We were ships in the night

The Quiet Game

The drive was quiet, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the distant rhythm of the city slipping past. Streetlights cast their glow in fleeting strokes across Seokjin’s face, pale gold, then shadow, then gold again, painting him in a slow pulse of stillness. Namjoon’s hands rested easily on the wheel, his gaze forward, every movement deliberate, composed.

They had entered an upscale neighborhood, where the roads were wider and the air seemed cleaner, touched by faint traces of cedar from the manicured trees that lined the street. Seokjin recognized it vaguely, something about the skyline felt familiar, but the place itself still carried a foreign hush.

The car slowed, stopping before a modern structure still in its skeleton phase. Steel frames reached upward like bare branches, scaffolding encircling the future. A faint buzz of security lights flickered across the gravel. Namjoon stepped out first, rounding the hood with quick, assured strides, and opened Seokjin’s door before he could reach for the handle.

Seokjin exhaled, the cool night air settling over him like silk. It was oddly peaceful here, the noise of traffic distant, the scent of wet concrete grounding him. He didn’t ask why they’d stopped. He didn’t need to. Namjoon’s gestures always carried intention; Seokjin had learned that much. And besides, he was content to play along. The night, after all, had turned out to be far more entertaining than he had expected.

“This,” Namjoon began, his voice steady, almost rehearsed, “is where my new penthouse will be. Top floor, overlooking the river. Once construction is complete, I want you to move in here. I believe it will be… better than the place you can afford on your salary.”

The tone was measured, not quite arrogant, but with the unmistakable cadence of ownership. Namjoon’s posture was upright, commanding, silhouetted by the city lights behind him.

The area truly was beautiful. From this vantage, the city stretched in glittering patterns across the horizon, and the Han River shimmered faintly in the distance. It would be a home with a view, a place for people who wanted to see everything yet remain unseen.

Seokjin’s lips curved faintly as he turned toward the city’s blinking expanse. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly. The words were sincere enough to pass as admiration, but his eyes carried something quieter, something patient. The kind of patience one has when waiting for the end of a long, intricate game.

“I just want to keep you close,” Namjoon said, stepping closer. His voice softened, an imitation of vulnerability. “I feel like there could be more between us.”

The breeze caught Seokjin’s hair, brushing it gently across his forehead. For a moment, he let the silence linger, as if considering the weight of Namjoon’s words. In truth, he was savoring the moment, the perfect alignment of arrogance and confession, the way control always revealed itself in the smallest slips of sincerity.

“You mentioned that my path is yours to dictate,” Seokjin said at last, turning to meet Namjoon’s gaze. His voice was calm, even. “But how sure are you that you can take on such responsibility?”

Confusion flickered in Namjoon’s eyes, not fear, not yet, but the faint disturbance of someone who suddenly realizes they’ve been asked a question with no easy answer.

“I chose you,” Namjoon said after a pause, regaining his composure. “I made sure to reach out to you first when I came across your profile. I placed you in my department, under my supervision, to keep you close. You working for Lucent wasn’t luck, it was design. My design. You’re talented, yes, but your position, your proximity, that was all me.”

His words came out smooth, deliberate, but Seokjin could hear the tremor of pride underneath. Namjoon thought he was revealing a secret. He thought this was the moment he let Seokjin glimpse the hand pulling the strings.

“You made this happen?” Seokjin asked softly, his expression unreadable. The stillness in his tone made Namjoon hesitate.

He had expected surprise, maybe awe. Instead, Seokjin’s reaction was… muted. Almost bored.

“Yes,” Namjoon said, a bit more firmly this time. “I saw your potential before anyone else did. I built the space for you to succeed. Everything you’ve become in this company, it exists because of me.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The night hummed quietly around them, cicadas in the distance, the soft echo of the city far below.

Seokjin’s gaze drifted past Namjoon, back toward the skyline. His reflection glimmered faintly in the car’s tinted window, his own eyes dark, calm, calculating. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost polite.

“I’d like to return to the office now,” he said. “There’s still work to be done.”

He turned, walking back toward the car, each step unhurried. The rhythm of his stride was composed, his shoulders relaxed. He knew Namjoon would follow, that he wouldn’t be able to resist trying to reassert control. That was the pattern of men like him: dominance mistaken for inevitability.

Just as he reached for the car door, Seokjin paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way,” he said lightly, almost as an afterthought, “I think this would be a wonderful place to live. I just hope it can house more than a few people. It might look a bit suspicious for just two.”

The words hung in the air, deceptively simple.

Namjoon’s grin returned, slow and satisfied. He mistook it for agreement, for surrender. In his mind, Seokjin had just accepted the invitation, had yielded another inch in their quiet, delicate game.

And Seokjin, watching the faint glint of triumph in Namjoon’s eyes, felt something shift inside him. The calm he carried wasn’t submission, it was precision. Every glance, every word, every moment that had led them here had been measured and deliberate.

Namjoon thought he had built this story. But Seokjin knew better. He had only ever given the illusion of authorship, the false comfort of control.

Seokjin smiled faintly to himself as he slid back into the passenger seat. The reflection in the window met his gaze once more, not fractured this time, but whole. Aligned. The night air pressed soft against the glass, and for the first time, the reflection didn’t smirk on its own. It mirrored him perfectly.

Namjoon got in beside him, still radiating quiet satisfaction, still unaware that somewhere between the first glance and this very moment, the strings had changed hands.

As the car purred back to life, Seokjin rested his palm lightly on his knee, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Everything was in motion now, every line, every move, and the city outside, with all its blinking lights, seemed to hum in quiet acknowledgment.

Yes, he thought. The game is almost over.

And Namjoon still has no idea whose turn it truly is.

The drive back to the office is almost wordless. Namjoon has a silly little smile on his face as he quietly navigates through the darkened streets. Seokjin can’t help but mirror his smile. He looks so different like this, softer, almost adorable in the dim light.

The headlights reflect off the passing signs, the streets ghostly quiet. It’s odd even for this time of day. It feels as if the world itself knows to stay still, leaving this moment untouched. No bystanders, no noise, just the hum of the car and the soft rhythm of breath between them.

Seokjin reaches over to adjust the car temperature, watching for any sign of protest from Namjoon, but there’s none. The trust between them hums quietly, fragile, but there. Namjoon slowly reaches over to Seokjin’s side, his movement calculated yet careful. Ever so slowly, his hand settles on Seokjin’s thigh. The tension snaps with a slow sigh from Namjoon at the lack of reaction. His body radiates victory, control. Seokjin allows it, for now. He has always enjoyed this part of the game, watching others mistake comfort for command.

It’s become very clear that people like Namjoon have no idea what true control looks like. They thrive on situational dominance, fleeting and brittle. They mistake attention for power, mistake being watched for being understood, mistake stillness for surrender.

“We’re almost at the company,” Namjoon says, giving Seokjin’s thigh a light squeeze. “I think we should stop for some coffee, real coffee, before we go back. I’ll go through the drive-through, don’t worry.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Seokjin replies, eyes still on the window. “How easily we think we know who’s leading. But sure, coffee sounds nice.”

Namjoon glances at him, slightly puzzled, but doesn’t push it.

As they creep towards the drive-through window of a popular coffee shop, Seokjin takes stock of the car around him. He’s been so absorbed in Namjoon’s next move that he hadn’t noticed just how much of Namjoon fills this space. Sleek lines, soft leather, everything immaculate. Not a folder out of place, not a speck of dust on the carpet. It screams Namjoon, orderly, curated, desperate to be in control.

“I think you should help me decide on some of the interior designs for the penthouse,” Namjoon says casually after placing their order. “I’d love a second opinion. Besides, the space will be yours just as much as mine.”

Seokjin turns slightly in his seat, the car engine sighing beneath the stillness. He says ours so easily, Seokjin thinks. As if ownership were affection. “Hm. I’ll take a look,” he says aloud. Then, after a pause, “When did you decide I was worth noticing?”

“Well, it’s going to sound bad,” Namjoon says with a small laugh, “but I was on my way to a meeting and we passed your school. Jimin said it was recess or something. You were sitting outside in the sun. You looked almost… ghostly, like you were there and not there at the same time. The others in the car didn’t even see you as we passed, even though we were all watching the kids and reminiscing about our own recess days.” He hands Seokjin his coffee with a small smile.

“That was enough for you?” Seokjin asks, genuinely baffled.

“Yes,” Namjoon sighs. “You looked like everything I was missing in my own life. I did do some digging, of course. That probably played a part too.”

“How much did you tell the others?”

“Not much. I just mentioned hearing about you, and the next thing I knew Yoongi was showing me your LinkedIn profile. I took it as a sign. I told them to contact you and… well, here we are.” Namjoon pulls into the company’s parking garage, the soft hum of the engine echoing off the walls.

“So Yoongi found me,” Seokjin says quietly. “The same one who’s been shutting down my every idea. Interesting.” He turns to face Namjoon fully now, the fluorescent lights of the garage cutting harsh angles across his face. “What makes you so certain all of this was your idea, if he found me first?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. The hum of the engine fills the silence between them, steady, oblivious, like it always was.

The hum of the engine fades as Namjoon shifts into park. For a moment, neither of them moves. The garage is dim and cold, the concrete ceiling low enough to press the air down on them.

Seokjin opens his door first. His movements are unhurried, deliberate. By the time Namjoon steps out, Seokjin is already walking toward the elevator. The soft echo of his shoes trails behind him like a pulse.

Namjoon lingers, brow furrowed, the weight of Seokjin’s last words gnawing at him. If Yoongi found him first… then whose plan was this, really? He locks the car, his reflection flashing briefly in the window, fractured, uncertain.

By the time he reaches the elevator, Seokjin is waiting, calm, composed, eyes glinting under the harsh fluorescent light.

“Seokjin, I…” Namjoon begins, but Seokjin lifts a finger to his lips, silencing him with a faint, almost tender smile.

“Hush now. You’re exactly what this family needs, Namjoon,” he murmurs. “Don’t overthink it.”

The elevator dings softly. They step inside. The mirrored walls reflect them infinitely, Namjoon’s confusion multiplying across the surface, Seokjin’s serenity a constant among the copies.

When the doors open again, the familiar office light spills in, too bright, too ordinary. The others turn as the two step out.

“Took you long enough,” Yoongi says, irritation cutting through the air. “We’re backed up with work. Do you have any idea how…”

He stops. The look in Seokjin’s eyes freezes him mid-sentence. Something in that gaze is wrong, too calm, too knowing.

“That’s enough, Yoongi,” Seokjin says quietly. “You’ve had your fun. But I think it’s time we return to normal, don’t you?”

The words land heavy. Yoongi blinks once, twice, and the irritation drains from his face. Something shifts, reverence, recognition, perhaps even devotion. He takes a hesitant step forward.

“It’s alright, love,” Seokjin whispers, voice a balm and a command in one. “You can drop the act. We’re coming home.”

Then it happens all at once, the room breathes in and exhales relief. The others move toward him, drawn like magnets to a forgotten center. They fold into Seokjin’s embrace, laughter breaking the air like glass finally cracking under pressure.

Namjoon stands apart, frozen, watching the impossible reunion unfold.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, Namjoon.” Seokjin turns, his expression soft, pitying, even. “You thought you found me. That you built me. But you never stopped to wonder why every word you said landed exactly where it should. Why every obstacle seemed to draw you closer instead of pushing you away.”

He steps forward slowly, his tone still gentle, but his eyes sharp as a blade.

“Think, Namjoon. Who are you really working for? A ‘Mr. Kim’ you’ve never met? Five years, and not once have you seen his face. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? You weren’t leading. You were following choreography, steps written long before you joined the dance.”

Namjoon’s throat tightens. His silence feels heavier than any accusation.

“But don’t worry,” Seokjin continues, voice lowering, softening into something intimate. “You played your role beautifully. In fact, so beautifully that my boys decided they want you to stay. And I agree.”

He opens his arms, smiling. “We’re a family now, Namjoon. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Namjoon’s voice trembles. “You’re insane. There’s no way you orchestrated this. You’re a teacher, you obey, you don’t lead. How could you possibly…”

But the words die in his throat. Because in that moment, looking at Seokjin, he sees it. The posture. The stillness. The control that’s always been there, hidden behind politeness, behind gentle smiles and lowered eyes.

And he sees the others, Yoongi, Taehyung, Jungkook, Hoseok, Jimin, standing behind him, united, silent, unblinking.

Every moment flashes through his mind: every “coincidence,” every rejection, every compliment that shaped his path. His ideas weren’t his. His choices weren’t his. The realization hits with surgical precision, he was never the one steering the wheel.

Seokjin steps closer. “You were meant to be a pawn,” he says softly. “A way in. The others, their wives used to work with me, and you wouldn’t believe the things people reveal to someone they underestimate. I had to remove a few obstacles to secure my place. You just got… caught in the crossfire.”

Namjoon swallows hard. “Then why keep me?”

Seokjin’s lips curl into something both fond and cruel. “Because you caught his eye.” He tilts his head toward Jungkook, whose gaze flickers in something like longing. “And because I had to test you myself. You didn’t disappoint. The way you latched onto the idea of protecting me…”

He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “You belong to me now. To us. Don’t fight it, Namjoon. You’ve already given in.”

Namjoon’s breath stutters. The room tilts. He catches sight of himself reflected in the office window, fractured, doubled, a dozen versions of himself staring back. In each one, Seokjin stands a little closer.

He no longer recognizes which reflection is real.

And in that dizzying moment, the truth finally settles in, Seokjin never took control. He simply revealed it.

Namjoon was never the conductor. Only the instrument.

His pulse slows. The tension leaves his shoulders. Maybe this is what surrender feels like, not fear, but inevitability.

Seokjin’s hand rests gently on his cheek, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth. “There you are,” he murmurs. “Welcome home.”

The elevator dings again in the distance, a faint sound, almost lost to the hum of the lights.

Outside, the night continues as if nothing has changed. But inside, something irreversible has shifted.

Silent Possession

A week later, Seokjin sits at his desk, knee-deep in work. The faint hum of computers and the sterile click of keyboards fill the office, white noise that dulls the edges of his thoughts. His monitor glows with endless tabs of research for a new client pitch, yet his focus keeps drifting elsewhere.

It’s the feeling again. The eyes. The shadows. The quiet, prickling awareness that someone is watching him.

At first, he had dismissed it as paranoia. Offices were full of movement, with coworkers walking past and reflections from glass partitions catching the light. But this is different. The shadows that flicker at the edge of his cubicle don’t move like people do. They linger, pause, almost as if studying him. Once or twice, he’s caught what looks like a figure reflected in his monitor, there one second then gone the moment he blinks.

The others in the office have learned to steer clear of him. They talk around him, not to him, like his presence disrupts the natural order of their workplace. Even their laughter, when it bubbles up, feels rehearsed, almost too bright, too forced. It’s as though they know something he doesn’t.

He shifts in his seat, pretending to stretch. From the corner of his eye, he catches the faintest movement behind the frosted glass wall.

Someone’s there. Watching. Waiting. Like a hungry lion waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

But when he turns, there’s no one. Only the distant hum of the copier and the faint murmur of voices in another room. Seokjin exhales slowly, steadying himself. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. He has work to do.

Still, the feeling never leaves. It lingers with a restless energy that burns under his skin. And then, there’s Namjoon. It’s almost laughable how often the man appears — not in the grand, cinematic way of a stalker lurking in the shadows, but in the gentle, mundane rhythm of everyday life.

Seokjin goes to the break room to refill his mug, and Namjoon’s already there, leaning against the counter, sipping coffee. He makes a quick run to the photocopier — Namjoon passes by just as the machine finishes. Elevator rides, hallway crossings, even chance glances through the glass. Every time Seokjin looks up, Namjoon is there.

Once, Seokjin leaves late and catches the reflection of someone waiting just outside the lobby doors. When he steps out, no one’s there. But his phone buzzes seconds later with a work email from Namjoon. Sent at that exact minute.

It’s too coincidental to be by chance.

And yet, Seokjin doesn’t feel fear. Instead, he is filled with anticipation. He wants to know just how far Namjoon is willing to push. In hindsight, it should terrify him. Make him run for the hills. He should, maybe. Anyone else would. But what coils in his stomach isn’t dread, it’s something closer to curiosity. The kind that burns quietly, steadily, and unyieldingly.

He starts testing the pattern. Subtle things at first.

A slight turn of his head toward the glass when he senses movement. A deliberate pause in front of the elevator mirror, pretending to fix his tie while scanning behind him. A faint smile, or a courteous nod, when their eyes almost meet.

He doesn’t confront it. He invites it.

And it responds.

The next day, Namjoon’s presence becomes bolder, more open. Standing closer in the elevator, speaking softer, smiling just enough to make the space between them hum. Seokjin doesn’t recoil. He meets the man’s gaze for half a heartbeat too long, long enough to let him know he’s aware.

It makes something boil inside him. Not anger, not fear, but something in between. A warmth that rises from the pit of his stomach and settles just beneath his ribs.

When Namjoon approaches, Seokjin feels himself straighten. His breath slows, his awareness sharpens. Every detail, the quiet click of Namjoon’s shoes, the faint scent of coffee and cologne, is carved into him like ritual.

If he had a tail, he thinks absently, it would be wagging.

Namjoon doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t need to. The air between them does all the work. Seokjin catches himself lingering in that air. Just long enough to notice how natural it feels. How right it is. 

By the end of the week, he’s stopped questioning it. The shadows no longer unsettle him. The reflections don’t frighten him. He doesn’t flinch when Namjoon appears beside him, doesn’t move away when the man’s voice dips lower, softer, almost protective. He isn’t the only one who notices these strange changes. 

The others still whisper when he passes. Sometimes, he catches one of them smirking, like they’re in on a joke he hasn’t been told. Their teasing comes sharp and sudden, disguised as harmless remarks. He hears one mutter something cruel under their breath as they brush past him, but before he can react, Namjoon’s already there, a quiet word, a hand on the offender’s shoulder, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

And just like that, the moment dissolves.

Seokjin should feel grateful for the protection. Or uneasy. But instead, he feels... steady. As though everything is unfolding exactly as it should.

Namjoon’s presence has become a constant, not a shadow, but a tether. Every look, every coincidence, every small act of interference weaves Seokjin tighter into a web that doesn’t feel like a trap at all.

It feels like belonging.

And he doesn’t resist.

If anything, he leans closer.

But Seokjin’s little bubble gets tested. Constantly. The other office workers have picked up on the strange electricity between him and Namjoon. The blatant favoritism, and they do not like it.

It starts small, subtle. Minor things that could be brushed off or overlooked. A misplaced sigh, a scoff at the wrong time, the quiet hiss of a whispered name when he passes by.

Yoongi, who sits diagonally across from him, takes particular joy in cutting down any of his ideas during meetings. “Maybe we should try something realistic for once,” he says, voice casual but sharp enough to draw blood. The others snicker quietly, but Seokjin only nods, jotting something down on his notepad.

In the breakroom, Jimin always seems to time his remarks perfectly. “Shit, this guy blends in so well I forget he works here.” Or, “Looks like the ghost made its appearance today.” They sound like jokes, harmless to the untrained ear, but they burn just deep enough to leave a mark.

Jungkook, one of the juniors, has taken to playing his own little game. “You really have a talent for making people uncomfortable, hyung,” he says one afternoon, leaning over the partition of Seokjin’s cubicle. “It’s admirable.”

Seokjin hums quietly, pretending to focus on his monitor.

“And sometimes,” Jungkook adds, lips quirking into a grin, “I wonder if the boss keeps you around for decoration or just out of boredom.”

Seokjin doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look up. He simply reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip, and types another line. He is used to this, after all. That reaction, or lack thereof,  infuriates them more than any comeback ever could.

Hoseok and Taehyung, on the other hand, prefer the paperwork route. They load him with tasks, overlapping deadlines, conflicting projects, and endless revisions. They fine-comb his slides, question his structure, and nitpick his phrasing. Every time, he redoes the work with quiet efficiency.

Then, without fail, they approve the original version.

It’s all deliberate. All meant to break him. And yet Seokjin never cracks. He doesn’t lash out. Doesn’t sulk. Doesn’t even look irritated. It’s as though he expects every jab, every insult, every petty request. Like a master plan has already been written, and everyone else is simply playing their part. His dear old co-workers tend to forget, he has been through this dance before. He is well-trained. 

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell if he’s truly detached or if he’s enjoying the entire charade.

Because when Yoongi scoffs at him, Seokjin’s mouth twitches, a faint, fleeting smirk. When Jungkook pouts after failing to provoke him, Seokjin’s eyes glitter with quiet amusement. Even Jimin’s exaggerated sighs draw something like a suppressed laugh from him, just under the surface.

Yoongi’s scoffs remind him of a grumpy kitten. Jungkook’s pouts, endearing in their immaturity. Jimin’s foot-stomping when ignored, almost adorable. Taehyung’s little gasps when Seokjin simply nods and does the work again, comically sincere. And Hoseok’s quiet muttering after another failed attempt to rattle him, oddly comforting.

It’s become a game. One no one remembers agreeing to, yet somehow everyone plays.

Seokjin, in his calm defiance, is the centerpiece — the silent conductor in an orchestra of irritation. He doesn’t lead; he doesn’t resist. He just exists in a way that keeps everyone else slightly off balance.

Every insult feels rehearsed. Every taunt is carefully placed. All a show for when Namjoon is near. 

Sometimes he passes through the office, a quiet presence, watching from the corner of the room as if checking in on a well-trained performance. When he stands behind Seokjin’s chair to ask a question or offer advice, the entire room tenses,  like the boss’s attention is a weapon aimed at the wrong person.

But Namjoon never raises his voice. Never scolds. He just… looks. And Seokjin always seems to know when he’s there, even before he speaks.

It starts small, the push back. Not from Seokjin, but from Namjoon. Once, during a meeting, Yoongi interrupts Seokjin mid-presentation. “That’s not going to work,” he says, voice flat. “It’s amateurish.”

Before Seokjin can respond, Namjoon’s voice cuts in, calm, steady, and final. “Actually,” he says, eyes sliding to Yoongi, “I think it’s perfect. He’s exactly what this department needs.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to taste.

Seokjin doesn’t smile. He doesn’t even thank him. But his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop smirks, just slightly, before fading again.

When the meeting ends, Namjoon’s hand brushes his shoulder on the way out. It’s casual enough to be ignored, deliberate enough to be remembered. Seokjin stays behind, fingers tracing over the faint warmth left on his sleeve.

This, he realizes, is not protection. It’s something else. Something heavier. A performance with no script, yet one he knows by heart.

The others continue their game, testing his composure, poking at the edges of his calm. But Seokjin… he doesn’t fight it. He moves with it. Lets the current drag him deeper.

Because for all the cruelty, all the quiet humiliation, this is the first time in years he’s felt truly seen. It feels like decades ago, the last time he felt this much in control. Perhaps that was why he felt at peace knowing things would change soon. He could taste it in the air. 

The office felt unusually quiet, though Seokjin couldn’t be certain if it was the absence of his co-workers’ complaints or the heavy weight of Namjoon’s presence. He kept his focus on his screen, pretending to adjust slides, organize data, and make notes, yet he could feel the eyes on him, every subtle movement tracked. A shadow at the edge of his vision, a reflection lingering too long in a polished surface, a sense that Namjoon’s attention wasn’t just present, it was enveloping, intentional.

