infinity

You stopped fearing death the moment you understood it. 

You imagined how it would end a number of ways: getting struck by a drunk driver or a hit and run by some rich asshole late one night, maybe they're one and the same. Or your liver giving up after one too many shots after work, and you'd be found lying on the sidewalk, drowning in a pool of your own piss. Maybe you'd just get hit by a stray brick landing on your head because life is unpredictable like that. 

You'd given up on a quiet, peaceful rest in some hospital bed in your old age a long time ago. You just didn't think you'd go out like this: becoming ground zero for an asteroid. 

It was the last thing your mind. It was the last thing on everyone's mind.

The announcement came suddenly about two weeks ago; all programming was interrupted to give way for the President's public address. 15-20 meters in diameter, he said. Somewhere in the Korean Peninsula is where it'll land, scientists claimed. Blast radius, tsunami heights—the rest was scientific jargon you gave zero fucks or had any knowledge about. Most, if not all of Asia will be scourged. Casualties in the hundreds of millions, if not outright billions. Changes in climate lasting centuries. Effects on the world at large: significant.

They said it like you were just a statistic and not a living breathing human being. This was the extinction-level event the wealthy elite dreamed of. This is what Roland Emmerich was creaming his pants making movies about.

You followed the first few hours with piqued interest. Watched men in lab coats explain science and computer models on TV like you were in fifth grade again. Then came the politicians who said nothing, the religious figures—both the earnest ones and the charlatans alike—calling for prayer, for repentance, for something, anything, as if God was waiting for a sufficient number of people to say sorry before deciding to take His chosen up to heaven or redirect a six hundred meter rock out of Earth's orbit. 

Within 48 hours, the networks stopped bothering with experts. There was nothing left to explain, really; the maths were clear and concise. No amount of science can change the fact that a quarter of the world's population was gonna be vaporized, bare minimum, and a third of the earth was gonna be rendered uninhabitable. The only variable left was how those people would spend their final hours. 

This isn't a world where superheroes fall from the sky and save people, nor is it one where Mars is one readily accessible Elon Musk spaceship away. This is real life: cold and cruel, but it’s the world you live in. Sometimes the powers that be hear your prayers, but more often than not, it doesn’t respond. And regardless of what happens, whether you live or die, life goes on. In the future, you'll just be an afterthought lost to time. People will remember the meteor, but not you.

There's no point in fighting. No point in living for tomorrow.

You walk out into the streets of Seoul like it's just another Tuesday.

72 hours till the meteor hits. Less than. With each second, it approaches ever closer. Slowly. Surely. An inevitability. 

The networks added a doomsday clock counting down the hours in real-time. Regular programming continues with the occasional meaningless update, but otherwise, life goes on like normal. At least as normal as it can possibly be during a situation like this.

If it weren't for a big rock shadowing high up in the clouds, you'd think there was some kind of political upheaval—a revolution. Except no; the government has all but given up. They're secure in some underground bunker somewhere, watching, saving their own asses, offering false pretenses to people that are left to their own devices. Most of them at least. They'll wake up to a world without their own blood, a culture mostly scorched by fire and ash, and they'll forget this nation ever existed.

To say that it's loud would be an understatement. Going to the subway station is akin to moving through war-torn trenches.

Smoke permeates through the streets, never fading and constantly unsavory smelling. Stores are either broken through or falling apart. Men in masks rob some poor guy's furniture store to take out a sofa from his shop and set it ablaze in the center. Society has ripped off the band-aid and torn up the social contract. Not to mention the relentless cries of religious men in the corners with their signs calling to repent. It makes the meteor seem like an afterthought.

"Repent!" The preacher yells out as you walk past him on the walkway. "The Kingdom of God is at hand! The Lord will judge the living and the dead!"

You wonder whether the meteor has given him permission to be like this, or he just hangs around here all the time. You can’t quite tell the difference.

Through all this, the subway remains operational. People still have places to go, somewhere to be, even if they are only the few sane ones left. 

The train cars are mostly empty, so much so you can pick whichever seat you want and there would be no objections. A young couple hold each other's hands till their knuckles turn pale white. An elderly woman lugs around a suitcase staring blankly at the floor like she's trying to memorize its pattern. You wonder if you've seen these people before; you wonder if they imagined this is how their lives would end. The thought lingers for only a moment before you put your headphones on and listen to music as the tunnels blur past.

It's amazing, really, how death makes time feel more invaluable. When you're alive and free and have nothing to worry other than overdue bills and expenses, it's easy to forget how quickly it can pass you by, how seasons change, because it's always there. And when it's suddenly cut short, when life expectancy goes from 65 all the way down to 25—you begin to realize how much of it you're wasting away on things that ultimately don't matter.

For one, you haven't called your family in months. They're still texting every now and then, asking how's the experience in Korea, but you haven't responded to any of them other than an emoji here and there. Then there's your friends you've met online; gaming sessions that once took you into the break of dawn hardly last longer than an hour now. And your circle is slowly breaking apart too; relationships, parenthood, career opportunities, war—

Growing up is realizing how lonely it gets in the world. How you're only surviving, not living. They always tell you to work hard, but now it feels pointless. A big rock is about to undo your entire existence—and like 70% of the world's history and culture.

Still, you soldier on. Because this is the only thing you know, and there's comfort in familiarity.

The building looks the same as it always is: gray and dull and in dire need of renovation. The security guard's still there, barely looking up to watch you swipe your badge and nodding.

"Still coming in today?" he asks absentmindedly, returning to his phone, watching some K-drama on his screen. Behind him is a small TV tuned to the news, doomsday clock counting down the time: 71 hours, 54 minutes, 12 seconds. Eleven. Ten.

"Someone has to," you say, which isn't really an answer.

"I guess," he replies, flippantly, shrugging. As you're about to enter the building, he then continues. "My wife wants me to come home. Says we should be together. For the end, you know."

You nod; there's nothing else you can say or do. You hardly talked to this man, other than 'Good morning' and 'See you, take care.' Never asked about his personal life—never knew he even had a wife until now—and it's too late to start. 

"So, will you be going home to her?"

"Probably. I don't know." He says it with a lackadaisical demeanor while watching the show, making you question why he randomly brought it up to begin with.

Nevertheless, you continue and walk to the elevator.

On the 17th floor, the office is almost deserted. A place housing 24 employees, there's only three today, you excluded. Your boss is at his desk by the window overlooking the Han River, answering phone calls like always. He catches you mid call, gestures with his hand, silently mouthing 'one minute' before finishing his conversation over the line and hanging up.

He then motions to the unoccupied chair in front of him. "Take a seat." So you oblige. 

His laptop has the doomsday ticker too: 71 hours, 49 minutes, 28 seconds now. 27. 26. End of the world aside, your boss looks tired. Not the topical acceptance that everything is meaningless and ash and rubble, but more ‘I haven't slept in three days and been making calls that won't change anything’ tired. His tie is loose around the collar; his hair looks grayer than usual. Maybe you haven't been paying this much attention to him.

"You're here," he remarks straight to the point.

"You say it like it's surprising," is your reply, knowing you haven't missed a day since Christmas. Never took a sick leave or paid time off so far in the year. Stayed several overtimes per week too. One of his strongest soldiers, as they would say.

"It is." He then switches tabs on his laptop, now flashing his GMail. "You're one of four people who showed up today. I had 52 employees. Now it's just" —he gestures at the empty desks— "this."

You don't blame anyone; none of this is important in the face of a giant rock headed towards your humble first world country.

"Life goes on," you tell him, shrugging, nonchalant.

"Does it?" he asks, but neither of you really know the answer to that. Nobody does.

He taps his fingers on the keyboard. Mutters something beneath his breath. A prayer, perhaps, followed by a deep, heavy sigh. Adjusting his glasses, he faces you again: "Thank you," he adds, and it sounds genuinely sincere. "for being here. For showing up. I don't know. It's more than what most people are doing."

"It's—just a job," you answer, because there's really no reason for this to be theatrical or melodramatic. Not like he promised you an overdue promotion a year ago or anything.

"It's not. Not anymore," he insists, shaking his head. "But thank you anyway."

After a pause, a moment of awkward silence where your gaze just wanders around, you ask if you can head to your desk, and he lets you go. 

There's still work to do. There's always work to do.

Your office is no larger than a closet, but it's yours. It's a lot bigger when the place feels more quiet than usual. Even tapping your feet seems to produce an echo off the thin walls. And speaking of, one half is plastered with sticky notes, of passwords you should have memorized, of memos and tasks you've completed ages ago. A graduation photo of you with your parents sits in the corner collecting dust, as well as a calendar on the other end you haven't bothered changing in two years.

Then there's the right side of your desk, your mini-shrine of sorts. It started out small and innocuous, like all other interests: a hit song that always played in the streets, a fancam that caught your eye during one of your breaks. Not long after, you fell down the rabbit hole. She was the it-girl of Korea; her face was inescapable no matter where you looked. Billboards, banners, posters—every brand she modeled for was like an endorsement from the heavens itself. Meanwhile her leader was a charismatic performer who had a fun side to her. 

It grew beyond those two. It became twelve. You learned they were groupmates with another dynamic pairing: one whose cute face had a duality of being both sweet and lethal. The other was the steady presence and industry veteran who had her moments of quirkiness. These two pairs became the backbone of their own respective groups. But once upon a time, they were sisters-in-arms. Members who grew under their own leader, their mother figure. 

Then came the rest: a pretty face who always tried her best even though she never wanted to be an idol. A ball of charm that can do anything and would light up the room with her energy. A dancer who pushed herself no matter how difficult it got. A gorgeous actress who knew this was her one and only group. A tiny pocket of sunshine who still kept close with the others every chance she got. A leader took a second chance in Korea when she could have thrived just as much in Japan. And finally, a soulful voice and actress whom the world cried for when she tragically met her demise and broke the hearts of millions.

Each of them became successful, no matter what path they took, but together, they were something magical. These days, they’re just a memory, kept in music, performances, fandom nostalgia, and on the photos plastered on your wall. They haven't released anything new in years. Quietly withdrew from the public eye once they reached 30, or in the case of some, 35. You hope they're fine, wherever they are. After all, the news did say select individuals were being evacuated outside of the President and high-ranking government officials. Culture and history has to be preserved, if that’ll even be a thing.

Death makes you think about a lot of things. Regret mostly. But there's one thing that will bother you the most: the fact that you never saw them together. Live. In-person. Everything else can come second place.

You can only sigh and touch one of the photos—one of their last shots taken as twelve—before turning to your computer and answering emails.

Today's workload is heavier than yesterday's. Not surprising, given what should have been done by a team of around 52 is now being shared by just four people. No one complains, not even you; there's no use when this all is meaningless in two days, anyway.

You process invoices. Update spreadsheets. Spam follow-up emails to clients whose faces you never see and who will never read them. You answer phone calls from people with the exact same sound of surprise that someone actually picked up. 'Business as usual,' you'll say, even during the end of the world, then get to inquiring about orders that will never ship and deliveries that will never arrive.

Rinse and repeat. You've never been more aware of the time, but it truly flies when you're preoccupied with work.

During lunch, you watch a rerun of a film being aired on the TV in the break room. Armageddon because apparently SBS has a dark sense of humor. You're biting down on some dry bread on a tuna sandwich, shaking your head remembering that one bit of Ben Affleck commentary about how it's easier for oil-drillers to become astronauts than to teach astronauts how to drill. That and the movie itself is so bad it's a guilty pleasure. 

Here's the situation now: around 60 or so hours before the meteor hits. You're watching a movie about this exact situation play out, except death is instantaneous, there will be less explosions than what's on screen, and Bruce Willis isn’t going to save you. 

It's absurd. Life is fucking absurd.

The rest of your shift goes by unceremoniously. Your boss leaves at four, shakes your hand and tells you to take care with a sound that's more resigned to the inevitable than actual reassurances. The other employees begin filing out too, quietly taking their belongings before exiting. 

Now you’re left alone again. You can't help but sigh.

Not the one that screams ‘fuck, the world is really ending’ and more akin to your body crying out in anguish after another day at work. The kind where you just want to lie down once you get home, stare at the ceiling, and think about where it all wrong. Probably the moment you wanted to go to Korea; you've come to this conclusion a long time ago.

And maybe that's the real absurdity: the world is ending and you're sighing like it's another Tuesday and you’re caught up during rush hour.

People are out in the streets, doing whatever the fuck they want because nothing will matter soon. Meanwhile you're still here behind these four walls, trying to cling to the last traces of normality because you don't know what life feels like without having to follow a pattern. In your eyes, life is about structure and control, not chaos and spontaneity. A meteor heading for earth is the complete opposite of that worldview.

Before leaving, you take one more glance at your makeshift shrine. Your collection of photocards pinned to the wall from different eras and groups. Your gaze snags on that one picture of them as twelve, and you look at them with a longing that feels too personal. Like they're within reach.

I hope you're okay. Wherever you are, you’re praying mentally. It's hard to find faith when everything around you is collapsing.

You grab your bag, and for whatever reason, you remove the photo from the wall, pocket it in your coat, and head off. Outside, the entrance is desolate; the guard's phone is plugged into the charger, but he's nowhere to be found. You shrug as you walk into the streets, putting on your headphones; it’s your only shield from the violence, noise, and anarchy of it all.

In the distance, the sun begins to set. It might be your last.

The train stops somewhere between Hongdae and Sinchon. Not gently, not a gradual slowing when the operator's being cautious, but rather a sudden lurch, one that almost makes the standing passengers tilt forward and crash onto the floor. 

Delays, when they happen, come few and far between. Usually a door that won't close, a person on the track, sometimes construction or renovation of railroads. These days, however, the conductor says the same thing:

"Attention passengers. Due to civil unrest and blockages on the tracks ahead, this train will proceed no further. All passengers are advised to exit the station and seek alternative transportation. Thank you and we apologize for the inconvenience."

Civil unrest sounds like an understatement for what's basically Korea's adaptation of The Purge. You've had stones and other random objects chucked on the train windows before. You've seen rioters overpower walls of riot shields and toppling police cars. It's only by divine intervention, you conclude, that you haven't been touched by any one of these maniacs. 

Still, no one complains. People simply grab their belongings and keep moving. 

Getting off the platform is its own chaos. The boring kind. Loud and all over the place, but no bodies are being thrown around, and no one is in serious danger. A reminder that you're not alone in this, that even on the cusp of death, life goes on as normal.

Outside the station is a big glaring reminder that some men just want to watch the world burn. Across the street, a convenience store has its windows shattered, groups of thieves running off with whatever food and other supplies they can carry, a fire hydrant with its covers exposed and water endlessly bursting, a car that's upside down and set ablaze because why the fuck not, and the garage wall of some building with the words B.B.S spray painted in what might as well be someone’s blood. Sirens are blasting loudly; you can't tell whether that's police or an ambulance.

You step over a broken umbrella and head the other way.

Your apartment is only 20 minutes from here, maybe less if you take the back alleys. You could walk home in time to catch the evening news. Maybe call up your parents and finally answer back when it's too late. There's also that bottle of wine you've been saving for a special occasion, and there's no better time to open it than now.

