The Broken Dancer

The Night of the Match

The stillness settles over the club like a pressed hand over a mouth - soft at first, then suffocating. The chandeliers burn a little too brightly tonight, their gold light slicing through the dusky corners like polished knives. The air smells of polished wood and faint perfume, but underneath it lingers something else - something thin and metallic, like the hum before a storm.

Everything gleams too perfectly. Glasses are polished twice, then lined like soldiers along the bar. Curtains are smoothed until not a wrinkle remains. Even the staff move with a kind of sharpened precision, their usual chatter replaced by small, controlled gestures. There's no laughter, not quiet music drifting from backstage. Only the hollow shuffle of shoes on polished floors.

In Jimin's room, the music box plays on the dresser. It's the same gentle melody Yoongi had given him weeks ago, the one that made their nights feel like they belonged only to them. But tonight, the tune catches. A faint skip, a missed note, like the breath before a sob. It's almost nothing - almost. But Jimin hears it. He stands before the mirror, the soft light hitting the silver chain at his throat. His hands linger on the clasp longer than usual, tightening it once, twice, as if the metal itself can hold him steady.

He whispers something under his breath. Not quite a prayer, not quite a plea - just a sound to fill the silence, a desperate attempt to convince himself the night is like any other.

But it isn't.

He knows it before he even steps into the corridor.

The hallway is crowded but quiet, the staff drifting like shadows. Jimin notices details he's never paid attention to before: doors left open that are usually closed, guests arriving early in sleek black cars, the way the guards at the entrance stand straighter. Taeyhung passes him without meeting his eyes. Jungkook looks up from where he's straightening glasses at the bar - then quickly looks away again. Seokjin lingers by the stairwell, watching, jaw tight. He doesn't say a word, but something in his expression - like a man bracing against wind - makes Jimin's chest twist.

Whispers slither through the corridors.

"Special night."

"He's picked someone."

"Tonight's the night."

Jimin tries not to listen. He tells himself it's just talk, the kind that always precedes something trivial. But the pit of unease at the base of his stomach won't quiet.

Across the room, Yoongi leans against the wall, arms crossed loosely, pretending to look at the menu. He's too still. He's never too still. His gaze flickers toward Jimin, and for a moment the hum in the air dulls, just slightly. They've survived this place long enough to read each other without words, and what Jimin sees in Yoongi's eyes isn't reassurance - it's restraint. Yoongi looks like a man trying not to move too suddenly, as if the whole room might splinter if he does.

He forces a small smile for Jimin anyway.

Jimin mirrors it, a little shakily.

Yoongi's unease gnaws at the edges of his calm. He's cataloguing every change in the building - the way the guards hover near the stage, the rare gleam in the father's eyes as he moves through the room like a man who's already won. It's too rehearsed, too perfect. Like a stage set waiting for the curtain to rise.

He tells himself they've been careful. He tells himself no one could know. But the whisper of doubt crawls up his throat anyway: you've grown soft. Careless.

Laughter erupts from one of the arriving guests. It's too loud. Too sharp.

Something is coming. Neither of them can name it, but they both feel the walls tightening around them, inch by inch.