#doomgurlfics

“See?” you whisper, rising to your feet. “I told you. Piece of cake.”

“Yeah, yeah, just get inside,” Yoongi grumbles. “We won’t have long before the backup alarm goes off. I’m sure they have one in place somewhere.”

You exchange a quick look with the others, Jae already unclipping his harness, Mina tugging her gloves into place, and give a small, sure nod. Team choreography. No wasted moves. No heroics. You hook the line, test the tension, then cut the circle of glass cleanly, the cutter whispering like a knife through silk.

One by one you drop. Gravity swallows you for a breath, then the floor rushes up. Marble cool and unforgiving beneath your boots. Statues stand like witnesses; their blank faces are a chorus of stone.

“West wing,” Jae whispers. “Two portraits. Crate’s in the northwest storeroom. Move.”

You glide through aisles of gilded frames and placards. Labels in neat serif type that mean nothing to the work of your hands. Flashlight beams slice at dust motes; your reflection in a display case skims past, impossible and blurred. The thrill flares sharp and hot behind your ribs. You breathe steady. You work fast.

Everything goes according to plan.

Until it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through securing the last of the crates when the sharp echo of footsteps slices through the silence. Not the quick, coordinated rhythm of your team’s boots, these are heavier, slower, deliberate.

Your head snaps up. “Yoongi,” you whisper into your earpiece. “Tell me that’s you.”

Static. Then a low curse. “Negative. Security must’ve doubled their night staff. Get out of there. Now.”

You scan the shadowy exhibits, pulse racing. “No time. Split up. Grab what you can and head to the van. I’ll meet you.”

“Y/N—”

But you’ve taken off, moving fast and quiet down the nearest hall. Glass cases and marble busts blur in your peripheral as you slip into an unmarked door and shut it behind you.

The air inside is colder, heavier. Like the room hasn’t been touched in months. Dust motes drift lazily through the narrow beam of your flashlight as you pace the room softly, eyes sweeping over the walls for any sign of cameras or motion sensors. Nothing.

Once you’re sure it’s safe, you let out a shaky breath and slide down the nearest wall, the adrenaline slowly bleeding out of your system. The edge of your jacket catches on something behind you, tugging a heavy drape loose. It crumples to the ground in a cloud of dust, sending you into a fit of coughing.

“Shit,” you hiss, waving a hand in front of your face.

When the air clears, your flashlight catches on what the fabric had been hiding.

A painting, regal and strangely pristine compared to everything else in the archive.

And the subject…

You suck in a breath.

It’s a man half-reclined against a dark backdrop, skin like marble dusted with gold, a thin sheet draped low across his hips. His eyes, heavy-lidded and smoldering brown, seem to follow your every movement, unsettlingly aware. Midnight-black hair falls in soft waves around his face, framing sculpted cheekbones and full, plush lips that curve into the faintest smirk.

You blink once. Twice.

He’s beautiful. Unnervingly so.

You can’t tear your eyes away. Every brushstroke, every shadow, every detail of him seems almost… alive. You’ve seen plenty of portraits before, but this was on another level.

The way his gaze holds you, the subtle tension in his posture, the curve of what lies beneath the drapery. It’s impossible to look away.

Minutes slip by before a voice cracks through your earpiece, sharp and low. “Y/N. Move. Now.”

Right. You had to go.

You turn for the exit, ready to disappear into the night, but your gaze catches on the painting once more, and your feet refuse to move.

You can’t leave it behind. Not after seeing him. It’s too beautiful to sit forgotten in this dusty room, too captivating to let rot in the dark.

With a sharp inhale, you cross the floor, drape in hand. The fabric slips over the frame as you gather it against your chest, its edges biting lightly into your palms.

You glance once more at the door, heart pounding. “Screw it,” you whisper, and take off down the corridor.

You don’t get back to your apartment until after 3 a.m. Yoongi gave you hell about the painting, nagging that it wasn’t on the list. That you’d gone rogue again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You had to have it.

Shedding your jacket and kicking off your shoes, you pad deeper into your apartment. The floor-to-ceiling windows spill the city’s glow across the hardwood, neon lights flickering against glass and paint.

Curator by day, art thief by night—one of the best in both fields. Yoongi hated how risky it was, but Yoongi hated most things. And you? You were never much of a people pleaser.

