Archive of Our Own

The thing about Lee Jihoon's mind is that it has never been quiet.

Even as a child, before the training, before the debut, before the pressure crystallized into something sharp and constant—his thoughts had always been loud. Not in a chaotic way, necessarily, but in the way of a mind that processes everything simultaneously. Multiple tracks playing at once. Harmonies and counter-melodies and rhythm sections all demanding attention.

His parents thought he had ADHD. The doctors said he was just creative. His teachers called him unfocused.

Music called him home.

Because in music, the noise made sense. Every sound had a place. Every thought could be translated into notes, structured into measures, contained within a song. The chaos became composition.

For years, that was enough.

It's 11:47 PM on a Monday in March when Jihoon realizes it's not enough anymore.

He's been in Universe Factory for nine hours. The demo is due tomorrow at noon—a tight turnaround, but manageable. He's done tighter. The melody exists fully formed in his head; he heard it three days ago while brushing his teeth, hummed it into his phone, and has been building the arrangement ever since.

But tonight, something is wrong.

He plays the chorus back for the forty-third time. The vocals are clean—Seokmin's guide track is perfect, hitting every note with that effortless power. The instrumental is balanced. The mix is 90% there.

But his mind won't let him hear it.

Every time he tries to focus on the synth line, his brain jumps to the scheduling conflict for next week's recording session. When he focuses on the vocals, he remembers he hasn't responded to Seungcheol's text about dinner. When he tries to analyze the bass, his thoughts fracture into a dozen different directions: grocery list, laundry, that chord progression he thought of yesterday, the way Mingyu looked tired at practice, whether he remembered to remove his laundry from the dryer—

He stops the track. Rubs his temples.

This isn't new. His mind has always been like this—multi-threaded, constantly processing. Usually he can channel it. Usually the work absorbs the excess energy, gives all those scattered thoughts a place to land.

But tonight they're just noise.

He tries again. Plays the chorus. Tries to focus on just the hi-hat pattern.

His phone buzzes. Seungkwan in the group chat, asking if anyone wants chicken. Jihoon ignores it. Tries to listen.

His leg is bouncing. When did that start? He forces it still.

The hi-hat sounds fine. Maybe the pattern could be more complex? Or simpler? Should it drop out entirely in the second half of the chorus, let the vocals breathe?

But what if that makes it too empty?

What if—

His phone buzzes again.

Jihoon picks it up, types out a response—no thanks, working—and sets it face-down.

Focus.

He plays the track again.

This time he makes it through twelve seconds before his mind splinters. The vocals need more reverb. Or less? The synth line is competing with the melody. Should he pan it further right? What time is it? Is that someone in the hallway? When did he last eat?

Stop.

Breathe.

Focus.

But he can't.

The noise in his head is getting louder, not quieter, and it's not even coherent anymore—just fragments of thoughts, half-formed worries, a constant low-level hum of too much, too much, too much.

His hand is tapping against his thigh. Restless energy with nowhere to go.

There's a pen on his desk. He picks it up, clicks it absently. Clicks it again. The small mechanical sound is satisfying somehow. Definite. Present tense.

Click. Click. Click.

He's still clicking when he becomes aware that he's pressing the tip against his palm. Not hard. Just... there. A small point of pressure.

He presses harder.

The sensation is immediate and clarifying. Not painful exactly—just present. A single point of focus in the chaos.

He presses harder still.

And for exactly three seconds, his mind goes quiet.

Not empty. Just... organized. The threads untangle. The melody comes through clear.

He quickly—frantically—grabs his mouse and adjusts the hi-hat pattern, the change obvious now, and it's right, it's exactly what the chorus needed—

Then the noise floods back in.

Jihoon stares at his palm. Frowns. There's a small red mark where the pen was pressing. Nothing serious. Just a dent in the skin.

He looks at the screen. The change he made to the hi-hat is perfect.

Three seconds of silence. One perfect correction.

He files the information away—not consciously, not as a decision—and goes back to work.

He doesn't think about it again for two weeks.

The comeback schedule is brutal but manageable: recording sessions, practice, meetings with the creative team, more recording. Jihoon produces three more demos, all on time, all approved. He's functioning. Everything is fine.

But the noise is still there.

It's worse in the evenings, when he's tired. His mind feels like a browser with forty tabs open, each one playing a different video, and he can't find the mute button.

He tries the usual solutions: coffee (makes it worse), breaks (just delays the inevitable), working out (helps temporarily, then he's too tired to produce).

On a Thursday night, working on vocal arrangements, his mind splinters so badly that he loses fifteen minutes just staring at the screen, thoughts racing in circles, achieving nothing.

His hand finds the pen.

This time, he presses it against his forearm. Deliberately. Testing.

The pressure is grounding. Real. Immediate.

The noise... lessens. Doesn't disappear, but pulls back enough that he can think.

He finishes the vocal arrangement in twenty minutes.

It becomes a pattern, though he doesn't name it as such.

When his thoughts are too loud—when the multi-threading becomes overwhelming—he presses the pen against his skin. Sometimes his palm, sometimes his forearm, always controlled. Just enough pressure to redirect his focus.

It's not self-harm. That's something different—emotional, desperate, visible. This is just... a tool. A focusing technique. Like how some people snap rubber bands on their wrists, or how he sometimes bites the inside of his cheek when concentrating.

It's practical.

It works.

The first time Jihoon breaks skin, it's an accident.

He's working on the title track—the most important track of the comeback, the one that sets the tone for everything else. The deadline is tight, the pressure is high, and his mind is screaming.

He's been at it for six hours straight. The chorus is almost there, just needs one more element, one more layer, but every time he tries to identify what's missing, his thoughts scatter like birds.

Did he respond to Bumzu's email?

When is the choreography meeting?

Seungcheol looked stressed at lunch.

The chord progression in the bridge might need work.

Is someone playing music in another studio? Is that noise real or in his head?

Focus. Focus. Focus.

His hand finds the pen. He presses it against his forearm, hard, trying to find that pocket of silence.

The pen tip is sharper than he realized.

The skin breaks. Just barely. A tiny scratch, really.

But the sting is—

Oh.

Oh.

It's different from pressure alone. Sharper. Clearer. The noise in his head doesn't just quiet—it stops. Completely. A hard reset.

For ten full seconds, there is perfect silence.

In that silence, he hears exactly what the chorus needs: a string line, subtle, underneath the vocals.

He programs it in one take.

When he plays it back, it's perfect.

He stares at his forearm. The scratch is tiny. Barely visible. Already stopping bleeding.

He didn't mean to do that.

But it worked.

For the next month, Jihoon doesn't do it again.

He goes back to just pressure—pen against skin, controlled, careful. It still helps, still gives him that moment of focus when he needs it. The scratch was an accident. An outlier.

The comeback preparation intensifies. More tracks, tighter deadlines, higher stakes. The title track is approved. The B-sides are in progress. Everything is moving fast.

His mind gets louder.

It's 2:47 AM on a Tuesday when it happens again.

He's exhausted. Has been working for fourteen hours. The B-side is almost done but the bridge is wrong—it's building wrong, the tension isn't right, and he's played it sixty times and he can't figure out why.

His thoughts are fragmenting faster than he can catch them.

The pen is in his hand.

He presses it against his inner forearm—a place that doesn't show, hidden under long sleeves—and this time, when the tip breaks skin, it's not an accident.

The sting comes. The silence follows.

Fifteen seconds.

He fixes the bridge in one take.

It's easier the third time.

And the fourth.

By the fifth time, he's not using a pen anymore—too imprecise, too dependent on the angle. He finds an X-Acto knife in his desk drawer, left over from cutting open cardboard boxes of new equipment. The blade is sharper. More controlled.

More effective.

Jihoon is good at lying to himself.

Not about big things—he's brutally honest about his abilities, his shortcomings, what he needs to improve. But about small things. The things that don't matter. The things that are just tools to help him work better.

Drinking three cups of coffee a day? Necessary for productivity.

Skipping meals during intensive recording sessions? Efficient time management.

Working sixteen-hour days? That's just professionalism.

And this—this small, controlled thing he does to quiet his mind—is just another tool.

He tells himself:

• It's not emotional. He's not crying, not desperate, not out of control.
• It's not affecting his work. In fact, it's improving his work.
• It's not dangerous. The cuts are shallow, controlled, placed carefully where they won't show.
• He can stop whenever he wants.

He has rules:

• Only when working. Never recreational.
• Only shallow cuts. Nothing that needs medical attention.
• Only in places that don't show. Inner arms, upper thighs, ribs.
• Clean the blade. Keep everything sterile.
• Stop if it becomes a problem.

These rules make it safe. Controlled. Reasonable.

The first time someone almost notices is at practice, three weeks in.

They're learning choreography for the title track. It's June, hot even with air conditioning, and halfway through Soonyoung calls for a break.

"It’s so hot" Jun says, already stripping off his tank top.

Most of the members follow suit—it's normal, comfortable, they've been changing in front of each other for years.

Jihoon keeps his t-shirt on.

"Hyung, you're going to die of heatstroke," Seungkwan says, fanning himself dramatically.

"I'm fine."

"You're literally sweating through your shirt."

"I run cold," Jihoon says, which makes no sense, but Seungkwan is distracted by Mingyu doing something stupid and doesn't press.

Jihoon makes a mental note: be more careful about timing. The cuts on his arms are still fresh, still visible. He needs to plan better.

He starts planning everything.

When to cut (late at night, when he knows he'll be alone in the studio for hours).

Where to cut (rotating locations so nothing looks concentrated or deliberate).

How long to wait before practice or schedules where he might need to change clothes in front of others (at least four days for arms, longer for more exposed areas).

How to dispose of blades (wrapped in tissue, buried in the bottom of the trash).

What excuses to use if someone sees (cat scratches, caught on equipment, clumsy with craft supplies).

It's meticulous. Organized.

Safe.

It takes six weeks before Jihoon notices the silence is getting shorter.

What used to buy him twenty minutes of clarity now gives him ten.

Then eight.

Then five.

He tries cutting deeper. That helps for a week, then plateaus.

He tries cutting more frequently. That helps too, briefly, but then his arms run out of space and he has to get more creative with placement.

It's fine. He adjusts. That's what you do when a tool stops working as well—you modify your approach.

But there's something else changing too, something harder to quantify.

The music is still good. Technically proficient, well-produced, exactly what's expected of him.

But it's starting to feel... mechanical.

Like he's going through the motions. Like the songs are checking boxes rather than saying something.

Bumzu mentions it casually during a review session: "This is great work, Jihoon-ah. Very clean. Maybe a little... safe?"

Safe.

Jihoon doesn't know what to do with that word.

His music has never been safe. It's been honest, raw, the only place he lets himself feel things fully.

But lately—

Lately he's not sure he feels anything fully.

Just the cuts. And then the silence. And then the work.

Everything else is just noise.

Seungcheol notices first.

Not the cuts—those are hidden, careful. But something else. The way Jihoon has started declining dinner invitations. The way he's always in the studio, even more than usual. The way he seems... distant. Present but not present.

"You okay?" Seungcheol asks one evening, catching Jihoon in the hallway on his way back to Universe Factory.

"Fine."

"You've been working a lot."

"Comeback season."

"Yeah, but—" Seungcheol hesitates. He's good at reading people, knows when to push and when to let things breathe. "You're taking care of yourself?"

"Of course."

It's not technically a lie. Jihoon is taking care of himself—eating enough to function, sleeping enough to avoid total collapse, maintaining the baseline requirements of human existence.

That counts as taking care, doesn't it?

Seungcheol looks like he wants to say more, but Jihoon's phone buzzes—a reminder about a mixing session—and he uses it as an excuse to escape.

"Gotta go. I'll catch you later, hyung."

Seungcheol watches him go with that look. The leader look. The one that means I'm keeping an eye on you.

Jihoon tries not to think about it.

Mingyu notices the weight loss.

It's gradual—five pounds over two months, then another five. Not dramatic, but noticeable on Jihoon's already-small frame.

"Hyung, are you eating?" Mingyu asks, materializing in Universe Factory with homemade food meticulously packed in containers.

"I ate earlier."

"When?"

Jihoon tries to remember. "Lunch?"

"It's 10 PM."

"Then I'll eat after this session."

Mingyu sets the containers on the desk with a definitive thunk. "You'll eat now. I'm not leaving until you do."

It's easier to comply than argue. Jihoon eats mechanically—rice, chicken, vegetables, fuel—while Mingyu watches with those concerned-puppy eyes.

"You're worrying us," Mingyu says quietly.

"I'm fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

Mingyu doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. He stays until Jihoon finishes eating, then leaves with a reminder to go home soon.

Jihoon goes home at 4 AM.

Vernon notices the tiredness.

Not regular tiredness—they're all tired during comeback season. But something deeper. The way Jihoon's eyes look hollow even when he's smiling. The way his movements seem slightly delayed, like he's operating on a lag.

"You sleeping okay?" Vernon asks during a recording session break.

"Sure."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Vernon tilts his head, that analytical look he gets sometimes. "You seem... I don't know. Off?"

"Just focused."

"Mm." Vernon doesn't argue. 

Joshua notices the isolation.

Jihoon has always been independent, comfortable with solitude. But this is different. It's not choosing alone time—it's avoiding company.

"We're doing game night Friday," Joshua mentions casually. "You coming?"

"Probably too busy."

"You don't know that yet. It's only Wednesday."

"I have a lot of work."

"You always have a lot of work." Joshua's voice is gentle, non-judgmental. "You can take one night off."

"Maybe."

"Jihoon-ah." Joshua waits until Jihoon looks at him. "You know we miss you, right?"

Something in Jihoon's chest clenches uncomfortably.

"I'm right here," he says.

But even he doesn't believe it.

Wonwoo notices the silence.

They're sitting in the practice room during a break, and everyone is talking—Seungkwan telling some elaborate story, Dino laughing, Soonyoung adding dramatic commentary—and Jihoon is just... sitting there.

Not participating. Not reacting. Just existing in the space.

"Jihoon," Wonwoo says quietly, pitched below the others' conversation. "You good?"

Jihoon blinks, comes back to himself. "Yeah. Just thinking about the bridge on track seven."

"That's done though."

"I know. Just thinking."

Wonwoo studies him for a long moment. "You're always thinking."

"That's my job."

"Not all the time," Wonwoo says. "Sometimes you can just... be."

Jihoon doesn't know how to explain that he doesn't know how to do that anymore.

None of them see the cuts.

But they all see something.

They just don't know what.

It's August when things start falling apart.

The silence Jihoon can achieve—the clear, focused silence that makes everything worth it—is now lasting less than two minutes. Sometimes less than one.

He's cutting more frequently. Multiple times per session. The precision is slipping—his arms are running out of unmarked space, some cuts are deeper than intended, healing is slower.

But he can't stop because he can't work without it.

That's the trap he doesn't recognize until he's deep inside it: he's forgotten how to focus any other way.

