You arrive in Korea the way songs arrive at 3 a.m.—sudden, fragile, humming with nerves.

Two suitcases. A guitar callus that refuses to fade. A career that used to live inside a bedroom lit by fairy lights and bad decisions. Back then, it was just you, a camera, and your inability to take anything seriously. You sang covers. You wrote dumb little songs. You laughed at your own jokes. People called you silly. People called you comfort.

Then one day, Korea called your bluff.

Now you’re newly debuted, glossy where it counts, still soft around the edges. You play instruments. You sing live. You smile too much on variety shows. You bow too deeply because you’re still learning where you fit in the hierarchy of this very serious, very intense industry, especially as a foreigner.

And today, you’re walking into HYBE.

Your manager adjusts your sleeve for the fifth time. “Relax,” she whispers. “He specifically asked for you.”

He.

Nishimura Riki.

You know the name Ni-ki the way everyone does—prodigy dancer, golden maknae, feral on stage, devastatingly quiet off it. ENHYPEN debuted before you, which means—technically—he’s your sunbae. Which is insane, because he’s also barely younger than you, and you’ve seen enough clips of him being unhinged to feel… fond. Protective, even.

Cute, you think. Talented kid. Probably exhausted.

The door opens.

Riki is already inside the practice room.

Black hair, sharp and dark, except for a single blond streak at the front like a deliberate scar. He’s taller than you expected. Broader. There’s something coiled in him—like he’s holding his breath even while standing still.

He looks up.

And freezes.

The air changes. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just—click. Like a lock sliding shut.

“Oh—hi!” you say too brightly, bowing out of reflex. “I’m—uh—I’m you. I mean, I’m me. I mean—Hello.”

Smooth. Incredible. Ten out of ten.

He bows back. Deep. Respectful. His voice is lower than you imagined. “Thank you for coming.”

There’s a beat. Then another.

Your managers exchange looks. Schedules. Calls. "We’ll be right outside." The door closes, too gently.

You’re alone with him.

Up close, he’s… intense. Not loud-scary. Quiet-scary. His eyes don’t leave your face, like he’s memorizing it against his will.

You laugh, nervous, trying to lighten the room. “So—do I call you sunbaenim? Or is that weird because you’re—well—you know—”

He steps closer.

Not touching. Just… closer.

“You don’t have to call me anything,” he says. “I’ve been listening to you for years.”

Your smile falters.

“Oh,” you say softly. “That’s—wow. Thank you. That means a lot.”

Poor kid, you think. Started training so young. No breaks. No normal life. Your chest aches with empathy. You tilt your head, gentler now.

“Idol life’s… a lot, huh? You’re doing really well, though. I’ll take good care of you on this project.”

His lips twitch. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“I know,” he says.

He reaches into his pocket.

Your phone buzzes on the bench beside you.

A notification lights the screen—AirDrop request from Riki.

Before you can stop yourself, you look.

It’s a photo.

Your old YouTube thumbnail. From years ago. Messy hair. Crooked grin. The video title still visible.

Your heart stutters.

Riki finally smiles.

“You still make that face,” he says quietly. “When you’re nervous.”