Milo:

  She’s pretty.

  That was the first thing that crossed my mind when she sat back down. She looked better now—less disheveled. Her hair was smoother, the smudged mascara mostly wiped away. Even with the exhaustion clinging to her, there was something about her that caught my attention. Maybe it was her wide, hazel eyes, too expressive to hide what she was feeling. Or maybe it was the way she seemed a little lost, like she wasn’t sure where she was headed next.

  Her features were soft but striking—a small button nose, full lips that looked like they should be smiling, even though they weren’t. Something about her made me want to know her story. I wasn’t usually one to get caught up in strangers, but she wasn’t just anyone. She looked like she was running from something.

  She settled into her seat, and I felt myself relax a little. Not that I’d been all that calm to begin with. This flight wasn’t just another trip. It was a return to everything I’d stepped away from—the pressure, the expectations, the grind.

  ADRIIFT. My group. My brothers. The life I’d built over the past few years. We weren’t just six guys thrown together—we were a unit, a balance of personalities and skills that somehow worked.

  Dak-ho Soo, our leader, wasn’t loud, but he didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough to command attention, his deep, steady voice grounding us when things got chaotic. He made sure we never lost sight of what mattered.

  Yoo-jin Choi—who we all just called Yoo— was our main dancer, moving like he had no bones at all. Effortless, fluid—he was the kind of performer who made people stop mid-conversation just to watch. But beyond his talent, Yoo was the heart of the group, the one who made sure no one got left behind.

  Kwan Il had the brooding, sharp-jawed looks that made cameras love him, but his voice was what really set him apart. Smooth, rich, capable of either breaking hearts or piecing them back together in a single note. He wasn’t just a visual; he was the emotional weight behind our songs.

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  Jae-sung Nam was pure energy. Our rapper, our spark. He had this wild, unpredictable intensity that gave our performances an edge. Where Kwan pulled people in with emotion, Jae-sung electrified them, making sure no one ever got too comfortable.

  And Daiki Sakai—our youngest, our maknae. The golden boy, the natural talent. He made the hardest choreography look easy, his bright energy and boyish charm making him a fan favorite. But underneath all that effortless talent was someone who worked harder than anyone, never satisfied, always pushing to be better.

  Then there was me—Milo Lee. The American. Sub-vocalist, rapper, dancer. Not the leader, not the face of the group, but the bridge between all of them. My deep voice gave us contrast. My years of taekwondo made me more flexible than most, adding something extra to our performances. I wasn’t flashy, but I was steady. Reliable. The one people could count on when it mattered.

  At least, I had been. Until the injury.

  Ever since then, I hadn’t been sure if I would ever feel like the same performer again. The others never said it out loud, but I knew they had to be wondering—could I still keep up? Could I still be the steady middle ground that held us together, or would they have to move on without me? It was a thought I kept shoving to the back of my mind, afraid of what the answer might be.

  Four years in, we’d seen success most groups only dreamed of. But success wasn’t just about talent. It was pressure—constant, unrelenting pressure. Every comeback felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if we’d soar or crash. The industry wasn’t kind, and falling behind wasn’t an option.

  I loved it, though. The rush of performing, the way the stage felt like home. But it hadn’t been easy. The company had rules—strict ones. No distractions. No dating. No outside noise. For three years, it hadn’t mattered much. The group came first, always. But as time passed, I started to wonder what I was missing.

  Dak-ho and Yoo had already started breaking the rules, sneaking around to see their girlfriends. It caused tension, especially when they weren’t where they needed to be. I understood why they did it, though. We weren’t just idols. We were people. And at some point, you start wanting something more.

  I hadn’t really thought about it much. There was never time. But this past hiatus had given me space to breathe, to reflect. And now, sitting next to Orla, I started wondering if maybe I was ready for something different.

  The plane jolted with turbulence, and I shifted, wincing as my knee twinged. The injury still bothered me, but it was healing. I’d pushed through worse. Our next comeback was already in the works, and I wasn’t going to be the reason we fell behind.

  Still, as I glanced at Orla, I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe there was more to life than just the next album, the next performance. Maybe there was a whole world beyond the stage lights and screaming fans.

  I didn’t know why she was the one who made me think that, but I wanted to learn more about her—before this flight landed and she disappeared for good.

  ?Sky Mincharo