Q

The recording booth at Edenary was always colder than the rest of the studio, but tonight it felt almost arctic. Wooyoung adjusted the heavy pop filter with trembling fingers, blowing a warm, nervous puff of air into his cupped hands.

Through the thick glass window, Hongjoong sat slumped in the producer's swivel chair, glowing screens casting an azure sheen over the sharp angles of his face. Beside him, Jongho was perched on a stool, chewing idly on an apple, his sharp ears attuned to every microtone.

"Take five, Wooyoung-ah," Hongjoong’s voice came crackling through the monitor headphones, calm and rhythmic. "Don't push from your chest this time. We don't need power here. We need you."

Wooyoung nodded, stepping closer to the condenser mic. He tapped his foot once against the carpet, waiting for the gentle acoustic cue. When the piano keys blossomed in his ears, he let his shoulders drop, opening his throat and exhaling into the melody.

The sound that left his lips was not a roar or a powerhouse belting tone. It was gossamer. It was a sigh woven from silk and late-night whispers, carrying a warm, fragile hush that sounded like someone confessing a secret right at the shell of an ear. The breathiness wasn't an accident of poor technique; it was the intrinsic architecture of his voice. Every note was draped in an airy slipstream that gave ATEEZ’s songs their sudden, heart-stopping softness between Mingi’s gravelly thunder and Jongho’s roof-shattering high notes.

In the control room, Jongho paused mid-chew. A tiny, fond smile crept onto the youngest's face.

"See?" Jongho muttered, bumping Hongjoong’s shoulder. "That’s the color. No one else can do that intro."

Hongjoong leaned into the talkback button. "Perfect. Absolutely gorgeous, Wooyoung. Come out, let’s listen back."

Wooyoung slipped off the heavy headphones, rolling his shoulders to dispel the lingering tension. He stepped out of the booth, padding across the floorboards in his oversized socks.

"Good?" Wooyoung asked, his speaking voice just as light, possessing that trademark rasp that made him sound perpetually like he had just woken up.

"More than good," Hongjoong said, clicking his mouse to loop the eight bars. "Listen to how the air trails off at the end of the phrase. It gives the listener goosebumps because it sounds so intimate. It balances the entire arrangement."

Wooyoung smiled, his eyes curving into familiar crescents, but his hand unconsciously drifted to his throat, massaging the soft skin beneath his jaw.

It was a gift, everyone said so. The fans adored his voice, frequently making compilations of his breathy, ethereal bridges and delicate intros. His members treasured it like spun glass. But spun glass had a flaw that cast iron did not: it shattered under the slightest misapplied force.

To produce that sighing, lightweight quality, Wooyoung’s vocal cords had to remain slightly parted, letting a continuous stream of air bleed past the folds. It was a physically demanding paradox. While it sounded effortless, maintaining that exact aerodynamic balance required immense breath support. More dangerously, it left the delicate mucous membranes vulnerable. If he pushed, if he yelled, if he tried to force volume to rival the stadium-sized dynamics of their choreography, his voice wouldn't simply strain; it would vanish.

"Drink some water," Jongho advised quietly, handing over a thermos before Wooyoung could even ask. "You’ve got choreo rehearsal in an hour, hyung. Don’t tire yourself out."

"I'm fine," Wooyoung whispered, taking the warm honey-water anyway. "Just wanted to make sure it was clean."

"It was perfect," Hongjoong insisted, turning to face him fully, his gaze sharpening with the uncanny leader intuition he always possessed. "And remember what the vocal coach said yesterday. During full-out dance practice, mark your high notes. You have nothing to prove to us."

Wooyoung lowered his head, pressing the warm metal of the thermos to his collarbone. "I know."

Yet, knowing was one thing; accepting it in the blinding heat of a dance studio was another entirely.

---

The mirrors in the main practice room were entirely fogged up with condensation by nine that evening.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the soles of their sneakers, rattling their ribcages. ATEEZ’s routines were not meant for the faint of heart; they were athletic spectacles designed to push eight grown men to the outer brink of their stamina.

"Again! From the second chorus!" San called out, his tank top drenched in sweat, hair clinging in black spikes to his forehead.

Wooyoung stood in formation behind Yunho, his chest heaving. His thighs were burning, his lungs pleading for oxygen, but his pride was roaring even louder. In thirty seconds, the dance break would drop, leading directly into his solo vocal line before the climax.

