shotaro 🫧

you’re immediately dragged to the dinner table as soon as you return home later than usual

taro gives you his classic sweet smile as he pulls your chair open so you can sit and enjoy the warm meal he prepared for you while you were gone

a little disappointed when your boyfriend leaves you to eat dinner alone, but you know it isn’t in spite when you hear him running a bath in the background

carefully strips off your clothes because you’re his precious girl, then leads you to the warm tub so you can relax from your stressful day

thoroughly washes your body, stopping at certain areas to massage any sore spots as you ramble about your day

not to mention the random forehead kisses he gives you as you talk, receiving his full attention 

when you’re done, he dresses you in your favorite pajamas (an oversized shirt of his) and tucks you into bed <3

eunseok 🫧

the exact opposite as shotaro’s.. whoopsie

instead it’s you preparing his meal and bath

which he stares at you like 😐 because no no no! it’s supposed to be HIM giving you princess treatment, not the other way around

hates you so much because why does it feel so good being the center of attention? you’re hands lathering soap up and down his shoulders as you whisper sweet ‘you did so well today’’s in his ear

he’s falling for you so hard as if you aren’t already dating. you have no idea how whipped he is for you

because he’s such a brat that can’t have nice things, he splashes water in your face when you go to kiss him

about to burst out laughing when suddenly he’s drenched in water

water fight!!

sungchan 🫧

when sungchan invites you to the bathroom, you don’t like calling it a shower

it’s more so “chani hugging you so tightly you can barely move, so you just stand in the raining water”

don’t get me wrong,, you still enjoy it though!!

sungchan’s arms firmly wrapped around your waist as his nuzzles his wet hair against your neck, placing kisses on your skin from time to time

you like to talk about each other’s days during this time, or discuss future dates

loves loves loves to dry your body once you’re done “showering”, his eyes littered with adoration as he mumbles how pretty his girl looks

also loves when you return the favor <3 looks down at you as you dry his hair, his hands going back to hold your waist

looks at you like you hung the stars above your apartment roof, a soft smile tugging at his lips because he thinks you’re sooooooo cute it’s almost pathetic 

wonbin 🫧

i noticed male idols with longer hair always complain about how high maintenance their locks get

wonbin was that way too, until you suggested washing his hair for him

he’s so whipped from the feeling of your hands tangled in his curls that he would happily turn into rapunzel so he can return to that feeling every night (no pun intended hehe)

he looks so damn cute with his head resting against your lap when you’re washing him over the tub, his eyes closed as soft hums leave his lips when you scratch his scalp

leans into your warmth when you’re drying his hair, looking up at you like the happiest man in the world

seunghan 🫧

seunghan, being the observant boyfriend he is, always notices you use your sunday’s as your spa day

realizes how much you fancy spending hours in the bathroom lavishing yourself with sweet scents from your soaps / lotions, or shaving hairy body parts

seunghan loves how attentive you are to yourself, and he can’t help but want to accompany you during your special time

carefully spreads shaving cream all over your legs, tracing little hearts and stars into the foam before shaving it away

sometimes he feels mischievous, like giving you a bubble mustache or tickling your feet when he’s shaving you

his nose always scrunches when he hears your cute laughter, giggling like a lovesick boy internally 

honestly just happy to be there, the room filled with his sweet words as he watches you take care of yourself with hearts in his eyes

sohee 🫧

BUBBLE BATH !!

why sohee wanted one in the first place, the world will never know. but it did know how excited you got from the idea

while sohee’s busy running the bubbly bath water, you’re scurrying around the house to find bath bombs, rubber ducks, and literally anything else that could go in your tub

sohee makes himself a bubble hat and you’re busy making yourself a beard

if anyone walks in the bathroom y’all are cookeddd 💀🙏 but it doesn’t matter because they’re just haters that don’t know how to have fun 🤣

actually one of the reasons why you love sohee and his energy so much because he always entertains your inner child and encourages you to be a little silly for once

“who cares what other people think? nothing matters as long as i’m with you” and vise versa <3

anton 🫧

anton doesn’t partake in any washing, but it’s still cute so shush

wind down = doing everything together

that means eating dinner together, matching pj’s, heck even falling asleep at the same time

(which is a lie because anton likes to spend a couple extra minutes admiring your sleepy face)

loves to watch you brush your teeth at the same time, his eyes forming into small crescents as he wraps his arm around your shoulder to pull you closer to himself

also loves being dangerously close to your face to apply lotion and chapstick to your skin and lips so you don’t wake up feeling dry

(the chapstick part is useless because he always kisses it off of you)

instead of immediately going to bed, sometimes you like to have a small pillow fight which ends with him on top of you on the floor as he tickles your sides until you’re crying from laughter

other times you have soft makeout sessions because anton can’t keeps his hands and lips to himself

you still fall asleep with anton’s head nuzzled into your neck, his arms wrapped around your waist like a birthday bow as his breath fans your skin

that’s still a win in my book 🤷

︴bonus! planning to draft a xikers hc pretty soon .. schedule is slowly clearing up!

▸ taglist 📬 @cake1box , @wccycc , @babigriin , @soul-is-a-strange-kid , @riize119 ,

@mxlly143 , @yeosayang , @lecheugo , @hanajm , @addictedtohobi ,

@yuniniverse , @yoiiwonn , @bambisnc , @skyblue84

🎬 navi

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the air is heavy tonight, thick with unspoken words that hang between you like ghosts, reminders of everything he never says. outside, the city hums, cars passing, the distant sound of laughter creeping through the open window. but in this room, there’s only silence—dense, suffocating, and louder than anything else.

seunghan lies beside you, his body warm against yours, but there’s a coldness that you can’t shake. you wonder how he manages it—how he can be so close and still feel so far away, like a shadow slipping through your fingers.

you turn your head, gaze tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way the faint light catches on his skin. he’s beautiful. god, he’s beautiful. but there’s something almost cruel in that beauty, like a dream you can’t hold onto.

your hand drifts to the space between you, fingers hesitating before they touch his. he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reach for you either. that’s the thing with seunghan—he’s never cruel outright. he never says anything that cuts too deep. he just... drifts. floats in and out of your life like a passing storm, and you’re always left behind, waiting for the rain to fall again.

you’ve been here before, in this bed, in this room, with him. and every time, it feels like you’re getting closer to something—something real, something more. but then he pulls away. maybe not physically, not always, but emotionally. he never gives you more than the barest touch, the faintest hint of something that could be called affection. and yet, here you are again, lying next to him, wanting more.

the scent of him—faint cologne mixed with something deeper, something uniquely him—fills your lungs, intoxicating and dizzying. it’s familiar, yet it feels like a warning, a reminder that this, whatever this is, will never be enough. you inhale deeply, trying to hold onto it, as if somehow it’ll anchor you to him. as if the smell of him can make him stay.

but it never does.

you can hear his steady breathing, slow and even, and it should comfort you. but instead, it just makes the emptiness more pronounced. you want to reach into his chest, pull out whatever it is that keeps him so distant, so untouchable. you want to know if there’s anything in there at all, anything that can love you back the way you love him. or if it’s just a hollow space, one you’ve been trying to fill with your longing, your desire.

you close your eyes, frustration coiling tightly inside you, like a vine wrapping around your ribcage, squeezing, suffocating. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that he can make you feel so much when he seems to feel nothing at all. you turn on your side, facing him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. in the low light, he looks peaceful. like he has no idea of the storm raging inside you. like he doesn’t even care.

and maybe he doesn’t.

"seunghan," you whisper, your voice barely audible. his name on your tongue feels fragile, like a secret you shouldn’t speak aloud. he stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes. for a moment, you consider not saying anything more. maybe it’s better this way—to keep pretending, to keep living in the illusion of what you have. but something in you snaps, a quiet desperation that’s been building for too long.

"what are we?" your voice is louder this time, enough to break the silence.

his eyes flutter open, and for a second, you think you see something—something real. but it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that familiar, unreadable mask he wears so well.

he doesn’t answer right away. he never does. instead, he stretches, his body shifting closer to yours, his arm lazily draping over your waist. it’s automatic, practiced. like he’s done this a thousand times with a thousand different people. and maybe he has.

"does it matter?" he asks, his voice low, thick with sleep but also with something else. indifference. it’s the indifference that stings the most, the casual dismissal of something that means everything to you.

your heart clenches, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest.

"it matters to me," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. but there’s a tremble there, a vulnerability you wish you could hide. he shifts again, finally meeting your gaze, his dark eyes staring into yours like he’s searching for something. you don’t know what he’s looking for, but you’re afraid he won’t find it.

