It was the kind of crisp, bright afternoon that usually signaled the end of the frost and the beginning of life. The sun shone golden as it retreated slowly behind the rooftops, illuminating the streets in warmth.
To Jaemin, rushing along the corridors as if the walls might close in behind him at any moment, the golden light was a mockery. It streamed in through the window, an intrusive spotlight on the dust motes dancing in the air of a life that was effectively over. Stolen.
He moved with a mechanical efficiency that frightened him. He didn't fold his clothes; he dumped them into a single suitcase, the only one he owned.
He left the awards sitting on the shelf. He left the expensive metronome Choi Seungcheol had gifted him—a birthday present, three years ago, still set stubbornly to Seungcheol's preferred tempo. He left the school jacket, the Academy crest proudly emblazoned atop the left breastpocket. He stripped the bedsheets and dumped them in a heap on the floor, leaving the mattress bare and cold.
The clock on the wall ticked. 5:16 PM.
He zipped the luggage shut. It was light. Too light for four years of life. But there was nothing else he could add to it.
He picked up the stack of notebooks from his desk—his compositions, his scribbles, the messy, ink-stained proofs of four years of blood, sweat and tears. He held them to his chest for a moment, feeling their weight.
Paper wouldn't save him. They had already called it hysteria. If he tried to use it as proof, they would only twist it further.
He turned and walked out the door.
He didn't look back.
…
The grounds were relatively empty, most students having migrated to the dining hall for their evening meal.
Numbly, Jaemin made his way toward the old stone incinerator behind the maintenance sheds, choosing the most secluded corner of campus, somewhere no one would stop him or ask questions before six o'clock came.
Despite the sunshine, the air was biting, a cold front clinging to the city despite the sunshine. Jaemin shivered, but not from the weather.
He dumped the notebooks onto the stone grate and struck a match. The flame was invisible against the daylight, a small ripple of heat. Then, prying his fingers open slowly, he dropped it.
For a moment, it seemed as if it wouldn't catch, the sheets of paper glowing amber before the flame. Then, the corners curled, turning from white to black to ash.
Jaemin watched blankly as the ink—his melodies, his harmonies, his soul—vanished into smoke.
Burn, he thought. Burn it all.
The fire crackled, growing hotter, higher. Jaemin stared into the center of the blaze. It looked warm. It looked cleansing. The cold inside his chest was so absolute, so pervasive, that the heat of the fire felt like a siren song.
Without fully deciding to, he took a step forward, then another, until he stood right at the edge, the heat searing his face, the smoke filling his lungs.
It wouldn't be hard. Just a little closer. Let the fire take the rest of the garbage that Choi Seungcheol had ruined.
He leaned in.
"Jaemin, stop!"
The shout cracked through the air like a whip, making Jaemin flinch so violently that he nearly lost his footing. He scrambled back and spun around, his hands flying up to his face, his breath hitching in a terrified whimper.
Lukas stood at the edge of the clearing. He wasn't wearing his coat. He looked like he had run from the dorms—hair messy, chest heaving, face pale.
"Jaemin—"
"Don't," Jaemin rasped, backing away. "Don't come near me."
Lukas froze, taking in the way Jaemin curled in on himself, his body quaking as his fingers tried to shield the back of his neck. A look of horror crossed his face as realization struck him.
"What… What happened to you?" he whispered.
Jaemin's only answer was to retreat further, until his spine hit the rough bark of a nearby tree.
Deliberately, slowly, Lukas took two steps backward. He raised his hands, palms open.
"I'm not coming closer," the beta said, his voice trembling. "I just... I saw you by the fire. I saw you leaning in. I thought..."
He swallowed hard, looking past the shivering figure toward the fire, just as the last of the notebooks curled into black ash. The grief in his eyes was instant and genuine.
"You can't do this," Lukas pleaded, though he stayed rooted to his spot. "Go to the Dean. Go to the Board. Choi Seungcheol can't just—"
"They took his side," Jaemin cut him off dully. "He has the connections. I'm just... I'm just a charity case who cracked."
"That's not true! We can testify, we can—"
"It's over, Lukas!" Jaemin screamed, the sound tearing from his throat. "Please, stop! Just let me GO!"
The air in the clearing became heavy, thick with a crushing weight. Even though Lukas couldn't smell the distress pheromones—the rotting scent of wilted cherry blossoms—he could feel the pressure of it, a wave of pure terror radiating off the omega.
Lukas went silent. He looked at the suitcase, then at the fire, and finally at the absolute desolation in Jaemin's eyes. He seemed to realize that no argument would work. Seo Jaemin was already gone.
"Wait."
He reached into his pocket. Jaemin tensed, his eyes tracking the movement like a cornered animal expecting an attack, but Lukas only fished out a pen and a crumpled receipt.
He smoothed it against his knee, bending to scribble something down. Then, he stepped forward carefully to place it on the stone bench between them before immediately retreating, giving Jaemin the wide berth of safety he needed.
