Accident ~~~ The Boyz' Hyunjae
Disclaimer ⚠️❗⚠️❗: Blood, sickness, medical talk.
Summary : Hyunjae is running away from some "fans" I crashed into Nalani...
I’m running flat out, lungs burning, cap pulled low, mask tugged high. My sneakers slap the pavement in a frantic rhythm that doesn’t drown out the shrieks behind me.
“Daddy!!! Make me pregnant!!! I’ll do anything!!!”
They’re laughing as they say it, but it hits like a punch. Phones are up, flashes like lightning. My heartbeat stutters. I duck down a side street I’ve taken a thousand times without thinking, the route muscle memory carved for emergencies like this. I shouldn’t have gone out alone. I shouldn’t have thought the hoodie would be enough.
I risk a glance over my shoulder—rookie mistake—and collide with someone coming around the corner. The impact is solid, human, soft where I’m all bone and adrenaline. She spins, heel catching the lip of a planter, and goes down. The sound her head makes when it clips stone is the kind of sound that lives in your ears afterward, a dull, awful crack that turns my blood cold.
For a heartbeat I just stare. Then I’m on my knees in glassy sunlight, hands shaking as I reach for her. She’s young. Not a kid, but young. There’s a smear of blood snaking through her hairline, and her eyes slit open, glazed with shock, not focusing on me or anything at all.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” My voice is breath and panic.
The crowd hits the mouth of the alley like a wave finding a cove. A chorus of gasps, the metallic whisper of more cameras raised. Someone says my name—my real one—and my skull tightens. I shrug out of my jacket and wrap it around her head and shoulders, shielding her face from the lenses, from the world. I slide an arm under her knees, another under her back, and lift. She’s lighter than I expect, or maybe adrenaline makes me stronger. Either way I’m moving, legs churning, shoulder to the wind.
“Move!!!” I bark at the knot of bodies. For once, they do. A path opens. I keep my face down, my pace steady. Someone screams that I’m kidnapping her. Someone else laughs like this is content and not a disaster. I fix my eyes on the gate ahead—black iron, blessedly close—and force myself not to sprint. Sprinting is sloppy. I can’t drop her. Not now.
Gate. Code. Beep. Beep. The lock gives and I shoulder inside, slam the metal behind me, and twist the deadbolt. The sudden quiet rushes in like a vacuum. My hands won’t stop shaking as I cross the courtyard into the house, kick the door shut, and lay her gently on the couch. I peel the jacket back.
Blood is a bright, rude color on soft skin. It runs from her hairline in thin trails, beads along her temple, dapples her cheek. One of her eyes is trying to stay open; the other is a reluctant half-mast. She looks like the world tilted and forgot to right itself.
“Hyungs!!!” The word rips out of me. “Hyungs!!!”
Footsteps hammer through the hall. The living room explodes with bodies—Sangyeon first, all tension and leader’s eyes; Jacob right behind him, palms up, scanning; Younghoon on their heels, already halfway to annoyed because that’s how he handles fear.
“What did you do???” Younghoon demands, voice sharp because he’s scared. His stare bounces from me to her to the blood and back.
“Her head—Hyunjae, she’s bleeding. It’s not a scratch.” Jacob’s already moving, sweeping magazines off the coffee table with one arm and yanking the first-aid kit from under it with the other. He flips it open like a pro.
Sangyeon doesn’t raise his voice, but it cuts cleaner than a shout. “Explain. Now.”
I swallow, taste iron, and the words tumble out. “Fans. A lot. I looked back for half a second and ran into her, and she fell, and I couldn’t leave her with them, and—” I’m gesturing toward the door, to the jacket, to the blood. “I brought her.”
The girl gags. It’s a small, desperate sound, and fear threads through it. Jacob thrusts a small trash bin into my hands. “Sit her up. Slowly.” I wedge an arm behind her shoulders, lift carefully. She retches, and bile hits the bottom of the bin with a wet sound. I rub circles between her shoulder blades, steady with a hand that doesn’t feel like mine.
“You’re okay,” I murmur because I don’t know what else to do. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Younghoon’s already on his phone. “Dr. Lee. Head injury, bleeding, probably a concussion,” he says, eyes pinned on the gash. “Address is the same. Hurry.” He listens, nods, then hangs up. “Ten minutes,” he tells us.
Jacob digs out sterile gauze and a bottle of saline. “Hyunjae, I need you to hold pressure. Like this. Not too hard.” He places my hand, the pad of gauze snug against the gash, and I press. Blood wells, then slows. It coats my fingers, warm and real. The girl flinches, breath shuddering.
