The quiet in the vocal booth was starting to get under Chanyeol’s skin. It wasn’t the padded silence of a good take, the satisfying vacuum after a perfect high note. This was a stale, waiting silence, thick with the smell of old foam and too many sleepless nights. He ran a finger over the pitted grey soundproofing. Hated this particular foam panel. It had a tear near the bottom right corner that someone, probably Baekhyun during a fit of boredom, had picked at until it looked like a gaping mouth. It silently mocked his attempts at composition.
He sighed, nudging the three pens on the console table so they were perfectly aligned by height. A black Sharpie, a blue ballpoint, a mechanical pencil. Order. Control. It was a small, stupid thing, but it was the only thing that felt right today. The past few weeks, the entire dorm had felt like a chord played with one string pulled just slightly out of tune—a dissonance you could feel in your teeth.
And the source of that flat note was Do Kyungsoo.
The studio door swung open, cutting a swath of bright hallway light into the gloom. Kyungsoo stood silhouetted in the doorway, holding a tablet. He didn’t say anything, just walked over to the main mixing board and set it down.
“Find a new synth patch you like?” Chanyeol asked, trying for casual. His voice sounded too loud in the dead air.
Kyungsoo grunted, a noncommittal sound that had become his primary form of communication lately. He tapped at the tablet screen, his focus absolute. Chanyeol watched his profile. The intensity was familiar, but the edges were sharper, brittle. It used to be the focus of a craftsman absorbed in his work. Now it felt like the focus of a man on a wire, terrified of looking down.
“I was thinking the bridge for ‘Mirage’ needs a lower harmony. Something to ground it. My part feels too… floaty.” Chanyeol offered the thought like a piece of bread to a shy animal. A month ago, Kyungsoo would have already been humming a potential harmony, his eyes alight with the puzzle of it.
Now, he just shrugged. “It’s fine.”
It was not fine. The whole track was a mess of competing ideas, and they both knew it. That was the problem. They both knew it, and Kyungsoo was pretending he didn’t. Chanyeol stood up, the legs of his stool scraping against the floor. He had to try. He walked out of the booth and stood behind Kyungsoo, looking over his shoulder at the tablet. It wasn't displaying a music app. It was a blank notes page.
“Kyungsoo-yah.”
The use of his name, soft and direct, made Kyungsoo flinch. A barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders. He finally turned his head, his dark eyes meeting Chanyeol’s. They were bottomless. Empty.
“What?”
“Talk to me.” It came out as a plea. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Kyungsoo said, his tone flat and utterly unconvincing. He turned back to the tablet, a clear dismissal. “I’m busy.”
Chanyeol’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He took a breath, forcing them open. Fighting wouldn’t work. It would just push Kyungsoo further into whatever shell he’d built around himself. So instead of shouting, instead of demanding, Chanyeol took his own initiative. He turned and walked out of the studio without another word. If Kyungsoo wanted to hide in the silence, fine. But Chanyeol wasn't going to sit in it with him. He’d find him where he couldn’t pretend.
The dorm was quiet, as expected. Sehun and Jongin were at a dance practice, the others scattered on their own schedules. Chanyeol headed straight for the kitchen. It was Kyungsoo’s domain, the one place he seemed to relax. If he was going to come up for air, it would be here.
He was right.
Kyungsoo was at the sink, his back to the door. The water was running, cold and hard. He wasn't washing dishes. He was scrubbing his own hands, his shoulders hunched. Chanyeol stopped in the doorway, a cold knot forming in his stomach. This wasn't cooking prep. This was something else. It was frantic.
Kyungsoo hadn’t heard him come in. He was scrubbing at the back of his left hand with a ferocity that was alarming, using a green scouring pad meant for burnt-on food.
“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol said, his voice sharp with a sudden, new fear.
Kyungsoo jumped, spinning around. He tried to hide his hand behind his back, but he was too slow. His face was pale, his eyes wide and cornered.
“What are you doing?” Chanyeol asked, stepping forward.
“Nothing. Spilled some ink.” The lie was pathetic. Obvious.
Chanyeol closed the distance between them in two long strides. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing, Chanyeol. Leave it.”
But Chanyeol’s patience had finally snapped. He reached out and grabbed Kyungsoo’s wrist, his grip firm. Kyungsoo struggled for a second, a brief, desperate attempt to pull away, but Chanyeol was stronger. He turned Kyungsoo’s hand over under the harsh kitchen light.
The skin was red raw, scratched and angry. And in the center of the abuse, smeared but still vaguely visible, was a symbol drawn in black ink. It wasn't a letter or a number. It was a geometric shape—a circle with two sharp, intersecting lines breaking through its top arc, like a shattered crown. He’d never seen it before.
“What is this?” Chanyeol’s voice was a low whisper. He traced the shape with his thumb, the motion making Kyungsoo hiss in pain.
Kyungsoo wrenched his hand back, cradling it to his chest. His eyes were burning now, a defensive fire replacing the emptiness. “I told you. It’s nothing.” He turned off the still-running tap with his other hand, and the sudden silence was deafening.
He pushed past Chanyeol, heading for the hallway. “Stay out of it.”
Chanyeol didn’t try to stop him this time. He just stood there in the silent kitchen, the image of that broken circle burned into his mind. He looked at the sink. The green scouring pad sat by the drain, flecked with black ink and something darker. A tiny fleck of blood. The tap, not fully closed, let out a single, slow drop of water. Then another. Each one hit the stainless steel basin with a small, metallic click, counting out the seconds in a world that had just tilted on its axis. He hadn’t gotten an answer. He’d only found a much, much worse question.