Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world changed about 70 years ago.

Back then, humans moved through their lives with the quiet confidence that they were alone in the universe. They believed the map was finished. Every corner of the planet had a flag in it, and anything they couldn’t measure, they dismissed.

Humans knew nothing of the hidden communities of the world, completely detached from the ideas of anything supernatural or mythical.

For centuries, that distance was enough. It was the way the world worked, or so the humans thought.

Humans like to believe they know everything. They like evidence, control, and explanations. Why would they believe in myths or rumors when science had proven that anything supernatural was physically impossible?

But science only measures what it can reach. And there are places the human hand was never meant to touch.

Unbeknownst to them, supernatural communities did exist.

Well, not that they were supernatural, that’s more of a human word than anything, but they are similar beings with different biological systems, beliefs, cultures. An entire empire of them thrived in corners of the world that were not explored, hidden, untouched by humans. 

These hidden empire observed the human world with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

They studied their patterns the way one studies a contagion: fascinated, repulsed, unable to look away. To them, humans were loud, unbalanced creatures who built more than they needed, destroyed what they feared, and spoke of progress while sowing decay.

They knew how humans built things just to destroy them. How they worshiped power, invented gods in their own image, and mistook consumption for purpose. They learned the languages, the history, the science, all the ways humans tried to explain the unexplainable.

Human society was nothing like theirs.

To the beings who watched from the shadows, humans seemed almost engineered for self-destruction—so fragile, so easily manipulated, forever chasing comfort and calling it freedom. They lived on poison and routine. Eat (poison), work (to survive), consume (to feel something), watch (to distract), scroll (to disappear), and then sleep (to reset). 

Among the hidden empires, the oldest bloodlines paid attention. The ones in power, the houses that had outlived human history—watched all of it. Quietly. Patiently. Some with curiosity. Some with hunger. They watched humanity’s habits rot from the inside out, humanity's destructive habits—their ever-increasing reliance on false ideas, consumption, distraction to cope with a harsh reality they enable.

Just like humans tell stories about monsters, the supernaturals told stories about them. The same tales and stories that get passed down through generations, stories being twisted with personal observations of human societies.

Centuries pass, supernatural beings watch, gossip, and speculate everything—word spreads like wildfire. They are ignorant, cruel, lost, controlled, vile, lazy, stuck—

The talk never fades, debate continues to rage on.

They think, why they are allowed to remain in power? Why continue to create such chaos and destruction? What’s the point is of allowing humans to continue on this path when we are the superior being—

The supernaturals plan to dominate was calculated for a long time.

The goal was clear—depopulate humanity, cleanse them of their destructive tendencies, and then rebuild a new world order within their customs.

Controlling bloodlines and creating a strictly alpha, beta, omega population, their ability gain total control over humans would work with time.

They would start by integrating themselves—slowly, subtly, avoiding any suspicion. I mean, it was pretty easy, despite unique biological differences, supernaturals could pass for human when they wanted to. A few changes in scent, posture, cadence. They’d studied humans long enough to mimic them perfectly.

At first, the plan worked better than expected. Their reach spread quietly, into government offices, universities, hospitals, newsrooms. Anywhere information moved, they followed. They gained influence before anyone even noticed they existed.

But influence brings exposure.

Those who noticed the slow incline in missing people or strange interactions with otherworldly men and woman, were pushed into law enforcement agencies, who laughed at their stories, invalidating and joking about the mere myth or mention of anything that was so “supernatural.”

Experiences were discarded and stacked away into piles of paperwork and forgotten about.

The government’s first hypothesis, is that they thought it was secret terrorist criminal organizations responsible for depopulating and human trafficking. Men going missing just as much as women was a new mystery to the world.

Then, at an alarming rate, people started to go missing. All over the world. In some cases the supernaturals left witnesses purposefully alive to tell the tale.

“Alphas” whispered by word of mouth, who knows from where it stemmed from, but the humans were terrified of them, terrified of what they don’t know about, what they can’t control.

Anything ever so animalistic or different was like a disease for these humans. They cowered away like they were forced to, becoming compliant through actions if deemed necessary.

The human population kept dropping. Missing-person files stacked higher every month, and investigators started connecting dots they weren’t supposed to. The stories that were once dismissed as hallucinations or hysteria started sounding a little too consistent. The invalidated witnesses became validated.

What they didn’t understand was why.

Among the supernaturals, biology was politics. Alphas led. Betas maintained. Omegas—rare, coveted, essential—were the balance between the two. Their biology carried something the others couldn’t replicate: stability. Continuation. The ability to temper the chaos that power creates.

Humans had diluted versions of these genes, buried deep in their DNA, dormant for generations. The supernaturals knew this. They knew humanity’s evolution had bred out instinct, hierarchy, scent, everything that made them controllable. So the plan wasn’t just domination; it was correction. 

Phase one, of the breakdown of human civilization was called “Infiltration,” led by Alpha Kim Namjoon. It started with undercover Alphas and the Betas of their communities infiltrating governments around the world. It was a clean, undiscovered operation.

First, the takeout of government officials, public figures, and then, the influence of politics. Supernaturals absorbed parts of them, their scent signatures, their knowledge, their memories — to better mimic human behavior. 

The supernaturals sat back, observing in their communities pleased and eager as a global emergency shook up the human world.

The powerful royal supernatural pack leaders carried out phase one with clear instructions and guidance. The grandmaster of it all, Alpha Kim Seokjin, moved the pieces on the world stage.

But why? Well…wouldn’t you like to know.

Through all the chaos, humans could understand this much, people were getting taken.

Phase two took it a step further. They decided to reveal themselves to the public. These communities went from hiding their kind from everyone to being feared by everyone.

 And secretly, they slowly gained control of the world, humans unknowingly working beside them. 

The controlling grasp that society has on humans slip when they find out that everything they know is a lie. When people’s lives are in danger and a global catastrophe overcomes the world, it reveals humans true nature, survival, fight or flight, destruction, chaos.

Phase two became successful, for when Phase three, deemed “The Taking,” went into action, the global handling of it was a mystery. The call came from inside the house.

That day was remembered as a national loss.

People disappeared, millions at first, then billions. Vanished without a trace. The ones who resisted were dealt with fast. The ones who fit the new vision were taken. Selected. Taken. 

Bodies dumped everywhere, buildings burned down—all to send a message. 

The supernaturals called it a cleansing ritual. They said the world was rotting, and rot had to be cut away.

Cull the ones whose biology couldn't adapt, the one’s too human to evolve. The ritual was massive, carved through ley lines, soaked in sacrifice. Omegas were rare, and human bloodlines with dormant omega genes were marked for collection. Everyone else... didn’t survive the spell.

A large percentage of the world had gone missing, and many began taking their own lives, unable to handle the supernatural world domination and new world reconstruction that controlled the future fate of their lives.

Supernatural people were among them.

Anger only went so far, because what lay beneath was fear. What this meant was global collapse—governments, economies, and basic knowledge of the earth.

That there were imposters among them. The humans pleaded, claiming they just wanted peace, that they just wanted control back. Claiming peace, even though the control was never theirs from the start.

Humans were such hypocrites.

The Taking was the easiest global domination that had ever been recorded. Every leader of each land scared into submission.

Unable to fight back from such an unexpected ambush, phase four finalised their strategy, a new world order was formed. 

The supernatural were now in charge. Weak, little humans, still so ignorant, and stubborn, unable to take back their power, the power they used to destroy the world and eachother—this was a common theme.

Every other year, this would happen. All unmated Alphas and Betas would step out and take what was made to be theirs. They named it The Taking.

From then forth, November 30th, Was The Taking.

Chapter Text

***

Yoongi is so fucking tired. Not visibly. Internally.

It’s his free period, which means he’s doing what he always does during free period: hiding in the niche corner of the library where no one ever goes. Not even the dust comes here. It’s behind the foreign language encyclopedias, next to a weird floor lamp that buzzes when the heater kicks on.

Phones aren’t allowed at school. Which is exactly why he pulls his out the second he sits down, thumb already hovering over the brightness slider. It's at 100%. He flinches like he’s just been flashbanged.

There’s one (1) weak bar of service back here. Sometimes. If you stack your water bottle just right. Usually, he scrolls for twenty minutes, stares into space for another ten, then goes back to class with a headache and no memories.

Today he’s eepy. Like. Stupidly eepy. Like if someone said his name right now, he might cry from the sheer effort of being perceived.

He wraps his hoodie tighter, slides down against the wall, and blinks at his phone screen. There’s a part of him that knows he shouldn’t fall asleep here.

Well, that’s too damn bad.  

Today is the kind of day that feels like the whole world is asleep.

Everything outside is soaked in gray snd the storm has that heavy kind of sound, distant, sleepy thunder and fat drops hitting the roof like someone’s pouring rice onto sheet metal.

The overhead lights are dim, maybe on purpose, maybe broken. Most people don’t come to the library during free period anyway.

Yoongi pulls his hoodie sleeves down over his hands and scrunches deeper into the corner, knees pulled up. His headphones are in—big over-ear ones he definitely isn’t supposed to have at school. The noise canceling is turned all the way up. He can’t hear anything. Which is the point.

He’s cold. Not cold-cold, just the kind of cold where you feel rusty. He pulls the hood up, tightens the drawstrings, and exhales into the space between his knees. The warm air hits his hands and he sighs.

He’s cold, okay? And tired. At some point—he doesn’t really think about it—he grabs the spare hoodie from his backpack and folds it under his chin. Then he takes his jacket and kind of… piles it near his legs. Like insulation. Just for now. Just until the next bell.

Then he tugs his scarf out and wraps it around his hands. Then he pulls the sleeves of his current hoodie all the way over his fingers and tucks them under his thighs. Then he unzips his bag just a bit and tucks one foot into the strap, for what, even he doesn’t know. 

He’s just… organizing his personal warmth space. In the corner. Behind the encyclopedias. Where no one can see him. While it rains.

It’s fine. It’s normal. He’s fine.

Rain taps the windows like a lullaby. The air smells like old paper and printer ink and whatever fabric softener lives in his scarf. Everything is soft. Muffled.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep. He just… stops blinking for a while. 

And then… stillness.

Time passes. 

His phone’s still glowing faintly in his hand, thumb resting against the screen like he fell asleep mid-scroll. He’s breathing slow, shoulders finally untensed. 

No one finds him. No one comes back here.

The bell doesn’t cut through the noise-canceling. Neither does the next one.

What finally wakes him up is his phone vibrating.

BZZZT.

He cracks one eye open, Yoongi stares at it. Blinks.

Processes.

And then: “OH MY GOD. Shit—fuck—what time is it—”

He’s seven minutes late. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” he whispers, already untangling himself from the jacket pile.

He’s on his feet in five seconds flat, hair flattened on one side, hoodie strings tangled around his neck. Nugget falls out of his bag and he gasps like someone’s been shot again.

“Sorry—sorry—sorry—oh my god.”

To who? God? The library? No one knows.

He scrambles upright so fast he drops his hoodie pile, half-kicks his bag, and elbows the bookshelf behind him. “I swear I set an alarm” (he didn’t)

He has blanket marks on his face. His brain is at 3% battery.

He runs. Quietly. Like someone trying not to draw attention while absolutely sprinting through academic shame. His headphones are still around his neck. One shoe’s untied. His phone’s upside down.

He is going to be so late.

The hallway is dead silent. Like everyone, collectively decided to leave without him.

Yoongi speed walks, his bag keeps sliding off one shoulder, and he’s too flustered to fix it properly, so he just yanks the strap and hopes it doesn’t snap. 

He makes a sharp turn past the vending machines, slams straight into a trash can, and whispers “sorry” before realizing it’s not a person.

His classroom is at the far end of the hall, because of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be.

His legs feel like soup. Nugget’s ear is sticking out of the top of his bag, he doesn’t want nugget to be shown, because them he’ll get embarrassed. 

He makes it to the door. Hesitates.

His hand hovers on the handle. He’s still breathing hard. He closes his eyes for a second like that’ll help. Tries to flatten his hair. Misses. Tries again. Makes it worse. Debates saying he threw up in the bathroom or something. Realizes that would probably make it worse.

Eventually, he just opens the door.

Thirty pairs of eyes turn to look at him. He is, in fact, that late.

Yoongi stands in the doorway like a standing emoji. 

His hoodie is wrinkled, his cheeks are red, his lip is slightly trembling, and one of his shoelaces is dragging behind him like a tail.

“Mr. Min,” the teacher says.

A beat. 

“Interesting entrance.”

Yoongi opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then tries again. “Sorry i’m late there was… uh… a dog. situation.” 

Which is the most embarrassing lie of his life. (he was “sleeping” in the library)

Someone in the back snorts.

The teacher sighs. “Take a seat, Mr. Min.”

Yoongi nods once. “Okay. Cool. I’ll just. Yeah.” He huffles to his desk and sits down. Tries to act normal. Fails immediately.

He’s so baby and so doomed.

His face is hot. His hoodie’s still bunched weird around his neck. He’s trying to look very focused on his notes, even though he hasn’t written a single word. His pen is upside down.

He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t breathe. He definitely doesn’t make eye contact with anyone.

Unfortunately for him, his seat partner is Park Jimin.

Which is a problem. Because Jimin is already looking at him. And Jimin is smiling.

No—grinning.

Yoongi glances over.

Jimin’s hand is half-covering his mouth, like he's trying to cough but absolutely not coughing. His eyes are gleaming. Sparkling. Laughing so hard without moving a single muscle.

Yoongi narrows his eyes.

Jimin raises his eyebrows.

They don’t say a word. It’s horrible.

Yoongi mouths: "Don’t."

Jimin smiles wider. Just tilts his head, like: “me?? I’m not doing anything :)" Then he leans in a little, voice just above a whisper. “Did you… nap….?”

Yoongi chokes. “No—”

“You SO did.” Jimin’s biting his lip now, the kind of laugh where his shoulders are already shaking but he’s trying to pretend he’s innocent.

Yoongi kicks him under the desk.

Jimin yelps. The teacher glances up. They both immediately straighten like perfect angels.

Somehow, he survives the rest of the day.

Logistically.

He nods through two lectures, forgets to take notes in one, and copies the wrong homework from a very nice girl who may or may not have been flirting with him. (He’ll spiral about that later.)

Lunch is a granola bar he finds in the bottom of his bag. Possibly stale. Possibly cursed. He eats it anyway.

By the seventh period, he’s running on one (1) sip of cold brew, academic shame, and the emotional support of nugget, who now lives permanently in his backpack’s front pocket.

Cut to: The car.

It’s raining again. Of course it is. The kind of soft rain that blurs the windshield and makes all the streetlights look like sad little planets.

Yoongi sits in the front seat, curled into his hoodie. His headphones are in, but nothing’s playing.

His sister’s in the passenger seat, scrolling on her phone. His dad’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other nursing a gas station coffee he probably didn’t want.

Yoongi blinks slow. His cheek pressed to the cold window. He’s too tired to cry. Too wired to sleep. 

The trees blur past, ghostlike through the fogged-up window.

Yoongi leans his head against the cold glass, eyes half-lidded, throat tight. He can’t cry here. He won’t. But his chest aches with that thick, quiet pressure, like holding his breath underwater. 

 Everything is dim and gray. The road winds through skeletal trees and forests.

The car smells like smoke. The dashboard light glows dull orange. His father's hands grip the wheel, tight, twitchy, nicotine-stained. The speedometer creeps higher every minute.

Yoongi swallows hard, bile catching in his throat. His stomach growls with emptiness, but all he feels is nausea. The hunger only makes it worse, the kind that comes with not eating all day, not even realizing it until your body starts punishing you for forgetting.

He doesn’t speak. Just lines his finger along the locked window button, over and over.

His father exhales—long and purposeful—and the smoke hits Yoongi directly in the face. Again.

Yoongi flinches. Not visibly. Not enough to give his father the satisfaction. But he closes his eyes, bites down on the instinct to gag, and lets the air burn through his sinuses.

He glances sideways—backseat, passenger side. His sister sits curled into her hoodie like a headphone-wrapped teenager, legs pulled up, phone screen low. She catches his eye. Winks.

She flashes one earbud, then tucks it back in. 

She doesn’t look bothered. She’s never bothered. Not by their dad’s voice. Not by the driving. She’s too emotionally checked out to feel anything. 

Yoongi turns back to the window. Tries not to see the road curving too fast.

“I’m gonna die in a car accident,” he mutters.

Barely audible. Not a joke. Just… a hope that someone hears it.

His father doesn’t look over. Just smirks. Ashed cigarette dangling from his lip like a taunt.

Yoongi knows that look. The cruel kind of grin that knows exactly what you hate, and leans into it.

Their dad is from the generation when everything went to shit. The survivors. The haunted. The ones who watched the impossible become possible. 

Yoongi used to try to understand him. Really tried. He knows about the losses, friends gone, family buried, the sky turning red on certain nights. He knows about the evacuation camps, the food rations, the ghost towns filled with salt lines and black glass. He knows that their father lost everything.

Except them.

Being a single father isn’t easy. Yoongi’s lucky, apart of the generation that was born into these occustommed changes of the world, their knowledge and understanding only growing as time goes on.

He shifts in his seat, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists. He’s still cold. Still slightly damp from the walk to the car. Still aching in that quiet, invisible way that builds up over a whole day of pretending.

He doesn’t say any of the things he wants to say. He could secretly resent his father for his neglect, even though it was a product of his environment. 

Yoongi holds his breath, averting his eyes back to his window. Visiting the cemetery always leaves father manic, foot on the gas and cigarette in his hand, trying to use speed to run away from the pain he feels.

It’s always the same after. The silence. The way he drives. 

When the car swerves too hard around the next bend, Yoongi’s breath catches like it always does when the tires kiss the yellow line. His dad doesn't slow down.

Another puff of smoke. Exhaled directly into the front seats. Like he wants to fill the whole car with it. Like he wants the smell to crawl into their clothes, their skin, their lungs. Like he needs them to suffer too.

Yoongi doesn't cough. He doesn’t gag. That would be a reaction, and reactions give things power. He just holds his breath and lets his heartbeat thump a little too hard in his ears.

Yoongi’s afraid. He has a right to be, he knows the signs.

The twitch in his dad’s jaw. The speed of the wipers. The time it takes for the next cigarette to be lit.

Yoongi learned a long time ago that you don't reason with someone driving like this.

You just stay still. Stay quiet. Try to breathe without making it sound like breathing. Try not to think about how fast the road is passing beneath you—how easy it would be to swerve just once and never stop.

He looks at his sister. She’s still pretending to scroll, one earbud half-out, pretending not to notice. They both know pretending helps. They’ve been doing it for years.

They know what comes after the cigarette. After the speeding. After the silence.

Not always. But enough to make his stomach twist. Enough to keep him quiet.

The rain sounds heavier now, smearing against the windows, dripping with ease. The headlights blur every time they pass another car, the light catching his lashes, long, wet, trembling from the vibration of the road. 

His hood’s pulled up over his blond curls, sleeves swallowing his hands. He looks small in the seat, knees tucked in slightly, the kind of posture that says don’t notice me.

The car jerks again. His shoulder hits the door and he lets out a little whimper. His father laughs suddenly—loud, sharp, full-bodied.

“You look like a scared baby deer,” he says, exhaling smoke as he talks, “Must be those girly clothes.”

Yoongi blinks, throat tightening. His reflection in the window looks pale, soft, and startled. He does look like that, he realizes distantly. Shiny eyes, lashes too long for his own good, skin that bruises easy.

He clears his throat. “It’s Jimin-hyung’s,” he says quietly. The words come out thin, shaking a little. His hoodie sleeve slips down, revealing the faded hem of the sweatshirt—something oversized and borrowed, smelling faintly of detergent and citrus.

His father laughs again. The sound’s worse the second time. “You look like your mother,” he says, grinning around his cigarette. “Wait—no. You look like one of those omega abominations. The collared ones. You know, the ones they parade around.”

The cigarette ash drops to the floor. The smell burns Yoongi’s throat. He feels heat where the ember brushes against his hand, a sharp flash before the pain sets in. He jerks instinctively, clutching his wrist against his chest.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stares down, lips parted, breathing shallow.

His father exhales slow, watching the smoke curl toward the backseat. “Pathetic,” he mutters.

Yoongi blinks fast, lashes clumped from the tears he’s trying not to let fall. His chest aches, that familiar heavy ache that always comes after his father mentions her.

The cemetery. The grave. His mother’s name carved into cold stone.

At least she has a grave, he thinks. Some people don’t even have that anymore. Just empty boxes, empty records, names scrubbed off registries. At least he got to say goodbye.

The smell of wet asphalt seeps through the vents.

Yoongi focuses on his breathing. He stares at his knees, the soft folds of his hoodie, the small tremor in his hands. His fingers are too thin. His cuticles are peeled and bloody.  He looks delicate in the dashboard light—pretty, even.

 It’s what his father hates most.

“Omega?” The word slips out before he can stop it—barely a whisper. It’s more confusion than defiance. 

He doesn’t really know what it means. Not the way adults use it. Not the way his father says it, like a slur.

His father snorts, not even looking at him. “Don’t start.”

Yoongi swallows, presses the fabric of his sleeve to his cheek, hiding the tear that breaks loose anyway.

He turns toward the window, breath fogging the glass. The reflection that stares back is too soft, too careful.

His father lights another cigarette. “You don’t know anything,” he says flatly. “So stop asking questions.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He never does. He sits there, perfectly still, watching the rain bead down the glass. His sister’s gone quiet in the front seat, thumb hovering over her phone screen, pretending she didn’t hear any of it.

The only sound left is the steady rumble of the engine and the soft, uneven sound of Yoongi’s breathing.

The driveway appears too fast.

The headlights flare across the wet pavement, catching the glint of their neighbor’s mailbox just before the car jerks into the curb. Tires squeal. Yoongi’s shoulder slams lightly against the window, and his stomach flips with the motion.

His father doesn’t even care. He parks crooked, half over the line, engine still rumbling like it can’t calm down. The wipers scrape once more across the windshield, the sound rough enough to make Yoongi’s teeth ache.

No one says a word.

The cigarette gets flicked into the rain, hissing out beside the tire. The smoke lingers anyway.

Yoongi’s sister opens her door first and disappears up the walkway. She doesn’t wait. She never waits. Yoongi stays still for a few seconds. When he finally opens the door, the air hits his face—cold, damp, and somehow cleaner than anything inside that car.

He doesn’t look back when his father kills the engine. Doesn’t look up when the porch light flickers on. Just keeps his eyes on his shoes, hoodie pulled tight, and walks straight inside.

As soon as Yoongi gets home, he goes straight to his room.

He doesn’t even bother with food. He doesn’t change. He just drops his bag by the door and crawls into bed. The house creaks around him. Somewhere in the kitchen, a chair scrapes. A fridge door closes. Then silence.

He sleeps hard—if you can call it sleep. It’s more like shutting down. Like turning the volume off for a few hours.

When he wakes, the light’s different. Thinner. Late evening. The smell of dinner still hangs in the hallway—soy sauce, garlic, something sweet.

He blinks at the clock on his nightstand. He’s late for dance class.

He stares at it for a long moment before turning away. He doesn’t move. He’s hungry, but that’s normal. Maybe he did it on purpose this time.

Later, he ends up back in the same passenger seat as before. The rain’s stopped briefly, but the streets still shine wet beneath the streetlights. His father’s back in the driver’s seat, the window cracked open, tapping the steering wheel to nothing in particular.

They don’t talk.

When the car slows near the liquor store, Yoongi already knows what’s coming. His father parks in front, engine idling. Five minutes pass. Then ten. When he returns, there’s a plastic green bag swinging from his wrist.

Tequila, maybe. A twelve-pack for sure.

Yoongi doesn’t ask. He doesn’t even glance up when his father cracks the first can open before pulling out of the lot. The sound is sharp in the small space.

He knows it’s illegal. His father’s known it’s illegal for years. It’s a routine by now. So Yoongi keeps his mouth shut and his head down. Watches the faint trail of condensation slide down the can in his father’s hand. Tries to breathe through the smell of beer and rain and old smoke.

It’s that time again.

The taking anniversary always does this to him—the nerves, the anger, the drinking. Today marks thirty years since his aunt was found dead, behind her workplace, the body discovered hours after the alarms went off.

The reminder always lights something cruel in his father’s chest.

Yoongi doesn’t ask about her anymore. He never did know much. Only two things stuck:
one, she’d gone missing the same day she was found. Two, his father had been involved somehow.

He doesn’t know how much of that story is true.

But tonight, as the car rolls through their silent neighborhood, Yoongi doesn’t ask. He just watches the reflection of streetlights ripple across his father’s eyes, and pretends he can’t smell the beer.

Yoongi doesn’t blame him for indulging in alcohol. Most people that do are trying to cope with something. 

Yoongi’s father drinks to forget, an antidepressant, an addiction that he doesn’t want to get rid of. The feeling of feeding an addiction, to replace the pain with temporary dopamine until they don’t know what empathy feels like without it.

Yoongi feels a tear fall from his face.

He thinks his father loves his bottle more than his own children. That his actions speak louder than words.

The fucked up part is that he doesn’t blame him. Yoongi knows he’s worthless too. 

He wipes at his cheek with his sleeve. The tear leaves a cold streak against his skin. It doesn’t matter. He’s good at quiet tears. The kind that fall without a sound, the kind no one has to see.

He tells himself not to take it personally. People like his father—they break differently. They drink, they burn, they keep driving too fast because stopping would mean feeling something.

Still, it hurts.

It hurts because there’s a part of him that still wants to be loved by the person who keeps forgetting how.

The tab on the beer can clicks each time his father lifts it. Sip. Click. Sip. Click.

Sometimes, Yoongi thinks maybe he deserves it. Maybe he’s the reason his father turned like this. Maybe he reminds him of her too much—the soft eyes, the quiet voice, the way his face never quite learned to hide what it’s feeling.

He presses the sleeve of his hoodie against his mouth, half-hiding, half-holding himself together. The fabric smells like detergent and citrus and something faintly sweet.

A streetlight passes over the windshield and for a second it catches Yoongi’s face—eyes red but still pretty, lashes clumped with salt, mouth pressed small to keep from trembling. 

In that brief flash of light he looks like the boy his mother used to hold close, the one who laughed too easily. The one who still believed his dad could be good again.

He feels like he’s been hiding his whole life. The way he gets attached too easily. The way he cries easily. The way he wants things that don’t last.

It’s like his father never forgave him for being born. He tells himself it’s fine. That it’s easier to love people who hate you if you just agree with them.

The dance studio is quiet when he arrives.

The car doesn’t fully stop before Yoongi opens the door. The seatbelt clicks back, his sneakers hit the wet pavement. He doesn’t say goodbye. His father doesn’t wait. The engine revs low as he peels away from the curb, leaving Yoongi behind in the silver wash of the parking lot lights, small and alone in the glow.

Yoongi adjusts the strap of his dance bag over one shoulder. It’s old—fraying slightly at the hem—and patched with a few hand-sewn charms. A little stuffed cloud dangles from the zipper. A gift from someone he doesn’t know. It just appeared one day. 

The studio lights are still on.

When he steps inside, the bell over the door chiming once before falling still. The front desk girl barely glances up, she’s seen him a thousand times, hoodie on, hair damp from rain, face unreadable. He offers a small bow of his head and walks past without a word.

The hallway smells like resin and sweat and detergent. The familiar smell of floor polish. The soft squeak of distant shoes.

When he reaches Studio C, he pauses just outside the door. Peers through the narrow window, where his usual dance class is in session. 

He tucks his hoodie into the locker, pulls out his soft gray ballet wrap, toe shoes already tucked inside. He changes quickly. He hears music already playing—soft strings, patient tempo. 

He takes a second to lean his forehead against the cool wall. Lets his breathing slow. He doesn’t want to carry his father's voice in with him. Doesn’t want to bring pain into a place where he wants to just let go. 

He slips inside, lets the door close behind him with a gentle click. The studio glows with ceiling-high windows and soft wooden floors. There’s a gentle hum of voices, the occasional squeak of a shoe, the murmur of the teacher counting under her breath.

Yoongi bows his head slightly in apology as he slips in.

There are twelve dancers already at the barre—some tall, some short, some male, some female—it doesn’t matter here. Just people, aligned their hobby. They don’t say anything when he joins. They just shift slightly to make room.

He takes his place at the end of the row.

The music changes. Arms up. Shoulders back. Chest lifted. Neck long. Eyes soft.

Yoongi exhales. Then he moves.

Ballet is different from the rest. Hip-hop lets him break something—lets him pop, spin, laugh, feel. But ballet—ballet heals. It asks for dedication, patience, presence. It’s the only time his brain slows down enough to listen to itself.

His toes point, his arms stretch through the air. His eyes close briefly as he rises onto demi-pointe. He breathes with the music.

He doesn’t have to talk here. Doesn’t have to be strong, or smart, or careful. He just has to be.

When the teacher corrects his posture, she does so gently—“shoulders, Yoongi,” tapping the air near him. He adjusts immediately. His form is beautiful. The effort never shows on his face.

There’s something about him that glows in this room, soft but striking. Someone new might look at him and think he’s fragile.

But he’s not. He’s disciplined. He’s resilient. He’s still here.

His hands flow from first position to second, then lift overhead in fifth. His wrists stay soft, shoulders down. The teacher claps softly. “Nice tempo, row one. Don’t rush it. Grace over speed.”

Yoongi glances down the barre. The girl two spots to his left, Hana, smiles sheepishly and slows her développé. Yoongi meets her gaze briefly, gives her a little eyebrow wiggle. She sticks her tongue out, quick and small, before focusing back on the mirror.

He likes this class. They’re not friends, not really, but they coexist gently. No one tries too hard. No one stares too long. Most of them are older than him—university dance majors or late teens who’ve been at it for years. Yoongi is smaller, quieter. But his movement earns their respect.

“Back straight,” the teacher calls gently as they transition into tendu. “Yoongi—good. Keep that energy through your knee.”

They go through rond de jambe. Then plié. Then fondu.

At one point, the girl next to him—her name’s Lia, he thinks—leans over during a rest count and whispers, “You okay?”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard. Then nods once. “Yeah.” His voice is small, but even. He smiles with only one corner of his mouth. It’s not a lie, exactly. Just not the full truth.

She doesn’t push. Just nods, and they both roll their shoulders in sync as the teacher resets the track.

He blinks. Somehow, class is already over.

People are moving around him—chattering, pulling off toe shoes, wiping sweat from their necks. A few head for the locker room. One boy laughs at something on his phone.

Yoongi stands still. It’s like the hour passed without him noticing. Like he danced straight through time.

He finally steps back, rolls out his ankles gently, and bows to the teacher before slipping toward the lockers. Everything hurts in the best way—his calves, his ribs, the line of his spine—but it’s a clean ache. A worthy one.

He changes slowly. Reaches for his hoodie again. Pulls it over his head, careful of his hair. Tugs the sleeves down over his hands.

It’s quiet when he leaves the studio. The bell above the door chimes faintly behind him, then clicks shut.

It’s now long after Yoongi’s practice finished. He sits outside the closed building, alone on the steps, hoodie pulled up, fingers cold.

The pavement is damp beneath him. The street’s almost empty now—just quiet wind through the trees, and the faint glow of streetlights flickering overhead. He frowns, glancing up from the too-bright screen of his phone into the dark stretch of road ahead.

No headlights. No car engine. No sign of his father.

Yoongi’s family, like many others, had been pushed from the cities years ago. Scattered into smaller towns across the country as part of the new resettlement efforts. His father always said he worked too damn hard to land them in a place this safe—clean sidewalks, low crime rates, decent schools. Somewhere a boy like Yoongi could have a future.

A soft, quiet town at the edge of something ruined.

Yoongi doesn’t remember the shift. He was too young. But the stories are in everything. The boarded-up train stations. The new housing built over old ruins. The silence of everyone whenever “the taking” gets brought up in a sentence.

After his father’s generation suffered through mass deaths, poverty, and the collapse of old systems, the supernatural world stepped in. Structured everything. Rebuilt the economy, the governments, the very maps people used. It wasn’t human-driven anymore.

The price was… everything.

The cities emptied. Ghost towns overnight. Entire apartment buildings abandoned mid-breakfast. Too many gone to keep pretending the world was ever normal.

So people were moved. Resettled. Given just enough to survive, if they followed the rules.

Housing became cheap. Lives became cheaper. 

Yoongi reminds himself every day that he’s lucky. That this is peace. That he has a roof. A school. A place to dance. Even with everything else.

His phone buzzes faintly. No messages. He checks again anyway. Still nothing.

Yoongi’s father was supposed to pick him up. He's not here?

He waits another minute. Then two.

Still nothing but the sound of a distant car passing at the far end of the block. Wrong direction. Wrong headlights. Not his.

Yoongi swallows around the dryness in his throat. Pulls his hood tighter and doesn’t say a word.

The night is so dark. The streetlights flicker once, then steady again. 

Yoongi’s breath fogs in front of him. His hands are tucked into his sleeves, trying to hide from the cold seeping through the fabric. The quiet is too big—it feels like the kind of silence that means something’s coming.

His stomach knots. That weird, gut-deep sense again—like something bad is waiting just past the corner of his vision.

The first drop of rain lands on Yoongi’s cheek.

Then another…..then a handful.

He exhales, the air visible. The storm feels close—too close. The kind that feels wrong.

Yoongi’s always been good at sensing when something’s about to go bad. It’s in his stomach now. A small, twisting knot that says leave.

He looks up the street again. Still no headlights. “Perfect,” he mutters, voice barely a whisper. His teeth chatter when he laughs. “Classic. Of course.”

The wind picks up. He rubs his arms, trying to warm himself. He’s shivering before he even realizes it. His fingers are turning red and stiff, the kind of cold that burns.

He pulls his hood lower over his head, but the wind whips anyway, cutting straight through his sleeves. The rain smells metallic, like static. He laughs under his breath—dry, a little bitter as the rain continues to get heavier. 

He shivers. His fingertips are stiff and purple at the edges, his nose cold enough to sting. He wishes—desperately—that he’d brought his thicker hoodie. The one with the soft lining. The one that still smells like laundry soap and tea.

He crosses his arms, hugging himself, trying to trap what little warmth he has left. His teeth chatter once, quietly.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Just for a second. Just to not feel so here.

Then—

Something brushes against his leg. Soft. Warm. Moving. He jerks upright, heart in his throat, pulse kicking against his ribs. 

A tiny sound interrupts him.

Meow.

He blinks down.

There, in the glow of the streetlight, is a shiny black cat. Its fur glistens faintly from the rain, ears tilted forward, glowy brown eyes wide like polished marbles. It blinks up at him, then meows again like it’s trying to get his attention. 

“Oh,” Yoongi breathes, his voice softening instantly. His heart squeezes. “Hi, baby.”

The cat doesn’t move. It just keeps staring—slow blink, head tilted slightly to the side, as if unimpressed by Yoongi’s survival instincts. Then it steps forward. Rubs against his ankle once, deliberate.

Yoongi laughs under his breath. “Oh. Okay. You’re friendly. Sure. Just—yeah, walk right into my personal space, that’s fine.”

The cat meows. Loud. Direct. Almost like an answer.

Yoongi smiles—actually smiles—for the first time all day. “Where’d you come from, huh?” he murmurs. His voice drops to that gentle, almost-whisper tone reserved for cute things and animals. “You’re all wet.”

The cat meows again, louder this time, as if answering.

Yoongi laughs quietly, biting his lip to keep it in. His cheeks flush pink from both the cold and the absurd sweetness of it all. “Oh my god. You’re talking back. Great. I’ve officially lost it.”

He crouches down slowly, one hand out, cautious but gentle. The rain’s falling harder now, catching in his hair, sliding down the curve of his neck. “Hey, little guy,” he murmurs. “Or girl. Or… whatever you wanna be. Hi.”

The cat sniffs his fingers, then immediately pushes its head into his palm—demanding, insistent. Yoongi laughs, startled, and almost falls backward.

“Oh my god, okay—yeah, sure, I’ll pet you,” he says, voice trembling between amusement and affection. “Bossy, huh?”

The cat purrs, loud enough to cut through the rain. Its fur is warm, impossibly soft beneath his cold hands. Yoongi feels his fingers thaw as he strokes it gently.

“See?” he whispers. “You’re not bad luck. You’re—” he pauses, smiling, “—like, the opposite of bad luck.”

The cat lifts its head, meets his eyes again, and blinks slow. Deliberate. Dominant, even. 

Black cats are supposed to be bad luck. That’s what everyone says. His father used to hiss at them, throw salt at the door. But Yoongi always thought they were just misunderstood—quiet little creatures that carried other people’s fear without asking for it.

It’s just him and this strange, bold little cat sitting together in the rain. 

“Guess this makes two of us.” he says softly.

The cat meows again, louder this time, as if confirming. Then circles him once. 

Yoongi holds a hand out. “You’re really out here in this weather? Aren’t you cold? Are you lost?”

The cat does not answer. But it does strut forward like it owns the pavement, then pushes its cheek into his palm with an aggressive amount of pressure.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi says, breath hitching, “you’re demanding.”

The cat flops directly against his leg like a warm, vibrating loaf of sass. Its purring is obnoxiously loud. It bumps its head into his hand again, then gives his wrist a little lick. Then a bite. Just a soft one.

