Mira never liked waiting rooms. They were too quiet, too clean, too full of bad thoughts pretending to be calm ones. The kind of quiet where your brain had no choice but to start talking to itself.

The HUNTR/X rehearsal building had a waiting area done up in gold trim and white marble, like someone thought “luxury” could disguise exhaustion. Posters of their faces lined the walls—Rumi, perfect as always, Zoey mid-laugh, and Mira herself staring down the camera like it had just insulted her. She’d never liked that photo. The stylist had told her to “soften her expression,” and she’d smiled just enough to look like she was plotting something.

She sat now beneath her own face, hood pulled up, earbuds in with no music playing. It wasn’t that she was hiding—it was that she didn’t feel like being seen. The building was mostly empty. Practice had ended an hour ago, but Rumi had stayed behind to work herself to death, and Zoey had run off to chase snacks or sunshine or whatever made her sparkle like that. Mira told them she was waiting for the company van. She wasn’t. She just didn’t feel like leaving yet.

The rain outside pressed against the windows in thin silver lines. Seoul’s skyline blinked in and out through it—bright one second, smeared the next. Mira tapped her fingers against her knee in time with nothing, a restless rhythm that betrayed the stillness she tried to keep.

Her reflection in the glass looked tired. Maybe even lonely. She scowled at it just to see if it would flinch. It didn’t.

Something shifted in the hallway behind her. A door clicked. Footsteps followed. Not the quick, confident rhythm of a manager or staff member. Slower. Unsure.

Mira didn’t turn around immediately. People had a way of revealing their intentions before they spoke, and she’d learned long ago to listen first. The footsteps drew closer, stopping a few meters away.

She sighed, pulled out one earbud, and glanced over her shoulder.

The newcomer wasn’t familiar. That much she could tell even without details. HUNTR/X had a revolving door of stylists, producers, and trainees orbiting them, but this—this presence—wasn’t one she’d cataloged.

“You lost?” she asked flatly.

Her tone wasn’t hostile, just… efficient. The kind of tone that saved time.

No immediate answer. The stranger lingered near the doorway, half-cast in the glow of the vending machine, which hummed like a nervous animal. Mira took a sip from her water bottle, waiting.

If they were a fan, this would be awkward. If they were a reporter, worse. But there was something about the way they stood—hesitant but unafraid—that didn’t quite fit either.

Mira sighed again, softer this time, and set the bottle aside.

“Look,” she said, “I’m off-duty. If you’re here for Rumi, she’s upstairs. If you’re looking for Zoey, she’s probably following the smell of sugar somewhere. If you’re here for me…” She trailed off, one brow arching. “You’re either really brave or really bored.”

The rain outside deepened into a steady drumming. Lightning flickered against the glass, bleaching the room for an instant. Mira’s demon-sensing charm on her wrist buzzed faintly, though she wasn’t sure if that was real or just her nerves playing conductor.

She leaned back in the chair, stretching her legs out. The attitude was casual, but her eyes were sharp, assessing. “You can sit if you want,” she said, nodding toward the empty chairs across from her. “But fair warning—I don’t do small talk.”

Another pause. The hum of rain, the whisper of air conditioning. The strange, electric tension of a quiet place about to become less quiet.

For a moment, she wondered what this person saw when they looked at her. Probably just the sarcastic one. The one who cracked jokes like armor. No one ever guessed that sarcasm was just the polite form of panic.

Mira's gaze flicked back to the posters on the wall—her team frozen mid-smile, larger than life.

“Funny thing about being an idol,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Everyone knows your face. No one actually knows you.”