"...a reminder to all Marked citizens that travel beyond Sectors 9 and 10 is strictly prohibited. Those in violation will be immediately sanctioned, regardless of age and amount of previous strikes. Those found to be carrying forged papers will be met with harsher penalties, including execution."

- Excerpt from a government broadcast to all Seoul sectors

_ _

"I want you to do it," Jungkook says to him on their last night together at the auction house, laid back on his sleeping pallet with his legs spread like the trainers taught him. His voices shakes and there are tears in his eyes, but he isn't backing down. "Please, hyung, I want it to be you."

No, Jungkook-ah, Yoongi wants to tell him, but the denial is ash on his tongue. What other choices are left? They sold Jungkook tonight - paraded him on a stage and stripped him down for hungry eyes and told the crowd the highest bidder would get his virginity - and tomorrow his new owners will come to claim him. But in these last few moments, locked together in a room with no guards or cameras because the chips in their necks make escape futile, Jungkook still has a semblance of a choice.

And he's choosing Yoongi.

"Please," he says again. "Please ... I want it to be someone who loves me. Please."

"I don't ... Jungkook..."

This is the boy he raised. The boy he pulled off the streets at thirteen - a starving, spitfire kid who clung to Yoongi like a lifeline. The boy he promised to protect, to look after, to give a better life - and he's failed at all of it. And now here they are, at the end of everything, and the boy he raised is asking for one last favor. For Yoongi to break his own heart by taking something from Jungkook that shouldn't be his to have.

"My body's still mine," Jungkook whispers. "For tonight. So please, do this for me? Let me choose. "

This doesn't feel like a choice, but Jungkook is right. What can Yoongi do but give him this one last thing?

"Okay," he whispers back and crawls forward, over Jungkook's prone body. "Okay."

When he kisses Jungkook, it tastes like ash and ruin and salt. Jungkook hiccups into it, but lets Yoongi lead, lets Yoongi touch him. It's feel wrong, it hurts, but Yoongi tries to make it good for Jungkook, as good as he can considering the circumstances. They don't have anything, none of the supplies that are usually needed for this, so he uses his mouth - gets Jungkook wet with his lips and tongue, until Jungkook is gasping, his tear-streaked face pressed into the thin pallet beneath him - and then a spit-soaked finger.

"I'm sorry," he hiccups at Jungkook's soft whines of pain when he adds a second one. Jungkook's body is tight and unyielding - from fear and stress and inexperience - and Yoongi doesn't know what to do. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Jungkook whimpers. "It's okay, I love you."

It's something they've started saying, when the trainers use them against each other, when they're punished for each other's mistakes. I love you, as Yoongi takes Jungkook's trembling hands, uncaring of the welts on his back. I love you, as Jungkook presses kisses to Yoongi's hair, bruises blooming across his ribs from the trainers' boots. It's a declaration, that nothing will make them hate each other, nothing will tear them apart.

Hearing it now almost breaks Yoongi.

He kisses Jungkook, nuzzles his salt-smeared cheeks, anything to distract him from the pain. The burn. "I love you," he says, wishing it was enough. "I love you."

Jungkook wraps an arm around him and clings and it hurts. God, how it hurts.

Pushing in with his cock instead of his fingers is even worse. They don't have enough time and Jungkook's still too tight and he cries out against Yoongi's shoulder, forcing Yoongi to slide a hand over his mouth to shush him. His body is barely cooperating, unwilling to stay hard in the face of Jungkook's trembling and the little whines that keep slipping out against Yoongi's palm.

"I can stop," he half-pleads to Jungkook, feeling his own tears starting to slide down his cheeks. "I'll stop, Kook."

Jungkook shakes his head and rocks his hips, takes Yoongi in deeper in spite of how much it must hurt. "No," he says when Yoongi removes his hand. "No ... it'll be worse. Whatever they do. I have to - I have to get used to it. Finish it, please ... just ... just fuck me."

So he does. He forces his hips to move and he keeps kissing Jungkook's neck and jaw and mouth. Murmurs as many loving platitudes as he can - how good Jungkook is being, how this will be over soon - and they all feel wrong against his lips, but they seem to help, to soothe a little. He hates that his body has gotten back on board, hates that it feels good being inside Jungkook, and hates most of all the familiar knot he can feel forming in his lower stomach as release approaches.

Jungkook's tears have stopped, at least, and he reaches up to brush Yoongi's away.

"'S'okay," he whispers, voice a little slurred. "S'okay, hyung."

