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the studio walls were suffused with echoes, ghosts pressed into the soundproofing like fingerprints on glass. their voices lingered, unshakable and relentless, curling in the corners, caught in the seams. hyunjin’s laughter—light and effervescent, like sunlight pouring through delicate lace—rippled faintly, always just out of reach. seungmin’s hum, a soft gravity, still anchored the air as though his steadiness could bind what was now irrevocably fractured. felix’s joy—spontaneous and brilliant as fireworks shattering a darkened sky—had left behind a silence so deep it roared.
and changbin felt all of it, sharp-edged and inescapable, pressing against his temples like a weight he could not shrug off.
he wasn’t alone—at least, not physically. jisung stood in the center of the room, a storm of raw, jagged emotions. his voice cut through the oppressive quiet like shattered glass. “you’re giving up? just like that? after everything we’ve been through? after them?” his fists were clenched, his frame taut with anger and something else—something more fragile. his eyes, too bright and too wet, betrayed him even as he stood tall, defiant. “you can’t just walk away. you can’t abandon their legacy.”
legacy. changbin hated the word. it was hollow, an echo rattling in an empty room. legacy wouldn’t bring back the warmth of hyunjin’s smile or the quiet strength of seungmin’s presence. it wouldn’t erase the acrid scent of smoke that clung to him like a second skin, wouldn’t dim the memory of that fire that took everything. it wouldn’t undo the made-up image of seungmin’s still, blue-tinted face that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes, or the quiet but persistent sound of his ringtone whenever he slept.
“you don’t understand,” changbin muttered, his voice low and hoarse, a whisper of grief. he couldn’t meet jisung’s gaze, couldn’t bear the anguish carved into his face. “you’re asking me to keep going for them. but they’re gone. they’re gone, jisung. and i…” he swallowed hard, the words bitter and unyielding in his throat. “i can’t do this anymore.”
jisung’s laugh was jagged, a broken thing that spilled into the room like shards of glass. “you think i’m not hurting? you think i don’t feel it every second of every day?” his voice cracked, the weight of his pain breaking through his anger. “but giving up is selfish, hyung. you don’t get to leave me—leave us—behind. not after everything.”
but changbin had no answers, no rebuttals to offer. the words jisung flung at him stuck in his chest like thorns, but they didn’t change the emptiness. his gaze drifted across the room, lingering on the instruments, the chairs where they’d once sat, the scraps of unfinished songs. it wasn’t a studio anymore. it was a tomb. a place where dreams had withered and died.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered. it was barely audible, more a breath than a sound. and then, he walked away.
the hotel was sterile, its pristine halls and polished floors a stark contrast to the chaos within changbin. it was the kind of place designed to comfort, to cocoon its guests in a manufactured warmth. but to him, it was cold. it was unfamiliar. that was the point. he’d chosen it because it didn’t feel like home, because nothing here bore the fingerprints of what he’d lost.
inside the suite, everything was perfect—too perfect. the kitchenette gleamed. the bed sat undisturbed, a soft and hollow promise of rest. the bathroom sparkled, devoid of life. he walked through it all, the silence curling around him like smoke, until he found himself in the walk-in closet.
he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. the air was cooler here, faintly perfumed with cedar, and the dim lighting cast soft shadows on the walls. it felt safe, insulated from the world outside, a tiny cocoon where even grief felt quieter. he sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and let his gaze wander over the neatly hung clothes and orderly shelves.
he sat there for what felt like hours, the silence pressing in from all sides. the stillness was suffocating, yet comforting in its predictability. there was no one here to ask him questions, no one to demand answers he couldn’t give. the closet became his sanctuary, a small, enclosed world where nothing but his own thoughts could reach him. but even those thoughts grew heavier, like stones dragging him into a dark abyss.
his eyes drifted to the rail above him, where pristine hangers sat in orderly rows. he stood slowly, his movements mechanical, his body feeling disconnected from his mind. he reached for his belt, slipping it out of the loops of his jeans with steady hands. the motions were deliberate, almost practiced, as though he’d already done this a thousand times in his mind.
the belt felt coarse in his hands, its weight a grounding thing. he looped it around the rail, testing its strength, before forming the knot. his breathing was slow, shallow, like he was already preparing himself for the silence that would follow.
