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The silence of the dressing room was heavy, thick with the scent of expensive hairspray and the metallic tang of dried sweat. Jiyong sat on the cold tile floor, his back pressed against a row of lockers that felt like ice against his spine. He looked down at his legs—limp, useless things clad in tight leather pants that felt like a second skin he couldn't shed. He had tried to hit them, to punch some life back into the nerves, but they remained unresponsive, heavy as lead.

His phone lay a few feet away, the screen cracked from when he’d dropped it in a panic. The echoes of his manager’s voice still rang in his ears, sharp and jagged. *“If you can’t get up, don’t bother coming back. We can terminate this contract tonight if you’re going to be this difficult.”*

The threat felt like a physical blow to his chest, making it even harder to breathe.

The door burst open, the heavy bang echoing off the walls. Jiyong flinched, pulling his shoulders toward his ears, his social anxiety spiking at the sudden intrusion. He expected the manager. He expected more screaming.

Instead, he saw Youngbae.

Taeyang froze in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on the crumpled figure of his leader on the floor. Behind him, Daesung and Seunghyun pushed their way in, their faces shifting from confusion to sheer horror.

"Jiyong?" Youngbae breathed, rushing forward and dropping to his knees. "What happened? Why are you on the floor?"

"I can't..." Jiyong’s voice was a thin reed, trembling. He reached out, his fingers clutching at Youngbae’s sleeve. "I can't move them, Bae. My legs. They won't work."

Daesung let out a choked sound, his hand flying to his mouth. His eyes welled up instantly, the sight of the usually untouchable G-Dragon looking so small and broken shattering his composure. "Wait, what do you mean you can't move? Did you fall? Are you hurt?"

"I just... I collapsed," Jiyong whispered, his head drooping. "I called the manager. He told me... he told me he'd fire me if I didn't get up. But I can't. I've tried."

Seunghyun’s face went dangerously pale, his jaw tightening so hard the bone looked ready to snap. He stepped toward Jiyong, his tall frame casting a shadow. "He said what? To your face?"

"Over the phone," Jiyong corrected, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the heavy stage makeup on his cheek. "He's in a meeting. He said I'm being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Daesung’s voice cracked, a sob escaping as he knelt on Jiyong's other side. "You're shaking, hyung. You're literally shaking. You haven't eaten anything but vitamins in three days!"

The room felt like it was closing in on Jiyong. The concern of his members was almost as overwhelming as the manager's cruelty. He hated being seen like this—weak, failing, a product that had finally broken under the pressure of the factory line. He felt the familiar prickle of a panic attack rising in his throat, the air in the room turning into thick syrup.

"Move back a little, please. Give him some air."

The voice was calm, a low-frequency hum that cut through the frantic energy of the room. The members looked up as Yon SoHyun stepped inside. He looked exactly as he always did: steady, wearing his casual suit with no tie, his glasses perched neatly on his nose. He didn't look panicked. He looked like a man who had come to fix a problem.

SoHyun walked over and signaled for the others to give Jiyong some space. He sat down on the floor directly in front of Jiyong, ignoring the dust and the grime. He didn't touch him immediately; he knew Jiyong’s boundaries better than anyone in the building.

"Jiyong-ah," SoHyun said softly. "Look at me. Ignore the legs for a second. Just look at my glasses."

Jiyong lifted his gaze, his breathing shallow. He found the steady brown eyes behind SoHyun’s lenses and felt a fraction of the tension leave his shoulders. SoHyun was the only one who didn't treat him like a god or a paycheck. To SoHyun, he was just Jiyong.

"I called him," Jiyong choked out. "He’s going to end the contract, SoHyun. He said I'm done."

"He's in a meeting with people who don't know the situation," SoHyun said, his voice level and unafraid. "He's talking out of frustration, not out of power. He cannot terminate you for a medical emergency, and I will make sure of that. Now, tell me, can you feel your toes?"

Jiyong tried to wiggle them. Nothing. "No."

SoHyun reached out, his movements slow and predictable, and placed a hand on Jiyong’s knee. "It’s exhaustion, Jiyong. Your nervous system has simply shut the doors and gone home. It’s a physical manifestation of burnout. You’ve pushed past the red line for too many months."

"He needs a hospital," Youngbae insisted, his voice tight with protective fury. "We need to get him out of here before the fans see, or before that manager comes back to yell at him again."

SoHyun nodded, looking at the members. "I have a car waiting at the back entrance. No cameras, no staff. Just my personal driver. But we have to move him quietly. If management sees a stretcher, they'll try to spin it as a PR stunt or suppress it entirely."

"I'll carry him," Seunghyun said instantly. He reached down, his large hands sliding under Jiyong’s arms and knees.

Jiyong let out a small, humiliated whimper. "Hyung, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shut up," Seunghyun said, but his voice was thick with affection. "You've been carrying this whole company on your back for years. It’s my turn to carry you for ten minutes."

As Seunghyun lifted him, Jiyong felt the world tilt. He felt so light, so dangerously thin, and he saw the way Daesung had to turn away to hide his crying. It was a somber procession. SoHyun walked ahead, checking hallways and signaling when the coast was clear. They moved through the bowels of the arena, past the glittering costumes and the high-tech equipment that felt like a mockery of Jiyong’s current state.

