kayn

if i'm S, can you be my N?

[iwaikayn]

Kayn's Corner

‧₊ ♪˚⊹ 21, he/him, PH. ⊹₊⟡⋆ COER, 사이, ALPHAZ, WIZ*ONE.

If I'm S, can you be my N?

not every story ends gently. some stories are softer than others, some aren't.

A writer mainly for Cortis and TWS.

M!reader or gn!reader, would only write f!reader on some occasions.

I write for the sake of writing, for my own pleasure.

I'm not accepting NSWF requests!

MASTERLIST | REQUESTS | RECENT WORK | TAGLIST

Kayn est. 2026

[iwaikayn]

I HAVEN'T POSTED IN A FIC IN A WHILE HOLY SHIT.

[iwaikayn]

gray skies, green motives

Cortis Martin x m!reader one shot short fic / est. 1.4k words.

Synopsis:

You lost an important letter with the clock ticking down in urgency, and only Martin—tall, calm, and secretly a little smitten—can help. What starts as a frantic search through halls and classrooms quickly spirals into chaos, laughter, and unexpected moments neither of them will forget.

Author's Note:

This took me DAAAAAAAYSSS to write since writing non-group fluff is new to me. I learned a lot about myself while writing this which kinda is a good thing, I guess? So enjoy this Martin fic ya'll voted on the poll I made! Love ya'll!

I realized it too late.

The letter—the one for the school organization, the one that had to be submitted before the bell—was gone. Panic hit me like a punch to the chest. My bag was empty. My locker had been checked twice. My mind raced faster than my legs could carry me.

“Hey.”

I looked up. Martin, tall as always, calm as ever, standing at the library doorway like he’d been expecting this exact disaster. My chest tightened. My stomach, too. I haven't eaten yet ever since I knew the letter was missing—three hours ago.

“Did you see it?” I asked, voice tight, almost trembling.

Martin tilted his head, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!” I wanted to scream. “I need it! Before the school bell rings in the afternoon!”

“Then we’ll find it.” His voice was calm, steady, like the world hadn’t tipped into chaos around him. However, I didn’t have the luxury of calm.

The library became a maze of panic. My eyes darted between shelves and desks, flipping through notebooks and stray papers. The letter wasn’t there. Not on the floor. Not on any desk. Not anywhere.

“Here,” Martin said, kneeling beside me to pick up a few sheets I'd dropped. Our fingers brushed—too long, like an electric current. My own heart skipped a beat, and I cursed silently.

“Library’s clear,” Martin said after a few minutes. Calm—impossibly calm.

“Well, it touched me,” I muttered, shoving the papers back in my bag.

Martin raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. That annoyed me more. He wanted to help—yet he's not as panicky as I was.

Next, the halls. The corridors of the literature classrooms, my next period, the place I'd seen Martin sitting during calculus last week. I ran ahead, kicking at stray papers. Martin followed at his long, easy pace. He never got tired, but I barely kept up. His long strides made one step, while I have done three. But my chest was pounding like a drum solo, and not all of it from the running.

“Calculus classroom,” I said, gasping, voice almost breaking. “Maybe it fell under the desk.”

Martin looked at me, tall, patient, annoyance hiding under that calm mask. “You’re asking me to check my own classroom?”

“Yes!” I snapped. “If anyone knows—”

“Fine,” Martin said, shrugging, voice soft but teasing. “I’ll help. But you owe me a coffee after this.”

I just rolled my eyes, barely hearing him over the pounding of my heart in hurry and exhaustion. I didn’t have time for coffee—I barely even had time to breathe. Catching up with this tall bamboo wasn't an easy feat at all.

The calculus classroom smelled of chalk and old books. My desk was a disaster zone, papers strewn across the floor. Martin crouched, scanning under desks, peeking into lockers. His calm was maddening.

“Under here?” he asked, leaning forward. My fingers brushed his again.

“Not here,” I whispered, chest tight.

Then the sky cracked.

Rain poured in torrents, slanting through the classroom windows. The first drops pattered against the corridor floor, then the roof, then the walls. A storm had come fast, unexpectedly.

“No. No, no, no,” I muttered, panic clawing at my chest. My bag, my papers… they'd be wet before it even reaches the org room.

Martin didn’t hesitate. He reached out, took my hand.

Warm, solid, and grounding. His long fingers curled around mine like an anchor in the storm.

“Come on,” he said.

“What? We’ll get soaked!”

“So?” His voice was calm, unflappable. “Is it important that we’re crazy, or that we find that letter?”

I stared at him. Heart thudding, breath caught. The storm outside mirrored the storm inside me. Wet hair clung to my forehead. His hand in mine was steady, unshakable. And I let him pull me out into the rain.

The world outside was chaos. Rain wet my hair and clothes, ran down my face, drenched shoes squelching against puddles—which is a feeling I absolutely hate. My heart pounded, lungs burning.

I laughed, half hysteria, half disbelief. Martin’s long legs carried him with ease, but I stumbled, slipping.

He caught me without thinking, pulling me closer. My chest pressed against his, drenched and warm. My breath caught. His eyes met mine—dark, calm, teasing—and my knees nearly gave out.

“We have to find it!” I shouted over the roar of the storm, voice raw.

“I know,” he said, calm as always. “But hurry.”

We moved through puddles and mud, slipping, flailing, laughing at ourselves. I couldn’t tell if my clothes were heavier from rain or from my heart beating too fast.

Finally, we paused under a tree, leaves dripping water. I gasped, bending over, hands on my knees. Martin stood tall beside me, hair plastered to his forehead, rain running down his face, tall and perfect and utterly maddening.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm, steady, patient. “You’re going to ruin yourself.”

“I’m already ruined!” I shot back, breathless. “And the letter—”

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, producing the letter, dry, untouched, pristine. My eyes widened.

“You… you had it the whole time?” I whispered. He just laughed.

"I found it at the library. I just didn't tell you."

He smirked, tall and drenched, leaning just enough to make my stomach flutter. “I wanted to spend more time with you. Instead of just handing it over and ending the moment.”

My chest felt like it might burst. The rain soaked everything, but somehow the world narrowed to him. His calm, his height, his playful grin, the way his hair stuck to his forehead. I didn’t know whether to be angry, relieved, or just… melt.

“You’re insane,” I finally whispered.

“And you love it,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips.

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have words for everything I felt. My heart was pounding. My chest hurt. The rain was cold, and yet I didn’t care.

Not really.

The bell rang, distant now, calling the day forward. We couldn’t stay here forever, wet and chaotic.

I looked up at him, drenched hair plastered to his forehead, tall frame leaning slightly toward me, grin still teasing.

“Next time,” I said, voice quieter now, smirk curling, “just tell me you have it.”

He laughed, a low, soft sound that made my heart jump. “And miss a chance to run through the rain with you?”

I groaned but laughed too. My lungs were burning, chest pounding. “Fine. You win.”

His hand lingered in mine a little longer as we trudged back inside. The letter would be submitted. Everything would be fine. But I didn’t care. Because the storm outside had given us a moment.

Messy.

Chaotic.

Drenched.

Unhinged.

Perfect.

As we reached the front doors, he leaned down just slightly—tall enough that he had to bend a little—to brush a raindrop off my cheek. His hand lingered near my jaw, and before I could stop myself, I grinned.

“You know,” he said softly, “we make a pretty good team.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah… we do.”

His smile widened. And for a second, soaked and muddy and utterly ridiculous, the world felt small, just ours.

Then he tugged gently at my sleeve. “Race you to the lockers?”

I laughed, heart light, lungs still burning, and sprinted forward, him right behind me. The rain soaked us through, the mud squelched beneath our shoes, and I felt alive in a way that made the chaos worth it.

For the first time that day, I didn’t worry about deadlines or lost letters. Not when moments like this existed—messy, drenched, and full of laughter.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something I wouldn’t want to end.

[iwaikayn]

gray skies, green motives

Cortis Martin x m!reader one shot short fic / est. 1.4k words.

Synopsis:

You lost an important letter with the clock ticking down in urgency, and only Martin—tall, calm, and secretly a little smitten—can help. What starts as a frantic search through halls and classrooms quickly spirals into chaos, laughter, and unexpected moments neither of them will forget.

Author's Note:

This took me DAAAAAAAYSSS to write since writing non-group fluff is new to me. I learned a lot about myself while writing this which kinda is a good thing, I guess? So enjoy this Martin fic ya'll voted on the poll I made! Love ya'll!

I realized it too late.

The letter—the one for the school organization, the one that had to be submitted before the bell—was gone. Panic hit me like a punch to the chest. My bag was empty. My locker had been checked twice. My mind raced faster than my legs could carry me.

“Hey.”

I looked up. Martin, tall as always, calm as ever, standing at the library doorway like he’d been expecting this exact disaster. My chest tightened. My stomach, too. I haven't eaten yet ever since I knew the letter was missing—three hours ago.

“Did you see it?” I asked, voice tight, almost trembling.

Martin tilted his head, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!” I wanted to scream. “I need it! Before the school bell rings in the afternoon!”

“Then we’ll find it.” His voice was calm, steady, like the world hadn’t tipped into chaos around him. However, I didn’t have the luxury of calm.

The library became a maze of panic. My eyes darted between shelves and desks, flipping through notebooks and stray papers. The letter wasn’t there. Not on the floor. Not on any desk. Not anywhere.

“Here,” Martin said, kneeling beside me to pick up a few sheets I'd dropped. Our fingers brushed—too long, like an electric current. My own heart skipped a beat, and I cursed silently.

“Library’s clear,” Martin said after a few minutes. Calm—impossibly calm.

“Well, it touched me,” I muttered, shoving the papers back in my bag.

Martin raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. That annoyed me more. He wanted to help—yet he's not as panicky as I was.

Next, the halls. The corridors of the literature classrooms, my next period, the place I'd seen Martin sitting during calculus last week. I ran ahead, kicking at stray papers. Martin followed at his long, easy pace. He never got tired, but I barely kept up. His long strides made one step, while I have done three. But my chest was pounding like a drum solo, and not all of it from the running.

“Calculus classroom,” I said, gasping, voice almost breaking. “Maybe it fell under the desk.”

Martin looked at me, tall, patient, annoyance hiding under that calm mask. “You’re asking me to check my own classroom?”

“Yes!” I snapped. “If anyone knows—”

“Fine,” Martin said, shrugging, voice soft but teasing. “I’ll help. But you owe me a coffee after this.”

I just rolled my eyes, barely hearing him over the pounding of my heart in hurry and exhaustion. I didn’t have time for coffee—I barely even had time to breathe. Catching up with this tall bamboo wasn't an easy feat at all.

The calculus classroom smelled of chalk and old books. My desk was a disaster zone, papers strewn across the floor. Martin crouched, scanning under desks, peeking into lockers. His calm was maddening.

“Under here?” he asked, leaning forward. My fingers brushed his again.

“Not here,” I whispered, chest tight.

Then the sky cracked.

Rain poured in torrents, slanting through the classroom windows. The first drops pattered against the corridor floor, then the roof, then the walls. A storm had come fast, unexpectedly.

“No. No, no, no,” I muttered, panic clawing at my chest. My bag, my papers… they'd be wet before it even reaches the org room.

Martin didn’t hesitate. He reached out, took my hand.

Warm, solid, and grounding. His long fingers curled around mine like an anchor in the storm.

“Come on,” he said.

“What? We’ll get soaked!”

“So?” His voice was calm, unflappable. “Is it important that we’re crazy, or that we find that letter?”

I stared at him. Heart thudding, breath caught. The storm outside mirrored the storm inside me. Wet hair clung to my forehead. His hand in mine was steady, unshakable. And I let him pull me out into the rain.

The world outside was chaos. Rain wet my hair and clothes, ran down my face, drenched shoes squelching against puddles—which is a feeling I absolutely hate. My heart pounded, lungs burning.

I laughed, half hysteria, half disbelief. Martin’s long legs carried him with ease, but I stumbled, slipping.

He caught me without thinking, pulling me closer. My chest pressed against his, drenched and warm. My breath caught. His eyes met mine—dark, calm, teasing—and my knees nearly gave out.

“We have to find it!” I shouted over the roar of the storm, voice raw.

“I know,” he said, calm as always. “But hurry.”

We moved through puddles and mud, slipping, flailing, laughing at ourselves. I couldn’t tell if my clothes were heavier from rain or from my heart beating too fast.

Finally, we paused under a tree, leaves dripping water. I gasped, bending over, hands on my knees. Martin stood tall beside me, hair plastered to his forehead, rain running down his face, tall and perfect and utterly maddening.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm, steady, patient. “You’re going to ruin yourself.”

“I’m already ruined!” I shot back, breathless. “And the letter—”

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, producing the letter, dry, untouched, pristine. My eyes widened.

“You… you had it the whole time?” I whispered. He just laughed.

"I found it at the library. I just didn't tell you."

He smirked, tall and drenched, leaning just enough to make my stomach flutter. “I wanted to spend more time with you. Instead of just handing it over and ending the moment.”

My chest felt like it might burst. The rain soaked everything, but somehow the world narrowed to him. His calm, his height, his playful grin, the way his hair stuck to his forehead. I didn’t know whether to be angry, relieved, or just… melt.

“You’re insane,” I finally whispered.

“And you love it,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips.

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have words for everything I felt. My heart was pounding. My chest hurt. The rain was cold, and yet I didn’t care.

Not really.

The bell rang, distant now, calling the day forward. We couldn’t stay here forever, wet and chaotic.

I looked up at him, drenched hair plastered to his forehead, tall frame leaning slightly toward me, grin still teasing.

“Next time,” I said, voice quieter now, smirk curling, “just tell me you have it.”

He laughed, a low, soft sound that made my heart jump. “And miss a chance to run through the rain with you?”

I groaned but laughed too. My lungs were burning, chest pounding. “Fine. You win.”

His hand lingered in mine a little longer as we trudged back inside. The letter would be submitted. Everything would be fine. But I didn’t care. Because the storm outside had given us a moment.

Messy.

Chaotic.

Drenched.

Unhinged.

Perfect.

As we reached the front doors, he leaned down just slightly—tall enough that he had to bend a little—to brush a raindrop off my cheek. His hand lingered near my jaw, and before I could stop myself, I grinned.

“You know,” he said softly, “we make a pretty good team.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah… we do.”

His smile widened. And for a second, soaked and muddy and utterly ridiculous, the world felt small, just ours.

Then he tugged gently at my sleeve. “Race you to the lockers?”

I laughed, heart light, lungs still burning, and sprinted forward, him right behind me. The rain soaked us through, the mud squelched beneath our shoes, and I felt alive in a way that made the chaos worth it.

For the first time that day, I didn’t worry about deadlines or lost letters. Not when moments like this existed—messy, drenched, and full of laughter.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something I wouldn’t want to end.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, I'm supposed to debut with.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

CHAPTER 1

Author's Note:

Hello everyone, I'm back again! I caved and wrote this within 15 long hours straight, and maybe I will be back after quite some time. I already laid out the plot beforehand, I just needed the time and energy to write everything out before posting it! I also have school and a part time job, so please bear with me. Let me know your insights in the comments! I would love to hear your thoughts.

I will be posting this series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

If you want to learn more about this, you can view this Reddit post.

Check my masterlist for more fics!

Click the masterlinks below for the other chapters!

Part I (you're here) | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

To the team I’m supposed to debut with one day,

It’s almost 3 AM in the morning, and the practice room mirrors are still fogged from hours of dancing.

The speakers stopped playing a while ago, but I swear the beat is still echoing in my head. Every time I close my eyes, I can see the choreography again—James counting the steps, the turns, the timing of the chorus. Everyone moved in sync, counting each step like our lives depend on it.

One, two, three, four—

Again.

One, two, three, four— and there I was, slipping on the spin move by the second chorus.

I can hear Juhoon laughing quietly, while Keonho bursting into tears. Seonghyeon just threw a white towel on my face as I laid down the sweat-laced wooden floor. Remind me again, how did I end up practicing with these dorks? I don't even know.

My legs are sore, my shirt is damp with sweat, and the wooden floor etched with a hundred footprints, feels cold where I’m sitting. Someone left a half-empty water bottle near the wall mirror, which Seonghyeon played bottle-flip afterwards. There are towels piled on the bench—wet and dry ones, and one of the ceiling lights flickers faintly like it’s just as tired as the rest of us.

Everyone else has already gone back to the dorm.

Well… almost everyone.

Martin said he was leaving thirty minutes ago, but he forgot his jacket again. It’s still hanging over the chair in the corner, like it always is. I should probably make a mental note and bring it back with me later before he starts complaining about the cold again tomorrow.

And here I am now, alone at 3:30 AM, still in the corner of the now dark practice room. I lit the lampshade by the corner to give me some light to work on. The picture frame on the side caught my attention as the light dawns on it—it was the six of us, drenched in hardworked sweat. Smiling through every sore body pain possible to mankind.

I flip open my notebook. My mind speaking through unsaid but written words. The pen in my pocket felt heavy—maybe the ink felt ten times heavier? I scrolled through the filled up pages etched with my handwriting, until I reach a blank, empty one.

I don’t even know why am I even writing this.

It’s not like I plan to send it to anyone.

But sometimes the practice room gets so quiet after everyone leaves that my thoughts start getting loud instead. Far from the loud speakers that echoed the practice room. My mind races through the billowing silence, thinking what would happen when we debut? What the future holds for us?

So I guess this is just… a way to keep them somewhere.

Everyone is so talented. I feel so left behind. James commanding the choreography, Martin and Seonghyeon's music talents give quite an impression on what our sound would—you know, sound like? And then there's Juhoon and Keonho being ace dancers and singers.

Me?

I don't know. Vibes, I think.

Today was exhausting.

Not the bad kind of exhausting—the kind where your body aches but you still feel like you did something right.

James kept pausing the music every five minutes to fix my posture again. I swear he notices every mistake before the mirrors do—and still, I can see Juhoon silently laughing, while Keonho laughs like a deflated balloon.

“Your shoulders,” he said for the tenth time.

“They’re fine,” I told him.

“They are not.” Then he physically pushed them down while the rest of you laughed. I don't know, why are they always picking me to be the worst one when it came to choreos? Am I that bad, or I just can't keep up with them?

I still think he enjoys bossing everyone around more than he admits. His faint smile every damn time he corrects my posture. I can see it.

Seonghyeon messed up the chorus during vocal practice again. His voice cracked halfway through the high note, and he looked so embarrassed he refused to sing for five whole minutes afterward. But for me, he didn't sound bad.

But when he finally tried again, he nailed it.

Perfect.

The manager even clapped a little. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Seonghyeon smile that wide before. Martin's stoic expression changed to a smile. Sometimes, it takes one mistake to make this guy happy. I hope Seonghyeon keeps cracking his voice so that this guy can keep smiling all day.

And as for Martin—

Well, Martin tripped during the dance break.

To be fair, the spin in the second chorus is harder than it looks. I even slipped up earlier! But somehow he managed to crash directly into me while trying to recover.

We both ended up on the floor.

Keonho, again, laughed so hard he nearly forgot to start his part when the music kept going. James just facepalmed, like he didn't even know what to do with us douchebags.

Moments like that feel small when they happen.

Just another mistake during practice.

But sitting here now, in the quiet, I realize those are the moments I remember the most.

The music.

The shouting.

The arguments over choreography.

The stupid jokes that somehow make everyone forget how tired we are.

Sometimes I wonder what it’ll feel like when we finally debut. We talk about it all the time like it’s already guaranteed—the six of us on the stage, just waiting for us somewhere. Like one day we’ll walk out under those bright lights, red carpets, variety shows, and everything will finally make sense.

I try to imagine it sometimes.

The crowd.

The cameras.

The noise.

But every time I picture it, the first thing I see isn’t the audience.

It’s you guys. Standing next to me.

Juhoon adjusting his mic, Seonghyeon pretending he’s not nervous, Martin whispering something ridiculous five seconds before we go on stage, Keonho laughing again for the tenth time, and James being the crazy guy he is, pacing back and forth across the dressing room.

And someone backstage yelling, “Thirty seconds!”

I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that idea.

The idea that one day all of this—these late nights, these endless practices, these quiet moments when nobody is watching—will turn into something bigger.

Right now we’re just trainees.

Just a group of people chasing the same dream. But sometimes, when we’re all dancing in sync and the music hits just right, it almost feels real already. Like we’re not just practicing for the stage, but we’re already standing on it.

I lean my head back against the mirror. The glass is cool against my skin. For a moment, I close my eyes and listen to the air conditioner humming above me. The practice room smells like sweat and cleaning spray.

Someone forgot their bag near the door.

Someone else left a pair of shoes under the bench.

And Martin's jacket still clings to the chair beside me. I should probably bring all of these home, and clean up. Or else, the managers will scold the heck out of me before the sun rises.

