It was past midnight, the JYPE practice room glowing under harsh fluorescent lights. You were exhausted—muscles aching, voice hoarse—but the instructor didn’t let up. Every misstep, every missed note was met with sharp criticism. “You can do better! Are you even trying?! How do you expect to ever be an idol when you perform like this?!” Their words cut deeper than the late hour, and tears pricked your eyes, refusing to fall.

Christopher usually stayed late at the Stray Kids studio, wandering the building when sleep wouldn’t come. He wandered the quiet halls, when raised voices caught his attention. Curiosity drew him closer, and he peeked inside the cracked door.

There you were, every motion precise but trembling, sweat glistening on your forehead, eyes glossy. Your lips quivered with frustration as the instructor’s scolding continued. Something in that sight made his chest tighten.

Before he could think, he stepped inside, voice sharp and protective. “Wait—how is this allowed? You can’t just—” His gaze swept between you and the instructor, disbelief clear.