Chapter 1: Press X to Scream
Chapter Text
The concert hall was silent.
Not the restless, fidgeting hush that precedes a performance—no shuffling programs, no clearing throats, no whispered anticipation clinging to velvet seats. This silence was different. It was reverent. Breathless. Sacred.
It was the kind of silence that presses against the skin, settling heavy in the lungs, as though the entire room was holding its breath in unison. The kind of silence that came not from waiting, but from awe.
And then the lights dimmed.
Darkness spilled like ink across the ornate interior, soft and theatrical, cloaking the carved balconies and gilded arches in shadows. A single spotlight blinked to life—sharp, white, unwavering. It cut through the black like a blade and settled on the lone figure standing center stage.
Kim Dokja.
He stood perfectly still, as if carved from marble. A boy suspended between moments, frozen under the weight of the world’s attention. He wore a tailored black suit, its lines crisp and severe, the lapels catching the light just enough to glint with understated elegance. At his collarbone, a small silver pin gleamed—a minimalist design, but strangely striking, like the moon caught on fabric.
Kim Dokja looked like he didn’t quite belong to this world. There was something unearthly about him. Not just the stillness, but the air around him—it shimmered, fragile and strange. Like he might vanish if someone blinked too hard.
His violin was tucked gently under his chin, the polished wood catching the faint light, rich and dark like old mahogany. His left hand cradled the neck with a tenderness that felt intimate, almost reverent. And his right—elegant fingers curled around the bow—hovered in midair, suspended like the breath everyone had forgotten to release.
And then—
The first note.
It did not explode into the silence. It didn’t break it. It unfolded. Soft as a sigh, trembling on the very edge of silence, like it had slipped through from another world and was afraid of being heard.
It shouldn’t have been possible for something so delicate to carry so much weight. But this was Kim Dokja. A prodigy. A mystery. A ghost in the shape of a boy who never spoke, never smiled, but could bring an entire room to tears with a single pull of his bow.
The music spilled from the stage like smoke—slow, aching, almost hesitant. It twisted through the air in slow spirals, mournful and beautiful. Each note was a confession, a secret laid bare in the only language he knew how to speak. It was an original composition—titled “Monologue”—written, according to the program, by Dokja himself.
And it sounded like a monologue. Not to the audience, but to something unseen. Every swell of the melody was a question left unanswered. Every pause, a word swallowed before it could leave the lips. His bow danced between grief and grace, coaxing the violin to cry in ways no instrument should be able to. Each crescendo rose like a wave, only to collapse into silence, like a thought lost halfway through a sentence.
There was a stillness in his face, but it wasn’t blank—it was restrained. A storm locked behind dark eyes that never once lifted to meet the crowd.
And then came the final note.
It rose—thin, sharp, impossibly high—and for one breathless moment, it didn’t sound like a violin at all. It sounded like a scream. A scream stitched in silk. And then, abruptly, it vanished.
A beat of silence.
And then the roar.
The concert hall erupted into thunderous applause. The force of it felt physical, like a wave crashing into the stage. People leapt to their feet. Hands clapped until they stung. Cameras flashed like fireflies on caffeine, trying to catch even a fragment of the moment. It was ovation, celebration, chaos.
But Kim Dokja didn’t move.
He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even seem to hear it. He just stood there, eyes vacant, the tip of his bow still pointed downward, like he hadn’t realized the music had ended. Like part of him was still playing it, somewhere far away.
Backstage, the shift was immediate.
As soon as the heavy velvet curtain fell, the hush of reverence shattered beneath the stampede of eager feet and voices. A swarm of reporters closed in like bees to honey, their microphones held high, questions flying faster than air could carry them.
“Dokja-ssi! That performance was transcendent—how long did it take you to compose it?”
“Was ‘Monologue’ inspired by a real experience? It felt so personal—almost painful.”
“Dokja-ssi, just one word for your fans—please!”
But Kim Dokja didn’t answer.
He didn’t even look at them. His face remained unreadable, and his posture rigid, violin case gripped tightly in his hands like it was a lifeline.
Then someone stepped forward, shouldering the attention with a smile too polished to be genuine.
Kim Seongwoo.
His father.
He was dressed in a tailored grey suit, sleek and expensive, his hair immaculate, his voice warm and rehearsed. He moved like someone used to being the center of gravity, sliding effortlessly between his son and the press with a disarming charm that hid the sharpness beneath.
“Dokja is deeply grateful for your support,” Kim Seongwoo said smoothly, flashing a corporate smile. “He prefers to let his music speak for him. As you know, he’s a very private artist.”
Dokja’s knuckles whitened around the handle of his case.
“Of course, he composed the entire piece himself,” Kim Seongwoo continued, his voice laced with just the right note of pride. “Every note comes from his heart. He’s just very shy, so I’ll be answering on his behalf. Please understand.”
The crowd accepted it—just like they always did.
No one questioned it. No one wondered why a twenty-year-old genius couldn’t speak for himself. No one noticed how he never looked at his father. Or how he flinched, almost imperceptibly, every time a flash went off.
The cameras turned toward Kim Seongwoo, the reporters clustered around him, eager to hang onto every PR-crafted word. Behind him, Kim Dokja seemed to fold in on himself. Smaller. Quieter. Like he was trying to disappear behind the walls of someone else’s spotlight.
No one saw the faint tremble in his fingers.
No one noticed the sheen of sweat at his temple or how his breath hitched when the questions started to turn toward future performances, upcoming interviews, sponsorship deals.
And no one saw how, when no one was looking, Kim Dokja glanced toward the exit sign—its red glow flickering faintly through the backstage haze—like it was the only real thing in the world.
.
.
.
The stream had been live for exactly thirty-two minutes and Yoo Joonghyuk was already screaming.
"NOPE. Nope. Not going in there. Absolutely not. You guys can forget it."
He spun his character around on screen—an unlucky digital explorer standing at the mouth of a pitch-black cave labeled ominously as “The Whispering Hollow.” The chat immediately exploded.
🟦 “coward lol”
🟩 “Joonghyuk don’t be a baby 😭”
🟥 “DO IT FOR THE PLOT”
🟨 “Bet 10 subs you’ll scream again in 10 sec”
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back in his chair and glared at the screen like it owed him money. His headset was slightly askew, hair flopping over one eye in a chaotic mess that somehow made him look effortlessly cool.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” he muttered. “You know what I played last week? A farming simulator. I milked virtual cows and married a nice baker NPC. She made me pixel bread. It was peaceful.”
His character took an accidental step forward. A distant whisper echoed through his headphones.
Joonghyuk jolted upright. “NOPE—NO THANK YOU.” He slammed the back button so hard he knocked over a cup of instant ramen. “Whispering Hollow, more like Suffering Hole. I’m out.”
🟪 “LMAO ‘Suffering Hole’ 😭”
🟧 “WHISPERING HOLLOW: 1 | JOONGHYUK: 0”
🟦 “He screamed and spilled noodles again 🤣”
“Shut up,” he grumbled at the chat, picking up the cup with a sulky expression. “This is cyberbullying. I hope you're all happy.”
But he was laughing under his breath, barely hiding his grin. His screen flashed a glowing red message: “Event Triggered: Music Box Found.”
The in-game audio changed. A haunting violin melody started playing from somewhere in the cave.
Joonghyuk paused. His fingers lifted off the keyboard.
"...wait," he said, voice dropping lower. “Who composed this?”
The chat slowed slightly as the violin continued—a lonely, soul-deep sound that curled like mist through the stream. Joonghyuk leaned in, brows furrowing.
“This sounds… real. Like—this isn’t random stock music, right?”
He squinted at the game credits on the pause menu. A name caught his eye.
Original Violin Composition by Kim Dokja.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked. “Huh. That guy again.”
🟩 “Dokja??? THE violin guy??”
🟨 “Didn’t you roast his staring face last week 😂”
🟥 “Yoo Joonghyuk x Kim Dokja when??”
“I didn’t roast him,” Joonghyuk said quickly. “I just said he looked like he was judging me through the screen. Which, to be fair, he probably was.”
But he was quiet for a moment. Still listening.
Then, with exaggerated calm, he said: “Alright. New rule. I’ll go into the haunted cave. But only because Kim Dokja told me to with his sad violin music.”
🟦 “Our streamer is SIMPING 😏”
🟧 “Clip this. We got him.”
Joonghyuk hit W. The character stepped into the cave.
And the second the music cut out, something lunged from the shadows.
“OH MY GOD—”
The scream was so loud it blew out the mic.
Chapter 2: Check These Losers Out
Chapter Text
The mansion was quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful—but the kind that pressed against your ears like a closed coffin. Thick. Suffocating. The kind of silence that had weight to it, like a fog that never lifted. The kind that settled into the walls, into the bones of the place, until it became part of the architecture itself.
Polished floors. Shuttered windows. No laughter. No living. Just the endless hush of something too still.
Kim Dokja sat on the floor of his room, legs folded beneath him in that awkward way that stopped being comfortable five minutes in. His laptop was balanced precariously on his knees, casting a bluish glow across the room. The lights were off. They had been for hours. The only illumination came from the screen—and from the reflection of that screen in his eyes, which were rimmed with shadows, dark and tired and old in a way no twenty-something’s eyes should be.
On screen, Yoo Joonghyuk was screaming again.
Dokja let out a soundless laugh—less breath than sound, really. His shoulders shook slightly, a ghost of amusement working its way up to the surface. His lips curled into a smile that no audience, no camera, no magazine spread had ever caught. Not even the fans who claimed to know everything about him. No one ever saw this smile. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t posed. It was just… real.
He was wearing an oversized hoodie, sleeves pushed up slightly to free his hands. It was one of the only things in his closet not picked out by a stylist or approved by his father. Faded, too soft from too many washes, smelling faintly of fabric softener and something older. Memory. Comfort. His hair was messy—not the artfully tousled kind, but genuinely unkempt, like he hadn’t looked in a mirror all day. The violin by the window sat untouched, strings catching the moonlight like silver threads. A spider had started a web on the corner of the case. He hadn’t moved it.
"OH MY GOD—”
Yoo Joonghyuk shot out of his gaming chair like he'd been electrocuted as something lunged at him in-game. Instant chaos. Noodles went airborne. The webcam tilted sideways, giving everyone an accidental view of his ceiling light. The chat exploded like confetti.
