The Halazia Chronicles

The warehouse always felt softest at dusk.

Someone had propped the big rolling door halfway open, just enough to let in a stripe of orange light that cut across the concrete and turned the drifting dust motes into slow-falling stars.

“One and two and three and—” Yunho counted off a tricky part of the choreography, voice steady, arms cutting clean lines through the air. San stood beside him, eyes locked on their reflections in the tall mirrors they’d salvaged for their makeshift studio. He tried to mirror Yunho’s footwork, but his timing stuttered.

“You have to move forward on that step,” Yunho said, demonstrating again. “Otherwise, you won’t have space to land the extra count.”

“Oh! Yes—I see now.” San brightened instantly. “I wasn’t stepping forward, so my feet kept crashing into each other. Thank you!” He hurried to cue the music back from the top, eager to try again.

“Shift your weight more,” Mingi added from the sidelines, slurping from a steaming cup of instant ramyeon. “Left to right. The momentum helps you catch the turn.”

Near the far wall, Hongjoong was elbow-deep in a tangle of cables while Yeosang fiddled with the drone’s stabilizer, brows drawn in concentration. They both looked up as the music restarted, catching San and Yunho beginning the choreography.

They moved through the steps—San hesitant at first, then suddenly fluid. When he hit the final beat perfectly, the room erupted with enthusiastic whoops and proud clapping.

Yunho pounded San’s back with a huge hand, grinning so wide his eyes disappeared. “THAT’s what I’m talking about.”

San beamed, breathless and glowing.

Wooyoung lay on his back in the middle of it all, one knee bent, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes.

“Hyuuung,” he whined. “Tell us again about your mystery girl.”

Seonghwa, sitting cross-legged beside Mingi, didn’t bother looking up from the snack wrapper he was folding and unfolding. “No.”

Jongho snorted from his spot by the basketball hoop. “You mean the one who shoots lasers from her fingers?”

Mingi giggled, noodles hanging from his mouth. “The spark girl!”

“She doesn’t shoot lasers.” Seonghwa tried to sound annoyed. It came out tired instead.

Wooyoung peeked at him from under his arm, eyes bright. “Then explain, Mr. ‘I Saw Light Fly From Her Hand and It Changed My Life.’”

San laughed, the sound bouncing off the rafters. “Yeah, hyung. You literally followed a sparkle and ended up here. That’s Disney-princess stuff.”

A chorus of snickers. Someone clapped. The teasing was familiar by now, easy and warm. Still, Seonghwa felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said, sharper than he meant to.

The room quieted. Even the ramyeon slurping paused.

Seonghwa smoothed the crumpled wrapper flat on his knee, tracing the lines in the plastic as he searched for words.

“The first time I saw her,” he began slowly, “it was just…the convenience store parking lot. End of my shift. Same ugly lights. Same busted cart in the corner. Same drunk ajusshi buying the same beer.”

He could see it as he spoke: the way the fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, turning everything a little too harsh.

“And then there she was,” he said. “Right in the middle of it. Dancing.”

Wooyoung lowered his arm completely and sat up. Hongjoong’s hands stilled on the cable.

“She had this quiet smile,” Seonghwa went on. “Not, like…flashy. Just…soft. She had headphones on, but I could hear her music. Everything around me froze for a moment. The only thing I could hear was the sound of music coming from her earphones. The way she moved—” He swallowed. “It was like the world wasn’t heavy for her. As if she were a feather just floating in and out of reality. Like gravity didn’t touch her the same way.”

He huffed a tiny laugh, embarrassed. “I know that sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” Yunho said.

Seonghwa’s fingers curled around the edge of the wrapper, crinkling it.

“It wasn’t romantic,” he said, more firmly now. “Not at all. I didn’t…I don’t want anything from her. It was more like…” He paused, searching.

“Like what?” Yeosang asked softly.

