( flash back)
Two months before I returned to the capital to die, I sent my résumé to an entertainment company.
At the time, I was just a twenty-one-year-old multimedia architect trying to survive on freelance videography gigs. Music had always been the only thin thread tying my fractured mind together, so when a random opening for a media planner popped up online, I applied without thinking.
Then, I forgot about it. Life under the suffocating shadow of my family didn't leave room for hope.
Two months passed in total silence. I assumed I had been filtered out, dismissed as invisible just like I had been my entire life.
Then came a Tuesday morning.
I was sitting at the cramped kitchen table, watching Anna methodically eat her cereal across from me. She was so small then, her tiny fingers gripped tightly around her spoon, completely safe in her innocence. Half-asleep, I opened a new notification on my phone.
My hand froze. My pulse dropped straight into my stomach.
"Rider Entertainment."
I blinked, the blue light of the screen burning into my retinas. I read it a second time. A third. The text didn't change. It was the absolute monolith of the industry—the empire that managed "Rider". The same group whose songs had kept me from throwing myself off a bridge when I was twelve; the same leader whose velvet voice still occupied a toxic, embarrassing amount of space in my chest.
Across the table, Anna paused, her spoon hovering. "Appa, are you okay?"
I cleared my dry throat, forcing my phone face-down against the wood. "I'm fine, baby."
She narrowed her eyes with that fierce intelligence she inherited from nowhere. "You look weird."
"I am perfectly normal," I lied. "Eat your cereal."
I wasn't normal. The trap was already opening beneath my feet, and I was smiling at the bait.
The day of the interview arrived with the suffocating speed of a execution.
Standing outside the towering glass-and-chrome fortress of Rider Entertainment's headquarters, I had to physically force my lungs to take in air. "You are not a fan today, Sok-joo," I repeated to myself like a mantra. "You are a professional videographer. An adult. A grown man."
A grown man who had once stood in a torrential downpour for three agonizing hours just to watch Charlie walk from a tinted van into an elite venue.
I swallowed the humiliation of the memory and stepped through the sliding glass doors. The interior was blindingly white, immaculate, and absolutely covered in massive promotional posters. Everywhere I looked, "they" were watching. Magazine covers, global accolades, platinum records. It didn't feel like a corporate office; it felt like a shrine built to worship five untouchable gods.
I tried to keep my eyes glued to the floor. I failed.
As the receptionist led me down a pristine hallway, we passed a soundproof practice room with a massive glass wall. My entire brain stopped functioning.
Through the glass, I saw them. Rider.
They were sweating, laughing, correcting each other's choreography under the harsh fluorescent lights. They looked so terrifyingly "normal". Stripped of their stage makeup and expensive styling, they just looked like beautiful, ordinary young men working a job. And that normality made them seem even more unreal.
Without realizing it, the ancient instinct to shrink—to become a phantom—took over. I physically pressed my back flat against the wall, trying to dissolve into the white paint.
"Why are you hiding?" the receptionist asked, halting.
My heart nearly leaped out of my throat. "I'm not hiding."
She raised an eyebrow, looking at my rigid posture. "You are literally glued to the wall, sir."
"I was just..." I searched my panicked mind for a rational excuse. "...stretching. It's an advanced technique."
She let out a pitying laugh. "Your interview room is at the end of the hall. Try not to break anything while stretching."
I nodded numbly, rushing past her before the heat in my face could consume me.
The interview itself was a blur of survival. Three stern executives stared at my portfolio, testing my ability to handle high-stress cinematic environments, dynamic lighting, and rapid turnarounds. Driven by pure adrenaline, I managed to mask my internal chaos with a calm, articulate professional veneer.
"We'll be in touch," the lead manager said with a sharp, corporate smile.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I let out a ragged, shaking breath. I had survived. I walked toward the elevators, my fingers trembling as I pressed the down button.
The metallic doors slid open. I stepped into the empty car.
But before the doors could seal, a wave of loud, familiar voices echoed down the marble corridor. A split second later, several bodies burst into the elevator, laughing over one another, bringing with them the distinct, expensive scent of designer cologne and heavy sweat.
My air supply completely cut off.
It was them. The members of Rider crowded into the small space, completely oblivious to the ghost standing in the corner. I squeezed myself against the handrail, praying the floor would swallow me.
Then, I looked up.
Charlie was standing directly in front of me. Close enough that if I breathed too deeply, my chest would brush against the fabric of his oversized black hoodie.
