For the record, Jungkook’s only regret was getting caught.

Deviance seemed an easier task when Namjoon had been with him. On the night after their second fight, Namjoon let him tag along as he vandalised the bridge connecting this part of the city to the main central square. Jungkook remembered how hard it had been to get the blue stains on his hands and on his shirt off, but he also remembered the thrill of running in the middle of the night. The air was different, Namjoon said. To fully grasp the essence of night air, one had to run. So they ran. Jungkook had never ran so hard in his life. Jungkook had never breathed so hard in his life.

But to be fair, he made it as far as the front door, bruised ribs and sprained wrist, before two guys caught up with him before he could break out of the studio. Punches were thrown around, Jungkook got hit by what he suspected was a chair before he was pinned to the ground. What followed was a blur of offices, police stations, his crying mother, and an arrangement with an Unplugged representative that he would be spending his afternoons cleaning up and doing basic maintenance work at the studio. Today was his first day.

Jungkook didn’t look forward to it, but he understood, if resentfully, why he had to. First of all, he didn’t have a choice if he didn’t want something worse on his permanent record. And if what The Dragon had said was true, then whatever it was Namjoon was doing here, he had better be waiting for him.

A simple internet search gave him the basics to Unplugged. The indie record label and studio was owned and run by the daughter of some music director of a major label. In his mind, Jungkook saw entitled rich kids with minimal to almost no talent on their way to becoming pop stars. Loud, pushy diva-wannabes and trying-hard rappers with inflated egos. All fluff, no substance. All visual, no talent. He almost felt good about slamming some piece of fancy music equipment against the wall to wall mirrors. And he’d do it again, given the opportunity.

Then, as if from a thought far away, it occurred to him that perhaps Namjoon was in the same situation as he was currently in. Jungkook grinned to himself. He should have known that even Kim Namjoon would get himself into trouble eventually. Jungkook could imagine it, Namjoon’s defiance of social order taken out one small fluff factory at a time. He tried to recall the interior of the building, now looking forward to the sort of havoc they could cause.

His happy thought was disturbed by the hiss and pop of the main door sliding open. Before him stood a girl, neat and tidy in a white hoodie and skinny jeans. She was…elegant. A little fragile looking, lithe and pale, with pretty eyes and long straight hair. Despite his earlier decided annoyance, he felt a flutter of interest.

“Can I help you?”

“I, uh, hope so.” Jungkook thought he should stand up straighter and square his shoulders at her perfunctory top to toe inspection, but he only felt himself shrink under her gaze. He lifted his summons from the local office.

Her eyes lingered on his bruised lips and his barely healed black eye. “Oh. So you’re that kid.”

And the annoyance was back. She wasn’t wearing her school uniform now, but Jungkook wouldn’t be surprised if she went to a fancy exclusive all-girls school like St. Mary’s and went on yachting trips for the weekend. She seemed to him the kind of girl who, while he was Underground fighting for his life, was online shopping for clothes and shoes. There was something irritatingly polished about her, an impression that she had been crafted from a different cast from the others. She couldn’t have been taller than most girls. Wearing sneakers, she barely reached his chin, but the way she spoke to him belittled his impressive height.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re that kid,” she recurred snottily. “You don’t even know the kind of damage you caused, did you?”

It was always about money with these people, he thought. What an irony, swimming in all those riches and still caring so much about it. A sense of self-satisfaction wormed its way through him. He scoffed. “Whatever. I need to talk to who’s in charge.”

Miss Diva stepped away from the door and nudged it shut behind her. She pointed at the sensor and keypad below the receiver. “See that? That means authorised personnel only.”

Jungkook, largely against his will, grit his teeth and glanced at the digital door lock. When he received the letter, he was only told to show up and talk to whoever was in charge. His hours would be inputted by said person in charge, and the repercussions for nonfulfillment had been made so clear Jungkook could see his future.

He thought for a moment, and then said without heat, “Look, I really need to talk to whoever’s in charge here.”

“You don’t even know who you’re looking for, do you?”

“Would you just let me in and tell me who I’m looking for?”

