The sunlight slipped through the gap in my blackout curtains like an uninvited guest, painting a golden stripe across my face before my alarm could blare its synthetic chirp. I groaned into my pillow, the scent of lavender fabric softener clinging to the cotton as I rolled onto my back. Every muscle protested—last night's dance practice had left my body feeling like over-kneaded dough, the kind my grandmother used to smack against the countertop with unnecessary force. For the first time in weeks, my schedule glared emptily back at me from the phone screen. A free day. A real one.
I walked barefoot across the apartment, and the polished concrete floors chilled my soles. The kitchen smelled faintly of yesterday's takeout spicy pork and regret.
Morning chill prickled across my skin as I stretched, my shoulder blades pressing into the refrigerator's cold surface. Butter hissed in the pan, its rich scent cutting through the stale air. I cracked two eggs, one then another, their yolks trembling like liquid gold before settling. In the unforgiving daylight, with my hair sticking up in five directions and black athletic shorts slung so low my hipbones protruded, I looked nothing like Jin of STA, that glittering Kpop idol who commanded stadiums. Just a shirtless, yawning mess, squinting at eggs frying at noon like some college kid who'd partied too hard. A yawn cracked my jaw so wide I heard it pop.
The toast popped as my phone vibrated, a sound that never meant anything good.
[Manager-hyung | 9:47 AM]
Lunch meeting @ Hanam-dong Maison. 11 AM. Small brand ambassadorship. DO NOT BE LATE.
The bite of toast turned to sand in my mouth. A small brand? The kind that paid in exposure and free product samples? I stared at the message until the letters blurred, my thumbnail digging into the phone case. Six years in this industry, seven years of blood-soaked practice rooms and forced smiles at fan signings, and they were still hustling me like I was some irrelevant rookie.
The eggs were gone. The toast, devoured. The bitter black coffee sat half-finished beside my phone, still buzzing with passive-aggressive reminders from my manager. I leaned back in my chair, absently twirling the mug, watching sunlight crawl lazily across the floor like it had nowhere to be. I didn't have that luxury. I never did. Skipping the meeting wasn't an option—not unless I wanted a lecture, a fine, or worse, a quiet punishment dressed up as "discipline." In this world, choices are illusions. You show up, smile, nod, and swallow whatever's handed to you. That's the deal.
I was already shirtless, just in black athletic shorts, the thin waistband clinging to my hips as I stretched and pushed myself up. My body ached in the way only over-practiced routines could produce, a dull, constant hum in my muscles that pulsed beneath my skin like it had a rhythm of its own.
The hot water of the shower hit me like a silent therapist. The pressure, perfect, by design, massaged every knot out of my back, easing tension. The imported French soap smelled of bergamot and sandalwood, luxury distilled into lather, but even that couldn't scrub away the annoyance rising in me.
A small business. They wanted me as their brand ambassador. Why? I was STA's main dancer, not some struggling trainee desperate for exposure, and now I was being pawned off to some startup with a logo probably made in Canva.
I scrubbed harder, as if the irritation was physical.
Wrapped in a thick towel, I padded to the walk-in closet, my personal chaos haven. Nothing too fancy, just rows of soft, oversized hoodies and shirts, slouchy sweatpants in every color imaginable. From mustard yellow to ocean blue, it looked less like a curated wardrobe and more like a rainbow had exploded in cotton form. Folded T-shirts with faded band logos, joggers with loose drawstrings, and jackets that felt like hugs on cold days. I liked comfort over couture. No tight collars or stiff fabrics, just things that moved with me, not against me.
And then… There it was.
Hanging crooked on the corner of a hanger, bright as a fire alarm, was that shirt. Neon pink. "FEED ME" printed in blocky black letters like a demand from a bratty toddler.
The youngest member of our group had slipped it into my duffel bag during our last Tokyo tour, cackling as he zipped it shut. 'Bro, it describes you the best,' he'd said, pointing at the neon-pink letters screaming FEED ME across the chest. An inside joke, one that stuck, because no one in STA devoured meals (or attention) quite like I did
A slow grin tugged at my lips. If they wanted me to meet some tiny brand owner who thought they could afford an STA member, I'd show them what they were buying into. If they expected clean lines and charisma, I'd give them chaos wrapped in bubblegum pink. Let them know I didn't care and didn't give a damn.
I pulled the shirt over my head and caught a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror. My damp hair, still sleek from the keratin-infused spray, stuck to my temples in deliberate waves. The shirt clung to my torso, the lettering stretched just slightly across my chest. The contrast between my designer sunglasses and the offensively pink fabric made it all look… unhinged. Perfect.
This wasn't the style. This was war.
Let them cancel the deal.
Let them regret ever wanting me.
I was going to make sure of it.
The black Genesis coupe purred to life, its leather seats warm from yesterday's sun. I tapped the steering wheel, watching the navigation screen blink:
11:20 AM
Perfect. Just late enough to make it look intentional. Let them wait. Let them fidget. Let them squirm.
