"Per royal decree, please contact the Seoul Institute with a list of any unwanted sanctioned that would otherwise be regulated to the boarding houses. We will pay competitive price for all those in good physical condition."

- Communication from the Seoul Institute, to all the premiere auction houses in the city

_ _

"Jungkook-ah," Jimin says for the fifth time today, a steely set to his jaw, "I'm fine."

Jungkook doesn't care how often Jimin keeps insisting on it, he can't look past Jimin's swollen cheek or the slight tremor in his fingers that he's trying to hide, but is sloshing the tea in his cup. Seokjin has barely spoken to either of them since the party yesterday—just retreated to his wing of the apartment with a muttered excuse and locked the door. It's been a full night and nearly a full day, and he has yet to emerge.

All after just one party.

"I'm not a child," Jungkook fires back, shoving his half-eaten bowl of soup away. He hasn't been very hungry since the two of them came back last night, either. "I've been in this world longer than you. You don't have to keep trying to hide bad stuff from me."

He doesn't say that just from looking at the pattern of bruising on Jimin's face, he can tell exactly how Jimin was hit and the amount of force used—because he's been struck in a similar way so many times. That will only cause Jimin to skitter further into his shell like an angry crab.

"You shouldn't have to bear it." Jimin stares down at his cup of tea that long ago stopped steaming. "You've dealt with enough."

"And I'll deal with more," Jungkook snaps, losing patience. "I'm not gonna just sit here and let all of you fight this without me. When have I ever done that, Jimin-hyung? I'm not made of glass! Not back then and certainly not now." He sighs and sags back in his chair. "Yeah, my head's not a fun place right now, but that doesn't mean I can't handle things. Or that I don't want to be here for all of you."

Jimin is quiet for a long time. The remnants of his eye makeup are still smeared under his eyes, giving him a tired, haggard appearance. "I thought it would be easier than this," he finally admits in a soft voice. "That was naive of me."

Jungkook watches as he pulls up the sleeve of his sweater and swipes a thumb over the black seal around his wrist, gaze focused somewhere inward.

"It gets easier," Jungkook says, not sure what other comfort to offer. "You become numb eventually. It's the only way to survive."

Jimin nods absently and stands, letting his baggy sleeve slip back down over his hand. "I'll be okay, Jungkook-ah." He manages a thin, wavering approximation of a smile. "I'm not made of glass, either. You can stop worrying about me."

"Impossible," Jungkook insists and Jimin's smile softens into something a little more genuine. He comes around to Jungkook's side of the table and wraps his arms around Jungkook's neck, resting his chin on top of Jungkook's head.

It's a familiar embrace—one Jimin has offered dozens of times over the years they've known each other. Jungkook clearly remembers the first time, though, about seven months after Jimin and Taehyung moved in with them. He'd been sick for two weeks, wracked with a fever and chills from the poor insulation in their apartment and the freezing winter nights. Yoongi and Hoseok were out, trying to scrounge up some warm food and more blankets, and Taehyung was off doing Taehyung things that he never really liked to explain. So Jungkook was curled up on the mattress alone, shivering, while Jimin sat at their rickety table.

Jimin reminded him of a feral alley cat, back in those days—prone to bite and hiss at you if you got too close, all sharp teeth and defensive spine. Jungkook wasn't afraid of him, per se, but he knew to be cautious around jagged things, jagged people. Jimin kept his distance from them, too, in spite of Hoseok's attempts at gluing them all together into a makeshift, expanded family. Jungkook had always figured that Jimin would bend eventually or simply vanish again, but he wasn't expecting to hear the shift of a kitchen chair when his next coughing fit started, or the soft patter of Jimin's feet as he crossed the small room.

Jungkook's breath caught as Jimin laid down behind him, curling around him like a protective blanket even though they were pretty much the same height, back then. Somehow, Jimin made himself seem large, just like Yoongi always did.

He didn't say anything, didn't offer any meaningless words of comfort, just shifted up so he could rest his chin on top of Jungkook's bent head and held on until Jungkook finally fell asleep.

It was then that the ice finally began to thaw and Jimin retracted his claws. Now, Jungkook reaches up to squeeze Jimin's hands, holding on just as tight as Jimin is to him.

