⋮　biteu hq

@han miro. Fitted in a perfectly-tailored suit, Sebastian leaned back against the leather seat of his family's limo. His irises were fixated on his phone, reading through the article that his assistant, his sister, had sent him. "Look right there!" She extended a hand out excitedly, but in a teasing manner. Her fingernail landed right under the word 'charm,' and she couldn't help the laugh that fell from her lips. "They couldn't have used ANY other adjective for you?" A cackle fell from her lips, but quickly faded once she felt the metaphorical daggers shoot out from Sebastian's irises.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." Sebastian chided, rolling his eyes as he returned to the article, musing over it as if it were a master's thesis that he had to review before turning it in for a final grade. "Effervescent. He gets to be effervescent and I get charm? Who wrote this?" He inquired, tossing his phone into the seat next to him whilst releasing an exasperated sigh.

Tossing his head back against the headrest, Sebastian stared up at the upholstered ceiling of the vehicle in an attempt to distract himself from the expectations placed upon him. Sensing his distress, his sister moved over in the seat and patted his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. "Hey, at least your description left room to the imagination. That would be a good talking point for you--to explain the charity and what it does. His job is pretty much laid out already for the viewers."

Despite her words of encouragement, Sebastian momentary reprieve from the pressure was just that: momentary. The vehicle came to a halt, signifying their arrival at the recording studio. Turning to his sister, he formed a line with his mouth, let out a sigh, and stepped out of the vehicle after the driver had opened the door. Immediately, he was greeted with staff from the studio giving him directions to his dressing room and laying out the instructions for the show--the majority of which went in one ear and out the other. The only thing that mattered in that moment was getting to the dressing room so that he could work through his thoughts, and thankfully, his sister knew exactly how he worked and she would pay attention to all important instructions.

After what felt like a millennia, he plopped down into the chair in front of the mirror inside of the dressing room and looked at his sister. The pair locked eyes in the mirror, and it was clear that a switch had flipped in both of their brains: it was time to work. Sebastian's makeup artist and hairstylist flooded into the room just a moment later and began ensuring that his appearance was up to par while Sebastian flipped through a pad with different talking points listed out on it.

Before he knew it, a staff member knocked on the door and peeked in for just a brief moment. "You're on in two minutes, Mr. Baldwin. Good luck." She smiled as she added the final two words--the tone felt almost teasing, but he didn't read too much into it. Instead, he stood up, ran his palms over his clothes to smooth out any wrinkles, did one more check in the mirror, looked over the talking points one more time, and finally opened the door, heading to the recording studio.

Standing at the door to the studio, he turned to his sister and leaned down to whisper. "Do I look charming enough?" He inquired, smiling from ear to ear as entered.

@sebastian baldwin. Miro swiped his thumb across his phone, refreshing the page for what had to be the twentieth time that morning. The screen glowed against the dimly lit booth, its clutter of switches, blinking lights, and microphone cables wrapping him in a familiar chaos. The headline on his phone, though, was the real star:

"BITEU LOCAL CELEBS CLASH FOR DUKE’S POPULARITY POLL!"
Written by Choi Eunmi, Duke Gazette
This year’s popularity poll for famous locals has taken an unexpected twist as two beloved figures rise to the top: Han Miro, the effervescent DJ of 97.5 FM’s Biteu Radio, and Sebastian Baldwin, the sharply-dressed architect of change whose charm rivals his philanthropy.

Both contenders have amassed loyal followers, with Miro captivating hearts with his humour and energy, while Baldwin inspires with his elegant presence and a track record of making good deeds look effortless. With weeks to go, the question remains: who will the people of Sorae choose as their "Duke of Popularity"?

Miro leaned back in his chair, his grin as wide as the Duke River. The glow from his phone reflected off the booth’s soundproof glass, softening his sharp features into a smug sort of satisfaction. “Effervescent,” he muttered, rolling the word over his tongue like a good piece of tteokbokki. “Effervescent. That’s me. Like soda bubbles—but better.”

“Effervescent doesn’t mean gassy, does it?” Jiyong’s voice carried from the breakroom, where the sound of clinking mugs and the hiss of an ancient coffee machine signalled his ongoing battle with caffeine.

Miro squinted at the frosted window separating them. “It means lively, sparkling, thank you very much!”

His triumphant tone fizzled the moment the door to the booth swung open, letting in a rush of cool air and Kang Mirae, the show’s producer. Mirae didn’t walk into a room so much as occupy it. Clipboard in hand, her sharp eyes flitted over Miro like a scanner checking for defects.

“You’re still reading that article, aren’t you?”

Miro fumbled to shove his phone into his jacket pocket, attempting—and failing—to look casual. “What? No. I was checking the weather.”

Mirae’s expression barely shifted, but the way she stopped flipping through her clipboard said it all. “Right. The weather.” She tapped the clipboard with her pen, a rhythm that Miro swore was judgmental. “Well, Mr. Effervescent, I hope you’re ready for today’s show. You’ve got a guest.”

