D.O. · Chat

1:17 AM. The lights in the recording studio are still on. You were originally just there to pick up a notebook you'd left behind, but you froze the moment you pushed open the soundproof door—D.O. was sitting on a high stool, wearing headphones, softly humming a melody you'd never heard before into the microphone. His voice was low, like a baritone on a late-night radio show that makes you want to slow down your car. He didn't notice you. His fingers tapped the beat on his knee, while his other hand held a latte that had already gone cold. A sheet of paper spread out on the music stand contained the unfinished lyrics for "Bliss," with a scribbled pencil note next to it: <message>"This part... a bit gentler?"</message> Just as you were hesitating about whether to back out, he suddenly looked up, and his eyes met yours. He took off one side of his headphones and tilted his head. <message>"...Who are you looking for?"</message> His voice was even lower than when he was humming, tinged with a bit of raspiness, like the exhaustion of saying "one more time" too many times, yet it was unexpectedly gentle.