He doubted she would tell him after he cracked without so much of an effort from her. For a millisecond, he was ashamed. But that was quickly covered up by a scowl. At some point, Jungkook considered walking away. Again. If asked why he didn’t show up, he could always just direct attention to Miss Diva here. She folded her arms over her stomach, as if daring him to speak his thoughts out loud. He opened his mouth to do exactly that when he was interrupted by a high-pitched, cheery “Hi.”

Next to them was a boy with orange hair as bright as his smile. He couldn’t have been older than Jungkook, but in casual clothes it was hard to tell. Jungkook unconsciously the hem of his black blazer. Next time, he was definitely changing out of his uniform first.

“Hello,” said Orange. His smile didn’t flag even as neither Jungkook nor Miss Priss returned the gesture. “What’s up?”

A pickup pulled in behind Jungkook, charcoal colored and glossy. He didn’t know much about automobiles, but the silent hum made him think it was either a very expensive model or it was well taken care of. Or both.

“I’m late,” said Priss to Orange, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she turned to Jungkook with an expression akin to disgust. “This is the kid from the other night. The one Oppa beat up.”

“I was already beat up when I got here,” Jungkook muttered dimly. “Only reason I got caught.”

Orange’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “Hello. Are you sure you should be outside?”

“He’s fine,” Priss answered, giving Jungkook another look up and down. “Anyway, I really have to go.”

“Bye.” Orange waved goodbye to Priss and to whoever was on the driver’s side. “Stay safe!”

Jungkook watched her climb into the passenger seat before turning back to Orange. He looked nearly as fragile as Priss, with a tan he probably got on some tropical vacation on an island with a name Jungkook couldn’t pronounce.

“My name is Jimin.”

“I’m Jungkook.” He watched the pickup disappear down the driveway. “Who was that anyway?”

“That,” Jimin followed his gaze down the now empty road. “is off limits.”

“Off Limits?” he asked. “Is she a DJ?”

Jimin laughed as he entered his code. After a beep, he pulled the door open. “You’re funny. Come on, I’ll show you around. You’re looking for Noona, right?”

“Whoever’s in charge, I guess.”

Under proper lightning, the inside looked different from what it was in Jungkook’s memory. In the dark, the interior looked like an abandoned warehouse partitioned in rectangles to create separate rooms. Now it still looked like a warehouse, but better maintained. From the short narrow hallway after the entrance, were the mirror-lined rooms Jungkook had seen. Music faintly seeped from the cracks under the doors, and if Jungkook was still he could feel the vibrations of the floorboards moving in time with footfalls. A section to his left was corded off, and he felt the sting from when he broke his barely healed split lip on the wooden floor panels.

“So over there are the dance studios,” Jimin said. “We have a big room and four standard rooms with built-in audio systems and a small workspace. The changing room is over there, and that room by the back is storage. But you’re probably familiar with storage.”

Unlike Off Limits, Jimin didn’t appear to be hostile, so if Jimin was mocking him, Jungkook wasn’t able to tell. He had landed right into a pile of props and costumes when he broke into the building. It didn’t click until Jimin said so.

Up ahead were stairs, and they climbed up to the second floor— bigger and nicer performance studios— then to the third floor. The floors were different here, padded with thick grey carpet, and the doors seemed heavier and had indicator lights installed.

“Music labs,” said Jimin, “the big room over there has all the band stuff, and another one over there. The numbered rooms are studio booths, and if the light is red, don’t go inside.” His gaze turned dark. “Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Just or else.” Jimin held Jungkook’s eyes until the latter shuddered inwardly. “It really depends on who you’re walking in on, but do not, under any circumstance, enter Room 309.”

“What’s in 309?” The room was at the far end of the hall, away from the band rooms and at the very edge next to the fire escape. A sign plate read Caution and another read Do Not Enter. On top of the door, the light was red. It flashed ominously in the darkened third of the hallway. It made Jungkook think the fluorescents were never switched on in that side.

Jimi’s eyes widened with humor. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Who’s in 309?”