The beeping of the front door startles them both, and Jungkook looks up to see Taehyung crossing the threshold, still dressed in the fancy clothes that Seokjin loaned him earlier this afternoon. He quickly kicks off the shoes and unwinds the scarf from around his neck, dropping them both in the entryway with a carelessness that makes something in Jungkook shiver. He'd been cryptic about where he was going—just that Namjoon was taking him to meet an important contact—and Jungkook doesn't like that, either. Doesn't like looking at Taehyung and seeing an enigma. There were always pieces of Taehyung he didn't understand—things that Taehyung wasn't willing to share with anyone, except maybe Jimin—but Jungkook still knew him. Knew all the vital and important parts that made Taehyung tick. Now, though, it's like those clockwork innards have been shielded from view by opaque glass.

Jungkook can only see the smooth surface now.

"Taehyung-ah," Jimin says, letting go of Jungkook. "How'd it go?"

"Good," Taehyung says. His eyes linger on Jimin's cheek like they have all day, and it seems like he gets stuck there for a moment before tearing himself away. "Really good."

Jimin arches a questioning eyebrow—a clear signal for Taehyung to elaborate, but all Taehyung does is shake his head. "Not yet, Chim, okay? It's better if you don't know."

Jimin frowns, but doesn't argue. They all know how stubborn Taehyung can be. "Fine. I'm going to bed, then."

No one comments that it's barely seven in the evening, and the guest bedroom door echoes in Jungkook's ears like a clap of thunder, the sharp crack of a gunshot.

Taehyung doesn't ask if Jimin's okay—that would be pointless with the answer in front of them. Jungkook's half-expecting him to either go to the kitchen for leftover food or curl up in one of Seokjin's armchairs with the contraband computer Namjoon managed to get for him, but he does neither of those things. He rounds the dining room table and takes Jungkook's hand, as easy as he always used to.

(Their fingers still lace together the same way.)

"Jungkook-ah, can I talk to you?" Taehyung asks, a serious expression on his face.

Jungkook nods, forcefully ignoring the familiar wrench of fear in his gut. It won't be anything bad, he has to trust Taehyung in that.

Taehyung leads him out onto the balcony, in spite of the cold, and closes the door behind them. Below them and around them, the city is nothing but a sea of lights. Even the Outer Sectors look beautiful from this high up. The wind snatches at the ends of Taehyung's hair immediately, whipping it around his face. He still has the blue contacts in that Namjoon lent him, and they give him an ethereal quality Jungkook isn't sure he likes.

"Jungkook-ah," Taehyung says again, voice pitched just high enough to be heard, "I need your help."

"My help?" Jungkook asks dubiously. No one's wanted his help in weeks, just to put him in an invisible case for safekeeping.

Taehyung nods. "It's gonna be really dangerous, but I don't think I can do it without you."

"What are you planning?" Because Taehyung is always planning something. Brilliant, beautiful Taehyung, whose mind is full of spinning calculations that no one else can follow.

Taehyung still hasn't let go of Jungkook's hand and he squeezes it tightly now. "I want to break into the Seoul Institute."

Jungkook almost laughs—has to swallow back the burst of it that knocks against his teeth. Of course Taehyung's target is the Seoul Institute, why pick anything less than the most formidable building in the city after the royal palace? Sometimes auction houses sell companions there, instead of to the boarding houses, and both are terrible fates but the whispers about the Seoul Institute make it seem somehow worse. It's a cipher and a specter and a monster all rolled into one unassuming building tucked away in a corner of Sector 1. It existed before the Cataclysm, one of the few functioning remnants of the Old World, and Jungkook wonders if it was just as feared and respected back then.

"Are you going to call me crazy?" Taehyung asks.

Jungkook looks at him, this boy he loves (though he's still not sure of the shape of it). He's shivering from the bite of the wind, hunched in on himself all small like folded paper, but there's a mixture of nervousness and defiance radiating from his eyes, burning right through the lenses. Jungkook took a knife to the face for him at seventeen. Kissed him on rooftops and felt like he was flying. Would have followed him to the edge of the earth and back, if need be.

They're not the same people, and Jungkook's afraid of falling in a way he wasn't before, but there is still something to be said for the jump, isn't there? He'd rather die with the sky around him than tucked away in a cage.

"No," he says. Taehyung's eyes widen slightly—a crack in his unaffected facade. "I haven't always understood you, Taehyung-ah, but you've never been crazy."

