EXTRA CHAPTER105Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJHr6335LSX
The rain hadn’t stopped all day in Seoul. Harsh droplets drummed gently against the windows of Huntrix Tower, a soft percussion that matched the ambient beats playing from Yena’s stereo. The sky outside was a wash of slate gray, the city blurred into a watercolor of neon reflections and mist. It felt distant, like a dream behind glass.
Inside her studio, Yena was cocooned in warmth.
The room had only recently been finished, thanks to Rumi’s home makeover, which had turned the tower into something new, the start of a rebirth. Yena’s studio was tucked into the east wing, where the light hit differently in the mornings and the walls held sound like velvet. The space was hers now. A place where she can freely express herself and share it with others.
The scent of oolong tea lingered in the air, earthy and calming. The porcelain cup sat beside her mixer setup, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. Momo was curled into a tight ball on the far couch, nestled in a plush bed that matched the soft tones of the room. His ears twitched occasionally to the rhythm of the music, but he didn’t stir.
Yena sat cross-legged in her office chair, surrounded by chaos.
Sheets of paper were scattered across the desk. Some were crumpled, others covered in scribbled lyrics, chord progressions, and vocal notes. Her handwriting was erratic, emotional. A pencil was tucked behind her ear, another clutched in her hand. Her computer screen glowed with half-finished demos, layered tracks waiting to be edited.
She was writing the group’s comeback.
Yena had volunteered without hesitation, needing something to pour herself into. Something that could hold her grief without naming it. The beats playing were random, but she let them guide her. Each one was a thread she followed, hoping it would lead somewhere honest.
The walls around her studio space were a collage of inspiration.
Album art from past Huntrix releases. Posters of specific idols she admired, some that had faded and some that were new to the scene. Mythical landscapes from China, each one chosen for its emotional resonance. One in particular was somehow the attention catcher within the room. A magnificent painting of Kunlun Mountain hung just above her desk. The mist around its peaks reminded her of something only she knew deep down; to others, it was just a regular mountain.
On the side frame of the door leading into the recording booth, red couplets were fastened. Thin strips of paper with golden Mandarin script shimmered faintly in the dim light. Yena had placed them there herself, saying they were blessings for creativity and clarity. Rumi hadn’t argued once she knew the meaning behind them. They were actually very inspiring.
Yena tapped her pencil against the desk, staring at a half-written verse.
She wrote about a feeling, about a warning she couldn't explain, yet only felt slightly bothered. Since yesterday, things haven't been peaceful for her. It wasn’t complete dread, but more of anticipation. The more she thought about it, the more she became curious, and curiosity didn't end well with her like last time.
She paused, glancing at Momo, who was still asleep, then at the painting above her, then at the blinking cursor on her screen. The rain outside grew heavier, tapping against the glass like a heartbeat. She leaned back in her chair, letting the music play, letting the silence stretch.
The beat looped again as a knock. Three light taps, followed by a familiar voice muffled through the door.
“Yena. I come bearing snacks and judgment.”
Yena smiled as she knew that deep voice from anywhere. “Come in.”
Mira pushed the door open with her hip, balancing a tray of snacks—shrimp chips, rice crackers, and a small bowl of mixed Kim and nuts. Her hair was tied up with her signature ponytails, and she wore oversized sweats that still had faint glitter from her last practice session.
She looked around the studio. “Wow. You’ve really turned this place into an actual production room.”
Yena gestured to the scattered papers. “Production in the wake of stress.”
Mira set the tray down beside the tea and plopped onto the couch, narrowly missing Momo’s tail. “So. How’s the comeback going? Or should I say, another stellar hit made by the infamous Yena.”
Yena chuckled, rubbing her temple. “It’s… going well. I’m trying to make it feel like us again. Not too bombastic but fun.”
Mira nodded, grabbing a rice cracker. “You always do. Since 'How's It's Done', your writing style changed, and that worked wonders for us.”
Yena gave a small smile, then turned her chair to face her. “I was hoping you’d brainstorm with the choreography on this one again.”
Mira smiled widely at the prospect of making them stretch their limbs to the core. “Oh, don't you worry. I can do any beat.”
Yena started to sweat but played it off coolly. “This is why your main dancer for a reason...”
“To be honest, the official announcement with you back to the group wasn't entirely fair.” Mira leaned back, grinning. "You should have been the Visual and all, but—"
Yena’s chest warmed. “But Rumi decided that I was the Lead Vocalist and Dancer. I'm not complaining.”
