studio 306 - chapter 2 | jjk
Pairing: Demon!Jungkook x Reader (f)
Genre: fantasy!au, demon!au, haunted apartment, horror (its not too bad bc im a coward guys), slow burn, forced proximity, supernatural romance, angst.
Summary: Jungkook is trapped in an attic, cursed to win affection from those who fear him most. Every tenant has fled until you move in. With your budget and patience on the line, you refuse to leave. Now you’re stuck sharing a space with a creature no priest, shaman, or exorcist can get rid of, and neither of you can escape.
Warnings: light horror (things moving around and such), supernatural themes, slow burn, forced proximity, mild language.
Word count: 9000
a/n: i have nothing to say really🥴 im just a coward so im writing this at 3 am with the lights on. but it really isn't even that scary 😭
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chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8 | chapter 9 | chapter 10 | chapter 11 | chapter 12 | chapter 13 | chapter 14 | chapter 15
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At first, your mind didn’t register the fear you felt.
You were too drowsy, still halfway between dreaming and reality.
You blinked again, trying to focus, but just like that, it was gone.
You sat up slowly, staring at the corner where the figure stood.
You rubbed your eyes. Maybe you were dreaming, you were tired. And it wasn’t like the studio had the best lighting at night.
You laid back down, pulling the blanket up to your chin, and finally falling asleep after doing the breathing method the school psychologist taught you.
For the first time since you moved in, you didn’t feel alone.
You just weren’t sure if that was a good thing.
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You woke up the next morning convinced you imagined whatever you saw last night.
You blame the stress of moving to a new place, the long day at school, and adjusting to the new space and housemates. You told yourself it was just your brain too tired to differentiate between dreams and reality, the way the school psychologist said it sometimes does when you’re someone is exhausted.
You were halfway through brushing your teeth, you’ve almost succeeded in convincing yourself.
But when you step back into the main living area, the mug you left on the desk last night is now sitting on your bedside table.
You stopped so suddenly the floor below you creaked.
The bed is made as it is the first thing you do when you wake up, the rug is a little crooked from where you sat on it yesterday, and your work bag is on the chair, right where you left it.
The room looks exactly the way you remember leaving it, lived in and slightly cluttered.
Except for that one fucking mug.
It sits perfectly centered on the bedside table, its handle turned neatly toward the bed.
Your heart was beating way too loud now, so loud that all you could hear was the sound of your own heart.
You stare at it for a few seconds, with a toothbrush still in your hand, and the toothpaste foaming in your mouth.
You try to replay what happened last night in your head. You dropped the bag on the chair, grabbed a cup of water from the kitchen, and placed it on your desk as you were drinking near it.
You were a hundred percent sure that’s how it happened.
You don’t remember moving it and you were certain you didn’t move it.
The hairs on your arms rose in fear and for a second, you thought you heard something, like the wind blowing against the window, but when you took a look outside, the trees and leaves weren’t even moving.
You crossed the room to pick up the mug, wrapping your fingers around the cold ceramic. You looked at it, turning it to see if there was something on it, which there obviously wasn’t. So you put it back on the desk, right where you remember leaving it.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t react more than you did, and you didn’t let yourself overthink it. It maybe was just your memory being hazy, maybe you did leave it there.
You rinsed your mouth, washed your face, and kept your eyes firmly on the sink.
It’s too early to start freaking out, you thought to yourself.
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It’s now been two weeks since you moved here, and less than a week since the figure in the corner and the cup incident.
You fell into your new routines in this house faster than you thought you would.
You’d wake up, get ready, finish your coffee while putting on makeup, then walk thirteen minutes to school where you would usually stop by in the croissant place in the middle.
The world outside is so normal it almost convinced you that what happened that night was nothing more than exhaustion overriding your emotion.
Your students have been extra energetic, probably sensing your better mood after moving out and spending less time on commuting.
At school, in between reading and writing practice, your students always keep you busy. So busy that you would forget about the mug or the figure in the corner.
When you finally came back home from school, Taehyung was in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, eyes glued to some recipe video on his iPad. Jimin was lying on the couch, complaining loudly about his work to someone on his phone, between mouthfuls of chips. And from the hallway, you catch a glimpse of Yoongi standing by his door, greeting you, before disappearing back into his room.
You smiled and greeted each of them before heading back upstairs. The sound of Jimin's laughter and Taehyung’s youtube video fade behind you until all that’s left is the faint creak of the staircase beneath your feet.
You reach the top of the stair and unlock your door, inhaling a small breath before stepping inside, and paused for just a moment.
You looked around the studio, glancing at all the things you own. The studio looks the same and everything seems to be in its place. Even the mug is still exactly where you left it this time.
You exhaled, relieved at the sight of everything being where it’s supposed to be.
The floor creaks behind you but you tell yourself it’s just the wood or maybe the strong wind against the roof. And honestly, all old houses creak.
And as of now nothing feels wrong.
Not yet.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The first noise you’ve ever heard was on a Wednesday.
You’re grading spelling tests at your desk, with a true crime podcast playing softly from your phone. The narrator’s voice is somewhat calm, soothing, and relaxing even though he was describing a crime scene. You lit a candle beside you, a cheap vanilla scent from the discount section. You lit it up in the hope it would make the place more cozy.
You glanced over to the clock showing that it’s past midnight. You should be sleeping. Your eyes are starting to sting, and your back aches from the awful chair that you still haven’t sold yet after all this time.
You circled another misspelled word, wrote a small note in the margin, Great effort, just remember the double e! and that’s when you heard it.
The floor creaking behind you.
