Cold sweat slicked my palms as I stared down at the glowing screen of my phone. The blue light cut through the dimness of the study, illuminating a message that made my stomach drop into a bottomless void. It was an unknown number, but the words were sharp, precise, and lethal. *“A perfect little broken doll. Abandoned at seven, left in a cold foster home, crying for parents who never wanted you. How will the world react when they find out RM's precious soulmate is just damaged goods? 10:00 PM tonight. Insadong Teahouse. Bring something to prove you're ready to pay, or the media gets the adoption records and psychiatric files.”* Dropping my phone onto the polished mahogany desk, I clutched my chest. My lungs refused to take in air. The secret I had spent my entire adult life burying—the shameful reality of my abandonment, the years of feeling like an unwanted ghost—was about to be laid bare for the entire world to dissect. My wrist burned with a sudden, vicious intensity. Peering down beneath the thick cotton bandage, I saw the elegant script of Kim Namjoon’s name. The ink was no longer a beautiful, deep black. It was a bruised, angry shade of violet, swollen and hot to the touch, reflecting the fracture in our bond after our screaming match. Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass. The physical illness of our emotional discord was already ravaging my body, making my limbs heavy and my head spin with a dull, throbbing fever. But this new terror was an entirely different kind of sickness. "No," I whispered, my voice cracking in the empty room. "Not this. Anything but this." Down the hallway, Namjoon was resting in his bedroom, likely suffering from the same soulmate-induced fever that gripped me. His fiercely protective, possessive nature had terrified me earlier, but now, the thought of him finding out about this threat terrified me even more. If he discovered someone was blackmailing me, his wrath would be absolute. He would deploy every resource, hire every security firm, and hunt down the culprit with a terrifying, single-minded focus. But in doing so, he would ignite a firestorm. He was a global superstar. His group was on the precipice of a massive, highly anticipated comeback that the entire music industry was watching. A public scandal involving his soulmate's traumatic, messy past—and the inevitable legal battle that would follow his retaliation—would utterly ruin everything he had worked for. But kings had thrones to protect, and I was just a girl who restored broken things in the dark. I could not let my brokenness drag him down from his pedestal. I had to handle this myself, quietly, before he woke up and realized I was gone. Panic clawed at my throat as I picked up the phone. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely type. *I will be there. Do not leak anything.* I sent the reply, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Quietly, I slipped out of the study and hurried to my guest room. I didn't have millions of won in cash, and I couldn't withdraw a large sum from my bank account without raising red flags. But I had one thing of immense, undeniable value. Walking to my closet, I pulled out a heavy, brass-bound mahogany case. This was my grandfather's antique restoration kit, passed down through three generations of master craftsmen. Inside lay my most prized possessions. These weren't just ordinary tools; they were museum-grade artifacts. There were hand-forged German steel scalpels with carved bone handles, natural squirrel-hair brushes bound in sterling silver, and a sealed glass vial of genuine, extinct nineteenth-century Afghan lapis lazuli pigment. To any high-end curator or black-market antiquarian, this kit was worth a small fortune. Gently, I touched the smooth, aged wood of the case. It was my only link to a time when I felt safe, a time before the abandonment. Giving it up felt like carving out a piece of my own ribcage, but it was the only collateral I had to buy the blackmailer's silence. Closing the lid, I snapped the heavy brass latches shut. The metallic click echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. Heavy leather straps secured the case, and I slung it over my shoulder, the weight pulling painfully against my bruised soulmate mark. I pulled on a thick black trench coat, wrapping a dark wool scarf high around my neck to hide my face. Slipping past the security monitors in the main hallway was surprisingly easy, given how exhausted the household staff was from managing the tension between Namjoon and me. I bypassed the main elevators, taking the service stairs down to the basement garage and slipping out into the freezing night air. Outside, the Seoul sky was a heavy, charcoal gray, spitting needles of icy rain. The cold bit into my cheeks, but the fever burning in my veins kept me strangely numb. Wet asphalt mirrored the blinding neon signs of the city as I hurried down the street. I kept my head low, terrified that every passing headlight belonged to one of Namjoon’s security details. Hailing a cab at the corner, I climbed into the back seat, murmuring the address for Insadong. The driver nodded, pulling into the slick evening traffic. Sitting in the damp warmth of the taxi, I watched the city blur past the rain-streaked window. On a massive LED billboard towering over the Han River, Namjoon’s face appeared. He looked magnificent, his sharp jawline and piercing eyes commanding the attention of millions. My chest ached with a mixture of profound love and crushing unworthiness. Memories I had spent a decade locking away began to claw their way to the surface. I remembered the bright, overwhelming lights of the amusement park where my mother had told me to wait by the carousel. I remembered the taste of the cheap strawberry cotton candy melting in my hand as the hours ticked by and the park lights went dark. Seven years old, sitting on a cold plastic bench, realizing that no one was coming back for me. Nobody wanted a broken child. The foster homes that followed only reinforced that lesson, teaching me to be quiet, to be invisible, and to never, ever expect anyone to stay. Now, those dark, shameful truths were about to be put on display for BTS’s global fandom to mock and dissect. "We are arriving," the driver's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, pulling me back to the harsh reality. Stepping out into the biting cold of Insadong, I clutched the heavy mahogany case tightly against my side. The traditional neighborhood was quieter at this hour, its winding alleyways lined with dark wooden storefronts and paper lanterns flickering in the wind. Alleyways twisted in a maze of shadows, and I followed the directions from the text message. My breath came in short, ragged puffs of white mist. A wooden sign swaying in the wind caught my eye: *The Whispering Pine*. It was a secluded, traditional teahouse tucked away at the end of a dead-end path, far from the bustling main streets. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, the scent of roasted barley and damp earth washed over me. The interior was dimly lit, divided into private booths by sliding rice-paper screens. Incense burned quietly in a corner, its sweet, heavy smoke hanging low in the air. An elderly woman in a dark hanbok bowed politely from behind a counter. "Reservation for Room Four," I said, my voice barely a whisper. She pointed silently down a narrow hallway lined with polished wood floors. I nodded, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Sliding my shoes off at the entrance of the hallway, I walked toward the back of the establishment. The paper screens of the other booths were shut, throwing soft, amber light onto the floorboards. Opening the screen door to Room Four, I braced myself to face my tormentor. I expected a shadowy figure, a sneering face, or perhaps a desperate reporter holding a microphone. Darkness greeted me. Sitting on the low table in the center of the small, empty room was a single cup of cold barley tea. There was no blackmailer. No shadow in the corner. No one. My stockinged feet made no sound as I stepped onto the tatami mat, my gaze locked on the low table. Beside the cold tea sat a vintage, black plastic cassette tape recorder. Hovering over the table, I stared at the dusty machine. A small, handwritten sticky note was pasted to the plastic casing, bearing a single word: *PLAY*. With trembling fingers, I reached out and pressed the heavy, mechanical button down. Static hissed from the small speaker, a harsh, scratching sound that filled the tiny room. "Please..." a child's voice sobbed through the static, high-pitched and dripping with raw, agonizing terror. "Please, I'll be good. Don't leave me here. I promise I'll be quiet. Mommy, please come back."

Chapter 15: An Auction of Broken Memories