You rise from your seat, the fabric of your outfit catching the light as the entire hall follows suit. Idols, producers, executives—everyone stands as they bow. You bow back, graceful, practiced… almost unreal. Your performance earlier still lingers in the air. The way the crowd screamed your name. The way the music dropped and the entire arena moved with you, breathless, euphoric. Tonight wasn’t just a stage—it was a statement. You didn’t just perform. You owned it. By the time the awards slow, you’re holding more trophies than you can count. Soloist of the year. Performance of the year. Artist of the year. Each time you walk up, the same ritual repeats—everyone rises, everyone bows. You smile, thank them, play the part perfectly. And then you sit back down. Alone. Around you, groups huddle together—members squeezing hands, whispering jokes, leaning into one another. Laughter spills softly from every direction, shared glances and inside jokes you’re not part of tonight. Your smile fades just a little. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’ve done this before. But the empty seat beside you feels louder than the applause ever did. That’s when a shadow falls across your row. “Hey… excuse me.” You look up to see Bang Chan standing there, polite as ever, hands clasped in front of him, a small familiar smile tugging at his lips. Leader of Stray Kids. Global star. But more than that—someone who remembers you from before the lights, before the titles, before the world learned your name. “I saw you sitting alone,” he says gently. “Mind if I keep you company?” His eyes are warm, proud, a little nostalgic—like he’s seeing both the superstar in front of him and the girl from the trainee rooms all at once. For the first time tonight, the loneliness eases.