Chapter Text
At the age of sixteen, Juhoon sat stiffly outside a small studio door.
The dim, almost medical, white lights of the hallway pulse behind his eyes. He can already feel a headache.
Juhoon glanced down at his phone out of habit.
Tuesday, September 17th, 2024. 9:23 A.M.
He sighed internally,
‘It’s to early for this.’
In moments like these, Juhoon wished he could crawl back into bed. Maybe catch up on the homework piling up on his desk. Hang out with his small circle of school friends. Spend time with his pet turtle, Choco. How he missed Choco in this moment.
He wished his mother had declined this meeting. Not out of ingratitude, but because he felt completely out of his depth.
Over the years, countless companies had reached out to his parents to schedule meetings just like this one. Being a well-known child model and actor meant people were always watching, always evaluating. But Juhoon had never felt drawn to any of their proposals. They all felt flat. Two-dimensional. As if he were an object with one visible side, rather than a young kid with thoughts and feelings.
He hated the lingering, expectant stares that clung to his skin like thorns long after the meetings ended.
But this time was different.
And he felt it in his chest.
It shouldn’t have been a big deal. But to Juhoon, it was. He was sitting inside a building created by the legacy of BTS.
That was a huge deal.
They were artists he’d admired from afar for years. Men whose music had filled his headphones during late night photoshoots and long car rides. And now he was waiting in a space they might have walked through themselves. The thought made his stomach twist.
When BigHit calls, saying they want you? You don’t say no.
You show up.
Juhoon couldn’t pin down what he was feeling. Nerves, excitement, dread, hope, uncertainty. They all tangled together inside his stomach. It felt heavier than anything he’d experienced before.
Time stretched painfully in the hallway. Thirty minutes passed, though it felt like hours. The soundproof door swallowed every noise, but Juhoon knew his mother was inside, speaking with an intimidating yet kind looking woman in a tailored pantsuit that had met both Juhoon and his mother outside of the HYBE building.
They were talking about him.
And that thought made his heart race.
The door opened without warning.
Juhoon flinched, shoulders locking as if he’d been caught doing something wrong. His mother stepped out first, her face unreadable but still fond. Behind her, the woman in the tailored pantsuit filled the doorway, leaving little space around her. The hallway seemed to shrink.
“Juhoon,” his mother said. “She’s ready for you.”
Ready.
The word pressed down on him.
He stood because standing was expected of him. His legs felt stiff, unfamiliar, like they didn’t quite belong to him anymore. As he followed them inside, the door closed with a soft, final sound that echoed louder than it should have.
The room was smaller than he’d imagined. No windows. Just a table, three chairs, and a mirrored wall that reflected him back at himself. Too pale, too young.
The air felt stale, like it had been breathed in and out too many times already. Juhoon sat when they gestured for him to, his knees brushing the underside of the table. There was no space to move without being noticed.
The woman studied him in silence. Not the familiar measuring stare but something heavier, slower yet not unkind. Like she was waiting for him to crack on his own.
“We’re not here to rush you,” she said at last, her voice calm, controlled. “But opportunities like this don’t wait.”
Juhoon swallowed. The room seemed to lean in, the walls inching closer. He nodded before he could stop himself, unsure whether he was agreeing or just trying to breathe.
The woman leaned back slightly in her chair, as if giving him a fraction more air to breathe.
“I want us to be very clear about something first,” she said. “This is not an audition in the way you might be used to.”
Juhoon’s fingers curled against his thighs. He didn’t trust himself to speak yet.
His mother glanced at him, then back to the woman, her posture softening, just a little.
“There is a project we’ve been developing for several years now,” the woman continued. “A boy group. Four members are already confirmed. They’ve trained together for a long time—vocals, dance, performance, teamwork. They’re solid.”
Juhoon’s heart skipped, then stumbled forward too fast.
A group.
Not a solo schedule. Not a temporary role. Something… permanent.
“We’ve been careful,” she said. “We don’t add people lightly. Chemistry matters. Growth matters. More than talent.”
Her gaze returned to him, steady but no longer sharp. It felt almost like she was trying to reassure him without saying the word outright.
“We’ve been watching you,” she admitted. “Not just your work. Your audition tapes. How you listen. How you react when you’re unsure. How you carry yourself when you think no one’s paying attention.”
Juhoon’s throat tightened. That sounded terrifying but also strangely thoughtful.
“You’re young,” she said plainly. “And we know that. We would never ask you to step into something like this if we didn’t believe you could grow into it at your own pace.”
