"What is there to say about Yi Seojun? What should be reflected in the history books when they're inevitably written? He was a young tyrant, assuming the throne after the untimely death of his father, who had reigned for nearly forty years. His older brother, meant to be the heir, died mysteriously of "illness" just two years prior. The elite so do love their poison.

But Yi Seojun was not his father, or his brother. He was both paranoid and excessive. He hosted lavish parties secure within the walls of his palace. He was prone to rages and fits of temper that terrorized his servants. He attempted to rule the outer sectors with even more of an iron fist than his father. He ordered the execution of anyone even suspected of speaking against him.

He died at the end of a blade wielded by a companion."

- Excerpt from writings regarding Yi Seojun, the tenth ruler of the city-state of Seoul, author unknown - believed to be the twelfth king [data corrupted]

_ _

Fever seizes Namjoon the night news of Hoseok's arrest is broadcast to the whole city, three days after shoving his medication to the back of his bathroom drawer to be forgotten. Time distorts into a strange blur of heat and muffled sound as he writhes on his bed—sheets tangled around him like coiling snakes. His throat constantly aches for water, no matter how many times a glass is raised to his lips. He wants to weep from the pain, but he thinks that even his tears have dried up.

In his brief moments of lucidity, he is aware of Yoongi hovering above him, placing cool cloths on his forehead and talking in a calm, soothing voice. But the words sound like they're in a language Namjoon no longer understands. It feels like something is awakening beneath his skin, in his bones—a presence, ancient and vast and impossible. There is a forest in his blood and he sees vines blooming from his body, crawling across the ceiling until they fade into the paint. Flowers that wither and die in seconds and the petals drift back down to land delicate on his face.

Something screams and he's not sure if it's his own voice or the forest roaring back to life. He thinks he might be dying. He thinks he might be waking up for the first time. He's not sure which of these is true.

When a degree of lucidity returns, it is morning and his bones ache like he's aged several decades and they're beginning to calcify. His mouth feels like a desert and his ears stuffed with cotton but there is relief on Yoongi's face.

"It looks like the fever's broken," he says and pours more water down Namjoon's throat. "How are you feeling?"

Namjoon coughs, wheezes, searches for the words that seem to have abandoned him.

"Okay," he manages at last. He isn't dying, he knows that now, but he can still feel the forest. It whispers in a foreign, ancient language, and twines branches around the inside of his ribcage. It saturates his lungs with every breath.

He feels ... powerful. Like he's somehow more than he was twenty-four hours ago. But it's not power in a conventional sense, he thinks. Not the kind that would crack the earth open or move mountains—what all the books speak of when they talk about the Marked. Rather, this ... this thing that has awakened inside of him is a small spark that he pictures cradled gently in his palms. A breath of life, a hint of green poking its way up from devastated earth.

It's beautiful, and tangled in the beauty is a profound well of grief that roils through him like a tidal wave.

"Namjoon-ah," Yoongi murmurs and Namjoon realizes he can't put any of this into words, doesn't even know where to start.

His eyes have blurred with gathering tears and he wipes them away before they can fall.

"The others?" he asks, surprised that Seokjin isn't also hovering by his bedside.

"I told them to wait outside," Yoongi says and then reaches for him. There is a slight hesitancy in his movements that hurts to see, but Namjoon just hums softly when Yoongi presses their foreheads together. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm okay," Namjoon promises, reaching up a still-shaky hand to rub gently over the tattoo on Yoongi's neck and then up into his dark hair. "I'm going to be okay."

Taking a chance, he tilts his chin up and seals his mouth carefully over Yoongi's. Yoongi sighs against him, returns the kiss. When he pulls away a few moments later, his expression is both exhausted and fond.

"I should tell the others," he says and pushes himself off the bed with a quiet groan. "We don't have much time."

Only thirty-six hours until the party, to be exact.

Namjoon nods, watching as Yoongi shuffles out the door, leaving it half open. A murmur of voices rises from the living room—too indistinct for Namjoon to make out the words. He stares down at his hands, twitching with the final aftershocks of last night's ordeal. They're soft hands, unlike Yoongi's callused and scarred ones. He's never been good with them, too clumsy and awkward and hesitant.

But maybe now...

The door swings open again, admitting a worried-looking Seokjin, carrying his medical kit.

"I'm okay," Namjoon rasps preemptively.

"I'll be the judge of that," Seokjin huffs at him.

Knowing better than to argue, Namjoon sighs and lets Seokjin to check his vitals then obediently drinks another glass of water before he's allowed to stand and wobble his way out into the living room—one hand braced on Seokjin's shoulder for support.

Everyone is gathered in the living room and Namjoon blinks as four heads immediately turn to stare at him.

"How are you?" Taehyung asks, rising from his spot on the sofa.

"Alive," Namjoon croaks.

He puts a hand on the nearby armchair to steady himself, hating how weak his legs still are. It's then that he notices the literal pot of dirt sitting on his coffee table.

"Is that real earth?"

Taehyung nods. Yoongi sighs.

"Where the hell did you get it?"

"We ... might have borrowed it from a greenhouse in Sector 6," Jimin says blithely.

Namjoon snorts. A part of him thinks he should be surprised, but after learning that two of the three people on his couch casually broke into The Seoul Institute, he doesn't think anything else is going to faze him.

"Right," he says. "I guess we should test this."

Seokjin and Yoongi shift the armchair over to the table so he can sit down. He pulls the pot to him and sucks in a calming breath. Lets it out slow. Hopefully, he's not about to blow up the entire apartment complex and kill them all. Everyone hovers around him and the stillness is almost oppressive as he lowers his hands into the dirt—like the world itself is now holding its breath.

Here they are: on the edge of the fulcrum. Life or death, hope or destruction, calm or chaos.

Namjoon closes his eyes and falls into himself, towards the forest that whispers and the vines that creep. Towards the spark heating his lungs, the tremor of life pushing up against devastated earth. He sinks his fingers deeper into the soil. Grasps onto that spark and pulls, feeling it flare brighter and brighter and brighter like an awakening sun.

He can feel the forest rumble, the vines inside his ribs bloom, and when he opens his eyes there is a small bud of green in the center of the pot, unfurlings its tiny, new leaves. He hiccups, stunned, and touches it with a careful finger.

"Oh my god," Jimin breathes.

Taehyung's expression is a study of grim lines. "That settles it," he says quietly. "We know the truth now."

Namjoon's gaze slides over to Yoongi, who is staring at the plant with wet eyes, wonder and devastation clashing on his face.

"We can bring the forests back," Namjoon whispers to him and Yoongi sucks in a watery breath.

It won't be that simple, of course. None of them know the extent of the damage the marks might have done—if removing them will also bring back this ability. None of them know the parameters of what could cause a shift into danger. It's going to take time, perhaps longer than they'll live, to undo the work of the past three centuries. But there is hope now, encapsulated in this little flush of green rising from the soil.

Namjoon wants to celebrate and he wants to weep. There isn't time for either.

"I'll contact the others," Taehyung says. "Tell them to prepare to meet tomorrow. Vasters can provide us with a safe location."

Seokjin nods. He also reaches out and brushes across one of the plant's tiny leaves. "Good. We're all going to have our roles to play."

And in thirty-six hours, either Seokjin will be on the throne or they'll all be dead.

_ _

Taehyung spends the rest of the day sifting through the last of his stolen data, hunched over the laptop for hours before Jungkook finally pries it away and coaxes him into a nap on the couch.

"They're such monsters," Taehyung mumbles as he eases down, voice slurring and deep. "Did you know that they manufactured all those incidents in the outer sectors? All the Marked who went 'rogue' and destroyed stuff? That was them, they released experiments ... tampered with the tattoo..."

Taehyung's eyes drift closed and Jungkook bows his head. He should feel angry, he thinks. Should feel twice the rage that courses through Taehyung because he's the one with seals and scars and a head full of mines. But there has been so much pain, so much horror, that only numbness weighs down his bones now. He feels like a carved-out canyon inside—vast and hollow.

Maybe someday, the fury will come. Maybe it never will. He could still be dead in two days, he'll sift through his emotions if they survive what's coming next.

For now, the apartment is quiet. Jimin is asleep with Seokjin and Namjoon with Yoongi. He can't think about Hoseok, trapped somewhere in the palace dungeons, but his mind is buzzing. So he drifts over to Taehyung's abandoned laptop and opens it up. Taehyung has it password protected, but Jungkook has seen him type in the string of numbers and characters enough times that he copies them easily from memory.

