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 oven 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.

He stops short at the window. It’s wide open. Yoongi blinks. The kitchen window yawns open just a crack too far, like someone had pushed it out fully and left it that way.

He’s not sure why it makes his chest tight. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Jennie left it open. Maybe he forgot. 

And maybe……nahhhhhhh.

Yoongi shivers as he presses it shut, fingertips brushing the cold metal. The latch clicks. He lingers for a second longer than he should, gaze drifting out to the trees.

The air is crisp and cold, and smells fresh from the rainy pine soaked trees. The forest outside still looks half-asleep, dripping in mist. 

His hand stays on the sill for a second. Like if he moves too quickly, something might shift in the trees.

He pulls away.

He’s fine. He’s fine. It was just a weird night.

The shadows, the sound he thought he heard, the brief panic—none of it followed him into the morning. And still, he catches himself glancing over his shoulder once before turning to the fridge.

It had taken him a while to fall asleep. He kept tossing and turning, turning on his flashlight, flipping his blanket. Couldn’t settle. Couldn’t breathe right. It felt like the night was watching him.

And then—

He just fell asleep.

He doesn’t remember how. Just a slow drop into warmth, the silence inside his chest stretching long and soft until the panic finally dulled. Maybe he was just exhausted. Maybe his body gave up.

Somehow, he woke up this morning without nightmares. And oddly… in a better mood than he’s been in all month.

He wants to take it as a sign. That today might be okay. That maybe something is in his favor for once. But Yoongi knows better. He knows today won’t be okay. Not for everyone.

He knows today will be tragic.

And this strange peace, this little pocket of calm, will vanish just like the sunrise—fading from gold to gray, pink to stormcloud, until there’s nothing left but another person to grieve.

At least he has a plan.

He plans on coming home. He plans to see his sister. He plans on not leaving the house after.

Conveniently, today is a Friday.

The events of the Taking this year won’t be followed by alarms or early commutes. No one will have to pretend it didn’t happen while sitting in a morning classroom or workplace. This year, at least, people will have the weekend.

The kettle boils. Yoongi moves it off the burner and onto the cooler side of the stove. He drags a chair toward the cabinets and climbs on top. 

He tells himself he’ll be fine. There’s no way an alpha would pick someone like him. Not him.

But the thought doesn’t settle. Another follows—unwelcome.

But what if……

Nahhhhhhhh. 

He doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Why would anyone want someone like him, anyway?

He shakes the thought off. Focuses instead on the rows of teas lined along the cabinet. Scans past rosebud blends and herbal mixes until his fingers rest on a dark glass jar labeled “Istanbul Nights.”

This one’s his favorite. Usually saved for after nightmares. He decides to drink it while he’s still in a good mood today. Maybe he’ll drink it again tonight, if he comes home.

Yoongi steps down from the chair and slides it back into place. He moves quietly through the kitchen—adds a few spoonfuls of tea to the pot, lets it steep. Prepares three mugs for when his sister and father wake. He cracks his knuckles, like always. Then pours the first cup for himself.

It’s the little things. The warm, boring, quiet things.

This—this—makes Yoongi happy.

The mundane comfort of routine. The soft predictability of hot water and hands that remember where the sugar jar lives.

But the second he leaves this house, it’ll fade. He knows it.

The second he steps into that school, his stomach will twist, his heart rate will spike, and he’ll feel the back of his throat tighten.

He’ll probably hurl. Maybe even this tea.

He sits on the stool.

The kitchen feels too quiet now—too clean, too still. Steam curls from his mug and more he thinks about the day, the more his stomach drops. Somewhere out there, it’s already started. The Taking.

He knows better than to picture it, but his brain does anyway.

What if they take Jennie?

He blinks hard. No. Don’t.

What if they come to the door first?

He squeezes his mug tighter. The ceramic burns against his palms, grounding him just enough.

Stop thinking about it. Don’t manifest it. Don’t give it form.

What if they pick him?

No—no one would pick him. He’s small, he’s forgettable, he’s—

Perfect bait.

Yoongi’s breath hitches.

He stares at the tea, watching the surface tremble slightly as his hands shake. He’s not sure if it’s from fear or caffeine or the fact that he hasn’t eaten anything solid in two days.

His thoughts start to spiral anyway, colliding and looping: lock the doors—did he lock the back one? Jennie’s window? Would they go for her first or for him? Would he hear it happen? Would he be able to stop it?

He shakes his head. Hard.

“Stop,” he whispers, to no one.

Just to be sure, he pushes the stool back, the legs scraping across the tile. He sets his mug down—careful, quiet—and walks down the hall toward Jennie’s room.

Just to make sure she’s still there. Just to make sure she’s still safe.

He the oven clock again— 6:40 a.m. Twenty minutes before her alarm. The hallway light is thin and grey, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is. He hesitates outside her door for a second, heart beating too fast for how quiet the house is, then creaks it open just enough to peek inside.

Jennie’s still there.

Peaceful. Curled up under her blanket, one arm half-hanging off the side of the bed, her hair a messy halo against the pillow. Her breathing is even. Calm.

Of course she’s fine. She’s always fine.

Yoongi exhales through his nose, the sound too shaky for comfort. He knew she’d still be in bed — she’s not even of age to be taken yet. Still, the relief hits him harder than it should. It feels heavy, like he’s been holding his breath all morning without realizing it.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer, hand still on the knob. His pulse won’t slow.

That laugh last night. Those lights—eyes—whatever they were. The thunder. The darkness. The twigs snapping.

…Okay. Maybe Yoongi’s reaching.

Maybe he’s just paranoid. Maybe he’s overtired and his brain’s still scrambled from the rain and the starving and the not sleeping. Maybe he’s just imagining things—like always.

But—

What if he’s not?

Nope. No. Absolutely not. He’s not doing this.

Yoongi drags a hand through his messy blond hair, gripping the roots a little too tight. “You’re fine,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s fine. You’re just—overthinking again. That’s all.”

He forces himself to close the door quietly, slow enough that the latch doesn’t click.

He wants to make a sound—something small and broken that sits right behind his teeth—but he swallows it down.

He wants to make another distressful noise. It’s this tiny, high‑pitched chirp. Barely there. Like the sound a bird might make if it was trying to cry quietly.

It’s instinctive. Not something he means to do, just something he’s just since he was a kid and had no other explination for it other than being “sensitive”. 

He bites down fast, hard enough that the metallic taste floods his mouth. A thin line of blood blooms against his lip. It’s stupid. It’s fine. He’s fine.

His eyes sting anyway—wet and glassy—and for a second he just stands there in the half‑dark hallway, fingers digging into his sleeves, chest trembling with something he can’t name.

God, he hates this about himself. The way he always feels too much. The way his body betrays him with these little pathetic sounds, like he’s some fragile thing that can’t even pretend to be strong.

He shakes his head, wiping at his mouth. No more crying. No more weird noises. He’s being dramatic. Jennie’s safe. He saw her breathing. He saw her fine.

He should be relieved, right?

He is. He thinks.

He’s glad she’s still there. At least she won’t leave him. Hopefully not ever.

Yoongi exhales, a soft, shaky laugh slipping through his nose as he turns back toward the kitchen. The sound isn’t really a laugh—it’s thinner, breathier. 

He wraps his arms around himself as he walks, palms rubbing up and down his sides in quiet circles. His hoodie smells like cinnimon. He’s not sure why. He presses his nose into his shoulder, pretending it smells like home.

Jennie’s all he has left that feels like that—like home. Not school, not his dad, not anyone else. His friends are good, sure, but they don’t see him. Not really. Not like she does.

His lip throbs where he bit it. His eyes are still watery. But he keeps walking anyway, shoulders rounded in, hugging himself a little tighter.

By the time he reaches the kitchen again, he’s smiling faintly. The kind that hurts more than it helps.

He stares at the third mug. The one he’d set out automatically, without even thinking—like muscle memory. The one for his father.

Steam curls faintly from the other two, but that mug just sits there. Empty. Cold. Waiting for someone who’s not coming back. Yoongi stares at it for too long. His throat feels tight.

He wants to be angry. Because who leaves their kids alone on this day?

Who looks at the calendar, sees the date circled in red, hears the warnings about the missing people, the selected ones, the missing posters, the blood donations, and still decides—

Yeah. I’ve got a business trip.

It’s not even the first time.

His father’s been gone before. Weeks at a time. Sometimes months. Government work, he says. Important. Confidential. High‑clearance bullshit.

And every time, it’s the same pattern: he comes home late, half drunk, slaps two hundred bucks onto the counter, mutters something about “holding down the fort,” and disappears again before sunrise.

Yoongi hates that he knows the exact crinkle of those bills.

Hates that “grocery money” has started to sound like “good luck.”

He presses his thumb against the counter edge, jaw clenching until it aches.

He wants to hate him. He really does. But the guilt creeps in anyway. His father’s job—if it’s even what he says it is—keeps them safe. Keeps them registered, housed, uninvestigated. Their family gets just enough government leniency to avoid suspicion. That’s privilege, technically.

But that doesn’t mean it feels like safety.

Yoongi knows what his father’s temper looks like. Knows what it’s like to have the shit beaten out of him. Knows the exact tone of the voice that says “stop crying” when he can’t. Knows how the silence after feels worse.

So maybe it’s better when he’s gone.

Maybe it’s easier to breathe when the house isn’t full of footstep patterns that he’s memorised.

Still—why now?

Why the night before the Taking?

Yoongi’s fingers drum nervously on the countertop. 

The news said something was different this year. No details. Just that “authorities were coordinating additional containment measures.”

That’s government speak for something’s different.

So maybe that’s where his father is—part of whatever mission or operation that needs “containment.”

But all Yoongi can think is:

If it’s that big…if it’s that important…If it’s bad enough to pull him away from home on the one night his kids might disappear—

Then what the hell is coming?

Yoongi stares at the mug one last time, then slides it back into the cabinet. He doesn’t have room to be angry today.  There’s too much else to feel.

Today isn’t about him. It’s about everyone.

Every single person who will wake up and feel the weight of dread pressing into their chest before they even step outside.

People will be terrified. Everywhere. At schools. At work. In grocery stores and bus stations. On morning walks and late-night shifts. In daycare parking lots.

Everywhere.

The fear won’t look the same on everyone. Some will laugh too loudly in the hallways, pretending they’re fine. Some will have emotional breakdowns. Some will wear their nicest clothes. Some will write suicide notes, just in case.

Yoongi knows this because he’s done it all before.

He knows what today means. The Taking isn’t a ritual (this time at least) it’s more of a raid. The supernatural don’t need a reason. They just need a moment.

That’s all it takes. And no one’s going to stop them.

Because this day—this day—they’re allowed to take. They’re given the right to hunt. And all anyone else can do is hope they’re not next.

Yoongi swallows thickly, staring into his tea. 

He’s going to walk into school today and pass classmates who won’t be there on Monday. People he’s known since childhood—faces he’s used to seeing in chemistry or on the bus—might be gone before second period ends.

And no one will say anything.

They’ll just clear out the locker, reset the attendance list, and keep moving.

Don't think about it. Don't look at anyone for too long. Don't get attached.

He tells himself it’s better not to feel anything at all. Better to keep your head down and survive.

But he’s so scared. He doesn’t know if he’ll be one of the ones who comes back.

And he can’t stop the thought—

What if they take her? What if it’s his sister’s name scratched off the register next?What if someone decides she’s ripe for the claiming, and there’s nothing he can do?

No. No, she’s not even of age yet.

They wouldn’t—would they?

He tries to breathe. The fear, the guilt, the helplessness.

Yoongi tries to chase back the peace he felt when he first woke up before the window, before the thoughts.

He wraps both hands around the blue porcelain mug, cupping it tight. He leans over it, eyes half-lidded, letting the steam ghost across his cheeks.

He slurps a tiny bit off the surface, tongue barely touching the tea. Too hot.

He does it again anyway.

There’s something comforting about the sting. Something that reminds him he’s here, he’s real, this is real. The ache at the tip of his tongue is sharp but manageable, familiar, even.

So he takes a real sip this time. A big one.

It scorches his throat on the way down, and his whole face scrunches as he swallows. 

The heat blooms in his chest in a slow explosion. He grimaces, then exhales through his nose. He presses the mug tighter to his sternum.

He doesn’t know why that brings him relief, but it does.

Like maybe if he can feel this kind of pain, it’ll distract him from the rest. Like maybe it’ll fill the space that panic wants to take up.

The tea is still too hot, it fucking burns but he takes another sip anyway.

He looks out the kitchen window. The wind pulls at the last of the brittle leaves clinging to a nearby branch—tugging them loose, one by one, until nothing’s left. They flutter to the ground without sound.

Yoongi watches them fall.

Takes another sip of tea. Swallows slow.

“I’m coming home,” he whispers. It’s so quiet it barely stirs the steam from his mug—more like a thought than a promise.

His fingers tighten around the mug.

You are just an average nobody. You’re a forgettable, emotional nobody.

His grip falters. He takes another sip—not because he wants to, but because the burn keeps him in his body.

A childish nobody.

The kind of person who panics if his stuffed animals aren’t tucked under the covers. The kind of person who thinks thunder is scary. The kind of person who still chirps when he gets overwhelmed and doesn’t even realize it.

Yoongi blinks. Hard.

Why would anyone want someone like you?

He exhales through his nose. Sets the mug down too gently.

His jaw clenches, then releases.

The wind outside knocks the branch again, emptier this time.

Yoongi doesn't say anything else. He just hugs his arms to his chest—tight, like maybe he can hold himself together for long enough to make it to the end of the day.

Just one day.

Then he can come home…..right?

At 6:40, Jennie shuffles into the kitchen looking like a sleep-deprived mushroom. Her hair is doing some kind of chaotic wave thing—part bedhead, part static electricity—and her shirts on backward. She blinks at the room like it personally wronged her.

“Mmgh,” she groans.

Yoongi looks up from his phone. “That was not a word.”

She points at one of the mugs on the counter. “That for me?”

He nods. “Obviously.”

She yawns so hard it makes her eyes water. Then stumbles toward the tea like she’s making the most important decision of her life. “If this is the wrong flavor, I’m blaming you for all of today’s events.”

Yoongi shrugs into his hoodie sleeves. “I already blame myself for everything anyway.”

Jennie squints at him. “Dark.”

“I’m just saying.”

She takes a long, tragic sip of tea like it personally betrayed her. “Ugh. Hot.”

He looks at her across the table. She’s blinking slowly, still not fully awake, eyes drifting between him and the fogged-up kitchen window.

“I have a really bad feeling about today,” she mumbles eventually. Her voice is quieter now. Realer.

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He looks at her. Then out the window. Then down at his tea again.

“It’s probably nothing,” he lies. He picks at the corner of his thumbnail.

Jennie makes a face. “Don’t do that. You always say that right before it is absolutely something.”

“I’m trying to manifest peace.”

“Well, stop. You’re really bad at it.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh through his nose. His mug is warm between his palms.

She watches him a beat longer. Then says more softly, “We’ll be okay.”

This time he looks up. They meet eyes across the kitchen table.  They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to.

But Jennie still reaches across the table to poke his cheek gently. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not!”

“You always look like that.”

“Okay. Rude.”

“Adorable,” she corrects herself sleepily. Then stares down at her tea. “You always do the tea thing. I forgot.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Just in case.”

Jennie looks at the other two mugs. The third one. The one set out for someone who’s never there when it matters.

She doesn’t say anything about it. Neither does he.

Instead, she nudges his socked foot with hers under the table. Not hard. Just enough that he feels it.

“You’re coming home,” she says.

He nods.

“You better.”

Another nod. Softer this time.

Their mugs clink against the table in the silence that follows.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of quiet that happens before something explodes.

By the time Yoongi and Jennie leave for school, the sky has turned a deep, restless gray. Like it’s about to piss rain. 

The clouds hang heavy and low, thick enough to make morning feel like dusk. The wind has picked up since earlier—it rushes around the corners of houses, pushes violently at the trees, and slaps the rain sideways against the pavement.

It’s so fucking cold.

Yoongi pulls his hood up, but the second they open the front door, the wind nearly yanks it back off. Rain pelts against them—sharp, fast, and freezing. The kind of rain that hurts when it hits your skin. 

“Go! Go, go—!” Jennie yells, half-laughing, half-panicked, clutching her backpack like it’ll fly away.

They bolt across the small yard, shoes splashing in puddles. The wind nearly knocks Jennie off balance. Yoongi grabs her arm to keep her upright, both of them stumbling the last few feet to the car.

By the time they fling the doors shut, they’re soaked.

The rain drums against the roof loudly. Yoongi starts the engine with trembling hands, turns the heat up all the way, and leans back against the headrest. Jennie exhales, blowing a puff of air onto the window beside her, drawing a quick spiral with her finger.

Neither of them says anything for a moment.

The heater turns on, warm air blasting against their frozen faces. The windows fog up almost instantly. Outside, everything is blurry and gray—trees swaying, water pooling, the school building.

Yoongi stares through the windshield but doesn’t move to shift gears. His stomach feels hollow. The longer they sit here, the harder it gets to open the door.