Sangyeon kneels on the other side of the couch, palms open, voice soft. “Hey. Can you hear me???” She blinks slow. “What’s your name???” No answer. “Okay. That’s okay. Can you look at me???” Her eyes try. He glances at me. “Keep talking to her, Jaehyun.”
“Hyunjae,” I say, automatic. “Call me Hyunjae. It’s okay.” I wipe at the sweat pricking my neck with my shoulder. “What’s your name???” Nothing. “Do you have a phone??? I can call someone.”
She swallows, grimaces. “Bag,” she whispers, breath thin. It’s the first sound she’s made besides gagging. Jacob finds a small crossbody that must have skittered under the couch. He hands it to me. I pull out a phone, hands clumsy, thumb hovering.
“Passcode???” I ask. She blinks, disoriented. “It’s okay,” I repeat. “We can wait.”
“She needs to stay awake,” Jacob mutters, voice calm but edged. He slides a folded towel under her head to keep pressure even. He checks her pupils with the small penlight we keep for performances, eyes narrowing. “They’re responsive.”
My phone buzzes on the table—three, four, five notifications in a row. Trends brewing. Photos already up. My name. The word kidnap, that ugly, easy word. A familiar dread coils around my ribs. Sangyeon must see my eyes flick; he shakes his head, tiny, a command to focus.
We breathe with her. The room narrows to just that sound. She retches again, less. I push the bin closer. The air smells like saline and metal and fear.
Footsteps outside. The door opens before it knocks, and Dr. Lee strides in like a storm front—tall, gray at the temples, eyes that miss nothing. He drops a duffel beside the coffee table and sanitizes his hands in one smooth motion.
“Good job on the pressure,” he says, already snapping on gloves. “Let’s see.” He crouches, peels the gauze back carefully. Blood sticks, then loosens under a saline rinse. “Scalp wounds bleed a lot. Don’t panic at the volume.” He angles her face gently. “Miss??? Can you tell me your name???”
Her eyes flutter. “Nal… ani,” she whispers, voice sandpaper.
“Hi, Nalani. I’m Dr. Lee. Can you tell me what year it is???” He checks her pupils again with a brighter light. She winces.
“Two… twenty twenty-five???” she mumbles. Close enough; we all exhale a fraction.
“Good.” He palpates around the wound. She hisses. “Sorry, sorry. You fell and hit your head. I’m going to clean this and close it. You might have a mild concussion. Nausea is common. Any neck pain???” She shakes her head minutely. “Dizziness???” A nod. “Blurred vision???” Another small nod. He looks at me. “She needs a CT if symptoms escalate. For now, we can manage here.”
He irrigates the cut thoroughly, the saline hissing. Blood thins, pink streams trailing down to a towel Jacob swaps out like he’s been doing this all his life. Dr. Lee swabs with something that smells like a hospital memory—iodine—and then leans closer.
“Local anesthetic,” he warns, pulling a tiny syringe. Hyerin’s eyes go wide with the kind of fear that ignores sense. “Just a pinch.” She flinches as the needle touches skin. I find her hand without thinking, and she grips hard, fingers cold.
“You’re okay,” I say, because it’s the only thing I have. “Squeeze if you need.”
She does, and I let her. My knuckles ache by the third stitch. He doesn’t actually stitch—he uses those thin adhesive strips and a medical glue because the cut’s more of a split than a tear. It’s quick and neat and so impersonal it almost calms me.
“All right,” he says after a few minutes, voice smoothing out the edges of the room. He tapes gauze over the repair and secures it with netting through her hair. “No sign of skull fracture. Pupils are reactive. Vitals are steady.” He takes them without comment—pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, each number a lifeline. “She’s concussed. She needs observation for the next twenty-four hours. No screens. No alcohol. Small sips of water. If she vomits more than two or three times, gets a severe headache, becomes unusually drowsy, or if her speech slurs or she can’t recognize people, you go to the ER.”
Sangyeon nods, already absorbing it into a plan. “She shouldn’t go home alone.”
Nalani swallows. “I… I don’t live far,” she says, voice steadier now, tentative. “I can call my roommate.” Her eyes flick to me and away, embarrassment rising under the paleness.
“Let’s have your roommate come here,” Jacob suggests gently. “You should rest before moving.”
“Please,” I add, too fast. Her gaze returns, caught between gratitude and confusion. “We’ll cover your taxi. Or drive you. And… I’m sorry.” The apology tastes thin compared to the weight of it in my chest. “I shouldn’t have—”
“You didn’t push me,” she says, surprising me. “I wasn’t looking either.” Her mouth twitches like she’s trying to make it easier on me. “I’m not… a fan. I mean, I know who you are, but I wasn’t—” She stops, blushes, then winces because blushing apparently hurts right now.