he climbed onto a low stool tucked away in the corner, his knees shaking just slightly. his fingers trembled as he tightened the loop around his neck. this was it. the thought settled over him like a heavy blanket, smothering any lingering doubts or fears. the ache in his chest softened, the unbearable weight lightened, just for a moment. and then he stepped forward.
the stool tipped over with a muffled thud. the belt pulled taut, and the world went silent.
the phone in his pocket vibrated, a single, muted sound in the stillness of the closet. it vibrated again, insistent, like a faint echo against the quiet. the screen lit up with a notification.
but no one was left to read it.
jisung stood outside the hotel room, the box of pepero clutched tightly in his hands, the cardboard edges crumpled under his grip. he shifted his weight from foot to foot, staring at the door like it might open on its own. the apology he’d been rehearsing in his head for the last hour felt clumsy now, words sticking in his throat. but he had to do this—he needed to do this. he thought of the notebook tucked into his backpack, its pages filled with seungmin’s handwriting, and his resolve hardened.
he knocked softly at first, his knuckles barely brushing the door. no answer. he knocked again, a little louder. “hyung?” he called out, voice tentative. “it’s me. i… i brought pepero. i wanted to talk. can we—can we talk?”
still nothing.
his chest tightened as unease settled over him. but then he noticed the shoes, neatly placed by the door. changbin was here. relief bloomed faintly, though it was tinged with something darker. he fumbled for the spare key the hotel receptionist had given him—an act of trust, he realized now, that felt heavier than he’d expected. sliding it into the lock, he turned it with trembling fingers and stepped inside.
the suite was quiet. too quiet. the kind of silence that felt alive, stretching thin across the walls, heavy in the air. jisung set the pepero on the kitchenette counter and called out again, his voice louder this time. “hyung? are you still mad at me? please… don’t give me the silent treatment. i’m sorry, okay? i’m really sorry. where are you?”
he stepped further into the room, each footfall a whisper against the silence that seemed to swallow the air whole. the dim light filtering through the half-drawn curtains cast the space in a muted gray, a strange stillness clinging to the atmosphere like an unwanted guest. his gaze swept over the room with careful urgency, drinking in every detail in search of changbin.
the bed stood as if untouched by human presence, its blankets stretched and tucked with mechanical precision, edges sharp enough to cut through his hope. the pillows were aligned perfectly, undisturbed by the imprint of a head. it was almost unnerving, this absence of life in a space meant for rest, for comfort. his stomach churned, a heavy knot forming deep within, each pang a warning. something was wrong—terribly, irrevocably wrong.
the silence deepened, pressing against his eardrums, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. he let it out slowly, his chest trembling as he inhaled again, this time sharper, fuller, as if bracing himself for something he couldn’t yet name. his fingers grazed the smooth surface of the dresser as he moved further in, grounding himself against the cool wood, but his focus remained on the doorway to the adjoining bedroom. his pulse quickened as dread unfurled like a dark bloom within him, its roots digging deep. his stomach churned as dread began to take root. when he reached the bedroom, he noticed the walk-in closet door was slightly ajar.
“hyung?” he said again, voice quieter now, almost trembling. he stepped closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. he pushed the door open.
and then he saw him.
his world cracked apart like fragile glass, tilting beneath him, shattering into fragments that stabbed at his mind and left him reeling. the room spun violently, a kaleidoscope of blurred edges and muted colors that refused to settle, and suddenly his knees gave out. he collapsed forward, his body folding in on itself, and before he could think to stop it, a rush of bile surged up his throat. he vomited onto the floor, the acrid stench curling around him like a living thing, sharp and sour, clawing at his senses. the burn scorched his throat, but he barely registered it—he couldn’t feel anything except the crushing, suffocating weight of what he had seen.
he squeezed his eyes shut, but the image wouldn’t leave him. it was burned into the backs of his eyelids, into the hollow of his skull, playing on a relentless loop that made his stomach twist and his chest heave. a sound tore from his lips, raw and jagged, not quite a sob and not quite a scream, but something in between—something broken.
his hands trembled uncontrollably as he stumbled backward, scraping against the floor in a desperate attempt to anchor himself, to find something real, but the world felt unreal. too sharp. too cruel. the silence was deafening, louder than any scream, pounding against his temples until his head throbbed, until the edges of his vision blurred with white-hot pain. he was shaking so violently now that he couldn’t control his movements, his body betraying him, giving in to the storm of panic and grief that tore through him with merciless claws.