“Like she reminded me of something that I lost a long time ago,” Seonghwa said. The words felt strange on his tongue. “No, that’s not quite right. I felt nostalgia for something I’ve never experienced. I looked at her, and suddenly I missed…something I’d never had. A life where I wasn’t so—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

So tired.

So lonely.

So trapped.

He let out a breath.

“I’d been…just existing. Going from school to work to home, clocking in, clocking out. Doing everything I was supposed to. And then she danced in this stupid parking lot, under those ugly lights, and for a second it felt like the world could be…more. Like I could be more.”

No one spoke. Even the siren wailing somewhere far off in the city felt muted.

Seonghwa stared at his hands.

“The night I followed her,” he said, “I was on the bus. I saw her outside the window—in the same spot. I’d decided I was going to get off at the next stop, go back, finally talk to her.” He gave a tiny smile. “I chickened out, obviously. The bus turned the corner. I started to lose sight of her and then…”

He lifted his free hand, mimicking the movement.

“She spun,” he said. “Lifted her arm like this. Just part of the dance. But for a second, I swear, I saw something fly from her hand. A spark. A flash. And my eyes followed it.”

They had all gathered around him by now, utterly still. Even the drone’s little indicator light seemed to hold its blink.

“It went across the parking lot,” Seonghwa said quietly. “Over the fence. And landed on that ugly, forgotten building behind the store. This warehouse. I’d never paid attention to it before, but suddenly it was like…it lit up in my chest.”

He glanced up at the familiar cracked ceiling, the rusted beams, the peeling paint.

“I didn’t choose this place,” he said. “Something brought me here.”

The words hung there. A quiet thesis.

“Okay, but—what about the spark?” Wooyoung asked, leaning forward.

Seonghwa let the snack wrapper fall from his lap. His hand went to his pocket instead, fingers closing around cool metal.

“The next day,” he said, “I got off the bus early. Went back to the store, hoping she’d be there. She wasn’t.”

His thumb rubbed over engraved letters as he spoke.

“But on the ground, near where she’d been dancing, I found this.”

He pulled the bracelet out and opened his palm.

It was simple and a little scuffed, a metal bangle with a small gap in the circle. Under the dim warehouse light, the etched words around the outside caught a faint gleam.

“‘Be free,’” Yunho read aloud.

Wooyoung sucked in a breath. “The spark.”

“It must’ve flown off when she spun,” Seonghwa said. “I thought it was light at first. A trick from the streetlamp. But when I picked this up…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe the spark was just this bracelet, falling. Maybe I imagined the rest.”

“…Or maybe not,” Yeosang said quietly.

Seonghwa slipped the bangle over his wrist. The metal was a little too big; it slid up his forearm, then settled against the thin bone just above his hand. He’d worn it enough now that the weight of it felt familiar.

“When I saw her dance,” he said, voice soft, “it felt like breathing after being underwater too long. Like my chest finally opened. I didn’t even realize how lonely I was until that moment cracked something in me.”

He looked around at them—their faces, their scattered belongings, the mess of cables and empty snack cups and scuffed sneakers.

“And then I followed that feeling here,” he said. “To you.”

A quiet fell over the room, deeper than before.

San reached out and rested a hand between Seonghwa’s shoulder blades, warm and solid. Jongho gave a single, serious nod. Mingi was blinking hard, eyes shiny.

Wooyoung swallowed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I think we all kind of know what you’re talking about.”

Hongjoong didn’t say anything. But he watched the bracelet linger on Seonghwa’s wrist like a tiny captured comet. He looked around at all of their faces and tucked the image away in his heart.

They continued their dance practice well into the dark. By the time the music faded, the air in the warehouse was thick with warmth and the faint smell of sweat and ramyeon seasoning.

Empty containers littered the floor. The drone sat docked on its crate like a tired bird. The cheap speaker hummed softly with static as Hongjoong bent to flip it off. One by one, the boys began the familiar end-of-night ritual—tossing trash (mostly Seonghwa), stuffing notebooks and chargers into backpacks, checking pockets for keys and bus cards.

