The cell they locked Minjun in was too clean to feel real.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bright enough to erase sleep, dreams, or any lingering illusion that this was some glorious rebellion without consequence. His hands still smelled faintly of rust and sweat. His throat felt raw, sandpapered by cold wind and shouted lyrics.
They'd taken his phone. His shoelaces. Even the slip of paper the ginger tea girl had given him — You're saving us too. Gone now, confiscated by men in stiff black uniforms who refused to look him in the eye.
Jiwoo had been dragged off the rooftop too, guitar case slammed shut and slung over a guard's shoulder like evidence. Miri had slipped away in the chaos, her backpack swinging as she ducked through the gap in the rooftop railing that led to the next building over. Minjun liked to think she'd landed on her feet, camera clutched tight, already uploading the footage to a dozen hidden accounts before the city even woke up.
They let him stew in silence for hours. No lawyer. No charges read out. Just an endless loop of thoughts spiraling through his exhausted brain — Seojin's cold smile. The echo of Jiwoo's last riff. The kids chanting his name like it belonged to all of them now.
He almost drifted off once — forehead pressed to the table, the bright lights flickering behind his eyelids. That's when the door scraped open.
Seojin stepped in like he owned the air itself. Sleek suit, tie knotted too tight. His shoes made no sound on the scuffed linoleum floor. He didn't sit. He just stood there, arms folded, eyes scanning Minjun's face like he was searching for any last scrap of weakness to mine.
"You've embarrassed me," Seojin said calmly. His voice was silk over broken glass.
Minjun didn't bother looking up. He didn't trust himself not to spit the thousand curses boiling at the back of his throat.
Seojin stepped closer, shoes now within striking distance of Minjun's sneakers. "You think you've won something?" He scoffed. "A rooftop tantrum? Some shaky videos on second-rate fan channels? The city will forget you tomorrow. We own the real stage, Minjun. We built it."
Minjun lifted his head slowly. His neck ached. His eyes burned. He held Seojin's gaze and forced himself to smile — just a ghost of the grin he'd worn when he'd sung that final chorus into the teeth of Starline's security.
"You don't own my voice anymore." His voice cracked, but he didn't care. "And you can't stop the echo."
Seojin's mouth twisted. For a split second, the mask cracked — just enough for Minjun to see the fear underneath the perfect hair and manicured disdain.
Then the mask snapped back into place. Seojin turned sharply, coat flaring behind him.
"Sign the termination deal when your lawyer comes," he said over his shoulder. "We'll scrub your face from everything. No label will touch you after this. You'll be a ghost by next week."
And then he was gone, the door slamming so hard the overhead light flickered and buzzed.
Minjun sat alone again. He flexed his raw hands. They trembled, but not from fear. A ghost, Seojin had sneered. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was exactly what he needed to become — something they couldn't kill, because it didn't belong to them anymore.
The next morning, they released him with a fine and a threat. No formal charges — the optics were too messy now that half the city had watched him scream rebellion into the cold dawn. He stepped out into the morning glare blinking like he'd never seen daylight before.
Jiwoo was waiting across the street, guitar case slung over one shoulder, a fresh bruise blooming purple under his left eye. He lifted a cheap paper coffee cup in greeting, like this was all normal — like they hadn't nearly gotten crushed by the same machine that used to own them.
"You free?" Jiwoo called out, voice hoarse but grinning.
Minjun limped across the street. He took the cup. It was cold and half-empty but it tasted like freedom anyway.
They found Miri in the basement of an old book café near Hongdae. She'd dragged in an old projector and was screening shaky rooftop footage on a cracked white wall while a handful of wide-eyed students passed around battered notebooks and half-charged phones.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and printer ink. It felt more real than any Starline boardroom ever had.
Miri pointed at him the moment he stepped in. "You're trending in Japan. Someone's subtitled the whole riot. Riot in Reverb. That's what they're calling it."
Jiwoo slumped into a beanbag and strummed his guitar softly. Minjun sank to the floor beside him, legs trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline still bleeding through his veins.
"They're already making bootleg shirts," Miri went on, eyes gleaming. "Your face, the lyrics — some kid even tattooed your name on his arm."
Minjun laughed. It hurt, but it felt good.
"Are we broke?" he asked.
Jiwoo grinned. "Completely."
Miri jabbed a finger at him. "But you're free. And people are listening. That's something money can't buy."
That night, Minjun signed his first autograph on the back of a napkin. Not in a shiny Starline fan event hall, but at a greasy noodle shop that didn't care if his hoodie smelled like stale rooftop wind and adrenaline. The kid who asked for it trembled so hard the pen shook in his hand.
"You changed everything for us," the boy whispered, clutching the napkin like it was a treasure.
Minjun's hand still shook when he signed it — not because he was scared anymore, but because he'd never felt so alive.
Back in the café basement, he lay awake on the floor, Jiwoo's guitar humming quietly in the dark, Miri snoring softly beside an open laptop that never stopped uploading, copying, sending his voice echoing out where Seojin's hands could never reach.
He'd lost the stage. The bright lights. The fake smiles and empty promises. But he'd gained something bigger — a riot, a reverb, a reminder that sometimes the best way to be heard is to burn the whole stage down and build something new in the ashes.