Seokjin shifted slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It was hardly noticeable, but Namjoon’s gaze followed with the precision of a predator. The office had always been a place of measured motions, deadlines, and controlled chaos, yet now every small gesture felt like a signal, a silent acknowledgment that someone, more specifically Namjoon, was charting his path, curating it without words.

“Seokjin,” Namjoon’s voice came softly, almost clinical at first, drawing him from his focus. He turned, and the room seemed to contract around them. “I noticed the way the others have been treating you. I imagine that it has been… tiring.”

Seokjin only tilted his head, curious, but carefully neutral. He had rehearsed this in his mind countless times: an apology, an acknowledgment, maybe even a subtle pushback, depending on where this would go. None of those responses seemed necessary anymore. Namjoon had already assumed control of the narrative; it was as if Seokjin’s assent had been granted without a word.

“I can handle it,” Seokjin murmured, voice low. Not defensive, not resentful. Just a statement of fact. And yet, Namjoon’s lips quirked slightly, an almost imperceptible smile, as if he had been waiting for that exact phrasing.

“I don’t doubt it,” Namjoon said, stepping closer, the distance between them diminishing without seeming forced. His hand hovered near Seokjin’s arm for a heartbeat, then pulled back. “But it would be a shame for such… potential to be hindered unnecessarily. Don’t you agree?”

Seokjin didn’t respond immediately, eyes tracing the contours of Namjoon’s face, the set of his jaw, the subtle intensity in his dark gaze. He had felt this presence before, in the elevator, the break room, even in the hallway leading to the restroom, but now it was concentrated, deliberate. Namjoon wasn’t just near; he was claiming the space around him, and Seokjin, quietly, willingly, let him.

The others in the office barely registered. Yoongi hovered near the copier, pretending to be absorbed in paper jams; Jimin shuffled past with an unnecessary stack of documents; Taehyung muttered something about deadlines as he passed, eyes flicking toward Seokjin with a mix of interest and understanding. Jungkook lingered near the lounge, pretending to adjust a monitor, while Hoseok scowled from the corner of the room. All of them exchanged quick glances with each other. As if they were communicating some secret yet to be revealed. Their eyes would drift to Seokjin’s, but they wouldn’t dare linger for too long.

Seokjin was well aware of this. He made sure to catch each of their eyes as they passed. They were all visible, present, yet peripheral, the edges of a stage on which Seokjin and Namjoon were the only performers. This was not their performance anymore. Seokjin had taken control. It was his turn to be in the spotlight. 

Namjoon’s voice shifted then, softer, more deliberate, drawing him in. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

Seokjin hesitated for less than a heartbeat, then followed, almost as if he had been rehearsing this precise motion for days. They walked through the office silently, the other members giving them a wide berth without question. Namjoon’s hand brushed lightly against Seokjin’s back as they passed Yoongi, a signal, a claim, subtle and impossibly deliberate. Seokjin felt a heat rise in his chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

The elevator doors slid shut with a gentle hum, enclosing them in muted light and soft air conditioning. Namjoon pressed the button for the underground garage. Standing as close as professionally allowed. No words were exchanged, but the tension was almost tangible, an invisible thread linking them. Namjoon’s presence was close now, measured, a steady force pressing in at the edges of Seokjin’s awareness.

“You are aware, aren’t you?” Namjoon’s voice was lower now, softer, intimate. “That you have a tendency to draw attention even when you try to remain unseen?”

Seokjin swallowed, the sound of it loud in the confined space. He had to choose his words carefully. He could not afford any missteps. “I suppose I… I’ve been noticed before,” he murmured, deliberately vague.

“Not like this,” Namjoon replied, tone even, clinical, yet the possessive undertone was undeniable. “They watch, they whisper, they judge. And you… You allow it, but you do not yield. It’s Fascinating.”

Seokjin’s eyes flicked to the polished reflection of the elevator walls. He studied himself in that mirrored light, calm, detached. And yet, the small twitch of anticipation in his fingers, the quiet alignment of his posture with Namjoon’s movement, betrayed something more, a willingness, a silent agreement to engage in this unspoken game.

The doors opened to the garage, and Namjoon led him to a sleek black car waiting under the fluorescent lights. The vehicle seemed almost too deliberate in its placement, the engine quietly humming, as if anticipating their departure. Seokjin stepped in without hesitation, sliding into the passenger seat. Namjoon took the driver’s side, close enough that the subtle scent of his cologne drifted across, warm, commanding.

“Do you trust me?” Namjoon asked, hands steady on the wheel, eyes briefly meeting Seokjin’s.

Seokjin tilted his head slightly, a faint smile playing across his lips. “I… suppose I do. Do you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Namjoon said, voice smoothing into something intimate, personal. “Because everything from this point forward will depend on it. Your trust, your safety, your focus, your growth… and our understanding of one another.”

The car moved quietly into the streets, lights reflecting in the windows, turning the city into abstract shapes of neon and shadow. Namjoon’s hand brushed against Seokjin’s thigh briefly as he shifted gears, gentle, almost imperceptible. Seokjin’s pulse didn’t quicken in fear; it was measured, curious, expectant. He leaned slightly into the touch, aligning with the rhythm of the car and the subtle command of the driver.

“You know,” Namjoon continued, tone softening further, “I will ensure no one interferes with your progress. The others… they have their roles, but they do not dictate your path. That is mine alone.”

Seokjin let the words settle. The other office members’ veiled hostilities, the scoffs, the snide remarks, the impossible tasks, all seemed insignificant when measured against Namjoon’s protective, deliberate presence. And somehow, he didn’t feel trapped. He felt… guided, observed, curated. A willing participant in the silent orchestration of his environment.

The city passed in muted streaks of light outside the car. Seokjin’s hands rested lightly on his lap, tension coiling and releasing in quiet waves. Every nerve, every flicker of thought, seemed magnified in the intimate space of the car, and yet he did not resist. Instead, he folded himself into the rhythm of Namjoon’s world, silently acknowledging the unspoken possession and protection that accompanied every measured motion.

Namjoon glanced at him briefly, eyes dark and calculated. “It is rare to find someone who can move through a world like this, unnoticed, unseen, yet entirely… present. You fascinate me, Seokjin. And I intend to see just how far we can go.”

Seokjin’s lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. He didn’t respond with words, but the tilt of his head, the small, almost willing shift of his posture, said enough. Namjoon didn’t need more than that.

Seokjin once again caught his reflection in the window, but this time it didn’t smirk on its own. His reflection became one with him, and for the first time in a long while, Seokjin recognized the person who stared back at him. Eyes calculating, lips quirked in a hidden smirk. Yes, this was who he has always been. 

The car slid quietly through the streets, a subtle promise in every motion, a whispered claim in every glance. Outside, the city moved on, oblivious to the tension, the orchestration, the quiet surrender within. Inside, every motion was deliberate, every gesture loaded with meaning, and every unspoken word drew them closer, toward a game neither fully revealed nor entirely understood.

Chapter 2: The stage Set

Seokjin feels suspended in the quiet — as if the air itself refuses to move without permission. He has been going through the motions the past couple of days, trying his very best not to think about how unfair his dismissal has been. This morning brings a new wave of stubborn stillness. The clock ticks loud enough to sound accusatory, the only thing that seems to remember he exists. Usually, he would be scrambling around his apartment to get ready to leave for work, yet here he is, sipping his coffee at 8:56 a.m. The usual noise of the city even seems more silent than usual.

His apartment feels too big for him now. He has no idea what to do or where to go. As he contemplates turning on the radio, the doorbell rings. Seokjin never receives visitors. When he opens the door, he is met with an empty hallway. A box sits neatly against the doorframe. No label. No tape torn. It shouldn’t be there. Unmarked, yet the handwriting on top — looping, deliberate — feels like a half-remembered echo from his classroom. The script looks almost familiar, but not quite. He hasn’t seen it in a long time and had forgotten how truly beautiful it is.

Back in his apartment, he sets the box on the coffee table. His hands tremble slightly as he carefully opens it. Inside, he finds letter upon letter from his students. Most are simple thank-yous and appreciation notes, but some carry extra words.

“Thank you for always listening.”

“You made class fun.”

“I’ll remember what you taught me… always.”

“You said we should keep practicing the game.”

“This next phase will be the best one yet.”

“Can’t wait to meet you again in the future.”

He smiles faintly, though his hands continue trembling. He tells himself it’s just the coffee. Their handwriting is beautiful, unlike his usual students’ writing, but the phrasing… the phrasing is his. It is beautifully unsettling. He lingers on the words, unease flickering — but doesn’t throw the letters away.

He has always taught his students well. They never question him, and it warms his heart that they seem to vow to remember what he taught them for the future. He folds each letter with careful precision, as though afraid to wake something sleeping in the ink. He doesn’t want to create any extra creases.

When he turns to put the box away, he could have sworn one of the letters lies open again — the ink still wet, though he is certain he folded it moments ago. A chill passes over him. For a moment, it feels as if the letters themselves are waiting, expectant, almost alive, and he cannot shake the thought that the game may not have ended with the classroom at all.

Feeling slightly more unnerved, Seokjin decided to go for a walk through the city. He used to love walking along the Han River to clear his mind when things got too much. Perhaps it was time for a headspace walk.

Seokjin locked the door behind him, lingering a moment longer than usual. The city sounded different — quieter, more distorted, almost as if the world itself were slightly out of sync. His pace was slow, deliberate; he wasn’t wandering aimlessly, but he wasn’t heading anywhere in particular either.

Morning seemed to blur into evening in a blink. He didn’t mind or care where the time went. He just needed fresh air and clarity. The distant hum of traffic filled his ears as he made his way into the street. Walking through the winding alleys toward the river, he noticed stores he rarely visited anymore: the old florist he used to get fresh flowers from, the little mart with the best fruits, the coffee shop he always visited before it closed down. A poster in one window was peeling away slowly. In every glass reflection, a version of him stared back — each slightly out of sync.

He reflected again on the letters. Some of the phrasing seemed almost too grown-up for year three students, the subtle intent behind the words. The game had extended beyond the classroom. He hadn’t meant for it to, yet he couldn’t deny a small satisfaction in the knowledge that his lessons had lingered, even if his departure hadn’t aligned with his expectations.

Closer to the river, corporate signs began to dominate the streets. He could see them from his apartment, but up close they felt imposing. The billboard he had noticed not long ago flickered, momentarily distorting the words “Make Your Mark” into what seemed almost like his name.

Shaking his head to clear it, the letters faded back to normal. Looking up, he noticed a sleek building with tinted glass — a minimalist logo, modern design. The angles of the building, the spacing of the windows, even the reflection of the sky on the glass — it all felt oddly deliberate, like a puzzle meant to be noticed only by him. He didn’t know why, but he felt drawn to it.

Lucent Systems.

The building wasn’t calling him. It was remembering him, screaming silently that it belonged in his story. He thought he caught movement behind the glass, fleeting shapes that didn’t belong. A brief, unsettling sense of being watched settled in his chest, but when he blinked, the reflections returned to normal. Each reflection seemed slightly… off. Some versions of himself lingered just a fraction too long, their eyes too sharp, as though someone behind the glass had nudged them into existence. An inexplicable pull followed him as he continued walking.

People around him moved like unsynchronized ghosts in a poorly designed video game. Across the street, a few men in sharp suits moved in patterns too deliberate to be accidental, crossing his line of sight for just a moment before disappearing. He felt the faintest tug of recognition, though he couldn’t place why. A sense of foreboding trailed him, as if the building itself watched every step, even as he returned to familiar streets.

That night, Seokjin searches for jobs.

It’s been more than five years since he’s had to do this, but he’s fairly certain job listings aren’t supposed to disappear once you click on them. Yet that’s exactly what’s happening. Each position that even slightly matches his skills vanishes the moment he presses apply.

He tries again — a few dull-looking jobs that sound like advertised torture — but the same thing happens. The postings blink out of existence. His irritation grows. He’s one exhale away from saying fuck it when an unfamiliar ad flickers onto the screen.

Its colors are bright, almost harsh. The layout reminds him of the billboard he saw earlier that week.

But what holds his attention is the text:

We value those overlooked by the world. Visibility optional.

When he clicks the listing, the description is vague and strangely phrased:

Content creation for company workshops. Meeting agendas. Visual presentation design. We value those who don’t mind working in the shadows. Must adapt quickly and assist in driving innovation to new heights. Apply to Lucent Systems now. Limited spaces available.

Lucent Systems.

There it is again.

The billboard. The building. Now this.

It’s as if the company itself is seeking him out.

He scrolls away, pretending not to care. Nothing else catches his eye. Then an email notification appears at the corner of his screen:

Subject: Interview Invitation.

Confused, he opens it.

Good day, Mr. Kim.

This is the Lucent Systems hiring team. After careful review of your application, we are pleased to inform you that you’ve been selected for an interview for the position of Content Creator.

Please arrive tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. — fifteen minutes early — so we may process your information at the front desk.

We look forward to meeting you in person.

Mr. Jung

Hiring and Content Manager

Lucent Systems

Seokjin never applied.

He stares at the email, his pulse tightening. The tone feels too personal — like someone who knows him. Or knows about him. A faint chill moves through the apartment, and without thinking, he reaches to close the curtains.

He hesitates.

Still, something pulls at him — a strange sense of obligation. What does he really have to lose?

He clicks Reply, but the message bounces back.

A no-reply address.

Not an invitation.

A summons.

Seokjin sits in silence after closing his laptop. The world feels tilted, as though something has shifted imperceptibly. His reflection mocks him from the dark screen, eyes dull, posture crooked. He moves to stand, but the reflection lags behind—a beat late, a breath delayed. The glitch unsettles him, though he forces himself to brush it off.

He moves on autopilot as he gets ready for bed. The motions are practiced, mechanical. He washes his face, gaze distant, but still catches the hesitation in the mirror. His reflection blinks slower than he does. The face looking back at him seems tired in a different way—almost disappointed.

“You’re losing it, Seokjin,” he mutters.

The bathroom light flickers once, twice, before steadying. His reflection smiles. Not a broad grin, but a faint, knowing curl of the lips. Somewhere beyond the door, the fridge hums—low, steady, and electrical, like static gathering in the walls.

There’s something he isn’t seeing. His reflection seems to know that. It watches him not with judgment, but calculation, as though deciding whether to warn him—or simply watch him unravel. Knowing himself, he’d probably do the same. He’s always been better at observing the wreckage than stopping it.

The next morning, he feels like the survivor of that wreckage. His whole body aches; the weight under his eyes drags him down. The damned reflection still taunts him, a silent reminder of something left unspoken. He blames it on exhaustion, on the lingering unease of yesterday.

He gets ready in a daze, his mind fogged. The man in the mirror moves first this time—adjusting his tie, straightening his shoulders—and then waits for Seokjin to catch up. Across the room, his faint reflection in the window looks smug, watching the city stir awake.

How wonderful it must be, he thinks, to be one of them. To just exist without question—to not have to wonder if your reflection will be smiling when you aren’t. To not have to repeat affirmations like some desperate man trying to anchor himself to the world.

“You’re fine. You’re visible. You’re fine.”

The words land flat, but something inside him steadies. A fragile calm drapes itself over him. He isn’t nervous anymore. He feels like a host preparing a stage, setting the lights just right. His stage for his main act.

This time, he would be seen. To hell with everyone who had never spared him a second glance. When they finally look his way, he’ll make sure he’s centre stage.

He looks back into the mirror. The reflection’s smile comes first—confident, almost knowing—and for the briefest moment, Seokjin swears he sees another figure standing just behind it.

By the time he left the apartment, his reflection still lingered in the mirror, smiling faintly as though wishing him luck. The sounds outside were slightly muffled as the crisp late-morning air crept into his coat. He made his way toward the coffee shop, chasing the illusion of routine.

He didn’t notice the faint glitch in the light or the delayed movements of passersby as he walked past the Lucent billboard again. This time, the distorted text didn’t unsettle him. He was too focused on the idea of coffee — on doing something that felt ordinary.

The shop was quieter than usual. His favorite barista moved quickly behind the counter, focused on steaming milk and scribbling names. Seokjin stepped forward, but she didn’t look up. He cleared his throat, and she startled, eyes flicking to him as if surprised he existed at all. Her smile was polite but uneasy. She took his order and turned away, only glancing up again when the doorbell chimed for another customer.

This time, her face lit up — the smile bright, warm, genuine. Seokjin said nothing. Just because he came by every day didn’t mean she had to remember him.

When his drink was finally ready, the name scrawled across the cup wasn’t his. Mr. Min. He didn’t correct her. The coffee tasted off anyway — far too bitter for a vanilla latte.

He walked out, unaware of the eyes that followed him through the shop’s window. His feet carried him forward before his thoughts could catch up. The city blurred until he was standing at the front desk of Lucent Systems, pen in hand, signing for temporary access.

He didn’t remember deciding to come here — only that he was already waiting, coffee in hand, for his name to be called.

Above him, faint footsteps echoed from the floor above — rhythmic, deliberate, as though someone were pacing directly overhead. The lights hummed, flickering once, twice, then stilled. When he looked up, the reflection in the glass wall of the lobby was already sitting across from the interview table. Waiting.

After what felt like a millennium, Seokjin was called into the room. The air was cool and faintly perfumed—coffee, something metallic, like rain on steel. Three men sat behind a sleek glass table, the large windows behind them flooding the room with pale light. None of them stood to greet him. He forced his shoulders back. It’s just an interview. Not a death sentence.

On the table to the left sat a coffee cup. His coffee cup. Vanilla latte, his name scrawled across it in handwriting he didn’t recognize. His stomach twisted, but he bowed politely anyway.

“It’s nice to meet you, Seokjin. I look forward to talking to you. Before we start, I believe there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” the man to the left said, rising smoothly and reaching for the cup. “I believe this one belongs to you. Far too sweet for my taste, but strangely enough, I think it would suit yours. I am Yoongi, or Mr. Min.” He handed the cup to Seokjin, the briefest squeeze of his fingers lingering.

“Well, that is one way to sweet-talk a candidate. Don’t mind my colleague,” the man on the right said, rising as well. “He likes pretty things, and you are by far one of the prettiest candidates we’ve had. I am Hoseok, or Mr. Jung.” He extended his hand with a casual confidence, brushing a faint trail of dust from Seokjin’s shoulder.

Yoongi returned to his seat, his gaze flicking to the man in the center. Hoseok did the same. Both now waited expectantly, turning their attention to the man who had been observing Seokjin the entire time.

Namjoon’s lips pressed into a tight line as he scanned Seokjin from head to toe. His gaze was intense, lingering with a hunger that seemed to pierce through clothing and skin. Slowly, deliberately, he stood and approached Seokjin, extending a hand.

“It’s wonderful to meet you in person, finally. We were very excited when we received your application. You are exactly what we were looking for. I am Namjoon, but you may call me Mr. Kim.” His hand squeezed Seokjin’s lightly, firm enough to assert control, gentle enough to disarm.

Seokjin could only nod. This was not an interview. It felt like a reunion disguised as selection. He was prime material, evaluated, measured, and already deemed suitable.

“Please, take a seat. We have a few questions—nothing major, just clarifications before we proceed with the hiring process,” Hoseok said, gesturing faintly.

Seokjin sat. His reflection in the glass looked confident, at odds with the tension twisting his chest. They watched him as if his acceptance were already a certainty, their eyes cataloging his every movement.

“Right, you were a teacher before this, correct? What were some of the main creative ways you used to teach your students?” Yoongi asked, pen poised. Namjoon’s gaze never left Seokjin, even as he averted their eyes.

“Well, I taught some of the more… unruly students. I used the illusion of choice to maintain control of my class. I would offer two or three different approaches to the same lesson, letting students choose. It gave them a sense of control while allowing me to guide outcomes.” Seokjin’s voice faltered slightly as he remembered the children he had left behind.

“Ah, perfect for what you would be required to do here. Variety, the illusion of choice, maintaining control—observation,” Yoongi leaned in, eyes glinting. “How would you describe that process?”

“I usually observe for a day or two. I give the same tasks repeatedly, quietly assessing preferences. I hide in the shadows, listening more than speaking,” Seokjin replied, reaching for the coffee. The vanilla taste bloomed on his tongue—a gentle reminder that he was still in control, if only slightly.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, calculating, protective, almost possessive. He noted the fragility, the small hesitations—Seokjin was accustomed to being overlooked, invisible.

“And your relationships with co-workers?” Namjoon’s voice was soft, each word deliberate, measured. He watched every twitch, every shallow swallow.

“I preferred to keep to myself,” Seokjin said flatly, his voice distant. Namjoon noted it, stored it like a treasure—fragile yet precise, someone worth keeping close.

“You prefer long walks along the Han River to clear your head,” Hoseok interjected, sensing the tension shift. “Would that approach help you create content for others?”

Seokjin froze. That wasn’t on his resume. They had to know this from somewhere else. His voice dropped. “I… I do believe that helps. Fresh perspective often improves tasks.”

“We’ve been looking for someone like you, Seokjin. You possess exactly what this company needs. Someone who can work unseen without being lost. Someone who prefers subtle recognition to grand praise. You are the perfect candidate,” Namjoon said, his tone possessive, almost reverent.

“I… I’m sorry, but I think there has been a mis—”

“Mistake? No mistake. You are exactly where you belong,” Yoongi interrupted, voice smooth, almost coaxing. “Where you can finally make your mark.”

Hoseok rose with papers in hand. “Tired of being overlooked? Underappreciated? Give Lucent a chance. It might change your life. Forever.” He brushed off the faintest trace of dust from Seokjin’s shoulder. Exhausted, defeated, Seokjin took the papers.

“You don’t have to hide anymore, Seokjin,” Namjoon said softly, handing him a pen. “This is where you belong. Take your chance to be part of something bigger.” His gaze memorized every detail—lines under his eyes, the crease in his forehead, the subtle pout of his lips.

Seokjin’s hands shook as he signed the papers. The reflection in the glass lagged again—his mirrored self still seated even as he stood. Namjoon’s eyes tracked it, unblinking.

Chapter 1: Pastel sweaters and Empty Rooms

Crayons scratched across paper as the children’s soft murmurs filled the class. Each one of them was in their own little world until Seokjin’s soft voice broke through the noise.“Come on, kids, let’s start cleaning up,” Seokjin’s soft, warm voice rang out through the classroom. His students glanced up at him from their drawings. Curious eyes linger on him as his soft voice echoes in their small, bright minds, soaking in the quiet authority in his tone. He always sounded like patience itself. Seokjin only glanced back, his presence grounded, waiting for them to respond. Immediately, all his students listened and began to tidy the classroom.

From the beginning, he has been given the rowdy classroom. A setup to fail at everything he attempted to do with them. 

Seokjinn actually preferred the so-called ‘broken’ class. He felt more needed, more seen when he managed to tame a class to the point of mutual respect. He loved feeling needed by his students. He was good at being helpful in that regard. The students respected him for it. Their all-seeing eyes could pick up on his every tell. They knew he was there to help them, not punish them. 

