Sweat dripped from the tip of Choi San’s nose, hitting the polished wooden floor of the practice room with a tiny, silent splash. Humid air clung to his skin like wet silk. Every breath felt like inhaling hot steam. Around him, the other members of ATEEZ were collapsed in various states of exhaustion, groaning as the heavy bass of their latest title track finally cut out. "Five minutes," Hongjoong wheezed from near the mirrors, his snapback askew, chest heaving. "Just five minutes, then we run the chorus again." San didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes were already locked onto the reflection in the wall-length mirrors, tracking a familiar figure who was currently laughing at something on his phone. Jung Wooyoung looked effortlessly beautiful even when soaked in sweat. Strands of damp, dark hair clung to his forehead, and his throat bared itself to the harsh fluorescent lights as he threw his head back in a loud, boisterous laugh. Usually, San would be right there beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulders, sharing some inside joke that only the two of them understood. Today, a strange, heavy weight sat in San's stomach, keeping his feet glued to the floorboards. Beside Wooyoung stood Han Min-jae. Min-jae was the external producer the label had brought in for their upcoming special project. He was young, impossibly stylish, and carried an aura of effortless cool that didn't belong in a sweaty rehearsal space. Slowly, Min-jae reached out, his hand sliding over the fabric of Wooyoung’s wet t-shirt to rest casually over his shoulder. "You've got the perfect vocal color for this track, Wooyoung-ah," Min-jae said, his voice smooth, cut with a low, easy confidence. "I wrote the bridge with your lower register in mind." Wooyoung’s eyes lit up, his cheeks flushing a deeper shade of pink. "Really? You think my tone fits?" Something hot and sharp flared behind San’s ribs. It wasn't a standard prick of jealousy, the kind a performer felt when another member got a coveted part. This was a physical blow, a sudden, violent constriction of his lungs that made him gasp for air. He stared at Min-jae’s hand. The fingers were long, manicured, resting comfortably against the nape of Wooyoung’s neck now, pulling him slightly closer to look at a tablet screen. "Look at these stems," Min-jae murmured, leaning down so his lips were practically brushing Wooyoung’s ear. "This is where your voice will shine." Wooyoung leaned back into the touch, completely comfortable, his face bright with excitement. Watching them, San felt a cold sweat break out over his collarbone, entirely different from the heat of their practice. For years, San had lived in a comfortable, unquestioned reality. If Wooyoung was tired, San was his pillow. If San was anxious, Wooyoung’s loud, obnoxious laugh was his anchor. They were gravity to each other. Everyone knew it. Yet, looking at the easy way Wooyoung accepted this new man's touch, the illusion of safety shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Clenching his fists, San forced his gaze away, staring hard at his own reflection. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Why did it hurt to watch them? Why did his blood feel like boiling oil? "San-ah," Seonghwa called out, waving a cold bottle of water in his direction. "You okay? You look incredibly pale." "Fine," San choked out, the word scraping against his dry throat. "Just... pushed a bit too hard on that last run." He took the water bottle, but his hands were trembling so violently he could barely twist the cap off. Desperate to hide his weakness, San forced his fingers to curl tightly into his palms. He dug his fingernails deep into the soft flesh of his hands, pressing harder and harder until the sharp pain anchored him back to reality. A metallic tang of copper registered in his mind as the skin broke, but he didn't care. Any pain was better than the suffocating sensation of watching Wooyoung drift out of his reach. "Alright, back to positions!" Hongjoong clapped his hands, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. Min-jae stepped back, giving Wooyoung a playful pat on the shoulder. "Show me what you've got, Wooyoung-ah. I'll be watching." Wooyoung beamed, jogging back to his starting spot next to San. "Hey," Wooyoung whispered, nudging San's elbow with his own. "Min-jae-hyung said he wants to try recording the demo tonight. Can you believe it?" San didn't look at him. He couldn't risk Wooyoung seeing the storm raging in his eyes. "That's great," San said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for his best friend. Wooyoung frowned, his brow furrowing as he sensed the sudden distance. "San? What's wrong?" Before San could answer, the music blasted through the speakers, forcing them into motion. Movement should have been second nature. San knew this choreography down to his bones. But his mind was trapped in a loop of Min-jae’s hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder. Step, pivot, slide. During the second verse, San was supposed to cross behind Wooyoung, their shoulders brushing in a practiced, seamless transition. Instead, San hesitated, his eyes tracking the line of Wooyoung's neck, remembering how close Min-jae had been. A loud smack echoed through the room as San’s shoulder slammed hard into Wooyoung’s side, throwing both of them off balance. Wooyoung stumbled, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the floor as he barely managed to keep his footing. "Stop! Stop!" Hongjoong yelled, waving