seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Croatia
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Maldives
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malta
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Maldives
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Moldova
seen from Maldives
I WANT YOU BACK – CORTIS
WHERE they can't seem to let you go, and decide to reach out to you in the silliest ways.
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.
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐓 ?
◞ ・ ⸝⸝ ҂ 𓂃 ֙⋆ +．★
𝐬/𝐧: after sleeping on your feelings you decide you lowk want BOAF
𝐚/𝐧: this whole thing is gonna turn around don’t even worry about it lmk what you want to happen in the comments
◞ ・ ⸝⸝ ҂ 𓂃 ֙⋆ +．★
Vol 3 > prev > next
soft launch with seonghyeon!⊹ ‧₊˚
cortis masterlist ★ main masterlist
WHEN LOVE CAN'T KEEP UP – SEONGHYEON
from cute messages to heartbreak texts, love can’t always survive through a screen.
A fic where Reader is friends with Cortis despite him not being a trainee? He knew them WAY before they went in the industry and cheers for them at any moment :D
And they're still idiots...
CORTIS x non-idol m!reader
Word count: ~800 words
Author's Note:
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐓 ?
𝐬/𝐧: seonghyeons overly thirsty and is all up in you’re comments but your the hard to get queen and also you lowk do but don’t want him 🙈
vol 2 < prev < next
𝐚/𝐧: ouu shi ??
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐓 ? ˖ ∿
𝐬/𝐧 : after being great friends with seonghyeon and his gang for years you left in 8th grade now it’s 11th and your finally back on the first day of school but now your … FINEE ASF!
➛ ̨𖥔 ִ ་ vol 1 > next
𝐚/𝐧 : this is my first samu lmk how it went 🙈
