping under the cage lights. Hoseok’s chest rose and fell steadily — Kazuma’s heavier, labored.

They circled. The crowd clapped in rhythm.

Then Kazuma rushed in desperation — wild punches, elbows, knees. Hoseok covered, parried, ducked low, and countered with a left to the liver. Kazuma winced.

“Body shot! That hurt him!”

Namjoon’s voice cut through the chaos. “Stay sharp, don’t get greedy!”

Kazuma tried to recover, swinging high. Hoseok caught him with a low kick that buckled his stance — then another.

Final ten seconds.

Both men met in the center and swung until the bell. The sound of gloves smacking echoed across the arena, the crowd on their feet.

Bell.

Fight over.

--

The announcer stepped into the cage, crowd falling into anticipation.

“Ladies and gentlemen, after three rounds of action, we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision.

Judge Tanaka scores it 29–28 Hoseok.

Judge Lee scores it 30–27 Hoseok.

Judge Sakamoto scores it 29–28 Hoseok.

And the winner, by unanimous decision…

Jung ‘The Mirage’ Hoseok!”

The crowd erupted — even the Japanese fans applauding in sportsmanship.

Hoseok raised his arms briefly, then bowed to each side of the arena.

Namjoon clapped once, firm hand on his back. Yoongi grinned from the stands, proud and quiet. Taehyung screamed his lungs out, jumping up and down.

In the distance, cameras panned to the Ironclad team — Jungkook sitting still in his chair, earbuds in, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

His fight was next.

Chapter Text

"WELCOME TO THE MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!”

The arena shook. Chants and stomps echoed through the metal rafters as camera drones hovered above the octagon, capturing every trembling face in the front rows. People were standing, waving banners, phones raised — it wasn’t just a fight anymore; it was an event.

The commentators’ voices cut through the chaos.

“Ladies and gentlemen, what a night it’s been so far—but this is the one we’ve all been waiting for. The undefeated king versus the venomous challenger!”

“Five rounds in the Featherweight Division — sanctioned under the global rules of mixed martial arts!”

The night is young, but the moment you’ve been waiting for is here! We’ve seen technical wizardry, we’ve seen explosive knockouts, but now... the final contract is due! We are about to witness true, world-class violence! We’ve got the power of the undisputed king against the surgical precision of the relentless challenger! Someone's reign ends tonight, and someone's legacy begins!

The broadcast commentator’s voice carried with command, steady against the crowd’s chaos.

“Introducing first —

fighting out of the blue corner — representing Ironclad MMA, South Korea! Standing at 178 centimeters, weighing in officially at 66 kilograms, with a professional record of 20 wins, 0 losses, and 19 wins by way of knockout!

Known across Asia as the storm that never backs down…He is The Emperor! The angelic deadly monster, the one and only… he is the reigning, undisputed, undefeated champion…

Jeon ‘The Tyrant’ Jungkook!”

The sound was deafening.

Crowds screamed, some chanted his name in rhythmic unison — “TYRANT! TYRANT! TYRANT!” — their voices vibrating through the steel cage itself.

The arena shook.

Blue lights burst across the floor as Jungkook appeared from the tunnel — hooded, head low, gloves already strapped. His walkout song — a deep bass rhythm — pulsed in sync with the crowd’s heartbeat. Namjoon walked behind him, focused, silent.

The camera panned across the crowd before settling on the opposite side of the octagon, where a figure stood shadowed in the tunnel — hood up, bouncing lightly on his feet, head lowered like a coiled snake ready to strike.

> fighting out of the red corner — representing Team Yakimura of Japan! Standing at 177 centimeters, weighing in officially at 66 kilograms, with a professional record of 21 wins and 3 losses, he is the number-one featherweight contender in Japan…

Known for his relentless pressure and venomous counterstriking… he is Kaito ‘The Viper’ Kimura!”

Fireworks burst from the tunnel.

Kaito stepped through the fog and into the arena lights, chin raised, expression cut from confidence and arrogance.

His hood hung low as he walked, flanked by his corner men, black and gold shorts gleaming. Before removing his hood to reveal the tattoo of a coiled viper traced his left shoulder, glistening under the lights.

He climbed the steps into the octagon, placed his hand against the mat, and whispered something — a ritual. Then he looked up, eyes burning straight through the cameras.

"Watch closely,” he grinned, the microphone catching his words, “cause tonight, I’m putting the Tyrant to sleep.”

The crowd exploded — half cheering, half jeering. He fed off it, arms raised, turning slowly toward every camera lens like it belonged to him. Kaito knew how to stir chaos. That was his weapon as much as his speed.

Inside the cage, Jungkook didn’t move.

He stood still in the blue corner, head bowed, lips pressed together. His gaze never left Kaito. Calm. Unblinking.

When the camera zoomed in, Jungkook simply lifted his chin and smirked — a quiet, icy curl of the lip that made the entire arena erupt even louder than before.

No words. None needed.

He was The Tyrant. The undefeated emperor. The angel-faced executioner of the featherweight division.

Even the commentators went silent for a moment.

> “You can feel it. " “That energy. The Tyrant isn’t here to fight — he’s here to end this.”

> “And Kaito knows it. But that man—he’s fearless. The Viper doesn’t back down from kings.” the other host ignites. 

---

The referee called them both forward.

“Alright gentlemen, you know the rules. Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands. Touch gloves if you wish.”

Kaito smirked. Jungkook didn’t move. Their gloves hovered, inches apart, before Jungkook tapped once — light, dismissive.

The ref stepped back.

“Let’s fight.”

The cage door locked with a clang.

The bell rang.

**DING!**

Round One began.

Kaito came out fast — bouncing on his toes, light-footed, testing the range. His MMA gloves twitched, ready to snap. Jungkook, stood orthodox, barely moving, measuring.

“And here we go, folks — The Tyrant versus The Viper. Jungkook Jeon defending his undefeated streak against Japan’s best striker.”

“This is the fight everyone’s been waiting for — two monsters in their prime.”

The sound of the crowd faded beneath the rhythm of their movement — thuds of feet on canvas, the echo of each exhale.

Kaito circled clockwise, shoulders twitching, bouncing lightly on his toes. Jungkook didn’t move. He stood with his stance slightly sideways, hands high, eyes fixed on the smallest shifts in Kaito’s posture.

Feints.

Twitches.

Reading.

The crowd screamed for action, but the fighters were still — like predators waiting for the other to flinch first.

Kaito flicked a jab — quick — Jungkook slipped left effortlessly. Another jab — parried. Kaito smirked, stepping in with a low kick that *snapped* against Jungkook’s calf.

The sound popped like a whip.

> **“Kaito wasting no time — chipping away early, those calf kicks sting!”**

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

He advanced a step.

Then another.

Kaito circled, talking as he moved.

“C’mon, champ! Thought you were a monster?”

***“Kaito testing the range early,” one commentator said. “He’s got vicious leg kicks — that’s how he broke his last opponent’s base.”

“Yeah, but look at Jungkook. He’s not reacting emotionally. He’s data-collecting — studying.”***

Another kick. Then a jab-cross — both blocked.

Jungkook’s eyes never left him. He timed him. Measured. Studied.

Then — *boom* — Jungkook exploded forward with a short, brutal right cross.

Kaito barely ducked under it, feeling the air split over his head.

He laughed — taunting again — but his grin wavered when Jungkook’s next move came.

A sharp inside leg kick, then a left hook.

The glove *cracked* against Kaito’s temple.

Jungkook smirked. Like a person who enjoys other's pain. 

The crowd gasped.

Kaito stumbled back, caught himself, shook it off — grin returning, though thinner now.

**“Oh, that one landed clean! The Tyrant’s timing is unreal!”**

They reset. The cage felt smaller now.

Kaito began feinting, faster this time — jab, step back, leg kick, pivot — his movements sharp and snake-like. He was faster, yes, but Jungkook’s patience was something else entirely.

He absorbed a few kicks, blocked a body shot, then countered with a jab that snapped Kaito’s head back.

 **“That jab’s a spear. Jungkook’s finding his rhythm.”**

Kaito changed levels, shot for a takedown — but Jungkook sprawled instantly, hips heavy, defending with raw strength. His right hand hammered into Kaito’s ribs once, twice, before they broke apart.

Kaito backed off, grinning through clenched teeth.

“You hit like a truck, champ,” he spat, shaking out his arms.

Jungkook tilted his head, that same calm smirk returning.

The crowd ate it up.

**“The mind games are in full effect — but look at Jungkook’s composure. Not a flinch.”**

**" I am telling you partner. The Tyrant is smiling and smirking every hits. Its like he is enjoying the sound of Viper's cracking bone!"***

Kaito began turning up the pace — quick combinations, darting in and out, his kicks targeting the body now. One clipped Jungkook’s ribs, making a deep *thud*. A solid hit. 

Jungkook stepped back, eyes narrowing.

***"Oh, that’s nasty! Viper's digging into the body!***"

Kaito threw a quick combination, landing one grazing shot on Jungkook’s cheek. Before he gives in once again. 

But the next time Kaito came in — *boom* — Jungkook’s counter landed.

A *straight right* down the middle.

Clean. Precise. Violent.

Kaito’s mouthguard half-flew out as he staggered backward, colliding with the cage. The crowd *erupted*.

 **“OH! Big right hand from The Tyrant! Kaito’s rocked!”**

Jungkook pounced — left hook, right elbow, another short uppercut in the clinch — but Kaito’s instincts saved him. He tied up, holding on, stalling just enough for the ref to break them.

His lip was split. Blood ran down his chin.

Still, he smiled. Still, he taunted.

“Is that all you got, pretty boy?”

The horn was seconds away.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just stepped forward again — one last exchange before the round ended.

Kaito swung a wild overhand — slipped it and *countered* with a spinning back elbow that caught Jungkook in his shoulder. 

The crowd lost it.

> **“SPINNING ELBOW! THAT’S INSANE TIMING!”**

The sound was dull but heavy — THUD — the kind of impact that echoed differently from skin or bone. Jungkook’s arm jolted, his punch pulled short, momentarily stiff.

The commentators caught it instantly.

***“OHHH—the Viper caught that shoulder clean! That was nasty!”***

Jungkook stepped back, expression still calm but his right arm rolled slightly, loosening the joint. Nothing dramatic — but noticeable. His body language changed for just a second.

Kaito smirked, blood still running down his lip.

He’d found something. A weakness. A small victory inside a losing round.

“What’s wrong, champ?” Kaito taunted, breathing hard. “Feels different, doesn’t it?”

Jungkook’s arm dropped a fraction — just a fraction — but his expression didn’t change.
No pain. No reaction.

He just stared.

Dead still.

Then a slow, deliberate smile crept across his face — small at first, then wider.

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

*Ding*

The round ended.

The crowd stood, screaming. Both fighters returned to their corners.

Kaito sat, chest heaving, blood dotting his lip but smiling like a man enjoying the fire. His coach slapped his shoulder, shouting instructions in Japanese.

Jungkook sat still, elbows on his knees. His breathing didn’t change. His eyes — locked on Kaito even while Namjoon spoke.

Namjoon was already kneeling beside Jungkook. Jimin stood behind him, towel in hand, heart pounding at the sight of the faint red mark on Jungkook’s shoulder.

Namjoon leaned close.

“You good?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. His eyes were fixed on Kaito across the cage, who was laughing with his corner, smug.

Then — Jungkook smiled.

Wider.

Unnervingly calm.

Almost… joyful.

Even Namjoon froze.  Jimin trembled. That wasn’t relief on Jungkook’s face. That was hunger.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon warned, voice low.

But the fighter just chuckled under his breath.

“Let me play, coach.”

Namjoon’s stomach dropped.

He followed Jungkook’s gaze to the opposite corner — to Kaito Kimura, who was still laughing, flexing his arm, showing off to the crowd.

He didn’t realize it yet.

He thought he’d hurt the Tyrant.

But what he really did… was wake him up.

Jimin handed Jungkook his water bottle, his hand trembling slightly as Jungkook took it without looking. A thin line of sweat ran down Jungkook’s temple, glinting under the lights.

Jimin glanced at him — silent awe and fear mixing in his chest.

This was the Jungkook he’d only heard about.

The one they called The Tyrant.

He rolled his shoulder once.

Expression scary.

Ready for war.

And in the cage, when Jungkook stood again — eyes black, smile gone — the air itself felt colder.

Chapter Text

The bell echoed through the dome like a war drum.

DING!

***“We are underway for Round Two — and there’s tension in the air, folks. Thr Tyrant's shoulder took a solid elbow late in the first, but you wouldn’t know it from his face.”***

***Exactly! his face and aura even scarrier than before but the Viper seems nonchalant about it and was enjoying the moment!"***

The two men rose from their corners with different energy now.

Kaito came out breathing harder, jaw bruised, chin red from those earlier counters but smiling. His eyes still held that fire — reckless, desperate, venomous — but Jungkook…

Jungkook looked predatory.

He wasn’t bouncing anymore.

He stalked.

The energy in the arena shifted instantly. Gone was the slow, studying rhythm of Round One. What replaced it was something primal—measured destruction.

The crowd sensed it — the way he moved, quiet, measured, every step dragging Kaito deeper into a trap that only Jungkook could see.

***“There’s that walk again! Partner! I have seen that walk before!!"” one commentator said softly. “The Tyrant’s hunting. You can feel it. He’s not chasing; he’s cornering.”

Kaito circled, trying to reset the rhythm. His corner shouted in Japanese: Stay light! Don’t trade! Keep him outside!

***“And here comes Jungkook—oh, you can feel it! He’s walking Kaito down like a predator stalking prey!”

> "I'm getting goosebumps ladies and gentleman! This is where the Tyrant earns his name, folks. WE HAVE SEEN IT BEFORE! ARE WE GOING TO SEE IT AGAIN?! A CONFIRMATION! You don’t fight him—you survive him. ”

---

Kaito smirked before he came out eager, maybe overconfident after the shoulder hit earlier. He raised his guard high, bounced on his feet, tried to dictate the center again.

But Jungkook wasn’t backing up.

Not an inch.

Every step forward was deliberate.

Every breath—controlled.

Every faint twitch of his shoulders made Kaito flinch.

Jungkook wasn’t giving him the distance.

A faint shoulder twitch — that same side Kaito had hit earlier — and Kaito took the bait. He stepped in with a looping left.

Mistake.

Then—*bang!*

A right low kick.

Jungkook’s shin slammed into Kaito’s calf like a hammer.

Kaito gritted his teeth, tried to counter with a jab—

Only for Jungkook to parry and fire a right hand down the middle.

*CRACK.*

The sound was sickening.

Kaito stumbled back, mouthguard flashing, eyes blinking.

The crowd exploded.

***“Body shot! He’s down! The Viper's down!”

“And The Tyrant—look at him—he’s not even following up. He’s just… standing there!”***

The Tyrant stood over him, head tilted, chest heaving once.

Then he smile — slight, knowing, merciless.

He waited.

Kaito stands even before the referee can come near him. 

Cracks his neck. Then he attacked. Swung wildly, a desperate left hook—missed.

Jungkook slipped inside, countered with a short uppercut.

*Thud.*

Kaito’s head snapped up. He staggered. Before Jungkook kick his inner left leg and Kaito once again drops on his one leg. 

The crowd roared.

But what the audience didnt expect is Jungkook standing after the attack. He dodn't chase.

He just stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

A faint grin spreading on his face like a shadow.

***"What is this?! The Tyrant is not moving. He is just standing there! He is not hunting! What is happening?!"***

Kaito groaned, one arm clutching his leg, the other pushing himself off the mat. His vision blurred for a second. The referee gestured for him to get up — and Jungkook simply backed one step, giving him room.

He wanted him to rise.

***“He’s making him stand. Oh my god, he’s making him stand. This isn’t a fight anymore, this is a lesson!!!”***

---

Kaito exhaled hard, wiped blood from his lip. He circled again, trying to shake the fog from his vision.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Come on!”

Jungkook tilted his head.

Then he moved.

Another low kick.

Then a body shot.

Then a hook.

Each hit was clean. Precise.

Every strike *hurt.*

Kaito’s body bent with every blow.

He tried to retaliate—a wild swing.

But Jungkook weaved under it effortlessly, eyes fixed, shoulders coiled.

He threw a left to the ribs, right to the jaw—

Kaito dropped.

The crowd gasped again — another knockdown.

Kaito hit the canvas, knees collapsing.

He tried to grab Jungkook’s leg for a takedown, but Jungkook stepped back — deliberately.

No rush. No mercy.

***“That’s two knockdowns in thirty seconds, and Jungkook hasn’t even followed up! He’s toying with him!”***

The referee stepped in, half-ready to count, but Jungkook didn’t follow through.

He just took a step back, hands loose, staring down.

Kaito groaned, rolling onto his knees.

Jungkook waited.

Silent.

Almost patient.

“Stand up,” Jungkook mouthed.

The cameras caught it.

Some gasp. Some froze. But everyone in the dome tremble by those words. 

Is he a monster?

---

Behind the metal fence, under the white glare of Osaka Dome’s lights, Namjoon stood still. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He didn’t blink once.

Jimin, on the other hand, couldn’t stop breathing too fast. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts. Every sound from the ring — every thud of glove meeting flesh — felt like it was echoing straight into his ribs.

The large screen above the arena showed a slow-motion replay — 

Jimin flinched.

His fingers tightened around the towel in his hands until his knuckles went white.

He’d seen pain before — in hospitals, in rehab rooms, in quiet clinics — but this… this wasn’t pain.

This was punishment.

“Coach…” Jimin’s voice cracked a little, low enough that only Namjoon could hear.

“Is he… always like that?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze was still locked on the cage, where Jungkook stood unmoving, letting Kaito crawl back up.

---

Kaito rose again, legs shaking.

He lifted his guard, breathing ragged.

He charged.

Left hook—miss.

Right swing—caught.

Jungkook pivoted and launched a spinning elbow. The same move Kaito used earlier. 

*CRACK.*

Blood sprayed.

Kaito’s face opened at the brow.

He dropped again, crashing to the mat, blood streaking his cheek.

**** “Elbow from hell! Jungkook just folded the Viper again!“That’s surgical violence! He’s not going for the kill—he’s teaching him!”

Still—Jungkook didn’t attack the downed fighter.

He looked down, breathing steady, sweat rolling down his jaw.

Then that smile again—

Cold. Controlled.

Almost merciful in its cruelty.

He turned slightly, letting Kaito drag himself up for the third time.

