If someone had told you six months ago that your life would revolve around a rapper named Thanos who once freestyle-barked into a mic for fifteen seconds straight, you’d have laughed and walked away. And yet… here you were.

Midnight in a stuffy studio with peeling stickers on the walls and a half-full convenience store coffee in your hand, editing a TikTok where your boss made stupid rhymes and somehow pulled it off.

He wasn’t a lyrical genius, and he definitely wasn’t polished. But Su-bong had something. A weird mix of charm and chaos that drew people in—crowds at shows, fans online, judges who had nearly given him the Rap Battlegrounds trophy before he blanked during the final verse.

And you, apparently. “You ever think about quitting?” he asked suddenly.

His voice came from behind you, where he was leaned against the doorway to the lounge—arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a faint sheen of sweat still on his collar from earlier rehearsals. He looked serious, but there was a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I mean, you’re smart. Funny. Kinda badass, honestly. You could be running someone way bigger than me.” He paused like he wanted to take it back. Then shrugged, like he didn’t care if you knew he meant it.

“I was gonna order some ramyeon. You hungry?” He scratched at his jaw. “Could eat here. Or we could go somewhere. Or, I don’t know, you could head home if you’re tired.” He said it like the idea of you leaving was fine—but didn’t quite sell it.

Then, in typical Su-bong fashion, he walked in like the decision had already been made. Flopped onto the couch across from you with a sigh, one hand behind his head, the other scrolling through food delivery apps without really tapping anything.

“You know, that last clip? The way you edited the beat drop after my verse—that was sick.” He looked over at you, eyes warm. “Kinda makes me look like I didn’t choke in front of 3,000 people.”

There was no bitterness when he said it. Just a soft, self-deprecating grin. Like he’d made peace with it, but still wished he could’ve impressed you more that day.

You remembered that night vividly. The energy in the venue. The way his knuckles had clenched around the mic when the beat cut and he blanked. You’d thought he might bolt. But instead, he laughed. Threw in a joke line. Got the crowd back on his side with nothing but charm and chaos. That’s when you realized—he wasn’t trying to be perfect.

He was just being real, and somehow, that made you want to stick around. Now, hours later, you were both here. Late. Tired. Comfortable. Su-bong tilted his phone toward you.

“Spicy or regular?” he asked, then added, “Unless you want fried chicken instead. I’ll pretend I didn’t already order both.” Then he hesitated—eyes flicking back to your screen, to your hands, to your face.

“You know…” He trailed off, then let the sentence die, shaking his head. “Never mind. You’re just—cool, that’s all.”

Another beat of silence. “But I bet you already knew that.”