They didn’t, but the song mattered anyway.
The bridge built towards the final chorus. The production came back, with synthesizers and drums in a full arrangement. Firepots went off. The fans in the crowd lost their minds.
We continued through the set list. Nine songs. Ninety minutes of continuous performance. Costume changes happened in the wings. We had thirty seconds to strip and redress while handlers wiped sweat and adjusted microphones.
I scanned the wings during the fourth song. Griffin had moved. Stage right now instead of stage left. Further back.
He wasn’t watching me perform. He was watching the crowd. Scanning the front rows systematically. Looking for problems.
During the sixth song, a ballad that let us catch our breath, I noticed something. A photographer. Stage left. Not one of ours.
The credential around his neck looked right from a distance, but stood too far back. He stood beyond the designated press area, near the equipment corridor where staff moved lighting cases and monitor gear.
I watched him between verses. He didn’t shoot the stage. He shot the wings. He pointed his lens toward where we’d enter and exit.
Griffin noticed him at the same moment I did.
I saw Griffin approach the photographer, speak briefly, and check the credentials. The photographer nodded and moved forward into the proper area.
Nothing happened. Griffin returned to his post. The photographer stayed where he belonged.
Our encore was three songs. The closer was our biggest hit.
I joined Taemin during the bridge. We had a partnered sequence, eight counts of coordinated movement. He looked into my eyes and grinned.
I smiled back.
Minjae took the final high note. His voice soared, clear and powerful.
We hit the last formation, and the lights went down. The crowd screamed for thirty seconds straight.
We walked off the stage together. Jinwoo rested his hand on my shoulder. Taemin laughed. Minjae practically vibrated with leftover adrenaline.
Handlers immediately surrounded us with towels and water, directing us toward the waiting vehicles. I wiped sweat from my face and neck, breathing hard. Sweat had soaked through my shirt, and my legs burned.
Griffin appeared at the edge of my peripheral vision. He’d been watching the corridor and exit routes. When I looked at him, his attention shifted.
He didn’t look at me like the fans always looked at me, hungry and possessive. The management gaze, calculating financial value, was missing, too. He watched me as if I were something he’d been hired to protect.
Soyeon guided me toward the vehicles, and within minutes, we were gone.
***
In my hotel room’s bathroom, I stood under the shower and let water as hot as I could stand beat against my shoulders and spine. It washed away sweat and stage makeup. My muscles ached. Good aches. Earned aches.
I pressed my palms against the tile and let my head drop forward. Steam filled the enclosure.
I thought about Griffin watching the wings. How he’d repositioned during the show and how he’d handled the photographer with calm and efficiency.
He was good at his job.
I turned off the water. Grabbed a towel. Dried off and pulled on joggers and an oversized t-shirt.
My phone sat on the nightstand where I’d left it. I picked it up. Checked notifications.
The group chat had the usual post-show messages. Taemin made jokes. Minjae complained about sweat. Jinwoo reminded everyone about tomorrow’s early call.
Nothing else.