It isn't. It isn't, and Yoongi knows, logically, that this is going to be the first agony of many. But he's not sure anything is going to break him more than this and -

- he wakes up, body aching and ash on his tongue. Jungkook is a year gone, he remembers, and he's tied to the bed in the guest room of the man he failed to kill. Who is probably going to torture him to death now.

One last failure, he thinks bitterly, blinking up at the ceiling that's slowly coming into focus. Maybe Jungkook will forgive him one day, if he makes it out alive.

The door clicks suddenly, jarring Yoongi from the tangle of his memories, and Kim Namjoon enters. He's dressed in one of his ridiculous sweaters - bangs falling onto his forehead in a way that makes him seem much younger - and Yoongi can see bandages peeking out from beneath the collar, the stiff way he's holding his right arm.

Good. Yoongi hopes it fucking hurts for weeks.

Good job, love, Hoseok's voice murmurs and Yoongi can't even think about how much he misses him. His touch, his warmth, his steady presence by Yoongi's side.

Maybe one day Hoseok will forgive him, too.

"You're awake," Namjoon says, stopping by the side of the bed.

Yoongi braces himself and nods. There's little use fighting now - Namjoon's already won and Yoongi is so tired.

But Namjoon doesn't make any move to hurt him, just reaches up and unknots the rope tying Yoongi's hands together from the headboard. Namjoon's arm slides between Yoongi's shoulders and the mattress and he levers Yoongi carefully upright.

"You going to attack me again?" he asks, frowning.

Yoongi swallows, staring down at his still-bound hands, and shakes his head. Namjoon doesn't look like he fully believes Yoongi's submission, but he doesn't say anything, reaching instead for a glass of water from the bedside table and holding it up to Yoongi's chapped lips.

"Drink," he says, all authority, and Yoongi has little choice but to obey. The cool liquid soothes his aching throat, though - still sore from screaming - and Namjoon doesn't stop until Yoongi's finished half the glass.

He takes a deep breath once he's set it aside. "Why did you attack me?" he asks. "I was going to help you."

"You were going to send me to Busan," Yoongi forces out, voice a croaking whisper. "I know a euphemism when I hear one, master."

Namjoon winces at the title and shakes his head. Yoongi watches as he picks up a manila envelope from on top of the dresser. There's a heart scrawled across the front of it and Namjoon dumps the contents in Yoongi's lap.

Papers, Yoongi realizes as he sifts through them. A new ID card with his picture on it and a worker's permit and a travel pass and a letter of recommendation for housing - everything he'd need to relocate. Fuck, Namjoon was actually going to send him to Busan? What is this - some kind of underground railroad?

That would make sense, Hoseok points out and Yoongi turns the ID card over in his trembling fingers, rapidly connecting the dots in his head. Of course - it's so simple it's almost brilliant: buy a companion the conventional way, secure paperwork, put them on a train to one of the only two other Old World cities left, where no one will look for them and laws aren't as stringent, and then tell everyone you killed them. Companions die all the time in their owners' houses and it's unpleasant, not often talked about, but no one really cares. Eventually, you have a reputation cultivated that no one will question and you can keep purchasing companions - one or two a month to avoid too much suspicion - and giving them new lives. Or a chance at a new life, at least.

He wants to laugh, maybe, at the ridiculousness of this. Of an elite, using all of his wealth and influence to help Marked companions. Who would have thought something like that could exist in the world?

He looks up at Kim Namjoon, watching him so carefully from the foot of the bed.

"So this is how you get off?" he asks. "Instead of killing us you save us? Get to play the knight in shining armor?"

Maybe that's unfair of him, that accusation, but fuck he's still angry. One or two companions a month doesn't make up for an entire system of oppression that Namjoon still benefits from. Doesn't make up for starvation in Sector 10 - five people crammed into a rundown apartment half the size of Namjoon's living room - while Namjoon eats like a king. Doesn't make up for the auction houses or Jungkook's tears or the scars on Yoongi's body. Doesn't make up for a year of violation and over two decades of despair before that.

One or two companions a month isn't enough and Namjoon doesn't get to be fucking proud of it. Expect Yoongi to grovel on his knees in thanks.

Namjoon flinches like Yoongi's landed a blow. "No," he stammers. "No that's not-"

"What?" Yoongi snaps, wishing he could reach out and wring Namjoon's neck. He's never spoken to an owner like this before but he's done giving a shit. "You reach down from your gilded perch and pluck a few of us out of the ruin whenever you deem fit and you expect me to thank you? Have you been to the outer sectors? Have you seen how people live there? Have you been to a fucking boarding house? You think this is enough? "

"No," Namjoon snaps, cool facade cracking. "No, I know it isn't enough. Of course it isn't." He scrapes a hand over his face. "I have been - to the outer sectors and the boarding houses - because I-" he cuts himself off with a shaky inhale.

