Chapter Text
“When it all started, you were searching for her, and I told you, ‘you won’t find the old her.’ I meant it—she was lost to us, and so were we.”
The underground scene in Seoul does not sleep—and somewhere between neon lights and bitter coffee, The Unholy Love was born.
Not from fame. Not for it either. But from four friends and a final project.
A written dream in the back of a university lecture hall, hummed between half-eaten meals and missed deadlines. They didn’t mean to make something permanent, but they did.
They started in low-lit cafes and cracked-wood bars with sticky floors, bad microphones, and cheap alcohol. Still, they played like the stage was theirs, like they had been born for it—spotlight carved into their skin.
People listened.
Then, people stayed. More came—artists, friends of artists, the curious and the devout—drawn not just by the sound but the feeling.
The four of them blended into one another like bruised watercolors—for them, it was never just about music, it was about chemistry.
The way they played as if they were burning.
Jeong Hyerin—a vocalist whose voice is a wound and a balm, all at once.
“Her voice is a gift from God,” Sohyun once whispered behind her drink.
She did not sing the lyrics, she bled for them. Raw and tender—always too much, but never enough.
Pretty in that accidental, unapproachable way—she was too soft for this scene, but still, she stayed. Hyerin stayed with her hands clenched around her microphone and her throat sore from chasing perfect takes in a studio that did not love her back.
Once, she sang until her lips split—no one noticed. She kept going anyway.
Kawakami Lynn—the drummer, the storm.
She played like the world could end mid-verse, and she would laugh through it.
Clumsy on land but flawless in rhythm—her drums always found their way home.
Lynn flirted with the crowd, spilled jokes between songs, dropped her drumsticks, picking them up with a pretty wink. Her laughter caught everyone's eyes—making its way into more clips than their songs did.
Pure joy in motion—she was fun, and that was rare.
Kim Nakyoung—seemingly born with her guitar in hand.
Quiet. Still. Unmoving even when the crowd shook.
She did not say much on stage—nevertheless, the guitar did the talking for her, and it always spoke in a language that only hearts understood.
Critics loved her because they could not define her. Fans loved her because she did not ask to be loved. And the band? The band would not have made it without her.
Park Sohyun—the bassist and the lyricist.
An enigma with ink-stained fingers.
She called herself a terrible musician, but every line she wrote cracked something open in people. Her lyrics were confessions wrapped in distortion—brutal, aching, and true. Sohyun wrote lovesickness and betrayal like they were etched into her lungs.
She never said much in interviews, did not post often, did not linger after shows—but everyone knew her. Because they had heard her words.
Together, they were never perfect. But, they were real.
And they were loved.