#teffywrites

You took a deep breath as you gripped your luggage tight, your hands trembling, chills running down your back as you stared up at the towering building in front of you. The HUNTR/X tower rose above the rest of the city, glowing against the busy skyline.

You’d come here from the only place you’d called home for the last twenty years. You weren’t even sure this was a good idea. Maybe they’d throw you out the window the second they saw you—if you even made it inside.

You were Mira’s younger sister, only two years apart, but you hadn’t seen her in almost seven years—not since she left home to chase her dream and join the biggest K‑pop group of the decade.

You hadn’t cut contact by choice. Your parents had forbidden you to write to her, insisting they couldn’t let their “wayward” daughter corrupt your “potential.”

Her leaving had sparked seven long years of hell for you. Your parents built you a golden cage, almost literally. You went nowhere but school. They monitored every “friendship,” though they were just the children of their work partners, always talking about their shallow, empty lives.

And ballet—your only extracurricular. “Permitted” would be too kind a word. It wasn’t passion, it was a puppet show. Your body moved stiffly through routines they demanded. You longed to move freely, to feel alive, but they never let you.

But that ended.

You’d reached your limit days ago. It happened at dinner. Your parents talked business as always; you weren’t allowed to speak. Your eyes lingered on the empty chair that once belonged to your sister. Your chest ached knowing she was out there, believing you hated her, when all you wanted was to see her, to tell her you were proud of everything she’d done.

You stared down at your “dinner”: a portion of salad no larger than your fist, a single glass of water. They never let you eat more. Your mother always said a ballerina’s body was everything, and if you gained weight, you’d be nothing.

You could smell the chicken they ate, rich and savory, filling the room with a scent that made your mouth water. You hadn’t eaten all day—just an apple that morning. Would it hurt to take one bite?

You told yourself no, you deserved it. You needed something to keep your spirit alive. Carefully, you reached for the platter.

A hand gripped your wrist—too hard.

“What do you think you’re doing?” your mother hissed, eyes like daggers, as if you were the worst sinner alive.

You froze, stammering, “I—I just wanted a little bit of—”

She cut you off with a sharp, bitter laugh. “Since when did you turn into a pig?” she spat, shoving your arm away. “I told you already—cut your portions. Haven’t you noticed you’re not getting lead roles anymore? They can’t lift you. You’re too fat.”

Fat.

Fat.

The word split something inside you each time she said it. Your mind twisted—because you knew what you saw in the mirror:

Pale skin.

Hollow eyes.

Ribs showing.

You knew you weren’t, but her voice clawed at your mind. What if she’s right? What if…?

You hated yourself for thinking it.

Tears welled in your eyes as you tried to reason with her. “But I just wanted a little… I barely ate today, it won’t hurt me.”

The response didn’t come from her. It came from across the table.

You didn’t see it coming—only felt the sting of a slap explode across your cheek.

SMACK!

Your head snapped to the side, stunned. Your brain froze as you realized: it was your mother who had struck you.

Silence fell. Only your shaky breaths filled the room. You pressed your palm to your burning cheek. Slowly, you turned back to her. She just looked at you, expression blank, and went back to eating as if it were nothing.

God, how you wished it were the first time.

It started after Mira left. You told yourself it was her way of venting her anger at losing control over your sister. Sometimes you even believed you deserved it—if only you could be stronger, better, more. But for them, “more” was never enough. You could reach for the sun itself, and they’d demand the moon.

“Such a waste,” your father muttered from the other end of the table, his first words all evening.

Your blood went cold. A waste? After everything you’d endured in silence?

Something in you cracked.

“A waste?” you echoed, voice trembling, turning toward him. “That’s all I am to you? A waste? Have you even looked at the kind of person you are—”

Your mother’s utensils clattered against the table as she stood. Your father gaped at you, shock morphing into anger.

“How dare you—?” he started, but you cut him off with a laugh, dry and bitter.

“How dare I? Have you not been living under this roof for the past seven years? Have you not seen how narcissistic and controlling you both are?” The words poured out of you, unstoppable, a flood breaking through a dam. “You’ve controlled how I dress, how I walk, what I say—my entire life! And you think I’m a waste? I’ve done everything you demanded! I even stopped talking to my own sister because of you!”

Your chest heaved, rage shaking your voice. “You’re so angry you couldn’t control her, so you punish me instead. Well, guess what? She was brave enough to leave this hell—and I should have, too!”

Your parents sat frozen, unable to process the torrent of words from your lips. You stared at them one last time and turned, heading for the stairs.

“If you take one more step, you’re dead to us!” your father bellowed behind you. “You’ll have nothing. Ever again.”

You stopped, turned, eyes burning. “If having nothing means being free, then I’d rather lose everything than spend one more damn second here. No amount of money is worth what you’ve done to me.”

You stormed up to your room. Heart pounding, you grabbed a bag, shoving in clothes, the little money you’d hidden, and your passport. You climbed out the window to avoid seeing them again.

That was three days ago. You had no plan. Just one destination in your heart: you needed to see your sister. Even if she hated you, you had to see her.

And that led you here, to the reception desk of the HUNTR/X tower.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d crossed the street mid‑thought, mind drifting too far inside itself. The doorman’s voice pulled you back.

“Excuse me, what did you say?” you asked, cheeks heating with embarrassment.

“No worries, miss. How can I help you?” the older man said gently. “Are you lost?”

You shook your head. “No… no. I’m looking for Mira.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. An idol. You couldn’t just walk in and ask for her.

What are you thinking, (Y/N)? They’re going to think you’re crazy.

The doorman’s raised brow confirmed your fear. You could be any fan off the street. You scrambled for words. “I know it sounds strange, but she really knows me. Just tell her (Y/N) is here. If she says no, I’ll leave. I swear.”

Maybe it was the conviction in your voice, the desperation in your eyes, or something familiar in your face, but he nodded. He picked up the phone and dialed.

You stood frozen as he spoke. “Good evening, Miss Zoey, sorry to disturb you… yes, I have a young lady here asking for Miss Mira… yes, she says her name is (Y/N)….”

You heard a sharp sound on the other end, like glass breaking. The doorman pulled the phone back from his ear as a loud crash echoed through the receiver.

“Is everything alright, Miss Zoey?” he asked, leaning back in. He listened, nodded, and hung up.

“Well, Miss (Y/N),” he said at last, gesturing toward the elevator, “you may go up. The elevator will take you to the top floor.”

“Thank you so much, Mr…?” you began, trailing off.

“Seong-min, at your service,” he replied with a calm smile. You bowed slightly and stepped into the elevator.

The doors closed, and you could swear your heartbeat rattled the walls. But it was only you, shaking. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror: the bruised cheek, the hollow eyes. Your chest tightened.

The elevator chimed. You turned as the doors opened and stepped out into a warm, softly lit penthouse. It smelled of comfort, of home—something you thought you’d never feel again.

Then you saw her. Mira. Taller than before, sharp eyes you remembered, her hair now pink, though you’d only seen that in photos. Two girls stood by her side—Zoey’s dark hair framing a concerned face, her hands steady on Mira’s shoulders; Rumi’s purple hair catching the light as she picked up shattered glass from the floor. So you hadn’t imagined that crash after all.

Zoey and Rumi’s eyes darted between you and Mira. And Mira… Mira didn’t look away. She scanned every inch of you until her eyes caught the bruise on your cheek. Her expression shifted—anger? hurt? You couldn’t tell.

“Leave us alone,” she said quietly, but you heard every word. Her voice was deeper now, rougher than in your memories.

Zoey and Rumi obeyed instantly, shooting you one last worried glance before vanishing down the hall.

You stood frozen near the elevator as Mira stepped slowly closer, never breaking eye contact.

“Mira… I… I…” Words failed you. Your thoughts spun out of control, but then her arms wrapped around you, pulling you in tight.

“I can’t believe you’re here, (Y/N). God, I missed you,” she whispered.

The tears spilled before you could stop them. You clung to her, sobbing, feeling her shake with her own cries. Time dissolved. You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped around each other, holding on like the world might end if you let go.

When you finally stepped back, both your eyes were red, your cheeks streaked with tears.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” you blurted out, voice trembling. “I understand if you hate me. I just… I needed to see you. To say I’m sorry. I never wanted you to leave. I missed you every day, Mira… I get it if you don’t want to see me again—”

“Whoa, whoa, breathe with me,” she murmured, inhaling deeply, and you matched her rhythm. “I don’t hate you. You’re my sister. Why would I ever hate you? But… how did you even get here?”

You told her everything. Every nightmare detail. The silence. The restrictions. The slap. The dinner. The train. The escape. She held your hand, listened, and cried with you. She held you tighter with each word, her jaw clenched with rage at parents who had failed you both.

But she was proud of you too. Proud of your courage. Proud that you’d survived.

Hours passed. You didn’t notice when your eyes grew heavy, when your head leaned against her shoulder, when your breathing slowed. Mira noticed, though. She eased you down onto the sofa, tucked a pillow under your head, and draped a blanket over you.

“Sweet dreams, (Y/N). I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again,” she whispered, kissing your forehead before slipping away.

She found Zoey and Rumi in Zoey’s room, worry etched on their faces. They rushed to her with questions, but she told them everything.

“If I hadn’t left… she wouldn’t be like this. I should have taken her with me. I left her—” Mira’s voice broke.

“No, Mira,” Rumi said firmly, a steady hand on her shoulder. “You couldn’t have known. You deserved to live too. Look at her now—she’s here. You can protect her. Be her sister.”

“She’s right,” Zoey added softly. “You’re here now. And we’re here for you. For both of you.”

Mira smiled through her tears, overwhelmed by the support. Life had forced her to build walls high and strong, but with you back in her arms, those walls crumbled.

Her sister was home. And she would never let you face the dark alone again.

✦•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•✦

Okay sooo… that turned out way better than I thought it would—and way longer lmao.

Hope y’all like it! I’m low‑key thinking about a part two but I can’t decide if it should be before or after the movie events because, like… obviously I wanna throw the Saja boys in there (👀 maybe even as love interests?? 👀)

First fic I drop here and… wow?? 👀✨

Lemme know what you guys think!

The living room isn’t much better. Tension clings to the air like a storm about to break.

Mistery sits beside Abby on the couch, elbows on his knees, his knuckles bone-white from the pressure of holding them together. He doesn’t look up, just stares at the floor like it’s holding answers. Abby’s leaned back against the cushions, arms crossed tightly over his chest, gaze fixed on the ceiling as though the lights could explain why you’d been crying like that.

Baby can’t sit still—he’s pacing, shoes whispering across the floor with each pass. He looks like he could punch through the wall if it would make you feel even a little bit better. Honestly, if you asked him to, he’d burn the building down and smile about it.

Jinu is the only one perched somewhere else, on the kitchen counter with his phone in hand. He isn’t using it, though—every few seconds, his eyes flick to the hallway like he’s waiting for you to appear. So when Romance finally emerges, Jinu’s up instantly, practically sprinting toward him. The movement draws the attention of the others, every head turning.

Romance just lifts a hand in a silent wait, his expression unreadable as he heads for the couch and drops into it with an exhale that sounds heavier than it should.

Romance barely sits before Baby explodes.

“So? Are you gonna talk or what?” His voice is rough, low, but you can feel the panic underneath. He’s pacing again before Romance even answers.

Romance drags a hand over his face. “She ran into her sister.”

The room stills.

“She didn’t know YN’s working with us.” His voice is steady, but you can tell it costs him. “And Mira—” His jaw tightens. “—she said some things.”