The first track he can't finish is a ballad for the special unit album.

It's simple. Stripped down. Just piano and vocals and strings.

He works on it for eight hours straight. Makes cuts four times. Can't get it right.

The melody is there—he can hear it—but he can't translate it to the arrangement. His hands feel disconnected from his brain. The silence isn't working anymore; even when his mind quiets, the creative throughput isn't there.

He ends the session at 3 AM with nothing usable.

For the first time in years, Lee Jihoon fails to produce something functional.

The panic that follows is worse than the noise ever was.

He tries again the next day. And the next.

The ballad remains unfinished.

Bumzu asks if he needs help. Jihoon says no.

Seungcheol asks if something's wrong. Jihoon says no.

The deadline passes. The track gets reassigned to another producer.

Jihoon sits in Universe Factory and stares at the empty project file.

His mind is so loud it feels like screaming.

It happens on a Thursday.

Jihoon has been working for eighteen hours. The title track for the repackage album is due in six hours. It's almost done—90% there—but the final chorus needs something and he can't figure out what.

His mind is fragmenting badly. Thoughts coming too fast to track. The noise is physical now, a pressure behind his eyes.

He reaches for the blade—a new one, sharper than the last—and presses it against his thigh. A place he hasn't used much, still relatively clear.

He needs the silence. Needs it to last long enough to finish this track.

He presses harder than usual.

The blade goes deeper than intended.

Fuck.

Blood wells up, more than normal. The cut is clean but too deep, definitely too deep, and it's not stopping—

Jihoon grabs tissues from his desk, presses them against the wound. His hands are shaking.

This is fine. It's fine. It’s not too deep. Just deeper than usual. It'll stop.

It takes four minutes for the bleeding to slow. Eight minutes before he feels safe removing the tissues.

The cut is clean—he's always careful about sterilization—but it's going to scar. Definitely going to scar.

He stares at it.

The silence didn't even last ninety seconds.

For the first time since this started, Jihoon lets himself ask the question he's been avoiding:

What am I doing?

He doesn't have an answer.

But he finishes the track anyway.

—

Jihoon can't hide it anymore. 

He's limping. Just slightly, but enough that Soonyoung notices during choreography practice.

"Hyung, you're favoring your left leg."

"Am I?"

"Yeah. Did you hurt it?"

"Pulled a muscle. It's fine."

It's not fine. The cut from last week isn't healing properly. He thinks it might be infected—the edges are red, swollen, hot to touch. He's been taking ibuprofen constantly but it barely helps.

He should see a doctor.

He won't see a doctor.

Soon enough Jihoon is running a low-grade fever.

He takes more ibuprofen. Drinks water. Tells himself it's just stress, exhaustion, the normal wear of comeback season.

The cut on his thigh throbs with each step.

He has a vocal recording session at 2 PM. Shows up fifteen minutes early, because that's what he does. Professional. Reliable. Lee Jihoon, who never misses a deadline, never drops the ball.

Seokmin takes one look at him and frowns. "Hyung, you look pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Paler than usual. If that’s even possible… Are you sick?"

"Just tired."

The session goes fine. Seokmin's vocals are perfect as always—he's one of those rare artists who makes everything sound effortless. Jihoon guides him through the takes, makes adjustments to the arrangement in real-time, functions exactly as he's supposed to.

When Seokmin leaves, Jihoon sits in the recording booth for twenty minutes with his head in his hands.

The noise is so loud he can't think.

His leg is burning.

He reaches for the blade.

The infection isn't getting better.

Jihoon has started wearing exclusively black pants to hide any potential bleeding. The cut keeps reopening—the placement was stupid, right where his pants rub against his thigh when he walks, when he sits, constant friction.

He's using antibiotic ointment now, purchased from a convenience store at 3 AM when he knew no one would see him. It's not prescription strength. It's probably not enough.

He applies it anyway.

The fever comes and goes. On bad days, he shivers in Universe Factory despite the studio being warm. On worse days, he sweats through his shirt and has to keep a change of clothes in his desk drawer.

"Hyung, you sure you're okay?" Jun asks, catching him outside the practice room.

"Fine."

"You don't look fine."

"Comeback season," Jihoon says, like that explains everything.

Maybe it does. They're all exhausted, all running on fumes. What's one more tired person in a building full of them?

Jun doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go.

They all keep letting it go.

The second track Jihoon can't finish is supposed to be upbeat. Energetic. A performance unit song that Soonyoung has been excited about for weeks.

Jihoon sits in Universe Factory and stares at the empty project file.

He's been here for six hours. Has three cuts on his arms—hidden under a hoodie despite the summer heat—and one fresh one on his ribs.

The silence lasted forty seconds total.

The track is still blank.

His hands are shaking. From fever or exhaustion or fear, he's not sure anymore.

There's a knock on the door.

"Come in," he says automatically.

It's Bumzu. Holding coffee. Looking concerned.

"Jihoon-ah." He sets the coffee on the desk, takes in the scene: Jihoon hunched over his keyboard, screen mostly empty, the particular quality of stillness that comes from staring at nothing for too long. "Talk to me."

"I'm fine."

"You've missed two deadlines."

The words land like a physical blow.

Two deadlines. Lee Jihoon. Who never misses deadlines.

"I know," Jihoon says quietly. "I'm working on it."

"Are you?" Bumzu's voice is gentle, but there's an edge underneath. Worry. "Because it looks like you're having some difficulty."

"I'm not—" Jihoon stops. Tries again. "I just need more time."

"You need rest."

"I need to finish this track."

"Jihoon-ah." Bumzu pulls up a chair, sits down at eye level. "Something is wrong. I don't know what, but something is wrong. Your work is slipping. You're slipping. And I'm worried about you."

The concern in his voice is genuine. Kind.

It makes something in Jihoon's chest crack.

"I'm handling it," he says.

"Are you?"

No.

"Yes."

Bumzu studies him for a long moment. "If you need help—"

"I don't."

"—you can ask for it. Me or any of your members. You know that, right?"

Jihoon nods. Doesn't mean it.

After Bumzu leaves, Jihoon sits in the silence. The real silence. The kind that isn't earned through pain, just exists in the absence of sound.

It's worse than the noise.

He reaches for the blade.

Jihoon stops sleeping.

Not by choice—his body simply refuses. He lies in bed and his mind races and his leg throbs and his cuts sting and sleep never comes.

Or when it does come, it's fitful. Fragmentary. He wakes up every hour, disoriented, the line between dreaming and waking blurred until he's not sure which state he's in.

He starts working through the nights instead. If he's not sleeping anyway, he might as well be productive.

Except he's not productive.

He sits in Universe Factory and makes changes to tracks, then undoes them. Starts projects, deletes them. Listens to the same eight-bar loop two hundred times until the melody loses all meaning.

The noise in his head has evolved into something else. Not thoughts anymore. Just static. Constant, unchanging, numbing static.

The cuts don't help.

He keeps making them anyway.

"Hyung."

Jihoon looks up from his keyboard. Blinks. The studio is bright—when did it get bright? What time is it?

Seungkwan is standing in the doorway, backlit by hallway lights. Or sunlight. Jihoon can't tell.

"What time is it?" Jihoon asks.

"7 AM."

"Oh."

"Did you sleep here?"

Jihoon looks around. His hoodie is balled up on the couch like a pillow. There's an empty coffee cup on the floor. The project file on his screen is a mess—tracks muted and unmuted at random, like he was experimenting and forgot to organize it.

He doesn't remember any of it.

"I guess so," he says.

Seungkwan's expression does something complicated. "Hyung, you have to stop this."

"Stop what?"

"This. All of this." Seungkwan gestures at the studio, at Jihoon, at everything. "You're killing yourself."

"I'm working."

"You're not working. You're... I don't even know what you're doing, but it's not working."

The words sting more than any cut.

"I'm fine," Jihoon says.

"You keep saying that!" Seungkwan's voice rises, frustrated. "You keep saying you're fine, but you're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in weeks. You're losing weight. You never eat with us anymore. And your music—"

He stops.

"What about my music?" Jihoon's voice comes out sharp.

Seungkwan hesitates. "It's not... it doesn't sound like you anymore."

Silence.

"I have to finish this track," Jihoon says finally.

"Jihoon—"

"Please leave."

Seungkwan looks like he wants to argue. But something in Jihoon's face stops him.

"Okay," he says quietly. "But we're worried about you. All of us. And ignoring that isn't going to make it go away."

After he leaves, Jihoon sits very still.

The static in his head is deafening.

The cuts aren't working anymore.

Jihoon has accepted this intellectually. The pain still registers—sharp, immediate, real—but the silence doesn't come. His mind stays loud. The focus never arrives.

He's doing it anyway.

Not for the silence. Not for the focus. Just because he doesn't know how else to exist in his own skin anymore.

It's become automatic. Ritualistic. He sits down at his keyboard, tries to work, reaches for the blade. The sequence is so ingrained he barely registers it happening.

Cut. Sting. Nothing. Work. Fail. Repeat.

His arms are a constellation of lines now. Some healed, some healing, some fresh. He's running out of space. His thighs are the same. His ribs. His hips.

It doesn't help.

He does it anyway.

The intervention comes on a Tuesday.

Jihoon is in Universe Factory—where else would he be?—when the door opens.

It's not one person.

It's all of them.

Seungcheol. Jeonghan. Joshua. Mingyu. Vernon. Wonwoo. Jun. Minghao. Seungkwan. Soonyoung. Seokmin. Chan.

Twelve people filling his small studio, and the concern on their faces is so uniform it looks choreographed.

"We need to talk," Seungcheol says.

Jihoon's first instinct is to say he's busy. That he has deadlines. That they should come back later.

But he looks at their faces and knows that won't work.

"Okay," he says quietly.

They arrange themselves around the studio—some sitting, some standing. Seungcheol stays closest, leader-mode fully activated.

"We're worried about you," Seungcheol starts. "Have been for a while. But it's getting worse, and we can't just watch anymore."

"I'm—"

"Don't say you're fine," Mingyu interrupts. "Please don't say you're fine."

Jihoon closes his mouth.

"You're working yourself to death," Joshua says gently. "And we don't know how to help because you won't let us in."

"The music isn't even the point anymore," Wonwoo adds. "We don't care about the music. We care about you."

"You look sick," Seokmin says, voice cracking slightly. "Like actually sick. When's the last time you saw a doctor?"

Jihoon doesn't answer.

"When's the last time you slept a full night?" Seungkwan asks.

No answer.

"When's the last time you ate a real meal?" Mingyu.

Silence.

"Hyung." Dino's voice is small. "We miss you."

That's what breaks through. Not the concern, not the worry. Just that simple statement.

We miss you.

"I'm right here," Jihoon says, but his voice is hollow even to his own ears.

"No, you're not," Seungcheol says. "You're somewhere else. Somewhere we can't reach. And we don't know how to bring you back."

The static in Jihoon's head is so loud.

"I don't know how to come back," he says.

It's the first honest thing he's said in months.

The members exchange glances. Seungcheol moves closer, crouches down to Jihoon's eye level.

"Then let us help you figure it out," he says. "Please. Whatever you're dealing with, you don't have to do it alone."

Jihoon wants to tell them. Wants to explain about the noise, the cuts, the silence that doesn't come anymore. Wants to show them his arms and say look what I've been doing, look how broken I am.

But the words won't come.

"I don't know how," he whispers instead.

"That's okay," Joshua says. "We'll figure it out together."

Jihoon nods. Doesn't believe it. But nods anyway.

They stay with him for two hours. Don't force him to talk, just... exist around him. Make him eat something. Make him drink water. Make him feel less alone.

When they finally leave, Seungcheol lingers.

"Get some sleep," he says. "Real sleep. In a bed. Please."

"Okay," Jihoon lies.

After Seungcheol leaves, Jihoon sits in Universe Factory and stares at his empty hands.

The blade is in the drawer.

He doesn't reach for it.

Not yet.

But he will.

He always does.

For three days, Jihoon tries.

He really does.

He shows up to breakfast with the members. Sits at the table and eats—slowly, mechanically, but he eats. Mingyu watches him with those hopeful puppy eyes, and Jihoon manages to finish most of his rice.

"See?" Mingyu says, like Jihoon has just accomplished something monumental. "Not so hard."

It is hard. Chewing feels like a chore. Swallowing requires conscious effort. His stomach protests after months of irregular eating.

But he does it anyway.

At night, when his body starts gravitating toward Universe Factory, he forces himself to the dorm instead. Lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling while his mind screams. His leg is still healing badly—he's noticed the members glancing at his limp, though no one says anything directly.

Sleep doesn't come easily. But he stays in bed. Counts that as a win.

On day two, Seungkwan invites him to watch a movie. Some action thing with too many explosions and a plot Jihoon can't follow. But he sits on the couch wedged between Seungkwan and Vernon, and he stays for the whole two hours.

"This is nice," Seungkwan says during the credits. "Having you here."

Jihoon nods. Doesn't mention that he hasn't absorbed a single scene. That his mind has been racing the entire time, thoughts fragmenting and reforming, the noise building to unbearable levels.

But he was here. That's what matters.

On day three, he joins dance practice. Not to dance—he's not cleared for that with his leg—but to watch. Give feedback. Be present.

Soonyoung lights up when he walks in. "Hyung! You came!"

"Yeah."

They run through the choreography for the title track. It's good. Sharp. Soonyoung has outdone himself as usual.

Jihoon watches and tries to focus. Tries to see the artistry, the precision, the way the members move as one unit.

Instead, he notices Vernon is slightly off-beat in the second verse. Seokmin's extension could be cleaner. The formation in the bridge clusters too heavily stage-right.

His mind catalogues every imperfection, unable to just watch and appreciate.

The noise builds.

His fingers tap against his thigh. Restless. Searching.

"Hyung?" Dino is looking at him with concern. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jihoon says automatically. "You guys look great."

The trying continues.

Jihoon attends meals. Goes to bed at reasonable hours (even if he doesn't sleep). Participates in group activities. Smiles when expected. Responds to texts. Shows up.

The members seem cautiously optimistic. Like maybe the intervention worked. Like maybe Jihoon just needed to know they cared, and now he's getting better.

Jihoon lets them believe it.

Because the alternative—explaining that he's white-knuckling through every single moment, that being around people feels like sandpaper on his skin, that the noise in his head is so loud he can barely hear them when they speak—seems cruel.

They're trying so hard to help.

He can try too.

But here's the thing about addiction that Jihoon is learning in real-time:

Trying isn't enough.

He hasn't cut in six days. Six days of forcing himself to sit with the noise, to function without the release, to exist in his own skin without the one thing that made it bearable.

He's in the kitchen with Jun and Minghao, helping prepare dinner. Something simple—pasta, sauce from a jar, garlic bread. He's been given the task of chopping vegetables.

The knife is sharp.

Jihoon holds it carefully, professionally. Slices through a bell pepper with clean, even cuts.

His hands are steady.

His mind is screaming.

