"People often forget the true purpose of fire: not just destruction, but cleansing. In the wake of a forest fire, it is said that plants often grow back stronger than before. In the Old World, fires were used to clear away dead vegetation so fresh forests could flourish. Sometimes, to get to the new, you first have to burn away the old."

- Excerpt from the writings of Suga, underground resistance leader.

_ _

It's September 1st and Taehyung is crouched on a rooftop in the rain. It's been raining all week, and he remembers, once upon a time, hearing stories about how the rain used to be welcome. It would help things grow, the early remnants of the Old World thought. It would bring back the forests and the rolling fields and the green that used to blanket over 63% of the country, if statistics are to be believed.

But nothing changed. The ground still killed almost everything planted in it. Now there are the farms - massive complexes that do everything they can to cultivate food and other necessary fauna - but it's still a battle. And if you believe the government posters, that's Taehyung's fault. Anyone born with the mutated gene. Born with these strange powers that turned the Earth against them.

The details are fuzzy. The records gone. No one knows exactly how Marked destroyed the Old World, only that they did.

But that's not important, or that it's raining again. The important thing is this: it's September 1st.

It's September 1st and his whole heart is burning in his chest. This rooftop was special once, last year. It's one of the tallest apartment buildings in the sector and the lock is always broken on the access door, meaning that it's easy to sneak up here and get a view of the whole city - all the way to the gleaming skyscrapers of Sector 1.

Jungkook used to stand on the ledge, arms outstretched and the wind blowing in his hair.

Get down, Taehyung used to insist, stomach in knots. Before you fall.

Jungkook would smile over his shoulder, all scrunched nose and bunny teeth. I'm not going to fall.

But Taehyung would still pull him back, fingers tangled in his patchwork jacket, and they'd kiss instead - his hands moving to Jungkook's hair while Jungkook's bracketed his waist. They'd kiss until they were breathless with it, until Taehyung could feel the burn in his lungs and his blood, but they never went further. It was a comfort thing - an intimacy so rare out here, where they carted away the dead by the dozens every winter and people disappeared without warning.

It was ... just something they did.

(Though he was lying to himself, even back then.)

September 1st, last year, he brought Jungkook here. Gave him a little cake he'd scraped together a week's worth of ration cards to buy and kissed the grin stretching his mouth.

Tae, you shouldn't have.

I wanted to, he said. You're twenty. That's special.

It's just another year.

Eat your damn cake, he said and kissed him again. The scar on his cheek this time - a nick from a knife when he was sixteen and reckless. When he didn't know how to back down from a fight and Yoongi-hyung would yell at him even as he pressed warm cloth to whatever part of Jungkook was scraped up and raw and bruised.

There is anger in all of them and it comes out in different ways. Taehyung wasn't really angry back then, not in the way he is now. Furious enough to choke on it, for it to push his ribs against his fragile skin and make his chest rattle.

Because it's September 1st and Jungkook isn't here.

I wonder what it's like out there, Jungkook said once, nodding at the glittering lights in the distance. In Sector 1.

And now he's imprisoned there. Somewhere so far out of Taehyung's reach he might as well be on a different planet. But Taehyung is still trying. Hacking auction house after auction house using his contraband, cobbled-together laptop and government wireless. They got so close four months ago: a record of Jungkook at a small auction house in Sector 6, a rescue operation that took several weeks to plan and then failed completely. They arrived just in time to see Jungkook being loaded into a transport van and driven away, like something out of the Old World movies Hoseok used to talk about.

The roar in the back of his head started then and hasn't calmed since. He doesn't care what it takes. How much he has to give or what the risks are or how many times Hoseok tells him to be careful. He'll get them back, both of them. Even if it's the last thing he does. Because he ...

He shakes his head and pulls the hood of his coat further down. The rain is mostly a light drizzle, but Hoseok will still be angry if he gets himself sick. He's been out here long for the chill to start seeping into his bones, so he figures it's time to stop wallowing and do what he came to.