Instead, you stride over to the taxi stand, right as an elderly couple climbs into the cab while the cabbie packs their luggage inside the boot. Queuing is nonexistent and the turnaround is quick; the next car pulls up as soon as the last one drives off.

You've got nothing but a sling bag with you. Stepping into the backseat, you give the driver an address you haven't said out loud in years:

"HYBE building, Yongsan district."

Over the rearview mirror, the man's eyes furrow behind his glasses. His hair is thin and gray. His lips quirk; it's the look of a man who's seen some shit. Definitely in his sixties. 

"Are you sure? It's a long way from here. Traffic's bad. Everything is."

"I'm sure," you insist, looking out the window in time to see two masked men beating on some random guy just inches away from your cab. You should feel something—empathy, maybe—but instead, you lean back in your seat and yawn.

The driver shrugs. It's a gesture you're starting to recognize as the universal response to the end of the world. The car revs and pulls away from the curb.

En route to the destination, the streets are clogged with abandoned cars, people walking in the middle of the road, makeshift barricades, overturned trash cans, and piles of burning debris. Probably ran over plenty of dead things, too. Nevertheless, the driver maneuvers around them all with the efficiency and calmness of someone who has been through some shit, worthy of every 5-star review on Über while cursing beneath his breath every time someone jumps in front of the car.

On the right side of the road, a church can be seen with its lights on. A congregation of people assemble as far as outside the entrance doors, singing a worship hymn, their voices raised to the heavens above. They're singing something about being lost and then found. You can hear their collective praise even through the music playing in the car.

"Crazy times," the driver remarks, not directly to you, but to this: the chaos in the streets, the situation above, the world you're currently living in. "I've been driving this road for 15 years. Never seen anything like it."

"Me neither," you say, looking out the window, past the church and seeing a fresh thick layer of smoke rising in the distance. 

"Where are you from?" he then asks. "Originally, I mean."

You pause. Your eyes widen. Then you answer, "Seoul. Moved from Europe around three years ago. Been on a work visa."

"Ah," the driver nods, looking at you through the rearview mirror. "I was born and raised here. I bet your parents must be proud that you work here in Korea, then."

"I don't know about proud," you answer, shaking your head, chuckling, but there's a tinge of underlying bitterness in your tone. "They did help me get here, so I can't really say much."

"Right, right." He nods again, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel as the car stops at a red light. "You know my whole family's here. My wife, my two kids, my mother—she's 83, can you believe it? 83 years old, and this is how she's gonna go. Not in her sleep, not in a hospital. A big fucking rock from space."

He says it like he's still trying to make sense of the fact. Like if he repeats it enough times the absurdity will wear off and something else will take its place. Acceptance or peace, maybe. You're not sure whether those things exist anymore.

"Yeah, well" —you mutter, scratching the back of your ear, stifling a laugh because you can't really comprehend it either— "I didn't think I'd go out like this too. None of us did. But it really do be like that, sometimes."

"What it be?" he snorts, sarcastic, a bit peeved (an understatement). "That we're left to die on our own while our leaders are tucked away safe and sound?"

The mood inside the car changes instantly. The driver goes quiet as he weaves around an abandoned delivery truck occupying two lanes. Then he continues talking. "Those people—the ones who ran—they're the real cowards. The politicians, the CEOs, the celebrities with their private jets and personal escorts. They're no better than us; only richer."

The photo in your coat feels a little heavier now. 

"BTS left, you know that?" he continues, charged with an anger that's genuine, the kind that's been building for days: "They were on the list. Special transport, same as the president's cabinet. Within 48 hours of the announcement. Packed-up and gone. Jimin, Jungkook, all of them. Cowards."

"They're just people," you say, casual, understanding but seeing the world for what it is. "like everyone else."

"Famous people," he corrects. "They could have stayed. Could have—I don't know—said something." He shakes his head, clearly fuming at the idea. "But no. They're on a plane to go wait it out with the rest of the wealthy elite and would rather watch us all die. Meanwhile Son Heung-min—you know who Son is, right?"

Of course you do. Can't talk about football in this country without his name being among the first mentioned, if not outright. Even more than Mbappe or Lamal, hell, even Messi or Ronaldo.

"He was offered a spot. You know what he said? He said no. Said he'd rather die with his people." The driver's voice cracks slightly before returning to normal. "Now that's a man. That's someone who understands what it means to be a Korean."

And to be honest, you don't know how to react. You've accepted this for a long time, even without all the nutjob conspiracy theorists spazzing about it: the government and wealthy elite have a place of their own. Now they can rule the world without the guilt of having blood spilled by their own hands thanks to nature's call.

"So HYBE," he then says, while you're deep in thought. "Why there? You a fan of someone? My daughter's a big ILLIT fan."

You don’t answer; you don't know why exactly, either. There's a couple of groups you liked, and maybe you wanted to give them one final visit, maybe get some signatures that won't mean anything soon. That's if they're still even there, if the place is still functional. Given that company and BTS, with their connections to the government, it wouldn't surprise you if all their artists made it on the list for safe passage. But seeing as the lights are still on as the building is in sight—

"I don't know," is your eventual response. Even if you actually knew the reason, you would have said this anyway. "I just felt like going. Wanting to visit places before I go. I mean—we go."

The driver shrugs again. Doesn't press on any further. "Fair enough."

The cab pulls up to the front entrance of HYBE headquarters. Taller than you previously saw it, or maybe it's just reality warping itself the closer you get to the end. As expected, the front is empty and desolate; no security guards keeping watch, but the lights are on as night begins to fall. Peeking from outside, there's hardly any activity going on inside either. It's a miracle the rioters haven't burned this place to the ground yet.

"That'll be 22,000₩," the driver remarks, putting the car in park and looking over his shoulder. "On the house, though. Consider it a going away present."

You pay  the fare anyway. Add in a few thousand more as a tip, because Lord knows he's gonna need it should he miraculously live past tomorrow. 

Climbing out of the car, the streets here are calmer, peaceful. The air is cooler, less smog and fire. Most of the nearby stores are closed, and in the distance, the Namsan Tower still broadcasts its light show to an audience that's mostly stopped watching.

"You need me to wait?" the driver suddenly asks, drawing your attention. "Might be hard to find another cab out here."

A second scan beyond the glass doors shows you nothing. What once was a living hub for one of the biggest music labels now feels like a desolate paradise. The lights are on but nobody's home.

"No," you tell him. "Think I'll be here for a while."

He doesn't say another word. He quietly drives off, the screech of tires and hum of an engine echoing in your ears being the last thing you hear before the car disappears around the corner and you're left on your own again.

Stepping past the front doors, the entrance is completely unguarded. No security guards either, no sudden ambush out of nowhere. Cameras are everywhere—if they're still even functioning—but this place has seen stranger things walk through its walls. 

The lobby is no better, completely silent and spotless, like the building is holding its breath. No receptionist waits at the front desk; not a soul roaming the halls. Every step you take echoes, bounces off the walls like roaring thunder. If it weren't for an impeding rock, you'd think the rapture already happened and everyone was taken up. A large screen on the far wall plays a loop of music videos and performances from their artist roster; Le sserafim is currently on screen. All five, present and accounted for. It's a reminder of good old days, a time period that you now take for granted. 

For the first time in forever, you can't help but smile.

But watching them has you thinking, until curiosity gets the better of you. It's what led you here to begin with. Might as well capitalize on the opportunity. 

So you help yourself to one of the many unused ID cards behind the front desk and step into an elevator. 

Your first instinct is to go to the 12th floor. The dance studio looked so familiar you could sketch it out with your thoughts, the same room where they perfected their craft and shared laughs, tears, and everything in between. It used to be solely theirs, but you've seen your fair share of labelmates and even their juniors take up shop every now and then. Maybe this is the delusion talking, or simply nostalgia. Whatever it is, it's leading to doing things you've never thought about doing until now. 

Maybe this is just coping with the fact you're dying soon, and you've got a laundry list of things you want to do, but never found the time or opportunity to. After all, you lost your spirit and youth a long time ago and never really found it again. Part of it, you believe, is hiding in here somewhere.

But as you tread carefully upon the halls, you hear something faint. Music. Thumping. Beating, like a heart that keeps going after everything. You take note of this. Close your eyes and feel it through your ears, tracing its source. It's leading you to a narrow corridor, the bass growing louder and louder, until it retreats behind a door with a sheet of paper that simply says FIMMIES written in all capitals. 

The paper looks like it's seen everything too. Clearly worn around the edges, the ink looks faded. Behind the door, the music thumps past the walls and echoes. For a moment, you wonder what could have been: standing in the crowd, cheering, waving your lightstick, singing their songs out and repeating the fanchants—

That's never gonna happen now. Only in your wildest of dreams.

But the music keeps going. Perfect Night plays in the background, and as you reach for the knob, you hesitate. Probably staff or a janitor cleaning whatever's left. Doesn't matter; the world is fucking ending. You've come this far to turn back now.

So you slowly open the door. The echo of its creak goes unnoticed. You peek your head and your eyes widen in complete shock.

They're here. In casual clothes, still practicing, still giving it a hundred percent. But it doesn't feel the same as it was. You see it in the mirrors, the way their smiles look hollow and forced, the way Eunchae is a step behind the others. Even with an audience composed of just themselves, they're trying, because they know they won't ever perform to a crowd ever again. 

Yunjin breaks formation and pauses the song on the phone. She looks at her members with a soft, bittersweet smile. "Alright. We did great. Ten minutes."

Eunchae immediately falls to the ground playfully before sitting down. Kazuha reaches for her water bottle, drinking while stretching her leg like the graceful ballerina she is, posture perfect. There's hardly any makeup on their faces, if at all; just their natural, raw selves. It's not that far off from what you've seen of them on screen. 

Then Yunjin's gaze finds you and snags. You're still a stranger wandering around a building you have no business being in. But there's no fear behind her eyes; only a look of surprise and confusion.

"Hi," she says simply. The others turn around to face you as well. "Are you lost?"

Gulp your throat. Open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You cling to the door like a harness, tighter when the members approach you. They don't look scared at all. You expect them to call security, seize you and hold you hostage until they arrive. Kazuha especially; she looks like she can straight up beat the shit out of you.

None of that. They maintain a careful distance, even as you remain silent. Yunjin gestures with her hands. "Go on. We won't hurt you."

For a moment, you continue to stay quiet. Eventually, you manage to speak: "No, no. I'm in the right place." Your eyes wander around the room, at the lights, at the mirrors, at your reflection, "Front door was open, so—"

You flash the ID card that you took as proof. Kazuha tilts her head, assessing you and the item. She's wearing a simple grey top and some joggers, her hair tied in a ponytail. Seeing her up close, you can see how toned her arms are. That she can, in fact, beat the living shit out of you.

Eunchae laughs. It's a small sound, almost involuntary, like a hiccup. "Security's been gone for days. We're surprised the power's still on."

She says it like it's an everyday occurence. That people have come and gone here like it's part of their pilgrimage.

Your head is sticking out a bit wider now. Your grip on the door has loosened, but you're unsure whether you're allowed to step foot inside or not. The practice room is larger than what you've been allowed to see. Going from one point to the opposite side is about as long as an Olympic swimming pool. 

"Well come on in," Yunjin says. "We were just about to have dinner."

The next ten minutes or so is a quick round of catch-up. Seated in a small circle inside the practice room like friends reconnecting.

You bring them up to speed on how you got here. The details remain mostly the same (still the same day, after all) but you keep the intimate parts unspoken. You say you're a fan (like everyone else, but genuinely), that you felt like visiting because the world is ending, as you do during such a time. That seeing them live was on your list, but that's never happening anytime soon. 

You don't ask much about themselves; you've known their careers, their story, their legacy. Instead, you ask them why. Why are they here. Why are they spending their last days practicing together instead of being home with their families, maybe even finding a way to get to safety.

"We were supposed to go," Yunjin says. "Bang promised us safe passage. Not just us, as in" —she gestures to her members— "but all of HYBE. Said we were like family to him, and that we'd be taken care of."

"But—"

"He didn't," Kazuha sharply cuts in. She sounds flat and dour, like she's stopped fighting and has conceded to her fate. "He took himself and his family and BTS. That's it. The rest of us, we found out the day after. No warning, no explanation. Just—"

She shrugs. Her eyes glaze down to the floor. "Gone. Without a care."

Eunchae, who's been listening and quiet the entire time, adds: "We could have fought it. Gone to the media, made a scene. But what's the point? There's not enough room for everyone. Someone was always going to be left behind."

Your mind recalls what the cab driver said. That the wealthy elite will do anything to save themselves, even if it means throwing trusted confidants under the bus. Nothing new there, but it's nice to have some confirmation. At the end of the day, it's about survival. Nothing personal.

"Then that means," you then say. "the other groups—"

"Not part of that list," Yunjin finishes your sentence. "They all left to be with their families or together. We're the only ones still here, I think."

"In fact, this was supposed to be our last day together," Eunchae chimes in. "We just wanted to practice one more time before we parted ways for good to remember the good times."

"Yeah," Kazuha affirms. "Yunjin's supposed to be flying back to New York tomorrow morning. I'm going back to Amsterdam. And Eunchae's—"

"Gonna have a sleepover with Kyujin and Leeseo," Eunchae completes her member's sentence. She's smiling from ear to ear. You almost forget she's still relatively young compared to the rest.

If there's anything you'll give the end of the world for, it's bringing people together and reconciling. You can't imagine how it feels for these girls, having spent most of their youth and adulthood training, performing, bearing the brunt of needlessly cruel online hate without their loved ones close to them. They'd be lucky if their tours happen to have a stop close to home. But like all other things, none of that matters when everything is destroyed by fire and ash.

"What about you?" Yunjin then asks, turning the question back. "What are you doing?"

To be quite honest, you're not sure. You've resigned yourself to an unceremonious death a long time ago: all alone, no regrets. Mostly. You're not going home to your parents. You sure as hell aren’t hanging out with any of your co-workers, especially your boss. And you definitely aren't gonna make it to those underground bunkers either.

"I don't know.” You've got your hands in the pocket of your pants, unable to face them. "Probably drink. A lot. I've got a bottle of champagne at my place that I haven't opened, and now seems like the perfect time to whip it out."

No one says a word. They simply nod with an understanding that says yes, that's your life, and we're not gonna stop you.

As your hand touches the pocket of your coat, you remember something. When you watched their performances on the large screen downstairs, something felt off, and this was exactly why. The reason you actually came here. Somehow, it never crossed your mind until now. You fish the photocard out of your pocket and show it to them. They lean forward, squinting their eyes at the photo. All three women have a visceral reaction upon recognizing the faces on it. 

Yunjin gasps. "Wait. This is—" 

"Yeah." You're nodding. "I remember now. Why I came here. Because of them. Because of you."

"But—Chaewon and Kkura" —Eunchae interjects— "they're—"

"They're not that far." 

There's this newfound conviction propelling you. Maybe it's because of the people in your photo giving you the drive. Maybe it's just the late kick of adrenaline knowing your time is near, and you're not ready to fall just yet. 

"I'm a Fearnot, that's true," you continue. "But I loved them first. I learned to accept you because of them. And even when you're apart, no matter how far, you're still family. That's what they taught me."

The three girls exchange looks. They're really thinking this through. Hope—maybe. Insanity—definitely.

