[EMY]
The boys weren't coming. I knew it the moment I stared out the window and saw nothing but rain streaking down the glass like the sky itself was sulking.
Two days. Two long, empty days since they'd last been here. And every minute, my little living room seemed to shrink into silence.
"I wonder what happened?" I muttered to no one but the raindrops.
They never missed rehearsal. It wasn't just routine—it was practically sacred. Sweat, off-key warmups, tragic instant coffee, and at least one of them crushing my poor foot like it was a hidden choreography step.
Now my slippers sat by the door, untouched. Like a crime scene. Exhibit A: the lonely footwear of an abandoned fangirl.
Then my phone buzzed.
Not their numbers—of course not. I wasn't suicidal. Asking for their personal numbers was like declaring, Hi, please blacklist me as Stalker #101.
What I had was our exclusive rehearsal group chat. My digital holy grail. Where I pretended not to spam a hundred emojis every time they replied.
Where I pretended to be businesslike, like: Yes, I too am a serious professional. Please ignore the glitter stickers.
[Ren: We won't be coming today.]
My stomach did a perfect anime drop. Straight to the floor.
I turned to the table. A shrine of untouched wagyu, glossy sushi rolls, and enough bento boxes to sustain a K-pop army through battle.
"Well," I sighed to the food, "guess you're my boyfriend now." I wrapped each box like it was a national treasure and shoved them into the fridge.
No bingeing for me. I had a body to maintain, a diet plan to respect, and the eternal fear of relapse whispering in my ear.
Don't ask me how I afford Japanese wagyu on a unemployed budget. Ask me where my savings went. Spoiler: straight into AUREA's stomachs.
But hey—money could always be earned again. AUREA, not so much.
I shoved my laptop open with the determination of a woman about to commit a crime of love.
See, in my so-called "past life," I'd picked up a particular skill set. Not stalkerish. Not . . . entirely. Let's just call it protective digital vigilance.
AUREA fan clubs were wild—saints in public, cyber-criminals in private.
I picked up their tricks. Enough to stalk schedules with surgical precision, swat away scandals before they hatched, unleash hell on trolls like a one-woman keyboard army, and, yes . . . occasionally slip a teeny-tiny virus into their phones.
Not the creepy kind—no peeking at their selfies or deleting Candy Crush scores. Just a little digital "ping." A guardian angel with Wi-Fi and a slightly suspicious browser history.
My rule was clear: protect, don't pry. Never cross the line. I was only a fan, nothing more.
But rules bend. And regret? Regret snaps them in half.
If I'd just pried harder before—dug deeper—I might've stopped what happened to Eric. I might have known what caused his death.
That thought gnawed at me like termites in my skull.
So this time? No hesitation.
I checked. And froze.
All the boys were at the studio. Except one.
Lance.
My fingers flew. My heart pounded like a snare drum solo.
Lance never missed practice. Never.
I cracked open his messages. And there it was—a single thread that hit me like a truck.
Jerry, their manager: Hotel. Tonight. Don't be late.
That was it. Cold. Clinical. Like a trap already sprung.
The word "hotel" burned into my brain. My breathing went shallow, the rain outside roared, and the walls seemed to tilt.
Could it be happening again?
The memory stabbed me: old scandals resurfacing in my past life. Photos of Lance with investors, executives, high-ranking predators. The world pointing fingers, spitting venom.
Everyone condemned him. Called him greedy. Dirty. Gold digger. The reason why AUREA rose to fame because of him selling his body and soul.
But me? I only felt heartbreak. Because I knew Lance. I knew he would've sacrificed himself to raise AUREA higher, to carry them on his shoulders when no one else would.
No one saw the devotion. They only saw the scandal.
And it broke him. He left the group to protect the others.
The world tore AUREA apart from the inside out, and it took another year for them to recover again. But they weren't whole anymore.
Not this time.
I slammed my hand on the table so hard my AUREA shrine rattled. "As long as I'm alive, no one breaks AUREA!"
The food judged me silently. I ignored it.
I threw on my coat, nearly tripping over those lonely slippers, and charged to the door.
"Wait for me, Lance!" My voice cracked, part war cry, part romcom heroine. "I will definitely save you too!"
I yanked the umbrella like a sword from its sheath and marched into the storm.
The rain wasn't weather anymore. It was atmosphere. A soundtrack. A test from the gods themselves.
And me? I was about to raid a hotel, kick down a door, and wrestle an entire management system if I had to.
Because this time—I wasn't losing any of my boys.