✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The old leather sofa in the center of The Hub--a glorious, overstuffed wreck that had survived spilled coffee, impromptu naps, and at least three major paint jobs--didn't just hold seven people, it held seven histories woven into one tapestry.

Tonight, it held six.

The light was always soft here, filtered through the massive industrial windows of the converted warehouse that served as their sanctuary, their studio, and their sometimes-home. The air smelled of old paper, new paint, and the faint, persistent scent of Yoongi’s forgotten coffee grounds. Six of them were draped across the sofa and the surrounding floor, watching a grainy film projected onto the far wall—an old, cherished recording from years ago.

On the screen, their younger selves—loud, messy, and unbearably hopeful—were laughing. ​Jimin was the first to speak, his voice a low, warm hum in the quiet room.

Taehyung didn’t move. He was stretched out on the floor, his eyes wide and unblinking, tracking the movements of the past. Beside him, a blanket lay neatly folded—a blanket meant for a seventh person. He reached out a hand, not quite touching the empty space next to him, tracing the curve of the unseen body that should have been there.

°•Believed in forever•°

A beat of silence followed, thick and fraught with things none of them would name: the fear of fragility, the knowledge that even the strongest foundations could be quietly undermined, and the acute, aching loneliness of an intentional absence. ​The camera on the screen in the past wobbled, tilting down to capture a pair of worn canvas shoes—shoes belonging to the one who wasn't there—before the footage ended with a final, bright flash of light.

Yoongi, who had been leaning against the sound mixing desk, his silhouette dark against the city glow, pushed off the wood with a sigh that carried the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

As the room settled back into a heavy silence, a truth pressed down on all six of them—a truth learned only recently: Trust, they discovered, was not a contract signed in crayon. It was a structure built on moments, and it could be dismantled, piece by quiet piece, until all that remained was the dark, hollow echo of a promise whispered long ago.

And the question: How do you rebuild when the foundation itself has cracked?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

𝒟𝒾𝓈𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓇: 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 "𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆" 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒕, 𝒔𝒐 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅, 𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒚𝒃𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒅, 𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

​The Hub was never truly quiet. Even at 7:00 AM on a Tuesday, when the main café floor was still dark and the street outside was barely stirring, there was always the low, comforting hum of life. It might be the deep, thrumming bass of a track Yoongi had left looping in his isolated sound booth, the faint clatter of a coffee cup being rinsed by Jimin, or the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of Suzy already at the central work table, correcting a screenplay draft.

This morning, the sound was the deliberate, slightly aggressive slicing of fruit, a sound only Jungkook made when he was immersed in his own world.

He stood in the massive, utilitarian kitchen space that backed the café, bathed in the cool light filtering through the steel-framed window. His energy was a focused, contained intensity, even the simple act of preparing breakfast became a ritual. He was wearing an oversized grey sweatshirt—one that smelled faintly of Taehyung’s preferred cologne and had likely been ‘borrowed’—and his movements were efficient and silent.

Jungkook was the quiet observer of the group, the lens through which their chaos was often captured. He was the one who remembered the small details, the photographer who saw the shadows others missed, and this intensity sometimes made him seem aloof, though his loyalty burned hotter than anyone’s.

The rhythmic slicing stopped as a soft, sleep-slurred voice drifted in from the archway.

Taehyung appeared, leaning against the door frame, a study in languid beauty against Jungkook’s sharpness. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and he was wearing only a loose pair of joggers. He wasn’t looking at the fruit; he was looking at Jungkook, a soft, inherent focus that had always defined their connection. ​Jungkook didn’t turn fully, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, private smile—a micro-expression only Taehyung would have caught.

Taehyung pushed off the frame and drifted closer, the way light seeks heat. He didn’t invade Jungkook’s workspace, but settled onto the stool right behind him, resting his chin on Jungkook’s shoulder, a gesture so effortless, so ingrained, it drew no comment.

He paused his work just long enough to lean his head back against Taehyung’s, a silent acceptance of the intrusion. This was their rhythm: a closeness that bypassed the need for constant words, where proximity itself was communication. ​It was this kind of quiet, absolute comfort that was the envy and the bedrock of their group. Jimin often joked that watching Taehyung and Jungkook interact was like watching a complex, beautiful machine run perfectly; they just fit.

The morning soon escalated into the typical glorious chaos of the Core Seven.​ Jimin was the first to arrive fully dressed and energized, carrying a stack of fresh vinyl records he intended to play loudly in the café when it opened. He was the emotional barometer of the group—vibrant, empathetic, and often the first one to notice a shift in the temperature of the room.

Jimin announced, clapping his hands as he entered the kitchen, his eyes immediately assessing the two figures still connected by a shoulder and a chin.

Jungkook simply placed a perfect bowl of fruit, yogurt, and toasted granola in front of Taehyung, who straightened immediately, his eyes widening with a pout, making Jimin and Jungkook, both chuckle.

