Bb

The bass was a physical entity, a blunt-force trauma that rattled the ribcage and made the marrow in Jiyong’s bones ache. Behind the heavy velvet curtains of the stage wing, the world was a chaotic blur of black-clad stagehands, tangled cables, and the sharp, antiseptic scent of hairspray.

Kwon Jiyong, known to the screaming thousands outside as the indomitable G-Dragon, sat hunched on a flight case. His head was tucked between his knees, his fingers clawing at the scalp beneath his meticulously styled peroxide-blonde hair. The sequins on his jacket felt like a suit of armor that had grown too small, crushing the air out of his lungs.

"I can't," he whispered, the words lost to the roar of the crowd. "I can't go out there."

The air felt thin, as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the room by the giant industrial fans cooling the stage equipment. His heart was a frantic bird trapped in a cage, beating against his ribs with a violence that made him nauseous.

"Jiyong, stand up."

The voice wasn't kind. It wasn't the voice of a friend or a healer. It was the voice of Manager Park, a man whose primary concern was the quarterly earnings report and the precise timing of the pyrotechnics.

"I... I can't breathe," Jiyong gasped, looking up. His eyes were wide, the dark kohl liner smudged by the cold sweat trickling down his temples. "Park-nim, please. Just five minutes. I need to—"

"You need to do your job," Park interrupted, checking his watch with a click of his tongue. "You’ve had three of these 'episodes' this week. The fans didn't pay for a panic attack; they paid for G-Dragon. You’re twenty-two years old, Jiyong. Act like a professional."

Park reached down, grabbing Jiyong’s elbow and hauling him upward. Jiyong stumbled, his legs feeling like jelly. The social anxiety that had dogged him since his trainee days had mutated into something more predatory, a monster that fed on the very spotlight he was forced to inhabit.

"Look at me," Park commanded, shaking him slightly. "The lights are going to go down. You’re going to walk to the center mark. You’re going to perform 'Heartbreaker.' If you miss a beat because you're hyperventilating, the label will dock the production costs from your next royalty check. Do you understand?"

Jiyong swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. He wanted to scream that he was dying, that his soul was being ground into dust by the expectations of millions, but the words wouldn't come. He was a product. A golden goose. And the goose wasn't allowed to have a nervous breakdown on company time.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"Louder."

"Yes, I understand."

A stylist rushed over, frantically dabbing at his face with a powder puff to hide the pallor of his skin. She didn't look him in the eye. No one did when he was like this. It was as if his vulnerability was contagious, a disease that might infect the carefully curated image of the YG powerhouse if they acknowledged it for too long.

The lights in the arena cut to black. The roar of the crowd shifted from a dull hum to a deafening, predatory shriek.

"Go," Park shoved him toward the stairs.

Jiyong stepped out. The moment the spotlight hit him, a mask slid into place. It was a reflex, a survival mechanism honed over years of grueling practice. He sneered, he tilted his head with a practiced arrogance, and he commanded the stage. But inside, he was still the boy on the flight case, screaming in silence.

***

Two hours later, the adrenaline had vanished, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. The van ride back to the dorms was silent, save for the tapping of Manager Park’s fingers on his tablet. Jiyong leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the neon signs of Seoul blur into long, jagged lines of light.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't check it. He knew what it would be: praise from fans who didn't know him, or messages from the label heads reminding him of the recording session at 6:00 AM.

"We're stopping by the office first," Park said without looking up. "President Yang wants a word about the mid-concert slump. He thinks your energy was low during the second act."

Jiyong felt the familiar tightening in his chest. "I did my best. I was... I was struggling."

"Your best isn't enough when the brand is at stake," Park replied coldly. "You need to get a grip on this anxiety, Jiyong. It’s becoming an inconvenience. We’ve been very patient, but there are dozens of trainees downstairs who would kill to have your 'struggles.'"

Jiyong closed his eyes. The "patience" the label spoke of usually involved forcing him into cold showers to shock his system out of a panic attack or threatening to cancel his solo promotions if he didn't "tighten up." They treated his mental health like a faulty piece of equipment that just needed a firm kick to start working again.

When they arrived at the YG building, the hallways were quiet, bathed in the eerie blue glow of the security lights. They headed to the executive wing. Jiyong felt small in his oversized hoodie, his sequins left behind in the dressing room, leaving him exposed.

In the small waiting area outside the main office, Jiyong felt the walls begin to close in again. The silence was worse than the noise. In the silence, he could hear his own thoughts, and they were telling him that he was a fraud, that he was breaking, that he wouldn't survive another year of this.

"Sit," Park directed, pointing to a sleek, uncomfortable leather chair. "I’m going to get the files. Don't move."