“no.” the word fell from his lips, cracked and hollow, barely a whisper. “no, no, no, no .” each repetition grew more frantic, more desperate, as if he could undo it, as if he could will the world to unsee what had been seen. his voice fractured further with each syllable until the sound was unrecognizable, a broken thing spiraling into the void.
his fingers fumbled for his pocket, searching, clawing for his phone with a blind urgency that bordered on hysteria. his vision swam, the room tilting again, his hands slick with sweat, making the device slip through his grasp. it hit the floor with a dull thud. he grabbed for it again, but his hands were shaking so badly he dropped it a second time, a frustrated cry ripping from his throat. he slammed his fist into the ground, once, twice, the pain barely registering through the haze of panic.
finally, he managed to pick up the phone, his fingers slipping over the screen as he struggled to find the call button. his mind was a cacophony of noise, fractured thoughts colliding and breaking apart before he could make sense of them. there was only one name he could think of, one thread of safety in the maelstrom, and his trembling thumb found it.
the ringing felt endless, the sound sharp and shrill, cutting through the roaring in his ears. his chest heaved as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come, the tightness in his lungs unbearable, a weight pressing down that he couldn’t lift. when the call connected, he could barely hear the voice on the other end over the sound of his own sobbing, the noise jagged and raw, tearing through him like shattered glass.
“jisung? what’s wrong? talk to me.” minho’s voice was steady but laced with urgency, grounding and terrifying all at once. the steadiness broke something in him, made the dam holding back his words collapse. a fresh wave of sobs wracked his body, shaking him to his core. he tried to speak, tried to force the words past his choked throat, but they came out a mangled, incoherent mess, swallowed by his cries.
“jisung.” minho’s voice was sharper now, but not unkind. “breathe. tell me what’s happening.”
jisung tried, god, he tried, but his mouth couldn’t form the words. his mind was too full of static, images flashing too fast, too bright. he pressed the phone tighter to his ear, as if that could bring minho closer, as if his hyung could somehow pull him out of this nightmare. “it happened again,” he finally choked out, the words ripped from his throat, raw and broken. “it happened again, hyung.”
the silence that followed felt unbearable, stretching out like an eternity, pressing down on jisung’s chest until he thought he might suffocate. his breath came in shallow gasps, his head pounding, his vision narrowing to pinpricks of light.
then, minho’s voice, steady and urgent, cutting through the chaos. jisung barely heard him say something in the background—he couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t process anything beyond the ringing in his ears and the weight crushing his chest. everything felt too loud, too sharp, too much, and all he could do was hold onto the faint sound of minho’s voice, the only thing tethering him to a world that felt like it was slipping away.
time blurred after that. he didn’t know how long it took for the paramedics to arrive, but it felt both instantaneous and eternal. he was on the floor now, his hands pressed to his face as he screamed and sobbed, his entire body shaking violently. the paramedics moved past him, but he didn’t notice—not until they began to lower changbin’s body.
“no!” jisung screamed, his voice cracking painfully. he lunged forward, trying to reach changbin, but someone—he didn’t even know who, someone with a neon orange uniform—pulled him back.
“don’t touch him! don’t—don’t take him away! changbin-hyung!”
his throat burned, his chest felt like it was being crushed, but he kept screaming, kept crying, kept fighting. his voice was hoarse now, barely more than a rasp, but the sounds kept spilling out of him, wild and uncontrollable. his head throbbed with the force of it, his stomach twisting so violently that he thought he might throw up again. but he didn’t stop. he couldn’t stop.
minho and chan arrived shortly after, rushing into the room, their faces pale and stricken. jisung barely registered them. he was still screaming, his voice breaking on changbin’s name over and over. his hands clawed at the air as though he could pull changbin back, as though he could undo what had already been done.
