You

The world didn’t end with a bang, but with a sickening, hollow thud that echoed against the concrete floor of the arena’s sub-structure.

For a split second, Jongho wasn’t sure if he was still in his body. The air had been punched out of his lungs, leaving him gasping at a vacuum that wouldn't fill. Above him, the harsh, artificial glow of the stage lights bled over the edge of the platform, casting long, jagged shadows that danced to the rhythm of the muffled bass still vibrating through the floorboards. The concert was over. The fans were screaming their final goodbyes. And Jongho was lying in the dark, swallowed by the five-foot drop he hadn't seen coming.

Every nerve ending in his body screamed a different symphony of agony. His ankle—the one he’d twisted during the soundcheck and stubbornly ignored for three hours—felt like it had been struck by a sledgehammer. His ribs throbbed with a sharp, stabbing heat that made every shallow breath an ordeal.

"Get up," he whispered to himself, but the words were just a puff of air.

He tried to roll onto his side, but a white-hot flash of pain shot through his shoulder, pinning him back down to the cold dust. He closed his eyes, his eyelashes damp with the sweat of the performance and the sudden, stinging prickle of tears he refused to let fall.

This day was a curse. It had started with the heavy, panicked realization of an alarm clock missed. It had continued with a dead phone, a growling stomach, and the clumsy stumble during rehearsals that had turned his left foot into a liability. He had pushed through it all. He had hit every high note in 'Wonderland' and 'Symphony No.9' with the precision of a soldier, masking the limp, hiding the exhaustion. He had done his job.

And then, in the simple act of walking off the stage behind his members, his depth perception had failed him in the dim, strobe-lit wings. One step into nothingness, and the world had tilted.

"Jongho?"

The voice was distant, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. It was Yunho.

"Jongho-yah? Where did you go?"

Jongho tried to call out, but his throat felt like it was full of dry cotton. He heard footsteps above him—the rhythmic thumping of heavy boots on the hollow stage. They were moving away. They thought he was already in the dressing room. They thought he was ahead of them.

"Here," he finally managed, the word coming out as a broken croak. He coughed, and the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his gut. "Down... down here."

The footsteps stopped. A shadow blocked out the light from above.

"Jongho!" Hongjoong’s voice was sharp, laced with the kind of instant, piercing alarm that only a leader could project. "Oh my god, Jongho! Stay still! Don't move!"

The next few minutes were a blur of chaotic motion. He heard the frantic shouting of staff members, the heavy clatter of someone jumping down into the gap, and then there were hands—warm, trembling hands—pressing against his shoulders.

"Don't touch his neck yet," Seonghwa’s voice was uncharacteristically high, trembling with a fear he usually kept hidden behind his motherly composure. "Jongho, look at me. Can you see me?"

Jongho blinked, trying to focus on the face hovering over him. Seonghwa looked pale, his stage makeup smeared with sweat, his eyes wide and glassy.

"I'm okay," Jongho lied. The moment the words left his lips, a sharp jolt of pain in his side forced a pained hiss through his teeth.

"You are definitely not okay," Seonghwa breathed, his hands hovering over Jongho’s chest as if he wanted to hold him together but was terrified of breaking him further. "You fell five feet, Jongho-yah. You hit the concrete."

"The lights," Jongho muttered, squinting. "Too bright."

"Turn the work lights down!" Hongjoong yelled at someone out of sight. "And get the medics! Why aren't they here yet?"

The intensity of the leader's voice was grounding. Jongho felt himself being pulled back into reality, though reality was a place he currently didn't want to be. He felt the cold floor beneath him and the heat of his members surrounding him. San and Wooyoung were suddenly there too, their faces appearing in the periphery of his vision. Wooyoung looked like he was about to cry, his lower lip quivering as he clutched San’s arm.

"Did he hit his head?" San asked, his voice low and urgent.

"I don't think so," Seonghwa replied, his fingers gently probing the back of Jongho’s skull. "No blood. But he’s in shock."

"My ankle," Jongho gasped, the pain there finally overriding everything else. "It’s... it’s bad."

"We know, we know," Yunho was suddenly at his feet, his large frame cramped in the narrow space between the stage and the wall. He looked down at Jongho’s boot and winced. "It’s already swelling through the leather. We need to get this off him."

"No, wait for the medics," Hongjoong commanded, dropping to his knees beside Jongho’s head. He reached out and took Jongho’s hand, squeezing it firmly. "Jongho, look at me. Stay with me, okay? No sleeping."

"I missed the edge," Jongho said, his voice small. The humiliation was starting to set in, a cold companion to the physical pain. "I just... I didn't see it. I'm sorry."

"Are you serious right now?" Wooyoung let out a choked, watery laugh. "You’re apologizing for falling? You scared the life out of us, you brat."

"It's been a bad day," Jongho whispered, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Open your eyes," Hongjoong ordered, though his tone was softening. "I mean it, Jongho. Eyes on me."

Jongho forced his eyelids open. "Phone died. Overslept. Twisted it at soundcheck."

The silence that followed was heavy. He saw the members exchange looks of guilt and realization.

"You twisted it at soundcheck?" Seonghwa asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And you performed the whole set? Two and a half hours?"

Jongho didn't answer. He didn't have to. The grimace on his face spoke for him.

"You're the most stubborn person I've ever met," San said, though there was an undeniable note of pride and heartbreak in his voice. He reached over and brushed a stray lock of damp hair from Jongho’s forehead. "You should have told us."

"Didn't want to ruin the show," Jongho muttered.

"You're more important than the show," Hongjoong said firmly. "Always."

