The Broken Dancer

The Blood on the Pavement

The father doesn't look back when he walks away. He never does.

Yoongi lies where they left him - half-slumped against the slick wall of the alley, the breath punched out of him, the copper taste of blood in his mouth. The world tilts and shudders at the edges of his vision, like a projector film slipping off its reel. The rain starts softly at first, whispering against the cobblestones. Then it thickens, cold and relentless, running in thin streams over his bruised skin.

"Make sure he remembers," the father had said, voice cool and detached. And they had. Not enough to break bones beyond repair. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to make every inch of his body scream with pain. Enough to remind him exactly who holds the power.

Yoongi tries to move his hand. It trembles, slips on wet pavement. He isn't sure which hurts more - the physical ache, or the hollow in his chest where Jimin's name sits like a ghost he can't hold onto.

Jimin's face flickers behind his eyes: eyes wide with fear, mouth forming his name. The ring. The music box. The sound of Jimin's voice, hoarse and desperate.

His lungs fight for air. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath scrapes against his ribs like broken glass.

Somewhere, the world keeps moving. A distant car horn. The muted thump of bass from inside the club. The slick slap of tires of wet road. And then - A sound sharp enough to cut through the fog in his head.

A car door slams.

Yoongi's eyes flutter, his vision swimming with streaks of light. Footsteps. Two sets. Rapid, uneven, splashing through puddles.

"Shit - Namjoon, here! He's - fuck, he's here!" That voice. He knows that voice. Even through the haze. Hoseok.

Yoongi tries to turn his head, but everything spins violently. The world smears into colours: black asphalt, yellow streetlight, red blood. A warm hand cups the side of his face gently, trembling.

"Yoongi. Hey. Hey, look at me, it's Hoseok. Can you hear me?" Hoseok's voice cracks at the edges. He leans closer, breath fogging in the cold night air.

Yoongi's lips part. No sound comes out. He blinks once, slow, as if trying to anchor himself to the voice.

Namjoon appears beside them, tall and steady but pale with fury. He crouches down without hesitation, his jaw set so tight it trembles. His eyes sweep over Yoongi's battered form, and something sharp and dangerous twists behind them.

"They fucking did this to you," Namjoon mutters under his breath. It's not a question. It's a promise.

"Don't move him," Hoseok whispers, almost panicked. "We need to - he's bleeding - oh my god -"

Namjoon's hand find his phone. "I'm calling an ambulance. Now."

Rain streaks down Yoongi's face, mingling with the blood trailing from the split at his temple. Hoseok peels off his jacket and presses it gently against the worst of the wounds, murmuring nonsense under his breath - soft things, broken things, desperate things. Like maybe if he keeps talking, Yoogi won't slip away.

Namjoon ends the call and crouches lower, bringing himself to Yoongi's eye level. "Yoongi," he says quietly, firmly. "Stay with us. Do you hear me? Don't close your eyes."

Yoongi blinks again. The effort alone feels like climbing out of a well. He manages a breath, thin and wet. Namjoon reaches out, squeezing his hand just enough for him to feel it.

And for the first time in hours, Yoongi doesn't hear the father's voice echoing through his head. He hears his friends.

Rain falls harder now. The streetlight above flickers. Somewhere in the distance, sirens begin to wail.