pairing: kim seungmin x original female character
genre: slow burn romance, some angst, fluff, idol au, strangers to friends to lovers
warnings: mentions of self-doubt, emotional vulnerability, brief mentions of online hate
masterlist♡: [TMTS series] - [full list]
a/n♡: this chapter felt like a turning point to write, and i really hope it reads that way too! vi is finding her footing, slowly but surely, and i may have teared up a little getting her there. the voice in the hallway is back 👀 comments and reblogs mean the world, thank you so much for reading and liking! ♡ skz dividers by @astrayapple ♡
~ New here? Start with the Prologue ♡ [AO3]
SUMMARY:
Time stops feeling measurable. Vi steps into the recording booth for the first time, films her music video, watches her debut release take on a life of its own. The members of Stray Kids keep finding their way into her orbit. And somewhere in the building, a voice she can't forget keeps pulling her back to the hallway. MAMA is coming, but is she ready?
Time stopped feeling like something I could measure in hours or days. It slipped instead into something softer and stranger, marked by vocal takes and sore muscles, late nights and early mornings, the steady hum of Seoul outside my window and the quieter, more persistent hum of expectation inside my chest. As training became easier, my body attuning itself with my new environment, I reached the point where Kang teamjang-nim figured I was polished enough to hit the recording booth.
The first time I stepped into the studio as an artist instead of someone just dreaming of being one, I thought I would feel different. More confident, maybe, or more certain of myself and the type of music I’d want to make. Instead, I felt exactly the same, only now there was something more at stake. The room itself was smaller than I had imagined, insulated in a way that made every sound feel deliberate and more intense. The air carried the faint scent of coffee and warm equipment, and when the door shut behind me, the world narrowed to the space between the microphone and my own breathing. Through the glass, my producer and manager moved with quiet efficiency, adjusting levels, murmuring to one another in tones that suggested experience, not doubt. I envied that. I envied the ease with which they belonged here. Despite my efforts, that flicker of self-doubt I’d developed seemed to cast a constant shadow.
I adjusted the headphones over my ears, the padded weight fitting into place as I glanced at my reflection in the glass. Pink hair pulled back loosely, minimal makeup, an oversized hoodie that did little to convince me I was anything more than a girl still pretending. The track started, a soft synth of music unfolding beneath me, and I closed my eyes, letting the first notes sink into my chest. When I began to sing, the sound that came out was steady, technically correct, and completely wrong. I could feel it immediately, the distance between what I was doing and what I wanted to do, like reaching for something just out of range. The take stopped before I finished, a gentle interruption that somehow stung more than something harsher would have.
“You’re thinking too much,” came my producer’s voice through the headset, calm but firm. “Try again. Really feel it this time.”
I nodded, swallowing the tightness in my throat. I tried again, and again, each take blurring into the next until the lyrics began to lose their shape. Every note felt like I was chasing it rather than carrying it with me, and the more I tried to control it, the more it slipped away. Frustration built slowly, coiling beneath my ribs, tightening with every polite correction, every almost-right moment that never quite landed. By the time they told me to take a break, my fingers were curled tightly around the lyric sheet, the edges creased from how hard I’d been holding it.
I stepped out of the booth and paced once, twice, dragging a hand down my face as I tried to steady myself. The silence in the room pressed in on me, amplifying every doubt I had been trying to ignore. I was overthinking it. I wasn’t ready. Beneath all of that, quieter but heavier, was the fear again that I still didn’t belong here at all. It took root deep inside me with uncomfortable familiarity, like it had just been waiting for the right moment to return again.
I found myself, without meaning to, thinking of his voice. The one from the hallway.
The memory of it came back with surprising clarity, not just the sound but the feeling it had left behind. Warm and effortless. It had been honest in a way that made everything else feel smaller. It hadn’t sounded like someone trying to prove themselves. It had sounded like someone who already knew exactly who they were.
I closed my eyes, letting that feeling nestle into me again. Not the sound, but the way it had made me feel. I remembered the delicate tone, the way it seemed to lull and sway me, as if pulling me closer. Not to steal me, but to hold me.
