Hh

Jiyong stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror, the harsh fluorescent lights of the dressing room catching the metallic sheen of his emerald-green nail polish. He was meticulously applying a layer of clear topcoat, his movements steady despite the storm brewing just outside the heavy oak doors of the YG studio.

To the world, he was G-Dragon: the icon, the trendsetter, the man who could wear a Chanel tweed jacket and a skirt and make it look like high fashion. But lately, the fashion wasn't being treated as art. It was being used as a weapon.

The door swung open with a violent thud, the handle hitting the wall. Jiyong didn't need to look up to know who it was. The scent of expensive cologne and desperation followed Seungri into the room like a foul cloud.

"You’re really going out there looking like a damn peacock again?" Seungri’s voice was jagged, stripped of the polished 'Maknae' persona he usually wore for the cameras.

Jiyong blew gently on his nails, his expression impassive. "It’s called style, Seungri. I wouldn't expect you to understand it between your business meetings and whatever else you’re doing in those basements."

Seungri let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He paced the small room, his eyes darting to the racks of clothes—sequined blazers, sheer blouses, and wide-legged trousers. "Style? Is that what we’re calling it now? People are talking, Jiyong. They’re calling you a freak. They’re calling you a fairy." He stepped closer, leaning over the vanity until his face was inches from Jiyong’s. "You look gay. You know that, right? You’re making the whole group look soft."

Jiyong finally looked up. His eyes, rimmed with dark liner, were cold and sharp as glass. "And you’re making the group look like a criminal enterprise. I’d rather be called a fairy than a predator."

The air in the room curdled. Seungri’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. For months, the rumors about the Burning Sun had been simmering, a dark undercurrent that Jiyong had sensed long before the headlines began to break. He had always kept Seungri at arm’s length, repulsed by the younger man’s obsession with power and his blatant disregard for the boundaries Jiyong held sacred.

"Don't you dare talk to me about reputation," Seungri hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I’m the one out there making connections, keeping the brand alive while you hide in your studio playing dress-up. You’ve lost it. You’re so obsessed with being 'different' that you’ve turned into a joke. You’re a faggot in a dress, and everyone is laughing behind your back."

Jiyong felt a flicker of heat in his chest, but he didn't let it reach his face. He had spent his entire career being scrutinized. He had been called a genius and a delinquent in the same breath. But hearing the word used as a slur, spat from the mouth of someone who was supposed to be a brother, felt like a physical stain.

"Is that the best you’ve got?" Jiyong asked, his voice eerily calm. He stood up slowly, his slender frame draped in an oversized silk shirt that shimmered like oil on water. He was shorter than Seungri, but in that moment, he felt like a giant. "You think calling me gay is an insult? You think my masculinity is so fragile that a bit of lace or some paint on my nails will shatter it?"

He stepped into Seungri’s space, forcing the younger man to take a half-step back.

"The difference between us, Seungri, is that I don't care what they call me. I am G-Dragon. I am the music. I am the culture. You?" Jiyong leaned in, his voice a razor-thin edge. "You’re just a man drowning in his own filth, trying to pull everyone else down so you don't have to sink alone. You use 'gay' as an insult because you’re terrified of anything you can’t control or exploit."

Seungri sneered, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. "You think you’re untouchable. But when the public turns, they’ll use this against you. They’ll say you’re a bad influence. They’ll say you’re broken."

"Let them," Jiyong said, turning back to the mirror to pick up a heavy silver ring. He slid it onto his middle finger. "I’d rather be broken and honest than 'whole' and a lie like you. Now, get out. I have a show to prepare for, and I don't want your stench on my clothes."

Seungri lingered for a moment, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked like he wanted to say more, to throw another slur, to find the one crack in Jiyong’s armor. But Jiyong simply ignored him, picking up a brush and adjusting his hair as if the other man had already ceased to exist.

With a final, guttural curse, Seungri slammed the door on his way out.

The silence that followed was heavy. Jiyong let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hands were shaking, just a little. He sat back down and stared at his reflection.

He knew what the comments sections looked like. He knew the whispers in the hallways of the broadcasting stations. The public’s perception of him had shifted. The eccentricity that was once praised as 'artistic' was now being analyzed through a lens of prejudice. Every time he wore pink, every time he spoke in his soft, melodic tone, the vultures circled.

A soft knock at the door startled him.

"Jiyong-ah? You okay?"

It was Youngbae. The door opened a crack, and the older member stepped in, his expression etched with genuine concern. He had clearly passed Seungri in the hall.

"I’m fine," Jiyong said, though his voice was a bit thin.

Youngbae walked over and placed a hand on Jiyong’s shoulder. He looked at the vanity, at the makeup and the jewelry, and then he looked at Jiyong’s eyes in the mirror. "He’s spiraling, Ji. Don't let him take his fear out on you."

"He called me gay," Jiyong said, the words feeling heavy in the air. "Like it’s a disease. Like it’s something I should be ashamed of even if it were true."

Youngbae squeezed his shoulder. "He’s looking for a target because he knows his own house is on fire. You’ve always been yourself. That’s why people love you. That’s why he’s jealous. He doesn't know who he is without a suit and a business card."

Jiyong looked down at his green nails. "Do you think I should change for the press conference? Maybe something more... traditional?"

Youngbae stepped back, crossing his arms and tilting his head. "If you do that, he wins. If you do that, you’re telling the world that their insults matter more than your truth." He smiled, a warm, grounding expression. "Besides, that jacket is incredible. It would be a crime not to wear it."

Jiyong felt the tension in his neck begin to dissipate. He looked at the rack—a vintage Chanel piece adorned with brooches and pearls. It was loud. It was feminine. It was him.

