Han Soorin shifted her weight from one heel to the other, fingers clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, flickering now and then as if mocking her nervous energy. The corridor of the entertainment building smelled faintly of sterilized air, coffee, and something floral—maybe one of the trainees had sprayed too much perfume earlier.
Her reflection in the glass door across from her caught her eye, and for a moment she studied herself the way she imagined others did: blonde hair, not bleached but real, falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Blue eyes that Koreans often stared at first with disbelief, then suspicion, before whispering words like "unnatural" or "show-off."
But she had grown into them, grown to love them even. In Seoul, where colored lenses and wigs ruled the beauty standard, hers weren't fabricated. They were her.
And today—today—they might actually be the reason she'd landed here.
She pressed her lips together, barely able to contain the excitement that bubbled up in her chest. This was it. Han Soorin, twenty-five, half-American, half-Korean, newly arrived in Seoul last year with her parents, about to meet the idols she'd admired from a distance for months.
LUMEN.
The very name had carried her through late nights of loneliness when she struggled with her new life in Korea. Their music, their flawless performances, their interviews where they laughed like they owned the world—it had felt like they were untouchable gods.
And now she was going to work with them.
Millions of won on her paycheck, her own desk in the stylist's room, and of course the very thick Non-Disclosure Agreement she had signed yesterday. She remembered her hand trembling as she wrote her name across the dotted line. The document had been intimidating, but she would have signed it twice if it meant this opportunity.
The door beside her opened with a creak, and Manager Park stepped out. He was a man in his forties, tie slightly loosened, glasses perched low on his nose. He carried the permanent expression of someone who had dealt with more tantrums and disasters than one human being should reasonably endure.
"Soorin, right?" he asked, flipping through a clipboard.
"Yes, sir," she answered quickly, bowing slightly. Her palms were already sweating.
He glanced at her once over the top of his glasses. "New stylist. Makeup artist. You signed the NDA yesterday."
"Yes, sir," she repeated, nodding.
His lips pressed into a thin line, then he sighed as if her presence already exhausted him. "Look, I'll be honest with you. You won't last long."
Soorin blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Don't take it personally," Manager Park said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're number nine. Nine, in one month. The others quit, or cried, or got thrown out. These boys are... delicate. Temperamental. High pressure, high stress. One week, maybe, that's usually the limit."
Her heart skipped a beat. She had expected harsh schedules, maybe the need to cover dark circles and conceal blemishes, but this—his tone made it sound like she was being sent into battle.
Still, she straightened her shoulders. "I'll try my best, sir."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though amused. "That's what they all said. Anyway, they'll be here any minute. Stand straight, don't say too much, do your job, and maybe—maybe—you'll survive."
She swallowed, nodding again.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Heavy, deliberate. A rhythm that quickened her pulse before she even turned her head.
Manager Park muttered, "Here we go," under his breath.
The door at the end of the hall burst open. A gust of air followed, tugging at Soorin's hair, making it flutter across her face. For one ridiculous moment, it felt like a stage effect—a fan placed just right.
And then they appeared.
LUMEN.
Five silhouettes framed by the hallway's light, walking in like gods descending. Perfectly styled hair, casual but impossibly flawless outfits that still looked like they belonged on a runway. Their presence alone shifted the air in the room, as if gravity bent for them.
Soorin's breath hitched. Her eyes darted from one face to the next, but inevitably landed on him.
Jung Haejin.
The leader. Her bias. His black hair gleamed, framing sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to burn even without a stage spotlight. The aura he carried—commanding, untouchable—sent a rush of awe through her chest.
Her hands trembled slightly, but she forced herself to breathe, to stay composed. This was work. She wasn't a fan right now. She was their stylist.
The members entered the waiting room one by one, their manager muttering schedules to them. Soorin bowed politely, voice soft but clear. "Hello. It's an honor to meet you all. I'm Han Soorin, your new makeup artist."
Her gaze flicked nervously to Haejin as she extended her hand slightly in greeting.
For a beat, silence filled the room.
Haejin's eyes dropped to her hand, then back up to her face. His lips curled, not into a smile but something sharper.
"Where are your manners?" His voice was low, cutting. "How old are you anyways? Twenty?"
The words sliced through the air, and Soorin froze.
The other members shifted awkwardly. One of them—Minwoo, if she remembered correctly—glanced at Haejin, then at her, before forcing a smile. "Hyung..." he muttered.
Soorin's lips twitched, but she managed to find her voice. "I'm twenty-five," she said softly, retracting her hand. "Not twenty."
She tried to laugh lightly, as though it were a harmless misunderstanding. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was just blunt. He had the weight of leadership on his shoulders—of course he would be strict.
But the air in the room had thickened, heavy and uncomfortable.
The other members busied themselves—one checked his phone, another adjusted his jacket—but none dared to speak.
Soorin inhaled, willing herself not to falter. She had signed up for this. She could handle it.
Still, her chest ached. The angel she had admired from a distance wasn't smiling. He was glaring, as though she had already failed some invisible test.
His gaze lingered on her, hard and unyielding.
Then, with a voice cold enough to chill the air, Jung Haejin muttered, "I'll make sure you don't last a week either."