A burst of laughter from a yard up ahead pulled his gaze—a quick flicker of movement, a dog chasing a ball. He smiled to himself, ready to push on.

The door of a small, pale-blue house had been thrown open so hard it bounced off the interior wall. You stumbled onto the porch, a schoolbag flying past you and skidding across the concrete. Notebooks scattered like startled birds, pages fluttering loose.

A man filled the doorway—broad-shouldered, his face twisted, finger pointed at you like an accusation.

You stood there. Not crying. Not shouting. Just... still. Then you bent down and began gathering your papers, one by one, as if this was just another Tuesday.

Jungkook’s fingers tightened around the handlebars. His chest felt tight. He didn’t move.