Most of your living room walls are already lined with pieces you’ve “liberated” over the years. Paintings, sculptures, artifacts from half a dozen museums, but this one feels different. Too intimate to leave in the open.

So you take it to your bedroom, rearrange a few things, and settle for hanging it above your bed.

“I wonder how many men this’ll scare off,” you mutter, dusting your hands as you step down from the mattress.

The man in the painting stares down at you, that same half-smirk playing on his lips. His eyes catch the faint reflection of city lights, making them glint, alive almost.

You shake your head. “I need a shower and sleep,” you mutter, unclasping your hair-tie as you head into the bathroom. Your curls spill free, cascading over your shoulders like a dark halo.

The shower runs hot, steam curling around your body as you scrub away the night’s grime with your net sponge. It’s one of the few luxuries of living alone, you can take your time. No one to rush you.

Afterward, you lather yourself in shea butter, slip into your robe, and return to the mirror. You’ve already done your skincare; all that’s left is brushing your teeth.

As the bristles move over your teeth, you meet your own gaze in the mirror. The faint shadows beneath your eyes are getting worse. Proof of too many late nights, too many close calls.

Sometimes you wonder how much longer you’ll keep this up. If “night job” is even the right word for what you do.

But then again, the rush, the risk, it’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.

You sigh, rinsing off your toothbrush. Something will have to change. Eventually.

Back in your room, you start the nightly ritual of searching for your bonnet. During your morning rush, you always toss it somewhere impossible to find by night, forcing you to tear your room apart all over again.

“What the fuck,” you groan, exasperated, standing in the middle of the mess.

Your gaze sweeps over the room, catching on the painting, just for a second. You almost miss it.

Then you freeze.

The man.

Is gone.

You blink hard, rubbing your eyes. That can’t be right. You climb onto the bed, leaning closer. The frame is still there, the beige drapery in place, but the space where his body once was… is empty.

The air shifts. Warmer. Closer.

“Such language,” a voice murmurs behind you, smooth and lilting, the syllables curved with an old, noble cadence. “Tell me, is that how maidens speak in this century?”

Your blood runs cold.

You whip around and almost lose your balance on the bed as you face a nude man who looks identical to the one in the painting.

“What the fuck!” You parrot, whipping your head back and forth. Are you sleep walking right now? Are you that deprived?

“Again, such a dirty mouth,” he chides softly, voice dripping with old-world grace, like honey poured over stone. His accent is strange, elegant, threaded with something regal.

He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by his nakedness, standing there with one hand loosely at his side, the other resting over his chest as if to steady his breath.

You can’t even find yours.

“Who—who the hell are you?” you stammer, eyes darting from his face to the rest of him. Broad shoulders tapering into a lean, sculpted torso, muscle shifting smoothly beneath golden skin. Every line, every curve of him feels too perfect. Down to the curve of his shaft.

He tilts his head, eyes soft and knowing. “You freed me, little thief,” he says, stepping closer, shadows clinging to the lines of his body. “And for that…” his lips curl into the faintest smirk, “I owe you my gratitude.”

You blink hard, taking a step back,“Freed you? From what, the painting? That’s not—”

“Do you think I jest?” His tone deepens, rich with command. “You call upon things you do not understand.”

You shake your head. “You’re right. I don’t understand. And you have about three seconds to get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the cops to arrest your ass.”

He considers your threat with an almost fond tilt of the head, as if you’d offered him a particularly amusing trinket. “Arrest me?” His laugh is soft, not cruel but edged with an immemorial patience. “Child, do you think the laws of your century hold any weight over one who has outlived them?”

He straightens, robe of shadow and moonlight falling from his shoulders as he moves closer, and the room seems to lean with him. “I was crowned long before your city had a name. Kings are not taken by constables knocking on doors.”

Your jaw works. “You expect me to believe that? A king? In my bedroom?”

“You freed a king from a frame,” he replies, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind his ear with a lazy, languid politeness. “That carries its own…complications.” His gaze drops, sweeping the room with a cool, appraising calm, and at the sight he arches a brow. “And what a splendid mess you keep.”

He nods toward the walls, toward the stacked canvases, bronze figures, and the little shards of provenance tags you’d tucked away like secrets.

