Skz oneshotes (Requests Open)

Suffocation

Suffocation

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Thousands of fans waved light sticks in unison, creating a sea of red and white that shimmered under the massive stage lights. Stray Kids had been performing for over an hour, sweat dripping from every member, muscles screaming, hearts pounding—but the adrenaline made it all feel effortless.

Minho adjusted his microphone and glanced toward Bang Chan, whose eyes met his with a mix of excitement and concern. "Almost done, huh?" Minho shouted over the music.

"Yeah! Last stage effect—just stay sharp!" Bang Chan yelled back.

The members had been warned about the finale setup: a massive platform that would rise from beneath the stage, releasing a controlled burst of smoke and pyrotechnics. It was supposed to be spectacular, but the foreboding weight of the structure made Minho uneasy. Something about it felt... off.

The music shifted into the final beat, the lights dimmed, and the stage crew began the automated ascent. Minho took his position at the center. Smoke began to curl around their legs, thick and fast.

And then it happened.

A loud mechanical whir, then a lurch beneath his feet. Minho stumbled, sneakers sliding on the slick surface. Before he could regain balance, a moving stage panel—a steel-and-glass cube—descended faster than planned. He fell into the partially enclosed space below.

"Minho!" Han's voice screamed, but the sound was swallowed by smoke and lights.

The panel slammed down, trapping his legs and pinning him at a sharp angle. Metal edges pressed into his sides. The smoke from the pyrotechnics thickened, acrid and choking. Minho's chest constricted as panic clawed its way up his throat. He tried to push himself free, but the more he struggled, the more the metal cut into him.

Fear—pure, suffocating fear—gripped him. His voice came out as a weak, hoarse whisper. The heat above made breathing almost impossible. Every second stretched into an eternity.

Outside, the members realized the disaster. Han leaned over the stage, eyes wide. "Someone stop the effect! Minho's trapped!"

Bang Chan grabbed a walkie-talkie, barking orders to the crew. The crowd's cheers filled the arena, oblivious to the danger, but for the members, the world had narrowed down to a single point: Minho.

"Minho! Stay with us!" Bang Chan shouted, his voice tight with urgency.

Minho coughed, chest burning, and tried to focus. The air around him was thick with smoke. Dizziness blurred his vision. Memories flitted through his mind: training sessions, late-night laughter in the dorm, moments with fans. He didn't want to leave them—not here, not like this.

A spark of determination flared. He twisted his body, tiny movements that were agonizing, creating minuscule space between himself and the metal. His ribs burned, lungs screamed, fingers scraped the floor, but he refused to give in.

The stage crew scrambled. Hyunjin and I.N. pushed at the panel, heavy and unwieldy. Changbin activated the hydraulic override, gears grinding loudly. Smoke thickened, lights flickered ominously, and the heat made the air almost liquid.

"Look at me! Focus on my voice!" Han leaned closer. Minho fought to keep his eyes open. Han's face, pale but determined, anchored him. "We're getting you out. Just hang on a little longer."

Time dissolved. Minutes felt like hours. Pain and fear became a single, overwhelming sensation. Every inhale burned. Every small movement felt monumental. Minho clung to Han's voice, a lifeline against the suffocating chaos.

Finally, the hydraulic system hissed. The panel creaked and groaned, lifting off Minho in agonizing increments. Each inch was torture—pressure, heat, smoke, and pain—but he pushed through.

Then, relief: the members could finally pull him out. Hands gripped him, lifting him into open air. He collapsed, coughing violently. His lungs burned, every breath sharp, every inhale a battle.

"Minho!" Bang Chan was at his side immediately. "Can you breathe?"

Minho nodded weakly. "Yeah... I... think so..."

Han helped him sit up, wrapping an arm around him. "You scared us half to death."

Changbin, Hyunjin, and I.N. formed a protective circle. Crew members secured the stage. The crowd erupted in cheers, oblivious to the near-tragedy, while Minho's body trembled with relief and adrenaline.

Backstage, Minho leaned against a wall, still shaking. Bang Chan knelt beside him. "You're okay. That's all that matters."

But Minho couldn't shake the suffocating weight of what had happened. His chest ached, his lungs burned, and the memory of being trapped under metal lingered, as real as the pain in his ribs.

"I... I thought I was going to die," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Han placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're here. You made it. That's what matters."

Despite the reassurances, the fear didn't vanish. Minho's mind replayed the suffocating moments over and over—the crushing metal, the smoke, the heat, the helplessness. It was a physical sensation now, a lingering phantom pressing on his chest.

The members stayed close, a silent support. They didn't need words; presence alone was comforting. Minho slowly exhaled, the tremor in his body easing slightly.

The concert eventually continued, but the finale was subdued. The stage crew decided to forgo the pyrotechnics for the final bow. The crowd still cheered, but Minho didn't notice the lights or music. All he felt was relief and an acute awareness of mortality.

In the quiet backstage afterward, Minho sat with his head in his hands. Bang Chan knelt beside him. "We'll have someone check the stage properly next time. No more close calls."

Minho nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I just... I can't get it out of my head."

"That's normal," Han said gently. "What you felt—it was real. You were in danger. But you're alive. We're here. We're not letting anything happen to you."

Minho's eyes filled with tears. The suffocating fear he'd experienced, the near-death sensation, had left its mark. But surrounded by his members, he realized he wasn't alone.

That night, Minho lay awake in the dorm, the phantom pressure still pressing on his chest. He thought of the stage, the smoke, the metal. He thought of the hands that had pulled him free, the voices that had anchored him. And slowly, he realized something: suffocation wasn't just a physical thing. It was fear, isolation, and helplessness. But with the right people, even the heaviest weight could be lifted.

Minho inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs fully for the first time since the incident. He could still feel it—the lingering ache—but he also felt relief, gratitude, and connection. He was alive, and he was not alone.

And for the first time that night, he slept without the shadow of suffocation pressing on him.