8. Target
TARGET
JIN — PARIS
The plane touched down with only a few slight bumps, and I felt the familiar tension coil in my chest. Even landing was a performance. Cameras might be waiting, fans tracking our arrival on social media, speculation building about the “incident” in Cannes.
I reached for my phone and pulled up the group chat.
Eun-ji
Landing now. Everyone remember the plan. Tired but grateful, technical malfunction, investigation ongoing. No drama.
Min-kyu
Understood.
Tae
Do I have to talk to anyone? My knee hurts.
Jin
Use the knee. Limp if you need to. Woo, stay close to Min-kyu.
Woo
Grace
I’ll handle press if needed.
Grace Han was our interpreter and translator.
Her father was a Korean diplomat, her mother American, and she’d grown up all over the world, mastering languages as easy as Tae learned dance moves.
At twenty-five she was two years older than I was, but had only joined Starhouse eighteen months before.
The plane taxied to a private terminal, another small mercy of traveling on the company jet. No public checkpoints, just two sleek black vans waiting on the tarmac and security keeping the perimeter clear.
Aidan stood near the exit, scanning the area with that quiet intensity I was learning to recognize. Liam had already left the plane and was stationed near the first van, speaking into his phone. They moved like parts of the same organism, coordinated without needing to communicate.
I wondered if Sang-hoon and I would ever have that. The ease of long partnership, the trust that came from years instead of stolen moments.
“Let’s go,” Eun-ji said, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “Vehicles are ready. Same configuration as Cannes. Jin, you’re in the first car with Mr. Greene and Sang-hoon.”
I caught Sang-hoon’s eye. He gave me the smallest nod and picked up my carry-on along with his own kit.
We filed out into the cool Paris afternoon, and I let the performance take over. Tired smile, careful wave to the handful of airport staff watching from a distance, posture that suggested exhaustion but not trauma.
The van’s interior smelled like new leather and air freshener. I slid into the back seat, Sang-hoon beside me, Aidan up front next to the driver. The door closed, sealing us into artificial quiet.
“Hotel’s twenty minutes,” Aidan said without turning around. “We’ll enter through the service entrance. Your floor is already secured.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m worried about Tae’s knee. I saw him limping when he got into the other van. But I’m fine.”
“That’s what everyone says.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not unkind. “You don’t have to perform for me.”
Something in my chest loosened slightly. “I’m tired. And scared. But I’m okay.”
“Good. Being scared keeps you alert.” He turned his attention back to the road. “We’ll do a full briefing tonight after you’ve rested. I want everyone on the same page about protocols going forward.”
Beside me, Sang-hoon’s hand rested on the seat between us. I felt the warmth of it, close enough to touch but maintaining that careful distance.
Paris slid past the windows: elegant buildings, café awnings, pedestrians enjoying the mild spring weather. I’d been here before, twice on tour, but I’d barely seen the city beyond the view from hotel windows and the route between venues.
Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe this time, I’d actually remember it.
The hotel was predictably luxurious, the kind of place that catered to celebrities and didn’t blink at last-minute security requirements. We filed through the service entrance and into a freight elevator that smelled faintly of room service and cleaning solution.
My phone buzzed. Another text from my mother: Call when you can. Your father wants to hear your voice.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. They deserved better than the quick reassurances I’d been sending. They deserved to know I was safe, that the money they’d sacrificed for me wasn’t going to burn up in a fireworks accident or a scandal.
But I couldn’t tell them about Sang-hoon. That their carefully invested son had fallen in love with someone who could destroy everything they’d built.
Tomorrow, I texted back. I promise.
The elevator doors opened onto our floor, and I stepped into the hallway that would be home for the next three days. Identical doors, soft carpet, the muted luxury of a space designed to be forgettable.
“Your suite,” Sun-hee-noona said, handing me a key card. “Sang-hoon is next door. The others are here on the same floor. We’re doing a head count at six, then dinner in Eun-ji’s suite at seven.”
“Understood.”
She touched my arm briefly—the same gesture she’d made a thousand times before, but now it felt weighted with knowledge. “Rest, Joon-hi. You look exhausted.”
