Chapter Text
The lights backstage were blinding, as usual, but today they felt harsher, sharper—cutting through the nervous tension that hung in the air. The crowd outside was roaring, ready for Seventeen to take the stage, but something was very, very wrong.
Seungcheol wasn’t here.
Normally, Seungcheol might bow out of certain performances if he wasn’t feeling up to it. He had his moments—times when he’d quietly step back, trusting the members to handle things. But he would always tell them beforehand, make sure they were prepared. He wouldn’t just vanish, not like this.
“Where is he?” Jeonghan muttered, glancing over his shoulder for what felt like the hundredth time. His voice was tight with anxiety, a far cry from the usual calm he projected.
“No idea,” Seungkwan replied, his phone glued to his ear as he waited for the call to connect. “His phone’s still off. It’s been off since this morning. His manager doesn’t know where he is either.”
Joshua was standing off to the side, frowning as he stared down at the setlist. “He wouldn’t just disappear without saying something, right? Not today.”
Today was important. They weren’t just performing for their usual fans, they were part of a huge industry event, with executives, media, and industry professionals all in the audience. The stakes were higher, and the pressure was mounting.
The minutes ticked down, but the one thing they couldn’t stop thinking about was the growing emptiness where Seungcheol should be.
“We’ll have to do it without him,” Soonyoung finally said, his voice strained but steady. “We can’t delay the event.”
“But we didn’t even cover his parts in rehearsal!” Seungkwan said, panic creeping into his tone. “We just left everything the way it was because—well, because he was supposed to be here.”
“Guys, I know this isn’t the first time Seungcheol hyung has wanted to step back from a performance,” Wonwoo pointed out, although even he sounded a little unsure. “But... it’s the first time he’s not told us.”
“He’s never done this before,” Joshua said softly, echoing everyone’s unspoken fear. “Not without warning.”
A few feet away, Seungcheol’s manager was locked in a frantic conversation with the event staff, his face flushed with frustration.
“No one’s seen him since this morning,” the manager said sharply into his phone. “He’s not at his apartment, and he’s not answering any of my calls. I don’t know where the hell he went.”
The members exchanged anxious glances. The feeling that something was wrong hung over them, but they had no time to process it.
“Seventeen, please get ready to take the stage,” a staff member called from the wings, oblivious to the undercurrent of panic.
They had no choice. Seungcheol was gone, and the curtain was about to rise.
The performance started like any other, but the hole where Seungcheol should have been was glaringly obvious. The group was good enough—trained enough—to compensate for little things, like spacing and movement, but the choreography felt unbalanced, the absence heavy in the air.
Every time his part came up, the mic sat silent. There was no one to fill the gap.
Jeonghan, as the unofficial second leader, stepped forward briefly during the MC’s introduction to offer a few awkward words. “We’re really sorry... S.Coups couldn’t be here today. We appreciate your understanding,” he said, a tight smile plastered on his face. It wasn’t much of an explanation, but it was all they could offer. The fans in the front row nodded, some of them looking confused, others worried.
But that didn’t stop the whispers. The flashes of confusion. It was like a weight hung over the entire stage.
During Seungcheol’s lines, the members gave each other quick glances, eyes shifting to where he would have stood, the lines left open. No one tried to cover for him—it was too last-minute, too chaotic. Leaving the gaps open seemed like the only choice they had.
The performance dragged on, longer than it should have. The cheers felt muted. By the end of it, they were all drenched in sweat, but no one was smiling.
“Where the hell is he?” Soonyoung asked the second they stepped offstage, his voice edged with both frustration and genuine concern. His chest heaved, more from the emotional strain than the physical.
Seungkwan was still frantically refreshing his phone. “I’ve called him at least twenty times. His phone’s off. I texted too. Nothing.”
“He always at least gives us a heads-up if he’s not performing,” Jeonghan muttered. “Always.”
“It’s not just us,” Hansol said, pointing toward the staff, who were gathered in small groups, talking animatedly. “Even his manager has no idea where he went.”
Seungcheol’s manager paced back and forth, his phone pressed to his ear. His conversation was loud enough for the members to overhear, and it didn’t sound good.
“No, he’s not answering me. I’ve checked with everyone around the apartment. No one’s seen him since this morning. What do you mean you don’t know where he went?” the manager barked, clearly frustrated. “This is a huge event. He wouldn’t just ditch. Find him.”
“Seungcheol hyung doesn’t ditch anything,” Minghao added quietly, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Something’s not right.”