"Yeah, but" —Kazuha says now— "We don't know—this sounds crazy. Maybe they just want to be—"

"But they also want to see us too. I'm sure of it."

Eunchae shoots you a confused wide eyed stare, her head tilted and arms folded. "Where do we start though?"

You glance at her and remember what she said. Sleepover. The idea immediately bubbles to the surface.

"Starship," you blurt out before you even think about saying it.

"What?" 

"Starship. We should go to the Starship building. Maybe they're still there, having something similar to this. A swan song, if you will." You're smiling as you suggest the notion, because not even the end of the world can keep you from making stupid jokes.

It doesn't register at first. Not immediately. But with Eunchae, the implication clicks not long after:

"Leeseo. You're right.”

"Good idea," Kazuha adds. "I should say goodbye to Rei before I leave Korea. Maybe she'll leave too."

"Alright. Looks like everyone's decided," Yunjin says, having taken up de-facto leadership on behalf of the group. "We're going to the Starship building."

But right when you're about to head off—Kazuha's putting on her jacket, Yunjin unplugging her phone—you also remember you came here on a cab. And the driver that took you is long gone.

"Wait," you suddenly tell them as you're approaching the door. "I don't have a car."

"No worries," Yunjin immediately answers. "I can drive. Took the girls here too. We'll take my car. Surely the streets aren't this bad tonight."

Leaving the HYBE building is a quick, mechanical affair. Turns out people still look after the place; you find a janitor sweeping the floors as you make your way back to the elevator. Looking out the window it's clearly nighttime, with an hour having passed since you came in. Yunjin says they haven't seen a receptionist in three days, nor have they seen any security guard either. When you ask how they can defend themselves, they tap tiny pepper spray canisters latched to their pockets and joke about hiding behind Kazuha when push comes to shove. She scoffs at it, obviously, but the jabs are light and playful. As you reach the basement parking lot, they tell you that Yongsan was one of the more secure places when the riots and chaos happened after the initial announcement, which is why the building was left mostly untouched.

Emphasis on mostly because there's those three letters again etched with spray paint on the side of some abandoned Mercedes. B.B.S. Some kind of doomsday cult, you assume.

You walk past it and to something more conventional, a Hyundai crossover. Yunjin says she borrowed it from her grandmother, that she didn't expect her demise to be from a giant rock too. You take the backseat behind the driver, Kazuha in the passenger side, Eunchae right beside you, and Yunjin in the driver's seat herself.

"Parking's free for employees," she remarks as the engine roars to life. "But I doubt that matters. They smashed up the boom barrier."

That activates the neuron in your brain. It's reflecting on the smirk in the rearview mirror.

"Don't tell me you joined the riots too—"

"Nope. Of course not." You're shaking your head, eyes shut, trying so hard to stifle your laugh as the car sets off. Parking is expensive at your workplace, which prompted that reaction. It's good old-fashioned karma.

Turns out Yunjin was right: the streets are pretty calm in Yongsan. 

Traffic is nonexistent. Hardly any sign of rampage or destruction. For the most part, the chaos was well-contained. You can chalk it up to Chairman Bang and his connections to the government, though, given the number of destroyed riot shields and batons sprawled all over the sidewalks and roads. You see it as one more act of defiance before they knew it was a losing battle and instead of surrendering, they chose to flee.

Can't blame him. If you were the head of a multi-billion dollar enterprise and in charge of the biggest boy group ever, you'd do the same.

But back to the here and now: Yunjin navigates the streets like a veteran, like she's traveled this road over and over. You're accustomed to seeing idols in the passenger seats, being escorted between schedules that driving should be the last thing on their mind. Sometimes you forget they can drive cars too, some even getting behind the wheel of supercars like any other A-lister.

"So," you start, breaking the silence inside the vehicle. No music, unlike in the practice room, and both Kazuha and Eunchae are staring out their sides of the window, deep in thought, tired to engage in conversation. "How'd you learn how to drive?"

You see it in the rearview mirror, the way her eyes suddenly glint, how she swallows her throat. The way she suddenly struggles to focus on the road. Yet she carries on.

"I learned because of Chaewon," she says, as the car blurs past an orange light turning red. "She would drive us during our days-off. She said she liked being in control. Said it made her feel safe."

Mid-conversation, you feel a tug on your hand. Eunchae's placing hers atop yours. You allow it.

"I promised myself I'd learn how to drive," Yunjin continues, her eyes now twinkling with unshed tears. "I wanted to drive her around too, so I could take care of her the same way she did for us. But when I finally got my license, it was too late." 

The city blurs past. It looks different now in the dark. Streetlamps blend in with the fires burning in the distance, while smoke camouflages perfectly in the night. A few cars here, some people on the sidewalk there, a handful of stores still open, the dying breaths of a city soon to be erased off the map. A woman walks her dog. A homeless man sits on a stoop, smoking. A couple kissing against a wall, bodies pressed together like they're trying to become one before the end.

"Chaewon would have fought to be here," she adds. She's openly crying now, tears falling down her face. "She would have—"

Yunjin stops. Swallows. You see her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel, turning pale white. Ultimately, she shakes her head and sighs.

"Sakura too. They would have stayed. They would have never left us behind."

You've seen how they cared for each other through thick and thin, in documentaries and in behind the scenes content. You see it in the faces of the girls too: Kazuha's stoic demeanor cracking slightly in the window's reflection, her lips quivering a tad. The way Eunchae holds your hand a little bit tighter. So you remain silent and quietly nod, because there's nothing left to say.

As the road ahead unspools, the drive has shifted into something tensely still. Yunjin's focused on navigating a place she isn't quite familiar with, and the others are too exhausted to speak. Here in Gangnam, the carnage is just as contained as in the Yongsan District, but the atmosphere is no less somber and melancholic. The clubs are closed. There's hardly any people out in the streets. No cause for celebration, no drinking and being merry for the end, not even for the most cynical or nihilistic.

Something catches your eye in the rearview mirror: not from outside, but a reflection that doesn't belong. There's two of you in the backseat—you and Eunchae—but the faces aren't either of yours. They're just the lower halves; no eyes, no noses, just features without an upper half to connect them. But they're so deeply ingrained into your head, you know who they belong to. 

Those plump, pouty lips. The bob cut. The hint of pointy ears. The traces of pink hair. They can't be any more obvious.

Your heart catches. You blink, wipe your eyes, and the next second, they're gone. It's only you, your tired face staring back in the mirror again. 

Eunchae notices. "You okay?" she asks. Her eyes widen with a concern that's almost childlike. For a second, you almost forget she's been there the entire time. That sometimes, she'd be the splitting image of her leader. 

"I'm fine," you say, brushing it off. Exhaustion, most likely. Your brain playing tricks, filling in the gaps you want to see, or don't want to see, you're not sure which, when in reality, you don't want to sound crazy claiming you're seeing ghosts. "Just tired."

She doesn't push on any further. Hardly matters when Yunjin announces that they've reached their destination.

It's still the same Starship building everyone jokes about. The one that resembles a jail cell more than a company headquarters. Despite the long overdue need to move or renovate, this is still their place. At least the paint still smells fresh, but the bar is in hell; that's the only thing they've bothered touching in the last 15 years.

Surprisingly, the entrance has a security guard standing by. He stops all four of you. Asks for names.

"Le sserafim," Yunjin answers on your behalf. "We're here to see IVE. Are they in?"

He studies her for a moment. Then turns to you, Kazuha, and Eunchae. You expect him to ask who you are (you'll lie, say you're just their manager), demand identification, and do his job the way he was trained to. Instead, after a quick, almost lackadaisical scan, he speaks over his radio. Asks if they're inside, and a brief confirmation later, he lets your group through.

"Sixth floor," he says. "They've been there all day."

Stepping inside, the difference between both companies is night and day. The lobby is teeming with life, with faces and names you've vaguely heard about, all probably spending their final day together before parting ways. Jiyu spots you while getting a drink from a vending machine and bows to you and the Fims, who reciprocate the gesture as industry seniors. Same goes for the others you happen to run into: Allen, Minhee, Hyungwon, and Joohoney. You spend five minutes bowing to each idol, letting the girls catch-up with their fellow peers. They all say the same thing: they're here because the CEO wanted all the artists to come in today so they could properly say goodbye. 

But just as you're about to reach the elevator, you hear someone calling from the lounge. Everyone turns around, and Yeonjung rises from a couch to greet the girls. They bow, exchange hugs, and she offers a formal handshake, which you accept. The formalities haven't finished completely when Dayoung comes in out of nowhere to say hello as well.

"Glad to see you're together," Dayoung says to Yunjin specifically, her beam still wide, her energy infectious even during these tumultuous times. "Same as the rest of us."

"Of course," she then replies, her smile small but sincere. "It's what—"

"I know, I know," Dayoung interjects. "It's what they would have wanted too. They would have come rushing down from the practice room if they found out you visited us."

Your hand involuntarily reaches for the photo in your coat. You don't show it, but even through the eyes of people you barely know, their presence is palpable. It makes your heart soar just hearing how loved they are.

"They should be on the sixth floor," Yeonjung chimes in with her sweet, maternal smile. Her stare lingers at you a moment longer than necessary as you finally reach the elevator. "Good luck."

Emerging onto the hallway is a refresher in deja vu. Quiet, hushed, silent. Not surprising; most of their artists are in the lobby. No music plays unlike in the HYBE building. But it's there: the group's designated practice room. The sign taped to the door is freshly written with a clear message: Do Not Disturb in Hangul. Yunjin ignores it and knocks twice. Someone echoes from inside, and she answers them back.

"It's us. We're coming in."

Yunjin pushes the door open.

Inside, four girls are huddled together on the opposite end of the room. Rei spots you and rushes toward Kazuha for a warm bear hug. Likewise, Eunchae and Leeseo meet halfway, walking to each other, exchanging hugs and kisses as well. Yunjin and Liz bow to one another before the junior idol embraces Yunjin too, sobbing on her shirt. 

Meanwhile, Gaeul steadily approaches you. Offers a handshake. You exchange bows.

"We were expecting you," she remarks. Her hair's short again, the one signature cut resembling a bob; it was long two weeks ago, right before the announcement that shook the entire world. "Didn't expect their manager to be—young."

You gulp your throat. She gives you a look that's saying I'm onto you. I'm smarter than you think. You can only smile, keep up the facade, if there even is any.

"Relax. I'm not gonna turn you in," she adds, as if reading your mind. "None of us are." 

Both of you look around and see your respective members falling apart. More than peers, they're also close friends. Bonded by adversity, heartbreak, and triumph, they've seen it all in the industry and came out of the fire unscathed. More than that, it's what their leaders, their veterans, with their wisdom and experience that helped them get this far and thrive.

Seeing them in one room makes you proud. Even though you're a nobody, something about seeing these girls together feels right. Like its destiny. 

Eventually, the tears run dry. Yunjin goes to Gaeul, as leaders and the eldest of their respective groups. They hug too. 

"They would have wanted this," Yunjin whispers against her ear. She's done her crying in the car and has been the emotional rock for the Fims. "They would be so happy we're here. It's just—"

"It's not the same, I know." Gaeul, the perceptive woman she is, captures what everyone's feeling with one simple sentence. "But we're here now. That's what matters."

In the midst of all the reconciliations, they forget that you exist. 

When all the formalities are done, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo all come to you, apologetically bowing and shaking your hand. 

"Sorry," Rei says, cheekily smiling, "Didn't realize they still had—"

"I'm not actually their manager," you casually admit, because there's no point in hiding anymore. It's the end of the world, for God's sake.

"Knew it," Gaeul mutters, to herself mostly. "I mean, we don't really have managers anymore. We said our goodbyes to them the other day."

"But it was his idea to bring us here," Eunchae blurts out, and all of a sudden, you're thrust into the center of their attention.

"That's cute," Leeseo remarks sweetly. "Honestly, it feels like a high school reunion, except" —her tone shifts to something somber— "it's a little bittersweet."

You know what she's alluding to. What all the girls have been repeating over and over for the past hour and more. Beat it over your skull at this point and have it ingrained in hot ink at this point. 

"They would have wanted this," you repeat, echoing the same drawn out sentiment because there's really no other way to put it. 

"So why, then," Liz suddenly speaks. "Why do all this? Why bring us together?"

You give the Fims a glance. Kazuha nods once. So does Yunjin. And then Eunchae. Sighing, you close your eyes, take a deep breath, then show them the photocard. Let the IVE girls see the reason and understand.

"I know I'm not anyone special," you say. "You guys sing, dance, write, make art. You make millions smile on stage and in front of the cameras. I push paper and answer emails and go home to watch your fancams. Rinse and repeat. But when the announcement came, when I knew the world was ending" —you pause, let go of a deep breath— "I thought about you. Not my family, not my future. You."

The room holds its breath. No one speaks. You can hear a pin drop in this stillness. Their heartbeats, even. It's the kind of calm that usually precedes an incoming storm, which feels apt given the immense gravity of the situation that brought you all together.

"I was ready to die, to be honest," you continue. "Already accepted my fate the moment it was announced. But earlier today, I took one last look at my office, saw this picture" —you hold it up for all to see— "and something changed. Maybe I'm not ready to go just yet. Maybe there's still one more thing I have to do. And that's this."

You flip the photo around, staring at the faces that paved the way. Your lips crack, and your expression shifts to something resembling yearning and regret. "I never saw them when they were together. Never saw you guys in the same room or take a photo either. And God, I know you're all friends, it's just—"

You pause. Shake your head. Sniffle. Shed a tear, maybe two. Find your way back. Continue.

"So here we are. I just wanted to see you guys together, even if it's for only an hour. Even if it ultimately doesn't mean anything tomorrow. Maybe I'm just wasting your time, but" —you wipe a stray tear from your eye— "thank you for everything."

They let your words sink in a few moments longer. Then Yunjin is the first to respond:

"You didn't waste our time," she says. She's looking at every person in the room, then you. "We wanted this, too. It's just—we were so caught up in our feelings to remember."

Gaeul nods in agreement. "We've been so focused on ourselves. On the what ifs, the could haves, the should haves. We were so lost on what to do, we forgot who and why we're doing this for."

Eunchae's eyes are twinkling. "We still mean something to people. Even after everything."

"But at least we're here now," Rei concludes. "Because of you. So we should be the ones thanking you."

And again, Kazuha repeats the same mantra, the universal belief that kept you all going: "They would have wanted this. Really."

For a moment, the air in the room shifts to something lighter. For once, there are smiles on faces. Even in this bleak and helpless situation, there's the one thing you cling to no matter how far gone you are: hope.

"So what now?" Leeseo then interjects. And frankly, you're amazed you've made it here without planning a single step. No one has a clue either. Two days might seem like plenty of time, but in the grand scheme of the world ending, it’s as precious as diamond, and it's quickly running out. Impulse can only take you so far.

"I live in Jeju," Liz suddenly remarks, clearing her throat. She'd been the most reserved one in the room, not having spoken even once up until this point. And even when she speaks, it’s low, naturally hushed, kept primarily for herself. "We could go there and watch the end of the world together. I can say goodbye to my family along the way."