It feels like just yesterday when he walked into this class for the first time. One of his students was halfway out the window, and another was standing on top of a desk trying to breakdance. There was gum on the desks and mysterious paper airplanes flying across the room. Their small, high-pitched laughter bounced off the walls as they chatted up a storm with their friends. 

He still remembers the look on the students' faces when he simply said, ‘Do you really think that this would he a wise choice? I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be known as the student who broke an arm for attention.’ The silence that followed was golden and complete. Even if they didn’t listen immediately, they paused. They weren’t used to adults who asked instead of ordering.

He even gently gave them alternatives for their actions. ‘Why not, instead of testing to see if you can fly, come in and erase the board? I can never do it properly. Only strong students can get the board looking nice and clean. Surprisingly, that had worked pretty well. From there, his students never questioned him again. 

Adults, however, were different. The same warmth that softened children only made adults uneasy. No one, not even one of his so-called co-workers, wanted to work with him. Believe in him? Not a chance.

He was the overlooked teacher. The gentle ‘invisible’ one, the one no one ever seemed to remember during the annual Christmas parties. His presence was forgotten, overlooked. Even in the staff photo, his face seemed half-turned, blurred, as if the camera lens itself refused to acknowledge his presence. Sometimes he wondered if he could move while the photo stayed still.

One of his co-workers even seemed surprised to see him in the staff meeting, even though he has been working at the school for nearly five years. He often found himself checking mirrors just to make sure he was truly there. He often felt as if he never belonged in most photos. A hindrance in the background. A ghost. 

Luckily, his students always seemed to remember him. They loved his gentle voice and the way he spoke. He sometimes feared that if the children stopped saying his name, he might vanish altogether. Seokjin has long ago learned that children don’t like instructions that are forced on them. They craved the illusion of choice. 

And that is exactly how he taught his lessons. He gave the kids an option. Options that would give the same results but had different approaches. The kids loved it. He has always, year after year, managed to turn the rowdy classes into the quiet, obedient ones. Then, once they moved up to the next grade, it was as if the kids lost their minds once again. Somehow, Seokjin was always blamed for it. Never by name, no one could seem to remember that, but always in snide jabs. 

‘It has to be their previous teacher in year three that did this. Somehow, he had poisoned these kids.’ 

‘I heard they were a very good class. I wonder what happened to them in the previous year for them to get this bad.’

‘You know, that teacher, what’s his name? S- something. He has always been easy to overlook. He is just so… invisible. I sometimes forget he works here, too. 

Seokjin knew this. He would often just smile faintly as he looked away after overhearing these conversations. He has always known he was easily forgotten in life. He was awkward when it came to speaking to other people. Especially if they had very different views from his. He had a few close friends. But not many. None of his co-workers knew him. They only saw this small, innocent, easily dismissed figure.

In his own defense, connecting with narrow-minded people was always hard. It’s easier to stay unseen than to be misjudged. That’s probably why he loved teaching so much. With the kids, his voice was recognised and appreciated. The kids saw him not only as a teacher but as someone worthy of listening to. The adults in his life, the voices almost blur into a faint static noise used to put toddlers to sleep. Kids were unpredictable. They would say the most random things. It made his days worth it. Joyful even.  Even if the adults in his life made it nearly impossible to fit in. 

He always reflects on certain instances to keep himself sane. Like that one time at a Christmas dinner with his coworkers, he tried to give a solution to the problem of the kids running in the hallways. None of his coworkers even turned to acknowledge him. They just kept suggesting things he knew would never work in a school setting with kids. But then he also remembers the tiny letters he receives from his students. Especially the ones that said stuff like ‘thank you, teacher. I like it when you listen’ 

“Right, good job everyone. Let’s open our writing books. We are going to learn how to write something called an option. Who can tell me what that is?” Seokjin asked as he turned to start writing on the board. The toxic smell of the marker invaded his nose with each letter he wrote. At first, none of his students answered. They were all still very shy with the new dynamic in the class. None of them were used to teachers actually giving a crab about them. The fluorescent light gave a weak flicker in the absence of the cricket sounds one would usually hear in a silent class. 

“No one? Okay, let me give you a hint… Your opinion can be different from someone else's. Yes, Dani?” 

“Is it what you think about something?” 

“Yes, excellent. Now let’s get started with the writing,” Seokjin said as he smiled. The lesson was relatively easy compared to some of the other lessons he has given, but it’s best to slowly introduce new ideas into a class than to overwhelm the students all at once. 

Once classes were done for the day, Seokjin was packing up his stuff when his director stopped at his classroom door. Surprised does not even begin to describe how he felt. Ms. Jun never stopped at his door. Nevertheless talked to him. Ms. Jun lingered in the doorway, her posture stiff, hands clutching a folder like a shield.

“Good afternoon. I was wondering if I could speak to you about something before you leave?” she said, her fake politeness slicing through the air. His pulse quickened. People remembered him only when wrongs occurred; the lack of recognition was telling.

“Sure, things, Ms. Jun. How’s your son doing? He was in the hospital with the flu, right?” Seokjin said, dragging a chair over for her. Her eyes flicked up, startled.

“Oh? I didn’t know that you knew about that. He is doing okay. The doctors are hopeful that he can come home soon. You remembered?” She answered, surprised as she took the seat from his hands. 

“I did. I am very glad to hear that. Did you receive the flowers I sent? I hope they are still James’ favorite,” Seokjin smoothly said as he sat down too. The chair nearly swallowed him as he made himself comfortable. 

“That… that was you? Wait, you're Mr. Kim?” Ms. Jun asked, face paling. Seokjin almost gave her credit as she looked horrified after she realized that she had just admitted to not knowing his name. He had never been the kind of person to be noticed twice. Ms. Jun cleared her throat awkwardly as she began speaking again. 

“Yes. Seokjin Kim. I assume you’re about to tell me something important?” Seokjin’s throat tightened, but he held the chair steady

“We… we’ve received some complaints from other staff about the kids in your class and, more particularly, you.” She hesitated, glancing at the folder. “They’ve said your teaching methods… that they might be contributing to… to rowdiness once the children move up. And that you… Don’t participate in school activities as required,” She continued as she shifted nervously, avoiding his eyes.

“I see. And you… personally, you agree with these complaints?” Seokjin asked as his grip on the chair tightened. 

Her lips pressed together. “It’s not about me agreeing, Mr. Kim. It’s about… what has been observed. I’ve looked over the evidence myself.” She handed him a tablet, thumbs trembling slightly. Out of fear or nerves was yet to be discovered. 

He took it. He knew what he would see. In every single picture, he was in the background. His pastel sweaters were clearly visible even if he was blurred in most of the pictures, fading into the background. A shadow in a pastel sweater, overlooked by the camera and the people it captured. Somehow, the image soothed him. He had never been in the spotlight, and perhaps, in this instance, that was fine.

“With all due respect, Ms. Jun. That person in the pastel sweater is me.” Seokjin said quietly, “I was on the board that helped organize most of those events. I got most of the sponsors, too. And my students make their own choices. Their behavior outside of my classroom does not indicate anything about my teaching. It reflects their homelife,” Seokjin said. His voice was quiet and small as he handed the tablet back to her. 

Ms. Jun sighed, a mixture of frustration and pity. “Unfortunately… it has been decided that this role is not a good fit. I know you’ve… been here for nearly a year, but—”

“Five. I have been here for more than five years,” Seokjin interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. Yet it held a sharp edge as he looked at her with tears lining his eyes. For a moment, he wondered if she was right — if those years had existed only for him. 

This job was his life. The only good thing that had happened to him in a very long time. He had always been good at blending into places, at making himself small. Perhaps he had become too good at it. 

She blinked. “Five…? I… I wasn’t aware. Well, then… perhaps this is for the best. You’ll need to leave immediately, but you’ll receive your full severance once we correct the records.” She stood stiffly and adjusted her smile. 

“Oh, um. Well, I apologize for this, Mr. Kim. Have a good day,” Ms. Jun said as she hurriedly left his classroom. Looking every bit as awkward as she sounded. 

Seokjin exhaled slowly, a quiet, steady sound amidst the noise of the hallway outside. The noise of his students moving through the hallway. Oblivious to one of their favorite teachers once again being cast aside like an overused sock. Students laughing and shouting about weekend plans, completely unaware that the man who nurtured them is quietly being erased.

He sat still for about five more minutes. Somehow, the world kept on nudging him towards the unfamiliar. He had done this a few times, but it never got any easier. Every time this happened, Seokjin told himself that this was just some sort of bad luck, though some part of him felt curiously calm. 

Seokjin could not even be mad. He somehow expected this. His life is like looking in a mirror, but all he could see was the world going on as if he were never there. His image forever blurred into the background. Just as it should be. Always the extra, never the main character. And yet, sometimes, he wondered how far he would go if someone forced him into the spotlight. Perhaps this was for the better, as Ms. Jun said. He never truly belonged. 

For the next few hours, Seokjin felt like he was drifting in an endless pool of routine. He packed up his stuff. Left goodbye messages for his kids with added personal touches. He got in his car. Stopped at his favorite coffee shop, ordered his coffee extra sweet, and drove home. He was uncertain of what would come next, but he was also confident that he would be okay. He has never been able to sit still for long. He needed something to keep his attention. Keep him occupied. Was he uncertain? Yes. Did he feel even more loft than before? Most definitely. But he also knew he would be okay. He had to be. 

Seokjin stood by the window of his apartment. He loved standing there and simply existing. The twinkling lights of the city always helped to clear his mind. He needed this. He needed to breathe and just think for a few seconds. He was looking out at the billboards when his eye caught the sight of an advertisement promoting content creation. It was an obnoxiously colorful picture that swam across the screen. One that used way too many contrasting colors. But one thing did stand out about it more than the horror show of the color palette. 

‘Make your mark,’ it read. The colors bled together, too bright, too loud — the kind of ad you’d normally ignore. But the words burned.

“Make your mark,” Seokjin echoes softly

He never thought about changing career paths. Perhaps he needed to do something else? Something that would fit into his narrative and not the other way around. Perhaps it was time everyone else fit into his story and not the usual disappearing act he had mastered so long ago. 

Somewhere deep down, he has always wondered what it would be like to be the centre of the story. How everyone would envy his role in society. How he was looked at not with pity or indifference, but as a leader, someone worth remembering the name of. Someone worth impressing and craved to be around. He would thrive on having a string of people lining up to talk to him. To exchange ideas with. Perhaps even has too many work dinners to attend that he would have to schedule them months in advance. 

The call of his name from admirers. The flash of the camera that specifically focuses on him and him alone. The hands clapped him on the back in congratulations for a job well done. Almost like the people he deemed important did before he made his own life unassuming and invisible. The thought alone embarrassed him. 

The advertisement felt like a coincidence, but he lingered on it longer than he meant to. Perhaps … perhaps this was something worth looking into. 

Losing his job felt like a door closing, though another seemed to wait just around the corner for him. All he had to do was take those first few steps. He was scared. He hated the spotlight. It never belonged to him. 

Seokjin started his research early the next morning while he sipped his coffee. Content creation was a very broad job market. There were millions of types of content he could create, although he was certain he would want to stay away from stuff like videos or promotions. Perhaps something more hidden. More secretive, but in a good way. Like the company needed him more than he needed them type of way. 

Taehyung had never felt more at ease.

He smiled more easily now, even laughed sometimes — soft, restrained, like he was relearning the shape of joy. His steps were unhurried, his eyes clear. The others noticed it too. They watched him with veiled satisfaction, their plans rippling just beneath the surface.

Gone was the restless fire that had once made him question everything. In its place stood a version of himself he didn’t recognize — quieter, steadier, content in a way that made Seokjin’s voice echo longer in his mind than it should have:

You’re safe with us now. You don’t have to fight anymore.

And so, Taehyung stopped fighting.

He trained with Yoongi in the mornings, their movements fluid and unspoken, Yoongi’s corrections gentler now. There was no challenge between them anymore — no edge. Taehyung’s body obeyed without resistance, and Yoongi smiled like that was enough. But in the silences that stretched between them, Taehyung began to wonder — had Yoongi always been this gentle? Was the training still a battle, or was it simply a dance to keep his body in shape while his mind remained elsewhere?

The calm had seeped into everything, even the hard work. Yoongi, for his part, never pushed him to be faster or stronger. His eyes, sharp but tender, often lingered longer than they should have, as if watching a flower bloom in the quiet of the morning sun.

He studied with Namjoon in the afternoons, poring over ancient texts and half-burned scrolls from forgotten dynasties. The conversations used to spark debate, but now Taehyung only nodded, repeating back the phrases he was meant to learn. The blood of kings never runs dry. The chosen always return to the center.

Namjoon watched him with an expression that bordered on reverence. “You’re finally starting to remember who you are,” he said once.

Taehyung didn’t reply, the words feeling distant now, like something he should have understood but didn’t quite grasp. Was he remembering? Or was he simply letting the fragments of himself slide into place, too tired to fight them anymore?

In the evenings, he sat with Jimin beneath the hanging lanterns in the garden, letting the soft light bleed into his half-lidded gaze. Jimin told him stories now — no longer visions, no longer prophetic dreams — just stories. Fables about lost princes and divine bloodlines, about holy fire that slept inside human skin. Every time Jimin spoke, Taehyung felt something flicker inside him — warm and terrifying.

The warmth was familiar, though not in the way he had expected. It wasn’t the warmth of love, but something more elusive, like the heat of the sun that promises to burn but never quite does. There was something frightening about it, something that made him pull back in moments, but it was always fleeting, vanishing before he could truly understand.

He didn’t ask why he never remembered his childhood clearly. He didn’t ask why the king had once called him cursed.

The change was subtle at first.

Taehyung no longer flinched when Hoseok’s fingers grazed his shoulder to guide him through palace halls. No longer hesitated when Namjoon stood too close in private counsel, voice low with secrets meant for his ears alone. No longer questioned the shadows of his dreams when Jimin filled them with soft images of sanctuary and home.

He had surrendered.

And in surrender, he seemed—strangely—content. He laughed more often, though the laughter never reached his eyes. He trained with Yoongi in practiced silence, their blades dancing in the sun, and when Yoongi disarmed him with a sudden twist, Taehyung simply smiled.

"You’re holding back," Yoongi said one morning, sweat shining on his brow.

"Am I?" Taehyung asked softly. Not a challenge—just a question that drifted, unanswered, into the wind. There was no heat behind it, no desire to prove himself. He was simply… waiting.

He didn’t notice how carefully they surrounded him now. Hoseok saw to it that no one from the outside reached him, their names quietly erased, their loyalties questioned until they simply... disappeared.

Jimin took care of the nights. Dreams no longer troubled Taehyung—they soothed him. Visions of belonging, of firelight and voices whispering You are one of us, you always were, lulled him into peace. And if sometimes he woke with tears on his cheeks, he didn’t remember why.

Namjoon began feeding him stories. Carefully selected histories, rewritten truths. A myth here, a prophecy there—fragments that suggested destiny had always meant for Taehyung to be here, with them. The tales never outright claimed him, but always danced close enough for belief to bloom.

Even Jungkook—quiet, watchful Jungkook—played his part. He shadowed Taehyung without words, offering loyalty in silent presence. One night, when Taehyung lingered by the high terrace, Jungkook simply joined him. They watched the stars in silence until Taehyung murmured, "Do you ever think of leaving?"

Jungkook shook his head. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

Taehyung nodded. “I thought so.”

And in that moment, he believed it.

The calm settled over him like snowfall—beautiful, quiet, and utterly consuming. But beneath it, the web held fast. Each strand anchored by a different hand, all of them tightening in tandem.

But none of them understood what they were truly binding.

Because long before the palace, before this life of manipulation and masquerade, there had been a different boy. A different name.

And a different world.

That night, Jimin gave him another dream.

It began as it always did—familiar, soothing. He was a child running barefoot through golden fields, the wind warm and scented with wildflowers. Somewhere, someone laughed. A woman, maybe. Or a queen. She called his name, not Taehyung, but something older, something he didn’t recognize.

He turned, chasing the sound, and the dream shifted.

The fields burned.

The sky cracked open with thunder not of this world. He saw a palace crumbling in the distance—white stone stained with ash. Statues toppled. A massive tree, charred and weeping sap like blood, split in two. People screamed. Hands reached for him, desperate, pleading.

And then—

A voice, ancient and furious, echoed across the destruction:

“He was ours. You took what was sacred. You will be cursed for your greed.”

He stumbled, heart pounding. Smoke rose around him. A man stood in the wreckage, holding him. He didn’t know the man’s name—but he called him Father.

"Don’t look back," the man said. "Forget."

Taehyung woke with a gasp, cold sweat clinging to his skin. The sheets were tangled around him. His chest heaved.

The dream wasn’t like the others.

It felt... real.

He sat in silence, staring at the trembling line of light beneath his chamber doors. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel calm.

Jimin arrived shortly after, eyes soft and voice coaxing. "Bad dream?"

Taehyung didn’t answer right away.

"That place... it was burning," he whispered finally. "It felt like I knew it. Like it knew me."

Jimin's smile faltered just a little.

“Dreams are just fragments of longing,” he said gently. “Sometimes they lie.”

But Taehyung didn’t look convinced. Not entirely.

He turned to the window instead. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, he could still feel the ghost of that voice. The curse. The tree.

Taehyung didn’t return to training that morning.

He stood at the edge of the courtyard, eyes fixed on the horizon, motionless as the breeze toyed with his hair. The others passed him with murmured greetings, which he did not return. He barely heard them. He was somewhere else.

Hoseok watched from the colonnade, arms folded across his chest, unreadable.

“He's slipping,” Yoongi muttered as he joined him. “You see it too?”

Hoseok nodded once, slowly. “Something’s changed. A dream, maybe. Or a memory.”

Yoongi exhaled sharply. “Jimin?”

“He’s trying to correct it,” Hoseok said, voice tight. “But it might be too late. The dream wasn’t his.”

A long silence passed.

“Do we escalate?” Yoongi asked.

But Hoseok shook his head. “Not yet. Let him settle into his cage again. If we push now, he might claw at the bars.”

Below, Taehyung walked toward the training yard—slowly, like someone half-awake.

Hoseok’s gaze darkened. “He doesn’t even realize he’s still trapped.”

In the depths of the royal archive, beneath layers of dust and forgotten bloodlines, Namjoon found it.

A half-burned scroll, crumbling at the edges, sealed with the faded sigil of an ancient priesthood long purged by the current regime.

He hadn’t been searching out of curiosity, but necessity. If Taehyung was the key—and he was—then Namjoon needed to know what kind of lock he was meant to open.

He unrolled the parchment with reverent fingers. The ink had bled in places, but enough remained.

“From the fallen kingdom of Aenon,

where the Tree of Union bled for the last time,

a child was taken—

born of sacrifice, marked by light.

He who bears the voice of balance

shall awaken the sealed path

when desire outweighs law.”

Namjoon stared at the words for a long time.

This wasn’t just prophecy. It was history—buried in myth, obscured in poetry, but real. The Tree. The stolen child. The curse.

And Taehyung—his strange resonance with the sacred, his emotional pull, his uncanny influence on each of them—fit too well.

Namjoon whispered it aloud, voice barely more than breath: “He who bears the voice of balance…”

They all had fragments. Jimin had glimpses in his dreams. Jungkook felt it in the air when they trained. Even Seokjin, in his quiet desperation, had sensed it.

But none of them had the whole.

And Namjoon wasn’t sure they could handle it if they did.

***

He had been five.

Or maybe four. Time in dreams twisted like smoke.

The sky had been pink that day, streaked with soft clouds as fire licked the palace walls. Screams echoed through marble corridors. He remembered the smell of crushed lavender beneath fleeing feet. The warm stickiness of blood on his bare soles.

Someone had lifted him. Arms shaking. Running.

“We have to take him!” a voice had hissed. “Before they bind him to the tree again!”

He had cried, reaching backward toward a figure in white robes—ripped, aflame—who called out to him in a voice that wasn’t a name but a melody.

Then—nothing. Only light. And silence.

When he woke, it was in a stranger’s arms.

From that moment on, he had no past. Only a new name, a new home, and eyes that glowed gold when fear took hold.

***

Taehyung sat with Jungkook in the shadowed temple garden, surrounded by rustling leaves and moonlight thick with stars.

“I remembered something,” he said quietly. “From when I was small. There was fire. A tree. People dying. Someone sang my name—but it wasn’t my name.”

Jungkook said nothing. He waited.

“I think I was taken. And I think the place I came from... doesn't exist anymore.”

Jungkook's expression shifted, just slightly. “Do you think the king had something to do with it?”

Taehyung looked up, and for the first time, there was fear in his eyes. “I don’t know. But... what if he did?”

When Jungkook told the others, they listened in silence.

Namjoon was the first to move, pulling the scroll from his coat.

“It fits,” he said. “All of it. The Tree of Union. The child taken. The kingdom that vanished.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “The king lied to us. Used him. Cursed him.”

Hoseok stepped forward. “Then we end it. No more lies. No more cages.”

Seokjin said nothing, but his hands had curled into fists.

“We’ll find the truth,” Jungkook said. “We’ll burn every archive. Question every priest. Tear open every sealed vault. And if he did this to Taehyung—if he destroyed that kingdom—”

“We destroy him,” Yoongi finished.

Taehyung stood once more on the palace balcony, but this time, the weight on his shoulders was different.

He could feel the shift—not just control, not just need. But something darker. Rage. Protection. A burning, collective need to right what had been wronged.

Seokjin stepped beside him, gaze fixed on the horizon.

“I told you once,” he said softly, “that you could lean on me. I meant it.”

Taehyung looked down at his hands. “I don’t know who I am without you all. I’m afraid… if I try to remember, I’ll lose myself.”

Seokjin took his hand gently. “Then don’t remember alone.”

Behind them, the others waited—Yoongi, Namjoon, Hoseok, Jimin, Jungkook.

No longer just manipulators.

Now, something more.

And Taehyung—cracked open, bleeding memory—stepped forward into their arms, not as a prisoner, but as someone who had chosen.

The stalemate was no longer between captor and captive.

It lived within him now.

And still, he chose them.

Not because he believed all of it. Not because he trusted them completely.

But because some part of him—ancient and aching—had always belonged to something lost. And now, standing in their arms, that part pulsed like a phantom limb, reminding him that belonging and surrender were not the same thing.

They said nothing for a long time. Just held him. Six men who had once played gods in his life, now clinging to him as if he were their anchor.

It was Hoseok who broke the silence, his voice low, trembling with a conviction that Taehyung had never heard from him before. “Whatever he did to you… whatever kingdom was stolen… we’ll tear the roots from the earth if we have to. You won’t carry it alone.”

Taehyung didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was tight with grief he couldn’t name.

Jimin came forward last, placing two fingers under his chin, tilting his face upward. There was no silver in his eyes now, no veiled prophecy. Only something heartbreakingly simple.

“Even if we were wrong in the beginning,” Jimin murmured, “we’ll get it right now. We will.”

Taehyung nodded slowly.

And then he wept.

Not loudly. Not like a child. But like someone who had been holding back a storm for too long, and now the seams of his silence had finally split. He cried for the lost kingdom. For the melody that wasn’t a name. For the people who had died trying to keep him safe. For the boys who had bound him to them with chains made of love and obsession and fear.

