Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They gave him the contract in a white folder. Even the paper smelled expensive.

Jeonghan sat on a stiff leather couch in some executive’s office, sunlight cutting through the blinds like prison bars. His fingers trembled. He was exhausted, running on fumes but underneath all that, there was still a pulse of adrenaline. He’d been chosen.

He flipped to the back. The pay was lower than expected, but they promised exposure. A solo debut. Total control over image management. That part made the executive smile.

Then he hit the rules.

Additional Conditions – Artist Conduct and Management:

• No social media posts without approval.

• No public speaking unless scripted and pre-cleared.

• No speaking to anyone unless listed and authorized by the company.

• Personal phone usage will be monitored at all times.

• All calls and texts must go through the company-issued device.

• Artist must comply with company styling and wardrobe guidelines.

• No touching anyone in public or backstage without permission.

• Must stay in company housing, use company transport only.

• No contact with current or former trainees from other agencies.

• No mention of past training or pre-debut affiliations.

• No unsupervised contact with press, fans, or industry staff.

And one that wasn’t bolded, just slipped in like it was normal:

Artist is not permitted to speak unless previously approved.

Jeonghan just… stared at that one. The words blurred on the page.

Not permitted to speak.

His name sat at the top of the contract, neat and crisp: Yoon Jeonghan.

The executive leaned forward, voice syrup-smooth. “You’re a smart kid. I’ll be honest with you. That team you were with? They’re moving forward without you. The lineup’s finalized. Twelve members.”

Jeonghan blinked.

“Twelve,” the executive repeated, almost gently. “You were good but obviously not indispensable. And you’ve always been a little… off-brand for them, don’t you think? Too sharp. Too distracting.”

There was a pause. A calculated beat.

“But this... this is yours. Solo. Clean. No competition. You debut in three weeks.”

He could still feel Seungcheol’s hand on his wrist. Still hear Jihoon laughing in the practice room. Hansol humming harmonies next to him on the floor.

Gone. All of it. Gone.

“Come on,” the executive said. “You want this, don’t you? You’ve wanted this for years. This is how you get it.”

It wasn’t a threat. Just a smile.

So Jeonghan smiled too. Because that’s what they were buying.

And then he signed.

His debut single, Whisperglass, dropped three weeks later. His voice floated over dreamy chords and cold reverb. The MV was sterile and surreal—white halls, mirrors, shadows, sheer curtains. No backup dancers. No choreo. Just him, walking.

Not a single word outside the music.

Fans loved it. They called him “mysterious,” “angelic,” “otherworldly.” They clipped his live vocals, gushed about his tone. They started threads analyzing every glance, every breath, every time he looked into the camera and didn’t say anything.

“He’s shy!”

“He’s just introverted.”

“No, this is calculated. It’s branding.”

“It’s genius! The silence makes you pay attention.”

They didn’t know.

He literally wasn’t allowed to speak.

His phone was monitored. Every text, call, everything filtered through the company’s comms team. He wasn’t even supposed to greet people backstage unless someone approved it first. Not even a “hello.”

At fan signs, he was allowed to say a few words. Five or six per person. Carefully counted. Just enough to keep the illusion going.

One fan cried when he said, “Thank you for listening.”

Another gasped when he said their name out loud. That was all it took.

If he went over the limit, the company caught it on camera. He’d already been called in twice for “correctional discussions.”

A stylist whispered once, “You know you could say no.”

She wasn’t there the next day.

And now… he kept seeing them.

Seventeen.

Twelve of them, always twelve.

He remembered the green room.

Seungcheol grabbing his wrist, laughing, “One more take. Come on, we’ve got it this time.”

Staff pulling him away, calm but firm.

Jeonghan thinking, It’s just for today. I’ll be back.

He wasn’t.

That night, the white folder arrived at his door.

He learned how to be silent to be perfect.

He learned how to be empty to be wanted.

He learned how to disappear while still being seen.

The world adored his silence.

But Jeonghan remembered what it cost.

He remembered the laughter.

He remembered the names.

He remembered the one word he wasn’t allowed to say anymore.

Chapter Text

It didn't happen all at once, the changes.