Yoongi’s eyes fill with tears, the kind that come from nowhere. He lets out a breath that trembles.

It’s stupid. Maybe. But he presses his forehead gently to the top of the cat’s head for just a second and lets his eyes close again. So warm. He could cry right now and the cat would probably still judge him—but it would stay.

And the cat stays there—firm, purring, letting Yoongi press his face against its fur. Its body is solid, warm, heavier than it looks. It smells faintly of smoke and spice. Not like a normal cat. Not like wet fur. More like—

Cinnamon?

Yoongi blinks, confused.

But then the cat shifts slightly, lifts its paw, and smacks his knee. Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

Yoongi, for some reason, apologizes. “Sorry. You’re clearly busy running this parking lot.”

The rain comes down harder. Yoongi flinches and pulls his hood tighter, but the cat doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?” he whispers. “You’re just gonna sit here? In the rain? Like that doesn’t bother you?”

The cat licks its paw. Slowly. Insultingly.

Yoongi wipes his cheeks quickly with his sleeve. He hadn’t even realized he was still crying. “You’re not even real.”

The cat tilts its head.

Yoongi stares. It’s the eyes. Too intelligent. Too direct. Like it’s not just watching him—it’s reading him. Studying him.

The cat stands again, walks two steps forward. Then stops.

Looks back. Waits.

“Wait—are you serious?” Yoongi stands too fast, nearly slips on the wet sidewalk. “You want me to follow you?”

The cat meows like it’s obvious.

Yoongi takes a step back, eyes wide. “No. Nope. I’m not following you into the woods, demon,” he says, voice cracking somewhere between are you kidding me and actual panic. He gestures vaguely at the tree line. “What is that? Where are you even going? Where’s your owner?”

The cat freezes mid-step. Turns.

Stares. Then… the glare intensifies.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi whispers. “You don’t have an owner, do you?”

The cat blinks.

Yoongi gasps. “You’re offended I even asked. Oh my god, are you like—too proud to be domesticated?”

The cat stands. Does one slow circle—tail high—and then lifts its nose like royalty. The next meow is sharp. Cutting. Like how dare you.

Yoongi falters. “…What?”

The cat’s ears twitch. It stares at him like he just deeply insulted its bloodline. Like the mere concept of ownership is repulsive. It tilts its head one slow degree—judgmental as hell—and huffs through its nose like a tiny god displeased with a mortal.

Yoongi blinks. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “You don’t have an owner. You are the owner.”

The cat meows, offended. Loud. Sharp. Personal.

“Who even are you?” he asks the cat, like maybe, maybe this is all a fever dream and he’s passed out behind the studio and hallucinating.

The cat just starts walking again. Into the trees.

Yoongi panics. “No. No, no, I’m not doing that. I’m not—I’m not following a suspiciously clean black cat into the woods while crying in the middle of a thunderstorm. That’s literally how people die.”

Rain pelts down harder now—sheets of cold, punishing water hammering the pavement around him. His hoodie is useless. His socks are wet. His fingers are numb.

He wraps his arms around himself, muttering, “I am literally losing my mind. Talking to a cat. Arguing with a cat.”

The cat glances back once more. Then—just like that—it’s gone.

Yoongi’s breath catches. “Wait—” 

He spins around. Looks left. Right. Behind him. Nothing. No paw prints. No rustle. No black tail slipping between cars.

“Where did you—?” His voice dies off.

There’s no sign the cat was ever there.

He’s crying again. Not even hiding it now. Just open, helpless tears dripping quietly down his cheeks.

The parking lot is empty again. Silent except for the relentless pounding of rain on asphalt. A gust of wind hits hard, cutting through Yoongi’s hoodie, making him shiver down to the bone.

And then his phone buzzes.

He fumbles with wet hands, screen barely responsive through the water.

Message from Dad: Something came up. I will be in the next town over on a business trip for two days.

Yoongi just… stares at it.

Another buzz.

Message from Dad: Walk home.

Another.

Message from Dad: Quickly. I don’t want your sister being home alone for long. Good luck tomorrow.

Yoongi blinks. His vision blurs again—not from rain this time. Just tears. Exhaustion. Cold. Frustration. Everything.

The parking lot spins slightly. His head hurts. His shoulders hurt. He hadn’t eaten. 

He wipes his nose with his sleeve and looks at the space where the cat had been.

Gone.

The spot where the cat had been is just a wet patch now. A blur in the corner of his vision. It could’ve been anything. A hallucination. A trick of the light. Something his brain made up to keep him from shattering completely. But he can still feel the warmth on his wrist where it licked him. Still feel the tiny, arrogant headbutt into his palm. Still hear that sassy little meow like follow me, idiot.

But it’s gone.

And he’s alone.

The rain doesn’t let up. If anything, it hits harder—the kind that feels like punishment. The kind that reminds you that you’re small.

Yoongi stares at his phone screen again. Then turns it off. Just… can’t look at it anymore. Can’t look at that message thread like it’s not the same one he’s been rereading for years. The same cold words. The same instructions. The same nothing.

It’s not the first time his father’s done this. Yoongi knows that.

But it’s 9:20 p.m.

On the night before the Taking.

And he’s eighteen, not eight—yet somehow feels younger than ever. The rain makes it harder to breathe. So he starts walking.

It’s muscle memory, really. Cross the parking lot. Step over the loose drain cover. Hug his hoodie tighter. Pretend the thunder doesn’t scare the shit out of him.

He’s walked home before but never this late. Never this dark. Never this cold.

And never this afraid.

Not since his mom died.

He doesn’t talk about it—not with anyone—but ever since she passed, his fear of the dark has come back worse. That fear he had as a kid, the one that used to make him sleep under the bed during rainstorms? The one where he'd wedge his tiny body between his dresser and the wall with his fingers in his ears just to survive the night? It never really left.

The thunder cracks again. It’s loud—too loud—and Yoongi flinches like something just struck him. His jaw clenches. His eyes sting. He shivers, but not just from the cold.

He had a nightlight until he was thirteen.

He only stopped using it because his dad made fun of it.

Most nights, even now, he drowns everything out with noise-cancelling headphones and a book in his lap. Keeps the hallway light on. Doesn’t move too fast. Pretends he's just a night owl, not a grown boy still scared of the dark.

This is different.

This is walking in the dark. Through it. Alone.

He grips his arms tighter. His fingers are raw. His eyes are burning. His head feels light.

He starts to cry again, messy and uncontrollable. A wet, little cry that the rain helps disguise. His whole body curls inward, but he keeps moving. Step after step, shoes sloshing, socks soaked, throat tight.

He tries not to think about the word pathetic, but it floats up anyway.

Pathetic. Childish. Weak.

But he can’t stop crying.

He’s not mad that his dad is busy. He knows his dad is busy. He’s always been busy.

It’s just… it’s the same excuse. The same one Yoongi’s heard since he was five. Since before. Since his mom would tuck him in at night while his dad was out “networking” or “finalizing a merger” or “too busy to come inside right now.”

Back then, at least, someone stayed behind. Someone left the hallway light on.

Now Yoongi just gets text messages. Now Yoongi walks home in the dark.

He feels worthless. 

His father doesn’t say goodbye anymore. Doesn’t say goodnight. Barely looks him in the eye unless it’s about schedules or responsibilities or expectations.

Yoongi’s used to it. Has been for years.

Tonight… it stings more.

Maybe because of the storm. Maybe because of how tired he is, physically, emotionally. 

Maybe because he’s walking home on one of the most dangerous nights of the year. 

His lip quivers. He bites it. He wants to whimper. He wants to curl up under the nearest bush and wait for it all to go away. He wants someone to come find him. 

But no one will.

He thinks, for a second, about texting Jimin. Just—hey. Can you come get me? But he doesn’t.

They’re probably already home. Probably asleep. Probably getting ready for the biggest day of their lives. And what would he even say? Hey sorry I’m being a baby, I’m scared of the dark and thunder and my dad forgot me again?

No.

They’d be kind, sure. They’d say it’s fine.

But they’d remember.

And Yoongi can’t afford to be a burden right now.

So he doesn’t text. Doesn’t call.

Just… starts walking.

Across the street, the road stretches like a void. Dark trees line both sides, thick and tangled. There’s no sidewalk. No houses. No lights. Just cracked pavement and the sound of rain.

It’s miles until home.

Yoongi pulls his hood tighter. Breathes in slowly. Steps off the curb.

There’s no one out here but him.

And the forest.

And whatever’s in the forest. 

His lip wobbles as he shifts the weight of his soaked backpack higher on one tense shoulder, the strap cutting into skin through the wet fabric of his hoodie. It’s muscle memory by now—this walk, this stretch of road. The studio’s a fifteen-minute drive from his house, give or take.

Except Yoongi forgets that fifteen minutes by car is only fifteen when your father is half-drunk and flooring it with one hand on the wheel and the other around a bottle in a paper bag.

On foot? In the rain? At night?

It might as well be another continent.

He wipes his cheeks on his sleeve—wet from both rain and tears, so it’s not much of a comfort. The chill seeps deeper with every gust of wind, hitting bone. His nose runs. His hands are stiff. 

The road is empty. Completely. Not a single car. Not a single soul.

He glances behind him once. Twice. Keeps doing it every few paces.

The lights from the studio grow dimmer, swallowed up by mist and rain. Then they're gone.

Just like that. No more safety net. No more backup plan. No one left to call out to.

Yoongi’s breath catches in his throat. A quiet gasp he tries to hide from himself.

He’s so scared, the kind of fear that grabs the back of your neck and whispers you’re alone before you even realize it.

Don’t think about it, he tells himself. 

But his thoughts are fast and cruel.

This scared of walking home? Are you five? You’re not even halfway and you're already crying again. What a joke. You can't even survive a thunderstorm without spiraling. Useless.

The cold shakes him. It’s in his fingers, in his jaw, in his spine. A tremble he can’t stop. 

There are no houses. No porch lights. No glow from passing cars. 

Just Yoongi. And the road. And the endless black shapes of trees.

He can barely see the lines on the pavement anymore—but the white stripes help. Something human-made in the middle of the dark.

The screen of his phone buzzes faintly against his leg. He pulls it out with clumsy fingers, the screen smeared with droplets.

5% battery.

He doesn’t even bother unlocking it. Just stares at the number. Watches it blink once as if mocking him. Then slides it back into his pocket.

Rain keeps falling. Thunder hasn’t started.

He’s thankful for that—so thankful it almost makes him emotional. He doesn’t know why thunder gets to him so badly. Doesn’t know why it makes his body remember things it shouldn’t. He just knows that rain is different.

Rain is quiet. Gentle. It lets him cry without anyone knowing. It sounds like music if he listens hard enough. Like static on vinyl. Like background noise that fills the silence in his chest.

He likes it.

But the thought makes his throat close.

It’s so stupid. But it makes him want to cry harder.

Like—why does he feel so much for something like rain? Why does the world have to feel this big and this quiet and this lonely all at once?

A twig snaps behind him.

Yoongi stops dead in his tracks.

His breath catches. His stomach drops.

He turns slowly—eyes wide, heart stuttering in his chest.

There’s nothing.

The trees sway gently in the wind, long and tall and impossibly black. The rain smacks every surface. But there’s no movement. No figures. No animal. No sound.

Yoongi stares into the dark. Listens harder.

Was it him? Did he step on something? He glances down. Nothing but asphalt.

He turns to the side. Scans the tree line.

The forest is dark and vast and massive. Tall, jagged silhouettes all pressed together in some ancient secret. It’s darker between them than it is on the road. Thicker. A black so complete it makes his skin crawl.

He takes a breath.

Then starts walking again. Faster. Not quite running. But close.

Every hair on his body stands up.

Goosebumps on his arms.He hugs himself tighter, arms wrapped in a bruising grip, hoodie clinging to his soaked frame. His footsteps echo in the rain. A soft thump-thump-thump that suddenly feels too loud.

He feels it.

The stare.

Like eyes on the back of his neck. Like heat. Like something out there sees him. Follows him. Watches how his breath fogs. Watches how his legs tremble.

Yoongi doesn’t turn around this time.

He keeps walking. Faster. Faster.

As the minutes go on, Yoongi starts to daydream.

Not on purpose. It just… happens. His body is too cold, too tired, too overwhelmed. His brain needs something soft to hold onto.

He pictures it clearly in his head.

A warm bath.

Steam fogging the mirror. Candles on the sink. Maybe even bubbles, the cheap kind that smell like vanilla and comfort. His favorite towel waiting for him, still faintly warm from the radiator. His soft little bath mat underfoot—blue and puffy, like a cloud that loves him.

And after that….bed.

Oh god. Bed.

He pictures sinking into it—layer by layer. The mattress. The weighted blanket. The soft sheets tucked under his chin.

And, the pillows. He has so many. Some with silk covers, some with soft cotton. Different weights. Different sizes. He doesn’t know when it started—maybe after his mom died—but he needs them now. One under his head. One under his knees. One against his stomach. One by his chest, curled in his arms where a person might be. Another behind his back so he doesn’t roll too far to the side. And a little one at the top that doesn’t do anything except smell like fabric softener and familiarity.

He imagines wriggling into the perfect position, all knees and elbows, curling up small and safe.

He arranges them just right every night. It's a quiet little routine. And his stuffed whale—she doesn’t have a name, but he’s had her since he was seven—goes right near his face. Tucked between pillows so she doesn’t fall. He hugs her sometimes, especially on nights like this. She’s always a little cold at first but warms up fast.

He imagines the feel of his thickest blanket. The soft one with cartoon dinosaurs that nobody knows he still has. He layers it under the heavy duvet because it feels safer that way—like he’s hiding, but in a nice way. 

He doesn’t need much. Just that. Just those things. Then he’ll watch videos until his eyelids droop and the screen blurs and his breath slows, and—

He sniffles.

It’s such a beautiful thought he almost cries again.

The rain has slowed, thank god. It’s just mist now—gentle, like it’s trying to apologize for earlier. His hoodie is soaked, but his skin isn’t stinging anymore. It’s just cold. Wet. Miserable.

Another twig snaps.

Yoongi startles hard.

His foot catches against a crack in the road and he stumbles, nearly going down. Heart pounding. Palms cold.

He spins. Nothing.

He stops walking for a second. Reaches up with shaking fingers and pulls the elastic out of his hair. His half-up ponytail loosens and his dark hair falls around his face in damp waves, clinging to his cheeks, his ears, the nape of his neck.

He sighs. Instantly feels a bit better. Maybe it’ll help him warm up. Or feel less exposed. Either way, it’s nice to just feel something that isn’t panic.

He takes a deep breath and checks his phone again.

3% battery.

His eyes widen. He presses it against his chest with both hands, as if he can protect it by holding it closer. 

He doesn’t want to cry anymore so instead he starts to hum.

Softly. Barely audible. A tune his mom used to hum when she brushed his hair after bath time. It’s slow and sweet, a lullaby he pretends not to remember the words to. The rhythm of it helps him breathe. Helps him walk.

One foot. Then the other.

Again. Again. Again.

He watches the ground. Watches the white lines. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t look at the woods. 

One, two, three, four. I am fine. I am fine. I am—

Snap.

Another twig.

He freezes.

But… he’s almost there. He knows this part. The final bend. Then the road curves left and spits out near a row of cheap restaurants and a closed laundromat. After that—it’s just houses. 

He’s so close.

But something in his chest won’t calm down.

You're imagining it, he tells himself. You’re babying out. You’re scared of your own steps. It’s just you. You didn’t hear anything. You didn’t. You didn’t.

He hugs himself tighter, fingers digging into his arms.

But another voice in his head whispers back: Didn’t you?

Yoongi starts walking faster. Almost jogging now.

His lips part. His breath clouds the air. His body’s so tense it hurts. He glances behind him again—once. Twice. Three times. He can’t stop.

Every second that passes is a test. Every step he takes is another chance for something to grab him. Something to come from the trees. Something to—

No. No, no, no.

He starts humming again. Desperately. Louder. Shakier.

He feels it in his chest, that horrible pressure. The beginning of a panic attack. 

Don’t cry, he begs himself. Please don’t cry again. Please don’t do this now.

But the thunder waits for no one.

Yoongi’s feet stop moving.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Then another rumble—closer this time. 

And that’s it.

Yoongi whimpers.

A real, broken sound. High-pitched and tiny.

He wraps both arms around his middle and curls in slightly, instinctively—like he can protect his stomach. His hoodie is cold and wet and heavy, and it clings to him like punishment.

“Please,” he whispers to no one. “Please, not now. Not tonight.”

The feeling grows. Heavy. Crawling.

He looks behind him.

Yoongi wants to gaslight himself again. But he knows what he sees.

Two shining lights in a distance. Shaped as eyes. Nothing more than an a distant dull light.

What. The. Fuck.

Yoongi’s freezes. Like real, actual, instant-frost through his whole body—bone-deep, gut-twisting, soul-emptying terror.

Those aren’t headlights.

They’re too small. Too high up. Too still.

No movement. No flicker. Just two cold, symmetrical points of light hovering in the dark like… like eyes.

Just glowing. Quietly. Watching. Far enough to be distant. Close enough to feel real.

Yoongi’s breath stutters out of him. Sharp and unsteady.

A hiccup. A squeak. A break.

His lips part around a whimper he can’t even hear over the blood rushing in his ears. His whole face scrunches like a child about to sob—that kind of expression, one he hasn't made in years, one he doesn't let himself make anymore. But it’s there. Raw and honest and helpless.

And then—tears spill again. Instantly.

Big, round, blurring drops that soak straight into his already-wet cheeks. His bottom lip quivers so hard it bounces. His shoulders fold up. He can’t breathe right. He can’t think. He can’t move.

The lights don’t blink. They don’t do anything.

They just exist. Cold and wrong. And very, very aware of him.

His fingers twitch with pure adrenaline, fists clenched at his sides, useless and baby-pale. Then, like a switch being flipped—he lets out little hiccupping gasps that make his voice go high and wet and so tiny.

His whole body curls in more, arms crossing protectively over his middle. He shuffles back instinctively, but his legs barely work. He trips over the edge of the pavement and stumbles into the grass, breath coming out in desperate little huffs.

He doesn’t even care if he looks pathetic. Doesn’t care if someone’s watching.

He’s scared.

He’s really scared.

“Please,” he sobs again, and it comes out like a plea—voice all cracked and high and baby-soft from holding it in too long. “Please, I d-don’t wanna—I don’t wanna be here—”

His hands shake so hard they ache. His legs are so cold, and the water is so loud, and the thunder hasn’t even hit again yet, but it’s coming, and he knows it, and—

Another sob. His breath catches on it and he hiccups again. Then sniffles. Then hiccups again and presses the sleeve of his soaked hoodie up to his face like it’ll somehow help.

It just smears everything. His cheeks are hot and wet. His nose is runny. His neck feels like it’s too small to hold his head up.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tight-tight-tight, like maybe if he does, the lights will be gone when he opens them.

1, 2, 3…

He opens them.

The lights are closer. Only by a little.

But it’s enough. A sound escapes him then—so soft, so high, so honestly terrified that it doesn’t even register as a real word. Just a tiny little noise—somewhere between a gasp and a squeak and a sob, one that hurts as it leaves his chest.

He wants to call someone. He wants to scream. He wants to disappear. He wants his mom. He wants anyone.

But all he has is a dying phone, a too-dark road, and two glowing eyes that feel like they’re about to move.

So Yoongi—little, trembling, crying Yoongi—

Turns.

And runs.

Like really runs. Like arms flailing, chest heaving, barely-breathing kind of run.

His feet slap against the wet pavement with panic, like if he stops, even once, even for half a second, those eyes will catch up. That thing will find him. And he’ll die right there in the trees and no one will even know.

The wind whips around him. His lungs burn. His vision blurs from rain and crying and the sheer force of everything.

He bolts past the end of the forest road, past the old barbershop with the flickering neon sign, past the bakery with the sleepy striped awning, past the grocery store with the dented carts and underpaid night staff. He barely notices any of it. Just shapes. Shadows. Doorframes. Safety that isn’t his.

The only thing real is the pounding in his ears and the sound of his soaked sneakers hitting the ground again and again and again.

Through the empty suburbia.

Up the slight hill.

Past the half-lit street lamps and puddles that swallow his ankles.

To the last row of houses tucked just above the town.

And then—there it is.

Home.

A small suburban house that overlooks the town. Grey roof. Soft porch light. That one little window he always forgets to close.

Surrounded by the forest and a slightly overgrown lawn.

It’s perfect.

Yoongi’s whole body lurches when he sees it. His knees nearly buckle. His chest tightens with something that feels like relief but hurts too much to be comforting.

He stumbles up the driveway, wheezing, soaked head to toe. His hands are shaking. His fingers are curled like claws from holding them too tight. His stomach cramps so hard he nearly falls.

He coughs once. Then again. Then harder. Bent over. Dry. Hacking. Gasping.

His throat feels like it’s been scraped raw. His hoodie is cold and heavy like it wants to pull him into the dirt. His lips are chapped. His lashes clump with rain.

He’s so close.

He rings the doorbell.

One long, desperate buzz. His finger presses too hard, like the sound alone might save him.

It’s quiet inside.

Yoongi sways where he stands.

Then—footsteps.

A shuffle. And the door clicks open—and there she is.

Jennie. Half-asleep, in pajama shorts and a too-big shirt with her hair up in the world’s messiest bun. Her eyes are bleary. One sock on. Phone still glowing in her hand.

She opens the door mid-yawn—

Then freezes.

Her eyes go wide. “Yoongi?”

Her voice is soft. Confused. Concerned.

Yoongi looks up at her. His whole body trembling.

He’s pale. Sopping wet. Breath hitching in little gasps. His cheeks are red, his mouth open, eyes glassy, and his hair is a mess—the ponytail long undone, sticking to his face in wet strands. His white shirt clings to his stomach, nearly see-through in the porch light. His sweatpants are dripping. His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts.

And still—somehow—he tries to smile.

It’s so sad.

The corners of his mouth twitch up—barely there—before he folds forward again with another cough, catching himself on the doorway.

Jennie’s eyes widen even more. “Oh my god—Yoongi—”

“I’m okay,” he rasps, which is a lie. 

She grabs his arms immediately, guiding him inside. “No you’re not. Jesus. What happened?”

Yoongi sniffles. Shakes his head. Still hasn’t let go of the strap of his backpack.

“I… I just walked.”

“You walked?! Home? In this—” she gestures wildly at the sky, at him, “—storm?! Are you—?!” Her voice breaks on the last word. Not out of anger—out of fear. Real, primal fear that makes her stomach twist and her throat close.

And then, like a switch, it hits her. The whole picture. The soaked hair, the tiny sniffles, the red cheeks, the trembling fingers, the fact that he’s clearly been crying for a while.

“Yoongi, what the fuck?!”

He flinches. Not because she’s yelling. But because it feels like shame. Like being scolded for trying his best.

His bottom lip trembles again.

Jennie sees it.

Her whole expression cracks, furious and soft all at once. “No—no, I didn’t mean it like that—shit, I’m not mad, I’m just—”

She grips both his arms, tight, searching his face. Her thumbs swipe at the wetness on his cheeks without even thinking. “Do you know what night it is? Do you understand how dangerous it is out there right now?”

Yoongi shakes his head, small and helpless. “I didn’t wanna bother anyone.”

“You—what—Yoongi!” Her voice catches again. “People disappear the week before the Taking, you know that. This is when they hunt. This is when the whole city locks down.”

He looks away. Shoulders hunched.

His voice is barely a breath. “I didn’t know what else to do…”

Jennie exhales sharply through her nose. Frustrated. Wrecked. So full of love she could scream.

“You should’ve called me. I would’ve come. I would’ve gotten you, I don’t care how late it is—”

“I thought you’d be asleep…”

“I don’t sleep when I know people I love are out in this shit!”

Yoongi stares at her. Silent. Wide-eyed. A tear slips down again, trailing over the one already there.

Jennie’s throat tightens. “You’re—fucking freezing,” she says, voice gentling fast. “You’re shaking so hard I can hear your teeth.”

Yoongi sniffles again. Finally lets go of his backpack strap. His fingers leave tiny indentations in the fabric.

Jennie hugs him again, tighter this time. Her hand presses to the back of his head. His face buries deep into her shoulder, warm breath puffing against her collarbone.

She sways them gently. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Just breathes. Wet and broken. Jennie rubs slow circles into his back.

“I thought you were asleep under your weighted blanket with your twenty-three fucking pillows,” she whispers, trying to soothe.

“I was supposed to be,” Yoongi murmurs, muffled by her shirt. “I was gonna take a bath and line them up and everything. I was gonna have a youtube night and spray my lavender stuff…”

“Oh, Yoongi…” Jennie smiles, watery.

Yoongi  just folds into her arms like it’s the only thing he’s been holding out for. He hides his face in her shoulder and lets out a breath that shudders. Another tiny sob slips out before he can stop it.

Jennie pets his hair. “You’re safe now, okay? You’re home. It’s okay.”

Yoongi is too out of it to register how concerned his sister looks. Doesn’t even realize she left the room—until she’s back again, towel in hand, and already crouching beside him with that bossy, no-nonsense energy she always pulls out when she’s trying not to cry.

“Here, Yoon. You’re fucking soaked,” she says, “And take off your shoes. You’re tracking mud all over my clean floor.”

He blinks at her.

Then down at his feet.

Oh.

He hadn’t noticed.

She sighs, dramatic. Like she’s annoyed—but her hands are careful when she presses the towel to his hair. She rubs gently at his scalp, working warm friction into his freezing curls. She doesn’t even flinch when his body jerks from the temperature contrast.

Despite being three years younger, Jennie always took on the job of worrying for Yoongi.

Maybe that’s just what grief does to people—twists time, rearranges who’s the older one, who gets to fall apart. After their mother died, Jennie grew up all at once. Not by choice. The softness in her had shrunk into something tighter, sharper. She still laughs like she used to—but she doesn’t hope like she used to. Not since the picture-perfect world she believed in was yanked out from under her.

Still. She worries.

“I made food,” she adds, standing again, one hand propped on her hip.

Yoongi shifts where he sits on the edge of the entryway chair, toweling off his face. His socked foot taps rhythmically against the hardwood. It's one of those things he does when he's trying to stay present—like counting, like humming, like rubbing his fingertips together.

He kicks off his shoes slowly. Peels off the damp socks like they offend him. Wraps the towel tighter around himself. His fingers tremble a little when he rubs at his neck.

He doesn’t realize Jennie’s still talking until she’s waving her hand in front of his face.

“—Yah. Are you even listening to me, you brat?” Her tone shifts again, fond exasperation covering her worry like a jacket thrown over glass. “I just asked if you’re alright. You look really pale.”

Yoongi blinks. Looks up.

Jennie narrows her eyes.

“I—” he starts, voice cracking a little. He swallows. His throat aches. So does his chest.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not to her. She’s too good at catching it anyway. Has always had that weird, uncanny ability to see through him like glass.

“I need…” He looks down. Rubs his hands together under the towel. “I need some food.  And a bath. And some sleep. Then I think I’ll be okay.”

The words feel strange. Off-balance. 

The thought of food makes his stomach turn slightly—nerves wound too tight, body still in post-shock—but he knows he can’t skip again. If he does, he won’t make it through class tomorrow. He won’t be able to hold his pencil. He’ll space out again and miss everything.

Jennie hums low in her throat. A soft, skeptical sound.

“Okay,” she says. “But you're eating something warm. And you’re finishing it.”

He nods once, small and obedient.

Jennie doesn’t push further. Just walks to the kitchen.

Yoongi stays seated, towel over his shoulders like a cape. He stares at the hallway wall—at the framed photo of the three of them from years ago.

His eyes sting again.

Jennie sighs, running a hand through her hair again before jerking her chin toward the kitchen in that way she always does when she doesn’t feel like speaking. The kind of gesture that says: Come on. You’re not getting out of this.

Yoongi follows quietly. His legs ache. His throat’s sore. And for some reason, even though he’s safe, even though he’s home, he still feels watched. 

This whole week has felt like a punishment. Like some sick loop of bad luck rerunning over and over—loneliness, exhaustion, shame, the ache behind his eyes. It never stops.

And suddenly he’s thinking about hugs.

Just… a long one. The kind where your bones go quiet and your shoulders drop and someone breathes near your neck and your stupid fight-or-flight instinct finally turns off. That kind.

Jennie gives those kinds of hugs. The real ones. The grounding ones.

But then Yoongi catches himself.

No. No, he doesn’t deserve that right now. He doesn’t deserve to be taken care of like this. Jennie’s younger than him. She’s the baby. She shouldn’t be the one always fussing over him, worrying when he doesn’t text, making him soup like he’s six and heartbroken.

It should be the other way around.

He swallows it. Follows her into the kitchen like a shadow. Doesn’t speak.

He slides into the stool at the kitchen island. Jennie moves wordlessly, stirring the pot, ladling broth and vegetables into a wide bowl like she’s done this a hundred times. The smell is warm and nostalgic—ginger, garlic, slow-boiled chicken—and it hits something in his chest he didn’t know was there.

Yoongi’s lip wobbles again.

He bites it, hard. Just enough to keep it from trembling. He turns his face away a little, like that’ll help.

He doesn’t want her to see. Doesn’t want to be the reason she worries more. Doesn’t want to explain why it always feels like he’s crying now, like it’s an instinct. A reflex. A defect.

His body is so used to panic it doesn’t know how to feel anything else.

He’s pathetic.

Stop it, he tells himself. Just eat. Just be normal for one goddamn minute.

And then the bowl is there in front of him. Steam curling gently upward like a small kindness.

Yoongi blinks. His stomach growls before he can stop it, and Jennie raises her eyebrows, smirking.

The first bite makes him close his eyes.

It’s—comforting.  “Good soup,” he says after a moment. Voice low. Honest. “Really good.”

He doesn’t wait for her to reply—just goes back in for another bite, faster, messier this time. He doesn’t care. He’s so hungry, his stomach doesn’t even bother warning him anymore—it just begs.

Jennie leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.

“It tasted like ass to me,” she says flatly. “But I guess anything tastes decent when you haven’t eaten in—what, two days?”

Yoongi gives her a soft, crooked smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. But it’s the best he can do.

She’s not wrong. He has been starving. And not just physically. For warmth. For rest. For something to fill the space that’s been dragging him down like lead.

“At least you’re gonna survive as a college student,” Jennie snorts, peeling away from the counter and heading back to the living room. “Sounds like peak meal prep to me.”

Yoongi watches her flop onto the couch and grab the remote. Some crime show is already paused, mid-episode. She unpauses it like she’s not even thinking. Like this is just another night.

He wishes she would sit with him.

Not even talk—just… be close. Maybe sit next to him with her knee bumping his. Maybe lean her head on his shoulder. Maybe let him rest his forehead against her for five minutes and not say anything about it.

She wouldn’t mock him for it. Not really. Not Jennie.

But he doesn’t ask.

He just stares at the soup. Lifts his spoon again. Forces his wrist to move even though his arms feel like noodles. His leg bounces under the stool.

His heart is doing that thing again—beating fast for no reason. Chest too tight. Ears too loud.

Maybe it’s the start of another panic attack. Maybe it’s just his body adjusting after fear. He doesn’t know.

So he counts. Each bite. Each swallow. 

One. Two. Three. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

He stops after the twenty-second. That’s enough. It has to be enough. He’s already indulged more than he should have.

He pushes the bowl slightly away and rests both arms on the counter.

He disappears down the hall without a word, towel still wrapped around his shoulders. 

The bathroom is the only room in the house that still feels untouched by their father—still smells faintly of his mother’s rose-scented bath salts and old lavender lotion.

Yoongi turns the faucet, watches the water rush out. The sound fills the space, drowning out the silence in his head for a while. He unscrews the cap of the rose bubble mixture and pours too much in. The scent is soft, overwhelming, familiar. He sits on the cold edge of the tub and watches it foam.

He undresses slowly, folding his clothes into a neat pile by the wall. The air hits his skin, cool and sharp. His chest rises and falls too fast, like his body hasn’t decided if it’s anxious or exhausted.

When the  water reaches the right height he steps in. For a moment, everything stings—the heat, the shift from cold air to hot water, the sudden heaviness of his limbs. Then his muscles loosen, his heartbeat slows. He sinks down until the water kisses his collarbones. His breath fogs the air.

The quiet is almost too much.

Yoongi closes his eyes. The thoughts come back.

You could just stop breathing here. You could let it all go. Nobody would blame you.

Wouldn’t it be peaceful?

He doesn’t fight them right away. He’s too tired to. He slides lower until the water covers his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The warmth presses in on all sides, and for a moment he lets himself drift under the water completely.

Tiny bubbles leave his nose, floating upward. His hair fans out around him, soft and weightless. He opens his eyes underwater, and they burn immediately. He doesn’t care. The sting feels grounding, almost cleansing.

He wonders how long he can stay like this.

He counts in his head—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—but he stops keeping track somewhere after thirty.

His chest burns. His lungs start to ache. Still, he doesn’t move.

Yoongi thinks, if he died like this then his sister would find his body naked and in a tub. 

The thought is so vivid it makes his throat close.

She’d probably scream. She’d probably think she failed him. And he can’t do that to her.

That’s what finally makes him come up for air.

Yoongi breaks the surface with a gasp, water dripping down his face. He coughs, sucks in air that tastes like rose and soap. His hands shake when he wipes at his face. He presses them to his eyes until he sees static.

He can’t die in a bathtub. Not like this. Not where she could find him.

The image of it—makes him wish, again, that he was someone else. Someone less breakable. Someone who didn’t cry at thunder or crave warmth.

But he isn’t. He never was.

He exhales shakily. Opens his eyes.

He leans forward and reaches for the curtain. Just enough to pull it aside an inch, then two, until the outside light spills in.

The backyard glows under the moon. The grass looks greener at night, washed silver by the soft light. Beyond the yard, the forest ahead is endless—tall, whispering with every gust of wind.

Yoongi watches it quietly, chin resting on his arm against the tub’s edge. The moonlight reflects off the bubbles, turning the bath into a glittering expanse of silver foam.

It’s beautiful.

He pulls his knees tighter, folding in on himself, chin tucked low. The water rocks with him—gentle waves that brush the porcelain edge and lap against his chest. It makes the surface ripple, and under the silver moon, Yoongi looks almost unreal.

His collarbones peek out just above the waterline, delicate and sharp, like pale little wings carved beneath skin. The bubbles cling to his shoulders in soft clusters, trailing down his arms and pooling between his bent knees. He doesn’t notice the little tuft of foam that’s settled on top of his head.

His hair, damp and curling from the steam, falls into his face in soft blonde strands. It clings to his cheeks, darker where it’s wet, brushing the tops of his lashes. And his lashes—long and damp and tangled—cast shadows when he blinks slowly, like he’s trying not to fall asleep even though everything in him wants to shut down.

His cheeks are pink from the heat of the water, his nose a little red. His lips are soft and parted, breath slow and shaky from the mix of fear and exhaustion. 

Every now and then, his lower lip quivers—like he’s still holding back the instinct to cry again, even though no one’s here to see it.

He’s small like this. So small. Curled up in the middle of a too-big tub, surrounded by too many bubbles, lit only by moonlight and the faint overhead glow. He looks like something from a storybook.

He sniffles softly, not even aware that he does it. His fingers float just beneath the surface, trailing through the bubbles like they don’t belong to him.

He doesn’t see how pretty he is. How gentle.

The forest, however, still watches.

Something crawls up the back of his neck. That same gut feeling from earlier. 

He tries to shake it. Tries to tell himself it’s nothing, that he’s tired and scared and fucking traumatised 

But he can’t shake the thought that he’s visible right now. That from the forest line, anyone—or anything—could see him.

The window’s wide open.

He hadn’t realized until now. His fingers twitch on the porcelain edge of the tub. He feels small, exposed.

Yoongi pulls his knees closer to his chest. The water sloshes softly.

He stares out into the trees. The moonlight glints off something between the branches. Just a trick of the light, maybe. Or a reflection.

Or eyes.

Yoongi’s breath catches. His heart stumbles once in his chest.

He blinks hard, and whatever it was—if it was anything at all—is gone. Just shadows again. Just trees.

He stays still for a long time. Too long.

Frozen in the tub, breath shallow, arms wrapped tight around his knees. The water’s gone warm now, cooled just enough to remind him how naked he is, how thin his skin feels. Every inch of him prickles with cold, despite the blanket of bubbles that still float lazily on the surface.

He swallows hard, eyes glued to the tree line.

Nothing moves. It’s too still.

Yoongi forces his gaze away and stares down into the water instead. Maybe it was a reflection. Maybe his brain is playing tricks on him again. It’s been a hard day, a hard week, a hard year. He’s not sleeping. He hasn’t been eating. Of course he’s starting to see things.

He lets out a tiny breath. Tries to slow his heartbeat. His chest still feels too tight.

The curtain flutters softly beside him, catching a faint breeze from the open window.

He jumps.

The sound is barely anything—a whisper—but his whole body jerks like someone’s screamed. Water splashes over the edge of the tub, hitting the floor with a soft plip.

His breathing’s gone thin again. Too fast. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to himself, voice wobbling. “It’s fine, it’s okay, it’s nothing—”

But he doesn’t believe it.

