Chapter 1

The sequins scratched my cheek, biting into the skin like tiny, plastic teeth. I held my breath, counting the erratic thumping of my own heart. *One, two, three.*

I was buried deep inside a rolling rack of stage costumes, surrounded by the smell of Ji-Hoon. It was a dizzying mix of expensive sandalwood cologne, hairspray, and the stale, salty tang of dried sweat. This was the closest I had ever been to him. I just needed to leave the letter on the vanity—the letter where I told him I understood him better than anyone, better than the millions of other girls screaming his name in the arena outside—and then I would run.

The lock on the dressing room door clicked.

I froze. Through the gap in the silk shirts, I saw the blinding white lights of the dressing room reflect off the floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

Ji-Hoon walked in.

He didn't stride with the angelic grace he showed on stage. He stumbled. He slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt. Then, he slid down against the wood, burying his face in his hands. His breathing was wet and ragged, like something broken in his chest.

My god. He was crying. The tour was too much. The pressure was killing him, just like I wrote in my Twitter thread last week. He needed someone. He needed *me*.

I pushed the clothes aside and stepped out.

"Ji-Hoon?" I whispered.

He didn't jump. He didn't scream for security. He just lowered his hands slowly and looked up at me.

The scream died in my throat.

He wasn't crying. His eyes were dry, black, and completely empty. There was no light in them, no "visual of the generation" sparkle. Just a void.

And his hands.

They were wet, coated in a thick, dark crimson that dripped onto the pristine white carpet. It was on his cuffs. It was smeared across his jawline.

"You," he said. His voice was steady. Terrifyingly steady. "You’re the one from the meet-and-greet in Chicago. And the airport in Seoul."

He remembered me. My knees went weak, even as the metallic smell of copper filled the small room, overpowering the sandalwood.

"I... I just wanted to leave a note," I stammered, trembling. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'd do anything for you."

Ji-Hoon tilted his head. He stood up, ignoring the blood dripping from his fingertips. "Anything?"

He walked toward me. I should have backed away. I should have run for the fire exit. But this was Ji-Hoon. This was the face on my phone lock screen. This was the voice that sang me to sleep. I stayed rooted to the spot, paralyzed by a sick mixture of terror and devotion.

"Manager Kim was being difficult," Ji-Hoon said, casually, as if talking about a wrong food order. "He pushed me in the hallway. I pushed back. He hit his head. There was... so much noise."

He stopped inches from me. He towered over me, beautiful and lethal.

"They won't believe me, you know," he whispered, leaning down. His breath was hot on my ear. "The contract. The press. They want to destroy me. They'll say I'm a monster."

"No," I breathed. "You're an angel."

"Then save me."

He reached out and cupped my face. His hands were sticky. I flinched, but I didn't pull away. He smeared the blood down my cheeks, painting me. Then he moved his hands to my shoulders, gripping the fabric of my white oversized hoodie—*his* merchandise. He wiped his palms on my chest, leaving broad, violent streaks of red across the white cotton.

"You said on Twitter you would die for me," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine, pulling me into the void. "Did you mean it? Or are you just like the rest of them?"

"I meant it," I sobbed. I felt lightheaded. This was it. The ultimate fan service. The ultimate sacrifice.

"Good girl."

He turned to the fruit platter on the vanity and picked up the heavy glass award trophy the venue had gifted him. The base was jagged, stained with the same dark fluid.

"Take it," he commanded.

I took it. It was heavy. My fingerprints pressed into the sticky residue on the glass.

"They'll go easy on you," Ji-Hoon said, his voice speeding up now, urgent. "You're a minor. A fan. You were protecting me. You saw him attack me, and you snapped. You're crazy. That's what they'll think. Just a crazy fan."

A heavy fist pounded on the door.

"Police! Open up!"

The spell wavered. "Ji-Hoon?" I asked, my voice trembling.

He stepped back. The emptiness in his face vanished, replaced instantly by a mask of shattered terror. He ruffled his hair, making it look disheveled. He ripped his own shirt collar.

He looked at me one last time. There was no gratitude in his eyes. Only disgust.

He unlocked the door and threw it open.

"Help!" Ji-Hoon screamed, scrambling back, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She's crazy! She has a weapon! She killed him!"

The police burst in, a blur of blue uniforms and shouting voices.

"Drop it! Drop the weapon!"

I stood there, frozen, the bloody trophy heavy in my hands, the red stains on my hoodie marking me like a target. I looked at Ji-Hoon, waiting for the wink, the signal that this was just a game, a secret between us.

He was sobbing into a police officer’s shoulder, burying his face so the cameras wouldn't see his dry eyes.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say *no, he told me to*, but a heavy body tackled me. My face hit the blood-stained carpet. The cold metal of cuffs bit into my wrists.

As they dragged me out, I saw him one last time. He was watching me from the safety of the police line, untouched and perfect. He had given me exactly what I wanted.

I was finally part of his story.