"You’re right," Jiyong said, standing up with renewed purpose. "I’m not changing a damn thing."

An hour later, Jiyong stood behind the curtain of the press stage. He could hear the low hum of the reporters, the clicking of cameras already being tested. The air was thick with anticipation. This was the first group appearance since the rumors about Seungri’s club had started gaining real traction, and the tension was palpable.

Seungri was standing a few feet away, looking stiff in a plain black suit, his face a mask of practiced humility. He didn't look at Jiyong.

Top and Daesung were there too, looking uncomfortable, caught in the crossfire of a scandal they hadn't invited. Jiyong caught Top’s eye. The older man gave him a small, supportive nod, his gaze lingering on Jiyong’s vibrant hair and bold accessories. It was a silent acknowledgement: *Keep being the shield.*

"Ready?" the stage manager whispered.

Jiyong took a deep breath. He adjusted the cuffs of his silk shirt, letting the emerald nails catch the light. He wasn't just wearing clothes. He was wearing armor. If the world wanted to call him names, if they wanted to use his identity or his style as a punchline, he would give them the best show of their lives.

As they walked out onto the stage, the wall of camera flashes was blinding. Jiyong took his seat at the center of the table, his posture regal and relaxed.

The questions started almost immediately. They were pointed, jagged, aimed directly at Seungri and the legal troubles looming on the horizon. Seungri gave rehearsed, empty answers, his voice trembling slightly under the pressure.

Then, a reporter in the third row stood up, her eyes fixed on Jiyong.

"G-Dragon-ssi," she began, her tone bordering on accusatory. "Lately, your public image has become increasingly... unconventional. Some fans are concerned that your style is becoming too provocative, even confusing. There are many rumors regarding your personal life and your influence on the youth. How do you respond to those who say you’ve lost touch with the traditional image of a Korean man?"

The room went silent. It was a loaded question, a polite way of asking about the 'gay' rumors that Seungri had thrown in his face earlier.

Jiyong leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. He let the silence stretch, the tension building until it was almost unbearable. He caught a glimpse of Seungri out of the corner of his eye; the younger man was smirking, waiting for Jiyong to stumble.

"Traditional?" Jiyong finally spoke, his voice cool and resonant. "Tradition is a beautiful thing, but it is not a cage. Art is about evolution. If I am 'confusing' to some, perhaps it is because they are looking for labels instead of looking at the person in front of them."

He shifted, the silk of his sleeves rustling.

"I have spent my life breaking boundaries. If my nails or my clothes are what people want to talk about while there are much more serious matters at hand," he paused, casting a brief, chilling glance toward Seungri, "then I think their priorities are misplaced. My masculinity isn't defined by a suit. It’s defined by my integrity, my work, and my courage to be exactly who I am, regardless of what names people choose to call me."

A few reporters began to scribble furiously. The woman who asked the question looked taken abashed.

"As for my influence," Jiyong continued, a small, sharp smile playing on his lips. "I hope I influence people to be brave. I hope I influence them to realize that being called 'different' isn't an insult. It’s a badge of honor."

For the rest of the conference, Jiyong was the focal point. He handled every jab with grace, every insinuation with a wit that made the reporters look small. Beside him, Seungri seemed to wither. The contrast was stark: the man in the 'traditional' suit was the one shrouded in darkness and deceit, while the man in the pearls and silk stood in the light, unashamed.

When the conference finally ended and they retreated backstage, the atmosphere was different. The staff moved quickly, avoiding eye contact with Seungri, who stormed off toward his private dressing room without a word.

Jiyong stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He felt exhausted, the adrenaline fading to leave a dull ache in his bones.

"That was well handled," Top said, walking over with a bottle of water. He handed it to Jiyong. "You basically told them to mind their own business without actually saying it."

"I’m tired, Seunghyun-ah," Jiyong admitted, taking a sip of the water. "Tired of the games. Tired of the hate."

"I know," Top said softly. "But you did something important today. You didn't let him win."

Jiyong looked down at his hands. The emerald polish was chipped on one nail, a small flaw in his perfect exterior. He thought about Seungri’s words—the slurs, the vitriol, the attempt to weaponize Jiyong’s soul against him.

He realized then that Seungri wasn't just attacking his clothes or his sexuality. He was attacking Jiyong’s freedom. Because as long as Jiyong was free to be himself, he was a reminder of everything Seungri had lost in his pursuit of power.

"He’s going to leave," Jiyong said, his voice certain. "Not just the room. The group. The industry. He can't stay after this."

"It’s for the best," Top replied. "We can’t build anything on a foundation that’s rotting."

Jiyong nodded. He felt a strange sense of mourning, not for the man Seungri had become, but for the dream they had all shared once. But that dream had been poisoned, and the only way to survive was to cut out the rot.

He walked back to his dressing room, the heels of his boots clicking rhythmically on the linoleum. When he entered, he saw the Chanel jacket hanging on the rack, reflecting the light. He went to the vanity and picked up the bottle of emerald polish.

He carefully repainted the chipped nail, his hand steady.

Outside, the world was still talking. The headlines were already being written, some praising his boldness, others questioning his sanity. The slurs wouldn't stop overnight. The whispers would continue in the dark corners of the internet.

But as Jiyong looked in the mirror, he didn't see a joke. He didn't see a 'fairy' or a 'freak.'

He saw a king who had survived a war without losing himself. He saw a man who had turned his vulnerability into a fortress.

He picked up a heavy gold chain and looped it around his neck, the metal cold against his skin. He was G-Dragon, and he would wear his colors until the very end. Let them talk. Let them stare. He had a world to lead, and he would do it with painted nails and a heart made of silk and steel.