W

The dorm was never truly silent, but tonight the noise felt abrasive. The high-pitched laughter of the older members echoed off the linoleum walls of the kitchen, mingling with the sizzle of late-night ramen and the rhythmic thumping of Wooyoung’s foot against a chair leg. It was the sound of success, the sound of a group that had finally broken through the grueling barrier of debut and emerged into the light of the public eye.

Jongho sat on the edge of his bed, the door to the room cracked just enough to let a sliver of that warmth in, though he felt entirely cold. His phone was a heavy, vibrating weight in his palm. He knew he should put it down. Manager-nim had warned them about the "honeymoon phase" and the inevitable backlash that followed fame, but this wasn't backlash. It wasn't criticism of his vocal stability or his dancing.

It was something else entirely.

He scrolled, his thumb trembling slightly. They had just finished a fansign earlier that day. He had worn a school uniform—a stylist’s choice meant to lean into his youth, considering he was still months away from his eighteenth birthday. He had felt proud of the performance, proud of the way his high notes had soared over the backing track.

But the internet wasn't talking about his voice.

"Look at the way the fabric stretches," one comment read, followed by a string of emojis that made Jongho’s stomach turn.

He swiped up. Another post, this one a slow-motion edit of him adjusting his tie, zoomed in until the pixels blurred, accompanied by a caption so explicit it made his ears ring. They were talking about his body—not as a dancer’s instrument, but as a collection of parts. They were dissecting his thighs, his chest, the shape of his mouth, using words that he had only ever seen in the restricted sections of the internet he was taught to avoid.

"Jongho-yah! Are you coming to eat?"

The voice was Hongjoong’s. It was bright, authoritative, and kind. Jongho flinched, nearly dropping the phone. He quickly locked the screen, the black glass reflecting his own pale, wide-eyed face.

"I’m not hungry, Hyung," Jongho called back, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again, forcing the strength back into his tone. "I’m just tired. I think I’ll sleep early."

There was a pause in the hallway. The floorboards creaked as someone approached the door. A moment later, Seonghwa’s face appeared in the gap, his expression softening into that motherly concern that usually made Jongho feel safe. Tonight, it just made him feel exposed.

"You haven't eaten since the showcase," Seonghwa said gently, stepping into the room. "And you pushed yourself hard during the last set. Come on, even just a few bites."

Jongho forced a smile, the muscles in his cheeks feeling stiff. "I’m okay, really. My stomach feels a bit tied up. Probably just nerves from the broadcast."

Seonghwa sighed, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached out to ruffle Jongho’s hair, but the younger boy instinctively flinched away. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but in the quiet of the room, it felt like a thunderclap.

Seonghwa froze, his hand hovering in mid-air. "Jongho?"

"Sorry," Jongho whispered, looking down at his lap. "I’m just... jumpy."

"Did something happen at the fansign?" Seonghwa asked, his voice dropping to a serious register. "Did a fan say something to you? Someone in the crowd?"

Jongho shook his head vigorously. "No, everyone was nice. It was great."

He wasn't lying. To his face, the fans were angels. They gave him plushies and told him his vocals were the pride of the fourth generation. It was only when he was alone, behind the safety of a screen, that the world turned into a hunting ground.

"Then what is it?" Seonghwa pressed, his eyes falling to the phone clutched in Jongho’s hand. "Are you reading the comments again?"

Jongho tightened his grip. "I just wanted to see what people thought of the performance."

"Jongho-yah, we talked about this," Seonghwa said, reaching out again, more slowly this time, to take the phone. "The internet is a vacuum. It sucks in all the loudest, most extreme opinions. You can't let it—"

Seonghwa’s words died in his throat as the screen flickered to life. Jongho hadn't closed the app. The image on the screen was a high-definition photograph from an hour ago, cropped aggressively to focus on Jongho’s lap as he sat behind the fansign table. The caption below it was a paragraph of graphic, voyeuristic fantasies.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Seonghwa’s face went from confusion to shock, and then to a cold, simmering rage that Jongho had rarely seen.

"How long?" Seonghwa asked, his voice trembling.

"It’s just... it’s just how people talk online," Jongho said, his voice small. He tried to take the phone back, but Seonghwa held it out of reach. "They do it to everyone, Hyung. They do it to San-hyung and Wooyoung-hyung too."

"Not like this," Seonghwa snapped, though his anger wasn't directed at Jongho. "You’re seventeen, Jongho. You’re a child. This is... this is disgusting."

Seonghwa stood up abruptly and headed for the door. Panic flared in Jongho’s chest.

"Hyung, wait! Don't tell the others," Jongho pleaded, scrambling off the bed. "Please. It’s embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?" Seonghwa turned back, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Jongho, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You are a singer. You are our maknae. You are not... you are not a piece of meat for people to talk about like this."

The door swung wider, and Hongjoong was there, likely drawn by the tension in Seonghwa’s voice. He looked between the two of them, his brow furrowed.

"What’s going on? Why is everyone yelling?" Hongjoong asked, his gaze landing on the phone in Seonghwa’s hand.

