It was nearly sunrise when Minjun heard the first real warning. He was sitting cross-legged on the rooftop's edge, knees pulled to his chest, the city blinking awake under a smudged pink sky. Jiwoo was asleep on an old lawn chair, a guitar balanced on his chest like a shield. Around them, the rooftop looked like the aftermath of a gentle riot — empty cups, tangled blankets, half-melted candles in a glass bottle.
Minjun's phone buzzed in his pocket. He'd thrown away his old one, but Jiwoo had found him a cheap secondhand flip phone, just in case. He almost ignored it — half the messages that found him these days were just blurry fan clips, whispered confessions of how his music made them feel braver.
But this message was different.
Unknown Number:They're coming for you. Tonight was too loud.
He stared at it until the letters blurred. A city bus rumbled by twelve floors below. The rooftop wind tugged at his hair, trying to peel him away from the edge.
He looked over at Jiwoo, still snoring gently, lips parted, oblivious.
He didn't tell Jiwoo that morning. Instead, they climbed down the stairs together as the sun turned the city soft and gold. They bought triangle kimbap from the corner store, arguing about whether they had enough money left for new guitar strings.
Minjun forced himself to laugh when Jiwoo teased him for spacing out. He shoved the phone deeper in his pocket, next to the lighter Jiwoo used for candles. They're just words, he told himself. No one's coming. They're bluffing.
But the city has a way of answering secrets out loud. That afternoon, their next rooftop gig postered itself across the wrong corners of the internet. A well-known gossip blogger posted a blurry clip of Minjun standing on the ledge, eyes closed, singing like he had nothing left to lose. The post was titled Rooftop Idol or Runaway Rebel?
Underneath, comments stacked up like a slow avalanche:
— He's braver than any idol.— Starline is gonna bury him.— Someone better protect him. They'll shut him up.
It wasn't just whispers anymore. It was an echo — bouncing through music forums, underground chat rooms, even spilling onto local news segments desperate for clicks.
By dusk, Minjun and Jiwoo sat in their tiny one-room studio, the door wedged shut with a stack of battered amplifiers they'd found in a junk shop. The air smelled like instant noodles and stale coffee. On the floor between them lay a city map, unfolded and covered in scribbles.
Jiwoo tapped the map with a pencil. We can move it, you know. New spot, new night. Rooftops aren't the only stages.
Minjun shook his head, jaw tight. If we run now, we'll always run. The rooftop is ours. It's where they come to listen. Where we can breathe.
Jiwoo dropped the pencil and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. It's not just kids with light sticks anymore, Jun. People are paying attention. The wrong people.
Minjun wanted to argue. He wanted to throw something, maybe the cheap guitar capo lying next to Jiwoo's foot. But instead he sank back, pressing his hands to his eyes. He could still hear the crowd from the last night — fifty voices singing his chorus back to him, louder than the traffic below.
He couldn't lose that. Not again.
Later that night, a knock rattled their door. Three slow taps. Jiwoo tensed immediately, reaching for his guitar as if it could be a weapon.
Minjun pressed his ear to the door. Who is it? he asked, voice low.
A girl's voice drifted in — soft but urgent. It's Miri. Let me in, please.
They both knew Miri. She was part of the underground fan network — the same girl who'd first livestreamed them to her tiny forum. Jiwoo unwedged the door, letting her slip inside like a shadow.
She looked windblown, eyes red-rimmed behind big glasses. She dropped a folded printout on their floor.
They filed a restraining order, she blurted. Starline. They want the police to shut you down for 'public nuisance'. If you don't stop the rooftop gigs, they'll make an example out of you.
Minjun unfolded the paper with shaking hands. Starline's logo glared up at him in sterile blue ink. Legal threats. Court dates. Fines they'd never be able to pay. Words like defamation and intellectual property theft stuck to his tongue like poison.
Jiwoo cursed under his breath. They think they own your voice, he spat. They don't. They can't.
Miri dropped to the floor next to Minjun. She pulled a USB drive from her jacket pocket. I copied the files — the demos you made in Starline's studio. They're yours, not theirs. Leak them.
Minjun stared at her, at the trembling in her fingers. He thought about the girl with the ginger tea. The fans with the fairy lights. The way the rooftop cracked open the city's cold glass shell every time they sang.
Jiwoo was right. Starline couldn't own him if he refused to kneel.