TW for this chapter: mention or implication of sexual assault. 

The award show felt like a dream I hadn’t earned.

Flashbulbs exploded around us the moment we stepped onto the red carpet.

The sound of screaming fans and clicking cameras crashed together into something dizzying and unreal — a storm of light and noise.

“Smile, boys!” Garam called from somewhere behind the wall of reporters. “Act like you didn’t practice that for a week straight!”

Jiahao threw him a look. “We did practice that for a week straight.”

Renji smirked. “Then let’s not waste it.”

He turned his head toward the cameras, and just like that — the quiet, sharp-edged man I shared a bed with every night was gone.

In his place stood Renji, stage idol. Confident. Cold. Perfect.

I followed suit, forcing the corners of my mouth up, even as the lights blinded me.

This was part of the game — the part I’d once watched from the outside with a notebook and a deadline.

Now I was the headline.

Inside, the stage looked like something pulled from a fever dream — gold, smoke, and glass.

The air shimmered with heat from the spotlights. The hosts’ voices echoed over the crowd as the show rolled on.

When our category came up — Rookie of the Year — I could feel the tension ripple through our row.

Geon clasped his hands together dramatically. Boom was bouncing his knee so fast the floor trembled.

“And the winner is…”

The host paused for just long enough to make everyone in the hall hold their breath.

“V1NE!”

The sound that followed wasn’t noise — it was chaos.

I barely registered Yujun yanking me to my feet, or Jiahao shouting something in Mandarin that was probably celebratory.

My body moved on instinct — clapping, bowing, walking — all while my brain lagged several steps behind.

We were on stage before I even realized it.

The trophy was heavy in our hands. The crowd roared like a single living thing.

Renji took the mic. His voice was steady, but I saw his fingers tremble slightly on the stand.

“We’re… grateful,” he said, and the crowd laughed softly at his bluntness. “Thank you to SDR, our producers, our fans, and everyone who believed in us.”

He turned his head — just for a moment — and his eyes met mine.

A tiny, private smile flickered there, gone as quickly as it came.

When it was my turn to speak, the words stuck in my throat.

I wanted to say something profound. Instead, I just said:

“Thank you. We’ll work harder.”

The simplest truth, I guess.

The after-party was held in a luxury hotel ballroom that screamed money.

Chandeliers the size of cars, champagne towers, velvet curtains, people in designer clothes pretending not to look down on anyone.

We’d changed into our post-show outfits — still stylish, but looser, more breathable.

Garam was chatting with a few producers at the far end of the room, keeping half an eye on us like an overworked parent.

The twins had already discovered the buffet. Jiahao was trying to keep Boom from pocketing canapés.

Geon was, of course, flirting with someone who looked at least ten years older than him.

“Feels surreal, doesn’t it?” Renji said beside me, swirling the champagne in his glass.

“Completely,” I admitted. “I keep expecting someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it’s over.”

He chuckled softly. “If they do, I’ll fight them.”

That made me laugh, maybe a little too loud. The sound drew a few glances from nearby tables.

One of them — a sharply dressed man with silver cufflinks and a predator’s smile — turned his head at the noise.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

I knew that face.

I’d seen it in the SDR internal files that Apex Weekly had sent me before I went undercover.

Han Taesik, one of SDR’s senior executives.

The man who handled “special artist contracts.”

He was one of the reasons I was here.

Renji followed my line of sight and frowned. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just… dizzy.”

“Want to step outside for a bit?” Renji asked, tilting his head slightly toward the balcony doors.

I hesitated, feeling the weight of Han Taesik’s gaze still crawling along my skin. The noise, the lights, the champagne — it was all closing in.

“I’ll be right back,” I said finally, forcing a small smile. “Just need some air.”

Renji frowned but didn’t push. “Don’t stay out too long. Garam will freak out if he can’t find you.”

“I won’t,” I promised, though my voice came out quieter than I intended.

I slipped out of the ballroom, the heavy doors muting the laughter behind me. The sudden chill of the night hit my face, sharp and clean. The city skyline glimmered beyond the hotel terrace — Seoul, a thousand stories stacked on top of one another. Somewhere in that endless sprawl, the truth was buried.

I pulled my phone out, scrolled to Park Hana, and hit call.

It rang twice.

“Finally,” her voice came through, dry and clipped. “You’ve been ignoring my emails”

“I’ve been busy,” I muttered, leaning against the railing. In reality I just never checked my emails since my schedule became tight. Below, the street shimmered with headlights and moving shadows. “We had our debut stage, then this award show. It’s been chaos.”

“Congratulations,” she said flatly. “You’re famous now. Great. Can we talk about the job you’re supposed to be doing?”

I sighed. “I saw him tonight. Han Taesik.”

That got her attention. “At the event?”

“Yes. SDR hosted the after-party. He was there — talking to investors, producers. Laughing like nothing in the world could touch him.”

A beat of silence passed on the line. I could hear the faint tapping of Hana’s keyboard. “Good. Keep your distance for now. Don’t draw attention. The data we pulled from Apex’s contact at the label still points to him overseeing those ‘talent transfers.’”

“Transfers,” I repeated bitterly. “That’s what they call it now?”

“You know what it really means.”

I did. And I hated that she didn’t even need to say it out loud.

The wind picked up, carrying faint music from the ballroom. My reflection wavered in the glass door — my stage face, flawless and hollow. I didn’t recognize it anymore.

“How far do you want me to go, Hana?” I asked finally. “Because this—” I gestured vaguely toward the lights and laughter behind the glass, “—this isn’t just some exposé. These people aren’t just names on paper anymore.”