It didn’t sound like the casual sound of an old house doing its thing. No this sounded like a slow drag. As if someone, or something, shifted their weight from one board to the next.
You froze on your seat, with the pen hovering above the paper you were grading.
Your back straightened, you didn’t move, breathe, or even blink. You were just frozen in time, when the sound repeated again.
You didn’t turn around just yet, your logical brain told you not to turn around because there is nothing to see anyway. Because this is what happens when living in old houses, they make sounds even when a small wind blows against them. Or maybe an animal accidentally hit themselves against the roof of the house.
Except when you checked outside, it didn’t seem like it was windy. The trees were as still as they do on a hot summer night.
Your mouth felt dry, you swallowed hard as you could feel eyes on the back of your neck.
“God damn it, this is what it feels like living in an old house,” you mumbled.
And then you heard it again, the sound of the floorboard creaking as if someone was walking on it. But this time, it’s closer than before.
You spun around so fast, your chair squeaks against the floor.
And you saw exactly what your logical brain told you. You saw nothing.
You sit there, heart pounding against your ribs fast enough your whole body started sweating as if you just did an hour workout.
“Okay,” you whispered to no one, forcing out a weak laugh, “no more crime podcasts before bed.”
You close your notebook, climb into bed with your hoodie still on, and pulled the blanket up to your chin.
And tonight, you decided to sleep with the lights on, telling yourself it’s because you’re just too tired to turn it off, not wanting to admit that when the lights are off, the shadows came alive like they are watching you.
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He watches you from the corner of the studio.
You can’t see him, not yet. Jungkook is the one controlling the energy in the room, and he will be the one deciding when you will be able to see him.
He has seen humans like you before, hundreds of them. Tenants who arrive with tired eyes, and small dreams. They would unpack, clean the place, light the candles, and tell themselves whatever they felt would just be temporary, they all thought they could outlast the uneasiness they felt.
He knows the pattern by heart.
He would play with the small things first. He’d make sounds, like a creak in the floor when no one’s moving, or control the air in the room by making it colder or flickering the candle without a wind blowing in the room, or placing the mug slightly out of place.
Jungkook didn’t mean to move your mug that morning. It was muscle memory, though his body has long since ceased to be human. His fingers brushed past it, and the object followed the pull of him.
You didn’t scream, but you frowned, muttered something under your breath, and moved the mug back like it was nothing.
Jungkook found that interesting. Very few humans managed to be indifferent in his presence.
Most would crumble quickly, even get loud, messy, desperate to leave.
But you haven’t, so far, not yet.
When the floor creaked that night, he hadn’t stepped forward. He only just looked at you and that was all it took, the energy in the room would always respond to his.
He could hear your breath stopping when you heard the sound. He could smell your pulse, and the taste of tremor in the air.
And yet, you stayed. You didn’t flee or even prayed to god.
Something stirred in him then. Jungkook was curious.
How long would you endure it? How many nights before your rational mind began to lose, how many nights before you started whispering to the dark, praying to a god, the way the others did?
Would you fight him? Beg him? Or he wonders, would you learn to live with him?
For the first time in a century, Jungkook finds himself curious.
It’s been forever since a human’s fear amused him.
He wonders how long it will take before you break. How long before you pack your boxes, or before you run down those stairs and never look back.
Or maybe you’ll be the first to stay.
Jungkook was not sure which thought excites him more.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
By Friday, the little things weren’t so little anymore.
This time, it started with your keys.
You were sure you left them on the hook by the door. You always do it out of habit, in the same spot, the same ring, the same tiny keychain one of your students gave you that says “#1 Teacher”.
But when you reach for them that morning, your hand closes on empty air.
The hook was empty.
You frowned, and quickly checked the floor around where you were standing, and found nothing. You checked your bag, flipping through its pockets, and found nothing. You pat the jacket hanging on your chair, crouched and scanned under furniture, and found nothing.
Nothing.
“You’re kidding me,” you muttered.
You can’t afford this today. There’s a parent-teacher meeting at school and you’re already running late.
You pulled the cushions off the sofa, rifling through papers on your desk, checked the bathroom counter then the kitchen counter, checked under the bed, and even the bin in your room.
You were panicking at this point, doing the breathing techniques again.
And then you see them on your pillow.
The keys are sitting perfectly in the center of your pillow, the “#1 Teacher” charm faces up, as if placed deliberately.
You stared at them, feeling your chest tightening at the sight of it.
Your brain started to rearrange itself, trying to build a sequence of things that you’ve done that would make sense. Did you put them there last night? Maybe you were exhausted? Maybe you dropped them and they landed there somehow?
No, no you didn’t.
You didn’t even go near the bed after hanging your bag. You remember that clearly, because you always remember small things like that.
You crossed the room, quickly grabbed the keys, and put them into your bag. You left the house faster than you meant to, locking the door with trembling hands.
You almost wanted to tell Hoseok during lunch. The words were waiting to be spoken at the back of your throat while he ranted about a parent who emailed him at 3 AM. You wanted to interrupt, wanted to say, “Something’s wrong with my apartment.”
But it sounded ridiculous in your head, so you kept it to yourself.
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Saturday night is when you really start to break.
You stayed in because you’re too tired to go out, and too lazy to cook anything heavy that requires more than boiling water because that would mean you’d have to cook downstairs. So you just ate instant noodles in your tiny living room, scrolled through your phone, and watched a YouTube video just to fill the silence.
Downstairs though, you could slightly hear Yoongi’s voice, Jimin’s laugh, and a door to what you imagine is Taehyung’s bedroom creaking shut. These voices from downstairs soothed you a little as it made you feel less alone.
Except you are not.
