Breakdance

The air in the practice room was thick enough to taste, a heavy mixture of humidity, ozone from the speakers, and the sharp, metallic scent of sweat. ATEEZ had been at it for six hours straight, drilling the bridge of their newest title track until their movements were synchronized down to the millimeter.

"Okay, okay," Hongjoong panted, his chest heaving as he leaned forward with his hands on his knees. "That’s a wrap on the group run-through. Take twenty, then we’ll do notes."

The group collapsed in a wave of exhaustion. San and Wooyoung practically fell into a heap in the corner, limbs tangling as they sought the cool surface of the floor. Jongho headed straight for his water bottle, his expression stoic despite the perspiration dripping from his chin. Yeosang and Seonghwa were already leaning against the mirrored wall, eyes closed, savoring the stillness.

Only Mingi remained standing in the center of the room.

His long limbs felt heavy, his muscles humming with the residual adrenaline of the dance, but there was a restless energy vibrating under his skin. While the others were content to melt into the floorboards, Mingi felt a strange pull. It was a familiar itch, one that didn't come from the structured, sharp angles of their idol choreography. It was the urge to let go—to let his body dictate the rhythm rather than the count.

He walked over to the sound system, his sneakers squeaking against the polished wood.

"Mingi-ya, sit down before you pass out," Seonghwa called out, though his eyes remained closed. "You’ve done enough."

"Just one song," Mingi murmured, his voice deep and raspy from the workout.

He scrolled through his phone until he found a gritty, heavy-bass breakbeat track. He hit play. The room was suddenly filled with a syncopated, old-school rhythm that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of his bones.

Mingi didn't start right away. He just stood there, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, his head bobbing as he caught the pocket of the beat. He looked down at his hands, stretching his fingers.

"Oh, look at him," Wooyoung whispered, nudging San. "He’s got that look in his eyes."

Mingi started with a simple top-rock. His movements were loose, almost lazy, as he stepped in time with the kick drum. But as the beat dropped into a more aggressive loop, his posture shifted. The lanky, sometimes clumsy-seeming rapper vanished, replaced by a kinetic force that seemed to defy the laws of physics.

He dropped.

In a blur of motion, Mingi went from standing to a low crouch, his hands hitting the floor with precision. He launched into a series of footwork patterns—six-steps and CCs that were so fast his legs became a whirlwind of black denim.

"Go Mingi!" Yunho shouted, sitting up straight. His eyes were wide, sparkling with the genuine pride of a best friend. "Show them!"

The encouragement acted like fuel. Mingi transitioned from the floor work into a backspin, his body rotating with dizzying speed. He looked like a top spinning out of control, yet he remained perfectly centered on one spot on the floor.

"He’s insane," San breathed, leaning forward. "How does he keep his balance like that?"

Mingi didn't answer; he couldn't. He was in the zone. The world had shrunk down to the four corners of the practice room and the vibration of the bass. He pushed off the ground, launching himself into a windmill. His legs flared out, whipping through the air as he rolled from his shoulders to his back and back again, his momentum building until he was a blur.

"Yeah! Get it!" Hongjoong cheered, clapping his hands in time with the music.

Mingi felt the heat rising in his face, the exhilarating rush of blood to his head. He transitioned from the windmill into a flare, his legs swinging wide and high, supporting his entire body weight on his palms. It was a display of raw power and core strength that made the others gasp.

Finally, as the track reached a crescendo, Mingi executed a sharp, sudden power-move—a hand-hop that transitioned into a headspin. He spun for three full rotations before snapping his body into a rigid, gravity-defying pose.

He froze.

One hand was planted firmly on the floor, his elbow tucked into his hip. His entire body was suspended horizontally, legs crossed in the air, perfectly still. He held it for three beats, the image of absolute control, before tumbling out of it and landing in a seated position, chest heaving and a wide, triumphant grin splitting his face.

The room erupted.

"Song Mingi!" Wooyoung shrieked, jumping up to tackle him. "That was legendary! Why don't you do that in the music videos?"

"Because I'd break the camera," Mingi joked, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Yunho was by his side in an instant, his eyes glowing with excitement. Yunho was the group's main dancer, a master of hip-hop and choreography, but the technical intricacies of b-boying had always been Mingi’s secret territory.

"That freeze at the end," Yunho said, his hands gesturing wildly. "The way you just... stopped. It looked like the video glitched. How did you lock your core like that?"