I rolled down the window, not for the breeze, but because I wanted to show up smelling like Seoul's entire street food alley. If this "small brand" wanted an idol, let them see what happens when you treat one like a rookie. Let the CEO get a whiff of grilled squid and fried mandu while trying to pitch their bargain-bin vision.
The sharp, greasy aroma rushed in almost immediately. I smiled. Authentic chaos. Nothing Dior could replicate.
As I pulled into the private parking area, I checked myself in the rearview mirror. Hoodie slightly skewed, sunglasses low on my nose, and my obnoxious neon pink "FEED ME" shirt practically glowing. The whole look screamed I don't care, which meant I'd thought about it for a full twenty minutes.
In the elevator, I caught my reflection again. Slow smirk. Lazy stance. One hand in the hoodie pocket. I tilted my head just enough to seem bored but devastating. It was art.
The restaurant doors parted with a gentle sigh of chilled air, laced with the faintest trace of truffle oil, just enough to suggest wealth without proving it.
I stepped inside like a storm made flesh, every movement dripping with the kind of effortless arrogance that came from knowing my face could stop traffic, and my attitude could cause the wreck. The sunglasses stayed on, because let them work for even a glimpse of the eyes that had graced a hundred magazine covers. The hoodie slipped off one shoulder, framing the sharp cut of my jawline, the sinful pout of lips that had trended worldwide after one damn fancam.
I walked like the floor owed me tribute, head tilted just enough to catch the light on my cheekbones, those same goddamn cheekbones my stylist always said were "dangerous without makeup" and "lethal with it." Let them see what they were really buying: not just an idol, but the living proof that perfection could have an edge. The bounce of my hair, the arrogant set of my shoulders, the way my shirt clung to my waist—every detail a calculated middle finger to their corporate expectations.
And when I finally smirked? Let's just say the room forgot how to breathe
But the moment I crossed the threshold.
Nothing.
No murmured greetings. No nervous glances. No PR rep scrambling to pull out a chair. Just a private dining room echoing with absence and the soft hum of air conditioning. A single, pathetic orchid drooped over the centerpiece, petals curling in on themselves like they'd given up waiting. The air conditioning hummed, low and steady, as if laughing at me.
All that buildup. The obnoxiously timed arrival. The shirt. The scent. The walk.
All my effort to look nonchalant was instantly wasted.
My smirk twitched, then surrendered.
Somewhere out there, a clueless CEO was probably stuck in traffic… blissfully unaware they'd just missed the most theatrical entrance ever wasted on nobody.
I waited for what felt like an eternity, my gaze shifting to the empty door every few seconds. Ten minutes passed, and I half-expected some awkward, disheveled guy to stumble in, fumbling with his paperwork, maybe nervously adjusting his glasses. But when the door finally opened, my breath caught in my chest.
She walked in.
The woman who entered was nothing like the image I'd expected. She wasn't just beautiful—she was breathtaking. Her presence was commanding, but it wasn't the kind of forceful presence that screamed for attention. No, it was the kind of quiet elegance that made everyone else in the room feel small by comparison.
Her gait was smooth, almost cat-like, each step purposeful and graceful. The soft click of her boots on the polished floor was the only sound that echoed in the otherwise silent room. She was dressed in an impeccable black suit, sharp, tailored to perfection, with a long, flowing jacket that ended just above her knees. The fabric shimmered slightly as she moved, catching the light in subtle waves, exuding an understated luxury. The trousers were cut perfectly—tight at the waist and hips, flaring just enough at the ankle to showcase the sleekness of her black boots. Every detail was precise, every movement deliberate, as though she were an actress on the grandest stage, and this was her spotlight.
But it wasn't just her clothes that commanded attention. It was her face.
Her dark eyes, warm and inviting, were framed by a hijab of deep black silk, wrapping around her head with effortless grace. I couldn't tear my gaze away. The contrast of her black almond-shaped eyes against the soft, smooth skin of her face created a striking depth. There was a kind of quiet confidence in those eyes, an intelligence that was both commanding and mysterious. They met mine, unwavering, and in that moment, I felt as though I was under a microscope. My heart started racing, and I tried to regain control of my breath.
She stopped before the table and, without a moment's hesitation, pulled out the chair and sat down, the fluidity of her movement a testament to years of practiced poise. Her posture was perfect, straight back, shoulders relaxed, but somehow powerful in its stillness. There was no uncertainty in her actions. She placed her bag gently on the table, its leather gleaming under the soft lighting. She never once looked down, maintaining that steady gaze that seemed to pierce right through me.
And then, after a beat of silence that felt like it lasted far too long, she spoke.
"Hey, Jin Su. How are you doing?"
Her voice was as soft as velvet, warm yet precise, every syllable effortlessly falling from her lips. But there was no smile-no, no flash of excitement. Just a cool, composed greeting. It threw me off. Most people would have been giddy meeting someone like me, especially considering the circumstances. But not her. There was something almost... calculating in her calm, but I couldn't quite place it.
For a moment, I was lost in her presence, unsure how to respond. It was as if my entire persona, my carefully honed idol image, was completely irrelevant in this moment. All I could do was stare into her eyes, still trying to make sense of the woman who, in just a few seconds, had left me completely rattled.
My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth.
