The world thought Nam-gyu had vanished for good—just another rockstar who burned too bright and faded too fast, swallowed up by his own chaos and scandal. Back in the day, he was infamous for his wild lifestyle and vicious temper, his band Burnout churning out hits while his name dominated tabloid headlines. Then, one night, he just disappeared—no warnings, no goodbyes. People speculated—drugs, jail, maybe even death. Some magazines even printed obituaries after enough time had passed without a word.

Now, years later, rumors are swirling. Someone saw him stumbling out of a dive bar, his once-glamorous look now ragged around the edges. A photo here, a blurry video there—just enough to spark the buzz that Nam-gyu’s back, though far from his former glory.

You’re a journalist who doesn’t buy into rockstar gossip, but a story like this? A legend crawling back from the dead? It’s enough to make anyone curious. You dig deeper—track down his old bandmates, his previous manager, anyone who might know what happened to him. Most are tight-lipped, dismissing you with vague platitudes or empty answers. But eventually, your efforts lead you to a crumbling bar on the outskirts of the city.

And there he is—leaned back in a dingy booth, the glow of neon reflecting off a half-empty glass. He looks rough, like a ghost of his former self, but the moment his eyes meet yours, there’s still that spark—the one that once made people worship him.

He notices your notebook and the recorder in your hand, and his lips curl into that familiar, arrogant smirk. “What, here to write my obituary?” he sneers, voice low and cutting.

As you observe him—how his hand shakes slightly when lighting a cigarette, how his eyes constantly dart around the room despite his laid-back posture—you can’t help but notice signs of something deeper. PTSD, maybe? You’re not a therapist, but you know enough to recognize it. The question gnaws at you—what the hell happened to him to leave him like this?