You washed your dishes, dried them, and stacked them neatly in the cupboard. Then you decided to shower, feeling the water running hot against your back, letting the steam fogging the mirror.
When you wiped it clean, for the briefest second, it looked like someone was standing behind you.
You blinked again to make sure you were seeing right, and you were. Nothing was there. You convinced yourself that you imagined it.
You tied your hair up, and laid on your bed with a movie playing on your TV. Halfway through the movie, you paused it for a snack.
You left your phone on the bed, walked six steps to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, grabbed a bag of chips, turned around….
And your phone is not on the bed anymore. It’s face down on the floor, by the window.
The bed is two full steps from that window. Your phone wasn’t near the edge. There’s no way it slid that far. You didn’t toss it and you sure as hell didn’t move it.
“Okay,” you said out loud, “nope, we are not doing this.”
You walked over, picked up the phone, and you whispered, “It’s probably gravity, it slipped off and bounced or something.”
You pressed play on the movie again, pretending to be busy. When the credits roll, you realize you haven’t heard a single word of dialogue in the past twenty minutes.
You were so terrified, you didn’t realize the movie in front of you was still playing.
You turned the TV off, climbed into bed, pulling the blanket to your chin, and just stared at the ceiling.
You tried to calm yourself down, again with the same breathing method. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
The rhythm of your breathing starts to soothe you to fall asleep, until you hear another breath.
Not yours.
Something, someone, exhaled their breath right beside your face.
Your pulse spikes so fast you feel dizzy.
Then it happens again. An inhale this time. A steady breath that matches yours perfectly, as if whoever it is is lying right next to you.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
Your mind scrambles for a logical reasoning behind this, the pipes, wind, anything. But it doesn’t sound mechanical, the breath sounds alive.
You turned your head slowly, terrified of what you’ll see.
But you saw nothing.
Just your pillow and the faint indentation where you lay your head.
But you noticed the shadows on the wall stretching like something trying to crawl closer. You sit up so fast your vision blurred for a second and your breath comes in short and shallow bursts.
“Okay,” you whispered, “I heard that. I definitely heard and saw that.”
You grabbed your phone, fingers trembling so badly you almost dropped it. You called the only person you can think of.
Namjoon answered on the second ring, “Hello?”
“Joonie,” you whispered.
“Why do you sound like you’re hiding in a closet?”
“I think my apartment might be haunted,” you muttered.
There was silence at the end of the line, before Namjoon finally answering, “Okay, say more.”
You told him about the mu, the keys, the phone, and the breathing that just happened. He listened to you so attentively that you can hear the rustle of his sheets as he sits up.
“Old houses make weird noises sometimes,” Namjoon said, trying to calm you down, “Or maybe you’ve been tired because of work?”
“I know what being tired feels like,” you cut him off, “this isn’t that.”
“Do you want to stay with me or Hoseok?”
You looked around at your studio, the books lined neatly on the shelf, the soft lamp glow, the plants, and the little life you’ve built here. You thought about your rent, your savings, and your commute, and how badly you wanted this place to work.
“No,” you whispered, “it’s fine, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but if anything moves, if your bed starts floating or if you see a Victorian child, I’m driving over and burning that place down.”
You laughed at his comment and said, “Deal,” before saying good night and hanging up.
You laid back down on your bed, closed your eyes, with your heart still pounding against your chest.
You seriously couldn’t tell if you’re just imagining it anymore.
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Jungkook watches you talk to a glowing piece of glass and wonders why humans always choose the wrong people to confide in.
That Namjoon guy who helped you move in clearly wants to be more than just friends, yet your stupid small brain doesn’t think otherwise. If you chose to go to his house, Hell knows what he would try to do.
Your voice trembled as you whispered into the phone, your fingers clutching the device like it could save you from the fear you felt.
Jungkook sits near the window, his wings half spread, as he listens to your phone call.
Humans talk to each other as if words can shield them from what haunts them, as if naming the fear makes the feeling shrink.
He leans forward, shadows bending around him.
“Old houses make weird noises sometimes,” your friend said. Jungkook tilted his head, and the corner of his mouth twitched after hearing that.
If only he knew.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
The next day, you woke up to your alarm blaring inches from your ear, the sound was loud enough to make your heart jump. Your hand reaches for your phone until the noise dies, and then you just lie there, flat on your back, and staring at the ceiling that feels a little too close today.
You sit up and remember you are going out today to meet a friend. The floorboards creak beneath you because you kept moving on your bed. But still, your shoulders tense.
You force yourself to stand up and get ready.
You move through it all like if you keep going fast enough you can outrun the thought clawing at the back of your skull.
After you showered, you poured coffee into your mug and set it on the counter.
You stare at the mug.
Ten seconds. Fifteen. And he mug doesn’t move.
“See?” you muttered to yourself, “totally fine.”
Once you finished your coffee, you grabbed your bag, keys, and jacket.
The air on the other side of the door feels lighter and somehow normal. You closed the door behind you and waited on top of the stairs for that creeping chill, that sense of being watched, but you couldn’t feel it.
“See?” you whispered again, forcing a small smile, “all normal.”
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
You got home just after five. You climbed the stairs slowly, your bag now felt heavier on your shoulder, the fear taking over every inch of you.
You unlocked the door and pushed it open.
And the world just stopped.
There’s someone in your room.
No, something.
It stood by the window, with wings so wide they nearly touched both walls. The feathers are deep and dark black. And those eyes, those eyes were of red and black, watching you like he’s been waiting.
You tried to move but you couldn’t. You couldn’t even breathe.
Your heart was pounding so hard against your ribs that it hurts. The air feels thick, like the whole room is underwater.
