The rain didn't stop until dawn.
By then, both of them were soaked through, their clothes clinging to their skin, but neither moved from that rooftop. The storm felt cleansing — like the sky was doing all the crying they didn't know how to.
When the first light broke over the city, Rian finally spoke.
"Go inside," he murmured, voice raw. "You'll catch a cold."
Lian smiled faintly. "You sound like a manager."
"I sound like someone who doesn't want you sick before you've debuted."
Lian turned toward him, rain still dripping from his hair. "You really think I'll still debut?"
Rian hesitated. Then, softly, "You have to."
Lian wanted to believe that. But the look in Rian's eyes said otherwise — said that maybe the world they'd built on that rooftop couldn't survive daylight.
---
The next morning, everything shattered.
The gossip didn't die down like the company had hoped.
Instead, it multiplied. More photos. More speculation. Someone online even dug up old training logs — timestamps showing how often Rian and Lian had used the same studio after hours.
The company's PR department went into full lockdown. Phones confiscated. Schedules frozen.
Lian wasn't allowed to leave the trainee dorm.
Rian wasn't allowed near the recording wings without a handler.
It felt like prison disguised as "damage control."
---
Three days later, the board made their move.
The official statement dropped at noon:
> "Due to ongoing false rumors and online harassment, Rian Vale will take a temporary hiatus for personal reasons."
The world went wild.
Fans panicked. The press speculated.
Lian sat in his dorm, the glow of his phone screen blinding him, scrolling the same headline again and again.
Temporary hiatus.
But he knew better. In their industry, "temporary" could mean anything — months, years, sometimes forever.
He tried calling Rian. No answer.
He tried messaging him. Nothing delivered.
It was like Rian had been erased overnight.
---
That evening, Jinwoo stormed into the dorm room, eyes wide. "They froze his contract," he said, breathless. "He's not even allowed to use his own studio files. They're locking him out of everything."
Lian's blood went cold. "They can't do that."
"They can," Jinwoo said grimly. "And they are."
Lian sat there for a long time, staring at the wall, feeling everything collapse in slow motion.
Rian had built that company's sound — his work had shaped their entire image.
And now they were tossing him aside because of a rumor.
Because of *him.*
---
That night, Lian went back to the rooftop.
It was quiet now. No rain. No Rian.
Just the echo of that promise — the one that felt like it was already slipping away.
He pulled his hoodie tighter, whispering to no one, "You said we'd stay."
But even his voice sounded small against the wind.
---
Days turned into a week.
The company started redirecting Lian's schedule — more training, more isolation. They said it was for his "focus," but he knew it was containment.
Then, one morning, his vocal coach handed him a new song.
"Company's request," she said. "You'll be recording this for evaluation."
Lian glanced down.
Title: *Echoes of the Sky*
And under the credits — Producer: Rian Vale.
His heart stuttered.
"Wait," he said. "This is his?"
The coach frowned. "It was. The board gave us access to his drafts before he went on hiatus. They want you to record it solo."
Lian stared at the sheet. The melody line was delicate — bittersweet, full of spaces only Rian could've left.
He swallowed hard. "I can't sing this."
"Why not?"
Because it wasn't just a song. It was a piece of Rian — one he hadn't meant for the company to have.
But all he said was, "It's not ready."
"Then make it ready," she replied, leaving him alone in the booth.
---
He tried.
For hours, he tried.
But every note cracked, every lyric felt wrong.
Because the song wasn't meant to be sung alone.
By midnight, he gave up — head in his hands, tears hot and angry.
And that's when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He almost ignored it, until he saw the message:
> *Studio 4. One last time.*
His chest tightened. He didn't even need to ask who.
---
When he slipped into Studio 4, Rian was already there.
He looked different — cap low, hoodie plain, no stylist polish.
But his eyes were the same — steady, sharp, heartbreakingly warm.
"You shouldn't be here," Lian whispered.
"Neither should you," Rian said, smiling faintly. "Guess we're both bad at rules."
Lian wanted to run to him. To ask where he'd been. But all that came out was, "They said you were gone."
"I was," Rian said quietly. "I'm leaving the company."
The words hit like a punch. "You're what?"
"They terminated the contract this morning. Mutual agreement."
"Mutual?" Lian repeated, disbelief lacing the word. "You fought them, didn't you?"
Rian laughed softly, tired. "Let's just say I didn't make it easy."
Lian's throat closed. "You didn't have to do that for me."
"I didn't do it *for* you," Rian said — then, after a beat, "I did it because I couldn't keep pretending anymore."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flash drive.
"This," he said, placing it in Lian's hand, "is the original mix of *Echoes of the Sky.* The version they'll never release."
Lian stared at it. "Why give it to me?"
"Because it's yours now."
Rian's voice softened. "Finish it. Make it yours. And when you sing it… don't let them tell you who you're allowed to be."
Lian's eyes stung. "What about you?"
"I'll figure something out."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing in this industry is."
Silence fell again — heavy, final.
Rian stepped back, like he was memorizing the moment. "You'll do great things, Lian. I know you will."
Lian shook his head, tears spilling. "You can't just disappear."
Rian smiled faintly. "I won't disappear. I'll just… sing somewhere else."
And then he left.
---
Weeks passed.
The company announced Rian's official departure. His social accounts went dark. The rumors faded, replaced by new scandals, new headlines.
But Lian didn't forget.
Every night, he opened the flash drive and listened — not to the industry-polished version, but the rough one.
The one that still had Rian's voice humming in the background.
And slowly, he began to rebuild the song — not as a duet, but as a message.
A goodbye. A promise. A beginning.
---
Months later, during the trainee showcase, Lian took the stage with a song the company hadn't planned to broadcast.
He stood beneath the lights, mic in hand, heart pounding, and said into the silence:
"This one's for someone who taught me that music doesn't need permission to exist."
Then he sang *Echoes of the Sky.*
The first note trembled.
The last one soared.
And in the crowd — somewhere in the shadows — a man in a black hoodie smiled, eyes glinting under the stage lights.
He didn't clap. He didn't need to.
Because in that moment, the promise lived again.
And both of them knew —
the music hadn't stopped.
It had only changed its name.
---
**End of Chapter 10 — When the Music Stops**
*To be continued…*