Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

07

The cold hits like a slap when Beomgyu bursts out of the building. His lungs seize. The roar of voices behind him fades, swallowed by the blood rushing in his ears.

He runs until the quad blurs—buildings bending, sky spinning—and stumbles into an alley behind the music block, heart clawing at his ribs like it's trying to escape.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Except he can't.
Air drags in like shards of glass, throat closing, chest compressing under a weight that feels older than this moment. His hands shake so hard the guitar case strap digs into his shoulder like a shackle.

The hood's gone. The safety blanket—gone.
And the noise... God, the noise won't stop. Screams in his head, lights bursting like camera flashes—
Only they're not imaginary. They're memory.

A stage.
Sweat in his eyes.
Laughter slicing through the dark like knives.
"Who does he think he is?"
"Stop embarrassing yourself."
The weight of every stare, every smirk, pinning him down until his legs buckled and the floor rose up like a tidal wave—

Beomgyu slams his eyes shut, fists clenching. Not now. Not now, not—

His breath hitches, spirals out of control. The world tilts, edges blurring.

Phone. Call someone. Taehyun.
He fumbles the screen open, fingers trembling so bad he almost drops it. Hits dial.

"Hello? Gyu? What—"

"Hyun..." His voice is shredded, barely a whisper. "I... can't—"

"Gyu? Where are you?! Talk to me. Hey—"

But the words cut, sharp and sudden, as a hand tugs his hood back up.

"Heads down," a voice murmurs, low and steady against the chaos in his skull.
Warm fingers brush his jaw, tipping his face toward the ground. "Don't look up. Just move."

Beomgyu freezes, instinct flaring, but the grip on his arm is firm—not rough, not cruel. Guiding. Anchoring.

He doesn't fight when the voice adds, "You wanna keep this crowd off your back? Trust me."

Before he can argue, he's being steered—through a side door, down a narrow hall that smells like dust and old paint. The buzz of noise fades, replaced by the thud of his own heartbeat.

The voice speaks again, lighter now, almost mocking. "You know, for someone who roasted my name like a sleeping pill brand, you sure know how to cause a scene, Taekbae."

Beomgyu jerks his head up, glaring through the haze—and meets those eyes.
Yeonjun. Of course.
The human headline. The smug storm in sneakers.

"You," Beomgyu rasps, still breathless. "What do you want, Sleeping Pill?"

Yeonjun presses a hand to his chest in fake offense. "Wow. Rude to the guy who just saved your fragile little ego from a public meltdown."

Beomgyu scoffs, leaning against the peeling wall, dragging air into his lungs like it's on clearance sale. "Oh yeah. Thanks for your charity, Prince Charming. Now leave."

"No can do, Princess." Yeonjun grins, sharp and too bright for the dim hallway. "Not until you explain why you humiliated me first."

Beomgyu stares, incredulous. "You think my fake name was about you? Newsflash: not everything revolves around your hair gel, Narcissus."

Yeonjun gasps dramatically. "Wow. Big words from the guy hiding like a fugitive."

"Big words from someone who can't mind his business," Beomgyu snaps back, voice stronger now, though his pulse is still skittering like a broken metronome.