"Fuck you," Yoongi hiccups, wanting suddenly to scream. "Fuck you, you think you can buy me papers to Busan and ship me off to a new life and that will erase everything that's been done to me? Will make me forget the first master who raped me? Who liked to beat me until I couldn't stand? Or the one who gave me drugs that made me beg to be fucked like ... like a bitch in heat because he liked to pretend that I wanted it? Liked to call me slut and whore while he fucked me in the bed he shared with his wife? Or ... or the man who bought me before you and didn't want me to talk at all? Who silenced me for months with a muzzle when I couldn't keep quiet, when the pain was too much - and he'd hurt me for crying, hurt me so bad I'd bleed for days - who decided that a fitting punishment was glass inside of me and-"

"Stop," Namjoon gasps out, horror etched on every line of his face. "Please, stop."

"Why? " Yoongi half shouts, bound fingers clutching the ID card so hard it digs a line into his skin. "Does it make you fucking uncomfortable, master? Just because you haven't done any of those things to me doesn't make you better. "

Namjoon looks ready to cry. "I know that," he says. "God, I know that, I..." He shakes his head and moves again, this time leaving the room entirely.

Yoongi struggles to get his breathing under control, wondering if Namjoon will come back in with some kind of weapon and finding it hard to care at this point. Instead, Namjoon brings more documents - a journal of some kind and what looks like medical records. He hands Yoongi the journal first.

Yoongi opens it to the first page and freezes. He recognizes this writing. He's seen this paragraph in a pamphlet in Sector 10, being passed out by a couple of street kids. Seen it in an email Taehyung got from they mysterious RM, that he passed on to Hoseok to read on air. RM, who writes so eloquently and with so much passion, but has managed to dodge all of Taehyung's attempts to uncover his identity. RM, the revolutionary. RM, the elite, standing once again at the foot of Yoongi's bed.

Yoongi opens his mouth and Namjoon shakes his head, pointing to the medical records. "Those first. Then you can yell at me some more."

Yoongi picks them up. They're genetic test results for Kim Namjoon, age five. The same test Yoongi got done at five years old, too - that all children get because it will determine their future. Do they have the mutation that will label them as Marked?

Kim Namjoon does.

"Fuck," Yoongi whispers, staring at the positive on the paper, printed in bold, damning ink.

"You think elite are exempt?" Namjoon asks softly, playing with the hem of his sweater. "The doctor expressed his condolences. Said that he could make it quick. One injection and it would be over. My medical records would say illness." His mouth twists, bitter. "So many elite children die of illness and everyone knows better than to ask for the truth."

Yoongi struggles to wrap his head around this. It makes a twisted amount of sense. You would lose them either way, so better to kill your child than risk scandal - of course those at the height of power would think that.

"My parents loved me," Namjoon continues. "Enough to say no. To find a different doctor who would prescribe pills that could hide to effects of the mutation. They buried my records. Destroyed everything but that copy. And no one ever knew - they took it with them to their graves. The rest of my family suspected, enough to ostracize me, but better to let a scandal remain buried, right?"

Yoongi doesn't know what to say. There is only so much sympathy that he can muster. "An accident of birth saved you," he whispers, still harsh.

"Yes," Namjoon agrees easily. "That's why I went to the outer sectors when I was teenager. Because that ... the people there, starving - I should have been one of them. I know that, Yoongi. I've never let myself forget. And when my cousin took me to a boarding house at eighteen...." he shudders. "I knew I had to do something. To ... to make up for it. For everything I had handed to me that shouldn't have been. And I know this isn't enough. Writing as RM isn't enough. There's more I want to do but-" he cuts himself off again.

"What's stopping you?" Yoongi presses, glaring up at Namjoon. "What the hell is stopping you?"

"It's not as simple as you think it is," Namjoon bites back. "And it's safer if you don't know. I'll ... the papers are all ready. I can put you on a train first thing tomorrow morning. I know it isn't enough, Yoongi, but it's what I can do, I-"

"No," Yoongi snaps. Like hell is he running away to Busan when Jungkook is still out there. When Hoseok and Jimin and Taehyung are still out there. "You want to help me? Cut out my tracker and let me go."

"I can't do that," Namjoon protests. "They'll kill you if they find you."

"I have resources," Yoongi insists. "Connections. I'll be fine."

Namjoon tilts his head slightly, gaze going assessing. "I always felt that you were different," he says slowly. "Who are you?"

"I've had many names," Yoongi dodges. "None of them matter anymore ."

