Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mornings in the dorm were never tranquil.

Not with Felix humming as he poured cereal, or Hyunjin knocking around in the bathroom with his hair straightener. Not with Han bickering light-heartedly with IN over milk cartons. And not when Minho and Changbin decided it was time for a spontaneous lifting competition in the living room.

But somehow, amidst all of it, there was a quiet. One that lingered not in the absence of noise, but in the absence of a presence.

Seungmin moved through the space like breath on glass—there, but barely. He walked softly, sleeves rolled high enough to avoid dishwater, his shoulder brushing the counter's edge as he passed without disturbing any plates or people. A folded towel sat on the table, a quiet marker of his passing, unnoticed by the ones laughing around it.

Bang Chan leaned back against the kitchen counter, half-listening to Felix explain some TikTok trend, but his eyes weren't on the omega. They flicked sideways, brief, like a stutter in a heartbeat. There Seungmin was, hair still damp from an early shower, already folding the laundry someone had abandoned last night. Seungmin's head ducked low, mouth pressed in a straight line. Efficient. Silent.

Something pulled behind Chan's ribs.

"Hey," he called lightly, but Seungmin was already vanishing down the hallway with the clothes, not stopping, not reacting.

Chan blinked. "Since when has he been this… quiet?"

Changbin, mid-laugh, turned at the question. "Huh?"

"Seungmin," Chan said, frowning now. "He's been floating around like a ghost lately."

Changbin hummed, thoughtful now. "I thought he was just avoiding us when we were in rut."

"Yeah, but that ended two days ago."

"I thought he was tired."

"Maybe," Chan said, still watching the hallway.

He observed the neatly folded towels on the table and realised the bowl, previously missing from the drying rack, was now in the cabinet.

He has always done these things—cleaning the dishes, doing the laundry, and putting chargers back where they belong. But now it felt different. It wasn't just a habit anymore; it was real help.

It was like Seungmin was trying to take up less space. Or worse—erase his own.

"Did he say something to you?" Changbin asked, quieter now.

Felix and Han had moved to the couch, bickering playfully again. Hyunjin was humming in his room. The dorm may have been close, but it stood in stark contrast to the serene corners Seungmin had made his sanctuary, emphasising the deep sense of separation he felt within those walls.

Chan shook his head. "No. That's the thing. I can't remember the last time we talked."

"He's not mad at us, right?"

Chan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't think he's mad, Binnie."

"Then what, hyung?"

The question sat between them, unanswered.

They'd all chosen each other. Handpicked, imperfect, but perfect together. Back then, subgenders hadn't mattered. And even when presentations started, they told themselves it didn't change anything. Everyone had an equal say. Everyone shared equal space.

But equal didn't mean seen . And Seungmin, maybe he hadn't been seen in a while.

_____________________

End of Intro.

TBC.

_____________________

Chapter Text

Mornings in the dorm were never tranquil.

Not with Felix humming as he poured cereal, or Hyunjin knocking around in the bathroom with his hair dryer. Not with Han bickering light-heartedly with IN over milk cartons. And not when Minho and Changbin decided it was time for a spontaneous lifting competition in the living room.

But somehow, amidst all of it, there was a quiet. One that lingered not in the absence of noise, but in the absence of a presence.

Seungmin moved through the space like breath on glass—there, but barely. He walked softly, sleeves rolled high enough to avoid dishwater, his shoulder brushing the counter's edge as he passed without disturbing any plates or people.

A folded towel sat on the table, a quiet marker of his passing, unnoticed by the ones laughing around it.

Bang Chan leaned back against the kitchen counter, half-listening to Felix explain some TikTok trend, but his eyes weren't on the omega. They flicked sideways, brief, like a stutter in a heartbeat.

There Seungmin was, hair still damp from an early shower, already folding the laundry someone had abandoned last night. Seungmin's head ducked low, mouth pressed in a straight line. Efficient. Silent.

Something pulled behind Chan's ribs.

"Hey," he called lightly, but Seungmin was already vanishing down the hallway with the clothes, not stopping, not reacting.

Chan blinked. "Since when has he been this… quiet?"

Changbin, mid-laugh, turned at the question. "Huh?"

"Seungmin," Chan said, frowning now. "He's been floating around like a ghost lately."

Changbin hummed, thoughtful now. "I thought he was just avoiding us when we were in rut."

"Yeah, but that ended two days ago."

"I thought he was tired," added Changbin, unsure.

"Maybe," Chan said, still watching the hallway.

He observed the neatly folded towels on the table and realised the bowl, previously missing from the drying rack, was now in the cabinet.

Seungmin has always done these things. He takes responsibility for cleaning the dishes, handling the laundry, and ensuring that chargers are in their proper spots. His contributions make a significant difference in maintaining a tidy and organised space. But now it felt different. It wasn't just a habit anymore; it was a service.

It was like Seungmin was trying to take up less space. Or worse—erase his own.

"Did he say something to you?" Changbin asked, quieter now.

Felix and Han had moved to the couch, bickering playfully again. Hyunjin was humming in his room. The dorm may have been close, but it stood in stark contrast to the serene corners Seungmin had made his sanctuary, emphasising the deep sense of separation he felt within those walls.

Chan shook his head. "No. That's the thing. I can't remember the last time we talked."

"He's not mad at us, right?"

Chan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't think he's mad, Binnie."

"Then what, hyung?"

The question sat between them, unanswered.

They'd all chosen each other. Handpicked, imperfect, but perfect together. Back then, subgenders hadn't mattered. And even when presentations started, they told themselves it didn't change anything. Everyone had an equal say. Everyone shared equal space.

But equal didn't mean seen . And Seungmin, maybe he hadn't been seen in a while.

~

His room was the only place he didn't need to whisper. Not that Seungmin had spoken much anyway, but the silence inside the four walls felt different from the one outside.

It wasn't sharp. It didn't ache in Seungmin's bones like the weight of unspoken words and unacknowledged glances in the dorm's living room.

He sat at the edge of his bed, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Still damp.

He hadn't dried his hair or changed into warm clothes after dishwashing.

His reflection in the dark screen of his tablet looked unfamiliar—eyes dulled, skin paler than usual.

His scent was faint.

Betas didn't have much of it, but recently, even he had trouble noticing the difference. It's not like he could smell them better if they were strong anyway.

The room was clean.

Too clean.

Too organised to the point of emptiness.

Everything had its place.  

No evidence that someone truly lived here.

It made it easier to disappear. Effortless to avoid taking up space.

Chan walked toward the closed door at the end. He paused before knocking. A moment of hesitation. A quiet inhale. Then—

knock knock

The knock startled Seungmin. He blinked and quickly stood, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants before cracking the door open.

Bang Chan stood there, eyes soft and uncertain. The leader didn't smile or force a joke. He met Seungmin's eyes as though unsure he was looking at him.

"Hey," he said gently.

Seungmin blinked.

Didn't answer.

His eyes flicked to the hallway behind Chan—empty.

No one else is waiting with a demand.

The leader cleared his throat, gaze scanning him for something, anything. And what he saw made his stomach twist.

Seungmin looked smaller . His shoulders slumped forward, and his shirt draped loosely around him, different from how he appeared just a few months ago. His collarbones are a little more visible, and his skin is too pale.

Seungmin's scent—barely there.

Chan tried again. "Just… checking in. Wanted to see how you're doing."

Still no reply.

But Seungmin's brows lifted just a little, like the words themselves didn't make sense. It was as if it had been that long since someone asked. And it had.

Five months.

Five whole months since he had someone check up on him.

They didn't seek him unless anyone needed anything from him.

Or maybe that was it—perhaps now they needed him again.

For the next rut or heat prep.

Except the alphas had theirs, back-to-back, and Felix had gone into heat before them.

Han's had aligned with Lee Know's.

So what was this?

Was he called again now?

Was that why the leader knocked?

Chan didn't miss it. Didn't miss the way Seungmin's eyes flickered—once bright and firm, now dull and lost.

He looked past Seungmin's shoulder for a brief second.

Saw the room—too clean.

Too organised.

Too absent from life.

And he looked back at the boy before him, his gaze dim and quiet.

Not empty like a glass.

Empty like a room after someone has already left it.

"You look—," Chan started, but stopped.

Because what could he say?

Say that Seungmin looked like a shadow?

Like someone they had failed to carry?

Inform him that he hadn't even noticed when the boy had stopped laughing, speaking or eating.

That it had taken this long for him to ask?

He swallowed.

"We have dance practice recording today. The van will be here shortly. Be ready, okay?"

Chan stood there a moment longer, heart loud in his chest. Then he stepped back, letting the door close between them again.

Inside the room, Seungmin exhaled, barely.

Outside it, Chan stood frozen in place, realising—

He had been leading a pack, and somehow still missed the moment one of them started to disappear.

~

Seungmin was tired.

But tired wasn't the right word anymore.

Tired was something you could sleep off. It's something you could name in a yawn or an early night. But this wasn't that. It's marrow-deep.

A dragging exhaustion that clung to his skin like humidity, unshakable and invisible. The kind of tired that no one offered sympathy for, because he hadn't said anything about it. And he wouldn't.

It wasn't something he should whine about anyway. He was a beta. Stable. Steady. Manageable.

The van ride had been quiet. He sat in the farthest seat, tucked into his jacket despite the warm weather, eyes half-lidded but alert enough not to miss a cue. No one had spoken to him directly, though someone passed him a small water bottle at one point—Hyunjin maybe, or Felix. He drank it. Thanked them softly. Not that anyone heard.

The studio they entered was more extensive than usual. It was massive with glass walls, mirrors from floor to ceiling, and natural light streaming in.

The brightness overwhelmed Seungmin. It was in contrast with his feelings. He pressed himself against the wall as they made their way in.

Since it was out of JYP, it was out of habit and out of comfort.

The echo of their sneakers against the floors made it feel even more vast.

Bang Chan clapped his hands once to catch their attention.

"Everyone is clear on their roles, right?" Chan asked. "So, let's roll out and get it done."

The others moved instinctively—Hyunjin bouncing into formation, Minho stretching out his shoulders, and Han pulling his hoodie off. It was like the signal had flicked a switch in all of them.

But Seungmin stopped moving.

His limbs didn't freeze outwardly. Not yet. But something inside him did.

Something that had been brittle for months cracked quietly.

Everyone knows their role.

The words echoed.

Alphas take the lead.

Omegas follow closely.

Betas—support and regulate.

Support and regulate. That's all!

Not shine.

Not stumble.

Not lead.

Stabilise the heat levels down, the fight low, and the energy balanced.

A glorified scent buffer. A walking emotional damper. Quiet. Effortless. Unremarkable.

Invisible.

He swallowed hard.

So he was the invisible beta, just like his members said, wasn't he?

The person who ensures that no one feels too overwhelmed, and that nobody's challenges overshadow anyone else's.

There's no need to be seen or praised. Just be the maintenance.

The background setting.

Keep the machine running, even if you're not part of the machine.

Se ungmin blinked, trying to focus on the mirror in front of him, but what he saw was an outline of himself.

He saw someone neither solid nor present.

Like a placeholder, someone forgot to replace it with a real person.

A voice tugged him back.

"Seungmin?" It was Felix.

He nodded without meaning to, stepping into place beside Jeongin.

The dance started. Seungmin's body moved.

But his mind stayed behind, stuck in those words. Stuck in the silence they left behind.

Sharp beats filled the room, vibrations humming through the floor like a second pulse. One by one, the members dropped into motion, precise, explosive, effortless.

And Seungmin moved too.

His body had always known the steps. Precision came effortlessly when you demanded nothing less from yourself.

Right foot. Turn. Elbow sharp, retract, clean lines.

His limbs obeyed. But the rest of him felt off.

Detached.

It felt like watching himself through thick glass.

It felt like dancing as a shadow of someone who used to care how he looked in the mirror.

Not that anyone noticed.

They never did unless he messed up. As long as the rhythm stayed clean and the lines unbroken, no one stopped to ask if he was actually in there .

Except this time—someone did.

From the corner, Han stuttered in his movement. Barely. But it was enough to miss a beat.

He turned his head slightly, eyes flicking toward Seungmin, who had hit every count, but looked blank. No intention behind the movement. No fire in the eyes. Just the motion, like a training video on loop.

Han frowned, but kept dancing. He told himself it was nothing.

Just tiredness. Everyone was tired.

But a few beats later, Jeongin stumbled in his spin—only for his gaze to land on the exact figure.

Seungmin, whose hoodie clung damp to his back from silent sweat.

~Whose lips parted slightly as if he needed more breath than the rest.

~Whose face didn't reflect the music, not like it used to?

And now that Jeongin saw it, he couldn't unsee it.

Something was wrong .

It felt unsettling in a way that a simple water break couldn't fix.

Bang Chan clapped twice. "Take five! We will go once more before recording the video," he instructed.

Everyone dropped to the floor, catching their breath, reaching for bottles.

Seungmin headed to the wall—not to sit, not to rest, but to lean.

Arms at his sides. Head bowed like a puppet on strings too loose to hold.

Han's towel snapped softly as he tossed it over his shoulder. He glanced at Jeongin, then toward Chan, who was adjusting the speaker levels.

"Hyung," Han said, keeping his voice low, "Did Seungmin say anything to you this morning when you checked in on him?"

Chan turned, brow furrowing. "No. Why?"

Jeongin spoke this time, hesitant. "He's dancing like he's not even here."

Chan followed their gaze.

And only then, with the distance of the studio and the mirror reflecting every truth they'd ignored, did it hit him.

Seungmin wasn't tired.

He was vanishing .

_____________________

End of Chap 1.

TBC.

_____________________

Chapter Text

A week had passed. Seven days where routines carried on, voices still filled the air, and the world kept turning—even as something beneath it quietly unravelled.

Lunch arrived later than usual that day.

They'd been holed up in the rehearsal space since early morning, going over the same bridge choreography for hours until even Chan's patience thinned into silence. Sweat clung to their necks, and shoes were discarded in messy heaps by the wall. Nobody had the strength to move.

And then, without a word, Seungmin returned—his arms packed, careful and precise.

Plastic lunch sets, still warm, cradled against his chest like they might shatter if he wasn't gentle enough. He didn't announce his arrival. Didn't say, " Food's here" or " Let's eat."

He just walked in, set each container down in front of the others and moved like he wasn't supposed to be here.

One for Chan.

One for Hyunjin.

One for Changbin, and so on.

He placed the last box on the windowsill. Unopened.

His own.

He didn't take it. Didn't sit at the table with them. Instead, he slid into the farthest corner of the studio, back against the mirrored wall, earbuds snug in his ears. His eyes shut—not like someone resting, but someone shutting out. It was like he had folded inward.

No one called him over.

Not at first.

Han opened his lunchbox and offered a half-smile. "He probably wants to sleep for a while before eating."

Hyunjin murmured something in agreement, but even he sounded unconvinced. His gaze flicked toward the corner more than once.

It was Felix who finally set his container down without touching the food.

"He didn't eat again," he said, voice soft.

Changbin looked up. "He brought one for himself."

"Yeah," Felix nodded, "but he never opened it."

The silence that followed was not oppressive. It felt tentative, as if everyone was waiting for someone else to speak first.

"I saw him take a vitamin packet this morning," Jeongin added quietly. "That was it."

"Maybe he's just… watching his weight?" Han offered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

"He doesn't need to," Hyunjin snapped, sharper than intended.

"He's shrinking," Felix said, softer now, eyes not leaving Seungmin. "Like... physically. And it's not just that. He hasn't spoken more than two sentences this week."

Chan didn't respond immediately. He sat still, chopsticks in hand, but unmoving.

He remembered the overly clean room. The faint scent lingered. Chan remembered how Seungmin flinched at kindness as if it were a foreign language.

And now—this.

A ghost in plain sight.

Seungmin hadn't once opened his eyes. Whatever song played in his ears didn't reach his expression. He just sat there, knees pulled in, chin resting atop them like the world had grown too big to stand in.

"Do you think…" Felix hesitated. "Do you think he's okay?"

No one answered.

Because ' okay' didn't look like that.

~

The dorm was quiet that night, save for the fridge and the occasional creak of the settling walls. The others had long retreated to their rooms, conversations faded, and laughter long gone. Each of them was concerned about Seungmin's behaviour.

Seungmin stood at the counter, filling water bottles for the next day, one after another, without pause. It was like clockwork.

He reached for the last bottle.

And swayed.

Only for a second, but it was enough to force him to grab the counter edge. His fingers clenched tight, white-knuckled, until the wave passed. His eyes blinked open slowly.

He barely registered that someone had entered the room.

"Hey," Changbin's voice came from behind, casual but laced with concern.

"You okay?"

Seungmin startled—barely. But it was enough for his hand to slip slightly from the bottle. He didn't turn to face Changbin. Just tilted his head enough to be polite.

"Yes, hyung. I'm fine."

It was the kind of answer that should've been reassuring. But it didn't.

"You sure?" Changbin stepped closer, frowning. "I saw you swaying."

"I didn't," Seungmin said immediately. "I just wasn't careful. I'll do better."

That made Changbin pause.

Do better?

He looked at Seungmin fully now. The younger one wasn't meeting his gaze. His posture—shoulders subtly lowered, head slightly inclined— wasn't respectful. It was obedient.

Too deferential.

"Minnie," Changbin said carefully, "I'm not upset. I'm just-"

"I'll fix that," Seungmin replied without emotion.

It hit Changbin then—that tone. 

That stripped, automatic voice. 

It wasn't Seungmin's usual quiet. It was submissive. Programmed. 

His answers weren't responses. They were answers. 

They were agreements to standards no one had set.

Before Changbin could push further, Seungmin dipped his head.

"I'll go now," he whispered. "Sorry."

And then he left.

Not in a huff, not even in discomfort. Just vanished, with that soft, misplaced word trailing behind Changbin like a ghost.

Changbin stood in the kitchen, uneasy.

Sorry?

Seungmin didn't say sorry. Not unless it meant something. Not unless he'd done something wrong.

And this time, he hadn't.

So why had he apologised?

And why did it feel like he was apologising for existing ?

~

The door clicked shut behind him.

Darkness settled easily. Seungmin didn't turn on the lights. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, hands trembling slightly in his lap.

The silence in the room didn't help.

The silence was where the commands lived.

They weren't being shouted at, not at this moment. However, that wasn't necessary.

They were loud anyway.

Clear. Sharp. Unrelenting.

Not from strangers. Not from rivals.

From people he had once called his .

He gripped the edge of his sheets as the voices echoed—commands that still lived in his muscles, in his instincts, in the way he bowed his head just a little too smoothly now.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his temple.

'Don't spiral.

Don't let them win again.

They aren't saying it now. They're not saying anything now,' Seungmin repeated those lines.

But it didn't matter because Seungmin remembered.

Even if no one else did.

And the worst part?

Maybe they had forgotten.

~

It has been days now since the studio and kitchen incident.

Minho wasn't sure when exactly it started.

Or maybe he knew.

But refused to accept it.

It was easy to pretend things were fine when everyone was laughing. It's easy to pretend when music played, when sweat dripped off their chins during dance practices. But it was in the silences between the beats—when the room wasn't watching—that Minho saw it.

The way Seungmin walked in was just a second too late.

He saw how he didn't eat with them anymore; he just brought food for the others and quietly disappeared into some corner. He wonders if Seungmin is even eating.

The way he kept his hoodie sleeves pulled past his knuckles—even when it was summer-hot.

The way he closed his eyes when he sat alone, his earbuds in, and his face tilted down—not sleeping, not resting.

It was the tiniest thing. The tray is always perfectly balanced.

The drinks are always correct. The smile is barely there to convey anything real.

Minho was good at reading people. But now he wished he wasn't.

Because Seungmin wasn't just quiet.

He was gone, with only the shell still functioning.

Minho had watched, biting his tongue.

Because Seungmin was responsible. Smart. Tough.

He didn't ask for help.

And Minho didn't know how to offer it without scaring him away. Deep down, Minho felt he had done something unforgivable, but couldn't remember.

But something wasn't right.

The careful movements. The flinching. The refusal to meet any member's eyes.

The silence—it had weight now.

It was like walking through fog with stones in his chest.

And someone else had started noticing, too. Chan had been hunched over his laptop in the recording studio when he caught it again—Minho watching Seungmin.

It was not in the usual, casual way that packmates look out for each other.

It was different. Minho's eyes tracked him, even when Seungmin wasn't looking back. Especially then.

Minho didn't speak to Seungmin. He hadn't touched him either, not even the shoulder-pats or teasing nudges that used to be second nature.

Minho watched. Hesitant .

Something delicate teetered on a ledge, where one careless move could send it into the abyss.

Chan finally spoke up.

"Minho-ya," he said later, when they were alone in his studio, the door shut and only the low hum of the computer as company. "You've been watching him."

Minho didn't pretend to misunderstand. His jaw flexed, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek before he slowly exhaled. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed but unsure, like even he didn't know how to begin.

"He's… off," Minho muttered, eyes fixed on nothing. "He won't even look at me, hyung. Not even by accident. And he keeps saying sorry for nothing. You know Seungmin. He never says sorry unless he means it. Even Changbin noticed this."

Chan's eyes narrowed. "You think there's something ... wrong?"

"I don't know," Minho admitted.

Before either could say more, a rapid knock hit the door. It opened without waiting.

"Hyung—sorry," one of the new alpha trainees poked in, slightly breathless. "It's Seungmin hyung. He fainted."

Chan shot to his feet, Minho right behind him.

"Where?"

"Cafeteria."

The words gutted through the air.

They didn't wait for more.

Chan was out the door before the trainee finished his sentence, Minho trailing behind with a pounding in his chest that had nothing to do with running.

A whisper that wasn't his.

You knew something was wrong. You knew. And you waited.

And now—

Now, what if he's broken past repair?

The cafeteria doors came into view. Minho didn't know what he expected—maybe a stretcher, or Seungmin on the ground.

Cold tile and bloodless skin.

But what he saw—

Stopped him dead.

There he was.

Standing at the counter. Not being helped up. Not sitting. Standing.

Hoodie clutched tightly around his arms. Waiting silently near the counter, the sweat clinging to his temples not from the heat outside, but from something more serious.

"One iced vanilla latte, two americano, one hot green tea… and three mocha. All to-go."

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't just collapsed.

Minho froze beside Chan, watching in disbelief. The barista glanced at them, hesitating. Seungmin did not.

He turned, eyes briefly flickering up.

Only to land on Chan's shoulder.

Never reaching Minho.

Avoidance. Intentional.

"Seungmin," Chan said, his voice a strained mix of worry and command. "Are you alright?"

Seungmin paused. His hands twitched—Minho saw it. Saw the subtle tremble under the sleeves. But when he spoke—

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"I'm fine, hyung. It's nothing serious."

Minho took a step forward beside Chan. "Your arm—" Chan began, eyes on the skin visible under the sleeve where the fabric had shifted.

But Seungmin's reaction was too quick.

He flinched.

Seungmin flinched—and jerked his arms back, tugging the sleeves down past his knuckles with sharp, practised movements.

Then, that smile.

That awful, small, plastic smile.

As if painted on.

"I'll be alright," he said again, softer. "Don't bother."

He handed them two cups—Chan's Americano and Minho's latte—with fingers slightly red where the sleeve had slipped. Minho didn't reach for his cup; his throat felt dry.

Seungmin still didn't meet his gaze.

Didn't even look at him.

And before they could say another word, he offered a faint bow and walked away, heading to the dance studio like nothing had happened to deliver the drinks to other members.

Chan didn't move.

Minho didn't breathe.

The omega barista behind the counter finally broke the silence.

"He… just collapsed out of nowhere," she whispered.

"Like someone cut his strings. The hot tea spilt all over his arm. We were going to call first aid, but then he stood up like he wasn't even hurt.

And then he ordered drinks like that didn't just happen."

Minho turned slowly to Chan.

Chan looked back, equally shaken.

Neither spoke.

Because what could they say other than the truth neither wanted to admit aloud?

It wasn't just exhaustion.

It wasn't just stress.

Something was wrong.

And Seungmin—

Their careful, quiet, overlooked beta—

Had learned to break without making a sound.

________________

End of Chap 2.

TBC.

________________

Chapter Text

The flame glowed soft blue under the kettle, casting flickers of light that danced across the dark tiles. Seungmin didn't move. His hand rested against the counter, steadying himself. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there.

He was tired—beyond tired, really—but it was a fatigue too old and too familiar to whine about. Instead, he stared at the flame. Unblinking. Still.

His eyes stung, not from smoke or heat but something much heavier, something he couldn't name any more. He slowly reached out, fingers hovering dangerously close to the fire. 

Would it help? 

Would it make him feel something again? 

The burn from two days ago from the cafeteria still lingered.

It had grounded Seungmin for a moment. It made the noise in his head pause.

He missed that feeling. He missed being able to feel without it hurting.

A long breath left him shaky and barely audible. The heat licked the air just shy of his skin.

Should he fall back into the habit again, which he has only tried to stop for a month now?

The burn was grounding scarily, and Seungmin feared falling too deep into that aspect of feeling.

Because burning oneself doesn't leave scars.

Not unless it was extreme, and it doesn't bleed and doesn't cause a mess. It's there like a reminder, like a grounding presence with seared skin and goes away in a few days.

It's easy to hide, and nobody would notice as long as he's careful, and Seungmini is good at hiding them.

It had been months since the spiral started, but the story~

It started long before that.

~

It had all started quietly. There is no sharp breaking point, no single betrayal.

Just slowly.

Stray Kids was a group built on trust and choose bonds. Chan assembled the team himself in his early twenties.

A young but grounded alpha who believed in equality beyond dynamics.

He picked every member with care, not for their secondary gender.

He chose them because of their talent, hearts and shared dreams.

A team.

A family.

A pack.

Only Chan, Minho, and Changbin presented as alphas back then. The rest were just kids, unrepresented, with shining eyes and endless possibilities. Chan believed that no matter what came later—omega, alpha, or beta—their love and respect would hold them together.

Chan had smiled so confidently back then, saying, "It won't matter. Not for us."

He believed it. So did Seungmin.

He remembers those early days—sweaty dorms, cheap takeout dinners, all-night dance practices. There were no divisions, no alphas or omegas or betas. Just eight boys chasing the same dream.

But time had a way of changing things.

Even as the company enforced strict rules about pack bonding after the debut, they managed well.

One by one, the others presented.

Hyunjin presented first.

An alpha, tall and proud and radiant like the sun.

Then Han and Felix, nearly together, bloomed into omegas.

Seungmin stood beside them during those chaotic, hormonal days, offering towels with silence and unsure smiles.

When he finally presented as beta, it was anticlimactic and quiet.

A nurse handed him the papers and said, "You're stable. Good for the group."

'Good for the group?!'

He hadn't minded it, not then. He'd hoped Jeongin would be a beta, too.

If they could be two, just them, maybe he wouldn't feel so off-balanced, so in between.

But fate didn't budge. Jeongin presented as alpha a year later. It was the final shift.

Seungmin never told anyone how that crushed something in him.

Because suddenly, he was the only beta.

And in their world, that meant standing alone.

