A world of lights and fantasy was contained within a screen of barely twenty inches—a universe of LED lights flashing in electric blues and ruby reds, surrounded by artificial smoke that smelled of sweet chemicals even through the screen.
With the deafening roar of thousands of souls gathered, chanting a name like a religious mantra in unison: NEON7! NEON7!
On stage, behind that opaque gray, seven figures took their places, each a planet in a choreographed rotation, bathed in the scorching heat of the spotlights that turned every drop of sweat into diamonds under the lights.
An omniscient narrator might describe the scene as a cosmic chimera, but my eye was different: a perfect composition, I had to admit.
The song—an anthem about joy and gratitude for the small things in life, especially in a context of a pandemic where gatherings and social activities were limited—reached its bridge. The main spotlight, a beam of warm golden light, landed in the center, behind Vhy.
His voice, warm as a blanket and flawless, rose above the instrumentation like steam. Every gesture was perfect: the way he tilted his head to the left, how his eyes closed for exactly two seconds during the most emotional parts, the way his right hand moved to his heart at the precise moment of the climax.
"He shone just like a sun."
Beside him, Jhin, the group's Mercury, took the second vocal part. His tone, more emotional and expressive, was almost as syrupy as honey pouring over velvet. He had this tic of biting his lower lip slightly before looking at the cameras or the fans.
Then, the melody shattered as if someone had slammed glass against their fist. Mars had arrived, and with a raw, heavy beat, he took control. DM stepped forward with strides that made the stage tremble. He was brute force—the thunder you feel in your chest before you hear it.
His rap was sharp as a razor, with the cadence and aggression of the purest American hip-hop. He didn't dance; he moved, with a powerful and aggressive body language that used every muscle. His arms sliced through the air like swords, his posture expanding to fill all available space, giving physical weight to every rhyme. He was an Eminem born in Seoul, but with the technical precision that only the Korean industry could polish.
Immediately, the rhythm became more complex, more technical, like a musical puzzle, and Neptune took the lead. His style was the perfect antithesis to DM; where one was wild fire, Shugar was a controlled flame.
He was the architect of rhythm and aesthetics, every word placed with the precision of a surgeon. His rap was commercially perfect, with rhymes that fit like pieces of a Swiss mechanism and notes that glided smoothly from one to another. He was the ideal of Korean rap: flawless, addictive, and designed to stay stuck in your head for days.
When the rappers left the front of the stage, K-Sey and J-Min took control. Their voices harmonized, as if saying to your heart: With us, you are never alone.
Their dance wasn't just a performance of perfect mirrors; it was a theatrical choreography, calculated for maximum impact. While the warmer voice pleaded for presence, the more logical voice knew the danger of doing so.
And in an instant, the music faded almost completely, leaving only a single synthesizer note suspended in the air like the silence before a snowstorm.
A single ice-blue spotlight, cold and piercing, illuminated... Saturn?
If Vhy was the sun, Zen was the vacuum of deep space. His voice emerged—thick, deep, a dark velvet that seemed to vibrate directly in the chest of whoever listened. He didn't sing; he delivered a sentence. His lyrics, piercing and melancholic, filled the stadium not with volume, but with emotional weight. He was the only voice capable of standing out in absolute silence, the only one capable of eclipsing the sun at high noon.
Every time I blinked, in that fragment of time, I felt like I was losing years of his enchantment.
And there was something else about Zen, something my photographic eye caught but couldn't fully define. While the others seemed like planets, he seemed to be... existing.
The roar of the stadium on the screen was replaced by my mother's excited scream—a woman in her late forties waving an official NEON7 lightstick with more energy than any teenager I knew.
"That's my Zen! Oh, freeze me instead, my love!" she exclaimed, eyes glued to the TV as if she could absorb him through her retinas. She was wearing a t-shirt with "N7" in golden letters that faded into pinks.
I sighed from my corner of the sofa, clutching the warmth of my mug of instant hot chocolate.
"Did you see that, honey?" my mother cried, hand to her chest. "Vhy's gaze! It went straight to my soul!"
"Mmh," I murmured, taking refuge in my chocolate. "Effective."
"Effective? It's pure natural talent! And Jhin's little eyes! That boy will be the death of me!"
I wanted to explain to her that what she saw as spontaneous was the product of countless hours of practice, like a canvas perfected stroke by stroke. I admired the beauty it could reach.
"Don't you think K-Sey looks thinner?" she continued, leaning toward the screen. "I hope he's eating well."
