Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

[Image taken from RM 'Wild Flower (with youjeen)' Official MV and Adobe Stock - edited and text created by me]

The worst day in K-pop history begins on a Friday morning at Incheon International Airport.

BTS is being ushered past the crowd of fans lined up in orderly rows outside the doors, wishing them love and good wishes to wherever the group is headed, when a squad of concealed figures intercepts them. Automatic rifles, Kevlar, helmets, full-face masks. Tags ripped from the body armor. No insignias. No names.

Airport security falls first, gunned down before they can react. The company bodyguards are surrounded.

A filtered voice breaks through the panic.

“Give us Kim Namjoon. Or everyone in this airport dies.”

All six of the members recount the same thing, later that day in the police station.

Kim Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised.

“That’s me,” he said.

And that was that. One of the masked figures seized him, pinning his hands behind his back, while the rest kept their rifles trained on the six remaining. They rushed him deeper into the airport and were gone.

Later, police told HYBE he’d been taken onto a small jet. Air traffic control lost it within the hour. The theory: it was theirs from the beginning.

By that afternoon, the world knew. HYBE made the announcement before the vultures of media could butcher it.

That would be the worst day in K-pop history.

The worst day for BTS came three days later.

A video, sent to their phones.

The company believes it’s ransom, and gathers the members, lawyers, and police into a meeting room before they view it.

A video of Namjoon.

Kneeling in a dark room, clutching a sheet of paper. His hair disheveled, skin streaked with dirt, dried blood under one eye. A rifle presses to his temple, its flashlight the only light in the frame. He’s stripped to his boxers.

An astute eye might notice the metal glinting at his ankles. 

Namjoon doesn’t look at the camera. He doesn’t look at them.

He lowers his eyes to the paper, and begins to read.

His voice is steady.

“To my family, thank you. For raising me, for trusting me, even when I disappointed you. I wanted to be someone you could be proud of. I hope I was.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to the page.

“To ARMY, thank you for carrying us this far, for giving us reasons to stand on stage, for teaching us what love looks like. Please don’t spend that love mourning me. Give it to the six who are still here. Give it to each other.”

The paper shakes slightly as his hands tighten.

“And to my brothers… Seokjin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook.”

He pauses, swallows, glances to his left for a moment and slowly wipes his eye with the heel of his hand.

“You are my life’s work. My pride. My joy. If I am remembered at all, let it be for standing beside you. I don’t want you to blame yourselves. Don’t carry me like a weight. Carry me like a song, something you can hum when you need strength, and then let it go.”

His voice softens. A tremor slips through.

“Keep going. Keep dreaming. Keep being loud and foolish and brilliant. Take care of one another. That’s all I ask. If I can leave you with one thing, it’s this: you are enough. You always were. Even without me. Keep fighting.”

The paper lowers. His eyes lift for the first time, looking past the light. A faint, strained smile touches his mouth.

“I love you.”

The screen cuts to black.

No ransom demanded.

No terms or conditions.

Not even a death captured on screen.

Just one man saying goodbye.

Four months later, HYBE has a decision to make.

Keep bleeding money in a futile search for Kim Namjoon.

Or force the six left behind to perform again.

At the end of the day, they may be one of the most successful K-pop labels in history.

But they are still a company.

And a company needs profit to live.

Bang Si-hyuk sits them down and tells them straight, as he always does.

How much longer they can keep spending on private investigators and forensic experts.

How long before the sum set aside to buy him back outweighs their income.

What’s spoken in that room will never see the light of day.

But Bang Si-hyuk will never forget the pit in his stomach when Jimin stood up.

He’d looked him dead in the eyes and said,

“I’ll sell nudes at this point if it means we can get him back. I don’t fucking care.”

How Seokjin drummed his fingernails against the table, steady, deliberate, before saying,

“We’ll stop being picky about sponsors, then.”

How Yoongi leaned forward, chin resting on his hands, and hissed,

“Give me a month. I’ll write an entire album.”

How Hoseok spoke next, his voice shaking but firm.

“We’ll tour nonstop. Anywhere, everywhere. If it keeps the money flowing, I’ll dance until my legs give out.”

How Taehyung leaned back, arms crossed tight across his chest, his words like steel.

“Cut my pay. Cut all of ours. Put every won toward bringing him back. We don’t need luxury. We just need him.”

And how Jungkook didn’t speak at all at first, just sat with his hands clenched so tight his knuckles went white. When he finally forced the words out, his voice cracked.

“Take it out of me. My endorsements, my brand deals, everything. Use me. I don’t care. Just don’t stop looking.”

And how Bang Si-hyuk had broken all their hearts with a single sentence.

“He wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Five months after Kim Namjoon was taken, a private funeral was held. 

Behind closed doors, with only a select few friends and his family. 

Separately, BTS goes live. Just the six of them, in suits and ties, and explains how it will be going forward.

Six.

OT6.

A tour in monochromatic colors was announced. Beneath it, the message of Kim Namjoon’s solo mono. And deeper still: In Memory Of.

Fans wailed.

The haters who had wished for an outcome like this whispered, “Not like this.”

They grieved.

And then they boycotted.

Because since 2013, it had always been seven.

Seven months after that Friday morning in Incheon International Airport, a prep cook flicks on the light of the kitchen tucked behind HYBE’s cafeteria, craving a cigarette to shake off the early-morning drowsiness.

They pull open the walk-in freezer.

The cool mist swirls around their feet.

And both freeze.

The prep cook, because they were not expecting the sight.

And Kim Namjoon, caught with a fistful of raw Jajangmyeon halfway to his open mouth.

The prep cook blinks, willing the image in front of him to make sense. To vanish.

When it doesn’t—when Kim Namjoon actually shoves the raw noodles into his mouth and chews—the realization finally screeches in.

Kim Namjoon is in the freezer. Shirtless. And the prep cook can count the ribs pushing out from his skin.

There’s no time to think. How did he get inside the freezer? Why wasn’t security called or notified? How did Kim Namjoon even step foot inside the building without a keycard, months after his facial recognition had been wiped?

The only words that escape are frantic:

“Holy shit, Namjoon-nim. Please don’t eat that. I’ll cook you something. Dear fucking God.”

He steps forward, shoving his phone into Namjoon’s empty hand.

“Please… call someone.”

Namjoon blinks at the phone. A bit too slowly. It makes the prep cook’s stomach crawl a little, but he moves past it by pulling the open bin of raw Jajangmyeon away from between Namjoon’s thighs.

Bang Si-hyuk jolts awake at 3:40 a.m. to the sound of his phone ringing.

He ignores it at first; the number isn’t familiar. It goes to voicemail.

The speech-to-text crawls across the screen.

Namjoon.

That single word pierces through the fog of sleep. 

Bang jolts upright, heart hammering, hands shaking.

He dials back the number immediately, almost fumbling with the phone.

The line clicks.

“PD-nim?”

Namjoon’s voice.

Bang freezes. His mind races. Is it really him?

“Namjoon?” he croaks, barely audible.

“Yeah,” comes the hoarse reply. “I… I’m at HYBE. My… um… they rented out the apartment I had to someone else.”

Bang will only admit behind closed doors that he fantasized about moments like this—hearing Namjoon’s voice again, on a phone, or standing in front of him. Imagining what he might possibly say.

Something like: I’m back. Maybe.

His mind never accounted for this kind of conversation.

And maybe it’s a mixture of relief and disbelief—and the fact that he stood in front of Namjoon’s empty grave just a week ago—but he laughs.

Coughs a second later, takes a deep breath, voice clipped, back to being professional.

“Namjoon. Listen to me. Are you hurt? Do you need anything right now?”

Namjoon clears his throat, hoarse.

“I… I’m fine. Just… hungry.”

Bang doesn’t flinch at the absurdity of it. Hunger is a detail he can manage. He thinks faster than he’s ever thought in his life.

“Stay put. Where are you in HYBE?”

“Eighteenth floor. Cafeteria. I’m… in the kitchen. There’s a prep cook with me…” he trails off as another voice picks up over the line, hard to make out. “His name’s Hon Do-yun. I’m… using his phone right now.”

Bang takes a breath, steadying himself.

“Namjoon, stay right where you are. I’m sending someone to you. Just keep calm.”

In the moment, Bang doesn’t even register how much calmer Namjoon’s voice had sounded moments earlier.

He won’t realize it until he’s face to face with him.

Alive. In the flesh.

A security guard offers Namjoon, sitting on the floor of the kitchen with chopsticks in hand and a plate in his lap, an extra shirt that looks like a chef uniform.

Namjoon—shirtless, unharmed, hair down to his shoulders and falling over his eyes, skinnier than Bang has ever seen him—looks almost neutral. No wide eyes. No panicked glances. No trembling like the police predicted months ago, when they assumed they’d find him within three weeks.

Just slurping noodles loudly like food is the only thing in the world.

Bang steps closer, every instinct screaming at him to reach out, but his hands stay at his sides.

“Namjoon,” he says softly. “Can you stand?”

Namjoon shifts, still slurping, then nods. The faint clatter of chopsticks against the plate is the only sound.

Bang’s eyes travel across him. Skin stretched over ribs, hair matted slightly, muscles thin but still tense. Alive. Here. And yet…

As Namjoon sets the plate and chopsticks aside for a moment to lifts his arms and drag the shirt over his head, the fabric pulls at his hair just enough.

Bang freezes.

The nape of Namjoon’s neck.

Raised, thick, scarred skin, in a shape too perfect, and image too deliberate.

Bang catches the shape of an eye encircled by a five-pointed star.

Bang swallows, his throat tight. The world narrows to that mark.

The guard’s eyes narrow at the scar. He exchanges a look with Bang, and shakes his head.

A silent, not now.

And Bang wordlessly agrees, and runs through all of the possibilities, silently, in his mind.

Namjoon is medically cleared in a matter of minutes, and is brought into questioning.

Bang stays seated in the police station, every so often glancing towards the hallways where they took Namjoon in for questioning.

It lasts an hour.

Then two.

Then three, and Bang is really about to start worrying when Namjoon steps into the hallway, a borrowed shirt from Bang’s closet practically hanging off his shoulders. A guard follows him as they step into the lobby. 

Bang stands.

On the way to them, an officer rushes by and shoulder-checks Namjoon on the way out the door. The cup they were holding flies out of their hand in their rush.

In a moment, Namjoon catches the cup before even a drop can spill. He’s not even looking at it. He’s looking at his feet.

Bang blinks, watching Namjoon’s foot shift slightly to keep balance. The cup rests perfectly upright in his hand, not a single drop escaping. He doesn’t even glance at the officer rushing past—his attention is entirely on something beyond Bang’s comprehension.

The guard beside him exhales slowly, shaking his head just slightly, like even years in law enforcement can’t make sense of this.

And Namjoon wordlessly places the cup on the corner of the front desk.

A day later, afternoon sun spilling through his window, Bang picks up the phone and is cleared to break the news to the rest of the members.

After police confirm that the eighty-one faces Namjoon sketched, all members of an unnamed cult he encountered, even in passing, bearing the same mark burned into his skin on their clothes, were found dead. Lying in a mess of limbs and bodies on the forest floor straddling the border between North and South Korea.

Each sketch matched flawlessly with at least one of the identifiable bodies.

He overhears from one officer that Namjoon may be at risk of being charged with manslaughter. 

It’s dropped a few hours later, because there’s no way for bloodshed like this to be humanly feasible, with or without a weapon.

Bang thinks he hears it being determined to be a bear attack.

Never mind that eighty-one people could easily overpower a single bear by sheer numbers alone.

Yoongi is listening back to a track, too loud again, his head hammering with a migraine in tune with the beat, when his phone rings.

