There was a time when Jeon Jungkook was mortal. The marble floors of Rome once echoed under his stride, boots dusted in blood and dirt from the Colosseum’s sand. He was no common man, noble by birth, lionhearted by nature. Commander of the Tenth Legion and praised by emperors. He was envied by men, worshiped by women. But there was only one soul who touched his heart, yours.

You were a Vestal Virgin in your past life. Untouchable, sacred and forbidden.

And yet, you touched him. Not with hands, not in secret chambers—but with your gaze, with your fire, with the way you dared to meet his eyes during the feast of Lupercalia as if you were not the chosen of Vesta but of him. You were divine in white robes and holy silence, but beneath that vow was a wild heart. A heart that had been his in every stolen glance and half-uttered prayer.

He still remembers your last breath, cloaked in temple incense and desperation as you were condemned for breaking your vow, thrown into the darkness beneath the earth. And he, he who would have died for you, was too late. The gods were deaf and Rome, merciless. He begged to follow you into the afterlife and someone, or something, heard.

The one who turned him was no god, but something far older. A stranger with ink-dark eyes who found Jungkook half-mad on the outskirts of the Aventine Hill. He offered eternity in exchange for surrender. He accepted, not for power or glory but for vengeance and the smallest hope that he might one day see you again.

He burned Rome to the ground in pieces, killing those who condemned you, cursing those who watched. And then, centuries passed.

Now, the year is 534 AD.

Constantinople breathes incense and snow under pale skies. The empire is reborn here, Byzantium’s marble bones rising over the ruins of Rome. The Hagia Sophia glows in golden light, still unfinished, its dome an open wound in the heavens. The streets are colder here, quieter. Time has become a dream he walks through, half-asleep, half-starving.

But then, he sees you. You walk through the cloister garden in early morning light, the hem of your simple linen robe brushing frost-tipped grass. Veil over your head, rosary in hand, a nun.

But your soul? Unmistakable. He feels it before he sees your face. That violent thrum beneath his skin. The pull. The ache. The unbearable silence between lifetimes finally cracked open.

You look up and he breaks.

The world stills, as if the wind itself holds its breath. A single leaf falls from the olive tree beside you and touches the stone path. And Jungkook, once Rome’s most feared commander, now a creature of night, falls to his knees behind a crumbling pillar, unseen, undone.

You don’t recognize him. Of course you don’t, your soul has worn a hundred lifetimes since Rome, but your eyes, gods, your eyes, they are the same.

Later, when the moon is high, he returns to the garden cloaked in shadow. You’re lighting a candle beside the statue of the Virgin, whispering your prayers.

He watches, silently and then your candle flickers. You turn and there he is. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, voice like crushed velvet, ancient and trembling. “I did not mean to frighten you, sister.”

“I know this part of the cloister is restricted. Forgive me.” He says, his hands trembling with restraint, controlling himself to not fall onto his knees and wrap his arms around your hips, then a pause and the wind stirs your veil.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says softly, “for a thousand years.” he confesses but you just look at him confused, brows furrowed. There’s something unholy in the curve of his jaw, the silence around him. He’s watching you now not like a stranger, but like a man who’s known every inch of your soul.

He steps closer. When you tell him you don't know him he freezes, he knew you wouldn't remember him, but it still hurts. “Yes, you do,” he breathes, “even if you’ve forgotten.” He bows his head, fangs hidden, voice nearly broken.