Jimin’s thoughts spiraled, tugging him deeper into a pit of emotions he hadn't let himself feel in a long time. The pain of being forgotten, of losing someone he cherished, of the loneliness that never truly left him.
It wasn't until he felt the warm trail of tears slipping down his cheeks that he realized he was crying. His breath hitched slightly as he reached up, hastily wiping them away with the sleeve of his sweater.
A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he whispered into the empty room, "Taetae, I miss you so much." His voice was barely above a breath, as if saying it any louder would shatter something fragile inside him. "Wherever you are, just be happy, okay? I still love you my bestie."
He let those words linger in the quiet, his heart clenching at the memories he could barely grasp.
But life didn’t stop for nostalgia.
With a deep inhale, Jimin shook his head, pushing the emotions aside. He checked the time on his phone, and his eyes widened in horror.
"Shit!"
He was late.
Bolting off the couch, Jimin dashed into his bedroom, tossing his clothes onto the bed before heading straight to the bathroom. He took the quickest shower of his life, barely giving himself a moment to breathe as he scrubbed away the remnants of his past and the exhaustion clinging to his body.
Fresh and dressed in a simple yet stylish black outfit—something that complemented his dancer’s frame—Jimin grabbed his bag and locked up his small apartment.
The streets were alive with neon lights and the distant hum of the nightlife, but Jimin had no time to take it in. His anxiety spiked the closer he got to the bar.
Standing in front of the grand entrance, he took a shaky breath.
"Fuck, today’s my dance show and I’m running late!" he muttered under his breath, his fingers clenching the strap of his bag. "Oh God, please save me from my boss’s wrath. I don’t think I can handle another scolding for being late."
He swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
The night had only just begun, and Jimin had no idea what was waiting for him beyond those doors.
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
"Sir, this one is the last shot," the cameraman called out, his voice echoing through the studio.
Kim Taehyung, South Korea's most sought-after model, struck one final pose, his chiseled features and piercing eyes captivating the camera lens. He was a true professional, his movements fluid and effortless as he worked his magic in front of the camera.
As the flashbulbs popped and the camera clicked away, Taehyung's confidence and charisma shone through. He was more than just a pretty face and a chiseled physique - he was a talented model with a passion for his craft.
"Thank you, sir, it's a wrap," the cameraman said, a nod of respect in Taehyung's direction.
Taehyung let out a relieved sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly as he walked out of the studio. He made his way to his office, his footsteps quiet on the polished floor.
As he stepped inside, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment. He had nailed the photoshoot, and he knew the pictures would be stunning.
As Taehyung settled into his chair, he closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. But his relaxation was short-lived, as a knock at the door broke the silence.
"Come in," Taehyung called out, his voice laced with exhaustion.
The door creaked open, and Woo Bin, his friend, walked in, a bright smile on his face. "Hey, Taehyung! How's it going?" he asked, taking a seat in front of Taehyung.
Taehyung opened one eye lazily, his interest piqued despite his tiredness. "Hey, Woo Bin. I'm doing great, just exhausted. What about you?"
Woo Bin chuckled. "I'm doing awesome, thanks for asking! I'm here to invite you to the bar tonight. It's going to be epic!"
Taehyung raised an eyebrow, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. "The bar? Tonight?" he repeated, his tone unenthusiastic.
Woo Bin's face fell, his smile faltering. "Aww, come on, Taehyung! You're not going to bail on me again, are you?" he asked, his voice tinged with disappointment.
Taehyung sighed, feeling a pang of guilt. "Okay, fine. We'll go. But just for a few hours, and don't expect me to dance or anything," he said with a laugh.
Woo Bin's face lit up, his smile returning in full force. "That's all I can ask for! Thanks, Taehyung. I'll send you the bar's address later. Please be on time, okay?"
Taehyung nodded, smiling. "I'll try my best. But no promises, I'm still tired."
Woo Bin chuckled. "I'll make sure to wake you up if you're late. See you tonight, buddy!"
With that, Woo Bin waved goodbye and left the office, leaving Taehyung to his exhaustion once again. Taehyung leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. He was already looking forward to a fun night with Woo Bin.
♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤
A Dance of Fire and Shadows
The dim glow of the club wrapped around Jimin like a second skin, the air thick with anticipation as the first beats of the music thrummed through the speakers. A hush settled over the crowd, a moment of stillness before the explosion of movement.
And then—he danced.
The stage lights flared to life, cascading in bursts of neon brilliance, illuminating the figure standing in the center like a celestial being descending onto earth. Jimin moved with an effortless grace, his body flowing in perfect synchrony with the rhythm. Every motion, every shift of his hips, every flick of his wrist was deliberate, a carefully choreographed seduction that held the audience captive.
The tight jeans clung to him like a second skin, emphasizing the sculpted curves of his form. His sheer black shirt shimmered under the lights, the faintest glimpse of his toned torso teasing beneath the fabric. He knew what he was doing. He knew the effect he had. And he wielded it like a weapon.
The club pulsed with energy, the low hum of whispered admiration and held breaths filling the air. Some watched in awe, others in yearning, their gazes locked onto him as if he were the only thing that existed in the world at that moment.
But to Jimin, this was just another night.
He danced not for them, not for their admiration or their longing stares, but for himself—for survival. His body was his shield, his allure a carefully honed skill. He was untouchable, a mirage that could be seen, desired, but never truly reached.
As the music built to its peak, his movements intensified, his body rolling, twisting, his feet gliding effortlessly across the stage. Sweat glistened on his skin, catching the light like scattered diamonds, and when the final note rang out, he stilled—breathless, radiant, victorious.
A roar of applause erupted around him, cheers and whistles blending into the pounding bass of the next song. He took a bow, his chest rising and falling rapidly before he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind a stage that suddenly felt empty without him.
The changing room was quieter, the scent of sweat and lingering cologne thick in the air. Jimin sank onto the chair, exhaling deeply, letting his muscles relax for the first time that night.
Five minutes. That was all he had before the next part of his shift.
With practiced efficiency, he peeled off his performance attire, replacing it with a simple pair of worn jeans and a faded T-shirt. His fingers were carded through his damp brown locks, smoothing them down as he caught his own gaze in the mirror. The reflection staring back at him was both familiar and foreign—a performer, a server, a survivor.
The applause from earlier still echoed in his ears as he stepped back into the bustling world of the club, this time as just another worker.
The thumping bass, the flashing lights, the scent of liquor and perfume—all of it engulfed him once more. With a practiced smile, he slid behind the bar, seamlessly shifting into his role as a waiter.
Gone was the Jimin who commanded the stage, replaced by the one who carried trays, took orders, and blended into the background.
He didn't mind. He couldn't afford to.
Because no matter how bright the stage lights were, at the end of the night, Jimin always returned to the shadows.
Jimin moved through the crowd with ease, balancing a tray of drinks as he weaved between tables. The club was alive—music thumping in sync with the pulse of the night, neon lights flashing against the dim haze of cigarette smoke and perfume.
"Here’s your drink, sir," Jimin said with a polite but distant smile, setting a glass of whiskey on the table. The man barely acknowledged him, eyes still fixed on the stage where another dancer had taken his place.
Jimin was used to it.
He was used to the attention shifting the moment he stepped offstage. That was how this world worked—fleeting glances, temporary fascination, and then, nothing.
With a sigh, he returned to the bar counter, leaning against it for a brief moment of reprieve. His shift wasn’t over yet, but exhaustion was already creeping into his bones. He still had to work until the club closed.
"Jimin-ah, table five wants a refill," one of his coworkers called out.
Jimin nodded, grabbing the bottle and heading back toward the table. As he walked, a group of men at a nearby booth laughed loudly, their voices slurred from alcohol.
"Hey, pretty boy!" one of them called, smirking.
Jimin ignored it.
"Come on, don’t be shy," another one jeered. "Dance for us here, huh?"
Jimin clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the bottle in his hand. He had learned long ago not to react. The moment he showed discomfort, it would only encourage them more.
Keeping his expression neutral, he walked past them without a word, setting the bottle down at table five before quickly retreating to the safety of the bar counter.
"Assholes," he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply.
This job wasn’t easy. It never was.
But he didn’t have a choice.
_________________________________________
Tae you're incredibly fabulous 💋💋❤
Hey, army 💜 how are you all doing?
Please ignore all the grammatical mistakes 🙏 🙂