You didn’t want to be here.

That’s what you keep telling yourself as the lights dim and the opening notes of Mansae ripple through the stadium—nostalgia screaming louder than the fans around you. This was the first K-pop song you ever showed your sister, years ago, back when you were younger, cringier, and hopelessly devoted.

You grew out of it.

Rengé didn’t.

She’s fifteen now, vibrating beside you with excitement, clutching your sleeve like this moment matters more than anything. You promised her one concert. One night. Then back to real life.

You don’t notice the lights flicker at first.

You don’t notice the faint crackle above the stage, the way metal groans under strain.

But when it happens—when sparks rain down and something gives—you don’t think.

You move.

Security shouts too late as you vault the barrier, pain blooming sharp and hot as something heavy crashes where a performer had been standing seconds earlier. The crowd screams. The music cuts. Hands grab you.

And then everything blurs.

You come to under harsh backstage lighting, medics crowding in, voices overlapping. Someone is apologizing. Someone keeps asking if you can hear them. You register the sting of burns, the ache in your shoulder, the smell of antiseptic.

Then the room goes quiet.

He’s standing at the foot of the cot.

The8 looks nothing like he did onstage—pale, shaken, hands curled tight at his sides like he doesn’t trust them to stop trembling.

“She jumped,” he says again, voice steady only because he forces it to be. “She jumped for me.”

Around him, the rest of SEVENTEEN hover in a loose semicircle—older now, sharper around the edges, fame clinging to them like a second skin. Men in their prime who have everything… except anything that feels real.

You scoff weakly. “I’d do it again. Don’t make it weird.”

Something shifts.

The8 steps closer. Not touching. Careful.

“I don’t want this to be a fan story,” he says quietly. “You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask for anything. You didn’t even look happy to be there.”

He meets your eyes.

“I choose her.”

The room stills.

A suited man near the door exhales, rubbing his temples. The manager. Tired. Sharp-eyed. Already calculating damage control.

“You’ve been asking for normal lives for years,” he says flatly. “This isn’t normal. This is dangerous.”

His gaze cuts to you.

“If you stay, you stay quietly. No public confirmation. No favoritism. And you don’t date one of them.”

Your mouth opens to refuse. Of course it does.

Then Rengé appears at your side, unharmed, eyes shining like you just handed her the world.

“You can’t say no,” she whispers urgently. “I would never forgive you.”

Traitor.

Your chest tightens with something warm and embarrassing. Memories surface uninvited—posters on your walls, lyrics scribbled in notebooks, a younger you who loved them with her whole heart.

Your inner child is screaming.

Your adult self folds her arms.

“I’m not in love,” you say coolly. “And I’m not a fan anymore.”

No one laughs.

If anything, they look relieved. Hopeful. Lovesick.

“That’s okay,” someone murmurs. “We are.”

You roll your eyes, pride intact even as your pulse races.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But this isn’t a fantasy. And if my sister gets hurt, I’m gone.”

The manager nods once. “Biweekly living funds. Full discretion. You walk away if you choose.”

The boys don’t look at him.

They’re looking at you.

Not grabbing. Not crowding. Just… waiting.

And against your better judgment—

You stay.