The Broken Dancer

When Silence Breaks

The crowd had roared when the hammer struck down, the number that wasn't Yoongi's echoing like a verdict in Jimin's chest. He barely registered the hands that pulled him away, the murmurs of satisfaction rippling through the room as though he were nothing more than merchandise changing owners.

The hallway blurred past. He dug his heels into the carpet, body stiff with dread, but resistance was only met with a sharper yank, a mocking chuckle, the cold metal key sliding into the lock. Then the door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in with someone who wasn't Yoongi.

For weeks, he hadn't had to face this. For weeks, there had been Yoongi's silence - strange, heavy, yet safe. Yoongi's eyes that never lingered too long. Yoongi's presence that never pressed. Jimin had hated him at first, hated the way he sat there and didn't ask for what all the others demanded. But now - now he understood that hatred had been fear in disguise. And with Yoongi's absence, with this stranger's hands pawing at him, Jimin realised he could no longer remember how he used to survive nights like this.

The panic hit fast, sharp as glass. His chest tightened, his lungs locked, the air too thick.

"Come here," the bidder snapped, voice dripping with entitlement. He reached for Jimin, gripping his wrist too tightly. Jimin jerked away, the sound that left his throat closer to an animal snarl than words.

The man's face twisted. "Don't play hard to get. I paid good money-"

Jimin shook his head, backing up until his shoulders hit the wall. He could hear his own heartbeat, frantic, uneven. This wasn't silence, wasn't stillness - this was suffocation. The old world pressing back in, crushing him.

When the man grabbed him again, Jimin fought. His nails scratched skin, his knee jerked upward, desperate, clumsy. He knew it was useless, but instinct roared louder than reason.

The retaliation came quick. A backhand cracked across his cheek, sending his head snapping to the side. His body hit the wall, then the floor. His vision blurred with sudden stars.

"Pathetic," the man snapped, his voice now low and venomous. He crouched down, fingers digging into Jimin's jaw, forcing his face up. "No wonder no one else wanted you."

The words burned almost worse than the strike. Jimin tried to twist away, but the grip was iron.

"You'll learn," the man hissed, shaking him once before shoving him back down. "Or you'll be nothing more than a pretty toy no one wants."

Another blow landed - this one to his ribs. Sharp pain flared, white-hot. Jimin folded in on himself, arms instinctively wrapping around his middle. He didn't scream. The sound lodged in his throat, trapped like everything else he had ever wanted to say.

When the bidder finally released him, it wasn't because Jimin had yielded. It was because the man's patience snapped.

"Worthless," he muttered, disgust dripping off the words. He yanked his jacket straight and stormed toward the door. "Not worth my time."

The lock clicked, the door slammed, and Jimin was left alone.

For a long moment, silence pressed down - thicker, darker than ever. Not Yoongi's silence, steady and grounding, but a silence that crawled, suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in.

Jimin curled tighter on the floor, clutching his sides, tears spilling unchecked down his cheeks. His clothes were torn, his skin burning from bruises already blooming. Every breath scraped raw in his throat, each inhale punctured by small gasps of pain.

But the pain wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the yawning emptiness where Yoongi should have been.