chaosandcandies

[chaosandcandies]

sugar bruises

In which Mirae tries to find her place in Chan’s orbit — while Chan only seems to drift further and further away.

pairings: bangchan x fem!oc (also leeknow x fem!oc if you squint a bit) tropes: non!idol au, childhood best friends, quiet pining, emotional slow burn warning: angst, unspoken feelings, loneliness, lowkey emotional neglect status: ongoing

MIRAE STILL REMEMBERS the first time she fell in love with Chan.

They were twelve. She’d just punched a boy for making fun of Chan’s accent, and Chan had looked at her like she’d hung the moon. In reality, her knuckles were bleeding and she got detention for a week, but it was the first time someone had looked at her like she was good.

Now she was twenty-one, quieter, softer around the edges. She hadn't punched anyone in years. Sometimes she wondered if Chan even remembered the girl who used to fight the world for him. Sometimes, late at night, she didn’t know which version of herself he liked better — or if he liked either at all.

Across the café table, Chan was laughing at something Changbin said, sunlight catching in his hair. Mirae sipped her lukewarm coffee and drew tiny hearts into the condensation on her glass.

No one noticed.

The café was crowded — all reclaimed wood tables, concrete walls, and too many Edison bulbs trying to be aesthetic. Mirae sat tucked at the edge of a booth, half-listening as the boys filled the room with easy laughter.

Chan was in the middle, of course. Always the center of gravity. His head tipped back as he laughed at whatever dumb joke Changbin had made, fingers drumming absently on the table like his body couldn’t sit still without rhythm.

Seungmin sat on Chan’s left, snarking under his breath and sipping something aggressively iced. Jeongin leaned on him like a sleepy cat, scrolling on his phone and chuckling occasionally when Minho muttered something dry into his ear. Jisung was across the table, loudly reenacting some disastrous audition story with exaggerated hand motions while Hyunjin gasped like it was life or death.

Mirae watched it all from the end, smile polite, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

They didn’t dislike her. She knew that. They were nice enough — Seungmin always greeted her with a nod, Hyunjin offered her fries without asking, and Felix had once memorized her usual order just because “you always forget to speak up, noona.”

But Mirae could tell. She was the friend of their friend. A placeholder at the table.  

A ghost who showed up when Chan texted, and disappeared just as easily.

“Mirae, you want anything else?” Chan turned to her, breaking into her thoughts. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “You’ve barely touched your drink.”

She blinked. “I’m fine. Just not super hungry.”

“You sure?” Felix leaned across the table to push a cookie toward her. “This one has macadamia. Thought you liked those?”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. “I… yeah. Thank you.”

Felix smiled, warm and easy. It made something twist in her chest — how even his kindness felt like a borrowed jacket, warm but not hers.

“So, Mirae,” Jisung chimed in, resting his chin on his hand, “Chan says you’re working on that animation project? The one with the, uh… what was it? Ghosts on the subway?”

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, it’s part of my final narrative piece.”

“That’s so cool,” Hyunjin said, genuinely. “Like… spooky or romantic ghosts?”

“Bit of both,” she said quietly. “They’re stuck between worlds, so they keep trying to find the people they loved before they died. But no one remembers them.”

No one spoke for a second.

Then Minho raised an eyebrow. “Sounds a little personal.”

Mirae smiled. Small. Brittle. “Maybe.”

Chan gave a low whistle. “See? Told you she’s brilliant.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly it felt like she was twelve again — scraped up and furious and already loving a boy who never saw it.

The conversation shifted like it always did — back to the boys’ rhythm, fast and loud, inside jokes tossed like confetti. Mirae sank back into the booth, her cookie untouched. Around her, the table pulsed with the kind of closeness she could see but never quite reach.

Outside, the sun had begun to dip behind the buildings, casting long shadows on the pavement. The group spilled out of the café in pairs, like magnets. Hyunjin looped his arm around Jeongin’s neck, laughing as they argued over who’d win in a hypothetical dance battle. Felix and Jisung were talking about some producer meetup. Minho had earbuds in already, tuned out and half a step ahead.

Chan lingered.

“You walking to the station?” he asked, falling into step beside her.

She nodded, tugging her coat tighter. “Yeah. It’s not that far.”

“Let me come,” he said. Like he always did. Like it was nothing. But it was never nothing to her.

They walked in silence for a moment. The city hummed around them — cars, winter wind, laughter from behind lit windows. Mirae breathed in the cold and tried not to hope for anything.

Chan glanced over. “You sure you’re okay?”

The question again. The same one from every other night lately.

And every time she said yes.

“I’m okay,” she replied softly.

But this time, he didn’t accept it right away. “You’ve been off. Distant. Even when you’re here, it feels like you’re not.”

Her fingers curled into her sleeves.

She wanted to scream at him, to make him understand what she feels. Instead, she said, “Maybe I’ve just grown up.”

Chan slowed. “That’s not it.”

They stopped at the crosswalk. The red light blinked.

“I just miss when you talked more,” he said, quieter now. “Back then, you were the loudest person I knew.”

Mirae looked at him. He was still watching the traffic, but his brows were drawn, like he meant it. Like maybe a part of him missed that version of her.

“The loud me,” she murmured, almost to herself. “The girl who got detention for breaking noses.”

He smiled. “She was kind of a legend.”

“She was lonely,” Mirae said, voice soft, honest. “And angry.”

Chan turned then. Really looked at her.

“Are you still lonely?” he asked.

Her breath caught.

But before she could answer, the light turned green.

They crossed the street together, but the space between them felt wider than the road.

“I’m glad you still talk to me,” Chan said, breaking the silence as they reached the subway stairs.

Mirae forced a small smile. “Me too.”

He hesitated, then added, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mirae.”

Her chest twisted. They both knew the truth – Chan didn’t need Mirae, it was actually vice versa. But because he is Chan – disgustingly sweet, kind and selfless Chan – he stuck around. And even though she is grateful for that every single day, she can’t help but sometimes feel like a burden.

Mirae forced herself to nod. “Same here.”

She let herself be pulled down the steps, the noise and crowds swallowing them whole.

They met up again next Friday in the library.

The group was obviously there, a motley crew sprawled across two pushed-together study tables like they owned the place.The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a steady background to the soft rustle of pages and the occasional cough or whisper.

Jisung had claimed the end with a half-empty bag of chips and a laptop covered in cracked stickers. Seungmin sat next to him with a highlighter clenched between his teeth, flipping lazily through a practice packet he clearly had no intention of finishing. Felix had his phone propped up, headphones around his neck, watching choreography videos between half-hearted glances at a maths textbook. Minho looked the most productive — until you noticed the screen brightness on his iPad was dimmed so low you couldn’t actually read a word.

Chan was leaning back in his chair with a smirk, watching Hyunjin and Changbin argue over who had the better memory for dates and formulas.

“Seriously,” Hyunjin said, arms crossed, “there’s no way you can remember all those formulas without cheating.”

Changbin laughed, “Please, I have a photographic memory. You’re just jealous.”

Mirae set her bag down quietly beside them, pulling out her laptop and a few sheets of notes she barely recognized. She wasn’t even sure why she came – she’d studied better alone anyways. But Chan had texted, and it had been one of those days — gray-skied and too quiet — and she’d said yes before she could talk herself out of it.

Jeongin offered her a sour gummy worm without looking up. She took it. Said thank you. Didn’t bother mentioning that she didn’t like the red ones.

Chan glanced over. “You good? You need help with anything?”

She shook her head, eyes on her screen. “I’m fine.”

The words tasted like dust.

“So,” Felix said, breaking the silence as he leaned over toward Mirae, “how’s the animation coming along?

Mirae looked up, surprised to be addressed directly. She nodded, fingers tightening around her pencil. “Yeah, I’m trying to finish the storyboard this weekend. It’s harder than I thought.”

Felix tilted his head. “Still the subway ghosts?”

“Yeah. I keep changing their faces. I don’t know why.”

“They don’t want to be remembered wrong,” Minho said absently, not looking up from his screen. “Or maybe you don’t.”

The table went quiet for a breath too long. Mirae didn’t answer. She just looked back down at her notes and at the flowers roughly drawn in the margins.

Chan cleared his throat lightly, trying to steer the air back toward something lighter. “She showed me a draft last week. It’s really good. There’s this one scene where the ghost touches someone’s shoulder and they flinch like they felt it but don’t know why.”

Felix grinned. “Ooh, spooky.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” Mirae said, almost too soft to hear. “It’s supposed to hurt.”

Hyunjin looked up. “That sounds lonely.”

Mirae gave a small shrug, not trusting herself to speak. She caught Chan looking at her again. Not in the loud way — not the centre-of-the-room kind of attention he gave the others. Just a glance, brief and unreadable, like he was trying to solve a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was offering.

Jisung, either oblivious or merciful, cut the tension with a loud groan. “I swear, if I have to look at another page of psych flashcards, I’m going to throw myself out the window.”

Seungmin didn’t look up. “We’re on the ground floor.”

“I’ll build a second floor just to throw myself off it.”

Laughter erupted around the table. Even Mirae smiled.

But it was strange, the way it echoed in her chest. Like hearing a joke from behind a wall — you know where to laugh, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach.

She watched Chan tuck a pen behind his ear, grinning as he teased Jisung for his dramatic tendencies. His voice was easy, his shoulders relaxed. He belonged here, rooted and whole.

And Mirae — she felt like a sketch someone had started but never finished. A placeholder with soft edges and fading lines. Part of the picture, but barely.

Her phone buzzed. A reminder for her animation deadline. She stared at the screen a little too long.

Ghosts, she’d said. They were stuck between worlds, trying to be remembered.

But what she hadn’t told them was that some ghosts were still alive.

Still breathing. Still sitting at library tables, laughing in the right places, waiting for something they couldn’t name.

Still haunted.

The study session eventually fizzled out the way they always did — with half-finished notes, drained drinks, and a chorus of yawns that no one admitted were mostly from boredom. Papers were strewn across the table like fallen leaves, highlighters uncapped and drying out. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a little too bright, like they too were overstaying their welcome.

Chan stood to stretch, shirt riding slightly as he reached his arms overhead. “Okay, my brain’s fried.”

“Same,” Jisung said, crumpling a worksheet and tossing it into his backpack without a second glance. “I give myself a 48-hour grace period before full academic collapse.”

“I give you 12,” Seungmin muttered.

Changbin slammed his textbook shut with dramatic flair. “You know the only reason I haven’t committed a federal crime this week?”

Everyone looked up.

He grinned. “Because of the karaoke room we booked for after finals.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the table.

“Oh my god, I forgot about that,” Felix laughed. “I’ve already got my playlist. Disney songs only.”

“You’ve had your playlist since midterms,” Seungmin said flatly.

Jeongin clapped his hands together. “Okay but we have to do the early 2000s medley again. Last time was iconic.”

Mirae smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pretended to reorganize her papers. No one had mentioned a party to her. No plans, no hints. Just like last time. And the time before that. And it was fine. She wasn’t part of their world, not really — just borrowed space in Chan’s orbit.

Still, it stung.

They weren’t excluding her on purpose. She told herself that. They probably thought she’d been told already. Or maybe… maybe they just didn’t think about it at all.

Then Minho looked up from where he was slipping his tablet into its case.

“We haven’t asked if Mirae’s free.”

The table stilled. Heads turned.

Mirae froze. “W-what?”

Minho shrugged like it was obvious. “For karaoke night. You’re coming, right?”

She stared at him. Then at the others.

Chan looked surprised — not guilty, just genuinely caught off guard. Jisung made a sound like he was about to say something, but didn’t. Hyunjin glanced away. Felix offered a sheepish smile, and Changbin suddenly found the floor very interesting.

Seungmin cleared his throat. “Yeah, I guess… if you’re free.”

Mirae’s voice came out small. “You… want me there?”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. So raw. So hopeful.

Minho blinked. “Of course.”

But it wasn’t “of course” – not really.

They hadn’t planned for her. The invitation was reactionary, like someone holding the door open only after they realized you were still standing outside. It wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t warm either. Not like how they invited each other — not with the assumption that they were already included.

Mirae nodded anyway, her smile locked in place like a button sewn too tight. “Sure. If you want me to.”

She didn’t ask what time. She didn’t ask where. No one filled in the blanks.

Chan rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… thought someone had told you.”

“It’s fine,” she said too quickly. “I’ve been kind of swamped lately. It probably just slipped through.”

Another silence. This one edged in awkwardness no one quite knew how to smooth over.

“Well,” Jisung said, standing with a forced grin, “I vote we not fail tomorrow.”

They laughed. The moment passed.

Across the table, Minho caught her eye. His expression was unreadable — not pitying, not surprised. Just quiet. Observant. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away.

Mirae offered him a grateful glance, small and fragile, and he nodded once like he understood something she hadn’t said out loud.

Later, when the group was gathering their things and joking about carpooling logistics, Mirae followed just a few steps behind. Still part of them.

But only just.

The exams were over. The air had shifted. Everyone breathed differently — lighter, louder. Even the sky looked different as the group stumbled into the rented karaoke room on Saturday night, faces flushed from cold air and caffeine withdrawals and just the sheer relief of done.

“Dibs on the first song!” Jisung shouted, practically lunging for the remote.

“No way,” Hyunjin argued, pulling him back by the hood of his sweatshirt. “I earned it. I haven’t slept in forty hours and I wrote my entire final essay in Comic Sans by accident.”

Jeongin was already flipping through the touchscreen song list, humming tunelessly. Felix threw himself into the couch cushions like he’d been shot. Someone turned the lights down — the room flickered with soft neon purples and saturated pinks, walls vibrating faintly from bass in the next room over.

Mirae hovered near the edge, fingers tucked into her sleeves.

She hadn’t even known she’d be coming until Minho texted her that morning: “Still on for tonight? 7pm. Don’t dress like it’s a funeral.”

No emoji. Just that. But she’d stared at it for five full minutes before replying with a quiet: “I’ll be there.”

“Don’t bail last minute.” Came the reply.

And she did show up, exchanged greetings, even gave a small smile towards Minho and made herself comfortable on the couch, trying not to think too hard about how Chan hadn’t looked at her once.

He was on the other side of the room, laughing with Seungmin and Changbin about something she couldn’t hear. His sleeves were rolled up and there was a fading pen mark on the inside of his wrist. A lyric, maybe.

She wondered if he still let her read them, or if that had stopped somewhere without her noticing.

“Why’re you pouting?” a voice murmured next to her.

Minho.

He’d dropped onto the cushion beside her, close enough for their knees to brush.

“I’m not,” she replied quickly.

“Sure,” he said, deadpan. “You just look like someone killed your cat and made you watch.”

She gave a reluctant, dry laugh. “That’s… oddly specific.”

He nudged her foot with his. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to sit here like the ghost of academic suffering. Come pick a song.”

Mirae hesitated. “I’m not really a singer.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “Please. Half of us can’t carry a tune if it had handles.”

Jeongin’s voice cracked mid-high note from the other side of the room, as if on cue. Someone (probably Seungmin) booed dramatically.

“Besides,” Minho continued, “you survived final exams and didn’t murder anyone. That alone deserves a celebration.”

She gave a half-smile. “Tempting. But only if you go first.”

Minho tilted his head. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He stood up — and a moment later, the screen lit up with the intro to some cheesy 90s pop ballad. It was terribly off-key. Overacted. Completely ridiculous.

And he sang it with the confidence of someone performing at a sold-out stadium.

Mirae laughed, the sound slipping out of her before she could catch it. When he looked at her mid-chorus and pointed like he was dedicating the bridge to her, she buried her face in her hands, shaking with quiet laughter.

The music faded, leaving behind a soft hum of static from the speakers. Minho sank back onto the couch, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple like he’d just finished a marathon rather than a two-minute power ballad.

“That,” Minho said breathlessly, reaching for a napkin to fan himself, “was artistry.”

Mirae snorted. “You missed half the words.”

“Interpretive performance,” Minho countered smoothly. “The point was emotional delivery. Which, I must say, you appreciated deeply.”

“I appreciated the cringe,” she shot back, though her cheeks were warm.

“You’re welcome.” He stretched his arms over the back of the couch, casual and smug. His fingers barely brushed the edge of her shoulder. “Now it’s your turn.”

She groaned softly, but the tension in her spine had eased without her noticing. The lights cast her in soft lilac, her face glowing faintly under the rotating disco bulb above.

“Pick something easy,” Minho said. “Something that doesn’t require breathing or pitch.”

Mirae rolled her eyes. “So… rap?”

“Exactly. Bonus points if it’s aggressively angry.”

Eventually, she chose a mellow indie track—low register, minimal high notes. Something she could whisper-sing her way through without the floor swallowing her whole. She held the mic tentatively like it might bite.

But Minho was right beside her, mouthing half the lyrics in exaggerated fashion, grinning at her whenever she faltered, like it was all a game and not something to get right.

And somehow, she made it through the entire song without her voice cracking or her knees giving out.

When she finished, applause broke out — genuine this time. Not just polite, but warm, surprised. Even Jisung whooped and tossed a pillow in the air like she’d just won something.

Minho leaned in, voice low. “Told you. Crushed it.”

She shook her head, grinning despite herself. “Why are you so annoying?”

“But correct.”

Mirae nudged him with her elbow. He nudged her back. A little harder. The second time, she nearly tipped over into him.

“You’re annoying and ridiculous,” she laughed, pulling herself upright again.

Minho tilted his head. “That’s not a no.”

Another song started — this time, it was Seungmin and Hyunjin attempting a dramatic duet. Mirae’s attention was tugged briefly toward the chaos on the other side of the room. And just like that, her eyes found Chan.

He was watching her.

Not smiling. Not scowling. Just… watching.

Their eyes met for a second too long, and her lungs forgot how to work. But before she could decipher the expression, he looked away again, turning toward the drinks table like nothing had happened.

Minho noticed. Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he leaned in a little closer, arm brushing hers again. “Wanna pick the next one together?”

She looked at him. Really looked at him. The way the neon lights caught the edges of his jaw. The quiet ease he brought into every space he stepped into — especially hers.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s do that.”

And the night unravelled in bursts of sound and sugar.

Hyunjin attempted a rock anthem with a gummy bear clenched between his teeth like a cigarette. Jisung, cheeks puffed with jellybeans, threw himself dramatically into every chorus like it was a Broadway audition. Changbin was sprawled across two chairs, belting out a ballad with one hand on his chest and the other clutching an empty soda can like it was wine. Someone (probably Seungmin) had turned the mic reverb up to an absurd level, so every song echoed like it was being performed in a cathedral.

By the time Mirae glanced at her phone, it was almost midnight.

“I should go,” she said, pushing herself upright. “Last train’s soon.”

Instantly, Minho sat up straighter. “You want someone to come with—”

“I’ll walk her,” said a voice from across the room.

Mirae froze.

So did Minho, who turned his head slowly.

Chan was standing near the drinks table, one hand on a bottle of sparkling soda, the other half-raised like he hadn’t meant to speak but couldn’t stop himself.

It was the first time he’d spoken to her all night.

She blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His voice was steady, unreadable. “Just to the station.”

A pause thickened the air. Felix, mid-Red Velvet chorus, glanced between them with faint surprise. Jisung’s mouth opened and closed like he was about to say something, but wisely thought better of it.

Mirae’s throat felt tight. She couldn’t decide if it was nerves or confusion.

Still, she nodded.

Minho didn’t say anything, just leaned back again and looked away, lips pressed into a line.

Chan grabbed his jacket from the hook, walking over. He wasn’t looking at her quite yet — but he stood close enough that his presence filled the space around her like static.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

She nodded again, said her goodbyes and stepped out into the hallway with him, away from the lights, the laughter, the too-sweet sugar haze.

And as the door clicked shut behind them, the silence stretched like string pulled taut.

She cleared her throat, softly. “You didn’t have to…”

“I know.”

They walked side by side down the hall and out into the biting winter air. For a while, neither of them spoke. The city buzzed faintly around them — neon signs humming, cars sliding past in waves of light.

And then: “You smiled a lot tonight.”

She blinked. “You were watching?”

He gave a small smile. “Not at first. Then… yeah. So, Minho’s a good friend?”

Mirae tilted her head. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” He paused. “Just an observation.”

She exhaled a laugh, the sound misting in the air. “You’re weird.”

“You’re weirder.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Their footsteps echoed across the quiet sidewalk. A streetlamp flickered as they passed underneath it. The silence that fell next wasn’t heavy — not anymore. It was comfortable, strange in its softness.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Chan said after a moment.

“Tonight?”

“In general.”

Mirae stopped walking. Chan did too, a step ahead of her, then turned.

Her voice was quiet. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing,” he said.

She looked at him — really looked. He had that expression again. The one that wavered between wanting to stay and wanting to disappear.

“You didn’t use to think that hard before.”

“I miss those days.”

Mirae’s heart kicked, traitorous and loud in her chest.

“Me too,” she whispered.

They stood like that. Under the last streetlight before the stairs. The station entrance yawned open just ahead, blinking with fluorescent exhaustion.

Chan stepped closer.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said softly.

“I think that’s okay,” Mirae replied. “Neither do I.”

He laughed, barely.

And then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed. Or dramatic. Or lit by fireworks and string music. It was slow — almost hesitant. His hand brushed the side of her face, and then he kissed her, gentle and unsure and entirely too human.

Her breath caught.

And she kissed him back.

wassup bitches (pls don’t cancel me i mean it in the most loving emotionally constipated way possible <3) this one is my baby, okay?? like. the kind i carried in my Notes app for months and then birthed into existence in one sleep-deprived spiral. it’s got ghosts, karaoke disasters, unresolved tension, and a girl who feels like a whisper in her own life. it’s soft, a little sore, and very very close to my heart. and if you’ve ever felt like the side character in your own story — mirae gets it. she really does. so pls. comment down below. reblog it. scream in the tags. whisper to it under your breath at 2am. give it all the love you can muster. i practically poured my entire chest cavity in this. also if you like messy emotions and the idol world and are new here, go check out my other fic UNPLUGGED (the iseul one!! the 9th member! the angst! the yogurt lore!!) see you in the next part x — candy \(￣︶￣*\)) (also my stupid ass almost forgot to mention this but the dividers r from the lovely @hyuneskkami)

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XX: 3 A.M. Talks

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

TIME PASSED IN A WAY that made no sense.

Iseul didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t cry. Just sat curled in the dark with her forehead pressed to her knees, as the silence wrapped itself tighter and tighter around her.

The daylight outside faded slowly. Softly. Like the sun was afraid to disturb her.

And she stayed exactly where she was, long after the sky turned purple, then black. Long after the dorm fell quiet. Long after the last voice died down and the weight of her own thoughts became the only thing she could hear.

Her fingers had stopped trembling. But only because they’d gone numb.

Her chest ached in a strange, echoing way — like it was full of too much air and not enough breath.

Her stomach twisted painfully.

But she didn’t move.

Every time she thought she might stand, might crawl out, might breathe — a new thought would worm its way in.

They’re disappointed in you. You ruined everything.

They’ll never trust you again.

You don’t deserve any of this.

And so she stayed.

Trapped in her own head.

And somehow, weirdly aware of it. Of how loud the thoughts were. How relentless. Like background noise cranked up to full volume — static and self-loathing and dread on loop.

It had to be late. The kind of late that felt unreal.

Even the dorm felt different — heavier in the quiet, like it too was holding its breath.

At some point, her eyes flicked toward the digital clock near her bed.

3:17 A.M.

She blinked.

It was the first real movement she’d made in hours.

Her throat suddenly throbbed.

Dry. Raw. Itchy.

It was as if the moment she let herself feel anything physical, her body caught up all at once.

A quiet cough forced its way out, scratching her throat. She grimaced.

And then — very slowly, very carefully — she pulled herself up.

Her legs were stiff. The blanket tangled around her ankles. Her shoulders screamed from being hunched so long. But she moved anyway.

The room was pitch-black, but the hallway beyond was worse — ghost quiet. She opened her door in slow motion, wincing at every tiny creak.

Nothing.

No lights.

No sounds.

The dorm was asleep.

Everyone had given up on her. Gone to bed. And even though part of her felt some awful shame at that… she was grateful too.

At least this way she didn’t have to face them.

She took a step and promptly tripped over something soft and cold.

The plastic bag crinkled under her foot.

She caught herself against the wall with a sharp inhale, heart lurching.

She looked down.

The yogurt.

The same bag Jeongin had bought for her hours ago, the one Felix set down gently beside her door. The strawberry one had burst slightly, a sticky little smear across the floor.

She stared at it.

And then everything hit her all at once.

Her chest caved in.

She had to slap a hand over her mouth to stop the sob from escaping.

This. This was what she’d done. This mess. This silence. These people tiptoeing around her with kindness she didn’t deserve.

She stepped over it quickly, blinking hard.

No tears. Not now.

She walked the rest of the way to the kitchen like a ghost. Each step silent. Careful. Like the walls themselves might wake up and judge her.

And just as she stepped past the corner — ready to fill a glass of water and disappear again — she froze.

Because someone was already there.

Hyunjin.

Sitting on the counter like he belonged there, one knee bent, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, phone in one of them, the dimmed screen light throwing white over his face.

He didn’t jump. Didn’t startle.

Just looked up at her with an expression that was so normal, so unbothered, it was jarring.

“…Took you long enough,” he said quietly.

She stared at him like he wasn’t real.

He tilted his head slightly. “I was beginning to think you actually died in there.”

Iseul opened her mouth, then closed it. She cleared her throat. “Why are you—?”

“Do you want some ramen?” he cut in smoothly, hopping off the counter and opening the cabinet. “I’m starving. I’m assume you would be too. Lix and Innie bought the spicy ones.”

A small pause. “Your favourite right?”

Something about the way he said it — so casual, like she didn’t throw a bloody tantrum earlier— made her feel like the floor was tipping sideways. She wasn’t sure what startled her more — his presence, or the calmness in his voice. No judgement. No anger. Just… him. Like he was talking to her on any other day.

“Hwang,” she whispered, throat still raw. “Why are you being nice to me?”

He didn’t look at her right away. Just reached for the ramen packets, his movements steady, unbothered.

And then softly: “Don’t call me Hwang.”

“Huh?”

He shrugged, not turning around. “I hate it when my friends call me Hwang.”

Silence.

Iseul’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled against her palms.

Friends.

The word landed somewhere deep in her chest — unexpected, too heavy for how gently he’d said it.

Hyunjin didn’t seem to notice the way she’d stilled. He was too focused on tearing open the packets, humming quietly to himself, like he hadn’t just casually flipped her world sideways.

“Friends?” Iseul croaked.

He finally glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow. “Are we not?”

The question hung between them like a thread.

“We live together, work together…” He paused to toss the noodles into the pot. “Tolerate each other’s presence every day.”

Another pause. He glanced at her again — softer this time.

“And right now,” he said, “we’re about to eat ramen together at 3 A.M.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Because that’s what friends do.”

Iseul didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her tongue felt heavy. Her throat ached again — but not from thirst this time. It was something else. Something messier. Something that scraped against the inside of her chest and made her feel like she was about to crumble again.

Friends.

Her brain clung to the word like it didn’t know what to do with it.

Her? After everything? After snapping, after pushing them all away, after sitting for hours in the dark like a coward — now he wanted to call her a friend?

She stared at him.

At the way he tapped his fingers idly against the stove. At the way the blue flame reflected in his eyes. At how calm he looked, even now — like this wasn’t bizarre, like this wasn’t undeserved.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t get to pretend everything’s okay just because he does. You ruined it. You broke it.

But then… another voice, quieter, cut through.

Why is he here then? Why did he wait?

Her eyes burned.

He hadn’t dragged her out or demanded an apology. He had just simply waited. And offered her food. And said the word “friends” like it wasn’t a mistake.

Maybe he was faking it.

Maybe this was pity.

Maybe he was trying to be kind for the sake of the group, because someone had to, and Chan probably made him.

But then — why the ramen?

Why her favourite?

Why wait out here, alone, until 3 A.M., instead of going to bed like the others?

Why say friends in that quiet, casual way, like it was obvious?

“Iseul?”

Hyunjin’s voice was gentler now. Like he’d noticed her spiralling. Like he was trying not to scare her off.

She flinched.

“Sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I just— I don’t think I know how to be that right now.”

“Be what?”

“A friend,” she choked out.

The words hung there, bare and ugly.

“I messed everything up,” she said, eyes glued to the floor. “Everyone was already walking on eggshells because of me, and then I made it worse. I— I threw a phone. I yelled at Chan oppa. I—I made it about me. Again. I made them feel like—like they had to fix me or something.”

Her chest felt too tight. Her lungs didn’t work right.

“And now you’re standing here making me ramen like it’s normal— like I’m normal, and I don’t— I don’t understand.”

There was silence.

Not awkward. Not cruel. Just… patient.

And then: the faint clink of chopsticks being pulled from the drawer.

“Well,” Hyunjin said, “you’re not wrong.”

Her head snapped up.

“You did all that. And yeah, it was kinda dramatic.”

She blinked, stunned.

“But,” he continued, setting two bowls down, “That wasn’t the worst meltdown I’ve ever seen in this dorm.”

Her lips parted.

“I once watched Lee Know hyung scream into a rice cooker because he forgot to plug it in,” Hyunjin added, placing the noodles into the pot. “And Lixie nearly cried when he stepped on a cockroach. Don’t even get me started on I.N-ah when he couldn’t find his favourite socks. Once, Changbin hyung threw a chair during Mario Kart, and no one exiled him.””

A soundless breath of disbelief escaped her.

He glanced at her, expression unreadable. “You had a breakdown. That doesn’t make you impossible. Or broken. Or… whatever story you’ve been telling yourself in there.” He nodded vaguely toward her room.

Iseul’s lip trembled.

“Besides,” he added, his voice dipping just slightly. “You never really made it about you. You were just finally honest about how much it hurt.”

She stared at him. The guilt still clawed at her ribs — but it was quiet now. Not gone, but… quiet.

“…Hyunjin.”

It was the first time she’d said it.

His name. Not Hwang. Not something cautious and cold. Just Hyunjin.

He froze.

Only for a moment — the barest pause, like a skipped frame — but it was enough.

His head tilted slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.

There was something different in his expression now. The casual coolness he’d worn like armour was… off. A little cracked at the edges.

Was it surprise? Embarrassment?

His ears were a little pink.

“…What?” he asked, softer this time, the word catching on his breath.

But Iseul didn’t notice.

She was too wrapped up in her own spiral to catch the way his fingers fumbled slightly on the lid, or the way he didn’t quite meet her eyes after that.

Because inside her head, everything was still churning. Her guilt. Her doubt. Her confusion. The tiny, aching seed of hope that maybe — just maybe — she hadn’t destroyed everything beyond repair.

She lowered her gaze. “Thank you.”

Soft. Honest.

A beat of silence passed between them — not tense, but tentative. Like standing at the edge of something neither of them had the words for.

Then Hyunjin spoke again, quieter now, but certain.

“You should talk to Chan hyung.”

Iseul blinked, looking up.

A pause. And then she nodded slowly. “Tomorrow. It’s… late right now.”

Hyunjin scoffed lightly — not mocking, just matter-of-fact — as he poured the ramen into bowls.

“You do realize none of us are asleep. Least of all him.”

He handed her a bowl. Their fingers brushed.

“Eat first,” he said gently. “Then go to him.”

The bowl in her hands was warm — almost too warm — and she hadn’t realized how cold her fingers were until now. The steam hit her face, stinging her tired eyes, and she blinked fast.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything. Just turned, grabbed his own bowl, and plopped back onto the counter like this was routine. Like this — the two of them, eating ramen at 3:30 a.m. under the dim kitchen light — was nothing unusual.

Iseul hovered awkwardly for a second before sliding onto a stool across from him.

She took a bite. The heat burned her tongue a little, but the spice jolted her senses awake. Her stomach, dead for hours, practically sighed in relief.

Across from her, Hyunjin slurped a noodle with absolutely no grace.

Then he made a face. “Ugh, what is so awesome about this spicy ramen you like? It tastes like hell.”

Iseul blinked at him over her bowl. Her voice was still hoarse but steadier, “Your taste in food is diabolical.”

Hyunjin gasped in mock offence and then quickly retaliated, “It’s funny coming from a yogurt-hoarding gremlin.”

Her spoon paused halfway to her mouth.

He’d said it so casually. Like it was a normal thing. Like it was her thing.

Gremlin.

It wasn’t the first time, she realized. He’d called her that last week when she emerged from her room at 2 p.m. with bed hair and was given a heart attack when she walked into the livestream. And again, during the Christmas party.

And now — again. Like it had become second nature.

Her ears warmed.

He had a nickname for her.

A stupid one. A ridiculous one. But his voice had softened slightly when he said it, hadn’t it?

No. No, it was just Hyunjin being Hyunjin.

Still. Her chest did a strange little flutter that made her want to hurl her ramen out the window and sprint back to her room.

She coughed into her bowl to cover the heat rising to her cheeks. “That’s slander,” she muttered, too late, too quiet.

Hyunjin raised a brow, already halfway into his next bite. “Don’t act innocent. You literally tackled Seungmin that day.”

“He deserved it-”

She cut herself off, suddenly hyper-aware of how easy this was. How the tension had dissolved like steam from their bowls, and how she didn’t feel like a burden or a disappointment in this moment. Just Iseul. Just someone sharing late-night ramen with a boy who, apparently, called her gremlin now.

She dropped her gaze, biting back a smile.

Hyunjin didn’t notice — or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He just kept eating, legs swinging gently off the counter, still talking. About Jeongin trying to do laundry and somehow shrinking three of Chan’s hoodies. About Felix’s failed attempt to bake banana bread in the dorm microwave. About the time Minho threatened to disown all of them because someone left an open jam jar in the fridge and it “contaminated the vibe.”

He didn’t expect her to respond. He didn’t demand anything of her. He just… talked. Like he did with the others.

And Iseul let herself listen as they finished eating slowly, like neither of them wanted to be the first to stand. But eventually, Hyunjin rose, stretched a little, and wordlessly began clearing the table.

Iseul stood up too, taking the bowls from him before he could stop her.

They washed the dishes side by side, clumsy in their coordination — bumping elbows, swapping places, dripping water across the counter. And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t hard.

It just was.

Once the last dish was done and the lights dimmed back down, Hyunjin didn’t say anything.

He just turned toward the hallway.

And Iseul, without thinking, followed.

It wasn’t until they stopped in front of Chan’s room that she realized what was happening.

Her feet stopped moving.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at her — eyes calm, hands in his pockets.

Then, with no warning, he gently nudged her forward with his elbow.

Iseul stiffened. “What—?”

“Go,” he said, voice low but not unkind. “You’ll feel better.”

She stared at the door. At the dark sliver of wood between her and everything she’d been running from all day.

Her heart thudded in her ears.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

Hyunjin sighed. “You can. You’re just scared.”

“I—”

“And that’s fine,” he cut in, still gentle. “Be scared. But go anyway.”

She looked at him, something desperate in her eyes. “What if he doesn’t want to hear it?”

Hyunjin gave a small, lopsided smile.

“Then he’ll say so. But he will. He always does.”

She turned back to the door.

Her knuckles hovered above the wood. Not knocking. Just… hovering.

Behind her, Hyunjin took a step back, giving her space. She didn’t see the way he looked at her then — quiet, unreadable, and maybe just a little too soft for someone pretending he didn’t care as much as he did.

Iseul was still staring at the door. Still weighing guilt against hope. Fear against the memory of Chan’s voice telling her she belonged.

And then, finally — just barely — she knocked.

“Chan oppa?” She asked, voice brittle, “Are you still up?”

She heard some shuffling of feet and mutters behind the door and before Iseul could change her mind, the door creaked open.

Chan appeared, a black beanie sporting on his head, face bare. The shadows around his eyes made Iseul’s chest clench. He looked… older. Not in the literal sense — but worn. Like someone who’d been carrying too much for too long.

“Iseul?” he said, voice quiet.

She swallowed. “I—”

She didn’t even get the words out before movement behind him caught her eye.

In the low dorm light, she could make out two suspiciously still figures behind him — one lying on the bottom bunk, the other propped up against a pillow — both attempting to look asleep.

They were failing spectacularly.

Han was blatantly squinting through half-lidded eyes, phone still lit in his lap like a night lamp. Changbin had a blanket thrown haphazardly over his head… with a whole half of his face still visible under it.

Neither of them said anything. Neither of them moved.

They were absolutely eavesdropping.

Chan glanced behind him with a tired sigh. “You two are the worst at pretending.”

Han shut his eyes immediately.

Changbin made a weird snorting sound, as if trying to fake a snore, then muttered, “Respectfully, I’m asleep.”

Iseul blinked at them — bewildered, caught between guilt and… a sudden, strange relief. Like she’d opened the door expecting an execution, and instead found this.

Chan turned back to her, one hand resting against the frame.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice softening now. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t know how to answer that.

She just looked at him — his tired eyes, his furrowed brow, the way he didn’t seem mad at all. Just concerned. Deeply, achingly concerned. The kind of tired worry that settles in your bones and stays there.

She glanced at Hyunjin beside her. He didn’t say anything. Just gave her the faintest nod — like she already knew what to do.

She turned back to Chan, throat dry.

“I…” she tried again, then stopped. Her fingers curled into her sleeves. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you earlier.”

The words came out rough, half-cracked — like they’d scraped their way up from somewhere buried deep.

Chan didn’t react right away. He just looked at her for a long moment, unreadable.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

“You were upset,” he said, simply. “You had every right to be.”

“No,” she shook her head, “Not like that. I— I said things I didn’t mean. I just— I was overwhelmed, and tired, and angry, and I didn’t know where to put any of it, and you were there, and I—”

“Iseul.”

His voice cut through her spiral, low but steady.

She stopped.

Chan took a step forward. “It’s alright.”

She blinked, eyes stinging. “No, it’s not. I made you feel worse. You’ve done so much for me and I just—God, I’m so fucking sorry, Channie oppa, I’m so sorry.”

“You’re human,” he said, almost too gently. “Not a trainee. Not a member. Not a perfect idol. Just a person. And people mess up. That doesn’t erase everything else.”

Her breath hitched.

And behind Chan, Han whispered not-so-quietly, “Why is this making me emotional? Is this what personal growth feels like?”

“Shut up,” Changbin whispered back, audibly sniffling.

Chan gave them a sideways glance but didn’t comment. Instead, he turned to Iseul again, gaze soft.

“I was never mad at you,” he said. “Just… worried.”

Something inside her cracked at that. She pressed her sleeves harder into her palms.

“Hyunjin told me to come,” she murmured, like she needed to admit it. “I don’t think I would’ve, otherwise.”

Chan smiled faintly as he glanced at Hyunjin. “Yeah, that’s Hyunjin for you.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to hear it, that you hate me now.”

“Of course your overthinking ass did.” He paused, then added, “I’m sorry too.”

Iseul froze.

Chan’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, more a self-deprecating curl of his mouth.

“I should’ve seen it earlier. I should’ve known you were reaching your limit. I didn’t mean to push you so hard, Iseul. I thought I was helping, but—” he let out a soft breath — “maybe I just made things harder.”

She shook her head immediately, eyes wide. “No, you didn’t. Don’t say that.”

“Iseul—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Her voice cracked again. “None of this is your fault. You were just— you were just trying to lead. To keep us all afloat. And I—I lashed out because I didn’t know how else to keep myself from falling apart.”

“I should’ve checked in,” he murmured. “I should’ve noticed how much pressure you were under.”

“You did notice,” she insisted, blinking too fast now. “You were always there. You always asked. I just— I kept saying I was fine. Because if I said I wasn’t, I thought I’d break. And I didn’t want to be the weak link, not again, not when you were all finally trying to accept me.”

Her vision blurred.

Her voice wobbled.

And without even realizing it, the tears started to fall.

Soft. Silent. Salty streaks down her cheeks that she didn’t even try to stop.

Not until Han gasped loudly from the bed, as if someone had shot him. “Oh no, she’s crying. I’m gonna cry.”

Changbin hissed under his breath, “Shut up, shut up—”

“I can’t! My tear ducts are connected to my empathy centre—!”

“God, just bury your face, you emotional sponge—!”

Chan’s hand touched her shoulder — warm and grounding.

“Hey,” he said gently, brushing a thumb beneath her eye before she could flinch. “You’re allowed to cry, okay?”

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, laughing shakily through the tears. “I just—”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing. I told you. I was never mad at you. Just worried.”

She looked up at him then — truly looked — and saw it in his face. The quiet, bone-deep worry that had nothing to do with performance or mistakes or fights. It was the kind of worry that only came from care.

Beside her, Hyunjin shifted, arms still crossed over his chest — but his expression was softer than before. Less guarded. He wasn’t looking at her now. He was looking at Chan, a small, unreadable twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Iseul sniffled. Wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt. “This is so embarrassing.”

“No, what’s embarrassing is Han trying to cover his sobs with the blanket and failing.”

