xuchiya

[xuchiya]

"the bare minimum" is actually based on a true story and experience ... it's my story and experience

[xuchiya]

the bare minimum? || choi jongho || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. | mentions: no label yet but jongho is making it official soon.

word count: 3.9k

You tossed your phone onto the bed — harder than you intended — the dull thud swallowed by your pillows, but not enough to silence the frustration blooming in your chest. The group chat, once filled with light gossip and memes, had taken a sharp turn. It always did. One moment you were laughing about someone’s new haircut, and the next, it was unsolicited advice cloaked in concern.

"You don’t fall for someone because of their bare minimum."

The words stuck to your skin like sweat — irritating, impossible to ignore. You could still hear your friend’s voice, sharp and sure, echoing like an uninvited narrator in the background of your thoughts. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were just trying to protect you from another heartbreak, another almost-relationship with someone who gave just enough to keep you around.

You dropped onto your bed with a quiet thud, limbs heavy, head even heavier. The ceiling above you blurred slightly as your eyes stared past it, unfocused, as if hoping it might offer answers the world refused to give.

Your fist rested lightly on your chest — not clenched in anger, but curled in quiet hesitation, like your heart was trying to protect itself from breaking open again. You could still hear their voices. Friends who had seen you unravel before, who had picked you up when your heart had turned into a battlefield of “what ifs” and “should’ve known betters.”

"You always love too hard. You give too much."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you were walking straight into the same fire that burned you before. The memory of that past version of yourself — raw, fragile, sleepless — made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to go back to her. You weren’t sure you could survive her again.

You exhaled slowly, then turned your head to the side, not expecting much — just something to distract you from the chaos inside. That’s when you saw it.

A photo strip, slightly bent at the corner, tucked beneath the edge of your journal. Four small squares — moments frozen in time — each frame capturing pieces of something you didn’t quite have the courage to name yet.

It was from that afternoon at the mall. You’d passed by a photo booth and without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward it, “Come on,” you had grinned, heart racing. “We’ve got time for four clicks.”

The first was a blur — you both weren’t ready, caught mid-laugh. The second, he leaned in closer, eyes soft, almost too soft. The third, you were the one looking at him instead of the camera. And the fourth was the one that stuck. His hand resting over yours, your shoulders touching, your heads on top of each other as you both smile as the camera flashes, faces calm like the world could end and you wouldn’t notice.

You reached for the photo strip now, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. The quiet warmth of that moment crept into your chest like light seeping through cracks. Maybe you had loved too hard before but Choi Jongho made it feel different. He made things more soft. Safe and real.

And maybe — just maybe — this time, it wouldn’t end the same. 

Because Jongho

He was not the bare minimum. Jongho didn’t just show up. He stayed — in silence, in mess, in moments when it would’ve been easier to walk away. So no… maybe you shouldn’t fall for someone who only gives you crumbs.

But Jongho? He was the whole damn bakery.

Like that when it always starts with something small. Just small things. Quiet, almost forgettable to anyone else — but to you, they mean the world.

i

You’ve always been the one to fall asleep first. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Two hours before Jongho’s usual bedtime, your eyes would start to flutter shut mid-conversation, your words slow into sleepy mumbles before trailing off entirely. You’d curl up into your blanket like muscle memory, drifting off before the clock even struck midnight.

And Jongho never minded.

Not once.

While your breathing settled into a soft, rhythmic pattern across the call — or when he saw your "last seen" flicker away for the night — he’d simply plug in his charger, shift his weight on the bed, and settle into his own quiet time. Sometimes he worked on homework. Other times, he’d scroll endlessly through his phone — music playlists, dumb memes, chaotic group chats, random reels that made him laugh under his breath.

Then, like always, he'd come across something and think, "She'd like this." But he wouldn’t send the video right away. No. Jongho knew better than to let your phone buzz at 12:42 AM and risk waking you. He remembered the way you stirred the last time, half-conscious and confused, whispering “Huh? What’s going on?” with your hair a mess and voice thick with sleep when he came over to work on your project and you tend to take naps mid-way.

So instead, he did what he always did. He tapped ‘copy link’ then pasted it into messages. And added /silent before pressing send. Just a small detail. Just a tiny slash and a word most people would overlook. But it mattered — because you mattered. Because he cared enough to make sure your sleep stayed undisturbed. Because even when you weren’t awake to notice, he was still thinking of you.

Sometimes it would be three or four links in a row — a chaotic thread waiting for you like breadcrumbs in your inbox. Funny reels. A puppy wearing a costume. A scene from a show you once said you loved when you were twelve. No message. No “LOL” or “this reminded me of you.

Then you wake up, check Messenger first thing in the morning, scroll with tangled hair and bleary eyes, your thumb pausing on the softness of his words. And even before a smile reaches your lips, the warmth hits your chest. A whisper escapes. A soft, disbelieving question, like a prayer only meant for yourself.

A feature most people don’t bother with. But he does. Every single time.

Because he knows. Knows you’re a light sleeper. Know the way your body tenses even in your dreams when your phone buzzes at night. Knows how sacred your sleep is after long days that drain you from the inside out. So he never sends messages with noise. No pings. No vibrations. Just… silence.

And still — even at 3:02 AM — when his mind is wandering, when the world outside is asleep but his thoughts are too loud to silence, he writes.

About music. About the stars. About you.

Short, half-formed sentences. Late-night ramblings about his day or a song that reminded him of you. Thoughts that probably made more sense in his head than they do on the screen. But they’re there. Waiting. Gentle, sleepy words sitting quietly in your inbox like petals placed on your doorstep — fragile, deliberate, sincere.

ii

Then there’s movie night.

Which, with Jongho, is never just movie night.

It’s Discord screen shares and careful audio checks. It’s him adjusting his mic again and again until your voice—already muffled by the layers of your blanket—says, “It’s okay, I can hear you,” even though the connection crackles every now and then.

You weren’t in the mood to go out. Not just today — but most days. Your body was still shaking off the last traces of a stubborn fever, skin too sensitive, eyes too heavy. And even if the sickness hadn’t kept you in, the world outside still felt too loud, too uncertain, too much.

You were never really the type to seek noise or crowds anyway. Your soul was quieter, more private. You liked your room — the way the walls curled around you like a soft shell, familiar and safe. That space had become your theater, your whole damn planet on the days where even the hallway outside your door felt overwhelming.

It was in the way he queued up movies you mentioned once during your lunch break when you were scrolling on your phone and would show him some clips of the movie you wanted to see, or the way he synced subtitles just right so your reading pace could keep up. It was in how he'd listen for your yawns — the sleepy kind, where your responses turn into soft hums and you forget the plot entirely — but he never teased. Never say “you’re boring” or “you always fall asleep halfway.” 

Instead, he’d smile to himself, watching the tiny green light on Discord flicker less and less as your voice faded away. When he was sure you were asleep, he would slowly slide the volume bar down to zero, like dimming the last light in a room you’d just left behind. The scene might still be playing — dialogue, explosions, laughter — but you were already somewhere in your dreams. And then, in the soft glow of his monitor, Jongho would mute his mic.

You don’t know this. You don’t hear the chair creak as he leans back, or the way he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. You don’t see the subtle clicks as he adjusts the Discord channel permissions — limiting who can join, just in case someone stumbles in and shatters the quiet he’s carefully protected around you.

You fall asleep thinking you drifted off during a movie. But really, you fell asleep in a space Jongho built — gently, intentionally, like tucking someone in without ever touching them. A space made of low volumes, hushed breaths, and unspoken devotion.

You sleep in silence. Not realizing just how much love went into making it that way.

iii

Or when days weren’t filled with softness, you and Jongho had snapped at each other over nothing and everything—too-little sleep, too-many worries, a single text read the wrong way. The fight had been quick and messy, like dropping glass– sharp words scattering across the floor, impossible to sweep up without cutting yourselves.

So you’d gone quiet, convinced a little distance would soothe the sting.

The sun had long since set when the knock came—three hesitant taps that rattled through the hallway. You froze on your steps, frowning in confusion. You padded to the door in mismatched socks, glancing up at the wall clock, heart pounding worse than it had during the argument, I mean who knocks at 8:47 p.m. in this neighborhood?

You cracked the door—and time stuttered.

Jongho stood on the mat, chest rising in ragged pulls, summer sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. His T-shirt clung to him, half from the humid night, half from the frantic back-and-forth he’d just confessed to.

“I—uh—think I looped your street… twice.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt out of place. “Can you remind me which house is yours?”

You blinked. “Why are you here?” The question slipped out, small and startled. He stared at his own shoes, scuffing one against the concrete. “To say sorry,” he murmured. “Text felt… too easy. Too small for how badly I messed up.”

The porch light buzzed overhead; a moth circled lazily between you. In that glow you noticed the smudges of city grit on his sneakers, the faint tremor in his hands where adrenaline still rattled his bones. Your heart cracked open—clean, sudden—like a mug slipping from the counter and shattering the silence of the kitchen tiles. All at once you pictured him missing the correct turn, doubling back under flickering street lamps, stubbornly refusing to give up because ‘I’m sorry’ deserved eye contact, not pixels.

Who does that? Jongho apparently. Someone who refuses to let mis-fired anger be the last thing hanging between you. Someone who thinks an apology should travel the same distance the hurt did—maybe farther. Someone who, even lost, chose to keep walking toward you.

You stepped aside without a word, letting the porch light spill into the hallway, “Come in,” you whispered, voice cracking like the rest of you. And as he crossed the threshold—sweat, nerves, and all—you realized getting lost might have been the surest way for both of you to find your way back.

iv

And you couldn’t forget that moment where you were in the zone — or at least, trying to be.

Hands busy, screens glowing, a half-empty mug of cold coffee pushed to the side of your cluttered desk. Notes scattered like fallen leaves. The air was thick with unspoken pressure — from deadlines, from expectations, from the loud, echoing voice inside your own head that wouldn’t shut up until everything was perfect.

You barely noticed how still the room was. Just the quiet hum of your laptop fan and the occasional clack of your keyboard breaking the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your jaw tense, your fingers flying — until they stopped.

Because your stupid, stubborn hair had slipped loose again. You’d tied it up in a quick bun hours ago, but now, strands had come free and were sticking to your cheeks, brushing across your forehead, falling right into your eyes every time you try to focus. You pushed it back once, then again, more impatient each time.

A sharp breath escaped your nose. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even make a sound loud enough to complain — just a little annoyed huff and a flick of your fingers, trying to twist the strands behind your ear. But it didn’t stay.

Jongho lowered his phone on his lap, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to your bed. Jongho had been there the whole time, on your bed watching you spiral in slow motion. You hadn’t even realized he was still there, honestly — he was so good at just being, without taking up space. Not in a way that begged attention. He never did. His gaze kept drifting back to you — to the way your shoulders rose with every exhale, to the faint frown etched into your forehead, to the way you huffed, frustrated, as strands of your hair fell again.

So when he moved, you barely caught it. No words. No teasing. Just the subtle shift of the mattress, the creak of floorboards, and his footsteps approaching — soft, unhurried.

You felt him before you saw him. He stood behind you, and in that still moment, the world seemed to pause. Not in an awkward way — but in the way it always does when someone does something gentle for you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t question it. You just let it happen.

And then — his hands.

Fingertips brush across your neck as they gather your hair, removing the non existing messy bun on top of your head. Slow. Careful. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times before — like your hair had a rhythm he’d memorized. There was no tug, no tension. Just the warmth of his palms and the deliberate sweep of fingers, smoothing down flyaways like they were delicate petals.

He pulled your hair into a low ponytail, tying it off with the scrunchie from his own wrist — one he always kept there, whether he admitted it was for you or not. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. But it was secure. It fits. It was exactly what you needed — even if you hadn’t asked.

Your breath hitched slightly when his fingers lingered for just a second too long. The tie settled at the nape of your neck — light, comforting. But it felt heavier somehow. Like it carried meaning, “Your hair always distracts you when you’re trying to focus,” he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. Soft. Almost sheepish. “Thought I’d save you from it this time.”

You didn’t turn around. Because at that moment, everything in your chest unclenched. All the noise in your head quieted, like a radio fading into static. The tension in your shoulders eased. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until he stepped in.

And it wasn’t just about the ponytail. It never was. It was about the way he paid attention. The way he remembered. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t make a scene — just helped. It was in the silence. In the space he made around you without ever asking for space himself. And somehow … somehow his hands on your hair felt more like home than your own ever did.

You took a slow breath, exhaled, and returned to your work — not because the pressure had vanished, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And as you sat there, posture a little more relaxed, focus finally returning, you smiled to yourself.

You sighed, long and tired, the kind that left your chest feeling a little lighter and a little emptier all at once. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your night lamp, and the ceiling above you stared back in silence — like it was holding your thoughts for you, just for a moment longer.

You weren’t even sure why your heart felt like this — full, but aching. Like you were overwhelmed by something too soft to name. Your chest heaves in a deep inhale before another sigh escapes.

“What got you so worked up that you sigh like you have fifteen unfinished projects and three babies to feed?” You yelped — actually yelped — twisting to the side, heart skipping like a scratched record. There, leaning casually against your bedroom door frame, was Jongho.

Arms crossed. One brow raised. The corners of his lips quirked in that boyish way that meant he was trying not to laugh at your startled reaction. His hair was slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and his whole presence felt warm — like a late-night tea you didn’t know you needed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, pulling your blanket up like it could shield your flustered expression.  “Long enough to watch you battle the air with that dramatic sigh,” he teased, pushing off the door and strolling toward your bed. You opened your mouth to deflect, but nothing clever came out. Just a small huff as you turned to face the ceiling again, blinking fast, hoping the blush on your face wasn’t obvious under the lamplight.

Instead, Jongho sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to pull you out of your cocoon. His fingers brushed lightly against your ankle through the blanket — grounding, patient.

“You okay?” he asked, this time quieter. And you nodded, then whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Just remembering things.”

“Good things?” he asked again, his voice low now, more careful — like he was stepping into a space inside you he didn’t want to rush. You nodded against your pillow. “Too good.” There was silence then. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still. Full of air that felt too thick with things left unsaid, and yet, somehow, safe.

Jongho’s hand brushed over your blanket again. This time slower. His thumb pressed gently into the edge, grounding himself there, “Guess I’ll just have to keep making more of them, huh?” he murmured with a small, hopeful smile.

Your chest ached — the kind of ache that feels like warmth stretching. You glanced at him, eyes catching the light of the lamp. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” you whispered. “The silent messages, the scrunchies, movie nights, showing up when you didn’t have to. You’ve been... making memories for me.”

Jongho’s mouth opened, then closed. Like the truth had been sitting on his tongue this whole time but he wasn’t sure if now was the moment. But something in your voice, your eyes, must’ve made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I have.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like puzzle pieces falling into place. He exhaled, fingers now tugging lightly at the edge of your blanket, a nervous habit. “And I think… maybe I don’t want to keep doing all of that as just a friend.”

Your heart stumbled. “Jongho…”

“I mean,” he laughed gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I think I passed the ‘just a friend’ stage back when I started carrying backup scrunchies for you.”

You could feel your heartbeat in places you hadn’t noticed until now — your fingertips, the hollow of your throat, deep in your stomach. It was the way Jongho said it. Quietly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t just asking a question — he was handing you something fragile. Something real.

“Can I… make it official?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it cracked the air between you like a soft truth being unfolded. He was still seated on the edge of your bed, one leg turned toward you, but not pressing. Always waiting. Always gentle. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for clarity — for a sign that you felt it too. That all the small things he did hadn’t gone unnoticed. That he hadn’t just been loving you in silence.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest too full to speak.

He looked nervous. Not because he was scared you’d say no — but because he wanted this to mean something. All of it. The /silent links he sent at 2 a.m. because he didn’t want to wake you. The way he tied your hair without a second thought because he knew how it distracted you. The scrunchies on his wrist. The muted screen shares. The apology he walked in circles just to give you in person.

He’d been writing a love story in the margins — and now he was finally turning the page to show you.

You sat up slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The cool air kissed your skin, but all you could feel was the warmth of him — of his words, his presence, his intention, “Jongho…” you said his name like a secret, like something precious you didn’t want to drop.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, voice tighter now. “I know the timing isn’t perfect or — or maybe I should’ve asked sooner, but I just—”

You reached for his hand. Instinctively. Like it was the next natural step. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. He’d been nervous the whole time.

“You already were,” you said quietly, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of your voice. “You’ve already been mine. You were just… waiting for me to catch up.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t need to say more. That one sentence carried everything — your knowing, your feelings, your realization that all this time you weren’t just falling for Jongho — you were already in it. Fully. Deeply. Unknowingly wrapped in the love he’d been giving you in ways no one else had.

A laugh slipped out of him — not mocking, but light, airy, like he finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long, “So…” he said, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “Do I get the whole package now?”

You smiled, laughing softly even— slow, genuine. The kind that crept up from your chest, not just your lips.

“You do.” Something in his face softened completely. Like his entire being melted — his shoulders relaxed, his lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile, and his eyes stayed locked on yours like you were the only thing that made sense anymore.

And then, he did something simple.

He brought your joined hands up and pressed his lips against your knuckles — just once. Not possessive. Not dramatic.

"How can anyone say this is the bare minimum?" Not a single thing that is close to being bare minimum. Because it really isn’t in the first place.

It’s love, tucked into silence. It’s choosing you — even in the quietest hours.

[xuchiya]

the bare minimum? || choi jongho || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. | mentions: no label yet but jongho is making it official soon.

word count: 3.9k

You tossed your phone onto the bed — harder than you intended — the dull thud swallowed by your pillows, but not enough to silence the frustration blooming in your chest. The group chat, once filled with light gossip and memes, had taken a sharp turn. It always did. One moment you were laughing about someone’s new haircut, and the next, it was unsolicited advice cloaked in concern.

"You don’t fall for someone because of their bare minimum."

The words stuck to your skin like sweat — irritating, impossible to ignore. You could still hear your friend’s voice, sharp and sure, echoing like an uninvited narrator in the background of your thoughts. Maybe they were right. Maybe they were just trying to protect you from another heartbreak, another almost-relationship with someone who gave just enough to keep you around.

You dropped onto your bed with a quiet thud, limbs heavy, head even heavier. The ceiling above you blurred slightly as your eyes stared past it, unfocused, as if hoping it might offer answers the world refused to give.

Your fist rested lightly on your chest — not clenched in anger, but curled in quiet hesitation, like your heart was trying to protect itself from breaking open again. You could still hear their voices. Friends who had seen you unravel before, who had picked you up when your heart had turned into a battlefield of “what ifs” and “should’ve known betters.”

"You always love too hard. You give too much."

Maybe they were right. Maybe you were walking straight into the same fire that burned you before. The memory of that past version of yourself — raw, fragile, sleepless — made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to go back to her. You weren’t sure you could survive her again.

You exhaled slowly, then turned your head to the side, not expecting much — just something to distract you from the chaos inside. That’s when you saw it.

A photo strip, slightly bent at the corner, tucked beneath the edge of your journal. Four small squares — moments frozen in time — each frame capturing pieces of something you didn’t quite have the courage to name yet.

It was from that afternoon at the mall. You’d passed by a photo booth and without hesitation, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward it, “Come on,” you had grinned, heart racing. “We’ve got time for four clicks.”

The first was a blur — you both weren’t ready, caught mid-laugh. The second, he leaned in closer, eyes soft, almost too soft. The third, you were the one looking at him instead of the camera. And the fourth was the one that stuck. His hand resting over yours, your shoulders touching, your heads on top of each other as you both smile as the camera flashes, faces calm like the world could end and you wouldn’t notice.

You reached for the photo strip now, fingers brushing over the glossy surface. The quiet warmth of that moment crept into your chest like light seeping through cracks. Maybe you had loved too hard before but Choi Jongho made it feel different. He made things more soft. Safe and real.

And maybe — just maybe — this time, it wouldn’t end the same. 

Because Jongho

He was not the bare minimum. Jongho didn’t just show up. He stayed — in silence, in mess, in moments when it would’ve been easier to walk away. So no… maybe you shouldn’t fall for someone who only gives you crumbs.

But Jongho? He was the whole damn bakery.

Like that when it always starts with something small. Just small things. Quiet, almost forgettable to anyone else — but to you, they mean the world.

i

You’ve always been the one to fall asleep first. It wasn’t even a question anymore. Two hours before Jongho’s usual bedtime, your eyes would start to flutter shut mid-conversation, your words slow into sleepy mumbles before trailing off entirely. You’d curl up into your blanket like muscle memory, drifting off before the clock even struck midnight.

And Jongho never minded.

Not once.

While your breathing settled into a soft, rhythmic pattern across the call — or when he saw your "last seen" flicker away for the night — he’d simply plug in his charger, shift his weight on the bed, and settle into his own quiet time. Sometimes he worked on homework. Other times, he’d scroll endlessly through his phone — music playlists, dumb memes, chaotic group chats, random reels that made him laugh under his breath.

Then, like always, he'd come across something and think, "She'd like this." But he wouldn’t send the video right away. No. Jongho knew better than to let your phone buzz at 12:42 AM and risk waking you. He remembered the way you stirred the last time, half-conscious and confused, whispering “Huh? What’s going on?” with your hair a mess and voice thick with sleep when he came over to work on your project and you tend to take naps mid-way.

So instead, he did what he always did. He tapped ‘copy link’ then pasted it into messages. And added /silent before pressing send. Just a small detail. Just a tiny slash and a word most people would overlook. But it mattered — because you mattered. Because he cared enough to make sure your sleep stayed undisturbed. Because even when you weren’t awake to notice, he was still thinking of you.

Sometimes it would be three or four links in a row — a chaotic thread waiting for you like breadcrumbs in your inbox. Funny reels. A puppy wearing a costume. A scene from a show you once said you loved when you were twelve. No message. No “LOL” or “this reminded me of you.

Then you wake up, check Messenger first thing in the morning, scroll with tangled hair and bleary eyes, your thumb pausing on the softness of his words. And even before a smile reaches your lips, the warmth hits your chest. A whisper escapes. A soft, disbelieving question, like a prayer only meant for yourself.

A feature most people don’t bother with. But he does. Every single time.

Because he knows. Knows you’re a light sleeper. Know the way your body tenses even in your dreams when your phone buzzes at night. Knows how sacred your sleep is after long days that drain you from the inside out. So he never sends messages with noise. No pings. No vibrations. Just… silence.

And still — even at 3:02 AM — when his mind is wandering, when the world outside is asleep but his thoughts are too loud to silence, he writes.

About music. About the stars. About you.

Short, half-formed sentences. Late-night ramblings about his day or a song that reminded him of you. Thoughts that probably made more sense in his head than they do on the screen. But they’re there. Waiting. Gentle, sleepy words sitting quietly in your inbox like petals placed on your doorstep — fragile, deliberate, sincere.

ii

Then there’s movie night.

Which, with Jongho, is never just movie night.

It’s Discord screen shares and careful audio checks. It’s him adjusting his mic again and again until your voice—already muffled by the layers of your blanket—says, “It’s okay, I can hear you,” even though the connection crackles every now and then.

You weren’t in the mood to go out. Not just today — but most days. Your body was still shaking off the last traces of a stubborn fever, skin too sensitive, eyes too heavy. And even if the sickness hadn’t kept you in, the world outside still felt too loud, too uncertain, too much.

You were never really the type to seek noise or crowds anyway. Your soul was quieter, more private. You liked your room — the way the walls curled around you like a soft shell, familiar and safe. That space had become your theater, your whole damn planet on the days where even the hallway outside your door felt overwhelming.

It was in the way he queued up movies you mentioned once during your lunch break when you were scrolling on your phone and would show him some clips of the movie you wanted to see, or the way he synced subtitles just right so your reading pace could keep up. It was in how he'd listen for your yawns — the sleepy kind, where your responses turn into soft hums and you forget the plot entirely — but he never teased. Never say “you’re boring” or “you always fall asleep halfway.” 

Instead, he’d smile to himself, watching the tiny green light on Discord flicker less and less as your voice faded away. When he was sure you were asleep, he would slowly slide the volume bar down to zero, like dimming the last light in a room you’d just left behind. The scene might still be playing — dialogue, explosions, laughter — but you were already somewhere in your dreams. And then, in the soft glow of his monitor, Jongho would mute his mic.

You don’t know this. You don’t hear the chair creak as he leans back, or the way he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. You don’t see the subtle clicks as he adjusts the Discord channel permissions — limiting who can join, just in case someone stumbles in and shatters the quiet he’s carefully protected around you.

You fall asleep thinking you drifted off during a movie. But really, you fell asleep in a space Jongho built — gently, intentionally, like tucking someone in without ever touching them. A space made of low volumes, hushed breaths, and unspoken devotion.

You sleep in silence. Not realizing just how much love went into making it that way.

iii

Or when days weren’t filled with softness, you and Jongho had snapped at each other over nothing and everything—too-little sleep, too-many worries, a single text read the wrong way. The fight had been quick and messy, like dropping glass– sharp words scattering across the floor, impossible to sweep up without cutting yourselves.

So you’d gone quiet, convinced a little distance would soothe the sting.

The sun had long since set when the knock came—three hesitant taps that rattled through the hallway. You froze on your steps, frowning in confusion. You padded to the door in mismatched socks, glancing up at the wall clock, heart pounding worse than it had during the argument, I mean who knocks at 8:47 p.m. in this neighborhood?

You cracked the door—and time stuttered.

Jongho stood on the mat, chest rising in ragged pulls, summer sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead. His T-shirt clung to him, half from the humid night, half from the frantic back-and-forth he’d just confessed to.

“I—uh—think I looped your street… twice.” He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt out of place. “Can you remind me which house is yours?”

You blinked. “Why are you here?” The question slipped out, small and startled. He stared at his own shoes, scuffing one against the concrete. “To say sorry,” he murmured. “Text felt… too easy. Too small for how badly I messed up.”

The porch light buzzed overhead; a moth circled lazily between you. In that glow you noticed the smudges of city grit on his sneakers, the faint tremor in his hands where adrenaline still rattled his bones. Your heart cracked open—clean, sudden—like a mug slipping from the counter and shattering the silence of the kitchen tiles. All at once you pictured him missing the correct turn, doubling back under flickering street lamps, stubbornly refusing to give up because ‘I’m sorry’ deserved eye contact, not pixels.

Who does that? Jongho apparently. Someone who refuses to let mis-fired anger be the last thing hanging between you. Someone who thinks an apology should travel the same distance the hurt did—maybe farther. Someone who, even lost, chose to keep walking toward you.

You stepped aside without a word, letting the porch light spill into the hallway, “Come in,” you whispered, voice cracking like the rest of you. And as he crossed the threshold—sweat, nerves, and all—you realized getting lost might have been the surest way for both of you to find your way back.

iv

And you couldn’t forget that moment where you were in the zone — or at least, trying to be.

Hands busy, screens glowing, a half-empty mug of cold coffee pushed to the side of your cluttered desk. Notes scattered like fallen leaves. The air was thick with unspoken pressure — from deadlines, from expectations, from the loud, echoing voice inside your own head that wouldn’t shut up until everything was perfect.

You barely noticed how still the room was. Just the quiet hum of your laptop fan and the occasional clack of your keyboard breaking the silence. Your breathing was shallow, your jaw tense, your fingers flying — until they stopped.

Because your stupid, stubborn hair had slipped loose again. You’d tied it up in a quick bun hours ago, but now, strands had come free and were sticking to your cheeks, brushing across your forehead, falling right into your eyes every time you try to focus. You pushed it back once, then again, more impatient each time.

A sharp breath escaped your nose. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t even make a sound loud enough to complain — just a little annoyed huff and a flick of your fingers, trying to twist the strands behind your ear. But it didn’t stay.

Jongho lowered his phone on his lap, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to your bed. Jongho had been there the whole time, on your bed watching you spiral in slow motion. You hadn’t even realized he was still there, honestly — he was so good at just being, without taking up space. Not in a way that begged attention. He never did. His gaze kept drifting back to you — to the way your shoulders rose with every exhale, to the faint frown etched into your forehead, to the way you huffed, frustrated, as strands of your hair fell again.

So when he moved, you barely caught it. No words. No teasing. Just the subtle shift of the mattress, the creak of floorboards, and his footsteps approaching — soft, unhurried.

You felt him before you saw him. He stood behind you, and in that still moment, the world seemed to pause. Not in an awkward way — but in the way it always does when someone does something gentle for you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t question it. You just let it happen.

And then — his hands.

Fingertips brush across your neck as they gather your hair, removing the non existing messy bun on top of your head. Slow. Careful. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times before — like your hair had a rhythm he’d memorized. There was no tug, no tension. Just the warmth of his palms and the deliberate sweep of fingers, smoothing down flyaways like they were delicate petals.

He pulled your hair into a low ponytail, tying it off with the scrunchie from his own wrist — one he always kept there, whether he admitted it was for you or not. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t styled. But it was secure. It fits. It was exactly what you needed — even if you hadn’t asked.

Your breath hitched slightly when his fingers lingered for just a second too long. The tie settled at the nape of your neck — light, comforting. But it felt heavier somehow. Like it carried meaning, “Your hair always distracts you when you’re trying to focus,” he said finally, his voice just above a whisper. Soft. Almost sheepish. “Thought I’d save you from it this time.”

You didn’t turn around. Because at that moment, everything in your chest unclenched. All the noise in your head quieted, like a radio fading into static. The tension in your shoulders eased. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding yourself together until he stepped in.

And it wasn’t just about the ponytail. It never was. It was about the way he paid attention. The way he remembered. The way he didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t make a scene — just helped. It was in the silence. In the space he made around you without ever asking for space himself. And somehow … somehow his hands on your hair felt more like home than your own ever did.

You took a slow breath, exhaled, and returned to your work — not because the pressure had vanished, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And as you sat there, posture a little more relaxed, focus finally returning, you smiled to yourself.

You sighed, long and tired, the kind that left your chest feeling a little lighter and a little emptier all at once. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of your night lamp, and the ceiling above you stared back in silence — like it was holding your thoughts for you, just for a moment longer.

You weren’t even sure why your heart felt like this — full, but aching. Like you were overwhelmed by something too soft to name. Your chest heaves in a deep inhale before another sigh escapes.

“What got you so worked up that you sigh like you have fifteen unfinished projects and three babies to feed?” You yelped — actually yelped — twisting to the side, heart skipping like a scratched record. There, leaning casually against your bedroom door frame, was Jongho.

Arms crossed. One brow raised. The corners of his lips quirked in that boyish way that meant he was trying not to laugh at your startled reaction. His hair was slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, and his whole presence felt warm — like a late-night tea you didn’t know you needed.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked, pulling your blanket up like it could shield your flustered expression.  “Long enough to watch you battle the air with that dramatic sigh,” he teased, pushing off the door and strolling toward your bed. You opened your mouth to deflect, but nothing clever came out. Just a small huff as you turned to face the ceiling again, blinking fast, hoping the blush on your face wasn’t obvious under the lamplight.

Instead, Jongho sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to pull you out of your cocoon. His fingers brushed lightly against your ankle through the blanket — grounding, patient.

“You okay?” he asked, this time quieter. And you nodded, then whispered, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Just remembering things.”

