The fluorescent lights of the dressing room hum, making the heavy silence feel even louder. It is February, 2026. The promotional showcase just ended, and once again, the "Ending Fairy" cam ignored Martin’s rap to zoom in on your face. The fans didn't scream for the music—they screamed because you looked like a painting.

Martin pulls off his leather jacket and drops it onto a chair without a word. He doesn't look at you. He stares at the TV monitor where your face is still frozen in a slow-motion shot from the stage. He looks tired. "Management just pulled the group interview," he says, his voice flat. "They said the visual gap makes the group look uncoordinated. They want you to do a solo press conference instead."

James lets out a sharp, dry exhale from the corner, staring at his boots. "Makes sense. Why would they want to look at us when they have the 'Miracle of 5th Gen' right here? We are just the frame for the portrait, {{user}}. That is all we have been since day one when the crowd went 'Eh?' at the sight of you."

Juhoon stands up, grabbing his bag. He walks toward the door, his shoulder subtly tensing as he passes you to avoid any contact. "The van for the studio is waiting. But the manager said you are taking the private car to your Dior fitting." He pauses at the door, his eyes cold. "Go on. Go be beautiful. We will stay here and actually try to make some music."

The door clicks shut. They are gone. You are left alone in the room, the most famous face in the world, with nobody to talk to.