Lisa's face was back on every screen.
Not for the performance. Not even for the near-death.
But for the look.
One frame.
One frozen image.
Her, mid-performance, facing the man who had saved her.
His figure: blurred by motion but unmistakable — tall, black-clad, crouched like a phantom just before takeoff.
Her eyes: wide. Shocked. Familiar.
"She knows him," one voice tweeted.
"They looked at each other."
"That was The Wanderer, right? But real?"
"Look at her. Look at her."
Someone had edited the clip into a TikTok.
Slowed it.
Added sound.
Music underlaid with heavy strings and reverb.
Captions in three languages: "She knew."
Her agency issued a statement the next morning.
"AUROR@ is recovering well. The incident was a mechanical malfunction. No lives were lost. Lisa is safe."
They denied the speculation.
Called the man a mystery.
A stranger.
A passerby.
Said Lisa had no comment.
She gave them none.
--
By Tuesday, the black vans appeared.
Parked across from her apartment, two buildings down. No logos. No movement. Just tinted glass. But the timing was too clean.
A second appeared near the rehearsal studio.
No flashing lights. No agents with badges.
Just presence.
Blooming into her life like mold in a corner — spreading.
--
On Wednesday morning, Ji-yeon paused while walking toward the agency car.
"That sedan," she said. "The grey one. It followed us yesterday too."
Lisa blinked.
"Are you sure?"
Ji-yeon nodded once, subtle.
Anika didn't say anything. Just narrowed her eyes and popped her gum.
--
By Thursday, they'd stopped pretending it wasn't happening.
Surveillance drones trailed them at a distance during rooftop shoots.
Two camera techs at a magazine shoot didn't appear on the crew manifest.
At soundcheck, a shadow moved through a restricted tunnel — not fast enough to be unnoticed, but fast enough not to be caught.
Lisa saw them.
No badge. No face.
Just… certainty.
And with it, came the weight.
Not of fear.
But of inevitability.
That night, alone on her balcony, Lisa sat cross-legged in an oversized hoodie, hood up, bare feet resting on the concrete.
She didn't look at her phone.
Didn't look at the news.
Didn't need to.
The air still remembered him.
And somewhere, someone was already planning what to do about it.
--
Far above Seoul, in a climate-controlled HID satellite office buried beneath a commercial bank:
A boardroom screen played the save footage on loop.
No audio. No narrative.
Just frame-by-frame resonance data.
A man stood with his hands behind his back — grey suit, clean lines, weathered face
The silence bent around him like gravity.
Behind him, a junior analyst shifted.
"Director Karasawa?"
The man didn't turn.
"Activate Soft-Ping tracking grid. Extend the net."
"Sir—Seoul already triggered a public ping. Do you want a direct intercept?"
"No. Not yet."
Karasawa finally turned. His eyes were calm. Too calm.
He reached for his tea — lukewarm now.
Didn't drink it.
Just held it.
Like he had time.
"Let him feel the walls close in."