That's the part most people don't get. They often think it's this dramatic before-and-after thing, like a magic show. One day you're yourself, and the next you're some shiny doll under a spotlight.

That would have been too jarring, too noticeable. Besides, it was easier that way, to make the cage feel like a reward.

They start with the small things.

“You’re already so pretty, Jeonghan,” the stylist had smiled, weeks before debut. “We’re just polishing what’s already there.”

"You have a bit of water weight." She continues, patting his cheeks like he was a child. "We want your cheekbones to pop on camera."

He believed her. At first.

The first note was passed to his dorm mailbox in a pink folder, back when he was still in the shared trainee housing. Inside was a revised meal plan.

Less salt. No sugar. No processed oils. No soda.

No more late-night convenience store raids.

“No sweets?” he had joked to his roommate. “They want to starve the joy out of me.”

The second change came during the concept meeting.

Three stylists, two managers, and a company rep all sat around him in a conference room with a flickering light. The mood made him feel like he was in an investigation room, not a concept meeting. A stack of photos was passed around all with the same idea. A bunch of male idols with white-blonde hair and glowing skin.

He was the last to see the pile.

“This is you now,” the rep said, tapping the page. “Think delicate. Think divine.”

He gestured as he said the words. 

When he asked if he could keep his natural hair color, the room went silent.

Jeonghan opened his mouth to ask if they could try a softer brown, maybe a warm tone instead of bleach, but his manager’s stare shut that down before the words came out.

So he went blonde. They bleached it twice in one day and his scalp peeled for a week.

He was thankful that at least, his hair didn't fall off.

Then came the clause.

He found it by accident, when he was flipping through his contract one night after practice, bored and a little curious. Most of it was standard idol stuff, or at least, what he’d learned to expect by now.

But on page 36, bottom corner, in teeny tiny print, so small he had to squint, was this line:

“…no direct contact with familial relations unless explicitly cleared by management and/or routed through pre-approved media.”

He stared at it for a full minute.

Then he closed the folder, pretended he hadn’t seen it, and told himself it was probably just legal fluff. Not that serious.

Except a few days later, his mom showed up outside the company building. She’d brought him his favorite tteokbokki from the stall by their old apartment. He didn’t even know how she’d gotten past the first gate.

He didn’t get to see her.

They didn’t even tell him she was there until she’d already been turned away.

He watched it later, through grainy security footage in the office. She stood in the lobby for nearly twenty minutes, clutching the little takeout bag, looking up every time the elevator dinged.

She looked lost.

She called him once.

“Jeonghan,” she said. Clear as day through the grainy speaker.

That was the last time he ever heard his name out loud.

After that, his phone was taken.

“Too many distractions,” his manager said, like it was a minor thing.

They gave him a company device with barely any apps and no SIM. He used it for schedules and brand filters. Nothing else.

He never asked about his mom again. Or his sister. Or anyone.

There was no point.

The rest came in pieces.

They started covering his mole with makeup. Then one day it was gone. He only found out later that it had been lasered off during a “routine skin treatment.”

No one told him ahead of time.

His closet got cleared. They replaced it with racks of white, powder blue, and soft beige. All pastels.

Nothing dark.

Nothing heavy.

He wasn’t allowed to wear sneakers anymore. No piercings, no sharp accessories.No black eyeliner.

“You’re not mysterious,” they said. “You’re angelic. Floaty. Like a dream.”

He started to wonder what it felt like to punch a wall.

The music helped at first.

He poured himself into recording sessions, trying to find truth in the lyrics they handed him. His voice became a product. It played on the radio, in stores, behind ads for makeup and luxury water.

He never did interviews live. Everything was pre-recorded. Even at fan signs, he was only allowed to answer questions in writing or in the softest one-liners. His real voice was reserved for music. Nothing else.

Once, he caught a clip of Seungcheol on a variety show, laughing so hard he doubled over and smacked the table.

Jeonghan turned off the TV.

Then he sat there in the dark dressing room with the screen still glowing blue behind him and whispered, “Yoon Jeonghan.”

Just to see if his voice still worked when it said his own name. It didn’t sound like him anymore.