"don’t think so much," he says softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

it’s such a small, intimate gesture, but coming from him, it feels like a slap. like he’s placating you, giving you just enough to keep you hanging on, but never enough to satisfy the ache inside you.

"just... be here. with me."

you want to scream. you want to push him away, to demand more, to force him to see you. to really see you. but you don’t. because deep down, you know the truth. you know that if you push too hard, if you ask for too much, he’ll disappear. and that thought—that fear of losing even the small piece of him you have—keeps you quiet.

so you stay. you let him pull you closer, let his lips press softly against your forehead. you let him give you just enough to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

but it never is.

you still remember the first time you saw him. it was at a party—one of those overcrowded, dimly lit gatherings where faces blur together and conversations get lost in the thrum of music. you weren’t looking for anyone that night, weren’t even in the mood to be there, but your friends had dragged you out. they said it would be fun. they said you needed to stop hiding, to get back out there.

and then, you saw him.

he stood out from the crowd in that effortless way some people do—like the light caught him differently, like the world shifted slightly to accommodate his presence. he wasn’t doing anything special, just leaning against a wall, drink in hand, talking to someone you didn’t know. but there was something about him. something in the way he held himself, the way his gaze swept over the room, indifferent but all-seeing. like nothing could touch him. like he was above it all.

you couldn’t stop looking at him. your friends noticed, nudged you, teased you about the way your eyes kept drifting in his direction. they pushed you toward him, told you to go say hi, but you hesitated. what would someone like him even want with you?

but then, as if he felt your gaze on him, he looked up. and in that moment, everything else disappeared. the room, the music, the people—it all faded away, and there was only him, staring at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. he didn’t smile, didn’t gesture for you to come over. he just watched you, as if he were deciding something, as if he were weighing whether you were worth his time.

and somehow, you ended up in front of him.

“hey,” you said, your voice more nervous than you’d intended. he looked you up and down, his expression cool, almost bored. but there was something in his gaze that made your heart race, made you feel like he could see right through you.

“hey,” he replied, his voice smooth, low. it sent a shiver down your spine.

you don’t remember much of the conversation that followed. only that his words were like a current pulling you in, drawing you closer, making you feel like you were the only one in the room. and by the end of the night, you were walking home with him, his arm slung casually over your shoulders, your heart pounding with something you couldn’t quite name.

he wasn’t like anyone you’d ever met before. he was charming, yes, but not in the way most people were. he didn’t try too hard. he didn’t need to. there was something magnetic about him, something that made people want to be around him, made them crave his attention. and when he gave it to you, even for a moment, it felt like the world stopped spinning.

but that was the problem, wasn’t it? it was never just you. there were always others. even in those early days, when things between you were new, fresh, and exciting, there was always a part of him that stayed locked away. untouchable. he gave you just enough to keep you coming back, just enough to make you feel special.

but never enough to make you feel secure.

it started with little things. the way he’d disappear for days, only to reappear with a casual text like nothing had happened. the way he’d make plans with you, then cancel at the last minute because something "came up." the way his phone would buzz constantly when you were together, and he’d never tell you who was on the other end.

you tried to ignore it at first. tried to convince yourself that this was just how things were with him—that he was busy, that he had a life outside of you. but deep down, you knew. you always knew that you were never going to be his priority.

still, you stayed. because when he was with you—really with you—it felt like the world could fall apart, and it wouldn’t matter. when he touched you, when he kissed you, when he whispered your name in the quiet of the night, it felt like you were the only thing that mattered to him. and you lived for those moments. you clung to them, even as the distance between you grew wider.

the thing is, you don’t even know when it happened—when you went from being someone he saw casually to someone who cared too much. it crept up on you slowly, like the tide, until one day, you realized you were drowning.

you fell for him in pieces. it wasn’t just the way he looked at you, or the way he touched you, though that was part of it. it was the way he made you feel, like you were special, like you were different from everyone else in his life. the way he could say so little and still make you feel so much. and that was his power, wasn’t it? he didn’t have to do much to make you fall. it was effortless. it was easy.

you told yourself it was just physical at first. that it didn’t matter if he wasn’t emotionally available. that you didn’t need anything more from him. but somewhere along the line, you started to want more. you started to need more.

it was the nights, you think. those nights when he’d come over, his guard down just enough to let you glimpse the man beneath the surface. the man who wasn’t always so cold, so detached. the man who could be gentle, who could make you laugh, who could make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something more between you.

but those moments were fleeting. they never lasted. because as soon as the sun came up, as soon as the world crept back in, he was gone again. back to being the playboy, the heartbreaker, the guy who couldn’t be tied down. and you were left picking up the pieces, trying to figure out what, if anything, you meant to him.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the mornings are the worst. when the sun rises and the weight of the night lifts, seunghan always leaves. it’s like clockwork, the way he slips out of bed, his body already cold before you even open your eyes. you can hear him now, the quiet rustle of clothes being gathered, the sound of his phone vibrating against the table. and then, just like that, he’s gone.

you lie there, staring at the ceiling, the empty space beside you a glaring reminder of what you’ve become. a placeholder. something temporary, something that’s there to fill the silence, but never meant to last. the sheets still smell like him, and for a moment, you bury your face in them, inhaling deeply, trying to hold onto the remnants of him. but it’s fading. already, it’s fading.

you drag yourself out of bed, pulling on his t-shirt—another piece of him that doesn’t really belong to you. it’s too big, hangs loosely on your frame, but you wear it anyway. it’s pathetic, you know that. but you can’t help it.

he leaves, but he never takes everything. there’s always something left behind—a shirt, a jacket, a text that you stare at for too long. little breadcrumbs that lead you back to him, no matter how hard you try to walk away.

you make your way to the kitchen, every step feeling heavier than the last. the apartment is quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall. you glance at it. 7:45 am. he’s probably already gone to wherever it is he goes when he’s not with you. you never ask, and he never tells.

it’s better that way, you tell yourself. less messy. less real.

but is it? is it really?

you sink into a chair, hands gripping the edge of the table as if holding on to something solid will keep you from unraveling completely. your mind races, going over the same thoughts, the same questions that have haunted you for months. 

what are you to him? does he think of you when he’s gone, or are you just another fleeting moment in his life? a moment that, eventually, he’ll forget.

you hate how much you want him. how much you need him. it’s not just the physical—the way his body feels against yours, the way he makes you forget everything else when he’s touching you. it’s more than that. 

it’s the quiet moments, the ones where you catch a glimpse of something deeper in him, something raw, something real. but those moments are rare, and they’re always followed by the inevitable distance, the emotional wall he builds up between you.

it’s like trying to hold onto smoke, the way he slips through your fingers no matter how tightly you try to grasp him.

you take a deep breath, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you like a heavy fog. it’s exhausting, this constant cycle of wanting and not having, of hoping and being let down. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to walk away. not yet. because what if—what if this time, he stays? what if this time, he gives you more?

you hate yourself for thinking that way. you know it’s foolish, know that seunghan is who he is. he’s not going to change. but there’s a part of you—a small, desperate part—that clings to the hope that maybe, just maybe, he will.

you sigh, standing up slowly from the table, the creak of the wooden floor loud in the silence of your apartment. everything feels heavier in the mornings after seunghan leaves, like the day itself is pulling you down, dragging you into that same space where his absence lingers. your hands shake slightly as you grab the cold cup of coffee you’d made earlier. you take a sip, but the bitterness only deepens the hollow ache in your chest. the cup clinks softly as you set it down, forgotten.

it’s always like this, isn’t it? you replay every word, every glance, trying to find meaning in the way he touches you, the way he looks at you—desperately searching for proof that you mean more to him than just another fleeting thing. but each time, the evidence feels thin, like water slipping through your fingers.

still, you stay. you let yourself believe that maybe today will be different. maybe tonight, when he comes back, he’ll look at you with something more than casual affection. something real, something deep. maybe he’ll stay a little longer, hold you a little tighter, and the void inside him will fill.

but it never happens. and every time he leaves, you’re left trying to rebuild yourself from the wreckage, piecing together fragments of your heart that are growing more fragile by the day.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the sun hangs low in the sky, dipping below the horizon, casting the world in soft shades of pink and gold. twilight. the time when things that are normally clear start to blur, and everything feels uncertain, suspended between light and dark.

it’s been hours since seunghan left, and you haven’t heard from him. you wonder where he is—who he’s with. the thought of him with someone else gnaws at you, the sharp edges of jealousy scraping against your skin. you try to push it away, tell yourself that you have no right to feel this way, but the truth is, you do. you want to be the one he chooses. the one who matters. but you know better than to expect that from him.

your phone buzzes on the table, and your heart jumps, fingers trembling as you grab it. it’s him. a simple text, as casual as ever.

