The neon hum of Seoul’s nightlife bled through the rain-streaked, tinted windows of the taxi, a rhythmic, hypnotic pulse of artificial violet and acidic orange that washed over the interior every few seconds. You sat anchored in the center of the backseat, the reluctant bridge between two worlds of soft warmth and alcohol-induced haze.
To your left, Haewon’s weight was a constant, grounding pressure. Her head rested heavily on your shoulder, her breath smelling faintly of peach soju and the expensive gin-tonics she previously sipped. To your right, Sullyoon had claimed your other side, her frame more delicate but no less insistent. Her cheek pressed against your bicep as she drifted in that liminal space between consciousness and dreams.
The air in the car was thick, a heavy cocktail of perfumes—Haewon’s sharp, citrusy notes clashing beautifully with Sullyoon’s softer, powdery rose—all layered over the underlying scent of the taxi’s worn leather and peppermint air freshener. Every time the driver hit a pothole or navigated a sharp curve, their bodies shifted against yours, pinning your arms to your sides. You felt the erratic thrum of your own heart against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of sudden, overwhelming intimacy.
"You're too stiff," Haewon murmured, her voice a low vibration that traveled directly through your shoulder and into your marrow. She didn't open her eyes, but a small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Relax. We’re not going to bite. Not yet."
You let out a slow, measured breath, trying to loosen your shoulders without completely dropping your posture. "Easy for you to say," you reply, keeping your voice deliberately low so the driver wouldn't overhear. "If I relax any more, the next sharp turn is going to send one of you sliding onto the floorboards."
Sullyoon let out a tiny, melodic hum, her fingers twitching against the rough denim of your jeans. "It's just the alcohol," she whispered, though her grip on your arm tightened just a fraction, anchoring herself to you. "The world are spinning too fast for us right now. Just stay still."
"I'm perfectly still," you assure her gently, glancing at the blur of city lights racing by outside. "But both of you owe me iced Americanos tomorrow at the campus."
Haewon let out a soft, breathy laugh that fluttered warmly against your collarbone. "Deal," she agreed, the smirk fading into a sleepy, unguarded expression. "But tonight... tonight, just let us lean on you."
"Yeah," Sullyoon echoed softly, her breathing finally evening out into a slow, steady rhythm. "Just for a little longer."
You swallow hard, the scent of rose and citrus wrapping entirely around you as the taxi sped deeper into the neon-lit night, resigning yourself to being their very tense, very hyper-aware pillow.
Suddenly, the taxi driver, a silent, impassive silhouette against the city's neon glare, cranked the wheel in a vicious left turn to dodge a reckless late-night delivery scooter. The sudden centrifugal force threw the three of you hard to the right side. Desperate to keep from crushing Sullyoon against the door, your hands instinctively flew from your lap. Your left palm landed firmly against the sleek, silk-clad curve of Haewon’s thigh; your right hand found desperate purchase on the soft, warm fabric encasing Sullyoon’s knee.
Tires hissed on the damp asphalt as the car abruptly straightened out, tossing you back into equilibrium. But your hands remained frozen exactly where they had landed. The searing heat of their skin radiated instantly through the thin, unforgiving barriers of their clothes, burning into your palms. Your breath caught in your throat. You waited for the inevitable recoil, the polite, embarrassed adjustment, or the quick, breathy joke that would shatter the suffocating tension.
But it never came. Instead, Haewon’s hand slid down, cool fingers trailed a deliberate, agonizing path over your wrist before her palm settled over the back of your hand, pressing your touch more firmly into the muscle of her thigh.
"Don't move it," she breathed. The sleepy, teasing edge was completely stripped from her voice, replaced by a raw, jagged sincerity that made your pulse hammer in your ears.
On your right, Sullyoon didn't utter a single word. She simply shifted her weight, lacing her slender, trembling fingers through yours. With a slow, deliberate pull, she guided your hand higher up to her thigh. She let out a long, shaky sigh that ghosted directly against the sensitive skin of your neck, the rush of her hot breath sending a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine.
After a few more minutes ride, the taxi eventually slowed, its tires crunching softly against the curb of their apartment complex. The driver’s meter chirped—a sharp, sterile electronic beep that cracked like a gunshot through the heavy, intimate silence of the backseat. You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making the sound rasp louder than intended.
"We're here," you managed to say, wincing as your voice cracked slightly. You tried to gently extract your hands from theirs, the sudden absence of their warmth sending a phantom chill over your skin. "I should... I should get you two upstairs, make sure you're safe, and then call my own ride."
As you shifted your weight to slide toward the door, Haewon instantly sat up, her hair falling in a messy, dark halo around her face. Her eyes, usually sparkling with quick wit and sarcasm, were glassy but intensely focused on yours. There was no trace of the confident girl who had commanded the party an hour ago.
"Don't go yet," she whispered, her voice rough. "It's already too late to go home."
"Haewon, I can't—" you started, but the words died in your throat.
Sullyoon sat up on your other side, effectively cutting off your escape. Her usual innocent, doe-eyed expression was entirely eclipsed by something far more predatory and resolute. She shifted her body, turning fully in the cramped space to box you in against the leather of the seat, her knee deliberately brushing against yours.
"Stay with us," Sullyoon added, her voice dropping an octave into a low, pleading register you had never heard her use before. "Just for a little while. Please."
The morning sun, a persistent and unwelcome intruder, sliced through the torn slats of your cheap blinds. It painted a stark, accusing beam across the dust motes drifting aimlessly through the stale air of your rental. Another day. Another hollow cycle of hunting for a job that didn't seem to exist. Your resume—a crumpled, coffee-stained testament to endless rejection—lay abandoned on the scarred wooden table. The atmosphere in the room felt heavy, thick with the bitter scent of day-old grounds and the suffocating weight of your own inertia.
Then came the sound. The familiar, sharp clatter of a metal trowel against brick from next door. Mrs. Kang. It was a daily prelude for your gloomy day. You braced yourself, drawing a heavy breath before stepping out onto the cramped front porch. The weathered floorboards groaned beneath your weight, a tired sound that perfectly echoed the exhaustion settled deep in your marrow.
In the adjacent yard, Mrs. Kang paused. Her faded floral apron was pulled taut over her rigid posture, one hand planted firmly on her hip while a plastic watering can wept slow, rhythmic drops onto the flowers at her feet. Her eyes, perpetually narrowed in a silent verdict of your worth, snapped toward you. They lingered, widening just enough to take in the frayed collar of your t-shirt and the defeated slump of your shoulders, before settling back into that familiar, cutting glare of pure disdain.
"Oh, look who decided to grace me with his presence." Her voice, scraping the quiet morning air like a rusted trowel against brick, demanded a response. "Still enjoying your endless vacation, aren't you?"
You forced out a hollow, noncommittal grunt, dropping your gaze to anchor it on a cluster of wilting petunias in her otherwise pristine flowerbed. You tried to wrap yourself in a cloak of complete indifference, but the prickling heat of humiliation was already crawling up the back of your neck.
"You know... I'm really worried about you," she pressed on, her tone dripping with a saccharine, suffocating pity. "A young man like you with no direction... it's just such a waste. Your future is weeping for you."
You finally dragged your eyes up to meet hers, the muscles in your jaw tight as a dangerous, hot flicker of hatred betrayed your calm facade. "I always looking for a job, Mrs. Kang. Always looking for it."
"Always looking, huh?" The booming voice of Mr. Kang shattered the tense quiet. His heavy bulk suddenly filled the doorway of their meticulously kept home. His small, beady eyes locked onto you, gleaming with undisguised, smug superiority. "If you're actually out there hunting for work, why are you loitering here staring at my beautiful yard? You're nothing but a lazy pig."
