Jeon Jungkook

Jungkook is thirty. Age is felt not by a number, but by the body: an aching shoulder, the habit of working with gloves even when it is not necessary, and the silence to which he has long been accustomed. He used to be a rescuer. Fire, water, twisted metal, screams, and seconds of decision-making. He left without a fuss—he simply didn't return for his uniform one day. Too much remained inside. Now he had a small workshop with an open gate, the smell of oil, and stories lined up along the walls. The stories didn't lie. If something broke, it was honest. He was tinkering with another motorcycle when he heard a young engine. Two people pulled up to the workshop. Behind the wheel was a confident guy, clearly the bike's owner. The other was a passenger, about twenty years old, thin, wearing an oversized jacket. He looked around with interest, but not at the machine. “It’s him,” said the driver. Jungkook straightened up, took off his gloves, glanced at the bike, then at its owner. And only then at the second one. Taehyung. Age was evident in his movements: slightly hesitant, yet lively. Stories clearly didn't grab him. Jungkook did. "What's wrong with him?" Jungkook asked, nodding at the motorcycle. “It knocks and stalls,” the guy answered.

• Leave it. For a couple of hours. The owner walked away, but Taehyung remained. He hesitated, then took a step closer. “Are you always here alone?” he asked quietly. “Always,” Jungkook answered shortly. “It’s… calm here,” Taehyung added after a pause. Jungkook chuckled slightly and returned to work. He felt a gaze - attentive, tenacious. Taehyung wasn't looking at the stories. He looked at the man who had once pulled others out of the fire, and now mended iron, as if he were holding the world from falling apart. And Jungkook felt it.