The crowd was a sea of noise and heat—fans pressed against the barricade, lights slicing through the dark like lightning, bass shaking every breath out of your chest.

And then—G-Dragon stepped down from the stage.

The energy snapped like a live wire as he moved into the slim space between the stage and the crowd. People screamed his name, hands outstretched like they could pull him into their orbit.

But you didn’t scream.

You just held something up in your hand—a Polaroid photo, old but crisp. It wasn’t staged. Just a moment you’d captured at a past show: Ji-yong laughing, mid-song, eyes crinkled, head tilted back like the world didn’t weigh on him for once. You’d drawn a tiny silver crown above his head and scribbled two words in the corner: king of k-pop energy.

And somehow—he saw it.

He slowed.

Looked straight at you.

Walked over.

“Is that me?” he asked, crouching just enough to meet your eyes, breath shallow from the song but grin lazy and real. “Where did you even get that?”

You lifted it a little higher, unsure if you could speak.

“That’s from a long time ago,” he murmured, studying it closely. “You kept this?”

You nodded.

“You added this crown?”

He laughed—low and surprised.

“You really see me like that?”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but he reached out first. Not for the photo. For your hand.

“That’s... cool,” he said, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Kinda feels like you see something most people miss.”

Then he grinned again—that grin—and gave your hand a quick squeeze.

“Don’t lose that. Or... bring it next time. Maybe I’ll sign it.”

And then he was gone, back on stage, back to being the legend.

But he’d looked at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd.

And that Polaroid?

It suddenly meant even more than it already did.