Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Our conversation ended when we stepped into the hallway.
A handler's voice echoed behind us, delivering a thirty-minute warning. Staff moved past with clipboards and headsets. Someone laughed too hard near catering.
I moved first, alert but unhurried. Rune matched my pace without discussion. We didn't speak. Anything left to say would require more privacy than the backstage hallway.
Five days. The timeline was a ticking time bomb, threatening to end not only my Violet Frequency assignment but also whatever was building between Rune and me.
The system wanted me gone before Seattle. They didn't want me around in a city where I had resources, and Eamon could provide backup that didn't answer to the band's management.
I caught Rune's reflection in a mirror as we turned a corner. He was calm and composed. He'd be ready for tonight's performance.
I thought about the decision he'd made in the green room. I'd made one, too. I wouldn't go easily, if at all.
Chief Kang stood near the stage entrance, talking to one of the Korean security officers. He saw us and noted our path before he went back to his conversation.
It was two hours before the venue's doors opened to the public, and something was wrong. I sensed it, and I'd learned to avoid dismissing my instincts.
The lighting trucks were running late. Someone rerouted their equipment through a service entrance that wasn't supposed to be active. An entrance normally sealed off was suddenly a staging space for last-minute technology.
It was only for five minutes, someone said. Ten at most. The change didn't alarm anyone other than me.
I watched a crew member prop open the service door with a wedge. The protocol insisted it be closed, and only those with a badge could enter. Minor violations escalated.
Kang oversaw the lighting issue near the stage, attention divided between his radio and a production coordinator. They were doing their best to solve a legitimate problem as quickly as they could.
That meant no one was watching the service entrance. I stepped into the gap. The overflow space ran parallel to the main backstage passage. It had concrete walls and industrial lighting. No cameras.
Handlers moved through the space carrying cables and costumes without hesitation. I thought about what Rune had overheard. Adjust detail assignments. Limit access. Before Seattle.
I thought about how easy it would be to engineer an accidental moment. My jaw tensed.
It was ninety minutes until the band would move from the green room to stage-ready positions. If there were any last-minute disruptions, such as a headset malfunction or the need for altering staging, someone might suggest a band member choose a different route backstage.
Alone.
I messaged Eamon
Griffin: Venue layout changed without documentation. Service corridor active without cameras. Need verification.
His response came thirty seconds later.
Eamon: On it. Stay visible.
An incident unfolded as I'd expected. Rune readied himself to exit the green room and take his stage-ready position in twelve minutes. His assigned escort, a junior security officer, stood outside the door, checking his radio.
A production coordinator appeared, moving fast. "Headset issue. Main comms are down. Kang needs you at monitor control right now."
The security officer hesitated. "I'm on detail—"
"Thirty seconds. He's not moving yet. Kang said now."
The officer opened the green room door and called to Rune. "I'll be right back."
He left. The coverage was gone.
I'd positioned myself about twenty feet away, technically outside Rune's immediate detail but close enough to maintain visual contact.
Ten seconds passed. The green room door opened.
Rune stepped out, looking left first, where his escort should have been, then right. He paused and then began walking toward the main corridor.
Alone.
A handler appeared from the opposite direction, clipboard in hand. She gestured toward the temporary space, where there were no cameras. "It's a shortcut," I heard her say.
Rune nodded, and I acted. I reached him before he changed direction.
"Different route," I whispered.
He stopped and understood immediately.
"Okay."
The handler frowned. "The main corridor's backed up with—"
"This way." I kept my voice level and professional.
I guided Rune toward a permanent service corridor on the opposite side. It was narrower and uglier, but it bustled with staff and crew. They would remember having seen us.
I walked with Rune toward the stage. A lighting technician nodded as we passed. Someone rolled a cable cart past us.
They were witnesses.
The security officer reappeared, slightly out of breath. "Comms are fine. False alarm."
Rune glanced at me for a beat. Then he moved toward his mark, stepping into the pre-show staging area where the rest of the band gathered. Everything was back to normal.
My phone buzzed.
Eamon: Service corridor you flagged wasn't on active event plan. Someone overrode lockout protocols. No approval documented.
