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The morning sun had just begun to burn through the thin veil of fog that hugged the highway. In the backseats Hongjoong hummed along to the radio as Seonghwa flipped through the dog-eared pages of their setlist. The car smelled faintly of coffee and vanilla air freshener — the familiar scent of early starts and long drives.
They were halfway to the studio, laughter still hanging in the air from a shared joke, when everything changed.
A flash of movement — the blinding gleam of a truck veering across the lane. The screech of tires ripped through the calm morning, followed by the deafening crunch of metal on metal. The impact hurled the car sideways; glass shattered like frozen rain, and Hongjoong’s scream was swallowed by the roar of twisting steel.
For a heartbeat, the world turned weightless. Then gravity reclaimed them. The car rolled off the road, tumbling through the embankment — the rhythm of their lives reduced to chaos and silence.
Seonghwa slowly opened his eyes, the world spinning in and out of focus. A dull ringing filled his ears — the kind that swallows all other sound — and every breath came sharp and shallow. The windshield was gone, the dashboard twisted and crumpled like paper. Smoke curled up from the hood, the acrid scent of gasoline stinging his nose.
He blinked hard, trying to steady his vision. Beside him, Hongjoong was slumped over in the seat, his face pale, unmoving.
“Joong…” Seonghwa’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. He reached out with a trembling hand, fingers brushing against Hongjoong’s arm. For a moment, nothing — then a faint groan. Relief rushed through him like air after drowning.
Hongjoong shifted, groaning as he tried to sit up. “What… what happened?”
“Accident,” Seonghwa murmured, fighting through the pounding in his head. “Are you okay?”
He crawled closer, glass crunching under his palms. That’s when he saw it — the jagged shard of metal jutting from Hongjoong’s side, dark blood spreading across his shirt. Seonghwa froze, his heart stuttering.
“Oh God—” He fumbled for his phone, hands slick with sweat and shaking uncontrollably. The screen swam before his eyes as he dialed the emergency number. His voice trembled as he gave their location, every word catching in his throat.
“I don’t feel good, Hwa… it hurts,” Hongjoong whispered, his head lolling to the side.
Panic surged like a wave, cold and suffocating. Seonghwa pressed a hand to Hongjoong’s shoulder, trying to keep him awake. “Hey—hey, stay with me, okay? Help’s coming. Just stay with me.”
The only answer was the faint rasp of Hongjoong’s uneven breathing and the soft hiss of the wind through shattered glass.
Seonghwa’s attention snapped to Hongjoong again — something had changed. The light in his friend’s eyes was flickering.
“Hey, don’t fall asleep,” Seonghwa said softly, moving closer. “Try to stay awake, okay? The ambulance should be here soon.”
He took Hongjoong’s hand gently, trying to ignore how cold it felt.
“But… I’m sleepy,” Hongjoong murmured. “I can’t feel my legs.”
A sharp pang of fear shot through Seonghwa’s chest. His pulse quickened, panic clawing at his throat.
“Listen to me,” he urged, gripping his hand tighter. “You have to fight it, okay? The ambulance is almost here. Stay with me—just keep talking.” His voice trembled, the edge of desperation creeping in. “Tell me about our last performance… anything, just don’t close your eyes.”
Hongjoong’s gaze wavered but found Seonghwa’s. “I love you guys,” he whispered. “The group… it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. You know that, Seonghwa?”
Seonghwa’s breath hitched. Tears blurred his vision as he squeezed Hongjoong’s hand tighter. “Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse. “Yeah, I know. We love you too. And we wouldn’t be us without you.”
He tried to smile, but his lips trembled. “Just hang on a little longer, okay? The ambulance should be here any minute now.”
Hongjoong nodded weakly. “I’m just gonna rest my eyes for a bit,” he mumbled. Then, faintly, a flicker of humor: “Don’t tell San I ate his strawberry cake, okay? Our secret. I just wanted to see what the hype was.”
Seonghwa let out a small, shaky laugh through the tears streaking down his face. “I won’t tell him,” he said. “Our secret. Just… don’t fall asleep, alright?”
Hongjoong grinned faintly. “I won’t sleep. Just resting my eyes.”
But Seonghwa could see it — the color draining from his face, the way his chest rose shallower with each breath. “No,” Seonghwa whispered, voice cracking. “You can’t just ‘rest your eyes.’ You have to stay awake—please, fight it. Tell me something. Anything.”
He brushed a hand through Hongjoong’s hair, trying to keep him tethered to the world.
Hongjoong forced his eyes open, whispering, “I’m up, I’m up…” He shifted slightly—and coughed, a dark spray of blood staining his lips.
“Don’t move!” Seonghwa cried, panic flaring as he reached for him. He wiped the blood from Hongjoong’s mouth with his sleeve, his hands trembling. “You’re hurt… just stay still, okay? You’re gonna be okay. Just hold on a little longer.”