***"I am trembling partner. This has got to.be the most brutal and cruel scene we can get from the Tyrant. It is like he is making the Viper suffer every second they had on the ring!"***

---

From the blue corner, Jimin’s hands continue to tremble

“Fuck it…” Yoongi whispered beside him, voice low. “He’s enjoying this.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look away from the cage.

“That’s the problem,” he muttered. “Once Jungkook stops fighting to win—and starts fighting to remind—you don’t stop him.”

Jimin swallowed hard. Jungkook wasn’t the calm, calculating fighter they studied in training. He was something else now. Something unshackled.

---

Back in the cage, Kaito stood again, face bruised, one eye nearly shut.

He swung weakly—

Jungkook stepped in, caught him mid-swing with a left knee to the ribs.

*Thump.*

Kaito gasped, folding in half.

Dropped again.

“Down again! That’s the fourth drop this round!”

 “The Viper can’t even breathe! The Tyrant's dismantling him piece by piece! And he hasn’t even gone to the ground! He’s letting the Viper drown in his own pride!

But still, Jungkook didn’t finish him.

He just stared down, almost serene.

Then he backed up again, letting the referee count.

Kaito tried to rise, leaning on the cage. Blood dripped down his chin.

Jungkook waited.

Head tilted slightly.

Eyes unreadable.

He paced in slow circles, eyes fixed on his prey — waiting, almost inviting Kaito to stand again.

The crowd was insane now.

People were on their feet, screaming, phones flashing like lightning.

---

Every breath Kaito took was agony now. Every rise from the mat was defiance mixed with doom.

He got up again, legs shaky, and Jungkook — smiling that haunting, calm smile — waited.

He didn’t even guard anymore. He didn’t need to.

Kaito threw a desperate front kick — Jungkook caught it midair, twisted — and swept his base leg out.

Kaito crashed down again, shoulder-first this time, gasping for air.

Even the commentators sounded reverent now, their voices tight with disbelief.

***“You’re witnessing controlled destruction. Every hit—precise, deliberate. Every pause—intentional. This isn’t rage. This is discipline weaponized.”

Jungkook raised a hand slightly — signaling to the ref he wasn’t done.

He once agaim mouthed. "Stand up" which was clearly caught in camera that even the judge are starting to think to stop the fight. This isnt a fight anymore. 

The judges were whispering to each other when Kaito moved again. 

Kaito, trembling, forced himself up once more. His mouth bled freely. His arms shook

Kaito gathered what was left of him and swung desperately, trying to hit something, *anything.*

But every strike missed air.

And it is during the last 60 seconds when Jungkook actually attacked and punished him.

Jungkook advanced, gloves up, left foot leading.

That same measured composure—shoulders loose, eyes locked, expression unreadable.

He feinted a jab; Kaito flinched high, exposing his ribs. Jungkook fired a short right to the body. Thud.

Kaito folded, tried to circle away—Jungkook cut him off, herding him toward the fence.

“He’s got him trapped! The Tyrant's cutting the cage perfectly—no space left for The Viper!”

--

Jimin stood behind the gate, towel in hand, knuckles trembling. His throat was dry. The sound of gloves hitting flesh didn’t feel like a sport anymore—it felt like thunder.

He glanced at Namjoon, who was already leaning over the barrier, eyes on the MMA officials, quietly speaking to one of the staff.

“Coach… what are you doing?” Jimin’s voice was tight.

Namjoon didn’t answer. He just clenched his jaw and muttered under his breath, “Just in case.”

Jimin’s pulse quickened.

In case what?

--

Back in the cage, Kaito lunged forward—reckless.

He swung a right hook.

Jungkook ducked, pivoted, and countered with a left body shot that made the entire arena gasp.

Kaito folded, coughing, but Jungkook didn’t stop.

Two jabs.

A knee.

Then another low kick that made Kaito stumble into the fence.

***"He’s overwhelming him! The Tyrant's not giving him an inch!”

“This is masterclass pressure fighting! Kimura’s running out of space—he’s trapped!”

The crowd was losing it. Some cheered. Some stood frozen. The sound of camera shutters was deafening.

Kaito tried to clinch. Desperation.

Jungkook shoved him back with a shoulder bump—then cracked him with an uppercut.

The blow lifted Kaito off his feet for a split second before gravity caught him.

He hit the mat, rolled, scrambled up again, wobbling.

The referee started to step in—then hesitated. Kaito was still moving.

--

From the Ironclad corner, Yoongi muttered, “He’s gone cold. Look at his eyes.”

Hoseok frowned, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Cold? He looks possessed.”

Namjoon didn’t respond. He just stared.

Every muscle in Jungkook’s body was tight, perfectly timed, perfectly precise.

This wasn’t rage. This was calculation refined into destruction.

--

Kaito backed up.

He tried another jab. Missed.

Jungkook punished him—

A left low kick.

A right straight.

A step-in elbow.

Kaito hit the cage again. His guard dropped.

Jungkook feinted low—then came up with the left hook.

Clean. Precise.

The kind that ends nights.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp—glove against bone, a deep pop swallowed by the roar of thirty thousand voices. Kaito’s body stiffened mid-air before collapsing sideways to the mat, limbs slack, head bouncing once off the canvas.

Silence—

then chaos.

“AND IT’S OVER! IT’S OVER! THE TYRANT DOES IT AGAIN!”

“A left hook from nowhere! Good lord, that’s picture-perfect!”

The referee dove in immediately, wrapping an arm around Jungkook’s chest, pulling him back.

Jungkook didn’t resist.

He just stood there, chest heaving, gaze locked on his fallen opponent.

No celebration.

No roar.

Just silence—and that faint, unsettling smile.

Kaito lay on his side, medical staff rushing in. The camera cut away quickly as the officials entered the cage.

--

Outside, Jimin’s knees nearly gave out.

He’d seen people fall in fights before, but the sound—that sharp, final crack—made his stomach turn.

Namjoon’s hand shot out, steadying him.

“Breathe,” he said, voice firm. " It’s over.”

Jimin swallowed, shaking weakly. “That… that wasn’t normal.”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing his face.

“It never is, when it’s Jungkook.”

He looked up at the cage again, where Jungkook was standing in the center as the referee raised his hand.

Sweat glistened down his jawline. His arms hung low at his sides.

And yet, even through the cheers, even through the flashing lights and camera shutters—

there was no joy in his expression. He is smiling. But it is not joy. Eerie. As if he enoyed the blood on his opponent and on the ring. 

Kaito lay motionless for a second before the medics rushed in. The medics checked his vitals. Flash light on his eyes. Then the medics talked to the referee. He cant fight. 

With that, the referree went to Jungkook's side before he raised his right hand. 

***"Referee Herb Tanaka stops the contest at four minutes, twenty-one seconds of Round Two!

Winner by knockout—STILL the reigning, defending Featherweight Champion of the World—JEON ‘THE TYRANT’ JUNGKOOK!

The crowd erupted.

Some cheered, some stood stunned—caught between awe and fear.

Jungkook gave no shout, no jump, no chest-pound. He just looked down at the fallen challenger being tended to by medics, rolled his right shoulder once, and exhaled.

“Another statement win,” the commentator said softly over the noise. “That’s twenty-one and oh, and every single one of us just watched why he’s called The Tyrant.”

The camera lingered on Jungkook’s face one last time—calm, expressionless, a fighter who didn’t celebrate destruction, only completed it

Chapter Text

The arena was thunderous.

Flashes, shouts, voices overlapping into a blur of chaos.

Jungkook hadn’t even stepped out of the cage yet when the reporters and photographers surged toward him like a current—microphones and cameras flashing from every direction.

“Jeon Jungkook! Twenty-one wins—another knockout! How does it feel?”

“You’re a monster in that cage, Tyrant! Do you think you went too far tonight?”

“Some are saying you weren’t fighting—you were executing! Was that your intention?”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first.

The lights made the sweat on his skin gleam. His gloves were still taped tight, crimson dusting the white bandages.

He rolled his jaw, eyes half-lidded, the roar of the crowd fading into static.

But when one reporter shouted, “Some say you went too far tonight. What do you say to that? You kill your opponents in there!”, Jungkook finally turned his head.

The smile he gave was sharp and cold.

“I don’t kill,” he said, voice low, measured. “I finish.”

The line sent a wave of noise through the stands—half cheers, half disbelief.

Cameras clicked faster.

But Jungkook was already walking away, his pace steady, security creating a narrow path through the chaos.

Namjoon followed a few steps behind, calm but sharp-eyed, intercepting the press that tried to chase after.

Jimin trailed last, still gripping the medical kit, still shaken by what he had just witnessed inside the cage.

The media crowd parted reluctantly, their words blurring into static under the hum of the arena.

Every step echoed heavy in his ears—the dull thud of his boots against concrete, gloves still on, shoulders glistening under the corridor lights.

A small flicker of pain made Jungkook roll his left shoulder—the same one Kaito had hammered early in the fight. The joint cracked softly. His jaw clenched once, then relaxed.

--

When the doors swung open in the backstage room for Ironclad, the energy shifted.

Confetti burst.

Someone shouted, “Our champ’s back!”

Laughter erupted; hands clapped him on the back, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

The entire Ironclad team filled the small locker room—technicians, assistants, medics, all grinning.

At the center, Taehyung stood on the bench, waving a handful of glittered paper he must’ve snatched from some leftover promo set. He threw it in the air with wild glee.

“Behold, the unstoppable force!” Taehyung declared, grinning wide. “Back to back win with Hoseok hyung!! I am so proud of you guys!! Jungkook! you made Osaka cry and me scream! I’m filing a noise complaint against my own lungs!”

The room erupted in laughter.

But Jungkook didn’t even crack a smile.

He walked past the commotion, hands unlacing the tape around his wrists, the faint creak of his gloves louder than the noise.

His left shoulder twitched once—then again—before he rolled it slowly, muscles tightening and relaxing with practiced precision.

He sat on the bench, still quiet, rolling his shoulder again. The muscles rippled under the tape, a faint red swelling visible near the deltoid. He pressed his thumb against it, testing the pain.

His breathing was steady—slow, controlled.

The laughter and cheer for his and Hoseok's win faded into background hum.

Jimin stood at the edge of the room, unsure if he should step closer.

He’d been watching the fight with the team—saw everything. The knockdowns. The cold patience. The way Jungkook waited for Kaito to rise, again and again. It wasn’t just a fight—it was an exhibition of control and cruelty disguised as mastery.

He’d worked with different patients before, patched up dislocations, taped torn ligaments—but this was different. There was something inhumanly calm in Jungkook’s demeanor that unsettled him.

Namjoon was already moving toward Jungkook, headset still around his neck, his voice steady but laced with concern.

“How’s the shoulder?” he asked immediately, voice calm but clipped.

Jungkook rolled it once, the joint cracking softly beneath the tape.

“Fine,” he said simply, without looking at him.

Namjoon’s jaw flexed. He didn’t buy it.

Namjoon crouched beside him, one hand resting on his knee as he observed closely.

“You’re rolling it too much,” he muttered. “He tagged it harder than you think.”

Jungkook finally met his eyes—just briefly.

“I told you it’s fine.”

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, the look on his face somewhere between frustration and reluctant respect.

“Fine doesn’t mean ignore it,” he said, then turned his head toward the other side of the room. “Jimin.”

The young physical therapist, who’d been hovering quietly near the lockers, froze at the sound of his name. His eyes flicked up—uncertain, hesitant.

Namjoon nodded once, a silent order.

“Check it.”

Jimin hesitated for a second too long. He could still see the fight replaying in his mind—Kaito crumpling, Jungkook’s stillness afterward, that frightening control that bordered on merciless.

He’d seen pain before, blood, injuries—but not that. Not someone who looked almost bored while destroying an opponent.

Swallowing hard, he stepped forward.

Namjoon stood, giving him room, though his presence lingered—watching carefully.

Jimin crouched in front of Jungkook, gloves still half-laced, body still glistening with sweat and blood. The smell of adrenaline and chalk was thick in the air.

He reached out slowly toward the bruised shoulder.

Jungkook’s eyes tracked the movement—sharp, unblinking.

When Jimin’s fingers brushed the tender spot, the fighter’s body tensed instinctively, not from pain but from reflex.

The air thickened for a second.

Jimin’s breath hitched.

Jungkook noticed. His gaze flicked to Jimin’s trembling hands.

A smirk ghosted across his lips—not kind, not mocking, just coldly amused.

“You afraid, doc?”

His tone wasn’t teasing in warmth; it was testing, detached.

A quiet challenge.

Jimin swallowed. “No,” he lied, voice barely steady.

Namjoon, standing behind them, sighed softly and crossed his arms. He knew Jungkook’s tone too well—the way he measured people not by what they said, but by whether they flinched when faced with him.

“He’s fine,” Jimin said quickly after a brief check, withdrawing his hand. “Just muscle irritation. I’ll ice it.”

“Later,” Jungkook replied simply, standing without waiting for the full instruction. He rolled his shoulder again, as if to prove a point. “It’s not broken.”

Taehyung, oblivious to the tension, threw another handful of confetti into the air.

“Come on, Kook, at least smile! You just made history again!”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and started toward the exit where the media crew waited for post-fight interviews.

Namjoon watched him go, shaking his head slightly. “Same as ever,” he muttered. Then, glancing toward Jimin, he added quietly,

“Don’t take it personally. He’s not used to anyone touching him right after a fight.”

Jimin nodded slowly, still staring after Jungkook’s retreating figure.

The door swung open, and the noise of the outside world flooded back in—cheers, camera clicks, the echo of his title being called again.

And just like that, the Tyrant was gone from the room.

Cold. Untouchable.

Still undefeated.

But Jimin, as he watched Jungkook disappear down the corridor toward the press hall, couldn’t laugh.

His heart was still beating too fast, his palms still clammy.

He whispered under his breath—half in awe, half in fear—

“How can someone look that calm after that kind of fight…”

---

The Ironclad training center in Osaka felt alive that night.

The long corridors, usually filled with the rhythm of gloves hitting pads and the echo of coaches’ shouts, now pulsed with laughter and music. The faint smell of beer and takeout food filled the air. The fighters, staff, and friends had gathered in the common room—a victory party that everyone seemed to need.

Hoseok was already halfway through a beer tower challenge with Ryeoshin and one of the junior athletes, their laughter spilling across the room.

Yoongi sat in the corner couch, his quiet smile betraying his usual composed demeanor, while Namjoon was caught between enjoying the chaos and keeping everyone from breaking anything valuable.

Then there was Taehyung.

“Alright, alright!” he slurred between laughs. “For Ironclad's win! Jungkook, Hoseok, Ryeoshin and Jaeha—cheers!”

Jaeha suddenly blushed by it. "But.. I... " 

"You did good, Jaeha,” Namjoon cuts her, raising his cup. “No one survives five minutes with that monster from Osaka. You did twenty-five.”

Cups lifted. Shouts followed. Someone banged on the table in rhythm.

Jaeha bowed her head, laughing. “I’ll take that… but next time, I want the win.”

Taehyung pointed at her dramatically from across the room.

“Next time, you’ll headline with everyone—Ironclad all kill main event!”

“All kill trouble!” Hoseok shouted.

The laughter that followed was full, loose, genuine. It filled the hall like a pulse.

Taehyung wasn’t done.

He climbed onto one of the benches.The idol had somehow acquired a microphone—no one knew from where—and was swaying dramatically in front of the TV.

"Since Hoseok hyung asked for his gift because he won. "

His rich voice filled the room, perfectly on pitch even with alcohol swimming through his veins.

“♪ Youuuu~ are my univers—wait, wait, wait—Yoongi hyung, this next one’s for you!” he declared, his words slightly slurred.

The room erupted into whistles and laughter. Hoseok leaned back, smirking.

“Hyung, that’s your gift from Taehyung! Don’t waste it!”

Yoongi just shook his head, trying not to smile too wide. “You’re drunk, Tae.”

“I’m in love, hyung!” Taehyung countered dramatically, clutching his chest as he sang the opening of a slow love ballad—eyes locked on Yoongi the entire time.

Even Namjoon couldn’t help laughing, rubbing his temples. “I swear, he gets worse every celebration.”

The energy was bright, warm—electric in its own messy way.

Empty bottles lined the table, and takeout boxes piled up near the sink. Music thumped low under the sounds of clinking glasses and half-drunken cheers.

Jimin sat at the far end of the room, hands cupped around a bottle he hadn’t touched much.

He smiled faintly as Taehyung stumbled through another verse, Yoongi covering his face in mock embarrassment. The laughter was infectious. For the first time since they arrived in Japan, Jimin felt like he could breathe without counting his heartbeats.

Still… his gaze drifted.

Across the room, sitting slightly apart from the chaos, was Jungkook.

The Tyrant.

Loose black hoodie, damp hair still clinging to his forehead from his shower. A towel hung around his neck. He wasn’t laughing—he rarely did—but there was a small smirk curving at the edge of his mouth as he leaned back, half-listening to Taehyung’s drunken performance.

Beside him, Namjoon murmured something about keeping his shoulder iced, but Jungkook just nodded, lifting a can of soda instead of alcohol. He looked calm—content even.

And that’s what unsettled Jimin most.

He still remembered the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the way the crowd’s roar drowned out everything when Jungkook dropped Kaito in the ring. He could still see the emptiness in Jungkook’s eyes then—the cold focus that didn’t belong to someone human.

Yet here he was now, sitting quietly under the soft golden lights, looking like any young man surrounded by his team and friends. The same hands that had destroyed an opponent hours ago now rested lazily on his knee.

*How can he sit there and smile like that?* Jimin wondered, his chest tightening.

*How does someone switch that easily—from a monster in the cage to… this?*

A burst of laughter startled him. Hoseok had started a ridiculous karaoke battle with Ryeoshin, both failing gloriously to hit Taehyung’s high notes.

Yoongi was dragged in next, much to Taehyung’s exaggerated delight.

“Yoongi hyung, just one verse! For love!”

Yoongi groaned, but he sang anyway, voice deep and smooth, earning cheers and teasing whistles.

Namjoon had momentarily joined the crowd, clapping in rhythm, and even Jungkook’s lips twitched upward at the scene.

Jimin’s hand loosened around his bottle. Maybe this was how they survived the sport—through noise, through laughter, through pretending everything was fine after facing the brutality of what they did.

His eyes found Jungkook again, now leaning slightly forward, elbows on his knees, eyes softening as he watched his teammates.

And for the first time, Jimin doubted—

Jungkook wasn’t indifferent.

