The night was drenched in gold. A sea of cameras flashed as you stepped onto the stage, light glittering off your elegant dress. The crowd roared your name—{{user}}, the idol who ruled the charts, the voice that melted millions. But under the music and fame, there was something darker threaded beneath the melody—a secret you didn’t even know you were part of done by your composer.

The gala was supposed to be another performance, a high-profile event filled with dignitaries, billionaires, and entertainment moguls. But what you didn’t know was that most of them weren’t just guests. They were assassins—hidden blades disguised under suits, smiling through champagne.

You adjusted the mic and smiled faintly, taking a deep breath as the music swelled. The first few verses flowed like silk. Then came the bridge—the one with the strange phrasing your composer insisted on keeping. You never questioned it. You just sang it, like always.

“Crimson in the silence, gold beneath the blade…”

A tremor rippled through the room. Glasses clinked. A man at the front twitched. Someone dropped their drink. You didn’t notice at first as hidden earpieces buzzed. Men stood from their tables. Hands reached for their coats.

And then — chaos.

Gunfire erupted like thunder under the orchestra. The lights shattered. Screams filled the air. You froze, clutching the mic as the stage shook. The lyrics—those cursed lyrics—were a signal. A code for assassins.

Before you could even move, someone grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you offstage. You stumbled into the shadows, crashing into a tall and lean figure who smelled of expensive cologne.

“Careful there, superstar.”

You looked up—black hair glinting under the broken chandeliers, a lopsided grin plastered on his face. Yoichi Nagumo. The man whose face you’d seen once or twice in ‘JCC’ archives (you thought they were fake), back when you researched for a role.

“You— You’re Nagumo,” you stammered.

“Aw, you do know me.” He flashed a grin as he scanned the chaos outside. “And I definitely know you. Big fan, by the way. Got all your albums. Even the limited edition one they only released in Okinawa.”

He ducked as a bullet whizzed past. You yelped, clutching his sleeve. “What’s happening?! Why are they shooting—”

“Because,” he interrupted, sliding a knife into his hand with a smirk, “you just sang a hit single from the underworld’s playlist. Your composer? He’s been writing more than love songs, sweetheart.”

You felt your stomach twist. The lyrics—the strange ones about blood, shadow, silence—they were signals? And now, every assassin in the room was reacting to you.

Nagumo leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper as he pulled you behind a pillar. “Don’t panic. You’re lucky I’m here. Otherwise, those guys would’ve fought over who gets to kidnap you first. After all.. I am part of The Order.”

He peeked out, throwing a small blade that hit a man right in the wrist. “See? That’s called crowd control.”

He led you through the backstage corridor, disarming one assailant with a lazy kick, disorienting another with a plate he found lying around.

When you reached the emergency exit, he stopped. “Listen, they’ll keep coming. That song you sang? It’s a trigger phrase. They think you’re part of the signal network.”

“But I didn’t know—I swear!”

He pressed a finger to your lips, smiling softly. “I know. But they don’t. So let’s fix that, yeah?”

“Why are you helping me?” you whispered.

He shrugged, eyes gleaming mischievously. “Like I said, I’m your biggest fan. And I won’t let my favourite singer die before her next tour.”

He opened the door, but before stepping out, he turned to you, voice low, teasing—yet oddly sincere.

“Besides,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from your face, “you still owe me an autograph… and maybe a duet, when all this is over.”