The first time they brought an audience up to the rooftop, it was almost an accident.
It started with a single girl — the same high school fan who'd given Minjun the ginger tea. She'd waited by the curb after their third Hongdae busking set, clutching her bag, eyes wide with nerves and determination.
When Minjun thanked her again, she blurted out, I wish I could hear you somewhere quieter… just… us.
Jiwoo, who'd been wrapping up cords and muttering about fried chicken, just raised an eyebrow at Minjun. Minjun knew exactly what he was thinking. The rooftop. Our place.
So that night, they let her come along. Just one loyal kid with stars in her eyes, following two boys up narrow stairs that smelled of old paint and stale smoke.
Word spread like wind through broken windows.
By the next week, five people came. Then ten. Then twenty. Some nights it was university kids who skipped study halls to sneak up the rickety stairwell. Other nights, it was older indie kids with cameras and bright laughter, lugging cheap beer and plastic bags of convenience store snacks.
The rooftop turned into something halfway between a secret gig and a whispered rebellion. There were no tickets, no staff. Just Minjun's voice, Jiwoo's guitar, and the skyline — all glittering neon and black air that carried their songs down into streets that never really slept.
They never advertised it outright. No hashtags. No posters. Just messages passed hand to hand, DMs in fan group chats, scribbled notes slipped under coffee cups. Meet us where the sky touches the city.
Jiwoo called it their rooftop anthem. The city below was the verse — harsh, hungry, honest — and up here, they sang the chorus no one could silence.
One night, as Minjun stepped onto the roof, the sight nearly knocked the wind out of him. Fifty people. Maybe more. All huddled together on old blankets and plastic crates, shoulders brushing under strings of fairy lights someone had dragged up.
Jiwoo just handed him the mic. You wanted to be heard? They're listening.
Minjun's throat tightened. For a second, he saw himself the way he'd once dreamed he'd be — on a giant stage, lights blinding, fireworks behind him. But this was better. The rooftop wind in his hair. Jiwoo's steady chords humming against his back. The audience close enough to see every tremor in his hands, every crack in his voice — and loving him more for it.
When he sang the first note, the rooftop breathed with him. The city noise below — taxis, late-night chatter, police sirens — slipped into the spaces between his words, a perfect, imperfect harmony.
And when he held out the mic, the crowd sang the chorus back. Off-key, giggling, some half-crying, but loud. Loud enough that Minjun felt something old inside him crack open and fly into the night sky.
After the set, someone brought a tiny cake — candles stuck in the frosting at crooked angles. It's not your birthday, Jiwoo teased, but Minjun just laughed, eyes blurry with tears he didn't bother wiping away.
He blew out the candles anyway, making the only wish that mattered: Let this never be taken from us.
Somewhere far below, Seojin was surely watching the whispers turn to headlines. Starline's Runaway. Rooftop Idols. Rebels Without a Label.
Let them talk.
The rooftop was their stage now. And the anthem would only get louder.