Mingi wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "It’s all about the shelf, Yunho-ya. You have to create a shelf with your elbow against your obliques. If you don't find that sweet spot, you’ll just collapse."

Yunho stood up, shaking out his long limbs. "Teach me. I want to try it."

Mingi looked up at his friend, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You're tall, Yunho. Your center of gravity is all the way up in the clouds. It’s harder for us long-legged guys."

"I don't care," Yunho insisted, already dropping into a crouch. "Show me the setup."

The other members gathered around, forming a loose circle. The exhaustion from the practice seemed forgotten, replaced by the infectious energy of Mingi’s performance.

"Okay, okay," Mingi said, standing up and dusting off his knees. "First, you need to understand the tripod. Your head and your two hands—or one hand and an elbow—need to form a triangle. If they’re in a straight line, you’ll tip over."

Mingi dropped down to demonstrate slowly. "See? I’m tucking my right elbow right here, into the soft part of my side, just above the hip bone. That’s my shelf. My left hand is out here for balance."

Yunho mimicked the movement, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. He tucked his elbow in and leaned forward, trying to shift his weight onto his arm. He tipped forward immediately, his shoulder hitting the mat with a soft thud.

"Ow," Yunho muttered, though he was smiling.

"Don't just lean," Mingi corrected, leaning over to adjust Yunho’s hand placement. "You have to stack your weight. Think of your arm like a pillar. Move your left hand further out. Yeah, there."

Yunho tried again. This time, he managed to get his feet off the ground for a split second before his balance wavered and he had to kick out to keep from falling.

"You’re getting it!" San cheered from the sidelines. "You almost had the hover!"

"It’s the legs," Mingi said, crouching down next to Yunho. "Once you feel the balance on your arm, you have to throw your legs up and cross them. The momentum of the legs helps lock the rest of your body in place. It’s counter-intuitive, but the movement keeps you still."

Yunho took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. He set his hands, tucked his elbow, and leaned. This time, he didn't hesitate. He kicked his legs up, his face reddening with the effort. For a glorious, shimmering two seconds, he stayed up. His body was shaky, nowhere near as rock-solid as Mingi’s, but he was airborne.

"I’m doing it! I’m—"

As soon as he spoke, the tension in his core snapped, and he tumbled sideways. Mingi was there in a flash, catching Yunho’s shoulder to break his fall.

They both ended up in a heap on the floor, laughing breathlessly.

"You almost had it," Mingi panted, slapping Yunho on the back. "For a first timer, that was actually really good. Most people just face-plant."

"It’s harder than it looks," Yunho admitted, sitting up and rubbing his side. "My ribs feel like they’ve been poked by a spear."

"That’s the 'shelf' for you," Mingi laughed. "You get used to the bruising after a few years."

Hongjoong walked over, looking down at his two tallest members with a proud, tired smile. "Maybe we should work some of that into a special stage. Mingi the center, Yunho on the flank."

Mingi’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. "Really? You think so?"

"I think the fans would lose their minds," Yeosang said, joining the circle. "We always talk about how good a dancer you are, Mingi, but seeing you do that... it’s different. It’s like you’re a different person when you’re on the floor."

Mingi felt a warm flush that had nothing to do with the physical exertion. He had always been proud of his rapping, but breakdancing was his first love—the thing he did when he was alone, the thing that made him feel powerful when he felt shy. Having his members acknowledge it, and having them want to learn from him, meant more than he could put into words.

"I can teach all of you," Mingi offered, his voice full of genuine enthusiasm. "Well, maybe not Jongho. I don't want him breaking the floorboards with his power."

Jongho cracked a rare, wide grin. "I’ll stick to the high notes, thanks. I like my joints where they are."

"One more time?" Yunho asked, looking at Mingi. "I want to see if I can hold it for three seconds."

Mingi stood up, offering a hand to pull Yunho to his feet. "Only if you promise to keep your core tight. If you go limp, you’re going to hurt your wrist."

"I promise, Master Mingi," Yunho teased, bowing low.

Mingi laughed, the sound echoing off the mirrors. He walked back to the phone, restarted the track, and as the heavy beat kicked back in, he felt the familiar surge of energy. He didn't just feel like a rapper or an idol. In this room, surrounded by his brothers, he felt like he could fly—or at the very least, stay suspended in the air just long enough to prove that gravity was merely a suggestion.

He dropped to the floor again, not as a teacher this time, but as an artist. And as he spun, he saw his members’ reflections in the mirror—watching, cheering, and waiting for their turn to fly with him.