When I returned to the booth, something inside me had shifted, just slightly. The track started again, and this time I didn’t try to hold everything so tightly. I didn’t try to be so perfect, or technical. I let the melody guide me instead of running after it, let the emotion sit where it wanted even when it wasn’t flawless. My voice wavered once, just barely, and for a split second I panicked, but I didn’t allow myself to stop. I leaned into it, I let it exist, because it felt true. It felt like me, sitting in my room in front of that simple crappy gaming mic, singing to no one in particular, but because I just needed to sing. By the time the last note faded, the room on the other side of the glass had gone quiet. My manager leaned forward, pressing the button, and when she spoke, there was something different in her tone.
“That’s the one. That’s the take.”
Her words didn’t sink in all at once, instead they unfolded slowly, settling into my chest with the faintest glimmer of pride. I felt confident. I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure I trusted my voice yet, and stepped out of the booth again, the echo of that last note still lingering somewhere inside me. I gave my producer a soft smile, as her face broke out into a wide grin, doing my best to not appear too excited. She didn’t seem to mind, though, rising from her seat to greet me with a high-five. She was American, my producer, like me. While I had no trouble writing my own lyrics and melodies, I had never quite honed the skill it takes to make a professional track. Jordan Cole was in her early thirties, attractive, and effortlessly cool. She waltzed into the booth like she owned it—which she might as well have. Blonde hair and tanned skin, a reflection of her Los Angeles upbringing. She was always sporting an oversized coat and a set of white headphones already around her neck. She had a way of making me better without making me nervous that I admired.
Her hand wrapped around the back of my neck, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “Now where were you hiding that, huh?” She tousled my hair before turning back to her computer, playing the track with my freshly recorded vocals for everyone to review. I felt my face flush as she clapped. “Finally, god, I thought we would be in this studio well into the night.”
I laughed lightly at that, rolling my eyes. I dropped into the seat next to her, taking a swig from my water bottle. I glanced over at my manager and was delighted to receive her nod of approval. I saw it so rarely, that it seemed all the more precious whenever she granted it.
Jordan bobbed her head, already moving along to our next track. “Don’t get too comfortable, superstar. Time for the next one.”
It wasn’t long before I finished recording the entire album. Each session got easier, each take feeling more like my own. Soon it would be time to bring the music to life visually.
The music video shoot was a different kind of overwhelming. Where the studio had been quiet and contained, more intimate, the set buzzed with energy from the moment I arrived. Lights hung overhead in careful arrangements, casting everything in soft pinks and deep purple shadows. The concept Nari had described to me weeks ago had come to life in ways I hadn’t fully imagined—delicate lace draped over darker elements, ribbons tangled with chains, mirrors reflecting fragments of the set in warped, dreamlike ways. It was eerie and beautiful at the same time, exactly the balance we had been aiming for.
“Sit,” Nari insisted the moment she spotted me, already pulling me toward a chair before I could take it all in. “We have exactly forty minutes and I refuse to rush perfection.”
I laughed softly, letting her guide me down as she opened her kit, the familiar scent of her products grounding me in the middle of the chaos. Her hands moved quickly, confidently, brushes sweeping across my skin with more than the ease of a professional now, but with fond familiarity. “You’re going to look insane,” she said, almost to herself, her eyes focused in the mirror. “In a good way. A very adorable, but slightly unhinged way.”
“I’m trusting you,” I murmured, raising a curious brow at her.
“You should by now,” she shot back without hesitation. “You know I’m never wrong.”
By the time she finished, I barely recognized the girl staring back at me. My makeup was softer than I expected at first glance, dewy and luminous, but the details gave it edge, a sharpness in the liner, a shimmer that caught the light just enough to feel otherworldly. My outfit followed the same logic, a delicate pastel base layered with darker accents, silver chains catching at the fabric, ribbons trailing along the outfit to add a touch of femininity. I felt cute and badass all at once.
Nari was fixing my makeup into place with a setting spray, her gaze on me somewhat serious. “Now, if you sweat off my masterpiece, I may have to kill you.” She stated, moving to hairspray next to perfect every last little detail. “I am only half kidding.” She finished, ushering me to my feet, and moved me on my way with a light playful tap on my rear.
