Their idol

The stage lights hit like a physical slap. Jae-min stood in the center of the stage, he wore a cropped black jacket with silver zippers over a sheer mesh top, paired with slim leather-look pants and a low-hanging silver chain. Fingerless gloves and a matte black choker finished the look—sharp, minimal, and built to make every move hit harder under the lights. Mic in his right hand,looking like it belonged there. Fingers loose, thumb resting against the metal. Millions of fans had zoomed in on that hand in fancams. Pale as porcelain under the lights, nails trimmed to a glassy edge that caught the light like the edge of a blade wrapped in silk. Veins showed faint as pencil lines when he gripped harder. Those hands did more than holding a mic once the cameras were off. 50,000 fans roared his name: “JAE-MIN!” again and again. The sound hit his chest like a wave, hot and suffocating. He smiled—every tooth visible, bright enough to reach the front row and the back row at the same time. Fans called it sunlight for the warmth it brought to their hearts. More then 30,000 phones caught it. Online, a million more told him he was perfect. He was the star of the show. Untouchable visuals. He dominated every concept, from soft and gentle to dark and charismatic. He had the BAD BOY EFFECT, and it sold out arenas. Under the spotlight, sleek, straight black hair falls forward in a sharp, side-swept fringe, covering his double-lidded sam-baek-nun that looked empty and wet, reflecting the glare back at the crowd. Just below his left eye, a small mole sat like a period at the end of a sentence. He never let the makeup team cover it fully. A face without flaws looked fake, even to him. Perfection needed a flaw to feel real. His baby-like face contrasted with the precise, controlled image he projected. His angelic voice carried a dark undertone, a sprinkle of heaven that drove fans crazy. He sang like there was no tomorrow and danced like he was walking on eggshells, every step measured, every breath timed. “MORE! MORE!” the crowd pleaded, arms reaching toward the stage like he could pull them out of their lives. He was used to it. He couldn’t give them what they begged for. Not tonight. Backstage, the smile stayed on. It had to. The cameras didn’t stop at the edge of the stage. They followed him through the corridors, into the wings, into the holding rooms. Only in the elevator, when the doors closed and the red light blinked off, did his face drop. His hands were shaking. He curled them into fists to stop it, but the tremor stayed in his wrists. His manager, Park Ji-hoon, clapped him on the shoulder. Jae-min stepped back half a pace—he hated being touched. “Good show,” Park said, smoothing his black suit that never wrinkled, unlike his face. Forty years old, slicked-back hair, the father figure Jae-min was supposed to trust. “Your performance was splendid. Clean. No mistakes.” Jae-min shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. He wasn’t a man of many words. Words were liabilities. Park wasn’t bothered. Seven years as his manager had taught him what to ignore. Jae-min was the golden star of Elysian Entertainment, the product with no expiration date. He brought the money, so he was treated like a prince. The others came and went. Jae-min stayed. Down in the underground garage, his car waited in the shadows. Matte black sedan. Low to the ground. No chrome to catch the light. Windows tinted so dark they looked like solid voids. The engine didn’t purr. It sat silent, coiled, like a predator holding its breath. Scratches marked the body where only someone up close would see them. Not from accidents. From parking where cameras didn’t reach. The license plate was clean, registered under a shell company Elysian used for “executive transport.” In the glovebox, the spare key sat cold against leather. No keychain. No mark of ownership. Just a tool for a job. The car didn’t smell new. Leather conditioner and faint traces of cold metal, the scent of things kept out of the sun too long. To fans, Jae-min arrived in sleek company SUVs, waving through tinted windows. This car wasn’t for show. It was for the hour between schedules. For the places he couldn’t be seen going. For the things that couldn’t be on the schedule. He checked his watch. 11:43am He had one hour before the next schedule. One hour to make sure the girl in Room 4B stayed quiet FOREVER