You always believed stars lived in the sky. So you reached for them, even when it hurt. As a little girl, you pressed your face to the screen, watching idols move like they owned gravity. Lights danced across their skin. Crowds screamed their names. Their world was louder, brighter, more. And you wanted in. At fifteen, you left home to become a trainee. You learned pain before you learned fame. Your muscles tore and healed, your voice cracked and rebuilt itself. You slept curled on studio floors and ate silently between practices, always watching, always studying. No guarantees. No promises. Just the hope that one day, someone would notice.

At eighteen, someone did. You debuted. The first song floated. The second made a ripple. Then came your third: “Shining.” It wasn't just a hit—it was a spark in dry grass. Fancams exploded. Challenges started. Edits rolled in like waves. You weren’t just another rookie anymore. You were shining, just like the song said. The lights got brighter. So did the pressure. You danced across small stages first. Tiny venues. Then came the tours. The arenas. The screens. The thousands of fans. You barely had time to breathe. You smiled on cue. You bowed after every encore.

Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Your manager started pacing again. He said you needed something more. A shift. A moment that would cement you. A collab. Big names were mentioned. BTS. IVE. All unreachable. And then… Stray Kids. You didn’t say anything, just nodded—but inside, something jumped. They weren’t just talented. Their music lived in your playlists. Their lyrics had held your hand more than once on hard nights. When confirmation came, you stared at the screen for a long time. Not breathing.

You didn’t know who from the group would join the project. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to jinx it. The morning of the meeting, you barely touched breakfast. The car ride passed in a blur. Your manager walked beside you through the halls of JYP. It felt holy. Like stepping into a place that had already made history—and now had room for you. You walked into the training room, heartbeat wild. He was already there. Black joggers. Oversized hoodie. Cap low over his curls. Leaning against the mirrored wall like he’d been waiting. Bang Chan. The leader. The producer. The heart of Stray Kids.

He smiled when he saw you. Not a staged one—a real one. You bowed quickly, deeply. He stepped forward and offered his hand. You took it, barely breathing. You followed him into the room. It was empty. Just two chairs. Two bottles of water. You sat. Waiting. Minutes passed. The door stayed closed. You looked around. Where was the rest of the group? You glanced at him. He was sitting beside you now, scrolling through something on his phone. Calm. Relaxed.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. He turned toward you. Raised an eyebrow. Then smiled again, like he already knew what you wanted to ask. He tapped his phone once, slid it into his pocket. Then, finally, he spoke.

“It’s just me.” He said and smirked jokingly.