2. Aftermath
AFTERMATH
AIDAN — CANNES
The medical tent smelled of antiseptic and sea salt.
All five members of Pryzm were being checked over by EMTs.
Jin was on a folding chair getting his blood pressure taken.
The prime dancer, Tae, sat on a cot with an ice pack pressed to his knee.
The young-looking one, Woo, curled up with his head on the shoulder of the quarterback, Min-kyu, who was having a medic check his pupils for signs of concussion.
The oldest, most serious one, Haneul, stood by the tent wall, arms wrapped around himself, letting an EMT listen to his lungs in a smoke inhalation check.
Before I joined Liam, I’d taught English as a Second Language to immigrants in Philadelphia, and I’d developed the ability to remember foreign names. That came in handy when we had multinational clients, and now with a flood of Korean names around us.
Sang-hoon hovered near Jin like a satellite locked in orbit, but his eyes kept flicking to the other members, silently taking inventory. Making sure everyone was accounted for.
I stood near the entrance, giving them space but keeping eyes on the perimeter. Through the canvas flap, I saw Liam coordinating with venue security, three uniformed officers and a woman in a sharp black suit who’d appeared the moment we’d cleared the stage.
That woman left them and came to push through the tent flap, phone pressed to her ear, expression carved from granite.
She finished her call with a clipped phrase in Korean, then turned her attention to the group.
Her gaze swept over each member—cataloging injuries, assessing damage—before she looked at me.
“I’m Park Eun-ji,” she said. “Head of Global Operations for Starhouse Entertainment. Who are you?”
“Aidan Greene. Private security, contracted for crowd control.” I angled a thumb toward where Liam was visible through the gap. “Liam McCullough. Same.”
She didn’t offer a hand. “Stay.”
It wasn’t a request.
“We’re here,” I said.
She moved through the tent, speaking to each member in Korean.
Brief, efficient checks. Tae nodded, wincing as he shifted his leg.
A man I learned was the tour’s physical therapist was wrapping his leg in a brace.
Woo mumbled something that made Min-kyu squeeze his shoulder.
Haneul just bowed his head slightly, still holding himself too tight.
Then she came to Jin. The EMT was finishing Jin, showing Eun-ji Jin’s blood pressure reading. Numbers acceptable, pulse elevated but not dangerous. Jin stared at the ground between his shoes like it held answers he couldn’t find anywhere else.
They talked for a few minutes. At first it seemed like an argument, but eventually they were both nodding.
When she turned away, Sang-hoon began dabbing at the ash smear on Jin’s temple with a clean cloth.
His movements were practiced and gentle, the hands of someone who’d touched this face a thousand times before.
Jin reached up without thinking and caught Sang-hoon’s wrist for a second, a touch that said thank you or don’t go yet or both.
I looked away. Privacy is a human right, even in a tent behind one of the most photographed beaches in the world.
Eun-ji returned to us. “Mr. Greene.” Her voice was level again, the panic buried where good executives hide everything they don’t have time to process. “Whatever contract you have just got extended.”
“To when?”
“To the end of our tour,” she said. “Paris, Amsterdam, London, New York, S?o Paulo, Seoul.” Each city landed like a hammer. “You will travel with Pryzm. You will coordinate with our team and with local authorities. And you will keep them safe.”
“Why us?” I asked. “You must have your own tour security.”
“We do, and it’s excellent. But they have their limits, especially in situations like tonight, when they had to be focused on crowd control.
You were watching the performers instead of the crowd, which is how you saw the way Sang-hoon rushed to protect Jin and jumped in to help.
We need that kind of vision for the rest of the tour. ”
She showed me her cell phone. “I don’t believe this was a technical malfunction, or that it was a one-time thing. This message came in a moment after the fireworks explosion.”
A text message. No sender ID, just a string of numbers and a single line of Korean.
Her face tightened. “It says, The center should have burned brighter.”
“What does that mean?”
“In K-pop, the center is the member who stands in the middle of the choreography. The face of the group.” She looked toward Jin. “Him.”
I took a photo of the screen with my own phone. “You should forward this to the police. They’ll want to trace the number.” I looked at her. “Has anyone else received messages like this?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I’m still not sure we’re the right men for your job. We have a lot of experience in close protection, and we’re accustomed to foreign travel and negotiating international situations. But surely there are bigger agencies you can call on.”
“Jin is very sensitive to security,” she said. “He believes, and I agree with him, that he has a right to a private life. But he is willing to make an exception for you and…” She looked over at Liam.
“My husband. Liam McCullough. We work as a team through a French company called Agence de Sécurité.”
I glanced toward the tent entrance where Liam was finishing with the officers. He caught my look and gave a slight nod. After sixteen years together, the last twelve of them married, we could have entire conversations without words.
“I guess that’s a good enough reason. Our rate for extended protection details is higher than event security,” I said, because being clear about business keeps relationships clean. “And we’ll need full access to schedules, venue layouts, and personnel rosters throughout the tour.”
“Done.” She didn’t even blink at the rate implication. “Just keep them breathing.”
“We’ll need a formal contract through Agence de Sécurité,” I said. I gave her a card I kept in my wallet. “We’ll consider today under the existing contract with Starhouse, but as of tomorrow we need to start fresh.”
“I can do that,” she said.
Through the tent opening, I saw the harbor had gone quiet.
The crowd that had been screaming Pryzm’s name an hour ago had been reduced by police.
Some evacuated for safety, others held behind extended barricades while emergency crews worked.
The floating stage sat dark and silent in the distance, surrounded by fire department boats with spotlights scanning the damaged barge.