A loud sniff from under said blanket.

“I’m not crying,” Han said thickly. “I have conjunctivitis.”

“That's not even contagious this way—”

Changbin groaned. “Can we just all admit we're emotionally invested and move on?”

Hyunjin snorted softly. “They’re hopeless.”

Chan rolled his eyes but it didn’t stop him from pulling Iseul into a hug. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t the kind of hug people give when they’re trying to erase everything all at once.

It was just warm. Steady. Real.

Iseul’s breath hitched as her forehead pressed to his shoulder.

“On the positive side, you didn’t run away from us this time.” Chan said quietly, “You stayed and you showed us you were upset. That counts as something.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just nodded — once, twice — against his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soaking up the last of her tears.

Chan gave her arms one last squeeze, then stepped back slightly, offering a tired smile. “You should sleep; you’ve had a long day.”

Iseul nodded, but it was slow. Hesitant. Her arms stayed wrapped around herself, sleeves tugged down over her hands. She wasn’t crying anymore, but her eyes were still glassy — fragile in the way a cracked porcelain plate is fragile. Like one wrong shift could split everything again.

She didn’t move.

Chan tilted his head. “Iseul?”

She swallowed. And then, barely audible — like the words had to crawl their way out of her throat — she whispered, “I don’t… want to be alone tonight. Not anymore.”

It was barely a request. Not quite a plea. Just a truth, quiet and unguarded, hanging there between them like something fragile.

Chan’s eyes flickered, but his expression stayed unreadable — the kind of quiet that said he was weighing more than just words.

Behind him, Han went dead silent. Even Changbin stopped sniffling.

For a moment, there was only stillness.

And then Chan stepped back fully, “Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin glanced up, brows raised. He still hadn’t uncrossed his arms. Still hadn’t moved from his spot by the wall.

“Can you make her some space?” Chan asked. “She can take your bunk for tonight.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hyunjin sighed through his nose. “You’re lucky I’m too soft for this.”

Still, he turned and padded down the hallway without complaint, muttering something about the couch and his bad life choices.

Chan stepped aside, holding the door open. Iseul hesitated, eyes flickering between him and the dimly lit room — the boys inside pretending not to be listening, the blanket on Hyunjin’s bed still rumpled.

Iseul stood there for a second longer.

Then, slowly, she stepped into the room.

Han immediately let out a dramatic sigh and shoved his face into his pillow. “This is so tender I’m getting hives.”

Changbin flung a rolled-up sock at him.

Chan shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching. Then he turned back to Iseul and said gently, “Try to rest. You’re safe here.”

She nodded again. Her eyes lingered on him, then flickered to the bed. She still looked overwhelmed, but there was a new kind of quiet in her expression — the kind that came after the storm had passed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Chan didn’t reply right away. He just gave her one last look — warm, steady — and pulled the door closed behind him.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkami, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @skzfangirl143, @eridanuswave, @enhacolor, @vixensss, @river121798

STORY HINT: The next morning, Iseul wakes up to find all eight boys crowding her room like a swarm of overgrown toddlers. Jeongin, normally allergic to affection, is clinging to her like a koala. Seungmin and Minho take exactly three seconds to start bullying her for snoring “like a stressed-out hamster.” Hyunjin, offended that Jeongin willingly cuddles her, says something stupid that actually makes her laugh—and then stares at her like he just discovered air. Chan watches it all with narrowed eyes.

oh hello wassup didn't figure i would post another chapter so soon huh? well guess i was feeling generous tdy hehe moreover we have hit 20 chapter in this fic and it feels surreal..like wdym i haven't quitted this fic already (lol touchwood dont wanna jinx it) as always i love to read ur comments so don't hold back stay safe! ~candy \(￣︶￣*\))

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XIX: Pretty & Polished

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE MOMENT THE HOST GAVE THE closing line — “We’ve been with Stray Kids, and this was StarZone!” — and the studio lights dipped into soft standby, everyone exhaled. Smiles faded. Postures slumped. The masks peeled off without anyone having to say a word.

Iseul’s jaw ached.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been clenching it until now.

Staff began buzzing again, wrapping up cables, thanking the team, offering water bottles and quick nods of appreciation. Somewhere behind her, Felix cracked his neck with a dramatic groan and muttered, “I aged six years during that.”

“Same,” Seungmin deadpanned, already halfway out of his mic pack.

Chan stood a beat later than the others. He rolled his shoulders, pulled out his earpiece, and handed it to a nearby staff member with a tired smile — then turned to Iseul.

She was still seated, perfectly upright, her hands clenched around the edges of her chair like she was afraid she’d fall through it. Her expression was… pleasant. Too pleasant.

Chan approached slowly, crouching just a little to meet her eye level.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You did well.”

Iseul blinked like she hadn’t heard the question.

Then she nodded. Her expression didn’t change — not annoyed, not angry. Just... tired.

“I didn’t mean to sound harsh earlier,” Chan continued, scratching the back of his neck. “It was just... you know how they twist things in post. I didn’t want your words getting taken the wrong way.”

Another nod. Once. Twice. Maybe more than necessary.

“I get it,” she said. “I know you were just looking out.”

Her voice was calm. Too calm. She even smiled.

Chan chuckled gently, filling the silence before it got awkward. “And the bit where Seungmin cracked that joke about me being a ‘grandpa leader’? Your timing was perfect. That little laugh of yours saved it from sounding like an actual roast.”

Iseul gave a soft laugh — more of an exhale with a melody.

Chan’s smile lingered.

For a second, he felt like maybe — maybe — things were okay between them again.

She was nodding. She was smiling. She wasn’t flinching.

That had to count for something, right?

“I know today probably felt like a lot,” he added after a pause, straightening up and offering his hand to help her up. “But you handled it better than most people would. You should be proud of yourself.”

Iseul took his hand, let him pull her up.

“Thanks, oppa,” she said.

Chan breathed a little easier, patted her shoulder like it was all behind them. “Glad we’re good.”

But they weren’t.

Not exactly.

The rest of the group had already shuffled toward the backstage — some laughing, some dragging their feet, some halfway into a heated debate over where they’d left their jackets.

Chan walked ahead too, chatting with the manager about next week’s schedule.

Iseul followed.

But not closely.

She walked with purpose, like she knew exactly where she was going. And maybe she did — as long as forward meant away. Her fingers curled around her phone like it might anchor her, like it might distract her from how her stomach still twisted from that too-bright spotlight, from all the praise she hadn’t earned, from all the ways Chan kept looking at her like she was okay.

She wasn’t mad at him.

That was the worst part.

Chan was kind. He cared. He said all the right things, and he meant them.

But it didn’t matter.

Because right now, kindness just felt like pressure in prettier packaging.

She caught her reflection in a mirror as they passed.

Still flawless.

Still smiling.

Still pretending.

The interview aired barely a day later — faster than any of their usual promotions. Maybe it was strategy. Maybe desperation. Either way, the company didn’t waste time pushing out the new narrative.

The sooner the fans accepted it, the sooner the noise would quiet down.

She sat curled up on the corner of the dorm couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a half-eaten tangerine resting on the armrest beside her. The others were scattered across the room, half-lounging, half-dozing, still dressed in their practice clothes.

It was Changbin who spotted the notification first.

“Oh hey,” he said, mouth full of chips. “StarZone interview just dropped.”

“Already?” Seungmin frowned. “Didn’t we just film it yesterday?”

“Quick PR turnaround,” Chan muttered, pulling out his phone. “They’re really on their redemption arc grind.”

“Play it,” Han said, already pulling a blanket over his legs. “Let’s see if they edited out my genius impression of Minho.”

Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t protest.

Chan opened the link on the living room TV, casting the YouTube page with a few taps. The intro music blared, and the familiar studio set flickered to life on screen. Nine smiles. Nine waves. The perfect picture of unity.

Iseul stayed silent.

From the couch, she could feel the moment her own face appeared on screen. Hair done. Makeup glowing. That pink gloss again. That dumb pun Felix had cracked about dorm laundry or whatever. She didn’t remember the setup — only the cue. Her laugh had landed exactly where the editors wanted it. The group’s laughter echoing around her like she’d always been part of it.

Her stomach twisted.

It was like watching a stranger wear her skin.

The boys had already pulled out their phones, reading the comments aloud and laughing at the ridiculous ones.

“Yo, someone said Minho blinked like a cat during Chan’s speech.”

“Someone called Iseul ‘the calm Chan’ — wait, that’s kind of a serve.”

“They said we look like a Netflix ensemble cast now. Not wrong.”

Iseul pulled her knees to her chest.

On screen, she was laughing again. That moment in the middle — Seungmin’s roast, her little giggle, the perfectly timed reaction shot. Cut. Edit. Zoom. Caption: “She fits right in!”

“People are loving you, noona,” Jeongin beamed from the floor, phone tilted up. “Look at this — ‘She’s so natural with the guys, I forgot she was new.’”

Another voice read out: “‘Omg Iseul is such a comfort member. Her laugh is EVERYTHING.’”

Comfort. Natural. Everything.

She wanted to be grateful. Wanted to believe it.

But instead, she just felt some sort of ugly anger blooming inside her chest.

Because none of it felt real.

None of those fans had seen her gasping for breath in the bathroom between takes. None of them had heard the strained way she said “thank you” after the manager reminded her — again — to talk less and smile more. They didn’t know what her laugh sounded like when it wasn’t scheduled. They didn’t know her.

They liked this version of her.

The polished, palatable, media-trained version. The girl who laughed at the right time and didn’t say too much. Who sat in the middle because PR told her to. Who didn’t flinch when the boys reached over her to grab mics or make jokes that skimmed the edge of discomfort.

They liked a story.

And she was the plot device.

Her hoodie sleeves were damp. She didn’t remember when she started gripping them so tightly.

“You okay?” Felix asked from the other end of the couch, but his voice barely broke through the rising fuzz in her ears.

Iseul blinked.

Nodded.

Swallowed.

On screen, the host threw in a final question — “So what’s next for Stray Kids?” — and Chan started answering with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. The camera panned wide. Everyone was smiling. Iseul included.

Except she wasn’t smiling now.

The screen glowed brighter than it needed to. The volume buzzed even at a low setting. Her own voice filled the room — polished, pretty, professional.

She wanted to scream — just once, loud and ugly.

She didn’t feel polished. Or pretty. Or professional.

She felt fake. And so, so tired of pretending.

“Iseul-ah,” Hyunjin said gently, this time closer. He was watching her more than the screen now. “You sure you’re okay?”

She didn’t respond.

The phone was still in her hand. Still open to the YouTube page. The comments kept flooding in, little dopamine bombs, all praise and warmth — for a version of her she didn’t even recognize.

All for someone who didn’t exist.

“I didn’t know she was this funny??”  “I was skeptical at first but she actually fits so well with them omg.” “The way Chan smiled when she talked?? He's proud and I get it.”

Without warning, Iseul’s hand moved.

She picked up her phone from her lap — and flung it.

The phone flew across the room and smacked against the wall with a startling thud, landing screen-first on the floor.

Everyone froze.

Changbin scrambled to pause the video.

A breath caught in someone’s throat. Felix’s, maybe.

Iseul didn’t say anything. She didn’t flinch.

Not at the sound. Not at the silence that followed.

“Okay,” Seungmin said slowly, eyebrows raised. “That’s one way to log out of YouTube.”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared at the paused image on the screen — her face caught mid-smile, eyes crinkled at the edges. It looked natural. Genuine.

She hated it.

She just stood up slowly, jaw tight, and muttered, “I’m going to my room.”

Jeongin made a small motion, like he was about to get up too — but Minho subtly stopped him with a hand on the shoulder and Iseul didn’t bother saying anything as she moved towards her room.

The silence she left behind felt heavier than the thud of her phone against the wall.

No one moved for a second. The paused frame on the TV glared back at them: Iseul’s face frozen mid-laugh, like some cruel parody of the expression she’d been fighting to maintain.

Han was the first to shift, sitting up straighter under the blanket.

“Well that happened,” Han finally said, scratching the back of his neck. ““Sooo... I’m just gonna assume she didn’t throw her phone because of my Lee Know hyung's impression?”

No one laughed.

Changbin gave him a flat look and muttered, “Han, now is not the time.”

Han threw his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to—”

“Don’t.”

It wasn’t angry. Just tired.

Han shut his mouth.

Across the room, Seungmin sat forward, elbows on his knees. He wasn’t saying anything, but his gaze was sharp, flickering between the paused video and the corner where Iseul had been curled up.

Jeongin stood abruptly. “I’m getting ramen.”

Felix blinked. “What?”

“She looked tired. She always wants spicy ramen when she’s tired.” Jeongin was already halfway to the kitchen, grabbing his wallet and muttering under his breath. “And yogurt. She likes that weird passionfruit one. The one that smells like shampoo.”

“I’m coming with you,” Felix said, hopping up, voice resolute. “We’ll get the XL pack. And strawberry. Just in case.”

The two were halfway to the door before anyone else moved.

“They know that won’t fix it, right?” Seungmin said after a beat, voice quieter now.

“They know,” Minho replied, rubbing his jaw. “But it makes them feel useful.”

No one argued.

Changbin stood awkwardly by the coffee table, glancing between the empty hallway and the shattered silence Iseul had left behind. “She didn’t even yell,” he said. “I’ve seen her yell at her phone for autocorrect changing ‘ah’ to ‘shark,’ but this time… nothing.”

“Her yelling would’ve been easier,” Chan said quietly.

Everyone looked at him.

He was still sitting on the floor, elbows on his knees, hands clasped — like if he held still enough, maybe he could rewind the past few hours. Like if he focused hard enough, maybe the moment would make sense.

Because now that the fog of it all was lifting — the fake laughs, the tension in her shoulders, the way she hadn’t made eye contact once since the studio wrapped — it all seemed obvious.

He’d known it the moment her smile didn’t reach her eyes earlier. When she laughed on cue, but her voice was quieter than usual. When she said “I get it” but didn’t look him in the eye.

When he tried to comfort her — to smooth it over like always — and she let him.

That was the worst part.

She let him.

No pushback. No sarcasm. No glare. Just that perfect, media-ready smile and a soft “thanks, oppa.”

It was all a performance. And he’d accepted it like a fool. Like that meant things were okay.

He rubbed his face with both hands, leaning forward, suddenly exhausted. “I shouldn’t have said anything about the PR edits,” he muttered. “She was already nervous. I just made it worse.”

“You were trying to protect her,” Minho replied. “Doesn’t mean you did it right. But I get it.”

“She looked at me like she was trying to pass an exam,” Chan said quietly. “Not like someone whom she could trust.”

The words hung in the air.

And then — like a thread being tugged — Chan felt it.

A stare.

From across the room, Hyunjin hadn’t said a word. He sat on the floor near the couch, legs crossed, eyes locked on Chan like he’d been watching him unravel in real time.

Because of course he knew. He’d been right beside them during the interview – close enough to catch Iseul’s clenched fists in her lap, the sharp inhale when she swallowed her voice, the way she sat so still, as if any movement would shatter her mask.

Chan met Hyunjin’s gaze.

And Hyunjin didn’t look away. If anything, he leaned in slightly — like he wanted to say something but knew the words would be too late now.

There was no blame in his eyes. No accusation. Just a quiet sort of knowing. A “you saw it too” kind of stare. Like he’d been holding onto the same dread since yesterday — except unlike Chan, he hadn’t tried to fix it with empty reassurances.

Chan looked down again.

Maybe that’s where he went wrong.

He stood, moved to pick up her phone — the screen cracked, like something vital had finally splintered. He didn’t look up as he said, “I’ll go check on her.”

The silence in her room was too loud.

It pressed in from every direction — heavy, thick, almost humming with judgment. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see what she would do next.

Iseul sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around them. The glow from her desk lamp cast a soft circle of light around her, but the rest of the room felt dim. Muted. Like even the air was holding its breath.

She didn’t know what came over her when she threw her phone.

But it was ugly and it was true and it eased the tightening around her chest a bit.

Unfortunately that sense of comfort was only temporary.

The panic came slow, like a tide creeping up her spine. She hadn’t realized it until her hands were trembling. Until the room felt just a little too warm. Until her thoughts started racing in circles.

Why did you smile?

Why didn’t you say anything?

Why didn’t anyone stop it?

No, worse—

Why didn’t they notice?

Her breath caught.

She blinked, trying to stop the sting behind her eyes. Not again. She wasn’t going to cry again. Not after everything. Not when the part of her that still cared was already stretched thin, brittle from being bent for too long.

There was a knock at the door.

She flinched.

Another pause, and then —

“Iseul?”

Chan.

Of course it was him.

She didn’t answer.

“I’m coming in.”

The door creaked open and Chan stepped into the room, careful, hesitant, like he was stepping into something sacred — or fragile.

Iseul didn’t look at him.

He stayed near the door. “Your phone’s busted,” he said softly, holding it out with both hands. “Might still work if we—”

“Just leave it.”

His hands paused mid-air. He lowered them. “Okay.”

Silence again.

She felt him staring, and it made her skin itch.

He exhaled through his nose and sat slowly on the floor near her bed, close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd. “Iseul,” he said carefully, “what happened out there—”

“You know what happened.”

Her voice came out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t apologize.

Chan didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I do.”

More silence.

Then Iseul scoffed, bitter. “Did you come in here to make sure I don’t cry in front of the group? Or is this another PR damage control talk?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Chan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re going through? I’m trying—”

“No. You’re managing me.” She turned to look at him, eyes hard. “There’s a difference.”

He went still.

“Y’know what the managers tell me? They tell me what to say, when to smile, when to pull back because the fans ‘aren’t ready for me.’ But that’s expected from them. What really hurts is that you – you – watch me get ripped apart online and tell me not to look. You talk like you’re protecting me, but you never ask me what I want. You just expect me to go along with it because I should be grateful.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The words cracked in her throat. “You treat me like a PR problem you have to fix. Not like a person. Not like someone who—who’s trying so fucking hard just to keep up with the rest of you.”

She wasn’t yelling. But her voice shook.

And that hurt worse.

Chan rubbed his face with both hands, like he was trying to steady himself. “You think I don’t care about you?”

“I think you care about the version of me that doesn’t make things complicated.”

“Iseul—”

“I’m not your burden to carry, oppa.”

“I never said you were!”

“But you act like it.”

Her voice cracked then, just barely — but it was enough. The lump in her throat was impossible to ignore now. The tears were right there, hot and furious.

She didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not now.

Not when it would look like weakness instead of what it really was — exhaustion.

He stood, suddenly looking older than before, jaw tight. “I came in here because I care. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to say the right thing, but—”

“No, you just said the easy thing.”

Chan stared at her.

Then slowly, he nodded.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “You don’t want me here right now.”

He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle.

But he didn’t look back.

Just said, “I’ll be out there when you do.”

He

And Iseul sat perfectly still.

The tears didn’t fall yet. But they would. Eventually.

The door clicked shut behind Chan, but the sound reverberated like a gunshot through the dorm.

He stepped out into the hallway, shoulders taut, jaw clenched — and didn’t get three steps before the boys were on him.

“Hyung?” Han stood up sharply.

“What happened?” Changbin asked at the same time, trying to read his face.

“Is she okay?” Seungmin voice cracked slightly, fingers tightening around the sleeves of his hoodie.

But Chan didn’t pause. Didn’t explain. Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Just kept walking until he disappeared into the room he shared with the rest of 3RACHA and Hyunjin, the door shutting behind him with a quiet but absolute finality.

Minho’s curse came seconds later, vicious and loud.

“Fucking hell,” he snapped, throwing his arms out. “Will both of them quit being goddamn two-year-olds and deal with the damn problem already?!”

Nobody corrected him. No one told him to quiet down.

Because it wasn’t just rage in his voice. It was helplessness. Frustration. The kind that came from loving people who didn’t know how to stop hurting.

Seungmin sighed — the long, exhausted kind that came from holding up a dam that had already cracked. He sank back into the couch with a dead-eyed stare. “I’m done,” he said flatly. “She wants to sulk, he wants to mope, and apparently we’re just here to… I don’t know. Orbit around their misery like idiot satellites.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Changbin shot back, turning on him, voice rising. “You think this is about sulking? She’s breaking down in there, and you’re sitting here acting like it’s beneath you to care.”

“I do care!” Seungmin snapped. “But what do you want me to do? Bang down her door and drag her out?”

“Yes, if that’s what it takes!”

“Oh, that’ll fix everything. Great plan, hyung.”

Before Changbin could say anything too drastic to take back, Han cut in. “Boys. By all means, please, continue yelling. I think the neighbours three floors down didn’t hear you yet.”

“Shut up, Han,” both of them snapped at once.

Han lifted his hands innocently. “Just saying. If we’re gonna implode, might as well do it dramatically.”

Seungmin rubbed his temples. Changbin paced furiously in a tiny loop like he wanted to punch the wall but was too controlled to actually do it. Minho looked ready to throw something or someone through a wall — preferably Chan, if he had his pick.

And then, from the corner, Hyunjin stood up.

No warning. No dramatic sigh. Just quietly moved from the couch, padded down the hallway, and slipped into the same room Chan had vanished into moments ago.

“Where are you going?” Minho asked, voice sharp.

“Someone has to talk to him,” Hyunjin muttered. “And you clearly shouldn’t.”

Minho cursed again — loud and creative.

“Sure. Great. Just go in there and play therapist while we rot out here.”

Hyunjin didn’t respond.

The door clicked shut behind him too and the dorm fell into uneasy silence.

Until the front door opened, and Felix and Jeongin stepped in, arms full of plastic bags.

“Hey, we got everything—” Felix began, then froze when he saw their faces. “Wait. Did something happen?”

“Did she come out?” Jeongin asked quickly, already heading toward Iseul’s door. “Did anyone talk to her?”

Seungmin shook his head. “Chan tried. Didn’t end well.”

Felix’s face fell. Jeongin looked down at the yogurt in his hands like it had failed him personally.

He didn’t give up.

He stood outside Iseul’s door and knocked gently. “Noona? It’s me. I got the yogurt you like — the passionfruit one. And the strawberry one, too. Lix hyung even got the XL ramen, the spicy ones…”

No response.

“Come on,” he pleaded, voice trembling slightly. “Please just open the door. You don’t even have to talk. Just… just don’t hide.”

Nothing.

“I don’t like when you’re sad. It makes everyone weird.” His voice cracked. “It makes me weird.”

Still nothing.

Felix stepped in then, placing a comforting hand on Jeongin’s back before kneeling in front of the door.

“Iseul,” he said softly. “We know you’re upset. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain anything right now. But… we’re here. All of us. Whenever you’re ready.”

On the other side of the door, she heard every word.

The soft knock. The tremble in Jeongin’s voice. The familiar warmth in Felix’s.

It hurt.

It hurt so much she thought she might choke on it.

Then came Seungmin.

“Alright, fine,” he said, louder now. “If you don’t open this door, I will post those ugly pictures I took of you last week. The one with your hair sticking out like a cactus and that neon green sheet mask—yeah, that one.”

No reaction.

“Y/N,” Minho barked, tired and impatient, “open the fucking door. I swear, if you make me do some emotional shit, I’ll pretend to cry so hard you’ll start comforting me.”

Still nothing.

Jeongin looked like he might cry for real.

Changbin exhaled and rolled his shoulders like he was warming up for something serious.

“…Is he about to sing?” Han asked, amused and horrified.

A beat of silence.

Then — in a tragic falsetto — “I love you baBBYYYYY AND IF IT’S QUITE ALRIGHT-”

Han’s snort echoed off the hallway walls.

“Hyung, no—please, you are going to get us evicted.”

Still no sound.

Felix set the yogurt down beside the door.

And then, with a soft sigh, he leaned forward and rested his forehead against it. “Iseul-ah, come out when you’re hungry, yeah? You don’t even have to talk to us but please don’t starve to death.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

None of them did.

They just sat down near the hallway, some leaning against walls, others quietly checking their phones or staring at nothing, waiting in their own way

Inside the room, Iseul heard everything.

The knocks. The voices. The jokes, the threats, the warmth behind all of it.

And she didn’t move.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, fists clenched tight in the blanket pooled around her.

They were trying so hard.

And all she was doing was hiding. Making it worse. Hurting people who’d done nothing but try to help.

The anger that had surged through her — the fury at being seen, at being pitied — had evaporated the moment Chan walked out and closed the door behind him. She’d expected to feel satisfied, powerful even, like she’d claimed space for herself for once.

But instead, guilt settled in her chest like a stone. Guilt and something darker curling low.

Shame.

Her hands trembled.

She hadn’t meant to lash out. Not really. But now they were all bleeding for her anger — carrying it like it was their own. Arguing, worrying, breaking apart because she didn’t know how to say “I’m scared.”

And worse than the guilt — worse than the ache — was the sick, selfish voice in her head that whispered that she was right. That she had every reason to feel the way she did. That they didn’t see her, didn’t really understand how hard this was.

But another part — the louder one — wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Wanted to go back in time. To un-throw the phone. To un-snap at Chan. To undo everything.

Because they didn’t deserve that.

Not Minho with his threats. Not Seungmin with his smug, cursed photos. Not Jeongin’s yogurt bag or Felix’s quiet efforts to cheer her up. Nor Changbin’s wrong notes or Han’s stupid jokes.

And definitely not Chan.

She hated it. Hated that bitter little thought more than anything else. Because it wasn’t fair. They were hurting too. They were victims too. Just trying their best, same as her.

But she needed someone to blame.

She needed it not to be her fault.

She pressed her palms hard against her eyes, like she could shut the thoughts out. Like she could force herself to stop unraveling.

But the guilt was too loud now – flooding her until it felt hard to breathe.

She wanted to go out there. Fall to her knees and beg them all to forgive her. To tell them she hadn’t meant it. That she was just tired and scared and needed someone to blame.

But if she stepped out now, she wasn’t sure if she’d cry or scream.

And worse — she wasn’t sure if she deserved their comfort.

So Iseul stayed there, curled up in the dark, drowning in her thoughts.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkami, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @skzfangirl143, @eridanuswave, @enhacolor

Hey! Sorry no story hint this time - this chapter was kinda rushed lol Comment down below what u thought abt this haha oh ALSO i wanna do smtg for hitting 200 followers so pls pls pls fill my inbox w requests and I'll try to write them out hahaha also attached below is a snippet of the new story im kinda working on - its gonna be small only 2 to 3 parts cause i dont have the courage nor energy to commit to another series apart from UNPLUGGED, so yea comment if yer interested and i'll add u in the taglist once i drop it hehe (ik ik self promotion but eh girls gotta do what girls do)

(It's non!idolchanxbsf!femoc and full blown angst sorta btw 👀) anw stay safe! ~candy \(￣︶￣*\))

[chaosandcandies]

Really enjoying your skz ninth member series!! I feel like the efforts of the talented writers on this site go under-appreciated more often than not so I thought I’d pop in and commend your contribution this community!! Hope u stay well - all the best xxx

gosh yer so sweet I'll legit cry hello?! like i nvr expected my writing get sm love and support and genuinely speaking it has only encouraged me to write more knowing that there r ppl out there who enjoy my work and it gives me sm motivation to continue the fic when there r days i js wanna quit it so thank you so so so much for making me feel this happy and all (gosh im gettin sappy bahhhaha) love yall! ~candy \(￣︶￣*\))

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XVIII: Anddd Cut!

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

EVERYONE AROUND ISEUL BUSTLED with an energy she couldn’t bring herself to match. Styling tools buzzed. Coats rustled. Staff whispered through headsets, voices sharp and clipped. But all Iseul could hear was the steady thud of her own heartbeat, loud and uneven, pulsing beneath her ribs.

She sat motionless, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her reflection stared back at her from the makeup mirror — flawless foundation, styled-but-casual updo, pink lips that didn’t feel like hers. Not a single crack showing.

Except for the flicker in her eyes.

“Three minutes, everyone,” someone called out.

Chan gave a quick nod without looking up from the iPad he’d been glued to for the last twenty minutes. His foot tapped nonstop against the floor — a steady, nervous rhythm that never seemed to break.

On the couch beside her, Felix was hunched over his phone, quietly scrolling through memes. Han talked too fast about absolutely nothing, his hands moving as if to fill the space his words couldn’t. Minho lay half-curled at the other end, a hand over his head like a blanket against the room’s static. Changbin bit into a granola bar with a loud crunch and wordlessly offered her the second half.

She shook her head.

“You’re going to do fine,” he mumbled through the bite, like it was fact — not reassurance.

Iseul didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Hyunjin sat on the arm of the couch, sketching something with a focus Iseul envied. At some point, he looked up.

Their eyes met.

He smiled — small, quiet. Something between comforting and encouraging. It only made her chest tighten as her pulse picked up like a warning drumbeat.

There was a time, not long ago, when just making eye contact with Hyunjin made her want to scream.

Not from nerves — not at first. From frustration. From the sharp sting of how easily he’d kept his distance. The way he flinched around her in those early days like guilt was something contagious. How coldness had settled between them not like frost, but like silence — and silence always hurt more when it came from someone who knew how to speak.

But then came that night. His apology. Quiet. Unpolished. Real.

Something shifted after that.

It wasn’t forgiveness — not entirely. But it broke something open. The tension between them wasn’t pure frostbite anymore. It became something she couldn’t name. He stopped avoiding her gaze. She stopped flinching at his presence. They weren’t friends, not really. Not yet. But sometimes she caught him looking at her like he was trying to read a page he’d already memorized — hoping it had changed since last time.

And that look, the one he gave her now — soft, subtle, careful — that look messed with her more than the silence ever did.

She turned away first.

The nerves returned immediately, curling cold fingers around her spine.

This wasn’t a normal shoot. It was their first group interview since she’d debuted — since she’d been made official. The company had been careful with the wording. ‘Part of the family.’ ‘New chapter.’ ‘Stronger than ever.’ She’d been told what would be asked. Coached on what to say. Again and again.

Her eyes landed on the iPad resting on Chan’s lap, the notes still pulled up. She knew what they said. Had read them again and again until the words blurred. She’d practiced in front of the mirror. Soft tone. Smile on this beat. Inflect here. Laugh, if it fits.

A script disguised as sincerity.

She hadn’t realized how heavy it would feel until now — the weight of being prepared. Of being positioned.

No one had told her exactly what to say. Not in so many words. But the meaning was clear. Say the right things. The clean things. The kind that fit the story everyone was trying so hard to sell.

She blinked back at her reflection.

No cracks showing.

Just the flicker.

The set was deceptively warm.

Soft lights glowed from overhead panels, carefully arranged banners with the group’s logo fluttered in the gentle breeze of the studio’s air conditioning. There were two rows of chairs arranged in a soft semi-circle. Casual, friendly. Cozy, even.

It felt like a trap.

“Alright, everyone,” the PD clapped gently. “We’re going with a seated layout today — natural vibes, playful energy. Just take your spots and we’ll mic you up.”

It wasn’t surprising when the boys moved easily, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Felix and Seungmin headed straight for the far right, settling into their usual seats with quiet familiarity. Jeongin lingered left, eventually flopping down beside Changbin, who claimed his spot like his name was etched into the cushion. Han and Minho drifted to the curve, heads already tipped together in a private joke that didn’t need words.

Hyunjin hovered.

His gaze flicked toward the centre chair — the only one untouched — then to Iseul.

And took the seat just off to the left.

One space away. Close. But not centre.

They’d left it for her. Not out of malice — obviously. It wasn’t intentional, probably. Just habit. Just… unspoken awareness.

Still, it made her stomach clench.

The centre meant spotlight. It was where PR had said she needed to be. “She’s part of this now.” “Equal.” “Right in the middle of it all.”

Except she didn’t feel like she was in the middle of anything. She felt like the fragile thread stitching two torn halves together — stretched tight. Barely holding.

One of the assistant PDs glanced at her, then at the empty chair. Expectant.

So she moved.

Crossed the floor like it was a ledge. Sat in the seat that felt too bright, too exposed, every light aimed straight through her skin.

Her hands folded in her lap again, gripping tighter now, like white-knuckled stillness could count as composure.

Chan took the seat to her right last. He was the only one who hadn’t chosen his spot immediately — the only one who waited.

As he sat down, she heard his whisper, low and barely audible under the buzz of last-minute camera checks:

“You’ve got this.”

She didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.

Just breathed, hoping it wouldn’t shake as the cameras started to roll.

The lights dimmed for a beat, then flared back up in a soft glow and just like that, the room changed.

Smiles surfaced. Postures straightened. Someone behind the camera gave a thumbs-up as a red light blinked to life above the lens.

The host, a bright-faced MC with an easy smile and clipboard in hand, leaned forward. “Annyeonghaseyo! Welcome back to another special sit-down with StarZone! Today we’ve got the one and only Stray Kids with us — and not just eight, but nine!”

A round of cheers and polite applause followed, most of it from the staff as the group did their usual greeting with Chan leading.

The host continued, “So! This is your first full-group variety shoot since Iseul’s official debut. How’s OT9 feeling?”

“Like we never left,” Chan replied smoothly, flashing his dimple.

Minho snorted. “Speak for yourself. I had more personal space before.”

Laughter rippled through the room, and Minho didn’t even bother to hide the smirk tugging at his mouth. Han threw a betrayed hand over his chest.

“Hyung, that’s rude. Are you saying you don’t love us?”

“I love silence,” Minho deadpanned.

More laughter. Even the host chuckled. “I see nothing’s changed with Lee Know-ssi.”

“It really hasn’t,” Chan added, leaning forward. “He still ignores 80% of my existence unless I bring snacks.”

“Stop spreading rumours,” Minho said calmly. “I ignore 100%.”

Seungmin nodded solemnly beside him. “Confirmed.”

It was playful, the way they all knew how to be. Familiar rhythms, teasing layered with affection. Even the staff in the back were smiling.

Behind Iseul, Felix tilted his mic toward his chin. “But really, it’s been good. The energy feels fresh, but also… like home, you know?”

The host hummed, glancing at her clipboard. “And what about you, Iseul-ssi? You’re the newest piece to this chaotic puzzle. How’s life as a Stray Kid treating you?”

Iseul blinked at the sudden spotlight but gave the answer she’d practiced, voice clear and even. “It’s been a challenge — a good one. I’m still learning, but the members have been incredibly supportive.”

A few of the boys nodded politely, Changbin offering a quick “You’re doing great,” while Jeongin smiled at her — soft, earnest.

But there was a shift. Slight. Quick. Like someone took a breath at the wrong time.

Iseul felt it more than saw it — a tightening in the air. A glance that didn’t linger. A silence that wasn’t quite empty.

Before it could settle, the MC spoke again. “Well, I think everyone agrees you’ve brought something special to the group. Especially after that viral moment last week — talk about a debut!”

Before Iseul could respond, Han leaned forward dramatically, cutting in with a grin. “Right? First performance and she’s already got fan edits with slow-mo zoom-ins and sparkles. I’ve never been so jealous.”

“You were already jealous when Chan hyung gave her your lines,” Seungmin deadpanned.

Han waved him off. “That’s unrelated and deeply personal.”

Laughter spread through the room, easy and familiar.

The MC laughed, clearly enjoying the dynamic. “Well, it’s safe to say your fans are loving the new energy! That moment when you—” she mimed yanking out an earpiece, “—just ripped it? So fierce. What was going through your head?”

Iseul hesitated. This wasn’t one of the pre-approved questions.

Next to her, Chan tensed just slightly — a shift in his posture only she could’ve noticed.

She smiled, polite. “Honestly… I couldn’t hear myself at all. It was either that or crack a high note on live TV. So… survival instincts kicked in.”

A round of laughs broke out — from the boys, the crew, even a cameraman off to the side.

Pride flickered in Chan’s expression, quiet and proud.

And just like that, something eased. A little.

She hadn’t messed it up.

Not yet.

The MC nodded brightly as she glanced down at her cue cards. “Actually, that ties perfectly into a fan-submitted question for Iseul-ssi. How was preparing for your first live stage? I think a lot of fans were curious — what was going through your mind leading up to that performance?”

Iseul blinked once, caught off guard by how gently the question was phrased.

And how everyone was waiting.

Not just the MC. The boys, too — looking at her now. Some openly, like Felix with his ever-present encouragement shining clear in his eyes, and some more guarded, like Hyunjin, whose gaze flickered to her and then back down.

She let out a quiet breath, her voice steadier this time. “Honestly… terrifying.”

A small chuckle escaped her, surprising even herself.

“I mean, it wasn’t just the nerves. It was everything — pressure, expectations, trying not to let anyone down. After all it was my debut performance. I knew people would compare me to what came before, or question if I deserved to be on that stage. But the members helped a lot. They didn’t let me spiral too far. And honestly, I couldn’t have done this without them.”

For a moment, no one said anything.

Not because they didn’t have words — but because none of them wanted to ruin the weight of hers.

The usual impulse to joke, to tease, to deflect with laughter… it didn’t come.

Instead, the silence settled like a soft exhale across the group.

Smiles grew wider and they all nodded eagerly, eyes gleaming with pride and appreciation.

Then Minho clapped once, loudly. “Okay, that was way too heartfelt for this early in the interview.”

“That’s because you have no heart,” Hyunjin said, without looking up.

“I have three,” Minho shot back. “Two for drama, one for snacks.”

The MC laughed, turning to the rest of the group. “It’s really clear how much support there is between you all. That actually leads into another question — who helped Iseul the most backstage before her debut?”

“Oh,” Iseul said, eyes widening slightly, “That’s hard.”

Immediately, a chorus of fake coughs erupted.

“Say my name,” Han whispered dramatically.

“Don’t lie on camera,” Minho advised her flatly.

Felix grinned, leaning forward. “I feel like we all took turns.”

“She’s just afraid to say it was me,” Changbin muttered.

Iseul glanced around at the teasing smiles, a small laugh slipping out despite herself. “Honestly, it felt like everyone was helping in their own way. I just can’t choose one.”

The MC chuckled, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Fair enough — teamwork makes the dream work, right? Let’s move on to next question.”

From then onwards, Iseul felt herself settling into a rhythm with others. The interview didn’t feel as daunting now – not when it was filled with laughter, teasing, and shared glances that made everything feel just a little lighter.

So, when the host asked the next question, it didn’t really faze Iseul.

“One thing fans have been wondering a lot — and forgive me if this is too direct — but joining a group as established as Stray Kids must have been intense. Especially considering the… circumstances.” A pause. “Was there any resentment? And how did the members react?”

It was the kind of question that sliced right through the fluff.

But by now, Iseul had found her footing.

Her back didn’t straighten. Her smile didn’t falter. If anything, her shoulders relaxed just slightly — like she welcomed the honesty. Like she’d been waiting to say it.

She met the MC’s gaze and answered, calm and clear.

“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard. Stray Kids had a very defined dynamic before I came in. There were expectations, habits — a whole rhythm that existed without me. And yeah, I knew fans were skeptical. Some still are. That’s fair.”

She glanced around the circle. Not challenging. Not accusing. Just… truthful.

“And I think… in some ways, even the members needed time. Not because they weren’t kind — they were. But because I hadn’t earned my place yet. I was just someone filling a gap at first. And no one wants to feel like a replacement.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the good kind this time.

Not warm. Not contemplative.

Tense.

Behind the cameras, something shifted — movement. Quiet whispers. The PD stood up, one hand already in the air.

“Alright,” he called out, his voice cutting through the moment. “Let’s pause there. Quick five. Makeup check, camera reset — we had a flicker on Cam B.”

Everyone blinked.

The boys relaxed in their chairs, stretching, murmuring to each other. A stylist appeared beside Iseul almost immediately, dabbing under her eyes, brushing through her fringe.

She didn’t think much of it. Her mind was still lingering in that last answer, wondering if she’d gone too deep — but it didn’t feel wrong. It felt real. And for the first time, she hadn’t felt like she was pretending.

That was, until Chan leaned over.

Quiet. Careful.

But his words felt heavier than anything the cameras had captured.

“Hey,” he said, too gently. “You were just being honest, I know. But the way it came out — it hinted at tension. Like we weren’t welcoming. And that’s not what we’re going for right now.”

Iseul froze.

It wasn’t harsh. Not cruel. Not even cold.

But it stung.

Because it was Chan. The one person she thought would always back her when she told the truth. The one who said, “You’ve got this.” The one who waited for her to take her seat.

Her throat closed up before she could respond. No words. Just a nod. Small. Stiff. Her pulse roared in her ears.

By the time the PD called “back to one,” she still hadn’t moved.

The MC adjusted her mic. The boys reset themselves with familiar ease. Everyone knew their places. The red light blinked again.

“We will pick up from the previous question again,” the PD explained, “There was some glitch in the footage.”

The MC nodded, all smooth professionalism. When the camera rolled, she asked the question again.

And this time, Iseul smiled.

It didn’t reach her eyes.

But her voice was smooth, not a waver in it — the voice of someone who’d learned exactly what the world wanted to hear.

“The members made me feel like family from the beginning. I was scared, but they never once made me feel like I didn’t belong.”

A beat of silence followed.

