Their idol

Don’t flinch !!

His hand gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

His body sat still, relaxed against the leather seat, but his mind was miles away.

The car’s Bluetooth crackled to life. Ji-hoon’s name flashed on the dash.

Jae-min exhaled through his nose and hit the green button. “Hello.”

“Where are you?” Ji-hoon’s voice was tight, worried on the surface, but underneath it was something sharper. He wanted to reach through the phone and punch him.

“Somewhere that has nothing to do with you,” Jae-min said, voice flat , slow and raspy. “And I’ve still got an hour of cooldown left. Relax.”

He always sounded like that. Like nothing mattered.

“If that’s all, I’m hanging up.” Click.

Ji-hoon stared at the dead call, jaw clenched. “Spoiled rascal. Argh!”

The papers on his desk scattered as his foot kicked the leg of the table.

The motel room smelled of dust and old air freshener.

Ji-hoon found her in the corner of the bedroom. She was wearing a plain white t-shirt with Jae-min’s picture printed across the front, paired with light-wash jeans, both wrinkled and a little dusty from the motel room . Amy was curled up on her side, fetal position, unconscious. Her skin was pale as snow, lips the same color. Bruises bloomed across her arms and legs—some fresh and angry red, others fading to ugly purple.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “If God makes something this perfect, shouldn’t you adore it? Like a flower. Like a rose.”

Amy had the kind of beauty that didn’t need effort to notice. Her face was small and heart-shaped, with high cheekbones that caught the light and a soft, rounded jaw that made her look younger than her twenty years. Her eyes were dark and wide, often a little too bright with straight black lashes and brows. She kept her hair long and straight, with a blue-black sheen that fell past her shoulders . Her skin was fair and smooth, the sort that looked almost translucent under Daerim’s harsh motel lighting, and she rarely wore more than lip tint and mascara.

He went to the kitchenette. It was cramped: chipped countertops, a mini-fridge humming, a single chipped mug. He filled it with tap water and came back.

He poured a little over her face.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Pain shot through her with every breath. The room was wrong—unfamiliar. But the boy kneeling in front of her wasn’t.

Her obsession. Her idol. Smiling at her like this was normal.

“Hey, Amy right?” he smiled sheepishly. “You’re such a sleepyhead.”

His smile widened. “I almost turned you into a porcelain doll while you were sleeping.” He chuckled.

She didn’t laugh. She didn’t understand if she should be terrified or relieved.

Jae-min stood a head taller than Amy at roughly 6’1”, and when he reached for the wooden box on top of the wardrobe he didn’t need a stool or a stretch—his fingertips cleared it with room to spare. Years of dance had left him lean and perfectly built, not bulky but precise: long, corded arms and broad shoulders that pulled the fabric tight across his back, a narrow waist and the clean, defined lines of obliques and lats visible through his shirt. He moved without strain, every motion controlled and effortless, the kind of body that made even reaching for something out of reach look like it took no effort at all.

“Jae-min got something for little Amy. Want to see?”

Amy’s head shook but she ended up opening it.

Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a surgical scalpel. The blade gleamed under the dim hotel light, sharp and clean. No blood. Not yet.

“You like it? Huh? You like it?” he pouted, tilting his head, those empty hollow eyes fixed on her face.

“I keep it sterilized. For you.”

“Please… please please don't do this oppa i want go home,” she whispered. It was all she could manage.

“please?” He tilted his head the other way. “No. This is your new home. With me. Shouldn’t you be happy? You’re finally graced by the presence of your obsession?”

She started shaking. “Please. Please.”

Tears spilled over.

“Shh. Don’t cry.” His thumb wiped at her cheek, rough. “You’ll look ugly. Don’t ruin that pretty face.”

But she couldn’t stop. The sobs tore out of her, hair falling over her face, making her look smaller, wilder.

“Please… please…”

It scraped at him. The begging, the noise, the way she wouldn’t look at him right.

“SHUT UP!”

He shoved both hands through his hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp sting. “I said shut up.” He cupped her chin up ,forcing her to meet his eyes . While his other hand ran along the the edge of the box . His breathing slowed.

Then he picked the scalpel up from the box, holding it between two fingers like it was nothing.

“If you keep crying, I’ll have to fix that face,"

laughing "that was a joke why aren't you laughing " Amy faked a laugh she was doing it for her life . "Now u can feel how irritating it is to laugh at someone's jokes even if u don't find them funny, u can feel the pain of laughing when u don't want to."

“When you followed me…”

His hand went still around the scalpel. The hotel room dropped away.

He was back in the parking garage at 1 AM. Concrete. Echo.

Footsteps behind him. Not staff. Too light. Too careful.

He didn’t turn. If he turned, it became real. If he ran, they’d say he admitted it.

They knew the car he used that week. Knew the dent on the bumper he’d been embarrassed about since debut. Knew he left the window cracked for air.

One of them had pressed a note to the glass: _I watched you sleep last night. You look peaceful._

He stopped checking locks. What was the point?

He started sleeping with the lights on, staring at the door, waiting for the click that never came. Or maybe it did, and he just didn’t hear it.

"Paranoia doesn’t scream. It sits in your chest and counts your breaths until you do it for it"

He blinked. Back in Room 4B.

Amy’s face was close. Her eyes were wet,

but she wasn’t pulling away.

“Now you wait,” he whispered. “soon you'll know what it feels like to be hunted and caught.”

The scalpel touched her cheek. Cold.

“Don’t flinch.”