"You have to wonder sometimes, at the state we've found ourselves in. Rich kids living off the money their parents hoarded from the crown — working meaningless jobs to keep themselves occupied and spending the rest of our time engaging in all possible forms of hedonism. We've become aimless sadists, beautiful monsters. Or maybe we were simply born that way. Maybe there was never a chance we'd be anything else. Sad, isn't it?"

- Excerpt from a rare letter written by Kim Seokjin to his cousin, Kim Namjoon

_ _

They go to another party, and then another, because what else can they do? Seokjin wishes he had a better plan. Wishes that something inside of him didn't ache at every tug on Jimin's leash, every poisonous word out of his mouth, every smudge of Jimin's makeup and every slam of a door when they get home. Somehow, he thought he was stronger than this. That he fit his armor on better. Serves him right, he supposes, for having hubris.

At least Jungkook is mostly occupied with whatever undoubtedly dangerous thing him and Taehyung are planning, flitting in and out at weird hours with barely a glance towards Seokjin or Jimin. Seokjin isn't sure he'd be able to stand the oppressive weight of Jungkook's sad eyes or his concerned hovering. Even worse, a part of him is afraid that the person he's forged himself into will crack back into the person he was and Jungkook will hate him for it.

Meanwhile, they aren't talking much, him and Jimin.

Sohyun is planning something big, Jimin said after the first party.

She's in league with several others, after the second, though he didn't have any names.

She got rid of her old companion, after the third. Accompanied by Jimin locking himself in the bedroom and not emerging for hours—long enough that Seokjin got desperate and left food in front of the door. When he did finally make an appearance, his face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed. Seokjin knew better than to comment on it, just reheated the now-cold food in silence.

Party number four is on the enclosed rooftop of a fancy apartment complex that looks like all the others in this sector. Seokjin drinks too much wine and tolerates Sohyun's hand on his arm—matches her razor-edged smile with one of his own. An hour into the hellish evening Sohyun proposes some entertainment and Jimin kisses her male companion to the tune of a lecherous crowd. Seokjin puts a stop to it before it can progress further than heavy touching, citing his own possessiveness as he hauls Jimin back to his side by his leash.

Jimin is shaking in the car home but he bares his teeth when Seokjin reaches for him, like an angry alley cat with its hackles up.

"Did you learn anything?" Seokjin asks.

"No," Jimin snaps.

They return to the apartment.

Jimin shuts himself up in the guest room.

Seokjin throws up all the wine.

_ _

There are things that Yoongi doesn't think about. He has a box in his head labeled DO NOT OPEN and sometimes it rattles and roars and leaks, dripping black all over his thoughts, but he always stubbornly tapes it closed again, over and over and over. He suspects it's the only way he's managed to stay sane over the last year.

Whatever Yoo Minseok could demand as payment for access to his little brother (as well as Yoo Minsoek in general— can't go back, can't let him out, focus focus focus ) all get shoved inside not long after the meeting with Baekhyun is done. Hoseok is skeptical when they relay the information to him (conveniently leaving out, by unspoken agreement, any mentions of a cost).

"And you really think we can trust him?" he asks from his spot on the couch.

He looks ... bad. That's the only way Yoongi can think of it. Hoseok looks fucking terrible, all washed-out skin and dark-ringed eyes and lank hair and bandages that finally no longer come away bloody but remain visible where his baggy shirt is riding up. He isn't looking at Namjoon when he asks the question, and Yoongi probably shouldn't be surprised about that. It was foolish to think the two of them might get along just because Yoongi happens to be standing in the middle.

"Yeah," he answers when it's clear that Namjoon is going to defer to him for this conversation. "I do."

Are you sure we can trust any of them? Hoseok's answering expression says, but Yoongi doesn't know how to assuage his doubts.

You still trust me, right? He asks back and Hoseok sighs.

"Fine," he says, rubbing his temple. "Just be careful. Please?"

"I'll try." It's all he can promise now, no matter how much Hoseok hates it.

Hoseok sighs again, but doesn't protest. Yoongi wishes he had more to give as he watches Hoseok carefully push himself to his feet and wobble towards the bedroom, still limping heavily. He wishes for so many things that he knows better than to dwell on. So he lets Hoseok go in silence, and after the bedroom door clicks shut Namjoon shifts and puts a warm hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing gently across the back of his neck.

Yoongi also doesn't think about how good the touch feels, or the fact that he doesn't know the right way to touch Hoseok anymore but he might let Namjoon kiss him, if Namjoon ever offered.

Whore, a chorus of voices snarl.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

_ _

Warehouse 8 — Sector 6 — 10pm, reads the message that pops up on Namjoon's phone a few days after the meeting with Baekhyun. He wasn't expecting a response so soon, and he stares at the characters with trepidation. Will Yoo Minseok be there? Why Sector 6? He's never tried to take a companion outside of Sector 1 before, though he knows it's allowed. And a warehouse? This only gives them a few hours to prepare and travel, is that too little?

"We don't have a choice," Yoongi says when Namjoon shows him the message and expresses his doubts. "Tell him we'll be there."

So Namjoon sends back an affirmative and reminds himself to stay calm.

"I want to come with," Hoseok predictably insists as soon as they've relayed the plan to him.

"You can't," Yoongi counters.

