Bleeding Notes

☆ Tunnel vision ☆

"Come on, hyung, just this once" Changbin pleaded, his hands clasped together in mock desperation "You need to loosen up. Besides this band is insane I'm telling you!"

Minho barely looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through legal documents. "I don't do insane, Changbin. I do structure, peace, and maybe a nice bottle of wine on a Friday night. Not... whatever this is."

"It's live music at a pub, not a rave..." he countered, smirking. "You're acting like I'm dragging you to a crime scene. I told you this is also research for me. The band's lead guitarist has potential, and I want to scout him for a project."

"Potential for what? Juvenile delinquency?" Minho deadpanned, but Changbin was already pulling his jacket off the chair.
"You're coming" he declared, tossing the jacket at Minho. "You can't spend another Friday night reading contracts. I can't allow that."

With a resigned sigh, Minho stood, slipping on the jacket. "Fine. But I'm not staying too long."
Changbin grinned "you'll change your mind once you see them."

☆☆☆

The pub was a haze of dim neon lights and cigarette smoke, a kaleidoscope of chaos that pulsed with every thrum of the bass.
The air smelled of stale beer and sweat, vibrating with an energy that made Minho's skin buzz. He hadn't wanted to come, not really. His idea of an enjoyable night involved wine, jazz, and relaxation. But Changbin had dragged him here just to see this local band he was rambling about.

Now standing at the edge of the crowd, Minho could barely hear his friend over the roar of the music.

The band onstage was young, brash, and unapologetic. They weren't particularly polished, but their raw energy filled the space like wildfire. The crowd surged forward as the main guitarist stepped into the spotlight for a guitar solo.

Minho's breath caught.

The boy couldn't have been older than twenty, his lithe frame wrapped in a torn leather jacket and chains that glinted under the vibrant stage lights. Heavy eyeliner framed his eyes, making them impossible to read, but the smirk on his lips spoke volumes. His hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead as he threw himself into the blistering guitar solo, his fingers moving with reckless precision.

The crowd screamed, a sea of raised hands and thrashing bodies, but Minho didn't see them. He didn't even hear Changbin yelling something beside hum. He had tunnel vision set on that boy..

It was just him.

The boy.

His presence was magnetic, a force that demanded attention. Minho's eyes traced the way his shoulders moved as he leaned into the mic stand, the veins on his hands as he gripped the guitar, the rawness in his voice as he let out a guttural yell to finish it all off. His chest heaved, lips curling into a satisfied grin as he looked out at the crowd, his dark eyes glistening with something dangerous.

Minho's heart was racing, though he couldn't tell if it was from the pounding music or the way this stranger seemed to command the entire room with nothing but a glance. He wasn't sure why, but something about his aura.. the sweat dripping down his jawline, the defiance in his posture, the raw passion bleeding from every movement, felt like a challenge.

The lights dimmed, and the band left the stage to a deafening round of applause. Only then Minho realized he'd been holding his breath.

Changbin nudged him, a smug grin on his face. "See? Told you they were worth it."
But Minho wasn't listening, his eyes were still glued to the stage, where the boy had disappeared behind the curtain.

For the first time in years, Minho felt something unfamiliar crack through his carefully ordered life.

Passion.

☆☆☆

Jisung...

The name had been scrawled across the guitar in jagged white letters, as chaotic as the performance itself. It stuck in Minho's mind like a hook he couldn't shake.

He found himself backstage, the dim hallway lined with cables and equipment cases. Changbin was off talking to the band's manager, leaving Minho alone. Alone except for him.

Jisung stood near a folding chair, his guitar propped up beside him. He was wiping his face with a towel, the smudged eyeliner around his eyes giving him a wild, almost feral look. His leather jacket was discarded, leaving him in a sleeveless black shirt that clung to his damp skin.

Minho's breath hitched.

He hadn't planned what to say, but he couldn't stop himself from stepping forward. "You were incredible out there."

Jisung looked up, startled, before his expression hardened into something defensive. "Yeah? Thanks."

"I mean it." Minho pressed, his voice steady despite the boy's sharp tone. "You have raw talent. That kind of energy can't be taught."

Jisung scoffed, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "Look, I don't need a lecture from some guy in a suit." He shot a judging glance at his attire.

Minho glanced down at himself, suddenly aware of how out of place he looked in his neatly pressed shirt and slacks. "I'm not lecturing. It was a compliment."

"Great. Compliment received." Jisung grabbed his guitar case, his movements quick and jerky.

Minho didn't move "You're wasting it, though." He added quietly.

Jisung froze, his hand tightening around the guitar case. Slowly he turned, his dark eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You're talented." Minho's voice calm but firm. "But you're reckless. That kind of fire burns out fast if you're not careful."

Jisung stared at him for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then he laughed, low and humorless. "Thanks for the life advice, ahjussi. I'll keep that in mind."

Before Minho could respond, Jisung shoved past him, his shoulder brushing Minho's arm as he disappeared down the hallway.

Minho exhaled slowly, his heart still pounding. He should've been annoyed, even offended, but instead, he felt... intrigued.

"Careful," he muttered to himself, watching the boy's retreating figure. "You might just burn me instead."

☆☆☆

Minho sat at his desk in his office, staring at the blinking cursor on his screen. He'd spent the better part of the morning trying to focus on a client's case, but his thoughts kept straying back to the boy.

Jisung.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples. The memory of Jisung on stage, the wild energy, the raw passion, was burned into his mind. But so was the snarky attitude and the dismissive way Jisung had shoved past him backstage.

What am I even doing? Minho thought, shaking his head. He was a 28-year-old lawyer, not some starstruck teenager. He had no business obsessing over a reckless kid who probably thought the world revolved around him.

And yet, there was something about Jisung that gnawed at him. It wasn't just the talent, it was the way Jisung carried himself, like he was trying to outrun something. Minho couldn't shake the feeling that if someone didn't step in, that fire would consume him.

Not my problem, he told himself firmly, returning to his laptop. But even as he typed, the image of Jisung's sweat-drenched hair and smudged eyeliner lingered in his mind.