Jungkook's back slammed against the cold marble wall of the penthouse, wrists trapped above his head by Taehyung's iron grip. His breath stuttered, chest heaving, eyes wide with both fury and fear.
"L-let me go," Jungkook hissed, voice trembling but...
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The narrow alley smelled of urine and smoke. Little Taehyung, no more than eleven, walked fast, clutching the crumpled notes he had earned from washing dishes in the hotel.
His steps were light, his heart hopeful—those few bills meant medicine for his mother tonight.
But fate had another plan ....
From the shadows, a group of older boys stepped out, blocking his path. Their faces were hard, their fists already ready.
“Yah, beggar kid,” one sneered, grabbing Tae’s collar. “What’s in your hand?”
Tae’s chest tightened. “It’s for my eomma… she’s sick. Please let me go.”
The boys laughed cruelly. “Sick mother? Then go beg in hospital! Why are you even alive, huh? Idiot… low class trash!”
B
efore Tae could move, fists rained down on him.
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A kick to his ribs, a punch to his face. He fell to the dirt, his money slipping out of his hand. One of the boys snatched it, waving it mockingly.
“Medicine money? Not anymore.”
Tae’s lips split, blood dripping, but he didn’t cry.
He just covered his head with his small hands, whispering, “Eomma… I’m sorry.”
