Chapter Text
"Thirty minutes before we go live, everyone!"
The production staff yelled, and suddenly the whole hallway erupted into chaos. People were rushing around with clipboards, headsets, and coffee cups like it was a war room instead of a talk show.
In the middle of all that noise, Hansol was stuck in the makeup chair (trying his best not to look like he was about to puke). The roar of the audience waiting outside pressed against his ears, heavy and loud, like thunder rolling right above his head. Jun was still fussing with his hair, muttering something about a stray strand being 'rebellious' while Hansol sat stiff as a rock.
His back was damp, his palms colder than the iced Americano he downed earlier, and his chest wouldn't stop drumming. Under his breath, he kept mumbling, "Don't be nervous, you're a goddamn pro, Hansol. You've got this."
The problem was, he didn't got this.
Live shows had always been his personal hell. Was it the fear of saying something dumb on camera? Or maybe the idea of thousands of people watching his every blink, waiting to dissect it frame by frame online? He wasn't sure.
All he knew was—he'd take a room full of hungry Seungcheols over this any day. And that was saying something, because anyone who knew his cousin knew you don't joke about a hungry Seungcheol.
Chwe Hansol or Vernon to the rest of the world, wasn't exactly the TV show type of guy. Or the interview type. Or really, any situation that involved a microphone and him having to sound like a functioning human being.
He was someone who made music, not small talk.
Seven years in the business, a bunch of hits, trophies gathering dust somewhere in his apartment, and yet somehow he still felt like a fish tossed onto land whenever the spotlight turned too sharp. The kind of fish that flops once and regrets existing.
His PR team probably wanted to shave their own heads out of frustration. Or maybe shave his, if they could get away with it. Every time he ducked an interview or pulled a disappearing act in front of the cameras, they aged ten years. "A PR nightmare on two legs," his hyung's had called him. Not that he disagreed. Honestly, if there was a celebrity handbook, he'd already failed the intro chapter.
Sometimes, when he thought about it too long, guilt crept in. Maybe he should send the team a peace offering (a box of fruit, or some premium beef, the good kind that maybe makes people cry).
"You know what, let's make it a Chuseok surprise," he thought. A little bribery never hurt anyone.
Meanwhile, his main producer, the ever so 'harmless' Jihoon, loved to remind him he was wasting his good looks by hiding behind his awkwardness. Hansol didn't even argue anymore. He knew it. Probably too well. But screw Jihoon and his brutal honesty. If Hansol wanted to avoid human interaction and live like a mysterious cryptid with a decent jawline, then that was his God given right.
"Feeling nervous?" Jun asked, carefully shaping Vernon's eyebrows while staring at his reflection in the mirror.
"Yeah, you know how I am, hyung. Live shows have never been my cup of tea... especially live shows." Hansol forced a grin that looked more like a grimace
Jun raised a brow, smirking. "Seriously? Hansol, you've been in this industry for, what, forever now? I thought you'd be chill about it. Right now, you look like a rookie on their first debut stage."
Hansol groaned, slumping lower in the chair. "I know. I keep asking myself the same thing. Seven years, dozens of stages, and here I am sweating like a middle schooler about to give a speech in front of the whole class."
Jun chuckled and went back to brushing powder across his face. "At least you're consistent."
Truth was, being a celebrity was never on his dream bingo card. He hadn't grown up imagining flashing lights or interviews or strangers memorizing his favorite snacks. His path into the industry was... messy. A mixed of luck, timing, and people nudging him forward when he wasn't sure.
Did he regret it? Some days, yeah.
The sacrifices, the lack of privacy, the way every move gets magnified until you don't even feel like a person anymore but some kind of walking, talking brand logo. Hansol was smart enough to know exactly what he'd signed up for—smart enough to know that once you're in the spotlight, the line between "you" and "your job" starts blurring fast.
But regret wasn't the whole story either. Because, at the same time, he'd met people he never would have otherwise. He'd lived through moments no ordinary life would ever hand him. And most of all, he got to do music.
And music was the one thing that always stayed the same.