Jennie stays quiet in the passenger seat, her hands tucked into her sleeves, legs pulled up onto the seat. She’s staring straight ahead, mouth a tight line. She doesn’t want to go either.

The warmth inside the car is artificial, but it helps. At least a little.

Yoongi adjusts the heater vents so it blows toward her side too.

“Think we should wait a few more minutes?” he asks, voice quiet.

Jennie hums. Then adds, barely audible, “It’s a weird day.”

He nods. Weird doesn’t cover it.

The car suddenly feels like the only safe place left in the world.

Yoongi’s fingers tap against the steering wheel. Jennie picks at the sleeve of her hoodie. They stay like that for a long time. Just two kids in a warm car. Bracing for something they don’t know how to name.

Both of them know it. If they sit here any longer, some hall-monitor-coded officer will walk up, knock on the fogged glass, and tell them to get inside and regester. 

Part of him wants it to happen—because if someone enters their names into the system, if his face gets flagged, if a single red light starts blinking in the wrong database—maybe he’ll be spared. Maybe some invisible line will be drawn. Maybe they’ll look at him and decide: Not him. He’s trouble.

But that kind of commotion never ends cleanly. The last thing they need today is attention. No whispers. No questions. No names said too loud.

Yoongi clenches his jaw and keeps still. The heater hums louder than his thoughts. He stares ahead and swallows.

He had been right, though.

The sunrise was just a lie. The pink and gold had faded too fast, already swallowed up by the deep gray clouds crowding above the school. There’s no color left in the sky now. Just the kind of darkness that makes you feel small. 

He shifts his weight in the seat and looks at Jennie beside him. She’s biting at the inside of her cheek, trying not to look nervous. She's got that same expression she had when she broke her ankle in middle school and tried to pretend she was fine until they got to the nurse’s office. 

Yoongi’s chest aches with guilt.

He still hasn’t told her.

He didn’t tell her about the laugh in his room. About the thing in the trees. About the shapes in the dark. About how something had been watching him, whispering just loud enough that he couldn’t quite convince himself it was a dream.

He swallows again, throat tight. His fingers press into his jeans.

But what would be the point? She wouldn’t believe him. Or worse—she would. And Yoongi can’t afford to make her scared.

So he says nothing.

He just breathes through it. Like he always does.

Dissociate now, panic later.

Rain begins to tap against the glass. Not softly. It’s harsh. Angry. The storm that never quite left from the night before has returned in full. The trees across the lot sway violently, their branches clawing at the air like they’re warning someone. Or something.

It feels symbolic. Of what, Yoongi’s not sure. He’s too tired to decode metaphors today.

Jennie turns to him. There’s a brief flicker of emotion in her eyes—concern, comfort, something wordless. Then she leans across the center console and kisses his cheek.

Yoongi flinches slightly. Not from her. Just from the contact. From how gentle it is. From how long it’s been since anyone touched him without hurting him or meaning something else.

“Text me if you’re not okay,” she says.

He nods.

The wind howls as she opens the door. It catches instantly, nearly ripping it from her grip.

She curses under her breath, wrestles it back with a grunt, then hops out, pulling her hood up over messy hair. Her coat flaps wildly behind her as she dashes toward the east side of the building.

Yoongi watches her go.

She jumps over a puddle like she’s still ten years old, muttering to herself. Her backpack is bouncing behind her. She doesn’t look back.

He watches until she disappears behind the crowd funneling toward the gym entrance.

The car is quiet now. Except for the rain.

Yoongi exhales slowly, his breath fogging the windshield again.

He stays parked a moment longer. Just one more. Just in case. 

In case this is the last time he ever sees her.

Yoongi checks his watch again. The longer he waits, the worse it’ll be. Tardiness is noted, and notes are logged—and he can’t afford another note.

He shifts in his seat, leans toward the passenger window, and uses the reflection in the dark-tinted glass to check his appearance. His eyes are puffy from sleep and nerves, lips bitten pink. His outfit, at least, is safe, oversized hoodie, black jeans. No logos. No statement pieces. No color. Nothing that catches light.

He tugs at the edge of his hood. Tries to flatten the flyaways at the back of his neck. If he’s lucky, his lack of visibility will be enough to let him vanish in the crowd.

Yoongi slings his backpack over one shoulder, steps out of the car, and shuts the door gently. 

He hits the lock twice just to be sure.

Beep. Beep.

The noise feels too loud. His stomach tightens.

He starts walking—slowly, then faster—out of the parking lot and toward the school entrance. Head ducked. Hands in his sleeves.

It’s only when he rounds the corner past the fence line that he realizes just how many of them are here this year.

The black SUVs. The kind with unmarked plates and windows that look tinted dark. The kind that hum silently and never show up on school records. The kind that weren’t here last year—or at least, not this many.

There are six just on the east side alone. And that’s not counting the matte sedans or the armored Jeeps parked behind the stadium.

Yoongi recognizes them. 

They were driving by the woods last night.

He doesn’t let himself pause too long. Instead, he forces his eyes away, scans the school perimeter—and feels his stomach drop even further.

There’s a line of guards in front of the gym building, all in matching military-grade uniforms that definitely aren’t regular campus security. No clipboard guys. No hall monitors. These men are stationed. Standing shoulder to shoulder with comms in their ears and weapons at their hips, watching the incoming students like they’re looking for prey.

Yoongi used to hang out there. The gym. The track field. He’d sit behind the bleachers, pretend to study, sometimes sketch, sometimes just… breathe. It was the only open space he could tolerate between classes.

Now it’s off-limits. Clearly.

He counts at least four security zones between the parking lot and the front door. Each with barricades. Drones. Plainclothes operatives in the crowd. There’s even a black-caped woman with a biometric scanner standing at the front gate, scanning IDs and checking wrists.

Yoongi tugs his sleeve further down over the soft skin of his inner wrist. This is not just increased security. This is containment.

He’s still walking. One foot in front of the other. Just like everyone else. That’s the eerie part—everyone else is doing it too. Like it’s normal. Like it’s just another regular Friday.

No one talks above a whisper. No one runs. Some kids have earbuds in. Some are laughing too loud. Most are just blank-faced, glazed, staring at their phones. 

A girl walking near him clutches her coat tighter. Her knuckles are white. Another boy is shaking as he types on his phone. No one meets each other’s eyes.

They’ve all read the statistics. They know what today is.

Yoongi knows.

It’s not that he hates school. Not in the way people mean when they joke about it. He doesn’t hate the learning. Doesn’t hate the teachers. Doesn’t even hate the cafeteria food.

It’s the feeling.

He swallows hard. Keeps walking.

Just get to homeroom. Just keep your head down. Don’t look too scared. Don’t look too invisible either. The worst thing you can be today is interesting.

The school is one of the largest in the region. Usually, that’s something to brag about, bigger budget, better programs, more electives.

Today, it’s a curse. Too many people. Too much ground to cover. Too many variables to control. Too many bodies to go missing.

Yoongi tugs his hoodie tighter around his shoulders, eyes down. He doesn’t want to be seen, but more than that—he doesn’t want to see.

Still, some part of him is glad he’ll see Jiminie-hyung at lunch. Jimin always makes things feel less sharp. Less terrifying. Less like the walls are closing in.

Another gust of wind hits him like a slap as he passes the “GO ANTLERS!” scoreboard nailed up near the school’s front path. The wood is waterlogged, the letters flaking. 

Yoongi shivers violently.

He doesn't even try the main doors—so he angles toward the second entrance, the one near the music wing. 

It's always less crowded. Usually.

Today, it’s not empty. But it’s better.

There’s a line, though. One long, looping line that starts under the awning and trails all the way down the sidewalk, spilling into the lot. 

A girl behind him sniffles once. A boy in front of him keeps bouncing on the balls of his feet, like he might sprint any second.

It’s not a regular check-in.

It’s a headcount.

A headcount on Taking Day means that if you’re not accounted for, staff will go to your home. They’ll knock on your door. They’ll find you.

Yoongi stares straight ahead.

The line snakes forward like—animals being lined up for potential slaughter.
The thought crashes in uninvited, ugly and real.

Yoongi looks like a scared baby deer while he waits for the wolves to decide if he’s worth the effort.

His reflection in the cafeteria window confirms it: wide eyes, hunched shoulders, oversized hoodie that hangs off his frame. If he were an Alpha, he thinks bitterly, he wouldn’t look like this. He wouldn’t feel like this.

Ahead of him, vertical rows of students are funneling through the check-in tables. Wrist out. Name given. Paper stamped. Move along.

The atmosphere feels artificially suppressed—everything is too quiet. Whispers float through the cold air, dry coughs echo off the walls. A teacher sneezes. No one laughs.

On any normal Friday, you’d hear shouting across the quad. Music leaking from phone speakers. Seniors fighting over parking spots. The sound of someone getting yelled at for vaping.

But today…..nothing.

Yoongi squints toward the front of the line. The usual teachers—Coach Shin, Ms. Halim, that one vice principal who always wears a Bluetooth earpiece—and when he walks his gyat shakes. But today they aren’t there.

In their place sit strangers in navy windbreakers with federal seals stitched into the sleeves. Most of them aren’t making eye contact. Just scribbling on paper, clicking on tablets, motioning with short jerks of their chins for students to keep moving.

Yoongi’s stomach churns.

The tables are stacked high with papers. Folders. Boxes of blank lanyards. Bio scanners half-covered with grey tarps. One of the agents reaches over to uncap a red stamp and presses it into the corner of a form. A girl flinches as he does it, like she expected the sound to hurt.

Yoongi’s next.

He wipes his hands on his jeans.

Swallows once.

And steps forward.

Hesitantly, Yoongi walks to the far left of the quad where his year group is gathering.

The crowd is a sea of dull colors. Baggy sweatshirts, heavy jackets, oversized pants. Clothes meant to hide in. Clothes meant to make yourself smaller. Even the usual makeup girlies are bare-faced. Everyone’s pretending they’re not scared, and not a single person is convincing.

Yoongi’s not trying to stand out either. This morning he threw onblack sweats, his old navy sweater with the too-wide collar, and his beat-up Converse. No logos. No bright colors. No scent. He tugs the sleeves down over his hands and keeps his head lowered.

He slips in his earbuds—not for the music, but for the noise, and it dulls the sounds around him enough to pretend he’s somewhere else. 

He stares at the pavement, counts the cracks in it, then starts cracking his knuckles behind his back. His fingers won’t stop moving. The air smells like wet grass, like the field’s been cut too early. Underneath it is the faint smell of cafeteria oil—burnt, synthetic, nauseating. 

His stomach turns.

A buzz in his pocket makes him jump.

[Message from Dad]: Stay safe. Keep your head down. Don’t get into trouble. There’s more trouble this year. Don’t make eye contact with anyone you haven’t seen before. Just mind your own business.

Yoongi reads it. Then reads it again.

His dad’s texts always feel like instructions. No warmth. Just facts, orders.

Yoongi stares down at his phone. His thumbs hover.

Then he types:

[Message from Yoongi]: You should’ve been here.

The second he sends it, his stomach lurches.

The reply is instant.

[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. Security is being increased. That’s all I’m allowed to say.

Yoongi reads it three times.

That’s all I’m allowed to say.

The agency is chaos right now.

A big shift.

He doesn’t like how those words feel. Doesn’t like how official they sound. 

He types again.

[Message from Yoongi]: Will you be okay?

The line moves. Yoongi steps forward. His fingers tighten around the strap of his backpack. His shoes scrape the pavement. His hands won’t stop shaking.

Another buzz.

[Message from Dad] I’ll explain when I get home.

Yeah, right.

Yoongi bites his lip.

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

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

Yoongi stares at that last message for a long time.

Not a you’ll be fine, not an I believe in you, not even a stay with your sister.

Just another order. Another dismissal. A few bills on a table like that makes up for being left alone on one of the most dangerous days of the year.

There is no takeout today anyways. Everything’s closed. 

Yoongi thinks that’s probably why his father makes such a good government worker.

The man has no problem stepping on people’s toes. No guilt, no shame. Yoongi wants to resent him for it. Wants to scream about abandonment, about bruises, about being left to raise a girl who still says “owie” when she scrapes her knees.

But deep down, deep deep down, he knows the truth.

His father is the reason he has a roof. The reason no one’s knocked on their door yet. The reason his name probably doesn’t raise red flags in certain systems. Privilege handed down through a man who can’t look his kids in the eye for more than thirty seconds.

Still, when his dad leaves him on read, something inside Yoongi cracks.

It always does.

The feeling returns—that pressure on his chest, like someone stepping down slowly, just enough to keep him from breathing. The gut-deep certainty that today is wrong. That this year will be worse than the last. That something is coming.

The memory of his last panic attack flashes behind his eyes—the dizziness, the shaking, the feeling of watching himself from above. He nearly throws up from the thought of it alone.

Don’t fall apart yet, Yoongi tells himself. Just get through today. You can be a mess when you get home.

Then—

“Min Yoongi?”

The voice is calm. Female. Smooth in a way that makes his brain itch.

He blinks and looks up.

The voice doesn’t come from the line in front of him. Or the cluster of tables at center check-in. No—it came from the far right, near the staff-only exit. Where nobody stands. Where no line leads. Where nobody should be.

And yet—there’s a table.

Long. Dark wood. New. Not part of yesterday’s layout.

It sits clean and alone. Behind it: a woman.

She’s beautiful. Unsettlingly so. Her jet-black hair is pulled into a low, glassy ponytail—not a single strand out of place. A small beauty mark perches above her upper lip, and her lipstick is a perfect, dangerous violet. Her smile is subtle. Not kind, but practiced.

Her eyes don’t move. They lock on him like she’s been waiting.

Yoongi’s stomach drops.

He pulls out his earbuds slowly, the wire catching on his sleeve. His hands disappear into the pocket of his hoodie, shaking. He steps forward, uncertain, like he’s following a command he doesn’t remember agreeing to.

The rest of the crowd fades. No one else seems to notice her. No one is looking his way.

The rain patters against the tall glass windows behind her, but the sound feels distant. Muted. Like someone’s turned the volume down.

The woman folds her manicured hands together, motioning for him.

Yoongi’s feet move before his brain agrees.

She smiles again. It's soft. Gentle. Polished.

But underneath it—there’s something else. A tension in the air, almost animal. Like standing in front of a creature that hasn’t decided whether or not to bite.

Yoongi swallows hard. The metallic taste in his mouth won’t go away.

His breath fogs faintly in the cold.

And when she says his name again—just once, just softly—he feels it.

Yoongi doesn’t feel creeped out exactly. He’s not frozen by fear, not in that skin-prickle horror movie way.

It’s quieter than that. More internal.

His instincts say she’s not a threat. That she won’t hurt him. That her eyes don’t track him the same way others do. She’s not hunting.

But his brain—his anxious, always-spinning, worst-case-scenario brain—isn’t so sure.

It keeps whispering that he might be the threat. That he’s the problem. That something is wrong, and it's probably him.

“Are you Yoongi?”

She looks down at the paper in front of her, perfectly calm—then up at him again. Her deep brown eyes widen just slightly, like seeing him is unexpected. Like it means something.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Not right away.

It takes him a second. Maybe longer.

On days like this—especially days like this—it’s hard to speak. Hard to even breathe. His brain is loud, overrun with static, and his mouth can’t keep up.

“Yes,” he says finally, voice thin and too soft. It sounds small even to his own ears. 

He doesn’t make eye contact.

His eyes dart away, tracing the wet gray sidewalk behind her instead, where puddles bloom under students’ shoes. Except—

That’s the thing. There aren’t any students back here.

He glances over his shoulder, subtle and quick. Every other line is still trailing past the main staff tables—clustered in the front foyer where the normal check-ins are happening. Kids with wet hoodies and heavy backpacks. Teachers with radios and clipboards. Security officers with too many patches on their jackets.

But this table theres nothing. No one’s even looking this direction. No line, no glances, no whispers.

No one else is being called over here.

It’s like this part of the school is slightly out of phase with the rest of reality. Like if Yoongi weren’t standing here, it would be ignored.

But he is standing here. So it hasn’t.

“I see,” the woman murmurs, scanning his frame like she’s looking for something specific. Her eyes move slowly up and down—sweatpants, hoodie, hands curled in sleeves—then stop right at his face.

Her smile softens.

But there’s something underneath it. Not cruel. Not manipulative. Just… uncertain. Like she’s rehearsing calm, but something in her script has gone wrong.

Yoongi feels the sudden, brutal urge to disappear.

If he could snap his fingers and turn to dust right now, he would. Leave nothing behind but the smell of black tea and the warmth of an empty hoodie.

This cannot be happening.

Something’s off. He doesn’t know what, and he hates the thought of being dramatic—but he also refuses to gaslight himself out of it. He knows what his gut is saying.

And his gut never screams this loud without reason.

The woman looks back at her paper.

“Yoongi,” she says, “I see you’ve made the Dean’s List—not once, but all four years of high school. That’s pretty impressive.”

Her pen highlights something. A soft swipe of yellow ink across the page.

Yoongi barely hears it. He’s too busy trying not to panic.

Why is she saying that?

He wants to roll his eyes, but doesn’t. Not because he’s polite—because he’s exhausted.