Soonyoung, ever the energy of the group, was pacing now too. “We just left his parts blank. Did you see how the crowd reacted? It was a mess. What the hell is going on with him?”
But even as frustration began to brew, there was an underlying current of fear. Seungcheol had always been their leader. This wasn’t like him.
The tension backstage was thick. Normally, Seungcheol missing a performance would be something they could manage. He’d bow out if he needed to, but he’d never do this—never disappear without telling anyone. The fact that no one knew where he was set off alarm bells in every one of them.
“Something’s wrong,” Joshua finally said, his voice soft but firm.
But despite their growing worry, there was nothing they could do but wait.
The quiet hum of his phone vibrating against the nightstand broke through Seungcheol’s light sleep. He stirred, blinking groggily at the screen. It was barely dawn, the room still bathed in early morning shadows, and an unknown number flashed across the display. Normally, he wouldn’t have picked up—especially not in the middle of the night. He barely had time to deal with the numbers saved in his contacts, let alone strangers.
But his heart lurched, a nagging feeling creeping in.
His family. His parents, his grandparents—they were on their way back from their trip to Japan today. He’d sent them off a week ago, arranging everything through a trusted travel agent after he couldn’t make the time to go with them himself. They’d been thrilled, sending him photos and videos throughout their vacation. His mother had been raving about the food, his grandparents glowing in videos where they relaxed at onsens, marveling at the serene beauty of the countryside.
It had all gone smoothly—until now.
Frowning, Seungcheol rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reached for his phone, swiping to answer the call. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Is this Choi Seungcheol-ssi?” A voice on the other end asked, formal but tense.
“Yes, this is him. Who is this?” he replied, sitting up a little straighter, the heaviness in his chest growing by the second.
“I’m calling from the travel agency. We—there’s been an issue with the flight your family was on.”
Seungcheol’s heart skipped a beat. The air in the room seemed to thin, and his hand gripped the phone tighter. “What do you mean, ‘an issue’?”
There was a brief silence on the other end, one that dragged for what felt like an eternity. “The plane they were on... there’s been an emergency. We’re still waiting for more details, but you need to come to the airport.”
For a moment, all Seungcheol could hear was the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real. His family was supposed to land safely. He’d just seen photos of them smiling, enjoying their trip. His mother had texted him last night about how they couldn’t wait to see him again. This wasn’t happening.
“I... I’ll be there,” he managed, his voice barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears.
Seungcheol barely remembered throwing on his jacket over his pajamas, slipping on a pair of sneakers without tying them, and running out into the cold morning air. His mind was a blur, his body moving on instinct as he flagged down the first taxi he could find. He had no idea how much time had passed—whether the plane had landed, whether there were any updates—but his thoughts kept circling back to the same, horrible question: What if something’s happened to them?
“I need to get to Incheon Airport,” Seungcheol said, his voice more frantic than he intended as he slid into the backseat of the cab. “I’ll pay you triple if you can get me there fast.”
The driver didn’t need any more convincing. The car lurched forward, and Seungcheol sank back against the seat, his head spinning. His phone buzzed in his hand, but he ignored it—he didn’t want more calls from strangers. He didn’t want any updates until he was at the airport, until he could see for himself that everything was fine.
It had to be fine.
The moment Seungcheol arrived at the airport, he could feel the tension in the air. The crowd gathered in the waiting area was larger than usual—dozens of people were scattered around, huddled in tight groups, their faces drawn with worry. There was an eerie silence, only punctuated by hushed conversations and the occasional sob. Something was very wrong.
A man in a suit approached him as soon as he stepped through the glass doors, his face grim. “Choi Seungcheol-ssi?” the man asked, his tone respectful but heavy. “I’m with the travel agency. Please come with me.”
The man didn’t give him a chance to ask questions. Instead, he led Seungcheol through the crowd, pulling him away from the other families and into a quiet, secluded part of the airport where no one could overhear. The noise of the waiting area faded into the background, leaving Seungcheol alone with his thoughts, and the growing dread that was starting to consume him.
He stopped abruptly, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “What happened? Where’s my family?”
The man hesitated for a moment, and then he spoke carefully, as though each word was a delicate bomb waiting to go off. “We’ve received confirmation... the plane your family was on—there was an accident. It crashed into the sea not long after takeoff.”
Seungcheol’s mind went blank. He stared at the man, his mouth dry, the world around him going strangely still. It felt like time had stopped.