None of them tried to stop him. Not this time.

Even Yoongi, usually the last to reach out, stepped closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“They took everything from you,” Yoongi said quietly. “But they won’t take us.”

Taehyung closed his eyes.

The ache inside him didn’t fade—but it shifted. Took shape. Became a wound he could live with.

That night, they stayed with him.

Not in the same room, but near. A silent agreement passed between them—not as manipulators guarding their prize, but as men who had committed a terrible kind of love, and now had to reckon with the weight of it.

Seokjin sat by his door, back against the wood, eyes wide open. Watching shadows.

Namjoon returned to the archive, the scroll open in his lap, searching through old margins for something they’d missed.

Jungkook walked the temple grounds, checking every stone path, every broken statue, as if the answers might be hiding in the garden air.

Yoongi stood alone on the palace wall, fingers tapping against the hilt of his blade, gaze fixed on the stars as if daring them to fall.

Hoseok sat in the hall, whispering prayers to gods he didn’t believe in, his hands slick with guilt.

And Jimin?

Jimin lay curled on the floor beside Taehyung’s bed, one hand beneath the mattress where Taehyung’s fingers had reached down in the dark—wordless, uncertain—and clutched his.

Taehyung didn’t sleep.

He watched the ceiling as memories began to stitch themselves together.

Not whole. Not yet. But bleeding through.

A voice that wasn’t a voice.

A name that had never belonged to this world.

A tree, burning at its roots.

A promise—someone had made him a promise, long ago, in a tongue no longer spoken.

You will return. When the world forgets and remembers again, you will return.

And now, that return had begun.

Morning came quietly.

No fanfare. No horn from the citadel tower. Just a dim, golden hush pouring through the high windows, gilding the stone floors like spilled sunlight.

Taehyung sat alone at the edge of his bed, dressed but unmoving. His tunic clung to his back where sweat had dried in the night. A dream clung to him too—something vast and root-deep, slipping away with each breath. Only fragments remained.

Smoke over water.

A woman’s hands, scarred and glowing, pressing against his chest.

The words: He is your ruin and your rebirth. Take him with you, or not at all.

He didn’t know who she meant. Maybe all of them. Maybe none.

A soft knock came.

He didn’t need to ask who it was.

“Come in, Seokjin.”

The door creaked open. The older man stepped inside slowly, as if uncertain which version of Taehyung he would find.

He didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the room, sat beside him.

Then, quietly, “The others are waiting. We’ve called a council.”

Taehyung turned to him. “To decide what to do with the king?”

Seokjin nodded once. “And with the truth.”

Taehyung stared at his hands. “You knew before the scroll. You felt it, didn’t you? That I wasn’t meant to be here.”

“I knew,” Seokjin admitted. “But I didn’t want to lose you to something bigger than us.”

Taehyung’s voice was barely a breath. “You already had.”

They gathered in the old strategy room, where dust coated the war maps and spiderwebs hung between candle sconces.

But the air was sharp with purpose now.

Jimin stood with his arms folded, uncharacteristically silent. Yoongi sharpened a blade—not for war, but ritual. Namjoon paced near the hearth, muttering the prophecy under his breath. Hoseok poured water into seven cups and placed them in a circle. Jungkook lingered near Taehyung’s shoulder, silent and steady.

Taehyung took the empty seat in the center.

Namjoon spoke first. “The king knows. Or he will soon. If the scroll was hidden, he feared this truth. If Taehyung was taken, he meant to erase it.”

Jimin finally spoke, voice low. “So we erase him first.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “He’s had his reign. His lies. His cages. It ends.”

“No.” Taehyung’s voice was clear, cutting through the fog. “We don’t destroy him for revenge.”

Six eyes turned to him.

“If we kill him,” Taehyung continued, “we only become the next tyrants. I don’t want that. Not for me. Not for any of you.”

Hoseok frowned. “Then what do you want?”

Taehyung stood slowly. The early light poured around him, catching in the faint glow behind his eyes.

“I want the truth. Spoken aloud. I want the priests called. I want the council assembled. I want the people to hear what he did—how he cursed a kingdom to steal a child. How he made you pawns in a game that should never have existed.”

He met each of their gazes in turn.

“I want him to fall. But not by shadow. Not by blade. By light.”

There was silence.

Then Seokjin exhaled. “You sound like a king.”

Taehyung shook his head. “No. I sound like someone who remembers.”

Preparations began.

Letters sent in secret. Old allies summoned from the outskirts. Hidden scrolls gathered, relics polished. They moved like ghosts through the palace, invisible and inevitable. The brothers worked as one—each using their strengths not to bind Taehyung, but to raise him.

Jimin planted dreams in the priests who had once served Aenon. Yoongi scouted hidden passageways into the sanctum. Hoseok spread whispers, soft and surgical, cracking loyalties in the inner court. Jungkook moved in the shadows, warding off suspicion. Namjoon built the narrative like a fortress. And Seokjin—Seokjin never left Taehyung’s side.

They didn’t say it aloud, but they knew: this was the end of something.

The end of the king’s story.

And the beginning of Taehyung’s.

The throne room was nearly empty.

No courtiers. No guards. Just stone columns bathed in a bleak gray light and the distant sound of doves crying beyond the high windows.

Taehyung stepped forward slowly, every footfall echoing like a drumbeat in his chest.

At the far end of the hall, the king waited.

He did not rise from the throne. He looked smaller than Taehyung remembered—shoulders heavy, crown dull with age, eyes hollowed out by years of unspoken truth.

“So,” the king said, voice dry. “You remember.”

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. He let the silence settle, thick and cold.

“You stole me,” he said at last. “You burned what you could not control. And now you sit on a throne built over ashes.”

The king gave a bitter smile. “I saved you. You would have died with the rest of them. Do you not understand that?”

“I was meant to die with them,” Taehyung said. “Not because of you.”

The king rose slowly, each movement strained. “I made a choice. One child for a kingdom. You were always more than they understood. I saw it. I claimed it.”

“You cursed them,” Taehyung said. “And you cursed me.”

The king approached, each step a deliberate act of defiance. “And still, you lived. You thrived. You became mine.”

“No,” Taehyung whispered. “I became theirs.”

Something shifted in the king’s eyes then—rage, yes, but underneath it, a flicker of something sadder.

Regret.

“I gave you power. I made you feared, loved, envied—”

“You made me alone.”

The king flinched. Just a breath. Just enough.

Behind Taehyung, the great doors remained open. The brothers were out of sight, waiting just beyond the archway.

He turned from the throne. He didn’t need to look back.

“Your reign ends today,” he said. “Not with blood. With truth.”

The king's voice cracked. “Where will you go?”

Taehyung paused at the threshold.

“I don’t know.”

He stepped through the doors, the light from the corridor swallowing his silhouette.

Outside, the corridors were still.

Seokjin waited beside a column, hands clasped tightly, but said nothing. Hoseok stood in the shadows near the stairs, watching the hall. Jimin sat on the edge of a fountain, eyes distant. Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms crossed but tense. Jungkook met Taehyung’s gaze and looked away too quickly. And Namjoon… Namjoon was already gone, setting the next stage into motion.

Taehyung didn’t stop for any of them.

He walked through the palace like a stranger. Past the gardens, past the temple ruins, past the courtyard where they’d once cornered him with carefully chosen words and soft hands.

He didn’t look back.

Somewhere, the Tree of Union still bloomed in memory—scarred, but alive.

And Taehyung, the stolen prince of a vanished world, disappeared into the light of morning.

Three weeks later.

The capital whispered of his disappearance.

Some said he’d gone east, to the ruins of Aenon. Others claimed he’d slipped over the mountains in the night, vanished into myth like the bloodline he carried. A few swore they saw a golden-eyed figure crossing the desert, barefoot and glowing with a light not meant for this world.

The truth lived somewhere in between.

Because Taehyung never really left.

Not entirely.

He'd gone to the edge—stood at the border where empire met wilderness, where silence hummed louder than prophecy. He had slept alone beneath a sky too wide for crowns and contracts, listening to the wind thread itself through the long grass.

But he came back.

Not with fanfare. Not with fire.

Just quietly.

A soft step back through a garden gate. A familiar knock on a quiet door.

And the six, who had thought they’d lost him, didn’t ask for explanations.

Seokjin found him first, sitting in the sunroom with dust on his boots and starlight in his eyes. He didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and wrapped his arms around him as if he could anchor him back to the present.

Yoongi joined them later, dropping a cup of warm tea on the table with a grunt, then sitting silently beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

Jimin touched his forehead with a reverent kind of awe. “You chose this?” he whispered.

Taehyung met his eyes. “I chose you.”

Hoseok didn’t cry, but his smile cracked, and he reached out like he was afraid to touch him. “We weren’t sure you’d come back.”

“I wasn’t either,” Taehyung admitted.

Namjoon came last—dust-covered and breathless, as if he’d been searching, always searching. He didn’t say a word. Just sat across from him, laid the half-burned scroll on the table, and gave a single nod.

And Jungkook, who had waited with quiet hope and fierce devotion, dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to Taehyung’s hand.

“You’re real,” he murmured. “You’re still ours.”

Taehyung didn’t correct him.

The palace changed after that. Not visibly, not at first.

But something in the air softened. The halls grew quieter. The guards less tense.

No one knew who truly ruled now. The king hadn’t been seen since the morning Taehyung last stepped into the throne room.

But the brothers—Seokjin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Namjoon, Jimin, Jungkook—they moved differently. Not like puppetmasters pulling strings, but like sentinels guarding something sacred.

Or someone.

And Taehyung?

He walked the palace grounds like a ghost made whole.

He never asked for power, but power came to him anyway—through loyalty, through memory, through the choice to stay when he could have burned it all down.

Not because he was bound.

Because he was loved.

Because he had chosen.

And sometimes, late at night, when the wind stirred the curtains and the dreams pressed close, the Tree of Union bloomed again—within him, around him—its roots deep in the hearts of six men who once tried to control him.

And failed.

Because Taehyung was never theirs to possess.

He was theirs to follow.

Taehyung stood alone in the quiet of the courtyard, morning light filtering through the petals of a tree he did not plant but somehow remembered. He closed his eyes, breathed in the scent of soil and memory, and thought,

“They never had to cage me to keep me. All they ever had to do was ask me to stay.”

Waking up with the thoughts swirling around Seokjin’s words was not in Taehyung’s daily plan. To be fair, his plan only consisted of waking up, stretching, maybe using the bathroom to freshen up, sneaking past the guards at the door (because apparently, they took his safety very seriously), going for a walk, and sneaking poached fruit into his room before any of them could figure out he was gone.

But like most things lately, that did not happen.

Perhaps it was because of what Seokjin had said to him. Those words of comfort, the offer of companionship. The possibility of having someone to trust, to lean on. Someone who could be his friend, his protector. It was tempting. Far too tempting.

Yet the whispers of doubt would not silence themselves. They grew louder, gnawing at him with merciless persistence.

Hadn’t it all been too convenient? Jimin appearing just when his dreams had been restless. Seokjin with his gentle eyes and soothing words when he felt most alone. Yoongi with his training sessions that felt more like traps than guidance. Hoseok’s easy smile, masking something far more calculating. The High Priest’s assurances of safety. They all offered him something, but at what cost?

But Seokjin... Seokjin had seemed sincere. His words carried warmth that Taehyung craved like air. And that was the problem.

What if it was all part of their game? What if Seokjin’s kindness was only a tool to draw him in, to make him believe in them until he was nothing but a puppet dancing to their tune?

He didn’t want to believe that. Because if Seokjin’s concern was genuine, then... perhaps he wasn’t alone. Perhaps he had something real.

But how could he know for sure?

Taehyung’s hands clenched around the fabric of his sheets. The confusion tangled his thoughts, leaving him at war with himself. His trust was a fragile thing, battered and torn by too many betrayals. But this... this was different. Or so he wanted to believe.

He wanted to believe Seokjin meant it. That there was more behind those tender looks and quiet words than strategy.

But he couldn’t forget the way the others moved around him, like circling wolves cloaked in velvet.

His head dropped forward. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe he was just projecting hope onto a situation that had none.

Still...

He couldn’t shake the feeling of Seokjin’s hand resting near his, the brush of his lips a memory that lingered far too long.

He hated how much he wanted that to be real.

“Are you alright?”

The voice made him flinch, his gaze snapping toward the door where Seokjin stood, eyes filled with concern.

“I thought I’d check on you,” Seokjin continued, his tone careful, gentle. “You looked troubled when I saw you sleeping.”

“How long have you been here?” Taehyung asked, his voice rough from disuse.

“Not long,” Seokjin assured him with a small smile. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. But I can leave if you want.”

The offer to leave was almost too perfect. Like Seokjin was giving him a choice. But Taehyung couldn’t find the words to send him away. Instead, he found himself speaking without thinking.

“I just... It’s hard to know who to trust.”

Seokjin’s expression softened, and he stepped further into the room, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I understand. With everything you’ve been through, it’s only natural. But I meant what I said before. I’m here for you. No strings attached.”

Taehyung’s laugh was brittle, forced. “No strings? Isn’t that what all of you say? That you’re here to help me, to protect me? But how do I know it’s true?”

Seokjin’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, something like genuine pain flickered in his eyes. “Because it’s not about kingdoms or power or duty. It’s about you. I care about you, Taehyung. Maybe... Maybe more than I should.”

The admission left Taehyung stunned, words caught in his throat. His suspicion wavered, unsteady and crumbling under the weight of Seokjin’s earnestness.

“What if I choose not to believe you?” Taehyung asked, voice trembling.

“Then that’s your choice,” Seokjin replied, his voice thick with something desperate, something real. “But I hope you’ll give me the chance to prove myself. That’s all I ask.”

The sincerity was maddening. It chipped away at Taehyung’s doubts, leaving him torn between suspicion and longing. But what scared him most was how much he wanted to believe.

Seokjin’s gaze remained on him, unwavering. “I know you’re afraid. And I know you feel lost. But you don’t have to be alone. Not if you don’t want to be.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened, and he lowered his gaze to his hands. “I... I don’t want to be alone.”

“Then let me stay,” Seokjin whispered. “Just for a while. Just until you find your way.” Seokjin said as he leaned closer until their lips were a mere breath apart.

And for once, Taehyung didn’t push him away.

***

The next morning, Taehyung returned to training. But his movements were tense, hesitant, as if he was bracing himself for the sting of betrayal. Every word of encouragement, every touch of reassurance felt heavy, like honey laced with poison. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from seeking it.

Yoongi refused to spar with him that day, his eyes avoiding Taehyung’s with an unease that spoke of something deeper. Even Jungkook’s attempts at friendliness were met with Taehyung’s careful distance, his gaze flickering between acceptance and distrust.

Seokjin was there, watching him carefully from the sidelines. His eyes never left Taehyung, tracking every movement, every falter.

And then the King entered the courtyard.

It was only for a moment, a passing presence flanked by guards. But it was enough. The sight of him struck fear into Taehyung’s chest like an icy blade. He froze.

Then, as if trying to shake off the paralysis, he turned and called out to one of the sparring soldiers. “Again,” he demanded. “Harder.”

The soldier hesitated, then nodded.

They clashed again. Taehyung pushed harder, driven by something deeper than pride—by fear, by confusion, by the overwhelming need to prove something.

A single misstep.

Taehyung lost his balance, the world spinning sideways. He hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs.

Seokjin and Yoongi were on him in an instant. Voices of concern echoed around him.

“Taehyung!” Seokjin’s arms cradled him before he could push himself up. “Don’t move—are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Taehyung rasped, wincing.

Yoongi’s face was grim. “Call Jungkook.”

The High Priest arrived swiftly, kneeling beside them with practiced calm. His hands hovered over Taehyung, assessing him.

“He’s alright,” Jungkook said, but his tone was laced with worry. “Just rattled. He needs rest.”

Seokjin didn’t let go. He helped Taehyung to his feet, an arm tight around his waist. “Come. I’ll take you back.”

Later, after Jungkook confirmed he would recover with rest, the six gathered behind closed doors.

“He’s cracking,” Namjoon said quietly. “You saw it. The kiss with Seokjin... the fall. He’s more fragile than he lets on.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “We need to be careful. If we push too hard—”

“Then we lose him,” Jimin finished, frowning. “But if we don’t act now, he might slip away. He’s still questioning everything.”

“We need to show him our cards,” Hoseok said. “Or at least let him think we are. If he believes we’ve come clean, that we trust him enough to be honest, he’ll follow.”

“He already trusts Seokjin,” Jungkook added. “We use that.”

“But that’s not enough,” Jimin said, brow furrowed. “He still doubts. Still pulls away. He is like a lost child who has never experienced care. Dare I even say love? His parent kicked him out at the ripe age of ten. He doesn't know what trust is. Even his deepest, darkest dreams are filled with betrayal, hurt,t and abandonment." 

 “He’s scared. We need to appear open. Let him feel like he has power. Like we trust him.” Seokjin murmured.

“I agree with Hoseok. We need a gesture of transparency,” Namjoon agreed. “Let him believe he’s seeing the truth. Give him just enough.”

“If we don’t,” Jungkook added, “he’ll retreat again. And the damage could undo everything.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. “He needs one last push. He needs to believe this is his choice.”

“And he has to seal it himself,” Hoseok said. “The final knot. He must tie it.”

A beat of silence passed as the six considered their next move.

“Then we show him what he wants to see,” Seokjin said. “And we let him think it was always his to choose.”

They nodded in agreement. One last push. One final tilt of the scales.

***

That night, Seokjin returned to Taehyung’s room, quiet and hesitant.

“You scared me,” he said quietly, settling beside him.

“I didn’t mean to,” Taehyung replied, his voice softer than usual.

“I know. It’s just...” Seokjin hesitated. “Watching you fall like that, it reminded me of my brother. He—he used to throw himself into things when he was scared, too. Always trying to be stronger than he felt.”

Taehyung blinked. “Namjoon? You never talk about your family.”

“There’s not much to say,” Seokjin murmured, gaze distant. “Most of them are gone now. Politics and power—they take everything eventually. That’s why I stopped trying to chase after titles or favor. That’s why... I started caring about you instead.”

Taehyung’s breath caught, heart twisting with something too soft to name. “Why me?”

“Because you remind me of what I lost,” Seokjin said with a weak smile. “And because you still have a chance to choose who you want to be.”

A knock interrupted them. Hoseok’s voice floated through the door. “May I come in?”

Seokjin stood, smoothing his expression. “Of course.”

Hoseok entered with a light smile, his usual charm tempered by something more grounded. “Walk with us?” he asked Taehyung. “There’s something we’d like to share with you.”

Taehyung hesitated, then nodded.

They walked in the gardens, evening light casting long shadows. Flowers rustled in the breeze. It should have been peaceful.

“You’re still unsure of us,” Hoseok said gently. “I understand. But there’s only so long you can stand in the middle of a path before you’re forced to choose a direction.”

Taehyung glanced at him warily. “And if I choose wrong?”

“Then we’ll catch you,” Hoseok said, his voice steady. “We always will. We don’t want your allegiance, Taehyung. We want you safe. Protected. And for that, you need to trust someone.”

Taehyung swallowed. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Hoseok admitted. “But we’ve shown you our hands. Our flaws. Our fears. We’re not perfect—but we are here.”

Taehyung looked away, uncertain. The cool air stirred his hair, brushing it against his cheek like a whisper. Hoseok waited a moment, then leaned closer, his voice quiet and coaxing.

“You asked me once if I ever lied to you,” he said. “And I told you no. But that wasn’t quite true.”

Taehyung turned to him, startled.

“I’ve never lied to you directly,” Hoseok continued, “but I’ve guided you away from truths that would only hurt you. I’ve silenced those who tried to manipulate you for their own ends. I’ve protected you in ways you may never know. And I would do it all again.”

“Protected me?” Taehyung echoed, brow furrowing. “From what?”

Hoseok smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “From everyone who sees you as a pawn. And yes, even from some of us—when they forgot you were more than a symbol. I’ve done terrible things for your sake. And if that makes me a monster in your eyes, I’ll accept it. As long as it keeps you breathing.”

His words sank deep, curling around the thorns of Taehyung’s doubt. It was a confession and a warning both.

Taehyung opened his mouth to respond, but footsteps interrupted them. The others emerged—Jimin, Namjoon, Yoongi, Jungkook—waiting by the path, open and unguarded.

“We want to tell you the truth,” Namjoon said. “Or at least, as much of it as we can.”

They spoke then, of pasts twisted by war and secrets, of ambitions bent toward a single cause: him. They painted themselves not as masterminds, but as people who had chosen to follow him because they believed in him.

And Taehyung listened—quietly, uncertainly—but with his heart tilted toward them, pulled by the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they meant it. That he wasn’t being used, but chosen.

When the conversation ended, he didn’t walk away.

He stayed.

***

Later that night, long after the others had gone, Taehyung sat alone in his chamber, the candlelight flickering against the walls like restless thoughts. He’d left the windows open despite the chill—he needed air. But it did little to ease the tightness coiling inside his chest.

The truth. That was what they had offered him.

But what was truth? Their stories had blended so seamlessly with his own confusion that he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began. Had he ever truly had clarity? Or had he simply clung to the illusion of it?

A soft knock at the door broke through the silence.

“Come in,” he said hoarsely.

Seokjin stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He closed the door behind him but didn’t approach. He waited—an offer, not an imposition.

Taehyung didn’t speak right away. He didn’t even look up. He sat at the edge of the window bench, fingers curled loosely in his lap, knuckles pale from how long he’d been gripping the fabric of his robes.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” he whispered.

Seokjin didn’t move.

“I thought I could see through people. I thought if I watched long enough, listened carefully enough, I’d be able to tell who was lying.” Taehyung’s voice broke on the last word. “But I can’t. I can’t tell with any of you.”

There was a long pause. Then the soft shuffle of Seokjin’s steps.

“You’re not supposed to,” Seokjin said gently. “Not when you’ve been torn in so many directions that the ground itself doesn’t feel solid anymore.”

Taehyung finally looked up.

“I hate that I’m scared all the time,” he said. “That I don’t know who I am unless someone tells me.”

Seokjin’s gaze flickered with something dark—pity, perhaps, or guilt. Maybe neither.

Or maybe both.

He sat beside Taehyung without asking, their shoulders brushing.

“I could lie to you,” Seokjin said softly. “I could tell you that everything we’ve done was perfect. That none of us made mistakes. That you were never meant to be caught in the middle of it.”

Taehyung swallowed.

“But I won’t,” Seokjin continued. “Because I think... I think you deserve more than pretty words. You deserve someone who will stay, even if you scream. Even if you hate us.”

The silence that followed was fragile, almost sacred.

Taehyung’s breath shook as he turned toward him. “Why me? Why not just let me go?”

“Because you are the one thing we all agree on,” Seokjin said, voice low. “The one thing none of us could walk away from.”

That felt too big. Too heavy. Taehyung looked away, but Seokjin leaned in closer.

“You don’t have to believe everything we say,” Seokjin murmured, “but I need you to believe this: I would burn this entire kingdom to the ground before I let it swallow you.”

Taehyung’s heart lurched painfully at that. He felt the weight of those words settle deep inside, like a stone cast into water.

It was too much.

