The words were true.
"May I?" Griffin asked, hand hovering near my knee.
I nodded.
His palm settled against my thigh. Warmth radiated through the black denim.
"You're going to do the sound check professionally," he said. "When anyone watches, they'll see someone focused on their work. That's all they need to see."
"I keep thinking about their faces. The crew members."
"You didn't cause that." He squeezed firmly. "You're the reason the show exists. Other people choose the surrounding machinery. Not you."
I stared at him and the certainty in his face.
"You're not the danger here, Yoon-jae. You're what Soo-jin needs to control. There's a difference."
Hearing my real name steadied something inside.
"Okay," I said.
A knock at the door. Soyeon's voice: "Fifteen minutes."
Griffin released my thigh and stood. "I'll be watching," he said.
***
Our opening track exploded through the speakers. The bass hit me first, physical and unavoidable, vibrating into my spine. Then, lights strobing purple and electric blue turned the Forum into something alien and hyperreal.
We hit our marks in the darkness. Then the lights slammed on. The crowd roared, a massive wall of sound, like one vast organism screaming at the top of its lungs.
My body followed the choreography with precision. Every gesture. Every turn. Except my breathing was wrong, the rhythm off by half a second. It wasn't enough for the audience to notice, but the pressure built inside my chest.
Five songs in, we transitioned into the ballad section. The lights glowed amber. The production stripped down to a minimal backing track.
I took center stage alone.
The song was "Borrowed Time," one of mine written seventeen months ago in the aftermath. Korean lyrics about living in spaces that didn't belong to you. Wanting things you couldn't name without destroying them.
Every word felt like a confession.
I learned to disappear
Inside the shape they made for me
Learned to want in borrowed time
Learned to call it being free
Seventeen thousand people held their breath. I could feel it—the collective suspension, the way silence can be louder than noise when it's this many people choosing stillness together.
You taught me how to fade
Called it safety, called it care
But I'm learning how to want to breathe
Even when it burns
