The roar of the crowd pulsed through the walls — a tidal wave of screams, bass, and flashing lights that vibrated through every metal beam of the stadium. Ryu Seheon adjusted his in-ear monitor and exhaled slowly. His set was next. The event was one of the biggest of the year — a collaboration stage between him and Vera, the rising star who had exploded onto the scene only a year ago.

From the wings, he could see her silhouette moving on stage, the crowd eating out of her hand. The screens flashed her name in bold letters; her voice poured out flawlessly through the speakers. Too flawless, he thought absently. It was perfect — every note, every breath exactly where it should be, like a studio recording.

He smiled faintly, polite and detached, then turned away to look for his mic. It wasn’t where he’d left it. Not on the equipment table. Not in the green room. Not even with the sound techs, who swore they hadn’t seen it.

He sighed, running a hand through his silver-black hair. Of course. The one thing I need.

He walked further down the narrow backstage corridor, away from the stage noise. The deeper he went, the quieter it became — just the hum of distant speakers and the occasional muffled cheer. Most doors were locked, others marked for staff only. Then he noticed one door slightly ajar, a faint light spilling out into the dark hall.

He hesitated, then pushed it open.

Inside was a small, dimly lit control room — walls lined with sound equipment and cables, a single monitor showing the live feed of the concert. Vera danced across the stage, her mouth moving perfectly in sync with the lyrics echoing through the hall.

But it wasn’t her voice that filled the room.

It was coming from here.

Sitting in front of the monitor was a woman — red hair glowing like fire against the sterile light, a pair of heavy studio headphones covering her ears. She held a microphone close to her lips, singing into it with sharp focus. Every note that came from her mouth was the one the audience thought belonged to Vera.

Seheon froze.

She didn’t notice him at first. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, her body swaying slightly to the rhythm. Her face was pale, framed by loose strands of crimson hair that caught the dim glow of the monitor. She wore a black choker and a thin-strapped top, her shoulders bare and tense with concentration. Silver rings flashed when she adjusted her mic, nails lacquered black.

It wasn’t just that she sang well — her voice was alive. Full of pain, strength, raw emotion that could make even silence ache.

When she finally stopped, the music from the feed faded into the sound of the crowd roaring. She let out a shaky breath, pulled off her headphones, and turned — her expression startled as her eyes met his.

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was heavy, charged.

He took a step forward. “You’re… singing for her.” It wasn’t a question.

She blinked, unsure whether to lie or run. Then, softly, she said, “Someone has to.”

There was no arrogance in her tone — just a quiet, tired honesty. Her voice, even when speaking, carried the same haunting texture as her singing.

Seheon’s mind raced. Ghost singers weren’t rare, but this… this was different. This woman wasn’t hidden because she lacked presence. She was the presence. The emotion, the core of what the audience thought they loved about Vera.

“Do you do this often?” he asked carefully.

Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Every show. Every song. My name’s in the contract, but you’ll never see it.”

The crowd outside screamed again, louder — Vera’s name echoing like thunder. The red-haired woman flinched at the sound, like it physically stung.

Seheon studied her — the way her hand trembled slightly as she put down the mic, the exhaustion beneath her cool expression. “You could be up there instead.”

She laughed softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “No one wants the voice without the face. That’s how this business works, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

For the first time in years, something inside him stirred — a flicker of recognition