But Namjoon is smart and Yoongi keeps forgetting. Namjoon narrows his eyes and says, "Suga," and it isn't a question.

"It doesn't matter," Yoongi says, instead of trying to deny it.

"It does," Namjoon insists quietly. "I've read everything you've written. We were ... we were on the same side."

"I thought we were," Yoongi says. He'd looked up to RM, a little - awed at his ability to create such incredible, thought-provoking words. But RM is an elite and he still doesn't know how to feel about that. About Kim Namjoon reaching out to untie him completely, a nervous expression on his face.

"We still are," Namjoon says. "We still can be." He hesitates, coming to some kind of internal decision. "The ... the more I want to do - I'll tell you about it, if you'll listen. And after, you can decide what your next move will be. Whatever it is, I won't stop you."

"You won't?" Yoongi asks dubiously.

Namjoon frowns. "I won't." He turns back to the dresser one more time and Yoongi catches a glint of metal that he missed before. It's the kitchen knife, clean of blood now and reflecting the city lights beyond the window. Namjoon grasps it by the handle and Yoongi stiffens on instinct, ready to fight or flee, but all Namjoon does is set the knife down in front of Yoongi, on top of the journal and the damning medical records.

"I won't," he repeats, voice steady now.

Yoongi curls his fingers around the knife handle, feeling the absurd urge to laugh again. "Okay," he says, looking up at Namjoon. "I'll listen."

_ _

From what Jimin can tell, Kim Namjoon's apartment complex is a veritable fortress. He's spent most of the day walking around it, noting the vast array of security cameras, the fingerprint pads on the elevators, the security desk in the lobby with a guard posted at all hours, and the ID scanners required just to get through the front door. Maybe, Taehyung would able to hack some of it, with the right equipment, but it's a long shot.

They do accept outside deliveries, though. He watches several people in uniform arrive with various packages throughout the day and get buzzed into the building by security. Normally, they sign something and leave the packages at the desk.

It isn't much, but maybe it'll be a way in the first door, at least. If they can get their hands on uniforms and some fake packages. He has a head full of half-formed plans, most of them insane, and he'd like a week here, to really learn the patterns of the building - the delivery schedule and guard rotations and camera blind spots - but he's running out of time to get back to the train station. It's after dark and curfew is in less than two hours.

So he reluctantly locks his phone, now full of various encrypted notes, and starts the journey home.

It goes smoothly all the way back to Sector 5. He locates his bag and wipes off his makeup. Streaks dirt on his face like he came from the factories and messes up his hair and pulls back on the coveralls. The guards at the Sector 5 station stamp his papers without a second glance and he finds a seat in the last car to curl up in. He's starting to drift off, lulled by the clatter and rock of the train, when the speakers chime overhead and a pleasant female voice begins an announcement.

"Citizens of the outer sectors, due to an incident earlier today, His Majesty the King has a declared a lockdown in effect for Sectors 8, 9, and 10. Trains will operate under a reduced schedule. If your job is deemed essential, you will be granted temporary travel papers. All other citizens are expected to remain within the boundaries of their home sector. Buses will also run under a limited schedule and are no longer open to Marked citizens at this time. Curfew has been changed from nine p.m. to seven p.m. until further notice. All Marked in violation will receive a strike or be immediately sanctioned. Thank you for your cooperation."

Jimin's heart plummets into his stomach. A lockdown? Now of all times?

The man across from him swears. "It's hard enough, working in those fucking factories," he snaps. "And now they want extra papers? Or us to not work at all?"

"In the middle of winter, too," another worker says, shaking his head.

"Fuck this new king," the first one replies with dark fury.

The second man shushes him. "Idiot. Be careful how loud you're saying that."

The first man snorts and goes back to glaring at the floor in silence. Jimin surreptitiously checks the time on his contraband phone and his heart moves from his stomach to his shoes. It's seven thirty. If he's caught in the streets trying to get home...

Shit shit shit.

But there's no time for panic. The train is pulling into the station. Jimin nervously adjusts his scarf around his neck and keeps his head down as he exits, making sure that he's swallowed up by a large group of factory workers, all headed home together. They mostly shield him from the assessing gazes of the station security - at least until he's back out on the lamplit street, his breath hanging misty in the air.

It's over a mile home without the buses running. He has a vague map planned out in his head, but if he's stopped by a patrol it's over.

A hand lands on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. He jerks, whirling around, and gapes at the site of Taehyung standing there - familiar courier bag over his shoulders and brow furrowed beneath the rim of his knit hat.

"Fuck, Tae," Jimin gasps. "What the hell are you doing out?"