It wasn’t long — barely a second — but it was too long for something so neat. Too long for something so obviously edited for comfort.

Felix, ever the glue, jumped in first. He smiled warmly, nodding like her words had settled something inside him. “She really did fit right in.”

Jeongin followed, eyes flicking dutifully to the camera. “We were excited. Still are.”

Changbin leaned back in his chair, arms crossed with casual ease. “Honestly, she was better at adjusting than some of us were at welcoming.”

It was smooth. Controlled. A group used to covering cracks without a trace.

But Chan didn’t speak.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile.

His jaw locked — not in frustration, not in annoyance. In guilt.

He stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a line too firm to be neutral. His fingers curled slightly on his thigh, as if physically holding himself back from doing something — saying something.

Beside Iseul, Hyunjin’s reaction was quieter but no less revealing.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she began speaking.

His brows had drawn together, just slightly, the way they did when something didn’t sit right. When something didn’t match. And now, his head turned — just a little — to look at her more directly.

She looked perfect. Poised. Media-trained.

And she looked wrong.

Hyunjin’s gaze dropped to her hands in her lap — still clasped tightly together, knuckles white. Then back to her face. The smile that didn’t touch her eyes. The faint tremble in her breath when she finished the sentence.

He didn’t say anything.

The host carried on, breezy and bright, either unaware of the tension or unwilling to poke at the seams that had just been stitched shut.

“That’s so lovely to hear,” she said brightly. “It really shows how strong your bond is already. Stray Kids, fighting!”

More forced smiles. The camera panned to Han, who — ever the lifesaver — jumped in with a dramatic cheer and flailed into a clumsy high-five with Felix that ended in mutual slapping.

Laughter bubbled up. Scattered. Just enough.

Iseul smiled, too.

She even laughed, lightly.

But something in her had gone still. Frozen behind the mask she hadn’t realized she’d worn so well.

Chan glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

She didn’t meet it.

She didn’t move.

And suddenly, the studio felt cold. Artificial.

The host she’d begun to feel comfortable with was just another performance. The crew behind the cameras — their eyes, their murmurs, the way they scribbled down notes — were not documenting her story. They were dissecting it. Shaping it. Flattening it to fit their own narrative.

And for the first time in her life, Iseul had the overwhelming urge to throw up.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkami, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @skzfangirl143, @eridanuswave

STORY HINT: One rare day off, when the whole dorm was lazily sprawled around, Iseul suddenly felt the unmistakable cramps of her period. Too tired to get up and too honest to hide it, she called out to Chan without hesitation and asked him to grab some pads for her from the convenience store. Without a second thought or an ounce of embarrassment, Chan immediately got up and went straight to help her, a small smile on his face. In that simple, quiet moment, he realized just how much Iseul trusted him—not just as a fellow member, but like a caring older brother she could rely on anytime, no matter what.

Hey yall! How r we feeling ahaha Personally, I'm freaking out BECAUSE WE JUST HIT 200 FOLLOWERS HBVDSHDBSHJBHD omg thank you so so so much, yall r the true ones 😭 i truly, honestly love each one of yall and i just cant put it in words how happy i am rn i also very sorry that i havent been able to post so frequently (ur girl just took on an internship so yea life's happening) but i hope u enjoyed this chapter! also i have this another ff brewing in my mind which i may pen down soon so cheers to that bahah and did yall see the knew SKZCODE? its so hilarious like seungmin is such a big of a cheater that skz had to dedicate whole 2 episodes for him openly cheating - like they r so done with him 😭 and idk why but im OBSESSED with svt's thunder like if u hadnt streamed it yet what r u doing here shoo! stay safee!! ~candy \(￣︶￣*\)) (yes i'll start using the hug emoticons again now)

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XVII: Merry Christmas?

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

WHEN ISEUL WAS ADDED TO the Stray Kids group chat, it didn’t take long for her to gather that it was quite useless. And it took even lesser time to mute the group.

It wasn’t a big deal, she was only missing out on Han’s cursed memes, Felix’s bizarre TikToks, and the group’s constant arguments over the tiniest things. Besides, Chan or her manager always DM’d her the important stuff anyway.

Except they didn’t today.

Even words couldn’t describe her surprise when she walked into the dorm overflowing with people after a particularly exhausting vocal practice. And not just any people, but members of GOT7, TWICE, and ITZY, the very idols she had looked up to back when she was a trainee.

At first, she thought she was hallucinating. Maybe she had finally lost it, cracked under the pressure of the debut. Because why the hell would Jackson, Yugyeom and Jinyoung be sprawled in the living room, chatting with others as if it’s the most normal thing to do while Momo and Jihyo were cooing over Jeongin like he was a baby chick?

And why else would Yeji, Ryunjin and Hyunjin be mocking dance choreographies in the most hilariously stupid way?

And was that Bambam, Chan and Sana playing beer pong on the kitchen table?

It wasn’t until Changbin had pointed at her, laughing loudly at her expression, that she realised they were very much real.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

No, Iseul wanted to say. A ghost wouldn’t give me a jump scare like this. But her mouth refused to cooperate, caught somewhere between gaping and grimacing as her eyes darted from idol to idol in disbelief.

Everyone was here.

And not in the casual, ‘Oh, we bumped into each other in the hallway’ kind of way—but in the ‘we’ve-been-here-awhile, made-ourselves-comfortable, and-might-never-leave’ kind of way.

And then, as if choreographed, they all turned to look at her.

She froze. Her tote bag slipped from her shoulder, dangling by a thread, but she didn’t even notice. Every nerve in her body screamed in slow motion as she made eye contact with Jinyoung—who offered her a polite smile so powerful it might’ve stopped time.

She blinked. Okay. Stay calm. Be normal. Just act normal.

Somehow, her body remembered what to do before her brain did.

She bowed stiffly. “Annyeonghaseyo, sunbaenim.”

A chorus of voices responded all at once—some telling her to drop the formalities, others laughing and calling her cute. But only one voice truly landed.

Tzuyu gave her a soft, almost shy smile and said, “Merry Christmas, Iseul-ah.”

In that moment, if someone had shot her in the heart, Iseul would’ve accepted it gladly.

And then it hit her.

Christmas?

Her eyes flicked around the dorm again, this time taking in the fairy lights tangled between cabinets, the paper snowflakes taped haphazardly to the windows, the faint instrumental of Mariah Carey playing from someone’s phone. There was even a tiny, plastic tree standing proudly on top of the coffee table, decorated with ramen packet wrappers and a single sock.

Was she so exhausted that she forgot about Christmas?

She swallowed hard.

God, her parents were going to kill her.

She also noticed something else—her clothes. She was overwhelmingly underdressed in her plain hoodie and sweatpants, a stark contrast to the festive energy buzzing through the room. Everyone else was dressed up, some in bright reds and greens, others in cozy holiday sweaters, while she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed.

A flush crept up her neck.

Then, Chan squinted at her, a playful crease forming between his brows. “Wait, why does she look like that? Did no one tell her about the early Christmas party?”

There was a beat of silence.

And as if it was all planned, her members at once turned and pointed at Han.

Han looked up from his cup, blinking innocently. “What? I did tell her. I messaged her three days ago in the group—”

Minho, who was lounging on the floor with a cup of cider and absolutely no patience, didn’t even look up as he muttered, “She has muted the group chat, you dumbass.”

Han gawked, scandalized. “She what?”

“Can you blame her?” Seungmin chimed in dryly from the armrest beside him. “Half the time it’s just you sending memes of screaming frogs at 3AM.”

“They’re art, you uncultured swine,” Han pointed. “Plus, she sent a thumbs-up.”

“That was a reaction to Felix’s TikTok,” she snapped.

Felix looked like he was going to cry, “Who reacts to a TikTok with a thumbs-up?”

“It was the only acceptable reaction I could think of that wasn’t going to hurt your feelings.”

The room erupted into laughter. Even Ryujin, mid-mocking dance move, paused to clap.

Iseul blinked, her heart still pounding from the sudden influx of laughter and warmth filling the room. “Wait. So… it’s not actually Christmas?”

“Of course not,” Jeongin piped up from between Momo and Jihyo. “It’s an early Christmas party. We leave for year-end schedules soon, remember?”

And just like that, the knot in her chest unravelled. Her knees nearly buckled with the wave of relief that hit her. She hadn’t missed Christmas. Her parents weren’t going to disown her. She still had time to buy presents. And maybe sleep. Eventually.

“God,” she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. “I thought I’d actually time-travelled or something.”

Minho, still lounging with his cider, smirked. “What you need right now is a good, hot shower. Go freshen up quick before you pass out.”

Iseul nodded as she toed off her shoes, grateful for the no-nonsense vibe he always brought and shuffled towards her room muttering greetings, sorry-es, and I’ll be back soon to idols she had never imagined interacting with.

Gosh, she will never live this day down.

Iseul stepped out of her room feeling a bit more confident. The soft, oversized sweater she now wore was the same one she and Jeongin had picked out on their recent shopping trip—a cozy shade of cream with tiny embroidered stars that made her smile every time she caught a glimpse of it. She’d put on just a touch of makeup—nothing heavy, just enough to brighten her complexion and make her feel presentable.

Just as she was about to head into the living room, two familiar figures appeared in her path. Jeongin, somehow managing to wriggle free from the grip of Jihyo and Momo, grabbed her hand. Seungmin followed close behind, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“We’ve got snack duty,” Jeongin announced, tugging her toward the kitchen. “And you’re gonna do the work with us.”

Iseul barely hesitated—anything to delay mingling with the visiting idols was welcome. She let herself be led into the kitchen, grateful for the brief reprieve.

She busied herself by pouring chips into a bowl, the crinkle of the bag loud in the otherwise quiet space. Jeongin glanced down and pointed at her sweater. “Hey—that’s the one we bought together, right?”

Iseul nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Seungmin squinted at her face, then leaned in with a teasing grin. “And you’re actually wearing makeup.”

Her cheeks flushed instantly. “God forbid a girl tries to look good,” she shot back, a defensive edge to her voice. “Now, will you two stop your conspiracy theories and take out the drinks?”

They obeyed, but Jeongin remained suspicious. “You never act like this around us. It’s weird.”

Iseul rolled her eyes, “Oh, don’t be ridiculo-”

“-Don’t you get it Innie?” Seungmin cut her off and Iseul could practically feel the smirk in his tone, “Iseul here has a crush on Jackson hyung. Didn’t you see her making heart eyes at him earlier?”

Iseul froze mid-pour, the chip bag suspended in her hand.

Slowly, she turned to glare at Seungmin, scandalized. “I did not make heart eyes.”

“You did,” Seungmin insisted, unfazed and far too smug for someone who was about to get decked. “You literally smiled so wide, your cheeks nearly ate your eyes. I thought you were gonna cry when he said hi to you.”

Jeongin gasped dramatically. “Hyung, she only smiles at me like that when I bring her yogurt.”

Which was, ironically, the exact moment Iseul noticed the unmistakable sound of a yogurt lid being peeled open.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

She was trying to cut down anyway. Less sugar, less dairy, less everything if she wanted to maintain her weight. But something about the way Seungmin looked so casual—lounging against the counter like he hadn’t just obliterated the last bit of comfort food she’d been saving for herself—sent her blood pressure spiking.

“You’re dead to me,” she whispered, horror dawning on her face.

Seungmin just raised an eyebrow and had the audacity to take another spoonful. “Relax,” he said around a mouthful of yogurt, “you can buy a new one tomorrow.”

Why couldn’t this menace of a man understand that she was already on edge? Exhausted from her vocal coach’s endless nitpicking, ambushed by surprise guests, emotionally wrung out—and all she wanted was one tiny cup of yogurt to make the world feel manageable again.

“I can’t just buy a new one, Seungmin,” she seethed. “This was the strawberry Greek yogurt. The one with the bits. The one with the actual crunch on top. It’s a rare species.”

Seungmin blinked. “I thought it was peach.”

“It was not peach!”

“Honestly? Tasted like peach.”

“YOU DON’T EVEN APPRECIATE IT—!”

At that, Jeongin wisely ducked behind the fridge door like a shield. Iseul flung the empty chip bag at Seungmin’s head, which he dodged with an infuriatingly smug laugh.

“I’m serious!” she cried. “Do you know what today was like for me?! Do you know how many times I got told to open my throat and lift my soft palate and find my fucking resonance zone? Do you know how many Jackson Wang eye contacts I’ve survived?! I earned that yogurt!”

Seungmin was still spooning the last creamy swirls from the cup. “You’re really making a scene.”

“Oh, I will make a crime scene.”

Jeongin, half-panicked and half-thrilled, burst out from behind the fridge and ran back to the living room. “CHAN-HYUNG! EMERGENCY!”

“Tell him I died doing what I loved!” Seungmin shouted after him, holding the yogurt up like a trophy.

Iseul saw red.

With an unholy screech, she launched herself at him. He barely had time to react before she tackled him sideways into the cabinets, sending a half-empty pack of paper cups flying through the air.

“MY KNEE!” he yelled dramatically.

“MY YOGURT!”

They collapsed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, her trying to wrestle the spoon out of his hand, him laughing so hard he could barely defend himself.

“Give it back!” she shrieked, as though he hadn’t already eaten half of it.

“You can’t un-eat yogurt!” Seungmin laughed, somehow managing to twist out of her grip.

“Oh, you better!”

Iseul and Seungmin were already rolling around on the floor like deranged five-year-olds. She had him in a headlock, one hand trying to grab the yogurt cup while he flailed, still managing to shovel in another spoonful with a triumphant grin.

“You demon!” she shouted.

“You gremlin!” he countered, howling with laughter.

That was exactly the scene the rest of the party walked in on—Stray Kids, TWICE, GOT7 and ITZY alike, crowding the kitchen doorway in stunned silence.

Chan’s voice was hoarse, halfway between disbelief and fatherly resignation. “You were supposed to bring snacks. Not ruin them.”

Minho, entirely unbothered, sipped his cider. “Let them fight it out.”

“Are they… biting?” Yunah asked, half-laughing, half-horrified.

“I think she’s going for his kneecaps,” Jaebeom observed, eyes wide.

“Should we… do something?” Jihyo offered, already stepping forward to intervene.

But Changbin had doubled over, laughing into Hyunjin’s shoulder as Han was practically crying in the background. “This is the best party we’ve ever thrown.”

Felix clapped his hands, positively beaming. “We should livestream this!”

Meanwhile, Iseul had finally managed to wrestle the yogurt cup out of Seungmin’s hand—only to realize it was almost empty.

“You monster,” she hissed.

“You were cutting down on dairy anyway,” he wheezed, his hoodie half off his shoulder, hair sticking out in every direction. “I’m helping you!”

Iseul looked ready to commit murder.

But fortunately (or unfortunately), Chan finally stepped forward, exhaling a long breath as he knelt down and grabbed both Iseul and Seungmin by their shoulders, pulling them apart with surprising strength.

“Alright, enough!” His voice was firm but tired. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”

Iseul and Seungmin sat back on their knees, faces flushed and breathing hard. The sudden awareness of the crowd of idols packed into the kitchen hit them like a wave. Their eyes met, a mixture of embarrassment and stubborn defiance flickering between them.

Neither of them said a word.

“Are you going to explain or keep acting like children?” Chan asked, his voice losing patience.

Iseul opened her mouth, but Seungmin shook his head.

“Nope,” he said flatly.

“Yeah,” Iseul echoed. “It’s stupid.”

There was a beat. Then Hyunjin and Changbin exchanged amused glances, suppressing chuckles.

Minho stepped forward with a smirk. “Fine. Then I guess we’re going for the weakest link.”

He turned to Jeongin, who looked like he’d rather disappear into the floor.

“Jeongin, I swear to god, if you snitch—” Iseul began, narrowing her eyes.

“Innie, you don’t want everyone to see your browser history, now do you?” Minho interrupted smoothly, his grin turning mischievous.

Poor Jeongin crumpled under the combined threat and blackmail, voice trembling but resigned.

“Alright, alright. It all started earlier, when Iseul was—uh—apparently ‘making heart eyes’ at Jackson hyung during the performance.”

“Heart eyes?” Yugyeom asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Jeongin continued, cheeks reddening. “And then Seungmin started teasing her, saying she had a crush on Jackson hyung.”

“That’s not even the worst part,” Jeongin added, eyes wide as he recalled. “She got so mad she threw a bowl of chips at Seungmin.”

“A bowl of chips?” Chaeryeong echoed in disbelief.

“And then they started wrestling over the last yogurt,” Jeongin finished, voice low, “because Seungmin ate it.”

Everyone blinked, and then the room exploded with laughter and teasing, the ridiculousness finally breaking the tension.

Chan just shook his head, muttering, “I swear, this dorm is a circus.”

Iseul and Seungmin exchanged an exasperated glance, their truce unspoken but understood— at least until they got their revenge on Jeongin.

They eventually settled down—mostly.

The kitchen was behind them now, though its echoes hadn’t entirely left. The teasing was still bubbling, scattered like embers in a fire that had calmed but refused to die out. Seungmin was still catching side-eyes from Iseul, who kept muttering dire yogurt-related threats under her breath like an angry prayer. Jeongin and Tzuyu were trying to pile exactly nine blankets on top of Chan as some sort of bizarre inside joke, and Han had stolen the whiteboard meant for scorekeeping to draw progressively cursed caricatures of the entire room.

But the chaos had softened. The lights were low. Music buzzed faintly under the chatter—something jazzy and festive, blending into the background like snow.

Hyunjin leaned back on his palms, legs stretched out, shoulder brushing Changbin’s. It was warm. Lived-in. This wasn’t some high-stakes industry function, no cameras or stylists—just idols half out of their performance polish, tangled together in the loose knot of something that almost felt like a makeshift family.

Then, Bambam decided to ruin it all.

“Y’know Lee Know here had something very interesting to say,” he started, his grin devilish, eyes glittering with mischief as he nodded toward Minho—who immediately froze, mid-sip of yet another cider.

“Oh no,” Minho muttered, sensing betrayal a heartbeat too late.

“Something,” Bambam continued grandly, “about a secret Ahgase among us.”

A beat of silence followed. The kind of silence that hangs thick in the air before a storm breaks.

Minho sighed the sigh of a man who had made one grave mistake in confidence and was now reaping what he sowed but Bambam paid no heed to it. Instead, with with an overdramatic theatrical flair, Bambam pointed at Iseul, “It’s none other than Zhao Iseul!”

A gasp rippled through the room—some fake, some far too delighted to be fake. Iseul’s entire soul visibly left her body.

Iseul’s entire soul visibly left her body.

 “What? No way! That’s— that’s not true! I’m not an Ahgase,” she protested, cheeks coloring with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “I mean, I respect all groups, but I don’t st— ”

“I saw the photocards you had hidden under your bed.” Felix said calmly, like he was just stating the weather.

Iseul’s eyes widened; mouth snapping shut as all eyes turned toward her like the spotlight had found its mark. The room held its breath for a second, waiting for her reaction, then erupted into a mixture of laughter and teasing jeers.

Unexpectedly, it was Jinyoung who asked the next question.

“Who was your bias then?”

The room collectively leaned forward, every idol and trainee suddenly far too invested. Even Jeongin paused in mid-blanket placement, mouth slightly open like he was watching a drama unfold live.

Iseul looked around wildly, as though an escape route might materialize between the coffee table and Tzuyu’s socked feet.

“No one!” she blurted out. “I didn’t have a bias. I was an OT7 fan. I loved everyone equally. Equally! Equality is important!”

“Lies,” said Jaebeom from somewhere behind the couch.

Iseul opened her mouth, maybe to protest again, maybe to implode on the spot—but she didn’t get the chance.

Because Changbin, sweet, traitorous Changbin, chose that exact moment to clear his throat loudly.

“I mean,” he said, hands raised in mock innocence, “if we’re being honest—wasn’t there that one time in the dorm when she tried to roast me by saying I’d never be as cool as ‘her real idol’?”

Iseul whipped her head toward him so fast the sound of her neck turning was practically audible.

Chaeyeong let out a snort, “Damn Iseul-ah, that's brutal.”

“No, no, it was taken out of context!” Iseul yelped, lunging for a throw pillow to hide her face. “He was being annoying! And I didn’t mean idol like idol—I meant, like, inspirational figure! Like, symbolically! Like—like a metaphor!”

“Oh yeah?” Changbin grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Was it a metaphor when you said, and I quote, ‘Jackson could do a backflip while singing and still have a better rhythm than you’?”

Dead silence. Then:

Jackson stood up.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood; arms spread slightly like a smug Greek statue brought to life.

And Hyunjin—well, Hyunjin forgot how to breathe for a second.

Not because of Jackson. Though the man did look insufferably majestic, bathed in the soft gold glow of the overhead lights, a smirk carved across his face like he’d just been declared king of the dorm. No, it wasn’t that.

It was Iseul.

Or rather, the way she looked like she wanted the couch to swallow her whole. Eyes wild. Hands gripping a throw pillow like a shield. Ears red. Lips parted in stunned horror.

She was so mortified it somehow looped back around to endearing.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because Hyunjin had been trying really, really hard not to think about how endearing she could be when flustered. Not to notice the little things. Like the way she tugged her sleeves over her fingers when she was overwhelmed, or how her voice pitched up when she lied—like now, when she’d practically declared herself an ambassador for equality just to dodge the bias question. She was terrible at lying. It was kind of adorable.

Jackson turned slightly, hand over his chest like he was accepting an award. “Iseul-ah. I had no idea I was your standard of excellence.”

“You’re not!” she practically screamed, launching a decorative cushion at him. “I was fifteen! It was a phase!”

“Clearly not one of your best moments,” Jinyoung added.

Hyunjin pressed the heel of his palm to his mouth, trying to stop the giggles spilling out of him. It wasn’t working. Not even a little. Across the floor, Minho was cackling. Jeongin had fully collapsed against Tzuyu, giggling. Even Chan—buried under nine blankets like a human lasagna—was wheezing.

But all Hyunjin could focus on was Iseul, who looked like she was both about to cry and spontaneously combust.

He probably should’ve helped. Said something to defuse it. Reached out, maybe, changed the subject, taken pity on her like a decent person would.

But he didn’t.

Because part of him—deep, hidden, terrible—liked seeing her like this. Not humiliated. Just… cracked open. Human. Real. Not the careful, poised version of herself she carried into rehearsals. Not the quiet girl who kept half her thoughts to herself. This Iseul—the one who yelled at Jackson and threatened Seungmin over yogurt and accidentally exposed herself as a lowkey GOT7 fangirl—was messy and warm and kind of ridiculous.

And Hyunjin was in so much trouble.

Jackson, meanwhile, was fully soaking it up. “So, just to confirm—you did say I had better rhythm than Changbin?”

“Metaphor!” she wailed.

“I’m honoured.”

“I’ll cancel you online.”

Felix, now crying from laughter, wiped his eyes. “Hyung, please. Spare her. She’s never going to emotionally recover.”

“Why should he?” Chaeryeong chimed in, grinning. “She set herself up!”

“I didn’t set anything up!” Iseul groaned. “This is character assassination!”

Hyunjin didn’t mean to laugh.

But he did. It slipped out—low and unguarded—and Iseul turned toward the sound instantly. Her eyes narrowed. She pointed at him, accusingly.

“You! You’re enjoying this!”

His lips twitched. “I’m merely observing.”

“Asshole!”

The room roared with laughter, but beneath it, a surprising ripple ran through the group. The casual, sharp edge in Iseul’s voice—the unexpected curse—made Hyunjin’s pulse skip in a way he wasn’t quite ready to admit. He shifted slightly, trying not to stare as that sudden spark of boldness seemed to light her up differently, something fierce and real beneath the teasing.

Then Sana cut in smoothly, “Tell me, Iseul-ah, what’s the most embarrassing thing one of the boys has done?”

Instant groans echoed around the room. Jeongin immediately started protesting, while Minho looked like he might pull out his air fryer in defence. Yet, beneath the teasing resistance, a tangible anticipation hung in the air. Even the usually rowdy GOT7 had quieted, eager to catch every juicy detail from the Stray Kids’ camp.

“Well…” Iseul began, casting a glance around the room, “there was this one-time Changbin oppa tried to impress me by cooking dinner and somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm twice in one night.” She grinned, shaking her head. “Safe to say, the fire department almost became our uninvited guests.”

The room burst into laughter again, Changbin’s face twisting between embarrassment and pride. “Hey! At least I tried!” he defended, raising a mock salute.

The questions came fast after that.

“So, Iseul-ah,” Yeji leaned in with a cat-like grin, “be honest—who has the weirdest sleeping habit?”

Iseul blinked, trying to mentally flip through her list of traumas. “Channie oppa sleep-talks in different accents,” she said finally. “Last week he told someone to ‘cease fire’ in what I think was a Scottish pirate voice.”

The room erupted.

“No way,” Dahyun wheezed, nearly falling off the arm of the couch. “That’s oddly specific!”

“I do not—!” Chan started, only for Jeongin to cut in gleefully.

“You also once called me ‘Private Yang’ in your sleep and told me to secure the perimeter.”

Everyone lost it.

“I’m a man of many layers,” Chan muttered into his hands.

Seungmin deadpanned, “And apparently, military trauma.”

“Next question,” Ryujin grinned, eyes gleaming. “Who takes the longest to get ready in the morning?”

Iseul didn’t hesitate. “Hwang.”

Hyunjin’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t ‘excuse me’ me,” Iseul said, pointing at him with a mock glare. “You once spent fifteen minutes trying to decide if your earrings clashed with your vibe.”

“They did clash!” Hyunjin insisted, scandalized. “I was going for tortured-artist-meets-accidental-angel, not streetwear disaster.”

“Tell that to the breakfast you skipped because you couldn’t pick between two beanies,” Iseul added, crossing her arms.

“You’re just mad because I looked better in both,” he shot back, but his ears were already turning red.

“They both were black!” She cried, with the tone of someone who had known true despair. “Same beanie. Different labels.”

That did it. Jeongin slid off the couch entirely, dissolving into a heap on the floor. Minho actually wheezed, shoulders shaking. Even Jinyoung cracked a rare grin.

Hyunjin threw his hands in the air. “You people don’t understand vision.”

The room howled.

“Next question,” Jihyo said, biting back a grin. “Iseul-ah, who’s the loudest in the dorm?”

Iseul didn’t even blink. “You would have expected it to be Changbin oppa but it’s actually Han.”

“WHAT?” Han shouted from the floor, exactly proving her point. “That’s slander!”

“You hum movie soundtracks at 3 a.m.”

“It’s ambiance!”

“You recite your own raps in the shower.”

“That’s rehearsal!”

“You narrated your cereal-making process yesterday. Out loud.”

Han looked around for support. “You guys like it, right?”

“I felt like I was in a cooking show hosted by a sleep-deprived squirrel,” Seungmin muttered.

“And yet,” Han said proudly, “the cereal slapped.”

Everyone groaned.

“No more holding back,” Bambam declared, kicking his legs over the arm of the couch like a judge delivering a sentence. “We want scandal, Iseul-ah. Gimme dorm dirt. Real exposé type stuff.”

“Dirt?” Iseul blinked, already wary.

“Scandalous dorm confessions,” Lia chimed in, eyes gleaming. “We want secrets.”

Iseul side-eyed Chan, who just buried his face in a cushion with a groan. “I regret inviting all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jinyoung said mildly. “Let her speak.”

“Okay,” Yuna leaned in with a grin. “Who walks around the dorm with the least clothes on?”

Iseul’s jaw dropped. “What kind of question—?!”

“Answer the question, Your Honor,” Ryujin added, smacking the armrest for dramatic flair.

Iseul sighed, giving in. “Chan oppa. No hesitation. Shirtless at all hours. Even when it’s snowing. I think he has a personal vendetta against sweaters.”

The room exploded with laughter again, Chan’s muffled protests lost beneath the noise. “I do not have a vendetta!” he shouted, glaring but smiling. “I’m just… liberated.”

Bambam grinned. “Liberated, huh? That’s one way to put it. Next question — who’s the biggest neat freak? The one who actually makes the bed and doesn’t let a sock lie around?”

Iseul smirked, tapping her chin like a seasoned detective. “That would be Minho oppa, no contest. He’ll rearrange the fridge just to make sure the yogurt faces the right way.”

Minho nodded proudly. “Order is peace.”

“Iseul-ah,” Ryujin said, her eyes narrowing like a cat ready to pounce. “Last one. You must answer. No dodging. If you had to share a room with one member for a whole year... no switching, no breaks... who would you choose?”

Hyunjin suddenly looked up, way too casual.

Iseul scanned the room, clearly weighing her choices like it was life or death.

“Seungmin,” she said finally.

“WHAT?” Han cried.

“Not even me?” Chan gasped dramatically.

“I do the dishes!” Changbin pouted.

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered sharply toward Iseul, a flash of something unspoken—hurt? surprise?—hidden behind his calm façade while Seungmin had a smug expression on his face.

“Why him?” Sana demanded.

Seungmin retaliated, “If not me then who?”

“Because,” Iseul said, “he has noise-cancelling headphones, doesn’t snore, and is emotionally stable.”

“I am emotionally stable!” Felix said, clearly offended.

“You almost cried over a broken eyeliner pencil,” Iseul reminded him.

“It was limited edition!”

Tzuyu tossed a blanket over both their heads to shut them up.

For a beat, the room slipped into a lazy hum again—laughter dying down into chuckles, limbs tangled comfortably into cushions and carpet. Someone (probably Lia) was humming off-key. The jazzy playlist had turned into some lo-fi holiday remix that made the windows feel frosted even though they weren’t.

Iseul pulled the blanket off her head eventually, hair slightly static, and caught Hyunjin looking.

He didn’t look away this time.

And to his surprise, she didn’t either.

Not immediately.

Instead, she gave him a look that was equal parts I hate you and you’re lucky I’m too tired to fight. Then she rolled her eyes—dramatic, slow—and leaned back into the couch with the kind of exaggerated sigh that meant she wasn’t really mad.

Hyunjin’s smile, when it came, was small but stupidly fond.

Yep.

He was absolutely screwed.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @skzfangirl143

STORY HINT: Later when they all left, Jackson went on Twitter to upload a selfie of the hangout with caption “Just found out I’ve been someone’s high school crush this whole time. Should’ve worn nicer shoes.” It’s safe to say it broke the internet.

HEY YALL lol i was sittin on this chapter for so long but I waited cause i wanted to upload it on my bday LMFAO Yea yer girl is one year closer to her death so cheers to that bahahhaa Anywhoo, I genuinely never thought that this series will get sm love, like it was so unexpected but am i complaining? NAUR. I js wanna thank yall for showing sm love and waiting patiently and encouraging me to write yet another chapter. I really really love yall <3 Stay safe! ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XVI: Fruity Loops

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS—maybe even months—Iseul woke up to a rare, comforting silence. No blaring alarm, no early-morning knock from Chan reminding her of her schedule—just stillness.

She rolled onto her side, groaning as her eyes landed on the clock. 11:38 A.M. With another weary sound, she forced herself upright, her muscles aching in protest. Rest, they seemed to beg, just let us rest, please. And truthfully, Iseul wanted nothing more than to sink back into the warmth of her bed and drift off again.

The past few days had been relentless. The group had been bouncing between performances, back-to-back events, and fan interactions with barely a moment to breathe. Stylists fussed, the PR team hovered, and exhaustion clung to them like a second skin. By the end of it, they were running on fumes. Finally, they'd been granted something they hadn’t had in far too long—a well-deserved day to rest and recharge.

With another groan, she forced herself to leave her bed. Dragging her feet across the floor, she shuffled her way to the bathroom, rubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes. As she passed the hallway, muffled chatter and soft laughter reached her ears, bleeding in from the direction of the living room.

Probably the boys.

She paid it no mind. They were always up to something. Instead, she went through the motions—washing her face with cold water, brushing the remnants of sleep from her teeth and her brain, tying her hair up in a loose bun that wouldn’t survive an hour.

Only when her stomach gave a low, angry rumble did she finally make her way to the living room.

Sure enough, everyone was already awake—if not entirely functioning. They were sprawled out like they'd barely survived a war. Felix and Hyunjin lay half off the couch, their heads bumping each other every time someone moved. Seungmin sat cross-legged on the floor, focused on opening a carefully wrapped letter, while Jeongin lay with his feet propped on the coffee table, chewing a snack he probably hadn’t shared with anyone as he tried to ignore Changbin who was making kissy faces at him. Minho, half-buried under a pile of gift wrap, looked too lazy to get up, and Chan leaned back against the couch with a small smile on his face, watching them all.

Iseul blinked at the scene. The floor was covered in envelopes, small boxes, and fanmade trinkets. Someone's phone was propped up against a book at the corner of the coffee table, its little light blinking red.

Ah. A vlog, she assumed. Or maybe just Hyunjin being annoying again.

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Seungmin muttered without looking up.

“She lives!” Jeongin added, throwing a wrapper in her direction dramatically.

“Barely,” Iseul grumbled, rubbing her neck. “My spine has turned to dust.”

“I have footage of that transformation,” Han piped up, grinning mischievously as he reached over and brought the phone up closer—way too close—to her face. “STAY, behold! Morning Iseul in her natural habitat. Look at the dark circles. The swollen eyes. The disoriented rage.”

“Yah—Han Jisung, do you wanna get punched in the face so early in the morni—”

Before she could finish, Han gasped dramatically, staggering back like he’d just been slapped by the scandal of the century. “STAY! Did you hear that? Look at how violent Iseul is! Don’t fall for her innocent face—it's all a trap!”

Iseul, without thinking, scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue at him like a five-year-old.

“YAHHHHHHH!”

The room exploded.

Jeongin fell sideways laughing. Felix clapped his hands like a seal. Hyunjin dropped his phone. Even Minho raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Did you see that?!”

“She’s literally five.”

“No way—rewind it. That was so cute.”

“This has to get immortalized,” Minho said while Chan was clapping his hands together like a proud parent, “Aigoo, our baby’s finally coming out of her shell.”

“The editors love me,” Iseul said smugly, swiping her hair back like she was on a red carpet. “They’ll just cut that part out of the vlog anyway.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then Chan cleared his throat.

“…You know we’re live right now, yeah?”

The room paused.

Iseul froze.

“What?” she said slowly.

“We’re literally live,” Seungmin repeated, barely holding back a grin. “As in—real time. No editing. No cuts.”

“…You’re joking.”

“Say hi to STAY, gremlin,” Hyunjin added helpfully, lifting a mug of tea like he was toasting her.

Her heart dropped. Her cheeks flared crimson. Burning. Without thinking, she bowed at a perfect ninety degrees, and shouted:

“Annyangseo!!”

A pause.

The boys stared at her in stunned silence for half a second.

Then chaos.

“ANNYANGSEO?!” Han choked.

“Did she just mix ‘annyeong’ and ‘annyeonghaseyo’?!” Minho shrieked.

“Stay, she’s broken,” Seungmin said flatly.

“Guys, cut the stream—our reputation’s doomed,” Hyunjin cried, hiding behind a pillow.

Iseul wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Preferably before the mortification could physically melt her into a puddle. “Annyangseo”? What even was that? Some cursed hybrid of polite and casual that no K-pop idol—no human being—had ever dared utter?

She could feel it, the blood rushing to her face in waves, her ears hot and her brain already composing a resignation letter in her head. Maybe she could become a yogurt shop cashier in Busan. Or open a ramen cart in Jeju. She’d look cute in a visor, probably.

“Can we—can we pretend that didn’t just happen?” she mumbled, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held the answers to her survival.

“Oh no no no,” Han wheezed, practically on the floor, tears in his eyes. “Ann-yang-seo, she says! She’s created a new dialect! The Iseul Language is here!”

“Somebody trademark it,” Jeongin gasped. “Before the fans do!”

“I’m adding it to Urban Dictionary,” Minho muttered, already pretending to type.

“STAYs are gonna run with this for months,” Seungmin said with a smirk. “Congrats. You’ve just given birth to your first meme.”

Iseul made a strangled noise and curled up dramatically onto the floor, pressing her cheek to the cool tiles. “Take me out,” she whispered. “End me. Throw me off the Han River bridge. I can’t live like this.”

Chan, who had been silently chuckling to himself the entire time, reached out and patted her head affectionately. “Our star rookie,” he said, a little too proudly. “She’s doing amazing, sweetie.”

And just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse—

Her stomach let out a soft, undeniable grrrowwl.

She froze.

No. No no no no—

Maybe if she just stayed still enough, they wouldn’t notice. Maybe the chaos was still loud enough to drown it out. Maybe—

“Oh my god, was that your stomach?!” Han yelled.

“No way,” Felix giggled. “It sounded like it cried. Like it actually whimpered.”

“I think it was begging,” Seungmin said solemnly. “Like, ‘Please, just one rice cake. Just one.’”

“That was not me,” Iseul tried, her voice muffled against the floor. “You all imagined it. Group hallucination. Very common among overworked idol units.”

“Uh huh,” Minho said, deadpan. “And I’m the president of JYP.”

Everyone burst into laughter again—pure, aching, stomach-clutching laughter that left a few of them doubled over, slapping each other like they couldn’t contain it. Hyunjin had collapsed backward onto the rug, tears escaping the corners of his eyes as he gasped for breath.

“You guys are evil,” Iseul groaned, lifting her head only to slam it gently back down. “Actual demons. Why did I come out here.”

“Because your stomach summoned you,” Jeongin snorted.

“I hate everyone,” she grumbled, rolling onto her back in defeat.

But before the teasing could spiral into yet another round of chaos, Hyunjin suddenly popped upright like a man possessed.

“Enough,” he said, eyes wide, hair flopping everywhere, voice filled with dramatic conviction. “I shall fix this. I will make her breakfast.”

That brought a pause.

The boys stared at him.

“You?” Chan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You cook now?” Seungmin deadpanned.

Hyunjin pointed a finger to the ceiling like a knight about to announce his crusade. “Don’t question me. I have cereal. I have milk. I have... willpower.”

Then, dramatically turning to Iseul like he was proposing a treaty, he added, “Fruity cereal okay with you?”

Iseul blinked, stunned.

Fruity cereal. The very one she couldn’t stand. Too sweet. Too artificial. Tasted like a mouthful of rainbow chemicals.

But then she looked at him—Hyunjin, standing there in mismatched socks and a wrinkled shirt, still slightly flushed from laughing, his eyes bright with mischief and just a touch of concern. His hands flailed a little as he waited, already halfway to the kitchen.

And for some reason, her heart tugged.

“…Yeah,” she said softly, nodding. “Fruity cereal sounds perfect.”

His grin was instant, wide and pleased, and entirely too proud for someone pouring sugar rings into a bowl.

“Coming right up!” he announced, skipping toward the kitchen like he was off to win a Michelin star.

Behind her, Minho muttered, “He’s so weird.”

And Iseul, still curled up on the floor with her cheeks hot and her heart weirdly warm, smiled.

The boys on the other hand wasted no time. Before Iseul could protest or curl deeper into the floor, Felix and Jeongin had grabbed her by the arms and were hauling her toward the couch. “Come on, now, you need to participate in the livestream,” Felix declared with mock grandeur, plopping her down with surprising gentleness.

The boys scrambled to introduce Iseul to the livestream, choosing to ignore the the series of strange sounds echoing from the kitchen—clattering, muttered curses, and the unmistakable thump of something hitting the floor.

Changbin, ever the enthusiastic MC, waved at the camera with a goofy grin, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Everyone, meet Iseul!”

Felix, grinning like he’d just won a lottery ticket, nodded vigorously. “She’s the best! Seriously, STAY, you’re gonna love her. I promise.”

Iseul buried her face deeper into the pillow, cheeks flaming while Seungmin muttered, “Don’t believe them. She’s a menace.”

“Don’t be shy, noona! Say hi to STAY!” Jeongin coaxed, giving her a gentle nudge.

Iseul peeked out from behind the pillow, eyes darting nervously to the flood of comments streaming across the screen.

“OMG she’s so cute!!”

“IS THIS REALLY ISEUL???”

“Who’s the cute gremlin on the couch?!”

“Hyunjin’s cereal battle tho 😂”

The boys burst into laughter.

Han, ever the quick wit, grabbed the phone and read aloud with exaggerated flair, “Someone just asked if Iseul can teach them belly dance moves.” He winked at her. “What do you say?”

Iseul’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Maybe... if you’re nice.”

“Ahh, I see how it is,” Felix teased. “Selective teaching, huh?”

Changbin snorted. “If I don’t get lessons, I’m officially petitioning to have the ‘secret club’ disbanded.”

“Secret club?” Chan  asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s a thing now,” Seungmin said, grinning. “Iseul, Minho, and me. Belly roll champions.”

Minho nodded solemnly. “Truth.”

The chat was exploding now, emojis pouring like confetti.

“Please do a dance tutorial!!”

“More gremlin moments, please!”

“Hyunjin’s cereal skills need to be documented 😂”

Seungmin pointed to a comment: “‘What’s Iseul’s favorite food?’”

