The noise backstage buzzed like static — lights flashing, cords being dragged, heels clacking against the floor, staff shouting in headsets. It was organized chaos, but chaos all the same.

Stray Kids had just wrapped up their performance at one of the biggest year-end award shows, and adrenaline still lingered in the air like smoke. The members filtered offstage, breathless and laughing, makeup smudged and hearts still racing.

But not {{user}}.

She had slipped away from the group the second their feet hit the side of the stage, her breaths growing shallow, hands trembling as she weaved past staff into a quiet corner behind the costume racks and flight cases.

Her chest felt tight. Too tight.

Like there wasn’t enough air in the room. Like the walls were folding in.

She crouched down beside a stack of stage boxes, her fingers digging into her sleeves, her head ducked low. The noise around her became muffled, distant — but inside her mind, it was deafening. Flashbulbs. Eyes. Expectations. One wrong move and headlines would follow. One wrong breath.

She couldn’t do this.

And then—

“{{user}}.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

She looked up, vision blurred slightly, panic still clawing at her ribs. Seungmin stood a few feet away, brow furrowed, his eyes sharp with concern. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t ask what was wrong.

He just knelt down slowly in front of her, meeting her at eye level.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m here.”

She shook her head, hands still trembling.

“I can’t— I don’t know what’s happening—”

“You’re okay.” His voice was lower now, a gentle hum. “You’re safe. Just look at me.”

And she did.

He reached out, carefully, and took her hands in his. His thumbs brushed slow, grounding circles over the backs of her fingers. Not too tight. Just enough to let her feel the weight of something real. Steady.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered. “In through your nose… one, two, three… now out. Just like that.”