When two worlds collide, part one | ln4
Lando falls in love with a K-pop idol, but their worlds are too different to collide.
Kim Eunbin had entered JYP when she was twelve years old.
She remembered exactly how it felt to receive the news: pure ecstasy.
To many, it seemed like madness to start so young, but that was what it took to become an idol—enter early, train endlessly. Her father had been against it. He was Australian; her mother, Korean. Eunbin had lived with her father for years, but in the end, she chose to move to Seoul to chase her dream.
She could sing, and she was reasonably good at dancing—if she pushed herself, she knew she could excel. But what truly set her apart was her visual, especially by K-pop standards: a small face, a sharp V-line, slanted yet strikingly large eyes thanks to her mixed heritage. She looked like a living doll, porcelain-skinned and delicate.
She had everything it took to become an idol and believed her debut would come relatively easily. But it was only after entering the industry that she discovered how cruel it truly was. She trained from five in the morning until ten at night, most of that time spent dancing. She lost a significant amount of weight, because even though she was already slim and healthy, it was never enough.
She drew attention from the male trainees—her angelic beauty never went unnoticed—but that only led to misunderstandings, jealousy, and constant conflict with the other female trainees.
She became a mascot of the industry. Her weight was strictly monitored. She couldn’t wear the clothes she wanted. She could only post photos she was permitted to post, with carefully crafted captions that left no room for double meanings. She had to abandon her principles—she wasn’t allowed to say she believed in feminism or supported LGBTQ+ rights. She had to pretend to be naïve, unable to show critical thinking or the sharp mind capable of discussing deep, complex subjects.
She wasn’t a person anymore.
She was just a puppet.
And she was the perfect mascot.
When she debuted, she became an instant success—the new it girl of Korea. All the hatred she received came from how much attention she drew, from how her fancams were more famous than anyone else’s. But none of that ever bothered the company. As long as the contract was being honored, everything was fine.
Kim Eunbin was the biggest it girl of fifth-generation K-pop—a phenomenon, a symbol of beauty and talent.
And she remained a perfect puppet… until that day.
The Korean Grand Prix.
The international circuit in Korea had returned to the calendar, and of course, countless Korean celebrities were invited into the garages. Among them was Kim Eunbin, who specifically requested access to the McLaren garage. She was a Formula 1 fan, and being half Australian, she rooted for Piastri. Ever since childhood, McLaren had been the team of her heart.
She looked breathtaking that day, and the moment she arrived at the garage, she drew attention—especially from Lando Norris.
Lando knew who she was. He wasn’t a K-pop fan, but he didn’t live under a rock. He knew her name, knew she was considered extraordinarily beautiful. What he hadn’t known was just how beautiful she was in real life.
Seeing her in person was a shock.
“You’re practically drooling,” one of the engineers teased, laughing, while Kim Eunbin watched Piastri’s car up close, standing beside the driver himself.
“Shut up,” Lando muttered. “She doesn’t even look real. She’s that beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t recommend talking to her,” another engineer said—a South Korean.
“Why?”
“She’s a K-pop idol. Her entire life is absurdly controlled. She can’t date, can’t have the freedoms of a normal person. The company doesn’t allow it.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It’s reality, man. Korea is harsh—that’s why I had to leave. Do you think it was easy being gay there?”
Lando stayed silent for a moment, eyes still fixed on her.
“I won’t talk to her,” he finally said.
“But I can look.”
Lando kept himself under control, watching her from a distance.
He raced, he won, he climbed the podium.
From above, he couldn’t help himself—his eyes searched for her. When he found her, her smile stood out among the crowd, so beautiful it looked like a painting, unreal even from that height.
He told himself he would resist.
But at the end of the night, when he saw her back in the McLaren garage, picking up her bag, clearly ready to leave, he didn’t.
“Did you enjoy the race?” he asked, his voice casual, though his heart was anything but.
She turned, surprised for half a second before smiling—soft, genuine.
“You were amazing,” she said. “Absolutely incredible.”
He laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Australian accent?”
