Sunghoon: The Cracks in the Ice

One could say the day had ended successfully—if only for the simple reason that it had, at last, drawn to a close. And for him, that alone was a triumph. The mere fact of its conclusion offered a fragile kind of relief. Sunghoon felt as though his body, worn to the edge of collapse, had finally earned the right to silence and rest. Though in truth, it was only a sensation—an illusion of peace, not its reality. He bid farewell to his personal manager, Ami Selena Moon, who let him go with a reluctant heart. Yet before he could vanish into the hush of night, she made one final attempt—because trying, after all, cost nothing. "Sunghoon," she murmured, her eyes narrowing as she folded her arms across her chest. "You do know it's wrong to lie—especially to your personal manager?" Her voice was quiet, but in that quietude lay more gravity than any raised tone. Her mismatched eyes—one violet, one green—usually soft, now held a piercing clarity, threaded with concern and a hint of disappointment. She had watched him all day, and it was painfully clear: he was hiding something. This wasn't the first day she'd known him. Two years had passed since their paths first crossed, and in that time, she had come to know him almost entirely. He was unlike himself—distracted, as though his thoughts kept slipping through his fingers, and at times, it seemed as if only his body remained on set, his mind drifting elsewhere. His speech faltered; he stumbled over lines, forgetting what he was meant to say, sometimes even forgetting what he wanted to say at all, cutting himself off mid-sentence. His fingers clenched his wrist in a trembling grip, trying to suppress the shiver that ran through him like a current. But what unsettled her most was his request for painkillers. Not casually, not in passing—but with a look that suggested he was asking for chewing gum, or at worst, a sweet. "I know. But I didn't lie," Sunghoon replied, his gaze slipping away from her narrowed eyes. When he looked back, it wasn't at her—it was at his own blurred reflection in the window of the car, still unmoving. "I just had a headache." "Not telling the whole truth is still wrong. I didn't see you eat a single thing all day." "I felt a bit nauseous," he tried to smile, but the smile was crooked, strained. "But I'm fine, noona. Honestly." "I've asked you—call me by name. Even if I'm half Korean, I'm still half French. And that word makes me feel ancient. I'm only twenty-five. Ah, sod it—let's go home. Sunghoon, your migraine—it's started, hasn't it? I've been keeping track, and the dates didn't match last time." "No, Ami. There's still time..." He shook his head, but inside, everything was boiling. Park was lying. Boldly, shamelessly. Looking straight into the eyes of the woman who had become like the older sister he never had. His nausea wasn't "a bit"—it had clung to him since morning, thick and sticky like fear, never letting go. He moved carefully, relying on sheer willpower and self-suggestion to convince himself he was fine, doing everything not to give himself away. Everyone expected perfection from him. And he couldn't afford weakness. The migraine was his constant companion. Chronic. Cruel. It came every month, like an inevitable plague from which there was no escape. Its first herald was irritability, which he had learned to mask behind a polite, mirror-rehearsed smile—slightly different, but still convincing—and refined gestures that kept his darker thoughts on a tight leash. Next came anxiety, visible in a trembling leg, in too-frequent sighs, in the way he clenched his fingers until they turned white, or pressed his palm against his knee. The members chalked it up to nerves. The fans—fatigue. But no one knew these were omens of pain. The headache surged like a wave, hammering at his temples as if someone were pounding from within. Hour by hour, it grew stronger, sharper, more vivid—until it became the only reality. Weakness enveloped his body like fog. It felt as though he could fall asleep and never wake—and that would be a mercy. His legs barely held him; he clung to the ground with sheer determination not to collapse. Gravity felt tripled, as if the world itself were trying to pin him down. Goosebumps raced across his skin like a chill, only to be replaced moments later by heat—his skin burned as if fevered. He felt alien in his own body, as though he were watching from the outside, like an NPC in a game. And all this unfolded against the backdrop of