𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖞𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖘

Part 1: t’es la meilleure chose qui m’est arrivée, mais aussi la pire chose qui m’est arrivée

The city had no name anymore.

After the Collapse started three years ago, names were useless—ruins didn’t need them. What was once Seoul had become a shell, a graveyard of steel and smoke. The sky was always gray, choked by the fallout of a thousand failed governments.

But the Resistance was still breathing.

Y/N crouched low on a crumbling rooftop, her rifle steady against her shoulder. Wind whispered past her cheek like a warning. Below, Regime patrols moved with mechanical precision—black armor, red insignias, synchronized footsteps like a heartbeat of death.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook.

The Phantom.

His name was spoken like a curse in Resistance camps. An elite operative, never seen twice. Some thought he wasn’t real—a ghost story to keep rebels in check.

But Y/N had met him. Twice.

The first time, she nearly slit his throat. The second, she saved his life.

She still hadn’t decided if that had been mercy or strategy.

Her finger hovered over the trigger. One shot. That’s all it would take. She had the angle. The high ground. The cause.

Then he looked up.

Not randomly. Not like a soldier scanning rooftops. He looked right at her.

As if he’d known she was there all along.

Y/N swore and pulled back.

You don’t look like a killer.

His voice echoed in her memory.

You don’t look like a puppet.

Flashback ~

One year ago

Jungkook’s POV: c'est quelle émotion, la haine , ou la douceur, quand j'entends ton prénom ?

She had me in a chokehold the first time we met.

Literally.

Rusted blade to my throat, dirt on her cheek, breath hot against my skin. I was pinned in a collapsed warehouse after a failed sting op.

And I should’ve killed her. I could've many times.

I’d been trained to. Reflexes sharp. No hesitation.

But she looked me in the eyes and didn’t flinch. Even as blood dripped from her own temple. Even as the Regime’s alarms wailed outside.

She wasn’t scared of me.

And that… wrecked something in me.

Maybe that's why when she removed the knife from my neck and ran off into the secluded ruined streets. I let her go.

She couldn't understand why. Maybe I didn't either.

But from that moment, I couldn’t stop watching her. Tracking her. Dreaming of her. Hating the way her name burned in my mouth like a secret I didn’t want to spit out.

Every kill after that felt heavier.

Every order tasted like ash.

Because I wasn’t afraid of death. I was afraid of her. Of the way she made me want.

To choose.

To change.

To betray.

Part 2: encore plus près d’tes adversaires

Present~

They met again in the remains of a subway tunnel, lit only by flickering emergency lights and firelight from burning cables.

Jungkook stepped out from the shadows like he belonged to them. His face was scratched. One eye bruised. But his expression was unreadable, as always.

“You’re getting slower,” he said.

“You’re still breathing,” Y/N shot back.

“Not for lack of effort on your part.”

Their standoff was silent after that. Just heavy breaths and distant gunfire. They circled each other like wolves.

“I heard you spared me,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t,” she lied.

He smirked. “Liar.”

When she moved to leave, he grabbed her wrist. Not rough. Just enough to stop her.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

Her mouth opened, then closed. She hated that he always asked the questions she was trying not to think about.

“You’re my enemy,” she whispered.

“Then why did you fix my wound?”

Because you looked at me like I was still human.

Because when I saw you bleed, I couldn’t breathe.

Instead, she said, “Because I want to kill you myself.”

He smiled. But there was sadness in it.

Flashback ~

Six months ago

In a half-destroyed greenhouse, somewhere in the Southern Outskirts , Y/N shouldn’t have stopped.

She found him slumped behind shattered glass and vines, blood trailing in a slow, sticky path behind him. His Regime armor was cracked. One leg twisted wrong. A gash split across his side, deep and ugly.

Jeon Jungkook—the Phantom—was dying.

She should have killed him.

She’d dreamed of it.

Trained for it.

Fantasized about what his blood would look like on her hands.

Instead, she dropped to her knees beside him and whispered, “Fuck.”

His eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Then sharp.

“You again,” he murmured.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“You sound disappointed.”

She tore open the med pack strapped to her thigh. “Don’t talk.”

He laughed—then winced. “Didn’t know rebels cared this much.”

“I don’t,” she snapped. “I just don’t want someone else taking credit for your death.”

She cut through his uniform with a blade, hands steady. Pressed gauze into the gash, watching him twitch.

He watched her, too. Always watching.

“You don’t look like a killer,” he said, voice hoarse.