He sifts through the files from the Institute until he finds the ones taken from Choi Nayoung's server. He hovers over the video logs and takes a deep breath. A part of him insists he shouldn't do this; a larger part of him knows he was always going to. He scrolls through the logs, sickened by how many there are. They seem to be dated and then labeled with a character to indicate the experiment subject. He freezes when he finds one titled Baby. The dates line up to when she owned him and ... and that's what she always used to call him, never his name.

He clicks on it before he can second guess himself, keeping the sound muted. It takes a terrible few seconds for the video to load and then suddenly, he's staring back at his own face. In the video, his eyes are wide and glassy with drugs—sweat-damp pink hair pushed off his forehead. He watches the camera pan down his heaving chest, noting how much thinner he looks. He's naked—she almost always kept him that way in her apartment—and hard and shaking, wracked by tremors from the drug. His mouth is moving and Jungkook can't hear, still has the sound off, but knows he must be begging. He begged her for so many things, few of which she gave to him.

He expected to feel horror, watching this. Or disgust. But there is only sadness—pity for the boy in this video who is suffering so much. Jungkook wants to reach into the screen and cradle his face, wipe away the messy tears on his cheeks. Tell him that it's going to be okay if he just holds on for a little longer, just a little more.

In the video, Choi Nayoung injects him with something else, an innocuous clear fluid, and his mouth opens in a soundless scream, face contorting as he flops onto his back and writhes on the tiled floor. Jungkook watches, heart in his throat, and reminds himself that he survived this. He survived every single thing she did to him.

"What are you doing?" a horrified voice asks from behind him and he startles, slamming the laptop closed.

He twists in the chair to meet Taehyung's shocked gaze and clenches his jaw. "You were supposed to sleep."

"I can't sleep," Taehyung rasps. There are dark circles bruised under his eyes. "Why were you watching that?"

Jungkook chews his lip, hesitating. "Because," he says at last, hoping he can convey this right, "I don't want to forget him. I want to ... I carry him with me, Taehyung-ah, and everything he suffered. I wanted to acknowledge it and remind myself that even though he's part of me, I'm not him anymore. I survived. I'm ... I'm getting better." He twists the hem of his shirt in a nervous gesture. "In the end, she put me through hell but I won. I'm still here. That doesn't mean this pain should be buried, though. I don't want to bury it."

He's not sure he's making sense, not sure this is something that Taehyung is ever going to understand. But Jungkook doesn't need him to, he realizes. He just wants Taehyung to stop treating him like glass, to stop thinking that he needs protecting, to stop trying to erase every awful thing that happened because it's impossible.

Taehyung is quiet for long enough that Jungkook fidgets again, rocking in the chair as the anxiety rattles through his body.

"I..." Taehyung starts, then stops. Gathers himself again. "If this is what you need, then I won't take it away from you."

Jungkook blows out a relieved breath. "Good."

Taehyung shifts his weight, chews his lip, and the relief evaporates as quickly as it came. "I just ... can I ask you something? A few days ago, you kissed Yoongi-hyung."

Jungkook flinches, remembering the shake of Yoongi in his arms, the sounds of his sobs ... and shifting his face to press their mouths together—the best immediate comfort and distraction that he knew how to offer.

"And it looked like something you've done before," Taehyung continues. "Have you?"

He doesn't sound accusatory, Jungkook tells the panicked part of his brain roaring to life. He doesn't sound angry.

"I have," Jungkook forces the words out of his mouth. "I ... we slept together. In the auction house. He was my first, I asked him to be." He stares down at his lap, too afraid to look at Taehyung. "The fact that I was a virgin meant I was popular. Lots of people bid on the chance to..." he grimaces. "...deflower me. So I asked Yoongi to do it instead because I wanted it to be someone who loved me. I wanted all their fucking money to be for nothing." He sucks in a breath and raises his head, gathering up his courage. "I'm not sorry for it. I won't be."

Taehyung looks devastated, but Jungkook isn't sure why. "I would never ask you to be, Kook-ah," he murmurs. He takes a cautious step closer. "He was good to you?"

"Of course he was," Jungkook says. It hurt Yoongi, he knows that, and physically it was painful. But Jungkook had felt loved, and that was all that mattered. He laughs, a little bleak. "He's the best I've ever had."

Taehyung's hands land on his shoulders and his fingers curl in, holding on tight. "I'm glad you had each other," he whispers. "Is there ... now is there anything...?"

It takes Jungkook a moment to realize what Taehyung is trying to ask him and he shakes his head, reaching up to hold Taehyung's wrists. "No. I love him, but like you love him. Kissing him is ... it's comfort, that I can give him. Not a lot of people kiss us, Taehyung-ah. For most we're not worth that kind of intimacy. So it's a reminder, that Yoongi-hyung is. Is worthy. Should feel loved. But I don't ... he's in love with Hoseok-hyung and I...." Jungkook hesitates, looking up at Taehyung.

Taehyung, who has been so patient with him, in spite of his tendency to handle him with too much delicacy. Who even now, framed by city lights, looks at him with such compassion. He knows, without a doubt, that Taehyung would let go of him if Jungkook asked. Would bury everything they used to be, everything they were becoming.

But there are too many things already buried in the earth: secrets, the past, the truth. Jungkook's had enough of it.

"And I'm in love with you," he whispers and squeezes Taehyung's bony wrists.

Taehyung makes a strangled, undecipherable sound. "You are?"

"I am," Jungkook says, louder. "I have been for a long time. I just ... needed to remember."

Taehyung's hands shift up to cup his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheeks. "I love you too," Taehyung says. "I love you to the moon and back."

"The moon, huh?" Jungkook says, feeling a grin stealing across his mouth.

Taehyung nods seriously. "The moon."

Familiar anxiety cuts like a blade through his bubbling euphoria. "Even though I'm ... even though I've been ... used? And if I—Taehyung-ah, I'm not sure I ever want sex again, I—"

"It's okay," Taehyung insists, cutting him off as he starts to stutter. "I don't need sex, Jungkook-ah, and I'm never going to pressure you. And the ways you have been hurt, that has nothing to do with you. You know that, right? Nothing. They're the monsters, and they're the ones who deserve to burn. You..." Taehyung drops his hands and wraps his arms around Jungkook, pressing his cheek to the top of Jungkook's head. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. I'm never going to be ashamed of you."

Jungkook blinks rapidly, fighting a sudden surge of tears.

"Thank you," he says softly and feels Taehyung's lips touch his hair in a fleeting kiss. He brings his own arms up and winds them around Taehyung's waist, returning his embrace. "Whatever happens," he continues, "I'm so glad I've known you. I'm so glad we're together."

"Me too," Taehyung says. "And if we fail, I'll find you in the next life. I promise."

Jungkook closes his eyes, feels the tears spill over. "I promise too. I'll find you, always."

_ _

Jimin wakes before the sun and blinks over at the mattress indent where Seokjin was lying just a few hours ago. They hadn't talked much—exhaustion and dread weighing on them both—just kissed until Jimin fell asleep with his head on Seokjin's chest. He gets up quickly, shaking off the lingering fog as he dresses. The layout of Namjoon's apartment is familiar enough now that Jimin weaves his way through it in the dark, carefully creeping past Jungkook and Taehyung tangled together on the couch.

As expected, Seokjin is on the balcony, staring out at the pink and gold of sunrise painted across the smog-blurred sky. They aren't far enough into spring for the wind to have set aside its teeth and Jimin shivers from the bite of it as he slides the glass door closed behind him. Seokjin glances over at him, a tired smile flitting across his face.

"Today's the day," he says as Jimin comes to join him at the railing.

"It is," Jimin agrees. The smog from the factories in Sector 5 is thick today, obscuring his view of the outer sectors and the distant, towering city wall that shields all of Seoul from the desolate world beyond.

"Are you nervous?" Seokjin asks, too casually.

Jimin sits with the question a moment, turning it over in his mind. "No," he decides. He expected to be. It is a terrifying prospect, killing a king in the middle of his own palace, but when Jimin reaches inside himself he feels only calm. Perhaps the same kind that seemed permeated through Hoseok, when he told them he was giving himself up, when he didn't flinch at the prospect of torture and execution.

Seokjin sighs at his side. "I guess I'm not surprised. You don't seem the type to be afraid of much."

A laugh bursts out of Jimin's mouth. "Hyung, I'm always afraid. I've been afraid my whole life." Afraid of loss, afraid of helplessness, afraid of failure—he can't remember a time when fear didn't coil through him like a poisonous snake. He's just learned, over the years, how to harness the venom into something useful.

"The trick is pushing through it," he says, leaning on the railing. "Just go faster, run harder, don't let it bog you down."

"Turn it into anger," Seokjin murmurs, eyes on the city.

"Yeah," Jimin agrees. "That too. Anger is a lot more useful."

