Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

15

And yet—
The grin falters for a flicker, just a breath, as something quiet hums beneath the triumph.
That restless question.
The one that keeps sinking claws in deeper every hour Beomgyu stays silent.

Where the hell are you, Princess?

The set hasn't cooled yet. Heat clings to the air like smoke as BeatLine spills out of the frame into the chaos beyond—the styling team buzzing, cameras snapping behind-the-scenes, fans pressing tighter against the velvet ropes with phones raised like weapons.

Yeonjun lives for this part almost as much as the performance—the aftermath glow, the way every gaze tilts toward him like magnets to steel.

"Yeonjun! Over here!"
"Look this way—pose, please!"
"King of campus!"

He laughs under his breath, slicking damp hair off his forehead as he lets a smile carve across his mouth—lazy, sharp-edged, lethal. He tosses a wink at one lens, flashes a peace sign at another. Easy. Automatic.

Then a voice cuts through the din, high-pitched and dripping with mischief.

"Yeonjun-oppa—spill! Are you friends with Guitar Prince?!"

The question detonates like a snare hit. The crowd ripples with a dozen murmurs.

"Guitar Prince—!"
"The one from BeatLine's last vid—"
"He's in that band, Syncope, right?"
"What's his name?!"

Phones tilt higher. Comments already blooming like wildfire in real time.

Yeonjun pauses mid-swipe of his towel, brows lifting just slightly before his grin slides wider—slow, deliberate. The kind that says oh, you want a show?

"Friends?" he echoes, voice lazy honey as he tilts his head toward the fans. "Mmm... depends on your definition."

The squeals spike. "So you do know him!"
"Are you collabing?!"
"Are you rivals?!"

Yeonjun chuckles low, tucking the towel around his neck as he leans one elbow on the rail like he owns gravity.
"Why pick one?" he says with a wink. "Friends, rivals—sometimes both. Keeps life exciting."

The crowd shrieks like he just announced a marriage. Someone yells, "What's his real name?!" and Yeonjun almost laughs—because oh, this is too easy.

"Beomgyu," he says smoothly, like it's not a grenade he's tossing into the fandom's lap. "Choi Beomgyu. Cute, right?"

The reaction is instantaneous—gasps sharp enough to slice the air, voices overlapping in a frenzy.
"BEOMGYU?!"
"Wait—like @beomnote?!"
"That explains the 'beom'!"

Notifications will be a bloodbath before sunset. Perfect.

Yeonjun tips them a mock salute, grin carved wicked. "Now don't make him shy, okay? He's... sensitive." The smirk curling his mouth makes it sound like a joke, but inside, something hums low and dark because—God—just saying the name out loud feels like tasting forbidden fruit.

"Hyung," Soobin mutters from behind, arms crossed and one brow arched. "You're playing with fire."

Yeonjun just slants him a look over his shoulder, grin curling sharper.
"Fire makes the best headlines."

He throws one last glance toward the wall of fans—phones flashing like a swarm of hungry stars—before sauntering back toward the dressing area, heart pounding for reasons he'll never admit out loud.

Because this isn't just fanservice anymore.
This is a game.
And Yeonjun? He intends to win.

The campus hall feels eerily calm when he steps onto the music floor. No pounding bass bleeding through walls, no gaggle of dancers clogging the corridors. Just silence.