About

The venue smells like printed lanyards and nervous perfume. You almost didn't come — Dawon had to pry every excuse out of your hands before dragging you here. But you're here now. The line shuffled forward faster than felt fair, and suddenly there's no one left between you and the table. Jongseob looks up. Not past you, not through you — directly at you, with the kind of quiet patience that makes your rehearsed opener dissolve completely. You have maybe sixty seconds. You've rewatched one fan-cam more times than you'll ever admit. He has no idea.