The final encore ended in an eruption of glitter, fire, and cheers.
The lights from the crowd, phones held high, glowed like thousands of tiny stars, all reaching for her.
She bowed once.
Then again.
Then disappeared behind the stage curtain.
It wasn't until the sound of the crowd dulled behind concrete walls and corridors that Seol Hee, better known to the world as Luna Snow, finally let out a long breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Her heels clicked sharply as she walked down the hall, passing sound techs, dancers, and interns all hustling to wrap the show.
Some nodded in respect.
Some beamed like they'd just seen a goddess walk past.
She returned their looks with a polite smile, but a thin one.
The kind she'd learned over years of idol life.
Polite. Composed. Exhausted.
The hallway stretched on, flickering with overhead fluorescent lights.
The familiar hum of post-concert chatter faded the closer she got to her room.
Her dressing room was quiet.
Lavender scent diffused gently in the air.
Clean bottles of water were stacked neatly on the side table.
Her coat, a designer piece she never liked but had to wear for press, lay folded on the couch.
She let the door click shut behind her, leaned against it, and exhaled.
It was over.
The show. The noise. The lights. The persona.
Her reflection in the vanity mirror stared back at her, glamorous and exhausted.
Glitter clung to her lashes.
Her hair still had sculpted waves, though they were starting to fall flat with sweat.
Beneath the dramatic stage makeup, her eyes looked tired.
But sharp. Alert. Alive.
She started pulling off her gloves one finger at a time.
The silence wrapped around her like a weighted blanket.
Peaceful. And somehow... lonely.
Seol Hee never hated performing. In fact, she loved it.
The rush, the rhythm, the way her voice could fill a stadium and feel like it was filling her.
But sometimes... after the adrenaline burned off, the stage felt like a dream, and this room was the wake-up.
She sat at the vanity and started wiping off her makeup with practiced ease.
Then her eyes flicked to the small white square on the table.
She squinted.
It was the piece of paper she'd given that guy.
Saitama.
She blinked in disbelief, leaned over, and picked it up.
Still folded. Unopened.
She stared at it, then let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh.
"Are you kidding me?" she muttered, lips curling into a grin.
She had fans. Hardcore ones. People who screamed her name, waited in lines for days, cried when they met her.
But this guy?
He looked at her like she was a mall kiosk worker offering him a free sample he didn't ask for.
The conversation had been awkward.
So awkward.
But weirdly... refreshing.
She replayed the moment in her head. What supposed to be the highlight of their conversation...
"Hey, thanks for coming."
"Mmm."
"You enjoyed the show?"
"Loud. But the ice stuff was neat."
"...Do you listen to music like this often?"
"Nah. Mostly news"
She'd tried to guide the conversation like she always did, like an emcee steering a hesitant fan.
But he wasn't nervous.
He was just... disinterested.
Not rude.
Just completely, unapologetically normal.
No hidden agenda. No fanboy sparkle. No wide-eyed awe.
Honestly, it had caught her off guard.
Everyone always wanted something. Photos. Shout-outs. Sponsorships.
But him? He just wanted to eat ramen and go home, a simple guy.
And for some reason, she liked that.
She stretched out on the plush couch in the corner of her room, still holding the folded note.
Her heels were off now, tossed somewhere by the makeup cart.
Her hair tie was halfway out. Her phone buzzed with five unread messages, but she didn't check them. Not yet.
"I should be annoyed," she said aloud, as if her staff was listening. "I gave someone my number, and they forgot it five minutes later. That should've been rude..."
She laughed again, genuinely this time, and pressed the back of her head into the cushions.
It wasn't the first time she'd given her number out.
But it might've been the first time she didn't expect anything back.
Why had she done it? Was it curiosity? Boredom?
No, not boredom.
Relief.
Being Luna Snow meant being "on" all the time.
Sparkling. Elegant. Composed.
She had to be inspiring.
Untouchable.
But around Saitama, for those brief, awkward minutes... she felt like she could just be Seol Hee.
A little tired. A little hungry. A little unsure.
He didn't try to impress her.
He didn't even try to flirt.
He didn't care that she was a famous singer or a former Avenger or had ice powers or whatever the tabloids spun up that week.
He was just... there.
Real. Honest. Bored. Hungry.
And it was oddly freeing.
She sighed and finally set the note down on the coffee table, giving it a pat like it was a stubborn cat that wouldn't listen.
"If it's fate," she whispered to no one, "he'll drop into my life again. Probably through the ceiling."