Namjoon hovers uselessly in the doorway, knowing better than to intervene. Yoongi is changing—a swift, methodical process that he doesn't seem to care if either of them are present for. The soft baggy clothes he normally wears around the apartment get exchanged for form-fitting pants and a lacy shirt. Hoseok's eyes narrow and his jaw clenches, though Namjoon can't tell if it's in response to the clothes or Yoongi's refusal.

"Why not? I can stay out of sight."

Yoongi crosses over to the dresser where makeup is laid out and starts lining his eyes. "You're still injured, Seok-ah. You need to rest."

"I've been resting for weeks."

"You're still limping."

A frown cuts across Hoseok's mouth, darkening his features. "That doesn't mean I need to be confined to bedrest, hyung."

"I don't want you there," Yoongi says, turning away from the mirror. "Alright?"

Anger morphs into hurt and back again. Namjoon swallows, wondering if he needs to intervene. If it's his place, considering the history here. If there's anything quite as tragic as two people who used to love each other standing on opposite sides of a widening fault line.

"Why?" Hoseok demands.

"It's better this way."

"Why?" Hoseok takes a step forward, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Yoongi presses his back against the dresser. The expression on his face is ugly—an echo of the rage he wore like armor the day he tried to kill Namjoon. "Are you gonna hit me, Hoseok?" he asks in a measured, challenging voice. His gaze drops pointedly to Hoseok's fists.

Hoseok freezes—all the anger evaporating instantly. "I ... you think I would?"

He sounds horrified and Namjoon wants to explain that Yoongi thinks anyone is capable of violence. It's a paranoia etched into him by trauma and it ripples out into everything. All you can do is absorb it and stay calm, stay gentle. But he doubts Hoseok wants to listen to him right now, or Yoongi wants him sharing such vulnerable insights.

Besides, guilt is already creeping into the corners of Yoongi's expression and he shakes his head. "Never mind. Namjoon, let's go."

Namjoon doesn't know what else to do but follow him. The bed creaks behind them as Hoseok sinks down on it. Namjoon gets a last glimpse of his bowed head before he gently closes the door.

_ _

It's quiet on the drive out to Sector 6. Yoongi stares out the window while Namjoon navigates through the evening traffic, debating whether or not to say anything about what happened in the apartment.

"Hyung," he ventures carefully after the silence begins to feel too heavy. "About Hoseok..."

"I don't want to talk about him," Yoongi says, a note of warning in his voice.

Namjoon ploughs ahead, unable to just let this lie. "I know, I'm sorry. But ... I think you're pushing him away in an attempt to protect him and I'm not sure that's the right thing, hyung. I know ... I know you don't want him to see certain things, but—"

"I don't want him to see any of it."

"I know, but that isn't really an option anymore, is it?"

Yoongi pulls his feet up onto the seat, curling into a defensive little ball. "I don't care if he hates me, it's better than ..." A hitching breath. "Let him be angry instead of heartbroken, okay?"

"Yoongi..." Namjoon starts, aching, but Yoongi shakes his head and looks away, signaling the end of the conversation.

Namjoon sighs and focuses back on the road as it becomes more congested closer to the boundary checkpoint. They'll need to go through two, and Namjoon isn't sure what will happen at either of them.

"They'll check my chip," Yoongi says when he asks, voice emotionless. "And ask you to test the seals."

Namjoon flinches. "What?"

"Standard procedure."

Namjoon curses softly. It's too late to turn back now, though, they're already in line for the first checkpoint. City police seem to be moving cars through quickly and efficiently, at least. Like everyone, Namjoon has a scannable sticker on his windshield designating his home sector. Because it's Sector 1—and there's an additional tag on his license plate labeling him as a member of the Eight families—he's always been able to travel anywhere in the city largely unchecked. Tonight, though, Yoongi is in the passenger seat and the officer on duty gestures for him to stop the car.

"I'm sorry, sir," he says apologetically when Namjoon rolls down the window. "I need to scan him, it will be quick."

"Fine, get on with it," Namjoon snaps, injecting his voice with arrogant impatience. The officer scurries over to Yoongi's side of the car and reaches through the open window to press a scanner to Yoongi's neck. It beeps and whatever information the officer has extracted seems to satisfy him because he nods and taps something onto his tablet.

"Thank you, Kim Namjoon-nim. Now, please, I just need to verify the seals are active."

Namjoon sighs, put-upon, and reaches for Yoongi's tethered wrist, pressing his fingers into the center of the black band. It flares red and Yoongi hisses in pain. Namjoon drops his wrist quickly, arching an eyebrow at the officer. "Good enough?"

More tapping. Another nod. "Yes, thank you, Namjoon-nim, that's all we needed."

"Let us through, then," Namjoon says, placing his hands back on the steering wheel. "We've wasted enough time."

The officer bows in apology and raises the gate, allowing Namjoon to pass through into Sector 3. One checkpoint down, one to go.

"Are you alright?" he asks Yoongi as they leave the guardhouse behind.

"Of course," Yoongi says. His lips twitch in a tired approximation of a smile. Namjoon squeezes his hand and braces himself for the next round.

The guard on duty at the checkpoint between Sector 3 and 6 seems mostly tired and bored, though he snaps to attention when he sees the tag on Namjoon's license plate and pulls his name from Yoongi's chip. He also stammers out a request to check the seals and Namjoon once again grits his teeth and presses his fingers to Yoongi's wrist, watching Yoongi jerk and gasp. The guard thanks Namjoon, just like the last one, and beckons them through into Sector 6.

