Chapter 26: The Funeral

Jimin’s funeral came the very next day, though to Taehyung, time had blurred into a shapeless haze. It felt wrong — too sudden, too quiet. There were no crowds, no long lines of mourners offering condolences. Instead, there were only three figures standing under the pale sky: Yoongi, Jungkook, and Taehyung himself.

Yoongi had told him earlier that Jimin’s parents hadn’t been informed yet. The words had barely registered, just another sound muffled by the fog inside his head. Maybe if he had been thinking clearly, he would have been upset or confused, but in his current state, all that mattered was the wooden coffin being lowered into the open grave.

The sound of ropes creaking as they lowered Jimin down was deafening in its finality. Taehyung’s body trembled, his arms tightening around himself despite the steady weight of Jungkook’s hand on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop the tears; they streamed freely, hot against his chilled cheeks, blurring the world into streaks of gray and brown. Every shovelful of dirt that fell onto the coffin landed like a blow to his chest.

Gone. He’s really gone.

His knees almost buckled, and Jungkook caught him without a word, pulling him into his chest. Jungkook’s scent was sharp in his nose, and though the warmth was grounding, it wasn’t enough to keep the hollow ache from swallowing him whole.

“You should go home now, Taehyung. You’ve been crying since yesterday,” Yoongi’s voice finally cut through, low but firm. His eyes were on Taehyung, not Jungkook, though the weight in them made Jungkook’s presence impossible to ignore.

“But, Hyung…” Taehyung tried to answer, but his lips quivered too much to form anything more.

“It’s okay,” Yoongi continued, stepping closer. His hand reached out, steady and sure, resting on Taehyung’s arm. “I’ll take care of the rest. I know you… you wouldn’t be able to tell his parents yet. I’ll do it. For now, you need to rest. I’ve already lost Jimin, and I don’t want to lose you too.”

The tenderness in Yoongi’s voice made something in Taehyung’s chest ache even more. He wanted to stay, to see everything through until the very end, but Yoongi’s gaze was unyielding, leaving no room for argument.

“I’ll update you on everything, okay? And don’t worry… I’m sure Jimin’s watching over you right now, making sure you’re safe,” Yoongi said softly, his lips twitching into a faint, bittersweet smile. He reached up to ruffle Taehyung’s hair like he used to, but the gesture only brought more tears to Taehyung’s eyes.

He nodded mutely, biting down on his lower lip.

Jungkook had been silent until now, his expression unreadable as he looked at Yoongi. The tension between them was unspoken but heavy, stretching taut in the cold air.

“Take care of him,” Yoongi said suddenly, his eyes locking on Jungkook’s with a force that felt almost like a challenge. “I don’t want to lose someone important again.” His voice sharpened with the last words, and it was impossible to miss the underlying warning.

“You don’t have to say it. I’ll do it without you reminding me,” Jungkook replied coolly, his tone flat but his gaze just as direct.

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed. “I’m telling you to enjoy your time with him while you can. I’m still not in favor of you — I never will be. And if I find out you’ve taken advantage of his fragile state, I will kill you.”

“Hyung!” Taehyung gasped, scandalized, his eyes darting between them.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Jungkook said quickly, his tone softening only for Taehyung.

He brushed his fingers through Taehyung’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear.

“He has nothing to worry about. I’d never hurt you.” His voice was gentle, but there was a subtle finality to it, as if daring Yoongi to argue further. “We should go now. He already told you he’ll handle the rest, so let’s wait for his update, hm?”

Taehyung sniffled and nodded, still glancing back at Yoongi with a mixture of guilt and reluctance. He murmured a quiet goodbye before letting Jungkook guide him away.

As they walked toward the car, Jungkook’s hand stayed firmly at the small of Taehyung’s back, steering him with quiet possession. Taehyung didn’t notice the way Jungkook’s eyes flicked back toward the grave — and toward Yoongi — one last time.

Yoongi stood unmoving beside the freshly turned earth, his face devoid of expression. The air between them seemed to hum with something dangerous, an unspoken clash neither of them was ready to settle here.

One of them let out a quiet, almost inaudible whisper, the words dissolving into the wind.

“I should have gotten rid of everything.”

The doctor’s hands worked in precise rhythm — squeeze of the oxygen bag, check of the pulse, another measured push of warmth into the vein. The monitor flickered faintly, a slow, irregular beat appearing and vanishing like a ghost.

Then, all at once, it happened.

The body on the table jolted — a violent, whole-body convulsion, as if invisible hands had yanked it back from some deep abyss. The sound came next: a raw, guttural gasp that tore through the silence, the first desperate claim of air in far too long.

The doctor’s gloved hand moved to the mask, tilting the chin upward to ease the breath. The chest rose again, shakier this time, the motion unnatural — muscles stiff, ribs aching with the strain.

The figure’s eyes snapped open, not with recognition, but with disorientation so sharp it bordered on panic. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing nearly all color, darting from light to shadow in search of something familiar.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe — not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t know how. Then the next breath came in ragged, shuddering pulls, each one like dragging barbed wire through his lungs.

A tremor rippled through his limbs, uncontrolled, as though the cold of the grave still clung to his bones. His fingers twitched against the table, curling inward before splaying open, testing the reality of touch.

Sound began to creep back into his awareness — the faint hum of the overhead lamp, the slow drip of fluid into the IV, the muffled scrape of shoes shifting on the floor. But none of it made sense.

His mouth opened, but no words came — just a dry, cracked exhale, thick with confusion. His gaze fixed on nothing, then flinched at something unseen, an echo from wherever he’d been moments before.

The man in the corner stepped closer, his face unreadable in the half-light.

The figure on the table swallowed hard, the motion slow and almost mechanical, before drawing in one more shaky breath. His chest still rose unevenly, his hands still trembled. But there was no mistaking it now.