Morning came, grey and heavy. Minjun barely slept — his dreams were scraps of lyrics and Jiwoo's laugh mixed with the sound of Seojin's smooth voice whispering "Fast-track debut."
He got up before dawn, careful not to wake his parents. His mother's door was cracked open; he caught a glimpse of her sleeping on the floor mat, blanket barely covering her. Guilt coiled in his gut like barbed wire, but it couldn't drown out the hunger burning through his chest.
At the station, Minjun's reflection in the subway window looked almost unfamiliar — hair hastily styled, favorite black hoodie zipped up to his chin. The same old Minjun, but inside, everything felt like it was shifting.
When he reached Orion's office, the difference from Starline slapped him in the face immediately. There was no dingy hallway lined with scuffed mirrors and boys half asleep on the floor. Instead, the lobby was all sleek glass and polished marble floors. A huge LCD screen looped the latest viral music video from NEON8, Orion's flagship boy group — perfect hair, perfect abs, perfect lives.
This is what I want, Minjun told himself. Not the practice rooms that smell like sweat. Not ramen split in half at midnight. A real stage.
A receptionist with sharp bangs and sharper eyes led him down a hallway into a private studio. Inside, Seojin leaned against a mixing console, scrolling through something on his phone. He didn't look up until Minjun cleared his throat.
"You came." Seojin's smile was like a blade hidden in velvet. "Good. Sit."
Minjun perched on the edge of the couch. The studio smelled faintly of coffee and expensive cologne. On the walls, gold records glimmered under track lighting — proof that dreams really could become something you could hold.
Seojin tossed him a bottle of water like they were old friends. "I like decisive kids. Means you understand time is money."
Minjun twisted the bottle cap. "You said… a sub-unit spot?"
Seojin nodded. "We're launching a new project — a smaller unit from NEON8. A darker, grittier vibe. Three new faces. We already have two locked. The third is open — but not for long."
Minjun's pulse raced. "And you want me?"
"I might," Seojin said. He tapped his phone on the console, screen flashing Minjun's rooftop videos. "But the raw spark isn't enough. I need to know you can handle this. We run fast. There's no time for dead weight."
Minjun bristled. "I'm not dead weight."
Seojin chuckled. "Then prove it. You have thirty minutes. The booth's open — I want you to freestyle on a beat I'll drop. Show me you're more than pretty footwork and rooftop angst."
Minjun's throat went dry. Freestyle? With no prep? He thought of Jiwoo, always teasing him for over-rehearsing every line until it was perfect. Jiwoo would have told him to breathe — trust the feeling.
But Jiwoo wasn't here.
Inside the booth, the headphones felt heavier than usual. Seojin's voice crackled through the intercom: "Ready?"
Minjun forced himself to nod. The beat kicked in — low, pulsing, hypnotic. Not the bubblegum pop he'd trained on at Starline. This was rawer. Edgier. It demanded blood.
He closed his eyes and let the rooftop version of himself crawl up from where he'd buried him. The boy who sang with no one watching. The boy who wrote verses under flickering neon signs because it was the only place he felt alive.
He opened his mouth — and words poured out. A jagged confessional. Lines about rain and cracked sidewalks and debt collectors knocking on doors. About mothers folding laundry at midnight. About wanting to be more than a ghost haunting his own life.
When the beat faded, the silence was deafening. Minjun's chest heaved. Sweat trickled down his back.
Seojin didn't speak for a long time. When he did, his voice was low, almost amused. "Not bad, Rooftop Boy. Not bad at all."
Back in the studio, Seojin drummed his fingers on the console. "One more thing."
Minjun flinched. "What?"
"If you join us, you leave Starline quietly. You don't breathe a word until the press release drops. No emotional drama with old friends. No leaks. We handle the narrative."
Minjun's stomach clenched. No drama with old friends. Jiwoo's face flashed in his mind — how he'd once said If you go down, I go down. Did this mean leaving Jiwoo behind? Lying to him?
"Jiwoo—" he started, but Seojin cut him off.
"Jiwoo is dead weight. Cute kid, but not you. He'll find his own way — or he won't. Not your problem anymore."
Minjun's lips parted. The protest stuck to the back of his tongue. His mind flashed to his mother, the unpaid bills, the rooftop that was starting to feel like a cage instead of a refuge.
Seojin slid a thin folder across the console. "Sign the pre-contract. If you're in, you're in. We'll handle the rest."
Outside Orion's building, Minjun stood in the soft drizzle again, the folder tucked under his arm like a bomb.
He should've felt triumphant — this was the door he'd begged for. Instead, the weight of it pressed on his chest until he could barely breathe.
His phone buzzed. A message from Jiwoo.
Practice tonight? I found an empty studio. I got us instant noodles too lol.
Minjun stared at the words, his thumb hovering over the screen. Practice tonight. Like nothing had changed. But everything had.
He typed: I'm on my way.
But he didn't hit send.
Back on the rooftop that night, Minjun didn't sing. He just sat alone, folder clutched to his chest, watching the city flicker like a stage he wasn't sure he deserved.
The door was open. Half open. But to walk through it, he'd have to close another behind him — and lock it tight.