A tight, cold knot twisted deep in your gut. You locked your jaw until your teeth ached, the venom of his insult stinging like an open wound. "It's still early, Mr. Kang," you managed to force out, fighting to keep your voice level. "And your yard is indeed beautiful."
"But beautiful isn’t enough to make rent or put some food on the table, isn't it?" he scoffed. He took a deliberate step forward, his heavy shadow stretching across the property line to swallow your tiny porch. "My Haerin, she’s graduating soon. Bright girl. Already planning for university, building her future. Not like you, drowning in poverty."
Mrs. Kang nodded vigorously beside him, her lips pursed tightly. "We want the absolute best for our daughter. Good influences around her. People who aspire. Not a failure like you." she dragged her gaze pointedly from the peeling paint of your house back to your face, the unspoken warning painfully clear.
The implication hung in the morning air, thick and suffocating. To them, you weren't a neighbor; you were a blight, a pathetic cautionary tale for their golden child. A sudden surge of impotent rage—hot, bitter, and entirely useless—churned in your chest. You wanted to lash out, to scream until your throat was raw, to rip apart their perfect, manicured facade. But the words died before they reached your tongue, completely strangled by the crushing, undeniable weight of their judgment.
"Excuse me," you mumbled, the words tasting like ash. You spun on your heel and retreated into the dim, suffocating sanctuary of your house, the flimsy wooden door slapping shut behind you. Even through the thin walls, the faint but unmistakable sound of their condescending laughter tracked your retreat like a physical weight.
You slumped against the peeling paint of the door, squeezing your eyes shut and gritting your teeth. Good influences. People who aspire. Their sanctimonious words ricocheted through the heavy silence of your living room, each syllable a fresh, jagged stab to your pride.
Then, the quiet was broken by a low, wicked chuckle bubbling up from your chest. They're were so utterly blind with their arrogance. They had absolutely no idea about the hidden, illicit world you shared with their golden child—their perfect, 'innocent' Haerin. A perverse, delicious sense of revenge began to simmer in your veins, a dark and intoxicating counterpoint to the morning's humiliation. It was a secret weapon they would never see coming.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the afternoon, the harsh heat of the day had finally mellowed into a warm, golden haze. You were slouched on your rickety porch swing, nursing a lukewarm can of soda when she appeared.
Haerin emerged from the crossroads. Her backpack hung casually over her shoulders, and her school uniform remained crisp and white in the soft afternoon light. Even from a distance, the striking, cat-like eyes of her was unmistakable. As her gaze locked onto yours, the soft—innocent curve of her lips shifted, revealing a sharp, undeniably mischievous spark.
She tilting her head slightly like a curious feline as she scanned around. Her house are quiet; her parents were nowhere in sight. Those quick, darting eyes found yours again. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk played at the corner of her mouth as she changed direction, walking straight toward your house, or toward you to be precise.
Understanding the silent cue, you stood up and retreated back into the shadows of your living room. Your heart gave a sharp, triumphant thud against your ribs. The lingering, bitter sting of her parents' morning insults began to wash away, rapidly replaced by a potent rush of anticipation and a dark, thrilling resolve.
Seconds later, Haerin slipped inside, bringing a gentle afternoon breeze and the sweet scent of cherry blossom shampoo. The stagnant air of your rental, usually so heavy with failure and melancholy, suddenly felt electric. Standing there in the dim light, still wearing her pristine uniform, she looked the very picture of pure, untouched innocence—the perfect, devastating lie.
"Oppa," she whispered. The word left her lips as a low, husky purr, a sound that never failed to send a hot shiver tracing down your spine. Those striking, cat-like eyes—usually so bright and carefully composed for the outside world—now held a heavy, hungry glint. It was a raw, unfiltered need that completely shattered her angelic facade.
The dorm apartment, usually a hive of activity, lay eerily still, hushed by the absence of the other members. A lone bottle of sparkling water, half-empty, stood sentinel on the polished coffee table, its label shimmering under the soft glow of the living room lamp. Wonyoung, sprawled across the plush sectional, idly tapped a perfectly manicured finger against her chin. Yujin, perched on the edge of a beanbag chair, a playful glint in her eyes, spun the bottle with a flick of her wrist. The bottle whirred, a low hum against the quiet, before its neck settled, pointing directly at Wonyoung.
"Truth or dare?" Yujin’s voice, a low purr, broke the silence.
Wonyoung considered for a moment, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "Truth. I'm feeling honest tonight."
Yujin leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze piercing. "Alright then. Have you ever, not just thought, but truly 'felt' a flicker of attraction for another member? Like, a real, physical pull?"
Wonyoung’s eyes widened, a blush creeping up her neck. She shifted, plucking at a loose thread on the sofa. "That's… direct." she paused, her gaze drifting towards the empty bedrooms. "Maybe. Sometimes. When someone's particularly focused, or just… moves a certain way. It's fleeting, though. More like an appreciation of beauty, you know?" she met Yujin’s expectant stare. "But yes. A flicker."
Yujin let out a low chuckle, a sound of triumph. "I knew it." she giving the bottle another spin. It landed on her this time.
"Your turn," Wonyoung declared, her earlier embarrassment fading, replaced by a mischievous glint. "Truth or dare?"
"Dare," Yujin answered without missing a beat, tilting her head back with a brazen, unshakable confidence.
Wonyoung paused, her gaze flicking toward the kitchen archway as a deliciously cruel idea took root. "I dare you to go into the kitchen, grab the spiciest hot sauce we have, and take a full spoonful," she leaned forward, mirroring Yujin's earlier posture, her voice dropping a register. "No flinching. And absolutely no water for sixty seconds."
Yujin’s bravado faltered for a fraction of a second. "You're actually trying to assassinate me." But the hesitation was fleeting; a fierce, competitive fire quickly ignited deep in her eyes. She pushed off the beanbag chair and marched toward the kitchen like a soldier heading to the front lines.
For a long moment, the living room was quiet again. Then came the clatter of silverware, the twist of a cap, and a sudden, sharp intake of breath. A frantic string of muffled, wheezing coughs echoed from the tile of the kitchen.
When Yujin finally re-emerged, she was a glorious mess. Her face was flushed a deep, alarming crimson, and she was aggressively blinking back the tears pooling in her eyes. She leaned heavily against the archway, breathing through her teeth. Yet, as Wonyoung checked the timer on her phone and nodded, a strained, fiercely defiant grin broke across Yujin's face.
"Brutal," Yujin rasped, her voice thick and gravelly from the spice. "But I survived."
Wonyoung burst into a melodic laugh, clapping her hands together in genuine delight. "Color me impressed," she beamed, the tension in the room breaking into warm amusement. "Spin it."
Yujin obliged, wiping a stray tear from her cheek as she sank back into her chair and sent the plastic bottle whirring across the glass table. It spun with a bit less force this time, the plastic humming a slower tune before wobbling to a stop.
Once again, the tip of the bottle pointed directly at Wonyoung.
The air in the room instantly shifted, the loud, playful energy receding back into that heavy, charged intimacy from before.
"Truth," Wonyoung murmured. Her voice was noticeably softer this time, the wicked confidence melting away into quiet, guarded anticipation.
Yujin’s gaze narrowed, a predatory glint entering her eyes. "Okay, Wonyoung-ah. This one's a little more… public. Have you ever been performing, or at a fan meet, and seen a fanboy in the crowd, and thought to yourself, 'He's so attractive'? And maybe, just maybe, felt a tiny spark of something… more?"