"Mom, they are practically strangers to us," I reminded her, knowing it was useless.
"To me, they're like sons! Especially Ye-Zen! Look at that face; it's so pretty I want to keep it on a pedestal!"
And then, when Zen's voice filled our small living room, something changed. Even I, with all my critical distance, felt a shiver. His voice had a quality that broke the perfect mold—an honesty that contrasted with the group's polished facade. It was like finding an unretouched photograph in a model catalog.
I listened to the lyrics carefully. For a moment, I forgot I was analyzing and simply... felt.
"I asked to see you one more time, but I closed the door without looking back. I wanted to keep the world just for me, and I lost every hug I didn't give you. The laughter we let escape, the moments I didn't know how to value. Every meeting was a goodbye, and I won't accept it until I scream it to you. And although I want to believe again, to be by your side and smile once more. I admit that it still hurts to love, and the thought of losing you again... My wishes have been lost along with your photo... through an arrogant longing to have it all."
For some unsettling reason, the lyrics felt personal.
"Take care of your dreams, Sur," I remembered, seeing that cilantro between his fingers.
"They are incredible!" my mother exclaimed, with genuine tears.
I think she felt it too; that's the magic of NEON7—making you feel unique.
"I understand you a bit more now, Mom."
A smile widened across her lips, and she began searching for the remote. "I'm going to replay it. You have to see when Jhin hits that high note!"
I looked at the clock on the wall—a cheap one we bought at the market that ran five minutes slow every week. Seven-thirty. Time had flown by, lost in the technical analysis of a performance that, I grudgingly admitted, was objectively impressive.
"Mom, I'm going to be late," I said, getting up and leaving the mug in the sink that always had a pile of dishes.
"But, honey, the interview is next! Jhin is sure to say something adorable about his family! And Zen always gives such deep answers!"
Clenching my jaw: "I have to check some photos before class," I lied, putting on my red jacket.
The truth was, I couldn't stand watching the interviews. I hate it when important people ask me questions directly; I still remember how I froze when I won the photography contest and the presenter asked me everything down to what I had for lunch last month.
Seeing these boys answer questions with practiced smiles and responses that sounded like they'd been written by a PR committee made my stomach turn. The dissonance between the stage beasts I had just seen and the perfect-smile boys who would answer vapid questions about their favorite apps and beauty routines was too great.
"Alright, my love," my mother said, already rewinding the performance. "But when you get home, we're watching the interview together. Zen mentioned he likes photography!"
I gave her a kiss on the cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of our only shampoo, as I left the apartment. The cold morning air hit me like a slap—a shock that pulled me out of the fantasy world NEON7 created and returned me to my reality.
As I walked toward the train stop, observing the world through my mental lens... "Everything as a potential memory," that's what my grandfather used to say.
"Sure, he forgot to mention 'everything beautiful'."
The subway ride was my daily transition, watching how the landscape gradually changed from modest buildings and family shops to gleaming skyscrapers and boutiques with names I couldn't pronounce without getting my tongue tied. It was like traveling between two different worlds, and I was the only passenger making that trip every day.
Arriving at the imposing walls of Hathor High School always felt the same: like being a speck of dust in a palace of gold. The perfectly manicured gardens, the fountains that ran 24 hours a day, the students whose uniforms showcased their high class... it all reminded me that I didn't belong here.
I made my way through students talking about vacations in Europe and cars their parents bought them for their birthdays, heading to my locker. I had barely put my things away—my analog camera wrapped in its vintage case and my assigned books, perhaps the most expensive things in my backpack.
When I finished putting everything away, the hallway speaker came to life with a sharp beep that made me jump.
"Suri Kang, from class 1-D. Please report to the principal's office. Suri Kang, to the principal's office."
I froze completely, my hand still on the locker door, feeling the blood drain from my face. The principal? The principal never called for me. The last time was in elementary school, when I took a photo of a bird and interrupted the whole class, but generally, I'm a good student.
Could it be for entering the darkroom without permission? For Jhin's letter that I had returned? Was there a problem with my scholarship?
The students around me watched with curiosity, some whispering among themselves. I could feel their eyes on me like spotlights, and my instinct was to shrink, to make myself smaller, to disappear.
I knew something was wrong—very wrong.
I closed the locker with trembling hands and began walking toward the principal's office, each step echoing in my ears like a funeral drum. The hallway seemed longer than usual; the walls decorated with photos of successful students and major donors felt as if they were judging me.
Even if it isn't an interview... I hate being asked questions.