It shifts slightly, its head tilting, and wings flexing.
And the key in your hand fell to the floor.
Every instinct you have is screaming run.
But you couldn’t.
You just stood there frozen in the doorway, lowering your gaze slowly from him, to the floor.
For one second, you swore you heard him breathing. And that was it, your freeze or flight system finally chose flight as you slammed the door.
The noise echoed down the narrow staircase. Your feet barely hit each step before the next one, your hand sliding along the wall to keep yourself upright.
When you reach the bottom, your legs nearly give out. You gripped the railing until your knuckles go white, then push yourself toward the living room.
Taehyung’s voice drifts faintly from the kitchen, asking if everything was okay. He must have heard the door slamming hard behind you.
You sat on the couch, shaking so violently your teeth knocked together.
You bend forward, placing your elbows on your knees, and your hands still trembling as you press them against your mouth to keep you from making a sound.
Tears spilled before you even realised you were crying.
The image of it won’t leave your mind.
Taehyung’s footsteps rushed in from the kitchen, “Hey, hey, what happened?”
You couldn’t answer him. You swore you were going into a panic attack. You felt as if your lungs had forgotten how to breathe.
“There, there’s.. someone upstairs,” you said, your voice cracking as you couldn’t stop shaking.
For a moment, Taehyung just stared at you. On the way you’re shaking on the couch, your face drained of color, he thought to himself that this was not something you could fake. Not unless you were a horror movie actress.
“Upstairs?” he asked as his eyes flicked toward the staircase, then back to you, “you mean in your studio?”
You nodded.
He exhaled slowly, “Did you actually see someone?”
You nodded again.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
You pressed your fists against your knees, trying to stop your body from trembling, “You believe me.” It was more of a statement, you could tell by his face that he wasn’t so surprised.
Taehyung hesitated to answer at first, “You’re not the first one to say something like that.”
You stared at Taehyung, but his eyes flicked up towards the ceiling again, “But,” he continued, “you’re the first to say you saw someone.”
Taehyung looked at you again, “Do you want me to sleep downstairs with you tonight? Just in case?”
You shook your head quickly, wiping your face with your sleeve, “No, no, it’s okay. I’ll call Namjoon and Hoseok. Maybe they can stay with me tonight in the studio. If that’s okay with you.”
He nodded immediately, “Of course. Whatever makes you feel safer.”
You grabbed your phone with unsteady fingers, scrolling to their names.
When Hoseok answers, the moment he hears your trembling voice, he stops whatever he’s doing. And Namjoon was already on the call within a minute.
You told them everything that happened and they didn’t try to rationalize it with their brain, they just said, “We’re coming.”
By the time you hung up, you were finally more calm than you were before. Taehyung hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, but there’s something in his eyes, something like guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
You looked up, frowning, “You knew, didn’t you?”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I knew it was haunted. People said they heard noises and saw things move, but no one ever saw anything.”
Your stomach twisted into a knot, “So you rented it out anyway.”
His shoulders tense, “I didn’t think it would ever get this bad. Most people just left after a week, and said they felt watched. I thought,” he stopped himself for a few seconds before continuing, “I thought maybe it was over.”
You swallowed, “What did you think it was?”
He hesitated, glancing toward the ceiling again before answering, “Something that’s been here longer than me.”
You sat there, hands still trembling slightly, “What did you think I saw?”
He shook his head before saying, “Tell me what you saw.”
“It, or he, was tall and he had wings and red and black eyes. And it wasn’t just how he looked, it was how he felt. When I saw him, the air somehow felt alive, like it was pressing down on me from all angles.”
Taehyung’s expression falters, he looks genuinely as afraid as you, “I’m so so sorry,” he said again.
“It’s okay,” you gave him a little smile, though it isn’t because you feel cheated, you felt stupid for thinking this place was perfect.
“I’ll give you your full bond back,” he said, “even if you want to move out tonight.”
You shook your head, “I don’t know yet. I have to think about it. The place is so convenient, the commute, the price, and everyone here has been so kind.”
He nodded slowly, guilt still written across his face, “Whatever you decide, I’ll help you.”
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
When Hoseok and Namjoon finally arrived, Taehyung greeted them at the door, muttered something to them, then excused himself quietly, leaving the three of you alone.
The moment the door closed, Hoseok sat on the couch next to you, “Okay. Tell us everything, right now.”
So you did.
Hoseok kept rubbing his face like he’s trying to wake up from a dream. Namjoon listened in silence, his eyes darting occasionally toward the ceiling, like he half expected to hear something move.
By the time you finished, they decided to check upstairs together.
So the three of you climbed up the stairs together, Hoseok kept glancing back over his shoulder every few steps, as if expecting something to follow, while Namjoon walked ahead of you.
When you unlocked the door, the air hit all three of you at once.
“Jesus,” Hoseok muttered, rubbing his arms, “why is it so cold? Did you leave the window open?”
You shook your head. “No, I didn’t open it.”
Namjoon took a few steps inside, scanning the corners, “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said, “But the air up here feels different.” He moved closer to the window, then turned back to you, “You can feel it, right? It’s not just temperature.”
You sat down at the edge of your bed, hugging a pillow to your chest, “I was thinking, maybe I should just move out,” you said quietly.
Hoseok immediately looks relieved, “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all evening.”
But you shook your head before he could keep going, “No. But I mean, I don’t want to. Not yet. The commute is perfect, the rent’s cheap. And,” you glanced toward the door, “I can’t just run away because of this. The pros still outweigh the cons”
Namjoon studied you for a moment, then sat beside you, “Then what’s the plan?”