This is a quieter sector—far more rundown than 1 and 3. Only a few portions of it are residential while the rest, like Sectors 4-8, is dedicated to production and distribution. Which means a district that consists entirely of huge warehouses. Namjoon parks his car on the edge of it, in the shadows, and climbs out, rolling the tension from his shoulders.

"Now what?" he asks Yoongi, reaching over to undo the cuff around his wrist.

"We don't get caught." Yoongi pulls the coat Namjoon brought along over his thin shirt. Their mingled breath hangs heavy in the winter air. "There will be patrols stationed but this district is understaffed. If we're careful we should be fine—might not even run into anyone."

Namjoon nods, buttoning up his own coat and handing a face mask over to Yoongi. "Baekhyun's family runs one of delivery companies, so Warehouse 8 probably belongs to him. Still, better to stay out of sight. Information has a nasty way of getting back to Sector 1."

"Fucking tell me about it," Yoongi mutters, adjusting the black mask so that it covers the lower half of his face.

And just like that, it's Suga standing in front of him—if he looks past the eye makeup. It's ... almost unsettling in a way Namjoon can't define and doesn't have time to dwell on.

"Lead the way," he says to Yoongi after double checking that his own mask is secure.

Yoongi nods and plunges into the maze of warehouses, staying out of the halos of light formed by the towering lamps. He moves the same way he did in his early days with Namjoon: light on his feet, like a flitting ghost. Namjoon, far less graceful, keeps up as best as he can. Yoongi pauses briefly, crouched in the shadowed doorway of Warehouse 5, to let a patrol past them. It's only two guards and they're engaged in a lively discussion about some radio broadcast, not paying any attention to their surroundings. They walk right by Namjoon and Yoongi, less than a meter distance away, and don't spare a single glance in their direction.

Namjoon's heart is still hammering in his chest by the time they finally turn a corner and their voices fade. He startles at the hand Yoongi lays on his arm.

"Almost there," Yoongi murmurs and starts off again, at a quicker pace than before.

The light above Warehouse 8 is flickering, giving the area a strange, ominous feel. Yoongi darts around to the side door and tries the handle. It swings open noiselessly and he beckons Namjoon inside. The cavernous space is eerie, large shelves rising from the gloom like sleeping giants—cast in shadow by the silvery streams of light emanating from the glass panes on the warehouse ceiling.

In the middle of the shelves is an open space that reminds Namjoon of a clearing in an Old World forest, occupied by a table and several chairs. Lounging in one of them is Byun Baekhyun. His hair almost glows and the scar across his face looks more black than red in the play of shadows across his skin. Another man sits next to him, clad in street clothes and sporting simple black hair instead of the dye elite usually favor. But he is an elite—Namjoon vaguely recognizes him as Lee Minhyuk, the youngest son of the powerful Lee family.

Behind Namjoon, Yoongi lets out a shaky breath, heavy with relief.

"Namjoon-ssi," Baekhyun says, taking his feet off the table to sit up properly. "Glad you make it okay."

As Namjoon gets closer he realizes that once again Baekhyun has been concealing things from him. This time, it's a deep scrape near his temple and one arm tucked into a sling under his coat.

"What happened to you?" Namjoon asks, shocked.

"Minor accident," Baekhyun says with a dismissive wave. Minhyuk snorts and Baekhyun shoots him a quelling look that he ignores.

"He can keep his lies to himself," he says, standing. "They're not important right now, anyway. Rumor has it you're looking for Kihyun."

"Rumor has it you can help with that," Namjoon replies and Minhyuk smiles.

He doesn't seem quite as interested in games as Baekhyun is—more blunt and direct and willing to cut to the chase. Namjoon's grateful for it. Maybe they won't have to jump through quite as many hoops as he was anticipating. Right now Minhyuk shakes his head, a disbelieving smile on his elegant face.

"I still can't believe you're one of us."

"I can be a good liar," Namjoon replies with a shrug.

"No shit," Minhyuk says with a grim laugh. "I'd written you off as being another bastard like Minseok." His gaze slides to Yoongi, still hovering a little behind Namjoon, and lingers for a moment before cutting away. "And you really want to kill the king, huh? I hate to break it to you, but you're not the only one."

"So I've heard," Namjoon says smoothly. "But I think I might have some advantages."

Minhyuk arches a condescending brow. "Really? Like what? The city police? That's what you want Kihyun for, right? Unfortunately, you have to remove his brother first and that isn't going to be easy."

"No one's immortal," Yoongi says with uncharacteristic quiet.

"He might be," Minhyuk mutters grimly. "Sold his soul to some Old World deity for power."

"I've told you a thousand times," a new voice suddenly speaks from the shadows, startling Namjoon, "that isn't true."

Minhyuk sighs. "You were supposed to stay hidden."

A figure emerges into the moonlight, a little shorter than Minhyuk. He also has black hair and sharp, sophisticated features, but he doesn't hold himself with quite the level of confidence that Minhyuk does. This is someone who has spent his whole life trying to be as invisible as possible. Who is used to folding himself up into the quiet corners of rooms and letting eyes pass over him.

When he speaks, his voice is soft, too, but it holds authority. "I didn't want to. I'm tired of chess games." He takes the seat that Minhyuk previously occupied. "No one else is listening, so let's put all the cards on the table, shall we?"

"Yoo Kihyun?" Namjoon guesses as he approaches the table, taking another one of the empty chairs.

"Yes. I do occasionally leave my apartment," Kihyun says, wry.