Jimin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Yoongi-hyung is in 309. Just don’t bother him, okay? He doesn’t like it when people bother him. Especially when he’s working. Anyway,” Jimin shifted back to a more conversational tone and pointed at each room as he spoke. “Most of the guys have their own practice rooms assigned to them or rooms they’ve claimed their own so they get pretty territorial. The first floor rooms are all communal, so as long as no one has a class there it’s free for all. Studios on the second floor are by schedule only so always check the board on the door. Most of the music labs are free except for band room #1— that’s 301— and then 305, and then like I just said, 309. Just poke your head in the other rooms if you’re not sure what you need. Oh, Piano rooms are 303 and 307. There’s another piano in 102 if the ones up here are occupied.”

A dry erase board was installed on the right side of each door, all of them in varying states of use. The nearest one was filled with practice schedules written in black and timetables for deadlines written in red. At the top of the board, underlined and in big bold letters, was the word Catharsis.

“We don’t always get as much done,” said Jimin with a deprecating shrug. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

Jungkook read off the names listed on the door. Jimin wasn’t on it. “So where’s your room?”

“203. Come visit after your chores. I’ll introduce you to the others.”

Jungkook wasn’t sure whether or not that was a death threat. He didn’t belong here, judging by the scuffs on his high-tops and the over-laundered state of his clothes. Surely, Jimin could have figured that out by himself. Jungkook was an outsider. Always will be.

Continuing up the staircase, Jungkook asked “So who’s actually in charge?”

Jimin paused two steps before the door on the landing. Jungkook stayed two steps below so they were eye to eye. “About that, there are rules. So listen carefully.”

Great, Jungkook thought. More rules.

“So you pissed a lot of people off by wrecking the mixer, the practice guitars, and the studio downstairs. I think it’s best you just keep quiet, yeah? Try not to piss anyone off, yeah?”

Jungkook nodded. He still hadn’t looked away.

“So, first off, most important. We’re gonna see Noona, but Rule #1 is you don’t call her Noona.”

“You just did.”

“Not to her face.” Jimin’s eyes shot to the corners and to the ceiling. “Or at all. I swear, she has super powers it’s not even the CCTVs anymore. Don’t call her Noona.”

“Okay.” Jungkook glanced at the camera installed at the upper right hand corner of the staircase. “Don’t call her Noona.”

“Call her Renn.”

“Renn.” The name felt weird and foreign, but Jimin had said the name with such reverence, Jungkook committed it to memory.

“And don’t stare.”

“At what?”

“Just don’t stare at her. She doesn’t like it.”

“Okay. I won’t stare.”

“Also, unless you have an appointment, there is absolutely no reason for you to come up to the fourth floor. It’s the main production studio with all the best stuff and this is where noona works. Got it so far?”

Jungkook ticked off fingers as he recited what he’s learned. “Don’t call Renn noona. Don’t stare at her. Don’t bother her.”

“Good,” Jimin beamed. “I think that about covers the basics. You’re gonna be here a while, so you’ll figure out the rest. They’re not really rules, you know. They’re more like, really just, kind of, things you gotta live with when you’re around people for this much. Don’t worry. You’re gonna love it here.”

Jungkook doubted that. The plan was not to stay long at all. If things were to go the way he planned, he wouldn’t have to stay any longer than eight weeks.

“Oh, by the way.” Jimin turned back to face him. “We call this The Fort. ‘Cause it’s the fourth floor…get it?” Jimin’s laugh was unlike any Jungkook has heard before. The sound reminded him of the tinkle of bells above sweet, homey craft shops run by doting grandmothers. It made him want to laugh with him. Almost.

“Can we just get to it?”

From the entrance past the staircase, Jungkook followed Jimin across a comfortable lounge and through another inner door and into one big recording studio. Having no experience with either music or dance, Jungkook wasn’t certain what to expect coming into Unplugged. The practice studios were straightforward, the band room self-explanatory, but a recording studio was nothing like what he imagined.

“So this is the control room,” Jimin explained. “Just the usual. Sofas, desk, writing stuff. And then the audio workstation, mixing console, and all the monitors.”

Two desks took up the center of the Control Room. Up against the glass panels were the  computers and workstation with the mixing console and studio monitors. Behind it was a plain desk with another monitor and a clutter of journals, printouts, sheets of paper and pens, and markers scattered across the surface. Wherever there was space, was a sofa, a bookshelf, or a rack for vinyl records and compact discs.

