There's a silence that doesn't come from the absence of sound. It comes from betrayal—the kind that burrows into your bones and makes even the loudest room feel like a tomb.
Yoon Jiho had known that silence intimately in his final week at ARC Entertainment.
One Week Before the Fall
"Hey, Jiho, can you take my place at vocal training today? I've got a brand shoot," Minho had asked with that usual grin, the one that always got him out of trouble.
Jiho nodded, as always. "Yeah. I'll cover."
"Legend," Minho said, already halfway out the door.
It was the fifth time in two weeks. Jiho didn't mind. Not then. Not yet.
He believed that covering for his teammates made him reliable. Supportive. Needed.
But the next day, the trainer told him he was falling behind.
"You missed another vocal session, Jiho," the woman snapped, tapping her clipboard. "You're getting lazy."
Jiho's mouth had parted, a protest on his lips, but something stopped him. A sudden flash of Seojin's eyes across the room—watching.
He said nothing.
The cracks had been forming long before Jiho noticed the floor was crumbling beneath him.
Missed evaluations. Passive-aggressive comments from staff. Trainers that used to praise him now ignoring his work.
Even the other trainees, once warm and joking, started avoiding him. Conversations cut short when he walked in. Phones lowered. Eyes dodged.
But nothing stung quite like what happened three days before his expulsion.
The Confrontation
It was late—around 2 a.m. Jiho had just finished arranging backup vocals for Seojin's solo evaluation. Seojin had asked him to help last-minute, claiming he didn't trust anyone else with layering.
Jiho handed over the flash drive in the empty practice room, eyes tired but calm.
Seojin took it, fingers brushing Jiho's briefly. There was a flicker of something in his expression—guilt? Pity?
Jiho couldn't tell.
"Thanks," Seojin said, sliding the drive into his jacket pocket. "You're always good at this."
Jiho studied him. "Do you know what's happening?"
Seojin didn't answer.
Jiho stepped closer. "They're pulling me out of the group. You know that, right?"
Silence.
"Seojin."
Seojin's jaw flexed. "It's not up to me."
"But you could've said something," Jiho said. "You let them think I'm sleeping with staff. You let that rumor spread."
"They had photos," Seojin replied tightly.
"You know those were fake."
Another silence.
Jiho's voice cracked. "You said we'd debut together. That we were family."
Seojin's eyes dropped to the floor. "Things change."
Jiho took a step back, his chest heaving like someone had kicked through it. "So you're okay with this? With me being blamed for everything?"
"I didn't ask for this," Seojin muttered. "They came to me. Said the group would be stronger without dead weight. I just... didn't stop them."
There it was. The truth.
Not a knife through the heart, but something worse—a gentle hand pushing him into the fire.
Jiho let out a breathless laugh. "Dead weight."
He turned to leave.
"Jiho—" Seojin called.
He didn't stop walking.
The Meeting
Two days later, Jiho was called into the executive office. No warning. No explanation.
The room was sleek and cold. The company director sat with his usual rehearsed expression—corporate sympathy painted over indifference.
"You've been struggling lately," he began.
Jiho stood with his arms crossed. "If this is about the rumors, I can explain—"
"We've already decided," the director cut in. "We'll compensate you for your time. But we're terminating your contract."
No defense. No investigation.
Just disposal.
Like trash.
The Final Night in the Dorm
Jiho packed in silence.
No one spoke to him.
Minho watched from his bed but said nothing. Doyun, who used to call him "hyung," avoided eye contact. Even the new trainee, Woochan, who had admired Jiho's songwriting, left the room.
Only one person came to his door before he left.
Seojin.
He didn't come in. Just stood in the hallway.
Jiho looked up from his suitcase. "Here to make sure I'm really leaving?"
Seojin's voice was quiet. "You'll be okay."
Jiho's lips curled bitterly. "I hope you choke on your debut."
Seojin flinched. But he didn't apologize. He didn't stop him.
Jiho walked out without a backward glance.
Present Day
Jiho sat in a dingy motel room, his laptop open to a blank track. The lights buzzed. The mattress squeaked every time he moved. But none of it mattered.
He scrolled through his playlist of unfinished demos. The ones no company ever heard. The ones he poured himself into after every betrayal. The pain, the lies, the loneliness—all preserved in song.
Buzz.
Another message.
[ Unknown: Still coming tomorrow? ]
Jiho stared at it.
Then typed back.
[ I'll be there. ]
He closed his laptop and whispered into the dark, as if to the version of himself who once believed in kindness:
"I don't need anyone to believe me anymore."