Chapter Text
The name BIGBANG wasn't just a brand-it was a revolution. Their music didn't merely dominate charts; it shaped an era, laying the foundation for modern K-pop. They weren't just idols; they were architects of a movement, visionaries who redefined an industry with every beat, every lyric, every performance. Each comeback wasn't just a release-it was an event. Each song, an anthem that shattered boundaries, resonated across generations and continents.
But time had moved forward, and now, their legacy lingered like the final, drawn-out chords of a masterpiece, fading into silence. The once-unshakable bond that held them together had unravelled, not with a grand explosion but with the slow inevitability of change. Each member had walked a different path, and their once-unified destiny was now fragmented into separate realities.
G-Dragon, the enigmatic leader, remained a ghost in the public eye. His name was spoken in hushed speculation, and his long-awaited return was a question mark that hung over the industry like an unfinished verse in a song. His silence was deafening, yet the world still waited, hoping for his voice to break through the uncertainty.
Taeyang, the warmest soul among them, had found new harmony- not just in music, but in love, family, and the quiet fulfilment of a life outside the relentless spotlight. He had always been the heart of their sound, and now, he had found a new rhythm, one that pulsed with the steady beat of fatherhood and artistic reinvention.
Daesung, the quiet force behind some of their most heartfelt ballads, had chosen a different kind of escape. He had built a new kingdom in Japan, a place where he could sing without the weight of his past trailing behind him. There, he wasn't a fallen idol or a controversial figure-he was simply an artist, his voice still soaring, still touching hearts, even if it was miles away from the place where he first found his dream.
And T.O.P?
He had vanished.
Not just from the group, but from the entire industry. From the country that once worshipped him, from the fans who had once screamed his name. The world that had once adored him had turned into a suffocating cage, its bars woven from relentless scrutiny, scandal, and expectation. The weight of it all had pressed down on him until there was only one option left to run.
So he had.
He disappeared into foreign streets, into the soft glow of art galleries, into the rich solitude of Bordeaux vineyards, where the clinking of wine glasses was softer than the deafening roar of the stage. He sought refuge in obscurity, in the comfort of anonymity. He told himself it was freedom.
But was it?
No matter how far he went, there was always something pulling at him, something whispering in the back of his mind. A lingering note in an unfinished melody.
And then, one night, the past came knocking.
Sitting alone in his dimly lit Parisian apartment, the air thick with the scent of old books and unfinished canvases, he let the silence settle around him like a second skin. He liked it this way, no noise, no expectations. Just stillness.
Then, the quiet was shattered.
A single chime from his phone. A message.
He almost ignored it, assuming it was another notification lost in the sea of unread texts. But something made him glance at the screen.
And there it was.
Daesung: "Hyung, I heard you're coming to Seoul soon. Want to meet?"
He exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the phone.
Seoul.
The city where everything began. The city where everything unravelled.
It had been years since he last walked those streets, years since he felt the air of home against his skin. But was it still home? Or just a place full of ghosts?
He stared at the message for a long time. Longer than he should have. He imagined Daesung on the other end of the screen, waiting, hopeful. Daesung, who had always been steady, always quietly strong, the one who never demanded anything from him.
The one who, despite everything, still reached out.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. There was no obligation, no pressure. He could ignore it. He could let the silence remain.
But somehow, this felt heavier than any decision he had made in years.
After a long pause, he finally typed a response.
T.O.P: "I don't know. Should I?"
And for the first time in a long time, he found himself waiting for an answer.