As a kid, music had been his best friend. When he didn't know how to speak, music did it for him. When he wanted to disappear, music gave him a corner to hide in. It was the only thing that never asked him to be loud, or pretty, or perfect.
It just let him be.
So yeah, even if fame came with all the mess, music made it worth it. Through it, he could say things he'd never say out loud. He could build bonds with strangers who'd never meet him, yet somehow understood him. Music was, in the simplest way, home.
He dragged his eyes away from the mirror and glanced around the room, taking in the familiar chaos.
On one side, Minghao was locked in what looked like a full-on dramatic debate with Joshua, his PR lead. Minghao held a necklace in one hand, earrings in the other, eyes narrowed.
Meanwhile, Joshua pleaded with voice rising and falling using every exaggerated gesture, "Hansol's wardrobe is already perfect. Just... leave it!".
Hansol couldn't hear the exact words, but the body language was enough.
In his humble opinion, his own fashion sense was... fine. Not remarkable, not tragic. Decent. Safe. Wearable. That sort of thing.
But, Minghao—that man was another story.
Minghao had this terrifying gift for making everything look like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. Two mismatched socks? Avant-garde. Jacket with three zippers undone? Revolutionary. A grocery store bag? Iconic. The internet had entire threads analyzing Minghao's looks on him, and Hansol had, unfortunately, read them all...against his will.
Hansol still had no clue how the agency had convinced Minghao to join his styling team. Some sort of deal with the devil, probably. Because if there was one thing certain in this industry, it was that Minghao never missed. Never. Every outfit. Every shoot. Every detail. Precision, chaos, and genius all wrapped into one.
Joshua pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, exasperated sigh. "Minghao, just—just pick something normal for once! Hansol's not trying to win Paris Fashion Week, he's trying not to faint on live TV."
Minghao tilted his head, like Joshua had suggested literally committing a crime. "Normal is subjective," he said, voice calm, almost serene. "And Hansol deserves to look... iconic."
Hansol decided that was his cue to stop watching and quietly log himself out of thisfashion debate entirely. He averted his eyes and focused on literally anything else. Some battles weren't worth witnessing firsthand.
Across the room, Jeonghan, his CEO and the actual big boss of the entire agency, was half yelling into his phone. Hansol still had no idea why he insisted on being here. He'd tried, more than once, to tell him his presence wasn't necessary.
Every time, Jeonghan just smirked and said, "I'm here to support my favorite singer." Favorite singer meaning him, apparently. Which was flattering, sure... but Hansol knew his hyung well enough to suspect the real reason—he just wanted to dodge a meeting back at the office.
Hansol wasn't about to call him out on it. Not unless he wanted to see a mysterious deduction appear on his paycheck. So he stayed quiet, letting Jeonghan "support" him from the corner, where he was simultaneously intimidating staff, checking his phone, and somehow managing to look like he ran the entire entertainment industry all at once.
Meanwhile, Mingyu—his personal photographer and his unspoken favorite hyung (not that he'd ever admit it, because God forbid Mingyu's ego got any bigger)—was crouched in the corner, snapping photos like his life depended on it.
Mingyu was everywhere at once, capturing candid shots of the team, Hansol himself, even the poor intern trying to balance three coffee trays. Hansol had to admit though, the guy had an eye. He somehow made even Hansol's most awkward angles look like they belonged on a magazine cover. Annoying, but impressive.
And then, of course, there was Chan. His manager. Running around the room like a man who'd had five espressos and was now regretting every sip. He was double checking the call sheets, making hand signals to the staff, and occasionally sprinting across the room to whisper something urgent into Jeonghan's ear. Hansol sometimes wondered if Chan's strava thought he was training for a marathon.
Hansol observes the seamless interactions among everyone. A well oiled machine after years of working together. Despite his infrequent schedule outside concerts and tours, there's no chaos.
Each member knows their role, and Hansol, as the leader, focuses on guiding the decisions for his team which sounded nice on paper, but in practice it just meant his job was to steer the ship without crashing it. The truth was, his team probably carried him as much as he carried them.