“Don’t forget your math book,” Yunho called to Mingi, nudging a crumpled workbook with his foot.

Mingi groaned. “Why would you remind me?”

“Because if your grades suck, then your parents won’t let you come hang out here with us,” Yunho said evenly.

Mingi picked up the book without a word and stuffed it into his backpack.

They drifted toward the rolling door in a loose cluster, trading lazy shoulder bumps and half-finished jokes.

All except San.

He stood near the center of the room, hands hanging at his sides, eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. His bag sat untouched by the wall where he’d dropped it hours ago.

Seonghwa was the first to notice. “San?” he called, already halfway to the door. “You okay?”

San blinked and looked up, as if he’d been pulled from somewhere far away. “Yeah,” he said automatically. Then, after a beat, “You guys go ahead. I’m going to stay and practice some more.”

Yunho turned from a joke he had been sharing with Mingi to look back at San, “You stayed late the last three nights to practice. You need to rest, too. You don’t want to overdo it!”

“Right, right. I won’t stay too late,” San promised, though he wouldn’t look at Yunho when he said it.

Wooyoung pivoted on his heel and padded back over, eyebrows lifting. “What’s wrong?”

San’s gaze flicked to the open door, where a strip of night waited—streetlights, distance, the vague notion of a half-packed apartment. His chest tightened.

“I…” He swallowed. His voice came out smaller than he wanted. “I just don’t want to go home yet, that’s all.”

The chatter at the doorway faded. The others turned, attention snapping towards him.

Seonghwa’s brow creased. “Is everything okay…at home?”

San let out a breath that felt shaky on the way out. “I think we’re moving again. Soon.”

He tried to make it sound like no big deal. It wasn’t like this was new.

“My mom said the last move was postponed. But I think it’s going to happen soon. She spent all day packing,” he said. “Small stuff, but enough to have cardboard boxes everywhere. My room’s just…piles again.” His fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt. “It feels like the walls are getting smaller every hour. Like if I go back, there’ll just be less and less of my life left out. Until it’s all taped shut.”

No one interrupted. They just watched him, their faces softening.

San laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said. “It’s just another move. But I’m tired. I’m tired of starting over. And here…” He gestured around them—the mismatched furniture, the graffiti-scarred walls, the high, shadowed ceiling. “Here, it feels still. Like nothing’s getting dragged away ever again.”

He dropped his hand.

“You’ve been sleeping here,” Jongho said suddenly, able to discern the truth before anyone else.

“Yeah,” San admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “On that gross mat by the wall.”

“Hey,” Jongho protested. “That’s a high-quality, vintage gym mat, thank you very much.”

San huffed a laugh despite himself.

“I slept better on that thing than I have in weeks,” he said. “I don’t…want to go back to the boxes yet.”

Silence pooled in the middle of the room, thick and careful.

Then Wooyoung shrugged, as if the answer were obvious.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’m staying.”

San’s head snapped up. “What?”

Wooyoung was already kicking his bag away from the door, sending it skidding back into the room. “I was too lazy to go home anyway.”

Yunho rolled his eyes, but hooked his backpack off his shoulder and dropped it next to Wooyoung’s. “I should probably study,” he said. “But I can study here.”

Jongho grinned, letting his hoodie slide back off. “I call the couch!”

“That couch is older than all of us combined,” Hongjoong muttered, but there was no real bite in it. He set his cables down and straightened. “I should…really figure out this cable mess anyway,” he added, deadpan.

“Hyung,” Mingi said, delighted, “you’re such a liar.”

Mingi didn’t even bother pretending to deliberate. He flopped down on the nearest pile of spare blankets like a cat finding a sunbeam. “I already live here in my heart,” he declared.

Seonghwa hesitated for only a second before pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“I’ll text my mom,” he said quietly. “Tell her I’m at a friend’s house.”

Jongho snorted. “Technically true.”