​A moment later, the efficient, grounded presence of Wendy and Suzy arrived. They were the group’s navigators—Wendy, sharp and financially shrewd, and Suzy, the pragmatic, calm creative. They were already deep in discussion about the studio’s next quarterly budget.

Suzy retorted, taking a piece of fruit straight from Jungkook’s bowl, a freedom earned by years of shared space and friendship.

Wendy corrected, the slight tension in her voice betraying that the budget truly was tight.

Then came the gravitational pull of the older members. Yoongi, the producer, emerged from his booth wearing the universal uniform of a creative deep into a project: clothes worn for days and an air of detached genius. He didn't speak, just grabbed a coffee and settled into a corner, already halfway back into his sound mix. Yoongi was the silent protector, the one who saw everything but only commented when absolutely necessary, often with brutal honesty.

Finally, Bogum arrived, bringing with him the settled calm of experience. As the oldest and most established, he was the mentor, the one whose opinion carried the most weight.

Bogum said, his smile genuine as he surveyed the mess of his people, projects spilled on the table, and most importantly food.

Yoongi merely lifted his mug in a non-committal salute.

The easy conversation and planning continued until mid-afternoon, when the first tremor of unease interrupted their flow. ​The group was gathered in the sound mixing room, reviewing concept art. Yoongi was trying to explain the complexities of audio mastering, a topic met with varying levels of enthusiasm.

Jungkook, already familiar with the technical requirements, was casually scrolling through his external hard drive on his laptop, trying to find a high-resolution reference photo for Taehyung’s visual concept. ​He frowned.

Yoongi said without looking, used to Jungkook’s disorganized filing system. ​Jungkook clicked through two folders, then three.

But Jungkook’s face was serious. He checked the main Hub cloud storage, which they had all paid a fortune for. He checked the physical backup drive that was supposed to live in the locked cabinet.

​A cold stillness descended on the group. A ten-terabyte external drive, filled with years of professional work, gone.

He didn't sound accusatory, just factual. But the facts, cold and clean, were the first tiny chip in the massive, comfortable armor of their trust. They looked at each other—seven people who shared everything, seven people who had nothing to hide—and yet, the drive was definitively, gone. It wasn't misplaced ofcourse, and they knew it.

​It was the first small tremor that signaled a major, devastating collapse was yet to come.

– – – ✦ – – –

—Info

The Hub is a large, cool warehouse in Seoul that the seven friends bought and converted into their business headquarters and living space. ​ •​A Café and Lounge: The main, public area where they sell coffee and hold meetings. It has a big, worn leather sofa where they relax together. (Jimin manages this.) •​Art and Performance Space: A large open floor for exhibitions and performances. (Taehyung uses this for projections and Jimin for dancing.) •​Technical Studios: Dedicated, quiet rooms for specialized work. —​》Yoongi has a soundproof booth for music production. —》​Jungkook has a darkroom for photography and editing. •​Business Offices: Spaces used by Suzy and Wendy to handle all the finances, contracts, and planning. •​Mentor's Base: Bogum uses the general office space to oversee the entire operation.

Jeon Jungkook ✧Photographer, Filmmaker, Technical Expert ✧ The Quiet Observer. Intense, fiercely loyal, and stoic. His natural silence makes him difficult to read. Closest to Taehyung (his emotional anchor). Deep respect for Yoongi and Bogum. And his noona's aren't less to him, and Jimin; is like the base of his artistry.

Kim Taehyung ✧Visual Artist, Performer ✧The Emotional Anchor. Expressive, sensitive, and driven by passion. Closest to Jungkook, Close bond with Jimin.

Min Yoongi ✧Music Producer, Sound Engineer ✧The Logical Anchor. Highly intelligent, skeptical, and grounded in logic and facts. Closest to Bogum (they share rational thinking). Deep bond with Jimin (emotional balance).

Park Jimin ✧Performer, Dancer, Café Manager ✧The Emotional Barometer. Warm, empathetic, and highly attuned to the feelings of the group. He acts as the mediator and emotional shield, particularly for Taehyung, but struggles with his own pain over anything, not wanting to voice out. Deep bond with Yoongi and Bogum.

Seo Wendy ✧Financial Strategist, Logistics Manager. ✧ Highly competent and protective of the group's assets. She handles the external business pressures and finances. Close to Suzy. (A/N: Sometimes it's the girls thingy🤫)

Bae Suzy ✧Writer, Creative Director ✧The Pragmatist. Sharp, focused, and decisive, particularly in professional crises. She focuses on maintaining the group's external image and financial viability, often pushing for bold, risky strategies. More Close to Wendy.

✧Meaning of Pragmatist : A pragmatist is someone who focuses on practical results and real-world effectiveness rather than theories, ideals, or abstract principles.

Park Bogum ✧Business Advisor, Silent Investor ✧The Voice of Wisdom. The Oldest of the group, composed, and the non-emotional grounding force. He balances Yoongi's logic with practical wisdom, trying to save The Hub's structure while minimizing emotional damage. His own past failure adds nuance to his leadership. Trusted Mentor to all, especially to Yoongi.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The incident of the missing hard drive, while professionally damaging, was initially filed away as a strange anomaly. It was baffling and unsettling, but ultimately, they were a seven-headed machine; they could absorb the loss and rebuild the files. Yet, the atmosphere inside The Hub had subtly changed, like the air pressure before a storm.