I read the message twice. An accident would have been easy.
Violet Frequency's performance was flawless. From my position in the wings, I watched nearly three thousand people lose themselves in precision choreography and pounding bass lines.
Jinwoo anchored the center, stable and grounded. Taemin worked the crowd with instinctive charisma, and Minjae executed choreography that looked deceptively simple.
Rune embodied controlled grace. I watched how he tracked his bandmates' positions without looking directly at them.
When he stepped forward for his solo line, the arena went quiet. He sang about ghosts who still cast shadows. Nearly three thousand people screamed his name.
I scanned the wings. Kang stood opposite me, positioned with clear sight lines. Two other security officers covered the rear access points.
The band reached the final chorus. The crowd roared as the lights surged.
Then it ended.
When the work lights came up, Rune accepted water and a towel, his attention already somewhere else. He scanned the wings until he found me.
Our eyes met across the space.
He didn't smile. Didn't acknowledge me beyond that single glance.
I watched his breathing slow.
The band moved offstage in formation. I fell in behind, maintaining visual contact with Rune's position.
One hundred and twenty hours. It would be less than a week before they moved me off the detail and replaced me with someone who wouldn't recognize danger disguised as logistics.
Rune looked at me once more before stepping back into the light. He wore a composed and professional expression.
I found him twenty minutes after the encore, in a service hallway most people didn't know existed.
I'd been tracking his movement through the post-show chaos. He'd separated from the group under the pretense of needing the bathroom, but he'd gone looking for space instead.
When he turned down the service corridor, I closed the gap. He heard me coming, stopped walking, and waited.
The corridor was empty. I stopped three feet behind him.
He whispered, "I felt alone."
Clear, quiet.
"When I came out of the green room, and the security officer wasn't there—" He turned to face me. "I felt alone."
"The corridor," I said. "The one the handler wanted you to take."
"Yes."
"It shouldn't have been open."
He knew the problem. "But it was."
"It wasn't on the active event plan. Someone overrode the lockout protocols without approval."
Rune inhaled sharply. "On purpose."
"I can't conclude that yet, but the timing was convenient. Officer gets pulled off position for a comms issue that doesn't exist. Handler directing you toward an unsealed corridor with no cameras." I paused. "There is an argument for incompetence."
"You don't believe that."
"No."
"If something happens to me," Rune said quietly, "it won't be random."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. Instead of offering reassurance, I said, "No. It won't be."
He deserved honesty more than comfort.
"I'm not scared," he said, but then corrected himself. "That's not true. I am scared, but differently than I thought I'd be."
"What do you mean?"
"I thought danger would be dramatic. Obvious." He gestured down the corridor. "It isn't. It's just more logistics. Like scheduling conflicts and temporary access routes. Small problems that aren't anyone's fault."
"That's what makes it effective."
"I know." His voice was steady. "When something happens, everyone will say it was bad luck. You stopped that today."
"Today."
In less than a week, I wouldn't be around to stop it.
Rune swept his fingers through his hair. "I've been thinking in terms of compliance my entire career. If I followed the rules, I'd be safe. If I didn't cause problems, they would protect me." He paused. "That's not how it works, is it?"
"No."
"They're not protecting me from danger. They're protecting all of this from disruption."
"Yes."
He nodded slowly. "Compliance won't save me."
"Probably not."
"And neither will you, once they remove you."
"If they can."
Rune exhaled. "We have five days."
"Yes."
"Five days to do what?"
"I don't know yet," I said honestly. "I do know waiting won't improve our options."
He was quiet momentarily. Then: "I'm tired of being ushered through corridors like equipment on rolling carts. Tired of other people deciding what's safe for me. I want to make my own choices. Even if they're dangerous."
I scanned his face. He was a man who’d spent his entire adult life being managed, contained, and protected in ways that had nothing to do with his actual safety. Seeing him decide he was done with that made something hot and dangerous stir in me.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"We move first. Document everything. Make sure when they try to contain this, they can't do it quietly."
"Will that work?"
"I don't know, but it's better than waiting for them to decide what happens to you."