The memory sends a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the autumn sun. My mother didn't resist the pull—she redirected it. Poured all that consuming need into my father instead of her fated mate, and then tore the original bond out by the roots when it tried to claim her anyway.
The breaking nearly killed her. The aftermath finished the job.
Now I'm feeling something similar—that same pull, that same riptide sensation—toward five men whose faces I've only seen on screens. Five alphas who might be my soulmates, if the universe is as cruel as I'm beginning to suspect.
I walk faster, as if I can outrun the feeling if I just move quickly enough.
I know their music better than most. It's part of my job to study the artists I might work with, to understand their sound and style before I ever put pen to paper. But with SIREN, my research has always gone beyond professional necessity. I've dissected their discography track by track, analyzed the way their lyrics weave between Korean and English with seamless fluidity, admired the emotional depth they bring to every performance. Their music speaks to something inside me—has always spoken to something inside me—in a way that few other artists manage.
I told myself it was professional appreciation. Artistic respect. The recognition of one creator for the work of others. Now I'm not so sure.
What if it was never about the music? What if the pull I felt toward their songs was the bond, reaching across the distance between us, preparing me for this moment? What if I've been drawn to them all along, and I was just too blind—or too determined—to see it?
The thought makes me want to turn around and march back into that conference room, tell Mina I can't take the project, make up some excuse about creative differences or scheduling conflicts. Anything to put distance between myself and the five men whose images are still burned into my retinas, whose music is still echoing in my ears.
I don't turn around. I keep walking, because running from this project won't change what's already been set in motion. If SIREN are my soulmates—if those five flowers on my mark are meant for them—then avoiding this assignment won't prevent the bonds from triggering. It will just delay the inevitable while making me look unprofessional and unstable.
Better to face it head-on. Better to know for certain, one way or another.
Better to have a plan for when everything falls apart.
Instead of going home, I head toward my studio. The walk is short and familiar, a path I've traveled hundreds of times over the years I've worked here. I push through the entrance of my building and climb the stairs to the third floor, each step creaking slightly under my weight in a way that's become almost musical to my ears. The sound is grounding, real, a reminder that some things haven't changed even if everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
The space that greets me when I unlock my door is my sanctuary. Tucked away from the chaos, it's where I can breathe, where I can let my thoughts flow onto paper without interference. I drop my bag onto my desk and stand for a moment, just breathing. The familiar scent of the studio surrounds me—paper and coffee and the faint mustiness of old books, underlaid with something that's simply mine after years of occupying this space. I try to let it calm me, try to let the familiarity wash away the anxiety that's been building since I first saw those five flowers in my mirror this morning.
It doesn't work.
The mark pulses gently beneath my collar, five gray flowers reminding me of their presence, their potential. They're still dormant, still waiting for the eye contact, the physical connection, that will trigger them into bloom. But they feel different now than they did this morning. More aware,somehow. As if watching SIREN's performance awakened something in them, even without direct contact.
My mother warned me about this too.
I shake the thought out of my head and pull out my notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The paper is crisp and waiting beneath my fingers, blank and full of possibility. The pen in my hand is solid, familiar—a good pen, expensive, a gift from Jeni when I signed my first major songwriting contract. I press it to the paper, willing the lyrics to come. This is what I do. This is who I am. When the world feels overwhelming, when my thoughts refuse to organize themselves into anything coherent, I write. I take the chaos inside me and transform it into words, into melodies, into something that might mean something to someone someday.
Something haunting, Jihoon had said. A song that makes people feel like they're being pulled under and don't want to come back up.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I close my eyes, letting my mind drift away from the anxiety and into the creative space that has always been my refuge. Images begin to swirl together behind my closed lids—a siren's call echoing across dark waters, the foam of waves crashing against an unforgiving shore, hands reaching toward the surface but never quite grasping the light above. The kind of love that consumes rather than nurtures, that pulls you under and holds you there until you stop fighting, until you surrender to the depths and find peace in the drowning.
It's dark imagery. Dangerous. The kind of emotional territory that most artists shy away from because it makes listeners uncomfortable, forces them to confront parts of themselves they'd rather keep hidden.
SIREN has never been afraid of the dark. Their music has always lived in the shadows, exploring the complicated spacesbetween love and obsession, desire and destruction. They don't offer easy answers or comfortable resolutions. They offer truth, raw and unflinching, and their fans love them for it.
Maybe that's why I've always been drawn to their work. They understand what most people refuse to acknowledge: that love isn't always gentle, isn't always kind, isn't always something that saves you.
Sometimes it destroys you instead. The first line comes to me in a whisper, rising from somewhere deep in my subconscious and taking shape before I can second-guess it.
Drowning in the eclipse of your voice...
I open my eyes and scribble the words onto the page, my handwriting messy with urgency. The line sits there, stark against the white paper, and something about it feels right. Feels true. It's not polished—first drafts never are but there's a core of emotion there that I can build on, a foundation that might eventually support the haunting song Jihoon described.
My phone buzzes, jolting me out of the creative trance I was beginning to sink into. The screen displays Mina's name, and I answer with a mixture of annoyance and resignation.
"Hey," I say, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can continue scribbling notes.
"Just checking in." Mina's voice is crisp and professional, as always. "You seemed off at the meeting. Didn't want to bring it up there."
I pause, pen hovering over the page. Mina notices everything—it's what makes her good at her job, and occasionally what makes her exhausting to work with. I should have known she'd pick up on my reaction, even though I thought I'd hidden it well.