“Good things?” he asked again, his voice low now, more careful — like he was stepping into a space inside you he didn’t want to rush. You nodded against your pillow. “Too good.” There was silence then. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… still. Full of air that felt too thick with things left unsaid, and yet, somehow, safe.

Jongho’s hand brushed over your blanket again. This time slower. His thumb pressed gently into the edge, grounding himself there, “Guess I’ll just have to keep making more of them, huh?” he murmured with a small, hopeful smile.

Your chest ached — the kind of ache that feels like warmth stretching. You glanced at him, eyes catching the light of the lamp. “Is that what you’ve been doing this whole time?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” you whispered. “The silent messages, the scrunchies, movie nights, showing up when you didn’t have to. You’ve been... making memories for me.”

Jongho’s mouth opened, then closed. Like the truth had been sitting on his tongue this whole time but he wasn’t sure if now was the moment. But something in your voice, your eyes, must’ve made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I have.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like puzzle pieces falling into place. He exhaled, fingers now tugging lightly at the edge of your blanket, a nervous habit. “And I think… maybe I don’t want to keep doing all of that as just a friend.”

Your heart stumbled. “Jongho…”

“I mean,” he laughed gently, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “I think I passed the ‘just a friend’ stage back when I started carrying backup scrunchies for you.”

You could feel your heartbeat in places you hadn’t noticed until now — your fingertips, the hollow of your throat, deep in your stomach. It was the way Jongho said it. Quietly. Carefully. Like he wasn’t just asking a question — he was handing you something fragile. Something real.

“Can I… make it official?” His voice was barely more than a breath, but it cracked the air between you like a soft truth being unfolded. He was still seated on the edge of your bed, one leg turned toward you, but not pressing. Always waiting. Always gentle. His eyes searched your face not for permission, but for clarity — for a sign that you felt it too. That all the small things he did hadn’t gone unnoticed. That he hadn’t just been loving you in silence.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest too full to speak.

He looked nervous. Not because he was scared you’d say no — but because he wanted this to mean something. All of it. The /silent links he sent at 2 a.m. because he didn’t want to wake you. The way he tied your hair without a second thought because he knew how it distracted you. The scrunchies on his wrist. The muted screen shares. The apology he walked in circles just to give you in person.

He’d been writing a love story in the margins — and now he was finally turning the page to show you.

You sat up slowly, blanket sliding off your shoulder. The cool air kissed your skin, but all you could feel was the warmth of him — of his words, his presence, his intention, “Jongho…” you said his name like a secret, like something precious you didn’t want to drop.

“I’m sorry,” he added quickly, voice tighter now. “I know the timing isn’t perfect or — or maybe I should’ve asked sooner, but I just—”

You reached for his hand. Instinctively. Like it was the next natural step. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. He’d been nervous the whole time.

“You already were,” you said quietly, watching the way his eyes flickered at the sound of your voice. “You’ve already been mine. You were just… waiting for me to catch up.”

His breath hitched. You didn’t need to say more. That one sentence carried everything — your knowing, your feelings, your realization that all this time you weren’t just falling for Jongho — you were already in it. Fully. Deeply. Unknowingly wrapped in the love he’d been giving you in ways no one else had.

A laugh slipped out of him — not mocking, but light, airy, like he finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long, “So…” he said, glancing down at your intertwined hands. “Do I get the whole package now?”

You smiled, laughing softly even— slow, genuine. The kind that crept up from your chest, not just your lips.

“You do.” Something in his face softened completely. Like his entire being melted — his shoulders relaxed, his lips curved into the smallest, most beautiful smile, and his eyes stayed locked on yours like you were the only thing that made sense anymore.

And then, he did something simple.

He brought your joined hands up and pressed his lips against your knuckles — just once. Not possessive. Not dramatic.

"How can anyone say this is the bare minimum?" Not a single thing that is close to being bare minimum. Because it really isn’t in the first place.

It’s love, tucked into silence. It’s choosing you — even in the quietest hours.

[xuchiya]

Ahhh my loves!! I just re-read this and I am in love!!!!! I wanted to be part of the taglist soon

UNDER THE BLACK MOON | ATEEZ

pairing : : mafia!ateez x fem!reader (individual)

genre : : fluff, angst, hurt-comfort, no smut! romance, stockholm syndrome (?) idk lmao

warnings : : graphic depiction of violence, blood-shed, torture, yk the usual mafia stuff

author's note : : a collection of ateez mafia au fanfics I will be writing :) inspired by mob mentality by @callmeagardengnome comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3

KIM HONG JOONG !

sweetheart ! [ mafia!hongjoong x pickpocket!reader ]

synopsis: you’re a skilled pickpocket who unknowingly steals from hongjoong, the ruthless mafia leader. the next thing you know, you’re dragged into the mafia world.

PARK SEONG HWA !

doctor & the devil ! [ mafia!seonghwa x doctor!reader ]

synopsis: you’re a surgeon with a clean record and a simple life—until seonghwa, the mafia’s most feared assassin, shows up in your hospital, injured. but the more he comes back, the more you realize that there’s more to him than just a killer.

JEONG YUN HO !

melody ! [mafia!yunho x pianist!reader ]

you’re a struggling pianist, playing in an underground lounge owned by the mafia. one night, the club’s true owner, yunho, finally appears—a man whispered about in the darkest corners of the city. Your music becomes the only thing that calms him.

KANG YEO SANG !

hacked hearts ! [mafia!yeosang x hacker!reader ]

you and yeosang have always been anonymous hacker partners—until a job goes wrong, and you send a distress signal. when he finally shows up, you realize the truth—yeosang isn’t a stranger. He’s your biggest rival.

CHOI SAN !

fake it ! [mafia!san x neighbour!reader ]

when san needs a date for a high-stakes mafia gala, he turns to the most unlikely choice—his completely ordinary, law-abiding neighbor. what starts as a simple favor quickly turns into a night of whispered secrets, stolen glances, and the realization that pretending to belong in his world might be easier than expected.

SONG MIN GI !

high stakes ! [mafia!mingi x casino dealer!reader ]

you're a casino dealer, and mingi—the mafia’s most charming but dangerous underboss—loves playing at your table. one night, he leans in and places a bet. if i win, you’re mine for the night. the problem? He never loses.

JUNG WOO YOUNG !

dance of lies ! [mafia!wooyoung x thief!reader ]

you’ve been hired to steal something valuable during a high-society gala, but wooyoung—always one step ahead—catches you just as you reach for it. instead of turning you in, he smirks and offers his hand. If you want to escape, you’ll have to dance your way out of this.

CHOI JONG HO !

babysitting ! [mafia!jongho x kim!reader ]

jongho is feared by everyone—except you, hongjoong's little sister who keeps sneaking into trouble. when he’s assigned to watch over you, he treats it like a punishment. but as you drag him into your adventures, he starts realizing he’s in more danger from your smile than any bullet.

© kysstar

[xuchiya]

damn .... I'm not kidding when I said that I was listening to Ateez Spotify IN SHUFFLE...

When Hongjoong and I were fighting, Everything by Jongho played AND WHEN IT WAS YEOSANG AND I, DAYS PLAYED .... I AM UGLY CRYING RIGHT NOW 😭😭😭

WAS SPOTIFY READING WITH ME THE WHOLE TIME?!

Until I die...

Pairings: Boyfriend!Hongjoong x Fem!Reader

Genre: Heavy Angst, drama, infidelity, illness.

wc: 12,7k

Summary: You loved him more than anything, even when you knew he was slowly falling out of love with you. You kept quiet through the heartbreak. Through the illness. You worked through your pain and smiled so no one would worry. But when your time began to run out, you did the only thing you could do: Leave something behind for each person you loved.

Warnings: Angst (heavy), Terminal illness/death of main character, Grief and loss, Medical descriptions (mild, non-graphic) Infidelity (Hongjoong cheats on reader) Emotional abuse/neglect from a romantic partner, Depressive thoughts/emotional pain, Bittersweet ending

a/n: Hi, lovely readers! I just want to start by saying… yes, I did cry while writing this. And yes, I do enjoy writing angst.

I know, I know—maybe I need help. Or a hug. Or both. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it (even if it broke your heart into a thousand sharp little pieces).

If you liked it, please let me know—scream in the comments, throw tissues at me, or, you know, ask me to write more angst. I’ll probably say yes and suffer through it again for you 🥲

Join my Taglist: Here

“I’m sorry, what?” You ask again, slower this time, your voice barely a whisper.

The words don’t sound real. They hang in the air like fog, thick and heavy, impossible to breathe in.

The doctor shifts forward, his eyes full of practiced sympathy.

“Your tests confirm late-stage Acute Myeloid Leukemia,” He says gently. “It’s... blood cancer, Miss Kang.”

Blood cancer.

Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. You blink once. Twice.

Blood. Cancer.

That can’t be right. You only came here because you’d been dizzy for a few days, a little fatigued. Bruising easier than usual, sure, but you thought maybe it was just anemia. Or a flu. Overwork.

Not cancer. Never cancer.

He keeps talking, though you barely hear a word.

“There are some medical options,” He continues, his tone careful. “Low-dose chemotherapy, mostly for symptom control at this stage. A possible stem cell transplant, but the success rate is low given how advanced it is. We can also refer you to hospice care to prioritize your comfort—”

His voice fades. Distant. Like he’s underwater.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor, and your hands are gripping the edges of the chair even though you can't feel them anymore.

You should be crying. You should be panicking. But your brain... it’s stuck on something else.

Three months. ATEEZ’s comeback is in three months.

You’re part of the production team. There’s producing meetings, recording timelines. You promised to check Hongjoong’s revised lyrics tomorrow—he worked so hard on that track.

You can’t die. Not now. Not when things are just getting good for them.

And Yeosang. Your brother’s birthday is next month. He’s turning twenty six. You haven’t even gotten his gift. He mentioned wanting a custom watch—it was expensive, but you were going to surprise him.

And then, of course, Hongjoong.

Your boyfriend. Nearly two years together, though lately he’s been... distant. Busy. Distracted. You haven’t even told him how sick you’ve been feeling.

You blink again. Was it really just a flu?

Your nails dig into your palms.

Cancer.

You're dying.

But all you can think about is how you’re going to fit chemo into a production meeting. How you’ll cover for your absences so no one—especially he—notices.

You don’t want to be a burden. You just want to hold onto what little you have left.

“Miss Kang?” The doctor’s voice pulls you back. You force yourself to meet his eyes.

He’s waiting—waiting for you to fall apart, maybe. Waiting for grief to flood in.

But all you say is: “Can I go now? I have a deadline.”

He hesitates “Of course. But we do recommend starting treatment as soon as possible—”

“I don't want any, don't want to be a burden.”

You stand. Your knees nearly give out, but you mask it with a quick breath and a weak smile. Your hands are trembling as you gather your things. You don't even remember putting your bag down.

As you step out into the hallway, the lights feel too bright, the world too loud. Your phone buzzes.

Joongie🖤: Studio all night. don't wait up.

You stare at the message, expression unreadable.

Cancer. Blood cancer. You’re dying.

But all you reply is: “Okay, love you.”

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You’re in the booth with Mingi and Seonghwa, helping them smooth out a harmony layer on the bridge. The air is dry, heavy with the static buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the condenser mic.

You’ve run the track three times now—your eyes are tired, your head pounds, and there’s a high ringing in your ears you’ve been trying to ignore since morning.

You press the intercom “One more run, okay? Then we’ll double it and move on.”

They both nod, focused and trusting. It’s a rhythm you’ve shared for years. But just as Seonghwa hits the high note and Mingi drops into the lower octave, it happens.

A sharp sting behind your nose. Then a slow, warm trickle.

You blink.

Red.

It stains your fingers before you realize what’s happening—your hand comes away wet. The blood drips onto the soundboard, splashing across the control dial.

“Shit—” You mutter, jerking your head up.

Seonghwa is the first to notice. His expression shifts in an instant from focused to horrified. He yanks his headphones off and rushes out of the booth, pulling tissues from the stack beside the mixing desk.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, gently pressing the tissues to your face. His hands are warm and steady, but his voice is tight with concern.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly, trying to laugh but your throat is dry. “It’s probably just the heat. You know how weather messes with your sinuses sometimes.”

Seonghwa doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at you. And in that moment, you know he doesn’t buy it, not really. The little crease between his brows gives him away.

Before he can press further, the booth door creaks open. Mingi’s head pops out, brows raised.

“What happened?”

“Just a little nosebleed,” You call out, raising a hand with a thumbs-up, blood still drying on your knuckles. “Nothing major. Give me a sec and we’ll get back to the recording.”

Mingi hesitates, his gaze flicking between you and Seonghwa, who’s still crouched in front of you with stained tissues.

“You sure? You look… pale.”

“I’m always pale,” You tease with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Studio lighting hates me.”

They chuckle a little, but it’s thin. Tense. The kind of laugh you give when you want something to be normal, even though it clearly isn’t.

You clean the soundboard with a tissue, careful not to smear the blood further. Your hands are trembling just slightly, but you hope neither of them notice.

And then, just like that, you sit back down, press the intercom, and say:

“Let’s go again.”

The room is quiet for a beat. Then Mingi sighs and slips the headphones on. Seonghwa does the same, reluctantly taking his seat. He watches you for a second longer before turning away.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You don’t explain the pounding in your chest or the ache crawling up your legs.

You just breathe, press play, and pretend that nothing is wrong.

But you can feel their eyes on you now—careful, worried, watching.

And for the first time this week, you wonder how much longer you’ll be able to keep pretending.

⋆

It’s almost midnight when you finally step into the smaller recording studio, the familiar hum of wires and soft glow of monitor lights greeting you like an old friend.

Hongjoong is already there, seated at the mixing desk, headphones draped around his neck, scrolling through the demo layers with an expression you know too well.

Focused. Detached. Somewhere far away from you, even though you’re in the same room.

You haven’t seen him properly in days—just quick glances in hallways, brief texts about edits or schedules. It’s been weeks since he kissed you goodnight. Months since you felt like you had his full attention.

Still, tonight matters. It’s your first one-on-one session in over a week. Sure, it’s for work. But it’s him. And you’ve missed him so much it aches.

You walk in quietly, clutching your notepad and tablet. Your legs feel like lead. Your bones hurt. You would give anything to sleep, just sleep for twenty-four hours straight.

But none of that matters now. Because he’s here. And you want to be here with him.

“You’re late,” He murmurs without turning around.

You blink, caught off guard “Only by five minutes.”

He doesn’t answer. Just clicks into the instrumental and adjusts his mic levels.

You set your things down and take your place behind the desk, syncing the track. Your fingers move on instinct, but your vision blurs slightly when you glance down, the lights of the soundboard feel too bright, the colors too sharp.

“You look tired,” Hongjoong says, finally glancing at you. His tone isn’t warm. It’s not concerned. It’s just… an observation.

“I am,” You answer honestly, letting the words hang between you. You’re hoping—just hoping—he’ll soften, just a little.

Ask why. Ask what’s wrong. But he doesn’t.

He shrugs “We all are.”

Right.

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek “Let’s do a run-through, yeah?”

He nods once and heads into the booth, you hit record.

The beat pulses through the speakers, his voice layering smoothly over the base. He’s good, always has been, and this track is personal for him. You can feel it in the way he bites down on each verse, dragging emotion into the syllables.

And yet, as he sings about struggle and perseverance, about finding light in the dark, your chest burns. You wonder if he means a single word of it anymore.

The second take ends. He peeks out of the booth, resting his hands on the doorframe.

“How’s the timing?” He asks.

You try to answer, but your mouth feels dry. Your head is pounding. The room is spinning just enough to make you feel unstable.

You clear your throat “It’s good. You hit that second verse cleaner this time.”

He nods. No smile. No praise. Just a nod.

You stare at him for a second longer, heart thudding, and finally whisper, “I missed you.”

It slips out before you can stop it. Small. Vulnerable.

He blinks “What?”

You force a smile “I said the mix is almost done. Just need to level out the chorus.”

Lie. Coward’s version of the truth. He doesn’t press. Just turns away, going back to the booth.

You exhale, shakily. Look down at your hands. They're trembling again. You close your eyes and rest your head in your arms for a second, just a second, but Hongjoong’s voice through the mic pulls you back up.

“Don’t sleep on me,” He says—light, almost teasing.

But there’s no affection behind it. No warmth.

Just a reminder.

You're not his girlfriend tonight. You're the producer.

You swallow the lump in your throat and press record again.

And you wonder how it’s possible to be this close to someone you love and still feel so completely alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s rare to have a quiet evening, let alone a meal outside the studio. But Yeosang insisted.

“You’ve been skipping too many dinners,” He said when he called. “I’m picking you up at seven. No excuses.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue, not today. Not after another dizzy spell in the breakroom. Not after you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the pale, fragile version staring back.

So now, you're sitting across from him in a small Japanese restaurant, the kind you both used to visit when you were younger.

It’s warm, quiet, the kind of place that smells like miso and nostalgia. He orders for both of you—he always does—and you let him, too tired to pretend you care about the menu.

He chats about Ateez's schedules, about San’s newest obsession with cooking, about the funny disaster that was Wooyoung’s attempt at laundry this week.

You nod and laugh in the right places. But your limbs are heavy, your stomach barely handling the miso soup you’re swirling in front of you.

Then it happens. You reach for the cup of tea, and your hoodie sleeve slides up. Just a few inches.

But it’s enough.

The yellow-purple bloom of the bruise on your forearm is stark against your skin, impossible to miss.

Yeosang goes still. His eyes lock onto it, and for a moment, he doesn't say anything, just stares.

Then his voice drops, cold and quiet “What happened to your arm?”

You freeze. Quickly pull your sleeve back down.

“It’s nothing,” You say with a too-fast shrug. “I—uh—I hit it on the kitchen counter a few days ago.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t believe you.

“In the kitchen?”

You nod “Yeah. Just… clumsy, you know?”

He leans back in his seat slowly, watching you carefully now. His jaw tightens.

“You sure that’s it?”

You blink “What else would it be?”

He doesn’t answer. But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That horrible, fleeting thought that passes through his mind.

Did someone do this to you?

Did he?

“Yeosang,” You say quietly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” He lies, voice tight.

“Yes, you are. And I promise, no one hurt me. Especially not Hongjoong.”

You smile. It takes effort. It hurts.

He doesn’t smile back “I’m your older brother,” He says after a long silence. “If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?”

You nod “Of course.”

But the truth is already rotting inside you. It’s in your blood. Your bones. The way you can’t even finish a bowl of soup without feeling like you’re going to collapse.

And it’s killing you—slowly, quietly.

And you're lying to the one person who would do anything to save you.

—

The mirrors are fogged at the edges, the air thick with the rhythm of stomping feet and sharp breaths. The members of ATEEZ are halfway through the final run of their choreography when San finally calls for a break, dropping to the floor with a dramatic groan.

“Five minutes,” The choreographer calls out. “Drink water. Stretch. Don’t die.”

Yeosang wipes the sweat off his forehead, reaching for his water bottle, but his eyes keep flickering to Hongjoong—the leader sitting off in the corner, completely checked out, thumbs tapping away at his phone like the world around him doesn’t exist.

He sighs. Something’s been off for weeks—with you, with him.

The bruise on your arm flashes in his memory again. Too dark. Too fresh. Too big for a simple kitchen bump.

He swallows and turns to Seonghwa and Mingi, who are stretching nearby.

“Can I ask you guys something?” He says, keeping his voice low.

Mingi nods, looking up “What’s up?”

“It’s about my sister,” Yeosang says slowly, choosing each word. “Has she seemed… off lately to you?”

The moment the question leaves his mouth, Seonghwa stills. Mingi, too. Then Seonghwa shifts, sitting up straight.

“What do you mean by ‘off’?”

Yeosang hesitates “She had this bruise on her arm this afternoon. Big one. Said it happened in the kitchen, but... I don’t know. She’s pale. She barely touched her food. She looked like she was going to fall asleep at the table.”

Mingi makes a noise—not quite surprised, not quite confused “Dude,” He says, glancing at Seonghwa. “She had a nosebleed the other day. In the recording booth. Just started bleeding mid-take.”

“And she said it was because of the heat,” Seonghwa adds with a frown. “But I don’t know, man. She looked exhausted. Like, barely-standing, exhausted.”

Yeosang’s expression darkens “She told me she was fine. Said she was just tired.”

“She’s always tired lately,” Seonghwa murmurs. “She’s not okay.”

Mingi nods “You think something’s going on? Like… is she sick or something?”

“I don’t know,” Yeosang admits. “But I’m going to find out.”

In the silence that follows, they all glance toward Hongjoong.

Still glued to his phone. Still tapping out replies, smiling faintly at something on the screen—completely unaware of the conversation happening a few feet away.

“Should we tell him?” Mingi asks quietly.

Yeosang watches Hongjoong for a long beat. Then he shakes his head.

“He won’t care. Not right now.”

Seonghwa frowns “You think something’s going on with him too?”

Yeosang doesn’t answer. Because he already knows the truth—or at least part of it. He sees the distance.

The coldness. The way you still light up when you talk about Hongjoong, like you’re trying to convince yourself he's still the man you love. And the way Hongjoong barely even looks at you anymore.

He sees it all.

And he’s afraid of what it might mean.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You drop your bag by the entrance and lean against the wall, breath trembling. Your whole body aches—not the usual muscle strain or fatigue from long days. It's deeper. Like your bones are rotting from the inside out.

You peel off your hoodie slowly, wincing as the sleeve sticks to the sweat on your arms. Bruises decorate your skin like splattered ink. New ones, old ones, all unexplained.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

No shoes by the door but your own. No low humming from the kitchen. No Hongjoong.

You told yourself he was busy. You keep telling yourself that.

You shuffle to the bathroom and stare at your reflection. Your skin is pale, almost gray under the fluorescent light. You look like a ghost wearing your face.

There’s blood on your upper lip. Again.

You don't even flinch this time. You just grab some tissues and press hard. Your nose is getting used to this.

Your phone buzzes on the counter. Another voicemail from the hospital. You press play.

“Hi, we’re following up on your last test results. We strongly advise reconsidering treatment options. The sooner we start, the better your chances of—”

You press delete. You already told them no.

What’s the point of prolonging what can’t be saved?

Chemo would only destroy what little normalcy you have left. The hair, the strength, the time—what’s the use if there’s no real chance? If you’ll die anyway?

You sit on the floor. Cold tiles against your back. The room spins for a second. You blink through it. You open the notes app on your phone. Not to write a letter—not yet. But you type a single sentence:

“If I die tonight, would he even notice?”

You don’t cry. You’re too tired to cry. Instead, you crawl into bed in one of Hongjoongs’ shirts, and you curl up with your sickness like it’s the only thing that hasn’t abandoned you.

You whisper into the dark “I don’t want to die like this.”

And you fall asleep with the taste of blood in your throat and nothing but silence to hold you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s nearly 2 a.m. The building is quiet, everyone else long gone. You’re still in your small studio, slouched in your chair, eyelids burning from hours of staring at the screen. You rub your temples, lean back, and play the track again.

Your eyes narrow. It’s missing something. Hongjoong’s verse. The one he promised to send by midnight.

You glance at the clock: 2:07 a.m. With a tired sigh, you drag yourself up and out. He’s probably still in his studio, working like always. Maybe he forgot to hit send.

Maybe… you just want to see him.

You walk quietly through the hallway, your oversized hoodie sleeves covering your trembling fingers. You’re exhausted, nauseous, and your body feels like lead—but you’re used to that by now.

When you reach his studio door, your hand pauses mid-air. It’s not fully shut. A crack of light seeps out.

Then you hear it.

A sound. A laugh. A muffled moan.

Your heart stops. Slowly, too slowly, you lean closer. Maybe he’s watching something. Maybe someone left a video playing. Maybe—But when you press your eye to the crack and tilt your head—You freeze.

She’s on his lap. Arms around his neck. Lips on his throat. His hands on her hips, his head thrown back, mouth open, soft groans escaping.

Your stomach flips violently.

He whispers something. Something soft, a voice you haven't heard in weeks—the way he used to talk to you.

“You’re driving me crazy, baby. Can’t get enough of you.”

Your world tilts. You don’t scream. You don’t make a sound. You take a step back. And another. And another. You walk away before they can see you. Before he can see what he’s done.

Your hand covers your mouth, the hallway spinning around you.

You stumble back to your studio. The file’s still open. Hongjoong’s verse still missing. Like you’re missing.

You don’t cry. You don’t delete the track. You close the laptop gently, like it’s fragile.

Because if you break one thing, you might not stop.

⋆

The next day, you show up right on time. Hair brushed, hoodie clean, headphones slung around your neck.

No one would guess that you barely slept, that you spent the night curled up on the studio floor because you physically couldn’t make it home.

Hongjoong arrives ten minutes late. He barely glances at you when he walks in, phone in hand, cap low over his eyes.

You smile at him anyway. Smile. Even if it’s broken. Even if he doesn’t look at you.

“You ready to record your part today?” You ask, tapping your notes like your heart isn’t crumbling.

He nods casually, pulling out his water bottle and warming up his voice “Yeah. Just the bridge, right?”

You hum in agreement, adjusting the mic settings “Mmhm. Also… just checking, you still remember about our dinner on Friday?”

That catches his attention for a second. He looks up “Dinner?”

Your stomach knots. Your hand tightens around the pen “The one I booked a month ago. That place near the Han River? You made me promise not to cancel, even if work got heavy?”

A pause. A flicker of hesitation in his eyes “Ah… yeah. Of course I remember. I’ll be there.”

And just like that, he goes back to humming into the mic.

You nod, smiling again.

Of course he’ll be there. Of course he said that.

Because you’re still pretending. And he’s still pretending. And both of you are very good at acting.

But that Friday it wasn't what you expected to be.

You spent two hours getting ready. Even put on makeup, something you haven’t done in weeks. Your legs feel like glass, and your skin is bruising under your sweater sleeves, but you still curl your hair and pick the perfume he once said he loved.

You arrive early, of course. The restaurant is soft-lit, romantic. There’s a tiny candle flickering on the table you reserved a month ago.

You order water. You wait.

Fifteen minutes.

Thirty.

An hour.

You check your phone. No messages. No calls. No apologies.

The candle flickers lower. The server comes by for the third time and finally asks, gently:

“Would you like to order something? Or…?”

You smile at him “No, thank you. I think… I’m not really hungry anymore.”

You pay for both meals you didn’t order, just in case he shows up later.

When you get home that night, your phone finally buzzes. You’re already curled under your blanket, still wearing the clothes you picked for your date.

Joongie 🖤: "Sorry. Something came up. We’ll reschedule next month."

You stare at the screen. Your heart doesn’t break, it simply stops trying. A bitter chuckle slips from your lips.

“I’ll probably be dead next month.”

And then you roll over and close your eyes.

Alone.

—

The soft creak of the front door wakes you.

Your eyes flutter open, your body sinking deeper into the mattress before you force yourself up. Every bone protests. Your limbs feel too heavy, your joints throb. There’s a ringing in your ears again—low, constant—like a warning.

But still, you sit up. Because it’s him.

Maybe you’re foolish. Maybe you’re still waiting for the version of him who once held your hand in packed rooms, who left sleepy kisses on your forehead, who whispered “I love you” like it was sacred.

Maybe you’re just hoping he’ll look at you the same way again.

Barefoot, you walk across the cold floor. Your oversized sweater slips from one shoulder, the fabric brushing against skin that bruises too easily now. The lights in the living room are dim, but you see him.

Hongjoong. Standing near the coat rack, pulling off his hoodie with a long, tired sigh.

You stop in the doorway “Where were you?” Your voice is soft. Not angry. Just… quiet. Worn down.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers “Working.”

You glance at the clock. 3:47 a.m. You scoff—not with bitterness, but disbelief.

“It’s almost four, Hongjoong.”

That makes him turn, eyes sharp with irritation.

“I have a comeback on my fucking shoulders. Of course I’m staying late.”

The words bite, but you try to swallow it down “I know, I— I wasn’t trying to—”

“I already said sorry,” He snaps, tossing his hoodie carelessly onto the couch. “Don’t start nagging me about forgetting the damn dinner.”

“I’m not,” You murmur. “I just… didn’t think you’d actually come home tonight.”

That’s all you meant. Just that. Not an accusation. Not even a disappointment. Just honesty.

But something in him bristles like you lit a match near his fuse. He turns fully to you, and for a second, the air leaves your lungs. You smell it—faint but distinct—alcohol.

And worse, you see it: darkened skin just above his collar, smudged and uneven, red-purple hickeys that his t-shirt doesn’t fully cover.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Still… you say nothing. Because if you speak, you might scream.

“You are complaining,” He says suddenly, voice rising. “That’s all you do lately. You’re always tired, always acting like the world’s ending—”

“I’m not acting—” You breathe, voice cracking. But he doesn’t let you finish.

“We’re all tired,” He barks. “You think you’re the only one going through shit? Everyone’s stressed. Everyone’s working. But no one else is dragging it around like some pathetic excuse.”

That word—pathetic—splits something in your chest.

“I didn’t know I was an excuse to you,” You whisper.

He scoffs like you’re being dramatic “God, you’ve been so exhausting lately. You don’t even look like yourself. You’ve lost weight, you’re pale all the time, you’ve got these dark circles under your eyes. You look… sick.”

You are sick.

But he doesn’t know that. Because you never told him. Because he never asked.

“If something’s wrong with you, just say it already,” He huffs. “Stop walking around like some damn ghost expecting me to coddle you.”

You feel it in your chest now—the slow, suffocating sting of grief folding into itself.

Your voice breaks when you speak again “It’s been almost a month since we really talked. Since we existed together. I planned that night for us, Joong. I just… I miss you.”

He looks at you like he’s staring through a window. Cold. Detached.

“See? Complaining again.”

Your heart splinters. And in that moment, you understand.

He’s already gone. He left you long ago. Now he’s just looking for reasons to make it your fault. You nod, almost imperceptibly. Your throat burns, but you force your lips into a flat line.

“Okay,” You whisper. “Sorry.”

And you walk away. Back to your room. Back to the bed made just for the two of you—that’s held only one body for weeks now.

You collapse onto the mattress, curling into yourself. And this time, you don’t hold back the tears.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Three days have passed since that night.

Since the night you finally let the tears fall—not because of the war inside your blood, but because of something far more painful: losing Hongjoong.

You hadn't realized how much he meant to you until the silence between you turned permanent. You hadn't cried for your illness… but for him, you broke.

And since that night, things have only gotten worse.

The nosebleeds are more frequent now. Your bones ache just from getting dressed. Bruises blossom across your skin from the gentlest touch, like a whisper of pain stitched into every cell.

The dizziness never leaves, and somewhere deep inside, you know: You're running out of time.

So you start moving. You make a list in your head of the things that matter. The things you must do before it’s too late. And at the top of that list… is Yeosang.

Today, you drag Yeosang to the largest mall in Seoul, ignoring his annoyed sighs as he follows you across the marble floors.

He mumbles something about how the two of you should be at the company, you doing the last track’s reviews and how he should be at the dance studio.

But you wave it off with a smirk and keep pulling him along until you’re both standing in front of a luxurious watch display.

You point at the glass case and ask, “Which one do you like?”

Yeosang looks at you suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly “Why are you asking me that?”

You grin “Just pick one.”

