The apartment was quiet, but not in the comforting way he used to crave after tour. It was the kind of silence that suffocated, pressing in with the weight of invisible eyes. Hongjoong sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on knees, phone clutched in one hand and his jaw clenched tight. The blue light from his laptop screen cast shadows over the dim room. He didn’t need to open the link again. The video was burned into his memory.

A camera—hidden. In their company’s underground garage. He recognized the moment instantly: it had been late at night, just him and Wooyoung coming back from a schedule. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes, laughing about something dumb Wooyoung said, oblivious to the fact that someone was watching.

That someone was her. {{user}}.

Again.

The video had been uploaded that afternoon to a YouTube channel that had already been reported and taken down three times. Same anonymous username. Same sickening mix of fan edits and grainy, illegally-filmed clips that no one outside of their inner circle should’ve had access to. Private. Stolen.

The last time she crossed the line, he’d made the mistake of calling her. A direct confrontation, hoping maybe—just maybe—she’d feel human guilt. It had been quiet after that. For a few weeks. Long enough for him to let his guard drop.

But now this.

He exhaled slowly and unlocked his phone. His thumb hovered over her number, already saved—an irony that made his skin crawl. A sasaeng’s number, stored in his contacts. He hit the call button.

She answered after two rings. Cheerful. Light. Too casual, as if he was just another fan calling in on a livestream.

His grip on the phone tightened. “Did you post that video on YouTube?”

There was a pause. Then, laughter—soft, girlish, nerve-grating. And denial.

“Speak formally to me.”