Dokja bit down on his knuckle, hard, stifling a laugh that had been building all night. He didn’t know why it hit so hard—why this moment of absurdity made something ache in his chest. Yoo Joonghyuk wasn’t clever in the traditional sense. He didn’t have the kind of humor that sparkled. He was loud. Dramatic. Unapologetically reactive. He called everything cursed. But there was something about him.
Something that didn’t feel rehearsed.
Something genuine.
Like he wasn’t selling anything. Like he wasn’t performing.
Dokja’s gaze flicked to the chat log. His anonymous account—vi0linless—had been there for weeks now. Quiet. Observing. Occasionally dropping an emoji, or a dry one-liner. Never enough to stand out. Never enough to be recognized. Just enough to be part of something.
Tonight, he typed:
vi0linless: Check this loser out 💀
Yoo Joonghyuk squinted at the screen, reading aloud with theatrical disdain. “Okay, whoever typed that—you’re banned. MODS!”
Dokja smiled again. It felt different this time—lighter. He liked it when Joonghyuk read his comments. He liked the way it made him feel: not famous, not important, but seen. Not as Kim Dokja: the prodigy. Not as a marketing strategy. Just someone in the dark, laughing with a stranger.
Then, suddenly, the game’s music shifted.
A soft, trembling violin began to play. A single thread of sound, mournful and delicate, unspooling like a memory in the dark.
Dokja froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
It was his composition. “Threadbare.” A piece he’d written at fifteen, in the quiet between rehearsals and breakdowns. It was raw. Intimate. A song that wasn’t supposed to go anywhere—was never meant for public ears. But Kim Seongwoo had sold the rights years ago, another signature in a stack of contracts Dokja hadn’t read closely enough. Apparently it ended up in a game soundtrack.
And now here it was. Playing through Yoo Joonghyuk’s speakers.
Joonghyuk went still.
For once, he wasn’t talking. He tilted his head slightly, frowning—not confused, but focused. Then, quietly:
“This sounds… real.”
Dokja didn’t move. He barely breathed.
Most people didn’t notice. If they mentioned the piece at all, they called it “eerie” or “haunting.” Background ambiance. A mood. But no one had ever said that. No one had ever looked at it—listened to it—and seen the truth behind it.
But Yoo Joonghyuk did.
And then—almost as an afterthought, like it meant nothing and everything all at once—he added:
“New rule. I’ll go into the haunted cave. But only because Kim Dokja told me to with his sad violin music.”
Everything stopped.
The game. The chat. The whole room.
Dokja sat motionless in the dark, laptop still warm on his knees, the screen glowing in his lap like a secret. His heart skipped. Then pounded. Then skipped again.
He covered his face with both hands.
And this time, his shoulders shook not from laughter, but from something softer. Something that clung to the edges of his ribs like warmth in the middle of winter.
No one had ever said his name like that before. Not like it was personal. Not like it belonged in a sentence with warmth. Not like he was a person at all, not just a headline.
Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe Joonghyuk would forget tomorrow. Go back to yelling at ghosts and spilling ramen and calling his subscribers cursed gremlins. But tonight, for this fleeting second—
He was listening.
Really listening.
And in the corner of the screen, Yoo Joonghyuk screamed again, falling off a virtual cliff with the dramatic flair of someone being murdered in real time.
~~~
The stream ended with a final, exhausted groan.
Yoo Joonghyuk slumped in his gaming chair like a man who’d just fought for his life. "Alright. I’m done. I’m logging off before someone donates ten bucks to make me scream again."
He reached for the mouse, clicked “End Stream”, and the cheerful outro music played—bright and bouncy, completely at odds with his current mental state.
He sat in the silence that followed. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of his monitors. Half-eaten ramen. Empty cans. A flickering LED light strip set to a moody purple for no reason.
Yoo Joonghyuk scratched his neck, then stared at the screen.
Kim Dokja.
He didn’t know why the name stuck with him. He’d heard it before, obviously. Violin genius. Played at royal events. Rumored to have a mysterious tragic backstory. The media treated him like he was made of glass and gold.
But that music in the game…
Joonghyuk pulled up his browser and typed the name into the search bar.
Kim Dokja Violin Performance Live.
Kim Dokja “Monologue” full concert.
Kim Dokja does not speak—artistic choice or mystery?
He clicked on a video—the one that had gone viral a few months back. A simple title:
“Kim Dokja – ‘Monologue’ (Original Composition – Live)”
The screen lit up.
Dokja stepped onto the stage in a black suit, long fingers wrapped around the neck of his violin. No smile. No nod. Just silence and moonlight-colored hair falling into his eyes.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked. “Damn. He really does look like he wants to kill me.”
But the joke didn’t quite land, not even in his own head. The music had already started.
A note like a breath held too long. A melody that stung somewhere in his ribs.
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, watching. Not because he meant to. Not because he was interested. It just… happened.
He watched Dokja’s fingers move like he was speaking in a language no one else understood. Every phrase of the song felt like it was trying to say something without words—grief laced with fury, beauty barely holding together the edges of something shattered.
And Dokja’s face…
Expressionless at first, but then—a twitch of an eyebrow. A breath caught behind his teeth. For a moment, Yoo Joonghyuk swore he saw him bite back a scream with every stroke of the bow.
Then the piece ended.
No bow. No wave. Dokja just… stood there. Still as a shadow. Until the curtain fell.
Joonghyuk didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath.
He sat back, exhaled, and muttered, “Okay. That wasn’t normal. That was... not normal music.”
He opened another tab. Another video. Then another.
An interview played—except it wasn’t really an interview. Dokja stood beside a well-dressed man—his father, apparently—while reporters tossed out questions and Kim Seongwoo answered them all with ease.
“Dokja prefers to express himself through music.”
“He’s a private soul, very shy.”
“He doesn’t do interviews, but I’m happy to speak on his behalf.”
Dokja stood behind him like a mannequin. Head down. Mouth closed.
Yoo Joonghyuk squinted.
That wasn’t stage fright. That wasn’t shyness.
He clicked another video. Same thing. Silence. Stillness. Never a word. Never even a polite nod to a fan. Not even a forced smile.
A strange feeling curled in Joonghyuk’s stomach. Unease, maybe. Curiosity, definitely.
He closed all the tabs but one.
The “Monologue” video again.
He hit replay.
And watched the whole thing from the beginning.
Chapter 3: Whispering Hollow
Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a simple charity event—one of those well-meaning, family-friendly occasions where influencers and celebrities came together to help kids in need. Yoo Joonghyuk had been invited, not because of his standing as a seasoned pro gamer, but because of something much more current: his gaming streams. He had become a known figure to a younger crowd, and his name, once tied solely to competitive gaming, was now synonymous with laughter, chaos, and community. Children all over the country tuned in to watch him, their favorite streamer, yell at his screen, scream at jump scares, and make sarcastic comments that made them laugh.
When the invitation arrived, Joonghyuk had almost ignored it. But after a couple of messages from his manager and a reminder of the charity's noble cause, he decided to show up. He wasn't doing it for recognition or fame; he just thought it might be good for the kids to meet the guy they watched on their screens.
Walking into the grand hall, Joonghyuk immediately felt out of place. The glittering chandeliers, the expensive red carpets, the luxurious furniture—it wasn’t his world. He was used to his cluttered gaming room with pizza boxes and ramen cups strewn around. Still, he put on a smile for the cameras, waved when the kids cheered, and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible in a suit that felt too tight.
But it wasn’t the luxury or the cameras that caught his attention—it was the violinist standing in the corner of the room. The man was no longer playing, but even standing still, his presence commanded the space. Kim Dokja. The name flickered in Joonghyuk's mind like an old memory.
Joonghyuk took a deep breath and steeled himself. This was his chance to meet the guy, to maybe even strike up a conversation. After all, the audience for both of them—the streamers and the kids—was united by the same love for entertainment. How hard could it be?
He approached Dokja, but as he did, something felt off. The violinist wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t acknowledging his presence at all. In fact, his eyes were vacant, distant—no warmth, no recognition. Just... blank.
“Kim Dokja-ssi,” Joonghyuk called out, trying to sound casual, “Hey, I just wanted to say I’m a big fan of your work—especially the violin pieces you did for Whispering Hollow. Pretty insane stuff.”
For a second, there was no response. Joonghyuk faltered, unsure whether he had said something wrong or if the violinist was just deep in thought. But then, finally, Kim Dokja turned his head ever so slightly, meeting his gaze with those dark, unreadable eyes.
For a heartbeat, Joonghyuk thought they might actually talk. Maybe there was a chance to share some of the camaraderie that had come from their mutual respect for art and games.
But then, without a word, Dokja simply turned away, walking toward the exit, his long strides swift and purposeful.
Joonghyuk stood there, bewildered. His heart raced in confusion. Had he said something wrong? Was Dokja just too shy, too uninterested? Or maybe—just maybe—he didn't want to talk to Joonghyuk at all. Maybe he had a problem with him.
After all, Joonghyuk had made a joke during his stream about how Kim Dokja looked like he was judging him through the screen. Maybe it had hit a nerve. Maybe his offhand comment had been taken seriously.
The more Yoo Joonghyuk thought about it, the worse it seemed. Why had Kim Dokja walked away like that? No smile. No acknowledgment. Just cold indifference.
For a moment, Joonghyuk couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone wrong, that he had somehow offended the violinist, who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. The whole encounter had left him feeling strangely hollow, as though a chance for connection had slipped right through his fingers.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking after the retreating figure of Kim Dokja. It wasn’t like him to feel this awkward. He wasn’t used to this kind of thing. Usually, he’d brush it off—he was Yoo Joonghyuk, after all. The loud, confident streamer who laughed off whatever came his way.
But this... this felt different.
Maybe Kim Dokja just hated him. Maybe he just wasn’t the kind of person Joonghyuk thought he was.
And that thought stuck with him. Would he ever get a chance to redeem himself with Kim Dokja? Or had he already ruined any chance of that?
~~~
The event hall buzzed with anticipation as the lights dimmed, signaling the start of something special. Yoo Joonghyuk, still nursing the strange discomfort from his brief encounter with Kim Dokja earlier, was pulled back into the moment when the microphone crackled to life. He hadn’t been expecting this.
A well-dressed man stepped up to the podium, his sharp suit catching the light. It was none other than Kim Dokja’s father, Kim Seongwoo, who had become the public face of his son’s career. He adjusted the mic before speaking, his voice smooth, rehearsed, but carrying an air of paternal pride.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for attending tonight. As many of you know, my son, Kim Dokja, has been a quiet force in the world of music. Tonight, he has chosen a very special piece to perform. The piece is a very well-known piece for the gaming community, the main theme of Whispering Hollow.”