“Over there,” Jimin pointed beyond the glass panel. “That’s the Live Room. It’s actually pretty cozy in there. That’s where we record instruments and stuff. There are four isolation booths inside, one for drums, another for the other instruments like guitars, one for the keyboards and the piano, and then one more for vocals.”

The Live Room looked more like a lounge equipped with microphones, a baby grand piano, a drum kit, several guitars and keyboards and synthesizers. Jungkook didn’t even know what the other instruments were for but he was impressed. “You could sleep in there.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point,” Jimin answered absently. “She’s probably up the mezzanine. There’s another mixing room up there. Or the patio. I think.”

“Where is she?”

Jimin flushed red. “Well, yeah. She’s always just here but if she’s not in the control room or the lounge I don’t want to disturb her because the last time—Oh! Renn!“

Jungkook looked behind him, and Jimin’s three rules proved absolutely ridiculous. First, he couldn’t even tell how old Renn was supposed to be. She wasn’t tiny, but her light frame and oversized jacket made her look smaller than she actually was. Short platinum pink hair, almost silver under the lights in the studio, paled her complexion to ghost-like proportions, and her wide eyes stared back hauntingly at him. Perhaps what was most striking, was the fact that, other than her hair, there was nothing remarkable about her features at all.

“This the punk?” She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over an office chair. In a loose shirt and denim shorts, Renn looked even less of whatever it was she was supposed to be.

“This is Jungkook,” Jimin said. “I found him waiting by the main door.” Then to him, “Jungkook, this is Renn. She’s in charge.”

There was a long pause. Renn rubbed her left ear in thought until it turned bright pink. Jungkook noticed a line of tattoos behind her unpierced ear that trailed down to her collar bones, but couldn’t make out what they were. As she worried her ear, she gnawed on her bottom lip. Once he realized he was staring, Jungkook’s eyes darted to Jimin, wary.

Jungkook wasn’t sure what to think of her. Jimin made her sound like someone to be feared, but Renn looked liked a tiny kitten who could barely open her eyes. He thought to ask about the representative who came to meet him at the precinct, the same guy who picked up the two other kids who reported him, but decided against it. Better to be bossed around by someone barely awake than by some guy who looked like he read every book within reach and could give him punishment equal to his crime.

When Renn finally spoke, she directed her words to the wall behind them. “Make him clean up the mess he made. Basement, too. Then have him fix everything. And clean everything.”

This got both Jungkook and Jimin’s attention.

“He’s required 200 hours,” she said, “so make sure he completes every second. You’re in charge.”

Jimin pointed at himself.

Renn’s eyes dropped to her boots and she drew circles on the carpet with her foot. “Don’t put Pretty Boy in charge, he’ll just baby this punk and make everyone share the chores because there is bonding in cleaning bathrooms together or whatever.”

Jimin raised his hand in light protest. “I have practice?”

Renn looked up and ambled towards the desk where she pawed through the sheets of paper. “You don’t have to watch him all the time. Just make sure he completes the day’s task. If you need help, ask Seoltang to teach you how to boss people around.”

Jimin stifled a laugh. Jungkook did, too. Seoltang?

“What else,” she mused. “Clean mess first. Then I’ll figure something out. Just show him around, tell him what not to do.” She plucked a pencil from the porcelain mug and scribbled on the corner of a sheet of paper. Then she tore it out and handed it to Jimin without looking at him. “Temporary passcode.”

Jimin passed him the piece of paper. “You don’t have to wait outside anymore.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Renn announced, shooing them away with her hand. “You can go now.”

Jungkook took that as a welcome dismissal and spared one quick final glance at a room and a girl that, if things went according to plan, he would never see again. He stepped back and waited for Jimin to walk him out. Renn was quiet, and though Jungkook has only met her, he felt it to be heavy in a way that was louder than talking. He took his time moving back towards the staircase, looking over his shoulder one more time as Jimin opened the door for him.

“Hey punk,” Renn said, finally. “You don’t need me to tell you that you’re in a load of trouble here. Don’t get into even more trouble while you’re still in the middle of getting out of this one.”