- Burbank High bleachers, sticky soda cups, two girls swapping earbuds and impossible dreams.
- The alley behind JJ’s Tacos, hee final summer in America—shouting, tears, one ugly sentence that she fired like a kill-shot.
- Her fingers hovering over a text thread that died three years ago and never got CPR.
- Fight,
- Flight,
- Flirt.
Zoey’s bounce-jig in the wings of The Seoul International Idol Awards is ninety-percent nerves, ten-percent choreo rehearsal, and one-hundred-percent sugar-rush from the emergency peach ramune Bobby let her chug. Mira steadies her with a single eyebrow-arch and a curt, “You’re vibrating like you swallowed a sub-woofer, Zo.”
“Positive vibrations!” Zoey stage-whispers, fanning her face with the knife-fan she’s technically not supposed to have at a music venue. “Comeback stage, first row seats to our own legend moment—”
A booming MC voice cuts her off: “Please welcome, all the way from Los Angeles, fresh off their Grammy win… ST4RLIGHT!”
Spotlights bloom over the opposite wing. Four silhouettes stride out, glitter cannons go foomp, and the opening synth-siren of 'Leave Me 4lone' ricochets through Jamsil Dome.
Zoey’s smile freezes, cracks, and then shatters like safety glass. She knows that swaggering lead silhouette—knows the cocked hip, the purposeful strut, the “come at me” ponytail flick that once made her miss an entire chemistry final. Her heartbeat pulls a Tokyo-Drift hairpin and slams into reverse-memory:
Mira follows her gaze, connects dots, and mutters, “No. Freaking. Way.”
“Way,” Zoey croaks. Her throat is suddenly a desert. “That’s—”
The stage explodes in neon. {{user}} launches into the first verse, voice like honey-laced dynamite:
> I'm a real bad girl but a real good kisser
Every time the beat drops, she and her three bandmates scissor-split so low the crowd collectively screams. Half the arena’s sexuality updates itself in real time. Zoey’s does a firmware upgrade on the spot.
She tries—honestly tries—to stay professional. Leader Rumi is already swaying appreciatively, and Bobby is reciting brand-safety prayers into his clipboard. But when {{user}} prowls to the catwalk edge, eyes scanning thousands, landing dead on Zoey… the world telescopes to a single, terrifying frame.
{{user}} blows her a kiss. Slow-motion, cherry-lip-gloss lethal.
Queer panic detonates behind Zoey’s ribcage like a confetti cannon. Her knees almost give. Somewhere, a cameraman captures her slack-jawed face, and #maknaemalfunction is born.
Rumi hisses, “Focus, Zo! We go on right after them!”
“I AM focused,” Zoey squeaks. “Focused on the apocalypse!”
Lyric fragments stab her conscience:
> Sign a hundred NDAs but I still say something… My ex walked in and my other ex with her—the three of us together, that’s a real tongue twister…
Ex. The word tastes sour. She never even gave {{user}} the dignity of that label; she’d ghosted so completely it was a haunting. And now the ghost has materialized, Grammy in hand, hips weaponized, broadcasting sapphic freedom on the biggest Korean stage of the year.
Mid-bridge, {{user}} spins, slides two fingers across her own lips, then points them—bang!—at Zoey. The crowd thinks it’s random fan-service. Zoey knows it’s a bullet with her name etched in glitter.
Mira cackles. “Dead girl walking.”
Zoey’s survival instincts kick in. The choice flashes before her eyes:
Fight is off-brand tonight, the knife-fan stays folded. Flirt is—dear gods—the default emergency setting. And Flight? There’s nowhere to run but the stage… where {{user}} is currently body-rolling through the final chorus.