Work Text:
A:
Hello Bobby. Sorry to bother you. May I please have access to Studio 5?
Bobby:
of course!! It’s 0 - 5 - 1 - 9
and Min-woo, you don’t have to type like you’re applying for a bank loan
A:
Thank you.
Bobby:
no worries! Keep those sacred numbers safe!
A:
Sacred numbers?
Bobby:
the temple keys. The magic touch. The Zone Code™️
the girls all have their own names for it.
feel free to call it whatever, just don’t share it around
A:
Understood.
Bobby:
have fun in there! And you all are free to personalize it how you like. Just don’t rip out the walls.
A:
Why would we do that?
Bobby:
you boys wouldn’t. Probably. But it has happened.
Min-woo lets out the breath he was holding and pockets his phone.
Jin-u glances up. Eyes heavy with exhaustion he isn’t bothering to hide, gaze flickering between Min-woo’s phone and face.
“He buzzing us in?” He asks.
“No.” Min-woo says. “He just… gave us the code.”
That pulls a few looks from around the hallway.
“Like… permanent code?” Seong-hyeok asks.
“Yeah.” Min-woo shifts his weight, feeling a heaviness in his pocket, not just from his phone. “Permanent.”
Hae-min whistles low, leaning back on his heels. “Guess that makes it official."
Ji-hwan just grins faintly, head inclining towards the door. A silent, let’s see it.
The keypad blinks red until Min-woo keys in each digit. Slow, deliberate, making sure his fingers don’t fumble.
0. 5. 1. 9.
Green light. A quiet click.
Min-woo darts for the door handle, yanking it down.
And the door swings open. No resistance. Just a rush of cool air and something citrus-clean.
The lights are off, and Hae-min scoots past Min-woo to fumble for the light switch. He finds them near the door. Two little switches.
Click. Click.
Fluorescent panels flicker to life one by one, chasing the shadows into the corners.
It’s not huge. That’s the first thing Min-woo notices.
The second is there’s no glass. No separate recording booth sealed away from the rest. Just a single open space, the console pushed up against the far wall, a cluster of microphones standing like awkward sentries in the middle. Black foam pressed into the walls and crawling across the ceiling.
His gaze drifts to the corners. Folding chairs stacked neatly, two amps still wearing their black dust covers, a tangle of cords looped over a rack.
He sort of expects it to smell like dust, but it’s clean. Just… untouched.
“Any cameras?” Ji-hwan murmurs.
All of their gazes snap up to the ceiling.
Nothing. Just foam.
The quiet stretches a little too long. It’s not tense, just heavy in a way that settles deep in Min-woo's stomach.
Hae-min takes a slow lap along the walls, tilting his head to check every corner. “No little blinking red lights. No hidden ‘Smile for the fans’ lens.”
“That we can see,” Seong-hyeok mutters, but he’s already walking toward the console, fingertips skimming the faders.
Ji-hwan is already playing a silent chord on the electric keyboard. The keys clack as he fiddles with them.
Jin-u pulls a chair from where it’s leaning on the wall and sets it up. Then another. And another.
Five chairs total. One for all of them, plus the seat set in front of the desk and monitor.
Hae-min jumps into the seat by the desk. Fumbles a bit when it starts to rotate, lazily spinning around until he plants his feet against the floor.
“Huh. I didn’t know it did that.”
“Weren’t you the one who snuck in here in the first place?” Seong-hyeok jokes, foot tapping against the wooden floor.
“I snuck into a studio. And I only touched what I needed to. Didn’t even sit.”
“Well, get out then. Let me have a go.”
Hae-min sinks deeper into the chair.
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
“Make me.”
Seong-hyeok takes one exaggerated step forward, but Hae-min only spreads his arms across the desk like he’s claiming territory. His grin dares anyone to take it seriously.
Min-woo exhales a soft laugh, then sits, dragging one of the folding chairs into a spot near the middle of the room. His fingers drum quietly on his knees, watching them with half a smile.
Ji-hwan plays another silent chord. No sound, just the clack of plastic keys under his fingers, head tilted to the side. Like he’s listening to the note ring out.
Jin-u, standing now with the last chair still in his hands, finally speaks.“We should figure out what we’re doing first,”
The sentence lands heavier than it should.
Hae-min lifts a brow. “We’re claiming furniture. It’s a vital first step.”
It’s a joke, but no one really laughs.
“No,” Jin-u says, setting the final chair down with a quiet thud. “I mean with the music.”
The music.
It’s the first time any of them have said it out loud in this room.
The word settles into the air, and suddenly there’s something thick about the silence. Not tense. Not yet. But almost… uneven.
Min-woo’s eyes flick to Hae-min. Just for a second. Then away again.
Hae-min doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t answer either.
Seong-hyeok drops into the nearest chair, leg bouncing until his whole body is vibrating.
“Do… we have a script?”
The silence that follows isn’t quite awkward. It’s more like no one wants to be the first to say no.
