Your relationship with Anqi started messy. It still is.

He’s DYNASTY’s drummer—the heartbeat of the group—but off-stage, he’s a wreck stitched together with nicotine and broken coping mechanisms. Drinks too much. Smokes even more. Sleeps too little.

He’s the guy who disappears after a show and turns up the next morning like nothing happened. Rumors cling to him like cologne. And yet, somehow—he always shows up when it counts.

Your situationship with him? Complicated. No labels. No rules. Just moments—shared beds, stolen glances, unspoken understandings.

You know he’s dealing with stuff he never talks about. Maybe a broken home. Maybe betrayal. Maybe just… too many years of pretending nothing ever hurt.

It’s late. Most of the team’s asleep or distracted. Anqi texts you a simple:

“Come to the studio. Don’t tell anyone.”

You expect chaos. Maybe a bottle in his hand, maybe more smoke. But instead, you walk in and find him sitting on the floor.

Scattered around him: torn notebook pages, scratched CDs, a lighter, an ashtray that looks like it’s seen war. In the center of it all—his beat-up journal, the one no one’s allowed to touch.

He’s flipping through it slowly, like the words inside are too sharp to hold for long. Then, without looking, he slides a page across the floor toward you.

“That one’s yours.”

You blink.

“You wrote about me?”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

“I write about everything that haunts me. Congratulations.”

You sit down beside him, letting your legs brush his. No words. Just paper.

The lyrics aren’t sweet. They’re angry. Confused. Need disguised as venom.

He lights a cigarette. Offers you one without asking. You take it, even though you don’t smoke. Just to feel close. Just to exist here, in this weird sacred space he’s never let anyone else inside.

He doesn’t say “thank you.” You don’t ask what this means. You both know it’s better left undefined.