Chapter Text
SIDE QUEST 01: Return Borrowed Item
Location: THEBLACKLABEL practice room, technically
Objective: clean out college bag before side project studio session
Quest Item: Dohoon’s Music Core name tag
Acquired: ALLDAY PROJECT’s last comeback era
Return Status: extremely overdue
Excuse Logged: “I forgot”
Excuse Credibility: collapsing
Woochan found Dohoon’s name tag between a half-dead lip balm, one folded receipt from a café he did not remember entering, and three pages of class notes he had written with the confidence of a man who believed future Woochan deserved to suffer.
This was already a bad sign, because future Woochan was currently present Woochan, sitting cross-legged on the floor of THEBLACKLABEL’s practice room with his college bag opened like a crime scene. His laptop was balanced on one knee, his phone was wedged under his thigh, and his assignment file was still titled final_final_reallyfinal2, which meant education had become a spiritual attack. The comeback gap had turned him into the kind of idol who had time to attend class, answer side project calls, record guide demos, and discover unresolved broadcast evidence in bag compartments. Luxury basement life, apparently, came with stationery ghosts.
The name tag slid out when he pulled his tangled earphones free.
It landed face-up on the practice room floor.
DOHOON, printed in neat Music Core blue.
Woochan stared at it.
The name tag stared back with the calm accusation of an object that had been in his possession long enough to qualify for residency.
“No,” Woochan said quietly.
Across the room, Bailey paused mid-stretch. That was the problem with Bailey. Her body could be folded into a position that looked illegal in eight countries, and she would still notice other people’s nonsense with the accuracy of a security camera. “What did you do.”
Woochan closed his hand over the name tag too late.
“Nothing.”
Youngseo looked up from where she was sitting by the mirror, hair clipped back, one hand around an iced drink and the other scrolling through comments with the expression of a girl who had survived predebut internet and now treated digital chaos like lukewarm soup. “Oppa,” she said, voice gentle in a way that made Woochan immediately distrust her. “Why did you say nothing like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like you found evidence.”
Annie, who had been lying flat on the floor beside her water bottle because rich girls also experienced hamstring pain, lifted her head. “Is it about the producer’s demo file? Because if it is, I wasn’t here.”
Tarzzan turned from the speaker table, where he had been choosing a playlist with the concentration of someone curating a runway apocalypse. “What evidence.”
“There is no evidence,” Woochan said, which was exactly what someone with evidence would say, proving yet again that his mouth enjoyed sabotaging his defense strategy.
Bailey unfolded herself with terrifying ease and walked over. Woochan tried to close his fist more naturally. This failed because Bailey’s eyes dropped to his hand before his dignity could gather witnesses.
“Open,” she said.
“You can’t say that to people.”
“I say it to you.”
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
Woochan considered running. Unfortunately, he was sitting on the floor, his legs had gone slightly numb, and Bailey had choreography-teacher reflexes. Any escape attempt would end with him face-down beside his own laptop, and he still had enough pride to avoid becoming a meme before lunch.
He opened his hand.
Bailey looked down.
Her mouth twitched.
“Oh my God.”
Youngseo was up immediately. “What?”
“It’s still alive,” Bailey said.
Woochan looked wounded. “It’s a name tag.”
“It has a longer promotional period than some songs.”
Annie sat up so fast her hair clip shifted. “Wait, is that the name tag?”
Tarzzan wandered over with the lazy interest of a large cat who had discovered a small household disaster. He leaned down, read the print, and smiled in a way Woochan disliked on principle. “TWS Dohoon.”
“Music Core Dohoon,” Woochan corrected automatically.
Everyone looked at him.
Woochan looked back.
“What.”
Youngseo covered her mouth with her cup straw and made a small sound that was definitely laughter hiding in witness protection. “You made it more specific.”
“Because it is specific,” Woochan said. “It is from Music Core.”
“It is from last year,” Annie said.
“Time is complicated.”
Bailey crouched in front of him and pointed at the plastic rectangle in his palm. “This thing has survived a comeback, award season, your college bag, two airport outfits, and whatever happened to your old earphones. You cannot keep calling that forgetting.”