"I won't get you into trouble," Taehyung says earnestly. His fingers slip under Jungkook's sleeve to press against the underside of his wrist—right in the center of the seal.

"I never blamed you for that," Jungkook says softly. Nothing crossed his mind except relief that none of the others got discovered or taken. It had been his choice to stay on that rooftop with Yoongi.

"I did," Taehyung replies, equally soft, nearly lost to the wind. "So it won't happen again."

Jungkook doesn't bother arguing with him. Maybe Taehyung does have the ear of some kind of deity and he'll be able to ensure that everything to come will work out in their favor. Jungkook wouldn't put it past him, honestly.

"Okay. Let's break into the Seoul Institute." He feels a giddy rush of terror and adrenaline uttering the declaration, nearly enough to make him break into laughter again.

And Taehyung smiles, almost like he used: boxy and bright, all puffed up cheeks. It fades far too fast. "Yeah. Though ... there's some people we have to meet first."

_ _

It's strange, Namjoon thinks, seeing Byun Baekhyun standing outside his door. They've crossed paths briefly over the years—both apparently the black sheep of their respective families—but Baekhyun's always seemed to be in a layer of the atmosphere above Namjoon. Bright and loud and the center of attention. He moves through life like he doesn't have a care in the world, and everyone adores him, even when he refuses to bow to their conventions.

He looks uncharacteristically serious now with his face free of glittering makeup and dressed in simple black street clothes, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. Namjoon still feels nervous about letting him into what has become a sanctuary, free of anyone else from Sector 1 except Seokjin. But he trusts Yoongi, so he steps aside and watches Baekhyun cross his threshold, pausing to take off his boots just inside the door.

"Welcome," Namjoon says, a little stiff, and Baekhyun laughs. Without foundation coating his skin, Namjoon realizes with a jolt that he has a long, thin scar across his face, stretching from one cheek to the other, across the bridge of his nose, still a fading red.

"We're not at a party, Namjoon-ssi," he says. "You can cut the bullshit."

Namjoon blinks, but drops his pleasant mask in favor of an annoyed frown. "Fine. Why did you want to come here?"

Baekhyun glances around the empty apartment. "Where's Yoongi?"

"I thought we weren't at a party? And how do you know his name?"

The look Baekhyun levels him with is withering. "Bring him out here and then we'll talk."

Namjoon originally thought, considering Baekhyun knows Yoongi's real name, that it would be best to keep him out of tonight's proceedings, in case Baekhyun wanted to use him for leverage. Hoseok also grumbled about being sequestered away into the guest room like a stowaway, but Namjoon isn't taking any chances with a fellow elite. The bedroom door clicks open, though, before Namjoon can deflect further or refuse Baekhyun's demand, and Yoongi slips into the living room like a ghost.

He's dressed casually, too, in the baggy clothes he prefers whenever they're back in the apartment. Baekhyun's eyes rake over him, but they lack the desire they held at the party. He almost seems to be ... scanning Yoongi for injuries—the same way that Hoseok does every time they come home.

"I'm fine," Yoongi says, rolling up his sleeves to expose his scarred arms and tugging the collar of his sweater to the side to show that there are no hidden bandages anywhere, or fresh wounds. "I told you there was more going on here."

Baekhyun makes a contemplative sound. "So you did." His piercing gaze returns to Namjoon. "Have you ever actually killed companions, then?"

Namjoon crosses his arms. "I don't see how that's relevant to—"

"No," Yoongi cuts in. "He hasn't."

"You still haven't answered my question," Namjoon presses, not as ready to trust Baekhyun as Yoongi seems to be. "How did you know his name?"

Baekhyun shrugs. "Auction house records are easy enough to hack. But I'm sure you know that, don't you, Namjoon-ssi?"

"Why him, though?"

"Because you kept me alive," Yoongi answers, glancing at Baekhyun who nods in confirmation. "That was an anomaly."

Namjoon figured it would stir up rumors, but not make people go digging through auction house records. Annoyingly, Baekhyun appears to read the worry he's trying to keep off his face because he sinks down into one of the arm chairs and smiles. "Don't worry, Namjoon-ssi. Most people don't care, or look closely at things like I do."

Namjoon joins him, sitting opposite on the couch, and Yoongi takes the seat next to him. He's in Leader Mode—keeping his feet planted instead of curling up like he normally would, leaning forward slightly to make himself seem bigger and broader than his small stature.

"Why do you care?" he asks.