People always assume he’s dumb. Quiet means dumb. Soft voice means no depth. Pretty face means nothing behind the eyes. People look at Yoongi and see the hoodie, the awkward little smile, the too-long silence before he answers.

They never think he’s sharp. Or calculating. Or observant.

They don’t see the journals under his bed, the books full of flagged pages, the stacks of highlighted reports he’s secretly pulled off his dad’s desk and memorized late at night.

They just see the kid who chirps when startled. The boy with knuckles that he always cracks and big eyes who blushes when someone asks if he needs help carrying something.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches.

His stomach flips again.

Still—no one has walked over.

Behind him, students shuffle past like clockwork. Faces down. Hoods up. Teachers checking clipboards. Security scanning for movement. But no one looks this way.

No one seems to see this table.

Only he does.

His attention flickers to the table beside him—another student being processed quickly, efficiently, waved through with barely more than a name check.

The woman hums softly, clicking her pen once against the clipboard before glancing at him again.

“Well, Yoongi,” she says, in that soft, velvet-coated tone, “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Some of your file data appears…incomplete.”

Yoongi nods, awkwardly. His stomach twists. Incomplete? He’s been at this school for four years. His dad is obsessive about government paperwork. Why would his file be missing anything?

"First question." Her smile never wavers. "Do you currently live with a parent or guardian?"

Yoongi swallows. “Yes,” he answers quietly.

“Good job,” she says, her voice is warm. Encouraging. Too encouraging.

Yoongi blinks.

What the fuck.

She jots something down.

“Are you currently taking anything?” she asks, casually—like it’s just paperwork. “Any mood stabilizers, medications, or… anything else your guardian might have prescribed for daily use? Inhibitors, perhaps?”

Yoongi blinks.

He freezes for half a second too long.

His father’s voice is loud in his head. No one needs to know what you take. No one gets access to that file. Not even the school. Don’t answer questions like that. Say no. Always say no.

Yoongi’s mouth parts—then shuts. “I…no,” he says carefully. “None.”

“Mmm,” she coos gently, looking up at him, her eyes meeting his, still pleasant, still smiling.

But she pauses.

Yoongi’s stomach drops.

She knows. She knows I’m lying. Oh my god, she knows. Why did I say no? That was so obvious. That was so fast. I should’ve paused. You’re such a freak—why can’t you just lie like a normal person—

Her smile widens just a touch. Not cruel. Just curious. Almost impressed.

“Really?” she asks, pen hovering mid-air.

Yoongi nods too hard. “Uh-huh.” He stares at the table, the floor, the other tables—not this one. Not her.

“You’re regulating all on your own?"

“I—I guess?” Yoongi’s voice lifts into a question. His face flushes immediately. Why did I say it like that? He hates how small it sounds.

Her gaze softens. “You seem very well-trained,” she says, tilting her head. “Did your guardian teach you that composure?”

Yoongi’s eyes dart back to her, startled. “I—no, I mean… I just—I don’t know—”

He stops.

She giggles.

“Oh, no need to get flustered, sweetheart,” she says with a smile. “You’re doing so well.”

Yoongi wants to crawl into his own skin and zip it shut. His entire face is on fire. His ears are ringing. 

His hands ball inside the sleeves of his hoodie. He forces a swallow.

Don’t make a scene. Don’t pull attention. Don’t run. Don’t ask questions.

“Tell me, Yoongi,” she continues gently, “When was your last medical examination?”

“Uhm. Six months ago, I think.”

“Was that a public or private facility?”

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably. “Private. My—dad works for the—he has access, so we used that.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, but her smile stays perfectly painted on. “Of course. That would explain the blockers.”

He doesn’t know what she means by that would explain the blockers, because what the fuck does that even mean bro. 

Her fingers move across the page, flipping to a second sheet—thinner paper, less official-looking.

“All right, sweetheart, just a few more quick questions.”

Yoongi nods stiffly. His knuckles are white inside his sleeves.

She doesn’t give him time to prepare. “Do you find yourself more sensitive to sound or scent in crowded spaces?”

“I—uh—yeah? I guess sound. I mean both. Sometimes. Sorry—what does that mean—”

“Good,” she says softly, scribbling something down. “Very good.”

Yoongi blinks. “Wait—what?”

But she’s already moving on. “Do you tend to startle easily when approached from behind?”

“...I mean—who doesn’t?”

“Mhm. That’s fine,” she says. “Let’s see… have you noticed any difficulty with temperature regulation? Overheating in social settings, for example? Or feeling faint when overwhelmed?”

Yoongi frowns, thinking too hard. “Sometimes. Like at assemblies? But everyone hates those, right?”

She beams at him.

“You’re very articulate,” she praises, her voice slow and warm like honey. “Such a good communicator under pressure.”

Yoongi’s face burns.

Why did she say it like that? Why does that feel like something she’s supposed to say?

His body reacts before his brain does. He doesn’t know where the instinct comes from. 

“Oh,” she says lightly, “you respond very well to verbal affirmations.”

“I don’t—I’m not—” Yoongi chokes a little, immediately flustered. “I’m not like that.”

She tilts her head, still smiling, like he just said something adorable.

“Of course not, darling,” she murmurs. “I’m just gathering data.”

Yoongi’s head swims. He feels like he’s underwater and doesn’t know which direction is up.

She turns the page.

“How often would you say you experience intense emotional responses in situations of perceived social threat?”

Yoongi blinks. “Huh?”

She rephrases, smoothly, “Do you cry easily when you’re scared?”

His jaw locks. “No.”

She raises a brow, amused. “Not even in high-stress situations?”

“I don’t cry,” Yoongi insists.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. 

“Interesting,” she hums. “And when you are overwhelmed—physically or emotionally—what’s your first instinct? To isolate? To find someone familiar? Or to become aggressive?”

Yoongi shifts in his chair. “...I guess I shut down. Like—I just kinda freeze.”

“Freeze,” she repeats, nodding again. “That’s consistent.”

Consistent with what?

Yoongi doesn’t ask. He can’t. His heart is beating so fast it’s nearing panic attack terriftory. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re doing so, so well.”

His throat goes tight.

Why does she keep saying that? WHY IS SHE SAYING IT LIKE THAT. 

“Alright,” she says. “What’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

Yoongi blinks. “What?”

“Just curious.”

“Um. Mint chocolate chip?”

“Cute,” she beams. “Okay. Now… what’s your current address?”

Yoongi blinks. Here it is.

His lips part, but the words hesitate. His eyes drift toward the far wall. A buzzing sound starts in his ears—like the low whine of something electrical, something building.

The pause drags too long.

“Yoongi?” she prompts, a little firmer now, but still warm. “Your address?”

His brain scrambles for the right answer—the safe answer. He doesn’t know if it’s safer to tell the truth or lie. He doesn’t know who she reports to. He doesn’t know why his file is flagged. He just knows something is very wrong.

So he lies.

“Uh—uhm. 84 Maple Drive,” Yoongi says, voice wavering slightly. “Unit C.”

She blinks, pen pausing mid-air.

That’s not his address. That’s the grocery store two blocks from his actual house. The one with the burnt-out parking lot lights and the flickering sign. The one that smells like fried oil and crushed ice.

It’s the first place that pops into his head. He swallows thickly.

“Unit C?” she repeats, the corner of her mouth lifting in faint amusement.

Yoongi nods too fast again. “Yeah. Um. It’s like. Behind the loading dock.”

Stop talking. Stop talking. Why are you elaborating. Stop.

Her eyes linger on him for a moment. Then she writes it down.

Not a blink of disbelief. Not a raised brow. Not a follow-up question.

Instead—

“Good job, sweetheart,” she says softly.

He freezes. His heart skips. Or maybe it hiccups. Maybe it malfunctions.

Good job. Sweetheart. Like she’s rewarding him. Like he did something right.

His shoulders relax for half a second. His ears go hot.

Why did that feel good? No, seriously—why did that feel good? He almost wants to say thank you. 

Thank her for what?? For encouraging your lie? For treating you like a well-trained pet?? What the fuck is going on—

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at the grain of the table, eyes wide, fingers clenched tight inside his sleeves.

His body feels wrong. Like he’s on the edge of dropping. 

And she’s just smiling. Calm. Patient. Writing down his fake address.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she murmurs, almost fond.

Yoongi nods, mute. His face is still burning. His hands feel numb.

Don’t cry. Don’t run. Don’t show it.

“Alright,” she says, flipping to a final page. “Oh—almost forgot,” she says lightly, tapping the pen against her cheek. “We’re doing a school-wide survey today. Just a short one. The district asked us to collect some quick data from select students, nothing too serious. So I’m just gonna ask you a few fun questions before you go.”

He blinks, disoriented. Before I go where?

He’s so confused. These don’t feel like questions for a school check-in. They feel like someone’s testing what would happen if he broke.

“If you could pick any scent in the world to carry with you, would it be: fresh rain, warm spices, clean linen, or sweet fruit?”

Yoongi feels like he’s being undressed.

“...Rain?”

Why did I say that. Is that wrong. What does that mean—

“Rain,” she echoes, like she’s confirming a hypothesis. “That tracks.”

What tracks??

Yoongi wants to scream.

“What’s your favorite fruit?” she asks.

Yoongi blinks. “Um. Mandarins? Or like—clementines?”

“Citrus,” she nods, writing it down. “Very cleansing.”

Yoongi doesn’t know how this school survey is relevant at all. 

“Okay,” she smiles, “pick one: storms, sun, snow, or wind.”

“...Snow?”

“Interesting.”

She doesn’t write anything down.

“What’s your favorite thing to do when you can’t sleep?”

Yoongi hesitates. “I—uh. I listen to music.”

“What kind?”

“Soft stuff. Piano, or… rain sounds. Sometimes just… really quiet songs.”

She gives a pleased little nod.  “What’s your least favorite kind of noise?”

“Like… high-pitched alarms. Or when something drops. Loud sudden bangs.” he admits. 

“If you could have one animal follow you around for a week—like a companion—what would you pick?”

“...A cat?”

She actually giggles at that. “I can see that.”

Yoongi’s shoulders tense, unsure if that’s good or bad.

She changes tack again.

“Would you rather be too warm or too cold?”

“Cold.”

“Do you prefer night or morning?”

“Night.”

“Fireplace or electric heater?”

“Fireplace, I guess.”

“Wood or tile?”

“…Wood?”

She beams. “Socked feet?”

Yoongi nods, confused. “Yeah, I hate cold floors.”

“Mm,” she writes something long next to that. “Interesting.”

“Which do you like more: being praised, being protected, or being left alone?”

Yoongi freezes.

His ears are buzzing again.

“…Um. Left alone?” he says, voice high with doubt.

She just smiles. “Of course.”

She doesn’t believe him. He knows she doesn’t.

“What color makes you feel safe?”

Yoongi blinks. “Huh?”

“Just—first thing that comes to mind.”

“…Cream?”

She doesn’t react to that one. Just writes it down.

“Pick one: lake, cave, tower, forest.”

Yoongi panics. “I—I don’t know, I guess—lake?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know!”

She giggles. “You’re very cute under pressure.”

He almost dies.

“Okay, okay,” she says, like she’s winding down. “Last two.”

Yoongi clenches his sleeves tighter.

“If you had a secret, who would you tell first: a friend, a parent, or someone you barely know?”

Yoongi opens his mouth. Shuts it. “No one?”

“Oh,” she coos. “That’s very independent of you.”

He wants to scream into the floor.

She flips the page back to the front, taps her pen twice, and sets it down.

“That’s all, sweetheart. You’ve done wonderfully.”

He doesn’t stand up. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to yet.

“You can go now, Yoongi,” she says gently. “Thank you for your honesty.”

Honesty?

He gave her a fake address. Lied about his meds. Doesn’t know who he is.

And she’s thanking him for being honest.

He gets up. The hallway is too bright. The table vanishes behind him. No one else is being stopped.

His legs move faster than his thoughts—he barely registers his surroundings. The hallway tilts. His ears ring. His throat tastes like metal.

Nope. Nope. Nope. This is bad.

He stumbles into the bathroom stall just in time. Knees hit tile. The nausea crests and crashes. One hand on the wall, the other gripping porcelain, he bends over and throws up hard.

Tea. Acid. The ghost of last night’s dinner. The splash is awful. The smell worse.

His body trembles.

The bile burns his throat. He gags, retches again, then spits.

He wipes his mouth with scratchy toilet paper, hand still shaking, face damp with sweat. The stall door is wide open, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yoongi?”

He startles.

A voice. Cheerful, warm. Too warm for a place like this.

He turns slowly, blinking through the haze.

It’s Hoesok. Or—Hobi. He can’t remember which one people actually call him, but he’s definitely seen that smile in at least four different clubs and two student union posters.

Yoongi croaks, “I think I’m okay?”

“Wakey wakey,” Hoesok sing-songs gently, crouching a little to see him better. “You, uh—don’t look okay.”

Yoongi wants to laugh. Or maybe cry.

“I—uh, yeah, I just—” Another wave hits. He ducks again, one more retch escaping before he can finish his sentence.

He hears Hoesok shift behind him.

“Whoa, okay, gotcha—hair back,” Hoesok murmurs, already sweeping Yoongi’s bangs gently out of the line of fire.

“Thanks,” Yoongi rasps, humiliated beyond belief.

“No problem, buddy. You’re kind of living my worst nightmare right now, so I’m just here for moral support.”

Yoongi coughs, then groans. “God, kill me.”

“Let’s not be too dramatic,” Hoesok teases, “but like… solid six out of ten on the catastrophe scale.”

“I’ll take it,” Yoongi mumbles, eyes shut tight.

He finally leans back, resting against the stall divider. His face is clammy, hair clinging to his forehead. “This is so stupid,” he mutters. “Of course. This is just—so on brand for me.”

Hoesok laughs under his breath. “You’re okay, man. That is just… a lot.”

Yoongi nods weakly. “Yeah.”

He peels himself off the floor and stumbles to the sink, Hoesok trailing close just in case. Yoongi rinses his mouth out, glares at the mirror, then sighs and starts splashing water on his face.

“How was your check-in?” Hoesok asks casually, leaning against the wall.

Yoongi swishes water in his mouth, spits. “You first.”

Hoesok lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t push. “Nothing special. Grades. Attendance. The lady asked if I ever got lightheaded during class, which… felt weird, but maybe she was just trying to catch iron deficiencies or something.”

Yoongi stares down at the sink. Something in him settles a little.

Okay. Maybe it was just weird for everyone. Maybe he’s not totally losing it.

He grabs one of those awful brown paper towels, dries his face, wipes his hands. “I don’t know why I feel like this,” he mutters. “My body’s just being dumb. Please ignore me.”

“Ignore you? You just threw up your soul in front of me,” Hoesok says, mock-scandalized. “I’m invested now.”

Yoongi actually snorts. His shoulders shake with the smallest breath of laughter.

Hoesok smiles wide. “There he is. That’s better.”

Yoongi turns, cheeks still flushed from more than just vomiting. “I’m not like… dying, I promise.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Hoesok counters, stepping closer and gently pressing the back of his hand to Yoongi’s forehead. “Holy crap, you’re freezing.”

Yoongi’s body twitches like it wants to lean into the warmth. His lashes flutter. “I’m not cold,” he lies.

“Sure,” Hoesok says with a fond little eye roll. “And I’m the queen of France.”

Yoongi shrugs, wiping at the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I didn’t… I didn’t expect the questions to be so… weird. They asked me if I liked sweet fruit and icecream and then called me sweetheart.”

Hoesok tilts his head. “Wait, what?”

Yoongi nods. “She—like—she was smiling the whole time. I don’t know.” He mumbles, “She said I responded well to… verbal affirmation.”

Hoesok blinks.

Yoongi groans, face going red. “I’m gonna walk into traffic. Please forget I ever said that.”

“Nope,” Hoesok grins. “Never letting that one go.”

Yoongi squints at him with all the energy of a soggy paper towel. “I hate you.”

“I’m your new emotional support student rep now. Sorry…ion make the rules.”

Yoongi sighs so hard his whole body deflates. “Great. Please don’t make me feel worse right now.”

Hoesok laughs—bright, quick, the kind that warms the whole room. “Hush, Yoongi‑ah. I was stopped too, you know. So if you’re going down, I’m coming down with you. You’re not the only one that has a bad feeling.”

Yoongi’s heart stutters. For a second, he can’t tell if it’s the anxiety or the nausea making his chest tighten.

Hoesok keeps smiling, but it’s the kind that trembles around the edges—brave and watery. He’s scared too, Yoongi realizes. He’s just better at pretending not to be.

Yoongi sways where he stands, the floor tipping a little under his shoes. His vision goes blurry for a second, but Hoesok’s hand lands on his shoulder, steady and warm.

“Easy,” Hoesok says. “Deep breaths, yeah?”

Yoongi nods weakly. “I forgot how much I hate this,” he mumbles. 

Hoesok snorts, squeezing his shoulder. “Your body’s dramatic. Like you.”

Yoongi glares up at him, half‑hearted. “You’re so mean to sick people.”

“Mean? Nah, I’m your hype man,” Hoesok says. “I’m trying to distract you before you vomit on your shoes.”

Yoongi blinks. “You’re terrible at comfort.”

“Eh, I’m better with other things.”

