Hh

The air in the dressing room was thick enough to taste. It smelled of expensive hairspray, cold espresso, and the sharp, metallic tang of nerves. It was a scent Yon SoHyun had become intimately familiar with over the last three months.

SoHyun stood near the door, his posture relaxed but attentive. He wore a charcoal grey blazer over a simple black t-shirt, his glasses perched neatly on the bridge of his nose. He looked more like a university professor than a high-level staff member for the most influential artist in South Korea, but that was exactly why he had been hired. He was the anchor in a room that was constantly drifting out to sea.

In the center of the room, seated before a mirror framed by blinding LED lights, was Kwon Ji-Yong.

To the world, he was G-Dragon—a titan, a trendsetter, a man who had survived a storm of public scrutiny and false allegations that would have broken anyone else. But to SoHyun, in this moment, he was a thirty-year-old man whose hands were trembling so violently he had to tuck them under his thighs.

"I’m not doing it," Jiyong snapped. His voice was raspy, the edge of a panic attack sharpening his tone into something jagged.

The makeup artist froze, her brush hovering inches from Jiyong's cheek. She looked toward SoHyun with wide, pleading eyes.

SoHyun stepped forward, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. "The stage is set for the soundcheck, Jiyong-ah. They just need fifteen minutes of your time."

Jiyong spun the chair around, the movement sudden and aggressive. His eyes were rimmed with red, his hair a shock of electric blue that seemed to vibrate under the fluorescent lights. "Did you not hear me? I said no. There are too many people out there. I can feel them. I can feel them staring through the damn walls."

"The venue is closed," SoHyun said softly, his voice a steady, rhythmic hum. "It’s just the camera crew and the essential tech staff. People you’ve known for a decade."

"They look at me differently now," Jiyong spat, standing up so quickly his chair skidded backward. He began to pace the small length of the room, his silk robe fluttering behind him. "Every time I walk into a room, I see it. They’re waiting for me to trip. They’re waiting for the next headline. They think I’m a criminal who just got lucky."

The other staff members in the room began to shrink away, sensing the impending explosion. Jiyong was known for his perfectionism, but since the scandal and the subsequent move to the new label, that perfectionism had mutated into a defensive, prickly wall of social anxiety. He snapped at people not because he was cruel, but because he was terrified.

"Everyone," SoHyun said, not taking his eyes off Jiyong. "Give us five minutes. Please."

The relief in the room was palpable. The stylists and assistants scurried out, the door clicking shut behind them.

Jiyong stopped pacing and leaned against a costume rack, burying his face in his hands. "You should leave too, SoHyun. I’m being a prick. I know I am. Just go tell them I’m sick."

"I’m not going anywhere," SoHyun replied. He walked over to the small fridge in the corner, pulled out a bottle of room-temperature water, and set it on the vanity. "And you aren't sick. You're just carrying too much. It’s heavy, isn't it?"

Jiyong looked up, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "Heavy? It feels like I’m being crushed. I look in the mirror and I don’t even see G-Dragon anymore. I see a target."

SoHyun leaned against the vanity, crossing his arms loosely. He didn't look shocked or offended by Jiyong’s outburst. He simply waited. His patience was legendary within the label; he was the only one who could sit in a room with a spiraling superstar for three hours without checking his watch once.

"The target is gone," SoHyun said. "The investigation is over. The truth is out. The only person still holding the bow and arrow is you."

Jiyong flinched as if he’d been slapped. He glared at SoHyun, his jaw tight. "You don’t get it. You get to go home and be Yon SoHyun. You get to wear your glasses and your nice suits and disappear. I can’t disappear."

"Then don't," SoHyun said. "Don't disappear. But don't let them win by staying in this room. If you don't go out there, the rumors win. The anxiety wins. Is that what you want?"

Jiyong reached for a designer lighter on the table, flicking it open and shut with a repetitive, metallic *clack-clack-clack*. It was a nervous habit, a plea for a distraction. "My chest hurts. I can't breathe right."

SoHyun moved closer, stepping into Jiyong’s personal space—a zone very few were allowed to enter. He didn't touch him, knowing Jiyong felt overstimulated, but he stood close enough to offer a sense of grounding.

"Follow my lead," SoHyun commanded gently. He took a deep, exaggerated breath in through his nose, held it for four seconds, and exhaled slowly through his mouth.

Jiyong watched him, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.

"Again," SoHyun whispered.

Jiyong tried. His first breath was shaky and shallow, ending in a frustrated groan.

"It’s okay," SoHyun said. "Again. With me."

They stood there for several minutes in the quiet of the dressing room. Slowly, the *clacking* of the lighter stopped. Jiyong’s shoulders, which had been hiked up to his ears, began to drop. The frantic light in his eyes dimmed into something more manageable.

