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The flashing lights of the stage usually felt like a second skin, but tonight, they had felt like needles. Every pop of a pyrotechnic blast sent a jolt of genuine fear through Jiyong’s chest, and the roar of the crowd—the very thing he was supposed to live for—sounded like the crashing of an angry ocean he was drowning in.

He was twenty-two years old, the golden boy of YG Entertainment, the genius producer, the fashion icon, the legendary G-Dragon. But as the heavy velvet curtains finally swung shut and the muffled sound of the encore chants began to fade, Jiyong felt like a hollowed-out shell. His reflection in the hallway mirrors showed a boy whose sharp jawline was now skeletal, his designer suit hanging off a frame that had forgotten what a full meal felt like.

He took three steps toward his dressing room. His vision flickered, the edges of the hallway curling inward like burning paper.

Then, his knees simply ceased to exist.

There was no dramatic stumble. He just went down. His body hit the polished linoleum with a dull, sickening thud. He tried to catch himself, but his arms felt like lead weights. He lay there for a moment, cheek pressed against the cold floor, waiting for the strength to return. He waited for the adrenaline to kick back in, for the "Dragon" to take over where Jiyong had failed.

Nothing happened.

"Get up," he hissed to himself, his voice cracking. "Jiyong, get up. People are coming."

He gritted his teeth and tried to push his torso off the ground. His upper body obeyed, trembling violently, but when he tried to pull his legs underneath him, there was a terrifying void of sensation. He looked back at his legs. They were sprawled awkwardly behind him, looking like they belonged to a mannequin. He struck his right thigh with his fist.

Nothing. He hit it again, harder this time, the blow landing with a sound that should have hurt. He felt the impact in his hand, but his leg remained a dead weight.

Panic, sharp and cold, flooded his chest. It was the social anxiety, the exhaustion, and the physical breakdown all converging into one singular point of terror. He fumbled for the phone in his pocket, his fingers slick with cold sweat. He didn't call his mother. He didn't call his bandmates. He called his manager, the man who held his schedule like a whip.

The phone rang four times before a clipped, annoyed voice picked up. "Jiyong? I’m in a meeting with the creative directors for the Japanese tour. This better be quick."

"Hyung," Jiyong gasped, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. "Hyung, I’m on the floor. In the backstage hallway. Near the service elevator."

"So? Get up. Go to the van. You have a radio interview in forty minutes."

"I can't!" Jiyong screamed into the receiver, the sound tearing at his throat. Tears were finally leaking out, hot and stinging. "I can't move my legs! I’m hitting them and I can't feel anything! Hyung, please, I think something is wrong. I think I’m dying."

"Don't be dramatic," the manager snapped, his voice rising in volume. Jiyong could hear the muffled sounds of other people in the room, the business-like atmosphere that had no room for a broken boy. "You’re tired. We’re all tired. You’re skinny because you don't eat, and you’re weak because you’re lazy. If you miss this interview, the sponsors will have our heads."

"I am telling you I cannot walk!" Jiyong sobbed, his fingers clawing at the floor tiles. "Please, just come get me. Send someone. Anyone. I’m scared."

"Listen to me, you ungrateful brat," the manager hissed, and Jiyong could almost see the man’s face reddening. "You are the face of this company. If you start acting like a mental patient now, your career is over. You want to see how fast we can terminate your contract? You want to see how much you’ll owe us in damages for a cancelled comeback? Get. Up. Now."

The line went dead.

Jiyong stared at the phone, the silence of the hallway suddenly feeling like a tomb. He dropped the device, the screen cracking as it hit the floor. He was G-Dragon. He was the most powerful idol in the country, and he was currently dragging himself across the floor like a wounded animal because he didn't want to be found in the middle of the hallway.

He didn't hear the footsteps at first. They were soft, rhythmic, and calm—a stark contrast to the frantic pace of the stage hands.

"Jiyong-ah?"

The voice was low and steady, like a cool hand on a fevered brow. Jiyong froze, burying his face in his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent, racking sobs. He didn't want to be seen like this. Not by anyone.

He heard the rustle of a suit jacket, and then a presence was kneeling beside him. A hand, warm and grounded, settled gently on his shoulder.

"It’s okay," the voice said. "It’s just me. It’s SoHyun."

Jiyong lifted his head just an inch. Through his blurred vision and the strands of sweat-soaked hair, he saw the familiar glint of wire-rimmed glasses. Yon SoHyun was dressed in his usual casual suit—no tie, top button undone, looking more like a university professor than a high-level corporate fixer. SoHyun was the man who handled the things the public never saw: the NDAs, the private medical visits, the quiet messes. He was the only one who never looked at Jiyong like a product.

"SoHyun-nim," Jiyong choked out, his voice a broken whisper. "My legs... I can't feel my legs."