“Portraits, a pair of Grecian reliefs, a crate marked for private auction. Very messy work for a maiden. You hide your sins well, thief, but you do not hide them from me.” His finger traces an invisible line through the air, as if cataloguing each piece by touch alone. “You take what you admire, then call it yours. I guess you have good taste.”

Heat flares in your throat, angry and stunned. “So what, you’re above the law because your crown is older than my city? You come into my home and mock me?” Why were you even entertaining this madness.

He studies you for a long beat, like one tasting the character of wine. “Mock? No. Observe.” His voice softens. “I could drag the constables to your door with a word and watch them fumble. But that would be beneath me.” A small, almost private smile tugs at his mouth. “You should be more afraid of what you have released than of the police. There are debts owed for such awakenings.”

He steps closer. “So tell me then, what will you do, thief? Hide behind the blue light of your phone and call men who will not comprehend what stands in their doorway… or will you offer me something better in exchange for my discretion?”

You narrow your eyes, refusing to back down even as his presence seems to fill every inch of the room. “Your discretion?” you echo, crossing your arms over your chest, though the defiance feels paper-thin beneath his stare. “You break out of a painting and start talking in riddles about crowns and debts, and now you want me to bribe you? With what, exactly?”

His lips curve, not into a smile, but something sharper. “Bribe?” he muses. “No, little thief. Tribute.”

He begins to walk towards you, so you leap off the bed and snatch the gun you keep tucked beside your mattress.

“Get the hell out!” You shout, gun pointed in his direction. You try to steady your shaking hands but you’re freaking the fuck out right now.

You feel like you’re on a bad trip and you haven’t smoked weed in months.

He doesn’t flinch. Not even when you click the safety off.

Instead, his gaze flicks lazily to the gun in your hands, and something like amusement curls at his lips. “You think that little thing could harm me?” he says, voice low and steady, like smoke.

“Don’t test me,” you warn, backing up a step. “I don’t care who you think you are—”

“Who I think I am?” His tone darkens, almost pitying. “No, sweetheart. I know exactly who I am.”

He steps forward and you begin to realize you’re cornered, clad in nothing but a robe, cradling a gun you’ve never used before.

You were a thief not a murderer.

“I am Kim Taehyung,” he announces, each word curved and deliberate, like a declaration. “King of Hwanju. Betrayed by my own blood, painted and bound by my enemies to a frame meant to hold my soul.”

You blink hard, trying to keep your grip on the gun steady. “King,” you echo, incredulous. “Yeah, right. Look, I’m not going to tell you again to get out of my apartment. Unless you want your guts splattered all over my floor.”

The image feels grotesque in your head and you can’t help the shiver that runs through you. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, Taehyung watches you with a soft, amused tilt to his mouth.

He lifts his hand, letting a handful of bullets slip through his fingers. Each one scattering across the hardwood like coins dropped in offering. Your stomach hollows.

“How—” you start, voice thin as you check your gun, the magazine empty.

“Well, my dear,” he murmurs, eyes glinting, “what’s a gesture to a king?”

You fly to the ground, in attempt to quickly collect the bullets, but he’s quicker. Before your fingers close around a single shell, his hand is on your wrist, warm, impossibly strong, and suddenly the metal is gone from your palm, sailing in a lazy arc across the room and clattering against the dresser.

“Get off of me!” you spit, kicking, lungs burning as you wrench free. You stumble back into the corner, robe wrapped tight around you like a shield. Your heart is hammering so loud you can feel it in your throat.

Taehyung watches you, unbothered as he rises to his feet. “Such violence,” he says softly, amused rather than hurt. “You are spirited.”

You swallow, forcing your voice to steady. “What the hell do you want?”

He folds his arms, the bare planes of his chest and shoulders relaxed. “I told you,” he replies, slow and sure. “A bargain. I owe you nothing, and yet, customs die slow. You freed me. That obliges you.”

He shifts, and the position puts his private in clear view, forcing you to look away.

“Stop talking in riddles!” you snap, voice pitching higher. “And for the love of God, cover yourself! This is insanity.”

He sighs, the sound low and resigned, as if humoring a child. “Fine then. May I put it bluntly for you?”

You brace yourself.