Usually, during exhausting rehearsals like this, they were supposed to mark their singing, merely mouthing the lyrics or humming along to preserve their throats for live stages. But lately, Wooyoung had read a stray comment online—one of those venomous, anonymous critiques that occasionally slipped past his mental defenses: Wooyoung is a dancer who can only whisper-sing; he couldn’t hold a steady belt if his life depended on it.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. Hongjoong praised his vocal color daily; Eden called his timbre irreplaceable. Yet, standing in front of the wall of mirrors, watching San hit every movement with bone-cracking ferocity while singing with steady, resonant projection, an ache of inadequacy flared in Wooyoung’s chest.

He wanted to be louder. He wanted to project like a cannon.

The music swelled. The beat dropped into a syncopated flurry of footwork. Wooyoung threw himself into the routine, executing the sharp pop of his chest, sliding across the slick floor, and spinning into center stage right as the choreography parted.

He drew a massive breath, planting his feet, and attempted to push.

Instead of letting the note float on a gentle cushion of air, he engaged his abdominal wall and squeezed his throat, trying desperately to force a bright, loud, chest-heavy tone to overcome the booming track.

"Eodum sok—"

The note didn't ring out. It tore.

A sharp, violent crack ripped through Wooyoung’s larynx, followed immediately by an agonizing pinch, as if a razor blade had scraped across the fine tissues of his vocal cords. The sound choked off into a strangled, dry gasp.

Wooyoung immediately stumbled, his hand flying to his throat, his breath hitching in pure reflex. He doubled over, coughing hoarsely, unable to stop the sudden, frantic spasms in his neck.

The music cut out abruptly.

"Stop, stop, cut it!" Yunho shouted from the sound system.

Before Wooyoung could even register the silence, arms were around him. San was there instantly, dropping to his knees on the hardwood, catching Wooyoung’s trembling shoulders.

"Wooyoung-ah? Hey, look at me," San urged, his voice laced with immediate panic. "What happened? Did you twist something?"

Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. He tried to say, I'm okay, but what came out was nothing more than a ragged, airless croak: "I—"

The sound was so damaged, so scraped of its usual velvet, that Seonghwa let out a sharp gasp from across the room.

"Don't speak," Hongjoong commanded, crossing the floor in swift, urgent strides. His face was pale, his eyebrows drawn into a tight, severe line. "Wooyoung, do not say a single word. Not a sound."

Wooyoung tried to swallow, but it felt like swallowing crushed glass. Panic flared hot and sharp behind his ribs. His airy, delicate voice—the only thing that made him uniquely valuable on their tracks—felt completely fractured. Tears of pain and humiliation pricked the corners of his eyes.

"Sit him down," Seonghwa said gently, already moving toward the small refrigerator in the corner. He returned in seconds with a cold bottle of water and a warm towel. "Breathe through your nose, Wooyoungie. Slowly."

Mingi and Yeosang hovered close by, their expressions mirroring each other in deep concern. Jongho approached with methodical, quiet calm, kneeling right in front of Wooyoung. The youngest vocalist gently reached out, placing two warm fingers against the side of Wooyoung’s neck to feel the muscle tension.

"You pushed, didn't you?" Jongho asked softly, his tone completely devoid of judgment, carrying only deep, clinical sorrow. "You tried to belt over the track."

Wooyoung looked down at his sneakers, a silent tear finally spilling over his lashes and dripping onto the grey cotton of his sweatpants. He nodded once, a microscopic tilt of his chin.

"You idiot," San whispered, though he immediately pulled Wooyoung’s head against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around the trembling boy. "Why would you do that?"

"He doesn't need a lecture right now, San-ah," Hongjoong said firmly, though his eyes were brimming with worry. He crouched down to eye level with Wooyoung. "We're done for the night. Everyone, pack up. Wooyoung is going straight to vocal rest. Complete silence until we see the doctor in the morning."

Wooyoung looked at Hongjoong with pleading eyes, opening his mouth slightly to protest.

"Ah," Hongjoong scolded softly, tapping Wooyoung’s lower lip with an index finger. "What did I say? Not a whisper. Whispering is actually worse for your vocal folds than speaking softly. Utter silence, Wooyoung. Trust me."

Defeated, Wooyoung leaned into San’s hold, letting his best friend bear the weight of his exhausted body.

---

The dorm was abnormally quiet that night.

By midnight, the rest of the members had showered and drifted into the living room, drawn together by the unspoken gravity of someone being hurt. Wooyoung sat curled up on the large sectional couch, swallowed in an oversized knitted sweater, a steaming ceramic mug of throat-coat herbal tea clutched tightly between his palms.

He felt small. Useless.

The doctor’s emergency video consult had yielded a predictable diagnosis: acute vocal strain and micro-inflammation. No permanent nodules yet, thankfully, but his vocal cords were swollen. If he didn't rest completely for the next three days, he risked severe damage.

