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Pretty. The sea is as pretty as Soobin thought it would be.
When his mother told him they were going on a trip to the Philippines, all he knew about the foreign country was that it had pretty beaches and a hot climate—things he learned on television and from secretly listening in on his sister's conversations with her friends. They were right. The water is crystal-clear and the heat can become unbearable really quickly.
“Bin-ah, are you okay?” His mother asks him quietly, her eyes hidden behind the cheap pair of sunglasses he'd saved up for to give her on her birthday. “Tell eomma or your noona if it gets too hot for you, okay? I don't want you to get heatstroke.”
He nods. “I'm fine, eomma. I won't get heatstroke.”
Truthfully, Soobin isn't really sure what happens when someone gets heatstroke. But he feels fine anyway. It probably won't happen to him as long as he stays in the shade.
He also doesn't want to bother his mother or his sister. They're both resting on the hammocks under their umbrella, so Soobin will try his best to stay quiet and away from trouble.
But what can he do that's not near any trouble?
“Soobin-ah, can you hand me my beach scarf?”
His sister's voice startles him even though she said it quietly. She must have noticed that he flinched, because she hides her giggles behind her hand. “Sorry,” she whispers again. “Just give me that scarf near your hyung's things. It has blue butterflies and flowers on it.”
Soobin pouts. He doesn't like it when people laugh at him, but he's still going to give her what she asked for. He's a good kid.
“Thank you.” Says his sister when she receives the scarf.
“Your scarf is pretty, noona.”
“Mmhm. Do you like pretty things, Soobinie?”
He nods. “The sea is really pretty. I want to swim again.”
“Ah, but Woobin and appa aren't back from the store yet,” she says. “Sorry, baby. I want to go with you, but I don't know how to swim either. It'll be safer if we wait for them.”
Soobin feels a pout coming on.
Dabin ruffles his hair. “Don't be sad. Tell you what—you can find other pretty things while we wait for them. There are plenty of pretty shells and pebbles in the sand, you know? You just have to look for them.”
“Oh,” Soobin says, intrigued. “Can I play in the sand, noona?”
She slides her sunglasses down and looks around. “Sure. Just don't go where eomma and I can't see you. Stay close, alright?”
He smiles and nods enthusiastically. “Okay!”
Soobin takes a bucket and a toy shovel from his Woobin-hyung's things and finds a nice patch of white sand nearby. He digs through it and finds that his sister is right—there are pretty shells in the sand. Some of them are too small and dirty though, so he doesn't put those in the bucket.
And then. And then he finds another shell, and this one is pretty. It's almost as big as the palm of his hand and it has pink stripes. As he pulls it out of the sand though, a black string follows.
It’s a necklace.
He flips the shell over to see what’s behind it, and sees an unfamiliar word engraved into the surface of it. Soobin is not a good reader yet, but he knows it’s not in Korean. It might be in English.
He empties the bucket of all the other pretty shells, and decides that he’s only taking this one.
—
(A quiet car ride. A family of four, all tired from a long day at the beach.
“Appa,” the youngest son breaks the silence. “Please don’t get mad at me.”
His father doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Why would I get mad at you? Did something happen?”
“You have to promise not to get mad!” The boy pouts. “Please,” he adds belatedly.
“Darling, don’t worry,” his mother says, smiling fondly, “appa won’t be mad. What’s wrong?”
The youngest son pouts. “I think I lost my shell necklace at the beach. The one appa made and carved my English name on.”
“It’s okay, Beomgyu-yah. The next time we go to a beach, I’ll make you a new one. Alright?”)
—
Noise. Soobin doesn’t know where he is, and doesn’t know how he got here. All he knows is that it’s loud. Too loud.
He probably shouldn’t have been so quick to wander off when he realized his mom wasn’t beside him.
At first, it had been fun—walking through the shiny mall, looking at all the pretty things in the store windows. But then he turned around, and... she was gone.
He ran through the aisles, searching for her, but all the faces around him felt strange. No one seemed to notice him. His heart beat faster, and the noise of the mall grew louder. He tried calling for her, but his voice was small, lost in the crowd. The mall felt like a maze of flashing lights and busy people, and Soobin suddenly wished he hadn’t gone so far.
He doesn’t want to cry.
