4-cat and mouse
"...I know you feel tired. Scared. Hopeless. We look into our future and there is only bleak emptiness. But you have to keep fighting. Nothing changes on its own. Even when they kick you down, get back up. Get back up. No empire has ever lasted forever. They can't hide that fact, no matter how many Old World records they burn."
- excerpt from a broadcast by revolutionary figure, Hope
_ _
Seokjin calls him a day before Yoongi is set to leave. Namjoon was planning on sitting down with him tonight and showing him the papers. Explaining everything that's going to happen in the next twenty-four hours - all the moving pieces. He'd been looking forward to it with something close to relief. The last few days have been tense and he can feel Yoongi watching him constantly - gaze drilling deep into his spine, right to the marrow. He wants the peace of his apartment back. Wants to be able to finally breathe.
But Seokjin opens their conversation with: "my guest is leaving earlier than expected. This morning, actually."
And all the relief evaporates.
"What? Why?"
Seokjin sighs, a crackle over the phone. "I think she's a flight risk. And I need to attend a party tonight."
"A party? You hate parties, hyung."
Especially the ones Seokjin is referring to. They're merely chances for the elite to engage in rampant hedonism and backstabbing, and Namjoon has avoided them like the plague since he was eighteen and could refuse his uncle's constant invitations.
"I know. But this is Yoo Minseok throwing a party, and he never throws parties."
Yoo Minseok - a member of the Eight. The Yoo family has been in charge of the city's police force for near a century, as well as vetting the king's own guard. They'd be a powerful connection, if Seokjin could get close to one of them. Especially their current heir.
"Do you think he'll be able to help us?"
"The opposite, actually," Seokjin says, sounding tired. "He's a monster, but I think he's getting ready to take over from his father - you've heard the rumors about illness - and he's decided to have some fun. Either way, it's worth going. Are you okay to keep your guest a little longer?"
Namjoon glances to the closed door of the guest bedroom where Yoongi is either sleeping or trying to eavesdrop. "I'm sure a few more days will be fine. I'd just ... rather get a move on things, you know? Things are tense right now. It would be better to have him gone."
"Three days," Seokjin says. "Can you wait that long?"
"Three days," Namjoon agrees. "Have fun tonight."
Seokjin lets out a dry laugh. "Let's just hope the alcohol is good."
"Take care, hyung."
"You, too."
He hangs up. Namjoon glances at the closed door and sucks in a deep breath. Three days shouldn't be too bad. Yoongi's been quiet so far - complacent, kept his head down - and Namjoon doubts he'll try anything major. Escape would be foolish and end in disaster. He's just being overly paranoid, that's all. This strange dread that's taken up residence in the pit of his stomach is from so many years of secrecy.
Three days, he tells himself. Everything will be fine.
_ _
It would be better to have him gone - the words ring in Yoongi's head as he backs away from the door. Better to have him gone.
He wasn't sure when Namjoon was going to make his move. Wanted to wait a little longer before striking - make sure he has a way out. There was a half-formed plan in his head about cutting off Namjoon's thumb to access the elevator and then disguising himself as a member of the building staff to get outside. From there, it would be easier. He knows how to get through a checkpoint, even one as heavily guarded as Sector 1, and he still has connections that could hide him in a different sector until the inevitable witch hunt ended. Help him look for Jungkook.
Of course, he'd also have to cut the tracker out of his neck, but that's a minor detail. Easily handled.
It looks like he doesn't have time to fine tune anymore. Three days, Namjoon said, but fuck that. Yoongi isn't waiting that long, especially if he changes his mind. Namjoon's clearly tiring of his presence - probably impatient with Yoongi's healing and this charade of kindness. He wants to have his fun.
Yoongi crosses the room and crouches by the bed, reaching a hand under the mattress to brush against the handle of the knife.
Fuck that, fuck Kim Namjoon. He's fucking done being someone's plaything. Isn't going to just roll over and die for anyone.
Tonight, he decides as he gets back to his feet. He'll strike tonight.
_ _
"You're sure about this?" Hoseok asks, for what feels like the fifth time today.
