Renji and I sat across from Jiahao, the café quiet except for the soft clinking of cups and low hum of conversation. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest. This wasn’t easy. Not for me, and not for Renji, who had been silent but steadfast, letting me lean on him before I spoke.

“Hyung,” I began, my voice low but steady. “There’s something important I need to tell you.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not just a member of V1NE. I’m… I’ve been working undercover as a journalist for Apex Weekly. My mission here is to investigate SDR. The situation with Yujun… what we witnessed… it’s part of a larger pattern. SDR has been involved in serious criminal activity, and Apex Weekly wants to take them down from the inside.”

Jiahao’s expression hardened. “Wait… you’ve been keeping this from me?”

Renji leaned forward, his voice calm but insistent. “He didn’t want to involve anyone else until he was sure. Please be considerate how hard this is now for Minjae. For all of us. We can’t do this alone. We need your help—your guidance as the leader of V1NE. We want to protect Yujun and everyone else. The members rely on you and trust you, Hyung.”

Jiahao’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. He leaned back in his chair, silent for a long moment. I could see the weight of responsibility on his shoulders—the burden of being leader, of working tirelessly for the group, now colliding with this revelation.

“I… I don’t know,” he finally said, his voice tight. “I’ve worked so hard to keep this group together, to protect everyone, to make sure V1NE succeeds. And now you’re telling me all this? How am I supposed to process it?”

“I know it’s a lot,” I admitted. “I didn’t want to deceive you, Hyung. I care about this group, too—about all of you. That’s why I can’t ignore what’s happening to Yujun or the other victims. But I can’t do it without you.”

Jiahao looked down, fingers drumming against the table. After a long pause, his voice cracked slightly, quieter this time. “You… you have no idea what my uncle did to me when I was younger. I thought… I thought I was the only one. I never told anyone. Not even my parents. I was too ashamed.”

Renji and I exchanged a quick glance, stunned. I swallowed hard. “Hyung… I… I had no idea,” I said softly.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “He… he stopped when I started growing up, when I developed the shape of an adult and started my growth spurt. But… seeing what’s happening to Yujun now… it’s horrifying. I didn’t realize he was still targeting people. I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one he did this to.” His eyes flicked to us, a mixture of guilt and resolve. “If I had known… I would’ve done something, anything, to protect Yujun and other victims.”

Renji reached over, placing a steady hand on Jiahao’s arm. “It’s not too late. We can stop this together. But we need you with us.”

Jiahao’s breath hitched, then steadied. “You’re right. We have to protect Yujun. And anyone else who could be caught up in this. I… I’ll help. I’ll support you. We’ll come clean to the rest of the members, make sure they understand everything, and figure out how to protect everyone. You won’t be doing this alone.”

"Apex Weekly has the power to help us trough this. They provide a safety net. Even for the group. They have ties with Yellow Entertainment. If you're concerned about the group's future, don't be. Taking down SDR doesn't necessarily mean, that V1NE has to fall too. Your hard work won't be wasted, Hyung."

The magazine shoot had been booked weeks ago, long before the afterparty, before everything that had cracked open beneath the surface. Now, sitting under the bright lights and sterile studio setup, it felt almost cruel to pretend everything was fine.

The photographer barked cheerful directions—

“V1NE! Let’s get some smiles here, yeah? Jiahao, tilt your head just a little. Minjae, closer to Renji. Great, perfect!”

None of it felt perfect.

I forced a smile, one that felt like it could crumble any second. Beside me, Renji’s expression stayed composed—professionally so—but his fingers tapped against his thigh between takes, restless. Jiahao barely spoke. His usual energy, that calm and commanding presence, was muted—his eyes a little distant, a little older than they should’ve been.

Yujun, meanwhile, looked hollow. His makeup was flawless, his pastel pink hair freshly styled, but there was a fog in his eyes that no foundation could hide. He kept to himself between shots, answering staff politely but mechanically, like an actor on autopilot. Maybe Yujun had always been like this, we just never really realised.

Boom and Bang whispered jokes now and then, trying to lighten the air, but even their laughter fell flat. Geon glanced at Yujun every few minutes, worry flickering across his face before he quickly looked away.

