Giving his letter of resignation, effective immediately, wasn’t that hard. He knew from the stares he got after his lunch break that it had been seen and also discussed amongst the other choreographers, and even though he should feel antagonized, he doesn’t.

He feels free.

One of the more friendly workers pulls him to the side, “Jongin, are you sure you want to quit? You’re just getting started and I know that it’s hard to fit in and—”

“I’m sure,” Jongin shakes off the hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t hard to fit in. It was hard to do anything in this company. He was the equivalent of a shadow, and it was irritating.

Speaking of shadows, Taemin follows the group of trainees that were scheduled to practice their choreography again. The two of them make eye contact, but he breaks eye contact first.

Jongin couldn’t blame him. Taemin had been tricked out of debuting before. And this golden ticket could easily seem like a trick to him.

Jongin watched him as he practices, casually sitting off to the side. No one was complaining about the lack of Jongin’s work, mainly because today was his last day. Instead, he focused on the sharpness of Taemin’s movements.

At the end of the session, Taemin dropped his towel, and Jongin moved forward to pick it up. He slipped a piece of paper into the folds and murmured as he handed it back, “Be there at seven. Don’t be late