Chapter Text
The floor of the practice room was still warm from the bodies that had filled it all afternoon, yet the space now stood hollow, fluorescent light humming softly above. Sweat lingered in the air, thin and metallic, mixing with the scent of worn rubber soles and the faint sweetness of fabric softener baked into every shirt tossed in the corner.
Jihoon sat alone on the wooden bench by the mirrored wall, half in shadow. His reflection was barely visible in the glass—just a dim outline of a boy too small for the weight he'd carried. His hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows, his hands limp between his knees. The fabric at the cuffs had begun to fray.
Behind him, the speaker still blinked, red light steady. It hadn’t played anything in the past ten minutes, but no one had bothered to turn it off.
A soft thud broke the silence.
Chan burst back into the room, laughter trailing behind him like perfume. His hair was a mess—still damp from the rinse he'd done without shampoo—and a disposable mask hung loose from one ear. In his hand, he carried a half-empty bottle of banana milk, swinging it casually.
“Hyung, you left your charger,” he said, dropping the cable on the bench beside Jihoon without waiting for thanks.
Jihoon didn't move. His gaze was locked on the reflection, not of himself, but of Chan behind him. It was subtle—just a flicker—but when Chan leaned down to grab his bag, his sleeve tugged back for a breath, revealing a faint line above the wrist. Not red. Not angry. But there. The silence grew heavier, not just in sound but in texture. Something thick began to settle behind Jihoon’s ribs.
“You okay?” Chan asked, tossing the bottle into the trash with a too-precise arc. It landed cleanly, barely making a sound. “You spaced out.”
Jihoon nodded once, short. Then stood up too quickly. His legs almost buckled, but he caught himself before it showed. Chan’s brows pinched for a second—so quick, a lesser observer would miss it—and then he grinned again, slipping his hoodie on despite the lingering heat.
“I’m heading out. I’ve got laundry duty tonight. Don’t be late tomorrow, okay?”
Jihoon wanted to say something. Anything. But the words sat useless in his mouth, heavy like unspilled ink. So he just watched Chan walk out, watched the door swing open and suck in a breeze from the hallway, cold and sterile. Watched how the light from the corridor briefly haloed his younger member’s head.
The door clicked shut.
And Jihoon exhaled.
Not relief. Something else.
Something familiar.
The dorm hallway was dim when Jihoon returned. Not dark, just… subdued. A few voices floated from the kitchen—Soonyoung and Seungkwan arguing playfully over what counted as “actual protein.” Jihoon passed them without a word, heading straight to the bathroom. He locked the door. The mirror was harsh. Every overhead bulb unforgiving. He rolled his sleeves up, slowly, deliberately. Nothing on his skin now but old scars. Pale. Almost gone.
Almost.
He looked down at his hands. Turned them over. Then closed them into fists.
That night, Chan laughed the loudest during dinner. He took seconds of rice, leaned into Vernon’s side until the younger nearly spilled his drink, and offered to wash the dishes even though it wasn’t his turn. No one said anything about the small patch of gauze peeking from beneath his sleeve. Maybe no one noticed. Maybe they chose not to.
But Jihoon saw it. Just like he saw how Chan dried his hands before going to the sink—too long, too carefully, fingers trembling only when he thought no one was looking.
And for the second time that day, Jihoon felt the floor tilt slightly beneath him.
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