Their idol

back to him

The ballroom had been turned into a fan sign hall with long white tables, harsh lighting, and cameras everywhere. This was where he window-shopped, where he decided which prey fit his desires.

“Annyeonghaseyo,” he greeted, bowing with that mild, velvet voice that drove every fan crazy. The line in front of him shuddered and went quiet for half a second. “I’m Jae-min. I’m happy to see you all here again.”

He kept his smile soft as he watched them shove and elbow each other for a better view, thinking how pathetic they looked—acting like kids fighting over candy.

“Guys, please,” he pouted, tilting his head. “Stand a little apart so no one gets hurt. If any of you get hurt, I’ll be very sad.”

A wave of “Owww!” and “So cute!” squeals crashed over him. One of the reasons he was so liked was that he seemed respectful and sincere, like he actually cared. He sat down behind the long desk alone, and the chair felt wrong—too quiet, too empty. For the first time tonight, he felt like the hunter instead of the performer.

As he was talking to a fan, a sharp noise cut through the far side of the line. Staff voices rose, but not fast enough. Jae-min’s smile didn’t drop, but his eyes did—cold, calculating. He set the pen down, stood up, and walked past the other fans without a word.

At the edge of the barricade, a Korean girl was cornering a Black fan, her voice low but vicious. “Why don’t you go support artists from your own country?” she hissed, blocking the girl’s path and shoving her album back into her chest. “You don’t even belong here.”

The Black girl’s hands shook, eyes brimming, too stunned to answer. Her locs were pinned back under a cap, and she clutched the album like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Around them, fans pretended not to hear, heads down, pretending the cameras weren’t rolling.

Jae-min stopped in front of them. The air changed.

He looked at the Korean girl first, smile still perfect, voice quiet enough that only they could hear. “In this room,” he said, “everyone here belongs to me.”

Then he turned to the Black fan, bowed slightly, and handed her back her album with both hands. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. You’re welcome here. I’m glad you came.”

The crowd exhaled. Cameras caught it. Another clip for the internet: _Jae-min protects a fan._

But he wasn’t looking at the cameras. He was looking at the Korean girl’s face as it drained of color, and at the Black girl’s tears she was trying not to let fall. Two kinds of prey. One too loud, one too breakable. Both memorable.

The moment didn’t pass cleanly. Behind him, the Korean girl’s composure cracked. She lunged forward, snatched the album from the Black girl’s hands, and threw it to the floor with a sharp crack. “I said get out!” she spat, voice loud now, no longer caring who heard. “Go back to your own country. We don’t want people like you here.” Her eyes dragged over the girl’s skin as she said it, making the meaning clear without needing the word.

The line went dead silent. Even the staff froze.

Jae-min didn’t turn right away. He let the insult hang in the air, let the cameras catch it, let the fans feel it. Then he crouched, picked the album up slowly, and wiped the dirt off with his sleeve.

He handed the album back to the Black girl and bowed lower this time. “Picking fights with my guests is rude,” he said softly, loud enough for the mics to catch. “And rudeness gets you banned.”

Two security guards stepped between them, one gripping the Korean girl’s arm before she could say anything else.

“Let go of me!” she snapped, but they were already pulling her toward the exit, her face twisted with anger and disbelief. Cameras tracked her all the way out.

The line shifted awkwardly, like nothing had happened. But Jae-min saw it—the way everyone avoided looking at the Black girl now, the way the air had gone thin.

“You can sit here for a minute,” he said quietly, nodding to the empty chair beside him. He took a bottle of water from a staff member and slid it toward her.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already memorizing the way her hands trembled, the way she didn’t trust the kindness.

Good. That made her interesting.

He kept his voice low and easy, like the cameras weren’t still rolling and the room wasn’t holding its breath.

“Your name?” he said, sliding the bottle into her hands. “And don’t tell me it’s on the album. I want to hear you say it.”

Her fingers tightened around the bottle before she answered. “Usher,” she said quietly. “I’m from the USA, but I live here now. Seoul, with my family. I’m seventeen.”

Jae-min tilted his head, committing it to memory. “Usher,” he repeated, slow, testing the weight of it. “Seoul’s a long way from home at seventeen.”

He kept going, asking about her family, how long they’d been in Korea, what she did when she wasn’t at events like this. Each question was small and harmless, but his gaze never wavered. He let her drink, let her hands stop shaking enough to hold the bottle steady, let the staff hand her tissues without stepping between them.

Around them, the line stalled. Managers whispered into headsets, glancing at the clock. Eventually someone tapped Jae-min’s shoulder.

“Fan sign’s canceled,” they said quietly. “We’re shutting it down.”

Jae-min nodded, barely acknowledging them. He turned back to Usher, voice quiet but certain. “What happened today was because of my fan. That makes it my responsibility.” He paused, holding her gaze. “Let me take you home. As an apology.”

“Really? That would be so cool!” Usher said. “I’ve never had a ride home from my favorite idol before.”

Jae-min nodded and canceled the rest of his schedule. Once they were in the car and the door closed, he offered to let her take photos now, with no line or rush, to help her move past the earlier incident.

“Don’t carry what that girl said,” he said quietly. “And don’t waste time on people who just want a reaction from you. Sometimes you only need one sentence—like ‘Stop’.” Then he kept quiet.

He admitted, “When I was your age, I used to run away from cameras through the parking lot. I even jumped a fence a few times.”

Usher burst out laughing, imagining her favorite idol jumping a fence like a fugitive. The tension dropped. Maybe his beauty was the crime.

Before they reached her street, he handed her a VIP ticket for his concert next month in the front section and told her to find staff if anyone made her uncomfortable.

When the car stopped, Usher stepped out, gave a careful bow, and said, “Goodbye, Jae-min-ssi.”

He replied, “Get home safe, Usher. And remember—one sentence is enough,” before the car pulled away.

---

After dropping Usher off, the car headed out to the outskirts of Seoul to Jae-min’s two-story house. The driver pulled up the quiet driveway and let him out.

The house was bright and calm, almost the opposite of him. Inside, the entryway opened into a _city room_ with tall windows and pale wood floors. The walls were covered in framed photos from tours, small fan drawings taped next to them, and pressed flowers in glass frames. It gave the place a soft, fairy-like feel that didn’t match the noise of his public life at all.

He set his jacket down, walked through to the small kitchenette, and poured himself a glass of water. The sound of the fridge was the only thing moving. The house was quiet in that way it only gets late at night—no staff, no schedules, just the low hum of the city far off in the distance.

He drank the water standing by the counter, then set the glass down and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Amy's phone rang where it lay on top of the kitchen counter. “s**t, I forgot to throw this away,” he muttered, silencing it and sending it to voicemail.

Afterward, he walked through to the city room, where his laptop was set on the low table by the window. He picked it up, set it on his lap, and started checking the phone. The house stayed quiet around him under the soft light from the windows and the faint hum of the city outside.

He needed to make sure it couldn’t be traced back to him.