Chapter Text
Thick sheets of rain veiled the crumbling rooftops and flooded the alleyways behind shuttered businesses...one of which was the old Honeybee Bakery. Once a warm neighborhood staple, it had long since gone cold. Its front door was bolted shut, windows dusted with grime and graffiti, and the smell of yeast and sugar had faded into the scent of damp wood, rusted metal, and mold. The world had moved on, forgotten it. But the building wasn’t entirely empty.
In the back room...tucked between flour sacks, rusted ovens, and a stack of mold-spotted recipe books...curled an omega.
Jimin pressed his back to the cold, peeling wall, arms around his knees, chin tucked low to avoid the moonlight slipping through the cracked glass. He barely breathed, not because of fear in that moment, but because he’d learned to move like a ghost...soundless, scentless, invisible. Every night, he waited until the city’s pulse slowed to a whisper before he slipped out to scavenge. Discarded sandwiches behind delis. Expired cans from bins no one checked. Water from the rusted sink in the gas station bathrooms. Quiet. Careful. Unseen.
He couldn’t afford to be seen...not again. The yellowing faded bruises on his ribs were a painful reminder of what had happened the last time he had been seen.
After the shelter closed down, and the temp work dried up, he’d had nowhere else to go. Too many people in the city already knew what an unmated, unprotected omega looked like. Too many hands had grabbed. Too many mouths had whispered promises he didn’t want to hear. The last time he'd been offered safety had ended with bruises and a hand over his mouth while the world turned red behind his eyes. He’d gotten out. Somehow.
That had been almost a month ago...then Jimin had ended up here.
He hadn’t even realized it was empty at first, not until he’d risked prying open the old back door and found nothing but dust and cold silence. It smelled like time had stopped. Like no one had touched it in years. There were broken things everywhere...shattered plates, a splintered chair, the bones of what had once been a register counter. But it was dry. And it had locks. And no one came anymore.
So he stayed.
His heat was due in a week. He could feel it coming on like a slow-creeping storm...low in his belly, mean and tight behind his navel, curling under his skin. That scared him more than anything. No suppressants. No bondmark. No one to scent or shield him. No place to hide when his scent would pour through the walls and into the street.
He swallowed hard. Thought about the pills he’d crushed into powder two days ago, hoping they’d keep the worst of it at bay.
He didn’t know how long he sat like that...stomach hollow, blankets damp with the cold...before the sound of the door creaking open made him go still as death.
Someone stumbled in.
Not quietly...heavy boots scuffed over cracked tiles. Staggering footsteps. Harsh breathing. A low, bitten-off curse. Then a loud thud as something hit the wall, followed by a ragged groan.
Jimin shrank deeper into the shadows, heart stuttering painfully in his chest. Panic bloomed behind his eyes. Had someone found him? The landlord? A stray gang member? Someone who’d smell what he was, and take what they wanted?
At then he smelled it...sandalwood and a hint of spice...it made his omega stand up in attention...
Next was...
Blood.
Sharp. Coppery. Fresh. And lots of it.
Lightning flashed beyond the windows, a crack of white-blue that lit up the room for a split second. Long enough for Jimin to see him...he was a massive wolf, tall, soaked, hunched forward. One hand pressed hard to his side, fingers stained red.
Jimin didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
But the man’s head turned.
Even through the dark, their eyes met. There was something off about him...like he wasn’t all there, like the pain had gutted him and only instinct was keeping him upright. His stare didn’t pierce like a threat. It burned. Wild and desperate.
Even bleeding, half-conscious, he looked dangerous.
Alpha.
Every survival instinct Jimin had screamed: run. Get out. Escape. But something about the alpha’s eyes stopped him.
He didn’t look predatory.
He looked…lost.
Then the man collapsed. First to his knees. Then sideways, a dead weight thudding against the floor.
Jimin didn’t know why he moved. Only that he did. Crawling forward, knees scraping the floor, trembling from head to toe as he reached the alpha’s side.
