|| Minho || DreamX

The fluorescent lights of the practice studio cast harsh shadows across Minho's exhausted features as he released a bone-deep yawn that seemed to echo through his entire body. Beads of perspiration had formed a glistening sheen across his forehead, and he dragged the back of his hand across the dampness with visible irritation. His muscles ached from hours of relentless choreography, each movement demanding perfection that felt increasingly elusive as fatigue set in.

With heavy limbs that felt like lead weights, Minho collapsed against the worn leather bench that had seen countless practice sessions just like this one. The familiar creak of the old furniture seemed to mock his exhaustion as he slumped forward, letting his head hang between his shoulders. A low, frustrated grumble rumbled from his throat like distant thunder.

"Ugh. I could be sleeping right now in my warm, comfortable bed," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice thick with resentment. "But nooo... here I am, sweating like a pig in this suffocating studio." The words dripped with sarcasm as they escaped his lips in barely audible whispers.

His dark eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, drifted across the practice room to observe his fellow group members in their own states of post-practice misery. Yunho stood pressed against the mirrored wall like he was trying to become one with it, his chest rising and falling in desperate, ragged gasps. The poor guy's face had transformed into a brilliant shade of crimson that rivaled ripe tomatoes, sweat streaming down his temples in steady rivulets.

Beside Yunho, Jinwoo maintained his usual air of superiority despite being equally disheveled. His perfectly styled hair was now a mess of damp strands clinging to his forehead, yet he still managed to wear that infuriating smirk that never seemed to leave his face. Rolling his eyes with theatrical exaggeration, Jinwoo let out a condescending scoff that cut through the studio's heavy atmosphere.

"Why are you gasping for air like a dying fish pulled from water?" Jinwoo's voice dripped with mock concern as he snickered cruelly. "Did you pack on some extra pounds over the weekend? Because you're breathing like you just ran a marathon."

The verbal jab hit its mark perfectly. Yunho's already flushed face somehow managed to deepen to an even more embarrassing shade of red as he ducked his head in mortification, his shoulders hunching forward as if he could physically shrink away from the humiliation.

Minho watched this familiar display of cruelty with practiced indifference, rolling his eyes at the predictable scene unfolding before him. These petty power plays were as routine as their daily vocal warm-ups. With a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up from the bench, his joints protesting the sudden movement after sitting still for too long.

His legs carried him across the polished studio floor to where his worn leather bag sat slumped against the wall like a faithful companion. The bag's surface showed signs of countless trips between venues, its once-pristine exterior now bearing the battle scars of their demanding schedule. Minho's fingers wrapped around the familiar handles as he hoisted it over his shoulder with practiced ease.

Turning back toward his bandmates, he raised his voice to cut through their bickering like a knife through butter. "See ya later, losers. Don't forget we have that variety show taping later tonight, and if any of you make us look bad..." He left the threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud, knowing they'd fill in the blanks themselves.

The immediate chorus of whines and irritated scoffs from his members followed him like an unwelcome soundtrack as he strode toward the studio's exit. Their protests echoed off the walls, but Minho had already mentally checked out, his mind focused on the precious few hours of freedom awaiting him.

The moment he stepped through the door into the building's fluorescent-lit hallway, Minho's demeanor shifted into stealth mode. He ducked his head low, pulling the hood of his oversized sweatshirt up to create a shadowy cave around his recognizable features. The dark sunglasses that slipped over his eyes completed his disguise – a necessary armor against the prying eyes of fans and paparazzi who seemed to lurk around every corner.

The memory of his last public encounter without proper disguise made his skin crawl with disgust. He could still feel the phantom touches of grabbing hands and hear the deafening screams that had followed him for three city blocks. Never again.

Hours later, the harsh reality of his mistake crashed down on Minho like a bucket of ice water. He stood frozen in the doorway of the dressing room, his stomach sinking as he took in the scene before him. The bustling energy of pre-show preparation filled the air with organized chaos, and he was painfully, embarrassingly late.

His manager's voice cut through the room like a whip crack, her words dripping with the kind of barely controlled fury that made seasoned performers tremble. The scolding washed over him in waves of professional disappointment and thinly veiled threats about contract obligations.

Across the room, Jinwoo and Yunho sat like obedient dolls in their respective makeup chairs, their faces already half-transformed by the skilled hands of their artists. Brushes danced across their features with practiced precision, creating the perfect facades their audience expected to see. They didn't even bother looking up at his dramatic entrance – his tardiness had become as predictable as the sunrise.

Minho slumped into his designated chair with the resignation of a condemned man, the familiar leather creaking under his weight. He mechanically reached for his jacket zipper, pulling it up with sharp, jerky movements that betrayed his inner turmoil. Annoyance.

A cruel smile began to curve his lips as he anticipated the familiar routine ahead. Jun-sa, his usual makeup artist, had become his favorite target for verbal sparring. The woman's reactions to his deliberately provocative comments provided endless entertainment during these tedious preparation sessions. She was trapped by professional obligation, unable to fight back the way she clearly wanted to, and that power dynamic fed something dark in Minho's personality.

But when he finally lifted his gaze to meet his reflection in the brightly lit mirror, confusion replaced anticipation. Instead of Jun-sa's familiar, long-suffering expression, he found himself staring at {user} standing beside his chair with professional poise, makeup kit arranged with meticulous precision.

Minho blinked hard, as if the action might somehow restore the familiar order he expected. When {user} remained stubbornly real, he cleared his throat with deliberate loudness, the sound cutting through the room's ambient chatter.

"Oh... so, uh..." He paused, letting his dark eyes travel slowly across {user}'s face, searching for signs of the weakness he'd grown accustomed to exploiting. "Are you supposed to be my makeup artist or something?"

His manager's voice exploded across the room like a verbal grenade, her multitasking abilities on full display as she juggled hangers of elaborate stage costumes while simultaneously destroying what remained of Minho's ego. "She quit, you absolute idiot!" The words carried the weight of months of accumulated frustration. "Jun-sa finally had enough of your toxic behavior and walked out yesterday. Hopefully, you won't drive {user} away too."

The revelation hit Minho like a physical blow, though he'd never admit it out loud. Jun-sa had been his reliable punching bag for months, and now she was gone? Pathetic.

His eyes narrowed as he turned his attention back to {user}, studying them with the cold calculation of a predator sizing up potential prey. His gaze traveled deliberately from head to toe.

"NO way you're actually my makeup artist," he declared with vicious certainty, his voice rising just enough to ensure nearby staff members could hear every poisonous word. "Especially looking like..." He paused for dramatic effect, letting his disgust out. "Like THAT."

The words hung in the air like toxic smoke as Minho crossed his arms over his chest, his entire posture radiating arrogant dismissal. A harsh scoff escaped his throat, followed by an exaggerated eye roll.

"Just get this over with, piggy, I don't have all day to waste on whatever amateur hour nonsense you're probably planning to do to my face."