There was another pause, softer this time. “I know,” she said. “But you made your choice, Minjae. And you’re the only one who can get that close. If we find something concrete, we can hand it off to the police, maybe even take SDR down from the inside. Just… don’t lose focus.”

I closed my eyes, the words sinking like stones in my chest. Don’t lose focus.

But how could I not? When every night I fell asleep next to Renji, when the twins called me hyung like they actually cared, when Yujun laughed so hard he choked on water mid-rehearsal — how could I keep pretending they were just collateral in a story?

“I’ll keep you updated,” I said quietly.

“Good.” A pause. “And Minjae? Don’t trust anyone at SDR. Not even the ones who smile too easily.”

The line went dead.

I stood there for a while, staring down at the glittering streets below, feeling the weight of the phone in my hand.

When I finally turned back toward the doors, I caught sight of my reflection again — tuxedo, styled hair, the face of an idol who just won Rookie of the Year.

But underneath the lights, I still looked like a fraud.

Renji was waiting just inside the hallway when I returned, arms crossed. His brows furrowed the moment he saw me.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“Sorry,” I replied, forcing an easy smile. “The view was nice.”

“Uh-huh.” He studied me for a moment, then sighed. “You overthink too much, you know that?”

“Someone has to,” I muttered.

Renji didn’t answer — just bumped his shoulder lightly against mine as we walked back toward the ballroom.

It was a simple gesture, but it steadied me more than I wanted to admit.

Because standing next to him, surrounded by all that noise and light again, I realized something terrifying.

I wasn’t just afraid of getting caught.

I was afraid of what would happen when all of this — all of them — became part of the story I had to destroy.

The ballroom was thinning out, most guests already heading toward the elevators or the rooftop lounge. The lights had softened, the air thick with leftover perfume and champagne.

I’d just started to relax again — Renji was telling some dumb joke about his suit pants being “aggressively tight,” Jiahao was half-listening while texting someone, and Geon was picking shrimp out of his teeth with a straw wrapper — when Bang came barreling toward us.

“Hyung!” he gasped, eyes wide. “Have you seen Yujun?”

Renji frowned. “He was with that group from ARA Studio a while ago, right?”

“Yeah, but that was like… an hour ago,” Boom said, skidding to a stop beside his twin. “We can’t find him anywhere. Garam-hyung’s looking, too.”

A ripple of unease passed between us. Yujun wasn’t the type to just vanish — not without telling someone.

Jiahao straightened, sliding his phone into his pocket. “He’s probably chatting someone’s ear off. He’s been doing that all night.”

“Maybe,” Bang said, though his voice shook slightly. “But we checked the lobby, the back hallway, even near the greenrooms.”

“Wait,” Geon said suddenly, frowning. “I think I saw him earlier. He was with Chih Wei.”

The name hit the air like a crack.

Jiahao froze. “My uncle?”

“Yeah,” Geon said, uncertain. “Near the side corridor by the old lounge — around thirty minutes ago, maybe more. I thought they were just talking.”

Jiahao’s expression shifted, quick and unreadable. He laughed under his breath — too sharp. “Then he’s fine. My uncle’s just— he’s probably introducing him to someone.”

But even as he said it, his eyes darted toward the far end of the ballroom.

Something in my stomach twisted.

Renji caught my look. “Let’s just check,” he said quietly. “Better to be sure.”

No one argued.

We split into pairs — me and Renji toward the back hallway, the twins toward the service area, Jiahao and Geon down the right wing near the old lounges. The party noise faded behind us, replaced by the hum of the building — low, sterile, almost hospital-like.

The deeper we went, the colder the air felt.

Renji’s phone flashlight cast narrow beams across the floor, catching on dusty signage and old mirrors. “Creepy,” he muttered. “This part’s not even being used tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Only the main hall was rented.”

We kept walking, peering into each side room. Nothing — just stacks of unused chairs, folded tables, cleaning supplies.

Then Renji’s phone buzzed.

A message from Geon lit up the screen:

> found him. east hallway bathroom. hurry.

My chest tightened. “Let’s go.”

We ran.

The corridor opened into a dim service wing, lights half-dead, doors marked Out of Order. I could hear voices ahead — muffled, low, strained.

Renji reached for the handle of the first door, but it was locked. From the next one, faint sounds leaked through — a choked breath, the scrape of shoes.

Then Geon’s voice — sharp, panicked: “What the hell are you doing?! Stop!”

Jiahao’s voice overlapped his, frantic: “Get off him!”

For a second, everything went silent except for the ringing in my ears.

Then came the sound — the crash of something metal hitting tile, a scuffle, someone shouting in Mandarin, and Yujun’s voice — small, broken, terrified.

Renji moved first. He sprinted toward the noise, yanking the door open. The hinges screamed.

The light flickered inside — cold, sterile, exposing too much and not enough.

And there, frozen in that awful moment, was everything we weren’t supposed to see.

I stopped in the doorway. My breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat.

Geon was on the floor, trying to pull Yujun away; Jiahao stood between them and his uncle, face pale, shaking, his hand pressed against the man’s chest.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then ChihWei turned toward us — his expression smooth, collected, like we were the ones out of place.

“Private conversation,” he said in clipped Korean, straightening his jacket. “You children shouldn’t be here.”

No one answered.

The sound of Yujun’s quiet sobs filled the silence, soft but heavy enough to crush the air out of the room.

My hands trembled. My pulse roared in my ears.

That was the exact moment — the exact second — when the fantasy of V1NE, of glossy lights and clean smiles, began to crack.

And underneath it, I saw what I’d been sent here to find all along.