Yoongi winces at the shrill ring, jerks the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice is clipped, sharp, defensive.

“Yoongi… it’s Bang Si-hyuk.” Bang’s voice, calm but carrying a weight that immediately makes Yoongi freeze.

“PD-nim…?” He swallows, heart thumping. 

Something in Bang’s tone sets his nerves on edge.

“Yoongi, he’s alive.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest.

He shoots out of his chair, onto his feet.

“Don’t fuck with me PD-nim.”

His other hand claws over his chest, where his heart beats, where that little flutter of hope he had for months and months on end was squashed when he forced himself to visit Namjoon’s grave. His empty grave.

Bang’s voice is calm, but carries the weight of every sleepless night he’s endured since that Friday.

“I swear, Yoongi. He’s alive. Right now, he’s with me, at my home while our legal team sorts out everything with Vital Records.”

Yoongi’s knees weaken. He grips the edge of his desk for support, fingers digging into the wood until his knuckles turn white.

“Put… I need to hear him. Please, Bang. Please.”

There’s a click and white noise as the phone shifts to speaker. He fights against his tears.

“Hey, hyung.” Namjoon’s voice comes through. Rough, hoarse, but unmistakably him.

He loses the battle.

Yoongi’s chest heaves. Tears spill freely down his face.

He can’t even speak.

He just sobs into the phone as he sinks to his knees on his sound studio floor, skin against the carpet, the sound of his cries beyond the door muffled by foam walls.

Yoongi’s sobs shake his body, wracking his chest as the sound swells in the quiet room. The weight of all the months—the denial, the anger, then the hopelessness and pain—crashes down at once. His hands clutch the phone tighter, almost like he’s trying to hold onto Namjoon’s voice itself.

He never thought he’d hear that voice again.

He thought the last words he’d ever hear Namjoon say would be “I love you,” distorted by video grain and the echo of whatever dark room he’d been placed in to read his goodbye to a camera.

“Joon…” he whispers, voice cracking.

He can’t get the rest of the words out.

He’s clambering to his feet, wrenching open the door of his studio.

Yoongi’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he bursts out of the studio, the sound of the closing door behind him swallowed by his pounding footsteps. Every step feels like a desperate heartbeat, driving him forward through the dim corridors, past startled staff, ignoring every stunned glance.

His mind is a chaotic storm. It’s relief tangled with disbelief, and hope laced with raw, aching fear.

He doesn’t wait to gather himself. He just runs.

Out into the night, the cool air hitting his face like a shock, grounding him enough to start the engine of his car. Hands trembling, he grips the wheel, heart hammering so loudly it drowns out the world.

He drives all the way to Bang Si-hyuk’s home. Turns what should be a few minute’s drive to Paarc Hannam into something borderline illegal.

He doesn’t even register that he still hasn’t hung up the phone when he hears Namjoon say, “Hyung, you gotta breathe.”

He doesn’t care.

He pulls into the parking lot and scrambles out the door.

No time to lock the door.

He sprints to the door of Bang Si-hyuk’s apartment within the maze of the Paarc Hannam complex.

His fist doesn’t even knock against the door. It just opens.

Namjoon opens the door.

Namjoon, with cheekbones so pronounced it looks painful. Hair all the way down to his shoulders, dripping wet from what might be a recent shower. A shirt hanging off one, emaciated shoulder.

Yoongi barrels into him, and holds him tight, right at the threshold of the apartment.

That’s when he knows this is real.

Not one of the many, many, dreams he’s had. Fantasies where Namjoon would appear out of nowhere in a mundane dream environment and spend some time with him. To talk or write music or anything, really.

Yoongi could never touch him, in those dreams.

But here, holding him tight, he can feel Namjoon’s ribs under the fabric of his shirt and feel the warmth of his skin.

The wet strands of hair brush against Yoongi’s cheek as Namjoon leans into the embrace.

And Yoongi sobs again, clutching at Namjoon with everything he has.

The tears are from relief, this time.

Because, the nightmare he’s been living in since that Friday is finally over.

Because Namjoon is in his arms.

Eventually, Yoongi composes himself enough to dial the others. Not in a group chat or calling one at a time, he just starts a call and syncs all their numbers into one.

Bang had offered to inform the others, but Yoongi had refused, adamantly.

His fingers shake as the line rings, as he slams his thumb over the speaker button.

Seokjin’s number clicks through first.

A moment of static, then a groggy, puzzled voice.

“Yoongi? Is—what—”

Taehyung and Hoseok’s numbers click through the same second Seokjin speaks.

They speak over each other.

Seokjin lets out a startled noise.

Jungkook’s voice pipes up next.

“Yoongi-hyung, what’s going on?”

Jimin’s number clicks through next, but he doesn’t say anything.

Seokjin’s voice sharpens, all traces of sleep gone. “Yoongi, answer me. What’s happening?”

Hoseok is right behind him, his words tumbling over Seokjin’s.

“Hyung, are you okay? Did something—”

“Wait, wait,” Taehyung cuts in, his tone rough, suspicious. “Why are you calling like this?”

The noise on the line swells, voices tripping over each other, panic mounting.

“Yoongi-hyung, what’s going on?” Jungkook demands again, higher-pitched this time, urgent.

Jimin still says nothing, but the faint sound of his breathing catches over the speaker, quick and uneven, as though he already knows but can’t let himself believe.

Yoongi swallows hard, his throat tight. He glances once at Namjoon beside him, the weight of the silence stretching until it feels unbearable.

Then, softly, hoarse and unmistakable.

“Hey.”

Namjoon’s voice cuts through the chaos like a blade.

The line is white noise for a solid minute. Just muffled breaths, the sound of someone’s chair scraping back, something clattering to the floor. Bang clears his throat into the hush.

“He’s with me. He’s safe. Medical cleared him yesterday, and the police gave me the go ahead today to reach out to the rest of you.”

“…No.” Seokjin’s voice, trembling but firm, as though denial is the only shield left. “No, that’s—don’t play with us like this, PD-nim. Not with this.”

“Hyung.” Hoseok’s voice wavers, cracking halfway through the word. He’s crying already, it’s clear in the way his breaths shudder across the line. “Hyung, please say something. Please tell me this is real.”

Taehyung’s tone is harsher, snapping through the static like a whip. “This better not be a joke. I swear to God—” But his voice falters on the last word, breaking down into something rawer, more frightened than angry.

Jungkook’s choked inhale is audible before he even speaks. “Hyung…? Joon-hyung?” His voice splinters, the words small, boyish in their desperation.

And finally, Jimin. Silent until now. The sound of him gasping, like he’s been holding his breath since the call connected. Then, barely a whisper, fragile and terrified:

“Joon?”

The silence breaks for good when Namjoon answers, quiet but steady.

“It’s me.”

The line explodes.

Seokjin: “Where the hell are you? Tell me where you are right now, Namjoon—”

Hoseok: “Oh my God, oh my God—hyung, I can’t—”

Taehyung: “Don’t you ever do that to us again—”

Jungkook: “Hyung, please, let me see you, I need to see you—”

Jimin: just a broken sob, raw into the speaker.

The voices crash over one another, a storm of relief and fury and grief all tangled together.

Namjoon exhales softly, lets the storm rage for a moment, then carefully pries the phone out of Yoongi hand and lifts the phone closer to his mouth.

“Breathe,” he says simply. His voice is hoarse, but even. “All of you. Please.”

For a heartbeat, it works.

The line quiets.

Not completely, but just enough that the sound of six people crying, gasping, and trying to hold themselves together fills the silence more than words do.

And Namjoon takes a breath.

Loudly, so all of them can hear it through the phone. 

He holds it.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Lets it out, slow and even.

A count of four, just like they used to do. Backstage. Before their first show. Their first tour. Their first “we might not make it” moment.

When the only thing anchoring them was the rhythm of seven breaths.

There’s a beat of recognition.

Seokjin exhales shakily.

Hoseok copies the breath without thinking.

Jimin murmurs, “One, two, three, four,” barely audible, a ghost of the old ritual.

Yoongi, quiet as always, just breathes along with them.

Taehyung clears his throat, voice raw. “Where are you?”

“PD-nim’s,” Yoongi answers for him.

“We’re coming,” Jungkook says. Not a request. A vow.

“I’ll text the gate code,” Bang adds in the background.

“We’re on our way,” Hoseok says. “Don’t move. Don’t—just wait for us, okay?”

“I will.”

The line begins to disconnect, one by one.

Not a single person says goodbye.

They all just leave, in silence, in motion. Like their souls are already moving faster than their bodies can.

Namjoon lowers the phone slowly.

Hands it back to Yoongi. His hand is steady. Yoongi’s is not.

Yoongi is still beside him, sitting cross-legged on the floor, head leaned back against the couch.

For a moment, they just sit like that.

Namjoon breaks the quiet first. Something like a chuckle in his exhale.

“I think I should stay with one of you. While things… get figured out.”

Yoongi turns his head slightly. “You think that’s up for debate?”

Namjoon chuckles, hoarse, broken, but real.

“I figured someone should ask.”

“Don’t worry.” Yoongi stands, offering Namjoon a hand. “We’re going to fight about it.”

Namjoon takes it. Stands. Wobbles just slightly.

Yoongi steadies him, and doesn’t let go.

They’re all here.

The knock is chaos. Not one knock, but a barrage. Fists and palms and flat slaps against the wood, like they’re all trying to reach him first.

Yoongi is already standing. But Namjoon’s the one who moves.

His legs are slow to obey. His balance still off. But he gets to the door.

And opens it.

For a second, no one moves.

Just five sets of eyes widening, mouths parting, lungs forgetting what breath is.

Then the dam breaks, again.

Jungkook is the first. He lunges forward with a broken sound in his throat, colliding into Namjoon like a wave, arms flung around his waist, face buried in his chest.

“Hyung—!” His voice cracks, and then it’s just sobbing, high and sharp and violent. His shoulders shake like a kid.

Namjoon stumbles backward from the impact, almost falling. But another body catches him—

Hoseok.

His arms wrap around both of them, his grip tight like he’ll split apart otherwise. “Oh my God, oh my God, you’re—” His voice crumbles into Namjoon’s shoulder. “You’re real. You’re really—”

Taehyung crashes into them next, a hand fisting in the back of Namjoon’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Don’t do that again,” he gasps out. “Don’t you ever—”

Someone else is crying. Sharp, gasping sobs. Jimin.

He’s not speaking, just shaking as he folds himself into the huddle, his face pressed into Namjoon’s back, grabbing at his ribs, his arms, his skin. Needing to feel.

Seokjin tries to hold back. He stands at the edge of the dogpile for a second, eyes wide and glossy. “Joon…” His breath stutters. “You asshole.”

But then he’s there too, his hands going to Namjoon’s face, brushing back long strands of hair and gripping his jaw gently.

“Look at you,” he chokes. “You’re bones. You’re—Jesus, you’re really here.”

Namjoon’s hands hover, as if unsure who to hold first.

Yoongi steps forward last, no chaos in his movements now, just purpose. He doesn’t speak. Just wraps his arms around the whole mess of them, limbs over limbs, pulling them all into one staggering mass.

Namjoon is buried in them.

Arms on every part of him. Around his chest, across his shoulders, tangling in his hair. Someone’s hand is on his face. Someone else’s on his bare wrist. His skin is soaked with their tears.

No one speaks for a while. Just breathing and weeping.

Someone sinks to the floor, dragging the rest with them. Namjoon lands on his knees. Jimin curls into his lap. Jungkook won’t let go of his hand. Hoseok is pressed into his side, forehead to shoulder. Seokjin rubs circles into his back with a hand that won’t stop shaking.

