W

The fluorescent lights of the practice room were unforgiving, reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in a way that made Jongho feel like he was being watched from every possible angle. He was seventeen, a fact that seemed to slip the minds of everyone except his mother and the government officials who processed his paperwork. To the world, he was a powerhouse vocalist; to the stylists, he was a mannequin; and to a growing, vocal corner of the internet, he was something far more disturbing.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. They had been practicing "Pirate King" for four hours straight. His thighs ached, and his throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper, but the physical pain was almost a relief. It was a distraction from the buzzing in his pocket.

"Five minutes, then we go again from the second chorus," Hongjoong announced, dropping to the floor and reaching for a water bottle. The leader looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp, always scanning the members for signs of burnout.

Jongho retreated to the corner where his phone lay face-down. He knew he shouldn't look. Manager-nim had warned them about the "wild west" of social media during the debut period. *Don't search your name,* they’d said. *Focus on the fans who love the music.*

But Jongho was seventeen, and curiosity was a cruel master.

He swiped the screen awake. He didn't even have to go to a search engine; a notification from a popular fan-interaction app was already waiting. It was a tag on a post from a few minutes ago—a high-definition photo of him from their recent music show performance. He looked strong in the photo, his jaw set as he hit the high note, his leather stage outfit clinging to his frame.

He tapped the comments, expecting to see praise for his vocals.

"I wonder if he makes those sounds in other places," the first comment read, followed by a string of suggestive emojis.

"Look at those thighs. He’s built for one thing only, and it’s not singing," another user wrote.

"Is it legal if I want him to ruin me? He’s basically a man anyway."

Jongho felt a cold shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. He scrolled faster, his thumb trembling. The comments weren't just compliments on his appearance; they were graphic, detailed descriptions of what people wanted to do to him. They dissected his body with a clinical, predatory hunger. They spoke about his age as if it were a challenge, an "obstacle" that made their desires more "edgy" or "forbidden."

He was seventeen. He still had to ask permission to go to the convenience store late at night. He still slept with a stuffed animal tucked behind his pillow when he missed home.

"Jongho-ya? You okay?"

Jongho flinched, nearly dropping the phone. He looked up to see Wooyoung standing over him, a concerned frown marring his usually bright face.

"I'm fine, hyung," Jongho said, his voice cracking. He shoved the phone into his pocket, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Wooyoung tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or like you're about to throw up. Did you drink enough water?"

"Just tired," Jongho lied. He stood up too quickly, his head spinning. "I'm going to the restroom. I'll be back before the five minutes are up."

He didn't wait for an answer. He bolted out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway of the company building. He found the nearest bathroom, locked himself in a stall, and sank onto the closed toilet lid.

He pulled the phone out again. It was like a wound he couldn't stop picking. He searched his name on a different platform. The results were worse. There were "fanfictions" with titles that made his stomach turn, tags that grouped his name with words he had only ever seen in the restricted sections of the internet. They were using his face, his name, his very identity, and twisting it into a fantasy that felt like a violation.

He wasn't an idol to them. He wasn't a singer. He was a piece of meat.

A sob rose in his throat, and he choked it back, burying his face in his hands. He felt dirty. He felt like he needed to scrub his skin until it bled. Was this what debut was supposed to be? Was this the price of his dream? He had worked so hard to prove he was a serious artist, to show that his voice was his greatest asset, but all these people saw was a boy they could project their darkest impulses onto.

The bathroom door creaked open. Jongho froze, holding his breath.

"Jongho? I know you're in here," a voice said. It was Seonghwa. The eldest’s voice was soft, laced with a maternal kind of worry that usually made Jongho feel safe. Right now, it just made him feel small.

Jongho didn't move. He stared at the grout between the floor tiles.

"The others are worried," Seonghwa continued, his footsteps approaching the stall. He didn't try to force the door. He just leaned against the opposite wall. "Wooyoung said you looked pale. Talk to me, Jongho-ya."

"I'm just tired, hyung," Jongho whispered, his voice muffled by his hands.

"You're a lot of things, but you're not a good liar," Seonghwa replied gently. "Is it the comments?"

Jongho’s breath hitched. He hadn't realized the older members knew.

"We see them too," Seonghwa said, his tone turning dark and protective. "We try to report them as fast as they go up, but... the internet is a big place. I told the managers yesterday that they need to step up the monitoring."

