S

The LED screens of the studio were no longer his friends. For years, Hongjoong had treated them as windows into his soul, the digital canvas where he painted the melodies that defined Ateez. But lately, the windows had become frosted. The sharp, neon lines of the MIDI tracks were blurring into neon smears, and the lyrics he was trying to polish looked like a colony of ants scurrying across a white field.

He blinked, hard. He rubbed his knuckles into his eye sockets until he saw stars, hoping that when he opened them, the world would snap back into focus. It didn't. The clock on the wall was a beige circle with two dark sticks pointing vaguely toward the number three. Or was it the four?

"Hyung, you've been staring at that same bar for twenty minutes."

Hongjoong flinched, his shoulders hitting his ears. He hadn't heard the door open. He didn't need to see clearly to know it was Yunho; the height and the gentle, steady vibration of his voice were unmistakable.

"I’m just thinking about the layering," Hongjoong lied, his voice raspy from lack of use. He leaned closer to the monitor, his nose nearly touching the glass. "The percussion feels... thin."

Yunho walked further into the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He stopped behind Hongjoong’s chair, leaning down to look at the screen. "The percussion isn't even on the screen, Joong. That’s the vocal arrangement."

Hongjoong froze. His heart did a nervous little dance against his ribs. He squinted, trying to discern the blue blocks of audio. Now that Yunho mentioned it, they did look like the vocal takes. He laughed, a dry, forced sound. "Right. I swung over to the vocals to check the harmonies. My head is just a bit foggy."

"Your head is foggy, or your eyes are?" Yunho asked. There was no teasing in his tone, only that terrifyingly perceptive kindness that made it impossible to keep up a front.

"I'm just tired," Hongjoong insisted, turning his chair around. He tried to look Yunho in the eye, but he couldn't quite find them. He settled for looking at the bridge of Yunho’s nose, or at least the blurry area where he assumed it was. "We’ve been practicing the choreography for ten hours a day. Anyone would have a bit of eye strain."

Yunho didn't move. He reached out, his hand hovering near Hongjoong’s face before gently tapping the bridge of the leader's nose. "You’re squinting at me right now. I’m standing three feet away, and you’re looking at me like I’m a difficult math equation."

"I'm not squinting," Hongjoong snapped, immediately regretting the edge in his voice. He sighed, deflating into his ergonomic chair. "Okay, maybe things are a little... soft around the edges."

"Soft around the edges?" Yunho echoed, a small, worried smile tugging at his lips. "Joong, you almost walked into a pillar in the hallway this morning. Wooyoung thought you were joking, but I saw your face. You genuinely didn't see it until you were an inch away."

Hongjoong looked down at his lap. His hands were pale against his black denim jeans. Even his own fingers looked slightly out of focus. It was a terrifying realization he had been pushing into the back of his mind for months. He was the captain. He was the one who was supposed to see the path ahead, to guide the others through the fog of the industry. How could he lead them if he couldn't even see the monitor in front of him?

"It happened so fast," Hongjoong whispered, the honesty finally breaking through. "One month it was just a bit of trouble reading the teleprompter at music shows. The next, I’m getting headaches every time I try to write. I thought if I just rested, it would go away."

Yunho sighed and pulled up a spare stool, sitting so he was eye-level with his leader. "Eyes don't usually fix themselves with a nap, hyung. You need to go to the doctor. You probably just need glasses."

"Glasses," Hongjoong repeated, the word feeling heavy. "I can't wear glasses on stage. The choreo is too intense. They’ll fly off and hit San in the face."

"Contacts exist," Yunho pointed out. "But for the studio? For the dorm? You need to see. You're going to give yourself a permanent migraine if you keep living in a watercolor painting."

Hongjoong didn't argue. He didn't have the energy left to fight the truth. "Fine. But don't tell the others yet. I don't want them worrying about me being... defective."

Yunho’s expression softened into something pained. "You’re not defective. You’re human. And I’m telling the manager to book you an appointment for tomorrow morning. No excuses."

***

The eye clinic was too bright. The white walls and clinical lighting felt like an assault on Hongjoong’s already strained senses. He sat in the chair, chin resting on the plastic guard of the phoropter, while a soft-spoken doctor clicked lenses into place.

"Is it better like this?" *Click.* "Or like this?" *Click.*

"The second one," Hongjoong muttered.

Suddenly, the world exploded into terrifyingly sharp detail. Hongjoong gasped, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. For the first time in months, the chart on the far wall wasn't a white blur; it was a series of distinct, black letters. He could see the texture of the paint on the wall. He could see the tiny scratches on the doctor’s desk.

"Oh," he breathed. "I... I forgot it was supposed to look like that."

The doctor chuckled softly, noting something down on a clipboard. "Your prescription has dropped significantly, Mr. Kim. It’s likely a combination of genetics and extreme digital eye strain. You’ve been overworking your ciliary muscles to compensate, which is why you’ve been having those headaches."

"So, I'm stuck with this?" Hongjoong asked, gesturing to the machine.

