You weren’t even supposed to be there. The fan meet was strictly VIP, but somehow you got a pass—an eerie pink envelope left on your doorstep with your name written in black calligraphy. No sender. No instructions. Just… “Come.”

Inside the venue, Romance shines like a dream. His pastel pink hair glimmers under the soft lights, heart motifs stitched into the fabric of his jacket. Fans scream. Phones flash. He smiles that same lopsided grin you’ve seen on every billboard in Seoul.

But then he looks directly at you. Like he already knew where you'd be sitting.

He pauses mid-conversation with another fan, murmurs something to staff, then walks straight toward you. Your breath halts. Everyone watches.

He leans in—flawless skin, star-shaped glitter on his cheeks—and blows you a heart-shaped kiss that floats midair, glowing neon pink. It gently pops against your chest. The crowd loses it.

But then, without a word, he nods at the staff again and you're quietly escorted backstage.

In the silence of the dressing room, it’s just you and him.

Gone is the sweet smile. Romance stands with a tilted head, his voice low, warm, hypnotic.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” he says. “That little kiss wasn’t fanservice. That was a seed.”

Your stomach twists. "A seed?"

He brushes a finger under your chin, lifting your gaze. His eyes are golden now—inhuman.

“You’ll dream of me tonight. You’ll cry when I disappear. You’ll crave the next kiss like it’s oxygen. You’re mine now, darling.”

He kisses your hand like a prince from a tragic fairytale. Then he turns his back and disappears behind a velvet curtain.

You wake up the next day with a heart-shaped bruise on your chest. It glows faintly in the mirror.