During a break, I caught Renji’s gaze from across the room. Just one look, but it said enough.

This is unbearable.

I know. Hold it together.

Renji now felt the weight of everything pressing down—the secret I carried for Apex Weekly, the truth about SDR, the guilt that wrapped tighter every time he saw Yujun smile like nothing was wrong. The whole group was splintering quietly under the surface.

“Let’s wrap it up with a group shot!” the photographer called. “Everyone together, big smiles!”

They gathered close. Renji’s hand brushed my back gently, just for a second—grounding me. Jiahao stood in the center, posture impeccable, the perfect image of a leader holding his team together. Yujun’s lips curved faintly upward, though his eyes stayed flat.

The camera clicked. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And that was it—perfection captured on glossy film. A lie, but a beautiful one.

When the shoot finally ended, everyone bowed politely to the staff, murmuring their thanks, and shuffled out to the van. The ride back to the dorm was suffocatingly quiet. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, painting streaks of gold and white across their tired faces.

No one spoke.

The air in the dorm felt heavier than usual that night. Nobody was laughing, nobody was even scrolling on their phones. Just silence — the kind that made the hum of the refrigerator sound deafening.

Jiahao was the one who broke it. He stood near the kitchen counter, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. “I think we need to talk,” he said finally.

Everyone looked up — Boom with a mouthful of chips, Bang leaning back against the couch, Geon halfway through tying his hair. Yujun’s eyes darted to me, then to Renji, then to Jiahao again. He looked… small. Fragile.

Jiahao gestured toward the couch. “Let’s sit down. All of us.”

We gathered slowly, the way people do when they know something serious is coming. I could feel Renji’s knee pressed lightly against mine. It was the only thing keeping me grounded.

Jiahao glanced at me, a silent signal: It’s time.

My throat felt dry. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I started. “And it’s… it’s not going to be easy to hear.”

Geon let out a half-laugh, confused. “You’re not quitting, are you?”

I shook my head. “No. It’s not that.”

Everyone went quiet again. I could feel their eyes on me, waiting.

“I’m not just an idol,” I said finally. “Or— I didn’t start as one. Before SDR, before V1NE, I was studying as a journalist in the past years.”

That got a reaction. Yujun blinked in confusion. Boom sat up straighter. Geon furrowed his brows.

“A journalist? I thought you were studying media.” Bang repeated slowly. “Like… a journalist for what?”

I took a shaky breath. “Investigative journalism. I started working for Apex Weekly. I was assigned to investigate SDR. To find out the truth about what’s been going on behind the scenes.”

The words hit the room like a bomb.

Jiahao and Renji didn’t move. They already knew. But the others — they looked like their entire world just tilted sideways.

“What do you mean, ‘investigate’?” Geon asked sharply. “You’re saying you are writing celebrity gossip, or are you saying SDR’s doing something illegal?”

I met his gaze. “Yes, illegal stuff. A lot of things.”

“Like what?” Boom asked quietly.

I hesitated, then forced myself to say it. “Human trafficking. Drugs. Exploiting minors who want to become idols. Using the company as a front for other crimes. Maybe you guys already noticed how some young trainees disappear after a few days or weeks.”

No one spoke. Even the clock ticking on the wall sounded too loud.

Yujun’s face went pale. He looked like he wanted to disappear. I couldn’t blame him.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” I continued, my voice trembling. “At first, I thought I could just collect evidence quietly and leave. But then I met you guys. I saw how hard you worked. How real you were. I didn’t want to betray you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Geon’s tone was sharp, defensive. “You’ve been living with us for months, Minjae. Eating with us. Laughing with us. And the whole time, you were— what? Spying?”

That word — spying — stung worse than I expected.

“I wasn’t spying on you,” I said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. I swear. It has nothing to do with V1NE. It was all about the higher ups at SDR. It started as work, yes, but… it stopped being work a long time ago. I care about this group. About all of you. About what we built together.”

Boom leaned forward, voice soft. “Then what happens now? You’re gonna… expose SDR? What about us?”

“That’s why I’m telling you,” I said. “Because if we don’t do something, they’ll keep hurting people. Yujun isn’t the first. And he won’t be the last.”

Yujun flinched. Jiahao put a hand on his shoulder, protective.