"You haven't given me any reason to tell you that," Baekhyun points out.

"And you haven't given us any reason to trust you," Namjoon says.

Baekhyun hums in the back of his throat, crossing one leg over the other. "Seems we're at an impasse, then."

"An exchange of information," Yoongi says. "Isn't that what you promised at the party?"

"You give me information and I'll give some back to you. How does that sound?" Baekhyun glances at them both in turn.

It's not necessarily ideal, but they're running out of options. They can't just ignore the best potential lead they've had in months.

"Fine," Yoongi says. "But you can go first."

Baekhyun grins. "I like you. Okay, I know how to get you to Yoo Kihyun. But you have to tell me what you want with him."

"We want his help with something," Namjoon says. "Or to ask for it, at least."

Both of Baekyun's eyebrows nearly disappear beneath the sweep of his silver bangs. "Help from a recluse who hasn't been seen in public for years? What help could you possibly want from him?"

Namjoon looks at Yoongi in silent question: do we tell him? It would be risking everything. Yoongi's mouth tightens and he looks away.

"I think it's your turn," he says firmly.

Not yet. But it feels inevitable.

"It isn't easy," Baekhyun says. "Usually, you just have to go through Lee Minhyuk, but now there's Kihyun's older brother to contend with."

"Yoo Minseok," Namjoon murmurs. The man who supposedly killed his own father in order to take the place of family head. A cunning sadist whose cruel predilections are whispered about in the same breath as Namjoon's, but aren't mere rumors.

"That's the one," Baekhyun says grimly. "A monster wearing human skin."

"Is he the one keeping Kihyun in seclusion?" Yoongi asks.

Baekyun's answering smile is lined with sharp glass. "Your turn."

"You're right," Namjoon admits and feels Yoongi stiffen slightly beside him. "I'm not killing companions, I'm smuggling them out of the city. I get them false papers and put them on a train and the auction house marks them as deceased."

"Smart. Very smart. I underestimated you, Namjoon-ssi."

"That's how I prefer it."

Baekhyun's gaze slides to Yoongi. "But you didn't go?" Yoongi opens his mouth and Baekhyun lifts a placating hand. "Yes, yes it's my turn. Kihyun's family have kept him in seclusion on and off for most of his life, especially in the last couple years. I'm worried that his brother plans to take it a step further."

"Kill him?" Namjoon asks, though he can't say he's surprised. Yoo Minseok seems to have no problems dispatching family members standing in his way.

Baekhyun nods. In the golden light of the living room, his scar seems an even darker red, like spilling blood.

"I didn't go," Yoongi says. "Because the fight is here."

"And you want Kihyun for it."

"Why do you care?" It seems strange to Namjoon. Elite don't actually care about each other outside of family, and even then. Love and loyalty are rare things in this world of chessboards and blood-soaked ladders.

Baekhyun draws in a breath and here is the fulcrum, Namjoon can feel the edge of it beneath his feet. "Because," Baekhyun says, all quiet ice, "I protect my own."

Realization hits Namjoon hard and he can't keep it from his face—feels his mouth go slack and his fingers twitch against the arm of the sofa, trying to curl into a fist. He's always known, logically, that there are others like him. That there have to be, statistically, parents that let their mutated children survive. But he expected them in the shadows, like himself, or in isolation, like Kihyun. Not in Byun Baekhyun, who walks through parties like he owns them.

(Who covers his scars with makeup.)

He can feel Yoongi's eyes on him, but he keeps his focus directed at Baekhyun. "That's why I wanted to ask for his help," he says. Takes a steadying breath of his own. "I figured he'd be willing, considering that he's like me."

He's surprised Baekhyun, he can tell, though Baekhyun is good at hiding it. It's in the twitch along his jaw, the subtle widening of his eyes. He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor. Namjoon lets the silence hold, waiting for the verdict.

"I should have considered that," Baekhyun says at last. "My oversight." He looks up again, a rueful smile flitting across the corner of his mouth. "So, who do you want to put on the throne?"

Namjoon and Yoongi trade an involuntary, startled glance, and the smile returns. "Oh come on now," Baekhyun says. "Give me a little credit. You're right, the fight is here, and only one fight is actually going to change anything. You have to topple the house of cards if you want to rebuild it as something better. You figure that people like me and Kihyun would be more willing to participate in treason because we have a personal investment in the system changing, and you need the resources we can give you. Am I wrong?"

