Her words triggered a memory I hadn't thought about in years. I was fourteen and still a trainee. I believed that if I worked hard enough, the system would reward me with safety.
One of the vocal coaches, a woman in her thirties with kind eyes and exacting standards, had kept me after practice. I thought I was in trouble. Instead, she asked me to sit.
"You have a beautiful voice," she said in Korean. "But you're singing as if you're apologizing for it."
I hadn't understood. I was doing everything correctly. Following all of her instructions. I asked her to explain.
"Technically, you're doing what's right." She tilted her head, studying me. "What you miss is that there's a difference betweenprecision and truth. Right now, you're so afraid of making a mistake that you've stopped letting yourself feel anything."
"Feeling gets in the way," I said. Other teachers taught me that. Discipline first. Control first. Emotion was a variable that created vulnerability.
"Sometimes," she agreed. "But not always. The best performances aren't perfect. They're honest." She paused. "You're allowed to be gentle with yourself, Yoon-jae. You're allowed to be scared and still try. That's not weakness. It's courage."
I nodded, bowed, and thanked her. I didn't believe her.
Two months later, the school reassigned her. Too soft, someone said. The trainees needed discipline, not philosophy.
The fan meet continued. More questions. More laughter. The machinery hummed along without disruption.
I couldn't stop thinking about what the girl had said. How she knew who I was instead of what I'd learned to perform.
I glanced toward the back of the room. Griffin was still watching the room, but our eyes met briefly. Long enough for me to know he'd heard her and watched my response.
When the handler announced photo opportunities, most of the fans lined up. The girl in the hoodie was near the end. When she reached me, she didn't ask for a photo. She looked into my eyes. "Thank you," she said again.
"Take care of yourself," I said. She nodded, and then she was gone.
The room emptied gradually. Taemin stretched and yawned dramatically. "That was good. Better energy than San Francisco."
Jinwoo nodded, checking his phone. "Shorter feels better."
Minjae was already at the door, shoulders tight, checking his phone with an intensity that didn't match the situation.
I stood slowly. Everything visible was exactly what it should be. Underneath, I'd been turned inside out.
The girl had seen me. Not Rune, the carefully managed brand. She'd seen the person I'd been trying to protect by keeping him hidden. Somehow, that version helped her anyway.
Griffin was near the elevator bank. When I approached, he looked at me. "Everything alright?" A simple, professional question, but his tone was more sincere.
"I don't know." Pure honesty.
"Want to talk about it?"
Notwe shouldtalk, orI need you to debrief. Just an offer. Permission without pressure.
"Later. After we get to Portland."
He nodded. "I'll be there."
The elevator arrived. I filed in with the others, and Griffin positioned himself at my back, close enough that when the car jolted into motion, he steadied himself with his hand against my shoulder blade for half a second. Warm, deliberate, and gone before anyone else noticed.
We had thirty minutes before the vans left for the airport to fly to Portland. The usual departure disarray would take most of that time: checking rooms, coordinating luggage, and confirming timelines.
I focused my attention on Minjae.
He stood near the window of the hotel lobby, away from the main cluster of activity. His phone was in his hand, screen lit, thumb scrolling.
His jaw was tight, and his shoulders were high. His usual kinetic energy had contracted into something smaller and harder.