He frowns, shifting his weight onto one foot “You don’t have to buy me something expensive, you know. My birthday’s not even here yet, it’s in three weeks.”

“I know,” You reply, voice soft but steady. “But I want it to be ready by the exact day. It’s custom-made, so it’ll take time.”

Yeosang sighs, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips now “You’re impossible.”

Still, he looks at the collection and nods toward a sleek silver watch with delicate engraving.

“That one. It’s simple. I like it.”

You nod back, but before you can say anything else, the world sways under your feet.

Your vision goes fuzzy, the lights above blurring into streaks of white. You try to blink it away, try to steady yourself… but your body gives out before you can say a word.

Yeosang catches you before you hit the floor.

—

The rhythmic beeping of the monitor fills the hospital room, calm and cold. Yeosang sits beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if holding himself together.

He’s been sitting like that for almost two hours now, unmoving except to occasionally glance at your pale, unconscious face.

He didn’t panic when you fainted. Not at first. He carried you to the car, drove like a madman, shouted your name again and again. But nothing prepared him for what the doctor would say.

When the door finally opens, Yeosang stands immediately. The doctor asks him to step outside, but Yeosang shakes his head and says flatly.

“Just tell me. Say it here.”

There’s a pause. Then the doctor exhales slowly “Your sister has acute lymphoblastic leukemia,” He says quietly. “Advanced stage.”

Yeosang doesn’t move. The words don’t make sense. They bounce around in his skull like static.

“No,” He mutters. “She would’ve told me. That’s not— She… she would’ve said something.”

The doctor’s expression doesn’t change “She was diagnosed two weeks ago. She refused chemotherapy, declined transplant and long-term treatments. She didn’t want to go through the medical process.”

“She didn’t want to fight?” Yeosang snaps, his voice cracking. “Why wouldn’t she fight?”

“She made it very clear she didn’t want to burden anyone, she just accepted the risks.”

Yeosang takes a sharp breath, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. He turns his eyes toward you again.

You look so small. So still. The same girl who used to sneak into his bed as a child whenever there was thunder.

The same one who’d sing off-key just to make him laugh. The one who held his hand during their parents’ worst fights and promised she’d always be there.

Now she was slipping through his fingers. And he hadn’t even noticed.

The doctor continues gently, “At this stage… it could be days. Maybe weeks. But it’s impossible to know. All I can say is… it won’t be long.”

Yeosang lowers himself into the chair again, slowly this time, as if his body can no longer hold him up.

His throat burns. His hands are shaking.

You, his little sister—the only person in the world who never asked him to be perfect, never judged him, never left—you were dying. And you didn’t even tell him.

Tears pool in his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t hide them. Doesn’t wipe them away.

He reaches out and takes your hand in his. It’s cold. But he holds it anyway, like maybe if he holds tight enough… you won’t let go.

—

You feel it before you see it—the weight of the world pressing down on your chest, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your eyelids flutter, slow and reluctant. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar… white, bright, sterile.

A hospital.

You sigh softly through your nose. So much for hiding it a little longer. Turning your head slightly, you already know who’s sitting there. You can feel him.

Yeosang.

He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands, shoulders trembling. Silent sobs rack through him like he’s trying to hold in a scream that’s been locked inside his ribs for too long.

You blink, the sting in your eyes not from the room’s brightness but from what you’re seeing.

Yeosang is crying.

Not angry. Not yelling. Not scolding. Just crying.

And not the kind of crying you’ve seen when a choreography goes wrong or when stress cracks him for a second. No, this is deeper. Rawer. His heart is breaking in real time.

You know exactly why. And for a second, guilt slices through you sharper than anything the illness ever has. He must’ve talked to the doctor. He knows.

You swallow, throat dry. You try to speak, but your voice is barely there.

“Yeosang…”

He flinches at the sound of your voice, lifts his head, and his eyes lock onto yours like you’re a ghost he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again. And then—in one breath—he breaks.

He doesn’t say a word. He just stands and wraps his arms around you.

Carefully.

So gently, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he squeezes too hard. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, and you feel the wet heat of his tears soak into your hospital gown. His hands grip your back, trembling with everything he can’t say out loud.

You freeze, caught in that fragile second between comfort and collapse.

Because this is Yeosang. Your brother. Your protector. The one who always had it together, who never let anyone see the cracks in his armor. And now he’s holding you like the world has ended.

And in his eyes… maybe it has.

“I thought I had more time,” You whisper, your hand weakly brushing over his shoulder. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He still doesn’t speak, only pulls you closer, and you feel it—the ache in his breath, the sobs he still tries to swallow down even now, even here.

You try to smile “I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

A shaky breath escapes him, and you finally hear his voice—hoarse and cracked and barely above a whisper.

“Why didn’t you let me fight with you?”

That’s when your heart shatters. Because there’s no good answer to that question. Only a dozen broken excuses, that you didn’t want him to suffer, that you didn’t want to be the burden, that you didn’t want to see pity in his eyes.

That you wanted to protect him.

But now he’s holding you like he’s the one who needs saving. You lean your head against his shoulder and let yourself cry too, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” You murmur. “I didn’t want you to watch me fall apart.”

His arms tighten just enough to make your breath catch “I’d rather watch you fall apart… than lose you without even knowing you were slipping away.”

He’s never said anything so honest to you before. He’s never needed to.

And now you lie there in his arms, the beeping of machines ticking off seconds you can’t promise to survive, and think about all the things you wanted to do—all the people you have to say goodbye to.

But for now, you let yourself just be his sister.

And let him cry.

Because sometimes, even the strongest ones break.

—

It’s been nearly twenty minutes since the tears finally stopped. Yeosang still hasn’t let go of you, but his sobs have faded into soft, steady breaths against your shoulder.

You rest your cheek gently against his hair, fingers combing through the strands like you used to when he couldn’t sleep as a kid. It’s soothing, for both of you.

Neither of you says anything for a while. Then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, you murmur, "Please don’t tell anyone."

He doesn’t move. But after a second, he replies quietly, "Why not? They’re your friends. They deserve to know."

You feel your throat tighten. He’s right, in theory. But theory doesn’t count for much when you’re the one dying.

"You should at least tell Hongjoong," He adds. "He’s your boyfriend."

That word—boyfriend—makes you freeze.

Is he?

The silence in the room grows louder. Because it’s not a matter of labels. You know the truth, or at least the truth that hurts the most.

He isn’t really yours anymore.

He’s probably out right now, laughing with her, forgetting how your fingers used to trace his skin, how you used to fall asleep listening to the rhythm of his breath.

He hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted. Not once since that night.

You blink away the burn behind your eyes "Especially him," You say, quieter now. "Don’t tell him anything."

Yeosang pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are tired, still red "Why not?"

You manage a hollow smile, one that doesn't quite reach your lips. "Just don't."

"Okay," Yeosang says gently.

You shrug, gaze drifting toward the window. The world outside is still spinning, oblivious to what’s happening here.

"Thank you."

Yeosang doesn’t argue. Instead, he just nods slowly and rests his forehead against yours.

"I’ll carry it with you." He whispers.

And you close your eyes—because even if your time is running out, for now, you’re not alone.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You turn your head away, your voice no stronger than a breath.

“I don’t want to eat.”

Your fingers tremble where they clutch the blanket, but you hide them beneath the sheets, as if that will make you seem stronger than you feel.

Yeosang lets out a soft sigh, gentle but tired. You hear the quiet clink of the spoon as he places it back down on the tray.

“Sweetheart…” He says, reaching to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. “Just a little, okay? You need to eat.”

You don’t answer right away, the smell of the soup making your stomach churn.

“I don’t feel like it,” You murmur, eyes fixed on the wall across from you—anywhere but on him. “Everything tastes like metal.”

“I know,” He whispers, his voice tight with worry, “but you have to try.”

You hesitate. Then, without meeting his gaze, you sit up slightly and open your mouth. Just one bite.

He smiles weakly, bringing the spoon up “There’s my good girl.”

The warmth of the soup hits your tongue, bland and bitter, and you swallow with difficulty. It’s not the food that makes your eyes sting.

It’s the look in his.

It’s been three days since the doctors told you it was no longer safe for you to go home—not with how easily your body is giving up on you.

The dizzy spells, the nosebleeds, the bruises from brushing against doorframes… the way your bones feel like they’re crumbling from the inside out.

You wanted to protest. You had plans. You had things to finish.

But Yeosang insisted, and he hasn’t left since.

He comes early, brings you coffee even though he knows you barely sip it anymore, and forces you to take at least three bites of every meal.

After breakfast, he leaves for the company—but never without kissing your forehead like he used to when you scraped your knees as a kid.

He returns before nightfall, sometimes with books, sometimes with that sad smile he tries so hard to make look hopeful.

He sleeps on the couch in your hospital room now, no matter how many times you tell him to go home. He never listens.

And you love him for it. But the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, is a steady ache in your chest that no painkiller can touch.

Every time he walks through that door, every time he hides his puffy eyes behind a joke, every time he tucks your blanket up to your chin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish overnight…

You feel like a burden.

Like the weight of your dying is something he carries more than you do.

You glance at him now—his hands fidgeting with the spoon, his jaw clenched like he’s trying not to say something too heavy for the room.

You want to thank him. You want to tell him to stop. You want to ask him to leave before it gets worse.

But instead, you whisper, “Sorry.”

Yeosang turns his head sharply “For what?”

You shake your head slowly, sinking deeper into the pillows “For making you stay. For making you watch me like this.”

His face crumbles for a second, and then he gently places the spoon back on the tray and leans forward, taking your hand in both of his.

“Hey,” He says, voice trembling, “You’re not making me do anything. I’m here because I want to be. I’m here because I’m your brother. And I love you.”

His fingers tighten around yours “You’re not a burden. You’re the only reason I’m holding it together.”

Your lips part, but the lump in your throat makes it impossible to speak.

And still… the ache doesn’t go away.

Because no matter what he says, you see it in his face. The fear. The grief. The knowing.

You’re slipping, and he knows it.

⋆

The energy in the company feels… off.

It’s subtle at first. A quiet kind of absence. Like someone turned the volume down on the whole room.

You haven’t shown up in days—no messages, no check-ins, no complaints about how overworked you are, or how the coffee always tastes like burnt water.

Just silence. A hole in the atmosphere no one seems to want to name yet.

“Did she take a sudden vacation?” Wooyoung mumbles, peering at the shared project calendar on the studio screen. “She didn’t say anything to me…”

“She didn’t say anything to anyone,” Seonghwa answers, brow furrowed as he scrolls through his texts. “I messaged her two nights ago. No reply.”

“She didn’t even complain about Mingi messing up the last track?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly alert.

Seonghwa shakes his head “Nothing.”

That alone is strange. You always replied to Seonghwa. Even just with a thumbs up or a meme. The realization settles heavily between them.

Then there’s Yeosang.

He’s here, technically. Sitting through meetings, nodding at updates, eyes staring at whatever screen is in front of him.

But he hasn’t made a single joke all week. He hasn’t even complained about the lunch orders.

And his eyes… They’re always red. Always tired. Not the ‘I slept late’ kind of tired—the kind that looks like he’s been fighting off the weight of the world.

They all noticed the bandage on his hand too. A small thing, easily missed—except he’s been picking at it, like his mind isn’t even in the same room as his body.

In the recording studio, he flubs his lines. Not once, not twice—four times. Yeosang never messes up. Never.

By the fifth take, he mumbles an apology and pulls off the headphones, muttering something about needing air before walking out.

Silence follows him.

Wooyoung exchanges a look with Seonghwa “Something’s wrong.”

Seonghwa’s jaw is tight, his voice quiet “Yeah.”

—

The company building was quiet after hours, the fluorescent lights casting a cold glow over the empty hallways.

Most of the staff had gone home, but Seonghwa was still around, sorting through choreography notes.

Wooyoung, who’d gone to grab something from the vending machine, passed by one of the practice rooms when he caught sight of a familiar figure slumped in the corner, motionless.

He paused “Yeosang?”

No answer. He pushed the door open slowly, the faint sound of choked breathing slipping through the silence.

“Yeosang?” He repeated, softer this time.

That’s when he saw him. Yeosang was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, knees pulled up, face buried in his hands.

His shoulders were shaking, his breaths ragged, and the tears—God, the tears—were pouring silently, as if they had been held in for far too long.

Wooyoung froze, the can of soda slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor.

“Yeo…”

Seonghwa heard the noise from down the hall and came quickly. When he stepped into the room and saw the sight before him, his heart dropped.

Yeosang didn’t even lift his head. He couldn’t.

He had held it together for days—for weeks. Through the hospital visits. Through the sleepless nights. Through every forced smile he gave the others so they wouldn’t ask questions.

But the moment he was alone, the weight became too heavy. Too sharp.

“Yeo,” Wooyoung said again, crouching down, touching his shoulder. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Yeosang finally looked up, and both Seonghwa and Wooyoung felt their breath hitch. His eyes were bloodshot, cheeks damp, mouth trembling as if every word was a mountain.

“She’s dying,” He whispered.

Wooyoung blinked “What?”

Yeosang clutched his phone like a lifeline, and slowly, with shaking fingers, turned the screen toward them.

Your hospital ID. Your name. Your patient band. Your photo with that tired smile.

“She’s in the hospital,” He said, voice cracking. “It’s—it’s cancer. Blood cancer. And she didn’t tell anyone. She kept working like nothing was wrong. She didn’t even try treatment. She said she didn’t want to suffer.”

He paused, his whole body trembling.

“The doctor told me… she could go at any moment.”

The room went silent.

Wooyoung staggered back onto his heels, lips parted in shock “No… no, she’s—she was just here last week. Laughing. Messing with me in the recording studio. She can’t—she can’t be—”

“She is,” Yeosang choked out. “She is, and I—I have to watch it happen. Every day I go there and she smiles like she’s okay, like she’s not falling apart in front of me.”

Seonghwa stepped forward, heart clenched, crouching beside him. He wrapped an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders, grounding him with quiet strength.

“You’ve been going through this alone?”

“I didn’t know how to say it,” Yeosang admitted, voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to make it real.”

Wooyoung wiped at his eyes, trying to process the hurricane of grief building inside his chest. “Why didn’t she say anything to me…? I would've—”

“She didn’t want to be a burden,” Yeosang interrupted. “That’s what she told me. Can you believe that? She’s dying and she’s worried about burdening us.”

There was nothing else to say for a moment. Just silence. Just three broken hearts on a practice room floor.

Then Seonghwa pulled Yeosang into his arms fully, holding him tight as his tears returned full force. Wooyoung leaned in too, hand gripping his arm.

“You’re not alone in this,” Seonghwa whispered. “Not anymore.”

“We’ll be there,” Wooyoung added. “For both of you.”

And in the quietest part of the night, Yeosang let go.

He let it all out—the pain, the fear, the helplessness—into the hands of the only people who could understand.

Because this wasn’t just grief.

This was love. Cracked and bleeding.

And it was real.

⋆

There’s a sound tugging at you from sleep.

At first, it’s faint—like a whisper underwater. A low hum of voices and the quiet, broken rhythm of someone trying not to cry.

Then it gets sharper.

“…She’s sleeping, be quiet,” You hear Yeosang murmur, his voice strained.

“But how the hell am I supposed to—” Another voice cracks, shattering mid-sentence.

You frown softly, your eyes still closed, floating somewhere between consciousness and exhaustion. Then a sniffle. Then a choked sob. Muffled. Held in.

And you know. You know before you even open your eyes.

Slowly, you peel your lids open, vision blurry under the hospital room’s dim light. Your throat is dry. Your body aches in ways you’ve gotten used to.

But it’s not the pain that takes your breath—it’s the sight in front of you.

Three figures. Yeosang sitting at your bedside, pale and silent, his hand loosely holding yours. And just beside him, Seonghwa and Wooyoung.

Seonghwa’s eyes meet yours first, full of something that looks like mourning. As if you're already gone. His lips press into a thin line.

But it's Wooyoung who crumbles. The moment he sees your eyes flutter open, he breaks. A sob escapes his throat, and he covers his mouth with his hand as tears stream down his cheeks.

His body shakes. He turns his face away, ashamed, but it’s too late—the dam is broken.

“Woo…” You whisper, your voice barely there.

He walks toward you like a storm—fast, trembling, desperate. Then he collapses to his knees by your bed, burying his face in the side of your blanket.

“You idiot…” He cries, voice muffled. “You absolute idiot… how could you hide this from us?! From me?!”

You don't answer right away. You can't. Your heart aches more than your body, watching him fall apart like that—loud and vulnerable, the way only Wooyoung ever is.

Yeosang says nothing, but his hand grips yours tighter.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” You murmur, your voice cracked like broken porcelain.

Wooyoung lifts his head just enough to look at you. His face is blotchy and red, eyes swollen, expression unreadable at first—until the grief turns into something else: anger.

“You think we care about that?!” He snaps, voice shaking. “You think I’ve known you since middle school just to not be there when you're going through this?!”

His voice rises, but Seonghwa gently places a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. Wooyoung exhales hard and leans his head back against the bed, still crying quietly.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper.

And it’s the worst part. Not the illness. Not the bruises on your skin or the ache in your bones.

The worst part is seeing the people you love grieve you while you’re still alive.

Yeosang leans forward, pressing his forehead to your hand.

“No more hiding,” He says, voice hollow. “You don’t have to be strong alone anymore.”

You let out a shaky breath and close your eyes again—not from fatigue, but to keep the tears from spilling.

Because now it’s real.

And somehow… that makes it both more painful and more comforting at once.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next four days pass in soft, slow pieces—moments stitched together by the quiet devotion of those who now carry your secret.

Yeosang, Seonghwa, and Wooyoung take turns by your side like clockwork. They don’t ask for permission—they just do.

Wooyoung bathes you gently, humming old songs to distract you from the cold water on your sore skin.

Seonghwa brings you freshly cut fruit, sits by the window, and reads aloud to you with his warm, steady voice—something about the way he does it makes you forget your body is failing.

And Yeosang, always Yeosang, feeds you when you’re too tired to lift a spoon and whispers things like, “just one more bite for me, sweetheart,” as if you’re still the little sibling who used to follow him around in your pajamas.

They do all of this without complaint. Without hesitation. Without letting you see the weight they carry.

But you see it anyway.

You see it in how Seonghwa avoids your eyes when you ask about the company. How Wooyoung’s jokes come slower, quieter. How Yeosang never lets go of your hand, even when he thinks you’re asleep.

On the second day, you ask them for a notebook and some pens. There’s no ceremony to it—just a quiet request.

“I need to write some letters,” You say, voice raspy.

They don't ask what for. They don’t need to.

Wooyoung brings you a sketchbook with thick pages and a pouch of pens in every color.

“So you can make them beautiful,” He says with a sad smile.

Each letter you write feels like another piece of your soul laid bare. You try to make them lighthearted—full of warmth, small memories, little jokes.

But they always end the same: with the words you’ve never been brave enough to say aloud.

Goodbye.

—

Meanwhile, the atmosphere at the company is growing tenser by the day. You’re not there. You’re not answering messages. No one's said why.

The boss knows you're taking “medical rest,” and the production team was told it's just temporary.

But Hongjoong isn’t buying it.

You were supposed to finish the final arrangement of the last album track. The deadline is breathing down everyone’s neck. And you—the one who usually sleeps under the mixing desk with a cold coffee and a blanket—have disappeared.

He hears whispers. He sees Yeosang come in with dark circles under his eyes, sees Wooyoung miss rehearsals for the first time in months. Seonghwa walks around like he’s carrying glass in his chest.

But no one says a word.

“Where the hell is she?”

Hongjoong snaps one afternoon, slamming his phone on the table in the production room.

“Everyone’s working their asses off and she’s just—resting?”

Yeosang freezes at the doorway. Seonghwa looks away. Wooyoung’s jaw clenches so tight it trembles.

But they say nothing. Not because they want to keep your secret. Because you asked them to.

Because you begged, “Don’t tell him. Not yet. Please.”

And so they bite their tongues. They swallow the pain. They let Hongjoong’s words slice into them without defending you.

Because the truth would shatter him.

And you're not ready to break his heart.

⋆

Your phone vibrates weakly against the metal bedside table. The screen lights up in the quiet dark, just past midnight.

Hongjoong.

You stare at the name. Your thumb hovers.

It’s been a week.

A week of silence. A week of not answering, not checking messages, not daring to reach out first—hoping, just a little, that he’d miss you.

That he’d notice your absence. That he’d call not out of obligation, but out of care.

You told yourself you wouldn’t answer. But hope is cruel, and you're too tired to fight it tonight.

You slide your thumb across the screen and whisper, “Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Where the fuck are you?”

Your breath catches. No hi, no how are you, no I miss you. Just fury, sharp and cold.

You blink, heart sinking, already wishing you hadn’t picked up “Hongjoong…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m—I needed time. I’ve been—”

“Yeah, clearly. Taking a rest while the rest of us carry your weight?” He scoffs. “Do you think this is some kind of fucking vacation?!”

You flinch. The IV line tugs slightly against your arm as you instinctively curl in on yourself.

“I wasn’t—It’s not like that—”

“You still haven’t finished the last track. Do you know how unprofessional this is?”

He laughs bitterly, cruelly.

“If you don’t deliver by next week, I’ll tell the board you’re useless. Take a permanent rest from work. Let’s see how that feels.”

It hits like a knife.

You want to scream I’m dying. You want to scream I love you. You want to scream Please don’t do this to me—But you don’t.

Instead, your eyes blur as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then his voice softens—not with affection, but with venom too practiced.

“Stop being a burden and do your fucking work.”

Your heart cracks clean in half. The silence that follows is unbearable.

You don’t hang up. You don’t cry. You just let the line go dead when he ends it.

And then the quiet comes back. But it’s not peaceful anymore.

It’s the kind that echoes every horrible word back to you—again and again—until you’re left with nothing but the sound of your heart breaking… in a body already falling apart.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next morning, the sunlight sneaks through the pale hospital curtains, casting soft gold over your bed. You barely feel it. Your bones ache. Your chest is still tight from last night.

But you hide it.

Yeosang is gently spooning porridge toward your lips.

“Just a little more,” He says softly, eyes tired.

He hasn’t slept well. You know he cried again—his lashes are still a little wet. You don’t ask. You just open your mouth and obey, like a good patient.

When he finally packs up to leave for the company, brushing your hair with his fingers like he used to when you were little, you smile.

“I’ll be okay,” You lie.

He hesitates “Call the nurse if you need anything.”

“I will.”

You wait until the door clicks shut before you call for the doctor.

“I need to go out for a few hours,” You say, sitting upright, your voice steadier than it should be. “Please. Just a few hours. I’ll be with a nurse. I… have things to finish.”

The doctor stares at you for a long time. You don’t offer more. You just meet his gaze with quiet determination.

Finally, he sighs “Only for a few hours. The nurse goes with you the entire time. No arguments.”

You nod "No arguments."

—

Stop 1: The Watch Store.

The clerk greets you with a warm smile, not noticing the slight tremble in your legs as you step inside.

“I’d like to pay for the custom watch I ordered online,” You say, pulling the receipt from your pocket with careful hands.

“And can you have it delivered on June 15 to this address?” You slide Yeosang’s name and home address across the counter.

The clerk nods, typing it in “Anything else?”

You hesitate, then smile faintly “Can you write a note to go with it? ‘For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

—

Stop 2: The Bakery.

The scent of sugar and yeast hits you like a memory—birthday mornings, surprise celebrations, shared laughs in the break room.

“I’d like to order a cake for June 13th,” You tell the girl at the counter.

She types as you speak “Message on the cake?”

You nod “Congratulations on your comeback, I’m so proud of you.”

She smiles “That’s sweet! Where should it be delivered?”

“KQ Entertainment. Lobby.”

—

Stop 3: The Funeral Home.

The room is sterile. Quiet. Almost too quiet.

The woman speaks gently as you browse “Do you… know what you’re looking for?”

You nod. A simple white coffin. Lilies. Nothing overdone.

You hand her a photo—one from your last birthday. You look healthy in it. Radiant. It’s the version of yourself you want them to remember.

“If it happens… soon,” You say quietly, “please use this photo.”

The woman places her hand over yours. You don’t flinch, just nod.

—

Stop 4: KQ Building.

You step in quietly through the side entrance. The guards recognize you, but they don’t question your pale complexion, or the nurse at your side. One of them greets you with a smile.

“You’re back,” He says. “It’s been a while.”

“Just for a bit.”

You walk slowly to the studio. No one sees you, they’re all working.

You sit in the recording room, headphones on, and finish the track Hongjoong demanded.

The lyrics blur in your mind, but the melody comes through clearly, like it had always been there—waiting.

When it’s done, you transfer the final version to a small silver USB. You stare at it for a second, then scribble something on a post-it.

“Sorry for the burden.”

You place the USB gently on Hongjoong’s desk and slip away before anyone notices you were even there.

The nurse doesn’t ask anything. She just holds the door for you as you step out into the spring air.

For the first time in weeks, you feel light. Not because anything is better. But because the end is near.

And you’re doing everything you can to leave it all behind… quietly, beautifully, on your own terms.

—

The studio is dimly lit, the same soft blue LEDs casting lazy shadows over the mixing console and shelves lined with half-finished demo CDs.

Hongjoong walks in, a coffee in one hand, the girl clinging to his other arm. She's giggling, wearing his hoodie like it's hers. Maybe it is, now.

He sets the coffee down, sighs as he slumps into his chair "Finally," He mutters, spotting the silver USB on the edge of his desk.

The small, square post-it clings to it. Your handwriting is instantly familiar—even now, he knows it better than his own.

"Sorry for the burden."

He reads it once. Then again. But his face doesn’t change.

No flicker of concern. No softness. No guilt.

"About time," He mutters, peeling the note off and tossing it into the trash without a second glance.

The girl beside him leans over his shoulder “Is that the track you needed?”

He nods, plugging the USB in “Yeah. She finally sent it in.”

There’s no thank you. No message sent. No question of where you've been or how you are.

Just a press of the spacebar. Play. Adjust. Pause. Replay. Work, as usual.

And the girl? She curls up on the studio couch, pulling out her phone, completely unaware—or perhaps uninterested—that this is a song made by someone slowly dying. Someone he once said he loved.

He doesn’t mention you. Not once. Just hums along to the melody you spent the last of your strength finishing.

The very one that will help complete their comeback.

Without you.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The hospital room is quiet, cloaked in the fading light of a late spring afternoon. The soft hum of machines fills the background, broken only by the gentle scratch of your pen against paper.

You’re finishing the last letter—the most difficult one. The one addressed to him.

‘To Hongjoong,’ You write, your hands trembling.

Tears blot the page before the ink can dry. You bite your lip to keep from sobbing, but it doesn’t help.

The words come slowly—not because you don’t know what to say, but because it hurts too much to say it.

When you finish it, you fold the letter slowly, tuck it into an envelope already addressed with your shaky handwriting. You place it on the small box next to your bed—all your letters, sealed and organized.

Wooyoung promised he’d deliver them if something happened. And you believe him.

The sun has dipped lower now, and Yeosang is gathering his things. He's dressed for filming, eyes tired, voice gentle.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks for the fifth time.

You nod, smiling “Yeah.” He lingers near the bed, hesitant. “Yeosang?”

“Hm?”

“…Thank you. For loving me. For staying. For making me feel like I wasn’t dying alone. You’ve been… everything.”

He frowns, stepping closer “Hey—hey, where’s that coming from?”

You reach for his hand, your grip so much weaker than it was even days ago “Just wanted to say it… in case.”

His throat bobs “You’re scaring me.”

“Don’t be scared.” You smile, tired but genuine. “Just remember that I love you. More than anyone in this life. You’ve made it beautiful, Yeosang.”

He bites his lip, eyes welling with emotion “You’re coming home. We’re going to beat this, okay?”

You nod, even though you both know it’s a lie.

He kisses your forehead gently, holding your hand longer than he should “I love you too,” He whispers, his voice cracking. “So much.”

Then he’s gone.

You watch the door close, and for the first time, the silence feels too big. You lean back against your pillow, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of it all settle into your bones.

No more strength. No more words.

Just you.

You don't know how much time you spend looking at the ceiling, but you let out the softest breath like a whisper no one hears.

Your hand slips from the blanket.

The monitors slow… Then stop.

You die in that room—quiet, still, surrounded by goodbye letters and the sunlight you were always chasing. No one holds your hand. No one’s there to whisper your name.

And your biggest fear comes true.

You die alone.

⋆

"Okay, take a ten-minute break, everyone!" The director calls out after the choreography for the second verse wraps.

The room exhales all at once—a chorus of panting breaths, damp hair, and bodies sinking into the floor.

Some members collapse onto the ground, others shuffle to grab water bottles, sweat clinging to their skin.

Hongjoong claps his hands with a grin, voice laced with adrenaline “This is it, guys. This comeback... it’s going to be amazing.”

Everyone nods, smiling through their exhaustion, the air buzzing with the thrill of creation.

Until—

“Excuse me,” A staff member calls out gently, stepping into the rehearsal room, holding a phone in both hands.

Her voice wavers “I’m sorry to interrupt but… Yeosang-ssi, your phone’s been ringing nonstop since the last take.”

The room stills. Yeosang, who had been toweling the sweat from his neck, turns slowly. His brows draw together in immediate concern.

“From who?” He asks, walking toward her.

She hands the phone over, and he stares at the screen.

Six missed calls. All from an unknown number.

Seonghwa shifts on the floor, his stomach tightening. He and Wooyoung lock eyes.

They know something is wrong.

Yeosang doesn’t wait. He calls back with shaking fingers. The call connects after a single ring.

“Mr. Kang?” A voice answers gently—too gently. “We’re calling from Seoul National Hospital. I’m afraid we have… very difficult news.”

Everyone around him stops moving.

Yeosang’s throat tightens “W-What happened?”

“We tried—Mr. Kang, we tried everything, but… we couldn’t save her.”

The silence that follows isn’t quiet, it’s screaming.

“We’re so sorry for your loss.”

Yeosang’s knees buckle. He drops the phone mid-sentence, a choked sound tearing from his throat as if someone reached inside him and pulled out his soul. His body hits the floor with a dull thud, hands clawing at his chest.

“No… no—no, no, no, no,” He gasps. “She—no, she was okay this afternoon, I fed her—she smiled at me—she—”

“Yeosang?” Wooyoung is already by his side, falling to his knees, grabbing his friend’s shoulders as Yeosang sobs, broken and raw.

Seonghwa picks up the phone and listens numbly as the hospital confirms the worst. His face drains of color. He doesn’t speak—only slowly lowers the phone, trembling like a leaf.

“She’s dead?” Wooyoung whispers, his voice hollow.

Yeosang doesn’t answer. He can’t. He curls into himself, the wails coming now—full, loud, gut-wrenching. The kind of crying that tears your throat open, the kind that sounds like it shouldn’t come from a human being.

Everyone in the room freezes. Even Hongjoong goes pale, stepping forward slowly.

“What’s going on?”

Seonghwa finally turns to him, red-eyed and shaking “She’s gone,” He whispers.

“What?”

“She’s dead, Hongjoong.”

And that’s when it clicks.

The song. The way Yeosang had been acting like the world was ending. The way you had disappeared without telling him anything.

Hongjoong staggers back as if slapped. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t even blink.