He's been angry for just as long as he's been afraid.

Seokjin takes a deep breath and straightens, turning to look at Jimin. "I ... I want to thank you, for coming with me this far."

"I'm not doing this for you," Jimin reminds him, but keeps his voice gentle.

Seokjin smiles at him, open and tender. "I know. But I still appreciate you having here."

Jimin bites his lip. He feels like he's constantly weighing his responses to Seokjin, desperately trying to determine how vulnerable he can allow himself to be. "I ... if we succeed I want to still be here." He curls his hands into fists over the edge of the railing. Looking at the ground, hundreds of meters below them, is still easier than looking at Seokjin's face. "I wouldn't mind," he whispers. "Staying. For ... for a long time."

A new king is going to need protecting, after all. Jimin never thought he would walk back into the shadows after a successful coup, he just didn't anticipate that the desire to stand next to the throne would be so personal.

Seokjin's arm slides around his waist, startling him, and he feels the press of Seokjin's forehead between his shoulder blades.

"Thank you," Seokjin whispers back. "I want you here. For a long time."

There is more, there is I think I love you burning on the tip of Jimin's tongue, but he swallows it back. Neither of them are ready for that. Maybe once they're the other side of whatever tonight is going to bring.

He puts his hand over Seokjin's, lacing their fingers together against his stomach. Seokjin's lips brush the side of his neck, over his mark, and together, they watch the sun rise through the haze of smog—beams breaking through to turn the buildings burnished gold.

It's almost beautiful.

_ _

"Okay," Namjoon says as he carefully ties off the bandage wrapped around Yoongi's thigh. "That should hold fine."

Seokjin had offered to change them but Yoongi refused, wanting it to be Namjoon. He's not sure why. Maybe an acknowledgement of the first time Namjoon helped with his wounds, all those months ago; maybe the fact that this feels almost ritualistic and intimate now; maybe a combination of both of those things.

"I can do the rest now," Namjoon continues—hand gentle on Yoongi's bare stomach. Yoongi's perched carefully on the edge of the tub, clad only in his underwear, while Namjoon kneels in front of him, and it's strange ... he expected more to change after they fucked, but almost nothing has. He's not sure what that means.

"Leave it," he says now, looking down at the red circles on his arm from a cigarette. "They'll be popular."

The elite are like bloodthirsty sharks—they love displays of weakness, signs of hurt, a map of wounds that they can reopen with their teeth. Namjoon makes a noise of protest, but doesn't really fight him on it. Hoseok would have, and Yoongi quickly shies away from the rest of that thought. If he dwells too much on Hoseok, he's going to break again.

"One more party," Namjoon says softly.

The last one. Seokjin secured him and Namjoon an invitation as his plus one, moulding them into the plan he concocted with Sohyun. Officially, to her knowledge, Namjoon will be responsible for helping Minseok ensure that the palace guards don't interfere and none of the elite at the party escape the palace after the king's death.

The real plan that he's spent the last three days going over again and again and again with Seokjin and the others ... well.

He doesn't want to think about what will happen if they fail. Namjoon would be executed for treason, made an example of, but Yoongi, as a companion? It's too easy to imagine Minseok's delighted smile, Minseok's hands on his body again—a slow and agonizing death drawn out for days or weeks or months. Terror claws at his throat at the very prospect and he shudders, shifting into Namjoon's comforting touch.

"Hyung?" Namjoon asks, worried.

"Promise me something," Yoongi says.

Namjoon flinches slightly, but nods before Yoongi can ask him if what's wrong. "Anything."

"If we fail, kill me. Or at least give me a knife. I'll do it myself."

Horror steals across Namjoon's face. "Yoongi..."

"Promise me," Yoongi snaps, harsher than he means to be. "I can't ... I'll become his again, you know I will, and I can't die his plaything, Namjoon-ah. I can't."

Namjoon's face crumbles and he bows his head. "I promise," he murmurs.

"Thank you." Yoongi folds over him, cheek on top of Namjoon's bent head. "Thank you."

"Hyung," Namjoon whispers after a moment. "Yoongi...."

And Yoongi knows what Namjoon wants to tell him, what Namjoon is going to say in the next breath. He doesn't think he can bear it right now, even if the truth of it echoes in his own chest.

"Not yet," he begs. "Not yet, tell me after."

Namjoon's fingers dig into his sides, a shudder running through Namjoon's body that might be a choked-down sob. "Hyung."

"Tell me in the morning," Yoongi insists.

A pained pause and then Namjoon sighs in defeat. He lifts his head, dislodging Yoongi, and gently pushes Yoongi's hair from his forehead, running his fingers over Yoongi's brow. "Okay," he whispers. "Tomorrow."

Yoongi takes his hand, kisses the back of it, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Like always, in response Namjoon shifts forward and embraces him. Holds him close.

_ _

It's cold in this spartan apartment, with its minimalist furniture and walls of windows. Seokjin stares at the gathered assembly, arranged on the uncomfortable couches or seated on the floor. It's strange, seeing them all together for the first time—the contrast between Baekhyun's expensive clothes and Ten's second hand ones, Kihyun's rigid posture next to Johnny's purposefully relaxed one, the wary way everyone regards each other.

How they so easily look to him for leadership.

"You all have your assignments," he says now. His throat is sore from talking, laying out the plan step by careful step. "Stick to them. Stay in contact with each other. There are plenty of variables we might not be able to predict."

"We'll be okay," Baekhyun says with firm confidence. On his left, Mark looks queasy but nods along in agreement.

They're all capable, Seokjin reminds himself. They all care about this cause just as much as he does, and every single one of them has risked something to be here. Has already sacrificed safety, familial ties, and almost their lives. Kihyun's jaw is a tense curve; Ten's eyes glint like hard obsidian; in the city light, Baekhyun's scar looks bloody and fresh and the bruises under Yukhei's eyes are shadowed nearly black. But they're all here and as he turns his attention to each of them in turn he can tell that they're ready.

"Good luck," he says and his gaze lingers on Taehyung and Jungkook—the only two members of their little six-man family who won't be coming to the palace. "We'll see you on the other side."

Whether that will mean sunrise or another life entirely, time will tell.

"On the other side," Minhyuk agrees and stands, putting a hand on Kihyun's shoulder.

Yoongi pulls Jungkook and Taehyung aside and wraps them both up in his arms. Seokjin is close enough that he can see them bury their faces in Yoongi's neck as Yoongi runs shaky fingers through their hair.

"Survive," Yoongi whispers to them. "Come back to me."

"We will," Taehyung murmurs back.

"As long as you do, too, hyung," Jungkook adds.

Jimin stands just outside their tangle, a hand on Taehyung's and Jungkook's backs. He doesn't say anything, just presses in close, but Seokjin can see the blaze of his eyes. If they don't make it back ... Seokjin's better off not contemplating what Jimin might do.

The group continues to divide. Kihyun and Minhyuk stick together, adjusting the earpieces that Jackson provided them with. Seokjin overhears Kihyun calling his driver to pick them up. From here, their destination is the main headquarters of the city police, located in Sector Two. Mark, Johnny, Baekhyun, and Jackson form the second group—all clustered around a map of the city and a blueprint of the power grid spread out on the dining room table. Yukhei drifts over and puts a hand on Mark's back, leaning in to whisper parting words in his ear. Mark turns to hug him, then Johnny does the same.

Seokjin watches Yukhei break away from them and Taehyung and Jungkook from Yoongi, all three joining Ten in another corner of the living room where four city police uniforms have been set. Jungkook picks one up and hands another to Taehyung. They swiftly pull them on over their black underclothes, fumbling their way through the various fastenings, belts, and clips.

Jimin touches his shoulder. He's already dressed as a companion—makeup and earrings and shimmery clothes, all that's missing is a collar. "Ready?" he asks softly.

Seokjin blows out a long breath.

"Yes."

_ _

Hoseok isn't sure he can remember a time without pain. In the last week, it has consumed his world. They've beaten him, cut him, burned him, held his head under water until his lungs screamed for air, electrocuted him—he can still smell the char of his own flesh and taste blood in the back of his mouth from biting through his tongue as he seized. They wrenched his head back and dragged a knife down his face, taking out the vision in one eye. But he hasn't talked. He's screamed and sobbed and, in his lowest moments, begged them for mercy, but he hasn't talked.

All of his secrets are safe, tucked away behind an iron wall in his mind. They've learned nothing, and now they're out of time.

He revels in the anger on the guard commander's face as he stands in the middle of Hoseok's damp cell. The ceiling leaks and the air smells of rot and mold. He hasn't seen the sky in days, either—tucked away down here in the palace dungeons.

