Taste Of Algorithm Jinkook/Kookjin story

Coincidence

He was shaking. With anger. With fear. With a terrifying, reluctant fascination.

He walked slowly to the table. He pulled out the chair and sat down. He looked at the risotto. It was, without a doubt, a work of art. He picked up the fork that had been laid neatly beside the plate.

His hand trembled.

He took a bite.

The flavors exploded on his tongue—rich, earthy, perfectly balanced, the rice exactly as he preferred it, with a slight bite at the center. It was the best goddamn risotto he had ever tasted.

A single, traitorous tear escaped and traced a hot path down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away.

He had never felt more defeated. Or more seen.

And in the quiet of his invaded apartment, eating a meal prepared by his personal monster, Jin finally understood the true depth of his predicament.

Jeon Jungkook didn't just want to win the game.

He was rewriting the rules of what winning even meant. And Jin, fork in hand, was participating in the edit.

The silence in the kitchen of Jin Eatries after Jungkook left was heavy and complete. Jin stood frozen, the ghost of Jungkook's lips a burning brand on his skin. He could still feel the firm pressure of his hand on his neck, the shocking softness of his mouth. The air was thick with the scent of perfectly seared mushrooms—a dish saved by the very man who had just unraveled him.

Shame, hot and sharp, coiled in his stomach. He had been putty in Jungkook's hands. Again. His anger, his defiance—it had all evaporated under that touch. He brought a trembling hand to his temple, where the sensation lingered. You are an equation I cannot solve. The words weren't a compliment; they were a condemnation. He was a problem, and his surrender was just another piece of data.

For three days, Jin moved through the world like a ghost. He worked in the restaurant with a hollow efficiency, his smiles brittle, his commands automatic. He jumped at every slamming door, every raised voice. At night, he checked the lock on his apartment door over and over, his heart pounding. The world felt fundamentally unsafe. The rules he lived by were gone.

On the fourth day, a delivery came. Not a lunchbox. A large, flat crate from a fancy art company. Jin's stomach dropped. He had it opened in the alley.

Inside was a painting. Swirls of dark blue and grey with a single, bright streak of gold cutting through. It was powerful and sad and beautiful. A card was taped to it: For the empty wall beside your window. It requires no light to be seen.

Jin's hands shook. He knew who it was from. This wasn't a gift you could pay for. This was an attack on his very soul.

"Who's it from?" Jimin asked, eyes wide.

"No one," Jin whispered, his voice rough. "Send it back."

"Hyung, it's stunning. It looks just like—"

"I said send it back!" Jin's shout echoed in the alley. He couldn't have this piece of Jungkook's mind in his home, watching him.

But the deliverymen were gone. The crate stayed. He didn't send it back. He shoved it into a dark corner of the storage room, a sleeping dragon of fear.

The next time Jungkook appeared, it was during the busy Saturday night rush at Jin Eatries. The kitchen was loud and chaotic, and Jin was in charge, shouting orders. He didn't see him come in. He felt it.

The air changed. The energy shifted. Jin looked up from his sizzling pan and saw him standing in the doorway, watching. In a suit. He wasn't here for food. He was here for a show.