And yet not enough.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Taehyung said, so quietly he could barely hear himself.

Seokjin didn’t answer with words. He simply shifted closer, drawing Taehyung into his arms with a gentleness that felt both protective and possessive. A prison made of silk and warmth.

Taehyung didn’t resist.

He let himself lean into it.

Because even if it was all a lie—

—it was the only lie that ever held him like this.

Hoseok stood in the corridor, half-shrouded in shadow.

He had not intended to linger. He rarely did. His presence was best felt, not seen—like breath on the back of a neck, like a voice in one’s mind they were certain was their own. But tonight, something had pulled him here. Call it curiosity. Call it caution.

He had seen Seokjin slip inside Taehyung’s chambers. Had felt, even from a distance, the tension thrum through the walls like a heartbeat.

He hadn’t planned to listen. And yet—

The door wasn’t quite shut. Not tightly enough.

He didn’t catch everything, but he heard enough. The tremor in Taehyung’s voice. The silence that followed. The soft, muffled words that could only be meant for someone who had finally broken.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Hoseok closed his eyes.

Something shifted in him. Not anger. Not quite.

He had expected Seokjin to win this particular battle. Seokjin always did, in the end—he had a talent for devastation wrapped in silk. But Hoseok hadn’t expected... this.

Not the vulnerability. Not the surrender.

Not the fact that it wasn’t manufactured.

He pushed off the wall, footsteps quiet as breath as he disappeared down the corridor, the hem of his robe whispering against the stone.

The others would want to know. Not the words—he wouldn’t repeat those. But the tone. The shift. The way Taehyung was beginning to tip, not from pressure, but from a need he could no longer ignore.

It was working. All of it.

And that should have pleased him.

But instead, Hoseok felt the stirrings of something cold. Something unpredictable.

Because for the first time since they had begun weaving this web, Taehyung wasn’t just accepting their control.

He was craving it.

And if he began to seek them out—not out of obligation, but out of longing—then Hoseok wondered, not for the first time, if they were still the ones pulling the strings.

Or if, perhaps, they had created something they could no longer contain.

***

They gathered in the room lit only by a single brazier. Shadows clung to the corners. The atmosphere was subdued, tense—not with conflict, but with anticipation.

Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms folded, gaze sharp. Jimin sat cross-legged, fingertips pressed together, unreadable as always. Namjoon stood near the fire, the light flickering across his thoughtful face. Jungkook lingered in the doorway, unusually quiet.

Then Hoseok entered.

He didn’t speak right away, just let his eyes settle on Seokjin as he too entered the room.

“You should be the one to say it,” Hoseok said quietly, a flick of his chin. “He didn’t fall for the rest of us. He fell for you.”

Seokjin exhaled slowly, then stepped forward, expression carefully composed. But the satisfaction couldn’t quite be hidden in his eyes. Nor could the shadow of something heavier.

“He let me stay,” he began. “He asked me to. Not out of duty. Not out of fear.”

He paused, gaze sweeping over the others. “He was unraveling. Doubt had rotted through everything he believed in, and still—he reached for me.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened.

Jimin tilted his head, saying nothing.

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed, calculating.

Seokjin continued. “He said he doesn’t know what’s real anymore. That every time he tries to pull away, it feels like the ground vanishes beneath him. He’s lost, and instead of running, he looked to us for shelter.”

He swallowed. “He looked to me.”

The silence was thick with meaning. They had been working toward this—every gesture, every whisper, every dream and touch carefully placed.

“He said,” Seokjin added, voice lower now, “‘I can’t do this without you. I’m afraid… I’ll lose myself if I try.’”

A breath passed between them all.

And that was it.

The turning point.

Not a scream. Not a breakdown. But a soft, desperate surrender.

“He believes we’re the only ones who can keep him whole,” Seokjin finished. “That without us, he’ll fall apart.”

Hoseok looked away.

Yoongi said nothing.

Jimin closed his eyes.

And Namjoon nodded once, the barest movement. “Then the game is no longer about keeping him. It’s about making sure he never wants to leave.”

The air in the war chamber was thick with the bitter scent of incense and tension. King Hyun sat rigidly on his throne, fingers tapping impatiently against the armrest as his gaze bore into the six men before him. His sons and his most trusted advisor. Each was trying their best not to look the King in the eye. They knew this meeting was not good. Not with the way the king was holding back his anger.

“You allowed… an attack on our guest?” The king’s voice was low, each word sharp as iron. Yet, frightfully calm. “Do you understand the insult this is to my rule? To our power?”

Seokjin stepped forward first, ever the picture of humility and elegance. His tone was smooth, placating. “We failed to anticipate the boldness of our enemies, Father. But we intervened before the damage could be done. Our guards arrived swiftly and repelled the attackers. Taehyung is resting safely under our care.”

The King scoffed. “See, that is where your first mistake was. You underestimated the enemy. Have you at least caught one of the fools and inquired as to why they attacked or even how?”

“No, there were only but a few of them. To save Taehyung, we had to take action and kill most of them. The others drank poison before we could stop them. But we did find the enemy's marks on them, confirming that they were indeed from outside and not within. We will search the bodies thoroughly once this meeting is done, and I will report back to you first,” Seokjin said, his tone polished and unyielding.

Namjoon followed seamlessly, his eyes steady and voice full of conviction. “The audacity of the attempt proves the enemy is growing desperate. And who better to lure them out of hiding than Taehyung? If we take too harsh an approach, they will only scatter and grow bolder in their shadows. We should use their foolishness against them. If they want Taehyung, why don’t we dangle him just out of reach? Allow us to handle this matter. We will draw out the conspirators and eliminate them properly.”

King Hyun’s eyes narrowed, suspicion simmering beneath his expression. But the logic was sound. Namjoon’s tone carried the weight of strategy, Seokjin’s the illusion of humility. Together, they made it seem as if they were devoted to keeping their guest safe, not hiding him from the king’s view. Unlike what some of his advisors tried to do. The king’s paranoia simmered beneath his gaze, his suspicion of betrayal never truly at rest.

“And the boy?” The king pressed. “He will not run?”

“He’s injured, shaken,” Seokjin replied smoothly. “He will need guidance. Someone to help him recover. Someone to ensure his trust is preserved. He might be a fearsome fighter, but he is still young, and I believe this attack was the closest he has been to death.”

“Leave him to us, Father,” Namjoon added. “We will ensure his loyalty. And if he truly is the key to our future, we cannot risk alienating him now. But I believe it is wise to limit his contact with some of the staff around here. We have reason to believe someone might be a mole.”

The other advisors swiftly turned to Namjoon and Seokjin. Suggesting a mole was as good as treason. Especially if you were grasping at straws. Their eyes were wide, not in fear of being named the mole, but in fear of how bold the two brothers had become. Especially considering their father has no issue getting rid of his own kin to please his own agenda.

The king’s gaze lingered over the group, his suspicion only partially soothed. “Very well. I will allow you to handle it. But if I find you’ve failed me again, even your combined influence will not save you.”

“Understood, Your Majesty,” the brothers replied in unison, their heads bowed in perfect synchronization. The sweetness of their compliance did nothing to mask the cunning gleam in their eyes.

The king’s eyes turned to the rest of the men. Most of them were old and frail, their loyalty as brittle as their bones. They had been by the king's side for over a decade, yet the king could not stop his suspicion from growing. Could they have finally turned on him? How would he replace them if they could not even stay loyal after following his rule for so long? Perhaps if his sons are right, they could help him clean the house. Seokjin and Namjoon have proven their loyalty to the crown far too many times, and not once did they ask for anything. Not even the crown itself. Unlike the rest of his useless flock.

The king swiftly left the chamber, his robes trailing like the shadow of his own paranoia. The other advisors followed suit soon after, their backs slightly more hunched as if weighed down by some unspoken guilt. Most of them looked years older than they first did when they arrived for this meeting. Almost as if they truly had something to hide from the king.

The Brothers waited until the king and the other advisors departed before Hoseok slipped into the room, his presence as quiet as a shadow. His lips curved in a half-smile as he folded his arms over his chest.

“Your whispers reach further than ever,” Namjoon noted, his eyes flickering over Hoseok’s casual posture. “I didn’t realize you’d been listening.”

“You needed me to. Besides, listening is what I do best,” Hoseok replied, shrugging. “Your father has grown suspicious of nearly everyone. His advisors scurry like rats, and his trust is as fickle as flame. It’s almost too easy to nudge his thoughts in our favor.”

Seokjin’s gaze met Hoseok’s, a glimmer of approval passing between them. “Good. We need a target for him to fixate on, something to satisfy his paranoia while we tighten our hold on Taehyung.”

Hoseok’s smile widened. “Consider it done. The palace staff will sing of treachery where we desire. And as for Taehyung...Jimin’s work is already showing results. His dreams will guide him exactly where we need him to be.”

“Excellent. The more isolated he feels, the easier he is to control.” Namjoon’s voice was laced with satisfaction. “And if we play this right, he’ll never be able to live without us.”

***

Taehyung woke to the muted glow of candlelight. His head throbbed, and his neck ached where the blade had grazed him. He was in a room he didn’t recognize—sheets too soft, the air too still. The silence pressed in on him, far too gentle, almost as if it were designed to lull him into a false sense of security.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

The voice was gentle and soothing. Taehyung’s gaze slid over to the boy sitting beside his bed. Somehow, he looked familiar. Like Taehyung had seen him before in some of his recent dreams, hazy glimpses of a gentle presence guiding him through darkness. His features were delicate, eyes half-lidded like he had just woken up himself. His gaze gave the illusion that he was looking through Taehyung rather than at him.

“Who…?” Taehyung started only to immediately regret speaking. His voice was scratchy, and his throat throbbed.

“Jimin. The royal Seer.” The smile on the man’s lips was serene, eyes glinting with something unreadable. As he passed a glass of water to Taehyung, his fingers lightly brushed against Taehyung’s hand, cool and comforting. “They sent me to watch over you. To guide you in your recovery. The attack left you weak and… understandably confused. It’s just a precaution. We are uncertain if the blade that touched you was fitted with some potion or spell to disorient you.”

Confused. Yes, that was the word. His mind felt hazy, thoughts scattered like broken glass. Bits of memory danced just out of reach. The King. The attack. The betrayal. His fists clenched weakly.

“I heard them. They said… the king… he wants me dead.”

Jimin’s expression shifted, eyes brimming with sympathy. “You’re not wrong. The whispers speak of betrayal, of how the king is losing his mind and making irrational decisions. But you survived, Taehyung. Because you were meant to. You have a greater purpose than serving a mad king.”

The words slipped into his mind like silk, threading themselves through his thoughts, twisting his fear into something new. Purpose. Fate. Meant to survive. To be here. To serve something greater than the whims of a paranoid king.

The attack, the warnings, the priest’s cryptic words—it all felt like fate pulling him toward some unknown purpose, like Jimin said. But what other role could a cast aside like Taehyung play in a kingdom he isn’t part of?

“I’ve seen glimpses of your path,” Jimin continued, his voice a silken thread, weaving images into Taehyung’s fragile mind. “You are special, Taehyung. So much more than even you realize. You are destined to be something far greater than a mere sword-for-hire. This attack was nothing more than a test. A challenge laid before you to prove your worth.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed. “Prove my worth? To whom?”

“To those who seek to destroy you. And to those who seek to save you,” Jimin replied, his voice dropping into a reverent whisper. “But you will not face these trials alone. We are here. I am here. To guide you, to help you see what you were meant to become.”

“Rest. We will protect you,” Jimin continued, his voice a gentle murmur. “You are safe here with us.”

Safe. The word felt hollow, but he wanted to believe it. Jimin’s presence was like a balm, his voice an anchor pulling Taehyung away from the darkness clawing at his thoughts.

“I- A seer has many gifts. If you want me to, I could help your dreams be less… restless. I can’t change them drastically but I could make them more bearable.” Jimin’s words were soft, his hand reaching out as if to comfort.

“I need to know who I can trust. I want to trust you. If - if you can help take some of the edge off, I would be very thankful,” Taehyung whispered, his voice breaking with exhaustion.

“I’ll help you find the truth. But rest, for now. Your body needs to heal, even if your mind cannot yet. I need to be present to have influence. Can I hold your hand? It just makes it easier.”

Taehyung nodded weakly. A sense of deja-vu coming over him at the action. The moment Jimin’s hand enveloped his own, he felt a warmth seep into his skin, spreading through his veins. It was too easy to drift off, the gentle strokes of Jimin’s thumb over his knuckles lulling him into a sleep that felt too pleasant to be real.

Even as he slipped into dreams, he could feel the faintest pull, as if his mind was being guided down paths he wouldn’t have wandered alone. The last thing he remembers is Jimin’s satisfied smile.

Days passed. Jimin came to him frequently, offering comfort, guidance, and those delicate touches that always seemed to leave Taehyung’s mind clouded yet soothed. Every night he would hold Taehyung’s hand until sleep claimed him, leaving his dreams gentle, and orchestrated.

But even as Taehyung allowed himself to be pulled into Jimin’s web, doubt gnawed at him. His unease was growing, little things piling up that he couldn’t ignore.

And then, Yoongi came.

The general’s expression was impassive as always, but there was something raw beneath the surface. Something Taehyung couldn’t place.

“Why am I here, Yoongi?” Taehyung’s voice trembled as he purposefully dropped the general's title. Perhaps a desperate attempt at getting some sort of answer. “Why do you all act like you need me so much? Every time I try to find out what’s going on, I get led in circles. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Yoongi’s eyes widened, but not with anger or dismissal. Instead, there was desperation in his gaze.

“Because we are nothing without you.”

The words hit Taehyung like a punch to the gut. His breath caught, his anger wavering.

Yoongi continued, “You are the thread that ties us all together. Without you, everything falls apart. We don’t want to control you, Taehyung. We want to protect you. Worship you.”

The sincerity in his voice was so absolute that for a moment, Taehyung’s paranoia crumbled. But even as Yoongi’s words buried themselves into his chest, something else remained.

The sickening feeling that this was all too perfect. Too deliberate.

And if he was right, then he was truly alone.

“Please… I just need to rest. Can you ask Jimin to come back?”

Yoongi hesitated, his eyes searching Taehyung’s face. Then, with a reluctant nod, he rose from his seat and left the room. 

Yoongi found the others gathered in the corridor. His expression was tight, frustration brewing beneath the surface. 

“He’s asking questions. Real questions. He’s not as blind as we assumed,” Yoongi growled. “We need to talk. Now” 

“Give me five minutes,” Jimin said as he entered the room and closed the door. The minutes stretched on for what felt like ages. Finally, Yoongi had enough and decided enough time had passed. 

They all follow Yoongi back into Taehyung’s room, their steps soundless as they hovered over his sleeping form. Hoseok’s gaze lingered over Taehyung’s serene expression, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.  

“At least he’s sleeping peacefully now. Jimin’s been doing his part well.”

Jimin stood nearby, eyes half-closed as if already lost within Taehyung’s dreams. “It’s not easy. His mind is... resilient. It fights against my influence even when he asks for my help. But the cracks are forming. He’s clinging to me for comfort, for guidance. Soon, he’ll see us as his only refuge.”

“That’s all we need,” Seokjin said softly. “To be his only choice. His doubts can be reshaped if we give him no other path.”

“Still, his suspicion is growing,” Yoongi interjected, his voice low and edged with concern. “He questioned me directly. He knows something’s wrong, even if he can’t name it. If we push too hard, he might bolt.”

“Then we adjust,” Hoseok countered smoothly. “Jimin’s methods are working, but we need to isolate him further. Remove any outside influences. Keep him close and keep feeding him the narrative that the king wants him dead. Plant more evidence if necessary. Whatever it takes to make him believe that we are his only safe haven.”

“Should we use the High Priest’s influence again?” Namjoon asked, eyes thoughtful. “Taehyung has already started to trust him more than he should.”

“Not yet,” Hoseok replied, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against his arm. “The High Priest’s influence will be our final push. We need to solidify his dependency on us first.”

“Then what about his doubts?” Jungkook spoke up, arms crossed as he stood at the foot of the bed. “They’re growing, and if he confronts us outright, we could lose everything.”

“Then we convince him to stay,” Hoseok said, eyes gleaming. “By any means necessary. Desperation breeds loyalty. We have to make him need us more than he needs the truth.”

A tense silence followed, each of them stewing in their own thoughts. Finally, Seokjin spoke, his voice smoother than the rest, a note of wistful sorrow wound within it.

“I’ll be his shoulder to lean on,” Seokjin said. “His confidant. Someone he can pour his thoughts into without fear. The rest of you keep planting seeds of doubt. Make him question everyone else. Make him doubt the king’s intentions, the priest’s supposed purity. But never us.”

Jimin nodded. “I’ll continue shaping his dreams. Making him see us as his protectors. His salvation.”

“I’ll handle the rest,” Hoseok concluded, his voice dripping with certainty. “Our little lamb will come to love his cage. And when he does, he will never want to leave.”

Their eyes fell on Taehyung’s sleeping form. And none of them noticed the twitch of his fingers, the slight tremor in his breath as if he was slipping between dreams and reality.

***

The soft knock at his door drew Taehyung from the restless fog of sleep. His body ached, his mind dizzied by fractured dreams that clung to him like cobwebs. His fingers curled against the sheets as the door creaked open, and Seokjin’s warm smile greeted him.

“I heard you were awake,” Seokjin murmured, his voice gentle, almost hesitant. “May I come in?”

Taehyung nodded, trying to force himself to sit up. His muscles protested, but Seokjin was quick to move, sliding a pillow behind him with delicate care. His touch was familiar, comforting in a way Taehyung hadn’t expected.

“You shouldn’t push yourself, no matter what the general always said about pushing produces results. This is not such case.” Seokjin chided softly, concern etched into every syllable. “You’ve been through enough. It’s okay to rest.”

Taehyung’s lips parted to speak, but hesitation held him back. The events of the past few days swirled in his mind—Jimin’s cryptic words, Yoongi’s guarded demeanor, the whispers he’d heard when he was supposed to be asleep. His trust was fraying, unraveling with each passing moment.

But Seokjin... Seokjin felt different.

“Why are you here?” Taehyung finally asked, his voice cracking under the weight of his doubts. “I mean... Why do you care?”

“Because I do,” Seokjin replied simply, his eyes earnest. “Because you matter. Not just to the kingdom, but to me. I hate seeing you like this—lost, confused, hurting, alone. You are but a child compared to me. And if I can be the one to help you through that, then... then I will.”

The sincerity in Seokjin’s words seeped into Taehyung’s weary bones. It was the gentleness he needed, the kindness he craved when the world felt like it was turning against him.

“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” Taehyung admitted, his voice trembling as a glimmer of youth slipped through. “Everything feels... wrong. Like I’m walking through a dream I can’t wake up from.”

“Then let me be your anchor,” Seokjin said softly. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it. You don’t have to face all of this alone.”

For a moment, Taehyung searched Seokjin’s gaze, looking for any hint of deceit. But all he found was patience. Compassion. A promise he couldn’t bring himself to doubt.

“Alright,” Taehyung whispered. “I... I think I could use someone to lean on.”

Seokjin’s smile was bittersweet, but Taehyung was too tired to notice. “Then I’ll be here. For as long as you need.”

As Seokjin rose to leave, his expression darkened for just a moment, a shadow flickering in his gaze. “Rest well, Taehyung. You’ll need your strength.”

When the door clicked shut behind him, the quiet of the room only amplified the pounding of Taehyung’s heart. As if, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the kindness offered to him was as sharp and lethal as a blade.

The plan was simple: Get him to trust them, no matter what his instincts told him. A simple plan, yet they soon realized how difficult it would be to succeed. Taehyung was a skilled warrior, but he was also a very vigilant person—cautious, always observant of his surroundings.

This only strengthened their resolve to make him theirs. The fact that he was so careful, so steadfast in his beliefs, made him that much more desirable.

Taehyung couldn’t escape the whispers. They made sure of that.  Before long, it seemed like everyone around him was talking about it—about whether the King would keep him around or if he was only a fleeting keepsake. He also started hearing rumors about the mysterious disappearance of the other royal children, how they were all seen as threats to the King. Some were too ambitious; others opposed their fathers’ ways. He heard stories of phantom screams echoing days before the royals vanished, of sealed dungeons, and the belief that the King had locked his children away, leaving them to die.

It was safe to say that these whispers did little to calm Taehyung’s nerves. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the unsettling urge to look over his shoulder at every turn. He’d done jobs like this a million times before, so why was this one different? Why did it feel more dangerous, more personal—like his life was truly at risk? He had faced many other near-death situations, but none had made him feel like this. Like a trapped dog. A mere animal backed into a corner, left with nowhere to run. Taehyung had finally experienced a new emotion. For the first time in a long while, Taehyung felt something other than hate and betrayal—he felt fear. He was afraid of what the future held, how he would make it out alive, who he could trust, and how he should navigate each new day.

He needed clarity. He needed a way to make sense of the chaos in his mind before it swallowed him whole. Answers wouldn’t come from the court nor from the whispers that followed him like ghosts. If there was anywhere in this forsaken kingdom that might grant him even a sliver of truth, it was the temple.

Taehyung’s mind raced as he wandered through the streets, his thoughts clouded by the whispers that echoed in his ears. The feeling of being trapped, like a dog in a cage, gnawed at him with every step. He was used to danger, to walking the edge between life and death, but this... this was different. This time, he was uncertain of the ground beneath his feet.

His thoughts pulled him towards the only things that made sense. He had to get answers, or he had to run.

The temple stood tall in the distance, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun. Its stained-glass windows shimmered like jewels, casting an ethereal glow over the ground below. Taehyung had never been one for faith, but the whispers of the kingdom's secrets had opened something within him—something that yearned for answers. He needed to know who he could trust and, more importantly, what path he should take before it was too late.

As he entered the temple, he was struck by its quiet, otherworldly beauty. The floors gleamed like polished jewels, the air heavy with incense and mystery. It felt... eerily still. There were no other people here. Only the sound of his footsteps echoed in the vast space.

Taehyung wasn’t sure what he expected, but this silence felt unsettling, as though the temple itself was watching him.

“I’ve never been to a place like this,” Taehyung muttered aloud, feeling more out of place than ever.This place... it's different," Taehyung shifting uncomfortably. He didn’t belong here, and yet, something about it called to him.

Just as he thought he might turn and leave, a small girl appeared seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“You look lost, mister,” she said, her voice soft but knowing.

Taehyung blinked in surprise but found himself replying, “Heh, I am. Very lost.”

The girl tilted her head slightly, as though appraising him. Her gaze was sharp, as if she saw through him to something deeper. She looked almost non human. After a moment, she reached for his hand, guiding him toward a door that Taehyung hadn’t noticed before.

"People who wear the mark are allowed counsel by the High Priest himself,” the girl said, her voice low. "But you must be pure of heart. What are your intentions?"

The mention of "the mark" caught Taehyung’s attention, but before he could ask, she led him through the door and into the heart of the temple.

It was there, standing in the flickering light of candles and incense, that Taehyung met him.

"Answers?" The voice was smooth and melodic, cutting through the silence like a whisper in the dark. "I take it you have questions. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the High Priest, but you can call me Jungkook."

