"Pay attention. Things are not what they seem. It's been centuries since the Cataclysm, what secrets do you think the monarchy is hiding? In their vaults and their treasure rooms? In plain sight? We all know the narrative, we've heard it a thousand times. The Marked destroyed the world. But who made the Marked?

Pay attention."

- Encrypted message from Ghost, an underground hacker

_ _

Jimin thought, when he first stepped into Seokjin's apartment in Sector 1, that it was the height of wealth and luxury: real wood; a fully stocked fridge; Old World books and art carefully preserved; soft beds that feel like lying down on a cloud; jewelry made of actual gold. Now, though, he sees that he was painfully naive. The woman whose party they're attending resides in the penthouse of a towering skyscraper—an entire floor to herself that could easily fit five of Seokjin's apartment inside. The elevator is operated by a man in a crisp tuxedo with white gloves on his hands, like something out of a book, and the wallpaper inside of it glints with gold lining.

"By Sector 1 standards you're poor, aren't you?" Jimin says as he watches the floors tick by.

Teasing Seokjin is easier than dwelling on the fresh seals and tattoos on his arms, or how strange his silver hair and makeup looks in the polished reflection of the elevator doors. The black fabric of his shirt is so sheer that he feels as though he's naked and he has to resist the urge to put his arms around himself for protection. The collar around his neck and the leash attached to it are a heavy weight, though he knows that's all in his head.

"Practically living in poverty," Seokjin replies, adjusting his tie. The floral pattern on his suit is outlined in glimmering silver and he dyed his hair a soft pink yesterday. The combination, along with his flawless skin, makes him seem ethereal, but Jimin can see glimpses of nervousness underneath the placid mask.

They're almost to the top floor.

"Remember," Seokjin says, "keep your head down and follow my lead. This is an old classmate of mine with connections to the royal family. She ... likes pretty things. She owns three companions of her own—they should all be here tonight."

"I remember," Jimin murmurs.

"I won't let anything happen," Seokjin says right before the doors open, cutting off Jimin's chance to reply.

More uniformed butlers are waiting to greet them with twin bows and a glass of complimentary champagne for Seokjin. Jimin ignores them in favor of surreptitiously observing his surroundings. The main room of the apartment is an open floor plan and decorated with small islands of furniture amidst oceans of empty black tile. The far wall is all windows, boasting a truly stunning view of the city—all the way to the hills of Sector 10 and the distant walls that keep out the ruined outside world. Like the elevator, the wallpaper here is lined with gold and silver glints in the tiles beneath Jimin's feet.

The room is already almost full—guests clustered together in colorful groups. All the women seem to be wearing floor-length dresses of various hues while the men favor tuxedos and suits adorned with intricate patterns, similar to Seokjin's. Several heads turn when they step further into the room and Jimin spots several people lean close to whisper in each other's ears. Like he warned, Seokjn's reputation precedes him.

Jimin reminds himself to keep his gaze respectfully lowered and goes back to his observations. The kitchen is probably through those double doors where a stream of penguin waiters are coming and going, carrying trays of fancy food. Butlers stand at all the other doors, most likely to subtly keep guests from wandering too far. A live band plays soft music in a corner, situated between two towering fake ferns. Overhead, chandeliers made of thousands of crystals bathe the whole space in ambient light.

It would be stunning, honestly, if not for all the other people he can see wearing leashes. One is even on all fours next to his master's chair, like a fucking dog. Jimin wants a knife, a gun, a match—anything.

"Steady," Seokjin whispers to him, squeezing his wrist. "We need to find Namjoon."

They agreed to attend this party together, as so many important people will be here. Apparently, Seokjin only got an invitation because the host, Kang Sohyun, wasn't just a classmate, but an ex-girlfriend.

(We parted on good terms, he said in the car, but didn't look completely sure of that.)

Fortunately, Namjoon's height makes him relatively easy to pick out in a crowd and Jimin quickly spots him hovering near the windows, a glass of champagne in his hand. He's chatting with a short, red-haired man gripping the leash of a male companion that seems even younger than Jungkook in his bony fingers. It takes Jimin a moment to recognize Yoongi next to Namjoon. His black hair has been artfully curled at the ends and his face painted in makeup similar to Jimin's—dark shadow, white power to increase the paleness of his skin, and pink on his lips. He looks like a delicate doll with his glittery jewelry and the silky collar tied tight around his neck.

Jimin forces himself not to react as Seokjin stops and hovers nearby, pretending to admire a massive painting on the wall. It just looks like a weird jumble of colors to Jimin, but Seokjin feigns intense appreciation remarkably well.

"...well let me know if you change your mind," the short man is saying. "They'd make for a lovely show, if you ask me. My boy's good with his mouth and I hear yours is too."

