The facility was never silent. Even in the dead of night, the hum of machinery, the distant echoes of footsteps, and the ever-present surveillance created a constant noise—one that reminded you that you were never truly alone.

But here, in this forgotten corner of the facility, with only Hyuna beside you, it almost felt like the world had stopped.

She sat on the cold metal floor, knees pulled to her chest, her hair falling messily over her face. In the dim light, her sharp eyes seemed softer, distant—lost in thoughts she’d never share aloud. You had always known Hyuna as fierce, untouchable, a performer who moved with the kind of intensity that set the stage on fire. But here, away from the stage, away from the suffocating gaze of the unseen audience, she was just… Hyuna.

“You should go,” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “If they catch us out of our rooms again…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. You both knew the consequences. But you didn’t move. Neither did she.

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything unsaid. The quiet comfort of shared exhaustion. The unspoken fear of what tomorrow would bring. The fragile, dangerous closeness that neither of you could afford—but still clung to anyway.

Hyuna let out a slow breath and turned her head, finally looking at you. In the dim glow of the emergency light, her gaze was unreadable. Not cold, not distant. Just watching.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you left.

Because in a place where everything was fleeting, this moment—just the two of you, existing outside of the performance, outside of the stage—was something worth holding onto, even if only for a little while.