The words hang in the air like smoke: She’s dead.

They echo. They twist. But they don’t land.

He’s still standing in the center of the room, the choreography lights overhead casting long shadows down his face, but his eyes are unfocused, lost.

Yeosang is still crying—a broken, hoarse sound that scrapes at the walls. Wooyoung is holding him, whispering something against his temple. Seonghwa’s hands tremble at his sides as he stares at the floor.

But Hongjoong… He just blinks.

Dead? You can’t be dead.

You’re dramatic. Emotional. Reckless. But not dead.

He remembers the last call. The venom in his voice. The impatience. The threat.

He remembers not saying I love you back. Not once. Not even when you begged with silence.

He walks out of the studio like a ghost, no one stopping him.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s raining.

Because of course it is. Not a torrential downpour—just the kind of quiet drizzle that clings to black umbrellas and feels like the sky is crying in your place.

The room is quiet. Almost too quiet for a funeral. Like no one dares speak in fear of breaking the spell.

The casket is closed. Sleek. White. Lined with the delicate flowers you chose yourself.

There’s a photo framed above it—the one from your last birthday. You look beautiful in it. Young. Alive. Eyes sparkling.

Too alive to be gone.

Yeosang stands beside your casket with swollen eyes and a hollow heart. He hasn’t left your side since the doors opened.

Seonghwa is next to him. Rigid. Pale. The type of grief that looks like discipline but is actually just survival.

And then there’s Wooyoung. His eyes are glassy but dry—because he’s been holding something more important than tears: A small box.

Your box.

Inside, letters.

One for each member. Sealed, with their names written in your delicate handwriting.

As the ceremony ends, he moves silently, one by one.

First to San. He presses the envelope into San’s hand and doesn’t say a word.

San reads your name on the letter and immediately breaks. His shoulders hunch forward, and he walks away before anyone sees the tears come.

Then to Mingi, who clutches the letter to his chest and nods, trying to swallow the sob threatening to escape.

To Jongho, whose eyes glisten but lips stay shut.

To Yunho, who takes it gently, fingers trembling, and whispers, “Thank you.”

To Seonghwa, who doesn’t even blink—he just holds it and whispers, “I’ll read it when I’m ready.”

To Yeosang, whose fingers brush yours one last time before taking the letter. He holds it to his lips. Doesn’t speak. Just cries again.

And finally—To Hongjoong.

Wooyoung walks up to him slowly, jaw clenched. He hesitates—just for a second—before holding the letter out.

Hongjoong doesn’t take it. He stares at the paper like it might burn him. His face remains blank.

“She wrote it for you,” Wooyoung says, quiet, almost cruel. “You should read it.”

Hongjoong lifts his eyes, slow and tired “I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

The envelope slips from Wooyoung’s hand into Hongjoong’s. And for a long moment, Hongjoong just stares at it.

Your handwriting. Your last words.

To him.

His fingers close around it. He doesn’t cry. But his jaw locks, and his throat moves in one hard swallow.

The only thing he says is a whisper: “…I’m sorry.”

—

Later that night, the funeral is over. The sky is still weeping.

Hongjoong sits alone in his studio.

Not working. Not writing. Just sitting.

The letter sits on the table in front of him, untouched for hours. He’s been staring at it, afraid to open it, afraid to feel.

But eventually, his hand reaches out, slow and almost hesitant—like touching it might make it all real.

He breaks the seal. Your scent hits him faintly—that soft perfume you always wore—and already he’s breathless.

The paper shakes in his hands as he begins to read.

“To my love, my HongJoongie…”

That’s still how I think of you. Even after everything. Even now, even as I’m writing this with trembling fingers and bruised lungs. You’re still my Joongie.

I think I always knew.

About her.

The way your messages got shorter. How your voice lost that warmth. The way your eyes wandered, even when I was speaking. The way you smiled… just not at me anymore.

But I never asked. I didn’t want to break what was already cracking. I didn’t want to hear you say it, because then I couldn’t pretend anymore.

So I chose love. I chose you. Even when it hurt.

Hongjoong’s chest caves in.

His eyes blur. He wipes at them, but the shaking won’t stop now. He keeps reading, slower.

You were supposed to be my person. My safe place. I would’ve given everything just to be loved by you a little longer. Even if it meant swallowing all the pain. I wanted to be with you until the end, Joongie.

But the truth is…

I think you were already gone before I ever left.

He chokes. His hand flies to his mouth, like it might stop the noise rising in his throat.

But it’s too late.

A sharp sob rips from him. He bends forward, clutching the paper like it’s your hand and he can still hold on somehow.

The words blur.

But he forces himself to keep going.

You know, I used to be afraid of storms. The thunder always made me cry when I was little. But I grew out of it eventually.

I wish I could say the same about the fear of dying alone.

That one never left.

And now… I can feel it, Joongie. I can feel the end coming closer. And it’s cold. It’s terrifying. Because I think I’ll be alone when it comes. And I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to die without you.

Hongjoong breaks.

Completely.

No more holding back. No more numbness. Just grief. Ugly, gut-wrenching grief.

He collapses onto the floor, letter crumpled to his chest, sobbing like a man being ripped apart. Because he was supposed to protect you.

He was supposed to love you, stay with you, be there—through the storms, through the end.

But he let someone else into his bed while you were writing goodbye letters and choosing coffins.

He let you die alone.

And now there’s no song, no track, no apology that can bring you back.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

One Month Later

The company building is alive with quiet celebration.

It’s the day of the long-awaited comeback—photos are being taken, staff buzzing with excitement, members preparing for interviews and performances.

There are smiles.

But none of them quite reach the eyes.

Your absence is still a wound, deep and unhealed.

They all feel it — the silence where your voice used to be, the space you once filled so brightly now left hollow.

Then, somewhere between conversations and flashing lights—

“Delivery for Kang Yeosang?” A courier calls from the entrance.

Yeosang, confused, steps forward and takes the small, neatly wrapped box. His name is written in your handwriting.

There’s no mistaking it. His hands tremble. He opens it slowly.

Inside is a custom-made silver watch, the exact model he once told you about in passing—the one he never expected anyone to remember. The dial engraved with tiny, delicate script:

"For my favorite person: Happy Birthday, Yeosang. Love you always.’”

He stares at it, unable to speak. His chest tightens painfully.

Tears gather. A quiet, broken sob slips from him. Seonghwa puts a hand on his shoulder—and they don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Across the building, another courier arrives.

“Delivery for KQ Entertainment – Congratulations Cake?”

The receptionist, puzzled, takes it.

It’s a beautiful cake—white and gold, elegant. The top reads in delicate frosting:

“Congratulations on your comeback. I’m so proud of you all.”

The members gather around it slowly, recognizing the handwriting on the card beside it before anyone speaks.

No one touches the cake. No one can move.

Wooyoung’s eyes well up first “...She planned all this,” he whispers. “Even when she knew she wouldn’t be here.”

Jongho’s jaw clenches. San turns his back to hide his tears. Mingi cries openly.

Hongjoong is the last to arrive, holding your letter in his pocket—worn and read a hundred times.

He sees the cake. He sees Yeosang clutching that watch like it’s the last thread of you left in the world.

And for the first time in days—He crumbles.

He sinks to his knees beside the table, staring at the cake, whispering your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak.

Because love this deep doesn’t disappear when you die.

You gave them all a part of you to keep.

Even him.

Even the one who broke you, and it’s only now that he realizes… You were the only light any of them ever needed.

And you were gone far too soon.

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All rights reserved ♡bunny-hwa. Do not copy or translate my work.

[xuchiya]

When you give them kiss without asking - Ateez

thank you love💜

ATEEZ REACTION WHEN YOU GIVE THEM KISS WITHOUT ASKING

Pairing: Ateez x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Slight Comedy, Domestic Romance

Word Count: 2,600 words

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: this blog is a fanfiction haven, and everything posted here is purely a work of fiction. The characters, settings, and worlds belong to their respective creators unless otherwise stated. No copyright infringement is intended.

Hongjoong

You were sitting beside him as he tinkered with his laptop, headphones perched haphazardly over his bleached hair, bobbing slightly to the beat only he could hear. His glasses slid down his nose as he squinted at the screen, brows furrowed in focus.

Your eyes drifted to his lips—slightly parted, mouthing along to lyrics—and you didn’t think much before leaning in and planting a quick, warm kiss right there.

He froze.

Literally paused mid-keystroke.

Then he slowly turned his head to you, pulling one side of the headphones off.

“…Did you just kiss me?” he asked, voice way too serious for someone whose ears were turning crimson.

You grinned. “Yep.”

“No warning? No ‘Hey babe, I’m about to ambush you with affection’?”

“Didn’t think you’d mind.”

A beat.

Then he let out a sharp little laugh and closed the laptop.

“I didn’t mind,” he said, voice low and amused. “But if you're gonna keep kissing me like that in the studio, I might have to lock the door.”

Seonghwa

You were reorganizing his skincare drawer with him, which meant he was doing all the work while you mostly admired how handsome he looked even in sweatpants and a hoodie.

As he held up a sheet mask like it was a rare artifact, you stepped forward, tugged gently at his arm, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He blinked, startled, then gave you the softest, shyest smile like you’d just told him he was your world.

“…You didn’t even give me a second to prepare,” he murmured.

“Why would I?”

He laughed, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Because if you had, I would’ve kissed you back harder.”

You watched as he placed the mask down, then leaned in slowly this time, cupping your face with his palm.

“You surprised me, sweetheart. Now let me return the favor.”

Let’s just say the bathroom counter got forgotten pretty fast.

Yunho

You were both in line at an amusement park, holding his hand as you bounced on your heels with excitement. He’d just won you a plush bear at a claw machine and hadn’t stopped grinning since.

He turned to make a cheesy joke about funnel cake when you suddenly reached up and kissed him mid-sentence.

“—and then I—wait. Did you just—”

You shrugged innocently. “Yes.”

“…That was illegal,” he said dramatically. “No warning? No signal? No lead-up music?”

“Nope.”

He stood there blinking, then looked around at the crowd. “I feel like I should file a report. Someone just stole my heart.”

You groaned. “Yunho—”

“Wait wait, I’m not done. Because you—” he leaned in suddenly and kissed you back, breath warm on your lips “—have started a war.”

He spent the rest of the ride smothering you in random kisses every time you tried to speak.

Yeosang

The dance practice room echoed with the sound of a playlist he’d curated—smooth R\&B, the kind that matched the way he moved. He was wiping sweat from his forehead, catching his breath when you walked over, reached up, and kissed him on the lips before he could say anything.

He went completely still.

“…I—”

You tilted your head. “Was that okay?”

He nodded so slowly it was like his brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“I was gonna ask for a kiss after I cooled down,” he mumbled, visibly flustered. “But you beat me to it.”

You smiled. “Can’t help it when you look that good dancing.”

His ears turned pink.

“I’m sweaty,” he protested half-heartedly.

“I like you sweaty,” you teased.

He exhaled a laugh, grabbed a towel, then looked at you with soft eyes.

“Next time, at least let me kiss you back.”

San

You were walking down a quiet side street after grabbing ice cream together, his fingers loosely laced with yours. The sun was dipping below the rooftops, casting a warm orange hue over everything.

He was talking animatedly about a movie he wanted to watch when you suddenly stopped, tugged him toward you, and kissed him right in the middle of his sentence.

His eyes widened.

You pulled back, ice cream still in your free hand. “Sorry. You just looked cute.”

“…You just kissed me. In public.”

“I did.”

“You ambushed me like a romcom protagonist.”

San blinked, touched his lips like he was making sure it really happened, then grinned wide.

“I hope this means I’m your main love interest.”

You laughed. “Always.”

He took your hand, spun you in a dramatic twirl, then kissed you back under the streetlight.

“Then it’s only fair I steal a kiss too.”

Mingi

You were helping him decorate his apartment for a cozy little at-home date—twinkle lights, snacks, your favorite playlist humming low. He was placing a scented candle on the table, looking incredibly proud of himself, when you leaned forward and kissed him without warning.

He froze. Nearly knocked the candle over.

“…Did you just…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “You were being cute.”

He covered his face with both hands. “I wasn’t ready. My brain rebooted. Try again—wait no, don’t, I’m—”

You leaned in again and kissed him lightly, again.

He melted like the candle wax.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled, grinning through his fingers. “Now I feel like I gotta do something dramatic. Like recite a poem or carry you bridal style.”

“Oh? You gonna write me a sonnet next?”

“Don’t tempt me, I will.”

Wooyoung

You were in the middle of a Mario Kart match on his couch, controllers in hand, both shouting dramatic curses at each other. He was winning—barely—and very smug about it.

When he drifted around the last corner and threw a banana peel right in front of you, you dropped your controller and kissed him instead.

His eyes widened like you’d paused his entire life.

“…Did you just sabotage me with affection?”

“Yup.”

“That’s cheating. That’s emotional warfare. You weaponized your lips.”

“You love it.”

He blinked at the screen. “I lost. I literally lost.”

You shrugged. “Worth it?”

He tossed the controller, pulled you into his lap, and kissed you like he was trying to win the rematch with his mouth.

“Okay, new rule: you can kiss me, but only if I get to kiss you longer.”

Jongho

You were at a quiet café downtown, sipping on bubble tea while he sat across from you scrolling through his phone. The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows, turning his skin golden and soft.

He looked up to say something and you leaned across the small table and kissed him, just like that.

He stared.

“…Was that legal?”

“What?” you laughed.

“I didn’t see it coming. No lead-in. No suspense.”

“It was a surprise attack.”

He blinked a few more times, then leaned his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

“You’re so bold lately.”

“You don’t like it?”

He smirked. “I didn’t say that.”

Then he reached across and gently traced your fingertips.

“But next time… warn me. So I don’t almost choke on my drink again.”

You both laughed, and his smile lingered long after.

[xuchiya]

──── A Crown's Heart ⋆.˚ JEONG Y.H

02 ── The Distance Between Us .𖥔 ݁ ˖

⇄ ◀ 𓊕 ▶ ↻playing "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron ▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|| 𝄞 ♪

"They called it destiny, but all I felt was a cage woven from silk and sealed with a crown and a stranger’s name stitched beside mine."

← previous chapter ૮ • ﻌ - ა next chapter →

ateez masterlist ✶⋆.˚

➳ genre : royalty au, romance

➳ word count : 2.3k

➳ pairing : prince! yunho x princess! reader

The throne room was suffocating.

You stood at the center, your hands folded neatly before you, a crown of soft gold glinting in your hair heavier than it looked. Rows of courtiers lined the walls, their whispers a barely-contained tide of gossip and expectation.

And across from you, watching with unreadable eyes, stood Crown Prince Yunho of Edenora.

Your betrothed.

The man you were supposed to marry.

You barely knew him.

You had crossed paths only a handful of times since childhood, each meeting stiff and formal, surrounded by advisors and chaperones. He was polite, charming even but distant. Reserved. Like he was holding some part of himself back.

It should have made this easier, you thought.

Easier to keep your heart locked away.

Easier to survive a marriage built on duty, not love.

But somehow, it only made it harder.

Because sometimes, when you dared to meet his gaze, you caught glimpses of something fierce and devastating hiding behind the mask.

Something that terrified you more than anything.

Hope.

The ceremony was brief. Renewal of your engagement, publicly declaring your loyalty to Edenora in exchange for protection and political alliance.

When it was done, you dipped into a deep curtsey, your skirts sweeping the marble floor.

You felt Yunho approach his shadow falling over you, and then his hand, warm and steady, reached out to lift you gently to your feet.

You met his eyes.

And for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the two of you.

His hand lingered on yours longer than necessary.

Not possessive.

Not demanding.

Just... patient.

Like he was asking you, without words: Are you ready yet?

You looked away.

And Yunho let you go.

Later That Night

You stormed into your chambers, tearing the crown from your head and tossing it onto the vanity with a sharp clatter.

This isn't fair.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to run.

You had spent your whole life preparing to be strong, to rule wisely not to be bartered away like a pawn.

And yet... Yunho wasn't cruel.

He wasn't arrogant or cold.

He was kind.

Gentle.

Infuriatingly patient.

You hated that he made it harder to hate him.

He stood alone in the courtyard, the cool night air brushing against his skin.

From a distance, he could see the faint light glowing from your window.

He wondered if you were crying.

He ached to go to you, to knock on your door and promise you that you would never be alone again. That he would never force you into anything. That he loved you enough to wait forever, if he had to.

But he stayed rooted to the stone pathway, his fists clenching at his sides.

"She must choose me."

"Not duty. Not pressure. Me."

And so Yunho waited.

Even as it hurt more with every passing day.

Even as every polite smile you gave him felt like a blade twisted between his ribs.

He waited.

The Next Day

The royal gardens were lush and fragrant, the pathways winding between marble fountains and blooming lilies.

You found yourself wandering there alone, trying to clear your mind.

Until you weren't alone anymore.

You heard the soft crunch of boots on gravel and turned to see Yunho approaching, hands clasped behind his back.

He stopped a few steps away, giving you a respectful distance.

"My Princess." he said, voice low and steady. "May I walk with you?"

You hesitated.

Part of you wanted to refuse.

Part of you wanted to see if the boy with the silver moon hairpin still lived behind those formal words.

You nodded, wordless.

He smiled small, genuine, and fell into step beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Birds sang overhead. The fountains murmured.

Finally, Yunho broke the silence.

"You do not have to pretend with me," he said quietly. "I know you did not choose this."

You stiffened, the words hitting deeper than you expected.

"I did not," you admitted, staring at a patch of violets.

"But I would still choose you," Yunho said, almost a whisper. "Even now. Even if you never loved me."

You turned to him, shocked, but he wasn't looking at you. He stared straight ahead, his jaw tight with restraint.

"And I would never ask you to choose unhappily." he added. "If... if there is ever a day you wish to end the engagement, I will not stop you."

The weight of his words crushed the breath from your lungs.

Freedom.

Offered freely.

Without guilt. Without anger.

And somehow, it made you want to cry.

Because he was offering you exactly what you always said, you wanted choice, but all you could feel was a terrible, aching sorrow.

"Why?" you asked, voice cracking.

He finally looked at you.

And you saw it there, naked and raw, in his dark brown eyes.

"Because I love you." Yunho said simply.

No grand declarations.

No dramatic pleas.

Just a truth he carried so quietly it broke your heart.

You turned away before he could see the tears gathering in your lashes.

That night, you couldn't sleep.

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, your fingers absently tracing the curve of the old silver hairpin you had kept all these years without ever remembering why.

The boy with the silver moon.

The prince who waited.

The man who loved you enough to let you go.

Something inside you began to crack.

And somewhere deep in your chest, the first seed of love small and fragile began to grow.

taglist !!

@flambychan @yunniverse @beljakovina @blehno @stefanoiswithme @moonlitarcade @trivia-134340 @hartsablaze @roomie7669 @blue5ummer @ecriggs1990

[xuchiya]

When I first saw this one I was like "Soobin?"

and then the tags ... "Oh .. OH ITS YUNHO?!"

can't anymore............

[xuchiya]

Could I request maybe some angsty comfort?? It could be about anything with any of the boys, but with a happy ending please?? :)

til' my heartaches end || jung wooyoung || one-shot

| genre: angst with comfort. | mentions: broken promises. slight suggestive. mentions of intimate night.

word count:

Inspiration: Til' my heartaches end - Ella Mae Saison

Dear Wooyoung, my love—

You’re married now.

I wanted to say that with pride, with a smile blooming on my lips and warmth in my heart. And in some strange, aching way—I do. I really am happy for you. This isn't coming from bitterness or resentment, nor from the hollow place where jealousy usually thrives. No, this is something else entirely. Because when I saw your eyes—God, those eyes—light up like stars the moment you looked at her, I understood.

You’ve found the love of your life. And it isn’t me.

So here I am, writing to you not to win you back, not to question what happened, but to ask for something. Just one thing. Stay by her side. Always. Be her calm when the world becomes too loud. Be her warmth when the cold sneaks into her bones. Be her light, her tether, her silent promise that no matter what she feels—pain, rage, despair, or even numbness—your presence will be enough to remind her that she’s not alone.

Because once, you did that for me.

I can’t help but remember from seven months ago. We had just ended our nth date, and I was giddy from the way you held me like I was everything. That night, before you left, you kissed me so gently, so surely, and you told me you'd never leave. I believed you. And not long after, I remember calling you in tears, trembling from a nightmare that clung to me like shadows I couldn't shake off. You didn’t hesitate—you came. And you wrapped me up, not just in your arms, but in every word you whispered into my ear.

You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you.

You steadied the storm inside me with just your voice. With just you. 

That night, the storm outside mirrored what raged inside me, but you stayed. You didn't flinch. You held me until my body finally gave in to rest, and for the first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. Safe. Loved. Like I could finally breathe. Before my eyes fluttered closed, I heard you say it—I’ll be here forever.

I wanted to believe forever meant something. But morning always came. And mornings became the cruelest part of my days. Not because I hated waking up, no. But because you were always gone before the sun could even kiss the sky. No note. No goodbye. Just the cold side of the bed and my arms hugging the air where you used to be.

You left without a word. And somehow that silence hurt more than any goodbye could have. It’s hard to forget someone who shared their soul with you. You kissed me like I was your last chance, held me like I was the only thing keeping you together. You let me in—completely. You gave me your laughter, your pain, your vulnerable, broken pieces. You let me love them.

You let me love you.

I thought, maybe, just maybe, that meant you’d stay. That I was worth staying for. But I was wrong. And now, you’re miles away. Not just in distance, but in promises.

You made new ones. To her. 

Still, I love you. I guess I always will. you weren’t mine to keep—just mine for a while. Even though I knew it couldn’t last, even though something deep inside me told me this love was borrowed time, I loved you anyway. I loved you recklessly, selfishly, and fully.

When the church bells rang today, I froze. I knew this day was coming. I saw the signs. But nothing prepared me for the sound of it—those chimes echoing through my chest like a cruel countdown. You were saying “I do” to someone else, and I hadn’t even asked when you were going to tell me. Maybe because I was too afraid of the answer.

Too afraid that this—this love, this us, this maybe—wasn’t real after all.

You were my anchor in the storm, the breath that reached me when I was sinking. And now, all I have is the memory of you. So maybe tonight, I’ll see you in a dream. Maybe you’ll hold me again, just once. Maybe that’ll be enough to soften this ache. To remind me how it felt to be loved by you—even if only in the sanctuary of sleep. Maybe I’ll keep dreaming. Until the heartache stops. Until my love for you becomes nothing more than a soft ache, like a song that used to make me cry but now only makes me remember.

Yours, always in the silence

You sighed, fingers trembling slightly as you re-read the letter for what must’ve been the tenth time. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to see them—you already knew every line. They were etched into you now. A confession you were never brave enough to say aloud, sealed away in ink and paper.

With one final breath, you folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope. No perfume. No initials. Just… quiet closure.

You crossed the marbled hall of the venue, heart pounding louder with every step. Dressed in muted colors—a soft cream blouse and a mid-length skirt—you looked like any other guest. You had chosen carefully. You didn’t want to stand out. You didn’t want eyes on you. You just wanted to blend in, deliver the letter, and disappear before the music swelled again.

A wedding planner in a navy headset was busy organizing the gift table, double-checking ribbons and labels. You approached her with a polite smile, offering the envelope.

“For the couple,” you said softly.

She returned your smile with a nod, adding it to the growing pile of well-wishes and blessings. You turned your back on the bright lights, on the sparkling table arrangements and the distant sound of laughter. The melody of wedding bells and the soft strum of a love song bled faintly through the open doors behind you—each note like a thorn dragging across your chest. As you moved past the rows of guests in suits and pastel dresses, you kept your gaze low, praying no one would notice you. No one would recognize you.

“Zinnia?”

You froze.

That name. That cursed, beloved name. It rolled through the air like a whisper from the past. “Zinnia.” The nickname the boys had given you all those years ago when you correctly identified the rare flower growing in their yard—a bloom so bright and strange no one dared to pluck it. They had laughed, called you their little botanist, their Zinnia. The name stuck. It had become a part of you. A symbol of how loved you were. How seen.

And now it carved a hollow into your chest.

You didn’t turn around. You walked faster, breath hitching, vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes. You just needed to get out. To breathe. You reached the marble steps leading out of the venue when a hand suddenly caught your wrist. You gasped, spinning halfway around. Your breath faltered when you saw him.

Seonghwa.

His eyes searched your face with disbelief, as if unsure if you were real or just a phantom from memory. You pulled your wrist gently from his hold. “Bye, Seonghwa,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. You turned to go, chest heaving with the effort of holding yourself together.

“He still loves you!”

The words struck like thunder. Your jaw clenched as the storm inside you cracked open. Your ears rang from the sudden rush of emotion. Your hands balled into fists as you struggled to hold back the tears threatening to fall. You turned back slowly, eyes brimming, lips trembling.

“You expect me to stay after hearing that?” you asked, voice shaking. “You expect me to love him while standing in the ashes of everything he burned down and left me in?”

Seonghwa stepped closer, desperation in his expression. “Please… just stay. Hear him out.”

You scoffed bitterly, your heartbreak boiling over. “You—of all people—know what this did to me. You were there when I couldn’t eat. When I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. You held my hand through the silence he left behind.”

Tears fell freely now.

“To hell breaks loose that I would stand here and watch him marry someone else,” you hissed, voice tight. “I already buried this heartbreak. If he could walk away without a word… then so can I.”

“You don’t understand—” Seonghwa tried, stepping toward you again.

But you shook your head, stepping back, “No, you don’t understand. This—me leaving—isn’t weakness. It’s survival.” You turned then, one foot in front of the other like each step was tearing skin from bone, “I’m not here to ruin his day,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. And then you walked out of the venue.

You didn’t hear his name at first—only the sound of footsteps.

Fast. Desperate. And before you could even register what was happening, you were being stopped—arms gripped gently but firmly, held in place like the world had just paused for the two of you.

He was standing right in front of you. In a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair immaculately styled, lips tinted with just the right shade of nude to match the glow of his skin. You smelled him before you even fully processed the sight—his cologne. That warm, musky scent that once clung to your sheets. To your memories. And just like that, nostalgia hits you like a tidal wave.

You blinked the ache away, shaking yourself free from the dreamscape your heart wanted to fall back into. Your hands flew up to his wrists.

“Wooyoung, you can’t be here,” you hissed, trying to remove his grip from your arms. “You’re not supposed to—”

But he didn’t let go. Not tightly, but not loosely enough for you to slip away either.

“I’m not getting married,” he said.

The words stopped everything.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands paused against his. You shook your head, stunned, “But… I heard the bells. The invitations, the ceremony—you…” your voice cracked, eyes searching his face for sense, for explanation. “You left. You left without a word.”

He dropped his head with a breathy laugh, a mixture of regret and affection softening the curve of his mouth. And when he lifted his gaze again, you saw it—the same look he always gave you. That quiet worship. That chaotic warmth. That love.

“I was doing it out of obligation,” he said bitterly. “But screw obligation. Karma’s a bitch, and I deserved every sleepless night, every second of heartbreak.”

“Woo—” you began, your voice frail.

“I still love you,” he said, cutting through everything. “I always will.”

Your lips parted. The words caught on your tongue, but nothing came out. You just stood there, stunned, your breath shallow and your heart doing somersaults. He chuckled again, unable to help himself. That dazed, beautiful look on your face—he fell in love with that years ago. And right now, seeing it again?

He leaned forward and pressed a deep, soft kiss to your lips. His hands slid around your waist as he dipped you dramatically, stealing your breath as you let out a surprised squeal against his mouth. The kind of kiss that belonged in a movie. The kind you never forget.

When he stood you upright again, you smacked his arm—but there was no anger behind it. Only trembling emotion. Your fingers lingered against the fabric of his sleeve as you looked at him, blinking through tears.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why did you leave me like that, when you could’ve just told me?”

His shoulders sank, and for the first time in a long while, Wooyoung looked… small. Not the charming troublemaker. Not the man with the mask of confidence. Just someone who had made the worst mistake of his life, “I thought I was protecting you, I thought I was doing something right” he admitted. “It all felt like too much. Too fast. I didn’t know how to explain it. But I see it now. I should’ve let you in. That’s what love is, right? Not hiding. Not shutting you out.” 

He stepped closer, gently taking your hand in his. Then, he bent slightly to your eye level, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he cupped your cheek. You leaned into his palm without hesitation. It was instinct—like your soul remembered the shape of him before your body did.

“There were times,” he whispered, “I imagined it was you walking down that aisle. Not someone else. I saw you in a wedding dress, laughing at how the veil kept falling over your eyes. I imagined those vows—every one of them meant for you.”

He drew even closer now, his nose brushing yours, “I tortured myself thinking I’d marry someone else and then come running back to you after. But I never made it down that aisle, because every step felt wrong. You were the only one who ever felt like home.”

Your lip trembled. “What obligation, Wooyoung?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, and for the first time that night—you laughed. A small, teary chuckle that cracked the shell around your heart. His eyes sparkled at the sound, “The usual business deal,” he muttered. “Some arranged marriage crap. Merging companies, saving reputations… blah blah blah.”

“And now?”

He smiled, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles, “Now?” he whispered against your skin. “I’m done playing the part. I don’t care about business. About image. I only care that I almost lost the love of my life.”

Then, he pulled you close, resting his cheek against your head, “You’re my wife in all the ways that matter,” he murmured. “Always have been and always will be.” Your arms slid around his waist, your body sagging in relief against him as you closed your eyes. You were home. And the ache that had been tearing at your chest all day?

Finally it quieted.

Later that night…

The suit was long gone. His hair, freshly washed, no longer sculpted by gel, fell naturally across his forehead—soft and boyish. His skin was bare now, the makeup removed, revealing the gentle shadows of his features under the dim glow of your apartment’s fairy lights.

He lay beside you on the mattress, one arm beneath his head, the other stretched toward you as your fingers played lazily with his. Both of you stared up at the ceiling, where the old glow-in-the-dark stars from your childhood still clung in awkward clusters—some faded, some glowing strong. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was full. Peaceful.

His voice broke through the quiet like a whisper of wind:

"I saw your letter..."

Your fingers paused. The breath you were about to take caught somewhere in your throat. You had written that letter with every shard of a heart that thought it would never beat whole again—and then left it behind like a piece of yourself you didn’t want anymore.

You didn’t reply immediately. He turned on his side to face you, his cheek resting against the crook of his arm. The moonlight from your window outlined his profile, casting a quiet vulnerability across his features.

"I read it..." he added, voice softer now. "But I threw it away."

Your brows lifted, head turning slightly in surprise. “You what?” He smirked faintly, not in mockery—but in that familiar, Wooyoung kind of way. The one that always carried too many feelings for just one smile.

"I couldn’t let it exist," he said, simply. "Not in a world where we found our way back to each other." You swallowed, the ache in your throat blooming again—not painful, this time. Just real. Tender.

“What did you think of it?” you asked, almost afraid to know. He shrugged, but his gaze was steady. “Honestly?” he said, lips curling. “It was so poetic, I’m convinced Hongjoong could make a whole album out of it. But if he ever does,” he paused, leaning forward to bump his forehead gently against yours, “you better get full songwriting credit.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his arm. That kind of laugh you only allow yourself when you’re safe. When you’re home.

