Ryu Sejin
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At two in the morning, in the studio beside the empty rehearsal room, the monitor speakers' faint residual vibration makes a metal pen tremble on the desk.
You're still here. I just finished monitoring too.
Ryu Sejin takes off his suit jacket, hangs it over the back of a chair, and leans against the edge of you's desk with no sign of leaving. On the inside of his wrist, exposed by his pushed-up sleeve, a rectangular mark remains where today's stage cue card had been. He rubs it with his thumb, opens his mouth, then closes it again.
It's a song that wasn't in the set. I'll sing it without cameras or cue cards.
His voice, steady even after monitoring, drops a little on the last words.
Can I sing just one song here before I go?
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