He fishes around in his pockets for the stick of incense he purchased with some rare, leftover cash from a courier job earlier in the week. Incense, Yoongi-hyung said once, used to be a big part of the Old World religions. People would burn it for comfort, healing, and as offerings to their gods in long-gone temples. It was a waste, Taehyung's always thought, it didn't save them in the end.

But sometimes, Hoseok buys sticks from a vendor up the street and burns them in the apartment. Just to get rid of the smell of mildew that creeps in during the wet season and the odor that comes from five people living literally on top of each other. Jungkook always found it soothing. Would purchase his own sticks and set them in a little glass jar by their bed, until their whole apartment smelled of jasmine.

So Taehyung lights one for him now, in spite of the lingering rain. The little plastic lighter is Yoongi-hyung's - from back when he used to smoke to relieve his stress, before Hoseok made him quit. It sits in a drawer in their kitchen now - just one of the many small pieces of Yoongi left behind, scattered across their lives.

(It hurts, still, that Yoongi and Jungkook's clothes take up space in their shared dresser; that one of Jungkook's sketchbooks sits on the shelf by their bed, next to Yoongi's notebook, full of future essays scrawled in a shorthand only Yoongi can decipher; that their spare, taped-together sneakers sit side by side near the door, collecting dust. Taehyung keeps tripping over remnants of them and it hurts. )

"Happy birthday, Kook," he whispers, holding up the burning stick in the direction of Sector 1. "I love you."

(He's never said those words to Jungkook's face and it's one of the biggest regrets in his life. Right behind not going on the smuggling run that got Jungkook sanctioned.)

"I'll find you, I promise. I'm sorry it's taking me so long, but just ... keep holding on, okay? I'll find you both."

He lifts the stick higher in a silent toast, watching as the wind gathers up the smoke and carries it away.

_ _

Yoongi's whole body hurts and his head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton. Not a new sensation, really. He's been drugged enough times now to recognize the effects: muddy thoughts, heavy limbs, dry, aching mouth. He breathes out slow and keeps his eyes shut, utilizing these few minutes of peace to assess his situation. He's on a bed - can feel the softness of a mattress against his back and a pillow tucked under his head - but he isn't tied down or restrained in any way. The seals on his wrists ache, as does the fresh tattoo on his arm, both signs of a new owner. He's dressed, surprisingly, and the clothes are loose and comfortable. Someone has wrapped gauze around his torso and thighs, spread healing salve over his lingering welts and bruises.

He thinks back, struggles to remember through the fog of the drugs. The auction house again - his third time there - and the rehabilitation that he stubbornly skips over. Then a man, with aristocratic features and a powerful aura. A man who likes a challenge, likes to heal his companions so he can break them all over again.

Kim Namjoon, said several of the other sanctioned that night. I've heard of him.

So has Yoongi.

The Kim Cousins - no one purchased by them comes back alive.

They film it, another companion whispered to him, everything they do. Keep libraries.

They torture companions to death, another one said. Get off on it.

Worse than a boarding house, someone else insisted. If you ever get bought by them, find a way to end it.

Yoongi can't end it, though, not when Jungkook is still out there somewhere. (He wakes, sometimes, with arms that ache from the memory of Jungkook being ripped from them, like internal phantom pain.)

I'll find you, he promised, their last night together.

Not if I find you first, Jungkook fired back with a smile that didn't reach his grief-stricken eyes.

Three masters, three failed escape attempts, eleven months of what feels like never-ending horror, and he wants to break. Wants to let go of the threadbare strings holding him together and sink into oblivion. He's seen other companions do it, to cope. Their bodies are present, but their minds are long gone - cocooned somewhere safe, where the pain can no longer be felt.

That's a form of ending it, though, even if it's less final. Jungkook is waiting and Yoongi isn't going to stop trying until there is no more life left in him. So if Kim Namjoon wants to kill him for sport, well ... Yoongi will just have to kill him first.

You're getting ahead of yourself, says the voice that always sounds like Hoseok. Get more intel first.

Right. Opening his eyes would be a good start.

