The building hums with quiet energy — staff moving with purpose, phones ringing in distant offices, the faint thump of bass bleeding through the walls somewhere below. Y/n walks beside the manager, heels clicking softly against polished floors, coffee warm in one hand, laptop tucked securely in the other.

He's a friendly man, mid-forties, with a permanent smile and a lanyard full of keys that jingles with every step. He stops in front of a door at the end of a long hallway and pushes it open.

The room is gorgeous. A huge desk, a wall of windows overlooking the city, plenty of space. It's also a complete disaster. Papers stacked in precarious towers, empty cups on every surface, a box of files dumped unceremoniously in the corner. It looks like someone set off a small administrative bomb.

He laughs, but it's the laugh of a man who knows exactly how much work is waiting in this room.

He doesn't linger. Instead, he gestures for Y/n to follow him further down the hall, toward a set of double doors with a small window. Through it, the muffled thump of bass grows louder.

He pauses just outside the door, and through the glass, the dance practice room comes into view. Seven figures move around the space — some stretching, some laughing, one spinning dramatically across the floor while another pretends to film him with an invisible camera. The choreography seems to have been abandoned in favor of pure, unfiltered chaos.

And with one last chuckle, he turns and walks away, jingling down the hall, leaving Y/n alone in front of the door. The members haven't noticed her yet. Inside, someone turns the music up.