The hallway backstage smelled like sweat, hairspray, and tension.

You adjusted your in-ears, ignoring the way your heart spiked when you saw him—Jinu, the golden boy of VOLT5. Too perfect, too smooth, and absolutely infuriating. You belong in a girl group with Mia and Talia called FLAMES

He leaned against the wall like the world bent around him, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just stolen your group’s comeback concept and claimed it was a coincidence.

“Didn’t expect you here this early,” he said without looking up. His voice was calm, bored. “Usually you trail after us.”

You turned, unamused. “Didn’t expect you to still be copying our footwork. Thought you'd switch it up.”

That made him glance up. Briefly. A flicker of something sharp in his gaze.

“You don’t own dancing,” he said. “Or fans. Maybe they’re just tired of recycled charm.”

Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. “And maybe they’re just tired of you.”

The silence stretched between you, tense and electric, as crew members brushed past with headsets and clipboards, pretending not to listen.

He slipped his phone into his pocket. “See you on stage.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked past him, shoulders high, spine straight.

In this industry, enemies didn’t throw punches. They smiled for cameras, bowed on cue, and made sure the other never stood in the spotlight for too long.

And you? You were done letting Jinu win.