Abby’s brows knit, slow and dark. “What kind of things?”

Romance hesitates, almost like saying it out loud will make it worse. “She told YN… ‘That’s why mom and dad always keep you on a leash.’” The words land like a punch, heavy and cold.

Mistery’s head snaps up, his eyes sharp even behind his mask. “She said that to her face?” His knuckles curl against his knees again, hard enough you hear the faint creak of leather.

Baby mutters something that sounds dangerously close to I’ll kill her, but no one calls him out on it.

Jinu, who’s been silent until now, takes a step forward. “Why would she say that? Unless…” He exhales sharply. “Unless she’s trying to push YN away from us.”

Abby leans back, crossing his arms tighter. “Isn’t it obvious? Mira knows what we are. She knows what Gwi-Ma wants. If she thinks her sister’s in danger…”

“She’s not wrong to think that,” Mistery cuts in, voice quiet but cutting. “Technically, we are using her.”

The words hang there—ugly, uninvited.

“No,” Jinu snaps, quicker than even he expected. His gaze sweeps over all of them. “That’s not what this is anymore.”

Baby stops pacing, his hands on his hips. “You gonna tell me you don’t remember why we approached her in the first place?”

“I remember.” Jinu’s tone softens, but it doesn’t lose its weight. “I also know I don’t want to let her go. Not because of the mission. Because…” He trails off, running a hand through his hair. “Because I like having her close. We all do.”

Romance glances down at his hands, a faint smirk tugging at his lips like he’s not ready to admit how deep it runs. Abby exhales, long and slow, like the admission has been sitting in his chest for days. Mistery doesn’t say it out loud, but the stillness in him says enough.

“We can’t pretend anymore,” Jinu finishes, his voice low. “Yeah, Gwi-Ma gave us orders. Yeah, the mission’s still there. But I’m not gonna stand here and say she’s just a means to an end. She’s…” He searches for the word, finding nothing neat enough to hold it. “…more than that now.”

The silence that follows Jinu’s words isn’t just thoughtful—it’s loaded. The kind of silence that weighs on your chest and presses the air out of the room.

They all know the risk. They all know that what just happened—speaking it out loud—was crossing an invisible line.

Mistery is the first to move, shifting in his seat, the leather of his jacket groaning faintly. His gaze is fixed on the floor, but you can feel the tension coiling in him, like a predator caught between fight and flight. “You know what happens if he finds out.” His voice is so low you almost miss it.

Romance’s smirk fades, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of his ring. “If he finds out,” he echoes, but the false bravado in his tone doesn’t land. His eyes flick up briefly, scanning their faces—almost daring one of them to say he will.

Baby leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed tight, his jaw flexing hard enough to ache. “We’ve been careful so far.” But the way he says it, clipped and quick, makes it sound more like a prayer than a fact.

Abby stays still, almost too still, his eyes narrowing as if calculating something. “Careful doesn’t matter when it comes to him,” he says finally. “He doesn’t need proof. He can smell this kind of thing.”

“This kind of thing?” Jinu asks quietly, though the words carry an edge.

Abby’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Attachment.”

The word lands like ice water. They don’t have to explain the rest. Attachment is weakness. Weakness is leverage. Leverage is the quickest way for Gwi-Ma to tear them apart.

No one speaks for a moment. It’s like the room is holding its breath, each of them turning over the same truth in their heads: they can’t afford to feel this way.

And yet…

Mistery’s voice cuts through, almost reluctant, but certain. “Doesn’t matter. We’re past that point.”

Romance huffs a laugh, low and humorless. “Guess we’re already screwed, huh?”

Jinu leans forward, elbows on his knees, looking at each of them in turn. “Have you noticed,” he says slowly, “that we don’t hear him when she’s around?” His voice drops even more, like he’s afraid speaking it too loud will break the spell. “When Y/N’s close… it’s like he’s not there. No whispers. No pull. Nothing.”

The others freeze, trading uneasy glances. Because he’s right. They hadn’t thought about it until now, but the realization hits like a cold draft through the room.

Jinu’s gaze hardens. “That’s why we protect her. No matter what.”

One by one, the others meet his eyes. None of them say yes. They don’t have to.

——

You come to slowly, the kind of waking where your mind doesn’t match the pace of your body. The sheets are warm, your head is heavy, and for a moment you’re convinced you’re still dreaming. You blink at the pale ceiling, unsure why the space feels both unfamiliar and… safe.

It takes another few seconds before you realize what’s wrong—you don’t remember lying down.

You push yourself upright, the blankets sliding to your lap, and your eyes dart around, scanning the cream-toned walls and the faint golden light spilling through half-closed curtains.

Then the memory hits you like a punch. Mira’s voice—sharp, cold, and merciless—echoes in your head. Her words crash against you all over again, stabbing at the tender places you’d tried to keep hidden. Your throat tightens, a flash of heat burning behind your eyes.

You remember stumbling away, tears blurring your vision, the cold air biting at your face as you tried to breathe through the mess Mira had left in you… and then colliding with Romance. He caught you instantly, steadying you before you could fall apart, and without a word, he led you back to the penthouse—into his room—where he held you until the trembling eased.

Somewhere between the comfort of his voice and the exhaustion weighing you down, you must have fallen asleep.

And now it all makes sense—the pale sheets, the warm cream tones, the faint scent of his cologne drifting in the air. That scent you’ve grown to recognize in just a handful of days, and—if you’re honest—grown to love.

You’re in Romance’s room.

The thought barely settles before the door opens. He’s there, leaning against the frame like he’s been standing there a while, his smile soft in a way that makes you forget the sting in your chest. Behind him, Abby peeks around his shoulder, her grin brighter, teasing.

“Well, look who decided to wake up,” Romance says, his voice low, like he’s still trying not to disturb you.

You blink at him, half-smiling despite yourself. “Was I out long?”

“Long enough for us to debate whether you’d joined the land of the dead,” Abby chimes in, stepping inside.

They close the door behind them. Abby sits at the edge of the bed, close enough for her knee to brush yours, while Romance circles to the other side and leans back against the headboard.

“You okay?” Abby asks softly, searching your face.

“I think so,” you say, though it comes out quieter than you mean.

Romance’s gaze lingers on you, unreadable but steady. “I told the others what happened,” he says.

A wave of relief washes over you. “Thank you… I really didn’t want to say it all again.”

“You don’t have to,” Abby says firmly, her voice leaving no room for doubt.

That’s when you glance at the clock on the wall and your stomach twists. “Wait—don’t you guys have the variety shoot today? How long was I—”

Romance shakes his head before you can work yourself up. “Relax. You’ve been asleep for barely over an hour. We’ve still got a couple before we need to go.”

You exhale, tension bleeding out of your shoulders.

Abby smirks. “Honestly, we were gonna let you sleep longer, but we had to wake you before Jinu strangled Baby.”

Your brows rise. “What happened?”

“Baby refuses to wear the pink outfit you made him,” Romance says, his lips twitching. “He’s been… dramatic about it.”

“Dramatic?” Abby repeats with a laugh. “He said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather set myself on fire than wear that marshmallow of death.’”

You snort, clapping a hand over your mouth. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he did,” Romance says. “Jinu’s thirty seconds from losing it. We’re trying to save them both.”

You’re still laughing when the door opens again.

Mystery steps in—and you freeze, though not for the reason Abby and Romance do. His hair is pushed back completely, revealing the full symmetry of his face, the deep brown of one eye and the striking pale gray of the other.

Both Abby and Romance instantly stiffen, glancing at each other in mild panic. Abby moves like she’s about to block your line of sight.

But you beat her to it, smiling gently. “I’m glad you feel comfortable like this, Min—”

You stop, realizing too late what you’ve said. Heat floods your cheeks.

Abby’s eyes widen. Romance looks from you to Mistery like he’s watching something he doesn’t understand.

Mystery, however, laughs—actually laughs—and it’s warm enough to ease the moment into something softer. “It’s fine,” he says, waving them off. “She’s seen me like this before.”

Abby blinks. “Wait… what?”

“I trust her,” Mystery says simply, his gaze lingering on you. “Besides, you know my name now. You can use them. That’s why i told you.”

For a second, no one says anything. The quiet feels… good. Warm. Like you’ve stepped into a moment that wasn’t meant to be broken.

Then Mystery clears his throat. “Anyway, I came to get you before Jinu commits a felony. Baby’s still refusing to dress, and I don’t want to be a witness.”

Abby chuckles. “Could be entertaining though.”

Your laugh comes easier this time, bright and unguarded. All three of them glance at you like they’re memorizing the sound.

You push off the bed. “Let’s go rescue them before it escalates.”

---

Jinu’s room is chaos when you open the door with the boys behind you.

On one side, Jinu stands by the dresser, jaw tight, one hand gripping the back of a chair like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it completely.

Across from him, Baby leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“You’re putting it on,” Jinu says through clenched teeth.

“You can’t make me,” Baby fires back.

“Do you want us to be late?”

“Do you want me to look ridiculous?” Baby glances at you when you enter, like he’s found backup.

“Put it on,” Jinu says again, ignoring you entirely.

“No.”

Jinu’s eye twitches. “Baby—”

Before he can finish, Baby grabs the nearest object—a shoe—and lifts it like a weapon.

“Don’t,” Jinu warns.

Baby smirks. “Catch.”

The shoe flies. Jinu sidesteps, narrowly avoiding impact. He lunges, but Baby bolts—straight for you.

“YN!” Baby yelps, launching himself at you without warning.

The momentum knocks you off your feet, both of you hitting the floor in a tangle of limbs. You let out a startled squeak as he clings like a cat refusing to be pried off.

Above you, Jinu groans. “Exactly what I was afraid of.”

You barely have time to process what just happened before Jinu’s shadow looms over the two of you.

“Baby, get off her,” Jinu says, his tone flat in that way that means he’s one second away from snapping.

Baby doesn’t move. In fact, he tightens his hold around you, one arm hooked under your back, the other locking around your waist like he’s barricading you from the rest of the world. His legs are tangled with yours, and the weight of him keeps you pinned to the floor.

“Baby,” Jinu warns.

From the doorway, Abby’s voice pipes up. “You literally tackled her, what is wrong with you?”

“I panicked,” Baby says, not even lifting his head.

“That’s your excuse?!” Romance’s voice now, incredulous.

“It was a tactical maneuver,” Baby insists.

You open your mouth to respond, but that’s when you feel it—his head shifting slightly against your neck, his breath warm where your skin is most sensitive. The ticklish sensation makes you jolt, but before you can pull away, his lips are so close to your ear you can feel the faint movement when he speaks.

“Mm… you smell good,” he murmurs, his voice deep and low, almost a growl softened into a tease. The sound vibrates against your skin, sending an involuntary shiver racing down your spine. “Dangerous, though… makes me wanna stay right here.”

Heat floods your cheeks instantly. The combination of his tone—rich, velvety, and just rough enough to make your stomach twist—and the closeness of his body has your pulse skipping in ways you wish you could ignore.

“Baby!” Jinu snaps again, crouching to pry him off you.

Baby hums in mock innocence, still refusing to move. “What? She’s comfortable. I’m comfortable. Problem solved.”

Romance steps in, hooking his hands under Baby’s arms to try and drag him away. “The problem is you’re acting like a human seatbelt.”

Abby shakes her head, arms crossed. “More like a human octopus.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, even as Baby’s hold makes it impossible to sit up.

