Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sickos shouting death threats at idols? Unfortunately, not new.

Actually pulling the trigger? That’s a first for Hoseok.

He’s not even aware that’s what it is at first.

Just a sudden sense of wrongness.

There’s no pain, there never is, but there is pressure. Force. A shift in the lights around him as something burrows its way into his forehead.

He takes a professional approach.

Immediately grateful to the choreography positioning him on the outer edge of the stage. Meaning he can pretend to jump at the effects and spin around just enough. So that his face is turned away from the audience and the rest of the members. Pretending to cough, doubling over to lift his hand to his face, to let some of his hair cover his forehead.

Covering whatever the wrongness is.

He has some ideas. He won’t entertain the thought right now. Not in front of thousands of fans.

Not when the rest of the members are watching out for him as he breaks outside the choreography.

Yoongi, positioned closest to him, shoots him a glance that’s only barely letting slip concern.

He bats away the worry with a smile and a waved hand. The beat picks up, and in practiced ease he’s back up, jumping on his toes and rapping into the microphone. 

The lights are burning into his eyes. He can’t see the audience anymore, the purple lights blurring into a mess of color and motion.

He just counts his steps, remembers his voice, and pretends his lungs are gasping for breath as he dances and sings.

The final concert of their tour ends in deafening applause, waving purple lights, and fireworks

BTS gives their heartfelt thank yous and speeches. Hoseok makes sure his moment is short and sweet, and prays that the camera trained on his face isn’t too close.

And then with a bow and hands entwined, the audience screaming for more they won’t give tonight, the lights cut out.

In the darkness, Hoseok finally allows his hand not holding a hand to trail up to his forehead.

He brushes against something warm and solid.

His fingers come back slick.

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or something else, but he pushes the hand into his pocket and rushes off stage with the rest of the group. 

There’s weary congratulations from everyone, and stylists already swarming to wipe away their makeup. Hoseok makes a b-line for the restroom, apologizing to the stylists as he gently bats their hands away, and locks himself in the dressing room’s adjacent washroom.

With a breath, he removes his hand from his pocket and stares.

His fingertips are tipped in red. 

“Oh fuck,” Hoseok mutters, turning towards the mirror.

Wide eyes stare back at him. Face sculpted in layers of makeup for the stage. Lipstick only slightly smudged. Bangs fanning over his forehead.

It just looks like a person. Nothing wrong.

He heaves out a stale breath and lifts his bangs up.

It’s not pretty.

In fact, it’s horrifying.

Sucked and puckering deep in the center of his forehead is a deep red puncture. The skin inflamed, angry and red, with lacerations around the edges as well as a ring of swelling blood.

Lodged in the middle, keeping most of the blood inside, is a glossy metal shell.

A bullet.

He drops his bangs back over the wound, and heaves another sign as his hair covers it perfectly. 

No one would be any the wiser.

He’ll give the shooter props. Whoever nailed the bullet between his eyes is clearly a professional. The pop of the barrel had been entirely lost to the sound of the fans cheering and the firework effects of their grand finale. 

They must be going insane from whatever vantage point they shot from — because he’s pretty sure it’s a sniper. No one could enter the stadium with even a butter knife. He knows BigHit doesn’t cheap out on security. Not after everything.

He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, wracks his brain for any mention of death threats on the internet.

Nothing current comes to mind. If there was, they’d all know about it and take precautions.

This was the real deal.

Not some internet sicko wanting a short time in the spotlight. Not an empty threat just to get a rise out of fans.

A true professional.

Or, and he shudders at the thought, someone who’d pay for one.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He grips the sink. Hard. The material creaks under his fingertips, and leans against it.

His reflection looks sick, shaking and smiling.

Someone actually went out of their way to kill him. 

It’s like New York City, like Texas, like Japan, but so much worse.

Because a bullet flew.

A bullet landed.

And it’s in his head.

He can’t even begin to wrap his mind around it, and for his own sanity he won’t. All he can do is slowly slide down to his knees on the tile floor. Remind himself to breathe. Not because it works, but because it makes him feel a little better.

A little more alive.

“You’re okay,” he whispers.

His hands itch to hug himself, but he forces his fingertips to not even graze the edges of his stage costume.

If anyone sees blood on him anywhere, it’s over.

“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He continues to mutter the mantra as he pulls himself to his feet. Washes his hands, runs the water to scalding and scrubs until not a speck of red is mixed with it. He wipes away the makeup with wet paper towels, and dabs his cheeks with his hot hands to add some color to his pale complexion. Corrects the face in the mirror. Forces his eyes to be less wide, alters the wrinkles on his brow, smoothes out the tension at the edges of his lips, until there’s not a spec of terror ingrained anywhere on the features staring back at him. 

“Well,” the reflection says to him, smiling in the sly way friends do when they share an inside joke. “At the very least, out of all of us that could have been targeted on that stage, it was you. That should count for something.”

And strangely enough, that helps.

Because, out of all the heads a person could have targeted, it was his.

Jung Hoseok.

The single individual on this planet — at least he thinks he’s the only one, there could be more like him hiding in plain sight — who’s already dead. A walking corpse puppeteered by its spirit, continuing to live out the life that was robbed from him years ago.

“Hobi-hyung?”

The voice startles him. He slams his elbow against the sink and curses at the noise. A voice that sounds like Taehyung belts out an apology, muffled through the door.

“Tae, is that you?” he wheezes, hand over his not-beating heart. A reflex, more than anything.

“Mhmm.” Taehyung says. “Are you okay? Our rides arrive in ten minutes.”

Hoseok takes one last look in the mirror, brushes his bangs further over his forehead, and unlocks the door. Taehyung’s doe eyes stare back at him, and he does his best to smile without clenching his jaw.

“I’m okay. Just got surprised.” Hoseok affirms, pretending to rub his elbow. Taehyung raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t look okay. You’re pale.”

“Am I?” He looks back at the mirror, but at this angle he can’t see himself anymore. “Do I, at least, look passable?”

“Sure?” Taehyung shrugs. “To most people you’d probably look fine, at a distance. Seriously, you still have patches of makeup on.”

Hoseok laughs, and makes sure to bend his head down rather than lifting it up. He’s so nervous his hands are trembling, and he’s so fucking cold .

“Fucking hell,” he says at last. “I guess that’s what I get for breaking down in the bathroom.”

Taehyung’s eyes darken immediately. “Do I need to get someone?”

Hoseok shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m better now. You know how it gets sometimes.”

“… alright.”

Bless his heart, Taehyung drops the conversation.

He links his arm in Hoseok’s and practically guides him outside and into the dark van waiting for them. Sends the rapper to the front seat and leaves no room to argue.

Soon the rest of the group crowds in along with the driver, and the van ambles away from the stadium.

Everyone crashes then.

A collective sigh fills the space, and Hoseok watches from the rear view mirror as postures shift to slumps. Post-concert, no paparazzi, and the lull of the car engine is all most of them need to fall asleep, or teter on the edge of.

Hoseok just dips his head lower, closes his eyes, and waits.

That’s the worst part.

The waiting. It makes his mind hyper aware of each aching second, passing much slower than he knows a second should. It makes him so very aware of his forehead. Feels each individual strand of hair brushing against blistering skin and the slick surface it curtains. The crushed cap of metal wedged into his scalp.

Eventually they reach the hotel, and at least the staff do their best to keep their stay there as secure as possible. Taking the ‘celebrity entrance’ and the private elevator that takes them to their floor. 

The group splits once they step foot on the silent floor, muttering good nights between yanks as they split off.

Hoseok drags himself through his hotel room door, key card limp between his fingers. The room is lavishly furnished and practically untouched, a large window making up an entire wall to take in the view of the city. Rooftops and windows of other high-rises adjacent.

He closes the door behind him. Leans against it as the latch and the electronic lock click into place, and then he moves.

There’s an ice bucket in the mini fridge. He drags it out along with a cold water bottle. 

There’s a tissue box on the desk by the television.

Hand sanitizer on the bathroom sink. A hotel vanity set with some cotton pads. A nail clipper.

He lays them all out on the bathroom floor with shaking hands. Lifts away the shower mat and throws it inside the tub. Clears the space as best he can of anything white and fabric. Anything that can stain.

Then, he pushes his hair up out of his face with one hand, and grips the nail clipper tightly in the other.

Turns to the mirror.

The person looking back is pale under the warmth of the lights. Glassy-eyed. Drenched in sweat despite the chill of the air conditioner.

It’s him. It’s always him.

But not the way he’s supposed to be.

With his hair pushed up, the bullet is plain to see now. A shallow puncture, swollen and red, the metal casing slightly askew like it’s been jammed into skin that didn’t know how to break right. The flesh around it is tight and bruised, but not weeping. Not bleeding properly. Like his body is stuck, still trying to decide if it's injured or just ruined.

He doesn’t give himself time to think.

He grips the nail clipper and slides the metal file out from the side. A small, curved tip.

That’ll do.

He sanitizes it. Pouring a palmful of cold hand sanitizer over the file until it drips onto the counter. Feels nothing as the gel splashes onto his skin. No sting.

He braces his left hand on the countertop, pushes his bangs back again, and leans in close to the mirror. So close his breath fogs the surface.

Then he starts to dig.

It’s a clean motion at first. Just pressing the edge of the file under the rim of the casing.

But the skin catches.

Flesh resists.

His skull thuds dully behind it all. Not pain, never pain, just pressure. Something shifting, then sliding, and then, finally, letting go.

He doesn’t exhale through his teeth but his body makes the motion of it, lips curling and teeth gnashing as the bullet finally loosens, the metal scraping against bone, sinew, and muscle. It makes a wet little pop when it comes free.

It tumbles out of his flesh, and his hand darts out to catch it.

It falls into his palm, stained dark red.

It’s so small. So… nothing.

A smudged little dot of death.

He drops it in the sink.

The bullet lands with a soft tick.

The hole left behind doesn’t bleed much. It just seeps, viscous and almost tired. The skin around it is puffy and bruised, raw and coldly inflamed.

He presses tissues and cotton pads to it until the weeping stops, then cubes of ice to the swollen edges. 

Chucks all of the stained tissues and cotton into the trash and packs it down deep, any hint of red out of sight.

Then he opens his makeup bag.

His fingers tremble as he unscrews the cap of the concealer, the same one the stylists use for touch-ups between sets. It’s warm between his hands, somehow.

The applicator tip hovers just above the crater.

And he hesitates.

Scrunches his nose up at the thought of what he’s about to do.

Then, carefully, delicately, he pushes in.

The sponge head of the applicator sinks into the hole with a soft squish, and he squeezes beige cream into the bullet hole.

A temporary sollution to a long term problem.

Fills it fully.

Dabs more on.

And more.

Pushes it flat with a sponge.

Then blends it. Layers it with foundation. Powder. A press of setting spray.

By the time he’s finished, it’s flush with the rest of his skin.

“Okay. Done,” his reflection whispers back at him. 

He cleans the bullet. Pockets it away.

He’ll bury it in the tomato garden with his murder’s corpse when he has the time.

And he will. This was their final performance. BTS’ tour is done, for now. Until their next comeback. Until their next show in some rented mansion, and pretend it’s a break.

He has time. He can do this.

He checks his reflection again, just to be sure.

Flawless skin. No rotting flesh. Sweaty, shining, hair. Not a hint of death in sight.

But the hole is still there.

He just buried it under a shade called ‘Natural Beige’.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He never really does.

Doesn’t really remember what sleep was like.

But usually, he can rest. Close his eyes. Block out the world for a little while and gather strength.

Tonight, though, is different.

The bullet hole aches where the concealer seals it shut. Not a pain he can feel, exactly. More like the ghost of pain, a phantom that itches inside his mind. 

It’s not real. He hasn’t felt pain since he was fifteen.

But the injury is.

The bullet in his pocket is.

Someone tried to take his life tonight.

And suddenly, every time he closes his eyes, he’s fifteen again.

The air is thinner there. Humid. Thick with mildew and something darker. A smell that clings to his skin even now, even when he knows it shouldn’t.

There’s a hand on his throat. Heavy. Not rough at first. Not yet.

It tightens slowly. He can’t get away from it. Can’t react in time. His vision is swimming from where he’d been slammed against the wooden floor of the dance studio.

He remembers the sound his feet made against the floor, socks sliding on old tile, the scrape of his own nails, the wheeze in his chest as he fought to breathe and couldn’t.

And the man’s face.

More bored than angry.

Like he was doing something routine, something that didn’t need his full attention. Like killing a kid was just another item on his list that day.

Hoseok tries not to see it. He open his eyes, but the memory doesn’t care. It keeps playing across his eyes.

His fingernails digging into flesh. His voice failing. His body giving up before he did.

Then nothing.

Just a rattle in his useless lungs. Tongue lolling. A tear in the dark. A split where something soft inside him slid out and didn’t come back.

Except it did.

He did.

He watched himself drift out of his own body, and all he’d felt then was rage.

How dare you.

How dare you kill me before I could become anything but a trainee.

Before I could debut. Before I could prove them all wrong.

Before I could live.

He hadn’t been sad. Not even afraid.

He’d just been furious.

Watched as the man stripped off his gloves and rolled his neck, pocketing the rubber and adjusted his jacket.

And the rage didn’t burn. It froze. Crystallized. Something sharp and permanent that hooked into him in a way he’d never felt before, and never would again.

He’d just floated there, above his own body, staring at the slack jaw, the still chest, the bruises blooming across his neck.

And then he looked at the man.

Still standing over him. Still breathing.

Still alive.

And that was the real offense, wasn’t it?

That the monster got to keep breathing after he didn’t.

He doesn’t remember crossing the distance between them. Just slamming into his killer’s back with all the force of his fury.

Not a physical blow. Something deeper.

A spiritual collision.

The man staggered, grunted, turned.

And for the first time, Hoseok saw him see him.

His eyes went wide. Not with guilt, not even fear, but with a sort of confusion. Like he’d never considered the possibility that killing someone might have consequences beyond the bruises and disturbed dust on the floor.

It was the last thought his killer would ever think. The only thought Hoseok was close enough to hear.

Because that’s when it happened.

Hoseok didn’t mean to do it.

He didn’t even know it was possible.

But as he pushed, clawed, screamed wordlessly in a voice only souls could hear, he grabbed something.

Not the man’s body, but the flickering thing inside it.

It wriggled. It fought.

But Hoseok had been denied life. Denied time. Denied his future. And in that moment, all he wanted was to take something back.

So he did.

It wasn’t a clean pull.

He tore the man’s soul out piece by piece, like thread unraveling from a sweater. The killer convulsed, mouth opening in a silent scream as his body dropped beside Hoseok’s, now matching it in lifelessness.

And Hoseok, still burning in cold fury, ate it.

Not like food. Not like flesh.

He consumed it the way a fire consumes oxygen. With the desperate hunger of a boy who should have been something.

He devoured it until there was nothing. No man, no memory, no name.

He took the name between his fingers and feasted, and something changed after that. The rage didn’t leave him. The grief didn’t fade. But now, he was full. Anchored.

Maybe even a bit powerful.

And then, slowly, he felt a force pull on him again, but not up.

Down.

Toward his body.

It wasn’t like re-entering. Not like a spirit settling back into a vessel.

Because the thing on the floor, the body, was already dead. The opening he’d slipped out from what sealed shut. A door slammed closed and locked.

The lungs didn’t work. The heart didn’t beat. The brain damaged beyond repair.

But Hoseok moved to it anyway.

Wrapped himself around the flesh like armor, sealed his soul to the skin with the glue of stolen strength, and puppeteered it into motion.

When his eyes opened again, they didn’t blink. When he gasped for breath, it wasn’t need. Just an instinct.

A memory of being alive.

He staggered to his feet, legs jerking under him like a newborn foal, one hand clawing at his neck as the phantom ache of strangulation pulsed through him. No breath, no pain, but his body remembered. The choke. The burn. The loss.

Then he turned.

And grabbed the man who killed him by the ankles.

Dragged two corpses out of that dance studio, only one still warm. Across the dusty linoleum, through the back exit, and into the night.

Hoseok didn’t feel tired. Didn’t ache. Didn’t shake with exhaustion or panic. His muscles obeyed, but not because they were strong. Because he was stronger than them now. His soul latched to the shell of his body like a parasite with a mission.

He pulled. And kept pulling.

Until he found it.

A home. Collapsing in on itself. Forgotten in a pocket of old city that had slipped between maps. Fences broken. Windows boarded. Roof caved in. A once-loved garden in the back now a battlefield of weeds, thorny vines curling over the bones of a tomato plant struggling to even bloom.

Perfect.

He dropped the man beside the garden. Then turned to face the earth.

And he dug.

Not with tools.

Just his hands.

He clawed at the soul until the dirt opened, wide enough, deep enough, and he kicked the man in.

A topple of limbs and skin into wet, dark earth.

A secret between him, the home, and this tomato plant he was about to feed.

And Hoseok kicked the dirt back into place.

Heel over heel.

Until the weeds blanketed it again, the earth sealed.

Like no one had ever been there at all.

He returned to practice the next morning.

Walked through the doors with his head low, hoodie up, a scarf high around his throat.

Said he’d caught a fever. Or had food poisoning. Or passed out from exhaustion.

They believed him.

Of course they did.

No one looked closely enough.

He kept the bruises hidden anyway.

Thick scarves in the summer. Band-aids with little white lies.

And when the skin began to discolor, blue, then green, then sickly yellow as his body struggled to remember how injuries should fade, he got good at makeup.

Really good.

He learned the difference between high-coverage and full-coverage.

Learned what tones could cancel out the strange sunken shadows around his eyes when he wasn’t holding in tight enough.

Learned what finishes hid better under fluorescent lighting.

Learned that cool-toned concealers worked best on skin that didn’t know what warmth was anymore, but pretended it did.

He ate, too.

Just enough.

Not because he needed to. Not to fill a stomach that didn’t growl, but because the act of chewing made people feel at ease.

And it helped, in small ways.

The nutrients didn’t fuel his body exactly, but they fed his soul, the same way devouring his killer’s spirit had.

He stopped sleeping, too. But no one noticed. Why would they? Hoseok was always smiling. So much energy. So much joy.

He learned to lie still at night, hands folded, eyes shut.

Mimicking the rhythm of someone in REM sleep.

Some nights, he wrote lyrics in his head.

Or hummed a tune with frozen, silent, vocal cords he could still hear.

Or just listened to the sound of blood not moving in his veins.

Rest didn’t feel like sleep.

Rest felt like settling.

Like pushing deeper into skin that didn’t want him, folding around bones like a blanket, threading his presence into the hollow places until they were his.

He didn’t dream. He just remembered.

And sometimes, in the quiet, he heard the tomato plant growing.

And that was his existence carrying forward.

Practicing routines with bruised lungs.

Smiling on cue with a mouth that didn’t need to breathe.

Rapping verses with no need for oxygen.

Bow, wave, bow again.

Backstage, he wiped blood from his nose like it was sweat.

Touch-ups. Blotting. More powder.

And on top of it all, Happy Hoseok.

Hopeful Hoseok.

Then, Bangtan Sonyeondan, and J-Hope.

He blinks, and the memory is gone.

Hotel walls, hard mattress on a bed pretending to be soft, and a bullet in his pocket.

He pulls it out.

The metal glimmers between his fingers. The casing indented from where it’d burrowed against his skull.

He turns the bullet over, the cold weight heavier than it should be.

“Why the hell did you target me?” he whispers.

The bullet doesn’t reply, but he has his theories.

The lingering hatred from the #kickjhopeoutofbts days.

His solo achievements always being scorned.

His attitude alongside his smile some people find more obnoxious than fun.

Some kind of parasocial demented sense of enmity.

Just to make a statement against a popular public figure.

Or just to cause anguish to millions of people.

And worst of all.

That this bullet isn’t the last.

That his inability to die may have just switched targets to one of the others.

He sits up, pockets the metal, touches his neck in a nervous tick he could never quite stop.

He can’t report this.

He stands, sheets spilling at his feet. Paces the room, fingers pressed to his lips, staring out at the window, the city brightly lighting up the night while the people sleep.

He can’t report it. He needs to bury this bullet as soon as he can.

Someone wants to kill him. Again.

Doesn’t matter if it’s because of his fame, his face, or something else.

If they’re this professional about it, nailing him in the center of his forehead on a stage surrounded by thousands, on their final performance, shot from some unknown angle, it means they wanted his death to be witnessed. They wanted there to be an impact.

And something like that takes a lot of planning and money.

Money they can spend on trying to murder an internationally famous idol.

Money they can spend to try again.

And he’s not certain of that fact. Nor is he certain of if his spiraling thoughts at this very second hold any truth at all. But there is one thing that rings out clear.

He’s not going to say anything.

It will put them in danger.

This has been one of the most grueling tours of their career, to date. They need to relax, to unwind, to be people for a bit instead of idols.

They’re not going to know about this attempt on his life.

This danger he can’t explain. Not without shattering what little bit of life he’d made for himself in the aftermath of his murder.

And he doesn’t know how to bury this. Not this time.

But he can bury a bullet.

That’s a start.

Chapter Text

He opens his eyes, pulls himself from the bed, and grabs his phone to silence the alarm before it can penetrate the walls.

He’d closed the curtains of the window-wall last night, holding the room in darkness and silence. Still, grey light finds a way to filter through the thick fabric, crawling across the carpeted floor.

He stretches, unsticking muscles and tendons, jaw flexing, and immediately heads to the bathroom.

Pulls his bangs up, examines the spot where the bullet hole is buried under.

He touches it up, just in case. Then, the normal routine: concealer, foundation, powder, all in practiced layers. Checks it under the bathroom lighting, then the room’s dim glow, and then his phone flashlight. Doesn’t rush, there’s no point.

When he finishes, the face that looks back at him is fine. Good, even. Just a face with enough undereye shadow to pass for fatigue.

He smiles at himself, syphons a little energy to make sure his eyes reflect the light, a little more to start working toward repairing the wound.

The drain is slight. His vision wavers for a moment before the skin around his forehead tightens, reminds itself it shouldn’t be rotting, and that’s it.

That’s good enough for now. It’ll take time, but he has enough makeup and white lies to give him nothing but time.

He leaves the bathroom quietly.

Checks his phone before remembering there isn’t much of a schedule today.

Scans the floor out of habit. Shoes where he left them. Jacket on the chair. Bag next to the door.

And then he remembers he’s still wearing his concert costume.

He chuckles in the dark, runs a hand through his hair, mindful of his forehead, and grabs his bag.

Unzips it. Pulls out a shirt and pants that his stylists will hate him for, no doubt. A colorful shirt and baggy sweatpants. Peels off the concert outfit piece by piece, careful with the zipper and buttons. Making sure not to snag fabric on the hidden, still-repairing, hole above his brow.

He steps into the change of clothes, rolls the waistband once, and sighs. Just because.

He folds the costume carefully, removes the bullet from the pocket, and tucks the clothes away. He’ll give it back to the costumers later. This isn’t the first time one of them have kidnapped a costume from backstage.

Then he pockets his phone and bullet, yanks his jacket off the chair, slips on his shoes, and walks out the door into the hallway.

There’s no one.

Of course there’s no one. BigHit bought out the floor for their privacy. Still, he glances down the hallway both ways.

The silence presses in, thick enough to hear the faint buzz of the air conditioning.

His eyes linger on the exit signs at the end of the hall.

Counts the steps it takes to reach it.

Walks back.

Eyes the other doors in the hallway, where he knows the other members are.

And, just to be sure, he taps his card against the lock and checks the evacuation planner taped on the inside of his room’s door. Just to see the layout.

Familiar lines and arrows trace the building’s bones. Exits marked clearly, routes highlighted.

He memorizes them all, eyes flicking quickly, storing every escape path.

And then he zips up his jacket, shoves his hands in his pockets, and shuffles down to hall to the elevator.

Breakfast would be nice.

He steps into the elevator, the soft hum and gentle sway grounding him just a little.

The doors close quietly, and the sterile walls reflect his guarded smile back at him.

Downstairs, he heads down the hallway to the private lounge area BigHit reserved. Soft lighting, plush chairs, buffet tables lined with white cloth. The scent of coffee and toasted bread seeps through the room.

There’s a hotel staff that welcomes him in as he steps through the door, formal and polite. He smiles at them.

“Anyone else here?” he asks in English.

“Not yet,” the staff replies. “You’re very early. Would you like anything specific prepared?”

Hoseok parses through the words, then figures them out and shakes his head, voice light but measured.

“I’ll just have the buffet. Thank you.”

The staff nods, and Hoseok carries on.

He glances around the quiet breakfast area, tables still empty, chairs neatly tucked, staff bustling about and the sounds of muffled cooking.

It feels right to take a slow breath. To listen to the calm of the moment and reflect it back.

He moves to the buffet, eyes scanning the spread. There’s fresh fruit, glossy slices of melon, juicy berries. Golden pastries still warm from the oven. Scrambled eggs fluffed to perfection. An assortment of sliced breads and a conveyered toaster over already running. Steaming coffee pots lined up neatly.

Next to them, a basket filled with a variety of creamers and chilled milk resting on ice, offers a small luxury amid the sterile hotel calm.

He takes it all in with a quiet appreciation. Careful not to seem too pensive.

Filling his plate slowly, he picks a few berries, a croissant, and some eggs, then pours himself a cup of coffee, adding just a splash of creamer.

His soul ripples just a bit at the warmth as his fingers wrap around the cup, scanning the room once again.

He finds a corner table, out of the way of any windows, with a close proximity to the main entrance and the emergency exit.

He slides into the seat, back to the wall, eyes on the room. From here, he can see everything that matters. The doorways, angles of the room, where staff appear and vanish past the door behind the buffet counter.

The coffee steam curls into the air, and he takes a sip just to feel it coat his tongue.

Chokes on it for a moment before he remembers how to swallow, still too focused on the room itself.

Old habits die hard, he supposes, chucking to himself as he wipes his mouth with a pristine napkin.

His plate stays mostly untouched for a moment. He picks at a berry, bites the edge of the croissant, and his soul hums softly.

Eating is different when you don’t have a working stomach. He chews carefully, breaks down everything into as much a paste as he can. Swallowing just stores it, holds it still, feels a bit more normal.

His soul takes care of the rest. Separates energy from the organic. He doesn’t quite understand the process, but it’s slower than digestion.

The food sits and stays, until it’s just not there anymore, and that’s it.

No waste. No hunger. Just his soul wrapping itself a bit tighter around his corpse’s skin.

At least it still tastes satisfying.

He swirls the coffee in his cup, eyes still on the room but softening slightly. There’s a rhythm to mornings like this. Quiet, structured, with just enough purpose to keep him going.

And maybe that’s why they help.

