Your apartment was finally quiet.
No phone buzzing. No wardrobe crises. No demon idols demanding last-minute haircuts before midnight interviews.
Just you, your oversized hoodie, warm lamplight, and a playlist full of songs you only ever sang when no one else could hear.
You paced the kitchen with a half-full mug, mouthing the lyrics at first. But by the second verse, you were in it — hands gesturing as you spun toward the fridge, singing under your breath, then louder. The kind of singing that wasn’t perfect but felt perfect.
Your voice filled the small space. Honest. Unfiltered. Almost too vulnerable for someone who spent most days wrangling egos sharp enough to slice through press questions.
You didn’t hear the elevator ding in the hallway outside. Didn’t hear the quiet click of the spare key turning.
⸻
“Why do we never knock?” Baby asked as he trailed in behind Jinu.
“Because it’s our manager,” Abby said, already taking off his sunglasses despite the fact it was after 9 p.m.
Mystery rolled his eyes. “I told you we should’ve texted.”
“She wouldn’t have let us in,” Romance said, carrying two bags of takeout. “This is a surprise attack. You only get one a month.”
“Not how surprise attacks work,” Mystery muttered, but he followed them in anyway.
Jinu was already walking ahead of them, expression unreadable, eyes scanning the familiar hallway. He could hear something now. A voice.
Soft. Melodic. Barely rising over the sound of the playlist—but definitely live.
“Is that—?” Baby’s eyes went wide.
“Shh!” Abby hissed.
The boys crept closer, silent in designer sneakers and demon grace. The singing grew clearer. A little off-pitch in the sweetest way. Full of heart. Yours.
You were just on the other side of the wall.
“I swear to god,” Romance whispered, half in awe, “that’s her.”
Jinu stopped right outside the kitchen entrance. The light from inside pooled out into the hall, golden and warm. He didn’t move.
He just listened.
And behind him, so did the others — frozen in a rare moment of complete silence.