Left alone, Jiyong felt the first wave of the next attack. It started in his fingertips—a tingling numbness that spread up his arms. The air in the hallway turned to lead. He tried to remember the breathing exercises his secret therapist had told him about—the one the label didn't know about because they didn't believe in "outside interference"—but the counts of four were drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.

He slid off the chair and onto the floor, tucking himself into the corner where the wall met a tall potted plant. He needed to be small. If he was small enough, maybe the world would forget he existed.

"Please," he whimpered, grabbing his own shoulders. "Please, stop. Just stop."

"What are you doing on the floor?"

Jiyong flinched. It was a junior manager, a man named Choi who was known for being even more ruthless than Park. He stood over Jiyong, looking down with an expression of pure annoyance.

"I... I can't... the lights..." Jiyong gestured vaguely at the ceiling, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

"Get up, Jiyong. You look pathetic," Choi said, reaching down to grab the hood of Jiyong’s sweatshirt. He yanked upward, forcing Jiyong to find his feet. "If a photographer saw the Great G-Dragon whimpering in a corner like a kicked dog, do you have any idea what that would do to the stock price?"

"I'm sick," Jiyong choked out, his eyes streaming with tears he couldn't control. "I think I'm actually sick."

"You're tired. Everyone is tired," Choi snapped. He leaned in close, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "You think you're the only one who gets nervous? You think the other members don't have it hard? You're the leader. You're the face of this company. Start acting like it, or we’ll find someone who can handle the pressure without crying every time the wind blows."

The cruelty was a bucket of ice water. Jiyong’s sobbing hitched, caught in his throat. He looked at Choi and saw not a mentor or a protector, but a jailer. To them, his panic wasn't a cry for help; it was a breach of contract.

"I'm sorry," Jiyong said, his voice dead. He wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing the last of the makeup he hadn't washed off.

"Good. Now fix your hair. You’re going into that meeting and you’re going to apologize for your performance tonight. And tomorrow, you’re going to show up at the studio an hour early."

Choi walked away, leaving Jiyong standing in the middle of the hallway. He felt hollowed out, a shell of a person. He looked at his hands; they were still shaking, but he shoved them into his pockets so no one would see.

He walked toward the office door, each step feeling like he was walking toward a gallows. He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he just kept walking—past the office, down the stairs, out the front doors, and into the Seoul night until he disappeared.

But he knew he wouldn't. He was Kwon Jiyong, the boy who had spent half his life chasing this dream, only to find it was a nightmare he wasn't allowed to wake up from.

He reached the door and paused, taking one last shuddering breath. He adjusted his posture, tilting his chin up, letting the cold, arrogant mask of G-Dragon settle over his features. It was a heavy mask, and it was cracking, but it was all he had left to protect the broken boy underneath.

He opened the door.

"Ah, Jiyong," the President said, sitting behind a desk that cost more than Jiyong’s first apartment. "Sit down. We have a lot to discuss regarding your attitude."

"I apologize for the delay, sir," Jiyong said, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "It won't happen again."

The lie tasted like copper in his mouth, but the room stopped spinning. For now, the monster was satiated. For now, the golden goose was back in its cage. As the meeting dragged on into the early hours of the morning, Jiyong sat perfectly still, a masterpiece of composure, while inside, he counted the seconds until he could be alone in the dark again.

He realized then that the label would never save him. They would only ever keep him from drowning just enough so that he could keep singing while submerged.

When the meeting finally ended at 4:00 AM, Park led him back to the van. The sun was beginning to bleed over the horizon, a bruised purple and orange.

"See?" Park said, almost pleasantly, as he opened the van door. "You handled that just fine. You just need to stop overthinking things, Jiyong. You're your own worst enemy."

Jiyong climbed into the back seat and didn't respond. He pulled his hood up, shielding his eyes from the growing light. He wasn't his own worst enemy. His enemy was the clock, the contract, and the terrifying realization that he had become a god to people who didn't care if he was human.

As the van pulled away, Jiyong closed his eyes and tried to find the rhythm of his own heart. It was still fast, still frantic, but he forced himself to breathe through it. He had a recording session in two hours. He had a photo shoot at noon. He had a world to conquer.

And he would do it all while suffocating, because that was what they expected of him. That was the price of the crown.

He reached into his pocket and gripped his phone, his thumb hovering over the contact for his mother. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was scared. But then he remembered Choi’s voice—*pathetic*—and he put the phone away.

G-Dragon didn't get scared. G-Dragon didn't need his mother. G-Dragon was a star, and stars were meant to burn until there was nothing left but ash.

He leaned his head back against the leather seat and watched the city wake up, a silent spectator to his own life, waiting for the next time the curtains would part and the world would demand he be something other than a boy who just wanted to breathe.