Everyone belongs with their own. | Min Yoongi FF (Being updated)

No..No..No! |7|

Songs of the chapter - Six Feet Under (Billie Eilish) & Romantic Homicide (d4vd)

The energy backstage crackled with confusion, wires buzzing and staff murmuring into earpieces, pacing fast and tight across the corridors. Something in the system had failed — a power disruption that glitched the main stage lighting rig only minutes before showtime. It wasn't catastrophic, but it was enough to force a delay. Thirty minutes. Enough to rattle nerves and send the entire backstage team scrambling. The crowd had been informed, restlessly waiting, but the band was quickly ushered out of their greenroom and into a secondary practice space to wait it out in private.

Taehyung was the first to break away from the group. He needed air, space. The electricity in the room — from anxiety, anticipation, and creative frustration — was too much for him to sit in. He tugged his hoodie low over his brow and followed the side hallway, guided by muscle memory from dozens of venues like this one. He turned left at the vending machines, bypassed the hair and makeup corner, then slipped into the back corridor meant only for staff and medics. It was quieter here. Dimmer. The hum of the arena beyond the walls was still present, but muffled like a heartbeat through skin.

That's when he heard footsteps — hurried ones — and the low murmur of a medic's voice. He paused, half in shadow, as two figures emerged from the hallway on his left. One of the venue's staff pushed open the door to the first aid room just ahead, and two medics came into view, carrying a woman between them, her arms limp over their shoulders, her head lolled forward. Taehyung instinctively stepped back into the alcove to give them space — not to be seen — but his eyes locked on the woman as they passed.

Time slowed.

It wasn't just any woman.

Her hair was messily styled, rain-kissed and clinging to her forehead, and her skin was pale as porcelain under the harsh hallway lights. But Taehyung knew that face. The shape of it. The quiet sadness it always seemed to hold. 

Kyomi. 

He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. She looked unconscious — completely out of it — her body weak, fragile. And yet, just seeing her again pulled something sharp and old loose in his chest. He hadn't seen her since Yoongi, since everything unraveled, since she disappeared from their orbit like smoke.

The medic muttered something as they carried her inside, the door swinging shut softly behind them. Taehyung stood there, frozen. The echo of her name stirred on his tongue, but he didn't speak. Not yet. He didn't move. Not even as a call crackled through his in-ear monitor, asking for his location. All he could think was: What is she doing here? And Does Yoongi know? Because whatever the reason, whatever storm brought her back — it wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The practice room buzzed with low conversation and tension-laced silence as the members of BTS paced, stretched, or slouched against the mirrored walls, each handling the delay in their own way. Yoongi sat with his hoodie pulled low over his eyes, earbuds in, shoulders still — as though he was conserving energy for the set that hadn't started. Jungkook sat cross-legged on the floor, drumming quiet patterns into his thighs, while Jimin leaned against a speaker, scrolling through his phone. Namjoon was pacing as always, tapping at his watch, muttering timelines to himself, and Jin offered occasional light-hearted commentary to keep the mood from dipping too low.

When the door swung open, all heads turned.

Taehyung stepped in slowly, eyes scanning the room as if he wasn't sure he was meant to be there at all. His usually unreadable expression was cracked — his jaw tense, brow furrowed, a flicker of something unspoken clinging to him. He didn't speak right away. He just lingered at the threshold, then stepped inside and let the door close behind him with a quiet click. For a moment, he considered saying nothing — stuffing the image of Kyomi deep down, as if it hadn't sliced through him like a ghost. But the image of her limp body, pale and being carried by medics, wouldn't leave him. It haunted every blink.