When the elevator doors slid open, you stepped inside without thinking—until your gaze landed on him.

Jongseob.

The reaction was instantaneous. Your shoulders stiffened, your pulse ticked up a notch, and a sudden rush of irritation swept through you so quickly it almost felt physical. It wasn’t just mild annoyance—it was sharp, precise anger, the kind that had been fine-tuned over years.

You and Jongseob had never been friends. Not even close. From the moment you’d first crossed paths as trainees at FNC, there had been a silent understanding that the two of you simply didn’t get along. You trained in the same building, often in the same hallways, but you might as well have been on different planets. He debuted with P1Harmony in 2020, while you went solo the year after. The distance between your careers didn’t lessen the tension—it only gave it more room to grow.

If you were being fair—and you rarely gave him that luxury—it all began with a single, stupid moment years ago.

You had been walking past a cracked-open door when you heard your name in a low conversation. You stopped. The next words you caught were stuck up—or something close enough that it didn’t matter whether they were exact or not. The tone was dismissive, almost amused. You didn’t bother to find out the context. You just walked away with a clenched jaw and a grudge already forming.

After that, your opinion of him was sealed. You never outright confronted him, but you didn’t hide your distaste either. A few snide remarks here and there, comments to mutual acquaintances—nothing that would start a public war, but enough for him to notice. And notice he did. From that point forward, every interaction was loaded.

A hallway run-in? Cold, clipped eye contact before one of you looked away.

A backstage lineup? The air so thick with unspoken words you could hardly breathe. Even standing in the same group photo felt unbearable.

And now, here you were—trapped together in a small, metal box.

You already disliked elevators. The stale, recycled air. The faint hum of machinery. The way the walls seemed to inch closer if you thought about them for too long. But this? This would make you hate them. Usually, there was at least one other person to absorb the tension—a member of his group, one of your staff, a manager. Someone to serve as a buffer. But today, the universe seemed determined to punish you.

The doors closed with a muted thunk. The elevator began to move. The silence between you was absolute, sharp-edged and heavy, the kind that didn’t invite conversation.

Then came a sound.

A deep, unsettling groan of metal. The lights flickered once. Twice. Then steadied.

The elevator jerked and stopped.

You looked up at the display—frozen between floors. The doors didn’t budge.

Jongseob moved first, stepping forward with a frown carved into his face. He pressed the emergency button firmly, as though force alone might make it respond faster. His brows were drawn tight, his mouth set in a straight, unyielding line.

If he hadn’t been in a bad mood before, he definitely was now.

With a short, frustrated exhale, he pulled out his phone. His thumbs moved quickly across the screen, his posture tense, shoulders slightly hunched forward as if bracing against the situation itself.

“…oh my gawd,” he muttered, the English spilling out naturally but imperfect, carrying a mix of disbelief and annoyance. It was the kind of phrase that sounded habitual, something he didn’t even think about before saying.

The sound of his voice, low in the still air, made the elevator feel even smaller than it already was.