𝐍𝐎 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 ᵏᵗʰ

08 ┃ 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

━ ⭒─⭑━

The club's neon lights cast a kaleidoscope of colors over your skin as you and Seora—buzzing from the high of too many shots—leaned heavily against the bar.

The night unfolded in a blur of laughter and liquid courage, a temporary distraction for the dull ache that's been residing in your chest since you lost your brother's hoodie. Every clink of glass and beat of the bass was a welcome distraction from the emptiness of your loss.

"Another round, bartender!" Seora's voice cut through the noise, her arm thrown around your shoulders with an affectionate weight.

You squinted at the assortment of bottles behind the bartender, your mind a muddled mess. "Maybe we should slow down," you slurred, more to yourself than to her. But the thought evaporated as quickly as it came, replaced by a stubborn determination not to think, not to feel the void. So, you nodded, "One more."

When the shots came, you downed them with practiced ease, the burn in your throat less noticeable than the one in your heart. It was then, in the haze of your drunken stupor, that you caught it—a flash of red in the sea of bodies. Your heart lurched.

Could it be?

Shaking your head, you tried to push away the idea as soon as it entered your mind. You were seeing things; you had to be. Desperate to drown the sudden spike of hope and pain, you signaled for more shots, ignoring Seora's concerned glance.

Downing a few more shots, you finally felt the tension in your shoulders unravel—a moment of relief.

Seeing that you were nearing your limit, Seora gently guided you away from the bar and toward an empty table along the wall. "C'mon, let's sit down for a bit."

The ice water in front of you stood in juxtaposition to the warm buzz of alcohol flowing through your veins. Seora excused herself to the restroom, leaving you to your thoughts and the glass you aimlessly twirled between your fingers.

That's when you saw it again—the unmistakable hue of red, moving through the crowd.

This time, you couldn't ignore it; the closer the figure got, the more certain you became. It was your hoodie, worn by a masked stranger across the room. Anger, hot and fierce, bubbled up inside you, fueling your drunken haze.

Unsteady but determined, you stumbled to your feet and started to weave through the crowd. With each step, the certainty grew—it was your hoodie, it had to be. How dare they? How dare they parade around in a piece of your heart, a token of your grief?

Finally, you reached the figure, your hands shaking as you reached out and grabbed the front of the hoodie. "Thief," you accused, your voice thick with anger and alcohol. "You've no idea... how many sleepless nights," you trailed off, unable to articulate the depth of your pain, your loss.

The masked figure seemed taken aback, confusion evident even in the dim lighting. You were at a loss for words, and all you could do was weakly tug at the jacket, as if that simple act could reverse the weeks of heartache its misplacement had caused.

As the words "Give it back" escaped your lips, wrapped in a cocktail of drunken determination and pure despair, Taehyung could only watch the situation unfold before him with a surreal quality he couldn't have anticipated.

There you were—an unknown woman—hands frantically clutching at the fabric of his jacket, words slurred beyond comprehension.

He found himself staring down at you, trying to make sense of the jumbled accusations, your alcohol-scented breath mingling with the pulsating club music, making it impossible to discern your true intent.

Your glossy, clouded eyes from tonight's indulgences fastened onto his with an intensity that contradicted your intoxication.

Even in the dim, strobe-lit chaos of the club, Taehyung could see the pout of your lips, the unshed tears brimming in your eyes, speaking volumes of a story he was yet to understand.

Before he could process the situation further, Yoongi was at his side, his expression tight with concern.