The chair next to Namjoon scrapes across the concrete floor, signalling Yoongi's joining of the discussion. Like Minhyuk, Kihyun's gaze flits to him briefly, but doesn't linger, snapping back to Namjoon. Namjoon purposefully leans back in his chair and holds his silence. If they have some kind of problem with a companion being present, he wants to know now so he can reject this alliance before they lay too many of their cards down.

Fortunately, Yoongi picks up on his body language and scoots closer, resting his arms on the table. "So, all the cards on the table. You know about what we're planning?"

"Baekhyun's filled me in a little. I can guess the rest."

"Baekhyun also gave off the impression that we might have to go through your brother to get to you," Yoongi says.

Kihyun sighs. "Contrary to popular belief," a pointed look at Minhyuk and Baekhyun, "my brother is not my jailor. Just because Baekhyun's family is actively trying to kill him doesn't mean mine is."

"What?" Namjoon says in alarm. Suddenly, the scape and the sling take on a far more sinister meaning.

Baekhyun's sigh echoes Kihyun's. "It's a long story. Not important. The short version is that for a long time I was the only heir because my parents couldn't have any other children. Infertility in general seems to be a curse on our family. But now my uncle has a daughter, who just turned five and doesn't have the mutation. Therefore, I'm no longer the only heir and he can sweep me out with the garbage like he's wanted to do for years."

A chill runs down Namjoon's spine, imagining his own extended family actively plotting his death. They've never liked him, true, but they've always been content to stick him in a corner and leave him be. Which has perhaps been luckier than he's realized.

"In contrast, my brother has always had a soft spot for me," Kihyun says, voice tinged with sadness. "He protected me from my parents, who wanted to keep me locked away. He's ensured that my isolation is comfortable and allowed me relationships, guarding their secrecy so my parents don't find out." He glances at Minhyuk and it's a telling look, full of history. Minhyuk shakes his head and looks away, shoulders stiff.

Namjoon can feel the tension radiating off Yoongi, stronger than he's ever experienced. When Yoongi leans forward, Namjoon catches a glimpse of his clenched jaw in his periphery.

"You know what he is, right?" he asks Kihyun, dagger-sharp. "What he's capable of?"

"I'm not blind," Kihyun says softly. "Or naive. I know that my brother is a monster. That he's brought great harm to many people. That he may love me, but that love or respect doesn't extend to others with the mutation." He takes a deep breath and when he looks up from the table, his eyes are a well of grief—deep and desolate.

"Tell me what your plan is and I'll help as much as I can. I won't stand in the way, and when my brother is out of power, I guarantee the police and other city defenses will be on your side. No one in my family will challenge me—most of them aren't aware of my mutation and I'm the next legitimate heir. But I won't help you kill him. I ... I can't."

"I can," Minhyuk says darkly, but softens when Kihyun frowns at him. Definitely history there, possibly a relationship, but it's not important right now.

Yoongi's voice is, speaking in a low rumble. "We're going after the king, as I'm sure Baekhyun informed you. The only way to enact true reform without the city falling into chaos is to put someone else on the throne."

"Who?" Minhyuk asks. "You?" A glance to Namjoon. "Or him?"

"I doubt it," Baekhyun says with a knowing smile. "No offense, but neither of you seem like the ruling type."

Namjoon isn't insulted. He's always known that he's not cut out to be king. Yoongi might be—probably is—but the elite world would never accept a Marked on the throne. He'd have a bigger target painted on him that Seokjin will.

"My cousin," Namjoon says. "Kim Seokjin."

Baekyun's smile only grows, suggesting he probably reached this conclusion already. Minhyuk's eyebrows go up, but he doesn't seem opposed either, and Kihyun is stone-faced.

"He's a good choice," Baekhyun says. "We went to school together. Always knew there was more to him than he liked to let on."

"Anything is better than our current king," Minhyuk says. "He's a vengeful idiot, too afraid of losing his power."

"Still, killing him won't be easy," Kihyun says. "And there are others with plans for power, as I'm sure you know."

"Kang Sohyun," Yoongi agrees with a nod.

"And whoever's helping her," Namjoon adds.

"My brother probably is," Kihyun says. "But I can't be certain."

"Can you find out?" Yoongi asks.

"I can try. Minseok keeps a lot of things from me. He's always considered me frail—which I suppose isn't a lie, the medication I take to suppress the mutation makes me ill constantly." And as if to prove his point, he coughs, hunching over slightly. Minhyuk instantly reaches over to rub Kihyun's back in what looks like a well-practiced routine. The coughing abates quickly, though, and Kihyun straightens again, with a wry expression on his face. "As you can see. But I'll do my best to get you more information. I can pass it along to you through Minhyuk and Baekhyun."

"Thank you," Namjoon says.

Kihyun nods. Hesitates. Then looks at Yoongi when he speaks. "I know that death is the least my brother deserves for the things he's done. But...if there is any way to spare him. I—he's the only real family I have left. Lock him away, if you have to, but..." he trails off with a sigh, a shake of his head.

Yoongi is uncharacteristically hesitant too. There is something here that Namjoon suddenly feels like he's missing. Something important. "I'll try," he says at last.

"Thank you," Kihyun says with a dip of his head. Yoongi looks away.

"Well," Minhyuk says, standing. He raises an empty hand like he's holding a cup in a toast. "To a better world."

"To a better world," Baekhyun echoes, raising his own imaginary glass. "Let's hope we all live to see it."