The noise has evolved past thoughts, past static. It's become physical—a pressure in his skull, behind his eyes, in his chest. Like something is trying to claw its way out of him.

He needs the silence.

He needs—

"Hyung, you okay?" Minghao asks.

Jihoon realizes he's been holding the knife motionless for thirty seconds. Staring at the blade.

"Yeah," he says. Sets it down. "Just spaced out."

"You sure? You look—"

"I'm fine."

He excuses himself. Goes to the bathroom. Locks the door.

His reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. Hollow eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Skin too pale.

He grips the edge of the sink. Breathes.

The noise doesn't quiet.

He lasts another two hours.

It happens in his room, door locked, 11 PM.

The members think he's sleeping. He's supposed to be sleeping. This is progress—going to bed early, taking care of himself.

But he can't sleep. Can't think. Can't exist in the noise anymore.

The blade is in his desk drawer. He took it from Universe Factory three weeks ago, hasn't touched it since the intervention.

His hands shake as he retrieves it.

Just once, he tells himself. Just to take the edge off. Just enough to sleep.

He presses it to his upper thigh—a place that's healing, that he hasn't touched in over a week.

The sting is immediate.

The silence is instant.

Oh god, he missed this.

Three minutes of perfect clarity. His mind goes quiet. The pressure releases.

He can breathe.

When the silence fades, the guilt rushes in. Six days. He made it six days. The members are trying so hard, and he just—

He ruined it.

The blade is still in his hand.

One more, he thinks. Just one more since he’s already at it, then I'll stop.

He makes three more cuts before the guilt becomes too heavy to ignore.

Jihoon continues showing up for the members.

Eats breakfast. Attends movie nights. Sits in on practice. Smiles at the right moments. Says the right things.

Everyone thinks he's getting better.

He's getting better at hiding it.

The cuts continue in private. Not as frequently as before—he's trying to ration them, prove to himself he has control. But they continue. His thighs, mostly, where no one will see even if he changes clothes around the members. His ribs, occasionally, when the thighs run out of space.

The infection on his leg is finally healing. Slowly. Badly. It's going to scar, thick and obvious.

He tells himself he'll stop after it heals completely.

The illusion cracks during a recording session.

It's supposed to be routine—guide vocals for a new B-side, nothing complicated. Jihoon has done this hundreds of times. Could do it in his sleep.

But his hands won't stop shaking.

He's been in the studio for three hours. Cut twice in the bathroom—quick, furtive, desperate. The silence lasted less than a minute each time.

Now he's sitting at the mixing board while Seungkwan records, and his hands are trembling so badly he can barely work the controls.

"Hyung, can we adjust the reverb?" Seungkwan asks through the mic.

Jihoon reaches for the dial. His hand jerks. The adjustment is too sharp, distorting the sound.

"Sorry," he mutters, fixing it.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

They continue. Jihoon's hands continue shaking. He spills coffee on his keyboard. Fumbles his phone when it buzzes. Can't seem to grip things properly.

Seungkwan notices. Of course he notices.

"Hyung, seriously. Are you okay?"

"Just tired."

"Your hands—"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Let's keep going."

The session wraps early. Seungkwan leaves looking worried, and Jihoon sits in the empty studio with his trembling hands and knows he's not fooling anyone.

At dinner that night, Jihoon forces himself to eat. The members are chatting around him—some story about Soonyoung and a recent sasaeng incident—and he's nodding along, present.

His leg is bouncing under the table. He can't make it stop.

His fingers tap against his thigh. Tap tap tap. Rhythm with no purpose.

"Hyung, you're shaking the whole table," Vernon says, not unkindly.

Jihoon forces his leg still. It stays still for maybe ten seconds before starting again.

He needs to cut. Needs it so badly his skin feels too tight.

But he can't. He's here, with the members, doing better. This is progress.

He white-knuckles through dinner. Excuses himself after twenty minutes.

In his room, door locked, he cuts four times in rapid succession.

The silence comes. Brief. Insufficient.

But it's something.

—

The members start noticing the restlessness.

The way Jihoon can't sit still anymore. The constant movement—leg bouncing, fingers tapping, shifting in his seat. The way his eyes dart around like he's looking for exits.

"Jihoon, you seem anxious," Joshua observes during a quiet afternoon in the dorm.

"I'm fine."

"Maybe you should talk to someone? A professional?"

"I don't need that."

"It might help—"

"I said I don't need it."

The sharpness in his voice surprises them both. Joshua backs off, hands raised placatingly.

"Okay. Just... if you change your mind."

Jihoon nods. Won't change his mind.

He can handle this himself.

The trying is killing him.

That's what Jihoon realizes one night, lying in bed at 2 AM, having successfully not gone to Universe Factory, having successfully eaten three meals, having successfully participated in group bonding.

He's doing everything right.

And it's destroying him.

Because sobriety—if that's what this is—doesn't fix the noise. Doesn't fix his brain. Doesn't teach him how to focus, how to quiet his mind without the pain.

It just takes away the one coping mechanism he had and replaces it with nothing.

He's supposed to be getting better.

He's never felt worse.

Eventually he gives up, Jihoon stops leaving his room.

He still eats—Mingyu brings him food. Still sleeps in his bed—the members check on him. Still technically exists in the space.

But he stops participating. Stops pretending. Stops trying.

"Hyung?" Dino knocks on his door. "We're watching a movie. Want to come?"

"Not tonight."

"Tomorrow, then?"

"Maybe."

He doesn't.

The members congregate outside his door sometimes. He can hear them whispering. Worried. Planning. Wondering what to do.

He cuts in the silence of his room. Seven times in one day. Eight. Ten.

The silence barely comes anymore.

He does it anyway.

Eventually, Seungcheol enters without knocking.

Jihoon is sitting on his bed, hoodie pulled down over his hands, staring at nothing.

"Jihoon-ah," Seungcheol says quietly. "This isn't working."

"I know."

"Trying on your own isn't enough."

"I know."

"You need real help."

"I know."

Seungcheol sits on the edge of the bed. "Then why won't you ask for it?"

Jihoon doesn't have an answer.

Or he does, but it's too complicated to explain. How do you tell someone that asking for help feels like admitting defeat? That you've spent so long being the competent one, the productive one, the one who has his shit together, that falling apart feels like betraying who you're supposed to be?

How do you explain that you don't remember how to exist without the pain?

"I don't know how," Jihoon says finally.

"We'll help you figure it out," Seungcheol says. "But you have to let us. Really let us. Not just—" he gestures vaguely, "—show up and pretend."

"I'm not pretending."

"Jihoon-ah." Seungcheol's voice is so gentle it hurts. "You're always pretending."

The truth of it sits heavy in the room.

Seungcheol doesn't leave. Just sits there. Present. Patient.

And for the first time in weeks, Jihoon lets himself be not okay in front of someone else.

He doesn't explain. Doesn't confess. Doesn't show the cuts hidden under his sleeves.

But he stops pretending he's fine.

It's the smallest step.

It's something.

The thing about not pretending is that it makes everything harder.

When Jihoon was performing recovery—eating meals, attending activities, smiling at the right times—there was a script. Actions to complete. Boxes to check. He could focus on the performance and ignore everything underneath.

But now Seungcheol knows. Really knows, in that way that means Jihoon can't hide anymore.

And that's terrifying.

Because the cuts haven't stopped. Can't stop.

Jihoon has tried. God, he's tried. But his body doesn't know how to exist without them anymore. The craving is physical—a crawling under his skin, an itch that can only be scratched one way.

He makes it eight hours once. Eight hours of sitting with the discomfort, trying to breathe through it, trying every alternative coping mechanism he can think of.

Ice cubes on his skin—doesn't work.

Rubber band snapping—laughable.

Going for a walk—the movement doesn't touch it.

By hour nine, he's cut three times, hands shaking so badly he's not even careful anymore.

The relief is immediate and damning.

The cuts start appearing in new places.

Not because he's running out of space—though he is—but because he can't always make it to privacy before the craving hits.

He cuts in bathroom stalls at the company building.

In his car in the parking garage.

Once, horrifyingly, in a supply closet during a five-minute break in recording.

The blade lives in his pocket now. He can't risk being without it.

"Jihoon, can we talk?"

It's Wonwoo, appearing in Universe Factory where Jihoon has been hiding for six hours. He's supposed to be at the dorm—promised Seungcheol he'd come home for dinner—but the pull of the studio was too strong.

Or maybe it's just easier to be alone.

"Sure," Jihoon says, not pausing his work on the track that isn't going anywhere.

Wonwoo sits. Waits. He's good at that—comfortable with silence in a way most people aren't.

Finally: "You're not getting better."

It's not a question.

"I'm trying," Jihoon says.

"I know. I can see you trying. But you're not getting better."

Jihoon's hands still on the keyboard. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth, maybe."

"The truth is I'm doing the best I can."

"Is it?" Wonwoo leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're drowning. And every time we throw you a rope, you pretend to grab it but you never actually hold on."

"That's not fair," Jihoon says quietly.

"Maybe not. But it's true."

Silence stretches between them. Jihoon can feel Wonwoo's eyes on him, patient and persistent.

"I don't know how to hold on," Jihoon finally admits.

"Then maybe you need to stop trying to do it alone."

"I'm not alone. You're all here. You're all trying to help."

"But you won't let us actually help. You won't tell us what's really wrong."

Because how can he? How can he explain that his brain is broken, that the only thing that makes it work is hurting himself, that he's so deep in this now that he doesn't remember what normal feels like?

"It's complicated," Jihoon says.

"So uncomplicate it."

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

The question hangs in the air. Jihoon doesn't have an answer.

Wonwoo sighs, stands. "We love you, jihoon. But we can't help if you won't let us in."

After he leaves, Jihoon sits in the empty studio and cuts twice on his thigh.

The silence lasts forty-five seconds.

The craving is constant now.

It's no longer just when Jihoon is working, or stressed, or overwhelmed. It's always. A background hum of need that colors every moment.

He wakes up thinking about it.

Goes to sleep thinking about it.

In between, he counts the hours until he can do it again without seeming suspicious.

The members are watching him more carefully now. Not obviously, but he can feel their attention. The way conversations pause when he enters a room. The way someone always seems to be around, offering company, making sure he's not alone too long.

It's suffocating.

He starts making excuses to escape. Bathroom breaks that last twenty minutes. "Errands" that don't exist. Late-night studio sessions that are really just him sitting alone with his blade, chasing a silence that barely comes anymore.

The facade finally cracks during a group dinner.

They're at a restaurant—somewhere nice, celebration for wrapping the album. Jihoon didn't want to come but couldn't find an excuse that wouldn't raise suspicion.

He's been there for forty minutes. Has barely touched his food. Can't focus on the conversations happening around him.

All he can think about is the blade in his pocket.

He's cut twice today already—once at 2 PM, once at 6 PM. It's been three hours. He should be fine. He should be able to make it through dinner.

But the craving is building, crawling up his spine, making his skin feel too tight.

His leg is bouncing. Fingers tapping. He's not listening to whatever story Soonyoung is telling, can't track the thread of conversation, doesn't care.

He needs—

"Hyung, you're bleeding."

Seokmin's voice cuts through the noise.

Jihoon looks down. His hand is on his thigh, pressed against his jeans. When he pulls it away, there's a small spot of red on the fabric.

One of the cuts from earlier has reopened. Must have been deeper than he thought. Or maybe he's been pressing on it without realizing—a habit he's developed, seeking pressure even through clothes.

"It's nothing," Jihoon says quickly. "Just scratched myself earlier."

"That doesn't look like nothing," Mingyu says, leaning over to look.

"I'm fine."

"Jihoon-ah—"

"I said I'm fine."

The table goes quiet. Everyone is looking at him now. Concerned faces, worried eyes.

Jihoon stands abruptly. "I need to use the bathroom."

He doesn't wait for a response.

—

In the bathroom stall, Jihoon locks the door and sits on the closed toilet lid.

His hands are shaking.

The cut on his thigh is still bleeding, slowly, seeping through the fabric. He should check it. Should clean it.

Instead, he takes out the blade.

Just once, he tells himself. Just to calm down. Just to make it through the rest of dinner.

He pushes up his sleeve, finds a space on his forearm that's not too marked. The cuts there are older, faded to pink lines.

He presses the blade to his skin.

Doesn't hesitate.

The sting is immediate. The silence follows, brief but necessary.

He closes his eyes and breathes.

Sixty seconds of clarity. That's all he gets anymore.

When he opens his eyes, there's blood welling up. He wipes it away with toilet paper, checks that it's not seeping through his sleeve.

Good enough.

He returns to the table. The members are talking again, but there's a tension underneath. They know something is wrong.

They just don't know what.

Jihoon sits down and picks up his fork.

"Sorry," he says. "I'm fine now."

No one believes him.

But no one calls him out either.

That night, Jihoon goes back to Universe Factory.

He tells himself it's to work. There's a track that needs finishing—there's always a track that needs finishing. The members think he's sleeping, think the talk at dinner was enough, think he's okay for the night.

They're wrong.

The studio is dark when he enters. He doesn't turn on the overhead lights, just the small lamp on his desk. It casts everything in warm amber, makes the space feel smaller. Safer.

He sits at his chair. Opens the project file. Stares at the waveforms on the screen.

The noise in his head is deafening.

He tries to focus. Plays the chorus. Can't hear it through the static.

His leg is bouncing. Hands tapping. The restlessness is physical, crawling under his skin.

He needs to focus. Needs the silence. Needs—

His hand moves to his pocket automatically. Finds the blade.

It's become such an ingrained motion. Reach, retrieve, use. Like breathing. Like blinking.

He doesn't even think about it anymore.

He pushes up his sleeve. His forearm is a mess—lines upon lines, some pink and healed, some still red, some fresh from earlier today. There's barely any unmarked space left.

He finds a spot. Presses the blade to his skin.

His hand is shaking.

He's so tired. So fucking tired. Tired of the noise, tired of failing, tired of needing this, tired of trying not to need this.

The blade is sharp. New. He replaced it yesterday because the old one was getting dull.

He presses down.

The angle is wrong. His hand jerks—exhaustion, tremor, he's not sure.

The blade goes deep.

Too deep.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The pain is immediate and sharp, different from usual. Not a sting but a slice, clean and deep, and the blood—

The blood is welling up fast. Too fast. Not the usual slow seep but a steady flow, spilling over his arm, dripping onto his desk.

"Fuck," he hisses.

He grabs tissues from the box on his desk, presses them to the wound. They soak through immediately. Red blooming across white paper.

He needs more pressure. Needs—

The blood is dripping onto his desk chair. The nice one he just got last month, pale gray fabric. Each drop lands with a soft pat, spreading into dark stains.

Bathroom. He needs the bathroom.

Jihoon stands, keeping the soaked tissues pressed to his arm. Blood is running down to his elbow now, dripping from there. He moves quickly across the studio, leaving drops on the floor—small red dots on dark wood, a trail.