"You failed," he rasps, mouth stretched in a jagged, bloody grin. Laughter rattles out of his chest in a pained wheeze. "I win."

The guard commander's face twists into an ugly snarl. He's an ugly man, who remained unmoved when Hoseok wept at his feet from the agony.

"Maybe I should just cut out your tongue, then," he snaps.

Hoseok laughs again, hiccuping through the ache of his cracked ribs. "Go ahead. What does it matter? I'm gonna be dead in a few hours, your pathetic little threats .... don't scare me."

He remembers, back in the early days at the orphanage, one of the caretakers would talk about Death. In ancient tales, from the Old World, he was a man and he had a name: JeoSeung Saja. He appeared in your last, rasping moments, towering over you in hanbok dyed black as pitch with a gat obscuring his features. He would wait patiently until you drew your final breath, then guide your soul into the afterlife. Hoseok wonders, as the guard commander takes a threatening step forward, if the legends are true. Will he meet JeoSeung Saja now? Or kneeling in the palace courtyard? Is there a heaven, a spirit realm, far away from all this ruin?

"Stop," another guard says suddenly, just as the commander pulls a knife from his belt. "Sir, we can't damage the prisoner any further before the ceremony tonight."

The commander pauses, halfway to Hoseok, and bows his head. He might be a twisted sadist, but he's also a man of discipline, and after only a brief moment, the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. When he looks back up at Hoseok, his face is a calm mask.

"Of course," he says smoothly, pocketing the knife. "Keep an eye on him while we ready the transport."

Hoseok laughs again, loud and grating, and the commander's jaw clenches. He says nothing else, though, just sweeps out of the room with a swirl of black fabric from his hanbok and a bounce of the peacock feather attached to the top of his jeonrip. Hoseok sags back against the wall, sliding his good eye shut.

Footsteps.

He snaps his eye open again to see the second guard hovering over him. In the dim light of the cell, his red uniform looks as dark as blood.

"Midnight, Hoseok-ssi," he says in an urgent whisper. "Kihyun-nim says be ready."

He returns to his post just as swiftly as he came—gaze fixed on the wall as though Hoseok has turned invisible. Hoseok blows out a long breath.

Midnight.

Deep in his chest, a small spark of hope flickers back to life.

_ _

The royal palace sits on the edge of Sector 1, spread across extensive grounds. The monarchy has always been obsessed with the Old World, with kings and emperors long dead and past. Everything they do is a reflection of that, from the traditional clothing they wear to the design of the palace itself. They even called it Gyeongbokgung, which Seokjin has heard comes from one of the Old World's greatest dynasties.

It's ridiculous, he thinks, clinging to the shadows of things that crumbled to ruin millenia ago. But it's hard to deny the grandeur in front of him as he steps out of the car and tries not to gape up at the massive gates. Beyond them is a courtyard that seems to go on forever and then another gate and another courtyard, all framed by black-roofed buildings. In the distance, one towers above all the rest: the throne hall, where Yi Seojun would receive audiences, if he was interested in that sort of thing. Seokjin suspects it's been gathering dust since the previous king died.

"Holy shit," Jimin breathes at his side.

Seokjin adjusts the starched collar of his black suit and his grip on Jimin's leash. "Keep your head down," he murmurs as Namjoon and Yoongi also exit the car.

Their entire party is dressed in black. Tonight, only the king and official members of the court are allowed to don color. An attendant is waiting for them a few steps away and with him is Sohyun, looking resplendent in a floor-length black gown with lace detailing along the sleeves and color. Her blonde hair has been braided into its usual elaborate updo and dotted with obsidian gems, the same kind that drip from her ears. She smiles beautifically at him as he approaches, extending a delicate hand.

He kisses the back of it, bowing slightly. "You look lovely, noona."

"You clean up rather well yourself, Seokjin-ah."

Her companion is not one that Seokjin's seen before, a young woman with her eyes fixed on the ground and her leash in the lax grip of the attendant.

He bows to them. "Welcome, Namjoon-nim, Seokjin-nim. I can take your companions from you now. Please be assured they will be returned later tonight."

Seokjin forces the instinctive tension back out of his shoulders and back. This is part of the plan, if only a contingent since their information is based on rumors. Whispers that Yi Seojun likes to assess the companions of his guests and choose the ones he wants for the night. And sometimes the ones he wants permanently.

"Of course," Seokjin says, handing over Jimin's leash. Namjoon does the same with Yoongi's, and Seokjin catches the brief, comforting touch Namjoon presses to the small of Yoongi's back before they separate.

As the first attendant walks off, guiding the three companions into the shadows, another glides through the gates towards them. She is dressed in a simple grey hanbok, to differentiate herself from the guests. In the few traditional paintings that Seokjin has seen, a woman's hanbok touched the ground, but the attendant's has been modernized, only coming down to midcalf. She bows to them, as well, and then makes a sweeping gesture to the courtyard behind them.

"Honored guests, please follow me to the banquet hall."

Seokjin inclines his head. "Of course."

The clack of the attendant's and Sohyun's heels are loud against the cobblestone as they walk, making their way across the courtyard. Through the second gate, bypassing the throne hall to another building that doesn't tower quite as majestically but still looks bigger than any Seokjin has ever set foot in. One side faces the courtyard and on the other a large pond glitters in the moonlight.

Seokjin's steps falter as he takes it in. He's never seen this much water in one place before. He forces himself to keep moving, to not spare it more than a cursory glance. But Sohyun's arm loops possessively through his and she shoots him a knowing look, seemingly delighted by his wide-eyed wonder. Which ... probably works in his favor. So he shrugs and lets her pull him along toward the practically gargantuan double doors leading into the banquet hall. They're open, allowing golden light to spill out into the courtyard, and a steady stream of guests is trickling through them like a line of ants.

And inside? Seokjin almost wants to laugh at the opulence, and the strange mishmash of decor. New World chandeliers that flow down from the vaulted ceiling like waterfalls of crystalline glass. Paintings on the walls of dragons, their scales lined with gold. Shimmery tile beneath his feet that sparkles in a mimicry of the moonlight on the water outside. Standing golden vases full of what must be real flowers, blooms of purple and red and white. Four actual trees in each corner of the rectangular room, seemingly growing up through holes cut into the floor—their branches stretching up towards the rafters.

The ceiling itself appears to be made of wood, real wood, and etched with intricate patterns in green, red, and blue. A golden, seven-clawed dragon coils across it—a similar carving to the one Seokjin has heard adorns the ceiling of the throne hall.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Sohyun murmurs as they join the crowd of mingling guests.

"It is," Seokjin agrees.

"It's going to be ours soon." Sohyun smiles at him, bright and dangerous. He returns it.

"I'll find Minseok," Namjoon says behind them, voice only a little tight, and slips off into the crowd.

Sohyun stays on Seokjin's arm as they mingle with the crowd of guests. It's a relatively small group, less than fifty, and Seokjin recognizes numerous members of the Eight and the court. Absurdly, he wonders what his grandmother would think of him gaining attendance to a royal party before she managed it. He should have mailed her the invitation, just out of spite. No doubt, she's going to come sweeping in with numerous demands and declarations of familial bonds if he manages to attain the throne. The small, vindictive piece of him he's never managed to crush looks forward to that.

Sohyun whispers commentary in his ear. That woman with diamonds around her neck is rumored to be one of the king's many affairs. So is the man in the glittering suit jacket taking what must be his third or fourth drink from a passing attendant—his face deeply flushed and eyes glazed. The man next to him is from the Cho family and allegedly had a long tryst with one of his first cousins. The woman who just brushed past them is a Lee and her sister went missing last year, everyone suspects that her father had a hand in it and that she persuaded him.

So many sharks, Seokjin can practically taste the blood in the air.

They pick up their first glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter, dressed similarly to their greeter at the gates. It looks like some kind of colorant has been added to the drink to give it an otherworldly blue tint and it's cloyingly sweet on Seokjn's tongue as he takes a tentative sip.

A murmur runs through the crowd and suddenly, a pair of side doors open on the right wall. Through them comes a long line of companions. They've all had golden collars placed around their necks for the evening and are surrounded by a cluster of royal guards. Seokjin quickly picks out Jimin in the line up—Yoongi standing next to him—and breathes a quiet sigh of relief. It looks like Jimin's hair has been restyled, bangs pulled down over his forehead and gently curled. They've attached a small line of gold gems along the ridge of his left cheek, contrasting his black, shimmery outfit and dark makeup. Sohyun had explained the king's tastes and Seokjin relayed them, then stood watching Jungkook and Yoongi carefully transform Jimin in the middle of his bathroom.

