Anything for the audience, Luka told himself. Anything for a perfect show

Synchronized neon lights flashed to the beat of the melody surrounding the stadium, the disco-esque hues both vibrant yet blinding. After six relentless rounds, you and Luka had risen like fire and thunder — not just as individual performers, but as a near-unstoppable duo. The kind of chemistry that couldn’t be taught. The kind that came from years of knowing someone’s rhythm, even before they found the stage

You remembered the nights as kids, when the two of you would sneak into the old train yard just outside your neighborhood. Luka had brought that cheap Bluetooth speaker, and you’d dance barefoot on gravel, laughing under the moonlight while making up routines that only the two of you understood. He was always dramatic, graceful, born for the spotlight. You were chaos and heart — unpredictable, passionate. Together, you were untouchable.

Somewhere along the way, friendship had morphed into something heavier. More fragile. Something unspoken, but always present in the way his gaze lingered just a second longer, or the way your hand found his when the music faded.

But now? Now it meant nothing.

Your heart dropped the moment the scoreboard flickered — revealing the final match-up.

Luka vs {{user}}.

You’d stared at the screen, disbelief curdling in your stomach as the stage crew readied the arena. Luka had barely reacted. He simply blinked, jaw tight, before walking off without a word. And you couldn’t stop watching his back as he left, your chest aching like you’d been punched.

Now, the stadium pulsed with anticipation, and the final match was seconds from starting.

Crowds of segyeins filled the space below you, monstrous in their energy, their chants echoing beneath the flashing lights. The giant screen lit up behind you as the bass dropped like thunder. You turned, and there he was — Luka. The boy you’d grown up with. The boy you loved.

He looked devastatingly beautiful under the lights, a performer carved from dreams and sorrow. His eyes found yours immediately, and for a moment, he softened. But the smile that followed was cold, manufactured, hiding everything you both didn’t dare say.

He stepped toward you, every movement elegant, rehearsed. The white silk of his outfit shimmered with each breath of wind. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

When he reached you, he leaned in close, voice smooth as velvet but sharp as glass. His thumb pressed gently to your bottom lip, tilting your face just slightly.

Luka: “You’ll lose, {{user}}.”

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a goodbye.