The Broken Dancer

The Breaking Point

The air in the room feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just... heavier. Like the walls themselves are waiting for something to happen. Everyone moves with a brittle, too-careful kind of silence - workers stepping lighter, guards posted a fraction closer, guests pretending not to notice the hairline crack that's split down the centre of the performance hall since the night before.

Jimin feels it the second they step inside: a collective flinch dressed up as routine. Every hand that brushes his lingers a beat too long. Every pair of eyes darts away too quickly. His father's empire thrives on control - and last night, control wavered.

Yoongi stands by the far wall, as he always does. Back straight. Jaw tight. Nothing about his posture is out of place, but Jimin knows. They know it in the way his fingers drum once against his thigh, in the too-still set of his shoulders. He hasn't spoken to Jimin since last night. He doesn't need to. The silence between them is full of everything neither of them can say here.

The the father enters.

The sound in the room shifts - a low ripple of unease cloaked in obedient stillness. His smile is wrong tonight. Too sharp. He's been waiting for this. Jimin knows that look. He feeds on aftermaths.

"Since last night's... display," the father drawls, letting the word hand like smoke, "I think it's time we correct a few misunderstandings."

With a flick of his fingers, the guards drag someone forward.

Jungkook.

He looks disoriented, half-pulled from the rehearsal wing. His shirt is loose, hair slightly messy from training. His wrists are caught in the guard's grip. Jungkook's eyes find Jimin's immediately - wide, confused, afraid.

Jimin's breath snags. Jungkook isn't supposed to be here.

"Tonight," the father purrs, pacing toward Yoongi, "we're going to make sure there are no illusions about where you stand in this world." He turns his head slightly. "Bring him forward."

The guards shove Jungkook toward the centre of the stage.

Jimin steps forward before he can think, but a guard's hand clamps on his arm. Not a word is spoken, but the message is clear: Stay where you are.

Yoongi's pulse kicks harder. He already knows what's coming.

"You performed admirably last night," the father says smoothly, eyes glittering with amusement. "But I wonder -" he turns his attention to Yoongi "- was it the stage that stirred such restraint? Or was it the partner?"

A cold dread unspools in Yoongi's gut.

"Let's find out."

The father gestures, and Jungkook is positioned just as Jimin was the night before - centre stage, under the sickly golden light. "You will take my orders, boy," the father tells Yoongi. "You will show me what you did last night. Only this time..." A grin slices across his face. "It won't be with my son."

Jungkook jerks at the words, panic flashing across his features.

Yoongi goes utterly still. His chest rises and falls too sharply.

The father tilts his head mockingly. "Go on. Touch him. Like you touched Jimin. Show everyone it wasn't love. Show them it's just performance."

Jungkook stiffens, but he doesn't fight. He knows what happens when people fight back. His gaze flicks toward Taehyung and Seokjin in the wings - they're both pale, frozen in place. Taehyung's hands twitch like he wants to intervene but knows he can't.

Jimin stands locked in place, heart hammering. His throat burns with the scream he can't let out. Watching Yoongi be forced to touch Jungkook - his friend - is worse than anything the father could have done to him.