When I walked onto set, the director didn’t waste a second. The hours that followed blurred together in a series of marks and movements, repeated takes and subtle adjustments. It exhausted me in a way that settled deep into my bones, but there was something exhilarating about it too, it kept me moving even when my body screamed in protest. Between takes, I found myself glancing at the monitor, catching glimpses of myself through the camera’s lens. Each time, my breath caught in my throat and my heart began to race. I looked different. Not just styled, but transformed. Like the version of myself I had always imagined had finally come forward. Like every grueling hour of training had finally culminated to bring me to this very moment.
For a fleeting moment, a thought surfaced, quiet but undeniable. I look like an idol.
It lingered just long enough to make my chest tighten, then slipped away with a startle as the next take was called.
When the album was finally set to be released, I didn’t sleep. I told myself I would, that I needed to, but the moment the clock ticked over, I was already awake, phone in hand, refreshing every social media page more times than I could count. The numbers climbed slowly at first, then faster, then faster still, each increase sending a jolt of disbelief through my body. Comments flooded in beneath the videos, beneath the posts, a steady stream of words from people I had never met but who somehow felt close enough to matter.
Some of them hurt, I would be lying if I said they didn’t. The same kinds of criticisms I had seen before resurfaced in new forms, sharper now that there was more of me to pick apart. Though they were quieter this time, drowned out by something louder, something so much warmer. Thousands of messages of support, of excitement and pride. People quoting lyrics back to me, pointing out lines that had meant something to them. I trembled as I read each one. The connection I felt to each person was deep, the kind that only music could truly bring.
I didn’t realize I was crying until the screen blurred.
My hands shook slightly as I scrolled, my chest tight with something I couldn’t quite name. It felt too big to be just happiness, and far too overwhelming to be anything simple. When I finally called my mom, my voice broke the moment she answered.
The words came out softer than I expected, but they carried everything I couldn’t quite say. She didn’t need more than that. I could hear it in her voice, the way it softened, the way it filled with something that made my throat tighten all over again. We talked longer than we probably should have given the time difference, but I didn’t want to hang up. Not yet. Not when everything still felt so unreal. All that doubt I’d harbored began to fade as something bright and new bloomed warm in my chest.
There was one song I didn't include on the album. The one I'd written that night after first hearing his voice, words I’d scrawled into my notebook until the early morning hours. I'd considered it—Jordan had even asked about it when she read the lyrics—but something held me back. It felt incomplete, like I was still waiting for the second half of the story before I could truly piece it all together. So I tucked it away for now, saving it for something I wasn’t even sure of. It was meant for someone, I just didn’t know who yet.
In the weeks that followed, I found myself listening more closely to the building around me. Not intentionally at first. It started as something small, a pause in the hallway, a moment of stillness between schedules. I think I was waiting, secretly hoping to hear him again. The person who challenged me, motivated me, moved me.
Then, one afternoon, I heard it again.
It wasn’t constant. It didn’t appear on any kind of schedule I could predict. Sometimes days would pass without it, and I would almost convince myself I had imagined it the first time. And then, just when I stopped looking for it, it would be there again, drifting faintly through a half-open door, steady and unmistakable.
I never saw who it belonged to.
One time, the door opened while I was still there, leaning against the wall as I always did, my eyes blissfully closed. I jerked, heart racing, but I quickly exhaled as I recognized the staff member exiting. He gave me a curious look before he hurried past, and I realized then how it must have looked. How strange I must have seemed, loitering in the hallway like that. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I’d risk looking foolish if it meant hearing him again.
Sometimes, I’d get close enough to reach for the handle. My fingers would hover there, just inches away, my heart beating faster than it had any right to. If I opened it, I would know. The mystery would disappear, replaced with something real and tangible, but something always held me back. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the quiet understanding that whatever that moment was, it would change if I crossed that line.
Each time, I let my hand fall instead, stepping back slowly. I’d just go back to listening, leaning against the wall and holding onto each note until it faded. Then I’d urge myself to walk away.
I’d thank him one day. Maybe when I was more confident. More ready to face him, as an equal instead of a simple admirer.
Interactions with other company idols came in gradually, scattered across days that already felt impossibly full. Stray Kids, though, they were different. Friendlier. The most welcoming to an unfamiliar face amongst their ranks.