Y/N’s hands paused. Her jaw clenched. “You don’t look like a puppet.”

That made him laugh again, quieter this time. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

She stitched him up in silence after that. Her fingers moved with practiced skill. She’d patched up dozens of wounded rebels before. But this was different.

This was him.

Enemy. Monster. Ghost.

And right now… just a man bleeding in her hands.

When she finished, she stood. Stared down at him.

“I should kill you.”

He looked up, eyes dark and unreadable. “Then why haven’t you?”

She didn’t have an answer. Only turned, her boots crunching glass.

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her.

But as she reached the doorway, he said quietly, “Next time, I won’t owe you.”

She didn’t look back.

But her heart did.

⸻

Three days after the greenhouse

Regime HQ, Command Sector 7

The lights in the debriefing chamber were surgical—white, blinding, cold. The kind that made your soul feel flayed open.

Jungkook stood in the center of the room, shirtless, wounds still fresh, stitched, healing wrong. Sweat clung to his skin under the gaze of three senior operatives, whose names he did not know. All seated. All masked. Like gods pretending they weren’t human.

“Commander 212,” one of them said. “Your mission was to eliminate the rebel engineer. You returned alone. Wounded. Without the target.”

Jungkook didn’t flinch.

“She escaped,” he said.

“Did she?” another voice asked, the one with the silver insignia. Female. Cold.

A long pause.

“We recovered footage from a civilian drone nearby,” she continued. “You were found unconscious. No signs of pursuit. No signs of a fight.”

Jungkook kept his eyes forward. Blank. Like he’d practiced.

“She caught me off guard,” he said. “Didn’t finish the job.”

“Interesting,” Silver Voice said. “That’s not like her.”

He knew they didn’t believe him.

Regime didn’t breed fools. Only monsters.

“Do you know what happens to ghosts who go soft?” the third voice asked—this one slow, taunting. “They vanish. Quietly. Painfully.”

Jungkook met that one’s eyes. His hands were fists at his sides.

“I’m not soft.”

“Prove it,” Silver Voice said. “Track her. Finish the job. Or we will.”

They dismissed him with a wave. Like he was less than dirt. Less than weapon.

Later that night…

He stood in front of the mirror in his quarters, peeling the bandages off slowly. The wound Y/N had closed was healing clean. Better than it should have.

She had good hands. Steady. Careful. Kind, even when she didn’t want to be.

And that was the problem.

She was still human.

And he was supposed to be something else.

He stared at himself. At the emblem etched onto his shoulder—Regime brand, permanent, burned into him when he was fifteen.

He raised the knife.

Pressed it to the mark.

Paused.

And dropped it.

Not yet.

But soon.

Because loyalty was a lie.

And the only truth left in him…

Was her.

Part 3: fuis-moi, le pire c’est toi et moi

The present and two days after the reunion in the tunnels

It was a setup.

She knew the moment she stepped into the old cathedral, cold and echoing. Her contact was dead before she arrived. And the Regime was already there—uniforms in the pews, red lights blinking.

She ran.

Didn’t even make it two blocks before she was tackled, pinned, drugged. Darkness came fast and full of teeth.

When she woke, her head throbbed. Wrists bound. Blood dried on her temple.

Then the door opened.

Jungkook.

Dressed in full Regime uniform, insignia glowing like betrayal.

He stepped inside. Closed the door. And locked it.

“So this is it,” she whispered. “You were always going to bring me in.”

His jaw clenched. “I had to. I needed them to believe me.”

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he knelt beside her. Unclipped her cuffs with a key from his boot.

“You have five minutes to escape.”

Her heart stuttered. “You’re helping me?”

“I’m ending it.”

“You’ll be branded a traitor.”

He met her eyes then, raw and burning.

“I already was. The moment I let you live the first time.”

Part 4: pourquoi ton prénom me blesse , quand il se cache , juste là dans l’espace ?

Y/N ran through the dead city with blood in her mouth and fire in her chest.

The cold burned her lungs. Alarms howled behind her. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t want to see him again.

Didn’t want to see the way he’d looked at her—like she was something sacred and cursed at once. Like he’d chosen her over everything, and already knew it would destroy him.

Jungkook was the enemy.

She couldn’t keep forgetting that.

But she also couldn’t forget the way his hands had trembled as he undid her cuffs. Couldn’t forget how his voice cracked when he whispered, “Run.”

Couldn’t forget that she wanted to stay.

Part 5: je t’aime, je te hais

Two weeks passed.