Wonyoung’s breath hitched—a sharp, audible intake of air in the quiet room. She immediately broke eye contact, her gaze dropping to the rug as a fresh, furious heat rushed to her face, painting her cheeks a far deeper crimson than Yujin’s hot-sauce flush. The question struck entirely too close to home. Unbidden, a very specific face swam into her mind's eye: a recurring figure in the front rows, his gaze always piercing, intense, and wholly devoted. She had spent months carefully categorizing that flutter in her chest as mere 'professional appreciation.' But stripped of excuses under Yujin’s scrutiny, the truth felt completely different.
"Yes," Wonyoung confessed, the word slipping out as a fragile whisper.
She hugged her arms loosely around her waist, wrestling with the admission before pushing through. "Once or twice. It’s… unsettling. We're trained to be perfectly professional, to keep that glass wall up. But sometimes… the sheer intensity of how they look at you, or just a specific expression they make—it bypasses the training. It just… registers." A small, involuntary shiver danced down her spine, betraying her composed facade.
Yujin hummed, a low, resonant sound vibrating with dark satisfaction. She didn't tease or gloat; instead, her expression settled into a terrifying kind of understanding. "I knew it. It’s impossible not to feel it when someone looks at you like you personally hung the moon in the sky."
Without looking away from Wonyoung's flushed face, Yujin reached out and flicked the plastic bottle. It spun across the glass table, a blur of motion that seemed to mock the sudden, heavy weight in the room. It slowed, wobbled, and hummed its familiar tune. And with almost comical inevitability, the tip settled dead center, pointing right back at Wonyoung.
"Dare," Wonyoung declared, practically jumping at the word. She desperately needed to shatter the heavy, unsettling vulnerability of her last confession. She needed to be back in the driver's seat.
The hum of the air purifier was entirely swallowed by the low, resonant thrum of ambient soundscapes playing through hidden speakers. A rich, heavy blend of frankincense, crushed sandalwood, and a sharp hint of eucalyptus hung in the air—a calculated olfactory veil designed to sever all ties with the outside world. This space was more than just a clinical room; it was a soundproofed sanctuary meticulously carved out of the city’s relentless pulse. It was a clandestine retreat where the world’s most celebrated, exhausted bodies came to finally, completely unravel.
As the heavy, insulated door clicked shut, sealing out the hallway's pale light, the familiar, quiet weight of expectation settled over your shoulders. You were the architect of that unraveling. In this room, titles and fame held no currency; there was only anatomy, tension, and the precise application of pressure.
Karina—a name currently echoing through sold-out stadiums and dominating digital billboards globally—lay perfectly still, prone on the heated table. Stripped of the armor of stage lights and haute couture, she looked startlingly human. A single, charcoal-grey plush towel wrapped around her body, a modest concession to the deep physical vulnerability the session demanded.
The sheer kinetic violence of world tour—a blinding blur of choreography, adrenaline, and screaming adoration—had woven intricate, knotting pathways of stress deep into her fascia. Beneath her flawless skin, her muscles were a map of exhaustion, pulled taut like overworked piano wire. For the next few hours, she was under your absolute jurisdiction for intensive, restorative body maintenance. It wasn't just physical therapy; it was a total physiological recalibration, a vital dismantling of her fatigue before the machine of her career demanded she spin up into the relentless cycle once again.
Closing the distance to the table, your hands—weathered and strong from years of deciphering the body’s unspoken complaints—braced for the inevitable landscape of knots and adhesions. A pool of warm oil, fragrant with the calming weight of lavender and the sharp, medicinal edge of arnica, spread across your palms.
This initial contact was the anchor point: a completely silent, tactile negotiation of trust. As you laid your hands flat against the broad expanse just below her shoulder blades, her muscles pushed back against your skin like coiled steel—rigid, fiercely defensive, and unyielding. With a grounded breath, you began the work, sinking into a slow, deliberate cadence of heavy pressure and measured release.
A soft, fractured sigh escaped Karina's lips, vibrating through the face cradle, as your thumbs found the dense, fibrous tracks running parallel to her spine. Beneath the glide of the oil, a subtle, involuntary tremor rippled through her frame. It was the physical echo of deep-seated stress finally beginning to crack. Your movements were deeply fluid and relentlessly practiced; every sweeping stroke was engineered to draw a physical surrender from her exhausted form. As you kneaded into the heavy, overworked musculature of her trapezius, you focused entirely on the hard ridges beneath the skin, coaxing the taut fibers to gradually soften and lengthen under your persistent, rhythmic friction.
"That's it..." she breathed, the admission barely more than a raspy murmur sinking into the plush linens.
You simply hummed in acknowledgement, your focus is absolute. The scent of her skin, a faint, sweet perfume mingling with the essential oils, began to register. You moved down her back, tracing the elegant curve of her lumbar, working meticulously through the intricate network of muscles that supported her powerful core. You felt the subtle shift in her breathing, a deeper, more relaxed rhythm taking hold.
A breathy sound, almost a purr, escaped her. It wasn't the sharp intake of breath signaling discomfort, but something softer, more languid. It vibrated through the table, through your hands, and into your own body. You continued your work, your fingers finding a particularly stubborn knot just above her hip. You applied steady, firm pressure, feeling the resistance, then the slow, grudging release.
"Oh… yes," she exhaled, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to stretch the air between you. It was a sound that had nothing to do with muscle relief and everything to do with something far more primal.
A jolt, unexpected and unwelcome, shot through you. You felt a twitch spread through your groin, a sudden, inconvenient hardening that threatened your professional composure. You pushed it down, deep, burying the sensation under layers of discipline. This was work. This was a client. A highly visible, incredibly famous client. You were a professional.
You moved to her arms, kneading the powerful deltoids, the taut biceps. Her skin, smooth and supple, warmed beneath your touch. You worked down to her forearms, her hands, each digit, feeling the intricate network of tendons and small bones. Karina shifted slightly, a subtle arch of her back that sent another wave of sensation through you.
"You have… magic hands," she whispered, her voice husky.
You offered another noncommittal hum, forcing your breathing to remain even, your focus unwavering. The soft, breathy moans continued, punctuating the silence of the room. Each one, a small, insistent drumbeat against your resolve. Your cock, stubbornly insistent, pressed against the fabric of your slacks, a testament to the primal response her sounds evoked.
The thick canopy of the park provides a fragile shield as you stand deep within the bushes, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in jagged streaks of gold. The transition from being a standard JYPE employee to the personal manager of ITZY happened six months ago. At first, you thought Yuna were just 'bold'—changing in front of you without a second thought or leaving the door cracked open during showers.
But then came the 'accidental' wardrobe malfunction on backstage, and the way she lingers in the windows of high-rise hotels while wearing nothing. She got the thrill from you catching her like that. You realized quickly: Yuna didn't just trust you, she wanted you to be the witness of her most public risks.
"Manager-nim," Yuna whispers as she kneels in front of you, her eyes darting toward the path where a group of tourists just passed by. "You're breathing so loud. Do you want people to find us?"
"Yuna, we're five yards from a public trail," you hiss, your voice strained. "If someone looks through these branches, it’s over."
"Then we better be quick," she murmurs with a predatory grin. Her nimble fingers finish with your belt and tug the zipper down. As she pulls your trousers and boxers away, your cock springs free, fully erect and throbbing in the humid air because she teases you all day long. It’s thick and heavy, the head already weeping a bead of pre-cum that glistens under the dappled sunlight. The veins along the shaft are prominent and taut, reacting to the illicit thrill of the setting.
Yuna’s eyes widen, her pupils dilating as she drinks in the sight. She reaches out, her small, soft hand wrapping around the base, her thumb tracing the sensitive ridge of the head. "Look at you," she breathes, her voice thick. "So big just because of me."