photophobia, where light was a blade; phonophobia, where every sound was a blow; hyperosmia, where smells became unbearable—even his favourite perfume offered no refuge. These were the harbingers of agony, the ominous chime before the storm. He hated these moments. Hated himself in them. On days like this, he wished he could vanish—dissolve, become nothing, as if he had never existed. But he was an idol. And idols had no right to weakness. No right to pain. No right to truth. That was how the world saw them. Night had wrapped itself tightly around the city, the stars drowned in artificial lights. In the affluent district where their dormitory stood, silence reigned—so complete it felt as though even the air knew not to make a sound. Ami keyed in the door code, and it clicked open softly, ushering them inside. The stairwell was dimly lit, as if the building itself were aware of his condition—though the lighting had always been this way. The security guard greeted them and returned to his duties. Sunghoon blinked, trying not to betray how dizzy he felt. The floor beneath him swam, the neat lines of the tiles rippling like waves. They waited briefly before the lift doors opened, and Ami pressed the button for their floor, stealing glances at Park. Even the short ascent felt endless—each jolt of the cabin reverberated in his skull like a hammer blow. Their floor housed three flats. Ami lived to the left. Sunghoon shared his with three other members—two hyung-line seniors, Heeseung and Jay, and the maknae, who had lucked out by living upstairs while the rest stayed below with their shared manager, Yuki. The middle flat was unoccupied, which was unsettling at times, as if sasaeng fans might emerge from it at any moment. "We're here," Ami exhaled, slipping her bag off her shoulder. "You've no solo projects tomorrow, so you can rest—from them and from me. I've told your members and Yuki," she added, scrolling through her phone, likely checking the group's schedule. "Right. Tomorrow's just choreography practice and song recording. The rest of the day's free, according to Yuki. You'll get some rest." "Thanks," Sunghoon's voice was hoarse, as though he spoke through sand. He nodded, but didn't move toward the door. He stood still, gathering strength just to reach for his keys. Ami lingered. She looked at him the way one looks at someone who says "I'm fine," while their body screams the opposite. A quiet worry stirred within her—instinct told her something was wrong. But she knew: pressure would only make him retreat. So she stepped forward, gently touched his shoulder, and said: "I'm here. If it gets worse—just call. Even in the middle of the night. Just call, and I'll come." "Like Superman?" he tried to laugh, though his head felt like it was splitting. "No promises. But I'll try..." Sunghoon nodded again. Too quickly. Too mechanically. Ami left. The door clicked shut behind her, and silence became absolute. All-consuming. Sunghoon remained alone in the hallway. The light stabbed at his eyes, and he closed them, resting his forehead against the cold metal of the door. His heart pounded in his temples like a drum, racing as if Formula 1 cars were rounding the final lap. The world swayed like a ship's deck. His legs buckled, but he stayed upright. Because if he fell, he might not get up again. And if he showed weakness, it would become real—and he couldn't afford to believe in that reality. The brunette fumbled with his keys, missing the lock three times before finally getting it right. Two clicks, and the door opened. Inside, darkness greeted him—and it was a blessing. He didn't turn on the light. He walked in by feel, like a blind man, to his room—the safest place at this hour. The members were asleep in their rooms; it was late. In his own space, though he rarely spent much time there, he dropped his jacket onto the chair, didn't bother undressing or removing his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. His body trembled like in fever. He clenched his fingers, trying to quell the throbbing in his head, but it only intensified. Even the faintest rustle sounded like a bomb going off. He didn't cry, though salt-laced tears clung to his eyes. He didn't groan, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't call for help—they were asleep He moved slowly, as though each step dragged through molasses, as if time itself had thickened around him. Every motion felt suspended, like a dream caught between frames. The corridor lay in a hush of half-light, the only