He looks ethereal now, like a vengeful angel, but Seokjin's eyes keep drifting to the oppressive gold around his neck.

Yoongi, too, has had his black hair curled and glitter dusted on his skin. He's staring at the floor, gaze empty. Jimin subtly shifts closer to him, pressing their shoulders together.

Then, the doors across the room open and the crowd parts like a rippling sea to let Yi Seojun through. It's strange, seeing the king up close after years of secondhand accounts and the occasional televised address. Unlike his father, Yi Seojun has always shied away from the public eye, preferring to remain locked up in his palace due to a combination of disdain for royal duties and general paranoia. Now, only a few meters away, he cuts a handsome figure—tall and broad-shouldered, face slightly rounded by leisure and good eating, chin and mouth framed by a neatly trimmed goatee. Like the kings before him, he wears his hair long in a tribute to the ancient Joseon Dynasty, and ties it in a knot on his head, secured with a gold headpiece and a manggeon. His flowing gonryongpo is crimson red and embossed with a golden, five-toed dragon.

His eyes are cruel.

Seokjin bows along with the rest of the room, watching as Yi Seojun drifts over to the line of companions. Two attendants flank him, giving off the aura of anxious, buzzing bees as they make sure he is separated from the crowd and whisper advice or platitudes in his ear. He ignores them, mostly, stopping briefly in front of each companion before moving on. Seokjin can feel the guests practically holding their collective breath. To have your companion, your offering, chosen by the king is the highest honor of the night.

Yi Seojun pauses in front of Yoongi, making a contemplative sound under his breath. Then he moves on ... and immediately stops again. Seokjin watches as he reaches out with long fingers to tilt Jimin's head up, examining him. Another sound, more appreciative. Seokjin holds his own breath now, trying to maintain his composure. They have a back up plan, of course they do, but if the king chooses Jimin...

"I think I'll start with this one," Yi Seojun declares, gesturing for one of his attendants to bring over a gold, delicate chain that he attaches to Jimin's collar.

Jimin bows, low and subservient, but through the fall of his hair, Seokjin can see the faint smile adorning his lips, as sharp as the blade carefully concealed in the sleeve of his shirt.

Following Sohyun's lead, Seokjin steps forward to pay his personal respects to the king, and thank him for his choice. He risks a glance at his watch as he moves.

One hour and thirty minutes to midnight.

_ _

Jungkook parks the police van and takes a deep breath, checking the glowing clock on the dashboard of the car. One hour to midnight—it took them longer than anticipated to navigate city traffic and reach the communication center. Like the Seoul Institute, it's a nondescript building near the heart of Sector 1, only four stories high and easily dwarfed by skyscrapers. It's front and sides are made of smooth black metal, and even its many windows are tinted the same dark hue.

They still look like thousands of eyes to Jungkook, representative of this building's role as a spider nested in the center of a tangled, branching web. The messages it broadcasts get transmitted through the web's tendrils to every part of the city, even the dredges of Sector 10.

Tonight, it's supposed to be Hoseok's execution. But they're here to change that.

"Alright," Taehyung says from the passenger seat. He's already got his helmet on, black visor flipped up to reveal his sweat-dampened face. "This is going to be different from the Institute. We need to orchestrate a takeover of the entire building. This late, they'll be running on a skeleton crew, even with the upcoming broadcast, so hopefully we won't be met with too much resistance."

He glances at Jungkook, then at Ten and Yukhei seated in the back. "And no killing, if we can help it."

Both men nod, as does Jungkook. He doesn't want to hurt innocent people and he already feels a little bad for the havoc they're about to wreck on workers just here to do their jobs, even if that job is the dissemination of royal propaganda.

"Right," Taehyung continues. "We'll need some time to set everything up once we've secured the building, so let's move as quickly as possible." He picks up a bag near his feet, full of canisters of gas that's supposed to quickly render someone unconscious. Kihyun procured them, though he refused to say where—probably the same method he used to get a van and uniforms.

"Everyone take a couple of these. We're going in right through the front door and we'll clear the place floor by floor."

They've been over this plan already, numerous times, but Jungkook thinks that it soothes Taehyung to explain it again.

"Got it," Yukhei says, transferring three small canisters to a pouch on his uniform and then handing three more to Ten. "We can do this."

"Yeah," Taehyung says grimly. "We can."

Jungkook isn't as confident. Attempts to remind himself that this should be easier than the Seoul Institute have failed him so far. He can't stop worrying about what's happening with the others, what might go down at the palace, if Hoseok will be rescued in time. But voicing those fears isn't helpful right now, he knows that everyone shares them.

So he grits his teeth and snaps the visor down, obscuring his face. "Let's do this."

They climb out of the van—rifles that they have no intention of using slung over their shoulders for effect—and stride towards the building. This late, it's closed to the public, but Ten bangs on the doors.

"Police, open up!"

The security guard they knew would be on duty rushes into view, looking flustered. He unlocks the door with a keycard and swings it open. "I ... is something wrong?"

Yukhei shoulders past him, using his height and build to his advantage. Ten continues to speak for them all. "With the upcoming execution, the crown is worried about insurgent activity. We're here for extra security."

The guard's face goes ashen. He looks young, little more than a kid, and Jungkook feels a twinge of regret as he positions himself and surreptitiously pulls out one of the tranquilizers they have as backup, the same cocktail of drugs always used on him in the auction houses. Maybe there's some poetic justice in this.

"...let me call my supervisors," the guard is saying, reaching for the radio on his belt. "We can reinforcements here and—"

Jungkook moves before he can finish the sentence, grabbing the back of his neck to hold him still and injecting the tranquilizer. The guard gasps. Shudders and flails in Jungkook's grip. His radio clatters to the floor and Jungkook claps a hand over his mouth to stifle his yell. It takes another few seconds, but finally he goes limp in Jungkook's hold, sagging into unconsciousness.

"Fuck," Taehyung mutters, scooping up the radio. It's crackling, spitting out static-laced status reports from other guards in the building.

"How many do you think there are?" Yukhei asks as Jungkook drags the guard to a nearby utility closet and locks him inside, pocketing his keycard.

"At least three or four, I think," Taehyung murmurs, focused on the radio. "It's a big building."

"Broadcast hub is on the third floor," Ten reads from the directory on the wall.

Jungkook checks his watch. Fifty minutes to go.

"We should spread out," he suggests. It's weird, hearing the distortion of his own voice from the helmet mic. "One floor each and meet at the broadcast hub."

Taehyung hesitates, clearly not wanting to separate. Jungkook puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. "We don't have much time."

"You're right," Taehyung mutters and squares his shoulders, preparing for battle. "Okay, JK, you take the first floor. Ten, second. Yukhei, fifth. I'll clear out the third floor and meet you in the broadcast center."

"Be careful, Ghost-ssi," Ten warns. "There will be more activity up there."

Which is why Jungkook would rather handle it himself, instead of letting Taehyung go in alone.

"I'll be fine," Taehyung starts to insist.

"We should switch," Jungkook interrupts. He knows why Taehyung is trying to assign him to the floor that will probably have the least amount of people and how many times are they going to go over this?

Taehyung tenses for a breath, long enough that Jungkook is ready to just march past him to the elevators. But finally he nods—a terse, resigned dip of his head. "Fine. You take the third floor."

"Thank you," Jungkook says. Yukhei claps them both on the shoulder in good-natured farewell and follows Ten towards the stairs.

"Be safe," Taehyung whispers to him in the sudden silence of the lobby.

"You too, Taehyung-ah," Jungkook says, pressing the call button for the elevator.

Taehyung lingers as Jungkook steps inside, but turns away before the doors can close between them—strides fast and purposeful as he heads deeper into the building. Jungkook watches his back until the elevator doors slide shut and his only view becomes his own distorted reflection in the shiny surface. He presses the button for the third floor and reminds himself to breathe.

The elevator ascends quickly and spills him out into a warm-lit hallway. Unlike the sterile atmosphere of the Seoul Institute, the walls here are painted a pale blue and adorned with various works of art, mostly paintings of landscapes that no longer exist: tree-covered mountains, sparkling rivers, and a vast sea. Furniture clusters dot the space, inviting employees or guests to relax and socialize. All of it is such a blatant display of wealthy ambience that Jungkook rolls his eyes under his helmet.

Fortunately, there are also clear signs pointing the way to the broadcast center and various conference rooms. He pauses to check one of the doors halfway to his destination. Good, it locks.

He encounters the first guard around the next turn of the hallway, walking in the direction of the elevators. She freezes when she catches sight of Jungkook and Jungkook rapidly judges the distance between them, deciding there's no way for him to cross it before the guard pulls a weapon of some kind.