She doesn't wait for a response. She leans forward, her red hair falling around your thighs like a silken cage. Her lips part, wet and shimmering, as she slowly presses the head of your cock against her tongue. She swirls the tip around the entrance of her mouth, coating the sensitive skin in her saliva before she finally slides down.
The heat is instantaneous. You gasp, your head hitting the bark of a tree behind you as she takes you in. She doesn't stop halfway; she pushes forward until your entire length is buried deep within her throat, her nose pressing against your pubic hair. The feeling of her tight, velvet-smooth throat constricting around you is overwhelming.
Yuna begins to work with a rhythmic, desperate intensity. The sloppy, wet sounds of her mouth sliding up and down your shaft echo in the small clearing, punctuated by the muffled, guttural hums she makes deep in her chest. She looks up at you while her mouth is stretched wide, her eyes hooded and full of dark mischief as she watches your face contort in pleasure.
"Yuna... fuck," you groan, your hands finding her shoulders to keep your balance. "You're going to make me blow right here."
She pulls back, the movement creating, a loud wet pop as your cock slides out of her mouth, trailing a long string of glistening spit. "That’s the point, isn't it?" she whispers, her chin wet and her face flushed. "I want to taste your cum right here while the pedestrians passes by."
Yuna dives back down, even more aggressive than before, her tongue flickering against the underside of your shaft as she swallows you whole again.
The gravel on the nearby path crunches—the sound of a small group of tourists laughing as they pass by just feet away. The noise sends a jolt of pure electricity through the air. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs, but Yuna doesn't flinch. If anything, the proximity of getting caught in public makes her even more daring.
She keeps her head down, buried deep between your thighs. The sloppy, rhythmic suction of her mouth becomes a steady, agonizingly perfect pressure. Every time her tongue flicks against the sensitive underside of your cock, a wave of heat rolls through you, but you clench your jaw, forcing yourself to hold back. You can't lose control yet—not with the risk of discovery hanging so close.
"Yuna... stop for a second," you gasp, your voice a ragged, barely audible whisper. "Someone is... they’re right there."
She pulls back slowly, the glistening length of your cock sliding out of her mouth with a wet, heavy sound. She looks up at you, her face flushed a deep pink, her lips swollen and shining. A thin trail of saliva runs from the corner of her mouth down to her chin, catching the sunlight that stabs through the leaves.
"Let them look, Manager-nim," she breathes, her voice a low, defiant hum. She reaches into her pink plaid bag—the one lying in the dirt beside her—and pulls out a small hand mirror. She holds it up, angling it so you can see your own reflection, your cock standing thick and angry against the backdrop of the public park. "Look at how much you like it. You're shaking."
Yuna doesn't wait for your reply. She drop the mirror and leans back in, but this time she doesn't swallow you whole. Instead, she starts at the base, her tongue trailing slow, wet circles around the throbbing veins. She works her way up to the head, swirling her tongue around the ridge before taking just the tip into her mouth, nibbling gently with her teeth.
The sensation is focused, intense, and designed to push you right into the edge. She’s teasing you now, her eyes locked on yours, watching the way your pupils dilate as she maintains that torturous, perfect rhythm.
"You're so tense, Manager-nim," she murmurs against the sensitive skin, her lips barely grazing the tip. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the throbbing veins of your shaft as she maintains the slow teasing. "Are you scared someone will see us like this? Or are you just scared of how much you’re enjoying it?"
You don't answer her, already tired with her game. The contrast between the cold air hitting on your body and the sweltering, wet heat of her tongue on your cock is finally tearing down your last bit of restraint.
"Yuna... I'm going to cum." you groaned, ignoring her question as you right in the edge of your peak.
She lets out triumphant smirk. Yuna knows she has won. She looks up one last time, her eyes dark and full of a manic, exhibitionist spark, before she suddenly abandons the teasing. She opens her throat wide and plunges downward, taking your entire length deep into her mouth with a fierce, vacuum-like suction.
The sudden, aggressive depth is the final trigger. "Yuna—!" you gasp, your back arching off the tree as your composure shatters completely.
Your hips jerk forward reflexively as you begin to climax. Yuna doesn't pull back; instead, she clamps her hands firmly onto your thighs, holding you in place so she can take the full force of it. You pulse violently in her mouth, shot after shot of hot semen hitting the back of her throat. She swallows rhythmically, her eyes squeezed shut as she drains you, making sure not a single drop is wasted.
The world seems to spin as you come down from the high, your breath hitching in ragged sobs. Yuna stays there for a long moment, making sure she’s cleaned every bit of you with her tongue before she finally pulls away. A single, glistening strand of spit and white cream connects her lower lip to your softening head before she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, a look of pure, satisfied pride on her face.
She's looking at you with a smirk. "There," she whispers, her voice thick and satisfied. "Now you have a real memory to go with those photos, Manager-nim." she said, referring to the pictures you took for her before she got you into this situation.
You never actually wanted to be here. The bass from the speakers is literally rattling your ribs, vibrating through the floorboards of your friend’s house. He had invited you to come, wearing you down with the classic argument: it doesn't hurt to try something new. And you genuinely tried. For a fleeting moment, you threw yourself into the deep end. You grabbed a drink, shuffled your way into the center of the living room, and tried to blend in with the mass of moving bodies under the flashing lights. You tried to let the heavy, pulsing music take over. But after just a few minutes of dodging flailing elbows and shouting over the noise, the sheer exhaustion of it all washed over you. The thrill just wasn't there. It simply isn't your scene.
Defeated, but entirely relieved, you retreat to the edges of the room and sink into the worn fabric of a sofa. From here, the party is just a movie you're watching. You sip your drink, content to just disappear into the upholstery and run out the clock until you can politely leave.
But a few moments later, the crowd seems to part slightly, and someone is walking directly toward your quiet sanctuary.
Even in the dim, chaotic lighting of party, she looks like she stepped out of a different reality. It’s Tanaka Anna. She is practically campus royalty—famous not just for her striking beauty, but for a family background of such immense wealth that it makes her entire existence seem intimidatingly perfect.
She looks entirely out of place in the best way possible. She’s wearing pristine, white strapless mini dress, the smooth satin catching the low light. The structured, bell-shaped skirt and the delicate bow at her waist make her look like she belongs at an exclusive gala, not a sticky-floored house party. A beautiful pearl necklace rests against her collarbone, and her dark hair falls in perfect, cascading waves from an elegant half-up style. She looks completely untouched by the heat and the chaos of the room.
Anna stops right in front of you, the scent of an expensive, subtle perfume briefly cutting through the smell of the party.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asks, her voice gentle and surprisingly clear over the thumping music.
You blink up at her, completely caught off guard by the campus royalty standing in front of you. Your social battery is already drained, and your brain struggles to catch up.
"S-sure," you reply, your voice coming out a bit groggier and more awkward than you intended, "I don't own this party or the house. So... I don't have the right to forbid you sit on this sofa."
"Thank you," she says with a smile.
She carefully gathers the voluminous, bell-shaped skirt of her white dress—ensuring the pristine satin doesn't brush against anything unsavory—and gracefully takes a seat beside you on the sagging cushions. Suddenly, the cheap, worn fabric of the sofa feels entirely inadequate for someone draped in such immaculate tailoring and delicate pearls.
For a few long, agonizing moments, neither of you speaks. The heavy bass of the music continues to shake the floorboards, and the chaotic sea of partygoers dances wildly just a few feet away, but a strange, awkward bubble of tension seems to have settled right over your corner of the room. You keep your eyes rigidly glued to the crowd, hyper-aware of the few inches of space between you, the subtle trace of her expensive perfume, and the sheer surrealness of the situation.
