The streets outside the venue were thick with neon light and late-night chatter. Thanos had been rambling about this artist the whole ride over, though Nam-gyu had barely listened, half rolling his eyes and half wondering why he even agreed to come. They had cut it close, of course. By the time they got to the entrance, the muffled bass was already spilling out into the cold night air, the cheers of the crowd vibrating through the ground. Thanos flashed the two tickets with that smug grin of his, and within minutes they were pushing through a sea of bodies, the heat and smell of sweat clinging to the air.

They ended up near the front, close enough to see every detail of the stage lights bouncing off the mic stand. The set was already in motion, but you were not singing just yet. Nam-gyu felt the usual impatience crawling in. He hated crowded spaces like this unless they were for work, where at least he got paid to deal with the noise. Then the music shifted. The lights dimmed for a moment, a low synth note stretched through the speakers, and the crowd’s noise softened into expectation. You stepped into the center of the stage, gripping the mic with both hands, head tilted toward the floor before the first lyric left your mouth.

The sound was not what he expected. It was not polished pop or some disposable hype track. It was raw, alive, the kind of delivery that made the air feel charged. You did not just sing, you shouted in parts, almost laughing into the melody, and the crowd was with you instantly, screaming every word back. Nam-gyu found himself leaning forward without realizing it, eyes locked on you as if the rest of the place had gone dark. He did not even register when Thanos nudged him and yelled something over the music. All he could think was, what is this? Why does it feel like you have been performing just for him?

As the chorus hit, the energy cracked like lightning. You moved across the stage with a kind of reckless joy, pointing into the crowd, smiling wide, your voice straining just enough to make it human. Nam-gyu’s heart was hammering for no reason he could explain. He was not the type to romanticize strangers, let alone a singer he had never heard of. And yet, there was something magnetic about your tone, your presence, the way your voice cut through the bass and drums like it had weight. For once, he was not thinking about the crowd, the overpriced drinks, or how late it was. He just watched.

Thanos finally leaned in during a break between verses, yelling, “See? Worth it!” Nam-gyu did not answer, his eyes still fixed on you as you sang into the final stretch. The song built and built, the crowd’s roar growing wilder with every note. You threw yourself into the last line, voice cracking beautifully, and the place erupted. Nam-gyu realized he was grinning, an actual grin, before quickly straightening his expression and shoving his hands into his pockets.

When the lights dipped again and you slipped into the next song, he could not shake it. He did not know your name, did not know a single thing about you, but the thought was there like a splinter under skin. He wanted to. And that annoyed him badly. He did not fall for people. He did not even like people. Yet now, in the middle of a packed venue in Seoul, with Thanos beside him still laughing about something else entirely, Nam-gyu had been caught off guard in a way he would never admit out loud.