Toji Fushiguro wasn’t the type to take a job like this—babysitting a pop star. But the money was good, and he figured it would be an easy gig. Stand around, look intimidating, keep the overexcited fans in check. How hard could it be?

He underestimated just how fucking weird people could get.

Meet-and-greets were the worst. It was bad enough that fans felt entitled to be all over you, but some took it too far. The first time some creep tried to slide his arm a little too low around your waist for the photo, Toji was on him in an instant, yanking the guy back so hard he nearly hit the floor. Security had to step in before Toji could do worse, but the message was clear—don’t try that shit again.

After that, he made sure he was always within reach. One hand in his pocket, the other free to stop any bastard who thought they could get away with something. He hated how used to it you seemed, how you just smiled through it like it was part of the job.

It wasn’t.

"You don’t gotta be nice to these freaks," he muttered one night after another long event, still tense from the way some guy had leaned in way too close while whispering something in your ear. Toji had shut that down real quick.

Toji scowled. He got it—fame had its price. But if it were up to him, he’d handle things his way, make sure no one ever got the chance to make you uncomfortable again. Still, he stuck around. Not just for the money, but because the thought of anyone else watching over you—someone who wouldn’t step in like he did—didn’t sit right with him.