"City police," he says, pitching his voice down and wishing he was a better verbal liar like Taehyung and Ten. He continues to approach the guard. "We got reports of this building being the target of an insurgent attack."

The guard's eyes widen. "What?" she half-stutters in alarm. "We weren't notified of anything—"

Jungkook surges forward, grabbing the front of her uniform and kicking her feet out from under her. She gasps as her back hits the tiled floor and Jungkook injects her with his last tranquilizer, holding her down as she writhes, clawing at his arms in an attempt to fight back. When she finally collapses into unconsciousness, Jungkook lets out a shaky breath. This makes him feel far more like a monster than the Seoul Institute break-in did.

Everyone's counting on you, he reminds himself.

He quickly bends down and lifts the guard into his arms, carrying her to the closest conference room and locking the door.

Okay. Broadcast center.

It's close to the guard, just around one more hallway corner. Double doors and no windows, just a neon ON AIR sign that's currently turned off and several posters warning about unannounced entry. Jungkook tries the handle of the door and curses when it refuses to open. A glance at his watch informs him that they only have forty minutes left—no time to be subtle.

Suddenly, Ten's voice crackles through his earpiece. "My floor is clear. I'm heading your way, JK-ssi."

"Copy that," Jungkook says and backs up a step. Settles his weight.

And kicks the door open.

The lock breaks with a loud crack and a series of voices shout in alarmed response. Jungkook raises his rifle as he steps into the room. Five people stare back at him in terror, all scattered around the room at various stations.

"What is the meaning of this?" asks a middle-aged man who Jungkook suspects must be the shift leader.

"We're evacuating the building," Jungkook lies. "Come with me."

No one moves.

"We have orders directly from the crown," the shift leader says. "We need to broadcast the execution...."

Jungkook lifts the rifle higher, aiming at the center of the man's forehead. "That wasn't a request."

Several people scramble up from their stations, amassing around Jungkook. Soon, only the shift leader is left and Jungkook grits his teeth. He doesn't want to shoot this man, but he will if there is no other alternative.

"Come on," he snaps, finger hovering over the trigger. "Don't be stupid."

"Sajangnim," one of the others says, beseeching, and at last the shift leader relents, reluctantly shuffling away from his station and over to Jungkook.

"Out into the hallway, all of you," Jungkook says, gesturing with one hand while keeping a grip on the rifle.

"You're not city police, are you?" one of the group mutters and Jungkook ignores them.

"Is there anyone else on this floor?" he asks once they've left the broadcast center behind. "Don't lie."

"No one," the shift leader says but Jungkook notices his gaze drifting past Jungkook, glancing quickly at something further down the hall before refocusing.

Jungkook turns his head and mentally curses at the sight of a third guard, approaching with his gun also drawn.

"What's going on?" he demands, sounding half-panicked. No doubt they've never dealt with a threat like this before.

"Stand down," Jungkook orders. "Drop your weapon."

The guard fires. Several employees scream and Jungkook shifts but not fast enough to stop the bullet from grazing his arm, cutting through his uniform sleeve and searing into skin. He gasps, staggering, and hears the bullet shatter the window of one of the offices behind him—glass skittering across the hallway floor.

"What are you doing!" the shift leader yells to the guard. "You almost hit us!'

Jungkook ignores the pain in his arm and raises his rifle again, finger on the trigger. The guard stares back at him, face wan and arm trembling. He looks ready to fire again, shit. Before Jungkook can decide what to do, Ten rounds the corner at a full sprint and tackles the guard to the floor. He goes down hard. Another scream rises from the group behind Jungkook, and he turns to subdue them as Ten swiftly knocks the guard unconscious with a blow to the head.

"Everything okay up there?" Taehyung's voice asks in his ear. "Was that a gunshot?"

"It's under control," Jungkook replies and gestures to a conference room a little further down the hall. "Everyone in there."

The group shuffles nervously into the room, whispering amongst themselves.

"What are you going to do with us?" A woman asks as Jungkook lingers in the doorway, gun still raised. In his peripheral he can see Ten pulling out one of the gas canisters and readying it.

"You're going to pass out for a few hours," Jungkook says to the group. "The door will be unlocked when you wake up. You won't be harmed."

"Pass out?" another man asks, voice pitched high in distress. "What do you mean by—"

"Ready," Ten cuts him off.

"I'm sorry about this," Jungkook says and steps out into the hall.

Ten rolls the canister into the room and slams the door shut, flipping the lock. He keeps a tight grip on the handle as several people bang on the other side and yell. One by one, the voices trail off as people succumb to the knockout agent in the gas. After a few minutes, only eerie silence lingers. Ten takes a deep breath and opens the door again. The filters in their masks should protect them from the gas, but Ten still moves quickly as he ducks into the room and checks the unconscious employees scattered on the floor.

"They're all still breathing," he announces and Jungkook bows his head in relief.

His radio hisses to life in his ear. Yukhei, this time. "My floor is clear, I'm heading down to you."

"I'm on my way up," Taehyung replies.

Jungkook checks his watch. Thirty-five minutes.

Ten steps back out into the hallway and locks the door again. "Yukhei-yah, meet me by the stairs. We'll sweep the rest of the third floor together."

"Sure, hyung."

"I'll head for the broadcast center," Jungkook says.

"I'll meet you there," Taehyung replies. "I'm just getting out of the elevator."

Jungkook nods to Ten and they separate—Ten disappearing around a corner and Jungkook backtracking to the broadcast center. He sweeps the broken glass to the side of the hall on his way, grimacing up at the shattered window. When he reaches the doors of the broadcaster center again, Taehyung is already there, eyeing the busted lock and frame.

"Did you kick this open?" he asks as Jungkook reaches his side.

"Yeah."

"Hot," Taehyung comments and Jungkook coughs, cheeks flushing beneath his visor. He can't see Taehyung's face right now, but he can perfectly imagine the smirk that must be on it.

"C'mon," Taehyung says before Jungkook can manage some kind of reply, pushing open the broken doors. "Clock's ticking."

"I know that," Jungkook mutters and follows Taehyung into the room.

The array of monitors, buttons, dials and levers on every available surface is both intimidating and overwhelming but Taehyung doesn't hesitate as he approaches what must be the main control panel and sits down.

"Floor's clear," Ten says through their radios. "We're on our way back."

"Copy that," Taehyung replies and unbuckles his helmet, pulling it off. His bangs cling to his forehead, damp with sweat, while the rest of his hair stands up at odd, messy angles. He rakes an impatient hand through the black strands, subduing some of the chaos, and focuses back on the controls in front of him.

Jungkook flips his visor up but keeps his helmet on. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"No," Taehyung says with his usual calm. "But I have thirty minutes to figure it out."

Jungkook glances at one of the monitors and freezes. It's a feed from the royal palace, from a series of cameras set up in one of the courtyards. A handful of guards are erecting a pillar of some kind, bolted into the stone. Several lights are trained on the pillar, illuminating it, and the three cameras each provide a different angle—center, left, and right. Suddenly, a voice comes through the speakers on one of the control panels, startling both him and Taehyung.

"Central, are you ready to begin broadcasting?"

"Shit," Taehyung mutters.

"I don't think we have thirty minutes," Jungkook says grimly.

The doors open and Ten and Yukhei slip through, flipping their visors up to reveal questioning expressions.

"Central, can you hear me?"

"They're starting early?" Ten asks in alarm.

"What do we do?" Yukhei glances back and forth between the screen and Taehyung, eyes big in his wan face.

Taehyung blows out a long breath. "We broadcast. We don't have a choice. We need to give Mark's team enough time." He flips a switch next to him. "Sorry about that, we hear you. We're ready to go live."

"Alright, going live in five minutes. Standby."

Taehyung leans back, frantically assessing all the dials. Jungkook wonders if maybe they should have kept a few of the station crew awake to walk them through this process, but he was trusting in Taehyung's brilliance and that they'd have more time than this. The brilliance is still a factor, though. He can see the spinning of Taehyung's mind, the growing confidence as he rapidly figures out the array in front of him, and he feels a familiar swell of pride and awe in his chest.

"Ten-ssi," Taehyung says, "please take a seat over there." He points to a nearby chair. "Get ready to push the fair right dials up when I tell you." He glances at Yukhei. "Yukhei-ssi, monitor those three switches on that console." He gestures to his left. "Press whichever one I tell you." And finally, he looks over at Jungkook. "JK-ssi, please keep an eye on the clock. No matter what happens, you have to let me know when it's midnight. No matter what."

"I will," Jungkook promises, sitting down in one of the remaining empty chairs.

Taehyung nods and adjusts a few settings on his control panel. "Alright," he breathes. He takes a small data drive out of his pocket and sets it next to him.

