Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

15

The shoot day buzzes like static, a live wire thrumming through every nerve. The converted space smells of hairspray and hot lights, bass thudding faintly through the speakers as BeatLine gears up to dominate the feed again.

NCT vibes demand nothing less than opulence, and they've nailed it, deep reds, matte blacks, a metallic gleam crawling across steel backdrops. LED panels pulse in sync with the song, throwing harsh light over bodies stretched and bending in time to the beat.

It's perfect.
And perfection is Yeonjun's favorite battlefield.

He slides into his chair in the makeup corner, watching the artist drag a brush across his jawline. The mirror throws him back a reflection so sharp it could cut glass—liner winged just enough to threaten, lips tinted the barest whisper of crimson. His outfit hangs from the rack behind him, black cargo pants clinging like a second skin, sleeveless mock-neck cropped high to flash the lines of his collarbone.

"King of Mark covers," Wooyoung crows from across the room, tugging at his chain-heavy jacket. "The internet's about to combust."

"Was it not already?" Yeonjun says lightly, tapping his phone awake. Notifications scream like sirens—edits, hashtags, fandom wars still boiling from his last story. The chaos tastes sweet. Addictive.

Soobin strolls past in a fitted navy blazer, eyes rolling like he's seen the apocalypse and is unimpressed. "Try not to start any fires before we finish recording."

"No promises," Yeonjun purrs, watching his own smirk curve in the mirror.

The rest of the crew trickles in, each one transformed into a living homage, Heeseung with smolder for days, Gunwook radiating pure power in leather, Felix draped in silver chains that catch every glint of light. Seven bodies. Seven storms in formation.

The space hums louder now as the set crew calls out last checks. Microfiber wipes streak across glossy floors. Camera operators test slow pans, tracking the angles like choreography in motion.

And then the crowd filters in—a handful of students buzzing near the ropes, phones already raised. Fans, casuals, maybe the curious few who just like watching beauty turn into spectacle. Their chatter stitches into a rising crescendo the moment Yeonjun steps into frame.

He drinks it in. Not arrogance—just oxygen.

"Let's run through positions." Soobin claps sharp, rallying the chaos back into line. The team fans out across the floor, each man sliding into his mark like muscle memory. Yeonjun rolls his shoulders, the weight of expectation settling like armor. This is what he was built for—spotlight slicing clean down the center, every breath synced to the beat of something bigger than flesh and bone.

Someone—probably Wooyoung, voice dripping with mischief—calls out from the sidelines,
"Okay, ground rules! No strangers photobombing this time, yeah? We can't have another mysterious bench guy situation."

The crew bursts into laughter, Soobin muttering something like God, please don't manifest it.

Yeonjun only smirks, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek as the memory flickers sharp in his mind. Princess with his guitar and that hood. Outshining an entire crew without even trying.
Not this time, Yeonjun thinks. Today's ours.

"Five-minute warning," the director calls, voice cutting through the din.

The lights blaze hotter. Outfits cling tighter. Somewhere in the corner, Felix cranks the playlist louder until NCT's opening synths flood the space like gasoline on fire.

Yeonjun slides his phone back into his pocket with a grin curling dark and deliberate.
Because this isn't just a cover.
It's a declaration.

And when the cameras roll, the whole damn campus will know who still owns the throne.