Chapter Text
Everything that happens afterward passes like an old film with missing reels.
No. Calling it that gives it too much credit. It was a complete system error.
One moment, you're standing in front of the mirror, taking deep breaths and reminding yourself to act normal. You're an idol first and a TICA second.
An idol first and a TICA second.
An idol first and a TICA second.
An idol first and a TICA second.
You've interacted with countless celebrities before. This is work. You can do this.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this!
The next moment, Cheongryeo is standing right in front of you, dressed in the outfit he wore during the promotions for his group's latest song.
Holy shit— Your brain promptly clocks out. Memory unavailable. Please try again later.
You vaguely remember greeting him. You vaguely remember bowing. Someone says something, and somehow you respond. Apparently. Your mouth moves. Words come out. Whether those words form coherent sentences is anyone's guess.
It's as if your body enters autopilot while your consciousness slips out through the nearest emergency exit without a trace.
Years of idol training take over without your permission. Smile. Bow. Listen. Respond. Dance. Smile again.
Meanwhile, your actual brain is floating somewhere in another dimension, repeatedly screaming:
CHEONGRYEO IS LOOKING AT ME!
HE JUST SAID MY NAME!!
OH MY GOD. HE KNOWS MY NAME!!!
The filming staff compliment the chemistry between the two of you, saying the dance challenge looks more natural than expected.
You smile politely and thank them.
Inside your head, however, approximately seventeen different versions of yourself are running in circles, setting off fireworks, crying, screaming, and fainting one after another.
At one point, the staff asks both of you to stand closer for the thumbnail photo. Before your brain can object, your feet obey on instinct. Professionalism wins.
Barely.
Cheongryeo smiles at the camera while you somehow manage not to combust beside him. Somewhere in the deepest corner of your consciousness, a tiny voice whispers that this is the closest you've ever willingly stood next to him.
The rest of your brain immediately tackles that thought to the ground and puts it in a chokehold to prevent further emotional damage.
Filming wraps up smoothly.
At least, that's what everyone else tells you.
You don't remember any of it. Sadly.
Later, your manager casually asks, “So? How was filming with VTIC's Cheongryeo?”
You stare at her, waiting for your missing memories to load. “We filmed?”
She bursts into laughter, assuming you're joking.
You aren't.
The emotional debt your body has been ignoring finally comes due the second you return home. The excitement, panic, adrenaline, and several years' worth of emotional investment in Cheongryeo all crash into you at once.
You wake up the next morning burning with a high fever.
During your video call, your manager takes one look at your pale face and lets out the sigh of someone who's expected this outcome from the very beginning.
“I knew this would happen.”
You weakly pull the blanket higher over your face.
“.....”
“You literally got sick because your favorite idol asked you to dance with him.”
“.....”
“I genuinely don't know whether I should call a doctor or a therapist.”
For the next three days, you're completely bedridden. Medicine bottles occupy your bedside table. A thermometer becomes your greatest enemy. Even opening social media requires more energy than you're willing to spare.
During that time, the dance challenge is uploaded.
Normally, cry4cheongryeo would've reposted it within seconds. There would've been an appreciation thread, at least three emotional posts, and enough heart emojis to concern the platform's servers.
Instead...
Nothing.
Not a single repost. Not a single keyboard smash. Not even an emotionally unstable paragraph.
The account falls eerily silent.
A few TICAs begin wondering if something happened.
“Did cry4cheongryeo-nim disappear?”
“Is everything okay?”
“They haven't posted since the dance challenge...”
“Don't tell me... she became a fan of the idol who came out of that survival show and left us...”
“No way! ㅜㅜ”
Little do they know, the owner of the account is currently wrapped in three blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling while recovering from severe Cheongryeo exposure.
Four days later, your fever finally breaks.
Still dressed in pajamas with your hair resembling the aftermath of a natural disaster, you lazily reach for your phone and yawn.
“Let's see what happened while I was dead.”
The notification count nearly causes a relapse.
“Why are there so many?”
You cautiously tap the uploaded dance challenge. The comments load.