All these little things scattered around the room like proof that we were here tonight.

I guess that’s what this place is full of.

Proof.

Proof that we’re trying.

Proof that we’re getting better.

Proof that someday, if we work hard enough, this will all lead somewhere.

Earlier tonight, when everyone was lying on the floor after practice, Keonho suddenly asked a question.

“Do you think we’ll still hang out like this after we debut?”

Nobody answered right away.

I think we were all too tired to think about the future.

But eventually Martin said, “Of course we will.”

Like it was obvious.

Like nothing would change.

I hope he’s right.

I hope the stage lights and the cameras and the fans don’t change the way we laugh at dumb jokes in the practice room. I hope we still eat ramen at midnight and argue over whose turn it is to cook.

I hope we still feel like a team.

Because right now…

Right now this feels like the most important thing in the world.

Not the fame. Not the trophies.

Just this.

All of us in the same room, chasing the same impossible dream.

And maybe that’s enough.

Or maybe one day we’ll look back at this and realize it was the beginning of everything.

Either way, I want to remember it.

Every late night.

Every mistake.

Every laugh.

Even the parts that don’t make it to the stage. This is why I am writing this letter to the five of you.

Because if we really do debut together someday…

I think these nights will matter just as much as the spotlight.

Anyway, it’s getting late. Even the hallway lights outside the practice room just turned off. I should probably head back before the manager realizes I’m still here.

Tomorrow we’ll come back and do it all again.

Practice.

Mess up.

Laugh.

Try again.

That’s what trainees do.

And one day, if we’re lucky—

Maybe the world will finally see the team we’ve already become.

— I.K.

[iwaikayn]

so i just wanna ask how did you formulate the idea behind your To The Team series...? it was so good i'm constantly crying every chapter :(

OKAY SO STORY TIME!

Warning: LONGASS EXPLANATION, YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ IT. BUT IF YOU INSIST, THEN IT'S FINE TOO LMFAO.

PS. THIS ALSO SERVES AS A SPOILER WARNING TOO, SO BE WARNED. IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE SERIES, READ IT FIRST BEFORE READING THIS.

read the series here! <3

So as I previously mentioned before (or if you didn't know yet), I started writing on Wattpad first.

And if y'all came from Wattpad too, y'all would know that there is a stark difference between writing fics on Wattpad than writing fics here on Tumblr. Wattpad is built specifically for in depth storytelling, where readers expect very long chapters, continuous plots, and even series with sequels. Whereas Tumblr readers like shorter, punchy content where emotional or aesthetic writings dominate the platform.

I don't know why but I feel like Tumblr readers like to read in a hurry, which is a world I know nothing about lmao.

And I'm currently still in the middle ground between both worlds. If you read my To The Team series, it was too long for a Tumblr series (with six chapters posted), and too short for a Wattpad fic (with barely ~1000 to ~2000 words per chapter).

What I did with the series, was like how I write my Wattpad stories way back then—open Google Docs, and write the idea or plot behind the series first. This time, the idea of the To The Team series came from a Reddit post claiming that a 6th member was supposed to debut with Cortis. But some commenters claimed that the clips were just normal, and only a blurred out face of a producer or the group's manager.

Ngl, a little insider...

The plot was supposed to be for TWS instead of Cortis.

Because there is indeed a 7th member, but he didn't push through with the debut and left Pledis Entertainment just weeks(?) before D-Day. It was sad because that 7th member was rumored to be Daniel, from I-Land.

Anyway, you can still find relevant posts regarding that. But let's get to the matter at hand LMFAO I'M STRAYING AWAY FROM THE TOPIC.

As I write down ideas—listing them, and crossing out what doesn't work, I came to the idea of a "what if" question.

"What if that producer/staff was indeed a former trainee, but was forced to do something else?"

And during that time, I'm still observing and reading some of my fellow writer's works and all—learning the knicks and knacks of writing on Tumblr, asking for advice, etc. I haven't read one single AU fic where it's in a first person POV letter format, which is my signature style of writing on my Wattpad days way back 2016 to 2020.

So the idea is already there!

What I do is layout everything first. Estimate the number of chapters to be written, that it won't feel rushed when you're reading it. Each chapter needs to have a certain "hook line" where the whole chapter revolves on that line too. The hook line could be a dialogue, or whatever. And make sure that every detail is consistent all throughout the series, because even minor details can make a big difference.

The first chapter was simple, writing something on what I like to call the "pre-emotional damage" chapter. Where Y/N in this case was still a trainee alongside the five members of Cortis—sharing struggles, laughing at shallow jokes and constant mistakes, sharing the feeling of having the same dream and constantly asking what would happen when they'd debut? I wrote it in an informal letter/journal format where Y/N would just talk about his experiences on his notebook, and he doesn't even plan to make the other guys read it.

Second chapter was when I built the conflict. Where he was kicked out without a clear reason. His constant doubts on chapter 1 about himself suddenly hit him like a rock, and it sank him ocean deep. Still the same format, unsent letter/journal.

Third chapter was where the main conflict happened. Y/N leaving the dorms, painting Keonho as the bad guy (sorry Keonho stans love ya'll <3), and a pure emotional chapter in general. Still the same format, unsent letter/journal.

Fourth chapter was still part of the main conflict, where Seonghyeon finds Y/N's notebook. And all hell breaks loose. They read Y/N's three letters (chapters 1 to 3) which deepens Keonho's guilt.

Fifth chapter was ngl a filler chapter since it was kinda unnecessary and it can be merged with chapter 4—now that I think about it. It was when they constantly made efforts to reach Y/N but they can't. Until Juhoon's last line would hit, "He doesn't want to be found." But Seonghyeon said otherwise. To which Juhoon replied "then why didn't he answer?" This is what I meant by having a "hook line". Having Juhoon say that line establishes the group's feeling of being restless, finding Y/N nonstop while also getting sick of not getting responses at all.

Sixth chapter was the revelation, where Y/N was eyed by a sister company with a higher price tag—which made the members mad since it felt like they sold him. The company folds, making Y/N return but not as a member, but something within the company. Making the debut lineup still five, and not six. Y/N ends up being their manager, but Keonho dragged him to the stage to perform, to make up for him and to ease the guilt he's been holding ever since he left the team.

I basically wrote it the way I write my fics in Wattpad. Establish the storyline, build the conflict, intensify, worsen it up, resolve, then end it in a bittersweet way—ALL IN DIFFERENT CHAPTERS. Where in fact, you can just write it in one whole fic. But I just love to make it harder for myself and wrote it separately.

BUT ANYWAY, I hope I answered your question. It's a long ass answer, with very irrelevant parts in between LMFAO. I just love oversharing so much and it's a disease at this point.

That's all! Thank you for the support! These feedbacks and questions make me more motivated to write and be better.

— I.K.

[iwaikayn]

gray skies, green motives

Cortis Martin x m!reader one shot short fic / est. 1.4k words.

Synopsis:

You lost an important letter with the clock ticking down in urgency, and only Martin—tall, calm, and secretly a little smitten—can help. What starts as a frantic search through halls and classrooms quickly spirals into chaos, laughter, and unexpected moments neither of them will forget.

Author's Note:

This took me DAAAAAAAYSSS to write since writing non-group fluff is new to me. I learned a lot about myself while writing this which kinda is a good thing, I guess? So enjoy this Martin fic ya'll voted on the poll I made! Love ya'll!

I realized it too late.

The letter—the one for the school organization, the one that had to be submitted before the bell—was gone. Panic hit me like a punch to the chest. My bag was empty. My locker had been checked twice. My mind raced faster than my legs could carry me.

“Hey.”

I looked up. Martin, tall as always, calm as ever, standing at the library doorway like he’d been expecting this exact disaster. My chest tightened. My stomach, too. I haven't eaten yet ever since I knew the letter was missing—three hours ago.

“Did you see it?” I asked, voice tight, almost trembling.

Martin tilted his head, that faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?!” I wanted to scream. “I need it! Before the school bell rings in the afternoon!”

“Then we’ll find it.” His voice was calm, steady, like the world hadn’t tipped into chaos around him. However, I didn’t have the luxury of calm.

The library became a maze of panic. My eyes darted between shelves and desks, flipping through notebooks and stray papers. The letter wasn’t there. Not on the floor. Not on any desk. Not anywhere.

“Here,” Martin said, kneeling beside me to pick up a few sheets I'd dropped. Our fingers brushed—too long, like an electric current. My own heart skipped a beat, and I cursed silently.

“Library’s clear,” Martin said after a few minutes. Calm—impossibly calm.

“Well, it touched me,” I muttered, shoving the papers back in my bag.

Martin raised an eyebrow but didn’t reply. That annoyed me more. He wanted to help—yet he's not as panicky as I was.

Next, the halls. The corridors of the literature classrooms, my next period, the place I'd seen Martin sitting during calculus last week. I ran ahead, kicking at stray papers. Martin followed at his long, easy pace. He never got tired, but I barely kept up. His long strides made one step, while I have done three. But my chest was pounding like a drum solo, and not all of it from the running.

“Calculus classroom,” I said, gasping, voice almost breaking. “Maybe it fell under the desk.”

Martin looked at me, tall, patient, annoyance hiding under that calm mask. “You’re asking me to check my own classroom?”

“Yes!” I snapped. “If anyone knows—”

“Fine,” Martin said, shrugging, voice soft but teasing. “I’ll help. But you owe me a coffee after this.”

I just rolled my eyes, barely hearing him over the pounding of my heart in hurry and exhaustion. I didn’t have time for coffee—I barely even had time to breathe. Catching up with this tall bamboo wasn't an easy feat at all.

The calculus classroom smelled of chalk and old books. My desk was a disaster zone, papers strewn across the floor. Martin crouched, scanning under desks, peeking into lockers. His calm was maddening.

“Under here?” he asked, leaning forward. My fingers brushed his again.

“Not here,” I whispered, chest tight.

Then the sky cracked.

Rain poured in torrents, slanting through the classroom windows. The first drops pattered against the corridor floor, then the roof, then the walls. A storm had come fast, unexpectedly.

“No. No, no, no,” I muttered, panic clawing at my chest. My bag, my papers… they'd be wet before it even reaches the org room.

Martin didn’t hesitate. He reached out, took my hand.

Warm, solid, and grounding. His long fingers curled around mine like an anchor in the storm.

“Come on,” he said.

“What? We’ll get soaked!”

“So?” His voice was calm, unflappable. “Is it important that we’re crazy, or that we find that letter?”

I stared at him. Heart thudding, breath caught. The storm outside mirrored the storm inside me. Wet hair clung to my forehead. His hand in mine was steady, unshakable. And I let him pull me out into the rain.

The world outside was chaos. Rain wet my hair and clothes, ran down my face, drenched shoes squelching against puddles—which is a feeling I absolutely hate. My heart pounded, lungs burning.

I laughed, half hysteria, half disbelief. Martin’s long legs carried him with ease, but I stumbled, slipping.

He caught me without thinking, pulling me closer. My chest pressed against his, drenched and warm. My breath caught. His eyes met mine—dark, calm, teasing—and my knees nearly gave out.

“We have to find it!” I shouted over the roar of the storm, voice raw.

“I know,” he said, calm as always. “But hurry.”

We moved through puddles and mud, slipping, flailing, laughing at ourselves. I couldn’t tell if my clothes were heavier from rain or from my heart beating too fast.

Finally, we paused under a tree, leaves dripping water. I gasped, bending over, hands on my knees. Martin stood tall beside me, hair plastered to his forehead, rain running down his face, tall and perfect and utterly maddening.

“Hey,” he said, voice calm, steady, patient. “You’re going to ruin yourself.”

“I’m already ruined!” I shot back, breathless. “And the letter—”

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, producing the letter, dry, untouched, pristine. My eyes widened.

“You… you had it the whole time?” I whispered. He just laughed.

"I found it at the library. I just didn't tell you."

He smirked, tall and drenched, leaning just enough to make my stomach flutter. “I wanted to spend more time with you. Instead of just handing it over and ending the moment.”

My chest felt like it might burst. The rain soaked everything, but somehow the world narrowed to him. His calm, his height, his playful grin, the way his hair stuck to his forehead. I didn’t know whether to be angry, relieved, or just… melt.

“You’re insane,” I finally whispered.

“And you love it,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips.

I rolled my eyes. I didn’t have words for everything I felt. My heart was pounding. My chest hurt. The rain was cold, and yet I didn’t care.

Not really.

The bell rang, distant now, calling the day forward. We couldn’t stay here forever, wet and chaotic.

I looked up at him, drenched hair plastered to his forehead, tall frame leaning slightly toward me, grin still teasing.

“Next time,” I said, voice quieter now, smirk curling, “just tell me you have it.”

He laughed, a low, soft sound that made my heart jump. “And miss a chance to run through the rain with you?”

I groaned but laughed too. My lungs were burning, chest pounding. “Fine. You win.”

His hand lingered in mine a little longer as we trudged back inside. The letter would be submitted. Everything would be fine. But I didn’t care. Because the storm outside had given us a moment.

Messy.

Chaotic.

Drenched.

Unhinged.

Perfect.

As we reached the front doors, he leaned down just slightly—tall enough that he had to bend a little—to brush a raindrop off my cheek. His hand lingered near my jaw, and before I could stop myself, I grinned.

“You know,” he said softly, “we make a pretty good team.”

My chest tightened. “Yeah… we do.”

His smile widened. And for a second, soaked and muddy and utterly ridiculous, the world felt small, just ours.

Then he tugged gently at my sleeve. “Race you to the lockers?”

I laughed, heart light, lungs still burning, and sprinted forward, him right behind me. The rain soaked us through, the mud squelched beneath our shoes, and I felt alive in a way that made the chaos worth it.

For the first time that day, I didn’t worry about deadlines or lost letters. Not when moments like this existed—messy, drenched, and full of laughter.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something I wouldn’t want to end.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, that never left my space empty.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

FINAL CHAPTER

Author's Note:

This is it, the last one. It's been one good of a joyride to write this series. The support feels surreal even though I just started out writing on this platform. I genuinely would like to say thank you to everyone! I wrote my heart out, and it's very fulfilling to see you guys actually appreciate my work. Love ya'll, 🍬! (So I decided to name ya'll 🍬 because it's short for Kayndies, and it's kinda awkward to type it out since it might sound like I'll lowkey die lmfao.)

PS. I might take a short break from writing, maybe four to six days give or take? Not from Tumblr tho. The main reason is basically I need to edit my formats out, create my moodboard, and my overall theme. It will take time, so please be patient! Also, I heard ya'll on this poll, so you can fully expect a Martin fic the moment I get back!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. Please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything. Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (you're here)

The call came early.

Not for practice, not for an evaluation.

But for a meeting.

The van ride was silent. No one played music, no one checked their phones. Even Keonho, who used to fill every quiet space with something, sat still with his hands clasped together.

It felt like they were being led somewhere they didn’t want to go.

The meeting room felt too polished for what it was about to hold. Glass walls. A long table. Chairs aligned too perfectly, like everything in the room had been measured, calculated, and controlled. Even the blinds were only half-open, letting in just enough light to make everything visible—but not enough to feel warm.

Executives sat on one side. Managers stood behind them, quieter than usual. Some avoided eye contact.

“Sit.” That was the first sign.

But no one moved immediately. But James did, and the others followed.

No one spoke at first. Not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because there was too much of it. It sat in their throats, heavy and unfiltered, waiting for the wrong word to set everything off.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat.

“We’re aware of your recent behavior.”

The group didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distracted, uncooperative, and taking it as far as threatening to delay the debut.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His voice, when it came out, was controlled—but only just.

“We’re not here for updates,” he said.

“We’re here for answers.”

One of the executives adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “You’ve already been informed of the debut lineup. Preparations are ongoing.”

“That’s not what he asked.” Martin didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. It always did. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed and unrelenting. “We’re asking about him.”

A pause followed. Although it wasn’t long, it was enough.

Juhoon noticed it—the way the managers shifted slightly, the way one of them glanced down at the table, the way the executives didn’t immediately respond. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

But it meant something. That this meeting won’t go smoothly as planned.

Keonho’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “Where is he?”

The room shifted.

“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” one executive replied.

Martin laughed. Short and sharp, almost a snort. “Then this meeting’s a waste of time.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Then answer the question.”

Martin’s words made the tension snap tighter. One of the executives removed his glasses, then laid his elbows on the table. In their eyes, it's like trying not to get mad at a bunch of kids.

James finally spoke. “You said he left.” his voice trembling under the intense pressure. “That’s not true, is it?”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?”

Still no answer. The air felt heavier and tighter now.

Seonghyeon swallowed, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Why can’t we contact him?”

Another glance passed between the executives. Then finally—

“He is no longer under this company’s management.”

The sentence dropped cleanly—too cleanly.

For a moment, no one reacted. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did. And it didn’t make sense.

Juhoon frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” another executive continued, folding his hands together on the table, “he has been transferred to another agency.”

Transferred.

The word echoed, cold yet clinical. Like it didn’t involve a person at all.

Martin leaned forward now, tension snapping into place. “Transferred? He’s not a file you can just move around.”

“It was a contractual agreement.”

“With who?” Juhoon asked.

Silence again. Then, reluctantly—

“A partner company.”

Keonho let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So you sold him.”

The word hung there. No one corrected it.

The executive’s expression tightened slightly. “We accepted an offer that aligned with the company’s interests.”

“And what about his interests? Did you even consider taking that into account?” Seonghyeon asked.

No answer. But that was an answer enough. The explanation came slowly, though not all at once. Like they were pulling it out of them piece by piece.

“He was scouted,” one of the managers said carefully. “Not just as an idol trainee. They saw potential in him beyond that.”

James frowned. “So what? That justifies this?”

“They offered a contract with significantly higher value,” the executive continued. “One that benefits his long-term development.”

Martin laughed. He wasn’t amused at all. ‘Benefits his long-term development’ these greedy douchebags.

“Don’t dress it up like that,” he said.

“You took the money.”

No one denied it. Because they couldn’t, it was true.

The room shifted after that.

Keonho stared at the table, his reflection faint in the polished surface. “Did he know?”

The manager hesitated.

“…Not immediately.”

Seonghyeon’s head snapped up. “What do you mean not immediately?”

“The agreement required confidentiality during negotiation.”

“So you didn’t tell him?” Juhoon asked.

“We informed him when the contract was finalized.”

“When?” James demanded.

Another pause. Then—

“The same day the debut lineup was announced.”

Everything clicked all at once.

The meeting.

The silence.

The way he left.

The way he didn’t come back.

Keonho’s breathing grew uneven. “He found out… alone.”

No one answered. Because again—they didn’t need to.

“And the phone?” Seonghyeon asked, voice shaking now. “Why can’t we reach him?”

“That was part of the transition,” an executive replied. “Contact information was removed from internal systems to prevent interference.”

“Interference?” Martin repeated.

“Emotional involvement can complicate contractual transitions.”

Juhoon let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “You mean us.”

“Exactly.”

The word landed without hesitation, without apology.

James stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“That’s insane,” he said. “You cut him off from everything. From us. From his own team.”

“It was temporary.”

“How long is temporary?” Juhoon asked, finally looking up. No one gave a clear answer.

That was the worst part.

“He might have thought we left him.” The room stilled. Keonho hadn’t raised his voice, but it hit harder than anything else said so far.

“He might have thought we chose this,” he continued, voice cracking. “That we were okay with it.” Keonho’s hands trembled at his sides.

“I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew something was wrong and I didn’t say anything. I thought I was protecting him but I just—”

He stopped. Because there was nothing left to say. Seonghyeon pressed his lips together, eyes burning.

Because he could picture it—

Him sitting somewhere alone, thinking they moved on, without him.

James leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto.

“You built a group of six, and trained them for years without end.”

His voice was quiet.

“Then you suddenly decided five was enough?”

One of the group’s managers suddenly said, “He wasn’t just a number.”

It was the first time one of them spoke, backed up the group. “He balanced them. He grounded them. You’re not just removing a trainee—you’re breaking the group.”

The room tightened again.

“We’ve already made the decision,” the executive replied.

The argument didn’t stop there. It escalated further. Voices overlapping and words colliding. Martin pushed harder, demanding specifics. Juhoon questioned every vague answer. Seonghyeon struggled to stay composed, his voice breaking more than once. And James—James held it together barely.

“Fix it,” he said finally. The room went quiet again.

“You made this decision,” he continued, voice steady in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “So fix it.”

“We can’t undo the contract,” the executive replied. “You’re asking for contract reversal, financial penalties, and legal complications you don’t understand.”

“Then find another way.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one.” Juhoon spoke with conviction. “You did this to yourselves, just for your own selfish ideals. And he’s the one suffering right now?”

The managers exchanged glances. Not dismissive, not defensive, but tired. Because they understood. Because they had probably thought the same thing.