illumination a faint spill from a streetlamp outside, slipping through the narrow gap in the curtain and painting the floor with pale, trembling stripes. He didn't switch on the light. Even the thought of it made his skin crawl. Light—any light—felt like a blade, white-hot and merciless, ready to split his skull in two. When he reached the bathroom, he turned the lock with a trembling hand and leaned against the door, as if it might hold him together, keep him from collapsing into pieces too small to gather. He stood there for a moment, forehead pressed to the wood, breathing in silence. Then, with effort, he pushed himself toward the sink, gripping the marble edge like a lifeline. He froze, a statue carved from exhaustion. His gaze lifted slowly to the mirror, and what met him was not himself. The reflection was a stranger—ashen skin, eyes bruised with fatigue, lips pressed so tightly they looked ready to split. Pain had etched itself into his features, and the moment the LED light above flickered on, it pierced his eyes like a scream. He looked away. He couldn't bear to see himself like this. Not tonight. The air was thick, unmoving. Even his own breath felt intrusive—too loud, too alive, too real. He turned the tap, adjusting the water until it was barely warm. Hot water scalded. Cold water bit. Tepid was all he could endure. As the water cascaded over him, he stood motionless, letting it trace the lines of his body, hoping it might wash away the tension coiled beneath his skin. The sound of the stream was the only thing that didn't hurt. It was the only sound that didn't feel like a hammer to the skull. It whispered over him, as if trying to cleanse more than just sweat and grime—trying to rinse away the dread, the shame, the gnawing ache of loneliness. But water could only do so much. Each droplet felt like lead, and instead of relief, it brought the sensation of sinking. Of being pulled under. His body trembled—not from cold, but from depletion. His limbs no longer felt like his own. He was a ghost in his own skin, a passenger in a vessel that no longer obeyed. He closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, the world vanished. No cameras. No lights. No expectations. No pain. Just the sound of water and the illusion of peace. But the moment passed. Behind his eyelids, the images returned—flashes of stages, of faces, of demands. The weight of what he was supposed to be. The ache of knowing he couldn't be it. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. And so, in the dark, beneath the stream of water, he allowed himself—for a single breath—to be something else. Not perfect. Not adored. Not needed. Just a boy, hollowed out by pain and solitude. Just him and the water. Just him and the silence. Just him and the soft rhythm of droplets falling from his hair like the seconds of a life he no longer recognised. He leaned into the tiled wall, letting the water lash his back. His fingers, unsteady, slid across the cold ceramic, searching for something solid, something that wouldn't vanish beneath his touch. The chill of the wall grounded him, kept him from dissolving entirely. He stood hunched, as if trying to hold himself together with the curve of his spine, pressing into the surface like it was the last thing tethering him to this world. The tears in his eyes never fell. Not even now. Not even here. Not even when the pain in his skull pounded like a war drum and his body shook with the tremors of a fevered soul. He simply stood, letting the water run over him like time—unrelenting, indifferent. Each droplet was a blow. Each breath, a battle. He stood until his skin burned, until his fingers numbed, until he could no longer feel where he ended and the water began. Then, slowly, he peeled himself from the wall, dried off with mechanical precision, as though wiping away the evidence of his unraveling. His movements were hollow, automatic—like a machine built for survival. But the pain remained. Buried deep. A venom that no water could purge. He brushed his teeth without looking at the mirror. He couldn't face that stranger again. Then he returned to his room, still cloaked in darkness. By touch, he found his phone, checked the alarm, plugged it in. Only then did he allow himself to lie down. He curled into himself, small and tight, like a child seeking shelter. His face pressed into the pillow, the blanket heavy over him. But there was comfort in that weight—it held him together, kept him from scattering. The pain still pulsed in his