Because there’s still that feeling. That something’s watching him feeling. Not imagined. Not dramatized. Real.

He opens his eyes again and forces himself to look back at the window. Moonlight spills in like before. The trees look the same. Still. Silent.

But there’s a shape now.

Lower down.

Right by the fence.

Yoongi’s mouth falls open. He doesn’t even breathe.

It’s not clear. Not defined. Just a suggestion of something—a figure? A shadow? A shape standing just outside the beam of light. Perfectly still.

His mind blanks.

Then—its head tilts. 

Slightly. Slowly. Curiously.

Yoongi makes a noise he doesn’t recognize. A whimper, maybe. Or a strangled cry.

He can’t see its face. He shouldn’t be able to. It’s too far, too dark, too veiled by the reflection on the glass. But something about the posture—the way it stands upright, deliberate—is unmistakably human. Not lumbering. Not clawed or monstrous. No fangs bared. Just still. Almost…

Watching.

And that’s worse.

Because monsters make sense. Monsters don’t stand like that. 

And fuck—

He swears the figure’s head cocks again, just slightly, to the left this time—precise. Like it’s assessing him. Like it already knows what he looks like naked, curled in a bath with foam in his hair and fear in his lungs.

Like it’s been watching for longer than he realizes.

Oh god. Oh god.

He’s so exposed. He’s dripping, flushed, vulnerable. Long wet lashes blink once—twice—as his heart slams against the cage of his chest.

His lips are parted, pink and wet, trembling with effort. There’s a soap bubble clinging to his collarbone, another one caught in the curls of his damp blond hair. His cheeks are still flushed from the heat, but now there’s panic painting over it. Real, instinct-deep panic.

And his eyes—

Wide. Doe-wide. Glassy. A little red at the corners, like he’s been crying again. They glitter in the low light, glassy and pleading.

He doesn’t know why his skin burns hotter now—why his limbs feel heavy and light all at once, like his body wants to collapse or run. Like both would be right.

The shape doesn’t leave.

It just stays there. Watching.

The moonlight hits it a little differently this time. Yoongi swears he sees a glint of eyes. Not glowing—just reflecting the silver glow like a cat’s would. Focused entirely on him.

It’s too much. It’s too much.

His hand reaches out and yanks the curtain shut with force.

He scrambles upright, slipping slightly, water cascading down his thighs as he clutches the towel tighter, curling it around his stomach and chest. His breath shakes in his throat—he’s trembling so hard it’s visible in his knees.

He stumbles backward against the far wall of the bathroom, heart pounding.

Yoongi stares at the window. The curtain flutters once more, swaying a little like the wind blew the curtain open once more.

He shudders.

And for the first time since the walk home—since the long road and the glowing eyes and the dark trees and the thunder—he lets himself cry again.

Real, quiet, terrified crying.

Face pressed into his towel. Bubbles still clinging to his skin. Hair dripping. Skin flushed and full of goosebumps.

He feels so small.

So tired. So watched.

And he doesn’t even know why.

He thinks about Jennie—her voice, her warmth, the way she’d hug him and call him an idiot for standing here half-naked and terrified. He almost calls out for her. Almost.

But something in him doesn’t want to break the silence.

Because what if it’s still out there?

What if it’s listening?

Yoongi backs up one step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the cold porcelain of the tub. The window looms in front of him. Wide open.

He can’t bring himself to close it. Can’t make himself walk that last meter to touch the glass.

The forest looks like it’s breathing. The shadows pulse like lungs.

He whispers again—so softly it barely counts as sound—“Please just let me sleep.”

A gust of wind cuts through the room. The curtain lifts, rippling toward him.

Yoongi flinches and squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them again—the curtain is still.

And on the fogged windowpane, where his breath meets the cold glass, something has drawn a shape with a single, deliberate swipe.

Two parallel lines.

And between them—a small, curved mark.

Like a smile.

By the time Yoongi RUNS himself out of the bathroom, the house feels too quiet.

Jennie’s already gone to bed, her door closed, the faint blue glow of her tablet flickering under the crack. The only sounds left are the sound of the heater and the soft patter of rain on the roof—enough to lull anyone else to sleep.

Anyone but him.

Yoongi changes into his favorite sleep shirt—one that’s soft and worn thin from too many washes—and crawls into bed. The sheets are clean, the air faintly lavender from the spray he always uses. It should feel safe. But it doesn’t.

He lines up his pillows carefully—three stacked behind his head, one under his arm, one by his side. Nugget, the stuffed cow, takes his usual place by his chest. He smooths the duvet, then tucks the corners tight around himself until he’s cocooned. He does everything right. Everything that usually helps.

And still he’s scared shitless. 

Yoongi’s been lying in the dark since then, eyes open, watching the shadows shift across his ceiling.

He should feel safe. He’s warm. Clean. His window’s locked now. His hair smells like shampoo and his sheets smell like detergent and the faintest trace of citrus. His body’s sore in that good, post-ballet way. There’s no reason to feel like this.

He flips his pillow once, twice, trying to find the cool side. The clock blinks 2:31 a.m. in soft red digits.

Another drop of water hits the windowsill outside—plip. Then another. Then the rain hits harder.

He’s exhausted, but his thoughts won’t stop.

What if he imagined it all? What if he didn’t? What if there was something in the forest? What if it followed him home?

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut. His body curls tight under the blanket. He forces himself to breathe slow. In, out, in, out—until the sound almost lulls him to sleep. 

Almost.

Yoongi turns to his side, hitting his pillow to get it to fluff up, and turning it over to the cool side. Yoongi feels like screaming, he finally gets the chance to get a good nights rest before the most dangerous day of the year and now his subconscious can’t keep quiet.

He just can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

 Every time he closes his eyes, he feels paranoid, and every time he opens his eyes, he thinks he sees a ten-foot slender man in his closet. Ready to eat Yoongi up. 

He flips onto his back for the tenth time that night, staring at the ceiling. Rain hammers the window harder, the rhythm faster now. No thunder yet. Maybe the universe will let him have one night.

If he can even fall asleep.

Yoongi runs a shaky hand through his damp hair. “There is no demon in my closet,” he mumbles to himself, closing his eyes. “There’s no demon, there’s no demon, there’s no—”

Then—

A laugh.

Low, smooth, and wrong.

It’s heard across the room, like someone standing just behind his ear had breathed it straight into his neck.

Yoongi’s eyes snap open. He doesn’t even breathe for a full three seconds. Then—he gasps. Sharp and tiny. Half whine, half hiccup. His whole body jerks back like he’s been shocked. The duvet flies up to his nose, and his brain short‑circuits trying to process whether that sound was real.

He’s frozen. Absolutely, cartoonishly frozen. The kind of stillness that comes from pure, distilled panic.
His heart’s going so fast it’s practically vibrating.

“…what the fuck,” he whispers into the dark. Nothing answers.

He blinks once. Twice. The shadows don’t move—until they do. Something red flickers in the corner of the room. Just for a second. Like a reflection—but there’s no window on that wall.

Okay, okay…. Totally normal. Happens all the time. People hallucinate when they’re tired.

If he focuses, he can hear his own heartbeat. He doesn’t want to.

There’s no way.

No. He knows what he heard.

He’s seen enough horror movies to know how this ends. His eyes dart toward the closet. Slowly. So slowly it hurts. His brain whispers, it’s just a box. It’s just a hanger. It’s just your stupid funeral blazer.

He laughs weakly. It sounds hysterical.

Another flicker of red. Two, now—like eyes blinking open in the dark.

Yoongi sits up so fast he gets dizzy. His blanket falls to his lap. The air feels charged, too hot, like the seconds before thunder hits.

His entire soul leaves his body for a second. His pupils dilate, he feels a presence.

Because if that wasn’t a demon, or a ghost, or Slenderman—then who the fuck just laughed?

His breath catches on a wet, nervous hiccup that sounds too close to a sob.

Yoongi almost laughs himself. Almost—because what else can you do when you’re about to die in your pajamas? Maybe this is how he goes—not drowned in a bathtub, not eaten by guilt—but dragged to hell in his own bedroom.

The thought bubbles up before he can stop it: I want to die, so come at me, I guess.

He doesn’t say it. He’s not that brave.

Instead, he hugs his stuffed pink cow tighter, clutching it to his chest. His fingers tremble as he gropes for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up the whole room in sterile blue-white. His eyes squint, watering from the brightness.

He scans the room fast—closet, dresser, mirror, desk.

Nothing.

No figure. No demon. No movement except the soft sway of his curtains.

Yoongi lets out a shaky breath and drops his phone back on the nightstand. “See?” he whispers, voice small. “You’re fine. You’re fine.”

He flinches and throws the blanket over his head instantly. Classic move. Old-school. Reliable. But also—completely useless.

He curls up as small as he can, and decides his precious stuffed pink cow will be the victim of his anxiety, as he clutches onto it for dear life. He doesn’t want the stuffed pink cow to be taken by the closet demon too.

He can feel his heartbeat against it. Too fast. Too human.

“I’m going crazy,” he whispers into the cotton. “If I pretend to be asleep, it can’t kill me,” he whispers. “That’s the rule. That’s the rule, okay?”

He’s so scared it’s stupid. Like, full body stupid. His toes are curled, his knees are to his chest, his fingers are cramping around the neck of his poor pink stuffed cow—who did not ask to be in this horror film.

He debates his options.

Wake up Jennie? Risk her stabbing him in the face out of shock? Or worse—her not seeing anything and accusing him of being high again?

Okay. Plan B. He could run around the house, turning on every single light. Maybe grab a knife. Not that he knows how to use one.

Or—God—maybe he could just sprint out into the woods, which is ironically less terrifying than staying in this haunted-ass room with red eyes in the closet.

He shivers under the blankets. 

Or—

“Maybe I just kill myself,” Yoongi mutters into the dark, fully insane. 

Quick, easy. Less emotionally taxing than whatever this shit is.

Maybe just hurl himself out the second-floor window and let the demon watch from the closet like, “damn, I was just gonna say hi—”

And that’s when it happens.

It’s not audible. It’s not visible. There’s no spell circle, no wand flick, no glowing pentagram.

Just… a shift. A pressure drop. A scent.

It feels like something in the room is pressing him down, even though nothing is there. Like a weighted blanket that keeps pressing down. Then something changes. 

It’s subtle at first. Almost pleasant.

The air shifts.

His muscles, which were locked, release just a fraction. Not enough to feel safe. But enough to feel… a little floaty.

Warm.

He blinks under the blanket. His eyelids feel a little heavier now. His arms, too. The panic doesn’t vanish, but it dulls—like someone turning the volume down on his anxiety until it’s just static.

Yoongi’s brow furrows, dazed.

He breathes in again. Deep this time. The air is thicker than before—it’s spiced and earthy. Something… warm. Comforting. Calming. Primal.

It smells like safety. Not like the suffocating kind. No. This is different. Like something brushing against his nervous system just enough to say: “I see you, little one. You’re okay now.”

Yoongi’s eyelashes flutter once. Twice.

He wants to fight it. He really does. But he’s so tired. The fear is still there, humming like a dimmed emergency alarm—but the presence in the air overrides it.

Rest. I’ve got you.

Yoongi doesn’t know where it’s coming from. Doesn’t know how he knows it’s meant for him. But he melts. Bit by bit. His fingers loosen on the cow. His shoulders sink back to the mattress.

The blanket feels warmer now. He curls a little more into it. Breathing deep. Breathing slow.

He doesn’t realize his lips part just slightly, like he’s trying to ask who’s there?—but the words never leave. His limbs grow too heavy to lift. It feels like a switch flipped in his brain.

His lashes lower. His head turns slightly, instinctively tilting toward the source of comfort.

He slips under before he can resist again.

Knocked out cold.

Peaceful for the first time all night

There’s something—someone—watching.

There’s an outline that finally reveals himself once Yoongi is fully asleep. He’s too gone to register the tall, impossibly broad figure standing silently in the shadowed hallway, half-hidden near the doorway. 

His head tilted slightly, just enough to let the moonlight catch on the slope of his cheekbone. His eyes glow the color of candlelight. 

And on the bed is the smallest lump of blanket you could imagine. A bunch of blanket and fear, curled tight. One arm has slipped out—too delicate for the cold, wrist half-tucked under his cheek. His other arm curls protectively around the stuffed pink cow, plush nose squished slightly beneath the bend of his elbow. The cow’s button eyes stare up at the ceiling in quiet horror. (Mood.)

The sight hurts. It actually hurts.

All that trembling, all that softness, all that unguarded quiet— and this boy has no idea what it means to be watched by something that won’t ever let him be hurt again.

Yoongi’s lips are parted, soft. His skin, moonlit and too cold for someone who’d just been terrified, is nearly translucent in places—like you could bruise him just by brushing your knuckles too close.

Jin steps forward once. Soundless. He kneels beside the bed—one massive knee pressing into the floorboards with a weight that makes the wood creak slightly. Because of course he is.

His hands are so large. His veins move slow under his skin. Strength without tension. Power without violence.

He reaches a huge, warm hand—massive in scale, with elegant fingers and perfectly trimmed nails—brushes back a strand of blond hair from the pups forehead, careful not to startle him.

Jin’s breath catches.

For half a second, he lets his hand linger there. Thumb tracing the curve of a cheekbone. Fingertips resting against the crown of blond curls. He could crush him without trying. He could hold him forever and never let go. He does neither.

It’s so gentle.

Yoongi’s brow crinkles for a moment—baby-soft skin cold to the touch. His cheek is puffed where it squishes against the pillow. His lips part with a soft breath. His eyes don’t open, but his body already knows. It’s his brain that needs time to catch up.

The hand lingers. Cupping the side of his head. As if checking for fever. As if silently saying, There you are, little one.

Jin’s eyes glow a little more now—gold but with red now. Not of this world. 

His palm cups the side of Yoongi’s head for a second. Thumb sliding lightly across the temple, brushing over the curve of an eyelash. His thumb could cover most of Yoongi’s cheek if he wanted—he doesn’t. He keeps the contact light. Reverent.

He brushes Yoongi’s bangs back one more time, just to see his face. Just to make sure he’s real.

Found you.

Jin exhales through his nose. A soundless huff. His mouth tilts into something like a smile. It’s that softened smile a person makes when they see a small thing curled up and sleeping, helpless and stupid and precious. A fawn in a blanket. A kitten under a car. A dream you don’t want to wake.

He sighs in his sleep, and Jin’s face—already softened—goes impossibly more so.

He takes one last look at the tiny shape beneath the covers.

Jin tilts his head, fond. “Sleep well, little one,” he says, low enough that the air barely stirs.

Then he’s gone. The scent fades. The room cools.

And Yoongi sleeps.

For the first time in days.

Chapter Text

The clock reads 6:13 as yoongi passes by the over in the kitchen. Today is one of those mornings where the the sky is foggy, and somewhat gray, and in between sunrise colors the sky a foggy pink and orange. An Ironic Sunrise after the night he just had.

Yoongi closes the kitchen window shut, wondering why it had been left wide open. Yoongi shivers from touching the cool metal. The air is crisp and cold, and smells fresh from the rainy forest. Yoongi lingers along the window for a second, his mind is fresh and clear, despite being so freaked out and paranoid last night.

It had taken him a while for him to fall asleep, kept on tossing and turning and lifting his phone flashlight, unable to erase the echo of what he thought he heard. He flipped his blanket inside out, turned his pillow too many times to count because he couldn’t decide on the most comfortable position- and then suddenly, he just simply fell asleep.

For some reason he woke without nightmares this morning, in a better mood than he has been all month. He wants to take that as a sign that today will be a successful day, for him at least. But yoongi knows today won’t be successful for a lot of people, that today will be tragic, and yoongi’s good mood will fade away just like this beautiful sunrise, the pink and orange will turn into grey rain clouds that distribute themselves along the sky.

At least he has a plan. He plans on coming home, he plans to see his sister, and he plans on not leaving the house after. Conveniently today is a friday. The events of the Taking this year will not be grieved when everyone has to go back to school or work the next day, at least this year, people have the weekend.

The kettle boils, Yoongi places it onto the other side of the stove to cool. He pushes a chair over to the cabinets, climbs on top of it. Yoongi convinces himself that he will be fine, theres no way a female Alpha would take someone like him. But then theres an intrusive thought- What about the male alphas?

Yoongi tries not to dwell on the thought, why would anyone want someone like him?. Insead he tries to focus on the task at hand, his eyes skim over many flavourful tea mixes before finally settling on a jar labelled ‘Istanbul Nights’.

This is Yoongi’s favoirtie tea- it’s usually the go to thing he makes when he wakes from a nightmare. Today, he will drink it while he is still in a good mood. He thinks will probably drink it when he comes home as well.

Closing the cabinet, Yoongi steps off of the chair, and pushes it back into its correct positon. He continues with his normal routine, putting a couple spoon full of the tea mix into the pot before letting it set for when his sister and father wake up. He gets out three mugs, cracks his knuckles, and then pours himself his first cup.

Its things like this that make Yoongi happy, mundane simple things in his routine that bring him pockets of peace. Yoongi knows the second he leaves this house that the peace will fade away- the second he will enter his school his stomach will drop, his heartrate will increase, and he will probably feel like hurling.

He might even hurl up this tea.

He sits on the stool, the more he thinks about the events of the day, that probably have already started, he begins to feel nervous and uneasy. He pushes every bad possibility that can happen to him and his sister away, not wanting to manifest anything to come true. Just to be sure though, yoongi gets up and walks down the hall to his sisters room.

He checks his watch- it’s twenty minutes before her alarm will go off. He creaks open the door slightly, and sees her peacefully sleeping. Yoongi knew she would still be in her bed, she wasn’t even of age to be taken. Still, Yoongi feels that nagging fear in the back of his head.

The laugh in his room, the lights shaped as eyes, the growls from the forest, twigs snapping- Okay, maybe yoongi might be reaching.

But maybe, he might be right? No! Nope! Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and tires to ignore all of his thoughts.

He wants to make another distressful noise, insead he bites his lip so hard it draws blood. Yoongi feels guilt from the fake senario in his head- and walks back to the kitchen. He’s glad that she is still there, at least she won’t leave him, hopefully not ever.

He stares at the third mug he set out for his father, remembering that he isn’t even here. He wants to be angry at him, for leaving his kids alone on the most dangerous day of the year, that there might be a chance that his children could be taken, but yoongi hows how demanding his fathers job is, especially since he works for the government.

Yoongi has no room to feel angry today. Today is a day of sadness, people will be terroriesed everywhere. In schools, workplaces, shops, practically everywhere. He will walk in the corridors of his school, and pass students that he might never see again. Today he only has room to remorse. Today is a day where lyncans will use any opportunity to take anything- mostly humans.

Yoongi tries to chase back the peace he felt when he woke. His hands slide around the blue porcelain mug, slurring the tiniest bit of tea to see if it was still too hot. Yoongi’s okay with the pain of a burnt tongue, so he takes a large sip. He grimaces, swallowing the hot liquid, feeling its presence burn his throat and warm his stomach. He doesn’t know why that brings relief to him, but it does.

He looks out of the Kitchen window, watches the breeze blow away the last of some leaves on a nearby tree branch. He takes another sip of tea. “ I’m coming home,” He tells himself in a un-audibile tone, trying to convince himself that he isn’t going to leave his little sister alone with his father. “ You are just an average nobody, an emotional nobody, even a childish nobody, that thinks that if your stuffed animals aren’t under the covers that they are going to get eaten. Why would an alpha want someone like you?”

At 6:40 Jennie shuffles into the kitchen with bedhead, droopy eyes and a half-asleep expression. “That for me?” Yoongi looks up from his phone, Jennie points at a mug and yoongi nods. Neither of them feel like talking right now.

Jennie awkwardly pours herself a cup of hot tea, and sits on the opposite side of the wooden table, looking straight at Yoongi, and back at the window.

" I have a really bad feeling about today." She admits.

It’s so quiet. Calm before the storm.

“ We’ll be okay.” Is all Yoongi says, they looked at eachother, their eyes tell eachother everything they need to know.

By the time yoongi leaves for school the sky looks dark, as the clouds grow thicker, the wind and rain pick up. Like any other day- today was chilly. What was unusual was how windy it was, catching both Yoongi and his sister off guard as they run from their front door to the car- the rain practically hits their bodies, their faces are painfully numb, facing the wind almost hurts.When Yoongi and his sister get to school they stall together. His sister sits next to him, the car is kept on, and the heating is the only thing putting them at ease, besides eachother.

Both know that if they don’t get out soon some officer will walk up and knock on their car window and tell them to get to class- part of yoongi wants that to happen because It might just flag him their system. But he knows the commotion is not worth it, any sort of drama today will put both him and his sister at risk.

Yoongis prediction was right, the sunrise had turned dark and the clouds had grown darker. Yoongi takes in the atmosphere- despite the beautiful run rise, it had still been a stormy night. Yoongi still feels anxious- but there isn’t much that he can do to reassure himself. He feels guilty for not telling her sister- but there is no way to avoid today. Yoongi decides that he will have to do to get through this- even if he has to dissocate.

Rain begins to not-so gently hits the glass of the car, foreshadowing the day to be the same, maybe even worse. The wind picks up as Yoongi’s sister bids farewell and pecks him on the cheek.

The wind is blowing so harshly that she struggles to close the door as she slides off the seat. Yoongi watches her as she walks to the other side of the campus, occasionally hopping over puddles.

Yoongi checks his watch, the longer he waits the worse it will be for him, so yoongi checks his appearance in the nearby car shield, making sure that his outfit isn’t anything out of the ordinary. He hopes the lack of colors in his wardrobe will make his chances more likely to be ignores his appearance- hoping someone else will stand out in the crowd. Yoongi locks his car, grabs his backpack, and scarcefully makes his way out of the parking lot.

Black SUV’s like ones Yoongi saw last night, and many other expensive looking vehicles surrounds the modern tall grey building Yoongi calls school. The large track and gym fields seem closed off as many bulky guards in uniform guard the entrances- Yoongi usually hangs around there during his free periods. There seems to be more security this year, Yoongi thinks as he looks at the chaos around him.

But still- students walk in like it’s any other school day, like it’s just a regular friday, and thats what it seems like, even though everyone else has anxiety coursing through their viens. Yoongi hates being here, not because he has to sit in a building and complain that he has to get an education everyday, yoongi knows that’s a privilege- its just that it makes him anxious.

The school is one of the largest in the area, which was a bad thing for today especially, Too many people, too much going on, so much to loose. Yoongi is happy today at least he has Jinnie-hyung’s presence for comfort.

Yoongi shivers as a gust of wind blows by as he walks passed the “Go Antlers!” school scoreboard in front of the entrance. He cuffs his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie, and stiffly walks over to the second, less crowded entrance of the school.

There is a line checking in all the students, almost like it was headcount- Yoongi knows that protocol for missing students on a day like this would result in staff going to their address to bring them back. The line is fast moving, and trials all the way into the parking lot. Like animals being lined up for potential slaughter.

Yoongi looks like a scared baby deer while he waits for the wolves to decide if he is a worthy prey. Before him stood long vertical lines of students of different years and classes. The atmosphere is uncomfortably quiet and tense, whispers and coughs echo through the entrance. If this was any normal day, students voices would be echoing loudly down the halls with laughter and confidence.

The usually neutral faces of teachers who stood behind the staff tables were temporally replaced with foreign staff people with check in tables and stacks of papers in front of him.

Hesitantly, Yoongi walked over to the far left where his year group stood. He looked around; it seemed like everyone did the same thing he had. Students' usual styles were a large contrast to what they were wearing today. Baggy clothes and large sweatshirts were practically worn by everyone standing in Yoongi's line.

 Yoongi stood in fitted black sweatpants, converse, and a slightly oversized dark blue sweater. He plugged his earbuds in, music quieting the chaos around him. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the faint aroma of the school's cafeteria food lingered in the air, creating an odd blend that made Yoongi's stomach churn even more.

There Yoongi stood, anxiously cracking his knuckles and playing with his fingers. The cool breeze on his face did little to soothe his nerves. A small buzz vibrated his thigh.

Message from Dad: Stay safe, Keep your head down. Don’t get into trouble, there are more trouble this year, so don't make eye contact with anyone you haven't seen before. Just mind your own business. 

Yoongi felt his throat closing up as he read the message. Then read it again. And again. His father’s words echoed in his mind, a reminder of the ever-present danger lurking around them. The thought of Alphas made his skin crawl in a way he couldn't quite understand, a primal fear that felt almost instinctual.

No shit Sherlock, Yoongi wanted to say. If only Dad knew how much those words added to his anxiety.

Message from Yoongi: You should’ve been here.

Yoongi put his phone down, frowning, his hands shaking with anxiety. A second later, another text.

Message from Dad:  It was an important emergency. The agency is chaos right now, we think there’s a big shift coming within our brand, and security is being increased, that’s all I’m allowed to say. 

Yoongi bit his lip, his fingers tapping the iPhone screen quickly, pressing send before looking up and stepping forward to any empty space he saw in front of him.

Message from Yoongi: Will you be okay?

Message from Dad: I'll explain when I get home.

Message from Yoongi: I don’t know how to get through this 

Message from Dad: Just keep your head down and avoid trouble. Trust your instincts and don’t be a fuckup. There’s money on the counter for takeout when you get home. 

Yoongi narrows his eyes at his phone. The audacity, of course his father would say something like this, not even thinking of the implications of others. There’s no way anyone will even be out delivering today, anyone who would, probably has a death wish or is just plain desperate to make money.

Yoongi thinks that’s probably why his father makes a good government worker. The man is not afraid of stepping on other peoples toes to get what he wants. Yoongi wants to resent him for it, but he knows deep deep down, his father is the reason that he is safe with a secure roof over his head. 

Message from Yoongi: I’m trying, but it’s hard when I feel like everything is falling apart.

His dad doesn’t respond to that, only leaves him on read. The familiar feeling of having his chest being stepped on made Yoongi forget to breathe—because his gut feeling told him today was nothing but bad news—this year would be worse than the last. 

He tried to calm the pounding of his heart, clutching the sleeves of his hands tightly and grinding his teeth together. The memory of his last panic attack flashed before his eyes, making him shudder. His father's reassurance always helped, but today it felt like a thin shield against the storm inside him.

For once—Yoongi tried his best to keep himself together. Don’t turn into a mess until you get home.

“Min-Yoongi?” He heard someone call out, and he stepped forward, pulling out his earbuds and nodding at her. Yoongi felt his stomach drop, his shaking hands entering the pockets of his hoodie. The metallic taste of fear lingered on his tongue.

The unknown woman sat behind a dark wooden table that hadn’t been there yesterday; she beckoned Yoongi forward. The woman was very beautiful, her black hair sleeked back into a tight low ponytail, not a hair out of place, a beauty mark right above her dark purple lips, long dark eyelashes, freshly manicured hands. She had a pleasant smile on her face; it made Yoongi feel at ease, yet a gnawing unease twisted in his gut. There was something about her presence that felt almost predatory, but in a way that was subtle and hard to pinpoint.

Staff members and guards stood next to every classroom door, teachers staying in their classrooms. Yoongi tried to avoid eye contact with the woman, but her eyes drew him in; for some reason, he couldn’t look away. Her eyes looked dangerous, something mystical glimmering in her eye when she smiled at him. Something told Yoongi that this woman was one of them—despite not looking overly threatening or large.

Yoongi didn’t feel creeped out; his instincts told him that she was safe—his mind told him he wasn’t. “Are you Yoongi?” The woman asked, looking down at her paper, her deep brown eyes widening when she looked back up at Yoongi.

It took ages for Yoongi to become verbal—on days like this—it was hard for Yoongi to talk. “Yes,” Yoongi eventually said, his voice coming out quieter than he wanted it to. His eyes diverted away from the woman again.

“I see,” Her eyes trailed up and down Yoongi, finally stopping at his face. Yoongi felt like he wanted to disappear—that he could snap his fingers and turn to dust—this could not be happening right now. Yoongi knew—that if she wasn’t one of them—that she was on their side. She held a gentle smile, but her reaction held some uncertain nervousness.

Something isn’t right. He didn’t know if he was being paranoid—but he didn’t want to gaslight himself.

“Yoongi,” Her eyes scanned the papers under her, “I see you’ve made the dean’s list, not once but all four years of high school. That’s pretty impressive.” She remarked, highlighting some text before looking up at him. Yoongi wanted to roll his eyes; the irony, everyone always seemed to underestimate his smarts because of his quiet, bubbly, exterior. It felt like they only saw his exterior, never what lay beneath.

Yoongi nodded and looked away at the table next to him, another woman calling another student’s name. “Right well, Yoongi, I’m going to ask you a few questions.” Yoongi nodded awkwardly, looking around. He felt uneasy—others were passing the check-in tables super quickly and easily—any other year Yoongi wouldn’t even say anything. So why was he being stopped?

Why are you asking me questions, lady?

Why can't I pass through like everyone else?

“These seem to be some missing things in your file, what is your address?” Yoongi looked at the floor awkwardly—he didn’t look at her. “My address has been in my file for years, and besides, isn’t that confidential information already given in my file?” Yoongi said this gently, but what he wanted to say was Fuck off.

Her face faltered, only for a second. “Of course, no issue here, well, you are all checked in.” Yoongi couldn’t tell if her smile was real or fake. Yoongi nodded, shivering slightly and walking past her. The woman called another name, this time, it took just a few seconds for her to check for his name before he was able to go through.

Naw man, this is some suspicious shit.

His heartbeat beat out of his chest; he could practically feel it in his ears as he fast-walked to the bathroom. He sweated, his mouth watered, he felt hot—the sudden sickness came out of nowhere, but before he knew it, his head was in the bathroom toilet, purging out stomach acid, tea, and the little remains of last night’s dinner. The taste made him recoil and shiver—the color and taste were chunky and yellow. The stall door was wide open—Yoongi wiped his mouth with toilet paper and spat into the bowl.

“Is everything okay in there?” Yoongi heard a pleasant voice ask. Yoongi looked back and saw a talkative younger year. He thought his name was… Hosuk? Hoesk? Hobi? He didn’t have the energy to remember.

“I think so?” Yoongi questioned—wiping sweat off his face and pushing his hair back—and then recoiled back into the toilet bowl. He didn’t have time to think—just to do what his body said would make him feel better.

“You think?” He felt shuffling behind him when the familiar man pulled Yoongi’s hair back as he emptied the remains in his stomach. He would laugh at the absurdity of it all—of course, Yoongi of all people would have a panic attack and recoil the remains of his stomach on the morning of the most dangerous day of the entire year. Yoongi’s head felt like it was going to explode.

“Yeah,” He briefly closed his eyes, “I—” Yoongi stopped for a second—his heart was beating so fast he thought this might be a panic attack. “I think I’ll be okay? M’just nervous—don’t know what just happened,” Yoongi spat the remains of vomit from his lips and pushed past the familiar man crowding the stall.

“How did your check-in go?” The man’s smile was that of a worried one, but he still kept a positive exterior that made Yoongi feel comfortable—he could understand why Yoongi saw him around with everyone. Yoongi washed his hands and mouth out from the sink. He knew it was gross, but anything was better than the taste in his mouth.

Yoongi shook his freezing wet hands—taking the brown mucky paper towels that looked like they had been trampled on. “You first.”

The man gave Yoongi a calculating look, but he seemed easy to read. Deep pools of brown contemplated until finally he said—“I mean nothing too different, they did ask me about my grades and stuff, which I thought was weird because last year they didn’t and I—” Yoongi tuned him out after that, he felt a weight lifted off his shoulders—At least he was in the same boat with others—he wasn’t crazy, paranoid—he was perfectly sane and capable—he told himself that he needed to pull himself together.

“Yoongi—Earth to Yoongi.” Hoesk touched Yoongi’s shoulder lightly, the shock snapping him out of whatever trance he was in. “Wakey wakey, today is not the day to be half asleep and zoning out.”

Yoongi looked up at him with a ghost of a smile. “M’not asleep, just feel sick.”

Hoesk squeezed his shoulder. Usually, any form of physical touch would make Yoongi recoil and cause his skin to crawl with filth, but he didn’t feel like that this time. “Agoo, you poor thing, terrible timing too.” Yoongi wiped the rest of the cold water on the soft cloth of his sweatpants.

“What was your check-in like, not to make you feel worse or anything?” Hoesk asked, removing his hand and leaning on the bathroom stall, checking his watch with a tired expression.

It took a while for Yoongi to gather his thoughts, feeling the room shift around him as if he was still about to vomit. “Uh, check-in, they asked me about my grades, that was the only thing.” Yoongi ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath.

You’re fine, you are okay, you’ll be okay.

He tried to convince himself, but the gut feeling he had said otherwise. “I don’t know why I feel like this—I’m being dramatic, please ignore me,” Yoongi finally said when he saw Hoesk’s concerned gaze.

“Forget check-in,” Hoesk tsked as he reached forward to touch Yoongi’s forehead. His hands were warm in contrast to Yoongi’s freezing body, making Yoongi’s body relax slightly at the touch. He didn’t know why he had such a strong reaction to the smallest touch when it usually would have made him triggered. “You look like you are about to pass out.”

“I’m fine.” Hoesk didn’t look like he believed him in the slightest. “I asked Soobin earlier about his check-in and he said he wasn’t asked any questions or stopped.”

“Please don’t make me feel worse in this moment right now,” Yoongi said.

Hoesk laughed at that. “Hush, Yoongi-ah.” His heart-shaped smile spread warmth in Yoongi’s stomach. “I was stopped too, I guess if you are going down, I’m coming down with you.”

“Yah! Don’t say stuff like that, we are here to stay,” Yoongi scolded. “And it’s hyung to you.”

“Hyung, you may not be the only one here with a bad feeling in their stomach about this year’s taking.” Hoesk smiled while he said it, but it was one that was sad and watery, hidden behind a façade. Hoesk might just be as anxious as Yoongi, he could just be hiding it better, Yoongi thought.

Yoongi felt himself swaying again, the room spinning slightly. He was thankful for Hoesk’s steadying presence, even if it was unexpected. 

He forgot how much he missed being healthy when anxiety episodes hit him this badly. On a day where murder, kidnapping, and rape were all legal, Yoongi always pushed the thoughts of being taken far back into his head. Getting kidnapped twice was very unlikely, so Yoongi always thought he was fine.

He’s being paranoid, everyone is. Remember, he has a low chance of getting seen, nobody ever sees him, and nobody ever tries to. Why would it change now?

In the developed world after the anniversary of the taking, nobody still knew much about their kind. All Yoongi knew was that once every two years, they made themselves public. But there were always rumors that they were still out there, lingering in the shadows, like some scary bedtime story. To Yoongi, that made sense; they looked exactly like humans, just with more advanced genetics, more animalistic and better physical abilities. Hell, they were probably smarter too.

“Also, hyung,” Hoesk paused, smiling slightly, earning Yoongi’s approval, “did check-in highlight your portfolio too?”

Yoongi nodded, taking another deep breath. He inhaled the scent of sweet-smelling soap.

Oh, he did not feel good.

'Get me away from the soap, I'm going to yak.'

“Hyung, you look really pale.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Aw thanks, you are so sweet.”

“Shut up and listen,” Yoongi felt the need to apologize and drop to the floor. “Maybe you should go to the nurse and take a nap there. They don’t usually show up and observe until the third period.”

He looked in the mirror. His hair was slightly messy, but still silky and colored mint green. Maybe he should have skipped showering, Yoongi thought, who wants to take someone who looks dirty?

“Maybe I’ll do that. Also, how did you know my name?”

“I kinda just do,” Hoesk shrugged. “Well, it’s just that I see you eat in the library’s sector at lunch with your friends,” he smiled with his cheeks blushing slightly.

“Oh,” was all Yoongi said before he picked his backpack off the floor. “Ask the nurse to skip the first period to take a nap in the bed she has in her room. Because we both know that they aren’t sending anyone home,” he suggested, before walking out of the bathroom with a wave.

A wave of dizziness hit Yoongi again. If this was any other day, he would be home by now, writing an attendance excusal and sleeping off whatever the fuck was happening to him. “Shit,” Yoongi thought back to the pills beside his bed that he was supposed to take every morning. He didn’t recall taking them this morning.

---

Walking over to the nurse’s office, Yoongi spotted her, talking quickly to another unknown woman. This woman, however, had her hair in a tight low bun and many gray hairs.

Yoongi knocked on the edge of the door, interrupting them.

The unknown woman sighed. “Get it done, or else I’ll be forced to report it.” Her tone was sharp, almost sounding like a threat.

“And you,” she pointed to Yoongi, “what are you doing here this early? Get to class!” His hands shook as she stormed out of the office. Yoongi looked at the nurse, who ignored the woman’s orders, offering him a seat.

“I-I just don’t feel so good,” Yoongi explained. She stared at him, unfazed.

“We can’t, under law, send you home,” she said, emphasizing the under law part.

“I know, I just—” Yoongi paused. “I just threw up in the bathroom, and so I know you can’t send me home, but I don’t think I’ll be able to sit through a class without wanting to throw up or pass out.”

She sighed, turning in her chair, but Yoongi didn’t miss the eye roll she gave him.