One of them spoke carefully. “There might be… an alternative.”

All eyes turned.

“He can return,” the manager said. “Not as a member. The debut lineup will remain unchanged.”

Five.

So it's always been five, all along.

The words already felt wrong. But they listened.

“As a producer. Or a creative staff member. Something within the company structure.”

Seonghyeon’s hands clenched. “But not on stage.”

“No.”

Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable. It wasn’t what they wanted. Not even close. But it meant one thing.

He wouldn’t be gone. Not completely.

James closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before nodding once. “Do it.”

Martin didn’t argue. Juhoon didn’t either. Seonghyeon looked down. Keonho didn’t move at all. But none of them said no.

Because even if it wasn’t enough—it was something.

The meeting ended without resolution. The members quickly stood up without hesitation, quietly leaving the room. Martin stood by the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, not even batting an eye towards the executives.

“He will be sleeping in the dorms with us.” his voice commanding, “I’m sure that simple request is enough for you to accommodate?” Martin then storms out of the meeting room.

And for the first time in days—that was enough to move. That night, the company building felt different. Quieter, like it was holding its breath. It’s already 12 AM, and the practice room lights stayed on longer than usual. No one had the energy to rehearse properly, but no one wanted to leave either. They sat scattered across the floor, leaning against mirrors, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting. Not saying it out loud, but feeling it.

Then—a sound. Faint, barely noticeable.

Not the Demi Lovato jumpscare lol, you can play this while reading the next part. As if he's the one singing it.

"Stone cold, stone cold

You see me standing, but I'm dying on the floor."

The system picked it up without warning.

Speakers flickered to life across the building. Practice rooms. Hallways. Empty offices. The sound spread before anyone could stop it.

Seonghyeon was the first to notice, the other boys immediately caught up with the sound.

He lifted his head slightly, brows furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

No one responded at first because it was easy to miss. Just a thread of something, something very familiar to them.

"Stone cold, stone cold Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore."

A voice—soft, distant, but familiar. Too familiar.

Keonho froze. His entire body went still. 

“…No way.”

"Stone cold, baby God knows I try to feel."

The sound grew clearer. Not loud. But enough—enough to recognize, enough to feel. Seonghyeon’s breath caught. Martin straightened. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward the door. James didn’t move, but his expression changed.

It was him.

It had to be. 

“That voice,” Seonghyeon trembled, almost shaking. “He’s here.”

"Happy for you, Know that I am."

Keonho was already on his feet. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and didn’t question it. He just moved.

The door slammed open as he rushed into the hallway, the sound echoing behind him. The others followed immediately, footsteps quick, uneven, almost desperate. The familiar voice carried through the speakers now.

"Even if I can't understand."

Not perfectly, not cleanly. But unmistakable.

Every note.

Every breath.

Every emotion.

It was him.

And he was singing.

"I'll take the pain, give me the truth."

The door to the studio was slightly open.

No one touched it at first. They just stood there, breathing unevenly, listening.

"Me and my heart, we'll make it through."

The voice poured out from inside—raw, steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than anything else. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way it carried emotion, the way every note felt like it was holding something back and letting it go at the same time.

"If happy is her,"

Seonghyeon’s hand hovered near the door.

“…It’s him.”

Not a question. But the truth. Behind this door, is someone they’ve been waiting for all this time, someone they had lost, someone they had waited for in silence, in guilt, in nights that refused to end.

Keonho didn’t wait anymore.

Seated beneath the dim studio lights, the world narrowing down to just him and the quiet melody spilling from the piano keys. A headset rested over his ears, slightly askew, like he hadn’t even noticed putting it on properly. His fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory carrying a song that felt far too familiar.

It was him.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, he just sang. The way tears clung to his lashes, slipping down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even realize he was crying.

And then—

He looked up.

Right at them.

"I'm happy for you."

I didn’t think anyone would hear me.

The studio was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the console, a piano, and a single overhead light that flickered slightly whenever the bass hit too hard. I sat in front of the mic, headphones slightly crooked over my ears, fingers curled loosely around the piano keys like I needed something to hold onto.

I wasn’t recording.

I wasn’t practicing.

I just… needed to sing.

Because it was the only thing that still felt like mine.

I played instinctively, and my voice followed it like it always had—naturally, without needing to think about where to go next.

I closed my eyes.

And for a moment—I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. I could hear them.

Five sets of breathing, five presences I knew better than my own.

Silence answered me—heavy, unsteady.

Then footsteps, getting closer.

From the doorway, no one moved at first.

They didn’t interrupt him.

They couldn’t.

Because the moment felt fragile, like stepping too loudly would shatter it completely. The way he sat there—on the piano, shoulders slightly hunched, voice steady despite his voice breaking—it didn’t feel like something they were supposed to see.

It felt private.

Like they had walked into a memory.

Seonghyeon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that voice until it was right in front of him again. Not through recordings. Not through memory.

But real.

Alive.

I knew they were there.

I could feel it.

The air changed. The silence behind me wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Heavy, yet familiar. I swallowed, my voice faltering for just a second before I forced it steady again.

“This is the last one,” I said quietly. “So just let me finish.”

No one stopped me.

Not even Keonho.

The song continued.

Soft at first, then stronger.

Each note carried something unspoken, something that had been building since the moment he left. It wasn’t perfect—not technically—but it didn’t need to be.

It was honest, and that made it hit harder.

Keonho’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Because he understood. This wasn’t just singing.

This was goodbye.

A goodbye to the dream he once had.

A goodbye to his old self.

When the last note faded, the room didn’t move. No one clapped. No one spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. Then—

“You don’t get to decide that.” Keonho’s voice broke through it.

Of course it was him.

I let out a quiet breath, finally turning around. They were all there, exactly the same.

And not the same at all.

Seonghyeon’s eyes were already red. Martin looked like he was holding himself back from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Juhoon stood quieter than usual, but his gaze didn’t leave me. James looked… tired.

And Keonho—

Keonho looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You don’t get to say that’s your last song,” he repeated, stepping closer, kneeling in front of me. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

I frowned slightly. “It’s not really your decision either.”

“It is when you made us part of it.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

From the side, Seonghyeon finally moved.

“You just left,” he said, voice trembling. “No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Martin cut in.

I shook my head as I removed my headphones, before laughing in deep sarcasm. “Not with contracts like that.”

That shut them up for a second. Because they knew, they understood how this industry worked.

James stepped forward slowly. “We know what happened.”

I froze. He continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The transfer. The deal. Everything.”

“Then you know why I can’t go back.”

“Not as a member,” Juhoon said.

I let out a breath. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

Then Keonho spoke. “So what? That’s it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because part of me wanted to say yes. To make it simple, to end it cleanly. But nothing about this was simple. And nothing about it felt like an ending.

“They said you can come back,” Seonghyeon added softly. “As a producer. Or staff. Something.”

“Behind the scenes,” I said. No one denied it.

I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Keonho said immediately.

“It is.”

“It’s not!” The tension snapped. Not loudly, but sharply.

The other guys stepped closer to us until there was barely any space left between us.

“You’re acting like that’s enough,” he said, voice shaking. “Like standing behind a console is the same as standing on stage with us. You’ve trained all your life for this, you’ve exerted more effort than us. It’s unfair for you.”

“I know it’s not fair,” I replied. “But it’s what’s possible.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what they decided.”

“And we have to live with that.”

“I don’t.” No one interrupted him this time.

Because they could feel it. The weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he had been carrying since I left that night.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“I knew for three weeks,” he continued. “And I didn’t tell you.”

No one moved, no one breathed.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to find out.”

His voice broke. “I was wrong.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time—I saw it.

Not just guilt, but with regret. Heavy, and unrelenting.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, brushing my thumb beneath his eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. He stilled at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it—like he thought he didn’t deserve even that much.

But I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I kneeled closer.

And before he could say anything else—before he could apologize again, or try to explain, or break himself open any further—I pulled him into a hug.

The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly, caressing his hair from the back.

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make the decision,” I said. “They did.”

“But I let it happen.”

Silence, again. But different this time. Less sharp. More tired.

“We don’t care,” Seonghyeon said immediately as he kneels beside him, and pats Keonho on the back. “He’s here now. No one can ever separate the six of us again.”

Juhoon nodded. “Stay. With us.”

Martin looked away, jaw tight, but didn’t argue. Keonho stepped forward slowly.

“Just don’t disappear on us again.” I pulled him in for one more hug, emotions breaking.

Again.

That phrase.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I'll keep that promise again.

It's been a week since I did reunite with the boys. Sure enough, adjusting to the new normal of being their personal manager is tough. Managing their schedules, staying up late for their practices, attending managerial meetings, and so much more I could enumerate.

And now,

It's D-day.

The debut stage was brighter than any of them remembered. Lights are sharper, the noise louder. Everything bigger than the practice room we had spent years in.

Five members stood backstage. But something felt different, not wrong.

Just incomplete.

I admit, it felt bitter. Awkward, to say the least. I spent more than six years of my life training with these dorks, only to end up being their manager.

Keonho glanced beside me. And this time—he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my wrist, firm, and sudden.

“Come with us.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just come.”

“Keonho—”

“Please.”

That word—that was what made me stop. The others didn’t question it. They followed. Because somehow—they already knew. The stage lights were blinding. Even before the performance started, even before the music. The crowd was louder than anything I remembered. And I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood behind the curtain, watching them.

Five silhouettes.

Ready.

Perfect.

Without me.

Just like it was supposed to be.

However, Keonho already had something in mind. Dragging me by the arm.

“You’re coming on.”

I snapped and turned to Keonho immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He grinned, handing me a microphone.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” I smacked the microphone in his shoulder. He just laughed.

“I don’t care.”

James looked at him. “Keonho—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We said six or nothing.”

“We already agreed—” Martin tried to butt in.

“And I changed my mind.”

Then the music started. No more time, no more arguments. Just movement. They stepped onto the stage.

Five figures.

Sharp.

Precise.

Perfect.

And then—a gap. The formation shifted.

Second chorus. Half a second pause. Exactly where it should have been. Exactly where it used to be. The space I used to conquer, the second chorus I used to mess up during practices.

The space was still there—waiting.

Keonho looked back at me, just once. And that was enough.

I don’t know when I started moving. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was them, maybe it was that empty space.

But suddenly—I was on stage.

The crowd didn’t understand. The company didn’t understand either. But the five of them—they did. The microphone in my hand felt unfamiliar.

“This is the last one,” I whispered.

“No.” Keonho shook his head immediately. "I won't allow it."

The music softened—shifted.

And for the first time—it wasn’t about choreography, it wasn’t about formation. It was just—us.

I sang. Not as a member, not as a trainee, not as something temporary.

Just me.

And for that moment—that was enough.

The stage lights burned. The crowd roared. The company watched. But none of that mattered. Because for the first time since everything ended—it felt whole again, I felt whole again.

When the song ended, no one moved right away.

No bow.

No exit.

Just six figures standing under the debut spotlight, where it was supposed to be only five. Then James stepped forward, mic in hand, breathing unevenly.

“This debut stage…” he started, voice steady despite everything, “was supposed to have six people.”

The crowd didn’t fully understand. But someone did.

I did.

The lights dimmed slowly.

The moment, fading.

But not disappearing.

Because some things don’t end. They just change.

And maybe—

That was okay.

To the team that never left my place empty, Maybe I never really left either. — I.K.

THE END.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, that never left my space empty.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

FINAL CHAPTER

Author's Note:

This is it, the last one. It's been one good of a joyride to write this series. The support feels surreal even though I just started out writing on this platform. I genuinely would like to say thank you to everyone! I wrote my heart out, and it's very fulfilling to see you guys actually appreciate my work. Love ya'll, 🍬! (So I decided to name ya'll 🍬 because it's short for Kayndies, and it's kinda awkward to type it out since it might sound like I'll lowkey die lmfao.)

PS. I might take a short break from writing, maybe four to six days give or take? Not from Tumblr tho. The main reason is basically I need to edit my formats out, create my moodboard, and my overall theme. It will take time, so please be patient! Also, I heard ya'll on this poll, so you can fully expect a Martin fic the moment I get back!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. Please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything. Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (you're here)

The call came early.

Not for practice, not for an evaluation.

But for a meeting.

The van ride was silent. No one played music, no one checked their phones. Even Keonho, who used to fill every quiet space with something, sat still with his hands clasped together.

It felt like they were being led somewhere they didn’t want to go.

The meeting room felt too polished for what it was about to hold. Glass walls. A long table. Chairs aligned too perfectly, like everything in the room had been measured, calculated, and controlled. Even the blinds were only half-open, letting in just enough light to make everything visible—but not enough to feel warm.

Executives sat on one side. Managers stood behind them, quieter than usual. Some avoided eye contact.

“Sit.” That was the first sign.

But no one moved immediately. But James did, and the others followed.

No one spoke at first. Not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because there was too much of it. It sat in their throats, heavy and unfiltered, waiting for the wrong word to set everything off.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat.

“We’re aware of your recent behavior.”

The group didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distracted, uncooperative, and taking it as far as threatening to delay the debut.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His voice, when it came out, was controlled—but only just.

“We’re not here for updates,” he said.

“We’re here for answers.”

One of the executives adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “You’ve already been informed of the debut lineup. Preparations are ongoing.”

“That’s not what he asked.” Martin didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. It always did. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed and unrelenting. “We’re asking about him.”

A pause followed. Although it wasn’t long, it was enough.

Juhoon noticed it—the way the managers shifted slightly, the way one of them glanced down at the table, the way the executives didn’t immediately respond. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

But it meant something. That this meeting won’t go smoothly as planned.

Keonho’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “Where is he?”

The room shifted.

“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” one executive replied.

Martin laughed. Short and sharp, almost a snort. “Then this meeting’s a waste of time.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Then answer the question.”

Martin’s words made the tension snap tighter. One of the executives removed his glasses, then laid his elbows on the table. In their eyes, it's like trying not to get mad at a bunch of kids.

James finally spoke. “You said he left.” his voice trembling under the intense pressure. “That’s not true, is it?”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?”

Still no answer. The air felt heavier and tighter now.

Seonghyeon swallowed, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Why can’t we contact him?”

Another glance passed between the executives. Then finally—

“He is no longer under this company’s management.”

The sentence dropped cleanly—too cleanly.

For a moment, no one reacted. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did. And it didn’t make sense.

Juhoon frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” another executive continued, folding his hands together on the table, “he has been transferred to another agency.”

Transferred.

The word echoed, cold yet clinical. Like it didn’t involve a person at all.

Martin leaned forward now, tension snapping into place. “Transferred? He’s not a file you can just move around.”

“It was a contractual agreement.”

“With who?” Juhoon asked.

Silence again. Then, reluctantly—

“A partner company.”

Keonho let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So you sold him.”

The word hung there. No one corrected it.

The executive’s expression tightened slightly. “We accepted an offer that aligned with the company’s interests.”

“And what about his interests? Did you even consider taking that into account?” Seonghyeon asked.

No answer. But that was an answer enough. The explanation came slowly, though not all at once. Like they were pulling it out of them piece by piece.

“He was scouted,” one of the managers said carefully. “Not just as an idol trainee. They saw potential in him beyond that.”

James frowned. “So what? That justifies this?”

“They offered a contract with significantly higher value,” the executive continued. “One that benefits his long-term development.”

Martin laughed. He wasn’t amused at all. ‘Benefits his long-term development’ these greedy douchebags.

“Don’t dress it up like that,” he said.

“You took the money.”

No one denied it. Because they couldn’t, it was true.

The room shifted after that.

Keonho stared at the table, his reflection faint in the polished surface. “Did he know?”

The manager hesitated.

“…Not immediately.”

Seonghyeon’s head snapped up. “What do you mean not immediately?”

“The agreement required confidentiality during negotiation.”

“So you didn’t tell him?” Juhoon asked.

“We informed him when the contract was finalized.”

“When?” James demanded.

Another pause. Then—

“The same day the debut lineup was announced.”

Everything clicked all at once.

The meeting.

The silence.

The way he left.

The way he didn’t come back.

Keonho’s breathing grew uneven. “He found out… alone.”

No one answered. Because again—they didn’t need to.

“And the phone?” Seonghyeon asked, voice shaking now. “Why can’t we reach him?”

“That was part of the transition,” an executive replied. “Contact information was removed from internal systems to prevent interference.”

“Interference?” Martin repeated.

“Emotional involvement can complicate contractual transitions.”

Juhoon let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “You mean us.”

“Exactly.”

The word landed without hesitation, without apology.

James stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“That’s insane,” he said. “You cut him off from everything. From us. From his own team.”

“It was temporary.”

“How long is temporary?” Juhoon asked, finally looking up. No one gave a clear answer.

That was the worst part.

“He might have thought we left him.” The room stilled. Keonho hadn’t raised his voice, but it hit harder than anything else said so far.

“He might have thought we chose this,” he continued, voice cracking. “That we were okay with it.” Keonho’s hands trembled at his sides.

“I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew something was wrong and I didn’t say anything. I thought I was protecting him but I just—”

He stopped. Because there was nothing left to say. Seonghyeon pressed his lips together, eyes burning.

Because he could picture it—

Him sitting somewhere alone, thinking they moved on, without him.

James leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto.

“You built a group of six, and trained them for years without end.”

His voice was quiet.

“Then you suddenly decided five was enough?”

One of the group’s managers suddenly said, “He wasn’t just a number.”

It was the first time one of them spoke, backed up the group. “He balanced them. He grounded them. You’re not just removing a trainee—you’re breaking the group.”

The room tightened again.

“We’ve already made the decision,” the executive replied.

The argument didn’t stop there. It escalated further. Voices overlapping and words colliding. Martin pushed harder, demanding specifics. Juhoon questioned every vague answer. Seonghyeon struggled to stay composed, his voice breaking more than once. And James—James held it together barely.

“Fix it,” he said finally. The room went quiet again.

“You made this decision,” he continued, voice steady in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “So fix it.”

“We can’t undo the contract,” the executive replied. “You’re asking for contract reversal, financial penalties, and legal complications you don’t understand.”

“Then find another way.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one.” Juhoon spoke with conviction. “You did this to yourselves, just for your own selfish ideals. And he’s the one suffering right now?”

The managers exchanged glances. Not dismissive, not defensive, but tired. Because they understood. Because they had probably thought the same thing.

One of them spoke carefully. “There might be… an alternative.”

All eyes turned.

“He can return,” the manager said. “Not as a member. The debut lineup will remain unchanged.”

Five.

So it's always been five, all along.

The words already felt wrong. But they listened.

“As a producer. Or a creative staff member. Something within the company structure.”

Seonghyeon’s hands clenched. “But not on stage.”

“No.”

Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable. It wasn’t what they wanted. Not even close. But it meant one thing.

He wouldn’t be gone. Not completely.

James closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before nodding once. “Do it.”

Martin didn’t argue. Juhoon didn’t either. Seonghyeon looked down. Keonho didn’t move at all. But none of them said no.

Because even if it wasn’t enough—it was something.

The meeting ended without resolution. The members quickly stood up without hesitation, quietly leaving the room. Martin stood by the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, not even batting an eye towards the executives.

“He will be sleeping in the dorms with us.” his voice commanding, “I’m sure that simple request is enough for you to accommodate?” Martin then storms out of the meeting room.

And for the first time in days—that was enough to move. That night, the company building felt different. Quieter, like it was holding its breath. It’s already 12 AM, and the practice room lights stayed on longer than usual. No one had the energy to rehearse properly, but no one wanted to leave either. They sat scattered across the floor, leaning against mirrors, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting. Not saying it out loud, but feeling it.

Then—a sound. Faint, barely noticeable.

Not the Demi Lovato jumpscare lol, you can play this while reading the next part. As if he's the one singing it.

"Stone cold, stone cold

You see me standing, but I'm dying on the floor."

The system picked it up without warning.

Speakers flickered to life across the building. Practice rooms. Hallways. Empty offices. The sound spread before anyone could stop it.

Seonghyeon was the first to notice, the other boys immediately caught up with the sound.

He lifted his head slightly, brows furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

No one responded at first because it was easy to miss. Just a thread of something, something very familiar to them.

"Stone cold, stone cold Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore."

A voice—soft, distant, but familiar. Too familiar.

Keonho froze. His entire body went still. 

“…No way.”

"Stone cold, baby God knows I try to feel."

The sound grew clearer. Not loud. But enough—enough to recognize, enough to feel. Seonghyeon’s breath caught. Martin straightened. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward the door. James didn’t move, but his expression changed.

It was him.

It had to be. 

“That voice,” Seonghyeon trembled, almost shaking. “He’s here.”

"Happy for you, Know that I am."

Keonho was already on his feet. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and didn’t question it. He just moved.

