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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The landlady’s voice could probably shatter glass and definitely Y/N’s patience.

Under her breath, Y/N muttered, “Why not donate that banshee voice to a startup, ma’am? Maybe they’ll turn it into clean energy or something. At least then you’d be useful after wasting oxygen all these years.”

“What did you just say, you ungrateful brat?” the woman shouted, her voice echoing off the cracked, peeling walls.

This so-called house that this old woman was howling about was falling apart. It wasn’t 'affordable vintage charm.' It was just five stages of grief. The only free luxury was sunlight leaking through a massive hole in the ceiling. If Y/N stretched far enough, she could probably high-five a pigeon.

“I said shouting isn’t good for your blood pressure,” she replied with a tight, polite smile that didn’t match the irritation bubbling inside. “I’ll pay you in the evening. But for that, I need to actually go to work.”

“Who the hell would come to you, dimwit? Other than those spiders nesting in your dusty little clinic!” the landlady snapped. “Even they need therapy after living with you!”

Y/N stared at her blankly. The audacity. And in orthopedic slippers no less.

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Meanwhile, in a shadowy alley on the other side of the city...

The air didn’t just smell bad. It stank of rust, mold, and something that used to be alive.

A silver blade flashed, quick and cruel, slicing through a man’s trembling hand. His cry echoed down the alley, but it didn’t last long. The next stab landed in his stomach. Blood spilled fast. So did his insides, sliding out across the wet pavement.

A laugh followed. Low. Cold. Heartless.

Jungkook stood over the body, wiping the knife clean on the dying man’s shirt.

“I’ve eaten sushi smarter and more useful than this idiot,” he muttered.

He was dressed in black from head to toe. Tailored jacket, designer watch, boots that probably cost more than a building’s rent. The blood pooling at his feet didn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Clean this up,” he said to his men, snapping the knife shut. “And tell that rat in Sector Seven if he sends another spy, I’ll cut his balls off and hang them from my rearview mirror.”

His men moved without hesitation. One dragged the body away like it was an old mattress. Another wiped up the blood with quiet focus. No panic. No guilt. Just another night on the job.

Jungkook slid into the backseat of a blacked-out car and lit a cigarette. He inhaled like it was the only thing keeping him from losing his temper entirely.

“Third one this week,” he muttered to Taehyung, his trusted man, apart from Jimin. “Is it really that hard to get through a day without betrayal, whining, or someone trying to be clever?”

Taehyung, behind the wheel, gave a lazy shrug. “You’re scary. That tends to attract challengers.”

Jungkook blew out a stream of smoke. “Next idiot who crosses me is getting served his own tongue on a plate.”