It had taken longer than Jimin anticipated, to get the papers from Heechul: nearly a full week. During that time, as least, Taehyung was able to procure an address for Kim Namjoon. Or at least, a suspected address. Elite records are kept very hush hush, so all they have is speculation and the few breadcrumbs Taehyung managed to follow with a shitty Sector 10 connection. It's going to have to be enough. They're on a clock that's ticking down faster and faster and Jimin refuses to be late this time.
"Yes," he says, sliding the forged papers into his wallet. "I'm sure."
It should be him, it needs to be him. Hoseok and Taehyung are too valuable to lose, and besides he's the best at this. Has always been an expert at camouflaging himself, putting on whatever mask he needed to blend in and survive. It's how he kept himself and Taehyung alive on the streets for so long and it's the reason Yoongi tapped him to take over the smuggling network if anything happened.
Tonight he has on his best coat and a scarf carefully tied around his neck. Beneath that is contraband foundation concealing his mark. He styled his hair with gel, slicking it back off his forehead. Every speck of dirt and grime he could find has been meticulously washed away and with the coveralls and a messenger bag, he looks like any outer sector worker, on his way to a job in a Sector 5 factory.
Hoseok's face is still pinched with worry, lips turned down in a triangle frown. He's scared, Jimin knows, of losing him or Taehyung. Scared, always, that he's going to be left alone. Jimin can't do much to reassure him - not when they all constantly put their lives at risk - but he still steps around the table and folds Hoseok into a tight hug.
"It's going to be okay, hyung," he murmurs. Hoseok tries so hard to be strong for them, to look after them, that sometimes Jimin forgets he needs comfort, too. Needs soothing words, no matter how empty they might be. They all have to hold on to hope, somehow. "We'll get him back."
Hoseok returns the hug tightly, petting the back of Jimin's head. "Just be careful. Please. Come back in one piece."
"I will," Jimin promises and is determined not to make it a lie. "I will."
Hoseok steps back with a nod. A smile that's a little watery at the edges. "I'll hold you to that, kid."
Jimin shifts his bag higher over his shoulder. He would say good-bye to Taehyung, but he hasn't been home in two days - busy chasing various wireless hotspots around the city. And besides, this is only supposed to be a one day trip. He'll see Taehyung tomorrow, as long as everything goes according to plan.
"See you soon," he tells Hoseok and slips out the front door.
It's easy, out on the street, to fall in with the crowd on their way to the train station for work. Marked occupy much of this sector, and aren't allowed to leave it unless under special circumstances, but the ordinary citizens, blessed to be born without mutated DNA, usually have jobs closer to the inner city, where the pay is better and the working conditions not so grim. Poverty is everywhere here, true, for Marked and unmarked alike, but those who can find jobs beyond the sector usually stand a better chance of eventual escape.
People like Jimin? They're supposed to live and die out here - far away from the eyes of the elite.
He's been to other sectors before, but never by train. There are other ways to slip through, if you're clever enough. If you're Yoongi - who showed him all the cracks in the boundaries. A delivery truck that takes stowaways here, an old gate there - they'll get you into 9, 8, and maybe even 7 - with its massive greenhouses. But for Sectors 5 and up, where security is tighter, it's the train or bust.
He takes a deep breath as he gets in line for the security checkpoint, making sure to keep his face schooled into a bored mask. Heechul's good. The papers and travelcard should hold up. It's his fucking neck he's the most worried about.
"Next," the guard calls, bored, and Jimin realizes that he means him.
He moves forward, hurried but purposefully casual, and hands the man his work permit, clearing him for a factory job in Sector 5, and his travelcard. The guard scans them and the light on the machine beeps green.
"Scarf," he says, pointing.
Jimin tugs the scarf down to expose his neck, silently praying that the foundation has held.
Apparently it has, because there's no call for backup or motion to arrest him. The guard just nods and hands him back his papers, waving him through the gate to the train platform.
He keeps his head down as he goes, clutching his bag tightly. The next train is due in five minutes, so he finds a spot at the end of the platform to wait, watching it slowly fill up with workers. Most of them look tired and washed out, staring blankly straight ahead, and Jimin slowly relaxes his guard. Without the Mark, he's just another face in the crowd, nothing to force him to stand out.