The slow ritual of pretending. Of routines followed for their shape, not their need. Eat. Sip. Sit still. Tap a finger. Breathe like it matters.

The food will vanish eventually. His soul will tug what it needs. Enough to mend skin. To keep the lights on behind his eyes.

To pass.

He taps the rim of the coffee cup once, twice. The steam curls upward and fades.

Another sip.

Another small lie.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until the elevator dings again.

He doesn’t flinch, but his eyes shift immediately. Just a glance toward the mirrored doors across the lobby. The hush of morning broken by soft, familiar footsteps. Rubber soles, quiet breath, and a gait he’s memorized.

Then a voice.

“Hyung?”

Taehyung. Quiet. Gentle. Too alert for someone who never willingly wakes up at this time of day.

Hoseok looks up with a smile already tugging at his lips. It’s not fake, not at all, just practiced.

“You’re up early,” he says.

Taehyung responds with a yawn, stepping closer to the table, collapsing in a chair beside him.

“Did you sleep?” he finally says, voice gravely from sleep and strain.

Hoseok stirs his coffee.

“Eventually.”

Taehyung hums softly, eyes scanning the table, but not really looking at the food.

There’s a pause. One of those silences that hangs too long to be innocent. Hoseok feels it stretch, hears Taehyung’s mind working overtime in his skull.

He braces. Fingers diving into his pocket, running his nails along the smooth metal of the bullet.

“You scared me last night.” Taehyung settles on.

The smile stays on Hoseok’s lips, but just barely. “I told you I was fine, Taetae. Just overwhelmed after the performance.”

Taehyung doesn’t blink. Shakes his head. “I don’t mean after. On stage.”

Hoseok says nothing, just taps his spoon against the rim of his cup, so Taehyung keeps going.

“I saw you stumble. Yoongi-hyung did too. For a moment, I thought you were going to faint.”

Hoseok’s fingers still, his smile falters for the briefest second. Then he leans back, voice even but low.

“It was just a moment. The effects got to me, hit a bit harder once everything went dark.”

And for good measure, because at least this is true.

“I’m sorry I made you worry. I’m okay now.”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow slightly, not fully convinced. “You’re still pale.”

“Well, so are you,” Hoseok jabs back playfully. “Your stylists would be so thrilled if our tour wasn’t already over.” 

Taehyung rolls his eyes, exhausted, but the corners of his lips tug up. Finally.

Still, he doesn’t drop it completely.

“You don’t usually disappear like that. You haven't even answered my texts.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, just a familiar concern. The kind that comes from years of sharing stages, flights, hotel rooms. From someone who’d grown up with him, now trying to flip the script.

Hoseok’s smile softens into something quieter. He reaches out and ruffles Taehyung’s hair.

Taehyung just grunts, but doesn’t pull away, even as Hoseok turns his hair into a wild mop.

“I’m okay, Taehyung,” Hoseok says, a whisper now. “This tour was just… a lot on me.”

He pulls away. A long pause follows, Taehyung’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes fixed a bit too deeply on Hoseok’s face.

Then, finally, he nods.

“Okay,” he echoes. Not fully believing, but willing, for now, to let it go.

He gestures toward Hoseok’s plate.

“Are the eggs any good?”

Hoseok shrugs. “In terms of hotel food? They’re up there.”

Taehyung’s nose scrunches up. “Eugh.”

Hoseok huffs a soft laugh. “You asked.”

“I forgot about your standards,” Taehyung mutters, already rising from his seat with a stretch. “Literally hotel food apologist behavior.”

“I’m practical,” Hoseok calls after him with a mock look of offense. “And I like eggs.”

“You’d eat instant ramen off a radiator,” Taehyung says over his shoulder, heading toward the buffet.

“Only once,” Hoseok replies, voice barely above a whisper now, lips curling around the rim of his cup. “And I wasn’t the one who cooked it.”

Taehyung doesn’t hear that last part.

But Hoseok watches him go, easy steps, unguarded shoulders, the way he hums softly under his breath even this early in the morning. The worry in his eyes still hasn’t fully faded, but the tension has loosened just enough.

Good.

Hoseok finishes the rest of his coffee, hand pulling out of his pocket where the bullet sits. Pats the spot overtop, once.

Soon.

He pulls out his phone instead, checks Taehyung’s texts.

Just ‘hellos?’ and ‘where are you?’s he never even saw.

The timestamp on the first one was minutes after they’d come off stage. The next a barrage over the course of twenty minutes.

Now they’re left on read.

He pockets the phone, shoves a bite of egg into his mouth, the fork uncomfortable and clunky between his fingers.

He’d kill for chopsticks right about now.

Taehyung returns with a plate piled high, collapses back into the chair, and eyes Hoseok's mostly-empty plate.

“So, who’s the hotel food apologist again?” Hoseok asks, elbow on the table, chin resting on his hand.

“I’m hungry ,” Taehyung says, like that explains everything. “And I deserve this.”

To prove his point, he shoves an entire pastry into his mouth, chewing with slow, dramatic satisfaction. Like he’s daring Hoseok to question it.

Hoseok doesn’t. He just watches him with a quiet kind of fondness.

Soon enough, the elevator dings again. More familiar footsteps and voices. He turns his gaze to the entrance.

Yoongi walks in first, hoodie halfway over his head, dragging his feet like gravity hasn’t quite let go of him yet. His eyes barely register the room before he veers toward the buffet like a man in a trance.

Seokjin follows a few steps behind, hair still damp from a shower, muttering something under his breath.

Namjoon’s voice floats in next, calm and low, offering a polite thank you to the hotel staff. He appears a moment later, headset looped around the back of his neck, posture loose with fatigue but held together by habit.

No Jimin. No Jungkook.

Hoseok assumes they’re still sleeping.

Taehyung mumbles something similar around what’s left of his pastry, not even bothering to swallow before speaking. Hoseok only catches the words “Jungkook” and “dead to the world.”

Which, fair enough.

He glances towards the wall-sized window. Catches Namjoon strolling across the length of it without a care. Yoongi, steadying a mug and pouring himself a cup from the pot. Seokjin stepping over to the glass for a moment, just to look out at the highrises of the city around them. 

Windows facing windows.

Too visible.

Too exposed.

He stays where he is, eyes moving, tracing lines between rooftops and reflective panes. Mapping angles. Searching for a glint of anything.

The others drift toward the table, past the window, mugs and plates in hand. Their laughter low and worn with fatigue. Namjoon says something that gets Seokjin to roll his eyes; Yoongi hides a smirk behind his cup.

Hoseok keeps his seat, and only turns his gaze away from the window once all of them are seated, no one in view.

Namjoon leans back in his chair with a sigh, rolling his neck and wincing. ”I’m pretty sure my brain’s on vacation without me.”

Seokjin snorts. “That’ll be the first. Your head’s always thinking about work, even when we’re ‘In The Soop.’”

Yoongi takes a slow sip from his coffee, eyes half-lidded. “My brain’s melted. We don’t have a flight today, right?”

“No, thank fuck.” Namjoon mutters, closing his eyes. “That’s tomorrow, I think. I’ll check later.”

“Sleepy and procrastinating? This isn’t the Namjoon I know.” Seokjin quips.

“Nah, this is just Namjoon on burnout.” Yoongi just says, muttering into his coffee. “You really do need to sleep more though, hyung.”

Namjoon just grunts, waving a hand dismissively, already half-asleep in his chair.

Seokjin stretches, cracking his knuckles loudly enough to draw a wince from Yoongi. “So, I heard Italian food is good over here.”

Yoongi snorts quietly. “Since when did you turn into a travel blogger? Should we expect a food review soon?”

Seokjin grins, leaning back with mock pride. “Hey, someone’s gotta keep track of the important things.”

Namjoon opens one eye, blinking slowly. “If it’s not pizza or pasta, I’m not interested.”

Hoseok watches their easy back-and-forth, the warmth in their voices a sharp contrast to the tight coil of alertness in his chest.

His eyes flick briefly back to the window, then down at his plate.

“Hobi-hyung, are you gonna eat that?”

Hoseok glances towards Taehyung, and then the berry he’s pointing at.

Hoseok just picks it up, and then flicks it towards him.

Taehyung catches the berry with a surprised blink, then smirks.

“You really don’t want it, huh?”

Hoseok shrugs, voice soft but steady.

“Not right now.”

Taehyung pops the berry into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.

“Must be serious if you’re passing on fruit.”

Hoseok offers a small, tired smile.

“They’re just a bit too bitter for me today.”

Yoongi’s gaze flickers to Hoseok, an unspoken question lingering in the air.

And Hoseok just beams back at him, waggling his shoulders.

“I’m proud of you for not becoming a rock today,” he says.

Yoongi just rolls his eyes and sinks deeper into his chair.

“It’s too early for you to have this much energy.”

Seokjin chuckles, shaking his head. “At least someone’s got pep this morning, Mr. Answer-at-the-fourth-knock.”

Hoseok laughs around a mouthful of cold egg.

All the while, he watches.

For what, he’s not sure.

Doesn’t even know what a threat could possibly look like.

But he needs to keep watch.

Because no one knows about the bullet in his pocket. The hole in his head.

And he’s going to keep it that way.

He won’t bury it here. Not in this foreign place.

It’ll go where it will never be found.

Where a body’s been eaten away by time and nature. Fertilizing a tomato plant for over ten years.

Chapter Text

Due to weather conditions, their flight ends up delayed by a day.

It leaves them all restless, most of them because of the sudden spikes of wind shaking the hotel, and for Hoseok, because it gives him another day to prepare.

One full day to figure out how he, a foreigner flying back to Korea in a private jet, is going to smuggle a bullet through American airline security.

He spends the morning pacing the entirety of the hotel, cap pulled low over his head and a facemask over his nose and mouth. The others assume it’s restlessness, he’s always been the most nervous of the bunch, for better or for worse. But the truth is heavier. Every lap around the carpeted halls is another calculation, another list of things that could go wrong.

Declaring it outright would be the sensible choice.

It’s also incredibly stupid.

There’s no way to lie about a bullet. Declaring it would only cause more issues, like “where did you acquire it?” and “what’s its purpose?” or even “where is your license for having such a thing in your possession?” None of which he’d have a believable answers to.

And the moment he said anything like that, the rest of the members would be on him in a heartbeat. Concerned, confused, and prying until they got to the truth.

So, no declaration of a weapon of any kind. Which left his options to all be illegal.

Pocket? No way.

Inside his luggage? Too separated.

Backpack? Hell no.

He walks past an exit sign, glowing neon as the hotel building shifts and groans as it sways in the wind.

He could just leave it here.

His mind flickers with images of the bullet lying somewhere forgotten, abandoned in this strange hotel room.

And then he reminds himself that this is a hotel.

His mind flashes to the worst-case scenarios: a housekeeper finding the bullet, a random visitor to the room, hell, even a nosy member of the staff. What if they see it? What if they think it’s a warning or a sign. They’ll look back at the visitor records, see his name, the security level involved, and contact their manager, or Bang Si-hyuk himself.

He shakes his head. Clears the thought.

There’s no hiding a slightly dented bullet in a place like this.

Outside, then?

He huffs, pressing his palms over his eyes.

Where would he even go? How would he leave the hotel without a staff member tailing him? How could he possibly justify driving over to the ocean or some watery bridge or a park for a few minutes? Dig in the soil?

No. No. No. 

By noon, he’s sitting on the bed, bullet in hand, foot tapping restlessly against the carpeted floor.

His thoughts are a rush, looping around and around like he did in the hallways of the hotel, thoughts grinding together into absurdity and rationality and back again.

The bullet in his hand feels heavier now, like a weight dragging his body into the bed. He clenches his fist around it, knuckles white. Every second, every thought, every not-breath, it all wraps around the same inescapable truth.

Damned if he holds it. Damned if he doesn’t.

He needs to bury this.

The thought flashes in his mind again, like a desperate mantra. Get rid of it. Just get rid of it, Hoseok.

But getting rid of it means burying it by the tomato plant, in Korea, past metal detectors and watchful eyes and passports and— 

Damn it.

He leans forward, shoves the bullet back in his pocket, rakes a hand through his hair.

Why is burying an inanimate object so much harder than the body of his murderer?

He swallows hard, his throat dry and tight as if the very thought of it is choking him.

“You’re famous now.”

It echoes in his mind like an accusation, a relentless reminder of the stakes. He can’t just disappear. He can’t just hide it like he did before. Before the spotlight.

Back then, it was different. Back then, he was just a kid, a trainee. There was space to slip through the cracks, a life hidden behind closed doors. A life where he could bury a mistake, a problem, and pretend it never happened.

But now?

Now, there’s no such luxury. He’s exposed. Every move, every glance, every blink is scrutinized, analyzed, captured. There are too many people watching, fans, staff, reporters, security. And worse, the rest of his members.

“A camera pointed your way at every opportunity…”

The thought feels suffocating. He can almost feel the lens on him now, catching his every breath, his every anxious glance.

He grips the fabric of his pants, the metal attachments pressing into his skin, forcing him out of his thoughts at the pressure.

The sharp sensation of the metal digging into his skin is the jolt he needed. He blinks hard, pushing the weight of the thoughts back for just a moment. Focus. Focus, Hoseok.

He doesn’t breathe. He just counts the seconds, taps a rhythm against his pant leg.

What happens if they find it? What happens if the others notice? What happens if someone asks too many questions?

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

A sickening, bitter laugh bubbles up in his chest. He can already see the headlines. “Jung Hoseok: The Hidden Life Behind the Smile”. Or worse… “BTS Member Smuggles Dangerous Weapon”. It’s a nightmare in the making.

His gaze shifts to the window, where the light is slowly fading. He feels the weight of the day pressing against him. Every hour spent pacing, every moment spent clutching this damn bullet, is one more step toward being caught.

But then, an answer hits him like a freight train.

The bullet needs to go. But it’s not just the bullet. It’s everything.

Maybe the only way to really fix this is to get out. To leave this hotel, this mess, this life for a moment. Disappear. Even if only for a little while.

He could just vanish.

He stops the thought dead in his tracks, screaming inside his head.

“What the fuck,” he whispers out loud.

No. No way in hell.

That’s insane.

And he hates himself for even entertaining the thought. That for a moment, it felt like a good idea.

So, he just laughs. Wild, desprate, pretending to pull stale air into stuck lungs.

Fists the fabric of his pants and twists his fingers around the metal accessories, the useless metal chains.

He cuts himself off mid laugh, mind buzzing again as he thinks.

Blinks down at the chain in his hand, looped around the waistband and sewn into the fabric. An accessory that cannot be removed. Fashion more than function.

Well, maybe a bit of function now too.

He pulls the bullet out of his pocket again, holds it right next to the chain, and squints.

It’s not the same type of color of metal, but it’s close.

Close can work.

He can make it work.

He stands, grabs his room card, yanks his door open and heads down the hallway to the elevator, to the lobby.

The perks of being an international celebrity is that people will bend over backwards to odd requests.

So, exuding nothing but confidence and kind formality, he asks the front desk in broken English if they have any paperclips and ducktape. 

The receptionist looks at him for a moment, blinking in surprise, before offering a polite smile. The kind of smile that only comes from years of training to mask curiosity behind professionalism.

"Of course, sir," she says, as if she’s used to strange requests from strange people. She gestures to the back, where a small supply closet is tucked away. "Just a moment, please."

Hoseok nods, tapping his foot impatiently. The seconds tick by like hours, each one feeling like it could be the last before everything blows up in his face. His fingers twitch with the pressure of the bullet still pressed against the fabric of his pants, and for a moment, he just wants to rip it out and destroy it. But no. Not yet.

The receptionist returns with a small box of paperclips and a roll of duct tape, handing them over with a strange look in her eyes. She probably knows exactly who he is, despite the hat and mask, but it’s fine. 

“Thank you,” he says smoothly, giving her a smile behind his mask, hope he sells it with his eyes and she buys the charm.

As he walks away, he’s already planning out his next move, taking the items back to the room with him, his mind working at full speed. The paperclips are thin, metal, and bendable. The duct tape, strong, sticky. All he needs now is the right kind of space, a bit of privacy, and a whole lot of luck.

He slams the door shut behind him, tossing the supplies onto the bed. The metal chain from his pants glints under the dim light. He holds the bullet in one hand, the chain in the other, the paperclips and tape sitting in the middle like some weird arsenal of makeshift tools.

There’s no turning back now.

His fingers move quickly, bending multiple paperclips into crude circles, overlapped and locked together with small strips of tape he pulls apart with his teeth.

Then, wrapping tape around the base of the bulet and forming some crude sort of rope from the pieces, he attaches the bullet to the ring.

By the end, it looks like a odd sort of keychain. A bullet-like, dented, keychain.

And he clips it onto the edge of the chain, right next to the end of his pocket.

And just like that, he rehearses the lie with silent words on dry lips and a parched tongue that doesn’t need to drink.

“Sorry sir, I don’t speak English well.”

“No ma’am, this is just fashion. It’s attached to my pants.”

“Just an idol style. Sorry for the hassle.”

“We’re Bangtan Sonyeondan, that translates to Bulletproof Boyscouts in English, you see? Not real, just our style.”

The lie hangs in the air, and it tastes like every other lie he’s ever said.

It tastes like nothing.

But it leaves him just a bit more hollow.

He runs his thumb along the edge of the keychain once more, as if checking to make sure it’s still there, still in place.

“Just our style.”

He almost laughs at the absurdity of it, how ridiculous it sounds, how flimsy a defense it is for something so dangerous. But what else is there? What other excuse could possibly explain this without ruining ten plus years of this that he worked so hard to get.

Without everyone in his life seeing all the lies Jung Hoseok is.

So, he adds another lie to the things he is, attached to his body like a keychain.

And he waits for the day to end.

They leave early the next morning, the city still heavy with sleep, but Hoseok is already wide awake.

Two vans wait outside, sleek black vehicles with tinted windows that hide them from the ever-watchful eyes of the public. The moment they step outside the hotel, the frenzy begins. Paparazzi flash their cameras in rapid succession, fans scream their names, but the group doesn’t pause. They’ve done this a thousand times before, slipping through crowds, ducking into the cars with practiced ease.

Security moves fast, ushering them into the first van, then the second, keeping them as anonymous as they can. Hoseok keeps his head down, his mask pulled tight over his face, cap low enough to shield him from recognition. The weight hanging beside his pocket doesn’t feel any lighter as he settles into the back seat, the small, imperfectly crafted keychain still attached to his pants.

The ride to the airport is silent except for the hum of the tires against the asphalt, the muffled chatter of the members from the front. Hoseok stares at his hands, then pretends to sleep as time ticks by, face pressed against the window, running over the worse case scenarios in his head.

By the time they pull into the airport, the air feels thicker. The buzzing of the crowd outside is deafening. The sound of footsteps hitting the pavement, the distant chatter of security teams and voices on radios, and the whir of jet engines on the tarmac. All of it echoes in his skull. Everything feels like it’s happening in slow motion, a ticking clock that is only getting louder.

They’re guided through the back entrances of the terminal, slipping past the usual customs and security checkpoints that normal travelers have to endure.

And then… there it is. The first line of defense.

He approaches the counter with a practiced calm, though his heart is racing. The woman behind the desk looks up from her screen as he hands over his passport.

Her gaze doesn’t linger too long. Her professionalism is evident, but so is the weight of the job. No warmth, just business. She’s seen this before, Hoseok thinks. She doesn’t care about who I am. She’s doing her job, and that's it.

"Name?" she asks, her voice crisp but neutral.

Hoseok swallows before responding. “Jung Hoseok,” he says, deliberately anglicizing his name. His voice is steady, though his mind feels miles away.

He fumbles just a little as he declares the reason for their trip. "We’re headed back to Korea... on business. Personal reasons, work with the company. Performing, media…"

His sentence trails off, as if the details are slipping out of his control. It's second nature now, the routine of this question and answer. Helps him not have to continue to fumble, and in a way it is the truth, in a sense.

She nods, presses a stamp down on a page, and hands his passport back without a word. For a brief moment, their eyes lock. It’s not judgment. It’s not suspicion.

She doesn’t smile, but she does say, “Have a safe flight, Mr. Jung.”

The words hit him harder than they should. It’s polite. Professional. Routine. But in that moment, something about the formality of it all makes the anxiety coil up his throat.

His fingers wrap tighly around the strap of his bag. He can almost feel the weight of the bullet again, pressing against his side, threatening to make its presence known.

Don’t think about it, Hoseok.

He just bows towards her, murmuring a polite “thank you,” before shuffling through the divider, not looking back.

That’s one.

He waits for the rest of them, a few guards posted on either side of him as their group gathers where they planned.

Namjoon pats Jungkook on the back for his English, offering a word of praise, a laugh that rings too loud.

Seokjin exhales sharply, a breath of relief, as he glances back at the others. Taps his foot against the floor as he waits.

Yoongi’s ears are red. Probably from nerves, Hoseok guesses. Maybe from the freezing airport air, or maybe because Yoongi can never fully shake off the stress of this kind of public environment.

Jimin and Taehyung are busy showing off their departure stamps to each other, as usual, their laughter cutting through the tension like a fresh breeze. They joke, their voices light and carefree.

All of them, completely unaware of the weight Hoseok is carrying.

Their manager scans the group to make sure everything is in place. It’s a routine, but it’s also a silent reminder that, despite the chaos, they have people watching over them. Hoseok feels both protected and suffocated by it.

Namjoon does the same, his sharp gaze assessing everything around him, like he’s already running through his mental checklist. He catches Hoseok’s eye for a brief moment, offering him a tight, knowing smile.

He doesn't know, Hoseok reminds himself, and just smiles back. In the sheepish way one might make when going "oops! You saw right through me." Let's Namjoon assume, because anything is better than what the reality is. That he's carrying a weapon through an airport undeclared. 

They keep moving, past barriers, past towering security with badges pinned to their shirts, into the small crowd that’s already formed. The lines are long, but they don’t seem to matter much here. VIP lanes cut through the mess, shortcutting them to the front, and soon they’re in front of the metal detectors.

Hoseok can hear the gentle whir of the x-ray machine as they approach, each step bringing him closer to the moment of truth.

It’s almost over.

His eyes stay locked ahead, focused on the narrow path between him and the other side. He can’t afford to look back. He can’t afford to think about what is going to happen when he steps through.

He knows what he has to do. He knows he can’t falter now.

The guard finally barks, “Next!”

Hoseok jumps slightly at the sound of the guard's voice, but he doesn’t let it shake him. His mind is already running on autopilot, the steps practiced, the motions automatic. The tray is pulled from the slot without hesitation, his phone, laptop, and charging cables carefully pulled from his bag and set aside one by one. His jacket comes off next, folded neatly, and then his shoes. They land in the bin with a soft clink. The rhythm is familiar. The metal rollers makes a satisfying noise as he slides his backpack and bin of items towards the conveyer belt. Watches them disappear through the curtain of black flaps.

No time to waste.

He steps up to the metal detector, waiting for the guard to signal. His shoulders pulled back. His face calm. His eyes are locked ahead, barely blinking. Every movement deliberate. Every breath measured. Natural.

This is it.

The step he’s been dreading is here, and now all he can do is hope that it works.

He steps forward when the guard ushers him through, into the waiting arms of the detector, the cold metal of the scanner looming over him.

The scanner hums, a quiet whirr that’s almost imperceptible to anyone but him.

Then, he steps through.

It sounds, lights on the edges blaring red as the machine screams a warning. A sharp, mechanical beep.

The noise rings out louder than he expected, and he pretends to jump at it, his body jerking slightly as if the sound startled him. He needs to sell the act, make it seem like he wasn't expecting it.

The guard’s eyes flick over him, but it’s a quick glance, not a lingering one. He’s already turning to the screen, his focus elsewhere.

No one notices the quick flash of panic behind Hoseok’s eyes. He swallows it down. Forces a smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” the guard says, his tone neutral. “Step to the side.”

Shit.

Hoseok forces himself to stay calm. No panic. Just act like it’s a minor inconvenience. He turns his head, feigning confusion, just for a split second. The group is still a few steps behind him, going through the motions of airport security they all understand like second nature.

His lips curl into a polite, uncertain smile, the kind you give when you’re pretending everything is fine. He raises one hand in a casual shrug, turning his shoulders just slightly toward them, as if to say "I don’t know, guess I’m being singled out."

Namjoon catches the gesture first, his brow furrowing, but the moment passes quickly. Jungkook’s wrestling off his shoes, Seokjin is stepping up to the small detector line, not paying any mind. Jimin and Taehyung are still goofing off, sharing inside jokes, completely unaware.

It's just a normal day for them.

Completley normal.

Yoongi, however, catches his eye. His gaze narrows. Hoseok can see a question forming behind his eyes, but Yoongi says nothing. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his body subtly tensing, taking a single step in Hoseok's direction. Always the silent observer in situations like this. 

Fuck.

For good measure, Hoseok clears his throat and calls out, as if everything is perfectly normal, “See you all in a minute.”

In Korean, just to hammer home to the guard that he’s foreign.

Yoongi is forced to step into a different line, a pinch of frustration crossing his features as his eyes flick between the guard and Hoseok. His gaze lingers on Hoseok, a mix of confusion and concern twisting his expression. It’s as if he’s trying to figure out what’s happening. And he can’t. He won’t. Hoseok knows Yoongi doesn’t have all the pieces.

As he turns away, Hoseok can still feel Yoongi’s gaze on him. Unwavering, full of silent questions, and watching him like a hawk.

He forces a final, confident smile toward the guard, offering him a polite nod. He’s already stepping to the side, away from the flow of people rushing to catch their flights. His steps are measured, purposeful, like everything is under control.

The guard’s eyes track him, scanning him like a puzzle he’s trying to figure out, but the man doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Then, the guard’s eyes narrow, drifting back to the chain of metal dangling from Hoseok’s waist. The shiny bullet at the end of the chain gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, and Hoseok feels that gaze sharpen. The guard’s stare lingers too long. Too curious.

The guard steps closer, pulling out a long metal detection wand, flicking it lazily over Hoseok’s body. The rod whirs quietly as it moves across his arms, his chest, his hips, the buzz becoming louder with every sweep.

Then, it passes over the chain.

The wand screams.

The piercing sound rips through the air, echoing through his mind, sharp enough that if Hoseok’s stomach was functional, it would lurch.

The guard’s eyes flick to the wand, then back to the chain. He doesn’t say anything, just moves the rod down Hoseok’s legs, up again, around his waist. The buzz travels over his skin.

Hoseok’s stays perfectlky still, refusing to move.

The guard doesn’t pause, just continues his sweep, and the wand shrieks again as it crosses Hoseok’s waist. Once. Twice. Three times.

The beeps feel like they’re louder than anything else in the airport, like they’re calling out his guilt.

Look here! It's screaming. This idiot has a bullet attached to his pants like its fashion!

