H

The bass was a physical entity. It thrummed through the soles of Jiyong’s expensive leather boots, vibrating up his shins and settling in the cavity of his chest like a restless heartbeat. To anyone else, the rooftop lounge in Gangnam was the pinnacle of idol life—a sea of glittering sequins, the scent of expensive cologne, and the rhythmic clinking of crystal glasses. To Kwon Jiyong, it was a gilded cage designed to suffocate him.

He adjusted the brim of his hat, pulling it lower. At twenty-five, he was the king of the industry, a fashion icon, and a solo powerhouse, but the "G-Dragon" persona felt like a heavy velvet cloak that was beginning to itch. Every time he caught a glimpse of a camera lens or a fellow idol’s lingering stare, his throat tightened. Social anxiety wasn't something a superstar was supposed to have, yet here it was, clawing at his windpipe.

"Just one drink, Jiyong-ah," his manager had whispered earlier that evening. "Network. Smile. Show them you’re still the gold standard."

He had followed the script. He had stood by the marble-topped bar, nodding at the right times and offering the practiced, enigmatic smiles that the public loved. He had ordered a simple gin and tonic, watching the bartender slide it across the smooth surface. He remembered the condensation on the glass, the sharp scent of lime, and the first refreshing sip.

But by the time he reached the bottom of the glass, the world had begun to tilt.

The music, once a rhythmic pulse, turned into a distorted roar. The lights didn't just flicker; they smeared across his vision like wet paint. Jiyong blinked, his eyelashes feeling heavy, as if they were dipped in lead. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, clashing with the artificial warmth of the lounge.

"You okay, GD?" a junior idol from another label asked, leaning in too close. The boy’s face was a blur of pale skin and dark eyes. "You look a little... out of it."

"Fine," Jiyong rasped, though his own voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. "Just need air."

He didn't wait for a response. He pushed through the crowd, his shoulder clipping a waiter, his feet feeling disconnected from his brain. The elevator ride down felt like a freefall. By the time he hit the ground floor, his lungs were burning. He bypassed the valet and the waiting black sedans, his instinct screaming at him to get away from the lights, the cameras, and the people who were already starting to point.

He turned into the first dark gap he found—a narrow alleyway sandwiched between two towering glass buildings. The cool air hit him, but it brought no relief. Instead, his knees buckled.

Jiyong collapsed against a stack of discarded crates, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped his phone. His heart was racing at a terrifying speed, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of ribs. This wasn't anxiety. He knew what a panic attack felt like, and this was different. His skin felt like it was crawling with electricity, and his thoughts were dissolving into a grey sludge.

*Spiked.* The word flashed in his mind like a neon sign. Someone had put something in that drink.

With trembling fingers, he swiped at his phone screen, the light blinding him. He bypassed his friends—he couldn't let them see him like this—and hit the speed dial for the label’s emergency line.

It rang three times. Five.

"Jiyong?" The voice on the other end was harried, the sound of papers shuffling in the background. It was one of the senior coordinators, a man who prided himself on efficiency. "Why are you calling the emergency line? The party isn't over for another hour."

"Hyung," Jiyong choked out, his head lolling against the brick wall. "Something’s... something’s wrong. I’m in the alley. Behind the venue."

"What are you talking about? You’re supposed to be with the CEO of the distribution company."

"Listen to me," Jiyong pleaded, his voice cracking. He felt a wave of nausea roll over him, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from vomiting. "The drink. I think... someone spiked it. I can't move my legs right. I’m shaking. Please, send a car. Get me out of here."

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. Jiyong could hear the faint sound of a television in the office.

"Jiyong-ah," the coordinator finally said, his tone shifting from busy to patronizing. "Did you have a bit too much to drink? We talked about this. You can't let your guard down like that, especially with the comeback schedule being so tight."

"I had one drink!" Jiyong shouted, though it came out as a pathetic whimper. "One! I’m not drunk. I’m... I’m poisoned. I think someone followed me. I saw a shadow at the end of the alley."