They all turned toward the doorway then.

Yeosang stood there, fingers curled around the metal, the night spilling in around him. His expression was complicated—eyes shadowed, mouth pressed in a line.

“I…” Yeosang began, then stopped. “My father expects me home.”

“Right,” San said quickly, guilt flashing across his face. “You don’t have to—I didn’t mean for everyone—”

“It’s okay,” Yeosang cut in. He glanced back into the warehouse, letting his gaze skim over the makeshift home they’d built together—drone parts, taped-up posters, scuffed basketball, Hongjoong’s mess of cables, Wooyoung’s shoes kicked off in the middle of the floor.

His throat worked.

“I’ll just be late,” he said finally. “But…I can’t stay.”

San nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Of course. It’s okay.”

Yeosang lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug, like it didn’t matter. But he lingered a moment longer at the threshold, looking at them curled up in their chosen spots, the way they were already rearranging the room into a sleepover.

Something like longing flickered across his face.

San caught it. Their eyes met for just a second.

“Good night, Yeosang,” San said, a little more gently than before.

Yeosang’s mouth softened. “Good night.”

He stepped out into the dark and pulled the door closed until only a thin line of city light remained, then nothing.

Inside, the warehouse felt suddenly quieter—but not empty.

They dragged cushions, mats, spare jackets, and blankets into a rough nest in the center of the floor. Jongho stretched out on the “vintage” couch with his feet hanging off the armrest. Yunho propped a textbook open on his chest and immediately closed his eyes. Wooyoung curled up next to Mingi, muttering something about “body heat economy.” Hongjoong lay on his back, one hand tucked under his head, staring up at the dim ceiling beams like they were constellations. Seonghwa checked to make sure everyone had a blanket before finally lying down.

San settled in the middle of them all, the worn mat beneath him and someone’s borrowed hoodie bunched under his head as a pillow. He could hear the soft breathing around him, the occasional rustle of fabric, the faint hum of the city outside.

His chest, which had felt tight and sharp all day, eased.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was in transit. He felt…anchored.

He closed his eyes.

-----

They woke up in a tangle of limbs and blankets, the early morning sun peaking through the various gaps in the warehouse’s shoddy facade.

Jongho had migrated to the floor sometime in the night. Yunho’s textbook was stuck to his cheek. Mingi was using Wooyoung as a pillow, and Wooyoung was complaining about it loudly even though he didn’t move an inch.

San looked different that morning. Lighter. Sleeping there with them had knocked some weight off his shoulders.

They all spilled out of the warehouse into a dim, early morning stillness. The sky was washed in pale blue, and the world felt soft at the edges.

“Han River, later?” Hongjoong asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Han River,” Wooyoung echoed—trying to sound casual but unable to hide the spark under the words.

The rest of the boys nodded or said their agreement as they each went their separate ways into the brightening morning.

-----

The sky was darkening into night when Wooyoung drifted toward the railing at the river, pretending to scroll through his playlist but really just stalling. The crowd had doubled—maybe tripled—since they first arrived. Down below, the river rushed beneath the bridges, fast and cold. He stared absently into it.

He’d practiced alone for years: in stairwells, empty classrooms, even bathrooms. Anywhere without eyes.

But, here? There were eyes everywhere.

And his friends—all of the boys—were nearby, horsing around, and cheering other performers on. They’d all already danced, whether in pairs or as a group. Now, he was the last one holding out.

“Hey! What are you doing all the way over there?” yelled Mingi.

Wooyoung forced himself to turn back. “I was just trying to pick a song,” he lied.

“Come here.” Hongjoong patted the space beside him. “What about that one you’ve been practicing forever? You know that one really well.”

Wooyoung scrolled right past it. “Nah, I’m tired of that one.”

Jongho walked over and peered into his face, absolutely merciless. “You’re nervous.”