Taehyung leans his head on Namjoon’s and just breathes there, one hand stroking through his tangled hair.

“We buried you,” Seokjin whispers, voice hoarse. “We buried you, Joon.”

“I know.” Namjoon’s voice is raw. Quiet. “I know.”

He presses his forehead to Seokjin’s shoulder. “I saw it.”

That sentence stills everyone.

Jimin lifts his head. “What?”

Namjoon’s breath stutters. His heart aches at the memory buzzing under his skin. “I— I saw my grave. They showed me a photo.”

He sees the photo over his eyes, like a flash of lightning. Polished stone on a little green hill. A vase of flowers, new. One petal beginning to wilt.

Jungkook makes a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and buries his face in Namjoon’s shoulder.

Jimin chokes out a whisper, like it physically hurts.

“They wanted you to know we gave up.”

Namjoon shakes his head immediately. “No. No—Jimin, it wasn’t that. I knew what it was. I saw the way the flowers were arranged. They were hyung’s. I knew you left them.”

He swallows hard.

“It wasn’t surrender. It was love. You were still loving me. Even after. Like I asked you to.”

“I love you, too.”

Taehyung’s voice is muffled in the dogpile. The air shifts slightly at his words.

“I’ve wanted to tell you that for months. I’ve said it every night, hoping that it reached you, wherever you were.”

Namjoon exhales. 

“It did,” he says, voice shaking. “It did, Tae. I heard you.”

That breaks something.

They hold him tighter. Seven bodies drawn together like magnets. Desperate. Clumsy. Breathless.

No space between them. It’s not elegant. It’s not even comfortable, someone’s elbow digs into someone’s side, someone’s shoulder is wet from someone else’s tears. But none of them let go. They hold him like they’re afraid he’ll vanish mid-blink.

But he won’t.

He swears he won’t.

Somewhere in the mess, another hand joins them. Bang Si-hyuk’s, resting on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“Should I order you boys some takeout before you argue over which home Namjoon is staying at?”

The question barely registers at first.

Then there’s a beat. A collective, stunned, silence, and it cracks something else open. A startled, strangled laugh slips out of Jungkook, choked around leftover tears. Taehyung hiccups mid-sob. Jimin lets out a wheezing exhale that could be a laugh or a breakdown, or both.

Namjoon blinks up at Bang Si-hyuk.

“Takeout?”

“Unless you’re planning to stay in this emotional pile forever.” His voice is dry, but his hand stays warm and steady on Namjoon’s shoulder. “Which, frankly, I wouldn’t blame you for. But someone’s going to pass out from dehydration if I don’t step in.”

“I nominate Jimin,” Yoongi mutters.

“Hyung!” Jimin protests weakly, wiping his face on someone’s sleeve.

Seokjin groans from somewhere near the bottom of the pile. “I can’t feel my foot. Someone’s sitting on it.”

“Sorry,” Hoseok says. “That’s me. I’m not moving.”

“Nobody move,” Taehyung murmurs fiercely. His grip hasn’t loosened. “Not yet.”

Namjoon still blinks at Bang. Swallows.

“That would be nice.” he mutters, suddenly feeling small.

He’s forgotten what it was like to be offered food, instead of having to earn it.

Bang watches them for a moment longer, gaze softening. Then he squeezes Namjoon’s shoulder and straightens.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

Jungkook sniffs. “Get it from that place Joon-hyung likes near the plaza.”

Bang nods, and steps out to make the call.

Jimin lifts his head from Namjoon’s back and wipes at his face with his sleeve. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

“No way,” Jungkook cuts in, eyes still red but defiant. “I’m not letting him out of my sight. He can stay in my room. I’ll sleep on the floor—”

“Namjoon’s sleeping somewhere with a proper bed and a locked door,” Yoongi says flatly. “With a spare set of keys and at least three of us present in shifts.”

“You’re all insane,” Namjoon says softly.

“You died,” Seokjin snaps, but his voice breaks halfway through, and he’s pulling Namjoon back in before anyone can say anything else.

Namjoon lets himself be tugged under again. Into arms and heat and breath and safety. It’s not a solution.

He just closes his eyes and lets them hold him.

And for the first time in seven months, feels a touch of human contact that doesn’t hurt.

In the end, they draw straws, takeout boxes sprawled across Bang Si-hyuk’s living room floor because his table isn’t large enough for eight.

It’s Hoseok’s home that reigns supreme.

Lee Ha-na’s phone buzzes three times in the pocket of her denim apron before she finally checks it.

She’s mid-foil, halfway through a retouch on an idol who won’t stop swiveling in the chair. She expects spam. Or her boss.

She doesn’t expect a text from Bang PD.

It says: Do you have time today? Urgent. Confidential. For Namjoon.

Her stomach drops.

She stares at the screen. Then rereads it. Then reads it again.

For a moment, she wonders if he means memorial service. Or a tribute shoot. Or—

But no.

The second message comes before she can think too hard.

He wants a haircut. He’s with us. This is real. Please don’t tell anyone. I’m sending a car.

She sits down on the nearest stool without thinking.

Her client blinks at her in the mirror.

“Unnie? Is everything okay?”

Ha-na doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen like it’s trying to disappear from under her thumb.

Then she swallows, stands, and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I have to reschedule you. I’m so sorry. Something… came up.”

Ten minutes later, there’s a car waiting for her outside.

She rides to the address in silence. Doesn’t tell her assistant. Doesn’t even tell her sister, who cried for two hours straight when the video of Namjoon’s goodbye dropped.

The car pulls into Jung Hoseok’s garage.

The driver doesn’t speak a word. Just opens the door.

When Ha-na steps out, wiping her hands on her apron, Her hands tremble.

It’s Min Yoongi who answers the door. Says nothing. Just nods, and gestures her inside.

And then he’s there.

Kim Namjoon.

Seated in a kitchen chair like he’s at a photoshoot call time. A white towel wrapped around his shoulders. Sleeves rolled up. Feet bare.

He looks up when she enters. And smiles.

It’s small. A little uneven. But real.

“Hey, noona.”

She covers her mouth with her hand.

She isn’t one to cry.

But her heart breaks a little.

“Oh.”

The word forces its way out of her mouth, muffled by her hand.

And then she’s rushing forward. 

Her hands hover, not quite touching—scissors still in her bag, still trembling fingers—but she drops to a crouch beside him, like she's checking for injury, like he might vanish if she moves too fast.

“Is it really you?” she breathes.

Namjoon nods. Just once.

Up close, he looks thinner. Paler. There’s a tension in his shoulders she doesn’t remember. His eyes are different too. Still soft, but glassier. Like sleep is a stranger. Like trust is a muscle he hasn’t used in months.

She doesn’t say anything for a long while. Just sits there on the floor, her knees aching, blinking at him.

Namjoon breaks the silence. “I, uh... didn’t bring shampoo.”

Ha-na lets out something between a sob and a laugh.

“God, Joon. That’s what you’re worried about?”

He smiles again. Shrugs a little. “Didn’t want to be rude.”

Something in her chest cracks.

She gets to her feet slowly, swiping at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Okay,” she says, voice firming, re-centering herself the way she always does behind the chair. “Let’s do this.”

She sets up in silence, unpacking her tools with careful, practiced hands. The kitchen table becomes her station. She finds a bowl and fills it with warm water. Finds a comb, a cape. Unwinds the cord of her clippers like it’s any other job.

It isn’t.

It’s the most important job of her life.

Yoongi stays nearby but gives them space, leans in the hallway, arms crossed, listening with one ear.

Ha-na moves behind Namjoon. Her fingers card through his hair slowly. Gently. He doesn’t flinch, but he goes still. Entirely still.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He nods, barely.

She lets the silence stretch, softens it.

Then she asks, “What do you want me to do?”

Namjoon tilts his head forward. Looks at his lap.

“Take it off,” he says quietly. “All of it.”

She hesitates. Her hand stills in his hair.

“Like a buzz?”

He nods.

She remembers how much he hated getting a buzz when he went off to begin his military service. It doesn’t sit right with her.

Her voice softens again. “Joon... you don’t have to disappear.”

“I’m not disappearing,” he says, more to himself than to her. “I just…”

He closes his eyes. Swallows.

“It’s easy to grab.”

It’s barely audible, but it rings like a siren in her ears.

There’s nothing to say to that.

So she doesn’t say anything.

She just nods, and plugs in the clippers.

The first pass is quiet.

Hair falls in soft, weightless tufts. Piles at his feet like something shedding.

Namjoon closes his eyes.

And lets her work.

Ha-na moves carefully, methodically, circling his head with the patience of a sculptor.

She shifts the angle of the clippers, clearing a section near the base of his skull.

And then she freezes.

The strands fall away like a curtain, and lifted skin of an eye stares back at her.

An eye and a star.

Burned in. Something already healed like the cattle her uncle raises, the brands healed on their hip, but this one is brutal in application.

Ha-na stares at it.

Her hand drops.

The clippers go still.

Namjoon doesn’t move. He knows.

“Don’t stop,” he says softly.

Ha-na doesn’t move.

Yoongi steps out of the hallway and stalks forward.

“What is it?” he says, his voice defensive. He’s seen the change in Ha-na’s face.

She’s seen a lot of things in her line of work. Scars behind ears, stitches hidden in hairlines, bruises covered by powder, but nothing like this.

And now she maybe understands why Namjoon might have asked her to cut his hair, and not one of the many people HYBE could have hired.

Anyone else would have freaked out over it.

But Namjoon and her have had discussions in the past, between hectic scheduling and last minute touch-ups.

She told him a story once, of when her cousin fell and gashed his head open against the sidewalk, and she’d kept calm and told him everything was fine as she drove him to the hospital, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed firmly against the wound. Because as long as she stayed calm, he would too. He wouldn’t know how bad it was until it was over.

Slowly, she breathes in through her nose. Out through her mouth.

And lifts the clippers back up.

“I’ve got it,” she says quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “It’s okay.”

Yoongi doesn’t look convinced. His fists are clenched. He looks like he wants to punch through a wall.

But he stops stepping forward, especially when Namjoon sends him a look she can’t quite see.

Her hands don’t freeze this time.

She guides the clippers with a quiet, practiced touch, skimming clean lines down to the scalp.

Namjoon doesn’t speak again. Just sits with his eyes closed and his shoulders squared like he’s bracing for something worse.

It’s only hair.

But Ha-na gets it now. It’s not just a haircut. It’s the start of something. The first act of choice he’s had in a long, long time.

The buzz of the clippers fills the room. A low, steady hum. Soothing in its own strange way.

She finishes the sides. The crown. The back.

And when she moves to clear the last few tufts at the nape, she doesn’t stop.

She works around the brand like it’s just another part of him. Not something shameful. Not something to erase.

She lets it be what it is.

Once the final pass is done, she clicks the clippers off and sets them down with a soft thunk.

Silence again.

Namjoon opens his eyes.

Ha-na picks up a soft brush, starts sweeping hair from his neck and shoulders. Her movements gentle. Almost reverent.

“You want to see?” she asks.

He nods.

She hands him the mirror.

He doesn’t check the front.

Just turns it. Angles it until the back of his neck comes into view.

And then he just... looks at it.

No expression. No sharp inhale. No denial.

He sees it.

And keeps looking.

Yoongi, still standing a few paces away, shifts. Looks between the two of them, like he’s about to ask a question.

But Namjoon speaks first.

“Oh. I thought it would be worse.”

His voice is low. Dry. Honest.

Ha-na clears her throat softly. “It’s healed clean. Whoever did it… they knew what they were doing.”

He nods once.

