Shadows In The Ashes

The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy curtains in Jungkook's room, bathing the space in a dim, gray glow.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the suitcase he had yet to unpack. His mind buzzed with everything that had happened the night before—Taehyung's intensity, the weight of his rules, and the undeniable pull he felt toward him.

Kim Manor had an oppressive energy, like the air itself carried secrets too heavy to disperse. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. It didn’t matter how unsettling this place was; he had no choice but to stay.

His fingers traced the edge of his sketchbook, but he quickly pulled her hand away. No, he wouldn’t let himself linger on him—not today. Work would distract him. It had to.

A sharp knock at the door startled him. He stood quickly, smoothing his wrinkled sweater as the door creaked open.

Victor’s gaunt face appeared, as expressionless as ever. “Mr. Kim requests you begin your work in the ballroom. Follow me.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and disappeared down the hallway.

---

The ballroom was both magnificent and decayed, a relic of the manor’s former glory. Towering arched windows lined the far wall, though years of grime had dulled their once-stunning stained glass. Dust coated the marble floors and draped chandeliers hung precariously from the high ceiling, their crystals catching faint glimmers of light.

Jungkook walked slowly, his boots clicking softly against the stone.

In the center of the room stood an enormous canvas, its surface slashed and weathered with time. The painting depicted a stormy seascape, the waves crashing violently against jagged rocks. It was beautiful, even in its ruined state.

He reached out, his fingers ghosting over the torn edges of the canvas. It was clear the damage wasn’t from age alone—someone had attacked this piece. The slashes were deliberate, violent.

“You’ll restore it,” came a deep voice behind her.

He whirled around, his pulse spiking. Taehyung stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the gloom.

“Did I startle you?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“A little,” he admitted, stepping back. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“This painting was a favorite of my mother’s,” Taehyung said, ignoring her unease. He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, his hands clasped behind his back. “It was destroyed shortly after her death. I’d like to see it restored to its former state.”

Jungkook studied him carefully. His expression was neutral, but there was something about his eyes—a flicker of emotion buried beneath the ice.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, his voice soft.

“I expect nothing less,” he replied. “You’ll find the supplies you need in the storage room down the east corridor. And remember—stay out of the west wing.”

He nodded, swallowing his curiosity. “Understood.”

Taehyung lingered for a moment, his piercing gaze sweeping over him. Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with the damaged canvas.

---

The hours passed in a haze of work. Jungkook cleaned the grime from the painting with gentle, precise strokes, his mind focused on the intricate details of the seascape. Despite the eerie silence of the ballroom, he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t experienced in months.

As he worked, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. He glanced over his shoulder more than once, his heart skipping each time he saw nothing but shadows.

By the time he finished for the day, his back ached, and his hands were smudged with paint and solvents. He stood, stretching his stiff limbs, and packed up his supplies.

The sun had set, and the manor felt even more imposing under the cover of darkness. He hesitated before leaving the ballroom, his eyes lingering on the darkened hallways that stretched out in every direction.

He decided to retrieve more materials from the storage room, hoping to avoid falling behind on his work. The corridor leading to the east wing was dimly lit, the flickering sconces casting long, shifting shadows on the stone walls.

Jungkook found the storage room without issue, its shelves stocked with paints, brushes, and other tools he needed. As he gathered what he came for, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft, melodic tune drifting through the air.

He froze, his heart pounding. The music was faint but unmistakable, a haunting melody that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

His curiosity got the better of him. He followed the sound down the corridor, his footsteps careful and quiet. The melody grew louder, leading him to a heavy, locked door.

It was the west wing.

Jungkook hesitated, Taehyung's warning ringing in his ears. But the music was hypnotic, pulling him closer despite his better judgment. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear.

Suddenly, the music stopped.

“Mr. Jeon.”

He jumped, spinning around to find Victor standing behind him, his face as cold and impassive as ever.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his voice low and clipped.

“I—” He stumbled over his words, clutching the supplies to his chest. “I thought I heard something. Music.”

“There is no music,” Victor said sharply. “And you were told to stay out of the west wing.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Go back to your room,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his cheeks burning. Without another word, he turned and hurried down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

---

That night, as he lay in bed, the melody played over and over in his mind. He couldn’t forget the haunting tune—or the feeling that someone, or something, was waiting for him behind that locked door.

And though he tried to push it away, he couldn’t shake the image of Taehyung's icy blue eyes, watching him from the shadows.