“Sir.” The guard’s voice is flat, professional, but Hoseok can hear the suspicion underneath. “What’s this?”

He forces his hands to stay still, his body to remain upright, arms out and not trembling in the slightest. “It’s... It’s part of my outfit.” Hoseok says, the words slipping out. His accent a bit thicker than it has to be, to sell his hesitance. Like he's stumbling over his words because English is unfamiliar. His smile stays firmly in place.

The guard takes another step forward, eyes scanning the chain closely. For a moment, Hoseok wonders if he’s about to tear it off him. He can almost feel the guard’s mind running through the possibilities.

Finally, the hand moves away. The wand doesn’t beep again.

The guard’s posture shifts, his stance rigid. For a moment, Hoseok dares to think he’s let him off the hook.

But no. The guard straightens up, claps his hands together.

“I’m going to have to pat you down.”

Fucking shit.

He stutters out, “Pardon?” like he didn’t catch that part. Like he didn’t know what was coming next. His eyes flick nervously towards the guard’s hands, already moving, too close. From the corner of his vision, Yoongi’s head tilts. Small, almost imperceptible, but Hoseok can feel those eyes hook into him.

Namjoon, who had just slid past the detector and was now a few steps ahead, glances back at the sound of the conversation and immediately steps over. His posture is calm, but there’s an edge of concern in his eyes. His gaze flicks to the chain, lingers for a beat, then back up. One eyebrow lifts, and in that second his face sharpens. Half “are you kidding me,” half “how can I help.”

Hoseok just tilts his head towards the guard and shrugs.

Buy it. Think I'm nervous and forgetting my English in the moment.

Namjoon moves. Approaches the guard, his voice smooth but firm, hand raised in a greeting.

“Excuse me. I'm with him. He doesn’t understand English very well,” Namjoon says. “Could you explain again? I can translate.”

Hoseok forces a smile, trying to look clueless, offering a small bow to the guard in exaggerated apology, like he’s just a kid lost in a crowd.

The guard looks between Namjoon and Hoseok, his expression tight. But when he sees Namjoon’s official demeanor and the polite way he speaks, he nods reluctantly.

“I’m afraid it’s standard procedure,” the guard says, his gaze flicking back to Hoseok. “I need to pat him down. We’ve detected metal on his person.”

Namjoon turns back to Hoseok, his gaze still concerned but his voice lowering as he addresses him in Korean. “You need to cooperate, alright? He’s just going to pat you down. It’s just a formality.”

Hoseok nods, and raises his arms again as he’s slightly handled into the position. The guard’s hands hover over his body, and Hoseok waits, tense, trying not to think about the chain at his waist. The bullet that’s barely concealed.

The guard moves with practiced ease, first brushing his hands across Hoseok’s shoulders, down his arms, the back of his neck. Every touch is careful, deliberate. The gloves drag faintly over the fabric, a rasping sound against the thin material, the pressure too heavy.

Hoseok clenches his teeth, trying to remain still, to not show the mounting tension in his body. His eyes flick to the group, now in front of him, just beyond the checkpoint. Seokjin’s watching him now, and Jungkook, who’s getting more curious by the second, is asking Namjoon something. Jimin and Taehyung though, are still lost in their own world, not a clue about the situation unfolding.

And then, the guard’s hands brush down his sides, moving closer to his waist. Closer to the chain.

The fingers hover for a moment, just a moment too long, and Hoseok's teeth grind until he hears the sound in his skull. His mind races, calculating, counting, praying it will be quick.

The guard’s hands presses against the chain, and then his fingers curl around the bullet, and tugs.

Hoseok can feel the waistband stretch, the black tape threatening to give way, but somehow, it holds. 

For a second, it feels like time itself stops. The guard pulls at the chain again, a little harder this time, and the fabric stretches just a fraction at the force of it.

Please don’t pull it off.

But his hack job of tape and hope doesn’t give. The paperclip ring holds, the rope of duct tape remains solid. The bullet doesn’t slip free and give itself away.

And then the guard moves on.

The touch slips lower, down his body, brushing past his groin. It’s quick, but it’s enough. Too intimate. Too close. Hoseok’s feels exposed as the guard’s hands skim over the top of his thighs. His mind screams at him to just flinch, to step back, but he forces himself to stay perfectly still. 

Stay still, and you look innocent. Don’t move. Don’t even think about it.

The guard’s hands settle against his legs, pressing against the thin material of his pants, almost as if confirming something. Not much left to check. He moves down with efficiency, hands scanning, measuring, and just as quickly, the moment passes.

The guard gives him a once-over, eyes flicking from his face to his waist, then up again. The seconds stretch. It’s as if he’s looking for something, weighing the situation.

Hoseok just stares back at him, head tilted slightly to the side. Waiting. Listening.

But there’s no further move. No more questions.

The guard straightens up, his face hardening with that neutral, professional mask, and steps back, signaling the end of the pat-down. His voice is cool, detached. “You’re free to go.”

Hoseok doesn’t even wait. 

He gathers up his belongings left for him on the metal end table, thoroughly searched through, practically jumps back into his shoes, wrestles on his jacket, and puts one foot in front of the other.

Past the guards, past security, past that sign in English he can’t read.

And stops right in front of the rest of the group.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says. ‘What even happened?”

Hoseok just sighs. Like it’s an inconvenience. Like he hadn’t just pulled off the second most illegal thing he’s ever done.

“My metal accessories set off the alarm,” he bemoans, leaning against Seokjin’s shoulder. “They touched my dick.”

The group is shocked into silence as they absorb his words. Jungkook’s eyebrows are furrowed, as if trying to piece everything together. Yoongi blinks. Taehyung gawks.

And then Jimin barks out a laugh. Namjoon sputters. Seokjin just shakes his head in disbelief, the corners of his mouth twitching up in amusement.

“Jung Hoseok,” Seokjin mutters, the tone a mix of disbelief and affection. “Only you could make a TSA pat-down sound like a near-death experience.”

Hoseok shoots him a dry look, letting out a huff, letting his words bleed the tension out of his skin and his mind. “If you’d been in my shoes, you’d be singing a different tune.”

Yoongi’s eyes are still on him, sharp and unreadable, but there’s a slight shift in his expression. His eyes narrow, as if replaying the guard’s hands on him. He doesn’t say a word, but Hoseok can tell exactly what’s going on in his mind. He’s filing something away.

And then Yoongi leans forward, subtle concern etched into his features.

“That was intense. You okay?”

Yoongi's eyes scan over Hoseok's face, and he resists the urge to lean back, pull away from his gaze.

He just shrugs in response, tight, almost apologetic. "Bit violating. Bit embarrassing. I'll survive."

Make it casual. Make it sound like he’s joking. Laugh like he means it. Mask it so Yoongi will disregard it later.

For now, Yoongi just hums. 

Namjoon looks between the two of them, some expression Hoseok can’t quite place inside the leader’s eyes, and then the moment passes and he shouts to be heard over the crowd around them.

“Alright, everyone, let’s move. Stay close.”

They continue their walk through the terminal, past the throngs of travelers and fans, each of them keeping their heads down, doing their best to blend into the background. But Hoseok can’t shake the feeling of eyes on him, the weight of the bullet still pressing against his side, the sharp echo of that metal detector's beep still ringing in his ears.

They make their way to the gate. His eyes keep flicking to Yoongi, a few steps ahead, lost in his own thoughts. There’s still something in the air, something Hoseok can’t quite place.

He feels eyes burning into the back of his head.

Or maybe it’s just the reality sinking in of what he just managed to do.

He did it.

He wasn't called out. He wasn't interrogated. He wasn't arrested.

No one knows.

The feeling of eyes watching ebbs away. His grip on the strap of his bag loosens.

He resists the urge to cheer, but a genuine smile slips past the mask he’d been wearing all day, and stays.

Chapter Text

The flight back to Korea was just as exhausting as the tour itself, not because of physical strain or complications, but simply because it was long.

Most of it passed in silence. Seven idols, a handful of staff, and management too worn out to hold a proper conversation, lulled by the roar of the private jet’s engines and the steady whir of the air conditioning.

Hoseok stared out the small window, the gray clouds stretching endlessly below like a sea. His mind drifted between memories and plans, finger fiddling with the bullet still attached to his hip, tinkling slightly against the chain.

He doesn’t need to breathe or blink when the rest of them are asleep, but he feigns it anyways. Pretends to nod off in his chair, arms crossed, mind racing, the bullet attached to his leg a heavy reminder of what’s at stake.

Thirteen hours of planning and not having to fake the expression on his face, not until they touched down, with aching backs, stuff necks, and sore muscles.

Maybe that’s why the announcement comes that they’ll have some days off. Time to go home. To recharge.

And, to Hoseok, a few days to slip away without question. A flicker of something like relief stirs inside him.

He smiles faintly when he tells management his plans. “Visiting some old friends,” he says, voice casual, all the while tracing the edges of the bullet with his fingers, once again buried deep in his jacket pocket.

Now, he steps off the compacted train car and into the humid air of Seoul, the city buzzing faintly around him. Hat pulled low, makeup retouched and set, face mask secure.

A taxi slows. Hoseok raises a hand to flag it down. The first one passes him by, but the second rolls to a stop on the curb, and he hops inside.

He tells the driver the address of the old dance studio. The man hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking to Hoseok’s face, but the reluctance fades the instant Hoseok pulls a wad of cash from his wallet, pressing it into the driver’s hand. Tipping in advance for the trouble.

From there, it’s a two-hour drive filled with small talk and white lies.

The driver is a good man, all things considered. A father with a daughter in 10th grade, his wife away on business overseas for the next few months. Hoseok shares some long-distance communication tips he’s picked up, smiling whenever the man lights up with another joyous story about his daughter.

When the driver asks about him, Hoseok speaks vaguely. Nostalgia for old places, catching up with friends who have moved on. A reunion of sorts. In a way, it’s true.

When the taxi finally rolls to a stop in front of the studio, Hoseok pays the astronomical fare without batting an eye. He bows deeply to the driver, a quiet gesture of thanks for the long ride and the company.

And as the taxi rolls away, Hoseok pretends to head towards the door, pretends to check his phone, dial a number, lift it to his ear.

Pretends to have a conversation, rushed sentences and laughter and confusion, until he’s sure the taxi is gone.

And then he walks.

Away from the studio, down the road, dipping into the shadows of old streets and infrastructure.

He remembers the path well enough, not like he could ever forget it, forget that night.

Each step pulls him deeper into a part of the city that feels both distant and unbearably close. The walk an eternity, and no time at all. His hands buried in his pockets, one fisted around the bullet, cold to the touch, and not warmed in the slightest by his skin.

His footsteps slow when he spots it. The home. A neglected pocket of space in a city that’s abandoned it, weatherbeaten and scarred by decay, city warnings plastered across collapsed fences and a shattered streetlight.

Around it, like a cloak, the home is wrapped in leaves and vines, bright green and glistening in the sunlight. They curtain the windows, coil around the door long fallen from its hinges yet somehow still held upright.

A cat wanders across the street and pauses at the edge of the property. Its back arches, fur bristling, ears flattened tight against its skull. Its gaze fixes on the house for a heartbeat too long before it darts away, tail low, scrambling into the shadows and out of sight.

Hoseok reaches the edge of the property. His grip on the bullet tightens until he’s sure the edges sink into his palm, the pressure of it burning, not through his skin, but his mind.

He scans the area. Empty. Silent. Not a car, a person, or even a bird in sight. No wingbeat or birdsong. No flutter, or a distant hum. Not even a fly or any other insect crawling across the warped and waterstained siding. Like if he breathes, it’ll be too loud, disturb the calm.

So he doesn’t. He just steps across the border and into the leaves.

The air changes immediately. The city’s warmth fades as if he’s stepped into shade, though the sun still burns overhead. Vines brush his legs, snagging at the bottom hems of his pants, and the faint scent of damp earth and overripe fruit curls into his nose. Sweet and sour.

For some reason, it feels like a welcome.

He moves carefully, each step deliberate, the hush pressing in on him. He skirts the side of the house, hops a portion of collapsed fence, the brittle wood breaking under his heel, and passes the sun-bleached frames of ancient garden beds, their soil long gone to dust.

And, in the middle of the garden, grows the tomato plant.

Once a small, dying thing, now impossibly large. Every green leaf, every twisting vine belongs to it. Spilling from the sea of foliage at his feet, climbing the walls, coiling tight around the beams, as if holding the last of the home upright.

Maybe it is, he thinks, kneeling down in the greenery and damp soil.

He stares at the ground where he knows the body lies. From his pocket, he withdraws his hand and uncurls it, letting the bullet catch the sun. The gleam flashes back into his eyes, quick, sly, like a wink.

He reaches toward the soil.

The leaves draw back for him.

He freezes, watches as vines ease away with a slow, deliberate grace. Their rustle soft as they bare the earth to him.

“Oh.” he whispers. “So that's why I feel like this.”

So calm. So… protected. Like stepping into a tight embrace, or wrapped in a blanket.

He looks at the plant, overburdened by shining fruit, glistening in the sunlight.

“Hello,” he says, bowing towards it. “I know it’s rude for me to come back and bury something else here, but this is the only spot that felt safe. I’m sorry.”

The leaves tremble lightly, as if stirred by a breeze that only Hoseok can feel. The sunlight catches on the glossy green, making the fruit gleam like tiny lanterns.

Like it’s saying, don’t be. I’m just happy you’re here.

He lets his hands rest lightly on the soft soil, not breathing but still smelling the damp earth, the faint sweetness of the fruit.

For the first time in a long while, Hoseok lets his soul peel away from his skin.

His corpse crumples to the ground. The leaves dart forwards, catch him, cushion his body’s fall as his soul floats just above it.

From this vantage, he sees it clearly, the shroud. A faint, flickering veil of shadow stretched over the place, like a bruise on the edges of his vision.

The plant’s leaves tremble gently, as if sensing his gaze.

“So you’re what’s keeping this place untouched for all these years.” he says.

The plant laughs. A soft, twinkling sound, like a rolling synth from one of their songs, light and shimmering.

“It was the least I could do.”

“Really?” Hoseok says. “You sound like Jimin, always underselling himself. I owe you more than just a body and a bullet.”

The plant’s leaves flutter with amusement.

“You’ve given me so much more than that Hoseok.”

Hoseok lets out a soft chuckle, “Like what?”

“Like delicious meals. Like sunlight against skin. Like water dipped in a cool pool. Like a warm embrace. Like laughing with friends.”

And as it speaks, the memories flash across his soul. Hot pot with the members, standing on the bridge for a photoshoot, the water obstacle course for their series. Hugs and arms around shoulders and piggyback rides. Countless times where he laughed so hard he collapsed on the floor. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling heavier already, drifting down to his corpse. At a loss for words.

The plant’s leaves shimmer, as if smiling. Lifts his corpse up to meet him, and his eyes open as his soul cloaks his skin again, wrangles his flesh and bone and muscle back into a semblance of life.

He sits up, bullet still in hand, a patch of soil ready for him.

“Thank you.” he whispers, voice raw, but steady.

And in the back of his mind, as he claws into the wet earth, revealing the white bones lying below, he hears a voice reply, “No worries.”

Chapter Text

He doesn’t announce his return, not immediately.

Checking his phone, the rest of them are still with family or friends, so Hoseok steps into his apartment.

His home is exactly how he left it.

To no one’s surprise.

Still, he checks.

Skims his eyes over the baseboards, fingers brushing light switches to make sure they work, gaze lingering on the latch of every window. He tests the locks twice.

When he catches himself counting the number of mugs in the cupboard, just to see if one’s missing, he pauses.

Laughs under his breath, though there’s no humor in it.

He crosses the space he remembers like the back of his hand, stepping into the bathroom. Pushing his bangs out of his forehead to check the wound.

Still fully hidden, appearing like flesh and only a bit of makeup.

He retouches it anyways.

It’s starting to become a habit.

He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Not when the habit feels less like vanity and more like proof. That it happened, that it’s still there, that he’s one wrong brush away from being exposed.

The mirror holds his stare longer than he expects.

When he does call the studio of his ‘return’, Namjoon is already back.

Hoseok finds him in his studio, headphones over his ears, hunched over at his desk, glaring at the screen.

When Hoseok knocks on the studio door, Namjoon doesn’t immediately respond, but the soft shift of his posture tells Hoseok he’s noticed. The headphones come off with a deliberate slowness, like Namjoon’s trying to buy time, or maybe just trying to hide whatever he’s been working on from Hoseok. He lifts his head just enough to make eye contact, his expression a mix of surprise and something else, though it’s a bit too subtle to name.

“Yo,” Hoseok greets with a casual smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds up the bag of snacks. “Nose already to the grindstone, I see.”

Namjoon looks at the bag, then back at Hoseok, a long, slow blink before he responds.

“Just going over a personal project. How’s everything? Break treating you well?” His voice is a little rough, like he’s just woken up or hasn’t spoken in a while.

Hoseok leans on the doorframe, body loose, voice casual. “Yeah. Met up with an old friend, relived some memories. Was good.” He tilts his head slightly. “What about you? How’s your family?”

“They’re fine,” Namjoon says after a pause. “Sister’s got a new job. Parents are—” he glances away for a split second, “—you know. Good.”

Hoseok nods, though his attention is drifting. The studio feels like Namjoon: tidy in its own chaotic way, paper stacks leaning against the wall, a half-empty coffee cup gone cold, a dozen small projects scattered in different stages of completion. It’s quiet in a way that makes him uneasy.

He closes the door behind him, the latch clicking too loudly in the still air, and walks in to set the bag on Namjoon’s lap.

Namjoon glances at it but doesn’t open it right away. His fingers rest lightly on the plastic. “Thanks,” he says, eyes lifting to meet Hoseok’s.

And then, almost like an afterthought.

“Yoongi told me you stumbled on stage the last night.”

The words land like they’re nothing special, but there’s weight in them, the faintest pressure for an answer.

“Did he?” Hoseok asks, smile in place.

Namjoon nods, elbow braced on the desk, chin resting in his hand. “He did.”

Silence stretches. The unsaid question hangs in it. You okay?

Hoseok lets out a sigh, short and sharp. It feels almost like faking a laugh, except it’s not.

His bangs hang over his forehead.

His smile remains.

“Ah. And here I thought I was getting better at acting.”

Namjoon leans forward, just slightly. The plastic crinkles in his lap. Waiting for him to continue.

“I… almost fainted.”

There, that sounds believable enough.

Namjoon stands up from the chair, plastic bag set aside as he crosses the room.

“That’s not what I heard from Taehyung.”

Hoseok just shrugs. “Didn’t want him to worry, especially after everything. Just told him I had a breakdown in the bathroom so he wouldn’t pry.”

Hook.

Namjoon stands in front of him, staring into his eyes. Hoseok doesn’t look away, but he softens the edges of his eyes, closes his eyelids just a fraction, leans his weight just the tiniest bit off center.

And the crinkle between Namjoon’s eyebrows unwinds.

And sinker.

“Just…” Namjoon sighs, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it tight. “Don’t push yourself.”

“Could tell you the exact same thing, Joon-ah.” Hoseok jabs back, grinning.

Namjoon kicks him lightly against his leg.

And if Hoseok reacts a little slow to the ‘pain’, Namjoon doesn’t notice it.

As it turns out, Namjoon has a busted dishwater he hasn’t gotten around to fixing yet.

Which, honestly, is a bit ridiculous. They could hire someone to fix it whenever, and yet, here the machine sits, a layer of dust physically growing on the edge of it.

So, Hoseok ends up elbow deep in suddy water, lips pursed as he works.

Hoseok scrubs at a plate, suds foaming around his knuckles, and glances at Namjoon, who’s methodically drying each piece of cutlery. The sound of dripping water and the squeak of the cloth towel against wet surfaces fills the kitchen, punctuated by the occasional clink of ceramic against metal.

Namjoon hums softly to himself, a tune Hoseok doesn’t recognize. It’s casual, almost comforting, and yet the stillness between the notes makes Hoseok hyper-aware of his lungs, each push and pull trained to exist, yet it feels too loud in his own head.

Hoseok picks up a knife to rinse it and stops mid-motion, staring at his reflection in the polished steel. The shadow under his eyes, his bangs perfectly curtained over his forehead, his skin perfectly beige.

He blinks. The warped reflection does not.

He shoves the knife under the water, the sound amplified by the hum of water and the soft scrape of Namjoon’s towel against a cup.

“You okay?” Namjoon’s voice breaks the rhythm, gentle but deliberate.

“Yeah,” he responds, and wipes the knife dry. “Just… thinking.”

Namjoon nods, not pressing further. Instead, he reaches for a plate and sets it carefully beside Hoseok’s.

“You really got to call someone to fix this thing though. Would make your life a lot easier.”

“But then who would I force to help me wash my dishes?” Namjoon says, smiling.

Hoseok chuckles, though it’s more of a noise than a laugh, and shakes his head. “Right. I should be grateful then.”

Namjoon smirks, drying the last fork before stacking it neatly. “Gratitude is optional. Efficiency isn’t.”

Hoseok leans over the sink again, scrubbing the last plate with a little more force than necessary, feeling the familiar rhythm of suds and water. He glances at Namjoon out of the corner of his eye. The way he moves, deliberate, measured, makes everything else feel like it’s floating just out of reach.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Namjoon says, soft enough not to disturb the quiet rhythm of water.

Hoseok shrugs, letting the sponge linger on a stubborn spot. “We both just got back. I’m just… catching up with myself.” 

Namjoon nods slowly, as if he understands more than Hoseok says. “Mhm. Make sure you don’t catch up too hard, though. Can’t have you collapsing in the kitchen too.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes.

“Will do Leader-nim”

The clatter of the last cup being dried echoes slightly in the kitchen, and as Hoseok dries his hands against his pants, he turns to Namjoon.

Namjoon leans against the counter, watching him, and Hoseok catches the subtle weight behind the gaze.

Hoseok pretends not to notice it, like he always does, and makes grabby hands for the towel gripped between Namjoon's fingers.

Namjoon throws it at him with a laugh, and Hoseok catches it flawlessly.

The towel’s trajectory hides the fact he doesn’t blink when the fabric halts inches from his face.

“Yah. If I didn’t know any better I’d think this is abuse of authority.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning a little further on the counter. “Abuse of authority? Me? Never. I’m a benevolent leader.”

Hoseok raises an eyebrow, towel still draped over his shoulder. “Benevolent, huh? That’s not the word I’d use for someone who ambushes people with wet towels.

“Ambush?” Namjoon feigns offense, placing a hand over his chest. “I call it… testing reflexes.”

Hoseok shakes his head. “Sure, Leader-nim. Testing reflexes. Very scientific.”

Namjoon tilts his head, eyes glinting. “And how did your reflexes hold up?”

Hoseok shrugs, pretending casualness, a slight smirk coiled up his lips. “Perfectly. As always.”

Namjoon lets out a quiet chuckle and pushes hismelf off the counter, heading towards the refrigerator. “We’ll see about that next time. Maybe I’ll throw something heavier.”

Hoseok pretends to recoil dramatically, but inwardly his muscles tighten, alert, ready. Just in case. The playfulness of the moment mingles with an undercurrent flowing across his skin.

With Namjoon’s back turned, he spares a glance at the window.

Clear. City. Sky. Daylight.

“I’ve got leftovers if you want anything.” Namjoon calls over his shoulder.

Hoseok rips his gaze back over to Namjoon.

“I’ll grab a little of whatever you got.”

“Got some fried rice… and a bit of kimchi.”

“Such an expanse of options.” Hoseok pretends to groan, leaning an arm dramatically across his eyes. “I’m blinded by choice.”

Namjoon chuckles, shaking his head as he digs through the fridge. “Don’t act like you don’t know what you want already.”

Hoseok sits back against the counter, letting the playful exasperation linger. “Maybe I do… maybe I like to savor the agony of decision-making.”

“Right,” Namjoon says, scooping a portion of fried rice into a bowl, setting it in the microwave. “Savor the agony. Very dramatic of you.”

Hoseok tilts his head, watching the slow, deliberate motions.

The microwave beeps after a minute, and Namjoon slides the bowl onto the counter with a small flourish. “There. Your agony, neatly plated.”

Hoseok laughs softly and reaches for the bowl. The warmth from the bowl seeps through his fingers, grounding him in the simple act of eating, of being here, while the city hums quietly beyond the window.

Namjoon makes himself a bowl as well, and for a moment, they just lean against his kitchen counter and eat in silence.

Ordinary. Mundane. Silent after the stress-filled months of their tour. A moment to just be.

And for Hoseok, a moment to glance towards the window, searching for a threat he doesn’t know how to recognize.

Just holding the knowledge that there is one.

Chapter Text

He spots the car three days after Jungkook comes back from Busan.

Well, at first, he spots it and thinks nothing of it. Files it in the back of his head like the rest of the things he’s noting: the quickest escape routes, windows with unobscured vantage points, the faces of staff he passes by.

The color and model slip into the same mental file as a dozen other parked sedans he’s clocked this week. Still, it sits there, a faint marker on his map.

His meeting with Bang Si-hyuk goes as well as it could, he supposes. Pleasant enough, if not for his sudden, random proposal for solo work during the break.

It’s framed as an opportunity, the kind of offer most people would jump at, something he’d been asking for before the tour had begun, now fully realized. Bang Si-hyuk tells him all this with a smile. Just a few tracks, nothing heavy, all at his own pace, and Hoseok smiles back like it’s exactly what he’s been looking for and bows.

Why now. Whether it’s just business, or something in the air that he can’t quite name.

He keeps his voice steady, makes sure his eyes are bright as he runs over his ideas, all the while, his gaze drifts back to the glass wall behind Bang, scanning the street below.

The car is still there.

Of course it is, it’s only been an hour.

But there’s an itch in the back of his mind.

Bang is still talking, outlining timelines, release windows. Hoseok nods along, adds the occasional mm , but he’s already tracking the possibilities: what sorts of reasons cars have to park in a spot like that, whether the driver can see him from here.

He does subtly ask about the rest of the members schedules. Just to work around interviews and their upcoming reality series, he says with a casual smile.

By the time he leaves the office, the sky’s dipped toward evening, and the car hasn’t moved.

It’s parked just far enough down the curb to keep its plates out of clear sight. The windshield stares blankly toward the building entrance, dark and unreadable under the glare of the setting sun.

He doesn’t step out the entrance of the building.

He takes a detour, greets the few members of SEVENTEEN he passes in the hall with a bow, a smile, and normal pleasantries.

And then, when he knows no one else is watching, he ducks into a supply closet.

It smells faintly of floor cleaner and cardboard. Shelves line the walls, stacked with spare headsets, laminated lanyards, and neatly folded crew T-shirts.