Her phone buzzed again.
This time she checked it.
A few messages from her manager.
One from Jae, her choreographer.
Another from a number she didn't recognize.
She hesitated... then opened it.
It was just an emoji.
🍜
She blinked.
Then laughed.
And laughed harder.
She didn't know if it was him.
Could've been. Could've been a fan. Could've been a bot. Maybe the two girls with him?
Didn't matter.
"Ramen, huh?" she said, pulling a pillow over her head. "Maybe next time."
The lights dimmed as she lay back on the couch, the paper still resting nearby.
She didn't need a reply.
For once, she just liked being remembered... even if it was with a doodle of soup.
(You think that message was Saitama? HELL NAH! IT WAS ME! THE UNBELIEVABLE SHIPPER GWENPOOL! Wade!)
(Alright)
...
The concert crowd had thinned, the streets quieted to a low hum, and the glowing kanji sign of a tucked-away ramen shop flickered in a cozy alley off 10th Avenue.
Inside, the smell of rich broth and sizzling pork belly filled the air.
Neon light cast a pinkish glow over the four odd figures crammed into a booth too small for them, but none of them cared.
Gwen groaned, dramatically letting her head fall against the wall.
"That was so loud. My ears are still vibrating."
Cindy was practically bouncing on the bench. "I touched Luna's hand. Like actually. Physically. Skin contact. Do you think she'll remember me? She smiled. That was for me. I know it."
"She smiled at everyone" Gwen said flatly.
"Shut your unworthy mouth."
Across the table, Saitama slurped his second bowl of miso ramen without ceremony.
He hadn't said a word since they sat down, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction as he consumed each bite like a man fulfilling a sacred ritual.
The bell above the ramen shop's door jingled.
"Sensei."
Genos, dressed in a hoodie and jeans like he was still trying to blend in with humanity, stepped inside, his golden eyes scanning the booth.
His arms hissed quietly, venting heat from whatever he'd been doing.
He gave a small nod to Gwen and Cindy.
"Yo," said Saitama through a mouthful of noodles. "You find anything?"
"Nothing yet," Genos said, sliding into the seat beside him.
"But I triangulated several anomalous energy signatures converging near Times Square. I'll recheck the readings later. First..."
He looked toward the kitchen counter like a soldier awaiting battle.
"...Dinner."
"Oh no," Gwen muttered. "Not again."
Cindy leaned forward. "Again?"
"You weren't there last time," Gwen said grimly. "Dude eats like a dying star trying to swallow a galaxy."
The door to the kitchen slammed open as an old ramen chef appeared, eyebrows rising at the gleam in Genos' eyes.
"One challenge bowl," the cyborg requested calmly.
The chef gave a tired sigh. "Again with the machine boy..."
As the pot clanged in the back, Cindy nudged Gwen. "Think he even tastes the food?"
"No. He measures calories and temperature like a calculator. I saw him once calculate the rate of evaporation of soy sauce."
Genos' special bowl arrived with ceremonial reverence, a towering stack of noodles, pork, egg, bamboo shoots, garlic, and enough broth to drown a small animal.
He bowed politely to the chef before activating his internal furnace.
And then... the eating began.
The slurping was thunderous. Gwen stared. Cindy blinked. Even Saitama paused.
"Damn," he mumbled. "That's fast."
Genos didn't speak, his motions precise, mechanical, terrifyingly efficient.
One minute and thirty-two seconds later, the bowl was empty. The steam still rose.
"Challenge complete," Genos stated.
"New record," the chef muttered, dead-eyed.
"Sensei," Genos turned. "Would you like to challenge me again?"
Saitama yawned. "Nah, I'm good. Gotta keep room for dessert."
Cindy glanced between them, then smirked. "Hey, Gwen. Wanna bet I can beat you in round two?"
"You're on," Gwen said, pointing a chopstick at her. "But loser pays for Genos."
"Wait, wh, NO. No one can afford that!"
The group burst into laughter as a waitress dropped off four more bowls, the clatter of dishes signaling the start of a new (and far more human) ramen battle.
Saitama leaned back, arms folded behind his head, the bustle of conversation and clinking chopsticks filling the air.
He didn't say much, but there was a content peace on his face, the kind that came from good food, familiar voices, and a warm shop on a cold night.
Behind the counter, the chef wiped his hands and looked at the group with tired amusement.
"Superheroes," he muttered. "Eat like monsters. Laugh like idiots."
He said it with a smile.