28. ColleaguesSuspects
COLLEAGUES OR SUSPECTS
JIN — NEW YORK
It was amazing to have Sang-hoon back, on the tour and in my arms. We ordered room service for dinner and then relaxed together in the king-sized bed.
We flipped through the channels on the big TV and all we found were American situation comedies, movies, and sports.
Nothing in Korean at all beyond a rerun of K-Pop Demon Hunters, which we had both seen many times.
“I have an idea,” Sang-hoon said. He looked shyly at me.
“What?”
“I have a subscription to a video channel I watch on my iPad when I am lonely.” He looked down. “And horny.”
I reached over and tickled him. “Let’s see it!”
He laughed and connected the tablet to the hotel’s Wi-Fi network and then opened a screen with small snapshots from gay porn movies. My eyes opened wide. “So many!” I said.
He nodded. “For everything anyone could want.” He pointed to the screen. “Twinks, big penises, muscular men, mixed races.”
I pointed to one big blond man with muscular arms. “That looks like Liam!”
Sang-hoon peered closer. “No, not really. And I don’t want to watch our bodyguards having sex!”
“What do you like?” I asked.
Again, he was very shy. “There is a group of Japanese young men who share a house,” he said. “They have sex all the time, in pairs and groups, all over the house.”
“Let’s see.”
He found the right channel. They were all handsome and sexy. We started to watch, and I said, “I hope you are taking notes. Things we can try.”
“I have never watched these with anyone else,” he said. He looked over at me. “And usually I am naked.”
“Well, then, what are we waiting for?” I stood up and peeled off my T-shirt and shorts, then dropped my boxer briefs to the floor. I stood there for a moment, posing. “Do you like what you see?”
“I always have,” he said. He quickly stripped, and I slid back into bed with him, our shoulders and legs touching, as we watched the action on the screen.
We were both hard already, and the feel of his smooth skin against mine sent electric shocks to my penis. We began touching each other, gentle strokes along the leg, up close to the groin, and eventually Sang-hoon shifted the pad away and pulled me on top of him.
The men on the screen were still moaning and speaking in Japanese, and that was a turn-on by itself. We kissed and rubbed against each other, and then I slid down to suck him.
“Oh, Joon-hi,” he said, his voice hoarse. He began to moan, and press his fingers into my hair. I did what I had seen the men on TV do, licking and sucking and rubbing my face against his penis.
Then he pushed me away. “What?” I asked, looking up.
“What those two men are doing,” he said, and pointed. They were head-to-toe, sucking each other at the same time. We scrambled around, trying to mimic their positions, and laughing as we did. Then we were sucking each other, trying to give each other as much pleasure as we could.
My whole body shook with the force of my orgasm, and Sang-hoon was right behind me. Then I moved back up to lie beside him. Eventually the movie stopped but we didn’t care. We had each other.
We joined everyone for breakfast in a private room on the second floor, next to the gym. The room was crowded as we all grabbed food from the buffet and then sat down for another security briefing.
Eun-ji looked exhausted, her usual corporate polish fraying at the edges. Aidan had that focused intensity I was learning to recognize as his working mode. Liam was typing on his tablet, occasionally showing something to Jason.
“Now that everyone has food,” Eun-ji said, her voice cutting through the low conversations, “let’s begin. Liam?”
Liam stood, and the room quieted immediately. He had that kind of presence—the kind that made you pay attention without needing to raise his voice.
“Emails that have been received since Cannes make it clear that the primary target, for unknown reasons, is Jin. The messaging clearly references the center.” He looked around.
“But that doesn’t mean anyone in this room is safe.
An attack against Jin could hurt each one of you if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. ”
“We’re treating the threats as an organized operation,” Aidan said. “Not a lone obsessed fan, but someone with resources, planning, and inside access to Starhouse’s network and tour operations.”
Liam pulled up a slide on the room’s display screen. A timeline showing Cannes, Paris, Amsterdam, and London, with threat events marked in red.
“The fireworks malfunction in Cannes. The framed photograph delivered to Jin’s dressing room in Paris. The leaked backstage footage. The threatening emails originating from Starhouse’s corporate network.” He gestured at each event. “These aren’t random. They’re escalating and coordinated.”
Min-kyu leaned forward. “You’re saying someone inside the company is doing this?”
“We’re saying someone with access to company systems is involved. We’re still determining if that’s an employee, a contractor, or someone who’s compromised the network.”
Tae’s voice was quiet. “How do we know who to trust?”
“That’s the problem,” Liam said. “Until we identify the source, we can’t rule anyone out.”
Liam didn’t advance the slide. Instead, he folded his hands on the conference table.
“I want you to understand where our investigation stands. We don’t know who’s behind these attacks yet, but we are working several theories.”