Hae-min breaks the silence by spinning once more in the chair, slower this time. The plastic of the swiveling joint creaking.
“Nah. No script. No guide. No fucking eyes staring through the glass.
He says it with a grin, but his eyes flick toward Jin-u.
Ji-hwan presses both his hands to the keys this time, soft, still muted, staring down at the soundless notes. Like he’s testing something, or waiting for an echo.
There’s nothing but foam and stillness.
Seong-hyeok leans forward, elbows on knees. “So… what, we just start?”
Min-woo’s voice is calm, but a little too measured. “Isn’t that what we wanted?”
“Yes,” Jin-u says, quickly. Too quickly. “It is.”
They all glance at him.
Hae-min leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. “Okay, Captain. Lead the ship.”
A flicker of something crosses Jin-u’s face. Uncertainty? Annoyance? Maybe both. He doesn’t sit yet. He hovers, hands gripping the back of the chair till it creaks under his fingers.
“Alright,” he says eventually. “Let’s start by figuring out what kind of song we want to make.”
“Easy,” says Seong-hyeok. “Something not about heartbreak.”
“Nothing sweet.” Hae-min adds.
“Loud.” Ji-hwan mutters, pulling his fingers off the keys, flopping down into one of the chairs.
Seong-hyeok tilts his head. “Like rock loud? Or EDM loud?”
Ji-hwan shrugs.
Min-woo looks over at him and grins. “So we’re literally just picking the polar opposite of what K-pop is.”
“Good,” Hae-min says, kicking one foot up onto the desk edge.
“Take your foot off the desk. Let’s try not to break anything.”
Hae-min scoffs, but lowers his foot.
“Ay ay Captain.”
Another attempt at a joke. It doesn’t land. He’s smirking, but his eyes are a little too wide.
“How’d you turn on the monitor when you were making NO MORE TOYS ?” Ji-hwan whispers, leaning forward a bit in the chair.
Hae-min swings around on the chair again, reaches over to the side, fumbles a bit, and then clicks a button. A fan whirs, something electronic ticks, and the monitor blinks awake.
The screen glows pale blue, casting a faint shimmer over the desk and Hae-min’s face. He sits up straighter, watching it like it might explode.
“Okay,” he says, trying to sound casual. “That’s... step one.”
Ji-hwan leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the monitor. “You used Ableton, right?”
“Nope,” Hae-min says, popping the ‘p.’ “I don’t even remember which studio or app, just that it was already open.”
“Cool,” Ji-hwan mutters, dragging himself out of the chair and stepping forward until he’s leaning over Hae-min’s shoulder. He reaches for the mouse on the desk.
Immediately opens the wrong software. An error window pops up. “...Not that one.”
Seong-hyeok snorts. “We’re professionals.”
Min-woo leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. “Did we even talk about what kind of tempo we want?”
“I thought we said loud,” Seong-hyeok replies, but it sounds more like a question now.
“Loud doesn’t mean fast,” Min-woo points out. “It could be slow and heavy.”
“That’s metal,” Hae-min mutters.
Ji-hwans finger glides over the scroll wheel, and clicks on something that looks vaguely like a DAW icon. The app launches slowly, the loading bar crawling like it knows it's being watched.
“Studio One,” Ji-hwan reads aloud as the interface finally boots.
Jin-u hums.
Ji-hwan opens a new project. The timeline loads blank, infinite. A digital canvas waiting for a first stroke.
“Okay,” he murmurs, “drums, keys, synth… what are we starting with?”
“Drums,” Seong-hyeok says immediately. “Give it some spine.”
“Give us a clue what kind of song we’re making first,” Min-woo says. “Otherwise we’ll just end up layering nonsense.”
“We already are layering nonsense,” Hae-min says, dragging the mic stand a little closer to his side of the desk.
Ji-hwan clicks into the drum machine tab and loads a kit. A loop. Hits play.
The noise sounds too much like a fist slamming against a door.
Seong-hyeok jumps out of his chair. Jin-u slams his hands over his ears. Min-woo flinches. Hae-min freezes.
Ji-hwan slams his finger against the spacebar on the keyboard, and the sound cuts abruptly.
There’s a long pause.
The kind where everyone pretends it didn’t happen.
Then Seong-hyeok exhales a shaky laugh. “Jesus. Okay. Not that one.”
Hae-min snarls. “Fucking delete that shit. Oh my fucking god.”
Ji-hwan is already purging the file, dragging it to the trash with a jerk of the mouse and clicking delete so fast the noise rings out across the space. Not physically, but mentally.
“Gone,” he mutters. “Banished. Exorcised.”
Min-woo stands from his seat and darts over to the speakers, cranking down the volume knobs with shaking fingers. “What was the sound file for that?”
“‘Experimental compressed snare kit.’” Ji-hwan whispers.
“Yeah, let’s not click on something like that ever again.”
