Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

06

His grip tightens on the guitar case strap.
If I do this, it's not for fame. Not for the noise. It's for the music.

He repeats it like a mantra all the way back to the dorm, hood still up, heart pounding like a bassline he can't control.

Yeonjun should be stretching. Warming up. Doing literally anything productive for their next choreography run-through.

Instead, he's sitting cross-legged on the studio floor, phone in hand, scrolling like a man possessed.

@beomnote's follower count: still climbing.
Posts: still the same cryptic aesthetic crap.
Stories? Empty.

The silence is maddening.
"What kind of psycho ignores 200k followers?" Yeonjun mutters, scrolling through the comments under the latest post—a close-up of guitar strings that's now drowning in chaos.
"drop a cover KING."
"he's alive right? RIGHT??"
"princess energy but make it edgy pls."

Yeonjun grinds his teeth. Why are they still calling him that? I made it a joke.
...Did he, though? Because judging by the hashtags—#PrincessAndThePrince trending now—he might've accidentally started a fandom religion.

He groans into his palm, resisting the urge to throw his phone across the studio. Half of him wants to DM the guy just to break the eerie silence. The other half—his pride—would rather swallow nails.

"Yo."

A shadow falls over him. Soobin, holding a water bottle and looking like he aged twenty years in the last five minutes. "You done having your influencer crisis, or should we reschedule rehearsal for... never?"

Yeonjun squints up at him. "I'm fine."

"You're spiraling," Soobin says. "Over Guitar Princess, apparently."

Yeonjun glares. "Don't start."

"Too late," Soobin deadpans, dropping the bottle into his lap. "Hydrate, ego boy. We've got a showcase in three weeks. Or did you forget you're the actual star?"

Yeonjun snaps his phone shut like it insulted his bloodline. "I didn't forget."

"Good," Soobin says, clapping his shoulder before walking back to the mirrors. "Then get your head out of his comments and back in the game."

Yeonjun rolls his eyes but pushes himself up, stretching his arms with deliberate force. The mirror throws his reflection back at him—sharp lines, sweat glinting on his jaw. He knows who he is. He owns this stage.

Still... as he steps into position, his mind flickers—not to the counts or the beat, but to a hooded figure gripping a guitar like a shield. Silent. Untouchable. Annoying as hell.

Fine. Let him hide. For now.

Yeonjun smirks at his own reflection, sharp and certain.
Princess can stay quiet all he wants. I'll deal with him later.

The bass rattles the floor like an earthquake. Sweat slicks Yeonjun's spine as he hits the last count hard enough to make the mirrors tremble. The music cuts. Silence crashes in, broken only by ragged breathing.

"Again," he says.

The crew groans in unison. Someone collapses dramatically onto the floor.

Soobin throws him a towel with the precision of a sniper. "You're a sadist."

Yeonjun smirks, dragging the towel over his neck. "You're welcome."

Because this—this is his world. The studio lights, the mirrors, the rhythm pounding in his veins like a second heartbeat. The space where his body speaks louder than words. Here, he's in control.

Unlike, say... the internet. Or a certain silent menace with a guitar.

His jaw tightens as he catches his reflection. Thoughts of @beomnote creep in like static: the cryptic posts, the ridiculous "princess" hashtags, the way his own comment started an entire shipping war.

Soobin notices. Of course he does. "You're brooding," he says flatly.

"I'm not brooding," Yeonjun mutters.

"You're brooding," Soobin repeats, wiping sweat from his forehead. "And don't even pretend it's not about Guitar Princess."

Yeonjun shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Stop calling him that."

"Stop obsessing, then," Soobin fires back, grabbing his bag. "I'm hitting the vending machine. Don't combust while I'm gone."

Yeonjun waves him off, rolling his eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't fall out.

But then—
He sees it.

Through the studio's glass wall, down the hall: a figure in a dark hoodie, shoulders hunched, guitar case strapped like a shield. Moving like he's trying to merge with the floor.

Yeonjun grins slow and sharp. Well, well. Look who decided to haunt his territory.

He slips out of the studio, casual as a cat stalking prey. The hallway hums with passing students and distant chatter, but Yeonjun zeroes in on Hoodie Ghost.

"Hey, Princess," he calls, loud enough to turn a few heads.

The guy freezes mid-step. Turns. Pushes his hood lower. "...Who the hell are you?"

Yeonjun clutches his chest like a Victorian maiden. "Wow. The disrespect. You don't know the man whose spotlight you hijacked? Tragic."

Hoodie Ghost stares, unimpressed. "Congrats on the ego. Funeral's next door."

Yeonjun smirks, stepping closer. "Name's Yeonjun. You're welcome."

The guy blinks once. Twice. Then—
"Ohh," he says, voice flat. "The one named like a sleeping pill brand."

Yeonjun freezes. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing to excuse," the guy deadpans, adjusting his strap. "Now leave me alone from whatever crap this is."

And he turns, like Yeonjun's not Yeonjun. Like the world doesn't orbit his existence. Like—

"Oh, hell no," Yeonjun mutters, grabbing his wrist before he can vanish. "At least tell me your name, Princess."

The guy jerks his arm back—and that's when it happens.

The hood slips.

Fabric falls. Light hits.

And Yeonjun's brain short-circuits.

Gone is the moody ghost from the bench. In his place: sharp, layered hair grazing cheekbones carved like sin. Eyes that could start wars. A mouth tilted in irritation that somehow looks—
Stop. No. Absolutely not.

"Holy—" someone gasps nearby. Phones lift. Shutters click. The hallway erupts like a live concert.

"IS THAT HIM?!"
"NEW HAIR?? HELLO??"
"PRINCESS IS A PRINCE AGAIN??"

Yeonjun barely registers the noise because Hoodie Ghost—no, Sleeping Pill Roast Dude—is yanking free, muttering something sharp.

"Fine," the guy spits, eyes flashing. "It's Choi Taekbae. Happy now?"

Yeonjun blinks. "...Taek—what—"

"Great," Taekbae-supposedly says, already bolting.

And then he's gone, swallowed by the chaos of bodies and flashing cameras.

Yeonjun stands there like an idiot, heart pounding for reasons he does not want to unpack, as the hallway drowns in shrieks and the campus gossip page prepares for Armageddon.

The noise behind him is a tidal wave. Phones. Screams. His name—no, not his name. Not really.

He shoves through the doors into cold air, lungs locking, vision tilting at the edges. Every sound feels like claws dragging down his spine. Every flash like a spotlight he can't outrun.

And for the first time since this mess started, Beomgyu realizes,
He's not watching the chaos from behind a screen anymore.
He's inside it.
And he can't breathe.