The Broken Dancer

Cracks in the Dark

The ritual began the same way it always did, but tonight the room felt wrong.

Jimin stepped into the auction hall and it was like stepping onto a stage where every spotlight was trained only on him. The air clung to his skin, heavy, suffocating, and though the chandeliers gleamed as they always did, the light seemed crueler, sharper - like it was trying to strip him bare. He didn't need to look to feel the weight of their stares. Buyers lined the long tables, whispering behind raised hands, heads tilted toward each other in private exchanges. Calculating. Assessing.

He'd been watched his whole life, but this was different. Since the violent bidding war two nights before, something in the atmosphere had shifted. Their eyes weren't just greedy now - they were cautious, suspicious, intrigued. Like predators circling, not quite ready to strike but unwilling to turn away. The silence under the low murmur was worse than noise.

Jimin's father took his place at the front, hammer in hand, smirk barely restrained. As if he relished the tension more than the money, as if he enjoyed watching the balance of power tighten like a noose.

Jimin's throat felt dry. He stood where he always stood, body angled just so, mask in place. He told himself he didn't care anymore who looked, who whispered, who placed their bids. He told himself this was routine, a well-worn script. But his pulse betrayed him, thudding against his ribs like it wanted to escape.

And then Yoongi moved.

His hand lifted - casual, deliberate, early. Too early. He bid before anyone else could even open their mouths. His face was unreadable, his posture the same as it always was: aloof, restrained, as though none of this mattered to him. But to Jimin, that single raised hand echoed like a gunshot.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Nobody countered. No raised hands, no sly smirks, no last-minute jumps. Just stillness. Oppressive and absolute. The buyers who had once clawed at each other for the privilege of Jimin's time suddenly sat back in their chairs, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. They weren't conceding - they were watching. The calculation hadn't gone away. It had only deepened.

Jimin's stomach twisted. Silence wasn't safety. It was waiting. It was the breath before the strike.

His father let the moment stretch, milking it. He tilted his head, scanning the room as if inviting someone - anyone - to defy the new order. But no one did. Perhaps they remembered the fury of Yoongi's bidding the last time. Perhaps they didn't want to risk his pockets, his temper, his intent. Or perhaps they simply wanted to see how far this little game would play out before someone finally snapped the string.

Finally, with a small chuckle under his breath, Jimin's father slammed the gavel down. The sound cracked through the silence, sharp and mocking. His smirk widened, knowing and cruel.

Jimin's chest tightened. Relief shuddered through him at being spared another man's hands tonight, but it was tangled with dread so sharp it almost burned. How long could this last? How long before someone challenged Yoongi again, and everything shattered?

He could already hear the whispers in his mind: Why him? Why always him? How long until the game changes?

For the first time in years, Jimin realised he feared the silence more than the shouting.

The gavel's crack still echoed in Jimin's bones as he slipped from the auction room, head lowered, steps perfectly measured. Every movement was part of a dance he had perfected years ago: never too quick, never too slow, just another shadow moving through the corridors. He didn't need to look back to know Yoongi was following, his presence as steady and deliberate as his bid had been.