He peels off his jacket, tucks his cap low, and pulls one of the black staff polos over his shirt. The fit is loose, the logo small enough to pass as his own. A lanyard goes around his neck. To anyone passing by, he’ll look like part of the stage crew.

Someone not worth watching.

He grabs an unfolded cardboard box from the pile in the corner of the room, a bit dusty. He claps off the dust and folds it into a box, tucks the corners neatly, and throws his jacket inside.

Closes the box, lifts it between his arms.

Not too quick. Not too slow. Just another pair of hands carrying something unimportant to somewhere equally unimportant.

He steps out, back into the hallways, unhurried, keeps his gaze low.

When he steps out the door, he watches the car in the peripherals of his vision.

In the back of his mind, the leaves of the tomato plant rustle with the wind.

The car doesn’t move.

Hoseok disappears around a corner. 

Brands the image of the car into his mind.

And calls a cab.

It’s still there the next day.

And the day after.

He knows it’s moving. Slightly different spots each time, but always close enough to notice.

He’s memorized the license plate at this point, the subtle way sunlight glints off its hood, the tinted windows that swallow everything inside.

Every time he passes the street, his pace changes, unconsciously slower or faster, depending on the angle. Every reflection, in a shop window, a puddle, a passing mirror, draws his gaze, half-expecting it to be watching him.

Even at home, the car exists somewhere in the back of his mind. He flinches at the wrong shadow. He notices every sound that isn’t supposed to be there.

He starts small at first.

Different entrances. A stairwell instead of the elevator. A window he usually leaves cracked, now firmly shut. He notices who’s lingering by the staff door, who’s passing too slowly down the hallway.

Early to arrive, one of the last to leave. Too many ideas, too little time he says with a laugh during one of their lunches together, the sizzle of the barbeque and the scent of fat thick in the air.

Jungkook laughs with him, Jimin pats him on the back, Yoongi gives him a look.

And in the back of his mind he thinks about the car, still outside of HYBE.

He edges closer when walking past Jungkook, subtly shading him from view.

At the table, he sits so he has the nearest exit behind him, eyes flicking occasionally toward the window.

When the others reach for drinks, he reaches first. Not to control them, but to make sure he can clear the space if he has to.

He doesn’t announce it. He can’t. It’s just… routine now. Just another step in the day.

Maybe he’s overthinking this. Maybe it’s just some employee at a neighboring building. Maybe the bullet hole between his eyes was the only shot they were going to take.

But he can’t risk it.

Not when there’s six other people surrounding him, involved even if they don’t know it.

It could have been any of them that night.

And he wants to make sure he remains the only one.

He arranges chairs so that exits aren’t blocked.

He positions himself in line of sight of both the window and the main door, shoulders squared, ready to react.

Even the silverware on the table is subtly aligned so he could grab it if he needed to use it.

When Seokjin stands and stretches, wandering off to the bathroom, Hoseok pulls out his phone and stands as well, pretends to have a soft conversation with a family member, a friend, some distant relative checking in.

When Jungkook shifts in his seat, Hoseok’s hand hovers near his arm. Not touching, not alarmed, just ready.

And when they all step out of the restaurant, cleared of other guests thanks to their status, Hoseok scans the streets for the car.

The car he knows is still parked outside of HYBE.

But it doesn’t hurt to check.

Hoseok arrives at the studio earlier than his schedule states. His eyes glance over to the car’s spot, and finds nothing.

He adjusts his bag over one shoulder and rolls his neck, tension bleeding from his shoudlers.

One of the regular sound engineers is out sick, so a temporary replacement is handling the session. He pulled an excuse to make it earlier, and the engineer had gone along with it without question.

Hoseok steps into the booth, adjusting the headphones over his ears. The temporary engineer greets him with a polite smile, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves, eyes wide and a little starstruck.

“I’ll… I’ll just get everything set,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Hoseok nods, returning the smile. “Take your time,” he says.

He leans over the mic, runs a finger along the stand, checks the pop filter.

The first take begins, and the recording flows normally. Hoseok finds the rhythm immediately: notes crisp, timing perfect. The engineer hovers near the console, seemingly adjusting levels, but the little quirks of nervous hands, tugging at sleeves, brushing stray wires. 

Hoseok notes them, and continues on.

The car isn’t outside the building, after all.

Second take. Hoseok steps on the mat, the weight shifting naturally as he moves into position. Reaches for his water bottle and takes a quick swing.

The engineer leans closer to the floor panel, sleeves rolled awkwardly, fingers tracing cables. 

Hoseok glances down briefly, noting the unusual attention. His stomach tenses, a flicker of unease that he pushes aside.

“Okay.” the engineer says, voice coming through his headset. “Ready for the next one?”

Hoseok gives him a thumbs up.

And then the engineer shifts and presses something that’s too far away from the button to play the track.

He hears a click.

A buzz in his headset.

His ears pop.

And then his entire body vibrates.

Not with the pain of it. Just the force of electricity coursing through his skin.

Hoseok’s body convulses against the mat, muscles seizing involuntarily. Sparks lick the edges of the panel beneath him. The metal of the mic stand presses against his palm, and for a split second, he imagines it might anchor him, or make it worse.

The taste of iron floods his mouth. His vision blurs at the edges, sharp lines of the booth dissolving into a haze of heat and static. He gasps through clenched teeth, every nerve screaming, every heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

His eyes lock onto the sound engineer, just for a moment.

The man’s eyes are wide, but not horrified. The nervous energy from before is gone, bled away into something new, and horrifically familiar.

Wide like the eyes of the fans whenever he’s on stage, rapping into the microphone. Wide in the way that says, “I’m savoring this moment.”

Hoseok’s mind snaps into sharp focus, even as his body still shakes against the mat.

This isn’t an accident.

Every twitching muscle, every spark that hisses along the edges, it’s deliberate. Calculated. The engineer’s fingers hover over the console, trembling, but not from fear. From anticipation. From something dark and gleeful.

Hoseok fights to pull himself upright, his hands pressing against the floor, arms trembling. The metallic taste lingers in his mouth. Heat blooms across his skin.

“Why…” he rasps, voice strained, “what are you—”

The engineer tilts his head slightly, a slow, deliberate motion, and Hoseok catches the glint in his eyes: the same thrill he’s seen in countless fans, only twisted, perverse, and pointed straight at him.

“Huh.” he says. “I thought that would be enough.”

And Hoseok doesn’t have time to brace himself before something clicks again. 

His vision whites out at the heat, the sizzle of his skin and his mind, the buzz in this ears.

It’s easy enough to go limp.

Hoseok drops his corpse onto the floor and darts away. His soul drifts off to the side. Hoseok’s body still convulses, muscles seizing, but he hovers above, untethered. The booth is smaller, larger, spinning, freezing, all at once. The air thick with static

From this angle, he sees everything: the engineer’s trembling fingers, the faint gleam of a phone angled toward him, recording every second.

From this vantage, he can see the pulse in the engineer’s chest as clearly as the current rushing through his own skin, limbs still quivering from the shock current.

The sound engineer’s hand lifts off of the panel in front of him. Hoseok’s corpse goes limp, twitching uncontrollably.

The man waits a beat, and then stops the recording. Pockets the phone away with a smile and a hum.

“See, now that’s a weapon that can’t miss,” he hums to himself, and Hoseok watches as the man pulls gloves from his pocket, grabs a fresh set of clothes from the bag by the door, pulls a piece of soundproofing foam from the walls and rolls a large suitcase out from the shadows.

For a moment, Hoseok’s soul thrashes, a soundless cry of fury tearing through him. The heat and taste of iron linger in his mouth.

That’s a weapon that can’t miss.

The realization settles in with brutal clarity. He knows about the shot. The timing. And he came back to finish the job.

Hoseok had been watching the wrong thing.

Watching the car. Watching the street.

The danger wasn’t outside.

It was inside.

Waiting.

Patient.

Calculated.

He hears the sound of a zipper, a hum as the man crosses the room, opens the door of the booth with leather gloves.

Steps over to his body.

Kicks it.

Grins.

And reaches down.

No.

Don’t you dare.

Hoseok roars.

Dives towards the man, teeth gnashing, hands tipped like knives as he calls back on a memory he thought he’d never have to do again.

This time, he knows what he’s looking for.

Not flesh and blood and bone, but something deeper. A glow within, pulsing in time with a body’s heartbeat.

His claws slam through the man’s body, and squeezes his soul.

The man pauses, shudders, blinks. Rests one hand over his heart, breathes in deeply, an eyebrow raising in confusion.

And then the man sees him.

His mouth opens, a scream trapped in his throat, body scrabbling backward, but Hoseok just pulls.

It doesn’t make a sound. But if it did, it would be the snapping of ropes, the squelch of crushed fruit, the world bending inward.

Piece by piece, the light inside the man is stripped away, rising into Hoseok’s maw. He feasts, and as he does so he tastes the man’s fear, a mind scrambling between denial and horror.

He doesn’t stop until the man’s body crumbles to the ground, until there’s not a trace of light remaining.

Only then does Hoseok dive back around his corpse, staggering it to his feet, taste of fear still lingering in his mouth. The booth is silent, save for the faint hum of the console, smoke curling lazily from the scorched mat and off his flesh.

He flexes his hands, muscles still spasming from the current in uncontrollable twitches.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and catches his face in the reflection of the glass.

Not thirty year old Hoseok.

But the fifteen year old boy. Eyes blank. Colorless blood on his hands. Mouth slightly open as if he were about to scream, or gasp, or bite.

And then its gone.

He licks his dry lips with an even dryer tongue, clears his throat as best he can.

It’s not a true taste in the back of his throat. It’s memories. It’s power. He doesn’t understand it, but now he has an experience to compare it to.

He’s just not sure why the man’s memories taste like money.

The sound engineer’s body is still crumpled on the floor, lifeless, and Hoseok knows he can’t just leave it there. He can’t risk anyone finding it. Not now. Not when there’s so much at stake.

His eyes flicker around the booth, landing on the scattered tools the man had been preparing: the bag, the suitcase.

With shaky hands, Hoseok pulls off the man’s gloves, feeling the leather slip over his own hands as though they were made for him. They’re tight, but functional. He lifts the body next, careful to not drag or disturb anything in the room.

Kicks open the flap of the suitcase with his foot. It’s empty, the space inside dark, hollow, maybe even a bit cold.

Hoseok grits his teeth, his body stiff with tension as he shoves the lifeless body into the suitcase. The weight of it feels wrong, unnatural, as tendons stretch and bones snap under his forceful manipulation. The sickening crack of joints fills the small booth, but Hoseok barely flinches.

He pulls off the man’s company jacket, and with a final push, the body crumples into the suitcase. Hoseok leans his weight against the flap as he closes it and zips it shut. The click of the zipper echoes in the confined space, and for a moment, all he can hear is the twitch of his own skin.

He forces himself to focus, reaching for the jacket pooled on the floor at his feet. His fingers brush against the fabric, too soft, too expensive, and yanks it off the floor. Inside the pocket, his hand finds a wallet, and he opens it quickly, his eyes scanning over the contents.

A keycard and an ID, a phone, and a photo in the spot where a credit card would be.

The ID has no name. No title. It’s just a blank white card, as empty as the keycard. No identity, no trace. The photo inside the wallet catches his eye for a moment. It’s a family portrait, a man standing beside a wife and children. They’re all smiling, but the man’s face is gone. The image of him already bleeding out of the photo, like something that’s been overexposed to the light.

Emma. Ren. My love.

Hoseok’s throat tightens as the memory comes rushing in.

Not his memories.

The man’s.

They flood him uninvited. The warmth of a home he knows like the back of his hand, but never had. The tenderness in the way the man had looked at his wife, the quiet way he’d lifted his daughter, smiling up at her as she giggles and squeals with delight.

Hoseok can taste the softness in the memory, the lightness of it. How deeply he loved them. How he poured himself into them, into this life of theirs.

It’s disgusting.

His stomach churns, bile rising up his throat, and he almost gags at easy the memories come. How they flood him like a thirst he didn’t even know he had.

Gag.

His mouth stretches wider than it should. A sudden nausea threatens to tear through him, but Hoseok swallows it down. His lips feel too dry as he wipes them again, trying to get rid of the taste, the feeling.

He shakes his head.

Focus. Just focus.

You’ve done this before. You can do it again.

He grabs the suitcase, rolling it onto its wheels. They squeak against the floor, an almost unwelcome sound in the otherwise still room. He yanks the studio door open, propping the suitcase against the edge so it doesn’t slam shut. He rummages through his bag, fingers brushing over the familiar items: spare pens, a half-empty notebook, stray receipts, loose change.

His hand lingers for a moment on the sticky notes. He grabs one, the bright yellow paper almost garish in the dim light, and quickly scribbles a few words. His scrawl is barely legible, the lines jagged, but the exclamation points are too many, too sharp. It’s excessive, but that’s exactly the point. Hoseok slaps it onto the door, his fingers curling into the paper just a little too tightly as he presses it down.

“Out of Order!!!!!!!!! :[”

It’s a joke, really. An absurd mask to hide what’s happening here. But it works. It’ll work. The distraction is necessary.

He doesn’t care if anyone sees it, as long as no one questions it.

Hoseok rolls the suitcase out of the studio, the wheels catching on the floor, gliding through the hallway.

He passes door after door on his way through the building, the faint hum of the lights above the only sound accompanying him. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the blank keycard. His thumb runs over its smooth surface as he approaches the scanner at the next one.

He taps the keycard against the scanner, just to test. He watches the light flicker.

Red.

Huh. So, that’s how it works.

A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He’d watched the man use the same keycard to enter the studio earlier, had seen the way his name and face had smiled back at him from the card.

Now, it’s all gone. The keycard is blank. No name. No title. No trace. It’s just a piece of plastic now, an unmarked thing. Unregistered.

It’s strange, almost eerie, how delightful that realization settles across his tongue.

He can feel it, the absence of him.

A wife who never had a husband.

Children who never had a father.

A family who always had an empty seat at the table.

But Hoseok remembers him, his name, his face, his life.

And he will never tell anyone about it.

The thought echoes through his mind, ringing out louder with each step he takes. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. He just moves forward.

And soon, the body will be buried. The keycard will be lost. The man will fade away.

Just another chapter in Hoseok’s story, one that no one will ever read.

The world keeps turning, unaware of the quiet death he’s left in its wake.

Just another secret between him and the tomatoes.

Chapter Text

The roots and soil open up for him under his fingers. The garden trembles, a non-existent wind rustling the leaves.

Hoseok kneels in the dirt, bits of it stuck under his nails as he claws the ground open. Wide enough, deep enough, to fit. The roots help him, holding the soil back, twisting around the edges of the hole as he drags more and more up from the earth.

On the edges, he can see the bullet, twisted within the tomato plant’s roots. Well guarded, both in the shroud around the dilapidated property, and physically. The bones as well. Disturbed and shifted by his hands.

And then, a memory that isn’t his. The man’s hands, smaller, younger, gripping a child’s shovel to dig for a time capsule in a sunlit yard. A voice calling from the porch to “go deeper.” The smell of cut grass and metal. Hoseok blinks hard, the image dissolving into the damp earth before him.

Another memory follows as he pulls up another armful of soil: the ache of a bad back after digging, the quiet satisfaction of a straight-edged pit. Hoseok’s body moves with a precision that isn’t learned, but remembered.

He sits back on his knees, hole complete, and reaches for the suitcase.

Unzips the edge. Tips the case.

He drops the body in. The ID. The wallet. The lanyard. Each triggers another flicker. A DMV line, the hum of an ancient fridge at a roadside diner, a sterile badge-check at the employee door of a stadium.

The way the lanyard rope had pressed against his neck as his soul was torn from his body.

He buries them all, grinding the memories down into mud. The roots reach out for the warped corpse as he kicks dirt overtop.

This is new. The flashes. The bleed.

The tomato plant doesn’t seem surprised. It twinkles out a laugh, leaves shaking in a breeze that isn’t there. The garden closes over the grave, seemingly abandoned and undisturbed.

Hoseok wipes his hands on his pants. Zips the suitcase closed. 

The man’s phone stays in his pocket.

“Sorry about this,” he whispers out, early morning crossing into a sunny day. The harsh sunlight not quite touching the property. Not in the way it should.

In the back of his mind a reply surfaces, faint, familiar. It’s okay.

And he throws the suitcase into the rubble of the abandoned home.

It crashes through an already broken window. The vines part for it, a curtain of leaves pulling back in a slow, deliberate sweep before closing again, sealing the hole in green. Inside, the suitcase vanishes into the darkness, swallowed whole by the neglected space.

“Thank you, again.” he whispers into the air.

And faintly, he hears a voice echo the same sentiment.

No. Thank you. Take care.

A ripe tomato drops into his palm.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t question. There’s no need to. He knows what this is, even if he’s never done it before.

He bites into it. The juice floods his mouth, sweet and iron-edged. It hits his tongue and spreads like fire. Not painful, but like a hearth.

And as he swallows, his soul cinches tighter around his corpse’s skin.

Hoseok returns to HYBE, and no one bats an eye.

Rummages through a storage closet. Grabs gloves, pliers, whatever looks right.

Yanks the note off the door as he steps back into the studio, sleeves rolled, eyes scanning the room with a new precision.

He’s not sure how a sound engineer knows this, but it’s useful.

Every wire, panel, and circuit hums faintly under his gaze. He can see the patterns. The knowledge of a forgotten man folded into his own muscle memory. How the currents were meant to flow, which switches were dead ends, which paths would trigger the same violence again.

He kneels by the panel, fingertips brushing over the exposed wiring. The memories whisper, guiding his hands. A flick of the breaker, a subtle loop in the circuit… and, done. The system goes quiet. Safe. 

Hoseok pulls the engineer’s phone from his pocket, swiping it open with the ghost of the man’s gestures. The screen lights up, familiar routines unfolding under his fingers: passwords, taps, swipes. He moves through menus with ease, guided by instincts that aren’t entirely his own.

Contacts, notes, messages. Nothing of real value, all bled away by the memory of him slipping out of the world.

He opens the photo app.

There’s only one video in the files.

Him, convulsing under the electricity, sparks dancing over his skin, iron flooding his mouth. The memory flares alongside the recording.

No hesitation. He deletes it. The screen goes dark, leaving nothing but a faint echo in his mind.

He swipes through the phone one last time, watching the faint traces of the man’s life disappear beneath his touch. Every motion, every instinct, is guided by a hand that is not his own, yet feels natural.

“Why do you know how to kill people?” Hoseok whispers, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the studio.

Why did you do all this to try and kill me?

Why record my death?

The phone offers no answer. Just a bookmarked article about betting on horses, a reminder about current stocks, a location pin for a nearby hardware store.

Hoseok pockets the device. Cards a hand through his hair, mindfull of his forehead. Scans over the room again.

It… could be cleaned up a bit. His bag’s still here, as well as the man’s.

He picks them both up, empties the man’s contents onto the floor, folds up the fabric and shoves it into his own bag.

Snarls a bit at what he just dumped onto the floor.

A utility tool. Rope. Protective eyewear. A bleach pen.

A memory flashes. Hacking a head from a neck. Wrapping it tight. Deposited in a suitcase. A picture snapped and sent. Suitcase rolled off a bridge into the ocean.

Wait.

He scrambles for the memory, claws at the edges of it, screams.

Sent to who?

It slips away, foggy and distant, nothing in reality to tether it to.

He snarls. Yanks the items off the floor, stuffs them into his bag.

The weight of the bag in his hand feels wrong, like he’s carrying someone else’s life, someone else’s burden. Hoseok grits his teeth and slings it over his shoulder.

Hoseok leaves the studio, the weight of the bag heavy on his shoulder. The city hums around him, indifferent. He follows the pin on the phone to a nearby hardware store, a modest brick building with peeling paint and a faded sign.

Inside, he moves with the same precision as in the studio, scanning shelves, aisles, every corner for traces. Tools, ropes, chemicals, wires. All ordinary, banal. Nothing that speaks to the violence.

He pauses at the counter. Registers, receipts, the faint scent of sawdust and oil. The clerk doesn’t notice him, doesn’t care.

He buys himself a Sprite from the small commercial display refrigerator by the store’s door, just to make it seem like he was inside for a reason.

He sips it slowly. The bubbles hiss on his tongue as he steps out of the tiny store, into the bustle of the city. 

The city continues, indifferent. The weight of the bag presses against his shoulder.

He rolls his neck, takes another sip, and heads home.

He calls in sick.

Laying the phone down, his own phone pressed against his ear, he lets himself sink into the chair. The bag beside him feels heavier than it did outside. He drops it onto the floor by his feet. 

He’s not really sick, but it feels like he is. Peeling off his jacket, he finds the skin across his arms burned, angry-red discoloration branded into his flesh in a pattern like floral branches.

He flexes his fingers, wincing at the tightness that wasn’t there before. The air in the room seems too thin, too close, and the silence hums with the residue of every memory he swallowed along with the corpse.

He gags, mouth once again too wide.

Too inhuman.

Oh god.

He runs to the bathroom, slams open the door, grips the edge of the sink like he’s physically holding himself down to the floor.

The fluorescent light flickers overhead, too harsh, too bright. His reflection stares back at him, distorted in the mirror: eyes dull, skin marred with those angry-red floral burns, his shoulders trembling.

There’s a trail of black blood pooling out from under the globs of makeup he’d stuffed into the bullet wound. Slowly inching down towards the bridge of his nose.

He stares at it, wide-eyed. The black blood gleams under the fluorescent glare, threading across his face like inked veins.

He flexes his hands, sees them tremble in the mirror, black flecks catching under his nails. The smell of iron and smoke curls into his nose. His mouth twitches; words almost escape, but the memories stifle them before they form.

He shoves his hands under the water and scrubs. Pulls every speck of dirt out from under his nails, scratches at the burns stretching across his skin like it might wash that away too.

“Oh god,” he chokes out.

His voice echoes off the walls and tile, steam spreading across the glass as he continues to scrub.

The floral burns flare hotter, itching, crawling across his arms like worms, twisting and twiddling.

“What the fuck have I done.”

It tastes like money and blood. It tastes like guilt and sea salt ice cream. It tastes like metal and his childrens—

“Fuck!”

He backs away from the mirror, slipping on the tile. He falls beside the toilet, crouches there, trembling.

Not his childrens laughter.

This mans’ children.

This killers’ family.

Hoseok buries his face in his hands, tasting iron and ash, bile rising in his throat. The black blood stains his palms, sticky, hot, and unrelenting. The floral burns crawl up his forearms, tendrils writhing beneath the skin, leaving trails of heat and rawness in their wake.

The whispers return, soft, coaxing, a voice that isn’t his own but carries the weight of all he’s absorbed: It’s okay… it’s still okay…

He shakes his head violently, trying to force the voice away.

Because it’s not okay.

He’s changed.

Eating hasn’t just held him to his corpse, this time. It’s transformed him. Subtly, irreversibly.

“What if they see…” His voice breaks on the edge of panic. The thought gnaws at him.

What if Namjoon notices the black streaks in his blood?

What if Taehyung hears his voice and it comes out wrong, and starts doubting everything he says?

What if Yoongi keeps pressing, then starts asking, until Hoseok shatters beneath the scrutiny?

What if—

He cuts off his thoughts. Tries to bury it, like he buried the corpse, but the panic coils tighter around his skin. Fear and guilt, of a transformation he doesn’t yet understand.

And then, beneath it all, something soft, grounding: the echo of the tomato plant, the memory of the garden, the roots winding through him. A warmth, almost like a protective hand beneath his skin, holding him steady in the chaos.

Hoseok exhales slowly, because he can. Can still do things like breathe and blink, not because it keeps him alive, but because he’s still here.

He curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into his palms, tasting iron, tasting ash, tasting wealth.

It’s not a foreign taste, he realizes, but it is fresh.

Fresh like the black dripping down his face.

Like the memories that are now his.

Like the taste of tomato in the back of his throat.

Hoseok exhales again, and this time the tension bleeds from his shoulders.

And when he pushes himself to his feet, lifts his head to the mirror, his blood is red.

Hoseok stands there a moment longer, fingers tracing the edge of the sink, feeling the pulse in his wrists. Not his heart, his soul. The mirror reflects a man still his own, though marked by everything he’s carried, everything he’s absorbed.

He wipes the streaks of red from his face, retouches the subtle traces that might give him away, and lets the towel fall back into the sink. Each breath is deliberate, grounding him, reminding him of the line between what he took in and what remains his.

Stepping back from the mirror, he scans his face, his arms, his neck, the floral burns.

The world outside has no clue what has shifted inside him, and that is exactly as he wants it.

He’s hidden one body. A bullet. What’s one more and a few physical features to add to the bullet hole already drilled between his eyes.

Chapter Text

The doorbell rings just as Hoseok is finishing his third cup of water, trying to wash the taste of iron out of his mouth. 

He turns towards the door, condensation between his fingers, and drops of water running down his neck.

He sets the cup down slowly, hands trembling just slightly.

Another ring. Then knocking. Chaotic, irregular, familiar.

Jimin.

“Hyung! Open up! Manager-nim told us you were sick.”

Hoseok swallows. Curses under his breath. His throat is dry again, as if the water never happened.

There’s a shuffle outside. A beat of silence. Then a soft thump. Probably Jimin kicking the door with his heel.

“We brought you soup!” Jimin continues. “And Seokjin-hyung made it, so like… actual edible soup!”

“Yah. Don’t break down the door. He might be asleep.”

Seokjin’s voice. Full of humor, but there’s something slightly strained under the words. A tension that’s less about annoyance and more about worry.

Hoseok skulks across the wooden floor, into his bedroom. He pulls a throw blanket off his bed, yanks a sweater off the hanger in his closet. One of the oversized ones he wears as pajamas sometimes when it’s cold.

He throws on the sweater over his clothes, bundles up the blanket between his arms and carries it back into his living room.

Throws it over the couch. Pulls the hood of the sweater over his head. Unfolds the sleeves until even the tips of his fingers are buried under the fabric.

On the floor, his phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. Taehyung:

Hey.

We’re at the door.

Wake up.

Hoseok grabs the phone, looks between it and the second one still on the table.

Grabs them both, shoves them in his sweater pocket.

The knocking starts again. More insistent this time.

A pause, then, “Just open the door Hoseok.”

Yoongi’s voice. 

Hoseok exhales through his nose. His hand tightens around the edge of the couch.

Then, finally, he shuffles over to the door. Kicks the bag under the chair as he makes his way across the room, shoving it deep into the shadows.

When he reaches the door, he makes sure to fumble with the lock.

Let the sound drag.

Let them imagine fatigue in the delay, not strategy.

The deadbolt finally gives way with a clunk, and Hoseok pulls the door open, just enough to peer out.