There was a hole in his side...just under the ribs. The jacket he wore had been shredded by the bullet, and warm blood soaked the layers beneath. He smelled like rain and metal. Gunpowder and smoke. Power and fear and something else...something deep and dark and barely tethered.
“You’re going to die,” Jimin whispered, voice dry and cracked from disuse.
The alpha coughed. A weak, almost amused sound. "Not tonight."
That was the first time Jimin heard him speak.
He didn’t know this man’s name. Didn’t know he was about to save Jeon Jungkook...the city’s most powerful, feared, and untouchable alpha. The mafia don who ruled the underground like a shadow king.
All Jimin saw was a wounded stranger.
And with his heart in his throat, breath shaking, he started tearing strips from his own blanket. He pressed them to the alpha’s wound, teeth clenched, hands slick with blood.
He didn’t yet know that that single, irrational choice would change everything.
__________________
Jimin’s fingers slipped, wet with blood. The alpha’s jacket was soaked through, black fabric nearly indistinguishable from the crimson pooling beneath it. Even as he peeled the layers back...jacket, shirt, a shredded undershirt clinging to sticky flesh...the sight beneath stole the air from his lungs.
The bullet was still inside. Clean entry, but deep. His hands shook as he hovered over it, gut tight with panic.
He was going to die.
And Jimin didn’t know how to stop it.
His whole body was trembling as he dragged the heavy frame of the alpha toward the pile of blankets he used as a bed. The man groaned, head rolling to the side, jaw clenched tight even in unconsciousness. His scent, despite the blood, curled thick in the air...stormy and spiced, sharp like a freshly unsheathed blade. Alpha. Dangerous.
What are you doing, Jimin?
You should run.
You should leave him.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Instead, he gathered what little he had. A bent sewing needle and coarse thread he’d used to patch his coat. A chipped spoon he used to stir thin soup. Rusted scissors that tugged more than they cut. A nearly empty bottle of rubbing alcohol...one of the only things he’d ever stolen outright, sprinting down a pharmacy aisle before vanishing between buildings, heart pounding, lungs burning.
He found an old bread pan from the bakery's ruined kitchen and built a small fire inside it, shielding the flame with one hand to keep it from going out. The storm howled outside, shaking the windows like a beast trying to claw its way in. Inside, everything was still.
Except for Jimin’s heartbeat.
He boiled what he could. Watched the flames dance beneath twisted metal. Every moment was a war against time.
The alpha’s breaths were ragged. Short. Shallow. Too shallow.
“Don’t die,” Jimin whispered, though he wasn’t sure why. “You don’t get to do that. Not here. Not now.”
He didn’t know who this man was. Only that he was strong enough to survive whatever had put that hole in his side...and foolish enough to stumble into his sanctuary to die.
Except Jimin wouldn’t let him.
He poured alcohol over the wound and the man jerked. Not awake, not fully...but enough to groan, deep and low in his throat. Jimin flinched. He froze for a full beat, waiting for teeth or fists or worse.
But none came.
The alpha’s head lolled to the side. Still unconscious.
So Jimin pressed a piece of cloth between his teeth, rolled up his sleeves, and started digging.
The blood was warm. Slippery. It coated his fingers as he guided the spoon into torn muscle, blinking past tears as he fished blindly. He couldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be able to do this.
But he had to.
He’d done worse. For less.
It felt like hours before he found the bullet. When it clinked against the spoon, Jimin sobbed aloud, eyes squeezed shut in exhausted relief. He dropped it into a rusted tin and tried not to look at the blood that followed.
Then came the stitching.
Each jagged suture pulled the edges of the wound closed. He stitched like his mother taught him...how to sew flesh, not fabric. How to pull tight enough to close the skin but not tear it. How to breathe through the smell of iron. How not to cry when someone screamed.
