Lpl

The fluorescent lights of the practice room hummed with a predatory energy, vibrating against the back of Jiyong’s skull. He stood in the center of the mirrored hall, his reflection mocking him. At twenty-one, he was supposed to be at the height of his vitality, the "King of K-pop" in the making, the golden boy of YG Entertainment. Instead, he looked like a ghost draped in expensive streetwear.

His oversized hoodie swallowed his frame, but even the thick fabric couldn’t hide how sharp his collarbones had become. He was bordering on underweight, his ribs tracing a frantic rhythm every time he drew a breath.

"Again," the performance director barked from the corner, eyes glued to a tablet. "The transition into the bridge was sloppy, Jiyong. You’re lagging."

Jiyong wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his hand trembling. "I’ve been here for twelve hours," he whispered, his voice raspy. "Can I just... I need ten minutes. My head is spinning."

The director didn't even look up. "The comeback stage is in three days. Do you think the fans want to see someone whose head is spinning? Or do they want G-Dragon? Get in position."

Jiyong swallowed hard. G-Dragon. That was the armor he was supposed to wear, a glittering, impenetrable shell. But underneath, Kwon Jiyong was crumbling. His social anxiety, a beast that had grown alongside his fame, was currently clawing at his throat. The thought of the upcoming press conferences and the sea of flashing cameras made his stomach churn with bile.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against a small plastic bottle. He didn't even need to look at the label. They were his "quiet pills," as the managers called them. Whenever he got too jittery, whenever the panic started to make his lungs seize, a staff member would press one into his hand and tell him to be a professional.

He popped a pill dry, the bitter aftertaste lingering on his tongue. He didn't want to take it. He hated the way they made him feel—hollowed out, like he was watching his own life through a thick sheet of frosted glass. But it was the only way to stop the shaking.

"Ready," Jiyong said, his voice flat.

The music blasted through the speakers, a heavy, rhythmic beat that felt like a physical assault. He moved. His body remembered the choreography even when his mind was drifting. Slide, kick, turn, smirk at the imaginary camera. He pushed through the exhaustion, his muscles screaming in protest. Every time he caught his reflection, he saw a stranger.

When the session finally ended two hours later, Jiyong collapsed onto the floor, his chest heaving. The cool wood felt like heaven against his overheated skin.

"Manager Kim will take you to the recording studio now," the director said, packing his bag. "Teddy is waiting. Don't be late."

"The studio?" Jiyong asked, his eyes fluttering shut. "I thought I was done for the night."

"You have two verses to re-record. Move it."

The hallway to the van felt miles long. Jiyong kept his head down, his bucket hat pulled low to avoid eye contact with the late-night staff. Every footstep behind him sounded like a threat; every muffled conversation sounded like a judgment. His heart started to hammer against his ribs again—the pill was wearing off, or perhaps the stress was simply too great for it to handle.

He scrambled into the back of the blacked-out SUV, the tinted windows offering a momentary sanctuary. Manager Kim was already in the driver's seat, typing furiously on a Blackberry.

"You look like hell," Kim remarked without looking back. "Eat something."

He tossed a plastic-wrapped granola bar into the back seat. Jiyong picked it up, staring at the nutritional information. 150 calories. He felt a wave of nausea. He hadn't had a real meal in two days, mostly because his throat felt too tight to swallow anything solid.

"I'm not hungry," Jiyong muttered, leaning his forehead against the cold window.

"You need to stay upright for the cameras, Jiyong. The chairman is worried about your image. You’re looking a bit... fragile. It doesn't suit the concept."

Jiyong let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Fragile? I’m exhausted, hyung. I’m tired of the pills, I’m tired of the lights, and I can’t breathe when I’m in a room with more than three people. Does the chairman care about that?"

The car fell silent. Kim sighed, finally looking in the rearview mirror. "We all have a role to play. Yours is to be the best. You’re the favorite for a reason. Don't ruin it by being difficult."

The recording studio was dimly lit, a reprieve for Jiyong’s aching eyes. Teddy was there, hunched over the mixing board, the scent of stale coffee and expensive cigarettes clinging to the air. He was one of the few people Jiyong felt relatively safe with, but even here, the pressure was suffocating.

"You okay, Ji?" Teddy asked, spinning his chair around. "You look pale."

"Just the lights," Jiyong lied, stepping into the recording booth.

The booth was a sensory deprivation tank. It was soundproof, small, and cramped. For some, it was claustrophobic; for Jiyong, it was the only place he didn't have to pretend to be G-Dragon for a moment. He could just be a voice.