skull, but he no longer fought it. He simply breathed. Slowly. Evenly. Hoping the double dose of painkillers would be enough to carry him through the night. And in that silence, in that near-total darkness, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. Not strong. Not composed. Just tired. And somewhere beyond the wall, someone shifted in their sleep—one of the members, unaware that in the room next door, he was locked in battle with a monster no one could see. All he needed was a little peace. A little quiet. Just enough to become again the person they expected. The one they needed. But the night offered no comfort. It was not a friend. It was another adversary. The room was dark, yet even in the absence of light, he felt the weight of everything pressing in—the walls, the ceiling, the very air. The pain in his head didn't fade. It throbbed like a funeral bell, like a cruel melody that refused to end. Sleep came, not as a balm, but as a fragile veil between reality and something darker. In the dream, he was on the ice—his sanctuary, his first love. The rink stretched wide and empty, bathed in a soft, nostalgic glow, as though lit by memory. Here, there had once been joy. Here, he had once been free. He glided effortlessly, weightless, surrounded by the laughter of friends he still held dear. But each turn grew heavier. Each step cracked beneath him like glass. And with every movement, those beloved faces shattered into fragments. The ice splintered beneath his feet, and he knew: if he fell, he would not rise again. Then—light. Blinding. Brutal. Like a stage spotlight aimed straight into his soul. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the glare remained. Through it, voices clamoured—fans, managers, members, messages, demands. All speaking at once. All expecting. All calling. He tried to answer, but no sound came. His mouth opened—silence. Only the pulse in his temples. Only the tremble in his hands. The light vanished. The noise swelled. And then—the stage. He stood alone, facing a sea of empty seats. The lights died. The music never started. He took a step—and fell. Into darkness. Into silence. Into himself. He woke not to the alarm, but to his own body. It screamed, silently. He surfaced like a drowning man, gasping for air. His head throbbed with a violence that made him nauseous, the pain blooming behind his eyes like fire. Even the dim light through the curtains sliced at him. He winced, teeth clenched, and rolled onto his back. The sheets clung to his skin—sweat, or tears, he couldn't tell. He didn't move. Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, where there was no comfort, no meaning. Inside, he felt hollow. Not quiet—empty. The kind of emptiness that comes after too many battles. When you've run out of fight, but still have to stand. Eventually, he rose. Every movement echoed through his bones like a warning. He washed his face with cold water, trying to reclaim something of himself. The mirror offered no reassurance. His eyes were dull, his skin pale, his lips cracked. He touched his cheek, as if to confirm he was still real. Then came the ritual. Eye cream. Eye drops. Concealer. Every motion precise. Practised. He knew how to hide the signs. He'd done it before. He would do it again. He dressed in his softest black training clothes. Smoothed his hair, left it unstyled. He could afford a little imperfection. As long as he looked "fine." As long as no one asked. The kitchen was quiet. Some members had already gone. Others still slept. He poured water, took a sip—and his stomach recoiled. He couldn't eat. Not today. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. His phone lit up. A message from Ami. — Are you alright? — Yes. — I can drive you to the company. I haven't left yet. — Thank you. — I'll wait downstairs. — I'm coming... He typed the last words as he approached the door, passing Heeseung, who had just woken. He offered a smile—thin, brittle—and slipped out the door. ay and Ni-ki were already at the company. Jay had messaged the group chat—on behalf of them both. *** The day at the company began as usual—with coffee, schedules, and the low hum of air conditioning. The members had already gathered in the practice room. Some were stretching, some scrolling through the day's agenda on tablets, others simply sat, staring into space, trying to wake up. But when Sunghoon walked in, the silence thickened. Not because he was late—he was on time. Not because he looked unwell—he looked "fine." But something was