Han Iseul kicks off his shoes and bares his feet on the lacquered wooden floor.

His jacket drops into a wrinkled pile next to his shoes, the way it always does whenever he steps into the studio. Things feel easier here, like how all he needs to do is give a light tug on his clothes, and they’ll fall right off. Too many days have been spent brooding in his room, thinking of all the idol group lineups he’s been placed in only to be replaced, penning lyrics for songs that people will never hear, and reading through online articles about his disappearance from the industry.

Chairman Noh calls it a hiatus, and he knows that a prolonged break is just a polite way of saying that he isn’t meant to return. His reflection surrounds him in the empty studio, and all he remembers are the times he remained after dance practice to perfect choreography for his next music video, of nights too long and muscles strained beyond repair. Within the confines of this room, he has seen people fail their training period and leave without their dreams realized has seen people who make it extinguished under the limelight.

And there are people like Iseul who are in between.

There’s nothing he wouldn’t endure for the sake of his dream. He needs to stop thinking so much and start doing, and the first thing he reaches for is a new video from Phantom—the co-ed idol group leading the entire entertainment industry with their music. His manager sends him messages with their videos from time to time, and he likes to take parts of their self-choreographed routines and rearrange them for practice, making them his own.

He watches their latest performance from his phone screen, analyzes their movements with a critical eye, and finds that his attention is always drawn to their leader first. It’s not because Lee Kuro is a better singer or a better dancer than him. He isn’t.

It’s easy to see how Kuro finds freedom in music in a way that Iseul has never found in anything, how he has an entire idol group to support him, and the jealousy of that sears into his heart. It’s something less like envy and more like heartache.

But the performance helps Iseul remember what it’s like to be on stage again. He connects his phone to the speakers and surrenders himself to the maelstrom of their music. It’s different from the times he practiced alone without turning the lights on, stepped around the long shadows cast by his movements, and reveled in the intimacy of listening to music through a pair of earbuds.

He can see his reflection now, can feel the rhythm sink deep into his bones. His feet take control of his body and the impact of his landing makes the slightest sound before he’s taking off again, more weightless this time.

He dances until his skin burns and his muscles ache as if they need to be mended and stitched back where they belong. Sweat glistens his face, runs down his chin, and pools at his collarbone. He has no intention of stopping.

But the music stops.

Iseul stumbles.

His body is trembling, though he isn’t sure if it’s from adrenaline or exertion. He flicks his bangs out of his eyes to look up at the mirrored wall, catching his manager’s frown in the reflection.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Leo looks at him with incredulity in the lift of his eyebrows. “Why?”

Iseul allows himself to breathe. “Because I had to.”

It's a little too honest to be said aloud. But if he doesn’t continue with music, pushing himself as hard as he can, he doesn’t know what he can do.

“I’m not having any of that.” Rather than being upset, Leo’s already picking up his jacket and shoes and offering them out to him. His kindness is too much for Iseul’s heart after years of being hollowed out. “I’m taking you out tonight!”

* * *

“You planned this,” Iseul says in disbelief.

“I had to,” Leo echoes. “You haven’t left your apartment in days, so I was coming to get you anyway. Imagine how I felt when you weren’t even there.”

Iseul tries to speak, but Leo likes to talk over people when he’s giving a lecture.

“Then the light was on in the studio and—” Leo shakes his head. “I honestly can’t believe you.”

“I can’t believe that you’ve already paid for everything.” Iseul gestures to Leo’s new change of clothing. “Was this really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Leo declares. A jersey drapes his form, bearing an adorable depiction of Phantom’s ghost mascot, while a glittering headband sits atop his head with Lee Kuro’s name in Hangul. He’s gone above and beyond to prepare for this concert, and Iseul’s still having trouble making sense of it all.

A security guard leads them to a reserved area at the front row, right beneath the stage. Iseul has never been inside a venue of this capacity, and the stands and floor area are filling up behind them. Fans mill around in anticipation and there’s a sense of urgency, a desperate need to finally see the idols they’ve been following for years.

Being surrounded by so many people makes him uncomfortable, but he quickly forgets when the LED screen plays a recording of Phantom’s most recent music program broadcast. The show hasn’t even started yet, but the appearance of Kuro giving an interview heightens screams to a fever pitch. He speaks on behalf of the members, playing his part as their proper leader.

One of the emcees hands him a microphone. “What was your inspiration for this album?”

“I had a rather captivating encounter that inspired our lyrics.” Kuro gives a smile and plays nice with the media. It’s rare for him to give rather than take when all he does is steal hearts without saying much in return—devoted to his group's phantom thief concept. “I hope my muse will find our music just as inspiring and that I’ll be able to find them again soon.”

They’re pretty words, even for someone who writes and composes his own songs, and Iseul doesn’t think much of them.

* * *

In an ocean of lights, their eyes meet.

Iseul’s only one person surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, and yet—dark eyes, dark as obsidian, pin him to where he stands. This moment where Kuro bathes in the flux of bright lights, delivering his verses in a smooth tone, looks just like the image that’s been at the forefront of his mind for months. Iseul wonders how he appears in Kuro's eyes, still and silent, amidst a sea of adoring women.

Kuro flashes an effortless smirk at him in acknowledgment, and Iseul’s heart stumbles over its next beat. Just before Kuro breaks eye contact, the rapid clicks of the camera shutter reverberate louder in his ears than the screaming around him.

“Did you see that?” Leo shouts into his ear. He throws his arms around Iseul and shakes him for emphasis, on the verge of breaking down. “He looked at me!”

“Uh,” Iseul manages to say. An arena full of fans screaming Kuro, Mina, and Bora isn’t the best place to have a conversation. He lets Leo have his moment when so many fans are vying for the attention of their favorite members to the point that they would throw their presents for them on stage.

“I caught it on camera!”

Leo waves his camera with a dramatic flourish, and Iseul can’t help but wonder about the expensive equipment that all of these fans possess. Holding a heavy camera in one hand and a pearl violet lightstick in the other, they’re all prepared to make their idols turn their eyes to them. Something like this couldn’t possibly be captured, not in a photo, where it would never quite live up to the real thing.

Iseul doesn’t bother thinking it over as he melts into the swell of the crowd, basking in the chaos of the performance. Kuro moves to the other side of the stage to join his members, his fur coat trailing with the cadence of his steps. Only a microphone in his hands and without even pausing for breath, Kuro plunges headfirst into the atmosphere that seems to fuel a fire inside him, burning him brighter. Even when he’s dressed in that ridiculous stage outfit, his voice gives rise to many, rousing a chant of his name throughout the arena.

Kuro responds by dragging his shirt from the hem up, revealing an expanse of skin inked with rebellion, intensifying the enthusiasm of the audience. He is nothing short of captivating, and Iseul can’t bring himself to look away.

But Kuro’s not the only one who carries the performance. With three of their members present, Phantom is so much larger than life. Although their fourth member is missing to recuperate from health issues, his absence can barely be felt throughout the show with the way the rest of the members fill up the stage. The times when Iseul watched them on phone and television screens and stared at digital billboards in the heart of the city can’t even compare—when he was surrounded by whispers on the streets and admiration from bustling crowds, schoolgirls and businessmen alike.

Kuro brings his group together, refusing to compromise their individuality for a success that only a manufactured artist could afford. It is their ardent love for performing, their fierce dedication to staying true to who they are, that they can own the stage and set it ablaze. Seeing them together is even more stunning than Iseul could have ever envisioned.

In the sweltering air of the venue, through the spiraling crescendo of cheers, Iseul can’t remember the last time he’s felt this alive.