Jungkook vanished. No reports. No sightings. The Regime claimed he’d gone rogue, but no one knew why.

Y/N knew why.

She just didn’t know where he’d gone.

Until she found him again—half-dead in the neutral zone, hiding in the ruins of a train station, bandaged poorly, one eye swollen shut.

“You look like hell,” she said, standing over him.

“You always say the sweetest things,” he rasped.

She didn’t answer. Just knelt beside him, pulled a flask from her jacket, and pressed it to his lips.

He drank. Then looked at her.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I thought I hated you.”

“You do,” he said. “You just hate the way I make you feel more.”

Y/N blinked. Then kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a battlefield—teeth, hands, heat, war. The taste of betrayal and need, of everything unspoken and long denied.

And when it was over, when she pulled away, chest heaving—he didn’t look victorious.

He looked ruined.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

The bunker was buried beneath a collapsed metro station. Reinforced, silent, forgotten. Y/N dragged Jungkook down there, cursing under her breath the entire way.

His blood soaked her jacket. His eyes stayed on her the whole time.

When she finally dropped him onto the cot and slammed the door behind them, silence swallowed them whole.

“You’re bleeding through the wrap,” she muttered, kneeling to unbuckle his chest armor.

“I noticed,” he said hoarsely.

She glared up at him. “You’re not allowed to die. Not before I get answers.”

He laughed, weakly. “You always were bossy.”

She shoved his jacket off. Her hands slowed when she saw the scars. Old burns. Bullet grazes. A knife wound across his ribs.

Her fingers hovered. “They did this to you?”

“Some of it. Some were you.”

She looked up. His eyes were soft for once. Raw. And when he reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear—she broke.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, pulling her in.

Their mouths crashed together like war—biting, desperate, breathless. His hands gripped her hips, pulled her onto his lap. She straddled him, heart pounding against his.

“You don’t get to do this,” she gasped. “You don’t get to be good.”

“I’m not good,” he whispered into her neck. “I’m just yours.”

Clothes were stripped off with urgency, their bodies finding each other like they’d done this in daydreams. And maybe they had. In moments stolen between firefights. In silence and stares and fury.

When he was inside her, it felt like falling.

When she moaned his name, it sounded like surrender.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t sweet. It was survival. Passion as protest. Touch as confession.

After, tangled in each other, chests heaving—neither spoke for a long time.

“Do you regret it?” she whispered.

He kissed her shoulder. “No. Even if it kills me.”

Part 6: Ma Meilleure Ennemie

The final battle began on a gray morning.

The Resistance had cracked the Regime’s codes. The last tower—their communications hub—was going down. If it fell, the war could end. If it didn’t… everything they’d fought for would be erased.

Y/N led the assault team.

She didn’t expect to find Jungkook waiting inside.

He stood in the control room, alone, wearing the insignia of the enemy—but his eyes… his eyes were pleading.

“They’ll kill you,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then get out of the way.”

“I can’t. Not until you hear me.”

She raised her gun. “I don’t want to hear you.”

“You have to,” he said. “Because I didn’t just choose you. I chose us. And I need you to be the one who ends this.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who ever made me want to live for something other than obedience.”

She fired.

But not at him. At the control panel.

Sparks exploded. Lights died. The tower shut down.

Jungkook stared at her, stunned.

“You chose me,” he said.

She turned to him. “I always did. I just hated you for it.”

Four days after the fall of the tower~

Outer District 1, Regime Command

Ash hung in the air like snowfall.

The silence was unnatural—not peace, but the absence of control. Of orders. Of the voice that had ruled every sector with fear and steel for years.

The tower was gone. And with it, the Regime’s grip on the grid—on surveillance, on drones, on their endless broadcast of obedience.

And now they were panicking. Scattering like roaches under light.

Jungkook stood beside Y/N on the rooftop of an old data facility, watching the last warship rise in the distance, flames licking at its tail. Someone had sabotaged the launch pad—their people, finally, slipping knives between ribs where it counted.

“We did it,” Y/N whispered, like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Jungkook didn’t answer at first. He was staring at the fires below—at the streets where civilians were tearing down Regime banners, where captured rebels were being freed, where soldiers were throwing down their weapons and looking around like they were waking up from a long, bitter dream.

She turned to him.

“You still with me?”

He met her eyes. Nodded once. “Always was.”

And he meant it.

Even when he’d been wearing the uniform.

Even when he’d held a gun to her skull and hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Even when he’d heard the order to kill her and said nothing in return.

He’d been hers long before he knew what that meant.