off. And everyone felt it. Jungwon glanced up from the papers spread across the table in front of him. He looked at his hyung, opened his mouth to speak, then stopped himself mid-breath and returned to his notes, exchanging a glance with manager Yuki, who merely shook his head. Jake tried not to show that he'd noticed anything. Jay and Ni-ki hadn't yet returned from the restroom. Heeseung hadn't arrived. Kim was changing. The only thing betraying Sunghoon was his eyes—glassy, vacant, like a shop window behind which nothing remained. Fifteen minutes later, Heeseung arrived. He took a step toward the younger, then froze. Lee could feel it—today was not the day. Today, Sunghoon was like thin ice: smooth, beautiful, but one step too close and the cracks would spread. The thought alone made Heeseung's chest tighten. Ami arrived before practice began. She'd come to check on her charge—during the drive, he'd sat with his eyes closed, flinching at every sound. That reaction had unsettled her. It was the same every time the migraine began. Her schedule today was relatively light—negotiations for solo photoshoots, endorsements, and a final decision on a role they wanted Sunghoon to take. After greeting everyone, she joined Yuki, Jian, and Minhyeok. Practice began. Ami pulled Yuki aside, her gaze trailing to Sunghoon, who looked utterly lost. Her heart whispered not to stray far. She had become a sister to him—and he, a younger brother to her. Practice started, as always, with warm-ups. Simple movements, stretches, breathing. But for Sunghoon, even this was torture. And everyone noticed. From the start, his body felt foreign. Muscles refused to obey, joints creaked like rusted hinges, and each breath echoed in his skull like a blow. The pulse in his head merged with the rhythm of the music—not in harmony, but in torment. The soft lighting in the room sliced his eyes like a blade. He squinted, but didn't show it. He moved, but he didn't live. When the choreography began, things worsened. His legs filled with lead, knees trembled under his weight. He turned—and the world tilted. Balance slipped through his fingers like sand. He caught himself, held on, but it wasn't dancing. It was survival. His shoulders burned like fever. His back ached as if pierced by a hook. Sweat trickled down his temples—not from exertion, but from pain. His body no longer obeyed. Each step felt rejected by the floor. He jumped, landed with a dull thud, each movement cracking him from within. He faltered. Again and again. A turn—wrong. An arm—off beat. His gaze—empty. He knew they were watching. Knew they saw. But he kept going. Because he couldn't stop. Heeseung watched in silence, lips pressed tight. He knew Sunghoon too well to mistake this for fatigue. This was pain. Jungwon stepped closer, wanting to speak, but instead Yang reached out, placing a hand on his hyung's shoulder, freezing him in place. "Hyung," his voice sounded as if underwater, his eyes clouded, "stop. Please. Stop hurting yourself." "I'm fine, Won. Really," the words came with effort, "just didn't sleep well." "Sunghoon-hyung, don't lie. Not when you're looking me in the eye." Jungwon wanted to say more, but the choreographer's sharp voice cut through the room before he could. Reina was growing frustrated. She knew Park—he was one of the quick learners, one of her favourites, rarely needing correction. He was the embodiment of precision. "Sunghoon, you missed the step. That's the fifth time. What's going on?" "Sorry," his voice was flat, lifeless. "I'll fix it." Practice resumed. Jay and Jake exchanged glances, worry flickering between them. They saw how he clenched his fingers, as if trying to hold himself together. Sunoo watched quietly, saying nothing. Ni-ki observed intently, memorising every movement, every flicker of expression. And he came to a grim conclusion: hyung was dancing on the edge. His lines, his grace, the spark Ni-ki had once envied and always admired—gone. Still, he continued. Even when his legs buckled. Even when his vision blurred. Even when each step felt like a blow. He continued. At some point, the choreographer fell silent. He watched Sunghoon move—not with error, but with desperation. And he understood: this wasn't a mistake. It was a battle. "Let's take a break," Heeseung's voice was firm, final. No one argued. Sunghoon began walking toward the wall where the managers stood. His steps were slow, heavy. And then—the ground vanished. Darkness closed in. Silence, blessed and absolute. Ami held a bottle