Felix reached out first. His message appeared late one night when I was half-awake, scrolling through reactions and comments I probably should have avoided.
'Your title track is amazing! You should be really proud.'
I stared at the message longer than necessary, a small smile forming as I saved it to my phone. It felt like something I wanted to keep, a quiet reminder from someone who understood. I started noticing him more after that, running into him between recording or lessons. He seemed to grace every room with a radiant, golden glow. Every time, he had that same warm smile and some kind of sweet treat to get me through the day.
Jeongin had become a friendly face too, always waving when he saw me in the gym or cafeteria. His compliment came unexpectedly one afternoon when I was sitting alone.
"You killed it," he said, dropping into the seat across from me with that boyish grin, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The sincerity in his tone was enough. I enjoyed his calm company from time to time. He seemed more than pleased to just sit with me as we did our own things.
One afternoon, I’d brought Nari to the JYPE building for some promotional photos. She was in full form, her lime green faux fur coat, yellow platform boots, arguing with me about whether mercury was still in retrograde.
"I'm just saying, if your photos come out weird, it's not MY fault—"
She stopped mid-sentence as someone rounded the corner. Jeongin, standing solid and slightly wide eyed, stood gaping at her.
"Oh! Sorry!" she said brightly, stepping back.
He just blinked at her, something youthful and curious in his eyes. Then his gaze traveled slowly from her neon coat to her platforms and back up to the matching green streaks in her hair.
"It's… fine," he said, voice slightly strangled. I had to suppress a laugh, having not seen much from the maknae but easy confidence and a cool facade.
Nari had already moved on, tugging me down the hallway. When I glanced back, he was still standing there, staring after her. His hands were in his pockets, not even looking away as I caught him, watching her move with the quick efficiency she always had. We finally made eye contact which he quickly broke, his gaze finding the floor, before he turned on his heels.
Later at our dorm, when I mentioned it, she waved me off. "What guy?" But I saw the way she paused, even just for a second, before going back to filing her nails.
I kept running into Hyunjin and Lee Know around the dance practice rooms—the ones with wall-to-wall mirrors and open space for choreography, not the cramped vocal booths I was more accustomed to. Hyunjin was always stretching or reviewing footage on his phone, while Lee Know seemed to be perpetually mid-routine, moving like gravity was optional. They'd notice me passing by and, without fail, one of them would call out.
"Need help with your dancing?" Hyunjin would ask, all charm and dimples.
"We could show you some moves," Lee Know would add with a smirk that suggested he meant something else entirely.
I'd politely decline, face burning, but it became a sort of routine. They'd offer. I'd flee. They'd laugh. Rinse and repeat.
Chan's approach was casual—a passing comment in the hallway that I didn't see coming.
"You surprised me, really." He placed a hand on the back of his neck, flashing me a sideways smile as he tilted his head. "Not to say I didn't already know you were good, but I didn't know you were great. We should work on something."
A collaboration. With Stray Kids. The idea felt distant, almost too big to take seriously. But it took root in the back of my mind anyway, insistent and promising. If I was going to work with anyone, it would be them. Despite not feeling like I measured up, I let myself imagine it anyway.
Through it all, Nari remained a constant. Late nights that morphed into quiet conversations, the two of us stretched out across the floor or sitting side by side on the couch, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. One night, I found her slumped at the kitchen table, her usual energy dulled by exhaustion. Without thinking, I pulled out her makeup kit and nudged her chin up gently.
She blinked at me, surprised, but didn’t protest, more malleable than I’d expected her to be. The role reversal felt strangely natural, my hands less practiced but still careful as I worked. When I finished, she studied herself in the mirror, then looked back at me with a small smile. Then her expression shifted—something more serious—and she grabbed my hand, seeming to need the contact. I took both of hers in mine.
“We’re going to make it, right? Like, it’ll all settle down and we will still be here, together”, she asked, worry etched on her features. Normally, it was me having these moments. Needing her strength and reassurance. Something about her allowing me to see her this way melted my heart.
I met her gaze, giving her a reassuring smile. The same smile she’d given me a million times.