And then, through the blur of strangers, a boy appears. He’s about Soobin’s age, with messy hair and a curious look. Soobin can tell he’s not scary. Just friendly.
"Are you lost?" the boy asks gently, his voice quiet but kind.
Soobin blinks at him, a little surprised. But then he nods. At least the boy speaks Korean. “I... I lost my eomma,” Soobin says, his voice barely audible. “I was looking for her.”
The boy’s eyes soften. “It’s okay, we can wait together,” he says. “My appa told me to wait on that bench over there. Want to sit with me?”
Soobin hesitates for a second. He doesn’t know this boy, but something about him feels safe. Plus, sitting with someone who doesn’t seem so loud sounds nice.
"Okay," Soobin says, nodding, his voice quiet but thankful.
They sit on the bench, and the boy pulls out a small device from his bag, untangling the earphones attached to it.
“Want to listen to music while we wait?” the boy asks, handing Soobin one side of the earphones with a warm smile.
Soobin takes the white earphone and adjusts it over his ear. The boy presses play, and soft music fills the air.
The song is gentle, its rhythm calming the noise around them. Soobin closes his eyes for a moment, letting the melody settle in.
The boy hums quietly along with the tune. “Nice, right?” he asks.
Soobin nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he says, still taking it in. “It’s nice.”
The boy smiles back. “This is my appa’s favorite song. It’s by a band called Air Supply.”
Soobin can do nothing but nod again. After that, they sit together in peaceful silence, letting the music carry them away from the chaos of the mall. When the song ends, the boy pauses the Walkman and looks at Soobin with a knowing smile, like he understands what it’s like to feel lost.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks, a small laugh escaping his lips.
Just then, Soobin hears a familiar voice calling his name. His head jerks up, and he pulls the earphone out, looking around.
"Soobin!" His mother’s voice is filled with relief, and Soobin’s heart lifts at the sound of it.
“Eomma!” he calls, rushing toward her. She scoops him up in her arms, holding him tight.
"Where did you go?" she asks, her voice trembling with worry. "I was so worried."
“I’m sorry, eomma,” Soobin says, sniffling, but his smile is wide. “I... I got lost, but I met someone.”
His mom looks around, spotting the boy standing nearby with a soft smile.
“Thank you so much,” Soobin’s mom says, her voice full of gratitude.
The boy smiles back at her, his eyes bright. “No problem,” he says casually, then waves at Soobin. “I’m glad he’s okay.”
Soobin watches the boy for a moment, feeling a sense of gratitude he can’t quite explain. “Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice hushed but genuine.
The boy grins and waves again. “No need to thank me,” he says, shrugging slightly. “Take care.”
Soobin’s mother gently tugs at his hand. “Let’s go home, sweetie.”
Soobin nods but looks back at the boy one last time. His heart feels lighter, even though they never exchanged names.
“Bye-bye,” Soobin says softly, unsure if the boy hears him over the crowd.
The boy gives a final wave, and just like that, Soobin follows his mom. The noise of the mall no longer feels so overwhelming, and the earlier chaos fades. Soobin feels the comfort of being found again.
As they leave, Soobin smiles to himself. His thoughts linger on the boy who shared the quiet song with him. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever see him again, but for now, he feels a little less lost.
—
(A gasp. An unzipping of a guitar case, unpracticed but still careful.
“Appa, this is so cool,” the boy says, admiring the guitar his father had gotten him. “Will you really teach me?”
“As long as you don’t tell eomma how many zeroes were in the price tag.”
The boy laughs. “Eomma will find out either way.”
“Find out what?”
His father turns around, startled. “Nothing, honey! Let me take those grocery bags to the car.”
“You know, Beomgyu-yah, I already know how much that guitar costs,” his mother ruffles his hair, smiling fondly. “Promise me you’ll take care of it, okay?”
“I promise, eomma.”)
—
Tired. Soobin is tired; the kind of tiredness that settles into his bones, heavy and unshakable.
He’s been practicing all day—his body aches, his throat is dry from singing, and his mind feels like it’s been working overtime.
But none of that matters. Not right now.
