The International Idol Awards were more than an event. Held in the gleaming heart of Seoul, the ceremony transformed the city into a shrine of spectacle. Towering LED screens lit up the skyline, broadcasting countdowns and teaser clips. Fans flooded the streets in coordinated colors, waving lightsticks and banners, their voices rising in rhythmic chants that echoed like a heartbeat. Inside the venue, the air shimmered with anticipation, thick with the scents of perfume, hairspray, and the electric hum of live broadcast equipment.
Tonight, the world watched.
Huntrix and Saja Boys
Two names that had become legends, magnetic, divisive. The crowd didn’t just expect performances.
But backstage, the mood was quieter. Sharper. The back entrance, reserved for idols only, was tucked behind a velvet partition and guarded by staff with earpieces and clipboards. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined with polished concrete and soft golden uplighting that cast long shadows on the floor. It smelled faintly of roses and adrenaline.
The hallway stretched like a liminal space between worlds. Neither stage nor sanctuary, but something in between. The walls were lined with muted gold panels, their sheen catching fragments of light from overhead fixtures.
Footsteps echoed in rhythm, sharp and deliberate, as Huntrix made their way toward the assigned waiting area. Their outfits shimmered with performance polish—black and white tailored with gold accents, each member a blade honed for battle. The air was thick with anticipation, but beneath it pulsed something colder: resentment, betrayal, memory.
Yena walked a step behind with Bobby, her pale blue dress softer than the others’ armor-like attire. The mesh sleeves brushed her skin with every movement, grounding her in the moment. She wasn’t performing tonight. The VIP lanyard around her neck swung gently as she walked, a small rectangle of laminated authority that felt strangely heavy. It reminded her of her intern days—when she’d fetch water, run errands, and watch from the wings while others took the stage. But she took it all in stride by hiding her inner feelings for now.
She felt the shift before she saw it, the change in atmosphere, the subtle drop in temperature. Her gaze flicked up and then away, just as the Saja Boys appeared from the other end of the hallway.
Rumi held her expression like a mask—neutral, unreadable, the kind expected of a leader who must not flinch. She didn’t look at anyone in particular, but her presence was unmistakable. Composed, commanding, and distant.
Zoey walked with her chin slightly raised, her eyes scanning ahead until they landed on the approaching figures. Her stare wasn’t overtly hostile, but it carried a quiet edge. Probably annoyance, perhaps, or fatigue from the constant posturing. Mira, beside her, didn’t bother with subtlety. Her glare was sharp, direct, a challenge issued without words.
The Saja Boys moved like a unit, but each carried his own storm. Baby at the back with a casual stride, hands in his pockets, chewing gum like he had nowhere better to be. His eyes barely registered the girls. Mystery was calm and unreadable while Abby’s glare was unmistakable. Sharp, bitter, his jaw clenched as if holding back words that would only escalate.
Romance walked beside him, his posture rigid, his eyes locked onto the girls with a cold intensity that made the hallway feel narrower. His glare was deliberate. It landed first on the three main girls, but when his eyes reached Yena, something shifted. The tension in his shoulders faltered, just slightly. His expression softened—not enough to be called gentle, but enough to betray something unspoken.
Jinu was at the forefront of the group, his expression cool, his stride smooth. He didn’t look at Rumi, not directly. But as he passed her, his lips curled into a short, side smile. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it lingered in the air like perfume.
Rumi didn’t react. Her face remained neutral, but her eyes followed him, sharp and calculating. Yena didn’t meet Romance's gaze. She had already turned her head, pretending to study the hallway wall, her fingers brushing the lanyard at her neck. But she felt it. She didn’t look back, and she guessed he didn't too.
The two groups passed each other in silence, the tension between them palpable. No words were exchanged. No gestures made. But the hallway felt scorched by the time they reached opposite ends. It was a battlefield without weapons, a war fought in glances and posture, in the weight of what hadn't been said.
Yena had sat on the lounge. It was quieter there. Plush seating, soft lighting, and a monitor streaming the live feed. She sank into a velvet armchair, smoothing her dress, eyes fixed on the screen. The crowd outside roared as the announcer began their introductions, voices crisp and theatrical.
Stylists darted between racks of clothing, producers barked into headsets, assistants carried trays of water and throat lozenges. The girls were ushered toward their prep zone, where final touch-ups and mic checks awaited.
The waiting room was hushed, cloaked in a kind of stillness that felt almost sacred. Outside, the muffled roar of the crowd pulsed like a distant heartbeat, but in here, time seemed to stretch and slow. The walls were lined with soft velvet panels, the lighting warm but dim, casting gentle shadows across the girls’ faces. A monitor in the corner streamed the live show, muted, its flickering images ignored.
