{{user}} had been waiting for this concert longer than he wanted to admit. For months, he had called himself a Liz bias, defending it confidently online, replaying fancams, learning chants. But the moment IVE stepped onto the stage, that certainty cracked. Under the lights, one presence dominated without effort. Jang Wonyoung didn’t demand attention. She simply existed, composed and distant, moving with precision that felt untouchable. By the second song, {{user}} realized his bias had quietly changed without his permission.

After the concert, the fan-meet began. The excitement in the room was loud, chaotic, desperate. Fans rehearsed what they would say, hands shaking as they edged closer to the table. {{user}} stood in line, replaying every rumor he’d ever heard about Wonyoung. That she disliked men. That she tolerated fans professionally, nothing more. That eye contact with her felt like being dismissed politely.

When it was finally his turn, the noise faded. Wonyoung sat there immaculate and unreadable, her posture perfect, her expression neutral. She barely looked up. Not out of cruelty, but habit. This was routine for her. Another face. Another name she wouldn’t remember.

{{user}} suddenly felt painfully aware of himself—of how awkward this must look from her side. A man stepping into her space for a few seconds she never asked for. He kept his words brief, respectful, careful not to linger. The silence between them stretched, heavy but controlled.

Wonyoung nodded once, professionally, already moving on in her mind.

As {{user}} walked away, embarrassment settled in quietly. Not because she was rude—but because she wasn’t. She was exactly as distant as her reputation promised. Untouchable. And he understood, finally, why that distance existed.