The medics arrived then, a flurry of neon vests and black equipment bags. The members were pushed back, though they didn't go far, huddling in a tight circle just a few feet away. Jongho felt the cold air hit his skin as they cut away his stage costume, the sharp snip of scissors echoing in the cavernous space. When they got to his boot, he couldn't help the strangled cry that escaped him.

"Easy, easy," a medic said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "We’re going to give you something for the pain, okay?"

Jongho nodded vaguely. He felt a sharp pinch in his arm, and a few moments later, the jagged edges of the world began to soften. The pain didn't disappear, but it moved away, becoming a dull roar in the distance rather than a fire in his bones.

He felt himself being lifted onto a backboard, the sensation of movement making his head spin.

"We're right here," he heard Yunho say. "We're following the ambulance."

"Wait," Jongho slurred, trying to reach out. "My phone. It's in the dressing room. It’s dead."

"I'll get it, Jongho-yah," Seonghwa promised, leaning into his line of sight. "I'll charge it for you. It’ll be ready when you wake up."

"Eat," Jongho added, his thoughts drifting. "I didn't eat."

"We'll get you whatever you want," Wooyoung vowed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Steak. Watermelon. Everything. Just get better."

As they wheeled him out through the tunnels of the arena, the cool night air hit his face, refreshing and sharp. He could hear the distant roar of the crowd outside the gates, fans waiting for their cars to leave, unaware that the youngest member was being loaded into an ambulance.

The doors hissed shut, plunging the interior into a sterile, blue-lit quiet. Hongjoong was the only one allowed in the back with him. The leader sat on a small bench, looking small and tired in his elaborate, glitter-strewn stage outfit. He looked like a fallen king, but he held Jongho’s hand with a grip like iron.

"Go to sleep, Jongho," Hongjoong said softly. "The day is finally over. We've got you now."

Jongho let out a long, shaky breath. The weight of the day—the hunger, the exhaustion, the pain, and the terrifying fall—finally seemed to settle. He wasn't on stage anymore. He didn't have to be the unbreakable main vocalist. He could just be the youngest, hurt and tired, being looked after by his big brother.

"Worst day ever," Jongho murmured, his eyes finally sliding shut for real.

"Yeah," Hongjoong replied, his voice thick with emotion. "But tomorrow’s going to be better. I’ll make sure of it."

***

The hospital was a blur of white tiles and the smell of antiseptic. Jongho drifted in and out of a drug-induced haze, vaguely aware of the sound of a cast being wrapped, the low murmur of a doctor talking to their manager, and the constant, steady presence of at least two members at his bedside at all times.

When he finally woke up properly, the sun was streaming through a thin gap in the hospital curtains. The room was quiet, save for the hum of a heart monitor and the soft snoring of someone in the chair next to him.

He turned his head slowly. It was Mingi. The tall rapper was doubled over in a cramped plastic chair, his long legs tangled awkwardly, his head resting on the edge of Jongho’s mattress. On the bedside table, Jongho’s phone sat plugged into a charger, the screen glowing with a notification that it was 100% charged. Next to it was a large container of pre-cut watermelon and a note written in Seonghwa’s neat, elegant script: *Eat when you wake up. We love you.*

Jongho felt a lump form in his throat. He shifted his leg, wincing at the heavy weight of the cast on his left foot, but the sharp, stabbing pain from the night before was gone, replaced by a dull, manageable ache.

Mingi stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He blinked at Jongho for a second before a wide, relieved grin broke across his face.

"You're awake!" Mingi scrambled to sit up, nearly knocking over the water pitcher. "Hey, guys! He's awake!"

The door burst open almost instantly. It seemed the rest of Ateez had been hovering in the hallway. They piled into the small room, a chaotic whirlwind of oversized hoodies and tired eyes.

"How do you feel?"

"Does it hurt?"

"Do you want the watermelon now?"

Jongho looked at them—his family—and for the first time in twenty-four hours, he felt the tension leave his shoulders.

"I'm hungry," he said, his voice scratchy but firm.

Wooyoung practically dove for the fruit container, stabbing a piece with a plastic fork and holding it to Jongho’s mouth. "Eat. I swear, if you ever try to perform on a twisted ankle again, I’ll break the other one myself just to keep you off the stage."

"That seems counterproductive," Jongho mumbled around a mouthful of watermelon.

"He’s back," Yeosang said with a small, relieved smile, leaning against the foot of the bed. "The sass is intact. He’s going to be fine."

Hongjoong stepped forward, placing a hand on Jongho’s shin, careful of the cast. "The doctor says no dancing for a while. You’re going to have to sit on a stool for the next few stops of the tour."

Jongho looked down at his leg and sighed. "I hate the stool."

"The stool is your friend," Seonghwa said, hovering at the head of the bed to smooth Jongho’s hair. "The stool keeps you safe from five-foot drops."

"I really am sorry," Jongho said, his voice dropping an octave. "I should have been more careful. I should have told you I was hurt earlier."

Hongjoong shook his head. "We should have noticed. We’re a team, Jongho. If one of us is struggling, we all are. We let you slip through the cracks—literally and figuratively. That’s not happening again."

Jongho looked around the room, at the eight men who had stayed up all night in a hospital waiting room, who had brought him his favorite food, who were already planning how to adjust their choreography to keep him included while he healed.

The day had been the worst. The fall had been terrifying. But as he sat there, surrounded by the people who mattered most, Jongho realized that even the worst days had a way of ending.

"Can I have another piece of watermelon?" he asked.

Wooyoung grinned, holding up the fork. "You can have the whole container, kid. You earned it."

As the members settled into the room, bickering over who got to sign his cast first and arguing about what movie they were going to make him watch, Jongho finally let himself relax. The stage would still be there when he was ready. For now, being the maknae was more than enough.