“You freed me from my curse,” Taehyung begins, gaze unwavering, “a prison woven from betrayal and desire. For centuries I have been bound to that canvas, neither living nor dead, until one foolish enough to take it broke the seal.” He walks towards the window, gazing at the city

“But the curse is not so easily severed. It is… transferred.”

Your heart kicks painfully in your ribs. “Transferred?”

He nods once. “To you.”

You stare at him, disbelief breaking through your fear. “You’re saying what? Because I stole a painting, I’m cursed now?”

His lips twitch, the faintest echo of a smile. “Not yet. But unless the ritual bound in that image is completed, the act I was… engaged in when it was painted, the curse will seek a new host.”

Your mind blanks. “You’re joking.”

His face hardens. “I shall not tell you again that I do not jest. Especially not about my fate.”

You gain the courage to stand on your own two feet, ready to argue, to throw something, anything, back at him. But then it hits you.

A sharp, white-hot pain lances through your skull, paralyzing you. The world around you flickers. The edges of your apartment dissolve, replaced by blinding light. Then color, sound, life.

You blink, and suddenly you’re elsewhere.

A grand hall stretches before you, polished wood gleaming beneath rows of lanterns. Servants and ministers bow low as King Taehyung strides past, his robe a brilliant crimson gonryongpo embroidered with five golden dragons trailing across the polished floor. His gat crown glints faintly beneath the lantern light, his expression calm but commanding. Every step radiates quiet power. The King of Hwanju.

Before you can breathe, the scene shifts.

Now he stands in a serene courtyard garden, moonlight filtering through paper screens. His gaze is fixed on a painting of a woman. Soft, luminous, engaged in a moment of ecstasy. The way his eyes trace her form is riveting, besotted. His hand lifts, fingers brushing the canvas as though it might slip between his fingers.

Another flash, your stomach lurches.

The woman kneels before him now, desperate, her voice trembling. “Please, your majesty. If you share your body with me, I’ll be free. And so will you.”

Taehyung’s jaw hardens. “You are temptation wrapped in deceit.” His words cut through the air, final and cold. He turns away, silken robes whispering against the floor.

The next image hits like a whip.

A grand chamber. A painting, his painting, hung high upon the wall. Taehyung’s smirk frozen in place, the same one that had drawn you in, daring you to reach for it.

Then everything shatters.

You gasp, clutching your head as the world slams back into focus. Your bedroom. The city lights bleeding through the curtains. And Taehyung. Standing exactly where he was, calm, knowing.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice is low. “The curse.”

You nod weakly, still reeling, your pulse pounding in your ears. Words refuse to form.

He exhales slowly, gaze flicking toward your bed, then back to you. “Then you understand,” he says. “You know what must be done.”

Your throat tightens. “You can’t be serious,” you manage, voice trembling somewhere between a scoff and a plea.

“I am always serious,” Taehyung replies, taking a measured step toward you. The air seems to shift with him. Heavier, charged, your body betraying you with the way it reacts. “You freed me, Y/N. Now the curse searches for another vessel.”

You take a step back, pressing into the wall. “And you think that vessel is me?”

His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate. “It will be… unless we finish what was never completed.”

Your breath catches, heart hammering so violently it hurts. Every instinct screams at you to run, yet you’re rooted. Caught between logic and something that feels older, deeper, like an echo that doesn’t belong to this lifetime.

He stops just out of reach. “You are afraid,” he murmurs, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Good. Fear means you understand the weight of what you’ve done.”

“Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice lacks conviction.

Taehyung tilts his head, studying you as though committing your every breath to memory. “I will not touch you,” he says finally, “unless you give me permission to. But if you do…” His gaze flicks briefly to the painting above your bed. “There will be no undoing it.”

Your mind swarms with thoughts. You weren’t a stranger to a one-night stand, in all honesty, you preferred them. No messy feelings, no strings, no lingering promises. But this?

This was insanity.

You shake your head, a sharp laugh escaping you. “You actually expect me to believe that sleeping with you is going to what? Lift some ancient curse?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer right away. He simply watches you, quiet and steady. His gaze unsettlingly calm in contrast to your rising panic.

“I expect nothing,” he finally says, voice low. “You may choose disbelief. But time will not wait for your certainty.”

You gulp. Why are you conflicted?

The only logical option is to kick this lunatic out, call the cops, and burn that stupid painting.