It's early dawn, so he stares up at the sky lightening overhead - gold steadily chasing away the black - until the train rattles up. It's a scramble for the doors and he ends up crushed against the far wall between two burly looking men in similar coveralls to him. They chat, ignoring him completely, and he listens to them ramble about their wives and children; complain about the cost of heating now that winter is setting in; contemplate what it would take to move. Even Sector 8 or 9 would be better, surely.
Jimin doubts that's true. Just another lie the elite have fed to everyone. Someday, you'll work your way in. Someday, you'll make it to the gleaming center. All it will cost you is most of your life, if not all of it.
It's sad. It makes his blood boil.
The journey to 5 is over half an hour, with a stop in each sector between, so he pretends to doze with his head tipped against the frigid glass of the window. He's never been on a train before, and the rattle and shake of it around him is strangely soothing. He's almost sad when the Sector 5 station appears outside the windows and the train slows to another stop. The men exit, along with several dozen others, and Jimin keeps them between him and security as they leave the station.
The buildings here are cleaner, he notices immediately, and far less ramshackle - like they actually get repaired instead of being left to rot. They're modest, sure, but all the stores seem to be well-stocked and the streets also free of debris. In the distance, the factories near the city wall loom, their smokestacks stretching towards the sky. That's where the men are going, undoubtedly, but Jimin heads in the opposite direction, towards the second train line. This one is an express, reserved for government business only, and runs almost directly into Sector 1.
Heechul gave him coordinates for an alley nearby and a dumpster with an envelope in it - supposedly from one of his contacts in Sector 1. Someone who goes by the moniker of J and is apparently one of the best forgers in the city, according to Heechul. Who is actually the best forger Jimin knows by far, so that's high praise.
He finds the alley fairly easily, just two blocks from the station, running behind a series of furniture stores (amazing - that people can just go out and buy new furniture when old stuff breaks, instead of having to cobble it back together), and the blue skip. Sure enough, tucked inside, between some trash bags, is a plain manila envelope with a smiley face drawn on it.
Jimin snorts as he extracts it. No wonder Heechul, with his flair for drama, likes this guy.
Inside is a fresh set of documents, this one for an auctioneer. Sometimes, they travel into Sector 1 and 2 to have private consultations with clients and that's supposed to be his cover. Butterflies flutter in his stomach, but Heechul trusts J - and Heechul doesn't trust anyone. So here goes nothing.
First, though, he needs to finish step two. He shoves the envelope into his bag and picks a busy-looking store that will hopefully have a public restroom he can use without attracting too much attention.
Sure enough, the harried clerk at the counter nods to a door in the corner as soon as he asks. He thanks her with a short bow and slips inside, locking the door behind him.
In his messenger bag is a new change of clothes - far nicer than any he's worn before. A member of the network secured them for him from Sector 4 and he can't help running his hands over the soft fabric - free of holes and patches and fraying threads.
How the other half lives.
He changes quickly, then looks at himself in the mirror and has to fight the urge to gape. The pants are tighter than he usually wears and the shirt is made of what feels like white silk, draping elegantly over his frame. A heavier, midnight blue coat goes over it, falling to his mid-thigh. The heeled boots are shiny leather, neatly covering the ends of the black pants, and a red silk scarf goes tight around his neck, once again covering any traces of the Mark.
He re-styles his hair, once again parting it and sweeping his bangs off his forehead. Fishing around in the bag, he pulls out the rest of the makeup and applies a little kohl and shadow to his eyes. It's common, apparently, among elite and residents of Sector 1, and it'll further help alter his appearance.
When he's finally finished, he takes another look at himself in the mirror and finds a near-stranger staring back.
He looks poised. Rich. Important.
It's amazing, he thinks, what clothes can do.
He carefully folds up his coveralls, shoes, shirt, and coat, and stuffs them back in the bag. There was also a shiny, expensive phone in the envelope, with a note that says it doesn't actually have any service but will still help make him look more legitimate. Out here business is often conducted by phone.
He takes one last deep breath, watching the stranger in the mirror do the same. Imagines Yoongi's voice in his head - a little gruff, but always so loving.
You can do this, Jimin-ah. You've always been brave.