Each girl had retreated into her own rhythm.
Mira sat by the vanity mirror, legs tucked beneath her, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze was fixed on her reflection, but not with vanity—more like she was searching for something behind her own eyes. Rumi paced slowly near the door, her steps deliberate, like she was trying to walk off a storm that hadn’t yet arrived. Zoey was curled in a chair, phone in hand, scrolling with a kind of practiced detachment. Her thumb moved, but her eyes didn’t really focus.
And Yena… she sat on the couch, spine too straight, fingers tangled in her lap like they were trying to hold her together.
Bobby came and went, his presence brief and functional. “Five minutes until mic check.” “Stage manager says you’re next after the Saja Boys.” “Don’t forget to hydrate.” His voice was clipped, efficient, but kind. He didn’t linger. He didn’t ask how they were. Maybe he knew better.
No one spoke. It wasn’t tension, exactly. It was something quieter. Like the silence that follows a shared dream no one wants to wake from. Or the hush before a confession.
Yena’s eyes flicked from one girl to the next. Mira’s quiet grace. Rumi’s steady pacing. Zoey’s restless scrolling. They were here, physically close, but emotionally… she felt like she was watching them through glass. Like she’d slipped behind some invisible barrier and couldn’t find the door back.
Her chest tightened.
Everything that had happened since she returned to Seoul pressed against her ribs like a weight. Rumi's voice. The demon boyband. Meeting Romance. Secret meetings with him. Huntrix is breaking apart. The date. Those past-life memories. The overall dread. It all blurred together, a montage of moments that didn’t feel like hers anymore. She thought of China—of the quiet mornings, the anonymity, the space to breathe. She’d left that behind, thinking she was ready. Thinking she could carry it all.
But she wasn’t sure anymore.
She cleared her throat. It was soft, barely audible, but enough to shift the air. Mira looked up first, her eyes gentle. Rumi paused mid-step, turning slightly. Zoey lowered her phone, brows raised. They didn’t speak. They just waited.
Yena hesitated.
A cold rush ran through her veins, like fear had reached up from her spine and wrapped itself around her throat. Her fingers clenched tighter. Her heart thudded. She hadn’t planned this. She didn’t know how to begin. But something inside her had cracked open, and the words were rising whether she was ready or not.
“I haven't been doing great,” she said quietly.
The room didn’t react. No gasps. No interruptions. Just silence—soft, respectful, expectant.
She exhaled, long and slow, like she was releasing something heavy.
“I haven’t been the same since I came back to Korea,” she continued, voice trembling. “There’s been… a lot. Things I haven’t talked about, and I don’t know how to keep pretending it’s fine.”
Her eyes dropped to her lap, ashamed of the tears threatening to rise. She hated crying in front of them. Hated feeling weak. But she hated the silence more.
Rumi stepped closer, her voice low and warm. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with us.”
Yena looked up, startled by the softness in her tone. Rumi wasn’t usually the first to speak in moments like this. But there was something in her eyes—something that said she understood more than she let on.
Easy for you to say, Rumi, Yena thought to herself. When you have been seeing Jinu, for what?
Mira leaned forward, her expression open, concerned. Zoey’s phone was forgotten in her lap, her gaze locked on Yena, brows drawn in quiet worry.
Yena swallowed hard. “I keep thinking maybe I should’ve just stayed in China,”
“Away from all this. Away from the pressure. From… everything. But I know it wouldn’t have changed anything. I'm still the same as when I left. A mess.” She admitted. Her voice cracked on the last word.
To them, they thought she was talking about the idol life. But for Yena, she was talking about everything. The past-life memories. The demon that she wasn't supposed to be conversing with. The ache of being seen and not understood. The fear of being loved and then abandoned.
“I feel like I’m not worthy to be a hunter,” she whispered. “Celine was right about me.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Lows gasps. Full of the weight of everything they hadn’t said to each other.
Zoey sat beside her, close but not touching. Mira moved to the floor in front of the couch, her hand resting lightly on Yena’s knee.
Rumi shifted closer, her voice quiet. “No, Yena. You are more than worthy. Never doubt that.”
Yena blinked, the tears finally spilling over. Her breath trembled as she sat surrounded by her group, the silence between them now thick with something unspoken. Her confession had cracked the surface, but what lay beneath was darker, stranger, and harder to name.