A laugh escapes Yoongi before he can stop it. It’s small, breathy, but it’s real. The sound surprises both of them.

The relief doesn’t last long. His chest still aches. The thought still sits there—heavy and poisonous.

Today’s the day people disappear.

In a world like this, where the government calls it ritual and everyone else calls it murder, nobody is really safe. Every two years, they crawl out of hiding to “balance the ecosystem,” whatever that means. Kidnapping. Bloodlines. Experiments. No one ever agrees on the details—just that when the Taking happens, you don’t want to be one of those people.

Yoongi tells himself he’s fine. He’s too boring to be noticed. Too small, too quiet, too human.

No one ever sees you. No one ever tries to.

Why would that change now?

“Also, hyung,” Hoesok says, breaking his thoughts. “Did check‑in highlight your portfolio too?”

Yoongi hums absently. “Yeah. That was weird. Like… what does my GPA have to do with not dying?”

“Right?” Hoesok exclaims, raising his hands. “It’s like—‘hey, congrats on making honor roll, here’s a free kidnapping coupon!’”

Yoongi groans, half‑laughing, half‑dying inside. “Don’t joke like that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Hoesok says quickly, smile shrinking. “Bad timing. I cope with humor. It’s a thing.”

Yoongi waves a hand. “No, it’s fine. You’re funny. I’m just—” He trails off, pressing a hand to his stomach. “Oh god. That soap smells too sweet.”

“What?”

“The soap.” Yoongi makes a weak face. “If I smell it again, I’m gonna—”

“Okay, alright.” Hoesok grabs him gently by the elbow and steers him away from the sink. “Distance from soap. Understood.”

Yoongi leans against the cool tile wall, puffing out a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

“Hyung,” Hoesok says softly after a moment, worry creeping back into his tone, “you look really pale.”

Yoongi squints up at him. “Aw, thanks, you’re so sweet.”

“Shut up,” Hoesok laughs, exasperated. “I mean it. Maybe you should go to the nurse. Take a nap there. They don’t usually start observation until, like, third period.”

Yoongi frowns. “You think they’ll let me?”

“Ask nicely,” Hoesok says, hands in his pockets. “Say you’re sick. Lie if you have to. Because we both know they’re not sending anyone home today.”

Yoongi hesitates, chewing on his lip. “And you?”

Hoesok shrugs, eyes darting toward the door. “I’ll… figure it out. If I see anything weird, I’ll text you. If you see anything weird, text me. Deal?”

Yoongi nods, weak but genuine. “Deal.”

“Good.” Hoesok gives a little mock salute, half‑smile returning. “Please throw up on the nurse, she’s such a fucking cunt she deserves it.”

Yoongi giggles quietly. “You’re actually evil.”

“Yeah, but you’re laughing,” Hoesok says, backing toward the door. “See you in one piece, hyung.”

Yoongi lifts a hand in a tiny wave. “Don’t jinx it.”

The bathroom door swings shut, and the quiet rushes back in. Yoongi leans his head against the cold tile, heart still fluttering, nausea still lurking.

If this were any other day, he’d skip class, crawl back into bed, and sleep until his brain rebooted.

But today’s not any other day.

He exhales slowly, trying not to panic.

And then he remembers the pills beside his bed.

The ones he didn’t take this morning.

“Oh,” he whispers, realization sinking in. “Shit.”

—-

Yoongi drags himself down the hallway, footsteps soft, the lights too bright.

The nurse’s office door is cracked open.

Inside, the school nurse is in the middle of a tense conversation with another woman—a sharp-looking official with gray hair slicked into a low bun, her mouth moving fast and tight.

Yoongi hesitates at the threshold.

“I don’t care what your system says,” the gray-haired woman hisses, voice just this side of a snarl. “Get it done. Or else I’ll be forced to report it.”

Yoongi knocks once, knuckles barely tapping the metal frame.

The woman whips around.

“And you,” she snaps, “What are you doing here this early? Get to class.”

Yoongi flinches. He doesn’t know why—he’s not in trouble, technically—but her voice hits him wrong, too loud, too sharp, like it’s slicing through already-fried nerves. His stomach lurches.

The woman storms past without another word, heels clicking aggressively down the hall.

Yoongi turns back to the nurse.

She doesn’t look surprised. Or concerned. She barely even glances at the door.

“Come in,” she sighs, waving him forward. “Sit if you’re gonna sit.”

Yoongi nods quickly and shuffles in. The office is sterile and cold, with an ancient cot in the back and a cheap diffuser buzzing faintly on the counter. It smells like lavender.

“I—I just don’t feel good,” he says, voice cracking a little as he lowers himself into the chair.

The nurse doesn’t even blink. “We can’t send you home.”

“I know,” Yoongi says. “I know. I’m not trying to leave. It’s just—” He pauses, cheeks flushing. “I threw up in the bathroom. Like. I don’t think I can sit through a class without, like—passing out or throwing up again.”

The nurse swivels in her chair, pen tapping against a manila folder like a slow metronome. “Well, unless you’re bleeding out or legally dead, I can’t excuse you. It’s the twenty-four-hour policy. Under law.”

Yoongi nods again. He gets it. Everyone says that now. Under law. Like it explains everything. Like it means anything.

The nurse exhales long through her nose. “And before you ask, no—you don’t get a pass for nausea. Even if you hurl your organs across the hallway, I still have to keep you on campus until the last bell rings.”

She doesn’t say it cruelly. Just... exhausted. Burnt out. Like she’s repeated this line to too many kids.

“I wasn’t asking for anything,” Yoongi says quietly. “I just wanted to—maybe—lie down? Just for first period.”

The nurse gives him a look like he’s asked for a spa retreat.

“I’m not allowed to medicate you. Not without a signed form, three weeks’ notice, and a copy of your blood work. Want an ice pack?”

Yoongi gives her a baffled look. “...For throwing up?”

She shrugs. “Can’t give you a ginger chew either. The state says it’s a choking hazard.”

He presses a palm to his forehead. “Oh my god.”

“Trust me, kid,” she mutters, pushing her chair back. “I don’t make the rules. I just get paid too little to enforce them.”

Yoongi winces as she stands and opens the back door to the cot room. It’s tiny—barely a closet—with one stiff hospital bed and a too-thin blanket that looks like it hasn’t been washed since the last world war.

“Get in,” she says. “Don’t puke on the sheets. And if anyone official asks, you’re here for ice pack observation.”

Yoongi rises slowly and shuffles past her, still queasy, still cold. “Thanks,” he mumbles, voice hoarse.

“Don’t thank me,” she says, pulling the curtain closed behind him. “This place is a lawsuit waiting to happen. You’ve got fifty-five minutes.”

Fifty-five minutes.

Fifty-five minutes to pretend like nothing outside this room is happening. Fifty-five minutes before second period. Before the buzz starts. Before the PA system starts making announcements. Before the silence in the halls starts sounding wrong.

He stares at the ceiling, heart still fluttering. Breath tight.

Under law, he’s not allowed to leave. Under law, he has to stay in the building. Even if he’s sick. Even if something feels off. Even if there’s something in the air today, something bigger than gut instinct, something no one is willing to name.

He’s safe. For now.

He gets to spend the next hour lying low, calming down, while the rest of the school sits in hard plastic chairs, chewing their nails, staring at clocks that tick too slowly. He pictures them all: feet tapping on grimy white floors, knuckles pale, breaths shallow.

Bathroom stalls filling with panic attacks.

Closets with locked doors and muffled sobs.

Parents at home kneeling on tile floors, praying. Because today is the kind of day where prayers feel like the only protection left. Please not my child. Please not this year. Please don’t let them take anyone.

He drops his black backpack to the floor with a soft thud and curls onto the mattress, tucking his knees up, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. There’s no blanket, no pillow. Still—he sinks into it.

Yoongi pulls the blanket tighter and shuts his eyes.

Memory foam, he thinks distantly, forehead against his arm. Nice.

Then—dizziness again. Harder this time. He shuts his eyes tight.

He’s not even tired, but his body says lie still. Stay down.

From the front of the office, the nurse mutters something under her breath. A sharp curse. Then her footsteps click away—out the door.

Yoongi cracks one eye open.

Just for a second.

He reaches for his backpack, unzipping the back pocket as quietly as he can. Fingers fumble for his phone.

He checks it. Hopes, stupidly, for something.

Nothing.

No text from his dad. Not even a read receipt.

His throat tightens, but he doesn't let it settle. He just taps out messages with frozen fingers, one by one.

— Tell Mr. Kim I’m in the nurse’s office, he adds to a friend in second period.

Then: screen off. Phone shoved back into the hoodie pocket.

Yoongi pulls his sleeves up over his knuckles and closes his eyes. Deep breaths. Slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He doesn’t expect to fall asleep.

He just needs to float for a while.

And then—thud.

Heavy footsteps enter the room.

Not rushing. Not loud. But purposeful. Too heavy to be the nurse.

Yoongi’s eyes stay closed. 

The air changes, like something just crossed the thresold. 

He passes out rather quickly after that. 

Chapter Text

Yoongi shivers as the wind brushes across his ankles, the grass cool and dewy beneath his bare feet. 

It’s soft, too soft and bright green in a way grass shouldn’t be.

He looks up. The sky above him is streaked in peach and gold, cotton-candy clouds melting into the horizon. It’s the kind of sunset that shouldn’t exist—too vivid, too colourful, like it’s been painted by someone who’s seen a thousand skies and decided to make the perfect one.

The hill he stands on is small and perfect too. Around it, wide suburban streets, white fences, and neat rows of identical houses that look expensive but empty.

Every lamppost is placed at an exact distance from the next. Every yard light flickers on at the same time.

It’s beautiful, and it’s wrong.

Yoongi turns slowly, the grass brushing against his legs. To his left, a dirt path goes toward a massive willow tree. There’s a single tire swing hanging from a thick rope. It sways even though there’s no breeze.

He imagines sitting on it. He imagines swinging out over the hill and never touching the ground again.

He swears he’s been here before. He just can’t remember when.

Ahead, a narrow trail of trampled grass leads down the hill.

And beyond that—

Across the valley sits the houses and estates, some so large they look like castles. Their rooftops catch the last light of the sun. Their windows glow faintly, as if someone is home. But there’s no sound. No laughter. No doors opening or closing.

When he turns around, he sees the mountains.

Alpine peaks in the distance, enormous and snow-capped. They tower over everything—over the valleys, the hills, even the clouds. Guarding them. Protecting them. Or maybe containing them.

The air feels different here. Lighter. Unfamiliar in a way that his bones recognize but his brain refuses to name.

Yoongi steps forward, his pulse calm but quick, like something inside him remembers the way.

He knows he’s never been here. He’d remember a place like this.

And yet—

It feels like home.

Not his house. Not his world.

Something older. Bigger. Warmer.

He feels the urge to explore, to follow the path, to reach the tree, to look inside the glowing windows—anything to prove this place is real.

But in the corner of his eye, just for a moment, he sees a flash of red, and when he looks up again, he sees something, no, someone that wasn’t there before. 

At the very top of the opposite hill, a tall figure stands. Silhouetted against the peach sky. Broad shoulders. Still posture. Watching.

Yoongi blinks once.

Twice. 

The figure doesn’t move.

The feeling is overwhelming yet comforting. 

 Until it isn’t.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

Yoongi flinches so hard it knocks the air out of him.

He turns.

The light fades from the sky so fast. The air thickens—damp, sour, stale. The grass beneath his feet loses color, turns brittle and dry.

Standing behind him is not the man from the hill. Not the silhouette he saw against the sunset.

This man is real. Too real. 

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 man of his nightmares, the man that pops up more times than Yoongi’s willing to admit, and when he does, he can’t function the next day.

The smell hits first. Alcohol. Sweat. Tobacco.

Yoongi’s throat closes. His fingers twitch at his sides.

The man’s hairy gray arms are bare, veins bulging, and his shirt is open, exposing a chest. His eyes are small, rimmed red, and so familiar Yoongi’s entire body wants to fold in on itself.

Monster.

He’s older now, but it’s him.

Every single detail. The cracked lip. The yellowed teeth. The faint ring of white powder still clinging to one nostril.

Yoongi feels his breath stutter—tiny, sharp inhales that don’t fill his lungs.

He steps back.

The man chuckles. It’s low, wet, into Yoongis ear. He can feel the hot breath, the humidity. 

Yoongi’s face scrunches involuntarily, his chest tightening like he’s going to throw up again. His vision blurs.

Don’t touch me. Don’t—

But he doesn’t say it. Can’t. His voice is gone. 

The man moves closer. The space between them disappears.

Yoongi’s muscles stop responding. He tries to run—nothing. Not even a twitch. It’s like someone unplugged him.

The man’s hand wraps around his wrist, fingers digging in so hard Yoongi can hear the skin bruise.

He lets out a noise—tiny, broken. Not a word. Just sound.

“What’s wrong?” the man hisses, voice too close. “Can’t handle a little pressure?”

Yoongi’s lips part. Nothing. His throat trembles with the ghost of a scream.

His face crumples. He looks terrified. Small.

The man laughs again. It’s not even human anymore.

The sky above them flashes. The hill melts away. The air tastes like dust.

Yoongi blinks and suddenly he’s not on the hill at all.

He’s in a bedroom.

That bedroom.

The walls are grey. There’s a faint stain on the carpet. He knows that stain.

Yoongi’s body starts trembling all over. His knees nearly buckle.

The man reaches up, takes a strand of Yoongi’s hair, and brings it to his nose. Inhales.

Yoongi goes perfectly still.

The man tucks the strand behind his ear, smiling—slow and uneven.

“You always did smell like Christmas,” he says, voice hoarse and amused.

Something in Yoongi snaps. His mouth opens—wide, desperate.

But nothing comes out. Not a scream. Not a word. Not even air.

Just silence.

The scream of silence. It’s deafening.

The man’s voice drops low, soft enough to sound almost kind. “You’re just perfect, aren’t you?”

Something in the man’s posture changes. A shift forward, predatory. Yoongi feels the heat of him before the contact even comes. 

He limbs are frozen with fear, unable to move or escape. His body trembles as the man continues to touch him, "Just like a little doll, a very pretty living doll.”

The man's pupils are blown, devoid of soul or humanity.

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. His body trembles uncontrollably, paralyzed by the sickening touch, his breath catching in his throat as he desperately tries to pull away.

The world blurs around him, and when Yoongi closes his eyes, he reopens them to a different scenery. 

A car. Yoongi doesn’t know how he got there or where the man is going. It doesn't matter; it isn't like the man has anywhere to be.

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. 

Yoongi’s chest convulses. His breath comes out in half-sobs, half-gasps.

The car rocks with every bump in the road. The sound of rain against the roof is like a thousand knuckles punching on metal, asking to be let in.

Past and present, dream and memory. 

It’s odd how real dreams can be. He can taste metal. He can feel how tight the knot is on his wrists.

And the man in the driver’s seat is just a blur of shoulders, the glint of an eye in the rear-view mirror. A silhouette he knows too well.

The red light glow spills through the interior like blood. The man’s face flickers in and out of view, his attention fixed on the rain sliding down the glass.

And Yoongi knows—without remembering how—that he doesn’t survive this part. At least not in the way that people think. 

Not the way people think survival works. Not the way they picture it: running out of the dark, gasping.

He did get out. His body left.

But the rest of him stayed here.

He can feel the pieces of himself still there. 

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 sucks in a lungful of smoke, and listens to the sobbing. The man smiles through chapped, pinched lips, trying to balance the cigarette.

Monster. 

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 more horn honks.

There are nights Yoongi wonders what it would’ve been like if the moment had just…stopped here. 

When he’s too tired to lie to himself, Yoongi wishes the man would’ve just killed him. 

A shot to the head, a gun in the mouth, an injection of poison or whatever the sick fuck has on him. If the world had gone quiet before he had to crawl back into it.

It was supposed to happen like that, he thinks. 

Sometimes, in the hollowed-out hours between midnight and dawn, Yoongi wishes the man had just pulled a gun from the glove compartment.

He imagines the cold, oily click of the safety, the barrel pressing against his temple.

It would have been a kindness, he thinks, a cleaner pain. A moment of terror, then nothing. 

An end to the film reel before the worst of the degradation, before the sticky, aching aftermath. 

 He wouldn’t have had to walk into his own bathroom, and look at himself in the mirror—a stranger with bruised skin and a dirty soul.

He wouldn’t have had to turn on the shower, scalding hot, and sink to the porcelain floor, a loofa in one hand and a bottle of antiseptic in the other. He remembers the sting of cleaning himself down there, the rawness, the fragile skin, the water swirling pink at his feet. 

 He scrubbed at his thighs, his stomach, the soft skin of his inner arms where the man’s fingers had dug in. He scrubbed at his privates with a violence that was not self-care but self-annihilation.

Get it off. Get it out. Get him out of me.

His breath hitched in ragged sobs. He was trying to scour the memory from his very ski tissue, to peel back the layers of skin until he reached a clean, untouched version of himself underneath. 

The shame in this moment is worse than the scalding water. 

This was the aftermath. 

And Yoongi remembers it in pieces—not because time has softened it, but because his brain refuses to catalogue the whole thing at once.