The High Priest's presence was almost overwhelming. His eyes, dark and deep, seemed to pull at something inside Taehyung, something that made him want to trust this stranger—something that told him this man could hold the answers he was seeking. Another part of Taehyung screamed at him that this man was not who he portrayed himself to be. That there was more to him than a simple High priest. Something dangerous even. 

“Tell me, Taehyung,” Jungkook continued, his gaze never leaving him, “What guidance and answers do you seek?”

Taehyung wa sbaffeled. He had yet to utter a single word, but this man knew of his name. This man somehow knew that he was seeking guidance. It scared him more than he would have liked to admit. His instincts that were screaming at him earlier were now almost deafening in their plea. 

Jungkook's gaze softened as he studied Taehyung, his eyes seeming to pierce through him. Knowing every thought he had. He gestured toward a small altar, the air thick with incense, and invited Taehyung to sit.

"Please, sit. There is no need to stand on ceremony with me," Jungkook said, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

Taehyung hesitated, still on edge. "I... I’m not sure I belong here," he muttered, glancing around the temple again. Deciding to try and keep this interaction brief. "I’m just... seeking answers. About what's happening, about my place in all this."

Jungkook smiled gently, his expression unreadable. "We are all lost at times, Taehyung. Even those who walk the path of the divine," he said, his voice low and comforting. "But answers come only to those willing to listen, willing to open their hearts to the truth."

Taehyung clenched his fists. "And what truth would that be? That I’m being played like a pawn in some larger game? That the king is using me?" His voice grew louder, a hint of frustration seeping through.

Jungkook’s eyes glimmered with understanding, yet there was something unsettling about the way he tilted his head. Almost mimicking the little girl from earlier."Ah... you’ve seen the strings, haven’t you? The game, as you call it. It is not just the king who pulls them, Taehyung. There are others, too. Those who see what you cannot yet."

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, his smile growing faint but knowing. "You carry the mark, Taehyung. The mark of one who is destined for more. You cannot yet see it, but your power, your past... it is connected to forces much greater than this kingdom, this king. It is why they watch you so closely." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. "And why you must be careful who you trust."

Taehyung’s heart skipped a beat, but he quickly masked his reaction with a hardened expression. "And who should I trust, then? You?" he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Jungkook chuckled softly as if the question amused him. "Trust is a delicate thing. But yes... You can trust me. I have no desire to deceive you, Taehyung. Only to help you see what lies ahead. I have been where you are. Alone, uncertain, afraid of what the future holds." His eyes gleamed with intensity as he leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you have the power to change your destiny. You need only embrace it. Trust in me, and I will show you the way."

Taehyung felt the pull of Jungkook’s words, but something in his gut still screamed caution. He stared at the high priest for a long moment, trying to read his intentions.

"You want me to trust you... but I don’t even know who you are," Taehyung finally said, his voice cold.

Jungkook’s smile didn’t falter. "That is why you are here, isn’t it? To find those answers. And I will help you, Taehyung. But first, you must open yourself to the possibility that everything you’ve been told is a lie. The king, the court, your past... they have all hidden the truth from you. I can show you what lies beyond the veil."

Taehyung hesitated, the weight of his own doubts pressing down on him. "And if I don’t?"

Jungkook’s expression remained serene, but there was a flicker of something dark behind his eyes.

"Then you will remain lost, Taehyung. And the path ahead will be much more dangerous than you can imagine."

The words lingered, a quiet warning or a promise—Taehyung couldn't tell. The High Priest had left him with more questions than answers, speaking in circles, weaving riddles out of certainty. The answers will come through chaos and untimely action.

Whatever that meant.

For now, he had more immediate concerns—like the fact that he was late.

He pushed open the gates to the training grounds, boots scuffing against the damp earth.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence. The rain fairy himself."

Taehyung didn’t have to look up to recognize the voice. Bong.

One of the more disliked soldiers—loud, insufferable, and not nearly as skilled as he thought he was. A good fight would shut him up, but Taehyung wasn’t in the mood.

Before he could respond, another voice cut through the air.

"Shut it, Bong. Even if he is late, I fail to see how it affects your poor attempt at training. Get back to work—your feet won’t train themselves."

General Min.

Taehyung tensed. The general rarely engaged in their petty banter, content to observe from the sidelines with a sharp, calculating gaze. Yet today, he wasn’t just watching—he was participating.

The subtle shift didn’t sit well with Taehyung. Still, he bowed in apology. "Sorry I'm late, General Min. I was speaking with the High Priest."

Yoongi raised a brow. “The High Priest?”

Before he could answer, Bong scoffed. "Didn’t take you for someone with faith. The High Priest doesn’t just speak to anyone. You must be special."

It was meant to be mocking, but Bong barely had time to smirk before an elbow slammed into his gut. The air left him in a choked grunt. The General barely spared him a glance.

"That just earned you a month's worth of guard duty," Yoongi said flatly. "Get out of my sight."

Bong staggered off, muttering curses under his breath.

Yoongi’s attention turned to Taehyung. "Come. I will be your partner today." 

As Taehyung went to grab his training blade, Yonngi quickly stopped him. Today, they would train with the real thing. 

Taehyung’s grip on his sword was firm, his stance solid. Everything about his form was precise, practiced—but something felt off.

His mind should have been focused on the match ahead, but echoes of the High Priest’s words lingered. "Chaos and untimely action will reveal the truth."

Chaos.

A flicker of movement—too late. Yoongi’s strike came fast, and though Taehyung reacted, deflecting it with ease, his counter was a second too slow. He saw the opening but didn’t take it.

A misstep.

Yoongi’s blade caught against his wrist—not enough to wound, just enough to punish hesitation.Taehyung clenched his jaw. He was better than this. He reset, shaking off the unease, and pressed forward. This time, he moved with full intent. Their blades met in a flurry of steel, the weight of combat something familiar, grounding.

And yet—

A whisper.

Not from the soldiers. Not from Yoongi. Something beneath the surface of his mind. His body moved on instinct, years of training keeping him afloat, but his mind was slipping elsewhere. A distant voice, soft as breath against his ear, "Don’t lose yourself."

His vision swayed—just for a second.

Yoongi struck.

A sharp impact—Taehyung hit the dirt.

Damn it.

He blinked up at the general, still dazed, his pulse hammering in his ears. Yoongi looked down at him, gaze assessing. Not mocking. Not gloating. Something colder.

“You hesitate like a man who doesn’t trust his own instincts."**

Taehyung stiffened. Yoongi stepped back, offering no hand to help him up. The fight was over. But the unease wasn’t. As Taehyung got to his feet, murmurs rippled through the ranks.

"Did you see that?"

"Something's off with him."

And just beyond them—Bong, watching. His stare lingered too long. Too interested. Taehyung ignored the prickle at the back of his neck and turned to leave. He needed air. He needed to clear his head.

He barely made it down the road before the world erupted into chaos.

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision—too fast, too close. His body reacted, instincts kicking in before his mind caught up, but not fast enough. A flash of silver. A sharp sting.

The blade sliced shallow across his neck, hot blood spilling down his skin.

His attacker moved in for the kill, masked and silent, arm tightening around his throat. Taehyung didn’t think—he acted. His body twisted, muscles remembering the training General Min had drilled into him, and in seconds, he’d torn himself free.

No hesitation. No mercy.

He struck hard. The attacker staggered back, caught off guard. Taehyung could see it in their stance—they expected an easy kill. The fools. Training with dulled blades in the palace courtyards was nothing compared to the sharp edge of survival.

A second flash of movement—another attacker. This time, he was ready. He ducked, dodging the strike meant for his spine, and countered with brutal efficiency. His fist connected with ribs. A sharp gasp. They stumbled, but didn’t fall.

They came prepared.

He could handle two. But three? Four? More?

His senses screamed at him to move, to strike before the next blow landed, but his mind—it was slow, fogged. The whisper in his skull coiled like a snake, wrapping itself around his thoughts.

"Duck."

The voice was barely a breath, yet it thundered in his ears.

His body obeyed before he even registered it, dropping low just as a spear whistled through the air. It missed him—but not his enemy. A strangled cry rang out as the weapon impaled one of the masked figures.

And then they came.

Figures emerged from the shadows, more than he could count in the flickering torchlight. A half-circle of steel and malice, closing in, their faces obscured by the night.

"Not such a big warrior now, huh?" one of them sneered.

Another laughed, spinning a dagger between their fingers. "The king will pay handsomely for this."

A chill crawled up Taehyung’s spine. The king.

So it was true. The whispers, the rumors—the king had already grown tired of him.

He had fought countless battles, survived assassins, betrayals, impossible odds. But this—this was different.

This was a death sentence.

His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the jeering voices. His grip tightened around his weapon. He would not die on his knees. If this was the end, he would carve his rage into their bones before they took him down.

For the first time since his exile, Taehyung felt something hot slide down his cheek—not sweat, not blood.

Tears.

He barely recognized them for what they were. He wasn’t afraid to die. But this? This was infuriating. To be discarded like a tool, like he was nothing.

No.

If they wanted him dead, they would have to earn it.

With a growl, he lifted his blade. "Come, then."

Taehyung’s breath came ragged, his vision swimming as blood dripped from the shallow cut on his neck. He had taken down one of the assassins, but the others were circling now, their blades glinting under the moonlight. His muscles burned, his mind hazy. Like one man, they pounced. Swinging, swiping, and stabbing. Taehyung did his best to avoid it all.

Too many. Too fast.

The whisper had saved him once, but this time, it came too late. A rogue figure lunged from the side—he barely managed to twist away, but the second attacker was already moving in. A blade arced toward him. He wasn’t going to be fast enough.

Then— a sharp whistle cut through the air.

A sickening thud followed. The assassin in front of him stiffened, eyes wide, before crumpling to the ground.

An arrow— pierced clean through his wrist.

"That’s enough."

The voice was calm. Controlled. Yet it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Through the haze of adrenaline, Taehyung turned—just in time to see Namjoon step out from the darkness, sword glinting in the pale light. Beside him, bow still raised, stood Seokjin, his expression unreadable, his aim deadly.

The assassins hesitated, their confidence wavering.

"Well?" Namjoon drawled, taking a slow step forward. His voice was as steady as ever, but there was a hint of danger beneath it, coiling like a snake ready to strike. "Shall I give you a chance to run? Or would you rather die here?"

One assassin made the wrong choice.

With a desperate snarl, he lunged at Namjoon—blade aimed for his throat.

Namjoon didn’t flinch.

At the last possible second, he stepped aside, smooth and effortless. The assassin stumbled forward, off balance— and Seokjin struck.

A dagger—quick, precise—straight into the ribs.

The man gasped, choking, before collapsing.

The others didn’t wait. They fled into the shadows, boots scraping against stone as they vanished into the night.

The street fell into silence once more.

Taehyung swayed slightly where he stood. He was still trying to process it—still trying to process how close he had come to death. A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, firm yet careful.

"You’re hurt," Seokjin murmured.

The gentleness in his voice caught Taehyung off guard.

Seokjin brushed a gloved thumb across his cheek, wiping away blood. The touch lingered—a calculated show of care.

"Can you stand?" he asked, as though Taehyung’s legs hadn’t been supporting him just fine moments ago. But now that the danger had passed, the adrenaline was fading, leaving only exhaustion and a dull, aching cold.

So Taehyung let him. He let Seokjin slip an arm around him, steadying him in a way that felt too natural, too practiced.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Namjoon crouching beside one of the fallen assassins, turning over their arm to examine the insignia hidden beneath the fabric. His jaw tightened.

"This was sanctioned," Namjoon muttered. Just loud enough for Taehyung to hear.

The words sent a chill through him.

Seokjin sighed, shaking his head as though exasperated, though his grip on Taehyung never wavered. Like a brother disappointed, not at Taehyung, but at the world itself.

"The king did this."

The words settled into Taehyung’s chest like stones sinking into deep water.

Hadn’t the high priest warned him? Hadn’t he said that chaos would reveal the truth?

The king had already grown tired of him. He had wanted him dead.

Taehyung clenched his fists, frustration burning in his throat.

If the king wanted him gone, then he would play his game. He would stay just long enough to finish the contract. Then he would disappear.

For the first time, he turned to Seokjin and Namjoon—not just as comrades, but as something dangerously close to allies.

And the web tightened further.

Rain was a welcome sight in the land of the Hittites. The drought had brought this once-feared empire to the brink of collapse. Yes, the rain was a blessing, even if it meant that no work could be done outside. The storms here were merciless, unforgiving to those who dared challenge their fury. All but one.

Taehyung never rested. Not even when the sky wept. He had to remain vigilant, his body and mind honed for the moment he would be called—or when he would need to disappear. He did not belong to the empire. No, he belonged to the land itself.

Empires craved warriors like him, and kings paid handsomely for his skill, but he never stayed. He refused to be shackled by empty promises and fleeting desires.

Even in the storm, his movements were precise—silent, fluid, unyielding. Death did not wait for the skies to clear, and neither did he. His blade sliced through the rain, the steel an extension of his arm. He moved like a phantom, his steps weightless as he spun, crouched, and struck at invisible foes. His dance of steel was hypnotic to those who watched.

And there were always those who watched.

Some with longing, desperate to claim him, to bind him in gold and call him theirs. Others with envy, wishing they could move as effortlessly as he did.

Then there was the general.

Taehyung had only met General Min once—the day he was contracted to serve the crown. The man was a warlord, a strategist, a force that made even Taehyung hesitate. His presence was a quiet storm, his eyes cold calculations behind a mask of discipline.

General Min did not tolerate weakness. The barracks were not for the faint of heart; only the strongest emerged as warriors of the empire. But even the general had his limits. He would not allow his men to train in the rain, to risk illness or injury that could weaken his forces.

And yet, here Taehyung was.

Perhaps that was why the general's gaze was locked onto him now, watching as he moved through the downpour. There was no mistaking the tension in his stance, the silent disapproval burning in his eyes.

Taehyung exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He already knew.

He was in trouble.

___________

The rain had not stopped.

Taehyung could hear the heavy droplets drumming against the stone walls of the training grounds as he sheathed his sword. He did not turn immediately when he sensed another's presence behind him—he already knew who it was. The silence was its own kind of warning.

Then, finally, a voice.

"You do not take orders well, do you?"

General Min's tone was calm, but the weight behind his words was impossible to ignore.

Taehyung straightened, slowly turning to face him. Even through the curtain of rain, the general’s expression was unreadable—his dark eyes locked onto Taehyung with the same sharp intensity as a drawn blade.

"I take orders when they make sense," Taehyung replied smoothly, though he knew the response would not please the man before him.

A flicker of something—irritation? Amusement?—crossed General Min’s face, gone before Taehyung could place it.

"And does defying me in the rain make sense to you?"

Taehyung only smirked. “I suppose not. But it does seem to piss you off well enough.”

General Min sneered. He was holding back—why, Taehyung didn’t know. A narrow, dimly lit hallway wasn’t exactly ideal for a sparring match, but he wouldn’t mind testing the general’s skill. The man had a reputation, after all.

"The crown contracted you for a reason. Don’t make me end your pathetic existence before your purpose has been met."

Taehyung chuckled. “If my existence is so pathetic, why can none of your so-called ‘best’ stand against me for more than five minutes? I may be from this land, but I do not answer to you.” He tilted his head slightly, watching for a reaction. “I know how men like you work. You desire, and you take, without ever thinking about the consequences you leave behind.”

A flicker of something crossed General Min’s face—irritation? Amusement? It vanished too quickly to tell.

Most men withered under his command. He had broken warlords and shattered seasoned warriors with a single order. But Taehyung—Taehyung did not yield.

And that infuriated him.

But it also intrigued him.

_________

The hall was packed with nobles and warriors from every corner of the kingdom. Taehyung, the so-called honored guest, kept to the shadows. He had been to too many of these.

They never ended well.

Someone always tried to lure him into their cause, whispering of gold and glory. Others sought to seduce him, desperate for the prestige of bedding a warrior of his caliber.

This was no different.

Taehyung wasn’t surprised when a man approached him—only that it was the prince and not the King himself.

"The whispers must be altered. They forgot to mention how pleasing you are to the eye."

Taehyung’s expression remained unreadable . "Your Highness, your flattery is unnecessary. I have already agreed to settle your father’s dispute. But I do not see the King. I was hoping to discuss the duration of my stay."

He bowed, his gaze flickering to the figure standing just behind the prince. Dressed in simpler, more subdued clothing, the man was watching him intently.

A bad feeling settled in Taehyung’s gut.

Prince Seokjin smiled easily, his voice smooth as silk.

"Forgive me for being the one to tell you, but my father was feeling rather… tired from his hunt. He has requested that I entertain you tonight while he finds his own entertainment elsewhere."

The man behind him made a sound—a soft, restrained grunt, as if barely holding back laughter. It did its job. Seokjin exhaled as if suddenly remembering something.

"Ah, I nearly forgot to introduce you. This is my brother, Namjoon."

Taehyung stilled.

Brother?

The King had only one legitimate son—Prince Seokjin. The others had vanished, removed from the line of succession.

So how had this one survived?

A test, then.

"Excuse my older brother’s lack of awareness," Namjoon said smoothly. His voice was rich, composed. " I am an illegitimate son of the crown. My mother was one of our King’s favored subjects, which made him… tolerant of me. I proved myself useful, and so I was allowed to live."

He smiled a slow, knowing smile. “At least, for now.”

Taehyung didn’t miss the implication. For now.

And just like that, the seed was planted.

“My father sure has a way of discarding his tools once they have served their purpose. Especially ones who are so easy to lose to another, better handler. Perhaps someone who doesn’t even look like a treat.”

Taehyung studied the two brothers before him, their words rolling off him like rain against armor. Their insistence that he was merely a tool, that the King would discard him when he was no longer useful, was nothing he hadn’t heard before.

"Focus. Focus. It's all nonsense." He had heard these words from his own lips, when he fought for kings and warlords alike—too many times to count. But something in the way they said it now… It felt different. Something about the weight of their words… it was unsettling.

"Your highness," he said with a smirk, swirling the untouched wine in his goblet. "I know better than to listen to those who speak in riddles. If you have something useful to say, say it plainly."

Seokjin chuckled, but there was something knowing in his eyes. "We only wish to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

Namjoon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous. "That you are not the first warrior our father has praised." He glanced around the room, lowering his voice to a whisper. "And yet, do you see any of them here tonight?"

A flicker of annoyance passed through Taehyung’s features, but he refused to let their words take root. I’ve heard this before…

He downed his wine in one go, setting the cup aside with an air of finality.

"I have fought for kings and warlords alike," he said. "And I am still here."

Seokjin hummed. "For now."

T he words hung in the air between them. Taehyung scoffed, pushing off the wall. "If you’ll excuse me, your highnesses, I have had enough of politics for one night."

He turned on his heel, leaving the brothers behind.

But even as he walked through the grand hall, the distant sound of music and laughter fading behind him, their words lingered.

The rain had not let up.

By the time Taehyung reached the training grounds, the steady downpour had driven nearly everyone inside. The torches flickered against the wind, the scent of wet earth filling the air.

Good. He needed the silence.

Removing his cloak, he unsheathed his blade, rolling his shoulders before falling into practiced movements. The rhythmic swing of his sword, the sharp sound of steel slicing through the air—this was where his mind found peace.

And yet, peace did not come so easily tonight.

"You are not the first."

"Do you see any of them here tonight?"

With a frustrated breath, Taehyung swung harder, faster—only stopping when he caught movement in his periphery. He turned, blade still in hand.

He stopped, not seeing anyone. He chalked it up to a play in the light. Perhaps he had had enough training for one day. He was tired and needed to rest. The barracks were nearly silent at this hour, save for the sound of rain against the wooden beams. Taehyung sat on the edge of a training platform, sharpening his blade. The steady motion of the whetstone against steel was soothing, grounding. The words of the prince and his bastard brother were nothing but noise—easily discarded.

"The King discards those who outlive their usefulness."

"You are just another tool in his collection."

Their warnings had no weight. Taehyung was no fool; he had worked under kings, warlords, and self-proclaimed gods. He knew how the game was played. But something about their insistence lingered in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Was I really just a tool? A mercenary bought and paid for until I was no longer needed?

A sudden shift in the air made him still. Someone was near.

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in the King’s favor, if I were you.”

The voice was quiet, lilting, almost amused. Taehyung didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Vizier Hoseok.

Taehyung sighed, continuing his work. “You too?”

A soft chuckle. “Not at all. I’m merely passing on wisdom.” The vizier stepped into view, dressed in his signature robes, hands folded neatly behind his back. “You remind me of someone, you know.”

Taehyung said nothing, but his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened.

“A warrior. Fearless, skilled beyond compare. The King adored him—promised him riches, land, a future.” Hoseok tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure you can imagine how that ended.”

Taehyung set the whetstone down . “What happened?”

Hoseok’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He was too good. Too strong. The King began to wonder... what would happen if his precious mercenary decided he wanted something more?” He exhaled as if in pity. “A poisoned cup, an unfortunate accident on the battlefield—who can say? He disappeared before anyone could ask too many questions.”

Taehyung knew a half-truth when he heard one. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” Hoseok said easily, already turning to leave. “But I wonder… when your contract is fulfilled, will the King let you walk away?”

He paused at the threshold. “Or will you disappear, just like the others?”

The silence left behind was deafening.

For the first time, Taehyung wasn’t sure if he could brush this off so easily.

________

Taehyung had a horrible night. His dreams were plagued by scenes of betrayal that felt all too familiar to him. He could still see his parents' eyes when they realized their manipulation of their precious son had gone too far. The day they lost their heir because of their own greed for power.

Perhaps he should see someone to help him sleep or to get rid of these dreams that haunted him in the silence of the night. It didn’t help that the whispers had gotten worse. The servants had been talking about how they wondered if Taehyung would be like the past mercenaries that mysteriously disappeared or if he was special and not threatening enough for the King to keep him around.

The two brothers had approached him again, stating that they felt he was far too valuable to lose and that if he gave them the word, they could help keep him alive. In their words, “We have survived so far, we could help you too.”

He, obviously, denied them. He had no interest in betraying the contract he had. That would 

lead to certain death for him, and no one else would ever trust him again. But the whispers didn’t stop.

“Taehyung! Focus, we can’t lose the king's new favorite! Where are those moves you so proudly displayed in the rain a few days ago? Again!”

General Min surely woke up on the wrong side of his bed. He was ruthless today in their training. He had changed Taehyung's sparring partner three times already, not giving the latter any breaks in between.

“Hey man, you okay? You have to focus, the King is watching, and he only keeps those who can be controlled. At this moment, you look like a bad investment.”

The kid was nice, strong, and decent in sparring, but he was also kind of annoying. That was enough to get Taehyung going, and he did not hold back against the poor kid. Hit after hit, he backed the poor boy into a corner. If they were using real weapons, he would long be dead. He was ripped away by a furious-looking General, only then did he come back to himself and see the poor boy, who could not be any older than nineteen, in a heap on the floor.

“Stay in line. Take a walk and meet me in my office. Now!”

As he left the courtyard, he didn’t even dare to look back at the mess he left behind. He knew the King had watched his little outburst and he just hoped he didn’t fuck up his own contract. The whispers were getting to him. He needed to explain himself to the King. He had to look submissive in a way to save his own ass.

