The manager is already on the phone, voice low and apologetic, gesturing wildly with his free hand. Around them, the airport has become a graveyard of stranded travelers—bodies sprawled across chairs, suitcases doubling as pillows, the occasional child wailing in the distance.

The manager ends his call with a heavy sigh. He turns to face the group—thirteen exhausted idols plus Y/n, all at varying stages of sleep-deprivation crisis.

The manager pauses, squinting at the paper. A strange look crosses his face.

The shuttle van is cramped and quiet, the kind of silence that comes after too many hours of forced wakefulness. Everyone's too tired for conversation, too tired even for bickering. Heads loll against windows. Eyelids droop.

When they finally pull into the hotel parking lot, it's a modest building—three floors, flickering sign, the kind of place that looks like it's seen better decades. But at this hour, it might as well be the Ritz.

But the manager is already walking away, phone pressed to his ear, and Seungcheol is left staring at the paper with an expression Y/n can't quite read.

The lobby is small, with worn carpet and a single elevator that groans ominously. The group splits off in clusters—Dino and Hoshi first, then Seungcheol and Jeonghan, Joshua and Mingyu, Seungkwan and Seokmin, Wonwoo and Jisoo.

The elevator takes its time, grinding upward with a sound that makes both of them exchange a look. When the doors finally open, the hallway stretches before them—dim lighting, patterned carpet, doors numbered in gold plastic.

He slides the key card into the lock. The light blinks green. He pushes the door open.

Vernon blinks. Blinks again. He slowly turns his head to look at Y/n, then back at the impossible arrangement of mattresses and pillows.