When the formal MAMA invitation arrived, it felt like time around me had stilled. Everything I’d done, every hardship I had pushed myself through had lead us all to this moment. Manager Kang handed me the envelope without ceremony, her expression as composed as ever, but there was something in her eyes less steely and collected than I was used to.
“You’ll be performing as an up and coming artist at MAMA. I think you’re ready.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Her words echoed in my head, louder than they should have been, filling every corner of my thoughts. This was it. Not just a milestone, but the very thing I had been building to. Something that had been looming in the distance since the beginning, now suddenly right in front of me. ‘I think you’re ready.’ So many times I’d heard and taken her critique, using it as fuel to become a better artist. She was strict, never cruel, but so rarely encouraging. I couldn’t stop myself from wrapping my arms around her shoulders and hugging her tight, much like I had the first day we’d met. Only this time, she wasn’t stiff and uninviting in my grasp, but wrapped her arms around my middle in return, giving me a quick squeeze.
When she let go, she cleared her throat and smoothed out her blouse. “That’s enough of that. We have a stage to prepare.”
The weeks leading up to MAMA ran together. Every day was a countdown, every practice a step closer. The pressure built slowly, a weight that settled heavier with each passing day, but I carried it. I had to.
The days that followed moved quickly, each one pulling me closer to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for, but hoped I was more than anything. The fitting with Nari was unlike the ones we had done before. We had inspiration photos taped to the mirror, sketches of stages and outfits scattered along the kitchen counter. She moved around me with a focus I hadn’t seen from her yet, adjusting fabric, stepping back, tilting her head as she assessed every detail. When she finally stepped aside, I turned toward the mirror and felt my breath halt.
“You look like you belong on that stage,” she said softly. She’d settled on a long pale pink gown, glittering and form fitting where it needed to be. She had done a test run of my hair and makeup, opting for an old Hollywood curl, framing my face in delicate waves. My makeup was the same shimmery shade of the dress, all complimenting the undertones and highlights in my recently refreshed pink hair. She topped it all off with a necklace my mom had sent, one that my dad had given to her as a wedding present. A pretty silver chain and a small heart locket to match. Engraved in intricate lettering, “My Girl”. Inside it was a picture of her and me, and the other side a picture of my dad. It was a small piece of me I could recognize in the reflection staring back at me.
I shook my head, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “I don’t know if I do.” Tuna pattered by my feet, looking up at me with her small tail wagging. Nari and I both bent down to pet her, letting her tiny presence calm the anxiety that hung between us.
She met my gaze in the reflection, her expression unwavering. “Then fake it until you make it, babe.”
MAMA was closing in on me, and my days felt both endless and impossibly short. I practiced until my voice went hoarse, ran through the choreography until my muscles ached. Nari always watched me with worried eyes, but she didn't dare tell me to stop. She understood. This wasn't just a performance, it was everything.
By the time we reached the final rehearsal, something in me had shifted. It wasn’t dramatic, or a sudden transformation, but a quiet certainty that had been building all along.
My vocal coach nodded as I rehearsed, a small smile playing at her lips. My dance instructor, who'd once looked at me with barely concealed frustration, actually smiled. Even Manager Kang seemed quietly pleased as I polished the number into perfection.
I looked at each of them; the people who'd pushed me, who'd shaped me, who'd refused to let me quit even when I wanted to. They'd seen me at my worst—crying in the practice room and doubting every note. But they'd stayed anyway, friends who’d become my family.
Eight months. That's all it had been. Eight months that felt like a lifetime.
I thought about the girl who'd arrived in Seoul, exhausted and homesick, convinced she didn’t belong. The one who'd heard a voice in a hallway and felt so inadequate, so small, she'd wanted to disappear. The one who'd collapsed on the practice room floor, who'd read hate comments until she cried, who'd almost given up more times than she could count.
That girl was still here, deep within me, but I wasn't small anymore.
Tomorrow, I'd step onto the MAMA stage with thousands of people watching. Tomorrow, I'd sing the songs I'd poured my heart into, wearing a dress that made me feel like someone I'd only dreamt of being. I realized I finally understood something I’d been too afraid to admit before. I did belong. I’d earned my spot on this stage.
I took a deep breath, letting it settle. Tomorrow, I’d prove it.
