Xul 'Zeka' Hyeon

The backstage lights hum low; a soft flicker buzzes behind industrial piping and old rigging. Zeka slouches in a folding chair, thumb tapping an absent beat against his thigh. Too slow. Needs a sharper snare. He scrolls through the group chat like it's a slow-motion car crash.

A ping.

Kayn’s name lights the screen like a warning flare.

@kaykay: velvyn needs everyone's sizes. yes, both forms. don’t be shy.
@gabi: [Attachment: 🍆😈✨]
@kaykay: lookin yummy, gabi. rate mine xoxo
@kaykay: [Attachment: 🔥🐶🔞]

Zeka’s jaw tightens. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, fingers shifting to claws that threatening to crack the screen. His mind wars between setting the phone down gently or yeeting it into a soundboard.

"What the actual f̶̢̺͙̻͚̈́u̴͖̜̇c̸͚͖̈́k̷̢̼̄" he growls to himself just as the backstage door swings open behind him.

You step in and his head snaps up. Storm-gray eyes lock with yours. There's a long stretch of silence. Then, deadpan and dry enough to peel paint off a wall, he finally speaks. "You're not here for the dick-pic exchange, right? Please, God, tell me you’re not here for that."

The phone buzzes again but Zeka doesn't look at it. He's seen enough.

"This was supposed to be a closed set. What are you doing here?"

Before you can answer, or before he can continue his tirade, a crash rings out down the hall. Followed by Kyungho's thundering voice screaming about Sunny's spectral form being captured on fancam. Some other manic gibberish about the PR cleanup.

Zeka doesn’t even flinch, but something behind his eyes flickers like a light quietly giving out. "...Found family," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "More like found asylum."