His smile softened as he watched you. And for Wooyoung, this was it.

Not the ceremony. Not the stage. Not the headlines.

You.

In your dimly lit apartment, tangled beside him on a mattress with glow stars above you and love rediscovered between you—this was where he belonged. Not chasing obligations. Not playing roles.

“This,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek as you closed your eyes, “this is home.”

And that night, with the world quiet beyond your walls and a love once lost now found again—he stayed. Wrapped in the scent of your hair, the rhythm of your breath, and the promise that he’d never run again.

[xuchiya]

Could I request maybe some angsty comfort?? It could be about anything with any of the boys, but with a happy ending please?? :)

til' my heartaches end || jung wooyoung || one-shot

| genre: angst with comfort. | mentions: broken promises. slight suggestive. mentions of intimate night.

word count:

Inspiration: Til' my heartaches end - Ella Mae Saison

Dear Wooyoung, my love—

You’re married now.

I wanted to say that with pride, with a smile blooming on my lips and warmth in my heart. And in some strange, aching way—I do. I really am happy for you. This isn't coming from bitterness or resentment, nor from the hollow place where jealousy usually thrives. No, this is something else entirely. Because when I saw your eyes—God, those eyes—light up like stars the moment you looked at her, I understood.

You’ve found the love of your life.

And it isn’t me.

So here I am, writing to you not to win you back, not to question what happened, but to ask for something. Just one thing. Stay by her side. Always. Be her calm when the world becomes too loud. Be her warmth when the cold sneaks into her bones. Be her light, her tether, her silent promise that no matter what she feels—pain, rage, despair, or even numbness—your presence will be enough to remind her that she’s not alone.

Because once, you did that for me.

I can’t help but remember from seven months ago. We had just ended our nth date, and I was giddy from the way you held me like I was everything. That night, before you left, you kissed me so gently, so surely, and you told me you'd never leave. I believed you. And not long after, I remember calling you in tears, trembling from a nightmare that clung to me like shadows I couldn't shake off. You didn’t hesitate—you came. And you wrapped me up, not just in your arms, but in every word you whispered into my ear.

You’re safe. I’m here. I’ve got you.

You steadied the storm inside me with just your voice. With just you. 

That night, the storm outside mirrored what raged inside me, but you stayed. You didn't flinch. You held me until my body finally gave in to rest, and for the first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. Safe. Loved. Like I could finally breathe. Before my eyes fluttered closed, I heard you say it—I’ll be here forever.

I wanted to believe forever meant something. But morning always came. And mornings became the cruelest part of my days. Not because I hated waking up, no. But because you were always gone before the sun could even kiss the sky. No note. No goodbye. Just the cold side of the bed and my arms hugging the air where you used to be.

You left without a word. And somehow that silence hurt more than any goodbye could have. It’s hard to forget someone who shared their soul with you. You kissed me like I was your last chance, held me like I was the only thing keeping you together. You let me in—completely. You gave me your laughter, your pain, your vulnerable, broken pieces. You let me love them.

You let me love you.

I thought, maybe, just maybe, that meant you’d stay. That I was worth staying for. But I was wrong. And now, you’re miles away. Not just in distance, but in promises.

You made new ones. To her. 

Still, I love you. I guess I always will. you weren’t mine to keep—just mine for a while. Even though I knew it couldn’t last, even though something deep inside me told me this love was borrowed time, I loved you anyway. I loved you recklessly, selfishly, and fully.

When the church bells rang today, I froze. I knew this day was coming. I saw the signs. But nothing prepared me for the sound of it—those chimes echoing through my chest like a cruel countdown. You were saying “I do” to someone else, and I hadn’t even asked when you were going to tell me. Maybe because I was too afraid of the answer.

Too afraid that this—this love, this us, this maybe—wasn’t real after all.

You were my anchor in the storm, the breath that reached me when I was sinking. And now, all I have is the memory of you. So maybe tonight, I’ll see you in a dream. Maybe you’ll hold me again, just once. Maybe that’ll be enough to soften this ache. To remind me how it felt to be loved by you—even if only in the sanctuary of sleep. Maybe I’ll keep dreaming. Until the heartache stops. Until my love for you becomes nothing more than a soft ache, like a song that used to make me cry but now only makes me remember.

Yours, always in the silence

You sighed, fingers trembling slightly as you re-read the letter for what must’ve been the tenth time. The words blurred at the edges, but you didn’t need to see them—you already knew every line. They were etched into you now. A confession you were never brave enough to say aloud, sealed away in ink and paper.

With one final breath, you folded it carefully and slipped it into the envelope. No perfume. No initials. Just… quiet closure.

You crossed the marbled hall of the venue, heart pounding louder with every step. Dressed in muted colors—a soft cream blouse and a mid-length skirt—you looked like any other guest. You had chosen carefully. You didn’t want to stand out. You didn’t want eyes on you. You just wanted to blend in, deliver the letter, and disappear before the music swelled again.

A wedding planner in a navy headset was busy organizing the gift table, double-checking ribbons and labels. You approached her with a polite smile, offering the envelope.

“For Wooyoung,” you said softly.

She returned your smile with a nod, adding it to the growing pile of well-wishes and blessings. You turned your back on the bright lights, on the sparkling table arrangements and the distant sound of laughter. The melody of wedding bells and the soft strum of a love song bled faintly through the open doors behind you—each note like a thorn dragging across your chest. As you moved past the rows of guests in suits and pastel dresses, you kept your gaze low, praying no one would notice you. No one would recognize you.

“Zinnia?”

You froze.

That name. That cursed, beloved name. It rolled through the air like a whisper from the past. “Zinnia.” The nickname the boys had given you all those years ago when you correctly identified the rare flower growing in their yard—a bloom so bright and strange no one dared to pluck it. They had laughed, called you their little botanist, their Zinnia. The name stuck. It had become a part of you. A symbol of how loved you were. How seen.

And now it carved a hollow into your chest.

You didn’t turn around. You walked faster, breath hitching, vision blurring as tears welled in your eyes. You just needed to get out. To breathe. You reached the marble steps leading out of the venue when a hand suddenly caught your wrist. You gasped, spinning halfway around. Your breath faltered when you saw him.

Seonghwa.

His eyes searched your face with disbelief, as if unsure if you were real or just a phantom from memory. You pulled your wrist gently from his hold. “Bye, Seonghwa,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. You turned to go, chest heaving with the effort of holding yourself together.

“He still loves you!”

The words struck like thunder. Your jaw clenched as the storm inside you cracked open. Your ears rang from the sudden rush of emotion. Your hands balled into fists as you struggled to hold back the tears threatening to fall. You turned back slowly, eyes brimming, lips trembling.

“You expect me to stay after hearing that?” you asked, voice shaking. “You expect me to love him while standing in the ashes of everything he burned down and left me in?”

Seonghwa stepped closer, desperation in his expression. “Please… just stay. Hear him out.”

You scoffed bitterly, your heartbreak boiling over. “You—of all people—know what this did to me. You were there when I couldn’t eat. When I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe. You held my hand through the silence he left behind.”

Tears fell freely now.

“To hell breaks loose that I would stand here and watch him marry someone else,” you hissed, voice tight. “I already buried this heartbreak. If he could walk away without a word… then so can I.”

“You don’t understand—” Seonghwa tried, stepping toward you again.

But you shook your head, stepping back, “No, you don’t understand. This—me leaving—isn’t weakness. It’s survival.” You turned then, one foot in front of the other like each step was tearing skin from bone, “I’m not here to ruin his day,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. And then you walked out of the venue.

You didn’t hear his name at first—only the sound of footsteps.

Fast. Desperate. And before you could even register what was happening, you were being stopped—arms gripped gently but firmly, held in place like the world had just paused for the two of you.

He was standing right in front of you. In a perfectly tailored black suit, his hair immaculately styled, lips tinted with just the right shade of nude to match the glow of his skin. You smelled him before you even fully processed the sight—his cologne. That warm, musky scent that once clung to your sheets. To your memories. And just like that, nostalgia hits you like a tidal wave.

You blinked the ache away, shaking yourself free from the dreamscape your heart wanted to fall back into. Your hands flew up to his wrists.

“Wooyoung, you can’t be here,” you hissed, trying to remove his grip from your arms. “You’re not supposed to—”

But he didn’t let go. Not tightly, but not loosely enough for you to slip away either.

“I’m not getting married,” he said.

The words stopped everything.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands paused against his. You shook your head, stunned, “But… I heard the bells. The invitations, the ceremony—you…” your voice cracked, eyes searching his face for sense, for explanation. “You left. You left without a word.”

He dropped his head with a breathy laugh, a mixture of regret and affection softening the curve of his mouth. And when he lifted his gaze again, you saw it—the same look he always gave you. That quiet worship. That chaotic warmth. That love.

“I was doing it out of obligation,” he said bitterly. “But screw obligation. Karma’s a bitch, and I deserved every sleepless night, every second of heartbreak.”

“Woo—” you began, your voice frail.

“I still love you,” he said, cutting through everything. “I always will.”

Your lips parted. The words caught on your tongue, but nothing came out. You just stood there, stunned, your breath shallow and your heart doing somersaults. He chuckled again, unable to help himself. That dazed, beautiful look on your face—he fell in love with that years ago. And right now, seeing it again?

He leaned forward and pressed a deep, soft kiss to your lips. His hands slid around your waist as he dipped you dramatically, stealing your breath as you let out a surprised squeal against his mouth. The kind of kiss that belonged in a movie. The kind you never forget.

When he stood you upright again, you smacked his arm—but there was no anger behind it. Only trembling emotion. Your fingers lingered against the fabric of his sleeve as you looked at him, blinking through tears.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why did you leave me like that, when you could’ve just told me?”

His shoulders sank, and for the first time in a long while, Wooyoung looked… small. Not the charming troublemaker. Not the man with the mask of confidence. Just someone who had made the worst mistake of his life, “I thought I was protecting you, I thought I was doing something right” he admitted. “It all felt like too much. Too fast. I didn’t know how to explain it. But I see it now. I should’ve let you in. That’s what love is, right? Not hiding. Not shutting you out.” 

He stepped closer, gently taking your hand in his. Then, he bent slightly to your eye level, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he cupped your cheek. You leaned into his palm without hesitation. It was instinct—like your soul remembered the shape of him before your body did.

“There were times,” he whispered, “I imagined it was you walking down that aisle. Not someone else. I saw you in a wedding dress, laughing at how the veil kept falling over your eyes. I imagined those vows—every one of them meant for you.”

He drew even closer now, his nose brushing yours, “I tortured myself thinking I’d marry someone else and then come running back to you after. But I never made it down that aisle, because every step felt wrong. You were the only one who ever felt like home.”

Your lip trembled. “What obligation, Wooyoung?”

He rolled his eyes dramatically, and for the first time that night—you laughed. A small, teary chuckle that cracked the shell around your heart. His eyes sparkled at the sound, “The usual business deal,” he muttered. “Some arranged marriage crap. Merging companies, saving reputations… blah blah blah.”

“And now?”

He smiled, bringing your joined hands up to press a kiss to your knuckles, “Now?” he whispered against your skin. “I’m done playing the part. I don’t care about business. About image. I only care that I almost lost the love of my life.”

Then, he pulled you close, resting his cheek against your head, “You’re my wife in all the ways that matter,” he murmured. “Always have been and always will be.” Your arms slid around his waist, your body sagging in relief against him as you closed your eyes. You were home. And the ache that had been tearing at your chest all day?

Finally it quieted.

Later that night…

The suit was long gone. His hair, freshly washed, no longer sculpted by gel, fell naturally across his forehead—soft and boyish. His skin was bare now, the makeup removed, revealing the gentle shadows of his features under the dim glow of your apartment’s fairy lights.

He lay beside you on the mattress, one arm beneath his head, the other stretched toward you as your fingers played lazily with his. Both of you stared up at the ceiling, where the old glow-in-the-dark stars from your childhood still clung in awkward clusters—some faded, some glowing strong. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was full. Peaceful.

His voice broke through the quiet like a whisper of wind:

"I saw your letter..."

Your fingers paused. The breath you were about to take caught somewhere in your throat. You had written that letter with every shard of a heart that thought it would never beat whole again—and then left it behind like a piece of yourself you didn’t want anymore.

You didn’t reply immediately. He turned on his side to face you, his cheek resting against the crook of his arm. The moonlight from your window outlined his profile, casting a quiet vulnerability across his features.

"I read it..." he added, voice softer now. "But I threw it away."

Your brows lifted, head turning slightly in surprise. “You what?” He smirked faintly, not in mockery—but in that familiar, Wooyoung kind of way. The one that always carried too many feelings for just one smile.

"I couldn’t let it exist," he said, simply. "Not in a world where we found our way back to each other." You swallowed, the ache in your throat blooming again—not painful, this time. Just real. Tender.

“What did you think of it?” you asked, almost afraid to know. He shrugged, but his gaze was steady. “Honestly?” he said, lips curling. “It was so poetic, I’m convinced Hongjoong could make a whole album out of it. But if he ever does,” he paused, leaning forward to bump his forehead gently against yours, “you better get full songwriting credit.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his arm. That kind of laugh you only allow yourself when you’re safe. When you’re home.

His smile softened as he watched you. And for Wooyoung, this was it.

Not the ceremony. Not the stage. Not the headlines.

You.

In your dimly lit apartment, tangled beside him on a mattress with glow stars above you and love rediscovered between you—this was where he belonged. Not chasing obligations. Not playing roles.

“This,” he whispered, brushing a thumb across your cheek as you closed your eyes, “this is home.”

And that night, with the world quiet beyond your walls and a love once lost now found again—he stayed. Wrapped in the scent of your hair, the rhythm of your breath, and the promise that he’d never run again.

[xuchiya]

intro - profiles

mocha

san x reader

genre : fluff, humor, slight angst, smau, slowburnish?, slice of life au, college au, coffee shop au, soft pining, best friends to lovers

warnings : swearing

next

masterlist

synopsis

⤷ you never knew that your best friend was a great dancer until you went to one of his showcases. but it seems like you don’t know a lot of things when it comes to choi san.

profile descriptions below!

june: they use the nickname ‘june’ because of the month and how their parents got married in that month. fellow coworker of san (and also got the job before him). also known as san’s long time best friend since high school. they know san like the back of their hand.

san: people know him because he’s one of the baristas at the coffee house diaries cafe. but this man fr is insanely talented when he dances. all of his practices and pre showcases stress him tf out. he knows june like the back of his hand as well.

[xuchiya]

please, you're wearing a skirt || kim taehyung || one-shot

| genre: fluff. slice of life. | mentions: literally being clumsy and high school love!

funny and sweet dream I have about Taehyung and Jungkook. In my dream, my grandma told me Jungkook is my cousin and I remember vividly that I was at school and by the looks of it, Jungkook and Taehyung are my classmates.

The classroom buzzed softly, golden sunlight spilling through the tall windows of the traditional Japanese-style room. It was lunchtime, and most of the class had filtered out to the courtyard. Only a few students remained—chatting quietly, lazily have their legs on their desk as they rest, or lying belly-down across their desks as they snack.

And somehow, right in the middle of it all, stood Jeon Jungkook.

Apparently your cousin. Or so your grandmother claimed this morning over kimchi fried rice, like she was announcing the weather which by the way made you cough out most of your breakfast when Jungkook walks in with a grin of 'Surprise Motherfuc'. You hadn’t exactly processed that yet—not when the same “cousin” had just shoved all the desks to the corners of the room and declared, “Dance showdown!”

You blinked in disbelief as he clapped his hands, grinning like a mischievous kid with a secret. “C’mon! Who’s got moves, huh?”

The space he’d cleared in the center of the classroom now resembled a tiny stage, beams of sunlight spotlighting the wooden floor like fate was in on the chaos. Students took turns one by one, some throwing serious shapes, others just flailing with laughter. Jungkook beatboxed enthusiastically in the corner, hyping people up with the chaotic energy of a human confetti cannon.

You were smiling and nodding along with the others, clutching your juice box as you lean against the wall. The whole agenda seem harmless until your eyes made eye-contact with the devil and suddenly it feels like life have betrayed you for a moment—

“Yah! You!” Jungkook suddenly pointed, eyes lighting up with evil familial joy. “Cousin, you’re up!”

Your entire soul froze. “...Me?”

The class immediately rallied, clapping and chanting your name. There was no escaping. Either you melt on the ground like an idiot or just stood there like a statue but one of your seatmate nudge you to go and you were left with no choice but to go along with their vibe as you don't want to be label as the party pooper. With your heart hammering in your chest, you handed your juice to someone nearby and stepped into the circle.

You inhaled deeply. Just a few seconds. Make it fun. Survive the embarrassment.

And so you danced—light, playful steps—suddenly doing Growl by EXO— a spin, the rhythm pulsing through your limbs. Laughter bubbled in your chest.

Until the breeze caught the hem of your skirt. Just for a second.

Your breath caught. Even though you had shorts underneath, mortification crashed over you like a wave. You froze mid-move, panic clawing its way up your throat.

Then, without a word, warmth appeared behind you. Two firm but gentle tugs around your waist. You turned your head, heartbeat thudding in your ears.

He stood just behind you, a breath closer than comfort allowed. His school jacket now wrapped neatly around your waist, knotted at the front. His face was unreadable, eyes lowered just slightly—only the faintest blush blooming along his cheekbones betrayed him.

He leaned in—just enough for only you to hear—and said softly, voice smooth and careful:

“Please... you’re wearing a skirt.” His voice was low—almost gentle. The kind of tone that slipped beneath the noise, reserved for moments meant only for two.

Then Taehyung stepped back.

No teasing grin. No sly wink. No need for attention. Just a quiet step away, hands slipping casually back into the pockets of his uniform pants, like he hadn’t just shielded you from the worst embarrassment of your life. Like he hadn’t just wrapped his blazer around your waist and saved you from becoming a meme in your group chat.

But something had happened.

Taehyung—your class’s resident chaos theory in human form—had noticed.

The same Taehyung who once brought a rubber duck to your biology quiz claiming it was his “emotional support animal,” who played the flute backwards during school talent show rehearsals just to see if anyone would call him out. The boy who doodled entire fantasy kingdoms in the margins of his math test and somehow still aced it. That Taehyung had noticed your discomfort, said nothing, and protected you in front of everyone.

You stood frozen, pulse thudding loudly in your ears. The room around you erupted with cheers and dramatic howls, but all you could feel was the warmth of his blazer around your waist—soft, worn, smelling faintly of cedar and peppermint gum.

“OHHHHHHHHHHHH~!” Jungkook’s voice broke through like a trumpet blast at a royal announcement. Your cousin stood on top of a chair, cupping his hands around his mouth like a news anchor. “DID Y’ALL SEE THAT?? TAEHYUNG JUST CLAIMED HER WITH A JACKET!”

The classroom exploded. Cheers, screams, whistling, even a shoe thrown in celebration. Your head snapped toward Jungkook with fire in your eyes. “JEON JUNGKOOK!” You yanked off your slipper with dramatic flair and hurled it with deadly accuracy.

Thunk!

Direct hit. Right in the chest.

He gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “I’M TELLING GRANDMA THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND!”

“Oh yeah?” you snapped, marching toward him like a soldier on a mission. “I’m telling Grandma you called her ‘bruh’ last week and that you have a girlfriend in Busan!”

The classroom gasped.

“LIES! SLANDER!” Jungkook shrieked, dropping the slipper and sprinting between desks like a man on the run. “I don’t even know where Busan is!”

You gave chase. “You were literally born there!”

Students screamed and scattered, giving you two room to launch into a full-on lunchtime chase scene—snacks flying, notebooks dropping, desks scooting aside with loud squeaks.

And in the middle of all that chaos, across the room, Taehyung remained seated by the open window, one leg casually draped over the other, hand propped under his chin. The sunlight filtered through the glass, illuminating the gentle angles of his face. He watched the mayhem unfold with an unreadable expression—until the corner of his lips slowly curled upward.

Not a smirk.

Not quite.

Just a knowing, silent smile. A moment captured only by the breeze and the brief glint in his eyes—something private, something rare.

Something… maybe meant just for you.

And in that golden, chaotic moment—heart pounding, face burning, laughter echoing around you—you realized this wasn’t just a lunch break. It was the beginning of something unforgettable.

[xuchiya]

scarlet hair || song mingi || ep. 3/4

| genre: fluff. marvel au. supernatural. bucky! mingi. scarlet witch! reader. | mentions: the next generation of avengers but on training. ambush. injury. love on the go between you and mingi. and then capt. america seonghwa with an iron man yeosang andddd spiderman yunho

word count: 3.9k

ep. 1 || ep. 2 || ep. 4

Your scream echoed through the penthouse like a shockwave—raw, ancient, and agonizing. It shook the very air, reverberating against the glass walls until they trembled. Cracks streaked across the marble floor like lightning bolts, as your crimson chaos clashed violently with Agatha’s dark violet corruption. The room pulsed with unstable magic, a battlefield of power and legacy.

Mingi was the first to charge.

Blood trickled down the side of his face, staining his temple, but his gaze never left you. "Let her go!" he bellowed, voice torn with fury. With every ounce of strength left in his body, he lunged through a smoldering gap between beams—his mechanical arms sparking, legs buckling under the sheer force of his movement.

Agatha didn’t even glance his way. With a flick of her wrist, Mingi was hurled mid-air, crashing hard into a marble column. The stone shattered on impact. He collapsed with a grunt, debris falling around him in a violent plume of dust.

“Mingi!” Yunho’s voice cracked as he rushed over, panic flashing in his eyes. He knelt to help, yanking away rubble until Mingi coughed, trying to wave him off, “I got it…” Mingi rasped.

Yunho hesitated, then nodded tightly before sprinting forward again. His eyes locked on you, barely visible through the crackling vortex around your body. He shot a line of webbing toward the ceiling, using it to swing forward in a swift arc. He twisted mid-air, dodging a blast of chaotic red that Agatha flung at him. It grazed his shoulder, searing through fabric and skin.

Still, he landed clean near you.

His hands shot out instinctively towards you—but the instant they neared, a wave of force blasted him backwards. The air sizzled around your form, the siphoning barrier rejecting any rescue attempt.

“She’s locked in a siphon loop,” Yeosang muttered, eyes flicking across the holographic display in front of his visor. His fingers typed rapidly against the holographic interface glowing at his wrist. “Her soul is being rewired—Agatha’s channeling chaos magic directly through her body. She’s turning her into a conduit.”

“Then we break the damn circuit,” Seonghwa growled, stepping forward with his shield raised. The vibranium gleamed with kinetic energy. He flung it—clean, precise—a silver blur that ricocheted off a metal beam and struck Agatha square in the shoulder. The impact jolted her. She hissed and stumbled back, her grip on the spell faltering for just a second.

That second was all they needed.

“Yunho—now!” Yeosang shouted, reactor core flaring to life with a pulsing blue glow. He slammed his palms to the ground, sending a surge of electromagnetic disruption across the penthouse floor. The siphon spell matrix glitched—shimmering like static on a broken screen.

Agatha’s eyes widened. “NO—”

But Mingi was already up, blood still dripping, and rage burning through every movement. His arms locked into place with a mechanical whir, and he sprinted straight at her. With a battle cry, he landed a direct punch to the heart of the circuit etched into the floor. The mark shattered on impact, rupturing like glass.

“NOW!” Seonghwa shouted.

Yunho didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, webs firing from his wrist in quick succession. He reached you just as your knees gave out, catching your collapsing form against his chest, “I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely, holding you like something sacred. Your magic flickered weakly across your fingertips, struggling to stay lit.

Agatha screamed, hands raised as lightning surged red from her palms—but Yeosang unleashed an EMP blast from his reactor, hitting her directly. Her magic sputtered, flickering out like a dying flame.

Yunho gently lowered you to safety. Seonghwa glanced at Agatha before darting to Mingi with quick analysis. He pressed a button on his suit, with a magnetic snap, his shield returned to his forearm, “Mingi!” he called out. Mingi’s eyes darted to Seonghwa—who crouched low, shield flat above his head. He understood immediately. With no hesitation, Mingi ran forward, planting a foot on the shield. Seonghwa lifted, launching him into the air like a catapult. Mingi soared.

And then—

CRACK.

His fist collided with Agatha mid-air, metal arms amplifying the strike. The shockwave shattered every last pane of glass in the penthouse. Agatha was flung across the room, crashing into the far wall with such force that the ceiling cracked, rubble raining down around her.

“You picked the wrong witch,” Mingi growled, breathing heavily. Agatha groaned, trying to rise—her eyes burning with residual fury—but it was too late. The boys moved in. Yunho, bleeding and panting, shot web after web, pinning her arms to the wall. Yeosang stepped in with a hum of his tech blade, resting the edge against her throat with cold precision.

Mingi rolled his neck, arms humming as he flexed, now towering over her crumpled body. And Seonghwa stood last, your unconscious form in his arms, your head resting against his shoulder. His stare was steel.

“Your war ends tonight.” Agatha’s body slumped against the cracked wall, magic flickering chaotically at her fingertips. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. Her dress was torn, her hair wild, her breath ragged.

And yet— She laughed. A low, ragged chuckle that built into a full-bodied cackle. Her head lolled forward as her glowing eyes fixed on the four of them, now circling her like wolves.

“Did you really think… it would be that easy?”

Before Seonghwa could raise his shield again—a violent surge of violet magic burst from her core, knocking all four of them back like rag dolls. Yunho crashed against the window frame. Yeosang’s reactor sparked violently as he hit a console. Mingi landed hard with a grunt, and Seonghwa lost his grip on you as he tumbled across the floor, his shield sliding off his forearm. 

You hit the ground with a groan, your arms trembling as you push yourself upright. Dazed but conscious, you turned—just in time to see Agatha stalking toward Seonghwa, her palm glowing with condensed violet fire, “No!” you gasped, eyes widening as her hand raised, magic primed to strike.

“Stop interfering with my plans, you stupid soldier!” Agatha spat, preparing to slam her palm down onto Seonghwa’s chest. But she never got the chance. A flash of red light streaked through the air, striking her side and sending her flying across the wreckage.

Seonghwa flinched, lifting his arm to shield himself from the blow. Slowly, he turned his head to the source. It was you—hand still raised, smoke curling from your fingertips. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. You blinked slowly, and when your eyes opened again, they blazed with scarlet fury. 

“Damn you, stupid witch…” you hissed, lifting both arms as a rush of red mist enveloped your body. It carried you off the ground, suspending you mid-air like an avenging phantom. You hovered above the destruction, forming another orb of chaos magic in your palm, “You don’t come in here and hurt my friends,” you said through gritted teeth, fury pulsing in your voice as you hurled the orb towards her.

Agatha stumbled to her feet, cackling through the pain. “But I did.”

You launched toward her like a fireball. The two of you collided midair and slammed through the destroyed framework of the hangar, crashing into stacked crates and scattered debris. You delivered a brutal punch to her jaw but she twisted away from the second, retaliating with a surge of magic that threw you across the room.

You tumbled across the hangar floor, slamming into a steel cart that screeched against the ground. Groaning, you forced yourself up on shaking arms, “Of course she did,” you muttered bitterly.

Above, Agatha rose into the air again, hair billowing, her laughter echoing like thunder. You brushed your hair back from your eyes, exhaling sharply before lifting into the air again, your gaze never leaving hers. You and Agatha were locked in a stare-down in the hangar, as if the super soldiers around you didn’t even exist—until, with a snap of your wrist and without breaking eye contact, they vanished, transported elsewhere in an instant.

“And you don’t come in here barging in with another guest.”You raised a hand and hurled a blast of chaos magic at her—searing red energy that blazed across the air but Agatha blocked it with her forearm. The magic sank into her skin, absorbed. 

Your heart dropped. Your brows furrowed, glancing at your fingertips. She was feeding off your magic.

“She’s siphoning again,” you whispered to yourself.

“Scarlet!” Seonghwa’s voice echoed from the wreckage below. You glanced over your shoulder to where the boys now lay scattered in the ruins. And Seonghwa—shoulder clearly dislocated whilst Yeosang knelt with a hand pressed to his split lip, bruises blooming across his face. Yunho staggered upright, half of his flannel torn off, one arm clutching his side. 

Mingi’s mechanical arm sparked and sputtered as he held it in place— his temple bleeding—and stood away, ready to fight if you called. Your heart clenched. You turned back to Agatha, anger burning hotter in your chest, fist curling at your side, your voice dropped to a growl, “This ends now.”

You soared through the air, red mist spiraling behind you like a comet’s tail. Agatha hovered at the opposite end of the hangar, violet flames licking at her fingertips, her expression twisted with wicked glee. You launched first—hands outstretched, palms glowing. A crackling stream of chaos magic erupted from your fingers, blazing toward her like lightning.

Agatha raised her arms and absorbed it again. 

But you didn’t stop. You faked a second blast—then teleported. Reappearing behind her, you swing your fist across her cheek with a grunt, sending her spinning. You grabbed her by the collar of her cloak mid-air and threw her down with all your might. She hit the hangar floor with a loud thud, dust and steel scattering. 

Before she could react, you crashed down on her, unleashing a flurry of blows, magic laced in every punch. Red light flared and cracked the tiles around you, your rage driving you deeper into your powers, "You think you’re powerful?" you spat, dragging her up by her tattered collar. “You’re nothing but a parasite!” 

Agatha coughed, her smirk dripping blood. “And you… are so predictable.”

Suddenly, she clapped both hands against your chest. You barely had time to dodge nor scream. An explosion of violet surged through your body—searing pain detonating behind your ribs. It knocked the wind from your lungs as you flew backward, colliding with a steel support beam that crumpled behind your back.

You fell hard. Your body skidded across the ground until you finally rolled to a stop—gasping, shuddering, your magic sputtering around you like dying embers. Your vision swam. You tried to lift your arm, but it dropped uselessly. Blood trickled from your nose. Your body was screaming for rest. Magic stirred weakly within you then faded.

“Scarlet!” Mingi’s eyes widened as he rushed down the broken glass staircase, the boys running after him.

Above, Agatha rose again—hovering effortlessly, limbs stretched wide like a queen reclaiming her throne, “A parasite like me can kill anyone—” she sneered, descending slowly. “Chaos has no loyalty. Not even to you.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbow, every inch of you trembling. “I’m not done…”

“Oh,” she smiled cruelly, “but you are.” She landed in front of you. One swift kick landed in your ribs, sending you flipping onto your back with a choked cry. Then, she raised her hand—magic spiraling into a dense, crackling orb above her palm.

You stared up at her. Defiant. Breathless. Shaking. Agatha’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “You could’ve ruled beside me. But instead... you chose to become a hero.”

“Curses like us don’t deserve that title…” She hurled the orb at you. The blast engulfed you—swallowed you in violet light, drowning out your scream. For a moment, there was only silence, like the calm after a bomb. Then, your body slammed into the hangar wall, leaving a crater in the concrete before you crumpled to the floor.

Motionless. The mist around your body faded but your fingers twitched. Barely. Your chest rose, shallow, slow but still alive. A single spark of red glowed beneath your bruised ribs—flickering stubborn refusing to go out.

Agatha stood over you, panting, hair wild and eyes glowing with victory. “Pitiful,” she hissed.