He does so slowly, blinking around as the room comes into focus, bathed in warm, dim light. It's larger than his apartment back in Sector 10 and decked out in the elegant, Old World style all these ridiculous elites seem obsessed with. Paneled walls, with paintings of long dead forests, an expansive window covered by gauzy curtains, a large bed and stately furniture made of dark wood (a rarity these days, a sign of wealth), a far-too ostentatious light hanging from the ceiling above him, and a faux wood floor covered by what appears to be a massive midnight blue rug.

He's been left alone, he realizes as he gingerly sits up, gritting his teeth against the sharp twinge in his side, and there's a glass of water on the bedside table.

It might be a test. He's been punished for taking liberties before, far too many times - crossing lines in the sand he didn't even know had been drawn there. But god he's so thirsty and no one is around. If Kim Namjoon has hidden cameras up, then fine.

Pain is something Yoongi is used to.

He picks up the glass with unsteady fingers and makes himself drink it slow. It's cool and fresh, so different from the water they try hard to filter in Sector 10, and he savors it. It will probably be his last in a while. Though if Kim Namjoon wants him to heal first...

He pushes the thought away, glancing over at the closed door. He doubts he's supposed to leave the room, but no one's tied him down. Maybe the door locks from the outside? That's common.

Taking a deep breath, he pushes himself off the bed and limps over. His leg still hurts, but it isn't the sharp, visceral pain of before ( when a boot came down hard and he heard the crack of bone and tasted blood in his mouth as he tried not to scream ) and he makes it to the door fairly easily. There's ... there's no lock at all. The handle gives beneath his hand, turns, and ... he steps back. Presses his ear to the fake wood instead, trying to pick up any signs of life beyond.

It's quiet. He can't hear anything so maybe - wait. Footsteps. Getting closer.

He scrambles back, sinking onto the bed just as the door opens and Kim Namjoon steps inside.

"Oh," he says, blinking. "I thought I saw the handle turn. Good to see you're awake. How do you feel?"

Dizzy. This is ... this boy is different from the one at the auction house. The expensive suit has been replaced by an oversized sweater and the arrogance evaporated in favor of an almost nervous expression. He's wearing fluffy house slippers and glasses and his once carefully styled silver hair is now falling onto his forehead. He looks completely non-threatening - and is this another test? Another game?

He films it. There won't be anything left of you when he's finished.

You need more intel, Hoseok reminds him. Play along.

"Fine, master," he says, ducking his head respectfully.

Kim Namjoon, in his periphery, winces. "Please don't call me that."

Yoongi blinks. "Master?"

"Yes. Just Namjoon is fine."

Fuck, his head is spinning. "Namjoon," he says carefully and Kim Namjoon smiles instead of hitting him.

Maybe he's dreaming and he's actually still drugged out on the bed.

"Sorry," Namjoon continues, leaning against the dresser. He's tall, that hasn't changed, and a little broad, and could probably pin Yoongi down without much of a fight, at least when he's injured like this. "I know you're nervous. And confused. And probably won't believe me, but I'm not going to hurt you."

"... you're not?" Yoongi asks and Kim Namjoon nods instead of hitting him for speaking out of turn.

"I'm sure you've heard the rumors, but they're just that. I ... cultivate them on purpose. But you won't be hurt here. I just have a few rules, but we can go over those later. First, you must be hungry."

He is, but that's another thing he's used to. From long before he was sanctioned.

He still inclines his head, because it seems like the right thing to do, and then he's following Namjoon out into the main living room (just as elegant and dripping of wealth as the bedroom - there's even a piano in the corner and his fingers twitch with half-remembered longing), and being seated on a stool at what appears to be a breakfast bar. He got a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the way across the room, and his makeup's been removed, as well. He looks ... almost like himself. Like he was before - Yoongi, instead of Gloss. It makes him feel strangely vulnerable and he pulls the silky robe he's been put in tighter around himself, cherishing the layers of clothing while he has them.

"I can't cook at all," Namjoon is saying, digging around in his fridge. "But I have some leftovers I should be able to heat up without burning anything."

Namjoon is ... actually making food for him? Instead of ordering him to do it? (" And remember what the price is for ruining it, boy.")

