Chapter 7
Chapter seven
The monitor station at Rogers Arena gave me clean sight lines to both wings and the house.
The rehearsal began with blocking. I tracked Rune's movement patterns while forcing my attention back to crew positions, counting credentials.
My jaw ached from clenching. Someone had watched him sleep.
Had been close enough to count his breaths.
And I was supposed to stand here and pretend professional observation was enough.
I gripped my tablet hard. Released it.
Do the job.
The band arrived promptly at 1:00 PM. Jinwoo led, Taemin and Minjae flanking, with Rune slightly behind. Handlers orbited them with practiced efficiency.
Rune spotted me immediately. Brief glance. His shoulders settled.
I hated how much that mattered. Hated that his sense of safety had become dependent on my visibility. If someone wanted to destabilize him, they didn't need violence. They only needed to remove the person he relied on.
I pushed the thought away and watched the stage. Harsh work lights mixed with programmed cues.
Minjae had seen someone filming Rune during last night's blackout. Stage right equipment corridor. Close enough to see clearly. Too far back to have a legitimate purpose.
I'd pulled the venue security footage. Found nothing. Whoever it was knew where the cameras were.
The music shifted to a slower song. Rune's voice carried the melody alone for eight bars. Vulnerable. Exposed.
He glanced toward me once. Checking.
The rehearsal ended at 3:40 PM. The band headed to the green room, breathing hard.
During the dinner break, I found an empty production office and pulled out my phone. Kang had sent the hotel security report: no usable footage and no anomalous access logs. Whoever entered Rune's room had authorization or knew how to fake it.
The door opened. Do-hyun stepped inside, tablet under one arm. He turned the screen toward me without speaking.
Access logs. Credential timestamps.
"Everyone with authorized access to the rehearsal space today," he said. "Cross-referenced against yesterday's show and San Francisco."
Three names appeared across all events. Standard touring personnel. Two other names appeared only for Vancouver. One flagged as temporary venue staff. The other labeled media liaison.
"The venue staff credential shows presence during rehearsal and last night's show," Do-hyun said. "Longer than necessary for load-in support."
"And the media liaison?"
"Three separate accesses to the artist corridor yesterday. No scheduled interviews during those windows."
I absorbed the information. "Has Kang seen this?"
"Not yet. I wanted your input first."
He gave me information before it entered official channels. Before Soo-jin could frame the narrative.
"What's your read?" I asked.
"Authorized access doesn't mean harmless access. Management is interpreting the current silence as the end of the threats."
"It's not resolved."
"I know." Do-hyun picked up his tablet. "Keep watching. Keep documenting. If management asks, you haven't seen this data yet."
I stayed in the empty office after Do-hyun left, thinking about what Eamon had told me once: the most dangerous threats were the ones that looked like they were resolving.
The production meeting started at 5:00 PM.
Kang stood at the head of the table. Management sat along one side, Soo-jin and two others I didn't recognize.
"Morning threat activity," Kang said. "Evidence of room access. Minjae's eyewitness account of unauthorized presence during last night's show. We maintained. enhanced security throughout today's rehearsal. No incidents."
Soo-jin leaned forward. "So the increased visibility worked."
"Possibly," Kang said.
"More than possible." Soo-jin's voice was calm, reasonable. "We implemented appropriate measures. The concerning behavior stopped."
Kang glanced at me briefly. "The absence of visible activity doesn't indicate—"
"It shows exactly what it appears to show," Soo-jin interrupted gently. "Someone was testing boundaries. We reinforced them. The behavior stopped." He looked at Kang. "Unless you have evidence suggesting otherwise?"
"No direct evidence," Kang admitted.
I watched the room shift. A laptop closed and a chair scraped back. The tension wasn't gone. It merely stopped being anyone's responsibility.
Soo-jin turned his attention to me. "Griffin, do you have concerns about the current security posture?"
I read his subtext clearly: Do you have evidence to justify continued disruption?
"The current posture is appropriate for active threat conditions," I said. "Whether those conditions have genuinely resolved is harder to determine based on silence that's lasted less than twenty-four hours."
"How long would you recommend we maintain elevated protocols?" Soo-jin's tone sounded reasonable. "Indefinitely?"
