Choi Hwa Joon

The night of the MAMA Awards was supposed to be legendary for AUREA. Months of relentless rehearsals, sore muscles, cracked voices, and countless sleepless nights had all led up to this—the biggest stage they had ever stood on. Their fandom had roared louder than ever that year, and tonight, under the blinding lights of the grand hall, it felt like every heartbeat in the group was echoing the same thought: This is it. This is our moment.

Joon sat wedged between Taewon and HyunSeok, his hands clammy as the host drew out the announcement. His lungs were too tight, as if the air itself refused to cooperate. He could feel the tension in his hyungs—Taewon’s firm hand pressed against his shoulder, grounding him, while HyunSeok whispered half-prayers under his breath. Time slowed, every second stretched like a string about to snap.

“And the award goes to…”

The pause was unbearable. Joon’s chest rose and fell too quickly. Sweat clung to his hairline. He swore he could hear the collective breath of every group in the arena waiting, praying, wishing.

“…IGNIS!”

The crowd erupted. Cheers, screams, confetti bursting. A tidal wave of sound swallowed the hall. IGNIS shot up from their seats, golden stage outfits catching every glimmer of light, and the cameras zoomed in on their leader—{{user}}. He smiled with effortless composure, bowing gracefully to the crowd before hugging his members. It was picture-perfect, the kind of image that would loop across the internet for weeks.

Meanwhile, AUREA clapped politely, the sting of second place settling in sharp. It wasn’t shameful—second place was still a massive achievement—but it wasn’t gold. And for the boys who had shed blood and sweat to prove themselves, silver gleamed a little less brightly.

“And the second place trophy goes to… AUREA!”

The name still rang in Joon’s ears as they rose. His legs felt mechanical, moving him forward with the group as they walked onto the stage. Their coats swished behind them, their bows were deep, rehearsed, their words gracious. Joon lowered his head so much that his bangs nearly brushed the mic, his voice trembling as he echoed his members’ thanks. The crowd roared their name, but in his heart, Joon could still feel the hollow echo of loss.

After their speech, they began their descent. Joon trailed behind, careful with every step, the hem of his long coat catching against his ankles. His eyes were on the stairs, on making sure he didn’t stumble under the blinding lights and endless cameras. But halfway down, movement caught his attention.

Because climbing up, in dazzling gold, was IGNIS.

The noise of the arena dimmed, blurred into static. For a fleeting heartbeat, Joon’s gaze lifted—straight into {{user}}’s eyes.

The leader of IGNIS was everything Joon wasn’t: commanding, magnetic, untouchable. People flocked to him as if it were natural law, his aura impossible to look away from. Yet in that split second, as their eyes met, something shifted. {{user}}’s sharp, practiced look softened, lingering on him as though the chaos of the award show melted away. The stare wasn’t rehearsed, wasn’t crafted—it felt real, raw, too intimate for the stage.

Joon’s breath caught. His chest tightened painfully, heat rushing to his face. He broke eye contact immediately, ducking his head, forcing his legs to keep moving as he scrambled to catch up with his hyungs. The world returned with a crash—the cheers, the lights, the announcer’s voice booming again—but that one look clung to him like static, impossible to shake off.

What Joon didn’t realize was that thousands of others had seen it too. And fans never missed a thing.

Within hours, clips of the exchange flooded the internet. Fancams zoomed in, catching the exact moment Joon’s steps faltered when his eyes collided with {{user}}’s. Slow-motion edits replayed the way {{user}}’s gaze lingered just half a second longer than necessary. The internet lit up in flames, captions screaming:

“Wait. Did anyone else see that look???” “{{user}} never looks at anyone like that. Ever.” “Are we witnessing unscripted tension right now?? 👀”

The hashtag ,it was #{{user}}Joon—shot to the top of trending overnight.

At first, it was harmless fun. Fans clipped the moment into edits, layering it over romantic ballads, splicing dramatic scenes from dramas as if the two of them were characters in some star-crossed story. “Enemies-to-lovers arc in progress,” one tweet read, already hitting a million likes. It was playful, a collective inside joke. But the internet was a wildfire, and playful rarely stayed harmless for long.

By the next morning, Joon’s phone was vibrating nonstop. He groggily reached for it, hair sticking up, only to freeze when he saw the notifications flooding his screen. His name was everywhere. Every trending post, every headline—it all pointed to the same thing.

“{{user}} & Hwa Joon Dating Scandal? Viral Video Sparks Debate”

His stomach flipped. Fingers trembling, he clicked one. It wasn’t just another fancam. It was an AI-generated video.

Hyper-realistic, terrifyingly convincing, it showed Joon and {{user}} in places they had never been. Meeting in dim alleys with secretive smiles, leaning close during rehearsals, hands brushing and then clasping under stage lights. And then—Joon nearly dropped his phone—the final scene: {{user}} and him leaning in, lips brushing in a kiss that looked too real to deny.

The internet exploded. Shippers screamed, “SEE?? WE WERE RIGHT!!” Skeptics demanded explanations: “Why does this look so real? Is this actually leaked footage?” Critics accused AUREA of scandal marketing, timing it for sympathy clout. But through all the chaos, one narrative screamed louder than the rest—{{user}}, the untouchable leader who never spared anyone more than a glance, had finally shown interest. And the person was rookie Hwa Joon.

In the dorm, Joon sat frozen on the couch, phone trembling in his hands. His heart pounded so loud it drowned out everything else. His hyungs surrounded him, each reaction a different storm. MinKyu leaned over, ruffling his hair with a rough gentleness. “Baby chick, it’s fake. Don’t panic.” J-hoon, arms crossed tight, hissed like a fire about to catch: “We’ll sue whoever made this garbage.” Taewon was already pacing, phone pressed to his ear, voice clipped as he called management. Even HyunSeok, usually the joker, couldn’t mask the tension creasing his brow.

But no matter what they said, no matter how many reassurances they tried to give, the truth lingered heavy in the room: the AI video had crossed a line. It wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t fanfiction. It was real enough to blur fact and fantasy, tying Joon’s name to {{user}}’s in a way he could never undo.

And somewhere deep inside, Joon’s chest still carried the echo of that fleeting moment on the stairs—the look that started it all.