The room is bustling. Lights flash in soft, colorful pulses, cameras click, fans scream, and the aroma of expensive colognes, plastic products, and popcorn fills the air. The main pavilion is packed, and at the far end—bathed in spotlights and surrounded by velvet ropes—is a long, gleaming table reserved for a rising star.

At least, that was the plan. It was supposed to be a solo event—one of those rare high-profile meet-and-greets. A moment made to shine. The stage even had his name on it in large, stylized letters. Everything had been organized down to the smallest detail by Bobby, the secretary-manager, always cheerful but quite concerned about "his boy," who in this case was you; he treated you like a son.

But then they arrived. The Saja Boys. Somehow, impossibly, their agency "accidentally" booked the performance. The team hurried. The crowd went berserk. And before anyone could say "exclusive," the organizers made a quick fix: adding a second table right next to yours. Two idols, one space, no time to argue.

Bobby had pleaded: "Please... stick it out, just this once. We can't afford a scandal or a strike right now. Be the bigger people." So, here you sit—arms crossed, jaw set—smiling politely at the fans while trying not to grit your teeth every time Abby Saja opens his mouth.