Then he places the mirror on the table, face-down.

And he dives forward, out of the chair.

And hugs her.

She lets out a soft huff of air as she stumbles, her hands wrapping around him, holding him close.

And in the background, Yoongi’s breath catches.

Because now Namjoon is turned away from him, and his hair is gone, the curtain of hair no longer hiding the scar.

She rests one hand against Namjoon’s head, holding him like she did her cousin, professionalism be damned.

Maybe he needs the comfort.

Maybe he doesn’t want to see their reactions.

Maybe it's both.

But she was his stylist for four years, before he was pulled away. Before the world dropped out from under her and she had to find work elsewhere.

She’s more than happy to start again.

If, or when, he’s ready. 

So, for now, she can be his shield from the explosion of emotion that’s to come, even if it’s just for a moment.

Taehyung can’t stop staring.

Namjoon hasn’t either, at all of them. While Yoongi paces, while Hoseok silently rages, Taehyung wrings his hands in his lap while he sits on the living room couch.

It’s just the four of them in Hoseok’s home, for now.

It feels like too many.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Yoongi finally stops pacing. “Turn around.”

Namjoon blinks. “What?”

“Your neck.” Yoongi’s voice frays at the edges. “Show us again.”

Namjoon hesitates, then obediently turns on his heels and tips his head forward. Exposing the scar. A burned-in circle with jagged points, pale and ridged against his skin.

Taehyung’s stomach flips. He wants to reach out and cover it, hide it from view, but his hands knot harder in his lap instead.

Hoseok swears under his breath. “Jesus Christ, Joon. That’s—” He cuts himself off, his throat working. “That’s a brand.”

Namjoon straightens, smoothing his shirt back into place as though nothing happened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” Yoongi snaps. “They carved something into you. For a reason. What does it mean?”

Namjoon exhales. Softly. Turns around again.

“No.”

Yoongi’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “No? That’s it? You’re just going to let this—this thing—sit there on your body and not even tell us what it means?”

“Yeah.”

Silence fills the room again. Taehyung pushes himself to his feet.

“It’s just a scar,” he continues. His voice sounds too controlled. 

“Don’t do that,” Hoseok snaps. His arms are folded tight against his chest, jaw hard enough to ache. “Don’t fucking minimize it.”

Namjoon opens his mouth. Closes it.

Taehyung’s voice slips out before he can stop it. “Why a star?” His throat feels dry. “Why… why an eye? Why… there?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer.

Yoongi’s fists curl, unclench, curl again. “Don’t you dare protect them. Don’t you dare give them that.”

Namjoon’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t look at any of them.

“It’s just a scar.” he chokes out.

It sounds like he’s trying to make himself believe it, more than he’s trying to convince them.

Taehyung takes a step forward.

His hands shake as he reaches toward Namjoon, stopping just short of touching the scar. 

Namjoon jolts back.

So does the air.

Taehyung freezes.

Suddenly, the room smells like smoke and burning skin and Namjoon screaming.

But Namjoon’s mouth is closed. No one’s cooked anything on the stove today.

Hoseok stiffens, eyes snapping to Namjoon’s neck, then back to his face. Yoongi’s breath catches in his chest.

Taehyung’s hands fall to his sides. His throat tightens. “Joon—”

Namjoon’s eyes are wide, unfocused, and there’s a tremor in his jaw.

And then his eyes snap to the left.

Taehyung does as well.

There’s someone standing there.

Robes of blue. The sigil of an eye and a star plastered white on the fabric right above their heart.

There’s a metal cattle brand swinging in their hand, whistling a tune. The tip of it is blazing orange, steam curling from the edges.

They take two steps.

Namjoon slams his hands together in front of his face, like crushing a mosquito between his palms.

The person shimmers in the air, like a mirage, before it vanishes.

No one speaks.

The air still smells like burnt flesh.

And then Hoseok gags.

“What the fuck.” Hoseok chokes out from behind his fist. 

Namjoon rushes forward. He’s trembling now, shaking all over, shoulders quivering.

Taehyung’s still staring at the spot in the room where the figure vanished.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Namjoon whispers, one hand on Hoseok’s shoulder, the other against his back.

Taehyung blinks. The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible to absorb.

“Joon…” His voice is small, tentative, but it cracks somewhere deep inside him. He wants to reach for Namjoon, wants to steady him, but his limbs feel leaden, useless.

Hoseok swallows hard, still gagging slightly, then rubs at his throat. “Who… who was that?” His voice is rough, raw.

Namjoon doesn’t answer. He’s rocking slightly, like the act of standing is already too much. His hands tremble where they rest on Hoseok, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular.

Taehyung steps closer, carefully this time. “It’s okay,” he says, though the words feel hollow. “You’re… you’re here. We’re here.”

Yoongi shifts his weight, fists clenched at his sides. “This isn’t… a hallucination,” he mutters. “We all saw it. That was real.”

Namjoon’s hands clench at his sides, knuckles white. His eyes dart again, scanning the room, not just at the four of them, but at the spaces between, at corners, at shadows. 

“I—” he starts, voice breaking. Then he stops. “Don’t. Don’t say anything.”

Taehyung swallows, frozen. Hoseok moves a fraction closer, but even he senses the razor-edge in Namjoon’s posture.

The air in the room shifts. Taehyung notices the faintest waver, a shimmer at the corner of his vision, like heat rising from asphalt. His stomach twists.

Smoke. Screams. The smell of burnt flesh rises again.

Namjoon presses a hand to his temple, his body trembling, but beneath the tremor, his shoulders are taut, primed. 

“Joon…” he whispers again, voice trembling. But Namjoon doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, shoulders tense, eyes darting, scanning…something Taehyung can’t see.

And then Namjoon jerks, sudden and sharp, like he’s reacting to someone behind Taehyung. 

Taehyung spins, heart thudding. There’s…nothing.

But the air shimmers. The edges of the room waver like heat over pavement. Taehyung’s fingers tighten against the couch cushion, nails biting into fabric. Smoke. Screams. A flash of fire.

Namjoon gasps, jerking back.

“Stop!”

His voice is frantic, panicked, but no one is attacking.

Taehyung stumbles backward, eyes wide. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. He only knows the panic radiating off Namjoon, raw and animal, is contagious.

He blinks.

They’re not in Hoseok’s home anymore.

The figure in blue robes saunters across the cell, the brand swinging in their grip. Whistling a tune while a small crowd of blue and black robes stand around the edges.

Taehyung’s mouth goes dry. His hands shake, but he can’t move. He can’t tear his eyes away.

Namjoon is on the floor, pressed against the cold stone. His body is coiled tight, trembling violently, one hand brushing the floor as if to push himself away from the figure looming above him.

The figure swings the brand. Sparks flare, the tip glowing orange. The crowd murmurs—chants, maybe? Taehyung can’t make out the words, but they press against his skull like a drumbeat.

Hoseok swallows hard behind him. Yoongi’s fists are clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. Taehyung notices that, even in this… whatever this is, Namjoon’s tension is absolute, impossibly acute.

The smell of smoke and burning flesh thickens. He wants to look away, but he can’t.

Then the figure grabs Namjoon by his hair. Yanks his head forward, exposing the flesh of the back of his neck.

There’s no time to process. To blink. To brace.

The metal slams against the back of Namjoon’s neck.

The skin sizzles. There’s fire burning around the edges of the metal as the flames lap up where skin and fat melts against the brutal bite of the brand.

Taehyung’s stomach lurches. His hands fly to his mouth, gagging against the heat and the smell, the raw, visceral sound of flesh meeting fire hammering in his ears. He can’t move, can’t look away, can’t breathe around the panic pressing down on his chest.

Namjoon’s body jerks violently, arching against the floor as the brand sears into him. His jaw clenches, teeth gritted so tight it’s almost painful to watch. His hands dig into the stone beneath him, nails cutting grooves into it.

The crowd murmurs, a sick rhythm of approval, their voices scraping at Taehyung’s sanity. He can see the edges of the flames licking higher for a heartbeat, then receding, leaving raw, angry lines across the pale skin.

Namjoon cries out, a sound that rips through Taehyung’s chest. It’s not just pain, it’s terror, confusion, the need to make noise just to prove to himself he isn’t dead yet despite the agony.

Taehyung sways, hands trembling, almost dropping to the floor beside Namjoon, but he can’t. He isn’t supposed to be there. He’s not in that cell, but every fiber of him feels like he is.

The brand is lifted. Sparks scatter. Smoke curls in lazy, mocking spirals. Namjoon’s back arches one last time, trembling under the trauma. His chest heaves, throat raw.

And then the vision shatters under the weight of unconsciousness.

Taehyung blinks, gasping, his own body drenched in sweat. Hoseok and Yoongi are beside him, faces pale, fists clenched, frozen in shock.

Namjoon is in front of them, trembling, but alive. His hand clasped against the back of his neck, where the scar now lies, pale and jagged.

Taehyung blinks again. His vision wavers, and the edges of reality feel too thin.

Namjoon laughing with a microphone clutched in one hand, singing off-key but pouring everything into it. The high notes wobble, the words stumble, but the heart is raw, unshielded.

Then the purple lights, a sea of hands waving, fans shouting, voices colliding in a joyous roar. Taehyung can almost hear it, almost feel the heat of it on his skin, though the room around them is quiet, still.

Then the pen, moving frantically across paper, sketching lyrics in a careful scrawl: “But this is my home now (Seoul, Seoul).”

Flashes of good times, good things.

Like a balm of good moments over the deep scar of the bad.

Taehyung reaches out.

Finds Namjoon’s hand somewhere between the scratch of graphite against paper and Hoseok’s home.

And then it’s Hoseok’s living room again.

Taehyung’s fingers close around Namjoon’s, warm, trembling, real. The room smells normal, familiar. Sunlight slices through the blinds. The couch cushions press into Taehyung’s palms. Hoseok and Yoongi’s breathing is loud, ragged, but steady.

Namjoon’s hand is shaking. His eyes are glassy again.

Namjoon tries to speak. Words break. “I… I’m—”

“No,” Yoongi says, not loud, but sharp. Final. “Don’t say you’re fine.”

Namjoon shuts his mouth. His throat bobs, and the muscles in his jaw tense.

Hoseok stares at him like he’s never seen him before. He looks pale, almost sickly, and his voice comes slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid of what might fall out if he doesn’t pace it carefully. 

“That wasn’t… That wasn’t just a memory.”

No one corrects him.

Because it wasn’t.

And it was.

And it shouldn’t have been.

“Someone tell me what the fuck just happened,” Hoseok whispers.

Taehyung’s still holding Namjoon’s hand, but it’s not enough to anchor him. Not really. His voice is soft when he speaks. “We were there. We were inside it.”

“Inside what?” Hoseok snaps, the panic clawing back into his throat. “A memory? A flashback? That wasn’t a flashback—Joon, you burned.”

Namjoon swallows hard. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t shake his head either. He just stands there, silent, vibrating at some frequency the rest of them can’t quite hear.

“Memories aren’t supposed to… bleed like that,” Yoongi says after a long, fraught silence. His voice is low, unsettled. “That was a whole place. A sound, a smell…pain. That wasn’t just you remembering it. That was real.”

Taehyung looks at Namjoon, waiting.

Namjoon finally speaks.

“I can’t stop it.”

His voice is small. A broken thing.

“I didn’t mean to bring you in. I just… remembered. And then it was there.”

Yoongi shakes his head, eyebrows drawn tight, lips thinned. “That’s not—Joon, that’s not how remembering works.”

Namjoon looks up, suddenly. His eyes are bloodshot, glassy. “I know.”

That shuts everyone up.