'might come over tonight. don’t wait up'

the words feel like a blow. not because they’re unexpected—this is how it always goes with him—but because they’re so indifferent. it’s like you’re a convenience, something he can drop in and out of when it suits him. you hate how much those words sting, how much power he has over you with just a few careless taps on a screen.

you don’t reply. you don’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound pathetic or desperate, so you just sit there, staring at the screen, your mind racing with thoughts you can’t control.

what would happen if you didn’t open the door when he showed up tonight? if you finally stood your ground, told him you couldn’t do this anymore? would he even care? or would he just move on to someone else, someone who doesn’t ask for more?

hours pass, and the apartment grows darker. you sit by the window, watching the city’s lights flicker on one by one, your mind restless, your heart heavy. you think of all the times seunghan has slipped in and out of your life, leaving behind traces of himself but never enough to hold onto. 

the knock on the door comes later than expected. it's past midnight, and you’ve been sitting in the silence, the tension in your body building with every passing hour. your heart races as you approach the door, your hand hovering over the handle for a moment too long. part of you wants to lock it, to let him stay on the other side, shut out from your life, just as emotionally distant as he’s always been.

but you can’t. you never can.

you open the door, and there he is—leaning against the frame, his hair slightly tousled, eyes dark and unreadable as they meet yours. he steps inside without waiting for an invitation, his presence immediately filling the space. there’s something intoxicating about him, the way he moves, the way he looks at you. it’s maddening, how easily he commands your attention, your desire.

he doesn’t say anything as he walks past you, heading toward the living room like it’s his own place. like he belongs here. and maybe he does, in a way that makes you feel sick to your stomach. because as much as you want him to belong to you, you know deep down that you’ll never belong to him.

you follow him, your heart in your throat, trying to find the words that have been tangled in your chest for weeks—months, maybe. but when you see him, sprawled out on your couch, one arm resting casually across the back, you hesitate. he looks so comfortable, so at ease, like nothing in the world could ever touch him. and maybe nothing ever does.

“you didn’t have to come,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. it’s not an accusation, but it’s not welcoming either. it’s somewhere in between, a space that mirrors the one you’ve been living in with him for too long.

he glances at you, one eyebrow raised in mild curiosity, but there’s no real emotion there.

 “you didn’t have to wait up,” he replies easily, his voice smooth, effortless. he’s always like this—cool, detached, as if nothing really matters. and you hate how much that gets under your skin.

“i wasn’t waiting,” you lie, your arms crossing over your chest defensively. he smirks, and it makes something twist inside you, because you know he can see right through you. he always can.

“okay,” he says, like he doesn’t believe you, but also like he doesn’t really care. and maybe he doesn’t. you wonder if he ever did.

you sit down across from him, the space between you feeling wider than the room itself. you want to say something—anything—that will make him understand how much this is tearing you apart. but the words feel stuck, lodged deep in your throat, suffocating you.

“seunghan,” you start, your voice barely above a whisper. he looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment, you think you see something in his eyes. something soft, something vulnerable. but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by that same indifferent mask he always wears.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, his tone casual, as if the answer doesn’t really matter to him. and maybe it doesn’t. but to you, it feels like everything. everything you’ve been holding in, all the pain and frustration and longing, it’s all bubbling up to the surface now, and you don’t know how to keep it inside any longer.

“i can’t keep doing this,” you say, your voice trembling. “i can’t keep pretending that this—whatever this is—is enough for me.”

there’s a long pause, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you like a storm about to break. seunghan’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the tension in his posture, the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his fingers twitch.

“what do you want from me?” he asks, and there’s something almost dangerous in his voice now. it’s not loud, not angry, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s warning you not to push too far.

“i want more,” you say, the words spilling out before you can stop them.

 “i want to know that i mean something to you. that i’m not just another person you run to when you’re bored or lonely. i want to feel like you care about me, like you actually see me.”

he stares at you for a long moment, his eyes unreadable, his expression cold. and then he laughs—a soft, bitter sound that makes your heart sink.

“you think this is about you?” he asks, his voice sharp now, cutting through the air like a knife. “this was never about you.”

his words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of your lungs. you try to speak, try to make sense of what he’s saying, but all you can do is stare at him, your mind reeling.

“you wanted more? i never promised you that,” he continues, his voice cold, detached.

“you knew what this was from the beginning. you knew i wasn’t looking for anything serious. so don’t stand there and act like i owe you something.”

tears sting at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. you won’t let him see how much he’s hurt you. not again.

“i never asked for much,” you say, your voice shaking with the effort to stay calm. “i just wanted you to care. even a little.”

he sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face.

 “i do care,” he says, but the words feel hollow, empty. “but not in the way you want me to. and i’m not going to change that just because you decided you wanted more.”

his words are a death sentence. final, unyielding. you realize, with a sinking feeling, that this is it. this is the moment you’ve been avoiding, the truth you’ve been running from. he will never be what you need him to be. he will never give you the love you so desperately crave.

and yet, even now, you still want him. despite everything, despite the pain and the rejection and the cold, unfeeling way he’s looking at you right now—you still want him.

you can’t breathe. the weight of the realization presses down on you, suffocating, crushing. your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your chest. you try to speak, to say something that will break this horrible, suffocating silence, but the words are caught in your throat.

seunghan stands up, running a hand through his hair, exasperation clear in his every movement. he paces in front of you, like he can’t quite stand to sit still in this moment, like the very thought of being here, with you, in this conversation, is too much for him.

"you always do this," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "you always want more. i told you from the start, i’m not that guy. i’m not going to be what you want me to be."

his voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and cruel, and you flinch, the pain in your chest growing deeper with every word he says.

“you don’t understand,” you say, your voice quiet but firm.

“you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who keeps you at arm’s length. someone who makes you feel like you’re always reaching for something you can never quite have.”

he stops pacing, turning to look at you, his eyes dark and piercing.

“i never asked you to fall in love with me,” he says, and his words are like a slap in the face. they knock the wind out of you, make your heart lurch in your chest.

you swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“i know you didn’t. but it happened anyway. and now i don’t know how to stop.”

there’s a long silence. the kind that feels like it could break you if it stretches on too long. seunghan’s eyes are fixed on you, but there’s no warmth there. no softness. just that same cold detachment that has always kept you at a distance.

“i told you from the beginning,” he says, his voice low, almost tired. “i’m not that guy. i’m not the one you settle down with. you knew that.”

“i did,” you admit, the words bitter on your tongue. 

“but i thought—i thought maybe, if i stayed long enough, if i was patient enough, you’d change. i thought maybe you’d realize that i’m not like the others. that i’m worth it.”

his expression doesn’t change, but you can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers clench into fists at his sides.

 “i never asked you to wait for me,” he says, his voice cold. “i never promised you anything.”

“no, you didn’t,” you say, tears stinging your eyes.

“but you let me believe it, didn’t you? you gave me just enough to keep me hanging on, just enough to make me think that maybe, one day, you’d give me more.”

his gaze flickers, just for a moment, and you think you see something—regret, maybe. but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“you’re right,” he says finally, his voice softer now, but no less cutting.

“i gave you just enough. because it was easy. because i didn’t have to try. and maybe that was selfish. but i never meant to hurt you.”

you laugh, but there’s no humor in it. only bitterness, only the sharp edge of a broken heart. 

“well, you did.”

the silence that follows is unbearable, thick with everything you’ve never said and everything he’ll never admit. you can feel your chest tightening, your throat closing up, as the weight of the truth finally settles in.

he will never be what you need him to be. he will never give you the love you want, the love you deserve. and staying here, with him, hoping for something more, is only going to tear you apart.

seunghan doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity. the silence between you is a living thing, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat, squeezing. he glances at the door, and you feel it—the moment he decides to leave. it’s a subtle shift, a quiet resignation in the way his shoulders drop, the way his gaze flickers past you, like he’s already somewhere else. somewhere far from here. far from you.

seunghan’s gaze falls to the floor when he notices your staring, his fingers flexing and curling as if searching for something to hold on to—some excuse to stay. but then his eyes lift, meeting yours, and they are colder than you’ve ever seen. it’s like watching a storm gather, violent and unyielding, dark clouds rolling in behind the calm.

“i think…” his voice is low, hesitant at first, like he’s wrestling with the words that are about to rip you apart. “…we should stop this.”

you feel your stomach drop, the floor tilting beneath you as if the whole world is crumbling in slow motion. but he isn’t finished.