Yet you stand rooted to the spot, the visions replaying behind your eyes. A man neither dead nor truly alive. Could you really let that go? You’re no saint, but you have autonomy. You like it that way.

You can’t believe you’re actually considering this.

“Just one night?” you ask, keeping your eyes away from his.

He exhales, a soft puff of amused air. “That will suffice, yes. Though most women I take to bed beg for more.”

You shoot him a glare and he raises his hands in an almost theatrical surrender.

This isn’t about desire. It’s survival.

That’s what you tell yourself as you stare at the floor, mind spinning through every possible alternative. None exist.

You swallow hard, your voice barely steady. “Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. Then, stronger, “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Taehyung’s lips curl, something dangerous glinting in his eyes as he closes the distance, the air around you tightening like a snare. His hand finds your chin, cool fingers tilting your face upward until your breath tangles with his.

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

Before you can even think to change your mind, his mouth meets yours in a slow languid kiss. One that burns away every rational thought.

Your hands rest awkwardly at your sides as his right grabs your waist, massaging your hip.

Despite being centuries old, Taehyung was a skillful kisser, leaving you quickly gasping for air.

You part your lips, desperate for a breather, but he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His tongue roaming your mouth.

It’s embarrassing how quickly you become aroused, nipples pressing painfully against your robe.

Sensing your arousal, Taehyung’s hands begin to roam your body, finding the knot keeping your robe in place. He pulls the string, exposing your front, completely.

Cool night air greets your tits and you shiver down to your core.

Pulling back from your lips with a wet smack, Taehyung takes a moment to admire your body. “My lord. Aren’t you a beaut.”

He takes your right boob in his palm, plush flesh filling up his hand as he squeezes. A breathy moan escapes you and he grins.

Lowering until he’s eye level with you chest, Taehyung licks teasing at your brown areola. The skin pebblinng solid immediately and you can’t help the quiet moan that escapes you.

“Don’t be shy, darling. Let me hear you. You had no trouble yelling at me before. I want to know how good I make you feel,” Taehyung speaks agains your chest. Every puff of his breath sending jolts to your core.

He licks around your nipple before finally latching on and you can’t fight the strangled noise that escapes you.

Grabbing onto his locks of hair, you sigh out. Head smacking against the wall hard enough to make the room spin.

After giving each breast the same amount of attention, Taehyung continues his trail down your stomach, leaving soft kisses in his wake.

He kneels before you, becoming eye level with your core. “You don’t have to-“ you start, but the words break off into a moan as he hitches your leg over his shoulder, diving into your pussy.

“Wait!” You gasp, pulling at his hair roughly, but he doesn’t budge. Tongue licking between your folds as he gazes up at you, eyes clouded with desire.

His lips suction on your clit and the heel of your foot digs into his back as you shudder. The obscene sounds of his wet slurping makes you wetter, if that’s even possible, and your leg begins to tremble.

“Taehyung. Please-“ you beg for mercy, but he doesn’t let up. You tug tightly at his hair, attempting to get him off, but he hoists you up in one quick motion. Mouth never leaving your core as he eats you out from above.

Your arms raise instantly to grasp the ceiling in attempt to balance yourself, adrenaline pumping through you.

From this position, you can no longer fight your orgasm, falling mercy to his tongue. “Taehyung please. Don’t stop!,” you shout, bucking into his face.

You’re almost afraid you’ll tip him over, but his hold is strong, feet planted firmly on the floor.

Your orgasm crashes down on you in waves, dotting your vision as you struggle to free yourself from the stimulation.

Fuck, you had no idea a man trapped in a painting for centuries could eat pussy like that. When did he practice?

He lowers you slowly in his hold, his chin covered with slick and your cum as he claims your lips in a deep kiss, forcing you taste yourself.

Dropping you onto the bed, you bounce with a loud huff, staring at the ceiling. “Where did you learn to eat pussy like that, your majesty?” You tease rising on your elbows to stare at him.

He stands at the edge of the bed, stroking his now, heavy shaft as he stares at you. Hungrily.

“A king never reveals his secrets,” he muses.” You watch as he strokes his cock from base to tip, collecting pre-cum along the way.

Your mouth waters. “Need some help with that?” You ask, suddenly more than ready to return the favor.

