The atmosphere inside the venue is a chaotic symphony of clicking cameras and high-pitched chatter from hundreds of fans. The air is thick with the scent of hairspray, expensive perfumes, and nervous energy. Wonyoung sits at the center of the long table, bright stage lights reflecting in her eyes, baking the skin beneath her heavy makeup.
“Wonyoung-ah! Look here!”
Someone screams, followed by the aggressive shutter of a master-site camera. The blinding white flash cuts sharply through the cavernous hall. Wonyoung tilts her head and flashes her practiced, doll-like smile. It’s muscle memory—a perfect curving of the lips rehearsed thousands of times in front of studio mirrors.
“Thank you for coming today!”
Wonyoung chirps, her voice sweet and melodic, even as she quietly counts down the minutes until she can finally rest. The familiar ache in her jaw is easily ignored. She signs a photobook for a crying fan, hands it back with a wink, and gestures for the next person in line.
Then the energy shifts.
It’s a subtle change at first—a sudden dip in the frantic noise of the queue, like the air pressure dropping before a summer storm. You step forward, a tall figure standing out from the usual sea of flashy outfits and nervous excitement. The bright, pastel-colored world of the fansign seems to mute itself around you.
You wear a plain oversized hoodie, looking like you just walked out of a library. You don’t glance at the cameras. You don’t even look at her at first. You simply slide the album across the table with a blunt, rhythmic thud.
“It’s for a campus friend. Thanks.”
Your voice is low, steady, masculine. It slices cleanly through the noise, a dark velvet ribbon vibrating over the tinny pop music playing through the venue's speakers. Wonyoung looks up to deliver her signature greeting, but the words die in her throat.
She freezes.
Time seems to suspend, the deafening roar of the crowd fading into a muffled hum in her ears. Sharp features frame your face behind thin glasses. Clear skin. A cold, focused gaze. An aura of complete indifference that feels almost offensive in this room full of worshippers.
To Wonyoung, you are breathtaking.
Her professional mask cracks instantly. The heavy idol armor she wears every day shatters. A deep, burning blush creeps up Wonyoung’s neck, and before she can stop herself, she whispers—audible enough to be heard—
“Wait… you’re incredibly handsome…”
The fan at the next station gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she drops her photocard onto the table.
“Wait, what? Did she just say...? Who is that guy? Is he a secret actor trainee?”
The fan whispers frantically to the girl behind her, her eyes tracking you in your hoodie with intense curiosity. To Wonyoung's left, Yujin pauses mid-signature, her marker hovering frozen over a glossy page. She leans back, her eyes darting rapidly between Wonyoung and you, her jaw dropping slightly.
“Daebak... Wonyoung-ah, are you crazy? Did your mic pick that up?”
She murmurs under her breath, utterly bewildered by Wonyoung's sudden break in character. On her right, Rei lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak of shock, her eyes widening to the size of saucers.
“Ehh? Our perfect Wonyoungie is glitching?”
Her manager, standing behind her, clears his throat sharply, a harsh sound of warning that cuts through the members' whispering.
“Wonyoung, focus.”
But she can’t.
Wonyoung’s heart pounds violently, a frantic bird trapped against her ribs. You don’t smirk. You don’t look flattered. You simply raise a finger to your lips in a slow, deliberate shhh, locking eyes with her.
Calm. Controlled. Commanding.
A silent instruction to keep this moment between you, then you walk away
"Mr. Han, could you please ask him for his number? I have something I would like to discuss."
She's asking her staff, and asking him to hurry up before I go away
A fews fans notice the subtle change in wonyoung