Those Below: A BTS Vampire Fanfic

Chapter 1: The Sinks

The midnight rain in The Sinks hit the iron pavement with the heavy, metallic crack of pistol shots.

The border carriage was freezing, smelling of wet rust, sulfur, and cheap tobacco. Wedged into the back corner, the passenger let out a low, tired sigh that fogged up the wire-reinforced glass.

Even slouched low against the leather bench to keep from hitting his head on the brass roof-ribs, his build was ridiculous. He had a massive, broad V-taper frame—wide, muscular shoulders tapering down into a narrow waist, with heavy, powerful thighs that strained the dark fabric of his trousers. He flexed his left hand slowly, thick knuckles popping as he peeled back a soaked leather glove. Blood had completely bled through his shirt sleeve, sticking the linen straight to a shredded mess of raw skin.

"Papers against the glass!" a voice barked through the carriage's brass speaking-tube. "No passage past the third tier. Guild orders!"

He didn't rush. Moving with a lazy, heavy-lidded focus, he reached into his duster with a large, thick-fingered hand and pulled out a flat silver case. He clicked a brass lighter against his boot heel, the orange spark lighting up his face: a sharp, defined jawline tapering into a distinct, rounded chin, dark doe-eyes that looked far too pretty for someone covered in grime, and a faint, pale scar sitting right on his left cheekbone.

He took a slow drag of his clove cigarette, blew a thin cloud of grey smoke against the pane, and pressed his heavy brass Guild medallion against the wet glass.

The iron gate groaned open immediately. A Church guard in bulky steam-armor clanked over, his eyes widening through his visor as he caught sight of the broad frame, the blood, and the dark, lethal gaze staring back at him.

"Inquisitor Jeon?" The guard dropped his hostile tone instantly. "Forgive me, sir. The border's been on total lockdown for three days. Word at the Citadel was that your unit got wiped out by the alpha pack in the blackwoods."

"My unit did," Jungkook said, his voice raspy, low, and gravelly from cold air and smoke. He pulled a small brass flask from his pocket, took a long swig, and capped it with a slick, accustomed flick of his thumb. "The lycan didn't make it to the border. Clear the gate."

"Right away, Inquisitor. You're bleeding through your coat, by the way. The Sanctum is two blocks up."

"I've walked off worse," Jungkook grunted. He pushed himself off the bench, wincing slightly as his left leg caught—an old scorched scar from a backfiring steam-vent that gave his heavy-set gait a low, tight-knit hitch.

The Sanctum of the Silver Caduceus smelled like dried sage, sweet chemical fumes, and hot ozone.

Jungkook didn't bother knocking. He kicked open the heavy oak door and unbuckled his soaked oilskin coat, letting it drop to the stone floor with a heavy thud of brass buckles and wet leather.

Standing near a row of glowing glass tubes was a woman wrapped in a high-collared, silver-trimmed Church habit. Before taking her vows, Sister Miriam had been a famous pop idol—the lead vocalist for the High Apex Opera whose face used to be printed on every velvet poster in the upper city. She still carried herself like an absolute diva, dramatic, sharp, and entirely unbothered.

She turned around slowly, pushing her silver-rimmed spectacles up her nose, her eyes scanning down his broad, chest-heavy frame with zero shame.

"You look like literal trash," Miriam drawled, her melodic voice ringing off the stone walls. "Messy hair, blood on your collar, smelling of swamp-gas..." Her dark eyes flicked over his wide shoulders and tight waist, a slow, appreciative smirk touching her lips. "It's a tragedy, honestly. God gave you that body and you just keep using it as a target for wild animals."

"Missed you too, Miriam," Jungkook rasped, collapsing back into a heavy cast-iron chair with a low groan. He tilted his head back, his dark, wavy hair damp and clinging to his forehead.

"Not this shit again," she sighed, grabbing a brass tray of scalpels and glowing silver salve. She marched over, her dark eyes sparkling with sharp, flirtatious amusement. "Seriously, Jeon? This is the third time this month you've dragged your half-dead body into my clinic!"

"Second," Jungkook corrected, opening one big, dark eye to give her a crooked, lopsided smirk. "The Cobble District thing was just a scratch."

"You literally set your own trousers on fire with a backfiring steam-vent!" She leaned right down into his space, her perfume cutting through the metallic tang of his blood. Her eyes lingered on his jawline before meeting his gaze. "If I didn't know any better, Inquisitor, I'd think you were getting mauled on purpose just so I'd sing you recovery litanies."

Jungkook leaned his head back against the iron frame, his smile widening just a fraction as he held her gaze. "Can you blame a man? Your high notes are the only thing keeping the blood-rot from settling into my chest."

"Flattery won't make this salve burn any less, handsome," Miriam purred, though her expression softened into familiar affection.

She took a pair of heavy shears and sliced his bloody sleeve wide open, exposing three deep, jagged claw marks across his forearm. Without missing a beat, she scooped up a glob of glowing silver paste and pressed it straight onto the raw wound.

Jungkook's jaw locked tight. His chest heaved as a sharp gasp escaped his teeth, his massive, thick-knuckled hands gripping the iron armrests hard enough to strain the metal while the chemical reaction scorched his flesh to stitch it whole.

"Hold still, big guy," Miriam teased softly, watching the pulse in his throat with a practiced, admiring eye. She picked up a warm brass stylus and pressed it to his skin, sealing the binding rune shut with a soft hiss of steam. "You survived tracking alpha wolves in the marshland, you can handle thirty seconds of silver paste. What's Whitlock going to say about your report?"

"He's going to lose his mind," Jungkook muttered, breathing heavily through his nose as the intense burning finally settled into a dull, icy ache. "He hates my methods. Hates that I spend all my free time reading banned blood-alchemy texts in the Crypt."

"Because you're a menace to Church doctrine, Kook," Miriam chuckled, wiping her hands on a cloth and striking a dramatic, stage-ready pose. "There. Sealed, bound, and healed. Now get your gorgeous, blood-soaked self out of my infirmary before the Guild masters catch you."

Jungkook pushed himself up from the chair, his broad chest expanding as he stretched his long arms and flexed his healed hand. "Always a pleasure, Sister."

"Don't get eaten on your way to the Archives!" she called out with a sly wink as he headed for the heavy doors. "I have the lead solo in the Cathedral Choir tomorrow morning, and if you ruin my performance with another midnight emergency, I'll carve you up myself!"