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Summary
Jungkook had once been a man made of quiet brilliance, the kind whose mind glowed even in rooms without light. But that brilliance splintered the night his husband was found dead, labeled a failed burglary, though nothing was taken, nothing broken, nothing fitting the story. The world buried the case. Jungkook refused to.
Consumed by a devotion sharp enough to wound, he crafted an answer with his own hands. In the solitude of his workshop, metal learned the shape of bone, circuits learned the rhythm of breath, and memory—his memory—became a blueprint. He rebuilt the face he missed more than truth itself, sculpting an echo that was too tender, too precise, too impossible.
“If the world won’t tell me what happened,” he murmured to the unfinished form, “I’ll resurrect the one who can.”
Autonomy was meant to be a feature.
It became a fault line.When the creation opened its eyes, they were not empty. They were searching. Haunted. Almost accusing. Its voice carried a tremor no machine should possess, as if speaking from a place halfway between life and something else.
“Jungkook… why did you erase the blood before anyone arrived?”