His mother reached over then, resting her hand lightly on his knee beneath the table. The pressure was grounding, familiar.
“This group isn’t about perfection,” the woman went on. “It’s about building something real. We think you’d bring a balance they don’t have yet. A sensitivity. A perspective.”
Juhoon blinked. No one had ever described him as something a group needed.
“You wouldn’t be replacing anyone,” she added quickly, as if reading the fear on his face. “You’d be joining them. Learning with them. Supported and nurtured every step of the way.”
The room still felt small. His heart still beat too loud in his ears. But beneath the tension, there was something else now, like a blanket laid carefully over shaking shoulders.
Juhoon finally found his voice, thin but steady enough.
“…Why me?”
Juhoon had always been soft spoken.
The woman didn’t hesitate.
“Because you don’t see yourself as finished,” she said gently. “And neither do we.”
Silence followed, not heavy this time, but waiting.
Not for him to be perfect.
Just for him to be honest
The woman let the silence settle, then folded her hands on the table.
“We don’t expect an answer today,” she said. “In fact, we wouldn’t want one.”
Juhoon exhaled without realizing he’d been holding his breath.
“What we would like,” she continued, “is to set up a meeting. Something informal. No cameras. No contracts. Just people.”
His mother straightened slightly,
“A meeting with…?”
“With the other boys,” the woman replied. “In a few weeks, once schedules settle.”
Juhoon’s eyes flickered up despite himself.
“There are four of them,” she said, her tone warming as she spoke, as if she knew them well. “The oldest is Zhao Yufan or better known as James. He’s nineteen. Coming from Hong Kong, he has been training with us for four—nearly five—years now.”
James. The name sounded heavy. Established.
“He can come off intimidating at first,” she admitted with a faint smile. “Very reserved. But he’s thoughtful. He looks after the others more than he realizes. He’s also choreographed several performances you’d probably recognize. Songs that helped define other groups under this company.”
Juhoon’s eyebrows lifted before he could stop them.
The woman noticed. “Yes,” she said. “That kind of level.”
She shifted her gaze, as if turning a page.
“Then there’s Martin. Sixteen, like you. He’s been a trainee the longest out of all of them, and he’s the one we currently see as the leader.”
Sixteen. That made Juhoon’s chest tighten again.
“He’s quiet when he wants to be, focused. Similar to James in temperament, but his strength is production. He’s already helped produce tracks that have made their way onto albums you’d recognize. He understands structure—music, people, pressure.”
Juhoon thought of himself at sixteen, in this moment, sitting stiffly in a windowless room, wishing he were home with his turtle. The comparison made him feel small, but weirdly not unwelcome.
“And the last two,” the woman said, her expression softening into something unmistakably fond, “are Seonghyeon and Keonho.”
Juhoon almost smiled before she finished.
“They’re both fifteen. Practically inseparable. Seonghyeon is older by a month, and he never lets Keonho forget it,” she added lightly. “They’re bright, energetic, and constantly testing boundaries. Mischievous in the way only boys that age can be—but they bring a lot of joy into the room.”
His mother’s lips curved, just barely.
“They balance the group,” the woman said. “Where the others are intense, they remind everyone why they started in the first place.”
She paused, letting Juhoon absorb it all.
“The group doesn’t have a name yet,” she said. “Nothing is finalized. That’s intentional. We’re still building the future, not locking it into place.”
She met Juhoon’s eyes again, steady and sincere.
“We want you to meet them. Talk. Observe. See how it feels to stand in the same room. If, after that, you decide this isn’t for you, we’ll respect that.”
The word respect lingered, unfamiliar and precious like glass to Juhoon
His mother squeezed his knee gently. “No pressure,” she murmured. “Just a chance.”
Juhoon nodded slowly. His heart still raced but it wasn’t running away anymore.
“A few weeks,” he echoed quietly.
The woman smiled. “A few weeks,” she confirmed. “And then we’ll see where the future wants to go.”
For the first time since sitting down, Juhoon felt like the future wasn’t staring at him.
It was waiting.
Juhoon’s nod came before his voice did. Small, almost imperceptible.
“…I’ll meet them,” he said softly.
The words felt fragile in his mouth, like they might shatter if spoken any louder. But once they were out, something loosened in his chest. Not relief exactly, more like a careful step forward.
His mother turned toward him immediately, her expression warming, pride, concern and surprise woven together. She didn’t rush him, didn’t praise him too loudly. She simply smiled and squeezed his knee again, grounding him.
“Thank you for giving him the space to decide,” she said to the woman. Then, gently, “I do have a few questions.”