That night, he dreamed he was stuck in a glass room. Outside, his mom was calling to him.

But the glass didn’t have a door.

And he couldn’t figure out how to knock loud enough to be heard.

Chapter Text

It happened in a hallway.

Not a glamorous stage, not a press event, not anything remotely dramatic. Just a hallway backstage at a music show — narrow, plain, always smelling faintly of hairspray and cheap air freshener. Jeonghan was on his way back from makeup, dressed in the outfit they picked out for him: pale pink button-up, fitted slacks, shoes that pinched the sides of his feet.

He walked carefully. Straight spine. Soft steps. Look like a ghost, someone once joked. Glide, don’t walk.

He was trying to do just that when someone bumped into him from the side — hard enough that he had to grab the wall for balance.

“Shit—sorry—”

The voice was familiar.

Jeonghan looked up.

Seungcheol.

Hair darker than he remembered. Eyes wide, surprised. He was dressed casually — just sweats and a T-shirt — probably heading to change into his stage outfit.

Jeonghan froze.

Every muscle in his body went stiff. His throat locked up. Something like instinct told him to say something. Anything.

But his manager was standing less than five steps away.

Clipboard in hand. Watching.

Seungcheol blinked at him. “Hey, are you—?”

Jeonghan gave a small bow. Polite. Short. Silent.

His manager stepped in almost instantly.

“We’re late,” she said briskly, touching his arm. Not pushing, not quite — but just enough to make it clear. “Come on.”

Jeonghan turned without another glance.

He didn’t look back.

They made it halfway down the hallway before the manager spoke again, this time low and measured, just under her breath.

“You remember the rules.”

He nodded.

“Good. That’s what we expect.”

Back in the waiting room, he stood in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection for a long time.

His cheeks were powdered. Lashes curled. Hair perfectly styled.

He looked like a doll. Beautiful, silent, breakable.

He sat down on the little stool and picked up a bottle of water, hand steady, voice quiet as he thought:

He almost recognized me.

The thought made his chest feel weird — tight and warm and kind of awful. Like relief and dread tangled together.

He unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sip.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Seungcheol sat in his own waiting room later, tugging on his stage jacket with a weird frown on his face.

“Hyung?” Seungkwan asked. “You good?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. He kept thinking about the guy in the hallway. The one who didn’t say anything but had eyes like someone he used to know.

“…It’s nothing,” he said eventually.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Chapter Text

The fansign table smelled like citrus disinfectant and paper.

Jeonghan kept his hands folded neatly on the tablecloth, fingertips resting just over a branded notepad. He smiled — the soft kind, eyes gentle but distant. Perfect. Clean. The kind they trained into him.

Across the table, fans leaned in eagerly, waving albums and clutching phones. Most of them already knew the drill. He didn’t speak. He only wrote.

The company had a phrase for it now: Mystique Branding. He wasn’t silent — he was “serene.” “Heavenly.” “So captivating he doesn't need words.”

It sounded better than the truth: he wasn’t allowed.

“Oppa!” one of the girls squealed, pushing her page toward him. “Can you draw a heart next to my name?”

Jeonghan smiled and nodded, then picked up the pen. His handwriting was careful and round. He added the heart. A small one. Clean lines.

The girl giggled.

He twitched — just slightly — lips threatening to move. He almost laughed with her. Almost.

Across the room, his manager narrowed her eyes.

Jeonghan caught the look and straightened. Fixed the smile. Set the pen down like it hadn’t faltered.

They left right after. No backstage talking. No extra fan service. No deviation.

In the van, Jeonghan sat with his hands folded in his lap while his manager talked softly into a phone beside him.

“Too expressive,” she muttered when the call ended. Not to him, exactly. Just… in general.

He didn’t respond. He just watched the streetlights flash across the tinted window, one by one, like a metronome.

It had been bothering him all day.

That kid in the hallway. The one with the white-blonde hair and the barely-there smile. Seungcheol hadn’t been able to shake the image from his head.

He hadn’t said a word, but his eyes—

Those eyes had looked like they knew him.

Back at the dorm, Seungcheol sat cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through that week’s Inkigayo performances. His group had already gone — he’d seen their fancams. Now he was watching others just to wind down.