You took a deep breath, “I’ll call someone. A priest or a shaman ,or whoever deals with this kind of thing. Maybe it’s just the energy, maybe it can be cleansed.”
“Cleansed,” Hoseok repeated back at you, “Fine, but I’m not staying overnight again until it’s done.”
You nodded at him and gave him a small smile, though your hands now felt cold, “Then I’ll fix it,” you said, “somehow.”
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
Jungkook leaned against the wall, his wings folded tight behind him, as he watched you sit on the bed with your two male human companions. He could feel their fear of each and everyone of you.
You talked about moving out, cleansing, and calling priests. Jungkook chuckled the moment you mentioned priests..
He listened to your voice, you were somehow stubborn in a way that drew his attention.
He could see clearly that you were scared, but you were adamant to stay. You talked about fixing this, like the curse is some broken lock or leaking pipe.
You still didn’t understand what you have stepped into.
And for the first time in a very very long while, Jungkook felt amusement stir in his chest.
A sound slipped out of his mouth before Jungkook could stop it, a low chuckle, breaking the still and silent air.
The effect was instant.
Hoseok froze mid sentence, Namjoon’s head snapped toward the sound, while you went completely still.
Hoseok swallowed, “Tell me that was you,” he pointed to Namjoon.
Namjoon shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the corner where the sound came from, “No,” he said, “It wasn’t.”
You couldn’t see him, but Jungkook can see you perfectly, the way your pulse jumps in your throat, and your fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
Jungkook now so badly wanted to see how far you would go before leaving. ♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
Namjoon woke up sometime after three.
The house was so silent except for Hoseok’s quiet breathing on the floor just beside your bed. You were asleep next to Namjoon, with your face half buried in the pillow. He moved carefully, trying not to wake you up.
The floor felt cold under his feet as he crossed the small studio and headed to the bathroom. He left the door open as he did his business.
When he came out, wiping his hands on his shirt, he almost missed it, but the faint shift of weight in the air was impossible to ignore.
Then he saw him, or it.
A man, or something like one, sitting on the small sofa against the wall.
For a second, Namjoon thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then the shape moved. The faint light from the street outside catches the outline of wings.
The figure leaned forward slightly, placing his elbows on his knees. Namjoon freezes, he feels every muscle in his body locks.
Jungkook tilted his head, studying Namjoon the way a predator does, before opening his mouth to speak.
“Tell your girlfriend,” Jungkook said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, “not to be so scared of me.”
Namjoon’s throat tightened. He wants to speak, shout, and wake you and Hoseok up, but no sound comes out.
Jungkook stopped a few feet away from him, close enough that Namjoon could see the sharp curve of his horns, “Don’t be scared,” Jungkook said quietly.
Namjoon didn’t answer, he couldn’t.
And then it disappeared.
Namjoon stood frozen in place for a long time before moving again.
He didn’t dare look towards the corner, and he didn’t breathe until he’s back under the blanket beside you with his heart still pounding loudly against his chest.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
You woke up not remembering when you fell asleep. All you remembered was you laid on your bed with your eyes shut, listening to Hoseok snore softly from the mattress on the floor while Namjoon was still on his phone.
At some point, exhaustion must have knocked you out, because the next thing you know, the sunlight was shining through the white curtains and your alarm was vibrating weakly under your pillow.
Thankfully, even though it was a Monday, there was no school since it’s a holiday.
And you should feel relieved but you don’t.
Hoseok was the first to move. He groaned, stretched, and immediately made a face, “Why is it still freezing here? Seriously, this place has like emotional hypothermia.”
You let out a small laugh, though Namjoon didn’t, he just sat up slowly, and you noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
“Did you get to sleep?” you asked, poking his arm.
“I slept enough,” he responded.
Hoseok insisted on walking around the studio one last time, opening the bathroom door, checking the wardrobe, even peeking behind the curtains like something might jump out.
By 10 AM, they had to leave. Hoseok has a family lunch and Namjoon promised to help his sister with something. They both hesitated at the door, looking back at you like they’re waiting for you to say, “Actually, I’m coming with you.”
But you didn’t.
“I’ll call someone,” you told them, “A priest or something.”
“Call us if anything happens,” Namjoon said. While Hoseok pulls you into a tight hug and whispers, “If you see a Victorian child, jump out the window. I’ll catch you.”
You snorted, “You would die.”
“Worth it,” he muttered, then let you go.
You watched them disappear down the stairs, listened to their voices fade, and the front door shut.
You stood there for a minute, alone in the middle of your studio, and your arms wrapped around yourself.
“Okay,” you breathe, “let’s call the priest.”
You scrolled through your contacts, thumb hovering over a number you saved months ago for a school event: Father Gabriel (guest speaker for Religious Ed).
He visited your class once, sat in a tiny chair for six year olds, and patiently answered questions like “Do dogs go to heaven?” and “Does God like dinosaurs?”
The kids loved him, he was so gentle, patient, and kind.
You prayed he would also be good with whatever this is.
Your fingers shake as you hit the call. The line rang twice before a warm voice answered, “Hello? This is Father Gabriel.”
“Hi, um, Father? This is ____. I’m a teacher at Newton Primary. You came to speak to the first graders a few months ago?”
There was a pause, then followed by a soft chuckle, “Ah, yes. The dinosaur debate. I remember. How can I help you?”
You don’t know how to say I think there’s a demon living in my attic, so you responded with, “I moved into a new place,” you said slowly, “and I’ve been experiencing things and last night, I saw something. I was wondering if you could come by? Maybe bless the place or just check?”
His tone shifted, turning serious, “Are you alone right now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Can you step outside for a moment while we talk?”