"No," Namjoon admits. "Am I right? About you and Kihyun?"

Another pause, more weighted than the last. "You're right," Baekhyun admits. "But I'd like to know who my new king would be."

"Take us to Kihyun and we'll tell you," Yoongi says.

"I can only take you as far as Minhyuk, probably," Baekhyun says. "And there might be a price for going through Minseok."

"We'll pay it," Yoongi says before Namjoon can interject.

"Don't say that before he names it," Baekhyun warns.

"We'll pay it," Yoongi repeats.

Baekhyun frowns but doesn't argue further, just rises to his feet. "I'll text you a time and place, then," he says to Namjoon. "And Namjoon-ssi, Yoongi-ssi," he shoves his hands back into the pockets of the coat he never removed, "I'm trusting you with a lot."

Namjoon wonders what it took for him to come here without his usual armor on. Wonders if leaving that scar uncovered was an important choice too.

"We're doing the same, Baekhyun-ssi," he says.

Baekhyun smiles. "Well, as long as we stay even."

Namjoon shows him to the door and tries to figure out the strange roil of his own emotions as it clicks shut in Baekhyun's wake. Others like him ... it's always been a sound theory. To have concrete proof now?

He knows they cannot trust Baekhyun completely yet, but he suddenly feels less alone.

_ _

Once upon a time, Kim Seokjin was a different person. He never bought entirely into elite society—couldn't bear the sight of people on leashes, didn't want what companions had to offer, thought that all the power-grabbing and backstabbing was ridiculous, radiating out from his own family to elite society as a whole. But he cared more about playing along, back in college and as a teenager. Making sure that his mask fit just right and no one could see behind it.

He attended the social events he was expected to; he got the useless degree his family insisted on; he dated the people his grandmother approved of. And one of them was Kang Sohyun. She lasted longer than most of the others, because Seokjin could tell that his family desperately wanted him to marry her. She was beautiful and cunning and powerful, with excellent connections—everything his grandmother wanted in an addition to the family. The fact that he broke off the relationship was just added to his already lengthy list of sins when his final day of reckoning came.

He never loved her, and he doubts she loved him. Relationships are contracts and mergers, just like everything else in their world. But it's still strange to sit down across from her now, with all these years and change between them. This restaurant and its sweeping marble floors, its towering chandelier-dotted ceilings, feels like the set of a macabre play. He and Sohyun, in their artful clothes and perfectly-styled hair, are the heroes or the villains and only time will tell which.

Today Sohyun's dress is green like the long-dead forests and gold drips from her ears and her fingers. She smiles at him with blood-red lips and he remembers a time he thought she was beautiful, when he was blind to the rot beneath the facade, taking root in all of them.

"I have to admit," she says, teasing, "I didn't think you'd come."

Well. Two can play this game. He leans forward with a well-practiced smirk. "And pass up dinner with you?"

Admittedly, he'd been surprised by her invitation, especially so soon after the party, but he knows from Jimin that she has Big Plans, and he hopes she'll tell him more about them. Plus he's glad to be out of the apartment for a few hours and away from the somewhat suffocating presence of the others.

(From the bruises on Jimin's face and throat.)

Sohyun laughs, light and airy. She's good at seeming dainty, delicate, but Seokjin has learned from experience not to underestimate her. Every word he utters and expression that crosses his face is going to be measured on a scale only she can see.

"Don't flatter me," she says with a wave of her hand. Her bracelets tinkle like small bells. "Neither of us are sentimental enough for old time's sake."

"There's nothing wrong with a little sentimentality, surely."

"You're the one who ended things, if I remember correctly."

"I just ended them first," Seokjin says with his most disarming smile. "You would have done it eventually if I hadn't."

She hums. "True. I've never been the marrying type."

"I'll toast to that." He raises his wine glass before taking a sip.

"I suppose your companions are enough company," Sohyun says, running her fingers along the edge of her own glass. "That new one is very pretty."

"I would suppose the same about you," Seokjin counters.

"I don't kill mine, though."

He arches an eyebrow. "Have you really brought me here to judge me for my methods of private entertainment?"

That earns him another laugh. "Calm down, I could care less."

"Why have you brought me here, then?"

"Didn't I tell you?" It's her turn to raise her glass. "Old time's sake."

She's toying with him, seeing if he'll play along. He grins and clinks his glass against hers.