And then—

There he was.

The silent soloist.

Angel image, white outfit, stage full of fake flowers.

The moment Jeonghan opened his mouth to sing, Seungcheol paused the video.

Rewound. Played it again.

And then just sat there, frowning.

“…No way.”

He knew that voice.

Training room. Fluorescent lights. Wooden floors. Mirrors.

He stood in the middle of the room while a stylist-turned-consultant pointed at him from behind a clipboard.

“When you sit,” she said, “always ankles crossed, hands light in the lap. No slouching. It makes your image too casual.”

He nodded.

“Eye contact should be brief and soft. Smile with the mouth more than the eyes — you don’t want to look intense.”

He nodded again.

“Don’t tilt your head too much. You come across… suggestive.”

He blinked.

She clicked her pen. “And no pouting.”

He hadn’t been, but he nodded anyway.

That night he laid down in bed with his arms crossed over his stomach like he was posing for a portrait. He didn’t blink for a long time.

Eventually, he whispered, “Jeonghan.”

Just his name. Just once.

He didn't know why it felt like a rebellion.

It hit him in the shower.

That trainee, the one who used to joke that he'd dye his hair lavender just to freak out the stylists. The one who kept sneaking snacks to the younger kids even after they got caught the first time.

Yoon Jeonghan.

He’d vanished right before debut. One day he was in the practice room, arguing about harmonies with Jihoon, Seungcheol remembered pulling him back when he got called by management, and the next?

Gone.

There was no explanation, not even a word, or a goodbye. They were told to move on, that he’d been “reallocated.” Whatever that meant.

But now.. now he was on Seungcheol’s screen, bathed in pastel light, wearing a silence that didn’t fit him.

“…It’s him,” Seungcheol whispered, water still dripping down his neck.

He wrapped a towel around his shoulders, walked out into the hallway with his hair still dripping, and muttered again like he had to hear it out loud.

“That’s Jeonghan.”

Chapter Text

It started with pizza. Well, pizza and sore feet.

They had just wrapped up another brutal day of promo; filming, live stages, endless camera setups, and everyone had collapsed into the dorm like falling dominoes. Shoes kicked off. Jackets slung onto chairs. The usual group chat chaos migrated into real life as Seungkwan argued with Mingyu about sauce packets and Soonyoung used a cushion as a weapon.

Seungcheol sat on the arm of the couch, nursing a bottle of water and zoning out.

Until Jun, mid-chew, asked, “Did you see that soloist guy today? Blond one?”

“Jeong-something?” Seokmin added. “Doesn’t talk. Like, at all.”

“Oh yeah.” Minghao said, flipping open his phone. “The one with the ‘celestial aura’ or whatever Dispatch called it.”

Seungcheol swallowed. “...Jeonghan.”

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?”

“That’s his name,” Seungcheol said. “Yoon Jeonghan. He was a trainee with us. Remember?”

There was a beat of silence, like the room had to buffer.

Wonwoo tilted his head. “That name’s familiar.”

“He was around just before we finalized the debut lineup,” Seungcheol said. “Then he disappeared. No explanation. Just gone.”

Jihoon frowned slightly, fingers pausing over his phone. “...I kind of remember that.”

“Didn’t he get pulled out of practice one day and never came back?” Hansol asked.

“Yeah.” Seungcheol leaned back against the couch. “I ran into him a few days ago. Didn’t say anything. Just bowed. But I knew it was him.”

“Wait, that guy is Jeonghan?” Soonyoung asked, squinting like he was trying to mentally reverse the glow-up. “Seriously?”

“He looks totally different,” Seokmin said, eyebrows rising. “I remember him being… softer? Not in a bad way. Just… rounder cheeks, long hair, constantly snacking.”

“And loud,” Mingyu added with a nostalgic snort. “always talking.”

“He’s doesn’t seem like that anymore.” Seungkwan muttered, popping open a soda. “He’s got that mannequin energy now. All elegance, no expression.”

“No voice.” Jun echoed. “That’s the weirdest part.”

