Han Soorin rocked on her heels. Her fingers dug into the bag strap hard enough to hurt, but she didn't notice until the tips started tingling—bone-white, bloodless.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Faint, but just loud enough to crawl under her skin.
The hallway smelled like burnt coffee and cheap perfume. The kind that stuck in your throat and made you want to gag if you breathed too deep.
She caught her reflection in the glass door.
Blonde hair—real, not bleached—falling in loose waves. Blue eyes that nobody ever believed were hers. She'd heard it all. 'Unnatural. Show-off.' Whispered in corners, muttered behind hands.
Whatever. She'd made peace with it.
In Seoul, where colored contacts and wigs changed with the weather, at least hers were real. At least they were 'hers.'
And today? Today they might actually be the reason she'd landed here.
Twenty-five. Back from the States a year ago. Still fumbling with street signs in Hangul like some tourist.
Back when she couldn't sleep, she used to loop their bootleg performance clips until the sun came up. LUMEN made Seoul feel less lonely. Those stage videos—the way they moved, the way they made everything look so damn easy—she'd watched until her eyes burned and sleep gave up on her entirely.
God, she'd fangirled 'hard.'
Now? She had to act like she didn't know them at all.
And she was about to work with them.
She already had a desk. A real paycheck. Even a terrifying NDA she'd signed yesterday with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Honestly? She would've signed it twice if it meant this chance.
The door beside her creaked open.
Manager Park stepped out.
Mid-forties. Tie loosened. Glasses perched low on his nose. The kind of face that said he'd dealt with more tantrums and disasters than any one person should have to endure in a lifetime.
"Soorin, right?" he asked, flipping through a clipboard without looking up.
"Yes, sir." She bowed slightly, too quickly. Her palms were already sweating.
He glanced at her over the top of his glasses. "New stylist. Makeup artist. Signed the NDA yesterday."
"Yes, sir."
His lips pressed into a thin line. Then he sighed like her presence alone had already exhausted him.
"Look, I'll be straight with you—you're not gonna last."
Soorin blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Don't take it personal." Manager Park rubbed his temples. "You're number nine this month. The rest? Quit. Cried. One of them I had to haul out myself." He barked out a humorless laugh. "These boys… they'll chew you up. One week, tops. Hell, maybe less."
Her heart did this weird kick in her chest she hated.
She'd expected harsh schedules. Long hours. Maybe covering dark circles at 3 a.m. or blending concealer on blemishes under stage lights.
But this? His tone made it sound like she was being sent into a war zone.
Still, she straightened her shoulders. "I'll try my best, sir."
His eyes narrowed, like he was amused. "That's what they all said."
He turned back to his clipboard. "Anyway, they'll be here any minute. Stand straight. Don't say too much. Do your job. And maybe—'maybe'—you'll survive."
She swallowed. Nodded.
A murmur of voices grew louder at the end of the hall. Laughter. Sneakers hitting tile. A low hum of energy that made her pulse quicken despite herself.
Manager Park muttered under his breath, "Here we go."
The door swung open.
Sound. Motion. All at once.
Five boys walked in together, the kind of entrance that only worked for people who'd lived under spotlights their whole lives.
LUMEN.
Casual but impossibly flawless. Perfect hair. Clothes that looked effortless but screamed 'expensive.' Their presence filled the hallway in a way that felt almost unreal.
Soorin's breath caught.
Her eyes darted from one face to another.
And then landed on 'him.'
Jung Haejin.
The leader. Her bias.
Black hair gleaming under the lights. Sharp jawline. Eyes that carried fire even offstage. He looked nothing like the guy she'd seen on posters—he was 'more.' More commanding. More intimidating.
She had to remind herself to breathe.
'This can't be real. Don't trip. Don't—ugh. Just… don't make an idiot of yourself, Soorin.'
It hadn't been easy getting here.
Most nights she'd passed out at her desk, brushes still in her hands. The mannequins didn't care, but she kept going anyway. She'd taken gigs so small the models themselves didn't bother remembering her name. And through it all, she kept her family's money tucked away like some dirty secret.
'Better broke than branded spoiled.'
At least then they'd keep her for the brushes, not the bank account she never talked about.
And now she was standing in front of the boy band of her dreams, heart racing like some fan who'd snuck into the building.
'I'm not just a fan anymore.'
Manager Park had picked 'her.' Out of god-knows-how-many applicants.
And somehow she was the idiot standing here, sweating through her blouse like it was her first day of high school all over again.
The members filed into the waiting room.
Soorin straightened.
She stepped forward, hand out before she could stop herself. Reflex from home. From a thousand polite handshakes in the States.
"Hello," she said carefully. "It's an honor to meet you all. I'm Han Soorin, your new makeup artist."
Her hand hung there.
'Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.'
Korea. She should've bowed.
Pulling her hand back now felt even dumber than leaving it hanging.
The silence that followed stretched far too long.
Haejin's eyes dropped to her outstretched hand. Then back to her face. He tilted his head, slow, like she'd just walked onstage at the wrong show.
"We bow here," he said. Voice flat. His eyes flicked to her hand like it was offensive. "Not… whatever that was. You didn't know that much?"
'Shit.'
Heat hit her face so fast she saw stars. She would've dived under the tiles if she could.
She yanked her hand back and bent forward too fast, hair swinging into her eyes. "I—I apologize," she murmured.
The other members looked anywhere but her face.
One of them muttered, "Hyung, chill, she doesn't seem like the others," but Haejin ignored him.
He wasn't done.
His gaze stayed locked on her. "You look like you don't know how things work. How old are you—what, five? Six?"
Soorin forced herself to meet his eyes even though her heart pounded. "I'm twenty-five," she said carefully.
He snorted. Like the number meant nothing.
She'd dreamed of this moment. Of meeting them. Of standing in their world.
But instead of the warm welcome she'd imagined, she was being dismantled piece by piece—first for her handshake, now for her age.
Standing under Haejin's glare made it feel like she'd already failed some invisible test.
"You look like you wandered in," he went on. "Not staff. A fan. Can't even manage proper manners?" His lips curved, sharp and cold. "Don't expect to see next week."
Soorin's smile dropped. She forced her lips upward again, refusing to let the sting show.
'I'm staff. Not a fangirl. I'm staff.'
But her chest tightened anyway.
Her idol—her 'bias'—had just openly declared war.