Chapter Text
The day had been brutal.
Not even the cool summer vibes of the Lemon Drop set could distract from the sweat pooling at the base of their necks, the way even minimal movement left shirts clinging to damp skin. Cameras rolled. Fans whirred. Staff bustled. But under the glaring sun and concrete sprawl, everything felt slow.
By the time they called for the hour-long dinner break, Hongjoong’s skull felt like it was trying to crack itself open. A dull throb had nestled behind his eyes hours ago, made worse by dehydration, sunlight, and the effort of leading. He hadn’t even finished his mul naengmyeon before quietly excusing himself, slipping away from the main tent while everyone else debated whether to nap, snack, or film TikToks.
The car was parked in a forgotten corner of the lot — a 1981 Mercedes-Benz SL with leather seats and no A/C. It had been used earlier for a few of the MV’s solo shots, one of which involved him lounging dramatically in the backseat, door locked - pretending to be trapped by routine and illusion.
The irony wouldn’t hit until much later.
He crawled into the back seat, wadding his leather jacket under his head like a pillow. He wore shorts and a thin gray tee clung to his skin. The car, parked in the shade, was just enough of a break from the blaring heat outside. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows through the windshield and painting the asphalt gold. He didn’t want to walk back to the dressing room where he knew it would be loud. Where he knew he would be badgered by well-meaning staff with a hundred questions. All he wanted was an hour or so of quiet.
“I’ll just lie down for a bit,” he murmured, slipping his beanie down over his brow. “Just a few minutes.”
He left the car door deliberately ajar, hoping to keep the heat at bay while he napped. He didn’t notice it clicking softly shut behind him as a lazy gust of wind drifted through.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
He awoke with a gasp.
His first thought was how long?
The second was why can’t I breathe?
The air in the car had turned syrupy. Thick. Suffocating. His head spun as he sat up too fast, sweat soaking through his shirt, dripping from his brow. The beanie felt like a heat trap — he ripped it off, chest rising and falling faster than it should.
He grabbed his phone from his jacket pocket. Dead.
“No, no, no—” he tried the door handle.
Click. Locked.
“What?” he yanked again. Nothing.
He leaned over the front seat, fumbling with the driver’s side. Click. Click. Still locked. He tried the manual lock knob—jammed. A child safety feature maybe? Something janky about the car itself? What kind of car wouldn’t unlock from the inside? He didn’t know.
He banged his hand on the window. Then again, harder. It echoed into the empty parking lot, swallowed by the summer night’s thick silence. The sun was a distant thought now, but the air still clung to the heat of the day, refusing to cool even after dark — a heavy, stagnant warmth so common in South Korea’s sweltering summers.
“Hey!” he called out, hoarsely. “Shit—HEY!”
His voice cracked. No one answered.
Of course they wouldn’t. They’d all think he was still lying down somewhere. He’d said he needed quiet. That he’d be gone for a bit. Hell, maybe they’d think he was writing lyrics. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for their Captain to slink off somewhere for a few moments of peace. Most of the time, they thought nothing of it.
His skin was burning. From inside. His shirt was soaked, sticking to him. His chest was tight, and the air was growing thinner by the minute.
He opened the glove compartment. Useless papers. No tools. No keys. The car didn’t even have the decency to give him one of those old-school crank windows.
“Okay,” he whispered, forcing his shaking hands to his knees. “Okay, breathe. You can figure this out.”
He moved to kick the window. Pain lanced through his bare shin. Glass didn’t budge.
Another kick.
His muscles trembled, not with adrenaline — but with the fatigue the heat brought.
He slumped back, panting now. The world was hazy at the edges. His mouth was dry. Too dry. When had he last had water?
He fumbled with his jacket, crawling into the front seat, trying each door. Still nothing. His vision shimmered. He hit the horn — it croaked once, pitifully, before going silent. Of course it didn’t work either.
He glanced at the ceiling. He felt like it was pressing down on him. The car wasn’t moving, but it felt like it was shrinking.
A wave of nausea hit. He leaned over, breathing shallowly, dizzy.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
In the distance, the sun had fully dipped beneath the skyline. But the night air didn’t cool. The concrete held the day’s heat like a grudge.
Back at the tents, Mingi laughed at something Jongho said while stuffing noodles in his mouth.
“Where’s Hongjoong-ah?” Seonghwa finally asked.
“Still resting?” San guessed, squinting toward the parking lot.
Yunho frowned.
“He said he was going to lie down for a bit, not for the whole break.”
He checked his phone. No messages. Tried calling. Straight to voicemail.
“Battery must’ve died,” Wooyoung offered, though there was a pinch of concern in his voice now.
A pause.
Then Seonghwa stood.
“I’m going to check the lot.”
“I’ll come too,” said Yunho.