In the industry, alphas commanded the most respect.

Omegas, too, held a certain prestige—sensitive, intuitive, and emotionally valuable.

Betas? They were the bridge, the neutral middle.

Overlooked. Reliable.

He got pushed aside without anyone meaning to do it. The parts in their songs leaned toward the alphas' presence or the omegas' allure. Seungmin's lines—once steady and full—got slowly shortened, trimmed until he could barely hear himself sing. No one said it aloud. No one noticed.

He did.

The others were content, adjusted to their dynamics like pieces that found their match. Chan and Hyunjin naturally pulled toward Felix. Their scents meshed like summer rain and vanilla. Minho and Changbin grew tighter, too, gravitating toward Han's sweetness.

Even IN—blunt but kind—drifted among them all with ease.

Seungmin floated somewhere in the middle.

They never told him to step back.

No one excluded him outright.

He just wasn't chosen. Not first. Not ever.

He shared beds. Shared kisses.

Sometimes, he joined in their rough-hewn bonds when the others felt warm or generous. But Seungmin wasn't needed. It was not like the others needed their pairings.

He could feel it during the ruts or heat.

The air would thicken, and the dorm would change.

Rooms would close.

Doors would lock.

And he would clean.

Seungmin scrubbed counters. Folded towels. Sorted laundry. Did groceries. All the little things that no one remembered but everyone benefited from. He filled the silence they left behind.

At first, he didn't mind. He liked being useful. It was something.

But then came the comments. Even their jokes changed over time.

Sometimes, the omegas would comment on his scent. "Too bland," they'd tease. Or "kind of stiff today, huh?" during arguments.

On hard days, -

"Seungmin, can you tone your scent down? It's weird today."

"Sorry, I'm sensitive right now—it's your scent. It's off."

They didn't know—he couldn't smell it. He never could.

Hyposmia .

He was diagnosed years ago during childhood. His scent detection was barely 30%. Seungmin couldn't tell what he smelled like most of the time.

Seungmin couldn't tell when he was 'too strong', 'too faint' or 'off-putting.'

So he learned to read their moods—expressions, posture, how a hand twitched or an ear tipped back.

He memorised the angle of the brow and the way fingers tapped against the thighs. He studied body language like survival.

It made him sensitive. Too sensitive.

It helped him catch things early, like how Hyunjin and Felix started walking away when he entered the room.

Not heat-induced. Just discomfort, Seungmin assumes.

He'd sit on the couch, and they'd find somewhere else to be within moments.

Jeongin, who used to smile so much, started glaring when Seungmin spoke. "Your voice is… triggering today," he said once, brows drawn tight. Then, he said it again and again. He said it whenever Seungmin tried chatting after tiring practice or when he felt tired and lonely.

Seungmin didn't understand. He hadn't even been shouting or talking loudly.

Therefore, he'd gone quiet, but IN's moods would reset later. It would reset like nothing happened. So Seungmin stayed silent most of the time.

He tucked it away in the folds of his throat, like a song he was too afraid to sing.

He waited and thought maybe it was just stress or a season.

It didn't.

It got worse over the years since the presentation.

~

The neglect didn't come as cruelty.

It came in the form of being forgotten .

At first, it was subtle. The alphas were busy—recordings, leadership duties, endorsements. Seungmin understood. Chan had too much on his plate. Minho was juggling choreography and managing the group domain. Changbin stayed late at the studio almost every night, composing.

Hyunjin and IN were busy promoting Stray Kids through modelling.

Seungmin had never felt wanted. Not in the composing team, dance arrangements, or modelling gigs. He was the invisible and unpopular beta of Stray Kids, after all. So, he did his best in the background.

But it still stung when they forgot to ask him what he wanted for dinner. 

When they bought drinks, but not his favourite. 

When Chan said, "I'll make sure we all rest tomorrow," and booked lighter schedules for the omegas only.

He wasn't even on the radar anymore.

He'd laugh it off.

He smiled when Minho forgot to pack his lunch for practice and said, "Can't you buy something from the cafeteria?"

Smile when Chan dismissed his concern about a stage set being unstable with a distracted "It'll be fine, Seungmin-ah."

They didn't mean it. Seungmin told himself that again and again. But it didn't stop the ache from burrowing in.

The alphas instinctively looked out for the omegas. During live events, they wrapped coats around them. During practices, they handed out water to omegas, but none even asked Seungmin if he needed a break.

When a sasaeng rumour targeted Han, the pack had a full emergency meeting. When a journalist distorted Seungmin's innocent remarks in an otherwise harmless interview, no one spoke out for him.

He stood back and observed them, taking note of the intensity with which they shielded one another, their bond evident in their fierce loyalty.

A surge of longing washed over him as he pondered when he had quietly slipped away from that warm circle of care, feeling the absence like an uninvited chill in the air.

~

The first misconception came days after the MAMA 2024 rehearsals.

It was a rushed afternoon.

A backstage frenzy between Stray Kids and several other idol groups. The corridors smelled of hairspray and stress. Members buzzed in and out of dressing rooms, managers whispering, dancers running.

Seungmin was alone for most of it. The others had scattered—some filming for SKZ-Talker content, some practising formations. So he stayed behind in the waiting room, organising bags and chargers, making sure their packed things were in order.

Just helping. Quietly.

That's when the manager from another group company —a known troublemaker, slick-smiled and always watching—entered the room. He chatted casually, asking harmless questions about the stage. 

The lighting. 

Their plans.

Seungmin answered politely, vaguely and distantly. - Bare minimum.

He didn't even look up when the man walked away.

But someone else noticed.

That evening, a rumour spread backstage—small but sharp.

Someone from Stray Kids had shared details about another OG group's surprise performance. Nothing malicious.

It was a minor leak.

But it mattered. BigBang's stage performance at that year-end event was a surprise reunion during G-Dragon's solo stage at the 2024 MAMA awards in Osaka.

And the finger pointed to Seungmin.

That manager told his company's staff that " the beta from Stray Kids" mentioned it during rest.

He didn't name him. He didn't have to.

Stray Kids only had one beta.

The tension came quietly first. The management cancelled Stray Kids' performance at the last minute. And they didn't get to perform even though they were there and ready to deliver.

Minho stopped replying to Seungmin's questions in the van that evening. Jeongin didn't look up when Seungmin offered him headphones.

Hyunjin refused the snack he brought with him, saying, "I already ate," even though Seungmin had seen him skip dinner.

Chan said nothing. He just stared ahead, jaw tight.

Seungmin didn't understand anything.

He didn't understand why they didn't perform that night. He didn't understand why the management lied to the public, saying Stray Kids couldn't join MAMA as they had pre-scheduled shoot ing of SKZ-CODE in Jeju Island . Or why the members were cold towards him.

He didn't know until he overheard staff whispering about the " small issue" during MAMA and how Chan got scolded for not keeping his beta in check. 

Seungmin's hands had gone cold.

He wanted to speak up. To say it wasn't him. He didn't even know what they were talking about.

But the moment passed, and no one asked.

No one verified.

No one gave him a chance.

So Seungmin stayed quiet.

And they stayed distant.

Days passed in silence—cold shoulders, half-hearted greetings, and imposed group schedules. His name lingered in the air, seldom spoken unless necessary, a haunting reminder of what once was.

He still cleaned the dorm.

He still packed water bottles for practice.

He still laid out towels after their showers.

They didn't say he was guilty.

But they acted like he was.

And that was worse.

Because somewhere deep inside, Seungmin began to believe them.

Maybe he was the problem after all.

Maybe he didn't belong here.

Then, he missed the group meeting.

He did not receive a notice or reminder.

Not even a message or "Seungmin, we're gathering in Chan-hyung's studio later," even in passing.

Nothing.

Seungmin learned about the upcoming comeback concept and stage arrangement through a casual conversation with their manager weeks later.

They were backstage, getting ready for a quick interview, when the manager chuckled, holding up the finalised concept board on his tablet.

"Oh, by the way," he said. "Hyung-line told me to lock this version in. Looks good, right?"

Seungmin blinked at the lineup.

He wasn't where he usually stood.

He wasn't singing what he usually would.

His part got trimmed to two lines.

Background harmony.

He tried to swallow it down.

"They didn't tell me," he said softly like the words themselves were alien.

The manager raised a brow, distracted. "Huh? Maybe they didn't want to spoil the surprise. You know, like the last MAMA."

Like last MAMA.

The sentence ripped through him like a blade.

He didn't realise he'd stopped breathing until the world tilted slightly on its axis. Until he blinked rapidly and nodded in silence.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Maybe."

The smile he gave back was so fake that it was painful to witness.

After that conversation, he felt empty during the whole interview. He just sat there and stared. When Hyunjin moved his hands in front of Seungmin's face to make him concentrate, it felt like an out-of-body experience. He didn't know what to think or do.

~

After that, everything went downhill.

Not all at once. But in quiet, subtle ways that crept under skin and bone.

He started speaking less cause nobody talked to him anyway.

Seungmin, who once laced sarcasm through every sentence, whose laughter often cut through long recording nights, now merely nodded. Agreed and smiled like a robot.

Always agreeable. Always available.

He didn't argue about his parts.

He didn't ask questions.

He didn't suggest ideas because it didn't matter anyway.

They didn't notice. They were busy finalising tracks, shooting concept photos, and preparing for the next comeback and upcoming rut/heat cycles.

By the time they did, Seungmin was already slipping.

He began waking up earlier than everyone else, cleaning the dorm until the tiles squeaked under his knuckles. When asked, he'd say, "Couldn't sleep." But his eyes were always rimmed red.

He didn't eat much. Not visibly, at least.

He served everyone's plates, asked about preferences, smiled at picky eaters, and then returned to the kitchen with barely anything on his own.

His scent grew thinner.

Once soft and fresh like a morning breeze, it lingered faintly as if it didn't know where it belonged.

Seungmin knew it had become difficult for the others to read him. But none of them asked why.

When stress grew worse, he covered it by overworking himself. He memorised choreographies faster than necessary, offered to record guide vocals alone with other sound engineers, and volunteered for fan calls and solo schedules—anything that would prove he still had use.

Still mattered.

But the praise rarely came.

If someone else did the same, they would get praised for passion.

Seungmin, a beta, fully embraced the expectations placed upon him. Nobody notices his efforts.

~

Then, he started to flinch when people raised their voices.

He didn't know when that started.

During a debate about the setlist, Hyunjin raised his voice, causing Seungmin to drop the pen. His hand was frozen mid-air as if bracing for something.

Jeongin brushed against him during a dance break rehearsal, and Seungmin whispered a too-quick 'sorry' even though he wasn't at fault.

He no longer joined in on dorm movie nights.

He stayed in the kitchen, cleaning already-clean counters or sitting near the stove, watching the orange flame flicker as the water boiled.

More often than not, he sat in silence.

The others hadn't meant to shut him out.

But they had. Slowly. Subconsciously.

They didn't notice they'd planned meetings without him after the MAMA more than once.

They didn't realise he was no longer joining dinner orders.

They didn't question why he didn't tease them back or complain anymore.

They didn't ask why his smile seemed strained.

Why he'd started wearing hoodies, even in summer.

They didn't ask.

And Seungmin stopped expecting them to.

Because somewhere along the way, even their silence had started to feel like commands.

Even their absence felt like rejection.

And each day, he sank further into that space between them, a space that once felt like home but now echoed too loudly for him to breathe in.

____________________

End of Chap 3.

TBC.

_____________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

https://ao3-rd-18.onrender.com/works/58057900

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The manager was at the cafeteria again.

He was there with the same smile, the same cunning eyes behind his glasses. A tray of food in one hand, a phone in the other.

He noticed Seungmin by the counter, waiting for the members' drink orders, and approached him like nothing had ever gone wrong.

"Ah, Seungmin-ah," he said, voice warm. "You've gotten taller again, huh?"

Seungmin bowed politely. "It's been a while, sunbaenim," he replied politely.

He kept his voice even. Neutral. The way you'd speak to a stranger you only remember by obligation.

The manager laughed, tapping his phone.

"I saw you guys on that special stage last week. Still sharp as ever. I miss that energy in our group, honestly. Ah, we're having a comeback, too. Hope we don't overlap too much."

Seungmin smiled, small and faint. "Good luck with the comeback," he replied.

The drinks were ready.

Seungmin bowed quickly. "I have to go, sunbaenim. Practice's waiting."

And with that, he left. Quick, precise steps, a tray balanced in his steady hands. He didn't look back once.

Because if he did—if he stayed a moment longer—he was afraid he'd cause trouble again.

~

The next day, chaos arrived without warning.

The new group under that manager's label dropped their teaser schedule.

Concept board.

Full comeback setlist.

And at the top of the tracklist were three of the same songs Stray Kids had finalised weeks ago.

Same titles.

Same order.

Even similar phrasing in the concept description.

Even though the songs would be different, they had almost everything in common.

Stray Kid's primary manager's face went white when he saw it.

He didn't need to speak for them to know: their concept and songs got plagiarised.

The backlash was immediate.

Online speculation.

Company backlash.

Scheduling panic.

The team that had poured months into this release got ordered to scrap everything.

Start over. Rebuild from nothing.

3RACHA sat in the studio that day in exhausted silence.

Chan paced, one hand clenched in his hoodie's hem.

Changbin had his head against the desk, not even pretending to work.

Han stared at the screen before him and hadn't blinked in minutes.

They could rewrite. They would rewrite. But the betrayal, the emotional cost—it hollowed something in all of them.

And that was when the trainee said it.

"I saw Seungmin-hyung talking to that manager in the cafeteria yesterday."

It was never the intention to ignite a conflict. It was a harmless observation. A passerby comments.

But when it reached Jeongin's ears, it lit a fuse.

The practice room was tense the next few days.

Sweat. Silence. Missteps.

They'd been rehearsing a new formation for hours. Everyone frayed thin from stress and frustration.

The song didn't feel right yet. The choreography was stiff. They hadn't even assigned final vocal parts.

Seungmin, quiet as ever, had just handed out water bottles and was about to return to his spot near the mirror when Jeongin spoke.

"Did you tell them?"

The room froze.

Seungmin turned slowly. "What?"

Jeongin stood, jaw tight. "That manager. From the other company. Did you tell him about our setlist?"

Every movement in the room halted.

Seungmin blinked. "What are you talking about?"

Jeongin's voice sharpened. "You were seen talking to him. Just yesterday. And now their setlist is identical to ours? Three songs, hyung. Not one—three."

Han's eyes darted between them. "Wait, IN—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Jeongin snapped. "We worked for months on those tracks! You didn't even help with lyrics or composition—why were you talking to that manager alone anyway?"

Seungmin's lips parted. But no sound came out.

He was staring at Jeongin. At all of them.

Minho had gone still. Hyunjin's brows furrowed. Changbin hadn't said a word. Even Chan—usually the first to step in— stood there, lips pressed tight in uncertainty.

Seungmin tried.

He truly did.

"I… I didn't- I didn't say anything about the setlist," Seungmin said, the words stumbling. "I was just getting drinks. He talked to me, and I just replied. I didn't—"

"You didn't?" Jeongin threw the water bottle to the side. "You're always quiet, always off to yourself, wearing that damn hoodie like you're hiding something. How do we know you didn't say something by accident?"

Something inside Seungmin cracked.

"I didn't tell anyone anything," he repeated, lower this time.

But the way Jeongin was looking at him—it wasn't suspicion anymore. It was anger. Pain.

"Why else would he have those tracks?" Jeongin demanded. "He worked with us before, during the collab stage. Maybe he asked you. Maybe you thought it was harmless. But look at what you did."

"Stop it," Seungmin whispered.

Jeongin faltered just a little.

"I didn't do it," Seungmin said again. "I didn't… I didn't…"

His knees felt weak.

The room was too quiet. But Seungmin felt it too loud.

All their eyes were on him. And not one of them defended him.

Not one.

The silence, the same silence he'd clung to for months, was now the thing crushing him.

And the worst part?

He didn't have the energy to fight it.

He could have let out a piercing scream, desperation clawing at his throat. He could have begged them to grasp his truth, to believe the words that trembled on his lips.

But he found himself questioning the very essence of his voice after enduring the dismissal for so long.

Wondering whether speaking truly made any difference at all.

So he just stood there.

Maybe he had gone numb after all.

~

They didn't yell. They didn't ask. They didn't look.

After Jeongin's accusation in the practice room, there was no follow-up. No confrontation.

There was no chance for Seungmin to explain himself.

As soon as those words rang out, a heavy silence fell over the group as if they had silently united in their judgment: Seungmin was deemed unworthy of the truth.

Chan didn't speak to him for weeks. Not in scolding, not in concern. He just got busy with the production works. 

He assigned tasks to others.

He asked Han to pass messages and Changbin to handle logistics.

Seungmin still showed up to practice.

He still learned the new set.

He still danced with them.

But when the music stopped, he might as well have not existed.

The changes were subtle at first.

He stopped eating lunch first.

It was easier.

It provided fewer chances of accidentally sitting near them, of mistimed conversations, of catching Han's glance or Jeongin's quiet scoff when he sat at the table like he used to.

He made excuses when their manager asked

(not his members. They don't talk to him anymore) ,

He answered- his stomach hurt, he was tired, and he'd eat later.

But he never did.

Then, he stopped going to bed early. At first, it was to practice alone after everyone else had slept.

Then, it was to be alone in the quiet, where no one could pretend not to hear him.

He stayed up scrolling through their old videos, pausing whenever he found himself in the frame.

Sometimes, he muted the audio to pretend they were still smiling at him.

Other nights, he lay there, blinking at the ceiling, the ache in his chest like a hand pressing down—not violently, just constantly.

Constantly. Like a reminder: you are not wanted.

They had to postpone the comeback for a few weeks.

The recording sessions for the new songs felt mechanical. They gave Seungmin his new lines—shorter, fewer, echo harmonies mostly.

He didn't question it. He just nodded, walked into the booth, and sang.

No one gave him feedback. No one asked for another take.

No one said anything at all.

Seungmin wondered if there would be a change when the final song concluded.

A glance. A smile. Even a sigh of relief together.

But instead, they all filed out.

One by one.

Leaving him behind, as always.

~

That evening, their manager treated them to dinner.

"It's been a hard few weeks," he said with a tight smile. "You all pulled through. Let's eat well."

The restaurant was warm, with laughter coming from other tables in the restaurant. The scent of grilled meat and spicy broth hung in the air. The staff recognised them immediately, escorting them to a private booth toward the back.

Seungmin sat at the farthest edge of the table, as he had on every van ride, in every waiting room, in every group photo lately.

The members didn't ask him what he wanted to eat. They didn't tell him when the meat was ready. They didn't pass the sauces his way.

Seungmin didn't speak.

He watched the flames from the grill flicker.

The tongs were hot—left too close to the metal plate.

Someone knocked them over when reaching for lettuce. Seungmin moved to pick them up before anyone else noticed.

His fingers brushed the handle, and he hissed softly as the heat seared through his skin. A sharp, wet sting bloomed along his palm and crept up his inner wrist. The pain was instant. Precise.

But what stunned him wasn't the pain.

It was the clarity.

For the first time in months, he felt something.

Not the thick, dull numbness that had settled behind his ribs.

Not the shame, not the confusion.

Just pain. Clean and sharp.

No one looked his way.

Felix laughed at something Han said. Hyunjin reached across him to grab more meat. Jeongin asked if there was extra kimchi. Chan was scrolling through his phone beside Minho, who hadn't looked at Seungmin since they arrived.

No one noticed his wrist.

He pressed the burn against the underside of the metal table for a moment to feel the throb deepen.

It wasn't that he wanted to be hurt.

He just missed the feeling.

Missed being seen.

After returning to the dorms that night, Seungmin stood in the kitchen long after the lights went out. The identical tongs rested on the counter beside him.

Seungmin held his hand close to the stove with the open flame, feeling the heat kiss his skin.

And he waited.

Not for help. Not for anyone to walk in.

Just for the pain.

Just for that reminder that he still existed, even if it hurt.

He closed his eyes, letting the fire kiss the inside of his palm.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, not loud. Not enough to call attention.

But enough to remind himself he was still here.

Still here.

Still burning.

Still breathing.

______________________

End of Chap 4.

TBC.

_______________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

https://ao3-rd-18.onrender.com/works/58057900

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since their latest comeback.

Months since Minho had said a word to him.

It's been weeks since anyone had called his name with warmth.

So when Seungmin found a note slipped under his door that morning in Minho's handwriting—his name, underlined once—his breath caught.

A flicker of hope surged before he could reason it away.

Minho hyung.

Finally.

He clutched the note like it meant something. Like it was a lifeline.

Until he opened it.

(Make arrangements for Felix's upcoming heat. Check supplies. Prep the room.)

A task. A reminder. A duty.

Nothing else.

No Seungmin, are you okay?

No, I'm sorry we didn't ask.

No, talk to me.

Just logistics.

Seungmin folded the note neatly, hands trembling only slightly. He nodded to himself.

Right.

He was still usable for the pack.

Even if that was all he was now.

That night, the dorm was silent—except for the hum of the bathroom light and the faint buzz of his thoughts.

He knelt before the tub, sleeves rolled up, the cold tile beneath him unforgiving. Old burn marks faded into shadowy reds and pale scars across his forearms, scattered like a story no one wanted to read.

He plugged in the small travel kettle and waited for the coil to glow red. It took longer than usual tonight. The machine was stubborn and slow.

Just like him.

When the metal finally blazed, he picked up the spoon he'd left resting inside. The bowl had darkened from use.

He tested the heat with his fingers—not enough to scream.

Just enough to remind him.

Then, slowly, he pressed it against the inside of his arm.

There was a hiss. A split-second of nothing—then fire.

He didn't flinch.

The pain burst sharp and hot, licking through his nerves until the world sharpened again. No more fog. No more weight in his chest.

Just breathe.

Just heat.

Just real.

He held it longer than he should've. Then, longer still.

He didn't do it because he hated himself.

He did it because he couldn't feel himself anymore.

The burn was a boundary.

A definition.

A line drawn against erasure.

And tonight, it was the only thing that made sense.

~

The following morning, the dorm was heavy with scent.

Felix's preheat had begun. Chan, Changbin and Han left for the studio to finish last-minute work before Felix's heat was thoroughly here.

Hyunjin and IN went to meet Hyunjin's parents shortly. That leaves Seungmin, Felix, and Minho in the dorm for the morning.

Seungmin had already prepped everything: clean sheets, suppressants stocked, room temperature adjusted, soft lights.

He'd even aired out the omega's mattress with chamomile and lavender, just in case.

He stayed far in the kitchen with a scent-blocker in place. But still, his presence faintly lingered.

Felix entered, pale and sensitive, eyes glassy from the shifting tide inside him. He stopped mid-step, nose wrinkling. His shoulders tensed.

"Seungmin," he said quietly, trembling, "can you… tone it down more? Please? I-I don't want to smell something that feels distant right now."

Seungmin blinked. "I'm sorry. I'll fix it," replied Seungmin quickly.

He sprayed the scent-blocking spray on himself and around him.

He didn't know what else to do.

He hadn't been able to smell himself for weeks.

Felix fidgeted. "It's not your fault. I can't bear this right now. It makes me wanna cry."

And then—he did.

A soft, sudden sob broke from his throat as he turned his face into his hoodie. His scent spiked with distress, curling sharp and sour into the air.

That's when Minho appeared, voice taut.

"Lixie?"

He crossed the room in two strides, hands out, scent soothing. "Hey, hey, what's wrong?"

Felix whimpered. "It's Seungmin. His scent— it's too much. I told him— but he couldn't— I can't—" Felix cried, unable to complete his sentences as his emotions took control.

Minho's eyes snapped to Seungmin.

"You seriously can't manage your scent?!"

Seungmin tensed. "I didn't mean to. I used blockers—but-"

"Then use stronger ones," Minho snapped.

Seungmin was shocked because Minho, one of the members, had told him to use scent blockers despite his previous opposition to them due to their potential for long-term damage.

Minho's alpha instinct rose like a tide. "Why can't you stop causing problems? Is handling your scent that hard?"

Seungmin flinched.

"I didn't know it was still strong, hyung. I couldn't smell—" Seungmin tried to explain.

But Felix whimpered again, curling closer into Minho's shirt, distressed by the rising conflict. Seungmin looked at Minho's eyes desperately, hoping for him to understand his struggles, but Minho's temper cracked.

He stepped forward.

And with ice in his voice, he let it fall:

"Eyes down, beta. Know your place!"

The command struck like lightning.

Seungmin's breath vanished. His body obeyed before his mind could catch up.

He looked down, spine rigid and hands at his sides

Minho didn't stop there.

"I don't have time for your stupid excuses. Follow the instructions as directed. Being a beta isn't hard, so do better. Stop failing at everything!" roared Minho in full-on alpha mode.

Then he turned, wrapping Felix in a careful, protective hold as he led him down the hallway.

Seungmin stood alone in the silence they left behind.

Eyes down.

Breath caught.

His arms, hidden beneath his sleeves, still stung.

But even that pain couldn't match the echo of Minho's voice left behind.

Stop failing.

Do better.

Know your place.

He stayed there a while longer, the weight of air pressing down on his back like hands. He didn't cry.

Tears required a kind of self-worth he no longer possessed.

Instead, he exhaled slowly.

All this time, he believed that the members were edgy and moody due to unforeseen factors such as the burden from management and high expectations from fans. He thought they would be their loving self to him after they finished punishing him for the rumours, which wasn't his fault.

But today marks the day he finally understands that he is not needed. They weren't just upset with him; they loathed him. They were only putting up with him because Stray Kids needed a beta.

So, Seungmin cleaned the counter and his hands again as if he could scrub himself of existence. Then, he sprayed the scent-blocking spray and added another layer of scent blocker to his pulse points.  

~

From that day, Seungmin stopped being Seungmin.

No more biting wit.

No quiet stares that meant more than words.

No quirks.

No complaints.

No warmth.

Just efficiency.

They didn't need Seungmin, after all.

They needed a beta.

Someone quiet. Controlled. Scentless. Invisible.

So he became that.

He smiled politely when spoken to.

He lowered his gaze even before being corrected.

He never offered his opinion unless asked—and even then, only the bare minimum.

He kept their schedules well-organised.

He prepared each meal on time.

He made sure their rooms were clean.

He prepped heat rooms without a wrinkle in the sheets.

He washed out cooling packs until his fingers went numb.

He memorised the layout of the stockroom so that no suppressant or scent blocker ever ran low.

He learned how to disappear in the middle of a crowded room.

How to speak without leaving a trace.

To look at someone without looking in their eye, without being seen.

And when they passed him in the halls without a glance, without a word—

He told himself it was okay.

He was doing his job.

He was being what they needed.

Even if no one wanted Seungmin anymore.

Even if he didn't know who that was anymore.

__________________

End of Chap 5.

TBC.

__________________

Chapter Text

Present Day

The silence hadn't left Seungmin.

It had grown inside him, quiet and precise, spreading through his lungs, voice and scent over the months.

There was no room left for anything else.

When the cue played in his headphones, he sang.

One line.

One ad-lib.