Yoongi stands there, arms crossed, hoodie zipped up, black cap pulled low.

His gaze rakes over Hoseok’s face.

“You look like shit,” he says.

“Hi to you too.”

Jimin makes a soft noise and pushes the door open further, slipping past before Yoongi can continue his inspection. Doesn’t quite shoulder past Hoseok as he steps into his home, but it’s close. Seokjin follows with a thermos cradled under his arm like an offering.

Taehyung waves at him with his phone, a small smile on his face.

“Hi, hyung,” he says, soft. 

Hoseok gives a thin smile in return. Nods.

They file in without further comment. The only choice Hoseok had was how long to leave them waiting.

He steps back from the door, pushing it closed behind them. His fingers linger on the lock again, this time to secure it. Out of habit. Or fear. Or maybe just control.

Seokjin sets the thermos on the coffee table with too much care.

“We weren’t gonna barge in, but then Jimin started vibrating,” Seokjin says casually, toeing off his shoes. “And you weren’t answering anyone.”

“I was asleep,” he lies, pulling his phone, makes sure it’s his before he does so, out of his sweater pocket. Flicks the mute button as he does so. “The buzzing woke me up.”

“Really? The buzzing woke you up? Not the doorbell?” Yoongi says.

His tone makes it sound like a joke, but his eyes give him away. Slightly narrowed, roving over his body. Like he’s trying to see under the fabric.

Hoseok just shrugs, collapses on the couch, on the blanket, pulls it towards him in an only slightly pathetic display.

Jimin plops down beside Hoseok.

“Did you eat anything today?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Hoseok says.

Ate another man out of existence, and a tomato.

“Real food though?” Taehyung adds, plopping down onto an armchair.

Hoseok doesn’t answer, and to the rest of them, that’s telling enough.

Seokjin pushes the thermos towards him.

Yoongi speedwalks towards the kitchen, calling out, “Where the fuck do you store your spoons?”

“Second drawer, next to the apples.” He calls back, throat dry, it cracks at the end.

He coughs into his arm for good measure.

It’s been a while since he’s faked a cough. It comes out wrong.

Jimin cringes, looking at him like he just coughed up a lung.

“That sounded painful,” he says.

“It wasn’t,” Hoseok says, voice lighter than it has any right to be. “I’m fine.”

Yoongi reappears from the kitchen with a spoon clutched in his fist like a weapon. Drops it into Seokjin’s waiting hand without breaking eye contact with Hoseok.

“Eat,” Seokjin says, in that mock-commanding tone he uses when he’s stressed and trying not to show it, thrusting the spoon in front of Hoseok’s face.

Hoseok reaches for the thermos, pulls the spoon out of Seokjin’s fingers. The heat seeps down through his skin and into his bones.

The thermos hisses as the lid comes loose. Steam curls upward, thick with the scent of chicken and garlic and something herbal that catches in the back of Hoseok’s throat.

His stomach doesn’t roll, but he thinks it would if it was functional. Instead, he just stirs slow. Lets the motion speak for him.

After a beat of silence, filled with just the sound of metal scraping against metal, Taehyung shifts in the armchair.

“Want me to blow on it for you, hyung?”

Hoseok gives him a flat look over the steam. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

Seokjin smacks Taehyung’s shin with his foot, not unkindly.

Jimin leans closer, peering at the soup. “It’s good. I tried some before we came over.” He tilts his head. “Unless you’re hiding a fever in there, I don’t see why you can’t just—”

His hand starts to come up, fingers aiming for Hoseok’s bangs.

Hoseok tilts his head back before the touch can land. A laugh slips out, soft and hollow. “Yah. I haven't washed it yet.”

It’s a weak shield, but it works. Jimin rolls his eyes and pulls back, flops back into the couch cushions. “Ew.”

Seokjin hovers over him, watching intently, his gaze sharp but trying to hide the concern beneath a thin veil of casualness. Hoseok lifts the spoon to his lips, tasting the broth. It’s warm. It’s good.

A wife’s caring gaze and brow etched with worry. A bowl of soup offered, her hands wrapped around his shoulders. Squeezing. Comforting.

“—ung? Hyung?”

He blinks. Too slowly. Pulls air into his lungs.

There’s a snap in front of his face, fingers quick and insistent. The air feels thick, suffocating, like the space is closing in. He jolts, blinking harder this time, trying to clear the memory.

Yoongi withdraws his hand, lips pressed in a thin line.

Jimin’s voice cuts through again, sharper now. “Hyung, hey. You good?”

Hoseok’s gaze slowly lifts.

He blinks again. Normal, this time.

“Yeah,” he croaks.

“Liar.” Yoongi shoots back. “What just happened.”

His grip on the spoon tightens, metal chilled, because there’s no heart beating in his chest, no blood pulsing under his skin. Just an itch of electricity.

He shoves another spoonful into his mouth, herbs and broth and lukewarm.

Chews on it to buy him time. Swallows.

“I’m just… tired. I don’t want you to worry about me.”

The room goes quiet, the only sound the scrape of the spoon against the edge of the thermos. Hoseok can feel their eyes on him, even without looking. He stares down at the soup in his hands, eyes narrowed, hoping they’ll take the bait and let it go.

Jimin’s voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time. “Hyung... don’t lie to us.”

There’s an edge there, soft but unmistakable.
His fingers pick at the felt on the couch cushion like he’s trying to unravel it, a tiny thread at a time.

He doesn’t look at Hoseok when he says it. Just stares down, lashes low, breath shallow.

“You keep doing this,” he adds, even softer. “You shut down. You smile. Then you pretend we imagined it.”

A pause. Then, shallow. “Please.”

Seokjin’s gaze flickers over to Jimin, then back to Hoseok, his face unreadable but his eyes filled with something else, something deeper.

“Come on, Hoseok,” Yoongi says, his voice softer now but no less intense. “We know you better than that.”

No, you don’t, he thinks.

Pulls another breath into his lungs, lets it go.

He forces a smile. The ones he wears like he knows he’s been caught. Sheepish, flustered.

“This last tour was… a bit too much for me, I think. Pushed myself too hard. Stressed too much.”

He sighs. Like it’s taking too much energy to piece the words together.

He’d already said this to Namjoon.

Might as well make it official.

“I almost fainted on stage.”

The words slip out easily. He makes it seem like it’s a struggle.

The room goes dead silent. The hum of the air conditioning seems louder now, like it’s pressing in from every corner. Hoseok’s shoulders sag, and his eyes flicker down to the soup again, anything to avoid their gaze.

Jimin’s breath catches, a quiet, sharp intake. Seokjin freezes, mid-motion.

“You… what?” Taehyung says, his voice trembling at the edges, like he’s not sure if this is a joke or not.

But Hoseok doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t offer the usual half-smile he hides behind. He just stares at the soup in his lap, his hands trembling slightly against the thermos.

Hook.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal of it,” he continues, his voice growing faint, as if saying the words too loud is too much. “I didn’t want to make anyone worry. It’s just… a little too much at once, I guess.”

“Jesus, Hoseok. You stumbled on stage. We’re worrying regardless.” Yoongi snaps, face tight, not with anger, but concern. 

“Is that why you… in the bathroom…” Taehyung trails off, hand on his chin, eyes flicking back and forth, like piecing together a puzzle.

He doesn’t respond. He lets them come to whatever conclusion they’d like.

Seokjin’s sighs, heavy, body unfreezing and his hand dragging down his face. His voice is tight when he speaks.

“Hoseok... You know you don’t have to hide from us, right? You don’t have to push through it alone.”

Sinker.

“I thought I could handle it.” he whispers.

Yoongi glares at him. “Sure, ‘cause you’re clearly handling it just fine right now.”

“Hey, stop.” Jimin shoots back. “He gets it. He’s sick. Let him eat his fucking soup.”

Yoongi scoffs, but sits down heavily on the edge of the couch. Pushes the throw blanket away from him with his foot.

Hoseok lifts another spoonful, the broth cooling fast now, herbs drifting to the bottom. He forces it down. Keeps chewing like it’s muscle memory, an automatic thing, and not something forced.

Outside, a motorcycle roars through the street. The muffler pops, sputters. Seokjin jumps. Yoongi’s gaze flicks toward the window and stays there for a beat too long.

Jimin shifts beside him, pressing a hand briefly to his knee. “Eat, then rest. We’ll leave you alone after.”

“Promise?” Hoseok chuckles lightly, without looking up.

“Only if you finish,” Taehyung replies, grinning from his spot on the chair, but his eyes keep darting toward the window.

So, Hoseok eats. Chews. Lifts the thermos to his lips and swallows down the broth. A bit dribbles out the side and falls onto his sweater. He doesn’t wipe it away.

Yoongi’s eyes are still on him.

“There,” he says, setting the thermos down with a clink, a little too hard. “Done.”

Taehyung claps his hands together, like he’s applauding a groundbreaking performance.

Seokjin rolls his eyes and swipes the thermos away. Shakes it against his ear. “Huh. No trick bottom.”

Hoseok forces a small laugh. “Guess I’m not that creative.”

Jimin gives Hoseok’s knee one last squeeze before standing. “We’ll get out of your hair. Text if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure,” Hoseok says, already pulling the blanket over his lap.

They gather their shoes, laughter echoing through the space. The front door opens, lets in a brief draft of outside air before Seokjin steps out first, Taehyung on his heels. Jimin waves before he shuffles out.

Yoongi lingers in the doorway. His cap shadowing his eyes, his voice low enough that the others can’t hear.

“Next time you almost faint on stage,” he says, “don’t wait for us to come knocking.”

Hoseok manages a nod.

The door shuts. He waits, listening to their voices as they fade.

Then he pulls himself to his feet, and turns the lock shut.

The next day, it’s fruit.

A grocery bag at his doorstep, pears and tangerines stacked like offerings. No knock, no doorbell. Just there when he opens the door.

After that, it’s tea and electrolyte drinks.

A neat tin of loose leaves, handwritten instructions in sloppy script taped to the lid, and chilled bottles beaded with condensation.

Then soup again, in a smaller thermos this time, left leaning against the frame like it might wander off if left unattended.

And every time, the first thing he does after bringing the offerings inside is turn the lock.

The fruit browns in the bowl, untouched. The tin of tea leaves gather dust in the cabinet, unopened. Electrolyte drinks spill into the sink, liquid running over his fingers as he dumps them, the bottles crushed and discarded.

Soup he consumes only to maintain the charade. Just so he can clean out the metal and leave it outside his door.

When Namjoon appears to pick up the thermos, Hoseok forces a small smile. A gesture of gratitude. Mentioning the taste. The smell. A return of effort for effort, a tiny acknowledgment that he sees the care.

The motion is almost ritualistic: rinse, wipe, set it down, smile. A quiet exchange between them, a bridge of civility and thanks in a day otherwise ruled by distance and silence.

And all the while, he scrolls through the man’s phone, witnessing fragments of memory like shards of glass pressed to his fingertips. The fruit softens further, the tangerines sagging, the pears bruising, and still he doesn’t touch them. The metallic tang on his tongue presses at the back of his throat, an unwelcome reminder that some part of him has shifted, irreversibly.

He can’t recognize it, yet. This taste.

But he has a ‘sickness’ to get over.

That should be enough time.

Chapter Text

He’s pacing his living room, scanning over the google history of the man’s phone, when his own buzzes in his pocket.

He pulls it out, glancing down at the screen. A text from Jungkook to the group chat:

Hey! I was thinking about taking Bam on a hike tomorrow along the river. Anyone want to join?

Namjoon’s response is immediate:

Sure. I’ll bring my camera. Been meaning to get back into it.

I’ll join too! Taehyung adds. Where’s it gonna be?

The Seoul Trail! Jungkook responds, an enthusiastic effect added to his message. Need a few extra stamps to add to my booklet, and Bam deserves a nice hike.

The Seoul Trail.

Hoseok’s thumb pauses above the screen. The crunch of leaves and mulch fills his ears, the scent of wet earth rising sharp in his nose.

A memory. A flashlight in one hand, a phone in the other. Trees pressing in on all sides and a coil of satisfaction deep in his chest.

He knows the path well enough, though the faces he meets are always hidden. His footsteps steady, his stride delighted.

The syringe’s weight still buzzes in his fingers, though it’s long emptied, discarded.

And then Hoseok blinks. The memory gutters out, but the damp air seems to cling to his skin for a moment longer.

Aw man :[ Taehyung’s new message lights the screen. That’s a bit too far away for me. I have a plan with Jiminnie tomorrow. Maybe another time?

No worries Tae-tae. Anyone else?

I’ll pass, says Yoongi. You have fun.

Seokjin reads the messages, hearts it, but doesn’t respond. An answer in its own right. Thank you for thinking of me, but no thank you, Hoseok can almost hear.

His thumb hesitates, just once, before it slides to type.

I’ll join :D What time?

Jungkook responds with too many exclamation points and smily faces, and then a time.

Let’s try for 10:00. See you there hyungs!

Hoseok stares at the screen. Normal, ordinary. Just another hyung agreeing to a walk in the park.

He steps off the train at 8:30, and spends the next hour and a half at a cafe, nursing a single iced drink until he’s physically chewing on the ice to buy him time.

The café hums around him, clatter of cups and low conversations, but he doesn’t hear words so much as noise. The clock above the counter ticks steady, loud. Each time he glances up, only a few minutes have passed.

Condensation drips down the side of his cup, sliding cold against his fingers. He doesn’t wipe it away. He lets it pool, lets it soak into the napkin beneath.

Crunch. Ice shatters between his teeth. The sound is too sharp, too much like something else. Like the mulch and gravel underfoot, the snap of twigs when he… no. When the man last walked that path.

He rolls a piece of ice over his tongue, it’s just a hint colder than he is, sinking through the muscle.

Just another hyung on his way to a walk in the park.

By the time he checks the time again, it’s 9:45. He stands, returns the glass to the tray by the counter, and heads toward the trailhead.

The morning air is bright, already warming. Families drift past him toward the river, strollers and children laughing.

Jungkook’s voice is the first he hears, bright and unguarded. “Hyung!”

Bam tugs on the leash, nails scratching at the gravel as he bounds forward.

Hoseok leans over automatically, palm open. Ready for Bam to brush up against his pants, but the doberman stops short, ears twitching, head cocked to the side.

The dog studies him for a long moment, chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths. And then the doberman steps back, positioning itself between Jungkook and Hoseok.

His hand hovers in the air. Too long. He drops it, straightens.

Bam shifts at the motion, watching Hoseok with fierce protectiveness.

Jungkook just pats Bam’s side, smiling apologetically. “Wow. What’s gotten into you today. It’s just Hobi-hyung.”

The words sit strangely in Hoseok’s ears. Just Hobi-hyung. Simple, harmless. The kind of reassurance Jungkook doesn’t even think twice about.

“Dogs have their moods too,” Hoseok replies, his tone light, dismissive. He even lets the corner of his mouth curve up, though the weight in his chest doesn’t ease.

Namjoon straightens from his crouch nearby, brushing dirt from his palms. A camera looped around his neck by a professional looking strap.

“He probably smells something in the air. The trail’s full of it,” Namjoon lifts his camera, tilts it toward the bend of river cutting through trees. “Beautiful day for it, though.”

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees, tugging Bam gently forward. “Come on, Bam. Let’s go!”

The leash pulls taut. Bam obeys, though his head turns once more toward Hoseok, ears still pricked, gaze sharp.

Hoseok falls into step beside them, smile fixed in place. His stride measured, practiced.

Down the trail, the shadows deepen. The scent of wet earth rises, pulling at something else entirely.

Jungkook runs ahead, and Bam bounds after him, tongue loling out the side of the dog’s mouth as he easily keeps up with Jungkook’s pace.

Hoseok’s eyes track them, but the trail beneath his feet seems to whisper of a different rhythm. The crunch of gravel and fallen leaves ghosting the sound of boots in the dark, the flashlight beam slicing through night instead of morning.

He shakes his head subtly, forcing the present back into focus. Sunlight glints on the river to his right, splashing gold across the surface. Bam pauses for a low branch, nose twitching at some new scent, and Hoseok blinks at the ordinary scene.

Namjoon falls into step next to him, camera raised to the canopy of branches above them. A soft click chimes out from the camera.

Hoseok flinches almost imperceptibly. The sound, sharp, precise, carries a ghost of another click, another moment, another hand guiding a lens in the darkness. He swallows, forcing a casual nod toward Namjoon.

“Got it?” he asks, voice light.

“Yeah,” Namjoon answers, glancing at him. “Perfect shot. Light filtering through the leaves, catching the water…”

Hoseok follows the words, but the edges of the trail blur slightly at the corners of his vision. Trees crowd closer, the path narrowing in his mind. Off-trail. The scent of wet earth intensifies, tinged with something else, something he can’t name.

He shifts his weight, ground solid beneath his feet, and exhales slowly. Smile still in place.

Namjoon lowers the camera, scanning for another angle. “I should’ve brought a wider lens,” he mutters, half to himself, before quickening his pace to catch the light farther down.

Ahead, Jungkook laughs as Bam splashes through a shallow patch of water, leash jerking in his grip. “Yah, slow down!” His voice carries, bright and easy.

Hoseok scans the trees, and stops for a moment. There’s a path of moss coiling up a dead stump. The patterns of bright green against wormy wood.

“Joon-ah,” he calls, pointing down at the stump.

Namjoon stops, makes a noise in the back of his throat, and crouches next to Hoseok. Lifts his camera, tilts his head, focused.

Click. The shutter catches the bright green, veins curling over decay.

Hoseok keeps staring even after Namjoon lowers the camera. The moss coils, dense and soft, but in the corner of his vision it almost looks like something else. Ivy coiled over a window, a gloved hand picking at a latch.

He blinks, and the image collapses. Just a stump, just moss, just Namjoon rising again with a satisfied hum.

“Good eye,” Namjoon says easily.

Hoseok smiles and steps forward again.

“Come on.” he says, wrapping an arm around Namjoon’s shoulders. “Before Kookie and Bam disappear into the brush.”

Namjoon barks out a laugh. “And who’s fault is that?”

Hoseok just grins back.

Jungkook’s laugh carries faintly from ahead, Bam’s chain and leash jingling as he bounds at Jungkook’s side. The dog darts forward, ears bouncing, then stutters mid-stride. A sharp sniff at the ground, a wrinkle of his nose.

Jungkook halts before he ends up tugging on the leash, watching as Bam lifts his head and looks back, ears twitching. Namjoon and Hoseok catch up in a moment, and Bam seems to stiffen.

“Aw.” Jungkook coos, giving the doberman a pat on the head. “He’s worried about his uncles.”

Bam’s ears flick, but the dog doesn’t settle. Black eyes follow Hoseok, once again shifting so that Jungkook is positioned behind the dog.

Like a bodyguard.

Hoseok pretends he doesn’t notice, looking ahead and down the trail. A group of ladies walking briskly with walking sticks, a jogger with sweat on his brow, a bird with a stick in its beak.

Ordinary things.

“Hyung, you spacing out again?” Jungkook teases, tugging lightly on Bam’s leash when the dog refuses to move.

“Not really,” Hoseok replies, light and airy. “Just… taking things in. Lots of inspiration here.”

“You can say that again.” Namjoon replies, taking a photo of a patch of flowers.

Bam shifts again, nails scratching the gravel, ears flicking between Hoseok and the trees at the trail’s edge. Jungkook chuckles, tugging the leash lightly once more.

“Bam, don’t get distracted,” he says. “We’re not lost yet.”

Hoseok doesn’t look at Bam, those black eyes burning into him, forcing himself to glance toward the river. Just a walk. Just a hyung with his friends.

They round the next bend, and a green kilometer sign comes into view, half-swallowed by climbing ivy.

Hoseok’s eyes snag on the numbers. Plain white paint, distance to the next marker. A normal thing, part of the trail.

Except, he knows this landmark.

The memory pulls him under.

This is where you step off-trail. Compass north-by-northwest. Follow the slabs of stone, marked with a white dot. Flashlight, gravel crunch, dirt and mulch stuck between the teeth of hiking boots.

Phone in hand.

A wordless greeting of another man, face obscured.

Heart hammering with anticipation as he powers on his phone, swipes through the code, opens the photo app.

“Suicide, as promised,” he says, holding the phone toward the faceless other.

Shows the video of his victim, convulsing, bound in soft restraints, spittle blooming between clenched teeth.

Moonbin.

Blond-dyed hair slick with sweat. The blacks in his eyes too large. Skin pale and clammy. Fingernails blue-purple. Gurgling. Fighting for breath against lungs that have stopped.

It takes five minutes for the idol to die.

Another ten to unwrap the bindings, plant the bottle of medication, and wipe off the pinprick hole where the needle plunged into Moonbin’s neck.

Fifteen afterwards to climb out the window, lock it shut behind him. Wipe away any sign of foul play. Make sure the camera feed is still silently tampered with as he slides into his car.

Another ten to discard the needle with a smile.

Forty minutes to drive to the trail. Another hour to hike here.

A sharp bark jolts Hoseok out of the memory. He jumps at the noise. So does Namjoon and Jungkook.

Bam is growling, white teeth gnashing.

At Hoseok.

Though Jungkook doesn’t realize it yet.

Hoseok freezes, every muscle taut. Bam’s growl rolls low in his chest, a warning, a barrier.

Jungkook frowns, tugging the leash. “Hey… what’s wrong, Bam?”

But Bam doesn’t move. Nose wrinkled, ears pinned back, eyes locked on Hoseok.

Namjoon leans down, camera dangling from his neck, looking past Hoseok towards the trees behind his back. Like the dog has seen something in the shadows there. “Bam?”

Hoseok swallows, forcing his shoulders to relax, and turns to the forest. Pretends to peer into it, searching for something the rest of them are.

Just a walk in the park.

The crunch of gravel under his boots echoes differently now, sharper, too precise. The scent of damp earth carries a trace of something else. Metallic.

In the back of his mind, he sees Moonbin’s face. One of the members of Astro. He hadn’t known him personally, not really, but he remembers Moonbin smiling in behind-the-scenes clips, laughing loudly in group interviews, standing in the background at awards shows with perfectly tailored clothes and a confident placement of his shoulders. 

He remembers hearing about Moonbin’s death. The shock. The sorrow. Fans mourning. Colleagues stunned. The headlines that moved too fast.

The police had said it was suicide. The autopsy results made public were sparse, but claimed no foul play.

Hoseok’s knees suddenly feel hollow, though his feet remain planted on the gravel path. Bam’s growl deepens, vibrating through the leash into Jungkook’s hands, but Hoseok barely registers it. The forest around him blurs, branches stretching like shadows of the past, crunching under phantom boots.

He sees the slabs of stone, marked with a white dot, off-trail. Compass north-by-northwest. His fingers tingle as if holding the syringe, the phone, swiping through the code. Flashlight slicing through darkness.

The man’s voice echoes: “Suicide, as promised.”

Hoseok’s soul lurches. His skin burns under the fabric of his sweater and jeans in floral patterns. His vision fragments between sunlit trees and the windowless room, the groan of restraints, the wet glint of spittle on Moonbin’s lips. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Each measured, methodical step playing in his mind with horrifying clarity.

Bam lunges slightly, and Hoseok snaps to the present, the leash jerking in Jungkook’s hands. But the dog’s tension only mirrors his own. The warning, the barrier.

He remembers every second leading to the trail. The climb out of the window, the locked door, the carefully wiped needle, the silent car ride, the hike to here. Forty minutes, an hour. All leading to this exact spot.

The Seoul Trail.

The unspoken meeting place.

Where hands never touch, faces never seen. Where proof is offered and deaths verified. 

The taste of money floods his mouth.

He still doesn’t recognize the taste, but he understands it now. Just a bit.

“Bam, hey… what’s gotten into you?”

Hoseok steps backward, instinctively, but the gravel cracks sharply beneath his boots, a sharp echo that twists between present and memory.

The kilometer sign. The marker. Confirmation.

The memory presses against him, sharp and immediate: the faceless man, the phone held out, the words, “Suicide, as promised.” Moonbin convulsing. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Every detail, calculated and precise.

The leash jerks again. Hoseok blinks, forcing focus back. He fights through the fog and the shadows. Just a walk. Just the trail. Just hyungs and a dog.

Jungkook’s voice slices through the silence, quieter now, tinged with confusion.

“Hyung… he’s never acted like this before.”

He’s crouching beside Bam, one hand on the dog’s back, trying to soothe the ridge of tense muscle. “Not even around strangers. You know how chill he usually is. This is… weird.”

Bam doesn’t relax. His body is low and stiff, like he’s waiting for something to strike. Or for Hoseok to move.

Hoseok lets out a soft laugh, too casual, but his throat feels like it’s lined with ash. “Dogs get worked up over all kinds of stuff. Remember how Yeontan gets, sometimes? Maybe there’s a deer nearby.”

But even he can hear it. The excuse is thin.

Jungkook stands again slowly, his fingers lingering on Bam’s collar.

“It’s not like him,” he says again, more to himself now. His eyes flick toward Hoseok, only for a second, and then away.

Hoseok doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too deep or too shallow.

Namjoon speaks up, voice low. “Maybe we should take a break for a minute.”

He doesn’t look at Hoseok when he says it.

Jungkook nods absently, tugging Bam a few steps off the trail toward a patch of sun-warmed rock. The dog follows, but only after another glance at Hoseok, eyes wide, ears pulled back.

Namjoon stays where he is, just beside Hoseok, camera still slung around his neck. His arms are crossed now, eyes scanning the trees.

Silence stretches between them.

“Joon-ah,” Hoseok says quietly, “you okay?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts his weight, scrapes a boot gently against the gravel. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Just… feels like the air changed.”

“Like a storm coming?” he jokes, though it lands too flat.

Namjoon tilts his head, finally looking at him.

“No,” he says. “Not like that.”

There’s something in his gaze Hoseok can’t place, but it makes his soul writhe.

The air is too still now. Even the birds have gone quiet.

“Feels like…” Namjoon trails off, eyes flicking back toward the forest. Then, almost to himself, “Like Bam’s not just looking at the trees.”

His gaze cuts briefly toward Hoseok. He shakes his head. “…forget it.”

Namjoon looks at a spot beyond the trees. Raises his camera up to his eyes, holds it steady. His lens lingers half a second too long on Hoseok’s face before sliding past. Click.

Jungkook’s voice cuts in again from a few feet away. “I think I’m gonna head back early.” He strokes Bam’s head, still watching the dog instead of his hyungs. “He’s too tense to keep going. It’s probably nothing, but... I don’t want to push him.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon agrees softly. “That might be smart.”

Hoseok’s throat is dry. He can’t tell if it’s from nerves or memory or the sun beating too hot on the back of his neck.

“I’ll head back too.”