The door slammed open as he rushed into the hallway, the sound echoing behind him. The others followed immediately, footsteps quick, uneven, almost desperate. The familiar voice carried through the speakers now.

"Even if I can't understand."

Not perfectly, not cleanly. But unmistakable.

Every note.

Every breath.

Every emotion.

It was him.

And he was singing.

"I'll take the pain, give me the truth."

The door to the studio was slightly open.

No one touched it at first. They just stood there, breathing unevenly, listening.

"Me and my heart, we'll make it through."

The voice poured out from inside—raw, steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than anything else. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way it carried emotion, the way every note felt like it was holding something back and letting it go at the same time.

"If happy is her,"

Seonghyeon’s hand hovered near the door.

“…It’s him.”

Not a question. But the truth. Behind this door, is someone they’ve been waiting for all this time, someone they had lost, someone they had waited for in silence, in guilt, in nights that refused to end.

Keonho didn’t wait anymore.

Seated beneath the dim studio lights, the world narrowing down to just him and the quiet melody spilling from the piano keys. A headset rested over his ears, slightly askew, like he hadn’t even noticed putting it on properly. His fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory carrying a song that felt far too familiar.

It was him.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, he just sang. The way tears clung to his lashes, slipping down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even realize he was crying.

And then—

He looked up.

Right at them.

"I'm happy for you."

I didn’t think anyone would hear me.

The studio was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the console, a piano, and a single overhead light that flickered slightly whenever the bass hit too hard. I sat in front of the mic, headphones slightly crooked over my ears, fingers curled loosely around the piano keys like I needed something to hold onto.

I wasn’t recording.

I wasn’t practicing.

I just… needed to sing.

Because it was the only thing that still felt like mine.

I played instinctively, and my voice followed it like it always had—naturally, without needing to think about where to go next.

I closed my eyes.

And for a moment—I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. I could hear them.

Five sets of breathing, five presences I knew better than my own.

Silence answered me—heavy, unsteady.

Then footsteps, getting closer.

From the doorway, no one moved at first.

They didn’t interrupt him.

They couldn’t.

Because the moment felt fragile, like stepping too loudly would shatter it completely. The way he sat there—on the piano, shoulders slightly hunched, voice steady despite his voice breaking—it didn’t feel like something they were supposed to see.

It felt private.

Like they had walked into a memory.

Seonghyeon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that voice until it was right in front of him again. Not through recordings. Not through memory.

But real.

Alive.

I knew they were there.

I could feel it.

The air changed. The silence behind me wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Heavy, yet familiar. I swallowed, my voice faltering for just a second before I forced it steady again.

“This is the last one,” I said quietly. “So just let me finish.”

No one stopped me.

Not even Keonho.

The song continued.

Soft at first, then stronger.

Each note carried something unspoken, something that had been building since the moment he left. It wasn’t perfect—not technically—but it didn’t need to be.

It was honest, and that made it hit harder.

Keonho’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Because he understood. This wasn’t just singing.

This was goodbye.

A goodbye to the dream he once had.

A goodbye to his old self.

When the last note faded, the room didn’t move. No one clapped. No one spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. Then—

“You don’t get to decide that.” Keonho’s voice broke through it.

Of course it was him.

I let out a quiet breath, finally turning around. They were all there, exactly the same.

And not the same at all.

Seonghyeon’s eyes were already red. Martin looked like he was holding himself back from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Juhoon stood quieter than usual, but his gaze didn’t leave me. James looked… tired.

And Keonho—

Keonho looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You don’t get to say that’s your last song,” he repeated, stepping closer, kneeling in front of me. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

I frowned slightly. “It’s not really your decision either.”

“It is when you made us part of it.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

From the side, Seonghyeon finally moved.

“You just left,” he said, voice trembling. “No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Martin cut in.

I shook my head as I removed my headphones, before laughing in deep sarcasm. “Not with contracts like that.”

That shut them up for a second. Because they knew, they understood how this industry worked.

James stepped forward slowly. “We know what happened.”

I froze. He continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The transfer. The deal. Everything.”

“Then you know why I can’t go back.”

“Not as a member,” Juhoon said.

I let out a breath. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

Then Keonho spoke. “So what? That’s it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because part of me wanted to say yes. To make it simple, to end it cleanly. But nothing about this was simple. And nothing about it felt like an ending.

“They said you can come back,” Seonghyeon added softly. “As a producer. Or staff. Something.”

“Behind the scenes,” I said. No one denied it.

I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Keonho said immediately.

“It is.”

“It’s not!” The tension snapped. Not loudly, but sharply.

The other guys stepped closer to us until there was barely any space left between us.

“You’re acting like that’s enough,” he said, voice shaking. “Like standing behind a console is the same as standing on stage with us. You’ve trained all your life for this, you’ve exerted more effort than us. It’s unfair for you.”

“I know it’s not fair,” I replied. “But it’s what’s possible.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what they decided.”

“And we have to live with that.”

“I don’t.” No one interrupted him this time.

Because they could feel it. The weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he had been carrying since I left that night.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“I knew for three weeks,” he continued. “And I didn’t tell you.”

No one moved, no one breathed.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to find out.”

His voice broke. “I was wrong.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time—I saw it.

Not just guilt, but with regret. Heavy, and unrelenting.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, brushing my thumb beneath his eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. He stilled at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it—like he thought he didn’t deserve even that much.

But I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I kneeled closer.

And before he could say anything else—before he could apologize again, or try to explain, or break himself open any further—I pulled him into a hug.

The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly, caressing his hair from the back.

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make the decision,” I said. “They did.”

“But I let it happen.”

Silence, again. But different this time. Less sharp. More tired.

“We don’t care,” Seonghyeon said immediately as he kneels beside him, and pats Keonho on the back. “He’s here now. No one can ever separate the six of us again.”

Juhoon nodded. “Stay. With us.”

Martin looked away, jaw tight, but didn’t argue. Keonho stepped forward slowly.

“Just don’t disappear on us again.” I pulled him in for one more hug, emotions breaking.

Again.

That phrase.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I'll keep that promise again.

It's been a week since I did reunite with the boys. Sure enough, adjusting to the new normal of being their personal manager is tough. Managing their schedules, staying up late for their practices, attending managerial meetings, and so much more I could enumerate.

And now,

It's D-day.

The debut stage was brighter than any of them remembered. Lights are sharper, the noise louder. Everything bigger than the practice room we had spent years in.

Five members stood backstage. But something felt different, not wrong.

Just incomplete.

I admit, it felt bitter. Awkward, to say the least. I spent more than six years of my life training with these dorks, only to end up being their manager.

Keonho glanced beside me. And this time—he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my wrist, firm, and sudden.

“Come with us.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just come.”

“Keonho—”

“Please.”

That word—that was what made me stop. The others didn’t question it. They followed. Because somehow—they already knew. The stage lights were blinding. Even before the performance started, even before the music. The crowd was louder than anything I remembered. And I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood behind the curtain, watching them.

Five silhouettes.

Ready.

Perfect.

Without me.

Just like it was supposed to be.

However, Keonho already had something in mind. Dragging me by the arm.

“You’re coming on.”

I snapped and turned to Keonho immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He grinned, handing me a microphone.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” I smacked the microphone in his shoulder. He just laughed.

“I don’t care.”

James looked at him. “Keonho—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We said six or nothing.”

“We already agreed—” Martin tried to butt in.

“And I changed my mind.”

Then the music started. No more time, no more arguments. Just movement. They stepped onto the stage.

Five figures.

Sharp.

Precise.

Perfect.

And then—a gap. The formation shifted.

Second chorus. Half a second pause. Exactly where it should have been. Exactly where it used to be. The space I used to conquer, the second chorus I used to mess up during practices.

The space was still there—waiting.

Keonho looked back at me, just once. And that was enough.

I don’t know when I started moving. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was them, maybe it was that empty space.

But suddenly—I was on stage.

The crowd didn’t understand. The company didn’t understand either. But the five of them—they did. The microphone in my hand felt unfamiliar.

“This is the last one,” I whispered.

“No.” Keonho shook his head immediately. "I won't allow it."

The music softened—shifted.

And for the first time—it wasn’t about choreography, it wasn’t about formation. It was just—us.

I sang. Not as a member, not as a trainee, not as something temporary.

Just me.

And for that moment—that was enough.

The stage lights burned. The crowd roared. The company watched. But none of that mattered. Because for the first time since everything ended—it felt whole again, I felt whole again.

When the song ended, no one moved right away.

No bow.

No exit.

Just six figures standing under the debut spotlight, where it was supposed to be only five. Then James stepped forward, mic in hand, breathing unevenly.

“This debut stage…” he started, voice steady despite everything, “was supposed to have six people.”

The crowd didn’t fully understand. But someone did.

I did.

The lights dimmed slowly.

The moment, fading.

But not disappearing.

Because some things don’t end. They just change.

And maybe—

That was okay.

To the team that never left my place empty, Maybe I never really left either. — I.K.

THE END.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team you,

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

CHAPTER 4

Author's Note:

Hello again, everyone! Here's the fourth part of the series. And in this chapter, the format is a little different. So enjoy, and have a good rest of your day! Even though I scarred some of ya'll from the last chapter HAHA

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. So please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything.

Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV (you're here) | Part V | Part VI

To the Team you,

The dorm was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from a normal night, but the kind that presses down on everything, making every shadow and every corner feel too large. The living room smelled faintly of coffee and rain, of sweat left from yesterday’s practice, of things left untouched. The quiet was loud in its own way, a presence that refused to be ignored.

Keonho stood in the center of the room, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the space where he had just walked out. It was empty now, but he could still feel the weight of the person who had filled it—laughing, arguing, dancing, existing. His hands hung useless at his sides. He wanted to call out, to chase, to pull him back. But he didn’t.

Seonghyeon sat on the edge of the couch, head in his hands, fingers trembling against his face. Quiet sobs threatened, but he held them back. He didn’t want anyone to see how much it hurt. How much it always hurt.

Martin leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked ready to storm through the world and tear something apart, yet he stayed still. His frustration had nowhere to go. James sat by the kitchen counter, hand pressed to his forehead, muttering under his breath. Every few time he glanced toward the hallway, hoping he would come back. But the door remained closed.

Juhoon remained by the window, hands in his pockets, staring at the rain sliding down the glass. He looked calm, composed—but it was a mask. Every muscle in his body was taut, waiting for someone to break the tension.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then James’s voice broke the silence, low, strained, almost trembling.

“He really left.”

Seonghyeon let out a shaky breath, nodding, but didn’t lift his hands from his face. Martin clenched his fists at his sides. “We should’ve seen this coming,” he muttered.

“No,” James said sharply, shaking his head. “We didn’t. And it doesn’t matter if we should have. He’s gone.”

There was no immediate answer. The silence returned, heavy and pressing, filled with memories and unspoken truths. The late-night practices. The mistakes they had laughed at together. The arguments. The moments that had made the dorm feel like home. And now, the emptiness that remained—an absence that was impossible to ignore.

The team all felt it.

A missing piece of their world, one that left the air brittle and the floor too wide.

Suddenly, Seonghyeon stood up. Quietly, almost reluctantly, as though he feared that taking a single step might shatter something fragile. He walked to his room. The door looming in front of him like a threshold between memory and reality.

When he entered, the air hit him differently. It wasn’t just the quiet—it was the wrongness of it.

Too clean.

Too empty.

No scattered socks, no water bottles on the floor, no faint smell of sweat mixed with detergent. His room seemed untouched, waiting.

Every corner of the room screamed him. The faint smell of the hoodie he usually hangs on the chair, the folds in the blanket—it was all a presence that wasn’t there. Seonghyeon sat on the bed, letting the room envelop him, and his absence filling every inch of space.

Then, he moved around the room slowly, deliberately.

His fingers brushed over the edge of his desk. He traced the contour of the chair where he used to sit, recalling the exact way he would tilt his head when focused on his notebook.

Wait...

And then he saw it.

The notebook.

It sat on the drawers as if he had just hid it from him a moment ago. Dust floated lazily in the beam of the desk lamp. Seonghyeon’s fingers hovered above it, unsure if touching it would break a spell or bring it to life.

Slowly, he picked it up, reading the bookmarked page.

“To the team I left too soon.”

His chest tightened immediately. And without warning, tears broke through, spilling down his cheeks.

He called the others, voice cracking but low.

One by one, they gathered in the small room.

Martin leaned against the wall, trying to look stoic. James stood near the doorway. Juhoon sat on the floor, knees drawn to chest. Keonho’s face was pale, hands trembling slightly at his sides. And Seonghyeon, still gripping the notebook, felt the weight of every step he had ever taken in this room.

Seonghyeon opened the first letter, and read it to everyone in the room. His words—careful, observant, full of memory—spilled across the page. Every detail of their shared history was there: the late-night practices, the spilled water bottles, the choreography mistakes, the jokes, the laughter, the sweat.

“I didn’t know why am I even writing this. It’s not like I plan to send it to anyone. But sometimes the practice room gets so quiet after everyone leaves that my thoughts start getting loud instead.”

Seonghyeon’s hands trembled. He traced the edge of his handwriting with a fingertip, feeling the shapes of each letter like a memory. Every sentence carried the echo of his voice in the quiet corners of this room.

The letter unfolded like a story of longing, guilt, and quiet love for the group. The first letter—the one from the night of the last practice—spoke of exhaustion, of feeling left behind, of the small moments they had shared that he treasured more than anyone else could understand.

“I try to imagine it sometimes. The crowd. The cameras. The noise. But every time I picture it, the first thing I see isn’t the audience. It’s you guys. Standing next to me.”

“He never blamed us. Never once.” James ran a hand over his face.

“He thought he was the problem. Always the one holding us back.” Seonghyeon nodded, tears spilling again.

Then they reached the second letter, the one written after the debut lineup was announced. Seonghyeon reads it, then he felt the air change between the five of them.

“Maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. But right now… it still feels strange. Like I’m watching the beginning of your story from outside the room. And I’m not sure where my own story goes next.”

"I knew for three weeks. And I didn’t tell him. I thought I was protecting him, but I—” Keonho's voice cracked, then he swallowed hard. “I just made it worse. I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve maybe kept him here.”

Seonghyeon looked around the room, at the others. Martin’s hands clenched. James’ pacing slowed. Juhoon exhaled shakily. And in that silence, every unspoken regret echoed.

But it was the physicality of the room—the traces of him everywhere—that hurt the most.

Martin moved and touched the desk, the chair, the neatly placed pillow on the bed. Each item seemed to whisper his presence, and yet he was gone.

He had left the space.

But he felt it as though it still belonged to him.

“He believed in us… even when he thought he wasn’t enough. Even when he left, he thought we could succeed without him.”

James’ sharp voice cut through the quiet. “And we… we promised each other. If one of us doesn’t debut, none of us will.” The weight of the promise filled the room, no longer just words but a call to action.

Keonho, face pale and red, voice low but resolute, said, “We can’t just let him disappear. We can’t let him think… that we forgot him. That we replaced him.”

Seonghyeon nodded, hands brushing over the edge of the notebook, tracing the lines he had written.

“We’ll find him. Even if the company doesn’t approve. Even if the debut is at risk. He… belongs with us. We can’t…”

"Fuck the debut and the company, man." Martin’s quiet voice grounded them. “We’ll do it. Together. All of us. This notebook shows how much he trusted us. We owe him that much.”

Juhoon’s usual calm faltered. “But what if…"

"...he doesn’t want us to find him?”

Seonghyeon’s eyes hardened, holding the notebook like it contained their last thread of connection.

“Then we’ll remind him why he belongs. Why we belong together. He left too soon—but we’ll bring him back.”

The room was silent again. But this time, it was no longer empty. The notebook lay open on the desk, pages fluttering slightly in the faint draft. It had become more than memories. It had become a guide, a promise, a mission.

James snatched the notebook from Seonghyeon, and grabbed a pen from one of his drawers.

He erased his last entry, and rewrote it.

Another promise.

"To the team I left too soon you, We will find you, no matter what. Because it's six, or none at all."

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, I left too soon.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

CHAPTER 3

Author's Note:

Hello again, everyone! It's currently 8AM in the morning, so I thought I'd post the third part before I go to school. And also, if you're really reading this author's note, please answer the poll here before reading, I need to see your opinions on how frequent I'll post the next parts.

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the first and second part, PLEASE READ IT FIRST! It will spoil the story for you. You can click the hyperlinks below to immediately jump to the said parts. Thank you! Love you all!

Part I | Part II | Part III (you're here) | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

To the team, I left too soon.

I didn’t mean to.

I just… didn’t know how to stay.

By the time I reached the dorm building, the streets outside were already quiet. Most of the lights in the neighboring apartments had gone out, leaving only the dim yellow glow of the hallway lamps and the faint sound of traffic somewhere farther down the road. My legs felt heavier with each step up the stairs, but I kept climbing anyway, holding onto the railing as if stopping halfway might somehow make the night less real.

When I reached the dorm door, I hesitated before touching the handle.

Voices were coming from inside.

At first I assumed they were just talking the way they usually did after practice, arguing about choreography or complaining about the vocal trainers reprimanding. But after listening for a moment, I realized something was different.

The voices were sharper, tense in a way that made the hallway feel suddenly smaller.

“…where is he?” Martin was saying. His voice carried clearly through the door. “He should’ve been back already.”

“I thought he left earlier,” James replied. I could hear footsteps pacing across the living room floor, like he was finding me. “Didn’t he say he had something to do after practice?”

“No,” Martin said. “He didn’t say anything. Although, I saw Keonho chase him earlier.”

There was a short pause, followed by the faint sound of someone shifting in their seat.

“Maybe he went back to the company,” Juhoon suggested, though his voice didn’t sound very convinced.

Another pause followed, longer this time.

Then Keonho spoke.

“I think… he might not be coming back.”

The words landed heavily enough that even through the door I could feel the room go still.

“What do you mean, he’s not coming back?” James asked immediately.

“I mean exactly what it sounds like.”

For a second no one said anything.

Then Martin’s voice rose sharply. “Hold on. How do you know that?”

Keonho didn’t answer right away.

“You’re acting like you already knew something,” James said slowly.

There was a brief silence. And then Keonho said the words that made my hand tighten against the doorknob.

“I heard about it three weeks ago.”

The reaction inside the dorm was immediate.

Three weeks.

He already knew, for three fucking weeks.

I didn’t move.

Inside the dorm, someone started pacing. I could hear the soft thud of footsteps crossing the living room floor.

“You what?” Martin snapped.

“You knew?” James said, disbelief clear in his voice. “You knew for three weeks and didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure yet,” Keonho said quickly. “The managers said the lineup wasn’t officially announced—”

“That’s not the point!” Martin interrupted. “You still should’ve told us!”

“You seriously just kept this to yourself?” Seonghyeon snapped, voice shaking. “He’s been practicing with us this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”

“I thought I could fix it!” Keonho said suddenly.

His voice was louder now, strained in a way I had never heard before, far from his usual voice that cracks when he laughs.

He's breaking down.

And it hurts me to hear it.

Right here, right now. Behind the closed doors.

“I thought if I talked to the company enough times they might reconsider before it ever became final.”

“You tried to fix it by yourself?” James said. “Are you serious right now?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Keonho shot back.

“Tell us!” Martin replied immediately. “We could’ve done something!”

“Like what?” Keonho demanded. “Walk into the dorm three weeks ago and tell him he wasn't going to debut?"

“Yes!” James said immediately. “At least he would’ve known! We could’ve tried persuading the executives three weeks ago—all of us. We promised each other: if one of us doesn’t debut, none of us will.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Juhoon’s calmer voice cut through the tension.

“When were you planning to tell us?”

There was a long pause.

“…I wasn’t,” Keonho admitted quietly.

That silence said everything.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martin muttered under his breath.

“We could’ve talked to the company,” James said. “All of us together.”

The words hung in the air. No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Martin said something quietly that I almost didn’t catch through the door.

“So he doesn’t even know yet.”

The argument grew louder after that, voices overlapping as frustration that had clearly been building spilled out all at once.

“You kept this from us for three weeks—”

“I was trying to protect him—”

“You don’t protect someone by lying to them!”

“I wasn’t lying!”

“You were keeping the truth from him!”

The sentence settled heavily in my chest. I realized then that I was still standing in the hallway listening to all of it. I stood outside the door, listening to every word.

I should have walked away.

Given them a few more minutes to finish the argument.

For a moment I considered turning around and leaving before anyone realized I was there. The argument sounded like it still had a long way to go, and part of me felt like walking in now would only make things worse.

But my hand had already turned the handle.

The door opened quietly.

The argument stopped instantly.

Five people stood in the living room exactly where their voices had placed them. Martin near the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. James halfway across the room, frozen mid-step from pacing. Juhoon sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped. Seonghyeon stood near the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

And Keonho—

Keonho stood in the middle of the room, shaking.