Surprisingly, despite your four years in Korea, you've never visited once. Your work basically kept you prisoner in office, and your days off were spent at home overcompensating for your lack of sleep. It's a good idea; riding off to the literal and metaphorical sunset on this planet by the ocean. The scientists did say it was expected to land somewhere in the Korean peninsula, so your end is gonna be swift and painless. Imagine that: a body swallowed up by the sea. No better way to go out.

But then there's the others, as Yunjin points out: "Well, I'm supposed to fly out to New York tomorrow." You can see it in her eyes, the frown on her lips. The conflict, the way her heart wants to be there, but also remembering the family she has at home, the possibility of never seeing them one last time after being away for so long. 

"I'm on one of the last flights to Japan, then Amsterdam," Kazuha says regretfully. "I would love to go, but—"

"And I have family in Nagoya," Rei adds. "This was really supposed to be our last day together."

Hearing them talk about their families back at home has you reminiscing about your own too. You're here because of them, but not in a loving way. It had been a rough falling out, but they never stopped reaching out. The messages eventually became few and far between, but they always looked out for you. Even as simple as 'Hope you're okay' and going out of their way to send extra money when you've covered all your needs, they still loved you til the end. Their last update was about the meteor, obviously, but they kept wondering how you feel and whether or not you'd go home, knowing their last physical image of you was swearing you'd never come back—and you'll more than hold up that promise now.

"That's fine," you say, slightly nodding. You're already conceding in your mind that you'll die alone. This dream was simply that: a dream. It was never a guarantee. "I mean, I'd more than love to go, but I just wanted to see you guys at least once—"

"I'm going," Gaeul interjects. "Already said goodbyes to my family yesterday. I want to be with Jiwonnie. Make sure she's there with someone she loves."

Liz's eyes sparkle and her smile brightens. For a second, you see a glimpse of the old Liz, the performer she is on stage.

Leeseo is resolute. "I'll go too. Eunchae, you're coming right?"

Facing her, Eunchae's eyes widen in shock, completely taken by surprise. "Woah, woah. I haven't gone home yet. Also, what about our sleepover with Kyujin—"

"She can come if you want. I'll let her know about this."

Eunchae can't help but laugh. "Alright, fine. You win, I guess. I'll be there too."

Yunjin and Kazuha smile at their member, elated that their youngest won't be alone. "We're sorry we can't be there," Yunjin says, caressing Eunchae's head, brushing her brown locks. "but they would be so proud knowing you're taking care of each other til the end."

Rei's been on her phone through the conversation, which explains why she's keeping distance, facing the practice room wall. Only now do any of you realize. 

"Rei-chan!" Kazuha calls to her, and she turns around with that cheeky grin.

"Guess what," she says, and her smile is so goddamn infectious, she'd make you believe they found a way to stop the meteor from hitting just now. "Called my parents. They're gonna miss me a lot, but I knew I wasn't letting you all go without me."

Liz runs over to give her an emphatic hug. They've always been so close, so joined to the hip at points. You can imagine Rei playfully arguing over the phone begging to stay, that she wouldn't live without her and vice versa. "Took only seven minutes," she adds, as she lets Liz cry on her shoulder from joy.

So here's the score with all the commotion going on: the IVE girls are staying together, Leeseo has Eunchae tied down, while Yunjin and Kazuha are flying home to their respective countries tomorrow. It was fun while it lasted, these two or so hours. Even if the interactions were brief and emotionally charged, at least you got these two groups together one last time. 

"I guess it's the six of us at least," you remark, including yourself in that list of people heading off to Jeju to watch the sunset over your incoming demise. Deep down, you always wanted to go; you just needed a reason to stick together, no matter how many people would be present. "I can come along too, right?"

"Of course," Leeseo immediately answers, like no is not an option. "You brought us all here. You should be there."

"And we're sorry we might not be there," Yunjin adds, apologetic again. "But they're amazing company. Trust us."

"Rei will keep you up all night," Kazuha jokes, prompting Rei to shoot her a mischievous scowl. Liz randomly blushes. "And if you're ever missing us, just know we'll be there in spirit."

It's the kind of reassurance that harkens back to old days. When they would post on Weverse and on streams to fans needing strength to carry on through hard times. Because even in your final hours, you need a bridge to cross over to the other side safely. They still do, but you could tell the feeling isn't the same; they don't even believe it themselves. Until now. For a moment, they're idols again.

"That's everything settled," Gaeul remarks. The room turns its attention to her. "We'll meet here tomorrow morning or at the HYBE building, whichever feels more convenient—"

"HYBE building," Leeseo interrupts. "I like this place and all, but I don't think we can all fit in the lobby."

No one else speaks up. No one objects. After a moment to ruminate the options, Gaeul opens her mouth again. 

"Since Eunchae's the only Fim joining us, I feel comfortable if we all just met here."

"But—"

"It's okay, Seo." Eunchae cuts Leeseo off. "I know my way around. I can take care of myself."

Leeseo opens her mouth. No words come out, so she closes them again. Hard to believe they're grown now when they were babies not that long ago. You can still see flashes of that in her mannerisms and character.

"We'll meet here at dawn," Gaeul continues. "Tonight, we go home, pack all our belongings, say goodbye to our families if we can. Rest up. Tomorrow's gonna be the longest day ever."

Everyone nods in agreement. Then Yunjin and Kazuha give hugs to each and every single one in the room. Including you.

"Gonna miss you guys a lot," Yunjin would mutter to every person. She's always worn her heart on her sleeve, so you know genuine emotion is felt in every word, every tight embrace. You hardly know each other (you literally just met two hours ago), yet she hugs you like you've been best friends for a lifetime. Maybe in the next one.

On the other hand, Kazuha is calm and stoic. Doesn't show her true self much, with or without cameras. She smiles. Laughs. Reacts. She's never been one to let loose, always disciplined in her intuition. Nevertheless, the care is there, that maternal instinct kicking in when she hugs everyone, with you last.

"You've done us a great favor bringing us together," she whispers in your ear. "Now they won't be alone."

"Never been. They always had you."

"And we had them to guide us," she replies back. There's an ache in how she refers to them. The ones who would be proud and would make the initiative to gather them all. "I wish we thought of this sooner."

"Not late," you say. "It's not too late."

Minutes later, you all emerge from the practice room with a newfound confidence, one that feels rare given what's to come. The lobby is still packed, but you become the center of attention. The girls give their farewell bows and waves to the idols waiting, chatting it up in the lounge. Yeonjung stops Gaeul for a quick exchange while the rest of you go on ahead. No one asks where you're going or why. And as you pass by the desk, the receptionist is watching some variety show on her phone, but at the edge of the screen, the doomsday clock is still ticking, counting down, a slow inevitability.

Less than two days remain.

Sleep never comes that night.

You've had your restless nights. It's been a habit as far back as college. Instead of research and work, however, you've been thinking about them. Those girls. The ones who made your life tolerable even in the smallest of ways: their music, personalities, performances, and everything in between. You may not have known them much, if at all, but their existence has defined you. And wonder what could have been. The fact you've gotten the seven of them together is a miracle in its own right, how much more the rest.

But that's for another lifetime. The inky blackness of night gives away for royal blue, the incoming sunrise. You haven't packed even a single thing since you got home. There's only less than 40 hours left, and the biggest day of your lives is looming ever closer.

No time to worry about that. You do your usual morning routine: shower, breakfast, then pack. A backpack with your essentials, three sets of clothing changes, grooming kit, and the bottle of unopened champagne is all you're bringing. The last time you remember carrying this much was when you first arrived in Korea. Now it's come full circle.

Before you leave, you do two more things: pocket the photo you took from the office in your jacket—the very reason for all this—and blow out the candle set in front of a second personal shrine, this time encompassing a whole shelf. You'll miss the albums, the photocards, the polaroids, the memories embedded in them. And despite letting them go, you don't regret a single purchase or a single cent.

With that, you take a deep breath and step out of your house for the last time.

By the time you reach the hill where the Starship building stands, the entrance is already packed.

They've been waiting a good 15 to 20 minutes, Gaeul says. The rest of the girls are there, as expected: Rei, Liz, Leeseo, and Eunchae. The plan is this: you'll take a ferry to Jeju, because all flights within and out of Korea have already been taken, and the world is shutting down tomorrow.

You greet one another warmly, with hugs and kisses than bows now. The first thing you notice is how much luggage each of them are carrying in comparison to your solitary backpack. Three to four bags for each person, like they're embarking on a world tour instead of watching the world end. 

The next is Rei and Liz wearing matching brown hoodies. "Christmas gift," Rei would comment, and she'd reveal they were shocked and laughed when they found out they gifted each other the exact same thing for their secret santa. It brought them even closer that day, and you can tell by how they’re glued to the hip.

Then you turn to Leeseo and Eunchae. Just the two of them instead of three like what they've been talking about the previous night. "Kyujin had a change of heart. She wanted to be with her members," Eunchae would answer, and you wonder if this was inspired by what happened yesterday. You can see the vision: a majority of these groups, bonded by hardship and success, spending their final day together like this.

Just then, you hear the rumble of an engine. Followed by another. Actually, there's three of them pulling up to the hill.

"Our ride's here," Gaeul remarks, standing up from the stairsteps. Three identical black vans await, enough to seat your group three times over. The passenger door to the first one opens, and everyone smiles from ear to ear. 

You can't help yourself either, because Yunjin steps forward with her arms wide open. 

"How's my favorite people in the world?" she asks energetically, and God, you missed that bubbly energy so bad. Not just on stage or in front of cameras, but in general.

"Yunjin, I thought you were—" 

"I couldn't help myself. I said my goodbyes over the phone last night," she cuts you off, putting a hand on your shoulder as she walks into a spree of hugs from the girls, especially Eunchae. "There was a lot of crying and pleading, especially with Rachel, but they were more than willing to let me go. So here we are."

"We?"

From the second van, Kazuha emerges quietly, waving hello at everyone, but with no less fanfare. The group, as you know it, is officially complete. 

"You can thank Yunjin for this," she simply says, laidback and composed as usual. "She crashed mid-call while I was bidding farewell to my family."

"No I didn't," Yunjin playfully denies. "You were 10 seconds away from hanging up."

"But you still crashed my call."

"Did not."

"Did."

They go back and forth a few times, while the rest of you can only laugh along. It's all in playful jest, but it still doesn't answer why there's three vans. You understand that two are needed to accommodate you all, separating you into your respective groups with your luggage, but a third seems unnecessary. 

So Yunjin explains it on the walk to the van, and it's rather simple: "All our camping stuff! Tents, foldable chairs, everything to make our last day on earth not as miserable." 

"I'm surprised you're not driving," Eunchae remarks to Yunjin as you head for the vans. The drivers come out from their seats to assist with the many, many bags. 

"I would have driven us into a ditch. Eventually," she quips back, drawing another round of laughs. 

You get to the port faster than expected.

The chaos has all but completely died. It's like the remaining people that haven't fully accepted the inevitable are finally coming to terms with their fate. Fires are petering out, most if not all non-essential stores are closed, and the mood is just dour all around. It doesn't help that the weather feels like it wants to break your spirit: cloudy skies, roaring thunder, the occasional drizzle—this eerie atmosphere leaves shivers even on the most resolute of souls.

Nevertheless, you make it onboard the first ferry to Jeju. You slept through the drive there, so you're woken up by the sound of horns blaring and the waters crashing against the shore. One of the last normal places on earth, you reckon, there's this stillness keeping everything afloat. Even with all the shouting and noise, that serenity holds it all together. Because for every shout by a driver, there's a man reading his Bible. For every crying infant being comforted by their mother, there's a couple holding hands on the ship's deck. For every dog bark, there's the flap of seagull wings.

And then there's you: for every tired, drained soul is another smiling widely through their grief. People who've resigned to their fate and are making the most of their time left, like the diagnosis is terminal. Here, the rain has stopped. The skies remain gray, but patches of blue, hints of the sun, begin shining through.

Two hours, the captain said. Two hours before you reach Jeju, your final resting place. And from what you've seen, there's not a lot of better, greener places to die on.

While the girls catch up with one another downstairs, you find yourself leaning on the railing alone. The last 24 hours or so haven't felt real yet. You're really here, on a boat headed to Jeju alongside the idols you loved. You're doing things you never thought you'd have a chance to do, living beyond your mundane four walls and monotonous weekday routine. All it took was the end of the world for it to happen. 

You don't notice Liz creeping up beside you, breaking away from the pack. Her hair is being tossed around by the wind, almost concealing her face.

"Hey," she mumbles against you, almost muted by the waters. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, keeping your tone low, tilting your head in her direction but averting your gaze. "So—you get to go home. Be with family. For the end."

She nods, then shakes her head. Lets out a pained chuckle. "Sure. But I'll be with you, and them. I won't stay, just passing by to say my goodbyes to everyone."

"Right, right."

You watch the waves down below. Trace the trail the ferry makes as it cruises forward. No animal surfaces from the waters; it’s just the sea streaming backward. Meanwhile, Liz keeps her gaze straight, at the vast ocean ahead. Endless cloudy skies, endless ocean. The mainland is long gone from view; none of you will ever step foot in it again.

"When you moved from Jeju, as a trainee," you then start, after a few minutes of quiet reflection, You're facing Liz now, and she meets you halfway. "What was it like? How was—adjusting to the city?"

She doesn't speak. Not right away. That's how she normally is: reserved and withdrawn, careful when to talk and with her choice of words. "It was rough. I wasn't familiar with, well—everything. I took a big risk going out there alone. I'd get lost to and from the building, my accent was rough, and I'd get weird looks from anyone because I wasn't so used to everything. It was—brutal. I thought if I wasn't gonna get cut for my looks, it was definitely because I showed up late especially during those first two months."

In a way, your first year isn't far off from her experience. You didn't speak the language and had to use a translator more often than not. You didn't know cars were right-hand drive. You broke so many traditional customs and rules that it was a miracle you weren’t put into prison. It took you a year to read and write in basic Korean, but you eventually adjusted.

"But," she continues, "the girls helped me out so much." Her gaze flicks to the stairs, pertaining to the girls on the lower deck. "They were so kind, so patient. They took me in as one of their own." She then looks up at the sky, stares for a while as the sun slowly parts through the clouds, then down at the ocean. "Especially Yujin and Wonyoung. They taught me everything as idols."

"Right," you say, and you think about how fast they must have grown up. They were the youngest back then, the ones cared for and coddled by everyone else, only to turn around a few months later to become those maternal figures for girls not that far off in age from them. Wonyoung especially, with how the media and spotlight has been far more critical towards every little thing she does. They must have carried wisdom beyond their years.

"The one thing I cherish the most was what they said to me before our last evaluation, right as we were getting ready to debut," she adds, and you can see her features crack up remembering in real time. "was that I should always be myself. No matter if people hated me or not. They said that true fans would see through everything and like me for who I am. It's been my mantra ever since."

Your gaze flicks to the vast ocean ahead. Jeju is beginning to rise above the horizon. Seeing this, Liz walks away, but you call to her before she reaches the stairs.

"Jiwon."

She turns around. Faces you eye to eye. Your heart races. You're nervous, but not out of love; this isn't a confession.

"I'm sure they're proud of you," you say. "Proud you stayed true to yourself."

