Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

19

Except there's no peace.

Not when whispers are already trailing through the room like smoke.

"...Is that him?"
"Looks like the guy from the BeatLine video..."
"No way—that's the Guitar Prince!"

Beomgyu feels the weight of every glance like a heat lamp trained on his spine. His fingers twitch against the menu, gripping it like a lifeline.

"Relax," Taehyun murmurs without looking up, flipping his own menu casually. "You look like you're about to bolt."

"I am about to bolt," Beomgyu mutters back through clenched teeth.

"Don't. Food's coming."

Before Beomgyu can argue, movement catches his eye—a small group of students hovering near their table, phones clutched like holy relics.

"Um... excuse me?" One girl, wide-eyed, voice trembling. "Are you... are you the guy from Syncope? The, um... Guitar Prince?"

Beomgyu freezes, words bottlenecking in his throat. The name feels like a chokehold. His jaw works silently, panic clawing up his ribs—

"Yes."

Every head swivels toward Taehyun. Calm. Collected. Smiling like this is a scheduled press conference.

"He's Beomgyu," Taehyun adds smoothly, like dropping a pin on a map. "Main guitar. Future rock legend. You're welcome."

Beomgyu whips his head toward him, eyes wide. What the hell—

Taehyun ignores him, flashing a polite grin at the group. "He's a little shy right now, but yes, that's him."

The whispers ripple louder now. Phones tilt. Someone giggles nervously.

"Can we... take a picture?" another voice pipes up.

Beomgyu opens his mouth—probably to scream—but Taehyun slides in like a bodyguard in a black suit. "Sorry, no pictures today. He's on vocal rest."

"Vocal—what?" Beomgyu hisses under his breath.

"Shut up," Taehyun hisses back, smiling at the group like an angel. "We appreciate your support, though. Watch for Syncope's updates soon."

A chorus of disappointed sighs follows, but they eventually retreat, phones still glowing with fresh rumors ready to detonate online.

Beomgyu slumps back in his chair, heart jackhammering. "Taehyun—what the hell was that?!"

"That," Taehyun says calmly, sipping his iced Americano, "was me saving your ass."

"By throwing gasoline on the fire?!"

"By handling it so you didn't faint in the middle of a café." Taehyun sets the glass down with a soft clink. His voice drops, firm. "You're in it now, Gyu. You can't shrink back into a hoodie and hope this goes away. So stop acting like you're powerless. Own it."

Beomgyu stares, the words pounding like a drumline against his ribs.

He wants to argue. To say he's not powerless, that he just... doesn't want this. But then he catches his reflection in the window—the sharp lines of his jaw, the messy waves brushing his cheekbones, the crisp white button-up softening the harsh edges of his frame—and his breath stutters.

Because he doesn't look like a ghost anymore.

He looks... like someone who could own it.

And maybe that terrifies him more than anything.