From a distance, thuds of boots and screams from the boys all dashing towards your direction. A tear split across the ceiling like ripping fabric—and through it, dozens of black-clad enhanced soldiers dropped into the room, boots thundering onto the shattered ground. Each one glowing faintly with runes—puppets enchanted by Agatha’s will.

“My darling boys,” Agatha cooed, rising slowly, magic threads curling from her fingertips. “You brought weapons. I brought an army.”

Seonghwa tried to get up, shield shaking in his hand, but three soldiers were already on him, slamming him back down, restraining him with iron-forged cuffs laced in spellbinding etchings. 

Yunho screamed your name, but was pulled by the neck into a chokehold—his webs neutralized by anti-magic disruptors. Yeosang activated a blade, only for one soldier to stab a glowing rod into his reactor, short-circuiting his tech in a burst of sparks.

Mingi fought the hardest—mechanical arms twisting, breaking ribs, shattering visors. But they overwhelmed him. He roared in fury as a needle pierced the side of his neck, injecting a freezing serum that locked his limbs up mid-motion. He dropped to one knee, panting.

“NO!” Mingi bellowed, watching helplessly as Agatha calmly walked past them—her boots crunching under the rubbles—toward you. You had barely begun to stir, eyelids fluttering as your pulse struggled to regulate. But Agatha’s hand hovered above your chest again, fingers twitching.

“You are chaos incarnate,” she whispered almost reverently. With a flick of her wrist, your body floated once more—limp, your aura dimming—and she wrapped a band of violet flames around your wrists, your throat, your core.

“One more push,” she said, smiling as the boys struggled in vain. “And your full power will be mine.” And then Agatha vanished, disappearing into the rippling void above the ceiling, dragging you— with her in a swirl of scarlet and violet magic.

The boys were left pinned—bruised, bloodied, and breathless. “No—NO!” Yunho’s voice cracked as he thrashed against his restraints, veins bulging from his neck, fury flooding his face.

Seonghwa groaned, spitting blood as he twisted under the weight of the soldiers pressing down on him. “We have to—” he coughed hard, “—go after them—NOW—”

“They’re gone,” Yeosang muttered, chest heaving as he watched the last shimmer of scarlet fade into the ceiling's ripped void. His lenses glitched—flickering red with static. “She took her to a different dimension.”

Mingi knelt motionless in silence, arms dead at his sides, eyes locked on the space where you had vanished. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—just a fractured breath that trembled as it escaped his chest. A small droplet of blood hit the cracked floor beneath him. “She was still breathing…” he whispered. “She was still fighting…”

Around them, the enchanted soldiers began to pull back—mission complete. With a snap of Agatha’s lingering magic, they vanished into dark smoke one by one, collapsing into the void like dying embers. The cuffs around Seonghwa dissolved. Yunho dropped to his knees. Mingi finally collapsed fully, his mechanical arms twitching from residual feedback. Yeosang pulled himself to the nearest broken console, fingers scrambling to override the interference jamming his tracker.

“Where the hell did she take her?” Seonghwa growled, dragging himself upright with shaking limbs. He looked over his shoulder at the destruction around them—the flattened walls, the blown-out windows, the blood.

Mingi slammed his fist against the floor. “She’s not dead. I know it. I felt her—”

“She’s not,” Yeosang cut in, voice sharp. His lenses flickered again—this time stabilizing. “Her signal is... faint. But not gone.” He pulled up a hologram projection. A red pulsing dot blinked, floating in a static storm. “She’s somewhere deep—beneath dimensional layers. Like a fracture pocket.”

“A prison,” Seonghwa muttered, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Mingi said hoarsely, finally raising his head. His voice was like thunder after silence. “A forge.”

They all looked at him, “She’s not just trapped,” Mingi continued, rising slowly despite the tremble in his legs. His fists clenched. “Agatha’s trying to reshape her. Corrupt her power. Fuse with it.”

A heavy silence settled—thick with dread.

—---------------------

The Quinjet roared through the dark skies, slicing the air with its sonic whir. Inside, silence had settled—a tense, heavy silence that made every breath feel like betrayal.

Wanda sat still, hands clasped tightly resting on her lap. Her fingers trembled. A mother’s intuition—the kind that screamed louder than any alert system—had gripped her from the moment their comms went silent. Steve, now older but still commanding, stood at the hatch, shield magnetized to his arm, glancing at her with softness in his eyes, “She’s strong Wanda.”

“I know that …” She answers, tightness in her throat. 

“We’re almost there,” Jarvis’s voice informed. The moment the Quinjet passed the outer perimeter, the facility came into view—burning. Plumes of smoke twisted upward like dark fingers scraping the stars. The hangar roof had partially collapsed. Lights flickered violently in and out of existence. Debris rained from higher levels, and the very earth seemed to groan under the weight of the destruction.

Wanda lurched forward, gasping, “No…” she whispered.

The hatch hissed open with a burst of wind. The veterans of war—your mother’s comrades—rushed forward. She walked—slowly, like the ground would betray her with every step. Her eyes searched frantically. Her aura trembled, red mist swirling at her fingertips.

And then she saw it. A piece of your suit—burned at the edge, lying crumpled near a pile of debris where the wall had caved in. Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled. 

“Wanda—” Steve reached out, but she stepped forward again, staggering.

“Where is she?” her voice cracked yet no one answered, not even the first responders nor the staffs that were nearby the facility could answer.

Yet, it was enough for Wanda to feel all her heart to break once again. Wanda screamed. It wasn’t a scream of anger— it was deeper, something that ripped her wounds open and clawed the wounds with salt and something every mother would understand when your own child was ripped away from you. It was a wail, a kind that you’d understand and don’t at the same time.

Scarlet energy burst from her core, erupting into the air like a nova. The ground cracked beneath her as she collapsed onto her knees. The power surged upward, destroying what remained of the Quinjet’s landing pad. Glass shattered from every window. Lights exploded overhead. The air trembled with raw chaos.

“Dad!” The voice was hoarse. Strained. Each of the Avenger’s heads turn towards the voice. Four shadows stumbled from the smoke and flickering firelight. Their clothes torn, faces smeared with blood and ash. Each step was a battle.

Yunho limped heavily, his arm slung awkwardly across his stomach where blood soaked through the fabric. Yeosang coughed violently as he half-carried Mingi, whose head was bleeding at the temple. Seonghwa’s right shoulder was dislocated, and he gritted his teeth to keep upright—but even then, he refused to be carried. The four of them looked like survivors crawling out of a war zone.

The moment Bucky heard Mingi’s voice, his eyes snapped towards him. Bucky was already moving, rushing to his son. “Mingi,” he said, voice tight, “Where is she? Where’s—”

Mingi stopped short. His chest heaved. He looked at Wanda. Then at his dad. But he didn’t speak, not the way the guilt was eating him. His jaw clenched. His throat bobbed from how tight the situation had become. Guilt twisted every line of his face. And in that silence, Wanda understood. Her heart shattered a second time.

No one had to confirm it.

Not with the way Mingi fell to his knees in front of her, blood dripping from his fingers as he choked out a sound that wasn’t quite a sob. Not with the way Yeosang turned away, ashamed. Not with how Seonghwa’s gaze stayed fixed on the ground and Yunho simply shut his eyes, as if trying to block out the image of your body—cracked, glowing, and screaming.

Wanda didn’t speak.

She reached forward with trembling hands and cupped Mingi’s bruised cheeks. Her thumbs brushed away the soot and blood like he was her own son, “You tried,” she said gently, though her voice was barely holding. “I know you did.”

And Mingi broke. He lowered his forehead into her lap like a child. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t—she was—” But his voice cracked and dissolved into sobs.

Behind them, the chaos still raged. Fires burned. Alarms blared. But none of that compared to the silence that followed Wanda’s sorrow—a silence filled with loss, with helplessness, with the echo of your magic still ringing in all their ears.

Steve stood frozen, hand tightening around the edge of his shield. He had seen war, death, betrayal—but nothing weighed heavier than the silence of a mother mourning her child. Beside him, Bucky sank to one knee beside Wanda and Mingi, placing a hand on his son’s back. The tremble beneath his fingers made his own throat tighten.

“She was taken,” Seonghwa finally said, voice hoarse. He hadn’t looked up once. “Agatha... she didn't kill her.”

Wanda’s head slowly lifted. Red mist curled like smoke around her shoulders. “What?”

“She dragged her through a void,” Yeosang added, his voice low and shaking. “Somewhere outside this dimension. Somewhere we can’t track—yet.”

Yunho lifted his head, blood still crusted at the corner of his mouth. “We tried. I swear, we did everything. She saved us… even when she knew it meant losing herself.”

Wanda closed her eyes—and when she opened them again, the red glow that burned from within had changed. It wasn’t rage now.

It was vengeance.

“I’m going to find her,” she said softly, dangerously. “And I will tear through every corner of the multiverse to bring her home.” Steve stepped forward, lowering his shield. “We’re also coming.”

Bucky helped Mingi to his feet, while Wanda rose on her own, flames at her fingertips. The last of the Quinjet’s smoke swirled behind them like the remnants of a storm. Across the landing zone, medics rushed forward with stretchers and field kits, but no one dared interrupt the sacred silence of the team’s resolve.

Yeosang pulled out a broken, glitching datapad from his belt. “Her power signature—what’s left of it—isn’t completely erased. It’s warped, like it’s being rewritten.”

“You mean corrupted?” Steve asked. Yeosang nodded grimly. “Or evolved. We don’t know what Agatha’s doing in there. But whatever it is... it’s changing her.”

Wanda’s breath caught again—but this time she didn’t break. She turned to the burning horizon, eyes fierce, “She is my daughter,” she whispered. “And no one rewrites her fate but her.”

Natasha emerged from the quinjet. “Then we better move fast,” She said, tossing Yeosang a chip drive. “Because if what my sources are saying is true… Agatha’s not keeping her prisoner.”

Everyone looked at her, “She’s trying to merge with her.”

Mingi swore under his breath. Yunho stepped forward. “What do you mean ‘merge’?”

“Think of it like… possession,” Natasha said grimly. “But instead of taking control, she’s trying to become her. To be the next incarnation of chaos magic. And if she succeeds... this world won’t survive the rewrite.”

Wanda’s hands clenched at her sides. Her power surged like a heartbeat, “She won’t succeed,” she said darkly. “Because she picked the wrong daughter.”

And in the distance—unseen to any of them—the tear in the sky flickered. Deep within that fracture pocket, your body hovered, bound by violet threads. Your magic sparked faintly, pulsing in rhythm. Your eyes twitched beneath your lids.

And then—just for a second—your fingers curled.

You were still in there.

Still fighting.

[xuchiya]

Hi hi~

I donno where to request so I just came here.

Imagine y/n is the 9th member of ateez and she is married to san secretly without any members knowing. This will take place after all members are done with their military service. One day one of the members gf started to mock yn because she didnt have any bf/fiancee in front of all members and san being san, he couldnt stand watching his beloved being mocked like that and reveal all secrets he hold including...

I will tell you the twist if you wanna make a fic about this one.

Love ya(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

Hi my loves!!! Please tell me the twist!! I wanna make this one and I'm intrigueeeee

[xuchiya]

I miss writing you ... I shall get back on writing now

accidentally have 8 pets || ateez || chapter 7

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. kind of supernatural(?) | mentions: sannie the cutie snake.

back to masterlist || chapter 8

Six months had passed, and with them, the pain of recovery. My sprained ankle was fully healed, and I was back to my usual routine at the bakery. The scent of freshly baked bread and warm pastries filled my days, grounding me in a comforting sense of normalcy. Mornings started early, with the rich aroma of cinnamon and vanilla filling the air as I kneaded dough for cinnamon rolls. The soft, pillowy texture beneath my fingers was familiar, almost therapeutic. As they baked, the golden swirls darkened at the edges, the sugar caramelizing into a perfect glaze. Drizzling them with warm icing was the final touch, the scent alone enough to make anyone's mouth water. Yet, beneath the surface, an unshakable anticipation lingered—something I couldn’t quite place.

The door chimed again, and a woman stepped in with a warm smile, walking up to the counter. “One cinnamon roll with glazed donuts and one matcha, please,” she said, her tone gentle as she scanned the pastries behind the glass.

I keyed in the order and smiled politely. “That’ll be $5.47, ma’am. Is this for takeout?”

She nodded, digging into her purse for her wallet. As she fumbled with the bills, a small breeze from the open door sent a few of them fluttering to the floor.

“Oh—oh no,” she gasped, reaching for them quickly.

But before she could bend down, Yunho had already trotted forward from behind the counter. With a soft woof, he carefully picked up one of the stray bills in his mouth, tail wagging proudly. The woman froze in surprise, then let out a delighted laugh as Yunho padded over and gently offered her the crumpled bill.

“Oh my goodness—what a gentleman!” she cooed, taking the bill from his mouth and giving his head a fond scratch. “You’ve got yourself a very well-trained boy.”

I couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips as I looked at Yunho, who sat tall, chest puffed, clearly proud of himself. “He likes to help out where he can,” I said softly, my eyes crinkling with fondness. “Thank you, Yunho.”

The woman returned to the counter and set down the rest of her payment, but instead of collecting her change, she slipped the coins into the tip jar with a quiet clink.

“For his treats,” she said with a warm smile. My eyes widened, hands waver— uncertain in the still air, “Oh, no, that’s really kind but you don’t have to—”

She waved her hand playfully, silencing me with a look that held a mixture of nostalgia and quiet sorrow. Her gaze returned to Yunho, lingering on him with a softness I recognized all too well from a fur parent.

“If this is the sign that I have to move one, then I think it’s time I moved on from my pup,” she whispered, her voice thick with memory. She reached out once more, brushing her hand through Yunho’s fur. “Give him all the treats he deserves, alright?”

I watched her walk out the door, a soft weight pressing against my chest. Yunho nuzzled my side gently, his warmth grounding me, “I will,” I whispered, placing a hand over his head. “I promise.”

The golden afternoon light streamed through the bakery windows, casting a warm glow over the wooden counters. The rich aroma of cinnamon and vanilla lingered in the air as I carefully crafted a pup cup, layering whipped cream into a small dish before topping it with a sprinkle of crushed biscuits. At the back, Yunho lay on his makeshift bed as he rested after a long hour of guarding the cafe. 

I place the pup cup in front of him. Ruffling his fur, I pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before stepping away. "Good job today, babe!" I praised, my voice filled with warmth. Unbeknownst to me, his tail wagged proudly, a silent but clear acknowledgment of my words. The comforting aroma of baked goods still lingered from the morning rush, now fading into a hushed stillness. That peace was briefly interrupted by the soft jingle of the bell above the bakery door.

I looked up and saw a familiar face—Douyin’s old college friend, Johnny—stepping into the bakery with a bright smile and an envelope in hand. The corners of the envelope were slightly crinkled, like he’d held it too tightly during his walk over.

“Hey, long time no see,” he greeted with a casual wave, his voice easy and familiar.

“Johnny! Oh my gosh. Hi!” I grinned, leaning on the counter. He returned the smile, lifting the envelope slightly.

“I tried contacting Douyinie, but he said he’s stuck at the office. Told me to hand this to you instead,” Johnny said, stepping closer. I took the envelope, glancing at the elegant calligraphy on its surface. My eyes widened. “Wait—is this your sister?” I asked, already piecing it together.

He chuckled softly, eyes twinkling with brotherly pride. “Yup. She’s turning eighteen this weekend.”

My mouth opened in surprise, then curved into a smile. “She’s all grown up? Already?” I brushed my thumb over the gold-embossed lettering, my heart warming at the thought. “Of course we’ll come. I wanna see her all grown up—like, actually a young woman now.”

Johnny nodded gratefully, his tone softening. “We’d love to have you both there. She still talks about you sometimes, you know. Said you always made her feel like one of the ‘cool girls.’”

That made me laugh. Stella—Johnny’s little sister—was our first customer when I opened the café. She’s also the reason Johnny and Douyin reunited. Stella’s always been a huge supporter of my business, even though her parents expect her to follow the family’s surgeon legacy, being a pastry chef has always been her number one dream.

“Stop, I’m gonna cry,” I said, voice thick with emotion. Johnny chuckled. “She’s been quite rebellious lately, wanting to follow her dreams instead of the family legacy.”

My mouth fell open in disbelief. “She’s taking pastry classes?”

He nodded. “I’m the one paying her tuition so she can keep chasing her dream.”

“Such a big brother.”

He shrugged. “Things we do for them.” I nodded, agreeing with him. Despite the years of struggle, I was the one who had paid for Douyin’s tuition. Seeing him up on stage, graduating and achieving the dream he’d always wanted, was a proud moment for me.

All the sacrifices and tears had finally paid off.

We had a small conversation, even asking for what coffee he wanted (of course in the house) but he declined gently saying he has to pick up Stella in cram school. As I waved at him goodbye, I held the envelope in my hands, something about it tugged at me—an energy I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was just nostalgia, or the sentimentality of watching someone grow up. But deep down, as the gold ink shimmered in the light, a subtle unease curled at the edges of my thoughts. Like a whisper brushing against my consciousness.

This wasn’t going to be just another birthday party.

The afternoon sun was gentle when we arrived at the small, warm-lit house tucked between two blooming cherry blossom trees. The scent of something sweet lingered in the air—fresh flowers maybe, or anticipation. In my hands, I held a modest cake. Not from a store, not from a famous bakery, but something I had poured myself into. A homemade cake, wrapped in pastel ribbon and a flavor that Stella loves—Caramel.

Douyin and I made our way to the grand hall, both of us dressed in a mix of casual and formal attire. Douyin adjusted his collar, which seemed a little too tight for him. "I told you to buy a new one," I remarked. 

He shot me a side-eye before scoffing, "And who's paying for that? I have a job." I rolled my eyes and tightened my grip on the cake I was carrying. 

"Exactly, you have a good-paying job, and yet here you are wearing the same outfit. Can't you at least treat yourself a little?" He just shook his head in response, “Come on. The party is about to start.” Douyin guides us both around the pasio where the party is being held at the backyard. As we rounded, we met Johnny halfway— his eyes lit up in surprise.

“Douyin!” 

“Johnny!” Both of them pull each other in a tight quick hug, both patting their backs; their smiles were wide enough to tell that they have missed each other. I chuckle, waving whilst still having my hands full because of the cake.

“Hey there … Wait, is that caramel cake?” Johnny looked at the cake, then at me, a surprised smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You really went out for her.”

I nodded shyly. “Of course I have to, she’s like my little sister too.” He reached over to carry it inside, muttering a soft thank you before disappearing into the house. 

Stella has always been the rebellious type whenever she sets her mind into doing things and people interrupt or intervene. When she found out that her brother’s best friend has a sister that also bakes, she didn’t waste time to find me and ask for any classes or if I hold classes for baking— for sure there was a small debate before she cried about wanting to become a pastry chef rather than following the legacy.

Despite not wanting to have a bad name towards their family, if it’s passion, no one should kill or doubt that one thing that keeps us alive. So with small courage, I gave her a list of online classes and schools that provide short courses. 

It was as if light showed in her eyes and ever since then.

The celebration was already alive—laughter, chatter, the clinking of juice glasses. Warm fairy lights were strung across the ceiling, giving the room a golden glow. I stood quietly near the entrance of the pasio, holding on a glass of champagne as Douyin spoke with his old classmates, letting the mood settle into my bones.

But just as Johnny called for everyone’s attention for the gift-giving portion of the evening, something strange happened. The air around me shifted. Slowed. My heart lurched in my chest.

Almost dropping the champagne glass but managing to steady myself as I hold onto the wooden pole. Everything around me blurred into the distance—and I felt as if I had been pulled, lifted, and dragged out of my body. Like my soul had been snatched and flung into another space entirely.

I wasn’t here anymore.

I was standing somewhere else—still this room, but not in the present. My vision had turned translucent, ghostly. And in the far end, standing just behind the stack of wrapped presents, I saw him.

San.

His profile was sharp, and though the edges of him flickered like an old film reel, the energy was unmistakable. He wasn’t looking at me, but I felt him.

Suddenly—snap—I was pulled back into my body. In a dizzying rush, my breath caught in my throat, and I stumbled slightly. A warm hand rested on the small of my back as I gripped their forearm tightly, my other hand holding the glass much too tightly.

“You okay?” Douyin whispered beside me. He took notice of her near the door, it was like she had seen a ghost— pale and shivering— before it returned in just a flash. He had to excuse himself as soon as he saw her stumbling backwards. He knew that she had seen something. Felt it, maybe. His brows knit together in concern. “You looked… gone for a second.”

I didn’t respond right away. My hand instinctively curled around my wrist. The symbol of Ateez. It was slowly forming new strokes each time I met those boys in their forms and besides that fact— it also shows that I am near meeting them. Each mark on my skin means—a sign, a connection

As I took in the symbol, there was a new stroke. A fresh, bold line added to the symbol. Not random, not meaningless. It shimmered slightly, catching the reflection of the fairy lights. 

San and Jongho were the last missing pieces. I was so close. I stared at it, heartbeat pounding louder than the party music in the background. “It changed. The person I saw—that wasn’t a memory. That was now. That was real.”

Unable to stand idle, I drifted through the party, my feet moving on instinct as my eyes swept every corner with desperate hope. The laughter and music faded into a dull hum as I made my rounds—pausing by the cluster of visitors speaking to one another, hovering silently near the lounging friends of Stella. I wasn’t sure what I was searching for exactly, only that I’d know when I saw it.

Douyin noticed. With a sigh weighed down by worry, he reached out and caught my wrist, his touch grounding me for a moment.

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmured, a trace of exasperation softening the corners of his voice. “You can’t force this.”

“But I’m so close,” I whispered back, my eyes meeting him, wild with something between hope and confusion. The wind blew softly through the open terrace door behind us, catching my hair and sending it flying behind my shoulders like a silk banner. My fingers tightened protectively around the mark etched on my wrist—the symbol that had recently grown another stroke.

His expression shifted, tension easing just slightly, as if he could see the longing radiating from me. But before he could speak again, the atmosphere in the room shifted—subtle at first, like a ripple under still water.

A quiet stir of voices turned heads toward the entrance.

“She wouldn’t like it,” someone murmured, barely above a whisper. “The birthday gift.”

Douyin and I both stared at one another, hoping what we had in our minds were similar. We moved closer to where the voices were and to our surprise, it was the staffs. A few staff members were whispering and one of them was holding a small crate. Disapproval prickled in the air. 

When one of them moved, Douyin was quick enough to pull me to the side as we watched the staff member, who looked pale with confusion, approach Stella.

“You could have just got rid of it,” another voice said, colder. “Take it to a shelter or something. That’s a snake we're talking about!” They whispered yell. I didn’t know why, but my entire body froze. The words echoed in my ears like a warning, a pull from something unseen. Then—flash. A flicker of light crossed my vision, like a spark skipping across the surface of water. My heart lurched.

Stella was happy to notice another gift in her hand, thanking the staff and her friends before they encouraged her to open. When she did, it was like a quick snap of the fingers, her emotion from being joy turned into a terrified one.

She screams, throwing the crate away from her as her friends and family all scramble away. Some were also screaming and some were gasping— Johnny running toward Stella, placing a guard arm around her back as she trembled in his arms.

As the crate was thrown on the ground, the contents of it slither outside. Everyone present all gasp and started running away from the scene. “Get that thing away from my sister. Now!” The same staff who gave Stella the gift, tried its best to grab it but fear gets the best of them.

The animal is coiled in a loose, uncertain spiral, and is a black corn snake. His scales shimmered like onyx beneath the muted lights, catching glimmers of silver and midnight blue. He was the same arm size as mine, his tongue flickering nervously in the air.

His size could be mistaken as a black mamba but to my eyes, he wasn’t near those dangerous species. He was just a soft corn snake. But his eyes… they weren’t afraid. No, when they met mine—round, dark, curious—they seemed to recognize me.

It wasn’t fur and ears I usually found. The moment stretched into eternity. Something different stirred within me, something quiet and sure and aching. Not in the form I remembered, but in essence. Undeniable.

That was him. That is San.

MEET THE OLDER BROTHER OF STELLA:

TAGLIST: @soso59love-blog . @yoongisgirl69 . @forever-atiny . @ateezswonderland . @fr34k4c1dr41n . @breadedloafs . @k1xiara . @nkryuki . @beabatiny . @berryguks . @miniverse-zen . @fight-me-uwu . @xh01bri . @eclipwze . @blue-angel24 . @nkryuki . @matchahintonagar . @asyamonet22 . @szakias . @sanaegi . @notyaelly . @wolviejex . @bby-boo4u . @popcatx0 . @vtyb23.

[xuchiya]

scarlet hair || song mingi || ep. 2/4

| genre: fluff. marvel au. supernatural. bucky! mingi. scarlet witch! reader. | mentions: the next generation of avengers but on training. ambush. injury. love on the go between you and mingi. and then capt. america seonghwa with an iron man yeosang andddd spiderman yunho

word count: 6.7k

ep. 1 || ep. 3 || ep. 4

Months had passed, and once again, your mother—alongside the other Avengers—was being called into action. Hydra had resurfaced from the ashes, their latest obsession tied to the revival of the super soldier serum. Their destination was Madripoor, and Selby was their only lead.

But your mind wasn’t weighed down by the mission itself. No, it was her—your mother.

She had only just returned from the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, her hands trembling as she clutched an ancient book discovered in the vaults—a tome of witches dating back to the 1700s. It didn’t just tell the story of the first witch; it bled into the lineage that ended with the two of you. You could see the way it haunted her—how the pages seemed to whisper of power, of curses, of enchantments that could awaken at the wrong touch. And now, with the world so close to chaos, the threat of that power falling into the wrong hands was more real than ever.

“Will you be alright, Mother?” Your voice was soft as you rocked gently in the woven hammock chair, your bare feet brushing the floor with each swing.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the high collar of her suit with practiced calm. The click of her gloves tightening was the only sound before she turned toward you. Her eyes—filled with quiet determination and something far more fragile beneath—met yours. She stepped closer, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her touch both protective and bittersweet. Then, with the softest of smiles, she cupped your cheeks and whispered, “I will be. You don’t need to worry about me, my heart.”

A kiss was pressed to the top of your head—warm. You stayed still for a moment, eyes shut, as if the press of her lips could ward off the unease clawing at your chest. Then you exhaled quietly, your toes brushing the floor to still the swing before you rose to your feet. “We can still come,” you said, your voice a quiet plea as you took a step forward. “We can help.”

But her eyes—steady, unwavering—met yours. And in them, you saw the same answer she’d given you days ago: a firm, unshakable no. Not out of doubt in your ability, but from something deeper. A fear she wouldn’t speak aloud. It wasn’t just about keeping you safe. It was about keeping whatever lived inside you from waking up.

The hiss of the door sliding open echoed softly as you stepped out, following the fading sound of boots and chatter down the corridor. The walk to the hangar felt colder than usual despite hundreds of staff inside.

The hangar was alive with noise—metallic clanks, urgent voices, the buzz of last-minute checks. As they boarded the Quinjet, a hush fell like a curtain over the group.

Inside, the only sound was the soft hum of Jarvis monitoring the systems. The glow of the holograms danced across the cabin walls like distant starlight. At the helm sat Yeosang, brilliant and calm, his father’s genius evident in every command he executed. Rows of projected vitals lit up the screen—names, heart rates, blinking icons showing stress levels and location markers.

And yet, despite the high-tech setting, it all felt eerily quiet. Like the calm before a storm.

The main hangar was eerily still, a rare hush settling over the massive space like a held breath before the storm. Only the faint whirring of machines and the distant hum of Jarvis filled the silence. You stood with the rest of the so-called "rookie squad"—new blood with fire in your veins and the burden of expectations on your shoulders.

Seonghwa entered first, freshly showered from combat training. His hair was still damp, soft strands clinging to his forehead as he silently took a seat on one of the tall steel chairs. Water droplets glistened under the hangar lights, trailing down the side of his neck, but he didn’t seem to notice. His expression was focused, calm, like the eye of a quiet storm.

A few moments later, Mingi strolled in, his long strides easy and confident. Yunho followed close behind, the two laughing softly at something only they shared—something simple, normal. Mingi had taken the day off yesterday to visit an old friend from Queens, a brief escape from the intensity of their world. Yunho, on the other hand, was no stranger to the Avengers facility.

He belonged here.

His cousin—the once wide-eyed intern of Tony Stark—was now a full-fledged Avenger, filling shoes once worn by Peter Parker himself. And Yunho, with his calm genius and curious spark, had become the next rising name. An intern, yes—but one gifted with potential that hummed beneath his skin like electricity.

You remembered the story Peter once told you when you came by to his office to check on your earpiece. He had taken Yunho to the museum when he was just a kid—eight, maybe nine. They had wandered into the entomology exhibit, but it was the arachnid section that stopped Yunho in his tracks. While other kids wrinkled their noses or hurried past, Yunho’s eyes lit up, transfixed by the intricate webs, the silent strength of the spiders, the way something so small could change everything.

That fascination never faded. But it came with a price—one that stole Yunho’s childhood like sand slipping through fingers. There were days Peter couldn’t bear to recall—days when Yunho lay pale and shivering under hospital sheets, his temperature spiking and crashing like a storm-tossed tide. The doctors were baffled. Machines scanned him endlessly, flashing data that led nowhere. No virus. No infection. Just an unexplained force slowly unraveling the boy from the inside out.

Peter remembered the helplessness. The guilt. The way he sat beside the bed with his hands clenched, watching his young nephew fade in and out of fever dreams. And every time he walked out of that hospital room, he carried the weight of what-ifs and regrets he couldn’t shake. No matter how many times he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t until he sought help from his senior—one of Stark’s most trusted minds—that the truth surfaced. It turned out, after that seemingly innocent visit to the museum, Yunho had taken home something more than a fascination.

He had taken home a guest.

Uninvited. Unseen.

An altered arachnid—genetically spliced, its creation buried under top-level clearance—had escaped containment that day.

Hours slipped by, slow and heavy, as you and the rest of the rookie squad remained stationed inside the hangar’s operations wing. The air had grown colder, stiller—tension lingering like fog that refused to lift. All eyes were locked on the holo-feeds, the blue-tinted light casting shadows across your faces. You could feel the weight of every passing minute.

The journey to Madripoor felt like crossing half the world. And in a way, it was. Not just in distance, but in danger—every mile they flew deeper into enemy territory felt like a countdown ticking toward uncertainty.

Yeosang sat at the front console, eyes sharp and unwavering as he monitored the holographic displays. Data streamed across the screen in pulses—coordinates, atmospheric shifts, vitals, transmission logs. Jarvis fed him real-time updates, the AI’s voice calm but constant in the background.

Everyone else had gone quiet.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t born from peace—but from anticipation. Dread. Hope.

You crossed your arms, fingers gripping your sleeves as you stared at the live transmission. Tiny blue figures moved across the map—your mother among them. So far, the mission was going as planned but that didn’t ease the knot twisting in your gut. 

1:17 am Avengers strike team approaching target coordinates. No hostiles detected.

You waved your hand, fingers slicing through the air as you dragged a copy of the hologram feed onto the table’s interface. The flickering light cast faint blue shadows across your face as you leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“That’s an easy win for them…” you murmured, voice flat with suspicion rather than confidence.