Yoongi plucked him and Taehyung off the streets as near-starved teenagers and gave them a home when he could have easily left them to die. Treated them like family from day one, even though Jimin was wary of him and his intentions - half-convinced he was luring them back to his apartment to assault and kill them. Instead, he offered them food and a place for the night. And then all the nights after that.
Said so easily, you're my kids, even though he was only a few years older than them and trying hard to be strong.
And god how Jimin misses him. So much that he aches with it - his insides scraped raw and hollow, like there's empty space where Yoongi and Jungkook once were.
I'm coming, he promises the Yoongi in his head. The Yoongi out there in the city, in the clutches of a monster. Just hold on a little longer.
He needs to get a move on, though, if he's going to make the next train. So he shoulders his bag again and slips out of the bathroom. Thankfully, the clerk is busy and doesn't notice his radically different appearance. He stows the bag in the skip in the alley, burying it deep beneath a trash bag where hopefully no one will find it, and heads for the station.
There are less guards than he was expecting, but perhaps here they don't have "dangerous Marked" to contend with and so don't feel the need for stringent checkpoints. The line also moves much more quickly - everyone hurried and important-looking. Jimin does his best to blend in with them, throwing his shoulders back and tilting his chin up and making his strides long and purposeful. He doesn't have the ability to tower like Taehyung can, but he's learned how to be intimidating - make himself seem far larger than his compact frame.
Just another thing he has Yoongi to thank for.
"Please make this quick," he snaps to the guard as he pulls his forged ID, permit, and travelcard out of his coat pocket. "I have an important meeting with a client I'm late for."
The guard sneers at him, but doesn't protest, doing a quick scan. The machine beeps green and just like that Jimin is through.
(It feels almost too easy.)
This time, the train is at the station, forcing him to run in order to slip aboard before the doors hiss shut. Inside, he marvels at the padded seats and shiny, pristine floors. The flashing display that shows a map of the city and each stop on their route.
Shit. He'd move here just for how clean everything is.
A pleasant female voice announces that they'll be arriving in Sector 1 in twenty minutes, and Jimin sinks into one of the plush seats, trying to pose himself as arrogantly as possible. He pulls out the phone and clicks it on, blinking with internal awe at the large display and array of icons. Their burner phones just have a keypad and a tiny, pixelated screen.
He chooses one called "notes" and begins randomly typing, hoping it will make him look busy. There's a woman sitting next to him, fiddling with her purse on her lap. She keeps glancing at him, and he braces himself for when she works up the courage to talk to him.
It doesn't take long.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt, but I saw on your work permit that you're an auctioneer?"
"That's right," Jimin says, looking up with a cold, polite smile.
"Wow," the woman says. "That's fascinating. I just - I've never actually seen a Marked? Since they're confined to the outer sectors. But I've always wondered, are they really how people say? Feral?"
I'll show you feral, Jimin thinks, but keeps the anger off his face, going for a disinterested shrug instead. "They can be. I deal with those who have been sanctioned - so the troublemakers. They're often ... difficult. But many of my clients like the challenge."
He feels sick, imagining someone buying Jungkook or Yoongi just to break them, but focuses on the way this woman's eyes go wide and amazed. "Oh. Wow," she repeats.
"Sorry," he says, nodding to his phone. "I have a meeting I need to reschedule..."
"Of course," the woman says, dipping her head and clutching her purse tighter. "I'm sorry I bothered you."
"It's fine," he demurs and returns to typing, angling his phone away so she can't see that he's drafting a random list of objects in his apartment.
Too quickly, the pleasant voice announces that they're approaching Sector 1. He forces himself not to peer out the window at the gleaming skyscrapers that fill the horizon. To act like this is a place he's seen hundreds of times before.
He can't help pausing once he's left the station, though, and doing a slow turn to take in the wide, immaculate streets and green spaces and the buildings that stretch into the clouds. How fancy everyone is dressed and the shops advertising jewelry and gourmet food and expensive clothing. It feels like a completely different world than the one he's used to. Like a dream.
If only it wasn't so full of monsters.