“No survivors have been reported,” the man continued quietly, as though the weight of those words might shatter Seungcheol if spoken too loudly.
The breath Seungcheol had been holding left him all at once, and the air in his lungs felt like ice. No survivors. No survivors.
“They can’t be—” His voice cracked, and he took a step back, his vision blurring. “No. They can’t be gone. You must be wrong. You must have gotten the wrong flight, the wrong people—” He was rambling now, clutching at anything that might change the reality of what he was hearing.
The man gently shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Seungcheol-ssi. We’ve confirmed it. There were no survivors.”
That was the last thing Seungcheol heard before everything went black.
When Seungcheol woke up again, he was still in the airport, but the lights were harsh, fluorescent, and too bright. He felt disoriented, his body heavy with exhaustion. Someone was speaking softly beside him, the voice too far away to comprehend. But the weight of what had happened hit him before any words could.
His family was gone.
They weren’t coming back. He’d sent them on that trip, and now he would never see them again.
Seungcheol didn’t move, his mind numb and frozen, refusing to accept the truth that was now his reality.
Seungcheol barely remembered the trip back to Daegu. Everything after the news at the airport was a blur—a fog of broken memories that drifted in and out of focus. The travel agency had been kind enough to arrange everything. One of their representatives gently escorted him onto the car, and murmured words of comfort that Seungcheol couldn’t even process. His mind was trapped somewhere far away, lost in a haze of grief too heavy to bear.
His family. His mother’s smiling face, his father’s reassuring presence, his grandparents’ soft laughter—they were all gone. All of them, taken from him in the blink of an eye. And it was his fault.
He should’ve been there. He was supposed to take them on that trip, supposed to make sure everything was okay. Instead, he’d handed them off to an agent, waved goodbye, and promised he’d join them on their next vacation. There won’t be a next vacation. The thought cut through him like a knife, each wave of guilt sharper than the last.
The familiar countryside outside the train window passed by in flashes of green and grey, but Seungcheol barely noticed. His mind kept drifting, thoughts slipping away like sand through his fingers. Sometimes, he’d wake from the haze with no idea how long it had been. Hours? Days?
The first thing Seungcheol remembered clearly was stepping out into the streets of Daegu, where the air felt thicker, weighed down by the knowledge of what he’d come home to. He was greeted by relatives he hadn’t seen in months, maybe years, all gathered around him like a protective barrier. Their words were soft and kind, but they only echoed in the empty spaces in his heart.
He barely heard their voices as they led him to the funeral service. There were no bodies to bury, no final goodbyes to give. Only photographs—faded images of his family smiling back at him, each one more painful to look at than the last. His mother’s photo sat beside his father’s, his grandparents’ nearby, all framed and surrounded by flowers that couldn’t make up for the absence of the people they represented.
Seungcheol stood in front of their photos, his hands trembling at his sides. His eyes traced the contours of their faces, frozen forever in time, as if this was the last moment he’d ever share with them. It was his fault. If only he’d been there. If only he’d pushed back that one schedule, made time, canceled the appearance. He’d failed them.
Tears welled in his eyes, but they didn’t fall. They just blurred his vision, turning the faces of his family into abstract shapes that felt too far away. Someone—an aunt or a cousin—placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering something that was probably meant to comfort him, but all Seungcheol felt was the suffocating weight of regret.
He couldn’t even say goodbye properly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.” The words weren’t enough. They never would be.
Seungcheol sat in a corner of the room, his body slumped as though every muscle had lost its will to hold him upright. His relatives moved around him like shadows, offering him food, asking if he needed rest, but all he could do was shake his head.
His mind wasn’t in the present anymore. It was back on the day he’d made the decision to send his family on that trip without him. How happy they’d been. How he’d thought he was doing the right thing by letting them enjoy the vacation while he handled his schedule.
“Cheol-ah,” his aunt said softly, crouching beside him. “You have to eat something.”
He shook his head again, blinking away the fog that clouded his mind. “I... I can’t.”
She sighed, smoothing down his tousled hair like she had when he was a child. “This isn’t your fault, dear. No one could’ve known.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He should have known. He should have done more. He should have been there.
The front door creaked open, and the air shifted as someone unfamiliar entered the room. Seungcheol didn’t lift his head to look at first, but the murmurs around him changed, drawing his attention. He glanced up, and his breath caught in his throat.
It was the Vice President of his company.