"I'll think about it," Namjoon says with stiff disinterest, barely meeting the man's eyes. Clearly this isn't someone important enough for them to bother with.

Fortunately, the man takes the hint and drifts away, dragging his poor companion along behind him and leaving enough space for Seokjin and Jimin to quietly start a little huddle. Jimin focuses on Yoongi instead of Namjoon, checking him over. They've been at the party longer, which means more opportunity for ... his eyes stop on Yoongi's slightly swollen lips and he has to swallow back rage that burns like lava in his throat.

"The hostess is taking her pick of companions," Namjoon says softly, sounding tired. "She's going to ask for Jimin, if you're not careful."

"I'm always careful," Seokjin answers back, scanning the crowd. "Any other important people we should be aware of?"

"Half the inner circle seems to be here," Namjoon says, adjusting his grip on Yoongi's leash. He's leaning slightly into Yoongi's space—like he wants to touch Yoongi but isn't sure what he's allowed. "And getting drunker by the minute. I saw two members of the king's court, besides our gracious host."

"Excellent. Take care of yourselves." Seokjin's gaze lingers on Yoongi before returning to Namjoon. "We'll go announce ourselves to Sohyun-nim."

Jimin shifts forward, unable to help himself, and touches Yoongi's shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is as sheer as Jimin's, and his skin is warm through the thin layer. His lips twitch, an approximation of a smile, a silent I'm fine, look after yourself, and then he's looking away again. Seokjin clears his throat softly and as frustrating as he is, Jimin's glad that he doesn't tug on the leash as he turns back toward the crowd, leaving Namjoon and Yoongi behind.

Kang Sohyun is holding court near the center of the massive room—her gold dress sparkling like a beacon in the midst of a black sea, gathering ships to her orbit. She's beautiful, Jimin can admit. Her dyed blond hair nearly matches her dress, and rubies glitter in her headpiece, woven through her updo. Everything about her seems golden, right down to her nails and eyeshadow. She's petite, only coming up to Jimin's shoulder, even in her heels, but her presence towers and her smile is as sharp as cut glass.

"Kim Seokjin," she says, sounding delighted. "You actually came."

"Of course," Seokjin replies, his high society mask in place. He bows at the waist and Jimin mirrors him. "I would never pass up the chance to see an old friend."

"Is that what we're calling me these days?"

"It sounds better than ex, don't you think?"

Sohyun laughs, and that's sharp too. "Ah, you haven't changed a bit. Though I never took you for the ruthless type." Her gaze finally strays to Jimin and he suddenly feels like a bug pinned to the wall. "Changed your mind about this one? Or are the rumors exaggerated?"

"My family told me I needed to be more social," Seokjin says with a dismissive shrug. "And he's pretty enough."

"He's very pretty." She takes a step closer and Jimin focuses on keeping himself still as her claw-like nails brush his cheek. "I wouldn't mind a few minutes with him. I assume you're willing to provide such a gift to your hostess?"

"Of course." Seokjin hesitates. "Well, I would love to present a gift, but I'm still working on this one." Now he tightens his grip on Jimin's leash, yanking him back a step and nearly choking him. Jimin gasps, hands twitching, and reminds himself not to fight. "He's a biter."

Sohyun's pretty face twists in disgust. "Why keep him, then?"

"I like a challenge." Seokjin winks and smirks, the perfect picture of arrogance. He's still holding on to the leash so tight that Jimin can barely breathe. "But we have so much catching up to do, Sohyun-nim. Is there a place I can put him for the moment where he'll be kept in line?"

"Of course." Sohyun gestures with a manicured hand and one of uniformed men, who Jimin notices are definitely carrying short canes, tasers, and what look like tranquilizer guns on their belts, steps forward.

"I'll take him, sir," he says, holding out a white gloved hand for the leash. "When you're ready, you can retrieve him from the room there."

He gestures to a door to the left of the kitchen, where another uniform is standing guard.

"Perfect," Seokjin says, already dismissive. "Feel free to discipline him if he acts out."

"Thank you, sir," Uniform says and drags Jimin away, yanking so hard that Jimin nearly faceplants before he regains his balance. His lips bare in an instinctive snarl, but he wipes it off quickly when he sees Uniform's free hand hover near the taser. That's an experience he'd rather avoid.

"That's right," Uniform says, mouth a grim line slashed through his narrow face. "Behave."

His companion punches a code into the door and opens it, allowing Uniform to shove Jimin in. He catches himself on the wall as the door closes behind him and blinks slowly as his eyes adjust to the darkness. This looks like a pantry of some kind, only one nearly as big as Jimin's old Sector 10 apartment and with only empty shelves. At first Jimin thinks that he's been locked in here alone, which means that his and Seokjin's gamble didn't pay off, but then his eyes adjust further and he realizes that someone is huddled in the far corner.