She doesn't react. Doesn't say a word back. Rather, she continues walking and heads down the stairs, but as she disappears, you can see a trace of a smile forming on her lips. 

One step out of the ferry is enough to inform you that the difference between Jeju and the mainland is night and day. The air you breathe is fresher, the grass is greener, and the world is quieter, but in a peaceful, serene way. You can hardly tell the end of the world is happening if you lived here.

Liz finds you waiting outside. The vans are still inside the ferry, waiting to disembark. Some families are reuniting here, hugging those who have chosen to return home and spend their final hours with their loved ones. One look in her eyes says it all: she wishes she could have been back on a better day.

"I just wanted to say thank you," she says, and it's sincere enough to break through her reserved nature. "For saying that. For saying I'm still–me."

Your mouth opens instinctively, but only air comes out. You were never the best at listening or giving responses, but it's your connection to those girls that you can meet halfway and relate.

"O-of course," you manage, and your brain is glitching trying to find the right words to say. "But I'm just a guy who only knew you cause of them–"

"And you accepted us, too. Right?" Liz cuts you off gently. Hand on your shoulder, she knows where you're coming from.

You can only nod. Of course you did. Loved them the same way as those girls. They're an extension of their legacy, their lineage. 

She's walking away again. You hear the blare from one of the vans. Her smile is wider now, a glimpse of the old Liz. "Come on. Family's expecting a huge party. They've prepared lunch for us."

The road to Liz's house is long and winding. Remote, as with most of the places in Jeju, considering the rent's cheaper but there’s not a lot of people living here. Eventually, tarmac gives away to a mile long stretch of gravel, sandwiched by never-ending fields extending outward. Your driver remarks that essentials haven't been shipped here in almost a week, and for good reason. No point in trying to save lives when you're near the Earth's demolition zone, but given how abundant the harvest looks, they don't seem to have a problem at least.

As the convoy approaches a house nestled on a hill, a makeshift Welcome Home Jiwon banner hangs by the front door. Hero's welcome, Leeseo would say, and even though Liz laughs and it's in good nature, that bittersweet undertone lingers. You can't imagine being her: the last two homecomings being both under the worst circumstances. 

You step out first. Liz follows after you, then the rest of the IVE members. Yunjin emerges from the passenger seat of the second van. The other two stay in their respective vehicles for now. As the wind blows the bottom edges of the banner, no one is stepping out to greet your party.

As the girls turn to Liz, she calls out: "Mom. Dad. I'm home."

And for a few seconds, no one answers back. Then the front door swings open, and out comes her younger brother.

"Noona! You really came!" He comes rushing down the stairs screaming and runs hugging his sister. He doesn't seem to acknowledge your existence, or her friends and traveling companions for that matter. Nevertheless, everyone steps back and gives them their moment. "It's been a while!"

She smiles. "Only been two months," she corrects, met by a playful slap on her cheek in retaliation. 

"Two months too long," he says, and they share a laugh. Warm, pleasant, wholesome. And even though they've already said their goodbyes, you imagine these other girls would rather be with their own families than spending their last day here.

As the Kim siblings finish hugging, their mother steps out, her smile inviting. "Welcome home, Jiwonnie." Then her gaze flicks to the rest of you, finding you first. "And to you as well. Thank you for bringing her home to us."

You bow first, leading the rest. Your smile is small, your presence carefully contained. 

"Come on in," she then says, stepping back into the house with an inviting gesture of her hand. "We prepared lunch for everyone."

Inside, the house feels quite lived in. The paint on the walls looks fresh, the place already smelling of cooked meat and other food. Liz's brother has already run to the kitchen helping out Mr. Kim with the last of the meals. You hear the ping of an oven, something simmering on the pan. The girls carefully take their seats in the living room while you wander around aimlessly. 

Your gaze flicks on a table with framed memories of Liz throughout time: her as a preschooler, in third grade, a solo pic inside the Starship building when she was a trainee, and most recent of all, with her fellow members not that long ago (give or take a few years). They visited here at some point, probably a few times.

Yujin and Wonyoung are smiling widely in the picture, you observe. Their eyes look so bright, like they see their futures ahead of them. Can't help but smile too, even if it's not the real thing.

"That was not long after we all renewed our contracts," Gaeul suddenly mumbles, having stepped beside you while you were deep in thought. "I thought we had forever, but–" 

She shakes her head, her tone shifting to something somber. Her lips are moving, but nothing comes out, only air. The look on her face tells you everything you know: regret.

"I don't know why she went," she mutters, mainly to herself, but you can hear her. "I should have told her not to–"

"It wasn't your fault," you kindly say. Your hand on her shoulder, she's holding the photo now, a little too tight for comfort. "Was just–bad luck. They wouldn't have known. None of you did."

Her hands are trembling, soon followed by the rest of her body. She looks like she's ready to crumble anytime. Leeseo sees this and walks over to her to give her a hug, and Gaeul immediately lets go: she sobs on her shoulder and into her embrace. 

Liz, helping her family the entire time, is on your other side. "She's never been able to forgive herself for it," she remarks, sympathetic. "Come on. Lunch is ready."

The distribution is split into three rounds, since it can only seat ten. The family isn't used to such a large party, but there's more than enough food and drink to go around for even thirds. It's quite the last supper. 

Against your wishes, they invite you to take first, followed by the IVE members, then the Fimmies. Liz's family eats last; they sit around the table, while you scramble throughout the living room for lunch. Gaeul stays in front of the photo, while Leeseo and Rei hover close by her side. Yunjin's talking with someone over the phone, and Eunchae and Kazuha sit by you in the guest area, eating quietly.

"We were so surprised when it happened," Kazuha mumbles between chomps. "We all did. It was so sudden."

You definitely know. It was everywhere for a whole week. While you were busy maintaining your nine to five, the world was moving too fast to keep up. And while this incident brought most of Korea to their knees, you were still sleeping under that metaphorical rock.

Eunchae nods in agreement. "When Sakura and Chaewon heard of it, I never saw them cry this much and weep so loud."

Of course they did. They'd be the first people to throw themselves into the fire to keep the rest of the girls warm. The others too, but they'd all be fighting to see who'd keep them safe instead. When it happened, the rest would fall, and ultimately they did. Little did anyone know that was the beginning of a domino effect.

And all you can do is just eat quietly, reflecting on what could have been.

An hour and a half later, the party is ready to hit the road again. Liz got their blessing and approval to be with you for the end of the world, and though it pains the family, it's her heart's desire, and they're more than willing to let her go one last time.

The Kim family gives Liz one final hug. Mrs. Kim is crying. Mr. Kim is steady, but on the verge of falling apart too. Her younger brother is holding her tightly, refusing to let go.

"If somehow, we ever survive this," he mumbles against her hair, "Then I don't want you to leave us ever again. You understand me?"

Liz is crying too, but she softly laughs. "You bet."

You don't see any of this. Only hearing the commotion, as you're using the bathroom. Washing your slick face, you stare at your reflection. Blink a few times. They're sharing hearty laughs outside now, exchanging promises to see each other in the next life, but their voices gradually die down. Your ears start ringing. 

They're talking.

"I miss them too," someone says. The voice is distinctly feminine.

"They'll be alright," another answers. This one too, is also feminine. They're quite clear, in fact. Reverberating in your ears. Like they're in the room with you right now.

So you look around. Nothing. Just you. But you can still hear them clearly.

"So glad they're together," the first girl says. "Glad they didn't forget about each other. And us."

The other woman makes a satisfied hum. And then they fade out, like this was some kind of fatigue-induced dream.

You're still looking around, trying to find where they went. Nothing. 

"Hey!" Mr. Kim calls out from the living room, grounding you back to reality. "You have somewhere to be."

Your eyes glaze back at the bathroom door; your legs are so wobbly, you end up leaning. "I'll be out in a bit."

Here's what you'll do when you step out: you won't tell them what you were hearing. There's no feasible way to make it sound sense, even though your outrageous idea has brought you all together. And while they've heard crazier things at the end of the world, none of them hit quite as close to home as this. Some thoughts are best kept secret and left unspoken.

So the dust you were taken from, and so will you be dust when you return. That's a verse you remember when you were young and still had faith.

But right now, all you see is green. An endless land of green. 

Completely untouched by man, Jeju's cliffs rise up to the edge of the island. The seas are a lifetime below, its waves crashing violently along the rock formations and the bluff. Otherwise, it's the most serene place you've ever been in. If there was ever a final frontier on Earth, this was it: it's no Tower of Babel, but it's the closest you'll get to touching heaven.

After a moment to soak in the fresh air, you all get to unpacking. Unfurling tents, laying out food, spreading out jackets, unfolding chairs, taking photos, saving their final memories. Wood is as common as oxygen here, perfect for the fire you'll light up at night. Even out here, high up in the hills of Jeju, reception remains strong; someone has their phone on the news, keeping track of the doomsday clock. 28 hours left, the trackers say, and it's gonna time perfectly with the last sunset this world will ever see.

Hours pass. The bright blueness of day gives way to sunset’s orange, and you see the asteroid now: brighter than any other star, small but rapidly approaching. No one's brought a telescope, but you all will see up close and personal soon anyway. 

24 hours remain, the tracker reads on Google. You're standing alone on the edge of the cliffs, atop a small hill that makes you feel closer to God than ever before. Ahead the ocean stretches out endlessly, bleeding orange against the waters. Soon, it'll be red and black and melted away. As the sun sets on the horizon, sinking for its next rotation, the winds are becoming breezier and colder. 

This feeling of being closer to God–you feel them here too. You've got no evidence other than your gut, your instinct telling you this. The same intuition that made you look twice on your office wall, prompted you to take that photo, brought you to the HYBE building–it's all been building to this. Like it's a part of some divine scheme. 

Look to your right and the camp several levels below is all but completely finished. The bonfire is starting, the place is lit up by portable lanterns and the girls are specks of dust from your view. Someone's waving at you from that distance; no shit, you don't know who it is.

That's your signal to head back down and return. But before you do, there's one more thing:

The photo's been pocketed in your pants the entire time. You pull it out and hold it on the cliff. It was taken at a place similar to this: sunset background, their hands raised to the sky, with their final days looming around the corner too. The parallels couldn't be any more eerie. 

And a new thought comes up: how did they feel around that time. How they embraced their final days knowing it was about to end. Did they beg. Did they plead. Did they accept their fate. They definitely cried, though. How many times, you don't know.

That was a lifetime ago, yet with the meteor approaching, it feels like it was only yesterday.

This group circle hearkens back to your last days in college. 

It was a spiritual retreat before graduation, a two day respite from your internship and other commitments to reflect on the past four years. The night ended like this too: each person coming forward to share their memories, their grievances, and everything in between. No stone was left unturned, no darkness left hidden in the light. You don't remember much other than being closed off from everyone else, that your only regret was not being more sociable, but in the time between that and now, hardly that part has changed. 

The fire's smoke reaches up to the inky night sky, crackling and spitting. All of you–eight to be exact–sit around the campfire. Some in folded chairs, others on the grass, and the rest on blankets or jackets. Coffee's being passed around as the evening chill settles comfortably throughout the area. Lanterns and portable lights make everyone's faces somewhat visible.

No one speaks. No one's taken up the presiding role. At least not yet.

22 hours, says the ticker, and it's being reported that only 5000 or so people have been granted passage to the top secret bunkers to live on after the meteor hits. World leaders, a handful of celebrities, and billionaires who bought their way in, obviously. But there's no point in protesting; it's tucked somewhere unknown, off radar, and they don't give two shits about what happens to everyone now.

"So," Yunjin starts, and she can hardly be heard, barely carried by the wind. "Since it's our last night together, I think, we should all share stories." Her gaze flicks left and right, by the members beside her and the friends made along the way. "Anyone wanna go first?"

She's met by silence. It’s neither awkward nor tense. The kind that's usually reserved for students when asked about a lecture they should be paying attention to, but instead drift off from. Good effort, though, you think to yourself. She's always been the social butterfly, the most outgoing of the bunch.

"Alright. Guess I'll have a go," she continues, almost muttering to herself, trying to laugh the cringe away. Doesn't quite reach it. Then she breathes. Hands clasped together, she stares at the fire for a moment, then tilts forward. 

"As you all know, me, Chaewon, and Nako go all the way back," Yunjin starts, her face lit by the fire. "You know how competitive it gets at times, especially when it’s on national television. I wanted to prove myself to the people, because I knew I could be great. Chaewon let me. Nako let me too, even though she was the one that was really meant for the part, and I can't thank her enough. There was no argument from anyone. But then–people thought I was greedy. Selfish for wanting to take the vocal role. But it was because of them I got to shine, even if I ultimately didn't make it onto the final lineup. Then, geez, as fate would have it, we'd end up in the same group together a few years later."

She laughs. Smiles at the thought. It's genuine, warm. "She was meant to be a leader. She sees the best in people and she makes them believe in themselves. I count myself so goddamn lucky to be Chaewon's teammate, but more importantly, as a friend." Looking to her members beside her, she nudges them closer. "We all are. So kind, so gracious, and so pure of heart." She sighs. Blinks. A pair of tears fall from her eyes. "Wherever you are Chaewon, just know we wish you were here with us. Because you would be."

Kazuha speaks up next. She sounds almost quiet, as if restraining herself. "When I first arrived in Korea, I didn't speak the language. I mean, I knew some of the basics–hello, goodbye, thank you, where is the bathroom–but I couldn't hold a conversation with anyone. I couldn't even order food without having to point at pictures. I felt helpless."

Her smile is just as small as Yunjin's, sad and bittersweet. "Then came the low point. I was scolded by the choreographer during training for not keeping up with the others, because I couldn't understand what she was saying."

She shifts in her seat, crossing her leg as she gazes into the fire. "I cried in my room that night. It was the worst I felt about myself since I began learning ballet. It had only been a month, but I thought about quitting already. Maybe this wasn't for me, I thought to myself. Then Sakura came into my room, knocking on my door. She sat by me and said, 'It's hard isn't it? Being somewhere new. Becoming someone new,' and I said yes. And you know the part that got me? She told me she did it three times. The first in Japan, then in Korea, and then—with me."

Her gaze flicks toward Yunjin and Eunchae. They're smiling wide, so she can't help but grin seeing them too. "With us. We hadn't debuted yet, not even close. But she spoke like it was happening the next day. Like we were already past the hardest part."

Kazuha holds her hands close to her heart. "She never got impatient. Never made me feel stupid. Between practices, she'd help me get accustomed to the language. She'd speak on my behalf whenever I wanted to express myself until I was ready to do it on my own. And even after I became fluent, I never stopped learning from her. If not for her, I wouldn't have become an idol. If not for her, I wouldn't be here with you guys. She's the reason I can speak here today, and be proud of how far I’ve come. I just wish I could tell her that. I had so many chances, but I never did. Not really. Not in a way that matters."

Eunchae's wiping a tear from her eye before she takes the floor. "They're all sisters and mother figures to me. Chaewon, Sakura, Yunjin, Zuha—you all took care of me. Protected me. Made sure I couldn't be swallowed by the system completely."

She pauses. Swallows her throat. 

"I was so young when I joined. Too young now that I think about it. I didn't really know what I was doing; I just followed my heart and wanted to dance. I didn't know who I was, but they did. They took me in and loved me, and because of them, I grew into someone I can be proud of."