“Maybe it’s his concept,” Chan offered. “You know how companies are, mystery idol, blah blah.”

But Seungcheol shook his head slowly. “No, it’s not just branding. It’s something else. When I saw him, he looked like...”

He paused.

Everyone waited.

“Like he wasn’t allowed to talk.”

The room went quiet for a moment too long.

Jihoon broke it with a short, uncertain laugh. “You’re reaching, Seungcheol.”

“Maybe.” Seungcheol said, but didn’t sound convinced.

Later that night, while everyone else was fighting over blankets or brushing their teeth, Seungcheol scrolled through old trainee photos on his phone.

He found one of Jeonghan, long hair tucked into a beanie, biting into a rice cake with both cheeks full, eyes bright with mischief.

Then he opened a tab and searched the soloist’s stage name.

Side-by-side, they barely looked like the same person.

He stared at the comparison until the screen dimmed.

The name had hit like a dropped weight.

Jisoo didn’t say anything at first when Seungcheol brought him up, Jeonghan. Yoon Jeonghan.

It had been so long, and yet it sounded surreal, slipping into the conversation like it was nothing. But the moment he heard it, he felt it: a thud in his chest, the tug of a memory yanked too hard, too fast.

Jeonghan.

He remembered.

Trainee days had been awful sometimes; too many hours, not enough food, bones aching, futures blurry.

Some days, all Jisoo had were stubbornness, God, and Yoon Jeonghan laughing beside him with his arm slung over Jisoo’s shoulder like they were starring in their own reality show.

“Listen.” Jeonghan had said once, cross-legged on the practice room floor, half-dead from vocal lessons, “If you quit, I quit.”

Jisoo laughed. “Okay. Deal.”

“No, for real,” Jeonghan grinned, nudging his knee. “We go down together. No solo coward escapes.”

“Got it. Pact.”

And they shook on it, pinkies and everything.

Back then, the practice rooms had felt smaller. Or maybe it was just Jeonghan, too loud for the space.

“God, it’s cold.” He complained one winter night, dragging a space heater all the way from two floors up before collapsing beside Jisoo.

“You’re already dead from hauling that.” Jisoo said dryly.

Jeonghan pointed a finger like it was a gun. “Then you’re next.”

They were both exhausted; skin raw from dance practice, throats sore from drills, stomachs hollow but somehow, it didn’t matter when they were next to each other. Jeonghan had a way of keeping the world warm even when the heaters broke and the mirrors fogged from their breath.

“I saw the monthly evaluation list.” Jisoo said quietly. “We’re near the bottom again.”

“Yeah, well, I’m near the bottom of my will to live too,” Jeonghan replied, digging out a half-crushed rice cracker from his hoodie pocket. “Want half?”

They ate it like it was a feast.

They made a lot of pacts back then.

If you quit, I quit.

If we debut, we debut together.

If I ever disappear, come find me.

That last one was a joke. Probably.

They used to sneak into the studio after the managers left for dinner. Not because they weren’t allowed, but because Jeonghan didn’t like doing things when he was supposed to.

He’d pull Jisoo along, humming some dumb ballad hook, nudging him with his shoulder.

“You’re gonna thank me when we’re famous.”

“We’re not even in the top six yet.” Jisoo reminded him.

“Then we’ll make our own group. Acoustic duo. We’ll dress cool, sing sad songs, and cry on stage. I’ll dye my hair white. You can wear rings or something.”

“I don’t cry on stage.”

“Yet.”

Jisoo had laughed, even when everything hurt. Somehow, Jeonghan made it feel lighter.

And then, one day, he was gone.

No warning. No goodbye.

One night, he’d stayed late with Jihoon to practice harmonies. Jisoo had gone home early with a sore throat, texting him: Don’t die. Save your voice. We still have to sing tomorrow.

Jeonghan sent back a voice note, a deliberately off-key hum with a caption: You wish you could sing like this.

That was the last time Jisoo heard from him.

The next morning, Jeonghan’s stuff was gone. His locker cleared. His corner of the room empty.

The company just said “plans had changed.” No explanation. No contact.

Jisoo texted. Called. Asked around. Waited for weeks.