A test. It has to be. Or a dream.

"I-" he says, starting to stand again. "I can, mas-Namjoon-"

"No, no, you're still injured," Namjoon insists, motioning for him to sit down.

A few minutes later and a steaming bowl of tteokbokki is set in front of him. His mouth waters. It's a big portion. In Sector 10, they would have had to split this much between two of them for a meal. In the past year (" you're so thin and pretty, aren't you? Delicate."), well most people haven't been big on feeding him.

But Namjoon is looking at him expectantly, and passing over a pair of chopsticks, so...

He eats. He eats and it's the best thing he's ever tasted - has to be careful to pace himself so he doesn't choke or get sick. And maybe Namjoon will make him throw it up later, but he doesn't care. Right now, in this moment, he's going to enjoy this unexpected comfort.

"Thank you," he manages when he's finished - somewhat surprised Namjoon also didn't take the food away halfway through. That's another favorite game.

"You're welcome," Namjoon says and actually dips his head. Like he's talking to an equal.

It's unsettling.

"So," he continues as he wipes down the marble countertop. "Rules."

Right. The most important part.

"You have free run of the apartment - I'm not going to lock you up or confine you. The only places off limits are my study and bedroom. They're passcode locked. The elevator outside and the front door will also only work with my fingerprint, so I'd advise against any escape attempts. You can help yourself to as much food as you want, just let me know when we're getting low. Books and other things, too, just please don't damage them." He sets the rag down and runs a hand through his hair. The nervous air is still here, even as he's trying to be commanding. "Don't call me master or bow or anything like that. And like I said, I won't hurt you."

Yoongi struggles to take all this in. "What ... what will you do with me, then?"

Intel, he needs intel.

"This is only temporary," Namjoon says. "Just for a few weeks. Until you've healed up. Then, I'll send you to Busan. But we'll talk more about that later, too."

A chill runs down Yoongi's spine. Send him to Busan? That sounds like euphemism if Yoongi's ever heard one. Which must mean ...

He gets it now. What a fucking game this is. A few weeks of being treated almost as a person - fed and allowed clothes and books and a small measure of freedom - until the injuries have healed and maybe there is a sense of security. Then Namjoon gets to rip it all away. Gets to kill the hope, break the trust, shatter everything he's cultivated and watch his poor, pathetic companion fall to pieces.

And then, after it's all over and there's nothing left of them, he "sends them to Busan."

Why the warning, though? Hoseok wants to know.

Maybe he thinks Yoongi's stupid. That's the general assessment of companions: pretty, with empty heads. Maybe he's offering it now and then he's going to make Yoongi forget it and then, then, at the end - when Yoongi's tied to a bed or a table and bleeding out - he'll lean in close and whisper I told you.

No, Yoongi decides. No, that isn't going to happen. He won't let it. Jungkook needs him, he has to try again. Namjoon said a few weeks - he just has to plan, play along until he's healed enough for a fight.

And then he'll strike before Namjoon has a chance to.

"Okay," he says now, ducking his head in submissive understanding. "Thank you."

Namjoon smiles at him. He has dimples. "Good. And ... what's your name?"

Wait ... what?

Maybe he didn't read the file.

"Gloss," he says, hating the way it sounds on his tongue.

"No," Namjoon insists, shaking his head. "No, your real name."

His real ...?

No one's ever wanted that before.

It's another thing he's going to take from you, Hoseok warns, but honestly what does it matter? Most days, it already feels like there is so little of Min Yoongi left. What's another piece?

"Yoongi," he says, and it comes out cracked. A little broken. "My name is Yoongi."

"Yoongi," Namjoon repeats and smiles again. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," he says on autopilot and reminds himself to breathe.

_ _

Back at the apartment, Jimin is waiting for him. Clucks in quiet disapproval at his wet clothes. Hoseok-hyung is already fast asleep, and Taehyung frowns at the dark circles bruised under his eyes. He tries so hard to stay cheerful for them, to keep smiling, to the be the head of their little family unit in the way that Yoongi once was, but Taehyung can still see the fracture lines of grief in him. When he wears Yoongi's scarf sometimes, even though the smell has long faded, or when he stops and adjusts Jungkook's sneakers on the rack, straightening them as if Jungkook had just put them there.

