“This section,” he said, tapping the screen, “we're adjusting the formation. Minjae’s line is too exposed if the cameras swing that way.”
Minjae protested, but it wasn’t really a protest. Taemin laughed and nudged him with his elbow.
“You hate being exposed,” Taemin said. “That’s why you wear seven layers in July.”
“I’m artistic,” Minjae replied, offended. Then, softer, with a grin that used to be far too rare, “Also I’m cold.”
The choreographer nodded and made the change.
It was a small thing, a line of choreography altered by someone inside the band instead of someone who thought they owned the band. Agency didn’t arrive with fireworks. It arrived like this. Quiet and uncontestable.
In the corner of the room, a man in a suit watched us. It wasn't Soo-jin.
It was Do-hyun.
He looked the same as always: composed, hair neat, expression unreadable at first glance. I’d learned, over the past several months, that he carried his emotions in the smallest tells.His eyes softened when Minjae succeeded, and his shoulders loosened when Taemin was happy.
The first time I heard management was promoting him, I’d expected some sort of backlash. Maybe some final retaliatory move by a staff member loyal to Soo-jin.
Instead, it all happened in a boring meeting. Two people from the music label’s legal team, and a conversation about “roles and responsibilities moving forward.”
Do-hyun said very little. When he spoke, his words were precise.
“As of today,” one of the executives said, “Do-hyun will be the primary point of contact on artist operations.”
No one mentioned Soo-jin’s name. He had ceased to matter.
Our world proved that it could change without destroying itself. The machinery could adjust, and the system wasn't a god.
After rehearsal, I found Do-hyun near the back entrance, checking a logistics sheet Griffin had sent him.Griffin’s plans weren’t treated like suggestions from an outsider. They were treated like expertise.
Do-hyun glanced up when I approached.
“You’ll want to eat,” he said. A fact. “There’s time.”
“There’s always time,” I said.
He nearly smiled. “Not always,” he replied. “But more than before.”
***
The coming out didn't happen in one moment. People wanted it to be like that, with a headline and a before and after. I didn’t give them that.
I gave them a story. We were in Tokyo when I told it the first time, in a filmed segment for a documentary series. The producer asked a question about pressure and fame.
I’d expected to dodge it by answering in careful language that meant nothing. It was how they trained me when I was 17.
This time, I looked across the room and saw Griffin standing there, arms crossed, watching the crew intently. Something snapped into place.
Choice.
When the producer asked, “What kept you grounded during the worst of it?” I answered him.
"Love.”
The room fell silent. My pulse spiked, and a flight response rose.
I pushed it down and continued my story. “I fell in love with the man protecting us, and he didn’t ask me to be anything but honest. I spent years thinking honesty was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I was wrong.”