Yeosang, half-distracted and clearly running on minimal sleep, let out a yawn. He refreshed the report with a flick of his wrist, idly spinning a screwdriver between his fingers like a drummer tapping out a restless rhythm. The arc reactor in the chest-plate he'd designed glowed a soft, lazy blue—almost like it was dozing along with him.

“Too easy,” Seonghwa echoed, his voice low as he moved to stand beside Yeosang at the helm. His jaw was locked in that same grim line you’d seen on his father’s face right before a mission turned sideways. You felt it too—an invisible weight, pressing against your temples, building behind your ears like a storm waiting to break.

Then your fingers twitched. A faint crackle of scarlet light danced between them, static creeping up your knuckles like goosebumps made of magic. It wasn’t summoned—it came on its own. Your chest tightened.

Then you heard it.

Child.

A whisper. Not distant. Right next to your ear. Your head whipped around. No one was there, but your heart thundered in your chest, each beat too loud, too fast. Your breath caught, shallow and sharp.

Mingi, who had been scanning the report with a furrowed brow, caught sight of your change instantly. The confusion on his face melted into concern as he moved, his arms uncrossing and his stance softening. He stepped beside you, his hand gripping the back of your chair before gently turning it—and you—away from the others. Then he knelt, eyes locked on yours, his voice calm but edged with worry.

“Scarlet… you okay?”

Your mouth parted, trying to form words, but nothing came out—only air and fear. His eyes scanned you before he could see why—your hands, trembling slightly, fingers curled tight as sparks of red magic snapped and shimmered in the small space between them. Your energy wasn’t steady. It was reacting. 

And then, you heard it again.

Your powers are mine.

The words slithered through your mind like poison. Your breath hitched. Your ears suddenly became too sensitive—picking up everything. Footsteps. Breaths. Multiple heartbeats that hadn’t been there before. You were trained to monitor vitals, even healing using your energy but these were wrong—they didn’t belong to anyone in the room.

Your eyes snapped to the CCTV monitors before you could even glance at it, every light in the facility died in a single breath.

The hum of machinery vanished—cut off like a snapped lifeline. A cold silence swallowed the hangar whole, just before the emergency red strobes ignited with a pulse. Harsh crimson light flooded the space, casting flickering shadows across every face. Klaxons howled through the silence, sharp and shrill like a warning cry.

Then it happened.

A ripple tore through the air—just above the center of the hangar floor. The space shimmered, warped, like heat rising off pavement. But colder. Wrong. A portal, unstable and spiraling, began to crack open.

Yeosang bolted upright, shaken fully awake as the glow from his arc reactor intensified. “Jarvis! Activate full lockdown protocol, now!”

“Lock-in sequence initiated, Sir Yeosang please go to safety now and others too— order by your father.” came the AI’s voice, calm but edged with urgency.

Seonghwa’s gaze darted toward the living quarters. The protective volts normally sealing that space were active. His jaw tensed. “Everyone, back to the living sector! Do not engage unless fired upon! Move!”

His voice snapped through the chaos, the authority in his tone cutting through panic. Chairs scraped back. The rookie squad sprang into action, boots hitting the floor in a rhythmic thunder as they rushed for cover.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You pushed forward, heart pounding, vision blurred by the red flashes. Mingi was just a few steps ahead, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure you were behind him. 

Then—clang.

The magnetic lockdown activated. Thick walls dropped from the ceiling with a seismic thud, as the living area was sealed shut from the anomaly entering the facility. You were all slightly out of breath, you all sat down on the white couch, the night sky at the back mocking the darkness in front of you all as it was clear that one by one, enemies could be lurking. 

“Yeosang, report to them about our situation. Everyone—be ready, just in case.” Seonghwa’s voice was low but firm, the kind of tone that meant he was already calculating worst-case scenarios. Yeosang nodded and sprinted toward the upper stairs, where the central holo-meeting deck hovered just above the rest of the hangar. His silhouette vanished into the red-glow haze as he moved.

Below, the rest of the squad was already moving like clockwork.

Mingi pulled back his jacket sleeve, the embedded wire-thread tech in his arm lighting up with a soft click. His fingers tapped swiftly against the interface, muttering a calibration check under his breath. Yunho had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, the soft shhk of web cartridges being locked into place echoing faintly. Seonghwa ran a hand through his still-damp hair, eyes narrowing. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is outrageous,” he muttered, frustration biting at every word.

Mingi scoffed, rotating his shoulder and stretching his arm in a slow, practiced motion. “Totally. It’s like they’re trying to make our parents look like amateurs.” His voice dripped with disdain, but his jaw was tight—nervous.

You settled beside Yunho, your fingertips still prickling with leftover static. He was staring out the wide hangar windows, jaw set, eyes flicking across the red-lit sky.

"Do you think it’s weird?" he finally asked, voice quieter than usual. Not fearful, but careful.

You furrowed your brows. “What’s weird?”

Yunho drew in a breath and exhaled hard, like he was trying to shake the weight from his chest. “Everything. It’s like… like something’s off. Way off. They’re on their way to Madripoor for a recovery mission—classified, dangerous. And yet we’re getting invaded at the exact same time by unknown anomalies?” He finally turned to you, eyes searching. “That’s not just a coincidence. That’s strategy.”

Your stomach dropped a little. You could feel the pulse of it now—the invisible thread of something manipulated, something orchestrated. Mingi nodded slowly, pacing with his hand running through his hair. “Divide and conquer. If they can’t beat them together… split the team.”

Just then, above on the balcony, Yeosang reappeared—his figure skidding into view. His expression was pale, eyes wide and vibrating with something between disbelief and urgency.

“Guys!” he shouted. All four of you snapped your attention upward. Yeosang gripped the railing, knuckles white.

“Super soldiers are here in the building— they’re surrounding us,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “Scarlet—”

His eyes locked on yours, and in that instant, your body reacted before your mind could. A deep, ancestral thrum ran down your spine. Like a string had been pulled. Magic flared faintly at your fingertips. Your heart pounded in your ears. “What is it, Yeo?” you asked quietly, slowly rising to your feet.

Mingi stepped forward with you without hesitation, his hand curling around the small of your back in a subtle but solid gesture of protection. You could feel the tension in him—like a fuse just before ignition. Yeosang swallowed hard. His voice broke through the silence like glass. “Your mother couldn’t reach you from your coms but she said something about the book to protect it.” 

You hesitated for a second—then it clicked. Your mother’s words echoed like a ghost behind your ribs. You looked up, your voice sharp and urgent.

“Jarvis, lock Object 1024.”

“Locking Object 1024: Activated,” came the AI’s voice, calm and sterile, utterly unaware of the storm gathering in your chest. A mechanical hiss echoed in the distance. Magnetic locks clicked into place with a cold finality. The boys looked at each other, clearly confused. Mingi spoke up first, his voice cautious.

“What’s Object 1024, Scarlet?”

Your pulse was a steady drumbeat in your ears. You didn’t answer—your hands were already moving, fingers dragging a glowing copy of the central interface toward the table. The holograms responded instantly, light reflecting off your face in uneven flickers. You keyed in your access code with trembling fingers and searched.

There it was.

A weathered image blinked into view—the ancient, leather-bound tome laced with crimson runes and impossible power. The Darkhold

The boys gathered around you instinctively. Yeosang appeared at your side, eyes narrowing as he leaned in to look. You stared at the glowing book, heart pounding beneath your ribs. “This… This might be why they’re here.” Your voice wavered. “But why send super soldiers for a book?”

A heavy silence followed. 

Yunho crossed his arms, shoulders tense as he stared at the image like it might speak back. “Sending soldiers makes sense. Trained. Fast. Obedient. But a whole squad? For this?” He shook his head slowly. “There’s more to this play.”

Mingi slumped into a nearby seat, dragging one of the holographic tabs to himself. He read through the file descriptions, his brows furrowing deeper the longer he looked. Yeosang mirrored him, opening encrypted reports and historical entries at lightning speed.

Seonghwa, quiet until now, exhaled slowly through his nose. “Think about it. They aren’t subtle. They’re meant to break walls, not sneak in.” He turned to you. “That means this wasn’t a theft—they want us to know. A statement.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened. “Divide the team. Distract the main Avengers. Raid the vault while we’re alone.”

“And retrieve this,” Mingi added, gesturing at the flickering image of the book.  “But what exactly does the book hold that's worth a full-on strike?” 

You opened your mouth, but Yeosang cut in, already one step ahead.

“I decrypted the oldest entries.” His voice was quiet now, eyes scanning fast. “The Darkhold appeared in Massachusetts in 1693. The name Agatha Harkness shows up in almost every chapter. She wasn’t your cauldron-stirring cartoon witch. She was ancient, powerful… dangerous.”

You sank to your knees beside the coffee table, watching history unravel in front of you. Your history. “She’s the one from Westview, isn’t she?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yeosang nodded, eyes focused on the articles—his research still running on the back, some still popping up on the side of his screen. “Part of a Salem coven. But her coven turned on her. Accused her of using forbidden magic—dark magic, even by their standards.”

Mingi let out a low whistle. “She sounds like a power-hungry maniac.”

You shot him a sharp look, nudging his leg. “Show some respect. She’s dead. Probably.”

“Hopefully,” Mingi muttered, but quieted.

“She had a collection of grimoires,” Yeosang continued.  “She had her own spellbooks. Most were destroyed in 1790—but she salvaged a few. And the key word here, Scar...” He turned to you, eyes locking onto yours.

“Some. There’s a possibility that Agatha Karness is still alive.” Your stomach turned cold. “She’s still looking for the rest of what is written in the book but based here, it’s not just about the book.” he said, his fingers running on the keyboard as he looked further.

Seonghwa’s brows were deeply furrowed, his voice low and tight. “Does this have anything to do with you or your mother?” His gaze flicked to the glowing image of the Darkhold. “Do either of you possess any of the other spell books… aside from this one?”

Yunho scoffed lightly. “She must be obsessed with magic books though…” He leaned back with a grin, as if to shake the tension—but then his smile faltered. Something in his mind clicked like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Slowly, he turned to Yeosang, eyes narrowing.

“Wait—Yeo, you said she first appeared in 1693, right?” Yeosang nodded slowly, confused. “Yeah. From the Salem entries. She was supposedly in her twenties when she went rogue. It’s not exact, but we’re guessing she was about twenty-four.”

Yunho’s eyes lit up with realization. “Scarlet,” he turned to you, urgency creeping into his tone. “I know this sounds weird, but… you and your mom don’t age like regular humans, right? You still age… just slower?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. Your mind pulled back to those quiet afternoons—your mother’s soft voice explaining your lineage, your bloodline, the way time treats you differently. You nodded. “Yeah… that’s true.Our magic preserves more than just energy. We don’t stop aging—we just age differently. Time doesn’t rot us the way it does others.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes on that. Mingi tilted his head, arms folded across his chest. “Wait. So if Agatha was born in the 1600s… and she’s still out there somewhere... then that’s not just magic. That’s possession-level dark arts.”

Yunho snapped his fingers like it all made sense. “Agatha should be ancient by now. Like, dust. Even with magic keeping her alive, she’d be too weak to pull off anything this big. Unless…”

You stood up, pacing now. Thoughts flew fast and loud in your head. “Unless she found a way to prolong her strength. If she was born in 1693, and we know our generation ages slower—then maybe…” You turned to Yeosang, realization dawning. “She could still be alive, just weakened.”

Yunho pointed at you, grinning. “That’s it! You’re catching on, Scarlet.”

But Mingi’s voice cut in, sharp and speculative. “What if she’s not just alive? What if she passed her magic? You know—some freaky friday, soul transfer… body swap kind of thing?”

You stopped pacing, looking at him slowly. “That’s not how it works… At least, not for us.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded, your voice quieter now, as a memory resurfaced—your mother’s stern warnings about transfering. “Soul transfer isn’t permanent. It can be done, but it takes a ridiculous amount of energy. At most, a day. A month if you’ve mastered it. But eventually… your soul snaps back to its original body. The bond doesn’t last.”

Mingi leaned closer to the hologram, dragging the Darkhold's image into better view. “Okay, but the question here is… Why now? Why wait centuries just to send a couple of super soldiers and risk it all? Seems reckless for someone who’s waited this long.”

You inhaled shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. “Each witch from different generations comes with different magic…” Yeosang nodded, bringing up a chart onto his personal panel—one only he could see from his angle. “Confirmed. Lineages carry unique energy signatures. From elemental mastery to chaos magic, every bloodline evolves. You and your mother are at the core of the strongest.”

He flipped through data, generations flashing by in an arcane cascade. Names. Dates. Spells thought to be long forgotten. You turned to each of the boys slowly—your voice tightening with dread. “Maybe… maybe the reason she kept herself alive is because of us. Because my mother found that book…”

Mingi leaned back on the table, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a grim line. “So what? She found a loophole?” he muttered. “Cheated death with dark magic? That’s twisted, even for someone like her.”

You opened your mouth to respond—only for Yeosang to suddenly freeze at his station, “Guys…” 

The clacking of keys stopped. The silence that followed was heavy—everyone processing the possibility that the threat wasn’t a faceless enemy, but something personal. A quiet chime echoed through the base. Yeosang’s screen flickered. A new encrypted alert slid across his panel, glowing deep violet against the otherwise-blue interface.

It got all of your attention, curiosity spikes as his eyes scans the whole article. Usually the hologram is shown but Yeosang likes his private holograms and right now, you wish to take down the privacy settings and see his works. 

Everyone turned. His gaze didn’t move. He didn’t blink, “I just picked up an incoming transmission.”

Seonghwa stepped closer. “From who?”

Yeosang didn’t answer immediately. His fingers glided across the panel in a blur—data streams igniting, swirling symbols appearing with every flick of his hand. The projection table in the center morphed—first into static, then into sigils, and finally into a corrupted visual feed. A cloaked figure. Female. Shadowed. Her eyes glowed faintly indigo. Her voice was warped, distorted through layers of encrypted magic.

“To the child of chaos— Your mother held what was never hers. And now, I’ve come for what belongs to me.”

You didn’t realize you had reached for Mingi’s hand until you felt him squeeze it back. Hard. He had moved instinctively, standing protectively close, as if he could hold back whatever that voice meant.

Yunho stood up sharply from the bench. “What the hell…”

You stayed frozen—your body still, but the static of magic beneath your skin began to hum. Somewhere part of the facility, held inside a protective case, The Darkhold’s image, still faint in the background of the room, flickered unnaturally. Then it pulsed. Once. Twice. Like a heartbeat syncing to something dark, something familiar.

You barely managed to speak, the whisper barely escaping your lips, “…She’s here.” 

A sudden, violent blast echoed through the facility.

The lights flickered violently as the emergency walls trembled. Dust fell from the corners of the ceiling. The protective panels over the windows automatically shifted into lockdown mode, but the central hangar’s observation glass still gave you a full view. Seonghwa was already barking orders, his voice cutting through the panic. “Everyone back! Positions! Don’t engage unless necessary!”

Mingi furrowed, keeping you closer to him. Your hand slowly crept coldness around your fingertips as you felt your heart racing out of nervousness. “This is outrageous!” 

But you felt it before you saw it. The air shifted. The present had slowed down in time leaving you glancing around with confusion yet with a mixture of panic inside, you took notice of the thickness of power. Raw magic crawled over your skin like static and flames—familiar, but twisted.

You turned, drawn toward the hangar windows, pulse quickening as the atmosphere changed. And then you saw her. Through the reinforced glass, in the center of the hangar, a troop of enhanced soldiers stood in formation—towering, still, focused. And in front of them was a woman.

Her hair dark as night, falling in waves over a cloak laced with ancient sigils. Her eyes glowed brighter than before—indigo, unnatural, dangerous. Magic radiated from her in pulses, strong enough to make your fingers twitch with responding energy.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move either but her gaze was locked on you.

You blinked, your grip on Ming’s hand slowly loosen before it dropped on his side whilst stepping forward slowly—like a moth to a flame. Unconsciously drawn. The hum beneath your skin sparked to life, magic waking, swirling at your fingertips.

“Scarlet…” Seonghwa’s voice came from one ear to the other as your feet continued moving towards her; you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She barely smiled yet it was that kind of smile that knew secrets only time could keep. And your power—reacting and boiling—whispered in return.  Your head tilted to the side in curiosity.

Yes child, this is raw power.

The voice echoed inside your head—no longer distant, no longer whispering. It filled your ears like a symphony of a thousand witches past. A pull—deep, magnetic, ancient—tugged at your chest. Your foot moved forward on its own, soft steps gliding across the glass-strewn floor like you were walking underwater.

You barely registered Mingi’s voice. “Scarlet… what are you doing?” There was concern—confusion. You didn’t answer. Your mind felt hijacked, and the invisible strings tightened.

This is the power you should know!

Another step. Another breath stolen from you. Mingi’s face was drawn in tension, fists clenched as he began to move, but Seonghwa beat him to it. He crossed the room in seconds, gripped your arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to ground you.

And in that one touch—Everything came flooding back. The static in your veins stilled. The haze lifted. You blinked, dazed, eyes wide and wet with flickering indigo. “Something wrong, Hwa?”

Seonghwa’s jaw tensed, but his grip didn’t loosen. “You weren’t responding,” he said tightly. “You were walking straight toward her.” His head shook, and he gently pulled you behind him. 

You nodded… but something still felt off. Like part of you was still out there with her. Like she had already taken a piece of your soul.

The walls shook so hard the reinforced steel groaned. You stumbled to your knees as the rest of the boys braced themselves. Lights shattered from the ceiling like falling stars. A low roar trembled through the floor, growing louder and louder until a loud crash echoed the entire facility.

The protective barrier—your last line of defense—splintered with a sound like thunder. Glass exploded into the room, raining down in deadly shards. You threw your arms over your head, curling in on yourself. The sharp sting of magic and debris laced the air. It felt wrong. Every cell in your body screamed.

A surge of amethyst-colored mist spiraled around you, crackling with violent magic. It grabbed you, yanking you into the air like a marionette. You gasped as your body twisted unnaturally, limbs thrashing.

Someone is here.

Someone like you.

Someone stronger.

Mingi’s scream was the first thing you heard. “SCARLET!”

He lunged from the floor with explosive speed, shoving off a broken bench—but before he could touch you, that same purple mist lashed out. It caught him mid-air, slamming him back. He crashed into the metal tables, splinters and sparks flying, then hit the ground with a skid that made your stomach lurch.

“Mingi!” you cried, arms bind on your side against the magic. Yeosang was already sprinting toward him, dodging debris, sliding to Mingi’s side with panic in his eyes. Yunho and Seonghwa flanked you instinctively, eyes narrowed, their breathing calm but ready for war.

The floating figure emerged into full view, arms spread in theatrical grace, her lips curled into a mocking smile.

“Hello, boys,” she cooed, her tone drenched in sugar and poison. “Forgive the intrusion. No one was at the door… so we let ourselves in.” The shadow that had haunted your screens now took shape. A woman, tall and regal. Her cloak shimmered with runes and living ink—moving like snakes along the fabric. Her skin pale, hair jet black, lips a bruised violet. Her eyes… oh god, her eyes glowed inside your mind, not just your vision.

Her voice could have seduced the air itself—sickly sweet, dripping with false politeness. It was the kind of voice that pulled strings in minds unguarded. Seonghwa stood rigid, jaw tight as his eyes swept across the armed silhouettes of the super soldiers aligning behind her. “Wrong house, lady.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile widening in amused delight. “Oh dear, that’s embarrassing,” she chuckled, conjuring a glowing slip of paper from the mist beside her. “But as you can see… right here on the address—” Before she could finish, the parchment caught fire in her palm, dissolving into ash under her own magic. “Oops,” she said with a wink.

You were still suspended in the air, writhing in the suffocating grip of her power. The mist that held you was no longer just mist—it felt like fingers. Real, unrelenting, ancient fingers. She floated toward you, slow and graceful like a predator who’d already won. Her unruly curls bounced around a face too wrinkled for her voice, her expression far too delighted for someone reeking of death.

“Aww… it’s so lovely to finally meet you, Scarlet,” she purred, hovering mere inches from your face. “Such a sweet little name—borrowed from your mother’s title, I presume.”

Your blood ran cold. There was something about her magic, the signature, the smell of it—burnt herbs, cracked earth, and something old enough to predate fire. Your brows drew together. “Who are you?”

She pouted, faking a wounded sigh. “Tsk. Your mother and I were dearest friends… until she betrayed me.”

“I don’t blame her then,” you snapped, voice shaking with barely restrained rage. Her eyes narrowed as she pointed a claw-like finger burnt just like your mother’s toward your face, the magic around it crackling with heat. “Watch your mouth—”

“Agatha Harkness,” Yeosang cut in from behind, breathing heavily as he struggled to lift Mingi’s arm over his shoulders. “It’s her. It’s really her.”

Everyone turned to stare. Your eyes widened. Agatha’s grin stretched wider, seemingly to forget what your conversation was a while ago, exposing teeth too white to be human. “Ahhh~ seems I’m still remembered.” She gave a theatrical bow. “You’re welcome.”

Then the temperature in the room dropped. Her face flattened, the smile vanishing as her eyes turned cold and cruel. Her voice lost its syrupy quality and dropped into something low, guttural, “Well then, introductions are over. You can have the boys,” she said, without even sparing them another glance. “I’ll have the girl.”

At her command, the soldiers surged forward.

Seonghwa was the first to react— despite the rule they were given but in this situation, it is their lives at stake and he may not be responsible but he won’t let anyone hurt his friends and he will take the burden of the consequences. His instincts were razor-sharp. His eyes locked onto the incoming threat, voice steady and commanding, “Jarvis—send in my shield.”

“Right away, sir.”

A high-pitched whirring filled the air. From somewhere beyond the skyline-facing windows, a blur of vibranium came slicing through the penthouse like a boomerang. Seonghwa didn’t flinch. He leapt off the upper railing, dropping fast as the shield closed in—his hand outstretched.

With a perfect snap, the shield’s magnetic handle locked onto his forearm midair. Seonghwa twisted his body and slammed into the floor below in a crouched landing, glass panels shaking under the force. The city lights reflected off the curved metal of the shield. He slowly looked up, eyes glinting under the blue-white glow of the shattered display screen above him.

“Engage,” he said, voice low and final. 

The enemy’s punch flew toward his face like a bullet, blocking it with his shield. The impact rang out like a thunderclap, vibrating against the reinforced glass of the penthouse walls. He skidded backward across the sleek floor, boots grinding against the polished wood, but didn’t fall. Instead, he rolled his shoulder back into place with a slow, surgical crack, his eyes narrowing—calm fury simmering beneath the surface.

Yunho, with practiced ease, web-fluid bursting from his wrists in twin streams. He snared two soldiers mid-sprint and slung them up into the metal support beams. For a second, they flailed like puppets—until their sheer strength ripped through the webs. They crashed back to the ground in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and yet, like machines powered by something unnatural, they rose again.

From the left staircase, a war cry thundered.

Mingi stormed in like a force of nature. With both of his mechanical arms gleaming, he yanked a titanium pipe from the broken bar counter and hurled it like a spear. It tore across the open space of the lounge, slamming into a squad and sending them flying across the marble floor. One enemy tried to flank him—but Mingi turned mid-step, caught him by the throat, and slammed him down into the glass floor with an impact that caused the entire level to quake. His cybernetic arms hissed and flexed, glowing faintly with reactive power.

High above them, Yeosang dropped in through the upper-level glass ceiling, blades drawn, his chest reactor glowing like a mini arc core. He landed directly behind enemy lines, slicing through with a tech-enhanced, graceful precision that could only come from a genius mind. A high-speed spin-kick to a soldier's chest sent the enemy flying into the conference table, smashing chairs into splinters. Another attacker swung a blade—but Yeosang ducked, reversed the grip, and tased him with a shock pulse through his gauntlet straight to the neck.

"Keep pushing!" Seonghwa shouted. He ducked under a baton strike, retaliated with a clean uppercut, and twisted midair hurling the shield across the soldier’s chest causing the soldier to be caught out of breath as stumbles backward, the shield bounced back to Seonghwa. 

Yunho vaulted over the wraparound staircase, landing low in a crouch. One attacker tossed a knife, but Yunho webbed it in midair, yanked it back, and used it to knock out his enemy with a heavy backhanded strike. “Seriously?” he panted. “Pick someone your own size.”

Reinforcements poured in from the lower hangar—armored soldiers cloaked in shadow tech. Mingi stepped forward, cracking his mechanical knuckles. “We’re gonna need a bigger distraction.”

You thrashed in mid-air, panic clawing at your chest. Agatha approached again, this time closer, her eyes gleaming with twisted amusement, “I have waited a long time for you…” Her voice was layered—echoing with multiple voices. Centuries of witches within her. 

You struggled as your body snapped violently upright, pinned like a puppet mid-air. Her single raised hand controlled you like a string—each finger a vice around your will. “This power was never hers… it is mine. It runs in your blood now, child of chaos. And you will kneel.”

You gritted your teeth, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the pressure building in your chest. “N-Never,” you gasped. “What do you want?! Leave my friends alone!”

“You know exactly what I want,” Agatha only smiled—cruel and knowing. She stepped in, slowly, like a predator savoring the hunt. Her finger rose and pressed under your chin, tilting your face toward hers “That book—The Darkhold. Your mother stole it from my sanctum, hid it in plain sight. All I want…” Her grip tightened. You felt your body tremble under the crushing weight of her magic. Her voice fell, low and venomous “…is what’s mine.”

You glared through the pain. “I won’t give it to you,” you hissed. “Dark magic should never be touched—” Her laughter slashed through the silence like a jagged blade—loud, unhinged, echoing through the shattered penthouse. She threw her head back, cackling, and for a second, the room felt colder.

“Innocent,” she crooned, almost fondly. “So very innocent. Did she never tell you?” Her gaze snapped back to yours, predatory, “How many did your mother kill… for you?”

Your breath hitched. “No…” you whispered. “She did what she had to.”

“She burned villages,” Agatha snarled. “Turned covens into ash. Shattered minds. Destroyed everything in her path—all in the name of protecting you.” Her hand rose higher. You felt your body rise with it—your ribs straining under the weight of her magic.

“And now I ask you, daughter of Wanda—was it worth it?” The room pulsed with the growing storm between you. Behind your pain, a heat began to build—a flicker deep in your core. Not Agatha’s power. Not your mother's.

It was yours. You felt the power inside her building. The mist around your body thickened, and with it, so did the pain. It wasn’t just physical. She was inside you. Tugging on your veins, on your power. Your mother’s face flashed before your eyes. You gasped—not from fear, but from something snapping loose.

Your eyes flared red. Then white. Then scarlet.

Agatha smiles, that one creepy, as she feels your chaotic magic running through your core. It was what she wanted— this power. “I don’t even need the book anymore,” she said softly, with a disturbing calm. “You’re enough.”

She hovered higher. Her hand glowed—red and violet, too close to your own power for comfort—and she thrust it directly into your chest. Not physically, but magically. It was like your very soul was being pried open. Your body arched violently as her magic hooked into yours.

A light sparked between you. At first, purple then flickering into your scarlet hue. You screamed, your voice raw, as the energy connecting you turned red—your red. The burning sensation wasn’t just pain—it was like something sacred was being stolen. Your identity. Your birthright.

“AAHHH!” The boys turned at the sound. It was terrifying to hear, felt it down to their core as their heads snapped towards your direction, Mingi’s eyes widen witnessing how Agatha was draining your magic towards hers like vampiric action, the glow on your core was enough proof that it was your powers that she was after. 

Mingi, now barely conscious, reached out, "Scarlet!" Yunho shouted your name. Seonghwa looked ready to kill. But Agatha’s grip didn’t waver. She absorbed your power like it was meant for her.

Your eyes rolled back, vision swimming in red and violet blurs. And through the haze, you saw something terrifying— She wasn’t even using her full power.

[xuchiya]

scarlet hair || song mingi || ep. 2/4

| genre: fluff. marvel au. supernatural. bucky! mingi. scarlet witch! reader. | mentions: the next generation of avengers but on training. ambush. injury. love on the go between you and mingi. and then capt. america seonghwa with an iron man yeosang andddd spiderman yunho

word count: 6.7k

ep. 1 || ep. 3 || ep. 4

Months had passed, and once again, your mother—alongside the other Avengers—was being called into action. Hydra had resurfaced from the ashes, their latest obsession tied to the revival of the super soldier serum. Their destination was Madripoor, and Selby was their only lead.

But your mind wasn’t weighed down by the mission itself. No, it was her—your mother.

She had only just returned from the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, her hands trembling as she clutched an ancient book discovered in the vaults—a tome of witches dating back to the 1700s. It didn’t just tell the story of the first witch; it bled into the lineage that ended with the two of you. You could see the way it haunted her—how the pages seemed to whisper of power, of curses, of enchantments that could awaken at the wrong touch. And now, with the world so close to chaos, the threat of that power falling into the wrong hands was more real than ever.

“Will you be alright, Mother?” Your voice was soft as you rocked gently in the woven hammock chair, your bare feet brushing the floor with each swing.

She exhaled slowly, adjusting the high collar of her suit with practiced calm. The click of her gloves tightening was the only sound before she turned toward you. Her eyes—filled with quiet determination and something far more fragile beneath—met yours. She stepped closer, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her touch both protective and bittersweet. Then, with the softest of smiles, she cupped your cheeks and whispered, “I will be. You don’t need to worry about me, my heart.”

A kiss was pressed to the top of your head—warm. You stayed still for a moment, eyes shut, as if the press of her lips could ward off the unease clawing at your chest. Then you exhaled quietly, your toes brushing the floor to still the swing before you rose to your feet. “We can still come,” you said, your voice a quiet plea as you took a step forward. “We can help.”

But her eyes—steady, unwavering—met yours. And in them, you saw the same answer she’d given you days ago: a firm, unshakable no. Not out of doubt in your ability, but from something deeper. A fear she wouldn’t speak aloud. It wasn’t just about keeping you safe. It was about keeping whatever lived inside you from waking up.

The hiss of the door sliding open echoed softly as you stepped out, following the fading sound of boots and chatter down the corridor. The walk to the hangar felt colder than usual despite hundreds of staff inside.

The hangar was alive with noise—metallic clanks, urgent voices, the buzz of last-minute checks. As they boarded the Quinjet, a hush fell like a curtain over the group.

Inside, the only sound was the soft hum of Jarvis monitoring the systems. The glow of the holograms danced across the cabin walls like distant starlight. At the helm sat Yeosang, brilliant and calm, his father’s genius evident in every command he executed. Rows of projected vitals lit up the screen—names, heart rates, blinking icons showing stress levels and location markers.

And yet, despite the high-tech setting, it all felt eerily quiet. Like the calm before a storm.

The main hangar was eerily still, a rare hush settling over the massive space like a held breath before the storm. Only the faint whirring of machines and the distant hum of Jarvis filled the silence. You stood with the rest of the so-called "rookie squad"—new blood with fire in your veins and the burden of expectations on your shoulders.

Seonghwa entered first, freshly showered from combat training. His hair was still damp, soft strands clinging to his forehead as he silently took a seat on one of the tall steel chairs. Water droplets glistened under the hangar lights, trailing down the side of his neck, but he didn’t seem to notice. His expression was focused, calm, like the eye of a quiet storm.