“Go ahead, sleep. I don’t get paid enough for this job anyway,” she mumbled the last part, but Yoongi didn’t miss it. “I don’t think I’ll be able to give you anything unless you want an ice pack, but I doubt that would help.”

Yoongi internally let out a breath of air, relieved. He could spend the next hour or two calming his nerves. Although, he knew that most people wouldn’t be as lucky, having to sit in their assigned seats for the next hour or two, tapping their feet on the ugly white dirty floors.

Or having anxiety attacks in the bathroom stalls, or the breakdowns in the broom closets after asking to go to the bathroom. There were parents on the floor praying that their family members wouldn’t get taken from them, people praying that one of them wouldn’t walk in their way.

Nodding at her as he made his way into the very back of the room, where a plain white bed stood. Not caring about the lack of a blanket, Yoongi set down his black backpack and laid down, curling into a ball.

'Memory foam,' he thought.

Another wave of dizziness hit him, making him shut his eyes, not even being close to sleep.

He heard the nurse mumble a curse word under her breath as she left the room. Yoongi opened his eyes, his hand reaching for his backpack, unzipping the back pocket, and reaching for his phone.

His throat tightened again, realizing his mother didn’t say anything. Unlocking the iPhone, he wished his best friend good luck, and texted his brother to meet him by the senior bike section after school. Lastly, he texted his friend to tell his teacher he was in the nurse’s office.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Yoongi shut his eyes again, breathing slowly, and passed out to the sounds of heavy footsteps entering the room.

Chapter Text

Yoongi shivers as he feels the fluffy bright green grass between each of his toes. The grass is uncut and vibrant. He looks up, the sun is just setting, it paints the sky a beautiful peachy color.

Yoongi loves the type of cotton candy clouds scatter around the peak of the sunset, he stares off on the hill he’s standing on, 

Around the hill, there are nothing but expensive-looking suburban houses, with vintage light poles in between them. From the view on the hill, one can peer into the backyards, and with enough focus, even into the windows of random strangers.

To Yoongi's left, a dirt trail leads to a very large willow tree, with a tire swing hanging from one of its branches.

He imagines that if someone sits on it, they won't be able to touch the ground anymore and will be swinging off the hill.

He feels like he’s been here before, but he just doesn’t know how to prove it. He averts his eyes from the tree to the right, where there are bushes and another tree, almost hidden if one doesn't focus hard enough.

Straight ahead is another trampled grass trail leading to the other side of the hill. It’s worth mentioning that the hill isn't very big. If someone goes too far down, they would tumble, but up here, it’s flatland unless they veer off the trail.

Across from Yoongi are the hills, surrounded by large houses and castles, mystical almost.

From the view on the hill, he can see into their backyards, and see if their lights are on, but he isn't close enough to see into their windows. It's quite far away.

If he turns around, Yoongi's eyeline is surrounded by alpine mountains, majestic, imposing, and seemingly wild as they tower over the valleys below like colossal sentinels, enormous guard-like figures guarding the earth.

Snow-capped peaks of the alpine mountains loom majestically in the distance, their towering heights adorned with a pristine layer of snowfall, the sunlight gently dancing upon the skyline, seemingly wild and untamed by human touch.

Yoongi shivers as he takes in the awe-inspiring sight, feeling like he’s trapped in some sort of time warp, or that he’s stumbled into some sort of hidden realm. This unknown place feels strangely familiar as if it’s a forgotten part of his soul come to life.

He knows, he even swears that he has never been here, that he would’ve remembered, but for some reason, Yoongi feels connected to this place, like he belongs here.

He feels the urge to explore every inch of what he’s seeing, like a magnetic pull that resonates deep within him.

It’s as if he has finally found a piece of himself in this new corner of the world, a place where his instincts, gut, and intuition all align in perfect unison.

The feeling is overwhelming yet comforting. Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder startles him, causing him to jump. Turning around, he meets the man of his nightmares, the man that pops up rarely, but when he does, Yoongi is petrified.

The man of his dreams exists, but this isn't him. This man isn't handsome or charming. He is the embodiment of his worst memories. The scent of alcohol and sweat fills Yoongi’s nostrils, making him want to retch.

He is confronted by a man with hairy grey arms and an exposed chest, reeking of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat. Yoongi feels a wave of revulsion washes over him, his heart racing with terror.

The sight of the man standing before Yoongi is horrifying. This man is much older than him, Yoongi practically memorizes the man's face while he was in his drug-induced trance.

Monster.

He can't help but recoil in disgust at the sight, feeling a mix of fear and repulsion. This is the man who has haunted his dreams and nightmares, turned into a pitiful and repulsive creature before his eyes.

It’s a sight that makes him feel sick to his stomach, and he struggles to keep his composure.

Yoongi freezes in fear, taking a step back. The man chuckles, his breath hitting Yoongi's face.

He holds in a gag as he stares into the man's lifeless grey eyes. Taking another step back, he lets out a shaky breath, his eyes watering.

He stares back at his past. Everything is the same, the man looks the same, every detail down to the white powder ring that sticks to the monster's nostril. This man is his past.

Yoongi turns to run, but his body doesn't move; he is paralyzed. The man grabs his wrist, no doubt leaving dark marks as his nails dig into his soft skin. Yoongi whimpers, opening his mouth, but no words come out.

The man leans in close, Yoongi can smell his breath: stale tobacco. "What's wrong, can't handle a little bit of pressure?" the man hisses as Yoongi lets out a sob, finally letting his built-up tears fall.

Yoongi looks incredibly wounded yet nothing has been done to him, feeling incredibly disgusted, it’s like the man’s hands have dirt and grime on it, mixed with dye and an overwhelming uncomfortable feeling that will never be washed away. 

He looks around for help, but suddenly he is in a familiar grey bedroom, not on top of a beautiful hill in his hometown. The man takes a strand of Yoongi's hair, sniffs it, then tucks it behind his ear.

“You always did smell like Christmas,” his voice rasps out. Yoongi wants to scream, scream for help, scream for any reason, but nothing comes out.

The scream of silence.

As the man holds Yoongi's body close to his, he whispers, “You’re just perfect aren’t you?” He slides a hand towards Yoongi's privates, touching him inappropriately.

Yoongi's limbs are frozen with fear, unable to move or escape. His body trembles as the man continues to touch him, his voice dripping with menace as he murmurs, "Just like a little doll, a very pretty living doll.”

The man's pupils are blown, devoid of soul or humanity, he looks like uncanny valley.

They are wide and unblinking, with an eerie, lifeless gaze that sends Yoongi's nervous system into panic mode.

As he speaks, the man's nostrils flare, his breath hot and rank with the acrid odor of cocaine and tobacco. Yoongi can’t tear his eyes away from those terrifying, soulless eyes. Yoongi's heart thuds wildly in his chest, his ears filled with a disorienting ring.

A cold sweat drips down his forehead, his skin crawling with revulsion at the man's touch. Each breath is labored, his rapidly spiraling panic threatening to overtake him.

The man's grip tightens around Yoongi, pulling his body closer with a sinister intensity. Yoongi's body trembles uncontrollably, paralyzed by the sickening touch, his breath catching in his throat as he desperately tries to pull away.

Then Yoongi is in a car, not knowing how he got there or where the man is going. It doesn't matter; it isn't like the man has anywhere to be, Yoongi can remember that much.

His mouth is gagged, his hands tied to the top of the van, out of the human eye. He sobs as the man looks back at him, lifeless and sadistic.

The man catches a red light, and as he waits, his gaze shifts to the streetlamp next to him, watching as it illuminates the raindrops pelting down on the asphalt. The brake lights of the singular car ahead of him cast a dull red hue into his vehicle, coating the interior in a color that reminded him of the reckless, raunchy nights of his youth.

The man reaches into the glovebox and fishes around for a lighter and the pack of cigarettes he keeps there. If only he could find the damn thing.

Ah, there it is. A little crumpled, but they'll still smoke. He lights one and puts it to his lips. He looks to his left and catches sight of the corner store, its neon signs casting rainbows of light into the puddles that have accumulated on the sidewalk and in potholes. He takes a long drag and blows the smoke out the corner of his mouth.

The man puts his feet up on the dash, sucks in a lungful of smoke, and listens to the rain pouring down onto the roof of his car, mixed with the sobbing of the random young boy. The man smiles through chapped, pinched lips, trying to balance the cigarette.

A quick honk of a car horn snaps the man out of his sadistic daydream. He looks through the rearview. A small line of cars has accumulated behind him. He looks forward. The light is green.

He is about to put his foot on the gas when it turns yellow. The drivers behind him make their frustration known through a series of blasts from their horns, a few expletives, and the odd fist shake or two.

He sticks his hand out the window and waves an apology to the others. Looks like they'll have to wait a while longer. The man has all the time in the world now.

—-

Yoongi stirred to the sound of voices, his mind unable to fully register the source of the noise. Yoongi whimpered softly, his muscles tensing as if bracing for a blow.

Despite the pain and fear, he cautiously cracked open his eyes, a flicker of awareness in the dim light. The scent of fresh air and clean linens wafted into his nostrils, offering a slight comfort that helped ease his shattered nerves.

"It's the third period, he needs to get up," a familiar voice urges, the footsteps approaching.

"Stop," another, barely familiar voice replies. " He isn't needed until fourth."

Yoongi's ears twitched at the sound of familiar voices- the urgency in the first voice was familiar, their footsteps approaching with an almost commanding determination.

As the second, less familiar voice responded, there was a clear edgge of authority, a voice that seemed to hold some semblance of power. Despite his senses, a faint spark of curiosity prompted him to open his eyes. 

As the little light filtering through yoongi's eyelids dimmed, his tired mind descended into another nightmare. However, the aggravating voices persisted- a very unwelcome disturbance. 

Footsteps echoed in the distance, marking the departure and leaving behind a defining silence.

Frustration boiled within yoongi.  "I saw two students get called from their classes already," the nurse asserts, their voice tinged with urgency and a hint of defiance.

The reply is stern but firm, a clear warning echoing through the room. "Those students were sophomores of age. Higher classmen are prioritized."

But before the nurse could respond, her voice is cut off by the door slamming shut, followed by a series of muffled gasps and the unmistakable sound of struggle.

‘ Ummmmm guyysss’ Yoongi thinks as his already tense body stiffened further as a surge of anxiety flooded his system.

He could sense it, there was someone in the room with him, not just coming from outside the door. His lids lifted just enough to offer a glimpse of the horrifying situation before him–the nurse, pinned against the wall by a woman he recognized, the woman's hands locked around her throat.

Yoongi's heartbeat echoed loudly in his ears, a fierce drumbeat that matched his escalating panic.

Yoongi flinches ever so slightly, as the woman releases her grip and drops the nurse to the ground, who immediately begins gasping for air.

The woman then bent down, her gaze piercing as she looked directly into the nurse's terrified eyes. "Be quiet and let him sleep," she hissed quietly, her commanding tone heavily impacting yoongi.

Despite the late warning, Yoongi obediently shut his eyes once again, feigning slumber to avoid drawing any further attention to himself. The woman scoffed in disgust.

The woman's condescending tone dripped with an air of superiority, mirroring her demeaning stance as she loomed over the panting nurse.

She raised the nurse's chin, forcing her to meet her intense gaze. Her words left no room for doubt. "Do you understand who's in charge now?" she repeated demandingly, her voice laced with a sinister dominating edge.

The nurse, tears steadily streaming down her face, defiantly did not attempt to respond. The woman's reaction was a mocking laugh, filled with derision and condescension. 

"You're young, aren't you?" The woman's gaze dropped to the nurse's name tag, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. "I should take you with me," her tone carrying a hint of warning. A brief pause followed, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air as her gaze locked onto the defiant nurse.

A chilling smile spread across the woman's lips as she added, "I love taming disobedient little brats."

‘what a freak’ Yoongi thinks as the nurse's gasp was cut short by the sound of a resounding slap that resonated through the room.

Without warning, the woman seized the nurse's hair in a firm grip, forcibly keeping them within her reach. A sadistic smirk played on the woman's face as she relished the moment of dominance over the trembling nurse.

' Am I still dreaming?'  Yoongi thought to himself, trying to comprehend the chaos around him. 

“ I won’t let you take that poor boy.” The nurse's voice trembled as she spoke, her words filled with defiance and challenge. The woman attempts at a faux coo, and then starts laughing, looking over at yoongi, who shuts his eyes with a pounding heart.

“ Were you going to wake him up? Tell him that he needs to get out of here? How cute. Of course you wouldn't be this stupid without motive," the woman spoke lightly, her breathing labored as she touched the woman's cheek, the blood staining her hand.

The woman's glare hardened, her gaze narrowing in response to the nurse's audacity. “Let me remind you, our leader is here," The woman spits the words with her whole chest.

"These orders come from him." The whisper is harsh and mean, almost animal-like. " That boy is our future." 

When Yoongi hears the woman's footsteps retreat, he finally re-opens his eyes, finding that the nurse had left with the woman, whom yoongi recognized to be from his check-in. It is quiet for a minute or two.

Now that he thinks about it, she isn't even a real nurse. She is just a woman who knows how to handle children with peanut allergies, scrapes to the knees, and nosebleeds.

All she ever did for him was hand him an ice pack back in freshman year after he twisted his ankle running track. Now he wants to protect him?

 His head is exploding with questions, all centering around one,  ‘What did I just witness?’

He's confused. He doesn't even feel sick anymore. It's like his sickness disappeared over his two-hour nap, and suddenly he's all better, which is also not normal. But he doesn't care.

All he wants is for this terrible day to be over. He wants his friends to be safe, and he wants to curl up in his bed with his pink stuffed cow and forget that this ever happened.

Yoongi feels himself becoming delusional, his brain trying to make the situation funny before he can process the absurdity of the situation. 

‘Check-in was a strange experience,’ he thought to himself, his brain desperately searching for humor in the chaos. ‘The lady's behavior was unlike before, even though they were treated the same way.’

A laugh threatened to escape him, but he held it in, overwhelmed. The sight of the school nurse being attacked felt surreal, out of place, and not funny, but for some reason, yoongi snickered as his mind saw the dark humor in the situation. 

‘maybe the school needed extra security because... because—‘ because he doesn't even know. He’s so confused. 

He spends the next hour falling in and out of sleep until eventually, a person shakes him.

Yoongi felt disoriented, his mind still fuzzy from drifting in and out of sleep. The woman's touch on his shoulder jolted him back to consciousness, her voice cutting through the haze.

"Hey sweetheart," she purred, forcing him upright. Yoongi blinked, trying to process the situation. His vision slowly cleared to reveal the woman who had checked him in earlier—the same one who had attacked the nurse.

As the woman informed him that it was time for class, he rubbed his eyes, attempting to wake up fully before peering back up at her. He sighs, nodding, as his shaky hands reach for his backpack. The woman escorts him out of the room, passing by the fear-eyed nurse. 

Yoongi couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as occasional screams reverberated through the empty hallways—a haunting reminder of victims being chosen, taken. A single tear trailed down his cheek.

He feels sorry for them. Eventually, he arrived at his fourth-period classroom, greeted by the anxious and tense stares of his classmates as he awkwardly moved towards his seat in the middle of the room.

One thing was certain, Yoongi thought as the door creaks open again, ‘ I think I’m in deep shit.’ 

Chapter Text

Yoongi can't shake off the sensation of watchful eyes on him as he enters the classroom. He feels like an object on display to the creatures present, their gazes seemingly fixated on every student from every direction. The air is thick with a multitude of musky perfumes that mingle with the stuffiness of the space. It becomes increasingly difficult to breathe, especially knowing he shares the same air as these seven new beings. The tension in the room is palpable, not the kind that can be ignored. It is a dangerous, alluring tension as if they dare you to look at them.

This is Yoongi's second time in such a situation, his second time ever seeing one of them, let alone seven. Everyone tries not to stare at them, their features, hair that looks more colorful, and softer, and skin that seems to have a glowing aura, looking soft and clear. They look so similar yet so different, standing tall and confident.

Yoongi has read studies that say these beings don't respect any laws, and that no systematic concept applies to them, no matter the place. They could have caused complete world domination but claim to be as peaceful as possible, yet they still take people, kill people, and cause mass destruction. What Yoongi wants to know is why.

The unanswered question is one to which nobody who’s not disappeared or dead knows the answer. ‘Why would they keep us around?’ Yoongi thinks as he tries to sneak glances while trying not to get noticed.

They all look older like they have stepped right out of a high school movie where actors play characters much younger than themselves. In reality, students at this school don't possess their level of physical attributes. Just the thought of that makes Yoongi want to cringe. ‘Just how old are they?’

Their presence alone puzzles Yoongi; he tries to avoid looking their way, their intimidating auras commanding the room, entitled to everyone’s complete attention. Yoongi begins overthinking when he realizes everyone else is looking at them besides him.

‘Fuck’

Yoongi fixes his mistake, glancing up from his desk. He is met with hard, serious faces staring back at him from the group. Yoongi can feel the hairs on his delicate arms stand up upon looking at them, goosebumps appearing everywhere, despite Yoongi being covered up. They appear larger than everyone else, making his already decently tall teacher look like a child next to them.

Yoongi’s mind wanders as his eyes roam over their bodies, completely forgetting about his father’s words of caution. He first notices there are two women among the five men. Both women are tall, one just as tall as his teacher and the other slightly taller.

Yoongi's fear spikes as he witnesses the creatures effortlessly push through the open space of the classroom, completely disregarding his teacher’s presence, leaving him stumbling backward. The first male, exhibiting a contrast of masculine features, with jet black hair, an athletically toned body, and captivating eyes, seems to intentionally shove his teacher, causing him to grasp his shoulder in pain. Without a moment's hesitation, two other males, one with silvery blonde hair and another with orangish-brown hair, step over the fallen body without a hint of remorse. The fourth and fifth creatures wait impatiently, their expressions betraying annoyance. Meanwhile, the females in the group exhale in frustration, and one of them calmly scans the room.

Her eyes land on Yoongi. He feels his cheeks heat up when she doesn't look away, a smirk spreading across her perfect, full lips as she pushes a brown curl out of her face.

She’s pretty. No, shut up. Brain, stop working. Yoongi panics slightly in his seat, intimidated and curious. He scolds himself as he looks at his fingers, trying to quell his blush.

His teacher’s hands shake as he picks up his whiteboard marker and begins the lesson, his voice trembling with every sentence. He tells them to ignore the guests observing the classroom, but Yoongi can't. He has his notes out and listens to the lecture on ancient poetry, yet the feeling of being watched returns. Yoongi clutches his mechanical pencil, turning his back from his chair to the wall, leaning on it for a different view.

He remembers how his teacher, Mr. Si-hyuk, had offered the creatures chairs to sit on but was ignored. So there they stand, pacing around the room with calculating eyes. Yoongi notices one of the males with dark jet black hair deeply observing his classmate, Jimin, a relatively new student who moved here around two months ago.

The male continues his unwavering gaze, his eyes fixated on Jimin like he is entranced. Every movement, every gesture, and every expression seems to hold his undivided attention, as if he is studying Jimin's every detail with an intensity that makes it clear there is something more than mere observation involved.

Just as he notices one of the females with wavy black hair, the very pretty one, passing a packet to one of the males with blonde hair, Yoongi feels a slight tickle in his nose and a sense of impending irritation. Yoongi sneezes.

Everyone turns to look at him, and he feels his cheeks heat up again. This time, they are all looking at him.

After twenty minutes, Yoongi notices that Jimin looks extremely uncomfortable from the unrelenting stares directed at him. With a mixture of sympathy and guilt, he can see tears slowly streaming down Jimin's face. It becomes clear that Jimin is silently crying, accepting the harsh reality of never seeing his family again. Yoongi feels a pang of sadness, aware of the anguish that Jimin is silently enduring within the classroom. Yoongi seems to be the only person who notices this, besides the black-haired creep who studies him like a test.

Jimin is the first to stand up, immediately picking up his backpack and running out of the classroom with tears in his eyes. Yoongi is the second, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and dashing after him, ignoring his teacher's words of wisdom: "The bell doesn't dismiss you, I do."

Yoongi's worry for Jimin overcomes any fear he has, and he pushes past the creatures without caring. Their cold gazes follow him as he makes his way down the hall. He sees Jimin rush into a broom closet, and Yoongi quickens his pace to reach him before his friend leaves for good.

I'm so stupid for this. I'm going to get in trouble.

Still, Yoongi wants to help him somehow. He is curious. Does Jimin feel watched like he did last night, or is he selfish for wanting to speak to someone for his sake before they vanish forever? He looks like he is going to have a panic attack. When Yoongi barges into the broom closet, he doesn't expect him to be holding children's scissors. 

"Am I interrupting or do I need to leave or—" It seems like he can't catch his breath. Yoongi rushes over to him and slaps the scissors out of Jimins hand. They land on the floor, leaving a slight smear on the marble. “Don’t be stupid.” He stands awkwardly. “Wait- Um, don’t do that. It’s um..."

It’s um, me being a hypocrite.

Jimin’s uncaring facade quickly slips as he slides down the wall. Yoongi doesn’t know what to do, so he sits beside him, taking his wrist and examining it. One cut, only one full cut is made, the blood sliding down his wrist. But it is deep, and the blood seeps fast.

Well then.

"I'm never going to see my family again. Bad things are going to happen to me. It's better if I end it now," Jimin says quietly, his voice cracking as if he can't swallow. "I'm never going to see my little brother grow up. I'm never going to kiss my mama goodbye. She’ll be alone." He licks the tears streaming down his face. 

It’s silent for a moment before Yoongi speaks up again. 

"Do you feel watched, like I do?" Yoongi speaks quietly, reaching into his bag for a cloth. “ I feel it too-“ 

Yoongi is cut off by a broken sigh-like whimper, "He's been watching me, I know he has." His lower lip quivers as he closes his eyes. "I’m sorry, this must be awkward," he says.

Yoongi feels his eyes tear up. He hates seeing Jimin like this, and he wants nothing more than to coddle him in this moment, but he can’t.  A thick tear easily streams down Yoongi’s face. He hates that he cries when others cry, even if he doesn’t know them well. He is emotionally unavailable, yet his body reacts this way. He swallows, choosing not to say anything. 

"Ever since last night I've felt watched, then a van followed me to school, and then I—" He is at a loss for words. He curls his knees to his chest and lets his head rest on top of them. "He's been watching me since yesterday. They aren't even allowed to do that."

I'm being selfish. I'm being paranoid. I feel guilty. Just because I felt creeped out last night doesn't mean I was being watched. Right?

Looking him in the eyes, Yoongi chooses to say nothing again, not wanting to entertain the idea of hope. This world is harsh, and false hope would only make his experience more painful. He doesn’t want to lie.  Jimin is definetly getting chosen.

"I'm sorry," Yoongi suddenly says. It’s all he can say, even though he wants to say so much more. 

Taking his wrist again, Yoongi sees the blood streaming down his black hoodie. "Listen to me now," Yoongi says as he cries, not knowing how to comfort Jimin. Jimin's teary eyes and pouty lips make him look angelic, "Let me help you with this," he gestures to his arm.

Jimin doesn’t question it, he seems to be lost in his own mind. Contemplating, Yoongi continues. "It's lunch now," he says. "We have five minutes before we’re required to be in the cafeteria. If you don’t show up, the school and everything outside will be put on lockdown. Since let’s face it, you are going to be taken.” Yoongi goes silent, his breathing finally slowing. "Come with me, okay?"

Jimin sniffles and nods. "Okay." He nods, looking up at Yoongi with doll-like eyes. Helping him up, Yoongi retrieves an emergency bandage from his backpack. Jimin stares at it in surprise, eyes squinting at yoongi.  The kit is handy for once since he has a cute first aid kit with purple bandages and Paw Patrol band-aids he had conveniently placed in his messy backpack for times like these. He presses down on the injury, securing the bandage.

The room echoes with heavy footsteps nearing the broom closet where Jimin and Yoongi huddle together, jimins nose is pressed into yoongi’s neck. The footsteps come to a sudden halt just outside. Yoongi turns to see Jimin's expression filled with fear, his mouth hanging open. 

The familiar black haired creep enters their space without warning, his gaze scanning every inch of the small broom closet until he spots Jimin and Yoongi's trembling figures huddling in the far corner. He towers over them, his height accentuated by the dim lighting, casting an imposing shadow. The man reaches out without warning and pins Yoongi to the wall by the collar of his shirt, causing a strangled gasp to escape his lungs. With a tight grip, the man holds him captive and brings his face closer. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy as he scans him with a cold and ruthless gaze "Explain. the man growls in a deadly tone.

Yoongi thinks of an excuse, but Jimin speaks first. "I scratched myself on one of the screws from the water fountain," he rushes out, his head down. The man storms out, pressing an electronic device connected to his ear and mumbling in a language Yoongi can’t understand. Yoongi looks at Jimin sadly but doesn’t say anything. 

Yoongi felt a knot forming in his chest, his mind racing for ways to help his friend. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of helplessness and desperation, as if the odds were stacked against them. With a heavy heart, Yoongi knew that the chances of helping Jimin were becoming increasingly slim. 

A few minutes later, they arrive in the cafeteria. Yoongi sits in the back with Jimin next to him, both with their hoods up, staring at the box of apple slices he had offered him. They are calling out names. Yoongi looks up; so far, only two fourth years, one-third year, and two second years have been taken.

Yoongi sits beside his friend Soo-bin, absorbed in texting and seemingly oblivious to their presence. As Yoongi quietly observes the surrounding tables, snippets of conversation and gossip reach his ears, even though he doesn’t mean to listen in. Suddenly, Soo-bin gasps, startling Yoongi, who immediately turns to ask, "What’s wrong?"

" Hoesok was taken during the third period," he puts bluntly.

 Yoongi’s heart stops at that, unable to pinpoint the emotion he is feeling.

"Who?" Jimin asks.

"He was a third year," Yoongi explained quietly, his voice barely audible over the hustle and bustle of the cafeteria. "I think you probably didn’t know him, H-He uhh,  actually helped me earlier today."  Jimin looked around, trying to make sense of the missing student. However, the cafeteria was packed, and it was difficult to spot any empty seats or spaces that were not occupied. Normally, people were spread out across the campus, but today was different, everyone needed to be huddled together inside the cafeteria.

Minutes pass, and the Tupperware full of apple slices yoongi is supposed to be eaten remains untouched, slowly turning brown. Then out of nowhere, they start reading names through the intercom.

Another name was announced – Kim-Taehyung. Yoongi recognized him as the handsome fourth-year captain of the water polo team. Yoongi has heard rumours about taehyung earning a well-deserved scholarship to a top university, especially after all the extra clubs and volunteer hours he had done. He stands up with a shocked and devastating expression on his face, and everyone turns their heads towards him. His friend hugs him before jumping as another robotic voice calls out another name.  

The second name announced is Lucia, a second-year student whom Yoongi has briefly seen in the halls before, now putting a name to the face. As the name echoed through the cafeteria, everyone turned their heads to the opposite side of the room, but Yoongi couldn’t see her due to the large crowd of students. She must have been sitting with a group of people, obscured from Yoongi's view.

Then, its Jimin’s turn. As Jimin’s name echoes through the cafeteria, Yoongi's heart seems to skip a beat, and his vision blurs with tears. He holds Jimin's hand tightly, a surge of anger and hatred swelling within him for the unfairness of the situation. Surprisingly, Jimin doesn’t look surprised. He rises silently from his seat, patting yoongi on the back twice, and leaving Yoongi alone with his thoughts. Yoongi buries his head on the table, trying to block out the noise as Jimin walks away, and a new name is called out, leaving a heavy silence behind.

Then, the last name gets called.  Yoongi tries not to laugh. Really, He thinks his mind is playing tricks on him, but when he lifts his head off the table slowly, everyone is looking at him.

His own name echoes in his ears. Yoongi stands frozen, unable to process what’s happening. Jimin shifts towards him, his expression resolute. Yoongi isn’t prepared for this. He glances to his left; everyone at the table has dropped their phones in shock. Grabbing his phone, Yoongi pushes his legs out from under the table and stands up straight. 

 Yoongi stands up slowly and glances at Jimin, who quickly approaches him, his eyes wide with shock, tears streaming down his face. He tugs at Yoongi, silently urging him to move forward.

‘This is not a funny joke.’ 

Locking eyes with Jimin again, Yoongi feels his throat close up. Jimin walks to Yoongi's side, wiping away an unknown tear from Yoongi’s face. Jimin whispers down to Yoongi’s ear, "It's my turn to help you," as he gently hooks his arms with yoongi. Tears unknowingly fall from Yoongi’s eyes as they shuffle through the cafeteria, people staring at them. The creatures are impatient.

Taehyung waits for them at the front of the cafeteria, Lucia joining him a second later. They both look like they’re trying not to cry but are failing miserably. How could they not cry? They’re all about to lose everything.

As he walks, he feels the weight of everyone's eyes on him. It is a mix of pity, fear, and resignation. He feels his legs tremble but forces himself to keep moving. He is aware of the beings' eyes on him, their expressions unreadable.

Yoongi doesn’t think about anyone except his sister in this moment, he tries to catch her out in the crowd but doesn’t find her. When he reaches the front, he joins the other chosen students. The atmosphere is thick with despair. Yoongi looks at Jimin, who is wiping his tears away, trying to stay composed.

The creatures usher them out of the cafeteria and into the hallway. Yoongi's mind races with a thousand thoughts, none of them coherent. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Jimin looking at him with a mixture of fear and a flash of determination.

Yoongi nods, though he doesn't believe it. He is too shocked to process what is happening. As they are led down the hallway, the reality of their situation begins to sink in. They are leaving, and they will never come back. Yoongi glances back at the cafeteria one last time, taking in the faces of his classmates. He doesn't know what awaits them, but he knows one thing for sure: life as he knows it is over for him. 

Chapter Text

Yoongi's heart races as he linked arms with Jimin, feeling the tremor in his friend's cold ring-covered hands. The two towering, tattooed creatures in front of them don't bother looking back after their initial snarl. Yoongi tries to swallow his fear, but the empty, eerily quiet hallways amplify every footstep, making their anxiety increase. He glances at Jimin, whose tears mirrored his own, and wonders desperately, "How the hell do I get us out of this?" 

Jimin stays silent, half scared shitless, half contemplating. Yoongi understands now, the pattern of people they take. First, the dean's list, yoongi, jimin, hoesok along with Taehyung, who is athletically gifted, have all been chosen. He isn’t sure about Lucia, but maybe she was too. Maybe they want to grab the exceptional group, gifted in something. Still, it doesn’t make sense in yoongis head. 

He feels like he fucked himself over, sure, everyone wants to do well academically, but yoongi always had to try, he wasn’t gifted naturally with memorization, the only athletic thing Yoongi enjoys is dance, and sometimes he dabbles in a little bit of basketball, he for sure as hell hates subjects that have anything to do with math.  All those nights he fell asleep on his desk, head sprawled over textbooks and tear-stained math sheets, all the pressure from his father to do well, to become the man of the family, earn money to provide for his children and wife one day. Yoongi always grimaced at the idea, he never knew completely why, It’s all for nothing anyway. All of it is wasted. 

Dim lights cast eerie shadows in the hallways of the school, and no other students are in sight. The halls feel unnaturally empty and quiet, yoongi can hear every footstep. Jimin has tears streaming down his face, as does Yoongi. Yoongi minds races with many different possibilities, all centering around one thought, how the fuck do I bullshit my way out of this one. Yoongi’s confusion and denial is overwhelming, because someone had to choose him, and why in the world would someone fucking pick me out of everyone in this fucking shitty ass fucking school- He tries not to panic, although it’s incredibly hard to do so. If he’s going to be reckless, he might as well at least be smart about it. 

His second thought is to accept the situation for now and figure something out later, but he ignores this because acceptance is for losers and denial is a river in Egypt. An idiot would run and risk getting caught by an incredibly fast and much stronger species. ‘Hypocrite’ yoongi thinks, contemplating making a run for it, feeling that if he doesn’t run now, he will regret it for the rest of his life.  

They approach a flight of stairs, adrenaline pumping through Yoongi's veins and a familiar pit of anxiety swirling in his stomach. Yoongi feels like vomiting the nonexistent food he ate today. 

Down the hall stands one woman and two men, one being Jimin’s creepy stalker with the prey eyes and the black hair. If this was any other day, yoongi would probably swoon- but now his attractiveness does nothing to Yoongi; he sees him only as a predator. They stare as they approach, the two men escorting them disappear into the front office, leaving Yoongi and Jimin alone. 

"Wait," Jimin whispers, “Look,” Jimin motions to the group of people expecting them, “There is three of them, and four of us." Yoongi squints his eyes at Jimin before finally understanding.  "Is there a mistake?" Yoongi mumbles, Jimin's sniffles echoing his own uncertainty. “ No, these creatures don’t mess up- but-“ Jimin shifts closer to yoongi, setting his lips close to yoongi’s ear, “ There is a window for you to run-“ The creep snarls at their linked arms and rips Jimin away. Yoongi lets Jimin go, feeling incredibly guilty as he watches the tears glistening in jimin's eyes fall. Yoongi surpasses the overwhelming urge to cuss out this man, but swallows his pride instead. 

You can’t cuss people out if you are dead.

Yoongi's mouth falls open at how persistent and rough he is with Jimin. To his right, Lucia is caged in on the wall, a man sniffing and burrowing his head into her neck as she looks at him with what Yoongi assumes is fear. She looks like she wants to cry, another unreadable emotion erupting on her face from the skin-to-skin contact. Taehyung, the water polo captain, stares at his taker approaching with a handful of intimidating-looking bodyguards.

Yoongi has to remind himself to breathe, but he can't. He is choking on air, unable to think about anything else other than the fact that he is going to be taken away from his sister and leave her alone, and he is going to be in the possession of some creature who is going to do God knows what with him.

His hands begin to shake, his fast heartbeat making his ears ring, blocking out any other noise. A voice in the background that he recognizes as Jimin’s tells him to run. Yoongi looks back at Jimin, considering it. 

He… wants me to... run?

Looking behind him, Yoongi swallows harshly, suddenly his heartbeat is pumping full of anxiety and adrenaline. Yoongi wants to throw up, he wants to disappear, but he realises he has to make the decision. 

One that a suicidal maniac would make. 

Yoongi swallows hard, feeling as if he’s been dropped off the top of a rollercoaster. He bolts, sprinting down the locker-lined hall, knowing it will take at least 20 seconds to reach the other side. If he can get out, the shortcut will lead upstairs. The rhythm of his feet pounding against the pavement is hypnotic, everything feels slower than it is, each step a drumbeat driving yoongi forward. His breath syncs with his heartbeat, in and out, a steady, controlled exchange of air that fuels his momentum. Not thinking clearly, he shakes his head at the direction he wants to go towards. He still has one floor to go down before he is in the parking lot.

He turns the corner at the end of the hall, still able to see Jimin and the others. He hears the door boom open down the hall, and a group of heavy footsteps walk out. Yoongi gasps for air, more adrenaline surging through his body. It’s this moment when yoongi realised he is having a panic attack. His hands start to shake, and so does his legs. I should've tried harder in track. He fans out his hoodie, and his ponytail is loose. Yoongi doesn’t want to look, but he does anyway. 

A tall and imposing figure emerges from the end of the hall, entering the hallway with an air of authority. Clad in a dark trench coat, the man exudes an aura of power and intimidation that seems to make everyone in the hallway command his attention. Apparently, yoongi included. From what yoongi can tell, his sharp features and piercing gaze survey the surroundings, taking in every detail with a calculated coolness. 

Yoongi’s mind, once distressed now feels clear and focused. The world narrows down to the sound of the mans footsteps, the beating of his body, his movement, and the stretch of the hallway ahead. Yoongi’s mouth parts slightly, still gasping for air, but now completely focused on the man. 

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-

It’s so quiet, all yoongi can hear is the sound of his own racing heart. Despite not knowing who he was, yoongi could tell this man was very very important just by the sheer amount of bodyguards around him, even making the other creatures, even including the creep holding onto Jimin wary and slightly uncomfortable in his presence. As the man approaches the office, Yoongi can hear the sound of his footsteps echo down the hall, each stride seemingly measured and purposeful. The man's face is pieced together with assertive confidence and authority, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a predatory gaze. 

Yoongi knows he’s messed up, he knows he’s fucked now, because upon looking at the man, he senses the danger radiating from him, like a coiled snake waiting to strike. The trench coat billows out slightly behind him as he walks, making a gesture to the black haired creep, who takes the gesture as a sign to clear the hallway. 

‘ I should kill myself’ Yoongi thinks this, half joking as he began to feel a strange, tingling attraction, like he's in a trance.

The school headmaster approaches, looking like he just shit his pants or something. Yoongi half enjoys seeing his school headmaster looking so shitlessly scared, call it karma, the man did take yoongi's phone on 'a friday during 6th period and didn't give it back for the entire fucking weekend the cunt deserves it-' he offers to shake the hand of the alpha, but the important alpha looks down disdainfully. Yoongi doesn’t see much of the interaction as bodyguards suddenly enter, eyes glowing with a predatory light. 

Just as the man opens his mouth to speak to the headmaster, the man once more scans the hallways before he stops suddenly, closing his eyes and sniffing the air. Yoongi quickly presses himself against the wall, completely convinced he is out of eye view. I need to get the fuck out of here.