He shakes his head, joining you on the bed. Your legs part easily, body feeling pliant after your first orgasm. “No,” he says, low and deliberate. “Tonight’s all about you. And I plan to pleasure you like it’s your last.”

The words raise goosebumps on your skin, your chills amplified as his fingers rub your swollen clit down to your fluttering hole.

His middle finger sinks in easy, followed by his index and ring, the stretch inviting. You are going to need all the prep you can get.

You don’t fight the moans that escape you now as he works you open, gripping the sheets as his fingers curl just right.

After a few more thrust, you can’t take it anymore. “Taehyung, I-I’m ready.”

Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he pull his fingers out, your hole clinching around nothing. “Music to my ears.”

Flipping you over, Taehyung yanks you to the edge of the bed, running his length through your folds. “Where do you keep your condoms, little thief?” He asks, palming your ass.

“Top drawer of my nightstand.”

There’s quiet shuffling and then you hear the tale-tale sound of plastic ripping. Before you know it, Taehyung’s back behind you, lining himself up with your entrance.

He sinks in slow, all the way to the hilt and your jaw slacks. “You feel heavenly,” he grits, voice strained as he fucks you slow.

You moan at the stretch. It’s been awhile since you’ve been with someone this thick.

Taehyung doesn’t give you much time to adjust before he’s ramming into you, harsh deep strokes that are impossible to escape.

Your grip on your sheets tighten as you take it, curses spewing from your mouth.

Propping his foot up on the bed, Taehyung unlocks a new angle that makes you shout, orgasm hitting you violently.

“That’s it, little thief. Let me hear how good it feels to come undone on my cock,” He encourages from behind, never letting up.

He fucks you into overstimulation, pleasure dissolving into pain that has you inching away.

“Wait, I need a second,” you gasp out, hand reaching back against his chest.

He pulls out and your head falls against the mattress, eager for a moment of peace.

But even that’s short lived as he’s flipping you over, pressing your legs into your chest as he sinks back in. You whine out as he fucks into you, pace unforgiving.

“Don’t tap out now, Dear. You’ve been doing so good,” Taehyung reassures. He looks ethereal, sweat glistening in the moonlight as he unravels you.

By the pleasure on his face, he isn’t far from an orgasm himself, which is good because you don’t know how much more you can take.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing steadily. “I can’t,” you whine. You just came minutes ago, you weren’t a machine.

“Yes. You. Can.” He grits out, thrusting hard with each word. “Just one more little thief, don’t leave me hanging.”

His breath is labored, pace growing sloppy as he pounds into you, rubbing steadily at your clit.

Surprisingly another orgasm builds within you, this one more intense than your first two combined.

You clench around Taehyung’s length and he groans, releasing into the condom.

You breathe heavily as he pulls out, legs trembling, every nerve still humming. Your eyes flutter shut, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.

You can’t believe you’re admitting this, but that was the best sex you’ve ever had in your life. And it was with a man who literally stepped out of a painting.

Your body feels weightless, the exhaustion almost drugging. You try to sit up, but your limbs don’t obey, leaving you sprawled across the sheets, pulse slowing.

“Just sleep, little thief,” Taehyung murmurs, brushing a damp curl from your cheek. His gaze lingers on you, soft, but distant, almost mournful. “You did well.”

His words echo as your consciousness slips, the last thing you see is the faint shimmer of gold dust trailing along his skin.

You wake the next morning to your alarm clock, like you always do.

Eyes still shut, burning from the lack of sleep, you reach out to hit snooze—

—but your arm doesn’t move.

Your whole body feels… tight. Compressed, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. You blink your eyes open, scanning your surroundings.

Everything looks normal. The city hums quietly beyond the glass, your clothes are still scattered across the chair, your sheets a tangled mess.

All evidence of last night, except for him, still here.

But why can’t you move?

And why are you looking down at your bed… instead of lying in it?

Your breath catches, or tries to. Panic floods through you, but it’s trapped somewhere deep, where your lungs used to respond.

You think back to Taehyung’s words, the solemn look on his face as you drifted off to sleep.

Hesitantly, your gaze shifts toward the full-length mirror in the corner of your room, a prayer forming in the back of your throat. This can’t be what you think.

But as your eyes trace the reflection, past your empty bed, to the painting hanging above it, you freeze.

Because staring back at you, from inside the frame, are your own eyes.