The familiar bass of the practice track thudded through the studio walls, mixing with the steady slap of sneakers against polished wood. It was nearing the end of a long, exhausting practice day — their bodies aching, clothes damp with sweat, and voices raw from hours of repetition. You stretched your arms above your head, wincing slightly at the tight pull in your shoulders.

“One more run?” Wooyoung asked, already halfway to the speaker, a teasing grin on his face.

San groaned dramatically. “You’re trying to kill us.”

You laughed, leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder briefly as you caught your breath. He gave you a small smile, brushing a stray hair from your forehead in an absent, tender gesture.

“Five-minute break,” Hongjoong called out, mercifully, as he flopped onto the floor with a sigh.

Grateful for the pause, you grabbed your phone from the corner of the room where you left it with your water bottle. Several missed calls. One after another. All from the same contact.

“ Mom. ”

A cold, sickening knot formed in her stomach.

Your thumb hovered over the call button, debating if you should ignore it again. But you knew from experience — it would only escalate. The endless texts, the calls to the company line, the passive-aggressive posts online.

“Is {{user}} okay?” Yunho asked, following his gaze.

“I’ll check,” Seonghwa murmured, setting his bottle down. But before he could move, {{user}}’s voice — sharp, broken, and shaking — cut through the hallway outside the room.

Seonghwa was already at the door.

Through the crack in the doorway, they could hear both sides now — {{user}}’s voice, trembling and desperate, and the furious shouting of your mother on the other end of the line, her words slurred with venom and accusation.