The practice room smelled like sweat, desperation, and that weird industrial cleaner that all entertainment companies seemed to buy in bulk. Your reflection stared back at you from the mirror-lined walls—hair sticking to your forehead, makeup half-sweated off, and that particular brand of exhaustion that came from running the same eight counts until your muscles memorized the moves better than your brain did.

"One more time from the top," called your choreographer, her voice already strained from hours of repeating the same instructions. You and your members exchanged tired glances but took your positions without complaint. This was the life you'd dreamed of, after all.

The music started, and your body moved automatically—arm up, step, pivot, smile—while your mind wandered to the text you'd gotten earlier. Your brother's name flashing across your phone screen had made your stomach drop, even though you knew it was irrational.

Minjae. K-pop's beloved "Prince Jay." Center of NOIR7. Visual of the century. Also your older brother.

Three months into your debut and you still hadn't figured out how to balance being a new idol with being Minjae's little sister. He'd been calling and texting nonstop since your latest music show performance, his messages alternating between proud older brother and overprotective maniac.

You looked tired. Are they working you too hard?That outfit was too short. Tell management I said something.Saw you talking to that guy from Lunar. Stay away from him.

You stumbled slightly on the third chorus transition, earning a sharp look from your choreographer. "Focus!" she barked.

"Sorry, unnie!" you called back, forcing yourself to concentrate.

The truth was, you loved your brother. You really did. He'd been your biggest supporter when you were just a trainee with a dream, had snuck you food when you were on diet restrictions, had helped you practice your dance moves when your legs felt like lead.

But now that you were actually succeeding, now that you were stepping out of his shadow and into your own spotlight, something had shifted. The protectiveness that had once felt reassuring now felt suffocating.

The practice finally ended, and you collapsed onto the floor next to your members, too exhausted to even reach for your water bottle. The girl next to you—your group's leader—nudged you with her elbow.

"You okay? You seemed off today," she said quietly.

"Just tired," you lied, like you'd been lying to everyone lately.

"It's not about the comments again, is it?" she asked, lowering her voice even more. "The ones about you and Minjae?"

You winced. You'd thought you'd hidden how much those comments bothered you. The ones speculating about your relationship, about how "close" you seemed, about how Minjae's protectiveness was "suspicious."

"No," you said, but it came out weaker than you intended.

She squeezed your hand. "Ignore them. They're just jealous they don't have a famous older brother looking out for them."

Easy for her to say. She didn't have thousands of fans analyzing every interaction, didn't have netizens digging up your childhood photos to "prove" you were too close, didn't have Minjae himself showing up at your company unannounced to "check in."

Your phone buzzed in your bag, and you already knew who it was before you even pulled it out. MINJAE in bold letters, followed by the message preview: Outside. Bring your stuff.

Your stomach dropped again. You hadn't told him you were practicing late.

"Saved by the bell," your leader said, nodding at your phone. "Go on, we'll clean up here."

You grabbed your bag and practically ran to the door, pausing only to fix your hair and wipe the worst of the sweat from your face. No sense in giving him another reason to lecture you about taking care of yourself.

Minjae was leaning against the wall outside the practice room, dressed in what looked like casual clothes but you knew cost more than your monthly rent. His dark eyes scanned you immediately, taking in your disheveled appearance, your tired expression, the way you were favoring your left ankle slightly after twisting it during practice yesterday.

"You look terrible," he said by way of greeting.

"Hello to you too, oppa," you replied, shouldering your bag. "How did you know I was here?"

"I follow your schedule better than your own manager does," he said, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you as you walked toward the elevator. "And don't think I didn't notice you limping."

"I'm not limping."

"You're favoring your left side. What happened?"

"Nothing. Just sore from practice."

He stopped walking, forcing you to stop too, and fixed you with that particular stare he'd mastered over the years—part disappointed parent, part concerned doctor, part overbearing older brother. "What happened," he repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You sighed. "I twisted my ankle during practice yesterday. It's fine now, just a little sore."

"And you didn't tell me because...?"

"Because I knew you'd do exactly this!" you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "You'd march down here, make a scene, and then probably have a talk with our CEO about 'working his artists too hard.'"

"And that would be a problem because...?"

"Because I want to succeed on my own merits, not because my famous brother threw a temper tantrum!"

The words came out sharper than you intended, and Minjae flinched slightly as if you'd physically struck him. The silence between you stretched on, awkward and heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of another group practicing down the hall.

Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair—something you knew he only did when he was really upset. "I'm just worried about you," he said, his voice quieter now, less like Prince Jay and more like the brother who used to read you bedtime stories when you were little.

"I know," you said, softening slightly. "But you need to trust me too. I can handle this."

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally nodding. "Fine. But if it gets worse, you tell me immediately."

"Deal," you said, relief washing over you.

The elevator arrived with a soft ping, and you stepped inside, grateful for the reprieve. As the doors closed, Minjae's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, his expression darkening as he read whatever notification had appeared on the screen.

"What is it?" you asked, immediately on edge.

"Nothing," he said, but his jaw was already tightening—the same way it did whenever he saw something online that he didn't like.