Wooyoung’s entire soul tried to collapse in on itself. He attempted to ignore Jongho, but the other boys heard; the chatter quieted.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung muttered. “Maybe I need to practice more. We can just come back tomorrow.”

There was a beat of silence, then all of the boys closed in around Wooyoung, forming a circle of warmth and certainty.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Yunho said first. “I don’t think that I’ve ever seen a dancer as good as you before.”

Wooyoung snorted. “Okay, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“No! I swear! I’m not playing with you,” Yunho responded earnestly.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa added, gentler. “We’ve all watched you. You’re amazing.”

“You could mess up and still be one of the best dancers here,” Yeosang said matter-of-factly.

“If you mess up, you buy us dinner. If you don’t, I’ll buy you dinner,” Jongho challenged.

Wooyoung barked a laugh at that.

“Wooyoung, before you start performing, remember these three things. Everything will be okay! Believe in yourself! You can do it!” He felt a lump form in his throat at Seonghwa’s earnest expression.

Then Yunho’s laughter, cutting clean through it, “He’ll be too nervous to remember THREE things! What kind of psychology book did you read?”

And Hongjoong’s voice—steady, grounding, warm in a way Wooyoung wished he could be for himself, “Yunho, are you making fun of Seonghwa again? But hey, Wooyoung…believing in YOU is the key.”

He looked at Hongjoong then. “Hyung…is it okay if I use that song you’ve been working on?”

Hongjoong blinked. “What song? I’ve only been working on one, and it’s not finished.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung said softly. “That one. I know it’s not finished. But I really like it. It always makes me want to dance.”

Hongjoong’s face shifted—bewilderment, gratitude, and tenderness—all at once. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll cue it up whenever you’re ready.”

Wooyoung looked around at the seven shining faces before him, bright with trust. He inhaled.

“I’m ready now.”

Mingi smacked him on the back, knocking him off-balance.

They waited for the last performer to finish, then motioned for Wooyoung to take the floor. He stepped into the small clearing, positioned himself as he had practiced—feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose, breath trembling.

Hongjoong hovered over the play button, eyes locked onto him.

Wooyoung scanned their faces one last time. Finally, he nodded.

Hongjoong pressed play.

The first beat struck the air.

At first, Wooyoung kept his movements small—safe footwork, familiar grooves. His breath caught. His shoulders were stiff.

Then he looked at them.

The boys were jostling each other near the railing. Yunho was doing an unhinged fist pump. Jongho was shouting, “YA! LET’S GO!” like he was betting at a boxing match. Mingi was clapping with soft, sincere excitement. Yeosang was smiling that warm, quiet smile. San was beaming his 3,000-watt smile. Seonghwa was watching with quiet pride. And Hongjoong was nodding in rhythm, analyzing the sound.

Something in Wooyoung’s ribcage unlocked.

His body took over.

He moved sharply, then fluidly, letting his weight fall and catch, letting instinct eclipse fear. The river wind tugged at his shirt, the beat thumped through the soles of his shoes, and the fading light hit him just right as he twisted into a clean spin.

The crowd began clapping to the beat, then they were cheering, shouting his name. Wooyoung didn’t shrink this time.

He expanded.

His foot landed with a crisp tap on concrete, and Hongjoong’s head snapped up.

“That,” Hongjoong muttered, already pulling out his phone’s voice recorder. “That sound. Do it again.”

Wooyoung did. Hongjoong sampled it, brows furrowing as he listened with complete concentration. “That’s it! That’s the rest of the beat,” Hongjoong said excitedly.

Something bloomed so fiercely in Wooyoung’s chest it almost lifted him off the ground.

He finished the routine with a flourish—breathless, sweaty, exhilarated.

The boys didn’t cheer. They screamed.

Yunho picked him up in a bear hug. Jongho shouted about goosebumps. Mingi shouted, “Bro, you’re CRAZY!” San swung his arms around his shoulders. Yeosang clapped tiny claps with a giant smile on his face. Seonghwa nearly teared up. Hongjoong just nodded, grinning like he’d just found treasure.

