Cold coffee sat untouched on the laminate table, condensation pooling around the plastic cup. San stared blankly at the screen of his tablet, the dance tutorial playing on a loop, though none of the steps were actually registering in his brain. Every sound in the waiting room seemed amplified—the rustle of wardrobe bags, the distant chatter of staff, and the unmistakable laugh of Jung Wooyoung. Just hearing that laugh sent a painful squeeze through San's chest. He didn't dare look up. He knew that if he did, he would see Wooyoung smiling, maybe looking at a message from Han Min-jae, or maybe looking for him. "Sannie, I brought you the one with extra syrup," Wooyoung's voice suddenly sounded right beside his ear, accompanied by the gentle slide of a fresh drink onto the table. San stiffened, his fingers tightening around the edges of his tablet. "I don't want it," San said, his voice flat and devoid of its usual warmth. Wooyoung paused, his hand hovering over the plastic cup. "Since when do you not want iced coffee after a six-hour shoot?" Wooyoung asked, trying to catch San's eye with a playful pout. "Since today," San replied, keeping his gaze locked on the screen, his jaw set in a hard line. A heavy silence settled between them, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the rest of the room. Wooyoung pulled his hand back slowly, his brow furrowing with confusion. "Are you mad at me?" Wooyoung asked softly, leaning in closer, trying to break through the invisible wall San had built around himself. "No," San lied, his heart hammering against his ribs at the sheer proximity of his friend. "Then why won't you look at me?" Wooyoung pressed, his voice laced with a vulnerability that threatened to tear San's resolve to shreds. "I'm busy, Wooyoung," San said, quickly standing up and grabbing his bag. Without waiting for a response, he walked out of the waiting room, leaving his best friend standing alone in the crowd. He practically ran down the hallway, his chest aching with a mixture of guilt and suffocating longing. It was the only way to survive. If he stayed, he would break. --- Midnight had long since passed, leaving the rest of the entertainment agency dark and silent. Only practice room three remained illuminated, a solitary box of artificial light in the sprawling building. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pine cleaner, stale sweat, and the electric heat of the stereo system. San stood panting in front of the mirror, his chest heaving violently as he tried to catch his breath. His reflection stared back at him with wild, bloodshot eyes and a face slicked with exhaustion. Beside him, Wooyoung sat on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest, his dark eyes tracking San’s every move with a quiet, agonizing intensity. For the past hour, Wooyoung had tried to bridge the icy gap between them with soft jokes and gentle teases. San had rejected every single one of them. He couldn't afford to be weak, not when the image of Wooyoung laughing with Han Min-jae was still burned into his retinas. He needed to prove that he was the only one who could truly match Wooyoung, the only one who belonged by his side. To reclaim his territory, San pushed his body to the absolute limit. He cued the music again, the heavy bass shaking the mirror glass as he launched into the grueling choreography. Every movement was executed with a violent, desperate force. Gravity seemed to bend as he executed high-intensity leaps, his body suspended in the air for a breathless second before crashing down hard. He wanted Wooyoung to look at him. Desperation fueled him, making him want to draw Wooyoung’s protective, anxious gaze back to him, away from any external distractions. Pain shot up his calves, but he ignored it, spinning and leaping until his vision blurred. "San-ah, stop, you're going to break something!" Wooyoung called out, his voice cracking with genuine panic. San didn't listen. Another leap, demanding perfect balance, proved to be too much for his exhausted muscles. He stumbled, his shoulder clipping the mirror before he caught himself. "That's enough!" Wooyoung yelled, scrambling to his feet and rushing over. "I can do it," San panted, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached as he tried to push himself up. "You're shaking like a leaf," Wooyoung argued, his voice softening as he reached him. "I'm fine," San lied, refusing to meet his eyes. "Your alignment is completely off because you're forcing it," Wooyoung pointed out, moving behind him. "I can fix it," San gritted his teeth, tensing his muscles even further to prevent himself from trembling. "No, you can't, not when you're this stiff," Wooyoung murmured, his tone shifting back to that protective frequency that always dismantled San's defenses. Before San could pull away, Wooyoung reached out to correct his stance. Damp, warm fingers pressed firmly against San’s bare hip bone, right at the waistband of his sweatpants where his shirt had ridden up. Touch, usually so simple and natural between them, suddenly felt like a live wire sparking against raw skin. A high-voltage current shot straight up San's spine, shattering his fragile control in an instant. His heart hammered violently against his ribs as the sensation of Wooyoung's thumb lingering on his hip sent a wave of forbidden heat rushing through his veins. Panic, cold and sharp, seized his chest. He couldn't let Wooyoung feel how fast his heart was beating, or how his body automatically yearned to lean into that touch. With a sudden, violent jerk, San flinched away, slapping Wooyoung’s hand off his hip. "Don't touch me!" San roared, his voice echoing off the concrete walls like a gunshot. Wooyoung stumbled back a step, shock freezing his features. His hand remained hovering in the air, his fingers still curved as if they were still holding onto San’s hip. "San..." Wooyoung whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of confusion and deep hurt. "Just leave me alone, Wooyoung," San panted, his chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked gasps. He turned his back to Wooyoung, desperately trying to hide the trembling of his limbs and the hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He had ruined it. Such physical betrayal would surely expose the dark, unspeakable longing festering behind his eyes. Surely Wooyoung knew that San didn't look at him like a brother anymore. The terrifying truth was that Wooyoung might already know San didn't look at him like a brother anymore. "What is happening to us?" Wooyoung asked, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "Nothing is happening," San muttered, clenching his hands into tight fists to stop them from shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could disappear into the floorboards. Tightening his grip further, he remained completely unaware of the physical toll his anxiety was taking. During his sleepless night and the agonizing hours of today's rehearsals, his fingernails had repeatedly dug deep into his skin. Now, under the immense pressure of his grip, the fragile scabs on his palms split open. Warm, metallic-smelling blood began to seep through his fingers, trickling down his wrists. Wooyoung, refusing to be shut out, stepped around to face him again. "Look at me, San, please," Wooyoung begged, reaching out to grasp San's wrists to force him to make eye contact. San tried to pull away, but Wooyoung’s grip was surprisingly firm, their palms pressing together. Sensing the warm, sticky slickness coating San's skin, Wooyoung recoiled slightly. As Wooyoung pulls his hand back in hurt confusion, he notices the fresh crescent-shaped cuts bleeding on San's palms and demands, "Who did this to you, Sannie?"

Chapter 2: A Halo of Artificial Light