“we can’t keep pretending,” he continues, his voice growing steadier, harder, as if he’s steeling himself against your reaction, against the break that’s about to come.

“there’s no future where i can give you what you want.”

his words slice through the room like the snap of a noose tightening. the finality of it wraps around your chest, choking off your breath. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften, just stands there—stone-cold, unreachable, and as distant as the sky on the darkest night.

you hear it in his tone, feel the sharp, unforgiving truth of it. he’s already gone, already on the other side of this, and you’re left standing in the wreckage of a love that never really existed, staring into the void where your hope used to be.

his footsteps echo through the quiet room, slow and deliberate, as if even the act of leaving costs him nothing. you watch him move toward the door, your heart pounding in your chest like it’s trying to escape, like it can’t bear to stay inside you if he walks out. you want to scream, to beg him to turn around, to stay, but the words lodge in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of your pride and your pain.

he pauses with his hand on the doorknob, and for a brief, agonizing second, you think maybe—just maybe—he’ll turn around. maybe he’ll say something that will pull you back from the edge, something that will make this hurt less. but when he speaks, his voice is cold, distant.

“this was always going to end like this,” he says softly, like he’s stating a fact, like this is something you should’ve known all along.

his words hit you like ice water, sharp and numbing, and you feel something inside you splinter, a deep crack running through the foundation of everything you’ve held on to. you’ve known, somewhere deep down, that this was how it would end. you’ve always known. but hearing him say it, hearing him confirm it—it breaks you in a way you didn’t expect.

seunghan opens the door, the cool air from outside rushing in, swirling around you, making you shiver. he doesn’t look back. not once. the door closes behind him with a soft click, and just like that, he’s gone. 

it feels like the world has dropped out from beneath you. like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving you gasping, grasping at nothing. the silence is deafening, pressing in on all sides, filling the empty space where he stood only moments ago.

you collapse onto the couch, the fabric rough against your skin, but you barely notice. all you feel is the hollow ache in your chest, the sharp, relentless throb of a heart that’s been broken in a way that can’t be fixed. it’s as if every piece of you has been unraveled, pulled apart at the seams, leaving you exposed, raw, and bleeding.

the tears come slowly at first, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks in rivers that you can’t stop, won’t stop. your breath catches in your throat, shallow and uneven, and soon the sobs break free, shaking your entire body. it’s like every ounce of pain you’ve been holding back, every moment of doubt, every stolen glance, every night spent waiting for something that was never going to come—they all crash down on you at once, a tidal wave of grief you can’t escape.

your hands clutch the cushions beneath you, your nails digging into the fabric as if holding on to something—anything—could stop the flood inside you. but there’s no stopping it. it’s everywhere now, filling every corner of the room, every inch of your body, this overwhelming, unbearable sense of loss. 

because he wasn’t yours to lose, was he? he was never yours. you were reaching for something that was never within your grasp, chasing after the ghost of a love that only existed in your mind. and now, you’re left with nothing. nothing but the echoes of his footsteps fading into the night, the empty space where he once stood, the shattered pieces of your heart scattered at your feet.

the room feels colder without him, like the warmth he brought with him has seeped out the door, leaving you to drown in the chill of his absence. the air tastes different, bitter, laced with regret and all the words you should have said, all the ways you should have protected yourself from this. from him.

but you didn’t. you let yourself fall, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you could be the one to make him stay. and now you’re paying the price, your heart a bruised, broken thing, barely beating in the wake of his departure.

time stretches out in front of you, an endless, aching expanse. the night presses in, thick and suffocating, wrapping itself around you like a shroud. you’re alone now. really, truly alone. and it hurts. god, it hurts in ways you didn’t know were possible. in ways that make you wonder how you’ll ever breathe again, how you’ll ever pull yourself out of this dark, suffocating pit of longing and pain.

you bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs. the world outside moves on without you, indifferent to the way your heart is breaking, the way you’re shattering into a thousand pieces.

but inside, everything is still. frozen. broken.

and you wonder, as the tears keep falling, as the pain keeps pulsing through you in waves, how you ever thought you could love someone like seunghan. how you ever thought that a love so cold, so distant, could ever be enough. because it wasn’t. it was never enough.

and now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a heart that was never whole to begin with. a heart that loved someone who was never yours to love.

Seoin woke abruptly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights that beat down from the ceiling. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had pulled her under without warning. Her neck ached from the awkward angle, and as she sat up, the cold metal cot beneath her offered no comfort.

She took in her surroundings: the blank white walls, the sparse, sterile room, and the ever-present security camera blinking in the corner. It all felt clinical and distant, as if every part of this place was designed to strip away any sense of comfort. Seoin rubbed her eyes, willing herself to focus.

The door to her cell opened with a grating creak. A guard, face obscured by a helmet, gestured for her to follow. Seoin hesitated but knew she had no choice. Rising slowly, she stepped into the corridor, where more guards flanked her, their presence a silent but constant reminder of her captivity.

The hallway stretched long and empty, the overhead lights reflecting off the glossy floors. Seoin’s steps were unsteady as she followed the guards through a maze of identical corridors, catching glimpses of rooms filled with advanced medical equipment and trainees moving in sync. Everything about this place felt tightly controlled, as if each movement had been rehearsed a thousand times.

They finally stopped in front of a glass-walled room filled with buzzing monitors and medical devices. Officials and technicians were already inside, their attention focused on data streaming across screens. Seoin was ushered into a chair, surrounded by machinery that hummed and beeped, and the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic.

The lead official, a woman with sharp features and a tablet in hand, approached. She looked Seoin over, her expression a mix of frustration and scrutiny. “Seoin,” she said, her tone sharp, “you’ve been missing for weeks. We need to know what happened.”

Seoin shifted uncomfortably, struggling to find the right words. “I wasn’t missing,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “I was at home, and then I was… here. I don’t understand.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and she exchanged a look with the others, their skepticism palpable. “Home? You expect us to believe that? People don’t just vanish from classified missions. You’re either lying, or something went wrong.”

Seoin’s grip tightened on the armrests. “I’m not lying,” she insisted, but the officials continued their whispered discussions, their distrust clear. They spoke about her as if she were a problem to be solved, not a person sitting right in front of them.

“Run the assessments,” the lead official ordered. “We need to know if this amnesia is real or if she’s withholding information.”

The next hour passed in a blur of tests—scans, questions, and constant evaluations. Seoin tried to keep up, but the barrage of instructions and flashing images was overwhelming. The technicians worked quickly and without explanation, moving around her as if she were nothing more than another task on their list.

The tests ended, and Seoin was escorted back down the hallways, her thoughts swirling with confusion and fatigue. She was deposited in a waiting area just outside the glass-walled room, her vision still blurry from the barrage of lights and screens. The guards stood nearby, their presence a constant reminder that there was no escape, but Seoin barely noticed them. Her mind was stuck on the cold efficiency of the tests and the whispered conversations she couldn’t quite catch.

Inside the room, the officials gathered around the lead scientist, reviewing the results on the screens that had been hooked up to Seoin just moments ago. Data streamed across the monitors, displaying brain scans, vitals, and other assessments, all forming a detailed but complex picture that none of them could fully comprehend.

“She doesn’t remember anything,” one of the technicians said, flipping through the pages of his report. “No clear signs of deception, but it’s hard to say if it’s genuine amnesia or something else. The scans are inconclusive.”

The lead official—a woman whose sharp, no-nonsense demeanor had grown only more severe—leaned against the table, her fingers tapping restlessly on her tablet. “And her powers?” she asked, cutting through the murmur of voices. “Any indication of impairment?”

Another official, a stern-looking man with graying hair, adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “No signs of degradation. If anything, her abilities appear to be stable, maybe even stronger than before. We can’t afford to lose her, not when her potential is this high.”

The woman frowned, scrolling through the data on her screen. “But she doesn’t remember how to use them,” she said, her voice edged with frustration. “She’s more liability than asset right now. If she can’t control her powers, we could be looking at a bigger problem than her just being missing.”

A third official, younger and with a calculating expression, spoke up, his tone more measured. “We need to bring her back into the program. Her abilities are too valuable to lose. Even without her memory, she’s one of our most successful subjects. We’ve invested too much to let this slip away.”

The lead official considered this, her eyes fixed on the screens as data continued to scroll past. The room was tense, the decision hanging heavily in the air. HYBE didn’t tolerate failures, but it also didn’t waste resources—especially not when those resources held the kind of power Seoin did.

“Re-assimilate her,” the lead official said finally, her voice carrying the weight of the decision. “We’ll retrain her from the ground up if we have to. Use whatever means necessary to get her back to full capacity. We can’t afford to lose her powers, not with how much we stand to lose if we don’t complete our initiative.”