“I know,” Namjoon says again, a whisper now. “I’ve tried to make it stop. They wouldn’t let me.”

A long silence blooms, full of jagged edges and implications no one wants to name.

Yoongi’s brow furrows, his voice razor-sharp. “What do you mean they wouldn’t let you?"

Namjoon blinks like it physically hurts.

“For months, they... if I just focused through the pain, something would open. Something would awaken.”

Yoongi stares at him, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “You’re saying they tortured you?”

Namjoon’s expression shifts. Not quite a nod, not quite a denial.

“They built me like this,” he says, and the way he says it, quiet, raw, not even angry anymore, is somehow worse than a scream.

“They wanted this?” Hoseok’s voice pitches, incredulous.

“They believed memory was sacred,” Namjoon mutters, staring at the floor. “That the past was closer to truth than the present. That if you could see the truth perfectly, you could bring it back.”

Yoongi’s breath catches. “And you can?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer. But the room is still warm with memory-smoke, and no one really needs him to.

“Fuck,” Yoongi says, turning away, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I can’t wrap my head around this. This is—this is not real. This is a delusion. We’re all—”

“We felt it,” Taehyung cuts in. “We breathed it, hyung. It burned.”

“It’s a trick,” Yoongi says, pacing now. “A hallucination. A shared hallucination. There’s no way this—this—is scientifically possible. The brain doesn’t work like that.”

“I know! I know.” Namjoon wails, hands carding through the buzzed top of his head. his whole body folding in on itself. “But they didn’t stop!”

The words tear out of him like a confession. Like an apology. Like a scream he’s been holding down for months.

“I begged them to stop.” His voice splinters, hoarse, choking. “I told them it was too much. That I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, that it was hurting me. And they just fucking smiled.”

Taehyung stares, frozen.

“They said pain meant I was close. That if it broke me, it meant it was working.”

Namjoon’s knees hit the floor.

A sharp crack breaks through the silence, not loud, but deep, like something old giving way. The floorboards beneath him bow slightly, one edge curling up as if heat had warped it.

Everyone freezes.

Taehyung’s breath catches in his throat. Hoseok jerks back instinctively. Even Yoongi flinches.

No one moves for a long second. Not even Namjoon.

The room is quiet, but it hums now — faintly — like a pressure drop before a storm.

Namjoon lifts his hands slowly from where they’ve braced against the floor. His fingers are shaking. Beneath his palms, a faint blackened outline has spread across the wood — like soot, or shadow, or memory made physical.

He stares at it. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

Taehyung finally finds his voice. Barely.

“Joon… you didn’t hit the ground that hard.”

Namjoon blinks at the cracked floorboards like he’s seeing them for the first time.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

He crawls back from the splinters, on his hands and knees. 

Like he’s afraid of what he did. Like he’s afraid of himself.

The blackened mark fades as he moves, just worn wood again. But the crack remains — the edge splintered, the floorboards warped in a way no one can quite explain.

Taehyung reaches toward him instinctively. “Joon, hey—”

“Don’t,” Namjoon says quickly, voice hoarse, panicked. “Don’t touch me.”

Taehyung stops, hand suspended in the air.

Namjoon sits back against the far wall, breathing fast, shoulders curled in. His hands are shaking, and he won’t look at any of them.

Yoongi is the first to speak, voice tight. “That wasn’t memory.”

Namjoon still doesn’t look up.

“You broke the floor, Joon.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Namjoon says again, smaller this time.

Hoseok crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “You didn’t even fall that hard. That was—” He swallows. “That was strength. Like, superhuman strength.”

Yoongi sits down heavily on the edge of the couch. “Okay. Okay. Just so we’re clear—are we seriously talking about powers now?”

No one answers.

And that, in itself, is the answer.

Yoongi exhales, slow and sharp. “Jesus.”

Namjoon presses his palms against his knees. “They wanted it,” he mutters. “They kept pushing until they started to see the results. I didn’t know what was happening—I just thought I was losing control. Of my mind. Of everything. But they—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“They were recording everything. Like they were waiting for the symptoms to start.”

Taehyung finally finds his voice. “How many symptoms are there?”

Namjoon flinches.

Raises one hand.

Three fingers.

Taehyung swallows. Steps across the room to where the broom sits against the wall.

Without a word, he tosses it towards Namjoon.

He catches it without even blinking, then stares at the handle in his hand.

Taehyung turns to Hoseok. 

“If he breaks it, I’ll buy you a new one.”

Namjoon blinks down at the broom, still caught in the effortless grip of his hand. He holds it like it might explode, like he’s afraid of it. Or, more accurately, of what he might do to it.

Taehyung just shrugs. “It’s a broom, not a bomb. We’re gonna figure this out.”

Hoseok stares at him, exasperated. “It’s my cleaning broom, Tae.”

“I said I’d buy you a new one.”

Yoongi, despite everything, lets out a quiet, surprised huff. Not quite a laugh, but close. The tension in the room doesn’t vanish, but it tilts, slightly. Like someone cracked open a window.

Namjoon still hasn’t moved.

Taehyung nods toward him, softer now. “Try.”

Namjoon looks at him.

Swallows.

“I know I don’t have to try,” he whispers.

Grabs the handle in both hands like he’s about to break it over his knee.

Snap.

The sound is small. Almost delicate.

But the silence that follows it is anything but.

Two halves of the broom clatter to the floor at his feet.

Namjoon doesn’t even flinch.

His chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths. Not out of exertion—he barely moved—but from the weight of knowing. Of revealing.

Of not being able to take it back.

Taehyung stares at the broken pieces, a mixture of horror and awe stirring in his gut. One end rolls gently on the floor, tapping against the baseboard like a metronome counting out the seconds they don’t know how to fill. Hoseok mutters a curse. Yoongi wheezes air in through his lungs.

Hoseok is the first to speak. “That was a steel handle.”

His voice is low. Almost reverent. Like saying it too loudly might summon something worse.

Yoongi looks between the shattered metal, Namjoon’s hands, and the crack still etched into the floor. His jaw works silently before he mutters, “Okay. That’s it. That’s not adrenaline. That’s not stress. That’s not some trauma response.”

“It’s not,” Namjoon agrees quietly. “Not really, anyways.”

Taehyung lifts his eyes to meet Namjoon’s.

“So, three symptoms.”

Namjoon nods.

Taehyung tilts his head slightly. “What’s the third?”

Namjoon breathes in sharply through his nose. Turns around, presses his forehead against the wall.

“Someone… throw something at me.”

Hoseok pulls the pen out of his pocket and chucks it without a second thought.

It cuts through the air in a clean arc.

Namjoon doesn't turn around.

Doesn’t even glance around.

But his hand lifts, smooth and precise, and catches the pen behind his back without so much as a glance.

There’s a silence like a held breath.

He holds the pen for a second. Then drops it. The soft clink as it hits the floor is deafening.

Taehyung’s eyebrows lift, mouth slightly open. Yoongi leans forward, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to piece together something that still refuses to make sense.

Hoseok stares. “…You didn’t even look.”

Namjoon keeps his forehead against the wall. His voice is quiet. Flat. “I didn’t need to.”

“Wait, wait—do it again,” Yoongi says, already reaching into his bag, grabbing his lighter. “Don’t catch it this time. Dodge.”

Namjoon turns slowly, just for a moment, almost reluctantly, like his body moves half a beat after his will.

“Why?”

“To see if it’s a fluke.”

Namjoon’s eyes meet Yoongi’s. There’s no fear there.

Just resignation.

“Okay,” he says, and turns around again.

Yoongi throws the lighter.

Namjoon steps sideways once, face still to the wall, quick and clean. The lighter sails past him and lands harmlessly on the couch.

Then, faster than before, Yoongi grabs the small notebook off the coffee table and flings it, low and sharp.

Namjoon ducks, twists, and the notebook skims over his shoulder, flipping in the air before thudding against the back wall.

He straightens.

Still breathing steady.

Still too calm.

Taehyung exhales. “It’s not just strength.”

“No,” Namjoon says, his voice edged now. “It’s everything. Reaction time. Perception. Muscle control. I don’t know where it stops. But it only shows up when I’m pushed.” He gestures to the wall. “I knew the pen was coming. I could hear the pressure in the air shift. I could feel it. Same with the lighter. The notebook.”

Taehyung shouldn’t say it.

He really, really, shouldn’t.

“So you’re like Spider-man.”

Taehyung slaps his hand over his mouth the second the words slip out, face burning. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Yoongi makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, hands rising to pinch the bridge of his nose like he can’t believe what he just heard.

Hoseok stares at Taehyung for a beat. Then starts pacing again. “Oh my god. Oh my god, you did not just compare him to—”

“I panicked!” Taehyung wails through his fingers. “My brain short-circuited! That’s my emergency language!”

Namjoon just blinks at him.

Not angry. Not offended.

Just…

Blinking.

And then, a sound escapes him.

Soft. Short.

A breath, almost like—

A laugh.

Taehyung freezes.

Everyone else does too.

Namjoon’s hand goes to his mouth like he didn’t expect it either.

But it’s there. That brief, helpless sound. Like something unstuck for half a second in his chest. 

Not joy, not really.

But something close to relief.

“…Spider-man,” Namjoon says, slowly, like he’s trying the words out. “You think I’m like Spider-man.”

Taehyung peeks between his fingers, sheepish. “I mean… super strength. Being able to sense things. Kind of checks out.”

Namjoon stares at him.

Yoongi sighs and collapses on the couch, muttering, “Great. We’ve got memory trauma, accidental super-strength, and Spider-man metaphors. In our God of Destruction. Love that for us.”

Namjoon sends him a look.

And then flips him off.

Yoongi doesn’t even blink before sending back a middle finger of his own, half-hearted and lazy from where he’s slouched into the couch cushions.

Hoseok groans and drags a hand down his face. “You’re both children. Mutant, emotionally traumatized children.”

Taehyung snorts, tension finally starting to uncoil from his shoulders. He drops his hand from his mouth and says, “Still cooler than the cult of robe-wearing freaks who think trauma is a power-up.”

“Seriously,” Yoongi mutters. “Who thinks branding someone is a spiritual growth strategy?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer.

His hand is still at his mouth.

But there’s something different in his eyes now. Not lighter, exactly. Just… less alone.

Because they’re together again. Namjoon is with them again, sharing space and agony and joy, however brief. 

Something none of them thought they’d be able to experience ever again.

The next day, it starts to rain when Seokjin, Jimin, and Jungkook arrive.

Hoseok greets them at the door, a towel already lying in the entrance, heart hammering in his chest.

Between the four of them, they discussed how they’d break it to the rest of them—

but when Seokjin steps inside, shaking water from his sleeves, his eyes flick once toward the living room and narrow.

“What happened?” he asks, no preamble, just pointing towards the pieces of broken wood in Hoseok’s floor. 

Jungkook’s gaze follows Seokjin’s finger, and he blinks. “Uh—was there… a fight?”

Yoongi exhales through his nose, rubbing at his temple. “Not the kind you’re thinking.”

Namjoon doesn’t move from the table. He hasn’t moved much all morning, sitting so still it’s like he’s trying to become a piece of furniture.

Jimin crouches by the splintered planks, fingertips hovering over the cracks without touching. 

Seokjin straightens, gaze flicking from Hoseok to Yoongi to Taehyung, then finally to Namjoon. “Tell me.”

For a long moment, no one does. Rain taps against the windows, filling the silence. Jungkook shifts on his feet, restless, his eyes darting between all of them.

Then Namjoon raises his hand. 

At first, nothing changes.

But then the air shimmers, shifts.

And suddenly there is no house, no home. Just the seven of them standing in… in the rain. In a forest. 

