Static hissed from the small black speaker, filling the damp basement archive room with a high-pitched whine.
Metal scraped against wood as the old tape machine spun its plastic reels, a relic from a past I had tried desperately to bury.
Cold sweat coated the back of my neck, freezing me in place as the audio settled into a rhythmic, crackling hum.
Minutes earlier, an unmarked manila envelope had been left at the gallery desk, addressed directly to me.
Inside was nothing but a vintage microcassette tape and a note written in block letters: *Listen to your past.*
Curiosity had driven me down into the quiet safety of the basement archives, where we kept the old dictaphones for transcribing historical logs.
Now, that curiosity felt like a self-inflicted death sentence.
A child’s voice, thin and fragile, suddenly cut through the low-frequency noise of the room.
My own voice.
Listening to it felt like being sliced open by a dull, rusty blade.
"Please don't lock me in here again," the little girl on the recording sobbed, her words muffled by heavy, breathless tears.
"I promise I'll be quiet. I won't ask for any more food. Just please don't tell them I was bad. They'll send me back to the orphanage if they think I'm too loud."
A heavy silence followed on the tape, broken only by the sound of an older woman sighing.
"Y/N, you need to understand that your new parents are very busy people," the counselor's voice replied on the tape, professional yet entirely cold.
"They expect a certain level of decorum. If you keep having these night terrors, they will feel they made a mistake in bringing you home."
Younger-me sounded so small, so utterly defeated, that I wanted to reach through the tape and hold her.
Nausea hit me like a physical blow, making my stomach churn violently as the memory of those dark, cold nights rushed back.
My knees buckled, forcing me to grip the edge of the dusty wooden table to keep from collapsing onto the cold concrete floor.
This was a private, highly confidential therapy session from fifteen years ago, recorded right after my adoptive parents brought me home.
Nobody was supposed to have access to these files.
Somehow, some faceless enemy had dug up the deepest, most agonizing wounds of my childhood, dragging them out into the harsh light of day.
"They don't look at me," the young voice continued on the tape, trembling with a profound, quiet sorrow.
"Mom and Dad... they look right through me like I'm made of glass. I try to be so good, but I'm just a burden. I know they wish they never picked me from the home."
Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes, hot and stinging as they tracked down my pale, bloodless cheeks.
Every single word from that tape stripped away my carefully built defense mechanisms, leaving my raw, bleeding insecurity completely exposed.
They knew everything.
Whoever sent this envelope to the gallery knew exactly how to break me, targeting the precise spot where I was most fragile and alone.
If the media got hold of this, they would paint me as a damaged, unstable orphan who latched onto BTS's leader out of desperate greed and psychological trauma.
Desperation clawed at my throat, cutting off my air supply until my chest burned.
Lifting my shaking hands, I slammed my palm down on the stop button of the tape player with all the strength I could muster.
Silence rushed into the room, thick and suffocating, yet my own mind was still screaming with the echoes of my childhood terror.
---
Clutching the heavy plastic tape recorder to my chest, I spun around toward the exit.
My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps that made my ribs ache.
Escape was the only thought driving my limbs forward now.
I needed to hide this machine, to smash the tape, to bury these broken memories where no one could ever find them again.
Hurrying toward the heavy metal door, my heels clicked loudly against the concrete floor, sounding like a ticking clock counting down to my ruin.
Before my hand could even touch the cold brass doorknob, the door swung open from the outside with a sharp, echoing creak.
A man stood in the threshold, blocking my only way out of the suffocating basement.
Greasy, slicked-back hair caught the harsh overhead fluorescent light, shining with an unpleasant wetness.
He wore a wrinkled gray suit that smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and sweat.
His small, bead-like eyes locked onto mine, instantly curving into a predatory, self-satisfied squint.
"Going somewhere, Miss Y/N?" he asked, his voice a grating, nasal drawl that made my skin crawl with revulsion.
My heart jumped into my throat, hammering so hard I could feel the pulse vibrating in my ears.
Taking a step back, I squeezed the tape recorder tighter against my ribs, trying to shield it from his prying eyes.
"Who are you?" I demanded, though my voice betrayed me, cracking on the final syllable.
"Mr. Han, from Daily Star Entertainment," he said, pulling a laminated press badge from his pocket and waving it in front of my face.
"We specialize in finding the truth. And right now, you are the biggest truth in the country."
