36. Forty-Three Thousand
FORTY-THREE THOUSAND
SANG-HOON — S?O PAULO
S?o Paulo hit us like a fever dream—humidity that made breathing feel like work, Portuguese rolling past in rhythms I couldn’t parse, and exhaustion so deep it had settled into my bones like an ache I couldn’t shake.
We had left Seoul over two weeks before to start the tour.
Airports and hotels and venues that blurred together.
Since Cannes, I’d been looking over my shoulder, watching Jin walk onto stages where someone might be waiting to hurt him, lying awake in unfamiliar beds listening to him breathe and wondering if tomorrow would be the day something went wrong.
Except for the fan breaches, at Genesis House and the Madison Square Garden garage, New York had been clean. Too clean, Liam had said. Like whoever was after Jin had been testing our response, learning our patterns.
I caught my first glimpse of Allianz Parque as our convoy rounded a curve in the avenue, en route for our morning tech rehearsal.
The stadium rose above the surrounding buildings like a massive silver ship run aground in the middle of S?o Paulo.
Its broad roof with open center floated over the seating bowl.
I’d worked stadium shows before with Pryzm, but this one felt different.
Bigger. My stomach tightened. To everyone else, this was a celebration.
To me, it was forty-three thousand variables I found frightening.
Every gate, every loading dock, every maintenance tunnel, every credentialed worker represented another opportunity for someone determined enough to reach Jin.
I found myself studying the building instead of admiring it.
The elevated VIP entrance. The television trucks clustered near the service road.
The security fences channeling fans into narrow queues.
Until a few weeks ago, I’d watched concerts thinking about choreography and timing.
Now I found myself calculating sightlines, escape routes, and the distance from Jin to the nearest cover.
It was a miserable way to watch someone you loved do the thing he loved most.
I stood in the wings and looked up instead of out.
Blue sky filled the opening above us, framed by the sweeping roof that circled the stadium.
It felt strangely exposed, as though there were nowhere to hide.
The next evening, forty-three thousand people would fill those seats, but for now only technicians moved through the cavernous space, their voices echoing off the concrete.
Pryzm began with a vocal warm-up, and then a partial run-through of several songs to set sound levels. The stage was configured differently, with a longer runway and three different spotlight areas, so they ran through full choreography for several key numbers.
I watched Jin move through the choreography with the mechanical precision that came from running the same routines thousands of times.
But his shoulders were tight, his smile didn’t reach his eyes, and when he thought no one was looking his gaze would drift to the exits like he was calculating escape routes.
“He’s holding up better than I expected,” Sun-hee-noona said quietly beside me.
I glanced at her. “You think so?”
“I’ve known him since he was a trainee. I know what he looks like when he’s falling apart.” She nodded toward the stage. “He’s scared, but he’s functional. That’s all we can ask right now.”
“It shouldn’t be all we can ask. He’s twenty-three. He should be worrying about music and fans and his career, not whether someone’s going to kill him.”
“Welcome to being famous.” Her voice was dry but not unkind. “The bigger you get, the more people want a piece of you. Some of them in ways that aren’t healthy.”
The sound check wrapped, and Jin walked straight to me, sweat-drenched and breathing hard.
“Water,” he said, and I handed him a bottle before he finished the word.
He drank half of it, then poured the rest over his head as he often did. Water droplets caught the stage lights, and for a second he looked exactly like he had when I met him. Eighteen years old, terrified before debut, trusting me to make him ready for the world.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Like I might throw up.” He smiled weakly. “But I always feel like that before shows.”
“Liar. You love performing.”
“I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get scared I’ll miss a cue or that my voice will break. I was a mess before London and that has shaken me.”
That was my fault, because I’d abandoned him. “You’ll be terrific,” I said, squeezing his hand. “You always are.”
By the time the rehearsal ended, my T-shirt clung to my back, and I’d run through a whole box of towelettes tamping down perspiration. Each of the group members looked like they’d been through a swimming pool. Jin’s dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his T-shirt soaked with sweat.