Precisely on the pitch. Perfect in breath control.

Mechanical.

Emotionless.

Beautiful, in the way statues were beautiful— flawless and dead.

No improvisation.

No instinct.

No Seungmin.

"Alright. Next," the sound engineer said, not even pausing to listen back.

There was no request for another take.

No playful bickering.

No, "Can we try it with a softer tone, Seungminie?"

No teasing, "That was too clean—give us some soul."

Nothing.

Like his voice was a preset.

Like his name was a file to be dragged and dropped.

The booth door clicked open.

Seungmin stepped out slowly, expression blank. He walked across the room with quiet steps, no one turning to greet him. His shoulders didn't sag.

His arms didn't swing. He moved like a habit.

Like duty.

Like he wasn't there.

And instead of joining the others waiting near the lounge seats— where Felix, IN and Hyunjin chatted quietly while waiting for their turn—Seungmin walked to the farthest end of the studio.

Not to the seats.

Not even near the wall.

He stood.

In the corner.

Back nearly to the wall, his head down, and his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

He stood there like someone had told him to remain or had scolded him for breathing too loudly earlier, and he never risked it again.

Chan , perched at the producer's desk, blinked slowly.

The track kept playing continuously behind him. He could hear Seungmin's line every time the chorus repeated.

Just one.

One perfect, sterile note.

He frowned, leaned toward the monitor, and scrolled through the vocal arrangement again.

Chan knew there was harmony—an extra bar he allocated for Seungmin like he always does and a background hum somewhere.

There had to be.

But no.

That was it.

A single high note and a clean ad-lib buried under the bridge.

Chan's stomach turned slow and uneasy. "Is that… all we gave him?" he asked slowly to the sound engineer.

He didn't look up when he asked. He didn't know what he was even expecting.

The sound engineer appeared unaffected by Chan's question, continuing with the recording of the other member.

But Changbin , behind him, went still.

And Han , lyric sheets forgotten in his lap, turned toward the far corner of the room.

Where Seungmin stood.

Han's brows furrowed.

Seungmin hadn't taken a seat.

He hadn't pulled out his phone or water bottle. He wasn't listening to the playback. He didn't even look bored.

There was no expression to read—his face was so quiet it looked artificial.

Then Han realised something that made the back of his neck prickle.

There was no scent.

None.

There were not even the faint, clean traces of peppermint and soft air that Seungmin used to carry in the mornings.

No warmth. No aftershave. Not even detergent.

Han discreetly sniffed again, confusion deepening. "Is he wearing scent blockers again?" he whispered.

But that didn't make sense.

They didn't use scent blockers inside the studio. They don't use scent-blockers in the pack anyway. No one had asked for scent suppression, and Felix, even the sensitive one, wasn't wearing his own.

And more importantly, scent blockers didn't make someone disappear. They muted . They didn't erase .

But that was the thing: Seungmin wasn't just silent; he was absent.

From the booth's back glass, Changbin watched the same thing and felt something cold settle in his chest.

Why isn't Seungmin singing the lines they dedicated for him?

When had Seungmin stopped taking second takes?

When had he stopped asking, "Should I try a different tone, hyung?"

When had he started standing away from them like a staff member?

Or worse, like a trainee afraid to overstep?

Changbin's gaze dropped to Seungmin's hands.

Fingers folded neatly. Unmoving. Palms pale and slightly red, like they'd been scrubbed too hard.

Then, Seungmin's fingers twitched once—just once—before he folded them back together like nothing had happened.

Changbin saw them all, and the image gnawed at him.

Why hadn't he noticed this before?

He was aware that Seungmin was distant from them. But not this.

"Chan hyung," Han said suddenly, breaking the silence as he turned to Chan, his voice lower now. "When's the last time we heard Seungmin sing?"

Chan's jaw tightened. "We just did, Han-ah."

"No." Han shook his head. "I mean—not like that. I mean, when was the last time he sang ? The way he used to."

Silence.

They all turned their heads—subtly, slowly—toward the corner of the room.

Seungmin was still standing.

Still facing down.

Still silent.

Still scentless.

~

It was past midnight when Chan sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his temples. The weight in his chest hadn't lifted since the studio.

He hadn't even realised the others were gathering until Changbin leaned silently against the wall near the door, arms crossed.

Then Han slipped in, hoodie over his head, avoiding everyone's gaze.

Felix came last, barefoot and subdued, eyes red-rimmed even though he hadn't cried today.

They didn't need to gather there.

They just came.

Minho sat on the floor, spine rigid.

Hyunjin leaned against the closet door, arms crossed too tightly.

Felix curled into the corner of Chan's bed near the leader.

Jeongin hovered near the doorway, unsure.

Changbin stared at the floor.

Han sat cross-legged, hands clenched.

Chan looked wrecked.

Chan was the first to speak, voice low. "I was listening to the tracks again," Chan continued. "And I realised Seungminnie had only one line. And one ad-lib. That's it. That's all he had in each song."

"I clearly remember writing lines, especially for him in the vocal part. But none of the recent comebacks had that. Today, in the studio, Seungmin was perfect. Too perfect," added Changbin, bothered instead of relieved.

"That high note?" Han added quietly. "It was clean. But it was cold . Like a machine. Not like him."

"He didn't even listen to his take," Changbin said. "Didn't check the monitors, didn't re-record. He just walked out like he was programmed to perform and leave."

IN leaned against the wall near the window, arms folded, eyes tight. "Seungmin hyung didn't even look at us today."

"He hasn't looked at us in months," Felix murmured, concerned.

Hyunjin's voice cut in, sharp and soft. "He didn't even sit near us. He stood in the corner. He stands there like someone on timeout. He just stood there like someone told him to wait or something," said Hyunjin, troubled.

"That's what scared me most," Felix whispered. "The way he stood. Not like someone part of the group, like he didn't belong there."

Everyone stilled at that.

"I don't understand. Wasn't Seungmin who requested space from us?" asked Hyunjin, frustrated.

Chan nodded, barely. " We gave him space because Jung hyung said he needed it. But this isn't space. It is disappearance ," he added.

Chan ran a hand through his hair. "I noticed it, too. Seungmin didn't wait to talk to us anymore. Didn't smile. He didn't exist beyond that one line. And the staff didn't even ask him to stay for ad-libs. They brushed him off like a formality."

Jeongin hesitated, then said what had been gnawing at him.

"And his scent, I couldn't smell him," the baby alpha added, voice a notch sharper. "There was nothing . I can't smell him anywhere, not at practice or even at the dorm."

Everyone turned.

"Not even a trace of mint. Seungmin hyung always smells like that in the studio. But today, nothing."

"Scent blockers," Han answered automatically. "He's always wearing one, even at the dorm. I checked. When he isn't wearing one, I still can't smell him. It wasn't blocked. It was just gone. When I first noticed it, I almost thought that I was losing my mind or losing my sense of smell, " Han added, agitated.

"Is that even possible?" Felix asked, brows pulling together. "To lose your scent?"

Silence.

Then Chan answered quietly.

"Not unless you've shut down. Like, deep down. Like your body's not even registering the pack anymore."

His voice caught slightly at the end, the words heavier to say out loud than he thought they'd be.

Han suddenly stood up, pacing.

"This doesn't make sense. Jung hyung said he wanted space. Jung hyung said he wanted to be alone . But if that were true, why does it feel like we abandoned him? Seungmin would have told us if something was wrong. He won't just shut down."

"Would he?" Changbin asked without sarcasm.

Han stopped.

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't know.

He can't remember Seungmin reaching out to them.

"I kept thinking—he was quiet after the rut and heat season. Everyone was tense, so maybe he didn't want to get in the way. But he was quiet even before that, wasn't he?" asked Changbin.

"I thought he was staying away because of our phenomena," Han repeated softly.

"I thought he was reflecting after distancing himself from us for so long," Hyunjin said, bitterness lacing his tone.

"We didn't even question him about the comeback leakage. After the previous comeback leak. And the song rework. I thought he was ashamed . He didn't fight back or defend himself harder, so I figured he was at fault. But why does everything feel misguided?" added Hyunjin.

Jeongin mumbled, "Since Seungmin hyung accepted it so easily. I thought he was guilty, too. Or else why would he wish to be left out?"

"Yeah," Minho added. "He never tried to explain like he usually does."

A pause.

Then Chan said slowly, "He never denied it after that day."

Changbin rubbed his face. "Because we never once gave him a chance to deny it after that day. We were angry, yeah, but we didn't cut him off—we just stepped back. Because that's what he asked for. Right?"

Felix's voice trembled. "But… did he do it? If he wanted space, why does he look like he's waiting for permission to exist?"

The question fell into the room like a dropped knife.

No one answered.

Because they didn't know.

Minho looked up, eyes narrowed. "Thinking back, why would he leak something and then just sit and take the blame like that?"

"Because he thought we wouldn't believe him either way?" voice barely there, Han offered. He looked bothered.

"Or because Seungmin… didn't want to fight us anymore," Hyunjin exhaled shakily. "Because he knew we had already made up our minds."

"I thought he was just distancing himself out of guilt," Jeongin whispered.

"But what if… it wasn't guilt?" asked Jeongin.

"What do you mean?" Felix asked.

"He didn't defend himself or even talk anymore," Changbin said again as if trying to rewrite the memory. "He just… shut down. "

Changbin could still see it. Seungmin, standing frozen in the middle of the practice room while Jeongin shouted, accusing him.

Not a single word. Just a soft, stunned breath.

And then—nothing.

Minho's voice was flat. "I don't think he would risk our comeback. After everything he's worked for?"

Han's breath hitched. "No. He wouldn't."

And slowly, a sickening awareness spread across their expressions.

They had punished him.

Condemned him.

They had shoved silence into his mouth and called it guilt.

"What if we accused the wrong person?" Chan whispered.

"What if we broke him for no reason because of misguided rumours?" Felix added, barely audible.

Hyunjin's hand pressed against his chest. "He used to get so emotional. So stubborn when we were unfair. Now he nods and disappears."

Minho's fists clenched.

"He's not reflecting. He's gone ."

For the first time in months, they looked at the space in the room, not just the one Seungmin used to fill, but the echo of the boy they had stopped seeing.

And they listened .

Not to his voice.

Not to his vocals.

But to his absence.

That night, the guilt didn't come in waves.

It came in silence.

Cold, still, and absolute—like the ghost of someone they once called family.

______________

End of Chap 6.

TBC.

______________

Chapter Text

His lungs burned.

Every turn felt like swimming through cement.

The beat was fast. Too fast—and Seungmin's body didn't respond like it used to. His limbs trembled faintly with each motion, his vision tunnelling around the edges, black dots dancing like fireflies.

But Seungmin pushed through. He always did.

He didn't need to ask for breaks. He wasn't fragile.

He just needed to do better.

He stumbled during a fast footwork transition—just once—but even that single second was enough for Chan to call out, as he was concerned about the younger.

"Seungmin, you okay?"

Seungmin blinked, the voice dragging him back. He looked up.

All eyes were on him. Minho had paused mid-step, a water bottle halfway to his mouth. Hyunjin had his hands on his hips, brows pinched slightly. Even Jeongin was watching with a worried look.

Seungmin quickly stood straighter, schooling his expression.

"Yeah. I'll do better," Seungmin said with a soft exhale, barely audible. "Sorry for messing up."

Chan frowned. "That's not why I asked."

But Seungmin shakes his head, already restarting the music with trembling fingers. "Let's keep going."

He didn't see their reactions. He couldn't let himself.

He didn't want them to know that his fingers went numb sometimes during warm-ups.

Or that after every practice, it took him almost an hour alone in the bathroom to stop shaking.

Or that food made his stomach churn these days, so he skipped most meals— what was the point of eating when his body didn't listen?

He wasn't asking for help. He wasn't expecting concern anymore.

So when they gave it—when they asked if he was okay—he couldn't accept it as care.

He only heard the echo of Minho's voice: ' Stop failing. Do better.'

And that was all he could cling to now.

The dance routine ended with a sharp beat, echoing in the studio like a gunshot. The others panted heavily, sweat dripping, muscles aching—but alive.

Seungmin quietly stepped back, slipping toward the mirrored wall with shaky legs. He didn't sit—he never sat.

Sitting felt indulgent. Privileged. Like something for people who had a right to be tired.

He was a beta. He was a nobody, and he didn't deserve it.

He leaned just enough that the mirror caught his weight, hoping it wouldn't shatter under his silent exhaustion.

His vision blurred slightly. His fingertips trembled where they clutched the hem of his hoodie. But he pressed them into his sides, hiding them. He'd gotten good at that.

"Seungmin-ah," Hyunjin called out gently, towel-drying his hair. "You're sweating more than usual. Are you okay?"

Jeongin, still catching his breath, turned too. "Hyung, your hands are shaking," commented IN.

Seungmin looked down, startled, and tucked them into his pockets, biting back the shame. "It's nothing."

"Did you eat breakfast today, Seugminnie?" Chan asked, arms crossed.

His tone wasn't angry—just soft. Careful.

But that made it worse somehow.

"I forgot," Seungmin replied too quickly. Then added, "It's fine. I'll eat after this."

But the words felt rehearsed. Empty.

It was how he replied to their primary manager, Jung Hyung, whenever he remembered Seungmin's existence and asked him.

Seungmin hadn't had more than a cup of coffee and half a rice cake in three days. His stomach couldn't take it, and food made him nauseous.

He hadn't told anyone. Because if they knew, if they saw-

They might stop needing him, and Seungmin can't have that.

"It's not important," he said with a tight smile, barely meeting their eyes.

But wasn't it?

Just for a second, the question rose—but he crushed it. It didn't matter. Not anymore.

"I'll be alright. I'm okay."

They looked at him, worried. The tension thickened like smoke in the studio. But Seungmin bowed and turned away, brushing his sweat-slicked hair back.

His ears rang. His knees ached.

He was breaking apart piece by piece, but no one could tell—not if he hid the cracks well enough.

Not if he wasn't Seungmin anymore—just the beta they needed, he reminded himself.

~

He couldn't sleep again that night in the dorm.

The ache behind his eyes pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a dull throb that no amount of blinking could clear.

He lay motionless on his bed, staring at the faint cracks in the ceiling. He counted and recounted them.

Anything to keep from feeling the weight in his chest.

The room was silent. Everyone else had gone to sleep hours ago, Seungmin guessed.

He sat up slowly, one hand pressed against his ribs.

It hurts to breathe.

It wasn't sharp, just tight.

It was like a band wrapped around his lungs. It had been this way since last week's practice—he thought it'd pass.

Maybe he was just anxious. Or tired. Or dehydrated. Or perhaps he was being dramatic.

He stood up, but the room spun too fast.

His hands reached for the wall automatically, gripping the shelf beside his bed as his knees buckled.

He didn't fall. Not fully. Just enough to remind him that his body wasn't listening anymore.

Seungmin exhaled a soft breath, mouth dry.

He hadn't had dinner again. He couldn't remember the last time he had a full one. Not because he wanted to starve but because his body had stopped wanting.

And maybe that was easier.

Maybe it was easier to keep wasting away, losing scent, losing voice, losing weight—because at least then, he could disappear quietly.

The members had begun looking at him again. But only when he faltered. Only when his breath caught or his knees trembled.

And wasn't that what he wanted?

He wasn't sure anymore because that scared him more.

Because if they noticed the cracks, they might think he was weak, just like the others.

He sat on the edge of the bed again and whispered into the dark as if someone might be listening.

"I'm fine. I'll do better."

His voice shook.

He gripped his forearm without looking and pressed down over the old burn, sharp and deep, grounding.

No heat.

No sting.

Nothing.

So he got up and went to the bathroom. He stopped burning his skin with the hot spoon.

Because it takes longer for the skin to get better.

Seungmin could tell his immune system had been dropping slowly.

But that doesn't mean he can't shower with scalding hot water.

It would ground him. It has to.

~

Morning light crept into the dorm kitchen, pale and hesitant, like it wasn't sure it wanted to be there. The silence was heavy—the kind that wrapped around your chest and stayed there.

Seungmin moved through it with practised ease, pouring water, tilting a pill from a bottle into his palm, and swallowing it dry.

His hands trembled slightly as he capped the bottle. He paused, letting his palm rest on the counter, chest rising too slowly. The ache in his ribs hadn't eased since last night.

He reached for a mug but missed the handle on the first try.

"Seungminnie?"

Felix's voice broke through the quiet. He was standing a few feet away, hair still damp from his shower, holding a protein bar.

"You didn't eat last night," Felix said gently. "Just take a bite, yeah?"

Seungmin looked at it, then at Felix. His expression didn't change.

"Thank you," he said and took the bar with both hands politely.

But after a second, he placed it on the counter. He had no intention of eating it anytime soon.

Felix frowned. "You've been looking pale. Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," replied Seungmin softly as he made himself one with the shelf, not taking up space more than necessary.

"You sure? You were shaking during practice yesterday—"

"It's nothing," he responded way too quickly for it to be normal.

That silenced Felix. The words weren't defensive or sharp. Just empty.

Hyunjin stepped into the room next, yawning.

"Is there any coffee—oh. You okay, Seungmin? You look kinda—"

"Coffee is in the flask," Seungmin changed the topic.

Han joined in a beat later, catching the tension. "You sleeping at all lately?"

"I do," he said, which sounded more respectful and obedient than a friendly exchange.

They all exchanged glances. None believed Seungmin, but his tone made it hard to press.

Seungmin excused himself with a shallow nod and padded out of the kitchen, leaving the protein bar untouched. 

If Felix noticed the abandoned snack bar on the counter, he didn't comment on it. He only stared at it, troubled.

'Why are they giving me so much attention when all I wanted was to escape it,' thought Seungmin as he got ready for practice.

~

The hallway felt disorienting at the company that afternoon, when he left for the washroom in between practice sessions.

The white walls, the fluorescent lights, the indistinct chatter leaking from practice rooms—all blurred into static. Seungmin's fingers clutched the railing, but his knees didn't hold.

His vision narrowed. His lungs refused to pull in the air fast enough.

He couldn't breathe again.

"Not here. Not now," he thought dimly.

"Please, not where they can see."

He heard someone call his name, but it sounded like it came from underwater.

A firm hand caught his arm just before he fell completely.

"Hey—Seungmin-shi. Sit down."

It was their assistant manager, Wooyong Hyung. Not the main one, but one of the newer staff. Gentle, rarely got angry.

He steered Seungmin into a nearby meeting room—empty, quiet, lights low. Seungmin collapsed onto one of the chairs, body sagging like wires finally snapped.

He couldn't stop shaking. His breath rattled through his chest as if it had to claw its way out. He only wanted to use the washroom and return to the vocal practice, which nobody cared about. He wasn't the main vocalist of the group.

And he barely had a line in any of their songs lately. So, who would care, right?

But reality didn't care what he wished.

"You're burning up," the manager muttered, checking Seungmin's forehead.

"Stay here. I'll get water. And someone from the med team. Don't move, aEnigmat?"

Seungmin didn't answer. But he nodded faintly.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Seungmin sat there, palms flat on his knees, trembling. His sleeves slipped up slightly. Red burns peeked out—old, not yet healed. He tugged them down again.

As he stayed seated for a while, he heard voices outside. Someone was happily talking on the phone.

"I'm telling you, the beta kid from Stray Kids ate the blame like a dog," someone laughed.

"All that mess wasn't even him. But it worked. Kept our trainees clean. Poor kid didn't even push back. Quiet types are easy to use that way."

~"You think he knew?"~

"Course he knew. But silence speaks louder, right?"

~"Did JYP not check the source?"~

"Guess not. Or maybe the management only needed someone quiet to take the fall. You know how it is for the betas in the industry.

The manager froze at the door, listening to the conversation.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

And then he inhales sharply.

He gripped the water bottle harder as he returned to the room. "Seungmin," he called, his voice steady but urgent.

The boy looked up slowly. Eyes dull. He already knew. It's nothing new to him, and he doesn't care because it doesn't change anything.

"You knew who did it, didn't you?" the manager whispered, his voice tight with disbelief as he observed Seungmin's lack of response after overhearing the conversation.

"You knew they blamed you for something you didn't do?" he asked bewildered.

Seungmin didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just nodded once.

"It's okay, Hyung," he said softly.

That was all.

He took the water from the assistant manager's hand, murmured, "Thank you," and stood. His steps were steady despite the tremor in his legs. He bowed politely.

Then left.

The door clicked shut again. This time quieter.

The assistant manager stood frozen, staring at the space Seungmin had left behind.

The assistant manager's mouth formed a grim line, his fingers curling around his phone as his heart hammered in fury.

He dialled the number.

When the call picked up, his voice was tight.

"Chan-ssi, you won't believe what I just discovered."

__________________

End of Chap 7 (Part 1) .

TBC.

__________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

"Chan-ssi, you won't believe what I just discovered."

It took less than twenty minutes.

The assistant manager found Chan in the smaller studio, headphones half-on, scrolling through demos. Chan sat up immediately when he recognised the look on the man's face.

"What happened, Wooyong hyung?" he asked on alert.  

The assistant manager told him everything.  

Every overheard word.

Every detail.

Every implication.

He told Chan how Seungmin had almost collapsed in the hallway before that.

He explained how Seungmin thanked him for the water and walked away like someone who had already accepted the betrayal.

Like it was familiar.

Chan didn't move for a long minute.

His chest felt like it caved in.

"Gather everyone for me, hyung. Please," Chan said, voice low, almost hoarse. "The others need to know, now."

The JYPE complex had gone quiet that afternoon—too hushed for the usual buzz of demos and training chatter. The members gathered at the studio one by one upon the assistant manager's request to assemble.  

Minho arrived first, then Hyunjin, Jeongin, Felix, Changbin, and Jisung. None spoke at first, but the tension shifted once Chan shared what their assistant manager had heard.

Silence, stunned and loud.

Then—

"What do you mean he knew who did it?" Jisung asked, voice cracking.

"He never told us? Why didn't he tell us?" Hyunjin's tone was sharper, more frantic.

Changbin clenched his jaw. "Because we never asked."

The shame settled like a storm cloud.

Jeongin stared at the floor, fists balled. "We believed the rumours. I believed it at first. I didn't give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Worse," Felix muttered, his voice trembling, "we wanted to believe them. It gave us a reason to ignore him. To push the anger and betrayal on someone."

"He still came to practice," Minho said quietly. "Still sang. Still danced. Even when we gave him nothing."

"He probably thought he deserved it," Jisung whispered. "That's the worst part."

Chan didn't speak. He was gripping the edge of the chair so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.

It was his team. His mistake. And somehow, in all his vigilance, he had missed the way Seungmin broke, and he needed to stop it. Stop this.

"I have to fix this. I have to—" and then —

The fire alarm blared.

Red lights flashed overhead. Shouts echoed down the hallway. The staff's urgent calls filtered in: "Evacuate. Now!"

"Everyone out!" their assistant manager ordered, ushering them through the back route.

Down the stairwell.

Through the emergency exit.

Out to the cold evening air.

Trainees spilt into the open bay near the fire trucks, coughing, shouting, and clinging to each other. But their group stayed huddled to the side, breathless and shaken—not just from the alarm.

But something was off.

"Where's Seungmin?" Felix asked first.

They all turned instinctively, scanning the groups, the chaos.

No one answered.

Then—  

~

Elsewhere, in a stairwell thick with smoke and silence, Seungmin moved like a ghost.

Seungmin's eyes burned red as he moved through the stairwell. Each breath scraped like sandpaper, each step echoing hollow. His hoodie covered his face, but the fabric didn't provide much protection. Neither did the hand pressed against the railing, trembling more than he'd like to admit.

He was so tired.

So—

So tired.

Not just from today.

Not just from the stairs,

Or the smoke

Or the week of skipped meals.

But from existing.

The floor tilted once.

Then again.

He kept going. A puppet on strings, no one was pulling anymore.

When he reached the last step, he didn't know where he was or what had happened.

He remembered the silence of the vocal booth, the isolation of the faraway practice room, the vocal sheets he'd stared at for hours.

Then the movement—people running, hands covering their noses.

Voices yelling.

But he smelled nothing.

He heard nothing.

Like the fire didn't want him either.

He hadn't even realised the alarm was going off until his eyes stung.

Smoke clawed at his lungs.

The corridors blurred.

No one had come to warn him.

Not his members.

Not a manager.

Not even a passing trainee.

Maybe they forgot.

Or maybe they knew.

And they didn't think it mattered.

He was just a beta, after all.

Easily replaceable. Not meaningful.

So Seungmin found his way out by himself.

Because that's how it's always been.

He only had himself.

"Seungmin-ssi—!"

The voice was sharp and clean, cutting through the numb fog like ice water.

It was the same assistant manager.

The one who'd offered water a few hours ago.

The one who had seen .

The man rushed forward, steadying himself with one arm carefully like Seungmin might break.

"Come on. Just a few more steps."

Seungmin didn't respond.

He didn't resist nor speak.

He leaned in all weight, no will.

Just a body led forward.

They reached the door.

The cold air slapped him across the face.

But Seungmin didn't feel it.

His knees buckled the moment his foot touched the pavement.

His legs gave way, and for the first time, even pain refused to catch him.

He felt the cold on his skin, but not enough to care.

"Thank you, hyung," he said before he folded—

silently—

like paper.

Collapsed in the man's arms.

The staff yelled for help.

He screamed for medics.

A team ran over from the emergency zone.

And across the rescue bay, the rest of Stray Kids stood still.

They saw.

They all saw.

Seungmin limp in another man's arms.

Eyes closed.

Mouth parted.

Ash and smoke in his hair.

Like someone who never meant to be found.

"He didn't even try to call us," Hyunjin whispered, his voice trembling.

"He didn't even look for us," Jisung choked as if that truth hurt more than the fire.

"Hyung probably didn't think we'd come…" Jeongin's voice cracked into pieces.

And Chan—

Chan stood frozen .

He watched the boy who used to sing like sky and spring wind get carried away like dead weight.

And it wasn't smoke that burned his eyes.

It was guilt.

Hot, blinding guilt.

They had made him this invisible.

_________________________

End of Chap 8.

TBC.

_________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The room is quiet.

Not the calm kind of quiet.

Not peaceful.

The kind of quiet that came before something snapped—like the moment between lightning and thunder.

The VIP room that the management got for Seungmin had comfortable sofas and chairs. But, no one sat.

Most of the members paced or stood rigidly, tension coiled beneath their skin.

Chan hadn't moved in for over an hour.

Jeongin sat cross-legged on the sofa near the bed.

Minho leaned against the wall with arms crossed so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

Felix kept glancing at the door like he was scared someone would come and say it was too late.

They'd been here since Seungmin got admitted.

Seungmin.

Their Seungmin, who hadn't opened his eyes since the smoke-filled stairwell.

Who hadn't responded to their voices?

Who collapsed without calling a single one of them for help.

And now—

A soft movement. Barely a twitch.

Subtle and small.

But they all saw it.

His fingers.

Then his lashes.

Then, finally, his eyes opened.

The lights are soft above him. Not sterile, not glaring—just faint. Like everything around him dipped in cotton.