"You’re being paranoid," the voice sighed. "It’s the stress. You’ve been working twenty-hour days in the studio. You probably just had a drop in blood sugar or a mild panic attack. Go back inside, find your manager, and have a glass of water. We can't send a security detail just because you’re feeling a bit woozy. Do you know how that would look if the press saw us hauling you out of an alleyway? 'G-Dragon Can’t Handle His Liquor.' Think of the brand."

"I am thinking of the brand!" Jiyong’s vision was failing now, dark spots blooming like ink in water. "I’m telling you, someone did this on purpose. I’m scared, hyung. Please."

"Call us in the morning when you’ve slept it off," the coordinator said firmly. "And Jiyong? Don't make a scene. Just get a taxi home if you really can't go back in. We’ll talk about your behavior tomorrow."

The line went dead.

Jiyong stared at the darkened screen, a single tear escaping and tracking a hot path through the makeup on his cheek. The betrayal stung worse than the drug coursing through his veins. They didn't believe him. To them, he wasn't a human being in danger; he was an asset that was currently malfunctioning.

He tried to stand, his fingers clawing at the rough brick, but his muscles felt like water. He slid back down, his designer jacket catching on a stray nail, tearing with a sharp *rip* that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet alley.

His phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the damp pavement. He reached for it, but his arm wouldn't obey.

Then, he heard it.

The crunch of gravel. A slow, deliberate footfall.

Jiyong’s breath hitched. He squinted into the darkness at the mouth of the alley. A silhouette stood there, framed by the distant, mocking glow of the streetlights. The figure was tall, dressed in nondescript dark clothing, a cap pulled low just like his own. But while Jiyong wore his for privacy, this person wore theirs for erasure.

"Help," Jiyong tried to say, but his tongue felt thick, a useless piece of meat in his mouth.

The figure didn't call out. They didn't offer a hand. They simply clicked a small device in their hand—the telltale sound of a high-end camera lens zooming in.

*Flash.*

The white light burned into Jiyong’s retinas, leaving him momentarily blind.

"Stop," he wheezed, tucking his chin into his chest, trying to hide his face. "Please."

The stranger stepped closer. Jiyong could smell them now—a sharp, metallic scent, like copper and cheap detergent. He felt a hand reach out, not to help him up, but to grab the collar of his jacket, hauling him upward just enough to tilt his face toward the light.

"You look pathetic, G-Dragon," a voice whispered. It was a flat, emotionless sound. "The world thinks you’re a god. But gods don't bleed out in the dirt, do they?"

Jiyong tried to fight, but his limbs were leaden anchors. He was trapped in his own body, a passenger in a vehicle that had lost its brakes. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs—*thump-thump, thump-thump*—as if it were trying to break free and run away without him.

"What do you... want?" Jiyong managed to gasp.

The grip on his collar tightened. "I want people to see the truth. I want to see what happens when the gold plating chips off."

The stranger pulled a small syringe from a pocket. Jiyong’s eyes widened, the terror finally breaking through the drug-induced haze. He struggled, a low moan vibrating in his throat, but the stranger was far stronger in this moment.

"This will make sure you stay quiet while we go to the second location," the voice said, almost soothingly. "Your label was right about one thing, Jiyong. You really shouldn't have let your guard down."

As the needle pricked the skin of his neck, Jiyong looked up at the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings. The stars were invisible, drowned out by the city lights. He thought of the party upstairs—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the music that was still playing, oblivious to the fact that its king was being stolen.

The darkness didn't come all at once. It drifted down like snow, cold and silent, covering everything until the alley, the stranger, and the fear all faded into a heavy, suffocating nothingness.

His last thought, bitter and sharp, was of the phone call.

*I told you,* he thought toward the distant, silent office of his label. *I told you someone was planning something.*

Then, there was only the sound of the wind whistling through the crates and the distant, rhythmic beat of a party he was no longer invited to.