Chapter Text
The music starts before Mina is ready for it.
It bleeds through the walls of Studio B in uneven waves, bass first, then guitar, then something like laughter—too loud, too close, too careless for a space that’s meant to be controlled. Mina freezes mid-count, foot hovering just above the floor, balance breaking as the sound surges again.
She exhales slowly through her nose.
The studio smells faintly of cleaner and old wood, familiar and safe. The mirrors reflect her back at herself—tied hair, fitted practice clothes, posture too rigid for someone meant to be moving freely. She presses play again, but the speaker’s tinny output barely stands a chance against whatever is happening next door.
The guitar cuts sharp and bright.
Mina stops the music altogether.
For a moment, she just stands there, listening. The tempo next door isn’t bad—annoyingly good, actually. Loose, confident. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t ask permission. It makes her chest feel tight, like it’s intruding on something private.
She checks the time on her phone. Still an hour before her slot is officially over.
Her jaw tightens.
This is a practice building, she thinks. There are rules. There are schedules. There is no reason for anyone to be playing this loud.
Another strum, followed by someone counting in, voice casual and unbothered. Mina grips her phone harder than necessary and marches toward the door.
The hallway outside is cooler, quieter, though the music still thrums through the walls like a pulse. She follows the sound without thinking, irritation guiding her steps more than curiosity ever could.
The door to Studio C is open.
Inside, cables snake across the floor in careless lines. A keyboard sits against the far wall, someone leaning over it, laughing as they adjust something Mina doesn’t recognize. There’s a drum kit half-assembled in the corner. And near the center—
A girl with shoulder-length hair dyed in uneven black and white, like someone spilled milk into ink and decided to keep it.
She’s short. Shorter than Mina expects, anyway. Standing on the balls of her feet as she adjusts the strap of her guitar, movements quick and unrestrained. She says something over her shoulder—Mina can’t hear what—and grins when the others respond.
Mina hesitates in the doorway.
The girl turns suddenly, nearly colliding with Mina as she steps back, guitar swinging wide. Mina reacts on instinct, grabbing the strap before it can knock into her shoulder.
“—sorry,” the girl blurts out, eyes wide for half a second before she laughs, breathless and unapologetic. “My bad.”
Mina lets go immediately, stepping back as if burned.
“It’s fine,” she says, though it isn’t. Her heart is beating faster than it should be. “You’re being… loud.”
The girl blinks, then glances around the room like the concept is new. “Yeah,” she says easily. “That’s kind of the point.”
Something in Mina bristles.
“Well,” she says stiffly, “there are other people practicing.”
The girl tilts her head, considering this, then shrugs. “We’re almost done.”
Almost done isn’t an apology.
Mina presses her lips together, nods once, and turns away before she can say something sharper. As she leaves, she hears laughter again, the guitar starting back up without hesitation.
She doesn’t look back.
⸻
By the time Mina returns to Studio B, the music next door has softened, but the interruption has already settled under her skin. She moves through the rest of practice mechanically, hitting her marks with precision and nothing else. Her body knows what to do. Her mind stays elsewhere.
She leaves late.
She always does.
⸻
Mina’s dorm room is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like it’s been trained to be this way. Her desk is neat, books stacked in careful piles, notes color-coded and precise. She drops her bag by the door and sits on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall longer than necessary.
Her phone buzzes.
Momo: you alive
Sana: she’s been in the studio since noon hasn’t she
Momo: she’s becoming one of those legends
Sana: tragic
Mina sighs, thumbs hovering.
Mina: I’m fine
Mina: Just busy
There’s a pause. Then—
Sana: we’re kidnapping you
Momo: tonight
Mina: what
Mina: I have readings
Momo: exactly why
Sana: you need to leave your cave before you fossilize
Mina stares at the screen. She should say no. She should point out her schedule, the work she still hasn’t finished, the way her chest tightens at the thought of noise and crowds and unpredictability.
Instead, she types:
Mina: Where
Three dots appear immediately.
Momo: bar
Mina: momo
Sana: before you say no
Sana: dahyun’s band has a gig
Momo: I am morally obligated to attend
Sana: and you are morally obligated to come with us
Mina closes her eyes.
⸻
The bar is louder than Mina expects.
It smells like citrus cleaner and old wood and something fried. Warm air presses in from all sides, bodies clustered together in loose, laughing groups. A small stage sits near the back, instruments already set up, lights dimmed in anticipation.
Mina pauses just inside the door, momentarily overwhelmed.
Momo notices immediately, looping an arm through hers with easy familiarity. “Relax,” she says, grinning. “We’ll sit.”
They find a table near the side, close enough to see the stage without being swallowed by the crowd. Mina sinks into her chair, shoulders loosening despite herself.
She scans the room absently and catches sight of a poster taped crookedly to the window.
SCHOOL MEAL CLUB
Live Tonight
She frowns.
“That’s a stupid name,” she murmurs, not realizing she’s said it aloud.
Sana laughs. “You should tell them that.”
Mina huffs. “I’d rather not.”
Momo signals the bartender. Drinks arrive quickly—something light and sweet for Mina, chosen without consulting her. She takes a cautious sip, then another.
The edge dulls faster than she expects.
By the time the lights dim further and people begin to cluster closer to the stage, Mina’s limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Warm. The noise settles into something less sharp, more manageable.
She’s laughing at something Sana says when the guitar starts.
Not her music.
Someone else’s.
The sound threads through the bar, confident and unafraid. Mina’s laughter fades as her attention drifts, pulled by the rhythm like a familiar hand at her back.
She turns toward the stage.
The girl with the Oreo-colored hair steps into the light, guitar slung low, posture loose and certain.
Mina stares.
“Short,” she says softly, the word slipping out unfiltered.
Momo blinks. “What?”
Sana leans closer. “What was that?”
Mina doesn’t answer.
The girl smiles at the crowd, fingers brushing the strings like she already knows exactly what she’s about to do.
Loud. Confident. Too alive for someone so short.
Mina takes another sip of her drink, heart beating slow and heavy in her chest.