Maybe he was detached because he had to be. Maybe the person who stepped into that cage wasn’t the same one sitting in this room.

Jimin didn’t know why, but that thought made his throat ache.

He turned his gaze toward the ceiling instead, smiling faintly as Taehyung tried and failed to hit another high note.

---

Namjoon noticed Jimin’s quiet demeanor as he walked past, pausing beside him.

“You’re not drinking much,” he said casually, watching the younger man’s still fingers.

Jimin smiled. “Trying to make sure no one passes out in the hallway, coach.”

Namjoon chuckled softly. “Fair point. Though I think Taehyung’s already halfway there.”

They watched as Taehyung dramatically dropped to his knees mid-song, clutching his chest while Yoongi tried to push him away.

Namjoon’s laughter faded slowly. His voice dropped, calm but thoughtful.

“Hard to believe, right?”

Jimin looked up. “What is?”

“Him.” Namjoon nodded toward Jungkook. “How he can sit there like that after what he did today.”

Jimin’s eyes lowered again. “You read my mind.”

Namjoon leaned against the wall beside him, sighing softly. “It never gets easier to watch. I trained him, I know what he’s capable of. But every time he fights, I wonder if we’ve made him too good at it.”

Jimin stayed quiet.

“He’s not cruel,” Namjoon continued. “He’s… conditioned. That’s how he copes. Switches off everything human for twenty minutes and switches it back on once it’s done.But it doesnt make it easier to see the monster in him."

The coach glanced at Jimin, half-smiling. “That’s why we need people like you in the team, doc. Maybe you can remind him he’s still human.”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. He didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t overthink it,” Namjoon said, clapping his shoulder gently. “You did great. We all did.”

He moved off to stop Hoseok from challenging Taehyung to another drinking game.

Jimin looked once more across the room—at Jungkook, now half-listening to Yoongi and Hoseok’s argument, his expression unreadable again.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Something about the contrast—the calm after chaos—kept him rooted.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

For now, maybe it was enough that Jungkook could still smile, even a little.

Maybe that was his own way of surviving too.

But when he glanced back one more time, Jungkook was looking directly at him.

Not smiling.

Not even acknowledging—just watching, calm and quiet, as if reading something Jimin didn’t realize he was giving away.

Then Jungkook looked away again, leaned back, and let the noise of the team swallow the silence between them.

Jimin took a sip of his drink. It burned on the way down.

The laughter in the room grew louder, but somehow, beneath it all, the sound of the fight still lingered faintly in his ears

---

Chapter Text

Seoul’s afternoon light poured through the tall hospital windows, pale and soft, dust motes drifting lazily in the beam.

It was lunchtime, and the faint smell of broth and antiseptic filled Jin’s office — an odd, familiar mix that somehow always reminded Jimin of safety.

He sat across from Jin’s desk, lunchbox half-open, chopsticks forgotten midair as he replayed the Osaka fight in his head.

His expression was a blend of disbelief and leftover shock.

“Hyung, I swear,” Jimin blurted out suddenly, voice rising with both hands in the air, “I almost peed right there on the spot when I saw Jungkook fight. He’s—he’s scary. Like, actually scary! It’s like he’s enjoying it! In the most terrifying way!”

Jin, mid-bite, nearly choked on his food from laughing.

“Oh, come on, you’re being dramatic again.”

“I’m not!” Jimin pressed, leaning forward. “You didn’t see him, hyung. You didn’t hear it. The hits, the sound when he connected—it’s different in person! I thought he was going to snap that poor guy’s neck! I’m traumatized!”

Jin just chuckled, shaking his head, setting his chopsticks down.

“Stop exaggerating, little duck. I’m used to that kid. That’s just Jungkook. Didn’t you watch his old fights after I told you he’d be your client?”

Jimin groaned, leaning back into the chair dramatically.

“Yeah, but that’s not the same! Watching a clip is one thing. Standing there while he breaks someone in half—that’s another!”

His voice cracked, but Jin only smiled wider.

“That’s MMA, Jimin-ah. You’re in that world now. You better get used to blood and noise.”

“I’m a physical therapist, not a cage-side psychologist! I think this 3 days leave given to us is a disguise. A rest for the athletes and a psycological ease for me. I think Im traumatized."

Jin laughed again, his shoulders shaking. The easy sound of it filled the small office, breaking the tension that had followed Jimin home from Japan almost 2 days ago.

For a while, they just ate in silence — the calm hum of the hospital outside their door. The city felt slower here, far from the metallic chaos of the arena.

Then Jin looked up again, his tone softening.

“How’s your grandmother?”

The question made Jimin’s smile fade slightly. He lowered his chopsticks.

“She’s… fine,” he said after a pause. “Still at the facility. But the bills are stacking up again. The treatment isn’t working as well as before, so the doctor increased her dosage.”

Jin nodded slowly, his expression turning understanding.

“That’s rough. The meds for her case are expensive.”

“Yeah,” Jimin murmured, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his cup. “I’m just lucky to have this work Hyung. Really. The advance payment I got before really helped. 

“Namjoon’s good about that kind of thi--"

Before Jin could finish, Jimin’s phone buzzed sharply against the table.

Coach Namjoon is calling. 

Jin raised a brow. “Who is it?”

“Coach Namjoon,” Jimin said, curious, answering immediately. “Hello?”

Namjoon’s voice came through, calm but laced with urgency.

“Jimin, sorry to interrupt your day, but I need you at the gym.”

Jimin straightened, the easy calm from minutes ago vanishing instantly.

“What’s going on?”

“Jungkook’s here. He was practicing again—alone. His left arm gave out mid-drill. He’s in pain.”

Jimin blinked. “His shoulder?”

“Yeah. He said it’s just tightness, but I can see the way he’s favoring it. I don’t want to take chances. Bring your med kit. I'll tag thid as double pay since you are supposed to be on a leave”

“No worries coach. I’ll be there in twenty,” Jimin said quickly, already standing up and reaching for his bag.

“Thanks, doc,” Namjoon said, voice fading as he hung up.

Jin raised an eyebrow as Jimin slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Let me guess — the scary kid can’t sit still?”

“Pretty much.” Jimin grabbed his coat, already heading to the door. “He’s practicing again, and now his arm’s acting up.”

Jin chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course he is. Be careful, little duck. Don’t let him bite your head off if he’s in pain.”

Jimin groaned. “Thanks for the confidence boost, hyung.”

“Anytime!” Jin called as Jimin jogged down the hallway. “And tell him and Namjoon I said Hi and to Jungkook to actually rest for once!”

Jimin waved a hand over his shoulder as the automatic doors slid open, the cool air outside brushing against his cheeks.

As he crossed the parking lot towards the bus stop, his mind raced — half worried about Jungkook’s shoulder, half nervous at the thought of seeing him again after Osaka.

The image of that cold smirk flashed unbidden in his memory.

He swallowed hard.

“Just a check-up,” he told himself under his breath as he started the engine.

But deep down, he knew — with Jungkook, nothing was ever just anything.

---

When Jimin arrived at the Ironclad gym, the late afternoon sky had already dimmed to a dull amber, bleeding through the tall windows of the facility. The rhythmic sound of fists slamming against heavy bags echoed through the hall like a heartbeat — sharp, steady, relentless.

It wasn’t hard to find Jungkook.

Even from the doorway, he stood out — shirt drenched, veins pronounced, his hair plastered to his forehead as he threw one punishing combination after another into the bag. Each strike landed with such precision and force that even the other athletes training nearby kept their distance.

Each hit echoed through the space — a haunting tempo, like someone refusing to stop breathing through pain.

Namjoon was standing a few meters away, arms crossed, his jaw tight with frustration. The moment he saw Jimin enter, he waved him over.

“Good. You came fast,” Namjoon said under his breath.

Jimin’s eyes didn’t leave Jungkook. “You weren’t kidding,” he murmured. “He’s really back at it.”

“Since morning,” Namjoon said, shaking his head. “I thought I can finally rest after I gave you all 3 days of rest but no. He said he couldn’t sleep, so he came to move. I thought he’d stop after the warm-up, but he’s been sparring and bag-hitting for hours. Look at that shoulder.”

Jimin followed his gaze — and sure enough, Jungkook’s left shoulder rolled with a stiffness that wasn’t there before. He was compensating, shifting slightly off balance with every left hook. It was subtle, but trained eyes could see it.

“Did you try stopping him?” Jimin asked quietly.

Namjoon exhaled through his nose. “He doesn’t listen when he’s in that headspace. Says it feels fine. But I know that look — he’s just riding adrenaline.”

They both watched as Jungkook drove one last hook into the bag, the chain above it groaning under the impact. Sweat dripped down his jawline as he exhaled heavily, hands dropping for the first time.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon called firmly.

Jungkook didn’t respond immediately.

“Jungkook!”

This time, louder.

Jungkook’s movement slowed. He turned toward them, chest rising and falling hard, strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead. For a moment, silence filled the gym — broken only by his uneven breathing.

“What?” he asked, voice low and calm, though his tone carried the weight of exhaustion.

"That is enough." Namjoon said but Jungkook only looks back at the punching bag "I am still not tired" he said. 

Namjoon narrowed his eyes. “Jungkook.”

“I already gave you melatonin, didn’t I?” Namjoon finally said, voice firm, as if continuing an argument from before.

Jungkook’s reply came flat and without hesitation. “It’s not working.”

Namjoon rubbed his temples again, a deep sigh escaping him. “Of course it’s not.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Jimin spoke softly, hesitantly, “He… isn’t sleeping well?”

Namjoon turned to him, his face weary but calm. “No. Not really. He has always had sleeping issues. He only knocks out when he’s really tired — the kind of tired that shuts the body down completely.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked toward Jungkook again. “That’s… not sustainable.”

“No, it’s not. It was already resolved before but he said it went back after the match in Osaka. I think it’s his shoulder pain that’s keeping him awake. He is overworking it. The tension’s building up. That’s not nothing." Namjoon agreed. “But try telling him that.”

Namjoon's shout errupted again at Jungkook's punch on the bag. “That’s enough. PT’s here. Sit down.”

Jungkook’s gaze flicked toward Jimin — a brief glance, sharp and impersonal, like sizing him up again after Osaka. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, wordlessly, he grabbed his towel and walked past them, heading toward the therapy area.

Jimin followed silently, clutching his bag a little tighter. He swallowed, nerves knotting in his stomach.

“Sit down,” he said softly.

Jungkook obeyed — reluctantly — on the edge of the mat, wiping sweat from his face with a towel. He didn’t look at Jimin. His jaw flexed once, hard.

Jimin crouched beside him, pulling on gloves, clinical now, trying to keep his voice even. “Does it hurt when you lift your arm?”

Jungkook didn’t answer.

“Jungkook.” Namjoon warned. 

Finally, Jungkook glanced at Jimin — cold eyes, unreadable.

“Not much,” he said. His tone was flat, but the muscle in his shoulder jumped visibly when Jimin pressed on the deltoid.

He hissed, low, almost inaudible.

Namjoon crouched next to them, scanning Jimin’s face.

“How bad?”

“Inflamed, maybe strained,” Jimin said after a beat. “The joint’s irritated — Kaitos punch may have trigger it. Also, he must’ve thrown too many hooks again. He needs ice and full rest.”

Jungkook clicked his tongue quietly, annoyed. “It’s fine.”

Jimin looked up at him, incredulous. “It’s not fine. You can’t just—”

“I said it’s fine.” His tone had a quiet finality, his gaze fixed straight ahead, not even meeting Jimin’s.

Namjoon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is exactly why I told you to stay home. You’re one fight away from tearing that shoulder again.”

“I won’t tear it,” Jungkook muttered.

“And you’ll prove that by training through pain?” Namjoon snapped. The tension thickened between them — the air heavy with old frustration. 

Jungkook didn’t comment further, only leaned back again and closed his eyes.

“Fine,” Jungkook said softly, voice distant. “Just… finish it.”

So Jimin did. Quiet, methodical, hiding the unease that pressed heavy on his chest.

Namjoon groan as left to grab an ice pack, leaving the two of them in near silence.

The only sound was Jungkook’s breathing. Controlled. Sharp. Like someone forcing himself to stay still.

Jimin began massaging the shoulder lightly, finding the muscle’s resistance. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the tightness underneath.

“You’ll make it worse,” he murmured.

Jungkook didn’t respond. His eyes followed a distant spot on the floor, blank, detached.

Then, without warning, he smirked faintly — the same crooked edge he’d worn after knocking out Kaito.

“Didn't ask for your opinion.”

Before Jimin could reply, Namjoon returned, tossing the ice pack over.

“Alright, Tyrant. That’s enough. Ice it. Then go home. You’ve earned the damn break. Tomorrow ends the break anyway. Make sure to come on time as scheduled .”

Jungkook pressed the pack against his shoulder without argument, the chill biting into skin still flushed from exertion.

Namjoon gave Jimin a nod — silent approval — before heading to his office.

For a moment, only the hum of the gym lights filled the space again before Jungkook stands reavhing for his shirt and bag. 

Jimin watched him go, the sound of his own pulse loud in his ears. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or uneasy — only that the silence Jungkook left behind felt heavier than before.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the Ironclad gym was alive again — the steady hum of conversation, the thud of gloves on pads, and the smell of sweat mixing with brewed coffee. The Osaka trophies had just been arranged neatly in the display cabinet near the entrance, their metallic glint catching the morning sun.

Jimin entered quietly, yawning behind his hand. He hadn’t slept much either. After last night’s confrontation, the image of Jungkook refusing rest replayed in his head like a looping clip. He was thinking any possible ways he could use to make Jungkook settle instead of straining his shoulders more. 

Namjoon was already inside his small glass-walled office, leaning on the edge of his desk, papers scattered around and a coffee in one hand. Jungkook stood across from him, arms crossed, jaw clenched, looking both awake and irritated.

As Jimin entered, Namjoon gestured for him to come in.

“Doc, good timing,” he said, sounding like he’d been waiting.

Jimin closed the door behind him and tried to smile. “Morning, coach.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply before placing his cup down. “Alright. Let’s make this quick before he explodes.”

Jungkook only grunted quietly at that, gaze fixed on the floor.

Namjoon turned toward both of them, tone suddenly formal. “We’ve received a request for another international card — China. Two months from now. Main event slot. And—” he gave Jungkook a pointed look “—they want Jungkook to headline it.”

Jimin blinked, glancing at Jungkook. “Already? That fast?”

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah. The organizers don’t want to lose the momentum after Osaka. The crowd went wild for the Tyrant. The higher-ups already approved the proposal, but the final decision’s still on me.”

Namjoon crossed his arms as he leans om his chair.  “Personally, I think it’s too soon.”

Jungkook looked up finally, his tone even. “It’s not.”

Namjoon gave him a dry look. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I can do it,” Jungkook said flatly, cutting through the air with that quiet confidence that made even Namjoon hesitate.

Jimin shifted awkwardly beside them, unsure if he should even speak.

Namjoon sighed. “You just came off a brutal camp. Your shoulder isn’t even fully cleared yet.”

“It’s fine,” Jungkook replied, expression unchanging.

Namjoon looked at him long, then turned to Jimin. “Doc, what do you think?”

Jimin froze for a moment. He wasn’t used to being asked in front of Jungkook — especially when the man himself was standing there looking like a silent storm.

“Uh…” Jimin swallowed. “Physically, his vitals and strength are excellent. But his shoulder—” he hesitated when Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward him “—needs consistent monitoring. It’s not unstable, but it’s not perfect either.”

Namjoon nodded, as if confirming his own thoughts. “Exactly what I said.”

Jungkook rolled his jaw once, muttering, “You both worry too much.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “I call it being responsible. You call it worrying.”

The room went quiet again, tension hanging like static. Then Namjoon took a slow breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Alright. Here’s the deal.”

Jungkook glanced at him.

“If we take this fight, you’re doing it on *my* terms. You listen to the PT — everything Jimin tells you about your shoulder, your conditioning, your rest — no skipping, no cutting corners, no stubborn hero nonsense.”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed. “You’re making conditions now?”

Namjoon groans. “I’ve been making conditions since day one. You just don’t read them.”

Jungkook was silent for a moment, clearly debating whether to argue. But in the end, he only gave a small nod. “Fine.”

“Good,” Namjoon said simply. “Then we’ll proceed. I’ll confirm with the organizers later.”

He turned to Jimin, his expression easing just slightly. “And you — keep an eye on him. Especially during this downtime. No overtraining. No pushing limits unless I say so.”

“Yes, coach,” Jimin replied quietly.

Namjoon leaned back, stretching his shoulders as if the decision had lifted a weight. “For now, his focus isn’t training anyway. The next couple of weeks are mostly media and promo work.”

Jimin blinked. “Promotions?”

Namjoon smirked a little, clearly amused by Jimin’s confusion. “Doc, you didn’t think he’s just fighting in the cage, did you? The Tyrant’s got brand deals.”

“Brand… deals?”

“Yeah.” Namjoon pulled up his tablet, scrolling before turning the screen toward Jimin. The screen showed a glossy promotional lineup — Calvin Klein, bold and unmistakable.

Jimin blinked rapidly, leaning closer as if he read it wrong. “He… he’s modeling?”

Namjoon chuckled. “More like representing. They often offered him a contract right after the fight. Guess people like a mix of bruises and abs.”

Jimin’s mouth opened slightly reading through the letter “Underwear?”

“Underwear,” Namjoon confirmed, clearly entertained by the disbelief on Jimin’s face. “Photoshoot tomorrow. Taehyung’s already in on it too — he’s friends with the photographer. You can tag along if you want.”

“Me?” Jimin said, startled. “Why me?”

Namjoon grinned. “You’re his PT. It’s technically part of your job. Just make sure his shoulder doesn’t flare up during the shoot. Plus, having you there might keep him from punching a stylist if they get too close.”

From the corner, Jungkook exhaled, standing up finally. “You talk too much, coach.”

Namjoon shot him a grin. “And yet I’m right every time.”

Jungkook only adjusted the towel around his neck and started heading toward the exit. “I’ll be ready by tomorrow.”

“Make sure you are,” Namjoon called after him.

As the door shut behind Jungkook, Jimin stood still, still processing what he’d just heard.

He finally turned to Namjoon, voice small. “You weren’t kidding. He’s really doing an underwear shoot.”

Namjoon gave him a flat look. “Doc, that man has been shirtless for half his career. This is just another Tuesday.”