Without hesitation, Iseul’s voice, muffled but proud, answered, “Yogurts.”

“Of course,” Chan said knowingly.

“Okay, okay,” Jeongin said, scrolling again. “‘Who’s the funniest member?’”

The group erupted into teasing bickering.

“Clearly Han,” Seungmin said, “or else why would he bring a phone so close to Iseul’s face this morning?”

Han laughed, “I am just a humble narrator.”

“Liar,” Minho said flatly.

As the chat continued flowing, Hyunjin finally appeared in the doorway, holding a precariously balanced bowl of cereal and milk like it was a fragile trophy.

“I’ve conquered the beast,” he declared triumphantly, his hair tousled, shirt slightly untucked, eyes shining with the glow of a minor victory.

He settled on the armrest of the couch next to Iseul and gently handed her the bowl.

“Here,” he said softly, leaning closer than expected—so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath and the faint scent of shampoo mixed with something faintly sweet.

Iseul’s heart skipped, panic bubbling silently inside her chest. She could barely focus on the cereal anymore. It felt suddenly too heavy in her hands, as if the small victory Hyunjin had just claimed had transferred its weight onto her shoulders.

Hyunjin shifted on the armrest, leaning closer, his knee almost brushing hers. His voice was low, almost conspiratorial. “You okay?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern threading his words. “Yeah… I’m fine.” She forced a small smile but kept her gaze locked on the colourful cereal floating in the milk.

The chat was still going wild, but now it felt like background noise to her swirling thoughts. Of course, there were hate comments among them—calling her a pick-me, weird, or using words that were far from acceptable—but everyone was too happy to care.

Seungmin, ever the instigator, pointed at the camera. “STAY wants to know: What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen each other do in the dorm?”

Instantly, the boys burst out laughing, throwing teasing glances at each other.

“I saw Lee Know hyung practicing dance moves in the hallway at 3 a.m.,” Felix said, shaking his head with disbelief. “Like a man possessed.”

Minho shrugged; eyes gleaming. “Practice makes perfect.”

Iseul glanced at him sideways, face scrunched up in mock disappointment. “I caught Jeongin talking to his plushies. Like, full conversations.”

Jeongin groaned, but his smile was genuine. “They’re good listeners.”

The chat erupted with heart and laughing emojis.

“Okay, Iseul-ah, you have to tell STAY something about you,” Changbin encouraged, his eyes shining with curiosity.

Iseul swallowed, glanced at the pillow she’d been hiding behind earlier, then took a deep breath.

“I… really like spicy food,” she admitted shyly.

Instant flood of chili pepper emojis and “spicy queen” comments scrolled by.

Han raised his eyebrows. “Not surprised. You can’t hide that fire.”

A pause, then Hyunjin’s voice slipped softly through the laughter, “You’re full of surprises. I always thought you preferred sweet things. You should really stop keeping secrets from your members.”

And Iseul was once again suddenly aware of how close he was. And yet, despite herself, she answered back quietly, “It wasn’t a secret – you didn’t observe it.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice dropped into a whisper as if he was sharing a secret just between them two, “But I will from now on.”

“Just shut up, Hwang.” But her heart betrayed her—flipping in her chest like it was whispering secrets she wasn’t ready to hear, let alone admit.

And before she could do anything reckless, she decided to take a bite of her breakfast instead. The sweetness hit her instantly—sugar, artificial fruit, and regret – and yet she smiled.

Genuinely.

And Hyunjin—silent beside her—only wanted to capture that moment.

To bottle it.

Keep it somewhere safe.

Just hers, just his.

Just theirs.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkami, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra, @hyuneyeon

STORY HINT:

When Levanter won its first award, no one told them directly. They were quietly summoned to the practice room with no context, just a vague message from the manager to "wait there." Iseul sat cross-legged near the mirrors, watching the boys fidget, pace, joke nervously to fill the silence. They had suspicions — the timing, the cameras, the subtle grins staff tried to hide — but no one dared to say it out loud.

And then the news dropped.

They had won.

It wasn’t a loud celebration. No shouting, no jumping. Just a stunned, collective exhale — the kind that comes from holding your breath too long. Relief poured into the room like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. They stood frozen, hearts racing, the weight of past few months and aching backs and sleepless nights quietly lifting off their shoulders.

They filmed the thank-you video with trembling voices and tight smiles, doing their best to look composed for STAY. But once the cameras stopped rolling, the silence that followed was different—thicker, quieter, almost reverent.

Someone reached out first—maybe Minho, maybe Hyunjin—and then the group slowly drew in, until they were a single huddle on the practice room floor, hearts pressed together under the weight of everything they had carried.

Jeongin cried first. Felix followed, his shoulders shaking, and then Han—always the one to joke—sank into someone's arms with silent sobs. Everyone’s eyes were rimmed red, but they held it together. Just barely.

Until Chan broke.

And that was it. The dam shattered. Because if he—the one who always held them up—was finally letting go, then maybe they could too.

This chapter is so short and sappy and fluffy that it's making me feel butterflies...why can't i get a sweet, caring man TvT ALSO! I opened my requests and am accepting so feel free to ask away <33 I also need fic recs so pls fill up my comments or dms w them, i desperately have this urge to read a heart-breaking, angsty fanfic (fluff works too js gimme smtg good) Stay safe! ~candy <3

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XIV: Static

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE WAITING ROOM THEY GAVE HER WAS barely bigger than a broom closet—just big enough for a chair, a mirror rimmed with soft bulbs, and a garment rack pushed into the corner.

Someone had tried to make it feel welcoming—there were a few snacks on the side table, a tiny humidifier puffing away in the corner—but it still felt clinical. Temporary. Like a guest room you weren’t meant to stay in for long.

Her makeup was already done. Hair pinned back. Mic checked.

Her outfit wasn’t flashy—black high-waisted cargo pants paired with a fitted white crop top, cinched at the waist with a simple belt. A lightweight black bomber jacket hung loosely off her shoulders, balancing the sharpness of the top with something more casual. It matched the boys’ Levanter stage outfits almost eerily well—coordinated, sleek, minimal. But the slight shimmer of her top under the dressing room lights made her stand out just enough.

All that was left was waiting.

She sat in silence for a long minute, hands folded in her lap. The kind of quiet that lets every doubt creep in. She tried to ground herself—to focus on her breathing, on the feel of the mic pack at her waist, on the cool press of the floor beneath her feet.

And then came the noise.

Through the thin walls, she heard it—barely muffled chaos erupting from the main waiting room next door.

Loud laughter.

A clatter.

Someone shouting, “FELIX, THAT’S NOT WHERE THE SNACKS GO.”

A sharp yelp that was unmistakably Jeongin’s. Seungmin’s voice cutting through dryly: “Do you all lose your minds the second we put on eyeliner?”

There was a bang—probably Minho kicking something he wasn’t supposed to. Then a muffled chorus of Chan’s exasperated “Focus, please!” followed by Han’s mock imitation: “Focus, please! Let me just adjust my wrinkles real quick!”

A startled bark of laughter escaped Iseul’s lips before she could stop it.

The noise continued. Messy, ridiculous, alive.

For a second, she let herself imagine being in that room. Sitting between Seungmin and Jeongin, stealing jelly candies before Felix could hoard them. Nudging Han’s elbow as he freestyled nonsense into his mic. Watching Chan’s forehead crease with stress while Minho did exactly what he told them not to do.

She wasn’t with them now. Not yet. Not fully.

But she could hear them.

The door creaked open before she could psych herself out any further.

“I knew you were hiding in here,” Changbin announced, poking his head in with a grin. “What, trying to skip out on pre-show chaos bonding?”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Iseul protested, though her voice came out soft.

“Mmhm. Tell that to the six hyperactive idiots bouncing off the walls out there,” he said, stepping inside. His eyes widened as he got a proper look at her. “Whoa. Hold on.” Changbin blinked, eyes sweeping over her outfit like he needed to double-check he wasn’t hallucinating. “Is this what you’re wearing on stage?”

Iseul’s brows pinched. “Do I look weird?”

“Weird?” he scoffed, flailing dramatically as he stepped back. “No! You look like you’re about to debut as the final boss of a spy movie. In the best way.”

She blinked. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a threat.” He pointed at her crop top accusingly. “You can’t just walk out there looking like that. Do you want to give the crowd collective heart failure?”

Before she could form a reply, Changbin was already at her side, gently tugging her toward the door. “Come on. You can’t show up like this alone. The boys need to see this. Preferably before we go on stage so they have time to recover.”

“Changbin—”

He ushered her out of the room, ignoring her half-hearted protests as they made their way down the short hallway. As they neared the boys’ room, the sound of muffled chaos turned into full-on shouting.

“MINHO HYUNG, THAT WAS MY LAST GUMMY—”

“You didn’t label it; therefore, it is communal.”

“Stop stealing my water, Jeongin!”

“It was there! It looked unloved!”

The moment Changbin pushed the door open, the chaos ground to a halt.

All seven boys turned to stare.

And for a beat, there was only silence.

Han’s jaw actually dropped. “Wait, what the fuck?”

Jeongin blinked in stunned disbelief. “She’s gonna steal the whole stage.”

Felix let out a slow whistle, tilting his head with a grin. “Iseul, you look so cool.”

“Dangerous,” Han corrected, already circling her like a cat. “Like you’re about to assassinate us on live broadcast. Can I borrow your jacket?”

“I—what?” she asked, overwhelmed.

Minho, lounging on the couch with his arms crossed, added, “I want to sue our stylists now – we all look like backup dancers now.”

“Minho,” Chan warned, though he was clearly biting back a smile.

“What?” Minho shrugged. “I’m not wrong.”

“Speak for yourself,” Seungmin deadpanned. “I refuse to be outshined by someone who still flinches every time the mic squeals.”

“I don’t flinch,” Iseul muttered under her breath, flustered.

“You do,” Changbin confirmed, grinning.

Chan, finally rising from where he’d been checking over his earpiece settings, gave her a once-over and nodded in quiet approval. “Perfect. You’re ready.”

The compliment was simple, professional—but his eyes lingered for half a second longer than necessary. Enough to tell her he meant it.

Iseul was still processing the whirlwind of attention when she felt it—a shift in the energy.

She turned just slightly—and found Hyunjin standing a few steps behind the others.

He wasn’t staring, but he wasn’t ignoring her either. His gaze was steady, searching. And then, as if realizing she’d caught him, he cleared his throat and looked away.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. Voice low. Muted. But not unkind. And then added, “You look confident. It suits you.”

Her heart thudded softly. She nodded, unsure if he saw it.

The moment passed—quiet, but not bitter.

Just... tentative.

“Alright, alright,” Chan clapped, breaking the beat. “Group huddle in ten. Don't hurt yourself before we go up.”

As the boys shuffled into motion—checking batteries, adjusting sleeves, swiping last bites of snacks—Iseul stood still for a moment, the sound of their voices rising again around her like static.

Warm. Familiar.

Loud in all the right ways.

She wasn’t just hearing them through the walls anymore.

She was here. With them.

And then they were stepping out into the hallway together, walking side by side. Toward the stage. Toward the noise. Toward the lights and the crowd and the fear and the thrill.

Her first performance as one of them.

Even if not everyone saw her that way yet.

Even if some days, she wasn’t sure herself.

She was still walking toward it.

The screen dropped.

A burst of lights cut through the dark, white and gold, timed perfectly with the bass drop that shook the floor beneath her.

And then—cheers.

A wall of sound crashed into her chest. Screams so loud they felt physical, like waves of heat and wind and disbelief. For a second, she froze. Not visibly—her feet moved on instinct, mic raised, steps hitting their mark—but her mind stalled.

She couldn't see their faces, not really, but she could feel it. The sea of phones lifted high, lightsticks waving in rhythm. The unmistakable shift in energy as the crowd registered that this wasn’t a dancer or a backup vocalist or a guest trainee.

This was someone new. Someone real.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she kept her gaze locked on the crowd, trying to push down the sudden wave of nervousness that threatened to swallow her whole. The beat pulsed through the air, every note reverberating against her skin. She could hear the boys around her, their voices blending together as they powered through the choreography, but it was her own voice that felt distant.

She blinked, disoriented.

The IEMs, which had been giving her perfect clarity moments before, now felt off. The sound she was hearing wasn’t quite right. A strange static buzzed faintly in the background, and her own vocals sounded muffled. She adjusted the earbud, hoping to correct it, but the static remained, crawling under the music.

Her feet carried her through the next few steps of the routine, but her focus wavered. Without the perfect feedback she needed from the IEMs, it was harder to stay in sync with the others, harder to gauge whether she was hitting the notes correctly or missing them entirely.

She tugged at the wire behind her neck in frustration, hoping the IEM would just fall into place, but the static persisted. The sound was now warping, distorting the melody she should have been following. Her throat tightened, a sickening mix of frustration and fear curling in her stomach. The crowd was still there—still screaming, still singing along—but she was losing control. She could feel it.

Her chest tightened. She couldn't stop. She had to keep going. Her mic was fine. The lights were fine. The crowd was still with them, moving to the rhythm—but she had to hear her own voice. She had to hear the music to stay grounded.

She felt the cold sweat on her palms, her pulse loud in her ears, but she couldn’t let it show. She couldn’t be that rookie, the one who faltered in the moment.

Her part was approaching – she knew it as they shifted the formation. She needed to do something. And quick.

She tore the IEMs out of her ears, yanking them free in one swift motion.

The noise around her intensified, swelling, drowning her. The roar of the crowd was no longer a distant hum, but an overwhelming wave crashing into her ears. Her heart raced with every cheer, every scream. The lights, the floor beneath her, the bass—they all hit at once, layering over each other in a chaotic symphony that sent her senses spinning. She could hear every single sound around her, every beat, every movement, and yet none of it made sense.

The thumping bass in her chest. The shuffling of feet. The boys' voices blending in the air, indistinguishable. The flashing lights blinding her in every direction.

She couldn’t hear herself. She couldn’t find the rhythm. Every step felt wrong; every note pulled out of reach.

It was too much.

Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t breathe through the noise. The feedback from the IEMs was gone, but the rush of sound that replaced it was suffocating, too much for her to handle in the moment. Panic rose in her throat, thick and bitter, making her pulse quicken.

She couldn’t hear the music clearly. She couldn’t hear her own voice. She couldn’t hear the others. She was drowning in it all—the sound, the pressure, the expectation. She needed to stop. She had to take control.

Her hands trembled, but she forced herself to focus.

Her part was coming up. She knew it. Her throat tightened as the music surged, and she caught Seungmin’s eye. He nodded at her, a small gesture, but it was enough to ground her for a second. They were in this together. He had her back. He was always steady.

She took a deep breath, counting silently in her head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

She started counting, the rhythm in her head guiding her as the chaos of the crowd roared in the background. She felt every beat in her chest, her feet finding their place on the floor despite the distortion. She didn’t need the perfect sound to move. She didn’t need the IEMs to remind her of the beat.

They shifted, and Iseul found herself at the center of the formation, a position she had dreamed of, but now it felt like the weight of a thousand eyes were on her. Her heartbeat raced in her chest, every muscle tensed. Then the signal came—her cue to sing.

She opened her mouth and the notes spilled out, not perfect but raw. Her voice soared, harmonizing with Seungmin’s, the melody sweet and clear. Her voice was fighting to rise above the chaos, to find its place amid the overwhelming flood of sound. But as the music flowed through her, the distortion started to fade. She could hear it. She could feel it.

The crowd was still there—distant but alive, thrumming with energy. She didn’t know if they could hear the slight imperfection in her voice, the tension she was trying so hard to hide, but it didn’t matter anymore. This was her moment to stand tall, to prove she could keep up, even without the crutch of perfect sound.

And when Seungmin shot her a quick, encouraging glance as their voices soared together, she could feel it. That flicker of reassurance. Maybe she didn’t need to be flawless. Maybe she just needed to be.

She held her breath as the final note approached, trusting the connection between them, between her and the music. The beat hit, and as her voice and Seungmin’s melded in the air, she felt it—the weight of the performance, the pressure of the crowd, the rawness of being here and doing this, all finally lifting.

The harmonies landed, and she let out a shaky breath.

The rest of the song blurred past, the final chorus ringing in her ears, and when the song ended, there was only the sound of her own breathing, her heartbeat still racing in the aftermath.

Iseul stood frozen for a second, her chest heaving, hands trembling at her sides. The others had already moved into their positions for the fairy ending pose they’d decided backstage—Felix lowering himself into a crouch with that angelic grin, Seungmin tilting his head with a wink, even Hyunjin tossing a strand of hair dramatically like he didn’t just sweat through three layers of fabric.

She was supposed to step forward too, smile into the camera, lift her mic and strike the pose they’d rehearsed with laughter only hours before.

But her knees felt unsteady. Her lungs burned. The adrenaline that had carried her through the last chorus had vanished the moment the music cut out, and now there was only noise—deafening cheers, flashing lights, her own heartbeat hammering through her ears like a warning.

Move, she told herself. You have to do it. You’re part of this too.

But her body wouldn’t listen. Her arms hung limply by her sides, her posture uneven. She hadn’t even picked up the IEMs still dangling at her neck. Her lip trembled, and she fought to steady it before the cameras zoomed in.

The big screen above them flickered with the first close-up—Felix’s fairy ending.

The arena erupted.

A wave of cheers so loud it almost rattled the floor beneath her. The sound was unmistakable. Deafening. Earned. Loved.

Then the camera shifted.

Iseul barely had time to register it before she saw herself onscreen, projected in front of thousands. No pose. No wink. No playful tilt of the head. Just her, breathing hard, flushed and dazed, strands of hair sticking to her cheeks, lips parted in exhaustion as she stood off-center.

And just like that—the cheers quieted. Not completely. But noticeably.

The difference was sharp. Immediate.

Her stomach sank.

She could still hear some light claps, scattered whistles, a few cheers that tried to push through. But the shift in the room was impossible to ignore. Like the crowd had tilted their heads, unsure, or worse—disappointed.

They still don’t see me as one of them.

The thought slammed into her with more force than the bass drop ever could. She gripped her mic tighter, swallowing down the lump rising in her throat. Her chest still ached from the performance, but the pain had shifted. It wasn’t physical now—it was personal.

Iseul could swear the camera lingers—just long enough to savour her pain. Logically, she knows it’s no longer than the time Felix had. Somehow, that only makes it worse.

At last, the lens pulls away, shifting its gaze elsewhere as the boys move around her, giving the crowd something new to scream for. Something they actually want to see, she thinks bitterly, forcing herself not to meet any of their eyes as she joins the casual, practiced drift offstage.

It takes everything just to keep her steps steady, to stay inside her own fragile bubble. The effort not to bolt is already immense—she knows that one look of sympathy, even well-meant, might be enough to crack her completely.

All she could hear was the fading sound of the cheers that weren’t for her.

The second they’re out of the spotlight and behind the curtain, the boys erupt into laughter and noisy relief, their adrenaline still high. Hyunjin throws an arm around Han, Minho is already tossing his mic to a waiting staff member, and Felix lets out a breathless cheer. Someone says something to her—Changbin, maybe, or Jeongin—but it lands dull and distant, like sound underwater.

She blinks, her feet still moving forward automatically.

“Iseul, you killed that bridge—wait, were you—”

“She didn’t have her IEMs in, hyung, did you see? She tore them out.”

“No way—the whole second half?”

A rush of exclamations follows, pieces of awe and concern tumbling over each other. Someone reaches for her shoulder—Chan, maybe Felix—but she sidesteps without even realizing it.

Their voices swirl around her like muffled wind, their praise warped and distant, as if she’s underwater. She knows they mean well. She knows they’re trying. But her ears still ring from the crowd, from the overload, from the sheer force of enduring it all.

She can’t take it. Not now.

Without a word, she peels away from the group, head down, steps silent and fast. No one follows. Or maybe they do—she doesn’t look back to check.

The bathroom door swings open with a hollow click behind her. Cool air greets her flushed face, sterile and quiet. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above her. The cold white of the bathroom felt too clean, too sharp, too unforgiving. She stared at her reflection, willing herself to pull it together. Her chest still rose and fell in uneven waves, the adrenaline refusing to let go, even now.

She should call them.

Her phone was waiting in the backstage room, maybe already buzzing with notifications.

She should call her parents. Hear their voices. Let them say you did it, we’re proud, you were beautiful. She knew they’d been watching the livestream—her mom with the laptop on the kitchen counter, probably wiping her eyes with a paper towel. Her dad pacing in front of a flatscreen in some polished boardroom, his schedule cleared just for this.

They were watching. She knew they were watching.

Her mom would’ve been screaming along during the chorus. Her dad would’ve taken screenshots every time the camera caught her face. And her grandparents—if her grandmother hadn’t caught that last-minute fever—would’ve forced all of them to come to the concert, even though they silently didn’t approve of her career.

They would’ve cheered for her.

They had cheered for her. Somewhere, across the distance, she was loved loudly.

So why couldn’t she feel it now?

Why was the silence of the crowd still ringing louder in her ears than anything else?

The way the cheers dipped when the camera cut to her—the subtle, undeniable lull that said everything they didn’t have to.

She had sung. She had danced. She had survived—without her IEMs, without backup, without a lifeline—and still, all she could remember was the hollow ache of that moment.

Not the music. Not Seungmin’s look of encouragement. Not the harmony they’d landed together.

Just that dip in sound.

Just the emptiness.

Iseul swallowed hard. Her eyes burned, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to let it spill over. Not yet. Not here.

She gripped the edge of the sink. Counted. Inhales. Exhales.

This was just the first performance.

Just the first.

But even as she told herself that, the quiet swallowed her whole.

A soft knock at the bathroom door startled her.

“Iseul-ssi?” A voice—gentle, hesitant. One of the stage crew, maybe a junior manager. Not one of the boys. Not her manager. “Are you okay in there?”

Iseul blinked back into the present, realizing how long she’d been standing there with her hands braced on the sink, her reflection flushed and glassy-eyed.

“Yeah,” she managed, her voice hoarse. Too quiet. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yeah. Just—just needed a second.”

There was a pause on the other side. Then the voice returned, quieter now. “Take all the time you need. They’re moving to the vans soon, so… just let me know if you want me to wait.”

She nodded even though they couldn’t see her. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Another soft beat of silence. Then, kindly, “You did really well.”

The words landed like a pebble in a still pond. Gentle. Honest. Uncomplicated.

Not loud enough to erase the crowd’s silence. But enough to remind her she wasn’t completely alone in this moment.

“Thanks,” she whispered, too late, after the footsteps had already faded down the hallway.

She turned back to the mirror, the remnants of adrenaline still fizzing beneath her skin. Her pulse had finally started to slow. Her hands were steadier now.

One performance down.

She could survive this.

Just not tonight. Not all of it.

She wiped her palms against her jacket and finally stepped toward the door.

The hallway lights felt too bright after the dim, tiled hush of the bathroom. Iseul kept her head low, her steps quiet as she walked back toward the waiting room. Her limbs were heavier now, no longer running on performance adrenaline, just soreness and ache.

She turned the corner and paused.

The door to the waiting room was slightly ajar—and from inside came voices. One loud. Frustrated. Familiar.

“I don’t care why it happened,” Chan’s voice snapped. “She had no audio for half the set. You realize how dangerous that is? She could’ve been seriously hurt.”

There was some muffled reply—one of the tech staff, probably trying to defend themselves—but Chan cut in again, sharp with a rare, unfiltered edge.

“She didn’t miss a beat. You think that was luck?” His voice dropped, but not enough to hide the anger coiled under every word. “She ripped the IEMs out in the middle of the performance. And still kept going. She shouldn't have had to.”

Something thick twisted in her chest. She didn’t move. Didn’t know how.

“I know it’s the first show, but this can’t happen again,” Chan continued, more controlled now but still furious. “Not to her. Not to any of us.”

There was a silence after that. Heavy. She could picture the staffer nodding stiffly, avoiding his eyes.

Then: “She’s not just some extra you throw on stage and hope survives. She’s one of us.”

Something in Iseul’s throat caught. She didn’t realize how much she’d needed to hear that until it left her breathless.

Soft footsteps came up behind her. Hyunjin appeared at her side, saying nothing as he looked between her and the door.

“You should go in,” he said eventually, voice low.

Iseul blinked. “I don’t want him to stop yelling on my account.”

He gave a half-smile, tired and crooked. “He won’t. But he’ll feel better seeing you.”

She hesitated.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he added.

So, she took a breath, straightened her spine, and pushed open the door.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra

STORY HINT: Only when Iseul was safely back in her room at the dorm did she dial her parents for a conference call. Her mom was already there, along with her grandparents, congratulating her and showering her with praise. Her dad wasn't a step behind, enthusiastically planning a vacation and dismissing Iseul’s protests. But when her grandparents joined in, offering their pride in their own quiet, hesitant way, something inside Iseul broke. A full sob escaped her, not the silent tears or the quiet sting behind her ears, but a raw, heaving cry. And in that moment, her family—messy, complicated, and imperfect as they were—let her cry, offering soft words of comfort and encouragement, reminding her that she would always be loved.

Lol double update yay! This was actually supposed to be one chapter with the prev chapter but the words were around 7000 and I decided to break it. Kinda proud of myself 'cause I wrote it in 2 hrs. ANYWHOOO I HOPED U ENJOYED IT BAHAHAHAHAHA. (also pls im beggin yall to send yer ideas, I need filler chapters bahahahahaha) Stay safe ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER XIII: Live, Laugh, Levanter (Please Clap)

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

STRAY KIDS’ ALBUMS ALWAYS DROPPED at midnight. Clé: Levanter was no different—just equally inconvenient.

The boys wanted to stay up to celebrate, to scream when the album finally went live, to read comments together in real-time—especially since this was Iseul’s first official release. But the day had been brutal: photoshoots, last-minute recordings, meetings, practice. By the time they dragged themselves through the dorm door, it was already close to midnight, and they looked one blink away from passing out.

“I think my legs fell off on the way here,” Hyunjin mumbled, dropping his bag dramatically before flopping face-first onto the couch. “I’m just a torso now.”

“You don’t need legs to stream the album,” Han said, voice thick with a yawn. “Just… one working thumb…”

“You can’t even keep one eye open,” Seungmin pointed out, pulling off his hoodie and tossing it toward the laundry pile. “You nearly walked into the wall three times.”

“Four,” Minho corrected from the kitchen, already halfway through a protein shake and staring into the fridge like he forgot what he came for. “And he definitely whispered ‘sorry’ to a chair.”

Chan trudged in last, eyes scanning the living room. “Is everyone alive? No injuries? Mental breakdowns postponed until tomorrow?”

Iseul, who had stayed unusually quiet, cleared her throat. “You guys should sleep. Really. The album will still be there in the morning.”

“But it’s your first one,” Felix said, blinking blearily at her from where he’d slumped against the hallway wall. “Shouldn’t we, I don’t know… do something?”

“You’re all dead on your feet,” she said with a gentle smile, hiding the knot in her stomach. “We’ll celebrate properly tomorrow. Promise.”

“You’re not going to stay up alone and obsessively refresh the comments, right?” Changbin asked, narrowing his eyes as he kicked off his shoes.

“Me? Never,” she said innocently, hands folded behind her back. “What kind of unhinged rookie would do that?”

Jeongin squinted at her. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

She shrugged. “Well. I am a rookie.”

They all groaned—too tired to argue further—and slowly shuffled off to their rooms one by one.

When the dorm finally fell silent, Iseul padded quietly to her bedroom, curling up under her blanket, phone glowing in her hands as she waited for the clock to turn.

At midnight, Clé: Levanter was officially out.

Her name was in the credits.

Her voice in the songs.

Her face in the music videos.

And within the first hour, The screen lit up with hundreds of notifications, flooding in faster than she could process. Comments poured in under the title track teaser, the music video, behind-the-scenes clips, concept photos.

Her name was everywhere.

"Who's the new girl? Her voice in the chorus is insane!" "Iseul? She ate. No crumbs." "Where did she come from?? They just pulled a main vocalist out of nowhere??" "I wasn't sure about adding a new member, but... okay. She kinda fits." "Wait, she's really pretty too? I'm suspicious."

She scrolled faster, trying to keep up, heart thudding so loud she almost missed the shift in tone.

"Not gonna lie, still miss Woojin." "Don't care how talented she is, eight is fate." "They should’ve just stayed a boy group." "Feels weird. I don’t like it." "She probably forced her way in. Nepo baby or something."

Iseul blinked.

Her thumb paused mid-scroll.

The warmth in her chest began to flicker.

Of course she had known. Of course.

You don’t walk into someone else's grieving group and expect flowers.

But it was different seeing the words typed out so plainly—cold, impersonal, unfiltered.

She shut her eyes for a second. Then opened them again.

More comments. A blur of mixed reactions.

"I'm obsessed with the new dynamic. Iseul and Seungmin harmonizing?? Beautiful." "Okay but her dance break in Levanter? Hello??" "Still can’t believe she’s real. She’s like a fever dream." "Something about her makes me uncomfortable. It’s giving attention-seeking."

Her throat tightened.

She tried to laugh. She really did.

But all that came out was a shaky exhale as her fingers trembled over the screen.

She kept scrolling. Because maybe if she read enough praise, it would cancel out the rest. Maybe if she just kept refreshing, the pit in her stomach would close.

But the words wouldn’t stop crawling in.

"This is Stray Kids, not Iseul and Friends." "She’s going to ruin them." "Not my stray kids anymore."

A comment flashed by before she could catch the username.

Just six words. Casual. Almost flippant: "She doesn't look like she belongs."

That one stung more than the others.

Because sometimes—quietly, in the stillness between practice and sleep—she wondered the same thing.

Iseul pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes, willing the tears to stay put.

This was supposed to be a celebration. Her debut. Her first album.

And yet here she was, curled into a ball under her blanket, feeling like she’d stolen something that was never meant to be hers.

She lowered her phone. The glow of the screen faded into darkness.

There were footsteps outside her door. A creak in the hallway. Someone walking to the kitchen. Then back. A door shutting gently.

She could knock. Crawl out of her room. Say she changed her mind. Maybe one of them was still awake—Chan, probably. He never slept anyway. She could tell him she was scared. Ask him to tell her again that she deserved to be here. That she wasn’t a mistake. That she didn’t ruin anything.

But the lump in her throat was too thick. The air felt too heavy.

So, she stayed there, eyes wide open in the dark, listening to the album play softly through her earbuds. Her voice echoed back at her in fragments—lines she’d practiced a thousand times, now stitched into something permanent.

Something real.

She hugged her knees to her chest.

Maybe tomorrow would feel better.

The stage lights were dim, casting long shadows across the empty venue. The cold hum of equipment was the only sound, a stark contrast to the usual buzz of excitement that would fill the air moments before a live performance. It was just them, the crew, and the weight of the moment hanging thick in the air.

Iseul stood at the edge of the stage, her body tense. The words from the comments still echoed in her mind, biting at the back of her thoughts like a persistent mosquito.

Her throat tightened, a lump forming there again. She wanted to shake it off, to focus on the performance, but it was harder than it seemed. Each note, each movement, felt like an exam she might fail. It was her first live performance with Stray Kids. Her first live performance of Levanter, a track that had already stirred a whirlwind of opinions.

“Alright, everyone, let's get ready for the soundcheck,” Chan’s voice broke through the silence, calm but with an undercurrent of nerves. He stood at the center of the stage, his gaze moving over the group. The exhaustion from the past days hung over him like a shroud, but he was still the leader. He always was. He never let it show.

Iseul nodded, swallowing the heaviness in her chest as she made her way to her position. She barely registered the movement, eyes focused on the floor as she adjusted her mic, checked her in-ear monitors. The others fell into place, but it felt like a lifetime before they were ready. She could feel Hyunjin’s presence beside her, his usual energy dulled by something she couldn’t place. She glanced up for a moment, his eyes quickly flicking away from hers. There was a distance between them that hadn’t been there before, and it gnawed at her.

The song began.

Iseul sang her part—her voice was steady, but it didn’t feel like hers. Her notes felt too hollow, too far from the person she was trying to be. This is your moment. This is your debut. But it didn’t feel like a victory.

It felt like a trial.

They ran through the chorus, and Iseul’s gaze shifted to the others. They were here with her, but she felt... apart. Like she was on the outside, watching a group she wasn’t really part of. A group that had been whole before she’d come in and changed everything.

The music swelled, and her voice cracked on a high note. She quickly tried to recover, but the sound had already wavered. A small breath escaped her, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment.

Hyunjin, standing just a few feet away, flinched slightly, the tension between them almost palpable. He couldn’t meet her eyes, his face a study of concentration as he focused on the performance. But Iseul noticed the way his shoulders were tense, the way he pulled away just a little bit more each time they rehearsed. It was as if he was holding something back—a weight he couldn’t put down. Something unspoken between them that neither was willing to address.

She blinked, forcing herself to focus. You can’t break down now. Not here.

But the crack in her voice only served to remind her how fragile everything felt. The lights seemed too bright; the air too thick. She caught a glimpse of Felix in the back, his face hidden behind his hair as he adjusted his mic, and she wondered if he felt it too—the tension that had settled between them all. The unspoken strain.

“Iseul, can you take that part again?” Chan called from the side; his voice gentle but firm. His eyes met hers, his concern barely hidden.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Iseul muttered, nodding. She wanted to say more, to apologize for the mistake, for the way she felt like a burden. But the words caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to explain it—how she didn’t feel like she belonged, how she was haunted by the thought that the group would be better off without her.

She took a deep breath and sang again. This time, the notes came out cleaner, stronger. But there was still a heaviness in her chest, a gnawing fear that she wouldn’t be enough. That no matter how much she tried, she would always be the outsider.

As the song wrapped up, Chan clapped his hands together, signaling the end of the soundcheck. The others immediately began to move, but Iseul stayed still, her heart racing in her chest. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off—something that went beyond the stage, beyond the performance.

She turned, almost on instinct, scanning everyone. The staff had already begun clearing equipment, voices echoing against the high ceilings. Minho was crouched near the edge of the stage, muttering something to Seungmin about spacing during the choreography. Jeongin had his in-ears half-dangling, scrolling through his phone like he wasn’t performing on live TV in a few hours.

Felix caught her eye, but didn’t say anything. He just gave her a little nod—more a question than a greeting. She nodded back, too quickly, too tightly.

“Alright, ten-minute break. Don’t wander far,” Chan called, clapping once to get everyone’s attention. His voice was upbeat, but his eyes skimmed the room with a practiced sharpness, as if he could sense the undercurrent tugging at everyone’s heels.

Iseul jumped down from the riser and grabbed her water bottle, clutching it like it could anchor her. Her throat still felt tight.

As she moved to the waiting room, she caught the faintest sound—footsteps. Not close. But deliberate. Pacing. Turning. She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Hyunjin.

He was always like this when he was nervous—restless, coiled like a spring. It didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was the fact that he hadn’t left the room yet.

She took a sip of water to distract herself. It didn’t help. Her stomach was a knot. Her nerves were frayed, but it wasn’t the stage that scared her—it was this space between them, this strange limbo where he didn’t look at her the same way the others did.

Where she didn’t know how to read him. Where she didn’t know if he hated her, or if he hated that he didn’t.

The silence between them stretched, pulling tight like a thread on the verge of snapping.

Iseul didn’t know what made her speak again. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the dread twisting in her chest. Maybe she just didn’t want to walk on stage with her stomach full of regret.

“Was it that bad?” she asked quietly, still not looking at him.

Hyunjin paused his pacing.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“No,” he said finally. “It wasn’t.”

She turned slightly, catching the edge of his reflection in the mirror across the room. His expression was unreadable, shoulders stiff, jaw tense.

“But it wasn’t good either,” she said, because she couldn’t help herself.

He let out a breath—more sigh than laugh.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

This time, he looked at her. Really looked.

There was a flicker of something—regret? Frustration? It passed too quickly to catch. But it was enough to make Iseul tense, her water bottle still clutched in both hands like a shield.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Hyunjin said, voice low. “You weren’t bad.”

Iseul tilted her head, watching him carefully. “But?”

He hesitated. She could see the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know where to put all the things he was holding back.

“But I haven’t exactly made this easy, have I?” he said finally, eyes flicking away, landing somewhere near the floor.

That caught her off guard.

She blinked; unsure she’d heard right. “What?”

“The day we fought,” Hyunjin muttered, jaw clenching slightly. “In the practice room. I said some… harsh things. Things I shouldn’t have said.”

Iseul felt her throat tighten again. Not with nerves this time—but with the slow, quiet ache of something beginning to thaw.

He glanced up. Their eyes met, and there was no hiding from it now—not behind choreography, not behind noise.

“I was angry,” he continued. “At everything. Woojin leaving, the pressure, the fact that nothing felt right anymore. And then you showed up, and I—”

He stopped himself. Ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I just didn’t know what to do with all that. So, I took it out on you.”

The words sat heavy in the space between them, sinking into the silence like stones in deep water.

Iseul didn’t respond at first. She let the quiet stretch, let the weight of it settle.

“Is this the part where you say you’re sorry?” she asked eventually, and there was no sarcasm in her tone—just tiredness.

Hyunjin looked at her again. This time, he didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t overflowing with emotion. But something in the way he said it—bare, almost raw—made her chest ache a little more.

“I’m not asking you to forget it,” he added. “But I thought maybe you should hear it from me before we go on that stage.”

Iseul stared at him, trying to decide what to do with the unexpected apology now resting at her feet.

Finally, she nodded once. Not quite forgiveness. But not rejection either.

“Okay.”

She turned slightly, catching the edge of his reflection in one of the mirrors. He looked just as exhausted as she felt, hair a mess, eyes heavy with something unsaid.

Then his stomach growled.

Loudly.

So loudly it echoed slightly off the walls.

Iseul blinked.

Hyunjin froze.

“…That was the chair,” he said flatly.

She raised an eyebrow. “The chair?”

“Yes.”

They both stared at the clearly innocent chair.

Then Iseul snorted.

It started small—just a breath through her nose—but quickly turned into a laugh she couldn't stop, covering her mouth as her shoulders shook. Hyunjin’s ears turned red, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips.

“Don’t laugh,” he muttered. “It’s been a long day. My organs are fighting for survival.”

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346, @necrozica, @aemondsrhaenyra

STORY HINT: Seungmin has been giving Iseul and Minho the side-eye ever since he caught them in the middle of their belly roll lesson. At first, he thought it was just a one-off joke. But now, every time he walks into the room, Iseul and Minho are secretly practicing their ridiculous dance moves. Seungmin is pretty sure they’ve formed a “secret club” of absurd dance choreography. What he hadn't expected was him joining their shenanigans after he caught them again - this time practicing dances of JYP himself. And now Seungmin has perfected the art of weird jazz hands and awkward hip thrusts. And this how, ladies and gentlemen, JYPracha was formed.

Y'all can finally celebrate now - Hyunjin has finally stepped up his game bahahahhahaha. I feel like the JYPracha is such a cute addition, given how Seungmin and Minho compliments each others personality and will totally mock JYP's iconic dance steps (JYP if yer reading this - which u prob rnt - I js want to say yer a legend, this is all fun and games) and adding Iseul in their dynamic is absolutely so funny. ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅻ: Lights, Camera, Overload

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

ISEUL’S STOMACH CHURNED AS THE MAKEUP ARTIST brushed a final sweep of powder across her face. The soft bristles tickled her skin, but her nerves made it hard to sit still. Behind her, the studio buzzed to life—camera rigs clanked into position, stylists rushed by with hangers of backup outfits, someone shouted over a headset, and the lighting crew debated angles. It was chaos, but the kind that was orchestrated, familiar to those who belonged here.

Except Iseul still wasn’t sure if she did.

Her first music video. She’d trained for this. Dreamed of it in half-lit practice rooms, in quiet dorm corridors, while icing sore feet and nursing bruised knees. But now, standing in front of the mirror in full costume—eyes lined, lips glossed, hair curled to perfection—it all felt too real. Too loud. Too big. Too soon.

She smoothed her hands over the knit sweater they’d styled her in, fingers snagging on loose yarn threads. The high-waisted skirt clung a little tighter than she liked, and the platform sneakers felt like stilts beneath her unsteady footing. She shifted her weight, catching her own gaze in the mirror—wide eyes, lips pressed into a line, trying not to look as terrified as she felt.

“You okay?” the makeup artist asked gently.

Iseul smiled automatically, the same polite, practiced curve she wore for rehearsals and uncomfortable conversations. “Yeah. Just…excited, I think.”

She wasn’t lying. She was excited. But the kind that trembled under her skin like an oncoming storm—too many nerves, too much pressure, too fast.

Just then, the stylist strode over with a clipboard in hand, her expression pinched with quiet frustration. “Iseul, we need to make a quick change. The skirt—well, it’s a bit snug around the waist. Let’s swap it out for one size up.”

Iseul barely nodded before the stylist leaned in, voice lower, muttering, “We can’t have you looking bloated on camera, can we?”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she didn’t trust her voice. So, she nodded, brisk and mechanical.

