Maybe in Another Life

His first footsteps near my door

"The King of Pop Comes to the Youngest King of K-pop"

The world had been whispering for weeks.

A storm of public demand rose after Jungkook's last performance - the tribute, the moonwalk, the seamless blend of classic and modern - a performance that felt like reincarnation, like resurrection. Fans called it a cosmic echo, a bridge between two kings.

Michael Jackson had been watching.
And now, he was coming.

Not to a press conference.
Not to a studio.
But to a hidden villa nestled in the mountains - the one place the youngest King of K-pop disappeared to when the world got too loud.

A velvet dusk blanketed the air as Michael arrived. The guards at the iron gate, dressed in black, gave him a slow, respectful nod. Not a word, not a question. They had been instructed beforehand:

> "If Mr. Jackson arrives, open the gates like you're opening heaven. Don't speak. Don't ask why. Just bow."

He walked silently down a narrow, stone path lined with lanterns that flickered low, dancing in the late summer breeze. The villa was crafted like an old European manor - gothic, secluded, bleeding with character. And at the far end of the long hallway, past antique portraits and high-arched wooden doors, was the fire circle room.

Michael stepped inside.

And there he was.

Jeon Jungkook.

The room was aglow with nothing but firelight, licking the air in deep orange and gold, making shadows sway like silent spectators. A massive circular fireplace sat sunken into the ground at the center of the room, its flames crackling softly, casting warmth like a heartbeat.

The walls were drenched in blood-red velvet, patterned with golden vines. Thick bookshelves wrapped the entire room in a halo of knowledge - ancient texts, poetry, musical theory, secret journals, vinyls. The floor was covered in luxurious red carpets, and the air smelled faintly of sandalwood, aged paper, and something vaguely sweet...like honeyed wine and firewood.

Jungkook lay on his stomach near the hearth, his back arched gently from the waist up. One arm rested languidly under his chin, while the other delicately held open a leather-bound book - its pages glowing softly in the fire's breath.

His robe was a rich crimson silk velvet, pooling around his waist and trailing behind him like spilled desire. The sleeves fell loose at his wrists, and his inky hair - slightly tousled - framed his cheekbones like dark silk. His skin shimmered warm against the fire, glowing almost unreal, like a painting in motion.

He hadn't looked up yet.

Michael paused in the doorway, half swallowed by the shadows.

"Can I... come in?" Michael asked, his voice gentle - hesitant, despite the fire and history in his name.

Jungkook didn't move. But his lips curved faintly - a slow, knowing smile. He didn't need to look.

> "You don't need to ask," he said softly, voice like warm wine.
"You've already been here. Long before this moment."