[Minho's POV]
The practice room smelled faintly of sweat and cologne—five boys, mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, and one man in a suit who owned all of us.
CEO Park Jun-seok.
He leaned against the glass wall with that greedy little smile, the kind that said he wasn't looking at people, but investments. His expensive watch gleamed every time his hand twitched.
And me?
I was the newest "investment."
"Again," Hyunwoo snapped. His voice cracked like a whip, and the music restarted.
Hyunwoo—our leader, our rapper, the so-called "spine" of Syndicate. His jawline was sharp enough to slice me open, and his eyes… they never softened. Especially not for me.
I moved into position. My chest was still heaving from the last run, but there was no choice. I wasn't born into this life. I was dragged into it by Park's hand after he "discovered" me rapping outside a convenience store.
"You're my golden ticket," he had whispered that day, slipping his business card into my hand.
And like a fool, I believed him.
Now here I was, trying to keep up with four boys who moved like machines.
"Left—no, left foot first, Minho!" Hyunwoo barked again, his voice cutting through the bass.
I stumbled. My sneaker squeaked against the polished floor. The others froze. Jisoo, the playful one, hid a laugh with his hand. Taeyang grinned openly, throwing me a thumbs-up like it was all part of the routine. Daehyun, ever the quiet shadow, adjusted his mic and avoided looking at me.
But Hyunwoo?
His glare was molten.
"You're dragging us down. Do you even know what rhythm is?"
Heat crawled up my neck. My fists clenched. "I'm trying—"
"Trying isn't enough. On stage, there's no second chance. One mistake ruins us all."
The room fell into silence, broken only by the hum of the speakers. My chest burned, not from exhaustion, but from humiliation.
CEO Park chuckled low, like he enjoyed the show. "Hyunwoo," he said finally, voice smooth and dangerous. "Don't be too harsh. The boy has talent. Talent I can sell."
His words weren't a compliment—they were shackles.
I wasn't Minho to him. I was money with legs.
Hyunwoo scoffed, muttering under his breath, "Puppet."
The word lodged itself in me like a thorn.
I bit back the urge to shout. Instead, I forced myself through the routine again, step by step. My muscles screamed, but my voice… my voice broke free when the chorus hit.
It wasn't polished, but it was raw, alive—like the boy who used to rap on empty streets under neon signs. For a fleeting second, even Hyunwoo's eyes flickered with something that wasn't hate.
Then the song ended, and the moment died.
"Fix your timing," he said coldly.
Jisoo and Taeyang tried to cover the tension with jokes, imitating my stumble in exaggerated slow motion. I couldn't help but laugh, just a little. Maybe they didn't hate me.
But Hyunwoo's voice rang louder in my head than their laughter.
Puppet.
And as CEO Park's smile widened in the mirror's reflection, I realized something terrifying:
The stage might be where dreams shine—
But for me, it was a cage.
And tonight, the strings had already wrapped around my throat.