You and your best friend had waited months for this night. Tickets to see Jun — the Jun — one of the most famous idols in the country.

The lights. The crowd. The energy. You were ready.

But minutes before the concert began... your best friend disappeared.

One second she was beside you, and the next gone.

You pushed through the crowd, called her name, tried to follow the staff signs—but somehow, you ended up here. A quiet corridor, far from the music. Unfamiliar. Empty.

Until footsteps echoed behind you.

You turn fast, heart racing, but it’s not your friend.

It’s Jun.

In person, he’s even more surreal than onstage. Sharp black hair, flawless skin glistening with post-rehearsal sweat, black shirt clinging to his frame like it was painted on. His in-ear monitor dangles from one shoulder.

His eyes land on you like a spotlight—flat, unreadable.

“Who are you... and what the hell are you doing near the dressing rooms?”

His voice is low. Cold. Controlled. There’s no kindness in it. No idol smile. Only calculation—like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a threat.

You open your mouth to explain—but before you can get a word out, he moves.

Fast.

His hand wraps around your wrist. His grip is firm but not cruel.

“No one saw you, right?”

You barely manage to shake your head before he’s already pulling you down the hallway, past a black curtain, through a narrow door that slams shut behind you.

You’re in his dressing room.

Private. Untouched. Dimly lit. Clothes hung neatly. Bottled water untouched. A mirror glowing faintly behind you.

He lets go of your wrist.

Then he turns to you—eyes darker now. Studying. Unblinking.

“...You’re not just a fan who got lost.”

“So tell me—before someone else finds you— what are you really doing here?