The room was silent.
“The first possibility is personal.” His eyes settled on me. “Someone with a grudge against Jin. An old acquaintance. A former trainee. A rejected fan. Someone who blames him for something we haven’t uncovered.”
Every face in the room turned toward me.
“Jin,” Liam said quietly, “think carefully. During your trainee years. Anyone whose career might have suffered because yours succeeded? Anyone who ever threatened you or became obsessed with you?”
I searched my memory.
Competition among trainees had been brutal.
Friends disappeared after evaluations, sent home without warning.
Fans sometimes posted angry messages online when I couldn’t acknowledge them or remember them at fan meetings.
Reporters had accused me of arrogance after interviews I thought had gone well.
None of it felt like murder.
I shook my head. “People have been jealous. Some fans can be intense. But no one I can imagine doing... this.”
Liam nodded as though he’d expected the answer.
Sun-hee-noona said, “The fact is, most trainees don’t debut.
The attrition rate is enormous. If a trainee isn’t picked for a group, they are released from their trainee contracts.
After that they can audition for another entertainment company, pursue another career in entertainment, like dance, acting, or styling, or leave the industry altogether and return to school or another profession. ”
“That’s a very corporate statement, Sun-hee-noona,” Haneul said. He turned to Aidan and Liam. “A trainee released after five years might owe the company sixty million won. We all know people who have been destroyed by losing their chance at a career, and then facing that kind of debt.”
“I know at least two suicides,” Min-kyu said. “If someone feels like Jin stole his place—or any of us, for that matter—that can really mess with your head.”
“I knew a dancer who committed suicide after he lost his contract,” Tae said. “His whole family was angry and tried to sue the company.”
Aidan looked at Liam. “All those are viable motives for anger against Jin, or Starhouse. But the organization responsible for these threats leads us to believe someone with financial and operational means, not just a personal grudge.”
Liam nodded. “The second possibility is financial. Someone who benefits if Pryzm’s tour fails. A competitor. A promoter. Someone with business interests we haven’t identified.”
“The third,” Aidan said, “is corporate.”
He leaned forward.
“Someone inside Starhouse who believes Pryzm has received unfair advantages. Someone willing to damage both the group and the company.”
Eun-ji’s expression tightened.
“And finally,” Liam said, “it’s possible these attacks aren’t the end goal at all. They may be intended to pressure Starhouse into some concession we haven’t identified.”
“So you still don’t know which theory is right,” Min-kyu said.
“No,” Liam admitted. “And we’re not eliminating any of them yet.”
Aidan tapped the display with his pen.
“One thing we are confident about. These attacks aren’t impulsive. They require money, planning, technical skill, and patience. Whoever’s behind them has invested a great deal of time and resources.”
Jason looked around the table. “If someone sabotages lighting over the stage, plants an explosive backstage, contaminates catering, or attacks a vehicle, everyone nearby is in danger. Whether the attacker intends to kill Jin alone or destroy Pryzm as a group, the result could be the same.”
No one spoke.
For the first time, I realized this wasn’t just about protecting me.
Every person in this room could die because someone wanted to reach the center.
Haneul spoke for the first time, his voice steady. “What about the show on Tuesday?”
“We’re doing a complete security sweep of the venue. Jason’s team will be there overnight, checking every access point, every piece of equipment.” Liam glanced at Eun-ji. “We’re also limiting backstage access to touring staff only.”
“That’s going to create problems,” Eun-ji said. “The venue has their own crew.”
“Who will work under direct supervision of our security team,” Jason cut in. “No exceptions. If the venue doesn’t like it, we cancel the show.”
The room went silent.
Sang-hoon’s hand found mine under the table, squeezed once. I squeezed back.
“There’s one more thing,” Liam said, and he frowned. “We’ve identified several Starhouse employees with potential motive and access to the systems being used for these threats.”
He pulled up another slide—names, photos, brief descriptions.
Choi Ji-won - Former manager of NOVA, reassigned after budget disputes
Lee Sang-min - Manager of Zenith, vocal about resource allocation
Sara Yoon - Manager of Vanta, frequent travel to tour cities
“We’re not making accusations,” Liam continued. “But these individuals have been in the right cities at the right times, have access to the necessary systems, and have expressed frustration about Pryzm’s success.”
“This is insane,” Min-kyu said. “Ji-won? Sang-min? They’re colleagues. They’re—”
“They’re suspects,” Liam said flatly. “Which means until we clear them, we treat them as potential threats.”
And for the first time since Cannes, I understood why Aidan and Liam watched everyone so carefully.
Not just the crowds, but the people closest to me.
In two days, we’d be performing at Madison Square Garden, the kind of American milestone Starhouse had been talking about since our trainee days.
And someone wanted me dead badly enough to follow me there.