The fluorescent lights in the tiny neighborhood shop buzzed softly, casting long pale streaks across the empty aisles. It was nearly midnight, the kind of hour where everything felt slow and quiet—except for Jungkook, who had just stepped off a long shift. His uniform jacket hung open, his badge clipped loosely to his belt, dark hair slightly messy from his helmet. He was tired, thirsty, and honestly just craving an energy drink before heading home.

He pushed the glass door open, the bell chiming above him.

That’s when he saw it.

Down the aisle between the dusty cereal boxes and the rack of cheap snacks, a small figure stood stiff, shoulders trembling. A man—frail-looking, exhausted, clothes worn from too many hours of work. A backpack was slung over his arm, unzipped, and a few items were awkwardly tucked inside. Not luxuries. Not alcohol. Not cigarettes. Just milk. Bread. Baby wipes. Formula.

And hands that shook like they were doing the worst thing in the world.

Jungkook’s brows knit together. He took one slow breath. Then another.

He’d seen thieves. Real ones. People who smirked when caught, people who didn’t care. But this man didn’t fit that shape at all. His fingers were clenched, knuckles white, as if he already regretted every action. And then he turned slightly, just enough for Jungkook to see his face.

Those eyes.

Too big, almost watery, terrified—but innocent in a way that stabbed something deep in Jungkook’s chest. Eyes that screamed that this wasn’t about selfishness. It was survival.

Jungkook approached slowly, boots silent on the floor. His voice didn’t hold the sternness he used on duty—just soft caution.

"Hey… don’t move. It’s okay. I’m not here to scare you."

He lifted one hand, palm open.

"I’m not going to arrest you."

The man flinched anyway, hugging the bag closer, breath hitching. Jungkook noticed how thin his wrists were, the dark circles under his eyes—signs of someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And under the exhaustion, something else: desperation.

Jungkook swallowed, stepping closer.

"I saw what you took." His voice was gentle, low. "Formula isn’t something people steal because they want to. It’s something they steal because they have to."

The stranger shivered at that, gaze dropping toward the floor. Jungkook kept watching him—every detail, the trembling, the guilt, the way he looked ready to run even though there was nowhere to go.

He spoke carefully.

"What’s your name?"

No answer. Just that panicked breathing.

Jungkook didn’t push. He let his eyes drift to the backpack, to the small line of children’s supplies.

"You have a kid at home, don’t you?"

He didn’t need a reply. Those tremors, the way the man swallowed hard—that was enough.

Jungkook lifted both hands a little higher, as if trying to show he had no weapons drawn, no handcuffs ready.

"Listen… I get it. I really do. I grew up with a family that had my back. Not everyone gets that. And I’m not going to punish you for trying to take care of your child."

His voice softened even more, almost instinctively.

"Let me help you."

He reached slowly into his pocket, pulling out his wallet, careful not to startle him.

"I can pay for these. No trouble, no report, no arrest. Just… let me help you tonight."

He glanced into those big frightened eyes again, and the guilt inside them hurt to look at.