Seungmin's eyes opened—and immediately fixed on the ceiling.

Not from weakness.

From choice.

Seungmin heard their voices.

He recognised their scents faintly. And let the words slide past him like rain on glass.

The voices got muffled. None of them reached Seungmin yet. Machines beeped near his head. Reliable. Predictable. Unlike people.

There's a cannula in his nose and an IV on his wrist. Even the weight of the blanket made his hand tremble.

Every breath feels like it clawed its way out of his ribs.

But he's alive.

He almost wished he weren't so sure of that.

"Seungmin-ah?" Han whispered from his seat as if saying it too loudly would scare him away.

Seungmin's eyes moved—upward, then to the wall.

Not to them.

Never to them.

"Seungminnie," Chan tried gently, stepping closer, "You're safe now. You're—"

Seungmin didn't blink. He looked past them. Through them. Eyes flat, as if someone had closed the blinds behind them.

Felix leaned closer. "Do you hear us?" he asked softly.

Still no reaction.

It wasn't dissociation.

It wasn't grogginess.

It was an absence.

Jisung swallowed hard. "Say something," he whispered. "Please."

But there was nothing.

The heart monitor beeped, steady. A saline drip clicked somewhere nearby. Seven boys stood helpless in a silence they had helped create.

They were too late.

Hyunjin turned away, pressing his hand over his mouth.

Jeongin's shoulders began to tremble. "Hyung's awake, but it seems like he's not here," he said brokenly.

Minho stepped closer and reached out carefully, but the moment his hand neared Seungmin's shoulder—

Seungmin blinked. His body stiffened. Eyes locked forward.

No eye contact. No flinch.

It's a practised stillness.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't resentment.

It was a learned behaviour.

A beta's obedience.

His body acted on habit, like the beta with programmed morals and rules, not the human Seungmin.

And then—

The door burst open.

Heavy boots. A bag thudded to the ground.

A woman's voice—frantic and broken.

"Seungmin!"

Heads turned. No one recognised her at first—until they saw her eyes.

They were his.

Seungmin's sister rushed to the bed like a wave breaking through a dam.

Her voice breaks on his name.

Her hands found him—trembling, but sure. She dropped to her knees at his bedside, coat pooling behind her like fallen armour.

He heard the rustle of her coat hitting the floor as she sank beside the bed. Fingers combing gently through his hair. Her shoulders were shaking.

"Minnie," she gasped. "Oh my god, puppy—what happened to you?"

The members stepped back without protest. No one dared interfere.

Her hands combed gently through his hair, her scent cutting through the antiseptic: lavender and something older. Familiar. Safe.

"I called. I emailed. I begged you to answer. Why didn't you—?"

He couldn't respond. Didn't try. His throat closed up at the sound of her crying.

"I saw the news. At the airport. You were—god, Minnie, puppy, what happened to you?"

She pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and she curled beside him like a wall against the world.

And even though he's awake, even though he's breathing, she begins to sob like she's mourning.

"You're okay. I'm here. I'm here now."

Seungmin's lips parted.

But no words came.

Not even a sound.

She kissed his forehead, brushing the hair back gently.

"It's okay, puppy," she whispered. "You don't have to talk. Just breathe. Just look at me, okay?"

And for the first time, Seungmin's eyes blinked with something faint.

Not relief.

Not joy. Just recognition.

But, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. His body physically refused to obey because somewhere along the way, he had been taught not to.

Then he remembered. Yes , he was told not to, wasn't he?

His sister was an alpha female.

Like a good beta, he should keep his eyes low, wasn't he?

His body locked— old instincts clawing up his throat—until her thumb brushed his cheek.

A whisper only he heard.

"Look at me, puppy." And like a snapped cord, his gaze lifted.

Not to obey.

To prove he still could.

So, Seungmin saw her in the eyes.

He was too tired.

Even this much felt like drowning. But Seungmin stayed awake because this was different.

She saw him, too.

She always had.

Her hand threaded through his limp fingers.

For a moment—nothing.

Then—

A twitch. The barest squeeze.

Not desperation.

Not weakness.

Not a need.

A signal.

'Don't leave me.'

She understood.

She always did.

She rose slowly. Her hand left Seungmin's, only for her body to place itself between him and the others— not a shield, but a sword unsheathed.

He didn't speak.

But he didn't have to.

~

A knock at the door.

A nurse entered, followed by a man in a long white coat. The doctor's expression is careful and clinical, but beneath the professionalism, there's concern.

"Excuse me," he says gently, eyes scanning the room. "I'm Dr. Yoon, Seungmin-ssi's attending physician. I'm here to update everyone on his condition."

His gaze moves to Seungmin, then down to the monitor that traces his vitals.

Steady. But far from healthy.

The doctor's brow furrows.

"First," he began, "he's stable. His oxygen levels have improved, and his throat is healing. However, this wasn't a simple fainting incident."

That word—fainting—sharpened his sister's gaze.

Dr. Yoon continued. "Seungmin-ssi has Laryngopharyngeal Reflux—LPR. Silent reflux. It causes inflammation in the throat, which makes eating and breathing difficult. The smoke exposure worsened an already severe case. But this wasn't sudden. He's been deteriorating for weeks. Maybe longer."

He paused, then looked around. "Were any of you aware?"

As the doctor spoke, Seungmin's hand curled faintly in the sheets. Not trembling— clutching. Like he wanted them to see the burns.

The reflux.

The proof of their neglect.

No one spoke.

The silence speaks volumes.

Felix shakes his head numbly. Han looks like he's about to say something, but the words don't come. Minho's hands curl at his sides.

Dr Yoon's frown deepens.

Dr. Yoon sighed and continued by flipping to the next page of his chart.

"I'd also like to ask about something else." He looks around before lowering his voice.

He continued, "During the initial examination, we discovered several burn scars.

Linear. Uniform. Self-inflicted, mostly on his arms. They weren't fresh, but they weren't old either."

He looks up. Gently but firmly.

"Did any of you know that Seungmin-ssi had been harming himself?"

Jisung staggered as he got punched.

"No," Chan whispers, barely audible. "No, we didn't. —We didn't know."

Jeongin's eyes are wide with horror. "We didn't see anything. He never—he never said—"

"I see," Dr. Yoon nodded and replied, face heavy with sympathy.

But the temperature in the room shifted.

Seungmin's sister straightened.

Her expression was as hard and unyielding as steel.

She took one look at Seungmin—bandaged, silent, thin—and turned.

"You mean to tell me," she said quietly, "that none of you noticed he couldn't breathe? That he couldn't eat? That he nearly died—and none of you cared enough to ask why?"

The doctor takes a quiet step back, sensing the storm.

She turns to the members.

"He was suffering inside, and none saw him fading?! "

Minho opens his mouth, but she cuts him off with a glare that could split stone.

"My baby brother nearly died. And you only noticed when he collapsed! "

Nobody breathes.

She turned to the nurse. "Was this on his chart before today? Did anyone at this company log a single mental health concern?"

The nurse's silence answered.

Then the door opens again— wrong timing.

Their primary manager, Jung hyung, steps in, holding a phone and wiping sweat from his brow.

"Ah, Seungmin's sister, yes? I was coming to inform you," he starts, eyes darting toward the bed, "that we've stated to the reporters that Seungmin only fainted due to the smoke and minor shock, nothing serious. It's for the damage control. He's stable now. So we'll manage the schedules—"

"Shut up," she said.

Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind that means danger.

He blinked. "I—I beg your pardon?"

"You told the public he fainted due to smoke and minor shock? Are you kidding me right now!"

"Look, it's standard PR. We can't let this blow up—"

The manager's lie hung in the air—and Seungmin's monitor blared a sudden warning. Heart rate spiking. Not from pain. From fury.

His sister didn't hesitate. She turned towards him, eyes blazing, and Seungmin's breath hitched— like an approval.

"Get out." Her voice cuts like a whip. And this time, it wasn't a request. It was his order, spoken through her.

"You don't get to parade around pretending this didn't happen. You don't get to lie about my brother's injuries while he's lying here sick."

The manager steps back, unsure.

"I am now his sole guardian," she says firmly. "He is my baby brother, and I'm his direct family in charge. I have full medical and legal rights over every decision from here on out."

She turns to the hospital staff.

"I want every single person who failed him out of this room. That includes management. That includes these so-called packmates."

Her voice cut through the room—but it was Seungmin's breath, suddenly becoming steady, that made Chan's head snap up.

As if Seungmin'd waited for this. As if he knew she'd be the blade he couldn't wield himself. As if he can't wait to be away from them.

"No, please. Let me," Chan pleads, but she holds up a hand.

"If you couldn't protect him before, then you don't get to be here now. Leave, Chan."

No one moves at first.

Then, the nurse looks between them and slowly nods.

"I'm sorry," she says softly. "But we have to respect the patient's emergency proxy. You'll have to wait outside."

"Wait—wait, please—" Han begins, but the doctor stops him.

"It's better if you go. For now."

One by one, the members move to the door, silent, ashamed, tears in their eyes. They steal glances at the bed, Seungmin's limp form unmoving.

They didn't know when his eyes closed again, nor whether he was sleeping or simply too tired to see everything around him, unable to respond.

As the door closed behind them—

Seungmin's sister sinks back beside him, steadying her breath. She held his hand again.

"I've got you now, puppy," she whispers, like a promise. "No more pretending. No more getting left behind."

The beeping of the monitor is the only sound left.

But for the first time in days—

Seungmin's chest rises without a struggle.

Perhaps it was the medication, or maybe he finally felt safe. One thing is sure: he felt guarded in his sister's presence.

He hoped no one would take that safety from him again.

She held Seungmin's hand again.

This time, he didn't hesitate.

He squeezes back once—Not hard. Just enough.

A silent "Thank you."

_________________________

End of Chap 8.

TBC.

_________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

https://ao3-rd-18.onrender.com/works/58057900

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Chapter Text

The VIP room door slammed open with a sharp click, followed by the sharp stomp of polished dress shoes on linoleum.

The primary manager, Jung hyung, stormed out, lips pressed into a thin, angry line, muttering profanities beneath his breath. His face was red — not from panic, but humiliation.

"Handle the family," he snapped at the assistant manager, Wooyong, without breaking stride.

"And anyone else making noise. I've got the press and the company breathing down my neck."

He didn't wait for an acknowledgement. He just disappeared around the corner, leaving the weight of the aftermath in someone else's hands.

The assistant manager stayed still, watching the door swing slowly shut behind him.

The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain. A silence clung to the air, too heavy for a place built for emergencies. The assistant manager paused before the closed door, which the manager had just exited.

Seungmin's family is inside.

He raised a hand to knock.

Paused.

Lowered it.

Tried again.

Again.

On the fourth try, he finally knocked — softly, like the echo of a conscience. The door opened just a sliver.

Seungmin's sister stood on the other side. Her eyes were red from crying, but her expression was steady — cold, even.

"Yes?" she asked.

He bowed slightly, the folder still under his arm.

"I... I don't mean to intrude. I just—"

"I wanted to see how Seungmin-ssi was doing. Just for a moment," he said softly.

Her response was calm. But it landed like a closed gate.

"He's asleep. And he doesn't need any more visitors now.

Especially not from your side. Please, let my brother rest. He deserves that much."

The assistant manager froze. Not because he didn't expect it — but because the sting was still worse than he'd braced for.

He nodded. "I understand."

"I'm not here as the company," he added quietly. "Just… someone who cares."

But she didn't move.

And he didn't beg.

Instead, he bowed again, lower this time.

Then turned away.

~

He only took two steps into the waiting bay before they saw him.

And then they were on their feet — all of them, in a heartbeat, as if they'd been holding their breath since Seungmin's sister chased them out.

"Hyung—!"

Felix's voice cracked first, desperation tangled into the syllables.

"Is Seungminnie okay now?"

"Has he woken up again?"

"Did he say anything?" Jeongin was at his side in seconds, eyes too wide, fists clenched around the hem of his shirt.

"Did he ask for us?" Chan's voice came last — low, tight.

So much panic in their eyes.

There was so much hope, barely held together by threads.

The assistant manager held up a hand.

His voice was calm, but it carried a quiet weight that made all of them still.

"He's stable. That's all the doctors will say for now."

A beat.

"He's sleeping now, according to his sister."

Silence.

Something cracked in the air.

Hyunjin slumped back into his seat, both hands in his hair. Jeongin sat down slowly, turning his face away and biting his lip until it nearly bled.

Chan didn't sit — he just stood there, like someone who'd lost too many battles in one day and couldn't afford to collapse.

The assistant manager sighed softly and motioned to the benches.

"Sit down. All of you."

They obeyed.

Not like idols with something to prove — but like boys who didn't know how else to be anymore.

The assistant manager waited until the room stilled again.

Then, he took the seat across from them.

"Do you remember," he said slowly, "Do you remember what we discussed before the fire started?"

They didn't answer. But the assistant manager saw their shoulders tense.

"The rumour," replied Bang Chan, looking down.

"We were going to figure it out… trace it back…"

"We never got the chance," Minho added.

His voice was soft but steady—the kind of constant that only regret could carve into bone.

"That's why I'm here," the assistant manager said. "Not just to check in on Seungmin. But to finish that conversation."

He paused, eyes sweeping across all of them.

"You need to understand where things started to go wrong. You need to see it. All of it."

Silence. Again.

"Maybe it started earlier," Jeongin muttered, voice thin. "When Jung Hyung started telling us to stop piling work on Seungmin hyung. 'Let the beta rest, don't bother him with corrections, give him space' —remember that?"

Hyunjin blinked. "Yeah… I thought he was being considerate. Said Seungmin was getting overwhelmed. Said he just needed quiet."

A pause.

"So we gave it to him. We stopped asking him to stay for late-night mixing. We stopped clinging to him. Felix and I started editing rap lines ourselves, too."

"He told me not to 'overburden' Seungmin with member content planning," Chan added slowly, a strange chill crawling up his spine. "Said Seungmin looked tired. Said I was pushing him too hard."

A beat.

Then, the realisation.

"...but he didn't look tired," Felix whispered. "Not back then. He just looked left out."

They all went quiet again.

Jeongin's voice cut through, sharp with guilt.

"I was being a brat when I accused him of the rumours."

A beat and quietness, then he inhaled deeply and admitted.

"I was so angry about the whole thing, and I didn't think twice before accusing Seungmin hyung. But why didn't he fight back harder?"

It came from Jeongin — blunt, sharp, heartbreak barely masked beneath the frustration.

"That's not him. The Seungmin we know? He would've called us out in a second," said Changbin, frustration tightening his voice.

"He hated injustice," Hyunjin added. "He always stood his ground. Even when it made things worse for him."

That made them all pause. A slow dread crept in.

Chan looked up slowly. "When… when was the last time he fought for himself?" he asked, almost to himself.

"When was the last time Seungmin fought back when we hurt him?"

Minho inhaled—like he already knew, but it still hurt to admit.

"I don't know," Felix said. "I don't know when he stopped." The room fell into a still, painful quiet.

"It's like… like he just learned to take it," Han added, eyes wide with a growing dread. "To swallow things down."

The words hung in the air like something sacred — and dangerous.

"He used to be sharp," Felix whispered. "Not rude. Just be honest. Unapologetically so. I loved that about him."

"He'd call out Chan hyung when he overworked us," Jeongin added, almost in a daze. "Remember? That one time during Kingdom, when none of us could speak up, Seungmin hyung just—he just did it. He used to hold us accountable."

Chan didn't speak.

Couldn't.

His hands were shaking.

"But… he doesn't do that anymore," Jeongin went on, eyes hollow.

"He just goes along with whatever.

Even when he's hurting.

Even when he's drowning," Jeongin mumbled, guilt cutting through his young voice. "Smiling when it wasn't real. Changing himself to make things easier for the rest of us…"

"I can't remember the last time he said no to something," Minho muttered. "Even when he looked exhausted."

"He flinched when I tried to check up on him," Changbin said, staring at his lap. "Just apologised. And smiled. Like it was his fault existing."

Another silence. This one is worse because it brought understanding.

The pieces fell into place, and it hurt because they couldn't unsee. Chan was the first to break.

"This is my fault," he said hoarsely, knuckles white as he gripped his knees. "I should've protected him. I should've noticed. It wasn't the rumour that broke him," Chan said slowly. "That was just the final crack."

His voice sounded broken — hoarse, guttural against every edge of guilt inside his chest.

"We… we broke him . Long before this."

Chan's vision blurred, but he blinked rapidly because he couldn't afford to cry now. Not yet.

"We taught him that he didn't matter," he said. "Without even realising it."

Hyunjin's breathing turned uneven beside him.

"We made him smaller," he choked. "Because it was easier. Because we were too loud, too busy, too full of ourselves to listen ."

Felix turned away, shoulders trembling.

"I just thought… I thought Seungmin was strong enough. He never said anything…"

"That's the problem," Minho cut in, voice like splintered glass. "We equated silence with strength."

"No…" Han whispered. "We equated endurance with love."

His voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes.

"Seungmin-ssi's a beta," the assistant manager said quietly — but not coldly.

"And that's not nothing. Not in this industry. Not in this world." All eyes turned to him. He met each gaze steadily.

"This happens to betas more than you think. Silenced. Sidelined.

Expected to adapt. To need less. To give more. And to do it all without complaint."

His gaze sharpened just slightly.

"And the worst part? The company knows it. Your primary manager knows it. He's seen this happen before. I've seen him isolate other betas, too, in other rookie units."

Everyone stiffened.

"But I always thought—" he looked down for a moment, then back at them, voice trembling — "I always thought you were different." That landed heavier than anything else.

"I thought your pack was different. That your beta was cherished. Seen. That's why I asked to join your team and be your assistant manager." His voice dropped.

"I believed in your bond." And for a moment — just a breath — none of them could look him in the eye. His words settle like a blade.

"I'm not angry because you made a mistake. I'm disappointed because you let the system change you without realising it."

He stood slowly, the folder still clutched in his hand.

His breath was slow and heavy with truth.

"You can't undo the past. But you still get to choose who you become next."

"Redemption doesn't come from being sorry. It comes from change. And earning your place again."

He looked at each of them, eyes soft — but unyielding. "You don't get to give up on him now."

Then he turned—and walked away.

~

The moment the assistant manager left them with those parting words, the silence he left behind was thunderous.

Not one of them moved.

Not Jeongin, whose legs had bounced with anxious energy just moments ago.

Not Changbin, who was usually the first to say, What now?

Because this wasn't something they could fix with apologies.

It wasn't something they could explain away with ' We didn't know.'

Because the truth was, they should have.

"Since debut…" Chan muttered. "It's been happening since debut. It's been happening in everything.

His line distribution.

His presence is content.

The way we leaned on him.

We expected him to adapt. Expected him to be okay."

Everyone turned to him. Chan looked haunted.

"He was proud. Back then," Chan continued. "Of being Beta. Seungmin said he could do everything Alphas and Omegas did — and more . Said he could be the balance."

His throat constricted.

"And we let him be that. The balance. The fixer. The one who always made things easier. But who fixed him ?"

No one answered.

Because they all knew the truth.

No one did.

Chan finally let the tears fall.

"I thought I was protecting all of you. Being the leader meant solving problems and keeping the group whole…"

He laughed — bitter and small.

"But I missed the one thing that mattered most. Seungmin wasn't whole.

And I didn't see it until it was too late."

"It's all of our fault, Channie hyung," Han said softly, leaning into his side. "We all have an equal part in this. It's not your fault solely. We all failed him. Don't carry it alone."

Jeongin spoke, his voice soft like the first drizzle after a storm.

"What do we do now…?"

No one answered immediately.

Then Hyunjin — pale, tear-streaked — spoke softly. "We have to do better. "

The words hung in the air — soft, earnest.

For a second, they almost felt like hope. But then Minho flinched.

Visibly. Violently. Like the words had struck something buried.

At first, no one noticed. Until Minho abruptly stood, staggered back, and pressed a hand to his mouth.

Felix turned to him. "Minho Hyung?"

Minho didn't answer right away. His throat worked around a confession that refused to come clean.

Then finally—

He sat down again, hard, and lowered his hands.

"I remembered something," he said quietly, eyes on the floor.

"Or… no. That's not right. I never forgot it. I just never dared to say it."

The others looked at him — slowly, cautiously.

"It wasn't during the fire. It wasn't the rumours. It wasn't even the distance. It was because of me."

Silence.

He stared down at his hands. His knuckles trembled slightly.

"Chan hyung, do you remember?" Minho went on. "Back at the company when Seungmin fainted in the cafeteria."

He swallowed hard.

"Seungmin passed out for a second, and the trainee came to get us. He scared both of us. He got up as if nothing had happened, as though it was completely routine. He even ordered drinks for us right after."

The guilt in his voice was acid.

"That moment—it brought something back. Something I've buried in my mind."

He finally looked up.

"It wasn't the first time I saw him push through pain like that. And it wasn't the first time I told him to."

Silence tightened around them.

"It happened during your pre-heat, Lixie," Minho said, turning toward Felix.

"You were overwhelmed. Seungmin tried so hard. He'd blocked his scent, stayed in the kitchen, made sure the lights were soft, the room aired, the sheets warm—he did everything ."

Felix's expression crumpled.

"But you still got overwhelmed. The room smelled like stress and pack dissonance. You cried."

Minho's voice broke around the edges.

"I was upset that he asked for space when you were going into pre-heat through Jung hyung."

His throat closed. "Lixie, when you cried, I—" he dragged in a breath, "—I turned on him. I lost it."

Everyone went still.

"I told him that being a beta wasn't hard."

His voice dropped, trembling.

"I looked him in the eye and said, 'Follow instructions. Do better. Stop failing at everything.' Like he was some machine, not our packmate."

Felix's lips parted in horror.

"I told him to know his place . "

Minho exhaled sharply as if his lungs couldn't hold it anymore.

Minho's voice trembled — low, raw, barely holding together.

"I used Alpha tone," he whispered. It was as if the words could burn.

"I commanded him. 'Eyes down, beta. Know your place.' That's what I said."

Silence crashed like a wave.

"And the thing is," Minho continued, almost choking on the shame, "I knew it wouldn't last. I'm not the pack Alpha. The command would fade. But I still said it. After that, Seungminnie never looked me in the eyes."

Minho's eyes glistened. He looked up again — barely.

"When he collapsed in the cafeteria… I saw the same expression. Not pain. Not fear. Just that same quiet obedience ."

"And I realised he still remembered it. That it stayed."

His voice cracked now.

The air dropped ten degrees. Chan's jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. Changbin's nostrils flared — his alpha instincts roaring against the abuse of rank. Hyunjin's lips parted, then shut again as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard.

Minho looked at them, eyes raw "I don't know how to undo what I did. I don't know how to make him unhear it. But if there's a way—"

Before he could complete his confession, someone moved. But the first person to move wasn't an alpha.

It was Han.

A sound snapped through the air before anyone could blink.

Crack.

Minho's head jolted sideways. Han's hand hovered mid-air, still trembling, the sting of his palm only beginning to register as he seized Minho by the collar and yanked him forward, rage and tears streaming down his face.

"How dare you," Han hissed, voice cracking. "How dare you, hyung?!"

Minho didn't fight it. He didn't even flinch.

"You used it on him?" Han's voice rose, wild and disbelieving. "On Seungminnie? How could you say that—how could you use your alpha voice like that on him?!"

His shoulders were shaking now, his eyes red and full of something that looked like betrayal and heartbreak layered over each other. Han is crying but not from rage — from grief .

"He stayed quiet for weeks. He apologised to everyone because of the rumours, even if it wasn't his fault. He kept shrinking so we'd stop hating him—and you commanded him?! You made him feel smaller?!"

Han's voice broke.

"You think you can say sorry now and fix it? You think a few tears are enough?"

Minho's eyes stung, but he kept silent.

"I begged him to talk to me a few days ago," Han sobbed. "He wouldn't. He couldn't. You made him think he didn't deserve it."

Changbin pulled Han back before things escalated.

Minho's throat clenched. Minho doesn't defend himself. He whispered, "I deserved that," as silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Fix this, hyung," Han whispered.

Then louder—choked and almost screaming now.

"Fix this, hyung!! If you can't make Seungmin look me in the eyes again like he used to, never show your face in front of me again!"

He shoved Minho back with both fists and stormed out, wiping at his soaked cheeks with his sleeve as he staggered toward the hallway.

The door slammed behind Han, rattling the walls.

No one moved. The others are left speechless because they have never seen Han hit anyone.

Minho remained slumped where Han had left him — eyes hollow, lips trembling, the ghost of those words still echoing in his skull.

'Fix this, hyung…' 

His shoulders jerked once. Then again.

The tears came silently, streaming down his face as his hands dropped into his lap, clenched and white-knuckled.

Chan was the first to speak.

Low. Controlled. But not without fury.

"I didn't expect that from you," he said, his voice tight. "Minho… you're supposed to be the one who never crosses that line."

Minho squeezed his eyes shut, pain tightening every muscle in his face. Chan exhaled sharply.

"We have to fix this. Fast. Do you know what that kind of command does to a werewolf's psyche?

A direct order like that, especially when he's at his lowest, doesn't just hurt; it wounds deeply.

It kills the inner self. Faster than any of us ever want to believe."

Minho let out a broken sound at Chan's words.

Jeongin stepped forward next. The youngest. His voice was soft but steady.

"I know," he said quietly, "you were probably overwhelmed. That the heat hormones and your Alpha instincts pushed you that day."

Minho's head hung lower.

"But that doesn't justify it," Jeongin went on, firm now. "None of our actions during the rumours are justifiable. Not yours. Not mine. Not anyone's."

He looked down at his own hands. "I stayed silent when I should've spoken. I watched Seungmin hyung suffer, and I turned away. We all did."

Hyunjin's voice came next. Quiet. Honest. Guilt-ridden.

"All of us are at fault here. Not just you for using Alpha tone."

He looked around, his eyes misted but calm. "We let ourselves believe the worst. And even when he didn't fight back, we made his silence a sin."

Changbin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze burning into the floor.

"No more excuses," he muttered.

Then he looked up — and this time, his voice was powerful.

"I don't care how long it takes. I'm going to bring Seungmin back. The old Seungmin. The one who teased us when we were being dramatic. The one who stayed late to learn dance steps to keep up. The one who laughed under his breath when he thought we couldn't hear."

He paused, voice catching for a breath.

"And if that means I have to fall on my knees and beg for redemption at his feet — then so be it."

A silence followed.

Heavy. Honest. Unforgiving.

Minho finally broke.

He folded in on himself, shoulders heaving as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. The kind of sobs that wrack the body — quiet at first, then stronger, gut-wrenching, from somewhere far beneath the ribs.

He didn't try to hide it.

He didn't try to stop.

Because there was no dignity left to protect. Only truth. And loss.

One by one, the others reached for him.

A hand on his back. On his shoulder. On his knee.

None of them said it aloud.

But the message was clear:

Do better.

For Seungmin.

For the pack.

For themselves.

And this time — they meant it.

______________________________

End of Chap 9.

TBC.

______________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

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Chapter Text

The world had settled into a cold kind of quiet again.