For a moment no one moved.

Then Seonghyeon spoke first.

“Hey...”

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The soft click of the lock sounded louder than it should have, cutting the suffocating silence.

No one said anything. They were all staring at me now.

Not surprised.

Just caught.

I glanced around the room.

“…Did I interrupt something?”

James looked down at the floor immediately. Martin rubbed the back of his neck. Seonghyeon looking away. And Juhoon let out a slow breath as he clasped his palms over his knees.

And Keonho still couldn’t look at me.

That was when I understood. Not every detail.

But enough.

“So,” I said quietly. “You heard.”

Keonho exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Yeah.”

James looked back up at me, frustration still lingering in his expression.

“This whole thing is ridiculous,” he muttered. “They can’t just decide something like that after everything we’ve done.”

“It’s already decided,” I said.

The words felt strangely calm leaving my mouth.

Juhoon frowned. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

The room fell quiet again.

After a moment I nodded toward the hallway.

“I’m just... going to pack a few things.”

Trying to sound casual, like any other night. Like I was leaving for the weekend instead of something much more permanent.

Nobody stopped me. Maybe Seonghyeon did, he tried not to grab my shoulder as I pass by him towards the hallway to my room. Maybe they thought silence was better than words. I walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me, leaving the storm outside.

But I could feel all of their eyes on my back as I walked toward my room.

Inside, everything looked exactly the same as it had that morning. My bed was still unmade. A hoodie hung over the back of the chair. Worn out training shoes by the door. My notebook rested on the desk near the lamp.

For a moment I just stood there looking around. Then I pulled my suitcase from under the bed.

Packing turned out to be easier than thinking.

My hands moved automatically, folding shirts, zipping bags, stacking things into neat piles. And then my eyes fell on it—the notebook. The one I had been writing letters in. The one I had hidden in the corner from them, full of thoughts I never dared to send.

For a moment, I froze. My chest felt tight, my lungs heavy, as if the air itself had been sucked out. I picked it up, flipping through the pages. Words I had written in secret stared back at me—memories of practice, small victories, tiny failures, moments I thought no one had noticed.

My hand trembled, I scribbled a few words, then the door opened.

Seonghyeon.

His face was pale. Eyes wide and glistening. He stopped halfway into the room, taking in the sight of me, of my half-packed bags, my hoodie folded on the bed. The notebook in my hands suddenly felt heavy, like it carried all the weight of our shared dreams.

“You’re… leaving?” His voice was a whisper, breaking, a note of disbelief threaded with grief.

I shoved the notebook under my desk instinctively, hiding it. “Yeah… just… packing a few things.”

For a second he didn’t move. Then he let out a short laugh that sounded strangely hollow, and sat on my bed.

“Do you remember vocal lessons last week?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. “What about them?”

“My voice cracked during the high note.”

The memory surfaced immediately. The practice room, the piano in the corner, and Seonghyeon swearing under his breath when his voice broke halfway through the note. Everyone else had burst out laughing.

Except me.

“You didn’t laugh,” he continued.

I shrugged lightly. “I didn’t think it was funny.”

“That’s not why.”

He looked down at the floor for a moment before continuing.

“You didn’t laugh because you actually listen when people sing,” he said quietly. “You always did.”

Before I knew it, he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a tight hug—so tight it felt like he was afraid of losing the person he was holding onto.

Seonghyeon’s lips quivered. “Please don't disappear on us?”

Disappear on us.

The same phrase Keonho said earlier by the hallways of the company.

Keonho appeared in the doorway behind him, shoulders slumped, eyes red. He avoided looking at me directly, but his voice shook. “It’s my fault. I should’ve said something sooner. I could’ve stopped this… maybe kept you here.”

Tears started to spill down Seonghyeon’s cheeks, hot and desperate.

I wanted to say something—anything—but my throat felt dry, like sandpaper scraping across my vocal cords. My own eyes pricked, but I blinked them back.

I couldn’t fall apart here.

Not in front of them.

Juhoon and Martin lingered in the background. James was nowhere to be seen—probably trying to contain the tension in the living area. Even in silence, the weight of everyone’s emotions pressed down on me.

I felt guilty.

Sad.

Helpless.

But also… detached.

I couldn’t stop myself from finishing what I came to do.

Slowly, I folded my hoodie, stuffed it into my bag, and zipped it shut. My duffle bag was ready, my backpack slung over my shoulder.

I paused. For a long moment, I looked at Seonghyeon, Keonho, and the others. The room felt smaller than usual, too small for the weight of everything unspoken. I felt the ache of leaving. Of walking away from the people I had laughed with, argued with, cried with, and dreamed with.

Seonghyeon’s hands found mine, and pulled me in for a last hug. His grip was tight, trembling.

“I always thought… I thought you were the best.

The best part of our group.

And now… you’re leaving.

I can’t…” His voice cracked as tears streamed down.

Keonho turned away, hiding his teared-streaked face in his hands. “I should’ve stopped this,” he whispered. “I should’ve… I could’ve… I didn’t—”

I finally let go, slowly, quietly.

I walked toward the door, heart heavy. Seonghyeon’s voice broke through the room again.

“Goodbye… you’ll always be part of us.”

But even as the words left his mouth, I knew it was a lie.

Because I was never meant to be in the group.

Keonho’s sniff followed. I didn’t look back.

The hallway stretched before me, long and empty. Every step felt heavier than the last. But I knew something—some part of me would always remain in that dorm. Keonho’s guilt, Seonghyeon’s tears, James’ quiet control, Juhoon’s biting silence, Martin’s heavy shouts. A piece of me would always remain in that room.

I stepped out into the street, the city breathing around me. Cars honked, the faint smell of wet asphalt rising from the rain, people rushing to work. The world moved on as if nothing had happened, and yet everything inside me had shifted.

And the notebook.

I had left it behind.

Forgotten.

It waited, like a secret I hadn’t finished telling, like a memory I wasn’t ready to give up on. And somehow, I knew—one day, someone would find it. And maybe, just maybe, they’d understand.

And if they ever find that notebook, I hope they read the last words I managed to scribble down—right before Seonghyeon broke down in front of me.

To the team I left too soon,

You were the dream I never wanted to wake up from.

— I.K

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, that never left my space empty.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

FINAL CHAPTER

Author's Note:

This is it, the last one. It's been one good of a joyride to write this series. The support feels surreal even though I just started out writing on this platform. I genuinely would like to say thank you to everyone! I wrote my heart out, and it's very fulfilling to see you guys actually appreciate my work. Love ya'll, 🍬! (So I decided to name ya'll 🍬 because it's short for Kayndies, and it's kinda awkward to type it out since it might sound like I'll lowkey die lmfao.)

PS. I might take a short break from writing, maybe four to six days give or take? Not from Tumblr tho. The main reason is basically I need to edit my formats out, create my moodboard, and my overall theme. It will take time, so please be patient! Also, I heard ya'll on this poll, so you can fully expect a Martin fic the moment I get back!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. Please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything. Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (you're here)

The call came early.

Not for practice, not for an evaluation.

But for a meeting.

The van ride was silent. No one played music, no one checked their phones. Even Keonho, who used to fill every quiet space with something, sat still with his hands clasped together.

It felt like they were being led somewhere they didn’t want to go.

The meeting room felt too polished for what it was about to hold. Glass walls. A long table. Chairs aligned too perfectly, like everything in the room had been measured, calculated, and controlled. Even the blinds were only half-open, letting in just enough light to make everything visible—but not enough to feel warm.

Executives sat on one side. Managers stood behind them, quieter than usual. Some avoided eye contact.

“Sit.” That was the first sign.

But no one moved immediately. But James did, and the others followed.

No one spoke at first. Not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because there was too much of it. It sat in their throats, heavy and unfiltered, waiting for the wrong word to set everything off.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat.

“We’re aware of your recent behavior.”

The group didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distracted, uncooperative, and taking it as far as threatening to delay the debut.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His voice, when it came out, was controlled—but only just.

“We’re not here for updates,” he said.

“We’re here for answers.”

One of the executives adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “You’ve already been informed of the debut lineup. Preparations are ongoing.”

“That’s not what he asked.” Martin didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. It always did. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed and unrelenting. “We’re asking about him.”

A pause followed. Although it wasn’t long, it was enough.

Juhoon noticed it—the way the managers shifted slightly, the way one of them glanced down at the table, the way the executives didn’t immediately respond. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

But it meant something. That this meeting won’t go smoothly as planned.

Keonho’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “Where is he?”

The room shifted.

“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” one executive replied.

Martin laughed. Short and sharp, almost a snort. “Then this meeting’s a waste of time.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Then answer the question.”

Martin’s words made the tension snap tighter. One of the executives removed his glasses, then laid his elbows on the table. In their eyes, it's like trying not to get mad at a bunch of kids.

James finally spoke. “You said he left.” his voice trembling under the intense pressure. “That’s not true, is it?”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?”

Still no answer. The air felt heavier and tighter now.

Seonghyeon swallowed, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Why can’t we contact him?”

Another glance passed between the executives. Then finally—

“He is no longer under this company’s management.”

The sentence dropped cleanly—too cleanly.

For a moment, no one reacted. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did. And it didn’t make sense.

Juhoon frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” another executive continued, folding his hands together on the table, “he has been transferred to another agency.”

Transferred.

The word echoed, cold yet clinical. Like it didn’t involve a person at all.

Martin leaned forward now, tension snapping into place. “Transferred? He’s not a file you can just move around.”

“It was a contractual agreement.”

“With who?” Juhoon asked.

Silence again. Then, reluctantly—

“A partner company.”

Keonho let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So you sold him.”

The word hung there. No one corrected it.

The executive’s expression tightened slightly. “We accepted an offer that aligned with the company’s interests.”

“And what about his interests? Did you even consider taking that into account?” Seonghyeon asked.

No answer. But that was an answer enough. The explanation came slowly, though not all at once. Like they were pulling it out of them piece by piece.

“He was scouted,” one of the managers said carefully. “Not just as an idol trainee. They saw potential in him beyond that.”

James frowned. “So what? That justifies this?”

“They offered a contract with significantly higher value,” the executive continued. “One that benefits his long-term development.”

Martin laughed. He wasn’t amused at all. ‘Benefits his long-term development’ these greedy douchebags.

“Don’t dress it up like that,” he said.

“You took the money.”

No one denied it. Because they couldn’t, it was true.

The room shifted after that.

Keonho stared at the table, his reflection faint in the polished surface. “Did he know?”

The manager hesitated.

“…Not immediately.”

Seonghyeon’s head snapped up. “What do you mean not immediately?”

“The agreement required confidentiality during negotiation.”

“So you didn’t tell him?” Juhoon asked.

“We informed him when the contract was finalized.”

“When?” James demanded.

Another pause. Then—

“The same day the debut lineup was announced.”

Everything clicked all at once.

The meeting.

The silence.

The way he left.

The way he didn’t come back.

Keonho’s breathing grew uneven. “He found out… alone.”

No one answered. Because again—they didn’t need to.

“And the phone?” Seonghyeon asked, voice shaking now. “Why can’t we reach him?”

“That was part of the transition,” an executive replied. “Contact information was removed from internal systems to prevent interference.”

“Interference?” Martin repeated.

“Emotional involvement can complicate contractual transitions.”

Juhoon let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “You mean us.”

“Exactly.”

The word landed without hesitation, without apology.

James stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“That’s insane,” he said. “You cut him off from everything. From us. From his own team.”

“It was temporary.”

“How long is temporary?” Juhoon asked, finally looking up. No one gave a clear answer.

That was the worst part.

“He might have thought we left him.” The room stilled. Keonho hadn’t raised his voice, but it hit harder than anything else said so far.

“He might have thought we chose this,” he continued, voice cracking. “That we were okay with it.” Keonho’s hands trembled at his sides.

“I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew something was wrong and I didn’t say anything. I thought I was protecting him but I just—”

He stopped. Because there was nothing left to say. Seonghyeon pressed his lips together, eyes burning.

Because he could picture it—

Him sitting somewhere alone, thinking they moved on, without him.

James leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto.

“You built a group of six, and trained them for years without end.”

His voice was quiet.

“Then you suddenly decided five was enough?”

One of the group’s managers suddenly said, “He wasn’t just a number.”

It was the first time one of them spoke, backed up the group. “He balanced them. He grounded them. You’re not just removing a trainee—you’re breaking the group.”

The room tightened again.

“We’ve already made the decision,” the executive replied.

The argument didn’t stop there. It escalated further. Voices overlapping and words colliding. Martin pushed harder, demanding specifics. Juhoon questioned every vague answer. Seonghyeon struggled to stay composed, his voice breaking more than once. And James—James held it together barely.

“Fix it,” he said finally. The room went quiet again.

“You made this decision,” he continued, voice steady in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “So fix it.”

“We can’t undo the contract,” the executive replied. “You’re asking for contract reversal, financial penalties, and legal complications you don’t understand.”

“Then find another way.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one.” Juhoon spoke with conviction. “You did this to yourselves, just for your own selfish ideals. And he’s the one suffering right now?”

The managers exchanged glances. Not dismissive, not defensive, but tired. Because they understood. Because they had probably thought the same thing.

One of them spoke carefully. “There might be… an alternative.”

All eyes turned.

“He can return,” the manager said. “Not as a member. The debut lineup will remain unchanged.”

Five.

So it's always been five, all along.

The words already felt wrong. But they listened.

“As a producer. Or a creative staff member. Something within the company structure.”

Seonghyeon’s hands clenched. “But not on stage.”

“No.”

Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable. It wasn’t what they wanted. Not even close. But it meant one thing.

He wouldn’t be gone. Not completely.

James closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before nodding once. “Do it.”

Martin didn’t argue. Juhoon didn’t either. Seonghyeon looked down. Keonho didn’t move at all. But none of them said no.

Because even if it wasn’t enough—it was something.

The meeting ended without resolution. The members quickly stood up without hesitation, quietly leaving the room. Martin stood by the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, not even batting an eye towards the executives.

“He will be sleeping in the dorms with us.” his voice commanding, “I’m sure that simple request is enough for you to accommodate?” Martin then storms out of the meeting room.

And for the first time in days—that was enough to move. That night, the company building felt different. Quieter, like it was holding its breath. It’s already 12 AM, and the practice room lights stayed on longer than usual. No one had the energy to rehearse properly, but no one wanted to leave either. They sat scattered across the floor, leaning against mirrors, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting. Not saying it out loud, but feeling it.

Then—a sound. Faint, barely noticeable.

Not the Demi Lovato jumpscare lol, you can play this while reading the next part. As if he's the one singing it.

"Stone cold, stone cold

You see me standing, but I'm dying on the floor."

The system picked it up without warning.

Speakers flickered to life across the building. Practice rooms. Hallways. Empty offices. The sound spread before anyone could stop it.

Seonghyeon was the first to notice, the other boys immediately caught up with the sound.

He lifted his head slightly, brows furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

No one responded at first because it was easy to miss. Just a thread of something, something very familiar to them.

"Stone cold, stone cold Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore."

A voice—soft, distant, but familiar. Too familiar.

Keonho froze. His entire body went still. 

“…No way.”

"Stone cold, baby God knows I try to feel."

The sound grew clearer. Not loud. But enough—enough to recognize, enough to feel. Seonghyeon’s breath caught. Martin straightened. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward the door. James didn’t move, but his expression changed.

It was him.

It had to be. 

“That voice,” Seonghyeon trembled, almost shaking. “He’s here.”

"Happy for you, Know that I am."

Keonho was already on his feet. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and didn’t question it. He just moved.

The door slammed open as he rushed into the hallway, the sound echoing behind him. The others followed immediately, footsteps quick, uneven, almost desperate. The familiar voice carried through the speakers now.

"Even if I can't understand."

Not perfectly, not cleanly. But unmistakable.

Every note.

Every breath.

Every emotion.

It was him.

And he was singing.

"I'll take the pain, give me the truth."

The door to the studio was slightly open.

No one touched it at first. They just stood there, breathing unevenly, listening.

"Me and my heart, we'll make it through."

The voice poured out from inside—raw, steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than anything else. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way it carried emotion, the way every note felt like it was holding something back and letting it go at the same time.

"If happy is her,"

Seonghyeon’s hand hovered near the door.

“…It’s him.”

Not a question. But the truth. Behind this door, is someone they’ve been waiting for all this time, someone they had lost, someone they had waited for in silence, in guilt, in nights that refused to end.

Keonho didn’t wait anymore.

Seated beneath the dim studio lights, the world narrowing down to just him and the quiet melody spilling from the piano keys. A headset rested over his ears, slightly askew, like he hadn’t even noticed putting it on properly. His fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory carrying a song that felt far too familiar.

It was him.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, he just sang. The way tears clung to his lashes, slipping down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even realize he was crying.

And then—

He looked up.

Right at them.

"I'm happy for you."

I didn’t think anyone would hear me.

The studio was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the console, a piano, and a single overhead light that flickered slightly whenever the bass hit too hard. I sat in front of the mic, headphones slightly crooked over my ears, fingers curled loosely around the piano keys like I needed something to hold onto.

I wasn’t recording.

I wasn’t practicing.

I just… needed to sing.

Because it was the only thing that still felt like mine.

I played instinctively, and my voice followed it like it always had—naturally, without needing to think about where to go next.

I closed my eyes.

And for a moment—I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. I could hear them.

Five sets of breathing, five presences I knew better than my own.

Silence answered me—heavy, unsteady.

Then footsteps, getting closer.

From the doorway, no one moved at first.

They didn’t interrupt him.

They couldn’t.

Because the moment felt fragile, like stepping too loudly would shatter it completely. The way he sat there—on the piano, shoulders slightly hunched, voice steady despite his voice breaking—it didn’t feel like something they were supposed to see.

It felt private.

Like they had walked into a memory.

Seonghyeon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that voice until it was right in front of him again. Not through recordings. Not through memory.

But real.

Alive.

I knew they were there.

I could feel it.

The air changed. The silence behind me wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Heavy, yet familiar. I swallowed, my voice faltering for just a second before I forced it steady again.

“This is the last one,” I said quietly. “So just let me finish.”

No one stopped me.

Not even Keonho.

The song continued.

Soft at first, then stronger.

Each note carried something unspoken, something that had been building since the moment he left. It wasn’t perfect—not technically—but it didn’t need to be.

It was honest, and that made it hit harder.

Keonho’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Because he understood. This wasn’t just singing.

This was goodbye.

A goodbye to the dream he once had.

A goodbye to his old self.

When the last note faded, the room didn’t move. No one clapped. No one spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. Then—

“You don’t get to decide that.” Keonho’s voice broke through it.

Of course it was him.

I let out a quiet breath, finally turning around. They were all there, exactly the same.

And not the same at all.

Seonghyeon’s eyes were already red. Martin looked like he was holding himself back from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Juhoon stood quieter than usual, but his gaze didn’t leave me. James looked… tired.

And Keonho—

Keonho looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You don’t get to say that’s your last song,” he repeated, stepping closer, kneeling in front of me. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

I frowned slightly. “It’s not really your decision either.”

“It is when you made us part of it.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

From the side, Seonghyeon finally moved.

“You just left,” he said, voice trembling. “No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Martin cut in.

I shook my head as I removed my headphones, before laughing in deep sarcasm. “Not with contracts like that.”

That shut them up for a second. Because they knew, they understood how this industry worked.

James stepped forward slowly. “We know what happened.”

I froze. He continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The transfer. The deal. Everything.”

“Then you know why I can’t go back.”

“Not as a member,” Juhoon said.

I let out a breath. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

Then Keonho spoke. “So what? That’s it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because part of me wanted to say yes. To make it simple, to end it cleanly. But nothing about this was simple. And nothing about it felt like an ending.

“They said you can come back,” Seonghyeon added softly. “As a producer. Or staff. Something.”

“Behind the scenes,” I said. No one denied it.

I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Keonho said immediately.

“It is.”

“It’s not!” The tension snapped. Not loudly, but sharply.

The other guys stepped closer to us until there was barely any space left between us.

“You’re acting like that’s enough,” he said, voice shaking. “Like standing behind a console is the same as standing on stage with us. You’ve trained all your life for this, you’ve exerted more effort than us. It’s unfair for you.”

“I know it’s not fair,” I replied. “But it’s what’s possible.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what they decided.”

“And we have to live with that.”

“I don’t.” No one interrupted him this time.

Because they could feel it. The weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he had been carrying since I left that night.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“I knew for three weeks,” he continued. “And I didn’t tell you.”

No one moved, no one breathed.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to find out.”

His voice broke. “I was wrong.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time—I saw it.

Not just guilt, but with regret. Heavy, and unrelenting.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, brushing my thumb beneath his eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. He stilled at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it—like he thought he didn’t deserve even that much.