"I hate this," Jiyong whispered, his voice cracking. "I hate that I’m thirty years old and I’m scared of a stage I’ve stood on a thousand times."

"You aren't scared of the stage," SoHyun corrected. "You're scared of being seen. But Jiyong-ah, they’ve already seen the worst things people could say about you. And they’re still here. They’re waiting for the music, not the scandal."

Jiyong wiped a hand over his face, pushing his hair back. He looked at SoHyun through the mirror, seeing the calm, steady reflection of the man standing behind him. "Why are you so patient with me? I’ve been a nightmare all week. I threw a fit over the lighting yesterday. I ignored your calls this morning."

SoHyun smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his lenses. "Because I know who lives under the noise. And because I’m paid very well to remind you that you’re human."

Jiyong let out a genuine, albeit small, puff of laughter. "You’re a liar. You’d do this even if they didn't pay you. You’re too nice for your own good."

"Perhaps," SoHyun conceded. "Now, let the girl finish your makeup. Just the base. No heavy eyeliner today if you don't want it. We’ll keep it simple. We’ll keep it real."

Jiyong sat back down in the chair, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He looked at the water bottle SoHyun had set out and took a long sip. "Tell them to clear the wings. I don't want anyone standing in the wings while I’m performing. Just you."

"I’ll be right there," SoHyun promised. "Stage left. I’ll have the tea you like."

"SoHyun?"

SoHyun paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Yes?"

Jiyong didn't look at him; he was staring at his own reflection, tracing the line of his jaw. "Thank you. For not looking at me like I’m breaking."

"You aren't breaking, Jiyong-ah," SoHyun said firmly. "You’re just molting. The new skin is always a little sensitive."

SoHyun stepped out into the hallway, where the creative director and three assistants were huddled, looking like they were waiting for an execution.

"He’s ready," SoHyun announced, his voice regaining its professional, soft-spoken authority. "Keep the house lights low for the first two songs. Minimize the movement of the camera jib. And please, tell the security to keep the wings clear. Only essential personnel."

The staff scrambled into motion, a wave of relief washing through the corridor. SoHyun stayed behind for a moment, leaning his back against the door. He took a deep breath of his own, adjusting his glasses. His heart was racing—it always did after one of Jiyong’s episodes—but he couldn't let it show. He was the anchor. If the anchor shook, the ship would sink.

Twenty minutes later, the arena was filled with the haunting, melodic opening notes of a song the world had been waiting years to hear.

SoHyun stood in the shadows of stage left, a thermos in his hand. From this angle, he could only see Jiyong’s profile. The lights hit the idol, turning his blue hair into a crown of sapphire flames.

Jiyong stood at the microphone, his eyes closed. For a heartbeat, he remained perfectly still, and SoHyun held his breath. He saw Jiyong’s hand twitch, reaching instinctively for the invisible lighter in his pocket.

Then, Jiyong’s eyes opened. He turned his head slightly toward the wings, his gaze catching SoHyun’s for a fraction of a second.

SoHyun gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

Jiyong leaned into the microphone. His voice rolled out across the empty seats, raw and powerful, vibrating with a vulnerability that hadn't been there before the scandal. It was the sound of a man who had been through the fire and had come out the other side, scorched but alive.

He performed the entire set without a single stumble. He didn't snap at the sound engineers when his monitors peaked. He didn't storm off when the fog machine malfunctioned. He simply sang.

When the final note faded into the rafters, Jiyong didn't wait for the applause of the crew. He walked straight off the stage, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck. He bypassed the director and the photographers, heading straight for the man in the grey blazer.

SoHyun handed him a towel and the thermos without a word.

Jiyong took them, his fingers brushing SoHyun’s. He was still trembling, the adrenaline and anxiety fighting for dominance in his system, but he didn't look like he was going to explode. He looked like he was coming home.

"Was it okay?" Jiyong asked, his voice barely a whisper under the roar of the air conditioning.

"It was honest," SoHyun replied, stepping aside to let Jiyong lead the way back to the dressing room. "And honesty is much more interesting than perfection."

Jiyong draped the towel over his head, hiding his face from the rest of the world as they walked through the backstage maze. "Don't go too far tonight. I think I want to order that spicy seafood stew. The place near the old studio."

"I’ve already got the menu pulled up on my phone," SoHyun said, walking half a step behind him.

"Of course you do," Jiyong murmured.

For the first time in months, the weight on Jiyong’s shoulders didn't feel like a mountain. It felt like a coat—heavy, perhaps, but something he could eventually choose to take off. And as long as SoHyun was there to catch it, he knew he wouldn't fall.