⸻

The Command Breach – 0200 Hours

Jungkook led the charge into the Regime’s final stronghold with a detonator in one hand and a sidearm in the other. His old keycard still worked, to his surprise, how foolish of them. No one expected him to turn.

He took out four guards before they even sounded an alarm.

Y/N hacked the central core, killing the defense grid from the inside. The building started to collapse, systems blinking out one by one—power, locks, life support, surveillance.

Jungkook found Silver Voice in the upper command chamber. She was alone. Calm. Smiling.

“I knew it’d be you,” she said.

He didn’t reply.

He just pulled the trigger.

⸻

After

By dawn, it was over.

No broadcast. No orders. No more Regime.

The Resistance didn’t cheer. Not loudly. Not yet. Grief and ash still lined their faces. The cost had been high—too high. But something had cracked open in the rubble.

Hope.

Y/N and Jungkook stood in the ruins together. Smoke curling around them. Hands scarred. Clothes torn. Eyes tired.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now,” she said quietly.

He took her hand.

“Build something better.”

She looked up at him. “With me?”

“With you,” he said. “Always.”

Finale : Je t'aime

One year since the end of the Regime ~

Somewhere in the North, beyond the old warlines, they lived together in a logged cabin on the outer sides of the woods.

It was quiet here.

Not the silence of fear or aftermath, but the kind that belonged to early mornings and wind through trees. The kind that didn’t weigh heavy on your chest.

Y/N stood barefoot in the grass, sleeves rolled to her elbows, eyes closed against the sunlight. Her hair was longer now. Her face softer. Still sharp, still hers—but no longer etched with constant tension.

Behind her, the cabin creaked with life. A fire crackled. Someone—Jungkook—was fixing the windows again, humming under his breath like he didn’t remember how to stop.

He always hummed now.

She liked that.

When she turned, he was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, paint smudged on his cheek.

“You’re staring again,” he said.

“I get to,” she replied.

He stepped toward her, slow. Careful. Like he still wasn’t used to a world where nothing was trying to kill them.

She met him halfway.

They stood chest to chest, and neither spoke for a while. Didn’t need to.

When he finally did speak, it was soft. “Do you ever miss it?”

“The war?”

He nodded.

She thought about it. The adrenaline. The cause. The fire in her veins. The girl she’d been.

“No,” she said. “But I miss who I got to be with you in it.”

Jungkook smiled, small and a little sad. “I think we’re still those people.”

“No,” she whispered. “We’re better.”

⸻

That night

They lay tangled in linen and moonlight. His head on her chest, her fingers brushing lazy circles along his spine.

He murmured something against her skin.

“What?”

“If we hadn’t made it out…”

She looked down at him.

“…would it have been worth it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just curled her hand into his hair. Let the silence stretch.

“If all I ever got was that bunker night with you?” she said. “Then yeah. It would’ve been worth it.”

He exhaled. Slow. Shaky.

“I love you,” he said.

She smiled into the dark. “I know.”

The Regime was gone.

The resistance disbanded. A council formed. Cities rebuilt.

But the story of them—the ghost soldier and the rebel girl—echoed in the new world like a myth. A warning. A promise.

Of the girl with fire in her veins.

Of the boy built for war who chose love instead.

Of a war fought not just with bullets—but with glances, with lies, with touches never meant to linger.

They say enemies know each other best.

Maybe that’s why she loved him so cruelly.

And why he let her.

Not because they were right for each other ,but because in a world made of ruin and blood—

She was his favorite enemy.

The 2020 MTV Video Music Awards (VMAs) were buzzing with energy as the night unfolded under a dazzling array of lights. The atmosphere was electric, a fusion of legends and rising stars, a night of performances and moments that would define pop culture for years to come. Everyone in the industry, it seemed, had their eyes on this event—and for good reason.

Among them was Lena Carter, a name that everyone in the music world was starting to recognize. Not just for her chart-topping singles, her unmatched vocals, or her effortlessly cool style, but because she had something else. She had a presence—an aura. She was the kind of artist whose fame had escalated into something almost mythical. Her rise was meteoric: from a viral video on social media to global superstardom, she’d become the face of a new era in music.

The VMAs had invited her as one of the night’s brightest stars. She wasn’t just there to witness the show; she was one of the main attractions. Her debut album had swept the world off its feet, and her performance of “Eclipsed” was something the internet could not stop talking about. The anticipation surrounding her was palpable, and Lena, as always, was calm and collected, exuding an effortless confidence.