A few moments later, Mingi strolled in, his long strides easy and confident. Yunho followed close behind, the two laughing softly at something only they shared—something simple, normal. Mingi had taken the day off yesterday to visit an old friend from Queens, a brief escape from the intensity of their world. Yunho, on the other hand, was no stranger to the Avengers facility.

He belonged here.

His cousin—the once wide-eyed intern of Tony Stark—was now a full-fledged Avenger, filling shoes once worn by Peter Parker himself. And Yunho, with his calm genius and curious spark, had become the next rising name. An intern, yes—but one gifted with potential that hummed beneath his skin like electricity.

You remembered the story Peter once told you when you came by to his office to check on your earpiece. He had taken Yunho to the museum when he was just a kid—eight, maybe nine. They had wandered into the entomology exhibit, but it was the arachnid section that stopped Yunho in his tracks. While other kids wrinkled their noses or hurried past, Yunho’s eyes lit up, transfixed by the intricate webs, the silent strength of the spiders, the way something so small could change everything.

That fascination never faded. But it came with a price—one that stole Yunho’s childhood like sand slipping through fingers. There were days Peter couldn’t bear to recall—days when Yunho lay pale and shivering under hospital sheets, his temperature spiking and crashing like a storm-tossed tide. The doctors were baffled. Machines scanned him endlessly, flashing data that led nowhere. No virus. No infection. Just an unexplained force slowly unraveling the boy from the inside out.

Peter remembered the helplessness. The guilt. The way he sat beside the bed with his hands clenched, watching his young nephew fade in and out of fever dreams. And every time he walked out of that hospital room, he carried the weight of what-ifs and regrets he couldn’t shake. No matter how many times he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t until he sought help from his senior—one of Stark’s most trusted minds—that the truth surfaced. It turned out, after that seemingly innocent visit to the museum, Yunho had taken home something more than a fascination.

He had taken home a guest.

Uninvited. Unseen.

An altered arachnid—genetically spliced, its creation buried under top-level clearance—had escaped containment that day.

Hours slipped by, slow and heavy, as you and the rest of the rookie squad remained stationed inside the hangar’s operations wing. The air had grown colder, stiller—tension lingering like fog that refused to lift. All eyes were locked on the holo-feeds, the blue-tinted light casting shadows across your faces. You could feel the weight of every passing minute.

The journey to Madripoor felt like crossing half the world. And in a way, it was. Not just in distance, but in danger—every mile they flew deeper into enemy territory felt like a countdown ticking toward uncertainty.

Yeosang sat at the front console, eyes sharp and unwavering as he monitored the holographic displays. Data streamed across the screen in pulses—coordinates, atmospheric shifts, vitals, transmission logs. Jarvis fed him real-time updates, the AI’s voice calm but constant in the background.

Everyone else had gone quiet.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t born from peace—but from anticipation. Dread. Hope.

You crossed your arms, fingers gripping your sleeves as you stared at the live transmission. Tiny blue figures moved across the map—your mother among them. So far, the mission was going as planned but that didn’t ease the knot twisting in your gut. 

1:17 am Avengers strike team approaching target coordinates. No hostiles detected.

You waved your hand, fingers slicing through the air as you dragged a copy of the hologram feed onto the table’s interface. The flickering light cast faint blue shadows across your face as you leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“That’s an easy win for them…” you murmured, voice flat with suspicion rather than confidence.

Yeosang, half-distracted and clearly running on minimal sleep, let out a yawn. He refreshed the report with a flick of his wrist, idly spinning a screwdriver between his fingers like a drummer tapping out a restless rhythm. The arc reactor in the chest-plate he'd designed glowed a soft, lazy blue—almost like it was dozing along with him.

“Too easy,” Seonghwa echoed, his voice low as he moved to stand beside Yeosang at the helm. His jaw was locked in that same grim line you’d seen on his father’s face right before a mission turned sideways. You felt it too—an invisible weight, pressing against your temples, building behind your ears like a storm waiting to break.

Then your fingers twitched. A faint crackle of scarlet light danced between them, static creeping up your knuckles like goosebumps made of magic. It wasn’t summoned—it came on its own. Your chest tightened.

Then you heard it.

Child.

A whisper. Not distant. Right next to your ear. Your head whipped around. No one was there, but your heart thundered in your chest, each beat too loud, too fast. Your breath caught, shallow and sharp.

Mingi, who had been scanning the report with a furrowed brow, caught sight of your change instantly. The confusion on his face melted into concern as he moved, his arms uncrossing and his stance softening. He stepped beside you, his hand gripping the back of your chair before gently turning it—and you—away from the others. Then he knelt, eyes locked on yours, his voice calm but edged with worry.

“Scarlet… you okay?”

Your mouth parted, trying to form words, but nothing came out—only air and fear. His eyes scanned you before he could see why—your hands, trembling slightly, fingers curled tight as sparks of red magic snapped and shimmered in the small space between them. Your energy wasn’t steady. It was reacting. 

And then, you heard it again.

Your powers are mine.

The words slithered through your mind like poison. Your breath hitched. Your ears suddenly became too sensitive—picking up everything. Footsteps. Breaths. Multiple heartbeats that hadn’t been there before. You were trained to monitor vitals, even healing using your energy but these were wrong—they didn’t belong to anyone in the room.

Your eyes snapped to the CCTV monitors before you could even glance at it, every light in the facility died in a single breath.

The hum of machinery vanished—cut off like a snapped lifeline. A cold silence swallowed the hangar whole, just before the emergency red strobes ignited with a pulse. Harsh crimson light flooded the space, casting flickering shadows across every face. Klaxons howled through the silence, sharp and shrill like a warning cry.

Then it happened.

A ripple tore through the air—just above the center of the hangar floor. The space shimmered, warped, like heat rising off pavement. But colder. Wrong. A portal, unstable and spiraling, began to crack open.

Yeosang bolted upright, shaken fully awake as the glow from his arc reactor intensified. “Jarvis! Activate full lockdown protocol, now!”

“Lock-in sequence initiated, Sir Yeosang please go to safety now and others too— order by your father.” came the AI’s voice, calm but edged with urgency.

Seonghwa’s gaze darted toward the living quarters. The protective volts normally sealing that space were active. His jaw tensed. “Everyone, back to the living sector! Do not engage unless fired upon! Move!”

His voice snapped through the chaos, the authority in his tone cutting through panic. Chairs scraped back. The rookie squad sprang into action, boots hitting the floor in a rhythmic thunder as they rushed for cover.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You pushed forward, heart pounding, vision blurred by the red flashes. Mingi was just a few steps ahead, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure you were behind him. 

Then—clang.

The magnetic lockdown activated. Thick walls dropped from the ceiling with a seismic thud, as the living area was sealed shut from the anomaly entering the facility. You were all slightly out of breath, you all sat down on the white couch, the night sky at the back mocking the darkness in front of you all as it was clear that one by one, enemies could be lurking. 

“Yeosang, report to them about our situation. Everyone—be ready, just in case.” Seonghwa’s voice was low but firm, the kind of tone that meant he was already calculating worst-case scenarios. Yeosang nodded and sprinted toward the upper stairs, where the central holo-meeting deck hovered just above the rest of the hangar. His silhouette vanished into the red-glow haze as he moved.

Below, the rest of the squad was already moving like clockwork.

Mingi pulled back his jacket sleeve, the embedded wire-thread tech in his arm lighting up with a soft click. His fingers tapped swiftly against the interface, muttering a calibration check under his breath. Yunho had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel, the soft shhk of web cartridges being locked into place echoing faintly. Seonghwa ran a hand through his still-damp hair, eyes narrowing. He exhaled sharply through his nose. “This is outrageous,” he muttered, frustration biting at every word.

Mingi scoffed, rotating his shoulder and stretching his arm in a slow, practiced motion. “Totally. It’s like they’re trying to make our parents look like amateurs.” His voice dripped with disdain, but his jaw was tight—nervous.

You settled beside Yunho, your fingertips still prickling with leftover static. He was staring out the wide hangar windows, jaw set, eyes flicking across the red-lit sky.

"Do you think it’s weird?" he finally asked, voice quieter than usual. Not fearful, but careful.

You furrowed your brows. “What’s weird?”

Yunho drew in a breath and exhaled hard, like he was trying to shake the weight from his chest. “Everything. It’s like… like something’s off. Way off. They’re on their way to Madripoor for a recovery mission—classified, dangerous. And yet we’re getting invaded at the exact same time by unknown anomalies?” He finally turned to you, eyes searching. “That’s not just a coincidence. That’s strategy.”

Your stomach dropped a little. You could feel the pulse of it now—the invisible thread of something manipulated, something orchestrated. Mingi nodded slowly, pacing with his hand running through his hair. “Divide and conquer. If they can’t beat them together… split the team.”

Just then, above on the balcony, Yeosang reappeared—his figure skidding into view. His expression was pale, eyes wide and vibrating with something between disbelief and urgency.

“Guys!” he shouted. All four of you snapped your attention upward. Yeosang gripped the railing, knuckles white.

“Super soldiers are here in the building— they’re surrounding us,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “Scarlet—”

His eyes locked on yours, and in that instant, your body reacted before your mind could. A deep, ancestral thrum ran down your spine. Like a string had been pulled. Magic flared faintly at your fingertips. Your heart pounded in your ears. “What is it, Yeo?” you asked quietly, slowly rising to your feet.

Mingi stepped forward with you without hesitation, his hand curling around the small of your back in a subtle but solid gesture of protection. You could feel the tension in him—like a fuse just before ignition. Yeosang swallowed hard. His voice broke through the silence like glass. “Your mother couldn’t reach you from your coms but she said something about the book to protect it.” 

You hesitated for a second—then it clicked. Your mother’s words echoed like a ghost behind your ribs. You looked up, your voice sharp and urgent.

“Jarvis, lock Object 1024.”

“Locking Object 1024: Activated,” came the AI’s voice, calm and sterile, utterly unaware of the storm gathering in your chest. A mechanical hiss echoed in the distance. Magnetic locks clicked into place with a cold finality. The boys looked at each other, clearly confused. Mingi spoke up first, his voice cautious.

“What’s Object 1024, Scarlet?”

Your pulse was a steady drumbeat in your ears. You didn’t answer—your hands were already moving, fingers dragging a glowing copy of the central interface toward the table. The holograms responded instantly, light reflecting off your face in uneven flickers. You keyed in your access code with trembling fingers and searched.

There it was.

A weathered image blinked into view—the ancient, leather-bound tome laced with crimson runes and impossible power. The Darkhold

The boys gathered around you instinctively. Yeosang appeared at your side, eyes narrowing as he leaned in to look. You stared at the glowing book, heart pounding beneath your ribs. “This… This might be why they’re here.” Your voice wavered. “But why send super soldiers for a book?”

A heavy silence followed. 

Yunho crossed his arms, shoulders tense as he stared at the image like it might speak back. “Sending soldiers makes sense. Trained. Fast. Obedient. But a whole squad? For this?” He shook his head slowly. “There’s more to this play.”

Mingi slumped into a nearby seat, dragging one of the holographic tabs to himself. He read through the file descriptions, his brows furrowing deeper the longer he looked. Yeosang mirrored him, opening encrypted reports and historical entries at lightning speed.

Seonghwa, quiet until now, exhaled slowly through his nose. “Think about it. They aren’t subtle. They’re meant to break walls, not sneak in.” He turned to you. “That means this wasn’t a theft—they want us to know. A statement.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightened. “Divide the team. Distract the main Avengers. Raid the vault while we’re alone.”

“And retrieve this,” Mingi added, gesturing at the flickering image of the book.  “But what exactly does the book hold that's worth a full-on strike?” 

You opened your mouth, but Yeosang cut in, already one step ahead.

“I decrypted the oldest entries.” His voice was quiet now, eyes scanning fast. “The Darkhold appeared in Massachusetts in 1693. The name Agatha Harkness shows up in almost every chapter. She wasn’t your cauldron-stirring cartoon witch. She was ancient, powerful… dangerous.”

You sank to your knees beside the coffee table, watching history unravel in front of you. Your history. “She’s the one from Westview, isn’t she?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yeosang nodded, eyes focused on the articles—his research still running on the back, some still popping up on the side of his screen. “Part of a Salem coven. But her coven turned on her. Accused her of using forbidden magic—dark magic, even by their standards.”

Mingi let out a low whistle. “She sounds like a power-hungry maniac.”

You shot him a sharp look, nudging his leg. “Show some respect. She’s dead. Probably.”

“Hopefully,” Mingi muttered, but quieted.

“She had a collection of grimoires,” Yeosang continued.  “She had her own spellbooks. Most were destroyed in 1790—but she salvaged a few. And the key word here, Scar...” He turned to you, eyes locking onto yours.

“Some. There’s a possibility that Agatha Karness is still alive.” Your stomach turned cold. “She’s still looking for the rest of what is written in the book but based here, it’s not just about the book.” he said, his fingers running on the keyboard as he looked further.

Seonghwa’s brows were deeply furrowed, his voice low and tight. “Does this have anything to do with you or your mother?” His gaze flicked to the glowing image of the Darkhold. “Do either of you possess any of the other spell books… aside from this one?”

Yunho scoffed lightly. “She must be obsessed with magic books though…” He leaned back with a grin, as if to shake the tension—but then his smile faltered. Something in his mind clicked like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Slowly, he turned to Yeosang, eyes narrowing.

“Wait—Yeo, you said she first appeared in 1693, right?” Yeosang nodded slowly, confused. “Yeah. From the Salem entries. She was supposedly in her twenties when she went rogue. It’s not exact, but we’re guessing she was about twenty-four.”

Yunho’s eyes lit up with realization. “Scarlet,” he turned to you, urgency creeping into his tone. “I know this sounds weird, but… you and your mom don’t age like regular humans, right? You still age… just slower?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. Your mind pulled back to those quiet afternoons—your mother’s soft voice explaining your lineage, your bloodline, the way time treats you differently. You nodded. “Yeah… that’s true.Our magic preserves more than just energy. We don’t stop aging—we just age differently. Time doesn’t rot us the way it does others.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes on that. Mingi tilted his head, arms folded across his chest. “Wait. So if Agatha was born in the 1600s… and she’s still out there somewhere... then that’s not just magic. That’s possession-level dark arts.”

Yunho snapped his fingers like it all made sense. “Agatha should be ancient by now. Like, dust. Even with magic keeping her alive, she’d be too weak to pull off anything this big. Unless…”

You stood up, pacing now. Thoughts flew fast and loud in your head. “Unless she found a way to prolong her strength. If she was born in 1693, and we know our generation ages slower—then maybe…” You turned to Yeosang, realization dawning. “She could still be alive, just weakened.”

Yunho pointed at you, grinning. “That’s it! You’re catching on, Scarlet.”

But Mingi’s voice cut in, sharp and speculative. “What if she’s not just alive? What if she passed her magic? You know—some freaky friday, soul transfer… body swap kind of thing?”

You stopped pacing, looking at him slowly. “That’s not how it works… At least, not for us.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded, your voice quieter now, as a memory resurfaced—your mother’s stern warnings about transfering. “Soul transfer isn’t permanent. It can be done, but it takes a ridiculous amount of energy. At most, a day. A month if you’ve mastered it. But eventually… your soul snaps back to its original body. The bond doesn’t last.”

Mingi leaned closer to the hologram, dragging the Darkhold's image into better view. “Okay, but the question here is… Why now? Why wait centuries just to send a couple of super soldiers and risk it all? Seems reckless for someone who’s waited this long.”

You inhaled shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. “Each witch from different generations comes with different magic…” Yeosang nodded, bringing up a chart onto his personal panel—one only he could see from his angle. “Confirmed. Lineages carry unique energy signatures. From elemental mastery to chaos magic, every bloodline evolves. You and your mother are at the core of the strongest.”

He flipped through data, generations flashing by in an arcane cascade. Names. Dates. Spells thought to be long forgotten. You turned to each of the boys slowly—your voice tightening with dread. “Maybe… maybe the reason she kept herself alive is because of us. Because my mother found that book…”

Mingi leaned back on the table, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a grim line. “So what? She found a loophole?” he muttered. “Cheated death with dark magic? That’s twisted, even for someone like her.”

You opened your mouth to respond—only for Yeosang to suddenly freeze at his station, “Guys…” 

The clacking of keys stopped. The silence that followed was heavy—everyone processing the possibility that the threat wasn’t a faceless enemy, but something personal. A quiet chime echoed through the base. Yeosang’s screen flickered. A new encrypted alert slid across his panel, glowing deep violet against the otherwise-blue interface.

It got all of your attention, curiosity spikes as his eyes scans the whole article. Usually the hologram is shown but Yeosang likes his private holograms and right now, you wish to take down the privacy settings and see his works. 

Everyone turned. His gaze didn’t move. He didn’t blink, “I just picked up an incoming transmission.”

Seonghwa stepped closer. “From who?”

Yeosang didn’t answer immediately. His fingers glided across the panel in a blur—data streams igniting, swirling symbols appearing with every flick of his hand. The projection table in the center morphed—first into static, then into sigils, and finally into a corrupted visual feed. A cloaked figure. Female. Shadowed. Her eyes glowed faintly indigo. Her voice was warped, distorted through layers of encrypted magic.

“To the child of chaos— Your mother held what was never hers. And now, I’ve come for what belongs to me.”

You didn’t realize you had reached for Mingi’s hand until you felt him squeeze it back. Hard. He had moved instinctively, standing protectively close, as if he could hold back whatever that voice meant.

Yunho stood up sharply from the bench. “What the hell…”

You stayed frozen—your body still, but the static of magic beneath your skin began to hum. Somewhere part of the facility, held inside a protective case, The Darkhold’s image, still faint in the background of the room, flickered unnaturally. Then it pulsed. Once. Twice. Like a heartbeat syncing to something dark, something familiar.

You barely managed to speak, the whisper barely escaping your lips, “…She’s here.” 

A sudden, violent blast echoed through the facility.

The lights flickered violently as the emergency walls trembled. Dust fell from the corners of the ceiling. The protective panels over the windows automatically shifted into lockdown mode, but the central hangar’s observation glass still gave you a full view. Seonghwa was already barking orders, his voice cutting through the panic. “Everyone back! Positions! Don’t engage unless necessary!”

Mingi furrowed, keeping you closer to him. Your hand slowly crept coldness around your fingertips as you felt your heart racing out of nervousness. “This is outrageous!” 

But you felt it before you saw it. The air shifted. The present had slowed down in time leaving you glancing around with confusion yet with a mixture of panic inside, you took notice of the thickness of power. Raw magic crawled over your skin like static and flames—familiar, but twisted.

You turned, drawn toward the hangar windows, pulse quickening as the atmosphere changed. And then you saw her. Through the reinforced glass, in the center of the hangar, a troop of enhanced soldiers stood in formation—towering, still, focused. And in front of them was a woman.

Her hair dark as night, falling in waves over a cloak laced with ancient sigils. Her eyes glowed brighter than before—indigo, unnatural, dangerous. Magic radiated from her in pulses, strong enough to make your fingers twitch with responding energy.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move either but her gaze was locked on you.

You blinked, your grip on Ming’s hand slowly loosen before it dropped on his side whilst stepping forward slowly—like a moth to a flame. Unconsciously drawn. The hum beneath your skin sparked to life, magic waking, swirling at your fingertips.

“Scarlet…” Seonghwa’s voice came from one ear to the other as your feet continued moving towards her; you couldn’t take your eyes off her. She barely smiled yet it was that kind of smile that knew secrets only time could keep. And your power—reacting and boiling—whispered in return.  Your head tilted to the side in curiosity.

Yes child, this is raw power.

The voice echoed inside your head—no longer distant, no longer whispering. It filled your ears like a symphony of a thousand witches past. A pull—deep, magnetic, ancient—tugged at your chest. Your foot moved forward on its own, soft steps gliding across the glass-strewn floor like you were walking underwater.

You barely registered Mingi’s voice. “Scarlet… what are you doing?” There was concern—confusion. You didn’t answer. Your mind felt hijacked, and the invisible strings tightened.

This is the power you should know!

Another step. Another breath stolen from you. Mingi’s face was drawn in tension, fists clenched as he began to move, but Seonghwa beat him to it. He crossed the room in seconds, gripped your arm—not harshly, but firmly enough to ground you.

And in that one touch—Everything came flooding back. The static in your veins stilled. The haze lifted. You blinked, dazed, eyes wide and wet with flickering indigo. “Something wrong, Hwa?”

Seonghwa’s jaw tensed, but his grip didn’t loosen. “You weren’t responding,” he said tightly. “You were walking straight toward her.” His head shook, and he gently pulled you behind him. 

You nodded… but something still felt off. Like part of you was still out there with her. Like she had already taken a piece of your soul.

The walls shook so hard the reinforced steel groaned. You stumbled to your knees as the rest of the boys braced themselves. Lights shattered from the ceiling like falling stars. A low roar trembled through the floor, growing louder and louder until a loud crash echoed the entire facility.

The protective barrier—your last line of defense—splintered with a sound like thunder. Glass exploded into the room, raining down in deadly shards. You threw your arms over your head, curling in on yourself. The sharp sting of magic and debris laced the air. It felt wrong. Every cell in your body screamed.

A surge of amethyst-colored mist spiraled around you, crackling with violent magic. It grabbed you, yanking you into the air like a marionette. You gasped as your body twisted unnaturally, limbs thrashing.

Someone is here.

Someone like you.

Someone stronger.

Mingi’s scream was the first thing you heard. “SCARLET!”

He lunged from the floor with explosive speed, shoving off a broken bench—but before he could touch you, that same purple mist lashed out. It caught him mid-air, slamming him back. He crashed into the metal tables, splinters and sparks flying, then hit the ground with a skid that made your stomach lurch.

“Mingi!” you cried, arms bind on your side against the magic. Yeosang was already sprinting toward him, dodging debris, sliding to Mingi’s side with panic in his eyes. Yunho and Seonghwa flanked you instinctively, eyes narrowed, their breathing calm but ready for war.

The floating figure emerged into full view, arms spread in theatrical grace, her lips curled into a mocking smile.

“Hello, boys,” she cooed, her tone drenched in sugar and poison. “Forgive the intrusion. No one was at the door… so we let ourselves in.” The shadow that had haunted your screens now took shape. A woman, tall and regal. Her cloak shimmered with runes and living ink—moving like snakes along the fabric. Her skin pale, hair jet black, lips a bruised violet. Her eyes… oh god, her eyes glowed inside your mind, not just your vision.

Her voice could have seduced the air itself—sickly sweet, dripping with false politeness. It was the kind of voice that pulled strings in minds unguarded. Seonghwa stood rigid, jaw tight as his eyes swept across the armed silhouettes of the super soldiers aligning behind her. “Wrong house, lady.”

The woman tilted her head, her smile widening in amused delight. “Oh dear, that’s embarrassing,” she chuckled, conjuring a glowing slip of paper from the mist beside her. “But as you can see… right here on the address—” Before she could finish, the parchment caught fire in her palm, dissolving into ash under her own magic. “Oops,” she said with a wink.

You were still suspended in the air, writhing in the suffocating grip of her power. The mist that held you was no longer just mist—it felt like fingers. Real, unrelenting, ancient fingers. She floated toward you, slow and graceful like a predator who’d already won. Her unruly curls bounced around a face too wrinkled for her voice, her expression far too delighted for someone reeking of death.

“Aww… it’s so lovely to finally meet you, Scarlet,” she purred, hovering mere inches from your face. “Such a sweet little name—borrowed from your mother’s title, I presume.”

Your blood ran cold. There was something about her magic, the signature, the smell of it—burnt herbs, cracked earth, and something old enough to predate fire. Your brows drew together. “Who are you?”

She pouted, faking a wounded sigh. “Tsk. Your mother and I were dearest friends… until she betrayed me.”

“I don’t blame her then,” you snapped, voice shaking with barely restrained rage. Her eyes narrowed as she pointed a claw-like finger burnt just like your mother’s toward your face, the magic around it crackling with heat. “Watch your mouth—”

“Agatha Harkness,” Yeosang cut in from behind, breathing heavily as he struggled to lift Mingi’s arm over his shoulders. “It’s her. It’s really her.”

Everyone turned to stare. Your eyes widened. Agatha’s grin stretched wider, seemingly to forget what your conversation was a while ago, exposing teeth too white to be human. “Ahhh~ seems I’m still remembered.” She gave a theatrical bow. “You’re welcome.”

Then the temperature in the room dropped. Her face flattened, the smile vanishing as her eyes turned cold and cruel. Her voice lost its syrupy quality and dropped into something low, guttural, “Well then, introductions are over. You can have the boys,” she said, without even sparing them another glance. “I’ll have the girl.”

At her command, the soldiers surged forward.

Seonghwa was the first to react— despite the rule they were given but in this situation, it is their lives at stake and he may not be responsible but he won’t let anyone hurt his friends and he will take the burden of the consequences. His instincts were razor-sharp. His eyes locked onto the incoming threat, voice steady and commanding, “Jarvis—send in my shield.”

“Right away, sir.”

A high-pitched whirring filled the air. From somewhere beyond the skyline-facing windows, a blur of vibranium came slicing through the penthouse like a boomerang. Seonghwa didn’t flinch. He leapt off the upper railing, dropping fast as the shield closed in—his hand outstretched.

With a perfect snap, the shield’s magnetic handle locked onto his forearm midair. Seonghwa twisted his body and slammed into the floor below in a crouched landing, glass panels shaking under the force. The city lights reflected off the curved metal of the shield. He slowly looked up, eyes glinting under the blue-white glow of the shattered display screen above him.

“Engage,” he said, voice low and final. 

The enemy’s punch flew toward his face like a bullet, blocking it with his shield. The impact rang out like a thunderclap, vibrating against the reinforced glass of the penthouse walls. He skidded backward across the sleek floor, boots grinding against the polished wood, but didn’t fall. Instead, he rolled his shoulder back into place with a slow, surgical crack, his eyes narrowing—calm fury simmering beneath the surface.

Yunho, with practiced ease, web-fluid bursting from his wrists in twin streams. He snared two soldiers mid-sprint and slung them up into the metal support beams. For a second, they flailed like puppets—until their sheer strength ripped through the webs. They crashed back to the ground in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and yet, like machines powered by something unnatural, they rose again.

From the left staircase, a war cry thundered.

Mingi stormed in like a force of nature. With both of his mechanical arms gleaming, he yanked a titanium pipe from the broken bar counter and hurled it like a spear. It tore across the open space of the lounge, slamming into a squad and sending them flying across the marble floor. One enemy tried to flank him—but Mingi turned mid-step, caught him by the throat, and slammed him down into the glass floor with an impact that caused the entire level to quake. His cybernetic arms hissed and flexed, glowing faintly with reactive power.

High above them, Yeosang dropped in through the upper-level glass ceiling, blades drawn, his chest reactor glowing like a mini arc core. He landed directly behind enemy lines, slicing through with a tech-enhanced, graceful precision that could only come from a genius mind. A high-speed spin-kick to a soldier's chest sent the enemy flying into the conference table, smashing chairs into splinters. Another attacker swung a blade—but Yeosang ducked, reversed the grip, and tased him with a shock pulse through his gauntlet straight to the neck.

"Keep pushing!" Seonghwa shouted. He ducked under a baton strike, retaliated with a clean uppercut, and twisted midair hurling the shield across the soldier’s chest causing the soldier to be caught out of breath as stumbles backward, the shield bounced back to Seonghwa. 

Yunho vaulted over the wraparound staircase, landing low in a crouch. One attacker tossed a knife, but Yunho webbed it in midair, yanked it back, and used it to knock out his enemy with a heavy backhanded strike. “Seriously?” he panted. “Pick someone your own size.”

Reinforcements poured in from the lower hangar—armored soldiers cloaked in shadow tech. Mingi stepped forward, cracking his mechanical knuckles. “We’re gonna need a bigger distraction.”

You thrashed in mid-air, panic clawing at your chest. Agatha approached again, this time closer, her eyes gleaming with twisted amusement, “I have waited a long time for you…” Her voice was layered—echoing with multiple voices. Centuries of witches within her. 

You struggled as your body snapped violently upright, pinned like a puppet mid-air. Her single raised hand controlled you like a string—each finger a vice around your will. “This power was never hers… it is mine. It runs in your blood now, child of chaos. And you will kneel.”

You gritted your teeth, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the pressure building in your chest. “N-Never,” you gasped. “What do you want?! Leave my friends alone!”

“You know exactly what I want,” Agatha only smiled—cruel and knowing. She stepped in, slowly, like a predator savoring the hunt. Her finger rose and pressed under your chin, tilting your face toward hers “That book—The Darkhold. Your mother stole it from my sanctum, hid it in plain sight. All I want…” Her grip tightened. You felt your body tremble under the crushing weight of her magic. Her voice fell, low and venomous “…is what’s mine.”

You glared through the pain. “I won’t give it to you,” you hissed. “Dark magic should never be touched—” Her laughter slashed through the silence like a jagged blade—loud, unhinged, echoing through the shattered penthouse. She threw her head back, cackling, and for a second, the room felt colder.

“Innocent,” she crooned, almost fondly. “So very innocent. Did she never tell you?” Her gaze snapped back to yours, predatory, “How many did your mother kill… for you?”

Your breath hitched. “No…” you whispered. “She did what she had to.”

“She burned villages,” Agatha snarled. “Turned covens into ash. Shattered minds. Destroyed everything in her path—all in the name of protecting you.” Her hand rose higher. You felt your body rise with it—your ribs straining under the weight of her magic.

“And now I ask you, daughter of Wanda—was it worth it?” The room pulsed with the growing storm between you. Behind your pain, a heat began to build—a flicker deep in your core. Not Agatha’s power. Not your mother's.

It was yours. You felt the power inside her building. The mist around your body thickened, and with it, so did the pain. It wasn’t just physical. She was inside you. Tugging on your veins, on your power. Your mother’s face flashed before your eyes. You gasped—not from fear, but from something snapping loose.

Your eyes flared red. Then white. Then scarlet.

Agatha smiles, that one creepy, as she feels your chaotic magic running through your core. It was what she wanted— this power. “I don’t even need the book anymore,” she said softly, with a disturbing calm. “You’re enough.”

She hovered higher. Her hand glowed—red and violet, too close to your own power for comfort—and she thrust it directly into your chest. Not physically, but magically. It was like your very soul was being pried open. Your body arched violently as her magic hooked into yours.

A light sparked between you. At first, purple then flickering into your scarlet hue. You screamed, your voice raw, as the energy connecting you turned red—your red. The burning sensation wasn’t just pain—it was like something sacred was being stolen. Your identity. Your birthright.

“AAHHH!” The boys turned at the sound. It was terrifying to hear, felt it down to their core as their heads snapped towards your direction, Mingi’s eyes widen witnessing how Agatha was draining your magic towards hers like vampiric action, the glow on your core was enough proof that it was your powers that she was after. 

Mingi, now barely conscious, reached out, "Scarlet!" Yunho shouted your name. Seonghwa looked ready to kill. But Agatha’s grip didn’t waver. She absorbed your power like it was meant for her.

Your eyes rolled back, vision swimming in red and violet blurs. And through the haze, you saw something terrifying— She wasn’t even using her full power.