The rickety ceiling fan spun lazily above Jeon Jungkook's head, failing to offer any real relief from the warmth inside his tiny Seoul apartment. The space was barely larger than a storeroom, with a creaky bed, a rusting mini fridge, and walls so thin he could hear his neighbor humming trot songs at night. But for Jungkook, this was freedom.
It had only been a week since he'd hugged his mother tightly, blinked back tears as his older brother ruffled his hair, and promised his father he'd make them proud. The streets of Busan were behind him now. Here in Seoul, everything was new, daunting, and electric. A world full of opportunity and struggle—and Jungkook was right in the middle of it.
Groceries were low, and his stomach grumbled like thunder. Pulling on his worn-out sneakers, Jungkook tucked some cash into his pocket, hopped on his old bicycle, and pedaled toward the nearest convenience store. He picked up the cheapest ramen, some eggs, and a discount kimbap roll, careful to count every won.
The sun was already dipping behind the skyscrapers when he headed back, humming quietly to himself, plastic bags dangling from the handlebars. The streets were quieter now, the golden light painting everything in a soft hue.
Then it happened.
A low hum, tires screeching—Jungkook turned his head just in time to see the sleek black car glide toward him like a predator.
Bam!
"Shit!"
His brakes squealed as he swerved, but it wasn't fast enough. The bike tipped sideways, groceries flying. The car came to a sharp halt, mere inches from him. Jungkook hit the pavement hard, palms scraped raw and pride bruised.
The car door swung open.
"Are you blind?" A deep voice, smooth but laced with venom.
Jungkook looked up, dazed, only to meet the piercing glare of a man in an expensive tailored suit. The kind that screamed money and power.
Kim Taehyung.
Jungkook didn't know his name yet. But he knew the type—rich, arrogant, untouchable.
"You came out of nowhere," Jungkook muttered, trying to gather his spilled groceries with shaky hands.
Taehyung stalked forward, his polished shoes clicking against the asphalt. "You're on the damn road with that piece of scrap metal you call a bicycle," he sneered. "You could've scratched my car. Do you even know how much it costs?"
Jungkook's eyes flitted to the glossy vehicle—an imported luxury model with rims probably worth more than his entire life.
"I didn't damage it," he said quietly, pushing himself to his feet.
Taehyung looked him over with cold disdain, eyes lingering on his worn jeans and thin hoodie. "Of course. I should've expected this from someone like you. Let me guess—Busan? Fresh off the train? Hoping the big city throws you a bone?"
Jungkook's chest tightened. His accent always gave him away.
He squared his shoulders anyway. "You're right. I am from Busan. And I work hard for everything I have."
Taehyung scoffed. "Hard work doesn't fix stupidity."
He reached into his wallet and pulled out a couple of crisp bills, holding them out like trash. "Here. For your… damages. Buy yourself a better bike. Or a clue."
Jungkook stared at the money, heart thudding.
"I don't need your pity."
"Oh, it's not pity. Just an attempt to avoid a lawsuit if you decide to cry foul."
Jungkook looked him dead in the eye. "I won't take your money. You're not better than me because you have more of it."
Something flickered in Taehyung's gaze—amusement? Annoyance?
He dropped the bills on the ground. "Then consider it a donation. Pick it up or don't. Makes no difference to me."
With that, he walked away, not sparing another glance. His driver opened the door, and he slipped back inside like a king returning to his throne.
Jungkook stared after him, breathing hard, fists clenched. Every part of him burned—with embarrassment, with anger, with the sting of condescension. But beneath it all, a spark of determination ignited.
He bent down, picked up his groceries, and left the money where it lay.
Seoul was cruel. But so was he, when he needed to be.
And this wouldn't be the last time their paths crossed. Not by a long shot.
The plastic bag hung limply from his fingers, soaked from the egg yolk that now dripped down its side. Jungkook stared at the mess—six cracked eggs bleeding into the cheap plastic, their broken shells glinting under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen. The moment he set them down on the counter, the sticky remnants slid further, smearing over the worn, chipped laminate. He didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
His brows furrowed. His throat clenched.
He'd spent the last bit of his money on those damn eggs.
The silence in his tiny, cramped apartment was deafening. The flickering bulb overhead buzzed like an unwanted reminder of everything that was wrong. A fan hummed somewhere, lifelessly rotating warm air. Seoul was expensive, suffocating, and nothing like Busan. In Busan, he had warmth. His hyung would sneak snacks into his room, his mother's food smelled like a hug, and his father's quiet pats on the back meant the world.
Here, It was eggs. Broken eggs.
And a suit-clad devil who'd ruined everything.
Jungkook lowered himself slowly, his knees creaking against the cold floor. He stared at the shattered groceries for another beat before something in his chest cracked. The first sniffle was quiet. The second came with a tight breath. He wiped at his face harshly, willing the tears not to fall.
"Come on, Kook," he muttered to himself. "You're not a kid."
He was twenty-one, damn it. He was supposed to be building his future, studying hard, surviving in the city like the bright, capable young man everyone said he was. Instead, he sat alone in a box of a home, grieving over eggs. But it wasn't just the eggs. It was the humiliation, the fury, the way that man had looked at him like he was gum stuck on a thousand-dollar shoe.
