The showcase hall smelled like sweat and fresh paint — half-finished dreams and bright stage lights that hid the peeling corners of the old building.
Trainees milled around backstage in loose sweatshirts and glittering costumes. Voices layered over each other in nervous laughter, last-minute warm-ups, whispered prayers.
Minjun stood at the edge of the chaos, a mic in his hand, staring at his reflection in the dusty backstage mirror. Under the harsh bulbs, he looked like someone else — hair styled perfectly, makeup blurring the exhaustion in his eyes, the Starline trainee badge pinned crookedly to his jacket.
Starline's brightest prospect.Orion's secret deal.Jiwoo's missing half.
A stagehand called his name, tugging him out of the noise in his head. "You're up third. Five minutes."
Minjun nodded. His voice caught behind his teeth. He scanned the backstage crowd, half-hoping — half-dreading — that Jiwoo might push through the door, guitar case in hand, ready to forgive him at the last second.
But the hallway stayed empty. Jiwoo's absence pressed on him harder than the hot stage lights.
He checked his phone again: no messages. He typed "Hyung, please come. I'm sorry. I can't do this without you."Then he deleted it.
Seojin's voice buzzed in his head like static: Clean break. No dead weight.
His name boomed through the speakers. "Next up — trainee Han Minjun, performing an original piece."
Applause. A polite, expectant hush. The stage manager gave him a nudge.
Minjun stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, heartbeat rattling against his ribs. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as he walked into the lights.
The audience was a blur of dark shapes — scouts in sleek suits, company staff, a handful of trainee parents filming with trembling phones. Somewhere out there, Seojin was watching, hidden behind tinted glasses and a thin smile.
Show them who you are.
Minjun clutched the mic tighter. He glanced at the empty guitar stand beside him — Jiwoo's place in the duet they'd promised to debut with.
A single spotlight hit him, trapping him in a cone of brilliance and heat. His vision blurred. He swore he could hear Jiwoo's voice in the back of his head — warm, teasing, steadying him like he always did.
If you forget the words, just look at me, Rooftop Boy. I'll catch you.
Except there was no one to catch him now.
The music started — a backing track Seojin had ordered him to use after Jiwoo disappeared. It sounded hollow, synthetic. The guitar line felt wrong without the boy who'd played it by hand on the rooftop, fingers raw but eyes bright with belief.
Minjun opened his mouth. The first note scraped out, thin and trembling. The second cracked. He pushed through, voice steadying, each word a wound opening wider.
He sang about them — two boys on a rooftop, knees bumping in the cold. He sang about neon dreams and cracked sidewalks. About promises made under city lights too bright to last.
Halfway through, he saw it — the empty second mic stand beside him. He almost expected Jiwoo to run out, breathless, guitar swinging off his shoulder, grin breaking the tension like dawn.
But the stand stayed empty. So did the other half of his harmony.
When the final note faded, the applause came polite and measured — a row of polite smiles from the scouts, a few murmurs of "Good voice, raw but promising." The next act was already waiting in the wings.
Minjun bowed. The lights felt like fire on his skin. The roar he'd dreamed of — the one where the crowd chanted his name, where Jiwoo clapped loudest in the front row — never came.
He walked off stage alone. Past the stage manager's forced thumbs-up, past the other trainees whispering about him behind cupped hands. Past Seojin's cool, approving nod from the hallway — a nod that meant good enough to use.
Outside the building, the night air hit him like a slap. He stumbled down the back steps into the alley behind the showcase hall, hoodie pulled tight around him. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere left to go except the rooftop — and Jiwoo wasn't there anymore either.
He sat on the cold concrete, head in his hands, mic still clutched like a weapon he didn't know how to use anymore.
Above him, the city lights flickered. Somewhere out there, Jiwoo was probably pretending none of this mattered. Or maybe he was standing on a different rooftop, wondering if Minjun's stage had felt worth it.
Minjun closed his eyes and whispered the last line of their song to the night.
If you ever hear this, come find me.If you ever hear this, forgive me.