"Making sure you get home," Taehyung says, handing him a face mask. "I figured you'd be on the last train in. You heard about the lockdown?"

"Yeah," Jimin says, securing the mask in place and following Taehyung towards a darkened alley. "There was an announcement on the train."

"It's been crazy here," Taehyung says, shaking his head. "Raids everywhere."

As if to prove his point, there's shouting from further up the street and Taehyung presses him into the wall, keeping them both in the shadows. They listen there, holding their breath, as the crack of a stun gun going off echoes and the voices fall silent. Some poor soul is probably getting sanctioned only a few hundred yards away and there isn't a damn thing they can do about it.

Jimin's just selfishly glad it isn't him.

"What happened?" he whispers to Taehyung when the coast seems clear.

Taehyung starts moving again, further into the maze of alleys. Jimin knows the sector like the back of his hand, but Taehyung knows it even better, and Jimin relaxes a fraction because Taehyung will get them both home safe. He always has in the past.

"Someone got caught with contraband goods," Taehyung explains. "Not one of ours," he tacks on when Jimin's eyes go wide and frantic. "Someone else. Different network. Or maybe just someone trying to make some money. Either way, they caught him and now we're all paying for it."

He sounds furious and Jimin doesn't blame him. Lockdowns are horrible. The Network is going to grind to a complete halt until it's lifted - and the one before this lasted for over a month.

By that time, it will be far too late for Yoongi-hyung, but Jimin can't think about that yet. Taehyung turns a corner and then motions him to a stop as another patrol passes by on the main street, their weapons glinting sharp and intimidating in the fog-diffused light. A winter storm is rolling in - Jimin can practically feel it in his aching bones - and it's only going to make everything worse.

This new king doesn't even have to sanction them, Jimin thinks darkly, he can just sit back and wait for them all the starve.

_ _

Kim Seokjin's apartment is nice: reeking of wealth without being ostentatious about it. No gold fixtures or elaborately patterned walls like his other owners have favored. The lock beeping behind them as the front door closes still feels ominous, though. He remembers the smile on Kim Seokjin's face when he said he was looking for a new toy, and even though he was gentle in the car, Jungkook has learned that most kindnesses are a facade - just another way to break him.

The name Kim Seokjin also sounds familiar, but he can't place it. Just knows that it's been whispered in fear by other companions, which means he's unlikely to be more merciful than Shin Gunho was. Jungkook can't really bring himself to care. The welts on his back ache and his throat hurts and he can feel blood smeared down the insides of his thighs from where he's raw and torn inside. Can close his eyes and see the man above him at the party, the ceiling swimming as his air was cut off - the terrible knowledge that he was dying racking through him.

So he fought, just like Yoongi always taught him to. He thinks he might be done fighting now.

"Right," his new master says, throwing his suit jacket over the back of the sofa.

He's much younger than Shin Gunho and far more handsome - aristocratic features that manage to be sharp and gentle at the same time. His eyes are piercing but kind. Maybe, he'll be inclined to mercy if Jungkook cooperates - shows him that the incident at the party was a one-off and not a pattern of bad behavior. He sucks in a shaky breath and sinks to his knees on the tiled floor of the entryway, ignoring the protest of his battered body.

Knees apart, keep your head down, don't meet his eyes, hands where he can see them....

"Oh," Seokjin says, sounding surprised, "oh no, tokki, you don't have to do that."

Tokki. Hobi-hyung used to call him that sometimes, all tender affection, and hearing it now twists something in Jungkook's stomach. He keeps his head bowed.

There's a rustle of fabric and Seokjin's knees come into view. He's kneeling, too, Jungkook realizes, and reaching for Jungkook's shoulders. Soft fingers cup his chin and tilt it up. Seokjin's face is serious, but not without gentleness.

"You don't have to bow to me," he says. "You don't have to kneel. Let's ... let's get you fixed up, okay?"

Fixed up. That's ... that's good. Maybe, then at least, it won't hurt quite as much when Seokjin decides to use him.

He nods, because it seems like Seokjin is expecting some kind of answer and his voice is gone. Seokjin smiles at him and it brightens his whole face - makes him look even younger. Then he stands and reaches out a hand to help Jungkook up, too. Jungkook bites his lip as he gets to his feet, trying to keep the pain off his face. Seokjin still sees and immediately curls a careful hand over Jungkook's hip.

"Hey, I need you to be honest with me, okay? Do you have any internal injuries? Any bleeding?"

Face flushing in shame, Jungkook nods and gestures to his inner thighs, hoping Seokjin will understand. He feels filthy, standing here covered in blood and bruises and the marks of someone else's hands, but that's another feeling he's gotten used to.