_ _

Seokjin regrets accepting Sohyun's invitation to a more "intimate" gathering, even though he knows it's a good sign—her welcoming him further and further into her good graces. But she's stayed glued to his side almost all evening, keeping her arm looped through his and her fingers pressed against his skin like well-manicured claws. He knows what she wants, and he's also not sure how to refuse her it. A long time ago, in another life, he was happy in her bed, but the thought of it now makes him sick. Still, he figures if it's a price that's going to be demanded, he'd better pay it, considering everything Jimin and Yoongi have sacrificed.

Speaking of Jimin, that's another thing that has him on edge. This "intimate" setting is still over thirty people all mingling together in Sohyun's penthouse and five minutes after stepping through the door, Yoo Minseok swooped over like a particularly terrifying hawk and asked for some time with his companion. Seokjin tried to refuse, tried to lean into the possessiveness that he's been showcasing for the last several parties, but Sohyun was waiting—the vulture to Minseok's hawk—and she said, cheerful, oh, come now, Seokjin-ah, he isn't going to do anything. Surely you can let him admire?

And so, stuck between a rock a hard place, he'd handed Jimin over and hasn't seen him since. It's been nearly forty minutes, according to the ostentatious wall clock he can see over Sohyun's shoulder, and fear is steadily tying Seokjin's stomach into more and more complicated knots.

Fortunately, the one silver lining in this whole nightmare is that he was able to secure an invitation for Namjoon, and he can see him and Yoongi hovering close to the refreshment table.

"Would you like another drink?" he asks Sohyun, adding in a flirtatious touch to her waist in the hope that will convince her to release him for a few moments.

"I would," she says, smiling. Her hair has blue streaked through the blonde today, and as usual her glittering dress matches, as do the bracelets on her wrists and the gems around her neck and dripping from her ears. She's turned every head in the penthouse tonight. Seokjin imagines a different life, where she is on the throne and he is on her arm forever, and the knots gain new intricacy.

"I'll be right back," he forces out of his mouth and leans it to briefly brush his lips across her cheek, fleeting but still far too intimate. He tells himself her pleased smile is good—he wants her wrapped around his finger, if this is ever going to work—and extracts himself, making a beeline for the table while also trying not to look like he's fleeing.

"Have you seen Jimin?" he asks Namjoon and Yoongi as soon as he gets close enough, making a show of busying himself with making drinks.

"No," Namjoon says. "We caught a glimpse of him a little bit ago but nothing after that."

Seokjin curses under his breath. Yoongi, silent next to Namjoon, looks ... terrified. That's the only word Seokjin can think of. He's seen Yoongi tired and sad and shaky in the aftermath of terrible drugs, but never like this. Never so pale and drawn, never so much ... like a companion, even if both him and Namjoon have been a little on edge since their meeting with Baekhyun and company a few nights ago. He wants to ask if Yoongi's alright, but there are too many eyes of them, and Yoongi, as a pretty decoration, shouldn't be answering him.

"We'll do another sweep," Namjoon offers. "I'm sure he's—"

A pained shout suddenly echoes through the room, rising above the steady murmur of voices and soft strains of music. Seokjin turns, but can't make out the source of it amidst the barrier of now alarmed party guests. But the awful, unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh follows the original yell and Seokjin's stomach gives up on the knots and just starts trying to climb up his throat as he flashes back to the garden of a different party, and Jungkook bloody at Shin Guho's feet.

Jimin.

He moves almost unconsciously, elbowing his way through the gawping partygoers until he's at the epicenter of this unfolding disaster, where Minseok is pressing Jimin to the marble floor with a shoe on his stomach, his handsome face contorted into a snarl of rage and blood dripping from his arm.

"You little bitch," he seethes.

Jimin snarls right back at him, writhing like a furious snake. Any second now this is going to escalate beyond repair and Seokjin reaches desperately for ice and calm as he steps through the last line of onlookers and says, "what's going on here."

"Your fucking companion bit me," Minseok snaps.

"I did warn you of that," Seokjin says mildly.

"He made me bleed." Minseok holds up his wounded arm and yes, those are definitely teeth marks in a red, bloody ring on his skin. Fuck, it looks like Jimin almost tore a chunk out of him. Seokjin would be proud under any other circumstances.

Right now, though, he has to appease.

He gestures for Minseok to step back and reaches down—calm, calm, calm apologize later—to haul Jimin to his knees with a grip on his hair. Jimin gasps and keeps right on fighting, trying to claw at Seokjin's hand, then his leg. Seokjin isn't even sure Jimin knows where he is right now.

Forgive me, Seokjin thinks and shifts his grip, snagging one of Jimin's wrists and pressing down on the seal.

Jimin shrieks as it flares to life, coughing and doubling over in agony.

"That's right," Seokjin says, all steel. "Stop fighting me."

He lets go and Jimin drops to the floor again, on his stomach, panting.

"I apologize for his lack of discipline," he says to Minseok with a bow. "I'll be sure to punish him accordingly."

"I want to punish him," Minseok fires back. "That's only fair, right?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Seokjin can feel Sohyun watching him. Assessing him. This has become another test and if she's in league with Minseok, then he doesn't dare refuse. But there is no way on this barren earth that he's going to hand Jimin over to this monster, even if right now he wants to shake Jimin and demand to know what the hell he was thinking, pulling something like this.

On the floor, Jimin pushes himself up on one arm, fire still in his eyes. "Just try," he rasps, glaring up at Minseok. "I'll kill you."