But the practice room felt colder than usual. The heater stayed off and the space where Jeonghan used to sprawl and complain about life stayed empty.

Now?

Now he was… this.

A blond-haired soloist with porcelain skin and no voice. Perfect stage presence, dead-eyed smiles, a ghost made of eyeliner and lighting gels.

Jisoo felt sick.

He closed his laptop and stared at the wall in the dark.

The next morning, toothbrush in hand, he found Seungcheol standing in the hallway, lost in thought.

“Seungcheol,” Jisoo said slowly. “you were right.”

Seungcheol blinked. “About what?”

“Jeonghan.”

Jisoo swallowed.

“I never forgot him.”

A soft notification blinked on a monitor in a small, sterile office.

Search alert: “Yoon Jeonghan trainee history”

Coordinates: Seoul, Sinsa-dong, 7th floor dorm router

The intern at the console paused, then highlighted the entry. It had been flagged as unusual.

“Hey.” she called softly to the man in the suit passing by. “We’ve got another one.”

The man stopped and looked at the screen.

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes did.

He tapped the entry.

“Mark it. Cross-check the IP with any known affiliations.”

“Should I notify upper management?”

“Not yet." he said. “Let’s see how far they’re willing to dig first.”

Chapter Text

There are photos in the hallway she hasn’t taken down.

Every few months, she wipes them gently, the same way she used to fix his bangs when he wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Dust likes to gather on the older ones; middle school performances, the solo he sang at his cousin’s wedding but she always lingers on the last one, the day before he left for Seoul.

He hadn’t smiled in that one. Just looked at the camera, steady and brave, like he already knew.

The first time she tried to visit, they said he was busy.

“Filming schedule.” They said. “You can’t just walk in. He’s under contract.”

She’d brought japchae in a plastic container and a pack of those honey candies he liked. The receptionist accepted it with both hands, promised to deliver it, and then tossed it on the desk behind her like it was nothing.

She never saw it again.

The second time, she mailed a letter.

Just a simple thing.

Are you eating well? You used to hate broccoli. Do they make you eat it now? I’m proud of you. Call if you can.

She never got a reply.

The third time, she brought the press.

She waited outside the building with a sign tucked in her arms, standing next to teenage girls and gossip writers and bored photographers. Someone took a blurry picture of her, possible mother of idol YH, and posted it online.

It got shared for a few hours before the company filed takedown requests and flooded search engines with pre-scheduled photo teasers to bury the story.

She didn’t make it past the gate but she saw his silhouette through the van window.

His profile, his hair bleached and swept back like a stranger.

His eyes looked forward, never turning.

There are recordings on her phone.

Not of his music. She doesn’t listen to the ones they release anymore. They sound like him, but not him.

Instead, she keeps the old ones. From when he was seventeen, hoarse and laughing through a karaoke session in their living room. From when he’d send her voice notes saying, “I’m okay, I promise. We’re almost there.”

The voice she hears on the radio now doesn’t laugh. It doesn’t stumble. It’s smooth, flawless... lifeless.

Like it’s been pieced together.

The fourth time, she tried the back door.

She waited until night and approached the studio delivery entrance. She wasn’t looking to make a scene. She just wanted to see him. Just to hear his voice, not the one on the albums. His.

The security guard was new. She almost made it through before someone recognized her and sounded an alert.

“Ma’am, you can’t be here.”

“But I’m his mother.”

“He’s not allowed outside contact.”

“Please.”

They threatened legal action. That was the first time she cried in public.

Now, she keeps her efforts quiet.

Anonymous letters. Untraceable tips. Old contacts, begged favors, ex-trainees who might still remember him. Most of them have long since stopped replying. Too scared. Too far gone. Or too broken by the same system.

But she hasn’t stopped.

Because she knows he’s still in there somewhere. Her son. Not the porcelain boy on magazine covers. Not the silent puppet on stage.

The Jeonghan who used to hum while washing dishes. The one who would fake injuries to get out of school, then laugh when she caught him. The one who once said, “If I ever go missing, you’ll come get me, right?”

She remembers.

So she keeps trying.

Because mothers don’t stop loving, even when the world tells them to forget.