UNTIL THEN - Almost

Destiny rarely announces itself. It doesn’t send you a calendar invite, neatly slotted between meetings and errands. It doesn’t knock on your door with a bouquet of answers or a clear sign you’ve been waiting for.

No — destiny is subtle. It slips in unnoticed, disguised as coincidence. A missed train that makes you linger in the right place. A half-second pause where eyes meet and refuse to let go. A familiar song playing in a café in a city you’ve never been before — and suddenly, it feels like home.

It lives in the small stumbles, the fleeting overlaps, the seemingly insignificant moments that later become the cornerstones of memory. You don’t recognize it when it arrives. You can’t. Because destiny works best in disguise.

And yet — when it happens, when the thread tightens between two people meant to find each other — there’s a shift. Almost imperceptible at first, like the faint change in air before rain. A quiet current, running beneath the ordinary, whispering: something is about to change.

In that pause — in that glance, in that note, in that heartbeat — life bends. And nothing is ever quite the same again.

Some moments don’t announce themselves. They arrive quietly, disguised as coincidence — a delayed flight, a city humming at the wrong hour, a sky holding its breath. Destiny never rushes. It waits until everything is almost aligned.

People like to believe fate is loud. That it strikes like lightning. But more often, it moves like a current beneath still water — unseen, inevitable. You don’t hear it coming. You only realize it once you’re already standing inside it, wondering how every step before this one led here.

Some paths are chosen. Others are repeated — rehearsed by time, refined by doubt, tested by silence — until the moment arrives when becoming inevitable feels effortless.

That’s when destiny doesn’t knock.

It opens the door.

And just like that.

ONE FINE DAY,

when Chicago was wrapped in winter.

Mid-January had the city held tight in its grip — breath turning visible the moment they stepped out, wind cutting sharp and unapologetic between buildings. The sky sat low and pale, clouds stretched thin like brushed chalk across steel-blue air.

Five figures moved together, not in formation, but in familiarity.

At the front was Yoo Shin— the leader. Calm, grounded, carrying authority that never needed to announce itself. He didn’t command FYB; he anchored it. When things grew loud, his presence brought order. When pressure mounted, he absorbed it quietly.

Beside him walked Kim Jae. Thoughtful, sharp-eyed, always a step ahead. He noticed shifts before they became cracks, steadied situations before they tilted. Experience sat easily on him — never heavy, never performative.

Kang Wook, who carried strength in stillness. Reliable to the core, the kind of presence that didn’t draw attention but earned trust. When chaos threatened, Kang Wook was the balance — unshakeable, constant.

Then there was Lee Rim— unmistakably Lee Rim. Charm threaded effortlessly into his movements, humour cutting through tension like instinct. He was ease personified, the bridge between intensity and warmth, the one who reminded everyone to breathe.

At the very centre of that storm was Lee Yeong — Lee Y to the world. The youngest of them all. nationally and Internationally adored. Revered by his fans, loved by his teammates, and impossible to ignore.

His voice was velvet dipped in honey, the kind that melted through language barriers with effortless ease. Heart-warming yet devastatingly tender, it left people breathless, like they had been seen by someone who shouldn’t even know they existed. His charm didn’t demand attention, it simply held it. A smile from him could transform a bad day into your best one. A tilt of his head, a sparkle in his gaze — and you were undone.

But beyond the stage persona was something far more magnetic. Lee Y was unpredictable — constantly chasing new challenges, forever curious. He wasn’t just content with being loved; he wanted to learn, to grow, to stretch himself into places even he hadn’t imagined yet. To fans, that made him inspiring. To his teammates, that made him irreplaceable.

And yet... for all the dazzling light he radiated, there was a truth he never confessed. Behind the flawless performances, behind the flashing cameras and endless smiles, something within him was quietly fraying. His natural ease — the passion that once drove him effortlessly — now demanded effort. What used to be instinct now felt like routine. Applause thundered around him, but deep inside, he heard an ache louder than the cheers.

He was unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And no one seemed to notice.

Five individuals.Five rhythms.

Together, they wereFYB— FURY YOUTH BAND. not loud by accident, not powerful by chance, but unified by understanding.