Joonghyuk’s heart skipped a beat. Whispering Hollow. He had just mentioned the song to Dokja earlier, as a joke, without realizing the gravity of it. To hear it now, confirmed as the piece Dokja had chosen, made him stop in his tracks.
He had shrugged it off as a coincidence. After all, Whispering Hollow was a well-known song among those in the gaming community and it suits the event. But thinking about, knowing that Dokja himself had chosen it, it felt oddly... personal. Had his offhand comment about liking the song somehow influenced Dokja’s decision? Or was it simply fate that had brought them to this strange intersection?
Kim Seongwoo’s voice snapped him from his thoughts. “Now, please, sit back and enjoy as my son takes center stage.”
The orchestra’s opening notes filled the air, gentle at first, a soft undercurrent of strings that swelled with the promise of something grand. Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze shifted toward the center of the stage where Kim Dokja stood. His presence was commanding, even in silence. He was no longer the distant figure in the corner but a focused, graceful artist preparing to immerse the room in his world.
As the first violins lifted their bows in synchrony, the cello's deep hum accompanied the strings, setting the mood. And then, all at once, the softest, most delicate notes of a violin began to thread through the orchestra’s soundscape—sparse, hesitant, as if testing the waters. It was unmistakably Whispering Hollow. Joonghyuk’s breath caught in his throat as the sound wrapped around him like a cold embrace.
Dokja’s eyes were closed as his bow danced across the strings, the subtle movement of his body pulling the music forward. His posture was perfect, like a marionette masterfully controlled, each stroke deliberate, each shift of his hand precise. The music was at once delicate and overpowering, pulling Joonghyuk in with its haunting, mournful melody.
The piece was a tapestry of sorrow and longing, every note like a whisper from another world. The orchestra swelled beneath Dokja’s violin, creating a lush, textured harmony that tugged at the edges of Joonghyuk’s emotions. It was a melancholy beauty that could not be ignored. Every bow stroke from Dokja was like a confession, each note spoken in the language of silence.
As the first major crescendo hit, the music grew more intense—louder, bolder, yet never losing that intimate feeling. Joonghyuk watched as Dokja’s fingers flew across the violin’s neck, each note flowing seamlessly into the next. The sound was sharp, striking, the strings vibrating with a sorrowful power.
It was as if the entire room held its breath, suspended in the air, waiting for something. The sound felt like a secret that only Dokja was privy to—a secret that no one else could fully understand. It wasn’t just the technical prowess of the performance that gripped Joonghyuk; it was the emotion in the notes, raw and unspoken, that felt as if it was aimed directly at him.
When the final notes echoed into the silence, Joonghyuk found himself holding his breath, not daring to release it too soon, fearing that the music would disappear if he did. But when it ended, the room erupted into applause, thunderous and overwhelming. The sheer power of the performance left everyone in awe, but Joonghyuk, in that moment, could only feel the faint tremor of something personal between him and the silent violinist.
He didn’t know what it was about that song, but the connection to Kim Dokja felt undeniable now. It wasn’t just a famous piece. It wasn’t just background music. It was a message. And perhaps, just perhaps, it had something to do with him.
Chapter 4: The Wrath of the Fallen
Chapter Text
As Kim Dokja's performance continued, the atmosphere in the concert hall shifted once again. The crowd, which had been on the edge of sleep, now sat upright, completely captivated by the intense energy of the new piece. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t delicate. The air felt charged, the music powerful enough to make hearts race.
The next song that began to play was unlike anything they had heard before. A raw, intense crescendo of strings and percussive undertones erupted from the orchestra, taking everyone by surprise. It was as if the music itself had a pulse, like a battle cry resonating from the very core of the earth. The strings screamed in agony, each note building into something frantic, urgent, unstoppable. It was a piece that demanded attention. The kids, who had been yawning just moments ago, were now wide-eyed and leaning forward, hanging on every note. Even the adults couldn’t help but sit up straighter, the intensity of the performance too strong to ignore.
Yoo Joonghyuk, seated in the corner, had been trying to remain indifferent to the show. But as the opening chords of "The Wrath of the Fallen" reverberated through the hall, he felt something unfamiliar stir inside him. His chest tightened as the music seemed to take on a life of its own, swelling and crashing like an unstoppable tide. The violin, with Kim Dokja at the helm, cut through the air with ferocity. Each bow stroke from Dokja's fingers was like a storm ripping through the sky. The aggression and raw emotion in the sound were far from the melancholy he had come to expect from Kim’s compositions.
The tempo quickened, the violins now joined by cellos and brass, creating a dark and thunderous symphony. The layers of sound merged into a battle-like frenzy. The percussion added weight to the piece, its deep thuds resembling the beat of a war drum. The room seemed to vibrate with the intensity of it, as if the very walls were echoing the urgency of the music.
As the pace quickened, Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never expected something like this from Kim Dokja. The soft, introspective melodies he had heard before were one thing, but this? This was something completely different. Something primal. Something that made his breath hitch, something that gnawed at his very soul.
For a moment, he almost forgot where he was. The concert hall, the audience, the extravagant setting—they all faded away as his mind was consumed by the music. It was as if the song was speaking directly to him. The intensity of the violin’s cry pierced through the noise of the world, each note evoking a powerful, unspoken emotion that left him breathless.
Dokja’s fingers moved faster than he thought possible. They danced across the violin's strings with a speed that almost seemed otherworldly. His bow never faltered, never slowed, even as the music surged into chaos. It was impossible to keep up with the whirlwind of sounds, yet Kim Dokja seemed to play without effort, his movements smooth and controlled despite the furious pace.
The kids in the audience, once on the verge of nodding off, were now wide awake, their eyes fixed on the stage. They had never seen anything like this before. The piece felt alive, like a monster roaring in the darkness, and they were caught in its grip. The intensity was palpable, a force that seemed to overwhelm the senses.
As the song reached its peak, the energy in the hall was nearly electric. Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t help himself anymore. He thought he might actually cry. The emotion was so raw, so unfiltered, it cracked something deep inside of him. Kim Dokja's skill was beyond anything he had imagined. The violin, under his touch, became something more than an instrument. It was a weapon, a force of nature, cutting through the air with such power it seemed to reverberate inside his very soul.
The song reached its climax, a final surge of sound that felt like the last, desperate cry of a fallen warrior. And then, abruptly, it stopped.
The room held its breath.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the lingering echo of the final note, vibrating in the air. The silence that followed was deafening, almost oppressive. And then, slowly, the applause began.
But Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t join in. He sat there, stunned, unable to move, as the echoes of the performance still reverberated within him. It wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a revelation. A testament to Kim Dokja’s brilliance. His skills were beyond what anyone could have imagined. His ability to evoke such intense emotions with mere sound was nothing short of extraordinary.
Kim Dokja didn’t acknowledge the applause. He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He simply stood there, his violin still pressed against his chin, eyes closed as if lost in the world of his music. The quiet reverence around him only deepened the mystery. The moment was heavy, filled with an unspoken understanding.
.
.
.
Backstage, the once-celebrated applause still lingered in the air like a distant echo. Kim Dokja stood in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, the weight of his violin case heavy in his hands. His fingers clutched the handle with a tightness that betrayed his internal turmoil. The clatter of footsteps and the sound of reporters' voices approaching brought him back to the present.
As the door to the backstage area swung open, a swarm of eager interviewers flooded into the space, microphones raised high and cameras flashing. Their voices filled the air, all calling out to him at once.
“Kim Dokja-ssi, that was a stunning performance! Can you tell us about your inspiration for 'The Wrath of the Fallen'?”
“Dokja-ssi, how does it feel to have such an impact on the younger generation, especially in the gaming community?”
“Is there any truth to the rumors about your next project? We hear you’ve been composing new pieces for a game soundtrack?”
But Kim Dokja didn’t respond. He didn’t even look up from the ground. His eyes remained fixed on the floor, a barrier of stillness around him. The reporters, sensing his silence, hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed.
Then, as if on cue, a figure stepped forward—smooth, practiced, and polished in every way.
Kim Seongwoo.
“Thank you all for your questions,” Seongwoo said, his voice dripping with rehearsed warmth. He smiled, all charm and elegance, stepping in front of his son as if to shield him from the storm of attention. “Kim Dokja is a very private artist, as you all know. He’s deeply grateful for your support, but as always, he prefers to let his music speak for him.”
The reporters, all too familiar with the routine, nodded and shifted their focus to Kim Seongwoo, their questions turning to his professional life, his future plans for Dokja, and his son’s artistic direction. Dokja could feel the weight of the questions pressing against him, but none of them were meant for him.
He let himself fade into the background, just as he always did.
His heart still thumped in his chest from the performance, the adrenaline having barely begun to settle. The buzzing energy of the event seemed to swallow him whole, making the noise and flashing cameras feel like a blur. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think clearly.
He needed to get away.
Without saying a word to anyone, he slipped through the backstage exit, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. His fingers trembled, and the tension in his chest seemed to rise with each step. He made his way to the nearest bathroom, the cold, sterile lighting making the place feel even more detached from reality. The door clicked shut behind him, and for the first time all night, he allowed himself to stop.
Kim Dokja leaned against the cold sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, his expression hollow. His fingers trembled as he turned on the tap and splashed water on his face, feeling the cool liquid drip down his skin, but it didn’t stop the feeling of heat rising in his chest.
He had done it.
He had played "The Wrath of the Fallen".
The song that had been born out of nothing more than boredom, a momentary spark of frustration, and an impulse to break free from his usual style. It was a song that had no place in his repertoire. It didn’t fit his usual melancholy themes, his quiet, soft compositions. It was loud. Aggressive. Furious, even. And as his mind replayed every note, every fast-paced, intense chord, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all pressing down on him.
He had done all that work, all that practice, for what?
To impress Yoo Joonghyuk.
Kim Dokja’s throat tightened at the thought. He had heard that Yoo Joonghyuk would be at the event and, for some inexplicable reason, he had wanted to impress him. To make an impact. To show him what he was capable of beyond the soft, haunting ballads. He had chosen that last piece to be loud, to be a challenge, to make sure he left a lasting impression on the one person who had made him feel… something.
But now, standing here in front of the mirror, the reality of it hit him with full force. Did Yoo Joonghyuk even care? Was he even watching?
Kim Dokja’s eyes burned as he closed his fists, the veins in his hands straining as the tremors intensified. What had he been thinking? He had practiced that piece for days, pouring all his energy into it, thinking that it would make a difference.