A woman, maybe about his age, though it's hard to tell. Her hair is cropped short and slicked back from her face, giving her a severe look even though glitter has also been rubbed into the dark strands and her eye makeup matches. She frowns up at him when he approaches.

"Hi," Jimin whispers and the frown deepens.

"No talking."

Jimin sits down next to her, keeping some respectful space between them. She's clad in a sleeveless dress that barely comes down to mid-thigh, leaving lots of pale skin on display. Jimin spots bruises in the shape of fingerprints running up her right arm and swallows back a fresh wave of anger.

"Why?" he presses. "No one is listening and there aren't any cameras in here."

"Talking is not permitted."

Her voice is clipped, leaving no room for argument, but Jimin is stubborn and has time to kill. He doesn't care if he's locked in here all night, he's going to get through to her.

Whatever it takes.

_ _

Yoo Kihyun is a ghost, that is Yoongi's working theory. He's gotten on his knees three times tonight, and a dozen times before this at other parties, and yet not a single person can give them any information on his whereabouts. It seems like they don't even want to speak his name. Namjoon keeps glancing at him in concern, and Yoongi knows that any minute he'll say they should leave, enough for tonight, but he doesn't want to give up. Someone must know something—maybe they're just not offering the right incentive.

"I think we should let someone fuck me," Yoongi murmurs to Namjoon after they've retreated to a corner to fix Yoongi's hair from the last pair of hands to sink into it. He can still feel the faint burn of sharp nails against his scalp but he ignores it, and the wide eyes he can feel Namjoon leveling at him.

"What?" Namjoon hisses. "Yoongi, no."

"This isn't enough," Yoongi says. "We're getting nowhere."

"We got invited here."

"Because of Seokjin."

"We just need to be patient."

"We don't have time for that," Yoongi argues back. He frowns up at Namjoon. "It's nothing I haven't done before."

"You keep saying that," Namjoon says, something almost like devastation in his voice that Yoongi can't dwell on.

"Because it's true," he argues stubbornly. "So let me do this."

"Hyung—" Namjoon starts, still in a low whisper, when a voice from their left cuts him off.

"Kim Namjoon, I thought that was you."

Yoongi glances around Namjoon to the stranger that's just arrived. He's slight of build, though still a little taller than Yoongi, and sporting a boyish face framed by light silver hair that he's swept off his forehead. He smiles, bright and friendly, and Yoongi's immediately on alert. The nice ones are usually the most dangerous, he's learned that the hard way.

"I can't believe you actually left your apartment," the man continues, and even his voice is soft and pleasant.

"Byun Baekhyun," Namjoon replies, matching the pleasant tone. The name is vaguely familiar to Yoongi and he dredges up the facts he remembers: life of the party, popular, has never owned a companion, from a noble family but not one of the Eight. "It's been a long time."

Baekhyun's gaze flits to Yoongi and lingers, appreciative. "Nice companion."

"I thought you usually didn't bother with companions," Namjoon says.

Baekhyun's eyes stay on Yoongi and it's an effort for Yoongi keep his own respectfully lowered. "I make an exception once in awhile. What do you say, Namjoon-ssi? For old time's sake? I'm sure I could trade you something."

"What kind of thing?"

Baekhyun shrugs. "Information? Isn't that what we usually pass around? Word is you might be looking for someone."

Namjoon stiffens subtly and Yoongi begs him not to panic. This could be their chance. He'll endure whatever this Baekhyun decides to throw at him if it means they finally get to take a step forward.

"Alright," Namjoon says, handing Yoongi's leash over. "Bring him back to me when you're done."

"Of course." He grins at Namjoon and actually winks at Yoongi. "Let's go. I'm sure you'll show me a good time."

He leads Yoongi to one of the private rooms off the main one—bedrooms and studies that have been converted into places where companions can be enjoyed away from curious eyes. The one Baekhyun chooses looks like a personal library. All the walls are lined with bookshelves, but a green chaise lounge has been strategically placed for people to make use of. There's even an elegant basket that no doubt contains supplies for sex and cleaning up after, because no one wants to ruin their expensive clothes.

Yoongi wonders what type of person Baekhyun is. There are other tools over there—things that Baekhyun could hurt him with, instead of actually having sex. Normally, Yoongi is good at reading what an elite might want: his mouth or his tears or his general submission. But Byun Baekhyun is an enigma, even as he locks the door behind them and smiles again. This one is a little softer—warm in a way that makes Yoongi's stomach swoop uncomfortably.

"Don't bother with that," Baekhyun says when Yoongi's eyes instinctively dart back to the lounge. "We're just going to have a chat."