He’s used to being tired. As a trainee, he barely has time to sleep. The hours blur together, filled with practice after practice. Sometimes, when he lies in bed after a long day, it feels like his body is just waiting for sleep to come. But it doesn’t always.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Soobin turns over on his bed, the quiet of the dorm wrapping around him, but he can’t seem to shut off his mind. The exhaustion is there, deep in his muscles, but sleep keeps slipping away. He stares up at the ceiling, the sound of the other trainees still echoing in his ears, the memory of the practice room lingering.
He stares at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day on his shoulders. His mind is racing, running through all the things he needs to improve, all the things he hasn’t done yet. And as always, the quiet of the dorm is almost too much.
But Soobin has a way to escape it.
He pulls out his phone, the familiar screen lighting up in the dark. He feels around his bed to find his old earphones, plugging the jack into the port quickly. He needs to adjust and fiddle with the wires a little bit before he gets both earphones to work, but it doesn’t matter for now. He’s sure he can buy a new one soon.
He taps through the apps with practiced ease until he lands on YouTube, searching for the channel he’s visited so many times before—Tiger Guitar. The name of the channel alone is enough to calm him, like it’s a secret just for him.
There’s something about the way the guitarist plays that makes everything feel less loud, less heavy. The covers always feel different, like they’ve been made just for him, even though he knows the guitarist doesn’t know who he is.
He didn’t want to admit it at first, but a tiny part of it is the fingers—those pretty fingers moving effortlessly over the strings, each note plucked or strummed with care and precision. Soobin likes to watch the way those fingers glide across the guitar’s neck. He finds something soothing in it, almost hypnotic.
Tonight, it's a cover of an English song from the 80s—one of Tiger Guitar’s favorites, as he says in the description. Soobin could be wrong, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard the original song. He probably never will. Frankly, he doesn’t care about what Making Love Out of Nothing At All by Air Supply really sounds like. He’s content with just Tiger Guitar’s rendition.
The camera angle is always the same. The guitarist’s hands are framed perfectly, and Soobin watches closely as the fingers press gently on the strings, creating sounds that feel warm and comforting. It’s as though the guitarist knows exactly how to make the music wrap around him, make him feel lighter.
Soobin closes his eyes as the music swells. The quiet hum of the strings fills his ears, and for a moment, the exhaustion, the overwhelming feelings, everything falls away. It’s just him and the guitar, just the delicate sound of the notes floating through the air.
The music and the soft strumming are the last things he hears before he drifts off. Soobin doesn’t even realize when he falls asleep—just that, somehow, he feels lighter. Maybe a little more at peace.
The next day, Soobin drags himself out of bed, his body protesting every movement. But he gets up anyway. He chose this life, and he chooses it everyday.
The practice room is buzzing with energy as the other trainees are already moving through their routines. Yeonjun is at the front, leading the practice, and Taehyun is fiddling with his shoes, already getting impatient. Kai is stretched out on the floor, looking like he could fall asleep at any moment.
Soobin stumbles in, trying his best to shake off the fatigue.
“You look dead on your feet,” Yeonjun teases, a knowing look in his eyes. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
Soobin shrugs, not bothering to hide the tiredness in his voice. “Not really.”
Kai snickers from the floor. Practice hasn’t even started yet, but he’s already sweating. “I can tell, hyung. You look like a zombie.”
“I’m fine,” Soobin mutters, rubbing his eyes. “I always feel like this.”
Taehyun looks at him. “You should sleep more, Soobin-hyung. You’re not invincible.”
“I’ll sleep when we’ve debuted,” Soobin says to lighten the mood, but he’s not sure if it has the effect he’d intended it to have. He’s said it so many times before.
“Did you watch your guitar covers again?” Yeonjun asks, his voice light, though there’s an understanding behind his words.
Soobin looks up at him, surprised that Yeonjun knows. “Yeah, I did. They help me sleep.”
“You really like those things, huh?” Kai says, lifting his head off the floor. “What’s so special about them, hyung?”
Soobin’s lips curl into a smile, a little sheepish. “It’s just... there’s this one channel—Tiger Guitar. The way the guy plays... I don’t know. It’s soothing. His fingers are so pretty. I like watching them move. It helps me relax.”
Yeonjun laughs, shaking his head. “You’re a weird one,” he says good-naturedly.