Your eyes bulge.
“Oh...”
“Oh my god.”
The comment section has descended into complete chaos. TICAs, your group's fans, casual viewers—everyone has gathered beneath the video.
You begin scrolling.
“Cheongryeo dances so well as always! How can one person be this perfect? Aaaaaah!”
You nod solemnly. “Exactly.”
The next comment appears.
“[Name], omgggggg!! I love you!!!”
Another solemn nod. “Understandable. I love you too.”
Then your thumb stops.
“They look so good together ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ”
“.....What.”
“Excuse me?” You frantically continue scrolling.
“Their chemistry is unexpectedly good!”
“Cheongryeo is mine.”
“The visuals are insane... I'm going crazy...!”
“Please do another dance challenge together!”
“Cheongryeo smiled so much here.”
“[Name] looked so comfortable around him!”
You nearly launch your phone across the room. “Comfortable?!” you sputter at the screen. “WHICH PART?! I WAS HAVING AN OUT-OF-BODY EXPERIENCE!”
You clutch your head with both hands. “ARGH! STUPID ME I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER FILMING IT!”
Unable to accept reality, you replay the dance challenge.
Once. Twice. Three times.
“Uh, who is that?”
The person on the screen certainly looks like you.
She has your face.
Your voice.
Your name.
Yet she dances flawlessly. Maintains eye contact. Smiles naturally. Looks perfectly relaxed standing beside Cheongryeo, as though she isn't one heartbeat away from ascending to another plane of existence.
You lower your phone. “Who possessed me?”
There is only one logical explanation.
Autopilot.
The instincts you've honed as an idol hijacked your body while your actual consciousness ascended to heaven the second Cheongryeo stood within a one-meter radius of you.
You stare into space, giving a slow, approving nod. “Amazing...”
You wipe away an imaginary tear. “I raised myself well.”
A full year passes in what feels like the blink of an eye.
Life settles into a rhythm that would probably send any normal person into early retirement. During the day, you're a busy idol racing from one schedule to the next. During every free moment in between, you're cry4cheongryeo—the dedicated TICA who still somehow finds the time to attend VTIC's public schedules, update fansite photos, and passionately defend Cheongryeo's existence on the internet.
Your group's latest comeback only makes life busier. Every day is packed from dawn until well past midnight. Music shows. Variety appearances. Interviews. Dance practices. Recording sessions. There are days when you're so busy that even eating feels like another appointment squeezed into your schedule.
Today is no different.
Your group has just finished recording an episode for SBC Radio.
The company van hums steadily as it makes its way back through the city. The other members chatter excitedly about the broadcast, laughing over funny moments and reading comments from fans. Someone complains about being hungry. Another is already half-asleep with their head against the window.
Your head rests against the cool glass, eyes closed as VTIC's playlist fills your ears through your headphones.
Somewhere between the chorus and the bridge, a melody suddenly surfaces inside your mind.
Your eyes snap open. “...!” Without hesitation, you fumble for your phone and unlock it as quickly as your tired fingers allow.
“No, no, don't disappear...” You hurriedly open your notes app and begin typing.
Fragments.
A melody.
A phrase.
A single line.
Victory is written in the stars above. Your fingers fly across the keyboard, unwilling to let inspiration slip away.
Only after you've finished do you finally let out the breath you'd been unconsciously holding.
“Got you...” You smile to yourself.
None of the members notice.
To them, you've simply checked a message.
To you...
Something precious has just been born.
In the weeks that follow, you continue polishing the lyrics whenever inspiration strikes.
Sometimes it's during recording.
Sometimes while waiting backstage.
Sometimes at two in the morning after schedules finally end. The song slowly takes shape piece by piece until it eventually becomes one complete story.
When your group prepares its next single, you submit it.
The title—Victory is Written.
Officially, it's a song about believing in someone even during their darkest moments. About cheering for the people you admire, trusting that every hardship will eventually lead them toward brighter days.
It's gentle.
Warm.
Hopeful.
A love letter to perseverance.
Fans quickly embrace it.
Some dedicate it to their favorite idols.