his arms as the music cut out once more. Silence fell over the room, heavy and suffocating. "San, what was that?" Hongjoong asked, his expression more concerned than angry. "You're never off by that much. Are you hurt?" "I'm sorry," San muttered, keeping his head bowed. "I lost my footing." "Are you okay?" Wooyoung asked softly, reaching out to touch San’s arm. San flinched away from the contact as if he had been burned. An awkward tension hung in the air between them, thick and unbearable. Wooyoung’s hand froze mid-air, his expression twisting into a mix of hurt and confusion. "Let's wrap it up for today," Hongjoong sighed, rubbing his temples. "We're all exhausted. Go get some rest. We'll run it again tomorrow morning." Without waiting for the others, San grabbed his gear and practically ran out of the room. --- Cool night air hit San’s face as he stepped out of the company building, but it did nothing to soothe the burning under his skin. He walked fast, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his oversized black hoodie. Inside his pockets, his raw, bleeding palms stung with every step, a sharp reminder of the panic that had seized him in the practice room. How had he let himself get so out of control? For years, he had convinced himself that his intense attachment to Wooyoung was just friendship. They were soulmates. That was the word the fans used, the word the members used, the word he had wrapped around himself like a protective shield. Now, that shield felt like a cheap plastic toy, melting under the heat of a truth he could no longer deny. He wanted Wooyoung. Not just as a friend, not just as a bandmate, but in a way that terrified him to his very core. He wanted to be the only one who could make Wooyoung laugh like that. Craving his laughter, his touch, his whispers, San felt a wave of despair wash over his senses. "San! Wait up!" Wooyoung’s voice cut through the quiet street, making San freeze in his tracks. Footsteps hurried closer, the sound of heavy breathing filling the empty space between them. "Why did you run off like that?" Wooyoung gasped, catching up and grabbing San’s sleeve. "You didn't even wait for the van." San kept his back turned, staring at a flickering streetlight across the road. "Needed some air," San said, his voice flat. "You're lying," Wooyoung countered, pulling on his sleeve to force San to turn around. "You flinched when I tried to touch you. You've been acting weird ever since Min-jae-hyung came in." Hearing that name on Wooyoung’s lips made San’s jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. "I'm fine, Wooyoung," San said, finally turning to face him, his eyes dark and empty. "Don't do this," Wooyoung whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't shut me out. We don't do this." A wave of bitter anger washed over San. "What do you want from me?" San asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You have your new song. You have your new producer. Go talk to him." Wooyoung blinked, taken aback by the venom in San's tone. "Are you... are you jealous about the track? San, it's just a solo project. It doesn't change anything between us." "You don't get it," San muttered, ripping his sleeve out of Wooyoung’s grasp. "You don't get it at all." Before Wooyoung could say another word, San turned and walked away, his heart breaking with every step he took. --- Silence welcomed him when he finally unlocked the door to the dorm. Most of the members were already in their rooms, the quiet hum of the refrigerator the only sound in the dark living space. San slipped into his room, not bothering to turn on the lights. He threw his bag onto the floor and collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. His palms throbbed, the dried blood sticky against his skin. Slowly, he pulled his hands out and looked at them in the dim light filtering through the window. Four neat, crescent-shaped cuts lined each palm, a physical manifestation of the ugly, monstrous thing growing inside his chest. He was terrified. If he let this feeling take over, it would ruin everything. It would ruin ATEEZ. It would ruin his career. But most of all, it would ruin Wooyoung. Wooyoung, who trusted him implicitly. Wooyoung, who looked at him with nothing but pure, unadulterated affection. How could San explain that he wanted to tear down the walls of their brotherhood and build something entirely different? There was no other choice but to lock it away, burying it so deep that even he couldn't find it. Hours ticked by, the red numbers on his digital clock blinking in the dark. 11:30 PM. 12:15 AM. Suddenly, the front door of the dorm clicked open, then softly shut. San sat up, his ears straining to hear the quiet footsteps in the hallway. He expected Wooyoung to knock on his door, to try and make up like they always did after a fight. But the footsteps didn't stop at his door. They continued past, quiet and hurried, heading back out into the night. A cold dread settled in San's chest. He reached for his phone, his thumb hovering over Wooyoung’s contact name. Desperation clawed at him, urging him to beg Wooyoung to stay. Before he could press dial, the device vibrated violently in his hand, a notification banner popping up at the top of the screen. An unknown number had sent a message. San’s phone buzzes on the floor with an anonymous text containing a photo of Wooyoung entering Min-jae's private studio after midnight, accompanied by the message: 'Some bonds are meant to be broken.'

Chapter 1: The Geometry of Our Graves