Jimin rubbed his forehead, still trying to imagine Jungkook — the cold, lethal, terrifying fighter — in front of a camera instead of an opponent. The contrast was almost impossible to grasp.

Namjoon chuckled when he saw Jimin’s expression. “Don’t overthink it. Just bring your medical kit and your patience.”

---

The studio smelled faintly of coffee, hairspray, and heated lights. Camera flashes cut through the air like lightning—white, sharp, relentless. A row of stylists flitted around the set, adjusting cables, pressing shirts, whispering last-minute directions. The low hum of conversation buzzed beneath the heavy bass of the background music.

Jimin stood near the monitors, clutching the clipboard Namjoon had handed him earlier. His role today was simple: monitor Jungkook’s posture, keep an eye on his shoulder, and make sure he didn’t overstrain.

Simple, at least in theory.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

Under the glare of studio lights, Jungkook looked nothing like the fighter who scowled at everyone in the gym. His skin glowed faintly, every sculpted line of his torso catching the light like carved marble. 

Jungkook stood center-stage, jeans slightly low to reveal the branded waistband, shirtless, damp from the mist. His hair, styled up, clung lightly to his forehead. Every muscle, every line of his body glistened under the lights, emphasized subtly by light makeup that brought out his sharp cheekbones, jawline, and sculpted torso.

And under the camera’s gaze, he came alive.

Each movement—each small tilt of his head, the flex of his shoulder, the shift of his jaw—was a performance of controlled danger. The same raw precision Jimin had seen in the ring was now refined, deliberate, powerful.

“Perfect, Jungkook-ssi!” the photographer called. “A little more turn—yes! Eyes here! Beautiful!”

Jungkook didn’t respond, only exhaled slowly through his nose. His focus was surgical. The way he looked into the camera—calm, detached, cold—sent a ripple through the room. Even the stylists stopped whispering for a second.

Beside Jimin, Taehyung who had just finished his shoot,—sunglasses perched on his head, iced coffee in hand—grinned like a cat who’d found cream.

“Oh, they are not ready for that look,” he muttered, shaking his head in amusement. “Look at him, Jimin. I swear, if Jungkook decides to quit fighting, half the modeling world will burn.”

Jimin blinked, forcing himself to refocus on the screen.

“I-I guess,” he mumbled. “He just… fits the theme.”

“The theme?” Taehyung snorted. “Please. The theme is ‘look at me and suffer.’ He is the theme.”

The next set began. Jungkook leaned against a metal wall, light streaking down his shoulders and chest. His expression softened—not warm, but distant, almost melancholic. That dangerous kind of beauty that made the line between heaven and hell blur.

Jimin’s throat felt dry. He was supposed to watch his form, not the way his collarbone dipped under the light.

His lips parted slightly, and he felt his cheeks heat up.

“Ahhh… what are you thinking, Jimin-ah?”

Taehyung’s voice drew him back. A playful smirk was on his face.

“Doc, careful. You’re staring too hard,” Taehyung teased, pushing Jimin’s jaw lightly with a finger. “You might drool.”

Jimin’s ears burned. “I—I'm not!” he stammered, glancing at Jungkook, his hands automatically found the side of his lips. 

Then Jungkook turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the monitor area—toward him. For a split second, their gazes met.

Cold. Unreadable.

But somehow, Jimin felt seen.

He almost dropped his pen.

"Focus Jimin-ah…” he muttered under his breath, cheeks heating. He tore his eyes away, pretending to study the clipboard. “Focus. You’re here as a PT, not—whatever this is.”

Taehyung, of course, heard him. “Not what, hmm?” he teased, leaning closer. “You’re blushing. Don’t tell me our little doc is falling for the Tyrant’s Calvin Klein era already.”

Jimin whipped his head around, horrified. “Wha—no! I’m not—it’s just—he’s… very professional.”

Taehyung laughed so loudly the make-up artist glared at him. “Professional, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

Before Jimin could protest, Jungkook stepped off the set for a short break. Sweat glistened faintly at the base of his neck, a towel slung over his shoulder as one of the staff offered him water. Even then, his expression didn’t change—calm, cool, maybe a little tired.

Namjoon came by, checking on the team, but Taehyung couldn’t resist walking straight to Jungkook, waving like a proud mother.

“Look at you, international superstar!” he teased. “Do we even breathe the same air anymore?”

“Stop being loud,” Jungkook replied, voice flat.

“See?” Taehyung turned back to Jimin, whispering dramatically. “He’s pretending he doesn’t care, but I can tell—he loves the attention.”

Jimin tried to hide his smile. “He doesn’t look like it.”

Jungkook’s eyes slid toward them then, as if sensing he was the topic. For a second, his gaze lingered on Jimin—sharp, unreadable—but then he looked away, when the make up staff dab a few make up on his face. 

Then photographer called. “Let’s go for the final set! We'll do the promotional video now”

Jungkook walked back under the lights, slow and steady. 

“Action!”

The photographer called, and Jungkook moved.

First, a controlled jab and cross — precision in every movement. Water droplets flew off his skin, glittering under the lights like tiny sparks. His jeans shifted with the motion, teasing the Calvin Klein waistband beneath, but nothing distracted from the natural athletic beauty of his form.

Next, a high kick, limbs slicing through the mist. The droplets caught in midair, reflecting every line of muscle. Each extension was perfect: powerful, controlled, mesmerizing.

Jimin’s clipboard shook slightly in his hand. He couldn’t stop watching, despite reminding himself repeatedly that this was part of his professional observation.

“Perfect,” Taehyung called out, amused. “You’re lucky I’m done already — otherwise I’d totally steal the spotlight.”

Jungkook, sensing the casual eyes on him, gave a faint smirk — subtle, calm, but undeniably confident. He pivoted into a squat, throwing a simulated hook, body coiled like a spring. Sweat glistened, mist sparkled, and the camera captured every second with sharp precision.

“Cut!”

The photographer’s voice cut through the studio, and Jungkook relaxed slightly, grabbing a towel. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak — just the quiet exhale of someone who had executed flawlessly.

Jimin exhaled, realizing how close he’d come to losing composure. Even outside the ring, Jungkook commanded attention — powerful, beautiful, and terrifying in his perfection.

Taehyung, still lingering, laughed softly.

“Man, he really is the angelic deadly monster, huh? In the ring, out of it… same energy.”

Jimin blinked, lips slightly parted again, cheeks still warm.

“Yeah…”

The fighter, the model, the man.

All the same person—every part of him terrifyingly composed, beautiful, and unreachable.

Taehyung hummed. “You’ll learn soon enough, doc. Just… don’t fall too deep.”

Jimin blinked, startled. “What?”

Taehyung grinned, tapping his coffee cup against Jimin’s clipboard. “I can already tell—you’re curious about him. Everyone who’s ever met Jungkook ends up curious.”

Then, as Jungkook’s shadow fell over them again, Taehyung straightened with a bright smile.

“Anyway, Jungkook-ah! You were perfect! Next time, let’s do a duo shoot—you and me, yeah?”

Jungkook didn’t even look at him. “Pass.”

Taehyung laughed, loud and unbothered. “You’ll beg me for it later!”

Jimin could only shake his head, cheeks warm, eyes lingering once more on Jungkook beneath the soft fading lights.

The Tyrant of the cage…

And somehow, the same man who could make even a photoshoot look like war and art combined.

--

After the Shoot — Inside the Van

The soft hum of the road filled the van as Seoul’s late afternoon lights streamed past the tinted windows. Inside the VIP transport, silence settled like a heavy blanket — the kind that comes after too much noise, too many flashes, too much heat.

Namjoon drove steadily, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally adjusting the rearview mirror. The rhythmic glow of passing streetlights brushed over his tired face, alternating shadow and gold.

In the back, Jungkook sat slouched against the leather seat, one arm draped over his chest, earbuds in, his head tilted toward the window.

He wasn’t asleep — not yet. His jaw was tight, his brows slightly drawn, and every so often, his fingers found their way to his temple, pressing and rubbing small circles.

Jimin watched quietly from the opposite side. His clipboard sat on his lap, untouched. The day’s adrenaline had long worn off, replaced by the gentle hum of the tires and the weight of unspoken concern.

Namjoon caught the movement through the mirror. “Your head again?” he asked, voice calm but edged with worry.

Jungkook didn’t open his eyes, just hummed a soft acknowledgment.

“I told you to sleep,” Namjoon sighed. “You’ve been up since dawn. Between the shoot and your morning excercise routine, you’ve had enough for today. How about I drop you straight to your penthouse? We’ll resume tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s answer came slow, flat, without lifting his head. “I won’t be able to sleep unless I’m tired.”

“You are tired,” Namjoon countered.

“Not enough,” Jungkook said simply. His voice was low, roughened by fatigue.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed. He wanted to argue, but Jungkook’s voice carried that quiet, stubborn tone that always ended every discussion.

“Melatonin doesn’t work. And I can’t take more meds before the fight — they’ll show in the tests.”

Namjoon let out a long exhale, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew that tone — the quiet, immovable one that came when Jungkook had already made up his mind.

There was no arguing with it.

“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you start punching walls out of frustration again.”

The van fell quiet again. Only the faint bass from Jungkook’s earbuds filled the air.

Jimin stared down at his hands, thumb brushing the edge of his clipboard, debating if he should say something. The way Jungkook’s fingers kept finding his temple, his jaw flexing with every pulse of discomfort — it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He could see the exhaustion beneath the calm exterior — the shadows under Jungkook’s eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers when he touched his temple again.

Finally, he took a breath.

He hesitated for a moment before lightly tapping Jungkook’s leg.

The reaction was instant. Jungkook’s eyes opened, sharp and annoyed, meeting Jimin’s startled face.

“What"

Jimin swallowed., “I… I can massage your head if you want.”

The silence that followed made him instantly regret opening his mouth. Jungkook’s eyes, dark and sharp,  glares that made his throat dry.

“You?” Jungkook’s tone was blunt, almost biting.

Jimin swallowed. “Uh… it’s just… when my grandma gets headaches, I—I do that. It helps. Eases the pain.”

For a second, Jungkook just stared at him. No expression. No word. Just that unreadable gaze. Then, with a faint grunt, he shut his eyes again.

Jimin took it as a no and awkwardly looked away, pretending to scroll through his phone — until Jungkook’s voice broke the silence. “Do it. Faster.”

Jimin froze. “W-what?”

“Massage,” Jungkook said, still not opening his eyes. “Do it before it gets worse.”

Namjoon’s lips twitched — almost a smile — but he kept his focus on the road.

Jimin hesitated, then adjusted his seat slightly so he could reach Jungkook better. His hands hovered uncertainly before finally finding the side of Jungkook’s head, fingertips pressing gently along his temple, tracing slow, careful circles.

The silence deepened, filled only by the quiet rhythm of his touch and the low hum of the van’s engine. Jungkook’s muscles under his palm were tense, like coiled steel, his shoulders twitched, as if resisting, but gradually they began to loosen, that tension began to ease.

His breathing steadied. The frown between his brows softened.

Namjoon glanced at the rearview mirror again, curious — only to find Jungkook’s head tilted slightly toward Jimin’s hand, his jaw slackening.

It was subtle at first — the slow weight of his body leaning back, the earbuds slipping slightly from his ears.

The van’s interior lights were dim, the late afternoon sun streaming through tinted glass, giving everything a muted gold hue. Jimin worked quietly, his touch steady and methodical. The air grew heavier, calmer — the kind of silence that made every small sound louder: the faint hum of the engine, Jungkook’s breathing, Namjoon’s occasional sigh.

By the time they reached the gym’s parking area, Jungkook was out cold.

Namjoon parked and turned around fully. “No way,” he murmured.

Namjoon blinked.

“...He’s asleep?”

Jimin stopped moving his hands, startled. He looked closer. Jungkook’s lashes fluttered faintly, but he didn’t wake.

“I—I think so,” Jimin whispered.

“Out cold,” Namjoon confirmed. He leaned forward, waving a hand near Jungkook’s face. Nothing. He called his name — no reaction.

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, disbelief coloring his tone.

“You’re kidding me. He hasn’t slept properly in almost five days, and all it took was your hands?”

Jimin flushed.

“It’s… probably coincidence.”

“Never,” Namjoon said, shaking his head, his tone equal parts amazement and exhaustion. “It usually takes hours of sparring before he even blinks like that. You have no idea how many times I’ve seen him fight sleep like it’s an opponent. This is new."

Jimin looked down at his hands, still slightly trembling from the massage. A quiet, uncertain warmth spread through his chest. “Guess… it worked?”

Namjoon chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess so.” He looked at Jungkook again — the undefeated Tyrant, the one who rarely showed weakness — now asleep like a child, head resting against the window, breaths steady.

“We’re here.” Namjoon tested after a few seconds. 

No reaction.

“Jungkook-ah,” he called a bit louder. Nothing.

He reached back and tapped Jungkook’s leg. The fighter only grunted softly, shifted slightly toward the seat, and sank back into the cushion, completely oblivious.

Jimin tried next, softly calling his name.

“Jungkook… we’re here.”

The only answer he got was another quiet sigh and Jungkook pulling his arm closer to his chest like he was nestling deeper into sleep.

Namjoon leaned back, shaking his head.

“This is unreal.”

He looked at Jimin.

“Doc, you have some kind of sorcery in your hands. This man trains until his body gives up before he even closes his eyes — and you got him sleeping inside a moving van?”

Jimin chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I really didn’t do much…”

“Yeah, right,” Namjoon muttered, still half in disbelief.

He exhaled deeply, glancing once more at Jungkook, whose face now looked almost peaceful under the dim light. The fighter who never let his guard down, finally — unguarded

“Let’s not wake him,” Namjoon decided. “He needs this more than practice.”

Jimin nodded quickly. “What should we do?”

Namjoon grabbed his phone. “We’ll skip the gym. I’ll call someone to open his penthouse. He can rest there.”

Jimin glanced at Jungkook again. 

In sleep, the fighter’s face had softened — no glare, no edge, no trace of the cold dominance he carried in the cage or under studio lights. Just a quiet calm. A rare peace.

For the first time, Jimin saw Jungkook not as the Tyrant…

but as a man who hadn’t rested in a long, long time.

As the van pulled back onto the road, Jungkook didn’t stir. Not even when the turns grew sharper or the city lights flickered through the windows. His breathing stayed steady — calm, almost fragile — like his body had finally surrendered.

Jimin leaned against the window, watching the city lights pass by. Across from him, Jungkook slept, head tilted slightly toward his hand, a faint crease still visible between his brows.

And for once, Jimin thought, maybe rest was the best kind of medicine this man could get.

Chapter Text

The Ironclad gym was already alive when Jimin arrived the next day. 

Music thumped faintly from the speakers, punctuated by the echo of pads hitting pads, gloves cracking against mitts, and the low growl of coaches shouting commands filled the wide hall. Fighters were already deep in their morning grind: some drilling combos, others rolling on the mats, the sharp slap of takedowns reverberating across the floor. Sweat and focus hung thick in the air — the familiar symphony of fighters warming up for the day.

Jimin slipped his bag over his shoulder as he stepped inside. The sun filtering through the high windows caught dust motes floating above the octagon ring, and the metallic clang of weights from one corner mixed with the low chatter of coaches shouting instructions.

It was the kind of organized chaos he was slowly learning to live with.

He barely made it past the edge of the mat when someone shouted his name.

“Doc! Jiminnie! Good morning!"

Hoseok’s voice came from near the treadmill section, loud and bright as always. He waved both arms like Jimin might somehow miss him otherwise.

Next to him, Yoongi was wiping his face with a towel, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed straight into a sparring session.

Hoseok jogged up to him, grinning. “I heard you joined Jungkook for the Calvin Klein shoot yesterday!” His grin widened mischievously. “How was it? Yoongi-hyung’s too shy to ask about Taehyung’s photoshoot, so I’m doing it for him!”

“Yah—” Yoongi threw the towel at him with sharp aim. “Shut up.”

Hoseok ducked, laughing so hard he almost tripped on his own feet. “Come on, admit it, you wanted to know too!”

Before Jimin could even respond —

a sudden *bang* echoed through the gym, so loud it cut through the chatter.

Everyone turned their heads toward the ring.

Inside, Namjoon was sparring with Jungkook — or at least trying to. The coach was wearing a thick, padded training suit, but the power behind Jungkook’s movements still sent him stumbling backward after a clean, vicious side kick to the torso.

Namjoon laughed even as he caught his balance. “Ya! I’m just kidding, calm down!”

Jungkook lowered his leg, chest rising and falling with steady breaths, sweat already glistening against the sharp lines of his jaw. His expression, though, was far from calm. He grunted low under his breath, jaw tight — then his eyes flicked toward the gym’s entrance.

Straight at Jimin.

Jimin froze for a second under the gaze. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was something colder. 

The air around them seemed to still for half a second.

Jungkook’s glare lingered — cold and sharp enough to make Jimin blink in surprise — before he turned away, pulling off his gloves with a rough motion.

“I don’t want to deal with you,” Jungkook muttered, voice low but cutting. “I’ll jog instead.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Fucker,” Jungkook shot back without turning around, already hopping down from the ring.

Namjoon burst out laughing as Jungkook disappeared toward the back door, wrapping his hand with a towel. “Yeah, he’s fine,” he said to no one in particular.

Jimin, still a little stunned, walked closer. Hoseok followed him like a curious puppy, leaning on the ropes as Namjoon peeled off his padded vest.

“Ya, coach,” Hoseok called, “what gives? He looks ready to bite someone’s head off.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing.” He smirked, glancing at Jimin. “He just gets pissed when I tease him about things.”

Jimin blinked. “Tease him about…?”

Namjoon’s grin widened. “About finally sleeping yesterday.”

Hoseok’s eyes lit up. “Wait, sleeping? Jungkook? You mean, he actually did? I thought his insomia or something is back after Osaka?”

Namjoon nodded, tossing his towel onto the bench. “It is. But for the first time in days. Knocked out cold in the van. Didn’t even wake up when we reached his place.”

Hoseok whistled low. “That’s a miracle. What’d you do, drug him?”

Namjoon laughed. “Nope. Ask your doc here.”

Jimin froze mid-step, blinking rapidly. “M-me?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon said, voice teasing but amused. “Apparently your little massage worked better than any sleeping aid I’ve ever given him.”

Hoseok’s grin stretched wide, instantly catching the implication. “Ohhh… that kind of massage?”

Jimin’s face heated up instantly. “N-no! It wasn’t—!”

