The Seoul International Art Fest buzzed with quiet elegance. Glass clinked. Conversations drifted in waves beneath soft lights. Kei stood behind the curtain, holding his tablet. Dressed simply in a dark gray linen tunic, his only adornment was an ivory ceramic brooch—handmade, like everything he valued.

Sung, Finnian, and Junnie slipped into the event in caps, masks, and hoodies—the typical idol disguise. As this was not an official schedule, they brought only one bodyguard and sat near the back of the hall.

“Kei looks great on stage,” Junnie whispered, elbowing Sung.

Sung didn’t reply. He was too busy taking photos of Kei and soaking in his low, calming voice.

When the talk ended, they quietly made their way backstage. Kei was sipping tea, eyes crinkling with recognition when he saw them.

“You came,” he said, visibly pleased.

Junnie grinned. “We risked causing a commotion for this.”

Finnian added with enthusiasm, “Your speech was great, Kei.”

Sung stepped forward, softer. “You were... incredible.”

Kei met his eyes for a second too long. Then, as if embarrassed, he looked away.

Just then, Sung’s phone buzzed.

Another message.

Unknown number: I’m closer than you think. That artist’s blood would look pretty on clay.

Sung turned pale.

Before he could speak, the curtain rustled.

A shadow darted past unaware staff. Shouts erupted.

A young woman with wild hair and crazed eyes burst through, shoving people aside.

“Sungie!” she screamed. “You’re mine!”

She knocked over a spotlight. It creaked, teetering.

Sung looked up.

Too late.

Kei moved first. He shoved Sung aside.

The light crashed.

A flash of pain. Kei clutched his forehead, blood streaking down one side.

“Kei!”

Sung caught him, arms tightening as chaos unfolded.

Atlantis’ bodyguard restrained the woman. Event staff rushed in.

Sung’s voice thundered. “Secure her. Call the police.” He turned to their bodyguard, fury lacing his words. “Call legal. I want her behind bars. Now.”

—

Later, in the calm of Finnian and Sung’s dorm, Kei sat on the couch—bandaged, pale, and a little dazed. Thankfully, it only required outpatient care.

Finnian and Junnine were off to work. Sung asked for an afternoon away from his schedule to look after Kei. He knelt in front of him, studying every inch of Kei’s face, heart still racing.

He hated the bandage. It looked too stark against Kei’s pale skin.

“Are you in pain?” Sung asked softly, as if fearing his voice might shatter Kei.

Kei smirked faintly. “Only my hands are specially insured, you know. I should’ve added the face. Too late now.”

Sung blinked. “What?”

“My insurance,” Kei said weakly. “Poor planning.”

A laugh slipped from Sung despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Why would you do that?”

Kei looked at him, eyes soft but unreadable.

“You were going to get smashed,” he said simply.

It wasn’t heroic. Just factual.

Sung stared, heart full of unsaid things.

And this time, when Sung leaned in for a kiss—slow, cautious, open—Kei didn’t move away.

Kei’s eyes fluttered closed. Their lips brushed, light as a question.

Time paused, as if even the universe was holding its breath.