Syncopation | Yeongyu TXT

25

Yeonjun's mouth twitches into a humorless smirk. "Relax. I'm not planning another scandal."

"Good," Soobin mutters. "Because we can't afford another one."

But Yeonjun doesn't respond. He's still watching Hanbin on the screen, frame by frame—reading the precision, the control, the practiced isolation of every limb. There's something almost clinical about it, the same way Yeonjun himself performs when he's trying not to feel anything.

When the video ends, he sits back and says quietly, "Get him on the main list."

Soobin's brow furrows. "You're serious?"

"Yeah."

Gunwook looks between them. "You want him under your section?"

Yeonjun nods, eyes still fixed on the dark screen. "If he's that good, I need to see him up close."

Soobin lets out a low sigh, closing the folder with a snap. "You never learn."

Yeonjun smiles faintly, voice dry. "Wouldn't be me if I did."

He leans back, watching the ceiling lights flicker. Somewhere between the noise of his own heartbeat and the muffled echo of Hanbin's choreography, Yeonjun realizes something terrifying—he doesn't just want to evaluate the kid.

He wants to see if someone like that could still make him feel like he's not the best in the room.

The building is half-dark by the time Yeonjun ends up in the practice room again. The meeting's long over, the chatter gone. He's alone with the low hum of the air conditioner and the faint scuff of his shoes against the wood floor.

He plays the same track he's been using for months—clean rhythm, just complex enough to keep his brain from spiraling too far. His reflection in the mirror looks like someone else entirely: hair damp, eyes rimmed with fatigue, movements sharp enough to draw blood.

Each spin, each glide, each hit lands a little harder than the one before. He knows he's not dancing for improvement anymore. He's burning off static—everything he can't say, every thought clawing under his ribs.

The door opens quietly.

"Still here," Soobin says, stepping inside. His tone isn't a question.

Yeonjun doesn't stop moving. "Couldn't sleep."

"You could try."

"Waste of time."

Soobin watches him a while, arms crossed. "You're bleeding energy like a dying battery."

Yeonjun finally stops. He grabs a towel, wipes his face. "That's poetic. You writing now?"

"Wouldn't have to if you didn't live like a drama script," Soobin says. "You know the team's nervous, right? The rumors, the PR stunt, this whole—" he gestures vaguely "—performance you're pulling. You're supposed to be the stable one."

Yeonjun tosses the towel onto the bench. "I'm managing it."

"No, you're pretending you're managing it."

There's the faint squeak of sneakers as Yeonjun walks closer to the mirror, hands on his hips, watching the both of them reflected—two halves of the same tired mess.

"Soobin," he says quietly, "you ever get tired of explaining yourself to people who already made up their minds?"

"All the time," Soobin replies. "Difference is, I don't build a stage around it."

That lands harder than it should.

Yeonjun smirks weakly. "You think this is about me?"

"I think you don't know what it's about anymore," Soobin says. "You're running every direction—PR, leadership, rivalry, whatever that thing with Beomgyu is—and you still expect the rest of us to believe you've got a plan."