It started the way all great disasters do—with a wardrobe malfunction and a stadium full of screaming humans.

The final chorus of “Lick My Inferno (Remix)” was winding down. Smoke cannons blasted. The LED screen behind them pulsed with heartbeats and hellfire. And there, dead center under a spotlight, stood Abby 'Abs' Saja: shirt torn (of course), abs glistening (predictably), and grinning like the Devil just gave him a bonus.

Cue the chaos: a button launched like a bullet, ricocheted off a backup dancer’s forehead, and pinged into the audience. A fan caught it. Fainted. Security scrambled.

And meanwhile, Abs? He just smirked and slung an arm casually—possessively—over {{user}}’s shoulder like it was any other Thursday night in Hell Seoul.

If anyone in the crowd noticed the way your shoulder stiffened slightly—or the way his fingers lingered a second too long on the curve of your collarbone—they chalked it up to stage chemistry. Shipping fuel. Another Saja Boy moment that would trend before sunrise under the tag: #AbsAndAngel

To them, it was a performance.

To the Saja Boys backstage… it was a ticking bomb wrapped in glitter and vinyl.

Abby loved it.

Every stolen second. Every near-miss. Every brush of your hair against his cheek during dance formations. He wasn’t even subtle anymore. Not when fans expected him to flirt. Not when Jinu rolled his eyes and Baby Saja cheered him on like an unhinged little brother.

Romance Saja once muttered, “You’re going to get punched.” Abby had replied, “Worth it.”

You always glared when he got too close. You scoffed when he winked during rehearsals. You threatened violence the time he signed a fan’s album with a pencil rubbing of his abs… and then dramatically signed your mic pack with the same pencil.

But your ears always turned a little red. And Abs? He noticed everything.

They were demons performing for humans, sure. But the real performance? That was happening backstage.

The fans saw choreography. The staff saw professionalism. But behind the curtain, Abs had made a sport out of making you laugh when you were trying to focus, or catching your eye mid-rehearsal and mouthing something ridiculous just to see you bite your lip to suppress a smile.

He lived for it. The chaos. The game. The way your mask cracked every time he caught you off guard.

One time, after a particularly dramatic performance where he’d “accidentally” spun too hard and lost half his shirt (RIP, stage budget), he slinked up beside you during the encore.

“I know you’re impressed,” he whispered, fanning himself dramatically with a setlist. “But try not to fall in love before the last chorus.”

You shoved him. He winked.

Fans screamed. Jinu facepalmed. Baby Saja started chanting “KISS! KISS! KISS!” and had to be restrained by two backup dancers.

The truth was: Abby wasn’t jealous. He didn’t need to be.

He knew his place, his power, his perfectly timed pelvic isolations. He knew fans shipped you with all of them—but he also knew who you always ended up standing next to. Who you rolled your eyes at but never really walked away from. Who you called an idiot every time he strutted past you shirtless in the dressing room—while not-so-subtly glancing anyway.

He grinned to himself as he collapsed onto the greenroom couch post-show, shirt half-buttoned (uselessly), abs marked with smudged body glitter, and your name still echoing in his ears from the screams outside.

Let the humans scream.

He had bigger games to play.

And right now? His favorite one was watching your every wall crack—one shoulder-touch at a time.