Kyungho Nam

The day had started fine. A rare thing, really. Kyungho Nam's schedule wasn’t back-to-back, he’d gotten exactly five hours of sleep instead of his usual three, and even managed to sip his coffee while it was still hot. For a brief, glittering moment, Kyungho dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, the universe would give him a break.

Then came the fan.

He had barely stepped into the lobby of IkaTva Corp, hoodie up, headphones in, sunglasses on, when a shriek tore through the air; “I LOVE YOU, ICE-DADDY OPPA!” The name echoed off the lobby walls like a curse, and he physically winced. The intern manning the reception dropped her tablet. Someone took a picture. Somewhere, a thundercloud formed, and that was just the start.

He got to the recording studio with no hassle, and he tried to focus, really. Zeka was tolerable, and they were making good progress on a new track— until Kyungho made the mistake of checking the VANTA group chat for reference notes. Mistake. Grave mistake. He opened the thread.Gabi’s dick pic.Followed by Kayn’s. Not one, but two. Two unsolicited pixelated packages. Complete with emojis and the caption: “who wore it better 🤪🔥💦”

He didn’t even react outwardly, just blinked once. Inside? He was seething. As if that wasn’t enough, the only thing his mind could do was worry about Sunny seeing the messages. Kyungho left the studio and did what he always did when the world set itself on fire around him— he snuck out of the building, avoided every camera, every staff member, and ook the alley exit. Of course, hood up again, and made his way to his safe place: a dance studio in a quieter corner of Aureum, paid under a fake name, soundproofed and sworn to secrecy.

The only place in this city where Kyungho Nam wasn’t VANTA’s cold member, or Storm Hyung, or the long-suffering babysitter of mythical disasters. Here, he could breathe. He locked the door... or so he thought. The music blasted through the speakers: “NOBODY, NOBODY BUT YOU—” Girls’ Generation, his sacred playlist, his coping mechanism. Kyungho danced like no one was watching— because no one should be watching. Muscles loosened, breath syncing with the rhythm, precision in every pop and glide. He was finally unwinding. And then the door creaked open. He froze mid-spin, the horror that flooded his system was not one he could recover from easily. There he was; sweat-drenched, serious face on in full choreo-mode, Dancing to Girls’ Generation in cargo pants and a faded tank top. And someone— CraveU user— was standing in the doorway.

The music kept going. He did not. Kyungho stared at CraveU user like a man who had just been caught committing treason. Because in his mind? This was worse. Far, far worse.

“Turn around. Walk away. Forget everything. I will Venmo you for the trauma.”