The sound of your laughter seems to make him pause for half a second, like he’s actually listening. Then he tilts his head just enough to glance at you, his gray-green eyes flicking down to your mouth before he grins, slow and entirely too smug.

“You should laugh more,” he says, still low, like it’s for you alone. “Looks good on you.”

Your cheeks burn hotter. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” he says without shame.

It takes both Jinu and Romance working together to finally pry him off you, his arms stretching out toward you like a child refusing to be taken from their favorite toy.

“Traitors,” he mutters at them as they haul him backward.

“You tackled her!” Jinu snaps. “We’re saving her life!”

Baby just laughs, unbothered.

“Alright, you’ve got to get dressed,” you say, keeping your tone light but firm as Baby groans, flopping up and crossing his arms dramatically.

“I don’t want to wear that,” he complains, wrinkling his nose like the idea alone is unbearable.

You raise an eyebrow, giving him your best ‘mom look.’ “That’s the vibe we picked. We all have to match.”

He scowls but clearly isn’t convinced. You soften your expression, batting your eyelashes just enough to tease. “Pretty pleaseee?”

After a long, exaggerated sigh, Baby finally relents. “Fine. But next time, I’m vetoing this entire look.” He mutters under his breath as he grabs the outfit, stalking out of the room with his usual mock-grump.

You wave the others off with a smile. “Go get dressed, you dorks.”

They scatter, leaving you alone for a moment. That’s when it hits—you don’t have an outfit ready for yourself, nothing you feel confident wearing on camera.

“Going back home isn’t really an option right now,” you murmur to yourself.

Just then, Romance appears in the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You can take whatever you want from our closets. No one minds. Plus, we have the guest bathroom if you want to shower.”

Abby’s voice floats from the hallway, calm and steady. “Seriously, we want you to feel comfortable.”

You smile softly, gratitude warming your chest. The boys head off to finish getting ready, leaving you alone with Jinu for a quiet moment.

He steps closer, eyes gentle as he asks quietly, “Are you okay? I haven’t seen you since you got here… after.”

Your throat tightens, but you blink away the sting of memory. “I’m… better now,” you whisper.

He nods, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Good. We’ve got your back.”

After he leaves, you take a deep breath and begin visiting each boy’s room.

You start with Abby’s—bright, bold, a cascade of colors and patterns that somehow feel like home. You quickly find a crisp, white button-up shirt, the kind Abby wears when she wants to look sharp but casual. The fabric is smooth, cool under your fingers.

Next, you step into Romance’s room, warm and familiar. The cream walls and soft lighting feel comforting. You grab a soft, light beige tee folded neatly on the bed—perfect for layering under Abby’s shirt.

Leaving Romance’s room behind, you move down the hall to Mystery’s. The atmosphere shifts immediately. Minimalism rules here—dark gray walls accented with sharp silver frames, a sleek black desk holding only a laptop and a few pens arranged just so. The room feels precise, controlled, much like mystery himself.

Your eyes land on a pair of wide-leg pants hanging casually over the back of a chair. Their flowing fabric contrasts beautifully with the room’s austerity—stylish yet relaxed. You carefully take them, imagining how they’ll move with you and catch the light.

Baby’s room surprises you with its coziness. Near the door, a pair of sturdy black boots catch your eye. You slip them on, feeling their weight ground you instantly.

Finally, you enter again in Jinu’s room. It’s refined and elegant but understated. Your gaze lands on a dresser where simple bracelets and a sleek silver necklace rest. You pick a couple of pieces, heart fluttering at the thought of carrying a bit of him with you.

Back in the guest bathroom, you layer the clothes with care—Abby’s shirt left open over Romance’s tee, the wide pants falling just right, Baby’s boots laced tightly, and Jinu’s bracelets sliding over your wrists. The faint scent of their colognes clings to the fabric and your skin, mingling in a way that makes you feel... connected.

A soft knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts.

“YN?” Romance’s voice calls through. “We’re all ready whenever you want to come see.”

You take a deep breath, smooth your hair one last time, and open the door.

You step out of the hallway, towel-dried hair falling loose over your shoulders, the mixed scent of five different colognes still clinging faintly to your skin. The air in the living room stills—like someone’s hand just pressed pause on the whole scene.

Romance’s eyes are the first to find you. His gaze drags slowly, almost lazily, but every inch he takes in sets something low in his stomach alight. The heat spreads downward, sharp and insistent, tightening everything in between. His fingers flex against his thighs, but the denim is already too tight, already biting into him.

Jinu’s look is sharper—quieter—but no less consuming. He swallows hard, feels the warmth crawl up his throat before dropping lower, heavy and unyielding. He shifts his stance, subtle but deliberate, trying to hide the way his body’s reacting.

Abby freezes mid-step. His smirk tries to come naturally, but there’s a slight hitch in his breath as his eyes travel up your legs to the curve of your waist. Heat pools fast, and he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, the muscle in his jaw flexing just once.

Mystery’s hands pause at the edge of his vest. He doesn’t speak at first, but you can feel his gaze—steady, unwavering. Beneath the surface calm, there’s a slow burn building, the kind that makes his breathing almost imperceptibly deeper.

Baby’s grin falters for half a second before returning. His eyes flick down your body and back up, the movement too slow to pass as casual. There’s a quiet weight in his stare, and he feels the twitch in his jeans before he even thinks to move.

“Damn,” Baby says, voice lower than intended. “You… clean up nice.”

“You look…” Jinu starts, but stops, jaw tightening as his eyes linger on the slope of your neck for a beat too long.

Abby lets out a short huff of air, smirk returning in full force. “Didn’t know we were hiding a runway model in the studio.”

Mystery’s voice is low, steady, but the faint rasp gives him away. “It suits you.”

You arch a brow, stepping toward Romance first. “Let’s see… this here’s a little off.” You tug at the edge of his shirt, fingers brushing over his stomach. The contact is brief but electric—heat shooting straight through him. His hips stay perfectly still, but his breath leaves hotter than it should.

Next, Abby. You lean in, fastening a button near his collar. “Just one,” you murmur, not looking up. “Knew this fabric would make your eyes stand out.” His smirk curves higher, but his body stays rigid, his pulse skipping under your nearness.

Baby is next, shoulders squaring as you smooth the fabric over his arms. “Relax,” you murmur, your hands trailing slowly down to his wrists. His breath catches; his grin is back, but there’s tension in the way he shifts his weight.

Finally, Mystery. You step into his space, fixing the line of his vest and running your hand down a stubborn crease. “There,” you say softly, “perfect.” He doesn’t move, but his chest rises slightly more with each breath, the fabric over it straining just enough to betray him.

Romance’s fists curl tighter at his sides. The faint trace of his own scent on you, the warmth of your fingers—both have his demon snarling ugly, possessive things in his head. His jeans feel suffocating now, and every movement is a fight to keep still.

Jinu notices—too much. The restless tension in Romance’s stance mirrors the one in his own. It makes his pulse kick harder, knowing they’re both fighting the same losing battle.

Abby tilts his head, watching the silent exchange, and Baby smirks knowingly. Even Mystery’s gaze flickers once before settling back into that stoic mask.

Romance mutters something about getting water and disappears into the kitchen. Baby’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter; Abby’s lips twitch, trying to keep a straight face.

“What?” you ask, glancing between them.

“Nothing,” they say in unison, eyes glittering with the kind of secret you’ll never hear.

——

You step into the bright chaos of the backstage area with the boys at your side, the air buzzing with pre-show energy. Staff members rush around, adjusting cables, testing lights, and handing off last-minute notes.

A woman with a clipboard hurries toward Jinu. “Is this your stylist?” she asks, glancing quickly at you.

“She’s in charge of our image today,” Jinu confirms, his tone calm but leaving no room for doubt. “If you have any questions about our look, talk to her.”

That gets the woman’s full attention. “Got it. We just want to make sure everything matches the stage lighting.”

You nod and immediately move toward the makeup station, the boys trailing behind. “Alright, they’re already dressed, so we just need light touch-ups.”

You start with Abby, tilting your head to examine him under the warm bulbs. “Keep his skin looking fresh—no heavy contour, just a subtle highlight on the high points so the stage lights catch him right. And for lips, stick to a sheer balm.” Abby flashes a quick grin in the mirror, clearly pleased with the minimal fuss.

Next, you turn to Baby. “We want his eyes a little sharper. Soft brown liner to define the shape, but nothing too smoky—it’ll make him look older, and that’s not the vibe we’re going for today.” Baby hums in acknowledgment, leaning back casually in the chair as the artist follows your notes.

Romance is next, already lounging like he owns the place. “His blush needs to stay warm-toned—peach, not pink,” you instruct. “And leave the freckles as they are. Don’t cover them.” You catch the way his gaze flicks toward you in the mirror, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You move on to Mystery. His long, dark hair still falls forward, covering most of his face until just above his lips. You take a moment, studying how the light hits him. “No foundation. Just powder for shine control,” you say quietly. “And keep his skin matte—it’ll help the shadows from his hair look intentional on camera.” Mystery gives a slow nod, almost imperceptible, but you can see his shoulders relax at your choice.

Finally, you reach Jinu. “Skin has to look natural, no heavy products,” you direct. “A bit of concealer if needed, but make sure the jawline stays sharp.” Jinu’s eyes meet yours for a brief second, something unreadable passing between you before he sits down for the touch-up.

You step back, scanning all five of them. “They’re ready,” you tell the crew.

That’s when two Hosts approach—a man and a woman, both in sleek outfits and holding cue cards. “Alright, gentlemen, here’s the rundown,” the female Host says. “You’ll open with a short interview, then we have three mini-challenges before your performance.”

The male Host grins. “First challenge is a rapid-fire Q&A—answer as fast as possible. Second is a coordination game; we’ll explain it on stage.”

“And the last one,” the female Host adds, smiling knowingly, “is a spicy endurance test. Whoever can drink the most spoonfuls of extra-hot sauce without giving up wins.”

The boys exchange quick glances—competitive sparks lighting instantly in their eyes.

“Oh, we’re doing this,” Abby says under his breath.

Romance leans against the wall, his smirk widening. “Hope you’re all ready to lose.”

Baby scoffs. “Not a chance.”

Even Mystery tilts his head, a small curve forming at the edge of his lips.

“Five minutes,” the stage manager calls out.

You watch as the boys straighten up, their playful banter fading into sharp focus. The switch from casual to performance mode is instant—and electric.

The stage manager’s voice crackles through the comms, urgent and sharp.

"Two minutes! Positions!"

The boys start moving toward the side entrance, the muffled roar of the crowd seeping through the curtains. You can feel the pulse of the bass through the floorboards, rattling up your legs.

You take a deep breath and step forward, giving each of them a quick smile and a few words of encouragement.

“You’ve got this, Jinu—show them who’s boss,” you murmur, and he nods, a small grin tugging at his lips.

Romance catches your eye, and you flash him a wink. “Keep that smirk ready—you’re going to kill it out there.” He smirks in response, confidence brightening his expression.

Abby leans forward slightly, and you clap him on the shoulder. “Remember your cues, okay? You’ve got this.” He winks back, giving a subtle thumbs-up.

Mystery brushes past without a word, but you catch the faint graze of his shoulder against yours, and you murmur softly, “Keep calm, you’ll be perfect.” A tiny nod from him is your only acknowledgment, but it’s enough.

And then… it’s just Baby left.

He lingers by the curtain instead of joining the others, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely gripping the mic. His head tilts slightly, eyes catching yours under the bright backstage lights. There’s a faint sheen on his lips—lip balm, not gloss—and your brain instantly recalls the feel of them this morning.