Wooyoung bowed dramatically.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t dancing alone.

-----

The walk back to the warehouse felt like a festival day.

Yeosang was allowed to stay the night at a “friend’s” house—an almost unheard-of leniency from his father. It was Friday, and he’d gotten a perfect score on a math exam earlier that week. Not that he ever returned anything but perfect scores. Still, it was enough for permission, and the boys were determined to soak up the rare freedom.

Their laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street, echoing in warm bursts. Even the streetlights seemed brighter as they passed under them, as if the universe shared their high spirits.

They stopped at a convenience store near Yeouido Hangang Park for a quick ramyeon dinner. True to his word, Jongho slapped down money for Wooyoung’s cup of noodles.

“Only because you didn’t mess up,” Jongho said.

“You wanted me to ruin it so you’d get free dinner,” Wooyoung shot back, narrowing his eyes accusingly.

“You’ll never prove it,” Jongho replied, slurping loudly.

After dinner, as they were leaving the park, Mingi suddenly patted his stomach. “I’m still hungry,” he admitted.

Yeosang blinked. “You ate two ramyeons.”

“Yes,” Mingi said absently. “I should’ve probably gotten three.”

He jogged back toward the convenience store while the others waited under a streetlamp, still teasing him under their breath.

“He keeps eating like that, and he’ll be taller than you,” Hongjoong said to Yunho.

“Yeah, right,” Yunho replied confidently.

Their banter broke abruptly when a harsh shout cracked across the quiet.

“HEY!”

They turned. Five boys—older, broad-shouldered, sneering—trailed out of the store behind Mingi. They recognized him. And worse, they recognized the way he shrank when cornered.

They shoved him once. Then again, harder.

Mingi’s face pinched. He flinched, shoulders curling inward.

Wooyoung was the first to start running.

He sprinted, voice slicing through the air, “HEY!”

Jongho followed instantly—running like a battering ram—breaking through the gap between the bullies and Mingi, planting himself like an immovable wall.

Wooyoung circled them, small but fierce, a spark snapping with every step. “Touch him again,” he snarled, “and I’ll make you regret it.”

Yunho and San arrived seconds later, sliding into formation without a word, creating a human shield around Mingi.

Hongjoong approached slowly but deliberately. His voice came out calm, but edged, “He’s with us.”

Yeosang, quietly but efficiently, snapped a photo of the bullies’ faces with his phone—insurance.

Then Seonghwa appeared—late, breathless, eyes wide. Terror flickered across his face when he took the bullies in fully at close range, but then he looked at Mingi, and something in him shifted. He stepped directly in front of Mingi, shoulders squared.

“Leave him alone,” he said, voice shockingly steady.

The bullies blinked—because Seonghwa always looked gentle, but suddenly he was sharp, like broken glass.

They looked at the seven boys gathered around Mingi, and at Mingi himself, who drew up to his full height and set his jaw. The bullies looked at each other.

Then they backed off, muttering curses they didn’t dare to say out loud.

The moment they were gone, Mingi sagged. His eyes filled, breath shuddering out of him.

The boys pretended not to notice—except San. He wrapped Mingi in a tight hug without hesitation.

Wooyoung smacked him none too gently on the back, saying, “See? Idiots can’t touch you anymore.”

Mingi laughed through his tears.

Back at the warehouse, Hongjoong set to work building a “studio,” which was a generous word for what it actually was.

They’d scavenged whatever furniture and scrap they could find over the past week, dragging mismatched pieces across the warehouse floor and stacking them into lopsided walls. Large sheets of cardboard were taped together and braced upright, covered in maps and warning signs they’d found in a dumpster behind the convenience store. Inside, they lined every surface with foam padding torn from old shipping boxes.

Egg crates were stapled anywhere that looked even vaguely echo-prone. The whole booth leaned slightly to the left and was more than a bit of a fire hazard, but when one of them stepped inside, it felt like stepping into a world entirely of their own making.