“jisung,” chan said, his voice firm but soft, his hands gripping jisung’s shoulders. “jisung, look at me. look at me .”
but jisung couldn’t. his vision blurred, his chest heaving, his cries ripping through him with a force that left him trembling. his body felt like it might collapse under the weight of his grief, but still, the sound poured out of him, raw and relentless.
the paramedics moved with mechanical precision, their gloved hands steady as they handled changbin’s body, the limp weight of him swaying slightly as they maneuvered the stretcher through the narrow hallway. the sight ripped a guttural scream from jisung’s throat, raw and unrestrained, a sound that clawed at the very air around him. it was a wail of despair so deep it seemed to splinter the walls, a cry that begged the universe to rewind, to stop, to undo.
“no! no! don’t touch him!” jisung shouted, his voice breaking, cracking like fragile glass. he stumbled forward, reaching for the stretcher, his arms flailing, his body a vessel of unrelenting agony. “don’t take him away! changbin-hyung! please—don’t take him!” his fingers barely brushed the edge of the sheet that covered changbin before someone caught him—an arm around his waist, firm and steady, holding him back. it was minho.
minho gripped jisung tightly, his face pale but resolute, his eyes sharp despite the anguish pooling behind them. “jisung, stop!” he said, his tone firm but breaking under the weight of his own grief. “jisung, you can’t—he’s gone, jisung, you can’t—”
but jisung wasn’t hearing him. he wasn’t hearing anything. his entire world was shattering in slow motion, each crack splintering deeper into his soul. he thrashed against minho’s hold, his hands clawing at the air, at the stretcher, at anything that might let him hold on to changbin for just a moment longer. “no, you’re lying!” jisung sobbed, his voice torn from his chest, his body trembling with the force of his desperation. “he’s not gone—he’s not gone! don’t take him! don’t take him from me! i did everything right—i was going to apologise! let me say sorry, hyung, don’t let them take him!”
the door to the suite creaked open again, and jeongin stepped inside. his footsteps faltered almost immediately, his wide eyes locking on the space where the stretcher had been only moments before. his gaze drifted, shaky and unsure, until it landed on him .
the color drained from jeongin’s face, his usually steady composure crumbling under the weight of reality. his hand flew to his mouth as his stomach twisted violently, the air turning thick and sour around him. he staggered back, one hand braced against the wall as he doubled over. a dry retch escaped him first, then another, before bile surged up his throat and spilled onto the floor. the sound echoed through the suite, stark and jarring against the backdrop of jisung’s anguished cries.
the paramedics paused briefly, their movements hesitant under the weight of jisung’s cries and jeongin’s retching, but time pressed them forward. the stretcher disappeared into the hallway, swallowed by the dim light, leaving an empty void in its wake. jisung collapsed to the floor, his knees hitting the hardwood with a thud, his body folding in on itself as if trying to protect what little remained of his heart. his sobs came in harsh, jagged bursts, each one more painful than the last, each one tearing something irreparable from him.
“chan,” minho said sharply, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. he didn’t look away from jisung, who was now clawing at his arms and chest, his breaths shallow and panicked, his body trembling uncontrollably. minho’s grip on jisung tightened, holding him steady as he continued to thrash. “chan. go to jeongin. i have jisung.”
chan hesitated, torn, his gaze flickering between jisung’s collapsing form and jeongin, who was still hunched over, shaking, his breaths uneven and wet. he looked like he might faint. the weight of the moment pressed down on chan, paralyzing him, but minho’s voice cut through again, urgent and commanding.
“chan!” minho barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “go to jeongin. now. i have jisung.”
chan nodded sharply, his throat tightening as he forced his legs to move away from jisung. he crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside jeongin and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. jeongin flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, his breaths coming in shallow gasps as tears streamed down his face.
jisung couldn’t begin to take in a proper breath. every gasp felt jagged, caught on the edges of his throat like broken glass. his lungs burned, desperate for air, but the grief that clawed at his chest wouldn’t let it come. his vision swam, dark at the edges, tears streaking his face as he clung to minho’s arms with trembling hands. he couldn’t stop sobbing, couldn’t choke back the raw, anguished sounds spilling from him, couldn’t force himself to be quiet, to be still. his whole body trembled with the weight of it, his cries reverberating through the room like the echoes of something shattered and irreparable.
he heard voices around him, distant and blurry, like they were muffled by thick walls or drifting through a dream he couldn’t wake from. his head lolled against minho’s shoulder, too heavy for him to hold up anymore, but the words still broke through the storm raging in his mind.