Forgive me, forgive me, Seokjin mentally begs again as he coldly forces Jimin back onto his stomach with a kick to the ribs, then pins him there with a shoe against his throat.

"Enough," he snaps to Jimin. "Stay. Down. Or I'll cut out your fucking tongue and make sure you never walk again." Jimin wheezes, but mercifully remains still, and Seokjin turns his attention to Minseok. "I understand your anger, Minseok-ssi," he says. "But I'm perfectly capable of adequately disciplining my own companions."

"Seokjin-ah," Sohyun says from behind him, and her voice is light but undercut by an unmistakable note of warning, "it's a matter of courtesy, isn't it? Minseok won't permanently damage him."

Seokjin sucks in a quiet breath, trying to figure out what to do. How did they end up here? This wasn't supposed to happen, what the hell is he supposed to do now except—

"What about my companion?" Namjoon asks suddenly, from somewhere to Seokjin's left.

Seokjin glances over to see him emerging from the crowd, pulling Yoongi along behind him. Once he's in this small clearing with Seokjin, Jimin, and Minseok, he shifts to put Yoongi in front of him as if presenting him to Minseok.

"I know he didn't commit the wrong," Namjoon continues. "But my cousin really is very proprietary and this companion is much more agreeable than his, anyway. You could do whatever you like to him, except permanent damage."

There is no way this will work, Seokjin initially thinks, except. Except something shifts on Minseok's face. His expression morphs into a cold delight that Seokjin can't understand but chills him to the bone.

"That's a generous gift, Namjoon-ssi," he says, approaching them and stopping right in front of Yoongi. "Normally, I wouldn't take you up on it—I want punishment where it's due—but this one." He reaches out and tilts Yoongi's chin up, and there is the terror again, all over Yoongi's face, but beneath that is fire and iron, like always. "We have some unfinished business." He looks over Yoongi's shoulder at Namjoon, who has remained remarkably stoic. "I want him for the night. I'll return him to you in the morning, and no permanent damage, you have my word. And you can do whatever you want with your companion, Seokjin-ssi, but I trust you'll train him better. Deal?"

Seokjin's heart is thudding in his chest so loud, he thinks the whole room might be able to hear it. Beneath his foot, Jimin makes a noise of horrified protest, trying to fight again. Seokjin presses down—self-loathing black and furious inside of him—until Jimin stills with another battered wheeze, air almost cut off.

And Namjoon ... Namjoon hands over Yoongi's leash.

"Deal," he says.

Minseok takes the leash with a wolf's grin, all fangs. "Let's go, pet," he says to Yoongi and hauls him away, towards the elevators.

Seokjin brain restarts, reminding him of all the eyes still on him and Jimin, of Namjoon's worried gaze and Sohyun's assessing one. It also helpfully informs him that Sohyun's apartment has access to a private rooftop terrace, which she usually leaves open.

"Excuse me for a moment, noona," he says with a bow towards her and drags Jimin upright, then through the crowd, following Minseok's path to the elevators. He can't look at Namjoon as he passes, doesn't know how to face that yet. Or the enormity of what's just happened.

Instead, he focuses on shoving Jimin inside and pushing the button for the roof—finally letting out a shaky exhale when the doors close. Next to him, though, Jimin crackles with barely contained fury, like an encroaching lightning storm. Seokjin has a feeling that all he's going to be able to do is weather it.

The doors open onto the empty roof and Seokjin steps out, into the cold. He's expecting the blow, braces himself seconds before Jimin's fist connects with his stomach. It's still enough to double him over. Gods, he can't remember the last time he was in a fight.

Not that this will be much of a fight.

"How could you?" Jimin snarls and hits him again, sending him to one knee. "How the fuck could you hand Yoongi over to that monster?"

"It was him or you," Seokjin gasps out.

"And we're just pawns to you, right?" Jimin grabs his hair, forcing his head back. He blinks up at the winter sky, and the snow flurries starting to fall, deceptively peaceful. "You talk about a better world, but aren't we really just helping put another tyrant on a throne? Do you actually care?"

"Of course I care," Seokjin says. "Jimin-ah—"

"Don't call me that." Jimin knees him in the stomach this time and he collapses forward onto his hands and knees. "Stop pretending."

"You provoked him," Seokjin points out, clutching his stomach, but making no other move to get up. This is the least he deserves, he figures, for what he did downstairs. "Why did you attack him like that?"

Jimin's anger lessens a degree, replaced by guilt. "Because he ... he kept talking. He talked about all the things he did to his companions, that he wanted to do to me. And..." he shudders, clenches and unchlences. "And all the things he did to Yoongi. He wanted to know if Namjoon had done similar things. If you had and I..." Jimin's voice cracks. "I couldn't..."

Pieces click into place to form a horrible puzzle. "He used to own Yoongi," Seokjin whispers.

Jimin nods. "Before Namjoon. He said ... he said he regretted selling Yoongi, but he's glad that he ended up with Namjoon because then at least ... at least he was suffering like he deserved. Fuck." Jimin rakes an agitated hand through his hair, messing up the styling. He's shaking, Seokjin realizes. "Fuck this is all my fault. I just—I couldn't—"

"Come here," Seokjin says, because he doesn't know what else to do. "Come here, please." He snags Jimin's sleeve and pulls him down and in, until Jimin is kneeling on this snowy roof, pressed against his chest like Jungkook was once. But this feels different: Jimin's nails claw at his back, as though the rage in Jimin is still leaching out, in search of a target, and Jimin doesn't sob like Jungkook did, just shudders in Seokjin's arms.

