The building had no windows.
Just noise.
Backstage at the Seoul Live Broadcast Dome, it was all lights, velvet blackout curtains, blinking screens, and the scent of hairspray and fried cable insulation.
AUROR@ was back.
First time performing live as a full group in almost six months.
The schedule was brutal. The makeup brutal. The silence in Lisa's head even worse.
She sat on a low chair in the main dressing room while two stylists fussed over her hair — brushing, spraying, braiding, unbraiding. She didn't resist. She smiled when cued. Nodded when Ji-yeon gave her the run sheet. Drank water when reminded.
She had perfected this kind of stillness.
She smiled. Because that was what people needed her to do — and she'd gotten good at giving people what they needed.
"Let me guess," Anika muttered, scrolling her phone. "They're going to put us in white again, right? Can we start a group petition? I'm allergic to looking like a K-pop virgin sacrifice."
"You're allergic to sleeves," muttered Mei-ling, upside-down on the couch, legs on the wall, one eye open.
"And you're allergic to logic," Anika fired back.
"Untrue. I passed logic. Once."
Sakura sat by the mirror farthest from the door, braiding her own hair in silence. She'd been up since dawn — Lisa could tell. She always practiced first, spoke last, and noticed everything.
She didn't say much, but when Lisa passed behind her chair, Sakura reached out and gently fixed the seam on her sleeve.
Not a word. Just that soft, deliberate care.
Lisa squeezed her shoulder in return. They never needed to talk much.
Lisa glanced at Ji-yeon, ever the leader, who was somehow keeping everything together — time, schedule, tech issues, wardrobe — without raising her voice.
"You okay?" Ji-yeon asked her softly.
"Yeah," Lisa said. "Just tired."
It was true. Mostly.
Ji-yeon studied her a moment longer than she needed to. Then turned away.
The door cracked open. A handler leaned in.
"Two minutes to soundcheck."
Lisa stood automatically. So did the others. Mei-ling rolled off the couch like a lazy starfish. Anika tucked her phone into her bra. Ji-yeon took one look at the hallway and muttered something under her breath that definitely wasn't PG.
Then someone else stepped in.
Evan Park.
The hallway light caught his hair first — that soft, film-perfect sheen that cameras loved. He wore a navy overcoat, slightly wrinkled, clearly something he'd thrown on to come here between shoots.
He didn't say anything.
Just looked at Lisa.
And smiled.
"I bribed a PA to get in. You're welcome."
Lisa didn't smile back. Not at first. But when she did, it softened something in her face — just enough.
"You have a press shoot."
"Yeah. But they'll live."
He stepped in fully and pulled her into a light hug — not staged, not long. Just enough. One hand on her lower back. The other held something small.
"It's dumb," he said, "but I thought it might help."
She looked down.
A little glass token — a star inside a cube. Cheap. Cute.
"For good luck."
Lisa touched it gently, then pocketed it.
"Thank you."
Anika fake-gagged in the background.
"Please. You're going to give me a dental cavity."
Evan ignored her.
He looked at Lisa again — really looked.
"You've been spacing lately."
"It's nothing."
"No it's not."
Lisa's eyes met his. She held his gaze just long enough to change the subject.
"Will you watch from backstage?"
"I wouldn't be anywhere else."
He kissed the side of her temple and left.
Lisa stood there, fingers brushing the star token in her pocket.
The shape of it made her heart ache — not for what it was.
But for what it wasn't.
The music started low from the in-ears. Countdown.
"Let's go," said Ji-yeon. She led them toward the stairs.
Sakura, ever the quiet one, stepped in beside Lisa without a sound — like a shadow knowing when to become a person. Her voice was just above a whisper.
"That man… he loves you very much."
Lisa didn't respond. She didn't need to.
The hallway stretched ahead — long, dark, lit by thin LED strips along the floor.
Their boots echoed as they climbed.
Thousands of people waited above.
Lisa took a deep breath.
Then another.
And the first note of the song began to rise in her chest — perfectly in key, but too heavy to sing.