They drink in companionable silence for a moment, before Sohyun laces her fingers together, resting her elbows on the table, and regards him with an assessing look. "Are you content with your place in the world, Seokjin-ah?"

He maintains his casual smile. "Who is, noona?"

"I seem to remember your family shoving you into a dusty corner a few years ago."

"Mm, they did," he agrees. Lets his smile turn bitter. "My grandmother has never appreciated defiance. Or veering from a pre-planned trajectory meant to carry you from cradle to grave."

"Would you like to get out of the corner?"

"Very much so."

"I might be able to help with that."

"Oh?" he feigns surprise. "Are you going to propose to me, noona?"

She shakes her head, but her gaze is amused. "Not yet."

"Do I have to sufficiently prove my devotion?"

Another elegant sip from her glass. "Something like that."

"Well, if you can stop me rotting away, I'm all ears."

He's played her game well, he can tell by the approval in her eyes and the quirk of her lips. She gestures for a waiter. "In good time, Seokjin-ah. For now, let's enjoy dinner."

Seokjin relaxes back in his seat, content to let her order for them. This is going to be an intricate dance—she's probably looking for support, as well as someone to have on her arm when she assumes the throne. She's always liked his face and his wit, and often berated him for his lack of ambition when they were together. He would make the perfect candidate for a loyal subordinate, if she can win him over.

He has to admit, he's very interested in seeing her try.

_ _

It's so weird and terrifying, being out of Seokjin's apartment and on the streets of Sector 1 without Seokjin present or a tether around his wrist. He keeps anxiously checking that his seals are properly covered and the scarf around his neck hasn't slipped to reveal his Mark. The cab driver barely spared him or Taehyung a second glance when they climbed in and Taehyung rattled off the address that was sent to him by his mysterious contact, but he doesn't know how to settle the anxiety steadily tying his stomach into complicated knots. His leg starts to bounce with nervous energy and he forces it to still, not wanting to attract too much attention.

Suddenly, Taehyung's big hand slides over his knee and stays here—a comforting weight after Jungkook's first, instinctive flinch has passed. Jungkook exhales slow, like Yoongi taught him once, and tries to focus. To drag the person he used to be out of his grave and shake the dirt off—fit back into that skin.

Beyond the tinted windows of the cab, the city is just waking up, and the rising sun catches the buildings on fire, turning them all to spun gold. Taehyung left a note on the counter for Jimin and Seokjin (who got back late last night smelling of wine and didn't say where he'd been) before they left, and sneaking out felt weird, too, even if that isn't really what they're doing.

(He also grabbed a knife from the kitchen that he slipped into his boot, and it was reassuring, being armed again.)

Jungkook's expecting them to go to a restaurant or some other public place, but the cab pulls to a stop in front of an apartment complex very similar to Namjoon's and Seokjin's. Taehyung climbs out, paying the driver with a handful of won that Jungkook has no idea how he procured.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks as the cab pulls away from the curb, leaving them lingering in front of the building's glass entry doors. Though unlike most Sector 1 buildings, this one doesn't seem to have a front desk or any guards stationed.

"No," Taehyung admits and takes Jungkook's hand again. "But let's see what happens."

Jungkook reminds himself of his knife. "Lead the way."

Taehyung keeps hold of his hand all the way through the lobby and to the unmanned elevators. Jungkook doesn't spot a single security camera, which is also strange. Even the elevator is devoid of them, though there might be some hidden in the faux-wood paneling. Taehyung keys a code into the pad just inside the doors and presses the button for the top floor. As it ascends, he finally releases Jungkook's hand to adjust the silk scarf tied around his neck.

(He didn't wear lenses this today, and Jungkook is grateful for it.)

The elevator opens directly into a spacious apartment. It looks like it's been copied and pasted directly from the magazines that sometimes sat on his second master's coffee table—minimalist furniture, modern art on the walls, a weird spherical sculpture in one corner and fake plants in another, but no signs of occupancy or other life. The white sofa and chairs are immaculate, and the man rising from one of them seems out of place in this polished, pristine room.

He's Sector 1, though. It's in the confident way he carries himself and the expensive fit of his black suit, clearly tailored. Not a single reddish brown hair is out of place on his head and when he extends a hand to shake Taehyung's, the watch on his wrist catches the light streaming in from the wall of windows.