You blinked, “Right now?”
“If you don’t mind,” he said gently, “just for a moment.”
You grabbed your keys and walked out with only your socks on. You stepped out, just right behind the fence with your phone still pressed to your ear.
“I can come by today,” Father Gabriel said, “I’m free in an hour. Text me the address.”
Relief rushes through you so fast, “Thank you. I, I really appreciate it.”
“Until I get there,” he added, “try not to engage with anything unusual. No talking to it, no provoking it, no challenging it. Just wait for me near the door, alright?”
You agreed quickly.
After you hang up, you text him the address, and then sit on the couch downstairs, near the doorway.
You scrolled aimlessly on your phone while you waited.
Twenty minutes later, you see Father Gabriel walking up the street, through the windows, he was wearing simple clothes, a dark shirt, black trousers, and a small silver cross at his neck. He carried a worn leather bag at his side, the strap cutting across his chest.
He’s smiling when he spots you through the window, but the closer he gets, the more that smile fades. His gaze drifted past you, up toward the second floor, the studio where you live.
Even from outside the fence, he’s staring at it like it’s staring back.
You stood up, and walked outside to greet him, “Father Gabriel. Thank you for coming.”
He tears his eyes away from the window and looks at you, “Of course.”
His gaze drifted back up, just for a second, and he frowned.
“You’re not,” he spoke slowly, “you’re not living in the attic, are you?”
Your stomach dropped, “I am.”
For a brief moment, something like unease flickers across his face, but it’s gone as quickly as you noticed it. He forced a smile when he said, “Alright. Let’s go have a look.”
You led him inside and at the top of the stairs, you unlocked the studio door and pushed it open.
Father Gabriel steps in behind you and freezes. His entire body goes still. His eyes sweep the room once, then again. His hand tightens around the strap of his bag.
You don’t feel anything different. It’s the same cold air, and the same feeling of being watched. But whatever he’s sensing, it’s more than that.
He then walks in, sets his bag on the table, pulls out a small metal container of water, and a rosary. He murmured something under his breath, while his hands moved around to bless the space.
You stood by the door, back pressed against it, watching everything happening in your room.
He started to pray in a language you don’t understand. You guessed that it probably was Latin.
He sprinkled more holy water on the bed, on the walls, the window, and on the floor.
Once, as he passed near the sofa, his step faltered just slightly. His head also tilted, as if someone brushed past him.
You didn’t hear anything or see anything, but his face said enough.
He finished with a final blessing, and when he was done, he gathered his things, and puts everything neatly back into his bag.
He still hasn’t said a word to you.
“Father?” you asked him quietly, “Is it done?”
His eyes flicked around the room one last time, “Let’s talk downstairs,” he said and that alone tells you everything you don’t want to know.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
In the kitchen, Father Gabriel set his bag on the table and exhaled. He looked more tired than he did when he came.
You pulled out a chair, “Do you want some water? Tea?”
He shook his head, “No, thank you.” He sits across from you, folding his hands on the table.
“Father,” you start, heart pounding against your chest, “is it gone?”
He looked at you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s deciding how honest he needs to be.
“My dear,” he said finally, “I don’t think it will work.”
“What do you mean it won’t work? You blessed it. You used holy water and prayed for it.”
“I did,” he replied gently, “and it will help with human spirits. But what’s in that room is not a ghost.”
“Then what is it?”
He hesitated, “Something stronger, and igger than any of us.”
You frowned, “What does that mean?”
He held your gaze for a few seconds, “It’s a demon.”
You stared at him. For a moment, the word doesn’t even make sense to you. Demon sounds like something from a movie or superstitions parents tell their children to not misbehave.
You let out a small laugh, “Okay, but isn’t that basically a ghost? Like an evil ghost?”
He shook his head, “No. A ghost is a human soul, someone who has died but remains attached to this world. They’re bound here by unfinished business, grief, trauma, or attachment. They are limited or small, in a sense. But what I felt up there is not small.”
You pressed your lips together, “So what is he, then?”
His eyes sharpen at your choice of word, he, but he lets it go, “He’s not just any demon,” Father Gabriel said, “he is from Kratos.”
You blinked, “Kratos?”
“Hell,” he clarified, “Not the version we know. It’s a more structured one with layers and order. Kratos is where the powerful ones live.”
A cold shiver crawls down your spine, “Okay, but aren’t all demons from hell?”
“Not like this,” he said, “There are lesser entities and they feed on scraps, they are closer to ghosts in a way. This is different.”
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice, “A demon from Kratos is, in spiritual hierarchy, something like the equivalent of an angel from Heaven,” he explained, “not in goodness, but in rank, power, and structure. They are not the restless dead, they were never human at all.”
The room felt smaller with every word he said.
“So he’s evil,” you re-stated.
“Demons from Kratos are aligned to destruction, corruption, lust, and feed off fear, that is their nature. But,” his brow furrowed, “that doesn’t mean every one of them comes here to claw out human throats. Most don’t care enough to bother.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, “So, he won’t hurt me?”
“I didn’t feel intent to harm in the usual way,” he said at last, “No malicious intent on you specifically. But his presence,” he shook his head, “his presence alone draws the worst fear out of you, that is its own kind of harm.”
“Then why is he here?” you whispered, “you said he’s from Kratos. Why would something like that be in an attic?”
He looked at the table for a moment before answering, “It seems he’s cursed.”
You stared at him in disbelief, “Cursed?” you repeated, “demons can be cursed?”
“Yes,” he said simply, “by those stronger than them or by laws older than them.”
Your head spins with all of this information, “Did you talk to him? Is that how you know all of this?”
