The halls of the agency felt colder than usual.
It wasn't the temperature. It was the way people moved now — slower, hushed, as if trying not to draw attention to themselves while still keeping their eyes on her. Lisa had grown used to being stared at — by fans, by staff, by lenses — but this was different. These weren't glances of admiration or jealousy.
These were the looks people gave right before asking questions they didn't want the answers to.
Her footsteps echoed softly through the corridor, sneakers barely squeaking against the polished floor. The walls, normally adorned with pastel digital displays of upcoming concert dates and AUROR@ teasers, were now filled with looped news coverage. Multiple clips, edited at different speeds and resolutions, played side by side:
Frame One: The rig above the stage begins to creak.
Frame Two: Lisa looking up, her hand raised instinctively.
Frame Three: A blur of motion. Wind ripping sideways.
Frame Four: A man — no, a force — leaping between steel and light.
Frame Five: The crowd frozen mid-scream as he lands, shielding her.
Frame Six: The moment his eyes meet hers. Then gone.
She stopped walking.
The high-def replay hung above the hallway in full slow motion. Someone in internal PR had layered a vaporwave synth track under it, trying to make it go viral — palatable. Beautiful, even. But it wasn't beautiful. Not to her.
It was raw.
"Lisa-ssi," a passing stylist murmured. She bowed slightly, too quickly, and kept going. No one else spoke.
At the end of the corridor, Ji-yeon had her arms crossed while an assistant whispered in her ear. She looked up, noticed Lisa, and gave her a nod — tired, but there. Ji-yeon had always been a shield, ever since Seoul, ever since the team formed. But even she couldn't protect her from this.
Lisa lowered her gaze. Her manager had said not to comment yet. Not until the legal team knew how to spin it. Not until the agency had sanitized the narrative. Until then, she was to keep her mouth shut and her head down.
She slipped into one of the conference lounges, pulled the sliding door closed behind her, and sat on the arm of the nearest couch.
Her phone buzzed, lit up, then fell dark.
204 missed mentions.
43 DM requests.
Hundreds of tagged edits.
She opened the same clip again — the original. No music. No color grading. Just crowd noise, camera shake, and the whiplash blur of the moment it all happened.
The man had come from nowhere. No face. No cape. Just motion — perfect, terrible motion — and eyes that met her like they'd never stopped.
And then he was gone again.
Lisa tapped pause just as his silhouette began to lift off the ground. The frame blurred. A wick of moisture streaked the lens. His hand was still slightly outstretched.
As if he'd wanted to stay. But couldn't.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't cry. She hadn't, not once, since the concert. But her pulse was faster now. She could feel it behind her eyes.
Someone knocked at the door. She didn't answer. Whoever it was left.
Lisa stared at the screen, unmoving.
The world was playing the moment like it was a fairytale — but to her, it felt like gravity had shifted. Like the planets were tilting out of orbit.