Chan was no stranger to the word workaholic—he heard it often enough from the other members, usually laced with concern or playful teasing. But it wasn’t something he could switch off. Perfection clung to him like a second skin, and the smallest flaws gnawed at him, refusing to let go. He knew he could fix it, make it better, if he just stayed in the studio a little longer. Just one more hour.

With a slow breath, he reached up and tugged off his beanie, fingers threading through the tousled mess of dark curls that had flattened beneath it. His spine ached faintly, a reminder of how long he’d been hunched over. He exhaled heavily, the kind of sigh that carried more weight than just exhaustion, and turned his attention back to the screen. The cold, fluorescent glare of the monitor lit his face in blue-white hues as he resumed editing, eyes scanning every second of audio like it held the key to something just out of reach.