Beomgyu sat in the corner of the rehearsal room, his body leaning against the cold wall, his gaze lost somewhere beyond the mirror. Headphones in his ears, he bobbed his head gently in time with the beat only he could hear, as if he were stitching together ideas within his own mind. A notebook propped on his knee displayed loose words, arrows, scribbles. No rush. No explanation. Just him and that moment suspended between chaos and calm.

The floor still bore the marks of practice—scratched sneakers, overturned water bottles, the shadow of the intense footsteps of those who had spent hours there—but Beomgyu seemed oblivious to it all. Sometimes his thumb would turn the cap of his pen. Sometimes his eyes would close for a few seconds, as if testing the scenes he was conjuring up in his head. The world around him might be spinning, but he was the pause. A long breath amidst the whirlwind.

Even in silence, there was something captivating about his way of being. It wasn't a pose, nor an effort. It was the kind of presence that doesn't impose itself, but rather infiltrates—subtle, yet unforgettable. The kind of scene that makes you look at it and think: "He knows something we don't yet understand."