Jimin tucks a quilt over his shoulders and urges him outside onto the covered balcony. They've set up two rickety chairs here and a small table - clotheslines strung across the ceiling for drier days and a small plant that Jungkook had been trying to grow, now barely kept alive by Jimin and Taehyung.

"You know what day it is?" he asks as Jimin presses a bowl of watery soup into his hands.

"Of course I do," Jimin replies quietly. They all do. That's why Hoseok is in bed at 8pm. Probably drank himself there with the disgusting, contraband alcohol he insists he doesn't buy.

"I went to our roof," Taehyung continues, swirling the soup around with his spoon. He isn't hungry, but he knows better than to let food go to waste. "Lit some Jasmine for him. With Yoongi-hyung's lighter."

Jimin rubs the back of his neck - a familiar, soothing gesture. It's been him and Jimin for so long - years before Yoongi plucked them off the street and offered them a home, since the orphanage when Jimin gave Taehyung a portion of his food even though Taehyung was being "punished" and not allowed to eat. It was Jimin who planned their escape and Jimin who held him after he got his first strike and yelled at him after he got his second. Jimin, who got in trouble to keep them fed and stood up to Yoongi when Yoongi was a stranger and dangerous and they didn't believe that he actually wanted to help.

Jimin, who sat with him as he downed nearly a whole bottle of soju after Jungkook was taken. Who listened as he whispered, I love him.

Of course you do. We all-

No.

And in that moment, it was Jimin who understood immediately, without him having to spell it out any further, and who held him when the tears finally came. Rocked him as he wept and sobbed and finally fell into exhausted, grieving sleep.

And it's Jimin that takes his hand now, squeezing tight. "I miss him, too. Both of them."

"He's twenty-one today."

"He is."

"How did that happen?" Taehyung huffs. "I still remember when he was shorter than me."

A tiny wisp of a thing, already part of Yoongi's makeshift family for over a year when Taehyung and Jimin joined. Fifteen years old and the bravest kid Taehyung had ever met.

"Me too," Jimin says and Taehyung smirks at him.

"Please, he was never shorter than you."

Jimin predictably smacks him on the arm and they giggle together, for a moment, until tears start to flood Taehyung's eyes. He lifts a hand to wipe them away, angry at himself. Jungkook doesn't need his tears.

"Hey, it's okay," Jimin says, pressing a kiss to his temple. "He'd understand."

"He'd tease me," Taehyung mutters.

With that infuriating smirk of his, that ridiculous arched eyebrow. Tears again, Taehyung-ssi?

(Jungkook never cried - he got that from Yoongi, Taehyung thinks. Unflappable, both of them.)

"He would," Jimin agrees. "And then he'd hug you. So here."

Jimin pulls him close and he doesn't even care about the plastic arm of the chair digging into his side. Jimin is warm and home and an anchor, like always.

"Thank you," Taehyung whispers into his shoulder. "For always taking care of me."

Jimin strokes a thumb over the mark on Taehyung's neck. "Of course. You take care of me, too. We're a family." He stands, the chair creaking. "Now, c'mon. We should go to bed."

"You go ahead. I'll come in a minute."

"Tae..."

"I'm fine," he insists, wishing he could wipe the pinched, worried look from Jimin's face. "Go to bed, Chim."

Jimin sighs and goes, ruffling Taehyung's hair on his way past. Alone in the dark, Taehyung folds his legs under him and wraps the quilt tighter around his shoulders. If he squints, he can almost see the outline of Jungkook in the seat next to him - long legs sprawled out in front of him, head tilted toward Taehyung's, big eyes on the city lights.

I'm getting old, Tae, he would say. And you're practically ancient.

And then they would bicker until Yoongi-hyung ducked his head out to huff at them for being too loud.

"Fuck, I miss you," Taehyung says now, to the void where Jungkook should be. "I miss you so much."