But I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I kneeled closer.

And before he could say anything else—before he could apologize again, or try to explain, or break himself open any further—I pulled him into a hug.

The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly, caressing his hair from the back.

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make the decision,” I said. “They did.”

“But I let it happen.”

Silence, again. But different this time. Less sharp. More tired.

“We don’t care,” Seonghyeon said immediately as he kneels beside him, and pats Keonho on the back. “He’s here now. No one can ever separate the six of us again.”

Juhoon nodded. “Stay. With us.”

Martin looked away, jaw tight, but didn’t argue. Keonho stepped forward slowly.

“Just don’t disappear on us again.” I pulled him in for one more hug, emotions breaking.

Again.

That phrase.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I'll keep that promise again.

It's been a week since I did reunite with the boys. Sure enough, adjusting to the new normal of being their personal manager is tough. Managing their schedules, staying up late for their practices, attending managerial meetings, and so much more I could enumerate.

And now,

It's D-day.

The debut stage was brighter than any of them remembered. Lights are sharper, the noise louder. Everything bigger than the practice room we had spent years in.

Five members stood backstage. But something felt different, not wrong.

Just incomplete.

I admit, it felt bitter. Awkward, to say the least. I spent more than six years of my life training with these dorks, only to end up being their manager.

Keonho glanced beside me. And this time—he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my wrist, firm, and sudden.

“Come with us.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just come.”

“Keonho—”

“Please.”

That word—that was what made me stop. The others didn’t question it. They followed. Because somehow—they already knew. The stage lights were blinding. Even before the performance started, even before the music. The crowd was louder than anything I remembered. And I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood behind the curtain, watching them.

Five silhouettes.

Ready.

Perfect.

Without me.

Just like it was supposed to be.

However, Keonho already had something in mind. Dragging me by the arm.

“You’re coming on.”

I snapped and turned to Keonho immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He grinned, handing me a microphone.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” I smacked the microphone in his shoulder. He just laughed.

“I don’t care.”

James looked at him. “Keonho—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We said six or nothing.”

“We already agreed—” Martin tried to butt in.

“And I changed my mind.”

Then the music started. No more time, no more arguments. Just movement. They stepped onto the stage.

Five figures.

Sharp.

Precise.

Perfect.

And then—a gap. The formation shifted.

Second chorus. Half a second pause. Exactly where it should have been. Exactly where it used to be. The space I used to conquer, the second chorus I used to mess up during practices.

The space was still there—waiting.

Keonho looked back at me, just once. And that was enough.

I don’t know when I started moving. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was them, maybe it was that empty space.

But suddenly—I was on stage.

The crowd didn’t understand. The company didn’t understand either. But the five of them—they did. The microphone in my hand felt unfamiliar.

“This is the last one,” I whispered.

“No.” Keonho shook his head immediately. "I won't allow it."

The music softened—shifted.

And for the first time—it wasn’t about choreography, it wasn’t about formation. It was just—us.

I sang. Not as a member, not as a trainee, not as something temporary.

Just me.

And for that moment—that was enough.

The stage lights burned. The crowd roared. The company watched. But none of that mattered. Because for the first time since everything ended—it felt whole again, I felt whole again.

When the song ended, no one moved right away.

No bow.

No exit.

Just six figures standing under the debut spotlight, where it was supposed to be only five. Then James stepped forward, mic in hand, breathing unevenly.

“This debut stage…” he started, voice steady despite everything, “was supposed to have six people.”

The crowd didn’t fully understand. But someone did.

I did.

The lights dimmed slowly.

The moment, fading.

But not disappearing.

Because some things don’t end. They just change.

And maybe—

That was okay.

To the team that never left my place empty, Maybe I never really left either. — I.K.

THE END.

[iwaikayn]

I got request! What about trainee or idol reader being flirtatious with the members of cortis? If this isn't your type of request, it's fine ☺️

So I saw your request and I've been trying to write it FOR DAYS but I'm so sorry I cannot do this. I feel cringey when I write flirty lines, BUT I'LL GET BACK TO THIS the moment I'll feel confident in writing these sorts of fics.

I tend to avoid romance because; first, because it's not my cup of tea. Second, because I'm more of an emotional guy so angst or light fluff are my preferred genres to write. And third, I feel uncomfortable to write cheesy or flirty lines because when I write something flirty now and I proofread later, for me it would sound so wrong so I'll have to redo it all over again.

For this request, it took me so many retries and revisions but I can't seem to find the right gist. But I'm still saving this so incase I'll get confident in writing flirtings, I will still write this one.

That's all! Thank you for understanding hehe

— I.K

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, that never left my space empty.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

FINAL CHAPTER

Author's Note:

This is it, the last one. It's been one good of a joyride to write this series. The support feels surreal even though I just started out writing on this platform. I genuinely would like to say thank you to everyone! I wrote my heart out, and it's very fulfilling to see you guys actually appreciate my work. Love ya'll, 🍬! (So I decided to name ya'll 🍬 because it's short for Kayndies, and it's kinda awkward to type it out since it might sound like I'll lowkey die lmfao.)

PS. I might take a short break from writing, maybe four to six days give or take? Not from Tumblr tho. The main reason is basically I need to edit my formats out, create my moodboard, and my overall theme. It will take time, so please be patient! Also, I heard ya'll on this poll, so you can fully expect a Martin fic the moment I get back!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. Please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything. Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (you're here)

The call came early.

Not for practice, not for an evaluation.

But for a meeting.

The van ride was silent. No one played music, no one checked their phones. Even Keonho, who used to fill every quiet space with something, sat still with his hands clasped together.

It felt like they were being led somewhere they didn’t want to go.

The meeting room felt too polished for what it was about to hold. Glass walls. A long table. Chairs aligned too perfectly, like everything in the room had been measured, calculated, and controlled. Even the blinds were only half-open, letting in just enough light to make everything visible—but not enough to feel warm.

Executives sat on one side. Managers stood behind them, quieter than usual. Some avoided eye contact.

“Sit.” That was the first sign.

But no one moved immediately. But James did, and the others followed.

No one spoke at first. Not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because there was too much of it. It sat in their throats, heavy and unfiltered, waiting for the wrong word to set everything off.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat.

“We’re aware of your recent behavior.”

The group didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distracted, uncooperative, and taking it as far as threatening to delay the debut.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His voice, when it came out, was controlled—but only just.

“We’re not here for updates,” he said.

“We’re here for answers.”

One of the executives adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “You’ve already been informed of the debut lineup. Preparations are ongoing.”

“That’s not what he asked.” Martin didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. It always did. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed and unrelenting. “We’re asking about him.”

A pause followed. Although it wasn’t long, it was enough.

Juhoon noticed it—the way the managers shifted slightly, the way one of them glanced down at the table, the way the executives didn’t immediately respond. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

But it meant something. That this meeting won’t go smoothly as planned.

Keonho’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “Where is he?”

The room shifted.

“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” one executive replied.

Martin laughed. Short and sharp, almost a snort. “Then this meeting’s a waste of time.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Then answer the question.”

Martin’s words made the tension snap tighter. One of the executives removed his glasses, then laid his elbows on the table. In their eyes, it's like trying not to get mad at a bunch of kids.

James finally spoke. “You said he left.” his voice trembling under the intense pressure. “That’s not true, is it?”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?”

Still no answer. The air felt heavier and tighter now.

Seonghyeon swallowed, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Why can’t we contact him?”

Another glance passed between the executives. Then finally—

“He is no longer under this company’s management.”

The sentence dropped cleanly—too cleanly.

For a moment, no one reacted. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did. And it didn’t make sense.

Juhoon frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” another executive continued, folding his hands together on the table, “he has been transferred to another agency.”

Transferred.

The word echoed, cold yet clinical. Like it didn’t involve a person at all.

Martin leaned forward now, tension snapping into place. “Transferred? He’s not a file you can just move around.”

“It was a contractual agreement.”

“With who?” Juhoon asked.

Silence again. Then, reluctantly—

“A partner company.”

Keonho let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So you sold him.”

The word hung there. No one corrected it.

The executive’s expression tightened slightly. “We accepted an offer that aligned with the company’s interests.”

“And what about his interests? Did you even consider taking that into account?” Seonghyeon asked.

No answer. But that was an answer enough. The explanation came slowly, though not all at once. Like they were pulling it out of them piece by piece.

“He was scouted,” one of the managers said carefully. “Not just as an idol trainee. They saw potential in him beyond that.”

James frowned. “So what? That justifies this?”

“They offered a contract with significantly higher value,” the executive continued. “One that benefits his long-term development.”

Martin laughed. He wasn’t amused at all. ‘Benefits his long-term development’ these greedy douchebags.

“Don’t dress it up like that,” he said.

“You took the money.”

No one denied it. Because they couldn’t, it was true.

The room shifted after that.

Keonho stared at the table, his reflection faint in the polished surface. “Did he know?”

The manager hesitated.

“…Not immediately.”

Seonghyeon’s head snapped up. “What do you mean not immediately?”

“The agreement required confidentiality during negotiation.”

“So you didn’t tell him?” Juhoon asked.

“We informed him when the contract was finalized.”

“When?” James demanded.

Another pause. Then—

“The same day the debut lineup was announced.”

Everything clicked all at once.

The meeting.

The silence.

The way he left.

The way he didn’t come back.

Keonho’s breathing grew uneven. “He found out… alone.”

No one answered. Because again—they didn’t need to.

“And the phone?” Seonghyeon asked, voice shaking now. “Why can’t we reach him?”

“That was part of the transition,” an executive replied. “Contact information was removed from internal systems to prevent interference.”

“Interference?” Martin repeated.

“Emotional involvement can complicate contractual transitions.”

Juhoon let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “You mean us.”

“Exactly.”

The word landed without hesitation, without apology.

James stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“That’s insane,” he said. “You cut him off from everything. From us. From his own team.”

“It was temporary.”

“How long is temporary?” Juhoon asked, finally looking up. No one gave a clear answer.

That was the worst part.

“He might have thought we left him.” The room stilled. Keonho hadn’t raised his voice, but it hit harder than anything else said so far.

“He might have thought we chose this,” he continued, voice cracking. “That we were okay with it.” Keonho’s hands trembled at his sides.

“I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew something was wrong and I didn’t say anything. I thought I was protecting him but I just—”

He stopped. Because there was nothing left to say. Seonghyeon pressed his lips together, eyes burning.

Because he could picture it—

Him sitting somewhere alone, thinking they moved on, without him.

James leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto.

“You built a group of six, and trained them for years without end.”

His voice was quiet.

“Then you suddenly decided five was enough?”

One of the group’s managers suddenly said, “He wasn’t just a number.”

It was the first time one of them spoke, backed up the group. “He balanced them. He grounded them. You’re not just removing a trainee—you’re breaking the group.”

The room tightened again.

“We’ve already made the decision,” the executive replied.

The argument didn’t stop there. It escalated further. Voices overlapping and words colliding. Martin pushed harder, demanding specifics. Juhoon questioned every vague answer. Seonghyeon struggled to stay composed, his voice breaking more than once. And James—James held it together barely.

“Fix it,” he said finally. The room went quiet again.

“You made this decision,” he continued, voice steady in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “So fix it.”

“We can’t undo the contract,” the executive replied. “You’re asking for contract reversal, financial penalties, and legal complications you don’t understand.”

“Then find another way.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one.” Juhoon spoke with conviction. “You did this to yourselves, just for your own selfish ideals. And he’s the one suffering right now?”

The managers exchanged glances. Not dismissive, not defensive, but tired. Because they understood. Because they had probably thought the same thing.

One of them spoke carefully. “There might be… an alternative.”

All eyes turned.

“He can return,” the manager said. “Not as a member. The debut lineup will remain unchanged.”

Five.

So it's always been five, all along.

The words already felt wrong. But they listened.

“As a producer. Or a creative staff member. Something within the company structure.”

Seonghyeon’s hands clenched. “But not on stage.”

“No.”

Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable. It wasn’t what they wanted. Not even close. But it meant one thing.

He wouldn’t be gone. Not completely.

James closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before nodding once. “Do it.”

Martin didn’t argue. Juhoon didn’t either. Seonghyeon looked down. Keonho didn’t move at all. But none of them said no.

Because even if it wasn’t enough—it was something.

The meeting ended without resolution. The members quickly stood up without hesitation, quietly leaving the room. Martin stood by the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, not even batting an eye towards the executives.

“He will be sleeping in the dorms with us.” his voice commanding, “I’m sure that simple request is enough for you to accommodate?” Martin then storms out of the meeting room.

And for the first time in days—that was enough to move. That night, the company building felt different. Quieter, like it was holding its breath. It’s already 12 AM, and the practice room lights stayed on longer than usual. No one had the energy to rehearse properly, but no one wanted to leave either. They sat scattered across the floor, leaning against mirrors, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting. Not saying it out loud, but feeling it.

Then—a sound. Faint, barely noticeable.

Not the Demi Lovato jumpscare lol, you can play this while reading the next part. As if he's the one singing it.

"Stone cold, stone cold

You see me standing, but I'm dying on the floor."

The system picked it up without warning.

Speakers flickered to life across the building. Practice rooms. Hallways. Empty offices. The sound spread before anyone could stop it.

Seonghyeon was the first to notice, the other boys immediately caught up with the sound.

He lifted his head slightly, brows furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

No one responded at first because it was easy to miss. Just a thread of something, something very familiar to them.

"Stone cold, stone cold Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore."

A voice—soft, distant, but familiar. Too familiar.

Keonho froze. His entire body went still. 

“…No way.”

"Stone cold, baby God knows I try to feel."

The sound grew clearer. Not loud. But enough—enough to recognize, enough to feel. Seonghyeon’s breath caught. Martin straightened. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward the door. James didn’t move, but his expression changed.

It was him.

It had to be. 

“That voice,” Seonghyeon trembled, almost shaking. “He’s here.”

"Happy for you, Know that I am."

Keonho was already on his feet. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and didn’t question it. He just moved.

The door slammed open as he rushed into the hallway, the sound echoing behind him. The others followed immediately, footsteps quick, uneven, almost desperate. The familiar voice carried through the speakers now.

"Even if I can't understand."

Not perfectly, not cleanly. But unmistakable.

Every note.

Every breath.

Every emotion.

It was him.

And he was singing.

"I'll take the pain, give me the truth."

The door to the studio was slightly open.

No one touched it at first. They just stood there, breathing unevenly, listening.

"Me and my heart, we'll make it through."

The voice poured out from inside—raw, steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than anything else. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way it carried emotion, the way every note felt like it was holding something back and letting it go at the same time.

"If happy is her,"

Seonghyeon’s hand hovered near the door.

“…It’s him.”

Not a question. But the truth. Behind this door, is someone they’ve been waiting for all this time, someone they had lost, someone they had waited for in silence, in guilt, in nights that refused to end.

Keonho didn’t wait anymore.

Seated beneath the dim studio lights, the world narrowing down to just him and the quiet melody spilling from the piano keys. A headset rested over his ears, slightly askew, like he hadn’t even noticed putting it on properly. His fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory carrying a song that felt far too familiar.

It was him.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, he just sang. The way tears clung to his lashes, slipping down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even realize he was crying.

And then—

He looked up.

Right at them.

"I'm happy for you."

I didn’t think anyone would hear me.

The studio was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the console, a piano, and a single overhead light that flickered slightly whenever the bass hit too hard. I sat in front of the mic, headphones slightly crooked over my ears, fingers curled loosely around the piano keys like I needed something to hold onto.

I wasn’t recording.

I wasn’t practicing.

I just… needed to sing.

Because it was the only thing that still felt like mine.

I played instinctively, and my voice followed it like it always had—naturally, without needing to think about where to go next.

I closed my eyes.

And for a moment—I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. I could hear them.

Five sets of breathing, five presences I knew better than my own.

Silence answered me—heavy, unsteady.

Then footsteps, getting closer.

From the doorway, no one moved at first.

They didn’t interrupt him.

They couldn’t.

Because the moment felt fragile, like stepping too loudly would shatter it completely. The way he sat there—on the piano, shoulders slightly hunched, voice steady despite his voice breaking—it didn’t feel like something they were supposed to see.

It felt private.

Like they had walked into a memory.

Seonghyeon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that voice until it was right in front of him again. Not through recordings. Not through memory.

But real.

Alive.

I knew they were there.

I could feel it.

The air changed. The silence behind me wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Heavy, yet familiar. I swallowed, my voice faltering for just a second before I forced it steady again.

“This is the last one,” I said quietly. “So just let me finish.”

No one stopped me.

Not even Keonho.

The song continued.

Soft at first, then stronger.

Each note carried something unspoken, something that had been building since the moment he left. It wasn’t perfect—not technically—but it didn’t need to be.

It was honest, and that made it hit harder.

Keonho’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Because he understood. This wasn’t just singing.

This was goodbye.

A goodbye to the dream he once had.

A goodbye to his old self.

When the last note faded, the room didn’t move. No one clapped. No one spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. Then—

“You don’t get to decide that.” Keonho’s voice broke through it.

Of course it was him.

I let out a quiet breath, finally turning around. They were all there, exactly the same.

And not the same at all.

Seonghyeon’s eyes were already red. Martin looked like he was holding himself back from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Juhoon stood quieter than usual, but his gaze didn’t leave me. James looked… tired.

And Keonho—

Keonho looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You don’t get to say that’s your last song,” he repeated, stepping closer, kneeling in front of me. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

I frowned slightly. “It’s not really your decision either.”

“It is when you made us part of it.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

From the side, Seonghyeon finally moved.

“You just left,” he said, voice trembling. “No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Martin cut in.

I shook my head as I removed my headphones, before laughing in deep sarcasm. “Not with contracts like that.”

That shut them up for a second. Because they knew, they understood how this industry worked.

James stepped forward slowly. “We know what happened.”

I froze. He continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The transfer. The deal. Everything.”

“Then you know why I can’t go back.”

“Not as a member,” Juhoon said.

I let out a breath. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

Then Keonho spoke. “So what? That’s it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because part of me wanted to say yes. To make it simple, to end it cleanly. But nothing about this was simple. And nothing about it felt like an ending.

“They said you can come back,” Seonghyeon added softly. “As a producer. Or staff. Something.”

“Behind the scenes,” I said. No one denied it.

I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Keonho said immediately.

“It is.”

“It’s not!” The tension snapped. Not loudly, but sharply.

The other guys stepped closer to us until there was barely any space left between us.

“You’re acting like that’s enough,” he said, voice shaking. “Like standing behind a console is the same as standing on stage with us. You’ve trained all your life for this, you’ve exerted more effort than us. It’s unfair for you.”

“I know it’s not fair,” I replied. “But it’s what’s possible.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what they decided.”

“And we have to live with that.”

“I don’t.” No one interrupted him this time.

Because they could feel it. The weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he had been carrying since I left that night.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“I knew for three weeks,” he continued. “And I didn’t tell you.”

No one moved, no one breathed.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to find out.”

His voice broke. “I was wrong.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time—I saw it.

Not just guilt, but with regret. Heavy, and unrelenting.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, brushing my thumb beneath his eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. He stilled at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it—like he thought he didn’t deserve even that much.

But I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I kneeled closer.

And before he could say anything else—before he could apologize again, or try to explain, or break himself open any further—I pulled him into a hug.

The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly, caressing his hair from the back.

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make the decision,” I said. “They did.”

“But I let it happen.”

Silence, again. But different this time. Less sharp. More tired.

“We don’t care,” Seonghyeon said immediately as he kneels beside him, and pats Keonho on the back. “He’s here now. No one can ever separate the six of us again.”

Juhoon nodded. “Stay. With us.”

Martin looked away, jaw tight, but didn’t argue. Keonho stepped forward slowly.

“Just don’t disappear on us again.” I pulled him in for one more hug, emotions breaking.

Again.

That phrase.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I'll keep that promise again.

It's been a week since I did reunite with the boys. Sure enough, adjusting to the new normal of being their personal manager is tough. Managing their schedules, staying up late for their practices, attending managerial meetings, and so much more I could enumerate.

And now,

It's D-day.

The debut stage was brighter than any of them remembered. Lights are sharper, the noise louder. Everything bigger than the practice room we had spent years in.

Five members stood backstage. But something felt different, not wrong.

Just incomplete.

I admit, it felt bitter. Awkward, to say the least. I spent more than six years of my life training with these dorks, only to end up being their manager.

Keonho glanced beside me. And this time—he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my wrist, firm, and sudden.

“Come with us.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just come.”

“Keonho—”

“Please.”

That word—that was what made me stop. The others didn’t question it. They followed. Because somehow—they already knew. The stage lights were blinding. Even before the performance started, even before the music. The crowd was louder than anything I remembered. And I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood behind the curtain, watching them.

Five silhouettes.