Others send it to friends chasing impossible dreams.
Fan edits begin appearing online almost immediately.
Graduation videos.
Debut compilations.
Tribute edits.
Concert projects.
The song spreads far beyond what anyone expected.
Only one person knows the truth.
You. Because every lyric, every melody, every carefully chosen word has always been meant for one group. VTIC.
Every line carries feelings you've held onto for years.
Your admiration. Your gratitude. Your unwavering belief that they'll continue standing at the top no matter how difficult the road becomes.
Promotions begin shortly afterward.
Every stage somehow feels different from the rest of your performances.
Whenever the chorus arrives, warmth naturally finds its way into your expression.
Your smile softens.
Your eyes shine beneath the stage lights.
It's almost impossible to hide how much you love performing this song.
As your part arrives, you take a breath and sing.
♪ Victory is written in the stars above,
In every promise, every ounce of love.
When the night is long, I'll stay right here,
Cheering louder than your every fear.
Keep your eyes upon tomorrow's light,
I'll believe in you with all my might.
No matter how far the road has driven,
Your victory is already written. ♪
By the final chorus, the audience is already singing along. Lightsticks sway gently across the venue like stars scattered throughout the night.
Every performance leaves your heart unexpectedly full.
Before long, the song becomes impossible to avoid online.
Edits using the chorus appear everywhere. One fandom after another adopts it. Even people unfamiliar with your group recognize the melody.
Comments pour in for every performance.
“Is it just me, or does [Name] look brighter than usual?”
“She looks so happy every time she performs this song! I'm so so so so happy for her!”
“I dedicated this to my favorite group... now I'm crying.”
“This song makes me want to support my idols forever.”
Reading them always makes you smile.
Mission accomplished.
At least...
Half of it.
Two o'clock in the morning.
A familiar editing program fills the screen.
Clips from VTIC's concerts. Award speeches. Music show encores. Behind-the-scenes moments.
One clip after another falls neatly into place along the timeline. Naturally, the background music is “Victory Is Written.”
Because, honestly... The song had always belonged to them.
You simply let everyone else borrow it.
The final transition finishes rendering. You watch the completed edit from beginning to end.
“It's perfect.” A wide grin spreads across your face.
Unable to contain yourself, you kick your feet against the edge of your bed while exporting the video. “This fits them so well...”
The upload finishes.
Your finger hovers over the post button. Click. Posted.
The reactions begin appearing almost instantly.
“OH MY GOD! This edit fits VTIC so much!!!!”
“This is so beautiful... I'm literally crying...”
“The lyrics match them perfectly.”
You beam with pride. Exactly. Someone understands.
Then another comment appears.
“VTIC = Victory... No one can convince me this song wasn't written for VTIC.”
Your smile freezes. “Oh, crap.”
A beat passes.
“Well, it is for VTIC...”
You shake your head so hard your hair flies everywhere.
“No.”
You point accusingly at the comment. “They're just being delusional.”
You nod to yourself with absolute conviction.
“Yep.”
“Completely delusional.”
Satisfied with your flawless reasoning, you give the comment a like before happily scrolling to the next reaction.
By four, your stomach finally stages a full-scale rebellion.
After spending two hours reading every single comment under your VTIC edit—and secretly celebrating every person who insisted Victory Is Written had to be about VTIC—you can no longer ignore the hunger gnawing at your stomach.
“Fine...” You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie.
The first thing your sleepy brain reaches for isn't your own jacket.
It's the oversized VTIC merchandise hoodie draped over your chair.
“Comfort hoodie.” You slip it on without thinking, tug a black mask over your face, pull a cap low over your eyes, and give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror.
The disguise is passable.
The hoodie...
Perhaps not your smartest decision if you happen to run into VTIC.
“What's the probability of that happening at four in the morning?”
You shrug.
The convenience store welcomes you with the familiar chime of automatic doors.
Warm air replaces the chilly dawn breeze as fluorescent lights illuminate rows of neatly organized shelves. The place is almost deserted. Just one cashier quietly watching television behind the counter.
