The Broken Dancer

Under Watchful Eyes

The club was alive with its usual ritual of indulgence, but tonight the air felt different - thicker, almost electric. Smoke curled languidly from gilt ashtrays, the haze clinging to velvet curtains and chandeliers dripping with crystal. Glasses clinked and low laughter rippled across the room, yet beneath the surface murmur ran something sharper, a current of expectancy.

Jimin felt it before anything was said. The weight of eyes was heavier tonight, pressing against his skin as if the room itself had decided he was no longer invisible. He stood near the dais where he usually began his descent into the nightly charade, head bowed, body held in perfect stillness, trained like muscle memory. But his pulse betrayed him, fluttering beneath the collar of his shirt. He could hear the whispers, more open than ever before - snickering, speculation, envy, disdain. They weren't even bothering to lower their voices.

Why is it always him?

Yoongi again? He must be paying through the nose for that kind of exclusivity.

A pet. That's all it is. They boy's spoiled. Untouchable. Or maybe... maybe he's in love with him.

That last murmur drew laughter, brittle and sharp, the kind that stung more for being half true. Jimin's stomach turned cold. He fixed his gaze on the floor, willing his face not to betray him, but every word stuck like pins in his chest.

And then his father rose.

The motion alone was enough to command the room: the dark gleam of his suit, the deliberate clink of his ring against his glass, the shadow of a smile that never reached his eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice cutting clean through the haze, silencing the laughter with a single note of amusement. "I believe it's time we try something... different tonight."

Jimin froze. Different was never good. Different meant danger.

The father went on, each word deliberate. "You've all been asking questions. So why not give you something to talk about? Tonight, our chosen will not vanish so quickly. Tonight, they will remain among us a while longer. Serving drinks, socializing - reminding us all of the beauty and refinement of what is offered here."

It was dressed as casual, as a flourish to amuse the crowd. But Jimin felt the knife edge beneath it. This was no whim. This was a trap being sprung.

Yoongi understood it instantly. From his place near the back of the room, half in shadow, he felt his jaw lock, muscles tightening. The arrangement had been clear: Jimin was his to claim, night after night, without interruption. That had been the cost - the crushing sum Yoongi bled for week after week. And yet here the father was, bending the rules with a smile, dangling Jimin in front of hungry eyes. A test. A performance. A calculation.

Yoongi's gaze flicked to Jimin, who stood rigid, pale beneath the soft glow of the chandelier. Their eyes met for the briefest flicker, a tether sparking between them. Jimin's fear was visible in that half-second glance, but so was something else - trust. Fragile, wordless, begging Yoongi to steady him.

The buyers stirred, emboldened by the deviation. Laughter rose again, this time less muffled, more predatory.

"Finally, we'll see what's so special."

"Perhaps he's just a doll for Yoongi's shelf."

"Or maybe the boy doesn't fetch as much as we thought."

Each remark lodged itself under Jimin's ribs. He felt naked, stripped of the fragile shield Yoongi's nightly claim had built around him. Every step across the floor, every glance that dragged over his body was unbearable.

But Yoongi moved closer. Not enough to draw suspicion, not enough to break the fragile line of the test, but enough that Jimin felt the shadow of him at his side. A steady presence, an anchor in the suffocating tide of eyes. Yoongi didn't touch him - couldn't - but his nearness carried the weight of a promise: you're not alone.