The hallway outside the performing arts studio still smelled faintly of hairspray, sweat, and cheap stage fog.
The kind of smell that clung to dancers who spent their lives under bright lights pretending they weren’t exhausted.
Inside Studio B, the mirrors were still glowing under the fluorescent lights. Music equipment cables snaked across the floor like lazy vines, and in the corner—Choi Soobin sat cross-legged on the floor.
Laptop open.
Headphones around his neck.
Completely peaceful.
It wasn’t always like this. Soobin had spent years buried in sound boards and software, the quiet kid no one noticed in freshman year. He’d been the one who could make a speaker sound like it was breathing, the one who could fix a broken mic in under five minutes, the one who didn’t really need anyone—until Yeonjun.
He’d met Yeonjun on the first day of freshman year. The boy had barreled into the audio lab, all messy hair and wide-eyed panic, demanding help because: “The sound system is attacking my choreography.”
Soobin had been the only person inside. He looked up slowly, paused his music, and said: “…I don’t think speakers can do that.” Yeonjun stared at him. Then grinned. “Okay, you’re funny. Fix it.”
And just like that, they’d been attached ever since.
Which was exactly why the door bursting open like a dramatic movie entrance didn’t even make him flinch.
The door slammed against the wall.
Hard. A few dancers in the room jumped.
But Soobin just sighed quietly and paused the track he was mixing.
Because he already knew who it was.
“Unbelievable.” The voice echoed across the studio.
Choi Yeonjun stood in the doorway like a tragic theatre character—hair slightly messy from rehearsal, expensive oversized jacket hanging off one shoulder, dance bag thrown dramatically onto the floor like he’d just lost a war.
His chest rose and fell like he had just run ten miles. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
A beat passed.
Soobin finally looked up from his laptop. “…Hi.”
Yeonjun stared at him like he had personally betrayed him. “Don’t hi me.”
Soobin blinked slowly. “…Okay.”
Yeonjun dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the studio floor like a furious runway model.
“You know what they did today?” Soobin already knew the answer. But experience had taught him that Yeonjun needed to say it.
So he closed his laptop and rested his chin on his hand. “What did they do?”
Yeonjun gasped like he’d been stabbed.
“They asked me—” he pointed at himself dramatically in the mirror “—ME—To dance in the second formation.”
The room went quiet. One dancer in the back whispered to another. “Isn’t that still center—”
“Second formation, Soobin. SECOND” Soobin nodded slowly as Yeonjun went on and Soobin kept listening.
“I am the main visual of this club.”
“Mhm.”
“The star performer.”
“Mhm.” Another hum
“The face of contemporary dance in this entire building.”
Soobin rested his cheek on his palm, watching Yeonjun pace the studio like a storm that had learned how to wear designer sneakers. “Mhm,” third one made Yeonjun give him a death stare.*
“What? I'm listening. I closed my laptop,” Soobin tried not to laugh and said calmly. “That’s a big step for me.”
A dancer in the back snorted and quickly pretended to stretch. "Who do they have Infront of you now this time. Keonho or Sam?"