“Sure…yeah, of course.”

She swallowed hard and turned slightly, pretending to fiddle with her sweater sleeve. Anything to avoid showing the way her confidence was crumbling at the edges. The last thing she needed was pity. Or worse—attention.

The stylist moved off, muttering something about measurements and camera angles, but Iseul barely heard her. Her ears were buzzing.

She stood still for a moment, back rigid, fists clenched. No one else had heard it. Thank God. But still—it lingered. Like static. Like smoke. It wasn’t just about the skirt. It was the implication. The unspoken expectation. Look a certain way. Be a certain size. Don’t draw attention for the wrong reasons.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew the industry she had walked into. But knowing didn’t make it easier to hear.

With a tight inhale, she tried to shake it off. She forced her shoulders down, relaxed her jaw. She was here for a reason. She’d worked too hard, bled too much, to let a comment undo her.

But still—the sting clung to her. Like the way-too-bright studio lights, exposing things she didn’t want anyone else to see.

She was here to perform. To debut. To prove herself.

So, she smiled. Or something like it.

As the stylist hurried off to find a larger skirt, Iseul forced herself to breathe, shoving the creeping insecurity into the back corner of her mind—

“You look like you’re about to combust,” came a familiar drawl.

Iseul blinked, startled. She turned to find Minho leaning against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed, one brow arched with maximum judgment. He gave her a once-over—not in a critical way, just… very Minho.

“You good?” he asked, though his tone was already flatly unconvinced.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.

Minho didn’t move. Just stared at her, the way only he could—deadpan, unreadable, but annoyingly perceptive. Then he tilted his head slightly.

“Sure. Because people totally ‘fine’ stand around looking like they’re debating whether to cry or punch someone.”

Iseul let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. “Wow, your emotional intelligence is scary.”

“I contain multitudes,” Minho said, smug. “Now come on. Stylists are panicking, directors are probably making another coffee IV, and Chan-hyung looks like he’s on the brink of scheduling another emergency meeting.”

Iseul’s smile wavered, but she appreciated the sarcasm. It made everything feel less sharp.

“Also,” Minho added, turning to walk off, “if anyone gives you crap about your weight again, just point to my abs and say, ‘This guy eats three rice cakes and a doughnut every night.’ Balance.”

She snorted, “That’s not how balance works.”

“Try me.”

By the time they made it onto set, the air was already thick with urgency.

Cameramen adjusted their rigs. Staff darted around with clipboards and headsets, shouting half-heard instructions. Lights blinked overhead, hot and merciless. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves.

Iseul’s new skirt fit better, but her skin still prickled with discomfort. Every inch of the oversized sweater and platform shoes felt foreign—cute on paper, awkward in practice. And the knowledge that hundreds of thousands of people would one day see her like this made her stomach twist.

First MV. First shoot. First impression.

She couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Whoa.”

She turned to see Jeongin standing a few feet away, blinking owlishly.

“You look…” he trailed off, eyes widening, clearly scrambling for a safe adjective. “Different.”

“Different?” she echoed, one brow raised.

Seungmin appeared beside him like clockwork, eyes flicking over her outfit. “He means you look like someone who actually sleeps. I assume the stylist worked a miracle.”

Jeongin gasped. “Hyung!”

Iseul snorted. “Don’t worry. I know what he meant.” She paused, brushing her hair behind one ear. “But I will take the ‘miracle’ part, thank you.”

Changbin passed by just then, did a full double-take, then walked backward to get a better look. “Wait—wait, is that Iseul?”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed.

“Yah, no one told me our team had a lead from a drama set,” he said, grinning wide. “Should I act cooler now? Is this where I pretend I wasn’t yelling at a bug in the hallway five minutes ago?”

“Please don’t,” Seungmin muttered.

Before she could reply, a hand gently touched her shoulder. She turned to find Chan giving her a once-over, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he gave a soft nod, smiling just slightly.

“You look great,” he said quietly. “Comfortable? Need anything?”

“Just don’t let me trip on these shoes.”

Chan blinked. The sarcasm took him off guard—just for a second—but then his eyes crinkled as he laughed under his breath, clearly relieved.

“Stop hanging out with Han so much,” he murmured, shaking his head fondly. “His dramatic antics are corrupting you.”

Her smile deepened—real, if a little nervous. Before she could think of a comeback for Chan, a familiar voice piped up beside her.

“Corrupting her?” Han scoffed, sidling into view like he’d been lurking for the right moment. “Please. This is character development.”

Iseul turned, eyebrows lifting. “I’m sorry—who gave you a microphone?”

Han grinned, dramatically clutching his chest. “Was that sass? Was that actual sass aimed at me? I feel like a proud mother bird.”

“More like a crow with a YouTube channel,” Seungmin muttered behind them.

“I’m ignoring that,” Han said, then looked at Iseul again. “No, seriously. You look like you walked off a K-drama shoot. Like, second female lead—but the one everyone really wants the male lead to end up with.”

Iseul snorted. “That sounds dangerously specific.”

“Just say thank you and move on,” Felix said, bounding over with a bounce in his step and eyes wide. “Iseul-ah, you look so good, I almost didn’t recognize you. Like, ‘is this a cameo from a new girl group?’ kind of good.”

“You’ve seen me with a charcoal face mask on,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, and even then, you looked iconic,” Felix replied without hesitation, clutching his chest like he was emotionally moved. “But this—this is idol material.”

“You’re being weird again,” Hyunjin said, appearing beside them like he’d teleported, hands in his pockets and brow furrowed in faux seriousness. He eyed Iseul for a long second, then gave a small nod, his voice softer. “...You look really good.”

Iseul blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “Thanks,” she said, almost shyly.

Hyunjin’s ears turned pink immediately. “I mean—like—for the concept. Good for the concept. Don’t read into it.”

“Too late,” Han sang.

Minho strolled past just then with a protein bar in hand, glanced at the group, and sighed. “Wow, one outfit change and you’re suddenly the nation’s sweetheart.”

“Jealous?” she teased, falling into step beside him.

“I don’t get jealous,” he said, biting into his bar. “But I do get concerned when the group’s collective IQ drops around you.”

“I take that as a compliment,” she said sweetly.

“You would.”

Chan, watching all of this from a short distance, shook his head. It was subtle, but there was something in his eyes—pride, relief, maybe even a bit of awe. After everything, after the tension, the tears, the silence that used to cling between them like fog—this felt new. Looser. Warmer.

A staff member clapped loudly nearby. “Stray Kids, standby! We’re rolling in five!”

The group scattered with practiced ease, each falling into their roles. Felix bounced toward the set, already mouthing through his lines. Seungmin and Jeongin exchanged a quick handshake, like a pre-show ritual. Han took one last exaggerated deep breath before walking off in the opposite direction.

Iseul swallowed hard and followed Minho and Hyunjin toward the stage.

The set was surreal—neon signs, fog machines, lights that pulsed in blues and reds. The music hadn’t even started, but the beat was already in her chest, heavy and fast.

“First positions, please!” a voice called.

Iseul stepped into her mark, heart hammering. She could feel the weight of the camera lens pointed at her. The lights above buzzed, casting everything in a too-sharp glow. Someone adjusted a mic pack on her back. Another stylist dashed forward to fix a stray hair.

Across the way, she caught Chan’s eye. He gave her a small thumbs up—just once, quick and unobtrusive—but it anchored her. She nodded back.

“Playback, take one!”

The song kicked in.

And just like that, they were moving.

It was easier than she thought—at first. The choreography was muscle memory, and her lips moved to the lyrics like they’d been stitched there. But the stage was smaller than the practice room, and the lights were hotter, and the camera was always there—hovering, tracking, waiting to catch the smallest misstep.

By the second verse, her smile was starting to stiffen.

By the third, her platform shoes felt like bricks.

By the final chorus, the first take had derailed completely.

“Cut!” someone yelled. “We lost tempo—again from the center. Let’s reset!”

Iseul bit the inside of her cheek as the music faded. Her lungs burned slightly, but it was the familiar burn of frustration more than fatigue.

Her brain was fogging up. The lights, the pressure, the nerves—they were crowding in, wrapping around her spine like a vice.

“Reset, people! Back to positions!”

She stepped off the mark. Felix gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder as he passed, muttering something encouraging that she barely heard. Minho didn’t say anything, but his gaze brushed hers briefly. A flicker of concern.

She inhaled slowly. In. Out.

Just a rough start, that’s all. It was normal. First MV shoots were always like this. Everyone said so.

The music cued up again.

She took her mark.

This time, she told herself she’d breathe slower. Hit every step. Keep her eyes up. No panic. No spiraling.

The beat dropped.

They moved.

But halfway through the verse, it happened.

Her left heel slipped—just barely, just enough. Her balance wavered, and her hand instinctively shot out, brushing Minho’s shoulder as she caught herself. He barely flinched, shifting seamlessly to keep the line clean. But she knew. She knew.

She missed the next beat trying to recover, steps misaligned by half a count. Her face didn't betray it, but inside—her stomach dropped like a stone.

“Cut!”

Silence fell. The music cut out sharply, like a guillotine.

She stood frozen, jaw tight.

A long pause.

Then someone—maybe a PD—muttered, “Let’s reset. From the top.”

No one said her name, but the implication was heavy. She’d thrown the take. It was her mistake.

As the group shuffled back to starting positions, she felt her throat tighten. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You don’t cry on set.

She was about to apologize, to mumble something—anything—when Minho leaned in slightly as they passed.

“You’re fine,” he said low, so only she could hear. “Don’t get in your head.”

Iseul didn’t respond, but the words stuck. Like a hook. Holding her steady, barely.

Behind them, Hyunjin’s voice cut through. “Do you want to switch positions for this take?”

She turned. He was looking at her—not annoyed, not condescending. Just… measured. Careful.

“What?”

“Just for now,” he said, nodding toward her shoes. “You keep slipping—maybe if you’re not centre for this run, you can focus on getting stable first.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

Hyunjin blinked, taken aback.

Han, sensing the tension, slipped in quickly with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Or we just all do it barefoot. Concept: natural idols return to Earth.”

Felix laughed, but it sounded a little too forced.

Hyunjin looked away, jaw tightening.

Chan stepped in then, clapping his hands once. “Okay, we’re just warming up. Don’t stress over early takes. Let’s reset—five minutes to breathe, then we go again.”

Grateful for the pause, Iseul stepped off-set quickly, trying to clear her head. She felt like she was unravelling, thread by thread, and if someone looked too closely, they’d see how frayed she already was.

Minho offered her his water bottle wordlessly. She took it.

Felix hovered nearby, casually looping an arm around her shoulders. “Hey,” he said softly, so no one else would hear. “You’ve got this. Don’t let one bad run ruin you.”

She nodded faintly.

But her chest still ached.

She barely heard the five-minute call.

Felix had wandered off to stretch. Minho was talking to one of the cameramen. The set buzzed around her, a swarm of movement and voices, but it all blurred into white noise.

Iseul stood just off to the side; arms wrapped around herself despite the heat of the lights. Her platform shoes dug uncomfortably into her heels. The sweater suddenly felt like it weighed ten pounds. Her lungs worked harder for every breath.

Don’t cry. Not here. Not now.

“Hey.”

She startled, looking up to find Hyunjin standing in front of her again.

His expression had softened. Less composed now. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward.

“I wasn’t trying to… I wasn’t saying you can’t do it,” he said quietly. “I just thought—if it were me, I’d want the option. That’s all.”

Iseul didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure she could.

Hyunjin shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”

That nearly undid her.

Her throat closed.

She turned away too fast, blinking hard, but the sting behind her eyes gave her away.

He noticed.

“Hey,” he said again, gentler now, almost guilty. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed. You don’t have to—”

“I do, actually,” she said sharply, not facing him. “I really do.”

Hyunjin froze.

For a long second, neither of them moved.

Then—soft footsteps behind her.

Chan.

“Iseul,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Let’s take five. A real five.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And that’s okay.”

She swallowed hard.

“It’s the first MV,” he continued. “No one’s expecting perfect. Not even the company.”

“I am,” she whispered. “I expect it.”

That silenced him.

And then, quietly, from across the set:

“I tripped in our first MV.”

Everyone turned.

It was Han. He was perched on a prop box like it was a throne. “Dead serious. First full take. Slipped on my own foot and nearly took Minho-hyung down with me.”

Minho, without missing a beat, called out, “Nearly? You did take me down.”

Han held up two fingers. “Two full takes ruined. I was convinced I was going to be kicked out of the group.”

Felix chimed in. “Chan-hyung cried after our first MV shoot.”

“I did not!” Chan called, scandalized.

“You did,” Changbin said with a mouthful of protein bar. “You cried in the bathroom and tried to blame allergies.”

Laughter echoed.

Even Iseul—through the tears brimming in her eyes—let out a shaky, startled sound.

A laugh.

Small. Real.

Chan gave her a side glance. “You okay?”

She nodded slowly.

Her voice was hoarse, but steadier now. The lump in her throat hadn’t vanished, but it felt manageable—shrunk down by the ridiculous image of Han wiping out mid-choreo and dragging Minho down with him, by the fact that even Chan had apparently cracked under the pressure once. By the fact that they weren’t looking at her like she was weak.

They were just here.

Still joking. Still standing.

Still hers, in a way she was still getting used to.

“Okay then,” Chan said, gently adjusting the collar of her sweater—more reassurance than styling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she muttered. “I’ll settle for not face-planting.”

“No promises,” Han chirped from behind them, far too enthusiastically.

“Why are you still sitting like that?” Seungmin asked as he walked past Han. “You look like a cursed meerkat.”

“It’s my artistic pose,” Han replied, dramatically striking a new, even worse one.

Minho rolled his eyes. “You want her to laugh or throw up?”

“I’m versatile like that.”

Changbin gently nudged Iseul’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got your back, yeah?”

She glanced up at him. “Even if I freeze in the middle of a shot?”

“I’ll pretend I meant to spin and fall next to you in solidarity.”

“I’ll trip before you do,” Jeongin called from somewhere near the monitors. “I’m building the suspense.”

She laughed again, this time more freely, as Hyunjin quietly passed her a water bottle. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them said anything.

But he didn’t look away this time.

And neither did she.

“Places, everyone!”

The call echoed through the set again, more urgent now.

The group began to move, bodies falling into formation like second nature, but this time—

This time, Iseul didn’t feel like she was following.

She felt like she belonged.

As the music began to thrum through the speakers and the cameras rolled into place, she let herself breathe. Deep. Full.

The lights hit.

Her cue arrived.

And Iseul stepped into it.

The track blared through the speakers, bass heavy and sharp. Lights cut across the set in timed flashes.

Iseul moved on instinct.

One beat, then another. A glance at the camera, a tilt of her head, the movement of her hands—every gesture honed through hours of practice now carried a new weight. Not perfection, but something real. Nervous, yes. But steady.

Behind her, she could feel them all moving too. Familiar energy. Familiar rhythm. The boys weren’t just backup—they were her anchors.

Felix caught her eye mid-routine and gave the smallest wink. She nearly missed a step from smiling.

Take after take passed. A few stumbles. A missed cue. Laughter in between. No one snapped. No one scolded.

Even when she flubbed a choreo segment, Hyunjin didn’t sigh or look away. He just ran the move slowly beside her, mirroring the steps until she caught on again.

“Better,” he muttered when they finished. “Still awkward, but better.”

She smacked his arm on instinct. He grinned like it was the highest compliment.

Chan watched everything like a hawk, as always, but whenever she met his eyes, his nods were calm. Assuring. He didn’t say much—he didn’t need to.

At one point, during a break, Changbin wandered over with two water bottles and handed one to her. “Still standing?” he asked, mock-serious.

“Barely,” she admitted, wiping her forehead.

“You didn’t fall once. That’s already better than my record.”

“I tripped twice,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “Style points.”

By the time the director finally called, “That’s a wrap!” the room erupted in scattered applause.

Felix whooped. Han threw both arms in the air like they’d won a championship. Minho gave a small but satisfied nod, muttering, “That’ll do.”

Iseul stood in the middle of the set, dazed but buzzing.

She did it.

“First MV done,” Jeongin said, bouncing over to her side, awkwardly holding a camera. “How do you feel?”

She opened her mouth—then paused. She wasn’t sure she had the right word.

Chan saved her the trouble. He stepped beside her, voice quiet. “Like a member of Stray Kids.”

Her throat caught.

Then Felix draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into the group’s orbit without hesitation. “Group photo!” he declared. “We need to memorialize her transformation from yogurt gremlin to visual goddess.”

“You’re gonna get smacked,” Seungmin muttered.

But she let herself laugh anyway, pulling in close as the camera clicked.

One chaotic, blurry photo later, the memory was sealed: her, tangled somewhere between Felix’s bear hug and Han’s peace signs, Minho smirking just off-center, and Chan’s hand on her shoulder—solid, warm, proud.

They didn’t know what would come next.

But for tonight, they had this.

And it was enough.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346

STORY HINT: Iseul went home that night and changed her phone’s homescreen to the group selfie they’d taken after filming. A reminder—just for her—that she was here, she was a part of this, and maybe, just maybe, she was exactly where she needed to be.

Ahahhaha I reaallllyyy liked writing this chapter - it was so cute TwT Hope yall loved it too <33 Vacay has officially started so yay freedom lol...I'll try to come up w more but honestly I'm scrambling for ideas...yall please share yer ideas w me...I'll try to include it TvT Stay safe! ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅺ: Blushing Bin

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

SUNLIGHT SPILLED THROUGH THE NARROW SLATS of the dorm blinds, painting pale stripes across the hardwood floor. Somewhere down the hall, the sound of water running in the bathroom echoed faintly, and the kettle clicked on with a low whine.

Iseul hadn’t slept much.

She’d stayed at the kitchen table long after the others had gone to bed, the condensation from the makeshift ice pack dripping onto her sleeve as her thoughts spiralled in quiet, exhausted circles. Eventually, she’d moved to her room—her room—and stared at the ceiling until the blur of night gave way to grey morning.

Now, she stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed up, cradling a mug of lukewarm tea she didn’t remember making. The ache in her hand had dulled to a throb. Still visible. Still there.

Just like her.

She didn’t hear him enter.

Not at first.

It was the clink of a cupboard opening and a soft grunt that caught her attention. She turned slightly, blinked—only to see Changbin reaching up for a mug with one hand and scratching his head with the other, looking like he’d just crawled out of bed. His hoodie was inside-out.

“You’re up early,” he mumbled, not looking at her right away.

“So are you,” she replied, voice soft.

He finally looked over. And froze for a beat.

Eyes dropped to her hand. The bandage. His jaw ticked.

“…You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Liar.”

Iseul snorted lightly, and that seemed to ease something in him. He poured himself some tea, stood silently across from her at the kitchen counter. The silence wasn’t tense, exactly, but it was full. Too many things unsaid pressing in from the corners.

Then, abruptly—

“I was a dick.”

Iseul blinked.

Changbin kept his gaze fixed on the counter.

“I mean—I was cold. And rude. And—I don’t even know half the stuff I said around you, but I know none of it helped. And I know I made you feel like—like you weren’t welcome here. And that sucks. I suck.” He gestured vaguely in the air. “Like, objectively.”

“Changbin—”

“No, let me finish. I need to get this out before I chicken out or do that thing where I make a joke to deflect.”

Iseul blinked again.

“You didn’t deserve how we treated you,” he said, eyes still fixed somewhere on the countertop. “Especially not me. I thought if I kept my distance, it would hurt less. Like maybe if I didn’t look at you too closely, I wouldn’t have to admit that you were good. That you belonged here. That you—”

She watched him flounder, words tripping over emotion, breath catching a little.

“—that you fucking tried, even when we made it impossible. And I hated that. Because I knew I wouldn’t have been strong enough to stay, if it were me. I knew it. And I hated that too.”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“I should’ve apologised earlier. I should’ve said something after your hand—I saw you come back, and I kept thinking this is it, this is the moment, and I kept freezing. And now I’m here rambling like an idiot, and you probably think I’m full of—”

“Oppa.”

Changbin’s words hit a wall. He blinked at her.

“…What?”

Iseul's lips curved—just barely. “I said, oppa.”

It hit him like a frying pan.

The way his ears turned red immediately. The way his entire soul paused to reboot. His eyes went wide, like she’d just short-circuited something in his brain.

“Y-You—what—you—why would you do that?!”

“To shut you up,” she said simply, sipping her tea again. “It worked.”

Changbin was still malfunctioning. “You’ve never—I mean—you call Chan and Minho hyung oppa—why me—why now—”

“Because I forgave you,” she said, voice quieter this time. “And you were going to spiral for another five minutes if I didn’t.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then buried his face in his hands with a muffled, “I hate you so much right now.”

“You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not—”

“You are.”

He groaned like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. “This is what I get for trying to be vulnerable.”

She was smiling now—actually smiling, just a little—and he caught it as he peeked through his fingers.

His heart did something annoying in his chest.

“…You’re mean,” he mumbled.

“You’re dramatic.”

They didn’t say anything for a while after that.

The silence wasn’t awkward now. Just full in a different way—like the dorm was holding its breath around them, the weight of past mistakes balanced by the fragile beginning of something lighter. Sunlight had shifted, crawling up the wall behind Iseul like the morning was trying to make room for them too.

Changbin had finally pulled his hands away from his face, resting his elbows on the counter, cheek squished into one hand. His tea sat untouched. He was watching her—not in the guarded, wary way he used to, but openly now, like he didn’t want to miss anything. Like maybe he was making up for all the times he hadn’t looked.

“You didn’t have to forgive me,” he said eventually, voice low.

Iseul looked down into her mug, watching the ripples move.

“I know,” she said. “I wanted to.”

A breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected that.

She added, “It wasn’t just you. I didn’t make it easy, either. I—I think I was so desperate to prove I belonged that I forgot how to just be a person. I kept pushing myself to be perfect, and then I was mad when no one believed it.”

He was quiet, listening.

“I didn’t even believe it,” she said, so softly it almost wasn’t there. “I still don’t.”

Changbin straightened, his brows pulling together.

“Iseul—”

“I’m not fishing for comfort,” she cut in gently, sensing it. “I just… I wanted to say it. Out loud. So it didn’t eat me up.”

Changbin chewed the inside of his cheek. There were so many things he wanted to say—reassurances, defences, maybe even a joke to lift the heaviness of her words. But she’d asked him not to deflect. Not this time.

So, he leaned forward instead and nudged his mug toward hers. A small clink of ceramic against ceramic.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, meeting her eyes, “I think you’re brave as hell.”

Her throat tightened. She tried to laugh, but it came out watery.

“You’re gonna make me cry in the kitchen,” she whispered.

He smiled a little, not teasing. Just soft.

“Then cry in the kitchen. No one’s awake yet.”

That did make her laugh, finally. Quiet and a little shaky, but real.

For a few minutes, the kitchen was silent again, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of their mugs as they sipped, trying to stretch the warmth a little longer.

Then came the soft pad of footsteps from down the hall.

Iseul didn’t turn, but she heard the telltale sleepy mutterings of Jeongin, and then the light thump of someone walking into the wall. Seungmin’s unmistakable deadpan followed: “That’s not the bathroom, genius.”

Jeongin groaned.

Changbin chuckled, under his breath. “Wanna take bets on how long it takes before one of them walks in and ruins the mood?”

“Two minutes,” Iseul said.

“Generous,” he replied.

And just like that, the moment shifted. But it didn’t disappear. It lingered beneath their words, in the quiet glances and the shared silence.

It wasn’t everything.

But it was a start.

The studio smelled like dust, wires, and too many late nights.

Hyunjin sat cross-legged on the old couch shoved against the back wall, phone in hand, earphones in—but he wasn’t really listening to anything. His gaze kept drifting past the screen to the booth where Iseul stood, her headphones slightly askew, brows knitted in concentration.

Chan leaned over the desk, muttering something to her through the intercom. She nodded once, then lifted her hand to signal she was ready. The beat kicked in—Changbin’s section—and her voice came in soft and sharp, weaving through the verse like she’d owned it from the start.

She was bleeding into the beat—his beat—with a kind of quiet force that shouldn’t have made sense but did. Her tone wasn’t as polished as Chan’s, or as intense as Changbin’s, but it carried a tension, a pull. Like she wasn’t just singing through the pain—she was singing with it.

Hyunjin hated how good it was.

Not because he thought she didn’t deserve it.

But because it made everything more complicated.

She hit the end of the verse, let her voice dip just as the synths began to fade, and stood there in the stillness—waiting, breathing, eyes closed. The silence that followed was the kind that settled in your chest.

The intercom clicked.

“Keep that take,” Chan said, already dragging the file into the session. “Don’t touch a thing.”

She peeled off her headphones and stepped out, blinking against the brighter lights. Her sweatshirt sleeves were bunched at the elbows, hair pulled into a messy knot, neck glistening faintly with sweat—but she looked more alive than Hyunjin had seen her in weeks.

“Nice,” Seungmin said without looking up from his lyric sheet. “Didn’t think you’d make that phrasing work, but you did.”

“Is that a compliment?” Iseul asked.

“Don’t push it.”

Changbin chuckled and moved to high-five her. She hesitated only for a second before meeting his hand with a light slap. The grin that cracked across Changbin’s face was wide, too wide—and Hyunjin felt it like a pebble in his shoe. Small. Irritating. Inescapable.

“You nailed my part better than I do,” Changbin said, clapping a hand on her shoulder.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No, seriously. You actually—” He mimed an explosion with his hands. “—blew my mind.”

“Gross,” Jeongin muttered. “Don’t be weird in the booth.”

Hyunjin forced a smirk, pretending to scroll. But he wasn’t watching his phone anymore. He was watching them.

He didn’t know why it unsettled him so much. Maybe because it was Changbin, the same one who had shut her out for weeks. The same one who used to leave the room when she entered. And now he was—what? Her personal hype-man?

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Maybe it was how easy it looked now. How the wall that used to stand between Iseul and the rest of them—how he used to justify his silence—was crumbling. And she wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t waiting for apologies. She was just… letting people in.

Everyone but him.

Chan waved him closer. “Hyunjin, let’s get your lines down before lunch, yeah?”

He stood without replying, sliding his phone into his pocket. As he passed behind Iseul’s chair, she didn’t look up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch.

It was the politest kind of nothing.

And Hyunjin realized—too late—that this was worse than her anger.

This was indifference.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, that was what scared him the most.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346

STORY HINT: Felix—poor boy—had absolutely no idea how to apologize. Instead of returning Iseul’s “good morning” that day, he sputtered the water in his mouth and bolted straight to the bathroom. Apparently, running away from problems rather than confronting them was a Stray Kids thing.

But guilt gnawed at him all day. After lunch, he spotted Iseul in the hallway, fiddling with her headphones, her gaze distant and lost in thought. He hesitated for a moment, watching her, before his feet betrayed him and started moving on their own.

When he finally mustered up the courage to apologize, he looked like he might burst into tears if Iseul didn’t accept it. And to his relief, she did—calling him a dork with that familiar softness in her voice, the kind of soft spot only she seemed to have for him.

Kinda short chapter but I'm already working on the next one and I'll drop it soon. My vacay will start from tmrw so that means more of me being online hehehe. As always, stay safe! ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅹ Tension So Thick You Could Cut It With A Lightstick

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

Hyunjin sat at the edge of the practice room, his back pressed against the cool mirror wall. The polished floor beneath him was scattered with water bottles, sweat towels, and exhaustion. The rest of the boys were around him, but it didn’t feel like it. They were all somewhere else—mentally orbiting the same knot of guilt he couldn’t shake.

The fight replayed on loop in his mind. The way Iseul’s voice had cracked. The way no one had followed her when she walked out. The way he hadn’t.

He leaned his head back against the mirror and exhaled sharply through his nose. Practice felt useless. The choreography was muscle memory now, but the energy was off. Like they were moving through fog. Like a vital piece was missing—and they all knew it.

She had every right to leave. But still, the image of her retreating figure burned into his mind.

The door creaked open.

Hyunjin’s heart stuttered.

For a split second, he thought—

But it was just Felix and Seungmin, walking in behind Han. No Iseul. The disappointment hit harder than he wanted to admit.

Seungmin looked around the room, his gaze landing on the empty spot Iseul always took near the back corner. His face didn’t shift much, but the subtle downturn of his mouth said enough.

Han was fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie, pacing. He looked like he had something to say but couldn’t find the words. None of them could. It was like if someone acknowledged her absence, the weight of it would become unbearable.

Chan entered last.

He looked like hell.

His hoodie was wrinkled, his hair still wet from a shower that had clearly been too quick, and his eyes—his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that guilt fed.

"Where’s Iseul?" he asked, voice tight.

No one answered.

“She still isn’t back,” Changbin muttered eventually, voice low.

Chan let out a breath through his nose, hands on his hips. “Do you realize what we’ve done?” His voice cracked on the last word. Not with anger—with disappointment.

Hyunjin’s throat clenched.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he said, quietly, like maybe if he said it enough times, it’d undo everything.

“No one did,” Chan replied. “But in the end, she isn’t here yet now, is she?”

The room fell silent. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that suffocated.

A beat passed. Then two.

Minho shifted, his arms crossed, eyes trained on the floor like it might shift the blame away if he stared long enough. Even he wasn’t throwing out sarcastic jabs to break the tension.

“We should start,” Felix said softly, the first to move. “Even if she’s not here yet.”

They nodded. What else could they do?

Music filled the space. But it didn’t settle in their bodies the way it usually did. They moved through the choreography like ghosts, chasing rhythm without conviction. No one dared speak unless it was to count out loud or breathe directions.

Until—

The door opened again.

This time, no one turned around immediately. They didn’t want to look, didn’t want to hope. Not again.

But they heard the sound of a bag being dropped, the soft scuff of sneakers on the polished floor.

Hyunjin turned.

She was there.

Iseul stood just inside the doorway, her posture stiff, her expression unreadable. Her presence shifted the room instantly—like something had been sucked out of the air and replaced with cold.

“Sorry I’m late,” she muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Chan’s head whipped around, and the sharpness in his expression was immediate. Relief tangled with frustration, bursting out as something jagged.

“Where the fuck have you been?” His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut through the air like a slap.

Iseul flinched. She didn’t cower, didn’t bite back. Just… flinched. Like she’d expected it.

“I needed space,” she said, voice tight. “I went to clear my head.”

Chan’s jaw clenched. “You can’t just disappear on us, not after what happened last night. You could’ve at least texted.”

Iseul stared at a spot on the floor, jaw tense. Her hands were curled into the sleeves of her hoodie, fingers twitching like she wanted to say something but had already talked herself out of it.

“My phone died,” she said finally. Not quite a lie, not quite the truth.

“Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Chan pushed, his voice straining with the effort it took to keep it even. “I had to call your mom because we had no idea where you’d gone.”

“I’m here now.” Her tone wasn’t defensive. Just tired. Flat. Like she’d rehearsed that response on the way over. Like that was all she was willing to offer.

The silence that followed her words was thick, heavy with things unsaid.

Hyunjin didn’t realize he’d taken a step toward her until his heel scraped faintly against the floor. She glanced up at the sound, eyes locking with his for a split second before darting away again.

He swallowed. “We just… we didn’t know if you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” She adjusted her bag strap, like she was trying to give herself something to do, something to anchor her to the moment.

Minho watched her closely. “You don’t have to act like nothing happened.”

“I’m not.” Her voice cracked faintly on the second word, but she cleared her throat and blinked it away. “And stop dilly-dallying. Let’s start practice.”

Felix took a small step forward, his voice tentative. “You can talk to us, y’know.”

Iseul’s expression didn’t shift. “I know.”

But she didn’t.

Not really.

She walked past them, slow but steady, like threading her way through a minefield. No one reached out to stop her. No one dared. She made her way to the back corner—her corner—and set her bag down without a word. She tugged her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and started to stretch like it was just another day.

Like she hadn’t been gone all night. Like nothing had broken.

Hyunjin sat back down, pulse drumming in his ears. He could feel the words forming behind his teeth, too many of them, too sharp and too late. But he didn’t say a single one.

He watched her instead—watched her tie her hair up, roll out her shoulders, flex her fingers.

Then his eyes caught on something—her hands. Her knuckles, raw and reddened, one of them slightly swollen.

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Everyone else noticed too. But no one said a thing.

Not because they didn’t care—because if they brought it up, they’d have to confront all of it. The shouting. The silence. The damage.

Minho cleared his throat. “Let’s just… pick it up from the bridge.”

The room was thick with tension, but the boys tried to carry on with the practice. Felix, noticing the heavy atmosphere, cracked a joke about missing the usual coffee run, trying to make everyone laugh, but it fell flat. Minho’s attempt to lighten things up by throwing a playful jab at Seungmin about his footwork only elicited a weak smile from him, not quite reaching his eyes.

Iseul stood off to the side, arms crossed, still carrying that distant air. She hadn’t said much since her brief apology, her gaze fixed on the floor. She wasn’t angry anymore, but the coldness between them was a reminder that the distance between them hadn't vanished.

Changbin stepped up next to her, clapping his hands together, trying to create some kind of normalcy. “You ready to get back in, Iseul?” His voice was casual, but there was a flicker of guilt underneath the surface.

Iseul gave him a nod, but it was stiff, mechanical. She didn’t look at any of them directly, her movements smooth but detached. She wasn’t ready to open up—not yet.

Chan, who had been pacing near the center of the room, finally stopped and turned toward the group. His exhaustion was evident in the way he carried himself, his shoulders hunched in a rare moment of vulnerability. “Alright, let’s just focus, okay? We’ve got a lot of work to do, and we need to finish this practice strong.”

The practice continued, but the tension lingered in every movement, in every pause. Hyunjin couldn’t shake the image of Iseul’s bruised knuckles, the marks from her own silent battle. It was hard to concentrate, and even harder to ignore how much he wanted to make things right.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to make it right.

But it wasn’t the right time.

As the practice wound down and they began to pack up, there was an unspoken shift in the room. The tension had not fully dissipated, but for the first time in hours, Iseul moved closer, walking with them toward the van. Her silence didn’t feel like rejection anymore; it was just... neutral. She was still there, still walking with them, not turning away.

Chan glanced at her as she fell in step beside him, his eyes softening as he realized that, for all the space between them, she wasn’t leaving. She was still part of the team, even if everything hadn’t been fixed yet.

Han, who had been quiet for most of the practice, shot Iseul a look. “You’re coming back to the dorm, right?” His tone was casual, but there was an edge of surprise in his voice, like he hadn’t expected her to show up, let alone stick around.

Iseul didn’t respond immediately. She just kept walking, her pace matching theirs, her head held high. Then, with a hint of sharpness that caught them all off guard, she spoke.

“Why? You think I should sleep on the streets?” Her voice was calm but challenging, an undercurrent of something unspoken hanging in the air.

Han made a small noise like he’d been physically struck.

“Of course she’s coming back,” Chan cut in, too fast, too desperate. “It’s her home too.”

Iseul didn’t say anything else. She just kept walking, her presence enough of a reminder that they couldn’t undo the damage done, but they could still move forward—slowly, cautiously, but they could still try.

As they reached the van, the boys filed in quietly, each of them carrying their own thoughts, their own guilt, but there was a quiet sense of hope, too. She hadn’t left them. She hadn’t turned away. She was still here. And maybe that was all they needed to start healing.

The van ride home was silent. Not the comfortable, end-of-a-long-day kind. The kind that made your skin itch, your brain replay every word you didn’t say.

Iseul sat near the window, her cheek resting against the glass. The city lights blurred past her, reflected faintly in her tired eyes. No one sat beside her. Not because they didn’t want to—but because they didn’t know if she wanted them to.

Hyunjin sat directly behind her, elbows on his knees, headphones in but no music playing. He watched the back of her head the entire ride. He didn’t mean to. He just… couldn’t not.

When they finally reached the dorm, the boys filed out slowly, like they were trying not to wake something fragile. Iseul was the last to step out. Her steps were steady, but she looked like she was holding her breath.

Inside, the dorm was dim and too quiet. Felix and Jeongin disappeared toward the kitchen, mumbling something about snacks. Han hovered awkwardly in the hallway, then ducked into the bathroom. Chan stayed near the entrance, arms crossed, watching Iseul like she might disappear again if he blinked.

She slipped off her shoes, set her bag down, and headed toward the shared space she’d only barely started to call home.

Hyunjin lingered.

She reached for the freezer, fingers brushing the handle, probably going for her usual yogurt stash.

And then he saw it again—her hand.

Red. Swollen. Angry-looking.

His chest tightened.

He moved without thinking.

“Iseul,” he said softly.

She stilled. Didn’t look at him. “What?”

He hesitated, then nodded toward her hand. “Does it hurt?”

Silence.

Then: “No.” A beat. “Yes.” Another beat. “It doesn’t matter.”

He stepped closer. Careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“It matters.”

This time, she looked at him. Not with anger—but with something quieter. Worn-down. Empty. Like she didn’t have the strength to argue.

He didn’t say anything else. Just turned, opened the fridge, grabbed a pack of frozen dumplings. Wrapped it in a dish towel. Walked over and held it out to her, wordlessly.

She stared at it. At him.

Then, slowly, she took it and pressed it to her hand.

“Thanks,” she said, so softly he almost missed it.

He nodded once, not trusting himself to say anything else.

They stood there like that—quiet, unsure—until Chan’s voice broke the moment.

“We’re ordering dinner. Iseul, anything you want?”

Her eyes flicked toward the living room. She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Chan exhaled. “Still getting you something.”

And that was it. No one pushed her to talk. No one acted like things were normal. But they didn’t avoid her anymore, either.

Later, after the others were sprawled around the living room—Felix half-asleep, Jeongin giggling over a dumb meme, Minho picking on Seungmin—Iseul stayed in the kitchen, still icing her hand.

Hyunjin passed by again. Their eyes met.

He didn’t speak. But he did something unexpected.

He sat across from her at the table.

And for the first time since she’d walked out, they simply… sat. In silence. Not angry. Not avoiding. Just there.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie, @nchhuhi, @rtyuy1346

STORY HINT: Chan didn’t sleep that night, even though Iseul returned. It wasn’t because of work—he’d closed his laptop hours ago, headphones abandoned on the desk. But her voice echoed louder than any beat he could've made. The way it cracked when she said, “I’m fine,” played on loop in his head. And the worst part was knowing she said it to protect them. To protect him. That kind of hurt doesn’t let you rest.

WASSUP PEEPS! AAHAHAHAHHAHA I'm like super duper sorry for posting after such a long time but life has been super busy - classes started again and it took time to settle into a routine but ur fav girl is back AND IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN I OPENED TUMBLR TO SEE 165 FOLLOWERS TwT Ily all, yall deserve the world. Tysm for giving sm love to this fic - i nvr imagined it in my wildest dreams Stay safe, ilysm <3 ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅹ: Communication is Overrated

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE PRACTICE ROOM was suffocating.

It wasn’t just the exhaustion—the ache in her muscles, the burn in her lungs. It wasn’t even the heat, though sweat clung to her skin, dampening the fabric of her shirt.

It was the tension.

The sharp, invisible thread stretched between her and the boys, so tight it might snap at any moment.

They had been like this for days.

Iseul could feel it in the way they barely spoke to her, how their usual teasing was replaced by stiff nods and quiet exchanges she was never part of.

She caught it in the way Minho corrected her form, voice clipped, offering no further comment. The way Seungmin avoided her gaze, usually so quick to throw sarcastic jabs her way, now eerily quiet. Even Chan—who had always made an effort to check in—seemed distant, his attention elsewhere, buried in his own thoughts.

And Hyunjin…

Hyunjin, who had started treating her like something more than a stranger, now refused to even look at her.

It was like she had done something wrong. Like she had shattered something between them and didn’t even realize it.

The music cut out.

Iseul dragged in a breath, hands on her knees. Across the room, Jeongin collapsed onto the floor with a groan. Felix sat down beside him, stretching out his legs with a sigh. Chan mumbled something about fixing the timing in the chorus, wiping sweat from his forehead as he took a sip from his water bottle.

Iseul reached for her own bag, hands shaking with exhaustion. Her phone buzzed as soon as she picked it up.

She shouldn’t have looked.

She really, really shouldn’t have.

But it was becoming a habit now—checking the internet, scrolling through articles, watching as people dissected her presence in Stray Kids like she was nothing more than a puzzle piece shoved where it didn’t belong.

Her stomach twisted as she read the words on the screen.

Iseul’s past as a boxer—?? Old footage resurfaces of Stray Kids’ newest member Should JYPE idols really be fighting like this?

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled further, until—

A video.

She clicked on it before she could stop herself.

There she was—smaller, younger, fists wrapped tight, moving with precision, with power. Blow after blow landed clean, her opponent staggering under the force of her strikes. The bell rang, and she stepped back, shoulders rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

She felt exposed—like something that belonged to her, something personal, had been ripped away and put on display for everyone to pick apart.

