Cold sweat pooled at the small of my back, soaking into the fabric of my shirt. Yoongi’s accusation hung in the air like a physical blade, sharp and merciless. My fingers froze over the edge of the dining table, knocking a fork against my plate with a sharp clatter. "I didn't do it," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of their collective stares. "I would never do that. I don't even know your schedule. I wouldn't even know how to find it." Silence descended on the room, suffocating and heavy. Seokjin placed his chopsticks down with a slow, deliberate motion, his handsome face clouding over with a rare seriousness. Hoseok leaned forward, his usual bright, energetic posture collapsing into something rigid and guarded. Namjoon's fingers tightened around mine under the table, his grip so fierce it almost cut off my circulation. His thumb rubbed hard against my knuckles, a possessive, grounding gesture that screamed he wasn't letting me go, no matter what. Yoongi tapped the screen of his tablet, his dark eyes studying my reaction with analytical, piercing precision. "Someone bypassed our secondary security servers using an IP address registered directly to your art restoration gallery," Yoongi explained, his voice low and devoid of accusation, yet utterly demanding. A heavy weight pressed down on my chest, making it nearly impossible to draw a clean breath. My voice trembled as I tried to find the words to defend myself. "Our guest Wi-Fi is incredibly weak, and the router is in the hallway near the public café next door. Anyone sitting on the patio outside could easily hack into it. It has happened before with local teenagers trying to download games." Jimin's shoulders visibly relaxed at my explanation, but his eyes remained deep pools of concern. "Look at this," Jungkook muttered, his voice tight as he pointed to his own phone, passing it over to Taehyung. Trembling, I watched Taehyung's jaw tighten as he scrolled through a notorious online forum. Horror, cold and absolute, washed over me in waves as he finally turned the screen toward me. Screaming headlines flashed across the display, written in bold, aggressive Korean characters. Vicious comments flooded the section below, updating by the second, a digital mob gathering to tear my life apart. Nausea rose in my throat, hot and bitter, forcing me to swallow hard to keep from gagging. My face was plastered all over the forum threads, but it wasn't just my ordinary, quiet self. They had taken high-resolution photographs of me from my gallery's public website and merged them onto degrading, highly sexualized images. Underneath the horrific deepfakes, the anonymous posters had written detailed stories accusing me of being a calculated clout-chaser who slept with staff members to steal BTS's private schedules. "They're calling me a parasite," I choked out, the words burning my throat as the tears I had been fighting finally spilled over my eyelashes. Tears blurred my vision, turning the elegant dining room into a smear of expensive lights and hostile shadows. Before I could pull away to hide my face, the tablet was violently snatched from my hands. Namjoon stood up so fast his chair screeched against the marble floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the silent penthouse. A terrifying, cold fury radiated from him, transforming the gentle, intellectual man I loved into a lethal predator. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped, and a thick vein pulsed violently at his temple. Pulling me against his side with one possessive, iron arm, he stared at the tablet, his eyes turning pitch black. I had never seen him look like this—completely stripped of his usual patience, replaced by a ruthless, quiet rage. Pressing my face against his chest, I tried to block out the world, but the rapid, heavy thudding of his heart only amplified my terror. On his phone, he dialed a number with vicious force, his breathing heavy and ragged against my ear. "This is Namjoon," he spoke into the receiver, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent shivers down my spine. "Get the legal team on a conference call. Right now. I don't care if it's midnight." Listening to him bark orders felt surreal, like watching a king command his army from a war room. His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging into my hip as if he feared I might dissolve into thin air if he let go. "I want every single IP address associated with these uploads tracked down," Namjoon hissed, his voice cutting through the room like shattered glass. "File immediate criminal lawsuits for defamation, deepfake distribution, and breach of privacy. I want them ruined. Sparing no expense." When he ended the call, he threw his phone onto the table, the screen cracking slightly from the impact. Turning to me, his expression softened just a fraction, but the possessiveness in his eyes remained, burning bright and dangerous. Gently, he cupped my face with his large hands, his thumbs wiping away the wet tracks on my cheeks. "Hey," he murmured, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "Look at me. I've got you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I will destroy them all before they touch a hair on your head." But his reassurance did nothing to quiet the screaming voice inside my head. How could I stay when my very presence was dragging him into the mud, forcing him to act like a monster? This was exactly what I feared—the blinding, destructive spotlight of his world destroying my quiet, fragile life. My chest ached with a profound, hollow emptiness as I realized the truth. Memories of my childhood flashed through my mind, of being blamed for things I didn't do, of my parents always telling me I was a burden who brought chaos wherever I went. Always the difficult one, always the mistake. If I stayed, his protective instincts would eventually destroy his own career, forcing him to fight endless battles for an unworthy, broken girl. Love wasn't supposed to feel like a war zone, and it certainly wasn't supposed to poison the person you cared about. I needed to run, to disappear back into the dusty safety of my gallery before the fire he built consumed us both. Suddenly, a sharp, high-pitched tone cut through the tense silence of the penthouse. A security alert blares through the penthouse system, showing a group of angry anti-fans climbing the perimeter fence of the luxury complex, carrying cans of red paint.

Chapter 12: The Poison in the Inkwells