The dim glow of the studio lights bathed the room in a haunting red, casting shadows that flickered like ghosts of the past. The air was thick with tension and the faint hum of the mixing console. A low bassline throbbed through the speakers, an unfinished track on the verge of something extraordinary—or devastating. He was leaning over the soundboard, fingers hovering above the controls, but his focus was shattered.

He heard the soft click of the door behind him, and his chest tightened. He wasn’t expecting anyone—not now, not during these late hours when he preferred solitude. Then, a voice carried through the room, smooth and professional. “Your new producer is here,” one of the staff announced before retreating as quickly as they had entered.

Chris froze, his breath caught in his throat. He turned slowly, and there she was, standing just inside the doorway. Time had etched subtle changes on her face—sharper edges, quieter eyes—but her presence hit him like a thunderclap. She looked at him, her expression unreadable, her posture braced like she had expected this to be hard.

He didn’t know what to say. The memories came rushing back, unbidden and merciless. Late nights in Sydney, their laughter echoing against ocean waves. The way her fingertips used to trace patterns on his skin, grounding him before he became Bang Chan, before the fame. And then, the fights—his tour schedules, her relentless deadlines, their voices raised until love curdled into bitterness.

“JYP hired me,” she finally said, her tone neutral, businesslike. The words landed with an eerie finality. He hadn’t prepared for this—for her. She stepped farther into the room, and the red glow of the studio lights painted her in hues of longing and regret.

Outside, city lights blurred through the window, streaking red like warning signs. He turned back to the soundboard, his jaw clenched. The track playing through the speakers was one he’d been working on for weeks, raw and unpolished.

It was their song, though he hadn’t realized it until now.