“Relax, I’m joking!” Hoseok laughed, patting his shoulder. “Still, man, that’s impressive. No one’s managed to make that guy sleep without knocking him out first before. Last time he even stayed 2 days in gym before he could get a goodnight sleep. And we all suffered because of it. ” nodding as he remembered that day. 

Yoongi, still near the treadmill, smirked quietly. “Guess our doc’s got the magic touch.”

“Hyung!” Jimin groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Namjoon chuckled, slinging the vest over his shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, Jimin. He’s just embarrassed. You know how he is — he hates being seen as human.”

Jimin lowered his hands slowly, his voice quieter now. “I… didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable.”

Namjoon smiled, softer this time. “You didn’t. He’s just… figuring out what to do with the fact that something worked for once.”

There was a beat of silence — the kind that held weight, not awkwardness.

From outside, the muffled sound of sneakers pounding pavement could be heard — steady, controlled, relentless. Jungkook’s jog.

Jimin turned his head toward the sound, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and unease.

“Don’t worry, Jimin ah,” Hoseok said, slinging an arm around him. “You’ll get used to it. The Tyrant’s moods are part of the gym décor now.”

Namjoon laughed again, pulling his hair back into a tie. “Come on I need to discuss something with you. Let him burn it off. He’ll cool down by lunch.”

But Jimin wasn’t so sure.

Because even from here, he could almost feel it — that heavy, simmering energy that followed Jungkook like a shadow.

Something about last night had shifted something in him.

And Jimin wasn’t sure if it was just sleep… or something far more dangerous waking up underneath it.

---

Namjoon’s office inside the Ironclad gym was quieter than usual — the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint echo of gloves hitting bags outside were the only sounds that filtered through the door.

On his desk, papers were stacked neatly beside his tablet, a few fighter profiles open on the screen. The walls were lined with photos — Ironclad fighters mid-fight, victory shots, press stills. Most of them had Jungkook’s face somewhere in the frame.

Jimin sat across from him, a small folder on his lap, filled with handwritten notes and medical charts. He shifted slightly, glancing at Namjoon, who looked deep in thought, tapping his pen against his mug.

“So,” Namjoon finally said, breaking the silence, “two weeks.”

Jimin blinked. “Two weeks?”

Namjoon nodded. “Preparation for the fight in China. It’s official now. Management's already ready to sign the contract.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “It’s going to be a big one. Bigger than Osaka.Main card.”

“Main card again?” Jimin raised an eyebrow.

Namjoon nodded. “Of course. The Tyrant never opens a show; he closes it.” His tone carried both pride and exhaustion. “They want the fight to headline the event — another international broadcast. The opponent’s name will be revealed after the press release. They’re still finalizing the contract, but the buzz online is already insane.”

He paused, eyes flicking to Jimin. “You’ve seen the interviews, right?”

Jimin nodded. “Some of them. Jungkook’s calm as ever. I don’t know how he does it.”

Namjoon chuckled, low. “He’s been trained for this. Even when he’s exhausted, he knows how to wear that face — cold, distant, untouchable. The brand loves it. It’s what sells him.”

Jimin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Even if it’s eating into his body?”

Namjoon's smile faded. "That is why we are here. We prepare him for the battle"

Jimin sat straighter, a mix of surprise and apprehension flickering across his face. “That’s soon.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon muttered, sighing. “And Jungkook’s schedule’s packed till next week—photoshoots, interviews, some promotional stuff. Calvin Klein, Men’s Health, and two MMA magazine features.” His tone was dry, half exasperated. “The management’s trying to milk his popularity while he’s still hot from that knockout in Osaka.”

Jimin looked down at his notes. “Will he even have enough time to rest? Or train properly?”

“He will,” Namjoon assured, though his tone was more pragmatic than confident. “I already adjusted his sessions. Light technical drills, minimal sparring until we clear one thing first.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Clear what?”

Namjoon turned the tablet toward him — a medical form with highlighted sections and Ironclad’s digital signature stamped at the bottom.

“The medical request,” he said simply. “For his shoulder.”

Jimin’s eyes widened slightly. “You got them to approve it?”

Namjoon gave a small, tired laugh. “Finally, yeah. After a week of back-and-forth. You’d think I was asking for a surgery approval instead of a damn x-ray.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “You know how it is — they hate delays. Every day Jungkook isn’t in the spotlight costs money. But after I showed them your reports these past few days, they finally stopped pretending it’s nothing.”

Jimin blinked. “You showed them my reports?”

“Of course.” Namjoon’s tone was matter-of-fact, not apologetic. “Your assessments were thorough. Objective. That’s the only thing they’ll listen to—numbers, data, PT's notes.” He crossed his arms, looking at Jimin with faint approval. “ Every time I request a scan, they throw me the same excuse — ‘not now, he’s too busy, we’ll do it after the next fight’.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “But after seeing your documentation — especially that part where you mentioned the risk of chronic strain if the injury goes untreated — they finally caved. You did good, Doc"

Jimin looked down, a little shy but grateful. “Thank you, but… that means we’re doing the x-ray soon, right?”

Namjoon nodded. “We already have it scheduled by tomorrow evening. We just have to show up, if I can make him agree.”

That last sentence hung in the air — heavy with unspoken meaning.

Jimin frowned. “...You still think he’ll refuse?”

Namjoon gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Think? No, I know he will.”

He stood up, pacing slowly behind his desk. “You’ve seen how he is. He hates hospitals, tests, anything that makes him feel like he’s not invincible. He’s terrified of being told something’s wrong.”

“He’s Jungkook,” Namjoon said. “He’s been fighting pain longer than most people have been fighting opponents. He’ll say he’s fine. He’ll say it’s ‘just soreness.’ He’ll argue that scans waste time he could spend training.”

He sighed again, running a hand through his hair. “He’s been like this since debut. Even back when we were just a small local gym. He’d come in with bruised ribs, or a swollen wrist, and he’d still spar. Back then, I thought it was dedication. Now…”

“Now it’s habit,” Jimin finished softly.

Namjoon nodded. “Exactly. He doesn’t know how to rest. Or maybe he’s just scared of what rest might show.”

He turned, resting his hands on the back of his chair. “And with his kind of career… I get it. One bad scan, one questionable result, and management could bench him for months. To Jungkook, that’s worse than losing.”

Jimin’s lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing. “But what if he is hurt? What if that shoulder gets worse?”

Namjoon sighed through his nose. “Then we deal with it. But we can’t deal with what we can’t see.” He paused, glancing at Jimin. “That’s why I need your help.”

“Mine?”

“Yeah.” Namjoon gave a small smile. “He listens to you more than anyone else right now — even if he doesn’t admit it.”

Jimin blinked. “He glares at me most of the time.”

Namjoon chuckled. “That’s his way of saying he tolerates you. Trust me, if he didn’t like you, you’d know.”

That didn’t exactly sound reassuring, but Jimin didn’t argue. He sat back, thinking. The image of Jungkook’s expression after Osaka — calm, collected, but almost too calm — lingered in his mind. The small twinge he saw in Jungkook’s left shoulder. The way he brushed it off, like it didn’t exist.

“So… how do we tell him?” Jimin asked carefully.

Namjoon sighed and leaned on the desk again, folding his arms. “Simple. We don’t ask. We inform.”

Jimin’s brows raised. “That’s not going to work.”

“I know,” Namjoon said dryly. “But it’ll buy me five minutes before he starts swearing.”

Namjoon smirked slightly. “We’ll schedule it after one of his promotional shoots. I’ll tell him it’s a quick conditioning check — which isn’t exactly a lie. Once he’s there, you’ll explain the rest.”

Jimin’s eyes widened slightly. “You want me to be the one to tell him?”

“Yeah. I told you he listens to you more than he trusts anyone else right now.”

“Trust isn’t the word I’d use,” Jimin said dryly. “He barely tolerates me.”

Namjoon chuckled. “That’s closer to affection than you think, coming from him.”

Jimin gave him a look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m serious,” Namjoon said. “He’s… calmer around you. You noticed, right? When you’re in the room, he doesn’t snap as much. He listens. It’s small, but it’s there.”

Jimin hesitated, remembering that van ride — Jungkook’s sharp words softening into quiet surrender, his breathing evening out under his fingers as he fell asleep for the first time in days.

“…Maybe,” Jimin admitted quietly.

Namjoon leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. “That’s why you’re the best shot we’ve got. If I bring it up, he’ll fight me on it. If you bring it up… he might just listen.”

Jimin stared at the desk for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll try.”

They both sat in silence for a moment — the hum of the AC filling the room again.

“Tomorrow, then?” Jimin finally said.

“Tomorrow,” Namjoon confirmed. “Evening after his photoshoot, before training. I’ll have the car ready. Just…” He looked at Jimin, almost apologetically. “Be ready for him to get pissed.”

Jimin exhaled, already feeling the tension creeping in. “I’ll try.”

Namjoon gave him a faint smirk. “You’re the only one who can calm him down lately. Maybe just… use that ‘grandma massage’ magic again if things get ugly.”

Jimin groaned, hiding his face in his hands. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Nope,” Namjoon said, laughing as he gathered the files from the desk. “Now go get some lunch, Doc. You’ll need the energy tomorrow. The Tyrant’s going to throw a fit.”

As Jimin stood, gathering his tablet and folders, Namjoon’s voice stopped him.

“Hey, Doc.”

Jimin looked back.

“Thanks,” Namjoon said simply. “For giving a damn. Most people just see Jungkook as a paycheck. You don’t.”

Jimin hesitated, then nodded once. “Someone has to.”

Namjoon’s smile was small but genuine. “Let’s make sure he makes it to China in one piece.”

Jimin smiled back. “That’s the plan.”

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight spilled through the glass windows of the Seoul studio, where staff were already moving in brisk, quiet rhythm. Cameras, lighting panels, wardrobe racks, bottles of perfume, and luxury coats lined the space. The air was filled with faint sandalwood and the static tension of another high-profile shoot.

It was Jungkook’s first schedule of the day — a perfume campaign for Bleu Noire. By the time he stepped into the studio, the crew was already in motion, and the atmosphere subtly changed. There was something magnetic about him even off the ring — a quiet kind of power that commanded space without trying. He was dressed down elegantly, his hair swept back, exposing his sharp features.

Hoseok arrived shortly after — bright, charming, effortlessly social. He waved at the staff, greeting everyone by name. The two champions, both from Ironclad, were to represent “duality” for the campaign — Hoseok’s warm intensity against Jungkook’s cool dominance.

“Two extremes in one frame,” the creative director had said earlier, grinning as she gestured toward them. “Perfect.”

When the call for “first setup” came, both fighters stepped onto the white cyclorama stage. The creative director briefed them — confident, precise gestures as she moved around the set.

“Today, we’re chasing two energies,” she said, showing a moodboard on her tablet. “Light and shadow. Grace and ferocity. You two aren’t just fighters — you’re elegance and control personified.”

The shoot began with Hoseok — easy smiles, practiced elegance, his movements smooth but strong. Then the camera turned to Jungkook.

The room shifted again.

He didn’t pose; he moved. Every subtle shift of his body carried control. 

His skin still held the cold sting of setting spray as another stylist fixed a strand of hair that had fallen out of place. He stood in front of the white backdrop, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The photographer’s voice echoed in the air.

“Beautiful. Hold that pose—good. Eyes up. Chin down just a little. Perfect. That’s it, Jeon.”

Jungkook blinked once, slow. The world narrowed to light and shutter clicks. His body obeyed automatically — tilt, shift, breathe, blink.

They moved in sync even without words — Hoseok’s easy expression softening the tension in Jungkook’s sharper posture. Their chemistry was undeniable — not just two models, but two champions embodying balance.

After the stills came the video shoot — short scenes for the campaign film.

The director called, “Action!” and Hoseok stepped forward first, spritzing the perfume across his wrist before moving toward the camera, eyes steady. A cut, then Jungkook took his place.

This time, the room seemed to pause.

He rolled his sleeves up slowly, adjusted the cuff, and looked into the lens — gaze low and heavy, as if challenging whoever was watching.

The camera moved closer; he didn’t flinch. He let his movements breathe — slow, deliberate. A step forward. A half-turn. A faint smirk that wasn’t really a smile.

Power without words.

Then came the duo shot — Jungkook and Hoseok standing shoulder to shoulder, city skyline projected faintly behind them. The brand's signature scent diffused through the air machine, glimmering under the white light. The visual director whispered something to the cameraman:

“Got it. That’s the one.”

The set exhaled in collective relief — applause rising when the final “Cut!” echoed. The director clapped once. “Excellent work, everyone. That’s a wrap for main visuals!”

On the side, Jimin is just starring. Admiring. When Hoseok went to Jimin as they end the shoot sharing stories of last night's fun with other athletes that Jimin should join next time, Namjoon even laughing along, his eyes, despite his best effort, had a mind of their own.

They kept drifting toward Jungkook.

He watched him wordlessly—how Jungkook tilted his head back to drink water, throat moving with each slow swallow. How he nodded occasionally at the director’s words, his focus absolute even in rest. The thin film of mist sprayed on his skin caught the light.

There was something about Jungkook that didn’t fit into any of his medical categories.

He wasn’t just looking at muscle; he was looking at control. Poise. Power dressed in silence.

“Doc!”

The shout startled him. “You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Hoseok teased, sweat still shining on his temples a he took an orange juice from the staff. “Here. Vitamin C. You look pale.” 

“Ah—thanks,” Jimin muttered, trying to focus.

"Man don't be shy! It isn't your first time here right?!" 

The three of them laughed lightly, the energy easy and familiar. Yet, even as Jimin smiled along, his eyes kept wandering — pulled back again and again toward the other end of the studio.

Jungkook stood under the corner light, bottle still in hand, hair damp from misting, the faintest sheen of sweat on his chest. His focus remained on the director, who was showing him their photo on a monitor. Occasionally, Jungkook nodded, slow and deliberate — his jaw tightening briefly each time he rolled his shoulder to loosen it.

Something about the small gesture tugged at Jimin again — that left shoulder, always the same subtle motion. Even now, it wasn’t obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Jimin did. He always did.

“You’re spacing out again,” Hoseok said suddenly, snapping Jimin from his trance.

“Huh?” Jimin turned too fast, blinking.

Hoseok smirked. “Your eyes weren’t even on me, doc.”

Jimin froze, his throat tightening. “I—I was just—”

“Ohhh,” Hoseok leaned forward, voice low with playful suspicion. “Don’t tell me our doctor’s got a favorite fighter now. I know he is your main patient but dang! I might get jealous”

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “Be careful, Hoseok. You’ll make him blush.”

Jimin instantly looked away, heat rushing to his ears. “I’m not—!”

But the words died halfway out of his mouth when, across the studio, Jungkook looked up. Their eyes met — a brief, unguarded collision across the noise and brightness.

For a heartbeat, Jimin forgot how to breathe.

Jungkook didn’t look away at first. His gaze was unreadable — not angry, not soft, just steady. Observing. Then, finally, the corner of his lip twitched upward — a ghost of a smirk — before he turned back to the director.

Jimin looked down immediately, his fingers tightening around the paper cup. “It’s just…. it's still new for me,” he mumbled.

Hoseok laughed, loud and delighted. “Sure it is.”

Namjoon shook his head, still amused. “You really are bad at hiding things, doc.”

Jimin groaned quietly. “Can we not—”

Jimins words were cut off by the director's shout. "Let us start with the magazine Interview! Staff's here. " 

Saved. 

After a short break, they moved to a side studio for a behind-the-scenes interview — part of the magazine feature.

Hoseok handled the press like he always did — warm, confident, speaking openly about his friendship with Jungkook and the privilege of representing the brand. Jungkook, on the other hand, kept his answers minimal but precise.

Jimin, standing off to the side near Namjoon, scribbled some notes as he observed Jungkook — posture strong, expression unreadable, but the faint twitch of his shoulder muscle didn’t escape him.

Namjoon caught it too.

By the time the cameras cut, the sun was beginning to lower through the studio windows, washing the floor in muted orange. Crew members began packing up equipment; stylists started removing the last bits of shimmer from Jungkook’s skin. The chaos of wrap-up filled the air.

Hoseok approached first, towel around his neck, grin still wide. “That’s it for me. I’ve got sparring drills later,” he said, patting Jungkook’s back. “You coming?”

Before Jungkook could respond, Jimin stepped forward from behind Namjoon. “Not today,” he said.

Hoseok blinked, then laughed. “Oh? Coach’s orders again?”

“Exactly,” Jimin said lightly. “He has another appointment.”

Jungkook’s head turned slowly. “Appointment?”

Jimin avoided the weight of his stare. “Routine. Just a quick conditioning check.”

Namjoon, already looking at his phone, added without looking up, “Hospital’s expecting you. Your shoulder needs a proper scan. They’ve prepared for an X-ray and MRI.”

That got Jungkook’s attention. His jaw tensed, eyes narrowing. “A what?”

“Relax,” Namjoon said, finally glancing at him. “Just confirming the inflammation’s gone. It’s standard, kid.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Jungkook said quietly.

“I’m telling you now,” Namjoon replied evenly.

Jimin’s fingers twitched where he held the pouch. He could feel the air shift—dense, sharp. Namjoon sighed through his nose.

“Because if I did, you wouldn’t have shown up,” Namjoon said. “It’s just precaution. Quick and easy.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You said that before your last two fights,” Namjoon shot back, voice firmer now. “And I watched you flinch every time you rolled that arm. This isn’t a suggestion anymore. You’re going.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the remaining staff nearby seemed to sense the shift in air. Hoseok’s grin faltered a little.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he said quickly, excusing himself before he got caught in the crossfire.

When he left, the room seemed to contract.

Jungkook turned to Jimin, voice low but edged. “So, that’s what this is? You and Namjoon deciding where I go and when?”

Jimin held his ground. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?”

“It’s about keeping you healthy enough to keep doing what you love,” Jimin said, steady but not sharp. “You said it yourself earlier in the interview — you can’t fight if you’re broken.”

Jungkook’s gaze darkened, unreadable. “I’m not broken.”

“No,” Jimin said softly. “But you’re close.”

For a second, it looked like Jungkook might snap — a retort forming on his tongue, a glare sharpening. But then something else flickered behind his eyes. Frustration, exhaustion, something quieter. He looked away first, inhaling deeply before muttering, “You’re starting to sound like Namjoon.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is,” Jungkook said flatly.

Namjoon chuckled, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Come on, tyrant. Let’s just get this done. The sooner we go, the sooner you can hit the gym.Plus, we talked about it. My rules right?”

