The city breathed with a cold indifference, its bustling streets illuminated only by flickering neon signs and the pale light of streetlamps. In the heart of it all stood Jungkook. At twenty-nine, he was a figure wrapped in shadows, his reputation built on whispered fears and unspoken grudges. People crossed the street to avoid him, the sight of his ice-cold gaze sending shivers down their spines. Money flowed like water into his palms from a web of clandestine dealings, but it meant nothing. Jungkook was not rich; he was empty

He leaned against the brick wall of an alley, the smoke from a distant fire curling around him like specters from a past he couldn’t escape. All his life, he had been taught to be strong, to show no weakness. Love was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Girls flocked to him, their interest a mere reflection of his icy façade—a challenge he reveled in crushing before it could bloom into something real. To them, he was a powerful gangster; to him, they were distractions from the demons that lingered just beneath the surface

Jungkook: he is riding his expansive new model bullet bike faster he wearing all black clothes he not even looking around