#cortis sixth reader

because you’re supposed to live here now.

your phone vibrates in your pocket. a message from staff, short and impersonal.

you can go in.

as if it’s that simple.

you lift your hand to knock.

and then you stop.

voices spill through the door, unfiltered, sharp enough to cut through the thin wood. they’re loud — not yelling, but heated in that way people get when they don’t think they’re being overheard.

“i still don’t get it,” someone says. a male voice, frustrated. “we were literally fine.”

“fine isn’t enough,” another snaps back.

“no, but adding some girl two months before debut is insane.”

your hand freezes mid-air.

your chest tightens, instinctively, the way it always does when you hear yourself reduced to some girl. not your name. not your record. not your years.

just that.

“they didn’t even ask us,” a third voice says. “they just told us. like it’s nothing.”

“yeah, well,” someone scoffs. “guess we’re just supposed to deal with it.”

there’s a brief silence. then a quieter voice — sharper, edged with disbelief.

“what if she messes things up?”

your throat goes dry.

you don’t move. you don’t breathe. you don’t make a sound.

“or worse,” another adds, “what if everyone thinks she’s the reason we debut?”

there it is.

the fear you know too well, spoken out loud by strangers who don’t even know you yet.

your fingers tighten around the suitcase handle until your knuckles ache.

you should knock.

you should interrupt.

you should announce yourself like a professional, like someone who belongs.

but for a second — just one — you let yourself feel it.

the familiar sting. the quiet humiliation. the reminder that no matter how much respect you earn in empty practice rooms, it doesn’t follow you everywhere.

someone laughs, humorless. “i mean, have you seen her? she’s intense. doesn’t even look like she wants to be here.”

you almost flinch.

then you knock.

three firm taps. controlled. deliberate.

the voices cut off instantly.

silence crashes down so hard it’s almost loud.

you hear movement inside — shuffling, a chair scraping, someone clearing their throat. a few seconds pass. maybe more. you don’t look at the time. you stare straight ahead, expression blank, shoulders squared.

finally, the door opens.

it’s james.

he looks… startled. not shocked, exactly, but caught mid-thought. like he wasn’t prepared for the reality of you standing there instead of the abstract idea they’d been arguing about.

he clears his throat. once. twice.

“uh,” he says.

you meet his eyes.

they’re sharper than you expected. calculating. guarded. not unkind — but not welcoming either.

“you can… come in,” he says, stepping aside.

his voice is polite. too polite. like he’s overcorrecting.

you nod once and wheel your suitcase forward.

the dorm is bigger than you expected. messy, but not chaotic. shoes kicked off by the door. jackets thrown over chairs. half-empty cups on the table. a faint trace of music paused mid-song.

six boys stand or sit awkwardly around the living room, all suddenly very aware of their hands, their posture, the space they’re taking up.

martin is the first one you recognize — leader energy, unmistakable. he straightens immediately, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite settle right.

“hi,” he starts. “we—”

you don’t look at him.

you don’t look at any of them.

you step fully inside, tug your suitcase over the threshold, and let the door close behind you with a soft, final click.

the sound seems to echo.

martin falters mid-sentence.

you don’t bow. not because you’re rude — but because you’re tired. because you already did your greeting in the hallway of their voices, whether they know it or not.

your eyes flick briefly around the room, taking in exits, corners, where you’ll put your shoes. habit. instinct.

“which room is mine?” you ask quietly.

your voice is calm. level. professional.

no accusation. no emotion.

it somehow makes everything worse.

martin blinks. “oh— uh— the one down the hall. last door on the left.”

you nod.

“thanks.”

one word. that’s it.

you wheel your suitcase past them, the sound of the wheels against the floor the loudest thing in the room. no one moves to help. no one speaks. they just watch you pass like they’re unsure whether they’re allowed to exist in the same space.

james steps back automatically to give you room. his shoulder brushes the wall.

for a split second, your eyes meet again.

something flickers there. surprise, maybe. or guilt.

you look away first.

your room is smaller than the others — you can tell immediately. single bed. narrow desk. bare walls. a window that looks out onto the side of another building.

it doesn’t matter.

you close the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a brief, dangerous moment.

you exhale slowly.

in the living room, no one speaks for a full ten seconds after the sound of your door shutting.

“…what the hell just happened?” keonho finally mutters.

martin rubs the back of his neck. “i was going to say something.”

“you did,” juhoon says. “she just… ignored us.”

seonghyeon shifts uncomfortably. “did she hear us?”

no one answers.

james stares at the hallway where you disappeared, jaw tight.

“…probably,” he says quietly.

back in your room, you sit on the edge of the bed without unpacking.

your chest feels hollow. not broken — just… emptied out.

you’d known this wouldn’t be easy. you’d prepared yourself for discomfort, for tension, for awkwardness.

but knowing doesn’t stop it from hurting.

you think about the voices you heard. the words they didn’t know would land. you think about how quickly respect disappears when context changes.

you lie back and stare at the ceiling.

two months.

you don’t need them to like you.

you don’t need them to understand you.

you just need to survive long enough to prove you belong.

and out in the living room, six boys sit with the uneasy realization that the girl they were complaining about isn’t just joining their group.

she’s living with them now.