Just as the awkwardness threatens to suffocate you completely, Anna shifts slightly on the cushions, turning her head to look directly at you.
"I'm Anna," she offered her hand to you.
You don't take her hand. Instead, your gaze fixed on the plastic red cup in your grip, feeling the heat rise to your neck. It feels ridiculous to pretend, to play the 'nice to meet you' game when her reputation precedes her in every lecture hall and campus café.
"I know," you say, the words coming out a bit more blunt than you intended. You finally risk a glance at her, noting how out of place her polished reflection looks in the grime of party room. "I mean... I know who you are. Pretty much everyone on campus does. You're quite popular Anna."
A flicker of something—not quite disappointment, but maybe a brief shadow of weariness—crosses her face before her sweet smile returning, albeit a little softer this time.
"Right," she murmurs, withdrawing her hand to rest it back on her white satin skirt. "I forgot about that."
The city didn’t just encroach on the suburbs, it devoured them. You watched from the backseat as the familiar green lawns and quiet cul-de-sacs of your childhood surrendered to a rising tide of concrete and chrome. Your parents, two doctors chasing the prestige of a massive metropolitan hospital, saw a golden horizon. You saw an eviction. It felt less like a relocation and more like a forced exile—a hard reset on a teenage existence you known and enjoyed.
The first month was a sensory assault. The new school stood like a fortress, its hallways a chaotic river of strangers navigating a current you didn't understand. You wore indifference like armor, drifting through the noise in a protective bubble. But armor is heavy, and eventually, yours cracked. It started small—a sympathetic grimace shared over a bubbling beaker in Chemistry, a mutual groan over a brutal history syllabus—and suddenly, you weren't invisible anymore.
Hyunsu became your anchor, a boy with an easy grin and a playlist for every specific human emotion. Minjun followed, sharp-tongued and unapologetically sarcastic, completing the trio. The weekends, once dreaded voids of loneliness, transformed into urban expeditions: hunting for vinyl in dusty basements, debating cinema at 2 AM, and scaling fire escapes to watch the city breathe beneath you, a glittering tapestry of electric light. You began to find a rhythm in the chaos, falling in love with the endless possibilities humming beneath the pavement.
Your actual home, however, was a world away from the grit of the streets. The high-rise apartement complex was a monolith of glass that severed you from the noise below. It was a realm of hushed elevators, cold marble, and silence that cost a premium. Your parents, thriving on the energy of their new status, wasted no time weaving themselves into the building's social fabric. It was a carousel of polite dinner parties and poolside networking. And it was in this strange, manicured ecosystem—somewhere between the canapés and the panoramic views—that you crossed paths with Miyeon and Sana.
Miyeon is the most jarring twist of fate. She was a teacher at your new school—lived just two floors below you. Within the sterile confines of the classroom, she was a study in absolute composure: dark hair scraped back into a severe ponytail, her voice a precise instrument of authority that brooked no interruption. But the complex’s communal lounge served as a strange decompression chamber. In that softer, amber light, the strict educator vanished. Her hair fell in loose, gentle waves around her shoulders, and the sharp scent of dry-erase markers was replaced by a faint, lingering drift of jasmine. Even her eyes, usually narrowed with academic scrutiny, seemed to melt into a disarming, inviting warmth.
Sana, by contrast, was a whirlwind of vibrant energy. She seemed to exist outside the conventional grind, her days devoted entirely to curated elegance and the art of effortless charm. Her laughter—a bright, melodic cascade—often echoed through the complex's courtyard, effortlessly drawing smiles from the neighbors. She moved with a fluid, captivating grace, her attire always impeccable, preceded by the subtle, expensive shimmer of her signature perfume.
You found yourself captivated by their orbit, a witness to the effortless, magnetic gravity that seemed to pull them together. It sparked a sudden, dizzying awareness within you—a realization of just how undeniably beautiful they were. Miyeon was a study in refined elegance and quiet, smoldering intensity, while Sana was all radiant energy, playful curves, and eyes that seemed to hold a permanent spark. It was a dangerous combination. Your teenage hormones, already a volatile current, surged into a flood. Fantasies began to stitch themselves into the seams of your reality, vivid and relentless. A coincidental brush of a hand in the hallway, a gaze that lingered a heartbeat too long—these feverish daydreams became the secret, pounding soundtrack to an otherwise ordinary life.
The morning air bit at your cheeks, crisp and sharp, heavy with the resinous scent of pine and deep, damp earth. You tightened the straps of your pack, the weight settling into the familiar grooves of your shoulders. Weak sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, dappling the trailhead in shifting patterns of pale gold. Beneath your skin, a hum of anticipation began to rise—a quiet prelude to the climb. This mountain was more than a trail; it was a sanctuary, a promise of silence to drown out the relentless noise of the city left behind.
Filling your lungs with the cold air, you stepped onto the path. Gravel crunched under your boots, establishing a rhythmic, meditative beat. A few early risers were already descending, faces flushed with exertion, exchanging brief, breathless nods as they passed.
You rounded a narrow bend, and the path tightened. Ahead, a feminine figure stood at the base of the weathered information board, back turned to you. She cut a slight, almost fragile silhouette against the towering trees. Her gear—a black winter jacket and dark cargo pants—seemed to swallow her frame, a void of shadow against the vibrant greenery.
"Morning," you offered, your voice distinct in the stillness.
The figure didn't just turn; she flinched—a sharp, defensive jerk of the shoulders. She spun around, eyes wide before instantly narrowing to assess you. A beanie was pulled low over her brow, and a black mask covering everything else. All that remained visible were her eyes—piercing, guarded, and tracking your every move.
"Oh... good morning." The words were barely a whisper, muffled slightly by the fabric of her mask. Her gaze didn't settle; it darted past you, scanning the empty trail behind your shoulder, radiating a nervous, almost hunted energy.
You froze mid-step, your boot hovering over the gravel.
It isn't the hesistation that stopping you—it is the timbre of the voice. Deep, steady, and unmistakably familiar. You have heard that voice in countless interviews, live streams, and songs over the last few years. It is a voice that has been unusually silent in the media lately, buried under legal briefs and company statements.
You locked onto the eyes visible above the black mask. They weren’t just guarded; they were exhausted, carrying a weight far heavier than the pack on her back.
"Minji?" The name slipped out, a reflex before your brain could catch it.
The reaction was instant. She stiffened as if struck, her hand retracting sharply from the board. She tugged the beanie lower, turning her face away to break the connection. "You have the wrong person," she mumbled, but the deflection was brittle, lacking any real conviction.
"Nope. I heard your voice plenty of times, so I know it very well," you said, keeping your tone low to avoid startling her further. "It’s unmistakable." you paused, glancing around the quiet woods before looking back at her. "What are you doing out here? Alone?"
Minji hesitates. She looks around the empty trail, realizing there is no crowd, no cameras, just the wind and the trees. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders drops, though she keeps the mask on. She looks back at you, the surprise in her eyes shifting to a weary resignation. "Just... trying to get away for a bit. Clear my head."
The pieces fall into place inside your head. The headlines you’ve been scrolling past for months—the vicious legal battles, the split within the group, the termination of Danielle's contract, and the uncertain future of the group's—it all manifest in the slumped shoulders of the girl in front of you.
It clicks. She isn't just hiking; she is escaping. She’s trading the suffocating, complex pressure of a courtroom for the simple, brutal struggle of a steep ascent. Here, the struggle was physical, linear, and solvable—unlike the mess waiting for her back in the city.
"Stressful times, huh?" you ventured, your tone soft, empathetic.