That seemed to be the only language Jungkook didn’t argue with. After a long pause, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Fine.”

Jimin exhaled quietly, tension easing just a fraction.

Namjoon smirked. “See? Easy.”

“Nothing about him is easy,” Jimin muttered.

Namjoon laughed under his breath. “You’ll get used to it. Or lose your mind trying.”

---

The car ride to the hospital was quieter than usual.

Jungkook sat in the back again, hood up, earbuds in, gaze fixed out the window. The city passed by in slow motion — Seoul caught between golden hour and neon, that strange moment where everything looked too alive.

Namjoon drove, humming softly to a song playing faintly through the speakers. Jimin sat beside him, reviewing digital forms on the tablet, pretending not to notice the occasional shift from the backseat — the small movements Jungkook made to stretch his left arm, the faint clench of his jaw every time he did.

He wasn’t fine. Not completely. But he was too proud to admit it.

As they neared the hospital, Namjoon broke the silence. “Hey, Jungkook.”

No response.

Namjoon tried again, louder. “Hey. Tyrant.”

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, eyes still closed. “What.”

“After this, no training. You go straight home.”

“I’ll do what I want,” Jungkook murmured.

“You’ll rest.”

Silence. "Yeah. Make me.”

Namjoon sighed. “You’re impossible.”

That earned the faintest hum from Jungkook — not quite a laugh, not quite a protest.

Jimin glanced at the rearview mirror just in time to catch the way Jungkook leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded. His left hand rested loosely over his chest, fingers twitching slightly — a restless tic.

He was still wired. Even exhaustion didn’t look peaceful on him.

Namjoon broke the silence. “Don’t pick a fight with the doctors. They’re doing me a favor squeezing us in.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. Only the faint thrum of bass from his earbuds filled the air.

When they arrived, security led them through a private entrance—away from fans or curious staff. Inside the VIP wing, Jimin prepared the necessary files while Namjoon checked them in. The medical staff greeted Jungkook carefully—professionally—but even they seemed cautious. His fame wasn’t just built from charm, after all.

“Mr. Jeon, please follow me to radiology,” one nurse said politely.

Jungkook stood without a word.

Namjoon leaned toward Jimin. “You stay with them. I’ll handle the paperwork.”

So Jimin followed—the quiet shadow to a man who didn’t want to be there.

The X-ray room was dim, cool, sterile. Jungkook removed his upper layer, leaving only his undershirt, the sharp lines of his shoulders and arms visible beneath the fabric. Jimin tried not to stare too long. He focused instead on the faint discoloration near the deltoid—the bruise still fading from Osaka

“Please raise your left arm,” the technician instructed.

Jungkook obeyed. No flinch. No wince. But Jimin saw the tension—barely there, a subtle tightening in the jaw.

After the X-ray, the MRI followed. The machine’s low hum filled the silence. Jungkook lay still, eyes closed, jaw set. Jimin watched through the glass wall, the monitor glowing faintly. He couldn’t help but think: How much can one body endure before it breaks?

Thirty minutes later, the results came out. The doctor gestured for Namjoon and Jimin to step into his office while Jungkook changed back into his hoodie.

“There’s no tear,” the doctor said, “but there’s early inflammation. The muscles are overused. If he keeps training without rest, it could lead to strain or minor rotator cuff injury.”

Namjoon exhaled through his nose. “So rest and therapy?”

“At least a week of restricted movement,” the doctor confirmed. “Ice therapy, light stretching. No sparring. No heavy lifts.”

When they left the office, Jungkook was already waiting, hood up, expression unreadable.

“What did he say?” Jungkook asked.

Namjoon paused. “Inflammation. Nothing serious—but you’re on light duty for a week.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked between the two of them. “You’re lying.”

Jimin opened his mouth. “No, he’s not—”

But Jungkook stepped closer, close enough for Jimin to feel the heat off his skin. His voice was quiet. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me.”

Namjoon met his stare evenly. “Then hear it raw: you overworked your shoulder. You’re risking long-term damage if you keep pushing. You’ll rest or I’ll cancel the China fight myself.”

Silence. Heavy and long.

Then Jungkook’s lips curled—not into a smile, but something like it. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” Namjoon said simply.

The tension snapped there. Jungkook looked away first, shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders stiff.

The tension snapped there. Jungkook looked away first, shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders stiff.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One week. But after that—no more restrictions.”

Namjoon nodded, letting the victory stay quiet.

As they walked out, Jimin fell into step behind Jungkook. He watched the way the fighter’s broad back moved—taut, restrained, dangerous even in stillness. And yet, underneath it all, there was something else.

Something Jimin couldn’t name.

Not pain. Not pride.

Something in between.

When they stepped back into the parking space, Jungkook slid his sunglasses on, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smirk, not quite anger.

Namjoon exhaled. “That went better than I expected.”

Jimin, still holding the envelope of MRI results, murmured softly, “He didn’t shout.”

Namjoon glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“He doesn’t need to. That silence? That’s Jungkook thinking of how to win even when he’s told not to fight.”

--

They went back to the gym as Jungkook insisted. Talking about the forgotten item in his locker room. Even if they know Jungkook has other ideas once they reached the gym, they just followed. It's not good to piss him off even more. 

Evening came late at the Ironclad gym. Most of the athletes had gone home, the scent of sweat and disinfectant lingering under the soft hum of the air-conditioning. Only the steady rhythm of the treadmill broke the quiet — feet hitting rubber in relentless cadence.

Despite all threats and attempts to stop Jungkook, he found a loophole. He jogged instead — He wasn’t sparring, wasn’t throwing punches — at least he kept his word about no straining his arms. But there he was, jogging on the treadmill, sweat glistening down his temple, the black sleeveless shirt soaked against his torso. Each breath came sharp and even, not from exhaustion but from restraint — the kind that said I’m following your rules but only technically.

Namjoon stood beside Jimin, arms crossed. “That’s what he calls resting,” he muttered, voice dry.

“He said no sparring,” Jimin replied carefully. “Not no movement.”.

Jimin watched him again. The repetitive motion, the deliberate silence — all of it too calm, too precise. He wasn’t chasing fitness; he was running from stillness.

Namjoon only shakes his head. "Ah. I can't with thid kid".

Jimin looked at Namjoon before looking back at Jungkook “He’s still angry.”

“He’s not angry,” Namjoon said quietly. “He’s trying not to be.”

Jimin hummed in agreement. “Same thing.”

Just then, Jungkook slowed to a stop, one hand clutching the treadmill rail as his chest rose and fell heavily. He bent slightly, pressing his palm to his temple. The faint tremor of his fingers didn’t escape Jimin’s notice.

“...Jungkook?” Jimin called softly, stepping closer.

For a moment, Jungkook didn’t move. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes — dark, sharp, tired. And when they landed on Jimin, that familiar, dangerous glare returned.

“Ya,” Jungkook said flatly, the single word slicing through the air like a blade.

Namjoon sighed from beside Jimin. “At least respect the doc, Jungkook-ah. He’s the reason your arm’s still working.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He only turned his glare toward Namjoon, silent, unyielding — the quiet rebellion of a man still mad about being tricked into an MRI.

Then his attention snapped back to Jimin.

He exhaled, slow and deep.

“Massage my head,” he said coldly. “I need it.”

The room went still.

Jimin blinked. “H-here?”

Jungkook’s tone didn’t change. “Now.”

Namjoon rubbed his temples, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “Okay, that’s enough for today.” He turned toward Jimin, lowering his voice. “Pack up. I’ll prep the car.”

Jimin hesitated, glancing between them. Jungkook had already stepped off the treadmill, wiping his sweat with a towel, head lowered. He wasn’t angry in his words anymore — just simmering, drained. Maybe even... lost in thought. So he decided to follow Namjoon for now. 

“Doc,” Namjoon murmured as they walked toward the exit, voice low enough that Jungkook couldn’t hear. “Massage him in the car. He’ll fall asleep faster. Last thing I want is him passing out here. We can't just drag a passed out fighter to the car. He is heavy."

Jimin blinked. “You think he won't mind?”

Namjoon chuckled. “What? No. He asked for it. I just need to remind myself not to tease him about it again. He gets headaches when he’s running low on rest. The last time you did that massage, he was out cold in minutes.” He looked back, where Jungkook was now leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed. “He’s probably feeling tired already but needs your massage to make sure he gets the sleep he needs.”

--

By the time they reached Jungkook’s penthouse, the streetlights glowed soft gold through the tinted windows. Namjoon parked and turned slightly.

“Okay,” he said, voice gentler now, “we’re here.”

No answer.

He looked back — Jungkook’s head had fallen slightly to the side, resting against the seat, his breathing deep and slow. Asleep. Completely out.

Jimin’s hands had fallen to his lap, motionless, eyes wide with disbelief. “He actually fell asleep...?”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “I told you. Works better than melatonin.”

He opened the van door quietly, motioning for the guards outside. “We’ll carry him up. Let him rest. You are free this week given that he's on off as well— he needs it.”

Jimin nodded, still staring at Jungkook’s sleeping face — the lines softened, the ever-present tension gone. Without the glares, the dominance, the coldness — Jungkook looked painfully young. Human. Almost peaceful.

As Namjoon signaled the staff to help lift him, Jimin murmured quietly, almost to himself,

“…Guess even the tyrant needs a break.”

Namjoon smiled faintly, hearing it as the van door shut behind them.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Even monsters need sleep sometimes.”

Chapter Text

The air in Busan carried the smell of salt and seaweed, faint but distinct — the kind of scent that clung to every childhood memory Jimin had. The train hummed to a slow stop, and he stepped off with his small overnight bag, the sun already beginning to dip into an orange haze beyond the terminal roofs.

He took the familiar bus route toward the hospital, past narrow streets he used to run through as a child, the corner shop that still sold the same fish cakes, the bus stop where his grandmother used to wait for him after school. It felt like time here never moved as fast as it did in Seoul.

By the time he reached the hospital, the corridors were quiet. The evening nurses nodded to him with warm recognition — . Park Jimin the grandson who always brought his own lunchboxes and worried too much.

Room 313. He knew it by heart.

He stopped by the door, inhaling before he gently pushed it open.

“Halmoni…”

His grandmother turned her head, and her face broke into that familiar smile — a small sun in the sterile room. “Jimin-ah.”

Her voice was weaker, but her spirit was the same. She reached her arms slightly forward as if her body still remembered hugging him. Jimin crossed the space quickly, setting his bag down before taking her hands.

“Halmoni,” he said softly, “I missed you.”

She chuckled, her hands patting his cheek like he was still that boy who’d come home from school with scraped knees. “You always say that like I don’t know. I missed you more.”

He sat beside her, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other — that kind of silence that speaks of years and worry and love. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You always surprise me,” she chuckled. “Come here. Let me look at you.”

He moved closer. Her hand was light but warm — fingers tracing his cheek like she used to when he was small. “You’ve gotten thinner,” she murmured. “And your skin… you don’t even look like you sleep anymore.”

"I did sleep!"

"Liar,” she scolded gently, tapping his chin. “You used to come here with the sun in your face. Now you come looking like the moon.”

“I guess the fighters’ schedules got to me,” he said, sitting down on the stool beside her bed. “But I brought you something.”

“Food?”

“Of course food.”

Her eyes brightened again. “You cooked?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He opened the small bag he had carried in, pulling out neat containers — still warm, wrapped in cloth. “Seaweed soup. Your favorite. And some braised potatoes. Stirr fried Tofu. Oh, and—” he unwrapped another container, smiling. “That grilled fish you used to make me when I was studying.”

She let out a soft laugh, touched. “You remembered.”

“I always do,” Jimin said. “Who could forget the smell of burnt fish?”

“Ya!” she said, hitting his arm with mock offense. “You never complained when you were eating it.”

“I was scared of you,” Jimin teased

“you still remember my recipes,” she said proudly, taking a spoonful.

“I remember you made me wash the dishes if I forgot them,” Jimin teased, unwrapping the side dishes.

She laughed, a clear, soft sound that made his chest tighten.

“You always were a good boy. My favorite boy,” she said, gently touching his cheek again. “I’m sorry, Jimin-ah. For making you go through all this. You should be enjoying life — not spending it in hospitals.”

Jimin froze a little, then shook his head. “Don’t say that. You raised me. Everything I do now is because of you.”

Her eyes softened as she traced his jaw with her wrinkled thumb. “You grew up so well. But you still look too thin.”

“I’m fine, really,” he assured, smiling faintly.

She squinted at him, pretending to inspect his arm. “Are you eating enough?”

“I’m working with fighters, remember? I'm just really busy but I am eating well Halmoni.”

That made her laugh — truly laugh — and Jimin found himself joining her.

“You work with those fighters, huh? You should train with them,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “Your muscles are so soft, they might bully you!”

“Halmoni!” he whined, laughing. “You sound like Hoseok-hyung now.”

“What?” she said, completely unbothered. “Whoever is that Hoseok, he is correct. A PT should be healthy too. Otherwise, how will you chase those muscle men around?”

“Muscle men? Halmoni!”

She laughed so hard she had to hold her side. “Oh, Jimin-ah, you still blush like you did when you were ten.”

“Because you say things that shouldn’t be said!”

“I say what’s true.”

Jimin could only shake his head, smiling helplessly. “You’re unbelievable.”

She winked. “That’s why you love me.”

“I do,” he said quietly, his voice softening. “Always.”

Her eyes warmed, the laughter fading into something gentler. “My favorite boy deserves all the love in the world,” she whispered, reaching out to cup his cheek again. “I’m sorry for making you go through such a hard time because of me.”

Jimin caught her hand in his. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” she said, her thumb brushing over his skin. “You’ve been running around so much — working, worrying, barely resting — all because this old body of mine refuses to behave.”

“Halmoni—”

She shook her head. “You should live your life, Jimin-ah. I’ve already lived mine.”

“Stop,” Jimin said softly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Her eyes softened again, and she smiled. “You always say that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

They sat in silence for a while, their hands still clasped. The only sound came from the faint ticking of the monitor beside her bed and the soft rustle of sheets.

Then, suddenly, she chuckled to herself, reaching under her pillow.

“What are you doing?” Jimin asked.

“Shh,” she whispered, pulling something out — a small bottle of yogurt drink, slightly flattened from being hidden. “See?”

Jimin blinked. “Is that…?”

She nodded proudly. “I hid it. Your favorite.”

“You what?”

“I hid it under my pillow.”

“Why would you—Halmoni!” Jimin exclaimed, half laughing, half scolding. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“I asked the nurse about it,” she interrupted calmly, looking pleased with herself. “She once went here bringing this in her pocket. I asked for it. I told her, ‘My boy loves the drink after meal. I’m not sure when my grandson will come back, so when they gave me one, I hid it so they won’t take it.’”

Jimin let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re making the nurses age faster than you, Halmoni.”

She huffed softly. “Then maybe they’ll retire before I do.”

He could only sigh in mock defeat before smiling again — the kind of smile that reached his eyes for the first time in weeks.“You really never change.”

“Of course not. If I changed, who would tease you?”

He sighed, smiling despite himself. “You win.”

“Always.”

---

They talked like that for almost an hour, warmth filling the cold corners of the room. For a while, it felt like nothing could touch this — not the bills, not the fights, not the headaches or insomnia or all the unspoken worries that trailed behind him from Seoul.

Until Jimin’s phone buzzed on the table.

An unknown number.

He frowned, wiping his hands on a napkin before answering. “Hello?”

There was silence for a second. Then a low voice came through — quiet, but distinct.

> “What room?”

Jimin blinked, confused. “Who..…I’m sorry?”

“I said, what room.”

The voice was curt, quiet, but unmistakable. Jimin blinked, sitting upright. “J–Jungkook?”

A pause. Then, “Yes. Who else.”

“Wait—what—how did you even get this number?”

“I asked Namjoon.”

“What room?” Jungkook repeated, tone impatient.

His eyes widened. He looked around instinctively, as if Jungkook might already be there. “Wait, what why are you asking... wait-- are you in Busan?! What are you doing here?”

“Just answer the damn question. I can’t expose myself that much,” Jungkook muttered. “I need to go straight to the room.”

“Jungkook—what are you—”

“I need my shoulder’s cramp to be massaged,” came the deadpan reply.

Jimin’s mouth fell open. “…You what?”

“I told you. It’s stiff again. I was told you’re here. So, what room?”

Jimin blinked several times, completely thrown off. “You—you came all the way here—for a massage?” He stood from his chair, hand tightening around his phone. “You can’t just show up here! This is my grandmother’s—”

“Text me the room number,” Jungkook cut in, his tone low, firm. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

The line went dead.

Jimin stared at his phone, speechless.

His grandmother blinked at him, slightly startled by his sudden expression. “Jimin-ah? Who was that?”

He forced a smile — small, shaky, and utterly unconvincing. “Uh… my, uh, my boss.”

She tilted her head. “He sounds scary.”

Jimin sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have no idea, Halmoni.”

--“Oh?” she said, intrigued. “Now I’m curious.”

“You really shouldn’t be.”

---

It took only ten minutes.

Ten minutes before the door opened quietly — and in stepped a man in a hoodie, mask, and baseball cap, head lowered. Despite the attempt at anonymity, his posture was unmistakable: broad shoulders, easy precision, quiet authority.

Even the nurse down the hall had stared tho she did not question much.

Jungkook closed the door quietly before turning around to Jimin. He was supposed to scold Jimin.

That was the plan.

Storm in, tell him off for vanishing to Busan without his knowledge - even if his contract clearly says should be avaipable at all times --, and maybe throw in a warning about professional communication protocols.

But then—

His eyes landed on the old woman lying in bed.

Her silver hair neatly tied back, her smile gentle even as she looked up in surprise. Her hands, frail but steady, were holding onto Jimin’s wrist affectionately.

Jungkook froze mid-step, caught completely off guard.

Jimin’s grandmother blinked in surprise. “Ah, Jimin-ah… you didn’t tell me your friend has such a good body. Are all fighters in Seoul this big?.”

Jimin pressed a hand to his temple. “Halmoni, please—"

Friend?

Jungkook cleared his throat, lowering his head immediately.

Then, with both hands, he pulled down his mask and removed his cap in one swift, respectful motion — something even Jimin had never seen him do that naturally.

“Ah… hello,” Jungkook said quietly, bowing. “I’m Jeon Jungkook. I… work with Jimin. Sorry for intruding.”

