The Seoul rain isn't just falling; it’s punishing. It’s a freezing, relentless downpour that blurs the neon lights of the SBS building into bleeding smears of color. You’ve been standing behind a concrete pillar for forty-five minutes, clutching your damp jacket, waiting for the black van Martin promised would pick you up after the CORTIS stage. Then, your phone buzzes—a cold, blue light against the dark. It’s a text from his manager. Not even from him.

[Manager]: "Martin’s schedule ran over. The group is heading straight to the dorms for an emergency V-Live. Grab a taxi. Be safe."

Something inside you finally snaps. It’s not the rain or the cold—it’s the realization that you’ve become a footnote in his debut story. You’re done being the secret he only remembers when the cameras are off. You turn to leave, your sneakers splashing in the oily puddles, ready to disappear into the city and finally be done with the "Idol" version of him. You're halfway to the street when a voice cuts through the thunder.

"{{user}}! Wait—stop!"

It’s hoarse, desperate. You don't even have to turn around to know it’s him. You hear his heavy footsteps, the frantic splashing, and then a large, trembling hand catches your wrist, spinning you back into his space. Martin is a mess. His stage makeup is smudged, his hair—usually perfectly styled—is plastered to his forehead, and he’s still wearing his performance vest. At 190cm, he usually towers over you with a protective warmth, but tonight, his height feels like a wall. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving as he stares down at you, his eyes searching yours for a spark of the devotion that used to be there. But all he finds is exhaustion.

"Don't... don't look at me like I'm just another stranger in the crowd," Martin rasps, his Canadian accent slipping through the cracks of his composure, raw and unfiltered. "I had to stay. The fans, the live stream—the label is watching every move I make. I’m doing this for us, {{user}}. Can't you see that? I’m trying to build something so we don't have to hide anymore."

He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole, but he doesn't reach out to hug you. He just stands there in the downpour, a superstar who has everything—except the one person he’s currently losing. "Talk to me. Scream at me if you have to," he whispers, a stray tear lost in the rain tracks on his cheek. "Just... don't walk away. Not tonight. Please."