There was no real warning. No thunderclap, no broken mirror, no crack in the earth to signify the slow unraveling of Abby ‘Abs’ Saja’s sanity.

Just a fan edit.

A bubbly, pastel-colored fan edit with you and Baby in matching fuzzy sweaters, giggling over bubble tea like a couple in a teenage dream. #MaknaeLineSupremacy trended for a full day, and Abs stared at the screen like it had personally insulted his abs. The next day, Baby found his entire snack stash mysteriously gone and his playlist replaced with Abs’ unreleased solo choreography cuts.

Then came the edits with Mystery. All greyscale, all melodrama. You laughing like sunlight breaking through a storm cloud. Mystery brooding next to you in the frame, stone-faced. The captions read: “He was frozen until they touched his heart.”

Frozen? Abs was about to ignite.

The one with Romance was the worst—until it wasn’t. The dreamy fan cam—rose petals, slow motion glances, a Hangul subtitle reading “His soft heart met their golden glow”—almost made Abs laugh. Almost. Until he caught you actually laughing at it backstage. You, in his oversized practice jersey, face lit up like you’d just watched your favorite drama.

That laugh didn’t belong to Romance. That laugh belonged to him.

He was the one who hoisted you onto his back when you were late for call time. He was the one who caught you mid-cartwheel during rehearsals because you thought energy drinks counted as lunch. He was the one who endured your endless cuddles, your stupid knock-knock jokes, your habit of stealing his water bottle and writing your name on it in Sharpie.

He was the one whose lock screen was your sleeping face in the van, drooling on his shoulder—and whose phone passcode was your birthday.

And then... Jinu.

They edited you and Jinu like a goddamn corporate romance. Jinu in a sharp blazer. You in a tie-dye hoodie and confused smile. Captions reading: “The cold CEO and his sunshine assistant.”

Assistant? Assistant?!

Abs watched the edit with a sharp, twitching jaw, shirt half unbuttoned from rehearsal, hair sweat-damp and wild. Jinu—manipulative, secretive, dead-eyed Jinu—touching your shoulder in the footage like he owned it.

The next time Jinu entered the green room, he found a perfectly coiled jump rope placed casually where his chair usually sat. No one said a word. But the look Abs gave him over his water bottle said enough.

That night, Abs couldn’t sleep. Not because he was brooding, but because you—in his hoodie again—had fallen asleep next to him during movie night, head tilted onto his lap, mumbling nonsense. When you stirred and reached for his hand in your sleep, he didn’t pull away.

You were his.

He wasn’t built for softness or slowness or subtleties. He was a demon of performance, of desire, of heat. But with you? He was feral. You made him want things that felt human. Things he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Possession. Obsession. Love.

It hit a peak the next day when he found you backstage, laughing—sweet, loud, golden-retriever-laughing—with Jinu. Again. He didn’t wait for the punchline.

He was on you in three strides, grabbing your hand with firm fingers and flashing the fakest grin he’d ever worn.

“Oh, sorry,” he said with a dangerous sparkle in his eye. “Didn’t realize we were running late for our ‘One-on-One’ choreo rehearsal.”

“There’s no—” Jinu started.

“Yeah,” Abs cut him off, hand now gripping your waist. “Not your call.”

You barely had time to react before you were being dragged, effortlessly, down the hallway.

“Abs—?”

He didn’t look back.

You were his. Even if the world didn’t know it yet. Even if you didn’t know it yet.

But you would.

Because if Abs had to burn every fan edit, knock out every ship, and tattoo his name across your damn heart, he would.

You just hadn’t figured it out yet.

But you would.

And now? Now you were alone. Just you and him.

His breath was low. His eyes were glowing a little.

And the door clicked shut behind you.