Ready.

Perfect.

Without me.

Just like it was supposed to be.

However, Keonho already had something in mind. Dragging me by the arm.

“You’re coming on.”

I snapped and turned to Keonho immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He grinned, handing me a microphone.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” I smacked the microphone in his shoulder. He just laughed.

“I don’t care.”

James looked at him. “Keonho—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We said six or nothing.”

“We already agreed—” Martin tried to butt in.

“And I changed my mind.”

Then the music started. No more time, no more arguments. Just movement. They stepped onto the stage.

Five figures.

Sharp.

Precise.

Perfect.

And then—a gap. The formation shifted.

Second chorus. Half a second pause. Exactly where it should have been. Exactly where it used to be. The space I used to conquer, the second chorus I used to mess up during practices.

The space was still there—waiting.

Keonho looked back at me, just once. And that was enough.

I don’t know when I started moving. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was them, maybe it was that empty space.

But suddenly—I was on stage.

The crowd didn’t understand. The company didn’t understand either. But the five of them—they did. The microphone in my hand felt unfamiliar.

“This is the last one,” I whispered.

“No.” Keonho shook his head immediately. "I won't allow it."

The music softened—shifted.

And for the first time—it wasn’t about choreography, it wasn’t about formation. It was just—us.

I sang. Not as a member, not as a trainee, not as something temporary.

Just me.

And for that moment—that was enough.

The stage lights burned. The crowd roared. The company watched. But none of that mattered. Because for the first time since everything ended—it felt whole again, I felt whole again.

When the song ended, no one moved right away.

No bow.

No exit.

Just six figures standing under the debut spotlight, where it was supposed to be only five. Then James stepped forward, mic in hand, breathing unevenly.

“This debut stage…” he started, voice steady despite everything, “was supposed to have six people.”

The crowd didn’t fully understand. But someone did.

I did.

The lights dimmed slowly.

The moment, fading.

But not disappearing.

Because some things don’t end. They just change.

And maybe—

That was okay.

To the team that never left my place empty, Maybe I never really left either. — I.K.

THE END.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, that never left my space empty.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

FINAL CHAPTER

Author's Note:

This is it, the last one. It's been one good of a joyride to write this series. The support feels surreal even though I just started out writing on this platform. I genuinely would like to say thank you to everyone! I wrote my heart out, and it's very fulfilling to see you guys actually appreciate my work. Love ya'll, 🍬! (So I decided to name ya'll 🍬 because it's short for Kayndies, and it's kinda awkward to type it out since it might sound like I'll lowkey die lmfao.)

PS. I might take a short break from writing, maybe four to six days give or take? Not from Tumblr tho. The main reason is basically I need to edit my formats out, create my moodboard, and my overall theme. It will take time, so please be patient! Also, I heard ya'll on this poll, so you can fully expect a Martin fic the moment I get back!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the other chapters yet, I highly suggest you to do so. Please read it first before diving into this chapter since it will spoil everything. Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (you're here)

The call came early.

Not for practice, not for an evaluation.

But for a meeting.

The van ride was silent. No one played music, no one checked their phones. Even Keonho, who used to fill every quiet space with something, sat still with his hands clasped together.

It felt like they were being led somewhere they didn’t want to go.

The meeting room felt too polished for what it was about to hold. Glass walls. A long table. Chairs aligned too perfectly, like everything in the room had been measured, calculated, and controlled. Even the blinds were only half-open, letting in just enough light to make everything visible—but not enough to feel warm.

Executives sat on one side. Managers stood behind them, quieter than usual. Some avoided eye contact.

“Sit.” That was the first sign.

But no one moved immediately. But James did, and the others followed.

No one spoke at first. Not because they didn’t have anything to say, but because there was too much of it. It sat in their throats, heavy and unfiltered, waiting for the wrong word to set everything off.

Then one of the executives cleared his throat.

“We’re aware of your recent behavior.”

The group didn’t respond.

“You’ve been distracted, uncooperative, and taking it as far as threatening to delay the debut.”

James leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. His voice, when it came out, was controlled—but only just.

“We’re not here for updates,” he said.

“We’re here for answers.”

One of the executives adjusted his glasses, expression unchanged. “You’ve already been informed of the debut lineup. Preparations are ongoing.”

“That’s not what he asked.” Martin didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. It always did. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed and unrelenting. “We’re asking about him.”

A pause followed. Although it wasn’t long, it was enough.

Juhoon noticed it—the way the managers shifted slightly, the way one of them glanced down at the table, the way the executives didn’t immediately respond. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable.

But it meant something. That this meeting won’t go smoothly as planned.

Keonho’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “Where is he?”

The room shifted.

“That’s not relevant to this discussion,” one executive replied.

Martin laughed. Short and sharp, almost a snort. “Then this meeting’s a waste of time.”

“Watch your tone.”

“Then answer the question.”

Martin’s words made the tension snap tighter. One of the executives removed his glasses, then laid his elbows on the table. In their eyes, it's like trying not to get mad at a bunch of kids.

James finally spoke. “You said he left.” his voice trembling under the intense pressure. “That’s not true, is it?”

“That wasn’t his choice, was it?”

Still no answer. The air felt heavier and tighter now.

Seonghyeon swallowed, his voice quieter but no less sharp. “Why can’t we contact him?”

Another glance passed between the executives. Then finally—

“He is no longer under this company’s management.”

The sentence dropped cleanly—too cleanly.

For a moment, no one reacted. Not because they didn’t understand, but because they did. And it didn’t make sense.

Juhoon frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” another executive continued, folding his hands together on the table, “he has been transferred to another agency.”

Transferred.

The word echoed, cold yet clinical. Like it didn’t involve a person at all.

Martin leaned forward now, tension snapping into place. “Transferred? He’s not a file you can just move around.”

“It was a contractual agreement.”

“With who?” Juhoon asked.

Silence again. Then, reluctantly—

“A partner company.”

Keonho let out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“So you sold him.”

The word hung there. No one corrected it.

The executive’s expression tightened slightly. “We accepted an offer that aligned with the company’s interests.”

“And what about his interests? Did you even consider taking that into account?” Seonghyeon asked.

No answer. But that was an answer enough. The explanation came slowly, though not all at once. Like they were pulling it out of them piece by piece.

“He was scouted,” one of the managers said carefully. “Not just as an idol trainee. They saw potential in him beyond that.”

James frowned. “So what? That justifies this?”

“They offered a contract with significantly higher value,” the executive continued. “One that benefits his long-term development.”

Martin laughed. He wasn’t amused at all. ‘Benefits his long-term development’ these greedy douchebags.

“Don’t dress it up like that,” he said.

“You took the money.”

No one denied it. Because they couldn’t, it was true.

The room shifted after that.

Keonho stared at the table, his reflection faint in the polished surface. “Did he know?”

The manager hesitated.

“…Not immediately.”

Seonghyeon’s head snapped up. “What do you mean not immediately?”

“The agreement required confidentiality during negotiation.”

“So you didn’t tell him?” Juhoon asked.

“We informed him when the contract was finalized.”

“When?” James demanded.

Another pause. Then—

“The same day the debut lineup was announced.”

Everything clicked all at once.

The meeting.

The silence.

The way he left.

The way he didn’t come back.

Keonho’s breathing grew uneven. “He found out… alone.”

No one answered. Because again—they didn’t need to.

“And the phone?” Seonghyeon asked, voice shaking now. “Why can’t we reach him?”

“That was part of the transition,” an executive replied. “Contact information was removed from internal systems to prevent interference.”

“Interference?” Martin repeated.

“Emotional involvement can complicate contractual transitions.”

Juhoon let out a quiet, sarcastic laugh. “You mean us.”

“Exactly.”

The word landed without hesitation, without apology.

James stood up so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

“That’s insane,” he said. “You cut him off from everything. From us. From his own team.”

“It was temporary.”

“How long is temporary?” Juhoon asked, finally looking up. No one gave a clear answer.

That was the worst part.

“He might have thought we left him.” The room stilled. Keonho hadn’t raised his voice, but it hit harder than anything else said so far.

“He might have thought we chose this,” he continued, voice cracking. “That we were okay with it.” Keonho’s hands trembled at his sides.

“I knew.” His voice cracked. “I knew something was wrong and I didn’t say anything. I thought I was protecting him but I just—”

He stopped. Because there was nothing left to say. Seonghyeon pressed his lips together, eyes burning.

Because he could picture it—

Him sitting somewhere alone, thinking they moved on, without him.

James leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might give him something to hold onto.

“You built a group of six, and trained them for years without end.”

His voice was quiet.

“Then you suddenly decided five was enough?”

One of the group’s managers suddenly said, “He wasn’t just a number.”

It was the first time one of them spoke, backed up the group. “He balanced them. He grounded them. You’re not just removing a trainee—you’re breaking the group.”

The room tightened again.

“We’ve already made the decision,” the executive replied.

The argument didn’t stop there. It escalated further. Voices overlapping and words colliding. Martin pushed harder, demanding specifics. Juhoon questioned every vague answer. Seonghyeon struggled to stay composed, his voice breaking more than once. And James—James held it together barely.

“Fix it,” he said finally. The room went quiet again.

“You made this decision,” he continued, voice steady in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. “So fix it.”

“We can’t undo the contract,” the executive replied. “You’re asking for contract reversal, financial penalties, and legal complications you don’t understand.”

“Then find another way.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one.” Juhoon spoke with conviction. “You did this to yourselves, just for your own selfish ideals. And he’s the one suffering right now?”

The managers exchanged glances. Not dismissive, not defensive, but tired. Because they understood. Because they had probably thought the same thing.

One of them spoke carefully. “There might be… an alternative.”

All eyes turned.

“He can return,” the manager said. “Not as a member. The debut lineup will remain unchanged.”

Five.

So it's always been five, all along.

The words already felt wrong. But they listened.

“As a producer. Or a creative staff member. Something within the company structure.”

Seonghyeon’s hands clenched. “But not on stage.”

“No.”

Silence followed, heavy and unavoidable. It wasn’t what they wanted. Not even close. But it meant one thing.

He wouldn’t be gone. Not completely.

James closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before nodding once. “Do it.”

Martin didn’t argue. Juhoon didn’t either. Seonghyeon looked down. Keonho didn’t move at all. But none of them said no.

Because even if it wasn’t enough—it was something.

The meeting ended without resolution. The members quickly stood up without hesitation, quietly leaving the room. Martin stood by the door.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He said, not even batting an eye towards the executives.

“He will be sleeping in the dorms with us.” his voice commanding, “I’m sure that simple request is enough for you to accommodate?” Martin then storms out of the meeting room.

And for the first time in days—that was enough to move. That night, the company building felt different. Quieter, like it was holding its breath. It’s already 12 AM, and the practice room lights stayed on longer than usual. No one had the energy to rehearse properly, but no one wanted to leave either. They sat scattered across the floor, leaning against mirrors, staring at nothing in particular.

Waiting. Not saying it out loud, but feeling it.

Then—a sound. Faint, barely noticeable.

Not the Demi Lovato jumpscare lol, you can play this while reading the next part. As if he's the one singing it.

"Stone cold, stone cold

You see me standing, but I'm dying on the floor."

The system picked it up without warning.

Speakers flickered to life across the building. Practice rooms. Hallways. Empty offices. The sound spread before anyone could stop it.

Seonghyeon was the first to notice, the other boys immediately caught up with the sound.

He lifted his head slightly, brows furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

No one responded at first because it was easy to miss. Just a thread of something, something very familiar to them.

"Stone cold, stone cold Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore."

A voice—soft, distant, but familiar. Too familiar.

Keonho froze. His entire body went still. 

“…No way.”

"Stone cold, baby God knows I try to feel."

The sound grew clearer. Not loud. But enough—enough to recognize, enough to feel. Seonghyeon’s breath caught. Martin straightened. Juhoon’s gaze shifted toward the door. James didn’t move, but his expression changed.

It was him.

It had to be. 

“That voice,” Seonghyeon trembled, almost shaking. “He’s here.”

"Happy for you, Know that I am."

Keonho was already on his feet. He didn’t wait, didn’t think, and didn’t question it. He just moved.

The door slammed open as he rushed into the hallway, the sound echoing behind him. The others followed immediately, footsteps quick, uneven, almost desperate. The familiar voice carried through the speakers now.

"Even if I can't understand."

Not perfectly, not cleanly. But unmistakable.

Every note.

Every breath.

Every emotion.

It was him.

And he was singing.

"I'll take the pain, give me the truth."

The door to the studio was slightly open.

No one touched it at first. They just stood there, breathing unevenly, listening.

"Me and my heart, we'll make it through."

The voice poured out from inside—raw, steady, familiar in a way that hurt more than anything else. It wasn’t just the sound. It was the way it carried emotion, the way every note felt like it was holding something back and letting it go at the same time.

"If happy is her,"

Seonghyeon’s hand hovered near the door.

“…It’s him.”

Not a question. But the truth. Behind this door, is someone they’ve been waiting for all this time, someone they had lost, someone they had waited for in silence, in guilt, in nights that refused to end.

Keonho didn’t wait anymore.

Seated beneath the dim studio lights, the world narrowing down to just him and the quiet melody spilling from the piano keys. A headset rested over his ears, slightly askew, like he hadn’t even noticed putting it on properly. His fingers moved instinctively, muscle memory carrying a song that felt far too familiar.

It was him.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t, he just sang. The way tears clung to his lashes, slipping down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even realize he was crying.

And then—

He looked up.

Right at them.

"I'm happy for you."

I didn’t think anyone would hear me.

The studio was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the console, a piano, and a single overhead light that flickered slightly whenever the bass hit too hard. I sat in front of the mic, headphones slightly crooked over my ears, fingers curled loosely around the piano keys like I needed something to hold onto.

I wasn’t recording.

I wasn’t practicing.

I just… needed to sing.

Because it was the only thing that still felt like mine.

I played instinctively, and my voice followed it like it always had—naturally, without needing to think about where to go next.

I closed my eyes.

And for a moment—I knew that I wasn’t alone.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t need to. I could hear them.

Five sets of breathing, five presences I knew better than my own.

Silence answered me—heavy, unsteady.

Then footsteps, getting closer.

From the doorway, no one moved at first.

They didn’t interrupt him.

They couldn’t.

Because the moment felt fragile, like stepping too loudly would shatter it completely. The way he sat there—on the piano, shoulders slightly hunched, voice steady despite his voice breaking—it didn’t feel like something they were supposed to see.

It felt private.

Like they had walked into a memory.

Seonghyeon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed that voice until it was right in front of him again. Not through recordings. Not through memory.

But real.

Alive.

I knew they were there.

I could feel it.

The air changed. The silence behind me wasn’t empty anymore—it was full. Heavy, yet familiar. I swallowed, my voice faltering for just a second before I forced it steady again.

“This is the last one,” I said quietly. “So just let me finish.”

No one stopped me.

Not even Keonho.

The song continued.

Soft at first, then stronger.

Each note carried something unspoken, something that had been building since the moment he left. It wasn’t perfect—not technically—but it didn’t need to be.

It was honest, and that made it hit harder.

Keonho’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Because he understood. This wasn’t just singing.

This was goodbye.

A goodbye to the dream he once had.

A goodbye to his old self.

When the last note faded, the room didn’t move. No one clapped. No one spoke. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. Then—

“You don’t get to decide that.” Keonho’s voice broke through it.

Of course it was him.

I let out a quiet breath, finally turning around. They were all there, exactly the same.

And not the same at all.

Seonghyeon’s eyes were already red. Martin looked like he was holding himself back from saying something he wouldn’t be able to take back. Juhoon stood quieter than usual, but his gaze didn’t leave me. James looked… tired.

And Keonho—

Keonho looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“You don’t get to say that’s your last song,” he repeated, stepping closer, kneeling in front of me. “You don’t get to decide that on your own.”

I frowned slightly. “It’s not really your decision either.”

“It is when you made us part of it.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

From the side, Seonghyeon finally moved.

“You just left,” he said, voice trembling. “No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Martin cut in.

I shook my head as I removed my headphones, before laughing in deep sarcasm. “Not with contracts like that.”

That shut them up for a second. Because they knew, they understood how this industry worked.

James stepped forward slowly. “We know what happened.”

I froze. He continued, voice steady but quieter now. “The transfer. The deal. Everything.”

“Then you know why I can’t go back.”

“Not as a member,” Juhoon said.

I let out a breath. “Exactly.”

Silence again.

Then Keonho spoke. “So what? That’s it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that. Because part of me wanted to say yes. To make it simple, to end it cleanly. But nothing about this was simple. And nothing about it felt like an ending.

“They said you can come back,” Seonghyeon added softly. “As a producer. Or staff. Something.”

“Behind the scenes,” I said. No one denied it.

I nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Keonho said immediately.

“It is.”

“It’s not!” The tension snapped. Not loudly, but sharply.

The other guys stepped closer to us until there was barely any space left between us.

“You’re acting like that’s enough,” he said, voice shaking. “Like standing behind a console is the same as standing on stage with us. You’ve trained all your life for this, you’ve exerted more effort than us. It’s unfair for you.”

“I know it’s not fair,” I replied. “But it’s what’s possible.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what they decided.”

“And we have to live with that.”

“I don’t.” No one interrupted him this time.

Because they could feel it. The weight of everything he hadn’t said yet. Everything he had been carrying since I left that night.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

My chest tightened.

“I knew for three weeks,” he continued. “And I didn’t tell you.”

No one moved, no one breathed.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he said. “I thought I could fix it before you ever had to find out.”

His voice broke. “I was wrong.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for the first time—I saw it.

Not just guilt, but with regret. Heavy, and unrelenting.

Slowly, I lifted my hand, brushing my thumb beneath his eye, catching the tear before it could fall any further. He stilled at the touch, like he hadn’t expected it—like he thought he didn’t deserve even that much.

But I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I kneeled closer.

And before he could say anything else—before he could apologize again, or try to explain, or break himself open any further—I pulled him into a hug.

The kind that says everything words can’t.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly, caressing his hair from the back.

“Yes, I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t make the decision,” I said. “They did.”

“But I let it happen.”

Silence, again. But different this time. Less sharp. More tired.

“We don’t care,” Seonghyeon said immediately as he kneels beside him, and pats Keonho on the back. “He’s here now. No one can ever separate the six of us again.”

Juhoon nodded. “Stay. With us.”

Martin looked away, jaw tight, but didn’t argue. Keonho stepped forward slowly.

“Just don’t disappear on us again.” I pulled him in for one more hug, emotions breaking.

Again.

That phrase.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I'll keep that promise again.

It's been a week since I did reunite with the boys. Sure enough, adjusting to the new normal of being their personal manager is tough. Managing their schedules, staying up late for their practices, attending managerial meetings, and so much more I could enumerate.

And now,

It's D-day.

The debut stage was brighter than any of them remembered. Lights are sharper, the noise louder. Everything bigger than the practice room we had spent years in.

Five members stood backstage. But something felt different, not wrong.

Just incomplete.

I admit, it felt bitter. Awkward, to say the least. I spent more than six years of my life training with these dorks, only to end up being their manager.

Keonho glanced beside me. And this time—he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed my wrist, firm, and sudden.

“Come with us.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Just come.”

“Keonho—”

“Please.”

That word—that was what made me stop. The others didn’t question it. They followed. Because somehow—they already knew. The stage lights were blinding. Even before the performance started, even before the music. The crowd was louder than anything I remembered. And I wasn’t supposed to be here.

I stood behind the curtain, watching them.

Five silhouettes.

Ready.

Perfect.

Without me.

Just like it was supposed to be.

However, Keonho already had something in mind. Dragging me by the arm.

“You’re coming on.”

I snapped and turned to Keonho immediately. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” He grinned, handing me a microphone.

“This isn’t part of the plan.” I smacked the microphone in his shoulder. He just laughed.

“I don’t care.”

James looked at him. “Keonho—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We said six or nothing.”

“We already agreed—” Martin tried to butt in.

“And I changed my mind.”

Then the music started. No more time, no more arguments. Just movement. They stepped onto the stage.

Five figures.

Sharp.

Precise.

Perfect.

And then—a gap. The formation shifted.

Second chorus. Half a second pause. Exactly where it should have been. Exactly where it used to be. The space I used to conquer, the second chorus I used to mess up during practices.

The space was still there—waiting.

Keonho looked back at me, just once. And that was enough.

I don’t know when I started moving. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was them, maybe it was that empty space.

But suddenly—I was on stage.

The crowd didn’t understand. The company didn’t understand either. But the five of them—they did. The microphone in my hand felt unfamiliar.

“This is the last one,” I whispered.

“No.” Keonho shook his head immediately. "I won't allow it."

The music softened—shifted.

And for the first time—it wasn’t about choreography, it wasn’t about formation. It was just—us.

