The holding cell smelled like bleach and stale sweat.Minjun sat on the cold metal bench, his wrists raw from the plastic cuffs they'd finally cut away hours ago. The skin there still itched, like a phantom reminder that freedom was only ever rented, never owned.
Across from him, Jiwoo was half-asleep, back pressed against the wall, chin tipped forward onto his chest. His knuckles were scraped bloody from the scuffle on the rooftop. Every so often he twitched, like he was playing invisible chords in a dream.
Miri was curled in the far corner, her knees hugged to her chest, hoodie pulled up so only the glow of her tablet's cracked screen showed beneath it. She was coding even now — ghost networks, backup servers, sending encrypted files to anyone who might keep the flame alive while they sat behind bars.
Minjun leaned his head against the concrete wall. It was freezing, but the chill kept him awake. He let his mind drift back to the rooftop — the wind in his hair, the taste of tear gas on his tongue, the sight of a thousand kids in the street screaming his words back at him like a vow.
It almost didn't feel real here. Four gray walls. Flickering fluorescent lights. The stale taste of someone else's breath in the air. No sky. No city. Just a quiet that pressed into his ears until his own heartbeat felt too loud.
A heavy door at the end of the block buzzed open.Minjun didn't bother to lift his head. He could tell by the footsteps — polished leather, deliberate — that this wasn't just another guard making the rounds.
Seojin walked in like he owned the place. And in a way, he did. His suit was immaculate as always, tie knotted so tight it looked like it might choke him. He carried no folder, no lawyer, no papers. He didn't need them. He had the world on speed dial.
He paused just inside the bars. His eyes swept the cell — Jiwoo drooling in sleep, Miri pretending not to see him, and Minjun, staring back at him like he was a ghost from another life.
"Quite the spectacle you made, Minjun," Seojin said. His voice was soft, but it bounced off the concrete like a slap. "You and your little rooftop circus. You know how many people you cost me last night?"
Minjun didn't answer. His throat was raw. He let his silence speak for him.
Seojin sighed. He stepped closer, hands folded behind his back. "You think you changed anything? You think kids with guitar strings and stolen mics are going to tear down contracts and broadcast towers?"
Miri snorted under her hood. Jiwoo snored louder, maybe on purpose.
Seojin ignored them. His eyes locked onto Minjun's — cold, sharp, the same eyes that once told a wide-eyed fifteen-year-old trainee I'll make you a star.
"Listen to me, Minjun," Seojin said, his voice slipping into that silk-slick tone that had signed more kids than any lawyer ever could. "I can make this disappear. The charges. The footage. The spin. We'll say it was a publicity stunt that got out of hand — misguided passion. The public loves redemption stories."
He leaned closer, his shadow falling over Minjun like a black flag. "Come back. Sign the new contract. Apologize. Sing what I tell you to sing. And you'll have everything you ever wanted — bigger stages, international tours. Not rooftops. Stadiums."
Minjun felt his chest tighten.He could see it. The bright lights. The roar of crowds so big they drowned out the doubt. The sleek black cars that whisked him past the cold streets. Money wired to his mother so she could pay off debts he never talked about.
It would be so easy. Just a signature. A bowed head. An apology. I'm sorry for the rooftop. I'm sorry for the fire.
He almost laughed. Almost. But the sound died behind his cracked lips.
Minjun lifted his chin. His voice came out rough, but steady."Do you know what it sounded like up there, Seojin?" he rasped. "A thousand kids singing. Not because they were paid. Not because it was polished. Because it was ours."
Seojin's jaw tightened. A flicker of something — contempt? pity? — passed through his eyes. "You think they'll stay? When the headlines spin you as a reckless thug? When their parents pull them home? When the city boards up your rooftop and paints over your slogans?"
Minjun smiled — small, tired, but real."They don't need rooftops anymore," he said. "They are the rooftop now."
Seojin stepped back, disgust twitching at the corner of his mouth. "So be it," he said, voice clipped like broken glass. "Enjoy your cell. Enjoy your chorus. When they forget you, remember I offered you the world."
He turned and walked away. The door buzzed shut behind him, sealing the silence back in.
Miri lowered her hood. Jiwoo cracked one eye open. "Was that the evil emperor?" he croaked.
Minjun chuckled. It hurt. His ribs ached from the rooftop scuffle. But it felt good to laugh.
Jiwoo yawned. "You tell him to shove it?"
Minjun nodded. "Yeah."
Miri's eyes glowed behind her glasses. "Good. Because the feeds are back up. Half the city's watching the riot clips. They're editing rooftop anthems with mashups of the crackdown. It's trending everywhere. They can't kill it now."
Jiwoo stretched, winced, and looked at Minjun with a grin. "Guess we're stuck here a while, huh?"
Minjun leaned his head back against the wall. He let his eyes drift shut for the first time since the sirens. "Yeah," he murmured. "But they're still singing. That's enough."
And as the harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, Minjun began to hum. Soft at first — a lullaby for cinder block walls and iron bars. A melody so simple that even the guards at the end of the corridor paused to listen.
Jiwoo joined in, tapping a beat on the bench with bruised knuckles. Miri added harmonies under her breath, her tablet blinking with lines of code that kept the rooftop alive in servers far beyond these walls.
Their voices rose — ragged, raw, stubborn.
A lullaby in a cell block. A rooftop carried by echoes. A promise that no door could lock them away forever.