"Until we understand the intent behind the pattern."
"The intent seems clear." Soo-jin gestured to Kang's tablet. "Someone wanted to unsettle Rune. We responded. They stopped. That's resolution."
"Or completion," I said.
The room fell silent.
Soo-jin spoke first. "Completion of what?"
"Whatever they needed to confirm." I kept my voice calm. "The hotel room access shows capability. Minjae's observation proved that surveillance occurred during a performance. Then everything stopped, not because we prevented escalation, but because they confirmed what they needed to know."
Soo-jin studied me for a moment. "I'd like to propose adjusted protocols for Portland. We maintain core security measures but reduce some of the more visible restrictions that have been causing unnecessary stress."
The logic was sound, and the framing was careful.
Kang looked between us. "I'll consider the proposed adjustments and provide updated protocols by tonight. We'll maintain the current posture for the show and reassess afterward."
The meeting ended. Almost everyone dispersed.
Soo-jin lingered. He waited until the room emptied, then moved to the chair across from me.
"I want to be direct with you."
I looked up.
"Your presence here is valuable, but I'm concerned you may bring assumptions from your previous work that don't fully apply to this environment.
" His voice was patient. "Idol culture has different dynamics.
Obsessive fans are a constant presence. Boundary violations that feel threatening rarely escalate to physical harm. "
"Someone had access to Rune's hotel room," I said.
"Or someone saw him through a window." Soo-jin tilted his head slightly.
"I'm not dismissing the concern. I'm providing context.
I'm asking you to consider whether the response we've implemented might be disproportionate to the actual risk.
" He paused. "I also think your proximity to Rune might be affecting your judgment. "
He chose his words carefully. Not quite an accusation.
I held his gaze. "My proximity to Rune is professional."
"Of course. But professional distance requires perspective. That can be difficult when you're emotionally invested in someone's well-being."
"Every protection specialist invests emotionally in their principal's well-being. That's the job."
"There's investment," Soo-jin said quietly, "and there's attachment. They're not the same thing."
He left.
I sat alone, thinking about how none of our conversation addressed the most important question: Why had the threat activity stopped?
The show started at 7:00 PM.
I watched from the wings, positioned where I had clear sight lines to both Rune's movement patterns and backstage access points.
The opening was high-energy music. As the set list progressed, I realized I now knew where the peaks were. Where the production would strip down and leave Rune's voice exposed.
The third song shifted into something slower. The lights changed, with blue and gold washing the stage, shadows deepening across the wings where I stood.
Rune stepped forward into a single spotlight. The other members receded.
I'd seen this moment before. But as I watched, professional assessment dissolved into something else entirely.
Rune navigated the vulnerable moment with full control, while something in his expression stayed distant and unreachable. He was performing intimacy while maintaining the distance required to survive it.
The song built toward its bridge. His voice dropped lower. He closed his eyes.
I forgot to track the crew. Forgot to scan the perimeter. Everything fell away except the curve of Rune's throat when he tilted his head back. The way his hip cocked slightly when he shifted weight, and how his fingers curled around the microphone like he was holding something precious.
A realization landed like a punch.
I was falling hard.
The song ended, and the lights changed. The other band members returned to their spotlights, and the show continued.
I stood in the wings with my hands steady and something load-bearing breaking in my chest.
Do the job.
I tried not to think about how his voice cracked slightly on the bridge. Tried not to think about how badly I wanted to say his real name aloud in a room where no one else was listening.
Do. The. Job.
The last song hit its crescendo. The crowd roared. Violet Frequency exited stage right.
I turned my attention back to the crew. Still nothing. Clean run. No incidents.
My phone buzzed. Kang confirmed the same. Recommended we maintain current protocols through Portland.
I conducted a final perimeter scan of the loading corridor. Footsteps came up behind me.
"Griffin."
I turned. Rune stood ten feet away. Soyeon hovered at his shoulder. He word his black hoodie and jeans.
"I need a minute," he said to Soyeon in Korean.
She glanced at me, then back at Rune. Nodded once.
Rune stepped close but left enough space to avoid crossing into obvious intimacy.
"You looked different during the show tonight," he breathed. "Something changed."
I didn't deflect. "You were perfect up there."
"That's not what I meant."