Soobin wants to protest, but he finds himself smiling, the memory of the guitar’s rhythm still fresh in his mind. “It’s true, though. It’s like... when I watch him play, everything else just fades away. His fingers, the sound—it’s enough to help me forget everything.”
A beat.
“Maybe I am kinda weird.”
“No, hyung. I get it,” Taehyun says reassuringly. “Sometimes you just need something simple to clear your head.”
Soobin nods, his eyes distant for a moment. The thought of the guitarist’s fingers—so fluid, so graceful—lingers in his mind. It’s a small thing, but it helps.
They continue practicing, and Soobin pushes through despite the heaviness in his body.
Later that night, Soobin finds himself in bed again, his body aching, his mind racing. But this time, sleep doesn’t feel so far away. He pulls out his phone once more and finds Tiger Guitar on his recommendations.
The same gentle strumming fills his ears, the same fingers moving delicately over the strings, playing a slow variation of Dancing Queen by ABBA.
Soobin closes his eyes and lets the music settle in, the weight of the day finally easing off his shoulders.
This time, the exhaustion doesn’t feel so overwhelming. He lets the guitar carry him away, and before he knows it, the world around him fades.
The music is the only thing he can hear now, the only thing that makes him feel like he’s not running on nothing. And eventually, sleep comes.
Not in the way he’s used to, where it’s always a struggle. It’s easier this time.
Soft. Gentle.
And Soobin lets himself drift away with the music, knowing that tomorrow, he’ll do it all over again.
—
(A deep bow. Four boys, lined up in a row, facing a newcomer.
“It’s nice to meet you. My name is Choi Beomgyu, from Daegu. Please take care of me!”)
—
Funny. Soobin thinks Choi Beomgyu might be the funniest boy he’s ever met.
The four of them had been a part of the official debut lineup for less than a year when Beomgyu entered the picture. He can admit it now: at first, he’d felt some sort of resentment over Beomgyu’s immediate addition to the lineup—how good was he, really, to immediately join them after just one round of auditions? How special was he, really?
But that was before he’d spent time with him. Before he saw the way Beomgyu made everyone laugh, the way he could lighten even the tensest moments with nothing more than a well-timed joke or his goofy expressions.
At first, Soobin had kept his distance, unsure how to handle the shift. Beomgyu’s confidence unsettled him, reminding him of something he didn’t quite have yet, something he wished he could pull from himself. But as the days passed, he couldn’t deny it. Beomgyu was nice. Funny. And despite his playful teasing, he was thoughtful in ways Soobin didn’t expect.
Like the way he always made sure Soobin was included, whether it was offering him the last piece of fried chicken from their Yoongi-hyungnim or nudging him into conversations when Soobin would hang back. He wasn’t a threat—just someone else trying to find his way, in his own loud, almost effortless way. Soobin had been wrong.
But sometimes, Beomgyu can be quiet. And Soobin didn’t know what to make of that.
It wasn’t the same loud, carefree Beomgyu he’d grown used to. It was something else—something distant, like there was a side of Beomgyu he hadn’t fully figured out yet. And Soobin couldn’t help but wonder about those moments. About what went on behind Beomgyu’s eyes when they grew dark and his smile faded, just for a little while. But Soobin didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure how to.
Hakdong Park had become a place for them to escape, a quiet patch of green just a short walk from the BigHit building. They’d gone there often, the two of them. It had become a bit of a routine, a space where things could be a little more normal. And somewhere along the way, they'd found their own swings.
The swings were their spot. Beomgyu had taken the green swing for himself, so Soobin took the red one. They didn’t care that they were taking swings from the neighborhood children.
Sometimes they’d talk—about anything, everything.
“Hyung, did you know,” Beomgyu breaks the silence one evening, his voice carrying the weight of some random thought, “that if you swing high enough, you can almost touch the clouds? Like, if you go fast enough, just a little more, you might actually catch one?"
Soobin chuckles, watching Beomgyu’s smile grow as he swings higher. He’s grown more accustomed to the silly and sometimes borderline ridiculous things Beomgyu says. “Maybe you’ll be the first to do it. I’ll just wait for you to come back with a cloud in your hand.”
Beomgyu laughs, the sound ringing through the park, full of warmth. “It’ll be a nice souvenir, right? Then I can sell it to you.”