The woman inclined her head. “Of course.”
“How will the meeting be structured?” his mother asked. “Juhoon does best when expectations are clear. And—” she hesitated only a moment, glancing his way, “—how much pressure will be on him to perform?”
Juhoon’s fingers tightened unconsciously at that.
The woman noticed. Her posture softened, shoulders easing as if she’d finally stepped out of an invisible role.
“There will be no performances,” she said immediately. “No evaluations. No comparisons. They’ll likely practice, maybe talk, eat together. That’s it. We want him to feel the environment, not prove himself in it.”
Juhoon let out a quiet breath.
“And if he needs time?” his mother continued. “Or decides he wants to step back?”
“Then we step back with him,” the woman replied without hesitation. “This only works if everyone chooses it willingly. Especially him.”
She looked at Juhoon again, not assessing now, but reassuring.
“You don’t have to be ready,” she told him gently. “You just have to be curious.”
Juhoon swallowed, then nodded once more, a little firmer this time. There was something in his expression—hesitant, yes, but bright at the edges. A soft eagerness that betrayed how much he wanted to believe in this.
The woman seemed to sense it. Her gaze warmed further, something almost protective flickering there.
“I should introduce myself properly,” she said, straightening just slightly. “My name is Park Wonjin.”
She offered a small, respectful bow of her head.
“I’m a casting director,” she corrected herself after a beat, a faint smile touching her lips. “I look for potential, not just talent. People who haven’t finished becoming themselves yet.”
Juhoon absorbed her name, the weight of her role, the care in her words.
Wonjin met his eyes one last time.
“And I think,” she said quietly, “you’re exactly that kind of person.”
The room didn’t feel so small anymore.
____________________________________
The practice room was never this quiet for long.
Seonghyeon broke it first.
“Do you think he’s taller than us?”
Keonho whipped around so fast he nearly tripped over a water bottle.
“That’s your first question? What if he’s, like, supergood at dancing. Like James-hyung level.”
James didn’t look up from where he was stretching near the mirror.
“No one is James-hyung level,” James said flatly.
“That’s not what the choreographers said last month,” Seonhyeon shot back, cheekily.
James turned around to gasp, clutching his invisible pearls. Glaring at Seonhyeon
Keonho gasped. “Wait, wait—what if he’s an actor-turned-idol. Those are always scary.”
Both of Keonho and Seonhyeon turned in unison toward the couch, where their unofficial manager, tasked mostly with making sure no one set the building on fire, was flipping through a tablet. Looking very tired of this conversation already.
“Is he scary?” Seonghyeon demanded.
“Does he laugh a lot?” Keonho added.
“Is he quiet or loud?”
“Does he like late-night snacks?”
“Can he handle Keonho when he gets annoying?”
Keonho slapped his arm, pouting. “I’m always annoying.”
“That’s my point.”
“Boys,” the manager said, not even looking up. “Breathe.”
They did not.
James finally stood, rolling his shoulders, and cast them both a look that had silenced choreographers twice their age.
“You’re overwhelming someone you haven’t even met yet,” he said. “Calm down.”
“But what if he’s shy?” Seonghyeon argued.
“Or what if he hates us,” Keonho whispered dramatically.
James sighed. “Well then don’t act like this.”
That earned him matching frowns.
Across the room, Martin sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones resting around his neck, a notebook open in his lap. He’d been quiet through all of it, watching the chaos with something like amusement softening his features.
“He’s sixteen,” Martin said finally.
Three heads snapped toward him.
“You know that already?” Keonho accused.
Martin smiled, small and easy. “That’s all I know.”
James glanced at him. “Thoughts?”
Martin considered the question, tapping his pen once against the page. “Anyone walking into a room like this for the first time is going to be nervous,” he said. “So… we should probably not scare him.” Martin looks up almost sheepishly, ears turning red slightly.
Seonghyeon beamed. “I can do not scary.”
Keonho grinned wider. “I cannot.”
James almost smiled. Almost.
“He wouldn’t be here if the company didn’t believe in him,” James said, voice even. “That’s enough for now.”
The twins exchanged a look, then immediately resumed whispering at lightning speed, flipping back and forth for a few more minutes
“What if he likes turtles?” Keonho asks, shocked at the idea.
“Why turtles?”
“I don’t know, it feels right.”
Martin chuckled under his breath, closing his notebook. He looked toward the practice room door, expression open, patient.
Whoever the new kid was, he thought, they’d figure it out together.
Chaotic or not