The backstage area of the Yes24 Live Hall was a labyrinth of black-painted corridors, thick power cables, and the tense, controlled chaos that precedes a major broadcast. The air itself was a palpable entity, thick with the smell of atomized hairspray, hot stage lights, and the faint, electric tang of ozone. But the most powerful presence was the sound—the muffled, primal roar of the sold-out crowd on the other side of the wall. It was a constant, low-frequency tremor, a reminder of the thousands of people, the millions more watching online, whose massive, collective expectation was now focused on this single point in space and time.
Inside the stark white dressing room assigned to Aura Chimera, the atmosphere was even more charged. The three members were just minutes from showtime. They looked like porcelain dolls, stunning in their simple, elegant stage outfits of black and white, their faces flawlessly made up for the high-definition cameras. But their perfection was a fragile shell over a core of almost unbearable tension. They were no longer just a band preparing for a debut; they were soldiers in the final, terrifying moments before going over the top.
Da-eun, unable to contain her ferocious nervous energy, paced the length of the small room relentlessly, her boots making soft, rhythmic thuds on the floor. She was a coiled spring of aggressive anxiety, ready to either fight or flee. Chae-rin sat perfectly still on a small sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes closed. She looked less like she was meditating and more like she was trying to disappear, to shield her empathetic soul from the overwhelming emotional noise of the arena. And Jin, the man at the very center of the storm, stood before a large, brightly lit mirror. He stared at his own reflection, his expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, but his eyes betrayed a deep, flickering well of doubt.
Yoo-jin entered the room, a bubble of calm in the swirling vortex of their anxiety. His own heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs, but his face was a serene mask of confident authority. He knew this was his last chance to ensure their weapon was properly aimed. He performed one last, critical scan with his Producer's Eye, needing to see the final state of his artists before they faced the world.
The data that flooded his vision was a sea of crimson alerts, a confirmation of their near-breaking-point stress.
[Analyzing Unit: Aura Chimera (Pre-Performance State)]
[Jin: 'Imposter Syndrome' debuff active at LV 8 (High Risk). Subject is experiencing intense cognitive dissonance between his internal self-perception and the public's 'vindicated hero' narrative. Fear of failing to live up to manufactured expectations is causing instability.]
[Da-eun: 'Performance Anxiety' active at LV 9 (Critical). Root cause: Fear of technical mistakes. Subject is channeling her anxiety into a desire for flawless execution, making her playing stiff and her stage presence overly aggressive.]
[Chae-rin: 'Empathetic Overload' active at LV 7 (High Risk). Subject is subconsciously absorbing the collective anxiety of the entire arena, causing her to feel overwhelmed and diminishing her own emotional core. Risk of vocal hesitation.]
He understood. A generic "You can do it, I believe in you" speech would be utterly useless. It would be like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol. He had to address their specific, internal fears, the ones only he could see, and give them each a final piece of mental armor tailored to their unique needs.
He walked over to Jin first, standing beside him so their reflections were side-by-side in the brightly lit mirror. "Stop looking for the hero in the reflection," he said quietly, his voice pitched so only Jin could hear. "He's not there. You're trying to live up to an idea that the internet created in the last two weeks."
Jin's eyes met his in the mirror, wide with a silent, desperate plea.
"The only person you need to be tonight," Yoo-jin continued, his voice a firm, grounding anchor, "is the man who survived. Your story isn't about being a perfect, vindicated icon. It's about being real. It's about having been broken and still having the courage to stand on this stage. Don't try to be powerful. Don't try to be a legend. Just show them that you're still here. That's all they really want to see. That's the only truth that matters."
He was giving Jin permission to be flawed, to be human, and he watched the Imposter Syndrome alert in his vision flicker, its crimson glow dimming to a less threatening orange.
Next, he intercepted Da-eun's relentless pacing, gently placing a hand on her arm to stop her. She looked at him, her eyes practically vibrating with nervous energy.
"Da-eun," he said calmly. "Listen to me. You are going to hit a wrong note tonight. Your guitar might buzz. A string might go slightly out of tune. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters!" she retorted, her voice a tense whisper. "The world is watching! They're expecting perfection!"
"No," Yoo-jin corrected her gently but firmly. "They are not here for perfection. They can get perfection from Kai. They are here for passion. They are here for your fire. I would rather you play the entire set out of tune with your heart on full display than play it flawlessly like a robot. Your mistakes are proof that you're real. Embrace them. Give the audience your fire. That is infinitely more powerful than any perfect chord."
He was reframing her fear of technical failure as an opportunity for authentic expression. Her Performance Anxiety metric began to recede, the critical warning fading.
Finally, he knelt in front of Chae-rin, who still had her eyes closed, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. He didn't touch her, but he brought his presence close, a shield against the overwhelming noise.
"Chae-rin," he said softly. "Open your eyes."
She did, and he could see the sheer weight of the thousands of anxious souls in the arena reflected in them.
"You're trying to absorb it all, aren't you?" he asked. "The crowd's excitement, their anxiety, Da-eun's fear, Jin's pain. You're a sponge right now, and you're going to drown."
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"You are not a sponge," he said, his voice imbued with a hypnotic certainty. "You are a lighthouse. Your job tonight is not to feel what they feel. Your job is to be a calm, steady light in the middle of their storm. A beacon that guides them. Don't absorb their energy. Project your own. Focus on your own quiet light. Let it be the calmest thing in this entire building. That's all you need to do."
He was helping her build a mental shield, turning her empathy from a passive vulnerability into an active, projective force. The Empathetic Overload warning in his vision stabilized, its red glow softening.
A stage manager's voice, tinny and impersonal, crackled over the small intercom on the wall. "Aura Chimera, two minutes to stage."
The final call. Yoo-jin stood up. He looked at the three of them. They were still terrified. But they were no longer lost in their own private storms. He had given each of them a compass.
They looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. Then, as one, they took a deep, collective breath. Jin offered a small, shaky, but determined nod. Da-eun rolled her shoulders back, her posture shifting from anxious to defiant. And Chae-rin opened her eyes fully, her gaze clear and calm.
Yoo-jin had given them their final armor. They were as ready as they would ever be.
They walked out of the dressing room, a single, unified entity, and headed for the darkness that led to the stage.