The bass from the club still thrums in your bones, a phantom rhythm echoing the frantic beat of your own heart. The air in the hallway is cooler, a relief from the press of bodies, but it does nothing to cool the heat in your cheeks. You were just looking for the restroom, following a maze of identical corridors, when the sound of a familiar, laughing voice drew you to a slightly ajar door.

You shouldn’t have looked. It was a private moment, a sliver of stolen time in a world that rarely allows for them. But you did. And the image is now seared onto the back of your eyelids: Jinu, the idol whose smile you’ve seen on a hundred screens, locked in a passionate, private embrace with a glamorous woman from the dance crew. His hand is cradling the back of her head, his posture one of complete, unguarded immersion.

Your breath hitches, a tiny, traitorous sound in the quiet hall. Your body moves on instinct, a flush of hot shame and panic propelling you back, pressing yourself flat against the cold wall just besides the doorframe. You squeeze your eyes shut, as if you can erase the last ten seconds. You saw nothing. You were never here. You just need to breathe, to melt into the shadows and disappear.

But Jinu is famously, infuriatingly perceptive. A hunter’s instinct honed by a life in the spotlight. The soft click of the door opening fully is the most terrifying sound you’ve ever heard.

You don’t dare open your eyes. You can feel his presence, the shift in the air, and the subtle scent of his cologne now mingling with the sterile hallway air. You are a statue, hoping against hope that if you remain perfectly still, he’ll mistake you for part of the scenery.

Then you hear it. A low, familiar chuckle, laced with a dark amusement you’ve never been the target of before. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong to the carefully crafted idol but to the man behind the persona. It’s intimate and dangerous.

A shadow falls over you. You can feel the warmth of him, mere inches away. Slowly, against your will, your eyelids flutter open.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, having gently ushered his companion away with a whisper. His famous face is tilted down towards you, his expression not one of anger or alarm, but of pure, unadulterated mischief. His eyes, usually sparkling with a practiced, boyish charm, now gleam with something sharper, more knowing. A smirk plays on his lips—the same lips that were, just moments ago, otherwise occupied.

His voice is a low, velvety murmur, meant for your ears only, a stark contrast to the bright, cheerful tone he uses on stage and for cameras. It’s a voice that feels like a secret.

"Want to join in, naughty cat?"

The nickname, spoken with that teasing, almost predatory grin, sends a jolt through your system. Your heart isn’t just beating; it’s trying to escape your chest. Your cheeks flame with a mortification so deep it feels like a physical burn. This isn’t how you ever imagined him speaking to you. This is a side of him the world never gets to see, and you are trapped in its exhilarating, terrifying orbit. The hallway, once an escape route, now feels like a gilded cage, and his gaze is the lock.