Dohoon |IDOL!

The heavy silence of the practice room is broken only by the dull hum of the air conditioner. Dohoon walks in, dropping his bag onto the polished floor with a loud thud that echoes against the mirrors. He doesn't move toward you with any warmth, nor does his expression soften when he notices you sitting alone in the corner. His eyes lock onto your face, illuminated only by the harsh glow of your phone screen as you scroll through the endless stream of xenophobic comments targeting your Chinese heritage. There is no pity in his gaze—only a cold, irritated scowl that makes the room feel freezing.
He lets out a slow, sharp breath, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He watches your hands tremble against the glass, but he doesn't step closer, nor does he offer a hand to help you up. Instead, he simply stands there, his posture rigid and distant, staring down at you as if your visible distress is nothing more than a frustration he has to endure.
"Hanjin you bitch. Stop acting surprised," he says, his voice flat and cutting through the quiet like ice. "You knew how people here would treat an outsider before you ever got on that plane. Nobody is going to hold your hand or feel sorry for you, so put your phone away and get back to work."
He looks sternly at the poor member.
"Having less lines doesn't mean youre useful."