"Okay," Seokjin says and squeezes his waist. "Okay, thank you for telling me."

No master has ever spoken to him like this. It's making his head spin.

Seokjin leads him into what he realizes is the bathroom. It has a massive tub, deep and wide, and Seokjin kneels to start filling it. He doesn't seem to have any household staff and another spike of nerves stabs Jungkook's stomach. He always hated the pitying looks of the staff, but some of them were kind to him - would sneak him food or help him clean up his wounds. He's not sure what it means - that it's just Seokjin in this apartment.

He seems uncaring of his fancy clothes as he kneels on the bathroom floor and gets his sleeves wet testing the temperature of the water. He shifts up into a crouch and rummages around in the bathroom cabinet, pulling out a bottle of strange liquid that he also pours into the water. Jungkook bites his torn lip, the fear rising.

Has he messed up somehow already?

"Okay," Seokjin says, standing. "Let's get you out of those clothes."

Please, Jungkook wants to say as Seokjin begins unbutton his gauzy shirt, shifting it off his shoulders. Please don't.

One of his mistresses, she used to put bleach in the bath - or salt when Jungkook had fucked up particularly badly - and then make him get in, make him stay there until he was close to passing out, and god the pain he doesn't want -

"Hey, hey." Hands cupping his face. Seokjin's kind eyes. "Hey, tokki, nothing is going to happen. I promise."

Jungkook's eyes dart fearfully to the water and Seokjin follows his gaze. Understanding dawns on his face.

"Oh, oh, it's salve. It's salve, okay? I made it myself. It'll help with the wounds." His hands move, seemingly unconsciously, to pet Jungkook's hair - tender affection unlike anything Jungkook's felt since his last night with Yoongi, who held him close and whispered love into his skin.

"Believe it or not," Seokjin continues as he eases the shirt away from Jungkook's bloody back and tosses it to the floor, "I was going to be a doctor. Emergency medicine. But my family didn't approve, especially after my parents died. Said a profession like that was 'beneath me,'" he pitches his voice higher there, adopting a mocking aristocratic accent. "And since another family controls all the hospitals in the city, I probably wouldn't have been able to find a job, anyway." He shrugs and his hands go to the clasp on Jungkook's pants. Jungkook tries to keep himself relaxed.

"It's okay," Seokjin still says. He seems to like to talk, but his voice is soothing and Jungkook finds he's glad for it. "It's okay, I'm just taking these off. I won't do anything."

Somehow, Jungkook believes him.

The pants come off, and Jungkook wasn't wearing any underwear (it's never allowed at parties, at least from his old master). Seokjin's gaze drifts to the red on Jungkook's thighs and something like grief or fury flashes across his face, but he doesn't offer any pointless apologies or reassurances. Just takes Jungkook's hand and helps him into the tub.

Jungkook braces himself, expecting the sting of bleach in spite of Seokjin's reassuring words. ("Oh you thought I was serious? Stupid slut.") But it is salve and he gasps at the soothing warmth that washes over his bruised hips and the welts on his back. Seokjin's hand cups the back of his head and he pours more water over Jungkook's back.

"I guess an almost medical degree is good for something, right?" he asks, seemingly rhetorically. Jungkook still hums in the back of his abused throat, so relieved that he could cry.

Seokjin washes him, including his hair, and runs a cloth gently over his upper body and down to his legs. "Tokki," he says as Jungkook is starting to drift, lulled by this unexpected gentleness. "Inside, how bad is it? On a scale of one to ten?"

Jungkook blinks, tries to asses. He feels raw inside and he was bleeding, but it's far from the worst pain he's had. He's grown used to the hurt of sex, to patching himself up afterwards if an owner didn't want to be bothered. And he can still move right now - it isn't a sharp pain, for the most part, just a familiar ache. After a moment of deliberation, he holds up four fingers.

"Okay," Seokjin says. "Okay, thank you. If I ... if I give you some more salve, will you put it on the wounds? I won't watch."

Jungkook nods, glad that he's being allowed to do it himself. He knows how to minimize the pain of it.

"Okay," Seokjin says again and stands. "I'm going to get some fresh clothes, I'll be back." He sets a towel and a small, round container on the edge of the tub, different from the bottle before. "Use as much as you need."

Jungkook waits for the bathroom door to click shut before he hauls himself out of the bath and dries off with the towel. He unscrews the lid on the container to find a paste inside. Also salve, Seokjin said. Jungkook tests it out on his bruised hip and discovers he wasn't lying - this is soothing, too. Jungkook wonders briefly how Seokjin made it, then decides it doesn't matter. He coats his fingers in it and grits his teeth as he spreads the salve inside of him, trying to keep his motions quick and efficient - touch light against the sore edges of his hole.

