The dressing room was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Someone had shut the doors to keep out staff, press, medics. Only Lisa remained inside — in full stage makeup, the tips of her hair still wet from the mist machine, lashes untouched, gloss perfect.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she hadn't almost died.
Like he hadn't stood five feet in front of her.
She didn't move. Just sat there, arms resting on her knees, the air around her thick and dry from the residual power burst.
The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed.
A bottle of vitamin water sat on the table. Unopened.
Her hand was still curled into a loose fist, resting over her thigh — the star token from Evan was somewhere in her jacket, but she hadn't touched it since.
Down the hall, behind other closed doors, the rest of AUROR@ was being seen by medics and handlers.
Ji-yeon was already in her second round of interviews, voice sharp but measured — doing what leaders did best: absorb impact.
Anika had punched a camera drone and was now icing her wrist, muttering about liability clauses and suing someone's grandchildren.
Mei-ling, for once, had gone quiet — curled up under a silver heat blanket, staring at her fingers like they weren't hers.
Sakura hadn't spoken since the collapse.
She'd helped Mei-ling off the stage. Held Ji-yeon's hand. Smoothed Anika's jacket.
Then sat down, closed her eyes, and said nothing.
They were all safe. But something had cracked.
None of them knew it yet.
The door opened.
Not rushed. Not tentative. Just enough to say he had the right to enter.
Evan Park.
He looked tired — like he'd sprinted through three corridors and forced himself to calm down before knocking. His overcoat was soaked through.
He saw her.
Didn't speak right away.
Then:
"Are you hurt?"
Lisa blinked. Looked at him. Shook her head once.
"I'm okay."
"They said the rig—"
"I saw."
He came closer. Pulled a folding chair around, placed it across from her, reversed, and straddled it, forearms on the backrest.
For a moment, he didn't speak. Just studied her face.
"You sure you're okay?"
She nodded. Still calm. Still distant.
"You're shaking," he said, quietly.
Lisa blinked again, looked down at her hands. They were — slightly. A tremor she hadn't even felt.
"It's just the adrenaline."
"The venue's in lockdown," Evan said. "Your manager's running interference with the press. I'll call them. They'll know how to spin this."
She didn't argue.
Didn't agree, either.
Evan stood. Not looming — just present.
"I'm here," he said.
That was all.
He left quietly, closing the door behind him.
Lisa remained.
Her reflection in the mirror didn't look like her — just a projection: lashes, shadow, silence.
The air was full of static.
She didn't touch the star in her pocket.
Didn't say his name.
Her chest still pulsed, like something inside her had answered back — not power, just memory — not during the save, but after.
The moment he looked at her.
And she looked back.
--
Director Karasawa didn't smile.
He just sat.
One hand rested lightly on the encrypted console. The other held a ceramic cup that had long gone cold.
Across the screen, the Dome footage played for the tenth time. Slowed. Muted. Analyzed to death.
The system traced resonance vectors in glowing blue threads — origin point, velocity bloom, structural deflection.
A perfect arc.
Containment failed. Identity confirmed.
Target exposed.
The AI classified it as a spontaneous act of heroism.
Karasawa knew better.
He'd known Kyosuke Sagara was in Seoul the second the bus spike hit.
All that was left… was incentive.
The Dome had offered the exact pressure he needed.
A stadium. A broadcast. A girl.
He didn't know if Lisa Tharinchai still mattered to Pulse_01.
But the numbers suggested she did.
And Karasawa trusted numbers more than people.
There'd be investigations, of course. Reports. Excuses. Maybe even a few scapegoats.
That was fine.
History wouldn't care.
He tapped a control and flagged the Bangkok report for private review.
One hand moved to kill the feed.
The other clicked the file closed.
He didn't flinch. Not at the body count. Not at the fallout.
They'd call it luck.
But Karasawa didn't believe in luck.
Only pressure.
And people who broke beneath it.