The soft beeping of machines faded into the distance as if they belonged to someone else's body. Seungmin's eyes fluttered open slowly, every blink dragging against the dry weight of exhaustion. His room was dim, the overhead lights off, just the faint glow of the moon spilling through the slatted blinds.

He didn't remember falling asleep again. He barely remembered waking up at all. Everything felt like it was underwater.

He shifted just a little, barely enough to rustle the blanket. The movement stirred something in his chest—tight, sore, unfamiliar. Something was wrong again, but it wasn't his body this time.

It was the sound.

A stifled sniffle, muffled behind the door.

Soft. Faint. But undeniably real.

It's the sound a heart makes when it's breaking.

Seungmin's head turned weakly toward the door. The motion sent a dull ache crawling up his neck, but he didn't care. He was staring now, his gaze fixed on the silver handle, unmoving, unblinking.

Sniff. A hiccup of breath.

Another stifled sob, like someone pressing a fist against their mouth to stay silent.

He knew that sound.

He knew it deep in the pit of his soul, like an echo of something he'd once held sacred.

"Hannie…"

His lips parted, but no sound came.

"No," his sister said firmly before he could speak. She had been sitting beside him in the chair for hours, still in her wrinkled hospital visitor's badge, her arms folded across her chest. Her voice was a blade, quiet but sharp.

"No, Seungmin-ah. You don't have to—" She shook her head, her brows tight. "Not for them. You're the one who was left alone. You're the one who got sick and suffered. Where were they then? You don't owe anyone anything. Especially not now."

He kept staring at the door. The sobbing had quieted into a pitiful hush. It was as if the person on the other side sensed they were being listened to—and felt a sense of shame.

His sister's hand touched his wrist gently, but even that felt too much. His skin still hurt from the inside out, like bruises beneath bruises.

She whispered, "Let them cry. Let them hurt. You're not the one who has to fix them anymore."

Seungmin's throat burned. Not from tears—he hadn't cried, not once, not even when his body had collapsed under the weight of everything he'd never said. No, this wasn't just breaking.

It is a choice he makes.

His lips parted slowly, trembling. When he spoke, it was quiet, like a secret confessed to the dark.

"But…"

A pause, so still it nearly swallowed his voice.

"But my Hannie is crying, Noona."

His sister's expression shifted instantly. Her hand stilled on his wrist.

"I can't…" he swallowed, the breath in his lungs barely enough to hold the words.

"I can't let Hannie cry like that. Not when I'm awake."

There was no anger in his voice. No accusation. Only the soft ache of someone who had gotten hurt beyond repair—and still chose to protect.

And outside the door, as if hearing him through the wall, the crying stopped altogether. Not because the pain had ended, but because hope sparked.

~

The door creaked open just a little more.

"Han-ssi," Seungmin's sister said gently, her voice stripped of hostility for the first time. "You can come in."

Han froze.

His eyes, red-rimmed and huge, darted to her face as though searching for a trick, a lie, a punishment in disguise. But she didn't move, didn't sneer or sigh. She stepped back just enough to give him room.

He hesitated, still cross-legged on the cold hospital floor outside Seungmin's. His fingers clenched the hem of his sleeve.

"He-Seungminnie wants me in there?" Han whispered, unsure if he could believe it.

The woman gave a faint nod, then murmured, "He asked for you."

And that broke him in a way nothing else had. Not the months of silence. Not the guilt. But that quiet truth—that Seungmin still wanted him.

Slowly, as if moving through molasses, Han staggered to his feet.

His legs were numb.

His heart was worse.  

He stepped through the threshold like he was trespassing, eyes low, breaths short. Each breath trembled.

He didn't dare look at the bed. He didn't dare hope.

Seungmin didn't speak. Couldn't. The effort of just looking at Han made his head feel light and his vision blur at the edges. But he didn't look away.

Seungmin wanted to say, 'Come here, Hannie', but his throat closed on the first word. All that came out was a shallow breath, a blink, and a weakly lifted hand toward Han.

So soft. So kind.

So Seungmin .

Han's head slowly snapped up.

Then Han saw him. Pale against the stark white of the bed, swamped in hospital linens, eyes rimmed with pain and exhaustion. But those dark eyes were looking at him, not through him.

For him.

"Seungmin-ah," Han croaked out, his voice catching like broken glass in his throat.

He didn't move at first. He couldn't. His feet refused to obey, locked in place by every memory of silence, of how they'd looked through Seungmin and pretended it was fair.

"I—I didn't know if you'd even want to see me," Han said, eyes shimmering. "I thought you'd hate me. You should hate me."

Seungmin didn't flinch.

His fingers lifted off the blanket, just barely. A flicker. Like a flower trying to bloom in the frost. But it was enough.

"Hannie," he whispered again, and something cracked inside Han's chest.

Han stumbled forward. Two steps. Four. And then Han fell—not onto the floor, but onto Seungmin, chest folding against the other's frail frame as a sob tore from him so violently it shook the bed.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

His fists gripped the edge of the blanket like he could hold Seungmin in place. As if he could keep him here, keep him his.

The weight of months, of pain, of guilt, of rumours, of silence—all came spilling out in shaking breaths and muffled cries against the shoulder of the boy who had once been his anchor.

Han cried like a boy who had been starved of comfort, starved of Seungmin.

And Seungmin—he didn't shush him.

He didn't tell him to stop.

He just let him cry.

His hand, weak and cold and still hooked up to the IV line, moved with slow care. He patted Han's back.

Not rhythmically.

He didn't patted his bac like a duty.

It was a soft, human touch in exchange for pain too big for words.

Each fragile tap echoed louder than apologies ever could.

Seungmin's sister stood silently by the door, watching Han cling to her brother like he might vanish, the way her brother, who hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since waking, allowed someone to hold him without flinching.

Her breath hitched when Han whispered something inaudible and broke into Seungmin's shoulder. He was trembling, whispering apologies like a mantra.

She hated him for what happened. She still did, in places.

But at that moment, she could only feel pity.

A boy curled up in grief.

Who was still terrified that even now- even here, he could lose Seungmin.

She didn't interrupt.

Minutes passed. The sobs grew softer, not from healing but from exhaustion.

Seungmin's fingers slowed, his hand now resting gently on Han's back. His eyes were barely open, his body trembling with effort, but he didn't push Han away. Seungmin didn't ask for space.

Han's breathing began to steady, face still buried against the hospital gown, voice reduced to soft hiccups and shaky exhales. His grip on the blanket loosened just slightly.

Eventually, one of them slipped under, then the other. Their shared warmth dulled the sterile chill of the room.

Seungmin's sister waited until the monitors hummed steady and low. She waited until Han's back rose and fell in sync with Seungmin's shallow breaths.

Then she stepped closer, her heart tugged in unexpected directions.

She pulled the thickest blanket from the cabinet and, without a word, draped it carefully over both of them—adjusting the corners so that neither would be cold.

Seungmin's head tilted slightly, his cheek resting lightly against Han's hair.

A pair of boys who looked too tired to fight, too broken to argue, yet something fragile bloomed between them.

Something softer than forgiveness. Something older than blame.

Because she realised that Seungmin didn't let Han cry on him.

He allowed Han to. There's a difference.

Therefore, she turned around without a sound, blinking back whatever stung at her eyes, and left the room with the lights dimmed low and the door closed gently behind her.

~

The morning light was hesitant.

It split only in threads through the edge of the closed blinds, soft and silver, like it didn't want to intrude.

The hospital room was still, wrapped in silence — the kind that held its breath, careful not to disturb fragile things trying to piece themselves back together.

Han stirred first. His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes still damp with dried tears. For a second, there was nothing —no sound, no memory, only the faint rhythm of a heartbeat monitor and the warmth around him.

Then he blinked.

And he remembered.

His heart twisted painfully as he realised where he was — on the hospital bed, half-blanketed, half-curled — and, more devastatingly, who he was resting against.

Seungmin.

Han's breath hitched.

He was still there. Sleeping.

Face pale. Bandages were visible beneath the gown's collar. Eyelashes fanned low on hollow cheeks. One hand lay limply beside Han, fingers faintly curled like he'd tried to hold onto something even in sleep. The other—

Han glanced down.

The other hand still rested lightly on Han's back, barely touching, but there.

A fresh wave of emotion surged in Han's chest, unsteady and sharp.

He should move. He should get up.

He shouldn't be here, on Seungmin's hospital bed, after everything that happened—after everything he let happen. After the rumours, after the isolation, after watching from the hallway like a coward while Seungmin withered.

But Seungmin hadn't pushed him away.

He hadn't asked him to leave.

Han bit his lower lip hard, swallowing down the sob that wanted to claw up his throat. Slowly, painfully, he sat up. Guilt pooled in his chest. His body was stiff and sore as if grief had settled in his bones.

He looked at Seungmin again.

"…You're still here," Han whispered, voice hoarse.

That's when Seungmin's eyelids fluttered, and Han froze.

The beta stirred slowly, blinking as though waking took more effort than it should. His eyes found Han instantly, hazy with sleep but clear with recognition.

"...Han-ah?" Seungmin's voice was barely audible. Rough. Fragile. But undeniably real.

Han blinked rapidly, then looked away, wiping his cheeks as shame burned his face. "S-sorry. I didn't mean to— I just— I thought you were gonna—"

"Ask you to leave?" Seungmin murmured, voice soft but honest.

Han hesitated. His hands twisted together nervously on his lap. "Yeah."

There was a long silence.

"I thought you were angry with me. Not that you were hurting," whispered Han as he dug his head low in shame.

Then Seungmin shifted slightly, wincing, but he turned his face a little more toward Han. His gaze wasn't angry. It wasn't cold. It wasn't even confused.

It was just tired.

And kind.

"Why not both?"

Then, quieter, "Didn't it ever occur to you that I could feel more than one thing at once?" Seungmin asked slowly, with breaks between a few words.

"I'm sorry," Han said, struggling to hold back his tears.

"I'm still upset... and mad," Seungmin said quietly, and Han flinched like he'd been slapped.

But the beta didn't stop. "I'm still hurt. You weren't there when I needed you. None of you were there. And that— that doesn't disappear overnight," he murmured in a soft voice. Seungmin's lungs ached, and the very air felt painful to him. So, he let himself say whatever he wanted to say at his own pace.

"I know," Han whispered, ashamed.

"I don't expect you to forgive me.

I didn't know if I could ever say anything.

After what I let happen. After what we let people think."

Seungmin's brows knit faintly. His lips parted like he was about to say something sharp, but it never came. Instead, his following words were gentler than Han could've prepared for.

"But you came last night," Seungmin murmured. "And you cried on me like you've been holding it in for months."

Han looked down, shoulders trembling.

"I've missed you, Seungmin-ah," Han choked out. "Every day. But I didn't deserve to miss you after what we did. I shouldn't let some baseless rumour divide us. I shouldn't have doubted you," he said while crying.

"And I missed you, too," Seungmin said, gaze heavy but sincere. "Even when it hurt. Even when I didn't want to."

Han's head snapped up, stunned.

Seungmin's lips parted—just barely. His breath came shallow, voice hoarse and raw, like it had to claw its way out of his chest. He wanted to say, 'I forgive you.' But forgiveness didn't come that easily anymore. What came instead was the truth.

"…We were everything," he rasped, the words barely more than a whisper. Each syllable cost him.

He paused—eyes heavy-lidded but steady. Then, softer still, almost inaudible, he added, "But maybe… not now. I can't forget or forgive you, yet"

Seungmin didn't say anything more after that. He didn't need to. The effort had left his fingers trembling faintly where they rested above the blanket, his chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths.

Han's vision blurred again.

"Okay," Han said hoarsely, his voice thick with tears. "Okay, Seungmin-ah." A single tear slipped down his cheek.

Han moved closer — slow, careful, almost reverent.

Not to touch. Not to demand.

Just enough that Seungmin could see the apology in his eyes without needing to say anything else.

And Seungmin — fragile, fever-warm, and far from whole — let him.

Not with a word.

Not even with a smile.

Just with a slow blink, a still gaze, and the faintest twitch of his fingers beneath the blanket — a silent signal that, for now, this was allowed.

~

The hallway outside the VIP room was silent with the stillness of early morning. Bang Chan sat quietly on the waiting bench. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands under his chin. He remained still, except for his chest, which slowly rose and fell.

He looked like he hadn't slept at all.

Like the weight of everything that had happened had carved years into his frame in a single day — and perhaps, in many ways, it had.

The toll got written across his slouched shoulders.

It's written in his drawn eyes and the dry cracks at the edge of his lips.

A leader accustomed to bearing responsibility now faces the repercussions of silence.

But he hadn't left.

Not when Han disappeared in tears.

Not when Seungmin lay unconscious in a hospital bed.

Not even when the others, exhausted and broken, had to be guided home.

"I'll stay," he'd said quietly, leaving no room for argument.

Lee Know had sobbed into Felix's chest until he could no longer speak, his fingers twisting tightly in the fabric of Felix's hoodie like he was afraid he'd unravel without it. Hyunjin, silent for once, had kept a trembling hand on Jeongin's back, guiding the youngest like they were all children again, lost in a nightmare they couldn't shake.

Changbin had been the one to gather them.

He gently said, "Let's go rest. Chan-hyung will stay."

The others had only nodded, grief sealing their throats.

They'd made an unspoken promise — they'd return first thing in the morning- with clothes, with apologies, with anything they could carry that might make up for the damage they'd caused.

So Chan stayed.

And now, just past dawn, Chan stood near the nurse's station holding a tray of warm paper cups — one with tea, two with coffee. They steamed faintly in the cool morning air, the scent of roasted beans briefly overpowering the sterile smell of antiseptic.

A familiar nurse approached, gently frowning.

"Sir," she said softly, "we're not sure if Seungmin-ssi's cleared for anything other than IV fluids. His sister may not accept anything either. You understand—"

Chan offered her a tired smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"I know," he murmured. "It's okay. Please offer it anyway. Please."

The nurse hesitated, then nodded, accepting the tray.

As she turned and disappeared through the double doors of the VIP wing, Chan exhaled slowly and made his way to the visitors' sitting area nearby. He sat heavily on the vinyl chair, stiff joints aching, muscles sore.

A second tray rested in his lap — three bentos, wrapped in the warm container, untouched.

For the others.

When they came back.

Chan stared at the door to Seungmin's room as he sat there.

He didn't try to peek in.

He didn't try to ask if Han had slept through the night curled next to Seungmin, if either of them had said anything to the nurse or if they even wanted to drink the coffee he'd sent.

He just stayed.

Like he had the night before.

And the whole world could fall apart again, and again, and again — and still, Bang Chan would remain by the door. Not because he deserved forgiveness.

But because Seungmin deserved it.

And if there's even the tiniest chance of it, he would be there when it came.

~

"Keep him comfortable and calm," the nurse murmured as she adjusted the IV. "His vitals are still fragile. Try not to make him talk too much," said the attending nurse.

Seungmin eyed the coffee takeaways on the nearby table and saw his sister and the nurse. He was not using his puppy eyes, but still, whatever she saw in Seungmin's eyes made her comment on it.

"You shouldn't be drinking caffeine yet. But I'll let you have the coffee if you promise to try your best to finish the porridge our staff brings in in a while," bargained the nurse. Seungmin was quick to nod.

"Just a few sips, puppy," his sister gently reminded him as she took the warm cup from the tray and set it on his lap.

Seungmin gave her a small, weak, sheepish smile. "Okay, noona."

His eyes lingered on the drink for a long moment, fingers brushing the paper rim. It wasn't hot chocolate or plain tea. It was that coffee blend from the corner café near their practice building — the one with oat milk and a faint cinnamon sprinkle. The one that only a few people ever remembered he liked.

He stared at it as if it were a memory come to life.

How did Chan hyung remember?

Across the bed, Han carefully watched him. Seungmin hadn't touched the drink, only looked at it with quiet disbelief, and Han's stomach twisted with guilt.

He panicked a little, voice hushed and trembling. "Maybe... maybe hyung got it wrong."

Seungmin blinked up at him.

"I remember Jung hyung told us you don't like that anymore." Han bit his lip, suddenly unsure if he had the right to say it. "He told us your preferences had changed. I tried to get this one once, and he said not to. That you switched."

A pause.

"Switched?" Seungmin echoed, confused.

Han slowly nodded. "He said… You prefer darker roasts now. No cinnamon. No oat milk. Just straight Americano, like Hyunjin."

"What?" Seungmin's voice fades. "When did I ever say that?" Seungmin's voice was small, not angry, just bewildered.

"I didn't think you did," Han admitted, shame coating every word. "But... he was so confident. He always spoke like he knew."

Seungmin didn't respond. His eyes dropped back to the cup in his hands now. The silence stretched.

Han looked down, too. His throat felt dry. But the ache inside him didn't let him stop.

"That wasn't all," Han whispered, barely audible now. "I asked him to... check the rumours. About you. About everything. But he just told me to drop it. He said you don't want to cause trouble for the management and requested space.

That you wanted out during content recordings, too."

Han laughed bitterly at his own words. "Said you liked not talking much anymore. That you were better off in the background."

Han swallowed hard.

"That's why Jeongin got mad. That day. When you didn't answer him. IN thought you were angry with him. Not~ not that you were hurting."

The silence was more profound this time. Seungmin didn't move. His hand still hovered near the cup, but he didn't drink it.

His sister, standing nearby with her cup, paused mid-sip.

Then, softly—

"That explains why Jeongin looked so hurt..." Seungmin murmured. "...when I didn't speak to him anymore?"

Han couldn't answer. His eyes stung too much to see clearly.

Seungmin turned his head away. The coffee sat untouched between his palms even when he had permission to drink it.

No one in the room moved for a long while.

Outside, the nurse passed by quietly. The sun was rising a little higher now.

But inside the quiet room, something far colder had just begun to unravel.

_____________________________

End of Chap 10.

TBC.

_____________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

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Chapter Text

Morning came too slow for them.

After being forced to return to the dorm last night at Chan hyung's request, the members were now on the verge of breaking. The silence of the dorm didn't bring rest — it only amplified what was missing. Every tick of the clock sounded like Seungmin's fading voice, and none of them could sleep through that.

They rose early. Some hadn't slept at all.

Felix had been up since before dawn, making sandwiches for Seungmin, Han, and Chan — the same kind Seungmin always made for them when someone got sick. His hands shook as he spread jam on the bread, but he made them anyway. As if feeding Seungmin now could undo all the times they hadn't noticed he'd stopped eating.

Hyunjin paced the living room, holding Seungmin's favourite hoodies in his arms, folding and unfolding them before stuffing them into a tote bag as if trying to fit apologies into cotton. His lips pressed into a tight line as if saying the wrong thing now would cost him what little he still had left.

IN sat curled on the couch, hugging Seungmin's old plushie, Dangmo. He hadn't spoken since waking up that morning. His eyes were glassy, not from tears, but from numbness — the kind that follows after you've realized you broke someone without even knowing you were capable of it.

And Minho—

Minho hadn't moved from Seungmin's bed.

He'd stayed there all night, on top of the same sheets that still faintly smelled like the boy he'd once shouted at to 'know his place.'

His lips were chapped. His face blotched from tears. He hadn't spoken because he couldn't. The words he needed were too fragile, too late. His silence wasn't strength — it was surrender.

By 7 AM, they were ready.

Bags in hand. Hearts hammering.

They stepped into the private parking garage, each movement sharp with urgency.

Changbin was already behind the wheel- hands clenched tightly around the steering column as if holding himself together through muscle alone.

But then—

They saw him.

The primary manager~Jung-hyung.

He stepped in front of the van like he had the right to stand between them and redemption.

"Where are you going?!" he barked, blocking the vehicle.

The boys froze.

The tension was instant — brittle, sharp.

"You're seriously doing this?" Hyunjin asked, voice already cracking.

Jung's expression tightened. "After everything that happened at the company yesterday, the media's crawling around like vultures. If you show up now, they'll question everything we said about Seungmin's condition. They'll call it a cover-up.

You'll make things worse.

For him. For yourselves. For all of us."

"We don't care about the press," Hyunjin snapped.

"Think with your heads for once!" Jung hissed. "I'm telling you this for your protection. Stick to the plan. Go to the company. Seungmin already has enough people with him. His sister's there. Han and Chan, too. He doesn't need more."

IN stepped forward, shaking. "Seungmin hyung doesn't need more? You think we're too much for him again?! That we're a burden to our packmate?"

"That's not what I—"

" You said Seungmin needed space!" Hyunjin exploded. "You said Seungmin was overwhelmed — after MAMA, after the leak. You told us we were too much . So we pulled away.

You said he no longer wanted us. You told us that! "

"We trusted you!" Felix yelled, stepping between them now, eyes shimmering. "When he stopped laughing; when Seungmin flinched from me; when Seungmin said nothing — we trusted your words more than his silence."

Jung's eyes narrowed. "I was trying to manage the group dynamic. Betas—"

"—are not background characters!" Changbin snapped, and this time, his voice wasn't just sharp — it was fire.

"Betas do not support roles in your twisted little hierarchy. They're people. Seungmin is not just a beta. He's our mate. Our equal .

And we let you shrink him into background noise—because it was easier than asking why he went quiet. "

Manager Jung blinked. Changbin didn't stop.

" You made him invisible. Subtly in meetings. Memos. Quiet suggestions that sounded like concern.

'He looks tired today — maybe skip this scene.'

'Let the others handle this harmony — Seungmin's not expressive enough.'

'Don't crowd him. Don't question him. Don't notice him.' "

Every sentence hit like an accusation — not just to Jung, but to themselves. Changbin's jaw clenched.

"You called it management. We called it protection.

But all it did was make it easier for us to leave him behind."

Changbin's voice rose—not loud, but sharp with purpose.

"You didn't yell. You didn't strike.

That's what made it work. You buried Seungmin in silence, and we helped."

Jung opened his mouth, but the moment was already past him.

"When Seungmin started slipping away, when he stopped speaking up, stopped laughing, stopped fighting— we thought ' he's just overwhelmed.' Because that's what you told us."

Changbin stepped forward until they were facing each other.

"You made him smaller. But when Seungmin disappeared into that silence— We let it happen. So don't stand here pretending you're doing us a favour by keeping us away."

Changbin turned toward the van. His jaw-tight and chest heaving.

"Minho-hyung," he called softly.

Minho stepped forward slowly. The hoodie that Hyunjin held in the morning is now tightly clutched in Minho's arms as if it still contained Seungmin's heartbeat. He didn't look at Jung right away. His voice came quiet—barely more than a breath.

"I told Seungmin to obey."

Manager Jung didn't respond. The air shifted.

"I looked Seungmin in the eye, and I gave him a command.

'Eyes down, beta.'

I said that. I chose to say that.

No one made me."

Minho looked down at the folded hoodie in his hands, knuckles white.

"I knew it wouldn't stick. But I said it anyway — because I thought it was right. That's what I live with now."

Minho finally looked up and continued.

"After that, Seungmin never looked at me the same again.

And I don't deserve forgiveness from him, too.

That wasn't your voice in his head, Jung-hyung. That was mine." It was incredibly harsh in its honesty.

The others had gone still. No one breathed.

"You made it easy. You gave us the language—called it structure, called it care.

But I used it. I used it to hurt someone I loved. I hurt our Seungminnie."

Minho swallowed hard. Then steadied.

"So if I walk into that hospital and Seungmin doesn't forgive me—

If he never looks me in the eye again—

I'll carry it."

He paused, voice steadying into something fierce.

"But if there's even one inch of space left for me to show him, I understand...

That I'll never make him feel that small again—

Then I'll walk through fire to earn it."

Silence fell hard.

The authority Jung hyung once wore like armour now felt thin. Exposed.

"You think this apology tour makes you better than what you did?!" he shouted in anger.

"I've been cleaning up your mess for years—don't act like you suddenly care," he said while laughing — not because it was funny, but because it was easier than admitting he'd lost.

"You're not the villain in this story, hyung. It's us, and we will do everything possible to change that," declared Jeongin with clarity.

"Step aside, Jung-hyung. We've let you lead for long enough," Changbin said, quieter now.

"Because we're not going to the hospital as idols. Not as alphas or omegas or betas. We're going as people who hurt someone we loved — and people who won't let that be the end of the story. "

And that was the final word.

The doors slammed shut.

The engine roared.

And they left behind the man who had confused obedience for care — and who never understood that being a pack means staying, even when it's hard.

Especially when it's hard.

As the van pulled away, Minho held Seungmin's hoodie tighter. It still smelled faintly of white musk and fabric softener — the way Seungmin always smelled after practice.

~

The waiting area smelled of hand sanitizer and warm coffee, but none of them had the desire for either.

They walked in with tension still clinging to their skin. The fight in the garage hadn't left them—it just settled deeper in their bones.

Chan looked up from his seat near the nurse's station as they approached, a tray of bento boxes cradled in both hands.

He raised an eyebrow. "What's with the long faces?" Then, with a more pointed glance at their postures—tense, coiled, angry—"...or angry faces?" he asked.

Changbin dropped the bag in his hand onto a chair and exhaled sharply. "Don't even ask," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Jung-hyung tried to stop us. He called it a PR risk. Said Seungmin didn't need more of us around."

Chan's expression tightened, but he didn't say anything. Not yet.

Felix stepped closer to him, his brows drawn with worry. "Channie hyung… where's Hannie? Is he okay?"

His voice was soft, careful.

Felix has become attentive to others since Seungmin went silent on them—especially Han, who craves Seungmin's presence the most.

"He's inside," Chan replied, nodding toward the VIP room. "He's been with Seungmin since last night. Stayed the whole time."

There was a pause.

Hyunjin shifted beside Jeongin and said, "Maybe… we should apologize to Seungmin. Or to his sister. Before we try to show it through actions, let's say it first."

Chan didn't answer right away. He looked down at his coffee as if the words might be floating in it somewhere. Then, he quietly said, "I don't know if it's the right time."

The hallway fell into a lull, broken only by the distant sound of monitors and wheels clicking down linoleum.

Just as Hyunjin took a breath to suggest trying anyway—

The door to Seungmin's room opened.

Han stepped out.

His eyes were red. His face was pale, lips pressed together like he was physically trying to hold himself in place. He didn't look at any of them.

He walked right past Minho, who had straightened in his chair instinctively but didn't move.

Han didn't even glance his way.

Instead, he walked straight to Chan.

Without a word, he buried himself into the older alpha's chest, fists clutching at the front of Chan's hoodie like he'd been holding back tears for hours and finally found somewhere to put them.

Chan caught him with both arms, steady and firm.

Han shook silently.

Changbin stepped closer, his voice low, almost afraid to ask. "Hannie… what happened?"

Han didn't lift his head. His voice was hoarse, threadbare.

"Seungminnie wants to leave."

The words hung there—soft, fragile, final. A sentence too heavy for one voice to carry.

Hyunjin let out a sharp breath, one hand flying to his mouth.

Jeongin blinked, stunned. "Leave… what do you mean leave, hyung?"

But Han just pressed tighter into Chan's arms, like he couldn't bear to repeat it.