They reached the black sedan idling in the shadows of the loading dock. SoHyun opened the door, helping Seunghyun settle Jiyong into the back seat.

"I'm coming with him," Youngbae stated, not leaving room for an argument.

"I know," SoHyun said. He turned to the other two. "Daesung, Seunghyun, go back to the dorms. Don't post anything on social media. Don't answer calls from the office. If the manager asks, tell him Jiyong was taken home by his family. I will handle the fallout at the headquarters."

"Will he be okay?" Daesung asked, his eyes red-rimmed.

SoHyun looked at Jiyong, who was leaning his head against the car window, his eyes already drifting shut from the sheer effort of the last hour. "He will be. But things have to change. He can't keep being the 'favorite' if it means he's the one being sacrificed."

SoHyun climbed into the front seat, and the car pulled away from the arena. The silence inside the vehicle was a stark contrast to the screaming fans they had left behind only an hour ago.

Jiyong felt a hand squeeze his. He didn't have to look to know it was Youngbae.

"SoHyun?" Jiyong murmured, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires.

"I'm here, Jiyong."

"Am I in trouble?"

SoHyun sighed, a sound of genuine weariness. He adjusted his glasses and looked at the reflection of the young man in the rearview mirror. Kwon Ji-Yong, the king of K-pop, the fashion icon, the genius producer—reduced to a terrified boy asking if he was in trouble because his body had finally failed him.

"No," SoHyun said firmly. "The company is in trouble. They just don't know it yet. You're going to a private clinic I've arranged. No one gets in without my permission. Not even the CEO."

"The manager said..." Jiyong started, his breath hitching.

"The manager is a man who forgets that he works for you, not the other way around," SoHyun interrupted gently. "Sleep now. I’ll be there when you wake up."

Jiyong wanted to say more, to apologize for being a burden, to ask if he’d ever be able to dance again, but the darkness was pulling at him. The adrenaline that had kept him upright during the showcase was gone, leaving a hollow void in its wake. He let his eyes close, the feeling of Youngbae’s hand and the steady presence of SoHyun acting as an anchor in the storm.

***

The clinic was white and quiet, located on the outskirts of Seoul where the city noise faded into a dull hum. Jiyong woke up to the sound of a heart monitor beeping rhythmically. He felt a sharp sting in the back of his hand—an IV drip, likely filled with the nutrients and fluids he’d been neglecting.

He tried to move his legs.

There was a flicker. A twitch in his right calf. It wasn't much, but it was something. The terror that had gripped him in the dressing room began to recede, replaced by a profound, aching soreness.

"You're awake."

SoHyun was sitting in a chair by the window, a laptop on his knees. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced than before, but he offered Jiyong a small, encouraging smile.

"How long?" Jiyong rasped.

"Twelve hours. You slept through the night. Youngbae is in the lobby; I told him to get some coffee before he faints himself."

Jiyong looked at the IV bag. "What did the doctor say?"

"Severe malnutrition, dehydration, and a temporary neurological shutdown due to extreme stress and physical exhaustion. Your body literally pulled the plug to prevent permanent damage," SoHyun explained. He closed his laptop and stood up. "You need two weeks of bed rest. Minimum."

Jiyong’s heart hammered. "Two weeks? The comeback... the music shows... I have a filming tomorrow."

"You have nothing tomorrow," SoHyun said, his voice taking on a rare edge of steel. "I spent the night in meetings. The manager who threatened you has been reassigned. He won't be coming near you again."

Jiyong blinked, stunned. "You did that?"

"I reminded them that if G-Dragon is hospitalized for 'mysterious reasons' while his manager is shouting threats at him, the stock price would drop faster than they could count. I also reminded them that I have the logs of every hour you've worked this month. They were... cooperative."

Jiyong felt a lump form in his throat. He had spent so long feeling like a puppet, controlled by the whims of a giant corporation that only saw him as a golden goose. To have someone stand up for him—to have someone see the human beneath the glitter—was almost too much to bear.

"Why?" Jiyong whispered. "You could lose your job for going against them like that."

SoHyun walked to the side of the bed and placed a hand on Jiyong’s shoulder. It wasn't the touch of a staff member; it was the touch of a friend.

"Because you're twenty-two years old, Jiyong. And I'd like to see you turn twenty-three. The music can wait. The world can wait. Right now, you’re just a person who needs to heal."

Jiyong looked away, his eyes stinging. For the first time in months, the crushing weight on his chest felt a little lighter. He wasn't the "favorite" today. He wasn't G-Dragon. He was just Jiyong, and for the first time, that was enough.

"Thank you, SoHyun," he murmured.

"Don't thank me yet," SoHyun said, his tone returning to its usual calm. "You still have to eat the hospital porridge. And I'm told it tastes like cardboard."

Jiyong let out a weak, genuine laugh, the sound small but bright in the quiet room. Outside the window, the sun was rising over Seoul, but for once, Jiyong didn't feel the need to run toward it. He stayed right where he was, safe in the silence, waiting for his strength to return.