San Francisco in miniature.
Four figures moved through a series of sequences, blocking. It was the mechanics of where bodies needed to be and when. The song built toward something that sounded like a chorus, and they executed a synchronized turn.
I examined the movements the way I tracked exit routes. Function before detail.
The one in front moved with absolute certainty. Broad-shouldered, grounded, with every gesture deliberate. He stopped mid-sequence, said something in Korean that made the others pause, and then showed the correction with his hands before his body followed. The leader energy identified him as Jinwoo.
The one on the left was all kinetic brightness, expressive even at reduced speed. His limbs were loose and confident, physicality that drew attention without trying. He grinned at something one of the others said, turning the correction into a joke. The others laughed. It had to be Taemin.
The youngest bounced on his toes during the pause, burning off energy while standing still. Nervous precision shone through every movement. When they restarted, his execution was flawless, but he looked worried. I'd spotted Minjae.
The fourth stood slightly apart, not isolated or excluded. Separate.
He didn't speak during the pause. He waited with his weight on one leg, head tilted slightly as if he were listening to something no one else could hear. When the sequence restarted, he moved. Every gesture was precise and contained. The others performed while he executed.
The song reached its bridge, production stripped down to only vocals and a bass line, momentarily more punk than pop. A raw edge surfaced, something my father would have recognized. The voice of the fourth member carried the melody alone for four bars, drawing my attention.
He sounded honest and vulnerable. Like he'd put something true into the song and couldn't quite hide it behind the choreography. That was my introduction to Rune.
The sound wasn’t soft. It was disciplined. I’d heard that kind of restraint before in people who learned where the limits were by pressing against them, carefully, over and over.
It was how I'd learned to measure every word during internal review meetings. How my hands had stayed steady while signing the NDA that ended my career.
I looked away. Checked sight lines. Counted exits. Did my job.
Returning my attention to Rune as he moved through the rest of the sequence, I tracked his response time and spacing. Identified how many bodies stood between him and the nearest door. Whether his awareness extended past the stage edge or stopped where the lights did.
It should have been professional assessment. I told myself that was all it was.
Still, I caught details I had no tactical reason to notice. He executed the choreography with absolute control, while something in his expression remained distant and unreachable. At the end of the phrase, he closed his eyes, and the performance dropped away for half a second.
The song ended. The four of them broke formation, breathing hard but not winded, and a handler appeared with water bottles and towels.
I shifted my attention back to the security setup. Chief Kang had positioned himself with a clear view of both wings and the house. That was smart. I would've done the same.
A runner appeared from stage right, young, early twenties, moving fast with a clipboard. She cut through the wing space toward the monitor station, her trajectory directly through the path Rune was walking.
She didn't see him.
He didn't see her.
I saw both and moved before fully deciding. Three strides put me between them.
I touched Rune's spine, firm pressure, not a grab. My fingertips found the notch below his shoulder blades. His body under my palm was solid and warm. I redirected his momentum to the left.
He responded instantly, shifting without question or hesitation. His body read the correction and applied it in the same breath. No flinching or resistance. Immediate trust.
The runner passed through the space where Rune would've been, oblivious, still moving fast toward whatever crisis required a clipboard.
For two seconds longer than necessary, my hand stayed where it was, feeling the ridge of his spine and the shift of muscle under skin. I released him and stepped back.
Rune stopped. He turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder at me.
I didn't move.
His face looked different up close than it did on stage. The stage had made him ethereal, untouchable, and as precise as the choreography. This close, I saw the exhaustion under the polish, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples.
His eyes were dark brown, nearly black in the harsh work lights. They held mine with the same unwavering focus I'd watched him apply to the performance. He wasn't questioning. He was assessing.
