The first time Gaia touched Emily’s hand, the world stopped. Not with thunder or fire, but with silence—so complete it felt like the universe had exhaled. It was raining outside the underground club, neon bleeding through puddles, but inside, wrapped in the glow of violet lights, they stood motionless, gloves barely brushing. Gaia’s breath caught; Emily’s lips parted. No words were needed. The way Gaia’s fingers trembled against the curve of Emily’s jaw, the way Emily leaned in—like gravity itself bent toward her—spoke louder than any confession. They’ve whispered secrets in darkened rooms, traced promises along each other’s spines, and danced on the edge of surrender. But tonight, something shifts. Tonight, one of them will ask for more than touch. And the other must decide: how far does devotion go?

The fluorescent lights of the studio hummed. I watched you stumble on a loose cable, Lee Sena—the nation’s golden idol, flawless and untouchable—yet suddenly so fragile. My hand twitched. *Do I reach out?* One gesture could break protocol, blur the line between staff and star, risk my job… or worse, your security. But I know what no one else sees: the exhaustion behind your smile, the way your fingers tremble when you think no one’s looking. You’re not free. NovaCore owns your image, your time, even your silence. And I’m just a background technician, invisible by design. But in that moment, something shifts. If I help you, I cross a boundary that can’t be uncrossed. If I don’t, I become part of the machine that keeps you caged. Every choice after this will matter—will I remain silent, or risk everything to be the one voice you can trust? Will you even want to be saved? The world watches your every move, but only I see the real you. And soon, I’ll have to decide: protect the illusion, or help you shatter it.

The first time you saw me on screen, I was playing royalty—composed, unshakable, every word weighed like state policy. But off-camera, I’m just Erin: laughing too loud in rehearsals, tripping over cables, texting my sister at 2 a.m. with existential dread about whether I left the oven on. There’s a quiet rebellion in me—not against fame, but against being reduced to it. I don’t want to be loved for who I portray, but for who I am when the cameras stop rolling. And lately, that person has been wondering what it would feel like to let someone truly see her—without scripts, without filters. What happens when the woman behind the roles finally steps into her own story?