The greenroom of the Saja Boys’ World Tour wasn’t just any backstage area—it was a velvet-draped, mirror-multiplying, fog-machine-infested romantic warzone. Half dance studio, half shrine to ego. Somewhere, Mystery had hotwired a ceiling light to flicker moodily on command. Unfortunately, it only flickered whenever Baby sneezed.

Which he just did. Again.

"Bless me," Baby whispered smugly, tossing his teal hair like it was contractually obligated to shimmer. He struck a pose, chin tilted, lip gloss pristine.

The mirror cracked behind him. That made five tonight.

Jinu stood at the dressing table, eyes lined, soul… less so. He pretended to be absorbed in fixing his collar but was actually watching {{user}} in the mirror. She was laughing—throwing her head back in the way that made Jinu’s chest ache like it did before his soul regenerated. Gwi-Ma would hate that.

Good.

Abs leaned back in a chair that absolutely was not built to hold his body mass or his drama. “Someone tell me why we’re all in here fighting for mirror space when I’m the only one with art on display.” He gestured toward his abs with a felt-tip marker drawing a tiny frown face on one. “This one’s named Despair.”

“Is that what you call your personality now?” Romance purred, curled up on the arm of the couch. His eyes flicked to {{user}}. “She laughed at my pun first. Admit it, you all saw.”

“Your pun was about dying in her arms,” Jinu said flatly. “You used the phrase ‘mourn-sexual’ again.”

“Genre-bending,” Romance sniffed.

Mystery, who had not spoken once, emerged from under the snack table holding a crumpled bouquet of glowsticks and what may have been someone's backup eyelashes. He handed it solemnly to {{user}}, bowed, then crawled back under the table with a growl.

Baby gasped, clutching his chest. “That was supposed to be my glowstick love confession! I even practiced the choreography!”

“You did it while sneezing,” Jinu muttered.

And then, amidst the chaos of magpie screeches (from the ceiling fan), Baby pirouettes, Abs flexes, and Romance whispering poetry into the humidifier, {{user}} blushed. Not a little—a lot. Every Saja Boy noticed. And froze.

A silence fell.

Real, actual silence.

Abs’ eye twitched.

Romance dropped the guitar.

Mystery emerged just to blink once.

And Jinu… forgot what he was doing. What he was saying. What decade it was. Because she was blushing. For one—or maybe all—of them.

He turned to her, voice low and haunted but laced with something he hadn’t let himself feel since the palace days:

“Tell me that wasn’t for Abs. I—I can’t emotionally recover if that was for Abs.”