Three days later, the tension was a quiet, almost physical weight.

Yoongi was the most visibly affected. He lived by logic and structure, and the illogical disappearance of secure equipment chipped away at his mental foundation because it just didn't set right. He sat hunched in his sound booth—the only truly private, soundproof space in the entire warehouse—the soft light from his monitors throwing sharp lines across his face. He wasn't working; he was running internal security checks on their network, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a focused intensity that bordered on anger.

Jimin, sensing the freeze, did what he always did: he came with warmth and understanding. ​He pushed open the booth door just enough to slide in a perfectly warmed mug of tea, blended exactly the way Yoongi preferred—strong, with a hint of cinnamon.

Settling on the carpeted floor near the door. He didn’t press for conversation, just existed in the space, looking around thinking, when he spoke softly—

Yoongi finally paused his typing, leaning back and running a hand through his hair.

Yoongi stressed the number, his tone layered with frustration.

He picked up the mug, inhaling the steam, letting the warmth slowly seep into his tired joints.

Jimin knew Yoongi was right, and the realization made his chest ache. He thought about Taehyung, who had been unnaturally quiet since the drive vanished, spending hours in his own visual art space, the usual shared mischief with Jungkook replaced by a kind of focused solitude. He thought about Jungkook, who was furious at the technical failure but strangely distant from the emotional fallout.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Later that afternoon, the tension broke, not through confrontation, but through a loud, sickening smash.

The sound drew everyone to the main café floor, which was now filled with the acrid smell of burnt wiring.

Suzy was standing near the digital projector mount, her hand clamped over her mouth. The massive, custom-built projector—the centerpiece of their public gallery space, used for Jungkook's film nights and Taehyung’s digital installations—was lying on the floor. The casing was cracked, the lens shattered, and a thin wisp of smoke curled from the broken wire connection.

Wendy immediately knelt down, inspecting the debris with a practical eye. She pointed to the mounting bracket on the wall.

This time, the silence was different—it was heavy with collective fear, because the incident was clearly targeted, not random. It was designed to cause expensive damage and, potentially, injury because a moment more and Suzy would have been definitely injured. ​Taehyung, who had rushed out of his studio, looked pale.

Jungkook was the last to arrive, having been out shooting street photography for a personal project. He surveyed the damage, his eyes sharp and assessing.

The statement hung in the air, cold and undeniable. Only the seven of them had been in the building. ​The crisis led to a desperate, tense strategy meeting in the small, rarely used back office. The heavy wood table felt like a battlefield.

This suggestion, though kinder than direct accusation, was met with instant, emotional pushback.

The question lingered, poisoning the air. ​Just then, Wendy's phone buzzed with an email alert. She checked it, her eyes widening in disbelief, then narrowing in anger.

Just as the realization settled, Bogum’s phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, his expression turning rigid. He pushed the table away and stepped into the hallway to take the call, but his lowered voice was still audible to the seven strained ears left in the office.

The mention of the name Im Seojin—a former collaborator of Bogum’s, a rival entertainment executive who specialized in ‘acquiring’ troubled artists and venues—sent a collective jolt through the room. ​Bogum returned, his composure perfectly restored, but his eyes were hard.

Yoongi countered, his gaze sweeping over the faces, resting for a fractional, agonizing second longer on Jungkook, the one whose silence always seemed the hardest to read.

Jungkook met Yoongi's eyes, his own dark and intense. He felt the weight of the collective scrutiny, and for the first time, he flinched. He wasn't afraid of the accusation; he was terrified of the doubt.

°•°•°•°

That evening, Jungkook retreated to the rooftop access—a quiet, secret space they rarely used. He sat on the cold concrete ledge, looking out over the glittering, uncaring city. ​Taehyung found him there two hours later, wrapped in the same borrowed grey sweatshirt. He sat down beside him, shoulder to shoulder, recreating their safe space.

Taehyung instantly reached out, pulling Jungkook against his side, his arm clamped around his shoulder—a desperate, fierce hold. This was his refusal to accept the fractured reality.

Jungkook closed his eyes, leaning into the warmth, because he knows he needed it, more than anything.

But even in that fierce embrace, Jungkook felt the faint, subtle tremor of Taehyung’s doubt—not of Jungkook’s loyalty, but of his sanity. Taehyung’s hand kept rubbing his shoulder, a gesture of fierce protection, but also a silent check: Are you okay? Did you snap? Did something break inside you that you’re not telling me?

Jungkook knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the core, that Taehyung would hold onto his belief in Jungkook longer than anyone else. But if Taehyung ever let go, even for a moment, Jungkook knew he would fall, and there would be nothing left to save him.

The night was cold, and the crack in the foundation felt impossibly wide.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