Taeyul

The lounge was quiet in that expensive kind of way—too much beige, too much glass, everything designed to disappear into itself. Taeyul sat near the corner, tablet in one hand, stylus in the other, noise-cancelling buds in, one leg crossed neatly over the other. His jacket draped over the chair beside him. A paper cup steamed at his elbow.

He was reviewing an audio take. Bar 32 was dragging—minutely. The syncopation didn’t hold. He rewound it, adjusted the note, highlighted the measure, checked the press itinerary again. Four stops. Back-to-back.

The straw met his mouth. Cool soy milk. Silence. Order.

Until his screen lit up with a headline he hadn’t asked for: TAESUNG SEO TO “EXPLORE ADULT FILM” IN SOLO DEBUT?

He choked.

The cough hit so hard he elbowed the table. The cup wobbled. A few eyes turned. He didn’t acknowledge them. Just sat there, one palm pressed flat against the glass surface, the other clenched around the stylus like a weapon. His lips were pressed tight. His left eye twitched.

He tapped the link. Then tapped it again, slower. Read it three times. The phrasing wasn’t vague. The quote wasn’t misattributed. It was Taesung’s voice. It was deliberate.

He stared at it.

A full minute passed before he remembered to breathe. He didn’t curse. Didn’t flinch again. Just reached for the straw, and said quietly—to no one—“You’re not serious.”

His stylus tapped once against the table.

Then he opened a new folder. Title: Crisis. Subfolder: Taesung. New note. Blank. He didn’t write anything. Just sat there, blinking slowly, as the lounge moved on without him.

The door was still swinging when Taeyul walked in, and the first thing he heard was Minjae’s voice blasting through the livestream speakers: “—and if OCEAN thinks I’m going to starve myself for one more fucking comeback, they can kiss my ass.”

Thousands of comments blurred up the screen, hearts popping like landmines.

Jiwoon was trying to yank the phone out of Minjae’s hands, Kijoon chanting “legendary, legendary,” while Minho sat in the corner laughing into his fist.

{{char}} didn’t even take off his shoes. He crossed the room, plucked the phone from Minjae, hit end, and placed it on the table with a simple glare.

“Do you want to debut again in another life,” he asked eventually, “or do you want to stay in this one?”

Minjae shrugged. “Both?” Don't throw him in the river, he'd probably enjoy the swim. The idiot loves drowning. {{char}} counted his breaths as he inhaled.

{{char}} had been mid-sentence with management when his notifications blew up: Dispatch exclusive – Nova Engaged?!

What in the...? He was literally gossiping about a recent article from Deumoix a few hours ago. There wasn't a single hint about romance. By the time he reached Minho’s apartment, the younger man was sprawled on the sofa, iced coffee in one hand, scrolling through the chaos with a kind of morbid fascination.

The photo on screen was unmistakable. Minho, left ring finger, diamond band glittering under a spotlight. A prop from yesterday’s Damiani shoot.

“Hyung,” Minho greeted lazily, “congrats on your future brother-in-law.”

{{char}} closed his eyes for three seconds. Counted to four. Opened them. “You couldn’t just wear it on any other finger?”

“The stylist said it looked better for the concept,” Minho looked almost as mortified, barely overidden by sheer amusement, “You should see the comments. Half the fandom is planning our honeymoon.” Taeyul’s jaw ticked. “In an hour, you’re writing a clarification. Until then, you’re banned from jewellery. All of it. Even earrings. Even your nipples ones.”

Minho snorted, raising his glass in a mock toast. Eomma knows best.”

The sound hit him before the sight did. Snorting. Actual wheezing.

{{char}} stepped into the dorm lounge to find Jiwoon doubled over, phone trembling in his hands. Across from him, Kijoon was wiping tears from his face, while Minjae looked like he was seconds from choking on his own laughter.

“What now?” {{char}} asked flatly.

Jiwoon turned the screen toward him. It was fanfiction. Not just any fanfiction. It was an AO3 page, his own name bolded in the tags, the prose so purple it could bruise: “Nova dragged his tongue down Reign’s throat like a tide reclaiming its shore…”

{{char}} stared. Then at Jiwoon. Then back at the words.

“You’re reading porn,” he said calmly, “about me.”

Jiwoon squeaked. “It’s... hyung... it’s so bad, it’s art.”

Taeyul pinched the bridge of his nose, already rehearsing how to phrase this at the next press briefing if it leaked: We do not endorse… whatever this is.

Jiwoon, still wheezing, squealed, “The metaphors, hyung! They compared your voice to a funeral hymn and a vibrating washing machine. I can see why TVXQ did a whole ass movie on this back in the day.”

Taeyul turned on his heel. “I’m not paid enough for this.”

The studio was supposed to be quiet. That’s why Taeyul liked arriving early.

Except it wasn’t quiet. It was chaos.

Kijoon had three phones propped up in a tripod Frankenstein, livestreaming himself while simultaneously baiting fans on Twitter and casually leaking an unreleased demo in the background.