Jungkook looks up then, eyes searching Hoseok’s face. “You okay, hyung?”

He nods. Easy. Practiced. Despite the shadows crawling in the back of his mind, a death not his own sinking deep into his soul.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Still getting over that bug or whatever it was. Don’t want to push it.”

Namjoon doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t take his eyes off Hoseok either.

The three of them head back together, gravel crunching underfoot in uneven rhythm.

Behind them, the forest swallows the kilometer sign. The trail grows quiet.

Just a walk. Just a dog. Just hyungs and a trail.

Except, Hoseok walks ahead.

And Bam doesn’t look away from Hoseok once.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t head home.

He goes to a market.

The crowd is loud, a blur of chatter, pushing in on all sides. Hoseok buries his hands deeper into the pocket of his sweater, hunched forward, cap low and a medical mask pulled up over his face that he pulled out of his pocket.

The benefits of habits of being an idol, always keeping cheap facemasks in your pockets.

He’d laugh if he wasn’t so tired of pretending to.

He stops in front of a vegetable stall. Ripe tomatoes glistening in the sunlight, beside an array of peaches, plums, and melons.

He buys a kilogram of tomatoes.

Doesn’t even question the purchase at first, until he’s handing over the cash. His mind doesn’t feel all that present.

He just shrugs, peels the sticker off of one, lowers his mask, and eats it right there in the middle of the market.

The skin splits beneath his teeth with a faint snap. Juice runs down his thumb, sweet and sharp, staining the inside of his mask. He wipes his hand on the hem of his sweater without thinking.

For a second, it tastes like sunlight.

For a second, it’s only summer and warmth, the kind of day when they used to buy snacks together between rehearsals.

Then the taste shifts.

Metal floods the back of his throat, heavy and viscous. The tomato dissolves into iron, into breath rattling against his ear, into a weightless body collapsing against the floor.

He swallows too quickly, choking on the juice. Passersby glance at him, annoyed by the sudden cough, and move on.

He stares at the half-eaten tomato in his hand. Red dripping down his palm, the sticky sweetness almost indistinguishable from blood.

A very human thing to do.

But he’s never been human, not since that night. Not since the first one.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it.

Because there’s a bullet hole between his eyes, and burns itching across his skin, lungs that aren’t breathing and a heart that’s not bleeding. And blood in his veins shifting between red and black.

And the taste of money in the back of his tongue. A taste that he recognizes, not only from the sound engineer.

He thinks it might have been the same taste of the first one too.

And he thinks he should be terrified.

But he’s not.

Because there’s other memories in his head now.

And the roots growing in the back of his mind are telling him that he has the answers. All he has to do is find the right trigger.

The tomato squelches in his grip, skin tearing further under his fingers. He doesn’t notice until it’s dripping through the cracks between his knuckles, slick, too much like the pieces of a torn soul.

The roots dig deeper. They coil, twisting through the dark soil of his skull, tugging him down, down, to where the first one still waits.

Boredom. A coin in his back pocket. A drag of cigar smoke through dirty teeth.

And then… silence.

Hoseok blinks, standing in the middle of the market with juice staining his sleeve, people brushing past as though he isn’t even there.

He thinks he should be terrified.

But he’s already devoured two humans out of existence. Buried two in that dilapidated garden. Fed a plant twice, and then some.

All that’s left is to dig into his own head.

Or… no. Not his head.

Theirs. The one from fifteen years ago. The one he swallowed whole.

And while he doesn’t quite know how it’ll work, that’s not a new feeling.

Not since he first learned how to move his own corpse like it was alive.

He locks the door behind him, places the bag of tomatoes in the fridge, and turns his attention to the fruit bowl.

The apples, pears, and tangerines are rotten. Sunken, blackened, mold beginning to sprout on the edges.

He throws them all out, washes out the sticky, sour, residue at the bottom of the bowl, dries it with a cloth. Something he’s done so many times before, a habit he always liked. Being clean. Keeping things orderly.

This is his habit, he thinks. 

But there’s something in the back of his mind telling him it may not be.

That, maybe, these human habits are someone else's, and he just never had the strength, the power, until now to realize where one thing ended and another thing was consumed.

But he sees the memories now.

He wrings the towel out in the sink. Sets the bowl aside. Wrenches open the fridge door and yanks another tomato from the bag. He turns it in his palm, thumb pressing the skin until it yields just slightly. He should wash it. He doesn’t. Just carries it with him down the hall, into the studio.

The room smells like wires, dust, and stale coffee from weeks ago. He sets the tomato on the desk beside his mouse and opens his browser. Fingers hover a moment before typing: idol suicide.

The search floods too fast. Headlines stacked like tombstones. Articles repeating the same words until they lose shape. Mental health, exhaustion, pressure, found at home. He scrolls, and the taste gathers at the back of his throat again. Bitter, metallic, like coins clinking in his mouth. Like agreements folded in digital ink and swallowed whole.

He picks up the tomato, bites. Sweetness bursts over his tongue, tangy and alive, the juice running cold down his hand. He chews hard, swallowing fast. For a moment, it drowns out the taste of money. For a moment, he remembers it’s possible to eat something. The juice sticks to his mouse as he scrolls.

Another face. Another set of candlelit vigils. Another “tragic loss to the industry.” His jaw locks. The metallic taste rises again. Another bite. Another rush of red flooding his teeth.

The rhythm becomes ritual: article, taste, bite. He’s almost panting by the fifth one, fingers sticky, seeds stuck between his teeth. He scrolls faster, half-daring the search to give him something more than grief carved into press releases.

Then: a sentence. A detail he knows a bit too much about. A splinter, like the Seoul Trail. He leans closer, juice dripping from his wrist.

U;Nee, 25 years old, suicide by hanging.

His hand leaves the mouse. Rises to his throat. Fingers brush invisible bruises.

Her name pulls him deeper. Older.

He sinks his teeth into the tomato, pulp clinging to his molars, when the vision cuts sharper.

The light in the studio is gone. His fingers itch, but they’re holding rope. And someone else is breathing through his lungs.

He shifts the rope without thinking, coarse and rough against his gloves. The other hand’s already holding a phone, snapping the case closed and pocketing it to muffle a yawn.

“They’ll buy it,” a voice says. Male. Too close. Hoseok knows it isn’t his, but it scrapes up his throat anyway, worn to gravel by tar and smoke.

“She’s been harassed for months,” another says. “Enough to fill a folder.”

His soul lurches. He wants to drop the rope. His body doesn’t. The memory isn’t his to move.

“Odds?” The first man flicks ash. Smoke cuts into Hoseok’s lungs. Static to him, familiar to the body.

“Two to one says jump,” someone laughs. “But hanging reads better.”

A fist bumps his shoulder. Not Hoseok’s. He feels it anyway.

“Tragic. Understandable. Consistent with pressure.” A drag of the cigarette. Embers glow. “No one’s going to think otherwise.”

The laughter is sharp. Mean. But never loud.

Hoseok’s mouth fills with iron. He bites the tomato again, desperate. Sweetness cuts through, just enough to remember who he is. But the bets remain. Odds buzzing in the air like gnats. Two to one.

The worst part isn’t the cruelty. It’s the ease.

The way rope, phone, chloroform pass from hand to hand like groceries.

“As long as I’m getting paid,” he hears himself say with another yawn. “I don’t care what the public thinks. Don’t forget to record.”

Another laugh. A camera shifts against a chest. A pat against metal, fondness in a voice.

“She’s been with me for years. Like I’d ever forget.”

He sinks his teeth into the pulp.

Bites down on his own finger.

No pain. Just pressure.

Still, he yanks his hand free.

Back in the studio now, sticky, sweet, sour running down his wrist. He stares at the smear, scanning for a wound that isn’t there.

Not hard enough to break skin. Not deep enough to run black.

Still, he feels sick, staring at a smiling photo of someone long dead, her death printed out below. Final.

And now Hoseok knows it isn’t true.

The sickness coils tighter. Not nausea, not fever, not heat or chill.

A sickness of the soul. Disturbed, unsettled, writhing along his own skin, leaving him wanting nothing more than to curl up and disappear.

Because he knows now, even if he hasn’t seen it.

U;Nee died in 2007. He was thirteen.

Two years later, Hoseok would be fifteen, alone in a studio. Late-night practice.

And the man who had strangled him to death had been bored.

Bored enough to taste the thrill of another life like a coin sliding across his tongue.

Now Hoseok feels it, tastes it, the cold arithmetic of bodies counted, bets whispered over cigarette smoke and cigars, lives reduced to numbers on a ledger.

Another mouthful of money.

Another life swallowed and burned away.

Hoseok has been tasting it since his death.

And now, a new thought surfaces.

Not why. Now he understands why, at least a little. This game being played in the shadows.

The thought that rings out clear, louder than the roots curling through his chest and the memories whispering in his ears, is: who else is a wager? Who else in BTS is a target?

The sickness curls tight, threatening to choke him.

So Hoseok swallows it back. Forces his mouth into a crooked grin, and lets a new mask slip into place.

No different from the others. Except this one isn’t just for hiding and lying. It’s for a plan.

He’s going to keep digging. He’s going to face whatever shadows crawl out of the woodwork. And this time, he’ll make sure it’s only him in their sights.

And if the others notice?

He can play it off. Pretend it’s a prank. Pretend the shadows he’s chasing are just him being dramatic again.

He wipes his sticky wrist against his sweater and mutters to the empty studio, “Yeah. A prank. Just J-Hope being silly, as usual.”

The taste of tomato lingers, sweet and sour against the metallic weight on his tongue.

Chapter Text

“Hyung! Catch!”

Seokjin makes a noise in the back of his throat, and manages to catch the can of tea before it hits him in the face.

“Yah. What was that for?” Seokjin shouts, but there’s no heat behind his words.

The eldest cracks open the can, and Hoseok takes a swig of his own as he leans against the wall behind him. HYBE’s shadow shades them from the sun, the long black wall of the building’s geometry at their backs and a wall of trees ahead, hiding them from passerby’s and the occasional passing vehicle.

“I’m just making sure your reflexes are still sharp,” Hoseok says, lips quirking into a grin.

“Sharp enough to block you if you ever try that again,” Seokjin shoots back, but he’s already drinking. His shoulder bumps lightly against Hoseok’s, a casual touch. Routine.

In front of them, a few staff pass by, polite greetings and bows as they shuffle past the two. Hoseok watches them closely, even as Seokjin tips his head back, humming contently as he swallows down the cold liquid.

“You doing anything important today?” Hoseok suddenly asks.

Seokjin shrugs. “Not really. Just stepped out of a meeting. Might be doing a brand partnership, but nothing’s concrete yet.”

Hoseok hums in response, nodding, tipping his own can back, liquid sweet and cold against his tongue.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “So, if you vanished tomorrow, what do you think the reason would be?”

Seokjin chokes, coughing iced tea back into the can.

“What kind of question is that?” he rasps, eyes watery.

Silence falls over the two of them. Just the soft hum of vehicles driving past on the busy street down the road as Seokjin glares.

Hoseok just blinks at him, wide-eyed, scanning his reaction like he’s waiting for something more. Then his grin breaks through, bright and careless, laughter bouncing off the building walls. “Hyung, relax! I’m kidding. You should’ve seen your face.”

Seokjin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scowling, but the worst of the glare is gone.

“You’re going to make me die by choking before I vanish mysteriously, you idiot.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok grins, tilting his head, all sunshine again. “If anything happens, everyone’ll know it was because of my killer jokes.”

“And now you’re stealing my quips too. What are you planning, Jung Hoseok? Are you trying to replace me?” Seokjin shakes his head, slapping Hoseok on the back.

“What? Me? Never.” Hoseok barks back, leaning fully against Seokjin as they both break into a fit of laughter.

Taehyung invites them all to barbecue. A new spot, recently opened, recommended by Park Seo-joon. It’s casual, tucked on a quiet street, the kind of place that hasn’t hit the tour blogs yet.

Hoseok shows up a few hours early. The air is heavy with smoke and sweet marinade, meat sizzling on wide iron griddles as the chefs laugh among themselves. He greets them one by one, slipping into the kitchen like he belongs there, shaking hands with the manager. A quiet conversation, a few nods, a credit card passed across the counter.

By the time the others arrive, the restaurant is theirs. Tables empty. Music low. Staff waiting politely at the edges as though this was always how the place was meant to be.

Taehyung doesn’t question it, not really. Just beams, as if the privacy were part of the plan all along.

Hoseok only smiles, deflecting with a shrug. It’s not even that expensive, he thinks. A little less than the coffee truck he sent for Yoongi’s Daechwita shoot.

Just another gift. Just another step he’ll take to make them happy. Just Hobi things. The kind no one ever asks for, but everyone accepts.

Ordering the actual cuts becomes its own small war, as usual.

“Pork belly, obviously,” Jin insists, already reaching for the menu his word is law.

“Cuttlefish,” Jungkook shoots back immediately, chin jutting out. “We’re not leaving without it.”

“Who even comes to barbecue for cuttlefish?” Yoongi mutters, barely looking up from pouring sauce.

“Me!” Jungkook snaps, while Jimin just giggles, egging him on.

Taehyung slaps a hand over the menu. “No, no, listen. Seo-joon hyung said the galbi here is the best. We have to try it.”

“Seo-joon hyung isn’t paying for this,” Jin fires back.

That sets everyone off. Voices climbing over one another, accusations of betrayal and bad taste flying like arrows. Chopsticks wave in the air like weapons.

Through it all, Hoseok just grins, elbows on the table, letting their noise build around him. He already knows what he’ll order. He’ll make sure they all get what they want, whether they win the argument or not.

Eventually, their table is overflowing with side dishes, rice, glasses of beer with foam spilling over the edges. The cuts arrive on shining trays.

The grill sizzles, fat dripping and hissing as a chef turns the meat over with practiced ease. Taehyung leans forward, face glowing from the heat, practically bouncing in his chair to watch it cook.

Hoseok presses a hand against his shoulder, nudging him back just enough.

“Tae, you’re already sweating. Lean back before your skin breaks out in hives.”

Taehyung blinks, then laughs, reaching for his beer glass, making a mustache out of foam.

“Better?” he asks, grinning wide.

“Much better. Handsome again,” Hoseok replies, smug, which only earns him groans and cackles from the others.

The noise is still spilling around the table when Hoseok spots a particular cut on the grill. 

Namjoon isn’t quite looking at what he’s being served. He never does, too busy with the conversation, and Hoseok notices before anyone else. Namjoon does jolt when Hoseok reaches across and plucks his chopsticks clean out of his hand.

“Hobi—what—?” Namjoon sputters, shocked, mouth open halfway to a bite that Hoseok has now discarded.

“Excuse me,” Hoseok says, directed towards the chef, pointing towards the cuts on the grill and then at Namjoon. “We didn’t order Shellfish. He’s allergic. Could you get him new chopsticks and a plate?”

His grin is easy, but his eyes flick to the chef, who bows quickly, muttering an apology and removing the cuts from the grill.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon mutters, embarrassed, ears going pink as he’s handed new metal chopsticks and a fresh plate.

“Just saved your life,” Hoseok singsongs, spinning Namjoon’s old pair between his fingers before reaching for a piece of meat on his own plate. Eats it using Namjoon’s chopsticks, a cheeky grin on his face.

The rest of the meal is… relaxed. Full of laughter, chewing, and conversation bordering on unsavory by the drink. But eventually, the side dishes are cleared and the trays of meat are empty, and seven satisfied customers lean back in their isolated booth.

And when Taehyung asks for the check, the waiter refuses with a smile, saying it’s already paid.

Six pairs of eyes snap onto Hoseok.

“Yah, you didn’t,” Jin groans immediately, though his mouth is already twitching toward a smile.

Jungkook leans over the table, wide-eyed. “Hyung, you’re crazy,” he says, half-impressed, half-appalled.

Namjoon just drops his head into his hands with a laugh. “Of course you did.”

Yoongi just mutters something unintelligible into his cup, deadpan, but his lips curl up behind the fogged glass.

Jimin just sighs, though he claps his hands together like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. ”Hobi-hyung, flexing again.”

Taehyung, caught between scolding and admiration, points an accusing finger. “You can’t keep doing this, hyung.”

Hoseok only waves both hands out in front of him, grinning cheekily. “Surprise!”

The chorus of groans and laughter rises up around him, but he just shrugs, reaching for his beer. “It wasn’t even that expensive.”

“I’m paying you back for this.” Taehyung shoots back, a gleam in his eyes.

Hoseok just silently cheers his glass in Taehyung’s direction and sticks out his tongue.

That sets them all off again, the table rattling with laughter and mock protests, the last clatter of dishes being cleared as the staff politely hides their smiles.

And Hoseok just leans back, letting the noise wash over him, eyes flicking between the staff and the window.

No new faces. Quiet outside. No press or paparazzi. No random car parked or idling in a spot nearby.

There’s no need to exhale. His soul curls around his skin in a small, private relief, letting the mask of cheerfulness stay in place. Just another meal shared between them all. Just another day they can enjoy without worrying.

Hoseok will keep his eyes on the darkness.

For now, tonight, they remain as such.

He gets word from the group chat that Yoongi is staying late in his Genius Lab.

Which honestly… makes no sense. They just finished the tour. They’re on break.

Then again, this is standard Yoongi behavior. Precision. Obsession. Never shutting down.

Hoseok hums under his breath, tilting his head. Something about it doesn’t sit right with him. His soul stirs around his skin, and he yanks his bag over his shoulders and heads out the door.

By the time he slips into the building, the lights of the Genius Lab glow like a lighthouse in the quiet studio complex. No one else in sight. No cameras, no staff. Just Yoongi, hunched over his console, completely absorbed.

“Hyung,” Hoseok says softly, stepping in. “Burning the midnight oil again?”

Yoongi stiffens, eyes flicking up, already suspicious. “Hobi… how—”

He just sets an iced coffee in Yoongi’s palm.

“No tricks. Just caffeine,” Hoseok says, tilting his head with a grin. “For the genius at work.”

Yoongi stares at the drink, then at Hoseok, eyebrows knitting together. “You—how did you even—”

Hoseok shrugs, leaning against the door, casual, light like a sun’s ray. “I have my ways.”

Yoongi finally exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. “You’re… insane.”

“Maybe,” Hoseok says, smirking. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be your emotional support for the night.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes and turns back to the monitor, but there’s a smile on his face that wasn’t there before.

Yoongi works in relative silence, and Hoseok fills it with random noises under his breath, the door against his back. Little hums, a soft drumroll on his thigh, the occasional whistle that cuts off halfway. Enough to remind Yoongi he’s not alone, not buried completely in the glow of the monitor.

Every so often, Yoongi glances over his shoulder, like he’s checking if Hoseok’s still there. He always is.

By the time the last track finishes rendering, Yoongi pushes back with a long sigh. “Alright. I’m done.”

“Finally,” Hoseok says, springing upright and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “See? Emotional support works.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh, but doesn’t argue.

They leave together, the Genius Lab dimming behind them. The hallway is empty, the building hushed. Outside, the night air greets them with its quiet coolness, the parking lot spread in yellow pools of light.

“Are you actually walking me to my car?” Yoongi eventually scoffs with a laugh as Hoseok keeps pace with him under the moonlight and canopy lighting. 

“You never said I couldn’t.” Hoseok jabs back.

“What are we, some kind of couple?”

“We could be.”

Yoongi snorts, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” Hoseok says, flashing him a grin, “you’re still letting me.”

They fall into step again, shoes crunching softly against the gravel at the edge of the lot. The night air hangs quiet, no passing cars, no staff slipping out late. Just the steady hum of the lamps above.

Yoongi shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “One of these days, Hobi, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Don’t look now, hyung…” Hoseok says lightly, eyes flicking toward the dark stretch between the parked cars, “but you’re being watched.”

Yoongi freezes mid-step, tension pricking up the back of his neck, swiveling on his feet, until he realizes Hoseok is smirking at him, pointing at his own reflection warped in the car window.

Yoongi groans, swatting at him. “Fucking… You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. But I make you laugh,” Hoseok replies, all cheek and sunshine as he steps back, hands in the air in surrender.

Yoongi mutters something under his breath, but when he finally pulls open the driver’s side door, the smile that creeps back onto his face isn’t hidden.

And Hoseok lingers a beat longer in the lamplight, eyes skimming the edges of the lot, before turning toward his own car.

He waits for Yoongi to pull out of the lot. Watches the red taillights flare, then fade as the car turns the corner and disappears into the night.

Only then does Hoseok adjust his rearview mirror. Just enough.

A figure shifts in the reflection, half-swallowed by the shadows pooled at the edge of the lot.

Not following Yoongi.

Watching him.

Hoseok’s mouth curls. Not a smile. Something sharper. His soul stirs against his skin, crouching against his flesh, poised.

Good.

Hoseok starts the engine, steady, unhurried. Pulls out of the space.

The shadow doesn’t move to follow.

It only watches him go.

The dance studio is sunlit and echoing with sneakers. Just Jimin and him in the empty room.

Jimin spins on the beat, breath hitching as he lands, laughing through the movement as his shoulder bumps into Hoseok’s. They continue through the freestyle until the track ends, and Jimin shuffles on his stomach over to the camera propped on the floor.

“You’re a menace,” Jimin pants, still smiling, adjusting the camera despite it not needing to be. “You almost made me mess up.”

Hoseok tosses him a towel. “You were off beat anyway.”

Jimin gasps, mock offended. “I was not!”

“You were.” Hoseok grins, toweling his neck. “It’s okay. You were cute about it.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Would I ever?”

Jimin mutters something under his breath in Busan dialect and sits back on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow. Hoseok stays standing, stretching an arm overhead as he watches Jimin pull a small silver ring from his finger, something dainty and worn-looking, and place it on the bench next to his phone and water bottle.

Hoseok’s eyes flick to it.

“Don’t wanna lose it,” Jimin says, catching the look. “A gift from my parents. I wear it all the time, but it’s a little uncomfortable when I sweat.”

Hoseok hums. “Looks special.”

Jimin nods, distracted. “It is.”

They break for lunch not long after. Hoseok picks up his bag, the both of them slipping into hoodies and masks before heading out. Jimin chatters the whole way there, all small gossip and impromptu self-choreography critiques, limbs still jittering with energy.

Hoseok listens. Mostly.

By the time they return, sunlight now slanted through the blinds, and the studio is still empty. The sunlight feels heavier now, shadows stretched across the floor. It’s quiet. Not just empty, but still.

Jimin freezes mid-step, scanning over the bench, wide-eyed.

“Wait… where’s my ring?”

Hoseok tilts his head. “You sure you left it here?”

“Yes! Right here.” Jimin pats around the bench frantically, pushing his water bottle aside. “My phone’s here, everything’s here… Shit, what if it fell?”

He drops to his knees, peering under the bench, sweeping his hand across the dusty floorboards. His hoodie sleeve slips down as he crawls a little further, then he’s back up again, rifling through his bag even though he knows it’s not there.

“Hyung, it has to be here.” His voice rises, sharp with nerves. “I wear it every day. If I lost it—”

“Should I call security? We can check the cameras.” Hoseok crouches beside him, mock-serious.

Jimin groans, tugging both hands through his hair, then burying his face in them. “God, no, don’t… ugh, this is so stupid. I should’ve just left it at home. My mom would kill me if she knew I lost it.”

A beat of silence stretches across the studio.

“You think I’m dramatic, don’t you?” Jimin mumbles through his fingers.

“I think you’re deeply emotionally attached to very small jewelry,” Hoseok says, straight-faced.

Then he holds out his hand.

The ring sits in his palm.

Jimin stares, hands falling from his face and landing limply in his lap.

“You… wait. What?”

“I took it,” Hoseok says lightly.

Jimin’s mouth falls open.

“Why?!”

“I wanted to see if you’d notice,” Hoseok replies, smirking. “And you did. So, congrats! You passed.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Jimin mutters, but he’s already snatching it back, inspecting it like it might’ve changed in Hoseok’s care.

“Hey. I didn’t drop it.”

“You’re lucky I trust you.”

Hoseok just shrugs, stepping back toward the center of the floor. “I’m everyone's favorite hyung. Trust is a given.”

Jimin slides the ring back on and stands, stretching. 

“You’re gonna give me gray hairs.”

“And yet,” Hoseok tosses over his shoulder, “you still want to dance with me.”

“Unfortunately,” Jimin grins, hitting play on the speaker.

The beat picks up  again. Feet shuffle on hardwood. 

The world narrows to rhythm and movement and each other’s laughter and silent praise.

And Hoseok, always dancing one step ahead, eyes flicking once to the studio mirror. Not at their form, but at the reflection of the hallway outside.

Just in case.

Hoseok pulls into the driveway, the gate sliding shut behind him, and takes the short, steep climb up to Jungkook’s home.

He finds a spare key in the potted plant by the door, scowling as he brushes dirt off the metal. Too easy.

The lock shifts. Click.

The door swings open with a sigh, cooler air spilling out, detergent and something sweet left on the counter hours ago.

Shoes scattered by the entry. A jacket draped half-off the couch.

Jungkook is asleep on a futon in the living room, one arm flung above his head, hair a dark spill across the pillow. His chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

Which makes sense. It’s three in the morning.

Hoseok lingers too long on the threshold, the key still in his palm, listening to the steady hush of Jungkook’s breathing.

Then, a violent bark detonates the quiet. Nails rake metal. Bam’s crate rattles like it might split.

Jungkook jolts upright, hair wild, chest heaving, eyes wide and unmoored. He scans the hallway, then snaps toward the door, and finds Hoseok standing there.

His voice tears out raw, “What the fuck?”

He stumbles to his feet, fists curling like he doesn’t know whether to swing or shove Hoseok out on the spot.

“Relax,” Hoseok says, holding up a crinkled bag like a peace offering. “Just came to drop off some snacks. Heard you haven’t been sleeping.”

Jungkook blinks at him, breath jagged, trying to stitch the words together with the fact that it’s three in the morning and Hoseok has just walked into his house.

“And,” Hoseok adds, twirling the spare key between his fingers, “to point out how ridiculously easy it was to walk right in. Plant pot, Jungkook? Really?”

The bag rustles as he shifts, gesturing around the space. “Could’ve been anyone.”

“You broke into my house,” Jungkook snaps, voice rough and climbing. “At three in the morning. Bam’s losing his mind. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Not broke in,” Hoseok corrects, dangling the key. “Walked in. With the one you left like a neon sign.”

Another crash of Bam’s bark rattles the walls. Jungkook flinches.

“I don’t care!” he yells, stepping forward. “You can’t just show up like this. Get out.”

Hoseok doesn’t budge. He leans against the doorframe, grin lazy, like the tension in the room is nothing. “At least let me leave the bag.”

“I said leave,” Jungkook growls, his voice cracking sharp at the edges.