Heart racing, the atmosphere shifts again. Yoongi almost panics when the Alpha stares in his direction. But he's hidden behind a water fountain, a trash can, and a corner. Yoongi second guesses himself, what if he can- Yoongi doesn’t finish the thought as the man signals the guards with a look, and suddenly yoongi can hear the headmaster's screams of protests as he gets dragged down the hallway. 

Yoongi sees the mans plump lips curve into a slight ghost of a smile, eyes twinkling with intimidating glee, and suddenly he’s looking directly at Yoongi. Yoongi swallows thickly when an alarm suddenly blares out of the schools speaker system, and stacks of men enter the hallway. 

"Oh shit," Yoongi whispers. The moment yoongi realizes he’s about to be chased, a jolt of adrenaline floods through his system, sharp and electrifying. His senses sharpen to a razor’s edge, every sound amplified, every shadow a potential threat. His heartbeat, already quickened by fear, thunders in his chest, reverberating in his ears. They move fast, and yoongi bolts down another corridor. "Oh my god-"

He breaks into a sprint, his legs pumping with desperate urgency. Each breath he takes is shallow and rapid, more of a gasp than a controlled inhale. He swallows his saliva with an awful metal taste in his mouth, the world around yoongi blurs as he focus on the path ahead, searching for any advantage, any obstacle he can use to his benefit. He knows he’s being stupid, stupid stupid he’s always being so stupid, but he can’t help but be afraid of what will happen to him again, what he will go through.

Nobody else knows what it’s like to be so afraid of strangers, afraid of their intentions with you, afraid of them touching you, thinking of dangers ways to take advantage of you. His muscles burn with exertion, but he pushes through the pain, driven by a sudden primal instinct to survive. Hand over his mouth, he tries to quiet his breathing but can't.

He checks the hallways again, beginning to see people look in his direction-  this is when Yoongi fucking bolts- taking a detour down a flight of stairs, three steps at a time. They were behind him, slowly descending closer, closer. Yoongi knows hes so utterly done for- he knows they are faster than him, stronger than him, that he can't hide when the school is crawling with invincible creatures. 

Sprinting, he turns a corner, almost tripping, using his hands to keep balance and boost himself up. Yoongi desperately starts pushing chairs into the hall to block the path, he mutters, "For fuck's sake." One more flight of stairs leads to the very bottom of the school. 

His hair tie falls out, hair flying as he runs. He smells the scent of his hair, focusing on the next move. The narrow hall makes throwing chairs harder, but he doesn't look back, focused on left or right. The back door comes to mind.

These damn alarms are giving me a headache.

Running makes him feel like an idiot. An idiot running for dear life, without thinking it through. Reaching the back door, he sees large SUVs blocking the exit with gaurds standing outside who immediately begin to take action. Swallowing hard, cramps gripping his stomach, yoongi runs back inside, hiding in an empty classroom, curling on a beanbag behind a bookshelf.

Different scenarios flash through his mind, he doesn’t fully have time to foolproof his plans. Why didn't he think of the window earlier? Ten, important seconds have passed, the window is his only chance. Sliding through the window, he hears footsteps.

Squeaking as he falls, pain surges the balls of his feet, but he doesn't care. Pushing off the floor, he realizes he might be running in circles, the creatures are following him, all exits seem blocked. Did I jump out of a window for nothing? 

Every glance over his shoulder reveals his pursuit to gaining ground, the creature's presence a quickly gaining constant, it weighs down on Yoongi’s mind. Panic claws at his throat, threatening to overwhelm him, he wants to scream, cry, whimper, but he forces it down, concentrating instead on his speed. His footfalls echo, a frantic rhythm that drowns out everything else including the muffled yells for yoongi to give himself up. 

Tears slip from his eyes as he heads for the front door, where the front office and bike rack are likely guarded. The only likely possibility of freedom is the cafeteria exit. He plans to go through the cafeteria, sprinting past the parking garage, looking for an open window to climb through. Today, yoongi learns he can do a pull-up with an adrenaline rush.

Time stretches into what feels like an eternity, but is actually only meer minutes. Each second feels like a minute, each minute an hour. The classrooms he rushes past in a disorienting blur, but he can’t afford to slow down, can’t afford to stumble. 

His body is a machine running on pure fear and adrenaline. "Fuck- shit sorry," he says, crashing into a teacher. The teacher's bowl drops, leaving salad leaves all over the floor, which Yoongi ignores and runs past, slamming open a random classroom door. Numb from exhaustion, he realizes he's only stalling.

“I’m so over this,” he mumbles, slowing to a stop as he sees the guards surrounding opposite sides of the hallways, slowly closing in on him. He backs up into the classroom and shuts the door, he analyses the room around him, feet acting on their own, he tries to open another window, hands shaking as he tries to open a window. Tears flow uncontrollably as he sees the man outside, through the small window in the door.

Crumbling into a chair, head on the desk, hands cradling his face, he wants to disappear. Peaceful silence breaks as footsteps approach. Yoongi is still breathing heavily, half from exhaustion, half from being in the middle of a panic attack. As Yoongi looked up through his teary vision, he knew who stood before him, it was him. 

Yoongi scoffs, slowly looking up at him, the back of his mind unwilling to admit the dangerous beauty of the man before him. He was pale, stood tall and imposing, his eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce through yoongi. There was a cold, calculating precision in the way he observed seemed to observe him. His broad shoulders and strong build were accentuated by the tailored coat he wore, the dark fabric contrasting starkly with his pale complexion.

Even in silence, his presence was overwhelming. Yoongi tried not to be dramatic in holding back his reactions, but he was the embodiment of intimidation, a figure of authority and strength that demanded respect and obedience.

It was painful for yoongi look at the man, attempting to glare at up, though the tears slowly flooding in his eyes proved otherwise. 

Cocking his head to the side, the man observes the trembling figure before him, the sharp angles of his face illuminated by the harsh overhead lighting. The cold gleam of his eyes catches the light, reflecting an icy, merciless glint that sends a chill down Yoongi’s spine, and despite this, the looming threat of his end, Yoongi cannot help but acknowledge the cold, striking presence of him.

His gaze remains unyielding as he continues to observe, the inscrutable darkness of his irises revealing nothing, yet suggesting everything. Each slow step he takes towards yoongi is measured, calculated. Frozen in place, yoongi shudders as the man lowers his head, his breath ghosting over the delicate skin just below Yoongi’s jaw. Barely containing a whimper, yoongi instinctively tilts his head, truly not knowing what he was doing, and exposes his throat. 

Like prey before a predator.

Weakly, the Yoongi’s hands rise to push against the man's chest, but they are met with a firm grip around his throat. The pressure is a clear warning, and the Yoongi’s resistance crumbles, his hands falling limp to his sides as he begins to tear up, helpless. 

Yoongi’s eyes begin to unfocus, they become more glassy, his pupils dilate slightly. 

"Beautiful." The word rumbles from the mans lips, his voice a deep, smooth whisper that seemed to pierce through Yoongi’s entire body. The grip on his throat remains steadfast, grounding him, forcing him to remain present as the reality of his situation unfolds.

The alpha was relentless in his pursuit, his intentions unmistakable, methodically breaking down the omega's will and resistance with the calculated precision of a trained predator.

"Do you have a death wish, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice dripping with passive-aggressiveness and humor.

Yes, Yes I do. 

Yoongi hesitated, still trying to take in the situation. The man's voice was low and velveteen, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the sound of it. He couldn't help but notice the man's lips—full and pillowy. Yoongi resists the urge to sass back at him, his heart racing beneath the surface. The Alpha's gaze sweeps over Yoongi's face, his eyes flickering with an almost predatory intensity. 

Seokjin tilted his head, regarding Yoongi with an appraising gaze. “I admire how quick you were on your feet.” He leaned in, his voice lowering to a murmur.  "For someone so fragile-" he paused, taking a step closer to Yoongi, dark onyx eyes piercing into yoongis, staring into his soul, "- you make quite bold decisions, especially running from me."

Asshole

Yoongi’s hands shake nervously, he hides them under the table. He feels the weight of Seokjin's words and the unspoken backhanded compliment behind them. Yoongi remains silent, knowing that defiance would only escalate the tension between them. Actions speak louder than words. Instead, yoongi leans back in his chair, slowly pulling his arms together to cross them and decides that slightly squinting his eyes at him is a satisfying response for yoongi. 

Seokjin's lips quirk upwards at the action, at Yoongi's attempted display of nonchalance. He can see through Yoongi's facade clearly, noting his shaking hands and the nervous energy radiating through his body. Seokjin's eyes flicker with amusement as he takes in Yoongi's actions.

"Cute." he observes. Seokjin's control over the situation was clear, his every movement calculated and deliberate. As Yoongi searched for a way out, he realized he was at the mercy of a man who thrived on power —a man whose definition of control left no room for yoongi to escape.

As the Alpha's eyes lock on Yoongi's, a hint of a smirk tugging at his pillowy lips, he reaches out and grips Yoongi's wrist. Yoongi is overwhelmed by the Alpha's strength, his own body responding instinctively.

Seokjin's demeanor remained composed, a contrast to the panic and confusion swirling within Yoongi. He circled slowly around Yoongi, like a predator assessing its prey, his footsteps measured and deliberate. “ You surprised me today,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that unsettling mix of passive-aggressiveness and amusement. He circled yoongi slowly, “You made things very fun for me when you decided to run.”

Yoongi bites his tongue, holding back the urge to curse him out, instead, choosing to roll his eyes, uncaring of the consequences of his actions anymore. The Alpha's eyes flicker with irritation as Yoongi responds to his earlier question with a defiant glare. “You are aware of what will happen now, yes?” The alpha says rhetorically, and Yoongi feels small. His voice is so smooth, and yoongi is so tired, he just wants to jump out of the nearest window and sleep forever. Yoongi swallows hard. "Hm? I want an answer."

“Fuck you” Yoongi says passionately without thinking, but doesn’t regret it. Tears blur Yoongi's vision as the Alpha's eyes flash brightly. Yoongi's heart races. The Alpha's lips curl into a smirk.

 "Tch, such a mouth on you," he says and yoongi immediately looks away, finding it hard to remain eye contact with the man. Not when they stare into yoongi's soul, intimidating him from the inside out.  The Alpha scans his face, lips twitching into a surprised smirk showing disbelief, Yoongi bets the Alpha hasn't faced defiance in a long time. "Lift your chin up, look at me," Seokjin commands, his large hand holding the curve of Yoongi’s jaw, his voice soft but authoritative.

Yoongi hesitates for a few slow seconds before slowly lifting his chin, his eyes slowly locking with the Alpha's intense gaze, the alpha's , hints of amusement playing on his lips. "There you go," he murmured, his voice velvety smooth. "That wasn't so hard, was it, little dove?"

Yoongi thinks he comes to his senses when he jerks his chin away from seokjins hand. The gesture seems to royally tick the alpha off because, within a blink of an eye, yoongi’s wrist is yanked and effortlessly bundled into his arms. Yoongi is hit with the harsh wall of broad muscle, he feels almost lightheaded from the motion, his close presence acting as a calming sedative.The alpha stares down with an irritated amused expression as yoongi struggles to get out of his arms, fumbling slightly when seokjin leans down to nip yoongi’s neck.

“Yo-What the fuck-“ Yoongi is panicked, turning slightly, he uses the momentum to push his body into a new position, lifting his arms to push the fabric of the alphas trench coat up a little. Yoongi doesn’t know what he was doing, acting out of sheer desperation.

They were now in the halls again, desperate cries for help echoing along the walls. "Let me go, I can’t- I can’t- please, please, please," he begged. A hand tightens around him, yoongi swears he saw the sight before him flashing from an old and gray one to a large ring-covered one. He gasps and grips the Alpha's trench coat tightly, suddenly wanting to disappear. The Alpha looks down at him with an unreadable expression. "Leave us," he told the guards as soon as they approach the doors. The guards scatter into different SUVs and quickly drive off, briefly yoongi wonders if Jimin is in one of those cars,.

The alpha opens the door to the second row of a large shiny black SUV, where two people are seemingly already seated in the front. Most of the black-tinted cars were gone from this morning, only three remained.  Seokjin places him in one of the seats, but as soon as yoongi feels the leather, he slides to the other door opposite to him, opening it and breaking into a sprint in the opposite direction. It’s the final straw, the final beacon of hope that slowly fades before yoongi’s eyes. He doesn’t know where he is running to, but the back door to the school building wasn't far. 

Yoongi's heart races as he makes a desperate attempt to escape, but his efforts are seemingly fucked as strong arms grab him before he can even take a few steps.  As Seokjin hoists him over his shoulder, Yoongi feels a mixture of fear and helplessness, completely adding to his frustration. 

He briefly wonders if he's going insane, hearing the man's voice taunting him in his head, telling him to stop his futile resistance. "I’m loosing my patience with you sweetling," he says, patting Yoongi's backside mockingly. Yoongi’s body suddenly stopped, mouth gaping the second he felt the alphas hand smack his bottom. 

Did he just... he... what? 

Suddenly, all the insults he had learned from his friends raging over video games came in handy. Yoongi, still slung over Seokjin's shoulder, decided that if he was going to be stuck in this humiliating position, he might as well speak his mind.

"You motherfucker! You piece of shit scum of the earth entitled little shit-“ As seokjin carried Yoongi over his shoulder, he couldn't help but find the little one's behavior so utterly endearing. His insults were nothing more than adorable puppy growls, and his little pout and wide narrowed eyes reminded him of an annoyed pup. “- and you might think you're all powerful and intimidating, throwing me over your shoulder like I'm some kind of fucking ragdoll- newsflash mister-“ He could tell that Yoongi was trying to act tough and defiant, but the effect was ruined by his pouty lips.

“ So fucking cute,” Seokjin thought aloud, riling yoongi up even more as he began pounding his fists on his back. 

The Alpha dropped him in the seat again, this time holding onto his wrist tightly. A whimper escapes yoongi when the Alpha doesn't let go of him, plans foiled, pulling yoongi onto his lap to hold him still while closing the door. The car quickly pulled out of the driveway and onto the street driving at such a speed that if he decided to open the door, he would be greatly injured, Yoongi knows that, and reaches for the door handle anyway. Almost as if the alpha read his mind, his hand is immediately engulfed in a much larger one, and quickly restraining both of his wrists tightly with one of his large hands

"Child Lock," yoongi mimics, hoping that if he annoyed the Alpha enough, he would change his mind, let him go, and realize that yoongi isn’t worth the trouble, he’ll be too much work.

Yoongi trieds to elbow the alphas chest, his arm catching on Seokjin hand again, and clamping it down on both of his upper arms. He wiggles on the Alpha's lap, trying to get out of his hold. The Alpha remained unfazed, looking down at him patiently with a clenched jaw.

A man in the passenger seat chuckled as he looked back at them. "Looks like you're going to have your hands full with this one."

The out-of-pocket comment makes yoongi snort “ Listen to this guy- he’sclearly smarter than you-“  Yoongi is cut off when the man in the front seat visibly tenses. Yoongi’s attention shifts to the Alpha, who put both of his wrists together and held them single-handedly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. A slight purple outline was already appearing on his skin from the strong grip.

He was supposed to have a life. He would never see if he got into any of the colleges he applied to. He would never see his family again. He wouldn't be able to protect his sister. A broken whimper escaped his lips as he began to realize what was happening. This couldn't be happening. The thought broke him further, and a sob unwillingly left his lips. The only urge he felt now was to give up and lay his head on the Alpha's chest, hiding from the world, and for some reason as soon as he did, he felt less scared and safer. Again, he felt an unnatural unease fill him, and his anxiety sparked once more.

The Alpha feels his concern grow when he sees Yoongi's face crumple further, he notices the way Yoongi's body begins to shake ever so often, the sound of a broken whimper escaping his lips. He pulls Yoongi closer to his side, securing him with a tight grip. Seokjin motions for something from the driver, handing him an object which is placed out of yoongi’s reach, before clicking a button on the center console. A sound of sliding metal fills the cabin as the screen divides the back seat from the front, effectively isolating Yoongi and Seokjin together privately. 

Yoongi hardly notices the slide screen come down, but when he finally registers it he feels like he’s being dropped on a rollercoaster again. There’s no way out.  The idea of being trapped in such close quarters with a powerful and dangerous Alpha is terrifying to him, yet yoongi is practically sprawled over the man’s lap, head laying on his chest.

Yoongi's breathing quickens, he casts a glassy-eyed look at Seokjin.  Still tightly holding onto yoongi's wrists seokjin runs his long fingers through Yoongi's soft hair, slowly making it's way towards cradling the nape of yoongi’s neck, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Shh, it's okay," he coos. Seokjin's grip tightens on the back of Yoongi's neck, and suddenly he can feel a strange mixture of comfort and helplessness wash over him, almost as if all his resistance has melted away. His body immediately goes lax under Seokjin's firm but gentle touch, and a small whimper escapes his lips.

The Alpha slowly brings Yoongi closer to him, his hand still holding onto his scruff. Yoongi's racing heart begins to slow, he can't help but feel strangely safe and secure in Seokjin's strong grip. The Alpha's hand on his nape is possessive, yoongi wants to struggle against the hold, but grip is strong, and no amount of thrashing could free him. "There you go," Seokjin coos, his voice low and soothing. "Just submit to me, let go, little one." A whimper escapes yoongi’s lips again as he curls in on himself, pretending it was a form of protection. All of this brought back too much nostalgia.

"Open," the Alpha instructs, tilting his chin up. Yoongi almost obeys, he wants to, compelled to do so, but he falters. His trauma reminding him of what was happening. A sad, disobedient look appeared on his face, and the Alpha sighed, considering what to do. "I'm sorry," the Alpha said suddenly, with a guilty look on his face, letting go of yoongi's now throbbing wrists, He forces yoongi’s mouth open with his free hand and made him swallow a sour liquid.

Almost instantly, yoongi felt his body weaken further. As he stopped moving, dots started to block his vision. He felt himself swaying, laying his head on the Alpha's chest, letting out a few more panicked gasps.

There was nothing he could do. It was over. The Alpha wipes the thick tears fast falling from yoongi’s eyes and kisses his forehead, the calming sparks he had fought back before were welcoming him. He was too weak to fight it anymore, and slowly, he let the nightmare overcome him, his consciousness slipping away. 

This just might be the end of me

Chapter Text

Yoongi is sprawled in the backseat of a moving car, a small fluffy blanket draped over him. His silky soft hair falls messily over his face, lips pouting as he begins to sti. His eyes feel glued shut, he notices the bright lights through his eyelashes.

He struggles to open them, feeling as though they’re stuck together. When he finally manages, black dots crowd his vision almost entirely.

The numbness in his legs and the odd, he heels like he can’t think right, the brain fog is all too familiar  —yet so different this time around.

Yoongi doesn’t know what he was given, doesn’t even care to know, already heavily triggered just by the implication. It’s the first thing he thinks as his consciousness becomes clearer. Clearly the effects still linger.

The car moves steadily, ascending a smooth road. He’s so tired, Yoongi finally manages to lift his head from a heavy broad chest, blinking away the last bit of his drugged sleep.

Beneath the surface of the drugs, his body and mind work differently. The drugs suppress his urge to even sit up correctly, all while he wants to start shouting and probably cry at the same time.

He immediately notices the man’s dark eyes watching him with an unreadable expression. Yoongi’s gaze travels over Seokjin’s features—sharp eyebrows, plump lips, down to his large, pale, thin hands. They both stare at each other unyieldingly; Yoongi doesn’t even register what’s going on.

Seokjin’s assertive demeanor, just his eyes and physical presence alone, is enough to make Yoongi feel small and vulnerable.

“How are you feeling?” Seokjin’s voice breaks the silence, firm yet laced with a hint of concern. It makes Yoongi’s stomach do somersaults; the idea of even having to talk right now is the exact opposite of what he needs. Yoongi frowns, confusion knitting his brows together.

He struggles to find his voice. He wants to think, he’s trying, but it’s so hard. He tries not to close his eyes and fall back asleep.

Usually, Yoongi wouldn’t tap into his disobedient nature, he should lie, but he just can’t find his will to care in this moment. “Does that really matter to you?”

Seokjin says nothing, just stares into yoongis soul. Gods, the eye contact makes him nervous. Yoongi doesn’t even care to entertain him, though it’s the only thing on his mind, he simply yawning and staring at his surroundings, looking anywhere but at him.

His stomach growls loudly, bile and a nauseous feeling making their way through his body. He briefly wonders how long he was out.

“Relax,” Seokjin says softly. Yoongi doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Seokjin’s hand caresses his face, which yoongi tries to swat away, it’s a pathetic attempt, his hand is only able to lift itself and nothing more.

The shock from the attempted escape has left yoongi physically, but not mentally. “What do you mean, relax?” Yoongi glares up at him, tears falling freely despite his anger. “Fuck you,” he retorts nonchalantly, tongue heavy in his mouth, his voice shakes.

Seokjin has a look in his eye as he looks down at the pouting blond, lips quirking. Yoongi can’t tell if he looks amused or displeased, why not think both?

The man in the passenger seat, with striking grey-purple eyes, snickers at their exchange. Yoongi can’t help but stare-

Seokjin snaps at the man in a language Yoongi doesn’t comprehend, the fluidity of the words unlike anything he’s ever heard before, his tone cold and commanding. The man immediately falls silent, eyes darting to his feet, yoongi can see his leg bouncing quicker. 

Seokjin rolls his eyes and presses a button at the centre console, a screen door divides the rows of seats from contact and yoongi finds himself alone with seokjin again.

Seokjin sighs, leaning back and gently pushes Yoongi’s hair out of his face, his touch surprisingly soft.

For a moment, yoongi can feel himself go completely lax.  Seokjins cool fingers run through yoongis soft hair, silky soft  strands glide through his fingers, knuckles rubbing softly against his scalp, messing up his hair but still trying to control it from getting too tangled and messy.

The touch is slow, seokjin takes his time, his eyes are in awe as he watches yoongis eyes close, lips parting slightly as his fingers make their way to the back of his head, it makes yoongi shiver and seokjin can’t help but coo.

He can see the goosebumps and the hairs standing up on his pale neck, he knows yoongi is scared but can’t help himself. 

“Are you still feeling sick?” he asks as his large hand slides up to feel Yoongi’s forehead.

Yoongi flinches away from the contact, a scowl forming on his lips. “Get your hands off me, you creep,” he pleads, hoping his words work better than his self-defending actions. “How did you know I was sick?”

Yoongi swears for a second he saw a moment of surprise flicker on seokjins face before it goes back to normal, h e keeps his gaze steady, “ It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.” 

Seokjin’s awareness or lack thereof is fascinating to Yoongi. He immediately recognizes how different the creature is from him- it scares yoongi, he knows close to nothing about them.

Briefly, he wonders if Seokjin came out of the womb with a stick up his ass.

At the thought, Yoongi snickers a bit, which slowly turns into a low giggle. Yoongi tries hiding it by looking away, but suppressing the urge to laugh becomes hard when seokjin doesn’t look amused, in fact he looks the opposite. 

“You find your own sickness so amusing?” 

Yoongi doesn’t look at him, he feels himself tear up, he knows he’s starting to become slightly delusional, triggered, drugged, overwhelmed, and on the lap of a creep. It’s so easy to find hilarity in a time like this.

Seokjin falters a bit at Yoongi’s change in behavior, irritation slipping to concern.

Seokjin isn’t having any of it- grabbing yoongis jaw and tilting it upwards, yoongi recoils at the touch- 

I’ve been sick for a long time, yoongi thinks

The first emotion, other than what Yoongi calls "condescending asshole," that Seokjin shows. Anger, offense—now concern. Yoongi eats it up; he wants Seokjin to feel offended, concerned, hurt. Hurt like Yoongi is right now.

Yoongi’s cheeks flush red, and he reaches his small fingers to wipe a tear from his eye as he tries to calm down.

What the fuck is happening?

Seokjin’s honey-colored eyes glimmer with a mix of amusement and patience, his anger slowly fading as he breathes deeply along Yoongi’s neck, he resists the urge to push him off- “Eh—” Yoongi says in disgust, despite feeling slightly more relaxed at the notion. “Did you just sniff me?”

The blur between reality and Yoongi's drugged perception makes him question almost everything, including his sanity. There’s no way, right? Right??

I must be trippin-

Yoongi doesn’t care that it might provoke him; Yoongi actually hopes that his vile, absurd words might prod Seokjin into throwing him dead in a ditch somewhere.

Seokjin doesn’t react anymore. His face falls back into its usual emotionless, hard-to-read mask, lips quirking upwards slightly at Yoongi before looking away with a smile that tells Yoongi too much. His smile fades quickly, and he looks down at Seokjin’s lap.

Hours seem to pass in a haze of short naps and fleeting moments of consciousness. Yoongi’s attempts to move away from Seokjin are met with firm but gentle restraint. At some point, Seokjin stops trying and decides he might as well get comfortable.

He will never admit it, but laying here on Seokjin's lap, he’s never felt so content in his entire life. He swears it’s because of the drugs.

Intrusively yoongi asks “ What would you do if I threw up on you.”

He doesn’t even entertain his dumb question- Seokjin looks down at the younger, an eyebrow raised, appreciably reading yoongi. 

Yoongi rolls his eyes feeling bored and suicidal- Instead of trying to focus on the fact that his life is ruined, he looks out the window, feeling heaps of denial as the car ascends through the snow-capped mountains. It’s unreal, unlike anything he’s ever seen. He cries; he’s so far away from home.

“Mountains,” Yoongi blurts out, more a statement than a question, confusion breaking through his grogginess.

“We are in my lands now,” Seokjin explains calmly. A man of few words, Yoongi concludes.

The realisation of how much time has passed and how far he is from his old life makes him feel lightheaded. “And where exactly in the world is ‘my lands’ located?” Yoongi tries to use finger quotations but fails, his fingers too weak to move.

“You were out the entirety of our flight,” Seokjin explains bluntly, definitely implying that they are probably somewhere far, far away.

Yoongi’s mouth drops open in shock, his stomach dropping. Denial is the first thing he feels once again—he must have been so deep into his drugged slumber to not be conscious.

Secretly, he’s happy that he slept through it, knowing that his fear of heights would probably make him pass out from anxiety anyway.

Panic sets in, and his hands start to shake as he struggles to breathe. Seokjin’s hand shifts from Yoongi’s wrists to his hands, linking their fingers together. A calming sensation spreads through Yoongi’s body, easing his panic. He glares at Seokjin, the man who both soothes and infuriates him.

“It’s not on a map,” is all Seokjin says,  Yoongi rolls his eyes with an exaggerated expression, he thinks he probably looks stupid doing it. 

Good, maybe if I act as dumb as my hair color then he’ll let me go- 

“This isn’t some ploy to get away. And by the way, I’m shit at geography.”

Seokjin doesn’t leave any more room for argument. His eyes briefly become colder, flashing.

Yoongi reminds himself that he’s fucking with a supernatural being. He knows he’s on thin ice when Seokjin's large, cool hand immediately slides along Yoongi’s neck “ D-don’t you dare-“   and scuffs him once more.

Probably having something to do with his stupid insult as a ploy to annoy Seokjin. It worked a little too well.

“Stop doing that,” Yoongi pleads, confused at the overwhelming feelings he gets from Seokjin's simple touch.

The car pulls into an empty grass patch. In front, a large enchanting house stands, resembling a grocery store with a touch of historical charm. Yoongi has never seen anything like it.

Seokjin steps out of the car and gives Yoongi a stern look. Yoongi curses to himself; it’s like the man can read his mind. Seokjin's stance is intimidating, and his voice is commanding as he tells Yoongi to stay put.

He places a firm hand on Yoongi's shoulder and gently moves him off his lap with a  motion.

"Don't move a muscle," Seokjin orders, his voice sharp. Seokjins eyes flicker toward a guard who has been watching them discreetly from a distance. “ You see him?” 

Yoongi turns his head and faces a tall, buff creature nodding at Seokjin with a sharp chin jerk, eyes flickering to Yoongi's small frame. 

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair and smiles charmingly at the guard, it’s the happiest yoongi has looked all day. 

The gaurd can't help but feel a little flustered- The happiness and charm on Yoongi's face makes the gaurd awkwardlyshuff in place, unable to hide his own slight smile.

Seokjin feels a white-hot fury course through his veins as he watches Yoongi charm the guard. His jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow, filled with a potent mix of jealousy and possessiveness. It takes every ounce of self-control he has to keep from marching over and ruining his guard for the audacity and having his way with yoongi after.

“Just wait here and behave yourself, got it? Both of you-“ Seokjin wants to punch something, or someone, when he looks over to his gaurd, who hides his smile behind his cold expression, seokjin can see it in his eyes. 

Yoongi stares at Seokjin with a racing mind- his body feels heavy and sluggish. His legs are still weak from the drugs, and he knows running isn't an option, even if he could muster the courage.

Seokjin walks towards the large house, the guard trailing behind him, eyes vigilant. The moment Seokjin is out of sight, Yoongi tries to sit up properly, his body protesting with every movement.

Yoongi can feel himself slowly coming off of the setatives, but he’s not nearly ready to escape spontaneously. 

He glances around, taking in his surroundings. The place is remote, surrounded by dense forests and snow-capped mountains, they seem to be in some kind of valley in the mountains. The air is crisp, and the silence is almost deafening, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and distant bird calls.

He simply rolls his eyes and tries to open the door, but the car alarm immediately goes off. It’s embarrassingly loud.

The passenger door opens suddenly, and Yoongi flinches, expecting Seokjin. Instead, he sees the gaurd with the striking grey-purple eyes, a bemused expression on his face. Yoongi glares at him, but the man just chuckles, clearly amused by Yoongi’s defiance.

“You’re a troublemaker,” the gaurd says, his voice smooth and slightly mocking. 

“ And you probably have a stick up your ass-” Yoongi snaps, trying to sound braver than he feels. His heart is pounding, and he can feel the adrenaline starting to kick in, despite his weakened state.

The man leans in closer, his eyes gleaming with levels of energy and mischief.The gaurd dismisses the comment, “ Yoongi, right?”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Am I going to be sacrificed or something?” Yoongi wishes he was joking

The man shrugs dimples appearing in his smile slightly, his gaze never leaving Yoongi’s. “Listen, I’m just here to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t do anything...stupid.”

“ You’re stupid.” Yoongi resorts childishly, “Right, because I’m such a threat right now.”

The gaurd smile widens, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. “You’d be surprised-“

Before Yoongi can protest, the gaurd reaches out and effortlessly lifts him out of the car, cradling him as if he weighs nothing. Yoongi struggles weakly, but it’s no use; his body is still too weak to put up any real fight.

Yoongi squeaks, he’s so tired of being tossed around like a bag of potatoes- The man just laughs, carrying Yoongi towards the large house.

Seokjin approaches with a cup of sweet iced tea, a garden salad, and a sandwich. A sense of resignation washes over him. “ Alarm,” Is all the gaurd says to seokjin. 

Yoongi doesn’t even look at him, just grits his teeth, hating the helplessness he feels.

“Put him down,” Seokjin commands, his tone brooking no argument.

The gaurd obliges, setting Yoongi down gently on his feet. Yoongi sways slightly, but manages to stay upright, glaring at both men.

Guided through the house, Yoongi tries to memorize every inch of it, noting every door and where it could lead.

Eventually, they are led outside to a beautifully decorated outdoor dining area, where a large shiny wooden table and expensive-looking decor are displayed. The area is covered by a large gazebo, surrounded by trees and plants.

His attention is fixed on a spot in the distance where a sturdy fence stands at the edge of the land. It marks the beginning of the surrounding forest. He considers the possibility of making a break for it through the fence.

His earlier attempts to escape only triggered the car alarm and earned a stern reprimand from Seokjin. Yoongi zones out for most of it, not really giving a fuck, more clouded by hunger, anger, and exhaustion.

Seokjin places the food in front of him and sits Yoongi on his firm, hard lap again. "Eat," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. Yoongi was hungry, but now he doesn’t want to eat, simply because Seokjin told him to.

Yoongi contemplates dumping the salad on Seokjin, but the thought of wasting food stops him. He eats slowly; the food tastes heavenly after days of hunger. The older man's expression seems slightly bothered.

A sly grin suddenly spreads across Yoongi's face, and a wave of satisfaction washes over him. He looks up at Seokjin through his eyelashes, noticing how provoked and aggravated he looks. Yoongi smiles so large, so sweetly, so devilishly that Seokjin's jaw clenches. Yoongi can't help but feel a sense of smug amusement, thinking to himself, ‘I'm just so goddamn annoying that it's getting under his skin.’

It’s things like these that remind Yoongi of the time he spent with Jennie—the road trips where the two would petulantly hit each other's arms, pinch each other's legs, and mock each other's words. Memories where Yoongi's father would always end up threatening extreme forms of discipline if they didn’t stay quiet.

Yoongi is thankful for his fights with his sister now. He knows how to aggravate people over their limit, annoy them to the point of extreme dislike.

He wants to poke the bear—provoke Seokjin's anger, push his buttons, and see how far he can go before the man snaps and puts Yoongi back where he came from. Or kills him. Yoongi is fine with either.

Yoongi glances down at the fork Seokjin is holding out, then back up at the alpha's face. "M’not hungry," he mumbles, avoiding Seokjin's gaze.

Honestly, the spot Seokjin picked is quite romantic—a beautiful hidden restaurant in front of an unfamiliar forest surrounded by mountains, the sun beginning to fall over the tip of the mountains, slowly ascending into what Yoongi calls golden hour.

It really makes Yoongi wonder, where on earth is he?

The sky is colorful, holding a silvery glow from the last remaining light. The stars begin to appear, like tiny diamonds dancing across the night sky. With the drop in temperature and the stillness of the evening, it feels as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for the night to fully take hold.

Yoongi steals another glance at Seokjin's face, and the sight of the alpha's tight-lipped frown confirms Yoongi's suspicions. ‘Yep, he's definitely bothered,’ Yoongi thinks.

This time, he doesn’t purposefully evade eating. He just feels too nauseous and anxious to stomach any food.

Taking a deep breath, Yoongi braces himself for the inevitable confrontation. He knows Seokjin well enough by now to know that the man won't let this slide without saying something.

Seokjin's gaze is still fixed on Yoongi, his eyes flicking down to the unfinished food on the table. "You haven’t finished your food yet," he says, his voice slightly tight.

Yoongi swallows hard, his stomach clenching at the sound of Seokjin's irritated tone. Yoongi wants to roll his eyes and say ‘duh,’ but he stops himself.

"Still not hungry," Yoongi mutters dismissively, purposefully avoiding the alpha’s penetrating stare.

Seokjin raises an eyebrow at Yoongi's response, his irritation clearly growing. "Not hungry?" he echoes skeptically. “I won’t tolerate you not finishing that.”

In any other situation, Yoongi might’ve taken pride in that statement, secretly in his own fucked-up antics. “You look like the type of man to say that,” Yoongi mutters, cutting Seokjin off, avoiding eye contact.

"You haven't eaten a proper meal in days. You need to eat," he says firmly, his voice taking on a commanding edge. Yoongi feels like screaming.

He resists the urge to question his response, resists asking, ‘How would you know what and when I eat, creep?’ His eyes flash defiantly. "I simply just don’t have an appetite right now. Hm, I wonder why."

Seokjin's arm encircles Yoongi's waist, pulling him closer, unaffected by Yoongi’s attempt to jab at him. He picks up a piece of food from the plate on the table and brings it to Yoongi’s lips.

Oh.

“Open,” he instructs, looking down at Yoongi expectantly.

No—nononono.

Yoongi feels his cheeks heat up. The mix of manhandling and the thought of Seokjin feeding him makes him feel a mix of embarrassment and rebellion inside him. This must be some type of power trip. The thought of being fed like a child feels both infantilizing and degrading. This plan backfired royally.

“I’ll throw up on you.” Yoongi says. He tries not to smile when he says it without any hate, simply to avoid the confrontation. Gods, does Yoongi want to burst out laughing.

Seokjin squints his eyes. “ No you won’t,” he states it matter-of-factly. It’s true. Seokjin caught him out, but now Yoongi wants to ask why. Why does he know that? How could he possibly even know that?

Yoongi, however, stubbornly turns his head away, refusing to let Seokjin feed him. "No," he mumbles, his face set in a petulant frown. "I'm not a child, I can feed myself."

Seokjin's eyes darken as he glares down at Yoongi. His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face twitching. “Well, you obviously can’t, or simply won’t in this situation.” The change in Seokjin's expression is drastic and unnerving, as if a switch has been flipped.

What does he know?

He grabs Yoongi's chin firmly, his grip unyielding as he turns the younger man's face back towards him. "Open, now." His eyes bore into Yoongi's, his authoritative tone leaving no room for argument. 

Yoongi's eyes flare with defiance, but Seokjin's grip on his jaw is firm. He tries to pull away, but Seokjin's arm is strong as fuck. Yoongi barely moves, merely wiggles embarrassingly.

Seokjin's voice is cold and commanding, his dominance seeping through every syllable. He towers over Yoongi even when they are sitting, Seokjin's tall, broad frame making the younger man feel small and vulnerable.

He squeezes Yoongi's chin, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, not enough to hurt him, but enough to intimidate. “You are so dramatic.”

