The Broken Dancer

The Price of Mercy

The club roared back to life after the bidding ended, drunken laughter and the clink of glasses crashing together, but to Jimin it all sounded muffled, like he was underwater. His body had already begun to retreat into the familiar numbness he'd trained into himself years ago. The mask was automatic - chin lifted, lips curled faintly at the corners, eyes half-lidded in their sultry glaze. But his insides had hollowed out the moment Yoongi raised his hand.

He hadn't dared believe it at first. That voice, smooth but steady, cutting through the smoke-heavy air with such certainty - it was a sound that didn't belong here. It still rang in his ears, like the aftertaste of something he wished he could spit out but couldn't.

So even you...

His father clapped a hand against his shoulder, far too hard to be affectionate, the grip bruising even through the fabric of his shirt. His father's smile was wide, shark-like, smug with satisfaction. "Didn't think you'd fetch a price from him of all people, but I knew it. You're irresistible when you try."

The words seared like acid. Jimin didn't flinch, though. He kept his spine rigid, let his father guide him toward the back, every step rehearsed in the unspoken choreography of obedience. His limbs moved like strings were pulling them, not his own will.

He didn't look at Yoongi. Couldn't. He kept his eyes trained forward as he crossed the floor, ignoring the sensation that burned at the side of his face - the weight of Yoongi's gaze following him, heavier than any man's stare ever had been before.

The hallway yawned open, narrow and dim, leading to the infamous back doors. A tunnel. That's what it felt like. Each step muffled the sound of the club behind him, every breath a little harder to draw. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, the stage lights - all swallowed by the pressing dark of the corridor.

It was a passage that stripped the world away, leaving only truth and transaction. Onstage, he was a performer, a shimmering vision of desire under painted lights. Here, he was nothing more than merchandise being delivered, the exchange already made.

And tonight - even you.

The thought slashed through his chest, sharp and bitter. Yoongi had lingered in the shadows so long, a ghost who looked at him differently, softer, as though he were something more than what the others saw. Jimin had almost let himself believe it. Stupid, dangerous belief.

But you've shown me your price now, haven't you?

His fingers brushed the cool brass of the doorknob, the same one he'd touched countless times before. But tonight the metal burned against his skin. He pushed it open without a sound, stepping into the small, low-lit room that smelled faintly of perfume and whiskey, the walls pressing in like secrets.

Inside, he moved with the smooth, detached grace of ritual. The routine had been carved into his body - lock the door, turn toward the bed, shed the mask of hesitation. And through it all, he didn't look back. He didn't dare see what expression was on Yoongi's face, because he already knew what it must be.

Want.

And worse - disappointment.

Jimin's chest constricted as he lowered his gaze to the floor, his body rigid, breath shallow. His mind whispered the same refrain again, harsh and merciless:

So even you...

Jimin closed the door with a soft click, the latch falling into place like the closing of a cage. The silence inside the room pressed against his ears. Gone were the noisy distractions of the club - the music, the laughter, the drunken applause. Here there was nothing to drown in, nothing to hide behind. Only the two of them, and the reason they were here.