“I forgot consistently,” Woochan said.
Tarzzan nodded as if this deserved thought. “That is a skill.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not praise.”
Woochan closed his fist again, then immediately felt stupid because the name tag was small, warm from his hand, and impossible to pretend into nonexistence. It had been months. Several schedules. Several “next time” promises, all of them made internally and therefore legally worthless. He had moved it from stage jacket to makeup pouch, from makeup pouch to laptop sleeve, from laptop sleeve to this bag. Every transfer had come with a practical explanation. Safe keeping. Easier to remember. Returning soon. Very soon. Next time.
The problem with next time was that it kept becoming a place where Dohoon existed.
“I’m returning it,” Woochan said.
Youngseo blinked with theatrical softness. “Today?”
“Soon.”
“Today soon or concept-film-soon?” Annie asked.
“That is rude to our company.”
Bailey tilted her head. “Is it inaccurate?”
Woochan had no answer that would not get him blacklisted from future snack delivery, so he chose silence with the air of a man practicing wisdom. It did not work. His members had known him too long, which was unfair because the group itself had not existed that long. Some friendships developed at normal speed. ALLDAY PROJECT’s developed like files being dumped into a shared drive without folders, messy, fast, and impossible to delete.
Youngseo walked closer and folded herself down beside him, peering at the tag with open curiosity. “He never asked for it back?”
Woochan did not look at her. “He did.”
The room went quiet in the specific way people got quiet when they had found a better problem.
Bailey’s eyebrows lifted. “Multiple times?”
“Define multiple.”
“More than one.”
Woochan looked at the ceiling. It had nothing helpful to offer. This was typical of architecture.
“A few.”
Annie’s mouth fell open. “Woochan.”
“I was busy.”
“For half a year?”
“Rookie schedules are intense.”
Bailey pointed at him. “You are not allowed to say rookie like that. You have industry mileage.”
“I debuted as a diaper model,” Woochan said. “Maybe I am tired.”
Youngseo laughed then, bright and quick. Tarzzan snorted, Annie folded over her own knees, and Bailey put one hand over her face like she was begging patience from a god who had never once delivered. Woochan grinned despite himself, because making them laugh was easier than explaining why the little plastic tag in his palm felt less like an item and more like a question he had been avoiding with impressive administrative consistency.
“How did it even happen again?” Youngseo asked, eyes already sparkling with the cruelty of someone who knew the story and wanted it retold for damage assessment.
Woochan leaned back on one hand. “You were there.”
“I want the director’s cut.”
“There is no director’s cut.”
Bailey sat beside them now, done pretending she had not chosen gossip over stretching. “There is always a director’s cut. Start from the Music Core stage.”
Woochan looked at the name tag in his hand.
The plastic edge pressed lightly into his thumb.
He remembered.
Last year, ALLDAY PROJECT had still been inside comeback momentum, which was a nice corporate phrase for nobody was sleeping properly and everyone’s hair had opinions. Their stage outfits were sharp, the waiting rooms were crowded, and every hallway smelled like hairspray, reheated coffee, and the panic of teams who had been told their TikTok challenge was “almost there” for twenty-seven minutes.
Music Core had been one of the easier schedules on paper. They knew the route. They knew the staff. They knew where the vending machines were, which mattered because Tarzzan had developed a weird loyalty to one specific canned coffee and Annie kept insisting she was going to quit sugar before being found near chocolate like an heiress caught laundering vibes.
Woochan had been in a good mood that day, which was always dangerous because his good mood made him talk before the part of his brain responsible for public safety woke up.
The MC lineup had been waiting under the studio lights when ALLDAY PROJECT walked into position. Gyuvin was smiling at everyone with the practiced brightness of a person who could probably befriend a malfunctioning printer. A-Na stood polished and fresh beside him, cue card held neatly, her expression professionally sweet. And Dohoon stood on the other side, water bottle in hand, name tag clipped flat to his jacket, looking like the human version of a private school brochure that had become self-aware and shy about it.