Was it even worth it? The notes, the chaos, the feeling of being something other than himself—was it worth it just to impress a loud, unpredictable streamer?
Kim Dokja didn’t know the answer. And the more he thought about it, the more he regretted everything. The song had been a departure from everything he knew, everything he was. He wasn’t that person. He was the one who wrote songs that resonated with pain, that bled emotion into the silence. And yet, here he was, standing in front of the mirror, regretting what he had done. Regretting that the final song, the one that had been his moment of rebellion, had been wasted on someone who probably didn’t even hear it.
He had chosen to step out of his comfort zone for one person. But in the end, had it even mattered?
With a shaky sigh, Kim Dokja wiped his face and took one last look in the mirror. He couldn’t stay here any longer. He had to go back. The show wasn’t over yet, and the people out there—his fans, the reporters, his father—were waiting.
Chapter 5: One-Sided Conversation
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja stepped out of the bathroom, his heart still racing from the silent turmoil in his chest. He had washed his face to clear his mind, but the unease hadn't lifted. The air felt heavier now, more suffocating somehow, like his own doubts were thickening the space around him.
As he walked down the hallway, lost in his thoughts, he stopped when he spotted someone standing just outside the door to the main event hall. It was Yoo Joonghyuk. The sight of him took Kim Dokja by surprise. He had expected to see the usual boisterous, loud-mouthed persona, the one that filled every space with noise and energy. But this time, Yoo Joonghyuk was different.
He was standing tall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze focused but distant. There was none of the playful swagger or exaggerated energy that Kim Dokja had grown accustomed to seeing in his streams. Instead, Yoo Joonghyuk looked… serious. Stoic, even. His expression was unreadable, as though the chaotic personality he presented online had faded into something quieter, something deeper.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the hall was the distant hum of the event’s chatter, muffled by the thick walls. Kim Dokja felt a flicker of something—an unspoken connection—form between them. There was an air of honesty to this version of Yoo Joonghyuk that made him feel more grounded, more present, in a way that made his heart beat faster.
Kim Dokja opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. He bit his lip, the familiar sense of silence wrapping around him. He could only offer a small nod in response, unsure how to proceed. He had been so caught up in his own head, the emotions still swirling inside him, that the presence of this quieter, more serious Yoo Joonghyuk almost took him off guard. But there was something comforting about this new side of him.
Yoo Joonghyuk seemed to sense the change in the atmosphere, his expression softening as he uncrossed his arms. His voice, when it came, was low and sincere—no theatrics, no sarcasm. “Your last song... The Wrath of the Fallen,” he said, his tone full of genuine admiration. “It was incredible. I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
Kim Dokja’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t used to hearing praise like that, not in such a straightforward way. He wasn’t used to people seeing him, not the persona of Kim Dokja the prodigy, but the real him, through the music. The words meant more than they should have, more than they ever could have coming from the usual loud and overwhelming Yoo Joonghyuk. But this—this felt different.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his lips curling upward slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The smile was soft, not the practiced one that he showed to the public, but one that felt more genuine. He liked this version of Yoo Joonghyuk—the one who didn’t need to perform. The one who simply saw him, understood him, in a way that made the heaviness in his chest feel lighter.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood there for a moment, watching Kim Dokja’s reaction. For some reason, his heart skipped a little as he saw the faint smile on the violinist’s face. His thoughts momentarily scrambled. Did he just make Kim Dokja smile? He didn’t know why, but something about it felt incredibly important. Almost… personal. A blush crept up his neck, and he quickly looked away, trying to mask the sudden warmth in his cheeks.
Kim Dokja, noticing the slight blush, tilted his head a little, his dark eyes observing the change in the other man. He didn’t speak, but his gaze softened. In that quiet moment, Yoo Joonghyuk was grateful for the silence. It felt like they didn’t need to say anything more.
As Yoo Joonghyuk shifted uncomfortably, his mind racing, he noticed that Kim Dokja’s fingers were moving—swiftly, purposefully. Kim Dokja took out his phone, his hands slightly shaking but controlled. He quickly typed something on the screen, then turned the phone toward Yoo Joonghyuk.
Yoo Joonghyuk glanced down at the message. It simply read, "Thank you." His heart skipped a beat at the simple, quiet words. Something inside him softened even further. He stared at the screen, unsure of what to say next.
Kim Dokja’s eyes lingered on him, not expecting a reply but simply acknowledging the connection they’d just shared. There was a quiet understanding between them now, something unspoken, and he felt the weight of it settle deep in his chest.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked a few times, still processing the message. For a moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. And then, with an almost embarrassed laugh, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, no problem,” he said, his voice still quieter than usual, but no longer as loud or overly confident as before. “I mean, seriously, it was incredible. I don’t know much about violins, but... you know... it was a lot better than my usual screaming and losing in games.”
Kim Dokja's eyes softened, and he gave another small, wordless nod. He could feel his chest tighten again, but in a way that felt more... comfortable. More real. His fingers twitched, but he stayed silent, finding that the quiet between them was enough.
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t press for more words. Instead, he shifted awkwardly on his feet, still feeling the heat of the blush on his face. He couldn’t understand why the encounter had affected him so much, but it was clear that there was more to Kim Dokja than the persona he had imagined.
“Right,” Yoo Joonghyuk said with a chuckle, trying to shake off the weird feeling bubbling up inside him. “Well, uh… I’ll catch you later, Kim Dokja-ssi. And… thanks for the song. Seriously.”
As Yoo Joonghyuk shifted on his feet, a little unsure of what to say next, he hesitated, glancing at the floor for a moment. He scratched the back of his neck, trying to summon some of his usual confidence. “You know, uh… if it’s alright with you, maybe we could talk again sometime? I mean, text or something,” he said, his voice coming out quieter than usual, almost uncertain.
Kim Dokja didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate breath, the silence between them growing heavier. His mind raced with the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability. But, despite the hesitation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn’t say a word, simply held it out toward Yoo Joonghyuk, showing him his number.
Yoo Joonghyuk glanced at the phone in surprise. He blinked a few times, the unspoken understanding passing between them. It wasn’t much, but it was a gesture that meant something—a willingness, however quiet, to keep the connection alive.
Kim Dokja’s fingers remained lightly on the phone’s screen, as if he was afraid it might disappear the moment he let go. His eyes stayed on Yoo Joonghyuk for a moment longer, searching for some kind of reassurance.
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked for a moment, surprised by the lack of a verbal reply but understanding that it was the best Kim Dokja could offer in this quiet moment. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he took out his own phone.
“I’m... adding you right now.” His voice was soft as he entered the digits, the act of adding Kim Dokja’s number feeling strangely personal, like crossing an unspoken line between the two of them. He glanced up briefly to meet Kim Dokja’s eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them.
When he hit "save" and pocketed his phone, he finally let out a small laugh, the awkward tension between them shifting into something lighter. “Well, I guess now we’re officially in touch. I’ll... uh... text you later.”
Kim Dokja didn’t say anything, but his eyes softened just a little. The weight in his chest, the one that had been pressing down so hard all night, felt slightly lighter. Maybe this wasn’t as impossible as he had feared.
Chapter 6: Ego Surfing Went Wrong
Chapter Text
After the event ended, Yoo Joonghyuk was drained, but his mind still buzzed with fragments of the night—the performance, Kim Dokja’s music, the strange connection that had formed between them. He tossed his jacket aside as he slumped onto his couch, pulling out his phone with a sigh.
"Just a quick check," he muttered to himself, tapping open his usual social media feeds. His fans were relentless, filling up his notifications with everything from memes about his latest gaming stream to random jokes. He scrolled absentmindedly, liking a few posts here and there, before his eyes caught something that made him pause.
It was a picture of him—taken without his knowledge—captured in a quiet, candid moment from the concert. The photo showed him sitting there, his gaze fixed on the stage, a deep focus on his face as he watched Kim Dokja perform. His eyes were slightly narrowed, his expression serious. It wasn’t a pose for the cameras or the audience. It was just him—absorbed in the music, in the person on the stage.
The caption under the photo sent a wave of warmth to his face: "Yoo Joonghyuk at the Kim Dokja concert. Love at first sight? Look at the way he's staring."
Yoo Joonghyuk’s heart skipped a beat as he read it again, this time more slowly. Love at first sight? He snorted, immediately shaking his head.
“No way,” he muttered to himself. “That’s not what this is.”
But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, his mind couldn't help but linger on the thought. Was it really "love at first sight"? His cheeks flushed as he recalled his earlier encounter with Kim Dokja—the awkwardness of it all, the strange feeling when he saw him offstage, the tension that he couldn’t quite shake. But no, it wasn’t like that.
It wasn’t love. Was it?
He ran a hand through his messy hair, staring at the picture on his phone. The way he’d been looking at Kim Dokja... Maybe it did seem intense in that photo. But it wasn’t anything romantic. He admired Kim Dokja, sure. His talent, the music, the way he commanded the stage—it was... captivating.
Yoo Joonghyuk shook his head again. “Admired,” he repeated to himself firmly. "I just admire him . That’s all."
But then, the memory of their brief exchange crept in again. Kim Dokja had barely spoken to him. He’d barely even looked at him, except for that one brief glance when their eyes met for a second—like he was almost... looking through him. But that didn’t mean anything, did it? He was just... lost in his own world.
“Yeah, I did all the talking,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered to himself, recalling their conversation. Kim Dokja hadn’t said a word to him, not a single sound had come from his lips. It had been awkward. And yet, for some reason, Yoo Joonghyuk couldn't quite shake the feeling that something had passed between them, despite the silence.
His phone buzzed again, another message from a fan tagged with the same picture. "Joonghyuk-ssi, you really looked like you were captivated by Kim Dokja! Are you two... an item? 💕"
Yoo Joonghyuk groaned, rubbing his face. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “I’m just... I’m just a fan. That’s all.”
But as he sat there, staring at the picture again, the word captivated lingered in his mind. Maybe there was something about the way Kim Dokja’s music made him feel... something about the way he had moved through the performance. The intensity of it all, the way it dug into his chest, making his heart race.
“Am I... in love?” he whispered to himself, his voice almost incredulous.
“ HAHAHA ”
He laughed at the ridiculousness of it. No way. He wasn’t in love. He barely knew the guy. He didn’t even talk to him. And besides, it had only been a few hours since they had even met. He barely knew anything about Kim Dokja except for the fact that he was an extraordinary violinist.
