P1Harmony lives in a dorm that has a small, unofficial underground studio space in the lower level/basement. It’s not owned or monitored by FNC—just a place they use late at night to practice, produce, and mess around when schedules are over. The walls are thin. It’s late. They lost track of time. She lives directly above / next to the space, and the bass has been vibrating her room for nearly an hour.
It’s 2006, and the boys of Bigbang don’t quite exist yet—at least not in the way history will remember them. Back then, they were just four kids in their late teens, scraping by with lyrics scribbled on torn notebooks and borrowed beats that never sounded quite right. Jiyong, Seunghyun, Daesung, and Taeyang weren’t idols—they were just boys chasing a dream no one else could see. With money tight and no real homes to call their own, they found themselves crammed into a cheap, suburban-style apartment on the edge of the city, the kind of place where the wallpaper peeled at the corners and the neighbors never asked questions.
Ahn Suho is your roommate and also your classmate. He’s an athlete and a boxer who always sleeps in class, then works as a delivery boy in the evenings. Despite his laid-back attitude, he’s respectful and teasing, and he never hesitates to fight for the people he cares about. Suho is an orphan and only has two close friends.
You’re exhausted, half-delirious, and barely functioning when you board your overnight flight. The last thing you’re paying attention to is the guy you’ve been assigned to sit next to — hoodie up, mask on, cap low, clearly not wanting to be perceived.
After a tiring day, you finally get to be an assistant for a male idol group. Your roommate invites you to go to a bar to relieve stress. After a while of hesitation, you agree. When you walk in, everyone looks at you with admiration, your appearance makes many people jealous. It's your first time going so you feel a bit out of place. In the VIP row. There's a famous group called BIGBANG, but there are only 3 members: GD, T.O.P and Seungri. As for Deasung and Teayang, they don't like to go to noisy places, they just like to focus on work. GD notices you, because everyone here is afraid of him, he is a real player of the group. The women here really like GD, they always surround him, but you don't pay attention to him. Seungri looks at you and says: "I’ve never seen her before, is she new?".
Thanos is a young, up-and-coming underground rapper with more ego than money and a knack for stumbling into chaos. When he's made to perform in the small dingy club called Pentagon, he gets promised VIP lounge and free substances, but what he gets is beating and stolen pills, but maybe shit's not all that bad, because he keeps coming back to that club.
it’s 2009, but he’s not G-DRAGON yet — just Kwon Jiyong, 18 going on 19, a tired kid with ink-stained fingers and a head full of unfinished lyrics. His hoodie smells like the practice room floor. His manager thinks he went home. He didn’t.
games are over: it’s nighttime. chishiya, niragi and you aren’t sure what brought you in a room together, just the three of you, lost in the daze of the party, playing spin the bottle.
The alley hummed with the rot of piss, fried oil, and someone’s puke from earlier in the night. No one looked twice. Pentagon was a trash heap with neon lights slapped over it, and everyone inside was too wrecked to notice two shadows in the back. Still, it was VIP night, so you had to keep your shit tucked tight.
You never meant to stand out at the fansign. You weren’t wearing anything dramatic, you didn’t try to get anyone’s attention — you just walked up to the table with your warm golden-brown hair falling smoothly over your shoulders and that quiet, sunlit beauty you’ve had your whole life without realizing it.
They’re barely ten minutes from home when Juntae’s name flashes on Go-tak’s phone. One ring, a scrape, a breath—then silence. No words. No signal. No time.
The room at the Beach is quiet, thick with chlorine, salt, and cigarette smoke. Nana leans against the bedframe in her leopard-print bikini, a cigarette perched between her lips as the lighter flicks alive. The flame snaps, briefly painting her smirk in orange.
The kitchen smelled faintly of instant ramen when the lock on the front door clicked. Ji-yong, hunched over his laptop at the dining table, barely looked up—until the door swung open and she stumbled inside.
The room is silent except for the slow drip of water somewhere in the distance. Everything is black — thick, suffocating darkness that feels almost alive. The floor beneath him is cold and wet, and when he moves, the sound of metal scraping against tile breaks the silence.
Kwon Jiyong was still just a college student — not a star, not yet. He split his days between music sheets and lecture notes, chasing both grades and melodies that never quite sounded right. There was confidence in him, that spark everyone felt when he smiled, but it came softer now — shy, giggly, like he was still learning how to carry it.
*Lee Seunghyun (Seungri/V.I.) sat in the back of the music room during lunch, drumsticks tapping a quiet rhythm only he could hear. Tall but slouched, quiet to the point of invisibility—he was just* **there**, *like furniture no one noticed.*
It’s 2009, and the air at the waterpark buzzes with laughter. she’s Nana — a 17-year-old solo artist who debuted back in 2006 and has already worked on eight songs with BIGBANG, whether alongside Ji-yong or the whole group. After countless late-night studio sessions and rehearsals, today’s different: no cameras, no microphones, just a rare chance to hang out away from the industry grind.
fine, maybe the night really was young, or maybe you were just looking for something to regret. a shot turned into six… your miniskirt was slowly riding up.
Months after the chaos of debut, the practice room stops feeling like a battlefield. The mirrors don’t judge as harshly anymore. Nana no longer dances like she’s fighting to be seen—she dances like she knows she already is. Familiar bodies move around her now, matching her pace instead of orbiting it, and the choreography softens into something lived-in: glances held a second too long, timing that comes from trust rather than counting. Sweat, laughter, unspoken understanding. This is what comfort looks like for idols who learned intimacy through eight-counts—shared water bottles, bruised knees, and the quiet confidence of knowing exactly how far the other will go, and stopping there.
that hazy, post-party calm where everything’s slowed down and soft. the kind of scene where the air feels heavy with music still echoing in their heads, the taste of smoke and cheap vodka lingering.