"You need corrective lenses, yes. I’ll provide a prescription for contacts for your performances, but I strongly recommend high-quality glasses for your production work. Your eyes need the break."

Selecting the frames felt like a monumental task. Hongjoong stood in front of a mirror, trying on pair after pair while his manager waited patiently by the door. He felt exposed. Glasses felt like a mask he hadn't asked for. Eventually, he settled on a pair of sleek, thin-rimmed black frames. They were professional but had a bit of an artistic edge—something that felt like 'Hongjoong.'

When he walked out of the clinic and into the afternoon sun, he nearly tripped on the curb. Not because he couldn't see it, but because he saw it too clearly. The world was high-definition, and it was overwhelming.

***

He tried to sneak back into the dorm unnoticed, hiding the optical shop bag under his coat. He just wanted to get to his room, put the glasses on in private, and get used to the way his face looked in the mirror.

Naturally, the universe had other plans.

The entire 99-line was sprawled across the living room floor, surrounded by takeout containers and a chaotic map of Mario Kart on the TV.

"Hyung’s back!" Wooyoung chirped, not looking away from the screen as he drifted around a corner. "Did you get the stuff?"

"What stuff?" Hongjoong asked, trying to edge toward the hallway.

"The snacks! You said you’d stop by the convenience store," Yeosang said, finally looking up. He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Wait. What are you holding?"

Hongjoong stopped. He felt like a deer in headlights. Or rather, a deer who could finally see the headlights with perfect clarity. "Nothing."

Mingi stood up, his long limbs unfolding like a lawn chair. "That’s a bag from the eye clinic. Yunho told us you were going."

Hongjoong cursed under his breath. Yunho and his big, caring heart. "He wasn't supposed to say anything."

"Why not?" San asked, popping his head out from the kitchen. "Are you okay? Is it something serious?"

The genuine worry in San’s voice broke Hongjoong’s resolve. He sighed, pulling the black case out of the bag. "No, it’s not serious. I just... I can't see. At all. The doctor said my eyesight is pretty bad."

"Let’s see them!" Wooyoung abandoned his controller, scrambling to his feet. "Show us the spectacles, Captain!"

Hongjoong felt his cheeks flush. He slowly opened the case and pulled out the glasses. With a hesitant motion, he slid them onto the bridge of his nose and hooked the arms behind his ears.

The living room snapped into focus. He could see the individual crumbs on the rug, the stray threads on Mingi’s sweater, and the wide-eyed expressions of his members.

Silence descended over the room. Hongjoong fidgeted, his hand going up to push the bridge of the glasses up. "What? Do I look like a nerd? Just say it."

Wooyoung was the first to react. He let out a long, low whistle. "Whoa. Hyung looks like a CEO. Or a very expensive professor."

"It suits you," Yeosang added, nodding approvingly. "It makes your eyes look bigger. You look... sharp."

Mingi walked closer, leaning down to peer through the lenses. "Woah, everything is so tiny through these! How did you even walk around without them?"

"I walked into walls, Mingi. That was the problem," Hongjoong said, though he couldn't help the small smile growing on his face. The weight of the frames was light, but the relief of not having to strain was heavy and sweet.

"Can I try them on?" Wooyoung reached out, but Hongjoong swiped his hand away.

"No! You’ll smudge them. Do you know how hard it is to keep these clean? I’ve had them for ten minutes and I’m already paranoid."

San came over and draped an arm around Hongjoong’s shoulders, squeezing tightly. "I'm glad you got them, hyung. We were worried. You’ve been looking so tired lately, always rubbing your eyes."

"I didn't realize how much it was affecting me," Hongjoong admitted. He looked around the room, truly seeing his friends' faces—the small moles, the sparkle in their eyes, the familiar messy reality of their shared life. "Everything is so bright."

"That’s because you’re looking at us," Wooyoung joked, striking a pose.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, but the movement felt different now. He could see Wooyoung’s ridiculous expression in perfect detail, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he was fighting through a curtain of fog.

Later that night, Hongjoong sat back at his desk in the studio. He had the glasses perched on his nose, the blue-light filter on the lenses giving the monitor a slightly warmer hue. He pulled up the track he had been struggling with earlier.

He didn't squint. He didn't lean forward until his forehead touched the plastic. He just sat back, his spine straight, and watched the cursor glide across the screen. The notes were clear. The path was visible.

He reached out and adjusted the volume, a sense of peace washing over him. He was still the captain. He still had the vision. He just needed a little bit of glass to help him see the beauty in the details.

The door opened quietly, and a cup of coffee was placed on the coaster beside his keyboard. Hongjoong didn't even have to look up to see who it was; the clarity of the reflection in his peripheral vision told him everything.

"Thanks, Yunho," Hongjoong said.

"You're welcome, Joong," Yunho replied, smiling as he noticed the way Hongjoong was working—relaxed, focused, and finally, truly seeing. "Don't stay up too late. You’ve got a lot of new things to look at tomorrow."

Hongjoong smiled, the frames of his glasses catching the light. "I think I’ll be just fine."