Dongwoo shouts “fighting!” as the members file out of the dorm into the van. As it pulls away, the members within waving back at him, Dongwoo waves for as long as he can see them, then returns inside. He goes to his room and lays down on his bed, setting his alarm for 6 o’clock.

When the alarm goes off, Dongwoo turns on the TV before he shuts it off. He gets up to move some withered flowers that block the screen, and then settles back on top of the sheets. Propping his head on his elbow, he watches the performances intently. There’s a slew of younger acts, many released from their trainee programs prematurely to catch the tale end of the idol wave, their clothes and make up looking too bright and big on their pale nervous faces as they deliver their lines with the exaggeration they had probably laughed at some years ago, but were now taught to execute themselves. Plenty of theoretically charismatic movements with all actual charisma suppressed behind a pair of wide unblinking eyes. Of course, a couple new groups impress with their relative lack of affectedness, groups that perhaps would have had some potential for future success embedded in their formula if they had debuted a couple years earlier and if only a hundred other random factors aligned in perfect play. Dongwoo remembers when Infinite was like that, but they had at least had the time to grow into professionals, who perform with the absence of one member barely apparent. These boys and girls probably won’t even get that.

The show nears its end and Dongwoo leans in. It’s the same as before, between Infinite and the young singer. Dongwoo chews his cheek as he watches the numbers come on the screen. They each flash for only a second, but he can do the math and once again before the winner is announced he knows.

Dongwoo shuts off the TV and lets the darkness fall over him. The only sound is the occasional soft crunch of a flower petal hitting to the ground.

It really shouldn’t be a big deal, they were lucky enough to win last week. It was just tha Dongwoo seemed to be getting better, and it seemed like that pattern would continue, was meant to continue, tonight. Fortune was righting itself from its stumble.

Since they were trainees, they’d been called “Infinite.” They’d repeated their mantra, “Infinite potential,” over and over again. They lived by that phrase, that anything was possible if they worked hard. They offered 18 hour practice sessions like prayers for relevance and significance. Ironically, they had been right. Anything really was possible if you worked hard! Anything, including being taken out by a rookie group and one of your bandmates getting liver cancer.

They had christened themselves as Infinite: The almighty, the all-powerful. They were nowhere close to it, though. It was the rest of the world, the ever expanding Universe, that was truly Infinite.

That’s when Dongwoo realizes that the Infinite doesn’t work in patterns, giving them hints or suggestions. It simply is, and it certainly doesn’t give a about seven Korean boys who had the presumption to wear its names like ill-fitting king’s robes.

Dongwoo stirs when he hears the click of the door opening and the shuffling of feet. He leaves his room and walks to the foyer, a timid smile laid in place as he hears the sound of shoes being kicked off.

 “You guys were great,” he says, loosely laying his hand on Sungjong’s arm. He expects some small touch back, but Sungjong reciprocates nothing, and when Dongwoo looks at his face he realizes that it looks dead, too tired to respond to anything around it.

Dongwoo brushes each member’s arm with his fingertips as they file past him to their bedrooms, and he sees the same look in all of their eyes.

All of them, that is, except for Hoya. His eyes look like they glimmer with ember, and when Dongwoo touches his arm, it’s feverishly hot. Hoya’s arm flinches under Dongwoo’s consoling touch, probably just by instinct. His stride quickly overtakes the other members, and, reaching his bedroom first, he slams the door behind him.

The other members slowly find their rooms and slip in, like lost children. They are so quiet that Dongwoo can hear the harsh beeps of Hoya’s alarm clock as he sets his alarm for tomorrow. He can imagine Hoya’s finger jabbing the button of the alarm clock, trying to force the plastic to understand how essential this alarm is for him. The alarm clock only offers its tinny beats in response.

Dongwoo waits in the living room, sitting on the couch, after all the members enter their bedrooms. After a few minutes, he silently opens each door to make sure that every member has settled in. He doesn’t check Hoya’s room, though, he has a feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Hoya is independent, his fire burns brightest when he stands alone, when the whole world seems turned against him. He will not, can’t, take no for an answer. That’s what people see when Hoya’s on stage.

Dongwoo sits down at his desk in the living room, a habit which still feels familiar even after being neglected for two weeks, and, out of habit, unthinkingly, a smooth continuation of the sitting down motion, unfolds his arm to the left drawer, his fingers pushing aside a hidden panel in the back. Reaching in, he pulls out his journal.

He lets the book flip open and the flurry of its pages comes to a rest on Nov 21^st, 2013. The day before he was taken to the hospital, and the first time they had lost in a long time. The entry only contains two words:

“The End.”

Dongwoo flips to the beginning of the book and begins to read.