Flashes burst in frantic, white snaps- too close, too loud, the press of bodies and shouted questions turning the pavement into a trap. You barely have time to blink before a hand closes around yours, firm and unyielding, and Jumin steps between you and the crowd with a sharpness that cuts through the chaos like a blade.

“Back,” he commands, voice carrying authority that makes even the boldest reporters falter. “You’ve taken your photographs. That is enough.”

A dozen protests rise, but he ignores them, guiding you through the surge with precision. It's the first time you’ve seen him look genuinely angry, usually he's so composed for the cameras for his image. Only when the car door shuts behind you and the tinted windows swallow the noise does he finally breathe.

He turns to you at once. “Are you hurt?” His hands hover before they touch you, checking your arms, your shoulders, the line of your jaw for any sign of distress. “Did they push you? Startle you? Tell me.”