His jaw tightened.
The memory burned into him vividly, even now. That sickening screech of tires. His heart jumping into his throat as the car swerved just inches from crushing his bike—and him. He'd hit the ground hard, palms scraping asphalt, and barely had time to catch his breath when a door slammed.
The man had emerged from the car with the presence of a god and the scowl of the devil.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? Are you blind?"
Jungkook had looked up, dazed. "I—It was the slope. I didn't see—"
"You didn't see?" Taehyung sneered. "Do you know how much this car costs?"
Jungkook's eyes had flicked toward the gleaming vehicle—untouched. "I didn't even scratch it—"
"You think I care about a scratch? You could've damaged the emblem," Taehyung growled, pointing at the front. "Do you know what kind of people ride bicycles in the middle of the city like idiots? People who can't afford common sense."
The words stung even now. Jungkook scrubbed a hand through his hair, furious tears blurring his vision. He hadn't had the strength then, dazed as he was. But God, he'd wanted to yell.
And then—then the man had pulled out money. Tossed it at him like he was paying off a street performer.
"For your eggs or whatever," Taehyung had said with a smirk.
The bills had fluttered to the ground, brushing Jungkook's wrist. And in that moment, he had never felt more worthless.
"I don't want your money," he'd snapped.
"Of course you do." Taehyung had paused, tilting his head. "People like you always do."
The arrogance. The sheer entitlement of that man. It made Jungkook's skin crawl.
He stood now, shoulders hunched, and kicked the counter lightly with the side of his foot. It didn't help.
"What people like me?" he murmured bitterly.
Was he wrong for wanting a better life? For daring to dream even when he had barely enough to scrape through the week?
He trudged to the tiny bathroom and splashed water on his face. Cold. Sharp. But not enough to drown the heat in his chest. His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy.
"People like me work harder than your entire building staff combined," he whispered at the reflection.
His phone buzzed. He didn't even check it. Probably another reminder of a job application going unanswered.
He returned to the living room, if it could even be called that, and sat cross-legged beside the remains of his dinner. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, but pride gnawed harder.
He wouldn't cry again. Not tonight.
Instead, he reached for the bills that still sat in the bag—he hadn't thrown them away. Couldn't afford to.
But he wouldn't spend them. Not yet.
No, one day, he'd shove them back into that guy's perfectly manicured hands and say, "Turns out, people like me don't need your pity."
And when that day came, he'd make damn sure it hurt.
His lips curled into a bitter smile as he stood.
It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
He opened the cupboard and grabbed the last packet of instant ramen.
Tomorrow was another day.
And Jungkook wouldn't be stepping aside for any black-suited bastards again.
Kim Taehyung had always believed that silence was the best armor. It served him well in boardrooms, in backroom negotiations, in the ruthless climb to the top of Seoul's corporate ladder. Silence gave him power, presence, mystery. But that night, in the dim solitude of his penthouse, silence mocked him.
He tossed his cufflinks onto the dresser with more force than necessary. The sharp clink as they landed did little to soothe the buzz in his head. He wasn't used to this—feeling bothered. Especially not by some kid on a beat-up bicycle who didn't even know who he was.
Taehyung paced. He'd had accidents before. Pedestrians too preoccupied with their phones. Reckless bikers. But none of them had ever talked back. None had dared meet his eyes with such defiance, as if he was the one who needed to apologize. The gall of it.
He could still hear the kid's voice—rough around the edges, annoyed, proud.
"Next time you throw money, make sure it hits someone who needs your pity."
Taehyung's jaw clenched. That had done something to him. Not in the way people usually did, cowering or fawning. That…kid, the face burned itself into his mind. He had stood there—clothes cheap, shoes worn, hair sticking to his forehead from the sweat and heat—and looked at Taehyung like he was nothing more than a regular man.
He had even yelled.
Taehyung sat down, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair.
He remembered throwing the bills at him. Instinct, really. That's how things worked in his world—cause inconvenience, throw money. But that kid hadn't picked it up. Hadn't even looked at it.
No one ever made him feel small. But somehow, a twenty-something from Busan had managed to do just that with a single glare. That was what stung the most.
It wasn't the accident. It wasn't the scratched car or the minor dent. It wasn't even the humiliation of being yelled at in public. It was the way the kid hadn't cared who he was.
Taehyung wasn't used to being unrecognised. And certainly not disrespected.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it. His dinner had gone cold. He didn't touch it. His thoughts were trapped in that one moment—Jungkook's lips trembling in frustration, a grocery bag torn, egg yolk seeping into the street, yet still standing tall, eyes glinting like he had something to prove.
Who the hell was he?
Taehyung leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
He hadn't meant to feel anything. He certainly hadn't meant to remember. But here he was, restless and disturbed, fixated on a stranger who didn't even blink when faced with Seoul's most feared CEO.
That kind of pride wasn't bought. It was bred.
And maybe, just maybe, Taehyung wanted to see that look again—only this time, behind his office doors. Where he had the upper hand. Where the world still ran by his rules.