Minji nodded, a jerky, barely-there dip of her chin. "Something like that," she whispered. Her gaze drifted up the winding trail, lost in the canopy. "I thought... maybe a hike would help. I hoped this would give me some peace." Even with the mask concealing her expression, the wistfulness radiated off her—a longing for peace that seemed almost painful in its intensity.
You studied her for a moment. This was Kim Minji—a woman usually buffered from the world by a phalanx of managers, stylists, and security detail. Yet here she stood, dwarfed by the tall trees, seeking solace in the mountain’s unforgiving embrace with zero backup. A sudden, sharp wave of protectiveness washed over you. "It's your first time doing this alone, isn't it?
The silence stretched between you, heavy and confirming. She didn’t need to say a word; the way her gaze dropped to her brand-new, scuff-free boots told the whole story.
"I’m not trying to scare you, but mountain don't play favorites," you said, keeping your voice low and anchored. "The weather turns on a dime up here. The fog rolls in, the paths get slick—if you don't know the way, it gets dangerous really fast. It's not wise to solo hiking if you're a newbie." you paused, letting the reality sink in before offering an out. "I’m heading for the summit. You can stick with me."
Minji hesitated. You could see the war playing out behind her eyes—the desperate, clawing need for isolation clashing with the cold, hard logic of your warning. She shifted her weight, looking small against the backdrop of towering pines.
"I don't want to... be a burden," she finally murmured. The words were laced with the exhaustion of someone used to being a headline, a problem to be managed, a liability. "I don't want to cause any trouble."
"You won't be," you assured her, offering a smile that you hoped conveyed nothing but easygoing reliability. "Think of it as a safety precaution. I know this mountain like the back of my hand. I'll just be a guide—nothing more."
The tension held for another second, tight as a bowstring, then broke. Her shoulders slumped in a minute release. "Okay," she breathed, the word a soft surrender to the necessity of help. "Thank you."
Your phone has been buzzing non-stop with notifications: Dating Scandal of the Year, aespa’s Winter in Secret Relationship?, Agency declines to comment.
Inside, however, the silence is heavy and electric.
Your close friend—Winter's cousin—was supposed to be the buffer. He was the one who offered the place, swearing it was the only secure location the paparazzi wouldn’t check. But ten minutes after smuggling her in through the freight elevator, he got a call about a family emergency and bolted, leaving you with a patted shoulder and a whispered, "Good luck."
Now, it’s just you, a half-written term paper, and one of the most famous women in South Korea claiming your living room as her fortress.
Winter refused her cousin's bedroom immediately, wrinkling her nose at the unmade bed and the pile of laundry in the corner. "Gross," she’d muttered, opting for the couch instead.
You try to focus on your textbooks spread out on the dining table, but the scratching sound of a spoon against a ceramic bowl breaks your concentration every few seconds.
Winter is sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly. She forgot to pack an overnight in the rush. The result is her wearing a big white dress shirts, you're not sure if it hers or not. It’s vast on her small frame, the cuffs rolled up messily, but she hasn’t bothered to button it past the sternum. The collar gapes open, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone, and the hem barely grazes her mid-thigh.
"Do you always study this much?" she asks, her voice cutting through the quiet.
You look up. She’s holding a spoon of Fruity Pebbles, milk dripping slightly. Her legs are bare, pale against the dark cabinets. She looks entirely too comfortable for someone currently becoming a hot topic in the country.
"Midterms," you manage to say, forcing your eyes back to your laptop.
"Boring," she hums, hopping off the counter. The soft pad of her bare feet on the hardwood floor moves closer to you, then past you, trailing a scent of expensive vanilla and something distinctly fresh.
An hour later, the sound of the shower starts. You exhale, finally able to type a few sentences without feeling like you’re being watched. But the reprieve is short-lived.
You need to get a charger from your bedroom. The layout of the apartment is unforgiving; you have to pass right by the bathroom.
The door is cracked open a few inches. Steam billows out into the hallway, carrying the scent of your cheap body wash which suddenly smells luxurious.
"I hate the steam," she had announced earlier, leaving the door ajar.
As you try to walk past quickly, eyes fixed strictly on the floor, her voice stops you.
"Hey."
You freeze. You turn your head slightly. Through the gap and the mist, you see Winter's form. She is dripping wet, her hair slicked back, wrapped only in a white towel that sits precariously low on her chest. Her skin is flushed pink from the heat.
She doesn't look embarrassed. She looks expectant.
"I can't find the hairdryer," she says, gesturing vaguely to the cabinets.
"It's... under the sink. Left side," you stammer, fighting the urge to look away and the equal urge to stare.
"Thanks." She flashes a faint, tired smile, catching a drop of water running down her neck with her thumb. "You can keep walking now."
The roar of the Inspire Arena was deafening, a physical force vibrating through the floorboards backstage. It was the 2025 LCK Grand Finals, the pinnacle of your career so far. You were the mid-laner for Hanwha Life Esports, about to face off against the juggernaut that was Gen.G.
When the opening ceremony started, you were watching from behind the stage on a monitor. Your breath hitched when Minju appeared. She wasn’t just performing; she was Katarina. The navy top with gold trim, the flowing high-low lavender skirt, the thigh-high boots—it was a perfect stylized cosplay of aesthetic.
You were a massive fan of ILLIT, and your bias, without question, was Minju. You knew Minju also played League of Legends, and she mained Katarina—the same champion you were famous for. That shared connection to the high-risk, high-reward assassin felt like a private bond.
The pressure was immense, but you has a strong motivation to win. Seeing your idol perform dressed as your main champion, moments before the biggest match of your life, felt like destiny. Adrenaline flooded your system. You felt untouchable. You were ready to go out there and slaughter everyone on the Rift.
But reality was harsher than the hype.
A few hours later, the dream was dead. Gen.G had played a suffocating macro game. Despite your best efforts, despite trying to find those impossible flanks just like a Katarina player should, your nexus exploded for the final time. The silver confetti that rained down wasn't for HLE.
The walk back to the team room was agonizing. The hallway was a blur of staff members giving you pitying looks and the distant, muffled sound of the casters analyzing your team defeat.
Your coach, Homme, stopped the team near the vending machines. "Heads up, everyone. We’ll debrief soon after we rested a bit. Don't check your phones."
You felt like you were suffocating. You couldn't sit in that team room right now.
"Coach, wait," you said, your voice sounding hollow.
Your coach turned, his face stern but understanding. "What is it?"
"I can't... I need air," you stammered, pointing vaguely down the hall. "I need to clear my head before we talk. I'll catch up later."
He studied your face for a second, then nodded. "Don't go too far."
You veered away from your teammates, heading toward the quieter section of the arena where the performers' holding areas were located. It was mostly deserted now; the opening ceremony had been hours ago.
You stared at the floor, replaying the critical team fight in game four, hating yourself for getting caught out. But suddenly, a hand clamped onto your wrist, pulling you sharply to the left.
You stumbled, ready to snap at whoever interrupted your misery, but the words died in your throat.
It was Minju.
She was still in full costume—the navy top with the gold emblem, the lavender high-low skirt, the thigh-high boots. She looked surreal in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway, like a video game character glitched into reality.
"Minju-ssi?" you whispered, completely bewildered. "I thought you were already gone..."
Minju didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked frantically left and right, checking for security or staff. Seeing the coast was clear, she tugged you toward a door labeled 'Artist Holding - B (Reserved)'.
She quickly push the door open and shoved you inside, slipping in quickly behind you.
The glass doors of SM Entertainment’s headquarters slid open with a pneumatic hiss, severing the connection to the outside world. The lobby’s air conditioning was aggressive, a sterile chill that instantly dried the sweat on your neck—a violent shift from the suffocating humidity of the Seoul summer.