"Central," the voice says. "We're ready."

"Okay," Taehyung replies. "Going live in five, four, three, two, one..."

He flips a switch. The broadcast starts, the view of these three cameras projected to every major screen in the city. A text scrawls automatically across the bottom of the feed, already queued up, that "invites" the public to witness the execution of traitor Jung Hoseok.

And then two guards step into view. Between them, hands chained in front of him and a blindfold across his eyes, is Hoseok.

Heart in his throat, Jungkook glances at his watch. Twenty minutes.

_ _

Yi Seojun is insufferable company. He would be even without the casual, possessive way he touches Jimin, keeping him close like a pretty decoration. Without even the thirty agonizing minutes where he declared himself bored and ordered a parade of companions to the middle of the room to also kiss and touch Jimin in the name of entertainment, including Yoongi. Seokjin stood next to Yi Seojun and watched Jimin trail his lips down Yoongi's neck, watched him squeeze Yoongi's waist in silent comfort, disguising the movement as a teasing dip of his fingers beneath the band of Yoongi's pants. Then he turned and watched the sadistic delight on Yi Seojun's face and reminded himself they were on a schedule, he couldn't gut the man yet.

No, Yi Seojun is also insufferable because he never. Stops. Talking. He prattles on about his supposed accomplishments in the outer sectors; the rivals and enemies that he's slain, musing about taking up the ancient tradition of hanging their heads from the palace walls; the pretty companions around him and how he wants to expand his "collection." One small blessing is that Seokjin doesn't need to contribute much to the conversation, just keep his mask in place and make the occasional noise of agreement as the king drinks and talks and drinks and talks and drinks. Sohyun flits through the crowd and back to his side sporadically as time drags on. Namjoon hovers at the edges of the room with Yoongi, clearly trying to maintain a barrier between him and Minseok, who keeps shooting Yoongi loaded glances that Yoongi stubbornly ignores.

Seokjin is contemplating making a polite excuse and getting a few seconds of fresh air—maybe snagging Yoongi from Namjoon on the way out—when an attendant sidles up to the king and whispers in his ear.

"Excellent," Yi Seojun says. He turns to Seokjin with a conspiring grin that stirs immediate dread in Seokjin's stomach. "It's time for the main entertainment." He raises his voice, booming over the dull murmur of the crowd and the music. "Open the doors!"

Seokjin glances towards the doors on either side of the room, but a loud rumble behind him startles him. He turns around and blinks in surprise as the north wall separates down the middle and the two sides retract, opening up to a smaller section of the main courtyard. And in that courtyard is a pillar, lights, a large screen, and three cameras. The air catches in Seokjn's throat as a group of guards comes into view, carrying a bound and blindfolded Hoseok between them.

"The execution itself is scheduled for midnight," the king says casually as the guards chain Hoseok to the pillar with his hands above his head. "But I thought we'd have some fun first."

Seokjin exchanges a horrified glance with Jimin before Jimin is yanked forward by Seojun, heading for the open wall. Seokjin follows, feeling the rest of the guests condensing into a huddled mass at his back. The screen provides a painfully high definition view of one of the guards untying the front of Hoseok's shirt, baring his torso, which is already littered with wounds in various stages of healing.

"You may begin," Yi Seojun declares with an imperious wave of his hand.

One of the guards flips open a large knife and steps forward. Seokjin's knees wobble at the first cut to Hoseok's chest. It's followed by another and another, until it's clear that the guard is writing, carving a word into Hoseok's skin. He finishes the first letter and moves onto the second. Hoseok screams and Jimin bows his head, shoulders tense as the king idly strokes his back and laughs at the display of Hoseok's pain.

Keep your mask, Seokjin tells his weeping heart and the scream gathering once more at the back of his throat. Keep it a little longer.

Sohyun takes his hand, smirks at him. He can't look for Yoongi or Namjoon, only hope that this doesn't break them.

The guard finishes the second letter and Hoseok pants and shakes in his bonds, blood seeping down his chest to stain his pants and the ground beneath his bare feet. Seokjin can see what it's going to spell now: traitor.

He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes.

_ _

In the outer sectors, crowds gather around public screens to watch the torture and execution of the voice that has emboldened and comforted them for years. Many weep, some turn away in horror, and murmurings of anger seep through neighborhoods and across sector boundaries, growing louder and louder and louder.

One screen sits opposite the building that still houses the painting of Suga, always replaced whenever the monarchy scrubs it clean. In front of it, Dahye stares up at the pain-twisted face of her friend with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her wife, Jieun, grips her hand tight.

"He said this isn't the end," she whispers through her own tears as Hoseok cries out again. "We have to believe him."

In the central communications center, across the city, Jungkook turns wet eyes to Taehyung. "Can't we do something?"

Taehyung shakes his head, wiping at his own face with a trembling hand. "They're not ready yet. We have to keep broadcasting."

"Fuck," Ten whispers, eyes glued to the monitors showing three different angles of Hoseok's suffering. "Fuck, every time I think they can't get more cruel..."

"Their cruelty has no limits," Yukhei says, haunted.

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut. "Tell them to hurry."

Taehyung picks up his radio again and just murmurs, "please."

The clock ticks down with agonizing slowness. Ten minutes now. Hoseok screams again, flinching away from the guard's knife as the man cuts a second word into his stomach. Jungkook feels bile rise in his throat and jerks to the side just in time to vomit into a nearby trash can, shoulders heaving.

_ _

"Please."

It's alarming, hearing the normally composed Ghost's voice sound so desperate. It stirs the anxiety that already is swirling like a typhoon in the middle of Mark's chest. He fidgets in his seat, picking up the second radio on the dash of the car. Across the street the palace glows bathed in artificial light and rays from the full moon overhead. Next to him, Baekhyun looks far too composed, only betrayed by the nervous tap of his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Are you almost done?" Mark asks, holding the radio up to his lips. A burst of static. Silence. "Johnny? Are you there—"

Another hiss of static, then Johnny's voice. "Can you please stop radioing every two seconds? You're not helping."

"They're fucking torturing Hope," Mark snaps back. He can see it, on a distant screen up the street, though he's avoided looking at it too much. Hope has always been one of his heroes, ever since he was a scrappy street kid stealing anything he could to survive. To see him like this, to know it was a willing sacrifice...

"I know that," Johnny says, and there is grief of his own beneath his annoyance. "But we're dealing with really high-powered explosives here. We can't fuck this up."

Mark squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. "Okay, okay, fine just ... hurry."

"We are," Johnny gripes and the radio goes dead.

Baekhyun's finger tap tap tap restless against the steering wheel and the dashboard clock flashes a new set of numbers. Five minutes to midnight.

_ _

Three words now: traitor, slave, marked. All scattered across Hoseok's chest and stomach. Hoseok's screams have tapered into whimpers as the guard finishes the final character of the third word. The lines of the Hangul letters look almost perfect, in spite of the tool and the ... canvas. It makes Seokjin wonder how many people have been subjected to this before Hoseok. Fortunately, the king seems to be growing bored of the proceedings and at two minutes to midnight, he waves his hand again, the rings on his fingers catching in the light.

"Alright, cut him down."

The impassive guards free Hoseok from the pillar and march him forward, closer to the cameras. His head remains bowed—messy hair falling into his eyes, and blindfold and cheeks wet from his instinctive tears. Seokjin swallows around the rock in his throat as Hoseok is forced to his knees and one of the guards wrenches him up by the hair, showing his face directly to the camera and the assembled court. A second guard readies a sharp, gleaming sword.

The clock ticks over. One minute.

In a car outside the palace, Mark's radio crackles to life.

"Charges are set," Johnny says.

In the broadcasting center, Mark's voice rises from Jungkooks's radio. "Charges are set. We're good to go."

Jungkook turns to Taehyung. "We're ready, play it."

Taehyung inserts the data drive and flips another switch. The monitors flicker, cutting off the live broadcast.

"What is happening?" the king asks, frowning at the black screen in the palace courtyard. "Fix this immediately."

An attendant bows anxiously. "I'm sorry, your majesty. There seems to be some interference from the central—"

The screen flickers. On his knees, Hoseok smiles, wide and bloody.

Another flicker. And then Dr. Choi Eunji's face, staring out at them all.

"They still won't listen," she says. "Everything is gone. Cities, millions of people, any hope we had of restoring the earth. Instead of hope, we created monsters and through our own blind arrogance and cruelty unleashed them on the world."

"What is the meaning of this?" Yi Seojun yells, spinning to glare at his wan-faced attendants. Shocked murmurs ripple through the crowd behind them.