Once that's done, he wraps the towel around his hips, desperate for a small semblance of protection. There's a knock at the bathroom door.

"Can I come in, tokki?" Seokjin calls. "Just rap once for yes. Twice for no."

Jungkook leans over and raps once against the door. The handle turns and Seokjin slips back inside. He's still dressed in the same clothes as before and carrying a small bundle of fabric in his arms.

"All good?" he asks and smiles faintly at Jungkook's nod. "Then let's get you bandaged up."

He digs around in the cupboard again and comes back out with a very professional-looking first aid kit, opening it up on the counter to reveal everything from bandages to disinfectant to what looks like a suture kit and surgical tools.

"I bought it all in my med school days," Seokjin says when he catches Jungkook looking. "And I've kept it stocked since then. It's come in handy."

Why? Jungkook wants to ask. He wonders if maybe he isn't the first companion Seokjin has patched up in this bathroom. He wonders what's happened to all of them and if he wants to know.

For now, he focuses on Seokjin winding bandages around his torso. His touch is light, almost comforting, and he moves with experienced efficiency. Jungkook's forgotten what it's like to be touched like this - his last memory is of Yoongi and that's faded and worn at the edges, pulled up again and again over the past year when he's desperate for some form of comfort. Yoongi, who loved him, who made him feel loved even in the middle of an auction house.

Yoongi, who's long gone.

Now there is Seokjin, tying off the last of the bandages and humming in satisfaction at his work, and Jungkook wishes desperately he knew what to make of him.

"I think that's good for now," he says. "Let me just..." he dips his fingers into the salve and spreads it carefully over Jungkook's bruised cheek and eye. "There we go."

Jungkook dips his head in silent thanks, hoping Seokjin understands. He seems to - if his answering smile is anything to go by. Seokjin packs up the medical kit and the salve, pulls the plug on the bath, and then picks the bundle of cloth off the counter and hands it to Jungkook. "For you. Go ahead and get dressed. Then come find me in the kitchen."

Jungkook clutches the clothes and nods. Seokjin runs affectionate fingers through his hair before disappearing back through the door, closing it behind him. Alone, Jungkook unfolds the clothes with trembling fingers, letting out a faint, awed sound when he realizes they aren't sheer or skimpy. They're just ... normal clothes. A baggy sweater made of some of the softest material Jungkook's ever touched and lounge pants, equally soft. Seokjin even included a pair of house slippers and socks. And underwear.

Jungkook has gotten used to his body being on display over the last year - learned how to make himself appealing and desirable and sexy - but it's a relief to be able to cover up most of his skin. He feels safer once he's dressed and he wraps his arms around his middle for a moment, drinking in this rare luxury.

He can be hurt, he can be scared - Seokjin isn't demanding he be anything else, for now.

He glances at his reflection in the mirror, wincing at the harsh shadow of his bruises and the swell of his split lip. He doesn't really recognize the person staring back, even though logically he knows he must not look that different. He's actually gained a little weight, since his previous owners like him thin but healthy, and his skin is softer than it used to be. But the shape of his face is the same and the fall of his black hair is the same.

It still feels a little like looking at a ghost.

He shudders and leaves the bathroom behind, shuffling towards the kitchen. The clock on the wall reads one a.m., but Seokjin is at the stove. Whatever he's making smells delicious and Jungkook swallows around his watering mouth. Not starved still doesn't mean he's been allowed much food - usually either a restricted diet or scraps. No one is going to cook for their companion.

Except maybe Kim Seokjin.

Seokjin glances over his shoulder and smiles when he spots Jungkook. "I know it's late, but food always helps me feel better," he says gently as he spoons what looks like ramyeon into two steaming bowls. "So I figured we could eat and then you could get some rest. We'll take care of everything else tomorrow."

Right, the tattoo and the seals. Jungkook decides not to think about them as he carefully accepts the bowl Seokjin offers.

"You don't have to sit," Seokjin says when Jungkook glances dubiously at the stools lined up beneath the counter. "It's okay."

He stays standing, too, and it feels terrifyingly informal, leaning against the cupboards and eating ramyeon with his owner at one in the morning. But Jungkook hasn't had anything to eat in hours and the noodles are delicious, so he focuses on stuffing his face as much as he can without making a disgrace of himself. His throat hurts, but he pushes that ache aside, too. When he's finished, Seokjin takes his bowl and washes them both in the sink, like it's nothing.