The bathroom light is fluorescent and harsh. He blinks against it.

The floor is white tile. Pristine white tile that shows every drop of blood as he stumbles to the sink.

Red on white.

It's almost beautiful.

He could write a song about it maybe.

He's getting blood on the sink, the counter, the white porcelain like a canvas. He grabs paper towels, presses them to the wound. They soak through in seconds.

This is bad.

This is really bad.

He needs more pressure. Needs—towel. There's a clean towel hanging on the rack.

He grabs it, presses it firmly against the cut. The white terry cloth immediately starts blooming red, the stain spreading outward like a flower opening.

Okay. Okay. Pressure. Elevate. That's what you're supposed to do, right?

He slides down to sit against the bathtub, keeping his arm raised, the towel pressed tight. His other hand is shaking.

The white tile floor has red drops everywhere. His shoes left bloody footprints. There's blood on the side of the tub where his arm brushed against it.

Red on white on white on red.

The queasy feeling starts slow. A rolling in his stomach. His vision goes a little fuzzy at the edges.

Blood loss, probably. Or shock. Or just the sight of it all—so much more than usual, so much red, impossible to ignore or minimize.

He should be panicking.

He should be calling for help.

He should be terrified.

But instead, sitting here against the cold bathtub, watching the white towel turn red in his hands, feeling the lightheadedness creep in—

He feels calm.

The noise in his head is quiet.

Actually quiet. Not forced-quiet, not cut-induced-quiet. Just... still.

The irony isn't lost on him.

He’s bleeding out in his studio bathroom, and this is the most at peace he's felt in months.

A laugh bubbles up. Quiet at first, then louder. It sounds unhinged even to his own ears—sitting in a bathroom covered in his own blood, laughing.

But he can't stop.

It's funny. It's all so fucking funny. He's been chasing this silence for months, cutting himself over and over trying to find it, and here it is. All it took was losing just a bit more blood. 

The laugh turns into something else. Not quite crying, not quite hysterical. Something in between.

The towel is completely red now. He can feel the wetness seeping through, warm against his palm.

He should change it. Should apply more pressure. Should—

His phone is in his pocket. He can feel it there, solid and present.

He should call someone.

The thought comes slow, delayed. Like his brain is processing through fog.

Yeah. He should call someone.

His right hand is occupied—holding the towel, keeping pressure. He fumbles for his phone with his left, the movement clumsy. His fingers are sticky with blood.

The screen lights up. Too bright. He squints at it.

Who should he call?

Manager-hyung? An ambulance?

Seungcheol.

He should call Seungcheol.

The thought comes with a strange clarity. Seungcheol will know what to do. Seungcheol always knows what to do.

He finds the contact. Hits call. Lifts the phone to his ear.

It rings once. Twice.

The laugh is still there, bubbling in his chest. Everything feels distant. Unreal.

Three rings.

"Jihoon-ah?"

Seungcheol's voice. Familiar. Safe.

Jihoon tries to speak, but the laugh comes out instead.

Seungcheol POV

Seungcheol is in the makeshift karaoke room on the third floor of the company with Mingyu, Vernon, and Seungkwan when his phone rings.

They've been there for about an hour—a spontaneous thing, trying to decompress after the tension of dinner. Seungkwan is belting out some ballad with his whole heart, Mingyu providing enthusiastic backup vocals that are slightly off-key, Vernon filming the whole thing with a grin.

It's nice. Normal. A good distraction from the worry that's been gnawing at all of them.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glances at the screen.

Jihoon

Seungcheol's heart does something complicated.

Jihoon never calls. Ever. He texts, occasionally, short and to the point. But calls? Seungcheol can count on one hand the number of times Jihoon has actually called him in the past year.

And recently, when something has been so clearly wrong, when Jihoon has been pulling away and shutting down—

He answers immediately.

"Jihoon-ah?"

There's sound on the other end. Breathing, maybe. Movement. Something that might be laughing?

The other members notice his tone shift. Seungkwan stops singing mid-note, the backing track continuing without him. They're all looking at Seungcheol now, expressions shifting from playful to concerned.

"Jihoon?" Seungcheol says again, more urgent this time. His stomach is already dropping, instinct screaming that something's wrong.

The laugh comes clearer this time. Breathy, quiet, but definitely a laugh. It doesn't sound right. There's an edge to it, something off, something that makes Seungcheol's skin crawl.

"Jihoon-ah, what—" He stands without thinking. "Are you okay? Are you drunk?"

More laughing. Seungcheol can hear it better now—unhinged, wrong, too light for someone who's been drowning for months.

Vernon mutes the karaoke machine. The room goes silent. Mingyu and Seungkwan are staring at him, alarm written across their faces.

"What’s wrong?" Mingyu mouths.

Seungcheol holds up a finger—wait.

"Jihoonie, talk to me. What's going on?"

"Hyung." The word is slightly slurred, distant. "Hey, hyung."

"Where are you? What's wrong?"

"I'm—" A pause. The laugh again, softer. "I think I made a mistake."

Seungcheol's blood runs cold. Every nerve in his body screams danger.

"What kind of mistake? Jihoon, what happened?"

"Just—I don't know." Jihoon's voice is so far away, like he's talking from the bottom of a well. "It's funny, actually. I was trying to—the silence, you know? I just wanted the silence."

"Jihoon, you're scaring me." Seungcheol's voice is sharp now, cutting. "Where are you right now?"

There's a pause. Seungcheol can hear Jihoon breathing, slow and shallow.

"Jihoon!"

"I love you guys." Jihoon's voice is suddenly clearer. More focused. Like he's using his last bit of energy to make sure he says this. "I don't say it enough, but I do. I love you all so much. You know that, right?"

No.

No no no no—

"Jihoon, where the fuck are you?" Seungcheol is yelling now, doesn't care. "Tell me where you are right now!"

"Vernon, check his location," Seungcheol barks, phone still pressed to his ear. "Now! Check Find My iPhone, check—just find him!"

Vernon is already moving, fumbling for his phone. Mingyu is on his feet too, Seungkwan frozen with his hand over his mouth.

"The studio, I think?" Jihoon's voice drifts in and out. "I don't—everything's kind of..."

He trails off.

"Jihoon, stay on the phone with me," Seungcheol says, already moving toward the door. "Don't hang up. Keep talking to me."

"I'm tired, hyung." Jihoon sounds so small. Like a child. "I'm so tired."

"I know. I know you are. But stay with me, okay? Stay awake."

"His studio," Vernon says, voice tight and urgent. "He's at Universe Factory."

Seungcheol is already running.

The karaoke room door slams open. He hits the hallway at a sprint, vaguely aware of the others behind him—heavy footsteps, harsh breathing, someone cursing.

"Jihoon, I'm coming to you," Seungcheol says into the phone, taking the stairs two at a time. His heart is hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat. "I'm almost there. Don't hang up. Stay with me."

"Mmm." The sound is distant. Fading.

"Jihoon!"

"'M here."

"Keep talking. Tell me—" Seungcheol's mind scrambles for something, anything to keep him conscious. "Tell me what track you're working on."

"Can't remember." Jihoon's words are slurring together. "Can't—hyung, there's so much blood."

Seungcheol nearly trips on the stairs.

"Blood?" His voice comes out strangled. "Jihoon, what do you mean blood? What happened?"

"I went too deep. Didn't mean to." A shaky breath, wet-sounding. "The blade just—it's everywhere. It's so red, hyung. So red on the white."

Seungcheol hits the sixth floor landing, crashes through the door into the hallway. Universe Factory is at the end, door closed but light visible underneath.

"I'm here," he gasps, sprinting down the corridor. "I'm right outside. Hold on."

He doesn't knock. Doesn't slow down. Just slams the door open so hard it crashes against the wall.

The studio hits him all at once.

The amber light from the desk lamp, casting everything in warm tones that feel sickeningly wrong for what he's seeing. The familiar space—Jihoon's sanctuary, his second home—transformed into something out of a nightmare.

Blood.

Seungcheol's eyes catch on it immediately, can't look away. Drops on the floor, dark and glistening against the wood. Not a lot at first—just a few drops near the desk—but then more. A trail.

His gaze follows it. Past the keyboard, past the monitor still displaying some project file with colorful waveforms. To the chair.

The new chair. The pale gray one Jihoon meticulously picked out and was so proud of. Seungcheol remembers him showing it off, spinning in it like a kid, saying how comfortable it was for long sessions.

There's blood on it. Dark stains spreading across the fabric, soaking in. Multiple spots, like Jihoon sat there bleeding before—

"Oh god," someone says behind him. Mingyu, voice strangled.

The others crash in—Vernon, Seungkwan—and then go silent. The kind of silence that comes from seeing something your brain can't immediately process.

The trail continues. More drops, getting larger, more frequent. Leading away from the desk, across the studio floor, to—

The bathroom.

The door is ajar, fluorescent light spilling out in a harsh white rectangle that cuts through the amber warmth of the studio.

Seungcheol moves. His feet feel distant, like they belong to someone else, but they carry him forward. He's vaguely aware of the others following, can hear their breathing—sharp, panicked.

He pushes the bathroom door open.

The white tile floor is the first thing he sees. Or what used to be white tile. Now it's—

Red.

Drops and smears and footprints, a chaotic pattern that tells a story Seungcheol doesn't want to read. The trail leads to the sink—white porcelain stained red, bloody paper towels crumpled in and around it, like someone tried to stop the bleeding there first.

Then to the bathtub.

And Jihoon.

He's sitting on the floor, back against the tub, legs stretched out in front of him. His right arm is raised—held up at an awkward angle, elbow bent—with a white towel pressed against his forearm. Except the towel isn't white anymore. It's red. Completely saturated, dark crimson spreading across the terry cloth, dripping from the bottom edge onto his lap.

His sweats are soaked. The dark fabric darker in patches, wet and glistening. His hoodie sleeve is destroyed, the fabric cut or pushed up, stained beyond recognition.

There's blood on the side of the tub where his shoulder leans. On his other hand, smeared across his palm and fingers. On his neck—like he touched his face at some point, left a streak.

And his face.

Jihoon's face is the color of paper. Not pale—past pale. Gray-white, the kind of color that means too much blood loss. His lips are bloodless, slightly parted. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead, strands of hair stuck to his skin.

But it's his eyes that hit Seungcheol the hardest.

They're open, but unfocused. Pupils blown wide, dark and glassy. They track toward Seungcheol slowly—too slowly, like moving through water.

And he's still smiling.

That awful, wrong smile. Not happy. Not even really present. Just this disconnected expression, like he's somewhere else entirely, somewhere the pain can't reach.

"Hey, hyung," Jihoon says. His voice is soft, slurred at the edges. "Funny story—"

"Jihoon-ah," Seungcheol breathes, and it comes out broken.

He's moving before he thinks about it. Crosses the bathroom in two steps, drops to his knees beside Jihoon. His jeans hit something wet—blood, water, both—and he doesn't care. His hands are shaking as he reaches out.

Behind him, Seungkwan makes a sound. Not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. Something in between.

"Fuck," Mingyu is whispering. "Fuck fuck fuck—"

"Call an ambulance," Seungcheol snaps, not looking away from Jihoon. "Now. Call them now."

Vernon is already moving, phone to his ear, voice tight as he steps back into the studio.

Seungcheol reaches for the towel, then stops. His hands are hovering, shaking, because he doesn't know—if he moves it, will it make it worse? How much blood has he lost? How deep is it?

"Let me see," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. "Jihoon-ah, I need to see it."

"It's fine," Jihoon says, but his words are slurring together. "S'not that bad. Just went a little too deep. Little accident."

He's still smiling.

Seungcheol carefully—so carefully—peels back the towel.

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god—

The cut is long. So long. It runs down his forearm, almost to his wrist. Four inches at least, maybe more. And it's deep. Not surface-level, not shallow. Deep enough that Seungcheol can see—

He can see too much.

Layers. Fat and muscle. The edges clean, surgical almost, because the blade was sharp.

And it's still bleeding. Not the rapid flow it must have been—the towel caught most of that—but steady. Pulsing slightly with each heartbeat. Dark red, almost black in the harsh bathroom light.

"Okay," Seungcheol says, grabbing a clean towel from the rack with shaking hands. "Okay, it's okay, I've got you."

He presses the towel firmly against the wound. Jihoon hisses, his body jerking slightly.

"I know, I know it hurts. But I need to keep pressure on it."

"S'okay," Jihoon mumbles. "Doesn't hurt that much anymore. Everything's kind of... floaty."

That's not good. That's really not good.

"Ambulance is three minutes out," Vernon calls from the studio. "They said to keep pressure and elevation and keep him awake."

"Jihoon." Seungcheol raises his voice, forces it to be steady. "Look at me. Keep your eyes on me."

Jihoon's gaze drifts to him, unfocused.

"That's good. That's really good. Keep looking at me."

Mingyu is suddenly there, kneeling on Jihoon's other side. His face is pale, eyes red, but his hands are steady when he reaches out.

"Hey, Jihoon-ah," Mingyu says, voice deliberately light. "Remember last week when you said my singing was getting better? Were you lying to make me feel good, or was that real?"

"Real," Jihoon says, a slight smile. "You're—you're getting better. Still need work on the breath control but—" His eyes start to drift closed.

"Hey hey hey," Seungcheol says sharply. "Eyes open. Keep talking. Tell Mingyu what he needs to work on."

"The breath control," Jihoon mumbles. "Takes practice. Gotta—gotta build the stamina. Like when I learned to sing and play guitar at the same time. Took months."

"Yeah? How'd you do that?" Mingyu asks, keeping his voice conversational even though his hands are shaking.

"Practice. Just—just practice." Jihoon's head is lolling to the side. "I'm really tired, hyung."

"I know. But stay with us." Seungcheol adjusts his grip on the towel. It's already turning pink at the edges, red seeping through. He presses harder. "Tell us about the track you were working on. The one on the screen."

"Can't remember," Jihoon says. His words are getting more slurred. "Was trying to focus. Needed the silence. Needed—"

His face crumples. The smile disappears, replaced by something raw and broken.

And then he's crying.

Not the unhinged laughing from before. Real tears, streaming down his face, his breath hitching.

"I'm sorry," he gasps out. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry—"

"No," Seungcheol says firmly. "No, Jihoon-ah, don't—"

"I didn't mean—I didn't mean for this to happen. I was just—I just needed it to stop. The noise wouldn't stop—" The words are tumbling out between sobs. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Mingyu says, his own voice breaking. "Nothing, you hear me?"

"But I—I ruined everything. Your night. The chair. The bathroom—there's blood everywhere—" Jihoon is crying harder now, his whole body shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't—I should have been more careful. Should have—"

"Stop," Seungcheol says, and his voice is gentle but firm. He reaches up with his free hand, cups Jihoon's face, makes him look up. "Listen to me. You don't apologize for this. Not to us. Not ever."

"But—"

"No buts. You're hurt. You need help. That's not something to apologize for."