“You should go,” you say, forcing your voice steady.

He doesn’t move. “Should I?” His tone is low, casual, but the faint curl at the edge of his mouth tells you he’s anything but indifferent.

“The show’s about to start,” you murmur, fingers tightening around your clipboard. “But… I know you’ll do great.” Your voice softens, a playful lift at the end, trying to tease and reassure all at once.

He steps closer—just enough to blur the air between you, the faint scent of his cologne curling around your senses. It’s fresh, warm, intoxicating.

“I remember you didn’t push me away earlier,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours. “Still thinking about how sweet your lips were.”

You blink, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That was—”

“A mistake?” he finishes, leaning in just enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek. “You don’t look like you believe that.”

Your pulse hammers. You should step back, speak, do anything—but your feet stay rooted.

The crowd outside roars again, the bass vibrating through the walls, but here in this narrow backstage strip, the world narrows to just him.

“You’re late,” you murmur softly, your voice quieter than you intend.

“So make me leave,” he challenges, stepping closer, close enough that the heat of his body brushes yours.

Your breath hitches. “You think I won’t?”

He smiles—not wide, but slow, teasing, burning. “I think you don’t want to.”

The words hit you, dangerous and intoxicating. He slides his hands to your waist, pulling you gently toward him. His lips brush yours in a kiss bolder and more daring than this morning’s, lingering just long enough to leave your chest and stomach aflame.

When he finally pulls back, his voice drops, rougher and husky. “I’ll see you after.”

Then he’s gone—slipping past the curtain, swallowed by the stage lights and the roar of the crowd—leaving you standing there, heart hammering, lips tingling, legs weak, every nerve alight.

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Not bruises. Not ink.

Faintly red, almost carved beneath the skin, circling your arm like a band. Each one different in shape and width, uneven yet deliberate, as though branded there by something that knew exactly what it wanted.

You touched them with trembling fingers.

One was thin and clean—Jinu’s precision.

Another curved like a smile—Romance’s charm.

The third felt solid, steady, grounded—Mistery’s quiet strength.

The fourth pulsed faintly, unpredictable, like Baby’s laughter when he tried to hide it.

And the fifth—deep, unwavering—felt like Abby. Constant. Watchful.

Together they formed a ring, something binding. Something alive.

You pulled your hand back as if burned.

It wasn’t a dream. And that terrified you more than anything.

You’d been avoiding them for days—snapping, hiding, pretending the distance was your choice. Because they seemed fine without you. Because they didn’t need you. Because if they ever had to choose, it wouldn’t be you.

You sat on the edge of the bed, tracing the marks again, your breath uneven. For a moment, you almost wished they’d hurt more. Pain would have been easier than whatever this was.

When you finally glanced at the clock, it was a little past nine. Only three hours since you’d fallen asleep. You already knew there would be no more rest tonight.

Your body ached to move—to feel something familiar, something real. You wanted the rhythm, the structure, the discipline of motion. You wanted to dance until the air stopped burning in your lungs.

You showered quickly, scrubbing the heat from your skin until it dulled. Then you dressed—soft gray sweatpants, a white tank top, and an old cropped hoodie you’d worn for years. You tied your hair back loosely, slipped on socks, and stared at your reflection one last time before stepping into the hallway.

The silence was unnerving.

The building always hummed with life, but now it was still—so still it made the back of your neck prickle. You walked quietly, almost gliding across the floorboards, the faint hum of the elevator down the hall your only guide.

Until you heard it.

A sound—low, drawn out, caught between a sigh and a gasp. Then another, heavier, layered with something rougher. You stopped before you could stop yourself. The sound came from one of the rooms ahead, a door slightly ajar.

Mystery’s room.

You should have kept walking. You knew that. But curiosity, or something dangerously close to longing, rooted your feet to the spot.

You took one hesitant step closer.

The faint golden light from inside spilled through the narrow crack in the door, cutting across the floor. You could see movement—shadows shifting together, breath catching, skin against skin in the half-dark. You couldn’t see faces, only outlines, but you could feel the rhythm of their closeness, the heat that filled the air between them.

A low, guttural groan sliced through the silence, followed quickly by a sharp whimper.

Curiosity overriding caution, you peered through the narrow gap. The sight immediately sent a hot flush up your neck.

Mystery was straddling Baby —no, he was pounding into him. His back was slick with sweat, the muscles in his legs and arms taut as he drove his hips forward with brutal efficiency.

You could only hear the high-pitched cries and the low, possessive growls, punctuated by the rhythmic slapping of skin and the creak of the headboard.

He leaned down, his voice a gravelly murmur that you could barely catch.

"Don't try to hide that face, " he commanded, the Spanish word dripping with dark pleasure. “Are you thinking about her. Don’t you?”

Baby choked on a scream, burying his face in the pillow, tears mixing with sweat. "Myst, please! You’re too deep, a- ah!"

His thrusts didn't slow; they intensified, pushing Baby against the mattress. "Too deep? Good. You like it when they take you hard and leave a mark, don't you? Beg for them. Beg for the one you want to ruin you."

His voice broke in a frantic, desperate plea. "I want it! God, I want them both! Please! I can’t—I can’t!"

Mystery laughed, a rough, triumphant sound. "You're all mine right now. You'll take everything I give you, and you’ll remember who put you here."

Something in his words—hard, teasing, intimate—made you understand without needing to hear everything. There was no place for you in that room, but part of you ached to be there anyway.

A potent mix of shock and scalding desire hit you. Your breath hitched, your throat constricting. The explicit mention of the baby's fantasy—Begging for her—sent a dizzying, intense yearning pulsing between your legs. An insane, desperate craving seized you to be the one beneath him, to be the focus of that brutal, consuming attention. Or both of them. The sheer power of the scene was overwhelming.

Your breath stilled.

You pulled back quickly, your pulse thundering in your ears, the marks on your arm burning again as if in answer. You didn’t look again.

You just walked.

Faster this time. Past the door, past the silence, into the elevator where the mirrored walls caught the flush on your cheeks.

You stared at your reflection and saw it all—the wanting, the shame, the confusion, the way your chest rose too fast.

When the doors opened again, the air below felt different—cooler, steadier. The practice rooms stretched out before you, empty and waiting.

You stepped inside, dropped your bag by the wall, and stood in the center of the room. But you couldn’t stop hearing them.

Baby’s breathless sounds, Mystery’s low, commanding growls—each one replayed in your mind like an echo that refused to fade.

And the words. I want her.

They haunted you more than the sounds themselves.

Your heart, reckless as ever, begged to believe that her meant you.

But your mind shut the thought down before it could take form. There was no way. Not you.

You shoved those thoughts deep into the corners of your mind, shaking your head as if you could physically push them out. You weren’t going to fall into that spiral again—not today.

The practice floor in front of you felt like salvation. Bright lights glared softly against the polished wood; the mirrored wall reflected an image you barely recognized. Yet somehow, standing there, surrounded by silence and space, you felt more at home than you had in months.

You exhaled slowly, letting the breath leave your body like a quiet surrender.

Then you moved.

You slipped off your shoes and sat on the cold floor, lacing up a pair of worn, pale ballet slippers—scuffed, frayed at the edges, but still familiar. You wore black cycling shorts and a loose grey long sleeve shirt tied at your waist; simple, practical, nothing that demanded attention. Just something that allowed you to move.

Your phone connected to the sound system with a soft chime, and the room filled with the first few notes of a song you didn’t even remember adding to your playlist.

And then—it all vanished.

The memory of Mystery’s voice, the marks on your arm, the ache in your chest—gone.

There was only rhythm. Breath. Motion.

Your body remembered before your mind did.

Your arms extended, feet pointed, spine curved with the precision of muscle memory older than your fear. You turned once, twice, your reflection spinning into a blur of movement and light.

It was instinct. The choreography flowed from somewhere buried deep inside you, something untouched by time. You didn’t have to think; your body knew.

The music swelled and you followed it, every motion threaded with the grace and restraint you’d once been praised—and punished—for.

When you were younger, dance had been your entire world. Ballet had given you purpose, control, perfection—but also hunger, exhaustion, and loneliness. You remembered the diets, the whispered critiques, the hours staring at your reflection, picking apart what was wrong instead of what was beautiful.

But on stage, none of it mattered.

The world disappeared under the lights. And for a moment—just like now—you forgot that life could hurt.

You kept moving until your breath came in ragged bursts, your skin glistening with sweat, your heart beating in rhythm with the fading music.

When the final note broke, so did you.

You stopped mid-spin, one hand hovering near your chest, your eyes closed. Silence wrapped around you like fog.

And then—applause.

Soft, slow, deliberate.

Your eyes flew open.

Someone was standing at the door.

Jinu.

His expression stole the air right out of your lungs. His usual calm was there, yes—but now it was threaded with something warmer, deeper. His eyes followed you as though he were trying to memorize every part of you, as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.

For a long, fragile second, neither of you spoke.

You blinked, stepping back slightly, instinctively looking down. You couldn’t stand that look in his eyes—not when you didn’t deserve it. Not after yelling at him less than a day ago.

You swallowed hard. You deserved anger, not tenderness. Disdain, not awe.

But he only smiled. A soft, breathtaking smile that pulled at the corners of his lips like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“That,” he said quietly, his voice low and reverent, “was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You froze.

He took a hesitant step forward, rubbing the back of his neck, his smile turning shy.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I—I couldn’t find you for breakfast . I heard the music and... I shouldn’t have watched. It just—” He paused, meeting your eyes. “It was impossible not to.”

You shook your head quickly. “It’s nothing. Really. I’m just... rusty.”

He laughed softly under his breath. “If that’s rusty, then I’d hate to see what you look like in full form. You’re—” He stopped himself, exhaling. “You’re incredible, Y/N.”

You felt your chest tighten, the words too much, too kind. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to,” he replied, a flicker of seriousness in his tone. “It’s the truth. It’s the best thing I’ve seen in years. And trust me, when you’ve lived more than three hundred of them, that means something.”

You let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t have to lie, Jinu.”

His smile faded, replaced by something deeper—steady, unwavering.

“I’ve never lied to you,” he said simply.

The silence that followed was heavy, fragile.

He took a slow step closer. Then another.

Your breath caught.

“I owe you an apology,” he said softly. “For yesterday. For pushing too hard.”

You shook your head, cutting him off. “No. I owe you one. I shouldn’t have yelled. I shouldn’t have said those things. I know you’re interested in Huntrix—how could you guys not be? The girls are... they are everything I’m not.”

You forced a weak smile, but your throat felt tight, your words trembling as they left you. “You all deserve someone like them, attractive, famous, stars like you guys are. I get it. I’m no one, I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Jinu murmured.

But you couldn’t.

“I mean it, Jinu. I shouldn’t have gotten involved. You should hate me for how I’ve acted, and honestly—”

“Y/N.” His voice rose, just enough to make you stop.

You blinked at him.

He took one more step until he was standing right in front of you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His voice dropped again, lower this time, steady and sure.

“It’s not them.”

You frowned. “What?”

“It’s not they that we want.” He hesitated, then said it again, firmer. “It’s you.”

Your breath hitched. “No—”

“Yes,” he interrupted, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. “It’s you we can’t stop thinking about. You we’d burn the world for.”

You shook your head, your voice trembling. “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. You just—pity me, and I’m not—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Jinu closed the space between you and kissed you.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t rehearsed.

It was real—raw, sudden, electric.

His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that broke something open inside you. The warmth of his mouth against yours made everything else blur—the room, the silence, even your fear.

