Breathing felt like swallowing glass. Tightness seized my lungs, panic clawing at the back of my throat with sharp, unforgiving talons. Behind me, the quiet hum of the museum's basement archive felt less like a sanctuary and more like a high-tech trap. Footsteps echoed in the distance, heavy and purposeful. He was looking for me. Kim Namjoon, the brilliant, towering leader of the world's biggest group, was actively hunting his match. His name was currently burning into the flesh of my wrist, a fresh, elegant script that felt like an unbreakable brand. Slipping through a narrow, metal fire door, I plunged into the cold, concrete service corridor. Boots clicked softly against the floor, a sound I tried desperately to muffle by hugging the damp wall. Dust clung to my throat, dry and suffocating, making me want to cough, but I choked the urge down. Industrial pipes hissed overhead, dripping condensation that felt like icy fingers tapping on my shoulders. Panic spiked, hot and electric, driving me to sprint toward the distant red exit sign. Fleeing was my only option. If he caught me, if he saw the bandage covering his name on my skin, my quiet life would vanish forever. Flashes of cameras, screaming crowds, and the crushing weight of public scrutiny flashed through my mind. Restoring ancient masterpieces was my life, a quiet existence lived in the shadows of long-dead painters. I was entirely unequipped for his blinding, international spotlight. Cold sweat dripped down my spine as I pushed open the heavy exterior exit. Frigid Seoul air hit my face, shocking my senses and forcing a gasp from my lungs. I didn't look back. --- Hurrying down the dark, narrow alleyway, I pulled my woolen scarf tighter around my neck. Fingers trembled so violently I could barely keep my grip on my shoulder bag. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward me, taking the imposing, broad-shouldered shape of the man I had just abandoned. Neon signs blurred in my periphery as I finally burst onto the main street. People swarmed the sidewalks, a sea of faces that suddenly felt terrifyingly exposed. I kept my head down, staring at the wet pavement reflecting the city lights. Any one of these strangers could be an ARMY, someone who would instantly recognize me if they knew my face. Safely blending into the crowd, I made a beeline for the nearest subway entrance. Lungs burned with every step, a sharp physical reminder of my frantic flight. Descending the concrete stairs felt like diving into a safe haven, away from the open sky where eyes could watch me. Commuters rushed past, ignoring the frantic girl with the pale face and the tightly wrapped wrist. Swiping my transit card at the turnstile, my hand shook so hard it took three attempts. Beep. Plastic barrier clicking open, I pushed through, my shoulder bag catching on the edge before I yanked it free. Subterranean and labyrinthine, the station was filled with tiled walls, rushing crowds, and the smell of toasted pastries. I hurried down the final flight of stairs, my boots skidding slightly on the slick concrete. Plunging deeper into the underground station, I finally saw the metal doors of the green line train slide open. Squeezing past a group of high school students, I practically threw myself inside the car. Doors chimed, sliding shut with a heavy, mechanical hiss. We pulled away from the platform, speeding into the dark tunnels of Seoul. Safety, fragile and fleeting, finally washed over me. --- Leaning my head back against the cool metal pole, I closed my eyes. Chest heaving, I let my racing pulse slowly decelerate. Somehow, against all odds, I had escaped. A small, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I forced it down. He would surely give up now. A man of his stature, with a massive global tour looming and millions of fans screaming his name, wouldn't waste his precious time chasing a shadow. Living in the shadows of ancient paintings, I was just an ordinary art restorer. Growing up, I had learned early on that relying on others was a recipe for disappointment. Parents had been ghosts in my own home, too consumed by their own financial failures to notice the quiet girl drawing in the corner. Being the afterthought had built a wall around my heart, thick and impenetrable. That neglect had taught me a vital lesson: if you don't let anyone in, they can't abandon you. My mother had never asked about my day, and my father had spent his evenings staring blankly at bills. I had learned to rely solely on myself, finding solace in the silent, predictable nature of art restoration. Paintings didn't leave; they didn't judge, and they certainly didn't have millions of eyes tracking their every move. But Namjoon's bond was like a wrecking ball, threatening to shatter those carefully constructed defenses in a single blow. His intense, possessive gaze from earlier still burned in my mind, a look that promised to consume me entirely. He didn't just want to meet his soulmate; he wanted to pull me into his world and keep me there. And that terrified me more than any physical pain. A cosmic glitch had bound his brilliant, blinding star to my dull, quiet orbit. Once he realized I had fled, he would probably find a way to break the bond, or simply ignore it. He had a world to conquer; he didn't need a broken, insecure girl dragging him down. Believing this lie was the only way I could keep from breaking down right here on the train. I pressed my hand over my bandaged wrist, seeking the comforting, electric warmth that had thrummed there since his name appeared. But as I pressed down, the warmth wasn't there. Instead, a strange, creeping chill began to seep through the layers of gauze. Brow furrowing, I pressed harder, expecting the familiar, sweet heat of the soulmate mark. Nothing but cold. Slowly, the cold began to sharpen, turning into a biting, icy needle that pricked at my veins. Breath hitching, I felt a sudden, sharp spasm of pain shoot up my forearm. Grasping my elbow, I gasped softly, attracting a brief, curious glance from an elderly woman sitting nearby. Skin felt as if it were being pressed against dry ice. Every nerve ending in my wrist began to scream, a deep, agonizing ache that vibrated straight to my bones. Separation sickness. Stomach plummeting, I realized the folklore was true; the physical agony of being torn away from your fated match was not a myth. It was a biological hook, designed to drag runaways back to their partners. Pain radiated up my shoulder, making my teeth chatter. It felt as though my very soul were being stretched across a rack, pulling tighter and tighter with every mile the subway traveled away from the museum. Squeezing my eyes shut, I fought back tears of absolute agony. My chest felt constricted, as if a heavy steel band were wrapping around my ribs, squeezing the air from my lungs. This icy ache wasn't just physical; it was a profound, hollow yearning that made my soul weep. It was the bond's cruel way of telling me that I was incomplete without him. How was I supposed to survive this? If the pain was this intense after only ten minutes, what would it feel like in a day? Despair washed over me, heavy and suffocating. Whimpering, I buried my face in my scarf, praying the physical torment would numb out eventually. Body and soul protested my escape, demanding I turn around and run back into his possessive embrace. Running back was out of the question. Surrendering to him meant letting myself be swallowed by his world. Freedom and quiet security were all I had, and I couldn't let them go. If I surrendered, I would lose myself entirely to his fame, his fans, his life. --- Screeching brakes announced our arrival at the next major transit hub. More passengers flooded into the carriage, packing the space until we were standing chest-to-back. Shrinking back, I wrapped my arms tightly around my torso to protect my throbbing wrist. Sweat beaded on my forehead, a mix of the stifling heat of the crowded train and the icy fire burning in my arm. Every second felt like an eternity. Reaching my studio apartment, locking the door, and drowning the pain in painkillers was my only goal. Suddenly, a high-pitched chime cut through the low rumble of the train. Then another. And another. Within seconds, a cacophony of identical alert tones erupted throughout the entire carriage. Heart stopping, I watched as dozens of smartphones buzzed and chimed in perfect, terrifying unison. Gasps echoed around me as passengers pulled out their devices. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd like a spreading wildfire, urgent and shocked. Beside me, a young girl stared at her screen, her eyes widening to the size of saucers as she turned her phone to show her friend. Every phone on the subway train suddenly chimed simultaneously as a breaking news notification popped up, displaying a high-resolution security camera photo of Y/N’s bandaged arm from the museum basement with the caption: 'Is this BTS RM's mystery soulmate?'

Chapter 5: The First False Horizon