It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow, it did.

With the money they’d pooled together that week from part-time jobs and forgotten allowance envelopes, they bought a secondhand mic—dented, temperamental, and somehow perfect.

Hongjoong had brought his electric guitar with him that night, Yunho his keyboard. Yeosang brought his violin, too, but when they asked him to play, he grew quiet, retreating into himself as his attention snapped toward the drone instead. He fiddled with its wiring, its camera, its wings—anything to avoid the instrument. They noticed. And they stopped asking.

The boys crowded around the mic, taking turns with harmonies, ad-libs, and shouting into it to test distortion levels. The recording was rough, off-key in many places, and structurally questionable. But it was perfect. They felt perfect.

When they finished the last take, breathless and glowing, Hongjoong looked at each of them and said quietly, “We can make anything here. And no one will take it from us.”

And while no one said anything, each of them felt as if those words were already in their hearts before Hongjoong ever said anything. They already knew.

By the time their jam session wound down, the day’s exuberance softened into a warm, heavy tiredness. The boys drifted into cleanup, arguing halfheartedly over sleep spots as they gathered blankets and swept empty snack wrappers into a pile.

Near the speakers, Yunho helped Hongjoong coil cables.

“You visited your brother this afternoon, right? Before you met us at the river?” Hongjoong asked quietly. “How is he?”

“I think he looked like he was in a great mood today!” Yunho replied with bright sincerity. It seemed to Hongjoong that nothing could keep Yunho’s spirits down for long. “Since the weather was so warm, I ran to see him to share the news. We always used to go to the river to watch street performers when it was nice out. I still go…for both of us.”

Yunho’s face shone with a quiet light. Hongjoong watched him winding and rewinding a cable, lost in a memory. Finally, Yunho looked up and handed it over.

“I stopped by the music room at the academy.” He reached into his backpack beside him. “And brought this.”

He held out a broken guitar piece: the top of the neck, strings gone slack, tuning keys dulled by time.

“I almost threw it out,” Yunho said in a rush. “It reminded me too much of…the broken side of my brother. But since it’s a guitar he cherished so much, I just left it out of sight because it seemed like he had abandoned his dream.”

Hongjoong struggled to hold back his tears, cradling the broken guitar in his hands like a holy relic. He blinked his eyes rapidly.

“He’s lucky to have you as a brother,” he said softly. “And…I’m lucky you’re here. With us. Now.”

Yunho stared at him in the dim light for a moment too long. Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Yunho looked down at his hands. His voice came out quiet and fragile. “You…you look like my brother,” he said. “Not your face. Just…the way you listen when people talk.”

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He only nodded—slow, gentle—understanding more than Yunho expected.

“I think you two would get along together if you ever meet each other,” Yunho added.

“I’d like to meet him,” Hongjoong said, smiling. “Maybe I can come with you to the hospital sometime.”

Yunho brightened. “Yeah, I’d like that. Honestly, I haven’t laughed this much since I met you guys. I don’t think so much about the painful memories anymore. I’ve been focusing on the dreams my brother couldn’t achieve. I’m going to make them happen. You and me and the boys—we’ll make it happen.”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong said firmly. “We will.”

He stood and placed the broken guitar on a high shelf, where other precious things would soon join it.

Weeks later, Hongjoong would quietly offer Yunho the lead in their next recording.

Yunho would cry in the recording booth—silent, embarrassed tears—and Hongjoong would pretend not to hear, fiddling with the soundboard until Yunho was ready.

And just like that, in a warehouse of scraps and castaways, a piece of Yunho’s heart that had been yearning for brotherhood would finally begin to heal.

-----

This is a fan-made, transformative work based on Ateez’s official storyline. Ateez, the Cromer, and all associated concepts belong to KQ Entertainment. I make no claim to the original IP, and this project is not affiliated with or endorsed by KQ.