Some may think the worst part is during. 

It’s not. It’s what comes after. 

This was the reality the man had left him with: not just a violated body, but a mind that had to turn against that same body to feel clean.

Some stains don’t wash out. 

Death, in these types of moments, don’t feel like a tragedy.

It’s more like a door out of the room. 

But you’re so young? 

Thirteen. 

Why did you hurt yourself for something someone else did? What did you think you were going to erase? What, exactly, were you trying to wash away? What did you gain, Yoongi? Did you think pain would reset you?

The world sees a wounded child and thinks:

Poor thing. Trauma. Healing.

But Yoongi remembers the truth: There is nothing noble about surviving. There is only the quiet violence you turn inward when you don’t know where else to put it.

He sits in that remembered bathroom—years later, dreamlike, half-conscious—and he can still taste the question that formed in his throat back then:

Why would anyone do this to a child? What the fuck do you get out of it?

Do you replay the sound of a thirteen-year-old begging in your head while you eat dinner with your own family? Do you feel big? Powerful? Like a man?

You’re not a man. You’re a fucking monster. A coward who can only get hard when the other person is too small to fight back.

He still has a baby tooth in the back that won’t fall out. He’s still scared of the dark and has a nightlight his Dad thinks he doesn’t need anymore. He still cries when he skins his knee. 

Thirteen is supposed to be sports tryouts and figuring out how to dress properly. 

Thirteen is not this.

His fingers are shaking when he uncurls one arm and turns his wrist up. 

His veins are like maps. He’s seen maps in school. He wonders where those rivers go. If he follows one, will it take him somewhere quiet?

He whispers, “I want to go home.”

But he is home. And home doesn’t feel safe anymore. Nothing does.

It would be so easy. To take the power back by ending the story himself.

His gaze drifted to the razor on the sink ledge, a simple, plastic thing with a single blade.

Maybe I go deeper.

He sees it with a horrifying clarity: the bright, red welling up, so much more honest than the diluted pink at his feet.

He thinks of it not with the dramatic flair of suicide, but with the practicality of closing a story that doesn’t need continuing. 

He is so tired. 

It’s in the stillness of his body, the way nothing can faze him because he’s been violated in the worst possible way, the way he jumps a friendly touches on his shoulder, the way a certain smell—whiskey, cheap cologne—can send him spiraling back into the red-lit interior of that car.

To die would be to finally stop the looping tape. To stop having to pretend he’s whole when he’s a collection of shattered pieces held together by shitty glue.

He could just be… over.

The man in the car, with his soulless eyes and his casual cruelty, had taken his body. 

But by leaving him alive, he had given Yoongi a far more insidious life sentence. 

And in the deepest, most honest part of himself, the part he never shows to parents or friends, Yoongi knows he still keeps that door unlocked.

It’s a quiet comfort, a final option tucked away in the back of his mind. On the very worst days, when the feeling of that man’s touch feels more real than the sun on his skin. 

He could finish it. He could give himself the mercy the world never did. 

A promise that he doesn’t have to scrub himself raw forever. 

That there is, always, a way to make it stop.

——

Yoongi stirs to the sound of voices.

His body reacts before his brain does; his muscles go tight, breath shallow, the instinctive flinch of someone expecting pain. A soft whimper slips out before he can stop it.

He blinks.

The light hurts at first—too bright after the dark he’d just been in. He squints against it, eyes adjusting to the muted hellish yellow of the nurse’s office.

The air smells different here. Fresh linens and disinfectant, faintly citrus. A sense of distance, of waking up somewhere that isn’t the car, that bedroom, that isn’t the dream.

It takes a full minute for him to realize he’s breathing too fast. He forces himself to slow down.

“It’s third period,” a voice says nearby, “He needs to get up.”

“No,” another voice cuts in. Deeper. Unfamiliar. “He isn’t needed until fourth.”

Yoongi blinks again, head heavy, eyelids dragging. The remnants of the dream cling to him in flashes—hands, headlights, the red of a stoplight reflected in wet asphalt.

He shuts his eyes tight.

He’s had this one before. Too many times. It always ends the same way.

He doesn’t want to think about it. 

So he doesn’t.

He lets the images fade, one by one, until all that’s left is the clean scent of the room and the sound of quiet conversation.

A rustle. A clipboard. A sigh.

Yoongi exhales shakily. He’s still trembling a little, but he keeps his eyes shut, pretending sleep while his heart slows its frantic pounding.

The nightmare’s gone. Or at least—it’s somewhere else for now.

Voices—too close. One clipped and familiar, sharp with irritation; the other lower, smoother.

“He’s already been here all morning. He needs to get up, the bell’s—”

The other interrupts, a quiet kind of authority that makes the hairs on Yoongi’s arms stand up. “He isn’t needed until fourth.”

Yoongi shifts under the thin blanket, half-dreaming still. He wants to roll over and pretend this isn’t happening, but curiosity pries his eyes open just a sliver. 

The light above him flickers faintly.

And just like that, the edges of his vision blur again. His head spins—he’s slipping, caught somewhere between the tail-end of his nightmare and this weird, waking one.

“I’ve already seen two students called from class,” the nurse snaps, sharp heels clacking against tile. “We’re running out of time!”

A pause.

Then that other voice—“Those were of age. You know the rules. Higher classmen are prioritized.”

The nurse huffs, a sound of disbelief wrapped in pride. “Prioritized? For what—”

The sound that follows isn’t human.

A crash. The door slams shut with a metallic echo that rattles through the floor, followed by a short, choked gasp—then silence.

Yoongi freezes.

Um. Hello? his mind whispers stupidly. Is anyone gonna tell me what the fuck that was?

He peels his eyes open just enough to see.

The nurse—her back against the wall. Her hands clawing weakly at the wrists pinning her there.

And the one holding her—tall, terrifyingly still, her dark hair falling across her face. Yoongi recognizes her, vaguely, from the hallways. A substitute teacher maybe. Or something that only pretended to be.

Her fingers dig into the nurse’s throat, unbothered by the gasps and the scrabbling nails. Her expression doesn’t even change. Calm. Blank. Predatory.

The nurse makes a strangled sound, half-protest, half-plea.

Yoongi’s stomach drops. Oh shit! His instinct screams don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t be seen.

His heartbeat pounds so loud it feels like it’s inside his skull. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

He flinches when the woman finally releases her grip. The nurse drops like a rag doll, gasping and choking on her own breath.

The sound is horrible.

The other woman crouches, movements slow, precise, deliberate. Her eyes glow slightly, “Be quiet,” she hisses, “And let him sleep.”

Who’s him.

Oh. Oh god.

Yoongi’s brain catches up half a second too late. 

Him is me.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, lashes fluttering. I’m asleep. I’m totally asleep. Deep coma-level sleep.

He even adds a tiny snore for realism, which is maybe the dumbest decision he’s ever made, but his panicking brain decides it’s acting.

There’s a soft, disgusted scoff.

“Pathetic,” the woman mutters.

Yoongi wants to agree but doesn’t dare move a muscle.

He hears the shuffle of the woman’s boots against the tile, then the faint drag of fabric as she grabs the nurse by the chin.

“Do you understand who’s in charge now?” the woman says.

Yoongi cracks an eyelid just barely enough to peek. Her hand looks delicate but it’s holding the nurse’s jaw like she could crush it between her fingers.

The nurse doesn’t answer. Tears streak her face, and Yoongi’s gut twists because, like, yeah—same, girl.

The woman laughs. A low, mocking sound that makes the fluorescent lights flicker. “You’re young, aren’t you?” Her gaze drops to the nurse’s name tag. 

A pause. 

“I should take you with me.”

What does that even mean. Take her where. No, actually—don’t tell me.

He’s breathing through his nose, small and shallow, praying she can’t hear the tremor in it.

The woman’s tone shifts—“I love taming disobedient little brats.”

Oh my god, what is THISSS.

Yoongi’s brain short-circuits between sheer terror and the absurdity of the sentence. He’s this close to hysterical laughter.

Then—crack.

The slap echoes so loud he jerks, almost giving himself away. His heart leaps into his throat. He bites the inside of his cheek to stay silent.

The nurse lets out a strangled noise, followed by the sound of stumbling footsteps. Yoongi doesn’t open his eyes this time. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t dare.

He just stays there, perfectly still under the too-thin blanket, every nerve wired and screaming—don’t move, don’t look, don’t be next.

Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice—half-exhausted, half-panicked—mumbles, yep, definitely should’ve killed yourself.

Without warning, the woman seizes the nurse’s hair—fist twisting cruelly, yanking until the nurse lets out a strangled yelp.

Yoongi’s stomach drops. Am I still dreaming?

Everything feels too vivid. He wants to wake up so badly it hurts.

“I won’t let you take that poor boy,” the nurse gasps, voice shaking, breath uneven. It sounds like defiance and begging all at once.

The woman’s smirk twitches. She tilts her head, pretending to coo. “Oh,” she hums mockingly, “you won’t let me?”

Then she laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that doesn’t sound human, low and breathy and too amused for what’s happening.

Yoongi feels her eyes shift. He knows without looking that she’s staring right at him. He can feel it. 

Nope. Not awake. Not here. Full corpse mode. I’ve left the chat.

The woman’s voice drops to a condescending whisper, “Were you going to wake him up? Tell him to run? To get out of here?”

A pause.

“Of course you wouldn’t be this stupid without motive.”

The woman’s hand rises—Yoongi catches a flash of red, her nails streaked with blood as she cups the nurse’s cheek in something almost tender.

Almost.

Her glare sharpens. Her breathing grows heavier, eyes flicking toward Yoongi’s bed for a fleeting second. His entire body locks up. She’s looking at me. Oh my god, she’s looking at me.

Then she turns back.

The nurse lets out a wet, choked sound.

The woman’s voice drops “Let me remind you,” she hisses, “These orders come from Him.”

Yoongi’s reaction—his actual reaction to that—is:

Oh my god. The nurse is getting assaulted because I didn’t go to class.

I’m the problem. I should’ve gone to math. Oh my god, I should’ve gone to math.

The woman’s grip tightens on the nurse’s hair. “Do you understand?”

No answer comes—not even a breath.

And then—

A shift in the air. A sound of a body getting lifted. Footsteps. Then nothing.

He waits.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Then, carefully, like a guilty child sneaking a glance during hide and seek, Yoongi cracks one eye open.

The room is empty.

No woman. No nurse.

The silence is horrible.

Gone. They’re gone.

He sits up. Slowly. Like moving too fast might summon her back. Like maybe she’ll drop from the ceiling if he breathes wrong.

His hoodie is sticking to his back with that post nap warmth.

The only proof anything even happened is the overturned rolling chair in the corner and the faint outline of fingernail gouges on the desk.

Yoongi’s brain does not know what to do with this information. So instead: He blanks. Hard.

His head empties out.

And all that’s left is: She’s not even a real nurse.

That’s the first coherent thought he has. It sounds stupid immediately, but it sticks.

She’s not. She wasn’t even wearing proper scrubs. Just the same sad white polo she’s worn every year since he was a freshman.

All she’s ever done is hand out allergy pills and write tardy slips for kids with cramps.

She gave him an ice pack once. When he twisted his ankle at track.

Didn’t even say “you’ll be okay.” Just tossed it to him and told him to sit on the bench.

And now—

She’s getting manhandled by a fucking supernatural woman because of him?

Yoongi swallows hard. He touches his forehead like he’ll suddenly remember being sick.

No fever. No headache. No nothing.

It’s like—like whatever was wrong with him this morning evaporated while he was asleep.

All he wants is to go back to bed. His bed.

Not this weird vinyl nurse cot in the back of the school infirmary that smells like cleaning spray and dust.

His bed. With the weighted blanket and the pink stuffed cow. The one he swore he didn’t want, but now he sleeps with curled under his chin.

He wants to crawl under that blanket, squeeze the cow, and delete today from his life.

And maybe drink some water.

And maybe cry into a pillow.

And maybe—

Definitely—

Never come back here again.

He spends the next hour drifting in and out of sleep. Not real sleep. Not deep. Just—floaty. The kind where he forgets where he is every single time he opens his eyes.

He turns his face into the pillow, then away from it, then back again. His sleeve is warm against his cheek. The nurse bed creaks every time he shifts, but he doesn’t care. His legs curl up instinctively, socked feet brushing against cool sheets. He’s not even pretending to be tough anymore. 

He’s just tired.

At one point, he wakes up convinced he’s in his own bedroom, and he almost murmurs something about the nightlight before remembering there is no nightlight. Just the flickering ceiling bulb.

He snuffles quietly. Rubs his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. Whimpers once, unconsciously, and then immediately goes limp again.

And then—

A hand on his shoulder.

Gentle, but real. Not a dream this time.

He startles slightly, blinking blearily as reality hits him.

A blurry silhouette leans over him. Someone says his name.

Yoongi makes a quiet, confused sound and squints up at them, lips pouted and face smushed from the way he’d been sleeping.

“…mmh?”

He curls up tighter, as if maybe whoever it is will take pity and let him stay. 

(They don’t.)

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The voice is syrupy-sweet. Too sweet. Rotten-sweet.

Yoongi head lolls to the side, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks  When he blinks up, it takes him a second to focus. 

The woman above him tilts her head and smiles.

It’s her.

The woman from check-in.

Yoongi goes still. His eyes flicker across her face, searching for… anything. An explanation. A mask. A tell. But her expression is unreadable—calm, too calm, except for the slight curl of amusement at the corners of her mouth.

She doesn’t look guilty. She looks pleased.

She’s already forcing him upright, too fast for his sleepy limbs to follow. His spine curls protectively as he’s guided up into a seated position, blinking against the bright hellish light of the room.

“There we go,” she coos, brushing hair back from Yoongis face, “Time for class.”

Yoongi rubs at his eyes, still half-asleep. His heart is beating too fast for how tired he is.

He doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t. Just nods, a quiet, automatic thing—like he’s  worried she’ll do something worse if he doesn’t comply.

His hands fumble with the zipper of his bag. The fabric catches once, twice. His fingers are cold. He has to breathe through it. He tries not to let her see how shaky he is.

She doesn’t offer help. Just waits.

Once he finally gets the strap over his shoulder, she moves toward the door and holds it open for him like nothing’s happened. Like this is normal.

Yoongi walks in silence.

The woman doesn’t speak as she leads him down the corridor, and neither does he.

The hallways are emptier than they should be at this hour. Not quiet—just wrong.

Then a scream.  Far-off. Echoed. Muffled by stone walls and distance.

Yoongi flinches.

It’s not the first one. It won’t be the last.

The woman beside him doesn’t even blink.

Yoongi slows just a step, gaze lowering to the floor. His shoes squeak. Another scream comes—shorter this time. Thinner. Like someone gave up halfway through.

Yoongi doesn’t recognise the voice. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

All he knows is that someone got chosen. Again.

A single tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t brush it away.

He feels bad for them.

For whoever it was. For how scared they must be. For how nobody’s coming to help.

He doesn’t cry for himself, not really. Just for the others. For the soft, human part of him that still dares to ache for someone else.

They turn the final corner.

Fourth period.

The door is already open—just barely. The woman nods toward it, her face unreadable.

Yoongi hesitates.

Then, swallowing hard, he steps inside.

The classroom falls silent the moment he enters. Every eye is on him.

Not in a normal way. Not like someone walking in late.

This is something else.

He sees it in their faces—tension, anxiety, a flash of something that looks like pity. Or maybe fear. Or both.

No one says a word.

Yoongi freezes in the doorway, gripping the strap of his backpack with white-knuckled fingers.

Oh god.

This is worse. This is somehow worse.

He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Someone shifts uncomfortably in the back row. Someone else looks away too quickly.

Yoongi swallows and forces his legs to move.  His seat is in the middle. Of course it is. He lowers himself into the chair slowly, carefully. 

He can feel people watching him from behind. The back of his neck prickles.

And just as he starts to exhale—just as the chair creaks under his weight and the worst of the moment feels like it’s about to pass—

The door creaks open again.

Every head turns.

Yoongi doesn’t.

He stares down at his desk, trying to act normal, trying to disappear, trying not to breathe too loud.

In the middle of the panic, the sympathy, the exhaustion that’s still clinging to the corners of his eyes—

One very clear, very resigned thought runs through his head:

I think I’m in deep shit.

Chapter Text

Yoongi feels them before he hears them.

They’re here.

He even have to look up.

The door clicks shut behind whoever-whatever just walked in.

Eyes. He can feel them. Too many. Too intense. Like standing on a stage with the lights in your face.

He breathes in—mistake, huge mistake, catastrophic mistake—

Because the scent in the room isn’t the same anymore.

Moments ago, it was the usual high school miasma: sweaty teenagers, leftover starch fumes, stress hormones, someone’s tragic deodorant choice.

Brother eughhhhhh.

Now it’s something else entirely.

Layered. Strange. A mixture of sharp ozone, something smoky, something almost sweet. It’s like cologne made out of the urge to run for your fucking life.

He tries not to breathe too deep, but his body does it anyway. Nose flaring like it’s searching for something.

He doesn’t know why.

Yoongi glances up. Just for a second.

And freezes.