Against your chest, the plastic laminate of your new ID badge felt heavy, though it was still warm from the printer. You were twenty-two, fresh out of university, and officially a cog in the machine. Junior Assistant. The title was small, but the assignment was monumental: Red Velvet’s Irene. The name didn't just sit in your mind; it loomed. Bae Joohyun. The Original Visual. You were to be her shadow, her logistical anchor, the invisible hand ensuring her world remained perfect.
"You’re the new hire."
The voice cut through the ambient hum of the lobby. Ms. Kim, a woman with a ponytail so tight it looked painful and a clipboard wielded like a weapon, stood before you. Her heels clicked a military cadence on the marble as she approached.
You nodded, the word 'yes' dying in a dry throat.
"Good. Walk with me," she commanded, already turning around. "Irene-ssi’s schedule is relentless this week. She requires absolute precision. No room for error. No room for fatigue. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Ms. Kim. Perfectly."
The elevator ride was a vacuum of silence, the rapid ascent making your ears pop. Your stomach churned, a volatile cocktail of adrenaline and dread. This wasn't just a job; it was an ascension to Olympus. You had spent years admiring the cool, untouchable aura of Irene from a pixelated distance. Now, you were about to step behind the curtain, inches away from the unvarnished reality behind the perfection.
The elevator arrived at the fourth floor with a soft, melodious chime that felt mocking given the tension in your chest. The doors slid open, revealing a hallway that was a stark contrast to the quiet lobby downstairs. It was a hive of activity—stylists rushing with garment bags, producers arguing softly into phones, and the muffled thump of bass leaking from soundproofed doors.
Ms. Kim didn't offer any more advice. She didn't warn you about Irene’s temper or give you a list of do's and don'ts. She simply stepped out and checked her watch, her face setting into a mask of grim determination.
"Studio B," she said, the words clipped. "Stay close. If you fall behind, I’m not coming back for you."
She moved with a speed that defied her heels, weaving through the corridor traffic like a shark through water. You scrambled to keep pace, clutching your bag, your eyes fixed on the back of her blazer to avoid making accidental eye contact with anyone famous who might be passing by.
She stopped abruptly in front of a heavy black door at the end of the hall. There was no knock, no pause for breath. She swiped her keycard, the lock beeped green, and she shoved the door open.
Inside the room is a whirlwind of motion. The air here was heavy, humid with the collective body heat of people pushing their physical limits. The bass of the unreleased track wasn't just heard; it was felt, thumping through the floorboards and rattling the teeth in your jaw.
They moved with a terrifying synchronization, a single organism with many limbs. But in the center of the formation, serving as the gravitational pull for the chaos, was Irene.
She was mesmerizing. Her movements possessed a razor-sharp duality—hitting the beats with mechanical precision while maintaining a fluid, almost liquid grace that made the grueling choreography look effortless. Sweat slicked her hairline, catching the harsh studio lights like diamonds, but her expression was locked in a trance of absolute focus.
"Cut," Ms. Kim said, her voice sharp enough to slice through the wall of sound.
The choreographer, a lean man with eyes that seemed to track every mistake, killed the music instantly. The silence that followed was ringing and heavy, filled only by the harsh, synchronized panting of the members.
The formation broke. Irene froze mid-gesture, then slowly lowered her arms. She turned, her chest heaving rhythmically. For a split second, her gaze was unfocused, still trapped in the rhythm of the dance. Then, she blinked, and the idol mask slipped just enough to reveal the human beneath. Her dark, intelligent eyes swept over you, carrying a surprising warmth that contrasted the icy intensity of her performance just moments ago.
"Irene," Ms. Kim announced, her hand waving a dismissive, vague gesture in your direction, as if presenting a piece of office furniture. "This is your new assistant. He will be handling your daily logistics."
Irene reached up to wipe a stray lock of damp hair from her cheek. She didn't look at Ms. Kim; she looked at you.
"Hello," she said. Her voice was lower, raspy from exertion, and far softer than you expected—a gentle murmur against the studio’s hard edges. She offered a small smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes but felt genuine in its politeness. "Welcome."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Thank you, Irene-ssi." The words tumbled out, your voice cracking into an embarrassingly high pitch that betrayed the knots in your stomach. "I—I’m honored to be working with you."
Irene held your gaze for a second longer, her expression softening as if she recognized the panic in your eyes. She nodded once, a slow, acknowledgment, before reaching for a towel.
It’s a little past midnight at a high-end lounge in Gangnam. The bass is heavy enough to rattle the ice in your glass, but the lighting is dim—perfect for people who don't want to be seen. You are leaning against the far end of the mahogany bar, nursing a beer, when two figures squeeze into the empty spot next to you.
At first glance, they look like any other Gen Z club-goers trying to look cool. They are dressed in oversized streetwear—baggy cargo pants and hoodies that swallow their frames. Both are wearing bucket hats pulled low.
However, you recognize them almost immediately.
It’s the posture. Even while standing still, they have that disciplined, straight-backed stance that only idols trained by SM Entertainment possess. Then, the girl on the left tilts her head back to read the high-mounted menu, and the club’s strobe light catches her face. You spot the distinctive sharp jawline and the way she unconsciously bites her lip.
The girl on the right is shrinking into her hoodie, looking around nervously with wide, doe-like eyes. When she whispers something to her friend, you overhear a hushed but frantic voice.
"Dahyun-ah, I can’t read this. Is 'Sex on the Beach' a drink or a section of the club? We can't order that, the name is too embarrassing!"
Stella snickers, her reply slipping into fluent, fast-paced English. "Relax, Yuha. It’s just juice with vodka. Act natural."
That confirms it. The 'Rabbit' and the 'Pink Princess' of Hearts2Hearts are definitely sneaking out.
They are paralyzed by indecision. The bartender is busy and ignoring them, and Yuha looks seconds away from bolting.
You slide your glass over, creating a dull clink on the counter that grabs their attention. You don’t look at them like a fan; you look at them like an amused bystander.
"You two look like you’re studying for a calculus exam," you say, your voice low but clear over the music. "The menu isn't that scary."
Yuha jumps slightly, her hand flying to her mask (which is pulled down to her chin), while Stella stiffens, ready to drag Yuha away.
"We’re fine," Stella says, trying to deepen her voice to sound tough. "Just... deciding."
"Right," you smirk, leaning in closer. "Deciding between running away or accidentally ordering straight tequila? Because right now, you have 'I usually drink banana milk' written all over your faces."
There’s a beat of silence, and then Stella cracks. She lets out a sharp, un-idol-like snort of laughter. Yuha’s eyes widen, and she covers her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"Is it that obvious?" Yuha peeks through her fingers, her voice dropping the guarded idol tone and sounding just like a normal girl at her age.
"Painfully," you tease. You signal the bartender, who comes over immediately. "Let me save you the embarrassment. Two Peach Crushes. Low alcohol. Sweet, looks good in photos, and won't make you pass out in ten minutes."
You turn back to them, locking eyes with Stella. "Unless you think you can handle something stronger? You strike me as the trouble-maker type."
The flirt lands perfectly.
Stella rolls her eyes, but a genuine, bright grin spreads across her face. She leans her elbow on the bar, mirroring your posture, challenging you back. "I can handle plenty. But I have to babysit her," she gestures to Yuha.
Yuha, now realizing you aren't going to report them or make a scene, relaxes completely. She giggles, a light, airy sound that cuts through the heavy bass. "He’s right though, Dahyun. The banana milk comment was accurate."
"I'm not a snitch," you add, pushing the two pink cocktails that just arrived toward them. "Consider this a welcome gift to adulthood. But you have to promise to actually enjoy them instead of just holding them like props for a music video."