Across the room, Minho stayed seated.

He didn't speak.

He didn't ask or move.

He just sat there, hoodie still in his hands, the same one he had held like a promise.

And now—he didn't know if he'd ever get the chance to give it back.

_________________________

End of Chap 11.

TBC.

__________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors opened into silence.

No hallway. No buzzing neighbours. Just the hush of polished wood floors and the faint scent of lavender and warm cedar that lingered in the air like something intentional.

Seungmin stepped out slowly, unsteady but upright, his sister's hand a firm guide at his elbow.

He hadn't realised how high up they were until he saw the skyline unfold through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul stretching below them like a painting that didn't know it had an audience.

It was vast but not cold. Sleek. Modern. Expensive but subtle. Light poured through the windows, bouncing off glass and warm-toned wood. A space designed to feel untouched — but not unlived in.

She helped him to the couch first, one small step at a time. He didn't protest. His legs still felt like paper, even after three whole days.

"Here, sit down for a minute," she murmured, her voice soft but steady.

Seungmin eased down with a slight hiss of breath, and she adjusted the cushions around him before brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

"Your room's that way," she said, nodding toward the far end of the penthouse.

"Left hallway, beside the open kitchen. The closet is stocked, but only has hoodies for now. Been ready for a while," Seungmin's sister said, her voice quieter. "Just in case."

Seungmin blinked at her.

Then, slowly, a crooked smile tugged at his lips—tired, teasing.

"You were in LA for what, five years?" he said, voice still hoarse but lighter than it had been in days.

"When did you even buy this place? Or are you secretly laundering money for some alpha cartel?"

She gave him a look. "Seungmin."

"What?" he grinned faintly. "Seems suspicious. You disappear across the globe and suddenly have a rooftop penthouse with mood lighting and organic herbal tea."

"I travel for work. I get paid."

"That much?"

She tried not to smile.

Then he tilted his head a little, eyes softening. "You even gave me a room… when you should be thinking about settling down with your partner or something."

She rolled her eyes as she moved to the kitchen. "Don't start."

"I mean, no pressure," he murmured, still smiling faintly. "You're already married to your work and your overly fluffy dog, anyway."

He didn't say thank you.

It lived in the corners of his mouth, in the way his fingers curled lightly over the edge of the couch cushion, in the steadiness of his breath even after the stairs and smoke and too many days of not breathing at all.

He wasn't better. Not yet.

However, Seungmin wasn't used to being handled so carefully, especially since no one ever told him he was delicate.

Every time she fluffed a pillow or adjusted his sleeves, something in him tightened — unused to care that didn't ask for something in return.

But here, in this space which she'd carved out just for him, he felt like maybe he didn't have to keep disappearing.

His sister returned a few minutes later with a small tray — a glass of warm water and a pill organiser, already prepped. She set it on the coffee table in front of him with practised ease.

Seungmin didn't ask what they were. He didn't need to.

He picked up the pills in silence, washed them down with the water in two gulps, and leaned back with a faint exhale.

No grimace. No fuss.

His sister watched him for a moment, her eyes softening.

"You didn't even flinch," she said quietly.

He gave her a ghost of a smile. "Guess I'm still good at something."

Then, after a beat, "We used to take painkillers like they were mints. It is nothing unusual in idol life. Non-stop practising could be cruel to your muscles."

She didn't respond to that, but her expression indicated that she didn't find it amusing.

She sank beside him on the couch, tucking one leg underneath herself.

"I didn't want to go back to that house," she said. "Kim Mansion. Whatever that was, it wasn't home. Anyway, it was too big and cold to call it home. I wanted my own space. Something that felt like mine."

She nudged his shoulder lightly. "And my baby brother gets a special privilege — a room in it. So, yeah. You're welcome."

Seungmin tilted his head, eyes still on the skyline, but a voice suddenly gentler. "Have you been back home recently?"

Her breath hitched.

"I don't remember the last time I went," he added, almost like he was confessing a secret. "Maybe… before I debuted? Not sure."

There was a pause. Seungmin swallowed.

"Do you think things might have changed?"

His sister didn't answer right away. Then she gave a soft, almost bitter laugh.

"Might not," she admitted. "But don't change the topic."

She turned to him fully now, her voice quieter but firmer. "I know you're using our parents as a distraction. You don't want to talk about what happened with your pack."

His lips pressed into a thin line.

"I get it," she said. "I do. If you're not ready to share it with me yet, I won't push. Just know that I'll be here. Whenever you are."

There was a beat of silence before Seungmin murmured, "Thank you, noona."

It wasn't loud. It wasn't emotional. But it was sincere .

She reached over and gave his shoulder a tiny squeeze. "It's late. You should get to bed."

"I will," he said. Then, quickly, "Just… not yet."

She raised a brow.

"I want to rest here for a while," he added, glancing toward the tall windows.

She studied him for a second longer, then stood. "Alright. Don't fall asleep without a blanket. It still gets cold this high up."

He gave a soft hum in reply, and with one last glance back at him, she retired for the night.

Seungmin leaned into the couch cushions, pulling the nearest throw blanket over his legs.

The city glittered outside the glass. Seoul at night was a thousand lights blinking like secrets—too far away to touch but close enough to ache for.

He stared out the window, not seeing the view.

His thoughts drifted —

Back to the hospital.

Three days ago.

Back to the people he once called home.

_____________

Han's voice still echoed in the quiet hallway.

"Seungminnie wants to leave. He said he can't be here anymore."

The words hung there—soft, fragile, final. A sentence too heavy for one voice to carry.

Hyunjin let out a sharp breath, one hand flying to his mouth.

Jeongin blinked, stunned. "Leave… what do you mean leave, hyung?"

Felix reached out instinctively toward Han, but the omega was already burying himself further into Chan's chest, trembling with unshed tears.

It was Minho who stood back the furthest, unreadable but still.

The others were already moving — too fast, too shaken.

"Wait," Chan said, his voice calm but edged in steel.

Felix spun around. "Hyung—he wants to leave. We need to talk to him—"

"Exactly," Chan said, firmer now. " Talk — not storm in and corner him the day after he nearly died."

"But—"

"Felix." Chan's eyes locked with his, the authority in them sharp. "Let's not make this about us again."

That stopped them.

Chan looked down at Han, who still hadn't lifted his head.

"Can you stay with the others, Han-ah?" he asked softly.

Han didn't speak, just nodded faintly, shoulders still shaking. Chan passed Han into Changbin's open arms.

Chan took a breath.

Then another.

And turned toward the door.

Every step felt heavy — not from fear, but from the weight of everything he hadn't said, hadn't seen, hadn't done when it mattered. He reached for the door slowly, knuckles brushing against the cool metal.

He knocked. Once.

The door opened a moment later — not by Seungmin, but by his sister.

Her expression was as guarded as it had been in the hospital room when she'd made every staff member clear the space.

Her voice was flat. "Seungmin's resting."

"I know," Chan said quietly. "I won't stay long. Please let me meet him."

She hesitated, arms crossed, gaze sharp. "If you're here to justify anyone's actions—"

"I'm not."

She studied him, and something in her shoulders eased minutely.

"…He just finished lunch," she said, stepping aside reluctantly. "Barely half, anyway. So don't push him. If I see that heart monitor spike again, I'm dragging you out."

"I understand."

Chan stepped in.

The room was dim, softened by natural light from the windows. The tray on Seungmin's table held a bowl of porridge, barely touched. The edges had gone lukewarm, the spoon resting where he'd last set it down.

Seungmin was sitting up slightly against a stack of pillows, a thin blanket across his lap. His gaze was distant, turned toward the window.

He didn't turn when Chan entered. But he didn't ask him to leave either.

Chan approached slowly, stopping a respectful distance from the bed.

"…Hey," he said.

Seungmin blinked once. "Hey," he replied quietly. His voice wasn't hostile — just tired. Like, even speaking cost him something.

"I heard you ate."

"A little," Seungmin murmured. "Had to keep my promise."

There was a faint pause. Chan nodded, stepping closer but not sitting.

"I didn't come to make this harder, Seungminnie. I just…"

He exhaled, rubbing his palms together as if warming up to the truth.

"…I just need to know if you're okay. Not physically. I know that part. But are you—" Chan's voice faltered. "Are you planning to leave?"

Seungmin didn't answer right away.

His eyes traced the edge of the bowl on the tray, then the monitor, then the bandage on his wrist.

"I don't know yet," he said finally. "But I'm tired of trying to stay where no one sees me."

Chan swallowed hard.

"That's fair."

There was another pause — not awkward, but fragile.

Seungmin's gaze finally shifted toward him. His face was pale, drawn, but not empty. It's dulled. Muted in the way people become when they've braced for too many storms.

"You don't have to fix this," Seungmin said. "You can't, hyung."

Chan's jaw tightened. He looked down, guilt pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.

"I know. But I'd still like to try."

From the doorway, Seungmin's sister watched in silence, one hand resting lightly on the doorknob, the other over her folded arms. Her stance hadn't softened, but for the first time, she didn't interrupt.

Chan didn't speak again. He just stood there—not pleading, not explaining—just present.

And Seungmin let him, but he didn't speak for a long time after that.

The steady beeping of the heart monitor filled the silence between them. Not rapid. Not spiking. Just steady. Like Seungmin himself — worn down but still there.

Chan didn't move to sit. He waited.

And when Seungmin finally looked at him again, his voice was barely audible. But the words were clear.

"Do you know when it started?" he asked, eyes unfocused, like he was speaking to memory more than to a person. "When I first felt it."

Chan didn't answer. He knew better than to fill the space.

"It wasn't a big moment," Seungmin said, lips barely parting.

"Just one of those days… we were rehearsing for a performance. I got scolded for missing a note, but no one noticed I'd been coughing all week. I thought maybe I was just off. So I thought that too."

He paused.

"But it kept happening. Practices. Schedules. Interviews. I started disappearing in slow motion. And no one asked why."

He let out a soft breath.

"You guys just accepted it. Like it was easier if I wasn't in the way."

Chan's shoulders pulled in slightly.

"I wanted to believe it was in my head," Seungmin continued.

"That maybe I was just sensitive. Or tired. Or being dramatic like Hyunjinnnie."

He looked down at his hands, fingers curling slightly in the blanket.

"Then the manager started pulling me from scenes. Said I looked pale. When he said, I didn't bring the same energy. And I thought maybe he was right too."

He finally turned to look at Chan.

"But you didn't say anything either."

Chan flinched just a little. He didn't look away.

"You always said you'd have our backs," Seungmin said quietly. "That you'd be watching. That we could come to you. And maybe that was true once. But, when it counted, you didn't see me."

Chan's throat moved like he wanted to speak, but no sound came.

"I kept showing up," Seungmin said, almost like he was reminding himself .

"I kept singing that one line given to me. I kept dancing even when it hurt.

Even when I hadn't eaten. Even when the burn felt better than the silence."

His voice cracked there, not loud. Not weeping. Just thin, and soft.

"I kept coming back. But it felt like no one ever waited for me to."

The monitor beeped, steady and low.

Chan stepped closer slowly.

"You're right," Chan said finally, his voice rough. "About everything. I stopped watching when I should have looked closer. I thought I was giving space. I thought I was protecting the group. But it was cowardice."

He met Seungmin's eyes, and this time, his voice trembled.

"You were there the whole time. And we failed to show up for you. It's my fault to stop looking, I won't justify that."

Seungmin didn't cry. His eyes were dry. But something in his face—some invisible wire—untensed, just barely.

"I don't want apologies, hyung," Seungmin said. "Not right now. Not from anyone."

Chan nodded. "Then I won't give one."

Seungmin blinked, surprised.

"I'll give you something else instead," Chan murmured. "Time. And space. And the truth, when you want it. I'll wait until you're ready, even if that takes a long time.

Because Seungminnie, you mean more than anything. It's our fault that we failed to show it to you."

There was a long pause.

And then, slowly, Seungmin nodded.

He didn't say thank you. But he didn't turn away either.

He just reached out and nudged the tray closer — not to eat, but to move it aside. To clear space between them. Not an invitation. But not a dismissal.

That was enough for now.

Chan stepped back with quiet understanding. "I'll tell the others you're resting."

As he reached the door, Seungmin spoke again — quiet, dry, almost like a joke.

"Tell them not to cry. I don't need that from them."

Chan huffed a soft laugh under his breath — a real one, sharp with grief but genuine.

"Can't promise that, Seungmin-ah."

As Chan was about to leave for good, Seungmin said softly, "Chan hyung, thanks for the coffee."  

"Always," replied Chan with a genuine smile before he left.

Chan stepped out, and Seungmin's sister met him with a narrowed gaze. But before she could say anything, he just said, "I didn't ask for forgiveness."

"Good," she replied, arms folded. "It's not yours to ask for yet."

But she let him go.

____________

Seungmin's eyes didn't move from the glass.

Seoul shimmered quietly outside the tall windows — buildings lit like constellations, neon bleeding into the mist. Alive and unaware of the ache pressed against the couch cushions behind it.

He sat perfectly still, the blanket draped loosely over his lap. One hand curled near his ribs, not because it hurt — not anymore — but because it still remembered how to.

The memory lingered behind his eyes like a scene caught in an echo.

Chan's voice was rough with guilt.

His own, flat and too calm.

The tray of barely-eaten porridge was between them. The silence wasn't cold- still packed.

Seungmin exhaled slowly.

He hadn't let himself cry that day. Not during. Not after.

But tonight, with the city as his only witness, something cracked a little.

Not a sob. Not even a tear.

Just the way his chest rose — sharp, then soft — like he was learning to breathe in this new space, this fresh chapter, this possibility of beginning again.

He didn't know what he was going to do.

~Stay. Leave. Forgive. Try.~

None of those answers had arrived yet.

But for the first time, maybe he didn't need to know.

He rested his head gently against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the skyline.

Behind him, the penthouse was quiet — no beeping monitors, no sterile walls. Just soft shadows and the warmth his sister had built with her hands. It felt safe. Unfamiliar, but safe.

His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

"Still here."

It wasn't a promise.

It wasn't a plan.

It was just a fact.

And for tonight, that was enough.

_______________________

End of Chap 12.

TBC.

_______________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The snowfall hadn't let up in days.

A quiet, steady curtain of white drifted over Seoul as if the sky had joined the pack in mourning. Everything outside looked hushed, like even time had slowed to grieve.

Inside the polished lobby of the penthouse complex, the air was too still.

The security guard at the front desk had stopped paying attention two hours ago.

Felix was still sitting on the corner bench, his legs drawn close, his fingers curled tightly around the handles of a canvas tote bag that rested beside his feet. His hoodie was too large, his nose was pink, and his fingers ached from the cold that crept in through the glass walls.

Snow hadn't reached him directly, but he might as well have been standing in it.

It's been five days since Seungmin got discharged from the hospital, and he hasn't met Seungmin since Han announced that Seungmin wants to leave. The company had given Seungmin a three-week recovery break after his sister's warning. However, no official announcements have been made to the public yet. Which means, Felix hasn't seen their beta for over ten days, and he doesn't know what to do anymore.

So, here he is.

He hadn't looked up in a while. Not at the clock. Not at the elevators. Not even at the soft flicker of the lobby lights.

He didn't come up with a plan.

He hadn't called ahead.

He hadn't messaged.

Because that would've made it about him, and this wasn't about what Felix wanted. Not anymore.

He just wanted to be close .

Even if it meant never seeing Seungmin at all.

So he waited.

The canvas tote bag beside him held quiet things — Seungmin's favourite black Pokémon plushie, a hoodie from the dorm that still smelled faintly like shared meals and late-night laughter, a Tupperware of brownies, and a folded journal of Seungmin, which he hadn't dared open.

Felix wasn't even sure he'd hand it over.

He just sat.

And hoped.

And didn't ask for more.

The sun dipped behind the skyline, scattering soft orange light across the snowy streets. A few residents passed through the lobby, sparing him glances. Just a small, tired omega hunched on a bench that remembered his shape.

Then, the elevator doors swished open.

Felix didn't move.

But he felt the shift — the pause in movement, the brief vacuum in the air.

He looked up.

Seungmin's sister had stepped through the lobby doors, a paper bag of groceries in one arm, snow caught in the dark strands of her hair.

She stopped the moment she saw him.

Felix scrambled upright, stiff from sitting too long. His hands clutched the bag's strap like it might keep him from unravelling.

Her gaze was unreadable — cautious, clipped, but not cruel.

"…Why are you here, Felix-ssi?" she asked. Her tone was carefully even. Guarded.

Felix's mouth opened. His voice cracked slightly. "I just—"

He swallowed.

"I didn't want to disturb him. I'm not here to~ bother him." His eyes flicked down. "I wasn't going to ring or text. I didn't even plan to come up."

He exhaled, breath fogging faintly in the cold.

"I just… missed him. And I didn't know where else to go but here.

I just wanted to be near. That's all."

She shared her penthouse address with the members cause she wanted them to know where to find Seungmin when they're ready for redemption.

But she didn't expect a visit so soon.

She looked him over slowly — his red-tipped ears, trembling hands, the imprint in the bench cushion where he'd been sitting far too long.

"How long have you been here?"

Felix didn't answer. He didn't need to.

She noticed the nearly empty water bottle beside the bench.

Felix's pale cheeks and the faint tremble in his knees.

Her sigh was quiet but heavy.

"You've got ten minutes," she said at last.

Felix blinked. "Really?"

She nodded once and stepped toward the elevators. "Only if Seungmin says yes. The moment he's uncomfortable — even slightly — you're gone."

"Yes," Felix breathed. "Of course. Yes."

He followed her to the elevator. She didn't speak. He didn't smile.

But something flickered behind his eyes.

Hope.

Small. Quiet. Fragile.

The elevator rose slowly —just the two of them, the low hum of the elevator, and Felix's hands tightening around Seungmin's plushie like it was the only thing he was allowed to hold.

~

Inside the penthouse, warmth lived in pockets — under throw blankets, beside the gentle clinking of tea mugs on the counter, between the shadows cast by soft yellow lamps.

Seungmin's sister stepped into the living space first, shaking light snow from her coat sleeves as she placed the grocery bag on the island.

She kicked off her boots and turned toward the couch, ready to warn her brother that someone had followed her home — but paused when she saw him shift first.

Seungmin lay half-curled on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt and baggy pyjama pants, his hair mussed, blanket around his waist as if he'd been asleep for hours and still wasn't sure how to be awake in the world again.

The TV played quietly behind him — background noise, static comfort.

She was just about to set down the bag and call out to him—

But then he spoke first.

"Noona," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Did you get those caramel cookies?"

She froze mid-step.

"What?"

"I thought I smelled them," Seungmin mumbled, rubbing at one eye with his sleeve. "Just for a second. But maybe I'm wrong…"

Her breath caught.

She hadn't bought any caramel cookies.

And Seungmin hadn't smelled anything — not once—since the hospital a week ago.

But caramel cookies weren't just food.

They were Felix's scent.

That soft vanilla-caramel warmth that always grew stronger when the omega was trying not to cry. The scent used to linger faintly on Seungmin's hoodie sleeves during dorm movie nights, especially the melodrama ones when Felix used his arms as a comfort pillow.

And now — it was back.

Even faintly, even briefly — it was back .

Her voice softened.

"Puppy…" she gently said. "There's someone here to see you."

His brows knit.

Then his eyes widened — just a little. But enough.

He didn't ask who.

He didn't need to.

And right on cue—

"Ah—achoo! Ah-choo!"

Felix's muffled sneezes echoed from the hallway like an accidental confession.

Seungmin didn't move right away.

But something shifted in him — like the weight of the world nudging just slightly off-centre. Like a pulse finding rhythm after too long in silence.

His sister waited.

"If you don't want to see him—"

"I didn't say that," Seungmin said.

His voice was calm. Not warm. But not cold, either.

Just open enough.

She gave a tiny nod and disappeared down the hallway. She found Felix just outside, shivering slightly but trying to stand still.

She raised a brow.

"Did you catch a cold just to wait out of guilt?"

Felix looked sheepish. "Maybe."

She sighed. "Come in before you die in the hallway."

Felix stepped inside, carefully, like the air might crack under his feet.

The heat flushed his cheeks, but his fingers still trembled from the cold. His hands clutched the canvas tote bag tightly as he followed Seungmin's sister to the living room.

And there, just past the hallway's edge —

Seungmin.

The blanket is still in his lap. Sleeves are too long. The shoulders are small but not as hunched. He looked like a boy still trying to piece together how the world fit again. His fingers curled lightly on the edge of the blanket— not defensive, just grounding.

And his eyes, dark and steady—

Met Felix like a memory of returning home.

~

Felix didn't sit at first.

He stood there — just past the edge of the living room — like someone who'd stepped into a memory that didn't belong to him anymore.

Seungmin stayed on the couch, half-curled under the blanket, his eyes still trained on the TV even though he hadn't heard a word from it since Felix appeared.

From the kitchen, his sister lingered just out of sight, the rustle of a grocery bag giving away her presence — close enough to step in if needed, but distant enough to give them space.

Felix finally took a few quiet steps forward.

He didn't sit on the couch. He didn't hover too close. He lowered himself slowly onto the floor instead, right across from Seungmin, the canvas bag nestled carefully in his lap.

"I brought your Pikachu," Felix said, his voice soft, unsure. He pulled the plush from the bag gently, smoothing down one ear. "The one you used to yell at IN for stealing… and say you couldn't sleep without."

He set it on the coffee table between them.

Seungmin's hand twitched slightly beneath the blanket — a near-reach, aborted halfway through. He didn't touch it. But he looked. And that was enough for Felix.

Felix smiled faintly, but didn't push.

A beat passed in silence. The room felt stretched too thin.

Seungmin wanted to say something — to ask if the others were okay, to ask if they were all here now because they cared or because they felt guilty. To ask if Felix had cried the night they stopped speaking.

But he didn't.

Because the answers would hurt.

And Felix already looked like he was trying not to break.

So Seungmin stayed quiet, blanket bunched in one fist, gaze low.

Then Felix spoke again — and this time, the words cut deeper.

"…Minho-hyung confessed to us," Felix said quietly.

Seungmin's gaze lifted — slow, guarded, unreadable.

Felix's fingers twisted in his lap, knuckles pale.

"He told us what he said during my heat," he continued, voice cracking at the edges. "The command he gave you. The words he used."

He paused — not for drama, but because the next breath burned.

"I didn't know," Felix whispered. "And that's not an excuse. I should have. I should've seen your face after that day and known something was wrong. But I didn't look."

His voice dropped, raw and uneven now.

"I was drowning in my self-pity," he admitted. "And I didn't think to ask why you were avoiding us. Or why you stopped smelling like you."

He looked up then, eyes shimmering.

"I failed you… as your friend, a packmate and as your omega."

The last words left his mouth like an apology too heavy to hold, spoken on a trembling breath, the kind that cracks just before it breaks into tears.

Seungmin sat still for a moment, expression unreadable.

The silence lingered, neither cruel nor dismissive. It was simply quiet, much like a wound before it splits open.

His voice, when it came, was low. Flat.

"You think I distanced myself?"

Felix looked up, startled by the question.

Seungmin didn't blink.

"You say I avoided you. Like it was a choice."

The words landed, soft and bitter, like snow melting into skin.

"I didn't pull away, Felix. I pulled back because you all looked like you wanted me to."

He stared down at his hands, thumbs pressed together like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"You think I stopped coming close because I didn't care anymore. But every time I entered a room, it felt colder. Every time I opened my mouth, someone else filled the silence before I could."

His breath caught there — not a sob, just a controlled exhale.

"I didn't leave the pack," he said quietly.

"I just stopped standing where I'm not wanted."

Felix didn't speak right away.

His fingers tightened around the bag's strap in his lap. His eyes dropped to the plush between them, and for a moment, the silence pressed so tight around his chest he thought he might break under it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, hoarse from more than the cold.

"I entered pre-heat," he said quietly, "the day before everything went south."

Seungmin didn't react, but he didn't look away either.

"Jung-hyung… he pulled me aside," Felix continued, barely above a whisper. "He told me you didn't want to spend the heat with me this time, that you needed space. That it was already too much for you with schedules, and I'd overwhelm you more."

Felix's throat moved like he had to force the words out.

"We were already keeping our distance from you because you asked for space. And I told myself that was okay — that maybe we all needed it. But heats are different."

His eyes shimmered now, bright and quiet.

"I thought I could still curl up with you in the nest. I thought I could still wake up with your scent around me and pretend, just for a few days, that everything was like before."

He paused, voice cracking.

"But when he said you didn't want me anymore… I believed it. I didn't even ask you.

I just believed it. Because that morning before Jung hyung pulled me aside, in the kitchen, when I reached past you for the milk, you flinched away."

He looked down again.

"My omega felt rejected. I didn't even realise it then, but it started grieving when Jung hyung delivered the news to me."

The silence between them tightened again.

"By the time the heat hit, I couldn't settle.

Not without you. I couldn't scent you.

I couldn't feel the bond— not the way I used to.

You did everything right — the room, the blankets, the water, but none of it smelled like you. Not really. All I could smell was distress. And I didn't know if it was yours or mine."

A soft, helpless sound left him.

"When Minho hyung brought me back to the nest, I cried through the whole heat. Fevered and exhausted and just hurting. I didn't let anyone help. No alphas. No omegas. Just me and a space that no longer smelled like home. No one could calm me down. It's because the one I needed had already left. At least, that's what I thought."

He wiped at his cheek with the back of his sleeve, like he hadn't realised a tear had fallen.

"I don't blame you for needing space," he whispered. "I am too much. I cry too easily. I'm clingy. I ask for too much skinship, and I make everything harder. So it makes sense that I'd be the one you needed space from."

He looked up again — not pleading, but open . Wrecked and earnest.

"But during my heat, I couldn't understand it. I couldn't separate logic from instinct.

So after the heat, I left you alone, because I was grieving, and now I knew why you wanted space. But, I couldn't keep myself far from you longer when I saw you slowly disappearing from us.

Now, after listening to Minho hyung's confession, I hate~ I hate that I might've become the reason you got hurt in the first place."

Felix drew a breath — shaky, but steady enough to say the one thing he hadn't been able to say out loud until now.

"I'm so sorry, Seungminnie. Not for what you felt. But for being another person who made it worse."

Seungmin didn't speak right away.

His mind was swimming, caught between disbelief and devastation.

Why would Felix think he had left on purpose?

Why would anyone think he wanted to disappear?

And then the bitter truth curled behind his tongue.

"…I thought you cried because you didn't want me there," he said softly, still not meeting Felix's eyes. "I thought… even my presence was too much."

The blanket rustled faintly as he shifted, pulling it tighter around his lap like armour that no longer worked.

"You only needed me as a beta," Seungmin continued, voice low, flat.

"So I prepared everything.

I cleaned.

I organised.

I stayed quiet."

He stared down at his hands, pale, still, folded in his lap.

Felix tried not to cry.

He really did.

But Seungmin's words — " I thought being invisible was better than being unwanted" — cracked something in him that he'd barely been holding together.