The smell hits first. Wet earth, pine, the metallic tang of rain soaking through moss.

Jungkook jerks back with a startled sound, arms wrapping around himself as cold water beads across his shoulders. “What the—”

Jimin lifts his hand instinctively, palm out as if he could press against air that isn’t there. The texture under his fingers is still smooth, dry wall, but his eyes are full of trees.

Seokjin doesn’t move. He only watches Namjoon, face unreadable.

The forest stretches around them, endless, green-black and dripping. The rain is heavier here, sharp pinpricks against their skin, soaking through clothes that shouldn’t be wet.

And in the distance, a single echo: the crack of something snapping underfoot.

Yoongi curses softly under his breath. Taehyung holds his breath. Hoseok grips the edge of the table, except there is no table anymore, only a fallen log slick with moss. His knuckles whiten.

Then, just as suddenly, the vision folds in on itself.

The house slams back into being: the living room, the split wood in the floor, the six of them trying to catch their breath and a seventh sitting like a stone.

Their hair is dry again. Their clothes untouched. Only the hammering of their hearts insists it wasn’t a dream.

Namjoon’s hand drops. His face is pale, jaw tight.

Jungkook whispers, “Hyung… what was that?”

“Holy shit.” Jimin says next, hands in his hair. “Did that… that actually happened, right?”

He looks directly at Namjoon.

Namjoon nods.

Seokjin is the first to move. A muttered “Aish” slips out between his lips as he steps past the cracks in the floorboards, stepping a bit too high like he’s trudging through forest terrain, and sets a steady hand on Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he says, tone almost brisk. “Bottom shelf near the sink, right Hobi?”

Hoseok hums an affirm, gaze darting between Namjoon and Seokjin.

It feels weird, seeing Seokjin act like the leader role he fit himself into with Namjoon in the room again, but at the same time, it feels normal.

Seokjin squeezes Namjoon’s shoulder once, then lets go

“Everyone sit. Warm up. Then we talk, yeah?”

The others obey almost automatically. Jimin sinks onto the couch, elbows on his knees, still running his hands through his hair like he’s trying to shake the forest out of it. Jungkook perches beside him, restless, bouncing his knee.

Taehyung lowers himself onto the rug, cross-legged, staring at Namjoon like he’s trying to memorize every detail before it shifts again.

Yoongi leans against the wall, arms crossed, though his eyes never leave Namjoon either. Hoseok picks his way over to the armchair and sinks into the fabric with a sharp exhale.

The rain outside drums harder.

Seokjin returns two minutes later with a tray of mugs, steam curling in the air. He sets the tray down in the center of them all.

“Here,” he says simply.

One by one, they all take a cup. Yoongi offers Namjoon his when he doesn’t move like the rest of them, and keeps holding it out until Namjoon’s fingers wrap around the handle.

Hoseok sips his own, the heat coating his throat. He doesn’t really taste it much. His tongue still tastes like the forest.

Silence curls around them like the steam from the tea, lazy and in no rush to fill the space with anything else, not until Seokjin clears his throat.

“So,” he starts, resting his hands on his thighs. “Last I checked, Hoseok didn’t install a whole holographic projector system in his home.”

A few of them huff soft laughs, brittle and short-lived. It doesn’t break the tension, but it puts a hairline crack in it.

Namjoon finally lifts the mug to his lips, though his hands tremble faintly against the porcelain. He doesn’t drink, just breathes in the steam.

“We—” Hoseok starts, trailing off as three pairs of eyes snap to him. He swallows. “Okay, wait, first things first. Yesterday, when Namjoon got his haircut done, we… were made aware of… a…”

He can’t say scar. But he can’t say brand anymore either. He isn’t angry enough. Not anymore.

“…a mark,” Hoseok settles on finally, his voice low. “On the back of his neck.”

The air shifts again, the steam from the cups curling upward like smoke.

“Just call it what it is. It’s a brand.” Namjoon mutters into his tea, gesturing to the nape of his neck.

Hoseok turns away as Seokjin, Jimin, and Jungkook lean in to look.

Jungkook jerks back first, his mug knocking against his knee with a dull clink. “Holy shit—”

“Jungkook.” Seokjin’s voice is sharp, enough to snap him quiet, though his own jaw is tight. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out, to trace the mark, but he doesn’t. He sits back.

Jimin lingers the longest, his lips parted, eyes shining with something that looks a lot like grief. When he finally pulls away, it’s slow, reluctant. He runs his hands over his face, dragging them down hard, like he’s trying to wake himself up.

“They… did that? To you?”

For a moment, only the rain answers, a steady rhythm against Hoseok’s home.

One nod from Namjoon answers at last. He runs his hand through the soft fuzz left on his head from the buzz cut.

“I knew I wasn’t going to be able to keep it hidden. There’s just… a lot more to it.”

And he heaves out a breath, lips curling a fraction, hinting more towards a snarl than a smile.

“Yoongi, Hoseok, Taehyung, and myself. I didn’t plan on… showing the rest, but it slipped out while we were arguing…”

Namjoon takes a sip from his mug. Swallows harshly.

“I have… what the fuck are we calling them?”

He turns to Taehyung, who just shrugs in response.

“Yoongi calls them powers?”

Yoongi just snorts in response.

“You called him Spider-man.”

“Is that why I can still smell pine?”

Jungkook’s voice cuts across the room.

Hoseok can still taste it, but he drags in a breath anyway. The rest of them do as well. The scent is faintly woody, resinous, slightly sweet, and wet.

Namjoon claps his hands together at the same time they hear a twig snap underfoot. Too loud to not be real.

“Sorry,” he mutters, as they all reel at the sound. “The rain’s… triggering some stuff.”

Seokjin leans forward, chin resting on his hand.

“I’ve got headphones in my bag.”

Namjoon’s head shoots up to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” he chokes out, fast, desperate, and immediate. Even though it wasn’t really a question.

Seokjin quickly rummages through his bag he set by Hoseok’s door, and withdraws a sleek, black, pair, and tosses it across the room.

Namjoon catches it while sipping with the other hand.

Jungkook makes a noise that almost sounds like awe, as Namjoon slams the pads over his ears.

The change is immediate.

The rain dims, not because it’s going away, but because there were two sets of falling rain sounding in the room. The scent of pine ebbs away. The floorboards no longer smell like wet earth and footsteps.

Namjoon’s shoulders drop a fraction. He closes his eyes.

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God,” Namjoon wheezes out into the much silenter room. “I can fucking think.”

The six of them share a glance, not quite sure what it means, but they let Namjoon sit, and wait.

Hoseok cards his finger over a piece of dry skin in the corner of his thumb. Takes another sip. It just tastes like tea now.

“Okay. Back on topic,” Seokjin says, a joking tone in his voice, but his gaze is anything but. “Sudden forest. Dents in the floorboards. What exactly did you want to tell us?”

The tension in the room thickens again, heavier than the damp air outside. Namjoon exhales, fingertips pressing into the mug as if holding himself together through sheer will. His voice is low, trembling despite his attempt at calm.

“It sounds insane, I know, but… during my captivity I developed symptoms.”

He raises his hand. Three fingers.

“They called them: Heightened Perception, Memory Crystallization, and Survival Adaptation.

They all straighten. Some, because it is the first time they’re hearing it, the others, because Namjoon is saying more than they knew previously.

Seokjin blinks, slowly. “Symptoms…” he repeats.

Jimin leans forward, eyes wide. “Memory Crystallization?” He repeats, testing the words. “What… what does that even mean?”

Namjoon swallows, voice low. “It’s… my memories. I can see them perfectly, every detail, and sometimes they just don’t stay in my head anymore. They… spill out. Into the space around me. Into the people around me. Into… reality, sometimes.”

Hoseok exhales sharply, “Like yesterday, when we were arguing. About the… brand. We saw the moment it happened.”

Namjoon nods, shoulders tense. “Exactly. It’s not just remembering. It’s… reliving. The smells, the sounds… even the pain sometimes.”

Jimin frowns, voice sharp. “And Heightened Perception?”

Namjoon smirks. 

“Like Taehyung said. ‘Spider-man.’”

Taehyung groans.

Jungkook mutters under his breath, staring at the floor. “And the last one… Survival Adaptation?”

Namjoon just gestures to the edge of the room, where the broken broom sits, then the broken floor.

Silence falls again. The rain patters quietly against Hoseok’s home.

Then Seokjin leans back, running a hand through his hair. “So you survived months of hell, and now your trauma… manifests physically?”

“That’s their running theory, yeah.”

“So… these people you keep bringing up,” Jungkook adds. “That’s… the people who… took you. Right?”

Namjoon nods.

“Then why are you quoting what they told you?”

Namjoon shrugs.

“How else am I supposed to explain this? Superpowers are a thing made for movies and fiction, not this.”

It comes out of his mouth soft, resigned, but his words are anything but cruel.

Jimin presses a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. “And all this… this power stuff, the Memory Crystallization, the reflexes… Is it because of them?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer immediately. He just stares at the broken floorboards, then the broom. 

“It was their goal. And it doesn’t turn off.”

Jungkook rests his hands in his face.

“This is… wild,” he mutters.

Hoseok lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Understatement of the century, Kook.”

“Okay, look,” Seokjin pipes up and claps his hands together. Not loudly, just enough to draw their focus. “I’m not the best at science or math or… magic. But you have to stop quoting the words of your literal tormentors, Joon.” 

Namjoon exhales, slow and uneven, the steam from his mug curling into the air between them.

“I know,” he whispers. “I… I just don’t know how else to explain it.”

Seokjin steps closer, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Then don’t. We’ll just figure it out as we go.”

Namjoon blinks at him, and smiles.

“When did you start sounding like that?”

Seokjin shrugs. 

“A few months after they took you, I think. It sort of just happened. The role needed to be filled, and Worldwide Handsome is really just filler, anyways.”

“Hey,” Yoongi barks. “We went over this months ago, hyung. No.”  

Seokjin glances at Yoongi, then turns back to Namjoon.

But it’s Jimin who speaks next.

“Is it just the bad stuff you can make real?”

Namjoon’s fingers tighten around the mug. He doesn’t look up.

“It’s… no, actually. It’s a bit harder, but I can make anything from a memory surface. It’s… what helped me.”

Hoseok blinks, remembering the moment after the smell of burnt flesh and screaming. Karaoke. Purple lights. A pen on paper. Surfacing like a balm.

That was how he coped, he thinks, and shifts.

“Well,” Hoseok says to the room. “Can you make a stingray appear?”

Seokjin blanches. “No. Nonono. Don’t you dare.”

Namjoon blinks.

And then the air ripples, and they’re all suddenly waist deep in water.

There’s a second Seokjin in the room. A second Jimin, and a second Namjoon too. Jimin’s hair is orange, Seokjin’s is blond, Namjoon’s mirror image is blurry, but the numbers on their yellow shirts are clear. 4, 5, 7.

And second Seokjin is clutching the second Namjoon for dear life, screaming “I’m sorry!” to Frankie, the biggest stingray he’s supposed to kiss.

Hoseok can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him, splashing water around. “I—oh my god—this is insane!”

Jungkook scrambles back, arms flailing. “Is this… one of our Run episodes?”

Seokjin just groans, curling tighter into himself, eyes squeezed shut. “I said no…”

The park employees are speaking in English and somehow they can all understand it, second Seokjin is wading for his life from a large stingray that means him no harm, and second Jimin is cackling like a madman. 

Namjoon blinks at the scene in front of him.

“Oh,” he says. “I was just trying to make the stingray appear, not… all of this.”