Jeonghan, his CEO, always emphasized that he wanted every artist under his agency to be clear about what they wanted—their colors, their perspectives, the way they wanted to be remembered. He'd said it during their very first meeting, right before Hansol signed the contract that tied him to Jeonghan's agency.
For Jeonghan, the rule was simple: the agency would always be there to support.
They'd take the lead where they needed to, but they'd never force an artist into something they didn't believe in. "We're the bridge, not the puppeteer," Jeonghan had once said, leaning back in his office chair with that smug little smile that made it sound like he was dropping the most profound wisdom known to man.
And for Hansol, he had always respected that. Because, he wasn't the type to sit quietly and nod; he spoke up when he had thoughts, even if it earned him eye rolls here and there.
He know his opinions weren't always popular, but they were his identity. And the fact that Jeonghan respected that made renewing his contract feel less like business and more like common sense.
He liked working here. He liked these people. It felt less like an agency and more like... well, a home that also came with really long schedules and occasionally soul sucking work.
Of course, reflecting on stuff like that made him a little sentimental, which his mom always teased him about. She used to joke that Hansol noticed too much—tiny details other people would ignore.
The way someone's tone dipped when they were tired. The way silence sometimes said more than words. Hansol couldn't help but assign meaning to things, always trying to be honest even if it came out a little cheesy.
And yeah, he knew it might sound cringe, but deep down he was genuinely grateful. For the people, for the bonds, for the fact that somehow this weird little circle of his stuck together all these years.
He reminded himself, over and over. 'Stay humble, don't let the industry chew you up, and don't hurt the people who keep you standing.'
And the truth was, everyone kind of knew his style. Vernon didn't roll with strangers. His fans had figured it out years ago. Most of his team wasn't just "the team," they were old friends with upgraded job titles.
Chan, his manager now, had been his best friend since grade school—the kid who once shared half a melted chocolate bar with him at lunch was now the guy making sure he didn't miss his cue cards, and ate three meals a day.
Jihoon and Mingyu is his seniors from his high school band club. He still remembered how Jihoon once roasted his first song draft into ashes. And Mingyu...well, Mingyu had always been snapping pictures, just now with better cameras and fancier lighting.
Minghao and Jun had been buddies from university, the ones who'd dragged him to late night noodle shops and fashion experiments gone wrong (which, he still had trauma from that one time Minghao convinced him to try on neon pants). Jeonghan and Joshua were the exceptions, as he hadn't known them until the agency years. But even then, it clicked faster than he expected.
About Jeonghan, well... that one was Seungcheol's fault. His cousin had introduced him to one of his close friends, who may or may not have been a conglomerate heir casually running an entertainment agency on the side. Hansol wasn't sure what he'd expected that day, but it definitely wasn't Jeonghan sliding a contract across the table like it was no big deal.
Of course, people assumed Hansol had pulled strings to get his friends jobs. But the truth was, he hadn't. Life just worked out that way. His circle had shrunk over time, not because he wanted it to, but because he was terrible at keeping in touch.
He was awful at texting, hopeless at calling, and the type to swallow his problems instead of sharing them. So, the ones who still stayed is basically all the people who knew how to read the weird in him and still liked him anyway. Or at least tolerated him with affection.
When he stopped to think about it, life was kind of funny like that.
Hansol's eyes flickered to the screen of his phone, resting right above the folded script on his lap. Notifications flooded in.
First, a spams of messages from his cousin.
Choi Seungcheol & Chwe Hansol
Thursday 05:29 pm
My ATM : Don’t forget dinner. I’ll kill you if you cancel again.
My ATM : Break a leg.
My ATM : Also, don’t say anything weird.
Hansol snorted quietly. Definitely comforting, in the most Seungcheol way possible.
More notifications. Group chat with Seokmin and Soonyoung was popping off. They were screaming in caps about watching him on TV tonight and threatening to make memes if he said anything remotely embarrassing. Comforting.
Group chat: Go Go Power Rangers!
Soonyoung, Seokmin & Hansol
Thursday 05:29 pm
Human “HAHA” : GO VERNON GO VERNON GO!!!