"Uh, fine. I'm good," I managed, the words tripping out like I'd forgotten how conversations worked. I cleared my throat, forcing a shrug. "You?"
She tilted her head slightly, observing me the way one might study a sculpture they didn't quite trust not to move.
"Doing well," she said simply. Still no smile.
The silence that followed should have been awkward, but somehow she made it feel… intentional. Like this was part of some unspoken choreography, and I was already out of sync.
"I like it," she said, gesturing to my shirt. "Honest marketing. 'Feed me.' Should I order you something before we begin?"
I blinked. This wasn't going how I'd planned. At all.
Before I could respond, the waiter materialized as if summoned by her will alone. She was speaking - no, commanding in flawless Korean that carried the subtle lilt of someone who didn't just learn the language, but owned it. No fumbling with menus, no awkward pauses. Just precise, culinary terminology that made the waiter's eyebrows lift in professional admiration before he bowed slightly deeper than necessary.
"You speak Korean well," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. My usual effortless charm felt suddenly clumsy, like a child's finger-painting next to a masterpiece.
She took a deliberate sip of water, the crystal glass catching the light. "I should hope so." A beat. The ice cubes clinked softly as she set it down. "I grew up here."
The revelation landed like a carefully placed dagger. Every assumption I'd made about this meeting - about her - shifted uncomfortably in that moment. This wasn't some foreign investor playing at the Korean market. This was someone who understood the game better than I did, who spoke its language in every sense.
voice dripping with practiced nonchalance. "So are you the one who thinks they can afford me?"
Her lips didn't so much as twitch. Instead, she reached into her bag, slow, deliberate and slid a single sheet of paper across the table. The movement was so smooth, so controlled, it felt like a challenge.
I glanced down.
CONFIDENTIAL – AMBASSADORSHIP PROPOSAL
Brand: Noor Cosmetics
Offer: Exclusive 2-Year Global Contract
Compensation: ₩10 Billion ($7.4 million USD)
My breath hitched.
That wasn't small-brand money. That was luxury house money. The kind of deal reserved for top-tier actors or, at the very least, STA's leader, not the main dancer who got memed for his "angry cat" stage expressions.
I looked back at her, my pulse hammering. "This is a joke?"
She finally smiled. It was a small thing, just the barest curve of her lips, but it sent an inexplicable shiver down my spine. "Do I look like someone who jokes, Jin Su?"
Her voice was still soft, still velvety, but there was steel beneath it now.
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. The neon pink of my FEED ME shirt suddenly felt ridiculous.
I stared at the number like it might disappear if I blinked too hard.
₩10 billion.
That was more than I'd made in the past six years combined. Heck, more than most idols would see in their entire careers unless they hit legendary status.
But I couldn't just jump at it.
I leaned back casually, at least, I hoped it looked casual, arms crossed, eyebrows raised like I wasn't already mentally buying my mom a new house.
"I'll think about it," I said coolly, hoping my voice didn't betray how fast my heart was pounding.
Her expression didn't shift. No pushback, no sales pitch.
Of course not. She didn't need to push.
"Okay. I will send you the proposal to your email," she replied, calm as ever. "Accept it or don't."
There was no ego in her tone, just certainty. Like she already knew the answer.
I hated how much power that gave her.
Still, I gave a slow nod, like I hadn't already made up my mind three seconds ago. "I will accept it."
This woman didn't bluff. She didn't beg. She offered.
And for some reason, that made me want to impress her more than any fan, any exec, any award show ever had.
"So," I said, forcing a smirk, "do all your meetings start with making people question their entire career trajectory? Or am I just lucky?"
She finally looked amused. Not quite a smile, but something softer flickered in her eyes.
"Only the ones worth the money."
I swallowed hard, the weight of those words settling somewhere between my pride and my ambition.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to impress her or prove her right.
The waiter arrived just as Eda stood, placing dish after dish in front of me, spiced lamb chops glazed in pomegranate molasses, saffron-infused rice studded with barberries, smoky eggplant dip still bubbling from the oven. The spread was extravagant, fit for a group, not one person.
I blinked. "You're not eating?"
Eda adjusted the strap of her bag, that same infuriating smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "I ordered the food to FEED YOU." She nodded at my shirt, the neon FEED ME glaring back at me. "Unless that was just for show?"
Then, without missing a beat, she pulled a sleek leather wallet from her pocket, peeled off a few crisp bills more than enough to cover the meal and placed them neatly on the table.
The bills landed with surgical precision, crisp, untouched, arranged in a neat fan across the tablecloth. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single note out of place.
She didn't glance at the money. Didn't acknowledge me. Just turned with military precision, her black hijab catching the light as it swayed.
The restaurant's chatter faded into white noise. All I could hear was the measured click of her boots, each step deliberate, unhurried, as she walked away. Even her perfume seemed to retreat on command, leaving only the faintest trace of oud and something citrus-sharp.
I sat there, surrounded by food I no longer wanted, staring at the empty space she'd occupied seconds ago. The lamb chops cooled. The saffron rice lost its luster. Even the steam from the eggplant dip seemed to still, as if holding its breath.