The videos played on loop in her mind, the echoes of her past crashing over her like waves. The sharp crack of gloves against a punching bag. The sting of knuckles bruising, splitting open. The sound of her coach’s voice, drilling into her—Again. Again. Again.

No one was supposed to see this.

It was hers.

Not Stray Kids’. Not the company’s. Not the fans’.

Hers.

And yet, here it was, stripped bare for everyone to analyze. For everyone to turn into yet another narrative that wasn’t hers to control.

Iseul could feel herself unraveling, piece by piece, like threads being yanked loose from an already fragile seam.

A shadow shifted beside her.

“What’s wrong?”

Iseul barely heard Changbin’s voice.

Her mouth was dry. She forced the words out.

“The videos. My boxing matches—they’re everywhere.”

She expected shock. Maybe disbelief.

But what she got was silence.

No surprise. No confusion. Just a heavy, awkward pause.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she glanced up.

Seungmin didn’t look at her. Han scratched the back of his head, shifting uncomfortably. Hyunjin pressed his lips together, gaze glued to the floor.

Her fingers curled around her phone.

“…You knew.”

It wasn’t a question.

The guilt in the air wrapped around her like a vice. It was in the way Jeongin swallowed hard, the way Felix opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated. The way Minho exhaled through his nose and rubbed at his temple, as if bracing himself.

They knew.

They had all known.

Iseul’s breath hitched as she realised - the company.

Iseul’s breath hitched as realization struck—the company.

The company must have sneakily released it.

A calculated move. A PR stunt.

Her stomach twisted as the pieces clicked into place. JYPE must have been monitoring the backlash, the endless debates about her legitimacy as Stray Kids’ ninth member, the constant questioning of her skills. They saw an opportunity. And they took it.

Her past—something she had buried, something she had walked away from—was now public knowledge. Not by her choice.

And the boys knew about this already.

She was the only one left in the dark.

Her hands clenched into fists.

"You had no right…"

The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharp and trembling, thick with something she couldn’t name—betrayal, disbelief, hurt. It stuck to the walls of her throat, burning, clawing to get out.

No one spoke.

No one rushed to tell her she was wrong.

Iseul let out a sharp, bitter breath. "You had no right to let them do this without telling me." Her fingers curled around her phone, so tight that her knuckles turned white. "You knew—and none of you thought I deserved to know?"

Across from her, Chan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” Her voice wavered, but her glare didn’t. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t like that because it was. You knew, and you let me find out like this.”

Hyunjin’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “You think we let this happen?” His voice was rough, sharp-edged with frustration. "You think we wanted this?"

Iseul let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, so that makes it okay? That makes it fine that you all knew and decided not to tell me?”

Seungmin sighed, his arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t see how it’s a big deal.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Iseul froze, blinking at him as if she hadn’t heard him right. “What?”

Seungmin met her stare with the same cool detachment he always carried, but this time, it felt different. It felt distant. “It’s not like they released something bad,” he said, as if it were obvious. “If anything, it makes you look cool.”

Cool.

Iseul felt something inside her crack.

She had thought—no, she had believed—that out of all of them, Seungmin understood her. They had grown close, slipping into an easy, unspoken rhythm, their teasing morphing into a quiet kind of companionship. When she wasn’t with Jeongin, she was with him. She had considered him a friend—her closest, even.

And yet, here he was. Saying this.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

It shouldn’t have hurt this much, but it did.

Seungmin didn’t even realize it. Didn’t realize how much it had taken for her to even exist in this space, how fragile this trust was, how much she had let them in.

Her grip tightened around her phone, nails pressing into her palm. “That’s not the point, Seungmin,” she said, quieter now, but sharp enough to cut. “It wasn’t their story to tell. It wasn’t yours.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—regret? Guilt?—but before he could speak, Han stepped in.

“No one decided anything,” Han muttered, arms crossed tight over his chest. “What were we supposed to do, Iseul? Go against the company?”

“Yes!" The word shot out of her before she could stop it, her voice cracking under the weight of it. "If it was any of you, you would've known. You would've talked about it together, figured it out—together. But me? I just had to find out with everyone else, right?”

“That’s not fair,” Felix muttered, his voice tense.

Iseul scoffed. “Oh, I’m the unfair one now?"

Jeongin took a hesitant step forward, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Noona—"

His voice was softer than the others, hesitant, but Iseul barely heard it over the roaring in her ears.

Minho exhaled sharply, gaze flicking between her and the others. “Iseul, listen—”

But she didn’t want to. She couldn’t.

Because she already knew how this ended. She knew how this played out.

Of course they would take the boys’ side. Of course they would defend them. That’s how it always was. She was the outsider here—the one who didn’t belong, the one who was always a step behind.

And she was so tired of pretending otherwise.

She let out a hollow breath, lips curling into something bitter. “Right. I forgot.” Her voice was quieter now, steadier, but no less cutting. “Of course you’d take their side.”

Jeongin’s eyes widened, his mouth opening—maybe to protest, maybe to explain—but Iseul didn’t let him.

“It’s fine,” she said, almost to herself. “It was stupid to think things would be different.”

“Iseul,” Changbin interjected, his expression tightening. “That’s not—”

She shook her head, the fight draining out of her all at once. “Forget it.” Her grip on her phone loosened. “It doesn’t matter.”

She had been here before—standing in a room full of people who would never really be on her side, feeling like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong set, edges scraped raw just to fit.

She should have known better.

She should have never let herself believe she belonged.

Minho exhaled, his voice quiet but firm. “Let’s just practice again.”

As if it was that simple. As if all of this could be swept under the rug, buried under hours of rehearsals and unspoken words.

Iseul forced herself to smile. It was a terrible thing—cold, lifeless, empty.

“Right. Practice.”

Like nothing had happened. Like everything wasn’t crashing around her.

The door behind her felt so tempting. On autopilot, her body turned, her legs carrying her out before she could even think.

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, fast and frantic, drowning out everything else. Shallow breaths came too quickly, her chest tightening with every step.

Somewhere behind her, someone called her name.

“Iseul—wait!”

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

The walls of the practice room blurred, her vision tunneling, narrowing to nothing but the cold, sterile hallway ahead.

She heard movement behind her—Jeongin, Chan, maybe all of them at once. The shuffle of sneakers against the floor, the faint hitch of breath, the quiet desperation woven into their movements. A hand—she didn’t know whose—brushed against her wrist.

She jerked away before they could grasp her.

It was too much.

She needed out.

“Noona, just—”

She pushed through the door.

And suddenly, it was silent.

The voices, the weight of their presence—it all cut off in an instant.

Her breath came fast, too fast, chest rising and falling in uneven stutters. The air felt thin, her lungs straining to catch up.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Didn’t care.

She just needed to move.

Her feet carried her forward, sneakers scuffing against the polished floor, her pulse hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

She was already at the stairs before she realized it. Her fingers curled around the cold railing, grip tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

A part of her expected the door behind her to burst open, for one of them to follow, to call her name again.

But nothing came.

She swallowed, throat tight, then took the stairs two at a time.

Out.

She needed to get out.

The cold hit her like a slap.

Iseul barely registered it at first, the way the evening air wrapped around her skin, sinking through the thin, sweat-dampened fabric of her T-shirt. Her body was still warm from practice, from the lingering heat of anger and betrayal curling in her veins. But with each step she took, the cold sank deeper, chilling her to the bone.

She didn’t know where she was going.

Didn’t care.

The streets were still alive despite the late hour, glowing under the wash of neon lights and headlights, buzzing with movement—cars weaving through traffic, people laughing in clusters outside restaurants, a street performer plucking at the strings of an old guitar. It was the kind of scene that had always felt familiar, comforting in its normalcy.

But tonight, it felt distant.

Her arms wrapped around herself, though it did little against the cold, and her grip on her phone tightened as she walked. The screen was dark, the reflection of the city flickering against it.

She could call her mom.

She could call her dad.

She could go home.

But the thought only made her chest tighten.

Home wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not when her mind was still racing, tripping over itself in an endless loop of they knew, they didn’t tell me, they didn’t think it was a big deal.

She had never expected Seungmin to say that.

Not him.

Of all of them, he was the one she had let her guard down around the most. He was the one she had trusted—not just as a member of the group, but as a friend. Her friend. He was the one who had sat beside her during long practice nights, the one who had leaned into her shoulder and muttered complaints about Chan’s endless rehearsals, the one who had shared snacks with her when she thought she might collapse from exhaustion.

She had thought—no, she had believed—that he understood her.

And yet, when it mattered…

It’s not a big deal.

Iseul inhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. She tilted her head back, staring at the sky, at the distant glow of buildings stacked against the horizon.

She had spent so long trying to belong. Trying to prove that she wasn’t an outsider, that she deserved to be here.

But maybe she had just been fooling herself.

The thought settled in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

She barely noticed where her feet had taken her until she glanced up and saw the familiar neon sign, flickering weakly in the cold night air.

She hadn’t been here in years. Not since—

Iseul swallowed, her throat tightening.

She hadn’t meant to come here. She hadn’t even realized her steps had carried her this far.

The sign above the door was faded, peeling at the edges, but it was the same. The entrance looked just as it had all those years ago.

Her heart twisted.

She should turn around. She should.

But before she could move, the door creaked open.

A flood of light spilled onto the pavement, stretching toward her feet.

A shadow stood in the doorway.

She knew that silhouette.

“…Well, I’ll be damned.”

The voice was rough, a little older, a little sharper than she remembered.

Her stomach twisted.

“Iseul?”

She had thought she was too cold to feel anything anymore.

But hearing his voice again—

It sent ice straight through her veins.

Iseul’s breath hitched.

Her body locked in place, every muscle tensing as if preparing for a blow.

The voice—gravelly, edged with something unreadable—dragged her years back in time.

Back to hours spent drenched in sweat, fists wrapped in tape, the sting of bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.

Back to his words, sharp and unyielding, pushing her beyond her limits.

No pain, no progress.

If you break, you weren’t strong enough to begin with.

Her fingers curled into her palms.

A part of her wanted to turn and run. Another part—the part that had carried her here in the first place—kept her rooted to the spot.

The man in the doorway stepped forward, the light from the gym catching on his features.

Older. Lines carved deeper into his face. But the eyes—dark, assessing—were the same.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you back here,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “What’s it been? Four years?”

Iseul swallowed, her throat dry.

“Something like that.”

His gaze flickered over her, taking her in—the damp shirt clinging to her skin, the tension in her stance. He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“You look like hell.”

A laugh almost broke past her lips, but it came out more like a breath.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city hummed softly in the background—the distant roar of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby alley. But here, in this quiet pocket of the night, there was only the two of them.

And the past that stretched between them like a chasm.

He studied her, expression unreadable. Then, with a tilt of his head, he stepped back.

“Well?” he said, nodding toward the open door. “You coming in or not?”

Iseul hesitated.

Every instinct screamed at her to say no.

To turn around. To walk away. To put this place behind her for good.

But she didn’t.

She stepped forward.

The scent hit her first—sweat, rubber, and faint traces of disinfectant. The air was thick with it, warm despite the cold night just outside. The gym hadn’t changed much.

The walls were still scuffed, the mats worn down from years of impact. Heavy bags hung in neat rows, swaying slightly from an unseen draft. The distant rhythm of a speed bag being worked on echoed through the space.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

It was muscle memory—the pull, the craving.

To wrap her hands. To steady her stance. To throw a punch and feel the world quiet around her.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Her old coach—Choi—watched her, arms crossed. He hadn’t spoken since she stepped inside, hadn’t asked why she was here. He didn’t need to.

“You’re still standing like a dancer.” His voice was matter-of-fact.

Iseul barely held back a flinch.

She used to stand differently. Feet firm, body braced—not poised like now, not fluid, not light. Boxing had grounded her. Dance had unmoored her.

“I don’t—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed. “I don’t fight anymore.”

Choi hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “That so?”

She didn’t answer.

Her shoulders tensed, the weight of the day pressing against her skin, thick and suffocating. The argument, Seungmin’s words, the guilt that had been suffocating her for weeks—it all coiled tight inside her, tangled like knots she couldn’t undo.

“Hit the bag.”

The order was simple. Familiar.

Iseul blinked. “What?”

Choi jerked his chin toward the heavy bag closest to them. “You came here for a reason. So hit the bag.”

She hesitated.

Her arms ached from hours of dance practice. Her muscles burned from exhaustion. Her body was begging for rest.

But she didn’t want to rest.

Rest meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering.

So she stepped forward.

Her fingers grazed the bag, the leather cool under her touch.

She clenched her fist.

No pain, no progress.

Her breath wavered.

Then she swung.

The sharp impact sent tremors up her arms, grounding her, centering her. Her breath came faster, but she welcomed the burn, the way her muscles protested.

This was familiar.

This was something she could control.

She struck the bag harder, channeling the helplessness, the frustration, the overwhelming weight pressing down on her chest.

They didn’t tell me.

Her fist connected with the bag.

They didn’t think I needed to know.

Another hit.

Seungmin said it wasn’t a big deal.

A sharp exhale, her feet shifting, her form tightening as she threw another punch.

But the words wouldn’t leave her head.

He was my friend.

Her breath hitched.

Her fists wavered.

And suddenly, she wasn’t in the gym anymore.

She was fifteen, her coach’s voice echoing in her ears, drilling commands into her bones.

"Again."

She had been exhausted, barely standing, her hands trembling from the sheer effort of keeping her guard up.

"Again."

She had wanted to stop. But stopping wasn’t an option.

"Do you think anyone’s going to take it easy on you?"

"Do you think they care if you’re tired?"

"Weakness gets you nowhere, Iseul."

The gym blurred, past and present overlapping, her body stiffening as phantom pain crawled up her spine.

"You either fight, or you lose."

A shaky breath left her lips, and suddenly, she wasn’t punching anymore—she was just standing there, chest rising and falling, hands clenched so tight they shook.

Her throat ached.

Choi was watching her.

“Iseul.” His voice was steady, anchoring.

She blinked, her breath still too quick, too uneven.

And then she was pulling from the punching bag, her arms wrapping around herself as she tried to get air back into her lungs.

She felt raw.

Exposed.

Choi didn’t move closer, didn’t push, just let her stand there, shaking in the dim light of the gym.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. The kind that had weight, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.

Iseul’s pulse was erratic, her breath sharp and uneven. Her muscles trembled—not just from exertion, but from something deeper, something buried so far down she hadn’t even realized it was still there.

Choi let out a long, slow breath. “You never learned how to stop, did you?”

Her head snapped up.

His gaze was steady, unreadable as he leaned back against the wall. “You’re still swinging like you’ve got something to prove.”

Iseul opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he was right.

She had spent her whole life fighting—against expectations, against doubt, against herself. And now, when she had finally stepped into the dream she had worked so hard for, it still didn’t feel like enough.

She didn’t know what enough even looked like.

Her arms curled tighter around herself.

Choi exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re burnt out.”

She flinched.

Two words. That was all it took.

Burnt out.

Like a match flickering on its last ember, like an engine running on fumes. Like something running out of time.

She had been pushing and pushing, afraid that if she ever slowed down, she would be left behind.

But she wasn’t just slowing down.

She was unraveling.

Her throat felt tight, her vision blurring at the edges.

Choi watched her carefully. “You were never the type to quit,” he said, quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to break yourself just to prove a point.”

Her fingers dug into her sides.

She didn’t know if she was going to cry or scream or collapse right there on the mat.

Maybe all three.

Her voice came out hoarse. “I don’t know how to stop.”

The weight of her own words settled in her chest, pressing down, threatening to crack something open.

She didn’t know how to stop.

Didn’t know how to let herself rest.

Didn’t know how to exist without the constant, gnawing need to be better, to be more.

Her throat ached.

Choi didn’t say anything right away. He just watched her, his expression unreadable, the way it always had been. But there was something else there now—something quieter, something almost understanding.

“You don’t have to know how,” he finally said. “You just have to let yourself.”

Iseul let out a shaky breath, barely keeping herself upright.

Let herself?

She didn’t even know what that meant.

For so long, stopping had felt like failure. Resting had felt like weakness.

If she stopped, if she let herself breathe—what if she never got back up?

What if she was never enough again?

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat refusing to budge.

“I should go,” she mumbled, barely recognizing her own voice.

Choi didn’t stop her.

Didn’t try to talk her out of it.

He just nodded, like he understood. Like he had always understood, even when she had been too stubborn to see it.

“Door’s open if you ever want to come back,” he said simply.

She didn’t answer.

She just turned, stepping back out into the cold.

Iseul didn’t remember the walk to her mom’s apartment.

Didn’t remember navigating the winding streets, didn’t register the cold biting at her skin, the way her fingers had gone numb at some point.

She only realized where she was when she looked up and saw the familiar door. The chipped paint, the tiny wind chime hanging just slightly off-center—the one her mom had bought on a whim years ago and never bothered to fix.

Her breath came out in uneven bursts, her body still thrumming from the gym, from everything.

She hadn’t planned on coming here.

She had just walked.

And yet—

Her fingers curled into fists, hesitating.

But before she could talk herself out of it, her body moved on instinct, knuckles rapping against the wood.

Silence.

Then—soft footsteps.

A pause.

Then the door cracked open, warm light spilling out, her mother’s face appearing in the gap.

Her eyes widened. “Iseul?”

Iseul swallowed.

And suddenly, everything—the fight, the words, the weight in her chest—became too much.

Her breath shuddered.

And then she did something she hadn’t done since she was a kid.

She stepped forward, unsteady, and buried herself in her mother’s arms.

Her mother’s arms wrapped around her immediately, pulling her in like she had been expecting this all along.

The warmth, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it was too much.

Iseul’s fingers clutched the fabric of her mother’s sweater, knuckles white, her body shaking from something deeper than the cold.

She didn't break down.

She just stood there, stiff in her mother’s embrace, her breaths coming out slow and deliberate—like if she controls them, she can control everything else.

Her mother pulls back, hands firm on Iseul’s arms, scanning her with a knowing look.

“You’re freezing,” she states, her voice even. “And you reek of sweat.”

Iseul barely reacts, her gaze drifting past her mother’s shoulder, toward the familiar warmth of home. She hadn’t even realized she was so cold.

Her mom exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Go shower.”

Iseul blinks. “What?”

“Shower, Iseul. Now.” Her tone brooks no argument.

She expects more—expects questions, concern, something—but her mother just turns, already making her way toward the kitchen. Iseul hesitates.

Her mother knows. Of course she knows.

The internet is a vulture, picking apart every detail, twisting narratives. The videos, the comments, the things she tried not to read but saw anyway.

Her mother must have seen them, too.

But she doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t ask why Iseul showed up unannounced, doesn’t prod for explanations.

Instead, she reaches for a pot, setting it on the stove with practiced ease.

Iseul swallows.

The warmth in her chest is unexpected.

Her mother is already pulling out the ramen packets. The good ones. The ones so spicy they make her eyes water.

Iseul should say something—thank you, maybe—but the words don’t come.

So she turns, dragging herself toward the bathroom, leaving the scent of boiling water and her mother’s quiet understanding behind her.

Steam curls around her as she steps under the water, the heat shocking against her frozen skin.

She closes her eyes.

The night presses against the edges of her thoughts—Seungmin’s voice, the weight in Chan’s eyes, the exhaustion creeping into her bones. The gym. The past. The comments.

It all clings to her like grime she can’t quite scrub away.

She washes her hair, methodical, fingers working through tangles. The water runs over her shoulders, down her back, pooling at her feet before swirling away.

It doesn’t take the heaviness with it.

By the time she steps out, towel wrapped around her, the scent of spices and broth fills the air, wrapping around her like a blanket.

She pads into the kitchen, hair still damp, and finds her mother setting two bowls on the table. No words, no questions—just the steady clatter of chopsticks, the quiet hum of the heater, the weight of shared silence.

Iseul sits.

The first bite burns, but the pain is familiar. Grounding.

The warmth of the ramen spreads through her, slow and steady, easing the cold that had settled deep in her bones.

Her mother doesn’t speak. Doesn’t press. Just eats, steady and unhurried, the quiet between them filled only by the clink of chopsticks against ceramic.

It’s comforting.

Safe.

Iseul focuses on her food, letting the heat chase away the chill in her fingertips, letting the weight on her chest loosen—just a little.

Her mother refills her glass of water. Pushes the egg toward her bowl without a word.

Iseul exhales, a slow, uneven breath.

She doesn’t say thank you.

She doesn’t have to.

Instead she focuses on her ramen, the spice burning her tongue.

Her mother takes a sip of tea, eyes steady on her. “Are you staying the night?”

Iseul hesitates. She should say no. She should go back.

But the thought of returning to the dorm, to the boys, to the tension still crackling in the air—

“…Yeah,” she mutters. “Just for tonight.”

Her mother nods like she already expected the answer. “I’ll get your old blankets.”

And just like that, the conversation ends. No questions. No pressure. Just quiet understanding.

Iseul swallows past the lump in her throat and takes another bite.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else, just stands up and moves toward the hallway, leaving Iseul alone with the sound of her own breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

The ramen is spicy enough to make her eyes sting, but she keeps eating, lets the burn sit on her tongue, lets it distract her from the weight in her chest.

For the first time that night, the ache in her chest eased a bit.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie

STORY HINT: One late night, after practice, Seungmin caught Iseul staring at her knuckles, lost in thought. Without looking up from his phone, he casually said, “If you ever need to punch something, just go for my arm. I’m built different.”

Iseul had snorted, shaking her head. “I’d break you in half.”

Seungmin finally glanced at her then, unimpressed. “Please, you’re like, five percent muscle and ninety-five percent yogurt. I’d survive.”

She didn’t argue. But later that night, when the weight of the world felt too heavy, she remembered his words—and for some reason, they made her chest ache a little less.

yep. ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅸ: Leaked

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

ISEUL STIRRED AWAKE TO MUFFLED VIBRATIONS of a phone buzzing somewhere in the room. Her consciousness drifted sluggishly to the surface, pulled from the depths of sleep like a swimmer breaking through water. Everything was heavy—her limbs, her eyelids, the warmth cocooning her body. A sluggish drowsiness fogged her mind, making it impossible to register why her shoulder felt weighed down or why her legs were tangled in a blanket that wasn’t hers.

The soft, rhythmic sound of breathing filtered through the silence.

It took her a moment to remember.

The living room.

The boys.

The horror movie.

Her eyes cracked open, adjusting to the dim, early morning light that seeped through the curtains. The room was still, bathed in the hush of dawn, the kind of quiet that only existed in that fragile space between sleep and waking.

Then she finally processed the warmth pressing against her side.

Iseul’s heart stammered.

Her breath hitched as her gaze flickered downward.

Hyunjin.

His head was resting against her shoulder.

She froze, every nerve in her body suddenly alert. His face was turned toward her, strands of messy hair falling over his closed eyes. His lips were parted slightly, his breathing slow and even. The weight of him was light, but it was impossible to ignore now that she was fully aware of it.

And his hand—

Her pulse spiked.

His fingers were loosely curled around the sleeve of the hoodie she was wearing.

Not her hoodie.

His hoodie.

A delayed horror dawned on her, creeping up her spine in waves. She could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest, the subtle warmth radiating from where his body was barely touching hers.

Oh god.

Her brain short-circuited, static filling the space where thoughts should be. Was she breathing too fast? Was her heartbeat too loud? What was she supposed to do?

Panic clawed at her throat.

Okay. Okay. Think.

She needed to move before she embarrassed herself further. Carefully, she attempted to shift, wincing when the movement made his hand twitch. For a moment, she thought she had gotten away with it—

But then the phone buzzed again.

Hyunjin jolted awake like he’d been electrocuted.

He shot upright, eyes wild with confusion, his sleep-fogged brain trying to piece together what had just happened. His lips parted as if to say something, then closed again when his gaze finally landed on her.

Iseul barely had time to react before his entire face turned an alarming shade of red.

“I—I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you!” he blurted in a panicked whisper, scrambling backward so fast he nearly fell off the couch. His hands flailed slightly as if trying to physically push the mortification away from himself. “I swear, I—”

Iseul blinked, her own face heating up at the sheer level of distress in his expression.

"You act like you murdered someone," she whispered back, barely suppressing a laugh.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened. "No, but I—" He groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "I passed out on you like some creep—I’m so sorry."

She shook her head, willing herself to keep her voice steady. "It’s fine, really. It’s not like you did it on purpose."

Hyunjin opened his mouth, probably to continue his apology spree, but Chan groaned somewhere on the other couch, fumbling for his phone.

“Hello?” Chan rasped, his voice wrecked from sleep.

Everyone stirred as Chan sat up abruptly. Iseul watched as his face shifted — brows furrowing, posture stiffening, eyes snapping awake with laser-sharp focus.

“Right now?” he muttered, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll wake them up.”

He ended the call and dragged his hands down his face. “Emergency meeting. Get up.”

The room stirred awake in pieces—groggy movements, muffled groans, the sound of blankets shifting as everyone tried to process Chan’s words through the haze of sleep.

Minho, still half-buried under a blanket, cracked an eye open. “Hyung, if this is about your impulse-buying problem again, I swear—”

Chan shot him a look. “Not the time.”

Felix let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper, rolling onto his stomach. “It’s too early for whatever’s happening.”

“Did the world end?” Seungmin muttered, face still pressed into the pillow he had stolen from God-knows-where.

Jeongin, who was curled up in a weird pretzel-like position on the floor, blinked blearily. “What if we ended?”

“What?”

“I dunno, man, I just woke up.”

Iseul barely registered their half-asleep banter. Chan’s face was serious—tension drawn into every line of his features, his knee bouncing with restless energy.

Something was wrong.

Then his voice cut through the sluggishness in the air, firm and final.

“Get dressed. Move to the van.”

No further explanation. No room for argument.

The grogginess evaporated instantly.

Iseul’s stomach twisted. If it was bad enough that they couldn’t even talk about it here—

It was really bad.

Everyone scrambled to their feet, the urgency finally sinking in. Blankets were tossed aside, sleep-heavy limbs moving in autopilot as they stumbled toward their rooms.

The next few minutes were a blur—hoodies thrown on, shoes slipped into, hair hastily flattened in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. No one spoke.

And when they finally piled into the van, the tension was suffocating.

Chan sat in the front, phone in his hands, scrolling through something with a clenched jaw.

No one dared to ask.

Iseul swallowed hard, staring out the window as the van pulled away from the dorm.

The van ride was eerily silent.

No one spoke, no one cracked a joke to lighten the mood—not even Changbin, who was usually the first to break tension with some ridiculous comment. The only sounds were the occasional rustle of fabric, the quiet hum of the engine, and Chan’s phone buzzing every few seconds with messages none of them were brave enough to ask about.

Iseul sat stiffly, hands clenched into fists on her lap. Her stomach twisted with unease. The van felt too small, too suffocating, as they sped toward the company building.

She chanced a glance at Hyunjin. He was staring out the window, jaw tight, fingers drumming anxiously against his knee. Even in the dim morning light, his profile looked tense, his expression unreadable.

The moment they pulled up to JYPE, the weight in her chest doubled.

Security was waiting at the entrance, ushering them inside with hurried gestures. The air inside the building was cold, sterile—so different from their usual loud, chaotic energy. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as they made their way toward the conference room.

Chan walked ahead, his shoulders squared, unreadable. The rest of them followed in tense silence.

And then—

The door to the conference room swung open, and they were met with a sight that made Iseul’s stomach drop.

Their manager stood at the head of the table, phone in hand, brows furrowed deeply. Behind him, staff members were scattered around the room, some whispering among themselves, others typing furiously on laptops. The tension was thick.

Iseul swallowed hard as she took a seat.

The moment the last person sat down, their manager exhaled sharply, locking eyes with Chan first. Then, slowly, his gaze flickered toward her.

“You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” he asked, voice heavy.

Chan nodded, jaw tightening. “Yeah.”

Iseul’s stomach twisted. “Seen what?”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then, without a word, their manager turned his phone screen toward them.

Iseul barely had time to brace herself before the image burned itself into her mind.

A headline.

A picture.

BREAKING: JYPE’S MYSTERY TRAINEE SPOTTED WITH STRAY KIDS—NEW MEMBER? SECRET GIRLFRIEND?

Her blood turned to ice.

A dozen pictures filled the article.

There was one of her walking into the JYPE building. One of her leaving the practice room with the boys. One of her laughing at something Felix had said, eyes crinkled in a way that made her look comfortable—too comfortable.

And then, the worst one.

A shot of her and Hyunjin outside the convenience store last night.

His hoodie draped over her shoulders.

His hand resting lightly on her back.

The room spun.

Han swore under his breath.

Felix inhaled sharply.

Iseul’s throat tightened as she stared at the screen, her mind racing a mile a minute.

Her hands felt clammy as she slowly lifted her gaze. Chan was sitting tensely, lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers curled into fists on the table. Hyunjin, beside her, had gone completely still, his usual sharp expression shadowed with something unreadable.

Iseul felt like she was shrinking.

The weight of the photos, the article, the implications—it was all pressing down on her, making it hard to breathe.

She wasn’t stupid.

She knew how the industry worked. She knew how fans would react.

Stray Kids had been through hell already—losing a member, rebuilding themselves, proving their strength over and over again. And now, here she was, a sudden addition that nobody asked for, already dragging them into a scandal.

You should’ve been more careful.

The thought crept in before she could stop it.

She flinched.

“This isn’t as bad as it looks,” their manager said, voice even. “But it could get bad. So we’re getting ahead of it.”

Nobody responded.

The tension was suffocating.

Their manager leaned forward, clicking something on the laptop.

A draft of the company’s statement appeared on the screen.

"Regarding the recent photos and speculation surrounding a ninth member of Stray Kids, we would like to clarify that Baek Iseul has been training under JYP Entertainment and has been involved in the group’s activities as a part of our internal team restructuring. We ask for your continued support as we prepare for the next steps in Stray Kids’ journey."

Silence.

Iseul’s stomach churned.

It was a carefully worded, neutral statement. It didn’t confirm her as a member, but it also didn’t deny it.

And worst of all—

It left everything open-ended.

Which meant the speculation would only get worse.

The unease in the room deepened.

“...That’s it?” Jeongin finally said, voice small.

“That’s it,” their manager confirmed. “No Q&A, no additional comments. You’ll all lay low for the next few days. No responding to comments, no sneaky hints on VLive or Instagram.” His gaze flicked toward Han, Felix, and Jeongin. “I mean it.”

Han raised his hands in mock innocence. “Me? I would never.”

Their manager did not look convinced.

Iseul wasn’t sure whether to laugh or crawl into a hole.

She could already hear the reactions.

The fans who would accept her. The ones who wouldn’t. The ones who would twist this into something it wasn’t.

She could hear her grandparents, too.

This is what you wanted? This chaos?

Her nails dug into her palms.

She forced herself to breathe. In, out. In, out. But it didn’t help.

Because the reality of it all was settling in.

No more secrecy. No more hiding behind practice rooms and blurred-out background appearances. No more pretending she was just another trainee lingering in the shadows.

After today, everyone would know.

The fans. The antis. The entire industry.

Her name would be in headlines. On timelines. In comment sections filled with words she wasn’t sure she was ready to see.

Iseul swallowed hard, her nails pressing deeper into her palms.

What if this ruined everything?

What if they hated her?

Not just the fans—because that was inevitable, no matter what—but the boys?

Would they regret letting her in? Would they blame her if things got worse?

Chan shifted beside her, fingers drumming restlessly against the table. He was staring straight ahead, lips pressed together, his jaw tight in a way that made something twist in her stomach.

He was worried, too.

Of course, he was.

This wasn’t just about her—it was about Stray Kids. Their future. Their already fragile reputation.

And yet, despite all of that, he had taken on this responsibility, shouldering the weight of it alongside everything else already threatening to crush him.

Iseul should be grateful.

She is.

So why did she feel like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down into something she might not survive?

The drive back to the dorm was silent.

Not the comfortable kind, where exhaustion pressed against their bones after a long day, but the suffocating kind. The kind that filled every inch of the van with an unspoken weight, thick and heavy, pressing against Iseul’s chest until she could barely breathe.

She sat in the back, besides Jeongin and Seungmin. Usually, she didn’t mind—Jeongin always made space for her, and Seungmin, for all his teasing, had a way of making things feel normal.

But tonight, neither of them spoke.

Jeongin had his earphones in, his fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie, staring at nothing in particular. Seungmin was looking out the window, his face unreadable, his usual sharp-witted energy dulled to something quieter.

She exhaled slowly and turned her gaze to the window. The city lights blurred past in a haze of gold and blue, reflections flickering against the van’s glass. Everything outside felt too normal—people rushing home, neon signs blinking, life moving on.

She wondered if any of them knew. If any of the pedestrians they passed had just refreshed their Twitter feed and seen the news. If any of them had already formed an opinion about her.

The thought made her stomach twist.

By the time they pulled up to the dorm, the weight in Iseul’s chest had only gotten heavier.

The van rumbled to a stop, the low hum of the engine cutting off with a finality that made the silence even louder. Nobody moved at first. For a long moment, they all just sat there, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long shadows inside the vehicle.

Then, one by one, they began to shuffle out.

The doors slid open, and the cold night air rushed in. Jeongin was the first to step out, pulling his hood over his head as he slung his bag over one shoulder. Han followed, stretching his arms above his head before shoving his hands into his pockets. Felix moved quietly behind him, his phone still in his grip, the glow from the screen illuminating his furrowed brow.

Seungmin barely looked up as he stepped down onto the pavement, his gaze still distant. Minho walked ahead without a word, his usual unbothered air now tinged with something heavier.

Chan lingered at the front of the van for a moment, exhaling slowly before rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The exhaustion in his posture said it all.

Iseul was the last to climb out.

The air outside felt sharp against her skin, the quiet hum of the city around them making their silence feel even more unnatural. The dorm building loomed ahead, its familiar shape usually offering comfort. Tonight, it just felt like another wall closing in on her.

They made their way inside, their footsteps echoing softly against the hallway floor. Shoes were kicked off without care, landing in a messy pile by the entrance. Normally, someone would complain. Seungmin would make a sarcastic remark, or Changbin would sigh dramatically about the lack of organization.

Tonight, nobody did.

No jokes. No bickering about who showered first. No half-hearted arguments over missing slippers.

Just the quiet shuffle of feet, the occasional sigh, and the weight of everything they weren’t saying pressing down on them.

Iseul wasn’t sure what she expected.

For them to talk about it? To say something—anything?

But they didn’t.

They didn’t even look at her.

Minho disappeared into his room without a word. Seungmin followed, shutting his door with a soft but firm click.

Jeongin hesitated for a second, glancing at her briefly, his expression unreadable. Then, without speaking, he turned away and walked down the hall.

Felix, Han and Changbin headed toward the kitchen, as if they had already silently agreed that neither of them would sleep yet.

Chan stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, staring at nothing. His jaw tightened before he exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. Then, without sparing anyone a glance, he trudged toward his own room, shutting the door behind him.

Hyunjin was the last one still standing in the hall.

His gaze flickered to Iseul, and for a second, she thought—hoped—that he might say something.

But then his expression shifted, something closing off behind his eyes, and he looked away. Without a word, he turned and left.

Iseul stood alone in the middle of the living room.

The silence around her was suffocating.

She clenched her fists, nails pressing into her palms.

They weren’t angry. Not openly, at least. But that was almost worse. If they were mad, if they snapped at her, if they argued, then at least she’d know where she stood.

But this?

This quiet, this distance, this absence—it hurt more than she expected.

She forced her feet to move, trudging toward her room, the heaviness in her chest growing with each step.

Inside her room, the quiet was even louder.

Iseul shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a second before pushing herself forward. The air felt thick, heavy with everything that had gone unspoken.

She moved on autopilot, her limbs sluggish as exhaustion seeped into her bones. She kicked off her socks, peeled off her hoodie, and tugged her practice-worn sweatpants down before reaching for the oversized t-shirt she usually slept in.

Her fingers fumbled as she pulled it over her head.

Maybe she was just tired.

Or maybe it was the way her mind wouldn’t shut up, replaying the last few hours over and over again—the careful distance, the hesitation, the way they tiptoed around her like she was something fragile.

Like she was a mistake.

Her stomach churned.

She climbed into bed, dragging the blanket up to her chin, but there was no comfort in it. The sheets felt too cold. The silence felt too loud.

Still, she reached for her phone.

The screen lit up, casting a glow over her face.

It was late. She knew she shouldn’t check, knew she should just turn it off and try to sleep, but—

Her notifications were a mess.

Dozens of missed messages. The group chat was flooded, but she knew better than to check right now. Instead, her thumb hovered over her name—over the articles and tweets and posts that had already started circulating.

And there it was.

The statement.

[JYPE Official Statement Regarding Stray Kids]

She didn’t have to open it. She already knew what it said. A vague acknowledgment. No details. No Q&A. Just enough to confirm the shift without giving anyone enough to work with.

Still, the comments were brutal.

She scrolled before she could stop herself.

“Who the hell is she?”

“They lost Woojin for THIS?”

“She better not ruin their dynamic.”

“I feel bad for the boys. They don’t deserve this.”

Her vision blurred for a second. She blinked hard, her fingers tightening around the phone.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t expected this.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew how fans reacted to change, knew how the industry worked. She had been preparing herself for this moment ever since the decision had been made.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

The words blurred, but they didn’t disappear. They etched themselves into her mind, sinking in deep, curling around the weakest parts of her.

Her chest ached in that slow, creeping way that wasn’t quite sharp but wasn’t dull either. Just a heavy, lingering pressure, pressing down on her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

She shouldn’t have looked. She knew she shouldn’t have. But that didn’t change anything. The words were already there, repeating in her head, over and over again.

She already knew she wasn’t the replacement they wanted. She wasn’t stupid. Woojin had been their hyung, their anchor. He had been someone important. And her? She was just… a trainee who had been in the right place at the wrong time. A name they could slap onto a press release to fill a gap too big for her to ever measure up to.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

It shouldn’t matter what strangers on the internet thought. They didn’t know her. They didn’t know what she had sacrificed to be here, how many nights she had spent convincing herself not to quit, not to give up.

But maybe they didn’t need to know.

Maybe they were right anyway.

She pressed her palm against her chest, willing the pressure to go away, but it only grew heavier.

Because it wasn’t just the comments.

It was the way the boys had looked at her today—like she was something fragile, something dangerous, something they didn’t know how to handle.

The distance. The hesitance. The way Hyunjin wouldn’t even look her in the eye.

And maybe it wasn’t just because of the fans. Maybe it wasn’t just because of the scandal.

Maybe they regretted it too.

Maybe they regretted her.

She curled in on herself, pulling the blanket up to her chin, like that could somehow make her small enough to disappear.

For the first time since joining Stray Kids, she wondered if they had ever truly seen her as one of them—or if she had only ever been an obligation they had no choice but to accept.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound, @youthsquaredd, @skzstannie

STORY HINT: When Iseul is overwhelmed, she subconsciously taps her fingers against her thumb in a steady rhythm—like she’s keeping time to a song only she can hear. It’s a habit she’s had since she was a child, something that helped her stay grounded when things felt too loud. Changbin is the first to notice, watching the small, repetitive motion whenever she’s lost in thought or on the verge of shutting down. He doesn’t say anything at first, but one day, he catches himself matching her rhythm without realizing it.

HEYO! I'M ALIVE!! So this chapter was fun to write. Tell me what you loved in the comments <3 Also, i wont be able to post as much in next 2 weeks. Our finals were finally over today and I'm leaving for a well-deserved vacation tmrw so I won't be online as much but I'll try to reply as much as possible and post the next chapter (it's already in the drafts) Don't forget to leave likes and comments! And don't miss me too much (kidding lmfao) Stay safe!! ~candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅷ: Clowning Around

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE SHRIEK OF THE SMOKE ALARM jolted Iseul upright. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she blinked blearily at the ceiling, disoriented.

Then came the shouting.

“YAH, FELIX! TURN IT OFF!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO! I WAS JUST— I WAS MAKING EGGS—”

“HOW DO YOU BURN EGGS?!”

From somewhere down the hall, Jeongin’s voice cut through, slightly muffled but alarmed. “Uh, guys? I think I’m stuck.”

Silence.

Then Minho’s deadpan voice. “Stuck where?”

“…The bathroom.”

There was a loud bang, followed by a dramatic wail. “THAT’S IT. I QUIT THE GROUP.”

Iseul sighed, running a hand over her face. Hyunjin.

She forced herself out of bed, slipping out into the hallway just as Chan stormed past, looking like he was two seconds away from actually quitting too. His hair was a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep, but the way his jaw clenched told her he was fully awake—whether he liked it or not.

She caught sight of Jisung, still curled up on the couch, mumbling half-formed song lyrics in his sleep. Meanwhile, Minho sat on the floor, lazily stretching, dark circles under his eyes. He looked completely unbothered by the absolute catastrophe unfolding around him.

