Chapter Text
The mark appeared on Bang Chan's chest the night he turned seventeen.
He had been in the studio until three in the morning, as usual, layering tracks for a song that was supposed to be about freedom but kept coming out sounding lonely. When he finally stumbled into the cramped dormitory bathroom he shared with three other trainees, peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, his alpha reeking all over, he had to take his suppressors to keep it in check....
But, something caught his reflection in the fogged mirror, he thought at first that he'd burned himself on the soldering iron he'd been using to fix a patch cable.
But the mark was too intricate for an accident. A compass, adorned with 8 little stars and a rose at the very center, its eight points rendered in delicate silver lines that seemed to shimmer faintly in the fluorescent light. The center pulsed with a warmth that had nothing to do with his overheated skin.
He knew what it was, of course. Every child learned about soulmate marks at school. Some people never got them. Soulmates were a rare gift, not a guarantee. Others got partial marks, waiting for the bonds to form before the full design revealed itself. But this one felt complete. It hummed against his skin like a second heartbeat. The irony of his lonely sad songs and convincing himself he would stay alone, is now laughing at him as the mark stood, very visible, very daring. And boy he never expected to actually like that.
Chan traced the points with his fingertips, counting. Eight. And the very top was connected to his rose meaning that's him. which leaves him with the conclusion that he was going to have seven other people bound to him for the rest of his life. Seven strangers who would be his family, his pack, his purpose.
The thought should have terrified him. Heck even make him furious, since forever he believed "in music I shall reside and only music will lead my fate". Instead, he felt something settle in his chest, a quiet certainty that had been missing since he'd left Australia alone at fifteen, chasing a dream that often felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
He smiled at his reflection, exhausted and exhilarated. Funnily enough he liked this.
"Okay," he said to the empty bathroom. "Let's find you, mates."
Three years passed, fueled by pure passion and a determination, "I will be at the top of producing dynasty"... He had seven people to take care of now, even if he still didn't met them.
Ever since he had his soulmate mark, a change that made his dream shift from simply being a "producer to make money out of his passion for himself", to "I have to build a concrete standing and a fortune to spoil my babies"... Cringe ain't it? but he laughed off, nothing is holding him back now.
And so, Bang Chan was no longer a trainee. He was a producer with his own studio, a growing reputation, a fame beyond measure, a wealth accumulated through bangers after bangers, deals left and right that people now wish to collab with him... But with a mansion that was left with seven empty spaces, and in his heart where his pack should be but yet to be found.
Despite his everything, he had met exactly none of his soulmates.
The mark on his chest had grown more defined over time, the lines sharper, the warmth more constant. It pulsed sometimes with what he could only describe as longing, a sensation that wasn't quite his own, bleeding through whatever invisible thread connected him to the others. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night certain that someone was near, only to find his apartment empty, the feeling fading like a dream upon waking.
His friends applauded his love, and told him not to worry. Some people searched for decades. Some never found their bonds at all. Chan was only twenty. He had time.
But the mark ached, and Chan was impatient by nature, and the studio felt larger and emptier with each passing month.
It was a rainy day when he felt the urge to recruit people, the empty studio halls needed if not a mate then a friend to keep him company, so he went scouting talents. The now twenty-one year old chan was holding a note-book roaming the underground competitions to see if he can strike a talent like no other.
Days turned into weeks, to no avail... That's when his former trainee friend introduced him to a secret producer showcase, invitation in hand, nagging him to participate.. who is chan to refuse that.
Sighing, he picked his book and followed through.
After an hour, the track that came through the speakers was unlike anything Chan had heard before. It was aggressive and melodic, structured chaos with a heartbeat underneath. The bass hit like a punch to the chest, but the melody underneath was almost sad, a contradiction that worked so perfectly Chan felt his breath catch.
On stage, the broad-shouldered young man with sharp eyes and a sharper jaw hunched over a laptop, his fingers were moving too fast to follow, tweaking levels and adding layers in real time. He was completely absorbed, oblivious to the room around him. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His lips moved silently, counting beats.
But before he can comprehend anything.
Chan's world stopped for a moment, that's the star he was searching for,
His mark blazed.
He gasped, his hand flying to his chest. The warmth he'd grown accustomed to exploded into heat, and for a moment he saw... not with his eyes, but somewhere deeper... a heartbeat line etched across someone's ribs, pulsing in time with the bass.
The producer on stage straightened, his hands freezing over his equipment. His head snapped up, and his eyes found Chan immediately, as if pulled by an invisible string. His face was pale, his mouth slightly open. One hand pressed against his side.
Chan pushed off from the wall and started moving toward the stage, not caring about the confused glances from the scouts, not caring about anything except the man whose mark was singing the same song as his.
The producer, Seo Changbin- Chan would learn, met him halfway, stumbling off the stage steps with none of the controlled precision he'd shown at his equipment. Up close, he was smaller than Chan had expected, compact and solid, with dark hair falling into his eyes and a glare that was probably meant to be intimidating but came across as overwhelmed.
"You felt that," Chan said. It wasn't a question.
"My ribs," Changbin said, his voice rough. "They're on fire. What the-"
Chan pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing the compass rose. "I'm Bang Chan."
Changbin stared at the mark for a long moment. Then he laughed, a short, incredulous sound.
"Seo Changbin."
He pressed his palm against his own ribs. "I've had this thing for three years. Three years of waiting, and I meet you in a basement that smells like stale beer and desperation."
"Is that disappointment I hear?"
Changbin's lips twitched. "I thought my soulmate would have better taste in venues."
Chan grinned, and for the first time in two years, the mark on his chest felt like a promise fulfilled rather than a weight. "The night is young. I know a place that does decent tteokbokki."
Changbin looked at his abandoned equipment, then back at Chan. His expression softened into something that was almost vulnerable, there and gone in an instant. "I've been waiting to meet you," he said quietly. "I didn't even know your name, but I've been waiting."
"I know," Chan said. "Me too."
They left the showcase together, and neither of them ever looked back.