Chapter 6: Changing Locks
The first light of dawn was a thief, stealing the anonymity of night and leaving everything exposed. It filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in shades of weak gold and long, accusing shadows. Jimin watched it creep across the rumpled sheets, across the sculpted plane of Jungkook’s bare back.
He was asleep, turned away from him. His breathing was deep and even, a steady rhythm that spoke of a conscience utterly untroubled. The sheet was pooled around his waist, revealing the powerful muscles of his shoulders, the dip of his spine. He looked like a monument to himself. Perfect. Untouchable.
Jimin’s own body felt like a crime scene. A dull ache pulsed deep inside him, a visceral reminder of the night before—the cold marble against his back, the brutal, efficient rhythm, the words that had cut deeper than any physical act. This is all we are. His eyes were gritty and swollen, his throat raw from swallowed sobs. He had cried himself into a fitful, shame-filled sleep, and now he was just… empty.
He moved with the caution of a intruder, sliding his legs out from under the weight of the duvet. The silk whispered against his skin, a sound that felt obscenely loud in the profound quiet. He found his clothes scattered on the floor—his jeans, his thin sweater—a pathetic little pile next to Jungkook’s neatly folded, obscenely expensive outfit from the night before. Dressing felt like putting on a costume for a play that had already ended in catastrophe. Every movement was stiff, every rustle of fabric a potential trigger.
He didn’t look back at the bed. He couldn’t. If he saw Jungkook’s face, he might crumble. He might crawl back in and beg for a different ending, one he knew would never come. This was the only way. A clean break. Or as clean as it could be when your insides felt shredded.
His socked feet made no sound on the polished concrete floor as he crossed the vast expanse of the bedroom. The city was waking up below, a silent, slow-motion film. He felt a million miles away from it, locked in this glass prison of someone else’s making.
The foyer was just as he remembered it. The cold marble. The console table with the sculpture he’d once loved. A phantom pain echoed through him. He focused on the elevator doors, a shimmering silver escape.
His hand was reaching for the call button when the voice came from behind him, cutting through the silence like a shard of glass. It wasn’t sleepy. It was clear, flat, and utterly final.
“Don’t bother.”
Jimin froze, his fingers hovering an inch from the panel.
“The elevator code’s been changed.”
The words were so simple. So casual. They didn’t sound like a weapon, but they might as well have been a blade twisting in the hollow space his heart had once occupied. The elevator code’s been changed. It wasn’t just about the elevator. It was about everything. His access. His presence. His worth. It was a revocation of his entire existence in Jungkook’s world.
He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t let Jungkook see his face fall apart. He just stood there, his body rigid, listening to the soft footsteps approach.
Jungkook stopped behind him, close enough for Jimin to feel the heat from his body, to smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne on his own skin. A final, cruel intimacy.
“I’ll call the car for you,” Jungkook said, his tone devoid of any emotion. It was a logistical update. An item on his to-do list. Dispose of the artist.
Jimin gave a single, sharp nod, a movement so tight it hurt his neck. He heard the soft rustle of Jungkook’s phone being taken from a pocket, the quiet tap of his thumb on the screen.
A moment later, the elevator chimed, the doors sliding open with a soft, sighing sound. The empty cab waited, a metallic coffin for his dignity.
“It’ll be downstairs,” Jungkook said.
Jimin stepped inside. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, on the polished metal of the doors, refusing to grant Jungkook one last look. As the doors began to close, he saw a sliver of the foyer, of Jungkook’s bare feet on the marble, and then nothing.
The descent was silent and swift. The numbers above the door blinked, counting down the floors, counting down the end. When the doors opened onto the pristine, cold lobby, a black sedan was already idling at the curb. The uniformed driver gave him a neutral nod.
Jimin walked out of the building and into the sharp morning air. He didn’t get in the car. He just started walking, the city swallowing him whole. The code was changed. The door was shut. He was finally, irrevocably, on the outside.