They chatted a little longer about the song than the recent announcements. Yena gave Mira a rundown of the tempo, possible dance transitions, and how to make the chorus hit with the choreo. Mira eventually left with a rice cracker tucked in her cheek, promising to send over a recorded demo of the choreography by morning.
A few hours passed.
The rain had stopped completely, leaving behind a foggy hush. The stereo played a softer beat now, something ambient and slow. Yena was scribbling again for another song when another knock came. This time lighter, more hesitant.
Zoey peeked in, her hair slightly damp from a shower earlier, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands.
“Hey,” she said. “Mind if I crash for a bit?”
Yena gestured to the couch. “Always.”
Zoey flopped down, pulling her lyric notebook from her pocket. “I’ve been working on my rap part. Wanted to run it by you.”
Yena nodded, swiveling her chair to face her. “Let’s hear it.”
They spent the next hour bouncing ideas back and forth. Zoey read lines aloud, testing cadence and tone, while Yena adjusted the beat to match the emotional flow. They debated word choices, swapped metaphors, and laughed when a line sounded too dramatic or too soft.
“Does ‘idypia’ sound too weird?” Zoey asked, frowning.
Yena tilted her head. “Depends. If you can make the line sound playful, you can get away with it.”
Zoey grinned. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
“Then it’s perfect.”
Eventually, Zoey leaned back, satisfied. “Okay. I think I’ve got it. I need to unplug my phone from the charger before dinner.”
Yena nodded, watching her leave with her notebook tucked under her arm.
Time passed. The studio dimmed as the sky outside darkened. Yena began tidying up her workspace, stacking papers, saving demo files, and wiping down her desk. Momo stirred again, hopping off the couch and padding toward the door.
Then came the knock.
“Yena,” Rumi called through the door. “Dinner’s ready!”
Yena called back, “I’ll catch up! Just finished cleaning up.”
She turned off the stereo, gathered her teacup, and gave the room one last glance. The golden character on the red couplets shimmered faintly in the low light. The Kunlun painting stared back at her retreating figure.
Momo meowed softly.
Yena smiled. “Come on, dinner time.”
She opened the door, and together they walked down the hall toward the elevator to the lounge floor.
105Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgwHip9BbBw
A few days later.
The bathhouse was hushed, wrapped in a veil of steam that blurred the edges of everything. Lanterns cast a golden glow across the tiled walls, their light flickering softly through the mist. Inside the private room, the girls had sunk into the warm water, their bodies finally allowed to rest. The heat soaked into their muscles, loosening tension that had been carried for weeks. It was the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything—just presence.
Rumi leaned back against the edge of the pool, her hair wrapped up nicely by a white towel, eyes half-lidded in bliss. Mira floated nearby, her arms stretched out, toes skimming the surface, a faint smile playing on her lips. Zoey perched on the shallow ledge, legs tucked beneath her, her voice animated as she launched into another round of gossip.
Yena sat quietly between them; her shoulders relaxed for the first time in what felt like years. Small strands of loose hair clung to her neck; her cheeks flushed from the steam. She didn’t speak much, just the occasional remark, a soft laugh, a nod. It was enough. The warmth of the water, the closeness of her friends, the gentle rhythm of their voices—it all felt like a balm.
The conversation drifted from light teasing to random topics. Rumi confessed she’d accidentally dyed her socks pink in the laundry. Mira admitted she’d been practicing choreography in her sleep. Zoey teased them both mercilessly, her laughter echoing off the walls.
Then, as the steam thickened and the mood settled into something quieter, Zoey leaned forward, her voice lowering just slightly.
“Okay, so, have you guys heard about this one music label that’s basically going bankrupt?”
Mira blinked, lifting her head. “Which one?”
Zoey waved a hand. “Not a big one. I think they only manage one girl group, and they’re not even talked about. Rumor is they might disband soon.”
Rumi frowned. “That’s awful. Do they have a parent company or supporters?”
Zoey’s lips curled. “They do. It's Mu Art Studios. Originally from Shanghai, but they moved their business to Seoul last year.”
Yena’s breath caught. She didn’t speak, but her eyes opened fully now, gaze fixed on the rippling water. The name stirred something deep in her chest—sharp, quiet, familiar. She hadn’t heard it in years, hadn’t let herself think about it, though it was still there, tucked into the corners of her memory.