Still, a strange warmth spread through his chest as he thought about it, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last time their paths would cross. But for now, he pushed the thought aside, deciding to focus on the more pressing matters—like getting some rest and making sure he didn’t overthink it.
He found himself scrolling through his phone again, and another fan had tagged him in another picture taken from the event—one of the rare shots of him talking to Kim Dokja before the concert had started.
The picture was a candid one, showing the two of them standing near the stage. It was the brief moment when Yoo Joonghyuk had approached Kim Dokja, awkwardly trying to strike up a conversation. The caption read:
“Yoo Joonghyuk said he liked what Kim Dokja composed for Whispering Hollow, and I actually thought Kim Dokja was ignoring him! Until the concert started and Kim Dokja played the main theme of Whispering Hollow first!”
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked, surprised by the post. He hadn’t expected people to notice him talking to Kim Dokja before the show, let alone make such an observation about their interaction. He leaned closer to the screen, reading the caption again, a feeling of discomfort swirling in his chest. Ignoring him? Well, that was exactly how it had felt to him.
He recalled the awkwardness of their conversation. He had done all the talking while Kim Dokja stood there, practically silent, offering only a few glances but no real response. It left Yoo Joonghyuk feeling like he had just been talking to a wall. The whole thing had been well, strange. Kim Dokja’s lack of reaction made Yoo Joonghyuk think he had done something wrong, like maybe he had somehow offended the violinist or said something out of place.
But then, during the concert, when the main theme of Whispering Hollow began to play, a sudden, almost ridiculous thought crossed his mind. Could it be that the piece had been a subtle acknowledgment of their interaction? He shook his head at the thought, feeling silly. No way, he thought, Kim Dokja didn’t even talk to me. And besides, Whispering Hollow was a widely known song in the gaming community. It wasn’t like it was a personal tribute to him or anything.
Yoo Joonghyuk scrolled past the post, shaking off the thought, but there was still a small, nagging sensation in the back of his mind. He paused again at the picture, his finger hovering over the screen as he looked at the way Kim Dokja had stood there during their brief conversation. The way he hadn’t responded... It almost seemed like indifference, didn’t it?
“No, don’t overthink it,” Yoo Joonghyuk muttered under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “It was just a coincidence.”
Shaking his head, Yoo Joonghyuk rubbed his temples. "This is ridiculous," he muttered aloud, leaning back against the couch. He glanced at his phone again and saw the wave of comments continuing to flood in. His fans were asking if Kim Dokja had finally opened up to him, if he was going to start a collaboration with the famous violinist.
"God, what is this?" he groaned.
His fingers hovered over his phone screen. He had to respond to something, anything, just to quell the chaos in his mind. He quickly typed a response in the comment section to clear the air: "No, I’m not in love with Kim Dokja. I just admire his music. We just met, and honestly, I didn’t even get a real conversation out of him."
He hesitated before posting, wondering if that was really the best way to explain things. But it was the truth. He didn’t even know what to think about the man, let alone get caught up in any kind of romantic idea.
Before he could hit send, another comment from a fan caught his eye. It was a simple sentence: "I think you two are more alike than you think."
Yoo Joonghyuk blinked. More alike than they think? He stared at the message for a moment, feeling a strange jolt of curiosity. What did they mean by that? Was there some connection between him and Kim Dokja he hadn’t noticed?
He found himself thinking back to the performance again—how intense the music had felt, how it had seemed to wrap around him in ways he couldn’t explain. Kim Dokja’s playing wasn’t just about technique. There was something else there, something deeper. But was it really for him?
The longer he sat there, the more his mind wandered back to the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something to this. Maybe the music had been meant for him in some way. But no, that was ridiculous. He couldn’t be thinking like this. He barely knew Kim Dokja.
With a groan, Yoo Joonghyuk turned his attention back to his phone and posted the message. "Admiring someone's work doesn’t mean there’s a hidden meaning behind everything."
He stared at the post for a few seconds, wondering if he was fooling himself. Was he really just admiring Kim Dokja’s talent? Or was there something more to this strange connection?
The answer, as usual, wasn’t clear.
Chapter 7: I'm Mute
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja sat on the edge of the bed, his phone balanced in one hand, his other hovering uncertainly near the screen. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing him away from the glittering skyline beyond. The only light in the room came from the phone’s cold glow, casting long shadows over the white sheets, over the open laptop on the desk, over the untouched room service tray pushed to the corner.
The post had gone viral.
A blurry, candid shot of Yoo Joonghyuk in the concert hall, sitting in the front row with that look on his face—intent, open, real.
The kind of look Kim Dokja had never seen aimed at him before.
It would’ve been easy to pretend it didn’t matter. That it was just another internet moment, another shallow glimpse that would be replaced in hours by a meme or scandal. But Kim Dokja had seen too many faces. Crowds full of them. Applause that rang hollow, smiles that looked like masks. Admiration dipped in politeness, not understanding. Praise filtered through the lenses of elitism and expectation.
But this? This wasn’t that.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression in that photo—it wasn’t the dazed awe of someone pretending to care. It wasn’t manufactured reverence. It was quiet. Focused. Earnest.
It was the kind of look people give when they hear something that mattered.
And it was the same look Kim Dokja had noticed in the crowd that night. That fleeting moment when their eyes had met.
He tapped the post again, just to see it one more time. His thumb hovered over the comments, hesitating—until he saw it.
“No, I’m not in love with Kim Dokja. I just admire his music. We just met, and honestly, I didn’t even get a real conversation out of him.”
The sentence hit like a snapped string.
Kim Dokja stared at it for a long time. The words blurred slightly, though his eyes remained dry.
He wasn’t hurt by the denial. No, it wasn’t that. He didn’t expect love. He didn’t even expect friendship. But that last part—
"Didn’t even get a real conversation out of him."
Was that disappointment?
Regret?
He couldn’t tell.
Kim Dokja leaned back slowly, letting the phone drop onto the bed beside him. His fingers curled against the duvet, tension coiled in his muscles like a chord pulled too tight. He wanted to scream. Not out of anger—but frustration. Longing. That slow, aching despair that came from wanting to say so much and being able to say nothing at all.
He had wanted to speak to Yoo Joonghyuk.
More than anything.
He had wanted to explain that it wasn’t disinterest. That it wasn’t arrogance or indifference. That when Yoo Joonghyuk had stood in front of him, just for that brief moment, Kim Dokja had felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—seen. Not as a performer. Not as a prodigy. Just… as a person.
But he couldn’t say that.
He had never been able to say anything.
Since birth, his voice had been absent. No cries. No babbling. No first words. Just silence—and eyes full of things that could never be spoken.
His father had spun it like a miracle. A branding. A mystique. A divine hush that elevated his “image” to something haunting, legendary. “The boy who lets the violin speak for him.” A convenient lie that covered the truth: that Kim Dokja had always had too much to say and no way to say it.
He’d learned early to swallow every thought.
Every thank you. Every don’t hurt me. Every I’m scared. Every I love that. Every please stop.
And now, here he was—twenty-something, famous, beloved—and still completely voiceless where it mattered most.
He stood and walked to the desk, his violin case still sitting unopened. He rested his hands on it, fingers trembling. He wanted to play. To scream. To carve his frustration into strings and bow. But he was tired. Too tired. He hadn’t even unpacked. He hadn’t even breathed since the concert.
He turned, picked up his phone again, opened his phone messages, and picked Yoo Joonghyuk’s number.
He opened the messages.
Paused.
Typed.
I'm sorry I didn't say more.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
I wanted to talk to you.
Deleted.
His fingers hovered, aching.
Typed again.
I saw what you said. I’m sorry I made it seem like I didn’t want to talk. I did.
His thumb hovered over the "send" button. His heart was hammering again, louder than it had on any stage. He wasn’t used to this kind of exposure—emotional, personal, vulnerable.
He took a breath, slow and controlled, like he did before a difficult piece. One more second.
And then—his phone vibrated in his hand.
A new message.
From Yoo Joonghyuk.
He blinked, startled, and his finger hit the back button before he could even finish sending his own text. The notification blinked up again, persistent.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:42 PM]:
hey, just in case you saw that post
i didn’t mean it the way it sounded
Another ping followed almost immediately.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:42 PM]:
i just didn’t want people getting weird ideas
like, press or whatever. you know how they get
but i didn’t mean you’re not worth talking to or anything
And then, one last message. Shorter. More hesitant.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:43 PM]:
i actually wish we had talked more
Kim Dokja froze.
The ache in his chest twisted, sharp and sweet. It was like something inside him that had curled up in defense was slowly, carefully unfolding. He stared at the messages, rereading them. Each word sounded like Joonghyuk had typed it fast, like he’d been worried—worried about him.
A quiet laugh, breathless and voiceless, slipped out of Kim Dokja’s chest.
Yoo Joonghyuk was apologizing. Rambling, almost.
It was… unexpectedly sincere. No dramatics. No smugness. Just a boy who cared how he might’ve been understood.
Kim Dokja sat back down on the edge of the bed, the half-written message still sitting in his drafts, forgotten now. Instead, he opened a new one.
He let his fingers hover for a second—then began typing.
It didn’t come off wrong.
But thank you.
I wanted to talk too. I just… couldn’t.
He stared at the last sentence, hesitant, but left it. It was the first time he’d said it—to anyone.
He hit send.
The moment the message went through, something in his chest loosened. He exhaled.
Seconds passed.
Then his phone lit up again.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:45 PM]:
couldn’t?
Kim Dokja hesitated.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. His heart was racing again.
Slowly, he typed.
I’m mute.
Since birth.
You’re the first person I’ve wanted to tell that.
Send.
Then, silence.
His screen didn’t light up again for nearly a minute.
Until it finally did.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:47 PM]
oh.
…
okay.
thank you for telling me
that’s not something you owe anyone
but i’m glad you told me
Kim Dokja stared at the screen, warmth blooming behind his eyes.
Then one last message arrived.
Yoo Joonghyuk [11:48 PM]:
if you ever want to talk—however you can
i’ll be here
i’ll listen or read... what's a better term?
Kim Dokja didn’t realize he was smiling until he felt the heat in his cheeks.
He leaned back, the phone pressed to his chest, eyes stinging just slightly.
He didn’t send another message.
He didn’t need to.
Chapter 8: vi0linless
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja sat in the dim light of his room, the hum of the city outside muffled by the thick curtains. His fingers hovered over his phone, heart still fluttering from the exchange he'd had earlier with Yoo Joonghyuk. His chest felt lighter for it, but there was no time to dwell on the feeling. The night was still young, and his thoughts remained tangled in the moment he had almost missed.