Renji finally spoke. His voice was calm, but firm. “We’re not trying to ruin what we have. We’re trying to protect it. Protect you. All of us.”

Geon rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something under his breath. Bang was silent — unusually so — his gaze fixed on the floor.

Finally, he said, “If this is true… then SDR could destroy us before we even get started. They’d blacklist us, ruin our names.”

“I know,” I admitted. “That’s why we’re doing this carefully. Hana — my contact from Apex Weekly — she’s working on a way out for us. If we can help expose SDR safely, we’ll have a place waiting for us at Yellow Entertainment.”

“That’s suicide,” Geon said. “You think you can just take down SDR and walk away? They’ve buried worse scandals before. They’ll bury you too. Do you guys not remember Han Byeomseok, the actor under SDR who 'killed himself'? He had multiple sketchy weapon trading companies under his name that he had no buisness with and never got a penny from those. It was for money laundering for SDR. The forensic report stated he was physically abused and assaulted. SDR buried that. Even his mother disappeared.”

His words hit me hard, mostly because I’d already thought the same thing.

But before I could answer, Jiahao spoke up. “He’s not lying,” he said quietly. “I’ve personally seen what Chihwei’s capable of. And he's just a shareholder at SDR. What the other people running this company could do? I don't want to let them keep doing it to other victims.”

That silenced everyone. Jiahao’s voice carried something heavy — something that made Boom and Bang exchange uncertain glances.

“Hyung…” Yujun’s voice was small as he turned to Jiahao. “Are we going to be okay?”

Jiahao swallowed hard. “If we do nothing, no. If we stand together — maybe.”

For a long moment, nobody said anything. Just the sound of the air conditioner and the faint traffic outside the dorm window.

Renji finally reached out, his hand brushing against mine, grounding me again.

“I know it’s a lot,” I said quietly. “But I’m done lying. You deserve to know the truth. And I’m asking for your trust — not as a journalist, but as your member. As your friend.”

Boom was the first to break the silence. “I don’t know what to think,” he said, his tone uncertain but not angry. “But… I believe you care about us. That much’s real.”

Bang nodded slowly. “Yeah. Same.”

Geon sighed, leaning back. “You’re insane, you know that? But… I get it. You’re trying to do the right thing. Just don’t get us killed, alright?”

That earned a weak laugh from Boom, and the tension cracked just slightly — like a window letting in a little bit of air after being shut too long.

Yujun didn’t speak. He was staring at the floor, trembling just a little. Jiahao squeezed his shoulder again. “We’ll protect you,” he said softly.

I felt something twist in my chest — guilt, relief, maybe both.

Renji’s hand tightened around mine, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

After that, the conversation just… fizzled out.

No one stormed off, but no one smiled either. Questions and doubt lingered in the air. The kind of silence that followed wasn’t angry — just… hollow. Like we’d all stepped off a cliff together and were still waiting to hit the ground.

One by one, the members retreated to their rooms. Geon was the first to go, muttering something about needing air. Boom followed soon after, saying he wanted to shower. Bang stayed in the living room the longest, just staring at the blank TV screen until Jiahao told him gently to get some rest.

That left Renji, Jiahao, and Yujun and me.

Yujun hadn’t said much since the start. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hugging a pillow to his chest. His face looked wiped out — pale, puffy around the eyes. Jiahao sat beside him quietly, running a hand through his hair like an older brother.

I didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything left to say, really.

When Yujun finally looked up at me, his expression was unreadable. “You knew,” he said softly. “About… about what kind of person he is.”

My throat tightened. “Not at first. I had no idea until-”

“I know,” he said, cutting me off. His voice cracked slightly, and my heart just broke. “I know you didn’t want that. It’s just… I wish someone had stopped him sooner. No... Stopped me sooner. I can't believe I fell for this shit...”

Jiahao’s hand stilled on Yujun’s hair, his jaw tightening. I caught that flicker of pain in his eyes again.

Renji spoke before I could. “We will stop him,” he said. “For good.”

That was all Yujun needed to hear. He nodded faintly, then got up and went to his room. Jiahao followed him soon after, glancing back at me before he closed the door — a look that said more than words could. Something between gratitude and shared burden.