Cursed in your Orbit
Part 1
New city, same broke Y/N.
YN screeched, “Five hundred dollars?!” She threw her hands up. “I don’t see platinum joints in the walls or gold bricks lining the floors!”
She knew she was being dramatic, but someone had to say it.
The realtor, a guy with sharp sun-kissed features and dressed in all-black urban streetwear, squinted at her like she’d never paid rent before. “And how much did you pay for your last place, little lady?”
“Four hundred. For a 900 square foot concrete box with more holes than I have fingers. Oh, and a 24/7 view of my big-bellied neighbour on life support who thought he was the pornstar of my dreams. Never forgot to flaunt those hairy curves.”
The sunny man visibly gagged, shaking his head. “Right. So, compared to that, this place is a steal. No pervy neighbors. One-bedroom, kitchen, attached bath. Plus, a basement you could use for work or...”
He gave her a once-over. Twice.
...garage. Not that you have a car."
Rude. Also not wrong. Still rude.
Unbothered, he leaned back against the doorway, arms crossed. “And for your kind of work? This area is a gold mine.”
She blinked. “Therapy?”
“Exactly.” His eyes gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the cracked window. “A guy got murdered here just last week. Cold blood.”
Red flag. Huge one. Waving right in her face. 4K
He leaned in, like this was the best sales pitch in the world. “Low-cost living, high trauma. Gym down the street full of men and women with emotional damage and zero coping skills. Gangsters, goons, unhealed childhoods. You’re surrounded by walking case studies. Play it smart, you’ll be cashing in.”
Y/N nodded slowly, while her mind spun faster than the cracked ceiling fan above.
Later, at a dingy café with even dingier coffee, Y/N pulled out a napkin and scribbled a list:
Pros:
Cheap rent
No hairy curve-flashing neighbors
Free crime stories for dinner talk
Work in basement = cool
Cons:
Possible ghost
Definite murder
Gym full of potential murderers
May die
She sipped the watery coffee. It tasted like regret. Or maybe beggars really can’t be choosers.
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Twenty-four floors above the crumbling city, Jungkook lounged in his leather chair, one boot resting casually on the windowsill. In his tattooed hand, a glass of dark liquor swirled as neon lights flickered across his face, cutting shadows into the sharp angles of his jaw. The skyline blinked like it owed him money.
Things were going too well.
“They’re celebrating, Taehyung,” he muttered, watching the grainy feed on the screen. His enemy, Brad's crew, hooting around crates like they’d just unlocked military-grade loot in a video game. “Those dumbasses think they scored premium Russian stock.”
Taehyung scoffed. “Premium? Bro, I wouldn’t trust those guns to shoot a water balloon from two feet. They jam if you sneeze near ’em.”
“Exactly,” Jungkook grinned, cruel and gleaming. “Third-grade polymer, stuffed with recycled metal, painted like they’ve seen war. And the cherry on top? They paid for it with a loan… from a Shell company under my false name. 50% interest rate. But of course, they don’t know that yet.”
Taehyung raised a brow, smirking. “Using your money to buy your fake guns to wage war against you. That’s fucking Shakespearean.”
“Nah,” Jungkook said, sipping slow, “that’s just business with extra glitter.”
A waitress dressed skimpily slid by, carrying whiskey and dead dreams. No one looked at her. The room was full of better distractions: drugs, drinks, bodies, and sin. But for Jungkook, the real high came from watching stupid men dig their own graves with polished shovels.
He rewound the video. One of Brad's men held a rifle to the light, nodding like it was divine. Jungkook hit record. “Make sure we film the moment these toys jam on them. I want a full fucking highlight reel. Send it to them with a fruit basket later.”
Taehyung snorted. “Operation Dumbass Deluxe in full swing.”
“Oh yeah,” Jungkook said, voice low and smug. “And get this...before they took the guns, they signed a supply agreement. Buried clause, bottom line, unread. They basically sold me the rights to two coastal cities if they default.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They won’t read it until it’s already mine.”
Silence fell, heavy, the kind that comes just before gunshots or bad decisions.
Taehyung chuckled. “You’re a bastard.”
Jungkook smiled slow and shark-like. “But an efficient one.”
He turned back to the window. The city looked small from up here. Like something he could fold and put in his pocket.
“Double the security on the west blocks. When these idiots realize the guns don’t work, they’ll panic. Try to retaliate...fast and dirty.”
“Landmines or snipers?”
“Both. And a drone. I want a drone hovering over them playing circus music when they try to fire those guns.”
Taehyung was still laughing when he left the room.
Jungkook stayed behind, watching the skyline like a man admiring his own reflection. This city ran on blood and bad decisions, and he owned both.
The floor below thumped with bass and bodies. His men were getting high on power, flesh, and illusions. But he? He got high on control.
And somewhere, way across the city, a young therapist with a cracked phone, student debts, and a chip on her shoulder was signing a lease.
Did she know the building sat on the edge of a war zone?
Did she know her future clients included half the city’s most broken criminals?
Not yet. Would it change her mind if she knew her place was built on the hotspot of an active volcano dressed as a human?
Nope.
After all, student debts don’t pay themselves.
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