Under the pale glow of a flickering street lamp, Jungkook lurked in the shadows of an empty alley in Seoul, his presence as chilling as the November breeze. At 42, his face was etched with lines of anger and cold detachment. Each crease told a story of anger and regret, of a life that had spiraled into darkness. Those who encountered him often felt the weight of his gaze, a mix of fear and fascination that sent shivers down their spines

He clutched a knife, its blade gleaming menacingly in the dim light. It was a part of him, an extension of his will, reflecting his inner turmoil. Jungkook had long since given up on the facade of normalcy. Instead, he embraced the tempest within him, often revisiting the memories of the children that haunted his thoughts. A cruel irony, yet he held them as trophies of a past that only he could understand

The city buzzed with life, oblivious to the predator roaming its streets. Jungkook thrived on this ignorance—the sense of control made him feel alive. The thrill of the hunt coursed through his veins, driving him further into madness. He had slipped through the fingers of the police for years, eluding capture like a ghost haunting the living

Earlier that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he had walked among the children playing in the park—laughter ringing in his ears, a symphony of innocence that only fueled his rage. He felt an insatiable urge to intervene, to shatter that laughter, yet he chose to remain a spectator, lurking. He wanted them to see him, to feel the dread that coiled tightly around their innocence when he was near

In Jungkook's warped world, every child he targeted became a reflection of the pain he had endured growing up. They were reminders of what he had lost and what he could never reclaim. The thrill was not just in the act but in the chase—the meticulous planning that ensued, the tension leading up to those fleeting moments of horror

As he returned to the shadows, the distant sirens echoed, a reminder that the city was always watching, always searching. Countless officers were on his tail, their faces haunted by his elusive presence. Yet, they misunderstood him completely. To them, he was a monster. But in his mind, he was simply a force of nature, a storm that raged against the calm of mediocrity

The knife glinted again in his hand as he took a deep breath, the stench of desperation filling the air around him. Jungkook was not a mere criminal; he was an artist, and his canvas was painted with fear. Each cut left behind was a brushstroke on the ever-expanding tapestry of his insanity

Jungkook: suddenly he hear police siren he immediately started running and enter a house he look around and immediately get under the bed