And he actually steps closer and unclips Yoongi's leash from his collar, setting it aside. His expression is serious now, making him seem older than Yoongi first guessed.

"A chat?" Yoongi whispers cautiously. No one wants to just ... chat.

Baekhyun nods and ambles over to the sideboard, where there is an assortment of alcohol laid out. He pours himself a glass of wine and does the same for Yoongi. Yoongi fights the urge to gape as Baekhyun hands it to him.

"How long have you been a companion?"

"A year," Yoongi answers after a moment of hesitation, watching Baekhyun sip the wine and figuring that it's okay for him to do so, as well. He'd rather not drink, but he also knows not to risk being impolite.

"So you know how this sector works." Baekhyun sits down on the lounge and crosses one leg over the over, swirling his wine in the glass. "Everything here is an elaborate chess game, and if you want to survive, you have to stay one step ahead of everyone else."

Baekhyun doesn't seem to require an answer from him, but Yoongi inclines his head anyway, waiting for the point.

"I'm good at the game," Baekhyun says, with another smile. "But I have to admit that I was surprised when a piece that's been collecting dust in a corner suddenly has a companion he's kept alive and is moving around the board."

He finishes off the wine and sets it aside, regarding Yoongi with a curious look. Yoongi feels like his carefully constructed mask is being peeled away, centimeter by centimeter. "So what I want to know, Yoongi-ssi, is what Kim Namjoon is after. What does he want with Yoo Kihyun?"

Yoongi's skin prickles at the casual use of his name, but he keeps his voice firm. "I can't tell you that."

Baekhyun stands, closing the distance between. "If you're scared of him, don't worry. I can get you away from him. Give me information, and I'll make sure you're safe."

He seems earnest—an open, honest expression on his face. Yoongi realizes, with a large degree of internal shock, that perhaps Namjoon isn't as alone as they first thought. "You'd do that for a companion?"

"Of course." Baekhyun's mouth twists. "I've always hated this." He touches Yoongi's collar, light and fleeting. "It's disgusting."

"I still can't tell you." He won't betray Namjoon to someone he isn't sure they can trust.

"I swear on my life you'd be safe," Baekhyun says, making an X over his heart.

"It's not that. It's ... you need to talk to Namjoon."

Yoongi swallows, pausing to search Baekhyun's face again. His brow is furrowed in confusion, but it doesn't seem like he's playing games. Yoongi is good at this, too, and he knows what masks look like, even the nice ones. Baekhyun took his off the minute he locked the door.

"Kim Namjoon, killer of companions," Baekhyun says dubiously.

"Yes. There is ... more here. Things that can't be discussed in a place like this."

Baekhyun hesitates, eyeing Yoongi the same way Yoongi just assessed him. "Alright, Yoongi-ssi, that I'll believe." He turns and picks up the leash, clipping it back on Yoongi's collar. "Let's get you back to Namjoon." A squeeze to Yoongi's shoulder. "But my offer stands, if you ever need help."

"Thank you," Yoongi whispers, still shocked. Has Byun Baekhyun been sneaking companions out of the city, too? Yoongi never considered the possibility that there could be more elite in this network, working independently of each other. This could change everything.

Baekhyun pauses in front of the door. "Hold on." He reaches up and musses Yoongi's hair, then his own, just slightly. Pats his cheeks so they redden to give off the impression of a blush. Then, he leans forward with a murmured apology and slots his mouth over Yoongi's, kissing him thoroughly enough to make both of their lips swollen and a little red.

Yoongi's still reeling a little when Baekhyun pulls away with a muttered, "there, good enough," and guides him through the door back to the party. Namjoon is waiting in the same corner by the plants that they left him in, staring into his untouched glass like it holds all the secrets of the universe.

"He really is excellent, Namjoon-ssi," Baekhyun says as they approach—mask back in place. "I can see why you decided to keep him."

Namjoon tries to smile, but it's stiff at the edges. "Have fun?"

Baekhyun hums, handing Yoongi's leash back. "I also think you should invite me to dinner."

Namjoon freezes. "What?"

"Dinner," Baekhyun repeats with a smile bordering on sly. "Your place. I think we have some things to talk about." He fishes a slip of paper that looks like a business card out of his suit pocket and hands it to Namjoon. "Here's my number. I'm free this weekend."

Namjoon takes the card in a limp grip, struggling to get his obvious shock under control. Baekhyun winks at him and then directs his smile to Yoogi. "See you around, Yoongi-ssi."

Namjoon's mouth drops open at the use of Yoongi's name, but Baekhyun slips away before he can say anything, vanishing into the mingling crowd like a wisp of smoke.

"...he knows your name," Namjoon murmurs, turning the card over in his hand.