of water, already opened, ready to hand it to him. She saw him approaching, dragging his feet. She stepped forward. But the bottle hit the floor, water splashing across the parquet, and in her arms—Sunghoon collapsed. His head fell against her shoulder, his arms limp. Moon didn't understand at first. It happened in a breath—a crack of plastic, a splash, and then weight. His body sagged in her arms, as if someone had snipped the last thread holding him upright. His cheek pressed against her shoulder, hot and damp with sweat. His breathing—shallow, but steady. "Hyung!" Jungwon was the first to reach them, his face drained of colour. He dropped to his knees, trembling fingers searching for a pulse at his hyung's neck. "Sunghoon!" Ami's voice broke, rising too high. "Bloody hell," Heeseung stood frozen, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn't look away from Sunghoon's face—pale, eyes shut, lips parted as if trying to speak but failing. "Call the medics! He's unconscious!" Ami's voice shook, but she spoke clearly, lowering herself to the floor, cradling his head. "It's the migraine. A bad one. I saw him clutching his head before practice... He didn't tell anyone." Jake stood still, as if the floor had vanished beneath him. His lips trembled, panic flooding his eyes—the kind he always masked with jokes. "He said he was fine. He smiled. He..." his voice cracked, and he turned away. "Why didn't he say anything?" Jay stood beside him, fists clenched, nails digging into skin. He stared at his best friend, despair in his eyes. "We were here. We should've seen it. Why didn't I ask? Why did I just... believe him?" "Because he always stays silent," Yuki's voice rang out like thunder. He knelt beside them, touching Sunghoon's forehead. "He doesn't want to be a burden. Even when he's in pain." Sunoo sank to the floor, legs giving out. He looked at Sunghoon, and in his eyes was silence—the kind that follows a storm. He didn't speak, but his breath hitched, as if he felt the pain himself. "He danced like it was his last chance. Like if he stopped, he'd vanish," Ni-ki stepped forward, his face stone-like, but his eyes wide with horror. He knelt beside Ami, gaze solemn beyond his years. Jungwon stood off to the side, unmoving. He looked at his hyung, guilt etched deep. "I wanted to say something. I should've. But I was afraid he'd push me away. Say he was fine. Like always." The medics arrived. One checked his pulse, another his pupils. Someone called for a stretcher. Everything moved quickly, yet time felt suspended. "He's overheated," one medic said. "If he's prone to migraines, this could've worsened it. Possibly dehydration. Possibly exhaustion." "Possibly?" Jay's voice was sharp. "He danced when he could barely stand. That's not 'possibly.' That's fact." "I'm going with him," Ami said firmly, eyes locked on the manager. "He shouldn't be alone." Yuki nodded. She walked beside the stretcher, never once looking back. The room fell silent. Only the drip of water from the fallen bottle reminded them this was real. "We should've been there," Jungwon whispered. "We should've heard him. Even when he didn't speak." Ni-ki turned away, wiping tears before anyone could see. Jake sat on the floor, head buried in his knees, trying to hide from the helplessness. Jay stood still, waiting for someone to say it was a mistake. But no one did. *** Sunghoon lay on the soft couch in HYBE's medical wing, wrapped in a thin grey blanket that offered little warmth but shielded him from the outside world. The IV dripped slowly into his vein, the solution spreading through his body like a gentle hush, lulling the pain to sleep. The light was dimmed, as though even the air in the room feared disturbing the fragile peace. The hum of the air conditioner was barely audible, and in that near-sterile silence, every sound—drip... drip... drip...