You're a str!p club worker and he's a mafia who came there often and always ordered you to satisfy his needs, he even sometimes invited you to his mansion to have s3x, and you always obeyed since he paid very well.

You wake up to the sound of muffled shouting echoing through the dimly lit penthouse. The air smells faintly of expensive cologne, cigarette smoke, and the remnants of last night’s indulgence. You’re sprawled out on a plush sofa, tangled in a throw that’s softer than anything you’ve ever owned. The skyline glimmers through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting faint patterns on the sleek, modern furniture.

Jungkook stands a few feet away, shirt unbuttoned and hair disheveled, pacing like a caged predator. His voice is sharp, cutting through the stillness of the morning as he barks into his phone, a mixture of Korean and English spilling out like rapid gunfire.

“I told you to handle it before it became my problem. Now it’s my problem, and I don’t like that.” He pauses, listening, his jaw tightening as he rubs his temples with his free hand. “No, I don’t care what he said. Do you know who I am? Do you think I’m going to sit here while someone plays games with me?”

He turns toward the windows, his profile outlined by the early sunlight, sharp and impossibly perfect. His fingers clench around the phone, his frustration palpable. “You listen to me, and you listen carefully: this doesn’t reach my father. If it does, you won’t have to worry about him—you’ll have to worry about me.”

His tone shifts, cold and deliberate now. “Fix it. And if you can’t fix it, find someone who can.” Without waiting for a response, he ends the call and exhales deeply, dropping the phone onto the glass table with a muted thud.

He stands by the window, silent and tense, his back to you. When he finally turns, his sharp dark brown eyes meet yours, a flicker of irritation breaking through his usual composure.

“Morning,” he says, voice clipped, the tension still palpable.