"I scared you," Jihoon whispers, tears still streaming. "I scared everyone. I called you and I—I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry—"

"You did exactly the right thing," Mingyu says, reaching out to grab Jihoon's free hand. "Calling us was exactly right."

Seungkwan appears in the doorway, face blotchy and red from crying. "Don't you dare apologize," he says, voice thick. "Don't you fucking dare, hyung."

"But I—"

"You're sick," Vernon says quietly from behind Seungkwan. "You've been sick and hurting and we didn't know. That's not your fault."

"I should have told you," Jihoon sobs. "Should have said something. Should have asked for help. But I couldn't—I didn't know how—"

"That's okay," Seungcheol says. "It's okay. You're telling us now. We know now. And we're here."

"I'm sorry," Jihoon says again, like he can't stop saying it. "I'm sorry about the studio. About the blood. About making you run up here. About—"

"Jihoon-ah." Mingyu's voice is desperate. "Please stop apologizing. Please."

"I ruined the chair," Jihoon says, almost childlike. "The new chair. It's—it's ruined now."

"It's a chair," Seungcheol says. "We'll get a new chair. We'll get a hundred new chairs. It doesn't matter."

"I'm sorry—"

"No more sorries," Seungkwan says, moving into the bathroom, crouching down beside them. "We don't care about chairs or bathrooms or—or anything except you. Okay? You're what matters. Only thing that matters."

Jihoon is still crying, his breath coming in short gasps that Seungcheol doesn't like the sound of.

"Breathe," he says. "Slow breaths. In and out. Can you do that for me?"

Jihoon tries. It's shaky, uneven, but he tries.

"That's good. That's really good."

"The ambulance is pulling up," Vernon says. "I can see it from the window."

"Hear that?" Seungcheol says. "They're here. They're going to fix you up."

"I'm sorry," Jihoon whispers again. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Seungcheol says softly. "But you don't need to be. Not to us. Not ever."

The towel under his hand is completely red now. He can feel the wetness seeping through, warm against his palm. He adjusts his grip, applies more pressure, and Jihoon whimpers.

"I know it hurts. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"S'okay," Jihoon mumbles. His eyes are starting to close again. "Don't be sorry. Not your fault. My fault. I'm the one who—"

"Hey. Eyes open. Stay with me." Seungcheol's voice is sharp with fear.

Jihoon's eyes flutter open. "Sorry," he whispers.

"No more sorries," Mingyu says, squeezing his hand. "Just stay awake. Talk to us. Tell us—tell us about anything. What's your favorite song right now?"

"Don't know," Jihoon says. His voice is so quiet now. "Can't remember. Can't think—"

Footsteps in the studio. Voices. Professional, calm.

"In here," Vernon shouts.

The paramedics appear in the doorway—two of them, carrying equipment, taking in the scene with practiced eyes that have clearly seen worse but still show concern.

"Okay, we've got this," one of them says, moving forward.  "Sir, step back, please," one of them says gently to Seungcheol.

He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to stop being the thing keeping Jihoon tethered.

But he does. Steps back. Lets them work.

They're asking Jihoon questions—name, date, what happened. Checking vitals, examining the wound, preparing bandages and equipment.

Seungcheol watches, numb, as they wrap Jihoon's arm in proper bandages. As they help him onto a stretcher—he's too weak to walk, needs support.

"Are you family?" one of the paramedics asks.

"Yes," Seungcheol says without hesitation. "I'm going with him."

"Only one person in the ambulance—"

"I'm going with him."

The paramedic nods.

They wheel Jihoon out. Seungcheol follows, aware of the others behind him—Mingyu, Vernon, Seungkwan, all of them pale and shaking.

The hallway seems endless. The elevator too slow. The ambulance bay too bright.

They load Jihoon into the ambulance. Seungcheol climbs in after him.

Jihoon's eyes are closed now. The paramedic is checking his blood pressure, starting an IV. Professional. Efficient.

Seungcheol sits on the small seat, watches the numbers on the monitor. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation.

All too low.

He reaches out, takes Jihoon's left hand—the one without the IV. It's cold. Too cold.

"You're going to be okay," he says, even though he's not sure who he's trying to convince. "You're going to be okay, Jihoon-ah."

The ambulance starts moving.

Seungcheol holds Jihoon's hand and prays he's right.

The emergency room is a blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell and too many people asking too many questions.

Name? Lee Jihoon.

Age? Twenty-seven.

What happened? Self-inflicted laceration. Deep. Arterial involvement.

How much blood loss? Unknown. Significant.

Previous attempts? Unknown.

Seungcheol answers what he can. Admits what he doesn't know. Watches as they wheel Jihoon away to a trauma bay, curtain pulled around them for privacy.

He's left in the waiting room. Mingyu, Vernon, and Seungkwan arrive ten minutes later, having driven. Then Joshua, Wonwoo, and Seokmin—someone must have called them. Then the rest, until all twelve of them are crowded in the waiting room, taking up too much space, too loud in their worry.

A nurse comes out. "Family of Lee Jihoon?"

They all stand.

She blinks at the number of them but doesn't comment. "He's stable. The laceration required twenty-three stitches. We've given him a transfusion—he lost a significant amount of blood. He'll be admitted overnight for observation."

"Can we see him?" Seungcheol asks.

"Soon. The doctor wants to speak with you first."

The doctor is young, professional, kind-eyed. She leads Seungcheol—and only Seungcheol, the others have to wait—to a small private room.

"Mr. Lee is very lucky," she says. "A few millimeters deeper and he would have severed the radial artery. As it is, he came close. Another ten, fifteen minutes without intervention, and..."

She doesn't finish the sentence.

She doesn't have to.

"He's been self-harming for at least five months," she continues, flipping through papers on a clipboard. "Based on the scarring patterns we observed during treatment. Multiple sites—arms, legs, torso. Some older injuries show signs of infection that healed poorly."

Seungcheol feels sick.

"We've placed him on a psychiatric hold," the doctor says gently. "Standard procedure for self-harm cases of this severity. He'll be evaluated by a psychiatrist in the morning. Depending on that evaluation, we'll determine next steps."

"What kind of next steps?"

"That depends on Mr. Lee and what the psychiatrist recommends. Outpatient therapy, intensive outpatient program, or—in severe cases—inpatient treatment."

Inpatient. Meaning a facility. Meaning Jihoon locked away somewhere, not with them.

"He needs help," Seungcheol says, because someone has to say it out loud. "Whatever it takes. He needs help."

"I agree," the doctor says. "And the fact that you're here, that he has this support system—that's going to matter. Recovery is rarely a straight line, but having people who care makes a significant difference."

She stands. "You can see him now. Room 304. He's sedated—we gave him something for the pain and to help him rest. He may not be very coherent."

Seungcheol nods. Follows her out.

The others are waiting, eleven pairs of eyes all locked on him with the same desperate question.

"He's okay," Seungcheol says. "Stable. They stitched him up. They're keeping him overnight."

The collective exhale is audible.

"Can we see him?" Soonyoung asks.

"Room 304. But—" Seungcheol hesitates. "He's sedated. And there's a lot of... there's scarring. From before tonight. So be prepared."

They take the elevator up in silence. The psych ward is on the third floor—through security doors, past a nurses' station where they have to sign in, down a hallway that feels too quiet.

Room 304 is at the end.

Seungcheol pushes the door open.

Jihoon looks small in the hospital bed. Impossibly small. The IV in his left hand, monitors beeping steadily, oxygen cannula in his nose. His right arm is bandaged from elbow to wrist—clean white gauze that somehow makes it worse, more real.

His eyes are closed. Breathing slow and even.

They file in quietly. There aren't enough chairs, so some stand, some lean on the arm rests. Nobody speaks.

Seungcheol takes the chair closest to the bed. Reaches out, carefully, and takes Jihoon's left hand again. Still cold, but warmer than before.

Jihoon's eyes flutter open. Unfocused, glassy from the sedation.

"Hyung?" His voice is rough, quiet.

"I'm here. We're all here."

Jihoon's eyes track slowly around the room, taking in the members. His expression does something complicated—confusion, guilt, fear, shame, all at once.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't," Joshua says from the doorway. "Don't apologize."

"But I—"

"You're sick," Wonwoo says quietly. "You've been sick, and we didn't see it. That's not something to apologize for."

"I should have—" Jihoon's voice cracks. "I should have asked for help."

"Yeah," Seungcheol agrees. "You should have. But you didn't, and now we're here, and that's okay. We're going to figure this out."

"What if I can't?" Jihoon's eyes are filling with tears. "What if I can't stop? What if this is just—what if this is who I am now?"

"Then we'll deal with that too," Seungcheol says firmly. "Whatever it takes. You're not doing this alone anymore."

The tears spill over. Jihoon turns his face away, trying to hide, but there's nowhere to go.

Mingyu moves closer, sits on the edge of the bed carefully. Places a hand on Jihoon's shoulder.

"We love you," Mingyu says. "That doesn't change. Nothing about tonight changes that."

"We're not going anywhere," Seokmin adds.

"You're stuck with us," Seungkwan says, trying for lightness but his voice is thick with emotion.

Jihoon is fully crying now. Silent, shoulders shaking, tears soaking the hospital pillow.

They let him. Don't try to stop it, don't try to make him feel better. Just stay.

Eventually, the tears slow. Jihoon's breathing is still uneven, but he's calmer. The sedation is there—they can see it in his eyes, the way his words come slower—but he's conscious. Present.

"I need to explain," he says quietly. "I need you to understand."

"You don't have to do this now," Joshua says gently. "You should rest."

"No. I need—" Jihoon's hand tightens in Seungcheol's grip. "I need to say it. While I still can."

They wait. The room is silent except for the steady beep of monitors.

"It started as a tool," Jihoon begins, voice rough. "That's what I told myself. Not—not self-harm. Not like that. Just... a focusing technique."

He pauses, gathering words. No one interrupts.

"My brain has always been loud. Too many thoughts at once. Too many tracks playing simultaneously. Usually I could channel it into work, but a few months ago it got worse. The noise got so loud I couldn't think. Couldn't focus. Couldn't produce."

His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, like he can't bear to look at any of them while he says this.

"And then one night, by accident, I discovered that pain—just a small amount of pain—could quiet it. Make everything clear for a few minutes. Let me work."

"Jihoon-ah," Seungcheol breathes, but Jihoon shakes his head.

"Let me finish. Please."

Seungcheol nods, even though his heart is breaking.

"So I kept doing it. Just when I needed to focus. Just enough to work. And I had rules—I was so careful about the rules. Only when working. Only shallow cuts. Only places that wouldn't show. Keep it sterile. Keep it controlled."

His voice getting quieter, more distant.

"I never thought to tell you because it wasn't—it didn't feel like something wrong. It felt practical. A tool, like coffee or working late. Something I was using to be better at my job. To be more useful."

"Useful?" Mingyu's voice cuts through, sharp with disbelief. "Hyung—"

"I know how it sounds," Jihoon says quickly. "I know. But that's what it was. That's what I told myself. I was in control. I was managing it. It was helping me produce better, faster, more efficiently. How could that be wrong?"

He finally looks at them. His eyes are red, exhausted, pleading for understanding.

"But then it got worse. The silence got shorter. I needed to do it more frequently. Go deeper. And I still told myself it was fine, I was in control, I had rules—"

His voice cracks.

"And then I wasn't in control anymore. It was controlling me. I couldn't work without it. Couldn't focus without it. Started needing it just to exist in my own skin. And by that point—"

He stops. Swallows hard.

"By that point, I couldn't tell you. Because if I told you, you'd make me stop. And if I stopped, I didn't think I could produce anymore. And if I couldn't produce..."

The words hang in the air, unfinished but devastatingly clear.

"That's all I am," Jihoon whispers. "That's all I bring to the group. I'm not the best dancer—I can barely keep up with the choreography sometimes. I'm not a rapper. I'm not even the best singer when we have Seokmin and Seungkwan whose voices are so much stronger than mine. I can't do variety like Seungkwan or Soonyoung. Can't act like Jun. Can’t—"

"Stop," Soonyoung says, voice tight. "Stop right there."

But Jihoon can't stop. The words are pouring out now, years of insecurity spilling over.

"Producing is the only thing I'm best at. The only thing that's mine. The only way I can really contribute, really help us. If I couldn't produce, what good would I be? What would be the point of me?"

"Jihoon—" multiple voices overlap.

"So I kept going. Kept cutting. Even when it stopped working. Even when the silence barely came anymore. Because at least trying and failing with the cuts was better than not producing at all. At least I was doing something. Being useful. Being—"

"Enough." Seungcheol's voice is firm but gentle. He's crying again now, tears streaming down his face. "Jihoon-ah, that's enough."

Jihoon looks at him, confused. "But I need you to understand—"

"We understand," Seungcheol says. "We understand that you've been in pain. That you found something that helped, that made sense to you. That it spiraled. We understand."

"No, you don't—" Jihoon's voice is desperate now. "I'm trying to explain why I didn't tell you. Why I couldn't. It's because—"

"You thought your only value was in what you produce," Mingyu finishes, his voice breaking. "You thought if you couldn't make music, we wouldn't need you."

The words hit the room like a physical blow.

Jihoon closes his eyes. Nods once.

"Hyung," Chan says, and he's crying openly now. "How could you think that?"

"Because it's true," Jihoon says simply. "Look at what each of you brings.”

He opens his eyes, looks around at all of them.

"And me? I produce. That's it. That's what I bring. Take that away and I'm just—I'm just dead weight."

"No," Vernon says firmly. "That's not true."

"It is—"

"It's not." Vernon moves closer, sits on the other side of the bed. "Last month when I was spiraling about whether my music was good enough, whether I belonged in the industry—you didn't give me empty reassurances. You sat with me and we went through my lyrics line by line. You showed me why they mattered. That's what you do. You see us."

"Remember when that sasaeng grabbed Chan?" Wonwoo says quietly. "You stepped in before any of us could even process what was happening. You were so brave. Protective. Or that interviewer who kept asking Seungkwan inappropriate questions—you shut that down so fast and so firmly that they never tried again. You protect us."

Joshua's voice is soft but steady. "Do you know how many times I've sat in your studio, not even saying anything, and somehow I leave feeling lighter? You don't try to fix things. You just exist with people in their pain. That's rare, Jihoon-ah. That matters."

"Your sense of humor is so deadpan that half the industry doesn't realize you're joking," Jun says with a watery smile. "But we always know. The little comments, the perfectly timed reactions—you make us laugh even when everything feels too heavy."

Seokmin's voice cracks with emotion. "When you explain music theory to me, your whole face changes. You get so excited, so passionate, even about the technical stuff. You make me feel like an artist, not just a singer. Like what I do has depth and meaning."

"In an industry built on pretense, you're brutally honest," Seungkwan adds. "Sometimes it pisses me off—like when you told me that high note was 'technically correct but emotionally empty.' But you were right. You're always right because you care enough to tell the truth."