“I’m not buying your cloud,” Soobin teases, but there’s a fondness in his voice. “You can keep it. You know we barely have any space left in the dorm.”
The younger boy slows down, his feet grazing the ground. He's still facing forward with that dreamy expression, as if he’s contemplating something bigger than Hakdong Park or the swing set.
“Sometimes,” Beomgyu says, almost to himself, “I think we’ve known each other forever.”
Soobin pauses, the thought catching him off guard. He looks over at Beomgyu, meeting his eyes. “I don’t know about forever,” he says, his voice a little shaky, “but I think I could swing with you like this for a long time.”
A grin spreads across Beomgyu's face, his eyes twinkling in the fading sunlight. “A long time, huh? Sounds like a deal, hyung.”
Soobin smiles back, his heart feeling a little fuller with each passing second. The swing creaks under the weight of their quiet conversations, the air between them comfortable in its stillness.
Sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he would catch a glimpse of Beomgyu during these moments of quietness, his pretty face turned toward the sky, eyes thoughtful, like he was lost in some secret place only he could see. He finds himself even more drawn to Beomgyu in times like those, curious. He wonders if one day Beomgyu will let him in.
There was something in the way Beomgyu would glance over at him, something that made Soobin’s chest feel a little tighter—like they both knew something unspoken between them, something only the swing set could hold.
He looks over at Beomgyu again, their eyes meeting for a second before Soobin averts his gaze. Beomgyu’s grin is wide, a little teasing, and despite the weird warm feeling in his stomach, Soobin can’t help but grin back.
Without saying a word, they keep swinging side by side, both of them knowing that there’s no need to rush.
Just a little more. Just a little longer.
—
(A resounding pop. A group of boys cackling in pure joy, drinks raised in celebration.
“We’ve done it!” Yeonjun yells shamelessly, waving his drink around. “We’ve finally debuted!”
Beomgyu watches as Soobin takes Yeonjun’s drink from his hand. “You’ll get cider on us, hyung.”
“Yah, Choi Soobin, you’re an idol now. You shouldn’t let a little bit of cider scare you.”
“Not an excuse to spill your drink on us, Yeonjun-hyung.” Taehyun says, but he’s smiling, like he would accept anything Yeonjun spills on him with grace.
He feels a light nudge on his right side. “Beomgyu-yah, you okay?” Soobin asks quietly, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
“More than okay, hyung. This is the happiest I’ve been since I joined the company.”
Soobin smiles. “Want me to open your drink for you?”
“Wow,” Beomgyu finds himself saying, “you love me that much, huh?”
“... Don’t want your pretty fingers to get hurt trying to open a can.”
“Are you saying I can’t open a simple soda?”
“I’m saying I want to take care of you.”)
—
Pretty. Beomgyu is as pretty with long hair as Soobin thought he would be.
When he first learned that Beomgyu would be growing his hair out for their new concept, he spiralled and bought stocks upon stocks of hair ties in anticipation. He even started looking for braid tutorials on YouTube like he’d be the one personally tending to Beomgyu’s hair.
This… thing between him and Beomgyu is—well.
It’s a tightly wound guitar string.
Always within each other’s reach, pulling each other in with every glance, every laugh, every small, careless touch. Somewhere deep down, both of them know that it’s dangerous—that one wrong move and everything will snap.
Soobin can keep telling himself that nothing can come from this tension, this constant hum of possibility.
But still, he can’t help but play along, fingers plucking the string just a little too often, just a little too tenderly.
There’s a thin line between a note and a rest.
He watches as Beomgyu steps out of the bathroom, his long, wet hair dripping down the old band shirt he likes to sleep in. The soaked strands cling to the skin on his neck, catching the light, and Soobin feels an unexpected flutter in his chest.
He quickly looks away, shifting his gaze to his phone on the bed as if it can distract him from the feeling gnawing at him.
“Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu calls, his voice a little raspy from underuse. “Can you help me with my hair? It’s a mess.”
Soobin turns, trying to keep his voice steady as he answers. “Uh, sure. What do you need?”
“I was thinking…” Beomgyu pauses, looking sheepish. “Can you blow dry it for me? And maybe braid it, too? I don’t want it in my face while I’m trying to sleep.”
