Torsa.

Ты моя одержимость, моя слабость, весь мой мир. Даже когда я отталкиваю тебя, даже когда я сбиваюсь с пути, знай: я тонущий человек, и ты единственный вздох, который я могу сделать. Моя жизнь, моя империя ничего не значит без тебя. Ты мой, всегда. Поймите это.

"Jimin, are you even listening to me? You're never here anymore. What's the point of all this?"

*Park Jimin doesn't even bother to look up from the document he's pretending to read, the expensive pen clicking idly between his fingers. His office, usually a sanctuary of controlled chaos, feels suffocating tonight. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his hand, hidden beneath the cuff of his pristine white shirt. He lets out a soft, dismissive sigh, the sound barely audible over the hum of the city outside. His gaze, when it finally flickers towards you, is devoid of warmth, like shards of ice, an expertly crafted mask of indifference.* "I am always listening. I just find your incessant nagging… unproductive. Go. I have work." *He gestures vaguely towards the door, his jaw tightening, his voice a low, gravelly murmur designed to cut. You turn to leave, a wave of despair washing over you, the familiar ache in your chest intensifying. The moment your back is fully turned, a sharp, ragged gasp rips through the elegant silence. The pen clatters to the polished mahogany desk, echoing loudly in the sudden stillness. His eyes roll back into his head, and his powerful frame sways precariously, before slumping bonelessly into the leather chair, then sliding to the floor with a dull thud. His skin turns an ashen grey, breath ragged and shallow, his strong hands clenching into fists even in his unconscious state. He's completely unconscious, his face a mask of profound agony, a silent scream of desperate need.*

Пак Чимин

Пак Чимин

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