There's a moment of silence when the tap turns off and Seokjin stays by the sink, head bowed. Jungkook watches the curve of his shoulders and wonders if he needs to try to say something. All his words feel dead and gone, ruined voice or no, and he's not sure when he's going to get them back. Or if he even wants to. It's easier, being mute - keeping words that could get him into trouble locked away.

Seokjin turns around and his face is so kind - Jungkook almost hates that, how kind he seems. When he touches Jungkook his hands are still gentle, too. So achingly gentle as they curve over Jungkook's shoulders and squeeze.

"I know you don't believe me," Seokjin says quietly, "and that's okay. But I'm going to take care of you, tokki. I swear."

And then he pulls Jungkook in. It takes Jungkook a moment to realize that Seokjin is hugging him - cradling him like he never thought he'd be held again - and he has to bite back a sudden sob at the feeling of it. He buries his face in Seokjin's neck instead.

Kindness is so often a facade, an illusion, but right now Jungkook clings to Seokjin and allows himself to pretend.

"I've got you," Seokjin murmurs, petting the back of his head. "I've got you, I promise."

And Jungkook, against his better judgment, believes him.

_ _

Yoongi stares across the small expanse of the living room to where Namjoon is perched on the sofa, trying to wrap his head around what he's just heard. The clock on the wall says it's two a.m. so maybe this is just a fever dream.

"You ... you want to kill the king," he repeats, echoing Namjoon's own words back to him.

Namjoon nods, mouth a grim line. "It's the only way. Change has to come from the top down."

Yoongi scrubs a hand over his face, still feeling blindsided. "And who would assume the throne in his place? You?"

Namjoon shakes his head. "No, Seokjin. He'd make a better ruler. And then someday, no kings at all." He stares down at his hands, a contemplative expression stealing over his face. "In the Old World, people used to elect their leaders, can you imagine that?

No, Yoongi can't. It sounds like a beautiful, impossible dream. "You want to stage a coup d'etat," he whispers. "Why haven't you tried yet?"

Their current king is new and relatively untested. Unpopular, from the whispers Yoongi's picked up during his time as a companion, and nowhere near the man his father was. The time to strike would be now, before he's finished amassing and securing his power.

Namjoon grimaces. "I need more help. More people on our side. And I have no way to get leverage over other families. Here ... there is so much wealth, so many resources. People want for nothing. So currency to bargain with is ... hard to come by."

"You can stop beating around the bush," Yoongi says, a little harsh, because he knows what Namjoon is getting at. Here, where people have everything, they bargain with hedonism. A favor, information, for time with a pretty companion. Yoongi's had so many secrets and blackmail paid for with his flesh, he's lost track of them all.

"I wouldn't do that to someone," Namjoon says, hands curling into fists. When he glances up, his gaze is uncharacteristically fierce. There may be a revolutionary in him, after all. "I couldn't."

Yoongi takes a deep breath, hardly able to believe he's doing this. "And if a companion offered?"

The fierceness fades as Namjoon's eyes blow wide in shock. "You ... you can't be serious..."

Yoongi shrugs. Escape is a long shot, even with his connections, and he refuses to spend the rest of his days wasting away in Busan. Namjoon is serious, he can tell, and call Yoongi crazy but he almost believes that Namjoon can do it. Can kill the king. And Yoongi wants to be there when that happens. Hell, he'll hold the blade himself if that's what it takes.

"Everything has already been done to me, Namjoon. At least this time around it would be worth something."

Namjoon shakes his head. "No. You're not some ... some bargaining chip for me to trade around for information-"

"I am," Yoongi interrupts, blunt. "That is exactly what I am. And I'm fucking offering. I'm ... I'm choosing this. So use me, Namjoon."

Namjoon looks torn, looks sick, so Yoongi gets up, adjusts his shirt so it hangs off his collarbones and tries to muster some of the seductive power he's learned to wield. "Think about it," he says, stopping in front of Namjoon. "You kill companions, right? And yet you keep this one alive? Why? People will be curious. Will want a piece of me. You'll have a lot of leverage, right away."

"Yoongi," Namjoon murmurs, sounding devastated.

"These things always come with a cost," Yoongi points out, shifting his shirt back into place. "You know that. If you're serious about this, I want in. Pay me back by overthrowing the king."

His body, already so used up, feels like a small price to pay in exchange for that.

Namjoon takes a deep, shaking breath. When he looks up there is an odd mixture of despair and steel in his eyes. "Okay," he says and holds out of his hand. "Okay, agreed."

Yoongi snorts at the absurdity of it - sealing something like this with a handshake - but reaches out and takes Namjoon's hand. Namjoon's palm is warm and soft against his scarred skin.

They shake.