Aboard the Black Swan | P.JM |

Trust and Treachery

Y/N POV

Three days. Seventy-two hours of silence so deep I could hear the echo of my own heartbeat, a frantic, guilty drum against my ribs. Each breath was an effort, pulled through a throat tight with unshed tears and the phantom taste of regret. The dagger at my hip—Captain RM's swan-engraved condemnation—was no longer just a weight. It was a brand, searing into my skin with every passing second, a constant reminder of the blood I had so willingly promised to bear.

The docks were never quiet, but today the sounds were distorted, muted. The cries of the gulls were like shrieks of warning. The lap of water against the hulls was a taunting whisper. Liar. Manipulator. Monster. Every shriek and shrill rang in my ears, making me go dizzy. I wrapped my arms around myself, nails digging into the rough fabric of my sleeves, trying to hold myself together physically.

Then, the shout. "Drop the anchor!"

My head snapped up so fast the world spun. There, a ghost emerging from the veil of morning mist, was the S.S. Serendipity. My heart, that traitorous organ, leapt for a single second—They're home, they're safe—before it plummeted into the abyss of my stomach.

This wasn't the proud, graceful vessel that had left port. This was a wounded beast. It listed heavily, its sails a chaotic, sloppy mess against the sky. It didn't sail into the dock; it crawled, a mortally injured creature dragging itself home to die.

A sound escaped me, a half-choked whimper lost in the suddenly still air. The dread was no longer a feeling; it was a physical presence, a cold hand closing around my throat, squeezing. This was my doing. My brilliant, ruthless, stupid plan.

The groan of wood against the dock was a sound of agony. The ramp slammed down with a finality that echoed in my mind. The crew began to disembark, their faces etched with a grim exhaustion I felt deep in my soul. They moved slowly, heads bowed, as if carrying an invisible burden.

And then... I saw him.

Captain Park Jimin emerged from the shadows of the hold.

The sight of him stole my breath. His captain's coat was gone. His once-pristine white shirt was torn and hung open, revealing a vicious, hastily bandaged gash across his lower back. The linen was already stained a disturbing crimson. Grime and sweat streaked his face, which was a pale, terrifying mask of absolute control stretched paper-thin over a bottomless fury.

But it was what he carried that made the world tilt on its axis once again. Cradled in his arms with a devastating, tender care was Beomgyu. Sweet Beomgyu. The boy who turned knives into smiles.

He was limp, his head lolled against Jimin's shoulder, his skin a horrifying, waxy white. His vibrant energy, the life that crackled around him, was utterly extinguished. And the blood...oh God, the blood. A massive, blooming rose of crimson soaked through the bandages wrapped around his torso, a stark, violent contrast to the snow of his skin and the black of his hair.

No. No, no, no, no.

 The mantra screamed inside my skull. This wasn't part of the plan. I knew that Jimin could very well kill him, and he was fine with it. But it wasn't supposed to be this bad. This was a body being carried off a battlefield.

The medical team surged forward, their voices urgent, but Jimin moved through them like a force of nature. He didn't see them. His entire world had narrowed to the precious, broken weight in his arms and the path to the infirmary. Every step he took was stiff and pained, yet unwavering.

My feet moved of their own volition. I took a stumbling step forward, then another. My hand rose, a useless, trembling gesture. His name was a ghost on my lips, a silent plea for forgiveness, for an explanation, for anything but this horrifying reality.