SoHyun didn't gasp. He didn't panic. He simply shifted closer, blocking Jiyong from the view of the hallway with his own body. "I know. I heard the shouting from the office down the hall. I saw your manager leave."

SoHyun reached out and adjusted Jiyong’s glasses, which had slipped down his nose. His touch was incredibly patient. "Your body has just decided it’s had enough, Jiyong. It’s not broken forever. It’s just on strike."

"He said... he said he’d fire me," Jiyong whimpered, his fingers clutching at SoHyun’s sleeve. "He said I was a brat. I tried to get up, I swear I tried."

"Shh," SoHyun murmured, his hand moving to stroke the back of Jiyong’s head, a gesture so fatherly and kind that it made Jiyong’s heart ache. "He’s not going to fire you. He’s a man who fears losing money, and he’s lashing out because he’s small. I am the one who handles the contracts, Jiyong. He can't touch you while I’m here."

SoHyun looked down at Jiyong’s legs and then back at his pale, tear-streaked face. "I’m going to carry you to my car. We aren't going to the interview. We aren't going to the dorm."

"But the schedule—"

"The schedule is dead," SoHyun said firmly, though his voice remained soft. "I’ve already sent an email to the PR department stating you had a sudden vasovagal syncope. It’s a fancy way of saying you fainted. No one will question it."

SoHyun stood up and then reached down, sliding one arm under Jiyong’s knees and the other behind his back. Despite his slender build, SoHyun was strong, lifting the underweight idol with a grunt of effort that he quickly suppressed.

Jiyong instinctively tucked his head into the crook of SoHyun’s neck, hiding his face. He felt so small, so pathetic. The "Dragon" was nowhere to be found; there was only a scared twenty-two-year-old boy who wanted to disappear.

"I’ve got you," SoHyun whispered as he began to walk toward the private exit. "Close your eyes. You don't have to be G-Dragon for a while."

The car ride was a blur of city lights and the hum of the engine. SoHyun didn't turn on the radio. He didn't ask Jiyong questions. He just drove, one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching over to check if Jiyong was still breathing properly.

They didn't go to the hospital, where the press would be waiting. Instead, they arrived at a small, discreet villa on the outskirts of Seoul—a property the company used for high-profile guests who needed to vanish.

SoHyun carried him inside, down a hallway filled with the scent of cedar and lavender, and laid him down on a wide, soft sofa. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a warm basin of water and a cloth.

Jiyong watched him through heavy eyelids. "Why are you doing this? You’ll get in trouble."

SoHyun sat on the edge of the coffee table, dipping the cloth into the water. He began to wipe the heavy stage makeup from Jiyong’s face with slow, rhythmic strokes.

"I’ve been with this company for ten years, Jiyong," SoHyun said, his eyes kind behind his lenses. "I’ve watched them build you into a god, and I’ve watched them forget that you’re a human being. I’m tired of watching. Someone has to be the adult in the room."

He moved the cloth to Jiyong’s hands, cleaning the grime of the floor from his fingers. "Can you feel this?"

Jiyong concentrated. He felt a faint, distant tingle as SoHyun rubbed his palm. "A little."

"Good. That means it’s just extreme exhaustion and a bit of a conversion disorder from the stress. Your brain shut the power off to your legs to force you to stop moving. It will come back once you feel safe."

Jiyong’s lip trembled. "I haven't felt safe in a long time."

SoHyun stopped cleaning and looked Jiyong directly in the eye. "You are safe here. I’ve locked the gates. Your manager doesn't have the code. The Chairman knows that if he wants you back on stage in a month, he has to let me handle you for the next week. I told him you were on the verge of a cardiac event."

Jiyong let out a shaky breath. "Was I?"

"Close enough that it shouldn't have been risked," SoHyun replied. He stood up and draped a heavy wool blanket over Jiyong, tucking the edges in so tightly it felt like a cocoon. "I’m going to make some porridge. You’re going to eat three bites, and then you’re going to sleep for twelve hours. If you wake up and can't move, don't panic. Just call my name. I’ll be in the chair right there."

He pointed to a large armchair in the corner of the room.

"SoHyun?" Jiyong called out as the older man started toward the kitchen.

SoHyun paused, turning back. "Yes?"

"Thank you. For... for seeing me."

SoHyun offered a small, rare smile—one that didn't reach the company reports or the board meetings. It was just for Jiyong. "It’s hard to miss you, Jiyong-ah. You shine very brightly. Sometimes people just forget that even the sun needs to set to keep from burning out."

As SoHyun walked away, the sound of water boiling in the kitchen became a lullaby. For the first time in months, the crushing weight in Jiyong’s chest began to lift. He couldn't move his legs yet, but as he watched the shadow of the patient man in the kitchen, he realized he didn't have to. For tonight, someone else was carrying the burden.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, the dreams weren't filled with flashing lights and screaming fans. They were just quiet.