Younghoon clears his throat, rescue disguised as impatience. “Names and numbers,” he says, shoving a notepad and pen at me. “For logistics. Also, we should call security. The front is probably a mess.”
As if summoned, the distant swell of voices leaks through the walls, a blurred chorus of speculation and the occasional scream of a name. My phone vibrates again, relentless. Sangyeon catches my eye. “I’ll handle the gate,” he says, already moving. “No one in. No one out.”
Dr. Lee hands over a small card with aftercare instructions in neat print. “She’ll be sleepy. Don’t let her sleep for more than an hour at a time for the next six hours. Wake her, check orientation—name, date, where she is. If she’s fine after that, she can rest. Painkillers only acetaminophen. No ibuprofen for the first day.” He softens, just a fraction. “You did the right thing bringing her out of that crowd.”
It doesn’t feel like it in my gut, but I nod anyway. “Thank you,” I say, and mean it. He packs up with a surgeon’s efficiency and is gone as fast as he came, leaving the living room smelling faintly of antiseptic and something like relief.
We shift gears. Jacob brings a glass of water, straw bending toward Nalani like a sunflower, and she takes small, careful sips. Younghoon sets a cool pack, wrapped in a towel, along the uninjured side of her head to ease the ache. I hover, useless, wanting to do everything and nothing at once.
“Do you want us to call someone for you???” Jacob asks again, softer.
“My roommate,” she says. “Minji.” She tries to sit up straighter and sways. I slide a hand behind her shoulders, guiding her back. She doesn’t flinch at my touch this time, and the fragile trust lodges under my ribcage like a splinter.
“Passcode?” I ask, lifting her phone. She hesitates, then tells me. I unlock it and find Minji in her favorites. The call connects on speaker, and a bright, worried voice answers on the second ring.
“Nalani??? Where are you??? Your location’s weird—there’s a crowd outside our block—”
“This is… a friend,” I say, stumbling over the word. “Nalani had a small accident near our place. She’s okay, but can you come here??? We’ll send the address. The crowd is… not ideal.”
There’s a beat, then a wary, “Who is this???”
“Hyunjae,” I say, and wince, because there’s no way to make that not sound like a lie. Silence, then a muttered curse, then, “I’m coming. Ten minutes. Keep her safe.” The line goes dead.
The house settles around us. Noise outside ebbs and surges, distant thunder. Security messages ping: gate secured, perimeter watched, photos prohibited. Too late for that last part, but it’s a gesture. The others drift into roles we’ve all learned—the quiet efficiency of people who’ve dealt with fear in different shapes. Sangyeon returns, locks something on his phone, nods at me. Jacob starts tidying the threshold of chaos: packaging in a neat pile, towels in a basket. Younghoon parks himself by the window, a sentinel with a furrow between his brows that doesn’t match the joke he’s probably already drafting to use later, when it’s okay to laugh.
“Does your head still hurt???” I ask Nalani, because silence presses too hard. Stupid question. Of course it does. She blinks at me, then nods, a tiny dip.
“Less,” she says. Her eyes settle on my hands, still stained along the cuticle lines despite two hasty swipes with a wipe Jacob tossed me. “You have… blood.”
“It’s yours,” I say, and then immediately hear how insane that sounds. “Not in a weird— I mean, it’s from helping— I—” My mouth keeps digging until Jacob snorts softly, the sound a relief valve. Nalani’s mouth curves, just a little, and that feels like sunlight. Then she winces, and guilt spikes sharp again.
“I’m really, really sorry,” I say, quieter. “About the fans. About running. About not looking. About… all of it.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s deciding something. “It’s not your fault people are weird,” she says, then adds, “Mostly.” Her gaze flicks toward the front door, where noise swells. “Is it… always like that???”
“No,” Younghoon answers before I can, eyes still on the window. “Sometimes it’s worse.” He glances back, softening the line with a lopsided smile. “You got the deluxe tour.”
Minji arrives like a hurricane with better shoes—bangs askew, tote bag slamming her hip, eyes slicing the room until they find Nalani. Relief collapses her shoulders, and then she’s at the couch, crouched, hands fluttering.
“What did you— Who—” Her gaze finds me, and she calibrates. “Okay. You’re you.” She points a finger. “If this ends up on the internet, I will—”
“It already is,” I admit, throat tight. “But not this. Not… you, here. We won’t let that happen.”
