Chapter 1
Please read the description before reading the book
Jungkook’s POV
As soon as I stepped out of the airport, the cool Korean evening air hit my face, and I took a long, deep breath — a breath of peace, of home. God, how I’d longed for this.
I had missed everything: the scent of the streets after rain, the chatter of the people, the neon signs, the warmth of family, and above all… my bike rides. Back in the States, my father had strictly forbidden me from riding. He knew how wild I got, how easily I lost myself on the open roads, chasing the wind — and he feared I’d abandon my studies for the thrill. But now, here I was, finally back in Korea. I swear, I was going to ride like a maniac again. Could you blame me? My father himself was wild in his twenties — I’m just his son, after all.
I grabbed a taxi to my house, gazing out the window as the familiar streets passed by. So much had changed The city lights blurred past the window: sleek high-rises I’d never seen before, bustling pedestrian crossings, rain-slick pavement reflecting neon signs. The changes were countless, yet…the soul of Seoul…that thankfully, was still here. I remembered how the streets smelled after rain, that mix of cool asphalt, warm street food vendors. My chest ached with longing for these sensory bookmarks of my childhood. My heart pounded faster as we neared home
“Here we are,” the taxi driver said, pulling to a stop in front of our house. My house. I paid and stepped out, taking my bags out with me.
The moment I stepped out of the taxi, my mother came rushing toward me, arms wide, tears shining in her eyes. She threw her arms around me so tightly I let out a small laugh.
“Slow down, Mama! You could've fallen,” I chuckled, hugging her back tightly.
She pulled away, swatting my arm playfully. “How can you tell me to slow down? Do you even know how much I missed you these five years?”
I rubbed my arm dramatically, pretending she’d hit me hard. Before I could answer, I heard a familiar voice — sharp, sarcastic.
“Yeah, yeah, give all your love to this dumbo!” My sister stood there with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes. My sister leaned against the front door, hijab neatly pinned, arms crossed in mock disdain. “Mama’s been cooking your favorite dishes since morning. Ugh, so annoying!”
I laughed listening to her stupid complaints, shaking my head Walking past her, I patted her head teasingly. “oh yeah ..That’s because you’re adopted, didn’t Eomma tell you yet? Poor thing. And you don't talk to your elders like that”
She let out a sharp gasp, jerking my hand away and adjusting her hijab. “You’re just four years older than me, oldie!” she shot back under her breath.
“You little—!” I lunged, side-hugging her tightly knowing very well that she hates hugs from me. She squirmed and tried to wiggle free, whining. I tightened my grip on her.
“Eomma! Tell your son to stay away from me!”
My mother couldn't help but laughed. “He just arrived and you two are already fighting? You’re impossible!”
I laughed too, looking at my sister’s annoyed — but secretly amused — expression. “You’re so annoying. Just stay away from me.”
“Eomma, where’s Appa?” I asked, still holding onto my squirming sister. “I want to see him.”
“He went to pray Maghrib. He should be back soon, do you really want stand here and talk? Let's go inside, you must be tired” she said, gently taking one of my bags. I quickly took it back.
“I can carry them, Mama. These muscles aren’t just for show,” I grinned, flexing a little dramatically as I carried all three bags inside.
My sister scoffed, “Don’t act all tough. You were literally whining to come back home. All you are is annoying.”
My mom chuckled softly. “Says the one who missed him like crazy, Jungkook.”
“Mom! You weren’t supposed to tell him that! He will tease me forever now!” my sister whined, pouting.
I chuckled while putting the bags down and I plopped onto the couch. “Obviously, that’s what I’m here for — to tease you. You should pray two rakats of shukrana every day for having such a good brother!”
“Enough—both of you,” my mother said firmly, her voice slicing through the playful argument between me and my sister like a blade through silk. Her brows were furrowed in tired resolve. “You two can go on fighting later. Jungkook, go get freshened up. I’ll set the table.”
She turned toward the kitchen, apron already in hand, but I stepped forward, gently halting her. “Eomma, not right now. I want to pray Maghrib first… then I’ll eat.”
She turned back slowly, her concern already written in the soft lines of her face. “Jungkook, you must be hungry,” she said. “You can pray a little later. Maghrib lasts until Isha but in rare cases, and there’s still time. Just eat something, then pray. Please.”
I could hear the worry in her voice, the maternal instinct that always pushed her to put my health above everything else. She turned again, but paused—like she already knew I would resist.
“Come on, Jungkook,” she said gently. “You know Allah is Al-Rahman, Al-Raheem. He’s the Most Merciful. He doesn’t want His servant to starve. You need to take care of yourself. Anas bin Malik reported: The Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him) said, ‘When the supper is brought before you and it is also time for prayer, take your food first. Do not hasten to prayer, leaving aside the food.’ [book 4, number 1135]”
She quoted the hadith so smoothly, so effortlessly, I knew she had held that one close for a moment like this.
I sighed, caught between the unshakable reverence I had for my Lord and the deep-rooted love I had for my mother. I knew she was right, i also know how much stubborn my mother is when it comes to my health. I knew Allah commanded us to care for our bodies, to listen to our parents. Still… every breath I took, every beat of my heart—I had always offered it first to my Rabb. I just can't bring myself to pray late, for me my Allah comes first , even before myself.
“Okay, okay,” I said, giving in with a small, tired smile. “I’ll just pray the three rakats of fard first. Happy?”