You gripped his shirt in your fists, clinging to him like you might fall apart otherwise.

The kiss deepened, not rushed, but full—like a confession he’d been holding in for lifetimes.

The faint sound of your breath mingled with his, and when you finally pulled back, barely an inch apart, you realized your heart was still racing in time with his.

And for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t feel like running.

Yesterday, when you arrived…” Jinu’s voice comes out low, almost trembling, like he’s afraid that saying it too loud might shatter something fragile between you. His thumb brushes against your cheek as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of your skin. “I swear, Y/N, I… I froze. Seeing you like that—your eyes, your face—I didn’t even know what to do. We were terrified. Not because of what happened, but because we knew…” His voice breaks softly, and his jaw tightens. “Because we knew we were the reason behind your pain.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are filled with that same kind of regret that twists your chest until it’s hard to breathe. Jinu swallows, his words trembling but certain. “You’ve always said you see us. That somehow, even when the rest of the world can’t, you do. I can’t forgive myself, not if I ever make you doubt that again. Not if I ever make you cry again because of me.”

You laugh then—weakly, brokenly, tears still tracing your cheeks. The sound surprises both of you; it’s too small, too fragile, but it feels real. “You sound like you’re about to write me a ballad,” you mumble between sobs, trying to smile, trying to believe him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be apologizing with a song and flowers.”

Jinu’s expression softens, almost in pain—but then he leans forward and kisses you again. It’s slower this time. Less desperate, more human. His lips taste faintly of salt and something warm, something like surrender.

When he pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath mixes with yours. “Oh, baby,” he whispers, so tenderly it almost hurts. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that. How many nights I’ve thought about what it would feel like… to finally tell you.”

You blink at him, dazed. “Tell me what?”

“That we’ve been idiots,” he says, a short, bitter laugh escaping him. “All of us. Idiots for not telling you sooner. Idiots for letting you think any of this—any of us—was just a game. You didn’t imagine it, YN. You never did.” His hand moves up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Since the moment I found you that night—when you fought off that man in the street—something inside me just… stopped. I looked at you, bruised and still standing, and my heart decided that was it. You were it.”

The room goes still, air heavy with the sound of your breathing. His confession feels too beautiful, too raw to exist in the same world as the pain you’ve been carrying.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Jinu continues, voice shaking like he’s confessing a secret he’s held for too long. “Your voice. Your laugh. The way you make noise disappear when you walk into a room. It’s not quiet—it’s peace.” His eyes glimmer. “And that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You can’t stop crying now. The tears come harder, unstoppable, the way waves crash once they realize the shore won’t move away. He wipes them one by one with the pads of his thumbs, smiling faintly even as his own eyes water. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let me take you back to the apartment. The others are dying to talk to you—Abby, Baby, Mystery, Romance—they’ve been waiting all day.”

Your chest tightens again. You shake your head quickly. “No. No, Jinu, they must hate me. After yesterday—after what I said—how could they even want to see me? I was awful. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve any of this.” Your words come out fast, trembling. “I’m the worst.”

“Hey.” His tone is a whisper, but it cuts through everything. He cups your face again, thumb tracing the edge of your lips to quiet you. “Don’t say that. Not even as a joke. You don’t get to decide what you deserve—we do. And we say you deserve the world.”

You want to argue, but his eyes won’t let you. They’re too sincere, too steady, holding you there until the trembling in your chest softens just a little.

He extends his hand, palm open, waiting. You stare at it for a long moment before finally taking it. His fingers close around yours with quiet certainty, grounding you.

The walk to the elevator feels both endless and too fast. You can still feel your pulse thrumming in your wrists, the ghost of his kiss lingering like a heartbeat that refuses to fade.

When the elevator doors slide shut, you finally let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The hum of the machinery fills the silence. Then—a flicker of light, a sudden lurch—and you feel your knees weaken.

“Jinu…” you whisper, dizzy. “I think I’m—”

Before you can finish, his hand is already there, steadying you, his other hand brushing down your arm. “Hey, look at me,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin, and you breathe again.

The elevator dings. The doors open.

Light spills into the hall.

And there they are—the other four.

Abby is sitting forward on the couch, worry written all over her face. Baby stands with his arms crossed, eyes red-rimmed. Mystery lingers in the corner, expression guarded but soft. And Romance—Romance looks like he hasn’t slept at all. The faint shadows beneath his eyes make him look almost fragile in the golden light.

The moment they see you, all four of them rise at once.

Your pulse races. Jinu squeezes your hand once before letting go, whispering quietly near your ear, “Just breathe. They’re here because they care. Let them show you.”

And as you take a trembling step into the room, every ounce of fear, confusion, and love inside you collides—turning the air electric, suspended on the edge of something new.

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But here you were, backstage at the closing concert of their tour, a tour you had accompanied them on. Not just as Mira’s sister. No.

Now you were their stylist and personal designer.

It all started with sketches you made in an old notebook — designs the girls saw and loved instantly. Then came your advice on what to wear. You’d never had freedom to dress how you wanted, but you had a creative taste that fit perfectly with the girls’ vibe.

Then Mira made calls, pulled some strings, worked a little magic — something you both teased and thanked her for — and ta-da! You were their personal designer.

You felt happy having something you truly enjoyed, something that let you express your creativity besides painting — and, of course, being close to your sister.

Back to the concert.

You were checking the girls’ outfit changes for the show, making sure every piece matched perfectly with their shoes and accessories, when you heard your name called.

(Y/N)!

You turned quickly to find Bobby, the girls’ manager. Meeting him had been fun; he treated you like one of the team right away, and you loved seeing someone care so much about the girls.

“Hey Bobby, what’s up?” you asked, confused by the worry on his face.

“Have you seen the girls?” he asked anxiously. You shook your head, and he ran his hands through his hair. “They were supposed to be here 25 minutes ago. We’re running late!”

Bobby looked like he might hyperventilate any second, but you calmed him down by guiding him to breathe with you.

“Okay, Bobby, look at me and breathe with me.” You inhaled and exhaled together until he relaxed. “I’ll call them. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute now.” You pulled out your phone and FaceTimed Mira.

On the third ring, you heard the trio greet you.

“Hi (Y/N)!” they said, waving. You returned the greeting and asked where they were.

“About to eat our pre-game ramen,” Rumi exclaimed as you saw the other two girls eating beside her. Bobby nearly fainted hearing that, so you handed the phone to him so he could talk to them.

From what you heard, the girls hadn’t realized they were running late. They hadn’t noticed their jet had flown past the stadium and kept going. You leaned closer to the screen, watching the three share a look of complicity you didn’t understand.

“Don’t lose your shirt, Bobby. We’ll be there in three,”the purple-haired girl said, ending the call.

Sometimes, there were moments when the three girls made gestures or said things that made you feel like an outsider to some inside joke. You didn’t judge them — they had their secrets, after all, and you were still the newcomer. But you couldn’t help feeling a little left out whenever they disappeared or were deep into their exhausting training.

Shortly after arriving at the tower, you realized the girls didn’t take physical condition lightly. They said it helped them give their all on stage, but you thought it was a bit extreme for idols. Still, you weren’t one to judge.

They even taught you how to defend yourself. Obviously, you weren’t at their level, but you’d learned how to throw a solid punch if needed. Mira insisted on giving you a personal dagger and made it clear you had to always —and she meant always—carry it.

With the excuse that “you never know,” you reluctantly agreed just to keep her at ease.

You liked learning something other than ballet, which you still practiced in your free time, but without the pressure chasing you. You had also started dance sessions with Mira since she was the group’s lead dancer. You enjoyed seeing her in her element and spending time with her.

In the last three months, your relationship had grown so much. You’d talked and gotten to know each other again — neither of you the same as seven years ago.

You snapped out of your thoughts when Bobby exclaimed the girls had landed — or rather, arrived right on the stage — causing the crowd to erupt in cheers and applause for such a stunning entrance.

*“I'm gonna show you how it’s done, done, done.”*

The song’s notes filled the arena, making the crowd vibrate along. Bobby beside you was ecstatic, and you moved with the music.

The girls were the best.

---

The concert was over, and you waited for the girls at the elevator exit along with the entire production team. Bobby didn’t allow a second to pass without making sure they had everything — from food to five bottles of water each.

“Someone say water?” he said as the doors opened. Told you, not a second wasted.

The team gathered around the girls, each knowing their role. You went over to Mira to congratulate and hug her, and she returned the gesture happily.

“Was everything okay with your ‘delay’?” you asked, a bit worried. She nodded, calming you as you walked down the hall together.

By the way, (Y/N),” Zoey said, “the outfits gave it her all. Them looked amazing under the stage lights.” You thanked her while everyone praised the “special effects” used for their entrance.

Mira chuckled softly. “Yeah, sure. ‘Special effects,’” she said teasingly for reasons unknown to you.

“And to celebrate, I got you a week at the most exclusive, relaxing resort in Korea!” the manager said happily.

“Sorry, Bobby, but we already have tickets for the most popular spot in town,” Zoey exclaimed as she and Mira grabbed your arms excitedly.

“Our couch!” you exclaimed in unison with Mira, shouting the word together. It was a funny habit you’d all developed — maybe because you thought alike or spent so much time together, sometimes ending up saying the same phrases.

They started jumping away from the group as Rumi told Bobby to take a vacation; after all, he needed it too.

You laughed while they put a robe on him, and he waved goodbye without complaints.

“I’m so ready for two weeks off,” you exclaimed, relieved. The past months had been a roller coaster.

---

After a well-deserved shower, you entered the penthouse living room with Zoey and Mira, chanting “Couch!” with every step. You were ready to sleep for two weeks straight without being disturbed. Zoey had mentioned some turtle videos, and you and Mira were totally down for that.

You carried a pile of food to kick off the relaxation. As your body sank into the sofa, you swore you heard your muscles sigh in relief. Your whole body ached, and your feet throbbed from hours standing.

You were between the girls, who were sprawled out beside you, exhausted. Just as you felt you might doze off, you felt movement behind you.

“Hey. Having a good break?” Rumi said, peeking over the back of the sofa.

“Huh?” you turned, confused, along with the others.

“What? No. We literally just sat down!” Mira pointed out the obvious. The four of you had been at the tower less than an hour.

Rumi stood fully, revealing her new black-and-white outfit.

“Why are you in your new costume?” you asked, looking her up and down. You had designed that outfit for the new single’s promotion...

Oh no.

“Rumi, you didn’t…” you said, standing.

“Did you announce the new single?” panic crept into your voice as the meaning hit you.

Goodbye two weeks of rest.

“The promo starts tomorrow… tonight?” Mira couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The girls started to whimper as they stood, while you sank deeper into your sad little cries.

“Tonight?” Zoey echoed incredulously.

“Rumi, no!” Mira tried to pull away from Rumi, who was holding out the new outfit.

“No!”

You stood up almost crying. “But the pajamas! No, no!” But Rumi didn’t listen, and both girls were already dressed in their new outfits while you rubbed your face, full of regret.

Just then, the elevator dinged, and Bobby came out smiling, eyes glued to his phone.

“Girls, you won’t believe this!”

Mira and Zoey whimpered his name with defeat.

“Bobby!”

“No more relaxy time!” you chimed in from the sofa where Rumi was already pulling you up.

Bobby was so absorbed in his screen he didn’t notice your complaints about the interruption.

“Your new single is on fire!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Everyone’s listening!”

That lifted the girls’ spirits, and they started celebrating with Rumi. You joined in too.