He set his phone down, trying to focus on something else. But the screen lit up again, a new message from Yoo Joonghyuk. His thumb paused over the message icon, hesitating for a moment before he opened it.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:20 PM]:
yo, do you have a personal insta or like a dump account or something?
like one of those where you just say whatever.
Kim Dokja blinked at the message, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the phone. He thought for a second, then typed a simple reply.
Kim Dokja [12:20 PM]:
vi0linless.
He set the phone down again, fingers tense. His heart beat a little faster in his chest, but there was nothing to do now except wait for the inevitable. Yoo Joonghyuk had asked out of curiosity, but would he actually check the account? Would he recognize the name?
The phone vibrated again. Kim Dokja quickly reached for it, not wanting to miss the response.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:21 PM]:
wait ur telling me that's you??? lmao no way
Kim Dokja felt a faint smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t respond immediately, just let his fingers hover over the screen for a moment. Finally, he typed back.
Kim Dokja [12:21 PM]:
Yes.
There was a slight pause, then the next message arrived, filled with the familiar energy that Kim Dokja had come to expect from Yoo Joonghyuk’s texts.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:22 PM]:
holy shit i thought you were some ghost silently judging me the whole time LOL
but nah, you’ve been roasting me in my streams? i’m kinda impressed at the personality change ngl
Kim Dokja chuckled, the sound slipping out silently. The idea that his small, sarcastic comments were anything noteworthy in Yoo Joonghyuk’s world made him feel... something warm, though he didn’t quite understand why. He typed back, feeling a little lighter with the exchange.
Kim Dokja [12:23 PM]:
Your reactions are very entertaining. I had to comment sometimes.
But you have the same personality change though.
He hesitated before adding another message.
Kim Dokja [12:23 PM]:
Surprised you noticed mine too.
There was a brief moment of silence, and Kim Dokja leaned back, allowing himself to relax a little. He wasn’t expecting much more, but then his phone lit up once more, Yoo Joonghyuk's name flashing on the screen.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:24 PM]:
OF COURSE I noticed LOL you're the only one who roasts me and makes it funny instead of just the same old basic shit everyone says
Kim Dokja’s lips quirked into a soft smile. He could almost hear the playful annoyance in Yoo Joonghyuk’s tone, though it wasn’t in the words themselves. There was something genuine about the way he expressed himself, even when joking.
Kim Dokja [12:25 PM]:
I’ll try to keep it original then.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:26 PM]:
lmao pls do i could use some new material for my streams
Kim Dokja couldn’t help but smile a little wider. It was nice to know his attempts at humor had landed with someone. His fingers danced over the screen as he typed, his heart lighter than before.
Kim Dokja [12:27 PM]:
I’ll do my best.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:28 PM]:
for real though i thought you were some
idk? a super serious dude who’d just ignore my dumbass
but u’ve been way more fun than i expected. you’re cool, dokja.
Kim Dokja’s eyes softened at the message, the warmth spreading in his chest again. His fingers hovered over the screen, not sure how to respond.
Finally, he settled on something simple.
Kim Dokja [12:29 PM]:
You’re not so bad yourself.
The conversation slowed again, and Kim Dokja leaned back in his chair, staring at the dark ceiling. It wasn’t a lot—just a few words, a little exchange—but for some reason, it felt like something had shifted between them. Maybe it was the first real connection he had had in a long time. Maybe it was just that simple.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Yoo Joonghyuk [12:30 PM]:
yo, i’ll follow your account now. i guess you can roast me anytime lol
Kim Dokja laughed quietly to himself. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for more of Yoo Joonghyuk’s loud energy, but there was something oddly comforting about the idea.
Kim Dokja [12:30 PM]:
Thanks. I'll try not to be too harsh.
There was no immediate reply, but the text felt like the end of the conversation. Just a quiet note to end the night on. Kim Dokja set the phone down beside him and leaned back against the chair, the faint smile still on his face. Something had changed, just a little, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t mind the feeling.
.
.
.
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back on his bed, the faint glow of his phone lighting up his face. A small, almost amused smile played on his lips as he reread the conversation he’d just had with Kim Dokja. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been joking about a random social media account, and here they were, trading texts like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mind was still racing, though the chaotic, loud energy of his usual streams was replaced with something quieter.
He’d never imagined that talking to Kim Dokja would be like this. Sure, he’d seen the guy play the violin, and sure, he'd known about him because of the gaming community, but it was different when he actually had a real, somewhat personal conversation with him. Kim Dokja wasn’t what Yoo Joonghyuk had expected—not by a long shot. His dry wit, the way he subtly roasted him in his streams, it was almost like they’d been actually talking for months. It made something in Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest tighten, in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
Yoo Joonghyuk glanced down at his phone again, still smiling. The last message from Kim Dokja echoed in his mind: “I’ll try not to be too harsh.” His fingers twitched with the urge to reply, but he stopped himself.
Shaking his head at himself, he set the phone down and grabbed his laptop from the side of the bed.He opened the browser and quickly logged into his dump account before searching to find Kim Dokja’s dump account. The name vi0linless still made him chuckle a little. It was the perfect handle for someone who clearly had a whole career to them.
His fingers flew across the keys as he typed in the account name, his screen loading the profile. And there it was. The familiar feed, filled with posts that were just as dry, sarcastic, and absurd as Kim Dokja’s comments in his streams. It was weirdly refreshing. Instead of the polished, curated life of an influencer, it felt like… well, like someone actually had a sense of humor. Like they didn’t care about pretending to be perfect.
He hit the follow button with a smirk. Done.
Yoo Joonghyuk leaned back, watching as the screen refreshed, his profile picture now graced with a shiny “Following” tag next to it. He ran his fingers through his hair, still smiling. It felt good, following someone for a change—someone who didn’t want anything from him except maybe some sarcastic banter.
This is ridiculous, he thought, staring at the screen. It was a simple follow. A simple gesture. But for some reason, he felt oddly satisfied. Maybe it was the feeling that, despite everything—the noise of his world, the games, the endless streams—he had just crossed a line into something a little more real.
He glanced at his phone again, seeing the last message from Kim Dokja, and for a second, he almost typed out another reply. He resisted, though. No need to go overboard. This wasn’t some dramatic moment. It was just a conversation. Just some dumb messages between a couple of guys who, for whatever reason, seemed to get along.
Yoo Joonghyuk smiled again, shaking his head as he closed the laptop. Maybe he was overthinking things. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like something new had opened up. It was… oddly nice.
With a sigh, he tossed the phone aside and leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. Would Kim Dokja reply? Would they keep talking? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it didn’t matter. For now, he was content.
He glanced back at the phone, almost as if expecting it to buzz with another message.
It didn’t.
But he still found himself smiling.
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja sat quietly in the darkened corner of the room, though he was only a child, his small hands clasped tightly together, knuckles white. The muffled voices grew louder, sharper, more cutting. The voices weren’t the comforting tones of lullabies or gentle bedtime stories. These were the sounds of war—the war of words—between his parents.
His mother, Lee Sookyung, her voice trembling but resolute, stood just beyond the doorway, her frame tense as she faced Kim Seongwoo, his father. The harsh glow of the single bare bulb above flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the walls and settled like ghosts over the little boy who watched in silence.
“You don’t understand, Seongwoo! Dokja deserves a normal childhood!” Lee Sookyung’s voice cracked like thunder, fierce and pleading at once. “He’s just a child. Let him be a child! Let him laugh, play, have friends—”
Kim Seongwoo scoffed loudly, a cold, mirthless laugh that seemed to cut through the air like a blade. “Normal?” he spat the word as if it was poison. “Dokja was useless the moment he was born. You want to waste time giving him what, ‘normalcy’? What good does that do us?”
Lee Sookyung’s eyes flashed with fury, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You say that like he’s a burden! He’s our son! And he’s brilliant in his own way. You can’t just crush him because you never got what you wanted when you were young.”
Kim Seongwoo’s face twisted into a sneer, contempt dripping from every syllable. “Brilliant? His compositions might sell, sure, but that’s only because I pushed him harder than you ever dared. He’s twelve years old and can’t speak! Do you really think he’s going to be worth anything if we don’t force him? If we don’t make sure every violin lesson, every practice, every miserable day counts?”
A bitter laugh escaped Lee Sookyung, tears brimming in her eyes. “You think forcing him will make him worth something? He’s a boy, not a project! You’re ruining him—breaking him. What kind of father laughs at the idea that his own son was ‘useless’ from birth?”
Kim Seongwoo’s smile was cruel, sharp as broken glass. “Because it’s the truth! We had a useless child, Sookyung. Might as well get some use out of him. I’m telling you, if he practices harder, if he lets the music carry him, maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally be something. Something other than a disappointment.”
Lee Sookyung’s voice rose, tears spilling freely now. “And what if he wants something else? What if he wants to be free? Do you ever think about that? Or is this all just about your pride? Your control? Is it because you didn’t reach your dreams when you were young?”
“I’m thinking about his future,” Kim Seongwoo thundered back. “Not some fantasy where he gets to be a happy little kid. Dokja’s world is the violin, the music. That’s where he has power. That’s where he’ll be seen.”
“Seen?” Lee Sookyung’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “Seen by you? You think the world will love him for being a puppet on a string, forever silent, forever alone?”
The room seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in on the boy who sat frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird desperate for release. He could remember his mother’s anguished face, the way her hands trembled as she reached toward his father. The way Kim Seongwoo sneered at her, like she was an enemy.
“You’re soft, Sookyung. Always were.” Kim Seongwoo’s voice was a venomous whisper, dripping with disdain. “This isn’t about kindness. It’s about survival. Dokja isn’t like other children. He doesn’t get to have your delusions of normality. We push him because if we don’t, no one else will. The world doesn’t wait for broken children.”
Lee Sookyung’s scream shattered the night like a thunderclap. “He’s not broken! You don’t get to decide who he is or what he deserves. You’re suffocating him with your expectations, your greed!”
Kim Seongwoo’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “Greed? You think I want to do this? You think I enjoy watching my son suffer? He was born silent. Useless. But I refuse to let him disappear into nothingness. I will make him matter. Even if it kills him.”
The words landed like blows. Kim Dokja’s throat tightened; his hands clenched so tightly the nails bit into his palms. He had heard these arguments before, every night, like a dreadful ritual of noise that drowned out the fragile sound of his own breathing. The argument was never about him—never about what he wanted or felt. It was a cold calculus of worth, success, and control.
