My menace

The Motorcycle deal

The purple haired gremlin is late. Again.

Taehyung glanced at his wrist clock, 10:23 AM, jungkook was supposed to be here at 8:30 AM. This is the third - no - fourth time this month that he's late.

Outside his office window, the city hummed with it's usual sounds. Honking cars, the distant clatter of construction, the muffled shouts of delivery men. Taehyung’s office, though, was quiet. Too quiet. He sighed, rubbing his temple. His father’s voice echoed in his head: "Give him time, son. He’s got fire. You’ll see." Fire. Right. More like a lit match tossed into a bundle of fireworks.

The door burst open before he could spiral further. Jungkook strode in like he owned the place—which, technically, he didn’t, but try telling him that. His hair was an even brighter shade of violet today, nearly glowing under the office lights. He dropped a folder onto Taehyung’s desk with a thud, then plopped into his chair, spinning it lazily.

"You look constipated," Jungkook announced, kicking his feet up onto the desk. "Bad meeting?"

Taehyung blinked. "You missed the meeting."

Jungkook shrugged, plucking a grape from the bowl on Taehyung’s desk and popped it into his mouth, "Meetings are bullshit anyway. All that nodding and pretending to care about quarterly projections. I got us something better." He tapped the folder with his boot, smudging the leather. Taehyung’s eye twitched.

Taehyung flipped the folder open, then immediately regretted it. Inside was a single sheet of paper—a contract, signed in looping, arrogant script by none other than Choi Minho, the notoriously mercurial CEO of Daesang Industries. The one they’d been trying to woo for months. "What the hell is this?"

"Proof I’m better at your job than you are," Jungkook said, grinning around another grape. "Dude loves motorcycles and hates small talk. So I took him to a bike rally, let him win a race, and got him drunk enough to sign. Easy."

Taehyung's fingers tightened on the contract, his pulse jumping in a traitorous mix of admiration and irritation. The Daesang deal was huge—the kind of win that would have the board clapping him on the back for weeks—and Jungkook had just dropped it onto his desk like it was a takeout menu. He inhaled sharply, schooling his face into something stern. "You bypassed every protocol," he said, voice carefully flat. "No vetting, no legal review, no—"

Jungkook snorted, tossing another grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. "Yeah, and look how fast it got done. Your 'protocols' are just fancy ways of wasting time." He tilted his head, purple bangs falling into his eyes. "Admit it. You're impressed."

"I'm concerned," Taehyung said smoothly, though his stomach did a little flip at the sheer audacity of it all. "What if Minho changes his mind? What if he was too drunk? We can't just—"

"He won't." Jungkook swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees. "He thinks I'm hilarious. Also, I may have promised him VIP tickets to next year's Grand Prix. And, uh, naming rights to the company gym." He flashed a grin. "Relax, it's not like you ever use it."

Taehyung's eye twitched again. "You what—?"

"Kidding. Mostly." Jungkook winked, then fished something out of his jacket pocket—a crumpled receipt from a bar called "Hell's Pit", stained with what looked like barbecue sauce. He tossed it at Taehyung. "Kept the tab under five grand, by the way. You're welcome."

Taehyung stared at the receipt. The numbers swam before his eyes. Four thousand, eight hundred dollars. For soju and fried chicken. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. "You—we—don’t even have a company gym."

Jungkook shrugged. "Details. We’ll build one. Put a spin bike next to the espresso machine. Call it ‘Choi Minho’s Pain Cave.’ He’ll cry tears of joy." He stretched, arms over his head, and yawned loud enough to startle a pigeon outside the window. "Anyway, I’m taking a nap. Wake me when the board starts sucking up to you." He slumped into his chair, tipped his head back, and—within seconds—started snoring.

Taehyung pinched the bridge of his nose. The contract was real. The signature was real. The bill was real. And yet—he glanced at Jungkook, who was now drooling slightly—it all felt like some elaborate prank. He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over his father’s contact. Did you know about this?  he wanted to ask. Did you teach him how to do this? But then Jungkook snorted in his sleep, kicked out like a dreaming dog, and Taehyung’s lips twitched despite himself.

The door clicked open. Hyejin from accounting peered in, took one look at Jungkook’s sprawled form, and sighed. "Should I reschedule the budget meeting?" she whispered.

"Yes, I thought you'll learn by now that you shouldn't schedule a meeting that includes him before 12 AM" Taehyung deadpanned.

"Why don't you fire him already ?" Hyejin asked with a frown on her face.

Taehyung huffs, leaning back in his chair, rolling his neck, "Oh how I wish I could, Hyejin"