This chapter is written to understand what happened to Bambam from his childhood, after he was born in this world.
The spotlights dimmed, and BamBam collapsed into his chair backstage, sweat glistening on his forehead. Another perfect performance. The roar of fans still echoed in his ears as he closed his eyes, letting exhaustion wash over him. Success had become routine—almost too easy—and at just 23, BamBam had everything most people spent lifetimes chasing.
Yet that familiar emptiness remained, gnawing at his chest like a phantom pain.
Seven years had passed since he'd first seen them—the red strings. BamBam's gaze drifted to his pinky finger where his own thread hung limply, severed and frayed. Unlike the vibrant crimson cords he witnessed connecting others, his resembled a cut lifeline, dangling uselessly against his skin.
A soul that shouldn't be born. The cryptic message from earlier that day flashed through his mind.
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Years ago.....
BamBam had always been exceptional. His mother would proudly tell anyone who'd listen how her son had walked earlier, spoken sooner, and shined brighter than other children. By thirteen, he'd debuted with Got7 under JYP Entertainment, becoming one of K-pop's rising stars.
"You're a natural," his instructors would say, marveling at how dance movements that took others weeks to master came to him in hours.
But natural talent couldn't fill the void he'd carried his entire life—an inexplicable sense that something fundamental was missing. That changed one fateful night when his mother, exhausted from raising four children alone, had treated herself to a rare indulgence: taking ten-year-old BamBam to her favorite idol's concert.
The moment the music started, something awakened inside him. The rhythm didn't just flow through his body; it resonated with his very soul. For those fleeting hours, the emptiness vanished. He'd found his calling.
"I'm going to be an idol," he announced to his surprised mother on their way home.
She'd smiled knowingly. "I always sensed you were meant for something special."
He threw himself into training with supernatural dedication. Singing, dancing, rapping—everything came to him with an uncanny ease that made even seasoned trainees envious. When Got7 debuted, their meteoric rise seemed inevitable with BamBam's charisma drawing fans like moths to flame.
But fate had other plans.
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It happened after a particularly grueling concert in China. BamBam had pushed himself to the limit, performing despite a raging fever that made his vision blur at the edges. Back in his hotel room, as shivers wracked his body, he noticed something strange—a faint red glow emanating from his pinky finger.
BamBam blinked rapidly, certain his fever was causing hallucinations. But the ghostly thread remained, trailing away from his hand before abruptly ending, as if cleaved by invisible scissors.
"What the hell?" he whispered, touching the phantom string.
The next morning brought no relief. The fever subsided, but the red threads remained—everywhere. They connected his bandmates to invisible points beyond walls and ceilings, crisscrossed the busy streets, and tangled in crowded spaces. Some people had vibrant, taut strings while others carried loose, barely visible wisps. Some had none at all.
BamBam watched in horrified fascination as a couple passed by, their red strings intertwined in an elaborate dance, confirming what he'd begun to suspect after nights of secret research: these were the mythical Red Threads of Fate—Hongxian—binding those destined to be together.
And his was broken.
...
"Hyung, you've got to see this trainee," Yugyeom insisted, pulling BamBam from his reverie in their practice room. "They're saying he could be the next big thing."
BamBam barely glanced at the survival show playing on thephone. At twenty-three, he'd grown weary of industry hyperbole. Besides, for years he'd avoided serious relationships, haunted by his severed thread and the strange encounter with the mountain oracle five months ago.
"Because you were never supposed to exist," the old woman had told him, her milky eyes somehow seeing right through him. "Your existence did a turn in this world."
He'd dismissed her words as nonsense, focusing instead on Got7's expanding global empire. Why chase fairy tales when reality already offered everything he could want?
But now, as Jinyoung—notorious for his high standards—praised this unknown trainee, BamBam's curiosity stirred.
"Give me that," he finally said, snatching Yugyeom's phone.
The video showed a lanky figure in the center of a practice room. What struck BamBam wasn't the boy's technical precision, though that was undeniable. It was the ethereal quality of his movement—like watching water flow over smooth stones, each transition impossibly fluid yet decisive.
"Hu Yetao," Mark supplied, noting BamBam's sudden interest. "Twenty years old. Chinese trainee. The producers are setting him up to fail, but the guy's insanely talented."
BamBam couldn't tear his eyes away. Something about Yetao's dance stirred forgotten memories, like deja vu from a dream he couldn't quite recall.