There are seven of them. Men and woman.  Not all together—some lean against walls, others sprawl into seats. But they feel powerful. Like parts of a singular thing.

None of them are in uniform. Or if they are, they’ve torn it up and made it unrecognizable—white button-downs hanging open over black undershirts, jackets stitched with unfamiliar symbols, silver pins glinting at their throats.

Each one of them is different. Completely.

One has long, dark hair tucked behind his ear and a silver ring in his lip that catches the light.

Another is broad-shouldered and sleepy-eyed, his sleeves rolled up over veined forearms and bruised knuckles.

One leans back with his feet kicked up, spinning a pen between his fingers so fast it blurs.

There’s a tall one with bleached eyebrows and a beauty mark under his eye. He’s not even pretending to listen. Just staring—directly at Yoongi—with a slow, unreadable smile.

Yoongi drops his gaze. Quickly. Pretends to dig through his backpack. His fingers are trembling.

What the fuck.

They don’t move like people. Not exactly. Too smooth. Too self-assured. Like they’re playing human, but not really trying to hide the fact that they’re not.

And their skin—

Yoongi stares again, just for a second—

It’s not glowing, but there’s something about it. Hyper-clear. Unreal. Like their bones are made of moonlight and their blood runs warm under a surface so flawless it makes his stomach twist.

They are beautiful but not in a way that feels safe. They are beautiful in the way fire is beautiful. Or wolves. Or cliffs with no railings.

Yoongi’s throat is dry. And worse—so much worse—his body won’t listen.

He can feel it.

His muscles softening. Pulse skipping for no reason. His neck feels... vulnerable.

He doesn’t know why.

He’s not sick anymore—at least not in the feverish way he was earlier. But now his body feels sensitive. Like every nerve is loud with some stupid, soft awareness that he refuses to acknowledge.

This is stupid.

This is so stupid.

He hunches lower in his chair, face half-hidden behind his hair.

Yoongi doesn’t want to be perceived. Especially not by them.

But he can still feel their eyes. Somewhere in the room. At least one of them is looking.

He just knows.

They’re assessing. Measuring. Wanting. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

There are things Yoongi isn’t supposed to know.

Not because they’re classified or because someone told him not to, but because knowing them doesn’t help. Knowing only makes it worse.

For example—he knows these creatures don’t follow laws.

He knows they don’t adhere to borders, governments, or anything resembling human structure.

He knows they could’ve ended the world by now.

And chose not to.

That’s the part that fucks with him the most.

Not the destruction. Not the disappearances. But the fact that they’re choosing restraint.

That they’re capable of so much worse—and aren’t doing it. Yet.

Yoongi has read articles. Watched interviews. Conspiracy forums, underground clips, half-censored footage buried in public library archives. The unredacted truth isn’t even hidden that well—people just don’t look.

They say these things—whatever they are—don’t think in human terms. They don’t care about morality. Logic. Authority.

And yet they keep humans around. They walk through their cities, governments, and sit it in their classrooms like now, like this—

One of them taps a pen against the desk. Slowly. Like he’s bored. Like he’s waiting for the room to catch up. His mouth moves like he’s humming something low under his breath.

Yoongi doesn’t look at him directly. He learned that much from the videos. Eye contact means attention. Attention means notice. And you don’t want to be noticed.

But even without looking—he knows they’re perfect.

Not in a beautiful way. In an engineered way. The way predators are perfect.

Built by centuries of evolution to out-survive you. Outlast you. Dominate you.

Why would they keep us around?

That’s the question Yoongi can’t get out of his head.

The answer isn’t obvious. They don’t need human labor. They don’t eat them. They don’t seem to want money or power or land.

So why? Why let humans live? Why let them rebuild cities, reopen schools, pretend they’re in control?

Yoongi swallows, throat dry.

He thinks about the nurse. The hallway. The woman's hand at her throat. The way Yoongi had shut his eyes and pretended to sleep.

He’s here because of them.

Which means they know who he is. Which means they’ve already noticed.

Yoongi tries to look casual, tries to act like he’s taking notes, but his hand shakes slightly against the paper. It’s not that he’s afraid—and let’s be clear: he is.

But, it’s more like the air around them makes it impossible to think.

There’s one sitting in the back corner of the classroom, completely still. Not moving. Not blinking. Just… watching.

Another one—dark hair, loose tie, lazy smirk—keeps twirling a pencil through his fingers without ever dropping it. His gaze occasionally flicks toward Yoongi’s row, not always at him, but enough to make the back of his neck feel too warm.

Yoongi looks away.

Then glances back.

Because it’s like that.

Like watching a crime through a window—you know you should look away but you can’t help it.

He doesn’t know if it’s the one closest to him or the one who hasn’t moved in twelve minutes, but something in him shifts.

That deep, sickening twist of animal instinct.

Fight, flight, freeze—

or fold.

Yoongi doesn’t even know why. He’s not even looking directly at them. But still— his posture subtly curls inward.

He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until a classmate leans over and whispers, "Dude, are you okay?"

Yoongi blinks. Nods too fast.

The classmate narrows their eyes like maybe they’re not convinced. But they don’t push.

Yoongi stares back down at his notebook, where he’s written the word “Why” in the margin three times. Then scribbled it out. Then written it again.

He flips the page and tries to breathe.

Yoongi is suddenly aware of how human he looks.

How small. How soft. How mortal.

He can’t un-feel it—can’t un-know that he’s a barely-evolved prey species sitting five feet away from what might as well be apex predators.

Yoongi keeps his eyes glued to his notebook, but he can still feel them.

They look like the kind of people cast to play high school seniors when they’re actually pushing thirty. And Yoongi’s brain can’t stop circling the same question:

How old are they?

Yoongi doesn’t want the answer. Because the answer might be older than countries. Might be older than time.

Yoongi bites the inside of his cheek. Everyone in the classroom is staring at them—at them, not him, which should be a relief, right?

Wrong.

It only makes him sweat more. Because now he’s the only one not staring.

And that means he stands out. Which defeats the entire point of not staring. "Fuck," he whispers under his breath.

He shifts in his seat, trying to look casual, which somehow makes him look way less casual. He fumbles for his water bottle, takes a sip that misses his mouth a little, and internally prays that no one saw that.

(They definitely saw that.)

Yoongi clears his throat like that’ll fix anything. Like that’ll disguise the fact that he’s one sudden movement away from full-on fainting.

It doesn’t.

The tallest one hasn’t moved at all.

Yoongi sneaks a glance—just for a split second—and instantly regrets it.

The guy’s skin is so clear it looks like it was rendered. Not in a makeup or skincare way. In a generated in a lab way. In a never been sick, never been sunburned, never been human way.

His eyes flick in Yoongi’s direction.

Yoongi snaps his gaze back to the desk so fast he gives himself whiplash.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god—

He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

What the fuck was that?

Why did that feel like—

Yoongi curls in on himself a little more. One leg pulls in toward his chest instinctively. His spine goes soft.

This is math. Or history. Or some other class he’s definitely not paying attention to.

"Yoongi Min."

His body jolts. His name—his full name—spoken like a command, not a roll call.

Everyone turns to look at him.

But Yoongi doesn’t move. The voice came from the back row.

Not the teacher.

One of them.

The tall one, maybe. Or the bored one with the smirk. Or the one whose stare hasn’t wavered in twenty full minutes.

Yoongi tries to blink moisture into his eyes, but they just feel hotter.

"...Here," he manages.

A few students glance around, confused. The teacher hasn’t said anything. The attendance sheet hasn’t even started yet.

No one called on him.

Except they did.

Yoongi’s eyes flick up—and suddenly he’s seen.

One of them tilts his head.

Yoongi’s breath catches. He feels goosebumps rise up his arms, beneath his sleeves. The air isn’t cold. In fact, it’s stifling—but his body reacts anyway. His body is reacting before he is.

The tallest one’s shoulder shifts just slightly, the fabric of his jacket stretching taut across an impossible frame. He’s sitting perfectly still, but somehow Yoongi can tell—that guy’s fast.

Like really fast.

Yoongi glances at the teacher for comfort, but it only makes things worse. Because the teacher looks small.

Smaller than Yoongi remembers. Standing at the front of the class like a child.

Yoongi blinks, trying to reset the moment, to go back to being invisible. He shouldn’t have looked up.

He knows that. He knows better.

Fight. Flee. Submit.

He doesn’t know why he thinks that word—submit. He doesn’t want to understand. He’s too scared to think too hard right now.

He reaches for his water bottle again, the motion jerky and too fast, knocking it over with a soft clatter.

No one even moves.

The silence continues.

And then—one of them smiles. Just a faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

It’s not friendly. It’s not cruel.

It’s something else entirely.

Yoongi tries to breathe through his nose, tries to do that thing therapists always say about grounding—five things you can see, four you can feel, three you can touch, two you can scream about in your journal later—

His knees bounce under the desk. He resists the urge to chew his sleeve.

Because what the fuck is happening. What the fuck is happening. What the fuck is happening.

One of them finally turns to whisper something to the one beside him. His voice is too soft for Yoongi to hear, but it makes the others tilt their heads in unison.

Yoongi’s mind wanders before he can stop it—eyes drifting over to them, his father’s warnings, his own instincts, every rule of survival—forgotten. Or maybe just overridden by curiosity.

Or awe.

He notices the women first.

Tall. Striking. Not in the obvious, movie star way. No, this is something... different. One of them matches the height of his teacher exactly, only she stands straighter.

Shoulders rolled back, chin high. Her mouth curves with the kind of calm. The other woman is even taller. Not by much, but enough that Yoongi has to tilt his head to imagine standing beside her. Her arms are crossed, like she’s waiting for someone to give her a reason to snap.

He barely gets time to process it—because then the group moves.

Yoongi watches as the frontmost male—the one with broad shoulders, black hair that almost shines, and a face too symmetrical to be friendly—brushes past the teacher with deliberate force.

And the teacher stumbles. Staggers back. Grabs his shoulder like something’s been dislocated.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t complain. Just lowers his gaze and lets it happen.

Before the teacher can recover, the next two males arrive. One with gleaming silver-blonde hair and narrow, impassive eyes. The other with warm-toned skin and a coppery, reddish-brown buzz cut. Both step clean over the teacher’s crouched form like it isn’t even there.

No glance. No pause. No guilt.

Just... apathy.

No. Worse than apathy. Entitlement.

Yoongi’s stomach twists.

The last two lag slightly behind, but only because they’re annoyed. One glances at the clock like he’s considering smashing it. The other adjusts the cuffs of his uniform shirt. They look bored. Dangerous.

Then—a sigh.

One of the women exhales, long and slow.

And turns.

Her eyes find him.

Yoongi freezes.

Not in a normal, shy-kid way. In a cellular panic way. Like his entire nervous system files for emergency leave.

The woman’s gaze is not cruel or mocking. Just—amused. Intrigued.

She pushes a loose curl behind her ear. Her lips pull into a smirk that could mean anything. Could be flirtation. Could be threat. Could be curiosity in the same way a snake gets curious about a mouse.

Yoongi doesn’t breathe.

She doesn’t look away. Neither does he.

His face flushes instantly—an involuntary betrayal—and he rips his eyes downward, panicking. Staring at his fingers like they’re going to solve this somehow.

Get it together, he tells himself.

She’s just looking. You’re not special. This isn’t about you.

But the blush in his cheeks says otherwise. The pressure of being noticed—not just by her, but by all of them—says otherwise, too.

Something shifts again.

Scented.

There’s no other word for it. It’s like walking into a perfume section with no warning—but the smells aren’t artificial. They’re earthy, animal, magnetic in the worst-best kind of way. Like crushed pine needles and smoke. Like citrus rind.

It hits Yoongi all at once.

He blinks hard, rubs his palm against his chest. His body feels too aware. Like something inside him is waking up. Or tuning to a frequency he never knew existed.

He swallows down the dizziness. Tugs at his sleeves. Pretends he isn’t shaking.

Yoongi isn’t the only one.

The whiteboard marker squeaks faintly as Mr. Si-hyuk draws a shaky underline beneath a phrase in Hangul. The nation of the quiet morning.

The irony is not lost on Yoongi.

Mr. Si-hyuk clears his throat and mumbles something about ancient poetry. Tells the class—almost pleading—that they should “ignore the observers” and focus on the material. Like it’s possible.

Like it’s ever been possible to ignore seven living, breathing question marks.

Yoongi tries. He really tries.

He has his notes out. He’s copying the translation lines. His handwriting is neat. He’s even underlining the phrase structure with the right kind of mechanical pencil, the one with the soft click that doesn’t annoy the people around him. But none of it works.

Because the feeling of being watched is back. And this time, it’s worse.

Yoongi subtly shifts his posture, leaning back in his seat until his shoulder meets the cool wall. He angles his body just enough to get a peripheral view of the rest of the room.

The creatures—whatever they are—remain upright, sharp silhouettes against the dim classroom lighting.

They didn’t even acknowledge the chairs Mr. Si-hyuk had offered earlier. Just stared past him like they didn’t hear. Or didn’t care.

They’ve taken to pacing now. Slow, deliberate movements.

One walks a full loop of the classroom perimeter. Another stands still by the window, looking out with their arms folded, eyes narrowed like they're watching a world no one else can see.

And then there’s him.

The jet-black-haired male.

Yoongi follows his line of sight and—no.

No. Not him.

Not his line of sight.

Because it’s locked—glued—to Jimin.

To his Jimin. His friend. His partner in weird lunch-table rants and accidentally-on-purpose detention schemes and whispered chaos during biology labs.

No. Not my pookie, Yoongi thinks, horrified.

Not like this.

And Jimin—oblivious little traitor—is just sitting there. All delicate wrists and baby pink hoodie and angel-on-earth posture like he’s untouched.

Because that thing—that person, that creature, that whatever-he-is—is staring. Not casually. Not like he’s just curious.

No, this is something else.

Yoongi watches as the male tilts his head slightly, pupils dilating. Like he’s watching something rare. Valuable. Like he’s choosing between reverence and destruction and hasn’t decided which way to fall yet.

Jimin doesn't notice. Or maybe he does and is just pretending not to.

Yoongi grips his pencil tighter.

Then, movement to the left. A flash of brown-black curls. It’s the tall woman again—the one who smirked at him.

She’s passing a manila folder across the aisle, paper packet tucked under two long fingers. The recipient: the blonde male. He flips through the pages like he’s browsing a menu.

Why would they need a packet? Yoongi wonders. Do they even read?

And then—a tickle.

A breath catches in his nose. It prickles—sharp and sudden, no warning.

He sneezes.

Loudly.

The sound echoes through the room.

The air stills.

And then—

Every head turns. Not just his classmates. Not just the humans.

Them. All seven of them.

Yoongi freezes mid-sniffle. Hand still half-covering his face. His heart plummets straight to his knees.

Because now they’re all looking at him.

The jet-black-haired male slowly tears his gaze from Jimin and pins Yoongi with something colder. Sharper.

The girl with the curls lifts a brow. The blonde flips his packet closed with a snap.

And Yoongi—still half-sniffing—feels his cheeks go nuclear.

Oh no.

He gives a very weak smile. Then immediately regrets it.

The silence is so loud.

He looks at his desk. Scribbles something random. Realizes he just wrote "help" in cursive five times in a row.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the woman with the curls still watching him. Not smirking this time.

Just… observing. Like she’s recalculating.

Yoongi wants to fold into himself. Shrink so small he becomes a thumbprint on the floor tile. Why did I sneeze like that, he thinks.

He tries to move as little as possible after that. Pretends he isn’t hyper-aware of every breath he takes. Pretends he isn’t still feeling the burn of a dozen creature stares on the back of his neck.

But he keeps an eye on Jimin. Anyone but himself.

Yoongi squints, sees it—

The tension in Jimin’s jaw. His clenched fists on the desk. The way his lips are parted just slightly, like he’s trying not to breathe too loudly.

And then—the tears. They’re silent. Like they’re scared to fall. But they do. One slow track down the side of his cheek, then another.

No, no, no.

Jimin’s crying. Not openly. Not dramatically. Just—quietly. Devastatingly. Like he’s been holding it in for too long and this is the final crack in the dam. He’s not blinking. Not moving. Just... breaking.

No one else seems to notice.

Not the teacher, who's too busy shaking through his lecture. Not the rest of the class, who are frozen somewhere between horror and denial.

No one—except Yoongi.

And him.

The jet-black-haired creature hasn’t stopped watching. His eyes are still locked on Jimin. Unblinking. Devouring.

Yoongi can’t stand it. He feels it again—something wrong. Something unfamiliar and primal that makes his palms sweat and his skin crawl. He doesn’t know what it is, only that he hates it.

And then—Jimin moves.

Without warning, he stands. His chair screeches backward. His backpack is on his shoulder in seconds. He doesn't look at anyone. Doesn’t say a word.

He just runs.

Out the door. Down the hallway.

Gone.

Yoongi's out of his seat before he can think.

“Yoongi,” Mr. Si-hyuk says in warning, half-heartedly. "The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do—"

But Yoongi’s already grabbing his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

“I’ll write a poem about it later,” he mutters, almost sarcastically. Almost not.

And then he bolts.

