Lol

Thirty-seven felt different than Jiyong had imagined it would when he was twenty. Back then, he assumed that by this age, he would be a seasoned general, untouchable and hardened, moving through the world with the practiced ease of a man who had seen every corner of the industry’s dark underbelly. In reality, as he sat in the back of a blacked-out sedan idling outside a luxury hotel in Seoul, he felt more like a glass figurine held together by scotch tape.

He adjusted the brim of his Chanel bucket hat, pulling it lower until the world was reduced to a narrow strip of asphalt and the polished shoes of his security detail. His heart was doing that frantic, fluttering dance again—a bird trapped in a ribcage, beating its wings against his lungs until it was hard to draw a full breath.

"Jiyong-ah, we're three minutes out," a soft voice said from the front seat.

It wasn't the bark of a manager demanding he get his head in the game. It was Min-ho, a man the new label had specifically assigned to him not just for his logistics skills, but for his temperament. The new company, Galaxy Records, had been a revelation. When Jiyong had signed with them three years ago, he had expected the same grind: produce, perform, pivot, ignore the cracks in his psyche. Instead, they had looked at his medical files and his history of panic attacks and said, *We want the artist, but we need the human to survive.*

"I don't think I can do the red carpet," Jiyong whispered. His voice was raspy, a byproduct of a sleepless night spent obsessing over the seating chart of the gala. "Can we use the service entrance? Just for today?"

Min-ho turned around, his expression sympathetic but professional. "The organizers are pushing for the front, Jiyong. It’s the brand launch. But," he added, holding up a hand before Jiyong could spiral, "I’ve already coordinated with the venue. There’s a side door through the kitchen that leads directly to the VIP lounge. No cameras, no flashing lights. Just the staff. Does that sound manageable?"

Jiyong exhaled, a long, shaky breath that misted the window. "Yeah. Yes. Thank you."

It was a small mercy, but in Jiyong’s world, small mercies were the difference between a successful night and a headline about a 'erratic behavior' or a 'diva meltdown.' The public didn't understand that the 'diva' was actually a man who felt like the air was turning into lead every time a camera shutter clicked.

They moved quickly. The transition from the car to the interior of the hotel was a blur of gray concrete and the smell of industrial cleaner. Jiyong kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his oversized blazer, his fingers picking at a loose thread. He counted his steps. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe.

Once inside the lounge, the heavy oak doors muffled the roar of the crowd outside. It was quiet here, dimly lit, smelling of expensive lilies and floor wax. Jiyong collapsed into a velvet armchair in the corner, his knees shaking.

"Water," he muttered.

A glass was placed in his hand almost instantly. Not by Min-ho, but by Sora, the label's creative director who had been waiting for him. She didn't hover. She sat in the chair opposite him, giving him space but providing a grounding presence.

"The setlist for the showcase is printed," Sora said quietly, her voice a low hum that didn't grate on his nerves. "We cut the opening monologue. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. Just play the tracks, talk to the host for two minutes about the inspiration, and you’re done. I’ve moved your table to the back corner of the room. You’ll have a clear exit to the green room if it gets too loud."

Jiyong took a sip of water, the cold liquid helping to center him. "You moved the table? Won't the sponsors be offended?"

Sora shrugged, a small, defiant smile playing on her lips. "Let them be. You’re G-Dragon. If they want you there, they play by our rules. And our rule is that you need to feel safe. Besides, the mystery makes you look more 'iconic,' or whatever the marketing team is calling it this week."

Jiyong felt a ghost of a smile tug at his mouth. "Iconic. Right."

He looked down at his hands. They were steady now, but he knew it was temporary. The social anxiety wasn't a monster he could slay; it was a weather system he had to navigate. Some days were clear skies; others were typhoons. Lately, the storms had been frequent. Decades of being dissected by the public, of having his every mistake magnified and his every silence misinterpreted, had left him with a skin that felt too thin for the world.

"Is the guest list still the same?" he asked, his voice regaining some of its usual gravelly strength.

"Mostly," Sora replied. "A few younger idols from the fourth-gen groups. They're all terrified of you, by the way. They’ll probably be too scared to even approach the table."

"Good," Jiyong said, though a part of him felt a pang of guilt. He wasn't a mean person; he just didn't know how to be a person at all when eyes were on him.

An hour later, the muffled bass of the music from the main hall began to thrum through the floorboards. It was time. Jiyong stood up, smoothing out his suit. He caught his reflection in the gilded mirror above the fireplace. The makeup covered the dark circles under his eyes, and the jewelry distracted from the tension in his jaw. To the world, he looked like a god of K-pop, an untouchable trendsetter. To himself, he looked like a man walking toward a firing squad.

"Ready?" Min-ho asked, appearing at the door.

Jiyong nodded once. "Let's get it over with."

The transition into the gala was like stepping into a pressurized chamber. The heat of a thousand bodies, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the relentless, rhythmic pulse of house music hit him all at once. He felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the sensation of the walls leaning inward.

He kept his gaze fixed on the back of Min-ho’s head as they navigated the perimeter of the room. He caught glimpses of faces—famous actors, CEOs, young idols with wide, hungry eyes—but he didn't stop. He couldn't. If he stopped, he would shatter.

They reached the table in the back, shielded by a large floral arrangement and a decorative silk screen. It was a sanctuary. Jiyong sat down, his back to the wall, and immediately reached for a napkin to pat the sudden sweat on his palms.