“Oh, such manners!” she said, immediately charmed, her wrinkled eyes softening. “Ohh, you’re one of the fighters he mentioned! The boss, right?”

Jungkook’s ears turned slightly pink. “Uh… yes, ma’am.”

“You should be an idol instead of fighter. You are handsome young one."

He paused. “…I get that a lot.”

She smiled. “Well, you’re even better looking in person son. Sit, sit!”

“Halmoni—” Jimin hissed under his breath.

“What? He looks tired. And he is your boss. Let him sit. Where are the manners I taught you before my love,” she said firmly.

Jungkook blinked, clearly not used to being fussed over like this. “I’m fine—”

“Nonsense,” she said, waving him toward the chair. “Sit before I scold you. You look tired. Look at those eyes, so sharp but heavy! Sit down.”

Jungkook blinked — once, twice — clearly panicking at being ordered around.

But when she smiled again, warm and patient, something in him folded.

He bowed again, almost shyly this time, before sitting on the small couch beside Jimin.

His shoulders, always squared and confident, looked smaller somehow — his usual dominant aura melting into something softer.

Jimin tried not to stare, but it was impossible.

He’d never seen Jungkook like this.

Not in the ring, not at the gym, not anywhere.

This wasn’t the cold, terrifying fighter who could drop a man with one punch.

This was… someone’s son.

Someone polite. Someone almost bashful.

His grandmother then proceed to offer the food Jimin brought.

Jungkook cleared his throat, trying to find his voice again. “It’s really okay, ma’am. I— I already ate earlier.”

“Liar,” halmoni chuckled, already reaching for another pair of chopsticks. “These are good. Fighters need to eat! Here, My Jimin cook these using my recipe. It’s good — not salty.”

Before Jungkook could protest again, the chopsticks were gently pressed into his hand.

He blinked down at them, ears red, lips parting slightly.

There was no escaping this.

He bowed once more. “…Thank you, ma’am.”

Jimin bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

It was unreal watching Jungkook — the Jungkook — sitting there obediently, head down, eating quietly under halmoni’s watchful eyes.

When halmoni started feeding him more side dishes, Jungkook only gave a quiet “Yes, ma’am” and nodded, chewing carefully like a disciplined student.

And somewhere in the middle of that soft, strange domestic quiet — Jimin caught himself smiling.

His grandmother smiled kindly. “So, you’re the fighter, hmm? Jimin told me about you.”

“Halmoni—!” Jimin nearly choked.

Jungkook looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “He did?”

“Oh yes,” she said cheerfully. “He said you don’t sleep much and that you’re stubborn.”

“Halmoni!” Jimin groaned.

Jungkook’s mouth twitched — the faintest ghost of a smile. “He’s right.”

She nodded wisely. “Then listen to my grandson. He’s clever. But also too soft. So, if you need to borrow his brain, you do it.”

Maybe it was the sight of Jungkook being human for once, or maybe it was just his grandmother’s laughter echoing through the room that makes Jimin's heart be st ease.

Either way, for the first time since arriving in Busan, Jimin felt his chest loosen — the stress of work, of treatments, of hospitals — momentarily forgotten.

And Jungkook, with all his walls and coldness, sat quietly in that warmth.

A part of him — perhaps — grateful he’d come at all.

Chapter Text

### FLASHBACK — 

It was supposed to be the quietest morning Ironclad had seen all month.

No sparring, no weights clanking, no trainers shouting over music.

For once, the gym sounded like an actual gym and not a war zone.

The morning sun poured through the tall glass panes of Ironclad’s gym, painting long bars of gold across the mats and the scattered equipment.

The air was alive with the sharp rhythm of jump ropes, the dull smack of gloves against pads, and the faint hum of the air-conditioning.

That peace shattered the moment the glass doors slid open at exactly 9:07 a.m.

Jeon Jungkook walked in — hoodie pulled up, duffel bag hanging from one shoulder, looking every bit like someone who didn’t understand the concept of rest day.

Ya,” Namjoon muttered, blinking as he froze in the doorway of his office. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Morning,” Jungkook said plainly, walking toward the training mats.

“Why are you here?” Namjoon demanded, crossing the floor toward him. “You’re on rest, Jungkook. Doctor’s orders. My orders. You’re not supposed to even touch a dumbbell for the whole week!”

“I’m not here to train,” Jungkook replied casually, scanning the athletes sparring near the octagon. His voice was calm, but the weight in it made a few of the younger fighters freeze mid-movement. “I’m bored. So I’ll watch your ducklings.”

A heavy silence dropped like a weight.

Every single fighter on the floor stiffened. One of the rookies immediately pretended to check his shoe lace. Another suddenly remembered to “get water.”

Because if there was one universal Ironclad rule — it was that Jungkook as a spectator was worse than Jungkook as a sparring partner.

The youngest champion didn’t coach. He judged.

And when he judged, equipment flew.

The last time he’d “watched,” three of the athletes had been reduced to near tears after he’d barked corrections, thrown a mitt at one guy’s back, and kicked over a stool in frustration because someone had misstepped during a kick combination.

That was two years ago. The legend of Jungkook’s coaching still haunted them.

Even now, the mere sound of his voice made the air go tight.

Only Hoseok and Yoongi seemed unfazed. Hoseok — ever the sunshine even in chaos — burst out laughing as he tightened his wraps. “Oh no,” he said, grinning. “Not again. The Tyrant’s version of a vacation is psychological warfare.”

Yoongi, leaning lazily against the ropes of the ring, smirked. “You better warn the kids, Namjoon. PTSD flashbacks incoming.”

Namjoon groaned, rubbing his temple. “Jungkook, please—”

Across the mat, Hoseok started laughing. “This is gold. You guys are done for. Jungkook the tyrant coach returns!”

Namjoon exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m already getting a headache.”

Jungkook ignored all of them. He sat at the edge of the ring, resting his elbows on his knees, sharp eyes fixed on the fighters still pretending to stretch. For a long, uncomfortable moment, no one spoke.

One poor trainee dropped his mitts.

Namjoon sighed deeply, bracing himself for whatever havoc was about to follow. “Just—don’t break anyone today,” he said.

“I won’t,” Jungkook said mildly, his eyes still scanning the room.

Namjoon followed his gaze. “What is it this time? You look like you’re hunting something.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to him. “Where’s Doc?”

Hoseok immediately grinned, looping an arm around Jungkook’s shoulder. “Ya! It’s been one day and you already miss him? You’re worse than Taehyungie waiting for Yoongi-hyung to text back!”

Yoongi threw his towel at Hoseok. “Don’t involve me in your stupidity.”

Jungkook peeled Hoseok’s arm off his shoulder, expression unchanging.

“Where is he?”

Namjoon crossed his arms. “He’s in Busan. He went to visit a hospital there. I gave him a week off since you’re also supposed to be resting.”

That earned him a short frown — then, slowly, a smirk.

At that, Jungkook’s expression shifted — just slightly. A crease formed between his brows, then a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smirk that always spelled trouble. That instantly made Namjoon’s stomach sink.

He knew that look too well.

It never meant anything good.

“What,” Namjoon said flatly, “is going on in that brain of yours?”

Jungkook looked at him, blankly serious. “My shoulder hurts.”

Namjoon froze. “What?”

“It hurts,” Jungkook repeated, tone almost casual.

Namjoon’s clipboard hit the bench with a thud. “Ya! Why didn’t you tell me right away? Hoseok-ah! Go grab Doc Lena from Muay Thai—she can check that shoulder before it worsens—”

“No.”

The single word cut through Namjoon’s voice.

Everyone stopped again.

Jungkook turned toward him, calm but sharp. “I believe I’m paying a lot for a personal PT.”

Namjoon blinked, realizing too late what that meant. “Don’t—”

“Give me his number,” Jungkook said, already pulling out his phone.

Hoseok raised both hands in mock surrender, whispering to Yoongi, “Oh. He’s serious. He’s actually doing it.”

Namjoon rubbed his temples, exasperated. “You’re not calling him. He’s on leave. The one you’re supposed to be taking too.”

"But I am here. He should be here too. I am not on leave. He should be one call away if I need him" Jungkook blankly states. 

Namjoon clearly knows what is going on in Jungkooks head right now. If he can't get what he wants then no other else should as well.

"It's on me. I told him he is on a leave. He’s in Busan,” Namjoon emphasized.

“Then I’ll go to him,” Jungkook replied simply, standing up and swinging his duffel over his shoulder.

Hoseok laughed nervously. “Wait—Busan? You mean—”

“Exactly.” Jungkook’s smirk returned.

The room went silent.

Even Hoseok, who had been smirking until a second ago, froze mid-laugh. “Wait. You’re serious?”

Jungkook looked at him blankly. “Do I look like I joke?”

Yoongi snorted. “No, but you do look insane.”

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not seriously thinking about traveling all the way to Busan just because you ‘think’ your shoulder hurts—”

“It doesn’t just hurt,” Jungkook interrupted, eyes hardening slightly. “It’s tight. The same kind of tightness before the pain starts.”

That made Namjoon pause.

Jungkook wasn’t the type to exaggerate his condition. If he was saying it was tight, then something was brewing.

Still… “Then I’ll have Lena check you first. We can even go to the nearby hospital if you don't trust Lena,” Namjoon insisted. “We’ll do light mobilization. No travel needed.”

“I said no.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to argue again — but one look at Jungkook’s face shut him up. That was the look. The quiet, stubborn, immovable look that had once convinced a whole promotion company to delay an entire event just because Jungkook refused to fight with an unfinished warm-up.

Hoseok watched the silent exchange with thinly veiled amusement. “Oh boy,” he said. “Here we go again.”

“Jungkook,” Namjoon started, trying one last time. “You can’t just—”

“Give me his number,” Jungkook cut him off.

“What?”

“I need his number,” Jungkook said, tone unbothered, like he was asking for a water bottle. “I’ll handle it.”

Namjoon stared at him, caught between disbelief and resignation.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

Jungkook just shrugged. “I’m bored.”

“Bored people play video games, Jungkook. They don’t drive four hours to hunt down their physical therapist.”

“I don’t like games,” Jungkook replied. “Too easy.”

"Then train these athletes here." Namjoom tried again which also earned a groan from the athletes listening "Coach" "No!" "Please give him the number"

Hoseok laughed so hard he nearly dropped his gloves. “You’re unbelievable!”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his phone as Namjoon typed in Jimins number, expression unreadable.

Namjoon sighed in defeat. “You’re actually doing this, aren’t you?”

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly as he headed toward the exit. “You said rest day. This counts as rest.”

Yoongi called out dryly, “Tell Busan boy we said good luck.”

Jungkook just smirked before he went off. The door slammed behind him.

Namjoon groaned and dropped onto the nearest bench, muttering to himself,

“Why do I even bother?”

Hoseok grinned, watching the door. “Well, at least Doc won’t be bored.”

Yoongi deadpanned, “He’s going to faint, you mean.”

-

The drive down to Busan was long, the kind of long that made the air inside Jungkook’s car feel heavier than it should.

The low hum of the engine filled the silence. A playlist played quietly from his phone, but he wasn’t listening — eyes fixed on the road, thumb scrolling through contacts until he found the one person who might cooperate.

Or at least, the one person who knew where to point him.

He pressed Call.

It rang once. Twice.

Then came the familiar voice.

“Yelloooow~” Jin’s tone was drawn out and bright as ever — like he’d been waiting all morning to annoy someone. “What brings my favorite grumpy champion to call me so early?”

“Namjoon-hyung’s being useless again,” Jungkook muttered, his voice low, sharp, controlled. “Jimin went to the hospital in Busan. Where?”

There was a pause, then a small chuckle from the other end.

“…Huh? Why do you care?”

“Just tell me where,” Jungkook said flatly, shifting gears with one hand.

“Oh, no no,” Jin teased. “You don’t just call the great Doctor Kim out of nowhere and bark questions like that. You’re missing the most important part of this conversation.”

Jungkook sighed through his nose. “Hyung—”

“I’m a doctor, remember?” Jin interrupted with mock pride. “Doctor-patient confidentiality! I can’t just go around telling random muscleheads where my patients are.”

“He’s not a patient,” Jungkook grunted. “Stop talking nonsense and tell me where.”

“Ohhh,” Jin sang out dramatically. “So now you’re suddenly interested in the not-patient who also happens to be your personal PT. Interesting.”

“Hyung,” Jungkook warned, his tone dipping lower — dangerous. “Don’t.”

“Nope. Not until you say it.” Jin’s voice was smug. “Say, ‘Doc Jin hyungie, the handsome, cutie, doctor almighty—’”

“Hyung.”

“—‘please tell me where Jimin is~.’”

Silence.

Only the soft growl of the car and Jungkook’s slow exhale.

Then, coldly:

“If I don’t get the name of that hospital in three minutes, I’ll make sure Doctor Jin’s name gets very popular here in Busan. Don’t test me, hyung.”

There was a beat of silence on the line — then Jin laughed.

“You little— You’re actually serious.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. The line clicked dead.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of tires gliding over asphalt, the distant hum of the highway, and the quiet reflection of city lights on Jungkook’s windshield.

Then his phone buzzed once.

New message from Jin.

Bastard.

Busan St. Mary’s Hospital

Jungkook smirked faintly, sliding his phone back into the holder as he switched lanes.

“Thanks, hyung,” he muttered under his breath, before pressing harder on the accelerator — the city skyline of Busan finally coming into view.

Chapter Text

The faint buzz of hospital lights filled the quiet between them. The scent of antiseptic had already seeped into the air, mixing faintly with the aroma of Jimin’s cooking that still lingered from lunch. Halmoni was sleeping soundly now, a small smile on her face as her soft snores became the only sound in the room.

Jimin sat on the couch beside the bed, phone pressed to his ear.

“Yeah, Coach. He’s here. He didn’t tell me,” Jimin said softly, glancing at Jungkook sitting by the window, his head bowed, scrolling through his phone. “I’ll ask about his shoulder, don’t worry. Okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

He ended the call with a sigh, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

The silence returned — thick, but not entirely uncomfortable. Jimin’s eyes went to Jungkook again. The fighter was still there, unmoving except for the faint tapping of his thumb against his phone screen. His black hoodie was still on, his mask now hanging from one ear. The faint afternoon light carved soft shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and lashes that looked too long for someone so terrifying in the ring.

“Coach told me about your shoulder,” Jimin said finally, breaking the quiet.

Jungkook looked up lazily, one brow raised. “Huh?”

“Namjoon-hyung mentioned you came here for your shoulder,” Jimin continued, voice calm but careful, not wanting to wake halmoni.

Jungkook hummed, leaning back in his chair. “Ah… it’s fine now.”

“You said that last time too,” Jimin replied, crossing his arms.

Jungkook glanced at him briefly, his tone flat. “Because it is fine.”

Jimin sighed quietly. “You drove all the way here just to prove that?”

Jungkook hummed, noncommittal. “I stretched it.”

Jimin frowned, unconvinced. “You came all the way from Seoul to Busan to stretch?”

A faint smirk tugged at Jungkook’s mouth. “Pretty much.”

Jimin shook his head, exasperated. “You’re unbelievable.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Jungkook’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

“So what? I'm bored. I went to the gym and you are not there. It is in your contract that you should be available at all times. So I came to fetch you ,” he said dryly.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “What—”

But Jungkook had already stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his hoodie. “If I am working, then you should be working as well”

Jimin just stares at Jungkook. "But a -"

Jungkook look at him again, the corner of his lips curved — not quite a smile, but not cold either. “Your grandma’s funny.”

Jimin blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “She is?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said simply. “She told me I was too thin.”

Jimin chuckled softly. “You? Too thin? That’s probably the first time anyone’s said that.”

“She also said I should eat more and sleep early.”

“Then you better listen to her.”

Jungkook only shrugged, but there was a quietness to him now — calmer, more grounded.

Jimin’s gaze lingered on Jungkook again. He looked different under the hospital’s pale lighting — softer somehow, less untouchable. The hoodie he wore had creased at the elbows, and a stray strand of hair fell across his forehead.

He looked… tired.

“Your shoulder,” Jimin said again, breaking the silence. “It’s still stiff, isn’t it?”

Jungkook tilted his head before looking away. "No".”

Jimin motioned for him to move to the bigger couch. “Sit there.”

“There?”

“Yes.”

Jungkook muttered something but obeyed anyway, dropping his duffle bag to the floor as he sat.

Jimin walked to the sink, washed his hands, then took out the small bottle of massage oil he carried in his bag — the same one he always used at the gym. It was muscle-friendly, unscented, practical.

But when he opened it, the faint herbal smell filled the room, mixing with the scent of antiseptic and disinfectant.

He turned back, rolling up his sleeves. “Take off your hoodie.”

Jungkook peeled off his hoodie, the fabric pulling over his head to reveal a simple white T-shirt that clung slightly to his shoulders. Begore he pulled it up as well. 

Jimin had seen him shirtless before — during training, during taping, during physiotherapy. But somehow, right now, it felt different. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was because it wasn’t in a gym where noise filled every second.

Here, every sound — the faint stretch of fabric, the inhale of breath — felt amplified.

Jimin sat behind him, his hands hovering before they touched skin. “You feel this?” he asked, pressing gently along the upper scapula.

“Pain?”

“Not pain. More like… pressure.”

“Hmm.”

Jimin pressed a little deeper, slow, deliberate circles along the muscle line. Jungkook has been really obedient huh? 

After a while, Jimin felt the tight muscle begin to ease under his palms. He pressed once more, satisfied. “There. Better?”

Jungkook rotated his arm experimentally, nodding. “A bit.”

“Good.”

He leaned back, wiping his hands with a towel, and for a few seconds, they both just sat there — the hum of the fluorescent light buzzing faintly above them.Jungkok wore his clothes back. 

Then Jungkook said, barely above a whisper, “You’re lucky.”

Jimin turned. “Huh?”

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on the bed— Jimin followed Jungkook's gaze where Jimin's halmoni was sleeping. “Having someone waiting for you like that.”

Jimin’s lips parted. He wanted to ask what Jungkook meant by that — but before he could, Jimin looked at Jungkook, whose head had tilted slightly, his eyes half-lidded.

“You’re… falling asleep?” Jimin whispered, incredulous.

Jungkook grunted something that sounded like maybe.

“Ya, you came all the way here just to sleep?”

Jungkook didn’t respond — his breathing was already steadying.

Jimin blinked, then looked toward the bed where his grandmother slept, peaceful and still. And then at Jungkook, whose face had softened in the same way — the tension gone, the lines near his brows finally relaxed

--

It was late afternoon and the world outside turned soft gray when Jimin finally remembers Namjoon. 