For seven years, this man had existed only as pixels on a screen, a savior I had fabricated in the dark to keep myself alive. Now, I could see the faint pulse vibrating in his throat. I could see the sharp, predatory cut of his jawline.
My eyes widened. I stared. I knew it was dangerous, knew it was pathetic, but my brain completely abandoned me.
As if sensing the intense weight of my gaze, Charlie slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine.
For one agonizing second, a strange, toxic flicker passed through his expression—not just confusion, but a sharp, calculating assessment. To him, I was just a nameless, low-tier applicant staring at him like a piece of meat in an elevator. But there was something deep in his eyes—a cold, commanding aura that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. It didn't feel like sunlight anymore. It felt like a trap snapping shut.
The doors opened on the ground floor. The members poured out, still joking, Charlie seamlessly melting back into his role as their flawless leader.
The doors closed again. My knees instantly gave out.
I slid down the cold metallic wall of the elevator, my breath coming in ragged, pathetic gasps. "What the hell is wrong with me?" I whispered into the empty car.
Outside, the afternoon sun felt mocking. I stood on the sidewalk, a nervous, hysterical laugh escaping my lips. I had actually looked into his eyes. I felt a surge of naive, foolish joy. I even took a small, ridiculous step—a tiny dance on the concrete, thinking my miserable life was finally turning around.
"Splash."
A black luxury sedan tore through a deep puddle at the curb, throwing a massive, violent wave of filthy, oil-slicked water directly over me. It drenched me from head to toe, ruining my only good suit, leaving me shivering and dripping in the middle of the crowded avenue. The car didn't even tap its brakes. It just sped away, its tinted windows reflecting the cold sky.
I stood there in stunned silence, dirty water dripping from my hair. I looked up at the glass towers.
"Okay," I whispered, the cold settling into my bones. "I probably deserved that."
That evening, I met my only friend, Ji-hyuk, at our usual dim café. The moment I sat down, dripping with the faint scent of street rain, he knew I was unraveling.
"You look like you just witnessed a murder," he murmured over his coffee.
"I had the interview," I said, my voice dead. "At Rider Entertainment."
His eyes widened. "And?"
I told him everything. The practice room. The elevator. The suffocating weight of Charlie's eyes. By the time I finished, Ji-hyuk was practically vibrating with secondhand excitement.
"Wait, you were in a confined space with them? Charlie was right there, and you didn't even say your name?" He slapped the table. "Sok-joo, you are unbelievable! You should have fainted on him! At least then he'd remember your face!"
Before I could reply, the phone on the table violently vibrated.
"Unknown Number."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless void. With a shaking finger, I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Good afternoon. Is this Mr. Kim Sok-joo?" a sharp, formal voice asked. "This is the executive talent acquisition team at Rider Entertainment."
The ambient noise of the café completely faded into white static. "Yes. Speaking."
"We've reviewed your media portfolio and your psychological evaluations from the interview," the voice continued, smooth as polished ice. "We would like to officially offer you a position within the company."
A massive, brilliant smile broke across my face. I looked at Ji-hyuk and nodded frantically. He let out a silent cheer.
"Thank you so much," I breathed. "I can start on Monday—"
"However," the caller cut me off, their tone turning dropped and chillingly deliberate. "There has been a structural reassessment regarding your application. You will not be joining the multimedia or videography team."
My smile died. The blood in my veins turned to slush. "I... I don't understand. Is the position closed?"
There was a heavy, sinister pause on the other end of the line. I could hear the faint sound of papers shuffling—or perhaps it was a smile forming on the speaker's face.
"The board has redirected your file, Mr. Kim. Effective immediately, you are being hired under a specialized, high-security contract. You will be joining Rider as their exclusive, personal manager."
The café vanished. The world tilted violently on its axis, throwing me into a darkness I couldn't fathom.
Manager.
To be the keeper of their secrets. To live in their pockets. To be at the beck and call of the man who had kept me alive through a pair of cheap headphones.
The phone slowly slipped from my paralyzed fingers, clattering loudly against the table. Everything went blindingly white.
I thought I had just been given a miracle. I thought the universe was finally choosing me.
I didn't know that the contract had already been signed in blood by the Venzagrase matriarch. I didn't know that Charlie had already looked at my interview file and smiled. I didn't know that by walking through those doors on Monday morning, I was handing my executioners the keys to my life.