The bathroom is humid from his shower, steam pluming and clinging to cool surfaces. His reflection in the mirror stares back at him mockingly. Not big enough, not bulked enough, not handsome enough. Not enough.

Abby lets out a frustrated noise, reaching for a towel and rubbing at his face, trying to get his head to stop. Sometimes, he can't tell what are his own self-deprecating thoughts, or if he's hearing things. When his head gets like this, it feels like there's a malicious voice in his ear, whispering promises of K-pop stardom if he just gave in. But... gave into what?

This idol thing just isn't taking off. The boys have been trying so hard to get their group off the ground, but no matter how many Instagram posts of his abs or TikTok dances he does that are just thinly veiled thirst traps, nothing is working.

He takes a slow, shaky breath, pulling the damp fabric from his face. And his eyes fall to his washbag. It's not just moisturiser and toner and exfoliator in there. He hasn't used them yet, the steroids, he knows you'd throttle him if you found out he'd go that far. But they're there, haunting him.

Abby's fingers twitch, and he reaches forwards, but instead of grasping the bag, he picks up his phone. And he calls you.