She knew Mu Art by heart. She had been a trainee for two good years under Mu Art's Academy for trainees before she left. Before she decided to pursue the bigger apple, and came to South Korea. The name wasn’t just a company. It was once home, yet also a living hell to her. One she had held deep in her heart and could never fully forget too easily.
Zoey continued, her tone edged with frustration. “Apparently, Mu Art’s been leaving the label on M.I.A for months. No funding, no promotions, no support. And they won’t take responsibility because the group isn’t profitable.”
Mira scoffed. “That’s horrible. How can they abandon them like that?”
Rumi nodded. “It’s cruel. They’re artists. Not numbers.”
Yena could only agree. She didn’t say it aloud, but the truth sat heavy in her chest. She remembered the long nights in the old training rooms, the silence when feedback never came, the way promises were made and forgotten. She remembered the feeling of being invisible. Of being expendable when there were more options, and she was the last.
She looked down at the water, watching the steam curl around her fingers, but the echoes still lingered.
Zoey leaned back, sighing. “I just hope the girls find a way out. They deserve better.”
Yena nodded softly, her voice barely above the mist. “They do.”
The silence that followed was respectful, warm. Mira reached over and gently splashed water at Zoey, breaking the tension with a grin. Rumi rolled her eyes and joined in, and soon the room was filled with laughter again—soft, echoing, healing.
Yena leaned back, letting her head rest against the edge of the pool. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, she allowed herself to simply be at peace.
Later that night, the city had fallen into silence. It was well past midnight, and the streets of Seoul were empty, washed clean by another rain shower. The pavement glistened under the soft glow of streetlamps, puddles reflecting fractured pieces of the sky. Huntrix Tower stood behind her, quiet and still, its windows dark with sleep. The others were resting, but Yena couldn’t sleep.
She hadn’t planned to go far. Just a walk and fresh air.
She wore a pink hoodie with a heart-shaped pocket, hands tucked into her sweatpants, her steps slow and aimless. The night was cool, the breeze gentle, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant pine. Her breath fogged faintly in the air, and the rhythm of her footsteps echoed softly against the buildings.
Then she saw it. The familiar alleyway that leads toward the abandoned Hanok subdivision.
She stopped altogether. A chill crept up her spine—not from the cold, but from something deeper. A feeling of déjà vu, sharp and sudden, like a thread tugging at her chest. Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, and she found herself walking down the alley, the walls damp with mist, the silence pressing in.
The subdivision appeared like a memory, and Yena remembers it all. She stood at the edge of the property, her gaze sweeping across the familiar layout. The curved walls. The garden stones. The narrow path that led to the courtyard. It was all the same. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
She remembered chasing after Momo. The cat had escaped her room, darting into the subdivision like a streak of chaos. She had turned the corner breathless, frustrated—only to find him inside the front yard, but afterward, the demon himself appeared out of nowhere.
"Whoa, whoa," he said, voice gentle yet threaded with something Yena couldn't place. "I'm not here to fight."
"I don't care," she replied coldly. "You don't just appear behind someone without consequences."
It had been the beginning. She remembered the banter that followed nights later—the small talk, the teasing. The way he’d bruised her ego with a casual remark about her fashion choice.
"At least, I don't wear baggy clothes that make me look like a man."
So she’d dyed her hair the next day. Started wearing more girly clothes from now on out of spite.
She then remembered how they met up for the first date.
Awkward. Tense. Charged with something neither of them could name. They’d met here, beneath the lantern light. He had no plan at first, but somehow thought of possible places in seconds. He reconsidered her opinion about the Love Lock. How he genuinely smiled for the first time. She’d worn shoes that hurt her feet. But they’d talked like actual people. Really talked. And for a moment, it had felt like something real.
Yena walked slowly through the property. Her fingers brushed the damp wood of the garden wall. She could almost hear their voices. Almost see their shadows.
She just let herself feel. She wondered what she had seen in him during those moments. Maybe it was the way he understood her without trying. Maybe it was the way he mirrored her—both of them forced into roles they hadn’t chosen, both of them trying to do their duty. But somehow, found something like affection from the most unexpected person.
She had hated, liked, and lost him within the span of two weeks, and now, all that remained were fragments of a withered rose.
Yena closed her eyes. Let the silence settle. Let the night surround her. And for a moment, she let herself willingly miss him for once. Not the demon that he is. Not the guy who's past haunted him. Just the person who held her close amongst the chaos.
ns216.73.217.69da2
and then Add to home screen.