I sang. Not as a member, not as a trainee, not as something temporary.

Just me.

And for that moment—that was enough.

The stage lights burned. The crowd roared. The company watched. But none of that mattered. Because for the first time since everything ended—it felt whole again, I felt whole again.

When the song ended, no one moved right away.

No bow.

No exit.

Just six figures standing under the debut spotlight, where it was supposed to be only five. Then James stepped forward, mic in hand, breathing unevenly.

“This debut stage…” he started, voice steady despite everything, “was supposed to have six people.”

The crowd didn’t fully understand. But someone did.

I did.

The lights dimmed slowly.

The moment, fading.

But not disappearing.

Because some things don’t end. They just change.

And maybe—

That was okay.

To the team that never left my place empty, Maybe I never really left either. — I.K.

THE END.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, I'm sorry.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

CHAPTER 2

Author's Note:

Hello, everyone! I know I was supposed to post this tomorrow. But something came up and if I delay this any further, I might not be able to post it. So here it is! The third part will be posted on Monday, March 16th!

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the first part yet, I highly suggest you to do so. So please read it first before diving into the second part.

Click here for the parts! And check my masterlist here!

Part I | Part II (you're here) | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

To the Team, I'm sorry you made it.

I didn’t write this right away.

I thought I would.

I thought the moment I ran through hallways I'd still hear Keonho and Juhoon laughing, James' footsteps pass by as I walk past the practice room, or see Martin's tall head peek out the glass wall.

I thought the moment I left the building I’d sit somewhere quiet, open my notebook, and let the words spill out the same way they did the night I wrote the last letter.

But the truth is… I couldn’t.

Not yesterday, not last night, or even this morning.

Every time I opened this notebook, my mind just went blank. Like someone erased the language in my head and replaced it with silence.

So instead, I just walked. For hours on end.

Around the building.

Around the streets near the studio.

Past the convenience store where we used to buy ramen after late practices.

Past the bus stop where Martin once fell asleep sitting upright and nearly missed the last bus.

I don’t even remember how long I walked. Long enough for the sky to change colors, long enough for the morning cloud dimmed gray as it poured rain on the streets.

I didn’t make it. I'm sorry.

They told me yesterday afternoon.

The manager called me into the conference room on the second floor—the one with the long table and the blinds that never open all the way. I knew something was wrong the moment I walked in.

No one smiles in that room—not the managers, the staff, even the other trainees I passed by going there. The air felt heavy, like the room already knew what they were about to say before I did.

They asked me to sit down. So I did. And for a moment, nobody spoke. I remember staring at the edge of the table, tracing the tiny scratches carved into the wood. Someone must've bumped into that edge a million times.

Then the manager cleared his throat. And everything after that sounded like it was underwater.

“We’ve finalized the debut lineup.”

Five names.

Zhao Yufan

Park Woojoo

Kim Juhoon

Eom Seonghyeon

Ahn Keonho

I.K.

They read them slowly, one by one.

I waited for mine.

But it never came.

“We appreciate your hard work.”

“This wasn’t an easy decision.”

“You have potential.”

“You can continue training if you want.”

I tried to remember the exact moment they said my name. I don’t think they ever did.

It's just words, just plain bullshit words that none of them were the ones I wanted to hear.

I nodded while they talked. I think I even said,

“I understand.”

I don't.

I’m not sure if I meant it. Maybe I just didn’t know what else to say.

When the meeting ended, the manager patted my shoulder like someone comforting a kid who lost a game.

Then I walked out. The hallway outside the conference room looked exactly the same as it always did. White walls. Fluorescent lights. The same posters of debut groups smiling down from the walls.

For a second, I wondered how the world could look so normal when something inside me had just… cracked.

I didn’t go back to the practice room right away. I couldn’t. I knew you were all in there.

James running through choreography again, fixing everyone’s posture. Juhoon chilling at the bench. Keonho laughing at something so shallow. Seonghyeon probably practicing the same vocal line over and over again. Martin pretending he wasn’t tired even though he always is.

I stood outside the door for a while. Just listening. The music was loud enough that I could feel the bass vibrating through the floor.

I still knew the choreography by heart. My body still knew where the second chorus started.

One, two, three, four

Every count.

Every step.

Without thinking, my foot tapped the first count. Even though I wasn’t supposed to dance it at this point.

And I realized something strange, that for the first time since I became a trainee…

I didn’t belong in that room anymore. Not really. Not the way I used to.

I almost opened the door anyway. Just to say hi. Just to pretend the meeting never happened.

Part of me wanted to walk in like nothing had changed. Like I was still one of you. Like we were still six people chasing the same dream.

But my hand stopped halfway to the handle. Because I knew if I walked in, someone would ask a question. And I didn’t know how to answer it.

So I left. I told the staff I wasn’t feeling well. Which wasn’t exactly a lie.

I actually made it halfway down the hallway before the practice room door opened behind me.

I kept walking.

Then someone called out behind me.

“Hey.”

I turned around. It was Keonho, standing in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he had just run across the room. His hair was damp with sweat and he was still holding the edge of the door like he hadn’t decided whether he should come out or go back inside.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

I shrugged.

“Not feeling great.”

That wasn’t completely a lie.

He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him and ran towards me. The music inside kept playing, muffled now through the wall.

For a moment neither of us moved closer.

For a moment neither of us said anything.

Then he laughed quietly.

“James is making us redo the second chorus again.”

I smiled a little.

“Of course he is.”

“He said Martin’s timing is off again.”

“Martin’s timing is always off.”

Keonho snorted as he rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when he didn’t know what to say.

Then he looked at me.

Not quickly.

Just... longer than usual.

“Hey,” he said.

I looked up. He hesitated like he was choosing his words carefully.

“If you ever get tired of this place…" He paused.

"You should still come visit.”

I frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly.

Then he smiled again. The same stupid smile he always made when Martin said something ridiculous.

“Just don’t disappear on us, okay?”

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

But just before I turned the corner, I heard the practice room door open again behind me. The music started playing.

And Keonho didn’t call my name this time.

Now I’m sitting in a small café two blocks away from the company building. It’s quiet here. Not the kind of quiet that comes after practice—the kind filled with echoes and sweat and laughter. This is a different kind of quiet. The kind that makes you realize how loud your thoughts actually are. The quiet drops of water dripping the window panes as the rain weeps with me.

There’s a cup of coffee in front of me that I haven’t touched in thirty minutes—the foam collapsed a long time ago. It’s probably cold by now. I keep staring at it like it’s going to give me answers. But it doesn’t.

Nothing does.

I keep thinking about last week. About how normal everything felt. We were practicing the debut choreography for the hundredth time. James kept stopping the music to adjust the timing during the second chorus. Juhoon told me my shoulders were too tense again. Keonho laughed at something Martin said. Seonghyeon kept humming the chorus under his breath even when the music stopped.

And I remember thinking— This is it.

This is what our future looks like. The six of us on stage. The six of us in interviews. The six of us sharing dorm rooms and arguing about food at midnight.

I believed it.

Completely.

I don't think anyone told me to stop believing.

Now I keep replaying that moment in my head, wondering if everyone else already knew something I didn’t.

Did the managers know back then? Did they already decide? Did they watch us practicing together and think, "One of them won’t be there when this finally happens."

I wonder if any of you suspected it. Maybe not. Maybe you’re still practicing right now, completely unaware. Or maybe someone already noticed I didn’t come back after the meeting. Maybe someone asked where I went. Maybe someone is worried. Or maybe the music was just too loud to notice. I hope it was the music.

A lot of maybes.

Because I don’t want you to feel guilty. This wasn’t your fault. None of it was. You worked just as hard as I did.

Maybe harder. And honestly… you deserve to debut. All of you do.

Martin has the leadership everyone listens to without questioning. James notices every detail in choreography before anyone else does. Seonghyeon’s voice fills a room even when he’s barely trying. Keonho could make an entire audience laugh without saying a single word. And Juhoon— Well, Juhoon somehow manages to stay calm even when the rest of us are losing our minds.

You guys were always meant for the stage. I just thought I’d be standing there with you.

That’s the part that hurts.

Not the fact that you’re debuting. But the fact that I won’t be next to you when it happens.

I keep imagining the debut stage. The same way I did when I wrote the last letter.

The lights.

The cameras.

The music starting.

And all of you walking onto the stage together.

Five silhouettes instead of six.

I wonder if anyone will notice the empty space.

Maybe not. Maybe the world will see the perfect group standing under the spotlight.

And they’ll never know someone used to stand in that space during practice. Someone who counted the same steps. Someone who laughed at the same jokes. Someone who believed in the same dream.

But...

Maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But right now… Right now it still feels strange. Like I’m watching the beginning of your story from outside the room.

And I’m not sure where my own story goes next.

I close my notebook for a moment and look out the café window. The city is busy now. People rushing to work with umbrellas on. Cars passing by. Life continuing like nothing important happened yesterday.

Maybe that’s the strangest part. The world didn’t end.

Even though it kind of feels like mine did.

I open the notebook again. Because if I don’t write this now, I might never write it at all.

So here it is. The letter I’ll never send.

To the team I thought I’d debut with, to the five people who made the practice room feel like home. I hope you succeed. I hope your debut stage is everything we dreamed it would be. I hope the crowd screams your names so loudly you can’t hear anything else.

And when that moment finally comes— When the lights shine down and the music starts— I hope you remember the nights we spent practicing long after everyone else went home.

Because even if I’m not standing on that stage… Those nights still belonged to all of us.

And tomorrow morning,

you'll probably rehearse again.

Just without me.

— I.K.

[iwaikayn]

To the Team, I left too soon.

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

CHAPTER 3

Author's Note:

Hello again, everyone! It's currently 8AM in the morning, so I thought I'd post the third part before I go to school. And also, if you're really reading this author's note, please answer the poll here before reading, I need to see your opinions on how frequent I'll post the next parts.

Synopsis:

This series inspired from a circulating issue two months ago, wherein a supposed "6th member" was intended to debut with CORTIS but he didn't make it through the final lineup. So I thought, it would be fun to write something from that person's POV.

WARNING! If you haven't read the first and second part, PLEASE READ IT FIRST! It will spoil the story for you. You can click the hyperlinks below to immediately jump to the said parts. Thank you! Love you all!

Part I | Part II | Part III (you're here) | Part IV | Part V | Part VI

Cortis x 6th member m!reader

To the team, I left too soon.

I didn’t mean to.

I just… didn’t know how to stay.

By the time I reached the dorm building, the streets outside were already quiet. Most of the lights in the neighboring apartments had gone out, leaving only the dim yellow glow of the hallway lamps and the faint sound of traffic somewhere farther down the road. My legs felt heavier with each step up the stairs, but I kept climbing anyway, holding onto the railing as if stopping halfway might somehow make the night less real.

When I reached the dorm door, I hesitated before touching the handle.

Voices were coming from inside.

At first I assumed they were just talking the way they usually did after practice, arguing about choreography or complaining about the vocal trainers reprimanding. But after listening for a moment, I realized something was different.

The voices were sharper, tense in a way that made the hallway feel suddenly smaller.

“…where is he?” Martin was saying. His voice carried clearly through the door. “He should’ve been back already.”

“I thought he left earlier,” James replied. I could hear footsteps pacing across the living room floor, like he was finding me. “Didn’t he say he had something to do after practice?”

“No,” Martin said. “He didn’t say anything. Although, I saw Keonho chase him earlier.”

There was a short pause, followed by the faint sound of someone shifting in their seat.

“Maybe he went back to the company,” Juhoon suggested, though his voice didn’t sound very convinced.

Another pause followed, longer this time.

Then Keonho spoke.

“I think… he might not be coming back.”

The words landed heavily enough that even through the door I could feel the room go still.

“What do you mean, he’s not coming back?” James asked immediately.

“I mean exactly what it sounds like.”

For a second no one said anything.

Then Martin’s voice rose sharply. “Hold on. How do you know that?”

Keonho didn’t answer right away.

“You’re acting like you already knew something,” James said slowly.

There was a brief silence. And then Keonho said the words that made my hand tighten against the doorknob.

“I heard about it three weeks ago.”

The reaction inside the dorm was immediate.

Three weeks.

He already knew, for three fucking weeks.

I didn’t move.

Inside the dorm, someone started pacing. I could hear the soft thud of footsteps crossing the living room floor.

“You what?” Martin snapped.

“You knew?” James said, disbelief clear in his voice. “You knew for three weeks and didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure yet,” Keonho said quickly. “The managers said the lineup wasn’t officially announced—”

“That’s not the point!” Martin interrupted. “You still should’ve told us!”

“You seriously just kept this to yourself?” Seonghyeon snapped, voice shaking. “He’s been practicing with us this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”

“I thought I could fix it!” Keonho said suddenly.

His voice was louder now, strained in a way I had never heard before, far from his usual voice that cracks when he laughs.

He's breaking down.

And it hurts me to hear it.

Right here, right now. Behind the closed doors.

“I thought if I talked to the company enough times they might reconsider before it ever became final.”

“You tried to fix it by yourself?” James said. “Are you serious right now?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Keonho shot back.

“Tell us!” Martin replied immediately. “We could’ve done something!”

“Like what?” Keonho demanded. “Walk into the dorm three weeks ago and tell him he wasn't going to debut?"

“Yes!” James said immediately. “At least he would’ve known! We could’ve tried persuading the executives three weeks ago—all of us. We promised each other: if one of us doesn’t debut, none of us will.”

For a moment no one spoke. Then Juhoon’s calmer voice cut through the tension.

“When were you planning to tell us?”

There was a long pause.

“…I wasn’t,” Keonho admitted quietly.

That silence said everything.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martin muttered under his breath.

“We could’ve talked to the company,” James said. “All of us together.”

The words hung in the air. No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Martin said something quietly that I almost didn’t catch through the door.

“So he doesn’t even know yet.”

The argument grew louder after that, voices overlapping as frustration that had clearly been building spilled out all at once.

“You kept this from us for three weeks—”

“I was trying to protect him—”

“You don’t protect someone by lying to them!”

“I wasn’t lying!”

“You were keeping the truth from him!”

The sentence settled heavily in my chest. I realized then that I was still standing in the hallway listening to all of it. I stood outside the door, listening to every word.

I should have walked away.

Given them a few more minutes to finish the argument.

For a moment I considered turning around and leaving before anyone realized I was there. The argument sounded like it still had a long way to go, and part of me felt like walking in now would only make things worse.

But my hand had already turned the handle.

The door opened quietly.

The argument stopped instantly.

Five people stood in the living room exactly where their voices had placed them. Martin near the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. James halfway across the room, frozen mid-step from pacing. Juhoon sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped. Seonghyeon stood near the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

And Keonho—

Keonho stood in the middle of the room, shaking.

For a moment no one moved.

Then Seonghyeon spoke first.

“Hey...”

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The soft click of the lock sounded louder than it should have, cutting the suffocating silence.

No one said anything. They were all staring at me now.

Not surprised.

Just caught.

I glanced around the room.

“…Did I interrupt something?”

James looked down at the floor immediately. Martin rubbed the back of his neck. Seonghyeon looking away. And Juhoon let out a slow breath as he clasped his palms over his knees.

And Keonho still couldn’t look at me.

That was when I understood. Not every detail.

But enough.

“So,” I said quietly. “You heard.”

Keonho exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Yeah.”

James looked back up at me, frustration still lingering in his expression.

“This whole thing is ridiculous,” he muttered. “They can’t just decide something like that after everything we’ve done.”

“It’s already decided,” I said.

The words felt strangely calm leaving my mouth.

Juhoon frowned. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

The room fell quiet again.

After a moment I nodded toward the hallway.

“I’m just... going to pack a few things.”

Trying to sound casual, like any other night. Like I was leaving for the weekend instead of something much more permanent.

Nobody stopped me. Maybe Seonghyeon did, he tried not to grab my shoulder as I pass by him towards the hallway to my room. Maybe they thought silence was better than words. I walked into my room, closing the door softly behind me, leaving the storm outside.

But I could feel all of their eyes on my back as I walked toward my room.

Inside, everything looked exactly the same as it had that morning. My bed was still unmade. A hoodie hung over the back of the chair. Worn out training shoes by the door. My notebook rested on the desk near the lamp.

For a moment I just stood there looking around. Then I pulled my suitcase from under the bed.

Packing turned out to be easier than thinking.

My hands moved automatically, folding shirts, zipping bags, stacking things into neat piles. And then my eyes fell on it—the notebook. The one I had been writing letters in. The one I had hidden in the corner from them, full of thoughts I never dared to send.

For a moment, I froze. My chest felt tight, my lungs heavy, as if the air itself had been sucked out. I picked it up, flipping through the pages. Words I had written in secret stared back at me—memories of practice, small victories, tiny failures, moments I thought no one had noticed.

My hand trembled, I scribbled a few words, then the door opened.

Seonghyeon.

His face was pale. Eyes wide and glistening. He stopped halfway into the room, taking in the sight of me, of my half-packed bags, my hoodie folded on the bed. The notebook in my hands suddenly felt heavy, like it carried all the weight of our shared dreams.

“You’re… leaving?” His voice was a whisper, breaking, a note of disbelief threaded with grief.

I shoved the notebook under my desk instinctively, hiding it. “Yeah… just… packing a few things.”

For a second he didn’t move. Then he let out a short laugh that sounded strangely hollow, and sat on my bed.

“Do you remember vocal lessons last week?” he asked.

The question caught me off guard. “What about them?”

“My voice cracked during the high note.”

The memory surfaced immediately. The practice room, the piano in the corner, and Seonghyeon swearing under his breath when his voice broke halfway through the note. Everyone else had burst out laughing.

Except me.

“You didn’t laugh,” he continued.

I shrugged lightly. “I didn’t think it was funny.”

“That’s not why.”

He looked down at the floor for a moment before continuing.

“You didn’t laugh because you actually listen when people sing,” he said quietly. “You always did.”

Before I knew it, he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a tight hug—so tight it felt like he was afraid of losing the person he was holding onto.

Seonghyeon’s lips quivered. “Please don't disappear on us?”

Disappear on us.

The same phrase Keonho said earlier by the hallways of the company.

Keonho appeared in the doorway behind him, shoulders slumped, eyes red. He avoided looking at me directly, but his voice shook. “It’s my fault. I should’ve said something sooner. I could’ve stopped this… maybe kept you here.”

Tears started to spill down Seonghyeon’s cheeks, hot and desperate.

I wanted to say something—anything—but my throat felt dry, like sandpaper scraping across my vocal cords. My own eyes pricked, but I blinked them back.

I couldn’t fall apart here.

Not in front of them.

Juhoon and Martin lingered in the background. James was nowhere to be seen—probably trying to contain the tension in the living area. Even in silence, the weight of everyone’s emotions pressed down on me.

I felt guilty.

Sad.

Helpless.

But also… detached.

I couldn’t stop myself from finishing what I came to do.

Slowly, I folded my hoodie, stuffed it into my bag, and zipped it shut. My duffle bag was ready, my backpack slung over my shoulder.

I paused. For a long moment, I looked at Seonghyeon, Keonho, and the others. The room felt smaller than usual, too small for the weight of everything unspoken. I felt the ache of leaving. Of walking away from the people I had laughed with, argued with, cried with, and dreamed with.

Seonghyeon’s hands found mine, and pulled me in for a last hug. His grip was tight, trembling.

“I always thought… I thought you were the best.

The best part of our group.

And now… you’re leaving.

I can’t…” His voice cracked as tears streamed down.

Keonho turned away, hiding his teared-streaked face in his hands. “I should’ve stopped this,” he whispered. “I should’ve… I could’ve… I didn’t—”

I finally let go, slowly, quietly.

I walked toward the door, heart heavy. Seonghyeon’s voice broke through the room again.

“Goodbye… you’ll always be part of us.”

But even as the words left his mouth, I knew it was a lie.

Because I was never meant to be in the group.

Keonho’s sniff followed. I didn’t look back.

The hallway stretched before me, long and empty. Every step felt heavier than the last. But I knew something—some part of me would always remain in that dorm. Keonho’s guilt, Seonghyeon’s tears, James’ quiet control, Juhoon’s biting silence, Martin’s heavy shouts. A piece of me would always remain in that room.

I stepped out into the street, the city breathing around me. Cars honked, the faint smell of wet asphalt rising from the rain, people rushing to work. The world moved on as if nothing had happened, and yet everything inside me had shifted.

And the notebook.

I had left it behind.

Forgotten.

It waited, like a secret I hadn’t finished telling, like a memory I wasn’t ready to give up on. And somehow, I knew—one day, someone would find it. And maybe, just maybe, they’d understand.

And if they ever find that notebook, I hope they read the last words I managed to scribble down—right before Seonghyeon broke down in front of me.

To the team I left too soon,

You were the dream I never wanted to wake up from.

— I.K