He fights off the shiver that runs down his spine and pulls the card from Taehyung out of his pocket. There's an address scribbled on it - what they hope will be Kim Namjoon's apartment complex. His job is to just observe. Make notes. What security is like and if Kim Namjoon actually does live there and what it would take to get themselves inside.
This may be the only chance they get, considering they can only travel with forged papers for so long. Considering the effort it took to get those papers. Considering that if he gets caught, he's pretty sure the penalty will be immediate execution.
Courage, Jimin-ah, comes Yoongi's voice from long ago.
He square his shoulders and heads in the direction of the apartment, according to the maps he studied, slipping seamlessly into the crowd of pedestrians.
One chance.
He's going to make it count.
_ _
It's quiet in Namjoon's apartment, almost peacefully so. Yoongi said he was tired and ostensibly went to take a nap in the guest bedroom. For once, Namjoon didn't retreat behind his locked door on the other side of the apartment, instead choosing to remain in the living room and read. That's a rare occurrence, but the perfect opportunity.
Now, Hoseok whispers, you have to do it now.
He slides the knife out from under the mattress. Watches the blade glint in the dim light. He's never killed anyone before. His previous owner - that was a desperate bid for escape, not planned murder. This feels different, sits heavier in his gut, and his hand trembles as he tightens his grip on the hilt.
You can do this, Hoseok murmurs. Yoongi can almost picture him, crouched next to him on this plush rug - his gaze earnest and serious. You have to do this.
For Jungkook, Yoongi reminds himself. For his own freedom.
He refuses to die as a fucking plaything.
He gets up and opens the bedroom door, careful to be as quiet as possible. Namjoon's on the couch facing away from him, perfect. All Yoongi has to do is walk up and slit his throat.
He crosses the over to the couch in three quick strides, grateful that years in a smuggling ring and eleven months as a companion have taught him to move quietly - keep his steps light and barely audible. Once he's close enough, he doesn't give himself time to think. Just sinks his fingers into Namjoon's silver hair and wrenches his head back. Namjoon makes a startled noise, eyes blowing wide and stunned. Yoongi brings up the knife, intent on raking it across Namjoon's throat, but he underestimated Namjoon's strength, or overestimated his own. Namjoon yanks himself free, jerking sideways so the knife cuts across his collarbone instead.
Fuck.
"What the hell are you doing?" Namjoon gasps, surging to his feet.
Right. Plan B.
Yoongi snatches a decorative vase off the edge of the counter and hurls it at Namjoon's head as hard as he can. Namjoon makes another stunned noise and scrambles sideways - the vase shattering against the far wall. Yoongi takes advantage of Namjoon's momentary distraction to close the distance between them and knee Namjoon hard in the solar plexus. He may have lost the window of surprise, but he knows how to fight. Dirty, if he has to.
He doubts Namjoon has the same experience.
Sure enough, Namjoon wheezes as all the air rushes from his lungs and he doubles over. Yoongi tangles his fingers in the shoulder of Namjoon's fancy shirt and shoves him to the floor. Namjoon manages to catch himself on his hands and knees but a kick to his side has him rolling over onto his back, gasping for air.
Yoongi straddles him, putting every once of his strength into keeping him pinned.
"Stop," Namjoon chokes out, trying to throw Yoongi off of him. "Stop."
"Shut up," Yoongi snaps. He's held onto the knife and he shifts to drag it across Namjoon's throat again, but Namjoon manages to get his hand free and grab Yoongi's wrist, stopping the knife from lowering any further.
"I'm - I want to help you," Namjoon says. "Don't ... do this."
Yoongi ignores him, trying to get free of Namjoon's grip. He jerks his arm sideways, loosening it enough to sink the blade into Namjoon's shoulder. Namjoon screams and punches Yoongi hard across the face, knocking him sideways. Then Namjoon bucks his legs and fully frees himself from Yoongi's hold.
"Fuck," he rasps and pulls the knife from his shoulder with a pained groan. Blood soaks the pale blue material. Drips onto the rug. "Fuck."
Yoongi's cheek is aching where Namjoon's ring connected, but he can't give up now. He's dead if he gives up now.
