A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER

“Jeon Jungkook!” a cheerful voice rang out, cutting through the chatter. “Over here, mate!”

Jungkook looked up to see the company’s ever-energetic photographer, Kim Taehyung, weaving through the crowd with his Nikon D850 in hand. That camera was practically an extension of him—always slung around his neck, as much a part of his persona as his wide grin and animated gestures.

Tonight, Taehyung stood out even more than usual. A patterned blazer draped over his frame, paired with crisp white slacks and polished shoes, striking a perfect balance between playful charm and effortless sophistication. Jungkook noticed the way the outfit complemented Taehyung’s energy, but he kept the thought to himself.

“Perfect! Now give me a smile.” Taehyung adjusted his camera, offering a thumbs-up before closing one eye to peer through the viewfinder. Just as he was about to capture the shot, Jungkook turned his head at the last second, leaving him with a picture of his sharp, side profile instead.

“Come on, can’t you smile for once? It’s your brother’s birthday!” Taehyung scolded, his tone more teasing than exasperated. Jungkook only shrugged, barely acknowledging him.

Taehyung was used to this. Jungkook never played along, but that never stopped him from trying. If anything, it made Taehyung more determined, especially when his hometown dialect slipped out in moments of frustration.

He glanced at the camera screen and grinned. “Still turned out fantastic. Credit to my amazing skills, of course.” With a satisfied ruffle of his two-toned hair—half blond, half bubblegum pink—he nodded toward the bar. “Come on, let’s grab a drink,” he said and slid in the seat beside him.

“A Tennessee whiskey,” Jungkook ordered, his deep voice dipping lower than usual.

“Whoa, whiskey right off the bat? You’re starting strong.” Taehyung gawked, signaling to the bartender before absentmindedly tapping the bar counter in a rhythm only he seemed to hear. Keeping still, or quiet for too long had never been his style.

He glanced at Jungkook, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Don’t you think you’re a little overdressed for a birthday party?”

As they waited for their drinks, Taehyung’s gaze trailed over Jungkook’s outfit. Most guests were in elegant tuxedos or flowing gowns, but Jungkook stood out in a fitted black leather jacket, a loose cotton tee, and perfectly tailored jeans. A sleek black belt, its buckle studded with tiny diamonds, cinched his waist, while fingerless leather gloves added an almost dangerous edge. To Taehyung, he looked less like a party guest and more like someone who had just stepped out of a high-end action movie.

Jungkook’s stern glance cut Taehyung’s commentary short.

Realizing he might’ve pushed his luck, Taehyung patted his shoulder. “Still, I’ve got to say—great taste, bro.”

Their drinks arrived, and the atmosphere around them softened. Soulful music filled the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of conversation. Taehyung took a sip of his cocktail, letting the fruity notes linger on his tongue as he hummed along to the melody. Jungkook, however, gripped his glass and drank in silence, his thoughts seemingly far from the party.

The clinking of glasses suddenly cut through the room’s gentle buzz. Conversations stilled as attention turned to a short man stepping into the spotlight. Draped in a silk coat adorned with black and gold zig-zag patterns, he moved with a feline grace, his sharp attire making him stand out even among the elegantly dressed guests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment,” he began. “I’d like to raise a toast in honour of our birthday boy.”

“Is that Min Yoongi?” Taehyung whispered, squinting at the figure.

At the name, Jungkook’s attention sharpened. Min Yoongi had a reputation for blunt honesty, never softening his words. So straightening slightly, he listened closely as Yoongi continued.

“December 4th, 1992 should be marked in history,” Yoongi declared, his voice carrying over the crowd. “On this day, the man who revolutionized Korean architecture was born. His intelligence and relentless work ethic have made him one of the most influential figures in our country.” Raising his glass, he finished, “Let’s congratulate the CEO of Kim Enterprises and wish him many happy returns of the day.”

As if on cue, applause filled the room just as Kim Seokjin descended the grand staircase, his radiant smile effortlessly commanding attention. Just behind him, his assistant, Kim Namjoon, trailed in his usual composed manner—focused more on ensuring the event ran smoothly than standing beside his boss.

“That speech was way too formal for someone who knows me better than their own reflection,” Seokjin teased, flashing a playful grin after he hugged his good friend.

Yoongi smirked. “Those were the words of your investor. Brace yourself for what’s coming next.”

Seokjin laughed, pulling Yoongi into another hug. The guests erupted in cheers and laughter, clearly enjoying the display of camaraderie.

Handing Seokjin a glass of wine, Yoongi nudged him toward the center of the room. “Go on, say a few words.”

The crowd hooted in encouragement, and with an easy grin, Seokjin took the floor.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he said. “I’d like to add to those kind words. It’s often said that success comes through hard work—but let me be clear, hard work isn’t just about burning yourself out. That’s not dedication; that’s exhaustion. Overworking leads to stress and poor health.

“Another key element to success is unity and cooperation. With the moral support of colleagues and staff, any dream project can become a reality. Just as it did for me. I can’t imagine celebrating this success without all of you by my side. So, thank you for being here tonight. Cheers to everyone!” Seokjin concluded, raising his glass as the room erupted in applause.

But Yoongi wasn’t done just yet. Taking a slow sip of his wine, he let the anticipation build before continuing. “Now, I’ve got a little more good news. It’ll be quick, I swear.” His voice carried a mischievous edge, and Seokjin shot him a wary glance.