The other officials nodded, some reluctantly, others with a sense of grim determination. There was no room for argument; the decision had been made. Seoin would be brought back into the fold, whether she remembered her place or not. HYBE had its hands on her, and they weren’t going to let go.

“Start reconditioning immediately,” the lead official ordered. “We’ll monitor her closely. If her memory starts to return, we need to know exactly what she remembers—and what she doesn’t.”

Outside the room, Seoin sat on the edge of her seat, unaware of the conversation unfolding just a few feet away. She watched the guards out of the corner of her eye, trying to keep her nerves under control. She didn’t know what was coming next, but the cold, calculating stares of the officials inside told her that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be up to her.

The decision was made. Seoin would be re-assimilated, her potential too valuable for HYBE to lose. And though she couldn’t yet see the path that lay ahead, the wheels were already in motion, pulling her deeper into a world that demanded more from her than she’d ever imagined.

Seoin was led down yet another hallway, her thoughts still tangled from the endless tests and the officials’ piercing questions. She was trying to hold onto the fragments of her own memories, but every step forward felt like another piece slipping away. There was no time to process, no chance to catch her breath. She was pushed from one moment to the next, each more unsettling than the last.

The guards brought her to a new section of the facility, where the white noise of machinery was replaced by the sharper sounds of voices, commands, and the rhythmic impact of fists against punching bags. Seoin’s heart sank as she realized this was no ordinary training area. It was a battlefield simulation, complete with obstacle courses, combat drills, and equipment that looked more suited for soldiers than trainees.

A stern-looking trainer, tall and broad-shouldered with a clipboard in hand, stepped forward. He barely glanced at Seoin, his focus already on the trainees spread throughout the room. “You’ll start with basic drills,” he said brusquely, as if her reappearance meant nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his schedule. “Follow the routines. No exceptions.”

Seoin nodded, though she wasn’t sure if he even saw. She was ushered toward the back of the room, where a line of trainees was going through an obstacle course. They moved with precision, vaulting over barriers, crawling under barbed wire, and scaling walls with practiced ease. It was clear they’d been through this routine many times before.

Seoin hesitated at the edge of the course, feeling the weight of the eyes around her. She didn’t know where to start, didn’t know the rules of this new game, but the trainer’s voice cut through her uncertainty. “Move!” he barked, and Seoin found herself sprinting forward, her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

She stumbled through the first few obstacles, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated compared to the fluid motions of the other trainees. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed herself to keep up, but it was clear she was out of sync. She wasn’t just physically outmatched; she was mentally unprepared for the sheer intensity of the drills.

As she crawled under a low-hanging net, the ropes digging into her back, Seoin’s gaze drifted to the far side of the room, where a group of four boys stood apart from the rest. They were different from the other trainees, moving with a quiet confidence that marked them as something distinct. Each boy was focused, their presence almost magnetic, drawing attention without trying.

The tallest among them, with dark, sharp eyes, watched the drills with a cold, calculating gaze. His stance was rigid, and though he appeared calm, there was a tension in his posture, like he was always ready to spring into action. Beside him, a boy with tousled hair and an unreadable expression leaned casually against the wall, his eyes flicking between the trainees as if assessing each one’s worth.

A third boy stood slightly behind the others, his softer features set in a wary expression. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his attention constantly moving, like he couldn’t afford to let his guard down for even a second. The last boy, who looked the youngest, had a gentleness in his eyes that seemed out of place in such a harsh environment, but the way he stayed close to his group suggested he was anything but weak.

They didn’t train with the others. Instead, they stood as a unit, their silent observations making them seem both a part of the facility and separate from it. They exchanged the occasional glance, communicating without words, their movements synchronized even when they were standing still.

Seoin couldn’t help but watch them, feeling an odd pull toward the group. They were clearly important, different, and in a place like this, that kind of distinction wasn’t easily earned. There was something about the way they carried themselves that spoke of experience and a shared understanding, an invisible line that set them apart from everyone else in the room.

She pulled herself over the final obstacle, landing awkwardly on the other side. Her palms stung from the rough surface, and her muscles ached in protest. She looked around, searching for any sign of acknowledgment, but the other trainees were already moving on, their focus never wavering. There was no room for mistakes here—no patience for those who couldn’t keep up.

“Faster,” the trainer snapped, his tone devoid of sympathy. “You don’t have time to fall behind.”

Seoin forced herself back into motion, her body screaming in protest as she pushed through the drills. She didn’t know what she was training for, didn’t understand the purpose behind the relentless pace, but she knew that stopping wasn’t an option. Not here. Not when every misstep felt like another mark against her.

As she moved through the exercises, Seoin’s gaze kept drifting back to the boys. They were cohesive, each movement precise and purposeful, as if they had been doing this for years. The air around them was different, heavier, and Seoin could sense that they weren’t just trainees—they were something more, something valuable to HYBE in a way that no one else seemed to be.

The boys didn’t approach her, and she didn’t dare move closer. She could feel their subtle glances, but they made no effort to engage. Seoin stood alone, trying to make sense of the controlled chaos around her. Each movement, each interaction felt heavy with unspoken rules, and she was painfully aware of how out of place she was.

The drills blurred together into a punishing rhythm of commands and movements. Seoin forced her body through each exercise, her muscles burning with every push, pull, and sprint. The other trainees moved like clockwork, their motions precise and unhesitating, while Seoin fought to keep pace, tripping over her own feet as exhaustion took its toll. She felt the trainer’s eyes on her every misstep, each stumble met with an impatient glare that only fueled her anxiety.

Seoin’s hands trembled as she gripped the edge of a climbing wall, struggling to pull herself over the top. Her fingers ached, and sweat dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision, but she kept going, driven by the urgent need to prove that she could. There was no applause, no encouragement—only the cold indifference of a place that demanded perfection at every turn.

She dropped to the ground on the other side, landing awkwardly on her knees. Pain shot up her legs, and she bit back a gasp, forcing herself to stand. Her breath came in ragged bursts, her heart pounding in her chest as she tried to steady herself. Around her, the other trainees continued without missing a beat, their focus unwavering.

Seoin’s gaze flickered back to the group of boys she’d been watching earlier. They were still observing, standing apart from the rest, their expressions unchanging. The tallest boy’s eyes were fixed on the drills, his gaze following the movements with a detached intensity that made Seoin feel as if she were being evaluated. The others stood close, their presence a quiet but powerful reminder of the hierarchy that existed within these walls.

A whistle blew, signaling the end of the drill. The trainees fell into lines, their postures straight and attentive, waiting for the next command. Seoin stumbled into place at the back, her legs shaking with fatigue. She was painfully aware of how out of sync she was, how every movement felt just a fraction too slow, too clumsy. She could feel the trainer’s disappointment, the unspoken judgment hanging in the air.

“You’re all expected to be at peak performance,” the trainer barked, his voice echoing across the room. “No exceptions. No excuses. If you fall behind, you put everyone at risk. And I don’t have time for liabilities.”

His words stung, each one landing like a blow. Seoin stared at the ground, willing herself to stay upright. She knew she wasn’t keeping up, that she was failing the unspoken test that everyone else seemed to pass without effort. But she couldn’t afford to show weakness, not when every eye in the room felt like it was waiting for her to slip.

As the trainees broke off into smaller groups for combat simulations, Seoin found herself pushed toward a station at the far end of the hall. A row of training dummies stood in front of her, each one marked with faded scars from countless impacts. The task was simple: hit the target, again and again, until you couldn’t anymore.

Seoin clenched her fists, feeling the sting of raw skin against her knuckles. She threw a punch, the impact jarring up her arm, and immediately followed with another. Each strike was clumsy, fueled by frustration more than skill, but she kept going, her breaths coming in sharp bursts as she tried to drown out everything else. The pain in her hands was a welcome distraction from the gnawing sense of inadequacy that had been building since she arrived.

She lost track of time, lost in the rhythm of hitting and retreating, until the sound of footsteps broke through her focus. Seoin glanced up, her gaze meeting the tall boy’s eyes from across the room. He stood with his arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and something else—something that Seoin couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t speak, and neither did she. The moment stretched between them, silent and charged, before he turned back to his group, his expression unreadable. Seoin watched as he rejoined the others, their movements fluid and synchronized, every gesture a reflection of their unity. They were a team, something Seoin wasn’t a part of, and the gap between them felt impossibly wide.

