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Through the door.
It shattered around me, flying off the wall in pieces. The roar that exploded from my core was entirely instinctual. The tracker's head jerked up, and then he dove for the crimson shape on the floor below him. I saw one pale hand stretched out in futile self-defense.
The obstacle of the door had not slowed my momentum. I flew into the tracker mid-lunge, throwing him away from his target, smashing him into the floor with enough force to crater the wooden planks.
I rolled, pulling him over me, and then kicked him to the center of the room-where Hoseok was waiting. For the entire quarter of a second that I was grappling with the tracker, I was barely aware of him as a living creature. He was just an object in my way. I knew that at some point in the near future, I would be jealous of Hoseok and Yoongi. I would wish for the chance to claw and slash and sever. But that was all meaningless now. I spun.
As I had known he would be, Jungkook was crumpled against the wall, framed by splintered mirrors.
Everything was red.
All the terror and pain I'd been subduing since I'd first heard Jimin's dread in the airport crashed into me in an unstoppable tidal wave.
His eyes were closed. His pale hand had fallen limp beside him. His heartbeat was weak, faltering. I didn't decide to move, I was just there beside him, kneeling in his blood. Fire burned through my chest and my head, but I couldn't separate out the different kinds of pain. I was afraid to touch him. He was broken in so many places. I could make it worse.
I heard my own voice, rambling the same words over and over again. His name. No. Please. Again and again like a record skipping. But I wasn't in control of the sound.
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I heard myself screaming Namjoon's name, but he was already there, kneeling in the blood on his other side.
The words pouring from my mouth weren't words anymore, just mangled, heaving sounds. Sobs.
Namjoon's hands traced from his scalp to his ankle and then back again so quickly, they blurred. He pressed both hands to his head, seeking ruptures.
He pushed two fingers tight against a spot three inches behind his right ear. I couldn't see what he was doing; his hair was saturated with crimson.