"Ghost," he says, all easy friendliness, "good to see you again. You didn't tell me you'd be bringing someone." His eyes cut to Jungkook and then light up with unexpected recognition. "Wait, you're JK, aren't you? Seokjin wanted papers for you."

Oh. Small world, it seems.

"Yes," Jungkook whispers, unable to stop his voice from failing, just a little, in the face of this elite stranger.

"I'm Vasters," the stranger says and doesn't reach for Jungkook's hand or offer his own. Jungkook's respect for him ticks higher.

"Nice apartment," Taehyung says, squinting in the direction of one of the strange sculptures.

Vasters laughs. "It isn't mine. I just borrow it once in awhile for ... important events." He gestures to a set of closed double doors to the right of the living room—made of the same faux wood as the panels in the elevator. "Please, this way."

Jungkook trails after Taehyung towards the doors, clenching and unclenching his fist to keep himself calm as Vasters pushes one of them open to reveal a dining room almost entirely taken up by a massive black table and sporting walls covered in frankly hideous black and white geometric wallpaper. But Jungkook's attention is immediately drawn to the three figures seated around the far end of the table.

They all look about his age, though it's impossible to know for certain. They're young, at least, in a way that reminds him of himself before he was sanctioned. The one closest to him is leaning back far enough in his chair that it's tilted partially off the ground—his long legs sprawled out carelessly in front of him and his arms behind his head. In contrast to the ostentatious environment around him, he's dressed in casual street clothes: faded jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt, battered sneakers. The red-brown of his hair strikes Jungkook as similar to Vasters, though lighter in shade.

He radiates casual confidence, like nothing in the world could fluster him.

As opposed to the boy next to him, at the head of the table, who is practically vibrating with energy—to the point that he seems to be holding himself still by sheer force of will. Even then, his slender fingers are tapping a light, random rhythm on table. He's small, compared to the first boy, and he has a wide-eyed look of innocence about him that feels completely out of place in this harsh city. His black hair contrasts against the pale hue of his face and his clothes are casual, too, but infused with more color—red and black stripes instead of gray. Plus a telling black scarf wrapped around his neck.

And finally there is the third boy. Immediately, he strikes Jungkook as the most dangerous. He holds himself the same way as Jimin does: all coiled up like a springboard, a snake seconds away from striking. With his elegant features and the neat sweep of his black hair, he gives off the most stereotypical Sector 1 image, but it's obvious there is far more to him than meets the eye. Unlike the other two, he's also dressed entirely in black—right down to the boots he has propped up on the table, blending in with the shiny surface.

"Right," Vasters says, breaking the brief, but tense silence. "Introductions. Ghost, JK, this is Johnny." He gestures to the tall boy. "Mark." The nervous one waves awkwardly. "And Ten." The dangerous one smiles. "Johnny, Mark, Ten, this is Ghost and JK."

"Ten like the number?" Taehyung asks with an arched eyebrow.

"Exactly like the number," Ten says. His voice is higher-pitched and softer than Jungkook was expecting.

"I think you all have plenty to talk about," Vasters continues, clapping his hands together. "And I don't want to hear any more of it than I have to, so I'll be elsewhere. Text me when you're done and don't break anything."

He gives them all a jaunty salute and disappears back through the door, closing it behind him. Jungkook blinks at the table, wondering if him and Taehyung are going to sit at this end and the two factions will have a standoffish meeting like something out of an Old World film. But Taehyung simply marches down the length of the table and takes the seat next to Johnny. Not knowing what else to do, Jungkook timidly shrinks into the chair next to Ten—hyperaware of the eyes on him.

"Are you really Ghost?" Mark asks, blinking at Taehyung with what Jungkook thinks is excitement. "I've heard about the stuff you've done in the Outer Sectors, you're incredible."

Taehyung shrugs. "I do my best."

Mark shakes his head. "You're, like, a genius. I would kill to be able to do the stuff you do with computers."

"You're a hacker, then?" Taehyung asks.

"Sort of? I'm not good at remote stuff, like you do. Hacking databases and all that. But I am really good at getting through security systems. Lots of different kinds of security systems."

"He's good at hardware too," Johnny chimes in. "Taking shit apart and putting it back together in new ways."

Taehyung absorbs this. Jungkook curls his fingers around the arms of his chair and hopes he won't have to talk too much.

"Vasters said you might be able to help me with a job. Are you thieves?"