“I wish to have an audience with the king.”

“That would not be possible at this stage. His Majesty is not available anytime soon.”

“Well, when will he be available? I have much to discuss with him.”

“That I do not know. Perhaps talking to the High Priest or even the prince would help? Even the Seer would be a good option.”

“Why would they be options over the King? I don’t understand why he doesn’t even have five minutes to talk. He paid for me, and yet he has yet to talk to me.”

Just then, the General walked in and dismissed the other occupants of the room. Hoseok soon followed and silently made his way to the corner of the room. Almost as if he wanted to be but a shadow to the impending conversation .

“What the hell is wrong with you? You come in here and show off your amazing techniques, and then you go out and nearly kill one of my men? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Now, Yoongi, you know we were warned about this.”

“I honestly do not care, Hoseok, so shut the hell up. He clearly has no control over himself. He is reckless and a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment and take all of us with him.”

The general, or Yoongi, was nearly out of breath by the time he stopped talking. For the first time since he stepped foot in this kingdom, Taehyung saw emotions other than disappointment on the general's face. It was quietly comforting to know the man was capable of feelings.

“I apologize for my behavior, and I would apologize personally to the King as well, but he has yet to hold an audience with me. My mind has been plagued by whispers, and I have not been sleeping well.”

Hoseok nearly scoffed at Taehyung's words.

“Forget about an audience. The King will probably not see you. You are a tool, not one of his subjects. Not even the general gets to speak to the King. He only speaks to the prince, like most of us do. You can trust Seokjin and Namjoon. They are good people.”

Yeah, Taehyung didn’t know if he could believe that.

________

The six of them gathered in the dimly lit chamber, far from the prying eyes of the kingdom. The air was thick with the weight of ambition, each of them craving something different but equally powerful. Around a circular table, they sat in silence, all waiting for one to speak first.

Seokjin and Namjoon sat side by side, their fingers subtly brushing beneath the table in a quiet show of unity. They were more than just allies in this scheme—lovers, bound not by blood, but by their shared ambition and devotion to each other. Together, they knew they could accomplish anything. Their bond was their strength.

Hoseok was the first to break the silence, his voice low and steady, filled with the experience of a man who had orchestrated more than his share of schemes. “We all know what’s at stake here. Taehyung is no fool, and he will not be manipulated easily. We need to earn his trust, little by little, if we are to succeed.”

Yoongi, who had been pacing the room, stopped abruptly and turned to face Hoseok. His sharp gaze flickered to the others as he spoke, the tension in his voice palpable. “ I’m not here just to earn his trust. I need him under my control. His strength, his raw power—it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I can’t let that slip away.”

Jimin, who had been quiet up until now, spoke with a soft yet ominous tone. “ You’re right. His potential is limitless. The prophecies speak of him as a key to unlocking power beyond any of us. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is destined for greatness. We will guide him, make him believe that fate has chosen him for something extraordinary.”

Namjoon’s voice interrupted, calm but with an underlying certainty. “We need to show him that he can have everything. That’s how we get him to trust us. Power, a kingdom at his side. I can offer him that. I can show him that he belongs with me, that we can take what’s ours together.”

Jungkook, always the one to see things from a different perspective, spoke last. “And once he’s by our side, we will need to give him something greater. The gods are watching us, and they demand more than power. We will make him divine. He will become more than just a man. He will be worshipped. ”

The room fell silent for a moment as each of them thought about the future they would build with Taehyung at its center.

Seokjin’s voice cut through the stillness, soft but unwavering. “We all want him, in our own way. But we need him to want us in return. We need him to trust us, to choose us. Only then will we truly have him as our protector, our consort, the one who can help us secure everything.”

Namjoon nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Seokjin. “ We will show him that we are the only ones who truly care for him. We will make sure he never feels abandoned. Together, we’ll ensure that he sees us as his path to everything he could ever want.”

Hoseok smiled slyly from his corner of the room. “And I will make sure that every whisper he hears, every rumor that reaches him, brings him closer to us. No one will be able to sway him away from our side. Not when I’m in control of the story.”

They shared a look, their individual desires intertwined in a web of manipulation, each of them knowing they would stop at nothing to gain Taehyung’s loyalty.

Seokjin leaned in slightly toward Namjoon, their hands brushing once more. “He’ll be ours. Together.”

Namjoon met his gaze, their bond unbreakable. “Together. Always.”

With those final words, the pact was made. The six of them would stop at nothing to make Taehyung theirs. Each of them would use their own talents to mold him, to manipulate him until he was firmly in their grasp.

As they all sat around the table, strategizing, Hoseok’s gaze flickered over to Namjoon and Seokjin. He knew more than anyone about Taehyung’s past, and that made him dangerous in ways they still didn’t fully understand.

“ We know Taehyung’s strength is unmatched,” Hoseok began, his voice low, “but it’s more than just his skills with a blade. His blood runs deeper than he realizes. The King may think he’s simply a mercenary, but there’s more to him. His parents... they tried to mold him into a weapon, one that could bring entire empires to their knees. But he ran from them before they could finish what they started.”

Jimin nodded, his eyes flickering with a strange knowing. “He may not remember it, but the mark he bears on his skin, the power that blooms in his veins when he fights—those are the remnants of his bloodline. We can unlock that power and make him believe it’s his destiny. But only if he trusts us.”

Seokjin, who had been silent for the longest, leaned forward, eyes narrowing with focus. “He doesn’t know what he is. But we will show him. He will be the key to my rule. To all of our ambitions.”

Namjoon, his tone calm yet calculated, added, “Once we have him, once he believes in us, his hidden potential will be ours to wield. His bloodline, his abilities—they’re a path to everything we’ve ever dreamed of. Power. Control. A kingdom. All of it.”

Hoseok glanced at Jimin and then back at the group, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “ We’ll make him want us. We’ll make him believe he needs us. Then, we unlock the potential buried deep within him. He won’t even know what hit him.”

The others nodded in agreement, each of them fully aware of the power they could wield with Taehyung at their side. They were one step closer to making him theirs.

“Be good my little clover. Mommy and Daddy will be back as soon as we can. We just need to get the last groceries for my little big man's birthday!” 

“Momma, Can I come too? I wanna help. Yooni can help” five-year-old Yoongi said as he watched his parents get ready to leave. They weren’t a big family, but they were happy. His birthday was in two day and that meant his Aura color would be revealed. They were planning a small party to celebrate, most people kept Aura's birthdays private, incase the color turned out to be green or Indigo. That would mean instant death to the child, but his parents weren’t that worried. They were both(?) blue so they had no doubt he would be too. 

“Oh baby, you know you can’t leave the house. We’ll be quick, I promise. Why don’t you go and build a nice blanket ford for us to nap in later? Make it really special. Mommy would even let you use all the blankets you can find!” His mother said as she kissed his hair. 

Little Yoongi nodded as he ran off to his room, missing the worried glances his parents shared before they left. 

***

“You promised you would protect him if this happened! How could you even suggest calling them to ‘take care’ of him? He’s just a child! YOUR child!” Yoongi’s mother screamed as her husband paced back and forth. 

“He’s GREEN! Fucking green. We’re both blue! What else do you want me to do? If they find out we kept his color a secret they’ll kill us too! We can try again later, but I am not dying for a fucking green aura. Even if he shares my blood!” He screamed back. Yoongi’s mother stared wide-eyed as he husband fell silent. He looked just as stunned as she did with the words he spoke. 

Yoongi was silently crying on the couch as his parents screamed at each other. He wasn’t sure why they were so upset. He liked green. His favorite toys were green and the color around him made him happy. He couldn’t understand why his parents didn’t like it. He’s been a good boy. He built the blanket ford, they all slept together and then suddenly they started screaming at each other as soon as they woke up. 

“Papa, Yooni sorry” He whispered out gaining the attention of both his parents. He couldn’t understand the emotions in their eyes, he just knew they were angry at something he did. He loved them and he just wanted the screaming to stop. 

“My life would have been so much better without a disappointment like you, Yoongi. You really managed to break my heart” Yoongi’s father said as he turned to walk away. His mother could only gape at her husband as he made his way into their bedroom. She soon followed, closing the door as the shouting continued. 

Yoongi sat on the couch for a little while, trying to understand what his father meant before he decided to just go to his room. He was tired. His birthday was ruined and his father was mad at him. He had no idea why, or how he would fix it. 

***

The funeral was quick. Not that many people came to pay their respects to Yoongi’s father. He was a good man, but he didn’t have a lot of friends or family other than Yoongi and his mother. Some of his co-workers gave his mother some words of encouragement, but that’s all it was. Words. Not many wanted to be seen at the funeral of an alleged suicide. In a world filled with colors that represent power, no one would want to associate with someone weak enough to take their own life. Even if their aura was supposed to have given them a higher status in the eyes of society. 

“Remember this Yoongi. People will always say a lot of words that end up meaning nothing at all. They only care about what impact your color and association can have on their own status. People are disappointments. Even the ones you love most can turn their backs on you when you need them the most” His mother told him as they made their way back home. They had to finish packing. His mother had decided they needed to move as soon as they could after his father died. Something about not being able to stand the sight of the same house he took his last breath in. 

“Come, Mommy will take care of you. I won’t allow anyone to take you away from me. Not as long as I am breathing” 

***

“Mom, please let me help. I can control my color now. Those people are going to work you to death. Please!” a fifteen-year-old Yoongi begged his mother as he watched her tiredly get ready for another shift at the grocery store. Life has not been easy for them in recent years. It was like someone was actively trying to make their lives hard. His mother could barely hold onto a job for more than a few months before they would fire her for no good reason. Which in itself was unheard of for a blue aura. 

She tried her very best to keep him in school. She always said he would make their lives better once he got his education. But she was stubborn. She refused to let him work. She said it wasn’t safe and that the so called ‘wolves’ of the night are just waiting to snatch him up and take him away forever. 

“Yoongi…” She sighed as she looked at her son. He was growing up well. He has mastered reflecting a few years ago, but she didn’t want to let him out of her sight. Her last fight with her late husband still haunted her.

‘I’m not dying for a green, either you call the extractors or I will’  “You are weak! He is your son. He has your blood”  “How do I know he isn’t some other man's mistake? How can two blues make a green?”  “What are you saying? I would never… Do you truly think I could do that to you?” “What else am I supposed to think? I married you out of pity and look what I gained from it!” “What? Did you not love me? Please… tell me at least a part of it was real… TELL ME!”  “How could it have been? You have nothing I could ever desire” 

“Please Mom, I can get something remote. Maybe like editing or something, please just let me help” Yoongi nearly begged. His eyes held nothing but love and desperation, his mother never stood a chance against those eyes. She would kill to keep him safe. She has killed to keep him safe, but she knew he was getting older and she would have to give him some freedom or he would leave her one day. She couldn’t let that happen, so she reluctantly nodded her head as she got ready to leave. 

“Okay, but as long as it’s remote and you don’t have to show your face. Only I can see that precious cheeks of yours” She said as she left with a heavy heart. Something felt off, but she brushed it off. Whatever it could be, she would handle it. She always did. 

***

“You put him down? Why?” Taehyung asked as soon as he entered the office. Namjoon was working at his desk with a sleeping Yoongi on his lap. It was cute to see the smaller sleep away on such an intimidating man like Namjoon. It almost made Namjoon look approachable. Almost. Their aura colors look almost black as they mix together. It was funny, people who could reflect others' colors never seemed to have learned how to do it when they sleep. That could be very dangerous, especially for someone like Yoongi. 

“He was having a temper tantrum about not meeting other people. He wants to leave the house and talk to others. I might have also said something about us being the reason his past was so fucked, but that’s not important now” Namjoon casually said as he kept his eyes on his screen. He was going over some of the things Yoongi has been working on. The kid was good. Their little genius indeed. Namjoon didn’t need to change anything on any of the songs Yoongi has been working on. Which says a lot considering the imbeciles he has working for him as so-called ‘professional producers’. 

“I’m sorry, did you just imply that you spilled the exact secret we all swore we would take to our graves? My my, you’re losing your touch. Is he making you soft? Has the big bad Indigo fallen for a little green clover? Wait until I tell Seokjin, he owes me money now” Taehyung said as he escaped into the hallway before Namjoon could utter another word. 

It took exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds for Seokjin to burst into Namjoon's office. You would expect all the dramatics and sounds the older one was making to wake Yoongi up, but he merely snuggled closer to Namjoon before continuing to sleep. This boy was going to make them all soft and Namjoon didn’t exactly mind that he was the first to fall for it. The quicker they show him some sort of affection, the better their plan will work. Then they won’t need to force the little green into anything. 

“You imbecile! Why would you tell him that we killed his mother and poisoned the people around him to distance themselves from him? He doesn’t have to know we made his life a living hell just to have him vulnerable in our hands to complete the fucking rainbow!” Seokjin all but bellowed out as soon as he entered the office. It took him a few seconds to recognise the lump on Namjoon's lap, which effectively cut his rambling off. 

“I didn’t, you just did. Luckily for you, he’s sleeping nice and deeply, so he didn’t hear any of that. I swear if you wake him up I will skin you alive! The boy went down within seconds. He’s not sleeping enough and I would appreciate it if he would get the rest he clearly needs. He was the one who came in here and started spewing nonsense about wanting to talk to other people. I just reacted” Namjoon said matter of factly.

“Oh, well… Okay then,” Seokjin said looking around the room to avoid Namjoon’s eyes. He had a faint blush on his cheeks. Seokjin decided to just sit down on one of the couches to try and escape the slight embarrassment he was feeling. 

“He’s where he’s supposed to be. We possess the power to keep him here. We’ll just have to alter his choices a little, but that can wait until he’s awake. We’ll make him want to be here. Besides, it will be good for us to have someone that constantly needs to be cared for. We can make him our little baby, Our little clover” Namjoon said as he left a kiss on Yoongi’s head and finally made eye contact with Seokjin. 

“Perhaps. He’s easy to love when he’s that cute. Okay, fine. We’ll alter him as soon as he’s awake. But then you can’t keep him to yourself. We have an empire to take after all” Seokjin said as he moved closer to Namjoon. He felt this itch to just hold Yoongi close to himself and the fact that he wasn’t in his arms bothered Seokjin.  

“I haven’t forgotten” Namjoon sighed. “Ah, take him and have him rest with the others. I have some stressful phone calls to make” Namjoon said, scooting back to give Seokjin enough space to reach down and take the sleeping Green from Namjoon’s lap. The boy was really precious, stubborn, but precious indeed. 

***

Yoongi hasn’t had proper sleep in ages. The only reason that he knows this is because the moment he woke up, he didn’t feel tired almost immediately, he didn’t have a headache, and his body didn’t have any heaviness to it. Besides feeling as if he was underwater and he finally surfaced for the first time, he felt good. 

He was in a dark-ish room. On a very comfortable couch, covered by what has to be the world's softest blanket. Despite the comfort, Yoongi’s stomach dropped as everything that happened came crashing down on him. Namjoons words played on repeat in his head. 

“We were responsible for everything that happened, little clover. It was all part of the plan to get you right where we want you. Were we need you. Vulnerable and so, so dependant”

What did he mean by them? Did he mean that every misfortune Yoongi has ever experienced is somehow linked to them? That can’t be right. They have been so nice to him all this time. They helped him find a job, and they helped him move into a nicer home, even if it came with six other people. They listen to him. They are probably the only friend he has ever had, so what could those words mean? 

Was it all a lie? Are they secretly part of the mafia and now they are going to harvest his organs to trade on the black market with? No, that can’t be right. He would have felt the need to escape if that was the case. He knew the feeling well. His own mother  turned on him when he least expected it. 

He needed to talk to Namjoon and clarify some things. Maybe apologise for being so rude. They helped him. They are willing to interact with him. Treat him as a human. They even risked their lives for him. Who in their right mind would protect a complete stranger during a gunfight in a train? Who would willingly allow a stranger to fall asleep on them in a car? Yes, some of them are a little… rough. But Yoongi also isn’t the easiest person to be around. 

With his mind made up, Yoongi got out of bed in his search for anyone else. He for some reason, did not like the idea of being alone. Pushing open the door Yoongi made his way down the hallway. He turned a corner and promptly stumbled back as he bumped into someone. Looking up, Yoongi made direct eye contact with Jimin. His eyes were a deep red as they shined with so much warmth. 

“Where are you going, little clover?” Jimin asked, his voice a smooth flowing stream. 

“I need to find Namjoon, do you know where he is?” Yoongi answered as he struggled to break eye contact. 

“Oh? Why do you need to talk to him?” Jimin asked with a slight frown. As if he didn’t expect this particular answer from Yoongi. 

“Well, I was very rude to him earlier. I said some things that I shouldn’t have and he said some things that didn’t make any sense. You guys did so much for me and I was way out of line so I wanted to clear the air. I need to” Yoongi whispered out as he fell deeper into Jimin's intense gaze. 

“Oh no, that wasn’t very nice of you. I am sure he would appreciate an apology and maybe a love confession. Wait, what do you mean by the need to?” Jimin asked as he tilted his head. Yoongi followed the movement without thinking. 

“No one has ever been nice to me. My own mother left me. My father killed himself because he couldn’t stand the thought of me as his son. I don’t think I would be strong enough to go through something like that again” Yoongi said. 

Jimin said nothing as he looked away. He simply took Yoongi’s hand as he lead him down the hallway towards a common area. Everyone was there. They seemed to be in a deep discussion of some sorts, but they all stopped talking when Jimin cleared his throat. All eyes landed on Yoongi as he tried to hide slightly behind Jimin. 

“Yoongi? Are you okay?” Seokjin asked as his eyes slightly drifted to Jimin. 

“He just woke up and we had a very interesting discussion in the hallway. There was no need to ‘have a discussion’ with him about things. He wants to say something that I thought might change some things. Go on Yoongi, tell them everything you said to me” Jimin said as he stood behind Yoongi. 

“Um, well… I wanted to apologise to you Namjoon. I was being very rude and unreasonable and I know you just reacted. You guys have been nothing but kind to me. And I am everything but. I haven’t had much experience being around other people, let alone interacting with them. I- I’m sorry… please don’t leave me too” Yoongi sniffled as he looked down trying to hide his tears. 

“Yoongi, what happened to you has been very unfair. But why do you think we’ll leave?” Hoseok asked as he sat up slightly. This was not how they had planned this. The plan was simple. Get the little green, alter his choices to fit their desires, and maybe take care of him like he deserves. 

“Everyone I loved left me after my Aura game forward. I-” Yoongi took a deep breath. This was it. Two things could happen. They will either say nothing and throw him out onto the streets to fend for himself, or they will call the extractors to get rid of him. “I’m a green. My father took his own life because of me. My mother… left me too. She tried to keep me alive but something changed. The last thing she said to me before she left was ‘I shouldn’t have helped you back then. I should have left you to die'. I have never had a friend, or lover, or anything” Yoongi said to a silent room.

 He was trembling by the time he was done. He shouldn’t have said anything. Yoongi turned around. He needs to leave before they make him. That would make everything a little easier. 

“We know,” Taehyung said just as Yoongi took a step toward the hallway. “We knew you were a green the moment we met you. We also could see how others who didn’t know were treating us. You are kind, sweet, and very caring. You are very innocent and the world is not made for someone like you. We took an interest in you for your color, but we would want you to stay because well… we like you” Taehyung said. 

Yoongi was frozen for all but a second before he was pulled into a lap. He didn’t even have time to put up a struggle before someone was kissing him. There was more than one set of hands on him, but he strangely didn’t mind it. 

“Yoongi, you complete us. Why would we let you go? Your our little clover. Sometimes its okay to not have all the answers to the why’s. To the obvious questions… sometimes its okay to admit that you have loft and accept whatever is in front of you. Besides you want to be here, right?” Jimin asked with his silky voice. 

Yoongi made eye contact with everyone else in the room. Taehyung was holding him by his hips, just like he did in the car he forced him into. Jungkook looked just as intimidating as his eyes practically devoured Yoongi. Hoseok had the charming smile he wore the first time he spoke to Yoongi under that one tree. Jimin looked sincere as his eyes held their red glow, the same glow from the stranger who gave him the phone he left in the classroom. Namjoon looked as intimidating as the lead gunman on the train did the day Seokjin saved him. And Seokjin looked seconds away from wrapping him up in a blanket and playing with his hair like he did so many weeks ago in the car. 

There were no doubt that these men liked him. Of course, we would want to stay here. They saved him. They care for him and they would keep him safe. They would never try to hurt or manipulate him. 

Yoongi felt jittery. Everything that happened felt like a dream. Once he left the company, Yoongi started to doubt that any of it was real. He hasn’t signed a contract yet. It has only been a few days, but Yoongi expected some sort of communication. To make matters worse (read: a little better), his professor cancelled their one class. Professor Choi claimed that he would be finishing the last two colors in one lesson and hand out every students certificate of completion. The one thing that held Yoongi back from getting a job in the first place. 

His last class was today. Yoongi even let Namjoon know that he would be finishing his classes today via email (like the professional he is) to try and provoke any form of communication from the other. But, nothing. Not even a telegram or smoke signals. 

On the bright side, if this all was just some sick joke from the company, Yoongi would at least be able to try his hand again at getting an internship at some smaller company. He’ll have the right papers after all. It broke his spirit slightly that he was just the pawn in someone elses game of boredom, but what could he do? He survived worse. 

Getting ready to leave, Yoongi let out a bitter chuckle as he dressed more appropriate for class. After he left the company a few days ago, he almost immediately did all his washing. Heck he even did the dishes. He had no idea why he’s done it, maybe it due to Seokjin’s reaction the other day, but he did feel a little more awake and ready that he had a few minutes ago in his simple sweat pants and T-shirt he was going to wear. 

Today was the day his life would change for the better. He just had to sit through one more class. One more and he’ll be free to take his pick of the companies he wanted to work for. Most of them did show interest in him before they discovered his lack of aura qualification. 

Yoongi quickly left his apartment. Maybe he would even start looking for a better place to live. Hell, he might even get a new haircut today. With a slight skip in his step, Yoongi entered his final aura class. Not knowing how much his life was truly about to change. 

***

“Indigo’s have always been associated with mystery. This is mostly due to the rarity of the color itself. An individual that has this aura is usually seen as an extremely sophisticated person. This helps them achieve higher ranking positions. They carry an air of dominance that just makes others listen to them. They know how much power they have and this makes them very confident people. 

Like most of the other rarer colors, in the Ancient world, Indigo was a sign of great wealth or high ranking status due to the complexity at creating or extracting the colour from nature. This could also be why we see Indigo’s as higher than most colors when it comes to importance. 

Indigo’s are intelligent by nature. They have a, what most would call, scary sense of perception. They have a strangely deep insight into a deeper conciousness. Some people even believe they possess the ability to tell the future. But most people see Indigo’s as people with integrity and sincerity, despite their dominating appearance, thus they are seen as the most reliable people. 

Seeing an Indigo is almost unheard of, but there are people with this color aura. Their aura’s are more difficult to spot because their color is derived from purple and blue. But trust me when I tell you that an Indigo knows they are an indigo. They can feel their own power” Professor Choi said. 

