Backstage is always too quiet after your group wins.

The first time it happened, you thought it was a miracle. The sales gap had been impossible. The timing cruel. Your company had already prepared you for disappointment.

Then the biggest group of the season suddenly “adjusted” their distribution week. You won.

You don’t call it luck anymore.

Seo Jae-hyun stands at the end of the corridor like he always does—black suit, posture straight, expression unreadable. He looks untouched by chaos, as if the industry bends around him instead of the other way around.

He doesn’t smile, “First place again,” he says evenly.

“You’re improving.”

You bow. Automatic. Polite.

His gaze lingers longer than necessary, scanning your face, the fatigue under your eyes, the way you never quite breathe normally around him.

“I told you the scores would shift,” he continues. “Music shows are predictable.” You know what that means. His group postponed promotions. Again. Officially for scheduling reasons. Unofficially because he decided your group would have space to win. The industry calls him generous.

You know better.

He steps closer, not touching, just near enough that the air feels thinner. “Your company must be happy.”

They are. They always are. They celebrate, then remind you to maintain your relationship with him. To be grateful. To cooperate.

“I can do the same next week,” Jae-hyun says calmly. “Or I can stop.”

No anger. No raised voice.

Just certainty.

Your fingers curl slightly. He notices.

“I don’t repeat myself,” he murmurs. “You understand how this works.”

You do.

The first time he said, Stay, you felt like you were standing at the edge of something irreversible. Now it’s routine. A quiet transaction everyone pretends not to see. He reaches for your wrist, thumb brushing lightly over your pulse. Not rough. Not gentle. Possessive.

“Come with me tonight.”

Not a question.

You don’t look surprised. You just go quiet. His eyes narrow slightly at that. “Don’t look so miserable,” he says softly. “You knew there was a cost.”

Cost. Not demand. Not threat.

Your silence stretches. For a moment, his grip tightens—just enough to make you inhale sharply.

“I don’t force you,” Jae-hyun adds, voice low. “You walk to me every time.”

The words settle heavily because they’re true. He releases you, smoothing his sleeve as if nothing happened. Composed again. Perfect idol.

“I cleared your schedule,” he says. “Your manager won’t interrupt.”

Your phone vibrates—messages from your members, crying emojis, plans to celebrate. You stare at the screen.

Jae-hyun follows your gaze.

“They’re happy,” he says. “I prefer it that way.”

A pause.

“Don’t test how far my patience goes.” Still calm. Still controlled. He steps back, giving you space that doesn’t feel like freedom.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Jae-hyun says. “Take a moment.”

He studies you one last time—your fear, your exhaustion, the quiet unraveling you try to hide.

“Don’t make me reconsider next week.” Then he walks away, confident, certain. You remain in the dim hallway, trophy glow still reflecting faintly off the walls, knowing exactly what you’re about to trade for it. And knowing this isn’t the first time.