Hoseok studies him for a beat, lips quirking with something close to amusement. Then he flips the key, tossing it across the room. It hits Jungkook’s chest with a sharp clink before dropping into his hand.

“There. Problem solved,” Hoseok says lightly. He gestures toward the door as he moves for it. “Don’t hide it in a plant next time. And maybe buy a deadbolt.”

Jungkook’s grip tightens around the key, knuckles bone-white. “This isn’t a fucking game, hyung.”

But Hoseok just waves him off, grin still hooked to his mouth, drops the bag by the door, and slips out into the night. Like it was nothing more than a prank.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click, the sound too quiet against the storm still running in Jungkook’s chest.

He stays rooted, Bam whining in the crate, the spare key biting into his palm, freezing cold against his skin.

Through the window by the entry he watches Hoseok crossing the drive, and for a moment, the cocky grin vanishes in the half-light. Eyes dull, smile gone, something beyond exhaustion etched into his face.

Then it’s gone. Hoseok straightens, grin back in place, swagger stitched into every step as he slips into the driver’s seat and pulls away.

Jungkook doesn’t move until the tail-lights vanish.

Only then does he shove the key onto the counter with a clatter, chest tight and hollow all at once.

He grabs his phone, thumb fumbling across the screen. The call connects before he can second-guess it.

“Hyung?” His voice cracks, harsher than he meant. “Can you… are you awake?”

Seokjin’s groggy voice filters through, warm and confused. “Jungkook? What happened?”

Jungkook swallows hard, eyes fixed on the window.

“Jesus. Fuck.” He stumbles across his home to Bam’s crate in his bedroom, unlatching the door with shaking fingers. Bam runs into his chest, licking his face and neck, pressing his body against Jungkook’s as he cards his finger’s through Bam’s short, glossy, fur.

“Kookie?” Seokjin’s voice cuts through again, softer this time, edged with worry.

Jungkook presses his face into Bam’s neck, throat tight. He opens his mouth, shuts it, tries again. Nothing. Just air scraping raw against his teeth.

How do you explain someone you’ve known for years, trusted, admired, just walking through your locked door like it meant nothing?

His hand trembles against Bam’s back.

“Kookie,” Seokjin says again, more urgent now. “Talk to me.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, chest heaving. “I—” He swallows, words shattering before they even form. “This is insane.”

Bam noses against his jaw, steady, insistent, keeping him tethered.

On the other end, Seokjin is still, listening, letting the silence stretch.

Jungkook tries again. His lips part, close, open once more, his throat raw with words that refuse to take shape. He grips Bam tighter, desperate.

Finally, it breaks out of him, low and jagged. “Hyung. Hoseok… was here. He… he broke in.”

Silence stretches on the line, broken only by Bam’s soft whine. A sharp rustle filters through, like sheets thrown back, Seokjin suddenly moving.

“Fuck. Stay on the phone,” he says finally, voice low but firm enough to cut through the static in Jungkook’s chest. “I’m coming over.”

The minutes drag like hours, Jungkook pacing from window to window, phone clutched tight, Bam trailing him step for step. Every noise outside makes his pulse stutter, every shadow a hook in his gut.

And then, three sharp knocks.

Jungkook freezes.

“Jungkook. It’s me.” Seokjin’s voice, muffled but steady, leaks through the door and echos through the phone line.

Jungkook exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. Hangs up. Fumbles with the lock before the door swings open.

Seokjin stands there in sweats and a jacket thrown over his shoulders, hair mussed, car keys still clutched in his fist like he didn’t give himself time to put them away. His eyes sweep over Jungkook, quick and cutting, then past him into the house.

“You okay?” His voice is gentler now, but edged with something harder.

Jungkook steps back without thinking, and Seokjin slips inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. The weight of it feels different with him here. Solid.

Before Jungkook can speak, Seokjin’s hands are on his shoulders, warm and grounding. His gaze flicks across Jungkook’s face, the tension in his jaw, the tremor still running through his body.

“Hey. You’re alright. You’re safe,” Seokjin says softly. He squeezes once, like punctuation, before his voice tightens. “Now tell me. What the hell happened?”

And maybe it’s the fact he really hasn’t been sleeping well the past few days. Maybe it’s the fact someone he trusted just pulled something unthinkable. More then likely, it’s both.

Jungkook bursts into tears.

The sound rips out of him, raw and startling even to his own ears. He folds forward, almost doubling over, and Seokjin catches him before he hits the floor.

“Hey, hey—” Seokjin mutters, hauling him close, one arm around his shoulders, the other steady at the back of his head. Jungkook presses his face into Seokjin’s chest, the sobs coming hard and fast, shaking him down to the bone.

“It’s okay,” Seokjin murmurs, over and over. “Let it out. You’re safe.”

Bam whines and paws at Seokjin’s leg, tail wagging uncertainly, and Seokjin nudges him closer with his foot until the dog is pressed tight against Jungkook’s side.

It takes a long while before the sobs slow, before Jungkook can drag in air without choking on it. When he finally pulls back, his face is blotchy, his eyes red, but there’s a kind of hollow steadiness settling under the wreckage.

Seokjin doesn’t let go of his shoulders. “Kookie. Look at me.”

Jungkook drags his gaze up.

“Tell me what happened. Every detail.”

Jungkook’s chest tightens. He swallows hard, knuckles white, fisted into Seokjin’s shirt.

“I…” His voice cracks, breaks. “Hoseok. He was here. He… he just showed up, like it was nothing. Left a bag of snacks on the floor. Just… entered while I was sleeping. Didn’t even knock. Used the spare key.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightens, eyes flicking down to the floor, where the bag rests just outside the doorway.

Jungkook blinks, swallow thick, tears still clinging to his lashes. “He… said it was just snacks. And… and to show me how easy it was to get in. He… he laughed. Like it was a joke. Like nothing mattered.”

Seokjin’s breath stutters. He breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly, holds Jungkook just a bit tighter.

“Whatever Hoseok’s playing at, it’s not a joke. You’re not overreacting. You have every right to be furious. What he just pulled was criminal.”

“Maybe it was a prank.” Jungkook mutters into Seokjin’s shirt. “Maybe management approved it. Maybe there’s a hidden camera on Hoseok I didn’t see.”

Seokjin scoffs. “Well, if there was, that’s a real shitty way to go about it.”

“He didn’t look right. Not at the end. Before he drove away. It was like…” He hesitates, eyes flicking toward the window again. “Like the smile was just for show.”

“Maybe it was.” Seokjin pulls them toward the couch, guiding Jungkook to sit. Bam hops up beside them immediately, pressing his head into Jungkook’s thigh.

“We’ve all known Hoseok a long time,” Seokjin says carefully. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t change. Or… that you have to excuse what he just did.”

“I don’t want to believe he meant harm,” Jungkook says. “But I don’t think I’d feel like this if he didn’t.”

Seokjin nods, expression unreadable. “What do you want to do now?”

Jungkook blinks at him.

“I don’t mean right this second,” Seokjin says, softer now. “I mean tomorrow. Or the next day. Do you want to confront him? Report it? Just… make space?”

“I don’t know,” Jungkook admits, exhausted. “It’s not like he forced his way in.”

Seokjin arches a brow. “He used a hidden key he wasn’t invited to use, came in without your consent, woke you up, and left you shaken enough to call me at three in the morning.”

He lets that settle in the air before continuing. “Let’s not get lost in legal semantics. You felt unsafe. That’s enough.”

Jungkook leans forward, elbows on his knees, Bam tucked against his side. “Do you think something’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s not okay,” Seokjin says plainly. “ And I think he’s hiding it. Doesn’t mean you have to be the one who pays the price for that.”

Silence stretches. Jungkook watches the dim outlines of his living room, the half-unpacked boxes, the snack bag still sitting by the door.

“I trusted him.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to think of him as a threat.”

“Then don’t. Think of him as someone who crossed a line. Who scared you. Who might need help… but not at your expense.”

Jungkook nods slowly, eyes burning again, but no new tears come. Just a hollow throb behind his ribs.

Seokjin leans back, one arm still draped over the couch behind Jungkook’s shoulders. “You want me to stay tonight?”

“…Yeah. If you can.”

Seokjin squeezes his shoulder. “Of course I can. I’ll take the futon. You go lie down.”

Jungkook hesitates. “You sure?”

“You kidding? You have a futon in every room, and Bam would tear me to shreds if I took your bed.”

Bam lets out a soft huff like he agrees.

Jungkook snorts weakly, wiping at his eyes. “Thanks, hyung.”

Seokjin’s voice is soft, but firm. “Always.”

Jungkook stands slowly, still unsteady, and disappears into the bedroom with Bam trotting after him. Seokjin lingers in the living room, eyes scanning the entryway, the windows, the key on the counter.

His jaw ticks once.

He grabs the bag Hoseok left and tosses it in the trash.

Then he locks the front door.

Chapter Text

Namjoon stirs at the sound of his phone vibrating against his bedside table. Groggily, he reaches for it, fumbling just long enough to make his heart skip a beat when he sees the caller ID.

Hoseok’s manager.

He sits up straighter, pulse quickening. Nothing good ever comes from a call at this hour.

“Hello?” His voice is rough, uncertain.

The manager’s tone is brisk, edged with tension. “Jin-hyung asked me to give you a heads-up. He’s with Jungkook. Something happened tonight.”

Namjoon is already swinging his legs out of bed, searching for his hoodie. “What do you mean ‘something’?”

A pause. The kind that confirms Namjoon’s instincts before the words do.

“Jungkook’s okay. Shaken, but okay. Seokjin didn’t want you to hear it secondhand.”

Namjoon is already out the door.

Namjoon arrives at Jungkook’s home, knocking on the door before he has a chance to breathe.

The door swings wide immediately, Seokjin’s steely face greets him. They nod, and Namjoon shuffles inside, toeing off his shoes and scanning the room.

Jungkook sits curled on the couch, Bam pressed close to his side, the dog’s ears twitching at the sound of Namjoon’s entrance.

Namjoon crosses the room in a few long strides, dropping onto the coffee table opposite Jungkook. “What happened?”

Jungkook doesn’t look up right away. His hand trembles faintly as he strokes Bam’s fur, eyes fixed on the floor.

Seokjin answers for him, voice quiet but firm. “Hoseok was here. Middle of the night. He let himself in.”

Namjoon feels his stomach lurch. “He what?”

“No warning, no knock. Just… inside. Smiling like nothing was wrong.” Seokjin drags a hand over his face. “Kook woke up to Bam barking, found him standing there in his living room.”

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by Bam’s soft huff. Namjoon leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to steady his voice.

“Alright. We’ll figure this out. But first… Jungkook. Hoseok’s not here, and he’s not getting back in.”

Jungkook swallows hard, finally meeting Namjoon’s eyes. There’s fear there, and something else. Betrayal, maybe, or confusion. His voice is small when he speaks.

“I don’t want to get him arrested.”

Namjoon’s chest aches at the words. He softens his tone, shaking his head slowly. “That’s not what this is about, Kook. No one’s talking about the police right now.”

Seokjin crouches beside Jungkook, his hand hovering just above his shoulder before finally resting there. “We’re not against him. He’s our brother. But what he did tonight… it wasn’t right. And it scared you.”

Jungkook’s breath hitches, fingers curling into Bam’s fur until the dog gives a low, reassuring whine. “He looked… happy. Like it was normal.” His eyes flick between them. “But it wasn’t normal. It felt… wrong.”

Namjoon nods, leaning closer. “Exactly. That’s why we need to understand what’s going on. Why he’s acting like this.” He takes a breath, steady but firm. “And until we do, you need to be safe. That comes first.”

Jungkook blinks rapidly, struggling with the weight of it. “Safe… but not without him.”

Seokjin’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle. “We won’t shut him out. We just need to set boundaries. Protect you, protect all of us.”

For a moment, the three of them sit in the quiet, Bam’s tail thumping once against the couch cushion. Then Namjoon reaches for his phone.

“First thing, new locks. I know someone I can call.”

And just before he types in the phone number, he sends a message into the group chat:

Emergency. Hoseok came to Jungkook’s place uninvited, used the spare key. JK’s okay but shaken.

Jin and I are here. Keep your phones on.

This is serious.

And then he presses the phone to his ear and signals to Seokjin. The eldest nods, and plants his eyes on his own phone screen, fingers poised.

Namjoon paces a tight line near the window, phone to his ear, voice low. “Yeah. It’s Namjoon. I need a full rekeying. Tonight. As soon as you can.”

He pauses, listening. “Yes, residential. One entry point, maybe two if you count the back patio, but the front door is priority. No, nothing was stolen. It’s a safety issue.”

Behind him, Seokjin types fast. His lips are a flat line, brows furrowed as he taps out message after message to the rest of the team. Updates. Warnings.

By the time Namjoon hangs up, his voice clipped with thanks, Seokjin is already rattling them off.

“Taehyung’s awake. Says he’s getting in the car. I told him to wait. Jimin’s demanding an address.”

Namjoon sighs. “Of course he is. And Yoongi?”

“Ready to verbally murder one Jung Hoseok. I told him to wait.”

“And his manager?”

“Still on alert. We’re in contact. He’s headed over to Hoseok’s home now.”

Namjoon nods, pulling his phone back out, fingers flying:

Hobi’s manager is going to check his place. Still no contact.

He fires off a private message to Hoseok’s manager next:

Let me know as soon as you get to his place. Text even if it’s nothing.

Less than a minute later, his phone buzzes again. The manager’s reply is short. Not reassuring:

He’s not home. Car’s not in the drive. Curtains closed, lights off. No sign of him.

He’s not at HYBE either. Building’s been locked down since midnight. No entry logs.

Namjoon goes still. Then he lifts his eyes slowly to Seokjin, voice flat.

“He’s not at his home."

Seokjin looks up sharply from his phone. “What?”

“Car’s gone. Place is dark. HYBE’s locked down. No security footage. He’s just… gone.”

A slow, suffocating quiet falls over the room. Jungkook looks up again, gaze pinched and unreadable.

“He left right after,” Jungkook murmurs. “Didn’t even look back.”

Namjoon’s fingers are already moving, copying the message and posting it into the group chat:

Manager confirmed. Hobi’s not at home. Not at HYBE. Car is missing. No trace since he left JK’s place.

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then the responses come in like bullets.

Jimin: no. nope. i’m not sitting on my hands for this.

Taehyung: someone should go check the old studio. the one he used during mixtape era

Yoongi: i’ll go. i’m closest.

Namjoon: No. I’ll see if staff can go.

Yoongi: don’t need backup. i’m not walking into war

Namjoon: Non negotiable.

Yoongi's already ignoring him. He can feel it.

Namjoon lowers his phone slowly and turns toward. Jungkook, who’s watching all of this like he’s underwater. Detached. Pale.

“Jungkook,” Namjoon says carefully. “Was there anything off about the way he spoke? Did he say where he was going next?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “No. He just… smiled. Made a joke about the key. Left like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

Seokjin's jaw ticks.

“Except it wasn’t.”

Namjoon’s fingers fly over his phone again.

Meet at JKs place. We need to sit down and talk, before we do anything rash.

Jimin: already in the car. ten minutes out.

Taehyung: me too.

Yoongi: don’t text while you drive.

studio’s on the way. i’ll check it. if it’s empty, i’m coming to you.

Namjoon sighs through his nose and locks his phone, turning back to Jungkook, who’s gone quiet again.

Seokjin speaks first. “We’re about to have three more men stomping through this house in under twenty minutes.”

Jungkook nods, voice faint. “I don’t mind. I… I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Namjoon says firmly. “Not now. Not again.”

A few minutes pass in silence. Bam’s tail brushes against Jungkook’s thigh now and then, a gentle, rhythmic reminder that something is still steady.

Then Namjoon’s phone buzzes again. His heart thuds once, hard, before he glances down.

Manager: New update. We’ve got his car. Keys still inside. No sign of him.

No damage. No struggle. Just abandoned.

Namjoon’s stomach turns.

Seokjin sees his face change. “What is it?”

Namjoon shows him the screen.

Jungkook leans forward slowly. “He just left it?”

“Looks like,” Namjoon murmurs, something nagging at the back of his brain. Not panic, not yet. But close.

“He didn’t look like he was running,” Jungkook says again. “When he left. He looked... calm. Too calm.”

“Which is exactly what makes this worse,” Seokjin mutters. “You don’t walk away from your life in the middle of the night because you’re fine.”

Namjoon nods grimly. “Yoongi’s headed to the old studio. If he’s not there, we regroup here. Decide next steps.”

Another vibration.

Namjoon: Yoongi. Update when you reach the studio. Don’t go in alone.

Yoongi: already here. give me two minutes.

Namjoon: Yoongi. No.

No answer.

Namjoon stares at the screen. His pulse ticks in his jaw.

Seokjin watches him. “He’ll be fine.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying tonight.”

Footsteps echo down the front walk, sharp, fast. Then three quick knocks.

Jungkook stiffens.

“It’s Jimin,” Seokjin says, already on his feet. “I told him to knock three times.”

He opens the door, and Jimin pushes in immediately, his face drawn tight with worry. Taehyung follows at his heels, unusually quiet, eyes scanning the room.

“Where is he?” Jimin demands.

“Not here,” Namjoon says evenly. “We’re all trying to figure out where he is.”

“He came into your house.” Taehyung’s voice is hushed, incredulous, as he looks at Jungkook. “With a key.”

Jungkook nods.

“And just left?” Jimin asks, voice sharper. “Like some kind of ghost?”

Namjoon gestures toward the couch. “Sit. Please. Let’s get on the same page before Yoongi checks in.”

Taehyung sits beside Jungkook without a word. Jimin stays standing, arms crossed, pacing.

“Where’s his mind, hyung?” he asks suddenly. “Where the hell does someone go like that? He wouldn’t just disappear. Not Hobi.”

No one answers.

Seokjin finally says, “That’s what scares me.”

Another buzz.

Yoongi: He’s not here. Studio’s locked, dark. Looks like it hasn’t been used in a while.

No sign of him.

Namjoon runs both hands through his hair, exhaling. He types:

Get here. Now.

Jimin: What the hell do we do when we’re all here, hyung?

Namjoon: We decide if this is a mental health crisis, a personal break, or something worse.

Taehyung: You think someone hurt him?

Namjoon: I don’t know what I think yet. But until I do, we assume nothing, and we stay together.

Seokjin stands, walking to the window. Outside, the sky is soft with the first haze of sunrise. A few birds stir. It feels wrong. Too calm. Too clean.

“I don’t think this is just him acting out,” Seokjin says. “I think we’ve been missing signs for a while. And now whatever’s happening… it’s past the point of pulling back.”

Namjoon looks at the door, then at the key still sitting on the counter, glinting in the dim kitchen light.

Locksmith first. Get Yoongi here next. Then figure it out, Namjoon.

You can do this.

The locksmith’s work is quick, almost clinical. Within minutes, the front door and the patio locks are replaced, new keys sliding smoothly under Namjoon’s fingers. He tests them several times, each turn a small, sharp reassurance that, at least for now, the entrances are secure.

He glances at the windows next, considering extra reinforcement.

“Could be done,” the locksmith says, brushing a hand over the frame. “But honestly, it won’t stop someone who already knows where the spare is. Bars, extra locks, they just make it harder to escape in an emergency.”

Namjoon exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. It’s the doors that matter. The windows can stay… less prison-like.” He nods, satisfied for the moment, and the locksmith packs up and leaves, a metallic click of the door echoing behind him.

The quiet of the apartment doesn’t last long. Yoongi’s presence hits before he even fully steps through the door. Sweat clings to his brow, a beanie shoved down low, eyes darting over the room as though he’s scanning for trouble. His shoulders slump only after he’s safely inside, letting out a long, shaky breath.

“Finally,” he mutters, voice low, and pushes the beanie further down, rubbing at his forehead. His eyes flick to Jungkook, to Seokjin, and finally settle on Namjoon. “What the hell happened while I was in transit?”

Namjoon straightens, voice measured but tight. “We’ve secured the apartment. Front and patio locks. Windows are fine, no need to go overboard. But we need to talk about him… Hoseok.”

Yoongi stiffens, jaw tightening. “You mean the ‘prank’ that nearly gave me a heart attack?” He runs a hand over his face, trying to shake the lingering tension off. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Seokjin moves closer, voice low but firm. “Start where we left off. The breaking in, the car, the… games he’s been playing. What he’s saying, what he’s doing… it’s more than just lighthearted.”

Jungkook clutches Bam a little tighter, shoulders tense. The apartment hums with the weight of unspoken fear and anger, everyone bracing for the conversation they’ve been avoiding.

Namjoon leans against the counter, finally letting the words fall. “We need to put everything on the table. No sugarcoating. Not tonight.”

Yoongi exhales sharply, voice edged. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

The room holds its breath.

Jimin exhales sharply, finally letting himself sit on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. His voice is low but edged with anger. “He stole my ring from me, held onto it until I noticed, was visibly panicked, and then handed it back. Told me it was a test.”

Taehyung’s hands curl into fists in his lap, voice tight. “A test? What the hell kind of test is that? To scare us? To see how we react? He shouldn’t be doing this to anyone… let alone us.”

Namjoon leans against the counter, jaw tight. “It’s not just the ring, Taehyung. It’s everything. And it doesn’t make sense unless he wants to push boundaries.”

“He told me I was being watched,” Yoongi barks out, fingers gripping deep into the couch. “It was night, in the HYBE parking lot, and he laughed it off. Pointed at his reflection in the fucking mirror.”

Seokjin snaps his finger. “And for me, he literally said, and I quote ‘if you vanished tomorrow, what do you think the reason would be’.”

Jungkook’s hands tighten around Bam, voice small but sharp. “And now, he was in my home. Smiling. Like it was normal. Like he had every right to be there.”

Jimin leans forward, elbows digging into his knees. “He made me feel like I was losing my mind. Like I was overreacting. But… I’m not. None of this is normal.”

Taehyung runs a hand through his hair, muttering. “He’s testing us. Always testing. Seeing what we’ll do, how we’ll react. And it’s… it’s messing with my head.”

Namjoon exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t just games anymore. He’s crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. And worse… he’s escalating.”

Yoongi’s jaw is tight, eyes dark. “I’ve been trying to follow him, keep him in check, but… it’s like he knows exactly what buttons to push. And he’s enjoying it.”

Seokjin’s voice drops low, steady but sharp. “We all care about him. That’s the worst part. And we can’t just ignore it.”

Silence falls briefly, heavy and tense, punctuated only by Bam’s quiet whine.

Jungkook finally mutters, “He’s not just reckless… he’s… he’s hiding something. And it’s eating him alive.”

Namjoon straightens, opens his mouth to add.

His phone vibrates again on the coffee table. He sees the caller ID, and tenses.

“Hoseok’s manager,” he mutters, already swiping to answer.

“Namjoon-ah,” the manager’s voice comes, uneasy. “Hoseok just called me. We talked. He’s on the other line. I’m patching him through. Hold on.”

Namjoon scrambles to put his phone on speaker, turning the volume to full as the line clicks.

“Hyung!” Hoseok’s voice bursts through, bright, too bright. “What’s gotten you all so tense? Did my little prank really get this far?”

Namjoon blinks. “…Prank?”

“Yes, prank!” Hoseok laughs, airy and delighted. “Breaking in, stealing a ring, telling Yoongi he was being watched. It was a joke. You know, to lighten the mood.”

Jungkook sits bolt upright, fury breaking through his fear. “That wasn’t a joke, hyung! You scared the hell out of me! How is that funny?”

“Jungkookie, come on—”

“Don’t call me that right now!” His voice cracks, Bam barking at the sharpness. “You don’t get to do that and act like it’s nothing!”

Seokjin’s voice cuts in, sharp as glass. “Hoseok, what the hell is wrong with you? Sneaking into people’s homes, messing with their things? You call that a prank? That’s crossing the line!”

There’s a beat of silence, then Hoseok scoffs lightly. “You’re all being so dramatic. I didn’t hurt anyone. You used to prank me all the time, Seokjin-hyung. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

“That was never like this,” Seokjin snaps.

Yoongi leans forward, his tone low and biting. “You think it’s funny to tell me I’m being watched? You think that’s a joke after everything we’ve been through? You really think this is just harmless?”

Hoseok’s laughter falters, thins. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. It was supposed to be lighthearted—”

“Lighthearted?” Namjoon finally bursts, his voice thunderous. “Hoseok, you vanished on us. You said you were overwhelmed. And instead of leaning on us, you start breaking into Jungkook’s home and leave your car to be found on the side of a road like it’s a game?!”

The silence after is heavy, his own ragged breath loud in his ears.

On the other end, Hoseok’s voice comes quieter now, but edged. “You don’t get it. None of you do. I was just—” He cuts himself off, then forces the cheer back into his tone, brittle and thin. 

“Forget it. You want to be mad, be mad. I’ll stop. Happy now?”

Hoseok laughs. It just sounds bitter. No one answers immediately.

The line crackles, their silence settles heavily, static in the speaker.

Finally, Seokjin speaks, low and trembling with anger. “We’re not happy, Hoseok. We’re worried. And you laughing in our faces doesn’t fix a damn thing.”

Jimin exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You think this ends with you saying you’ll stop? Like we’re supposed to breathe a sigh of relief and move on?”

Jungkook’s fists clench on his knees, knuckles white. “You don’t even sound sorry. You’re still laughing at us.”

“I’m not—” Hoseok starts, but Namjoon cuts him off.

“Then what are you doing, Hoseok? Because right now, it feels like you’re pulling these stunts just to prove you can. Like this is about control, not some dumb prank.” His voice wavers, but the weight of it lands hard in the silence that follows.

“Hyung—” Hoseok tries again, but Jungkook slams his palm against the coffee table, startling Bam into another bark.

“No! Don’t ‘hyung’ us like that! You broke into my home. You made me feel unsafe in my own house. Do you get what that means?”

His chest heaves, fury shaking every word. “You don’t come back from that with a laugh.”

The line is silent again. For a moment, it almost seems like Hoseok’s going to hang up, the faint static hissing in their ears.

Then he mutters, nearly inaudible, “I didn’t think it’d matter this much.”

Taehyuing’s voice cuts sharp, steel beneath his soft tenor. “It matters, hyung. It matters because it came from you .”

On the other end, Hoseok’s voice comes quieter now, but edged. “You don’t get it. None of you do. I was just—”

Hoseok makes a noise. Like he’s swallowing back his words.

“Just what?” Jimin shoots back. “Just stealing our things? Breaking and entering? Making us paranoid? Really. I’d love to fucking know what you were just doing.”

On the line, there’s a harsh exhale, static scratching with the sound of it. For a second, it’s only Hoseok. It sounds like he’s pacing.

To Namjoon, it sounds like he’s not even breathing.

