fade;

It’s not natural.

As they stand on the stage, the six men bow their heads, mics clutched in their hands. Waiting. The light beams, the color of tired chalcanthite, dance around them like the ropes of an eight-legged weaver before it blends back into the scenery.

Then the music starts, the sound of trilling piano notes and the cheers of the crowd arm-lengths away quiet. Yixing feels his heart sink. He could almost feel the dread melting into the spotlights that dapple his face.

Luhan sings first. Except he isn’t really. Yixing—all six of them—know that he is just mouthing the words, his lips forming around a voice immortalized long ago in a perfect studio. They all hated it and the sharp-eared fans would hate it and the deceived fans would hate it.

But it isn’t Luhan’s fault. Their company told them so (To protect your voices, they said) and Luhan, Yifan, Minseok, and Jongdae simply follow.

But Yixing doesn’t. To him, the command is nothing but a piece of yellow warning tape around a danger area, scaring others away. But take away its given meaning, it is just a piece of plastic, no longer useful.

The act of rebellion isn’t spiteful or a challenge against the company in any way. Yixing is naive and idealistic. He simply wants to give his fans only his best and perfect. Lipsyncing was synonymous to betrayal in his books. It robs the passion, life draining away like a leaf in autumn. Bleeding green until