“The police will handle the investigation,” I said. “That’s their job. Ours is threat assessment and prevention. We’ll need to know everyone who had access backstage tonight, and anyone who’s been added to your tour staff in the last two weeks.”
“You’ll have it within the hour.” She glanced at Jin again, something unguarded crossing her face—fear, fury, protective instinct, maybe all three. “The lead pyrotechnician disappeared right after the blast. Police are searching for him now.”
Liam stepped into the tent. “French authorities are treating this as a criminal investigation. They’ve impounded the barge and they’re pulling all the security footage from the venue.”
“Good,” Eun-ji said. “We’ll cooperate fully.”
“They’ll want statements from all the performers,” Liam continued. “But they’ve agreed to do it at the hotel tomorrow morning. For tonight, they want everyone secured and accounted for.”
“Forward me the text message you received to the personal number on the card, and I’ll send it to a consultant we use who can often get quicker and better results.
” I looked at Eun-ji. “We’ll want to talk to each of the performers, when they’re rested,” I said.
“Tomorrow, after they talk to the police.”
I turned to Jin, who was watching our exchange in English with growing comprehension. “Do you have any idea who might want to hurt you?”
Something shuttered behind his eyes. “No.”
It wasn’t quite a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. I filed that away for later.
Sang-hoon’s hand tightened on Jin’s shoulder. A warning, or comfort, or both.
Eun-ji gestured to Kim Sun-hee, the woman I’d met as the group was arriving.
She was in her forties and she’d been quietly moving between the members, offering water bottles and checking on each of them with practiced efficiency.
She wore comfortable black pants and a blazer, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she had the kind of calm, competent energy that suggested she’d handled worse crises than this.
“Kim Sun-hee is our tour manager,” Eun-ji said. “She handles all logistics. Schedules, transport, accommodations. And serves as the group’s personal manager. Anything the members need, day to day, Sun-hee coordinates it.”
“We met earlier,” I said, smiling.
Sun-hee gave a small bow. “Please, call me Sunny. That’s what everyone outside Korea does.
Thank you for getting them off that platform.
” Her English was excellent, with a British accent.
“As you know, we came in direct from the airport in Nice. I’ve already contacted the Majestic and confirmed that the rooms for talent and senior staff are ready and baggage has been delivered.
I’m arranging food to be sent up as soon as we arrive.
” She looked down at her tablet. “The other team members traveling with us will be at the Hotel Splendide, and I’m making similar arrangements there. ”
“Good,” I said. “We’ll want all the performers on the same floor if possible.”
“Already done. Ms. Park is in an executive suite suitable for holding team meetings. Jin, Haneul, and Min-kyu have their own rooms. Tae and Woo prefer to share a room since Woo is so young. They’re all on the same floor. My husband Jason and I are in another room on that floor as well.”
“How long have they been a group?” I asked.
“Six years next spring. Five since debut, though Woo hasn’t always been with them. He replaced another singer who was unable to continue.” Sunny didn’t look up from her tablet.
“And the name. Pryzm. Does it mean something in Korean?”
That earned a small smile. “No, it was chosen because a prism reflects light, and it looks good in all capital letters on merchandise.”
A man approached from the tent entrance. Late forties, solid build, moving with the deliberate awareness of someone with military or security training. He wore dark tactical pants and a fitted shirt, and had a radio clipped to his belt.
“This is Cho Jae-sung,” Eun-ji said. “Chief of Security for Starhouse. He’s been with the company for eight years and has managed security for all of Pryzm’s tours.”
Liam and I both shook hands with him. Firm grip, direct eye contact. “Please, call me Jason. I understand you will be joining us for the remainder of the tour.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. “We’ll coordinate with your team. What’s your current setup?”
“Two close protection officers who travel with the group. They’re at the Majestic now, securing the floor. Local security as needed at each venue, vetted through our European coordinator. I’d like to brief you both on our protocols and get your assessment of what happened tonight.”
“Agreed,” Liam said. “But first we get everyone secured at the hotel.”
Sunny touched Jason’s arm, a brief, familiar gesture that spoke of long partnership. “We’re leaving soon.”
Liam pulled out his tablet and motioned Jason aside. “Let’s confirm routes and comm protocols. I want everyone on the same channel.”
“Agreed.”
I looked at the rest of Pryzm, clustered near the far side of the tent. Tae was scrolling through his phone with shaking hands. Woo had his head on Min-kyu’s shoulder once again. Haneul stared at nothing, earbuds in, probably replaying the moment the stage tilted.
They were kids. Talented, famous, wealthy kids. But still kids who’d just survived something that could have killed them.
“Get them cleaned up and fed,” I said to Eun-ji. “Keep them together. And no social media posts until the police clear it.”
“Our PR team will need to make a statement—”
“Technical malfunction,” I said. “Equipment failure under investigation. Anything else creates panic or tips off whoever did this that we’re taking it seriously.” I softened my tone slightly. “You can say the performers are shaken but safe, and you’re cooperating with authorities. That’s enough.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. She understood the balance between transparency and security.
I turned to Sang-hoon. “You’re staying with him tonight?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Just fact.
“Good. If anything feels wrong, anyone approaches who shouldn’t, any message, any call, you contact me immediately.” I pulled out a business card, wrote my mobile number on the back. “Day or night. Don’t wait to see if it’s important.”
He took the card, studied it for a moment, then met my eyes. “Thank you. For getting us off that platform. And for... earlier. I understand why you stopped me.”
“You moved like you knew what you were doing. Most people would have frozen.”
“I’ve worked with Jin for five years.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel underneath. “I know when something’s wrong.”