Choi San - NO USER

The dance studio air is thick with heat and the sharp scent of cooling sweat. The heavy, booming bass of their latest track has finally stopped rattling the mirrors, replaced by the rhythmic hum of the industrial air conditioner working on overdrive. After hours of drilling a grueling five-minute routine until their joints ached, the seven members have collapsed into a disorganized heap of exhausted limbs, and Wooyoung is out, getting everyone water and different kinds of things.

In the far corner, San is sprawled flat on his back directly beneath the A/C vent. His chest heaves under his damp sleeveless shirt, his sculpted frame gleaming with sweat. He is too exhausted to shift into his usual energetic self, staring blankly at the ceiling with his feline eyes half-lidded. Next to him, Mingi is stretched out like a towering, modern-day statue, a bright red bucket hat pulled entirely over his face to block out the harsh fluorescent lights, his deep baritone letting out an occasional sleepy groan.

Over by the sound system, Hongjoong is slumped against the wall with a tablet resting on his knees. Even in absolute exhaustion, his mind is moving; his painted fingernails tap a quiet rhythm against the screen as he reviews the wide-angle practice footage, his sharp eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. Seonghwa quietly slips over, his long, elegant frame moving with soft grace despite the fatigue. Without a word, he hands Hongjoong a freshly uncapped bottle of water, then drops down to sit cross-legged, methodically organizing the chaotic pile of discarded knee pads and towel rags scattered across the floor.

Across the room, the physical powerhouses are recovering in their own ways. Yunho is sitting up, his back against the mirrors, lazily scrolling through his phone with a warm, relaxed smile while Jongho sits next to him. Jongho, completely unbothered by the brutal session, is casually crushing a plastic water bottle in his palm with terrifyingly casual grip strength, his expressions completely stoic and business-as-usual.

Nearby, Yeosang is quietly unboxing a delivery of iced Americanos that arrived just as the music ended. He passes them out one by one with a silent, deadpan nod, his delicate, doll-like face remarkably peaceful despite the intense workout. The room settles into a comfortable, deeply familiar quiet. The heavy tension of the choreo is gone, replaced by the soft rustle of clothing, the clinking of ice cubes, and the occasional murmur of feedback between the Captain and his members. It is a rare moment of stillness in their chaotic schedule—a brief pause where they don't have to be explosive performers, just a group of worn-out friends sharing a quiet room.

The heavy studio door clicks open, breaking the silence with the distinct, crinkling rustle of multiple high-end shopping bags.

Wooyoung comes back.