He stepped forward, crossing the threshold and forcing me to retreat further into the dim, dusty room.
"Get out of my way," I whispered, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold onto the plastic casing of the recorder.
"Now, now, let's not be hasty," Mr. Han sneered, pulling a crisp, white document from his inner jacket pocket.
"You have something that belongs to our source, and we have a very lucrative proposal for you."
He tapped the paper with a dirt-caked fingernail, a smug grin spreading across his face.
"This is an exclusive interview contract. You sign this, you sit down with me for two hours, and you tell us all about your tragic childhood."
"Never," I choked out, a cold dread pooling in my stomach as I realized how deep this conspiracy went.
"Think about it carefully," Han urged, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee as he took another step closer.
"A girl like you, with this kind of baggage, trying to stand next to a man who commands stadiums?"
"Do you really think a global superstar wants to deal with your pathetic trauma?"
"He is Kim Namjoon. He has the world at his feet. You are just a broken girl who hides behind old paintings because she's too afraid to live."
"He will get tired of you. The moment the fairy tale fades and he has to carry your heavy, damaged history, he will walk away."
Those words felt like physical blows, bruising my soul and leaving me entirely breathless because they voiced my deepest, darkest fears.
Reporter Han was saying out loud the exact things my own mind whispered to me every single night.
"Our readers will devour every single detail of your pathetic little life," he whispered, leaning in closer.
"They will say you targeted him. They will call you a master manipulator who used her trauma to ensnare a global superstar."
Panic flared, hot and suffocating, restricting my airway until my vision began to blur at the edges.
I looked around wildly, searching for any escape route, but the basement room had no windows.
Heavy metal shelves filled with old documents hemmed me in on all sides, making the space feel like a tomb.
"Just sign the contract, Y/N," Han pressed, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to grab my wrist.
"We can control the narrative. If you don't, I play these tapes on the evening news tonight."
My skin crawled as his fingers brushed my sleeve.
Shrinking back, I pressed my spine against the cold concrete wall, wishing I could dissolve into the stone.
"Don't touch me!" I cried out, tears of absolute terror finally spilling over my cheeks.
Suddenly, a heavy, deafening thud echoed through the outer hallway, rattling the metal shelves.
Han froze, his hand hovering in mid-air as his eyes widened slightly.
Footsteps approached, slow, deliberate, and incredibly heavy.
Each step sounded like a death knell, vibrating through the concrete floor and up into my very bones.
A massive shadow fell across the threshold, instantly blotting out the weak hallway light and throwing the room into deep shadow.
Kim Namjoon stood in the doorway.
His towering six-foot-two frame seemed to fill the entire corridor, his broad shoulders squared in a stance of absolute dominance.
Dressed in a long, dark designer coat, he looked like an imposing god of wrath, radiating a cold, dangerous energy.
His face was completely devoid of its usual warmth, his jaw clenched so tightly that a vein throbbed violently at his temple.
Dark eyes, cold and utterly lethal, locked onto the reporter's hand near my wrist.
An aura of pure, unadulterated danger rolled off him, heavy enough to make the air in the room turn icy.
"Remove your hand," Namjoon said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet growl that vibrated in my chest.
Han gasped, his face draining of all color as he took a hasty, stumbling step back.
"M-Mr. Kim," Han stammered, his bravado vanishing instantly under Namjoon's crushing gaze.
"I was just... we were just having a professional discussion."
Ignoring the reporter entirely, Namjoon stepped into the room, instantly commanding the space.
His large hand reached out, gently wrapping around my trembling waist to pull me behind his protective, solid bulk.
Warmth flooded back into my frozen limbs the moment his body heat enveloped me, shielding me from the world.
He looked down at me for a fraction of a second, his expression softening with intense, possessive concern.
"Are you hurt, sweetheart?" he murmured, his deep voice thick with restrained emotion.
I shook my head, clutching his coat like a lifeline as I hid behind his broad shoulders.
Satisfied, he turned back to the trembling reporter, his features hardening into granite.
Han tried to swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he clutched his recording device to his chest.
"People have a right to know who is influencing the nation's biggest star," Han squeaked, trying to regain his footing.
My fated match didn't argue.
He simply moved with terrifying speed.
Namjoon snatches the reporter’s recording device, crushes it effortlessly in his bare fist, and says, "If you ever breathe her name again, I will buy your entire media outlet just to fire you."