“So let’s go promo!” With theatrical flair, Bobby spun around, shedding his robe to reveal an outfit matching the girls’.

---

After a while, the girls went to their first interview on a late-night show where they premiered their new single.

Luckily, you didn’t have to go. Thanks to your great planning, you’d done enough ahead to avoid working like crazy the next two weeks — just some quick check-ins here and there.

You decided to catch up on emails to make sure everything was in order. You were in what was now your room. The penthouse was huge, with plenty of empty rooms, so you’d chosen the one next to Mira’s and across from Zoey’s.

You liked feeling your space was yours — decorated in soothing blue tones that gave you peace at night, plants you watered daily, your canvases and art supplies. The room you always dreamed of growing up in.

Your favorite part was the private balcony. You could spend hours leaning on the railing, watching sunsets, sometimes painting the sky and forgetting the world for a while.

You sat on your bed with your laptop on your lap, scanning your inbox. Not much — new sketches, confirmations from your support team and fabric suppliers.

Except for one email that just arrived.

“Application for Image Consultant Position.”

That was the subject, and you got excited seeing the reply about the job you’d applied for.

Let’s rewind a bit: about two months ago, Bobby mentioned a new company looking for a designer and image consultant.

You didn’t have many details, but they’d seen your work and sent you a job offer. You’d been chatting back and forth with the company for a few weeks, exchanging ideas and designs.

After the initial offer, you found out it was for a new group, debuting soon.

Though they hadn’t debuted yet, the amount they offered was impressive — not that the girls paid you badly, but when you saw the number, your jaw nearly hit the floor.

More than money, you wanted experience and recognition outside the girls and beyond just being Mira’s sister.

You wanted to do it for yourself.

So when you read that you’d meet this new group tomorrow — just a week before their debut — you couldn’t contain your excitement.

“We are very pleased to invite you, Ms. (Y/N). Our group, the Saja Boys, look forward to meeting and working with you.”

“Please reply to this email to confirm if you can attend our office tomorrow at 11 a.m.”*

You didn’t waste time and sent a positive reply, buzzing with excitement about this new job.

You closed the laptop and got ready for bed, but not before checking the group chat with the girls. They’d sent a photo before their interview, which you liked.

They told you they had another morning interview the day after tomorrow, where they’d announce their live debut of Golden, their new song.

Everything was perfect. Tomorrow was all yours to focus on your new group.

The only thing? You hadn’t told Mira yet. You noticed she could get a bit jealous with her friends and you in general, and you didn’t want her to think you couldn’t handle two groups at once — but you’d prove her wrong.

With those positive thoughts, you went to sleep excited about what was coming.

---

Across the city, in the most luxurious and secluded area near the HUNTR/X tower, a dark-haired man scanned the email he had just received, a smug smile spreading across his face.

“Guys, she accepted,” he announced to the other four figures in the room.

His words drew them closer, eyes fixated on the screen as five pairs of malicious eyes read your reply to the meeting scheduled for tomorrow.

The five exchanged quick glances, each wearing a smile that didn’t fully reveal their true intentions. The dark-haired man set the laptop aside and lifted his gaze to the group.

“She’s more involved than we thought,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with meaning. “If she really knows what’s out there, she could be more useful than just a designer.”

One of them, the mint-haired boy, leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table and staring into the air as if calculating possibilities.

“We need to see what she’s really made of. But for now…” he smirked sideways, “Let’s keep it smooth. No need to scare her off before we even meet.”

The others nodded, the tension in the room mingling with a sense of opportunity. They all knew this girl was more than just an idol’s sister, but exactly how much she knew was still a mystery—and that excited them.

“Then, tomorrow. Let’s see what she brings to the game,” said the short pink-haired boy.

A silence fell over the room, eyes gleaming as if everyone held their breath, fully aware that something big was about to begin.

---

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---

By the time you padded into the kitchen, the apartment was alive with the sounds of morning. Mira’s long pink hair fell loose down her back as she leaned over the stove, stirring something fragrant in a pot. Zoey was perched on the counter swinging her legs, scrolling through her phone, and Rumi sat at the table sipping water with that calm presence she always carried.

Mira looked up with a bright smile. “Morning, you. You’re up earlier than I thought.”

You gave her a little shrug and slid into a chair. “Couldn’t sleep much.”

Zoey hopped off the counter, grabbed a mug, and poured you coffee without asking. “Here. You look like you need it.”

You wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. Mira pushed a plate toward you—a small breakfast she’d already set out.

“Eat something,” she said gently.

You shook your head, forcing a small smile. “Just coffee, thanks. My stomach’s… not really up for it.”

Mira studied you for a second, her brows knitting, but didn’t press. Instead she turned back to the stove. Zoey gave you a sideways look but changed the subject with her usual ease.

“Big day,” she said, smirking. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You sipped your coffee, letting the warmth chase away some of the weight pressing in your chest.

Soon after, you all gathered your things and headed out. The drive to the venue blurred by in a rhythm of city streets and quiet anticipation. By the time you arrived, the buzz backstage was electric—runners with clipboards, tech crews coiling cables, the low thump of bass through the walls as the soundchecks began.

You slipped easily into your role, moving between Mira and Zoey with practiced focus. Mira sat patiently as you adjusted a last-minute detail on her jacket, the long strands of her hair tickling your arm as you worked. Zoey spun playfully on her stool while you fixed a clasp on her top, making you laugh despite yourself.

Rumi wasn’t with them; she had a separate room, always had. You’d noticed little things in the months with her—how she favored long sleeves even in warmth, high collars that brushed her chin, and how she often slipped away to prepare alone. You never questioned it out loud. Everyone had their own way of feeling safe.

The final checks were done. You stepped back and admired them, two bright stars ready to own the stage. The music director called for a run-through, and you moved off to the side of the stage, coffee cup in hand, watching them take their places.

The beat kicked in, the opening lines filled the air.

Now I’m shining like I’m born to b—

A falter. A break in the melody.

Bobby straightened from where he stood near the monitors, frowning. “Huh?”

Mira turned, concern slipping into her voice. “You okay?”

Rumi shook her head slightly, forcing a little laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s take it again. From the top.”

The music restarted.

I’m done hiding. Now I’m shining like I’m born to— A rough cough cut through the sound.

Bobby’s voice carried over the speaker chatter. “Um, Rumi, are you okay? Do you need some water?”

Rumi stepped back, holding up a hand. “I just need five. I’m gonna take five.” She was already moving off stage, heading toward her dressing room.

From somewhere in the wings, a female crew member called out, “Five minutes? We go live in ten!”

Bobby ran a hand down his face, muttering as he turned in a small, frantic circle. “Um… okay, I can handle this. I’m not having a nervous breakdown. Visualize there’s not 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding really scary.”

The tension backstage thickened. Mira and Zoey glanced at each other, worry flickering between them. You tightened your grip around your cooling coffee, feeling that same knot in your stomach twist just a little tighter.

five minutes passed. Ten.

“She should be back by now,” Mira whispered, twisting a strand of pink hair nervously.

Zoey bit her lip. “Maybe she’s with the vocal coach?”

Bobby darted off to check, returning moments later pale-faced. “She’s not in her dressing room. She’s… she’s not here.”

The room shifted instantly, the air thick with alarm.

“They’re already calling her,” Bobby said quickly, phone pressed to his ear. “Her cell’s off.”

“They’re going to cancel,” Mira breathed.

“We can look for her,” you said, heart hammering.

Mira shook her head, panic flickering in her eyes. “Splitting up is dangerous—”

“We’ll cover more ground,” you said firmly, surprising even yourself. “I’ll be careful. Please.”

Zoey and Mira exchanged a look before Mira finally sighed. “Fine. Just… call if you find her.”

You wandered the streets, scanning every corner, calling her name under your breath. The city shifted as night deepened, bright storefronts giving way to dimmer blocks. You didn’t notice how far you’d gone until the crowd thinned, neon giving way to shadows.

A prickling sensation crawled up your spine. Someone was following you.

You turned down a side street, quickened your pace, then veered back toward the main road—but footsteps followed. Your heartbeat spiked. You broke into a jog, slipping through narrow alleys, but the steps grew louder until you spun around, pressed against a brick wall.

A man stepped into the dim light, face obscured, smirk curling his lips.

Your breath caught. You fumbled in your bag, fingers closing around the cool metal of the dagger Mira had given you.

Before he could reach you, you moved—muscle memory from self-defense classes you’d once taken with Mira. A punch to his jaw, a kick to his ribs. He went down hard, groaning, unconscious before he hit the pavement.

You backed up, clutching the dagger with both hands, shaking.

Footsteps again—this time steady, controlled. A shadow moved closer. You raised the blade instinctively, your whole body trembling.

“You…” his voice was low, roughened by a breathy laugh, “remind me to never get on your bad side.”

Your grip on the dagger trembled. The blade lowered an inch, your mind catching up with what just happened. He stayed still, hands open, waiting.

Jinu

It was him.

It really was him.

You didn’t say anything—your chest hurt too much from holding back every emotion that was now flooding through you. Instead, you let the dagger slip from your fingers and closed the distance between you, collapsing into him. His arms wrapped around you immediately, grounding you as your shoulders shook.

No words, no questions. Just the sound of your uneven breathing against the night.

Jinu stayed like that for a long moment, then gently guided you out of the alley. His arm stayed at your back, a quiet promise that you were safe now.

You didn’t speak again until the bright hum of a busier street wrapped around you, neon signs flickering and the distant chatter of passersby filling the air. You wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, trying to steady yourself.

“How… how did you even get here?” you asked finally, your voice hoarse.

Jinu gave a short exhale, almost a soft laugh, as if trying to make the answer sound casual. “The guys and I have been trying to reach you all afternoon. Tomorrow we’re supposed to do the fitting for our debut outfits.” His gaze flicked down to you, careful. “You weren’t answering. At all.”

Your eyes went wide. The morning felt like another lifetime ago. The bad dream. The tightness in your chest. The coffee in the kitchen with Mira and Zoey, and then the whirlwind of getting ready, the rehearsals, Rumi vanishing—

Your hand flew to your phone in your pocket. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.

The group chat with the boys was chaos:

Jinu

Hey, are you okay?

Romance

YN?? Muse? Did you die?

Baby

Answer your phone. Now.

Abby

Seriously, you good? We’re starting to worry.

Mystery

…. Y/N?

There were also missed calls. Three from Jinu. Two from Baby. One from Romance. And a million texts more from the boys.

And then Mira:

Are you okay?

Your thumb hovered, and you quickly typed a reply to Mira:

I’m okay. I’ll head back soon.

Her response came fast.

She still hasn’t come back. Zoey and I are going home to wait for her. Do the same, okay?

Okay you sent back, though your chest tightened again at the thought of Rumi still missing.

You shoved the phone back into your pocket and looked at Jinu, guilt creeping in. “I… I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Them. It’s just been… a complicated day.”

You didn’t elaborate. You couldn’t—not about Rumi, not about the sick twist in your gut since she disappeared.

But a small part of you warmed at the thought that these five boys, people you barely knew, had noticed your absence enough to reach out. To look for you.

You walked in silence for a while, the night air brushing cool against your face. Slowly, your breathing evened out. Jinu’s hand hovered near your shoulder as if ready to steady you at any second.

“You’re pale,” he said at last, frowning slightly as he glanced at you. “Have you eaten anything today?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… um.”

The coffee from this morning. A bottle of water sometime in the afternoon. That was it. The thought of food all day had twisted your stomach into knots, but suddenly, standing under his steady gaze, the realization sank in.