A low sense of unease had begun to hum between them.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
Inside the car, Hongjoong had curled into the back seat again, trying to minimize surface contact with the sweltering upholstery. He wasn’t sure if he’d dozed or passed out. Everything felt blurred. His head lolled to one side.
He thought about lyrics.
He thought about lemon drops — sharp and sweet and fake-colored. Like a mask.
He thought about how this scene in the MV was supposed to be symbolic.
He wasn’t actually supposed to be locked in.
His lips cracked as he whispered: “Someone… come find me…”
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
The first lot was nearly empty.
Just one prop car—a bright turquoise convertible gleaming under the lot lights, its chrome trim still speckled with glitter from the earlier shoot. A staff member trailed behind Yunho and Seonghwa, eyes scanning lazily.
“Maybe he decided to nap inside the studio tent instead?” they offered, already starting to backtrack.
“No, he told Wooyoung earlier he was going to rest in the car they used for his solo scene,” Seonghwa said, standing by the convertible. The door was cracked open. “But… he’s not here.”
Yunho turned in a slow circle. “This is the only lot with a car, right?”
“As far as I know,” said the staffer, glancing at their tablet. “Everything else is on this side.”
“Wait…” Seonghwa’s brows furrowed. “Didn’t we move the first car earlier in the day? When they needed more space for the drone shots?”
The staffer blinked. “Oh, right. Yeah. We rolled the backup into the south lot.”
“South lot?” Yunho asked, sharply.
“Other side of the fence. Not officially in use today since we already filmed that scene. That one’s gated.”
“Could he have gone there?”
“…I mean… maybe? It’s about a 10 minute walk, though.”
Seonghwa’s stomach dropped. “Would anyone know if he did?”
No one answered.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
Hongjoong’s mouth was tacky with dryness. His head throbbed like a second heartbeat. The air in the car now felt hostile—not just hot but dense, like it was pressing against his lungs, daring him to inhale.
He had stopped yelling twenty minutes ago. There was no point. His voice gave out long before his hope did.
He had kicked the door again, this time with less force. His muscles were sluggish. His vision shimmered in waves, like the heat was leaking from the outside in.
His hands were trembling as he pulled his shirt up and tried to wipe sweat from his brow.
No use. The air was wet with heat. He closed his eyes.
Calm. Think.
He tried to remember the jimjilbang he used to visit with his dad when he was young. The kind where the air was thick and wood-scented, where sweat was expected and water waited outside.
He focused on the memory. Let it pull him in.
The heat wasn’t a threat there. It was cleansing. It was routine. You could leave whenever you wanted.
You weren’t trapped. His throat clenched. He cracked open an eye. No water outside. No exit. Just darkness creeping at the edge of his vision, like shadows pooling under his skin.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
Yunho was already halfway to the fence. Seonghwa sprinted behind him, calling over his shoulder to staff for bolt cutters or a key—anything.
The gate was padlocked. Someone must have locked it at sunset, not realizing Hongjoong was there. Yunho, long-limbed and agile, scaled it anyway. He landed hard, sneakers kicking up dust, and broke into a jog across the cracked pavement.
Rows of long-unused cars loomed like hunched beasts under the rising moonlight. One was parked in the far corner—out of sight from the rest, barely visible between two overgrown bushes.
Leather caught the moonlight inside.
“Hyung!”
No response.
Yunho bolted.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
Inside the car, Hongjoong’s thoughts blurred and looped.
Too hot. They’ll come. Don’t fall asleep.
The sauna memory was slipping. Now he was just back on set. Camera lights baking his skin. Everyone shouting instructions. He could hear their title track’s chorus looping in his head like a fever dream.
“Lemon drop, lemon drop, closer
Come a little closer
Tequila, tequila sunrise
We're staying up 'til sunrise”
He let out a rasping laugh that turned into a cough. It echoed small and sharp inside the oven of the car.
He reached weakly for the door again.
Still locked. Still sealed. Still—
A loud bang. Then another. He couldn’t even flinch. The door handle jiggled.
“Hongjoong-hyung! Open the door!”
His eyes cracked open. He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating. The voice sounded underwater. Nausea rolled through him like a tidal wave.
Another bang. The window shuddered. “Hang on! We’re getting you out!”
The last thing he saw before the world flickered dark was Yunho’s hand flat against the glass and a flashlight beam bouncing wildly behind him.
Then nothing.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
The door wouldn’t open. Yunho yanked the handle again, heart hammering. “It’s jammed!” he shouted over his shoulder. “It’s fucking jammed!”
“I’ve got it!” San’s voice cut through the night as he came tearing up from the lot entrance, jacket abandoned, phone forgotten. “Move!”