Her voice cracks at the end of her last sentence. Leeseo instinctively reaches out and holds her hand. Yunjin puts a comforting hand on her back.

"I don't know what I'm going to do without them," she whispers. "I just hope we can be together, even in the next life."

Yunjin then pulls her into an impassioned hug. Kazuha reaches over to rest a hand on her knee. As close as Leeseo is to her, she lets them have their moment. The whole group does.

Gaeul speaks up next. Low and steady, it’s the kind of tone used to holding things together. "Yujin and I were the oldest, so naturally, the leadership role came down to the both of us. Then she ended up getting chosen, much to the shock of everyone else." She faces her members, who nod once in agreement. "You were there. I still remember that day. We just wrapped up the jacket shoot for our debut, and they announced it three days before our last evaluation."

"Wonyoung was especially sad," Liz quietly remarks. "She wasn't gonna be the maknae like before."

"Yeah, and that's exactly why we all were," she answers. "She essentially had to mature overnight. But that night, she came up to me and said, 'Unnie, I need you. I need someone older, someone wiser, someone who can hold me up when I crumble.' And to be honest, when I heard of it, I didn't think I was the right person for the job. She had more experience in the industry, and so did Wonyoung, so I felt that she was more qualified. But then it clicked: she was still young. She was still a teenager trying to figure things out, and she needed someone to reassure her she'd be okay. So I did. I became the person she can confide in, whenever she doubted herself, even when she worried about everyone else."

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "She would have wanted to be here. She would have loved to see us all together. I'm sorry I couldn't fulfill that promise to the end. I'm sorry I couldn't be by her side, and the one time I wasn't, I paid the ultimate price."

Rei mutters something to Kazuha. Her lips are concealed behind her hand. They're exchanging smiles. Some laughs, too. Then she puts her hand down.

"When I came to Korea the first time, I was lonely. Not homesick, exactly; I missed Japan, but I knew I wanted to be here. I knew this was where I belonged. But I didn't have anyone: no friends, no family, no one who understood what I was going through."

She turns to face Liz, and their hands find each other.

"Then these girls took me in. They didn't care that I was the first Japanese trainee the company recruited; in fact, they learned Japanese so they could communicate with me. They made me feel at home, even when I was so far away. They helped me get accustomed to Korea, and I couldn't thank them enough. For that, I have no regrets. None."

They lean on each other's heads. Rei smiles at Liz, and she blushes in response. She lets go of her hand to speak next:

"I grew up on this island. It's beautiful, but it's small. Isolated. I hardly had friends to play with or have lifelong bonds with. Seoul was mostly what I saw on the TV and in pictures, so it became my dream to see the bright lights and the big city. And when I got there, I was—terrified. People were hostile to my accent. I got lost so often. I didn't know anything except I was a girl from Jeju who was in over her head."

Her gaze flicks to Gaeul beside Rei, then Leeseo next to Eunchae. There's two spots where they should be seated in, but instead is an unoccupied void that can't be filled.

"They welcomed me. All of them. They loved me the way I am. It didn't matter that I wasn't polished or perfect, or that I was so clumsy and arrived late to practices; they helped me find my way. They made Seoul feel like a second home." Liz covers her mouth, nearly reaching up to her eyes. When she talks again, the words come out almost inaudible. "I don't know if I ever told them that. I don't know if they knew how much they meant to me, but I hope they did. I hope they knew."

Leeseo's been waiting for her turn patiently and quietly. When she takes the floor, she sounds smaller than the rest, but no less steady:

"My unnies were my mentors. They taught me everything: how to dance, sing, act in front of cameras. Being everything an idol should be, basically." She pauses. Grins. It's quite the contrast compared to the otherwise solemn atmosphere and previous melancholic testimonies of the others. "It helps when one of those members is Jang Wonyoung, and the other is An Yujin. They were so perfect for us—and each other."

Everyone smiles. Warm, genuine, bright. Some much needed levity in the space.

"But they also taught me how to be brave," she continues. Her energy is dimmed just slightly, but still sincere. "How to keep going even when I was scared. How to smile even when I wanted to cry."

She looks at the fire, then at Eunchae, before staring up at the sky.

"I'm still learning. I'm still scared. But I'm here. And I'm not alone. And it's because of them. I hope I can be that person for someone the same way they did for me."

The fire has burned low. The logs are crumbling at the edges. Its warmth feels softer now, more gentle. Everyone has told their stories, shared fond memories, poured out regrets, and everything in between.

"Now then," Yunjin says, presiding once again. Her gaze flicks to you, seated across the fire, and everyone else follows suit. She doesn't press on any further, letting you decide whether you want to take the floor. And after some thoughtful consideration, your lips curve in the shape of a smile.

Of course you pull the photo out. It's like your personal gun at this point. They can barely make out the figures even with the fire, but the faces on it are too familiar, too recognizable to matter. The implication is right there.

"I was there from the beginning. Way before that," you say, holding the photo, scanning it front and back. "Since Produce 48. So yeah, I saw your performance of Into the New World," you add, staring directly at Yunjin. "I watched the show every single week. I had my picks. Argued with strangers online about who deserve to make it. I had my favorites; everyone did. And when the final lineup was announced, it" -you swallow- "wasn't what I wanted."

Yunjin leans forward. Kazuha's face shifts. Everyone waits with bated breath. 

"Not gonna lie, some of my picks didn't make it," you continue, averting your gaze, looking down on the ground. "And those that took their place—I didn't understand. I was angry. Disappointed. I almost didn't follow the group at all."

You're holding the photo with both hands, staring into each member's eyes, remembering the qualities that captured your heart. "And when they debuted. I watched their debut stage, and" —the words die gradually on your tongue— "I don't know how to explain it. I just—fell in love. Not just with my picks, but all of them. The way they danced, the way their voices sounded, their music—it's like they've been brought together not by some committee or public vote, but through divine intervention. Like they were a team of destiny."

The fire crackles. You pause to catch your breath. Your glance shoots upward to the sky, at the smoke rising to the heavens. "Then the whole voting scandal came out, and everything fell apart. People wanted their heads. Said they shouldn't exist, that their legacy was a fraud. And maybe that's true, knowing what we know now, but those girls didn't deserve any of the hate. They didn't choose any of that. They simply—showed up and worked hard. Most important of all, they loved what they were doing, and they loved each other. They made something beautiful, even if the foundations were flawed from the start."

Somehow, through it all, you don't cry. You remains steadfast. Probably because you’ve done your weeping a long time ago. Or you lost your ability to feel. Maybe both. Around you, they're intently watching, crying, listening. You feel jealous for these girls; not only because they got to be closer to them than you could ever dream of, but for exactly that: the fact they have a living, breathing soul. 

Nevertheless, you carry on: "I supported them through everything. The highs, the lows, the record breaking pandemic year, the eventual disbandment. I waited for their solo debuts, their new groups, their new careers. I watched Yena transform into a three-dimensional entertainer, Yuri, Hyewon, and Minju become award-winning actresses, Eunbi turn into a festival legend, Chaeyeon competing in every dance show imaginable because her love for dancing is just that insatiable, Nako establishing herself in Japan while occasionally dipping in Korea every now and then—"

With each name, your smile grows marginally wider. With every acknowledgment of their legacy, your face becomes brighter. 

"And don't even get me started on you girls," you add. You're looking at them one by one: Yunjin, Kazuha, Eunchae, Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and the rest who aren't there but present in spirit—the long-term impact they left on not just you, but on K-pop in general. "I don't really need to say much, because you're living proof of their influence on the industry."

Their responses are all over the place, but in a positive way. Liz covers her face with her hands. Rei smiles through her eyes. Eunchae's eyes glisten. Yunjin has this proud, affirming look on her lips. Kazuha nods once. Gaeul simply looks away. 

"But," you continue, looking at that photo again. "it's not the same, you know? Not the same without them. Without all of them. When they were together, they were—a constellation. A family. And I know; I know they've moved on. They have these new careers, new lives, new people to love and take care of. And I did too. I accepted you guys the same way they did. But some part of me kept waiting, kept hoping, kept wishing that somehow, someday, I'd get to see them reunited again, even just once. I.O.I did it; why can't they? And that opportunity never came."

You look up to the sky once more. The smoke is dying down. The fire is on the verge of burning out. The sky is clear, countless stars twinkling far above. Soak every second you have left to see the night.

"Then the world started ending. At first, I was just ready to die. Honestly, I prayed the meteor would come sooner than later. I didn't really see any reason in hoping or living any further. But, as I was about to clock out of work, I thought of them. I remembered this photo." You hold it up for all to see, even in the near dark. "And I thought, if I'm going to die, I want to do one more thing. Even if it was impossible, I wanted to see them one more time. So instead of going home, I went to HYBE, and then" —you gesture with your free hand— "here we are."

You take the deepest breath of your life. The fire pops. Someone's sniffling, another is sobbing. 

"They would have wanted this," Gaeul quietly remarks. "Yujin would have wanted us to be together. I know she would have done the same."

"They're here," Yunjin says. She looks around at the circle, something she'll never get tired of. "In a way. We're representing them by being here."

Kazuha reaches across the fire and takes your hand. Warm, but gentle. "Thank you. For remembering them. For remembering us."

"I think this was the best idea," Liz adds. "We're not alone when tomorrow comes, because we have each other."

The atmosphere in the circle shifts to something lighter. The fire has all but completely fizzled out, reduced to faint embers. Eunchae rips open a bag of marshmallows; Leeseo whines that she should have brought it out when the fire was still stronger. Her complaining becomes irrelevant when she has first dibs, then passes it around the group.

"Okay, now what about comfort songs," Yunjin asks. "What's the one song we're listening to at the end of the world?"

For a moment, everyone thinks about their answers carefully. A surprising struggle, like a pop quiz has been dropped. Eventually, they're given out one by one:

"One Last Time by Ariana Grande," says Liz. "That one also had a meteor apocalypse for the music video. Feels fitting for tomorrow."

"Rebel Heart," Rei follows. "They did say that song gives off disbandment vibes, and well—we are disbanding. Technically."

"Give me Just the Way You Are," Leeseo chimes in. "The Milky song. It always gets me in a good mood no matter how low or scared I'm feeling."

"I guess Bohemian Rhapsody's a good shout," Gaeul comments. "Six minutes, and it's got everything from sentimental to orchestral and even rock. No better last song to go out on."

"I'll do you one better," Yunjin suggests. "All Too Well. The full 10 minutes. At least we can say we were standing at the end of the world when it hits."

"You're only saying that because it's Taylor Swift," Kazuha chides. Yunjin rolls her eyes. 

"Then tell me what song would you listen to, Zuha," she chirps back, playfully elbowing her ribs.

Kazuha grimaces. "Sign of the Times," she answers calmly. "I was rewatching Project Hail Mary last night to cheer myself up after the call." She sighs. "I wish Ryan Gosling was real."

While Yunjin shoots her this conspicuous, disgusted glare, Eunchae casually cuts in: "I wanna say Hot. By, you know" —her eyes flick between her members, blushing— "The last thing I wanna think of when we go is us."

And that leaves only you. You could go for something humorous like It's the End of the World as We Know It, something epic like The Final Countdown (too on the nose), back to comedy like Closing Time, something overtly sentimental like Do You Realize, or downright nihilistic like Creep—

You end up going sentimental. The phone isn't halfway out of your pocket when you press play.

Have you ever seen anything?

Have you ever seen this color?

The smiles come naturally. Of course. Someone may have seen it coming a mile away, but no one cares. The more surprising bit is the song choice more than the artist itself; not any of their titles (especially Panorama), nor their slower ballads, but something happier and more upbeat, and from their debut as well. The reasoning is the same as Leeseo's: it's an instant shot of dopamine regardless of the situation, no matter how you feel at the moment. But one particular line resonates with you even now:

I will always be with you~

And sure, it's one of, if not the most common trope especially in K-pop songs. A promise about a lifetime, when really, it was for only two and a half years. But it doesn't change the lasting impact these girls had on your life, and that's the last thing you want to remember even in your dying moments.

You see Leeseo mouthing the lyrics like she knows this song from heart too. Everyone's bopping their head with the song. The fire's completely gone now, and the evening wind completely takes over. Someone yawns deeply; you don't know who. Suddenly, Kazuha rises from her seat and stretches her arms. 

"I'm clocking out," she groans out mid yawn, walking over to her tent. She doesn't look fazed at all; if anything, it's another day for her. Another notch on a schedule that's well and truly ending.

The others follow, retreating to their chosen tents. Of course you have your own, but you've given up on a proper rest a long time ago, way before a meteor decided it was your time. You exchange good nights with everyone knowing you'll hardly sleep through the night, and that's okay. It won't matter when you're dust and bones around this period tomorrow.

But even with all these thoughts running through your head, you close your eyes. As your consciousness fades to black, this is the last thing you remember:

18 hours remaining.

Still, even as the end looms closer than ever, the world never stops. It's making its funeral bed.

The Pope presides over a country-wide prayer vigil at St Peter's Basilica. Analysts and reporters are crunching down the initial casualties (already in the billions), the long term effects on the planet, and whether or not life as we know it will continue existing in the years to come. Presidents are giving their farewell addresses; some choose to stay and die with their nation, others (global superpowers mainly) have taken quiet refuge somewhere only they know.

People take refuge in makeshift bunkers, whether in their homes or through subways, underground basements, or whatever place they can find. Some stupid billionaires are sending rockets to blow up the meteor without properly considering the new problems such an idea would bring. Either way, this planet is fucked. Nature or the forces above have marked you all for death.

All this chaos and commotion for something that will ultimately consume everything and everyone. Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet, it's as still as water. 

Less than 9 hours remaining, the doomsday ticker reads on the bottom of your phone, checking the news in real-time. Still lying in your tent, you wake up to your best night of sleep in years. Probably just the calm acceptance of your fate fully settling in your bones. 

Peeking out from your tent, you can hear the relentless waves crashing against land far below the hills where you're standing. Someone's simmering food over a portable cooker, based on the crackle of oil and meat. Another's playing music over their speakers. The skies are surprisingly clear. The breeze is perfectly chill. It feels right.

You finally step out into the warm embrace of the sun. Soak it all up because you'll never feel it again in a matter of hours.

Yunjin's the first person to greet you good morning, the one cooking breakfast—or brunch, as she would correct, as it’s close to noon. Nevertheless, she serves bacon on top of pancakes with a spread of maple syrup. The pork looks a little burnt, though. She says that you're the only one who hasn't eaten yet, since everyone else got up  earlier, with her in particular up the earliest to watch the last sunrise of her life.

"You look well rested," she remarks, flipping a few pieces of overcooked bacon over. "Doesn't seem like the world is ending today for you."

"I've made peace with that a long time ago," you reply, shrugging, poking a strip with your finger before she swats it away with her spatula. You wince, yelping as she smacks your hand.

"Hey. Clean your hands first," she scowls, pointing to a nearby well. You're reaching for your aching hand, annoyed as she laughs at your pain. But you acquiesce.

Meanwhile, the others are spending their final hours as you thought they would: Gaeul's by herself reading a book inside one of the vans' cargo area, Kazuha's in workout gear meditating under the open sun, and Leeseo and Eunchae are playing some video game on a shared Switch 2. Rei and Liz are nowhere to be found.

