The Noise

The bass didn’t just vibrate the floor; it rearranged my bone marrow.

It was a specific frequency, a low-end thrum that I knew intimately because I had sat in the mixing booth three months ago and told the producer to turn it up. Now, standing in the corner of a penthouse that cost more per night than my parents’ house, I regretted that decision.

The air smelled of expensive perfume, ozone, and sweat. It was the smell of success. It was the smell of the "After-Party," a mythological event where influencers, executives, and backup dancers collided in a haze of free alcohol and desperation.

I nursed a tumbler of sparkling water, using the rim of the glass to hide my mouth. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Well, technically I was invited—my name was on the list under *Creative Consultant*—but spiritually, I was a ghost. I was the guy who wrote the words that everyone in this room was currently screaming along to, but nobody knew my face.

And that was fine. That was the deal.

Across the room, standing on a white leather sofa like a god surveying his chaotic kingdom, was Dae-Hyun.

He was blinding. Even in the strobe-lit dimness of the living room, he seemed to catch every photon of light. He was wearing a mesh shirt that left nothing to the imagination and leather pants that probably required a team of engineers to put on. He was laughing, tilting his head back as a famous actress whispered something in his ear.

Dae—Dae-Hyun to the world, just Dae to me when the microphones were off—was the vessel. I poured my heartbreak into a notebook, and he turned it into gold.

He looked perfect. He looked tireless. He looked like he was having the time of his life.

Then, he made the signal.

It was subtle. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was just adjusting his in-ear monitor, a phantom habit from being on stage for three hours. He reached up with his left hand and tapped his earlobe twice, his eyes briefly glazing over as the actress continued to talk.

* Too loud. Too much. I’m drowning.*

We had developed the code in the studio during the recording of the *Eclipse* album. It was the only way he could communicate with me through the glass of the vocal booth without alerting the producers that he was on the verge of a panic attack.

I set my water down on a coaster. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t nod. I just turned and slipped through the crowd, making myself as thin as paper. I navigated past the DJ booth, past the kitchen where a mixologist was setting something on fire, and down the long, art-lined hallway.

At the end of the hall was a heavy door made of solid oak, reinforced with acoustic padding.

I punched in the code. The lock clicked. I stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me.