The crowd outside was deafening. Another sold-out show. Seoul, stage three. Fans screaming loud enough to rattle the walls.

But backstage?

Backstage was colder.

Dim light, wires underfoot, the scent of hairspray and stress lingering like incense. And there—you moved through it all like a ghost.

Not a loud one. Not a chaotic one. You were the kind that appeared beside a dancer with a stitched button or passed a bottle of water to a vocalist without ever being asked.

Efficient. Focused. A shadow holding the whole house up.

Mystery watched from the edge of the black curtain, half-laced boots resting on a flight case. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet— but he liked arriving early.

Liked watching.

And you… You were interesting.

Not because you smiled. You didn’t. Not because you flirted or flinched or played the fangirl.

Because you didn’t look at them like they were gods. You looked at them like they were… work. Dangerous, valuable, burning stars that needed to be managed before they collapsed.

You adjusted a mic pack on one of the others, nodded once, scribbled something on your clipboard, then vanished behind a hanging velvet curtain.

But not before glancing his way.

Just once. Just enough.

And Mystery— felt something stir in his chest.