Vg

The air in the bowels of the WiZink Center was thick with the scent of stale concrete and expensive cologne, a clashing mixture that made Kon Sonhyun’s head throb. He adjusted his glasses, the bridge of his nose slick with sweat despite the air conditioning. He had been a manager for a long time, long enough to know that silence was never a good sign when it came to Kwon Jiyong.

"What do you mean you told him to leave?" Sonhyun’s voice wasn't loud, but it had a jagged edge that made the local Spanish production assistant flinch. "He is the headliner. He is the reason everyone is in this building. You don't just tell him to 'stay away' because he’s difficult."

The assistant, a man in his late twenties who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, shuffled his feet. "He was... impossible, Señor. He was snapping at the lighting crew, throwing his headset. He looked like he was going to collapse or kill someone. We told him he needed to find a place to calm down and stay out of the way until soundcheck."

Sonhyun felt a cold spike of dread hit his stomach. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know," the assistant muttered, looking away. "He just walked into the service tunnels. We haven't seen him for an hour."

Sonhyun didn't wait to hear the rest. He turned on his heel, his heart hammering against his ribs. An hour. Jiyong had been missing for an hour in a foreign stadium, in a city where he didn't speak the language, in a mental state that was currently hovering somewhere between a breakdown and a blackout.

The *Act III: M.O.T.T.E* tour was supposed to be a masterpiece, a raw look at the man behind the mask. But to Sonhyun, it felt like watching a slow-motion car crash. Jiyong was barely twenty-one, though the bags under his eyes and the cynical curl of his lip suggested a man triple that age. He was skin and bone, his collarbones protruding like knives against the silk of his oversized shirts. YG headquarters wanted "perfection" and "artistic vulnerability," but Sonhyun just wanted the kid to eat a bowl of rice without shaking.

"Jiyong!" Sonhyun called out, his voice echoing off the damp walls of the service corridor. "Jiyong, it’s Sonhyun. Answer me!"

The further he walked from the main stage area, the dimmer the lights became. This part of the arena was a labyrinth of storage rooms and electrical hubs. It was freezing down here.

He found him in a dead-end hallway, tucked behind a stack of rusted flight cases.

Jiyong was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked impossibly small. He was wearing a red leather jacket that seemed to swallow his frame, his dyed hair a messy shock of color against the grey concrete. He wasn't crying. He was just staring at a flickering fluorescent light on the ceiling, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

"Jiyong-ah," Sonhyun breathed, his anger at the staff instantly replaced by a crushing weight of pity. He approached slowly, as if nearing a wounded animal. "Hey. I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

Jiyong didn't move. "They told me I was a nuisance," he said, his voice raspy and devoid of emotion. "The guys with the clipboards. They said I was ruining the flow."

Sonhyun knelt down, ignoring the ache in his thirty-seven-year-old knees. "They’re idiots, Jiyong. They don't understand the pressure you're under. You shouldn't be out here in the dark. It’s cold."

"It’s quiet here," Jiyong whispered. He finally turned his head, and Sonhyun winced at the sight. Jiyong’s skin was sallow, almost translucent. "Up there, everyone wants a piece of G-Dragon. They want the smile, the swagger, the genius. But down here... there’s nothing. I think I like nothing better."

"You know we can't stay here," Sonhyun said gently. He reached out and placed a hand on Jiyong’s shoulder. He could feel the young man trembling through the thick leather. "The fans are already lining up outside. We have a schedule."

Jiyong let out a sharp, bitter laugh that ended in a cough. "The schedule. Always the damn schedule. Does the schedule know I haven't slept more than three hours a night since we left Seoul? Does the schedule care that I feel like I’m disappearing?"

Sonhyun tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. He wanted to say something comforting, something parental, but the corporate weight of YG hung over him like a shadow. He was a manager. His job was to get the product to the stage. But he was also a human being who had watched this boy grow up in a pressure cooker.

"I care," Sonhyun said, his voice firm. "Forget the schedule for ten minutes. Just breathe with me."

Jiyong leaned his head back against the concrete wall, closing his eyes. "I’m so tired, Hyung. Not just 'I need a nap' tired. I’m tired in my bones. I look in the mirror and I don't recognize the person looking back. Is it Jiyong or is it the character? I can't tell anymore."

"You're Jiyong to me," Sonhyun replied. "The kid who used to fall asleep at his desk writing lyrics. The kid who used to nag me for snacks."

A ghost of a smile touched Jiyong’s lips, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "That kid is dead. He got traded for world tours and Chanel suits."

He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket, his fingers fumbling with the lighter. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't get a spark. With a frustrated hiss, he flung the lighter across the hallway. It clattered against a metal door, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"I can't even do this right," Jiyong hissed, burying his face in his hands. "I’m a mess. I’m a goddamn mess and they’re going to put me on a stage in front of thousands of people and expect me to be a god."