The man walked through the room quietly, offering a few respectful nods to Seungcheol’s family before he approached him. The VP had always been a reserved man, but seeing him here—in Daegu, in the middle of Seungcheol’s personal nightmare—was the last thing he had expected. Seungcheol stood up shakily, struggling to find his voice.
“Hyungnim... I didn’t think you’d come,” Seungcheol murmured, trying and failing to straighten his wrinkled clothes. His voice was hoarse, the words catching in his throat as the weight of everything came crashing down again. The VP had always been someone Seungcheol could rely on, ever since he’d started with the company. A mentor of sorts. But now, standing before him, Seungcheol couldn’t meet his eyes.
The VP frowned, looking concerned. “Cheol-ah, what happened? No one told me anything about this. I found out when I arrived in Daegu.”
“I’m sorry,” Seungcheol croaked, the words barely a whisper. His hands shook at his sides, and the tears he’d been holding back all day finally threatened to spill over. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I just—” His voice broke, and he looked down, shaking his head. “I lost them. My parents... my grandparents... They’re gone.”
The VP’s face fell, the shock evident in his eyes. “Cheol-ah... I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” He reached out, placing a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder, but Seungcheol barely felt it.
“I couldn’t tell anyone,” Seungcheol continued, his voice trembling. “I just left. I didn’t know what else to do.”
The VP shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I should be apologizing for not realizing sooner.” He sighed, his grip on Seungcheol’s shoulder tightening briefly. “Listen, we’ll announce your hiatus, and we’ll do it quietly. We don’t need to tell anyone what happened. You take as much time as you need.”
Seungcheol swallowed hard, nodding. “Thank you... I just need some time. I can’t—I can’t do this right now.”
The VP gave him a long, understanding look before nodding. “I’ll make sure the company takes care of everything. Don’t worry about a thing, Cheol. Take the whole week off. More, if you need it.”
The words were a small comfort, but in that moment, they were all Seungcheol had to hold onto. He nodded weakly, wiping the tears from his eyes. “Thank you... for coming.”
The VP squeezed his shoulder one last time before turning to leave, and as the door closed behind him, Seungcheol felt a strange sense of relief wash over him. It wasn’t enough to dull the pain, but it was something. A small thread to cling to in the sea of his grief.
But even as the VP left, Seungcheol knew that no amount of time off would ever be enough to make him feel whole again.
The room was buzzing with the usual energy that came with the start of a promotion cycle. Seventeen had a packed schedule—interviews, music show appearances, fan signs—everything had been lined up perfectly. Yet, something was off. The members could feel it in the air, the kind of silence that came before bad news.
Seungkwan tapped his foot nervously, glancing around the room. “Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like something’s going on?”
Joshua leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s not just you. There’s definitely something weird happening.”
Jeonghan, who had been scrolling through his phone, suddenly frowned as a notification popped up. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes widening before he looked up. “Guys... I think we just got our answer.”
He turned the screen toward the group. It was an official company announcement: “Due to personal reasons, Seungcheol will be taking an indefinite hiatus from all group activities. We appreciate your understanding during this time.”
A stunned silence followed. The words hung heavy in the air, each one sinking deeper than the last. Indefinite hiatus.
“What the hell?” Soonyoung was the first to break the silence, his voice sharp. “He’s going on hiatus? In the middle of our promotion? Since when?”
“That’s gotta be a mistake,” Hansol muttered, shaking his head. “There’s no way Seungcheol hyung would just leave without telling us.”
Seungkwan grabbed his phone, scrolling frantically. “No... it’s real. The company just posted it on all the official accounts.”
Joshua’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Did any of you know about this? Did anyone hear anything from him?”
A round of silent head shakes followed. No one had heard anything. No one knew.
“What the hell is going on?” Mingyu muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why would he just disappear like that and not say a word to any of us?”
Jeonghan bit his lip, his eyes scanning the room. “He must have his reasons. But... to not even tell us?”
Wonwoo frowned, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s not like him. He wouldn’t just leave us hanging like this.”
“I tried calling him this morning,” Chan added, his voice small. “He didn’t pick up. I thought maybe he was just busy, but...”
The frustration in the room was palpable, building with each passing second. It wasn’t just the fact that Seungcheol had gone on hiatus—it was that he hadn’t said anything. He hadn’t reached out, hadn’t explained, hadn’t even given them a heads-up. The group that always prided itself on its closeness suddenly felt like it had a massive gap, and none of them knew how to fill it.
“Maybe something really bad happened,” Joshua suggested quietly, his gaze flickering between the others. “I mean, for him to just disappear like this...”