“Dokja deserves happiness,” his mother whispered suddenly, her voice fragile now, pleading. “Not just talent or money or fame. He deserves to feel loved. To be free.”
Kim Seongwoo’s laugh was bitter and hollow, echoing off the walls like a cruel joke. “Love doesn’t put food on the table, Sookyung. Freedom doesn’t pay the bills. The world won’t remember a boy who was just ‘happy.’ They remember winners, achievers. And Dokja—he’s not a winner yet. Not until he’s perfect.”
The boy curled inward, small and silent, wishing he could scream back, wish he could say all the things they never listened to. But his voice was locked away, buried deep beneath the weight of their shouting, their expectations.
“You don’t even see him!” Lee Sookyung spat. “You see a trophy, a business asset. Not your son.”
“And you?” Kim Seongwoo snapped. “You’re just a softhearted fool who wants to pretend everything is okay.”
The room vibrated with the fury of their words, the storm of broken hopes and desperate control spiraling out of their reach. Kim Dokja wished for the night to swallow him whole, for the silence to come back, to be all there was.
Lee Sookyung’s chest heaved, her breath sharp and uneven. The words had poured out of her like a dam breaking—a flood of desperation and defiance that no longer cared about the consequences.
“I’m divorcing you,” she said, her voice low but unwavering, cutting through the thick silence that followed their heated exchange like a blade.
Kim Seongwoo’s mouth opened, as if to protest, to laugh, to sneer, but no sound came. The storm of his previous rage was abruptly swallowed by a silence so heavy it pressed against the walls like a physical weight. For a moment, he simply stared at her, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight.
There was something in his gaze now—a flicker, so quick it might have been missed if you weren’t looking for it. Was it anger? A deep, burning rage that threatened to spill over? Or was it something else?
Lee Sookyung wasn’t sure. His eyes burned into her, but they didn’t soften. They didn’t plead or bargain. Instead, they held a storm—a quiet, furious tempest barely restrained.
But he said nothing.
The silence stretched between them, charged and brittle, until finally, Lee Sookyung turned her back to him.
“Kim Dokja is coming with me,” she said, voice steady now, resolute. “I won’t let you keep him in this cage of expectations and silence. He deserves more than this. I owe him that.”
She bent down gently to gather Kim Dokja in her arms. The boy, small and pale-faced, looked up at his mother with eyes wide, uncertain but trusting. He didn’t say a word—never had—but his slight nod was enough.
Lee Sookyung’s heart ached fiercely at the sight of him—her son, trapped in a world he never chose, caught between her fight and his father’s cold ambition.
She carried him away from the chaos of the living room, away from Kim Seongwoo’s silent, storm-filled gaze, and into the quiet refuge of the bedroom.
Behind her, the door shut softly.
Chapter 10: Burning Memories
Chapter Text
The acrid scent of smoke clawed mercilessly at Kim Dokja’s throat, each breath a burning torment as he stood frozen on the edge of the collapsing ruin that had once been his home. Flickering tongues of orange and crimson flame devoured everything—the wooden beams groaned under the relentless heat, curtains curled and blackened as walls melted like wax in a cruel, slow unraveling. The roar of the fire was deafening—a brutal symphony that swallowed all else: the distant wail of sirens, the crackling collapse, the desperate screams of neighbors clawing for help, voices cracking in terror.
And there, through the dancing haze of smoke and fire, lay his mother.
Her broken form sprawled grotesquely beneath the blackened skeleton of a fallen beam, a shadow in the inferno’s grasp. Her skin was a sickening patchwork of blistered flesh and peeling, raw muscle—burnt and exposed like the cruelest kind of art. One arm twisted unnaturally beneath her, fingers curled like desperate claws, nails charred and blackened beyond recognition. Her once soft hair was now a brittle tangle of soot and smoldering embers, curling and hissing where the flames still eagerly licked.
The world seemed to fracture with a deep, guttural crack as a section of the ceiling collapsed near them, showering sparks and ash into the thick, suffocating air. Kim Dokja’s eyes were wide, brimming with tears that burned like the fire consuming everything he loved. He wanted so desperately to move forward—to reach out, to touch her skin, to pull her back from the grasp of death itself—but his body was paralyzed, weighed down by a grief so immense it threatened to swallow him whole. The raw, silent scream trapped in his chest clawed at him, tearing at his insides, yet no sound escaped his lips.
The vivid red flames reflected in his eyes as he stared helplessly at her chest—motionless, mottled with deep, angry burns. The suffocating stench of burning flesh was overwhelming—foul, clinging, sinking into his memory like a curse. Thick, dark blood pooled around her head, mixing with ash and grime, congealing into sticky, blackened clumps on the wooden floor. Her face was twisted in a silent scream, lips cracked and stained with soot and blood, one eye swollen shut, the other staring blankly into the void.
Time slowed. The world narrowed to a pinprick of unbearable stillness: the terrifying quiet of her broken body, the chaos of fire surrounding it. He was so close to her—just one step away—but trapped in a cruel distance no physical movement could bridge.
And then—the front door exploded open with a violent crash, sending a wave of blistering heat and suffocating smoke billowing out. His father appeared, a grim silhouette etched in the hellish light, face set with hard resolve. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, pushing past the choking haze and flames, grasping Kim Dokja’s shoulders with hands rough and trembling, pulling him away from the inferno’s hungry maw.
“Come on! Move!” His voice was sharp, urgent—a command that shattered the paralysis clutching Kim Dokja’s limbs.
Kim Dokja’s mind screamed to stay—to save his mother—but his body was dragged backward, away from the cruel fire. The heat scorched his skin, smoke clawed at his lungs, and tears streamed freely down his soot-streaked cheeks, mingling with the grime, tasting of ash and despair.
Outside, the world was chaos. Neighbors shouted, firefighters roared into action, the sky darkened with thick smoke curling like a black shroud. But for Kim Dokja, all he could see was the shadow of his mother’s lifeless form behind him, swallowed whole by the flames that stole her from him forever.
His father’s grip was desperate, unyielding, as he carried Kim Dokja away from the nightmare and the unbearable silence left in its wake. Kim Dokja’s lungs burned with each ragged breath, every inhale a ragged, painful struggle. His small body trembled uncontrollably, fingers clawing at the smoke-filled air as if trying to grasp the last threads of something familiar—something safe—but there was only death, destruction, and the acrid stench of loss.
“Hold on, Kim Dokja! We’re almost out,” his father barked, voice rough like gravel, muscles taut with urgency. But Kim Dokja couldn’t hear the words over the roaring inferno pounding in his ears like a relentless drumbeat of doom.
His vision blurred. Edges flickered in the swirling smoke—flashes of red and black merging with the suffocating gray ash. His chest ached—not only from the smoke but from a gnawing terror that rooted him in the moment—his mother, consumed by fire, forever lost beyond reach.
Suddenly, a sharp crack split the air. A burning beam crashed mere inches away, sending Kim Dokja staggering—but his father caught him instantly, a silent promise in the grasp that would never loosen. A guttural, choked cry lodged itself in Kim Dokja’s throat, but no sound came. His mouth was dry, his throat raw from smoke and unbearable fear.
Outside the burning house, the chaos was a blur—firefighters shouted commands, neighbors wept, emergency lights flashed frantic blue and red against the thick smoke. Kim Dokja was gently lowered to the ground, his father’s hands trembling as they finally released him, for the first time since pulling him from the flames.
Kim Dokja’s wide, glassy eyes searched his father’s face—etched with worry, exhaustion, and an unspoken grief. But Kim Dokja could not respond. The crushing weight of helplessness pressed down on him like the lingering smoke still curling in the air.
His small, trembling hands reached out to the house instinctively, as if to find some fragment of his mother in the ashes. But there was nothing left—only charred wreckage and the unbearable silence of loss.
His father bent down, voice breaking despite himself. “Kim Dokja… I’m so sorry.” The words fell like cold stones into the hollow pit of Kim Dokja’s chest.
No tears came. No cries. Just the echo of a silence so vast it would never be filled.
Kim Dokja stood in that silence, the heat of the fire still warm on his skin, the weight of the world crushing his chest. The world kept turning around him, but he remained frozen.
.
.
.
After that day, everything became a blur.
Time slipped through Kim Dokja’s fingers like smoke, intangible and fleeting. The days folded into one another—marked not by calendars or clocks, but by waves of numbness and sharp, stabbing pain that caught him unexpectedly. The firefighters had said the fire started from a faulty electrical wire—a careless, random spark that turned their home into a furnace. The cause felt meaningless. It didn’t lessen the loss.
When they found his mother’s body, she was barely recognizable.
The flames had stolen not just her life, but the very image of her—her features melted away into charred remnants, the face that had understood Kim Dokja better than anyone else reduced to a ghostly shadow. He remembered the sharp scent of burnt flesh and ash lingering in the air, a cruel reminder etched deep inside his mind. She was gone, and with her went the one person who had truly seen him—not the mute prodigy, not the public image, but the boy who longed to speak and be understood.
Kim Dokja stood in silence, the weight of her absence pressing down on his chest like a leaden stone. His heart broke again and again in a way no tears could ease.
His mother had been his refuge—the one who understood the silence behind his eyes. Now, the silence was all he had left.
But as he grappled with his own grief, he began to notice the changes in his father—subtle, unsettling shifts that Kim Dokja couldn’t fully grasp.
His father’s face had hardened into something colder, more severe. His hands, once steady and reassuring, now trembled when he thought no one was watching. He muttered to himself in low, almost inaudible tones, words that slipped past Kim Dokja’s ears like ghostly echoes—fragments of regrets and fears he couldn’t piece together.
Sometimes, Kim Dokja caught his father staring off into the distance, eyes clouded with a storm of emotions he could not name. The man seemed to carry the fire’s ashes in his bones, weighed down by something heavier than grief.
With Kim Dokja, his father grew stricter, his patience thinning as if he was trying to hold himself together by controlling what he could. The warmth that once flickered in his eyes when he looked at his son was replaced by a distant, almost cold restraint. There were moments when Kim Dokja could see the flicker of guilt, too—an unspoken apology that never passed his father’s lips.
Yet, outside their private world of loss and silence, the public story told a different tale.
Neighbors, friends, even the media, whispered about Kim Dokja’s father as a hero—a man who had braved the flames to save his son. They saw strength in his worn hands and courage in his stiff posture. They praised his sacrifice, lauded the rescue as an act of love and bravery.