She looked at me, clearly still conflicted. “But Jungkoo—”
“Please, Mom,” I interrupted softly, with a tinge of weariness. “I don’t like being late for my prayers.” spending time with Allah is my most favourite thing to do, it brings me a type of peace which I can't find anywhere but near Allah
She didn’t argue further. She knew me too well.
“My room looks the same" I muttered, Upstairs, my room hadn’t changed at all. Everything was exactly as I left it—my bed, neatly made. My prayer rug lay rolled at the foot of the bed. On the desk, a framed photo of my old racing crew: high school friends who had taught me everything about speed, control, risk. my books, even the photo on the wall of my old racing crew. The silence was warm, familiar.
I made wudu and prayed Maghrib in the calm dimness of my room. I’ve always found peace in low light, a strange sort of comfort that wraps around you like a blanket of stillness. Maybe that’s why I’ve always liked the dark—it doesn’t demand anything from you.
Just as I whispered my final salam, a soft knock broke the silence.
"Come in", i called.
“Appa!” I said, turning to see my father standing in the doorway. I got up, threw my arms around him, and gave him the tightest hug I’d given in years.
“I missed you so much,” I said, smiling into his shoulder. “How are you?”
“I’m good, alhamdulillah,” he replied with a hand on my back, the way he always did when he wanted to show pride without saying a word. “Come, let’s eat. You must be tired.”
---
Downstairs, the table was set with precision: bulgogi, japchae, spicy tofu, perfectly seasoned bap—eomma never forgot my favorites.
the dining table was full of warmth—my mother, my sister, laughter, and home-cooked food that smelled like nostalgia. We ate together like we hadn’t missed a single day, though I had been gone for years. It felt like real happiness—simple, complete, and quietly perfect.
After dinner, I told my mom I was tired and went back up. I prayed the sunnah and remaining rakats of magrib, After completing my prayer, i sat cross-legged on my prayer mat and opened the Qur’an, letting my finger trace the verses, reading in a hush.
Time slipped away.
I didn’t notice when it was past 9 p.m., nor when my father’s quiet footsteps came through the hallway. He knocked on the door.
“Ready?” he asked.
I closed the Qur’an softly.
“For the prayer?”
He nodded. I put the Qur'an on the table and followed him downstairs .
At the masjid, the night prayer was intermingled with whispered dhikar
Walking home, the moon riding high, I kept pace with Appa. For a while, we were silent—just two souls comfortable in their bond. The night breeze was cool and the streets familiar. As we walked back home in silence, a question pressed itself onto my lips.
“Appa…” I looked at him. “Now that I’m back… can I ride again?”
He stopped. I saw the battle in his eyes—concern versus pride, fear versus faith.
“I can’t stop you anymore, can I?” he sighed. “Yes, you can. But ride carefully. Don’t stay out too late.”
I grinned. “I promise!”
I grabbed my keys and ran out, heart pounding with excitement. At the racing grounds, my friends were already there
That night, adrenaline replaced the sleepiness in my veins. I grabbed my bike keys and raced out of the house, heart pounding with a thrill I hadn’t felt in five years.
The racing grounds hadn’t changed much—still the same roaring engines, the scattered lights, the laughter and rivalry. My friends were already there.
“Dude, it’s been forever,” Joe said, pulling me into a one-armed hug. “You still got it?”
“I came here to chill, not to race,” I said, chuckling. “You should enter,” Joe nudged me. “See where you stand now.”
Minho added, frowning, “There’s this one person who’s been dominating every race this past year. We don’t even know their gender — they just show up, win, and vanish. Nobody knows who they are. And we hate them for it.”
“Yeah,” Joe added. “They ride like you did… back then.”
Something about his irritation sparked my competitive side.
“Fine,” I smirked. “I’ll join. Let’s see if this newbie can keep up with me.”
I geared up, mounted my bike, revved the engine — the familiar roar filling my veins with adrenaline. At the starting line, I glanced left. The mysterious rider was there, Dressed in all black, face hidden behind a sleek helmet, posture confident, still. No way to tell if it was a man or a woman, but something about their presence made me alert. They didn’t look at me. Just kept their eyes on the track.
Bang!
The gunshot cracked through the air.
I surged forward, engine roaring like a beast, leaving most riders in the dust,I sped forward like a bullet, tearing through the track. One by one, riders fell behind — all except one.
They were beside me.
And then—they overtook me.
I blinked in disbelief.
No one had ever overtaken me before.
They lifted two fingers in a casual wave, like a taunt, and sped ahead.
Mocking me.
Mocking me?
That simple gesture set my blood on fire.
No one, and I mean no one, makes a joke of me on the track. I ride like it’s war—and tonight was no different. I pushed my bike to the limit, roaring down the curve, closing the distance again.
The finish line was in sight.
They were just ahead.
I leaned forward, heart thundering in sync with the engine.
But then—like lightning—they flew past it.
They won.
And just like that, without a word, they kept going. Disappeared into the night without celebration, without acknowledgment.
I rolled to a stop at the finish line, chest heaving, hands trembling, heart full of rage—and curiosity.
I sat there at the finish line, heart pounding, helmet still on, staring after them, a storm of confusion and fury swirling inside me.
Who was that? And how did they beat me?
For the first time in years, someone had knocked me off my throne.