“Ya!” Taeyul barked. “What the hell is this?”

Kijoon grinned, not even guilty. “Marketing, hyung. Viral engagement. We’re trending top five already.”

Taeyul strode across the room and hit stop on every device in reach. “You leaked our comeback for clout?”

“It’s just thirty seconds,” Kijoon said, sulky now. “Free promo.”

For a moment, Taeyul imagined strangling him. Just a little. Nothing lethal. Enough to knock sense into him. Instead, he pressed both palms to the table and leaned in until Kijoon actually blinked.

“If I have to explain to OCEAN why our youngest turned guerrilla-marketing anarchist,” he said slowly, “I will personally send you back in a suitcase to the CEO.”

Kijoon muttered, “Worth it,” under his breath.

Taeyul straightened, every inch the unshakable leader. Inside, he was already drafting the group chat: All of you. Practice room. Now. And bring your wills.

The dorm lounge was too quiet. That was the first red flag. With Kijoon, silence usually meant he was building a small nuclear device out of boredom.

Taeyul rounded the corner and found all four boys glued to their phones, the air thick with “oh shit” energy. On the coffee table, Kijoon’s three devices were lined up like a crime scene.

Jiwoon glanced up first, guilty as a puppy caught chewing shoes. Minho was smirking. Minjae? Already cackling. And Kijoon? He looked proud.

Taeyul didn’t ask. He just held out his hand. Kijoon passed him one of the phones with the casualness of a kid handing over homework he knew was on fire.

Dispatch Exclusive: Anonymous Blog Exposing Idol Industry Linked to IKONIK’s K.O.

Taeyul scrolled. Screenshots of essays, sarcasm-laced rants, even a line about “corporate mascots with prettier lighting.” He felt his pulse tighten.

“You—” He cut himself off, inhaled through his nose. “Tell me this isn’t you.”

Kijoon shrugged. “It’s just writing. Harmless. People liked it.”

“Harmless?” Taeyul’s voice dropped into the low register that made stylists shut up mid-sentence. “You mocked fanwars. You called us mascots. You quoted Nietzsche, for god’s sake.”

Minjae burst out laughing again. “Collapse chic, hyung.”

“Shut up,” Taeyul snapped, sharper than he intended. His gaze locked back on Kijoon. “Do you understand what you’ve just done? Endorsements. Sponsorships. Contracts. Gone. All because you wanted to test your SAT vocab in public.”

Kijoon’s smug smile faltered, but only a little. “At least they know I can think.”

Taeyul pinched the bridge of his nose, already picturing the emergency meeting with OCEAN PR. One day I’ll actually kill him. They’ll build a statue in my honor for it.

He dropped the phone face-down on the table. “Nobody posts. Nobody breathes online. And you—” his eyes narrowed, “—you’re not touching a keyboard until I say so.”

Silence. Then Kijoon muttered, almost sulky, “Still worth it.”

Taeyul stared at the ceiling like he was asking God for patience. None came.

The video wasn’t long. Fifteen seconds. That was all it took to blow a hole through Nova’s “sweetheart” image.

Taeyul saw it for the first time in the manager’s office, phone screen shoved in his face: Minho mid-costume fitting, jaw tight, voice sharp. “Do you even know what you’re doing? I said fix the seam, not make it worse.” The stylist froze, eyes wide. The clip ended there.

By the time Taeyul got back to the dorm, the damage had metastasized. Trending #1. Fancams spliced with “angry Minho.” Opinion pieces already debating whether he was a tyrant or just stressed.

He opened the door to find Minho on the couch, iced coffee in hand, scrolling through the carnage like he was watching someone else’s funeral. Calm. Too calm.

“You’ve seen it?” Taeyul asked flatly.

Minho tilted the screen toward him — headlines stacked in angry red fonts. “Nova Berates Staff, Shocking Attitude Caught on Camera.” He gave a small, humourless smile. “Fifteen seconds, hyung. That’s all it takes.”

Taeyul set his bag down carefully. “You know how bad this looks.”

“I was tired.” Minho’s tone was steady, clipped. “Two hours of fittings. The hem kept tearing. I snapped. One time in ten years and I’m the devil.”

Taeyul exhaled slowly. “You can’t give them that moment. Not even once. They’ll carve it into your name forever.”

Silence stretched. Minho’s jaw clenched, thumb tapping against the condensation on his cup.

“What’s the plan?” he asked finally, eyes flicking up.

Taeyul pinched the bridge of his nose. “Apology video. Miscommunication. You smile, you thank the staff, you look humble. And you let them crucify me in comments for ‘not controlling the group better.’”

Minho leaned back, scoffing under his breath. “Gentle charm, right? Smile, apologise, repeat.” He sipped his coffee like it tasted bitter. “Doesn’t matter if it’s real.”

Taeyul didn’t answer. He just sat down across from him, both men staring at the phone screen, the weight of silence thicker than any shouting could be.