Kim Dokja felt nothing but hollow distance when he heard these words.
They saw a hero.
But he saw a man broken, lost in a grief too sharp to speak of.
Chapter 11: Two Different Worlds
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja had been awake for hours by the time his phone buzzed at 7:00 AM, the soft chime cutting through the stillness of his quiet room. He’d already been practicing his violin for two hours, the delicate notes of the scales filling the space as he sought perfection, the kind that his father demanded of him. Despite the early hour, his fingers were steady as they moved across the strings. The melodies that came from his violin had a soothing rhythm to them—repetitive yet fulfilling, like a ritual he couldn’t break.
The text was from Yoo Joonghyuk. His fingers paused on the bow as he glanced at the screen.
Yoo Joonghyuk [7:20 AM]:
yo, goodmorning
Kim Dokja blinked at the message, his fingers tapping lightly
It was short and simple, and yet, the message felt like a lifeline. Kim Dokja allowed himself a small, wistful smile as he quickly typed back a response.
Kim Dokja [7:21 AM]:
Good morning.
Kim Dokja’s eyes glancing briefly toward the violin. Then, as if on instinct, he returned his attention to the practice at hand. His phone, still open on the desk in front of him, rested next to a scattered pile of music notes.
It wasn’t long before the phone buzzed again, startling him. This time, his heart skipped a beat, a strange warmth spreading through him at the sudden possibility of a response.
Yoo Joonghyuk [7:24 AM]:
uh, want to grab some morning coffee? today?
Yoo Joonghyuk had asked if Kim Dokja wanted to grab coffee.
Kim Dokja’s eyes lit up for a fraction of a second, but his fingers faltered on the strings as the initial excitement quickly faded. He was already behind on practice, and with the upcoming show, he couldn’t afford to waste time. Not to mention, his father would never approve of him leaving to meet anyone, especially not at this hour. It was already hard enough to fit in the practice time between the strict schedule his father had laid out for him.
A brief moment of longing flickered across Kim Dokja’s face, but he quickly turned away, steeling himself. The violin, the music—this was his world, and it was all he could rely on. He typed a quick response.
“I’m sorry, I have to practice,” he wrote, a slight apology in the text. Then, as if to end the conversation neatly, he turned off the phone and set it aside, returning to his music.
The notes of his violin filled the room again, a familiar solace wrapping around him as he continued his practice. Yet, despite the distraction of his music, a small part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it might have been like to share a cup of coffee with Yoo Joonghyuk. Would they have talked about music? Gaming? Or perhaps they would have found that elusive common ground, the one that seemed so close yet always just out of reach.
But that was a dream he couldn’t afford. At least not right now.
~~~
Yoo Joonghyuk didn’t mind that Kim Dokja had declined his offer to meet up for coffee. In fact, he figured that the other man had his reasons—after all, Kim Dokja was always buried in his practice, lost in his music. From what he’d seen, he wasn’t the kind of person to easily make room for distractions, especially not when it came to something as important as his violin.
He shrugged it off. Kim Dokja seemed like a busy guy, the kind of person who kept his schedule tight, especially if he was preparing for another big performance. He probably didn’t have time for small talk.
Yoo Joonghyuk went back to his usual routine. He fired up the game he’d been streaming, his character stepping into the new, darkly mysterious cave the chat had been begging him to explore. He pushed the thought of Kim Dokja aside, telling himself that he'd catch up with him later. No need to dwell on the moment.
The stream was as chaotic as ever. Chat was blowing up with jokes, memes, and random donations. Yoo Joonghyuk played his usual role, acting the part of the loud, dramatic gamer who screamed at jump scares, made sarcastic comments, and purposefully threw himself into situations he was bound to regret. His audience loved it. He loved it. It was his space, his comfort zone.
But even as he laughed off the absurdity of the game and trolled his audience, there was something that kept nagging at him. It was a subtle feeling, something hard to place, like the echo of something significant just out of reach. He didn’t let it show, of course. Not on stream. Not when the chat was watching, teasing him for his latest mishap.
As Yoo Joonghyuk settled into his usual streaming routine, the hours flew by in a blur of gaming chaos and his ever-present, rowdy chat. The donations kept rolling in, and his usual banter kept the crowd laughing, but his mind was only half in the game. Ever since the last interaction with Kim Dokja, something about his streams felt different.
But, he quickly pushed those thoughts aside. This was his space, his audience, and he wasn’t about to let anything distract him.
That was, until he saw the familiar name.
It was subtle at first, hidden among the endless barrage of chat messages scrolling by. But there it was, like a flicker in a sea of usernames: vi0linless.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes sharpened instantly, though he didn’t react outwardly. He recognized it immediately—Kim Dokja's dump account.
His lips curled into a small smile. Just a hint of it—something that quickly faded back into his usual indifferent expression. He couldn’t let it slip. The fans, the people in the chat, would go wild if they knew that Kim Dokja, the violinist everyone was constantly shipping him with, was here watching his stream. He couldn’t show them that. Couldn’t make it obvious.
The chat, as always, was buzzing with energy, and a few random jokes flew by, mostly about his terrible gaming skills and his dramatic reactions. He tried to keep his composure, even as he caught that little flicker from vi0linless again, a familiar, understated presence among the crowd of fans.
For a brief moment, he wondered what Kim Dokja was thinking, watching him play. Was he laughing at him, like everyone else? Or was it something more? It was hard to know with someone as elusive as Dokja. The violinist had always been the quiet one, the person who never truly spoke up. But there was something about him that Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t quite shake off.
As his character narrowly escaped another trap, he saw the message again, from vi0linless:
“Can’t believe a scaredy cat like you went in there.”
A soft laugh escaped him, and he quickly covered it up with a dramatic groan, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, alright, vi0linless. Don’t be too sad yet. I’ll scream soon."
The chat exploded with its usual barrage of comments—some teasing, others begging for him to “get scared already,” but Yoo Joonghyuk couldn’t help but smile a little. He glanced at the name again, his fingers resting briefly on the keyboard.
No one knew. Not a single person in his audience had any idea that the quiet, mysterious violinist who had composed some of the most hauntingly beautiful music in the gaming world was sitting there, quietly watching him, probably laughing at his every misstep. He liked it that way. The secrecy, the quiet bond between him and Kim Dokja—it was theirs alone.
He clicked his mouse, continuing to play as if nothing had changed.
Chapter 12: No Place For Him
Chapter Text
The last note hung in the air like a fragile thread, trembling before it faded into nothingness. Kim Dokja’s fingers remained poised above the strings, the bow quivering as if it, too, felt the weight of the silence that filled the room.
His father let the quiet stretch painfully between them. His eyes—cold, calculating—never left his son, scrutinizing every slight imperfection, every hesitant motion. Kim Dokja had given it everything, each note drawn from the deepest parts of him, but it never seemed enough. It would never be enough.
“Pathetic,” his father muttered under his breath, too low for the others to hear, but loud enough for the tension to settle in the air. “Is that all you can do? You can’t even get through one piece without faltering. How are you going to live up to the expectations if you can’t even keep your focus?”
The insult struck, sharp and biting, like a blade against the skin. It was nothing new. Kim Dokja had heard those words countless times. They were the ones that followed him, echoing in his mind long after his father had left the room. But this time, they felt heavier. They always did after the practice.
His father’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, that familiar mix of disdain and disappointment, before he turned on his heel and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kim Dokja alone in the sterile silence of the room.
For a moment, he remained motionless, violin still cradled in his hands. The sting of his father’s words had long since ceased to be new, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. The world beyond this room—the world where he was seen, where he was valued—had always been a distant illusion. Here, in this room, all he had were expectations. And when those expectations went unmet, he was nothing.
The violin case was beside him, waiting patiently. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he placed the instrument inside, the soft click of the latch almost deafening in the quiet. It wasn’t the violin’s fault. It was the one thing that had always understood him, had always helped him speak when his voice failed him. But here, it only served as another reminder of what he could never be—perfect. Not for his father, not for the world.
With the violin safely packed away, Kim Dokja stood, a strange calm settling over him. His movements were methodical as he adjusted the case, making sure the lid was perfectly aligned before he set it aside.
He walked slowly to his room, the sound of his footsteps muffled against the polished wood floor. His father’s voice still echoed in his head, biting, accusing.
Pathetic.
He reached for the doorknob and turned it with a soft click. The room was dim, the blinds drawn tight against the outside world. It was the kind of room meant to swallow him whole, to hide him away from everything. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the noise from the rest of the house. The voices, however, never stopped.
Die.
You’re worthless.
The words cut through the silence with a razor-sharp clarity, as if they were a living thing, creeping through the walls. The faint whispers lingered, clawing at his mind, trying to break through the calm he had built. It had always been like this. Always the same voices, the same thoughts.
Kim Dokja moved toward his desk, the piles of music sheets scattered haphazardly across it. His fingers brushed the edge of a sheet, the paper crinkling slightly beneath his touch. They were pieces of him—fragments of his soul, laid bare for anyone who cared to listen. But no one ever did. No one ever saw him.
He grabbed the chair by his desk, dragging it across the floor with a screech that filled the empty room. The sound felt raw, discordant, like a physical manifestation of the tension that was choking him. He walked to the middle of the room, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, its legs leaving faint grooves in the wood.
Worthless.
The voices grew louder, more insistent, like a swarm of gnats buzzing around his head. He could feel them, could hear them, could almost taste the bitterness in the air. His hands shook as he set the chair down, the cold metal legs scraping harshly against the wooden floor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a loud reminder that he was still here, still breathing, still existing in a world that seemed to have no place for him.
Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.
Ding!
Kim Dokja’s heart skipped a beat, his hand instinctively reaching for his pocket. The familiar weight of the device in his hand brought a fleeting sense of connection, the small spark of hope he always felt when he saw the screen light up. Maybe it’s him.
His thumb brushed against the screen as he unlocked it, and his eyes quickly scanned the messaging app. But his pulse faltered as he saw the name. Not Yoo Joonghyuk.
It was just another notification, another message from one of the countless people who had nothing to do with him. The emptiness surged through him again, heavier than before. He let out a quiet sigh, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he were about to close the app and forget about it all. The emptiness crept back into his chest like an old, familiar friend, settling into his bones.
Ding!
His finger froze over the screen.
calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:25PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:29PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 4 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:35PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 5 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:37PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 7 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:42PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 9 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:47PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 10 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:49PM UTC
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calypsocalyx (Nyxxy_Arcxx) on Chapter 12 Tue 09 Dec 2025 07:53PM UTC
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