Their company,HYMN, was no ordinary label either. Built on vision rather than trend, it had shaped FYB not only as performers, but as storytellers. Long before fame arrived, the director had insisted every member master English, preparing them for a stage far larger than Korea. People called it foresight. Fans called it destiny.

And now, destiny had it’s own way of shaping stories.

This was work — a commercial shoot, schedules packed tight, days planned to the minute.But standing there, wrapped in winter layers and unfamiliar streets, it felt like the pause before something began.

Chicago waited.

And FYB stepped forward, leaving footprints in fresh snow — temporary, fleeting, but unmistakably real.

And Just hours before touchdown at the Chicago airport, HYMN had dropped a single sentence across every screen, every platform, every waiting timeline:

Something is in the making. It’s almost on the way.

No track list. No date. No explanation.

Just a sentence — heavy with implication.

Fans dissected it instantly. Almost what? Almost love? Almost freedom? Almost true? Almost all of them? Theories ignited faster than the engines cooling on the runway. One verse per song, rumoured whispers said. One glimpse at a time. months of waiting. A promise of incompletion.

it wasn’t just a sentence. It was a state of being. A hope.

The climb to this moment had been long — lined with scepticism, quiet struggles, and nights where belief had to be built before it could be shared. But now? Their songs didn’t merely chart. They defined the charts. Group anthems. Solo ventures. Collaborations that bent genres and borders alike. Everything FYB touched reverberated outward, global and undeniable.

So their arrival in Chicago wasn’t merely noticed.

It echoed.

Billboards glowed with their faces. Flashing cameras painted the air. Paparazzi surged forward. Fans screamed themselves hoarse. It was chaos. It was worship. It was love in its loudest form.

And somewhere between the noise and the lights, between almost and everything that was about to follow, FYB stepped forward — fully aware that the world was already holding its breath.

After all shoots, finishing busy schedules they were busy working on the next album in their hotel suite, Lee Yeong sat hunched over his journal, the lamp casting a lonely glow across the pages. Scribbled lines of lyrics filled the notebook — some half-finished, others crossed out in frustration. They looked alive on paper, but to him they were lifeless. His pen rested between his fingers, unmoving, as if even words had abandoned him.

His fingers hovered over the page, tracing fragments of songs that no longer spoke to him. His body was in the room, but his soul wandered elsewhere.

“You’re quiet,” came a voice from behind.

Lee Rim.

The charmer of Fury Youth Band — all sharp jawlines, stage magnetism, and that uncanny, almost psychic ability to read Yeong like no one else could. He leaned casually against the doorframe, but his eyes, steady and knowing, were sharper than his posture suggested.

“Just tired,” Yeong murmured, his voice low, heavy.

“Of?” Rim asked lightly. But the question wasn’t light at all. He already knew.

Yeong let out a long sigh, shoulders sinking as though the air itself had weight. “Of pretending, maybe. Of sounding the same. Of...” He hesitated, then exhaled. “Not feeling anything when I sing anymore. It’s like—” His voice cracked, barely. “—the spark is gone. I can hear my voice. But I can’t feel it.”

The room stayed quiet.

“Maybe I just need a break.”

Rim didn’t rush to fill the silence. He stepped inside, and pulled out a chair, turning it backward before sitting.

“You know the fans have been waiting,” he said gently. “The company’s been breathing down our necks too. Another album delay and they’ll start panicking.”

Yeong nodded. “I know. That’s what makes it worse.”

The door opened again.

Yoo Shin walked in, phone in hand, brow furrowed.“I heard ‘break’ and my stress level spiked,” he said dryly. “What’s happening?”

Kim Jae followed, coffee cup in hand. Kang Wook trailed behind him, a towel slung around his neck from practice.

Yeong looked up at them, suddenly unsure how to say it again.

Rim spoke for him.

"He's burnt out."

Yoo Shin sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fair enough. Anyone would be." He glanced at Yeong. "But we've already given our word to the company. I still need to work on the album theme tonight."

Kim Jae nodded.

"Same. I've been reworking the lyrics since afternoon."

Kang Wook added, softer, "Choreo revisions too. We can't stop everything."

Yeong listened, absorbing it all. No resentment. No anger. Just reality.

"Understandable," he said quietly. "And I'm not even asking you all to stop. I'm just -"