“Not really,” you admitted quietly.

Jinu’s lips pressed into a thin line, his brows knitting in concern. “You need to eat.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a suggestion—it was an easy, firm statement.

“I’m fine,” you tried, but he shook his head once, decisive.

“No, you’re not. Come on.”

Before you could argue, he steered you gently toward a small, tucked‑away restaurant whose windows glowed a soft amber, the kind of place locals favored. The faint aroma of sesame oil and soy broth drifted into the cool night air. Through the glass, you spotted a single ajumma at the counter rolling fresh noodles, the place simple but warm, with wooden booths and handwritten menu boards on the wall.

Inside, the hum of quiet conversation and the occasional clatter of chopsticks greeted you. Jinu motioned to a booth in the corner, helping you settle into the seat before sliding in across from you. He asked softly if you had any allergies or strong dislikes, and when you shook your head, he ordered without hesitation—a steaming bowl of jjajangmyeon for himself and a dakjuk, a comforting chicken porridge, for you.

While you waited, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. Jinu’s gaze drifted toward the dagger still tucked under your jacket, the one you hadn’t let go of since the alley.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly, leaning forward a little. “That’s a cool dagger you’ve got there. Those runes it have too… where’d you get it?”

Your breath shook as you answered while you pass your finger through the designs, “It was a gift from my sister. I’m not one to use weapons at all. She just gave it to me… for emergencies. I’ve never used it. Until tonight.”

Jinu’s eyes softened. There was something in them—relief?—but he didn’t say more. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t press you. He just nodded once, as if storing that answer away.

The food arrived, steaming bowls placed in front of you. The aroma hit you—soft rice and tender shreds of chicken, the warmth curling up to your face. Your stomach knotted instantly, an old, familiar guilt crawling up your spine. You stared at the bowl, spoon hovering, unable to make the first move.

Jinu watched you carefully, picking up on it. “You’ve had a long day,” he said quietly, almost like an offering, “you deserve this. You deserve to eat.”

Your breath hitched. The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere raw that you didn’t even like to look at.

No one had ever said it like that before.

Not you have to eat.

Not you should eat.

But you deserve to.

Your eyes burned, tears blurring the edge of the bowl. For a moment, you believed him. Even if it was just his voice convincing you, even if it was just for tonight. You lowered the spoon into the bowl and took a slow bite, the warmth settling in your chest.

Halfway through, your phone buzzed. You wiped your hand on a napkin and checked the screen.

Mira: She’s back. Rumi’s okay. We’re gonna step out to talk and grab something to eat, don’t wait up.

A smile tugged at your lips, then faltered. You weren’t invited. It was fine—you understood they needed time, just the three of them, after everything—but a small, sharp pang twisted in your chest anyway.

Jinu noticed immediately. His brows knit. “What is it?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “The girls… they’re going out to eat. Just the three of them.” You toyed with your spoon, feeling the words tumble out before you could stop them. “Even though Mira’s my sister, sometimes I feel like… I don’t know, a little on the outside.”

The confession hung there, too vulnerable. Your heart thudded and you rushed to cover it. “It’s nothing. Really. Just me being dramatic. I didn’t mean— I’m not trying to speak badly of them. I’d never—”

“Hey,” Jinu interrupted gently, shaking his head. “You’re not speaking badly of anyone. You’re allowed to feel things, you know?” He held your gaze, steady and sure. “For what it’s worth… anyone would be lucky to sit across from you like this. I know I am.”

The words sank in slowly, as warm as the dakjuk you were still cradling in your hands. You looked down at the bowl, cheeks warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the steam rising from it. For the first time that day, the weight in your chest felt just a little lighter.

You took another bite, slow but sure, letting yourself believe him. Letting yourself feel… safe. Even if it was only for tonight.

The restaurant was quiet at this hour, lit softly by hanging lanterns and the last murmurs of the kitchen. The meal between you and Jinu had been mostly peaceful—surprisingly so, considering how the day had begun.

The scent of grilled broth and spice still clung to the table, your empty bowls pushed aside. Jinu hadn’t eaten much, but he stayed until you finished, watching with a calm you hadn’t expected.

“Feeling better?” he asked after a while, his chopsticks tapping idly on the edge of his glass.

You nodded slowly. “It helped. Thanks for insisting.”

He gave a small shrug like it was nothing, eyes trailing over your face as if checking again for signs of damage. Before you could speak again, his phone buzzed across the table.

He glanced down. “It’s Baby.”

You looked up, curious, and Jinu hesitated only a second before answering.

“Yeah?”

“Where the hell are you?” Baby’s voice came through, tense. “Did you find her?!”

Jinu leaned back. “I’m with her. She’s fine. We’re having dinner.”

There was a moment of silence.

“She’s okay?” Abs’ voice cut in from the background. “Put her on the phone.”

Jinu sighed and turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “They’re demanding proof.”

You chuckled softly, holding your water glass. “Of course they are.”

But before you could speak, your own phone buzzed—this time a video call. Mistery’s name flashed on the screen.

You answered, and suddenly four chaotic faces filled your view, all talking over each other.

“YN!”

“What happened?!”

“Are you eating? Did he feed you properly?”

“Where are you—why does the lighting look romantic?!”

You laughed, brushing a strand of hair back. “I’m fine. Really. I just needed air. Jinu found me. He’s been… very decent.”

“You sure?” Romance narrowed his eyes dramatically. “Blink if he’s holding you hostage.”

“I’m literally right here,” Jinu muttered under his breath, reaching for his drink.

“He’s not a monster,” you added playfully.

“She’s fine,” Jinu said over your shoulder, sounding mildly amused. “I’ll bring her back soon.”

You ended the call after promising them (twice) that you were unharmed and properly fed.

“They really care,” Jinu commented softly, watching you set your phone down.

“They’re just dramatic,” you teased, though the warmth on your face gave you away.

A short walk later, the two of you stood beneath the glowing sign of HUNTR/X Tower.

Jinu hesitated as you stopped near the entrance. “I’ll stay until you’re inside.”

“You really didn’t have to walk me,” you said, glancing back at him. “But… thanks.”

He shifted slightly, then stepped closer, his voice a quiet murmur. “You don’t have to keep everything to yourself, you know. You can call me. Anytime.”

There was a pause, a heartbeat in which neither of you moved.

Then, softly, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Jinu.”

You slipped inside before he could reply. Outside, Jinu stood unmoving, hand raised to the spot where your lips had brushed his skin. A soft breath escaped him.

Before he could dwell further, the world around him erupted in violet flame. He hit the ground hard, the night’s calm replaced by molten heat.

When the flames subsided, he and the others found themselves standing on black obsidian ground under a sky pulsing with corrupted fire.

Gwi-ma emerged from a pillar of purple flame, towering and volatile.

“You’re losing focus,” the demon king’s voice boomed without sound.

None of them spoke.

Gwi-ma’s fire grow. “You were sent to infiltrate. To weaken their unity. To sever their trust. Not to form bonds with the enemy.”

“She’s just a tool,” Romance said, voice tight. “A way in.”

“We’re using her to create a weakness among the hunters,” Mistery added, calm but resolute.

“She trusts us,” Jinu said. “And that makes her valuable.”

Gwi-ma’s gaze burned hotter. “If she becomes a distraction—”

“They won’t,” Jinu interrupted. “We know what we’re doing.”

The demon king paused, then with a flourish of flame, they were back in the apartment.

Silence greeted them. The city lights glowed faintly through the windows. None of the boys spoke immediately. Abs kicked off his shoes. Romance rubbed the back of his neck. Baby sank onto the couch. Mistery stared at the floor.

Jinu stood alone for a moment, then turned.

“Focus,” he said quietly. “No more slip-ups.” He walked to his bedroom door without another word, closing it softly behind him.

Inside, he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. His hand rose to his cheek, touching the spot where you had kissed him.

He closed his eyes and whispered into the silence, “Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”

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When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped out into a spacious floor that smelled faintly of cologne and wood polish.

You clutched your sketchbook to your chest, expecting to see a manager or maybe a coordinator—but instead, five tall figures stood scattered across the room, like they’d just paused mid‑practice.

Your brows knitted. Wait… where’s the manager? Why am I seeing… them?

One of them—dark hair tucked slightly behind his ears, calm presence radiating from him—stepped forward first. His voice was smooth, assured.

“You must be Y/N. I’m Jinu.”

Leader‑like. Solid. He held your gaze with an intensity that made you straighten your posture without thinking.

Before you could even process that, another figure approached—broad shoulders, sleeveless training tank showing off ridiculous arms. He grinned wide, unashamed, hand extended.

“Abs—uh, Abby. Nice to meet you!”

Your eyes darted, just briefly, to the way his biceps shifted when he moved. Holy—okay, focus, Y/N. Focus.

To your right, a softer laugh chimed in. Pinkish hair fell in delicate waves, eyes warm and mischievous.

“Romance,” he said with a little flourish of his hand, almost like a bow. “It’s an honor.”

He lingered just a second longer, gaze sweeping your face like he was already memorizing details.

Another presence hovered at the edge of the group. His hair—silvery lilac—fell over his eyes completely, hiding them from view, leaving only the angle of his jaw and the faint curve of his mouth visible.

“…Mistery,” he murmured, voice low and almost reluctant. He gave a small nod, hands hidden inside the sleeves of a faded lavender crewneck.

Last was the mint‑haired boy leaning casually against a chair, arms crossed over a simple tee and training jacket. There was a boyish curve to his lips, but something sharper behind his eyes.

“Baby,” he said simply, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he already knew something you didn’t.

You blinked, gripping your sketchbook tighter.

“I… wow. I thought I’d be meeting with a manager, not…” You gestured vaguely at them. “…you guys.”

Romance chuckled, leaning closer with that teasing smile. “Surprise. We like to be… hands‑on.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “Sorry if we caught you off guard.”

Jinu tilted his head, tone steady. “We wanted to meet the person they said could design something special for us.”

And just like that, five sets of eyes were on you, each different—curious, amused, analyzing. You swallowed, nerves fluttering in your stomach, but you forced a smile.

“Well… I guess I better not disappoint, then.”

You opened your sketchbook, fingers brushing across the blank page.

“So… you said you’re debuting soon, right? Do you have the track ready?”

Jinu exchanged a glance with the others before nodding. “We do.”

Romance gestured toward a nearby speaker, his tone lilting. “Do you want to hear it now?”

“Yes, please. Music is everything when it comes to design. I need to feel it.”

Baby arched an eyebrow, that little smirk tugging at his lips again. “Feel it, huh?” His tone was light, but there was something behind it—something unspoken, something watchful.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped. “Yeah. Clothes have to move with the beat. They need to… tell the same story.”

A low hum came from Mistery. “…Story,” he repeated softly, almost like tasting the word.

Romance tilted his head, eyes glittering. “I like that.”

They played the track. The first notes burst through the speakers—bright, electric, full of pulse and color. Your pencil moved almost before your mind caught up, sketching silhouettes, lines flowing with the rhythm.

“Stand up,” you said suddenly, glancing up at them.

“Hm?” Abby blinked, halfway through stretching his arm.

“I need to see you,” you explained, already waving your pencil. “How you carry yourselves, your proportions, how you move.”

They stood. Jinu’s posture was relaxed, confident in the simplest way. Abby adjusted his sleeveless tank, stretching his arms in a way that very obviously showed off the sculpt of his abs and biceps. You bit back a laugh, cheeks warming. Romance shifted with a dancer’s grace, fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie, always with a touch of flair. Mistery stayed still, shoulders slightly hunched, his arms still hidden beneath long sleeves—he clearly didn’t like them exposed. And Baby? Baby was effortless, leaning back in his joggers and loose T‑shirt, projecting comfort and ease but with eyes that followed every stroke of your pencil.