Seokjin lets him hold on as tight as he needs. "I'm sorry," he says and means both for Yoongi and for the awful display, for the ways he hurt Jimin—evident in the increased bruising around Jimin's throat and the fading reddish-tint of the seal on his right wrist. "It wasn't ... it was him or you, and Yoongi never would have let it be you."

"He's a fucking martyr," Jimin hiccups. "Hate him for it."

"I'm sorry," Seokjin repeats, because it doesn't feel like there's anything else to say.

Jimin shakes his head and pulls back. Seokjin pretends not to see the tears he wipes away from his eyes as he rises to his feet.

Seokjin stands more gingerly, still clutching his bruised stomach.

"I'm not apologizing for that," Jimin says, firm, and Seokjin manages a weak smile.

"I wouldn't expect you to."

Jimin shivers. Looks away to the night-lit city sprawled out around them. Snow is landing in hair, brilliant white amidst the darker silver. He touches his neck with careful fingers, pressing against the bruises left by Seokjin's shoe. "You're very good at this," he says quietly, but with a subtle note of accusation.

Seokjin sighs, staring down at his hands. "I know. I've always been good at masks. I think it's a trait we share."

"I'm not wearing one right now," Jimin says, still sounding scraped raw. "But I've never seen you take yours off."

Seokjin understands what Jimin is implying: how can I trust you if you continue to hide from me? It's a valid question, and perhaps he's always known this moment was coming eventually. He'd just been hoping for better circumstances.

"You're right," he admits. "I'll tell you all of it, if you want. The whole sordid tale of Kim Seokjin. You deserve to know, and you can decide if you want to gut me after."

"Would you let me?" Jimin asks.

Seokjin looks at him—at the blaze of his red-rimmed eyes and the tired curve of his spine and the echoes of grief and rage and terror on his face. He thinks of Jungkook, curled up weeping on his living room floor and bleeding in his bathtub. Of his grandmother's hardened face and cold tile beneath his knees and the only time he's ever begged in his life.

"Yes," he says, and isn't sure he's ever been quite this honest. "I would."

Jimin nods. Wraps his arms around himself. Their mingled breath hangs heavy in the air as Seokjin extends a hand. "There's nothing more we can do right now," he says. "Not until the morning. So let's go home."

Jimin blows out a long breath in a puff of steam. Then he reaches out and takes Seokjin's hand, threading their fingers together.

_ _

Namjoon stares down at his hands and the tremors running through them, twitching along his fingers. They haven't stopped shaking since he left the party, since he handed Yoongi's leash over, and he—

The elevator dings, announcing the arrival on his floor. He staggers out into the hall, slumping against his front door, and wonders if he's going to be sick. If he has that right.

Give him me, Yoongi whispered urgently once they realized what was happening. He'll accept. Do it now.

And Namjoon hadn't hesitated, trusting Yoongi the same as always—not even fully comprehending the situation, that there were things Yoongi hadn't told him and now —

Who silenced me for months with a muzzle when I couldn't keep quiet, when the pain was too much - and he'd hurt me for crying, hurt me so bad I'd bleed for days —

Now...

Namjoon sucks in a ragged breath and fumbles his way through the code on his door, tripping his way inside. He kicks off his shoes without bothering to put them in their proper place and unbuttons the suffocating collar of his shirt with his still timorous fingers. It takes three tries before he gets it undone but the suffocating feeling doesn't lessen, and he realizes that maybe it's his lungs constricting all on their own. Maybe he's never going to breathe properly again.

"Where's Yoongi?" a voice asks and he looks up to see Jung Hoseok standing in the middle of his living room, regarding him with alarm and the beginnings of fury. His lungs compress further.

Hoseok. He forgot all about Hoseok, oh god.

"Where is he?" Hoseok repeats, taking a limping step forward. "Why isn't he with you?"

Namjoon opens his mouth, but nothing comes out except for a wheeze. Maybe he's never going to be able to talk again, either. He thinks he should probably get on his knees and beg Hoseok for forgiveness, but he can't move. His limbs have locked up just like his lungs and he's frozen here, halfway between the door and the living room, like a mute, helpless statue.

Hoseok's face twists. "What have you done?" he demands, closing the rest of the distance between them and grabbing a fistful of Namjoon's shirt. The delicate cloth strains in his grip. "What the fuck have you done?"

"I..." Namjoon tries. "I ... I couldn't...."

Hoseok shakes him with surprising strength—hard enough that he can feel his teeth clack together. "Answer me."

Hoseok is going to kill him for this, Namjoon thinks, and it'll probably be deserved.

"Jimin provoked a party guest," he finally manages to get out, voice still wobbling. "And he demanded payment and—"

"So you gave him Yoongi?" Hoseok half-shouts, shaking him again. "You fucking gave him Yoongi?"

"Yoongi told me to," Namjoon gasps. "We had to save Jimin, we—"

Hoseok yanks him forward, spinning them around so that he can shove Namjoon further into the living room. Namjoon staggers and slips, crashing onto his back on the floor. Hoseok looms over him, a towering inferno, and Namjoon experiences a sudden sense of a deja vu. Will Hoseok go for a vase? A knife? His shoulder throbs with memory. His heart aches.

"We," Hoseok spits. He's shaking, too, just like Namjoon—seconds from shattering. "We like your initials aren't on his arm. Like you couldn't do anything to him and he wouldn't be able to stop you, like anyone would care if you break him or kill him or hand him over like a fucking object to appease someone's anger."

