The stage went black.
A single spotlight illuminated three sleek bar stools arranged in a loose triangle. Behind them, LED screens flickered to life with a neon cityscape: blurred streetlights, deserted subway platforms, and rain-slick streets.
Minho appeared first, silver hair catching the light as he approached the nearest stool. He wore a fitted black turtleneck, leather trousers, and chains at his hip.
Woobin entered from the opposite wing in a navy jacket over a white shirt, its sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ijun took the final position, dressed in charcoal with subtle metallic threading.
None of them acknowledged the audience. They settled into their places as though they'd been waiting there all night.
A rubbery bassline pulsed through the speakers. Muted guitar notes followed, then crisp hi-hats and bouncy trap-pop drums beneath glossy synths.
Minho leaned toward his microphone.
"It's getting late..."
Ijun glanced over. "Already?"
Woobin smirked. "We just got here."
