005

Ji Yong's POV — MOTTE Tour 

The lights were already dimming.

Someone was adjusting my in-ear mic. Another fixing the fall of my jacket collar. Staff buzzed around me like fireflies — quick, flickering, invisible unless you stared.

The crowd was roaring on the other side of the curtain. I could feel the vibrations in my bones. That warm, electric pulse of being G-Dragon. Of being someone.

I should've felt powerful.I should've been shaking from adrenaline, from excitement.

But instead, I was cold.

Because twenty minutes before I was supposed to walk out, I saw the cluster.

Three staff members. Manager-nim. Two hair stylists. One of the Japanese coordinators who never looked worried — and they were all huddled behind the lighting rig, faces pale, voices low, phones clenched like weapons.

I caught the words:

"...confirmed positive...""...news is already out...""...T.O.P..."

I didn't move.

Just stared long enough that one of them looked up, made eye contact with me, and immediately turned away.

Like I was a kid who wasn't supposed to see.

Like I was a porcelain doll someone had cracked and was trying to glue back before the show started.

"Ji Yong-hyung," someone called. "We're ready."

I nodded.Didn't say a word.Let them shove the mic into my hands and guide me to the platform like a puppet.

But my thoughts weren't with the crowd.

They were with him.

I don't remember the first three songs.I don't remember the screams.I don't remember the fireworks or the camera cranes or the thousands of pink lightsticks shaking like hearts on fire.

All I remember is trying not to fall apart every time I turned my head to where he should have been watching.

"You okay?" Taeyang had asked during the quick-change.I nodded.He frowned.

I didn't tell him my chest was tight.That I'd forgotten how to breathe without it hurting.

I didn't tell him that every time I blinked, I saw his name in headlines.That my knees were going soft.

That I wanted to throw the mic into the floor and run — just run.

But I kept singing.

Because that's what Ken does.

He smiles. Performs. Complements Barbie's shine — even if Barbie's not on stage anymore.

It wasn't until after the encore that it hit me.

I was in the elevator, still sweating through the second costume, the back of my neck damp, my heart pounding.

The doors closed.

Taeyang was on my right. Daesung on my left.We were silent.

And then it all blurred.

The lights in the elevator bled into white streaks.My ears rang.The floor shifted beneath me.

Then darkness.

I didn't faint completely.More like... crumbled.

My knees buckled. My hands hit the metal railing. I sank to the floor like my body had finally gotten permission to stop pretending.

"Ji Yong!"Taeyang caught my arm.Daesung crouched beside me.

"I'm fine," I mumbled.

"You're not."

"I said I'm fine," I snapped.

Silence. The elevator kept moving.Beneath us: hundreds of fans.Above us: hotel rooms and headlines.

They got me to my suite.I dropped onto the bed face-first, not bothering to change.I didn't even untie my shoes.

They stood by the door, unsure if they should stay.

Then I asked.

Voice low. Eyes still on the pillow.

"Earlier, backstage... the staff. They were crowded. Whispers. Tense."

No one answered right away.

"Do you know what they were talking about?"

More silence.

Then Daesung said quietly, like a question he didn't want to ask:

"You didn't check your phone yet, did you?"

I shook my head.

"Ji..."

Taeyang sighed. Stepped forward. Sat on the edge of the bed.

"It's Seunghyun."

My heart stopped.

"The test results came back. Positive. Marijuana."

I turned my face toward the window.

"And?"

"...He's in the hospital. They say it was an overdose. Sleeping pills. He tried to..."

I didn't move.Didn't speak.Didn't blink.

Because if I did, the tears would fall.And I wasn't sure I could stop them this time.

Taeyang placed a hand on my back. Gentle.Familiar.But it wasn't the hand I wanted.

"We didn't want to tell you before the show. You had enough pressure already."

I nodded, once.

They waited a moment longer.

When I didn't speak again, they left.

Alone, I rolled onto my back.

My chest was burning.

The lights outside blinked like camera flashes.The noise of the city was drowned by the louder noise in my own head.

I picked up my phone. Opened the browser.

Searched his name.

Saw the photos.The headlines."BIGBANG's T.O.P Tests Positive for Drug Use, Hospitalized After Suspected Overdose.""Fans in Shock as Idol's Condition Remains Uncertain.""YG Entertainment Releases Statement."

No statement from me, though.

Because I wasn't a person tonight.I was a product. A performer.

And now, I was a man in a hotel room trying not to scream.

I pressed my fingers to my lips.

Imagined his hand in mine.

Whispered to the empty room:

"Why didn't you call me?"

I don't remember falling asleep.I remember lying in bed fully dressed.Shoes still on. Jacket bunched under my shoulder blades. The weight of his name pressed into the center of my chest.

Then — nothing.

Blackout sleep.The kind that drags you under like a rip current. No dreams. No air.

Until—

Suddenly I was screaming.

I woke up with a jolt, breath ragged, drenched in sweat.The ceiling above me spun like it had something to say.My hands were shaking.

The echo of it still lingered in my ears.

His name.

I'd screamed his name.

I fumbled for my phone, throat tight, fingers stiff. 3:07 a.m.Three missed calls from the stylist. Two from the label. None from him.

My heart pounded so hard I thought I might actually throw up.

I opened our last conversation —the one from months ago.He'd sent me a photo of some blurry ceiling and said:"My ceiling says you're annoying."

And I had replied:"Tell it to fight me."

I stared at it.

And then I hit the call button.

Call failed. Number unavailable.

My blood went cold.

I tried again.

Call failed.

I switched to voice message.

Pressed record.

My voice cracked.

"Hey... are you okay?"

Delete.

Pressed record again.

"Seunghyun. Please. I need to know you're—fuck, I just—I need you to pick up. Just say something. Say you're fine. Lie to me, I don't care."

Send.

Record again.

"You didn't call me. You didn't fucking call me. Why didn't you? I would've—fuck, I would've stopped the concert. I would've walked off stage and come to you. Don't you get that?"

Send.

Again.

"You stupid idiot. I don't care about the press. I don't care what the fuck people say. You could've died and I wouldn't have even known—"

His name caught in my throat. I pressed my forehead to my knee.

Pressed record again.

"You're my Huyng."

Delete.

Record.

"You're my fucking everything, and you didn't think that maybe I deserved a chance to hold you when it got bad?"

Send.

I sent six more that night. I don't remember all of them.I do remember the last one. The one where I was crying too hard to speak, and I just breathed into the phone like a kid lost in a supermarket.

Then the beep.

Then the silence.

I collapsed onto the floor, back against the hotel bed.My chest still heaved. My face was hot.

And I whispered, like a prayer, like a threat:

"Please don't leave me."

*I didnt have the banner on my phone so here this should work hahaha*

This is the last for the day. And maybe Ill take some more time that usually for the next chapter, its going to be Seunghyuns pov again, and, well, quite hard topic for me, so sorry !

I hope you guys liiiiked this and for more dont forget to vote and commenttt