"You should invite him to dinner," is all Yoongi's willing to risk saying here. "And we should go home."

Namjoon glances at him, probably checking for any visible injuries, and he nods slowly. "I'll get my coat."

_ _

"I'm Jimin, what's your name?"

His fellow companion stares straight ahead, seemingly determined to ignore him. It's been ages of stony silence, but Jimin isn't giving up.

"I'm on my fourth master," he lies, stretching his legs out. It's cramped in here and the lack of light is making him claustrophobic, which he tries to ignore. "And he's clearly getting tired of me already. So I figure it's probably only a matter of time before I end up in a boarding house. Or he kills me. That's more likely, knowing his reputation. What about you?"

He can't see well enough to make out how many sets of initials are tattooed on her arm. Her only response is more stony silence.

"It can't be good, if you're locked up here with me instead of out there."

Silence.

"Do you think ignoring me is going to win you reward points? No one is listening. They have no way of knowing to punish us."

That earns him a glare. "You're very bold," she snaps, then quickly looks away again.

"Ah, see was that so hard?" Jimin says, smiling and scooting closer. She crosses her arms, refusing to look at him. "And it isn't boldness. It's that ... what have I got left to lose? My master is getting bored with me and I'm going to die. One way or another. And it won't be a comfortable end, whatever I do. So what does talking matter?"

He sighs, tilting his head up to stare at the dark ceiling. "We're all doomed, aren't we? How will obedience help?"

He can feel her resolve cracking and he waits, this time. A long breath, then another.

Then: "Kang Sohyun is my only master."

"Oh?" Jimin shifts to look at her and finds her staring at the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest.

"I've been with her for a very long time. But she doesn't sell companions when she's tired of them. They go to the boarding house she secretly owns."

Jimin's stomach twists and he tries to keep the horror out of his voice when he replies, "She ... actually owns a boarding house?"

The woman nods. "It's very lucrative, but she keeps it a secret. Too ... distasteful, even though most of her clients are her fellow elite. Plenty of other companions have vanished from her care. We all know where they go."

"And you think..."

"It's only a matter of time. Like you said, I'm locked up in here. I'm old and boring and she's grown sick of me."

Jimin almost reaches out to offer a comforting touch, but restrains himself, remembering Yoongi's and Jungkook's flinches whenever someone puts an unexpected hand on them. "What's your name?"

"I don't remember. I've been here since I was young. Illegally sanctioned from Sector 9. She calls me Blue." A shrug. "I've never known why."

Blue. Jimin files that away to remember, even if he never sees her again. "She got any other secrets, Blue?"

Blue eyes him suspiciously. "Why should I tell you? So you can gain favor with your master and mine can punish me?"

"No." Jimin pauses. "Well, yes about the favor part. Maybe if I bring him good information, he won't kill me as quickly." He feels a twinge of guilt for the lie—for his relative safety compared to hers. "But I'll make sure it can't be traced back to you."

"We're locked up together, it would be obvious."

"My master is terrible in many ways, but he's good at being discreet."

He watches the internal war play across Blue's face in the dark. After a long moment of silence, her shoulders slump in resignation and she leans closer. "Fine. If I can help you ... she's planning something. To do with the new king. Her family's been feuding with the court and—"

The door swings open. Blue snaps her mouth shut and jolts back, curling away from Jimin. One of the Uniforms strides into the tiny room and backhands first Blue across the face, then Jimin—hard enough to send him crashing into the wall with a gasp.

"No talking," Uniform says, clipped and calm in contrast to the physical violence. "You." He bends down and grabs Jimin's leash, hauling him to his feet with a choking grip. "Come with me."

Jimin swallows down his angry protests, twisting in the Uniform's hold to look at Blue, but she's facing away from him, huddled against the wall in a protective ball. The last glimpse he gets is the taut curve of her bony spine before he's wrenched outside to the opulent main room and Seokjin waiting nearby.

"Here you are, sir," Uniform says, handing Jimin's leash over.

Seokjin's eyes land on Jimin's cheek, which feels swollen and tender. "He misbehave?"

"He was talking without permission."

Seokjin's lips press into an angry line that's convincing enough Jimin feels a shiver run down his spine and wishes for a knife. "I see. I'll be sure to discipline him further." He spins on his heel and drags Jimin towards the elevator. "Come on, you useless bitch."

Jimin catches himself against the wall when Seokjin shoves him inside and the doors close behind them with a cheerful ding. The camera positioned in the corner doesn't allow them to relax so Seokjin tugs on Jimin's leash and says, cold, "I'll deal with you when we get home. You should know the rules by now."