He put on the headphones, the weight of them familiar and grounding. As the track looped in his ears, he began to sing, but the words felt heavy. He was writing about heartbreak and fame, about the loneliness of the spotlight, but the irony was that he was too tired to even feel the emotions he was singing about.

"Take it again," Teddy’s voice came through the monitor. "More energy. You sound like you’re dying."

"Maybe I am," Jiyong whispered, though the mic didn't catch it.

He took a breath, trying to summon the persona. He thought of the stage, the roar of the crowd, the way they chanted his name like a prayer. It was supposed to be the dream. He had trained for years for this. But as the anxiety began to swell in his chest again—a cold, oily sensation that made his fingers go numb—he realized the dream had become a gilded cage.

Halfway through the third take, the world tilted. Jiyong grabbed the music stand to steady himself, his vision blurring into a kaleidoscope of gray and black.

"Jiyong?" Teddy’s voice sounded far away, like he was underwater.

Jiyong pulled the headphones off, the silence of the booth suddenly deafening. He couldn't get enough air. He fumbled for the door, stumbling out into the control room.

"Whoa, easy," Teddy said, jumping up to catch him as Jiyong’s knees buckled. "Hey, look at me. Breathe."

"I can't," Jiyong gasped, his hands clawing at his chest. "Too many... the lights... I can't do the show. Tell them I can't do it."

Manager Kim, who had been dozing in the corner, was instantly on his feet. He didn't reach for water or a chair. He reached into his bag and pulled out a familiar blister pack.

"He’s having an episode," Kim said, his voice clinical, as if he were discussing a malfunctioning piece of equipment. "Jiyong, take this. It’ll stop the panic."

Teddy looked at the pill, then at Jiyong’s trembling form. "He’s had enough of those, hasn't he? He needs sleep, man. He’s skin and bones."

"He has a schedule," Kim snapped. "The company has invested millions into this comeback. He takes the pill, he finishes the verse, and then he can sleep for four hours before the hair and makeup team arrives."

Jiyong looked at the pill in Kim’s palm. It was a tiny, white circle. It was peace. It was numbness. It was the only thing that would make the world stop spinning so he could do what was expected of him.

With a shaking hand, Jiyong took the pill and swallowed it.

He sat on the sofa, waiting for the chemical blanket to settle over his nerves. Teddy sat beside him, saying nothing, but the pity in the producer's eyes was almost harder to bear than the manager’s coldness.

"I'm sorry," Jiyong whispered after a few minutes, his heart rate finally slowing.

"Don't be sorry," Teddy said quietly. "Be careful, Ji. This industry... it eats people like you."

"I'm already gone," Jiyong replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "There’s only G-Dragon left."

The rest of the night was a blur of lyric sheets and vocal layers. By the time they finished, the sun was beginning to peek over the Seoul skyline, painting the city in shades of bruised purple and orange. Jiyong was ushered back into the van, his body moving on autopilot.

When they arrived at the salon for his hair appointment, a small group of fans had already gathered, despite the early hour. They screamed as soon as the door opened, their cameras clicking like a barrage of gunfire.

Jiyong felt the familiar spike of terror. His breath hitched.

"Smile," Manager Kim whispered, his hand firm on Jiyong’s shoulder, pushing him forward. "Remember who you are."

Jiyong pulled his shoulders back. He adjusted his sunglasses, hiding the dark circles under his eyes. He tilted his head just the right way, a smirk playing on his lips—the signature G-Dragon look.

"Jiyong-oppa! We love you!"

"You look so cool!"

He waved, his movements fluid and practiced. He walked through the gauntlet of adoration, feeling absolutely nothing. Inside, he was screaming, a silent howl for someone to see through the makeup and the clothes.

As the salon doors closed behind him, blocking out the noise, he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. The stylists were already fluttering around him, touching his hair, discussing the color change, pulling at his clothes.

He looked at his hands. They were still shaking, just a little.

"Let's get started," the lead stylist said. "We have a long day ahead of us. You’re the star, Jiyong. Everyone is waiting for you."

Jiyong sat in the chair, closing his eyes as the cold bleach was applied to his scalp. He thought about the weight of the crown he wore. It was made of gold, yes, but gold was heavy. And he wasn't sure how much longer his neck could support the weight before it finally snapped.

"I'm ready," he said to the silence behind his eyelids.

But as the chemicals stung his skin and the exhaustion settled deep into his marrow, Kwon Jiyong wondered if there would be anything left of him by the time the curtains finally closed. He was the favorite, the genius, the idol. He was everything they wanted him to be, and because of that, he was nothing at all.