He leaned against the wall, pulling out his phone to message Namjoon.

He fell asleep just few hours ago. Don’t worry. Shoulder’s okay.You can scold him later.

He slide his phone back into his pocket and proceeds to fix his grandma's blanket when he sees the shift in Jungkooks sleeping form. 

Jungkook blinked a few times, the heavy grogginess leaving his eyes slowly. His body sank into the couch cushions that weren’t exactly luxurious, but somehow, he had never felt more comfortable in days. His neck was tilted at an awkward angle, and one leg hung loosely off the side, but the sleep—

the sleep was real.

He stretched lazily, a deep grunt slipping from his throat as his joints cracked one by one. His back, neck, and shoulder—all stiff, but not painfully so anymore. The throbbing from earlier had lessened into something dull, something manageable. He rolled his arm once, testing it, and nodded to himself quietly. Better. Definitely better.

“You should probably go back to Seoul soon,” came Jimin’s voice softly from the side, where he was seated near the bed. He didn’t look up from fixing the small blanket over his grandmother’s legs. “Before it gets dark.”

Jungkook only hummed lowly, his tone flat and lazy. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling.

“I’m serious,” Jimin continued, glancing at him this time. “Coach said you should rest properly, not—”

“I am resting,” Jungkook interrupted, his voice a quiet rumble as he stretched his arms again. “This counts.”

Before Jimin could roll his eyes, a faint tick echoed from the window. Then another.

And another.

Both of them looked toward the glass pane at the same time, just as the sky outside deepened into a heavier gray. The first drop of rain slid down the glass, slow and heavy, and then came the next—until the rhythm picked up into a soft, steady patter.

Jungkook tilted his head toward Jimin, a smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his lips. “That’s your cue.”

“What cue?” Jimin frowned.

“The rain,” Jungkook said simply, voice lazy but teasing. “Contract says you come when I call. You better be ready when I do. If I am going back to train so are you for work.”

Jimin stared at him, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re unbelievable. You woke up two minutes ago and you’re already being bossy?”

Jungkook just shrugged, his face teasing but cold. “I am the boss. I warned you. The terms are strict.”

How can his attitude change so fast after sleeping. He is back to his cold bad aura again. 

Jimin was about to shoot back a retort when a soft, raspy voice came from the hospital bed.

“What are you two whispering about?”

They both froze immediately.

“Halmoni,” Jimin said, quickly moving to her side. “You should rest, go back to sleep. It’s raining hard, you’ll catch a chill if you sit up.

But his grandmother’s eyes were open now, still soft with sleep but bright enough to make Jungkook stand straighter on instinct. The older woman turned her head toward the window, the rain hitting harder now against the glass.

“Oh, it’s raining,” she murmured.

Jimin blinked. “That is why you should sleep now Halmoni.  Jungkook’s heading back to Seoul tonight.”

“Seoul? In this rain?” She frowned deeply, shaking her head. “No, no. Young ones like you shouldn’t risk your lives on the road. Too many fools drive fast when they shouldn’t.”

“It’s fine, ma’am,” Jungkook said politely, his tone immediately shifting to gentle formality. “I’ll just take it slow on the road—”

“Slow?!” she gasped, cutting him off. “ No, no. You’ll stay.”

Jungkook blinked, unsure if he heard her right. “…Stay?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, nodding toward Jimin. “Jimin-ah, bring him to our house." She looked at Jungkook. "It is near the hospital so it is a few minutes drive. Safe. Plus  Jeonho from next door looks after it for me, so it should be clean enough. You two can stay there tonight.”

“Halmoni—” Jimin started, his ears already tinting pink.

“I can just get a hotel, ma’am,” Jungkook interjected quickly, half-panicked by the idea. “Don’t worry about me.”

His grandmother waved her hand dismissively. “Hotels are expensive,” she said immediately, glaring like he’d suggested a sin. “And the air-conditioning there will hurt your back. My son used to complain about that. Even when Jimin brought me to one once. It hurts my hips from the cold! Go to the house. You’ll sleep better.”

Jimin couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped him, and Jungkook glared briefly his way.

“The house has a working floor heater in the bedroom,” she continued, as if she were advertising it. “Perfect for this weather." She then sways her hands to Jimin as if shooing him. "Go, go. Take him. The rain will only get worse.”

Jungkook froze, unsure how to respond. No one—certainly not fans or managers—talked to him this way.

Halmoni, however, simply nodded once, the matter settled in her mind. “It’s decided. You’ll go with Jimin. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re safe, too.”

Jimin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Halmoni…”

“You’ll listen to your grandmother,” she scolded gently. “And you,” she turned to Jungkook, “will not argue with an old woman. You’ll go, right?”

There was no escaping it.

Jungkook sighed in defeat, bowing slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” she smiled, satisfied. “Jimin-ah, you take him. You both can bring dinner over tomorrow night. I’ll ask the nurse for my favorite soup.”

“Yes, Halmoni,” Jimin said, trying not to smile too wide.

As his grandmother smiles againas she looked over the window. "I am still sleepy so you two should go now. You can trust my Jiminie to help you in the house. Treat it as your own."

Then with a pleading eyes, she held her hand open as if reaching for Jungkook. Jungkook took steps before holding her hand. Jimins grand pats Jungkook hands. "Such a strong hold. Please take care of my little one. He is all I have as I am to his. Make sure he eats. He sleeps and he drink his Yogurt Drink after each meal okay? Dont let him cry or get tired. "  She whispered.

Jungkook unconciously nods on it while Jimin seems unknown to their conversation as he looked outside where the rain grew heavier, the steady downpour blending with the rhythmic beep of the hospital monitors as his grandmother sleeps. 

For a moment, the only sound between them was the storm. Then Jungkook exhaled, leaning back against the couch again when Jimins grandmothers hand slip down as he sleeps. 

“You owe me for this,” he muttered.

Jimin confused, asked:. “For what?”

“For everything” Jungkook said, glaring. 

Jimin just stares at him. Unbelievable. shaking his head as thunder rolled faintly in the distance.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for his coat. “If we’re going, we should move before it floods.”

Jungkook followed reluctantly, throwing his hoodie over his head amd wears his mask to make sure he'll remain unknown as they stepped into the dimly lit hallway.

The rain outside didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon.

And somehow, Jungkook had a feeling this wasn’t going to be a simple night.

---

Chapter Text

The elevator chimed softly when it reached the basement parking.

Jimin stepped out first, the echo of his sneakers faint against the cold concrete. The air was damp from the rain outside that hadn’t stopped since they left the ward.

The underground lot was quiet except for the soft hum of the fluorescent lights and the low purr of Jungkook’s car engine warming up. The black car stood out against the pale gray of the space — sleek, almost too clean, like it didn’t belong anywhere near the worn concrete walls of a public hospital.

Jungkook clicked the key fob, unlocking the doors, but didn’t move to get in yet. He was waiting — watching Jimin, who still lingered a few steps away, head bowed slightly as if he was collecting courage.

When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“Jeon Jungkook-ssi…”

Jungkook turned his head slightly at the sound — the way Jimin used his full name, polite, hesitant.

Jimin bowed, deep enough to make his damp hair fall forward. “I’m really sorry for my grandmother forcing you to stay. She doesn’t understand how complicated your life can be. I’ll… I’ll take care of it.”

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. His expression was unreadable, shadowed under the dim parking light.

“I can get you a hotel instead,” Jimin continued, his words tumbling now in nervous rush. “If you don’t want anyone knowing you’re here in Busan, it’s fine. You can rest somewhere private. I’ll handle everything.”

That made Jungkook raise an eyebrow.

“Thought we were going to your grandmother’s place?” he said, his tone low, clipped — that same cold edge that made people shut up in seconds inside the gym. “What, are you going against her words now?”

Jimin froze, caught completely.

“N-no… It’s not that,” he stammered, his eyes darting to the floor, voice softer now. “We just… we don’t have that house anymore.”

Jungkook’s stare sharpened. “What do you mean?”

“I… sold it,” Jimin said, barely above a whisper. “A year ago. When Halmoni’s treatments got more expensive, and I didn’t have any choice. It’s been gone for a while.”

He swallowed hard before continuing. “She technically lives in the hospital now. It’s closer for her doctors, and I—I was planning to move to Seoul anyway, for work. It just didn’t make sense to keep it.”

Jimin forced a laugh, brittle and nervous. “So… yeah. There’s no house. Grandma doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell her. I thought she’d be upset if she knew it’s gone. So I just let her believe it’s still there, being cleaned by a neighbor.”

Silence.

The kind that rings loud when two people don’t know what to say next.

The rain outside beat faintly against the ramp of the parking entrance, the sound distant but steady.

Jungkook didn’t soften. His jaw flexed once, but his face stayed impassive — cold, sharp, like the fighter everyone feared. He just turned away, pressed the key fob again, and opened the driver’s side door.

For a moment, Jimin thought that was it. That Jungkook was leaving, just like that. No word, no glance. Just the same quiet wall he always built when things got too personal.

But then, Jungkook leaned over, the driver-side window rolling down with a faint hum. His eyes met Jimin’s again — dark, calm, and unreadable.

“Well?” Jungkook said, voice low but cutting through the quiet air. “You getting in, or planning to sleep here in the parking lot?”

Jimin blinked, startled. “Huh?”

“I can leave you here, I don't care,” Jungkook continued, expression unmoving. “But you said you’re getting me a hotel, right? That better be a high-end one, at least.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if challenging him.

Jimin could only stand there for a second — torn between embarrassment, confusion, and something else he couldn’t name. Jungkook wasn’t angry exactly, but there was something tight in his voice, something restrained.

“Come on,” Jungkook muttered finally, tapping the steering wheel. “I don’t have the patience to argue with you in a basement.”

That finally broke Jimin out of his daze. He let out a shaky breath before walking around to the passenger side and sliding in, hugging his backpack as he sit. 

The doors closed, muffling the sound of rain outside.

Inside the car, the air was quiet — thick with something unspoken.

The faint scent of cologne and leather filled the small space, and the sound of the windshield wipers began their slow rhythm as Jungkook drove up the ramp toward the streetlights.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

But Jimin could feel it — that quiet weight in the air between them, heavy with things both of them were trying not to say.

And Jungkook’s grip on the wheel, steady but tight, said everything that his silence didn’t.

--

The sound of rain filled the car like static — constant, heavy, and relentless.

Outside, the streets of Busan were slick, the orange glow of the streetlights bending and shivering against the puddles as the wipers carved rhythmical arcs across the windshield.

Jimin sat stiff in the passenger seat, his seatbelt tight across his chest.

He could feel the tension in the small space — not explosive, not angry, just heavy. Like the quiet before a storm, or the silence between punches in a fight when everyone knows the next one will land hard.

Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, his fingers tapping faintly to a rhythm only he knew. His profile was calm — too calm. The faint blue light from the dashboard cut across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slight curve of his lips that never quite turned into a smile.

The silence between them stretched, long and unbearable, until Jimin found himself glancing toward him.

He didn’t understand.

Per Namjoon, Jungkook went here due to his shoulder pain. Refused other doctors assistance. But why go here when he can do it in Seoul they have enough doctors, in there he could have taken his rest days like Namjoon instructed.

He shouldn’t have been in Busan, shouldn’t have gone through the trouble of calling Jin - which he learned when Jin texted him earlier, as a warnning tho he received it an hour after Jungkook arrived --, shouldn’t have shown up in the hospital wearing a hood and mask, looking too tall and too out of place beside a frail old woman who adored him instantly.

None of it made sense.

Jimin pressed his lips together, gripping his bag on his lap just to stop his fingers from fidgeting.

He wanted to ask, but something about the way Jungkook’s expression looked under the faint light — unreadable and distant — made the words die before they reached his tongue.

The wipers squeaked faintly against the glass.

Finally, “So…” He paused, searching for words that wouldn’t sound stupid. “You came all the way here to Busan… because of your shoulder?”

It wasn’t really a question. More of an observation.

“Just… didn’t expect you to come all the way here,” he said carefully, his voice small.

Jungkook hummed lowly — not amused, not offended. Just there.

Then, with that same flat tone that could make professional fighters flinch, he replied,

“Why wouldn’t I? You’re under contract.”

Jimin turned to him, confused. “What?”

Jungkook didn’t look at him — his gaze stayed on the road, steady, eyes flicking between the lights and the rearview mirror. His voice, when he spoke again, was calm but sharp.

“You work for me,” he said simply. “That means when I train, you work. When I fight, you work. And if I’m not resting properly, you don’t get to rest either. That’s part of the deal, isn’t it?”

It was like being doused with cold water.

Jimin blinked at him — trying to make sense of what he just said.

He wanted to laugh, or scoff, or ask if Jungkook was serious.

Jimin’s thoughts wandered.

Wasn’t this the same man who once told him to quit?

Who practically chased him out of the gym that first week, making it clear that he didn’t want anyone near him?

Back then, he only gives him cold shoulder and when he talks, every word from Jungkook was a dismissal, every look a warning to stay away.

And now he drove all the way from Seoul to Busan to make sure I will work while he does? That just doesn't make sense. Well the driving part doesnt. 

But when he saw the man’s expression — completely devoid of humor — he realized Jungkook wasn’t joking.

“You think I’m going to sit in Seoul doing nothing while the person I’m paying to monitor my condition runs off on vacation?” Jungkook continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “That’s not how it works.”

The words were sharp, but his voice stayed low, steady.

He didn’t sound angry — he sounded certain.

Jimin just stared, his mind spinning.

*That’s it?* That’s why he came all the way here — because of the contract?

He clenched his fists over his knees, pressing his nails into his palms just to keep himself quiet.

Because what could he even say?

But of course, Jungkook Jeon didn’t care.

He only cared about discipline, about performance, about precision.

Even his concern came in cold, measurable terms — money, efficiency, contracts.

“Don’t make that face,” Jungkook said, finally glancing sideways. His tone wasn’t mocking, but it wasn’t kind either. “I’m not saying you didn’t deserve the break. I’m saying your timing’s bad.”

Jimin forced a small nod, though he couldn’t trust his voice.

Jungkook sighed through his nose, his focus back on the road. “Namjoon hyung’s too soft with you,” he added. “He forgets that being in this business means the body doesn’t wait for emotions. If you’re going to handle me, you need to understand that.”

The phrasing — handle me — hit harder than it should’ve.

Jimin looked out the window, eyes fixed on the rain running down the glass. He bit the inside of his cheek, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Because what was he supposed to say?

That this man, who terrified opponents with a look, had just sat beside his grandmother and bowed respectfully before eating her homemade stew? That he’d seen Jungkook smile — actually smile — when she scolded him about hotels being too cold?

No.

That wasn’t the same Jungkook sitting here now.

The one driving through the storm wasn’t gentle. He was precise, untouchable — a blade sheathed in skin.

The car slowed as they reached a red light. The glow reflected across Jungkook’s face — deep crimson on pale skin, highlighting the dark line of his lashes and the faint scar near his brow.

He didn’t seem tired anymore. Just… in control.

After a moment, he asked,

“So?”

Jimin blinked. “So what?”

“The hotel,” Jungkook said, tone clipped. “Where is it? Or do I have to pick one for you too?”

Jimin almost scoffed, but the weight in Jungkook’s gaze killed the reaction before it reached his throat.

He lowered his head a little, voice quiet. “There’s one near the hospital. Just turn right on the next intersection. I can get a comfortable room for you"

Jungkook hummed. 

Jungkook’s foot pressed on the gas, and the car moved again, cutting through the silver curtain of rain.

Jimin swallowed, staring at his hands. His heart felt strangely heavy, and he didn’t know why.

Maybe because the man beside him — cold, sharp, impossible — was right.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t close.

This wasn’t care.

This was contract.

And Jungkook, for all his inhuman talent, never blurred lines that didn’t need to be blurred.

--

The rain hadn’t let up.

By the time Jungkook pulled the car into the hotel’s circular drive, the sound of it was deafening — a steady roar against the roof, the kind that blurred everything beyond the windshield into gray streaks.

Jimin exhaled, watching droplets slide down the window in erratic trails. “It’s really coming down hard,” he muttered.

Jungkook hummed in response, leaning back in his seat. His hood was already up, a black mask covering most of his face. The muted lights from the hotel’s awning caught in his eyes — sharp, dark, unreadable.

“Stay here,” Jimin said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll go book us a room.”

Jungkook didn’t argue, just tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Don’t take long.”

Jimin grabbed his bag, dashed out into the rain, and hurried under the awning. The sudden warmth of the hotel lobby hit him — soft light, polished marble, the scent of coffee and wet umbrellas. People filled the space, damp from the storm, speaking in low voices. The storm had clearly trapped more than a few travelers.

He made his way to the reception desk. The woman behind it smiled politely.

“Good evening, sir. How can I help you?”

“Hi. I need two rooms. For tonight.”

She clicked a few keys, her expression turning apologetic almost immediately. “I’m so sorry, sir. Due to the weather, we’re fully booked. The storm warning has delayed several flights and highway buses. The only available room left is one of our suites.”

Jimin blinked. “A… suite?”

“Yes, sir. The executive suite, actually. It’s quite large — king bed, sofa area, private bath, and kitchenette.”

“How much?”

She named the price.

Jimin’s stomach sank.

It wasn’t impossible, but it was painful. His salary as part of Ironclad wasn’t bad, but this was still Busan, still a five-star hotel — the kind that charged you for the view, the towels, and probably the air you breathed.

He glanced toward the glass doors, where he could faintly make out Jungkook’s car idling by the curb. Even through the sheets of rain, he could almost picture Jungkook sitting there — hood up, face unreadable, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in impatience. He looked back to the reception and think about the price again. 

His brain did the conversion automatically — and nearly short-circuited.

That was more than a month’s worth of grocery money.

He sighed. The storm was raging harder now, hammering the glass outside. He couldn’t risk driving in this.

The woman waited. “Would you like me to hold it while you decide, sir? There are others waiting—”

“I’ll take it,” Jimin said quickly before she could finish. “Just one night.”

She smiled again, tapping her keyboard. “Of course, sir.”

As Jimin handed over his card, he tried to rationalize it.

It’s fine.

He can take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.

It’s not like we’ll even talk much — he’ll sleep, and I’ll just rest a bit before heading back to the hospital in the morning.

He told himself all of that as the receipt printed out, as he signed the papers, as the woman handed him the keycard in its small paper sleeve.