“Then why wouldn’t he tell us?” Soonyoung snapped, slamming his hand down on the table. “We’re his group. We’ve been through everything together. He should’ve said something.”
Jeonghan sighed, leaning back against the wall. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe there’s something we don’t know.”
“But we should know,” Seungkwan said, his voice rising in frustration. “We’re the group. We’re supposed to be family. How could he leave us out like this?”
Without another word, phones came out, fingers moving furiously over screens as everyone tried to contact Seungcheol. The room was filled with the sound of soft vibrations and the occasional failed call tone. Text after text was sent, but there was no response. Nothing.
Hansol shook his head, staring down at his phone. “His phone’s off.”
“I’ve tried calling him three times already,” Mingyu muttered, glaring at his screen. “Voicemail. Again.”
Seungkwan tossed his phone onto the table, the sound echoing in the quiet room. “He’s not answering. This is ridiculous.”
Soonyoung was pacing now, his agitation growing. “What is he thinking? We’re about to start promotions, and he just goes on hiatus without a word?”
Wonwoo looked up, his voice calm but tight with concern. “Maybe something’s going on that he can’t talk about right now.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Soonyoung shot back. “He’s the leader. He owes us an explanation.”
Jeonghan finally sighed, rubbing his temples. “We won’t get anything out of this if we just keep calling. Let’s... let’s give it some time. Maybe he’ll reach out once he’s ready.”
But there was no mistaking the look of frustration that flashed across his face. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air: Seungcheol wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
The confusion had started to spread beyond the group. Managers were swarming the office, trying to figure out what was going on. Fans had already noticed the announcement, and the questions were piling up online. Seventeen was usually transparent with their fans, but this time, no one had answers—not even the staff.
The members tried to approach one of their managers for more information, but it was clear that they were just as in the dark.
“Where’s Seungcheol?” Jeonghan asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
The manager shook his head, looking just as confused. “We don’t know. The VP is working remotely this week, and he’s the only one who’s been in contact with him. We were told not to press for details.”
“Not press for details?” Soonyoung repeated, incredulous. “We’re his group! We need to know what’s happening.”
“I’m sorry,” the manager said, raising his hands in a helpless gesture. “All we were told is that he’s on a personal hiatus, and we’re supposed to respect that.”
The words stung. Respect his hiatus? How were they supposed to do that when they didn’t even know what had led to it?
“I don’t get it,” Mingyu muttered once the manager had left. “Why would he just disappear like this? Doesn’t he realize how this affects all of us?”
The room was filled with a tense silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. It wasn’t just frustration anymore—it was the growing sense of abandonment. Seungcheol had always been their leader, the one who kept them together through thick and thin. But now, he was gone, without a word, and they didn’t know how to move forward without him.
“Do we just... go on without him?” Chan asked hesitantly, his voice unsure.
Joshua sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It looks like we don’t have a choice.”
“But it’s not right,” Seungkwan said quietly. “He should’ve told us. He should’ve said something.”
Jeonghan ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his composure. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on yet. Let’s just... give him time. We’ll figure this out.”
But even as he said the words, doubt lingered in his mind. Seungcheol had never been this distant before, and the fact that no one could get through to him was only making things worse. Why wouldn’t he tell them what was going on?
As the hours passed and no new information surfaced, the frustration in the room continued to simmer, unspoken but heavy. The group was left with more questions than answers, and the one person who could explain everything had disappeared.
The week had dragged on like a blur for Seungcheol. The grief was still heavy, pressing on his chest every time he opened his eyes in the morning. The silence of his apartment felt unbearable, a stark contrast to the noise of his usual life. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, the days blending into each other as he floated through them in a haze.
The VP had been kind, giving him space to breathe, but they both knew that sooner or later, Seungcheol would have to face reality again. The company had arranged a meeting with everyone at the end of the week, giving him a few more days to process everything before he explained his hiatus.
But Seungcheol wasn’t ready. How could he ever explain the depth of the pain he was carrying? The guilt, the grief—it consumed him, and no matter how much time passed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all his fault.
The day before the scheduled meeting, Seungcheol finally returned to the practice room. His heart raced as he stepped into the familiar building, the weight of everything that had happened in the last week pressing down on him. He hadn’t spoken to any of the members. His phone had gone missing in the chaos at the airport, lost somewhere in the whirlwind of shock and grief. He hadn’t even tried to replace it. There was something paralyzing about the thought of reaching out.
He had wanted to call. To explain. But what could he say?