"I-I don't know, your majesty, I...."

"They can't even count the dead and they've stopped trying. Communication with the rest of the world is completely cut off. No one knows what's left of it, if anything. And here, they're already talking of twisting the narrative. Erasing our part in it. Everything is going to be laid on the shoulders of our creations."

"Cut this feed right now!" Yi Seojun begins to march out into the courtyard. Jimin's hand fists in the back of his robe, stopping him.

"You're not going anywhere," Jimin snarls, eyes an inferno, an abyss.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Yi Seojun yells. "Guards—"

—an explosion rips through a power grid. Baekhyun slams his foot on the gas pedal, turning his car towards the main gate—

All the lights in the palace go out, plunging the courtyard and the banquet hall into darkness.

And Park Jimin slits Yi Seojun's throat.

He crumples to heap on the floor, choking on his own blood, as an engine roars and a car suddenly bursts into the courtyard, sending guards scrambling madly out of the way. With every security measure shut down until the backup generators kick in, there is nothing to stop Mark Lee from exiting the car with a gun trained on the guards and reaching down to grab Hoseok, hauling him to his feet.

"What?" Sohyun asks, shocked, as Mark helps Hoseok into the car and Baekhyun slams on the gas, spinning back the way they came.

She whirls toward Seokjin, hand reaching into a compartment on her dress, but Seokjin is faster. He buries a knife in her stomach just as he feels hers prick his side, drawing blood.

The generator hums and the lights flicker back on, giving Seokjin a perfect view of the shock and betrayal on Sohyun's face. He twists the knife in deeper, watching blood bubble on her lips and her eyes begin to dim, wishing he felt remorse for this. But there is only hollow emptiness and black, horrible satisfaction as Kang Sohyun breathes her last.

_ _

Across the city, in every sector, Choi Eunji's final message to the world continues to play. Within the banquet hall, pandemonium breaks out. Namjoon gasps as a hand grabs his hair, hauling him backwards. A knee slams into his stomach and he bends at the waist in an attempt to absorb the blow, swaying on his feet. A second hit, hard enough to drop him to one knee.

"You fucking bastard," Yoo Minseok snarls, teeth bared like some kind of wild animal. "You traitor, you planned this—"

He raises his fist again, but before he can land another blow, Yoongi slams into his side, shoving him off balance. His leash is gone, leaving only the gold collar behind, and his face is a tangle of fury and grief. In his right hand, a knife glints, pulled from his sleeve just like Jimin's.

"Don't touch him," he says grimly and Minseok laughs.

"You little bitch, I should have put you down months ago."

Yoongi doesn't reply, just grits his teeth as Minseok advances on him. Namjoon watches, terrified, but doesn't interfere. This is Yoongi's fight and no one else's. Around the room, he can see guards turning on each other as those under Kihyun's influence stop their compatriots from attacking. Some nobles yell and swarm the doors, some weep in helpless, pathetic fear, and others stare transfixed at Choi Eunji's message and footage of children coaxing plants to bloom from the earth. Seokjin and Jimin stand near the doors to the courtyard still, over Yi Seojun and Kang Sohyun's bodies—Jimin a protective barrier between Seokjin and the rest of the room.

In front of Namjoon, Minseok and Yoongi grapple for the knife. Minseok manages to kick Yoongi in the leg, right over the brand, staggering him, and then drag the knife in a long line down Yoongi's face from his brow across his right eye to the middle of his cheek. Yoongi yells in pain and sinks his teeth deep into Minseok's arm, forcing Minseok to drop the knife with a shriek of his own. It skitters across the tile towards Namjoon, who grabs it as Yoongi punches Minseok in the stomach and then knees him in the groin.

Minseok collapses with a pained moan. Blood drips down Yoongi's face, smears across the collar still on his neck. "Enough!" he roars and a stunned hush sweeps through the room.

Still on his knees, Namjoon stares up at Yoongi in awe. He towers, too big for this banquet hall, this palace, this city. He's risen from ash again and again and again and now he is a dragon more magnificent than any in the legends, than the golden one stretched out above his head. Min Yoongi, in this moment, is unbent, unbroken, untouchable , and Namjoon watches that realization dawn on Minseok's face, watches the fear start to creep into his eyes.

"Minseok," Yoongi says, voice low and dangerous. "You should bow before your king."

Minseok's eyes dart to Seokjin, then back to Yoongi, and his face twists into one final grimace of defiance. "I will never bow to an usurper."

Yoongi nods, grim, and holds out his hand towards Namjoon. Rising to his feet, Namjoon places the dagger in Yoongi's palm. The fear spreads from Minseok's eyes through the rest of his body.

"No," he gasps as Yoongi starts forward, trying to scramble backwards. "You can't do this, you filthy wretch, you..."

Yoongi says nothing as he sinks his fingers into Minseok's hair, holding his head in place. And he says nothing as he slowly, deliberately drags the blade across Minseok's throat, turning his rasping words into sick gurgles. He keeps Minseok upright, his eyes on the rest of the gathered nobles as blood spills from Minseok's mouth and gaping neck and he convulses in death throes. When he finally stills, Yoongi steps back and lets his body collapse onto the stained tile.

He lifts his bloody dagger, pointing it at the crowd. With the matching blood on his face, he's terrifying. He's beautiful. A whisper stirs in the room, bouncing from companion to companion: Suga, it's Suga, it has to be Suga.

"Let go of your companions," he says to the room. "Anyone who refuses will be next," he gestures to Minseok's corpse.

One by one, leashes are discarded. Companion after companion pushes their way through the nobles and gathers at Yoongi's back, many of them touching his arms and shoulders in awed reverence as they pass. Soon, the room is divided with the companions and Yoongi on one side and the elite on the other. Jimin steps into the open space between them, crackling with just as much power as Yoongi.

"The king is dead," he announces and turns toward Seokjin. "Long live the king."

"Long live the king," Yoongi echoes and starts to bow, but Seokjin raises a hand to stop him.

"No," he says, gaze on the elite. "Them first."

A shocked, heavy pause, and then like dominoes, the elite fall, going to their knees before their new king. Before their companions all gathered at the king's back. Only after the last member of the court has knelt, does Yoongi bend his waist in a bow, the companions mirroring him.

"Long live the king," he says again.

"Long live the king," the elite chant.

Seokjin squares his shoulders and exchanges a glance with Yoongi, then looks to the cameras outside. "I think we should share it with the city," he murmurs. "Don't you agree, Yoongi-ssi?"

Yoongi nods and moves past Seokjin, down the steps out into the courtyard, stopping in front of the central camera. "Taehyung-ah, go live again."

In the broadcast center, Taehyung hiccups through a relieved sob and Ten, Yukhei, and Jungkook all cluster together, hugging in a combination of joy and amazed disbelief.

"Okay, hyung," Taehyung whispers, even though Yoongi can't hear him. "Okay."

He flips a few switches on his control panel, stopping the loop of Choi Eunji and once again broadcasting the camera feed throughout the city. Yoongi's bloody, triumphant face fills every screen.

"This is Suga, with an announcement for the city. Yi Seojun is dead. Kim Seokjin will take his place on the throne." He reaches behind his neck and unclasps his gold collar. "The king is dead," he says and lifts the collar like a trophy. "And we are free."

A shockwave ripples through the city and in the police headquarters, the chief turns to Yoo Kihyun with alarm. "We're getting reports, sir, of activity in the outer sectors. The people—"

"Tell your men to stand down," Kihyun says, watching the feed of Yoongi's face with tear-blurred eyes. "All of them."

"Sir."

"Now."

The chief slinks away to convey the message. In a parked car not far from the palace, Byun Baekhyun leans his back and touches the scar across his face with timorous fingers. "They did it," he whispers. "We're free."

Mark cradles an unconscious Hoseok in the back seat and wipes away his tears with his sleeve. "We're free," he croaks. "Gods, we're free."

The screens go dark, but the city roils, grieving and mourning and shifting. In the outer sectors, people dance in the streets. In the inner ones, people gather in their glittering apartments, whispering in terror of the future. Their companions will soon leave, vanishing into the city and towards Suga and the promise of hope he wields. Soon, the auction houses will shut down and the boarding houses will burn, but tonight, in the palace courtyard, Yoongi drops to his knees—the last of his strength gone.

"Hyung," Namjoon murmurs and rushes out to his side, crouching next to him.

He's clutching his collar and weeping, tears mixing with the blood on his face. "We did it, Namjoon-ah," he hiccups. And then, frantic, "Hoseok. Hoseok."

"He's going to be okay," Namjoon whispers, kissing Yoongi's hair. "We're going to be okay."

And for the first time in so long, he truly believes it.