He wasn't even playing. Just a notebook, a guitar on his side, and sunlight in his hair, and suddenly, Beomgyu's face is all over campus feeds. The internet crowns him the Guitar Prince. Too bad Yeonjun, the star of that dance video, hasn't forgiven...
The voice is soft, distant, but it shoots straight through his spine like a sniper bullet. Beomgyu doesn't wait to hear the rest. He speed-walks like his GPA depends on it, bolts up the lecture hall steps, and slides into the first seat he sees—far back, near the exit. Prime invisibility zone.
Except his pulse is screaming. His brain is screaming. His life is one long scream track at this point.
He slumps low in his chair, hood casting a shadow over his face. Breathes in. Out. Pretends to care about the PowerPoint glowing on the screen up front. Something about harmonic progression. Whatever.
But all he can think is; How the hell do I finish that song if I can't even exist in peace?
His contest deadline looms like a guillotine. He needs a full recording. Clean audio. Layered harmonies. And the campus studio queue? Still packed with hopefuls who think GarageBand is a personality trait.
So what now? Bribe someone? Break into a recording room at midnight? Sell Taehyun's kidney for private studio time? (Tempting. Very tempting.)
His thoughts spiral until— Something tugs at his hood.
Not much. Just enough for it to slide back and— Boom.
Sunlight spills over his head. A few strands of his hair catch the light in that cinematic way he absolutely did not authorize.
And that's when he feels it. The shift. The weight of stares.
He doesn't even have to look up before someone whispers; "...Wait. That's him."
Beomgyu freezes like an NPC caught glitching. "Huh?"
"You're the guy—" A girl two rows down tilts her head, squinting like she's unlocking a secret level. "From that video, right? The one with the—"
"Nope." Beomgyu cuts her off so fast he nearly bites his tongue. "Not me. Ghost. Doppelgänger. Optical illusion. Happens all the time."
She blinks. "But the hair—"
"Wigs exist!" Beomgyu blurts, voice an octave too high. "You should... try them. Very realistic. Totally... wigged right now."
A beat of silence. Then, mercifully, the professor starts talking, drawing attention to the front.
Beomgyu slumps so low he's practically horizontal, face burning, brain screaming. This is fine. Everything's fine. I'll just... transfer schools. Or planets.
He yanks the hood back over his head like armor and stares down at his notebook, where yesterday's scribbles glare up at him. His song. His ticket to that contest. His reason for existing beyond this clownery.
But all he can hear is the echo of that girl's voice: the hair.
And then it hits him. The comments. The edits. The hashtags. All obsessing over one thing: His. Damn. Hair.
Beomgyu grips his pen like a knife, eyes blazing. If the hair makes me famous, then guess what? The hair dies tonight.
He's not supposed to be back yet. Class ended twenty minutes ago. But here he is, in the bathroom, hunched over the sink, gripping a pair of cheap scissors like a man about to commit a felony.
His reflection glares back. Hoodie, shadows under his eyes, and that cursed low bun—the same bun currently ruining his life.
"Not for long," Beomgyu mutters. "Goodbye, Instagram hair. Hope you and your fan edits are happy in hell."
Snip. A chunk of hair falls into the sink. He pauses. Blinks. "Okay... that was dramatic. Love that for me."
He leans closer to inspect the damage—and chokes. "...Why do I look like a raccoon that lost a fight with a weed whacker?"
Before he can fix it (read: make it worse), the door swings open. "What in the budget horror movie is this?"
Beomgyu spins so hard he nearly eats the scissors.
Taehyun leans in the doorway, arms crossed, expression somewhere between judgment and boredom. "Wow. Bold move. You cutting your hair with... safety scissors?"
"It's fine," Beomgyu hisses, attacking another strand. "If the hair dies, the hype dies with it."
"Sure," Taehyun deadpans, strolling closer. "Because the internet definitely doesn't worship haircuts."
Beomgyu freezes mid-chop. "...Wait. What?"
"Nothing. Keep going, Picasso."
Beomgyu groans, staring at his reflection. The mirror shows a man halfway to a breakdown—jagged layers framing his face like abstract art. "Okay. Fine. Help me before I end up looking like modern sculpture."
Taehyun stares for a long beat, sighs like he's been personally victimized by Beomgyu's existence, then mutters, "Move."
"Wait—you're actually—"
"Yeah, because watching you butcher yourself is physically painful," Taehyun says, already walking away. A few seconds later, he returns—not with scissors, but with his electric razor kit.
Beomgyu blinks. "...Why do you own that?"
"Because I refuse to look like a ghost for my entire life," Taehyun says flatly. "Unlike some people."
Beomgyu glares but sits on the closed toilet lid like an obedient hostage.
"Hold still," Taehyun mutters, flicking the razor on. The buzz fills the small bathroom as he works with calm precision, trimming away the jagged mess Beomgyu created. Short strands fall in neat arcs, pooling on the tile like tiny secrets.
"This feels... illegal," Beomgyu says after a beat.
Snip. Buzz. Taehyun tilts Beomgyu's chin, fingers warm against his jaw for half a second before pulling away. "You know," he says casually, "for someone who hates attention, you sure made a dramatic show of it this week."
Beomgyu scowls at his reflection. "This isn't for attention. This is for peace. And privacy."
"Right." Taehyun smirks, clipping the last uneven piece. "Because hacking your hair off totally screams 'peace.'"
"Shut up."
A few minutes later, the buzzing stops. Taehyun steps back, satisfied. "Done. Congratulations—you're rebranded."
Beomgyu blinks at the mirror—and freezes.
Gone is the tragic ghost. In his place: clean, sharp layers falling into his eyes, a jawline that could fund a skincare commercial. He looks... "...Different," he says slowly.
"Better," Taehyun corrects, brushing stray hairs off his hoodie. Then, quieter: "Not that it'll change much."
Beomgyu frowns. "What does that mean?"
Taehyun meets his eyes in the mirror, half-smile curling. "You think chopping your hair will make them forget? Please. They haven't even seen you like this yet."
The words hit like a drumbeat. And for the first time, Beomgyu isn't sure if he feels dread... or something else.
•••••
current beomgyu's hairstyle visualisation:
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(honestly i imagine it shorter but i cant find the pic)