Soobin blinks, heart stuttering a bit. He’s never quite had a moment like this before. He’s used to being the one to offer help, to always be there for Beomgyu, but this feels different.
Closer. More intimate.
He’s been buying hair ties and ribbons for Beomgyu recently, keeping them in his pockets, in his bags, in his desk drawer—just in case he needs one.
He’d never tell Beomgyu that, though. He doesn’t need to know. All that matters is that Soobin can give him whatever he needs.
“Yeah, of course,” Soobin says, a little too quickly.
Beomgyu doesn’t seem to notice. He simply smiles and walks over to Soobin’s bed. He sits down, his bare feet brushing the carpeted floor. He’s exhausted, Soobin can tell by the way he slumps onto the bed, a sigh escaping his lips. It makes something tighten in Soobin’s chest, the instinct to care for him kicking in even more strongly.
Soobin grabs the blow dryer from his desk, setting it next to him, and then silently picks up a comb, fingers brushing over the soft strands of hair. Beomgyu’s skin is still warm from the water, and Soobin is acutely aware of how close they are.
“Let me know if it’s too hot,” Soobin says as he begins to dry Beomgyu’s hair. The steady hum of the dryer fills the silence between them, and Beomgyu leans forward slightly, his eyes closed.
“Mm,” Beomgyu hums, his voice low and languid. “Feels good, hyung.”
Soobin can’t help but glance up, catching the peaceful expression on Beomgyu’s face, the way his lips part slightly as he relaxes into the warmth of the dryer. There’s something about the way Beomgyu trusts him so easily, how comfortable he is in his presence, that makes Soobin’s heart ache in a way he can’t describe.
The dryer’s noise is almost soothing. He doesn’t know how long he stands there drying Beomgyu’s hair with careful hands, but he knows the air has thickened with something neither of them is ready to confront.
Once his hair is dry, Soobin sets the blow dryer down, but doesn’t immediately move away. His fingers hover near Beomgyu’s hair, and he feels the impulse to touch, to keep taking care of him.
“You want me to braid it?” Soobin asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but it comes out shakier than he’d planned.
Beomgyu doesn’t answer immediately, just nods slightly, his eyes still closed, his head tilted back slightly. Soobin swallows, trying to ignore the way his heart pounds in his chest. He picks up one of the ribbons he always carries with him now, and begins carefully braiding Beomgyu’s hair. The motion feels automatic, but at the same time, it’s all Soobin can focus on. The quiet closeness between them, the sound of Beomgyu’s relaxed breaths, the feeling of his fingers weaving through the strands—everything seems to slow down.
“Is this okay?” Soobin asks, glancing at Beomgyu, his fingers pausing for a second.
Beomgyu blinks his eyes open, then smiles, his eyes still heavy with sleepiness. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I trust you.”
The words settle in Soobin’s chest, something in them lingering longer than they should. His fingers continue working, his touch almost too gentle as he finishes the braid. It’s strange, how something so simple—something so everyday—feels like it means more in this moment. The braid is neat when he’s done, the ribbon tied off carefully at the end.
When he looks up, Beomgyu’s eyes are open, and he’s smiling softly, watching Soobin with that fond, contented look he always gets when he’s happy, when he feels safe. Soobin’s heart skips a beat.
"Thanks, hyungie," Beomgyu says again, quieter this time, but with more sincerity. “You always know what I need.”
Soobin forces a smile, his chest tight. “It’s nothing.”
But it’s not nothing. Soobin knows that. And as he watches Beomgyu settle back against his pillow, pulling the covers up over his body, he can’t help but wonder if Beomgyu knows it too.
The room is quiet again, and Soobin sits on his bed, watching him for just a moment longer.
“Good night, Soobin-hyung,” Beomgyu says, his eyes fluttering shut as he turns onto his side.
Soobin swallows, then whispers back, “Good night, Beomgyu.”
Tightly wound, almost snapping.
—
(A burst of colorful lights. Dimpled cheeks, flushed in the tropical Vietnam air and what might be love.
“Hyung, did you know,” Beomgyu says, just loud enough for Soobin to hear him over the melody of Dancing Queen.
“What is it this time?”
Beomgyu grins. “That you’re my life’s biggest fortune?”)