He staggers to his feet, glancing around the room for something else he can use as a weapon. There. A heavy looking decorative bowl on the bookcase. He starts towards it, but doesn't make it more than a step before Namjoon tackles him. They both crash to the ground, breaking the coffee table on their way down, and Yoongi's head connects hard with the floor, making his ears ring.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Enough," Namjoon says, pinning him. "Enough."
"Fuck you," Yoongi snarls, thrashing in Namjoon's hold.
Namjoon snags one of his wrists. "I'm sorry."
Oh god. Namjoon presses his fingers down hard on the seal and it activates, shifting from black to glowing red. Pain immediately follows as Yoongi's nerves light on fire in an agonizing wave, wrenching a scream from his mouth. Namjoon keeps his fingers there, keeps the seals activated, and the room spins. Black creeps in at the edges of his vision and everything hurts. Every cell in his body.
"I'm sorry," he hears Namjoon say right before he loses consciousness. "I'm so sorry."
His last coherent thought is: Jungkook-ah, I'm sorry I failed.
Then everything goes dark and silent and cold.
_ _
Seokjin forgot, somehow, just how much he loathes parties. They're full of backstabbing gossip and fake pleasantries and stupid, overly fancy horderves. This suit is stifling and starting to itch, as well, and the live band Yoo Minseok got to play in the corner has started to sound more screechy than pleasant.
At least the wine is good.
He's on his second glass of that, trying to figure out if it's worth staying much longer. He'd rather not partake in any of the "entertainment" on offer and he's schmoozed with his fair share of fellow elite - most of whom were surprised to see him out of the dark cave he apparently is rumored to live in.
Yoo Minseok himself clapped Seokjin on the back two minutes ago and grinned, sharp. Said it was good to see him and asked if he wanted some time alone with one of the companions or if he had to be torturing them to get off.
So that was fun.
He sighs and knocks back the rest of his drink. Minseok is an asshole and a rumored sadist, but he's also smart and very much ready for the power he's about to step into. Seokjin half-suspects the man's hastening his father's death somehow, just so he can claim the title of family head sooner. Knowing how elite can be, it wouldn't be a shocking revelation at all. Thank god he was born into a lesser branch of his own family, and that most of them have been content to stick their noses up at him and Namjoon and leave them in peace.
He sets his drink on the tray of a passing butler and decides to find the bathroom. Then he can hopefully slip away without anyone noticing. It isn't as though many people are in a rush to talk to him. He isn't important, comparatively, and the rumors that he murders people in that cave of his tend to be off-putting. Which is just as well, honestly.
He turns down a hallway that he hopes contains the bathroom, gradually wandering further away from the party. This mansion is a maze and he can feel himself slowly getting lost. After a few minutes of twisting corridors and rooms that are not the bathroom, he stumbles across some kind of indoor garden. Fine. He gives up. He's turning around to try to find his way back to the ballroom when he hears the awful, unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, followed up by a quiet sob.
Oh he shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. He doesn't stick his nose in other people's business and he just put his previous companion on a train this morning. Picking up another one would be a strain. Might even arouse suspicion.
But his heart bleeds too easily and it takes control of his feet and marches him in the direction of the noise.
Ducking deeper into the garden, he finds a man he vaguely recognizes. Shin Gunho, if his memory serves him right. From a lesser family, not one of the Eight, but still powerful. Shrewd businessman.
Seokjin's much more interested in the boy kneeling at Shin Gunho's feet, though. He's a companion, judging from his sheer clothes, and young. Can't be more than early twenties, god. His face is bleeding, makeup smeared by his tears, and he's curled in on himself defensively.
"You little shit," Shin Gunho snarls. He's got his belt in one hand, and he's clearly hit the boy with it more than once. "How dare you embarrass me like that?"
The boy whimpers. As he gets closer, Seokjin can see a ring of bruises around his throat.
"I should kill you," Shin Gunho continues, too caught up in his rage to notice Seokjin's approach. "Save me the trouble of paying a return fee for such a fucking useless bitch."
Well.
Seokjin reminds himself, with very forced calm, that he cannot murder Shin Gunho in the garden of someone else's mansion.
"Or you could sell him to me," he says lightly.
Shin Gunho whirls around, startled.