—echoed like the rhythm of his exhaustion. His face was pale, almost translucent, like parchment. Lips dry. Breathing steady, but delicate, as if the very movement of air might disrupt its fragile cadence. He wasn't asleep—he was resting from everything, all at once. His eyes remained closed, not from pain, but from a weariness that had settled like dust at the bottom of his soul. A shadow of pain still pulsed in his temples, but it was receding, like the tide, leaving behind a quiet emptiness. Jay sat by the wall, hunched over his knees. His shoulders were slumped, gaze lowered, fingers interlocked and bloodless from tension. He didn't move, as though any motion might shatter the delicate balance keeping Sunghoon suspended between pain and peace. "I saw him wince," he said, voice low, as if dredged from deep water. "Saw him squint at the light. And still I thought—just tired. Just didn't sleep. Like always." Jake stood at the window, back to the others, forehead pressed to the cold glass. He didn't want anyone to see his eyes—there was too much in them: fear, guilt, helplessness. His shoulders trembled, but he stood like someone being punished—by himself. "He always says when something's wrong..." his voice faltered. "And we've grown used to believing him. Used to thinking he'll manage. That he's strong." Heeseung stepped closer, settling gently on the edge of the couch, careful not to disturb the quiet. He looked at the younger's face, at the shadows beneath his eyes, and in his gaze was something that needed no words—a silent recognition of pain he knew too well. "Even the strong fall," he said. "They just do it quietly." Ni-ki stood by the door, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on Sunghoon. He said nothing, but his face spoke volumes—worry, guilt, sorrow. When the doctor entered, he didn't break the silence—he became part of it. His voice was calm, assured, the voice of someone familiar with pain, but never indifferent to it. "He'll wake fully in a couple of hours. The migraine's subsiding. He needs rest, water, and quiet. And no pressure. Just presence." Jungwon nodded. The leader walked to the couch, sat beside Ami, and his voice was soft, but resolute: "We'll stay. Not as a team. As family." The words made her smile—small, but real. She had become part of something right. Sunghoon's fingers curled faintly around Heeseung's. Barely perceptible. But enough to make everyone still. He heard them. He was here. The warmth of the IV continued to flow through his veins, and in his head—silence. Not complete, but bearable. He opened his eyes slowly, as if afraid the world might strike again. But instead of pain—just a muted hum, and someone's breath nearby. Ami leaned over him, eyes tired but attentive, her long blonde strands brushing against the exposed skin of his arm. She noticed the movement instantly and smiled gently, as though her smile alone could anchor him to this world. "Welcome back," she whispered. "It's alright now. For the moment, at least. You just shut down. Migraine. I won't scold you, don't worry—but we'll talk about it later." He tried to speak, but his voice was barely a whisper. "I..." he swallowed. "I didn't want to be a burden." "You're not a burden," she interrupted, quietly but firmly. "You matter. Not as an idol. As a person. To your members, your fans—and to me." The door creaked open, and Jay peeked in. He froze at the sight of Sunghoon's open eyes, then crossed the room in seconds. "You scared us," he said, sitting down. "Seriously. I nearly tore the studio apart." Sunghoon tried to smile, but it came out crooked—like a crack in glass. "Sorry." "Don't," Jay gripped his hand. "Just... don't do that again. Don't stay silent. Say something when it hurts. When something's wrong. Stop locking it all inside." Jake followed, eyes red but face bright—like the sky after rain. "I thought you... Bloody hell." He paused, exhaled. "I'm just glad you're here." Sunoo came in quietly, sat at the head of the couch, and placed a hand on his hyung's shoulder. No words. But it was enough. It was an anchor. Ni-ki entered last. He didn't speak at first. He simply stood opposite, looking Sunghoon in the eye. "Hyung, you don't have to be perfect," he said. "You just have to be alive." Jungwon returned with the manager. He stepped closer, sat on the edge of the couch, and said softly: "We'll revise the schedule. I'll speak to Reina—she'll understand. You're not alone, hyung. We're family. And family holds each other up." Sunghoon closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with moisture. Not from pain. From relief. From being heard. "Thank you," he whispered. "I... I just didn't want to be weak." "Being weak isn't a mistake," Ami replied. "It's just part of being alive." "I get it," Heeseung muttered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "But don't scare me like that again... I swear I nearly had a stroke." "Hyung, that's the wrong side of the body," Ni-ki chimed in, and for the first time that evening, his voice held a smile. "And technically, it's called a heart attack," Jay added—and for the first time in hours, the room felt warm again. Truly warm.