“What happened?” Iseul asked, suppressing a laugh.

Changbin breezed past her, tossing an apron over his head like he was about to personally save the kitchen. “Felix tried to cook.”

“Correction,” Seungmin called from the doorway. “Felix failed to cook.”

“Guys,” Jeongin’s voice echoed from the laundry room. “I’m still stuck.”

Minho sighed, finally pushing himself up. “If I help you, will you stop screaming?”

“…No promises.”

Chan pinched the bridge of his nose like he was reconsidering all his life choices. "You know what? I don't care. Figure it out yourselves."

Hyunjin flopped onto the couch dramatically, clutching his foot. “No one’s even concerned that I almost died stepping on a Lego.”

"Hyunjin, I swear," Chan said, exhausted, "if you don't get up in the next five seconds—"

“Then what, Christopher? You’ll fire me?”

Chan inhaled sharply, his hands balled into fists. “You know what? Yeah. You’re fired. Congrats. Pack your things.”

"Great," Hyunjin groaned, flopping onto his back. "I didn't wanna be in this group anyway."

Iseul rolled her eyes, stepping around him on her way to the kitchen. Changbin was already at work, salvaging whatever was left of breakfast.

She lingered at the doorway, watching the boys move around each other in their usual, chaotic rhythm.

It was easy to get caught up in moments like this—to feel like she was really part of them.

But then there were moments when they, without meaning to, forgot she was there.

They made plans without telling her, rushing out the door in a flurry of noise, leaving Iseul standing in the hallway. Or they’d huddle together to review choreography, instinctively forming a circle she wasn’t always included in. It wasn’t malicious—just a habit they hadn’t broken yet.

Still, it stung.

She would force herself to shake it off, pretending it didn’t matter. But some nights, when the boys passed out in front of the TV or scattered into their rooms, Iseul stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, overthinking her place in the group.

The dorm was full, but her room felt empty.

“Did anyone actually get Jeongin out?” she asked, shaking herself out of her thoughts.

A brief pause.

“Oh, right.”

“GUYS.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Minho muttered, disappearing down the hall.

Iseul chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned against the counter. Changbin turned absentmindedly, passing her a plate without looking, like it was second nature.

Like she belonged.

She hesitated only a second before taking it.

The dorm was too small. Too loud. Too chaotic.

It wasn’t built for nine people.

But slowly it was starting to feel like home.

The front door slammed open with a heavy thud, followed by the sluggish shuffle of eight exhausted bodies dragging themselves inside.

No one spoke. No one had the energy.

Felix collapsed onto the couch face-first with a dramatic groan. Hyunjin barely made it to the floor before dropping like a puppet with cut strings. Jisung leaned against the wall, eyes half-lidded as if he might just fall asleep standing up. Even Minho, usually composed, had his hands on his hips, breathing hard.

Chan was the last to enter, rubbing a hand down his face before shutting the door behind him. His hoodie was damp with sweat, his hair a mess, and his usual leader mode had been dulled by sheer exhaustion.

Iseul stepped aside as the boys trudged past her, feeling that familiar twinge again. The exhaustion was mutual, but somehow, she still felt a step behind—like she wasn’t weighed down by the same years of effort, the same unspoken understanding they shared.

No one really acknowledged her presence. Not on purpose. They were just too tired.

She trailed behind them into the living room, where Hyunjin was now sprawled across the floor, Felix had barely mustered the energy to kick off his shoes, and Jeongin sat slumped against the armrest, blinking dazedly at nothing.

“This comeback is gonna kill me,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his face as he slumped next to Felix.

“Not if Chan hyung kills us first,” Seungmin muttered.

Chan made a vague noise of protest from the kitchen, where he was digging through the fridge for something—probably one of his weird energy drinks.

The comeback was creeping closer, and every day, their practice schedules had only gotten more intense. Rehearsals stretched late into the night, choreography revisions stacked up like a never-ending cycle, and the pressure to perfect every single detail weighed on all of them.

Then Minho clapped his hands once.

“Movie night.”

A chorus of groans followed.

“You’re kidding,” Hyunjin mumbled from the floor. “I physically cannot move.”

“Movie night,” Minho repeated, unbothered. “We need a break.”

Felix barely lifted his head from the couch. “Hyung, I think my soul left my body back at the practice room.”

“Good. Less complaining.” Minho nudged Hyunjin’s leg with his foot. “Get up.”

Hyunjin flopped onto his side. “No.”

Iseul blinked. “Do we even have the energy for a movie?”

“No,” Chan said immediately.

“Yes,” Minho said at the same time. He crossed his arms, giving everyone a pointed look. “Look, we’ll all just crash if we go to bed like this. You know what that means? Stiff muscles. Soreness. Regret.”

“We already regret existing,” Jisung muttered.

Minho ignored him. “A movie will help us relax. Besides,” he added, glancing at Iseul, “we should probably do things as a group more often.”

Iseul paused.

She knew what he meant. The past week had been… difficult. The boys weren’t being cruel, but they were used to being just eight. They didn’t always remember to include her, and she didn’t always know how to insert herself.

But now Minho was actively making sure she felt part of them.

She swallowed past the sudden warmth in her chest.

“I’m in,” she said.

Minho smirked. “See? Iseul gets it. The rest of you, get up.”

There was some more whining, but slowly, the boys started moving. Felix rolled onto his back, dramatically sighing before pushing himself up. Jisung slumped into the couch, still half-asleep, while Jeongin blinked blearily, confused but willing to participate.

Seungmin, ever the realist, muttered, “If the movie is boring, I’m leaving.”

“Noted,” Minho said, already queuing up the TV.

The movie wasn’t boring. If anything, it was the opposite of that. The opening credits rolled in long, eerie waves of flickering images, casting jagged shadows across the room. The kind of music that crawled up your spine and clung to your skin like a chill, winding its way into your bones with every passing second.

The unsettling, rhythmic beat echoed through the room, distorted clowns leering from the screen. The kind of thing that made you second-guess your own reflection in the dark, every creak in the house suddenly louder

It wasn’t the horror that had Hyunjin on edge—it was the proximity.

One second, he was sprawled comfortably on the couch, arms tucked behind his head, determined to avoid moving for the night. And then, like a swift, silent shift, Minho had nudged Iseul toward him, and suddenly, she was sitting there beside him.

Too close.

Much too close.

Iseul was next to him, her warmth radiating through the thin space between them. He hadn’t even noticed how much closer they were than before, until now. Every shift, every subtle movement of hers made his pulse spike. Her knee brushing against his—just a slight nudge—but it made his breath hitch every time.

It wasn’t even a full touch. It was just the shared proximity, the way their legs pressed so close it was almost impossible to ignore. But to Hyunjin, it felt like an electric jolt each time. And that was the problem.

He tried to adjust himself, shifting his legs a little, hoping it would ease some of the tension gnawing at him. His body ached, muscles sore from a long practice, and all he wanted to do was sink into the couch and forget about the world.

But no.

Not with Iseul next to him.

Not with her scent lingering in the air, her presence so familiar yet so distracting.

He could feel the quiet way she was shifting beside him, a soft rustle of fabric as she tried to get comfortable, but every slight movement made her knee brush against his, her shoulder brushing his in the process. Each time it happened, his pulse skipped.

His mind screamed at him to focus. To pay attention to the movie. To ignore the distracting flutter in his chest. But it was no use.

Hyunjin’s eyes flicked over to the screen—jagged images of a twisted, grinning clown with hollowed eyes and sharp teeth leering out from the TV. It should have made his heart race with fear. But the sudden shrill, warped sound of the movie only heightened the awareness of the girl beside him.

And then he heard it—just a soft, barely audible intake of breath from Iseul. It was quick, sharp, like she was trying to hide it, but Hyunjin caught it. He could always hear her better than anyone else, the subtle shifts in her breathing, the almost imperceptible changes in her body language. And he noticed that right now, she seemed… tense.

His lips curled into a slow, teasing grin.

“Iseul,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the movie. “Are you scared?”

Her head snapped toward him instantly, eyes flashing wide with a mix of surprise and defense. “No.” Her answer was quick, too quick, too defensive.

Hyunjin bit back a laugh, his grin only widening. “Oh really?” he teased, leaning back slightly, careful not to brush too close to her as he settled into the couch again. “You sure about that?”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile, her gaze flickering back to the screen, but Hyunjin could see the way her fingers gripped her knees tighter, the way her shoulders tensed. She was lying, and he knew it.

“Oh my god,” Han gasped loudly from the other side of her. “She is.”

The entire room went silent, as if the air itself held its breath in disbelief.

Then came the chaos.

Felix immediately shot up, his eyes wide with shock as his popcorn spilled over the couch. “Wait, wait—are you actually scared of clowns?” he asked, voice thick with excitement.

“She totally is,” Seungmin confirmed, his finger pointing at Iseul like he had just discovered a hidden treasure. “Look at her face.”

Iseul’s face flushed a deeper shade of crimson, and she scowled. “Shut up,” she muttered under her breath, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

“Oh, this is spectacular,” Jeongin said, his grin widening, clearly having the time of his life. It was only a matter of seconds before the teasing began in full force.

“You should’ve said something,” Minho added, leaning in with his signature smirk plastered across his face. “I thought you were so tough.”

“I thought I could handle it,” Iseul mumbled, her arms tightening around her legs as she sank further into the couch, trying her best to shrink into the blanket of humiliation.

Hyunjin bit back a laugh. He wasn’t sure what was funnier—the way she tried to act unbothered or how clearly out of her element she seemed. And the fact that she was trying to hide her embarrassment only made it even more endearing.

With a sense of amusement bubbling up in his chest, Hyunjin grabbed the blanket draped over the couch and tossed it over Iseul’s head, all without a word. The whole room froze for a second, before everyone, including Iseul, realized what just happened.

Iseul, who had been so tense just moments before, now sat perfectly still under the blanket, the only thing visible being the small opening for her eyes, which blinked in bewilderment. Her expression was a mix of surprise and slight exasperation.

For a long, awkward moment, there was nothing but silence. Hyunjin felt heat creep up his neck, suddenly self-conscious, but he kept his gaze locked firmly on the TV, pretending not to care. “There,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice casual, “now you’re safe.”

And then—

Changbin howled with laughter.

“Oh my god—that was so stupidly soft—”

“I literally cannot believe what I just witnessed,” Chan groaned, shaking his head in disbelief, clearly trying to suppress his own laughter.

Hyunjin’s face burned. “Shut up,” he grumbled, turning away from the group, hoping to hide his embarrassment behind the facade of a fake scowl.

Under the blanket, Iseul’s body finally relaxed. Hyunjin couldn’t help but notice the way her shoulders sagged, the tension melting away as she let out a quiet snort. The sound was almost like a release—like she couldn’t hold the act of being unfazed any longer.

For a brief second, it hit him.

This, right here, with her tucked away under the blanket like some shy little creature, was a side of Iseul he’d never seen before. Normally, she was so composed, so sure of herself in everything she did. But here, she was embarrassed and flustered—completely human.

Her fingers clenched the fabric of the blanket, pulling it tighter around her. And when her eyes met his, he saw something behind her gaze: a mixture of annoyance and relief, like she was just waiting for the teasing to die down.

“Oh, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Han wheezed, still wiping tears from his eyes as his laughter subsided. “You actually made her hide under a blanket, Hyunjin, what the hell?”

Hyunjin, unable to resist the pull of Iseul’s unexpected softness, found himself watching her more than he should’ve. The blanket may have been hiding her from everyone else, but it didn’t stop him from noticing the way her lips tugged into a subtle, embarrassed smile.

Maybe it was the way she had let down her guard, or the way she had trusted him, even in this silly moment, to do something that made her feel a little less exposed. Hyunjin wasn’t entirely sure why it made him feel so… connected to her.

Still, he couldn’t stop looking.

For once, Iseul wasn’t the strong, stoic girl in training. She was just a person, vulnerable and human. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that made her even more captivating.

“Look at that,” Seungmin teased again, poking Iseul gently with his foot, making her wince. “You’re all curled up like a little scared bunny.”

“Shut up,” she muttered again, though this time it was softer. She didn’t pull away from Seungmin’s teasing as quickly, and the subtle shift in her posture told Hyunjin everything. She wasn’t so bothered anymore.

The teasing from Han and Seungmin continued to echo around the room, but the boys’ playful jabs were suddenly interrupted by a loud gasp from Han.

“Wait!” Jisung’s eyes went wide with realization. “There’s no snacks left!”

The room went silent for a moment, as if the collective craving for junk food was just too much to ignore. Then chaos erupted once more.

A collective groan filled the room.

“You just realized that?” Minho deadpanned.

“I was too busy laughing at Iseul.”

“I will end you, Han.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll add that to the death threats list,” Han waved her off. “More importantly, what do we do?”

Minho stretched, standing up. “Simple. We make a snack run.”

“At this hour?” Hyunjin frowned, glancing at the time. “It’s almost 2 AM.”

“Exactly,” Felix grinned. “The best time.”

Iseul groaned. “Can’t we just—I don’t know—starve?”

Jeongin gasped, clutching his chest in mock betrayal. “Noona, that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said.”

“Are you scared?” Seungmin smirked.

She stiffened immediately. “No.”

“Really?” Chan grinned. “Because someone’s been extra jumpy ever since you-know-who appeared on screen.”

“Don’t say his name,” she muttered, shuddering.

“Penny—”

“STOP.”

The boys burst into laughter.

Felix clapped his hands. “Alright, let’s go before Iseul dies of stress.”

Hyunjin could barely focus on the conversation around him as they made their way to the convenience store. Iseul had unconsciously moved closer to him as they walked, her pace matching his without either of them realizing it. He could feel the slight brush of her sleeve against his arm every few seconds, and though it should’ve been nothing, it felt too much in the best and worst way.

There was something about the way she held herself, the way she hesitated, like she was trying to shrink into the hoodie Minho had thrown her way. He couldn’t stop looking at her as she pulled it over her head, the sleeves swallowing her small frame. For a second, all he could think about was how it made her look even more delicate, and then that damn hoodie—his hoodie—caught his eye.

Wait.

His hoodie.

Hyunjin’s stomach dropped.

She was wearing his hoodie.

The one he always grabbed when he was cold.

The one he’d worn on lazy days when he didn’t care to impress anyone.

The one he’d never imagined seeing on someone else.

Especially not her.

Iseul was walking beside him, unaware that his mind was spiraling. He didn’t know if he should say something or just keep walking.

He had to stop thinking about it. He wasn’t that guy, was he? This was just a hoodie, a simple, random exchange. But it didn’t feel simple anymore.

A shiver ran down her spine as a gust of wind cut through the streets. He could hear the subtle hitch in her breath, the way her fingers tightened around the sleeves.

"Hwang," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t know what she expected from him, but he couldn’t help himself. He glanced down at her, trying to mask how much her proximity was affecting him.

"Yeah?" His voice came out quieter than he intended.

"Do you think clowns really hide in the sewers?" she asked, her voice tremoring, more from fear than curiosity.

He froze for a second, blinking as he processed the question. A soft laugh escaped him, but it wasn’t teasing, not in the slightest. “I don't know. Why?”

She winced, shuddering as she quickened her pace, the oversized hoodie practically dragging behind her. “I just... keep thinking they’re waiting for me. Or, like, they’ll pop up when I least expect it.”

He couldn’t help but feel a little protective of her. Despite the weird situation of her wearing his hoodie, he wanted her to feel safe. The tension in her shoulders was evident even in the moonlight. It didn’t sit right with him.

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said, his voice softer this time. “There’s no clown lurking around here. Just us.”

She didn’t respond right away, but he saw her nod slightly, though it didn’t do much to alleviate the anxiety that was building in the air between them.

He stepped a little closer, his arm brushing against hers by accident. She didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in her paranoia, but the second their skin made contact, something jolted inside him. He could feel the warmth of her, the way she instinctively leaned into his presence just a little. Her steps were now in sync with his, her rhythm matching his every move.

And it didn’t escape him that she hadn’t noticed how close they were walking, not once.

He tried to breathe normally, but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t just the hoodie. It wasn’t just the fact that she was visibly rattled. It was the way she looked when she wore it—like she belonged here, next to him.

Hyunjin glanced down at her again, his gaze lingering on the way she adjusted the sleeves, pulling them over her hands as if they were too big. It was ridiculous how much he was focused on something so small.

Then, Jeongin called out, and Hyunjin’s chest tightened when he realized what the younger boy had just noticed.

“Wait, Hyunjin hyung,” Jeongin said with a grin. “Is that your hoodie?”

His gaze flicked to Iseul, and her reaction—flustered, embarrassed—was immediate. She tugged the hood tighter around her face like she could hide from all of them. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way she tried to brush it off, the way she didn’t want anyone to notice. She was trying so hard not to show how awkward it made her. And that made him feel something strange.

Something protective.

Iseul stuttered, her face flushing instantly. “What? No, I—”

The realization was hitting her now, the connection made, and Hyunjin could practically feel the heat rising in his face as well.

“Ohhh,” Seungmin chimed in, a sly smile spreading across his face. “I knew you two were close, but this? Wearing his hoodie now? That’s a whole new level of comfort.”

Iseul looked absolutely mortified, like she wanted to disappear. And honestly, Hyunjin couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. He knew Minho had tossed her the hoodie for no reason other than to mess with her. But now it felt different. It felt… intimate.

His hoodie on her? No one should have that right.

Iseul’s stomach twisted. “It’s not like that,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, but the boys were already having too much fun with it. The teasing was just beginning.

Hyunjin glanced down at her, his chest tightening, not entirely sure how to handle the situation. He wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that she looked so comfortable in his hoodie, or the fact that everyone was pointing it out, but something about it didn’t sit well with him.

Minho, ever the instigator, was grinning from ear to ear. “Comfortable there, Iseul?” He leaned in, voice dripping with mischief. “You sure you’re not getting too cozy, huh? Or maybe you just like the way he smells?”

The words hit her hard, and before she could even stop herself, Iseul shot back, defensive and flustered, “It’s not like that, oppa.”

The second the word slipped out, the entire group fell silent. Iseul’s eyes widened in shock. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now that it was out, she couldn’t take it back. Her hands instinctively flew to her face as she groaned. “I did not just say that.”

The boys were in complete chaos. Han was laughing so hard he almost fell over. Jeongin and Seungmin were grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying her discomfort.

“Oppa?” Minho gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Oh, you hear that, Hyunjin? Looks like Iseul’s already picking favorites.” He winked at Iseul, clearly enjoying how flustered she had become.

Iseul shot him a glare, embarrassed but trying to keep her cool. “Please shut up,” she muttered, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Hyunjin, despite his own discomfort at the teasing, couldn’t help the tiny spark of jealousy that flared up at the sound of her calling Minho “oppa.” It was so natural for her to say, so casual. And now, for some reason, it felt like a mark of something important—something he hadn’t even realized he wanted until now. The jealousy was quick, but he forced it down, trying to act like it didn’t bother him. It shouldn’t.

Chan on the other hand looked absolutely betrayed.

He let out the biggest sigh, shaking his head like he was carrying the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. “No, seriously. This isn’t fair. I deserve to be called ‘oppa’ first.”

Iseul shot him a withering look. “Not you too. Please—”

“No, no,” he cut in, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “Think about it! Who was the one who personally talked to your mom one-on-one that day?” He pointed at himself, eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. “Me. Who was the one constantly looking after you when you first got here? Me again.”

Hyunjin’s jaw tensed at that.

Because, yeah. Chan was always looking after her. Always making sure she was okay. And Hyunjin? He had spent so much time pushing her away that by the time he’d realized he didn’t want to, it felt like she was already slipping through his fingers.

And now, she was leaning on him like it was the easiest thing in the world. But it wasn’t easy. Not for him.

Because the longer she stayed close, the harder it got to ignore the way her warmth pressed against his side, or the way she smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral. Or the way she’d called Minho ‘oppa’ so effortlessly—like she trusted him. Like she saw him.

Hyunjin swallowed.

He didn’t want to care about something as stupid as a nickname. But Minho got an ‘oppa.’ Chan got to be her protector.

What did that make him?

And why did that thought make his chest feel so damn tight?

Meanwhile, Chan was still rambling. “Honestly, I should be first in line. I mean, if anyone here gives off protective older brother vibes—”

Minho snorted. “Older brother?”

“Don’t even start,” Chan shot back before dramatically turning back to Iseul. “Look, Iseul. I’m not asking for much. I’m just saying—if you’re gonna hand out ‘oppas’ like candy, maybe I should get one too?”

Iseul, still reeling from the absolute chaos she had unleashed, groaned and buried her face in her hands again. “I swear to God, if I say it, will you all shut up?”

Jeongin and Seungmin exchanged a look before nodding. “Probably not,” Seungmin admitted.

“Yeah, but we wanna hear it,” Jeongin added.

Iseul exhaled sharply, looked straight at Chan, and with the most deadpan expression she could muster, muttered, “Fine. Oppa. There. Happy?”

Chan immediately turned smug, tossing his arms behind his head like he had just won the lottery. “That’s all I wanted.”

Hyunjin clenched his fists. He had no right to be mad. None at all.

But he was seething.

Not visibly, of course—he had too much pride for that. But internally? Oh, he was livid.

Because now Chan had an oppa. Minho had an oppa. And him? Nothing. No title. No special nickname. Just Hwang.

He sat there, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched Chan bask in his victory. The actual audacity.

“Oh wow, Chan-hyung, congratulations,” he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You must feel so accomplished.”

Chan, ever the shameless one, just grinned. “You wouldn’t get it, Hyunjin. It’s a privilege.”

Hyunjin wanted to knock that stupid smug look off his face. Instead, he leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I mean, I get it. Really, I do. But oppa?” He shot a look at Iseul, tilting his head. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much? Chan’s more like a… I don’t know. A dad.”

Chan choked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, think about it,” Hyunjin continued, fully embracing his pettiness now. “He nags, he worries, he’s always giving inspirational speeches no one asked for—he’s basically the team ahjussi.”

Minho cackled. “He’s got a point.”

Iseul, clearly regretting all of her life choices, rubbed her temples. “I hate this conversation.”

Hyunjin smirked. “What? You started it.”

Her glare was sharp, but he wasn’t fazed. Good. If he was suffering, so was she.

“Oh, Iseul~” Changbin sing-songed, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, now that you’ve said it for Chan and Minho-hyung… doesn’t it feel unfair if you don’t say it for Hyunjin-hyung too? After all he looked after you and protected you from your imaginary clowns the whole night.”

Hyunjin stiffened. His heart, against his better judgment, leaped.

Iseul, however, scoffed. “Hyunjin? As oppa? Yeah, no.”

Hyunjin froze.

For a second, he was convinced he’d misheard her. Maybe she’d said it wrong. Maybe she’d meant something else. But the teasing lilt in her voice—the absolute finality of her words—made it clear. She meant exactly what she said.

Yeah, no.

The group erupted into laughter, Minho clutching his stomach, Jeongin practically wheezing, and Chan wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

“Oh my god,” Han gasped between laughs. “That was brutal.”

Even Seungmin, who usually preferred to play the instigator rather than react, had to cover his mouth, shoulders shaking with amusement.

Hyunjin, on the other hand, was going through it.

Not that he would ever show it, of course. He was Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin. He didn’t get worked up over stupid things like nicknames.

But still.

Yeah, no? Really?

Of all the ways she could’ve rejected the idea, she chose that?

Hyunjin scoffed, rolling his eyes to mask the sting. “You’re acting like I’d even want to be your oppa.”

“Oh?” Iseul raised a brow, folding her arms across her chest. “So you admit it bothers you.”

“I never said that,” he shot back too quickly.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

She was enjoying this. That little glint in her eyes, the way she tilted her head ever so slightly—she knew exactly what she was doing. And the worst part? It was working.

Hyunjin should’ve let it go. Should’ve just shrugged it off, acted like he didn’t care. But something about the way she looked at him, so completely unbothered, made his competitive streak flare.

“Oh, Iseul,” he drawled, mirroring her smirk. “You act like this is some huge loss for me. Please. I’d rather be called Hwang than have the same title as these guys.”

Minho snorted. “Good save.”

Iseul rolled her eyes. “Right. Because you definitely aren’t sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You’re sulking right now.”

“I am not—” Hyunjin stopped himself, inhaling sharply. No. He wasn’t going to let her win. He was better than this.

Chan, who had been watching the entire exchange with far too much amusement, finally clapped his hands together. “Alright, children. Let’s move before the convenience store closes.”

Iseul, looking far too pleased with herself, turned on her heel and started walking. Hyunjin let her go ahead, watching as the oversized sleeves of his hoodie swung at her sides.

He wasn’t sulking. He was just… processing.

That’s all.

And if he happened to catch Jeongin grinning at him like he’d just uncovered the greatest secret in the world, well—

Hyunjin would deal with that later.

The convenience store was a brightly lit oasis in the quiet night, its neon sign buzzing softly against the silence of the street. As soon as the automatic doors slid open, the group spilled inside with a mix of laughter and chatter, scattering almost immediately in different directions like unsupervised children.

Iseul had barely taken two steps when a familiar presence appeared beside her. She glanced up to find Hyunjin, his expression still unreadable after the whole hoodie ordeal. She wasn’t going to think about that, though.

Nope. Not at all.

Jeongin was the first to disappear, heading straight for the snack aisle with Seungmin hot on his heels.

Changbin and Han darted toward the chips section, their voices already rising in a passionate debate.

"Original is superior," Han argued, spinning a can of Pringles between his fingers with a dramatic flourish.

Changbin looked offended. "No, sour cream and onion is the king of Pringles."

"You’re lying to yourself."

"You’re lying to the world."

"You’re ugly."

"Your entire bloodline is ugly."

Chan, standing a few shelves away, muttered, "Why does every conversation in this group escalate like this?"

Han ignored him. "Say it to my face, Seo Changbin."

Changbin squared up, gripping his can of Pringles like a weapon. "I am saying it to your face."

At this point, Iseul had joined Jeongin and Seungmin in the snack aisle, where they were already strategizing their selections. Jeongin had a bag of honey butter chips in one hand, a shrimp-flavored snack in the other, and a contemplative expression on his face.

Seungmin, meanwhile, had to comment on Iseul’s first choice.

"Are you serious?" he deadpanned, eyeing the pack of yogurt drinks she had immediately grabbed.

Iseul clutched them protectively. "Do not start with me, Kim Seungmin."

"You're actually insane," he continued, undeterred. "You walk into a store full of actual food, and the first thing you go for is yogurt?"

"First of all," Iseul shot back, "it’s not just any yogurt, it’s strawberry-flavored probiotic perfection."

Seungmin made a gagging noise. "You sound like a cult member."

"Iseul’s Yogurt Cult," Jeongin mused, barely containing his laughter.

"Jeongin, I thought you were on my side."

"I never said that," Jeongin said, popping a chip into his mouth.

"Traitor," Iseul muttered, shoving another pack of yogurt drinks into their basket.

Seungmin stared at it. "Are you stockpiling for the winter?"

"Mind your business."

Jeongin leaned in, smirking. "She’s probably stressed."

Iseul blinked. "What?"

"Because of a certain someone sulking near the drink fridge."

Seungmin and Iseul turned in unison.

There he was. Hyunjin.

Standing near the refrigerated section, looking way too broody for someone in a convenience store.

Seungmin’s lips curled. "Oh, he’s pouting."

Jeongin grinned. "It’s spectacular."

Iseul shot him a look. "Don’t use that word against me."

Jeongin just wiggled his eyebrows.

Meanwhile, Felix had also noticed Hyunjin’s mood and, because he was Felix, he had to poke at it.

"Hyunnie, why do you look like you just lost a fight?" Felix teased, slinging an arm around Hyunjin’s shoulder.

Hyunjin exhaled sharply. "I didn’t lose anything."

Felix’s gaze flickered toward Iseul—toward the hoodie she was wearing—and his mouth twitched. "Are you sure?"

Hyunjin tensed immediately.

Felix gasped, eyes widening like he had just cracked a case. "Wait. Are you jealous?"

Hyunjin’s expression shattered into pure offense. "Why the hell would I be jealous?"

"You tell me, sulky boy."

"I’m not sulking."

Felix grinned. "You’re totally sulking."

Iseul turned back to the shelf, grabbing another snack in an attempt to ignore this conversation. She was not involved in this. She was not thinking about the hoodie. She was not thinking about Hyunjin.

But Jeongin and Seungmin?

They were thriving.

"This is the best drama I’ve seen all week," Jeongin murmured, popping another chip into his mouth.

"I feel like I should take notes," Seungmin added.

Felix, meanwhile, was having too much fun. "Hyunnie, do you want a hug? Iseul wouldn't mind giving you one."

Hyunjin’s glare could have melted the ice cream section.

Meanwhile, over by the register, an entirely different kind of chaos was unfolding.

Chan, standing in front of the impulse buy section, had picked up a pack of random trinkets.

"We need these," he announced.

Minho glanced over. "No, we don’t."

Chan held up a tiny portable fan. "But it’s cute and useful—"

"Put it back."

"What about these—look, Minho, tiny screwdrivers. You never know when we might need them!"

"Are you planning on repairing a car mid-tour?"

"You’re not getting it."

"No, I understand perfectly," Minho deadpanned. "I understand that you have no self-control."

Chan scowled but reluctantly put the tiny fan and screwdrivers back. But just as Minho turned his attention away, he grabbed something else.

"Minho," Chan called sweetly.

Minho sighed, already done. "What now?"

"Look."

Minho looked.

And froze.

In Chan’s hands was a sheet of cat stickers.

Minho’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t need them."

Chan smirked. "You sure?"

Minho’s gaze flickered to the stickers, then back to Chan.

A pause.

Then—defeat.

"... Get two."

Chan burst into laughter, throwing an arm around Minho’s shoulder. "Knew it."

Just then, Seungmin and Jeongin arrived at the register with an absolutely ridiculous amount of snacks, piling them onto the counter with zero shame. The cashier—who had likely seen far worse at this hour—didn’t even blink as they rang everything up.

The total price flashed on the register, and Chan, ever the responsible leader, took one glance at it and immediately turned to the younger members. "Alright, who’s paying?"

Everyone, without hesitation, pointed at him.

"Unbelievable," Chan muttered, pulling out his wallet. "One day, you guys are gonna be rich and famous, and I’m gonna make you pay for everything."

"Sure, hyung." Jeongin grinned, already tearing open a pack of chips. "Sure."

Once they stepped outside, the cool night air pressing against their warmed faces, Iseul sighed in relief, adjusting the plastic bag in her hand.

Then, suddenly—something soft brushed against her fingers.

She blinked, looking down.

A lollipop.

Iseul stared at the lollipop resting against her fingers, its bright wrapper crinkling under the soft pressure of her grip. The warmth of Hyunjin’s touch still lingered, barely there, but enough to make her pulse stutter for half a second too long.

She swallowed, willing herself to play it cool.

"Seriously?" she muttered, turning slightly toward him. "A lollipop?"

Hyunjin didn’t look at her. He just shrugged, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, gaze locked straight ahead like she wasn’t standing right next to him, holding undeniable evidence of his random act of kindness.

"Thought you liked sweets," he said, voice too casual.

Iseul frowned, staring at the candy. "I do, but—"

"Then eat it."

She blinked. "Are you—are you giving me orders now?"

Hyunjin sighed, finally glancing at her. "Just—" He gestured vaguely at the lollipop. "Take it or don’t. Whatever."

Felix, who had been watching everything from behind them, covered his mouth to muffle his very obvious giggle.

Jeongin, on the other hand, had no such restraint.

He leaned in, grinning like he had just been handed a new piece of gossip to wield against them. "That’s not just any lollipop, you know."

Iseul narrowed her eyes. "What?"

"It’s Hyunjin’s favorite flavor," Jeongin sing-songed.

Hyunjin whipped around, face immediately burning. "Shut up."

Felix gasped dramatically. "He gave you his favorite flavor?"

Seungmin popped up out of nowhere, as he often did when chaos was brewing. "That’s, like, the ultimate sacrifice," he mused, fake-serious. "Hyunjin never gives up his favorite snacks. It’s unheard of."

Hyunjin was two seconds away from shoving Jeongin into oncoming traffic. "You guys are so annoying."

Jeongin just grinned wider. "I prefer the term spectacular."

Iseul turned the lollipop between her fingers, staring at the wrapper as if it held some kind of secret she wasn’t meant to understand.

Something about this moment—this tiny, insignificant moment—made her chest feel warm in a way that unsettled her.

It was nothing. Just a lollipop.

And yet.

She unwrapped it, popping it into her mouth without thinking.

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered to her, lingering for a second too long before he cleared his throat and looked away again, fast.

Felix nudged him, his smirk pure evil.

"Feeling generous tonight, Hyunjin?"

Hyunjin groaned, pushing past them toward the street. "I hate all of you."

Jeongin threw an arm around Iseul’s shoulder, completely ignoring him. "So, tell me—on a scale of one to ‘this is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me,’ how touched are you right now?"

Iseul shoved him off. "Oh my God, shut up."

But as they walked down the quiet street, Hyunjin a few steps ahead of them—his head down, hands still deep in his pockets—she couldn’t help but press her tongue against the candy in her mouth, her thoughts tangled in a way she wasn’t ready to face yet.

She could still feel the ghost of his fingers brushing against hers.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo, @dreamerwasfound,

STORY HINT: Hyunjin's favourite flavour of lollipop is grape. It’s a little dramatic, just like him. Some people love it, some people hate it, but it’s a bold choice. Plus, it has that deep, rich flavor that sticks around.

And THAT, ladies, gentlemen, and yogurt enthusiasts, is what happens when you let Stray Kids loose in a convenience store at 2 AM. The maknae trio? MENACES TO SOCIETY. Felix, Han, and Changbin? Should be banned from public spaces. Chan and Minho? The worst responsible adults I’ve ever seen. Hyunjin? Sulking so hard he might develop permanent frown lines. Meanwhile, Iseul’s yogurt addiction is thriving, Jeongin is collecting blackmail material, and Hyunjin, in his infinite stupidity, has decided that sneakily giving her a lollipop is the best way to process his growing crush. Let’s all take a moment for Hyunjin, who is currently in denial. He will stay there for a while. Pray for him. (AFTERALL DENIAL IS A RIVER IN EGYPT) Anyway, RIP to the store employees, pray for Hyunjin’s sanity, and as always, leave likes and comments. Comment down below your favourite part or I’ll steal all your yogurt. Stay safe!! ~Candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅶ: Dormageddon

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

The dorm was a warzone.

Jeongin darted across the living room, frantically gathering stray water bottles and shoving them into a recycling bag. Chan wiped down the kitchen counters like he was scrubbing out a crime scene. Minho vacuumed with murderous determination, dragging the machine across the floor as Seungmin and Han argued over whether or not the couch cushions needed to be thrown into the washing machine.

Hyunjin, barefoot and half-dead, silently wiped the windows with a haunted expression — like his soul had long since left his body.

They were cleaning like their lives depended on it.

Because, in a way, they did.

Iseul was moving in today.

And none of them wanted to be the reason she took one look at the dorm and immediately asked to move out.

“She’s late,” Jeongin huffed, stuffing another empty chip bag into the trash. “Why is she late?”

“Maybe she chickened out,” Han muttered, aggressively fluffing a pillow.

Minho paused. “Can we blame her?”

Hyunjin stopped wiping. “Maybe she decided we weren’t worth it.”

Seungmin glanced up. “Maybe she died.”

They all froze.

Chan sighed, rubbing his face. “We need to get out of the dorm more.”

The front door finally creaked open.

And Iseul stepped inside.

She hovered awkwardly in the doorway, cradling a duffel bag, a suitcase, and... a cello case.

The boys stared at her.

And then at her luggage.

“That’s it?” Chan blinked. “That’s... all you brought?”

Iseul shifted her grip on the cello strap, her ears burning. “I don’t have a lot of stuff...”

Han squinted. “The cello takes up half your things.”

“Yeah. It’s my priority.”

“Fair enough.”

Minho shut off the vacuum, dragging it to the side. “Why were you late?”

Iseul deflated. “My mom.”

Jeongin’s eyes widened. “Your mom?”

“She wanted to make sure I packed properly,” Iseul muttered, stepping inside. “And then she cried. And then she made me swear not to die. And then she cried again. And then she made me promise to call her every night—”

Seungmin snorted. “Is she okay?”

“No.”

The tension snapped in half.

Hyunjin smothered a laugh behind his hand. Jeongin giggled. And the rest of the boys slowly started to relax — shoulders dropping as the pressure dissolved into something almost normal.

Almost.

Because Iseul saw the way their gazes flicked toward her bags.

Saw how cramped the living room felt with her things piled up by the door.

She felt guilt curdle in her chest like sour milk.

They’d done so much already — cleaned the dorm, rearranged their rooms, added a bunk bed to the three-bed room, and cleared the smallest bedroom for her.

And now she was here.

Taking up space.

Making everything harder for them.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the knot in her throat.

“Since you guys cleaned so much,” she started, tugging at her sleeve, “how about I make dinner?”

The reaction was immediate.

Jeongin lit up. “Really?”

“I’ll help,” Seungmin added, casually pushing Jeongin toward the kitchen. “You can be her assistant.”

“I’m not her assistant—”

“You are now.”

The two of them bickered all the way to the fridge.

Iseul stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, staring at the mountain of ingredients the boys had shoved at her like it was a boss fight. She chewed her lip, feeling the weight of their effort to make space for her in the dorm. Guilt gnawed at her chest. They’d added a bunk bed to an already cramped room, cleared out their smallest bedroom for her, and scrubbed the place like they were expecting a military inspection.

The least she could do was feed them.

“Okay,” she muttered, tying her hair up. “Let’s do this.”

“I’ll help!” Jeongin popped up beside her like a golden retriever, already rolling up his sleeves. “I can cut veggies!”

Seungmin leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You can barely cut paper.”

Jeongin scowled. “I can too!”

“Prove it.” Seungmin handed him a carrot and a knife with the air of a judge watching a defendant plead their case.

Jeongin gripped the knife with pure determination. He made one dramatic, calculated slice — and the carrot promptly shot off the cutting board, skidding across the counter like a hockey puck.

Seungmin burst out laughing.

“I’m TRYING!” Jeongin yelped, scrambling to catch the runaway carrot.

Iseul snorted, covering her mouth. “Okay, okay — let me show you.” She gently adjusted Jeongin’s grip on the knife, her voice patient. “Hold it like this. And curl your fingers so you don’t accidentally chop them off.”

“I wouldn’t chop them off,” Jeongin said, pouting.

“You’d just, what, mildly maim yourself?” Seungmin deadpanned.

Jeongin threw a piece of carrot at him.

Iseul shook her head, but a small smile tugged at her lips. It was... nice. Familiar, even. The way Jeongin clung to her like an eager younger brother, and the way Seungmin’s teasing had this quiet warmth to it, like he wasn’t really being mean — just pulling her into their rhythm.

“Are you sure you know how to cook?” Seungmin squinted at her as she started seasoning the meat.

“Just start chopping the onions, Seungmin,” Iseul said, handing him a knife without looking.

Seungmin blinked at it. “This feels like child labor.”

“You’re older than Jeongin,” she deadpanned.

“Emotionally, no,” Seungmin muttered, but he started chopping anyway.

Jeongin, meanwhile, handled the rice like he was solving a Rubik’s cube, painstakingly measuring everything. His tongue stuck out a little in concentration, and Iseul had to bite back a laugh.

“You’re really careful,” she noted, stirring the soup.

“I don’t wanna mess up,” he admitted, glancing at her. “You’re cooking for everyone, and I don’t want them to be mad if it sucks.”

Iseul’s chest pinched.

“They wouldn’t be mad,” she said softly. “And... even if they were, I’d tell them off.”

Jeongin blinked, then beamed so brightly she almost had to look away.

Seungmin, stirring the soup with the absolute confidence of someone who loved to provoke, didn’t even glance up. “Wow. Our knight in shining armor. Remind me to call you if a fly breaks into the dorm.”

Jeongin nearly dropped the plate he was drying. “Hyung!”

The bickering continued like background noise as she cooked, Jeongin flailing while Seungmin casually tossed insults like confetti. And somehow, despite the chaos, everything started coming together.

The soup simmered.

Jeongin cut vegetables while sneakily stealing bites, yelping whenever Iseul caught him. Seungmin expertly handled the seasoning, pausing only to deliver backhanded compliments that made her want to throw the ladle at his head.

“Not bad,” he mused, tasting the broth. “I expected worse.”

Iseul narrowed her eyes. “I’m adding extra spice just for you.”

“Aw,” he smirked. “You do care.”

Jeongin snorted, nearly slicing his finger off.

By the time they started plating the food, Iseul realized she was actually... smiling.

Seungmin wiped his hands on a towel, glancing at the perfectly simmered soup like he personally deserved a Michelin star. “Dinner’s ready,” he called out, voice echoing through the dorm like a battle horn.