Seoin resumed her practice, her strikes becoming more forceful, each hit an outlet for the anger and confusion roiling inside her. She didn’t know what HYBE expected of her, didn’t understand why she was being pushed so hard, but she knew she couldn’t afford to fall behind. Not when failure meant losing whatever tenuous grip she still had on this place.

The session dragged on, and by the end, Seoin’s arms hung heavy at her sides, her knuckles bruised and raw. She leaned against the wall, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, as the other trainees finished their drills and began to disperse. The room was quieter now, the relentless pace finally easing, but Seoin’s mind was still racing.

She glanced toward the boys one last time, catching a brief glimpse of their tight-knit formation before they disappeared into the crowd. They were a mystery—one that Seoin was determined to understand. But for now, she was alone, trapped in a place that expected everything and gave nothing in return.

As Seoin made her way back to her cell, escorted by the silent, ever-present guards, she knew that today was only the beginning. The facility’s demands were unrelenting, and there would be no room for hesitation. If she was going to survive, she would have to learn to adapt, to push past the fear and exhaustion, and to find her place in a world that felt increasingly out of her control.

The door to her cell closed behind her with a heavy clang, and Seoin sank onto the cot, her body aching from the day’s ordeal. She stared at the ceiling, the harsh fluorescent lights still burning overhead, and wondered what it would take to meet HYBE’s impossible standards. The path ahead was uncertain, but Seoin knew one thing for sure: she couldn’t afford to break. Not now. Not when everything depended on her ability to endure.

✧✧✧

It had been a week since Seoin first arrived at the facility, and the days had blurred into a relentless cycle of drills, tests, and grueling simulations. She had quickly learned that HYBE expected nothing less than perfection from its trainees, and every mistake was met with impatience or a cold reprimand. Seoin’s body was constantly sore, her muscles aching from the punishing regimen, but she forced herself to keep up, determined not to fall behind.

By now, the routines had become familiar, but the intensity never waned. Each day was a battle to prove she could keep pace, and though she still felt like an outsider, Seoin was slowly finding her footing. She had learned to watch, to observe the unspoken rules of the facility, and to anticipate the trainer’s commands before they were shouted across the room. But despite her efforts, there was always a sense of being on the edge, one misstep away from being left behind.

Today, Seoin noticed something different as the trainees were called into the training hall: Woonhak—she had learned his and the others’ names through the whispers of other trainees—was missing. The absence was subtle, but it created a gap in their formation. Seoin caught glimpses of their guarded expressions—fleeting moments of tension and quiet concern that hinted at a disruption beneath their calm exteriors.

Taesan, who usually moved with unflinching precision, seemed slightly off, his focus sharper but tinged with a restlessness that wasn’t there before. The group exchanged few words, their interactions clipped and restrained, as if they were all keenly aware of the missing piece in their tightly knit unit.

Midway through the day, the trainees were called into a large, open room lined with training stations and simulation equipment. The walls were covered in screens displaying complex data, and a series of holographic projectors flickered to life, creating a virtual combat environment that was both immersive and disorienting.

The trainer’s voice cut through the chatter. “Pair up. Today’s simulation requires a partner. You’ll need to work together to complete the objectives. Failure is not an option.”

Seoin looked around, her eyes scanning the room for a familiar face, but the other trainees had already begun pairing off, gravitating toward those they knew and trusted. Seoin felt a pang of uncertainty, realizing she was once again on her own, when she caught sight of Taesan standing nearby, seemingly without a partner—a clear sign of Woonhak’s absence.

He was observing the setup with his usual detached expression, but when he noticed Seoin’s gaze, his eyes flicked to her briefly, assessing. There was no sign of irritation, just a cool, measured look that made it clear he was weighing his options.

Seoin hesitated, but with no other choice, she approached him cautiously. “I—uh—don’t have a partner,” she said, her voice faltering slightly under his scrutiny. “Would you mind if we—?”

Taesan didn’t respond immediately. He glanced around the room, as if considering a better alternative, but then nodded once, curtly. “Fine,” he said simply, his tone neutral. It wasn’t an enthusiastic acceptance, but it was better than being left behind.

The simulation began with a flash of light, and suddenly, the room was transformed into a virtual battlefield. The scenario was complex, with moving targets and shifting obstacles that required quick reflexes and strategic thinking. Taesan took the lead, his movements precise and controlled as he navigated the environment. Seoin struggled to keep up, following his commands as best as she could.

“Stay low,” Taesan ordered, his voice calm but firm. “Watch your flank.”

Seoin ducked behind cover, just as a holographic enemy appeared, and she narrowly avoided a simulated hit. Taesan dispatched the target with efficient ease, barely breaking stride as he moved to the next objective. There was no hesitation in his actions, no wasted effort. He moved like someone who had done this a hundred times before.

Seoin did her best to match his pace, but her inexperience showed. She fumbled with the controls, nearly missing a key shot, and she could feel Taesan’s eyes on her, assessing every mistake. There was no open criticism, but Seoin could sense his frustration in the tight set of his jaw and the brief, sharp glances he threw her way.

“Keep your guard up,” Taesan said, his tone clipped. “We’re not here to lose.”

Seoin nodded, swallowing her nerves as she focused on the next set of targets. Taesan’s words were blunt, but there was no malice behind them—only the expectation that she would rise to the challenge. He didn’t coddle, didn’t waste time with encouragement; he simply expected her to do better, and in a strange way, that drove Seoin to push herself harder.

By the time the simulation ended, Seoin was drenched in sweat, her muscles burning from the exertion. Taesan finished the last objective with a calculated strike, and the virtual environment dissolved back into the empty training hall. Seoin took a moment to catch her breath, glancing at Taesan, who stood with his usual composed demeanor, his expression unreadable.

“Not bad,” he said finally, his voice neutral but lacking the sharpness from before. “You kept up.”

It wasn’t praise, exactly, but Seoin took it as a small victory. She nodded, unsure of what to say, but before she could respond, the trainer called for the end of the exercise, signaling that it was time for lunch.

The trainees filed into the mess hall, a spacious but utilitarian room lined with long tables and benches. Seoin collected her tray, the food bland and unremarkable, and scanned the room for a place to sit. Most of the trainees had already clustered into their usual groups, their conversations low and guarded. Seoin was about to find a quiet corner when she saw Taesan and the three other boys from his group seated at a table near the back, Woonhak among them now, looking worse for wear.

Woonhak’s usual bright demeanor was noticeably dimmed; he sat slumped slightly, his shoulders tense, and his eyes downcast. There was a faint pallor to his complexion, and he picked at his food without much interest, barely taking a bite. The other boys surrounded him, their quiet vigilance palpable as they subtly shifted their focus to him without making it obvious.

Seoin hesitated, uncertain whether she was welcome, but Taesan’s brief nod toward the empty space beside him was enough of an invitation. She approached cautiously, setting her tray down and taking a seat. The boys barely looked up, continuing their quiet conversation, but Seoin felt the weight of their presence and the unspoken concern that lingered between them.

As Seoin took her seat, she noticed the small, almost imperceptible ways the others were looking after Woonhak. The boy with the tousled hair pushed his bread toward Woonhak’s tray without comment, nudging it closer when Woonhak didn’t immediately react. Taesan passed him his own drink, a wordless gesture of care that Woonhak accepted with a quiet nod of thanks. The boy with the calm demeanor shifted slightly closer, his posture subtly shielding Woonhak from the curious glances of the other trainees.

Woonhak took a slow sip, his movements deliberate, as if every action required more effort than it should. The youngest boy glanced at him frequently, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested a mix of worry and frustration, but he didn’t push. Instead, he offered a small piece of his own food, setting it on Woonhak’s tray with a gentle nudge.

Seoin picked at her food, unsure of how to insert herself into the scene unfolding before her. The boys’ quiet support of Woonhak was understated but undeniable, a stark contrast to the harsh, competitive atmosphere of the facility.

The quiet stretched, and Seoin decided to break it. “Thanks for partnering with me today,” she said, directing her words toward Taesan but aware that the others were listening. “I know I’m not… I mean, I’m still learning.”

Taesan glanced at her, his expression inscrutable. “It’s fine,” he replied simply, but his tone held no judgment. “You kept up. That’s more than most.”

The boy with the tousled hair smirked slightly, his gaze shifting to Seoin. “Not many can keep pace with him on their first try,” he remarked, the faintest hint of a challenge in his voice. “You must be tougher than you look.”

Seoin wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a subtle test, but she nodded, meeting his eyes with a flicker of determination. “I’m trying.”

Woonhak, who had been quiet until now, glanced up briefly, his eyes meeting Seoin’s. He offered a faint smile, tired but genuine, before returning his attention to his tray. The youngest boy offered a small, encouraging smile, his posture relaxing slightly. “It gets easier,” he said quietly. “You just have to keep at it.”