Hongjoong’s reply came as a faint whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare,” Seonghwa said quickly, shaking his head as tears spilled down his cheeks. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just… stay with me. Please. We need you. I need you.” His voice broke. “Ateez isn’t whole without you.”
The faint wail of sirens echoed in the distance, a cruel reminder that help was close—but not close enough.
“Hold on,” Seonghwa begged softly. “Just a little longer… help is coming.”
“My chest hurts,” Hongjoong gasped, his voice weakening.
“I know,” Seonghwa murmured, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “I know it does. Just focus on me, okay? Breathe with me. In… and out. Slowly.”
He placed a hand on Hongjoong’s chest, feeling the uneven rhythm beneath his palm. The sirens were louder now—so close that Seonghwa could almost see the flashing lights. But the seconds stretched like an eternity.
Hongjoong’s hand trembled as he reached up, brushing a strand of Seonghwa’s hair behind his ear. “I’ve always liked your long hair,” he whispered with a soft, broken smile.
Seonghwa’s tears fell freely, landing on Hongjoong’s blood-streaked skin. “Don’t—don’t talk like that,” he pleaded, voice shaking. “This isn’t goodbye. Keep breathing. Just a little longer.”
The ambulance’s wail was deafening now. Seonghwa tried to laugh through his sobs. “Stay awake long enough for me to yell at them about how bad their timing is, okay?”
Hongjoong’s lips twitched, trying to smile. But the effort faded. His breaths grew shallow, his eyes half-lidded. The grip on Seonghwa’s hand loosened.
“No, no, no,” Seonghwa said, voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Please, Hongjoong, breathe for me. Please—please don’t give up!”
He shook his hand gently, sobs tearing from his chest. “Hongjoong!”
Hongjoong’s lips moved, barely forming his name. Seonghwa leaned closer, tears falling freely. “I’m here,” he whispered, trembling. “I’m right here. What is it? What do you need?”
Hongjoong’s answer was a rasped whisper, fragile as a last breath. “Sing to me… one last time.”
Seonghwa pressed their foreheads together, choking back a sob. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
His voice cracked as he began to sing Turbulence, the song that had always been their anchor. His notes wavered, trembling through tears and heartbreak, but he kept singing — each line breaking more than the last.
“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered between verses. “You hear me? You’re going to be okay…”
Hongjoong smiled faintly, eyes fluttering shut as the last of his strength slipped away. His breathing slowed… and stopped.
The last note was caught in Seonghwa's throat. Silence filled the air — heavy, absolute. The sirens wailed somewhere nearby, too late.
“Hongjoong?” Seonghwa whispered, shaking his shoulder. “Hongjoong, wake up… please.”
But there was no answer.
Seonghwa pressed trembling fingers to his neck, desperate for a pulse. Nothing.
A hollow sound escaped him — part sob, part broken laugh. He pulled Hongjoong close, clutching him tightly as if holding him could reverse time.
The song lingered in the air, unfinished.
Seonghwa didn’t know how long he sat there — the world around him was silent, frozen in place. The only sound was his own trembling breath and the faint hum of the song still on his lips.
Then the sirens arrived. Red and blue lights washed over the wreckage, flashing against the shattered glass and twisted metal.
Seonghwa didn’t move. He sat in the back seat, arms wrapped tightly around Hongjoong’s still body, his forehead pressed to his shoulder. The song still hung in the air — a broken hum he couldn’t stop, barely more than a whisper.
“Sir! Sir, can you hear me?” a voice called out.
Hands were on his shoulders, pulling gently, but Seonghwa resisted, clutching Hongjoong tighter. “He’s—he’s right here,” he choked out. “He just needs help. Please, just help him.”
The paramedics were at the car in seconds, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. They checked for a pulse, voices quiet but urgent. Seonghwa watched their movements, searching their faces for hope — for something. Anything.
But he saw it the instant they stopped moving. The subtle shift in posture. The look they shared before one of them quietly set down their equipment.
“No…” Seonghwa shook his head slowly, his voice breaking. “No, you can still—he just—he needs more time."
A hand rested on his shoulder, gentle and steady. “I’m sorry,” one of them said softly. His fingers refused to release Hongjoong’s hand, even as they tried to lift him away. “Please don’t.” he whispered.
When they finally pried his hand from Hongjoong’s, Seonghwa’s fingers were streaked with dried blood and shaking uncontrollably. He stared down at his empty palm, as if the warmth still clinging to it might somehow linger forever. Seonghwa watched, numb, his world collapsing in slow motion.
The flashing lights flickered against the wreckage, painting the scene in ghostly color — red, blue, red, blue — until it all blurred together.
The stretcher rolled past, a white sheet drawn carefully over Hongjoong’s face. Seonghwa’s breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around him disappeared again.
All that was left was the memory of a voice, a laugh, and the echo of a song he would never finish.