Sonhyun stood up, walked over to the lighter, and picked it up. He came back, sat down on the floor next to Jiyong—decorum be damned—and flicked the flame to life. He held it out steadily.

Jiyong looked at the flame, then at Sonhyun. He leaned in, lit the cigarette, and took a long, shaky drag. The smoke curled around them, a grey veil in the dim light.

"We’re going to get through tonight," Sonhyun said. "And after the show, I’m going to tell the label that you’re sick. I’m going to clear the morning rehearsals for tomorrow. You’re going to stay in the hotel, order room service, and sleep. No interviews, no fittings."

"They’ll scream at you," Jiyong noted, exhaling smoke. "The directors. They’ll say you’re coddling me."

"Let them scream," Sonhyun shrugged, though he knew his phone would be a war zone of missed calls by midnight. "I’ve got thick skin, Jiyong-ah. My job is to manage you, not just the brand. And right now, you’re hitting a wall."

Jiyong took another drag, his posture finally losing some of its rigid tension. The social anxiety that usually hummed beneath his skin seemed to dull slightly in the presence of his manager’s calm, tired energy. Sonhyun was the only one who didn't look at him like he was a gold mine or a ticking time bomb.

"Why do they hate me?" Jiyong asked suddenly, his voice small. "The staff here. They looked at me like I was a monster."

"They don't hate you," Sonhyun sighed. "They’re just people doing a job, and they don't understand that your 'attitude' is just you trying to keep your head above water. They see the prickles, they don't see the person underneath. It’s easier for them to call you a diva than to admit they’re watching a kid break apart."

Jiyong flicked ash onto the floor, staring at the glowing orange tip of the cigarette. "I don't want to go out there."

"I know."

"But I will."

"I know that too," Sonhyun said sadly. That was the tragedy of Kwon Jiyong. No matter how much he suffered, the professional in him—the part that had been trained since childhood—would always drag himself to the center of the stage.

Jiyong finished the cigarette and crushed it out on the floor. He reached out a thin, pale hand, and Sonhyun took it, pulling him to his feet. Jiyong swayed for a moment, his eyes fluttering, and Sonhyun caught him by the elbows to steady him.

"Easy," Sonhyun whispered. "I’ve got you."

Jiyong leaned into him for a split second—a rare moment of physical vulnerability—before pulling away and straightening his leather jacket. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his expression shifting. The hollow, haunted look didn't disappear, but it was being pushed down, buried under layers of Stage Presence and Persona.

"Tell the makeup girls they need to use extra concealer," Jiyong said, his voice regaining that sharp, professional clip. "And tell the sound engineers if my mic cuts out again like it did during the soundcheck in Berlin, I’m walking off the stage."

Sonhyun nodded, feeling a pang of grief for the quiet boy who had been sitting on the floor just moments ago. "I’ll handle it. Let’s get you back to the dressing room."

As they walked back through the winding tunnels toward the light and the noise, Sonhyun kept a close watch on the young man walking beside him. Jiyong’s gait was back to that rhythmic, confident strut, but his shoulders were hunched, as if he were carrying the weight of the entire stadium on his back.

When they reached the main production area, the Spanish staff members who had "dismissed" Jiyong earlier went silent. Sonhyun shot them a look so cold it could have frozen the Mediterranean. He didn't say a word to them; he didn't have to. The way he shielded Jiyong, walking slightly ahead to clear a path, spoke volumes.

Inside the dressing room, the chaos was immediate. Stylists descended with hairspray and glitter, assistants held out tablets with setlist changes, and the roar of the crowd beginning to fill the arena could be heard vibrating through the walls.

Jiyong sat in the chair, staring into the bright bulbs of the vanity mirror. He looked like a ghost being haunted by his own reflection.

Sonhyun stood by the door, his arms crossed. He caught Jiyong’s eyes in the mirror. Jiyong gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

"Everyone out," Sonhyun commanded, his voice cutting through the chatter of the stylists.

"But the hair—" one girl started.

"Out," Sonhyun repeated. "Five minutes. He needs five minutes of silence."

The room cleared. The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't the lonely silence of the service tunnel. It was a protected silence.

Jiyong picked up a brush and aimlessly toyed with the bristles. "Hyung?"

"Yeah, Jiyong?"

"Thanks for finding me."

Sonhyun leaned his head against the doorframe, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of the room. "Always, Jiyong-ah. I’ll always find you."

But as the first notes of the intro music began to thump through the floorboards, shaking the very foundation of the building, Sonhyun wondered how much longer there would be anything left of the boy to find. He watched as Jiyong stood up, grabbed the microphone, and masked his exhaustion with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

The manager followed him to the wings of the stage, watching as the "G-Dragon" persona took full control. The lights turned red, the screams of thirty thousand people became a physical force, and Jiyong stepped out into the glare.

He looked like a god. He felt like a carcass. And Sonhyun, standing in the shadows with a bottle of water and a heavy heart, could only wait for the moment the lights went out so he could catch him when he fell.