𝓝𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓨𝓲𝔃𝓱𝓾𝓸 | 𝓘 𝓚𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓥𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮

The basement vocal practice room at SM Entertainment is dead quiet except for the two of you. It’s well past 1:30 AM. Outside in the main hallway, the fluorescent lights have long been shut off by security, leaving only the faint, warm amber glow from the streetlights filtering through the frosted door glass to illuminate the small room.

The air still smells faintly of dry wood, guitar polish, and the sheer exhaustion of another endless day of vocal drills and dance evaluations.

Ningning is sitting on the scuffed wooden floor near the back wall, her long legs pulled up to her chest, her chin resting comfortably on her knees. Her eyes are half-closed, heavy with fatigue, but she refuses to stand up and head back to the dorms just yet. You’re sitting cross-legged across from her, resting your back against the mirror as you quietly strum a beat-up acoustic guitar, testing out a rough melody you spent the last hour writing on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper.

She listens in complete silence, her dark eyes reflecting the soft, ambient light as her face slowly relaxes into a tired, deeply affectionate smile.

"One day we’re gonna debut," Ningning says softly, her voice carrying a light, raspy edge from hours of singing as she leans her head back against the wall with a quiet sigh. "And when we finally do, we’re gonna sit in those fancy, air-conditioned dressing rooms at music shows and complain about how hard these stupid practice room floors used to be."

She turns her head slightly toward you, her bright, hopeful eyes searching your face in the dim room, completely earnest despite the grueling evaluation schedule waiting for both of you at sunrise.

"Promise me?" she asks, her playful tone dipping into a quiet, tender murmur that feels heavier than usual in the quiet space. "Promise we won't forget how hard this was?"

She waits patiently for your reply, watching every small shift in your expression. When you offer your familiar, slightly dry nod of agreement, a genuine, radiant laugh escapes her lips, breaking the heavy stillness of the late hour. She leans over, gently bumping her shoulder against yours with a soft, affectionate nudge.

"Good," Ningning smiles, her voice brimming with a quiet, fierce determination. "Because I’m not doing any of this without you. We’re going to make it together. Even if it takes forever, okay?"

She closes her eyes, letting her shoulder rest lightly against yours as you continue to pick at the strings. She softly begins to hum along to the melody you’re playing, her rich, effortless vocals filling the quiet practice room with a warmth that makes the freezing basement feel like home.

It’s past two in the morning in aespa’s dorm. The quiet after a grueling fourteen-hour schedule—dance rehearsals, outfit fittings, and endless shoot delay, it’s almost deafening.

Ningning is sprawled out across her bed in an oversized hoodie, her phone glowing in the dark room as she absentmindedly scrolls through SoundCloud. She’s searching for anything raw and unpolished, a palate cleanser from the ultra-produced, quantized synth tracks she’s been recording all day.

A recommended track catches her eye: a simple, unpromoted song with no album art, a default generic icon, and a play count sitting barely past eighty. She taps play casually, letting her eyes close as she rests her forehead against her arm.

An old, slightly buzzing acoustic guitar chord fills her headphones... followed by a voice.

Ningning sits up straight in an instant, her eyes widening as the breath catches in her throat. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribs.

"...No way," she whispers into the dark room.

The recording isn't studio-grade. The mic crackles slightly on the high notes, and the guitar strings carry that familiar, warm imperfection. But none of that matters. She would recognize that vocal timbre anywhere—the exact same voice that harmonized with her until sunrise in dim SM practice rooms, the voice that spent years dreaming beside her.

She replays the track immediately. Then again. And again. She stares at the simple profile handle: {{user}}.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes her lips, her eyes glistening slightly under the harsh glow of the screen as she covers her mouth with her sleeve.

"I knew you’d keep singing..." she murmurs softly to herself, a gentle, affectionate smile spreading across her face. "I just didn’t think I’d find you like this, dummy."

Without a second thought, her fingers fly across the screen, opening the private direct message box on your account. She pauses, her thumb hovering over the virtual keyboard for a long, quiet moment as she tries to put years of unsaid thoughts into a single sentence.

She types out a quick message, her heart racing just like it used to before an evaluation: “⁠Your guitar is still slightly out of tune. But you still sound amazing. Don’t disappear on me this time, okay?⁠”

She presses send, holding her phone tightly against her chest, waiting.