Chapter 28: The Message

The back room was cloaked in silence, broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The atmosphere carried the sterile sting of antiseptic, cut through with the sharper undertone of cold steel, as though the walls themselves remembered every incision, every whispered secret they had contained.

On the examination table lay the body of a young man. His head was turned slightly to one side, lips parted just enough to let through shallow, faltering breaths. Each rise and fall of his chest seemed uncertain, fragile — as if even the smallest disturbance might extinguish it entirely. The hollows beneath his eyes were dark and deep, shadows etched onto skin drained of warmth.

A figure stood nearby, motionless. From the way their eyes followed the doctor’s hands, there was no doubt that every movement was being committed to memory, weighed, and measured. Yet no words came — only a silence so heavy it seemed to deepen the room’s chill.

The doctor worked with a composure that bordered on unsettling, his voice low, his expression unreadable. He examined the IV line with a precision born of repetition, then drew a calculated measure of liquid into a syringe.

“Clonidine,” he murmured, his tone clinical, devoid of hesitation. “Once it courses through him, the heart will slow… so much so that a pulse will vanish to anyone unprepared to look deeper. To most eyes, he will be nothing but gone.”

The needle found its place with practiced ease, sliding into the clear port along the tubing. A faint push of the plunger, and the pale fluid disappeared, swallowed into the current of saline. Almost at once, the monitor’s steady rhythm faltered, its mechanical reassurance softening into a slower, irregular cadence. Each beep seemed to arrive reluctantly, as though dragged from some hidden depth.

Without pause, the doctor reached for the cooling packs — dense, gel-filled slabs slick with condensation. They hissed faintly in the warm air as he pressed them against the vulnerable points of the body: beneath the arms, along the neck, across the length of the torso. Mist curled up where skin met ice, a ghostly vapor rising and fading in the sterile light.

“Cold preserves the illusion,” the doctor continued, almost to himself. “At twenty-nine degrees, the body protects itself. Movements cease, organs rest. To the untrained eye, there is no return from that place.”

The thermometer gave a muted click as he checked it, then was discarded onto the steel tray with a sound that cut briefly through the room’s stillness. Another cuff was deflated, and another reading was noted.

“Fifty over thirty,” he stated, voice steady, almost detached. His hand lingered on the cuff a moment longer before removing it entirely. “Falling fast. Within minutes, he could be lowered into the ground, and not a soul would question it.”

The figure moved closer, their presence casting a shadow across the table. They studied the pale face before them, the lips blanched to a muted blue, the faint, unnatural sheen that cold had drawn over his skin. Already, the chest barely stirred, the faintest whisper of air escaping between parted lips.

For a long moment, silence held again. Then came words, soft and deliberate, carrying neither triumph nor grief — only a certainty that seemed carved into stone.

“Perfect,” the figure said. “Exactly what is required.”

The words lingered in the long after they were spoken, heavy as the hush that wrapped itself back around the room.

The following morning, the room was still dim with dawn, curtains drawn halfway to keep out the brilliance of the sun. The surroundings carried a faint chill, yet Taehyung felt strangely light, almost unburdened. It was as if the exhaustion, pain, and stress that had been weighing on him had evaporated overnight. If he hadn’t remembered falling asleep with his chest tight and mind clouded, he might have thought he’d dreamed it all.

“Good morning, baby.”

The voice was gentle, accompanied by the brush of soft lips against his forehead. Taehyung stirred, eyes opening slightly, and found Jungkook smiling down at him. Half-asleep, he returned the smile faintly, though his thoughts lagged, refusing to form properly.

“You should get up and take a bath. We’re going somewhere today.” Jungkook’s tone was light as he straightened his shirt, his hands quick and practiced as they moved down the line of buttons.

That woke Taehyung a little more. He blinked, pushing himself upright on the bed. “Where to?”

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder at him, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, however, revealed nothing. “You’ll see when we get there,” he said smoothly.

Taehyung tilted his head, baffled by the secrecy. He wanted to press, but his lips only parted long enough to mumble, “Okay.”

“You don’t need to worry.” Jungkook chuckled, fastening the last button. “I’m sure you’ll like it there.”

There was no malice in his voice — if anything, it carried warmth, almost playful. But something about it snagged in Taehyung’s ears, the way a discordant note lingers even after music fades. He couldn’t place why, yet his chest tightened slightly with unease. Shaking it off, he slipped out of bed and carried his phone with him into the bathroom.

The tiles were cold beneath his feet, steam beginning to fog the mirror as he ran the shower. He unlocked his phone, intending to message Yoongi — some half-formed instinct told him he should — but before he could type a word, a notification lit the screen.

A message.

From an unknown number.

He frowned and opened it. His breath caught.

.-- . .----. . . .-. .   ... - .- .-. - .. -. --.   -. --- .-- --..--   - .- . .... -.-- ..- -. --.

Dots and dashes, strung together in strange patterns, stark against the white background. His brows furrowed, and he stared at it, eyes scanning, tracing the symbols again and again. He knew this — he knew he had seen this kind of language before. His mind clawed at the memory. Morse code. That’s what it was. But what did it say? Who sent it?

A sudden knock at the bathroom door made him flinch so hard his phone almost slipped from his grasp.

“Taehyung, are you done?” Jungkook’s voice is calm and steady.

“I—” He scrambled, locking his phone, stuffing it onto the counter as if caught with something he shouldn’t have. “Yes, I’m coming out now!”

There was a pause, then Jungkook’s reply. “I’ll wait for you downstairs. Let’s eat before we leave.”

“Okay!” Taehyung answered quickly, exhaling in relief when he heard the door of the room close.

Leaning against the sink, he pressed a hand to his chest. His pulse hammered far too fast for a simple message, but there was no mistaking it — this was no coincidence. Someone was reaching out to him, and whatever they wanted to tell him, it was urgent. He glanced back at the phone, the coded message etched into his thoughts like a brand. He would have to decode it, but not now. Not when Jungkook was waiting.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Jungkook sat at the table, the sunlight slipping across his face through the blinds. His expression, however, was darkened by the glow of another phone — one he hadn’t shown Taehyung. The message blinked on the screen, and as his eyes swept over it, his jaw tightened, muscle feathering at the corner.

He read it once. Then twice. Then again, slower.

His thumb hovered above the screen, but he didn’t reply. Instead, he set the phone down with deliberate care, his features schooled into a mask. Only the faintest tension betrayed him — the way his fingers curled against the wood of the table, the silent grinding of his teeth.

When Taehyung finally emerged from the bathroom, Jungkook would already be smiling again, the picture of warmth and reassurance.

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Italics - Past Events