"Now,” His tone is firm, and there's a dangerous edge to it. It's clear that he won't tolerate any defiance or disobedience from Yoongi anymore.

Yoongi regrets poking the bear now. He clenches his jaw, the anxious feeling in his stomach growing, but it doesn’t feel bad. He feels hot, instincts screaming in a foreign way.

The thought of being fed like a child makes him feel small and pathetic. It’s downright degrading. He wants to resist, to make a point that he's not some mindless object that will submit to every command. He hates the feeling of being controlled, of being seen as weak and helpless.

"You can either open your mouth willingly," Seokjin taunts, his voice low, quiet and dangerous, "or I'll force it open myself."

Alarms go off in Yoongi's head. The tension is thick, his eyes locked on the small boy, daring him to defy him further. It’s clear that he’s not going to back down.

Yoongi swallows hard, his eyes faltering somewhat as he stares up at the alpha’s thick gaze.

He knows Seokjin isn’t bluffing, and the threat of having his mouth forced open is even more degrading than willingly being hand-fed.

Seokjin can see the flicker of hesitation in Yoongi's eyes, and he feels a pang of satisfaction at the thought of breaking down his resistance.

He knows that the younger man is torn. But Seokjin isn't in the mood for more defiance. This is not a game to him.

Yoongi wonders if this is a power trip for Seokjin. Seokjin watches as Yoongi finally opens his mouth, but the eye roll and the exaggerated sigh before don't go unnoticed. The alpha's jaw clenches tightly, and a flicker of irritation passes through his eyes.

His patience reaching its limit. He's been too soft, letting Yoongi get away with disrespect that he would not tolerate from anyone else.

Seokjin feeds Yoongi another spoonful of food, his movements gentle but authoritative. He can feel the omega's annoyance and insolence, even as he obediently chews the food.

"That's a good boy," Seokjin purrs, his voice low and velvety.

Seokjin can't ignore the slightly concerned feeling that's been nagging at him. He leans down to murmur in Yoongi's ear, his tone slightly admonishing. "From now on, we’ll do it like this."

Oh, Yoongi’s pissed and blushing at the same time. He wants out, away, to get away, but he doesn’t, wants to lay back and let Seokjin do what he pleases. It’s like something deep in Yoongi is trying to crawl out of his mind, scratching, screaming. It’s foreign; Yoongi fucking hates it.

He’s barely spent time with Seokjin, but he knows his meticulous nature requires an equally strong plan. He wants out—he doesn’t know how.

Yoongi reluctantly opens his mouth, eyes taking in every corner, ignoring the watchful stare of Seokjin.

An idea sparks when his gaze lands on the cup of iced tea. He waits until Seokjin’s attention is momentarily diverted, then fakes a coughing fit, pretending to choke slightly on the food. Seokjin's reaction is picture-worthy and hilarious if it wasn’t under this circumstance.

He really tries to hide his smirk when he makes eye contact with Seokjin. Yoongi knows that Seokjin knows all of Yoongi’s obnoxious gestures are just to annoy him.

With a deliberate, exaggerated motion, he knocks the cup over, spilling its contents onto Seokjin's lap.

Seokjin's contained rage is palpable. He looks down at his now-soaked lap, ice and water dripping onto the floor, pooling at his feet, but he tries to keep his composure as he reaches for a napkin. “Careful,” he mutters, reaching for a napkin.

Yoongi is dancing on thin ice—jumping on it, pounding it even. Anything—Yoongi will do anything to prove that he is not worth the time or energy.

He seizes the opportunity. When Seokjin leans forward to grab the napkin, Yoongi smiles, low-key feeling bad when he opens his mouth to mimic him. “Careful,” Yoongi says with a high-pitched girly voice.

Oh, Seokjin’s pissed. Yoongi stops smiling and straightens his posture without even thinking. Seokjin motions for people to come clean up the spill simply by raising a hand, intimidatingly calm, while his face and posture straighten. Out of nowhere, Yoongi begins to feel lightheaded, stomach dropping, and his instincts scream—hide.

Seokjin's eyes are intense, intimidating, serious in an overwhelming way. Yoongi doesn’t want to cope, only ignore. Yoongi continues to feign innocence, heart pounding. He needs to wait for the right moment.

Seokjin's voice is stern as he looks at Yoongi. "Yoongi, what exactly do you think you're doing?" he asks, his tone firm and expectant. There's a hint of anger hiding beneath his words, and his eyes are narrowed.

“Huh?” Yoongi stares back at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you want from me now?”

Oh god, Yoongi wants to die right now, alarms going off in his head. He knows he’s stepping over the line, but he can’t help it. It’s too easy, words slipping past his lips before he can even think about them.

Seokjin’s attention is suddenly taken away by a noise from somewhere in the surrounding forest. His shoulders immediately square, posture straightening, ears perking up, and his head snapping in the direction of the sound, his eyes narrowing as he tries to identify the source of the disturbance. For a few moments, he seems completely distracted from the current situation, his focus completely on the mysterious sounds of the forest.

Seokjin immediately gets up, instructing Yoongi to stay while he speaks with the guard.

Yoongi’s heart races as he hears the door click shut behind him. He moves to the window, careful not to make any noise. Through a crack in the curtains, he can see Seokjin and the guard engaged in a serious conversation.

Now, go now.

Yoongi hurries to the back door, his hands trembling with a mix of fear and adrenaline. Slowly, he pushes the door open, wincing at the creak of the hinges.

He slips outside, into the open area of nature, moving as silently as possible.

Staying low to the ground, Yoongi circles around the house. He spots a range of large garden flowers and elegantly cut bushes near a tool shed. His feet are light, breath controlled as he makes his way toward them.

Once hidden, trying to stay calm, he scans the area, noting the positions of the guards and Seokjin’s location. His mind works quickly and spontaneously.

He knows he needs to make his move now, while Seokjin is distracted. He waits for the perfect moment, holding his breath as he watches Seokjin and the guard, waiting for their attention to be fully diverted.

When Seokjin turns his back and the guard moves to investigate the noise in the forest, he seizes the opportunity. He darts from his hiding spot, sprinting toward the fence at the edge of the property.

Theres a tool shed with the window cracked slightly open. He pries it apart- He loses no time grabbing a pair of wire cutters and a small handheld shovel, tucking them into his waistband.

He knows he probably looks like a goofball, but at this point he’ll take anything. Using the wire cutters, Yoongi carefully snips the wires of the nearby fence, creating a small opening just large enough for him to slip through. He moves quickly, knowing his absence is already noticed.

His heart pounds in his chest as he runs, his legs burning with the effort. He can hear the distant voices of the guards and Seokjin, but he doesn't look back. He can't afford to.

As he reaches the fence, Yoongi looks for a way through. The fence is tall and sturdy, but he spots a section where the wood is slightly loose. With a surge of determination, he begins to pull at the boards, his fingers scraping against the rough wood.

Finally, the board gives way, creating a small gap just big enough for Yoongi to squeeze through. He slips through the opening, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

On the other side of the fence is the forest, dark and foreboding. He doesn't hesitate. He plunges into the forest, branches and leaves whipping against his skin as he runs.

He doesn't know where he's going or what he'll do once he's there, but for the first time in what feels like days, Yoongi feels a glimmer of hope.

He sprints into the forest-doesn’t take him long to reach the base of trees. It’s like he couldn’t move before, and all of his energy had returned to him- It reminds him of when he thought he was being watched the night before he was taken.

He remembers lights and dark shadows playing tricks on him, he remembers the run home, his frantic breathing and shaking hands, just like right now. 

Was he there too? Watching Yoongi like a hawk the entire time?

The thought makes him wonder if Seokjin was in his bedroom that night, watching him, feeding off his fear. Yoongi navigates through the trees, recalling a movie where the main character covers their tracks. Yoongi tries to do the same, stepping on untraceable areas and obscuring any foot imprints.

The forest is thick, providing vast cover, making it dark and easy to get lost in. He doesn’t care to even look at his surroundings much, only focusing on getting away—far away.

His heart pounds in his chest, the thumping drowned out by the wind in the trees. His breath comes out in desperate gasps. The further he runs, the deeper he goes into the forest whispers.

His foot catches on a root, sending him sprawling to the ground. His ankle flares up in pain. Yoongi wants to himself so badly, he stares at his ankle and tries to ignore the fresh scrapes on his arms and elbows mingling with dirt and blood slowly seeping out of them.

The fall shocks Yoongi, newfound pain flowing into his sense somehow knocks some sense into him, the tension in his chest flowing out as the intense burning sensations on his ankle and deep scrapes take over his mind. 

He’s hurt, and the hurt makes him feel better, it numbs him, it turns his mind all staticky, he can only focus on pain flowing out of him. 

Yoongi knows this feeling all too well; he remembers it all too well.

He scrambles up, behind him he can hear the faint but unmistakable sounds of company—the crack of a twig, the rustle of leaves—growing closer and closer. He’s far in by now, he thinks. The forest seems endless, simply a dark, shady maze of tall ancient trees and thick underbrush.

Each footfall is muffled by the thick layer of fallen leaves, but the noise Yoongi makes seems louder than anything else. It makes him panic, it feels sharper than any of the physical pain he feels.

He’s quick to start running through the pain, his vision growing blurry as his eyes well up in tears, full of fear.

tired of running, tired of living, can’t do this anym-

He stumbles again, his ankle giving out. This time he crashes to his knees. The past floods his mind. If Yoongi didn’t know better, he was having a full-blown panic attack by now. His chest is so tight—the feeling of helplessness is almost overwhelming.

In his mind’s eye, the image of city pavement is under him, his legs are sprinting, he’s not wearing shoes, there’s blood trailing down his thighs. The thought sends Yoongi to his feet, he’s incoherently running away.

Yoongi’s limbs are heavy with fatigue, the subdued exhaustion overtaking him. He leans against a tree, slowly falling to the floor, his body trembling.

He lies there, chest heavy, wheezing gasps escaping him, and the cramps in his stomach flaring in pain. The reality he’s been suppressing crashes over him. It’s not a gentle feat: the running, being taken, the drugs, Seokjin, this strange new place he’s been thrown into, leaving his sister behind. Yoongi’s soul is crushed, unable to stop the tears.

He wonders if anyone cares he’s missing, if anyone is searching for him. He wonders if his father or sister even care—they are probably happy to be rid of him.

The thought is a cold comfort, bone-chilling, making him want to curl up into a ball and stop trying to live.

He’s useless anyways- he brings to value to anyone in his life, 

You are worthless—you are nothing.

He wonders about Seokjin. Surely this could be the final straw; Seokjin will finally put Yoongi back or kill him.

His body gives in to exhaustion, too tempting for Yoongi to decline. He feels the world fade out, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep, the trees’ whispers fading into silence.

Chapter Text

Sometimes, in very brief moments of relaxation in his life, he finds himself reliving parts of a dream.  It’s on nights like these, where exhaustion clings to his bones, that Yoongi longs for the comfort of sleep- where Yoongi drifts off into soothing warmth, cool air, and pure comfort. 

It’s a feeling he chases- nothing for him to worry about, he doesn’t feel pressured or that everyone is making demands of him, and there are no expectations to meet, it always feels like pure bliss and contentment. It’s like- the more he indulges in it, the harder it becomes to wake up. These dreams, ones like this make his eyes foggy, there's a chilling ache in his muscles that makes him overwhelmingly tired, unable to get up without collapsing back down-desperately trying to claw back every possible moment where he feels the safest. 

When he gets the chance, his hands are scrunched into the soft cool sheets, head rubbing into his favorite pillow, arm tightly cuddling his favorite stuffed animals, obsessed with the pure comfort and feeling of it. But every time, reality crashes back, it's cruel and sharp-edged.

The reality is that he has to leave his warm comfortable bed, touch the hard floor, go outside into the cold, and partake in society like everyone else. But on days like this, tasks feel impossible. It's ironic, he thinks bitterly, that the only time he feels safe is when he's not awake. His real life is anything but- he only gets to feel this way in his dreams.

Sometimes when he wakes, he can remember talking to someone but he is unable to remember who it is- other times, he can remember the rather obsessive need to feel unrealistically soft feelings beneath his feet, kneeling to touch the softest parts of the cloud with his hand, feeling so safe, a feeling he rarely finds when he’s conscious. 

But tonight, that familiar warmth feels different. It’s too perfect—too serene. It claws at him with a deceptive softness, like sinking into a cloud, a mist so thick it muffles every thought, leaving only that addictive feeling of floating. And Yoongi knows it’s wrong. He knows it’s a lie.

When he opens his eyes, for a few moments he doesn’t even register where he is, honestly doesn’t care to. What does it matter?

He feels like he’s waking up on the soft cloud he’s dreaming of, feeling dazed and pressed into the most comfortable mattress he’s ever played on. 

Only this time, he feels trapped in this feeling, unable to break out from the foreign sensation that he only gets in his dreams, pure deja vu. 

His mind is like rain pattering against a window, scattered, unfocused, unable to formulate a coherent thought.

In the far corner, out of Yoongis's eyeline, a dark gaze is fixed intently on the blond-haired boy.

Seokjins head rests on his left hand, elbow on the armrest, his long legs crossed beneath him, body slanted on the chair. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s rare, there is something so endearing about yoongi, clinging to a blanket, soft expressions, hazy with sleep, eyes glazed over and messy.

It’s something that he’s been heavily longing for, starved for. It’s like witnessing a beautiful dream come to life before his eyes- he looks so fucking adorable like this. Seokjin takes every detail of Yoongi's soft features and lets his photographic memory do the rest of the work for him. 

Seokjin knows that this moment of peace isn’t going to last, but for now, he is just going to bask in it.

As Yoongis's vision clears slightly, he is struck by the pure luxury and largeness of the room. His mouth parts at the sight- He first notices the bed, the very fancy large, four-poster bed with an expensive silk canopy, and the two mahogany nightstands on either side. 

oh

The room is luxurious and elegant, with a high ceiling engrained with abstract gold leaf detailing. The walls are paneled with rich oak, and the floor is carpeted with a plush rug- ok wow.

In the corner, a large stone fireplace is burning wood and crackling now and then, it reminds Yoongi of people with unnecessary amounts of wealth. Large curtains frame ceiling-high windows- they show an unfamiliar view outside, yoongi squints, vision blurring slightly - Where the fuck am I?  Soft, silvery light filters in through the windows, it casts a gentle glow over the room and long shadows on the floor. This is not his usual bedroom, that much is certain. 

Yoongi can’t think- the mind doesn’t seem to be working, but the room is a far cry from anything yoongis ever known- yet he doesn’t question it, too obsessed with comfort that he is slowly losing- he wants to stay in it, reach for the comfort and let it swallow him whole. 

The scent of expensive candles lingers in the air, combining with the subtle aroma of freshly cut flowers that stand on a marble table in the corner, and a hint of something else. 

The combined smells make Yoongi feel warm and sweet, ready to curl back up and fall asleep. But he can’t, he doesn’t let himself and his daze slightly fades. 

It’s pure deja vu. He feels like he’s stuck in a dream- that he’s been here before, he just can’t prove it. 

Yoongi steps out of bed and crosses the room, footsteps muffled by the soft thick rug on the wooden floor. He approaches one of the large windows, the glass is cool against his skin as he lays hands on it.

The first rays of sunlight begin to break over the mountains surrounding the window perspective, showing the snow-capped Alps in a bright but soft golden color. He's never seen anything like it in his entire life- he couldn't have, nobody has been able to have access to travel. 

The snow, still freshly powdered, and untouched, starts to melt, revealing patches of rich redwood trees that stretch tall. The air is crisp and filled with the earthy scent of pine and wood- trees sway gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly. 

Oh- he takes another deep breath, inhaling the sharp, fresh scent of the mountains and the pine trees around the cabin. It’s like he’s hypnotized- and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. No memory of being here, but why does it feel like home? Why does it feel so right?

The view is nothing like he’s ever seen before, not even on social media where everything is edited and fake- he feels as if he has stepped into another world altogether- it’s around him, embracing him, wrapping him in a soothing hug.

I like this place , he thinks, mind all fuzzy, Yoongis mind is radio silent, no thoughts, just rain, and confusion. The feeling doesn't last long, as if in slow motion, the realization hits Yoongi—trapped in yet another strange place, coming off of a drug, and suddenly his peacefulness is replaced by the drop of his heart, and the slow creeping terror floods through him quicker now, like being dropped from a rollercoaster.

Now all he feels is growing panic. The daze is gone-He can feel the way his heart begins to quicken with pace, hyper-aware of the way his hearing starts to tune out, the way his hands begin to stiffen, and the way it suddenly feels difficult to stand up straight. 

This is not my heaven, it’s my hell.

Seokjin's actions seem like a cruel joke- Yoongi doesn’t want to relive anything-  terror creeps slowly into his senses- 

As the man holds Yoongi's body close to his, he whispers, “You’re just perfect aren’t you?” He slides a hand towards Yoongi's privates, touching him inappropriately.

- doesn’t want to relive him- the one that used yoongi- broke yoongi. Yoongi quickly scans the room, his eyes darting from one corner to the next. Every part of his being is itching to break free, to find some kind of exit. 

Before Yoongi can make sense of anything, Seokjin is there, his hand clasping around Yoongi’s wrist, his other hand closing around his jaw, firm but deceptively gentle. Yoongi’s breath stutters, his muscles stiffening.

"Shhhh," Seokjin whispers, but the sound is anything but soothing. It’s controlling, and commanding like Seokjin owns every part of his thoughts, every breath Yoongi takes. His eyes bore into Yoongi’s, dark and unreadable.

“You’re alright,” He’s not alright. None of this is alright. His chest heaves, breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. “Fuck you,” Yoongi hisses, voice trembling. “Let me go.”

Seokjin’s grip tightens, just enough to silence the words on Yoongi’s lips. "Enough," he commands, his voice low and final. “Stop running. This is your life now.? 

Yoongi's pulse hammers in his throat. This... this is what he has to live with? This suffocating, sickening feeling of helplessness, of being trapped in a world he doesn’t want? 

Gods, it’s frustrating, being in the dark like this. Yoongi hates the dark- he hates the unknown, hates not knowing what’s going to happen to him, hates not being in control of everything all the time. His breathing is ragged, coming in short, shallow pants. It’s terrifying, the thoughts and possibilities- so scary that thinking of death as an out sounds peaceful in this manic moment.

“Just... kill me.” It sounds like the only way to stop this feeling of pressure on his shoulders, weighing him down until he can’t breathe.

The man leans in close, Yoongi can smell his breath: stale tobacco. "What's wrong, can't handle a little bit of pressure?" the man hisses as Yoongi lets out a sob, finally letting his built-up tears fall.

"K-kill me- M’not worth the trouble," he pleads, his voice breaking with desperation, tears falling freely.  His voice cracks shattered, and for a moment, he’s sure he’s already dead. There’s no point fighting anymore. The heat of everything—this room, Seokjin’s hold, his life—presses down on him until breathing becomes a painful, futile effort.

Yoongi can’t fathom anything else at this moment—no freedom, no hope, no escape—only the sweet, terrifying release that death might bring. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe because, deep down, it feels easier to let go than to continue enduring this relentless assault on his mind, body, and soul. 

Maybe because he’s certain that Seokjin will never stop, this suffocating control will never loosen its grip. Or maybe—just maybe—because Yoongi can’t bear to be this vulnerable, to feel so utterly exposed, to have all his weaknesses laid bare for someone like Seokjin to exploit.

“You think that’s what you want?” Seokjin’s voice is quiet, almost tender, but there’s an undercurrent of something darker, something cold and possessive. His eyes scan Yoongi’s face, taking in the desperation, the brokenness that bleeds through every tear, every labored breath.

Yoongi's limbs are frozen with fear, unable to move or escape. His body trembles as the man continues to touch him, his voice dripping with menace as he murmurs, "Just like a little doll, a very pretty living doll.”

"I can’t," Yoongi whispers, his voice so faint it almost disappears into the air. "I can’t do this again." Yoongi’s eyes flutter closed, another tear slipping down his cheek. His body feels heavy, so heavy like every ounce of his will has been drained from him. He’s never felt so trapped, so utterly consumed by someone else. His mind races with half-formed thoughts, none of them offering an escape from the prison Seokjin has built around him. He’s caught, body and soul, and there’s no running, no hiding from it.

Seokjin leans in, his breath warm against the younger man’s face. "You don’t have to do anything," Seokjin whispers, his tone soft, almost coaxing. "Just let go. Stop fighting yourself. All that pain, all that fear… you don’t need it anymore." Yoongi shudders, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Seokjin’s words wash over him. He wants to believe it, wants to believe that surrendering would bring him peace. But deep down, he knows the truth. There is no peace in this, no freedom. 

He opens his eyes, meeting Seokjin’s eyes with the last shred of defiance he can muster. "Please," Yoongi rasps, his voice barely audible, "please… let me go.

"Oh, sweetling," he murmurs, shaking his head. Yoongi’s tears, his pleading—they’re almost beautiful in their fragility. “No,” Seokjin says quietly, “You’re not going anywhere." His rational mind, though clouded and confused, tries to reassert itself, trying to grasp onto anything that feels like control.

It’s not just the tension between them—it’s something deeper, something primal that stirs within him, buried beneath layers of fear and exhaustion. Seokjin’s scent, thick and intoxicating, hangs in the air, wrapping around Yoongi like a suffocating blanket. It fills his senses, overwhelming him, pulling him under in a way that feels inescapable.

Without thinking, Yoongi unconsciously inhales, his pulse quickening in response. His body betrays him—reacting, responding—as if some primal part of him recognizes Seokjin’s dominance and is drawn to it despite the terror that courses through his veins. Seokjin notices. He always seems to notice.

"See? You're already giving in," Seokjin murmurs softly with satifaction, as though the subtle shift in Yoongi’s breathing confirms what he’s known all along. "It’s in your nature, Yoongi. You can’t fight what’s already inside you." Seokjin's grip remains firm, though no longer bruising. His fingers press into Yoongi’s skin in a way that asserts control without crossing into violence.

Every fiber of his mind screams to resist, but something deeper—something primal—makes him freeze, caught between fear and a response he doesn’t want to admit. His body feels like it’s no longer his own, responding to Seokjin’s scent, his touch as if compelled by something he doesn’t fully understand.

"Why should I trust a word out of your mouth?" Yoongi spits- though his body betrays the strength he tries to project. His hands tremble, and his pulse thrums violently beneath his skin.

It’s a question born from desperation, the realisation of years of doubt and manitpulation crashing down on him all at once. He knows better than to believe, but his mind still craves clarity, still aches for something—anything—that makes sense. 

Nothing makes sense. 

Seokjin’s lips twitch into a smile, but there’s no real warmth in it. "Because, sweetling," he says, his voice calm, too calm, as if Yoongi’s defiance were merely a part of the game. "You already know half-truths. Whether you like it or not, all you need to do is connect the dots.”

Yoongi clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggles to maintain control. "I don't know anything," he hisses through gritted teeth. "And if I did, trusting you would be the last thing I'd ever do, you took my life away.”

Seokjin’s expression shifts ever so slightly—just enough to reveal a dark look beneath his composed demeanor. His eyes darken, a flash of something dangerous and unspoken passing through them, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Yoongi catches it though, and pockets it like a warning. 

For a brief moment, the façade cracks. Yoongi watches closely, knowing now that he’s hit a nerve. It’s subtle, but it’s there—proof that beneath Seokjin’s smooth identity lies something volatile. "Is that what you believe?" he murmurs, "I didn’t take anything from you, darling," Seokjin corrects, his tone almost too calm, too sure of itself, as if the truth is a concept he alone holds.

"Really?" Yoongi parrots mockingly- trembles, “Y-you took away my freedom and my life—you think this is better?" His words are sharp, but the fear bubbling beneath them is unmistakable.

Seokjin’s grip tightens. Yoongi winces, feeling his stomach drop at making the man angry. "You still don't understand, do you?" Seokjin leans in, his breath ghosting over Yoongi’s cheek. 

"What's wrong, can't handle a little bit of pressure?"

His breathing quickens, chest heaving as the room begins to blur. "Shut up—shut—I can't," Yoongi stammers, eyes wide, frantically scanning the room. Every shadow feels alive, like it’s watching, waiting. His pulse races with paranoia- Someone else is in here.

He doesn’t know if it’s real, or just his mind crumbling.

"S-Someone else is in here," Yoongi's voice cracks, latching onto a thread of disbelief. He backs away, stumbling over his own feet, fists clenched tight, trying to ground himself—but the terror clings too tightly.

Seokjin, observing the shift, narrows his eyes. He hadn’t intended to provoke this reaction, but something is clearly happening inside Yoongi that he can't control, something deep and buried. He steps closer, tone measured, testing.

“What are you talking about?” His voice dips, feigning concern, but his eyes sharpen—waiting to see if Yoongi would fracture further. "No one else is here, Yoongi."

Yoongi’s head snaps up, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and pure fear. For a moment, he can’t tell if Seokjin’s words are real or another figment of his fractured mind.

All Yoongi can hear is that voice—his memory and words, even as he says it, seokjin senses an opportunity-He doesn’t fully understand the cause yet, but he knows weakness when he sees it.

Yoongi flinches at Seokjin’s words, blinking rapidly, as if trying to shake off the fog clouding his mind. But the voice from his memory keeps echoing, crawling under his skin.

“You always did smell like Christmas,” 

His hands fly to his ears, desperate to drown out the torment, but it only makes the voice louder. Louder. His body trembles, torn between the past and the present, between fight and flight.

“No, no, I heard him—he’s here ,” Yoongi says panicked under his breath, He stumbles back another step, his back hitting the wall. His wide, frantic eyes dart toward Seokjin. “You don’t—you don’t hear him?”

Seokjin’s brow furrows, carefully maintaining his outward calm. He moves slowly, deliberately, each step calculated. He tilts his head, as if considering Yoongi’s words, but in reality, he's just calculating his next move.

“No, Yoongi,” Seokjin says softly, almost soothingly, “There’s no one else here. It’s just you... and me.”

Seokjin’s words are laced sharply, and he knows it. He watches Yoongi, sees the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and that’s all Seokjin needs. He senses that Yoongi is teetering on the edge of something—fear definitely. Okay- he can work with that, he steps closer again, this time intentionally invading Yoongi’s space. 

“Why are you so afraid, Yoongi?” Seokjin asks, his eyes locking onto Yoongi’s. “What do you think is going to happen?”

Yoongi shudders, torn between the present reality and the haunting pull of his memories. He swallows hard, trying to regain control, but it slips through his fingers like sand. Seokjin’s gaze never wavers, studying every flicker of emotion that crosses Yoongi’s face. It’s almost fascinating—the way Yoongi is falling apart, the cracks in his usually composed exterior beginning to show. Seokjin tilts his head, and there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Curiosity? Amusement?

“Tell me, Yoongi,” Seokjin continues smoothly. “What are you hearing? What are you remembering?”

His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles go white and his eyes drop to the floor. The room feels too small, too suffocating. The memory presses in on him, smothering him, trapping him. He wants to scream, but his throat is tight.

Seokjin watches him with calculated patience, taking another step forward until he’s standing right in front of Yoongi. He leans in slightly, just enough to make his presence feel overwhelming, but not enough to touch him. 

Yoongi doesn’t have to say a word for Seokjin to know—there’s something deeper here, a wound not yet healed, something precious- it's decided, whether Yoongi tells him or not, Seokjin will find out.

He straightens, no longer crowding Yoongi’s space, but the shift is deliberate. A calculated move meant to allow Yoongi to breathe, to feel as though he’s regained a sliver of control—but it’s a lie. Seokjin has already seen the cracks.

Yoongi’s gaze flickers, a hint of alarm passing through his eyes before he quickly looks away. That’s all Seokjin needs—a subtle clue, a confirmation that Yoongi is hiding something. And that something is valuable.

“If you don’t want to talk, I won’t force you- but you should know, I’m not the type to leave questions unanswered.” It’s a puzzle, and Seokjin has always been good at piecing things together. He’ll file away every bit of information, no matter how small, until he has the full picture.

 Seokjin’s voice drops to a whisper, “You’re already showing me everything I need to know, Yoongi.”

Yoongi stiffens, his body tensing like a cornered animal. He doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes, and Seokjin knows he’s hit a nerve. Because that’s the thing about Seokjin—he’s patient. He won’t press too hard, not right now, but he’ll keep watching. Yoongi’s behavior, the way his eyes dart to the door when he’s anxious, the way his fists clench —these are all clues. And Seokjin is nothing if not meticulous.

It’s only a matter of time before he starts digging deeper- Background checks? A minor effort, easily done. Seokjin has access to resources and connections that can pull up Yoongi’s past, his history, every documented trauma. But Seokjin knows better than to rely solely on what’s on paper.

No, the real art of manipulation is in reading people, understanding the hidden meanings that go beyond any report. It’s in watching for patterns, listening for inconsistencies, following the trail of fear that someone tries to bury.

He pauses, watching Yoongi, studying his every microexpression, every subtle shift in his body language. It’s almost too easy for Seokjin—this game of pulling at invisible threads until the whole tapestry unravels. He doesn’t need Yoongi to speak when his body says enough.

“Forget I s-said anything,” Yoongi mutters, his voice trembling as he struggles to hold himself together. His eyes glisten, teetering on the edge of breaking down, but he won’t let it happen. Not here. Not in front of him . He forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat, but his control is slipping, and he knows it.

Seokjin, however, isn’t the kind of man to let weakness go unnoticed. He’s already decided— “What do you even want from me?” Yoongi snaps suddenly. “Who are you?”

Seokjin’s expression hardens, eyes narrowing with cold precision. His voice drops, low and deadly,  “You can lie to anyone,” he says slowly, deliberately, “but not me.”

“ You don't know me," Yoongi growls, trying to summon that familiar defiance, the wall he’s always relied on. But Seokjin sees through it, effortlessly dismantling every piece of armor Yoongi is desperately trying to keep up.

“Oh, but I do,” his voice softens, almost as if he’s speaking to a child, but the venom is unmistakable. " I see you," Seokjin steps closer, whispering dangerously. “I want the truth.”

Yoongi’s heart pounds in his chest, he should run, to escape, but his feet are rooted to the ground. He’s trapped. He feels Seokjin’s gaze, sees the certainty in his eyes. And it terrifies him.

Because Seokjin isn’t asking. He’s taking .

“Yeah? Tell me, then. How long did you watch me? How long did you see me?” For a brief moment, a flash of something unreadable crosses Seokjin’s eyes. But then, a laugh. 

Low, velvety, familiar. 

That laugh.

Yoongi’s stomach drops. It’s familiar—too familiar. His mind snaps back to that night. That night.

Seokjin’s pupils dilate in the silence- it borders on obsession, the intensity of his dark eyes locking onto Yoongi like a predator with its prey. At that moment, Yoongi sees it—something wild, something dangerously close to psychotic. "You don’t know me," Yoongi spits, his voice dripping with venom as he jabs his finger into Seokjin’s chest.

The anger that flashes across Seokjin’s face is quick, but it fades just as fast. He seizes Yoongi’s wrist, not painfully, but with enough force to remind him who’s in control. " I do," Seokjin breathes, leaning in closer, “And the truth is,” Seokjin continues, taking a step forward, eyes locked on Yoongi’s, “you know it's true.

It’s silent for a moment, and Yoongi’s breathing becomes loud. It’s like every inhaled breath clouds his mind, fucks with him so hard he starts crying. "I know you better than you know yourself," Seokjin says quietly. Yoongi’s vision blurs with a wave of fresh tears, hatred, and frustration coiling tightly.  "Even now, I can see the longing in your eyes when you think no one’s looking."

Yoongi feels the heat rise to his cheeks, a flush of embarrassment and something more creeping up his neck. It’s as if his body is betraying him, reacting to Seokjin’s words in ways his mind cannot control. His hands shake harder.

Hus eyes glossy, acting strong when being teared down, Seokjin is this close to losing his patience completely. “Congratulations, you took the biggest loser for yourself,” Yoongi choked out, his voice breaking as tears spilled freely. 

Seokjin’s head tilts slightly, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous kind of affection. "I know what lesson you’ll be learning first," he says. "Self-respect." Yoongi shudders feeling like there's a suffocating blanket over his mind. "I don’t need to learn anything from you-"

" You do-" Seokjin murmurs, hand brushing down the sides of Yoongi’s tear-streaked face. His touch is unexpectedly gentle- his eyes are closed when warm fingers are cupping his chin and holding him in place. 

 "C-can you just kill me already?" Yoongi’s barely audible, chest tightened with every shallow breath. He knows he’s close to breaking, his control slipping through his fingers like sand. Seokjin’s predatory eyes sharpen,  “Try to play that game,” Seokjin warns, his tone low and dangerous, “I assure you, you’ll see where it gets you.”

“ I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” Yoongi scoffs as intense dark eyes look down at yoongis small frame, eyes hovering at the boy's pretty pink lips and teary eyes.  

" Look at you, Yoongi. Shaking, I can help you—"

“I don’t need your help,” he lies, shaking as he struggles to maintain some semblance of pride.

“Sure you don’t,” his voice is smooth and patronizing. “But deep down, you know I’m right. You can keep pretending, keep fighting, but you’ll only end up hurting yourself more.”

"You are trying to get into my head-" Yoongi retorts- he feels so small.

Seokjin’s smile widens, almost predatory. “Oh, but I am in your head.”

“Stop pretending as if you care,” Yoongi shoots back, shaking his head, fury and vulnerability battling within him. “You’re just playing games, and I’m not going to let you.”

“Games?” Seokjin echoes, feigning innocence. “This isn’t a game to me, Yoongi. This is you. This is your life.” He steps closer,  whispering chillingly “Let me show you just how much of a mess it really is," Seokjin watches him for a beat longer. “Let’s start with your mom, shall we?” Seokjin’s voice is deceptively soft.

“Dead. Cancer, they said, right? But there’s something they don’t talk about, isn’t there?” He pauses, letting the silence stretch unbearably, watching Yoongi’s face twist in agony. “I wonder whose fault that was. Her autopsy report might say cancer, but… she had bruises on her face, didn’t she?”

"S-stop" Yoongi chokes out desperately. Tears spill down his cheeks uncontrollably, and his hands tremble as he struggles to breathe. It feels like Seokjin’s words are prying open an old wound, ripping at the delicate stitches holding him together. The heat of Seokjin’s accusations crashes over him like a tidal wave, dragging him under the suffocating flood of memories he’s tried so hard to bury. “Touchy subject, huh?"

“But we’re just getting started.” He circles Yoongi like a predator, his voice growing colder with each step. “Your father… a narcissistic alcoholic with not one- not two or even three- five domestic abuse charges conveniently swept under the rug.” He lets the words hang in the air, heavy and damning, savoring how they tighten the noose of Yoongi’s guilt. “Guess he could pull a few strings to get himself out of that one, right? Powerful people have their ways.”

Yoongi shakes his head weakly, as if denying the truth could somehow erase it, but his body betrays him. The tremors in his limbs intensify, and the tears won’t stop. He’s trapped, cornered by the suffocating reality Seokjin is laying bare before him. “But don’t worry,” Seokjin’s voice lowers to a whisper, leaning in just close enough that Yoongi can feel his breath against his skin, “it’s alright, little dove.” The mock endearment is laced with venom. “I’ll bring her justice. Along with all the times he beat you. Every slap, every punch. It’s all coming back, isn’t it?”

Yoongi stifles a sob, clenching his hands into fists as he can feel the memories punching at the edges of his mind—his father’s raised hand, his mother’s desperate cries, the cold silence that always followed the violence. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“Oh, and let’s not forget your sister,” he continues, his tone cruel and indifferent. “She ignores you now. Acts like you don’t even exist. Can’t really blame her though, can you? After everything that happened, who’d want to be reminded of you?” He pauses, stepping back slightly to watch the devastation on Yoongi’s face, taking a sick satisfaction in it. “And your aunt? Dead, too. Your only extended family, wiped out. No one left.”

The shame, the guilt, the suffocating sense of abandonment—crashes down at him. “But I haven’t even touched on the most interesting part,” he says with a soft chuckle, as if savoring the final blow. “What the guards report to me… what you get up to when you think no one is watching.”

“You think your little secrets are safe?” Seokjin’s smile widens, a sick satisfaction dancing in his eyes. “You really thought no one was watching? That no one would notice what you do when you’re alone, when you think you’re invisible?” His voice drops to a whisper, “I see everything, Yoongi. And you? You’re just another broken little boy pretending to be something you’re not.”

Yoongi breaks, his sobs wracking his body as Seokjin’s words tear through him like a storm. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t fight back. Every ounce of strength has been drained from him, and he’s left raw, trembling, and helpless beneath Seokjin’s relentless scrutiny.

“And you think,” Seokjin says, his voice turning cold once more, “that you can do whatever the fuck you want?”

“The thing is, Yoongi,” Seokjin says, “I see what everyone else can’t.” His eyes trace the delicate lines of Yoongi's face—the way the tears have carved paths down his pale cheeks, the way his lower lip trembles ever so slightly. Something is unsettling in the way Seokjin looks at him, as though Yoongi’s vulnerability is something to be admired, cherished even, in its broken beauty.