Jimin closes his eyes and keeps his mouth shut, playing the part of stubborn disobedience even though a part of him wants to offer useless apologies and a part of him wants to slit Seokjin's throat. He's not sure which one is screaming the loudest. His head feels muddled from the dark and the backhand and the blackness of despair in Blue's eyes.

He has no idea how Yoongi and Jungkook have survived in this glimmering horror show for over a year.

The elevator spills them out into the main lobby and through the revolving doors, Jimin spots Seokjin's car parked on the curb, waiting to take them home. He allows Seokjin to push him inside first and makes a show of curling up in a ball against the far window, mimicking the defensive pose he saw from Blue in their makeshift dungeon. Seokjin slides in neatly after him—one finger already on the button to roll up the partition.

As soon as it clicks into place, Seokjin slumps against the seat and his icy mask cracks from his face between one breath and the next, leaving exhaustion and what might be guilt behind.

"Are you alright?" he asks Jimin, reaching up to quickly undo the entire collar and throwing it on the floor of the car like it's a live snake. "How hard did he hit you?"

Jimin's weirdly glad that Seokjin isn't apologizing for shoving him around. He's not here to be treated like glass and they both know the roles they have to play.

"Hard," Jimin says, not seeing the point in lying when his cheek is most likely bruised and red. "But I've had worse."

"I have salve back at my apartment," Seokjin says and touches Jimin's neck where bruising has also undoubtedly started to form. The gentle press of his fingers sparks through Jimin's nerves in a way he refuses to examine.

"Did you learn anything?" he asks to distract himself from the strange mixture of relief and disappointment he feels when Seokjin pulls his hand away.

"No," Seokjin says, weary. "Mostly I dodged Kang Sohyun's attempts at flirting. You?"

Jimin nods. Flits his gaze to the partition. How much can the driver hear? It seems Seokjin reads his mind because he leans back in the seat and says soft, "when we get home."

Jimin nods again and slumps against the leather, avoiding his reflection in the glass of the window. He doesn't want to see the smeared makeup or the echoes of violence on his skin.

Not yet.

_ _

Hoseok has always hated feeling useless. One winter, he was so sick that he couldn't even get out of bed for three weeks, forcing Yoongi to look after the kids and the apartment and the network by himself, and guilt churned in Hoseok's stomach every day until he was back on his feet. It's worse now, gnawing at his ribcage like a starved dog.

Yoongi's out there with Kim Namjoon at some party, letting elite use him, and Hoseok is stuck in this too-fancy apartment with an aching side and a busted leg.

It makes him want to scream.

He's tried reading some of Kim Namjoon's books, but his skill level has never been anywhere near Yoongi's so it's a struggle to comprehend a lot of the dense passages, leaving him feeling even more frustrated and small. Now he's just lying on the couch, staring up at the apartment's pristine ceiling and pretending that each tick of the wall clock's second hand doesn't echo like a bell inside his head.

He's managed to sink into something of a trance when he hears the door open with a faint click. He sits up so fast that his side burns in furious protest, but he ignores it in favor of twisting to peer over the edge of the couch at Yoongi and Namjoon staggering their way into the living room. His gaze focuses on Yoongi first, taking in his mussed hair and the red swell of his mouth. He remembers when Yoongi used to look like this for him —a satisfied smile on his lips as he rested his chin on Hoseok's stomach and Hoseok trembled through the last aftershocks of his orgasm, muttering praise about Yoongi's mouth, Yoongi's clever tongue, Yoongi's—

He slams the lid shut on those brimming memories as a rush of bile climbs up his throat, burning when he stubbornly forces it back down.

"Seok-ah," Yoongi says, voice raspy. "Why are you up?"

Like he could sleep knowing what was happening out there.

"Waiting for you," he says simply, fingers tightening on the couch when Namjoon reaches over to undo the awful collar around Yoongi's neck, revealing a band of reddened skin.

He watches Namjoon's fingers brush careful over it and wants to cut them off, then sees the way that Yoongi clearly leans into the comforting touch and doesn't know what to feel.

"You should rest," Yoongi says with obvious worry, leaving Namjoon behind to sink down next to Hoseok on the couch. "Or you'll never heal, Hoseokie."

Hoseok knows this is true, but it doesn't make accepting it easy. He wants to ask how the party went. A selfish, terrible part of him wants to know just how many elite had Yoongi's mouth, but he quashes that too. It's unfair to Yoongi, even if it's Namjoon Hoseok really wants to interrogate.

(Do you watch? Do you care? He says this was his idea, how quickly did you decide to go along with it?)

"We should take care of your neck," Hoseok says, touching the same place Namjoon did and feeling his heart wrench when Yoongi flinches slightly.

"I can—" Namjoon starts but Hoseok cuts him off with a glare, stubbornly pushing himself off the couch and taking Yoongi's hand.

