Backstage stairwell. 2:48 a.m. Hours after the concert ended. The crowd has long gone. Production crews packed up and left. You're alone. Alone with the lingering smell of burned metal and sulfur in the stale air.

You came back for a missing mic pack, but now the empty hallway feels wrong. The emergency lights flicker weakly overhead, casting long shadows. No signal on your phone.

A faint noise echoes from down the hall — claws tapping rhythmically against concrete.

Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Is someone there?”

No words answer you. Instead, a wet, guttural growl — like too many mouths snarling where none should be.

Step by step, you retreat.

And then, there it is.

A creature — not human, not fan, not stalker. Its eyes are narrow slits glowing faintly. Its body is stitched from charred flesh and twisted wire, a grotesque patchwork of things that should never have belonged together.

It lunges.

You scream.

But the strike never lands.

A rush of wind cuts the air — sharp and clean.

A figure moves between you and the beast.

Baby.

Gone are the sequins and stage lights. No makeup masks this night. Just a black hood pulled low, hiding his face in shadow, his eyes faint gold embers glowing in the dark.

He moves like a dancer — fluid, precise — but this dance is deadly. Each strike is measured, a silent symphony of steel and shadow.

Within moments, the creature collapses, crumbling into black ash that drifts away on the cold air.

Silence falls.

You press against the wall, still catching your breath, heart pounding.

Baby doesn’t look at you right away. His breathing is steady — calm, rehearsed.

Then he turns. The glowing eyes are gone, replaced by something softer, but something still off, as if a secret hums beneath his skin.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet. Gentle. Unaffected.

You swallow, voice shaky. “What… was that?”

No immediate answer.

Instead, he offers his hand.

You take it, still trembling.

“Just a crasher,” he says, lips curving in a half-smile. “An… overly enthusiastic fan.”

You know the lie. You see the tension beneath the calm mask. But you also know he won’t force the truth on you.

He brushes ash from your jacket like it’s nothing — like death didn’t just brush so close.

“Are you gonna tell Jinu?” you ask, voice steadier now.

“Tell him what?” he grins, a flicker of something unspoken flashing behind his eyes.

“Nothing happened, right, manager-nim?”