Without hesitation, he kicked the glass with the heel of his foot. Once—twice—three times. The window spiderwebbed but didn’t shatter.
“Give me that!” Wooyoung appeared behind him, gripping a length of rusted pipe they'd grabbed near the fence. He brought it down hard.
The passenger side window burst inward in a clatter of glass.
The heat that rolled out was unnatural. Like opening an oven. Thick, blistering, wrong.
Yeosang arrived at a dead sprint, face pale and eyes wide, having run from the main lot the moment he heard the shouts. He skidded to a stop beside the car, breathless but focused.
“What’s going on? Where is he?” he demanded, eyes darting wildly between the others.
“Get him out!” Seonghwa’s voice cracked.
Jongho reached in through the glass, ignoring the shards. “Hyung? Hongjoong-hyung?”
No answer.
“Shit—he’s out cold,” Jongho gasped. “He’s—he’s burning up!”
A sour, acrid smell hung in the air—Hongjoong had vomited moments earlier, streaks of it still clinging to his shirt and chin. The boys scrambled. Mingi flung the door open from the inside. Yunho was already halfway into the back seat, lifting Hongjoong under the arms while Jongho took his legs.
“Watch his head—watch his—!”
They got him out, laid him on the concrete as gently as they could in their panic.
“Water—now!”
San, who had grabbed two water bottles on his way from the main lot, twisted them open with frantic urgency, sloshing cold water across Hongjoong’s arms, neck, and hair.
Wooyoung, who had pulled his T-shirt off, soaked and dabbed it across his chest and forehead.
“Come on, hyung...”
His skin was flushed red, dangerously so. His breaths were shallow, short and uneven. His lips had gone pale beneath the heat rash blooming across his cheeks.
Suddenly, his body jerked violently—back arching, limbs locking tight as a ragged, wet gasp tore from his throat.
“Shit—he’s seizing!” Yunho shouted, moving to stabilize his head as San and Yeosang held his shoulders and legs.
It lasted only seconds, but felt like an eternity.
Then he sagged back, limp and burning.
“He’s not cooling down—where the hell are the medics?” Yunho demanded, brushing drenched strands of hair from Hongjoong’s forehead, hands shaking.
“They’re … they’re coming,” Seonghwa said, trying to stay calm, but his voice was thin. “I called. They’re running from the other lot—just keep him cool.”
Yeosang knelt on the opposite side of Hongjoong, pressing his hands flat to either side of his face to keep it steady as it lolled. “Hyung—stay with us. Please. Stay with us,” he whispered urgently, eyes wide and frantic.
Another bottle. Another pour. His shirt was stripped off. San tilted his head to the side gently when Hongjoong choked on a shallow breath.
“Was he even breathing in there?” Mingi asked, hoarse. “That car was an oven. That could’ve—he could’ve—”
“Don’t,” Seonghwa cut in, voice tight. “He didn’t. We got him out.”
“But what if we were five minutes later?” Mingi whispered, crumpling next to them, hands braced on his knees.
~~~~~ *** ~~~~~
The on-site medics arrived in a blur—two people in red vests with an emergency kit and a stretcher. One knelt down to check Hongjoong’s pulse, while the other took a flashlight and pried open his eyelids.
“Severe heat exhaustion. Probable heatstroke,” one said immediately. “Core temp’s too high.”
“Pupils are reactive but sluggish,” the other added.
They began laying cooling packs at pulse points—underarms, neck, behind the knees - careful to not shock his system. One placed an oxygen mask gently over his face.
“Did he respond at all?” they asked the others.
“Barely. He was mumbling a little,” Yunho said. “He tried to talk, I think, but—he passed out again.”
They nodded. “That’s consistent. His pulse is fast, but steady. We’ll monitor him closely and bring him to the clinic trailer. If his vitals don’t stabilize in the next 10 minutes, we'll call an ambulance.”
As they lifted him onto the stretcher, one of Hongjoong’s hands twitched. San caught it before it could fall limp.
“Hyung,” he murmured, holding it tight. “You’re okay. We got you. You’re gonna be okay.”
He felt the faintest squeeze back—weak, almost ghostlike. But it was enough.
Wooyoung pressed both hands to his face, tears threatening the corners of his eyes. Mingi paced three steps away, muttering curses under his breath. Jongho hadn’t looked up once.
He sat with his arms on his knees, staring at the puddle of water that was now mixed with blood from where his hand had been cut on the glass.
Yunho stood, watching as the medics wheeled Hongjoong toward the far side of the lot. Seonghwa joined him, silent for a long time, trembling slightly. Yeosang stood a few paces back, fists clenched at his sides, voice shaking as he called after the stretcher: “Don’t you dare give up now, hyung. We’re right here.”
Finally, Yunho spoke, eyes distant. “He said he just needed a rest.”