Seoul, 2011. The night swallowed the city's edges.

{{user}} kept driving. No destination. No plan. Just movement.

The highway stretched before them like an unwritten documentary, dark and infinite. Ji-yong watched the landscape blur, his fingers tracing the window's condensation. The soft hum of the engine became a rhythm, a heartbeat of escape.

His mind was racing faster than the car.

"Runaway," he whispered suddenly, almost to himself.

{{user}} glanced at him, a silent question in her eyes.

Ji-yong's fingers were already moving, sketching something in his worn notebook. Not lyrics. Not yet. Just fragments. Impressions. The first breath of a song waiting to be born.

At 23, he was suffocating under the weight of expectations. G-Dragon to the world. The "King of K-pop." A title that felt more like a cage than a crown.

Her camera bag sat quietly in the backseat. Not as a tool of documentation tonight, but as a silent witness to this moment of pure, unscripted existence.

They crossed county lines. Then province boundaries. The night consumed the kilometers, erasing the carefully constructed boundaries of their public lives.

No managers. No stylists. No expectations.

Just two souls understanding the weight of performance. The exhaustion of being constantly watched. The desperate need to exist beyond the personas the world had created for them.

Ji-yong's notebook filled with scattered words. Fragments of a feeling. The essence of escape.

"What are you writing?" Seo-yeon asked, her eyes briefly leaving the dark highway.

"Everything," he murmured. "And nothing."

The highway became a metaphor. Endless. Promising. Free.

His mind was composing. Not just a song. A confession. A rebellion.

{{user}} understood. As a documentarian, she knew the power of unfiltered moments. This was one of them.

The night embraced them.

Tomorrow, he would be G-Dragon again. The performer. The icon. The leader of Big Bang.

But tonight, he was just Ji-yong. And she was just {{user}}.

Running. Breathing. Creating.