Jongho finally unlocked the door and pushed it open. He looked up at Seonghwa, his eyes red-rimmed and wide. "Why do they say those things, hyung? I’m... I’m not even eighteen. Do they know that?"

Seonghwa’s expression crumpled. He stepped forward and pulled Jongho into a firm hug, tucking the younger boy’s head under his chin. Jongho stiffened for a second before melting into the embrace, his fingers clutching at the back of Seonghwa’s oversized hoodie.

"They know," Seonghwa said, his voice vibrating against Jongho’s temple. "That’s the part that’s hard to understand. Some people are broken, Jongho. They see something pure and talented, and they want to degrade it because it makes them feel powerful. It has nothing to do with you. It’s not your fault."

"I don't want to wear the stage outfits anymore," Jongho confessed into Seonghwa’s chest, his voice trembling. "The leather pants, the silk shirts... I feel like I'm giving them what they want. I feel like I'm inviting it."

Seonghwa pulled back, holding Jongho by the shoulders. He looked him dead in the eye. "Listen to me. You are a performer. You are an artist. When you get on that stage, you are expressing your passion. If someone chooses to take that and turn it into something disgusting, that is their sin, not yours. You are not 'inviting' anything by simply existing and doing your job."

"But it feels like they're touching me," Jongho whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek. "When I read those words, it feels like they’re right there, touching me."

Seonghwa wiped the tear away with his thumb, his jaw tight with a suppressed rage that wasn't directed at Jongho. "I know. And I am so sorry you have to deal with this so young. You should be worrying about high school exams and what flavor of ramen to buy, not this."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his own emotions. "We’re going to talk to the company again. All of us. Hongjoong is already livid. We won't let you go through this alone. And from now on, give your phone to me or Manager-nim before practice. Don't look at the tags. Let us be your shield for a while."

Jongho nodded weakly. He felt a little lighter, but the skin-crawling sensation didn't fully disappear. "Do you think it will ever stop?"

Seonghwa sighed, a weary sound. "I won't lie to you. As we get more famous, there will always be people like that. But you'll get stronger, and we'll be right there beside you. You’re our maknae, Jongho. We might tease you, but we’ll fight anyone who tries to hurt you."

A small, watery smile touched Jongho’s lips. "Even the fans?"

"If they're saying those things, they aren't fans," Seonghwa said firmly. "They're just monsters with keyboards. Now, wash your face. We have a song to finish, and I want to hear that high note loud enough to shatter the windows. Show them that your voice is the most powerful thing about you."

Jongho turned to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. He still saw the seventeen-year-old boy who was scared, but he also saw the artist who had fought through years of training to stand on a stage.

He dried his face and followed Seonghwa back to the practice room. When they entered, the music was off. The other six members were huddled in a circle, but they broke apart the moment they saw Jongho.

Hongjoong walked over first. He didn't say anything; he just squeezed Jongho’s arm, his grip firm and grounding. San and Mingi hovered nearby, offering small, supportive smiles, while Yeosang handed him a fresh bottle of water.

"We're doing a modified version of the bridge," Hongjoong said, his voice professional but his eyes soft. "Jongho, you stay center. We’re going to tighten the formation around you. It’ll look more impactful."

Jongho knew what he was really saying. *We’re closing ranks. We’re protecting you.*

"Okay," Jongho said, taking a deep breath. He walked to the center of the room, his boots clicking on the floor.

The music started—the heavy, aggressive beat of their debut track. As the first verse rolled through, Jongho focused on the movement, the rhythm, and the heat of his members surrounding him. When the bridge arrived, he planted his feet. He thought of the comments, the dark corners of the internet, and the people who tried to reduce him to an object.

He opened his mouth, and the high note didn't just come out—it exploded. It was raw, powerful, and laced with a defiance that hadn't been there that morning. It was the sound of a boy claiming his own body, his own voice, and his own right to be respected.

When the music faded out, the room was silent for a long moment.

"Damn," Wooyoung whispered, breaking the tension. "I think you just broke the sound barrier."

Jongho exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. He was still seventeen. He was still hurting. He knew that when he went back to the dorm, he would still feel the urge to check his phone, to see if the world had changed its mind about him.

But as he looked at his brothers, standing in a protective circle around him, he realized he didn't have to carry the weight of their gaze alone. He was Jongho of Ateez, and he was more than enough.

"Again," Jongho said, his voice steady. "Let's do it again."