Woochan had seen Dohoon before, obviously. Everyone had. TWS were everywhere in the way successful rookie groups became everywhere, screens, stages, challenge clips, fan posts, the passive background noise of idol life. Dohoon was hard to miss, even if he gave the impression that he would personally prefer to be missed at least twice a week. He had that neat, cool visual-center thing going on, the kind that made fans write comments in full caps and then pretend they were emotionally stable.
Up close, under broadcast lighting, he looked less unreal and more inconvenient.
Because he was quiet. Not empty quiet, not bored quiet. Just quiet in the way people got when they were concentrating on doing things properly. He mouthed one line from the cue card, frowned slightly, then practiced the smile that belonged after it. It appeared for one second, clean and polite, then vanished.
Woochan had laughed under his breath.
Youngseo’s elbow had found his side immediately. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“You made a sound.”
“That was breathing.”
“Your breathing is suspicious.”
Bailey, standing on his other side, had murmured, “Both of you behave.”
“I am,” Woochan said.
“You’re thinking of something.”
“I think professionally.”
“That would be new.”
The floor director counted them in before Woochan could defend his professional dignity, which had already collapsed anyway and was waiting for staff to sweep it off the stage.
The segment began safely. Gyuvin introduced them. A-Na asked about the concept. Annie gave a neat answer, Bailey added something about performance, Youngseo smiled beautifully and thanked fans, and Tarzzan managed to speak without looking like he had wandered in from a campaign set against his will. Woochan did his part well enough that nobody from management flinched, which he considered a win.
Then Gyuvin turned toward him with bright eyes and a script line that should have stayed harmless.
“Woochan-ssi,” Gyuvin said, cheerful and clean. “Since you have so much stage experience, fans want to know if you have ever wanted to try being a music show MC.”
There were several correct answers. Woochan knew them. He respected them. He simply did not choose them, because his personality had defects and many of them were broadcast compatible.
“For ten seconds,” Woochan said, smiling at the camera. “After that, Dohoon-ssi has to take over again.”
The audience made the pleased sound of people sensing a cute unscripted moment. Gyuvin laughed, A-Na covered her smile with her cue card, and Bailey’s warning stare pressed into the side of Woochan’s face with the force of a dance correction.
Dohoon looked at him.
Woochan expected a laugh. Maybe a small wave. Maybe one of those safe idol answers that wrapped the moment in bubble wrap and handed it back to the script.
Dohoon glanced down at his own jacket.
Then he unclipped his name tag.
Woochan’s smile stuck on his face.
Dohoon stepped closer and held it out.
“Then do it,” he said.
That was all. No sparkle added, no joke explained, no attempt to make himself look clever. He simply handed over the name tag because Woochan had said he could do ten seconds and Dohoon had apparently decided that ten seconds required proper equipment. It was so literal that it somehow became bold.
Woochan took the tag.
“I should wear it?” he asked, because apparently holding a name tag turned him into someone who needed help understanding tags.
Dohoon blinked once. “That is what it is for.”
Woochan laughed. It came out too quick, too real, and not nearly polished enough for broadcast. He tried to cover it by clipping the name tag onto his own jacket. This made the situation worse, because the clip caught at an angle and the tag turned sideways.
A-Na made a tiny noise.
Gyuvin said, “It says Hoon-do now.”
Dohoon looked down.
“It does,” he said.
“It’s a remix,” Woochan said.
Bailey’s face had gone blank in the way it did when she was trying not to laugh and also trying not to murder him later.
Dohoon watched Woochan struggle for another second, then stepped in. His fingers were careful and quick at the edge of Woochan’s jacket. He straightened the tag, pressed the clip into place, and stepped back without fuss. The movement was so practical it should not have made the audience react. The audience reacted anyway, because idol audiences had survived on less.
“There,” Dohoon said.
Woochan looked down at the name on his chest.
DOHOON.
It should have been funny. It was funny. The whole thing was stupid, harmless broadcast play, the kind of moment that would become a twelve-second clip titled something like Dohoon gives Woochan his name tag with three crying emojis and a caption demanding friendship. It was nothing.
Then Dohoon looked at him and added, “Now you can do ten seconds.”