His reaction was immediate, he shook his head, “No. I did not speak to him. I dare not speak to him.”
The way he framed his sentence sends a new kind of fear through you, “Then how do you know?”
He took a deep breath before answering, “When I stepped into your room, I asked for insight.”
“Insight from who?”
“An angel,” he replied.
You sit back in your chair, “Oh.”
You didn’t know what to do with that information.
There’s a demon upstairs and now there’s an angel involved and you’re just you. A tired primary school teacher who wanted a shorter commute.
“So the angel talked to him?” you asked, feeling ridiculous even as you said it.
He almost smiled at that, “Angels and demons do not usually talk to each other. Not peacefully, anyway.”
“Then how?”
“This one doesn’t need to,” he replied, “this angel can sense what happened in the past.”
“And what did he see?”
“Enough to know this demon is not here by his own choice,” Father Gabriel said, “He is anchored here, and the room you live in is not just a room to him, it’s a cage.”
You felt dizzy all of a sudden, hearing all of this on top of what he has already said, “So he’s locked here? With me,” you asked while pointing a finger to yourself.
He nodded, “You moved into a prison someone else built.”
Stupidly, what you asked next was, “So what do I do?”
“I would suggest moving out, my dear,” he said, “unless you wish to live in fear.”
Your throat tightened, “You just said he won’t harm me.”
“I said he doesn’t seem to be here to harm,” he corrected you, “not directly, but something like that changes you simply by existing. It will exhaust you. He is not like a ghost you can bargain with. Not a restless grandmother, a lost child, or a clingy spirit looking for closure. He is from Kratos. Whatever curse holds him here is older and heavier than anything my blessing can touch.”
“There’s really nothing you can do?”
He said nothing, other than nodding a few times.
“So you’re saying,” you summarized, “that there is a demon from actual hell in my studio and nobody can do anything.”
“For now,” he said.
The for now isn’t comforting, “So my options are: stay and be terrified, or move and be broke.”
He doesn’t try to sugarcoat it as he responded with, “Yes.”
You let out a sarcastic laugh, “Great.”
He hesitated, then reached across the table, resting his hand on your forearm, “He will not drag you to hell,” Father Gabriel said, “he will not possess you, break your bones or claw at your throat. If that were his intent, I would not be sitting here so calmly. Believe it or not, but living that close to something like him will test you. Fear is a powerful tool. It wears you down, makes you feel small, and makes you doubt your own mind.”
You’re already halfway there, you thought to yourself.
“So what would you do?” you asked.
“Again, as a priest,” he continued, “I’ll tell you to leave.”
“And as a friend?”
He hesitated, “As a friend, I’ll tell you the same. But I also know money, work, and life don’t bend around so easily.”
“I really like it here,” you admitted, “the commute, rent, and the people in this house. I finally felt like I wasn’t drowning.”
He nodded slowly, “Then think on it,” he said, “don’t decide today. But until you do, be careful. Don’t taunt him. Don’t invite him. Don’t ask for favors. Don’t speak his name, even if you somehow learn it. Just live as quietly as you can.”
“Can I talk to him at all?” you blurted out, then immediately regret asking.
His answer was instant, “I would strongly advise you not to.”
You nodded.
He stood up, picking up his bag. At the doorway, he turned to look at you, “If anything changes, if you feel him grow stronger, or closer, or different, call me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”
You nodded again.
He stepped outside, then turned back one last time, “And one more thing,” he added.
“Yes?”
“He may not care about humans,” Father Gabriel said, gaze lifting briefly to the second floor window, “but demons from Kratos don’t end up cursed on Earth for no reason.”
“What does that mean?” you frowned.
“It means,” he said quietly, “someone with power wanted him out of the way, and things like that rarely stay simple.”
Then he leaves with the fence clicking shut behind him.
You stood in the doorway, you can’t see him from here, but you can feel him.
And now you know what he is.
♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡
Jungkook was sitting on the arm of the sofa, one wing half spread, and eyes fixed on the door you just closed.
He sensed the priest long before you saw him. Jungkook is able to sense energy of almost everything in this town, so a priest coming his way wasn’t hard to detect.
Jungkook clicked his tongue, “Of course,” he muttered, “you called in help.”
He moved closer to the window, and when the priest reached the fence, the man looked up straight at where Jungkook was and froze.
Jungkook’s lips twitched. The priest saw him, at least an outline of him.
The priest stepped inside.
The temperature drops further, because now the room is holding two opposite things at once; a bound demon from Kratos, and a man radiating borrowed holiness.
Father Gabriel takes three steps in, his gaze sweeps the room once, then locks on the side of Jungkook’s face, where the energy feels to be the thickest.
He didn’t see Jungkook, but something else did.
The moment the priest called for insight, light entered. A light that made both the curse and Jungkook’s skin react at the same time.
An angel entered the studio.
Jophiel, to be precise.
Jungkook hasn’t seen him in a long time, a gap of time he doesn’t bother counting.
Time in Kratos and time on Earth never match.
The angel looked around once, eyes narrowing at the density of the curse, then his gaze landed on Jungkook. His expression then changed.
“It’s Jeon Jungkook,” Jophiel murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, “I never thought I’d see you here.”
Jungkook’s jaw tightened, “Not my first choice either.”
Jophiel’s attention flicked downward, toward the priest, who’s completely oblivious to the being standing right next to him, then back to Jungkook, “He wants insight.”
“I figured,” Jungkook replied, “What did you expect him to ask for? Lottery numbers?”
Jophiel’s mouth twitched, “He can’t see me. But he can feel your Kratos imprint. That’s pretty rare for someone like him.”
