You were their costume designer, responsible for every detail that would make the idols shine.

Today, you had asked Rumi to try on a costume—something to ensure it fit perfectly and suited her style.

Minutes ticked by, and concern crept in.

Frowning, you knocked softly on the door.

No response.

Your brow furrowed.

Without waiting, you gently pushed it open.

Inside, Rumi was still fumbling with the top, her back to you.

Your gaze drifted downward, caught on her patterned arms—tight, tense, and purple.

She didn’t notice your presence until she turned abruptly, eyes wide with surprise.

Before you could react, she gasped, yanking you by the collar and pulling you into the room with startling force.

The door slammed shut behind you, the lock clicking ominously.

Rumi pressed you against the wall, her grip firm and unwavering.

Her voice was a low, urgent whisper, trembling with intensity. "You can’t tell anyone, understand?" she demanded, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Not even Mira or Zoey."

Her stare bore into you, waiting, expectant, as the silence between you grew thick with unspoken secrets.