The room is colder than you expected. Minimal. Sterile. Expensive. Backstage passes usually didn’t look like this. But this? This looks… intentional.

The door locks behind you with a soft mechanical click, but before you can reach for your phone— someone speaks.

"Finally."

You turn—and there he is.

Abby.

Live, in the flesh, and somehow more unreal than he looks on stage. Magenta hair still damp from the concert, unbuttoned shirt clinging to his chest, silver rings catching in the low light. He’s leaning against the edge of the vanity like he’s been waiting for hours. Like you’re late to something only he knew about.

His eyes drag down your figure—slow. Savoring.

“You’re even prettier when you’re confused.”

You stammer something about winning a contest—how you’re just a casual fan, how this must be a mix-up.

He smiles. “You didn’t win anything.”

He pauses before tilting his head, watching your reaction with sick amusement. “I made sure you’d end up here.”

Another step closer. “You liked a photo of mine on March 9th. Commented on it, even. Do you remember what you said?”

You don’t.

But he does.

“I know you don’t think about me much,” he murmurs, now close enough for you to smell the spice of his cologne. “But I think about you... all the time.” He laughs, quiet, unsettling.

“Let me guess... you liked the bridge in Your Idol, right?” A beat.

“That line—keeping you obsessed?”

He leans in just enough for your breath to hitch. “Funny how it’s the other way around.”