I managed a smile. “I will.” She was one of the few who remembered the name I was born with, and used it when she wanted to remind me I was still that boy, underneath the performance and the glamor.
She moved down the hall to check on the others, and I was left standing in front of my door with Sang-hoon beside me, both of us acutely aware of Aidan watching from his position near the elevator.
“I’ll check your room,” Sang-hoon said, professional and distant. “Make sure everything’s in order.”
“Thank you.”
We stepped inside together, and the door clicked shut behind us.
For a moment, we stood there in the entryway. Me with my carry-on, him with his styling kit, maintaining the fiction that this was purely professional even though we were alone.
Then Sang-hoon set down his kit and turned to face me, and the careful distance evaporated.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hey.”
“We made it to Paris.”
“Yeah.” I dropped my bag and closed the space between us, wrapping my arms around him before I could think better of it. He went still for half a second, then folded me into his embrace, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head.
We stood like that for a long moment, just breathing together, letting the fear and exhaustion settle into something manageable.
“I meant what I said last night,” he whispered against my hair. “About not giving this up.”
“I know.”
“But I also know what’s at stake for you. Your career, your family—”
“I know that too.” I pulled back just enough to look at him. “And I’m still here.”
I saw relief and fear and something that might have been hope on his face. “We’re going to have to be so careful.”
“I’ve been careful my whole life.” I touched his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I can be careful about this too.”
He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm. “What if we get caught?”
“Then we deal with it.” I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “But I’m not walking away from you because of what might happen. I almost died without telling you how I felt. I’m not making that mistake again.”
“Jin—”
“Joon-hi,” I corrected. “When it’s just us, call me Joon-hi.”
His body language softened, opened. “Joon-hi,” he repeated, testing the shape of it.
He kissed me then. Gentle and careful and full of all the things we couldn’t say out loud. When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
“You should sleep,” he said. “You look exhausted.”
“Stay with me?”
“I can’t. Not here, not in the day. Too risky.” He brushed his thumb across my lower lip. “But tonight, after the briefing and dinner, if you want.”
“Yes.” I didn’t even let him finish. “Yes, please.”
He smiled, soft and private and meant only for me. “Then I’ll see you at six. Try to rest.”
“I will.”
He turned toward the door, already settling back into the composed, professional version of himself that the rest of the world expected, when his phone buzzed.
I wouldn’t have thought anything of it except that he stopped moving. Not dramatically. Just a slight pause, his attention caught by whatever he was reading.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” His answer came too quickly.
“Sang-hoon-ah.”
He hesitated, then came back to me and handed me the phone. The message on the screen was from Hana, one of the Starhouse makeup artists who had worked with AURORA before everything fell apart.
Have you seen what Min-woo is posting? He’s getting uglier.
Below her text were screenshots from social media.
At first I felt almost relieved. Bitter former employees posted angry things all the time.
Starhouse had made enemies. Every entertainment company did.
There were the usual accusations about exploitation, about trainee debt, about disposable talent and fake smiles and the machinery behind the fantasy.
Then I read Funny how some centers forget who helped build them.
I read it twice and showed it to Sang-hoon. “That could mean anything,” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to convince Sang-hoon or myself.
He said nothing, and I went back to scrolling.
The next screenshot had already been deleted from the original account.
Some people get very close to power and mistake access for protection.
A strange chill moved through me, completely out of proportion to the words on the screen.
Min-woo had never managed Pryzm. His group had been AURORA, and my interactions with him had been limited to company events and the occasional year-end concert.
I remembered him as charming, even funny.
The kind of manager who knew everyone’s name and asked polite questions about your parents.
But that had been before he was fired. Before public humiliation and whatever private resentments had come with it.
“Did Aidan see this?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll forward it to him now.” He took his phone back from me and began hitting keys.
“Do you think Min-woo hates me?”
Sang-hoon took a moment before answering, which was somehow worse than an immediate yes. “I think he blames Starhouse and Pryzm,” he said carefully. “And you’re the center.”
That should have reassured me. Instead, I heard what he hadn’t said. What if Min-woo meant me personally?
“What do you think we should do?”