Perfect.
You wander through the aisles, lazily tossing food into your basket.
Triangle kimbap. Grilled sausages. Cup noodles. Chocolate milk.
Balanced nutrition.
Eventually, you stop in front of the refrigerated shelf.
“Tuna...” Your eyes narrow. “or bulgogi?”
This is an important life decision.
You lift one package, carefully reading the label. “Hmm...”
Almost simultaneously, another hand reaches toward the same shelf.
You barely register it.
After several seconds of intense deliberation worthy of a national debate, you finally nod.
“Tuna wins.”
Satisfied, you place it into your basket and step sideways.
The other person does exactly the same.
Both of you stop.
“Oh.”
You instinctively look up.
Your operating system immediately crashes.
No.
“Crashed” doesn't accurately describe what's happening.
Your soul has already packed its bags and boarded the first flight to another dimension.
Standing less than an arm's length away...
...is Cheongryeo.
Dressed in a black hooded jacket, a mask covering the lower half of his face, and a baseball cap pulled low, he blends so naturally into the convenience store that almost anyone else would've walked right past him.
Not you.
You could probably identify Cheongryeo from satellite imagery.
Your mouth falls open.
Your brain begins loudly playing VTIC's group greeting. VTIC wins today too! Ah~ Victorious!
Wrong timing.
Extremely wrong timing.
Professional instincts seize control before your fan instincts can throw themselves onto the floor.
You bow. “Hello.”
Even with the mask, the smile in Cheongryeo's eyes is unmistakable. “Hello, [Name]. What a coincidence”
“Hahaha, yes.”
Internally...
He's so tall.
Why is he even taller this close?
...He smells really good.
This proximity should be illegal.
You tighten your grip on the shopping basket.
Focus.
You are an idol.
Not a fan.
Not cry4cheongryeo.
Definitely not the owner of the VTIC shrine occupying one corner of your bedroom.
Cheongryeo glances toward your basket. “Late-night cravings?”
“My stomach declared bankruptcy.”
A laugh escapes him. “I understand.” He raises his own basket slightly. “I came for cup noodles.”
“A solid choice.”
“Thank you.”
“.....”
“Why did I say that?”
The conversation somehow continues.
The two of you browse the remaining aisles together, talking about comeback schedules, late-night convenience store food, and how impossible it is to maintain a healthy sleep schedule during promotions.
It shouldn't feel this natural.
Yet it does.
You hate how comfortable you feel.
You hate it because every time you begin relaxing...
...your brain remembers who you're talking to.
That's Cheongryeo.
THE Cheongryeo.
The one you've dedicated an entire social media account to.
Please continue acting normal.
After paying, Cheongryeo gestures toward the small seating area beside the window. “Would you like to eat first?”
Your mouth moves on instinct. Your mind is still blue-screening. “Oh, I'd like that.”
Several minutes later, steam curls from two cups of instant noodles resting on the table between you.
Cheongryeo breaks the silence first. “The song was really good.”
Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. “Hm?”
“I saw your name in the credits.” His gaze meets yours. “You wrote Victory Is Written, didn't you?”
For one terrifying second, your heart stops.
Does he know?
No.
Impossible.
He means the official credits.
“Ah.” You clear your throat. “Yes, I did.”
He nods thoughtfully before absentmindedly humming the chorus beneath his breath.
Just quietly enough that only the two of you can hear it.
♪ Victory is written in the stars above... ♪
Your soul immediately attempts another emergency evacuation.
HE REMEMBERS THE CHORUS.
HE'S HUMMING IT.
OH MY GOD!!!
You stare.
Not intentionally.
You simply... forget to blink.
His voice is mellower than it is on stage, free from the power it commands during performances.
Warmer.
Unpolished.
Just enough to make your heartbeat abandon all professionalism.
Cheongryeo notices.
“Is something on my face?”
Your entire body jerks. “W-What?”
“You've been looking at me for a while.”
“I—”
Abort.
Abort mission.
Think.
Think!
“I was wondering...”
Your brain desperately manufactures the first excuse it can find.