Human “HAHA” : DON’T TRIP ON STAGE LOL
TIGER: IF YOU DO, JUST DAB. WE’LL SAY IT’S A DANCE CONCEPT.
He chuckled under his breath.
Then a message popped up that made his stomach flutter—though not in the good way.
Jeon Wonwoo & Chwe Hansol
Thursday 06:13 pm
Glasses Hyung: Hi, I heard you're appearing on the show. I’m happy for you.
Glasses Hyung: I know your nerves must be on a rollercoaster right now.
Glasses Hyung: Fighting, Hansol-ah!! I'll be watching.
Thursday 06:15 pm
Glasses Hyung: Don't worry, you’ll be fine.
Glasses Hyung: Just remember what I once told you.
Thursday 06:18 pm
Glasses Hyung: Call me if anything happens, okay.
Hansol reads the message in silence. Short. Steady. Reassuring in that strangely Wonwoo way. Like he'd just slipped a weighted blanket over Hansol's shaking shoulders without moving a muscle.
He let out a long breath, almost like he was exhaling the last of his nerves with it. His mind flickered back to the first time Wonwoo had taught him that ridiculous yet life saving breathing technique for panic. "In like you're sipping ramen soup, out like you're blowing on hot coffee." It had sounded dumb at the time. It still did. But it worked.
Jeon Wonwoo & Chwe Hansol
Thursday 06:25 pm
Glasses Hyung: Don't worry, you’ll be fine.
Glasses Hyung: Just remember what I once told you.
Glasses Hyung: Call me if anything happens, okay.
Sollie: Thanks hyung, you save me T_T
Sollie: My stomach been crazy since this morning. I’ve like to throw up, but I know Joshua will beheaded me if I make scandal by throwing up in national tv. So I’ve been drink anti anxiety, hope it works.
Sollie: Call you later!
Thursday 06:26 pm
Glasses Hyung: Okay. Let’s call later,
That was it. End of conversation.
Wonwoo could write a whole thesis in one sentence if he wanted, but he usually didn't bother. Hansol smiled faintly, tucking the phone away. Maybe adding him to this year's Chuseok gift list wasn't such a bad idea.
"Hansol, you okay?"
The voice startled him. He blinked up and realized Jun had finished with his makeup ages ago. Chan was crouched beside him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," Hansol lied smoothly. His stomach was doing a backflip, but no one needed that image.
Chan's brows furrowed like he didn't buy it, but then he smiled anyway. "Alright. Show's going live soon. Let's move."
They parted ways with the rest of the team and followed a couple of TV crew members down the corridor toward the stage. The further they walked, the louder the noise became. What started as muffled chatter from behind the waiting room doors swelled into sharp cheers, claps, and shouts of his name. The crowd was already fired up, waiting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, good night and welcome back to the—" The host's voice boomed over the speakers, drawing another round of screaming from the crowd. The crew member walking in front of them held up a hand, signaling Hansol to hold his step until the intro wrapped
That brief pause, though, was all it took for Hansol's calmness to wobble. Cold sweat prickled his temples. His stomach did that uncomfortable twist again, the one that had been bugging him ever since he left his makeup room. He bit down on his lip, trying to press all of it back down, like maybe his nerves could be shoved into some hidden corner of his chest.
Chan noticed instantly. Of course he did. The guy had radar for Hansol's weak spots. "Hey, Hansol, look at me." He leaned in, voice low but steady. "You good, man?"
He didn't wait for an answer before fishing a crumpled tissue out of his pocket and dabbing at Hansol's forehead like some frantic stage mom.
Hansol let out a shaky laugh. "You really had that ready in your pocket?"
"Bro, I've been carrying tissues for you since you were fifteen. This is tradition at this point."
Hansol blinked at him. It was ridiculous—his best friend, wearing a suit, running around as his manager, and now patting his face like they were teenagers again before a band contest. But weirdly enough, it helped. He let out a shaky breath.
"Yeah... yeah, I'm good," Hansol muttered, though his voice sounded thinner than usual.
"You scared me for a second there," Chan admitted, half scolding, half worried.
"Sorry... It's just been so long for me to appear in a live show like this. I think my nerves got the best of me."