He pushes past desks, past the creatures—yes, the actual creatures—and their cold, calculating eyes. He doesn’t wait to see if they follow. Doesn’t care.

Something in him is already spiraling.

His friend is in pain. His Jimin is crying.

He doesn’t stop running. Down the hallway. Left past the lockers. Right at the water fountain. There.

A flash of pink hoodie.

Jimin disappears into a closet—one of those utility broom closets next to the janitor’s office.

Yoongi follows. Slams the door shut behind him without thinking.

And then he’s inside—

Small. Cramped. Dusty. Dim.

The only light is from the flickering emergency bulb near the ceiling.

Jimin is backed into the far corner, breathing hard. His bag's on the floor. His hands are shaking. His eyes are red.

Yoongi freezes in the doorway. "...Hi," he breathes.

Jimin doesn’t say anything.

Yoongi takes a slow step forward. “I, um. I saw you leave. And I didn’t— You were— Are you—”

Jimin turns away, swiping aggressively at his face.

Yoongi’s voice softens. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Silence.

Yoongi presses his back against the door and slowly slides down to the floor, sitting cross-legged like a child. He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. Tries not to look too closely at Jimin’s face.

“I’m so stupid for this,” he mutters under his breath. “I’m gonna get in so much trouble.”

Jimin lets out a shaky laugh. Just one. “Yeah,” he says, voice raw. “Same.”

And then they're quiet.

Two idiots in a broom closet, hiding from things they don’t understand. Still, Yoongi wants to help him somehow. He doesn’t know how— he’s not trained for this, he’s not emotionally stable enough for this, he’s barely functioning himself—but the urge is there.

He’s curious, too—terrified to admit it.

Does Jimin feel watched like I did last night, or am I just being selfish? Am I here to comfort him… or because I don’t want to be alone before he disappears forever?

Jimin looks like he’s going to collapse. His breathing is shallow and sharp, his fingers trembling around something Yoongi can’t quite see yet.

Yoongi steps forward, trying to keep his voice soft. “Jimin…?”

And then he sees it.

Children’s scissors. Blunt, colorful plastic handles. The kind kindergarteners use for paper crafts. Even more heartbreaking because of how harmless they’re supposed to be.

Yoongi stops breathing.

“Am I interrupting or—do I need to leave or—” He can’t catch his breath.

Jimin’s fingers tighten around the scissors, knuckles white.

Yoongi doesn’t think — he just moves.

He lunges forward and smacks the scissors out of Jimin’s hand. They clatter across the floor, spinning twice before stopping against the baseboard. A tiny smear of red streaks the marble.

“Don’t—” Yoongi stammers, voice trembling. “Don’t be stupid.”

He immediately winces. Wrong word. Wrong tone.

“Wait — I didn’t mean—just don’t do that, okay? It’s… it’s—”

It’s me being a hypocrite.

He stands there, awkward and small and terrified, hands half-raised like he regrets touching anything at all. Jimin’s face crumples.

Yoongi kneels beside him, gently taking Jimin’s wrist. “Let me see.”

Jimin doesn’t resist. There’s only one cut — one deep, angry line where the skin opens too easily, blood sliding down his wrist in a thin, bright line. But it’s deep. Too deep for blunt scissors. Too deep for something like Jimin should ever be holding in a school closet.

“Well then,” Yoongi whispers under his breath.

Jimin’s voice cracks. “I’m never going to see my family again. Bad things are going to happen to me. And it’s better if I end it now.”

Yoongi’s breath catches. His fingers tremble as he presses a cloth (a folded sleeve from his backpack) to Jimin’s wrist.

“I’m never going to see my little brother grow up,” Jimin continues, “I’m never going to kiss my mama goodbye. She’ll be alone.”

He licks the tears streaming down his face, like he’s embarrassed to let them fall.

Yoongi feels something inside him split clean down the center.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. For a moment, it’s just breathing — shaky, uneven, too human breaths.

Finally, Yoongi whispers, “Do you feel watched? Like I do?” His voice is barely sound, “I feel it too—”

He’s cut off by a broken whimper.

“He’s been watching me,” Jimin breathes, eyes tightly shut. “I know he has.” His lower lip trembles. His shoulders curl inward. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, embarrassed. “This must be… so awkward.”

Yoongi’s throat tightens painfully.

Awkward?

Jimin is shaking, bleeding, terrified—and his first concern is Yoongi’s discomfort?

Yoongi’s eyes fill instantly. A thick tear slips down his cheek without warning. He hates that he cries when others cry—hates it, hates it, hates it—but his body doesn’t listen.

He swallows hard. His chest heaves once. He wants to wrap his arms around Jimin. He wants to tuck him into his hoodie and tell him he’s safe. He wants to stop this day, this year, this entire world.

But he can’t.

All he can do is sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush.

“Ever since last night, I’ve felt watched,” Jimin whispers, barely audible over the sound of his own breathing. “Then a van followed me to school, and then I—”

He trails off, like saying them out loud makes them too real.

His arms tighten around his knees. He tucks his chin to rest on top of them, curled up so small he barely looks like a person anymore. Just a trembling shape on the floor of a janitor’s closet, next to a streak of blood and a pair of toy scissors that will never be the same.

“He’s been watching me since yesterday,” Jimin says, quieter now. “They’re not even allowed to do that.”

Yoongi watches the way Jimin’s lip shakes, the way his voice folds in on itself.

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?

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust himself to.

Because deep down, he knows.

He knows the way it felt last night—that prickling sensation like invisible fingertips pressed against the back of his neck.

Jimin is definitely getting chosen.

Yoongi looks him in the eyes.

And says nothing.

Because saying anything—anything hopeful—would be cruel. False comfort is just another kind of punishment in this world. And he won’t give Jimin hope if all it’s going to do is break him even more later.

So he says the only thing that feels true: “I’m sorry.”

It’s all he has.

Yoongi shifts closer, eyes drifting to Jimin’s wrist again. The blood has bled through the black fabric of his hoodie, soaking into the cuff.

He winces. “Listen to me now.” His voice cracks. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to fix this. But you’re bleeding, and I can’t let that get worse.”

Jimin doesn’t answer, doesn’t argue. He just stares at the floor like it’s miles away. His eyes are glassy. His mouth is soft. There’s something about the way he looks in this moment— tear-streaked, flushed, half-silent—that makes Yoongi want to scream and protect him at the same time.

It’s not fair. It’s so not fair.

“Let me help you with this,” Yoongi says, reaching into his backpack.

He rummages through candy wrappers, torn notes, and one ancient USB before finally pulling out a crumpled ziploc bag.

Inside: one extremely uncool first-aid kit. It’s small and plastic and shaped like a cartoon ambulance. When he unzips it, pastel purple gauze and Paw Patrol band-aids.

Jimin squints at it. “…Are those—”

“I didn’t pack it for you,” Yoongi snaps defensively. “It was just there. Emergency preparedness. Whatever. Shut up.”

Jimin lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

Yoongi gently presses a sterile pad to his wrist, wrapping the purple bandage around it with shaking hands. It’s not perfect — it’s slightly crooked, and he uses way too much tape — but it’s something.

“Purple’s your color anyway,” Yoongi whispers , avoiding his gaze.

Jimin’s eyes stay on him. “Thanks,” he says softly.

Yoongi doesn’t say you’re welcome. He says: “It’s lunch now.”

Jimin blinks.

“We have five minutes before we’re required to be in the cafeteria,” Yoongi continues. “If you don’t show up, the school and everything outside goes on lockdown. That’s the protocol.”

His voice goes quieter. “And let’s be honest… you’re going to be taken.”

The silence after is devestating.

Jimin’s shoulders rise and fall with a shaky breath.

Yoongi looks away. He doesn’t want to say it like that—not so blunt, not so cold. But sugarcoating it won’t save him.

“Stay with me, okay?” he says. “Just… for now.”

A beat.

Then Jimin nods. “Okay.” His voice is so small it barely counts. But he nods again, looking up at Yoongi with eyes like glass dolls. Pale and wide and fragile.

The bandage is snug around his wrist now. Purple, with tiny cartoon dogs smiling through the blood.

And then footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, spine-chilling steps—like someone wants them to hear. Like whoever’s approaching is bored with the idea of subtlety and would rather scare the shit out of people.

Yoongi freezes. Jimin’s breath hitches in his ear.

The nose pressed to his neck—shaky, humid—is the only real thing in the world right now. Yoongi’s hand curls instinctively around Jimin’s shoulder, like he could somehow shield him from the hallway. From the noise. From them.

The steps stop.

Right outside the door.

Jimin shifts, barely, but it’s enough. Enough for Yoongi to catch a glimpse of his face. His expression is pure panic. Mouth parted. Lips trembling. Eyes blown wide like a deer.

Yoongi wants to say something. Anything. He doesn’t get the chance.

Because the door swings open.

Yoongi knows it’s him before he even registers the face. That creature. The one with the eyes too sharp and the jawline that could cut glass. Jet-black hair, cut close on the sides, longer on top. Crisp uniform. Matte black boots.

His eyes scan the room—calculating, clinical, and land on Yoongi and Jimin—in the corner like two kids hiding from a thunderstorm—and stay there.

For a beat too long.

Then he moves. Fast. Before Yoongi can even blink, the guy reaches out and grabs him by the collar. Lifts him.

Yoongi’s back slams into the metal wall with a muffled clang, his feet scrabbling against the mop bucket. He lets out a wheezy gasp.

“Hey—hey—okay,” Yoongi whimpers out, voice cracking. “P-please don’t hurt me.”

The man leans in. Too close. Closer than anyone should be. His breath smells like something expensive. His eyes are unreadable—cold, calculating, with a flicker of something not quite human under the surface. Not cruel exactly. Just… deciding.

Yoongi freezes.

The man’s voice is a growl, low and controlled, like the warning sound a predator makes when it’s not quite sure whether it’s going to kill you or just scare you senseless.

“Explain.”

That’s it. One word. One syllable.

Yoongi’s brain screams: LIE. LIE. THINK, IDIOT.

“I—I scratched myself,” Jimin blurts. “On the screw. The one by the—by the water fountain. Earlier.”

The man doesn’t even look at him. Not at first. But something shifts.

A beat.

Then he lets go.

Yoongi collapses forward, catching himself on the shelf beside the mop bucket. He coughs—wheezes—and Jimin reaches for him on instinct, steadying him with trembling fingers.

The man straightens.

Presses two fingers to the device at his ear. He mutters something low and fast in a language Yoongi doesn’t recognize—consonants thick, vowels strange. He sounds annoyed.

Then he leaves.

No further questions. No threats. No look back.

Just turns on his heel and vanishes into the hallway like he was never there at all.

The closet door swings slowly closed behind him.

Click.

Yoongi leans against the wall, trying to get his breath under control. His chest still hurts where the guy grabbed him. He swears there’s a dent in the wall. Probably in his soul, too.

Jimin slumps down beside him. Still pale. Still dazed.

Neither of them speaks for a moment.

“Well,” Yoongi says eventually, voice hoarse. “That went great.”

Jimin doesn’t respond.

Yoongi looks down.

Jimin’s hand is still trembling. His wrist is wrapped in purple gauze, now smeared with new blood where the fabric tugged loose.

Yoongi’s throat tightens. The adrenaline crash hits all at once.

That was close. Too close.

And not just because of the blood. Not just because they got caught. Not even because of the stare.

It’s the helplessness.

The fact that someone like that can just do that—walk into a room, grip your collar like you’re weightless, and leave without consequence. Like you’re already property. Like you’re already his.

Yoongi wipes his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I thought he was gonna kill me.”

“I think he still might.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “Cool. Coolcoolcool.”

They sit in silence for a long beat.

Yoongi finally pulls his knees to his chest. “I can’t save you,” he says quietly. “I know that. But I’ll stay. As long as I can.”

Jimin looks at him like he wants to argue, but he’s too tired for it. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do.”

He forces a smile, crooked and tiny and absolutely not convincing. “Besides… if someone has to be the idiot who gets tackled by a nightmare creature, might as well be me.”

A tiny squeak of a laugh escapes Jimin. It dies immediately, but Yoongi counts it.

He reaches for the door handle—and hesitates. Neither of them wants to be the first one to open the world back up.

“On three?” Yoongi whispers.

Jimin sniffles. “Can we do… five? I need more warning.”

“Five is fine.” Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut.

“Okay. Five… four… three… two—”

He doesn’t finish the one. He just pushes the door open because he’s a coward and also impatient and also maybe if he does it fast enough the monsters won’t be waiting.

The hallway feels colder now.

Jimin steps out first—and immediately wavers.

Yoongi’s hand shoots out without thinking. “Careful.”

Jimin nods, wiping his face with his sleeve, pretending it’s about balance and not… everything else.

The school lights flicker like they’re about to give up. There’s a girl crying into her locker three doors down. A boy hurries past them with a tray of lab equipment like if he keeps his head down hard enough the world won’t notice him. Someone slams a locker in that brittle, too-loud way that means they’re trying not to panic.

Yoongi feels Jimin shift closer—not grabbing, not clutching, just hooking his fingers into the sleeve of Yoongi’s hoodie. Like a kid in a grocery store aisle reaching for the back of their mom’s jacket.

Yoongi pretends he doesn’t notice. (He notices. He absolutely melts. His ears go pink. He tries to walk normally but ends up doing that awkward soft-steps thing like he’s afraid of jostling Jimin too hard.)

They pass the janitor’s closet again, and Yoongi winces. He knows his shoe scuffed the baseboard when the creep slammed him into it. There’ll probably be a weird dent.

Yoongi should say something.

Something normal. Something comforting. Anything.

“…Sooo,” he says, “That was… a lot. Um.”

Jimin wipes his nose. “Yeah.”

“Like… top ten worst closets I’ve ever been in.”

Jimin snorts, tiny and wounded. “How many closets have you been in?”

Yoongi shrugs, casually. “I’m always in a closet.”

Jimin stops walking. Side-eyes him. “I know what you are.”

Yoongi raises a brow, but his mouth quirks. “Yeah?”

Jimin’s staring at him. Eyes red, voice scratchy. “Are you—”

Yoongi raises a brow. “Am I what?”

“You know.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “A virgin? No, I wish…”

Jimins brows furrow but doesn’t really think too hard about that comment. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi sighs like he’s being asked to explain why the sky is blue. “I like who I like,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact. “If someone’s fine shit, they’re fine shit.”

Jimin’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “…So you like men.”

Yoongi glances at him sideways. Not defensive. Not surprised. Just quiet.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do.”

“I also like women.”

Jimin blinks. “Oh.”

Yoongi gives him a flat look. “You sound disappointed.”

“No!” Jimin squeaks. “I just—like. I thought you were gay.”

Yoongi hums. “A lot of people do. Must be the vibe.”

“It is absolutely the vibe.”

“Well, thanks, I guess. But, I like people.”

Jimin stares at him. Yoongi doesn’t meet his eyes.

“If your fine shit’s fine,” Yoongi adds with a shrug. “Then your fine shit’s fine.”

A pause. Then—

“…What does that even mean,” Jimin mumbles, but his voice cracks at the end, almost a laugh.

“It means if it works, it works,” Yoongi says. “I don’t really get why anyone makes it weirder than that.”

Jimin smiles for real this time—crooked, sharp, small. “You’re so unserious.”

“Says the boy who almost passed out in a janitor’s closet.”

“I did not—!”

“You did, actually. You made a noise.”

Jimin hits him in the arm. Yoongi lets himself be hit and doesn’t say anything else.

He’s too busy concentrating on walking like a normal person and not someone who’s currently dying inside. He adjusts the strap of his backpack. Pulls his sleeves over his hands.

They reach the stairs. Yoongi lets Jimin go first.

Jimin pauses on the first step. “You okay?”

Yoongi nods again. Quick. A little too quick. “Yeah. Just—stairs.” He makes a face like stairs are personally victimizing him.

Jimin bites back a smile. “You're such a grandpa.”

“Excuse you,” Yoongi says, “I am full of youthful energy.”

“Prove it.”

Yoongi raises his brows. Then takes a single step. Groans dramatically. “Ow. My hip.”

Jimin laughs again.

Then—

“You know,” Yoongi says, voice weirdly casual, “if we die today, I just want it known that I never got to finish building my millennium falcon.”

Jimin blinks. “You own a millennium falcon?”

“Well. Half of one. It’s from the 2017 reissue. 7541 pieces. I stopped halfway to write a chemistry paper and never went back.” He shrugs, then adds, “I really wanna finish it.”

Jimin doesn’t laugh. But he almost smiles. It’s faint. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Yoongi counts that as a win.

They turn the corner toward the cafeteria. Yoongi slows down.

There’s something about the smell.

It’s not lunch food. Not even the weird microwaved gyoza they sometimes pass off as dumplings. It’s something thicker in the air.

Jimin squeezes his arm gently.

Yoongi nods. Keeps moving.

A few minutes later, they reach the cafeteria.

The overhead lights are too bright. The air too loud. The sound of metal chairs scraping against linoleum is near-constant—squeaks and screeches punctuating low murmurs and scattered laughter like nervous static.

Yoongi leads Jimin toward the back corner table—one near the vending machines, half-shielded by a cracked snack display.

They both sit down. Hoods up. Heads down.

