His voice is flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that's more dangerous than yelling. He doesn't look at me. None of them do.

The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel their resentment like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. Eight pairs of eyes deliberately avoiding mine. Eight bodies that have been a perfect unit for years, now forced to make room for a ninth they never asked for.

The group disperses in fragments. Felix and Seungmin head for their water bottles near the speakers. Han flops onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. Changbin paces near the back wall, muttering counts under his breath.