"When you return to Korea," Lukas said quietly, "call this number. His name is Kwon Jaehyun. He was a senior here years ago, but he's based in Korea now. He specializes in musical therapy… for trauma."
Jaemin stared at the paper. He didn't move. "Why?"
Lukas blinked. "'Why'?"
"What do you want?" Jaemin asked, his voice dead. "For this. I don't have anything left to give you. My music is gone. I can't be wi—I… I've been marked." He looked up at Lukas helplessly. "I can't go out with you. I'm damaged goods."
Lukas looked stricken.
"I don't want anything from you," he murmured. "I just want to know that you'll be okay."
He gestured toward the paper on the bench. "Please, call him. He's safe. He won't want anything from you, only to help. I promise."
The church bell in the distance began to toll. 6 PM.
Jaemin pushed himself unsteadily away from the tree. He moved to the bench, wary eyes never leaving Lukas, then snatched the paper and shoved it deep into his pocket without looking at it, then turned his back on the fire and left.
He didn't say thank you. He couldn't. He didn't have enough of himself left to be polite.
Lukas stood alone in the clearing, the wind biting through his thin shirt. He watched the small, broken figure disappear toward the gates, knowing he would likely never see the genius of their generation again.
"Please," he murmured to the empty air, the words catching in his throat long after the omega was out of earshot. "Take care of yourself, Seo Jaemin."
…
His movements through the airport were a blur. The noise of the crowds was a dull roar in his ears, meaningless static.
There was a phantom hook in his chest, a sickening, magnetic pull that tried to drag his feet backward, urging him to return to the city, to the Academy… to him.
Every step was a fight against the call of his bond, the infected tether that chained him to the person he had loved the most, trusted the most… the one who had hurt him irreversibly and left him in the ashes.
It wasn't until he was seated in the window seat of the first flight back to Seoul, dosed up on hormonal suppressants from the airport pharmacy and reeking of generic beta cologne as he watched the plane taxiing toward the runway, that reality truly settled in.
He didn't cry. The suppressants had done their job, clamping down on his hysteria with a chemical grip. Instead, he felt a terrifying hollowness. The pull toward Seungcheol wasn't gone; it was just muffled, like a scream heard underwater.
No more, he told himself. The music is dead to me.
He tried to force the vow into existence. He tried to promise himself that he would never touch an instrument again, never write a single note. It was the only way to be safe. If he had nothing, nobody could take anything from him.
But the thought wouldn't hold. As the plane taxied to the runway, Jaemin realized with a sickening lurch that he couldn't kill it.
Choi Seungcheol had taken his dignity, his innocence, his reputation. He had stolen Jaemin's composition.
But if Jaemin strangled the music inside himself, the monster would really have won. It would have consumed his soul, and Jaemin would be nothing but a shell.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Rain began to streak against the window as he reached into his pocket, fingers curling tight around the crumpled receipt Lukas had given him.
Kwon Jaehyun. He didn't know if he could trust him. But the paper felt like the only lifeline he had left as the plane lifted him off the ground, carrying him away from the ruins of his life.
He closed his eyes against the grey Vienna sky that wept heavier, pelting against the pane, and finally let his exhaustion take him far away.
Swish. Swish. Swish…
…
Vienna was behind him. Vienna was gone.
But six years later, the ghost of that boy still walked beside him.
Jaehyun had guided him back to the music, though never to the stage. Jaemin had become a shadow in the industry. He no longer played for audiences, no longer put his name on sheet music. Instead, he had focused on the architecture of others' work, studying the layers that came together to form a song.
It was a half-life, but it was safe.
And then, the opportunity had come. It wasn't a grand concerto. It was just a struggling orchestra, in need of a guest conductor—a position obscure enough, he had thought, to escape the eyes of those who might still remember his name from Vienna. It was a chance to reclaim his agency. It was a chance to breathe again.
And he had found it. The music was still there for him. Melodies, harmonies, all the different instruments just waiting to be expressed.
He had found his voice again. He had found purpose, and safety, and love.
He had found Do-hyun.
But no matter how far he went, or how small he made himself, he had never been able to fully escape. Choi Seungcheol had found him. Choi Seungcheol had hunted him down in Seoul, yanked on the threads, and unraveled even this small, quiet life Jaemin had rebuilt.
Swish. Swish.
Now, slumped against the window that shielded him from the heavy rain outside, he whimpered softly, a choked sound carried on a wisp of a breath.
At the sound, Do-hyun turned to glance at him. In the darkness of the car's interior, only the fractured illumination of the passing streetlights revealed the fresh tears tracking silently from Jaemin's closed eyes, down his pale cheeks and neck to pool at his collarbone.
Clenching his jaw, Do-hyun gripped the steering wheel tighter. He turned back to the road and pressed down harder on the accelerator, speeding them through the wet, lonely night.