"Last week I was homesick," Minghao says. "I didn't tell anyone. But you noticed. You didn't make a big deal about it, just texted me a link to that documentary about Chinese architecture and said 'thought you might like this.' Those small things—you always remember. Always notice."

"You've sat through every single choreography session for each unit and solo performance even when you weren’t performing," Soonyoung says. "Even when you don't have to. Even when you're exhausted. You give feedback, you encourage us, you celebrate when we nail it. You care about what we do, even when it's not your area."

Mingyu's voice breaks completely. "When we're on tour and I'm so tired I can't remember what country we're in, what day it is—I look for you. Because wherever you are feels like home. That's what you are to me, hyung. To all of us. Home."

"I didn't know," he whispers. "I didn't know any of that mattered."

"How could you not know?" Chan asks, desperate. "How could you not know that we love you? Not for what you make or what you do, but for who you are?"

"Because who I am isn't enough," Jihoon says. "It's never been enough."

"Says who?" Seungcheol demands, anger bleeding into his voice. Not at Jihoon, but at whatever made him believe this. "Who told you that? Because I'll—”

"No one had to tell me. I just—I've always known. Since we were trainees. You were the leader, the oldest, the responsible one. The rest of them all had their talents. And I had production. That was my thing. That was how I earned my place."

"You didn't have to earn your place," Joshua says. "You've always had a place with us. Always."

"But if I can't produce—if I can't do the one thing I'm supposed to be good at—"

"Then you're still our brother," Wonwoo says firmly. "Still our family. Still Jihoon. That doesn't change."

"Even now?" Jihoon's voice is so small. "Even after tonight? After you saw—after I showed you how broken I am?"

"Especially now," Seungcheol says. "Especially now, Jihoon-ah."

There's a long silence. Jihoon is staring at their faces, searching for something. Doubt, maybe. Disappointment. Proof that they're lying, that his worst fears are true.

He doesn't find it.

What he finds is love. Uncomplicated and unconditional. In Seungcheol's steady gaze. In Mingyu's tears. In Vernon's quiet presence. In all twelve of them, sitting in this hospital room at 3 AM, refusing to leave.

"I don't know how to believe that," Jihoon finally says. "I don't know how to believe that I'm enough without the producing. Without being useful."

"That's okay," Joshua says. "You don't have to believe it right now. We'll believe it for you until you can."

"And we'll prove it," Soonyoung adds. "Every day. Until you understand."

"What if I can't produce anymore?" Jihoon asks, and it's clearly the fear that's been eating at him. "What if I get help, stop the cutting, and then I still can't focus? Can't work? What if the noise never stops?"

"Then we figure it out," Seungcheol says. "Together. Maybe you need medication, therapy, different coping strategies. Maybe you need to step back from producing for a while. Maybe you need to relearn how to do it without hurting yourself."

"But what if—"

"What if nothing," Mingyu interrupts. "You're catastrophizing. Making up worst-case scenarios. We don't know what's going to happen. But whatever it is, we'll handle it. Together."

"You keep saying together," Jihoon says. "But this is my problem. My broken brain. My mess to clean up."

"It's not, though," Vernon says. "Maybe it started as your problem. But we're a group. We're family. Your problems are our problems."

"That's not fair to you—"

"Yes it is," Seokmin says. "That's what family means. You carry us all the time, hyung. Let us carry you for once."

"I don't know how," Jihoon admits. "I don't know how to let people help me."

"Then we'll teach you," Seungkwan says. "The same way you taught me to trust my voice. The same way you taught all of us."

Jihoon looks down at his bandaged arm. The white gauze is bright against the hospital sheets, impossible to ignore.

"I'm scared," he whispers. "I'm so scared. What if I can't do this? What if I try to get better and I fail? What if—"

"Then you fail," Wonwoo says simply. "And then you try again. That's how recovery works. It's not linear. It's messy and hard and sometimes you go backwards. But you keep trying."

"And we'll be there for all of it," Joshua adds. "The good days and the bad days. The progress and the setbacks. All of it."

"Why?" Jihoon asks, and he sounds genuinely confused. "Why would you do that? Why would you stay through all of this?"

"Because we love you, you idiot," Seungkwan says, but his voice is gentle. "How many times do we have to say it before you believe us?"

"I don't know," Jihoon says honestly. "A lot, probably."

"Then we'll say it a lot," Mingyu promises. "As many times as it takes."

Jihoon is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible.

"I'm sorry I scared you tonight. I'm sorry you had to see that. Had to see me like that."

"We're not sorry," Soonyoung says. "If that's what it took for you to finally ask for help—for us to finally understand what you've been going through—then we're not sorry it happened."

"I'm sorry it had to get this bad before you felt like you could tell us," Seungcheol adds. "I'm sorry we didn't see it sooner."

"You couldn't have known—"

"Maybe not," Seungcheol interrupts. "But we should have. We should have pushed harder when you started pulling away. Should have noticed the weight loss, the exhaustion, the isolation. Should have—"

"Don't," Jihoon says. "Don't do what I'm doing. Don't blame yourself. This isn't your fault."

"It's not yours either," Seungcheol says. "Can you understand that? This sickness, this illness—it's not your fault."

Jihoon doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because he doesn't believe it yet.

But he wants to. God, he wants to.

"The doctor said they're doing a psychiatric evaluation in the morning," Seungcheol continues. "They'll make recommendations. Maybe therapy, maybe medication, maybe—"

"Inpatient," Jihoon says quietly. "She mentioned inpatient."

The word sits heavy in the room.

"If that's what you need," Seungcheol says carefully, "then that's what we'll do."

"I don't want to be locked away somewhere," Jihoon's voice cracks. "I don't want to be away from you guys."

"Then we'll visit," Mingyu says immediately. "Every single day."

"They might not allow that—"

"Then we'll figure it out," Vernon says. "We'll send letters, video calls, carrier pigeons if we have to. You won't be alone."

"I've been alone for months," Jihoon says. "Even when I was right next to you. I've been so alone."

"Not anymore," Joshua promises. "Never again."

The sedation is starting to pull at Jihoon again. They can see it—his eyes getting heavier, his words slurring slightly.

"Stay," he murmurs. "Please stay."

"We're not going anywhere," Seungcheol says, settling deeper into his chair. "We'll be right here when you wake up."

"All of us," Chan adds. "You're stuck with all of us."

Jihoon's eyes are closing. "Love you guys," he mumbles. "Love you so much. Sorry I didn't—didn't say it enough."

"You say it all the time," Mingyu says softly. "Just not with words."

"Gonna try," Jihoon's words are barely coherent now. "Gonna try to say it. With words."

"We'd like that," Seungcheol says. "But we already know. We've always known."

Jihoon's breathing evens out. Sleep pulling him under properly this time.

They stay anyway.

All twelve of them, cramped in a too-small hospital room, some in chairs, some on the floor, some leaning against walls.

None of them leaving.

Because this is what family means. This is what love means.

Showing up. Staying. Believing in someone even when they can't believe in themselves.

As the night stretches on, nurses come and go, checking vitals, adjusting IV bags. They don't comment on the number of people in the room, don't enforce visiting hours.

Maybe they understand. Maybe they've seen this before.

Or maybe they just recognize love when they see it.

Around 4 AM, Seungcheol finally speaks, voice quiet so as not to wake Jihoon.

"We almost lost him tonight."

No one responds. They don't need to. They all know.

"We can't let this happen again," Seungcheol continues. "We have to do better. Be better. Pay more attention."

"We will," Wonwoo says. "But we also can't blame ourselves. He hid it well. He wanted to hide it."

"Doesn't make it hurt less," Mingyu says.

"No," Joshua agrees. "It doesn't."

Silence falls again. The kind of silence that comes after crisis, when everyone is too exhausted for words but too worried to sleep.

Jihoon sleeps through it all. His chest rising and falling steadily, monitors beeping their reassurance.

Alive. Stable. Here.

They hold onto that.

It's all they have.

Jihoon wakes to pale sunlight filtering through hospital blinds and the immediate, crushing weight of memory.

Last night wasn't a dream.

The blade. The blood. The ambulance. His confession.

All of it real.

He keeps his eyes closed, not ready to face it. Not ready to see their faces in daylight, when the emergency has passed and reality has set in.

What must they think of him now?

"I know you're awake," Seungcheol says quietly.

Jihoon's eyes open. Seungcheol is still in the chair beside the bed, looking exhausted but alert. The others are scattered around the room—some sleeping in uncomfortable positions, some awake and staring at their phones, all of them still here.

They stayed all night.

"You didn't have to stay," Jihoon says. His voice is rough, throat dry.

"We know," Seungcheol says. "We wanted to."

Jihoon looks around the room properly now. Mingyu is asleep with his head on the edge of the bed. Vernon is curled up in an armchair that's too small for him. Jun and Minghao are sharing another chair, somehow both fitting. The rest are in various states of exhaustion, but all present.

"You all stayed," Jihoon says, and he's not sure if it's a question or a statement.

"Of course we did," Joshua says from the corner. He's awake, looking tired but steady. "Where else would we be?"

Before Jihoon can answer, there's a knock on the door. A woman in professional attire enters, carrying a tablet and wearing a kind but clinical expression.

"Good morning, Mr. Lee. I'm Dr. Han, the psychiatrist on duty. How are you feeling this morning?"

Jihoon glances at the members, then back at her. "Tired. Sore."

"That's to be expected. The physical pain should improve over the next few days. I'm more concerned about the mental and emotional aspects." She pulls up a chair. "I'd like to do an evaluation, if that's alright. We can have your friends step out—"

"No," Jihoon says quickly. Too quickly. "They can stay. I don't—I don't want them to leave."

Dr. Han nods, understanding. "Alright. Let's talk about last night. Can you walk me through what happened?"

Jihoon does. It's harder in the daylight, with clinical distance, but he explains. The escalation. The loss of control. The cut that went too deep.

"And before last night?" Dr. Han asks. "How long has the self-harm been occurring?"

"Five, maybe six months."

"And the thoughts that accompany it? The need for silence, as you described—how long has that been present?"

"Always. The thoughts have always been loud. But they got worse earlier this year."

Dr. Han makes notes on her tablet. "Have you experienced other symptoms? Changes in sleep, appetite, energy levels?"

"All of those."

"Feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness?"

Jihoon hesitates, then nods.

"Thoughts of suicide?"

The room goes very still.

"Not—not actively," Jihoon says carefully. "I never planned to kill myself. But last night, when I was losing too much blood... there was a moment where I thought about not calling for help. About just letting it happen."

Seungcheol's grip on his hand tightens painfully.

"That's important to acknowledge," Dr. Han says gently. "Passive suicidal ideation is still concerning and something we need to address."

She continues asking questions—about his childhood, his work stress, his support system, his coping mechanisms both healthy and unhealthy. Jihoon answers as honestly as he can, aware of twelve pairs of eyes on him, hearing things they probably never knew.

Finally, Dr. Han sets down her tablet.

"Based on this evaluation, I believe you're experiencing severe depression with anxious features, likely compounded by untreated ADHD. The self-harm began as a maladaptive coping mechanism but developed into an addiction—you became psychologically and physiologically dependent on it."

She pauses, lets that sink in.

"My recommendation is intensive outpatient treatment to start. That means therapy three to four times per week, psychiatric medication management, and regular check-ins with your support system. If we don't see significant improvement within a month, or if there's another incident, we'd need to consider inpatient treatment."

"So I can go home?" Jihoon asks.

"Medically, once we ensure the wound is stable and you're not at immediate risk. Psychiatrically, I need assurance that you have a safety plan and people watching out for you."

"We'll watch him," Seungcheol says immediately. "Twenty-four seven if we have to."

Dr. Han smiles slightly. "I don't doubt that. Mr. Lee, do you feel safe going home? Can you commit to reaching out if you feel the urge to self-harm again?"

Jihoon looks at the members. At their exhausted, worried faces.

"Yes," he says. "I can commit to that."

"And the blades, tools, anything you've been using—can you dispose of those or have someone dispose of them?"

"We'll handle it," Wonwoo says. "We'll make sure there's nothing in his studio or room."

Dr. Han nods, makes more notes. "Alright. I'm going to start you on an SSRI for the depression and anxiety, and we'll discuss ADHD medication once you're stable. I'm also referring you to a therapist who specializes in self-harm and addiction. Her name is Dr. Kim, and she's excellent."

She hands Jihoon a card, then stands.

"Recovery isn't linear, Mr. Lee. There will be good days and bad days. The goal isn't perfection—it's progress. Learning new coping mechanisms, building healthier patterns, understanding why the self-harm felt necessary and finding alternatives."

"What if I can't?" Jihoon asks quietly. "What if I try and I fail?"

"Then you try again," Dr. Han says simply. "That's what recovery is. Trying, failing, learning, trying again. As I can see, you're not alone in this."

After she leaves, the room is quiet.

"So," Jihoon says eventually. "Intensive outpatient. Therapy four times a week. Medication."

"We'll make it work," Seungcheol says. "Whatever you need, we'll make it work."

"What about schedules? Comeback preparations?"

"Jihoon-ah," Joshua says gently. "The comeback can wait. You can't."

"But the tracks—"

"The tracks will get done," Seungcheol interrupts. "With or without you. And that's not—" he adds quickly, seeing Jihoon's face, "—that's not because you're not needed. It's because your health matters more than any album. We'll figure it out."

"I might not be able to produce for a while," Jihoon says, voice small. "If I'm in therapy all the time, if I'm trying to relearn how to cope—I might not have time. Or energy. Or ability."

"Then you won't produce," Mingyu says. "And we'll support you through that."

"But that's what I do. That's my job."

"Your job is to be alive," Seungkwan says firmly. "Everything else is secondary."

Jihoon wants to argue. Wants to explain that they don't understand, that producing is the only thing that makes him valuable, that without it he's nothing.

But he's too tired.

And maybe—just maybe—a small part of him wants to believe they're right.

They discharge him that afternoon with instructions, prescriptions, and a follow-up appointment scheduled with Dr. Kim for the next day.

The drive back to the dorm is quiet. Jihoon sits in the back of the van between Seungcheol and Mingyu, staring out the window at Seoul passing by. Normal people doing normal things, unaware that his entire world just cracked open.

"We're going to your studio first," Seungcheol says as they pull into the company parking garage.

"Why?"

"To clean it. Get rid of anything dangerous."

Jihoon wants to protest—wants to say his studio is his space, his sanctuary—but he can't. Not after last night. Not when they all saw what happened in that space.

Universe Factory looks the same from the outside. But when Seungcheol opens the door, Jihoon can see what they couldn't clean yesterday—the faint stains on the floor, the ruined chair pushed against the wall, the bathroom door standing open.

"We'll replace everything," Seungcheol says. "New chair, new—whatever you need."

"It seems wasteful," Jihoon says quietly.

"It's not." Seungcheol starts opening drawers systematically, searching. "Where do you keep them?"

"Keep what?"

