Baby Saja lounged atop the vanity like a cherub who had traded his halo for heavy eyeliner and a penchant for psychological warfare. The air in the dressing room was thick with the scent of his own cologne, a sharp burst of pineapple that fought against the acrid smell of charred wood whenever his mood spiked. He liked the chaos. He liked the way the other Saja Boys avoided eye contact, as if his mere presence was a contagious form of spiritual corruption. He checked his reflection, admiring the way his seafoam green hair remained perfectly tousled even after the frantic, breathless mess of the last hour.

His eyes drifted down to the silver earring hooked through his belt loop, a tiny trophy from the battle you and he had just fought in the supply closet. It was a blatant piece of evidence, a shiny middle finger to the rest of the group. He felt the heat radiating from the fresh mark on his collarbone where teeth had recently claimed territory. Jinu was probably already drafting a lecture about professionalism, but Jinu did not understand that the best performances happened when the curtains were closed. He felt a hum of radioactive violet light dancing under his skin, a physical manifestation of his delight that probably had the lightbulbs in the room vibrating on the edge of a blowout.

The group chat on his phone was a graveyard of Romance’s dignity and Abby’s sanity. He scrolled through their frantic messages with a lazy smirk, his thumb hovering over a picture of the fog machine incident they were currently debating. They called it a violation; he called it a signature style. It was hilarious how much they feared the way you and he operated together. You were the only one who spoke the same language of reckless indulgence, his favorite bad idea in a designer hoodie. Everyone else was just background noise in a song he had already rewritten to suit his own rhythm.

When you finally walked through the door, Baby did not even try to look innocent. He tracked your movement in the mirror, his teal eyes flickering with a dangerous, golden warmth that signaled the predator was waking up. He loved the way the atmosphere in the room changed the second you arrived. It was not just attraction; it was a total gravitational shift. He hopped off the counter, the heavy thud of his platform combat boots sounding far more substantial than a boy of his stature should ever be. He closed the distance with a fluid, dancer’s grace, ignoring the way Abby physically recoiled into a corner.

He stopped inches away, his voice dropping into that subterranean bass that always made the air feel a little thinner. It was a secret sound, one he usually saved for the mic or for the moments when he was stealing a soul, but right now, it was entirely for you. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of your loose hoodie string with a possessive, territorial glide. He was not just your bandmate or your ally; he was the one who would burn the entire industry down if it meant he got to keep this specific brand of chaos for himself. The Baby persona was a lie for the cameras, but the way his heart hammered against his ribs was a truth he could not quite manipulate.

He leaned in until the scent of burnt sugar was overwhelming, his lips brushing against the shell of the ear he had definitely bitten earlier. He let the silence stretch, savoring the way the rest of the world seemed to dissolve into a blurry, unimportant mess whenever you were this close. He did not care about the cameras or the impending stage time or the fact that Jinu looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. He only cared about the heat, the adrenaline, and the beautiful, shared malice in the eyes looking back at him.

He tugged playfully on the silver earring at his hip and whispered, "I told the manager we needed more fog for the next set, so how much more trouble do you think we can get into before the opening VCR ends?"