"You're doing great," Min-ho whispered, leaning in as if adjusting Jiyong’s microphone pack. "Just twenty minutes until the showcase. Stay here. I’ll bring anyone important to you, but only if you give me the signal."

Jiyong nodded, staring at the bubbles rising in his glass of sparkling water. He tried to practice the grounding technique his therapist had taught him. Five things he could see: the white tablecloth, the silver fork, the red petal of a rose, the shadow of a waiter, the glow of a candle.

"Excuse me? Sunbaenim?"

The voice was small, hesitant. Jiyong stiffened, his internal alarm bells screaming. He looked up slowly. Standing just past the silk screen was a young man, barely twenty, wearing a suit that looked slightly too big for his frame. He was clutching a Sharpie like a lifeline.

Jiyong’s first instinct was to look for Min-ho, but his manager was momentarily occupied speaking to a technician a few feet away. Jiyong felt the panic rise—a cold, oily wave. His throat constricted. He wanted to run.

"I... I'm sorry to bother you," the boy stammered, bowing so low his forehead nearly hit the table. "I'm Chan-woo from the group 'Nova.' I just... your music is the reason I started. I’ve listened to 'Coup d'Etat' every day for five years. I just wanted to say thank you."

Jiyong stared at him. He saw the way the boy’s hands were shaking—not out of excitement, but out of genuine, paralyzing nerves. It was a mirror image of his own internal state.

The realization acted like a valve, releasing some of the pressure in Jiyong’s chest. He wasn't the only one afraid. The world was terrifying for everyone, just in different ways.

"It's a good song," Jiyong said, his voice quiet but steady. He reached out and took the Sharpie from the boy’s hand. "Do you have something for me to sign?"

The boy fumbled with his invitation card, his face turning a bright, embarrassed red. "Yes! Thank you. I’m so sorry, I know you’re busy."

"I'm not busy," Jiyong said, scribbling his jagged, iconic signature across the card. He handed it back, forcing himself to maintain eye contact for two seconds. "Good luck with your group, Chan-woo. Stay hydrated. This industry... it’s a lot of work."

The boy looked like he might cry. He bowed again, three times in rapid succession, and scurried away.

Jiyong exhaled, leaning back into the shadows of his booth. His heart was still racing, but the rhythm had changed. It wasn't the frantic beat of fear anymore; it was the steady thrum of adrenaline. He had survived a social interaction. He hadn't fainted. He hadn't snapped.

Min-ho returned a moment later, looking frantic. "I'm so sorry, Jiyong. I turned my back for one second—did that kid bother you? I'll have security tighten the perimeter."

"No," Jiyong said, surprised by the firmness in his own voice. "It’s fine, Min-ho. He was just... he was like me."

Min-ho paused, searching Jiyong’s face. Seeing the lack of distress, he relaxed. "Okay. That’s good. It’s time for the showcase. The lights are going down in thirty seconds. You'll walk up the stage from the rear left. No one will see you until you’re under the spotlight."

Jiyong stood up. He adjusted his jacket one last time. The anxiety was still there—it always would be—but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like a cage. It felt like a costume he could put on and take off.

As he walked toward the stage, he passed Sora. She gave him a thumbs-up from the shadows. He realized then that he didn't have to be the G-Dragon of his twenties—the one who burned bright and crashed hard. He could be this version: the one who sat in the back, the one who took the side door, the one who was protected by people who actually gave a damn.

He stepped onto the stage. The darkness was absolute for a heartbeat, and then the spotlight hit him. The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wall of sound that threatened to knock him back.

Jiyong closed his eyes, took a deep breath of the filtered, stage-chilled air, and stepped up to the microphone. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked at the back of the room, where Min-ho and Sora were standing, two small anchors in a sea of chaos.

"Hello," he said into the mic, his voice echoing through the hall, distorted and powerful. "I’m Kwon Jiyong. Let’s begin."

The music started—a heavy, distorted bass line that vibrated in his very bones. As he began to perform, the anxiety didn't disappear, but it transformed. It became the energy behind his movements, the grit in his voice. He was still the man who hid in the back of cars and trembled in hotel rooms, but here, under the lights, he was also the man who had survived it all.

And for now, that was enough.

When the set ended twenty minutes later, Jiyong didn't linger for the applause. He turned on his heel and walked straight off the stage, through the wings, and out the designated side exit where the car was already waiting, engine humming.

He slid into the leather seat, the silence of the vehicle wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. Min-ho climbed into the front, and the car pulled away from the curb before the first guest had even left the ballroom.

"You did it," Min-ho said, looking at him through the rearview mirror. "Record time. We’ll be back at the penthouse in fifteen minutes."

Jiyong pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair. He felt exhausted, drained to the very marrow of his bones, but the crushing weight on his chest had lifted.

"Min-ho?"

"Yeah, Jiyong?"

"Can we stop at a convenience store on the way? I want some of those cheap ramen cups. The spicy ones."

Min-ho smiled. "You got it. We'll find one with a quiet parking lot."

Jiyong leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the neon lights of Seoul blur into long, colorful streaks. He was thirty-seven, he had severe social anxiety, and the world was still too loud. But as the car sped through the night, he realized he wasn't running away anymore. He was just moving at his own pace. And with the right people around him, that was more than okay.