You ask them where they are; they mindlessly answer the hill without looking away from the screen even for a split second. Both girls are locked in, mashing buttons on their JoyCons competing like they're at Genesis. You forgo breakfast to look for the missing couple instead.

And sure enough, they're standing at the top of the hill, holding hands. Up here, the winds are twice as harsh, and the ocean ahead spreads out everywhere. You can see a commercial plane flying past; for what reason you don't know. 

"Gorgeous view," Liz mutters to Rei. She looks down at their interlaced fingers, with Rei's skin glistening under the light, almost resembling a ring. "I lived here my entire childhood and I didn't know this place existed."

"Your parents didn't take you? Even once?" Rei asks back, tilting her head.

"I probably forgot if they did."

Rei smiles. Brushes the blow locks blocking Liz's face. Then she cups her cheek. "Maybe one day, if somehow, we make it through this, then this would be the best place to propose to."

"Who? Me?" Liz's cheeks turn beet red. Flustered at the implication, she covers her face with her hands. "Hey—"

"No, no, not me, silly," Rei chuckles. She pulls Liz's hands away from her face and leans forward, flashing her trademark grin. "I mean, the person who'll eventually love you and give you the world and all that! I can never love my best friend; we would break up and that would be ugly."

Liz looks overwhelmed. This feels like a confession. Even though they've been close after so many years. They've hung out countless times, slept in each other's beds, shared clothes and items—but they could never meet halfway for the most important thing: commitment. And that's what's keeping them apart. Even now.

"Gosh, Rei—" She stops herself. Still hesitant, still unwilling to speak her truth. "I mean—"

"Relax. That's not gonna happen, anyway. We're all gonna die," Rei interjects, her energy sounding wrong in the face of imminent death.

As you approach them, they face you in unison, moving like its choreography. "Hey!" Rei chimes, waving. Liz, meanwhile, bows gently. Slightly leaning closer to her member, but without letting go. "What are you doing here?"

"Was about to ask the same thing," you counter.

"There was no beach to walk on," she answers, "so this hill was the next best thing. Great view. I can see why you like it up here."

It can be interpreted two different ways: how it's the closest you've been to God in years, or it's a straight plunge into the sea down below. Either way, you're seeing heaven real soon.

"Am I overstepping on something?" you ask, and Liz immediately huddles behind Rei, futilely hiding half her frame.

"Not at all," Rei answers. Her eyes glance briefly back at Liz, the reddest person in the vicinity. "Anyone looking for us?"

Turn to your side, down at the camp below. Their gazes follow. Nope. No one at all. Everyone's doing their own thing.

"No, I'll just—go down—"

As you're about to turn around, Rei suddenly grabs your hand, pulls. Gives you a hug.

"What—what's happening?" you force out, the words coming rough. She squeezes tightly as if sucking the air out of your lungs. 

"Nothing. Just wanted to give you a hug for no reason," she mutters, as Liz quietly sneaks off while you're trapped. You turn your head just enough to see her jog down the hill.

"What was that all about?"

"Beats me," she says. You want to believe her, but girls like Rei tend to hide secrets behind not so subtle smiles. This is no exception. 

7 hours remaining, the doomsday tickers read. Programming is nothing but waiting for the end to arrive; TV is basically white noise. Sometimes you just want to turn it off, throw all the phones and devices away. Death feels more real when you just—feel it approaching, not watching some countdown. 

Everyone's gathered around the circle for lunch, sharing snacks, drinks, and conversations, cherishing the last traces of normal life before it all becomes dust. The final hours of peace anyone will get. 

Just then, you feel a slight disturbance. A tremor. A faint echo of engine noises, followed by a flock of birds flying off. SUVs and vans and cars of different kinds—around eight or nine of them—emerge from the forest serving as the gate between road and paradise. Some drive past your camp, others stopping several feet away. You eat away the newfound attention, pretending to act nonchalant, but after a night spent with these girls and soon to be former idols, it feels like an intimate secret being exposed to the world. 

But it doesn't take long to realize nobody cares. No one asks who you are and the people that you're with. You find that these people are here for one thing only: to see the end with their own eyes, up close and personal. Families, couples, friends. Doesn't matter the age, status, gender, race, or anything else, you're all nothing when the time comes. 

When they wave, it's less about the stars beside you and more 'came here for the meteor, huh?' acknowledgement. They have their own snacks and chairs and blankets for the occasion. It just so happens you went a day too early, it seems.

And wouldn't you know it, Liz's family is here too. 

Her brother runs headfirst into her for an immediate hug. Everyone bows and greets her parents. They brought the old family van, the one that's been in the garage and only driven like thrice a year, brought out a fourth 'for old times' sake.' They said if she couldn't be home, then they'd be the ones to go to her instead, and they're blessed to see their daughter come back one more time and just be close enough to reach. It's a bittersweet feeling, but at least they'd be together.

And as you turn around, a dozen or so women are emerging from the other side of the hill. Squint your eyes; can't really tell them apart. One of them seems to be looking for something or someone. A few moments later, they found it: you.

As they come down the hill, their faces become clearer. And so is the first voice. 

"Hey!" a blonde girl yells out, and her arms are stretched wide, seemingly going for a hug. You've never met this person, but you respect the gesture enough to reciprocate. 

She runs past you and towards Yunjin instead. That was never meant for you. The fact you don't know each other should have been a dead giveaway. 

Likewise, the other girls walk past and ignore you completely. Nine of them to be exact now, but one stops and actually recognizes you. Her eyes widen with genuine surprise—and delight. So do yours.

"Hey," you manage to call out as the woman caresses your cheek and pecks it. "Aren't you—"

"From the Starship building? Yes!" She sounds excited that you remember her from the other day. "Oh, I never really introduced myself to you. I'm Yeonjung, by the way. I'm their senior," she says, pertaining to the IVE girls greeting her members, proud at seeing her lineage come together.

"I know you," you reply, and your gaze flicks to Gaeul in particular. "You stopped Gaeul as we were leaving."

"Yep! I found out your plans from her, and after talking with Somi, we pitched this together super last minute." All eyes are on Somi, the most enthusiastic in the area, giving hugs and kisses like it's Christmas. "It's inspiring what you've done to these girls. And well, it's inspired us too."

"You guys are fortunate," you remark, mentally recounting each member for confirmation. Somi, Sohye, Sejeong, Chungha, Jung Chaeyeon, Nayoung, Doyeon, and Yoojung. Hell, even Mina and Jieqiong are present and accounted for. It's a goddamn miracle. "You guys get to be together. Them, on the other hand—"

"We almost didn't," Yeonjung gently cuts in. "Jieqiong almost didn't make the 5 a.m. flight to Korea today. They were no longer flying planes from China after 10."

"Still. You are all here, regardless,” you say. “Even if you're not together, you all could have said goodbye to each other through calls or some physical meeting. They can't."

She blinks. Stares at her girls, then at her juniors. Subtly, she shakes her head. "They deserved better, you know. All of them. I wish they were here too."

"They are," is your reply. "In a way, I can feel them. Somehow."

The I.O.I girls finish exchanging pleasantries, and you feel the attention being redirected toward you as Rei nudges Sejeong in your direction. They surround you completely, offering apologies in their own personality and pace for ignoring you. Everywhere you turn, there's a face saying 'sorry' and bowing. You can hear the girls laughing in the background, Yunjin and Rei especially, as they wish to be with your group for the grand finale. Of course you say yes; even when you're the only person who might say no—and you won't—the supermajority won't accept that.

Ultimately, there's about forty or fifty or so here on the cliffs on Jeju, with front row seats to Earth's grand finale. 

As the hours fly by, you watch the last of this world fall apart. Slowly. Surely.

First it was the networks. With less than 4 hours to go, all non-news related broadcasting said their goodbyes; each station played their last songs and aired their final programs. DJs bid their own farewells, each one no less emotionally charged and heavy:

"To all our listeners, we thank you. Thank you for tuning in, for staying with us, for keeping this job a joy even during our hardest days. We don't know what comes next. None of us do. But what we do know, is that we've shared something with you—something real, something human—and for that, we are grateful."

"If you're still listening, please. Call your mother. Call your father. Call the friend you haven't spoken to in years. Make amends. Forgive. We don't have much time left, but we have enough to leave without any regrets."

"This is KBS Radio 1. We are signing off. God bless you. God bless us all."

The services followed not long after. Telecommunications, electricity, the like–you all know because you've heard from acquaintances in the mainland and in other countries that everyone has been left to fend for themselves now. Most governments have gone into hiding, and the few that stayed are choosing to fall with their respective nations. This was a given. They'll have to live in a world that's certainly gonna be uninhabitable for millions of years.

That's their problem to deal with. For now, it's cosmic judgment given in the form of a giant rock. It's visible in the sky now as the skies turn from blue to orange, clearly seen through binoculars and telescopes, careening down at God knows what speed, because the time between impact and after is almost instantaneous. You wouldn't know what hit you. 

37 minutes left, Yeonjung's custom built ticker reads. You've lost access to the internet an hour ago, so it could land any time now. She says that Dayoung managed to put it together by connecting it to NASA's database, the hows and whys she has no clue. Of course she did; she does just about anything and it fucking works. This doohickey is also why you still have communication with everyone else. There's a lifetime of questions you want to ask, but it all feels irrelevant in the face of imminent death.

Through the radar, you hear NASA and other rogue teams are pulling off the sci-fi bullshit hail mary you've seen in films: they're sending astronauts to space by blowing up the meteor before it hits earth. The rockets are already en route to meet it, and the plan is just straight up ripped from Armageddon. Dig through the center and detonate everything from the core. It's fucking stupid in the movie, it's even dumber in real life.

"Did they ever name the asteroid?" Eunchae asks innocently. "I don't think they ever said it in the news, or maybe I forgot."

"Hmm," Yeonjung ruminates, "I think it was called Luminary for how bright it was on their satellites. They missed it by 2 days."

"Sounds stupid," Somi scoffs. "Should have called B.B.S for Big Bullshit."

Just the small banter between people, not just these girls in general, feels like a relic in this heightened atmosphere. To think you'll be beyond history—not lost in the record books, not something to be remembered more than a number, a statistic—should daunt you. It doesn't; it just makes these moments more special. 

Outside of you and a few others tracking the asteroid, everyone's waiting anxiously for the end. Couples, families, friends, fresh acquaintances all standing on a field looking up at the sky. Elsewhere, life goes on. The earth still spins. Nature continues its cycle with blissful innocence. It's hauntingly beautiful.

Repentance, regret—you'll save it for the afterlife when you knock on heaven's throne.

10 minutes remain. The asteroid is much clearer now; it's a gargantuan mass hurtling down in a wave of its own smoke with small crackles in the middle and around the sides. The hail mary must have failed, you assume, given there's no update since. Yeonjung ultimately decides to close the radar and join the others in facing the end. All of you do so as well. You make the short climb up the hill to meet it at the summit.

As you look around, there's this underlying dread behind each person's eyes. That maybe, just maybe, they're not ready to die just yet. They're all still in their 20s to 30s, with so much ahead of them, only for that opportunity to be prematurely taken away. Liz and Rei are holding hands. Eunchae and Leeseo are hugging each other. They're then cuddled by Kazuha and Gaeul, reassuring them that everything will be okay. Yunjin has her hands folded, feeling shivers down her spine. The wind is getting cooler; the evening breeze is approaching. The ocean bleeds orange on the horizon; the sun is sinking down.

"Do you have any regrets?" Yunjin asks suddenly, facing you as she rubs her hands on the sleeves of her shirt, uselessly keeping warmth. It's quiet, kept specifically for you.

Your brows furrow. "Regrets about what?"

"Anything. Life, love, career—anything you regret. Could be spending your last days with us."

"Definitely not," you answer calmly. "Being with you is the best thing I could have done. For a couple of days, I actually felt normal. Like I was in my youth again."

She smiles. Small, but heartfelt. That's all she needs to hear.

"And what about you?" you ask in turn.

"None," she says simply, like she's secure in herself. "I got to sing, dance, and be on stage with the people I love. That's more than what most people get."

"And Chaewon?"

"She's in my heart. That's all that matters."

Someone's playing a song on their phone. Not the choices you shared over marshmallows and around a campfire, but something different. Downpour, because today feels like a terrible day for rain. 

You track the source. It's Kang Mina. She's on the verge of tears.

"You alright?" you ask her. She doesn't reply at first; it takes a moment before she looks at you and her brain loads. Blinking, she wipes a stray tear from her eye.

"Yeah," she answers, nodding erratically. Her body's trembling nervously. "Just—I missed out on a lot. I wasn't there for the 10th anniversary comeback and tour, and then the 15th one as well, thinking there would be time for me to join the 20th. And then" —she sobs— "this. I took everything for granted."

A hand finds her shoulder. Somi's. Sejeong follows. The other girls follow shortly after in shared comfort. 

"You'll always be I.O.I, remember?" Sejeong says. "Doesn't matter if you weren't there for the reunions. What matters is you are I.O.I, no matter what. That part of you will always remain, wherever you are."

"That goes for the rest of us," Sohye adds. "And even if it was because of a giant rock, I'm glad we got to share one final moment together. All of us."

"Thank you girls," Mina mutters as she sobs into her members' arms. They share a warm hug that also makes you smile. You may not know these girls, but you can resonate with this shared bond. What a beautiful final sight of humanity. 

But now there's the meteor, burning overhead. Not even Hollywood's best IMAX cameras can fully capture the scope of this beast. The air feels hotter; breathing is akin to inhaling in a closed room full of nitrogen and metal. It's descending faster than you can comprehend it.

You pull out your phone. Not to take a photo like any dumb influencer, but to play your song. The opening melody and harmony of Colors rings in the air, but everyone's too engrossed by the sheer scale of the asteroid to notice. It's borderline inaudible, almost drowned out by the whistle of the falling star above, but the lyrics are clear—that's all that matters.

You should be seeing your life flash before your eyes. Glimpses of your childhood and growing up, the inevitable fall out that led you to Korea and where you are now. None of that. Nothing really comes to mind, not even the girls that inspired this song. Just a preoccupied head more concerned about what's waiting on the other side than the end of all things.

Ahead of a small crowd gathered at the hill of Jeju's cliffs, you stand headfirst, facing the sun. The light becomes brighter by the second until it's blinding. You close your eyes—and smile.

The end.

You wake to a shining light. This must be heaven—

Except you're still here. Still breathing. Staring the asteroid right in the face. 

It's up there, several thousand feet in the sky, its presence almost swallowing the entirety of the cliff you're standing on, but it's not moving anymore. Sure, it leaves a massive trail of smoke in its wake, but any forward—or downward—momentum has been completely shunted. 

Something is keeping the asteroid from falling. You look around and the others, too, are also suspended in frozen animation. Only you seem to be conscious and able to move around. But you don't go too far; you look up again and find the source holding it together: a small beam of light rising from the ocean, finding its way up to the hill. Purple, blue, white—it's every color of the spectrum all at once.

