Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

15

The first bass hit cracks through the speakers like a shot.

Yeonjun slides into position at the dead center of the frame, head bowed, arms loose, muscles coiled like live wires beneath layers of black and chrome. The LED panels behind him explode into red-white pulses, syncing to the opening synth like strobe-lit heartbeats.

"Camera ready," someone calls.
"Sound rolling."
"BeatLine—on you."

The count drops.

Three. Two. One.

Fact Check.

He moves.

Every beat snaps clean, slicing through the heavy air with precision honed from hours of drills—shoulders rolling, hips cutting sharp arcs, body locking and releasing like water and blade all at once. Sweat prickles under his collar, trailing slow and sinful down the curve of his spine, but his focus never fractures.

Because this—this moment—is his dominion.
Lights blazing like fire.
Crowd pressed tight against the ropes, phones angled like worship.
Seven bodies orbiting in perfect chaos, but every lens knows where the gravity lies, dead center. Him.

He hits Mark Lee's verse like a bullet from a gold barrel, mouth shaping the words in perfect sync with his sharp, fluid swagger. The cameras eat him alive—slow pans down his frame, close-ups catching the sweat-damp strands clinging to his temple, the curl of his mouth splitting into a grin sharp enough to bleed neon.

Someone in the crowd screams.
Then ten more.

"Serve the angle," Wooyoung mutters mid-transition, smirking as he spins past. Yeonjun throws him a wink without breaking formation, then slams into the chorus with a body wave so clean the floor hums under the impact of his boots.

The cheers spike.

Phones tilt higher.
And Yeonjun turns it up—flinging glances sharp as knives toward the crowd, letting his fingers trace slow down his jaw on the bridge break, biting the inside of his cheek when the lens locks on him like a lover.

Fanservice isn't work. It's bloodsport. And Yeonjun never loses.

By the time the bridge detonates, the whole set feels molten. He grips the camera's gaze like a throat, pulling it close with nothing but a look.
Head tipped back, chest heaving, sweat gleaming like molten gold against pale skin.

The final beat slams and they freeze—seven statues carved from sweat and sin, the silence after the bass throb louder than the music itself.

Then chaos erupts.
Applause detonates from the crew. The crowd screams like they've witnessed scripture. Phones flash. Someone actually shouts his name twice, like calling down a god.

Yeonjun stays still for half a second longer, chest rising slow, before tilting his head with a grin that looks effortless and feels like conquest.

"Take one," the director calls, voice breaking through the roar. "And that's a wrap if you want it—holy hell."

The crew surges in with towels and bottled water, cameras flashing for behind-the-scenes stories. Wooyoung whoops loud enough to rattle the panels, Felix collapses in glittering chains with a laugh, and Soobin just mutters something about hydrating before you die.

Yeonjun wipes sweat from his jaw, towel dragging slow down the side of his neck as he strolls off-set. His reflection catches in a monitor—liner smudged, hair damp and wild, smile curling like smoke.

He looks like victory.
But somewhere under the heat and glory, another thought slides sharp as a blade:

Not a stranger in sight this time. Good.