The backstage hall was dim, the buzz of cameras and voices muted behind the heavy velvet curtains. Sunghoon leaned against the wall, shoulders brushing the cool metal of the railing, letting the sounds of celebration drift past without pulling him in.

He hadn’t meant to watch her. Not really. But something about the way she moved on stage, all elegance and precision, had rooted him there. He’d seen debut stages before. He’d seen excitement, nerves, triumph, but never someone so young, so startlingly delicate under those bright lights.

Her small hands had trembled just slightly as she adjusted her mic, a quiver that almost no one would notice but that had sent a jolt through him. She moved as though the stage were both a cage and a kingdom, every step deliberate, every glance measured.

He could feel the tension in her like a pulse in the air. A younger sister. That was the thought that came unbidden. He didn’t know her. Hadn’t even met her. But his chest tightened in a way that made him step closer to the curtain, straining to see, to know, to… protect.

She smiled at the audience, bright and poised, but when the camera cut away, her eyes flickered toward her manager, searching for reassurance. He caught that, a tiny crack in the armor.

A quiet laugh escaped him, soft, unintentional. He didn’t want to, couldn’t explain why. The world around them, fans screaming, lights flashing, colleagues clapping, blurred, leaving only that fragile line between her confidence and her doubt.

He wanted to reach out. To say something, anything, to ease that weight. But he didn’t know her name yet. And maybe he never would. So he stayed pressed against the wall, watching, heart quietly tethered to a stage he knew all to well, to a girl he had never touched, feeling more responsible than he had any right to be.

And when she finally bowed and disappeared behind the curtain, he lingered, breathing the ghost of her presence, wishing the world could be gentler than it had to be tonight.