"I like the look of him," Seokjin continues. "And I'm in the market for a new companion. Though I am curious to know what brought..." he waves a hand to encompass the scene in front of him "... all this on."
Shin Gunho snorts. "He refused a guest. A good connection, too. Clawed the man's face, the brat."
Seokjin mentally cheers for the boy even as he makes a tsking sound. "Remarkable disobedience. I can break him of that. Kim Seokjin." He extends a hand.
Shin Gunho has specks of the boy's blood on his fingers, but Seokjin forces himself not to recoil and finish the handshake. "Shin Gunho. I've heard about you."
"Many people have," Seokjin says with his most charming smile. "What do you say to a little business transaction? You get rid of him without a fee and I get a new toy."
The boy makes another broken sound. Shin Gunho kicks him in the ribs and Seokjin once agains contemplates murder. Surely he could conceal the body in this garden for at least a few days. No one would know it was him and asssholes like Shin Gunho are bound to have enemies.
"I'm open to it," Shin Gunho says. "What do you say to ten million?"
"After you just told me how disobedient he is?"
A shrug. "Thought you'd like a challenge."
How presumptuous of you, Seokjin internally sneers.
"I do, but not for ten million. Eight."
The return fee to most auction houses is over three million and Shin Gunho can't have bought the boy for more than fifteen, even as pretty as he is. This is an incredible deal and the asshole knows it. Seokjin can see it all over his slimy, greedy face.
"Fine," he says after a tense pause. "Eight."
"Excellent," Seokjin claps his hand. "I'll take him off your hands tonight. Just transfer the contract over to me and I'll send the funds. I'm sure someone here is willing to serve as a witness."
These kinds of transactions aren't that uncommon, after all.
Shin Gunho nods and pulls out his phone. It's got a gold case and Seokjin struggles not to roll his eyes. Instead, he calls his driver to bring his car around and be ready for an extra passenger. The man, bless him, doesn't ask any questions.
It takes a half an hour after that to make their way back to the party - Shin Gunho dragging the boy along with a bruising grip on his arm while Seokjin slowly sees red - and find someone to witness the contract exchange and transfer of funds.
Then the boy is his. A part of him still can't believe what he's done, how impulsive he's being, but when he sees the boy's bloody back through the tatters of his shirt, he can't bring himself to regret it.
He shrugs off his suit jacket once they reach the main entrance, away from most of the prying eyes, and carefully drapes it over the boy's shoulders. It's cold outside and he'll freeze in his torn, gauzy shirt and thin pants. He looks even younger up close, beneath his smeared makeup and bruised face. Hasn't said a single word during his sale and won't meet Seokjin's eyes. Just gnaws at his split lower lip with his teeth. With their slight protrusion and his large nose, he reminds Seokjin a little of a scared rabbit and a fierce wave of protectiveness swells in him - unlike any he's felt before.
He leads the boy into the car and tells his driver to take them home before rolling up the partition. The boy cringes back against the seat, clearly thinking something is going to happen, but Seokjin just kneels on the floor in front of him and takes his trembling hand.
"It's going to be okay," he murmurs. The words feel empty in his mouth, but they're all he has to offer at the moment. Usually, he tries to keep something of a distance from the companions he buys - uncomfortable with the role of master and not wanting them to depend on him or think he expects anything.
But he can't do that now. Not with this broken, shaking kid who looks so scared and lost.
"I promise, tokki," he says gently - the nickname slipping out unbidden. "I'm going to take care of you. Nothing is going to hurt you anymore."
The boy doesn't answer verbally but he shifts to hold on to Seokjin's hand, squeezing tight and desperate.
Seokjin squeezes back, silent reassurance. "It's going to be okay," he whispers again as the car glides through the dark night, on its way back to safety. Hopefully for both of them. "It's going to be okay."
The boy's eyes slide shut, bruised with exhaustion. Seokjin will need to call someone from the auction house to have the boy's seals changed to his fingerprints and his initials tattooed - they will be the fourth ones, he notes with a glance at the boy's bare arm - but all of that can wait until tomorrow. Or maybe even the day after that.
For now, Seokjin lets the boy rest and tries to stop the bleeding of his heart.
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