Instinctively, you close your eyes from its dazzling gleam. Its glare relaxes, even as bright and as colorful as it shines. Open them, and it's transformed into a ray punching into the asteroid's core. Still no source. And then—

They're right there. Facing the meteor. Surrounding you.

Hands raised to the sky, each one radiates the color associated with their youth, pouring their light into the asteroid, keeping it from falling any further. They're not real; this is all a figment of your imagination. The memories that were supposed to flash before you die. But no—they're actually pushing the planetoid back. They look exactly the way you or anyone last saw them: alive and in good spirits.

You can't speak. Your eyes remain wide, unable to maintain a gaze at any one of them. Sheer, utter disbelief. You want to hold out and feel them; you don't.

She finds the opportunity to glance at you. Beams.

"We've been waiting for you," Eunbi says, relaxing her arms, but still pouring her light into the beam. She shouldn't be here, but she's real. The voice, the frame—all clear to your senses. "I'm so happy we're still remembered like this."

"We've been waiting for the right time," Sakura clarifies, flicking her gaze at Chaewon. "And this is it."

Chaewon's eyes glance at the girls behind you, more specifically Yunjin, Kazuha, and Eunchae. "I'm so proud of what these girls have become. We're here. Always have been. Even when you couldn't see us, we were keeping track of everything. You remembered us. And we are so grateful."

Suddenly, the meteor groans, pushes down slightly. The girls wince, their faces straining as they're forced to lift their arms higher, exerting more effort than usual. It's a stalemate.

"We don't have a lot of time," Yujin states. "Well, we do. We can easily destroy this meteor, but we don't want to do it by ourselves."

"We want you to help us," Wonyoung adds. Her eyes tilt to the people behind you, encompassing the greater crowd, not just the ones still present. They land on Gaeul, Rei, Liz, and Leeseo, and she looks at each of them proudly. "All of you. The ones who still remembered. The ones who kept us alive."

They're not moving. Not at all. Their words confuse you at first, but you've seen stranger things. 

"What do I have to do?" you ask, panicked and desperate.

"Lift your hands," Chaeyeon answers, tilting her head, smiling. "Your light. It's just as powerful as the rest of ours."

But there's nothing resembling light coming out. 

"Are you sure?" You hesitate. 

"We are!" Yena shouts exuberantly. She reaches out her hand. At the same time, they begin floating. "Now come on. We can do this. Together."

For a moment, you don't follow. Part of you thinks this is all just a weird afterlife dream. That you're seeing ghosts. Hope manifesting through some forgotten nostalgia. But her hand is still there, waiting for you to take that leap.

Ultimately, you take her hand. It's warm. Solid. She's real. They all are. And before you know it, you begin levitating off the ground too. 

After only a few moments, Yena lets go; you don't fall. Rather, you're suspended in the air as they climb just a little higher, encircling right under the asteroid. 

"Come on. Join us," Hitomi urges. There's no urgency, merely a kind call to action. 

And just like the Apostle Peter, you struggle to find your footing. Not for lack of faith, but at the absurdity of it all: 12 ghosts making you face death like this. It feels like a rite of passage more than anything else. But you follow along, because a small fraction of you wants to believe.

Eventually, you catch up to their height. Several thousand feet in the sky. You're walking on air. 

"Lend us your light," Hyewon prods. "It's been in you the entire time."

Their light is getting stronger; the collective beam is slowly pushing back the asteroid. The shadow overhead is shrinking down to the edge of the cliff. They can singlehandedly shatter this meteor; you're just there as a private audience.

But they still reach out to you. To make you feel that you belong.

"Be here," Minju chimes in.

"We need you," Nako pleads.

"Trust us," Yuri adds last. "We miss you too. All of you. But we're so thankful you brought them together when we couldn't."

The meteor is pushing down once more. They struggle to hold the beam together. The light is flickering.

"Come on. You've given us this," Eunbi pertains to the people below. Maybe more than that. The thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions, who still remember them. "Now help us repay the favor. And as an apology for not saying goodbye properly."

After a moment's contemplation, you hold out your arms. Slowly, still hesitating. Faith is the one thing pushing you forward when all seems lost. As your hands match level with theirs, light begins to pour from your palms. Colorless at first, but when it joins the group's beam, it changes into every one of each member before the collective ray turns to a bright green. The meteor is being thrust upward again; more importantly, it's starting to crack at its center.

"It's breaking," Sakura remarks, her brows narrowing. "A little more. We can do this."

The beam continues to change colors, going through each member's signature over and over. The asteroid groans; it's being pierced through the core, now a few feet into being punched through. Hairline fractures spread throughout the massive body, the cracks being filled by the devouring light.

"It's falling apart," you say, in awe at what's happening. There's no way you'll explain any of this without being sent off to a psych ward or a therapist. Or maybe this is just one last fever soaked dream before you died. Can go either way.

Nevertheless, the possibility of a miracle spurs you on. So you push. Extend your arms higher, giving it all that you have. You want this more than even they do. You're fueled by love, loss, faith, fear, hope, desperation, sorrow, joy—everything in between. It powers your light too. The meteor begins glowing brightly. 

"Almost," Yujin exclaims. "We're doing it! Just a little more—"

You don't know where this side of you came from, but you let out a roar that dissolves into background noise. As the world goes silent, you can feel the giant rock being crushed with your very hands. Down below, you can feel the earth tremble even from up in the sky. The girls are beginning to fade in and out too. The light has become as wide as the meteor itself—pure, distilled white hue. 

The light overwhelms your senses. The asteroid is all but consumed. The last thing you hear before you reach the other side, faint and almost imperceptible, a shared voice:

"Thank you. For everything."

Might as well face the music.

Here's the cold, hard truth: they were gone. They've been gone. As in, it's not April 29, 2021 because you have that date marked on the calendar like Christmas or any other holiday, nor was it anything like three years ago, when contract negotiations were public and messy and there was reason to believe one or two of them would walk away forever. They did, all of them, but not in the way you expect careers to end: sudden, tragic.

The thing about death is that it comes without warning. One minute, you have a bright future and rest of your life ahead of you, the next you're collapsing during a fashion event and it's all for nothing. That's exactly what happened to Wonyoung. She was the first to go, and you can't come to terms with the cruel irony of her fate: she was the center, and she died as the center of attention. Natural causes, the doctors and coroners said, a byproduct of being too young and too in demand. It shook the entire industry, called into question whether she had been overworked to the bone (she was). She never complained; she was the consummate worker who kept things professional. Part of you believes she regrets signing that extension, but you'll never know.

Unsurprisingly, they were never the same after. Yujin tried her best to hold them together, but a reckless drunk driver was feeling too egotistical to let go of the wheel on a lonely night, and she paid the price. She was holding a Cherry plush in remembrance of her at the crime scene, which made her untimely demise all the more heartbreaking. The rest of the girls—they haven't had a comeback since then. Shelved, and probably for the best.

It's only these two so far, but part of you hurts remembering. And then there's the rest:

Chaewon had this nagging neck injury after that one accursed move that initially sidelined her for months. One slip in their dorm and then she was gone. Sakura found her half an hour later and rushed her to the hospital to no avail. She blamed herself not being there to save her on time, and it'd come full circle: a sasaeng pulled a knife on Kazuha during one of their fanmeets and she stepped in to take what would have been a hit to the stomach. Likewise, she was hospitalized but it was too late: she had bled out. HYBE kept the girls, promising to support them, but they never did. They were sidelined in favor of their newer groups. Yunjin saw the light and was trying desperately to terminate their contracts, but nothing came of it.

Eunbi was trying something different; she wanted to be an action star. Naturally, there were stunt sequences, and unlike others who opted for doubles, she insisted on doing them herself. A wire malfunction caused her to fly 30 feet into the air and crash facefirst into one of the buildings used for the set. Pure negligence on the production team and coordinator's part; that wire was reportedly having issues but they were saving costs and filming time. Another life carelessly lost. 

Hyewon's probably the one with the best outcome: she simply died of natural causes. She was found sound asleep in her apartment one day after watching anime the night before and never woke up. Too soon, everyone would say. Never had any underlying health issues that were publicly addressed, just someone who was never meant to stay here on this earth a long time.

Yena's past would come back to haunt her. Recurrence. She knew she was always on borrowed time, and while she would fight it at first, she recognized it was a losing battle. No wonder she gave it her all: every performance, every song, every time she talked, she spoke like it would be her last. And she shined brighter during her final moments than any other period. 

Chaeyeon loved her sister. That's a given. But she loved her so much that she didn't hesitate to give up her heart for transplant. A shared, undiscovered hereditary disease meant both of them were essentially ticking timebombs, and she wanted to make sure her sister could live to see another day. 

Hitomi loved her members. Took care of them as her own sisters and daughters. One rainy night, their van was speeding to the next schedule when it hydroplaned into a barrier on the highway. The car tumbled over and ended up upside down. She held onto the members as it crashed, and that's how they managed to survive. She was the only casualty of that accident.

Nako was at the wrong place at the wrong time. She was deep in the pit of a music festival when the crowd began pressing in after some maniac brought in a gun and opened fire. Suffocated and passed out as she tried to find shelter from the chaos. A bullet did not kill her, but the commotion that caused it did.

Yuri got into one of the messiest relationships ever. After co-starring as one of the leads in a critically acclaimed drama, she ended up falling in love with her co-star. They became an instant power couple, further sparked by more successful projects. Then he was caught cheating on her with a younger actress, but he denied the allegations and even proposed to Yuri as a way to save face. After getting exposed a second time with a different actress, he ended up getting into this heated argument with Yuri while driving and struck another car that ended up totaling their vehicle, killing them both on the spot.

Minju became the dying ember of an era. She had been to every single one of her member's funerals, and with each appearance, people could tell it affected her greatly. She was losing weight, getting more and more wrinkly despite her age, and didn't appear in public as much. The stress and heartbreak of losing everyone she loved proved to be too much, and she eventually suffered her own heart attack not long after Yuri's passing. She felt that she shouldn't have to go alone, and so she followed her in the afterlife.

One by one, the lights flickered in and out until there was none. It had been almost two years since Minju, the last of their legacy, passed. Truly nothing was ever the same. The groups, the people closest to them, the fans who still remembered—it was impossible to move on. The fact that they all went in near quick succession is haunting to think about. Like death specifically wanted them all, because being apart wasn't an option. They had to be together. They were family.

This was the lie that kept you going. You deluded yourself into believing they were together somewhere. Just not here; up there. Living their best lives. They had been talking about it, too. In the months leading to their departure, after the dust settled and contracts were made flexible, rumblings began. It was the worst kept secret in the world. Even their members got in on the act. Their schedules were clearing up specifically to make an album and a tour happen. This was the closure you were finally waiting over a decade for.

And then it wasn't. 

Everything else happened, and the dream was simply just that: a dream. While the world moved on and memories faded, you refused. The girls and the people they left behind couldn't. For them, it was more than losing an idol: it was losing a leader, a member, a sister, a friend. For you, it was your youth, your spark, a piece of your soul with every member's passing. And so it was. Little by little, you detached from the world until all twelve were gone. Truthfully, you died the same day Minju died; every day after was merely a corpse walking amongst the living, a puppet without its strings. 

And as you float along the line between the living and the dead, you realize that there's more to this life than staying in the past. The future can be scary sometimes. Nostalgia brings comfort. But that doesn't mean you have to be consumed by it. Like Nako once said, even when they're apart, the fact they existed means they happened. That they will always come at the right time.

That was the closure you got, but never fully understood. Until now.

You find yourself lying on the ground somehow. 

The sun is still setting on the horizon. The evening breeze begins to settle. You scramble to your feet to see if the meteor is on its way down—and nothing. Just an orange sky giving way for starry night. But in its wake, sparkling dust as fine as snow slowly descends to the Earth, spreading throughout the sea and the cliffs where you stand. 

It's beautiful.

The crowd looks just as confused as you are. People are holding out their hands, catching stray drops, glistening and glowing in their palm. 

Eunchae is the first to vocalize it. "What—what just happened?"

No one speaks, initially. They're too in disbelief to make sense of anything. The closest explanation anyone has is from Leeseo, and even that sounds too farfetched: "It just—disintegrated. It was falling, we were all blinded by the light, and next thing you know, it was—gone."

A ripple of murmurs passes through the small congregation. Some say it actually dissolved upon entering the stratosphere. Others suggest the ocean swallowed it whole (but where's the massive hole in the earth's crust and why are the waters still there). You've got a few proclaiming divine intervention, doesn't matter which god. But you know the truth. What you saw felt the most real, because you experienced it up close and personal.

You just can't bring yourself to say it.

Because, first of all, you don't believe. Not fully. None of these people will, either, not even the girls. How can you explain articulately that the 12 ghosts you trauma bonded over appeared and helped you vaporize the asteroid on some anime bullshit. There's no plausible way to make your case without sounding like a deranged fan who needs a realty check.

None of that matters now. What's important is that you're here. Everyone is. Still breathing. Still alive.

Yunjin looks like she's on the verge of tears. She falls to her knees dramatically, the kind that's earned after an exhausting battle. "The world—"

She's overwhelmed with bliss and relief to finish her sentence. Can't find the words.

"It's still here," she manages. "We're still here."

The emotions from everyone else burst open. Laughter from the elderly, children's screams, hugs and sobs from friends, family, and lovers realizing they've been given a second chance at life and won't take it for granted again. 

And sure, you have no one to grab in the moment. You're acquaintances at best. But you look up at the sky and find solace knowing you're never alone. 

Minutes later, communications are restored. Everyone is celebrating. News channels and radio broadcasts return overjoyed, unable to contain themselves:

"The world as we know it, is well and truly safe—"

"Scientists are baffled—religious groups are calling for prayers of thanksgiving—"

"This is a story about the indomitable human spirit, says the Italian president—"

And the scenes. The absolute scenes around the world. People are breaking out into the streets hugging, crying, wreaking havoc out of sheer happiness. Bottles are popped. Flags are waved. Not in celebration for a city or a country, but for humanity as a whole.

Meanwhile, as night falls over Jeju, a massive campfire party is underway. The idols are singing like they've redebuted. Like they've found reason to perform again. 

You can hear their shouts and laughs from the cliff's peak. You've stayed behind, still thinking about the dream. About them. If it really was indeed their doing. You haven't brought it up to anyone even once, never hinted at it, and probably never will. Only after you eventually face your maker, and then you will find out the answer.

But that's for one day. Someday, but not today.

Until then, you look up at the sky once more. The moon is out. Comets and meteorites are flying past. And high in the cosmos, 12 stars are shining brighter than the rest. Their time may have gone, but as long as they live in your memories and hearts, they will always exist.

With one hand you reach out, similar to the way you shattered the asteroid together. Nothing emanates from your palm, but the moon reflects its light down. It's the closest you'll get to feeling them. And through the dark, you hold out the photo with the other, still untouched by the elements. Proof that they're alive.

You hold it close. You can hear their voices echo in your head.

I will show you my colors.

And you can't help but smile.

"Hey." Someone’s calling out, so you turn around. It's Yunjin. "We're about to have dinner. Come on. Let's eat."

"I'll be there shortly," you say. She grins as she walks away.

As you follow her into a future that's bright and promising, the stars above twinkle. Shifting into their colors without anyone noticing, they disappear. 

Forever written on the clouds.