The first tear slipped down his cheek, and then another, and then—

"I never…" he breathed out, voice trembling as his hands gripped the edge of the couch cushion, knuckles white. "I never thought your presence was too much."

He looked up — barely — eyes glimmering with hurt and something closer to grief.

"Why would I hate my favourite person's scent…?" he whispered. "Why would I ever think you being there was the problem?"

The tears fell harder now, despite his desperate attempts to keep them at bay.

"I just… I needed you. And you weren't there. And I thought it was because I broke something in you. That you stopped choosing me."

He sniffled, a hand rising to wipe his face, but the motion was clumsy, defeated.

Across from him, Seungmin didn't move right away.

He sat still for a long breath, not distant, not cold, just uncertain.

He didn't know if it was forgiveness. But it was something. It was enough to reach.

Then slowly, wordlessly, he shifted forward. Just enough for his knees to nearly brush Felix's.

He didn't say Don't cry .

He neither reached out with a hug nor tried to fix what's broken with a smile.

But his hand moved silently, deliberately and came to rest on top of Felix's, where it clutched the canvas tote bag.

Not a hug.

Not a rescue.

Just that touch. Steady. Real.

A silent gesture that said:

I'm not okay either.

But I see you.

I'm still here.

And though neither of them spoke again that night, that single point of contact between their hands held more truth than any apology ever could.

____________________________

End of Chap 13.

TBC.

____________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The snowfall had eased, but the world still looked soft around the edges — quiet in the way that made it easier to breathe.

Inside the penthouse, the night settled gently around Seungmin, casting long shadows across the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of Seoul blinked below like the slow pulse of something living, distant but constant.

He sat curled into the corner of the couch, not upright, not guarded — just resting. The throw blanket pooled around him like a shell, and he nestled into the makeshift nest Felix had left behind. A faint trace of vanilla-caramel still lingered on the pillows. Faint. But real.

In his lap was the Tupperware of brownies.

He already had one. Another now sat half-bitten between his fingers, forgotten for a moment as he watched the city blink.

The brownies were a little dense, a little too sweet, and precisely like Felix. Trying too hard to comfort. Messy but sincere. They tasted like apologies someone didn't know how to say out loud.

Seungmin took another bite anyway.

He didn't realise his sister had returned until the soft click of the front door echoed behind him. Her coat rustled as she moved through the space, phone still pressed to her ear, voice low and unreadable.

"He's in the van now. Tucked in. Wooyoung-ssi is driving him back to the dorm now, Chan-ah."

Seungmin's sister entered the room, phone pressed to her ear as she kicked off her boots. Her voice was steady but tired — a kind of practised calm only older siblings knew how to master.

"Yes, really," she continued into the phone.

"He was here.

The whole day. Since before noon, I think. Just sitting in the lobby. No, he didn't call ahead. He didn't say anything to Seungmin until I brought him up."

She paused at the edge of the living room, eyes flicking to where Seungmin curled into the couch nest Felix had left behind. He hadn't moved.

"Okay, I'll tell him," she murmured into the phone, voice gentler now. "Yeah. You too, Chan."

She hung up and stepped into the living room. Her eyes landed on Seungmin — still nestled in the couch nest, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, lips dusted with brownie crumbs.

She didn't speak right away.

"That was Chan."

Seungmin blinked slowly, not looking up.

"What did Chan hyung say? Who fetched Felix?"

His sister sighed heavily, taking a seat at the other end of the couch.

"Wooyoung-ssi drove him back. He came straight from the dorm. Felix didn't want to leave. I had to threaten to call Chan to get him moving."

Seungmin didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth tugged — faint, but visible.

She tilted her head, studying him carefully.

"Did you know the others were looking for him, puppy?"

Seungmin's brows furrowed faintly. "What?"

"Chan said that Felix left the dorm early this morning. Packed that little canvas tote bag and disappeared without telling anyone. No call. No text," She exhaled as Seungmin blinked.

"All day," she said, more gently now. "The members and Wooyoung-ssi were searching. Around the neighbourhood. Around the company.

Even contacted the cafés he likes. They didn't alert the company or Manager Jung — they didn't want to cause a scene. But they got scared."

She paused, watching how her brother's face stilled.

"They thought he was having a breakdown. Or worse, that he'd gone somewhere to be alone the way you used to."

Seungmin looked down at the rumpled blanket around him. The Tupperware of brownies Felix had brought now set still warm on his lap.

His sister continued, softer now.

"Wooyoung-ssi was the one who thought to check here. He mentioned that he noticed Felix staring at your contact number the other night. Took a guess. Called me."

Seungmin was quiet for a long time.

Then, "They didn't try to call me?" Seungmin softly asked.

"No," she said. "Chan said they didn't want to break your request for space. They sought to respect it this time.

Even though they were terrified. Even though it killed them not to ask."

Another beat passed.

Seungmin leaned into the couch just slightly, fingers brushing one of the blankets Felix had pulled from the guest linen closet earlier — the one with little embroidered stars on the edges.

"…He made me a nest," Seungmin murmured, almost like he was speaking to the room more than to his sister. "Before he left."

"I saw," she said softly. "It's small. But it looks warm."

He nodded faintly and, without another word, shifted down further into the nest, curling slowly onto his side, arms tucked around the pillow that still faintly smelled like Felix's hoodie.

"…Yongbokkie cried," Seungmin said, voice muffled now.

"I saw."

"But he had to go back," added Seungmin.

"Felix-ssi didn't want to," she said. "But you asked him to. And he listened."

Seungmin closed his eyes. The scent of brownies. Of warmth. Of trust, offered in trembling hands.

"You okay?" she softly asked.

Seungmin's thumb brushed over a fold in the blanket. "I don't know yet."

"That's honest."

She didn't push further. Just leaned back, folding one leg beneath her, watching Seungmin closely.

For the first time in days, something inside Seungmin eased — not enough to be called peace. But enough to make the blanket feel like more than just fabric.

Like something safe.

Like something shared.

"Still planning to go for your check-up the day after tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yeah," Seungmin murmured, without moving. "The nurse called earlier to confirm."

"Okay. I'll clear my morning," Seungmin's sister said.

There was a long moment before Seungmin finally spoke again — quiet, careful, as if testing how the words would feel once they left his mouth.

"Noona, do you think," he said slowly, "it'd be okay if… someone else came with us?"

She blinked, turning slightly toward him. "Someone else?"

He nodded once, eyes still half-lidded against the throw pillow.

"Not the whole group," he said quickly, before she could assume.

"Just one of them. I thought maybe…"

A breath.

"Maybe Changbin-hyung."

His sister didn't respond right away.

She didn't smile. Didn't tease. Just looked at Seungmin — looked at him — and read the weight behind the choice.

"Alright," she softly said. "I'll text Chan tonight and ask him about Changbin's availability."

Seungmin closed his eyes, the tension behind them easing just a little.

"Thanks, Noona."

"You sure about this, puppy?" she asked gently.

"No," Seungmin said. "But I want to try."

Seungmin didn't know if Changbin would say the right thing. But he trusted him to try.

And that, finally, was enough.

~

The morning light was dim, filtered through thin grey clouds that dusted the city with a quiet stillness. The snowfall had finally stopped, but a thin frost clung to the sidewalks — the kind that lingered not out of defiance, but memory.

Inside the penthouse, Seungmin sat at the edge of the couch, hoodie zipped to his chin, his fingers tucked into the sleeves. His shoes were half-laced, but he wasn't in a rush to finish tying them.

His sister watched from the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a mug of tea. "You sure you want to go like that?"

He looked up, slowly. "Like what?"

She tilted her head toward him. "Like you're bracing for a gust of wind that might carry you off the sidewalk."

Seungmin gave her a faint smile — not quite amused, not quite tired. Just honest. "I thought it was subtle."

She hummed, about to respond, but her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen.

"Changbin-ssi's downstairs," she said. "I'll buzz him up."

Seungmin's fingers twitched in his lap. He hadn't stood yet. His sister stepped over to him slowly, gently brushing a stray thread from the shoulder of his hoodie.

"You can still change your mind," she said.

"I don't want to."

"Alright."

She gave him a tiny nod, then moved to the intercom.

The elevator chimed a few minutes later.

When the door opened, Changbin didn't come in with his usual energy. He didn't smile too widely or speak too fast. He entered like someone stepping onto holy ground — slow, careful, as if afraid that any sudden movement might collapse the fragile air between them.

He was dressed in dark jeans, a fleece-lined jacket, and a mask tugged below his chin.

He buried his hands deep in his pockets, and for the first time in years, he appeared anxious.

"Hey, Seungmin-ah," he said, voice low.

Seungmin nodded. ''Hi, hyung."

They stared at each other for half a second, not awkward, but uncertain.

Then Seungmin stood, grabbing his coat off the hook.

"I'm ready."

His sister appeared with her coat slung over one arm. "Let's go. The hospital's expecting us before ten."

They stepped out together, all three — not in perfect step, but not apart. And for now, that was more than enough.

~

The hospital lobby was bright but sterile — all muted tones and the faint antiseptic scent of sterilised floors. Seungmin hated the way it echoed, the way footsteps sounded like reminders. But today, he didn't feel like shrinking from it.

He slowly walked beside his sister, hoodie sleeves covering his wrists, hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket. Changbin trailed just half a step behind — not too close, not too far. Close enough to steady if Seungmin stumbled, far enough not to intrude.

He hadn't spoken much since they got into the car. He'd offered to carry Seungmin's appointment file, opened doors without being asked, and spent the entire drive visibly trying not to look too worried. He was walking on eggshells — soft, nervous steps like anything louder might make Seungmin vanish.

And still, Seungmin felt it. That warm thread of attention — unspoken, steady. He didn't say anything, but the corners of his mouth twitched once as they passed the glass elevator.

Inside, they waited in the neurology-and-rehab wing on the fifth floor. The walls had calm, chill paintings. It's like they are trying to convince patients that everything will be fine. Seungmin sat, long legs tucked in, fingers curled tightly in his lap. His sister flipped through a magazine without actually reading it. Changbin stood by the posters, pretending he wasn't observing every twitch of Seungmin's hands.

Then came the call.

"Kim Seungmin?"

A nurse peeked around the hallway corner.

Seungmin stood slowly. His sister moved with him, but paused when she noticed Changbin had stayed standing, head bowed slightly, knuckles white against the paper cup.

The beta turned toward the hallway, only to stop just before crossing the threshold.

He looked back.

"Hyung, you're coming in, too, right?"

Seungmin didn't smile. But something in his tone had softened, and the way he asked was enough for Changbin.

"Me? Of course, I'm following. "

That was all it took. Changbin was up in a second, almost tripping over his own feet.

His sister followed quietly behind them as they entered the consultation room.

~

The doctor was a middle-aged man with gentle eyes and a clipboard full of hard truths. Dr Yoon had transferred Seungmin's case to a more experienced doctor. He welcomed Seungmin with a nod and gestured toward the reclining chair beside the table.

Seungmin sat without being told. His sister took the seat across from the doctor while Changbin remained standing behind Seungmin's sister, arms crossed but relaxed.

"I've reviewed the bloodwork, vitals, and laryngoscopy from last week," the doctor began, flipping a few pages forward. "Physically, there's been some meaningful improvement."

He looked at Seungmin.

"You've gained a little weight. That's good. Blood pressure is more stable, though still slightly hypotensive. Your ferritin levels are increasing, which indicates that the iron supplements are effective. And the inflammation markers in your GI tract have gone down by almost 20%."

Seungmin nodded faintly.

"But your LPR symptoms — the laryngeal reflux — are still present."

The doctor tapped a sheet on his clipboard.

"You're still experiencing throat tightness, correct?"

"…Sometimes," Seungmin admitted.

"Still worse at night?"

Seungmin nodded again.

Changbin glanced at him — a tiny, worried movement — but didn't speak.

"It's manageable for now," the doctor continued, "but it's directly tied to your stress response. If we don't get that under control, the reflux will linger or worsen."

He paused, flipping to a separate sheet.

"The tremor in your hands… It's also more persistent than expected. Even at rest, you have a fine tremor present in both hand's digits," the doctor explained as he showed the tremors in Seungmin's hands.

"That's not unusual after what you've been through, but it does point toward ongoing nervous system stress."

There was a moment of silence.

Changbin shifted slightly in his place. Seungmin's sister stayed quiet.

"Now," the doctor said, folding his hands, "we don't have to talk in detail here. But I want you to consider scheduling a psychiatric consult. I'm not suggesting this because I believe you are damaged. But because your nervous system still reacts as if you're in danger, even when it's not. That's not weakness, Seungmin-ssi. It's biology."

Seungmin stared at the edge of the desk.

"I'm not ready for that."

"That's okay," the doctor said gently. "We'll book the session a few weeks out. No pressure to show up. But if you change your mind, the space is there."

"…Okay," Seungmin murmured. "That's fine."

"You're not obligated to fix everything overnight," the doctor said, softer now. "You've shown up to every appointment. You're eating again. You're listening to your body — even when it hurts. That counts."

Seungmin didn't respond, but his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.

As they stepped into the hallway from the consultation room, the fluorescent lighting seemed less harsh than when they'd arrived. Seungmin slowly walked beside Changbin, still subdued but no longer braced for every moment like a blow. His sister trailed just behind them, checking her phone with a quiet urgency.

At the end of the corridor, she paused.

"Seungmin-ah," she said gently, touching his arm. "I have to head back to the office. They just called an urgent strategy meeting. I pushed it once already, but I really can't miss it now."

He nodded without looking up. "Okay."

Her eyes shifted to Changbin.

"Do you mind taking him back?" she asked softly, already trusting but still cautious. "To the penthouse. I was supposed to drive him, but—"

"Of course," Changbin said immediately, then stopped himself.

He turned toward Seungmin.

"Only if… that's okay with you?"

Seungmin looked up at him — not with warmth, but with something that almost resembled curiosity. The kind you reserve for someone you don't mind learning again.

"It's fine," he said, voice quiet. "I don't mind."

Relief washed through both their postures — Changbin's visible, Seungmin's subtle.

His sister gave a nod, brushing a hand over Seungmin's shoulder briefly. "I'll come back as soon as I can, okay? Rest once you're home."

She gave Changbin a brief look of trust and warning in equal parts, then disappeared down the hallway, heels clicking gently into the distance.

~

The car ride was quiet.

Seungmin sat with his cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, watching the city slip by. Seoul's afternoon light had a sleepy grey tinge to it — the kind that blurred buildings and bare trees into gentle outlines.

Changbin didn't try to fill the silence. He drove carefully, paying attention to the turns and being mindful of every red light. His phone sat in the holder, playing a soft lo-fi instrumental playlist — the exact one Seungmin used to play in the dorm on days when his chest felt too tight to talk.

Seungmin didn't say anything about it. But his fingers, which had been twitching earlier at the hospital, stilled just a little.

It wasn't much. But it was enough.

The city softened around them.

Right before Changbin turned the last corner near the penthouse, a quiet voice broke through the stillness.

"Hyung…"

Changbin's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Seungmin wasn't looking at him — his gaze was still on the road ahead — but his hand reached forward gently, fingers brushing the sleeve of Changbin's shirt near the wrist.

"Can we stop somewhere first?" he asked. "The café. Just for a bit."

Changbin blinked, then nodded. "Of course."

But after a pause, he added with a small half-grin, "No coffee for you, though. The doctor said your throat still needs time."

Seungmin gave the tiniest shrug. "Maybe a milkshake then."

"Deal."

—

The café got tucked in between a stationery shop and a boutique bookstore — not hidden, but quiet enough that regulars knew to speak softly. The windows fogged around the edges, soft jazz playing overhead, and the scent of toasted oats and cinnamon hung in the air.

Changbin held the door open and let Seungmin step in first.

The beta made a beeline for the far corner — a booth half-shielded by a decorative divider, nestled near the window but not facing it. It was the kind of place where no one would look unless they were searching.

He slowly slid into the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, head slightly bowed.

Changbin didn't follow him right away. Instead, he turned toward the counter, already scanning the small chalkboard menu.

"Milkshake," he murmured under his breath, "something soft. Maybe cookies and cream."

And as he ordered — one cookie, a cream milkshake and a hot barley tea for himself — he kept glancing over his shoulder to the boy in the corner.

The one who hadn't said much but still asked to stay just a little longer before going home.

Changbin set the tray down carefully on the table — the milkshake in front of Seungmin, and a small cup of barley tea for himself.

Seungmin didn't look up. He just pulled the milkshake a little closer, fingers brushing the condensation like it helped him stay present.

Changbin slid into the seat across from him. He didn't speak right away. The clink of the teacup against the tray was the only sound between them.

Until—

"Chan-hyung requested a meeting with JYP-nim in a few days."

His voice was low and steady, but tension lingered in his jaw, as though the words carried weight.

Seungmin's brows barely lifted, but his eyes stayed on the melting milkshake.

Changbin continued. "It's official this time. Not just about you or even the setlist rumours. Hyung's planning to go all the way — show everything. Every pattern. Every lie. Every piece of manipulation."

Still, Seungmin didn't speak. His thumb traced the rim of the cup absently.

"Chan hyung said he doesn't want Manager Jung anywhere near us again," Changbin added. "Not even in the same building."

Seungmin stayed quiet. He took a sip from the straw. A small one. Barely more than a taste.

The silence stretched again, not cold, but weighted like something bracing to be named.

Changbin fidgeted with the tag on the tea bag, eyes flicking back up to Seungmin. He tried to read quietly. Failed .

And then—

"Seungmin-ah…" he said softly, the syllables folding around worry.

Seungmin glanced up — not startled, not defensive. Just present.

"…What were you thinking?" Changbin asked, voice unsure now. "When you started pulling away from us. From me."

The words weren't accusing. They were hesitant. Careful, like stepping over glass.

"I heard from Felix," Changbin continued. "About what Jung said. He twisted everything to separate us. Subtly. Repeatedly. And we believed it like fools."

He swallowed, eyes dropping to his tea for a second.

"But… why didn't you reach out to me?"

Seungmin's breath caught — not enough to show, but enough to freeze the rim of the straw against his lips.

"Did I…?" Changbin's voice broke a little. "Did I do something too?"

His hands tightened around the ceramic cup.

"I keep thinking back. I keep trying to find it.

If I said something. If I brushed you off.

If I told you to work harder, or hold it in, or be professional. I'm not sure if I used those exact words, but perhaps I~

Maybe I didn't stop it either. And I hate that I didn't see it until it was too late."

Across the table, Seungmin finally looked up — not guarded, not scornful.

Just tired. And honest.

But he didn't speak. Not yet.

And Changbin, who had always been the strong one, the grounding one, suddenly looked more lost than Seungmin had ever seen.

"I keep replaying the weeks you went quiet," he said. "And I just— I need to know. Did I make you feel alone, too?"

The question wasn't desperate, it's gutted .

Seungmin set his milkshake down with care, not out of nerves, but because the moment felt too full to rush.

He stared at the cup for a while.

Then, softly — almost like an admission he wasn't ready to own yet — he said: "I didn't think I was allowed to reach out to you."

Changbin froze.

Seungmin's voice was calm, but it wasn't casual. It carried weight — the kind that builds up after too many months of quiet hurt.

"I thought…" Seungmin took a breath. "I thought alphas preferred the omegas more. I thought it made things easier. Simpler."

He looked down again, fingers curling in the sleeves of his sweater.

"I didn't want to burden anyone. I didn't want to be the reason the energy in the room changed."

He swallowed. "And you—hyung—you were always steady. Strong. You handled everyone's needs so easily. I didn't want to add my mess to that."

Changbin sat still, barely breathing.

"I told myself you didn't need my weight on top of yours," Seungmin continued. "That you were better off not having to deal with me when I was at my lowest."

A pause. Then—

"But there were days," he said, voice thinner now, "when you asked me if I was okay… and I wanted nothing more than to cry in your arms."

The admission cracked something open — not loud, not messy, but raw.

"But my mind wouldn't let me hope anymore. Not even for that."

Across from him, Changbin's throat worked around something thick — grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.

He leaned forward slowly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. His voice, when it came, was gentle but fierce.

"Seungmin-ah," he said, "you were never a burden. Not to me. Not for a second."

Seungmin didn't look up, but his shoulders tensed — just slightly.

"I don't care if you're perfect. I don't need you to be easy, or cheerful, or the one who keeps it all together. I don't love you because you're convenient to care for."

Changbin's voice cracked at the edges now.

"I love you," he said, "because you're Seungmin. Because you're mine, too. Just like I'm yours. Same as anyone else in the pack."

He reached across the table then — slowly, carefully — and placed his hand palm-up between them, not touching, just offering.

"You never had to compete for space in my heart. You already had it."

Seungmin stared at the hand for a long time.

Then, just once — a whisper of motion—he let his fingers rest against Changbin's. Not grasping. Just there.

And that touch, tentative and trembling, said more than either of them could manage in words.

Seungmin didn't answer right away.

But he didn't pull away either.

And for Changbin, for today, that was enough.

After that, the rest of the evening passed without words. Changbin drove Seungmin back to the penthouse in the falling dusk, the silence between them no longer heavy, just shared. Before leaving, Seungmin quietly asked him to pass a message to Chan. The message was vital for his healing and required the company's approval. He wanted Chan to inform the other members and discuss it during the meeting with JYP.

And just before slipping back inside, Seungmin tugged lightly at the sleeve of Changbin's jacket — not to hold him back, but to ask for it. He didn't explain, and Changbin didn't ask.

But when Seungmin added it to the little nest Felix had left for him — tucking it between the blankets and pillows that now smelled faintly like trust — it finally felt like something was starting to come back. Not everything. But something.

_____________________

End of Chap 14.

TBC.

_____________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

Chapter Text

The news had exploded across social media overnight.

"Stray Kids' Beta Member Seungmin on Indefinite Hiatus."

Speculation spiralled. Panic spread. Comments flooded every platform, in dozens of languages. Fans begged for clarity, for hope, for someone to say it wasn't as serious as it sounded.

The official statement was brief. Clinical. Cold.

"Due to health-related concerns, Seungmin will be taking an indefinite break from activities. We ask for your understanding."

Everyone knew there was more.

---------------------

The night before, the dorm had been silent.

No cameras. No staff. Just seven members sitting in their shared space, the air thick with the weight of something irreversible.

Changbin had spoken first, relaying the message Seungmin had given him.

"He's not leaving," he'd said. "But he needs time. Real time. Without pressure. Without us."

No one argued.

Jeongin blinked hard at the floor. Han pressed his sleeves to his mouth. Felix sat unmoving, drained from the crying he'd barely stopped since the visit to the penthouse.

It was Hyunjin who broke the silence.

"We broke him," he said quietly. "To the point, our presence stresses him out. If space is what helps him feel safe again, then we must let him take it."

The room stilled.

But slowly — one by one — heads nodded.

Not because it was easy.

But because it was true.

They didn't see Seungmin's hiatus as rejection.

They accepted it as a consequence. As something they had to earn the right to repair.

And this — agreeing to his hiatus — was step one.

-------------

Inside JYPE headquarters, the air was sharp and silent. A conference room that had hosted countless meetings now bore an overwhelming weight: the consequences of everything they had long ignored.

The members sat in a line, tension carved into every posture. No one touched the drinks. No one made small talk.

At the end of the table, Manager Jung stood beside the screen, expression smooth, hands loosely interlaced like he was waiting to defend a decision, not an accusation.

Then Park Jin-young (JYP) walked in.

He didn't sit.

Didn't smile.

Didn't ask how anyone was doing.

His eyes swept the room once, then landed on Jung.

"Start talking," JYP said, voice flat and cold. "Explain how this happened."

Jung stepped forward. "Sir, as I've already outlined in the email, Seungmin's sudden hiatus has put strain on multiple group schedules. We're coordinating PR with Marketing, but—"

"PR?" JYP echoed, his voice slicing through the room. "You're talking about a boy's mental breakdown like it's a branding issue. Is that your concern?"

Jung hesitated. "Sir, with all due respect, I was only following protocol. I gave him space to rest—"

"No. You gave Seungmin silence," JYP snapped. "You gave him shame."

The room froze.

"Do you think I didn't notice? Do you think I don't watch my artists?" JYP continued, voice rising. "Do you think I don't see it when one of my kids stops smiling in photos? When was he missing from the variety tapings? When he collapses in a stairwell, and no one on your team has an answer?"

Jung tried again, "Sir, there's no evidence—"

"There is," said a voice from the far end of the room.

Everyone turned.

It was Chan.

He stood slowly, a printed folder in his hands — thin, but not empty. He set it on the table between them all.

"The evidence is there," Chan said, setting a folder on the table. "Compiled by Wooyoung-ssi and… someone who had a personal reason to help."

Wooyoung stepped back toward the wall near Chan, his posture still rigid. Then, as silence stretched thin, he spoke:

"For what it's worth," Wooyoung said quietly, "I didn't collect everything alone."

All heads turned slightly.

"Seungmin-shi's sister helped," he said. "She brought in an external contact — a friend with some… freelance cyber skills."

"They traced emails, communication logs and call redirections. We verified that Jung-hyung passed internal documents — including comeback material — to a third-party."

Jung flinched but didn't argue.

"They found everything," Wooyoung said, voice heavier now. "The manipulation. The erasure. Even the red-flagged notes about Seungmin-shi's condition from the internal health records — the ones that never made it to the company files."

JYP flipped through the folder once. Then again.

Text messages. Altered reports. Forwarded email chains with time stamps. Meeting notes with subtle redactions. A leaked setlist traced to an external IP—

And a single digital recording: Jung whispering Seungmin's name in a phone call he thought wasn't being monitored.

JYP closed the folder quietly.

"You leaked the setlist to a competing agency. You worked with their manager to pin the blame on your artist. Your beta."

Jung's throat bobbed, but he said nothing.

"You turned an already suffering boy into a scapegoat. You didn't just mishandle an artist. You abandoned a child," JYP continued, lower now. "You made him feel like the weight he was carrying was his fault. You watched him break and kept quiet."

He turned his gaze toward Wooyoung.

"Effective immediately," JYP said, folding the folder closed, "I'm firing you from Stray Kids' team."

Jung's lips parted — a protest half-formed, half-swallowed.

"And on behalf of Kim Seungmin," JYP continued, voice icy and absolute, "JYPE will be pursuing legal action."

He turned slightly.

"Wooyoung-ssi," JYP said, "you're lead manager now. I want weekly reports and full team transparency."

Wooyoung stood straighter. "Yes, sir."

Chan, standing just behind him, nodded once. He didn't smile. But there was resolve in the tilt of his chin.

This moment had cost him. It was Chan who had spent sleepless nights gathering every detail. It was Wooyoung who dug quietly through archived logs and tracked the strange gaps in scheduling. And it was Chan who finally went to JYP with trembling hands and a quiet voice that didn't ask for permission — only justice.

"Thank you for trusting me with this," JYP said quietly to Chan. "This won't fix what he went through. But it's a start."

JYP turned to leave, but a voice stopped him.

"Sir," someone said from the table. Hoarse. Hollow.

Everyone turned.

It was Minho.

The members froze. Even Jung blinked.

It was the first time Minho had spoken in weeks.