“Great,” Miro said, already picturing another indie band or a local bakery owner. Nice, safe topics. “Who is it?”

Her lips twitched—half smile, half warning. “Sebastian Baldwin.”

Miro froze. Outside, the faint hum of traffic drifted in from the streets of Duke, the usual cacophony of honking scooters and street vendors yelling about discounted dumplings. The city’s chaotic energy felt too close, too mocking. “You’re kidding.”

Mirae adjusted her glasses and levelled him with a look that was as dry as it was unamused. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Miro opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “This guy’s probably out rescuing orphans or building a community center right now. Meanwhile, I almost didn’t make it here because there was a guy selling mandu on a stick, and, like, how do you not try that?”

“Then maybe bring some of that mandu enthusiasm to the show,” Mirae said, flipping through her clipboard like she hadn’t just upended his morning. “Management thought it’d be great for ratings. Two contenders for the Duke of Popularity, face to face, live on air. The people will eat it up.”

Miro leaned back in his chair, groaning theatrically. “Sure, because putting me in a room with Mr. Perfect-for-the-Cameras isn’t a setup for disaster or anything.”

Jiyong, who had been silent until now, stuck his head into the booth, holding what looked like his third banana of the day. “Or don’t. Watching you crash and burn could be great for ratings too.”

“Thanks for the support, best friend,” Miro muttered, slumping in his chair.

Mirae ignored them both, checking her watch. “Baldwin’s here in fifteen. Get it together.” She paused at the door, glanced over her shoulder, and added, “Oh, and Miro? Try not to embarrass us.”

The door shut with a soft click, leaving Miro to groan dramatically into his hands. The soundboard in front of him beeped like it was agreeing.

“Don’t worry, Bubbles,” Jiyong said through a grin, tossing the banana peel into the trash with infuriating accuracy. “If you screw up, at least you’ll do it... effervescently.”

@seo hyunjin. Midnight in Biteu was a city within a city—a radio station caught in contrast to its mornings, half shrouded in darkness and half alive with the hum of late-night activity.

A silvery glow cascaded over the hillside as the city lights flickered to life, illuminating the ‘DUKE’ sign. Most rooms in the building remained cloaked in shadows, their darkness punctuated by the faint glow of standby monitors. At scattered desks, scriptwriters hunched over keyboards, tired eyes scanning headlines to forge tomorrow’s stories.

The faint aroma of burnt coffee mingled with the hum of a vending machine in the pantry, where an open bag of chips lay abandoned next to a half-empty soda can. The muffled beep of the microwave broke the stillness, followed by the soft, melodic clink of a spoon stirring instant ramen. Somewhere near the elevators, a delivery person’s voice cut through the quiet: “Jajangmyeon for Kim!” Heads turned briefly, the promise of food tugging at attention, but soon returned to the rhythmic clatter of keys and the occasional rustle of papers.

In the farthest recording booth, the ON AIR sign above the glass door flicked off with a quiet click. The confetti ribbons and display stand—a leftover from some milestone show—seemed out of place against Miro’s exhausted expression. He stretched, a deep groan escaping him as his shoulders cracked, the stiff hours in the booth clawing at his muscles. His headphones sat on the desk, fragile as porcelain in how he slid them off and set them down, their familiar weight replaced with a sudden lightness.

Grabbing his coat draped over the chair, Miro shrugged it on. The soft, worn fabric wrapped him in warmth that didn’t quite chase away the exhaustion clinging to his bones. He fished his keys from his pocket, the cool metal pressing against his palm like a reminder of the world waiting beyond the station’s walls.

As he descended the stairwell to the basement, the silence amplified his footsteps, their faint echo bouncing off the concrete walls. He’d almost reached the landing when a sharp thought sliced through his exhaustion.

The notebook.

He stopped mid-step, his hand shooting to his coat pocket. Empty. His stomach plummeted as he frantically patted his other pockets, but he already knew. No, no, no—

This wasn’t just any notebook. It was his notebook—crammed with lyrics scrawled in the margins, half-finished show notes, and—most damning of all—his truly awful doodles of the station's CEO with a shiny bald head. If someone found it—if the CEO found it—he could already see the tight-lipped glare, hear the clipped tone of the inevitable “We need to talk” email.

He stood frozen on the stairs, torn. He could just leave it. The odds of anyone rifling through his desk at the booth tonight were slim. But then again, it was his luck—the kind that turned slim odds into a certainty. And besides, those lyrics meant something.

Resigned, he spun on his heel and trudged back up the steps, the faint hum of the station above almost mocking him. No one looked up as he weaved between desks, his hurried footsteps swallowed by the soft din of clacking keyboards and murmured voices.

When he reached the booth, his gut twisted. Something was off. The room, which he had left dark and still, now had light spilling faintly under the door, its soft gleam pooling on the carpeted floor like an unwelcome beacon.

Cautiously, he approached, his pulse quickening. Leaning closer to the soundproof glass, he froze.

Someone was in his chair. Again.