Yoongi opens a pre-cut box of apple slices he grabbed off the lunch cart without thinking. He slides it across the table toward Jimin. Neither of them touches it.

Jimin just stares at the apple slices. His leg won’t stop bouncing.

Over the speakers, the voice begins again. Calm. Collected. Too formal to be comforting.

“Students listed, please stand and make your way to the south hallway doors.”

A list of names follows.

Yoongi looks up instinctively. He scans the long row of folding tables, eyes catching on every movement. So far, only five names have been called.

Two fourth years. One third year. Two second years.

Five kids, quietly plucked from the day.

Yoongi swallows.

Soobin slides into the seat next to him without a word, fingers flying over his phone like nothing’s wrong. His usual hyperfocus is back—screen-glow painting soft shadows across his sharp cheekbones. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge them.

Yoongi doesn’t speak either.

He just watches. Listens.

The cafeteria is buzzing with too-loud conversation—most of it anxious, disguised as normal.

“…they never come back, that’s the thing—”

“—was crying so hard her nose started bleeding—”

“—saw one of them by the gym entrance—full suit, no badge, just stared at me…”

Yoongi tunes most of it out. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He doesn’t want to know.

Then—

Soobin gasps.

A quiet, startled sound—but sharp. Real.

Yoongi immediately turns. “What?”

Soobin blinks, then flicks his phone screen toward them so they can see the message. Just a single sentence, typed fast, screen-dimmed like he’s trying to hide it.

Hoseok was taken during third period.

Yoongi's heart skips a beat in his chest.

“Who?” Jimin asks, barely above a whisper.

“Hobi,” Yoongi says. “He was a third year. You probably didn’t know him.” His voice sounds weird even to himself. “He actually… helped me earlier.”

Jimin blinks at him.

Yoongi shrugs, looking down at the apple slices again. “I felt sick….he calmed me….that’s all.”

He feels stupid suddenly. Stupid for thinking Hobi would still be here. Stupid for getting help from someone who was on a list.

He glances around the cafeteria, scanning the crowd like he might be able to see the hole where Hobi used to sit.

But the place is packed. More than it should be. Usually people spread out across campus for lunch—out on the quad, in classrooms, on the bleachers. But today everyone is here.

Packed shoulder to shoulder. Pressed in like sheep. And still, the list continues.

The speaker calls another name. Then another.

A girl at the far table bursts into tears and has to be physically helped up by her friend.

The creatures don’t come into the cafeteria. Not yet. But their presence is underneath everything. An electric charge in the air.

Jimin leans closer to Yoongi without saying anything, his body instinctively angling toward him.

Yoongi scans the room again, looking for an escape route even though he knows they’re past that point. There are at least two cameras he’s never noticed before. And one of the observers—he swears—isn’t blinking.

He’s trying not to panic.

Minutes pass.

Yoongi watches the apple slices in his tupperware go soft, browning. He doesn’t touch them. He just nudges the container with his finger every now and then.

“…you want one?” he whispers, pushing the Tupperware toward him. “They’re, um… apple-y.”

Jimin gives him the saddest little laugh. “They’re brown, hyung.”

“They’re vintage,” Yoongi whispers back dramatically.

Jimin lets out a tiny giggle—barely there except for the way his shoulders shake. “You’re stupid.”

“And you’re dehydrated,” Yoongi says, unscrewing his water bottle and shoving it at him. “Drink.”

Jimin rolls his eyes but takes a sip anyway. “Bossy.”

Yoongi mutters, “Fragile bean,” and bumps him.

“Takes one to know one,” Jimin says, softer this time.

Before Yoongi can argue, Jimin nudges the bottle back into his chest. “You drink,” he adds, like it’s an order. “You’re doing the most.”

Yoongi blinks. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Jimin says, not buying it for a second. He reaches out and very casually tug-fixes the edge of Yoongi’s hood like it’s been annoying him for the past hour. “My emotionally constipated chia pet.”

Yoongi snorts, caught off guard. “Wow. Rude.”

Jimin’s mouth curls, just a little. “Eat one of your sad little apples and shut up, hyung.”

Yoongi picks at the corner of the apple container again, but his fingers are shaking now. Barely. Just enough for Jimin to notice.

Jimin reaches out and stills them. One soft press of his hand against Yoongi’s wrist. No eye contact. No drama. Just—stop that.

Jimin lifts the apple container and peels the lid back without asking, then plucks one of the soggy brown slices out and bites it.

Yoongi stares at him, horrified.

Jimin chews slowly. Swallows. Then— “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right. That was disgusting.”

Yoongi snorts, head dropping forward. “You actual freak—”

“Vintage,” Jimin echoes, deadpan.

They both almost smile.

Almost.

And then—

BEEP.

The intercom clicks on.

Everyone freezes.

Utensils stop clattering. Breaths pause mid‑inhale.

A mechanical voice—flat, genderless, impossible to read—fills the cafeteria.

“TAKEN CANDIDATE… PARK… JI-WOO.”

Yoongi swallows hard. Someone on the left starts crying. Chairs scrape. A senior girl

stands up, her hands over her mouth.

Five seconds of silence.

Then:

“TAKEN CANDIDATE… KIM… TAEHYUNG.”

Yoongi and Jimin suck in a sharp breath at the same time.

A few kids near the front gasp.

Kim Taehyung, tall, stupidly handsome, captain of the water polo team, someone who always smelled like expensive detergent and chlorine—is standing up slowly.

Shock spreads down his face. Slow. Devastating.

Yoongi swallows hard. Taehyung looks… young. Smaller than Yoongi remembers him being, even though he’s built like someone who could definitely drown you in a pool.

Someone grabs Taehyung’s wrist—his best friend from the swim team—and pulls him into a hug, whispering something into his shoulder that Yoongi can’t hear.

Taehyung nods once. Then twice.

Then folds, just slightly, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Before the room even finishes reacting—

Bzzz—click.

“TAKEN CANDIDATE… LUCIA… HERNANDEZ.”

A second-year.

Quiet. Pretty. Always braided hair and sparkly gel pens. Yoongi has seen her maybe twice in the hallway—smiling, chatting, swinging her bag like she didn’t know the world was ending soon.

Now Yoongi can’t see her at all.

The entire cafeteria turns toward the opposite side of the room, necks snapping in the same direction like a flock of startled birds. But Yoongi’s view is blocked by a solid wall of shoulders, backpacks, and hunched heads.

He hears someone—maybe Lucia herself—let out a small, strangled noise. He can’t tell if it’s a sob or a gasp.

Someone says, “No, no, no—Lucia—no…”

Another voice shushes them.

Yoongi presses a hand to his sternum, trying to hold himself together.

All he can see is the ripple effect—the crowd parting around a girl he can’t fully see, stretching toward the cafeteria doors where two of the creatures stand waiting with unreadable faces.

It hits Yoongi then.

These are goodbyes.

And somewhere beside him, Jimin’s breathing gets shallow. So shallow Yoongi almost mistakes it for silence.

He puts his hand on Jimin’s knee under the table. Lightly. Soft reassurance. Human reassurance. Not enough—but something.

He whispers, “Don’t look.”

“Do you think…” Jimin’s voice cracks. “Do you think I’ll—”

“Hey,” Yoongi cuts him off. “I got you.”

Jimin’s voice cracks. “What if—what if I’m next?”

Yoongi doesn’t lie. He doesn’t tell him he’s safe. He doesn’t pretend the world is fair. He just squeezes Jimin’s hand under the table where no one can see.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jimin swallows hard. “…Promise?”

Yoongi nods. “Promise.”

And then—

The intercom clicks.

“PARK. JIMIN.”

Yoongi’s heart kicks up in his chest—then drops straight into his stomach.

He squeezes Jimin’s hand so tightly their knuckles go white.

Jimin’s body doesn’t move. He’s still leaning against Yoongi’s side, nose pressed somewhere near his shoulder. His fingers twitch in Yoongi’s palm.

And then—slowly, like he’s been expecting it—Jimin straightens. His face is calm. Too calm.

Yoongi’s throat burns. “Don’t—” he chokes, letting his mask slip, fingers catching the sleeve of Jimin’s hoodie. “Don’t go yet. Just—wait. Please.”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns. His eyes are glassy, cheeks pink and tearstained, mouth trembling in that soft way that makes Yoongi want to scream. He leans forward—small and quiet—and wraps his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders.

Yoongi breaks.

He buries his face in the crook of Jimin’s neck, breathing him in like it’s the last clean air he’ll ever get. His hands fist into Jimin’s hoodie like he can anchor him here. Like if he just holds on tight enough, the world will take someone else.

“I don’t want to go,” Jimin whispers. So quietly it almost doesn’t register. “But I think… I think he already chose me.”

Yoongi nods against him. “I know.”

They cling like that for a long moment. Knees touching under the table. Cheeks pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Yoongi’s breath stutters. “Don’t be.”

Jimin sniffles and gives the smallest, saddest smile. And then he rises.

He pats Yoongi’s back twice. Gentle. Familiar. A private code between them that means: I’ll miss you. I’m scared. I love you. Goodbye.

And Yoongi—helpless—lets him go.

He doesn’t cry loudly. Doesn’t scream or throw things. He just lowers his head onto the cold surface of the table, one hand still clutching the edge of Jimin’s hoodie, now abandoned on the seat beside him.

Then, the last name gets called.

“MIN. YOONGI.”

Yoongi tries not to laugh.

Really. He thinks his mind is playing tricks on him. He misheard it. He must’ve. His ears are ringing. There’s no way—

But when he lifts his head slowly from the cafeteria table, every single pair of eyes is on him.

His blood runs cold.

No one speaks.

His knees don’t want to move. His limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

He glances to the side—someone’s dropped their chopsticks. Someone else’s phone is lying face-down on the table. The entire cafeteria is holding its breath.

He grabs his own phone out of habit, almost to prove to himself he’s still real.

He pushes his legs out from under the table. He stands. Wobbles. Stares straight ahead.

It feels like he only moves forward when Jimin does.

Jimin, who had barely made it past the perimeter, already walking in slow steps toward him. His cheeks are soaked. His expression—unbelieving, wide-eyed, and something else. Something protective. Something furious.

He rushes the last few steps. Grabs Yoongi’s wrist. “Yoongi—” he chokes out, eyes frantic. “Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He’s still frozen, still catching up. Still somewhere in the space between that wasn’t my name and I don’t want this to be real.

“This isn’t funny,” Yoongi mutters numbly. “This is—this is not a funny joke.”

“I know,” Jimin breathes. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs Yoongi closer by the sleeve, gently hooking their arms together, soft and protective like the way he’d always looped them together when they walked home late from class.

Then—something unexpected.

Jimin reaches up and brushes a thumb under Yoongi’s eye. Pulls back with a quiet gasp “You’re crying.”

Yoongi hadn’t even noticed.

His breath hitches. It feels thick in his throat, the kind of sob he hasn’t learned how to swallow yet.

And then Jimin leans close. Presses his mouth near Yoongi’s ear. His voice barely carries.

“It’s my turn to help you.”

Yoongi breaks. Not loudly. Not all at once.

There’s a look on his face—dazed and young and scared—that Jimin sees and answers with a tug.

“I got you,” Jimin whispers, guiding him forward.

Taehyung is already waiting at the front of the cafeteria.

His back is straight like he’s trying to be strong, but his eyes are red and glassy. Lucia joins him a moment later, biting the inside of her cheek so hard it looks like it might bleed. She clutches a notebook to her chest, trembling.

They both look like they’re trying not to cry. They both look like they’re failing.

Yoongi wants to say something to them—but his voice won’t come out.

Instead, he walks.

Each step is soft, careful, like if he moves too loud something terrible will happen faster.

Everyone is still watching. It’s not just pity in their eyes—it’s fear. It’s grief.

Yoongi’s legs tremble. He feels it in his knees, his thighs, the way the soles of his shoes skid just a little too hard on the floor. He keeps walking anyway.

Not because he’s brave, but because Jimin is next to him. And because his body is on autopilot.

He can feel them watching—the creatures, if that’s even the right word.

The tall one, the blond-haired one, doesn’t move. Just tilts his head in that way predators do when they’re assessing something small.

He’s never been so aware of his body. The way it trembles. The way it twitches under pressure.

All he can think about is his sister.

He cranes his neck, scanning the sea of heads, trying to find her. A ponytail. A hoodie. Something.

But she isn’t there. Or maybe she is and he just can’t see her through the blur in his eyes.

He swallows thickly. Tries not to imagine her searching for him. Tries not to think about what she’ll eat for dinner. Whether she’ll notice he left his charger at home. Whether she’ll sleep in his bed just to feel safe.

He blinks hard. Keeps moving.

When he reaches the front of the cafeteria, the other chosen students are quiet. Their expressions say everything: this is real. this is happening.

Jimin is trying to pretend he’s not crying. His lashes are clumped together. His nose is pink.

The creatures gesture. A single motion from one of them—sharp and silent like a command in a language only they know.

Yoongi flinches. His feet start to move again, even though he doesn’t remember telling them to.

The group is ushered into the hallway. Not a single student dares to follow.

The second they cross the threshold, the cafeteria doors swing shut behind them.

Clang.

Yoongi jumps. The sound is louder than it should be.

His mind is racing—images, worries, useless questions.

He thinks about the apple slices still sitting in his lunchbox. He thinks about the socks he didn’t match this morning. He thinks about the way Jimin looked at him when his name was called. And how that might be the last time anyone ever looks at him like that again.

They walk in silence, side by side.  It’s not the silence of friendship. It’s not the silence of shared jokes or mutual comfort.

It’s the silence of two people who have never felt so small.

Two people who don’t know if they’ll be alive in five hours. They don’t know what’s going to happen to them.

That’s the worst part.

Yoongi wants answers, but also—he doesn’t. Some things feel too dangerous to ask.

Like: What are we being taken for? Will they separate us? Will they hurt us? What even are we?

He has this horrible, stupid thought: Bro I don’t even have my math homework done.

Jimin rubs his thumb in circles against Yoongi’s hand.

Yoongi matches him without thinking. “What do you think happens next?” he whispers.

Jimin’s voice is steady in that careful way. “No clue.”

“Like… a bus?” Yoongi risks, “Or—like a test? Blood? I’m not great with needles, so if I pass out, just… tilt my head or whatever.”

Jimin huffs something that wants to be a laugh and fails. “I’ll tilt your head.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi says, still crying.

They walk past the trophy case. Year after year of victories gleam behind glass—names etched in little plates, immortal in the dumbest possible way.

Yoongi thinks of his pink cow on his bed. He thinks of the window he forgot to latch.

He also thinks of how none of the creatures have blinked in a while. Or maybe they have and he keeps missing it.

Their eyes don’t feel human. Not in a monster way, just… focused. Like they measure things most people can’t see. Like they can hear the hinge in his knee and the catch in his breath and the exact second Jimin squeezes his hand a fraction tighter.

He realizes he’s matching his steps to Jimin’s.

He doesn’t know when he started doing that. He doesn’t stop.

Up ahead, the blond-haired one slows—just slightly—when Taehyung falters. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. But the pace eases half a notch, and the whole group adjusts around that without anyone saying a thing.

It’s terrifying. It’s… considerate.

Yoongi hates that he notices both.

At the next turn, two more are waiting. Standing like bodyguards. Their faces are stone.

One’s hair is that pale gold that only exists in commercials. The other wears a ring that looks more like a seal than jewelry. They don’t move when the group approaches.

“Yoongi,” Jimin whispers, barely a breath. “Look at me.”

He does. Because he can. Because if he looks at Jimin he can’t see anyone else.

“We’re walking,” Jimin says softly, “We’re still walking. Breathe.”

“We’re still walking,” Yoongi echoes, slightly dazed like it’s the beginning of a panic attack.

They pass the nurse’s office. The door is closed. For a second, Yoongi swears he hears a muffled voice on the other side—angry, scared, stubborn. He stares at the seam of the door until it blurs. He doesn’t look back when they turn the corner.

“Hey,” he tries again, because words are a rope. “If it’s a bus, sit with me?”

“I’m not leaving you,” Jimin says, immediate. “And if I do, I’ll find you. And if I’m dead, i’m still finding you.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, so fast it’s embarrassing.

He finds himself cataloguing details like it’ll save him later: scuff on the floor near room 214, the way sunlight hits the glass block at this time of day, the tiny nick on Jimin’s thumbnail where the scissors slipped.

They reach the end of the hall.

Double doors. The kind that lead outside.

He can see the winter light through the narrow windows—thin, blue, and bright.

He can see the faint shape of a black vehicle beyond the glass and the edge of a white tent he’s never seen set up on school grounds before. He can hear wind. He can’t hear birds.

The tallest creature pushes one door with two fingers. It swings open soundlessly.

Cold air rushes in.

Yoongi’s body does a strange thing—half flinch, half relief.

Taehyung and Lucia step when told without being told.

The woman at the back pauses, listening to something Yoongi can’t hear, then nods once like the answer pleases her.

They don’t know where they’re going. They don’t know what the rules are. They don’t know what word would explain why both of them keep instinctively catering to each other.

There’s just the outside ahead, and the smell of rain on concrete, and the sense that their world is about to change.

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?