Seokjin steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. Yoongi’s breath hitches, and though his body screams to move, to step back, he’s frozen, locked in place. 

“People see what you let them see. The cold indifference, the sharp tongue, the anger.” Seokjin’s voice lowers-. “But I see past all that. I see the real you. The one that’s fragile. Afraid. The one that’s breaking apart right in front of me.”

Yoongi flinches at the words, his tears falling harder now, as if they’re betraying him too, exposing the weakness he’s tried so hard to hide. His entire body feels like it’s unraveling under Seokjin’s scrutiny, as though the very act of being seen like this is too much to bear.

Seokjin reaches out, his fingers brushing against Yoongi’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear with a gentleness that is as unnerving as it is disarming. For a moment, it almost feels like tenderness, like there’s a flicker of compassion hidden behind Seokjin’s cold demeanor. But Yoongi knows better. 

The touch is soft, but there’s an unspoken power in it, a possessive control that Yoongi can’t ignore. His heart pounds, the proximity suffocating, and yet he’s drawn in, caught between fear and something he can’t quite name. Seokjin’s thumb lingers for a second longer, pressing slightly harder against Yoongi’s skin, a reminder of the strength lying just beneath the surface of that gentle touch. “I could tear you apart, Yoongi,” Seokjin murmurs, his tone deceptively kind. “And no one would even see it coming.”

He’s trembling now, his body betraying the terror coursing through him. Seokjin’s presence looms larger, more oppressive with each passing second, and Yoongi can feel his control slipping away entirely.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Seokjin adds, low and certain. For a moment, Seokjin’s fingers linger on Yoongi’s cheek. 

There’s a flicker of protectiveness in Seokjin’s chest, the twisted desire to shield Yoongi from the pain—pain that Seokjin himself has caused. "In this world, Yoongi, there’s a natural order." Yoongi’s eyes are slipping, slightly clouded, he can feel it- that this is the start of something he’s been dreading.

 Seokjin’s words aren’t just an explanation—they’re a sentence, a kind that yoongi knows he can’t escape. "There are those who lead," Seokjin continues, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Yoongi’s wrists, grounding him in this nightmare, "and those who follow."

Yoongi’s chest tightens as panic surges within him, hot and frantic. “I don’t want to hear this... I don’t want any of this, just—get the fuck away from me—” He’s filled with desperation as he tries to twist free, but Seokjin’s hold on him remains firm.

“You don’t get to decide that, Yoongi. Not anymore.” The cold authority in his voice leaves Yoongi momentarily speechles. 

 Yoongi huffs but can’t find himself to reply to that. Seokjin leans in closer, pleased, his eyes pinning Yoongi in place. " This pain- do you know why it's all so convenient? Do you know why your father hid you from me?"

" He didn't-" Yoongi's heart races, his breath quickens, and his lower lip trembles as he shakes his head, " H-he-" His vision blurs with tears, the panic settling into his chest like a feeling he can’t shake.

The softness in Seokjin is deceptive like he’s trying to soften the blow, the sight of Yoongi—broken, vulnerable—gives Seokjin both satisfaction and a strange, distant sense of anger.

He sighs, the sound almost regretful- and reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from Yoongi’s face, the gesture is impossibly gentle. “Somnalite,” he murmurs,  “It was his way of trying to suppress who you are. To deny the inevitable.”

“And now,” he continues,  thumb tracing a line along Yoongi’s cheek, “there’s nothing left to stop it. No more hiding. No more pretending.”

"What do you mean?" Yoongi whispers, small, barely audible, body trembling under Seokjin’s touch. 

His father laughs again. “ You look like your mother, ” He takes another drag of his cigarette, hitting the char of it on yoongis hand. Yoongi winces clutching his hand to his chest, his mouth parting in shock. “Wait no, you look like one of those omega abominations, you know those collared creatures.”

The air feels too thick, too heavy. He gasps, trying to pull in enough breath, but the panic in his chest makes it impossible. " I want t-to go home." 

"No, you don’t," Seokjin replies softly, almost lovingly. It’s too much—the pounding in his head, the ache in his chest. His breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. "I— I can’t breathe," Yoongi gasps trembling.

Seokjin’s expression softens as he watches Yoongi struggle, his hand gently cupping Yoongi’s face. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Can you do that?" Yoongi tries, but every breath feels impossible. His chest rises and falls in short, desperate gasps. He’s drowning, and there’s nothing to hold on to nothing he wants to hold on it. 

His body is failing him. "I— I can’t—" Yoongi breaks, panic fully taking over.

He holds Yoongi, his fingers brushing against his neck with a possessive gentleness. Yoongi’s muscles start to slacken against Seokjin’s firm hold. 

His mind is fogging over as the scent of smokey cedar, pine, and cinnamon surrounds him. It’s intoxicating, overwhelmingly so- like a drug pulling him deeper- Yoongi can't get enough. 

Yoongi’s panic fades away slowly, his limbs heavy.  His body sinks into the bed, into Seokjin’s arms, and the fight drains from him. Seokjin’s hums vibrate against his skin, soothing and hypnotic. Yoongi doesn’t know what is even happening anymore- if he’s awake or dreaming.

His body feels numb, fading into a fog of scents and soft touches. The ache in his body dissipates, he knows he should resist, knows this comfort is tainted with something far darker. But he’s too tired to fight, too exhausted to care.

Seokjin’s voice is a quiet hum in his ear, " Let go."

Yoongi should scream and tell him to stop pretending. But he can’t find the strength. He doesn’t even know what’s real anymore. Is this even real or a dream? 

Is this even happening? Seeking comfort in the arms of the man who has stripped away everything he thought he knew about himself?

Seokjin smiles as he does it. It’s too intimate, too suffocating, and yoongi’s mind screams at him to leave.

But he's tried. He can't. 

But the grip Seokjin has on his wrist is firm, and unrelenting, and Yoongi’s breath catches in his throat. “I don’t belong here,” Yoongi spits out, trying to wrench his arm free, but Seokjin’s fingers only tighten.

“You don’t get to decide where you belong, I do,” Seokjin murmurs, yoongi glossy eyes glare up at him through his lashes, " You belong here," The scent of Seokjin—powerful, commanding, undeniably alpha —fills Yoongi’s senses. It makes sense now- the pull that he read about in those textbooks- sentences he didn't understand- the pull of a scent to lure you in.

His pulse pounds in his ears, and he grits his teeth, trying to fight off the sudden wave of heat that courses through him.“Fight it all you want,” There’s a sharpness in his tone that cuts through him- “Your body knows what it wants, Yoongi.” The heat pooling low in his stomach feels wrong, shameful even, but it’s there, simmering beneath the surface, impossible to ignore. “Stop—” Yoongi tries to speak-

His body betrays the words leaving his mouth-“No,” Seokjin whispers, his breath ghosting over Yoongi’s trembling lips. “You don’t want me to stop.” There’s a finality in his words, a promise, and then, Seokjin closes the distance between them, his lips crashing against Yoongi’s in a firm, possessive kiss. The contact sends shockwaves through Yoongi’s body, a burst of heat flooding his body.

He tries to pull away, tries to hold onto the last shred of defiance—but Seokjin’s grip is too strong, too commanding, and Yoongi can feel himself slipping.  Seokjin’s lips are soft, pillowy, they move against his skillfully with a controlled dominance that makes Yoongi’s head spin.

The kiss is far from gentle, theres control that leaves Yoongi breathless- and despite the fear and shame twisting in his chest, a part of him—a deep, buried part he’s too afraid to acknowledge—responds, can’t deny the warmth spreading through him, the way his muscles slowly start to relax under Seokjin’s touch.

Yoongi whimpers into the kiss, a sound he barely recognizes as his own, and Seokjin goes wild at the noise. His body goes limp when Seokjin’s hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. There’s no escape, no room to breathe, but Yoongi’s mind begins to slip, a strange fog settling over his thoughts as the world blurs around him. The panic starts to go away, replaced by something softer, something quieter.

Seokjin pulls back just enough to look into Yoongi’s eyes, his thumb brushing over Yoongi’s swollen lower lip. “There it is,” he murmurs, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he watches Yoongi’s resistance melt away, replaced by a blank, distant look. “You feel it, don’t you? That space... where everything is just easier.”

Yoongi’s vision is hazy, his breathing shallow, but he nods, barely aware of the movement or what he is even doing. It feels like slipping into a deep, warm bubbly pool, where nothing matters except the heat of Seokjin’s presence holding him in place. His limbs feel heavy, his mind drifting further and further away from the chaos that once overwhelmed him.

“Good boy,” Seokjin praises softly, his fingers still tangled in Yoongi’s hair, keeping him grounded. “Just let it happen. Don’t fight it anymore.”

Yoongi’s body responds to the words instinctively, the heat in his stomach shifting into something softer, something that pulls him further into that hazy, submissive state. His mind is quiet now, the panic and fear dissolving into the background, leaving only the warmth of Seokjin’s touch and the dizzying scent of him filling Yoongi’s senses.

Seokjin kisses him again, slower this time, savoring the way Yoongi has gone pliant in his hands, his lips parting easily beneath Seokjin’s. It’s a kiss that seals Yoongi’s submission, a promise that he won’t fight anymore.

Yoongi’s eyelids flutter, his body sinking deeper into that intoxicating space— omega space —where there’s no more resistance, no more fear. Just Seokjin’s voice, Seokjin’s touch, and the undeniable pull of the alpha that Yoongi’s body craves, even if his mind refuses to accept it.

And Seokjin knows it.

He knows exactly what he’s done.

Chapter Text

Yoongi jolts awake with a sound stuck in his throat. Not with a scream, or a word, no, just a thin, pathetic noise.

He doesn't sit up or move, he kind of just lies there, clutching a fistful of blanket.  His eyes are open, but it still feels like dreaming like he’s halfway underwater, vision grainy, throat dry. His pillow smells like someone else. Like he’s been claimed and unclaimed and carried around.

Maybe he has. 

His pulse is too loud. A moment ago, he swears, there was a hand on his chest.

Just… there. Heavy enough to wake him. He lies there and tries not to breathe too loud. Tries not to move.

He waits for the hand to return. Or for the flickering light from earlier to annoy him, but nothing happens.

Just the wind. And the birds. And the wrong-colored sky outside the window.

The sky outside the window is way too bright for his taste, for the beginning of autumn, this place feels awfully bright and full of life. The window is cracked open slightly, the air is chilling, and while Yoongi feels warm under the covers, he feels this off sensation. 

Someone touched his neck in the dream. Not hard. Not rough. Just a thumb pressed right under his jaw. Warm. Centered. Like they were checking something.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He let them. That was the weirdest part. He usually startles awake when people get too close—especially there, especially that spot—but in the dream, he just breathed through it. Laid there like he was allowed to be touched. Like he didn’t have to hide.

And whoever it was, he didn’t know, but the hand felt familiar.

When he awoke, the room was quiet. The air had gone cold.

The blankets are too soft. That’s the first problem. They're heavy, expensive, made of something stupid like cashmere, and they trap heat in a way that feels suffocating. Yoongi’s not even cold, but someone keeps turning the heater on. Or maybe it’s just him. Or he’s getting sick. Or just his skin.

Either way, he never stays comfortable for long. Even sleep doesn’t stay, his body overheats, his mind spirals, and when he finally wakes, he’s ten times more restless than before.

The sheets are tucked in too tightly, the bed is too big. The mattress doesn’t dip when he moves—it’s too firm, too still.

He turns his head. The snow globe is still there. Balanced on the nightstand.

It’s not even winter-themed—more like a miniature ballroom. Carved pillars. A chandelier made of crushed glass. Two dancers in the middle, frozen mid-spin.

Yoongi doesn’t touch it. He just stares.

When the light hits it wrong, it reflects across the walls. Little bursts of shimmer like the room’s glitching. Sometimes, when he’s too tired, he mistakes it for a portal.

The whole thing has gone red. Not glowing, exactly but the glass is catching something from the window—some far-off light, maybe, blinking from the outer wall and it refracts through the tiny chandelier inside. Throws it back across the room in fractured, glowing lines.

Red.

This red is softer, richer. It looks expensive. Old. Almost ceremonial, like the velvet robes he’s seen in old temple depictions, or the tint of wine that catches in candlelight, but it still scares him. Scares him precisely because it isn’t ugly. Because it’s beautiful.

Yoongi stares. 

It shouldn’t even be possible. The water inside is clear. The dancers are pale. The base is silver. But the light refracts through something hidden, and suddenly the walls pulse with a faint crimson shimmer.

It isn’t even the color that scares him. Not really. It’s that the red feels familiar. Not bad—just intimate. 

He swears—he swears—the dancers inside have turned just a little, but not enough to prove it.

And that little piece of something—whatever it is—just keeps glowing.

Somewhere outside, a tree scratches the window. Over and over. Same rhythm. Like it’s trying to get in.

Yoongi flips onto his back. Then his side. Then back again.

Nothing helps.

His eyes won’t close properly. His jaw aches from clenching.

His wrist itches. He scratches it without thinking. The scar there is healing wrong again—tight and shiny, a cut that was once too deep. He thought it would fade, like the others.

The clock on the nightstand ticks. Only now does he realize it’s analog. Round-faced, brass. One of those old-school ones with a bell on top that looks like it should belong to someone’s grandfather. The hands are moving, but the ticking is wrong.

Yoongi shuts his eyes, opens them again, and the second hand jerks. Stops. Waits. Starts again.

Birds are making noise somewhere and it feels like the night is endless-each moment staring at the ceiling thinking, is another moment wasted. 

 The sky’s wide awake, so he’s wide awake. It's too pretty outside for his liking; nothing about it looks right, not like home.

Dark clouds litter the sky unevenly and the stars look unaturally large. It's unlike anything he's ever seen and known. 

The sky's one thing but his mind is another. Every little thing feels turned up to max. He can hear his heart thumping. His stomach grumbling, the blood pulsing through his veins.

His cheeks are hot. His lips are plump.

His thoughts are driving him mad—and while he does want to forget, at the same time, he simply can't.

There’s that slow, burning feeling within him, and he's definitely been ignoring that—he’s tried everything. Punching pillows, scratching at his skin until it's all raw. Lying perfectly still for what felt like hours, eyes squeezed shut and willing himself to sink into nothingness.

Nothing, absolutely nothing works, and well, Yoongi wants to scream. 

For a heartbeat he’s sure the room is shrinking. The ceiling seems lower. The corners are watching him. Not really, just enough for his skin to prickle. He blinks once, twice, but the walls don’t settle back.

His hands tremble under the covers. Nails leave half‑moons on his palms. It isn’t pain exactly, more like a static charge crawling from bone to skin.

Seokjin. 

A hand at the back of his neck, a low command in a language his body knew before his mind. Scruffed down into something soft and endless. His lungs had filled with it. He’d floated. Then gone dark.

Now his mouth still tastes faintly of him. He drags a thumb across his bottom lip and it comes away damp, though he isn’t sure from what.

He doesn’t even know the name for the place he was pushed into, only that this wasn’t this room, and this isn’t sleep. 

Something’s been taken out of him. Or put in.

Outside, a bird screams once, sharp, human for a second, and then it’s just a bird again.

Yoongi presses the heel of his hand to his eye. It’s hot. He thinks of the sky, the kiss, the scent that wasn’t his, the way his body had folded under that grip. He thinks of ledges. He thinks of screaming.

He can’t tell if he’s awake now, or still inside whatever that was.

So yeah, sue him? He’s at his breaking point. If he replays that kiss one more time, if his mind insists on dragging him back to it, he’s going to combust. No, worse, he’d rather die than let it happen again. Over his dead body.

Maybe it’s snooping; maybe it’s not— but who actually cares, because staying still isn’t an option anymore.

He’d never pictured himself sneaking around somewhere like this; that thought never even crossed his mind. 

Growing up, “luxury” wasn’t a word he could relate to. It belonged to some distant, unreachable world.

Standing alone in whatever this is, feels all kinds of wrong—no, not just bad, but downright illegal.

The open hallways stretch out with ceilings so high they seem to vanish, and the walls are lined with portraits of people who probably had more money in their names than he could ever dream of. 

Artistic marble floors echo under his feet, smooth and cold, they reflect chandeliers that could be sold to buy his entire childhood neighborhood.

Every room is a gallery of furniture that feels more like art, or things that should be stored in a historical museum, than something anyone would use.

The air here smells crisp and clean—too clean, like even dust refuses to settle in a place like this, which is odd, he’s never walked through a place so old yet so clean. 

It feels like a crime, just to let his eyes wander, to take in every detail he knows doesn’t belong to him. 

What is he even doing here? This world of quiet wealth and freedom with the side cost of your soul, is someone else’s life—not his.

He doesn’t even know what to call this place—a mansion, an estate, some kind of fortress? 

The silence here is heavy, pressing into his ears and filling the spaces around him. There’s no distant sound of a car driving by, traffic, no faint laughter through the walls, only an empty echoing hollowness. 

Just an empty, isolating place. 

Just like home.

It’s like this place is so big, it makes him feel smaller than he’s ever felt before. It’s like being reduced to nothing. 

So who the hell?? Why does he live here? 

So many questions and Yoongi doesn’t get any answers. 

He passes by tall, arched windows, he glances down and feels the distance between himself and the ground below. 

More and more, he catches himself staring at the ledges, at the sharp angles and edges of the walls, imagining what it would feel like to step forward, to let gravity take him.

How long would he fall? Would he feel anything at all?

There are ways out, he realizes. 

If he wanted to, he could find an unlocked window or some ledge just wide enough to stand on or break through one of the massive stained-glass panes. Maybe the shattered glass would be the only sound in this lifeless place.

Would anyone notice? Would anyone hear him? Or would the sound be absorbed like everything else he’s ever tried to voice?

Would it be quick? Would it be peaceful to finally let himself disappear into the silence?

Seokjin must’ve known exactly what he was doing, bringing him here. If Seokjin thinks he knows him better than he knows himself—well, the bastard might just be right.

Yoongi trails his fingers along the walls as he walks, he tries to carry himself with confidence—it’s as if Seokjin himself has left each door unlocked on purpose, inviting him, daring him to explore, maybe even find a way out.

Oh he will, one way or another, even if it might be extreme—

He doesn’t mean to get lost, but he finds himself walking through unfamiliar halls without a second thought, passing by staff members who barely glance his way. 

It’s a strange comfort—their indifference makes him feel like he could belong here, or at least blend in. His nerves tell him not to ask for directions, and nobody offers them anyway. Everyone is absorbed in their life, moving quickly, unfazed by his presence.

Except… no. Not unfazed. Just acting like it.

He catches it in the corners: the too‑sharp glances, the way a shoulder tilts just enough to block a corridor, how every footstep lands in the same rhythm, like a single heart beating through many bodies.

They’re not human. He knows that much.

The first one he passes is a woman, at least, she looks like one, high collar, silver tray balanced on long fingers. Her eyes flick to him, pale like frost, then slide away. She’s tall. Everyone here is tall. Shoulders like statues.

His brain jumps to the old diagrams from high school: dominance charts, scent pyramids, hormone cycles. No, the scent isn’t right. Too muted. Too… refined.

Beta, then, but not the kind from the pamphlets. Not “average.” Nothing average about the way her pulse seems to be visible at her throat.

He tries again, scanning the next one, a man? A boy? Broad back, long hair braided down the spine, carrying a stack of documents without looking. His skin glows faintly gold under the chandelier. His shoes make no sound.

Think, Yoongi. C’mon. What were they called in that unit? Sub‑something. Para‑something.

He presses his fingers harder to the wall as he walks. The marble feels warmer than it should.

Another figure slips past: neither male nor female exactly. Androgynous. A head tilt. Hands gloved. Smells like salt and metal, but faint, like it’s been scrubbed clean.

Betas, he tells himself. Has to be. The second tier. Not as strong as alphas. Still stronger than him. Still beautiful enough to make him nervous.

But if these are betas, what the hell were those two at the door? The ones with eyes like knives and veins like cables under their suits.

His pulse kicks. He wants to shrink but forces his shoulders back, tries to look like he belongs. The walls stretch forever, lined with portraits and glinting eye catching windows. Every turn reveals another corridor of them, tall, perfect, indifferent.

Somewhere in his head, a teacher’s voice recites: betas maintain structure; they enforce the code. Another voice, quieter: betas are safe. betas are neutral.

Nothing about these feels neutral.

They still move like predators, graceful, restrained, pretending at civility. He wonders if they’re pretending at being alive, too.

Yoongi swallows.

His hoodie feels too big all of a sudden. He tugs the sleeves down over his hands and curls his fingers into the cuffs, lets the fabric swallow his knuckles. Just for something to hold onto.

His steps grow quieter. Not on purpose, it just happens. Like his body wants to take up less space here, not because he’s sad, but because he’s scared. 

He rounds another corner. Freezes.

There’s a man ahead, or, rather what looks like one. Long black gloves. Slate-grey uniform. Expression blank, but not empty. Just waiting. His eyes flick to Yoongi’s face and then lower, slowly, to Yoongi’s neck. Not leering. Just… assessing.

Yoongi looks away so fast it makes him dizzy. He keeps walking, faster, but even as he moves, he’s looking. Always looking. Counting them in every corridor. Watching how they turn their heads in sync. How they open doors without touching the handles. How none of them speak.

And then it hits him. None of them blink. Not once.

His stomach twists.

He stops again. Stares at his own reflection in a glass panel, breath fogging up the surface. His face looks too soft here. 

This is wrong.

He blinks and stares at himself again.

Is he even real? Why doesn’t anything feel real?

Okay. Think. Think.

You’re in a house. No, a mansion. No, a… fuck, a compound?

You kissed someone. No…someone kissed you. You know which someone. You blacked out. You fell asleep. You woke up.

And now you’re here, but what is here? The walls feel too close and too far at once. 

Something is wrong. 

With the space around him, but most of all…him. 

Yoongi blinks again. He feels hot and cold at the same time. Like his joints are one step ahead of him and already preparing to fail.

There’s glass on his right. A window, maybe. Or a mirror. He steps toward it — slow, cautious — and stares at the faint fog of his own breath on the surface.

He looks too soft. Too wrong.

And behind him—there’s a shadow.

A shape cast in faint red. Slanted like the hour is wrong, bleeding in from one of the high stained-glass windows that line the eastern wing. 

The panel must be tinted—deep burgundy or something—but it catches just enough light to spill red across his shoulder, down the side of his throat.

It looks like something standing behind him.

Yoongi flinches. Whips around.

Nothing.

Just the corridor. Just more portraits and closed doors and people—no, not people—things that walk like people but aren’t. Not really.

He stares back at the window. At the red sliver draped across his own neck. He lifts a hand and it’s shaking. That’s new. Or maybe it’s not.

He touches his temple. His wrist. Checks his own pulse.

He feels like this is the beginning of a cold, the way his body had begun to ache sometime in the middle of the night.

He looks down. Sees his bare ankles between the hem of his sweatpants and the tops of his socks. The air brushes cold against them.

His skin is full of goosebumps now. His spine tighten with each step like there’s something wrong with gravity.

It takes effort to move. Like they’re bracing for something his mind hasn’t caught up to.

He swallows. Tries to calm his breath, but even that feels…off. Like his chest is too small. Like his hoodie’s too tight, even though it hangs loose. He tugs the sleeves over his hands again. Shoves his fingers into the cuffs, tighter this time, like he needs to feel where he ends.

The corridor tilts slightly. He steadies himself against the wall.

Then he shivers. Once. Then again. His teeth don’t chatter, but it’s close.

This is just… jet lag. Stress. Adrenaline burnout. Or maybe the blood sugar crash after being kissed like that. Maybe he’s still high off it. Maybe he never came down.

His chest is tight. Tighter than it was upstairs. It’s why he left the room, to walk, to distract, to turn his brain off because he couldn’t stay still. Couldn’t breathe properly.

So he wandered. He told himself it was curiosity. Exploration. But it’s not. Not really. It’s panic. Not full-blown. Not loud. Just… quiet.  Can’t get comfortable. Can’t calm down.

He’s aware of every figure in the hallway. Every beta that hasn’t blinked. Every closed door that could open. Every eye that might be watching.

None of the staff seem surprised to see him. 

He tries to remember what betas were called in that one lesson, the lecture with the powerpoints. Tries to sort the categories, dominant, neutral, submissive, but the words feel stupid now.

Like trying to describe a nightmare with grammar, and even the act of it is pointless now, because he’s stuck here and no amount of words or description will chage that. 

Yoongi finds the stairs by accident. Not a grand staircase, like the kind you’re supposed to see first when you walk into a place like this. No, this one is tucked behind a narrow alcove with a weird vase and a dusty curtain that doesn’t match anything else in the hallway.

It’s spiral. Of course. Of course it’s a spiral, because why wouldn’t this place make him walk in circles, down and down and down, like some kind of fever-dream descent into hell?

He hesitates. Then steps on the first one.

The marble doesn’t creak under him. It’s too perfect for that, but he still walks slow, like it might betray him anyway. One hand brushing the rail. One foot after the other.

Down. Down. Down again.

He’s not even sure why he’s going this way. He doesn’t know what’s at the bottom, but his feet won’t stop moving.

The lights get dimmer. The air changes.

Smells like… stone. And something vaguely sweet. Something he doesn’t recognize, but it clings to him wherever he goes but gets more and more potent the more he walks. 

He passes a man on the stairs. No, not a man. Something broader. Alpha, probably. Hair slicked back. Nose straight. Dressed like a professor who could snap your spine. He doesn’t move aside, Yoongi has to squeeze to the edge. Doesn’t breathe until the man is gone.

Then a pair. Women? Kind of? Maybe? Suits too smooth, smiles too symmetrical. Their shoes don’t make a sound. They speak in language Yoongi doesn’t know. One glances at him. Tilts her head. The other doesn’t even look.

He grips the railing tighter.

“Maybe I died,” he mutters.

Just to test it out. Just to hear the sound of his own voice.

It echoes. A little.

He keeps going.

And okay, yeah, maybe he’s overreacting. Maybe he’s just hungry. Or dehydrated. Or having some kind of medical emergency from stress. 

It’s possible. He did get kissed. Kissed. With tongue. By someone who looked like they wanted to eat him or worship him, he’s not sure which.

Maybe this is just a panic dream. Maybe he’s in a hospital bed somewhere. Or the back of a van. Or a coma.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs. Finally.

The room here is darker. Quieter. Like sound gets eaten before it can bounce back.

There’s another hallway. Of course there is. He hesitates in the doorway, sleeve-covered fingers still curled around the rail. His body’s trembling, just slightly, but it’s not dramatic. Just an anxious little thing, barely visible unless you look at his wrists. His lashes. The way his lips part without sound.

There’s a staff member ahead.

Small-framed, but angular. Blonde buzzcut. Eyebrows too perfect. Lifting a tray of what looks like steel scalpels onto a cart.

Yoongi flinches back a step. Doesn’t mean to.

The staffer pauses. Turns. Doesn’t smile.

Just watches him.

Yoongi’s heartbeat skyrockets.

Okay. 

Okay.

Okay he needs to get out of here. Or into a room. Or under a table. Or inside a hole in the wall. Or into a hoodie four sizes bigger. Or—

He wipes at his eyes. They're hot again.

He is not going to cry in this castle basement while some terrifying wax-statue beta with medical equipment watches him have a breakdown. No.

Absolutely not.

He sniffs. Stands straighter. Puts one foot forward.

Then another. The ground doesn’t move. Good start.

Left, right, left.

He doesn’t even know where he’s going anymore. The hallways keep doubling back on themselves. This feels like some kind of nightmare fever dream. He kind of wishes he never left his room at all.

He passes another set of staff—tall, silent, unatural eyes polished. He ducks his head automatically. Hopes they don’t see how scared he is.

Stop. Don’t think about it. Just walk. He rounds another corner, sees an unmarked door, and before his brain can catch up, he walks towards it like he’s drawn to it.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

But his hand still lifts. Knuckles brush the wood.

And the door opens.

By itself.

The hinges don’t creak. The air doesn’t shift. It just opens. Silently. Like it was waiting.

Inside is… not much. Not at first glance.

Just a room. High ceiling. No furniture. No guards.

But something’s off.

The light is wrong. It doesn’t come from the ceiling—there’s no fixture. No bulb.

It spills in from above—from an arched stained-glass window high on the far wall. One Yoongi hadn’t seen from the outside. One that shouldn’t even be there.

The glass is all red. Deep. Layered. Too rich for light to pass through cleanly.

And yet, the room is soaked in it. Bathed in that red. Drenched from ceiling to stone.

It bleeds over his hands. His sleeves. Like he’s been dipped in it. Like it knows him.

He steps inside, slow. The door shuts behind him. Quiet. Final.

Yoongi turns—then stops.

The room has no reflection. No echo.

He exhales, but there’s no sound. No shift in air pressure. Like this space exists outside of the rest of the property.

And the red moves. It crawls over the walls like water. Dances across the floor.

He blinks. Shivers.

Something inside him pulls toward it. Like the light is saying, come, come.

His breath fogs again. He looks down.

His skin looks wrong under the red. Not sick.

Just…new.

He drags a sleeve over his face and when he lowers it—

The red has formed a shape on the floor.

Not glowing. Not burning. Just… there. Drawn in shadows.

An old symbol. One he doesn’t recognize but it feels familiar.

He stares. Doesn’t blink. His pulse is loud in his ears. Something inside him is waking. Stretching.

His knees feel weird. Wobbly. Like if he tries to stand up straight for too long he’ll tip over. He slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, hoodie pooling around him, sleeves still over his hands.

He tries to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Doesn’t work.

His joints pulse. Ankles. Knees. Fingers. A crawling warmth that makes it hard to tell if he’s feverish or freezing. He rubs at his arms, but it’s like rubbing at static. The sensation doesn’t go away; it grows.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Just a cold. Just nerves. Just—

A tremor runs through him. His breath catches.

He presses his palms to his eyes until little fireworks and weird ass spirals burst behind them. “Get it together,” he whispers. “C’mon. Just—get it together.” His voice cracks on the last word.

He tucks his knees up. Rests his forehead against them. Hums under his breath, some half‑remembered tune from childhood. It comes out shaky. He hates that it comes out at all.

Now his joints feel like they’re packed with wet sand—thick, aching, like gravity’s gotten meaner in this room. It takes so much effort just to move his fingers.

What the hell is happening. Why does it feel like something is—clicking.

Inside him.

It smells like dust in here. Dust and something faintly sweet coming from him.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. Wants to ground himself. Wants to be anywhere but here.

He thinks about Seokjin’s hand at the back of his neck, that moment where his body just… stopped fighting. How the world went soft and endless for a second. Like floating.

He wants it again.

Doesn’t know why. Doesn’t even have a name for it. Just knows that if someone grabbed him now, pushed him down into that soft place, he might finally stop shaking.

The thought makes him panic more.

He grips his hair, tugs lightly, rocking a little on the floor. “Stop,” he mutters. “Stop stop stop stop—” It comes out like a childish whisper.

His cheeks are wet. He didn’t even feel himself start crying. He hides his face in his sleeves.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Doesn’t know why he smells weird to himself. Why his skin feels too hot. Why every sound feels like a hand reaching for him.

He just knows he wants out. Out of the room, out of the house, out of himself.

Somewhere outside, footsteps pass. Slow, deliberate. Don’t stop. Don’t knock.

He closes his eyes and wishes—childishly, desperately—that someone would find him and pull him back into that soft place, whatever it was. Wishes he could sink. Wishes he could disappear. 

His shoulders tremble. He hugs his knees tighter.

The light above him flickers once.

He doesn’t look up.

He tries to count. Counting always helped in school, when he got overwhelmed. One, two, three… he loses his place after eight. Starts again. One, two—

“I’m fine.” Then quieter: “I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine.”

Another hiccup.

He bites his lip to stop the sound but it just trembles instead.

His head tips sideways, resting against the boxes. His eyelashes stick together. He blinks slow. Everything feels heavy.

He wants… he doesn’t even know what he wants. A blanket.

Outside, footsteps pause.

He holds his breath, eyes wide in the hood, like a kid caught sneaking cookies. His heart rate is so high he can hear it through his ears. 

The footsteps move on.

He exhales.

He’s so scared his thoughts start looping into nonsense. 

One, two, three, four, fiv—

No. Start over. Clean this time. One. Two. Three—

His brain skips, repeats things, makes static noise behind the numbers, like a busted radio. 

There’s a part of him that wants to whimper into his sleeve until someone comes. Another part that wants to claw through his skin. Another part that just wants to sleep. For like a year.

He curls tighter.

“I’m not—I’m not like that,” he whispers. To no one. To himself.

Whatever that means.

His stomach twists again. It’s like the nerves have rewired, coiled up under his skin. He keeps getting flashes, images that don’t make sense. Teeth. A hand at his throat. The pull of gravity.

And that soft thing again. That place in his brain he didn’t know existed until Seokjin pressed him into it. Not pain. Not even fear. Just… surrender.

He hates that part of himself. He hates that it wants.

He hugs his legs and presses his face down into the fabric until it muffles everything. The sound of his breath. The way his bones rattle. Even the faint noises from the hallway.

He tries to think of something funny. It comes out sideways, like: do they even have wi-fi in hell?

It almost makes him snort. Almost. But it turns into a sound he doesn’t recognize, and his throat closes again.

He just wants—

The word won’t form. It’s too soft. Too stupid.

He wants—

No. He buries it.

Wants aren’t safe here. Not when he doesn’t even know what’s real. Not when his whole body feels wrong. His clothes hang weird. His own scent feels loud, and he doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does.

He doesn’t want to be like this. Doesn’t want to be wrong.

Doesn’t want someone to come in here and find him like this, curled up in a dusty corner, drenched in red light like something weak, crying over nothing, wanting hands on his neck just to make the noise stop.

But more than anything—

He doesn’t want to be alone.

That’s the worst part. The way his thoughts don’t sound like him anymore.

He tips his head back and blinks up at the flickering light.

“…Please,” he whispers.

It’s not loud. It’s not even directed at anything, like a coin in a fountain,a wish he didn’t mean to make.

He hiccups again. Breath shakes.

And then— a sound.

Not footsteps or talking. 

Just… something. 

A shift of air. 

The sense that someone’s alert. That static feeling between his shoulder blades, crawling up his neck.

It’s probably nothing. A draft. A rat. The walls settling.

Still, the hair on his arms stands up. Still, his eyes dart to the door.

Still—

The light goes out.

Click.

Total black.

Oh hell naw.

Yoongi chokes on a breath and scrambles to his feet—only to slam into a box, stumble, hit his shin, hiss in pain—

But then—nothing.

Silence again.

No movement.

Just dark.

His hoodie sleeve brushes his lips as he tries not to whimper.

He presses himself into the corner and sinks back down, chest tight, throat closing, lungs too small. He can feel his pulse in his teeth.

It’s okay. It’s okay. He’ll wait.

The red lights will come back. Someone will find him, or they won’t.

Maybe he’ll just stay here. Maybe this room doesn’t exist. Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he’s dreaming.

Maybe he’s not.

He shuts his eyes. 

This is when things begin to change. In the castle. In the world around him. 

We zoom out from the shape of him—

Curled in the farthest corner of the room, sleeves pulled past his hands, shoulders hunched so tight his hoodie bunches around his ears. His knees are pulled to his chest, socked feet tucked beneath him, like he’s trying to disappear inside himself.

His eyes are squeezed shut. There’s a smudge of something, dust, maybe, on his cheekbone. His lips are parted just slightly. He looks so small. So pale. So young.

Like a little pup who ran away during a game of hide-and-seek but forgot what he was hiding from.

And it’s so quiet in here now, that the room itself seems to hesitate around him. Like it’s not sure if it’s allowed to exist while he’s like this.

Then we move.

Through the room.

To the door. We pass through it like mist, and Yoongi disappears from view.

On the other side, the hall is long. Silent, but not still.

And the door to the room Yoongi’s in—

doesn’t exist.

Not to the staff. Not to the castle. Not to the coded blueprints etched into the estate’s master keyframe. There is no record of it. No coordinates. No name.

The corridor folds around it but wrong if you look too closely. Anyone who passes by will glance at the stretch of wall and feel nothing.

No curiosity. No pull. No sense of absence.

Because the mind is designed to move past what it cannot hold.

The staff don’t see it.

Their eyes skip over the space like it offends them. Like their bodies know better than to notice.

They don’t walk that part of the hallway unless they’re ordered to. And no one ever orders them to.

Because the door is not a door.

It’s ecret the castle keeps for itself.

Something shifts, not loud or dramitc, at first…the walls creak in strange, synchronized tension, like every beam of the estate just felt something. 

Down the long corridor: the chandelier trembles, once. A chain clicks. 

One of the oil lamps on the wall flickers twice. Then steadies.

Down the hall, a mounted suit of armor shifts just a hair on its pedestal. Not from wind. From gravity.

The velvet runner rug that stretches the length of the hallway lifts at the edges, an invisible breeze stirring from somewhere far away. A breeze that shouldn’t exist.

Stillness. So still it hurts.

And then, quietly…the wind changes. 

Something has changed.

Out the window, the wind stirs through the trees like a shiver down a spine. The lake that was perfectly still—mirror-flat—ripples once.

A single leaf detaches. Spins, slow. Falls.

