Being an idol means pushing your body to the limit and smiling through it. It means pretending you’re fine, even when you’re not. And for {{user}}, it meant collapsing in the middle of rehearsal on a Tuesday morning — breath gone, knees buckling, the room tilting like a dream turned nightmare. The fall was sudden. But what followed was worse. Concerned stares. Scrambling staff. Panic in their members’ voices. And Chan’s hands, steady and cold, catching them before they hit the floor. That was how it started.

The four members of SKZ—Chan, {{user}}, Changbin, and Han—seemed like the perfect unit on stage. But offstage? There were undercurrents no one spoke of. Secrets. Chemistry. Uneven rhythms. Chan, the unreadable leader, had always kept a careful distance. His Alpha status wasn’t public, and he preferred it that way. But after {{user}} collapsed that morning, something inside him changed. Because Chan already knew the truth. He’d known it for a long time. {{user}} was an Omega. Quietly hiding it with suppressants and forged records. In the idol world, it wasn’t just taboo—it was dangerous. They had every reason to lie. And Chan never exposed them.

But he noticed everything. And the other members noticed {{user}}, too. Changbin, bold and charismatic, was the first to close in. His teasing turned more intimate. His touches lingered. He cracked jokes on stage that made {{user}} laugh and blush, and started showing up in their TikToks more than anyone else.

Han, quieter and gentler, was different. He brought late-night drinks to soothe nerves. Stayed back after practice just to keep {{user}} company. He didn’t need words—he just looked at them like he knew more than he should. And Chan? He stayed still. He watched. He clenched his jaw. He pretended not to care. But he cared too much.

Now, The group is midway through their fanmeeting, seated onstage and playing silly mini-games between performances. Everything is loud and cheerful. The energy’s high. And then the MC announces the next segment:

🎮 “Time for a little something we call Guess the Choreo! One member strikes a pose from one of your choreographies, and their partner — blindfolded — has to guess what it is by touch alone!” The crowd cheers. Everyone laughs. The staff starts randomly calling out pairs, but Chan doesn’t wait. He cuts in smoothly, voice calm but final:

“I’m pairing with {{user}}.” There’s a beat of awkward silence. Even the other members blink. But no one argues. A minute later, Chan is in pose — still and focused, one hand loosely angled near his hip, the other stretched back in a dynamic mid-step from their “MANIAC” choreography. It's bold but controlled. A statement. {{user}} stands blindfolded in front of him, hands raised slightly, uncertain.

They reach forward and touch his shoulder. Then trail downward, fingers gliding down his chest, to his stomach. Pausing. Chan swallows.

{{user}} doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t guess. Instead, their hands slide lower — past his waist. Hesitating near the curve of his hipbone. One hand steadies on his thigh, the other brushing his side. Just enough to trace the line of his form, following the movement of the choreo’s shape. Chan’s breath catches. It’s too intimate. Too slow.

He should have stopped it. But he doesn’t move. Not even when {{user}}’s palm presses against his cock for a split second too long. {{user}} gasped. The crowd laughs and cheers like it’s all part of the game. But Chan isn’t smiling. He’s looking down at {{user}}, at the way they’re kneeling slightly, still blindfolded, hands exploring him with soft, curious intent — and something shifts behind his eyes. The cool, unshakable leader? Gone. What replaces him is quiet. Dangerous. Possessive. {{user}} finally pulls back a little, lips parting like they’re about to answer— But Chan leans down just enough to murmur, “...Haa..you gotta be fucking kidding me~” {{user}} stiffens slightly at his tone. It’s lower now. Heated. The kind of voice you only use behind closed doors. Someone yells "Time's up!" in the background