Minjun didn't sleep the night before the rooftop show. Neither did Jiwoo.
Their one-room studio was a mess of scribbled lyrics, tangled mic cables, and ramen cups stacked so high they looked like a fragile sculpture of a dream half-built and half-broken. Miri had taken over the tiny desk, hunched over two battered laptops, her fingers flying as she juggled VPNs, proxy servers, and private chat links.
At 2 AM, Jiwoo tuned his guitar for the hundredth time, testing the strings in short, sharp bursts that echoed off the cracked plaster walls. Each note felt like a gunshot — a warning, or maybe a promise.
Minjun sat cross-legged by the window, staring out at Seoul's sleeping sprawl. The neon was still alive out there — street signs flickering, buses drifting like lazy sharks through the early hours. Somewhere down those streets, Starline's lawyers were probably drafting fresh injunctions. Maybe Seojin was awake too, pacing marble floors, wondering how an 18-year-old trainee he'd tried to break could burn down so much with just a voice and a borrowed guitar.
At dawn, they carried their battered gear up twelve flights of stained stairs. Jiwoo went first, his guitar case strapped to his back like armor. Minjun followed, mic stand balanced over one shoulder, his other hand gripping the portable amp that sputtered when the battery dipped too low.
By the time they stepped onto the roof, the sky was bruised purple and gold. The first kids were already there — sitting cross-legged on blankets, some huddled under thrift-store parkas, clutching steaming cups of cheap convenience store coffee.
One girl — the same girl who'd once handed him ginger tea behind the busking stage — handed him a slip of folded paper as he passed. It said: You're saving us too.
Minjun tucked it into his pocket next to the USB drive that had started all of this. He didn't trust himself to speak.
They set up quickly. Jiwoo strung fairy lights between rusted vents and broken antennas. Miri fussed with a cheap DSLR she'd borrowed, testing angles that would hide everyone's faces if the police or Starline's private investigators showed up watching the streams later.
The sun rose slow and hesitant, like it was waiting to see if they'd really dare do this. By 8 AM, the rooftop was packed — fifty, maybe sixty kids pressed shoulder to shoulder, knees bumping, breath fogging the chill air.
Below them, the city thrummed — engines growling, subway doors sliding open and shut. People rushing to offices in stiff suits with no idea that above their heads, an unlicensed anthem was about to break the morning open like glass.
Jiwoo ran his thumb over his guitar's headstock, flicking the E string with a soft twang. He shot Minjun a look — half terror, half exhilaration.
"You ready to riot?" he asked.
Minjun wiped his palms on his jeans. His stomach twisted like he was about to step on stage at Gocheok Sky Dome, except the only lights here were thrift-store LEDs and the sun crawling over high-rise shadows.
"I was born ready," he lied, and Jiwoo barked out a laugh that shook the last of the fear from Minjun's chest.
The first note hit like a thrown stone. Jiwoo's guitar snarled through the battered amp, feedback screaming for half a second before he reined it in. Minjun stepped up to the mic stand, the wind tearing at his hair, his heartbeat louder than the city noise below.
He didn't bother greeting them. No Hello, Seoul! No rehearsed slogans. He just opened his mouth and let the words tumble out, rough edges and all. The leaked demo — the one Starline's lawyers had sworn would never see daylight — was first.
It wasn't polished. It wasn't perfect. It didn't have ten producers and backup dancers or a million-dollar MV budget. It had Minjun's voice, raw and ragged, brushing up against Jiwoo's chords like a promise they'd both sworn in blood and rooftop rain.
The kids screamed the chorus back at him. Some were crying — tears streaming, eyes wide, arms wrapped around each other like they were trying to hold the rooftop in place so the city couldn't swallow it up.
Phones glowed like tiny stars. Somewhere near the back, Miri's camera light blinked steady, beaming every note out into the endless dark of the internet.
By the third song, Minjun's throat was shot. Jiwoo noticed — he always did — and swung the guitar into an improvised riff that roared over the rooftop edge and down into the street like a dare.
Minjun stepped back, mic at his side, chest heaving. He looked down over the ledge — at the taxis idling below, the tiny knots of bystanders who'd followed the sound up from the street. Some were filming. Some were just staring, necks craned, wondering what kind of idiot risked jail time for a few stolen minutes of music.
Minjun wanted to shout down: It's not just minutes. It's everything.
Somewhere in the stairwell, a crash of metal rang out — too sharp, too close. Jiwoo's eyes flicked to the doorway. Miri's voice hissed from behind the camera. They're coming up.
Jiwoo didn't miss a beat. He leaned into the mic, voice dripping with adrenaline.
"Next song's for Seojin. Hope you're watching, boss!"
The kids roared. Minjun found his voice again. He gripped the mic so tight his knuckles ached, and he sang like they'd never get another chance. Maybe they wouldn't.
When the first security uniforms shoved through the door, the rooftop didn't scatter — it sang louder. The kids clapped in time, stomping old wooden pallets into the concrete, shaking loose flakes of paint and rust.
Jiwoo dropped to his knees mid-solo, dragging a shriek of feedback that curled into the skyline. Minjun threw his head back, voice cracking but unstoppable, every note echoing through glass towers that had never heard anything this honest.
When they finally cut the power — yanking the battered amp cord from the rooftop's only outlet — Minjun didn't stop. He screamed the chorus without a mic, the crowd screaming it back until it wasn't just a song but a riot in reverb — a defiant heartbeat that would ring in every basement, every dorm room, every hidden studio where kids like him were still dreaming.
When they dragged him away, he was laughing. Jiwoo's hand gripped his wrist until the very last second. Miri's voice, somewhere behind the chaos, was steady in his ear.
"Don't worry. We got it all. They can't shut it up now."