The VP had told him to take his time, but Seungcheol knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to talk to his members. He owed them that much. As he walked through the familiar hallways, memories flashed before his eyes—laughing with the others, planning their next moves, supporting each other through thick and thin. But now, there was a thick wall of uncertainty between him and the rest of Seventeen, and it terrified him.
His heart pounded as he reached the door of the practice room. He paused, taking a deep breath. This is it.
Just as Seungcheol reached for the door handle, he heard voices from inside. The members were all gathered, their tones tense. At first, he hesitated, not wanting to interrupt, but then something made him stop in his tracks. One of the staff members was talking, their voice carrying a tone that Seungcheol didn’t recognize as friendly.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I think it’s pretty clear Seungcheol-nim’s been slipping as a leader for a while now. I mean, look at what just happened—going on hiatus right when you guys need him most? What kind of leader does that?”
A laugh followed, the sound casual and careless, but it hit Seungcheol like a punch to the gut.
The members didn’t say anything at first, and Seungcheol’s heart leapt with hope, thinking maybe they’d defend him. But then, to his shock, he heard Soonyoung’s voice, quiet but resigned.
“Yeah... it’s been tough without him. We’ve had to pick up a lot of the slack lately.”
“We get that everyone needs a break sometimes, but this?” Seungkwan’s voice was strained, frustration leaking through. “It’s just been one thing after another. He didn’t even say anything to us. He just left.”
“Exactly,” the staff member continued. “You’ve all had to work twice as hard to cover for him. It’s not fair to the rest of you. You deserve better leadership than that.”
Seungcheol’s grip on the door handle tightened. Better leadership. The words echoed in his mind, his chest tightening with a pain he hadn’t felt since the funeral.
“I don’t know...” Chan’s hesitant voice cut in. “I mean, maybe there’s a reason. We don’t know what’s going on with him.”
But even that small defense felt weak, hollow. Seungcheol could hear the doubt, the frustration simmering beneath the surface. His members—the ones he’d always tried to protect, the ones he’d fought for, the ones he thought of as family—were doubting him. They were agreeing with the idea that he wasn’t fit to lead them anymore.
“We can’t keep excusing him forever,” Sonyoung finally said, his tone heavy. “I mean, what kind of leader just disappears like this? No explanation, no contact. We’ve been left in the dark.”
“I get it, we’re all tired,” Jeonghan added quietly. “But something has to change.”
Seungcheol’s chest felt like it was caving in. He had expected frustration, maybe some anger for his sudden disappearance. But this? Hearing them agree that he had failed them as a leader? It was worse than he could have imagined. They didn’t know the truth, of course. They had no idea about the plane crash, the funeral, the days he’d spent in a fog of grief, blaming himself for everything.
But their words stung nonetheless. They thought he had abandoned them.
Seungcheol swallowed hard, his hand slipping off the door handle. He couldn’t go in now. He couldn’t face them after hearing that. His mind was spinning, drowning in the realization that not only had he lost his family, but he had also lost the trust of his members. The people who had been his second family.
For a moment, he stood frozen outside the practice room, the familiar buzz of Seventeen’s voices muffled behind the door. They had no idea he was standing there. They had no idea he had heard everything.
He turned on his heel, backing away quietly before anyone could notice him. His footsteps felt heavy, the weight of their words dragging him down. Bad leader. The accusation rang in his ears. It was as though everything he’d ever worked for—every moment he’d spent leading, supporting, and caring for them—had been erased in an instant.
Seungcheol barely made it to the stairwell before the tears began to blur his vision. He gripped the railing, his body shaking as he tried to hold back the sobs that were threatening to break free. They thought he didn’t care. They thought he’d abandoned them.
But the truth was, he’d never felt more lost in his entire life. He didn’t know how to lead them anymore—didn’t know if he was even capable of being the person they needed. His family was gone, and now, it felt like his role in Seventeen was slipping away, too. The last thing he had left, the one thing that had always given him purpose, was crumbling right before his eyes.
Seungcheol leaned against the cold wall, his breath shaky as he fought to regain control of himself. He needed to be strong. But how could he, when it felt like everything was falling apart?
He wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to stand up straight. Not now. Not here. He would have to talk to them eventually, but not like this. Not when his heart was still in pieces.
Without another word, Seungcheol turned and left the building, the weight of his grief, his guilt, and his loneliness pressing down on him like a crushing wave.
He wasn’t ready to face them. Not now. Not after what he had heard.