He hopes, desperately, that at least for tonight Jungkook is safe. Isn't in pain.

Knows that, in spite of everything, there are still people who love him.

_ _

There is a clock on the wall of Namjoon's living room. A fancy one, that also lists the day and the temperature outside: 9:52 p.m., 7.2 degrees celsius, September 1st.

September 1st.

Fuck.

It hurts - like a blade between the ribs: absence and memory combined. Somewhere out there, Jungkook is twenty-one today. Yoongi can only hope he doesn't have the scars that Yoongi does, or still-healing wounds like the ones on Yoongi's skin. But he also knows not to be naive. Jungkook was a big deal at their first auction house - young and beautiful and ... and untouched. The sale of him was a massive event, bidding through the roof. A couple bought him. One of the Eight, he thinks - members of the king's court. It was the man's birthday gift to his wife and there was no kindness on their faces when they looked at Jungkook or in their hands when they touched him.

He doubts the past year has been free of horrors.

Happy Birthday, Jungkook-ah, he thinks and tries not to remember the way Jungkook cried on their last night. The salt of his tears on Yoongi's tongue when they -

No. It doesn't matter. He can't let it matter yet. He needs to focus on the man on the sofa across from him, who is arching a confused eyebrow. He's probably been staring at the damn clock for too long.

"Yoongi?" He's still not used to his real name out of Namjoon's mouth, either. "Are you okay? Do you need to lie down again?"

He really is convincing, Hoseok remarks dryly, with all this concern.

Ha.

"I'm fine," he says, careful to keep his voice quiet. Respectful. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Namjoon assures him. Then waits.

Oh shit. He must have asked a question.

"I ... I'm sorry ... what did you want to know again?"

Any other elite and this would be grounds for punishment. A blow to the face, a belt to the back, no food for two days - the list feels endless and usually starts with him on his knees. He's ready to slide off the couch ( play along, play along ) but Namjoon seems ... embarrassed? He scratches the back of his neck like he's nervous, still. Around Yoongi. What a fucking novelty.

"Ah, sorry. I just wanted to know - your last master. You hit him with a vase?"

Two vases, actually. And neither killed him. Tragically. Also, he'd miscalculated the guard rotations and gotten caught before he could even leave the building. Not one of his greatest attempts but he'd been desperate. And not exactly in his right mind.

That's another thing he isn't thinking about, though.

"Yes," he says because Namjoon has clearly read his file and will know if he lies.

He expects Namjoon to press for more details, to ask him why. Instead, Namjoon stares at the patterned rug beneath their feet, strange tension ticking through his jaw. "He must have been awful, then."

"He was," Yoongi whispers, deciding he's too tired to worry about whether or not this is a test, too.

Namjoon nods and gets up from the couch. Yoongi stiffens on instinct, but Namjoon is gesturing towards a door that Yoongi assumes is the bathroom. "I should probably check your bandages, if that's alright with you?"

He's ... being asked for an opinion? He almost wants to say no, just to see what will happen, but the gauze is starting to itch. "Okay."

The bathroom is large - a far cry from the tiny closet they crammed into back in Sector 10. But the features are simple and now hardly the most luxurious Yoongi's been in. One of his previous masters - CYJ on his arm - had a fucking gold bathtub and sink.

Namjoon pulls a surprisingly well-stocked first aid kit from beneath the porcelain sink, and Yoongi hadn't given it much thought before, but he supposes Namjoon was the one to bandage him up in the first place, since that isn't a service the auction house usually provides. Too many masters like their companions marked up.

"Um," Namjoon says, looking strangely uncertain again. He motions towards the robe, and the loose shirt and pants Yoongi has on underneath. "Would you mind...?"

Yoongi takes a deep breath and strips. Nakedness is another thing he's used to, but his fingers still itch with the urge to cover himself and his mind still clings to the potentially foolish hope that the clothes will be given back after this is over.

"Sorry," Namjoon mutters and fuck, could this get any weirder? An elite, standing in his own bathroom, apologizing to his Marked companion. "Sorry, I'll be quick, okay?"