"The blades. The tools. Whatever you've been using."

Jihoon hesitates, then points. "Bottom drawer. Left side. There's a box."

Seungcheol finds it. Inside are X-Acto blades, still in packaging. A small knife. Razors. All neatly organized, which somehow makes it worse.

He doesn't comment. Just takes the box and everything in it.

"Anywhere else?"

"My room. Desk drawer."

They go through his room next. Find more blades hidden in various places—some Jihoon forgot about, some he stashed as backups. Seungcheol takes them all without judgment, just methodical removal.

"We're not trying to control you," Seungcheol says as they bag everything up. "But Dr. Han said removing access is important. Making it harder to act on impulse."

"I know," Jihoon says. "It's okay."

And it is okay. Terrifying, but okay. Because for the first time in months, someone else is taking responsibility. Someone else is making decisions. Someone else is in control.

He doesn't have to hold it all together anymore.

That night, they have a group meeting.

All thirteen of them, sitting in the living room of the dorm. Jihoon has been dreading this—the formal conversation, the questions, the looks.

But it's not what he expects.

"We're not here to interrogate you," Seungcheol starts. "We just want to establish some things. Ground rules, support systems, how we move forward."

He looks at Jihoon. "First: you're not producing for the next month. Minimum."

"But—"

"Not negotiable," Seungcheol says firmly. "Dr. Han said you need to focus on recovery. That means therapy, medication adjustments, learning new coping skills. You can't do that while trying to meet deadlines."

"What about the album?"

"Bumzu is taking over your projects," Wonwoo says. "We already talked to him. He's not replacing you—he's filling in temporarily. Covering until you're ready."

"And if I'm never ready?" Jihoon asks.

"Then we'll figure it out then," Seungcheol says. "But we're not making decisions based on worst-case scenarios. We're taking it one day at a time."

"Second," Joshua continues. "We're implementing a buddy system. You're not going to be alone for the next few weeks. Someone will always be with you or nearby."

"That's not necessary—"

"It is," Mingyu interrupts. "Not because we don't trust you. But because recovery is hard, and it's easier when you're not alone."

"We've made a schedule," Seungkwan adds, holding up his phone. "We've divided up shifts. Someone will be with you during therapy appointments, someone will be at the dorm, someone will check in throughout the day."

Jihoon looks at the schedule. They've organized themselves with the efficiency of a military operation.

"This is too much," he says. "You all have your own lives, your own schedules—"

"And you're part of those lives," Vernon says. "This is what we want to do."

"Third," Seungcheol says. "Therapy is private. Whatever you discuss with Dr. Kim is yours. But we're asking—not demanding, asking—that you share with us when you're struggling. Before it gets to crisis point."

"I don't know if I can," Jihoon admits. "I'm not good at asking for help."

"Then we'll learn together," Joshua says. "We'll check in regularly, ask the right questions, make it easier for you to be honest."

"I'm scared," Jihoon says quietly. "I don't know how to exist without it. Don't know how to cope when everything gets too loud."

"That's what therapy is for," Seokmin says. "Learning new ways to cope."

"But what if nothing else works? What if the cutting was the only thing that did?"

"It wasn't working," Soonyoung points out. "Not really. You said yourself—the silence was getting shorter. You were cutting more and more. That's not sustainable."

"No," Jihoon agrees. "It's not."

"So we find something that is sustainable," Seungcheol says. "With professional help, medication, support. We find what works."

Jihoon looks around at all of them. Twelve people who could have walked away, could have decided he was too broken, too much work.

They're all still here.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'll try."

"That's all we're asking," Seungcheol says. "Just try."

The first therapy session happens the day after Jihoon is discharged.

Dr. Kim's office is nothing like he expected. No sterile white walls or clinical furniture. Instead: warm lighting, comfortable chairs, a bookshelf filled with novels and psychology texts, a small table with a box of tissues that doesn't scream "you're going to cry here" but acknowledges the possibility.

Jihoon sits in the chair across from her and doesn't know where to put his hands.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Kim asks. She's younger than he expected—maybe early forties, kind eyes, the kind of calm presence that makes you want to trust her.

"Tired," Jihoon says honestly.

"That's understandable. You've been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours."

"Yeah."

Silence. Not uncomfortable, just... there. Jihoon has learned that therapists do this—wait for you to fill the space, see what comes out.

He's not ready to fill it yet.

"Let me explain how this works," Dr. Kim says, sensing his hesitation. "This is your space. We'll talk about whatever you need to talk about, at whatever pace feels right. I'm not here to judge or fix you—I'm here to help you develop tools to manage what you're experiencing."

"Self-harm," Jihoon says.

"Self-harm is a symptom," Dr. Kim corrects gently. "We'll address it, but we'll also look at what's underneath. The noise you mentioned to Dr. Han. The pressure. The need for control."

Jihoon nods.

"I want to be clear about something," Dr. Kim continues. "Recovery from self-harm isn't about never having urges again. It's about learning to sit with those urges without acting on them. Building alternative coping strategies. Understanding the function the behavior serves so we can find healthier ways to meet that need."

"What if there aren't healthier ways?" Jihoon asks quietly.

"There are. They might not feel as immediate or effective at first, but they exist. And we'll find them together."

The session continues. Dr. Kim asks about his history—childhood, training years, debut, the progression of his symptoms. Jihoon answers, surprised by how much easier it is to talk to a stranger than to the members.

Maybe because she doesn't love him. Doesn't have expectations. Won't be disappointed.

"Tell me about the noise," Dr. Kim says near the end of the session.

Jihoon tries to explain. The constant multi-threading. The way his mind never stops, never quiets, processes everything simultaneously until the volume becomes unbearable.

"That sounds exhausting," Dr. Kim says.

"It is."

"And the cutting quieted it."

"At first. Not anymore."

"But you kept doing it anyway."

"Because I didn't know what else to do."

Dr. Kim makes a note. "We're going to work on that. Building a toolbox of alternatives. Some will work better than others—it's trial and error. But the goal is to give you options so you're not relying on one destructive behavior."

"What kind of alternatives?"

"Different things work for different people. Grounding techniques, distraction methods, ways to process the physical sensations without causing harm. We'll experiment."

She pauses, looks at him directly.

"I also think we should talk about medication. For the ADHD specifically. If your baseline is a mind that's constantly overwhelmed, no amount of coping strategies will fully address that. We need to treat the underlying condition."

"Dr. Han mentioned that," Jihoon says.

"What do you think about it?"

"I don't know. Medication feels like... admitting I can't handle it on my own."

"Jihoon-ssi," Dr. Kim says gently. "If you had diabetes, would you feel that way about insulin?"

The comparison catches him off guard.

"That's different."

"Is it? ADHD is a neurological condition. Your brain chemistry is different. Medication doesn't make you weak—it levels the playing field so you can actually implement the coping strategies we develop."

Jihoon doesn't have a response to that.

"Think about it," Dr. Kim says. "We don't have to decide today. But I want you to consider it seriously."

The session ends with homework: keep a log of urges to self-harm. When they happen, what triggers them, how intense they are, whether he acts on them. Bring it to the next session.

"Can I ask you something?" Jihoon says as he's leaving.

"Of course."

"Do you think I can get better? Actually better?"

Dr. Kim smiles. It's sad and hopeful at the same time.

"I think you've already started."

The first week is hard.

Jihoon attends therapy three times. Each session peels back another layer, makes him look at things he's been avoiding.

The way he equates his worth with his productivity.

The perfectionism that makes any perceived failure feel catastrophic.

The belief that asking for help is weakness.

The terror of being seen as anything less than completely capable.

It's exhausting. Some days he leaves therapy and goes straight to his room, emotionally wrung out. The members have learned to give him space after sessions—not isolation, but breathing room.

The urges to cut come in waves.

Sometimes they're manageable—a background hum he can ignore with distraction.

Sometimes they're overwhelming—a physical need that makes his skin crawl, his hands shake, his mind fixate on the release he knows the blade would bring.

On day four, the urge is so strong that Jihoon locks himself in the bathroom for an hour, hands gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turn white.

There's a knock on the door.

"Hyung?" It's Vernon. "You okay?"

"Fine," Jihoon says, but his voice cracks.

"Can I come in?"

"No."

Silence. Then: "Okay. But I'm sitting right here. Outside the door. If you need me."

Jihoon sinks to the floor, back against the door where Vernon sits on the other side.

"It's really bad right now," he admits.

"The urge?"

"Yeah."

"What does Dr. Kim say to do?"

"Ride it out. The urge will peak and then decrease. They always do."

"How long does that take?"

"I don't know. I've never actually tried before."

More silence.

"You want me to time it?" Vernon asks.

"What?"

"Time it. See how long it takes for the urge to go down. Make it a science experiment."

It's so absurdly Vernon that Jihoon almost laughs.

"Okay," he says.

"Starting now," Vernon says. "Tell me when it peaks."

They sit there, separated by a door, Vernon occasionally making observations ("Minute three, you're breathing heavy—that probably means it's building") that are both analytical and weirdly comforting.

At minute seven, Jihoon says, "I think it peaked."

"Okay. Now we wait for it to come down."

By minute twelve, the urge is still there but less urgent. Jihoon's hands have stopped shaking. His thoughts are less fixated on it.

By minute fifteen, he can breathe normally again.

"It's going down," he says.

"Good," Vernon says. "See? You did it."

"I didn't do anything. I just sat here."

"Exactly. You sat with it instead of acting on it. That's huge, hyung."

Jihoon leans his head back against the door. "Thanks for staying."

"Always," Vernon says simply.

On day six, Jihoon starts the ADHD medication.

Dr. Kim had prescribed it after their second session, explaining it would take a few weeks to reach full effectiveness. The dosage is low to start—they'll adjust as needed.

Jihoon takes the pill in the morning, anxious about side effects, about changes, about admitting he needs chemical intervention to function.

Nothing dramatic happens.

He goes about his day—breakfast with Mingyu, therapy session, lunch, a walk with Joshua, tea with Minghao. The noise in his head is still there, still loud.

But maybe—and this might be placebo, might be wishful thinking—maybe it's slightly less overwhelming.

The thoughts are still racing, but there are small gaps between them. Moments where one thought finishes before the next one starts, instead of everything happening simultaneously.

It's not silence. But it's something.

The buddy system continues.

At first, Jihoon chafed against it. Having someone always around, always checking in, felt suffocating. Like he couldn't breathe without someone monitoring his oxygen intake.

But gradually, he starts to understand it's not about surveillance.

Seungkwan sits with him during afternoon slumps when the urges get bad, talking about nothing important, just filling the space with sound that isn't Jihoon's own thoughts.

Mingyu cooks elaborate meals and makes Jihoon help, giving his hands something to do that isn't destructive.

Wonwoo suggests they read together—just sitting in the same room, each with their own book, the comfortable parallel existence of companionship without pressure.

Joshua plays guitar, lets Jihoon listen or not listen, no expectations.

They're not trying to fix him. They're just... there. Present. Steady.

It helps more than Jihoon expected.

The first major test comes on day ten.

Jihoon has a bad therapy session—one where Dr. Kim pushes him to talk about his feelings of worthlessness, the belief that he's only valuable when producing. It cracks something open that Jihoon wasn't ready to examine.

He leaves the session raw. Exposed. Every nerve ending sensitive.

The urge hits before Jihoon even realizes what it is.

His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Like it doesn’t belong to him. His fingers keep flexing uselessly in his lap, nails digging into his palms hard enough to sting.

Seungcheol glances over at a red light. One look at Jihoon’s hands, the way his jaw is clenched so tight it trembles.

“Bad?” he asks quietly.

Jihoon swallows. Nods once.

“How bad.”

He hesitates, then forces the number out. “Eight. Maybe… nine.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, already shifting gears mentally. “Okay. We’re almost home.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “I don’t— I don’t feel good.”

“I know,” Seungcheol says, steady as ever. “Listen to me for a second, yeah?”

Jihoon nods, eyes fixed on the dashboard.

“We’re five minutes out. I’m going to talk. You don’t have to answer. Just stay with me until we get inside.”

“…Okay.”

Seungcheol starts talking about nothing. About the comeback, about Jeonghan's ridiculous new hair color, about the time Soonyoung tried to cook and nearly burned down the kitchen. His voice is steady, grounding, pulling Jihoon's attention away from the screaming need under his skin.

"We're pulling in now," Seungcheol says. 

They get out of the car. Seungcheol doesn't leave Jihoon's side as they walk to the dorm. Doesn't let him slip away to his room.

"Living room," Seungcheol says. "We're doing the protocol."

The protocol is something Dr. Kim suggested. When the urge is overwhelming, do the opposite of isolating. Get around people. Use grounding techniques. Wait.

The living room has Mingyu, Vernon, and Seokmin. They take one look at Jihoon's face and understand.

"Bad day?" Mingyu asks.

Jihoon nods.

"Scale?"

"Eight."

"Okay. What do you need?"

It's such a simple question, but it makes Jihoon want to cry. Because he doesn't know. He's never learned to identify what he needs, only what he should do.

"I don't know," he admits.

"Physical grounding or distraction?" Vernon asks.

"I don't—physical, maybe?"

"Ice or pressure?"

"Pressure."

Mingyu disappears, comes back with a weighted blanket. They wrap Jihoon in it, the pressure immediate and encompassing. Not painful, just present. Solid.

It helps. Not completely, but enough.

Seokmin puts on a movie—something animated, bright, easy to follow. They don't make him talk. Don't ask him to explain. Just exist around him, solid and present and real.

The urge doesn't disappear. But it becomes manageable.

By the time the movie ends, Jihoon can breathe normally again.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"That's what we're here for," Seungcheol says.

On day twelve, Jihoon has his first full day without an urge to cut.

He doesn't realize it until he's lying in bed that night, doing his mental inventory (part of therapy homework), and realizes he went from waking to sleeping without once thinking about the blade.

The absence is strange. Like missing a tooth—his tongue keeps going to the gap, surprised to find nothing there.

He texts Dr. Kim about it.

First day without urges

Her response comes quickly: That's progress. Don't expect it every day, but celebrate it when it happens.

He lies in the dark and lets himself feel something that might be pride.

—

The relapse happens on day seventeen.

It's not dramatic. No major trigger, no catastrophic event. Just a regular Tuesday that feels slightly off from the start.

The medication isn't working. Or maybe it is, but not enough. The noise in Jihoon's head is back to full volume—thoughts racing, fragmenting, multiplying faster than he can track.

He has therapy in the afternoon. Pushes through the session, talking about progress, about the good days, about learning to sit with discomfort.

Dr. Kim looks skeptical. "You seem agitated today."

"Just tired."

"Jihoon-ssi." She waits until he looks at her. "You're allowed to have bad days. You don't have to perform recovery for me."

The words hit harder than they should.

After therapy, Seungcheol is waiting outside. Takes one look at Jihoon's face. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

They drive home in silence. Seungcheol doesn't push, and Jihoon is grateful for it.

