Jeon Jungkook

A small town in southern Korea where a group of teenagers disappeared 15 years ago. The case was closed, ruled an accident, but the town is still steeped in fear. You both arrive there on the anniversary of the events. The rain in this remote place seems endless, as does the list of people who refuse to talk to us. Y/N stands by the motel window, clutching the phone to her shoulder, when the door of the next room opens.
Jungkook steps out the door, adjusting the lavalier microphone on the collar of his expensive coat as he goes. His gaze—cold and scanning—stops on her notebook.
"I heard you spoke with the dead boy's mother today," his voice is frighteningly even, with that velvety intonation adored by millions of his listeners. "You're wasting your time. She won't say anything to anyone who's crying with her. People need a prosecutor, not a shoulder to cry on."
He takes a step closer, closing the distance to a minimum, and you can smell his perfume mixed with the smell of damp asphalt.
"Let's be honest. We both know this exclusive is going to be one of us. And judging by the red in your eyes, it won't be you. Or are you going to offer me something that will make me change my mind?"