Everything made much more sense. Namjoon was exactly what the professor just described. He was in a position of power, he was dominating and held a very powerful presence, but he was also so kind and yes, he was indifferent at first, but he was soft with Yoongi. 

In fact, everything he has learned about the different auras has been proven correct by all the men he has met, which in itself was strange. Yoongi is almost certain he is the only person alive that can say he has almost met all the colors of the rainbow. He has yet to befriend a red or green aura, but atleast Yoongi can say he’s had atleast one proper conversation with every color he has come into contact with. 

“Right, on to the last color which is green. There isn’t much I would like to say about the color as much of the knowledge on the color is still lost after the devastating wipe out that took place. 

Green is a color that isn’t stable. It’s a color that fades depending on the persons ability and emotional state. This is one of the many reasons they were wiped out. In the Ancient world, green was a color of nature. As seen today still, green is quiet the dominating color in nature. There are speculation that they were used in some emotions, but there are no evidence of this. 

Green’s were people that was mainly associated with restfulness and harmony. They were extremely peaceful people. Soft and dare I say, fragile people. They were easily dominated by the other colors. Yet, in a rainbow, Green’s held the balance within their relationships. 

The wipe-out is one of the most saddest parts of our history. In short, people got scared by the power Green’s unknowingly held. They brought security and positivity. Some colors didn’t want the peace. So, they decided to kill any and all Green’s. Today, there aren’t any green auras. Well, that we know of. Most people keep it a secret, and for good reasons. 

With what we know, Green’s were thinkers. They could analyze situations and come up with the most logical solutions. They could stay calm in any, if not all situations. How much of this is true, we don’t know. But what we do know is that even with their analytical thinking ability, Green’s were easily influenced by others. They were gullible and that ultimately lead to their demise. 

One rumour that has been making it’s rounds is that Green’s are reflectors. They reflect the other aura colors. That also gives them the ability to hide in public. They will reflect the colors closets to them on the color spectrum much more brighter than the colors further away from them. So Yellow’s and Blue’s would reflect stronger than the other colors. 

It is believed that Green’s are lonely people. They can be stubborn and selfish to an extend. They don’t trust easily” Professor Choi concluded. The class was eerily silent as the monumental information sunk in. Yoongi has never seen another green. It was hard enough keeping his own aura color a secret. It took him years to learn how to reflect, but once he could his world came crashing down when his parents were killed because of him. Because they kept him a secret.

He was truly lonely, as Professor Choi so elegantly said. Yooongi could just hope that he would never be in a situation where he’d have to run. Not again. He was tired of running. 

“Right, I will start handing out the certifications of those who passed all the assignments. Once you receive your certification or the new applications for those who failed, you may leave the class. Thank you everyone, and goodbye” Professor Choi said as he satred making his way around the class with the papers. 

Yoongi was very relieved once he held his certification in his hand. He could almost cry. Scratch that, a few tears did fall from his eyes. He was finally going to get what he has been working so hard for. A hand on his shoulder nearly made Yoongi drop his precious certification. Spinning around, Yoongi game face to face with a slightly familiar face.

“Hey you left your pho-. Wait, aren’t you the same guy that left his phone in class a few weeks ago?” The same red auras guy said as he held up Yoongi’s phone. One he would gladly have replaced once he secured a job. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you, I didn’t even realize it fell out of my bag. Maybe I have a hole or something because I didn’t take it out” Yoongi said as he took his phone from the still smiling Red infront of him. 

“Maybe, but I could have sworm I saw you on your phone before classes started. You looked like you were waiting for a message or something. Anyway, Congratulations on passing this cursed class!” Red said as he smiled at Yoongi.

“Ah, thank you. I hope you passed as well. Thank you for my phone. I am actually waiting for a message from a company, but I guess they are reconsidering me. Anyway, I best be going. I have job applications waiting for me” Yoongi said as he slightly waved at Red. He had a long day ahead of himself. He was positive he’d have an internship by the end of the week! But in order for that to happen he had to get to filling out the pile of applications he has at home. 

“I am very pleased to see that paper in your hand Yoongi” A deep voice said as he exited his classroom. Namjoon was leaning against a wall, right outside of the door. Jungkook was standing next to him with a shit eating grin on his face. It made Yoongi uncomfortable for some strange reason. 

“Uh, thank you?” Yoongi said as he recovered from his initial shock. He had no idea why they were here. They haven’t contacted him in almost a week and now suddenly they are here? How do they even know his schedule. He knows he only has like one class, but still, the aura class has like 5 time slots to choose from. 

“Right, now that the uselessness is out of the way, are you ready to move to your new place? We’ll sign the contract and then we can help you shift. I would much prefer you to be shifted before th eend of the day” Namjoon said. His confidence and dominance oozed out around him. It even made a few of the student around them shrink away. 

Yoongi was slightly pissed at this point. He knew that they had mentioned moving and contracts, but he didn’t hear from them afte their conversation. How could they just expect him to drop everything and now suddenly shift into a new life. Yes, he wants to work for the company. Yes, he needs to move out and get his shit in order. Yes, he would like to to do so as quickly as possible, but this was a bit to much. It’s like they are pushing for something. He didn’t like it. 

“I’m very sorry Namjoon, but I haven’t heard from you in a week and I am not at all prepared to shift. Besides, I haven’t looked at my options. I would like to work for your company, but you have to see this from my view point” Yoongi said as he slightly scouled and huffed. He would not be bossed around yet. He hasn’t signed anything yet. 

“Taehyung said you had a stubbornness to you, but I had to come and see it for myself. No matter, we had a verbal agreement. Yes, I understand this is sudden, but the quicker you move, the better. Ah, here comes Jimin. He’ll be able to help out in this situation” Namjoon said as he completely disregarded the afronted noise Yoongi made at his words.

“Hello again, I seem to have stumbled into a very tense situation. Usually I am the cause of this. Namjoon what have you done?” A very familiar voice said as an arm came to rest on Yoongi’s shoulder. Turning around slightly, Yoongi game face to face with Red. The phone guy… The same guy he talked to not more than 5 minutes ago. 

“Yoongi here doesn’t want to shift today. He’s being very unreasonable and stubborn” Jungkook chirpped from Namjoons side. Yoongi turned his head so fast to protest that he nearly gave himself whiplash. 

“Have you talked to him about it again before now? No, I thought so. Of Course he would be hesitant. It’s a big change, but alas, let me see what I can do. Hey Yoongi, can you look at me quickly? I promise you can argue with Kookie in a few seconds” Red said as he took a hold of Yoongi’s chin. 

When Yoongi’s eyes met Reds, he could have sworn they were shining a bright red. It was hypnotising to a degree. He felt his mind go quiet and become loud at the same time. It was quite a bizarre feeling. 

“There you go, good boy. Can I tell you a secret?” Red said as he started stroking Yoongi’s cheek as if he was made of glass. Yoongi could only nod his head. He didn’t feel in control at all. He had a strange feeling that he needed to make this person happy, no matter what happens. Red leaned in close to Yoongi’s neck as he began to whisper in his ear.

“Thr professor was wrong about Red’s. We have the power to help people make decisions. Ones we want them to make. Even if they already decided against them. And do you know the best part of having a gift like this? You won’t remember being forced. Once the spell wears off it will feel like your own choice all along. Isn’t that nice? Now, how about we get you moved so you can settle? I know of a few colors that are anxious to have you tucked away from the world. You must be so tired of fighting and struggling after your parents died. Let us take care of you now” Red said as Yoongi felt his mind melt and reform. 

Yes, shifting sounds nice. He would like to move to a new place today. Maybe he could nap as well. He was so tired of everything. Naps always fixed everything. Yoongi’s dazed eyes swiveled around to meet Namjoon’s. The other had a smirk on his face as they made eye contact. Almost as if he knew something was about to happen in his favour. 

“I would like to shift today please. Also, could I maybe take a nap? I feel tired” Yoongi said in a soft voice. He sounded a lot like a lost boy trying to get some pity from a passing stranger. This was almost too easy. 

“Good boy” Namjoon said as he took Yoongi into his arms as he started walking towards a expensive looking car. Red and Jungkook followed close behind, effortlessly sliding into the car. Red leaned back as he regarded the drowsy eyed boy. 

“Hey Yoongi, I’m Jimin. It’s nice to finally get to talk to you properly” Jimin said with a smile. Yoongi blinked at the other. Jimin, what a nice name for such a nice person. 

***

Turns out the shift was into a house that all of the other people Yoongi have met lived. If his calculations were right, they were technically a full rainbow, which was unheard of. He had no idea if they knew of his aura color, but he was slightly on edge about it. 

Don’t get him wrong, they have all been super nice to him. Namjoon and Hoseok has been helping him adjust at the company very well. And if Yoongi was completely honest, it was nice to have someone make all his meals for him. Seokjin and Jungkook were very good cooks. 

Yoongi couldn’t complain. He was happier than he has ever been, even before his parents died. Don’t get him wrong. He loved his parents, but as soon as they discovered what he was, they changed into his personal prison guards. 

Yoongi felt free. Weirdly so considering that he has noticed that the other doesn’t like it when he is seen by others people. They are oddly over protective of him. It’s kind of nice, different from how his parents used to be. It made his curious as too why they wer elike this. 

“Namjoon?” Yoongi said as he neutered the others home office. Namjoon often worked from home when Yoongi slept late due to working into the early hours of the morning. He rarely left Yoongi alone at home or work. To the point that Yoongi’s studio was linked to his office. 

“Yes?” Namjoon said as he looked up from his computer. He looked slightly less intimidating in his casual clothing. Especially considering these had small coffee stains on them. 

“Why, why am I- Why do you guys act different when there are other people around me? I mean, I can stand my ground. I know how to interact with others in a company. I know they will slightly look down on me considering that I am the new one” Yoongi said as he sat down on the couch. 

“Yoongi, I think you are misinterpreting our actions. We don’t act different. We are just protective. You see, you are special to us, little clover” Namjoon said as he reached for his phone. He looked relaxed and not at all like this was a serious conversation he was taking part in. It irked Yoongi slightly. 

“You do act different. It’s like you don’t want me to interact with anyone else. And what do you mean I’m special? I know my beats are good. I know I have a special way of making music but that doesn’t mean I’m different from any other producer or even intern” Yoongi said as his voice took on a defensive tone. 

“You are not ready to know yet, Clover” Namjoon said. His voice carried a hint of warning that Yoongi unwisely chose to ignore. He wanted answers. It’s as if all his pent up frustration of the years came barreling forward. He had no way of stopping it before it was too late. 

“Bullshit. Not ready for what? Do you have any idea what I had been through before now? No!” Yoongi all but screamed. “You have no idea what it means to fight for your life, every single fucking day. You have the perfect little idea of this world” Yoongi was breathing heavily by the time he stopped screaming to take a breath. 

Namjoon just stared at him. He didn’t look phased at all by the little outburst. His eyes did hold a sharpness to it that wasn’t there when Yoongi entered the room. It made Yoongi shrink back a bit. Namjoon stood up slowly. His face held no hint of what was going through his mind, but his aura seemed to swirl around his body. 

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from” Yoongi stuttered as he slowly backed away from the approaching man. Namjoon’s lips twitched as he regarded Yoongi as he stalked closer. 

“It’s okay clover. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it all better. You have to understand that we know about everything that happened to you. We DO know your pain. We want to make it better. Make it up to you. Let me fix it for you. I promise you you’ll understand in time” Namjoon said as he took Yoongi into his arms. Yoongi felt a sudden light headedness as Namjoon embraced him. He felt drowsy and weak and uncomfortably unstable on his own two feet.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Yoongi forced out as he fought against the pull of sleep. Namjoon leaned down as he nosed at Yoongi’s neck. The sensation foreign to Yoongi, it it instilled a sense of comfort that he hasn’t felt in a very long time. 

“We were responsible for everything that happened, little clover. It was all part of the plan to get you right were we want you. Were we need you. Vulnerable and so, so dependant” His voice held a sinister tint to it as he whispered into Yoongi’s hair. Yoongi felt his heart stop. 

“W-what?” Yoongi croaked out just before everything faded to black.

Chapter 8

Yoongi woke up as the car parked in what looked like a basement. It took him a while to remember where he was and why, but as soon as he did, dread filled him. He didn’t want to be here. He just wanted to be alone and wallow in self pity for a while longer. He wasn’t ready for another rich self absorbed asshole to tell him just how bad he really was. That his dreams were useless and insignificant. He knew that already. 

Taehyung soon opened the door and unbuckled his seatbelt. It was weird being treated like a helpless child, especially by the same person that put Yoongi in his slump, but Yoongi just didn’t have any strength in him to fight it at the moment. It was just another thing to add to his list of things to feel embarrassed by. 

Luckily, Taehyung didn’t pick him up and carry him like Yoongi expected. He simply guided  Yoongi out of the car and lead him into an elevator. He didn’t speak a word as they rode to the top floor. What did surprise Yoongi was when Taehyung led him into a bathroom instead of a big daunting office. He silently made Yoongi stand close the the sink as he wiped his eyes for him. It was only then that Yoongi realized he was trying to erase any trace of crying that might still linger on his face. 

“You can’t meet the big boss looking like this. I mean, he would like it. Your eyes shine brighter after you cried, but maybe we can wait before he sees you like that. You want to make a good first impression” Taehyung softly whispered as he wiped at Yoongi’s cheeks. 

Yoongi was confused and slightly taken a back, but he felt a little vulnerable and appreciated the soft words Taehyungs spoke to him, but it also unnerved him how this Taehyung was a complete one eighty now, compared to the one he met outside of his classroom. It’s was almost like that interaction never happened. Was Yoongi going insane? 

“Why- why are you…” Yoongi whispered as Taehyung started smoothing out his clothes. He felt a little off kilter with the whole situation he found himself in. Taehyung simply hummed as he continued in his task to make Yoongi look presentable, well as presentable as someone who woke up with the sole purpose of just going to class could look. 

“Why do you care what the boss thinks of me?” Yoongi asked softly. Taehyung hands paused for a few seconds before they went back to messing with his hair. It looked like he was contemplating his answer carefully. 

“What do you mean? I want you to make a good first impression, even if you might fail. You never know. This could lead to big changes for you” Taehyung said as he softly caressed Yoongi’s face. 

“Well, I just assumed you wouldn’t because of what you said before we got into the car” Yoongi said.

“And what exactly did I say that would make you think that?” Taehyung said calmly. As if he was simply talking to a child that couldn’t see reason.

“You literally called me a self-proclaimed producers. You told me I was a nobody. Unworthy of anything.” Yoongi said, his voice held a slight bit of frustration to it as he tried to get away from the other. 

“I never said you were unworthy. I simply stated some facts that might change in the near future. Maybe you are just bitter because you have been struggling for a long time to find success. I’m in your corner here. I want you to be successful.” Taehyung said softly as he cupped Yoongi’s face. 

It felt like Yoongi had a terrible case of whiplash. He was so confused over what was happening that he failed to see the glint in Taehyungs eyes. His mind was working a mile a minute to try and figure out what really happened. Did Taehyung really not say those things? Was Yoongi going crazy? 

Maybe he was just stressed with the demo and his stupid aura class. They just learned about purples but what the professor said and how Taehyung has acted were complete opposites. Taehyung was mean, even if he was now softly guiding Yoongi out of the bathroom. Perhaps this was Yoongi’s walk to his execution. It sure felt like it. 

The office he was lead into was exactly like the ones you would read about in those mafia stories. Mahogany wood, dark aesthetic with unnecessary big windows, completed with a leather couch and low lighting. Heck, Yoongi was slightly disappointed that there wasn’t a damn fire place to finish the whole old-money-mafia-leader vibes off. 

Seokjin was seated in one of the leather coughs, sipping a glass that most probably had wiskey in it. (If the stories were correct) His face lit up when his eyes caught Yoongi’s but it soon changed to concern once he took in his state. Yoongi wasn’t sure what he saw, perhaps his raggy clothes, but he didn’t like that look. It resembled pity way to closely. 

Before Seokjin could voice his concerns, another voice drew Yoongi’s attention. This man was literally a mafia boss. No one would be able to convince Yoongi otherwise. He was just… Woah. Power oozed out of him as his aura glowed around him, a slight darker blue-purple mix. His eyes appeared to have a slight white glow to them as he pinned Yoongi with a look.

“What did you do to him Taehyung? Why was he crying and why does he look like you dragged him out of his bed? How many times do I have to tell you that is impolite to do? You can’t just kidnap people without asking them first” A deep silky voice said. Yup, definitely a mafia boss man. 

“I did not kidnap him! Well sort of not. He was in class, thank you very much. I merely helped him into the car!” Taehyung sassed back as he crossed his arms in an attempt at defiance. 

“You went to class in THAT? What the hell Yoongi?” Seokjin all but screached from his spot on the couch. The man looked personally offended at the mere thought of leaving his house dressed in anything but a suit. Boy would he have a heart attack if he knew what Yoongi wore over the weekends. He still haven’t done his washing from two weeks ago. In his own defence, the clothes were fine. He never left his house in them. Well, except for this morning. 

“I only have one class. I don’t dress up for a 7 am class. No one does” Yoongi weakly said. Seokjin once again looked like he wanted to say more before the mafia boss guy spoke up again.

“Anyway. Thank you for coming on such short notice. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, but Jin over here told me a great deal about you Yoongi. He is very adamant that I hire you as a producer in my company. I am sure you know that my company is one of the best. Now, usually I wouldn’t be interested in a no-name producer such as yourself, but because he asked and Hobi has backed him up, I am willing to listen to your work. You somehow even managed to get Jungkook to like you. That kid is as stubborn as his aura color suggests” Mafia boss man began. 

Yoongi was slightly taken aback. Firstly, he could see why Taehyung was as forward with his words. His boss certainly didn’t hold back on the insults. Secondly, Seokjin, Hoseok, and Jungkook insisted on this man hiring Yoongi? Did he really impress them that much? 

“Do you have anything noteworthy for me to listen to? Or are you as unprepared as half of the world population?” The still-nameless, mafia boss said. 

“I-I do actually have something. It’s not the demo I wanted to show you, but it’s one of my own songs that I made” Yoongi said as he swung his hab around to retrieve one of his USB sticks. 

“You made a song? Like a new song? That’s a first for a no-name. Anyway, let’s give it a listen. Does it have a name atleast?” boss man said. He was clearly not here to make friends as he impatiently extended his hand to Yoongi for the stick. 

“Namjoon, there is absolutely no need for you to be that professional. Yoongi will spoon be part of our little family. My goodness you haven’t even told him your name!” Seokjin said. His voice held a scolding tone, even if he had a slight smile on his face. 

“I’ll introduce myself if his work is good. Otherwise why would I bother” Namjoon (aparrently) answered as he plugged the stick into his computer. 

“A-Amygdala, that’s the one I had in mind” Yoongi said as he had to physically keep himself from bolting. 

The room was silent as the music began. Yoongi closed his eyes as he listened to his own voice singing. His songs have never been heard by anyone else. He usually send in sound track demos to the companies he applied to. His own songs were personal and meant a lot more than what anyone else would be able to realize. 

Once the song was done, Yoongi refused to lift his head or open his eyes as the silence stretched on for what felt like decades. Yoongi knew this all was just a fantasy he had made up. Any moment now they would be laughing at him. He was sure that they would make sure all the other company owners know within the week not to hire someone as pathetic as Yoongi. Nothing good ever happens to him. 

The soft touch of a finger under his chin, made Yoongi gasp. He opened his eyes as his face was lifted up slowly. He came face to face with the mafia boss man Namjoon. The man had a strange look in his eyes as his eyes swept over Yoongi’s face. Before Yoongi could stop it, a single tear escaped his eye. Namjoon’s eyes followed it as it made its way down Yoongi’s face. This seemed to soften his eyes even more. 

“Have we made it to hard for you, sweet clover?” Namjoon whispered as he whipped Yoongi’s tears. 

“What?” Yoongi asked as his eyes met Namjoon’s in some type of stare contest. 

“I asked if what you said in your song is true. Do you still feel like that?” Namjoon asked. Yoongi couldn’t answer him as he stared back at Namjoon. This was not what Namjoon had asked at first. Yoongi knew as much, yet he only stared at the other. 

“That was a very beautiful song Yoongi. I didn’t know you could sing and rap. Why haven’t you pursued a career in that?” Seokjin asked as he too came closer to Yoongi and Namjoon. Seokjin’s eyes briefly lifted to something behind Yoongi as he nodded and shifted his attention back to Yoongi. Before Yoongi could turn his head around to see what Seokjin has seen, Namjoon swept down and pecked him on his cheek. 

‘You’ll do perfectly. Just what we need. Now, let’s introduce ourselves properly. Hello, I’m Namjoon. I am the CEO of this company. I run a tight ship and all music go through me before anything sees the outside world. I do not tolerate any slacking, but I don’t think that would be a problem with you. I am pleased to hire you. If you are still interested, that is. You would be getting your own studio, which you can decorate and change as you wish. The company will paay for it. You also don’t need to take those lousy classes anymore. We can tell you anything there is to know. What do you say?” Namjoon said, still holding onto Yoongi’s face softly. 

“I- wha- wait, you want to hire me? Not as an intern,but as a producer?” Yoongi stuttered once he got over his initial shock from the peck Namjoon left on his cheek. His brain was a little slow to catch up, but once it did it almost stopped entirely. He was not going to be an intern… he was going to be a full fletched producer. One with his own studio! Whatever this was he couldn’t say no to it. 

“Yes, you would of course have a brief shadowing period. You would need to trail hebind Hobi or even me for a while, just until you are more comfortable getting around. After that I can introduce you to everyone properly. I believe you have met most of the important people?” Namjoon said, tilting his head slightly. 

“He hasn’t met Jimin yet” Seokjin said softly. Somehow he has made his way behind Yoongi while Namjoon was talking. He was standing way to close to Yoongi. It was weirdly comfortingly uncomfortable. If that made sense. 

“I- Yes, I would love to work for you! I don’t mind a observation or shadowing period, at all! Also, My classes are almost done. I believe I only have two left before the aura class is done. Were almost through the colors. Just two left” Yoongi quickly said before he lost his nerves. 

“Perfect. I will get a contract drafted. Perhaps your classes will be done by then and you can focus on being with us. There are some… how do I say this? Requirements? Would you be willing to move to a different place?” Namjoon asked. This was strange. Why would he have to move? Not that Yoongi minded moving. ANything would be better than his current shoebox. Heck, he would even move in with one of these guys. Maybe Hoseok or Jungkook are looking for a roommate? Yeah, maybe moving wouldn’t be that bad. 

“Um, sure. Why? If I may ask. Not that I mind, my current apartment isn’t ideal, but it is kind of strange” Yoongi asked. 

“Oh, we have found that it just helps with production and team building. Anyway, welcome to the team Yoongi!” Seokjin said, squeezing Yoongi’s shoulders. 

“Thank you! It was a pleasure meeting you Namjoon, and seeing you again Seokjin. My professor told me seeing a blue aura is rare and today I saw two. Maybe my luck is turning!” Yoongi said with a slight giggle. Namjoon simply smiled at him. His eyes held a million secrets as he stared at Yoongi for a few minutes before he spoke again. His words made Yoongi slightly freeze in place as they sunk in. 

“Silly little clover. I’m an Indigo”