Beside him on the couch, San sat with his back pressed flush against Wooyoung’s side, radiating steady, grounding warmth. Yeosang was quietly slicing peeled pears at the kitchen island, dropping them into a bowl of honey that Seonghwa was preparing.

"Here," Seonghwa said, walking over and placing the bowl on the coffee table. He sat on the floor in front of Wooyoung, resting his chin on the boy’s knee. "Eat these. They’re good for the swelling."

Wooyoung picked up a small silver fork, stabbing a pear slice. He chewed listlessly, looking at the floor.

Hongjoong walked into the room, tossing his phone onto the table. He pulled up an ottoman and sat directly across from Wooyoung.

"Alright," Hongjoong began, his voice soft in the dim living room light. "Since you aren't allowed to talk, you’re just going to have to listen to me."

Wooyoung kept his eyes lowered, picking at a loose thread on his sweater.

"I know why you did it," Hongjoong continued. "You think because Jongho can shake a stadium, and San has that piercing, theatrical rock edge, and Yunho has that smooth, steady pop resonance, that your voice isn't 'strong' enough."

Wooyoung’s breath hitched. Hongjoong had laid the truth bare with surgical precision.

"Look at me, Wooyoung," Hongjoong said.

Wooyoung slowly lifted his eyes, biting his trembling bottom lip.

"Do you know why I fight so hard to give you the most vulnerable lines in our title tracks?" Hongjoong asked. "Because you possess something none of us have. Not even Jongho."

From the doorway, Jongho nodded in solemn agreement. "It’s true."

"Your voice," Hongjoong said, leaning forward and placing a reassuring hand over Wooyoung’s cold knuckles, "is the soul of our transitions. When we go from intense, aggressive raps and explosive choreography, the listener gets overwhelmed. Their ears get fatigued. But then the beat drops out, and your voice comes in—soft, airy, breathing right into their chest. It grounds the entire song. It’s what makes our music emotional rather than just loud."

"It’s like silk, Woo," San murmured, resting his cheek against Wooyoung’s shoulder. "I can sing loud, but I can’t sound like a breeze the way you do. Whenever I hear your parts in my in-ears on stage, it calms my heart down. It makes me feel safe."

"You have a delicate instrument," Yunho chimed in from the kitchen doorway, crossing his arms and smiling warmly. "A violin isn't worse than a drum kit just because it can't make the floor shake, right? You don't take a violin and smash it against the floor to make it louder. You let it play the melody only it can play."

A hot tear spilled down Wooyoung’s cheek, splashing against the back of his hand.

He had spent so long worrying that his breathiness was a weakness—a physical limitation that made him fragile, a liability in a group known for aggressive perfection. He hadn't realized that the very fragility he resented was the exact quality they cherished.

Seonghwa reached up, gently wiping the tear away with the pad of his thumb. "We love your voice, Wooyoung-ah. Exactly as it is. Lightweight. Breath-filled. Beautiful. We don't need another belter. We have Jongho for that, and he has vocal cords made of titanium."

Jongho gave a small, rare chuckle. "And even titanium gets tired. Don't carry burdens that aren't yours, hyung. Sing your lines with your air. Let me do the shouting."

Wooyoung let out a wet, trembling breath through his nose. He couldn't speak, but he squeezed Hongjoong’s hand tightly, then reached down to gently squeeze Seonghwa’s shoulder.

He picked up his phone from the cushion, his fingers flying across the keypad before turning the screen around for them to see.

Thank you. I'm sorry for being foolish. I’ll protect it.

Hongjoong broke into a wide, gummy smile, ruffling Wooyoung’s hair with fierce affection. "Good. No more being stupid. Now, finish your honeyed pears, drink your tea, and go to sleep. You have forty-eight more hours of absolute silence."

San grinned, wrapping both arms around Wooyoung’s waist and practically hauling him sideways onto the couch pillows. "Which means you can’t tease me, yell at Mingi, or complain about my cooking for two whole days! It’s a national holiday!"

Wooyoung’s eyes flashed with feigned outrage. He opened his mouth to scold San, remembered the rule, and snapped his jaws shut. Instead, he grabbed a plush couch cushion and buried it directly into San’s face, smothering his best friend’s triumphant laughter.

The dorm erupted into fond, familiar chaos—Mingi cheering San’s muffled demise, Yeosang laughing quietly from the counter, and Seonghwa shaking his head in fond exasperation.

Wooyoung sank back into the pillows, a warm, genuine smile blooming across his face. His throat still ached, and his voice was locked away behind swollen folds, but the heavy knot in his chest had completely unraveled.

He didn't need to be a storm.

When the time came, and his voice healed, he would simply be the wind—gentle, airy, and entirely his own.