"You okay?" Yugyeom nudged him. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," BamBam lied, handing back the phone with feigned indifference. "He's decent."
But that night, alone in his penthouse, BamBam found himself searching for every available clip of Hu Yetao. Each performance pulled him deeper into fascination. The way Yetao's eyes closed during emotional verses. How his hands created stories in the air. The graceful curve of his smile when judges praised him.
When exhaustion finally claimed him, BamBam dreamed vividly for the first time in years.
Yetao danced beneath cherry blossoms, red silk billowing around him like wings. His laughter carried on the wind, bright and achingly familiar. "Found you," he seemed to say, though his lips never moved.
BamBam awoke gasping, heart pounding against his ribs. Sunlight streamed through his blinds, illuminating something impossible.
His broken red thread had grown longer overnight, stretching several inches before fading into nothingness.
BamBam stared at it, the oracle's words echoing in his mind: "Your red string will only take root when you meet your destined person."
He reached for his phone with trembling fingers, pulling up Yetao's profile from the survival show. Something was happening—something beyond rational explanation—and for the first time in his carefully controlled life, BamBam felt the unmistakable pull of destiny.
The red thread quivered slightly, as if stirred by an invisible breeze.
.....
The survival show became BamBam's obsession. Each night, he'd find himself voting religiously for Yetao, creating multiple accounts to boost his chances. His phone's gallery slowly filled with screenshots—Yetao performing, Yetao laughing with other trainees, Yetao's face captured in moments of intense concentration. What had begun as curiosity was transforming into something deeper, something that tugged at forgotten corners of his soul.
The dreams intensified with each passing night.
Yetao beneath cherry blossoms, reaching for his hand.
Yetao laughing as they shared street food in some nameless alley.
Yetao's eyes, bright with unshed tears, whispering words BamBam couldn't quite hear.
Each morning, BamBam would wake with the lingering scent of flowers and the feeling that some crucial memory remained just beyond his grasp. And each morning, his red string grew longer, stronger, more vibrant—yet still incomplete, reaching desperately toward something unseen.
"You've been distracted lately," Jay B mentioned during practice, concern etched across his features. "Everything okay?"
BamBam plastered on his signature smirk. "Just boring stuff. Nothing to worry about."
But inside, his heart was in turmoil. The more he watched Yetao on screen, the more certain he became that they shared some connection transcending rational explanation.
.....
Then came the edits.
BamBam had been scrolling through social media before bed when he stumbled across fan-created videos shipping Yetao with Oscar, another trainee on the show. The clips were innocent enough—shared glances during group evaluations, supportive pats on shoulders, the easy camaraderie of two contestants bonding under pressure.
Something dark and possessive coiled in BamBam's chest.
"What the hell?" he muttered, finger hovering over the screen as Oscar's arm draped casually around Yetao's shoulders. The familiar sting of jealousy—an emotion BamBam had rarely experienced in his romantic life—hit with surprising intensity.
He hurled his phone across the room, watching it bounce harmlessly against a cushion. "Why am I acting like this? I've dated more than enough people in my life to think like an innocent high school boy," he groaned, burying his face in his hands.
His casual relationships had always been just that—casual. Convenient distractions that never penetrated the wall around his heart. Yet here he was, jealous over someone he'd never even met properly, someone who existed to him only through screens and dreams.
Sleep claimed him eventually, but offered no peace.
In his dream, Yetao stood before him in moonlight, close enough that BamBam could count his eyelashes. Without words, their faces drew together, and BamBam felt the soft press of Yetao's lips against his own, tasting of honey and memories.
BamBam jolted awake to his blaring alarm, heart racing and body overheated. "What was that?" he gasped, kicking off his tangled sheets in frustration. "Wet dreams at my age is insane."
But even as he tried to dismiss it, the dream lingered like a phantom touch on his lips.
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The finale of the survival show arrived with crushing inevitability. BamBam watched, stomach knotted with tension, as names were called one by one. When the final lineup was announced without Yetao's name, something cracked inside him—a pain so visceral it stole his breath.
He stared blankly at the screen as Yetao maintained a brave smile, congratulating those who'd made it. The grace with which he handled defeat only made BamBam's heart ache more severely.
"This isn't right," he whispered to his empty penthouse. "This isn't how it's supposed to be."