“Go shower,” I told him.
He grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Watching him disappear into the dressing-room corridor brought only momentary relief.
The backstage area was quieter than the stadium floor, but it wasn’t empty.
Electricians rolled cases past open doors.
Caterers unloaded trays. Security guards checked credentials at every intersection.
It took only one unfamiliar face to make my pulse jump.
Allianz Parque had the nicest dressing area of any on the tour. Each room had a private bathroom including a shower, a hair and makeup station with large mirrors and lights, and wardrobe racks.
There was a catering area nearby, as well as an office Sun-hee-noona, Grace, and the other team members could use. A stadium security officer stood at the entrance to the area, checking IDs.
The bus back to the hotel smelled like the passion fruit shampoo and lemon verbena soap provided by the venue.
It was sweet without being cloying, reminding me that I was halfway around the world.
I closed my eyes as the bus left the stadium, wishing the scents could drown out the worry that had settled in my chest.
The Tivoli Mofarrej had provided us with a large conference room where the group could hold a press conference.
Grace briefed us all as the group took their places on a makeshift stage.
“We’re expecting Brazilian television entertainment reporters and music journalists,” she said.
“We’ve also credentialed several fan-site photographers and social influencers. ”
“We’ve double-verified everyone,” Liam added. “And we’ll have additional hotel security at the entrances to stop anyone who looks suspicious.”
Then Grace introduced a young woman with purple strands of hair among the black, wearing a low-cut blouse and ankle-length slacks. She looked unmistakably Korean at first glance, but there was a subtle blend of features that hinted at her mixed European and Korean heritage.
“This is Camila Kim,” Grace said. “She’s going to moderate the conference.”
Camila waved at everyone. “Did you know that S?o Paulo has the largest ethnic Korean population in South America?” she asked, speaking our language. “There’s a tremendous interest in K-Pop and K-drama here, so you’ll have a lot of very enthusiastic fans.”
Everyone took their places on the stage, and I sat in the audience between Sun-hee-noona and Mina. The journalists all hurried in, eager to get the best spots, and quickly Camila began, giving an introduction in both Portuguese and Korean.
After that it was a wild round of questions and answers. Sometimes Camila translated from Portuguese to Korean, sometimes Grace did, and other times the reporters asked their questions in Korean and were answered that way.
Fortunately, no one asked about Cannes, or about security on the tour, though Jin had to dodge one question about personal relationships. “Between rehearsals and touring, none of us has time for relationships,” he said, and all the other members nodded.
“Though we like to see pretty girls in the audience,” Woo said, and the crowd laughed.
“But Jin is trending on social media with a boyfriend,” the reporter said.
Camila took over quickly. “We’re here today to discuss the tour and the concert. Next question, please.”
The reporter protested but Camila glared at him and pointed at the man next to him, who asked, “The title song on your album is from the movie My Lover from the North. Would you like to see more connection between North and South Korea?”
Camila groaned. “No politics either.”
There were a few more tepid questions about the concert, and then Camila said we were done.
Back in New York, Sun-hee-noona accepted that Jin and I could share a room, and I was relieved when the press conference was finally over and we could escape upstairs together.
Jin kicked off his shoes the moment the door closed behind us. “I think I’ve answered the same five questions in four different languages today.”
I laughed softly. “You only answered in two.”
“It felt like four.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I took a shower and changed out of my sweaty clothes.
The room overlooked the city. Far below, S?o Paulo stretched to the horizon, a maze of towers disappearing into the late-afternoon haze. Somewhere in that vastness stood Allianz Parque, waiting for tomorrow night’s concert.
Jin settled beside me on the sofa, our shoulders touching. Neither of us spoke for a while.
“You’re doing it again,” he said at last.
“Doing what?”
“Listening.”
I hadn’t realized I was. Elevators chimed in the hallway. A housekeeping cart rattled over the carpet outside. Somewhere down the corridor, someone laughed.
“Occupational hazard,” I said.