“...whether your noodles are getting cold.”
Silence.
Cheongryeo glances down at his untouched cup.
Then back at you.
“That's a very thoughtful concern.”
Heat rushes straight to your ears. “I'm sorry.”
He snickers. “No. I think it's nice.”
Which, unfortunately, is the exact sentence capable of reducing your remaining lifespan by another ten years.
Cheongryeo takes another bite. “I've been listening to the song quite often.”
“Really?”
“It has a comforting feeling.”
He stirs the noodles absentmindedly.
“It reminds me that someone is quietly cheering us on.”
You lower your head, pretending to focus very hard on your noodles. “I'm glad... That was what I hoped people would feel.”
Cheongryeo smiles. “I think you succeeded.”
If someone were to check your pulse at that exact moment...
They'd probably recommend immediate hospitalization.
By the time the first traces of dawn begin filtering through the convenience store windows, neither of you has noticed how much time has passed.
The streets outside slowly come back to life. A few cars drift past. Someone in a business suit hurries toward the subway. The cashier replaces the overnight shift's coffee machine with a fresh pot.
Inside, however, time seems to have settled into its own pace.
The empty cups have long since been pushed aside. Conversation flows effortlessly from one topic to another—music, promotions, stage mishaps, favorite foods, the occasional funny story from practice. At some point, you stop reminding yourself that you're talking to Cheongryeo.
He simply becomes...
Shin Jaehyun.
Not VTIC's flawless leader.
Not your ultimate bias.
Just someone surprisingly easy to talk to.
“Have you ever thought about dyeing your hair?” you ask suddenly.
Cheongryeo looks up from the drink in his hands. “My hair?”
You nod, resting your chin on your folded arms atop the table. “You've kept the same color since debut.”
A thoughtful hum escapes him. “I suppose I have. Would you want me to?”
The question slips out so naturally that your brain forgets to install a filter.
“I think it'd suit you.” The answer leaves your mouth almost instantly. “No matter what color.”
“.....”
“.....”
Your eyes widen.
Abort.
ABORT.
You had not intended to say the second half out loud.
You immediately busy yourself by staring very intensely at the wood grain of the table, as though it has suddenly become the most fascinating object in existence.
“I mean—”
Words fail.
Cheongryeo lets out a burst of laughter. “Is that so?”
You risk a glance upward.
He's still smiling.
Not teasing.
Not embarrassed.
Simply... amused.
Relieved that he doesn't seem to find your accidental honesty strange, you nod with perhaps a bit too much enthusiasm.
“Yeah. I think you'd look good with lighter colors.” You begin counting on your fingers before you can stop yourself.
“Silver...”
“Dark green?”
“Maybe ash gray...”
“White.”
Each suggestion grows more animated than the last.
“I think they'd all suit you.”
The words leave your mouth with complete sincerity.
Because they're true.
Cheongryeo quietly watches your increasingly passionate hair color presentation, the corners of his eyes curving ever so slightly.
Only after you finish does he rest his own elbows against the table.
“I'll think about it.” His voice is almost a whisper.
Without realizing it, he'd mirrored your posture.
Or perhaps...
You hadn't realized how much the distance between the two of you had disappeared.
Your eyes lift.
His are already on you.
The table that had seemed comfortably wide a moment ago suddenly feels much, much smaller.
He's close.
Far too close.
Close enough that you can clearly make out the strands of dark hair escaping beneath his cap.
Close enough to notice the faint crinkle beside his eyes whenever he smiles.
Close enough that your heartbeat immediately forgets how rhythm is supposed to work.
Emergency.
Emergency.
Your brain begins blaring invisible sirens.
WARNING.
CHEONGRYEO HAS ENTERED CRITICAL RANGE.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Every coherent thought abandons ship.
You can practically hear your internal organs holding an emergency meeting.
Heart: “I resign.”
Lungs: “Breathing privileges revoked.”
Brain: “We've had a good run.”
Cheongryeo remains completely unaware of the catastrophic chain of events unfolding inside your head.
“You really love talking about me, [Name].”