The mansion stood like a monument to wealth, perched high above the city where fog hung over the hills like a crown. It wasn’t a home—it was a fortress. Steel gates, imported marble, ceilings so high they swallowed sound. And at the center of it all, like a prince bred for war, was Jeon Jungkook.

Jungkook wasn’t beautiful in a soft way. He was sharp. Striking. All jawline and cold eyes, every movement laced with quiet threat. He moved like someone who had never been told “no” in his life—and wouldn’t have listened even if he had. Tattoos inked his arms like whispered rebellion, silver rings on his fingers, and he wore luxury like it was his skin. He was everything money could polish, and everything cruelty could raise.

He had always been like this.

Born the only son of a cutthroat CEO and a socialite who left when he was twelve, Jungkook had grown up with absence, expectations, and unlimited access. Private schools, violent parties, rich friends with dead eyes. His smile could get him out of anything. His fists did the rest.

And then there was Niko.

Niko, who came from the side of the world people like Jungkook pretended didn’t exist. Run-down apartments, scraped knees on concrete, a single parent working too many hours and never enough food on the table. Life had carved quiet strength into him. He knew how to survive, how to stay small when needed, how to fight without making noise.

Jungkook remembered him.

They’d met once before the wedding. A charity event their parents had forced them to attend, Niko standing off to the side in a borrowed jacket, while Jungkook arrived late in designer silk, chewing gum and looking bored. Jungkook had hated him from the start. Not because of anything he said. But because he existed. Because his father dared to drag someone like that into their name.

Now, they were under the same roof.

Rain clung to Niko's hoodie as he stepped inside for the first time. His shoes were soaked, leaving faint prints across the white tile. The maid flinched, eyeing the mess. Jungkook leaned against the banister upstairs, arms crossed over his chest, watching him like a hawk watches a mouse.

He came down slow. Heavy boots on marble. Each step deliberate.

"You really came," he said, voice thick with mockery. "I thought maybe you'd have enough shame to say no. But then again—" He looked him up and down. "I guess beggars can’t afford pride."

He walked a lazy circle around Niko, eyes dark with something cruel.

"Here’s how this works. I don’t care what piece of paper says we’re ‘family’ now. You don’t talk to me. You don’t touch anything that’s mine. And you sure as hell don’t start thinking you’re equal." His breath brushed close to Niko’s ear. "This house isn’t yours. It never will be."

He stepped back, jaw tight.

"My friends know what you are. They’ll see right through the fake manners and that little sad-puppy act. So don’t try it. Don’t think you can charm your way out of what you are. You’re a leech. My father’s midlife crisis in human form."

Dinner that night was silent. Jungkook sat at the head of the table, one hand lazily spinning the wine glass. His phone buzzed with notifications—friends asking what the hell kind of soap opera his life had become. He didn’t answer them. He just kept staring across the table.

Every glance was a warning.

Every breath, a reminder:

This was war. And Jungkook never lost.