She stared at her hands, still knotted in her lap, and felt the pulse of something in her chest. It wasn’t just anxiety. It was a fear, whatever form it took. It was the echo of something that didn’t belong to this life—and yet, it did.
“I’ve been… seeing things,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Memories. But not mine. Not from this life.”
The words hung in the air like smoke. Rumi blinked slowly, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came. Zoey tilted her head, brows furrowed, eyes wide with a kind of childlike wonder, her phone now forgotten entirely. Mira’s mouth twitched, caught between a scoff and a gasp.
Yena didn’t elaborate. She didn’t explain the river, or the kiss, or the way Romance’s eyes had felt like déjà vu. She didn’t describe the sensation of being pulled backward through time, of standing in a place she’d never been and knowing exactly where to go. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
After a long moment, Mira finally spoke.
“How… how do you know it’s from... what is it called again? A past life?” she asked gently, her voice careful, like she didn’t want to break whatever fragile truth Yena was holding.
Yena looked up, her eyes glassy. “I just know,” she said. “It doesn’t feel like a dream. It’s not random. It’s… vivid. Like I lived it. Like I’m remembering something I forgot, not imagining something new.”
Zoey leaned back, arms crossed, her tone more grounded. “I read somewhere that past lives are considered superstition,” she said. “But a lot of people swear it’s real. There are forums, stories, and even some therapists who specialize in it. Regression stuff.”
Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered with something else—curiosity, maybe.
Rumi’s eyes sparkled. “Do you think… maybe we were in your past life?” she asked, half-joking, half-hopeful.
Yena shook her head slowly. “No. Not yet. I’ve only seen two memories. And they were… intense. But it was just me.”
She didn’t say that both of those had felt like falling in love and drowning at the same time.
No one laughed. No one dismissed her. And for the first time in weeks, Yena felt like maybe she wasn’t crazy. Maybe she wasn’t alone in this. She didn’t know what the memories meant or what they were trying to tell her. But she knew they were real, and she knew she’d have to tell the truth.
She had to say it. It's now or never.
The truth was pressing against her ribs, aching to be released. Her heart thudded against her chest like it was trying to break free, and her mouth opened slowly, trembling with the weight of what she was about to confess.
“I’ve been…” she began, but the words didn’t come.
Her throat seized. It was as if something invisible had wrapped itself around her vocal cords, squeezing tight. Her breath hitched. She tried again, lips forming the syllables, but her voice cracked—thin, broken, barely a whisper. Her eyes widened in shock. She wasn’t just nervous. She was voiceless.
Rumi leaned forward, her brows knitting together. “Yena?”
Yena shook her head, panic blooming in her chest. She tried to speak again, but the silence was louder than ever. Her voice was gone. Not literally but metaphorically. Her body refused to cooperate, her thoughts screaming while her mouth betrayed her.
Zoey stood, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. “Are you okay?”
Mira’s gaze was steady, searching Yena’s face for answers she couldn’t give. The room felt like it was closing in, the walls inching closer, the lights suddenly too bright. Yena’s fingers trembled as she reached for her throat, as if she could physically pull the words out.
The door slammed open.
Bobby burst in, breathless, his clipboard forgotten, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. “Girls, we need to move. Now. The Saja Boys are fighting. They’re pushing your performance up.”
The room exploded into motion.
“What?” Zoey’s voice was sharp, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Fighting?” Mira echoed, already grabbing her mic pack from the table.
Rumi stood, her expression hardening into focus. She turned to Yena, her gaze softening. “Sorry, Yena, we’ll deal with this after the awards.”
Yena nodded, still stunned, her voice locked somewhere deep inside her. She wanted to speak, to explain, to scream—but all she could do was nod.
Zoey gave her a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “Hope you'll watch us from backstage.”
Mira offered a small smile, though her eyes lingered with worry. “Yeah, we'll talk some more back at the penthouse.”
The girls hurried out, their heels clicking against the floor, their outfits catching the light as they vanished down the corridor. The door swung halfway shut behind them, leaving a trail of perfume and urgency.
Bobby lingered for a beat longer.
“You coming?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
Yena looked up, her throat still tight, her heart still pounding. “I’ll catch up,” she whispered, barely audible.
Bobby nodded once, then turned and left, the door closing with a soft click.
And just like that, she was alone. The silence returned, heavier than before. The monitor flickered in the corner, casting pale light across the room. Yena stared at her reflection in the mirror—eyes wide, lips parted, voice missing.
She felt like a ghost in her own skin. Something was wrong. Something deeper. Her voice had abandoned her, and somewhere backstage, the storm was already unfolding.
ns216.73.216.86da2
and then Add to home screen.