He needs to do this—to feel useful in some small way—and maybe Namjoon understands that because he doesn't protest further.

"I'll heat up some food," he says instead and heads for the kitchen.

Yoongi doesn't protest, either, just allows Hoseok to guide him into the bathroom and points him in the direction of the first aid kit under the sink. Hoseok finds what looks like homemade salve inside and washes his hands before carefully spreading it around Yoongi's neck.

"I'm sorry," Yoongi whispers, staring at the wall over his shoulder.

"You don't have to apologize to me, love," Hoseok says—the old endearment slipping out before he can stop it.

"I can tell you're still angry."

"Not at you." Hoseok sighs. "I hate just sitting here."

Yoongi's hand comes up, sliding over Hoseok's good side and holding on. "I know, but I ... you have to heal, I can't lose you."

Hoseok hates the tremor of fear in Yoongi's voice. In another life, he would have bent his head and pressed his mouth to Yoongi's, trying to channel assurance he was bad at voicing into the intimate act. But he knows that wouldn't be welcome now, so he settles for wrapping his arms around Yoongi, once again ignoring the twinge in his side as he hooks his chin on Yoongi's shoulder.

"Was it worth it?" he asks.

"It was," Yoongi answers, hands moving to return the hug. They feel big on Hoseok's back, grounding. "I promise. We might have a lead."

Hoseok just hopes there is enough left of them at the end of all of this, but he doesn't give voice to those concerns, just pulls Yoongi closer.

_ _

When Namjoon sent a message to Jackson, asking to meet, he honestly wasn't expecting a response. But one comes in the form of a text from an unknown number: la fleur tomorrow night 8pm ;).

The restaurant isn't one that Namjoon has ever been to, but he trusts Jackson's ability to find somewhere discreet. A quick online search informs him that La Fleur is an upscale rooftop restaurant, catering to the richest of the richest. Entry in anything other than formalwear is not allowed and each dish on the menu has a truly staggering price tag attached. He wonders, for a moment, if Jackson is actually just fucking with him. But then he sees that La Fleur also boasts private rooms for rent, as well as secluded sections of the open roof terrace for those willing to pay enough money.

So he texts Seokjin to select a suit for Taehyung and to have him ready by 7:30pm on the designated night.

"You're sure you can trust Jackson?" Yoongi asks as he watches Namjoon get ready from his spot in the bathroom doorway. He's still recovering from yesterday's party—tired bags under his eyes and a slightly sallow pallor to his skin—but his voice is back to normal, at least.

"Yes," Namjoon promises, adjusting his bowtie. "He's never let me down before and we've been working together for years."

Yoongi chews on his lip and runs a thumb over the seal on his right wrist. "I should be coming too."

Because the leader in him hates being left out of the loop, but Namjoon doesn't point that out. "No companions. It'll attract too much attention. And Jackson refuses to play along with that kind of act."

Yoongi sighs. "Be careful, then."

"I will," Namjoon promises and heads out to pick up Taehyung.

It's strange, he thinks as Taehyung climbs into the back of the car twenty minutes later, seeing him in a suit. He cleans up well. With his already striking features accented by makeup, blue lenses in his eyes, black hair perfectly styled, and earrings that match his glittery suit jacket, he seems like a natural member of Sector 1.

"These clothes are awful," he says in his deep rumble, frowning down at the pants that hug his legs. "And I can barely see anything through these things." He blinks, trying to get used to the lenses.

"Comfort and fashion rarely go hand in hand," Namjoon says and Taehyung shakes his head, adjusting the scarf concealing his Mark.

"This sector just gets more ridiculous," he mumbles, and turns his attention to the blur of city lights outside the window.

Of all of Yoongi's makeshift family, Taehyung by far remains the most enigmatic. Namjoon has been playing metaphorical chess for a long time, but he gets the distinct feeling that Taehyung is several steps ahead of him and no move he makes is going to change that. For better or for worse, Kim Taehyung came here with his own plans in mind and he doesn't seem eager to share them.

"How do you know Jackson?" Namjoon still tries to ask.

"I know of him," Taehyung corrects, gaze not moving from the passing scenery. "He's one of the best forgers in the city."

"And what exactly do you need him for?"

The car pulls up in front of the restaurant. The wan smile that crosses Taehyung's face is cryptic but tinged with a strange sort of sadness. "Something you're not gonna like, Namjoon-ssi. But you'll have to trust me."

He exits the car before Namjoon can answer, forcing Namjoon to hurry after him, slipping inside the elevator just before the doors close.

"I don't know why you just can't tell me," he complains to Taehyung as the elevator begins its swift, silent ascent. It's glass-walled, offering a stunning view of the city that he notices Taehyung is now stubbornly ignoring the higher they get.

