Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

22

The band room smells like stale coffee and ambition. Cables snake across the floor, monitors hum faintly, and the beat they've been tweaking for the last hour thuds through the speakers like a stubborn heartbeat.

"Too heavy on the low end," Beomgyu mutters, scribbling across his notebook. "Jay, give me a G sharp on bass. Sustain it."

Jay shrugs, plucks the string. The note hums, vibrating through the room, warm and rich—but something about it itches under Beomgyu's skin.

"Hmm." Beomgyu frowns, tapping the pencil against his lip. "Slide into an A. Hold it longer."

Jay obliges. The sound blooms deeper, smoother. Better. Almost. But—no. Something still feels crooked in the bones of the track. He hears it like a shadow in the corner of a photograph.

"Move," Beomgyu says before his brain can filter the word. He's on his feet, slipping the bass strap over his shoulder before Jay can blink.

Jay blinks anyway. "Uh—hello? This is my lane, Guitar Prince."

"Princess," Kai corrects from behind the kit, grinning like a goblin.

"Shut up," Beomgyu and Jay snap in unison.

Beomgyu's fingers curl around the fretboard, muscle memory ticking like gears. He plucks—gentle, precise—shifting the progression just half a breath earlier, adding a subtle slide that kisses the beat instead of sitting on it. The difference blooms immediately, like pulling a thread and watching the whole fabric fall into place.

The room stills for a beat. Then Jay whistles low.
"Well, shit." He crosses his arms, mock glare in place. "You just gonna show up, hijack my instrument, and slay like that? Rude."

Beomgyu smirks, sliding the bass off and handing it back. "Don't be dramatic. It's basic theory."

"Basic theory, my ass," Jay mutters, glaring at the strings like they betrayed him. "First you dethrone a dance god, now you're gunning for me? Rival arc unlocked."

Kai whoops from the back, nearly knocking over a cymbal. "YES. Syncope Hunger Games. Place your bets!"

"Bet you choke first," Beomgyu deadpans, sliding back into his chair as Taehyun mutters, "Children, please," and drags the beat file onto the timeline.

They dive back in. Layer by layer, the chaos starts to shape itself into something that almost sounds like music instead of war crimes. For a few minutes, it feels normal. Safe. Like the internet doesn't exist.

Until Yujin's phone lights up—and the sound that leaves his mouth could curdle milk.

"Ohhh nooo," he sing-songs, eyes wide as his thumb flies across the screen. "Guys. GUYS. Look."

Kai bounds over like a Labrador on caffeine. "What is it—HOLY SHIT."

"What?" Beomgyu doesn't look up. Doesn't want to. But curiosity is a disease, and apparently he's terminal, because the next second he's leaning over Yujin's shoulder—and the floor falls out from under him.

The trending tab glares back like it was in blood-red letters.

#PRinceAndPrincess – 1.4M Tweets
#PRomanceScandal – 900K Tweets
#BeomjunBreakup?? – 700K Tweets

Yujin scrolls, and the tweets hit like shrapnel.

"This has to be a PR stunt. No way two campus celebs beef this hard without management milking it."
"BREAKING: insiders claim Beomgyu and Yeonjun were dating pre-slaptastrophe 👀 #BeomjunBreakup??"
"So the slap was... foreplay gone wrong?"