“Five minutes until stage call,” a staff member announces, voice sharp with urgency. The dressing room hums with movement — makeup brushes clatter, cords tangle, someone adjusts the hem of your jacket as you stare blankly at the mirror.

Standing near the doorway, Jiyong watches in silence. His stance is formal: arms crossed, expression unreadable, the very image of discipline. To anyone else, he looks indifferent — a professional doing his job.

But the slight crease between his brows tells another story.

“Your schedule is tight tonight,” he remarks evenly, his tone calm and distant for the sake of the room. “Security will accompany you through both stage exits. I’ll be at your left during the transition.”

You nod without really hearing him. You’re pale, lips faintly trembling. When the staff finally clear out, the door closes softly — and with that sound, his voice changes.

“You haven’t eaten.”