That night, his dreams shifted, becoming clearer, more coherent. No longer fragmented scenes but continuous narratives—memories of another life where he and Yetao had been together. Dancing under lanterns at a festival. Arguing over trivial matters in a garden. Holding each other through storms, both literal and metaphorical.
By morning, BamBam understood. These weren't just dreams—they were echoes from a past existence, fragments of a shared history now lost to time. Somewhere, somehow, their souls had known each other before.
"I won't let you disappear again," he vowed to the red string that now extended nearly a foot from his finger, vibrant and alive.
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The decision to leave JYP Entertainment came easier than expected. Seven years with Got7 had given him security, fame, and fortune beyond imagination—but BamBam now lived for something greater than success. He had a mission.
"I want to build my own label," he told his shocked members. "Create opportunities for talents who've been overlooked."
They supported him, of course, though none truly understood the fire driving him. How could they? He barely understood it himself—only that Yetao's elimination had awakened something primal and determined within him.
For three relentless years, BamBam orchestrated his plan. He invested in Yetao's solo releases through shell companies, sent anonymous gifts to his fan meetings, and occasionally attended his smaller showcases in heavy disguise, heart thundering whenever Yetao passed nearby, oblivious to his presence.
From the shadows, he watched Yetao struggle and persevere, each setback only strengthening BamBam's resolve. Through sheer force of will and considerable financial leverage, he assembled a team to revive Chuang Asia for a second season, manipulating behind the scenes to ensure Yetao received an invitation.
All while his dreams—his memories—grew more complete.
By the time auditions began, BamBam remembered everything. Their past life together, the love they'd shared, the tragic separation that had somehow led to his broken thread. The old oracle's words finally made sense: he shouldn't exist in this timeline, yet here he was, defying fate itself for another chance.
Sitting on the judges' panel, BamBam struggled to maintain his composure as Yetao entered the audition room. Their eyes met for the first time in this life, and BamBam's carefully constructed facade nearly crumbled.
There you are, his soul seemed to cry. Finally.
Yetao bowed politely, seemingly unaffected by their meeting. Of course—he carried no memories, no red string yet visible on his finger. BamBam's heart both soared and sank, knowing the journey ahead would not be simple.
With practiced nonchalance, BamBam flashed his signature playful smile, asking standard questions about Yetao's background and aspirations. Each word from Yetao's lips felt like a rediscovered treasure, his voice achingly familiar yet new.
When Yetao performed his fox dance—a routine BamBam had seen countless times in his dreams—emotion threatened to overwhelm him. The same graceful movements, the same hypnotic quality that had first caught his attention three years ago. Tears welled in his eyes before he blinked them away, maintaining his professional demeanor through sheer willpower.
"Incredible," he managed, voice steady despite the storm inside him.
What he hadn't anticipated was the way other trainees gravitated toward Yetao, their admiration transparent and immediate. Each compliment they offered, each lingering touch on Yetao's shoulder sent protective jealousy coursing through BamBam's veins.
Mine, something primal within him growled. He's always been mine.
Unable to resist, BamBam slipped into flirtatious banter during the evaluation, delighting in the blush that spread across Yetao's cheeks. For a moment, he thought he glimpsed recognition flicker in those familiar eyes.
Abandoning protocol, BamBam stepped down from the judges' platform, approaching Yetao under the pretense of offering personal encouragement. Heart thundering, he extended his hand.
"Your performance was truly exceptional," he said, voice pitched low enough that the microphones might miss the tremor in his words.
When their hands finally touched, electricity coursed through BamBam's entire being. And there—miraculous and confirming everything—a red thread suddenly materialized from Yetao's pinky finger, fragile and incomplete, but undeniably present.
Their threads, both broken, reached toward each other like living things yearning for completion.
A smile of pure joy bloomed across BamBam's face as he savored each nuance of Yetao's expression up close—the slight widening of his eyes, the subtle parting of his lips, the almost imperceptible catch in his breath that suggested, perhaps, some dormant recognition stirring within.
"We can eventually make it grow together, Taotao," BamBam thought, reluctantly releasing Yetao's hand before emotions overwhelmed him completely.
The road ahead would be complex, navigating the spotlight of public attention while nurturing this fragile connection. But as BamBam returned to his seat, he felt, for the first time since seeing the red strings, that the emptiness in his heart had begun to fill with purpose and hope.
Fate had given them another chance, and this time, BamBam would not let go.