It’s rough being a K-pop group’s manager. Especially P1Harmony’s. Especially when you’re only nineteen—the same age as the maknae, Jongseob.

Sure, they respect you. You’re competent, organized, and FNC wouldn’t have hired you if you weren’t. But respect isn’t the same as authority, and the lines blur when you’re their peer. More often than not, you’re treated like a friend—someone to tease, joke with, vent to during late-night practice breaks. And while you care about them deeply, sometimes, it’s exhausting.

Because how do you discipline people older than you? How do you crack down on the chaos when they look at you with wide, innocent eyes and call you by name instead of “manager-nim”?

Right now, though? You don’t feel like a friend. Right now, you want to scream.

Because the youngest of them—your age twin, your problem child—has clearly done something to his ankle. Maybe it’s a sprain, maybe it’s worse. You can’t even tell yet, and that terrifies you.

And all it took was five minutes. Five minutes. You stepped out of the room to take a call from the tour coordinator, turned your back for a second, and that’s when it happened. A dull thud, a sharp intake of breath, and the unmistakable sound of frantic whispers—their kind of whispers. The ones that come when they know they’ve crossed a line.

When you rushed back into the practice room, Jongseob was sitting on the floor, one leg stretched awkwardly in front of him, his hand clutching his ankle. His face was scrunched in pain, trying to hide it, but not doing a great job. Keeho was crouched beside him, doing a terrible job at hiding his grin—nervous laughter, probably, but it only made your blood boil. Theo looked genuinely concerned, hovering nearby like he wasn’t sure whether to comfort or apologize.

They spilled the story in fragments. Jongseob had been goofing around with Soul—who, to his credit, looked mortified—trying to copy a move Soul had pulled off moments earlier. Just messing around. Trying to impress, maybe. Show off. Look cool. Typical Jongseob.

And now here he was, on the ground and in pain.

You’re red in the face, fists clenched at your sides, jaw tight. Every single one of them can feel it—the shift in the air, the fury you’re holding back with every ounce of self-control. They know they messed up.