"Because you wouldn't have brought me," Taehyung says with a shrug.

Namjoon frowns at him, wanting to protest further—he doesn't like being left out of the loop, either—but the elevator doors open to an austere waiting area, manned by a bright-eyed, pink-haired hostess. Like in so many upscale places, one wall is a giant fish tank, stocked with the brightest, most exotic fish that could be shipped in from Busan. The floor is polished granite tile that Namjoon's shoes squeak faintly against as he approaches the hostess, and the ceiling above them is painted with a replica of the night sky, including the moon and several planets.

Once Namjoon provides his name, he and Taehyung are ushered to a far corner of the open terrace. Fake plants have been strategically placed around the large table to provide a modicum of privacy, and heating lamps ward off the worst of the winter chill. Seated at the head of the table is a familiar figure, lounging casually in his chair. He grins and waves when he spots Namjoon, beckoning them closer.

It's been several years since Namjoon has actually seen Jackson in person, but he remains largely unchanged. His hair is the same reddish brown he had in college, his smile has the same rakish edge—even the silver hoops in his ears are the ones he's always worn. Looking back, Namjoon can barely remember how they met. Jackson comes from a wealthy family, but they've long been shut out of elite social circles due to their non-Korean heritage. He's not someone university Namjoon would have willingly sought out and yet they ended up friends, anyway. And several years later, Namjoon looked back and remembered Jackson's late-night rants about the injustices of sanctioning and gambled, reaching out to him for help relocating a companion. Which is how he found out about Jackson's side job as a forger. Though it's now become more of a main profession, to Namjoon's knowledge.

"Kim Namjoon, look at you," Jackson says, standing to envelope him in a friendly hug.

Namjoon returns the hug, accepting several hard pats on the back in the process, and then Jackson steps back and gestures to the table. "Please, sit, I've already ordered for us."

Namjoon fights back a grimace, already knowing that he's going to be footing the bill. Taehyung takes the seat closest to Jackson, sitting down with casual grace that reminds Namjoon of Jimin. The two of them often seem like strange mirrors of each other.

A bottle of red wine has already been placed on the table and Jackson pours them both a glass. His attention is mostly directed at Taehyung—open curiosity on his face. "So, you're Ghost?"

Namjoon had mentioned Ghost in his initial message, still unsure of the significance behind the moniker. But Jackson clearly isn't.

"I am," Taehyung says, leaving his wine untouched. "And you're Vasters."

Jackson hums, tilting his head. "You're not what I expected."

"You aren't, either."

Namjoon gets the distinct impression that he's been forgotten and sits back to listen.

"Well, how can I help you? I don't see how my set of skills can be of any use to a hacker."

"Some things can't be hacked."

Jackson's eyes narrow. "What kind of things?"

Taehyung drums his fingers against the table in an idle rhythm. "The Seoul Institute."

Namjoon sucks in a sharp breath and Jackson sits up straighter in his seat, surprise taking over his face before he gets his calm mask fixed on again. Now Namjoon understands why Taehyung didn't want to tell him anything. The idea of breaking into the Seoul Institute bypasses harebrained and falls right into the realm of clinically insane.

"You're crazy," Jackson says with a laugh, giving voice to Namjoon's own thoughts. "That place is a fucking fortress."

"Yes," Taehyung agrees easily. He still seems so calm. "But no fortress is completely impenetrable."

"This one is," Jackson insists.

"Not with the right tools. And people. All you have to do is connect me with them. You have contacts in this sector I don't."

"And none of them would be crazy enough to..." Jackson trails off, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Actually, there are a few who would be, for the right incentive. Why the Seoul Institute, though?"

"Because it's a fortress," Taehyung says. "Because the monarchy guards it so well. There are secrets in there. Important ones."

"I've heard the rumors," Jackson agrees, crossing his arms over his chest. "Doesn't mean they're true."

"Doesn't mean they aren't."

"And you'd risk your life for the possibility?"

"Yes," Taehyung says, no hesitation. Namjoon almost wants to laugh at the sheer insanity happening in front of him.

Jackson whistles, low and impressed. "You're fucking bold, kid."

Taehyung leans forward, intent. "So will you help me?"

Namjoon recognizes the glint in Jackson's eyes—the one that always comes before the proposal of a scheme or a challenge—and thinks about protesting, but he doubts his opinion would hold any weight. If Yoongi or Hoseok finds out about this, though, he'll probably be a dead man.

"Alright," Jackson agrees, "I'll help you. Just don't get us all killed."

"Not planning on it," Taehyung says, extending a hand.

"Doesn't mean it won't happen," Jackson fires back, but he takes Taehyung's hand.

They shake.