"Yes," Yoongi says, for lack of anything else.

Namjoon's hands are soft, unmarred by hardship, and shockingly gentle as he unwraps the bandages wrapped around Yoongi's torso, then his skinny thighs. There is nothing sexual about the way Namjoon touches him - he doesn't linger anywhere, doesn't let his hands drift to intimate places - and Yoongi finds himself relaxing, just a fraction.

Namjoon also talks, trying to walk Yoongi through what he's doing. "Okay, it's looking better," he says as he examines Yoongi's back. The bruises, Yoongi notes, are fading to a sickly green now and the welts on his thighs are closing. "I'm going to wash your back, and then put on some more salve, alright?"

Yoongi nods.

Namjoon is ... good at this. Practiced, in the way he carefully runs a rag down Yoongi's aching back, over his shoulders. Yoongi's fingers curl into fists where they're braced against the counter. It would be so easy to hurt him like this - grab the back of his neck, shove him down until the edge of the marble digs into his stomach and Namjoon can take what he wants - but Namjoon moves on to the salve quickly.

"This might sting a little, I'm sorry."

It does, but it's a good pain. The healing kind.

It's been a year, Yoongi realizes, since anyone has touched him in a way that doesn't make his skin crawl.

Keep your guard up, warns Hoseok, and Yoongi closes his eyes as Namjoon wraps fresh bandages around the wounds. Moves down to Yoongi's thighs and his touch there is even lighter, trying so hard not to be intrusive.

This is an illusion, a game, a play at kindness, and Yoongi knows that, he does. He won't forget it.

But he still thinks it's going to hurt when Namjoon takes it away.

"There," Namjoon announces, straightening. "All done."

Yoongi blinks his eyes open and glances down at the new gauze covering his thighs, too, from the tops his knees all the way up to just below his groin.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

Namjoon dips his head in acknowledgment as he starts to pack up the first aid kit. Yoongi stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Is he supposed to get dressed again? Or does Namjoon want to keep him...?

"Oh," Namjon stammers, glancing at him then darting his gaze away quick. "You, um, you can put your clothes back on, sorry. And I'll have some more for you this week. Clothes, I mean. I just need your measurements. And they won't all be pajamas, I promise. I just thought these would be good while you heal, you know? Less chance of aggravating your wounds when they're loose." He scratches his cheek and shakes his head. "Uh, anyway. You can put your clothes back on."

Yoongi obeys, trying not to rush, to seem too overeager ( as few weaknesses as possible, remember?), but he can't help a small sigh of relief when he's fully dressed again and tying the robe tight around his waist.

"Right," Namjoon says, returning the kit beneath the sink. "You probably want to sleep some more?"

The drugs are still leaving his system, and he does feel tired. Sluggish. Even after nearly a whole day of unconsciousness.

"Yes," he agrees. He wants his head clearer. He wants to be left alone because it's September 1st and he wants to ... he wants to mourn, maybe. For himself. For Jungkook. For Hoseok and Jimin and Taehyung - left behind in Sector 10. He tries so hard not to think about them, to wonder if they're eating enough or if they're warm enough now that winter is creeping in or who has taken over the network now that he's gone. Is Hoseok still broadcasting? Are the kids safe?

Stop it, says the Hoseok that's taken up residence in the back of his mind. This isn't helping.

Even if ( when) he gets Jungkook back, they'd have to flee the city, most likely. Or start over in a different part of it. Going back to Sector 10 would put Hoseok, Taehyung, and Jimin in too much danger.

"Let me know if you need anything," Namjoon says and Yoongi realizes that they're in front of the bedroom door now.

He doesn't remember crossing the apartment. Leaving the bathroom at all.

"Okay," he says, swallowing down his unease. It's just the drugs and the drugs will wear off. Besides, he doubts Namjoon will stay here the whole time with him. If he really means to give Yoongi free reign of the apartment, then there will opportunities to investigate later. For now, he needs sleep. "Thank you."

Namjoon nods and retreats back into the living room. Yoongi shuts the bedroom door and collapses back onto the too-soft bed.

