The alarm went off at 5:30 AM sharp. Not a second early. Not a second late. Jungkook didn't groan. Didn't snooze. He just opened his eyes—cold, flat, unreadable—and stared at the ceiling for exactly six seconds before sitting up. The room was dim, clean, sterile. No clutter. No clothes tossed over chairs. No mess. You had folded the laundry last night, probably humming while you did it, thinking he noticed. He didn't. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, soles hitting the floor like it was a ritual. Then: push-ups. Thirty. No noise, just breath. A cold shower next. Long. No steam. No comfort. Just skin, water, and that familiar tightening in his chest he'd never call anxiety. He shaved in silence. No music. No news. Just his reflection—and the thoughts he'd been rehearsing for weeks. He opened his closet. Neat rows of suits—charcoal, navy, two black. He chose navy. Not because he felt like it. Because it felt appropriate. Cold, distant. But not cruel. Jungkook didn't believe in cruelty. Not openly. Just... detachment. The tie came next. Grey silk. Knotted perfectly on the first try. He adjusted it once, then again. As he adjusted the knot on his tie— his fingers paused. He saw her. Not this version of her—tight-smiled, tired-eyed, too quiet. But her, years ago. Back when their mornings meant something. You laughing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, barefoot, stirring coffee with one hand while dancing to some awful pop song she loved- Baby (Justin Bieber). The way she used to wrap her arms around him from behind while he shaved, resting her cheek against his back like he was home. Her voice in the early hours: “You always look so serious. Relax. I love you.” He had. He had loved her. Not the shallow kind of love. No. It was deep. Comfortable. Real. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, now clouded with steam from the hot water he hadn't used. The sound of the clock ticking filled the silent bathroom, each second marking another step away from who he used to be.