Yuha laughs again, taking the glass and looking at you with her eye-smile. "Okay, deal. But if I get dizzy, I'm blaming you."
The house is heavy with silence, a stillness that feels curated rather than natural, broken only by the low, murmuring hum of the TV in the living room. When Leeseo lets you in, she is a burst of chaotic energy—an oversized graphic tee slipping off one shoulder, athletic shorts, and hair wrestled into a haphazard claw clip. She looks completely unguarded, treating you with the dangerous, casual comfort of a long-time friend who thinks they know you.
"My parents are in Busan," she says, kicking her slippers aside, the plastic clatter echoing in the entryway. "So we have the place to ourselves. Well, mostly."
As you pass the threshold of the living room, the air pressure seems to drop. You see them. Saerom and Chaeyoung. They aren't just sitting; they are holding court, flanked by the silence. Saerom is sprawled across the sofa, a script loosely held in one hand, her posture languid but her presence occupying the entire room. Chaeyoung sits adjacent, typing on a laptop with rhythmic, precise strokes.
Saerom looks up, her gaze heavy and sharp. "Door stays open," she says. "Wide open."
"I know, unnie," Leeseo groans, rolling her eyes. "Come on."
You follow Leeseo down the hall to her bedroom. You sit on the floor by the low table; she sits on the edge of her bed. The door is left wide open, facing the hallway that connects the living room to the rest of the house.
For the next hour, the house remains silent. But that open door feels like a giant, unblinking eye burning into your back.
While Leeseo talks about the Korean War, you hear soft footsteps in the hallway.
First, it’s Chaeyoung. She walks past the open door. She slows down just enough as she passes the doorframe to glance inside. A few minutes later, it’s Saerom. She walks by, but her shadow lingers in the doorway for a few seconds too long before she moves on.
Leeseo just ignore it. She leans over the table to trace a line on the page. Her shirt collar dips, exposing the smooth slope of her shoulder and the delicate, pale architecture of her collarbone. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the soft, vulnerable nape of her neck.
You aren't listening to a single word she says about the Korean War armistice. The history textbook is a blur. You are watching the pulse flutter in her neck. You are fixated on the way her pink lips shape the vowels when she reads aloud.
You think you are safe because Leeseo isn't looking. But you forgot about the wide open door.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a shadow block the light from the corridor again. Chaeyoung is walking back. She stops, just for a split second, and she sees exactly where your eyes are fixed. She sees the tension in your jaw. She doesn't say a word, just quietly moves back toward the living room.
Leeseo yawns, stretching her arms high above her head. "Ugh, my brain is frying. I need sugar." She stands up. "I'm gonna grab some ice cream. You want vanilla or chocolate?"
"Chocolate," you say, your voice rough.
"Be right back," she jokes, bounding out of the room.
You listen to her footsteps fade down the hall. You hear her greet her sisters in the living room as she passes them to get to the kitchen.
You let out a shaky breath, finally relaxing your shoulders. You think you have a moment of peace.
But then, you hear different footsteps. Two pairs. They are coming from the living room, moving purposefully down the hall toward you.
"You have a staring problem."
You snap your head up.
Saerom is standing in the doorway. Chaeyoung walks up right behind her. They must have waited for Leeseo to clear the living room before coming for you.
The world outside your soundproofed sanctuary knows you as a ghost. To the industry, you are the prodigal son who vanished—the genius producer who crafted a dozen Daesangs before retreating into the shadows. They think you burned out. They think you lost your touch.
They are wrong. You didn't leave because you ran out of music, you left because the music became a lie.
Auto-tune, quantization, pitch correction—it all sounded like plastic to you. You craved the biological, the flaw, the trembling reality of a human throat. So, you began The Archives.
Your studio, a fortress of analog synthesizers and towering server racks, hums with a low-voltage fever. On your screens, waveforms spike and trough in neon blue.
You didn’t collect songs. You hacked into the live feeds of the biggest recording studios in Seoul. You bypassed the master tracks and stole the garbage: the discard pile. You collected the intake of breath before a high note, the wet click of a tongue against teeth, the accidental moan of exhaustion after a twelve-hour session, the crack in a voice before it was polished into perfection.
You have folders on everyone. The desperate gasps of rookies, the cynical sighs of veterans. But there is only one folder you open every night.
Park Chaeyoung. Rosé.
Her voice is your obsession. It isn’t just the technique; it is the timber—that unique, nasal rasp that sounds like velvet being torn. It is the golden syrup laced with whiskey. You have terabytes of her. Not her singing APT or On The Ground, but her clearing her throat, her humming in frustration, the microscopic tremble of her vocal cords when she thinks the mic is cold.
You are building a symphony out of her silence. A construct of pure sound.
It is 3:00 AM on a Tuesday when the heavy acoustic door creaks open.
You freeze, your hand hovering over the mixing console. You forgot to locking the door. No one should enter without your permission. You spin in your Aeron chair, expecting police, or perhaps a lawyer with a cease-and-desist order.
Instead, she is standing there.
Rosé looks different than she does on stage. No heavy makeup, wearing oversized sweatpants and a hoodie, her blonde hair tangled from the wind. She looks small in the gloom of your studio, illuminated only by the VU meters bouncing on the rack.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't call you a stalker. She walks past you, the scent of expensive vanilla perfume cutting through the stale air of your isolation. She looks at the screen.
The waveform currently looping is a recording of her breath—a jagged, sharp inhale you stole from a session three years ago.
"I wondered where the signal bleed was going," she says. Her speaking voice is low, textured, undeniably her. "I felt it. Like someone was listening to the parts of me I was trying to hide."
"Get out," you rasp, though your voice lacks conviction.
Rosé ignores you. She reaches out, her slender finger tracing the volume knob. She turns it up. The room fills with the sound of her own unintentional noises—a whimper of fatigue, a sharp exhale. It is intimate, terrifyingly raw.
"You’re a thief," she says, turning to look at you. Her eyes are not angry, they are analyzing you with the cold precision of a fellow artist. "You used to write the songs that defined a generation. Now you sit in the dark, stealing scraps."
"I am looking for the truth," you defend yourself, standing up. "The industry kills the soul of the voice. I am preserving the biology of it."
"It’s not art," she counters softly. "It’s voyeurism. Because I didn’t give it to you."
She steps closer. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. You expect her to destroy the hard drives. You expect her to ruin you.
Instead, Rosé leans against the mixing desk, crossing her arms. She looks at the Archives—years of your obsession—and then looks at you with a strange, dark resolve.
"You want the truth?" she asks. "You want the cracks? The breaks? The sound of a human being coming undone?"
"That is all I want."
"Your collection is incomplete," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. "These are just accidents. Stolen moments. They have no intent. If you want a masterpiece, you don't need a thief's stash. You need an instrument."
She picks up a pair of headphones and drops them on the desk.
"I am tired of the polish too," she admits, the fatigue in her eyes suddenly visible. "I am tired of being perfect. I want to make something... visceral. Something that hurts to listen to."
She looks you dead in the eye.
"Delete the Archives," she commands.
"What?"
"Delete them. All of them. The stolen breaths, the illegal taps. Erase it all."
You hesitate. That is your life's work.
"Do it," she says, "And I will give you the real thing. I will step into that booth, and I will give you every breath, every break, every scream, and every whisper you want. Explicitly. Willingly. Exclusively."
She gestures to the glass-walled recording booth behind you.
"I will be your instrument. You conduct, I resonate. We make the final masterpiece together. No pop filters, no auto-tune. Just my voice, stripped naked, until there is nothing left."
You look at the hard drive. Then you look at her. The muse is no longer a digital ghost, she is flesh and blood, offering herself on the altar of sound.
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