For a second, Chan just stared at him. His expression softened, then, without a word, he yanked Hansol into a tight hug.
Hansol blinked, caught off guard, but then let himself sink into it.
Because this was Chan. The same Chan who used to drag him out of his sulking moods back in school by bribing him with late night convenience store ramen. The same Chan who once sat through a three hour silent car ride just so Hansol could breathe after a fight with his dad. He looked tough now broad shoulders, calloused hands, gym routine and all—but at his core, Chan wasn't someone who filled silences with words.
He filled them with presence. Always had. Always would.
For a moment, Hansol closed his eyes. The warmth was steadying. Comforting. Like someone pressing pause on his spiraling thoughts. No words were exchanged, just the kind of silence that only felt safe with someone who really knew you.
Finally, Chan pulled back, clapping his hand against Hansol's back. "I know it's scary. And yeah... it's not exactly our usual gigs. But don't worry. You're gonna be okay. We—I trust you. I'll be right here waiting, yeah? So clear your head, do what you always do. You've got this."
Hansol exhaled slowly, the weight on his chest lightening just a fraction. He nodded. "Okay."
Just then, the crew waved him forward. His cue.
Before they split, Chan grabbed him by the shoulder and held him steady for one last second. His eyes were clear, focused. "Hey, Hansol...after this, let's go eat something. Maybe chicken and soju, or other foods. On me."
Hansol couldn't help but laugh, the tension cracking just a little. He looked at his best friend and smiled, really smiled.
"Deal."
And then he walked toward the stage lights.
The brightness of the lights hit him first, sharp and almost blinding. It took a second for his eyes to adjust and another heartbeat for the countless faces in the audience to blur into one giant sea. He inhaled. Exhaled.
Okay, Hansol, it's showtime, he muttered inside his head.
And just like that like flipping a switch, awkward Hansol from the neighborhood disappeared, replaced by Vernon. The calm, steady, and built for the spotlight persona that he build over years. He moved with confidence, smiling left and right, nodding his head in a polite bow before greeting the host.
"Welcome, welcome," the host said warmly, rising slightly from his seat. "It's so nice to meet you."
"Same goes for me." He lowered himself into the chair, smoothing down his jacket out of habit.
The host leaned in with a playful grin. "I have to say, I'm really surprised you decided to accept our invitation. You're famous for... well, dodging us. Especially live TV."
Hansol grinned, lips twitching like he wasn't sure if he should admit it. "Honestly? I almost ghosted your email. Twice. But your team's too fast."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Classic Vernon: dry, a little awkward, accidentally charming.
He adjusted his mic, buying himself a second. "But I'm honored to be here. Really. It's kind of wild to see how far my career's come. And uh...just to give fair warning, I might cry on national television, haha."
More laughter. The good kind. The kind that loosened his shoulders.
It settled the tension a bit. The host had a reputation for being sharp but kind mischievous enough to make you sweat, yet gentle enough to never push you over the edge. Hansol appreciated that.
The music would come later. The songs, the stories, the quiet that lived between lyrics. But for now, he sat there not as Hansol the neighborhood introvert, or Vernon the reluctant idol, but just... him.
Trying. Being present. And maybe, for once, letting himself enjoy the spotlight just a little.
The segments rolled on. A short comedy skit where he had to pretend to be a confused waiter (he was terrifyingly good at deadpan). A throwback clip from his debut era that made him groan so loud the mic almost clipped. And then a quick game where he had to guess lyrics from his own songs and failed gloriously.
"Wait, I wrote that line?" he blinked at the prompter.
"You rapped that line," the host laughed. "Aggressively."
"Oh, man," Hansol shook his head, "I must've been possessed."
Even more laughter. Someone in the staff nearly tripped from laughing too hard.
By the time they hit the second half, the room was his. Not just Vernon the idol with sharp stage presence and practiced composure. But Hansol, the person. The slightly awkward, weirdly funny, unexpectedly open guy they'd been dying to hear from. And for the first time in years, it felt like he was letting them peek behind the curtain, even if just for a second.