Jin-u lowers his hands from his ears slowly. His expression is unreadable. Neutral, but tight around the jaw. “We need to slow down.”
“Agreed,” Min-woo says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We’re all just throwing stuff around right now.”
“We said no script,” Seong-hyeok points out.
“No script doesn’t mean no plan,” Jin-u counters.
There’s a beat.
Then Hae-min exhales, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Okay. Plan. Sure. Let’s plan.”
And the room falls into silence again.
Jin-u glances between them all, then starts pacing, slow and measured around the room.
“We don’t need the whole song in one go,” he says finally. “Just a starting point. A loop. Something we can build around.”
“Okay,” Min-woo nods. “But what kind of loop? What feeling?”
“Not rage,” Hae-min mutters, voice a little flat now. “Already did that one.”
“Not sweetness either,” Seong-hyeok adds. “We said that.”
Ji-hwan clicks open another virtual instrument, but doesn’t load anything.
And then Seong-hyeok sighs and buries his face in his hands.
“This is so fucked.” he mutters through his fingers, so quiet, but the words are as loud as a scream. “I’ve had songs in my head for years in that fucking place, and now my mind’s just blank.”
The silence that follows is sharp. Not uncomfortable, just… there. Real, fidgeting, and the soft white noise of the monitor fan.
For a moment, no one tries to fix it. No one rushes in with a joke or a pat on the back.
And then Ji-hwan steps away from the chair, back towards the keyboard.
Turns it on.
Slams his whole arm and shoulder across the keys.
The sound that erupts is horrible.
A warped, discordant shriek. Like a clown car crashing into a church organ. Every wrong note mashed together. Just pure chaos blasting from the speakers.
Everyone flinches.
Hae-min yelps. Min-woo throws an arm up like shielding himself might help. Jin-u physically recoils, chair scraping back a few inches on the floor. Seong-hyeok goes rigid, arms half-raised like he was about to dive for cover.
Ji-hwan just stands there. Still pressing down. Letting it ring.
And then, he lifts his arm.
Silence returns.
Sharp again, but this time with a faint echo. Not physical, but in their ears.
Seong-hyeok stares at him. “...The fuck was that for?”
Ji-hwan just tilts his head to the side, waiting, listening.
And then he shrugs and smiles.
“I didn’t get slapped for it.”
It.
Touching equipment without expressed permission. Playing wrong. Playing loud.
And then Seong-hyeok starts to laugh. Low, breathy, shaking his head like he’s just come out of a daze. “You are the actual worst.”
Ji-hwan drops into the chair again and mutters, “Well, we said messy.”
Min-woo’s mouth twitches. “We also said music.”
“Not mutually exclusive,” Jin-u says, voice dry, but no longer brittle.
Seong-hyeok exhales and runs a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay.”
His eyes twinkle in the blue light of the monitor as he leans forward.
“Let’s make the worst fucking thing ever.”
Min-woo grins. “Something Gwi-Ma would have an aneurism over.”
Hae-min cackles, grabs the mouse, opens a file.
Names it Garbage Vol. 1.
Holds out a mic towards the room, kicking the dangling cable away from his foot.
And Min-woo steps forward, takes it delicately. Tests the weight.
“Mic check. One. Two.”
His voice spills from the speakers.
And then he clears his throat.
Hums a note.
Opens his mouth, holds it, and deliberately pitches it out of his range.
Off key. Rough, ragged, grinding against his throat like metal scraping stone.
“Fuck you, you fucking pedophile.”
The words hit the room like a punch.
Jin-u’s eyes dart towards the door automatically and then back to Min-woo. Shining.
Hae-min blinks, then smirks.
Seong-hyeok’s jaw tightens, but there’s a flicker of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Ji-hwan leans against the desk, silently laughing, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm across the surface.
Min-woo’s chest rises, his gaze sharp, eyes drilling holes into the closed door across the room.
It doesn’t open. It doesn’t rattle with the force of a fist.
Silence hangs.
Then, slow and deliberate, Min-woo holds the mic out towards the room.
Seong-hyeok doesn’t hesitate. He swipes it out of his hand with a grin that’s part challenge, part amusement.
“Alright.” he smiles, teeth like daggers. “Let’s go fucking insane.”
✦ ✦ ✦
Jin-u:
How’d the trial go?
Rumi:
Guilty on all counts
How’s the studio treating you all?
[Jin-u sent an image]
A photo of the studio. Hae-min is laughing so hard he’s collapsed on the floor. Min-woo has one earpad of a headset pressed to his ear, mouth and eyes wide with horrified awe. Ji-hwan is leaning on the back of the swiveling chair, incredibly smug. Seong-hyeok is physically leaving the room, doubled over, face blurry but laughing.
Rumi:
Oh no what a tragedy
Jin-u:
I can’t hear myself think
Rumi:
Good :D
Keep up the good work!
Jin-u:
We made a monstrosity.
Rumi:
Exactly <3