Without a word, Seonghwa handed the device to the leader. Jongho watched as Hongjoong’s eyes scanned the screen. He watched the way Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the casing.

"Who posted this?" Hongjoong asked, his voice dangerously low.

"It doesn't matter," Jongho said, his voice breaking. He felt a hot tear track down his cheek and wiped it away angrily. "There are thousands of them. Every time I refresh, there’s a new one. They talk about my body like I’m not even a person. They talk about things I don't even... I don't even know how to react to."

Hongjoong stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and locking it. The click of the deadbolt felt like a finality. He walked over to Jongho and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Look at me," Hongjoong commanded.

Jongho lifted his head, his vision blurred.

"This is not your fault," Hongjoong said, emphasizing every word. "And this is not a part of the job that you have to accept. Do you understand me?"

"But the fans—"

"Those aren't fans," Hongjoong interrupted. "Fans respect you. Fans want to hear you sing. People who do this... they are losing sight of your humanity. And we are not going to let them take it from you."

By now, the muffled sounds of the other members had quieted in the hallway. A soft knock came at the door.

"Is everything okay in there?" It was Yeosang’s voice, quiet and hesitant.

Hongjoong looked at Jongho, an unvoiced question in his eyes. *Do you want them here?*

Jongho swallowed hard. He felt a strange mixture of shame and a desperate need for the walls of the dorm to feel safe again. He nodded slowly.

Hongjoong opened the door. One by one, the rest of Ateez filed in. The small bedroom suddenly felt very crowded, but for the first time that night, the air didn't feel heavy. It felt protective.

San was the first to see the phone, which Hongjoong had placed face-down on the dresser. He didn't need to see the screen to understand the atmosphere. He walked straight to Jongho and wrapped him in a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"I saw some of it," San whispered into his hair. "I didn't know it had gotten this bad. I’m so sorry, Jongho-yah. I should have been looking out for you."

"It’s not your job to police the internet, San," Mingi said, leaning against the wall, though his usual playful demeanor was gone, replaced by a somber shadow. "But it is our job to make sure Jongho feels safe here."

Wooyoung sat on the floor at Jongho’s feet, looking up at him with uncharacteristic seriousness. "We’re going to talk to the company tomorrow. All of us. Together. They need to start monitoring the fan cafes more strictly. They need to start taking legal action against the accounts that are crossing the line."

"Will that even work?" Jongho asked, his voice shaking. "There are so many of them."

"Then we’ll fight so many of them," Wooyoung said firmly. "You’re our youngest. You’re supposed to be worrying about your high notes and whether or not you can break an apple with your bare hands. You shouldn't be worrying about... about this."

Jongho looked around the room. He saw the anger in Seonghwa’s eyes, the determination in Hongjoong’s, and the raw, protective love in the faces of the others. For weeks, he had felt like he was standing on a stage with a spotlight so bright it was burning his skin, while thousands of invisible eyes watched him from the dark. He had felt small, objectified, and utterly alone.

But looking at his members, the spotlight felt further away.

"I felt like I couldn't say anything," Jongho admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I thought if I complained, I’d look weak. Or like I wasn't grateful for the attention."

"Attention is not the same as respect," Yeosang said, stepping forward to sit on the other side of Jongho. "You deserve respect, Jongho. Not just as an idol, but as a person. Especially since you’re still growing up. You shouldn't have to see those things."

Seonghwa sat back down on the bed, taking Jongho’s hand in his. His palm was warm and solid. "From now on, if you see something that makes you uncomfortable, you tell us immediately. Don't sit in the dark with it. Don't let it fester."

"We’re a team for a reason," Hongjoong added, standing at the foot of the bed like a sentinel. "That means we share the wins, but it also means we shoulder the garbage together. You don't carry this by yourself anymore."

Jongho took a long, shaky breath. The knot in his stomach didn't disappear entirely—the internet was still out there, and the comments were still being typed—but the walls of the room felt thicker now. The air felt cleaner.

"Thank you," Jongho said, and this time, his voice didn't crack. "I... I think I’m actually hungry now."

The tension broke like a snapped string.

"Finally!" Wooyoung groaned, jumping to his feet and pulling Jongho up with him. "Mingi was about to eat your portion of the ramen, and I was honestly too tired to stop him."

"I was not!" Mingi protested, though his sheepish grin suggested otherwise.

As the members shuffled back toward the kitchen, bickering and bumping shoulders, Hongjoong stayed behind for a second. He picked up Jongho’s phone and handed it back to him.

"Delete the app for tonight," Hongjoong said softly. "Just for tonight. Focus on the people who are actually in the room with you."

Jongho looked at the device. He didn't just delete the app; he powered the phone off entirely. The screen went black, and for the first time in days, he didn't care what was happening on the other side of the glass.

"Okay, Hyung," Jongho said.

He followed Hongjoong into the kitchen, where the smell of soup and the sound of his brothers’ voices waited to pull him back into the world where he was more than just an image. He was Jongho. He was loved. And he was safe.