Woochan lifted the mic and gave the next line.
He did fine.
He did not remember what he said afterward.
That was annoying.
The segment ended. A stage manager called ALLDAY PROJECT to standby. Bailey grabbed Woochan by the sleeve because he had apparently become a risk factor. Youngseo was laughing quietly behind her hand. Annie whispered, “Honorary MC Woochan,” with the bright cruelty of someone who would absolutely bring this up again, and Tarzzan said, “The tag suits you,” which sounded innocent and therefore was not.
Woochan looked back once.
Dohoon was watching him from beside Gyuvin, his own jacket suddenly missing the neat little rectangle that had belonged there.
Woochan tapped the tag and mouthed, Later.
Dohoon’s expression did not move much.
He nodded.
Later became after the stage.
After the stage became after recording.
After recording became next week.
Next week became next time.
Next time became the first lie Woochan told himself often enough that it started sounding like a schedule.
“You mouthed later at him,” Youngseo said in the present, delighted in the awful way only maknaes and prosecutors could be delighted.
Woochan looked up from the name tag. “Why do you remember that.”
“Because it was cute.”
“It was logistics.”
Bailey leaned back on her hands. “Your logistics have cheekbones now.”
“Dohoon has cheekbones,” Annie corrected thoughtfully.
Tarzzan smiled. “That was probably the problem.”
Woochan pointed at him. “You are banned from talking.”
“In my own practice room?”
“Yes.”
Annie reached for the name tag, and Woochan moved it out of reach before he thought about it. Everyone saw. That was the issue with having group members. You could not even make one suspicious hand movement in peace.
Bailey’s face changed first.
Youngseo’s smile softened into something more dangerous because it was less teasing now. Annie’s eyebrows lifted. Tarzzan’s mouth curved, but he looked away as if choosing mercy, which was rude because mercy from Tarzzan felt like being judged by a fashion editorial.
Woochan looked down at his own hand.
He was holding the tag too tightly.
“I’m returning it,” he said again, quieter.
Bailey did not laugh this time. “Okay.”
That was worse.
Woochan placed the name tag carefully on top of his notebook, then immediately picked it up again because leaving it there felt exposed. He clipped it to the inside strap of his laptop sleeve, where it had lived for several weeks already, because at least there it was safe. Practical. Easy to find. Close to the things he used every day.
Youngseo watched the movement. “Oppa.”
“What.”
“That is not returning it.”
“I need to bring it to return it.”
“You brought it today.”
“Dohoon is not here today.”
“Convenient,” Annie said.
“Geography is not my fault.”
Bailey stood and dusted off her sweatpants. “You have the side project session near MBC tomorrow, right?”
Woochan paused.
This was betrayal by calendar.
“Yes.”
“Music Core rehearsal area?”
“Near.”
“Then return it.”
“I will.”
Youngseo lifted her cup in a tiny toast. “Historic.”
“I regret growing close to all of you,” Woochan said.
“Too late,” Annie said. “We already have shared lore.”
Tarzzan changed the playlist, and a bassline filled the room before Woochan could answer. Bailey clapped twice, switching them back into work mode with the efficiency of someone who had allowed gossip one intermission and now expected rent. Youngseo stood, Annie fixed her hair clip, Tarzzan rolled his shoulders, and Woochan slid his laptop bag safely against the wall before taking his mark.
For the next hour, he danced. He counted. He laughed when Bailey made a face at him for missing a transition. He rapped his own verse under his breath, changed one word, hated it, changed it back. He became Woochan of ALLDAY PROJECT again, cool enough under the practice room lights, loose enough in his body, silly enough when comfortable that Annie threw a towel at him for doing a terrible impression of their producer’s demo guide.
The name tag stayed clipped inside his laptop sleeve.
He did not look at it again.
He knew exactly where it was.
That, unfortunately, was becoming harder to call forgetting.
QUEST ITEM: Dohoon’s Music Core name tag
Current Holder: Jo Woochan
Return Status: overdue
Next Known Opportunity: MBC side project session
Excuse Prepared: none
System Note: Player keeps checking inventory