But then, halfway through the next segment, the lights dimmed slightly. Subtle, but intentional.
The mood shifted.
Hansol straightened in his chair, fingers absently tapping against his thigh before settling. His smile softened, more real this time.
Alright," he said, voice steady but lower. "Let's talk about the album."
The crowd calmed instantly, like they'd been waiting for this.
It dropped just last week. No teasers. No countdown. No dramatic marketing campaign. Just a quiet post: "out now."
And it exploded.
"You've always been careful with your music. Abstract. Layered. You hide behind metaphors like they're shields. But this one...love, heartbreak, dreams. It's almost like you let the door open a bit more."
Hansol gave a small shrug. "Maybe the window. The door's still... tricky."
The host leaned back slightly, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. "So, everyone's been listening... and analyzing, of course. Your fans especially, they noticed something."
He let it hang for a moment, letting the suspense build. "Almost every track on this album has a second voice. And you didn't credit it. No tag. No stage name. Just... Boo."
Hansol blinked. His fingers tapped against the armrest unconsciously, trying to find something solid to hold onto.
Because, here's the thing, Hansol's team knew this moment would come. Jeonghan had pulled a miracle to get the script in advance and clean it of anything too personal. Joshua had worked overtime, designing the brand rollout to be art focused, emotion driven, but not too revealing.
Just enough to connect, not enough to expose. That thin line between intimacy and intrusion.
And, everyone respected it. Because they knew why.
Since debut, Hansol's life had been locked down tighter than a military base. Not out of arrogance, but survival. His agency protected his boundaries fiercely, because he asked them to. Not many knew the full reason. But his team did. And they loved him enough not to push.
Still, one thing never changed. The gold ring. Since debut. No explanation. No stylist ever touched it, no concept ever swapped it out. A small, stubborn detail that gleamed under stage lights like punctuation. Like the last line of a song he refused to write down.
And now, under the studio's bright cameras, it gleamed again. Almost louder than his voice.
But, here's what everyone also forgot, this wasn't just any show. This wasn't some late night variety gig where the toughest question was "what's your favorite snack?".
This was the talk show.
The show that famous for making people say things they didn't plan on saying. Politicians cracked here. CEOs had meltdown quotes that got replayed for years. One A-list actor once admitted he couldn't parallel park and was memed for years. The host had a reputation: he didn't force confessions, he invited them and people somehow walked right into the trap.
The host cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "I... I hope that didn't come across rude. Maybe, I phrased it wrong." He said, voice quieter now. "I know it's personal and It's off script. Sorry, that was probably a bit... intrusive. If you want to skip it, that's totally fine."
Hansol tilted his head, letting a tiny shrug loosen the tension. "No, it's okay...."
The words came easier than he expected. He could see the hesitation in the host—he wasn't trying to trap him, not really. Just... probing too close without meaning to.
"Well," the host continued, softer now, almost hesitant, "you've never done an anonymous collab before. No socials, no tag, nothing. And the voice you sing with... it's in almost every track on the album. Not just background, not just harmonies—a real duet. So, as a fan, I can't help but be curious."
A tiny flicker of surprise passed over Hansol's face. He hadn't expected the host to soften, to apologize. Somehow, it made the room feel less like a stage and more like a quiet conversation (though still terrifyingly public).
Hansol tapped his ring once against the armrest. Then twice.
He smiled. Not nervous. Just... tired. But calm.
"I always said I wouldn't write love songs about people," he started, voice low. "Just ideas. Places. Fog on a train window. Dreams you wake up forgetting... dramatic stuff."
A quiet chuckle slipped out, almost automatic. The audience smiled politely, sensing the shift from performance to confession.
"And it worked, I guess," Hansol said, voice low, almost reflective. "For a while, I could write about loss without naming who. I could write about love like it was weather."
Hansol took in a breath. Slow. Careful. The kind of breath you only take when your voice is one wrong word away from breaking. 'Okay. This is the moment. Just... speak.'
"But... this album?" His voice faltered slightly, then steadied. "It wasn't about weather. Or metaphors. Or fog."
Silence. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just... still.