The dynamic between the boys was clear: they were more than just a team. They were protective of each other in a way that went beyond the facility’s demands, and Woonhak’s return, bruised but not broken, only underscored their bond. Seoin felt a strange mix of relief and unease. The interaction was brief, stilted, but it was a start—an opening into the closed-off world of these boys who seemed so untouchable.

✧✧✧

The days at the facility were grueling, but Seoin found herself gradually drawn closer to the group of boys who had, against the odds, welcomed her into their tight-knit circle. Despite their reserved nature, each day brought small moments that chipped away at the wall between them—shared meals, quiet conversations, and the subtle ways they supported each other during training. Seoin was beginning to feel a sense of belonging, though a part of her still couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider.

It was during one of these mornings, just after the usual drills, that Seoin noticed a shift in the atmosphere. The trainees were ushered into a different training hall, one she hadn’t seen before. It was darker, with dim lighting that cast long shadows across the walls, and the air felt charged with a strange energy. Seoin’s nerves prickled with anticipation, sensing that today’s session would be different.

The lead trainer, flanked by several officials, stood at the front of the room, his expression stern as he addressed the group. “Today, we’re testing a specialized skill set,” he announced, his gaze sweeping over the trainees. “This isn’t about speed or strength. It’s about control. Mastery of your individual abilities.”

Seoin’s heart skipped a beat. She knew that many of the trainees had been enhanced, given powers that set them apart from ordinary soldiers. She had seen glimpses—quick reflexes, unnatural strength—but nothing that fully showed what they were truly capable of. Today, it seemed, she would finally see those abilities in action.

The trainees were divided into small groups, each directed to a different part of the hall. Seoin found herself with Boynextdoor again, feeling a familiar mix of anxiety and curiosity. Taesan led the way, his usual reserved demeanor intact, while Leehan, Riwoo, and Woonhak followed in their practiced formation, each exuding a quiet confidence. Seoin had grown accustomed to their dynamic and she felt a strange comfort being near them.

The trainer activated a series of targets and obstacles, more advanced than the ones Seoin had seen before. They moved unpredictably, their patterns erratic, and the room buzzed with a low, electric hum. It was clear this wasn’t a simple combat simulation; it was designed to push their powers to the limit.

Riwoo was the first to step forward. His sharp eyes locked onto the targets, and with a flick of his wrist, the light seemed to bend around him, manipulating the space between himself and the obstacles. The targets wavered as if caught in a heat mirage, their paths shifting unpredictably. Seoin realized Riwoo was controlling the light itself, using it to distort perception and mislead his opponents, making it nearly impossible to predict where a hit would land.

Leehan followed, usually calm and collected, his power was a stark contrast to his composed demeanor. As the targets moved, Leehan’s focus intensified, and suddenly, they slowed—almost as if the air had thickened around them. Seoin could see the strain on his face as he manipulated time, pulling the moments around him like threads and stretching them to his advantage. It wasn’t just control; it was the power to bend time itself, making his movements seem almost premeditated.

Taesan was next, his steps measured and deliberate. The targets sped up, moving erratically as if testing his limits, but Taesan’s movements remained smooth, calculated. He dodged effortlessly, every motion precise, as though he could see the trajectory of each target before it moved. Seoin understood now—Taesan’s power wasn’t just instinct or training. It was precognition, the ability to foresee the immediate future and react before anyone else could.

Woonhak, the youngest and often most guarded of the group, stepped forward with a quiet determination. As the targets advanced, Woonhak’s posture straightened, and his eyes hardened. He didn’t move to strike. Instead, he spoke a single command: “Stop.” The targets obeyed instantly, freezing in place as if Woonhak’s voice alone had the power to command them. His power was undeniable—persuasion at its most dangerous, the ability to compel anything to obey his will.

Seoin watched in awe as each of the boys demonstrated their powers. It was an impressive display of control, precision, and sheer will. But as the trainer turned to her, Seoin felt her confidence waver. She still didn’t know what her power was, let alone how to use it. The trainer gestured for her to step forward, and Seoin’s heart pounded in her chest.

“Your turn,” the trainer said, his tone expectant. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Seoin took a deep breath and focused on the target ahead. She tried to summon something—anything—that would reveal her abilities. She closed her eyes, willing herself to feel the power that she knew was somewhere within her. But as she reached out, there was nothing. No surge of energy, no flash of insight. Just silence.

She opened her eyes, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as the target remained unmoved. The trainer’s expression tightened, his disappointment evident. “Try again,” he barked, his frustration barely contained. Seoin nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she tried once more, but the outcome was the same. She was met with empty air and the cold realization that whatever power she was supposed to have, it was still beyond her reach.

The other boys watched, their expressions shifting from supportive to confused. Taesan’s brow furrowed slightly, and Leehan exchanged a glance with Riwoo, each clearly perplexed by Seoin’s inability to manifest anything. Woonhak, usually the most reserved, looked genuinely concerned.

The trainer sighed, rubbing his temples as if trying to find the patience to deal with yet another setback. “She’s not ready,” he said finally, turning to the officials. “Her powers are still dormant. We’ll need more training—more time. We can’t rush this.”

The boys exchanged looks, uncertainty rippling through them. Taesan stepped closer to Seoin, his voice low and directed at her but loud enough for the others to hear. “Did you… already go through enhancement?” he asked, a hint of confusion lacing his tone.

Seoin shrugged, feeling the weight of their expectations and her own growing frustration. “I don’t… I don’t remember,” she admitted, feeling small under their scrutiny. The boys’ expressions tightened, their confusion deepening at her response. It was as if Seoin’s presence here made less sense now than ever.

Riwoo glanced between Seoin and the trainer, his brow furrowing. “What does he mean by ‘dormant’? Are your powers blocked or something?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

Seoin could only shake her head. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t remember.”

Leehan looked over at the trainer, who was now speaking in hushed tones with the officials, and whispered, “They’re not saying something.”

Woonhak nodded, still visibly drained but alert enough to sense the tension. “Maybe you’re just… different,” he offered quietly, though it was clear even he didn’t fully understand what that meant.

The uncertainty lingered between them, a mix of frustration, concern, and the gnawing mystery of Seoin’s abilities—or lack thereof. Though the boys tried to reassure her, their own doubts were evident, each grappling with the unknown in their own way.

The session ended with no answers, only more questions. As the group made their way out of the hall, Seoin could feel the boys’ lingering confusion. Taesan gave her a reassuring nod, and Leehan offered a quiet, “It’ll come. Just give it time.”

After the training session, the trainees were dismissed, given a rare sliver of free time before the next round of drills. Seoin followed the boys to a quieter corner of the facility, away from the constant buzz of activity. The air was still, but for once, it felt less like a prison and more like a brief reprieve from the unrelenting demands of HYBE.

They settled on a set of worn benches, tucked into a shadowy alcove near one of the observation windows that overlooked the facility grounds. Seoin sat with her back against the wall, watching as the boys fell into their usual quiet camaraderie. Taesan leaned back, eyes closed as if lost in thought, while Leehan and Riwoo spoke in hushed tones, their conversation easy and familiar. Woonhak, still visibly tired, rested with his head down, his gaze distant but occasionally flickering back to Seoin.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn toward the events of training. Riwoo, ever observant, broke the comfortable silence with a question that had clearly been on their minds. “So… what happened back there?” he asked, his voice gentle but direct. “When you said you don’t remember. What did you mean?”

Seoin hesitated, feeling the weight of their expectant gazes. She hadn’t fully explained her situation to them, not the way she should have. And now, with the opportunity laid bare, she found herself torn between the truth she knew and the one HYBE believed. The boys were watching her with a mix of concern and curiosity, their expressions open but tinged with caution.

“I…” Seoin began, struggling to find the right words. She glanced at each of them, feeling the quiet support they offered but also the pressure to answer. She could tell them everything—the confusion, the sudden shift from her world to this one—but it felt too raw, too strange to lay out all at once. Instead, she chose the path that HYBE had set for her, the truth they knew.

“They said I’ve been missing,” Seoin finally said, her voice steadying as she leaned into the story she had been told. “HYBE thinks I was lost in battle, but… I don’t remember any of it. I woke up here with no memory of what happened. They said my powers are dormant because of it. That’s all I know.”

The boys exchanged glances, processing her words. Leehan frowned, his eyes narrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. “Missing in battle? That doesn’t make sense. HYBE keeps tabs on everyone.”

Riwoo nodded, his fingers drumming lightly against the bench in a rhythmic, absent-minded motion. “They don’t lose people. Not like that. If you were gone, they’d have found you sooner.”