His mother’s hands had been steady. Her voice soft. “Always do it like you care, baby. Even if it’s a stranger. You never know what kind of story lives behind the blood.”
Jimin’s hands weren’t steady. His voice didn’t work. But he whispered anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, over and over. “I’m sorry...I’m sorry...”
He was apologizing for more than the stitches.
When it was over, he sat back on his heels, hands soaked and trembling, heart beating too hard against his ribs. The alpha didn’t wake. Just breathed..barely.
Jimin reached for a clean strip of cloth and began to clean the blood from his chest. There wasn’t much of his shirt left after tearing it into bandages, so he used the soft inside of the fabric, warm from his own body, wiping gently at dried blood and mud caked over muscle and scars.
Scars.
So many of them. Old wounds. Knife slashes. Bullet wounds long healed. This wasn’t a man who lived peacefully.
“Why did you come here?” Jimin asked, voice hoarse. “Why now?”
No answer.
He’d made sure this place was forgotten. A relic. The bakery had been abandoned for two years...no electricity, no water, no visitors. It was perfect. Quiet. Forgotten.
Just like him.
Jimin sat down beside the stranger and pulled his knees up to his chest, staring at the wall as the fire in the bread pan crackled low.
His body hurt. His hands were raw. His arms ached from dragging and lifting and sewing...but none of it compared to the ache rising up from his belly.
His heat was coming. He could feel it, cruel and slow, coiling like a serpent just behind his navel. Worse every day.
He hadn’t had suppressants in months.
He wouldn’t survive this heat if he was alone.
Or worse...if he wasn’t.
A quiet, bitter laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Because of course it would be now. The moment he lets down his guard. The moment someone enters his space, touches his world. Now is when his body decides to betray him.
The scent of alpha filled the room like smoke.
Powerful. Heavy. Wounded.
Jimin hated how it made his mouth dry. How his limbs trembled. How his omega instincts, long-buried under fear and starvation, stirred.
No.
No, not again.
Not after...
Jimin’s breath caught.
Since him.
The one who smiled too sweet and spoke too soft. Who found Jimin when he was too hungry to be cautious, too lonely to keep his guard up. An alpha who’d said all the right things, offered a job, food and warmth, safety. Who touched his wrist like it was sacred.
And then he found out Jimin was untouched
That changed everything.
Jimin had seen the look in his eyes shift...become something lustful, sharp and possessive. No longer offering food and safety, but claiming. Not out of love. Just the thrill of taking something no one else had touched. Of owning it.
Of owning him.
That night still lived in Jimin’s chest like glass.
The alpha had grabbed him hard enough to bruise. Pulled him into a room that reeked of slick and sweat and rut. Locked the door behind them. Jimin had fought...teeth, nails, panic.
He got away before it could happen.
Barely.
Ran until his lungs bled and his shoes fell apart. Hid like a ghost between dumpsters, behind churches, under rusted stairwells. Until he found the bakery. Until he taught himself to disappear.
He hadn’t let an alpha near him since.
Until here. Until now. Until this stranger bled into his blankets and refused to die.
Jimin curled in on himself, throat thick with things he couldn’t say.
He didn’t know who this man was.
Didn’t know what he wanted.
Didn’t even know if he’d survive the night.
But he’d saved him.
And something deep in Jimin’s chest...quiet, fragile, furious...hoped the alpha would open his eyes.
Just so Jimin could ask him why.
___________________
Elsewhere in the city, chaos reigned.
The Nocturne Syndicate was known for its order. Its discipline. Its reach.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Yoongi stood in the center of Jungkook’s office like a statue carved from steel and fury, his shoulders squared and still, lips pressed into a bloodless line. The only sign of strain was his fist...the white-knuckled grip around his phone, so tight the plastic casing cracked under the pressure.
He didn’t even seem to notice.
The screen was dark. No signal. No answer.
No Jungkook.
“Still nothing?” Namjoon’s voice was low and tense, tight with frustration he didn’t bother hiding.
Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Namjoon cursed under his breath. “Burner’s off. His personal line too. No GPS. No camera footage. It’s like he vanished.”
“He left with only two guards,” Jin muttered, pacing near the wall of frosted windows. His hands wouldn’t stop moving...fingers twitching with nervous energy, tugging the sleeves of his sweater over and over. “He never leaves with just two guards.”
“And not a single goddamn word to any of us,” Namjoon added, bitter. “Even you, hyung. That’s not like him.”
Yoongi’s jaw ticked.
He knew that better than anyone.
The office reeked of power and fear. It was the heart of their empire...cold marble floors, obsidian-topped desk, glass and iron and leather. But right now, it felt like a tomb.
Yoongi had always hated silence. Especially the kind that dragged on after something went wrong.
Hoseok sat curled up on the office couch, barely breathing. His eyes, usually full of warmth and light, were wide and hollow now...shocked open. Disbelieving. His hand hovered near his own phone, as if willing it to ring.
“He always checks in,” Hoseok whispered. “Even when he’s mad. Even when he wants space. He always tells someone.”
Yoongi moved to him instinctively, dropping into a crouch in front of the couch. He reached out slowly and curled his hand around Hoseok’s. It was shaking.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “I know, baby.”
Hoseok leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Yoongi’s shoulder, eyes wet. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
Yoongi kissed his temple. “We’re going to find him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Yoongi snapped, sharper than he meant to. Hoseok flinched, and Yoongi cursed himself silently, pulling him in tighter. “I do,” he said again, softer now. “Because if I don’t, I’ll lose my mind.”
Across the room, Taehyung paced like a caged wolf. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He stopped suddenly and slammed his palm against the side table, rattling the crystal decanter and scattering the stack of files beside it.
“Where the fuck are his guards?!”
“Dead,” Jin said quietly. “They have to be. Otherwise they would’ve come back. They would’ve sent word.”
Taehyung ran both hands through his hair, exhaling a snarl. “But there’s no bodies. No car. No bullet casings. Nothing. Like they were swallowed whole.”
“They were ambushed.” Namjoon said it like fact. “They kept it clean. Planned it in advance. This wasn’t random.”
Yoongi stood slowly.
Everyone turned to look at him.
His voice was like a knife honed on grief. “Then we find them. I don’t care if we tear apart every block from the river to the docks, if we burn this entire fucking city to the ground...”
His gaze darkened.
“...we don’t stop until we bring him home.”
The room fell silent.
Not in disbelief.
But in agreement.
Because Jungkook wasn’t just their boss. Wasn’t just their alpha. He was family.
He was the reason they were alive. The reason they had a home, a future, each other.
He was the reason Yoongi could love Hoseok openly and without fear. The reason Namjoon and Jin could get married and have their pup, Min-gi. The reason Taehyung, once a nobody from the wrong side of the tracks, now wore a tailored suit and carried a title that commanded respect.
He was the glue that held them all together.
And the thought of losing him wasn’t just unthinkable.
It was unbearable.
Namjoon rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I’ll start with the old district. Pull surveillance from every alley cam we’ve got. If he ran, maybe he ditched the car.”
Taehyung nodded. “I’ll check hospitals. Backdoor clinics. Bribe who I have to. Someone had to treat him if he’s alive.”
“Jin, stay here,” Yoongi ordered. “If any word comes in, I want you to be the first to verify it’s real. Hoseok, baby, you stay too.”
“I want to help...”
Yoongi looked at him, and Hoseok’s words died in his throat. The underboss stepped forward and brushed his fingers against Hoseok’s cheek.
“You are helping,” he whispered. “By being here when we bring him back.”
He kissed him then, slow and aching.
And then Yoongi turned, slipping on his gloves. When he looked at the door, it wasn’t Yoongi anymore.
It was the Underboss.
The one who painted the streets red when someone threatened his pack.
“We leave now.”
And without another word, the wolves moved.