The angel walked, if you can even call it that, to the middle of the room. His feet touched nothing, but his presence touched everything.
“So,” Jophiel studied Jungkook openly, “What did you do?”
Jungkook’s eyes hardened, “You’re the one with ‘insight.’ Read it yourself.”
The angel doesn’t snap back or react, he just stared at Jungkook.
Jungkook can feel him pulling at the threads of the past and present.
A few seconds pass, or minutes. It’s really hard to tell.
Jophiel got what he wanted, letting out an “Ah.”
His eyes flicked briefly toward a spot on Jungkook’s chest, right where Seokjin’s last mark burned into him, “Your brother.”
Jungkook didn’t respond but his hands curled into fists.
“Kratos politics again,” Jophiel murmured, “Always so dramatic, you could have refused to meet him, you know.”
“I didn’t know he was doing it until it was done,” Jungkook replied flatly, “next time I’ll ask him to send a formal invitation.”
A small, surprised laugh escapes Jophiel, “You’re calmer than I expected.”
“That’s because if I stop being calm,” Jungkook replied, “I will start breaking things and your little priest doesn’t have the ability to survive that.”
“You’ve been here a long time,” Jophiel stated. He could see the years Jungkook has spent here. The tenants who came and fled and the patterns of fear.
Every human who ever stepped into the attic left an imprint.
“Long enough,” Jungkook muttered.
Jophiel tilted his head, studying him with an expression Jungkook isn’t used to seeing from angels directed at Demons. It was an expression of curiosity, “You’re not trying to possess him.”
“No.”
“You’re not trying to possess her either.”
Jungkook’s stare sharpened, “No.”
For a moment, neither of them speak. The priest continued praying, unaware that the room is hosting a conversation between entities that could tear him apart in just a second.
“You feel different, Jeon,” Jophiel said, still looking at the demon from North Kratos.
Jungkook snorted, “You feel exactly the same, still so self-righteous.”
“It isn’t just that,” Jophiel continued, ignoring the jab thrown at him, “most Kratos demons I’ve seen on assignment,”
“Assignment,” Jungkook interrupted, rolling his eyes at the choice of words.
“Come down to earth like a storm, trying to take as much as they can. But,” Jophiel continued, “you, you haunt like a human ghost.”
“Are you paying that much attention to my techniques?” Jungkook dryly replied, “should I be charging you money?”
“That priest is right to be afraid of what you are,” Jophiel said, ignoring him again, “but if I only looked at what you’re doing now,” he gave a faint chuckle, “You might as well be an angel.”
Jungkook stiffened,. “Don’t insult me.”
“It’s not meant as an insult,” Jophiel replied, “It’s confusing. You were feared in Kratos. You fed off the entire legions’ terror on the battlefield, and now you’re nudging mugs to pass time.”
Rage flashed behind Jungkook’s eyes, “You think this is my choice?”
“Nope,” Jophiel said calmly, “I think it’s your punishment.”
“And you can’t undo it,” Jungkook said, “so why are you here?”
“Because he asked, remember?” Jophiel nods toward the priest, “And because Heaven would want to know if a Kratos demon is anchored this hard on Earth.”
Jungkook’s jaw clenched, “Tell your boss I’m not here to recruit. I’m here because my brother is a coward and a potential king who doesn’t like his feared-by-many little brother who never even asked for the crown.”
“You know how rare that makes you?” Jophiel asked quietly, “Most of your kind would kill for a chance to rule North of Kratos, you were about to be handed it for free.”
“Nothing in Kratos is ‘for free,’” Jungkook snapped.
“The current tenant is not like the others,” Jophiel said, ignoring Jungkook trying to pick a fight again, and instead started a new topic entirely.
“No,” Jungkook admitted, “she’s slower to break.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Jophiel asked, “breaking her?”
“I’m not doing anything to her,” Jungkook growled, “the curse is.”
Jophiel studied him, and when he finally spoke again, he said it flatly, “The priest will ask me what is here and what you are. I’ll answer and I won’t lie.”
“I don’t care what you tell him,” Jungkook muttered, “he can’t do anything.”
“You’re right,” Jophiel agreed, “he can’t.”
Something bitter twisted in Jungkook’s chest at the confirmation. He wasn’t surprised, it was just the sting of being reminded he is truly, thoroughly stuck.
“Then get out,” Jungkook said, “you’ve seen enough.”
Jophiel hesitated, just for a second, “Jeon.”
Jungkook looked up at the angel in front of him, “What?”
“You can tell this doesn’t end with her leaving,” the angel said, “mortals are just variables, but the curse isn’t.”
“I know.”
“And you know Heaven won’t intervene,” Jophiel added, and there’s something almost apologetic there, “This is Kratos business.”
“Then why are you wasting both our time?” Jungkook snaps.
“But if something happens to a human,” Jophiel continued, “Heaven will intervene.”
“You and your obsession with weak humans,” Jungkook spat out.
Jophiel’s gaze softened, “And yet you’re still not tearing her apart,” he smiled at Jungkook, “You’re interesting.”
“Get out,” Jungkook ordered.
The angel nodded his head once, acknowledging the dismissal. At the last moment, before the light transports him back to Heaven, Jophiel looked back.
“You know she asked what you are,” Jophiel said, “and you’ll hear the answer.”
“I already know what I am,” Jungkook muttered.
“It’s not you I was talking about,” Jophiel responded before finally disappearing.
Then Jungkook was alone again.
And for the first time in a very very long time, he wonders if this curse, Seokjin’s petty and calculated cruelty, might finally have met a variable it didn’t plan for.