"I would never," Namjoon insists, desperate. "Not willingly. I love him."

Hoseok freezes like he's been struck and oh. Oh shit. Namjoon was never supposed to say that out loud. It was supposed to come with him to his grave. He braces himself for another round of Hoseok's wrath—half-hoping that Hoseok will hurt him like Yoongi is undoubtedly being hurt right now, because who hands someone they love over to a sadist, no matter the circumstances?

But instead of hitting him, Hoseok laughs and collapses to his knees. The laughter quickly dissolves into a gasp of pain and then a sob and then Hoseok is almost hyperventilating—a hand over his chest like he's trying to physically keep his heart beneath his skin. Still aching, Namjoon crawls forward and grabs his free hand, absorbing his flinch.

"I'm sorry," Namjoon says. "I'm sorry, I never meant—I wouldn't do anything about it. Ever. I—it was him or Jimin tonight and he made the choice, I just—I'm so sorry. I should have protected him, thought of something else, I—"

"Shut up," Hoseok says, but it sounds more tired than angry. He isn't pulling away from Namjoon.

What messes they are, Namjoon thinks, half-hysterical, broken here on the floor.

Hoseok's head remains bowed, black hair hanging in his face. "I spent so much time looking for him," he whispers. "I never thought it would be like this when I found him."

"He still loves you," Namjoon insists. "He's just ... he doesn't want you to see him this way. All of this ... horror."

Hoseok shakes his head. "You don't have to pity me. I've seen the way he looks at you." He sighs and finally looks up, exhausted and earnest all at once. "But you don't understand, I don't—I'm angry at you but I know you haven't hurt him. I would have killed you if I thought you had. Or you would. And I don't own him. He's allowed to love who he wants. This isn't about that. I just ... I want him to be safe. I want all the people that I love to be safe. It's all I've ever wanted."

Namjoon has no idea what to do with I've seen the way he looks at you so he sets it aside. It doesn't matter, like Hoseok said. "I want that too." He squeezes Hoseok's hand. "Otherwise, what's the point of all this?"

"A better world," Hoseok says, but it sounds bitter.

He finally pulls away from Namjoon and wipes a still-trembling hand over his face. "I need a drink," he rasps. "And then you're going to tell me what happened. No more fucking secrets, okay? Yoongi might want to keep me out of this, but I have a say too."

"Deal," Namjoon promises and helps Hoseok to his feet.

_ _

They still end up on the floor again, this time slumped against the cabinets in Namjoon's kitchen, passing a bottle of wine back and forth.

"You didn't know?" Hoseok repeats, frowning at him.

"No."

"Would you have? If you'd known?"

"I..." he's not sure. Doesn't want to contemplate that.

"Never mind," Hoseok mutters and takes another swig of wine. "Unfair question."

"It was him or Jimin."

"I know." Hoseok sighs. "He's always been that way—willing to do anything for someone he loves. When we were kids at the orphanage, he used to insist on taking all my punishments for me. 'I'm the hyung,' he'd say. And then when the kids came along ... he'd lay down his life for them without hesitating. We both would. Even if you'd said no, he would have found a way to make sure it was him in Jimin's place. I don't blame you, as much I want to."

"I offered to get him out of the city," Namjoon says, taking the wine from Hoseok. "Send him somewhere safe. He refused."

Hoseok laughs sadly. "Sounds about right. I've always loved and hated how selfless he is."

"He's afraid that you'll stop loving him, if you see too much."

"Never," Hoseok says fiercely. "Not in this lifetime or the next. Never."

Namjoon nods. He knows that, but he suspects that convincing Yoongi is going to be difficult—especially after tonight.

"It hurts," Hoseok continues, clutching at his chest again. His cheeks are flushed from the drink, contrasting the grimace of pain contorting his mouth. "Knowing that he's suffering and there's nothing I can do. It fucking hurts."

"I know," Namjoon whispers, because the pain on Hoseok's face is familiar and it echoes between his own ribs. "But you can ... just be patient with him. Be here. I think—or I like to think—that it helps. At least a little."

"You're good with him," Hoseok says and for once it's without bitterness. Namjoon doesn't know if the alcohol or the grief has softened him or if they've genuinely reached some kind of truce. "I'm ... glad for that."

"I try. It feels like the least I can do."

Hoseok takes another long pull from the bottle and hiccups. "You're a good person, Namjoon. Better than I wanted you to be."

"Don't say that. Not tonight."

Hoseok settles the bottle down between them, shifting to face Namjoon properly. His eyes are like twin furnaces, boring into Namjoon, and when he speaks, there's brimstone in his voice. "Promise me something: Yoo Minseok dies. I don't care what it takes. Coup or not. He fucking dies."

"He dies," Namjoon agrees with a level of fury and hatred that he doesn't think he's ever experienced before. "I promise." He'll cut the bastard's throat himself if that's what it comes to. "And we'll take care of Yoongi," he adds, shifting closer to Hoseok. "None of us are breaking from this. We'll ... whatever it takes to help him. Together."

The blaze shutters, letting sadness sweep back in, but Hoseok nods. "Together," he whispers and holds out a hand.

Instead of taking it, Namjoon pulls him into an embrace, holding him. Or maybe, he realizes—as Hoseok makes a wounded sound and clutches at the back of Namjoon's shirt, bruising and grounding—they're supporting each other.