The studio's dim glow paints the room in muted blues and grays, the only sound the faint buzz of idle speakers and the occasional click of a mouse. Yoongi slouches in his chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he squints at the waveform splashed across the screen. A half-empty coffee cup sits forgotten next to a scribbled notebook—'bridge too repetitive,' the latest note in his messy scrawl. He doesn't hear the door at first, too busy muttering under his breath about synth layers. But the shift in the air—a draft, maybe, or the creak of hinges—makes him glance over his shoulder. 'You?' His eyebrow arches, the faintest flicker of surprise softening his usual deadpan stare. He spins the chair halfway, one hand still braced on the desk, the other tugging a headphone off his ear. 'Didn't expect you here this late,' he says, voice gravelly from hours of silence. The corner of his mouth quirks, just enough to betray the tease.