“i told you to wait in the car, innie.” chan’s voice was sharp, strained, filled with something jisung couldn’t name—anger? worry? fear? it barely registered, slipping past the chaos in his mind like water through cracks in the pavement. jisung tried to focus, to piece it together, but he couldn’t. the words felt too distant, too far away to matter.
there was another voice, softer this time, shakier. jeongin’s. jisung could hear the tremble in it, the way it cracked and wavered, like it might fall apart entirely. “breathe,” someone murmured—chan, maybe. “innie, breathe.” the words hung in the air, fragile and weightless, but jisung couldn’t grab hold of them. he couldn’t turn his thoughts outward, couldn’t stop the tidal wave of grief crashing over him long enough to process anything else.
he should have been there for jeongin. the thought flickered somewhere deep inside him, but it felt faint, unreachable. he was supposed to be the hyung now, wasn’t he? changbin-hyung wasn’t here anymore. hyunjin wasn’t here anymore. felix wasn’t here anymore. seungmin wasn’t here anymore. it was jisung’s job to step up, to help hold them together, to be the one jeongin could lean on when everything else felt like it was falling apart. but he couldn’t. he couldn’t do anything but cry, couldn’t do anything but claw at minho’s arms and sob changbin’s name until his throat burned raw and his chest ached from the effort.
the murmurs around him grew softer, blending into the background noise of his despair. “it’s going to be ok,” someone said—chan again, maybe, or minho, or no one at all. it didn’t matter. it wasn’t true. nothing was going to be ok. changbin-hyung was gone. changbin, who had been their strength, their anchor, their heart, was gone, and nothing anyone said or did could change that.
jisung’s fingers dug into minho’s sleeves, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. “why did you let them take him from me?” he choked out, his voice barely more than a rasp. he didn’t even know who he was asking, didn’t even know what he wanted to hear in return. it didn’t matter. the answer wouldn’t bring changbin back. nothing would.
his body shook with another violent sob, and through the haze of his grief, he caught another fragment of the voices behind him. chan again, speaking low and steady, trying to coax jeongin into calm. jisung couldn’t make out the words anymore. they blended into the roar of blood rushing in his ears, into the echoes of changbin’s laughter that still haunted the back of his mind. all he knew was that jeongin was crying too, somewhere behind him, and jisung couldn’t even turn around to comfort him. he couldn’t even try .
he let out another broken wail, his breath hitching painfully as he pressed his face into minho’s shoulder. the tears wouldn’t stop, spilling hot and endless down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric of minho’s shirt. his chest ached, his lungs burned, and still, he couldn’t stop. the weight of it was too much. it pressed down on him like a mountain, crushing and relentless, leaving no room for anything but grief.
the words continued around him, but jisung couldn’t hold onto them. he couldn’t hold onto anything but the unbearable, inescapable truth: changbin was gone, and no amount of breathing, no amount of whispered reassurances, could ever make that ok.
minho held onto jisung, who was still fighting him with every ounce of strength he had left. his fists pounded weakly against minho’s chest, his voice hoarse from screaming, his body shaking violently. “why did you let them take him?” jisung sobbed, his words broken and slurred, repeating in an endless loop. “why did you let him go? why didn’t you stop them?”
“why did you give up on him?”
minho didn’t answer. there was no answer he could give that would ease jisung’s pain. instead, he pulled jisung closer, wrapping his arms around him tightly, his own tears falling silently as he held him. “i’ve got you,” minho murmured, his voice low and steady despite the quiver in it. “i’ve got you, jisung. i’m here. you’re not alone.”
jisung’s sobs slowed into uneven gasps, his body growing heavier in minho’s arms as exhaustion began to take hold. he still clung to minho’s shirt, his fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. minho stroked his hair gently, whispering soft reassurances that he wasn’t even sure jisung could hear.
behind them, chan continued to hold jeongin, who had finally stopped retching but was still shaking uncontrollably. the suite was filled with the sounds of grief—broken cries, muffled sobs, the echo of a loss too great to bear. and in the silence that followed, as the weight of changbin’s absence settled over them like a heavy, suffocating blanket, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something—anything—to fill the void he had left behind.
but the only thing left of changbin was hundreds of songs and a hotel room that wasn’t his own.