Jimin wades closer to him, letting a rogue splash soak his sleeves, watching himself bow over laughing. “It’s… kind of beautiful, actually.”

Hoseok snorts, shaking his head as water drips from his hair. “Beautiful? Jimin, it’s chaos incarnate.”

Second Seokjin is still screaming apologies.

Taehyung edges back, eyes wide. “Is this… normal?”

Seokjin mutters from his corner, now chin deep in the water, still hugging his knees, “Normal is a relative concept when a stingray is involved.”

Jungkook is already floating on his back in the water. “Stop it right now,” he pleads. “I wanna see if I’m still floating afterwards.”

“Yah! Kook. Namjoon’s… whatever this is, isn’t a toy!”

And Namjoon, still wearing his borrowed headphones, eyes flowing over the scene around them—the doubles continue their chaotic antics, the stingrays swimming serenely—claps.

They’re in Hoseok’s home again.

Jungkook falls to the floor flailing.

Their clothes are dry.

The doubles are gone.

“Aw.” Jungkook pipes up from his spot on the floor.

Namjoon exhales slowly, taking off the headphones and letting them rest around his neck. One of his eyes twitch, just the slightest change for a moment only Hoseok catches.

“Gone,” Namjoon says quietly, almost to himself.

Hoseok flops onto the couch, shaking his head. “That… was something else.”

Seokjin sits beside him, still rubbing at his wet hair that somehow isn’t wet anymore. “I’m… alive, I think. Barely.”

“It was a stingray, hyung.” Jimin calls over. “They couldn’t have stung you if they tried.”

“Listen,” Seokjin fires back, words flying a mile a minute. “They were flapping around in the water and I couldn’t tell if it was them trying to swim normally while being held up by the staff or if it was getting pissed off! They don’t have expressions. I couldn’t tell what the hell they were thinking.” 

Namjoon snorts.

Six pairs of eyes turn to him at once.

He’s the only one in the room that still seems to be wet. 

He’s wiping tears out of his eyes, as salt-water-that-doesn’t-exist drips from his pants onto the floorboards.

“God. I…” Namjoon swallows. “I replayed stuff like this in the cell, just pretending that you all were there with me. I just… Jungkook’s floating in the water and he wasn’t even there at the time, and there’s two Seokjin’s and…”

And Namjoon slowly sinks to his knees, sobbing and smiling.

“I love you all so much.”

The room goes quiet, the chaos settling into a kind of soft, warm stillness.

Hoseok shoots off the couch and shuffles closer, sitting on the floor beside Namjoon and draping an arm over his shoulders. “We’re here. All of us. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah. Like hyung said, we’ll figure it out together. Step by step.”

Yoongi snorts softly. “Step by step… with stingrays, apparently.”

Jungkook, still sprawled on the floor, sits up on his elbows. “So… uh… if we’re doing doubles and stingrays next time, I vote for dolphins. Please?”

Taehyung snorts. Hoseok laughs. Even Yoongi smirks faintly.

Namjoon lets out a shaky laugh. It’s small, but real.

The rain continues outside, but inside Hoseok’s home, warmth curls around them. Steam rises from mugs. Hands brush. Eyes meet. And Namjoon. Namjoon is here. Real. Alive. Present.

They all have a moment to breathe. To be.

And then, quietly, Taehyung mutters, “Okay… but seriously. Dolphins. That’d be awesome.”

A few soft chuckles ripple through the room.

The rain outside continues to fall, steady and calm now, a rhythm they all unconsciously sync with.

And for a moment, everything else—brands, trauma, powers, visions, whatever—can wait.

Because right now, they’re together. And Namjoon is home.

Their first trip outside as a group of seven is a day shopping in Myeongdong, Namjoon sporting a pair of Yoongi’s noise canceling headphones.

A pair he stole from Namjoon’s Rkive studio in HYBE, but neither of them care.

They’re all heavily disguised. Facemasks, hats, sunglasses, a few of them even rocking contouring to change their facial features.

The rest is drowned in the noise of the shopping street.

Namjoon can’t help glancing around, drinking in every detail, every little speck of Myeongdong, like it’s the first time he’s ever stepped foot here.

And, in a way, it is.

He can smell the sweet oil of hotteok frying three stalls over, the faint musk of a wet dog somewhere down an alley, the sharp tang of perfume on a passing stranger. He hears the mewl of a cat behind a wall, the rise and fall of parents scolding children, lovers whispering too soft for anyone else to catch.

It’s beautiful. It’s unbearable.

But Jimin is holding his hand, their arms swinging side to side as he points with his other hand towards the Samsung shop they did a sponsorship at years ago.

Jimin tugs him along, their hands swinging between them, and it steadies Namjoon in the flood of sensation. He focuses on the warmth of Jimin’s palm, the way his voice cuts clear through the noise.

Seokjin marches ahead like a general, already pointing out stores, checking his phone for directions, herding the younger ones with sharp clucks of his tongue.

“Shoes first,” he decides with a nod. “If Namjoon keeps wearing my old pair, people are going to think we pulled him out of the river this morning.”

Hoseok laughs, clapping Namjoon on the back. “Honestly? Not far off.”

Namjoon ducks his head, embarrassed, though Jungkook is already crouching to compare his sneakers to Namjoon’s mismatched pair.

“Hyung, your feet are huge. We’re gonna have to hit at least three shops.”

“Four,” Taehyung corrects, peering at Namjoon’s ankles. “He’s been tripping over Hoseok’s cuffs all day. Pants too.”

Yoongi sighs like he’s been dragged into hell. “So basically we’re restocking a human being from scratch.”

“Legally dead, no bank account, no wardrobe,” Seokjin ticks each point off on his fingers. “He is literally an unperson. A stylish unperson, if I have anything to say about it.”

Namjoon feels his face heat. “You don’t have to—”

“Joon.”

Six voices say at once.

No one continues it, for a moment, blinking at each other, all too stunned by the old habit that hasn’t been done in seven months.

Then, Taehyung clears his throat.

“You were literally abducted and declared dead to the world. We do. You need things for yourself again.”

No one else speaks for a bit, after that. And really, they don’t have to, they just move to the rhythm of the crowd and each other, ducking into store after store like it’s a treasure hunt.

Jungkook is the first to break the silence, brandishing a pair of sneakers triumphantly.

“Aha! Nike! With high-tops!”

Namjoon hears it from across the room, and makes his way over to Jungkook like a missile. He finds Jungkook tucked in one of the back aisles, a shoebox open next to him, a sneaker in hand.

Jungkook thrusts the shoe toward him. “Hyung, look at these.”

Namjoon takes the sneaker carefully, running his fingers over the leather, the stiff new laces. Monochromatic.

“Try them,” Jungkook urges, already crouching to pull the other shoe from the box.

Namjoon hesitates, but Jungkook just pats the floor in front of him. “Come on. Foot.”

He obeys. The shoe slides on snug, a perfect fit.

Jungkook grins behind his mask. Namjoon can hear the fabric rub against his lips. 

Then he stands out and shouts across the aisle. “I told you we only needed to hit three!”

“God dammit.” Taehyung bemoans from across the way in the hat aisle.

That earns a startled laugh out of Namjoon. His chest hurts, and Jungkook beams like he’s won something far bigger than shoes.

Across the aisle, Jimin’s voice rings out: “Found socks!” followed by the whap of a multipack smacking Hoseok in the chest.

Yoongi hasn’t moved from his post near the door, arms crossed, pretending to look at the displays.

Seokjin crosses over to him, a jacket in each hand, and a turtleneck under his arm.

Seokjin holds the jackets up in front of Yoongi like scales of justice. “Black or grey?”

Yoongi doesn’t even glance at them. “They’re both the same.”

“They are not the same,” Seokjin hisses. “One is charcoal. That’s sophistication. The other is obsidian. That’s power.”

Yoongi finally looks over, unimpressed. “That’s marketing. Joon’s going to pick whichever one has the bigger pockets.”

From across the aisle, Namjoon calls, “He’s right.”

Seokjin groans, and wanders back to the hecklers to toss the grey back onto the rack, then scans over the shop before locking eyes with Namjoon.

He strides over and holds the black jacket towards Namjoon. Namjoon takes it carefully.

The turtleneck Seokjin doesn’t even bother offering. He just shoves it into Namjoon’s arms, and then walks towards the t-shirts. “You’re wearing this too. Don’t argue.”

Namjoon stares down at the pile growing in his hands and swallows hard. It feels like too much and not nearly enough all at once.

Yoongi, still at the door, finally uncrosses his arms. His gaze flicks once over the bundle, then back to Namjoon’s face. 

Subtly, he inclines his head towards the dressing room.

Namjoon walks a little too quickly into it, closes the door and locks it a fraction too loudly. 

Peels the headset off his ears with a wince.

Not because the action itself hurts.

He just can’t think again.

Well… not exactly.

He can still think. Can still have thoughts. But…

Inside the cramped room, every sound presses in.

The rustle of shirts on the rack outside, the squeak of sneakers against linoleum, a clerk clearing their throat three aisles over. Somewhere down the street, a motorbike growls, a child squeals, metal shutters rattle.

It all stacks, layer on layer, until Namjoon can’t tell where the walls end and his skull begins.

He braces a hand against the mirror, breathing through his teeth. His reflection stares back at him. Buzzed hair, hollow cheeks, a stranger clutching new clothes that don’t feel earned.

He hasn’t earned any of it, he realizes.

It took him months to be allowed to wear pants, and he fucked up the rights to a shirt in the first few weeks he was there.

Bleed, then eat. Scream, and then sleep.

Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut, and pulls his shirt over his head.

The fluorescent light hums overhead, sharp as a blade. For a second he almost expects someone to burst in, to tell him he’s too slow, that he doesn’t deserve this fabric in his hands.

His chest heaves as the air prickles cold against bare skin. Every instinct screams to cover back up, but his hands shake too much to pull the turtleneck over his head.

He digs his nails into the cloth instead, grounding himself in the texture. Not coarse, not damp, not reeking of blood or smoke. Just cotton. Soft. Clean.

A knock sounds, gentle against the door. Yoongi again.

“Joon.”

Namjoon drags in a breath and forces the turtleneck down, the fabric catching briefly on his buzzed hair before it settles against his shoulders. 

He pulls in one last breath, wipes the dampness from under his eyes with the heel of his palm, and unlocks the door. The click sounds far too loud, but then he’s stepping out into the fluorescent aisle, shoulders drawn tight under the turtleneck.

For a second, no one says anything.

Then Jimin lets out a soft gasp. “Hyung…”

Hoseok’s grin spreads wide, bright enough to eclipse the harsh lights. “Look at you.”

Taehyung tilts his head, considering. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the one.”

Jungkook, never subtle, blurts, “You look like you’re about to drop the album of the century.”

Namjoon flushes, tugging self-consciously at the sleeves. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Exactly,” Seokjin says, planting his hands on his hips with satisfaction.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He only meets Namjoon’s eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Namjoon can’t find the words to answer them right now, so he just nods and ducks back into the dressing room.

He doesn’t take off the turtleneck.

He just carries the borrowed shirt with him as he step back out, headset back over his ears, jacket folded neatly in his arms.

None of them let him even glance at the receipt. It doesn’t matter, he can hear the total the clerk says.

He lets them have it.

It’s not like he has a bank account or card to pay for any of it anyways.

But if he’s looking up videos of dolphins on Seokjin’s laptop later that night… that’s only for him to know.

It takes Bang and legal a month and a half to legally declare Kim Namjoon alive again.

A stack of papers, a new ID, a bank account reopened like it had just been on pause, a family who practically holds him hostage at his family home for weeks.