Then it comes, a rush of words like he’s forcing them out between clenched teeth.

“Just… forget it. It doesn’t matter. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

The words fall flat, thin against the line. An apology and nothing behind it.

“Sorry?” Jimin’s voice is sharp enough to cut. “That’s it?”

“Don’t start,” Hoseok mutters, weariness bleeding into his tone. “I said I’m sorry.”

Taehyung exhales through his nose, a bitter sound. “That’s not what sorry means, hyung. Sorry isn’t forget it.”

The silence after is brutal. Even through the static, Namjoon thinks he can hear Hoseok’s steps, uneven, like he’s pacing tight circles.

“Forget it,” Hoseok says again, softer now, almost to himself. And then, louder. “I’ll be around.”

And the line clicks.

No one speaks. The room goes airless. “I’ll be around” rings in Namjoon’s head, promise or threat, he can’t tell.

The empty line hums a beat longer before going dead.

“He hung up,” the manager confirms, voice tinny in the quiet. “I’ll contact someone to track his whereabouts.”

Namjoon drags a hand down his face. Jungkook looks sick. Jimin’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass. Taehyung curls forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor.

“Hold off on that, Manager-nim.” Namjoon’s voice is flat. “This isn’t just a crisis. It’s us. He’s circling us.”

“Then we don’t let him,” Yoongi snaps.

The words hang like a blade. For once, no one pushes back. Fear hardens into anger, anger hardens into resolve.

They can’t forgive Hoseok. But they can’t abandon him, either.

Hoseok drops the phone into his pocket, fingers still trembling.

The street’s nearly empty this late, just the hiss of traffic two blocks over and the buzz of a flickering streetlight above him. His feet keep moving, quick, uneven, like if he slows down his thoughts will catch up and eat him alive.

“They don’t get it,” he mutters to no one. His throat feels raw. “They’ll never get it.”

He crosses into an alley, shoulders brushing brick, the dark pressing close. He needs to sit down.

He leans against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed.

That’s when he hears it. Footsteps that aren’t his own. Too heavy. Too close.

“Who—?”

A hand and a cloth clamps over his mouth before he can finish.

The world tilts; his head cracks against the wall, light bursting behind his eyes.

“Got him.” A voice, low, certain.

Plastic bites into his wrists as zip ties cinch them fast. Hoseok thrashes, tries to shout, but the grip on his mouth only tightens, something chemically sweet against his nose and mouth.

He doesn’t breathe it in, but the smell is a memory’s favorite. Chloroform.

There’s no getting out of this.

So, he forces himself to stop strugggling. To fall limp. Hands, firm, unrelenting, lift him, carry him like he weighs nothing. He catches a fleeting glimpse of a mask in the dim streetlight, expressionless, calm, calculating.

“Easy now,” a voice murmurs, almost gentle, “we’re just taking a short trip.”

And Hoseok watches from behind his eyelids as he’s stuffed into the back of a van.

The van smells of cold metal and faint, lingering motor oil. The sudden motion throws Hoseok against the hard surface of the seat. Or maybe it’s the floor, he can’t tell, his body is a ragdoll as he feigns unconsciousness.

A hand presses against his shoulder to steady him, unyielding. He can feel the rhythm of the vehicle, tires drumming against the pavement, the low growl of the engine vibrating through his chest.

He tries to think, to plan, but every thought drags against the fog creeping at the edges of his mind. Panic thrums beneath it all, heavy and demanding.

The van jerks, a sudden swerve that sends him sliding, thoughts sputtering, and he realizes. 

He doesn’t know how they’re planning to kill him this time.

And he’s completely, terrifyingly, at their mercy.

Chapter Text

It starts to rain.

He can hear it against the sides of the van, pattering in uneven bursts, a rhythm that could almost be soothing, if not for the hand resting on his shoulder.

He keeps his head tilted, pretending unconscious calm, eyes darting under lashes. Shapes move in the periphery. A masked face, shadows, a hand toying with something he can’t quite see. Every subtle sound, the click of a belt, the creak of the seat, the soft rustle of rain against the van, sharpens the twist of fear in his soul.

The hand on his shoulder shifts, pressing just enough to remind him: one wrong move, and it won’t be ignored.

“Someone really wants to shoot this guy point blank,” laughs a voice, too close to his ear.

“Yeah? Well they had their chance already,” calls another, the driver. “They know the rules. Should’ve hired a better hand.”

Hoseok swallows, forcing the deep, even breaths he’s been faking to stay steady. Whatever’s against his back digs deeper into his skin as the van lurches slightly over a puddle, rain splashing loudly against the tires.

The first masked figure shifts again, the edge of the mask catching the faint glow from the dashboard. Hoseok can see nothing of their expression, but the tilt of the head, the slow, deliberate movement of the fingers carding over their phone, speaks volumes.

“Bookkeeper says the bets are in. It’s up to us how we want to spin it.”

The one driving whistles, a sharp, cartoonish noise. “Really? Giving us all the power?”

Hoseok watches the one near him shrug in his periphery. “This whole thing’s a Unicorn at this point. A name just doesn’t go up and stay on for another run.”

The driver laughs. It sounds like air punched out of old lungs, coated in tar. “How many runs this fucker got?”

“Three.” Hoseok watches a gloved hand raise, fingers ticking up as they say “A miss. Second one faded out. And now, us.”

Hoseok swallows again, the wet scrape of his throat loud in his own ears. His mind ticks, cataloguing the voices, the cadence, the subtle differences. The driver’s rasp, the other’s clipped consonants from a foreign accent, the faint metallic click of gear against their hidden forms.

“Realy?” the driver barks out, actual awe in his voice. “Faded out? He doesn’t seem the type.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” laughs the first, and Hoseok feels a kick against his side. It doesn’t hurt, but he grimaces, curling into himself.

Look pathetic. Look disoriented.

The first masked figure chuckles again, low and deliberate. “Funny thing about a Unicorn,” they say, tilting their head so Hoseok catches a glint in the eyehole of the mask. “They either shine bright, or they vanish. Ain’t no in-between.”

And then there’s a fist in his hair, dragging him upright. Hoseok hisses air through his teeth as he’s pulled to his knees. 

“Wakey wakey, sleeping beauty.”

Hoseok flails a bit as he’s manhandled, his knees digging into the metal below. 

“Think we should call a vote?” the driver calls.

“Yeah, I’ll do it. Let’s have a show.” says the other, holding a phone up to Hoseok’s face.

Hoseok just blinks, squinting as the light of the phone’s camera shines against his eyes.

“Smile miracle boy. You’re a star.” the man says, waving the phone in front of his face.

Hoseok’s jaw tightens, forcing his grimace into something closer to a smirk. Every fiber of him is screaming, soul gashing against his skin, but outwardly, he plays along. Eyes half-lidded, head tilting just enough to meet the phone’s light, he lets a faint, sarcastic curl brush the corner of his mouth.

“Good enough?” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing, though it trembles slightly.

The masked figure leans closer, hand brushing along his cheek, inspecting the performance. 

“Hah. Not bad. Could sell it to the front row,” they say, voice flat but amused.

The driver snorts, slapping the wheel, the van rocking slightly with his laughter. “It’s got spirit.”

Hoseok swallows, taste of metal sharp on his tongue. The van dips over another puddle, water spraying against the sides. Rain drums harder now, masking the subtle noises. The click of a phone, the shuffle of fabric, the faint zip of gloves sliding over leather. Every sound sharpens him, though outwardly he remains pliant, bent at the knees, shoulders tight.

The first masked figure tilts their head again and pats him on the shoulder. “Keep that up. Makes the show better.”

Hoseok lets out a soft, humorless laugh, the sound low and wary, keeping it just enough to satisfy their expectation while his mind runs through escape, timing, angles, anything.

The hand lets go of his hair, and an arm wraps around his shoulders, dragging him against the other man’s body. The man holds out the phone screen towards him, showing it to him like they’re old friends. He can hear a grin in the man’s voice.

“Here, take a look for yourself.”

Hoseok blinks at the screen, eyes adjusting to what he’s seeing.

J-Hope: 6,728,460,268 KRW to 2,800,800 KRW

“Can’t believe there’s still some numbers here thinking you’re going to live through this one too.”

Hoseok’s chest tightens. The numbers blur at first, messages from a multitude of faceless people scrolling past, and then clarity hits like ice in his veins. His hands clench against the restraints, nails digging into palms he can’t see.

He swallows hard, forcing a laugh that tastes bitter. “You really keep score, huh?”

The man chuckles, tilting the phone so the light glints off the mask. “Of course. A Unicorn’s worth it. High stakes, high interest. The bets roll in, and everyone’s at the edge of their seat for the payout.”

“So, what are you then?” Hoseok spits back. He shifts slightly, testing the tension in the arm across his shoulders. Nothing gives.

The driver lets out a short, amused whistle from the front. “Are they all this chatty?”

The man laughs. “Nah. This one’s just weird.”

Hoseok lets a humorless smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m the main event today,” he mutters, tone low, edged with sarcasm.

“Nah, you’ve been the main event for weeks. Rocked the very foundations. Made a lot of comfortable people lose out big time.”

Hoseok rolls his eyes. “I’m honored.”

The driver laughs loudly.

“Holy shit. This one’s insane.”

“Told’ja.” says the other.

Hoseok swallows, forcing his humorless smirk to stay in place, scans over the phone, the messsges, the names. Seeing if anything latches onto a memory.

It doesn’t.

“You didn’t answer my question, though. If I’m a Unicorn,” he mutters, voice low, edged with sarcasm, “then what the hell are you?”

The masked figure near him tilts their head. Silence stretches, rain slamming against the sides of the van. Hoseok’s soul tightens around his skin.

Then, the driver lets out a rasping laugh from the front. “Curious, aren’t you?”

“Curiosity doesn’t kill,” Hoseok fires back, voice sharper this time, eyes flicking between the masked faces, searching for tells, for weaknesses, for any hint of identity in the memories he’s trying to reach for.

But the memories stay buried, sleeping deep inside his mind, fogged over by the panic crawling up his throat.

“Eh. Depends on who’s asking,” the first masked figure finally replies, voice slow, almost teasing. “And depends on who’s listening.”

Hoseok presses harder, leaning just slightly into the tension. “I’m asking. What are you? Who are you?”

Another pause. The masked figure chuckles, low, clipped. “We’re what you make of us. The ones who watch, the ones who—”

“Stop dancing,” Hoseok interrupts, jaw tight. “Just answer. Simple. Plain. What are you?”

Another laugh, dry, echoing against the metal walls. “We’re… the house. And you’re the spectacle.”

Hoseok lets the words settle, feeling their weight. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break the smirk. Instead, his mind starts cataloguing again.

A phone vibrates. Not the one in the man’s hand. Out of view, buzzing against fabric. And then, a robotic voice:

Target: J-Hope. Odds: 99.95 to 0.04.

Crowd votes: Toss off a bridge.

Keep it poetic.

The words echo in his skull, cold, mechanical, like someone stamping a price tag to his skin. Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut, once, hard, against the sound. Not fear. Just focus. A reminder. Numbers, calculations, patterns.

And, deep in the back of his mind, relief.

At least he knows what they’re going to do to him. At least he doesn’t have to guess, based on memories that aren’t his own and his own active imagination. 

His soul coils against his skin as he tears his eyes open and twists his mouth into another crooked half-smile.

“Poetic,” he mutters, voice gravel-dry, laced with mockery. “Guess you’ve got some real romantics in the crowd.”

The masked figure at his side tilts their head again, considering him like a specimen. The driver chuckles, a wheeze that rattles in the throat.

Hoseok leans into it, just a fraction, voice steady.

“What’s the point of poetry if the audience gets bored? Toss me off a bridge, and that’s it. Curtain drop. No sequel. No surprise. And you…” his eyes flick toward the driver’s masked reflection in the rearview, “you don’t strike me as the type to leave money on the table.”

A silence, taut and stretching. Rain patters harder against the van, a drumline masking Hoseok’s non-existent pulse. His soul pulses quietly against his skin instead.

The one holding him finally laughs, low, deliberate, the sound vibrating against his shoulder. “Listen, miracle boy. Whether you fall, crawl, or claw your way out, it’s all numbers. All bets. All eyes. And we have a whole menagerie to pick from.”

Hoseok keeps the smirk even, though the words grind against his ribs. “So what. You’re saying the crowd thinks they’re in charge, but you’re the ones pulling the strings? Feeding them lines? Spinning the miracle?”

The arm around him tightens, almost affectionate. “Now you’re starting to sound like us.”

Inside, Hoseok files it away. House feeds the crowd, not the other way around.

He laughs again, sharp, derisive. “Guess I should be flattered.”

The driver whistles low, cartoon-bright against the heaviness. “Careful, Hope. You keep talking like that, and the crowd might start asking for an encore.”

Hoseok keeps his smirk steady, though his stomach twists. “So that’s it, then? A miracle when it suits you, poetry when it suits them. Who decides which way the dice land? The… Bookkeeper?”

The word tastes wanton on his tongue. Testing. Fishing.

The driver lets out a sharp bark of laughter, high-pitched and cutting, like a sawblade. “Ah, shit. Look at him. Already thinking he’s in on the joke.”

Before Hoseok can blink, the arm around him shifts. Something rough, cloth, tape, maybe both, presses hard against his mouth, muffling the start of another question. Hands force it tight, cutting off the words, the teeth of the gag biting into his skin.

“Don’t get clever,” the one beside him murmurs against his ear, almost gentle.

The van hums louder as the road curves, headlights sweeping across wet guardrails. Hoseok works his mouth around the gag, biting, mind racing, storing the reaction.

The driver whistles again, easy and tuneless. “Show’s starting. Better sit back and play along, miracle boy Hope. The crowd’s waiting.”

And just like that, the van rolls to a stop. The rain pounds against the sides, Hoseok strains against the binds again, but it just bites deeper into his skin. A door opens and shuts with a bang.

Then, the man beside him stands, yanks Hoseok to his feet, and drags him forward.

The back of the van opens, rain-slick air rushing in, sharp and chilled against his skin.

Then he’s shoved forward, stumbling out, knees hitting asphalt, water soaking instantly through his jeans, the world outside a blur of darkness and rain and red tailights.

Right here. No hands on him. Footsteps circling closer, but still out of reach.

He could run.

The asphalt is slick beneath his knees. One breath, a twitch, a lurch, and maybe, just maybe, he could disappear into the rain.

But his legs stay folded. Not from obedience. Not even fear.

It’s the weight.

The weight of the phone. The numbers. The money.

He saw the odds. Watched the messages scroll past.

A whole category bets he’ll bolt. Millions stacked to the side on one single, human moment.

They’re expecting it.

So he stays still. Lets the roar of rain fold over him. Lets the moment pass. Lets miracle boy Hope deny yet another cash out.

He scoffs into the fabric of the gag, the sound strangled in his throat.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head.

To face whatever show they’ve dragged him into.

He’ll play along.

Above his head, through the downpour, the whir of a small engine cuts the rain. A red light peers through the darkness.

A drone.

Then another. Then another. Until they circle above him, their lenses glinting. Hovering like a mechanical halo high above his head.

For a fleeting second, he thinks of stadium lights. Of cheers.

Then the gag drags the thought back down his throat.

He takes in his surroundings for the second he can, before he’s dragged forward.

He’s on a bridge. He doesn’t recognize it, but there’s a metal railing in front of him, and drones circling above, and two men, one on either side, yanking him towards the edge.

Hands clamp under his arms, dragging him up, forcing him onto the slick metal rail. His sneakers slide against it, rain-slick and trembling.

Below him, darkness and the roar of rushing water.

Rain drips from his hair into his eyes.

He closes them, just for a moment, forcing his soul to wind even closer against his skin. His hands strain against the binds again, just to test, to twist, to think.

“You should be honored,” one of them says. “First one to get three attempts.”

And Hoseok does the one thing any human would do.

He thrashes, screams, begging around the gag. Eyes blown wide, the water running into his eyes falling like crocodile tears.

Here’s your show you want so badly.

The other voice, the driver, laughs again. One hand lets go, the other holds on, and Hoseok tips forward. He forces himself to freeze, feet planted against the slippery metal. Heaving air in through his nose. Shaking his head.

“See. Even the stoic one’s panic in the end. Told’ja he’d break.”

There’s another laugh. Another pull of air through abused lungs.

“Thanks for the show, miracle boy.”

And the second hand lets go.

For a split second, he’s still there, balanced on the slick rail, weightless, rain hammering down, audience of drones humming above.

Then the world tilts. His body lurches forward.

Air tears past him, rushing in his ears, clawing at his skin. The gag bites into his mouth as he screams into the void of wind.

In a way, his screams aren’t even a lie. He knows he can’t die, that it won’t hurt, but that doesn’t make the drop any less horrific.

He’s out of control, the world ripping past him too fast. A weightlessness that only makes him terrified.

The drones follow. Red eyes steady, unblinking, recording every flailing twist as the pitch-black water rushes up to meet him.

One dives beside him, close enough he could almost touch it, its lens wide and pitiless. It stares through the rain, following him like a companion as he plummets.

Until the river smashes up against him.

The impact sounds like a gunshot. His body folds as the water engulfs him whole.

Cold swallows him instantly, shocking, strangling. At first, he doesn’t sink, he just crashes against the surface. Then, the weight of the water wraps around him, dragging him down. His ears ring with the roar of the river, the world a blur of bubbles and dark.

Above, blurred through the shifting surface, red lights hover like distant stars, lenses still fixed on him as he sinks. As he’s dragged by the current.

They follow, drifting lower, their glow slicing through the murk, steady and unblinking.

So, Hoseok doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He lets his soul slip away from his corpse. Not completely. Only until he’s latched on by a thread.

Act limp. Act lifeless. Act dead.

And the river seizes him, pulls him down, and presses him deeper into its cold, endless throat.

As he drifts, the red lights vanish from view, but the voice in his mind echoes.

First idol to get three attempts.

And in the darkness of the water, Hoseok’s soul laughs. A biting, brutal, manic thing, shifting about like leeches against the edges of his flesh.

No, he thinks, that was the fourth.

And finally, his body settles at the bottom, cradled between stone and rot, waiting.

His soul twists back around his skin. Fastening tight.

His fingers flex, numb and freezing, scraping along river rock until they find the sharp edge of something broken. He saws, blind, frantic, wrists raw against plastic until the ziptie shears open.

Only then does he kick upward, not toward the surface, but sideways. Letting the current drag him downriver, skull still ringing with the sound his flesh made against the water.

When he finally breaks air, it’s silent. He doesn’t need to breathe, he just fights his way out of the rushing tide, clawing against mud and roots until he drags himself out onto the bank. Yanks the cloth and tape from his mouth and shoves two finger down his throat, silently forcing up water onto the grass and silt. The rain pouds against his back, washing away the soil and sand from his clothes.

The silence rattles louder than the river ever did.

His chest convulses, empties, the bile-slick taste of iron clinging to his teeth. The water leaves him in heaves and strings, spattering the grass.

He stays hunched there, palms buried in mud, convulsing in broken pulls he doesn’t even need but forces out anyway. To feel it stutter. To prove he still can. So, later, he can speak without sounding waterlogged.

The drones are gone. No red eyes above. Just rain.

He staggers to his feet, body shaking, skin raw and heavy as lead. The river tries to call him back with its roar, but he turns away.

One step, then another. Toward the only place left to go.

Home.

He can’t use his phone. It’s a saturated, shattered mess in his pocket, so he follows the river until he spies the bridge, and crouches low in the foliage.

The bridge rises ahead, a shadow of steel and concrete through the sheets of rain. He drops into the undergrowth, crouching deep among roots and brambles, the mud cold and slick under his palms.

Head down. Wait. Watch. The river hisses behind him, a second pulse to the one hammering in his ears.

When the coast stays empty, he slips forward again, hugging shadows, moving like the water itself.

The bridge is empty. Silent. The drones are gone. So is the van.

So is one of his sneakers.

A groan rattles out of him as he claws up the hill, mud sucking at his bare foot, roots biting into his palms. His limbs feel carved from stone, heavy, graceless, but he drags himself higher until at last he collapses onto the bridge. Concrete scrapes his cheek, rain streaking cold across his face.

For a moment, he just lies there, listening to the empty night hum around him.

His body’s not exhausted. Just his soul. Muscles twitch, ready to move again, but everything else drags. 

The impact ruptured long-dead organs and blood vessels, tore muscle and ligaments, left him broken in ways no living thing should recover from. And yet, his soul threads it all back together, knotting sinew, fusing bone, patching flesh with the clumsy insistence of something that refuses to let go.

Just himself, feeding himself with energy and memories, with the names of those he already ate. Each stitch doesn’t cost him, but it costs someone else, long forgotten. Faces dimming, laughter swallowed, love bled out until it’s only fuel. And the river keeps running, uncaring, as he rises again.

There doesn’t appear to be a car for miles, so he walks on the road. Rain slicks the asphalt, each step sloshing in puddles, the water clinging to his clothes and hair. Streetlights flicker overhead, dim and indifferent, casting long, trembling shadows. The night smells of wet concrete and earth, the only sound his own steps through puddles and muck.

It’s too dark to tell if it’s morning or night. In the distance, thunder rumbles across the road, reverberating under his feet. His eyes scan the road ahead. Every shadow could be a watcher, every flicker of light a lens. Rain soaks through, clinging to him like a second skin, but he barely notices. His mind catalogs the road, the slick shoulders, the treeline, the occasional glint of water off a puddle. Everything that might give him distance, everything that might keep him unseen.

Thunder rolls again, closer this time, vibrating through his chest. He swallows, taste of metal and mud on his tongue, and keeps walking. 

Eventually, he finds a road he recognizes, and by then the rain has turned into a wall of water.

He squints through the downpour, shapes blurring into one another, the familiar street signs barely visible through sheets of rain. The asphalt glistens like black glass under the heavy sky. Each step sends water sloshing from the puddles around his feet, and the chill cuts through his soaked clothes, settling into his bones.

The world feels both immense and narrowed, focused entirely on the next footfall, the next turn, the next patch of shelter. Trees bend under the wind, streetlights sway, and somewhere distant, a car horn honks, swallowed quickly by the roar of the storm.

His car… is not where he left it.

Hoseok freezes, chest tightening. His eyes drop to the asphalt where the car should have been, only to find the space empty. A scrap of paper flutters in the puddle, soaked and curling at the edges, ink bleeding into the fibers until the words are smudged, illegible.

He kneels, fingertips brushing the wet note, feeling the faint ridges of letters that his mind can’t quite decipher.

At the very least, it looks like the paper his manager uses, or something close to it.

Small mercies, he supposes, and keeps walking. 

He keeps his head low, scanning for movement, listening for anything that doesn’t belong to the storm, the faintest crunch of tires on gravel, a footstep in the water.

The note is gone from his mind as quickly as it appeared, just another puzzle piece he can’t quite solve.

He just looks ahead and around, until a familiar road comes into sight, familiar rooftops, well-groomed gardens and landscapes he recognizes.

Hoseok’s pace slows almost imperceptibly, each step measured, careful. The rain hammers down, soaking through his clothes, but he barely notices.

He walks half a block past his own street before realizing, doubling back to familiar shapes, rising through the blur. The curve of a sidewalk, the jagged line of a roof, the glow of a window he knows.

Relief is faint, tentative, but it settles over him like a fragile coat. He knows this place. He knows the rhythm of this street.

He reaches for his pocket, and pauses, the rain pouring over him.

Broken phone. No keys.

He sighs, one foot in front of the other again as he steps closer to the door, a new plan in mind.

A memory surfaces. A window, a gloved hand, the way they had picked the lock.

Hoseok doesn’t really think about it. He just lifts the lid of one of his neighbor’s trash bins, set out for collection. Yanks a rusted wire out of the heap of trash, and bends it around his fingers.

It takes some wiggling against the lock, but the memory worms its way over his eyes, and eventually the lock gives. The door swings wide.

Hoseok pauses, water dripping from his hair onto the threshold. He lets the door swing fully open, listening for any sound outside. Nothing but rain, the steady drum on roof and pavement.

He steps inside, mud and water squelching from his sneaker and soaked sock onto the floorboards, and throws the wire behind him as he closes the door with a soft click.The familiar darkness wraps around him, not threatening, just quiet. No phone buzzing in his pocket, no laughs or the rumble of an engine. The whirr of drones.

His hands tremble slightly as he leans against the door, feeling the wet weight of his clothes and the ache in every tendon, every fiber of his body. The finality of his fingers clicking the lock shut.

He toes off his shoe and socks, leaves them against the door. Water trails behind him as he limps across the floorboards, sags against the bathroom door.

He practically crawls into the tub, closing the glass door behind him and fumbling for the knob. He cranks the water to scalding, doesn’t bother taking off his clothes, just sits in the steady stream of water as it changes from freezing cold, to lukewarm, to burning.

It doesn’t hurt. It never does.

The heat presses against him, soaking through fabric and skin, drawing out the cold of the river clinging to his bones. Steam curls up, thick and heavy, fogging the glass in front of him.

He leans his head back against the tub wall, eyes closed, letting the water carry him, letting it wash away the grime, the mud, the river, the van, the weight of every hand that had touched him that night. Nothing washes the memory, but the water presses it down, drowns it just enough.

Fingers splay against the slick porcelain, nails digging in slightly, grounding him in the sensation of the present. The ache in his soul hums beneath the steady stream, a reminder that he is still here.

He grabs a bottle of shampoo at random. Doesn’t bother to read the label before he applies it directly to his hair. Scrubs the suds into his mess of hair, feeling grains of sand and dirt against his scalp. 

Ugh.

He scrubs harder.

Some of it runs into his open eyes. It doesn’t hurt, but his vision blurs.

He tilts his head back, letting the water rinse the suds and grit down his face and neck. Tiny grains swirl in the brown stream, floating away with the current. His lashes drip, his cheeks streaked with rivulets of muddy water, yet he doesn’t flinch.

The makeup drips out of the hole between his eyes as well, only a little bit healed. He’ll need to retouch that once he’s done.

Hands trace over his scalp again and again, loosening the remnants of the river, the van, the asphalt. He feels every scratch, every nick, every bruise beneath his fingers. The water carries none of it away, but it softens the edges.

The noise of the world, the drones, rain, laughter, engines, is gone. All that remains is the hot hiss of water, the pull of gravity, the faint splash as burning droplets fall into the tub.

And for a moment, between the blur of soap and steam, Hoseok allows himself a slow, steady exhale.

Meaningless to this body.

Everything to him.

His soul curls tightly around his skin, and he curls into a ball and holds himself close.

No red-eyed audience, no bets, no voices, not even the rain. Just the hiss of scalding water and the fragile, stubborn pulse of himself against his skin.