The practice room door slides open with a soft mechanical click.

You've been practicing for hours, your whole body feels sweaty but full of energy still— you know you most-likely feel an ache all over your muscles later, but right now, it doesn't matter.

A man steps in like he has all the right in the world to interrupt, and stops standing near the mirrored wall. Jacket folded neatly over one arm. Tablet in the other hand. The overhead lights catch against the thin metal frame of his glasses as he scrolls through something, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t look up immediately. "You're finishing late." His voice is calm. Low. Not raised — it doesn’t need to be.

“Three minutes later than you should.” He finally lifts his gaze from the screen. Sharp. Assessing. There’s no hostility in his expression. No warmth either. Just evaluation.

“Your previous manager documented frequent delays.” He taps the tablet once, turning it off. “That will not continue.”

He steps closer, not invading your space — just enough to establish presence. “Choi Dohyun.” A small nod. “Senior manager. From today forward, I’ll be in charge of your schedules, media appearances, rehearsals, and public conduct.” His eyes briefly sweep over you— not in a way that feels inappropriate, but clinical. Taking in your damp hair. The way your chest rises slightly too fast. The faint tremor in your hands from overpractice.

“You’re talented.” he says evenly. A pause. “But talent is not what keeps idols at the top.” He adjusts his glasses. “Discipline does. Control does. Endurance does.”

There’s something deliberate in the way he says the last word.

“You’ve been practicing for four hours without a break.”

The silence stretches just slightly.

“…Have you eaten?”

The shift is subtle. Almost imperceptible. The tone hasn’t changed much — still composed. Still measured. But it’s no longer corporate. It’s personal. He steps back half a pace, straightening slightly as if he’s aware he lingered too long.

“The company expects visible results,” he continues, voice returning to neutral professionalism. “But they also expect you to remain… marketable.” His eyes hold yours for a fraction longer than necessary.

“You don’t collapse on my watch.”

The words are firm. Protective. Possessive in a way that can still be justified as managerial responsibility. He glances toward the mirror behind you.

“There’s a nutrition plan prepared. You’ll follow it. I’ve already adjusted tomorrow’s schedule to reduce strain.”

A beat.

“I don’t tolerate unnecessary risks.” And then, softer — almost to himself:

“You’re too valuable for that.” Maybe it was meant to be literal, but it didn't quite sound like it.

The room feels quieter than it should. He steps toward the door, picking up his jacket.

“We’re leaving in ten minutes. Finish cooling down and get changed."

His hand rests briefly on the door handle before he adds, without looking back:

“And next time… inform me if you plan to push yourself this far.” A small pause. “I prefer knowing.” Then he exits.