From the living room, chaos erupted like they hadn't eaten in weeks.

“DINNER?!” Han practically toppled over the couch.

Felix vaulted the coffee table with zero hesitation.

Hyunjin nearly face-planted trying to rip off his hoodie.

“They act like we don’t feed them,” Seungmin muttered, shaking his head as he lifted the soup pot.

Iseul bit back a laugh, balancing a plate in each hand as she and Jeongin set up the table. Jeongin, ever the helpful one, carefully placed chopsticks and napkins, sticking his tongue out as he concentrated on getting the spacing just right.

“Why are you lining them up like we’re in a restaurant?” Iseul asked, stacking bowls.

Jeongin flushed, adjusting the napkins like he was solving a puzzle. “It looks nice, noona.”

Iseul dropped a plate.

Jeongin froze like he’d been caught committing a crime. “I— I didn’t mean to say that —”

Iseul bent down to grab the plate, but her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it again. Her brain blue-screened.

Noona.

He called her noona.

He called her noona in front of everyone.

From the kitchen doorway, Seungmin wheezed, barely holding back laughter. “Oh, that’s cute,” he said, voice dripping with malicious glee.

The universe collapsed.

Han slammed his hands on the table like he was hosting a reality show. “Wait, wait, wait,” he gasped, pointing dramatically at Jeongin. “He called her what?”

“Noona,” Seungmin chirped, pure evil in human form.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO,” Jeongin wailed, his voice breaking like a shattered vase.

Hyunjin, frozen in place, stared at Iseul like he’d discovered a glitch in the matrix. “You... let him call you that?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

Iseul didn’t respond. She couldn’t respond. Her brain was melting. She just stood there, gripping the plate so tightly her knuckles turned white, heart pounding so loudly she swore the others could hear it.

“Noona,” Felix whispered, eyes twinkling. “That’s so cute.”

“I’m leaving,” Iseul muttered, already planning her escape route.

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE IT,” Han yelled, arms outstretched like some kind of cult leader. “YOU’RE HIS NOONA NOW.”

Jeongin slid down to the floor like his legs had given out. “This is the worst day of my life,” he groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Seungmin, who had clearly been waiting for this moment his entire existence, crouched next to Jeongin and patted his back like a fake-supportive friend. “It’s okay, baby bread,” he cooed. “Your noona will protect you.”

Jeongin threw a napkin at his face.

“Why do you even call her that?” Changbin asked, folding his arms with a grin that screamed he was enjoying this way too much. “I mean, she’s closer to your age, right?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jeongin stammered. “She just... gives noona vibes?”

Iseul nearly dropped the plate again.

“Noona vibes?” Hyunjin repeated, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Jeongin buried his face in his hands. “You cook, and you scold us, and you make sure we eat... you feel like a noona!”

Iseul’s soul physically left her body.

“Guys, I think she’s going to cry,” Han whispered, leaning closer to her face like he was inspecting a wild animal.

“I’m quitting,” she mumbled into her hands. “I’m packing my bags and going to live in the practice room.”

Jeongin looked devastated. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable —”

“She’s not uncomfortable,” Seungmin interrupted, voice sugary sweet. “She’s just malfunctioning. It happens when her noona programming gets activated.”

Seungmin barely had time to react before Iseul launched herself across the kitchen.

“YOU’RE DEAD!” she screeched, knocking over a chair as she tackled him with the force of a small hurricane.

Seungmin hit the floor with a thud, laughter echoing through the dorm as she pinned him down, her knees digging into his sides.

“I yield, I yield!” he wheezed, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t breathe!”

“That’s the point!” Iseul growled, shaking him by the collar like a cartoon villain.

The boys exploded.

“YES, GET HIM!” Han cheered, pounding the table.

“WORLD STAR!” Changbin yelled, holding up his phone like he was filming a fight for the internet.

“Seungmin, you brought this on yourself,” Felix snorted, not even bothering to help him.

“I regret nothing,” Seungmin choked out, grinning like the little menace he was.

Lee Know, arms crossed and smirking, watched the chaos unfold like a proud father. “I knew she had it in her,” he said, nodding in approval. “Finally putting Seungmin in his place.”

“This isn’t putting him in his place, this is a murder attempt,” Chan groaned, scrambling over to try and pry Iseul off Seungmin.

“Save me! She is a bloody monster!” Seungmin gasped from beneath Iseul, face red from laughing.

“I’m not saving you, I’m saving the dinner table!” Chan yelped, dodging Iseul’s flailing arm as she fought to keep Seungmin pinned. “Iseul, come on, get off him!”

“I’ll get off when he apologizes!” she snapped, wrangling Seungmin like a wrestler in a death match.

“For what?” Seungmin coughed, barely able to breathe through his grin.

“EXISTING,” she hissed, shaking him harder.

Lee Know leaned back against the counter, utterly delighted. “This is the best day of my life,” he said, voice dripping with amusement.

“Minho, help me!” Chan begged, half-laughing, half-panicked as he tried to lift Iseul by the waist.

“Why would I stop this?” Minho tilted his head, watching Chan struggle like it was a live comedy show. “She’s thriving.”

“She’s committing a felony,” Chan cried, dodging another swipe of her hand. “Someone help me!”

Hyunjin, still hovering awkwardly near the table, hesitated. He glanced between Iseul’s wild, feral expression and the way Chan was one slip away from being collateral damage.

His chest tightened — partly out of concern, partly out of something he didn’t want to name.

He hated that Seungmin got to tease her so easily. Hated that Jeongin got to call her noona first.

Hated that he cared so much.

Hated that he found her when she was mad. But maybe a little too cute.

Hyunjin cursed under his breath and scrambled forward, grabbing Iseul by her shoulders. “Okay, okay, let him live!” he yelped, digging his heels into the floor as he helped Chan haul her back.

It felt like trying to tame a feral cat.

“You little —” Iseul kicked wildly, limbs flailing as the two boys dragged her like she was some kind of rogue beast.

Seungmin, instead of being terrified, just lay on the ground laughing his lungs out.

“This is the best day of my life,” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Why are you like this?” Chan demanded, face twisted in betrayal.

“WHY AM I LIKE THIS?” Iseul screeched, flailing harder. “HE’S BEEN TAUNTING ME FOR HOURS —”

“LET HIM DIE,” Han cheered from the couch, voice muffled against a pillow.

Hyunjin, out of breath, managed to sit Iseul down on the floor, keeping her in place with both hands on her shoulders.

“Breathe,” he huffed, chest heaving.

Iseul glared at him, fists clenched, practically vibrating with leftover aggression.

Hyunjin should’ve been terrified.

Instead, his brain short-circuited again.

Because she was looking directly at him — eyes fierce, cheeks flushed, lips parted as she tried to catch her breath.

He swallowed hard, pulse stammering.

"...Please don't kill us," he muttered, voice shaky. “You're kinda cute when you're mad, but, like... terrifying.”

Iseul’s brain exploded.

Hyunjin immediately wanted to rip his own throat out.

Chan went rigid. His eyes, wide with disbelief, snapped to Hyunjin like a predator locking onto its prey.

“What,” Chan said, voice unnervingly calm, “did you just say?”

Hyunjin, who looked like he wanted to dig a hole and die in it, tried to backpedal. “I—I didn’t mean it like that!” he stammered, still gripping Iseul’s shoulders. “I just — I —”

“YOU THINK SHE’S CUTE?!” Han roared, flinging a pillow across the room.

Felix was cackling so hard he rolled onto the floor, tears streaming down his face. “NO WAY,” he wheezed, pounding the floor with his fist.

Jeongin, face buried in his hands, screamed into his palms like he was witnessing a crime.

Meanwhile, Iseul just sat there. Unmoving. Unblinking.

Absolutely fried.

Her entire body locked up, like her soul had fled to a different dimension.

“C-cute?” she whispered, voice so quiet it was almost a glitch in the universe. Her entire face exploded in red.

Hyunjin, realizing the chaos he had unleashed, panicked. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO SAY IT OUT LOUD,” he blurted, voice pitching so high it cracked.

Chan lunged forward, grabbing Hyunjin by the collar. “THE AIR FRYER,” he hissed like a man possessed. “I’M THROWING YOU IN HEADFIRST.”

“I’LL PREHEAT IT,” Lee Know called, already walking to the kitchen with a casual strut.

“MINHO, NO!” Hyunjin screeched, flailing as Chan dragged him toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Seungmin, still sprawled on the floor, barely conscious from laughing. “Tell my family I love them,” he rasped.

“I CAN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE,” Iseul finally exploded, clutching her face as her entire body curled in on itself. “I NEED TO QUIT. I NEED TO MOVE TO ANOTHER COUNTRY.”

Jeongin, clutching his stomach, almost toppled over. “I CALLED HER NOONA AND LIVED — BUT HYUNJIN CALLED HER CUTE AND DIED.”

Hyunjin, bright red and struggling against Chan’s grip, tried to salvage what little was left of his dignity. “I WAS JUST TRYING TO STOP HER FROM COMMITTING MURDER,” he howled.

“BY FLIRTING WITH HER?!” Han screeched, clutching a pillow like he was witnessing the scandal of the century.

Chan, eyes burning with big brother fury, shoved Hyunjin into a kitchen chair. “SIT DOWN,” he ordered, voice low and deadly. “You are not allowed to speak for the rest of the night.”

Hyunjin, face still burning, sulked like a scolded puppy.

Lee Know wandered back in, biting into a rice cracker. “Pity,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “I was actually gonna turn on the air fryer.”

“STOP,” Hyunjin whined, burying his face in his hands.

Iseul, still melting into a puddle of embarrassment, finally peeked through her fingers. She glared at Hyunjin with the weakest, most half-hearted death stare imaginable.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to kill you,” she muttered.

Hyunjin peeked at her through his fingers — and immediately turned even redder.

The boys, seeing his reaction, lost it all over again.

Felix almost choked on his laughter. Han was crying. Seungmin lay on the floor like a casualty of war.

And Chan? Chan slumped against the counter, staring at the ceiling like he was questioning every life decision that led to this moment.

“I need a vacation,” he whispered to himself.

Lee Know clapped him on the back. “Or a bigger air fryer.”

The conversation eventually shifted.

The initial explosion of chaos faded into background noise as the boys fell back into their usual rhythm — tossing jokes across the table, piling extra food onto each other’s plates, and slipping into the easy, natural dynamic they’d built over years of living and working together.

Iseul tried to keep up.

She really did.

But the longer they talked, the quieter she became.

It wasn’t intentional — no one was deliberately ignoring her. But the boys moved so fast, with overlapping stories and inside jokes, that she felt like she was running after a train she could never catch.

They’d start reminiscing about something that happened on tour.

Or talk about an old trainee memory.

Or bicker about a game they played last week.

And Iseul just... sat there.

Smiling when they laughed. Nodding like she understood.

She laughed along, even when she didn’t know what was funny.

She twirled her chopsticks between her fingers, pretending to focus on her food, while her heart slowly sank into her stomach.

This is what she was interrupting.

This is what she was intruding on.

It was one thing to know the boys were uncomfortable with her presence. It was another to see — to feel — just how tight-knit they were without her.

They had a bond she couldn’t break into, no matter how hard she tried.

And maybe she shouldn’t try.

Maybe she shouldn’t even be here.

She stabbed at her rice, her appetite fading, guilt crawling up her throat like thorns.

Jeongin called her noona.

And she’d nearly passed out like an idiot.

The boys were bending over backward to make space for her.

And she was making it harder for them.

They had to clean the dorm for her. Rearrange their rooms. Sacrifice their privacy.

And for what?

For her to sit there in awkward silence, drowning in self-pity?

Iseul pushed her bowl away.

“Um,” she started, voice barely loud enough to cut through the chatter. “I’ll wash up first. You guys can... take your time.”

The words spilled out before she could stop them.

The boys immediately protested — voices overlapping in a flurry of concern:

“You barely ate—” “We’ll do the dishes, don’t worry—” “Are you feeling sick?”

She forced a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Chan frowned, his brows knitting together. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

Hyunjin’s gaze flicked toward her.

But he didn’t say anything.

And Iseul didn’t wait for him to.

She slipped away from the table, her chest aching, and shut the bathroom door behind her like it could physically block out the noise of their laughter.

The shower steamed up the mirror as she stood under the scalding water, her head pressed against the tile.

She hated this feeling.

By the time she got out, her hair clung to her skin, her eyes were swollen, and she was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with her body as shuffled into her most comfortable pajamas without thinking — the bright green dinosaur ones with a cartoon tail on the back.

The dorm was dim, the only light flickering from the TV screen.

The boys had migrated to the living room — sprawled across couches, tangled in blankets, half-asleep as a random variety show played in the background.

Iseul hesitated.

She lingered in the hallway, heart pounding, not wanting to intrude.

Not wanting to disrupt whatever fragile peace they’d finally settled into.

But Seungmin caught her.

He twisted around on the floor, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Look who survived the shower,” he drawled, eyes gleaming. “Did you have an emotional breakdown in there?”

Iseul froze.

Her pulse skyrocketed.

She scrambled to mask the panic on her face — to laugh it off, even as her chest clenched like he’d reached in and grabbed her heart.

Seungmin didn’t know.

Of course he didn’t know.

He was just teasing her.

He didn’t realize he was right.

“I was just washing my hair,” she mumbled, rubbing at her arms. “I… didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting.”

Iseul startled.

Hyunjin sat cross-legged on the couch, leaning against the armrest, one hand propping up his face.

His voice was quiet. Gentler than she expected.

He looked tired. Or maybe he always looked like that now.

But the second he actually saw her — standing there in damp hair and dinosaur pajamas — he malfunctioned.

Iseul, still toweling off her hair, stood in the dim hallway — her eyes big and unsure, damp strands of hair clinging to her flushed face.

Hyunjin nearly choked on his own breath. His heart lurched, and for a split second, he forgot how to function as a human being.

Why was she cute?

Why was she cute when she looked like she’d been emotionally obliterated in the shower?

Why was he noticing this??

He scrambled to do something, fingers blindly fumbling through the grocery bag next to him.

Without thinking, he yanked a yogurt cup from the grocery bag beside him and — panicking beyond belief — flung it at her like she was a wild animal.

“Here!” he blurted, voice cracking like glass.

Iseul caught the yogurt, eyes wide.

Hyunjin blushed violently.

What the hell was he doing? Why did he do that?? Why was he short-circuiting over pajamas??

He turned back to the TV with the stiffest posture in human history.

“Uh — you... like those,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Seungmin cackled. Immediately.

Hyunjin wanted to burst into flames.

Iseul clutched the yogurt to her chest like it was a life preserver, her entire face glowing red.

She didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to tell Hyunjin that the stupid snack had saved her.

So, instead of speaking, she quietly sank onto the floor, legs folding beneath her.

She stayed.

The boys resumed their bickering.

The show flickered on, the room filled with noise again.

Hyunjin peeked at her out of the corner of his eye.

His chest squeezed.

Because she was smiling.

Just barely.

But she was smiling.

And somehow, that was enough.

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin, @tillaboo

STORY HINT: Iseul's mom came from a well established family and was originally a law student. But she had to quit law school as she got pregnant with Iseul and married her dad. Iseul's grandparents weren't happy with the situation (or their son-in-law) but they still stayed and helped her mom. They also made sure that Iseul was provided with top notch education and training.

Uk the original draft was more angsty than this. Like I didnt include Iseul's mom or dad, only in passing and there was no comic relief. But I'm honestly quite happy with this version. Anywhoo, don't be a ghost! Leave likes and comments!! Reblogging helps a ton too Stay safe!!! ~Candy

[chaosandcandies]

UNPLUGGED

CHAPTER Ⅵ: The Mom-ster Invasion

trope: fem!9th skz member warnings: angst, drama, insecure oc, cyber bullying, slow burn pairings: hyunjinxfem!oc prev|next

THE SHIFT IN THEIR DYNAMIC after the arcade night lingered like a warm afterglow.

The comeback loomed closer, and the weight of expectations hadn’t lessened — Chan still looked ready to combust from stress, and their manager still gave lectures about schedules like his life depended on it. But something had shifted.

The suffocating tension had eased, like a knot finally starting to unravel.

The boys weren’t walking on eggshells around Iseul anymore. And Iseul?

She wasn’t tiptoeing around them either.

It was subtle at first — a shared joke here, a casual high-five there. But then, the walls crumbled all at once.

Especially with Han.

The guy who used to keep her at least two feet away like she carried the plague now clung to her like a koala. He draped himself over her shoulders during breaks, poked her cheek when she zoned out, and whined for her to share her snacks like they’d been lifelong friends.

“You know,” Han said, propping his chin on her shoulder as she stretched her legs, “for someone who practically begged to join the team, you sure mess up a lot of choreo.”

Iseul didn’t even flinch. “For someone who’s been dancing for years, you sure trip over your own feet a lot.”

Felix cackled from across the room.

“Betrayal!” Han clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “I thought we were friends!”

“We are,” she said sweetly, yanking her shoulder to make him lose balance. “Which is why I’m giving you constructive feedback.”

Han, sprawled on the floor, pointed up at her. “This is bullying. Chan, I’m being bullied!”

Chan didn’t even look up from his phone. “What did you do to deserve it?”

Han gasped. “You’re all against me.”

Iseul just rolled her eyes, hiding the small smile tugging at her lips.

And Han wasn’t the only one who had started treating her like part of the team.

Though Jeongin was still too shy around Iseul, he lingered at a careful distance, sneaking glances her way like she might combust if he got too close. He hovered around her like a cautious puppy, only piping up to agree with her ideas during practice or quietly handing her water bottles without a word.

Seungmin, on the other hand, had grown bold. He no longer held back his sarcastic remarks, snickering every time Iseul tripped over choreography or messed up lyrics.

His humor was sharp, biting, but there was no malice to it anymore. It felt... affectionate. Like he enjoyed getting a rise out of her.

"You were a little off during the second verse," he said one evening, tone completely neutral.

Iseul wiped her sweat and frowned, already overthinking. "Really?"

"No," he said, grabbing his water bottle. "I just like watching you panic."

Iseul hurled a towel at his face.

Seungmin didn’t even flinch.

Felix, bless his sunshine soul, was a complete opposite of Seungmin.

He brought her snacks without asking, left tiny sticky notes on her water bottle with encouraging messages, and insisted on high-fiving her after every practice run.

"You killed it, Iseul!" he beamed after she nailed her vocal line.

Iseul, panting and half-dead on the floor, managed a weak thumbs-up. "I think I did actually die."

Felix just giggled and helped her sit up, handing her a protein bar like it was a prize.

And then there was Changbin.

Loud, chaotic, relentlessly supportive Changbin.

If Felix was her mood booster, Changbin was her hype man.

He screamed compliments mid-practice: "YOU’RE A BEAST, ISEUL!" "KILL IT, QUEEN!" "SHOW THAT CHOREO WHO’S BOSS!"

He also made it his life’s mission to bulk her up.

“You’re too tiny,” he declared, handing her a protein shake. “We’re gonna fix that.”

“I’m literally fine,” Iseul protested, staring at the shake like it had personally wronged her.

“Nope,” he said, flexing. “I’m training you. We start tomorrow.”

“You can’t just decide that!”

“TOO LATE!”

Despite all his bluster, Changbin never pushed her too far. When she looked like she might break, he switched tactics, cracking jokes and messing around until she laughed again.

In contrast, Minho was relatively calmer. He slipped into the role of quiet protector, never outright fussing over her like Chan, but he always noticed things.

When she forgot her hoodie? Minho casually tossed his at her. When she spaced out during dance practice? He corrected her position without a word, his hand light on her shoulder.

And when she fell asleep on the couch, he turned the practice room lights down low and shushed the boys like a strict schoolteacher.

He’d just shrug whenever Iseul tried to thank him.

"Don’t get used to it," he’d say. "I charge for emotional labor."

Chan, of course, hovered like a worried dad.

He micromanaged her water breaks, made sure she took vitamins, and occasionally checked her temperature with the back of his hand like she was a toddler.

At first, Iseul found it overwhelming. But after a while, it just felt... nice.

Comfortable.

Bit by bit, they were starting to feel like home.

Even Hyunjin.

He didn’t cling to her like Han or scream compliments like Changbin. But he noticed her.

He handed her extra towels after practice without a word. He lingered next to her in vocal lessons, subtly harmonizing so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed when she messed up.

And he watched her.

He hated how natural her friendship with Han was, how easily she teased him and laughed.

He hated the guilt that festered every time she smiled, remembering the way she’d walked through the rain with tears on her face.

And he hated the ugly, unfamiliar feeling twisting in his chest when she smiled at someone else.

But mostly, he hated that he might never be able to fix the mess he’d made.

Not when he’d already ruined it.

The practice room smelled like sweat and exhaustion. The air conditioning hummed faintly in the background, barely making a dent in the heat radiating off nine overworked bodies.

Chan wiped his face with his shirt, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “Okay,” he panted, voice hoarse. “One more run-through and then we’ll—”

The door creaked open, and their manager poked his head inside. “Chan, can we talk for a sec?”

The boys collapsed onto the floor like puppets with cut strings, taking the interruption as a gift from the heavens. Felix lay flat on his back, limbs sprawled out like a starfish. “Tell him we need a two-hour break,” he groaned.

Chan gave a tired chuckle, tossing his towel aside before following the manager out into the hallway.

Iseul flopped onto the floor, her lungs burning, legs twitching with leftover adrenaline. She pressed her cheek against the cold, scuffed wood, trying to leech the heat from her body.

“I’m dying,” Han wheezed, sprawled next to her like a crime scene outline. “Tell my family I fought bravely.”

“You tripped on your own foot and face-planted,” Seungmin said, not even looking up from his phone.

“I fought bravely,” Han repeated, unbothered.

Jeongin, who had curled up in the corner like a traumatized kitten, peeked out from under his hoodie. “This comeback is spectacularly painful.”

“You know what’s painful?” Changbin groaned, rubbing his thigh. “My everything. Even my soul hurts.”

Iseul blinked blearily at the ceiling, limbs screaming in protest every time she so much as twitched. “We’ve been at this for five hours,” she muttered, voice scratchy.

Felix, still starfished on the floor, raised a trembling hand. “We should order pizza. As a reward. For surviving.”

“We haven’t survived yet,” Minho pointed out, sitting against the mirror, eyes half-lidded. “Chan’s gonna make us run it again.”

Hyunjin, still catching his breath, ripped his headband off and tossed it across the room. “I swear to God, if I hear the intro beat one more time, I’m quitting the industry.”

They all knew it was a lie.

But nobody called him out on it.

Iseul let her eyes slip shut, the ache in her body dulling into something almost comforting. The pain reminded her she was trying. That she was still in the fight.

A soft sigh escaped her lips. The tension of the last few weeks — the awkward distance, the strained silences — had loosened, bit by bit. She wasn’t exactly close to everyone yet, but the boys didn’t flinch away from her anymore. They didn’t ignore her.

And that was enough.

The door creaked open again, and Chan walked back in, rubbing his neck with a strange, conflicted look on his face.

Everyone immediately sat up.

“What happened?” Minho asked, eyes sharp.

“Did they push the comeback date?” Felix gasped, panic lacing his voice.

Chan raised a hand, cutting through the noise. “Calm down,” he said, though he didn’t look particularly calm himself. “It’s… nothing like that. It’s just—” He hesitated, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Iseul’s moving into the dorm next week.”

For a second, no one reacted. The words hung in the air, heavy and unnatural, as if they couldn’t quite process what they’d just heard.

Then the room exploded.

“WHAT?!” Jeongin screeched, clutching his chest like he was about to have a heart attack.

“I’m WHAT?!” Iseul echoed, choking on her own spit.

“You’re moving in with us?” Felix gasped, eyes shining. “Like, permanently? Like family?”

“Like family?” Hyunjin repeated, voice climbing in pitch.

“She’s a girl,” Changbin said, eyebrows furrowing like he was pointing out the most obvious flaw in the universe.

“Thank you, genius,” Seungmin muttered.

Iseul stood frozen in place, her entire body locking up like a statue. She blinked rapidly, as if her brain was short-circuiting.

“With... with you?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chan sighed, sitting down and rubbing his face. “The company thinks it’s better for team dynamics if you’re close. They want you to bond more, and coordinating practices is easier this way.”

“But we barely have enough space as it is!” Han flailed his arms, looking like he might combust on the spot. “Where is she even going to sleep? On the kitchen table?”

Felix, on the other hand, clutched Iseul’s hand with stars in his eyes. “We’ll have movie nights,” he said, dreamy. “And cook dinners together. And—”

“I haven’t even moved in yet!” Iseul yelped, trying to yank her hand back.

“Do we need to split bathroom schedules?” Changbin asked, suddenly serious. “Because I take my shampoo routine very seriously.”

“What if she hates our dorm?” Hyunjin snapped, pacing like a caged tiger. “What if she leaves because we’re awful?”

“What if she likes it?” Felix whispered, looking enchanted.

“What if she stays forever?” Minho muttered, already regretting every decision that led him here.

Iseul pressed her hands to her face, heart pounding.

She couldn’t breathe.

The boys argued like their lives depended on it, voices rising, limbs flailing, and all she could think about was her coach's sneering.

“You won’t last,” they’d said. “You never do.”

What if this broke her?

What if she broke them?

What if they changed their minds and decided she wasn’t worth the trouble?

She already felt like a burden, like an invader — this would make her presence impossible to ignore.

She couldn’t do this.

“I—I need to call my mom,” she stammered, bowing deeply before grabbing her bag and rushing out the door.

The boys watched her leave, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click.

The room stayed silent for a long moment.

“Do we have to clean more now?” Seungmin asked, finally breaking the quiet.

Chan groaned, collapsing onto his back like the weight of the world had physically crushed him. “I need a nap.”

Iseul sat cross-legged on her bed, her phone clutched tightly in her hands. The screen glowed against her face in the dim light of her room, illuminating the sheer panic in her eyes.

The room smelled like lavender and fabric softener, a painfully familiar scent that usually brought her comfort. But now, it just made the knot in her chest tighter.

What if her mom really said no?

What if she yelled?

What if she called the company and demanded Iseul pull out?

Her fingers curled around her sleeves, heart thudding against her ribs like a wild animal desperate to escape.

For a split second, she almost didn’t call.

Almost let the panic win.

But then she thought of the boys — of Felix grinning about movie nights, of Jeongin nervously twiddling his fingers, of Hyunjin pacing like a man about to face trial.

She unlocked her phone and dialed.

The call barely rang twice before her mom picked up.

“Baby?” her voice crackled through the phone. “You're home already? Do you need me to pick you up—”

“Eomma,” Iseul blurted, heart pounding. “I... I need to tell you something.”

Her mom fell silent.

Then, warily, “What happened?”

Iseul squeezed her eyes shut. “The company wants me to move into the dorm. With Stray Kids. So we can practice more efficiently.”

Dead silence.

Iseul counted every agonizing second.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Then her mom exploded.

“WITH THOSE GREMLINS?!”

Iseul flinched, almost dropping the phone.

“ARE THEY OUT OF THEIR MINDS?!”

“M-Mom, please don’t yell —”

“I AM NOT YELLING!”

Iseul pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at it like it had personally betrayed her.

“I don’t even know these boys!” her mom ranted. “What if they’re slobs? What if they don’t wash their dishes? Do they even know how to do laundry?! Are they even toilet-trained?!”

Iseul choked. “Mom, they’re not puppies —”

“They might as well be! Oh my god, are you the only girl? Who’s going to protect you? What if one of them snores?! What if one of them has athlete’s foot?!”

Iseul slammed her head into her pillow.

“Eomma, please,” she begged. “They’re not like that. They’re respectful! And nice! And mostly hygienic!”

Her mom gasped, horrified. “Mostly?!”

Iseul wanted the earth to swallow her whole. “I mean — they’re clean! I think? I haven’t, like, inspected their rooms or anything —”

“Oh my god, their rooms,” her mom groaned, like she was picturing a war zone. “Are they going to make you sleep in a closet? Do they even change their sheets?”

“I’m sure they do,” Iseul whispered, though her voice wobbled with doubt.

“I cannot believe this,” her mom muttered, pacing so hard Iseul could practically hear her footsteps through the phone. “I knew this idol thing was intense, but this is insane. Are they feeding you properly? Are you drinking enough water? Do I need to send vitamins?”

Iseul tugged her blanket over her head, voice muffled. “I’m fine, eomma.”

Her mom wasn’t listening. “And what about Chan? Does he know about this?”

Iseul almost laughed. “Mom, he’s the leader. He found out first.”

“Then why did he let this happen?! I'm going to call him.”

"Please don't," Iseul bit her lip. “I think he might be scared of you.”

Her mom paused. “Good,” she said, satisfied. “He should be.”

Iseul groaned, rolling onto her side. “Please don’t call the company,” she begged. “Or Chan. Or the boys. It’s already awkward enough.”

“I’m not calling anyone,” her mom said sweetly. Too sweetly. “I trust you, baby.”

Iseul hesitated. “...Okay?”

“Get some rest,” her mom cooed. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

And then she hung up. Just like that.

Iseul stared at the phone, her mind racing through every possible disaster scenario. She imagined her mom storming into the company, demanding to see JYP himself, or showing up at the dorm with a clipboard and a list of rules.

She groaned, flopping onto her back, pressing her palms against her burning face.

She was so screwed.

Her phone buzzed. A text.

It was from her mom.

“Does your dad know about this yet?”

Iseul nearly launched her phone across the room.

Her dad.

Her chaotic, unfiltered, overprotective dad.

The boys had already met her dad.

They’d played games, battled on DDR, and watched him roast them into oblivion at the diner like he’d been born to embarrass her.

The same dad who called Chan “son-in-law” just to watch him malfunction.

The same dad who fist-bumped Minho after they trash-talked each other for an hour over a punching game.

The same dad who, after learning she was moving in with the boys, would absolutely move into the dorm with her out of sheer spite.

Iseul clutched her pillow to her chest, rocking back and forth like she was trying to keep herself from exploding.

Her mom would kill them.

Her dad would adopt them.

She was living in a nightmare.

The practice room buzzed with exhaustion. The speakers blared the same section of choreography on repeat as Iseul counted steps in her head, sweat dripping down her back. Her muscles screamed, and her lungs burned, but she pushed through, biting her lip to keep herself from gasping out loud.

Chan clapped his hands, stopping the music. “Let’s take five,” he said, wiping his face with his shirt.

Iseul practically collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving. Felix slid down next to her, tossing her a water bottle.

“You’re improving,” he said, smiling. “It’s getting cleaner.”

“Thanks,” Iseul whispered, taking a small sip of water. She didn’t trust herself not to throw up if she drank too much.

Iseul practically collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving. Felix slid down next to her, tossing her a water bottle.

“You’re improving,” he said, smiling. “It’s getting cleaner.”

“Thanks,” Iseul whispered, taking a small sip of water. She didn’t trust herself not to throw up if she drank too much.

Across the room, Hyunjin was sprawled out on the floor like a corpse, his arms spread wide. “This is how I die,” he announced dramatically. “Tell my parents I loved them.”

“Tell your parents you need better stamina,” Seungmin shot back.

Han flopped down next to them, draping himself over Hyunjin’s stomach. “Bury me with my lyric book.”

“I’ll burn it,” Changbin muttered.

Iseul rolled her eyes at their dramatic antics but a small smile tug on the corner of her lips. But just as Iseul started to think the day might end without catastrophe, the practice room door flew open with enough force to rattle the mirrors.

“Where is he?”

Iseul’s soul left her body.

Her mom stood in the doorway, hands on her hips like she was ready to fight. The manager trailed behind her, looking like he aged twenty years in the span of five minutes.

“I tried to stop her,” he wheezed.

“Oh my God,” Iseul whispered, scrambling to her feet. “Eomma?!”

The boys froze.

Han’s eyes widened, mid-stretch, arms still overhead. Changbin lowered his phone, blinking like he couldn’t process what he was seeing. Felix audibly gulped, sliding away from Iseul like he wanted no part in whatever was about to happen.

Hyunjin, who had been lying flat on the floor, rolled under the nearest bench like a cockroach.

Seungmin went perfectly still, like a deer in headlights.

Jeongin, the poor baby, just dropped his water bottle. It clattered against the floor, the sound deafening in the heavy silence.

And Chan — sweet, overworked, already traumatized Chan — looked like he was about to pass out.

“Ma’am,” he croaked, bowing so fast he almost toppled over. “Good evening?”

Iseul’s mom marched in, eyes blazing, completely ignoring the fact that the entire group was on the verge of a collective breakdown.

She jabbed a finger at Chan like she was preparing for a verbal execution.

“Were you the one who called me that day because Iseul was running a fever?” Chan glanced at the manager for help, but the man was on the verge of tears himself.

Chan swallowed, looking like he was facing a firing squad. “Um... yes, ma’am?”

Her mom’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Did you touch her?”

The room froze.

Han audibly gasped, slapping a hand over his mouth like he was watching a live crime scene. Hyunjin, still half under the bench, crawled back into hiding.

“W-WHAT?!” Chan sputtered, his face burning a violent shade of red. “N-no! I just gave her medicine and — and a blanket — I swear!”

Iseul nearly choked on her own spit. “Eomma, stop!” she cried, feeling her soul detach from her body.

Her mom tilted her head. “Did you check her temperature?”

“WITH A THERMOMETER!” Chan practically screamed, looking two seconds away from a nervous breakdown.

Her mom hummed, unimpressed. “Good,” she muttered, poking his chest with her finger like she was testing the durability of a brick wall. “If you ever cross a line, I will personally break every bone in your body. Understood?”

Chan nodded so fast he looked like a bobblehead. “Y-yes, ma’am!”

“Now tell me why you look like you haven’t slept since the Stone Age.”

Hyunjin let out a strangled noise that might have been a laugh or a sob.

“Are you eating properly?” she pressed, eyeing Chan’s shirt clinging to him like it was holding on for dear life. “Or do you just live off caffeine and regret?”

“I—” Chan started, visibly short-circuiting.

“Eomma, please,” Iseul begged, her soul actively trying to leave her body.

Her mom ignored her, pivoting to Felix like a predator finding its next meal.

“And you. Why are you so pale? Do they keep you in a basement?”

Felix, panicking, bowed so fast he almost headbutted his knees. “I—I’m Australian!”

Her mom’s eyes widened. “You left Australia for this?!”

Felix audibly choked.

Next, she turned to Jeongin, who visibly shrank like a terrified puppy. “And you’re the maknae?”

Jeongin nodded, eyes wide and glassy.

Her mom’s face softened instantly. “Oh, you’re adorable,” she cooed, cupping his cheeks. “Do you eat well? Are they feeding you? Do you need snacks?”

Jeongin’s lip wobbled, this time from pure emotion.

“You look like you cry when your ramen overcooks,” she added, smoothing down his hair. “It’s okay, baby. I cry over food too.”

Jeongin nodded solemnly, looking like he’d just met his guardian angel.

Iseul physically grabbed her mom’s arm. “PLEASE, I AM BEGGING YOU.”

But she was already moving on.

Her gaze landed on Lee Know. “You. What’s your name?”

Lee Know, who’d been stone-faced and unbothered until now, adjusted his shirt. “Minho.”

Her mom tilted her head, eyes gleaming like a hawk spotting prey. “You look like the type to judge people’s dancing in the supermarket.”

Minho’s smirk faltered. He cleared his throat, adjusting his posture. “...Maybe?”

Her mom stepped closer. “Are you the one driving my daughter around?”

Minho, for the first time in his life, actually looked nervous. “...Yes?”

Her mom leaned in, voice dropping dangerously low. “Do you use turn signals?”

Minho swallowed hard. “Every time.”

“Good,” she said, patting his cheek like a mafia boss granting mercy. “Because if you crash with my daughter in the car, I’ll bury your body myself.”

Minho nodded, visibly stiff. “Understood.”

Then her eyes snapped to Han.

“And you. What do you do?”

“I rap,” Han said cautiously.

Her mom hummed, looking him up and down like he was a failed science experiment. “You look like the type of guy who gets rejected by every noona he flirts with.”

Han’s jaw dropped. “Wha— I —”

She raised a hand, cutting him off like a judge delivering a final verdict. “Stay. Away. From my daughter.”

Han clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “I— I wasn’t even —”

“Away.”

Han turned to Chan in despair. “Hyung, help me!”

Chan, who looked like he was barely clinging to life himself, just shook his head. “You’re on your own.”

Felix fell to the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed. Hyunjin was full-on crying, face buried in Changbin’s shoulder.

“Eomma, PLEASE,” Iseul whimpered, trying to physically drag her mom toward the exit.

Then her gaze snapped to Hyunjin, who froze like a deer caught in headlights.

“And you,” she said, voice dripping with judgment. “Why do you look like a prince from a fantasy novel who failed his kingdom?”

Hyunjin audibly gasped. “FAILED?!”

Her mom nodded. “Failed,” she repeated mercilessly. “Probably because you were too busy looking at yourself in the mirror.”

Hyunjin clutched his chest, collapsing onto the bench like he’d been physically wounded.

Then she turned to Seungmin, who tried (and failed) to disappear behind Han.

“You look like the type who secretly insults people under his breath and then plays innocent,” she said, squinting at him.

Seungmin, completely caught, cleared his throat. “I— I don’t do that,” he lied, voice cracking.

Her mom just snorted. “Sure you don’t, sweetheart.”

Finally, she turned to Changbin, who had been blending into the wall like camouflage.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your name?”

“Changbin,” he said carefully.

Her mom squinted harder. “Is your chin... sharper than your lyrics?”

Changbin’s mouth fell open in utter betrayal. “MY WHAT?!”

“Looks like it could cut glass,” she muttered. “Or maybe your self-esteem.”

Felix straight-up collapsed.

“Eomma,” Iseul hissed, horrified beyond belief. “Why are you even here?!”

Her mom finally turned to her, placing her hands on her hips. “Because you decided to move into a dorm with eight boys without telling me, and I needed to see if I should report them to the authorities!”

Hyunjin choked on his water. “Authorities?!”

“It’s not like that!” Iseul wailed.

Her mom waved her off, turning back to Chan. “How are you going to make sure my daughter doesn’t get harassed?”

Chan, who looked like he’d aged twenty years since this conversation started, rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ll set rules,” he said carefully. “Boundaries. We’ll treat her like family.”

Her mom narrowed her eyes, looking Chan up and down like she was evaluating his entire soul. “And you?” she asked, pointing at him like an accusation. “Are you trustworthy?”

Chan stood up straighter. “Yes, ma’am,” he said without hesitation. “I would never let anything happen to Iseul.”

Iseul wanted the ground to eat her alive.

Her mom hummed, still skeptical, before glancing around the room. “And what about the rest of you?” she asked, scanning the boys like a predator.

Felix bowed so fast his hair flopped forward. “I’ll treat her like my sister!”

Jeongin nodded furiously. “Me too!”

“I’ll cook separate meals for her,” Lee Know blurted, like that was somehow a helpful promise.

Hyunjin just stared, too shell-shocked to speak.

Seungmin cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean... we’re not monsters,” he muttered. “We’ll behave.”

Changbin finally stepped forward, bowing. “Iseul works hard,” he said. “We respect that. We’ll respect her, too.”

Her mom stared him down for a full minute.

Then, finally, she nodded. “Fine. But if anything happens to her, I will show up with a baseball bat and start swinging until I see God.”

Hyunjin quietly stepped behind Changbin like he was seeking shelter.

“Understood,” Chan said, bowing so deeply it looked like a plea for mercy.

Her mom dusted off her hands. “Good talk,” she said, turning to leave. “And Iseul?”

Iseul, visibly shaking, straightened. “Yes?”

“Eat more,” her mom called out over her shoulder. “Your legs are thinner than my patience.”

The door slammed shut behind her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Felix was on the floor, crying with laughter. Seungmin had collapsed onto Han’s shoulder, gasping. Lee Know actually looked like he needed to pray.

Jeongin, clutching his heart, whispered, “She called me adorable.”

“I feel spiritually attacked,” Changbin muttered.

“I feel like I need therapy,” Hyunjin added.

“I feel like we should invite her to dinner,” Han snickered, wiping tears from his eyes.

Chan just sank onto the floor, head in his hands. “I need a two-hour nap and five years of peace.”

Iseul, mortified beyond repair, clutched her face. “I’m moving to the mountains,” she croaked. “I’m never coming back.”

TAGLIST: @leewritesstuff, @athens-09xx, @allenajade-ite, @idjdndjzbsdm, @idjdndjzbsdm, @hyuneskkam, @geni-627, @valkirymin, @miminbin

STORY HINT: POV Hwang Hyunjin malfunctioning when he realises Iseul is gonna stay with them:

Chaotic parents are my roman empire because I can actually relate LMFAO. Anywhoo I'm sorry if this chapter doesn't deliver because it's 4 in the morning here and I think I'm running a fever, so I just wanted to get this over with. Comments and likes helps a ton! Stay safe!! ~Candy