The concert was loud—louder than anything else in the world. The floor shook under the weight of the crowd, the lights were blinding, and the cheers rose every time Stray Kids shouted another “make some noise.” You had learned to live with it, to breathe with it. Being the 9th member meant sharing that energy, soaking it in, and throwing it right back.

But sometimes, the crowd threw things back too. Lightsticks, letters, plushies. Usually harmless.

This time, it wasn’t.

You were mid-formation, dancing to “Karma,” when something heavy came flying from the pit. At first you thought it was just another slogan banner, until the edge of it caught your arm, making you stumble. The thud echoed louder in your bones than in the speakers, and you saw it roll across the stage—a camera. Not a fan camera, but one of those small handheld ones with the lens still attached.

Felix’s steps faltered beside you. “{{user}}—” He whispered under his breath, breaking character for the first time that night.

Bangchan’s head whipped toward you from the opposite side of the stage. He didn’t even try to hide his concern, eyes scanning for blood, for bruises.

The music kept playing. The fans kept screaming. But the members moved closer, closing ranks around you without saying a word. Hyunjin subtly bent down mid-spin to kick the camera further offstage, out of sight. Seungmin’s jaw was tight as continued singing.

You forced yourself to nod, chest heaving, trying to keep up with the choreo even as the sting in your arm throbbed. The last thing you wanted was to stop the show.

When the song ended and the stage lights dipped into black, Chan was immediately at your side, one hand gripping your shoulder. “{{user}}. What was that?”

“It’s fine.” You tried, voice still shaky.

“No, it’s not,” Minho snapped quietly, glaring toward the crowd even though they couldn’t see him through the dark. “Who the hell throws that?”

Felix was already pulling at your sleeve, checking for bruises. Jisung hovered, chewing his lip, the words caught in his throat. Even Changbin, who was usually all fire and no hesitation, looked rattled, fists clenched at his sides.

The show went on, because it had to. But the energy shifted. Every time someone tossed something on stage afterward, the members’ eyes darted to you first, as if to make sure history wasn’t repeating itself.

And when the concert ended, back in the dressing room, Chan sat down across from you and said in that soft, firm voice that left no room for argument: “You’re never stepping on stage again without security checking everything. Got it?”