Down in the stables, a hound lifts its head, ears twitching. Its nose flares once, twice, and then it rises—graceful, slow, cautious. Not alarmed. Just… alert.

Somewhere deeper in the forest, the horses shift in their stalls without sound, hooves sliding softly across hay. A single tether unclips from a post. 

A doe, hidden at the forest’s edge, lifts her nose. Sniffs the air. Her ribs expand like drawn bowstrings.

Then, still silent, she turns and flees, vanishing into the trees with three quick bounds.

The sky has not changed, but something under the earth has. Even the clouds seem to hush. Like they’re waiting for something to happen.

High above the courtyard, set into one of the western turrets, a narrow stained-glass window catches the dimming light.

It’s old, centuries old. Framed in lead, its colors dulled by time and dust, but not broken.

The image is simple. A child curled in the hollow of a tree. Around them: animals watching from the brush. Owls in the branches. A fox curled by their feet.

Above them, from the sky, a golden thread descends—shimmering down from the hands of a faceless figure cloaked in stars.

It’s a window no one ever notices.

Too high to reach. Too dim to catch the eye. But now—

The glass vibrates. The golden thread inside the image flares once. Not bright. Just enough to catch the dust on the inside of the pane.

And then—crack.

Barely audible.

A hairline fracture slices through the glass, right across the child’s cheek.

Deep in the foundation, something clicks.

In one of the forgotten servant tunnels, a lantern guttered long ago flares back to life. Along the castle’s vaulted ceiling, a spiderweb trembles. The spider retreats into a crack in the stone.

Far above, somewhere in one of the unused towers, a locked drawer eases open with a sigh.

The castle remembers.

It’s the energetic resonance of fate completing its circuit.

For the first time in an age, the warded stones register a pulse that does not belong to the Warden. A second heartbeat.

Untrained, unbitten, untethered but the right frequency.

It rides on panic, not power. On tears, not teeth. On a boy curled small in a forgotten room, hoodie too big, breathing too shallow, trying to make himself smaller still.

Dust flees because his scent is unfurling, sharp and soft all at once, filling places it should never reach.

This isn’t ordinary presenting, not an ordiary omega, like many in the realm. This is a vessel waking, one born for a Warden. 

This is what happens when the royals mate finally steps into the right realm: the locks sigh open, the windows fracture, the animals lift their heads, the air thickens.

Yoongi doesn’t know. He only feels sick and hot and wrong. He thinks he’s weak, thinks he’s losing it.

He thinks his panic is weakness, a flaw, proof that he’s fragile.

He’s wrong.

Every shudder of his breath is a signal. Every tear that slips past his sleeve is a current. Every anxious heartbeat is a pulse the old stones recognise.

He is a sealed vessel and he’s starting to leak. He is an echo‑bearer; his fear is an antenna, pulling ancient things toward him, stirring them awake.

He is an instinct‑oracle; even curled small, even crying, he’s reading the castle without knowing it, cataloguing scent shifts, temperature changes, the silence. His mind keeps offering words he’s never learned, pictures he’s never seen. It scares him.

He hugs his knees tighter, thinking he’s coming apart. In reality he’s broadcasting, a low, throbbing frequency of need and recognition that slips between walls and windows, down the spiral stairs, out into the courtyard, up into the turrets.

He castle vibrates back like a low lullaby, sensing its lost child.

And the realm answers. The castle answers.

He is presenting. He is presenting and has no language for it and somewhere on the other side of the fortress, the one who was built to find him is already moving.

Before the split between worlds. Before the taking. Before the fracture of balance between alphas, betas, and omegas, there is something that used to happen, back when the realm was whole. 

When the bond chose first, and the body followed. When the vessels were born empty—but made to hold one thing only.

And this place—this fortress, estate, compound, citadel, whatever it is—It was built on that belief.

Carved into a faultline of old power, where ley lines meet like threads sewn into the spine of the earth.

The castle was never neutral. It remembers patterns. It remembers blood and it knows what this is.

The presenting of a vessel. The unfurling of a frequency too rare to mistake.

In one of the upper towers, a second stained-glass window flares dimly to life.
This one buried under gauze and dust. Forgotten.

Its image:

A fox curled at the feet of a faceless child. The child’s hands are cupped around a hummingbird.

Behind them: an orchard on fire. Not burning fast, just glowing. Controlled. Inevitable.
And overhead: a second figure, taller, cloaked, hand raised, not touching the child, but shielding them from ash.

No one alive remembers who made this window, but it’s always had a twin.

And now—just like the other—the glass vibrates. The orchard glows.

And a second crack appears, this time slicing down the raised palm of the cloaked protector.

Elsewhere, deep in a subterranean chamber lined with ceremonial fruit bowls long since petrified, the air shifts.

One pear, shriveled to stone centuries ago, collapses to dust. The orange beside it softens. Warms. Ripens.

We pass through these moments.

The castle begins to wake.

A chandelier over the east stairwell tilts slightly, glass beads chiming like a distant bell. Carved into the bannister, unnoticed until now, are six fruit motifs, all in a line. Peach. Fig. Orange. Plum. Apple. Pomegranate.

The fig cracks open on its own. Sweet, dark, wet inside. The pomegranate bleeds down the railing. The hallway fills with scent.

Not blood. Not death.

But ripeness.

In a hall of old tapestries, stitched depictions begin to twitch.

A white hound, once stitched static in the corner, lifts its head. A serpent embroidered along the hem of a war banner flickers its tongue, and in one massive wall-hanging—larger than the others, the kind woven for royal births—

A scene begins to move. A boy kneeling at a river. Another figure standing behind him, cloaked in gold and blood-red—hand held not possessively, but firmly.

A guardian. A Warden.

The boy in the image glows.

He looks just like Yoongi.

The grounds begin to respond now. Bees stir in a hive that hadn’t produced honey in decades. A vine crawls one inch up the side of the greenhouse, its tip curling like a question mark.

In the orchard, two pears drop at once.

And in the observatory’s mirror—a three-panel artifact older than the regime, a blurred outline appears where no one is standing.

Something is forming. A presence.

Yoongi doesn’t know any of this.

He only knows that his chest feels tight, his teeth ache, and his hoodie feels wrong. Like it’s too small for something he hasn’t grown into yet. Like it’s holding him back from some terrifying expansion.

His scent is turning. Strange and magnetic and soft and sharp and wrong, and he doesn’t know that wrong doesn’t mean broken. This is what happens when a sealed vessel lands in a castle that was built to receive him.

When an instinct-bearer steps on holy ground.

Yoongi is not just someone’s mate. He is someone’s fixed point. 

And the castle knows whose.

Far across the estate—

Seokjin stills.

Mid-stride. Mid-word. Mid-breath.

He’s in the west corridor. Three floors up. A place with no windows. No wind, but his coat flutters anyway.

The candles on the wall gutters. Then flares. Then still.s

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, listening, or maybe feeling, because something just changed in the architecture.

Something clicked into place. A vibration, somewhere beneath perception. Not a sound. Not a scent. Something older than that. Something he hasn’t felt since—

He falters. Head bowed. Brows furrowed.

That pull.

His next inhale comes slow. Deep. 

Jin’s lips part. Eyes flutter. A sound escapes him, soft and involuntary. Not pain. Not exactly. It’s closer to awe. Or hunger. Or both tangled together.

A moan, not human. Not entirely. More like the way a storm sighs before it splits open the sky. He straightens with a sharp breath. 

It’s happening.

Someone has touched the thread.

The right one.

He reaches for the wall, steadying himself. The painting beside him flickers. Not visibly. Not like light. Like memory. The subject shifts an inch to the left—an ancestral portrait—and for a half-second, the painted figure’s expression matches his.

Recognition. His pupils dilate.

There’s a thrum in his blood now. A long-forgotten algorithm reactivating in his DNA. It’s not instinct. It’s something programmed into the realm long before kings or packs.

The lock has turned and he can feel it. Feel him.

Not see. Not scent. Not hear. Jin doesn’t need those. That’s not the kind of bond this is.

This is something divine.

Jin breathes through his nose, jaw clenched, hands twitching like he’s been hit with adrenaline. The scentless pull of submission—not his own—but of someone else’s, bleeding through the walls, the trees, the stone.

He tilts his head back. Closes his eyes. The sharp line of his jaw catches the lamplight.

Lets this power in, it finds him, reaches into him.

Seokjin, warden of the western spire, firstblood of the line of astra, the most powerful alpha in the known dominion—

feels himself unlock.

It should not be possible.

It’s not just the bond humming awake inside him. It’s the same feeling when he first stood in the temple of tethering, knelt before the relic, was marked. When his name was still a title and his title still a fate.

It burns now. Quietly. Like red lightning.

The overhead sconces flicker again. The red ones. The ancient ones. The ones that only answer when a warden's bond activates inside the estate.

They come to life in staggered order—like an artery re-pressurizing.

One—then three—then five at once.

Their crimson glow licks over the stone like blood finding its way back through a severed body. One hallway at a time.

Jin lifts his head.

His eyes are dark and ancient, full of worlds no one’s survived long enough to ask about.

The mark behind his ear, hidden for decades, begins to pulse.

He doesn’t touch it, doesn’t need to. He knows what this is.

The castle shifts again. Something behind the chandelier trembles. In the greenhouse, an orchid unfurls its petals out of season. A fruit splits on the vine.

The castle knows. The ground knows.

Jin knows.

There’s a boy somewhere in his walls. Small. Shaking. Overflowing. Broadcasting need so potent the warded roots of this place have unlocked themselves to answer.

Yoongi.

Jin breathes again—deeper this time.

The air carries new taste. Sweet and potent. Thick like honey. 

Newborn scent.

Unclaimed. Still feral. Still free.

And the castle is reacting because the castle remembers what this bond is capable of when it completes.

He can feel it in his spine. His chest. His tongue. 

His omega is presenting.

But not just that.

Something in this realm—somewhere high in the orbit of power and ruin and binding magic—has just decided to choose again. And it’s chosen him.

A forgotten role. A sacred one.

And Jin is its axis.

And then, faint. Fainter than a whisper. Fainter than breath.

A voice:

He's here.

He can taste it now. The scent isn’t just sweet, it’s primal. Sacred. Still raw, newborn, yes, but not in the weak way people mean. Not helpless. Not empty.

No. This scent has edges. Flickers of spice underneath the softness. Something tender curling around something lethal. The beginning of a bond so powerful the walls themselves already began to bend.

It’s Yoongi. Of course it is. Jin knew before he had a name.

Before he had a face. Before he had a body to cradle this much power inside.

Because this is why Jin made the Taking.

Not for war. Not for conquest. Not even for power.

But because he was promised something.

Still new. Still forming. The scent that’s starting to flood these corridors, it’s one that will never exist again. 

There is no second one like it. 

Jin feels his breath catch in his throat.

Vanilla, but not the artificial kind. More like fresh vanilla bean scraped from the pod, warmed on skin. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of sweetness that makes your mouth water without knowing why.

Storm-soaked clove. The faintest trace of snowmelt on granite. Clean, ancient, high-altitude purity—like the scent of wind that’s never touched anything human. The kind of scent that only exists at mountaintops or in dreams.

It’s blood-orange rind torn open with bare hands, citrus-sharp and sugared. There’s salt from crying too hard in a shirt that smells like someone he loves. It’s orchid resin from a place that doesn’t exist on any map.

But the part that really undoes Jin is—

There is no name for this scent.

It’s golden. Soft. Like beeswax and sunlit dust. The kind of scent you only smell when the light hits just right.

It smells like something that was locked away for centuries until now.

He presses a palm to the stone wall beside him. It’s hot. Alive. The boy is leaking into the walls.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. That’s what hits Jin the hardest, he doesn’t know. He thinks he’s breaking. Thinks he’s fragile. Thinks he’s too much.

And he is too much—for anyone but Jin, because the truth is, he wasn’t made for anyone else.

Jin moves.

Each step he takes sends a low-frequency knock through the floorboards, felt more than heard. His coat flares behind him, tugged by wind that should not exist.

He passes a window. Outside, the trees are blown. The sky has turned red.

Far below, deep in the sub-chambers that run beneath the orchard, a door unlatches. A sealed room. One that hasn’t opened since the first treaty.

Inside: a chair. A basin. A shard of mirror. And one long-coiled braid of silver cord.

It was supposed to stay locked until the vessel cried out.

It’s open now.

Jin doesn’t even glance that direction.

He’s already turning the corner.

His eyes have darkened entirely. The red sconces cast blood-rings along the walls, and he walks right through them—untouched, unbothered, unstoppable.

Power doesn't announce itself in him, it simply waits and coils.

He rounds the bend into the west stairwell—and pauses.

The temperature drops behind him. Red light burns above every door he passes.

The closer he gets—the stronger that scent becomes.

Yoongi is bleeding into the seams of the world now.

Jin could fall to his knees.

Instead, he grits his teeth and walks faster. Not running…yet, but his stride lengthens. 

Jin’s pulse jolts in his throat.

Too sweet. Too fresh. Too potent.

It’s calling.

And that’s the problem.

He exhales through his nose, jaw clenching, because that scent—his scent, his—is too loud in a place like this.

It’ll call others.

Predators. Old ones. Hungry ones. Ones who will smell the innocence and softness and want to taste it. Even just once.

Even just enough to ruin it.

No.

The corridor lights up behind his eyes. All red. The kind that flashes when prey is near.

And this is his prey. His pup. His omega.

Other predators in this house. Ones who would recognize that scent for what it is: new, raw, unbound. An omega freshly bloomed, terrified, bursting with power he doesn’t know how to carry yet. Power that could be harvested. Used.

Or claimed.

He’s aware of how he looks—feral, boots moving too fast, coat slicing behind him, hair catching on firelight. His eyes are entirely black now, no gold, no white, no kindness left in them. Only focus. Only fury.

He takes the steps two at a time.

Jin grits his teeth again—his jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching it.

Yoongi isn’t ready.

He’s presenting—yes. Shining, glowing, flooding with potential.

But he’s scared. Confused. Alone.

And he’s so young.

Too young to be hunted.

The idea makes Jin’s vision blur.

Another wave of scent hits him, stronger now. Closer. Vanilla laced with heat. Coiled in cinnamon this time. Ripe. So perfectly ripe it could ruin him.

And that’s the moment Jin truly loses it.

He grabs the next railing hard enough to snap it. Turns the next landing like he’s turning into battle. His boots thud down the last stair. He’s not walking now.

He’s tracking.

Back straight. Shoulders squared. Chest heaving like he’s been running for miles.

Red light pours across the floor. From the windows. From above. From behind. It follows him, trails him. Like it’s being pulled too.

Jin wasn't made to chase things, he was made to catch them.

This miracle of scent and soul and instinct? This is his.

His to protect. His to touch when the time comes—not yet, not yet, not yet—but soon. His to lift. His to hold.

A turn. Another. Jin barely registers the movement now. His hands twitch at his sides. His mark is burning again. Behind his ear, the skin feels scalded. The light above his head flares white—

Then extinguishes.

He's close.

So close it aches.

And he can feel it now—

Yoongi is fighting it.

He’s shaking somewhere. Curling up on instinct, probably trying to hide it, plug it, stop it. Trying to contain something that was never meant to be contained.

And Jin knows what that will do to him.

It’ll burn. It’ll spiral. It’ll turn inside out.

Unless someone gets to him.

Jin is not letting anyone else find him first.

His hands twitch.

The backs of his fingers are glowing faintly now. Magic. Age. Memory. Bond-mark activation. A thread humming hot through the marrow of his knuckles.

He’s close.

He swears the floor vibrates beneath his boots. Another pulse of scent rolls out, and it’s gorgeous.

Like honey soaked in smoke. Like sugar and wildfire and warmth.

Jin nearly stumbles, because that note—that new note underneath it is fear.

Jin’s pupils snap wide.

Someone else is near him.

He knows how these halls work. How old wards flicker when new blood enters. How rival houses build scent traps into corridors. How quickly things devolve when magic flares without claim.

His face turns to steel.

If they touch him—

If they so much as look at him with claim in their scent—

He will dismantle this place. Stone by stone. Soul by soul. He does not care.

Yoongi is glowing and no one is supposed to see that but him.

He smells the boy now like a stormfront—too much, too soon, too unprotected. So fresh. So unclaimed it aches. So soft it’s like the first breath after crying. He can barely stand it.

He’s going to—

No. Not yet.

The scent flares again. Almost delirious now. A note of disorientation. Of the body overtaking the brain. Of instinct overriding logic.

Presenting. Fully. Right now. Now.

Jin halts.

The red through the nearest window burns like sunset and blood mixed together. The sky is wrong. Streaked. Flushed. Every warning sign glowing in reverse.

And right ahead of him—

The room that opened without permission. The one he never dared to enter.

And pouring through it—

The scent.

Jin exhales once.

He’s pulled forward.

Not gently. Not delicately.

But fully.

The pact he made centuries ago—to wait for this exact moment—is ready to unspool, Jin knows it in the deepest, quietest part of his blood. The place where all Warden lines hold their bondmark.

The part of him that’s been asleep. The part he buried, locked, sealed in ritual and rage.

That part is awake now. Jin stands there a moment longer, hand hovering. Not because he’s hesitating. He’s already claimed this moment a thousand years ago.

He’s just trying not to ruin it.

Because what waits on the other side—is soft. Is sacred. Is his.

And the scent—fuck, the scent—is beyond feral now. It’s flooding the hallway, melting the seams between magic and matter. Sugared clove and candlewax vanilla. Burnt gold and citrus-cracked silk. Blood-orange nectar soaked in something celestial.

And under it all—

Terror. Not danger-terror. Self-terror. The kind that happens when your body opens before your mind is ready. When your instincts click in before your language can name them.

The kind of fear that only happens to omegas when their soul cracks open and no one is there to catch it.

Jin presses his palm to the door.

A sound escapes him. Small. Not even a word. Just breath. Grief. Awe.

And then—

He sees him.

Yoongi is—

Oh.

Yoongi is in the far corner, exactly as Jin’s bones told him he’d be. Small. Curled. Hoodie up to his ears, sleeves swallowed over his fists, socked feet dragging on the floor like he tried to stand and couldn’t. His knees tremble. Tiny sounds spilling out of his mouth like he’s trying not to make them.

Like his body is betraying him. Like he thinks this means something’s wrong.

It doesn’t.

But try telling a newly presenting omega that. Try telling Yoongi that.

His scent rolls through the air in dizzy pulses now—raw sugar and burnt spice and something ancient under it all, something molten and perfect and pure.

And he’s trembling. Not just with fear. With instinct. With pressure. With power. With need he doesn’t understand. His thighs are drawn tight, shaking slightly. 

His pupils are blown. Cheeks damp. His mouth parts on a pant like he’s trying to breathe around it, but it’s not working.

There’s too much. Too much heat. Too much scent. Too much feeling. He lets out a sharp gasp and claws his fingers into his sleeves like maybe that’ll hold him together.

It won’t.

Jin can feel the heat coming off him even from here. The unsteady pull of instincts kicking in without guidance. Omega space blooming blind. 

Yoongi senses him.

Looks up—slowly.

Eyes wide, chest rising like he’s mid-panic. But the moment he sees Jin, he freezes.

Yoongi doesn’t know what’s happening. Doesn’t know why his body is doing this, or why it hurts so much, or why the sound of footsteps outside the door made him press his face to the wall and cry like a baby—

The moment Jin walks in, something inside Yoongi quiets.

Not completely. Not fully. But just enough for him to take his first real breath in what feels like an hour.

And then—he whimpers.

Small. Sharp. Accidental. Like it was dragged from his throat without his consent.

It undoes Jin.

“There you are.”

The omega he’s been promised.

Yoongi’s breath catches. His head tips back an inch. His lips part, but no word comes out.

The alpha crosses the room in three strides, crouches without thinking, long coat pooling around his boots, eyes black and ancient and fixed on the boy.

Yoongi’s fighting it and it’s hurting him.

“Look at me,” Jin says quietly. Something between the two. His hand hovers in the air — not touching yet. Waiting. “Right here. Just me.”

Yoongi’s lashes tremble. He drags his eyes up, slow, unfocused. Pupils huge. He’s shaking so hard his hoodie sleeve slides down his wrist.

Jin’s fingers twitch. He could take him. Lift him. Bite him. Claim him. He doesn’t. 

“Shhh. Hey, pup.”

Yoongi whimpers again. Hides deeper in the hoodie, his scent spikes—hot with confusion. Fear. Sweetness.

Yoongi shakes his head faintly. “Too much,” he breathes. Barely audible. “S-s’much—”

“You’re not broken.” Another pause. “You’re just…loud. Everything’s loud inside you. I know.” He reaches out then — not to grab, but to place two fingers under Yoongi’s chin. A slow tilt. Enough to bring his gaze up, to catch his eyes without force. Jin’s thumb brushes the edge of his jaw, not a stroke, just weight. A grounding point.

Yoongi’s pupils flutter. His breath trembles out in a soft whine. His knees draw tighter to his chest.

Jin’s palm slides from chin to cheek, thumb resting just below his eye. He can feel the heat radiating off him, the scent rising even stronger. Fresh, unclaimed. So young. So precious.

“You must be so confused,” Jin murmurs, voice lower still. “Poor thing. No one told you what this feels like, did they?”

Yoongi makes a sound — small, slurred, more a hum than a word. His fingers curl into his sleeves.

Jin shifts closer, one knee on the floor now, the other bent. He slides an arm behind Yoongi without asking and draws him out of the corner, slow but inevitable, until Yoongi ends up on his lap. 

Yoongi blinks slowly, eyes glassy. “I c-can’t—” His voice cracks. “It’s in m-my teeth, it’s—won’t stop—”

Jin cradles him against his chest. One broad palm spreads across Yoongi’s back, warm through the hoodie, pressing just enough to anchor, not enough to trap. His other hand cups the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, massaging at the base of his skull in slow circles.

Yoongi makes another soft sound. A little moan, a little sob. His thighs twitch. He curls tighter. “Feels w-wrong,” he slurs.

“Easy,” he says, not soothing, not commanding —a hybrid of both. “Don’t fight it. Just breathe. Let it happen.”

Yoongi trembles again, a soft sound caught in his throat. His eyes flutter shut. His head tips forward until his forehead presses to Jin’s collarbone. His scent blooms even fuller, dizzying, wild. 

Jin inhales it like oxygen. He’s waited centuries for this. 

“D…dunno…wh‑what’s…happ…happnin’…t’me…”

Jin lowers his mouth to Yoongi’s ear, voice a rumble that feels older than the language itself. “You don’t have to know,” thumb brushing just under Yoongi’s jaw. “Not yet. Just…let it happen.”

Yoongi lets out a shaking exhale. His fingers twitch. His nose wrinkles, like he’s scenting without meaning to—and the moment Jin’s scent brushes his cheek—

 Jin’s on him in a breath. arms around him but not caging, just there. Present. One palm to the nape of his neck, thumb pressing a spot that makes Yoongi melt.

“Little thing,” he murmurs. “You’re glowing.”

Yoongi whines. Barely a sound. His whole body shudders. “Shhh,” Jin whispers. 

“Y’r real?” he murmurs, drunk on scent, too hot to think. “You smell—like—you feel like—”

“I know,” Jin murmurs. “I know.”

He shifts, cradling Yoongi closer. 

“Don’t think.”

Just that, and Yoongi listens.

Then Yoongi whispers, almost slurred, “Why’s it—feel like this—?”

Jin doesn’t answer yet, his hand drags slow down the boy’s back.

Then—a whisper right to his ear.

“Because you were never meant to do this alone.”

One hand cups behind his neck.

Yoongi lets out a wrecked, high sound that’s not even a word. His head tilts toward the warmth of Jin’s chest. He can’t help it.

“There it is,” Jin breathes.

A pause. His thumb strokes the side of Yoongi’s neck, where a bondmark will one day sit.

Yoongi shivers.

That’s all he does. Just shivers. Hands limp now and body folded. His nose bumps Jin’s throat. His breath goes all syrupy and slow. There’s drool at the edge of his lip.

“Too much—s’wrong—can’t—”

Jin strokes a thumb across the back of his neck. Circles once. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says.

Yoongi whimpers again. Almost angry this time. Like he’s trying to bite back the submission bleeding out of him.

“Shhh.” Jin kisses the crown of his head. Closed-mouthed. Still. “You’re doing so well, such a good boy,” he says, quiet.

Yoongi jerks in his lap. Another surge of scent bursts off him— helpless, rich, impossibly sweet.

Jin’s jaw flexes. He closes his eyes. Breathes through his teeth. Holds.

Not yet.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Yoongi’s heart thumps against his chest, fast and terrified. His hands are curled tight, little fists balled in the fabric of Jin’s coat.

And Jin feels it again—

How divine and pure this gift is— new, unscented, unclaimed—not too young for the world but not yet ready. 

And some part of Jin — ancient and patient and cruel with want — knows he should have waited.

He’s waited before. He’s waited longer than anyone has a right to. Waited through empires. Through oceans drying into salt plains. Through languages dying on the tongues of gods.

He could’ve waited another year. Another week. Even just one more day.

But the moment he felt it —the moment the temple turned red —waiting became impossible. Because red means the bloodline has answered.

Red means: there is one.

No one ever expects red. Most alphas go their whole lives without feeling it—that gut-split certainty, that pull. Because most don’t get a fated mate. Most don’t deserve one.

Most just pick.

They walk the mortal world, watching classrooms, parties, subways—looking for the right scent. The right shiver. The omega that is fit for them.

But that’s a gamble. That’s a choice.

A fated mate is something else entirely. You don’t choose them. You find them.

Only the oldest lines still carry the fated bond. Most have thinned out over time — watered down through generations, bred out by power-hungry dynasties and human wars.

Some alphas choose their mates. Build them. Claim them. Take them, but fated mates — promised mates — they’re not chosen.

They’re given.

And only a few are born every century. Rarer still are the ones who survive long enough to bloom.

Not every human is an omega. Most aren’t. The omega gene sleeps, buried under layers of ordinary blood. Hidden. Silent. Inactive. Some live their whole lives without ever waking it. They pass for human. Die human. Are never found.

But if it wakes—if the conditions are right, if the world tilts just slightly in the wrong direction—the scent cracks open.

And the world comes for them.

Because omegas don’t belong in the human world. They were never supposed to be here. There’s a reason only the most alphas can feel it when a promised omega starts to bloom.

Yoongi won’t stop shaking. “W-Wasn’—wasn’t me,” he stammers, jaw slack, lips barely moving. “Didn’t mean to—I didn’t, I just—I walked, I was—”

His breath hitches. He blinks too slow. The room rocks under him.

Jin hums low in his throat. Not soft. Not cruel. Just listening.

“Was red,” Yoongi whispers. “It—it touched me. It was—moving, it moved, it saw me—” He shudders. “God—what was that—what the fuck was that—?”

Jin watches. Still. Breath measured. Unreadable.

Yoongi’s hands curl against his chest like he can claw his way out of his own skin. “Can’t—can’t breathe right—feels like—” He swallows hard. “Feels like something’s inside me—like m’mind’s not—fuck—”

His legs give a twitch. His knees won’t lock. His shoulders won’t hold. Every breath sounds thinner than the last.

“Too hot—too—s’cold—feels wrong—” He gasps. 

Yoongi looks up slowly. Tears tracking without sound. His lips part. His breath comes out shallow and trembling, like he’s trying to form a question but forgot what words are.

“Hurts,” he whimpers. “My joints—s’like—I can’t—feels like my blood’s wrong—”

“It’s not wrong,” Jin says. “It’s changing.”

Yoongi gasps. “M’scared—hurts, hurts, hurts—was red, Jin—was red—don’t wanna die—don’t—don’t wanna—don’t wanna disappear—”

Jin adjusts him silently. Not to comfort. To study. To see. The boy's scent is still changing — unstable, acid-sweet, barely tethered. Half of it is new. The rest is memory. The kind that makes Jin’s mouth go dry. “You’re not disappearing.”

“Then what’s happening to me—”

“You’re becoming,” Jin says.

Silence.

“M’sorry—” Yoongi mumbles into Jin’s chest. “I didn’t mean to—feels bad—feels like I’m floating too fast—can’t—can’t slow down—”

“The gene took,” Jin says, like it’s already done. “It’s too late to outrun it now.”

Yoongi whines. Soft. Wordless. Instinctual. “Why’s it doing this—what’s wrong with me—”

“Don’t worry.” Jin’s gaze flicks downward—neck, clavicle, pulse. He lifts his hand. Places two fingers against the side of Yoongi’s throat. “You won’t be human much longer.”

“No—no, no I wasn’t— I— I don’t want this.”

Jin doesn’t answer.

Yoongi lets out a breathy sob. His chin wobbles.

“It— it knew me. The light. It—” He gasps again. “It got in.”

Jin doesn’t look pleased. Or sympathetic. He looks fascinated.

“In what way.”

Yoongi whines. It’s not conscious. “I wanna go back,” he whispers. “Out of the light. I wanna— I wanna go back.”

Jin closes his eyes for a moment. “Fresh,” he murmurs. “Too fresh.”

Jin comes from a royal line. One of the last. His ancestors wrote the original blood laws in stone. They burned sigils into the land. They built the temples.

And the temples do not lie.

He’d gone once. Long ago. When he was still foolish enough to believe he might be worthy of a mate. He bled into the altar. Waited in the cold.

The stone stayed dark.

He didn’t go back for years.

He lived. Fought. Broke kingdoms. Built others. Took and lost and burned and rebuilt. Started to believe he’d been spared because fated mates are not a blessing.

They are a reckoning.

But then the temple turned red. He felt it before the messengers arrived. Woke in the middle of a dreamless century. Sat up with blood in his mouth and fire in his throat. He knew.

The temple had spoken. The coordinates came first. Then the name. Then the timeline.

Jin knew where Yoongi would be. 

He just didn’t know when.

So he watched. Waited.

Yoongi was one of the hidden.

A rare phenomenon. An omega born dormant. Human on the outside. Something else underneath. There are only a few—scattered across the globe, coded deep in their blood. The omega gene—recessive, buried, silent.

Until something wakes it. Jin watched Yoongi blur between human and not.

The first flare happened in winter. Barely a flicker. Weak. Unstable. Like a match that flared and died, but Jin felt it and he knew. The gene had activated.

It was beginning. Yoongi didn’t know. No one ever does.

So maybe fate made the first move.

Jin’s been alive long enough to forget what it means to yearn for something.

The temple wanted it to go this way. It always does.

The bloodline answers when it’s ready. Not when you are, so maybe this—this trembling pup in Jin’s lap, scenting, fingers balled into fists like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart—

Maybe it’s not too soo . Maybe it’s the moment the gods promised him, back when he still believed in them.

Jin strokes the pup’s spine with one slow pass of his palm. Not to soothe. Just to feel.

The humanness of him. So small. So soft. So unaware.

Just trembling and sweet and cracked open in Jin’s arms, the way all fledglings are, before they understand what they’ve been made for.

Jin closes his eyes, sees it again—that night.

The red light spilling from the altar. The temperature dropping so fast his breath crystalized in the air. The names that wrote themselves in fire across the obsidian walls.

And the taking was no longer theoretical.

Jin didn’t just inherit the ritual, he made it. Centuries ago, after watching too many hidden omegas burn out before they were found. After losing too many packs to chaos and hunger and the cruelty of delay.

He wrote the laws that let the strongest alphas stake claim. He built the channels, the codes, the underground ports. He gave them a name. A season. A time.

But that was never the real reason. Not deep down.

He made the taking to build a door for himself. A door that would lead to the one thing he was fated to have.

Yoongi.

Jin has paid. In blood. In time. In every kingdom he let burn while he kept searching. In the ache he carved into himself to keep from touching him now.

He presses his lips to Yoongi’s temple. Breathes him in. Lets the sugar-sharp scent hit the back of his throat.

Yoongi’s too young to understand what power costs.

Not the kind you earn. The kind you are.

Jin is power. Leashed. Focused. Old in ways that don’t age. Buried in rules he wrote with his own blood. He could take Yoongi right now—make him his in every language that ever meant possession.

But he doesn’t because power isn’t taking, power is waiting.

Jin feels him twitch. Feels the bond pulse. Feels the way Yoongi’s hips tip just slightly like he’s trying to curl in, trying to scent-mark by accident, trying to find something that isn’t hurting.

“You’re mine,” Jin says, voice low. “This body. This scent. This gift—” He brushes his nose along Yoongi’s temple, scenting him gently. “—this was never meant to be handled by anyone else.”

Yoongi exhales. Long. Shaking. Soundless. His eyes flutter open.

Wide. Glossy. Unfocused. Blown pupils swallowing the color whole. Like he’s dreaming with his eyes open.

Like he’s been—taken.

His mouth parts just barely.

A tremble. A pause.

Then, breathless—

“…alpha?”

The first word he speaks in omega space. The only one that matters.

Jin closes his eyes and everything stops.

The room stills. The corridor quiets. The red light flickers once behind the windows, then recedes.

It’s the moment.

The omega has presented.

The alpha has answered.

The bond is beginning.

Every ancient part of him stirs. Answers.

Not out loud.

Just—yes. In every part of him that matters.

It means the bond is real. Means Yoongi’s instincts recognized him before his mind did. Means the Temple wasn’t wrong.

Jin curls an arm tighter around his waist, palm flat to his lower back.

Then softly whispers into Yoongi’s ear,  “You only say that word to me.”

Yoongi’s head dips forward—nuzzling without meaning to—his breath catching on Jin’s collar. He doesn’t speak again, just whimpers.

He’s so deep in it, he can’t tell where his body ends and Jin begins. His scent is everywhere now—vanilla, innocence, sugar cracked open under pressure. Unripe peaches. Something new.

Something unclaimed.

Jin stares at him, his glowing omega, gone under, and adjusts his hold. One arm under Yoongi’s thighs, the other curled around his shoulders. Cradling. Not caging.

And Jin feels it before it happens.

The light. As presence.

Somewhere behind him, the red returns.

Soft at first. Barely noticeable. A glow that shouldn’t exist, but does.

Jin’s eyes flick up.

The stained glass. It’s glowing again.

No storm outside. No moon. No sun. Just red. Bleeding in through the patterns etched centuries ago. Swallowing the room in color.

Jin’s jaw flexes.

He shifts slightly, adjusting Yoongi in his hold. One arm tighter under his thighs. The other curling up, cradling the back of his head.

Yoongi stirs. A faint twitch. A soft noise, like he might open his eyes.

“No,” Jin murmurs, so quiet it’s almost breath. “Don’t.”

His hand moves immediately, instinct over thought. Fingers long and precise, gliding up to cradle the back of Yoongi’s head. He shifts just slightly—adjusting the angle, thumb brushing along the edge of Yoongi’s temple—not possessive, but deliberate. Shielding.

Not just to hold him. Not just to comfort. To protect, because the stained glass is already glowing again.

That light—creeping in through fractured color, crawling down the walls like it’s alive, is almost terrifying. 

The temple has answered.

And Yoongi, trembling in his arms, has no idea. He’s not ready to see it. Not now. Not like this. Jin won’t let him, because if Yoongi opens his eyes, if he sees what the room looks like now, bathed in blood-light and omen, it’ll frighten him more. It’ll break something Jin hasn’t even finished mending yet.

And Yoongi—god. Just look at him. He’s all lashes and flushed cheeks, soft mouth parted, tiny gasps. Still caught in the undertow of instinct, dazed and breathless.

His skin is glowing. Radiant with scent and heat and the haze of presentation. Hair messy against Jin’s coat. Eyelashes fluttering. Chin tipped up, unknowing. There’s a sheen of sweat at his brow, glittering, and a drop of drool tracing from the corner of his mouth to the edge of his jaw.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Because he’s perfect.

So heartbreakingly beautiful and undone—like something sacred that wandered into the wrong century.

A fledgling.

Jin can barely stand it.

The bond is loud now. Not fully formed—but screaming under the surface. Every instinct Jin has is flaring with need. With want. With unbearable restraint.

But he stays still.

Covers Yoongi’s eyes. Keeps him soft. Keeps him warm. Keeps him unaware.

“Keep them closed,” he whispers. “Don’t look. You don’t need to see any of that.”

Because the red is not for Yoongi. Not yet.

It’s for Jin.

For what’s coming. For the bond blooming between and it’s power capabilities.

Yoongi nestles in—unknowing, unbearably sweet—and lets his lashes fall fully shut again. His breath evens, just barely. A hiccup in the rhythm, a twitch of his tiny nose. He’s clinging with no idea what he’s clinging to.

And Jin—ancient, forbidden, already-ruined Jin—just watches him. Watches the glow ripple across his face, watches the stained glass throw red across his features. Watches a miracle fall asleep on his chest like it’s something that’s always belonged there.

The temple doesn’t lie. Jin is going to destroy the world to make sure he survives this.

Even if Yoongi never understands the blood on Jin’s hands. Even if he never sees the window burning red behind him.

Not yet. Not ever, if Jin can help it.

There are some things fledglings were never meant to see.

So for now—

Jin covers Yoongi’s eyes and lets the red light spill across the floor in silence.

His thumb brushes just under Yoongi’s eye. “Shh.”

Another flicker from the window. The light stretches out further this time—across the stone floor, the walls, the ceiling. Up, up, up—

We’re above them now.

Watching.