Another day descended on Jungkook, a familiar weight pressing down on him. Each sunrise felt like a dull ache in the life of Jeon Jungkook. He shivered, hunger gnawing at his stomach. Three days since a warm meal, his coat threadbare against the encroaching chill. Winter loomed, a threat he knew all too well. He’d miscalculated his timing, pushing too far north, now scrambling to outrun the cold.
Those on the streets understood: the cold wasn's merely discomfort; it was a creeping, bone-deep agony, a pressure in the skull that threatened to split it open. There was no reprieve, only endurance or surrender. It was a simple equation.
He hadn’t chosen this life; it had been thrust upon him. Five years ago, he’d faced a choice: five years of brutal beatings as a punching bag, or the streets until his eighteenth birthday, searching for honest work. But honest work proved elusive.
Odd jobs surfaced sporadically, but they never lasted. He lacked clean water, decent clothes. The moment anyone saw his condition, pity turned to scorn, sometimes to outright violence. Once, a woman in fur and heels had swatted at him with her handbag, as if he were an insect.
Humiliation was a constant companion. He didn’t ask for this life, and he had no one to appeal to. He craved warmth, but first, he needed food. He was starving. He’d resorted to petty theft, a practice he despised, but desperation offered no alternatives.
He saw a woman exiting a building, heading for a cigarette break. Carelessly, she’d left her bag on a dumpster. He seized the opportunity, snatching it and running for his life. She screamed, and two coworkers gave chase. He reached a fire escape clinging to a tall building, scrambling up three steps at a time.
His breath came in ragged gasps. He glanced back, suspecting they’d given up, or simply lacked the stamina to continue. Reaching a steady rhythm, he noticed a faint light emanating from the center of the building's floor. He moved towards it and peered inside.
It was a skylight of clear fluorescent glass. He pulled out a pocket knife hidden within the folds of his worn clothes and pried it open. It yielded easily. He waited, listening for an alarm, but none sounded. Safe. The opening was large enough to lower himself through, falling into a spacious, dark hallway.
The building was immaculate. He hesitated to touch anything, fearing he'd stain it with the grime that clung to him. He found the apartment empty, furnished with beautiful, simple elegance—a life he could only dream of affording.
He quietly closed the door to the master bedroom, not wanting to dirty it. Not that anyone was here to notice. Still, he felt like an intruder. He walked downstairs and discovered a bathroom and guestroom. He stepped into the shower, letting the water cascade over his aching limbs, washing away layers of filth. It was medicine for his wounds, both physical and mental.
He brushed his teeth for the first time in months, using vanilla-scented body wash. He found a razor pack and cleaned his face, revealing the features hidden beneath layers of hair after what felt like years. Toweling off, he returned to the bag he'd stolen.
A substantial amount of cash, enough to last for weeks. He disregarded the credit cards. A handsome watch he could pawn for a few dollars. Family photos, a cell phone. He’d seen these before. He opened the phone, removing the SIM card and crushing it between his teeth. He reassembled the phone. It could be sold. Two candy bars. He devoured them hungrily.
He was pleased with his haul, but his heart sank thinking of the woman whose purse he'd stolen. The trouble she’d face replacing her credit cards and driver’s license. He cursed his existence, but he couldn’t change it.
He walked to the living room and collapsed onto the plush rug in the center. It was soft, comfortable—a luxury he’d long forgotten. He slept, as much as his growling stomach would allow.
The next day, he stuffed his dirty clothes into a trash bag and donned a pair of clean workmen’s overalls he’d found in a janitor’s closet. Boots, a parka—left behind by a worker, forgotten. He thanked his luck for the clean clothes.
He tidied up the apartment, ensuring it looked untouched. He carried the trash bag containing his old clothes and the stolen purse and walked out the door. He looked like a workman leaving for the day. No one questioned him.
He walked into the new day, discarding the bag in a nearby alley. He found a corner café and settled in.
He ordered two breakfast specials and bottomless coffee, wondering when he’d have another opportunity like this—to sit in a decent place, enjoying a meal like a normal human being, not treated like a leper.
He grabbed a discarded newspaper from another table and scanned the job listings. With his new clothes and clean exterior, he might finally land a decent job. He circled a few choices and headed toward the first one, his belly full, his heart filled with a fragile hope.
Maybe it would last. Maybe it wouldn’t. Life had never worked out for him. But maybe, just maybe, it would one day.