She narrows her eyes, scanning me for sincerity like a metal detector. Whatever she sees, it passes. “Fine.” She focuses on Nalani, voice gentle. “How’s your head???”
“Loud,” Hyerin says. “But attached.”
Minji’s laugh is wet, shaky. “Good.” She smooths hair back from the bandage, then meets Jacob’s gaze. “Instructions???”
Jacob delivers them like he was born with them. Minji nods along, asks smart questions, takes photos of the card so she won’t lose it. She thanks Dr. Lee even though he’s gone and then looks back to me.
“Do you have a back way???” she asks bluntly. “I don’t want to parade her through a zoo.”
“We do,” Sangyeon says, already moving. “Garage. We’ll pull the car around and drop you a block away.”
“I can cover her with a hoodie,” I offer, halfway to standing. “And—” And what??? Apologize again???Ask to pay their rent for a year??? Something that might feel like penance??? I sit instead. “And I’ll, um, send for the jacket later,” I finish lamely, nodding at the one still draped over the armrest.
“You can keep it,” Nalani says. “It’s probably a biohazard now.”
“Frame it,” Minji deadpans. “List it online. ‘Idol’s medically compromised jacket.’”
Younghoon snorts. “It’d sell in five minutes.”
“Not helping,” I mutter, but the edge of fear blunts with the banter. It feels like the room remembers how to be a living room and not an ER.
We move carefully. Jacob helps Nalani stand. She wobbles; I’m there without deciding to be, an arm a lever she can lean into. She fits under it like she was always supposed to be there, and then I’m stepping back because that thought is ridiculous and the world is already watching too much.
“Thank you,” she says, looking at each of us in turn. When her eyes reach mine, they stick for a second. “For… everything.”
“I’m going to check on you later,” I blurt, then realize that sounds like a threat if you don’t know me. “If that’s okay. To make sure you’re— I mean, I’ll text Minji.”
“That’s fine,” Minji says, forestalling the awkward. She squares her shoulders, re-centers. “Let’s go.”
We funnel through the quieter hallways to the garage. Security opens the side gate. The car is nondescript on purpose. Sangyeon takes the driver’s seat. Jacob slides into the passenger side to text directions. Minji helps Nalani into the back, tucking the hoodie around her face like a barrier. For a second, before the door closes, her eyes find me again. I lift a hand in a small, helpless wave. She mirrors it, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth, then the door soft-closes and the car glides out into the day.
The garage is suddenly too empty. The house is too quiet. Outside, the crowd has migrated to the wrong gate, pouring their noise into the wrong corner. It buys us a pocket of silence. I stand in it, jacketless and buzzing, and feel everything all at once.
Younghoon claps a hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm. “Next time,” he says, a grin tugging because that’s his reflex, “take me. I’m bigger than you. I can punch a fan.”
“Please don’t punch a fan,” Sangyeon calls as he reenters, tossing the keys into the bowl by the door with a sigh that ends in a laugh. “That’s a worse headline.”
Jacob nudges my elbow with a wet wipe. “You did good,” he says, simple, like he’s handing me a fact. “You didn’t leave her. You kept your head enough to get her help.”
I look down at my hands. The blood is mostly gone now, faint rust along the nail beds. “I should have kept my head before I ran into her.”
“Both things can be true,” Jacob says. “Do better tomorrow. That’s all any of us do.”
My phone vibrates. A flood of messages—manager, group chat, my mother, three friends, one number I don’t recognize. It resolves into a new contact Minji must’ve sent: Nalani’s. I stare at it for a second, then type.
This is Hyunjae. Don’t worry about replying. Just rest. I’m sorry. If you need anything—anything—text this number.
A dot appears, then disappears. Then: Thanks. Please be careful. And… it’s okay.
I exhale, a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding since the street. Outside, the tide of voices shifts, thins. Security texts: crowd dispersing. The house relaxes with me.
“Eat,” Sangyeon orders, because he is who he is. He steers me toward the kitchen, this time more big brother than leader. Younghoon opens the fridge with enthusiasm like the last twenty minutes didn’t happen. Jacob sets a plate in front of me before I can argue, and I realize my hands are still shaking faintly as I pick up a spoon.
Later, we’ll do statements and security briefs and meetings about routes and escorts and schedules. Later, there will be headlines to outrun and jokes to make so we can breathe around them. For now, there’s food and the hum of the air conditioning and the afterimage of a stranger’s hand in mine, cold and fierce and trusting for the length of three butterfly strips and a promise I intend to keep...
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