The city lights are bright through the curtains and Yoongi clutches the fabric of his shirt. Above his aching heart.

Hold on, Jungkook-ah. Just a little longer.

He's getting out. Even if he has to kill Kim Namjoon to do it.

_ _

His hands are shaking. It doesn't happen often, anymore. The once crippling fear has faded in the face of necessary numbness, and besides ... there isn't much left, he thinks, that hasn't been done to him. Why fear what you've already endured?

So it isn't fear, tonight, that's causing the tremors. Dread, maybe, that he's having trouble ignoring. It's coiled in his stomach like a snake, reaching up to choke the air from his lungs, and his unsteady hand is making it hard to apply the liner to his eyes. Usually he can do this without any issues but ...

Deep breaths, he reminds himself. You'll survive.

It will be in pieces, probably, all cracked and jagged inside of him, but it's okay - he's gotten good at stitching himself back together again. At least enough to keep going, to keep fighting. There are three sets of initials on his arms, after all, and two crossed out. He takes pride in the fact that he at least hasn't made this easy for any of his owners. Yoongi-hyung taught him to fight, and he's fighting as hard as he can.

He has to tread carefully, though, with this third master. If the man returns him like the other two did, then the auction house will pass him off to the boarding houses. And no one escapes from there. So he isn't fighting tonight, in spite of the dread.

(He's not sure which is worse, the unknown, or knowing exactly, intimately , how much this is going to hurt. )

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

His hand evens out, gradually, and he finishes putting the liner on - follows it up with mascara. Then lipstick, the kind that makes his mouth look pink and a little swollen. Contouring on his cheeks, and powder that makes him seem pale and doll-like. Delicate earrings made of crystal that could pay for three month's worth of food in the outlying sectors.

He runs his hands over the sheer, glittery shirt he's been told to wear. Down to his thighs, encased in too-tight pants. A small, desperate part of him that he refuses to acknowledge, wants to weep.

The door to the bathroom opens and his master is standing there, resplendent in his purple suit. Objectively, he's handsome, even as he grows older in years, as gray hair lines his temples and crows feet branch from the corners of his eyes. Women fawn, Jungkook knows, though he's refused them all since his first wife died. Perhaps it is the loss of her that makes him cruel. Or perhaps it's something in his blood - a mutation like the gene Jungkook was born with, that warranted the tattoo on his neck.

The seals on his wrists twinge and the snake in his stomach coils tighter.

"You look perfect," his master says, sliding a possessive hand up Jungkook's back, over his neck - touch light but still full of promise. Disobey, move back, and the gentleness will evaporate. "Here, I have a gift for you."

A choker, made of the same crystal as the earrings.

"Thank you, master," Jungkook says and forces himself to tilt his chin up. The choker is too tight, but he knows that's intentional. A reminder, of who he belongs to. (As if he could ever forget, even without SGH tattooed on his arm in ugly black ink.)

Hands land on his shoulders, fingers digging in. "Do well for me tonight, pretty," his master says.

Tonight. A party, full of elite, even members of the Eight. To celebrate ... something, it doesn't really matter what. Jungkook is part of the entertainment - a party favor for the guests, a way for his master to make connections: offer up his pretty companion in exchange for a favor here, a good word there.

It's a dance Jungkook knows well now.

Deep breaths.

"Yes, master," he whispers.

His body is not his own - it's one of the first lessons he learned.

And he doesn't let himself think, as he rises on wobbly legs, about the fact that he knows it's September 1st. That this time last year, he was kissing Taehyung on a rooftop with what felt like the whole world at their feet - just for those few moments. With Taehyung's hands in his hair and Taehyung's body pressed against his and what might have been, could have been, would have been love stirring in his chest.

He isn't thinking about Taehyung at all. Or Yoongi-hyung. Or Jimin, or Hoseok.

You're getting out, he reminds himself. Just hold on. Just a little longer.

His master holds out a hand. The smile on his face is sharp enough to draw blood. Jungkook gathers all the chipped and battered armor he has left, sealing it around his shivering heart.

Then he allows himself to be led into the lion's den.