Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

08

Beomgyu narrows his eyes. "What."

"You join the band."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, Gyu!" Kai leans forward, eyes gleaming like he's pitching a religion. "We're not asking for a blood oath. Just a gig or two. One rehearsal cycle. That's it."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes—"

"God, you two sound like a toxic couple," Taehyun mutters, closing his laptop with a snap.

Kai shoots him a look. "Stay out of this, Mr. Composer."

"Funny you say that," Taehyun says smoothly, swiveling his chair toward them. "Because if he says yes, I might too."

The room goes silent.

Beomgyu sits up so fast his blanket slides to the floor. "WHAT."

Kai blinks. "Wait. Seriously? You'd join?"

"Maybe," Taehyun says, like he's discussing the weather. "Depends if you've got space for another vocalist."

Kai nearly falls out of the chair. "Bro. Are you—YES. YES WE DO."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Beomgyu waves his arms like a man trying to stop traffic. "What the hell is happening?! I said no!"

"Relax, Princess," Taehyun says, smirking just enough to make Beomgyu want to commit arson. "Think of it as... moral support. If you do this, you're not alone."

"I don't need moral support," Beomgyu snaps.

"Sure," Taehyun says, deadpan. "That's why you almost had a coronary yesterday."

Beomgyu opens his mouth, closes it, groans into his hands.

Kai senses blood in the water and grins like the devil. "So let me get this straight, if Beomgyu joins, you join?"

"Correct," Taehyun says.

Kai claps his hands like a man who just secured world peace. "Done deal. Gyu, you're in."

"I'm NOT," Beomgyu yells, pointing at both traitors like they're plotting his murder.

"Not yet," Taehyun corrects, tone maddeningly calm.

Kai winks. "Clock's ticking, Guitar Prince. Contest deadline won't wait."

Beomgyu collapses backward on the bed with a strangled groan, dragging the blanket over his face again. The ceiling spins behind his eyelids.
Control the noise, huh? Yeah. Right.

Yeonjun hated admin days.

Not the dancing, not the endless rehearsals, not even the sore muscles that screamed for mercy every night. Those were fine. He lived for those.

But paperwork? Meetings? Answering the same email four times because someone in management couldn't decide between "electric blue" or "royal blue" for the showcase lighting?
Hell. Absolute hell.

Right now, he's hunched over the front desk of the performing arts building, signing off on some godforsaken equipment requisition form because apparently being leader means he's also unpaid labor.

"Yeonjun?" the admin says brightly, sliding him another stack of forms.

He pastes on his best celebrity smile. "Sure. Why not add another ten pages to my existential crisis?"

The admin laughs like he's joking. He's not.

By the time he escapes, his head's pounding with lighting specs and stage layout drafts. He cuts through the west corridor, tugging at his sweatshirt collar, rehearsing how he's going to politely tell his crew to stop leaving empty energy drink cans in the studio—