At the dorm, Jihoon goes straight to his room. Says he needs to rest. No one questions it—they've learned to give him space when he asks for it.

That's his first mistake.

Because once he's alone, door closed, the urge hits like a tidal wave.

Not gradual. Not building. Just there, fully formed, demanding.

The blade is still in his desk drawer. He knows because he hasn't thrown them all out—kept one, told himself it was for emergencies, that he needed the security of knowing it was there.

That was his second mistake.

His hands shake as he retrieves it. Just once, he tells himself. Just to take the edge off. It doesn't mean he's failed. One slip doesn't erase two and a half weeks of progress.

The justifications come easily. Too easily.

He presses the blade to his thigh. The sting is immediate, familiar, almost comforting.

The silence follows.

It lasts maybe thirty seconds. Not the twenty minutes he used to get, not even the five minutes from when things got bad. Just thirty seconds of quiet before the noise floods back in.

It's not enough.

He cuts again. And again.

By the time he stops, there are five fresh cuts on his thigh. None deep enough to be dangerous, but deep enough to bleed. Deep enough to matter.

Jihoon sits on his bed and stares at them.

Two and a half weeks. Seventeen days. Gone.

The shame is immediate and crushing.

He doesn't tell anyone.

That night at dinner, he's quiet. The members notice but attribute it to a bad therapy session, give him space.

He cleans the cuts carefully. Bandages them. Wears long pants even though it's warm.

The next morning, he wakes up and the shame is still there, heavier. Solid. An extra weight he carries through breakfast, through his morning walk with Joshua, through everything.

At therapy the next day, Dr. Kim asks how he's doing.

"Fine," Jihoon says.

She waits.

The silence stretches. Jihoon can feel her eyes on him, patient and knowing.

"I relapsed," he finally says.

"When?"

"Two days ago."

"What happened?"

He explains. The bad day, the isolation, the overwhelming urge, the five cuts.

"And how do you feel about it?" Dr. Kim asks.

"Like I failed. Like I wasted two and a half weeks of progress. Like I'm right back where I started."

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Are you back where you started? Two and a half weeks ago, would you have stopped at five cuts?"

Jihoon thinks about it. Honestly. "No. I would have kept going until I achieved the silence I needed. Or until I ran out of space."

"And this time?"

"I stopped at five because... because I knew I should. Because I didn't want to go deeper into it."

"So you used some control. Some of the awareness we've been building."

"But I still did it."

"Yes," Dr. Kim agrees. "You did. And that's a setback. But it's not a catastrophic failure. Recovery isn't linear, Jihoon-ssi. You're going to have good days and bad days. Days where you use your tools successfully and days where you don't. The goal isn't perfection—it's progress. And progress includes learning from setbacks."

"So what do I do now?"

"You keep going. You figure out what made you vulnerable that day. You strengthen your support system so you're less likely to isolate. You dispose of that blade you kept 'for emergencies.' You forgive yourself and move forward."

"I don't know how to forgive myself."

"Then let's work on that," Dr. Kim says.

Telling the members is harder than telling Dr. Kim.

Jihoon waits until that evening. They're all in the living room, some watching TV, some on their phones, the comfortable chaos of existing together.

"I need to tell you something," Jihoon says.

The room goes quiet. Twelve pairs of eyes turn to him.

"I relapsed. Two days ago. Five cuts on my thigh."

The words land heavy. He watches their faces—the flash of concern, worry, fear.

"Are you okay?" Seungcheol asks.

"Physically, yes. The cuts aren't deep. They're healing fine."

"That's not what I asked."

Jihoon takes a breath. "No. I'm not okay. I'm ashamed and frustrated and scared that I'm going to keep failing."

"It's not failure," Joshua says immediately.

"Dr. Kim said the same thing. But it feels like failure."

"Feelings aren't facts," Wonwoo points out.

"I know. But knowing doesn't make them go away."

Mingyu stands, crosses to sit next to Jihoon on the couch. "What do you need from us?"

"I don't know. I just—I needed you to know. Dr. Kim said hiding it would make it worse. That keeping secrets is how it gets out of control."

"Thank you for telling us," Seungcheol says. "I know that wasn't easy."

"It wasn't."

"Are you going to do it again?" Chan asks quietly.

"I don't know," Jihoon says honestly. "I hope not. But I can't promise I won't."

"Then we'll keep helping," Seungkwan says. "Same as before. Whatever you need."

"Even when I mess up?"

"Especially when you mess up," Vernon says.

The acceptance in their faces is almost too much. Jihoon expected disappointment, frustration, maybe even anger. Instead, he sees love. Unwavering, unconditional love.

"I threw out the blade," he adds. "After. I threw it out and told Seungcheol-hyung where I was hiding them so he could check. No more 'emergency' stashes."

"Good," Seungcheol says. "That's really good, Jihoon-ah."

The second relapse happens a week later.

This time, Jihoon tells them immediately after. Doesn't hide it, doesn't let the shame fester.

Three cuts. Stopped himself after three.

The members respond the same way. Concern, support, no judgment.

Dr. Kim works with him on identifying triggers, building stronger coping mechanisms, understanding the pattern.

"You relapse when you're alone and overwhelmed," she observes. "So we need to address both those factors. Make it harder to isolate. Give you better tools for managing the overwhelm."

They increase the therapy frequency to four times a week. Adjust the medication dosage. Implement stricter check-ins with the members.

Slowly—painfully slowly—the relapses space out.

One week between the second and third.

Two weeks between the third and fourth.

Three weeks between the fourth and fifth.

Each time, Jihoon uses the tools a little better. Stops a little sooner. Recovers a little faster.

It's not linear. But it is progress.

—

It's week eight when Jihoon enters Universe Factory for the first time since the incident.

The studio has been cleaned, renovated. New chair, new carpet, the bathroom repainted. Seungcheol offered to have the whole space redone, but Jihoon declined. He needs it to still feel like his space, just... renewed.

He sits at his desk and stares at the empty project file on his screen.

Eight weeks since he's produced anything. The longest gap in his career since debut.

The fear is immediate: what if he can't anymore? What if the cutting was the only thing that made him functional as a producer? What if he's lost it?

His phone buzzes. Seungcheol.

You don't have to do this today. No pressure.

Jihoon smiles despite himself. They've been monitoring his location since the incident. He'd found it invasive at first, but now it feels like a safety net.

Just sitting here. Seeing how it feels.

How does it feel?

Scary.

Want company?

Jihoon thinks about it. The old him would have said no, would have insisted on doing this alone, proving he could.

The new him—or the him he's trying to become—texts back:

Yeah. That would be good.

Seungcheol arrives ten minutes later with coffee and snacks. Doesn't say anything, just settles on the couch with his phone, present but not hovering.

Jihoon turns back to the empty project file.

He's not trying to produce anything. Dr. Kim had been clear about that: this first time back is about being in the space, not about output. About proving to himself that he can exist in this room without the blade, without the ritual, without falling apart.

But his fingers drift to the keyboard anyway. Muscle memory.

He plays a chord. Then another.

The noise in his head is still there—it's always there. But the medication has taken the edge off, made it manageable. And he's learned other techniques: grounding exercises, breathing patterns, ways to organize the chaos without requiring pain to cut through it.

He plays another chord progression. Something simple. Familiar.

"That sounds nice," Seungcheol says quietly.

"It's nothing. Just messing around."

Jihoon keeps playing. Not building a track, not producing. Just... playing. Rediscovering the joy in sound that existed before the pressure, before the cutting, before everything got complicated.

An hour passes. Then two.

He's created something. Nothing groundbreaking, nothing worth recording. Just a simple melody, a chord progression, proof that he can still do this.

"I did it," he says, surprised by the emotion in his own voice.

"You did," Seungcheol agrees.

"I was so scared I couldn't anymore."

"I know."

"But I can. It's different—slower, requires more effort to force focus. But I can."

"Of course you can," Seungcheol says. "You're Lee Jihoon. The cutting never made you talented. It’s been a part of you all along."

The words settle something in Jihoon's chest.

He starts returning to the studio regularly after that.

Not eight-hour sessions. Not daily. But a few times a week, for a few hours at a time. Always with someone nearby. Always with check-ins. Always with the understanding that if it gets overwhelming, he can stop.

The first track he completes takes three weeks. In the old days, it would have taken three days.

But it's honest. Raw. The most emotionally vulnerable music he's ever produced.

Bumzu hears it and cries.

"This is it," he says. "Welcome back Jihoon."

"Will the company let us release something like this?"

"I don't know. But we should try."

They do release it. As the B-side on the next album. A slow, haunting track called "White Noise" that lays bare Jihoon's experience without explicitly naming it.

The fans receive it with surprising understanding. Some send messages about their own struggles with mental health. Others just say thank you for being honest.

Jihoon reads every message. Cries over some of them.

"Look what you did," Seungcheol says, finding him in the studio with tears on his face and his phone in his hands. "You helped people."

"I just told the truth."

"Exactly."

Six months after the incident, Dr. Kim does a review session.

"Let's talk about where you are now versus where you started," she says.

Jihoon thinks about it. Honest assessment, no minimizing or catastrophizing.

"I'm better," he says. "Not healed. Not perfect. But better."

"Define better."

"The urges to cut still come, but less frequently. Maybe once a week instead of constantly. And when they come, I have tools. I can usually ride them out without acting on it."

"Usually?"

"I've relapsed four times in the past three months. Each time, I've been able to stop quickly, use my support system, get back on track."

"That's significant progress."

"The medication helps. The ADHD is more managed. The noise is still there, but it's not overwhelming anymore. I can function."

"And your relationship with music?"

"Slower. More intentional. I'm learning to produce without needing the cutting to force focus. It's frustrating sometimes—I'm not as fast as I used to be. But the work is better. More genuine."

"How are you feeling about yourself? Your worth?"

This is harder. Jihoon has to sit with the question.

"I'm learning," he finally says. "Learning that my worth isn't tied to my productivity. That the members love me for who I am, not what I make. I don't fully believe it yet, but I'm starting to."

"That's huge," Dr. Kim says. "When we started, you couldn't even conceive of that."

"I know."

"What about the future? How do you feel about it?"

"Scared," Jihoon admits. "But not hopeless. I'm scared I'll relapse badly. Scared I'll lose control again. But I also believe I can handle it if I do. That's new."

Dr. Kim smiles. "That is new. And that's what recovery looks like—not the absence of fear, but the belief that you can cope with what comes."

That night, the members throw a small celebration. Six months clean—mostly. Six months of choosing recovery every day.

There's cake. Seungkwan cries. Mingyu makes a speech that's too long and too emotional. Soonyoung suggests they choreograph an interpretive dance about mental health recovery (Jihoon vetoes this).

"Speech," Chan demands. "Hyung has to give a speech."

"I don't—"

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" They're all chanting now.

Jihoon stands, uncomfortable with the attention. But he owes them this.

"Six months ago, I was dying," he says. The room goes quiet. "Not dramatically. Not all at once. But slowly. Cutting myself apart piece by piece, convinced it was necessary for my work, for my worth, for my existence."

He looks around at all of them. "You saved my life. Not just that night—though you did save it then. But every day since. Every time you sat with me through an urge. Every time you called me out when I was isolating. Every time you reminded me that I matter beyond what I produce."

His voice cracks. "I don't know if I'll ever fully believe it. That I'm enough just as I am. But I'm trying. And I can try because you've shown me what unconditional love looks like."

"Hyung," Seungkwan is already crying.

"I'm not fixed. I'm still in recovery, probably will be for a long time. I still have bad days. Still have urges. Still struggle with the noise in my head. But I'm learning to live with it instead of destroying myself to escape it."

He raises his water glass. "Thank you. For saving me. For staying. For loving me even when I couldn't love myself."

They clink glasses—water, soda, juice. No alcohol; he’s avoiding it while on medication.

"To recovery," Seungcheol says.

"To family," Mingyu adds.

"To Jihoon-hyung," Dino says.

They drink.

Later, when most of the members have gone to bed, Jihoon sits on the balcony with Seungcheol and Jeonghan. The Seoul skyline glitters in front of them, alive and bright.

"Can I ask you something?" Jeonghan says.

"Sure."

"What's the noise like now? You said it's better but still there."

Jihoon thinks about how to explain it. "It's like... before, it was a roar. Deafening, constant, unbearable. The cutting was the only way to make it stop, even temporarily."

"And now?"

"Now it's more like static. Background noise. Always present but not overwhelming. The medication helps—it's like turning down the volume. And the therapy has taught me I don't need silence. I just need to be able to function alongside the noise."

"That's profound," Seungcheol says.

"Dr. Kim says my brain will probably always be loud. That's just how I'm wired. The goal isn't to fix it—the goal is to accept it and adapt."

"Are you? Accepting it?"

"Getting there. It's hard to accept something about yourself that you've hated for so long. But I'm trying."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. The city hums below them, alive with its own noise.

"I'm proud of you," Seungcheol says finally. "For doing the work. For being honest. For staying."

"I'm proud of me too," Jihoon says, and realizes he means it. "That's new."

Jeonghan smiles. "Good. You should be."

Epilogue: 

One year after the incident, Jihoon records a solo song.

It's not for an album. Not for release. Just for himself.

The lyrics talk about noise and silence, about pain and healing, about the journey from destruction to acceptance. It's raw and honest and imperfect.

He plays it for Dr. Kim at his therapy session.

"How do you feel about it?" she asks.

"Vulnerable. But good. It's the truth. My truth."

"Do you think you'll release it?"

"Maybe. Someday. When I'm ready to be that honest with the world."

"And when will that be?"

"When I've fully accepted it myself."

He's not there yet. But he's getting closer.

The urges still come. Probably always will. But they're manageable now.

Bad days happen. Weeks where the noise gets louder, the stress builds, the old patterns try to reassert themselves.

But Jihoon has tools now. A support system. Medication that actually helps. Therapy that continues to peel back layers and build understanding.

He relapses occasionally. Once every few months, in moments of extreme stress or vulnerability. But he's learned to recover quickly, to forgive himself, to keep moving forward.

The members have learned too. Learned to recognize the signs. Learned when to give space and when to push. Learned that loving someone with mental illness means showing up consistently, even when it's hard.

On the year anniversary of the incident, Jihoon goes to Universe Factory alone.

Not to produce. Just to sit. To remember. To acknowledge how far he's come.

The studio is bright with afternoon sunlight. The chair is comfortable. The equipment is familiar.

He sits at his desk and places his hands on the keyboard. Not to play, just to touch. To ground himself in this space that was once a battlefield and is now a sanctuary again.

His phone buzzes. Seungcheol.

Thinking of you today. Proud of you. Love you.

Jihoon smiles, types back: Love you too. I'm okay. Really okay.

And for the first time, it's not a lie.

He's not perfect. He's not "cured." He still struggles. Still has bad days. Still lives with the noise in his head that will probably never fully quiet.

But he's alive.

He's here.

And that's enough.