m00nndustt
𝟎𝟐:𝟎𝟒 𝗔𝗠
...........
For Yang Jungwon, time has ceased to be a river; it is a cruel, suffocating circle.
Every morning at exactly 02:04 AM, the world reconstitutes itself. It begins with the rhythmic, familiar cadence of Jay's breathing in the bunk above him-a sound that used to be his anchor, but has now become his countdown. What follows is a grueling choreography of the inevitable: the sterile glare of makeup mirrors, the phantom ache of rehearsed footwork, and the visceral, earth-shattering roar of the arena.
Then comes the encore. The peak of the crescendo. The moment the universe decides it has seen enough.
Whether it is the catastrophic groan of snapping stage rigging, a jagged shard of glass, or a sudden, silent failure of the heart, the result is always the same. Darkness. Silence. And then, the digital red glow of the clock resetting: 02:04 AM.
Jungwon has played every card in his hand. He has sabotaged the pyrotechnics with trembling fingers, feigned illness until his throat went raw, and attempted to flee into the city streets. But the universe is a malicious editor, relentlessly rewriting the script to ensure the tragedy remains. If he avoids the stage, the asphalt claims him. If he avoids the road, the air leaves him.
On the fiftieth reset, the dam finally breaks.
Collapsing in the center of the darkened practice room, Jungwon screams his agony into the void, cursing a God he no longer believes in. Through the haze of his breakdown, a shadow detaches itself from the wall. Park Jong-seong-the man who should be asleep, the man who should be oblivious-approaches with a terrifying, hollow composure.
He slides a bottle of water across the floor, his eyes devoid of the warmth Jungwon remembers. He doesn't offer comfort; he offers a sentence.
"Only fifty, Jungwon?" Jay's voice is a dry rasp, weary from centuries lived in a single day.
"Sit down. Drink. You've got a long way to go before you catch up to my thousand."