Taesan’s expression remained calm, but his brow furrowed slightly as he considered her explanation. “And they never said how you went missing? What you were doing before?”

Seoin shook her head, the uncertainty she had felt since her arrival bubbling up again. “They didn’t tell me much. Just that I was part of something classified, and then… nothing. It’s like that part of my memory is just gone.”

Woonhak looked up, his eyes soft with empathy. “That’s… messed up. They put you back in without any answers? And they expect you to just… pick up where you left off?”

Seoin nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt. She was telling them what she knew, but it was only a piece of the larger, more complicated truth. HYBE’s story gave her a place in this world, but it didn’t account for the way she felt—the way everything around her seemed just a little bit off, like she was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

“They think my powers will come back eventually,” Seoin added, her voice quiet. “But I don’t know how long that will take. Or if it even will.”

The boys listened intently, absorbing every word. Their confusion hadn’t been entirely eased, but they seemed to accept what Seoin told them, though Taesan’s expression remained thoughtful, as if he was still turning her words over in his mind. He gave a slow nod, almost to himself, before speaking.

“We’ll figure it out,” Taesan said, his tone reassuring but laced with determination. “Whatever’s going on, we’ve dealt with worse. We’ll help you, Seoin.”

Leehan and Riwoo nodded in agreement, their support unspoken but clear. Woonhak offered Seoin a faint smile, his expression softening despite the exhaustion still lingering in his eyes. “You’re with us now,” he said simply. “We’ve got your back.”

Seoin looked around at the boys, feeling a surge of gratitude that she couldn’t quite put into words. She was still an outsider, still grappling with the unknown, but for the first time, she didn’t feel entirely alone. The boys didn’t have all the answers, but they were willing to stand by her, and in this strange, unpredictable world, that was more than enough.

After returning to her room, Seoin drifted into an uneasy sleep, exhaustion finally pulling her under after a long day of training and unanswered questions. Her mind swirled with fragmented images—the faces of the boys, the targets she couldn’t hit, and the disorienting sense of not belonging. The darkness around her seemed endless, but slowly, shapes began to form, pulling her deeper into a place that felt both familiar and foreign.

She found herself standing in a vast, open field. The sky above was a muted gray, and the air was thick with a strange, heavy stillness that pressed down on her chest. In the distance, she saw the outline of a figure, partially obscured by the fog that clung to the ground like a shroud. As Seoin stepped closer, the figure came into focus, and her breath caught in her throat.

It was herself—or rather, a version of herself. The girl before her was identical in every way: the same eyes, the same posture, but there was an undeniable weight in her expression that Seoin had never seen in her own reflection. This wasn’t just a mirror image; this was her, the version of Seoin who belonged to this war-torn world.

Her own eyes looked at her, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. There was a heaviness between them, a shared understanding that transcended words. The other Seoin’s gaze was filled with a mixture of regret and determination, her shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible burden that she could no longer bear.

“You’re finally here,” other Seoin said, her voice tinged with exhaustion and something else—relief, perhaps, or desperation. “I was wondering when we’d finally meet like this.”

Seoin swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. She had so many questions, but in the face of this mirrored reality, the words felt stuck in her throat. “Where are we?” Seoin asked instead, glancing around at the empty, desolate landscape.

“This place isn’t real,” other Seoin replied, gesturing to the sky and the ground that seemed to blur and fade at the edges. “It’s a dream—a space between us. It’s the only way I can reach you now.”

Seoin took a step closer, studying her face. There was something haunted in her eyes, a shadow of guilt that Seoin couldn’t ignore. “You’re… me,” Seoin said quietly, the truth settling over her like a heavy cloak. “Or I’m you.”

She nodded, her expression tightening. “We’re the same, but different. I’m the version of you from this reality. I’ve been fighting in this war for years, doing things I’m not proud of.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I made mistakes. I thought I was helping, but I was wrong. And now… now it’s too late for me.”

Seoin felt a chill run through her. “What do you mean? What did you do, Seoin?” She hesitated, feeling awkward saying her own name in such a strange context. “Uh, Seoin… I mean, I know it’s your name but also my name… This is confusing.”

Her mirror self let out a small, amused snort, the first break in her otherwise somber demeanor. “Yeah, this is weird, isn’t it?” She rubbed her temples, shaking her head with a wry smile. “Okay, this is going to be a mess if we keep calling each other Seoin. Just… call me Zeoin, alright? It’s a nickname I went by once anyway, and it’ll help avoid this whole ‘talking to myself’ situation.”

Seoin blinked, slightly taken aback by the unexpected humor. “Zeoin, huh? Alright, I can work with that.”

“Great,” Zeoin said, her smile fading as she got back to the matter at hand. “Now, where was I? Right. I made mistakes—bad ones. I thought I was making a difference in the war, but I was wrong. And now… it’s too late for me to fix it.”

Seoin’s brow furrowed. “But why? Why can’t you fix it yourself? Why am I even here?”

Zeoin’s expression darkened as she took a step closer, her presence almost tangible despite the dreamlike setting. “When I used my powers to try and fix what I’d done, something went wrong. Our consciousnesses blended instead of just letting me go back. So, I thought I could guide you, help you correct what I couldn’t.”

Seoin’s mind reeled, trying to grasp the implications of Zeoin’s words. “Why didn’t it work? What happened?”

Zeoin hesitated, the weight of her regret visible in her every movement. “When our consciousnesses blended, I thought I could remain in control, but instead, it’s you who ended up in charge. You’re the dominant one now. I’m just… stuck.”

Seoin stared at Zeoin, the enormity of what she was hearing settling in her chest like a stone. “So, you want me to fix your mistakes? To save this world instead?”

Zeoin’s expression hardened, and she stepped closer, her presence almost demanding despite the surreal backdrop. “I don’t expect you to do it for me,” she said, her voice low and laced with urgency. “But you’re here now, and you have a chance to make things right in a way that I can’t. I’m asking you to try, Seoin. Because I failed.”

Seoin’s mind whirled with confusion, anger, and the suffocating weight of expectation. “Why should I? I don’t even belong here! I just want to go home. Back to my family, back to my life.”

Zeoin’s expression softened, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I know you didn’t ask for this. But this world is broken, and I… I can’t change what I’ve done. You’re not just here by accident, Seoin. You’re here because I failed, and maybe—just maybe—you’re the only one who can fix it.”

Seoin felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, the overwhelming sense of responsibility crushing down on her. “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Zeoin took a deep breath, her expression shifting to something more earnest, as if she were letting Seoin in on a deeply held secret. “Your power—our power—isn’t just about moving between worlds. It’s about drawing strength, skills, and knowledge from different realities. When I trigger it, it feels like a door opening in my mind, a rush of memories and instincts that aren’t mine but feel like they are.”

Zeoin paused, searching for the right way to explain. “It’s like… tapping into something larger than yourself. You’ll feel a pull, a tug deep inside, like gravity trying to reel you in. When it happens, you’ll know. You have to let go of your doubts and trust that it’ll guide you. The first time is the hardest because it doesn’t feel natural—like trying to remember a song you’ve never heard before.”

Seoin listened, absorbing every word, the description resonating in a way she couldn’t quite articulate. It felt both foreign and strangely familiar, like a forgotten instinct she’d yet to awaken. “So… it’s all about feeling it?” she asked, still uncertain.

Zeoin nodded. “Exactly. The more you try to force it, the more it slips away. Just let it happen. I know it sounds impossible, but when you stop overthinking, that’s when it comes to you.”

Zeoin reached out, her hand brushing Seoin’s arm in a gesture that was both comforting and desperate. “You’re stronger than you think. And you’re not alone. Those boys—Taesan, Leehan, Riwoo, Woonhak—they don’t want to fight. They’re hoping for something better, something more. Just like you.”

Seoin nodded slowly, feeling the flicker of resolve begin to build within her. Zeoin’s words echoed in her mind, a call to action that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she wanted to. “I’ll try,” Seoin said finally, meeting Zeoin’s gaze with determination. “I don’t know how, but I’ll try.”

Zeoin smiled faintly, the first genuine expression of hope Seoin had seen from her. “That’s all I’m asking,” she said softly, her form beginning to blur and fade as the dream started to unravel. “Just… don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

As Zeoin disappeared, the dreamscape dissolved into darkness, and Seoin was left alone, surrounded by the quiet weight of her own thoughts. When she finally woke, her heart was pounding, and the reality of her new mission settled firmly in her chest. She wasn’t just here by accident. She had been brought to this world for a reason, and now, it was up to her to see it through.

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