But it wasn’t only the fans who were curious about her. Backstage, even the biggest names in the industry were eager to get a glimpse of Lena. And among them, a certain group of seven men stood out.

BTS.

They were legends in their own right, having amassed a legacy that spanned over a decade. Their presence at every award show was almost a guarantee of a historic moment. But on this particular evening, something about Lena’s fame intrigued them.

As Lena arrived at the venue, her outfit—a sleek black leather ensemble that shimmered under the lights—was a showstopper in itself. She walked past the endless rows of photographers and fans clamoring for a glimpse of her, confident, but with an almost ethereal sense of ease. Her eyes scanned the room, the hum of the night providing a familiar backdrop.

She wasn’t exactly used to the chaos, but she had learned how to navigate it. The VMAs were her home turf now, and she was determined to make a statement.

Then, as she passed a quieter corridor backstage, she felt a presence—a group of men standing near the dressing rooms. She recognized them instantly.

BTS.

They were laughing amongst themselves, all wearing their signature looks: sleek, stylish, and impossibly chic. Lena had always admired their music, but what really intrigued her was their ability to remain grounded, despite their massive success.

“Hey,” she called out, offering a warm smile.

The group turned in unison, their faces lighting up with recognition. Namjoon, Jin, Suga, J-Hope, Jimin, V, and Jungkook—each of them had a look of surprise that quickly morphed into one of admiration.

It was Jungkook, the golden maknae, who spoke first, his voice filled with awe. “Lena Carter, right? Wow, it’s amazing to meet you in person. We’ve all been listening to your album non-stop.”

Lena’s smile widened. “Thank you. I’ve been a fan of yours for ages. You guys are… well, legends.”

The air shifted as the conversation unfolded, and the connection was immediate. Lena and Jungkook had an undeniable chemistry—a shared understanding of the pressures of fame, the complexities of being an artist in the public eye. They bonded over their love of music, their mutual respect for each other’s artistry, and their shared experiences of working tirelessly to perfect their craft.

As the evening went on, Lena found herself drawn to Jungkook’s quiet intensity. There was something about the way he spoke, the way his eyes lit up when discussing his passion for music, that made her want to know more. They talked about everything: the music industry, the pressure to constantly be at the top, their creative processes. Jungkook was fascinated by Lena’s approach to music. Her voice, raw and powerful, was a weapon in the best way, and she seemed so in tune with herself.

After the conversation stretched past what Lena thought was the allotted “small talk” time, she was about to excuse herself when Jungkook spoke again, his voice lower than before, a touch of something else behind his words.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve always thought there was something special about people who create their own path in the industry. But after hearing you talk about how you write your songs, how you really feel the music—it’s… it’s inspiring.”

Lena felt a flutter in her chest, a rush of something unexpected. She hadn’t expected such sincerity from him—BTS, with their untouchable status, might have seemed like a distant dream to her a year ago, but now here they were, having a genuine conversation.

“You’re kind of like that too,” Lena replied, her voice quieter than usual. “I mean, I’ve watched you guys from afar, and the way you push boundaries, the way you all come together… it’s something rare.”

Jungkook smiled, his eyes bright. “Maybe that’s why we’re all here now. We all know what it’s like to fight for what we love. And hearing your story… I don’t know, it just makes me want to keep pushing, too.”

Before she could respond, the moment was interrupted by a sudden call for their attention—a reminder that the VMAs were still in full swing, and they all had places to be. But as the group moved toward the stage, Jungkook lingered for a moment.

“I don’t know if we’ll see each other again tonight, but I’d love to hang out sometime—just the two of us. No cameras, no spotlight. Just… music.”

Lena, caught off guard by the invitation, felt a rush of warmth. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice steady but her heart racing.

As they both made their way to their respective stages, Lena couldn’t help but reflect on the unexpected connection she had made that night. There, in the midst of flashing cameras and screaming fans, she had found someone who understood her in a way few people did.

But little did she know, the night was only the beginning of something far bigger than either of them had imagined.

⸻

After their performance at the VMAs, Lena was escorted to the backstage area, where she met up with her team. But as she rounded a corner, she was surprised to see Jungkook waiting for her.

“Hey,” he greeted her with a soft smile, his eyes glinting with something more than just friendship. “I know this place is chaotic, but I really meant it earlier. I’d love to grab coffee tomorrow. Talk about music… or whatever.”

Lena’s heart skipped a beat, and this time, she didn’t hesitate.

“Let’s do it,” she replied, her eyes locking with his.