"It was.... about someone."
The studio froze like someone hit pause.
"The whole album. Not just that track. Even the weird one with the toaster sample." He smirked faintly. "He used to laugh at that. Said it sounded like breakfast was having an identity crisis."
A cautious laugh ran through the audience, gentle. As if they knew they were being trusted with something fragile.
Hansol's smirk softened, folding into something raw, something real.
"They wanted to be here one day. Not as a guest. Just watching. Cheering. They said, 'You'll be on that couch one day. Probably sweating and making weird jokes.'"
He tilted his head slightly, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Turns out... they were right. Again."
Then he paused. Long enough for the cameras to catch every micro expression, every quiet pulse of the moment. The band fell silent. Even the host leaned back, lips pressed together, trying not to interrupt the moment.
Backstage was another story, chaos broke out in the quietest way possible. Jeonghan gripped the dressing room table like it was keeping him upright. JJoshua had one hand pressed over his mouth, eyes wide, silent. Mingyu... was already crying into his sleeve, because of course he was.
Even Jihoon and the intern who once accidentally deleted Hansol's demo folder went completely still in their in the company studio, staring at the livestream. The poor staff near the studio door didn't even dare breathe.
Their whole team knew. They'd built Hansol's wall together. Brick by brick. Guarded every corner. Cut questions out of interviews. Rewritten press releases. All because Hansol once said, "If I tell them, it has to be when I'm ready. And not because someone pushed me."
So they waited.
And tonight...he opened the door himself.
Hansol's fingers brushed the gold ring on his hand, the familiar weight grounding him. "I didn't credit him properly," he said, voice low but steady. "Because Boo... wasn't a stage name. It was just what I called him. What he let me call him."
Fans at home covered their mouths. Phones buzzed nonstop. Group chats exploded. Every social media timelines lit up like fireworks, screenshots flying faster than anyone could read the subtitles.
Chan, watching from backstage stairs, couples meter away from them (close enough to see every flicker of Hansol's face on the monitor). His phone buzzed nonstop—Twitter threads, staff alerts, and Soonyoung spamming the group chat in all caps, but he ignored it. Eyes glued to the screen, keep focus on his best friend.
"You really did it, huh?" he whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the monitors. "You actually told them. Like you promised."
At home, Soonyoung and Seokmin sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, half a bowl of chips forgotten between them. The TV glowed, filling the quiet room, and for the first time in forever, neither of them cracked a joke. They hadn't spoken about him in years—not out loud. But they remembered. The way he laughed. The way he made Vernon feel safe.
And that one night, when he whispered, "If I can't stay, just stay with him. That's all I ask."
They remember the quiet hospital room.
The unsaid grief.
The kind of sadness that made you forget how to breathe.
And they had kept that promise. Quietly. Fiercely. Always.
In a small apartment across the city, Seungcheol stood in his kitchen, a dish towel in one hand, kettle whistling behind him. He didn't even hear it. He stared at the TV like it had just thrown a punch.
Back in the studio, Hansol smiled softly. The crowd was too stunned to move.
He didn't cry. Not fully. But his voice cracked just enough to say what his eyes didn't.
"I made this album for him. Every song. Every note. He believed in me when I didn't. He had dreams I couldn't carry back then. So... I'm carrying it now."
The host didn't speak. The studio didn't breathe. And then, Hansol turned.
Looked out into the crowd. Past the lights. The cameras.
And there he was.
A boy. Smiling. Arms crossed like always. Head tilted like he used to do when Hansol talked too fast.
He looked proud.
Hansol blinked.
Gone.
Maybe it was the lights. Maybe it was the memory. Maybe it was something else entirely.
He turned back to the host, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. Voice dry, teasing just enough. "Sorry. That probably wasn't the TV safe version."
The host swallowed, eyes softening. "No. That... that was perfect."
The red light blinked.
Live.
Still rolling.
Hansol sat there, gold ring catching the studio lights, finally... not hiding anymore.
And somewhere, beyond the velvet set, beyond the haze of cameras and lights, a promise had been kept.
Quietly.
Completely.
Like it always wanted to be.