"Of a sort," Ten says.

"I can't pay you. I want to be clear about that."

"Oh we don't steal for money," Mark says, then frowns. "Well mostly not for money. At least, we don't keep all the money."

"We'd do this job for free, anyway," Ten says. He reaches up and pulls down the choker he has around his neck, revealing a Mark with one strike below it. Jungkook swallows in surprise. What kind of Marked willingly operates in Sector 1? "Think of it as us supporting the cause."

"Oh yeah, me too," Mark says and tugs aside his scarf to show off his own Mark. He's free of strikes.

"Is that how you got your code name?" Jungkook blurts before he can stop himself.

Mark blinks at him, but just as Jungkook is ready to panic he dissolves into cackling laughter. "Yeah! It's funny, right?"

"You're literally the only one who thinks it's funny," Johnny says dryly. His neck is bare and clean, and he shrugs at Jungkook and Taehyung when he catches them looking. "I don't have one of those, but you can trust me."

"They're, like, kinda a Thing," Mark says, gesturing between Johnny and Ten.

Oh. Oh.

"Mark, shut up," Johnny sighs.

"That's not relevant information," Ten adds, exchanging a loaded glance with Johnny. The kind that reminds Jungkook of Yoongi and Hoseok—an entire conversation in a single look.

"Right, right, sorry," Mark mutters, ducking his head.

Jungkook relaxes a fraction in spite of himself. Fellow Marked won't hurt him, and these three seem alright. Taehyung looks amused, too, though he erases his faint smile quickly when attention focuses back on him.

"So what's the job?" Johnny asks. "I'm guessing it's high profile, with how secretive Vasters was."

Taehyung sits up straighter in his chair, but otherwise is the picture of calm when he says, "I want to break into the Seoul Institute."

Johnny's mouth predictably drops open and Mark chokes on air. "I'm sorry," he practically squeaks, "I thought you said the Seoul Institute."

"I did," Taehyung replies patiently.

"The Seoul Institute," Mark repeats. "As in that scary impenetrable building that no one ever comes back out of, you want to break in there?"

"Yes."

"Like ... why?"

"Because it's so secretive," Ten chimes in and Taehyung snaps his fingers.

"Exactly. It's more heavily guarded than the Royal Palace. They must have secrets there—information that could affect all of us."

"You mean Marked?" Johnny asks.

"The whole city," Taehyung says. "They're the only institution that predates the Cataclysm."

"You think they could have information on it?" Ten asks, gaze intent.

Taehyung nods. "And a lot of other things. I think ... there is probably information the monarchy has lied about since the end of the Old World, and finding out the truth is worth risking a lot. Everything. You came recommended by Vasters, so I trust you're some of the best in Seoul. But I understand if this is too much—"

"Do you know what will happen if we get caught?" Mark asks, surging up from his chair so that he can pace an anxious line from one garish wall of the dining room to the other. "We'll be killed. And not, like, normal killed. Tortured-and-experimented-on-until-wishing-for-death killed."

"I'm in," Ten says and Mark whirls around to gape at him.

"What ?"

Ten shrugs. "I think it's worth it. Ghost is right, this could change everything."

"Well I pretty much go where he goes so I'm in," Johnny says, sounding impressively unbothered.

Mark turns to stare at him in shock too. "Oh my god, you're both crazy."

"He'll be in, too," Johnny adds as Mark goes back to pacing. "Just give him a minute."

"The Seoul Institute," Mark mutters under his breath. "Oh my god."

"Maybe a few minutes," Johnny amends.

Jungkook takes a fortifying breath. They can't do this without Mark, he's somehow certain of that, so maybe ... he rolls up the sleeves of his coat and then slides up the bracelets covering his wrists, so that his seals and scars are on display.

"The things they do to us," he whispers, watching Mark's gaze land on the black bands and freeze in horror, "are beyond imagination. I can't ... I don't have words for them. So even if the odds are against us, if there's a-a tiny chance that we could change things, I'd risk anything for that. Wouldn't you?"

Mark's hand drifts up, seemingly unconsciously, to press against the tattoo on his neck. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, you're right. I would." He sucks in a noisy breath and throws his shoulders back. "I'm in."

"Told you," Johnny says triumphantly.

Ten shifts to look at Taehyung again. "I'm assuming you have a plan of some sort?"

Taehyung grins.