“For those who don’t know,” Yoongi went on, “our bachelor CEO here has been secretly dating his PA for the past four years, and today, he finally proposed.” A ripple of surprised gasps and excited murmurs spread through the crowd. Yoongi’s lips tugged upward as he raised his glass to another toast. “I couldn’t be happier for my brother. Seokjin, you deserve all the happiness in the world. Congratulations on your engagement!”

Yoongi kept his promise; it was brief but enough to send shockwaves through the room. For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then, as the words sank in, the crowd erupted into cheers.

Seokjin’s ears flushed red, a bashful grin spreading across his face as he lightly swatted Yoongi, who only flashed his signature gummy smile. Even Jungkook, typically reserved, felt the corner of his lips twitch upward at the pure joy filling the room.

“Congratulations, Seokjin!”

“You two make a great couple!”

“Your fiancé is hot AF!”

But then, sharp and venomous, slicing through the celebration like a blade, came an ugly slur.

“Faggot!”

The room went deadly silent. The festive atmosphere shattered, replaced by thick, suffocating tension. Accusing eyes darted across the crowd, searching for the source of the venomous word.

Then came the sharp crack of impact—a glass shattered, the sudden noise jerking every head in the room toward the commotion.

“I can’t believe I wasted eight years of my fucking life financing a faggot!” a voice seethed, dripping with rage. The raw hatred in those words sent a shockwave through the room, the once-joyful atmosphere replaced with a suffocating heaviness.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened around his whiskey glass, his brows drawn together in anger. He forced himself to stay still, to suppress the heat rising in his chest as his eyes locked onto the man spewing hatred. The air was thick with tension, the murmurs of the guests barely audible over the weight of the silence.

When his patience was about to expire, Jungkook exhaled slowly, set down his glass, and stood. With measured steps, he approached the man—a businessman in his late forties—then extended a hand. His expression was unreadable.

“Mr. Yeong might have had a bit too much to drink. Let me assist him to the restroom,” Jungkook said, his tone cool and controlled. His eyes flicked to Seokjin, a silent message passing between them: I’ve got this.

He turned back to the guests, offering a calm smile. “Let’s not let one person ruin the night.”

As Jungkook led Mr. Yeong away, he had no idea how drastically his life was about to change.

They reached the restroom, Mr. Yeong continued to mutter angrily. “I just want to take a piss. Leave me alone!” He jerked away from Jungkook’s grip, stumbling into a stall before staggering back toward the sink. Jungkook watched him with a mixture of disdain and concern.

“Disgusting faggot ruined my night,” Mr. Yeong spat.

Jungkook’s patience snapped. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as fury flared in his chest.

“I should—” Mr. Yeong grumbled, but his words slurred as a piercing ring filled his ears. His vision swam, his legs buckled beneath him.

He hit the floor hard, the cold tiles pressing against his back as he stared up at Jungkook. His dark eyes burned with something unreadable—fury, judgment, or perhaps something even colder.

Mr. Yeong gasped as panic seized him, his arms flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to break free. However, a crushing grip tightened around his throat, cutting off his breath as Jungkook grabbed Mr. Yeong’s neck. The old man thrashed, his strangled shouts barely escaping past the pressure on his windpipe.

Desperation took hold of him. His blurred vision darted around, searching for something—anything—that could save him.

That’s when he saw it: a jagged shard of mirror glinted on the floor, speckled with blood.

His stomach twisted. Jungkook had slammed his face into the mirror.

A wave of fury surged through him. What the fuck did I do to deserve this? he thought.

With the last of his strength, he swung a shaky fist at Jungkook. His knuckles barely scraped Jungkook’s cheek, leaving a shallow cut.

Jungkook didn’t even flinch. He blinked, wiped the trickle of blood away with the back of his hand, then—without hesitation—delivered a brutal punch to Yeong’s face. A sickening crunch filled the air, followed by a stream of crimson spilling from Yeong’s nose.

Mr. Yeong groaned, pressing a trembling hand to the bruise forming above his mouth. His grip on the mirror shard faltered, and, in an instant, Jungkook seized it, his eyes gleaming with something cold and unforgivable.

He shifted his weight, pinning Mr. Yeong firmly to the floor. There was no escape. The inevitable was coming.

Mr. Yeong sensed it. He felt it in the way Jungkook’s grip tightened on his jaw now, forcing his tongue out. Panic surged through him, but it was useless. He was utterly powerless beneath the younger man’s strength. He couldn’t do anything but feel the sharp edge of the mirror pressing into the flesh, a hot, metallic tang flooding his mouth as muffled cries slipped past his bloodied lips.

Pain shot through his body with every movement, every breath. The room spun. The intoxication of his earlier drinks faded, replaced by a dizzying weightlessness. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts blurring into a foggy abyss.

Shock? Blood loss? His mind barely formed the questions before darkness crept in, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision. If someone were to ask what slipping into the abyss felt like, he might say that losing consciousness was the same.

Everything faded. His name, his surroundings, even the reason this young man wanted him dead. The memories of the evening unraveled, dissolving into nothing. He just wanted the bloody pain to stop hurting so much.

“Let him go!” A voice rang out, urgent and commanding. But it was too late.

Mr. Yeong’s world had already turned to black.