“Okay…” you muttered, letting yourself fall into the design.

Soft pink under white layers for Jinu—clean and straightforward, like him.

A bold Hawaiian print for Abby—because of course he’d want to show skin, a little edge, a little fun.

Flowy yellow for Romance, with hearts stitched into places no one would expect—playful and poetic.

For Mistery, layered textures, turtlenecks and arm warmers, giving him privacy yet presence.

And Baby—oversized softness, pinks and aquas, jeans with structure but not tight.

Your pencil flew, and soon colors filled the page, every detail dancing to the beat still echoing in the room.

Fifteen minutes later, you turned the sketchbook around, heart pounding.

“There,” you breathed. “Your debut.”

For a heartbeat, none of them spoke. Then Abby let out a low whistle. “Whoa.”

Romance leaned in, his smile curling. “You caught the vibe…”

Jinu’s eyes met yours, dark and steady, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You caught the song,” he said softly, “and you caught us.”

Something in the way he said it made your pulse jump. It wasn’t just about the music or the designs. It was like he was telling you, in that layered tone, that you had their attention now—completely.

Baby’s smirk deepened as his gaze flicked from the sketchbook back to you, something unreadable in his expression. Mistery gave a quiet nod, a murmur slipping past his lips, “…Good.”

Romance straightened, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, his eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “Well, designer, looks like we’re in good hands.”

Abby grinned, flexing just slightly as if to check how the drawn sleeves would look. “These are sick. And hey—thanks for not putting us in skinny jeans.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’d hate me forever if I did.”

For a moment, the room was easy, lighthearted… but behind their smiles, those five pairs of eyes watched you with a curiosity that ran deeper than you could imagine.

Your chest swelled with pride. “Thank you.”

Baby’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, that smile never fading. “I think… we’re going to enjoy working with you.”

You met his eyes—and that smirk did it again, made your stomach flip. You looked away quickly, gathering your pens.

Romance chuckled, leaning closer as he brushed an invisible speck off your shoulder. His voice dropped low, warm. “Careful, sweetheart… we might not let you go after this.”

Your breath caught. You shot him a look, half amused, half flustered. “I think you’ll have to, at some point.”

“We’ll see.” The way he said it made the air feel warmer, thicker.

You packed your things, your mind still buzzing with adrenaline and… something else.

Jinu walked you to the elevator again, his steps quiet, his presence steady.

“Thank you for today,” you said softly.

“Thank you,” he replied, eyes holding yours a second longer than necessary. “See you soon, (Y/N).”

The doors closed, and you leaned back against the elevator wall, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

As the doors shut behind him, the group remained around the table, the light from the windows catching on their features.

Abs crossed his arms, grinning. “She’s good. And she’s got guts.”

Romance hummed in agreement, his long bangs swaying as he tilted his head. “She sees people. That’s… rare.”

Mistery let out a low sound—half chuckle, half hum—his mouth curving faintly.

Baby tapped a finger on the table, his smile gentle but eyes glinting with thought. “She doesn’t know.”

Jinu lowered himself into his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His voice was calm, almost thoughtful. “No. She doesn’t. Not yet.”

Abs leaned back, chair creaking. “That might be better. For now.”

Romance’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes… for now.”

They fell into a quiet rhythm, each lost in their own thoughts, each feeling the subtle pull of something new, something dangerous—or perhaps, something they didn’t yet understand.

---

The elevator chimed softly as you stepped into the apartment, the city lights spilling in through the tall windows like melted gold. Your tote bag was heavier than usual, filled with fabric swatches and folded receipts, but your chest felt light. Today had been good—really good.

The faint scent of ginger and soy drifted down the hallway, guiding you to the kitchen. Mira’s long pink hair, falling in a silky curtain down her back, swayed as she stood at the stove. She was focused, stirring something in a large pan, her sleeves rolled up. Zoey sat cross‑legged on the counter, swiping pieces of cabbage from a plate, and Rumí leaned back against the fridge, scrolling through her phone.

You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped into the warm light.

“Hey, I’m back ” you greeted softly.

Mira’s head lifted, her smile immediate, warm enough to banish the fatigue in your shoulders. “You’re back.” She set the spoon down and turned slightly, the length of her hair sweeping like a pink river. “I was starting to think the fabric shops kidnapped you.”

A little laugh escaped you. “They tried, but I escaped with the loot.” You placed the bag down and began pulling out swatches—soft cottons, layered sheers, textured knits—arranging them on the table.

Zoey let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… a lot.”

“Just in case,” you murmured, running your fingers over a lilac fabric to calm the restless energy building in your chest. Too much attention on you always made your stomach tighten.

“Are you working on something new for us?” Mira asked, curiosity light in her voice, not accusatory.

You hesitated, your pencil already in hand out of habit. “Maybe. Just… some ideas.”

They seemed satisfied with that, Zoey nodding as she popped a piece of carrot into her mouth.

“Tomorrow’s going to be crazy,” Rumí said, setting her phone down. “The stage team texted Bobby. Everything’s locked in.”

“Lighting’s ready, and Bobby already double‑checked the accessories.” Zoey tapped the counter rhythmically. “We’re actually ahead of schedule for once.”

“Costumes look amazing under the new rig,” Mira added, pride softening her voice. “You’ve really been a miracle worker, Y/N.”

Your cheeks warmed, though you kept your eyes on your open sketchbook. “Thanks…”

The pencil glided across the page almost on its own—long limbs, layered fabrics, shapes that matched the rhythms you’d memorized from the boys’ demo track. You blocked out details, lines sweeping into a flowy blouse with heart‑shaped accents, wide sleeves, layered textures. Your mind flickered back to earlier: Jinu’s quiet attentiveness, Abby’s confident grin as he’d stretched and unconsciously flexed his arms, Mistery’s way of subtly pulling at his sleeves as if to hide his skin, Baby’s lazy slouch hiding that sharp glint in his eyes, Romance’s deliberate little gestures that dripped style.

Your heart jumped suddenly at the clang! of a pan dropped into the sink. You flinched before you could stop yourself, shoulders tightening, breath catching. Mira glanced over, concern flickering across her face, but you forced a smile. “It’s fine,” you whispered, lowering your pencil.

It wasn’t just the noise—it was the memory it triggered, that instinctive jolt in your gut. Too many nights growing up when a sudden slam meant raised voices, things breaking, hunger twisting through you because you hadn’t eaten, because control felt safer than food. You pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the graphite in your hand.

“You’re zoning out,” Zoey teased lightly, drawing your attention back.

You closed the sketchbook a little too quickly, hugging it to your chest before they could see. “Just doodles,” you said softly, trying to sound offhand. “Nothing important.”

Rumí tilted her head, but her smile stayed easy. “You’re always drawing something…”

Mira nodded, her long hair slipping over her shoulder as she turned back to the pan. “That’s Y/N for you. Let her have her secrets.”

They brushed it off, going back to their chatter about tomorrow’s rehearsal, and relief seeped into your lungs. You excused yourself quietly, slipping down the hallway to your room.

Inside, you sank onto your bed, sketchbook still in your arms. The soft hum of the apartment surrounded you, but your thoughts spun.

Why didn’t I just tell them?

You could see Mira’s proud smile in your mind, but also her protective frown. Better to wait. Let the boys debut, let the work speak for itself.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, snapping you out of it. You reached for it, expecting some update from Bobby—

Unknown Number: Thank you again for today. You really impressed us. :)

You blinked at the message. Your heart kicked once, sharply.

You: Who is this?

A second later:

Unknown Number: It’s Jinu. From earlier. :)

A laugh slipped from your throat, surprising even you.

You: How did you even get my number?

Jinu: I have my methods.

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite the warmth in your cheeks.

You: Suspicious… and kinda creepy, don’t you think?

Jinu: Okay, okay. Your card was in the folder they gave us. But “methods” sounds cooler, right?

Your smile deepened—he was sweet, unexpectedly so. Before you could reply, a new notification popped up: a voice message.

Curiosity bubbling, you pressed play.

“Wait, don’t press—hey! It’s recording—” That playful tone was definitely Romance, followed by a loud laugh—Abby’s, without a doubt.

“Move over—Y/N, hi! This is—” A scuffle, a grunt.

“Don’t say our names, you idiot!” snapped a sharper voice—Baby’s, soft but cutting underneath.

A low murmur followed—Mistery, quiet, indecipherable. “Stop crowding the phone—seriously—” Jinu’s steady voice rose above them, then another ripple of laughter before the audio cut off entirely.

You burst out laughing, pressing the phone to your forehead. They were chaotic. And weirdly endearing.

Y/N: You all are ridiculous

An idea struck you.

You: Hang on. Send me their numbers too—I’ll make a group chat. Easier for everyone to yell in one place.

Jinu replied almost immediately with four contacts, each with a tiny emoji. You created a group titled, Work in Progress 🎨🎤 and dropped them all in.

You: Hi… I thought this might be easier than emails for fittings and updates

Jinu: Told you she’s cool. You’re quick, Y/N. Appreciate it. :)

Romance: Ahh, now we can talk to her directly? My day just got better.

Abby: So, when do we get our first fitting, boss?

Mistery: …hi.

Baby: Group chat. Dangerous. I like it.

Romance: I like the name… it feels artistic. Did you pick it yourself?

YN:…Yeah. It was the first thing that came to mind.

You sat cross‑legged on your bed, staring at the screen as messages pinged one after another. For the first time in a long time, your chest felt light.

Jinu: We just wanted to say thanks again. Today was… impressive.

YN: You’re welcome. I’m glad it helped.

Abby: Helped? You literally sketched five full outfits in like… fifteen minutes. With color.

Baby: Do you have superpowers or something?

YN: …No. Just practice.

Romance: Or maybe you were inspired by us? 😉

You hesitated, biting back a nervous laugh.

YN: Maybe by the song. It has a clear vibe.

Romance: A vibe and… maybe a little more? You caught the song and you caught us.

For a second you stared at the screen, unsure what to say. Your heart gave a small, startled jump before you typed carefully:

YN: I just do my best to read the concept… nothing more.

Jinu: Still, not many can do that so fast. It got our attention, that’s all.

Baby: Attention is good. It means we’re working with the right person.

Mistery: …mm. (a simple sound, but enough to make you imagine him nodding)

Abby: Can’t wait to see what else you’ve got.

YN:…Thank you. I’ll try to live up to that.

Their words filled your little room with laughter you didn’t know you needed, and as you hugged your sketchbook close, you let yourself believe—just for tonight—that you could do this. That you were more than your past, more than your scars. And that maybe, just maybe, this new thread you were weaving might turn into something beautiful.

Romance: Oh, we don’t doubt it. But no skinny jeans, right? My knees like to breathe.

YN:…Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that to you.

You noticed the three laughing emojis that followed and couldn’t help a small smile.

Jinu: Rest up, Y/N. Big days ahead.

YN: Goodnight, everyone.

Abby: Night!

Romance: Sweet dreams, Muse.

Mistery: …Night.

Baby: Goodnight.

Jinu: Night, Y/N. :)

You set your phone aside, a warmth settling low in your chest.

They were playful, yes, but there was no pressure, no sharp edge in their words.

For once, the chatter didn’t feel like noise—just soft threads weaving into something new.

—-

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