Namjoon stares down at the plastic card with his photo on it, the word valid stamped in the corner, and thinks: I was valid before this.

Jimin insists they throw a party anyway. Seokjin lights seven candles on a cake, declaring it his “rebirthday.” Hoseok jokes about calling it Joonmas. Jungkook tries to film the whole thing until Yoongi smacks the phone out of his hand. Namjoon struggles to blow out the candles between fits of silent laughter.

Namjoon smiles at the memory, a small tinge of cake inching into the air, and tucks the new ID into his wallet.

Three days later, they’re given the green light by PR, Legal, and Management, and BTS goes live.

They literally cannot contain their excitement. Can’t keep it a secret for a minute, can’t wait for the thousands upon thousands of fans to arrive to the V-Live like they planned.

They’re set up in one of HYBE’s dance studios, and Hoseok is mid stretch when he reaches out of frame and practically drags Namjoon into view.

Namjoon stumbles into frame, wide-eyed, headset over his ears, tugging at the sleeves of his new turtleneck like he’s been ambushed. The chat explodes instantly. Hearts, crying emojis, a flood of JOON? JOON! RM!! NAMJOON-IE!!! scrolls faster than any of them can see.

Jimin claps like a seal, nearly toppling over on his stool. “Surprise!”

Jungkook leans in, grinning so wide it’s half-feral. “Guess who’s back from the dead!”

Yoongi smirks at the camera, deadpan. “You thought we could keep this secret longer than five seconds? Please.”

Namjoon clears his throat, the sound magnified by the bare dance studio walls, and bows his head toward the camera. 

“… Hi ARMY.”

That’s all it takes. The chat detonates. Some comments blur into nonsense, others beg him to say more, some just repeat thank you thank you thank you until it’s a wall of text.

Namjoon blinks at the flood of comments, too fast for the rest of them to track, but he does. Every username, every comment and keysmash and a wall of spammed crying emojis, and within it all:

OT7 forever.

Leader-nim is back!

I knew it.

The screen shakes when Jungkook nearly topples the tripod trying to lean closer. “They can’t hear you if you whisper, hyung,” he teases, though the chat clearly heard.

Jimin leans in to read aloud, voice bright. “They’re saying his voice, his—oh my god, they’re spamming it faster than I can read.”

Namjoon’s ears burn. He ducks his head, tugging again at the sleeves of his turtleneck. “It’s… been a while.”

“Seven months,” Hoseok says, no hesitation, no mercy. He grins when the chat immediately floods with crying emojis. “See? They kept count.”

Taehyung, perched on the edge of a chair like he might fall off, tilts his head toward the camera. “ARMY never forgets.”

Yoongi finally uncrosses his arms, rolling his eyes. “You’re all scaring him. Move back before you crush him on live.”

That only makes Jungkook crowd closer, pointing the lens directly at Namjoon’s face. “No, no, they need a good look—hyung, show them the jacket, stand up—”

Seokjin smacks Jungkook’s arm so hard the camera jolts. “Stop terrorizing the leader. If anyone’s showing it off, it’s me. I picked it.”

Chaos erupts, half of them bickering over who gets credit for what. The comments explode with classic BTS energy, they’re back, OT7 chaos, the same as always.

I dare you to do the Dynamite choreo <3 Would be awesome to see that spot filled again after your last performance.

Namjoon catches it easily in the sea of comments. Something in his chest tightens.

Last performance.

Spot filled.

He glances at Jungkook to his left, who’s squinting at the comments as they scroll by.

It doesn’t look like he’s caught it.

Namjoon clears his throat.

“Des-ti-May8 is daring us to do the Dynamite choreo.”

His voice echoes off the walls of the dance studio.

Jungkook perks up instantly, grinning like he’s just been given a mission. “Oh? Ohhh, let’s go, hyung. C’mon, formation, formation!”

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi says flatly, already turning toward the corner like he can escape the frame.

Hoseok claps his hands, bouncing on his toes. “No, no, this is perfect. Right here, right now, proof we’ve still got it. ARMY asked, ARMY receives.”

Jimin is already sliding off his stool, tugging Namjoon’s wrist with both hands. “Hyung, you have to. It’s the rules.”

Namjoon resists for half a second, his stomach twisting. The words from the comment still hang heavy — last performance, spot filled — like a bruise someone pressed too hard. But Jimin’s palm is warm, Jungkook’s laughter is ringing against the studio walls, and suddenly the heaviness shifts into something else: a chance to answer.

He exhales.

“Alright…”

The chat goes feral — strings of AAAAAAAAAA and heart emojis and leader back in formation!! flood the screen.

Seokjin throws his hands up like a conductor. “Places! Places, children. This is a historic moment!”

They scramble to drag the stools out of frame, pushing the camera against the wall to get the entire studio floor in focus. Yoongi pulls out his phone and hooks the bluetooth up to the speaker on the wall.

Hoseok whoops, already sliding into place. Jungkook bounces to the front, eyes gleaming. Jimin shakes his arms loose with a little shimmy that earns a laugh from the comments streaming by. Yoongi’s already got his hands in his pockets.

Namjoon hesitates a fraction longer, then steps into formation. The second slot from the left. His slot.

The mirror throws their reflections back at them: six moving into place, one still adjusting, drifting into place a little too thin, shadows under his eyes a bit too dark, skin a little too pale against the fluorescent lights. Hair buzzed, headset still over his ears. For a beat his throat tightens.

Hoseok counts under his breath, voice low but steady. “Two, three, four—”

Yoongi hits play.

'Cause I, I, I'm in the stars tonight

From his spot, he watches Jungkook mouth along to his lyrics, arm raising to point at the ceiling. Jimin and Taehyung shift.

So watch me bring the fire and set the night alight

Jimin and Taehyung dap as they cross over the center, and everyone else moves.

Namjoon stumbles a bit to follow them, walking out of frame on left— no, right. Their left. His right, until it’s just Jungkook on camera, back still turned.

Verse one starts and Jungkook bounces on his feet, grinning ear to ear as he spins and swerves, kicks to the beat with even more energy than usual.

Then his arm swings around in an arc, pointed towards the sky again.

Ding dong—

That’s his cue.

He stutters a step, and shuffles back into frame alongside Taehyung and Hoseok, stepping towards the back of the formation. 

Ice tea and a game of ping pong

The beat drops.

Hoseok and Taehyung bounce on their feet, all their eyes on Namjoon as…

As they all kick and swerve.

In full sync, muscle memory pulling him along as the rhythm takes over, as Hoseok’s voice counts ‘ba ba ba ba’ in the back of his mind and the words of their choreographer whispers ‘three, two, kick and step!’

And Namjoon leans forward, already mouthing the lyrics as his arms swing at his side.

Forward, step, forward, step, and pose!

This is gettin' heavy, can you hear the bass boom? I'm ready (Woo-hoo)  

Arms out, hands out, third position, keep them relaxed. Cross—chaseé. Center.

Kick and spin and pop!

He turns to his right, freezes in the pose.

They’re all behind him.

Not in the mirror.

He can physically see them, in the corner of his eye and off to his right and left in formation.

An almost complete symbol of a diamond that can really only be seen from up high, with Hoseok boogeying off along to his lyrics in his little pocket of space they’re all pointing towards, only moving left and right with his shoulder, still posed, feet still planted on the floor, to signify the end of the pre-chorus.

I'm diamond, you know I glow up

Hoseok skips forward, jumps into place directly in front of him.

Cue!

Namjoon’s knees bend and he jumps along with all of them, up and down and skipping to the back right of the formation. Arm up, like you're beckoning the audience to join. His left. His lyrics.

Hey, so let's go!

Arms in front, like you’re adjusting the lapel of a coat.

'Cause I, I, I'm in the stars tonight

The mirror throws it back at them, all of them in sync. Forward, forward, forward, step, head right, slide. Knee in and out. Brush shoulder.

For a moment the room shakes with it, all neon and noise, and he feels ARMY’s roar even though it’s only scrolling text on a glowing screen.

The comments are a blur—diamond, diamond, diamond, OT7 forever, the circle is whole again—and Namjoon swallows hard. The ache is still there, deep in his chest. But the shape is real. The shape is full.

Just Seokjin is dancing with more energy than he’s ever seen before. Yoongi is practically bouncing on his heels.

Shining through the city with a little funk and soul

Jimin’s voice rings out even though the music is prerecorded, his laugh overlaying the track as he takes center stage. Taehyung’s boxy smile is glowing against the lights as they mimic the aesthetic of street lights along a path in dance form as they all shift into a V.

He’s on the right edge of the V.

Hoseok is straight up cackling as they shimmy back, all of them waving with their right hand to the beat of the music. Jungkook's eyes are glistening with a bit more than just the fluorescent lights.

That’s just the first chorus.

None of them stop.

And Namjoon follows, carried forward by the music and the rest of them.

Word up, talk the talk

Taehyung ‘drags’ him out of formation, and Namjoon leans into his space, one leg raised, biting his hand-mouth at him a bit too viscously. Taehyung bursts out laughing and misses his step into the front of the V by a beat.

Ladies and gentlemen, I got the medicine

The bow comes surprisingly easily. He always loved this part. The point is a little shaky, but he quickly skips off to the side to clap as his prerecorded voice says ‘ball.’

Clap!

They all rotate around Yoongi like meteorites.

Skip back to center.

Chorus choreo again.

They keep moving.

Keep smiling.

Keep laughing.

And then there’s two fingers on his lips, hand moving slowly in an arc out to the audi—

To the camera.

To the livestream.

To the final beat of the song echoing across the walls.

They pose for five seconds.

And then Taehyung whips his head around, tossing his short hair in dramatic fashion, and says, “We still got it.”

For a second, silence—just their breathing, heavy and uneven, filling the studio.

Then Hoseok bursts out laughing so hard he nearly topples over, clutching his stomach. “I’m so sorry hyung, I stepped on your shoe.”

Seokjin puts his hands on his hips and leans over Hoseok’s form. “Do we get hazard pay for nostalgia?”

Jimin drops into a crouch, grinning wide at the camera. “You all saw that, right? Right? Proof.”

The chat detonates.

Namjoon stays frozen in his pose a second longer.

He’s the only one not sweating. Not panting for breath. The phantom of the bass still pounding in his chest.

Or maybe that’s just his heart.

He forces his hands down to his sides, shakes them loose like it’s just another cooldown.

“Leader, say something,” Seokjin prompts.

Namjoon swallows. Clears his throat.

“I think this is the first time I made a mistake in front of Hoseok and didn’t get the glare of shame.”

Hoseok gasps, scandalized, then points a finger at him with mock severity. “That’s only because you looked so happy! Otherwise, you know—” He squints and does the infamous side-eye glare right into the camera, sending Jimin into hysterics.

“Replay! Replay that look!” Jimin wheezes, clutching Jungkook’s arm as the youngest is already pretending to rewind an invisible tape.

Taehyung leans into Namjoon’s shoulder. “You realize you’ve doomed us, right? Next practice, we’re all getting double glares.”

The chat lights up: HAHAHAHA, GLARE OF SHAME, OT7 CHAOS, never change.

And in the back of his mind, words repeat.

Last performance.

Spot filled.

And now…

Next practice.

He sinks to the floor, cross-legged, leaning on his palms as he takes in the room. Seokjin passing out waterbottles, Taehyung fixing his hair in the mirror, Yoongi smiling behind his hand, Jimin lying starfished on the floor, Hoseok and Jungkook bickering over who forgot the second verse footwork.

He takes in it all, from the dust in the air to the beads of sweat on the floor, to the subtle differences of how their lungs pull in air.

Because if there’s one benefit to those seven months, it’s that he’ll never be able to forget this.