When he'd confessed to giving Seungmin an alpha command during Felix's heat — when Seungmin had asked for space — Minho had shut down entirely.

He hadn't spoken.

He hadn't practised.

He barely moved through the dorm. He didn't cry. Didn't ask for forgiveness. Didn't seek redemption.

Because in his mind, he didn't deserve any.

And so now, hearing his voice again felt like the room cracked open.

"Can we speak to him?" Minho said, quieter now. "Just… us."

JYP looked at him for a moment, then at Chan, then back again.

"Take your time," he said quietly.

And he stepped out.

A silence followed.

Han looked up then — just slightly — his gaze landing on Minho for the first time in two weeks.

He hadn't so much as looked Minho's way since the hospital.

He hadn't since the confession. Not since Minho had stood there, eyes full of shame, and admitted he'd used the alpha voice against Seungmin — even if it had been a moment of instinct and panic.

Han had wept in that hallway, curled against Seungmin's side. And since then, he hadn't spoken to Minho. Not once.

But now — now he looked .

And what he saw wasn't the Minho he remembered.

Gone was the quiet, grounded strength. The fire. The control.

What remained was a shell — pale, haunted, wrapped in so much silence it looked like it had become his second skin.

Han didn't speak.

But he didn't look away, either.

And that, perhaps, was its kind of truce.

The door shut with a soft click, taking all the air with it.

Only the members, their manager Wooyoung-shi and Jung remained.

Minho stood up slowly.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't glare.

He just looked at the man who had dismantled everything — and asked:

"Why him?"

Jung didn't answer. "Why Seungmin?" Minho repeated, quieter now.

"You're a beta. Just like Uri Seungmin. So why go after the one person who should've felt the most familiar to you?"

More silence.

Minho took a step forward. The others stayed still, watching, bracing.

And then Jung said it.

"Because I hated him."

Felix let out a quiet breath. Jeongin's fists curled on the table.

Chan didn't move. Not yet.

"I hated that he had what I didn't," Jung continued bitterly. "He was a beta — but he didn't act like it. People listened when he spoke. You all followed him without needing a scent bond. He had a pack. He had space to exist ."

"But no one ever looked at me the way they looked at him."

Minho's jaw flexed.

"I watched him smile while I had to fight for scraps. And when I realised you'd all protect him no matter what, I made sure he couldn't rely on you anymore."

"I planted the seed," Jung said, voice twisted. "And then I just watched him rot."

It happened in an instant.

One second, Chan was stone-still.

Next, he lunged.

"You son of a—"

The first punch cracked across Jung's cheek so hard he stumbled back against the wall.

Jung's back hit the wall with a dull thud. A framed certificate on the wall was tilted. No one moved. Then—

"Chan-hyung—!" Felix yelled, but it was too late.

Another hit. Then another.

Jung raised his arms, stumbling, but Chan was past hearing.

"You made him think he was the problem!"

"You made him scared to speak!"

Changbin and Wooyoung rushed forward, arms out, grabbing at Chan's shoulders, trying to pry him back.

Wooyoung managed to wedge between them just enough, shouting, "Chan-ah, stop! You've made your point!"

Chan didn't punch again — but his chest heaved, fists still clenched, eyes blazing.

Minho hadn't moved.

He stood, watching with the kind of quiet that felt heavier than all the shouting.

"You say you hated him," Minho said, voice low, finally stepping forward.

"You say he had everything.

But the truth is, you couldn't stand that he never turned bitter. Not like you. That he stayed kind. That he loved anyway. That he kept singing, even when his voice trembled."

Jung didn't meet his eyes.

"You tried to break him to prove the world wasn't fair," Minho finished. "But all you proved was that you were too small to rise above it."

Minho stepped even closer — enough to tower over the man who had made Seungmin shrink.

"Never speak his name again."

Silence.

Then—

Chan, still breathless, growled low.

"And if you ever show your face anywhere near Seungmin again…

I won't stop at a few punches.

He's my mate."

The room fell still again.

Jung said nothing. He didn't even reach for the blood on his lip. He left in silence, shoulders hunched, cowardice still intact.

And no one looked back.

The door clicked shut again.

And this time, it sounded final.

~

The therapy room was quiet, neither heavy nor light, but neutral in tone.

Soft greys, muted greens, and the low hum of a heater working against the Seoul winter.

Seungmin sat curled into the same corner of the chair he'd used during his first session last week — the one he'd come to with his sister. That visit had been quiet, mostly ice-breaking. They hadn't gone deep. He hadn't been ready.

But now, he'd come alone.

By choice.

No sister. No Changbin. No silent alphas waiting outside the door.

Just him.

The meeting at the company was happening now — the confrontation, the fallout, maybe even the closure. But Seungmin hadn't wanted to be there.

He'd turned off his phone before the group could send updates. He didn't want to know if Chan threw the first punch or if Minho had spoken at all. There would be time for that later. Right now, it was time to speak for himself.

He needed to face something else today.

Something quieter.

Harder.

Dr. Nam sat opposite him, a warm mug of tea in her hands, waiting with the kind of stillness that didn't demand anything.

Just space.

Inside the sleeves of his coat, Seungmin's fingers curled. He had not taken it off.

"I want to talk about my self-harm," he said abruptly. Barely louder than a breath.

Dr. Nam didn't flinch. She nodded once and gently set the mug aside.

"I know I said I wanted to take things slow," Seungmin continued. "And I meant it. But I think~ I think if I wait too long, I'll keep making excuses not to say it."

He looked down, thumbs pressed together. His voice cracked slightly.

"I'm scared."

Dr. Nam stayed quiet as she waited for the words to land.

"I'm scared that I'm falling back into a pattern," Seungmin whispered. "And I hate that I might not know how to stop it this time."

Another silence.

When she spoke, her tone was even. Gentle, but not soft enough to dilute what mattered.

"Thank you for saying that," she said. "It takes strength to name what frightens us. You've done that today."

Seungmin blinked quickly, eyes darting to the bookshelf.

"I didn't think I'd be doing this alone."

"You're not, Suengmin-shi," she said calmly. "Not right now."

He swallowed. Hard.

"I told everyone I stopped," he said after a beat. "The self-harming. The burns. They believed me. I let them."

He rubbed at the sleeve of his hoodie like he could erase the skin beneath it.

"Because they were starting to be okay again. Felix was smiling when he left after meeting me. Han stopped avoiding the dorm kitchen. And hyung — Chan-hyung — he was planning again. Like we had a future."

He paused.

"I didn't want to be the thing that made them afraid again."

Dr. Nam nodded slowly, then asked, "When was the last time you hurt yourself?"

Seungmin didn't speak for a moment.

He stared ahead. Then, voice flat, he said, "…Last night."

He stared ahead, afraid that blinking would undo the courage it took to speak.

"I used the metal spoon again," he said. "From the kitchen. I heated it. Just enough. Not as bad as before. Just enough to feel it. On the underside of my wrist. Right here—" He lifted one hand, barely. "Where no one can see."

His lips trembled. He didn't cry.

"I wanted to feel it before I came here," he admitted. "I don't know why. Maybe because I thought if it hurt enough, I wouldn't be able to hide it from you."

A beat of silence.

"You didn't have to hurt to be believed by someone," Dr. Nam said gently. "I already believe you."

Seungmin looked at her, startled.

"Self-harm isn't about pain," she continued. "Not really. It's about proof. About control. When everything inside you feels too chaotic or too numb, hurting yourself becomes a way to say, 'See? I still feel something. I'm not lying about being broken.' But you're not broken, Seungmin-shi." 

"I feel like I am," admitted Seungmin, ashamed.

"I know," she said. "But feelings are not facts. And hurting yourself doesn't mean you deserve to hurt."

He blinked again. Harder this time.

"You kept yourself alive in the only way you knew how," she said. "Even if it hurt. Even if it was quiet. Even if no one knew."

Seungmin swallowed a sob that wasn't quite there.

Dr. Nam leaned forward slightly.

"Can I ask," she said carefully, "what you feel right before you do it? Is it panic? Emptiness? A voice?"

Seungmin closed his eyes.

"…It's a shame," he said. "Always shame."

She nodded once. "Shame is powerful. And it lies. It tells you pain is something you deserve."

"I believed it," Seungmin whispered.

Dr. Nam folded her hands in her lap. "You don't have to believe it anymore."

Another silence.

"Do you want to stop?" she asked. Not pressured.

She just asked.

"…Yes," he said. "But I don't know how."

"You've already started," she said.

He looked confused.

"You came here. You told me. You didn't numb it out or bury it."

She reached gently to the notebook at her side, flipping to a page.

"Last week," she said, "I asked you to notice a feeling under your skin. You said it felt useless."

He nodded faintly.

"But you noticed," she said. "And that's what this is. Feeling shame — and telling someone anyway — is how we begin to change the story it tells."

Seungmin stared at the floor.

He didn't feel better. But he felt different.

Raw. Exposed.

But held in it.

"Will I always want to?" he asked quietly.

"Hurt yourself?" asked Dr Nam gently.

He nodded.

"Maybe sometimes," Dr. Nam said honestly. "But eventually, it will stop being the only thing that makes you feel real."

She tapped the pen softly against the side of her notebook.

"Today, let's start with something simple."

Seungmin looked up.

"I want you to write a letter to your pain. Not to yourself. Not to your pack. Just to the part of you that hurts. You don't have to bring it next week. Just write it. Let it speak."

He nodded slowly.

"And next time," she added, "we can talk about how to give that part of you something else. Something safer."

The session ended not with triumph, but a quiet kind of grace.

When Seungmin stood to leave, he pulled his sleeve down gently.

Not to hide.

But to notice and to feel.

________________________

End of Chap 15.

TBC.

________________________

~

You can explore my other works while you wait for the next update.

I'm going to promote one of my works here.

The Phantom's Enigma (Kim Seungmin SKZ)

Please give it a try.

~

Chapter Text

Dear Cupcakes,

Hi! How have you all been? I apologise that this is not an update for the chapter.

If you've been following my work for a while, you probably know that writing is my passion — but my profession lies elsewhere. For those who don't know, here's a little life spoiler: I'm a 4th-year (almost final-year!) MBBS student — a future doctor. That means my days are always filled with hospital rounds, back-to-back lectures, and an endless mountain of assignments. Sleep, food, and free time? Rare luxuries.

So yeah, my daily life is exhausting. Both mentally and physically. And writing has become my only outlet. It's where I let go of pressure, pour my emotions into characters, and create something that's mine.

I've always been a quiet overthinker, someone who second-guesses everything I say or do. I try my hardest not to hurt anyone — intentionally or unintentionally. It's a trait that makes things more difficult in a field like medicine, but this is the life I chose, and I'm still grateful for it.

When I share stories here (whether on Wattpad, where I share my Thai BL fanfics or AO3, where I share my SKZ fanfics) , I consider this space my sanctuary. Every plot, every word, every cliffhanger is something I built myself. I review, revise, and edit for grammar and pacing, often staying up late to ensure accuracy before sharing. Even though I started writing as a form of escape, the perfectionist in me can't help but give it everything I've got.

So when I receive comments — no matter the length — they mean the world to me. Some of you say things that light a fire in me to keep going. Even critical feedback makes me think and reflect. Because, as a reader, I understand the frustration when a story doesn't go as hoped.

But lately, I've been struggling. Life stress, study pressure and some comments haven't helped. One, in particular, accused me of posting AI-generated, meaningless "word vomit" — that my writing wasn't worth posting.

That comment broke something in me.

To be clear, I do use tools like Grammarly to polish my writing, but every sentence, every emotion, every decision comes from me. I am not a machine. I'm just a tired girl trying to write honestly from the heart. So hearing that my work is "fake" — after all the late nights I've spent pouring myself into it — hurt more than I expected.

But I won't stop writing. I write for me. Still, I've realised I need to protect my peace — especially now. I've not been feeling well for a few weeks now. Life and studies finally got me.

So I've decided to take a break from posting for a little while. Probably about a month.

Not because of the negative comments — but because I need to be in a good headspace. My finals are coming up in 2 weeks, and I owe it to myself to focus without emotional weight dragging me down. I know this hiatus comes at a peak moment in the story, and I'm sincerely sorry. I hope you'll be here when I return.

I want to express my gratitude to everyone who has supported me up to this point. Thank you! Your words, even the smallest ones, keep me going more than you know. Please take care of yourselves while I'm away.

I'll see you again soon.

With love,

— Author 🌸

Chapter Text

The two weeks of hiatus had not been easy, but they hadn't been wasted either.

Seungmin had sat through three therapy sessions in that time. They weren't the kind of challenging, clinical interrogations he had braced himself for — not the kind where someone dissected every fracture in his chest and demanded answers he didn't have.

Instead, they were softer. Seungmin's therapist never asked him to explain the whole storm. She only asked him to name the weather of the day. Cloudy. Heavy. Cold but passing.

Some days, that was all he could manage, and she told him it was enough.

There were exercises too, but not the exhausting kind. Breathing through the shoulders until the tension finally lets go.

Writing down the thought that hurt most and then crossing it out once, twice, until the paper looked less like a sentence and more like survival.

Even practising the smallest yes and no — learning that boundaries didn't make Seungmin weak, they made him safe.

The progress was quiet, almost unremarkable to anyone else. But for Seungmin, it was the difference between drowning and treading water. He hadn't healed all at once. He hadn't stopped waking in the night with a hollow in his chest. But there were mornings now when he could get up without dread pressing at his ribs. Afternoons when food tasted like something again.

And tonight — maybe for the first time in months — he wanted something so simple it almost startled him.

The winter wind still nipped at the corners of the city, but Seungmin was determined.

He'd whined just enough — a rare performance, even for him — to convince his sister that he needed to go out alone. Just a quick trip, he promised. Just ramen. Not far.

She'd grumbled something about stubborn betas and reckless younger brothers, but she bundled him up in every jacket and scarf she could find anyway. As if he'd melt into frost the second he stepped outside.

Seungmin didn't protest.

He let her fuss.

Because the truth was — it felt good to want something again.

His appetite had been creeping back, shy but genuine. And for the first time in weeks, something specific had clawed its way to the top of his appetites: ramen.

Specifically that ramen.

From the little shop near the company — cheap, greasy, spicy, familiar. The one they used to visit on scheduled breaks or when the dorm fridge had nothing but kimchi and regret.

He parked down the block, stuffing his gloved hands in his coat as he walked the familiar route. The wind tugged at his scarf, but he kept going.

It had been weeks since he last met Changbin at the hospital appointment, and he hadn't heard from the company or the members after his hiatus announcement. He hadn't expected much today — perhaps an empty table or maybe just a ghost of memory lingering in the air.

But instead —

He saw him .

IN sat at the usual table.

Same seat.

Same posture.

And the same as a bowl of ramen in front of him.

Untouched.

Seungmin stopped mid-step, his breath fogging the glass as he stood at the front door. IN had not yet laid eyes on Seungmin — he was looking down, fingers firmly gripping his chopsticks, and his eyes were glassy and distant.

The alpha looked as though he hadn't slept in days or weeks; Seungmin didn't know.

And Seungmin — who once protected IN like a quiet shadow — felt his chest ache at the sight.

He exhaled once, steadying. Then, I pushed the door open with a soft jingle.

The maknae didn't notice Seungmin at first. Not until Seungmin stepped in front of him, coat still buttoned, scarf half-unravelled around his neck.

Seungmin looked down at the bowl. Still steaming.

Seungmin slid into the seat across from him without a word.

IN blinked — slow, dazed — as if trying to determine if he was hallucinating.

Seungmin gave a small sigh. "It's gonna get soggy if you keep staring at it like that."

IN's eyes widened, throat bobbing around a sound he couldn't form.

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

Seungmin didn't push.

He just sat across from his youngest, the same way he had for years, and waited.

IN stared at Seungmin for a long second, then blinked hard — once, twice — as if trying to reset the image in front of him.

Finally, "Sorry, hyung," IN whispered. Then, rushed: "Can you pinch me first?"

"…What?"

"Just—please. Pinch me. A little."

Seungmin hesitated — not sure if this was some weird baby alpha thing or if Jeongin had truly cracked.

But Seungmin reached across anyway, lightly catching his sleeve-covered arm and giving the faintest squeeze.

IN gasped — not from pain, but release. And then he folded.

Head down in his elbow, shoulders shaking.

Quiet, muffled crying.

Seungmin stiffened. The table between them suddenly felt far too small to hold something like this.

"Maknae-ah?" he said, low and unsure. "What… what's wrong?"

More sniffles. A quiet, "Nothing," came the broken reply, which meant everything.

Seungmin watched IN cry into his folded arms, shoulders shaking so hard the edge of his untouched ramen trembled against the table.

And something in Seungmin just cracked.

He wasn't supposed to be the one comforting anyone right now. Not yet. Not after everything.

But this—this was IN. The maknae. Seungmin's shadow during trainee days. The one who once clung to his arm during horror movie nights, who used to fall asleep on Seungmin's shoulder during long van rides and still called him hyung as if it meant something sacred.

And now he was breaking apart in a ramen shop because Seungmin had come back into his line of sight.

"...Hey," Seungmin said softly, nudging IN's bowl aside so it wouldn't spill.

No answer. Just another rough inhale and a muffled sob.

Seungmin sighed, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table like this wasn't the most uncomfortable thing he'd done in weeks.

"IN-ah," he tried again, gentler now. "You're gonna choke on your tears if you keep going like this."

That earned him a hiccuped laugh—more wet than amused—but it was something.

IN finally lifted his head, his face blotchy and red, his nose running, and his eyes swollen. His pride was dead and buried.

"I'm sorry, hyung," he whispered. "I'm so sorry—"

Seungmin shook his head slowly. "I didn't ask you to apologise. Not yet."

IN flinched like he expected that. Maybe deserved it.

"But," Seungmin added, eyes softer now, "I'm not going to ignore you while you're crying into your noodles like a kicked puppy either."

Seungmin reached over — not to touch, but to slide a few napkins across the table and nudge the water glass closer.

IN took both as lifelines.

"I…" the younger started, wiping his face clumsily, "I came here every day. After practice. After schedules. Just in case you showed up again. It's stupid, I know, but this was our table. You always ordered the extra spicy bowl and complained the whole time."

Seungmin didn't interrupt.

IN sniffled again. "I used to imagine you walking in. You're just walking in like today. And I promised myself I'd beg, hyung. I'd do anything if you'd talk to me again."

His voice cracked then. "I never wanted to be someone you needed space from."

Seungmin looked at him — he really looked.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn't see betrayal or guilt staring back at him. Just grief. Raw and real.

He exhaled slowly. Then leaned back against the booth.

"I didn't come here to make you cry, you know."

IN laughed again, watery and shaky.

"I didn't think I'd see you," IN admitted. "I thought… maybe I finally started hallucinating like Chan-hyung said we would if we missed you too much."

Seungmin rolled his eyes, soft despite himself.

"Hyung…"

Seungmin looked up again.

"Please," IN whispered.

"Please don't disappear again.

Even if you're mad at me. Even if you hate me.

I'll take it. I'll earn back every inch of space I lost.

Just let me try."

Seungmin's heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

He should've said he wasn't ready.

He should have told Jeongin that he still had scars that weren't completely healed.

That, things didn't work like that — not anymore.

He wasn't ready to promise forever. But he could promise today.

So instead, he glanced at Jeongin's bowl and muttered, "You're gonna let that ramen go cold?"

IN blinked.

Seungmin broke apart spare chopsticks and stirred his bowl. "If you're crying and wasting food," he said without looking up, "then you are beyond saving."

This time, IN laughed through a hiccup. And Seungmin didn't fight the small smile tugging at his lips.

It wasn't forgiveness.

Not yet.

But it was the beginning.

~

The ramen shop settled around them in a kind of hush, not silent, just comfortable in the way only background noise could be when something real was unfolding between two people.

The clatter of a pot in the kitchen. The occasional shuffle of footsteps. A quiet, rhythmic slurp from the table nearby.

Between them, their ramen bowls sat half-finished.

IN had stopped crying, but his lashes were still damp, and the redness around his eyes hadn't faded. He picked at the noodles, cheeks puffed slightly with the effort of swallowing emotion alongside food.

Seungmin ate slowly. Not because he wasn't hungry — he was — but because this moment felt like it needed time to breathe. Needed space to land softly instead of hitting like everything else had these past few months.

They didn't speak for a while.

And then—

Quiet. Like Seungmin wasn't even sure if the words were worth saying until they came out: "I didn't hate you."

IN's head jerked up, lips parted slightly. But Seungmin didn't look at him. He stared into his bowl, stirring the broth with his chopsticks.

"I just didn't know when to speak anymore." A pause. "Will my voice trigger you again?"

IN's breath hitched — sharp, caught in his throat.

It was an echo of something he'd said years ago, back when he'd just presented and his senses were wild and oversensitive.

It was years ago, when even Seungmin's raised voice during practice had sent him spiralling.

"Hyung, your voice is triggering me again?"

Back then, IN had been scared of what he was becoming.

And Seungmin had gone quiet for a week after that.

Now, that old wound twisted back around — not as an accusation, but a question that had lingered too long in the dark.

"I didn't know if I still mattered to you," Seungmin said next, chopsticks pausing at the rim of his bowl. "So I stopped trying, I guess."

IN's grip tightened around his chopsticks, and for a long moment, he didn't speak. He stared at the swirling broth, watching the steam rise like it might hide him from the truth curling in his throat.

But it didn't.

"Hyung…" he finally said, voice small. "The truth is… I didn't even want to be an alpha."

Seungmin looked up.

"I used to wish," IN continued, fingers trembling slightly as he laid his chopsticks down, "that I'd present as a beta. Like you."

Seungmin had heard many confessions lately. But that one — the wish to be like him—felt like a bruise he didn't know was there, being touched gently for the first time.

IN's laugh was quiet, sad, and almost embarrassed. "I used to watch you all the time. How calm you were. How do you handle stuff? You never had to yell to be listened to. Never had to demand anything. You just existed, and things got better."

"I liked you more than I could ever say, hyung. Still do," IN continued. "Back then, I just thought maybe if I were like you, you'd keep looking at me the way you did when we stayed up playing games or when I passed you the mic during recording."

He paused, breathing a little shaky now.

"But I wasn't like you," Jeongin whispered. "I presented as an alpha, and everything got louder. My head. My body. Everyone's voices. My instincts. I was angry all the time, and I didn't know why. Everyone was too much and I—I didn't even realise I was saying awful things to you."

Seungmin blinked slowly, but stayed quiet.

"I didn't notice what I was doing," IN said, voice raw. "Until it was too late. Until I looked around one day and realised you didn't play with me anymore. You didn't tease me. You didn't even sit next to me unless you had to." His hands curled into the sleeves of his hoodie.

"When Jung hyung said you needed space, I believed it. I thought, yeah. Of course he does. I broke it. I broke whatever we had."

The ramen between them had gone quiet. Neither bowl is steaming anymore.

"But even then…" IN's voice shook. "Even then, my stupid, immature alpha brain didn't know how to fix it. I just got angry again. At you. At myself. To everyone. Because I didn't know how to say I missed you."

He looked down at his folded arms, voice muffled now.

"I didn't know how to say I wanted you to come back. So I just frowned. And waited. And hated myself more every day."

He finally looked up — eyes bloodshot, lower lip trembling but firm.

"I'm sorry, hyung," he said. "I didn't know how to protect what we had. And now I don't know if it can ever be the same."

Seungmin didn't answer right away.

He just watched IN — red-eyed, trembling, his whole body curled inward like he was bracing for punishment he had already given himself a thousand times over.

And quietly, something in Seungmin ached.

It wasn't that different now.

He had once selfishly hoped IN would be a beta too. He wished they could stay in their quiet corners together, away from all the noise and heat of instincts that tangled everything into something hard to hold.

He imagined a future where they grew into steady silence side by side. Shared games. Shared late-night snacks. Just understanding.

But IN hadn't turned out quiet.

He'd turned out loud. Overwhelmed. Emotionally, in ways Seungmin couldn't always follow. And Seungmin — never quite brave enough to ask why — had let the gap grow wide.

He knew alphas were instinct-driven, ruled by surges of emotion they couldn't always name, but he hadn't known it was this hard at the start. That presenting young, especially when you'd hoped for something else, could feel like being trapped in a skin you didn't choose.

No one had told him that IN had been scared, too.

And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

Seungmin's voice, when it came, was quiet. Honest. Gentle in a way he rarely used out loud.

"…We could still try," Seungmin said softly.

IN blinked up, lips wobbly and eyes shining. "Really?"

Seungmin nodded once. "If you want to. It might not be like before. But maybe something different could be good too."

IN made a choked noise — a half-laugh, half-sob — and immediately dropped his face into his arms again.

"I feel like crying again," he whined into the crook of his elbow, "but also I'm hungry, and the ramen's all soggy, so I'm gonna cry after I eat."

Seungmin startled into a laugh.

Real this time.

Because only IN could confess broken bonds and ruined noodles in the same breath and make it sound like hope.

Seungmin nudged his bowl over. "You can finish mine if yours tastes like regret."

IN sniffled. "No, I'm emotionally unstable, not ungrateful," IN muttered, earning another laugh.

And just like that, the table felt almost familiar again — not fixed, but familiar. Two bowls of half-eaten ramen. One apology offered. One smile returned.

A place to begin again.

~

The ride back was quiet, but lighter.

IN sat beside Seungmin in the passenger seat, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, cheeks still flushed from crying, but his posture no longer folded in on itself. He looked tired. But it was the tiredness that came after being heard.

They didn't speak much. But they didn't need to.

When Seungmin pulled up in front of the dorm building, the car eased to a soft stop. He didn't turn off the engine.

The youngest hesitated before unbuckling his seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride, hyung," he mumbled, voice low but sincere.

Seungmin just nodded. "It's cold. Go in."

IN reached for the door handle, and then IN's phone buzzed simultaneously.

They each glanced down at the screens.

[CHANNIE HYUNG]: IN-ah, where are you? You've been gone for a while.

Short, but loaded.

Seungmin had already read the message. He met IN's gaze, calm and steady. The kind of look that used to mean reassurance in the dorm — and maybe still did.

IN froze. His eyes darted from the message to Seungmin, guilt flashing across his face. "Hyung…"

Seungmin met his gaze calmly. "Tell him you're on your way up. That's all."

The maknae looked like he wanted to press — to demand reassurance, to cling a little longer to the fragile peace between them. But before the spiral could start, Seungmin reached over and tugged lightly at the edge of his sleeve.

"Nothing to worry about," he said, quiet but firm. "Okay?"

IN blinked, swallowed, then nodded.

"And take care," Seungmin added, a small smile curving the edge of his lips.

"Stop crying all the time. You're an adult now, remember?"

IN huffed a laugh — teary, but real. He nodded again and climbed out of the car, pulling his hood up against the chill. One last glance, the kind that asked for silent confirmation.

Seungmin answered with the same steady look. Still here.

IN slipped into the building, and only once the door closed behind him did Seungmin let himself exhale.

He sat for a moment longer, hands still on the steering wheel, eyes on the darkened street ahead.