(Jungkook’s POV)
It was nearly 4 a.m., and Moscow felt colder than usual.
The penthouse lights were off, except for the soft blue glow of three monitors lined in a half-circle in my war room. I stood alone—shirtless, breathing slow, jaw clenched—watching lines of code flow like blood across the screens.
Nothing.
Always nothing.
NYX had gone dark again. Three more shipments disappeared last night without triggering a single alarm. Clean. Surgical. As if they’d never existed. Even Denis had stopped talking—his silence said more than his words ever could.
"She's... rewriting reality," he’d muttered earlier.
But tonight, the silence wasn’t quiet.
It was heavy.
It was waiting.
I could feel her.
Like a predator circling the perimeter of my mind, dragging a nail across my skull. There was something in the static—an anticipation, like lightning about to strike.
Then it happened.
The monitors flickered.
All three screens shut down.
Then rebooted.
One by one.
Black.
Then white text, typing slowly, as if she were writing it directly for me, keystroke by keystroke.
“You bleed louder than you think, King.”
My breath caught.
The rage that had been simmering for days ignited like gasoline on flame.
She was talking to me. Finally. Directly.
I slammed my fist into the desk, hard enough to crack the surface. Blood dripped from my knuckles, but I didn’t feel it.
“Fucking coward,” I hissed. “Come out. Show your face.”
The screen responded.
“Faces are for mortals. I live in the cracks between your thoughts.”
I paced. One, two, three steps.
No IP trail. No location ping. The firewalls didn’t even register her entry.
“You think you’re untouchable?” I growled.
“No. I know I’m already inside.”
My hands curled into fists. This wasn’t fear. This was war. This was me, the king of Hell’s Angels, being mocked in his own fortress.
“Tell me what you want,” I snapped.
“I already have what I want.”
My breath hitched for a second. What the fuck does that mean?
I gritted my teeth. “You’ll pay for this.”
Nothing.
She waited.
So I leaned closer, eyes burning into the monitor.
“You think you’re smart? You’re not. You're just a shadow behind a screen. That’s all you are. A glitch. A fucking ghost. And I will drag you into the light. You’ll beg before I’m done with you.”
The screen paused, almost like she was considering something.
Then:
“Begging is for people who fear death. I don’t.”
“And neither do you.”
That stopped me cold.
She knew.
She understood me in a way that twisted something deep in my gut. That place I buried behind steel and blood. The part of me that hadn’t felt anything in years—until her.
And I hated her for it.
I hated her.
I wanted to find her.
Not to kill her.
Not immediately.
I wanted to look her in the eye. I wanted to see what she was made of. I wanted to break her into pieces—then rebuild her into something that screamed only my name.
She was dangerous.
But I was worse.
I sat down slowly in the chair, my voice low.
“Who are you?”
This time, no poetic riddles. No smug metaphors.
Just one sentence.
“The one who sees you.”
That cut deeper than any blade.
I stared at the screen, chest heaving.
She wasn’t scared of me.
She wasn’t running.
She was inside, watching, reading me like a file she’d already memorized.
Then the final message appeared:
“Sleep well, Jungkook. I’ll be back when you miss me.”
The monitors went black.
The silence that followed was the loudest sound I’d ever heard.
Jimin burst into the room seconds later, gun in hand, breathing fast. “Power surge—we thought it was—”
“She was here.”
He froze. “She... messaged you?”
“She didn’t just message me,” I snapped. “She undressed my mind.”
I stood, grabbing the nearest chair and slamming it across the room. It shattered into pieces. Still wasn’t enough.
“She thinks she can control me.”
Jimin was quiet for a long moment. “She’s baiting you.”
“No,” I said, cold and calm now. “She’s circling. Watching. This isn’t bait.”
“Then what is it?”
I turned to him, eyes sharp as razors.
“Foreplay.”
Later that night.
Yoongi arrived with a tablet, sweat on his brow. “We found a signature. It’s old. Fragmented. But it matches a pulse sent through Seoul’s port security two years ago.”
“And?” I asked.
“And it belonged to someone using the alias... NYX.”
My jaw tightened.
“So she’s been here before.”
“She’s been everywhere. But here’s the thing—she wipes her signal immediately after use. This is the only trace we’ve ever found.”
I looked at the timestamp.
Exactly three minutes before a Seoul tech magnate mysteriously disappeared and was declared legally dead.
No cause. No suspects. No motive.
Only NYX.
“She doesn’t just steal,” I said. “She rewrites endings.”
“Then what is she rewriting for you?” Yoongi asked.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know yet.
But I was going to find out.
In the darkness, alone, I whispered one word.
“NYX.”
And for the first time in my life—
I didn’t feel like the hunter.
I felt like the prey.
To be continued...
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