She nodded lightly. “I grew up in Australia.”
“That explains it,” he said, smiling. “I thought I was imagining it.”
She tilted her head, amused. “You noticed?”
“It’s hard not to notice,” he replied, then quickly added, “I mean—the accent. The accent.”
She laughed, a quiet, melodic sound, and for a moment the noise of the garage faded away.
“I’m Eunbin,” she said. “Kim Eunbin.”
“I know,” he admitted. “I’m Lando.”
She smiled again, a little wider this time. “I know.”
For a brief second, they simply stood there, neither of them quite ready to leave.
“I’m glad you came,” he said softly.
“So am I,” she answered, and something in her voice made it sound like more than just a race.
They kept in touch through messages.
At first, it was harmless—short conversations, jokes sent across time zones, late-night replies that turned into early mornings. Lando never pushed. Eunbin never explained. There was an unspoken understanding between them, delicate and careful, as if both knew how fragile that connection was.
Then came Los Angeles.
Lando flew in quietly, no announcements, no photos. Officially, he was there for meetings. Unofficially, he stood in the crowd that night, watching her on stage.
She was dazzling.
Under the lights, Eunbin was everything the world believed her to be—perfect, untouchable, radiant. But when her eyes scanned the audience and found his, just for a second, something shifted. Her smile faltered, softened. That moment wasn’t for the cameras. It was only for him.
After the show, she slipped away.
No security entourage. No staff hovering too close. Just the two of them, walking side by side through the warm Los Angeles night, trying—unsuccessfully—to blend in. They laughed, talked, shared food from a small place that stayed open too late. For a few hours, Eunbin wasn’t an idol, and Lando wasn’t a driver.
They were just two people.
And that was the problem.
Someone took photos.
By morning, they were everywhere.
Headlines speculated wildly. Fans dissected every angle, every glance, every step taken too close. Who was he? Why was she with him? The rumors grew faster than either of them could keep up with.
The manager was furious.
Eunbin sat across from him in silence as he slammed his phone onto the table, her name splashed across the screen.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he snapped. “You were seen. Together. This is a scandal.”
She lowered her eyes, fingers clenched in her lap.
“You know the rules,” he continued. “No dating. No rumors. No freedom. You are not just yourself—you are a product.”
That word burned.
Later that night, she texted Lando with shaking hands.
I’m sorry.
The reply came almost instantly.
Don’t be. I’d do it again.
She stared at the screen, heart aching, knowing that wanting him was easy—but keeping him would be the hardest thing she had ever done.
Then Eunbin disappeared.
At first, Lando told himself she was just busy. Promotions, rehearsals, schedules packed to the minute—he understood that world well enough to know how relentless it could be. Still, her silence stretched on. Messages went unread. Calls went unanswered.
Something felt wrong.
Weeks later, it was a fancam that found him.
He hadn’t been looking for it. It appeared on his feed late at night, autoplaying before he could scroll away. Eunbin was on stage, under blinding lights, performing a new song he didn’t recognize.
She looked different.
Thinner. Too thin. Her cheeks were hollow, her movements sharp but strained, her smile forced in a way that made his chest tighten. Even through a shaky fan-recorded video, he could see it—exhaustion carved into every line of her face.
The comments were brutal.
She’s lost so much weight.
Is she okay?
She looks unreal… not in a good way.
He read the article linked below the video.
A surprise single. Emergency promotions. A rushed release meant to drown out the scandal. Her schedule had doubled overnight—more shows, more appearances, more exposure. As if being seen more would somehow erase what had already happened.
His phone slipped from his hand.
Then came the news.
She collapsed during a concert.
The headline was clinical, detached. Temporary exhaustion. She will resume activities after rest. Lies wrapped in polite language.
Lando stared at the screen, heart racing, anger rising fast and uncontrollable.
Enough.
He didn’t care about rules, contracts, or consequences anymore. He booked the flight without hesitation, fingers moving on instinct.
He was going to see her.
Because whatever they were trying to turn her into on that stage—it wasn’t her.