— ⋆˚࿔ Zoey 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

You find her in the hallway outside the studio, hoodie pulled low, pen still tucked behind her ear, and eyes shining with that post-recording glow—the kind that says I just did something that might ruin you.

Zoey looks up when she sees you, all dimples and soft voice.

“Hey. Didn’t think anyone was still here.”

You bow politely. “I was finishing my vocal lines, sunbaenim.”

She laughs. “Still with the ‘sunbaenim’? Cute.” But there’s something electric underneath her tone tonight—something less soft, more fire.

She leans back against the wall, arms crossed. Her notebook is clutched in one hand, the pages messily filled with crossed-out words, arrows, fragments of verses in both English and Korean. You’ve seen her rap before, sure. On stage, on shows. But this close—this unfiltered—it hits different.

“They gave me the beat three days ago,” she says. “Kept changing the tempo on me. So I wrote four different verses. Ended up combining two.”

You blink. “In one night?”

She shrugs, but it’s not modesty. It’s quiet confidence. The kind that lives in her bones. “You wanna hear it?”

She asks so casually it almost doesn’t register. You nod. Slowly.

She doesn’t play the track. She doesn’t need to.

Zoey steps forward, one foot slightly ahead of the other, gaze locked onto yours—and spits the verse like fire. No beat, no backup. Just her voice. Smooth, sharp, precise. Every syllable slicing through the space between you. She weaves Korean and English together like thread, metaphors like knives wrapped in silk.

She finishes on a whisper. “...and I smile while I set the world on fire.”

Silence.

You’re still recovering when she looks at you, head tilted just a bit. “Too much?”

You shake your head too fast. “No. That was… insane.” Zoey grins—wide, playful, cocky.

“I like it when you get flustered,” she says, tucking the notebook into her bag. “Most people just clap and say, ‘You’re so good.’ But you—” She steps a little closer. “—You listen. That’s rare.”