Chapter 1 #3
The entertainment district of Seoul sprawls before me, glass and steel towers catching the early light, each building housing hundreds of dreams all struggling to reach the sky.
This has been my playground since I was a child, back when my father first started climbing the ranks at his company and would bring me to work on weekends.
I know this area better than the back of my hand—know which alleys are shortcuts and which are dead ends, know which security guards will wave you through and which will demand ID, know which cafés have the best wifi and which restaurants stay open late enough to feed starving artists pulling all-nighters.
My father. I should call him, probably. Let him know about the mark, about the five flowers that now adorn my skin.
But the thought of that conversation makes my stomach clench.
We don't talk much anymore—holidays, birthdays, the occasional awkward dinner where we both pretend we don't know why we can't look each other in the eye.
He blames himself for what happened to my mother.
For asking her to break the bond. For loving her enough to let her make that choice, even knowing what it would cost.
I blame him too, sometimes. In my darkest moments. Then I remember that my mother made her own choice, and he was just the reason she made it.
Love makes you do terrible things. That's the lesson I learned watching my parents.
I won't make the same mistake.
My favorite coffee place is already buzzing when I arrive, the small café packed with people seeking caffeine before facing the day ahead.
The interior is warm and inviting, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood, with mismatched furniture that somehow works together to create a cozy atmosphere.
The smell of freshly roasted beans fills the air, mingling with the sweeter scents of vanilla and chocolate from the pastry case.
I join the line, grateful for the familiar routine of ordering my usual—a large Americano with an extra shot, because today of all days I need the caffeine.
The barista who takes my order doesn't notice anything unusual about me. To her, I'm just another customer, another anonymous face in the crowd. The anonymity is comforting in a way it's never been before.
I accept my coffee and step back out into the morning, wrapping my hands around the warm cup and letting the heat seep into my fingers.
The entertainment buildings loom overhead, glass and steel monoliths catching the early light and throwing it back in dazzling patterns.
Each one houses a hundred dreams, a thousand ambitions, an army of artists and managers and executives all working toward the same goal: success.
For some, that means stardom—the bright lights and screaming fans and magazine covers that most people imagine when they think of the entertainment industry.
For others, like me, it means something quieter.
A credit in the liner notes. A royalty check in the mail.
The satisfaction of hearing your words sung by millions even if they don't know your name.
I've always been content with that. Content in the shadows, far from the consuming spotlight that destroys as many people as it elevates. Being tied to someone—or five someones—would drag me out of those shadows whether I wanted to go or not.
If my soulmates are in the public eye...
I don't let myself finish the thought. It's too terrifying to contemplate.
My studio is located in a separate building within Narvi Entertainment's massive campus, tucked away in a quieter corner far from the main hub of activity.
It was a conscious choice when I was given the opportunity to select my workspace.
I needed privacy, needed space away from the constant energy of the central buildings, a place where I could create without the weight of the industry pressing in on me.
The building itself is older, more weathered than the gleaming towers that house the company's more prestigious divisions.
Brick and worn wood, a small lobby with a security desk that's rarely manned, an elevator that makes concerning noises on the best of days.
But it has character, and more importantly, it has solitude.
My studio is my sanctuary—the one place where I feel completely in control.
My keycard buzzes me in, the familiar beep a small comfort.
I take the stairs two at a time, three flights up to the floor where my studio awaits.
The hallway is quiet, the other studios either empty or occupied by creators who, like me, prefer to work in isolation.
My door is at the end, marked with a small brass plaque that reads simply "K. Studio."
I let myself in, and the familiar scent of my workspace washes over me.
Coffee—multiple cups' worth, some still sitting on my desk from yesterday's session.
Paper—the slightly musty smell of notebooks accumulated over years.
Electronics—the particular scent of equipment that's been running for hours.
And beneath it all, something that's simply mine, the olfactory signature of a space I've inhabited long enough to leave my mark.
Mark.
The word sends a spike of anxiety through me, and I push it aside, forcing myself to focus on the room instead of the design hidden beneath my collar.
The studio is larger than most would expect, a rectangular room with high ceilings and exposed brick walls painted white.
My desk dominates one corner, a massive wooden surface scarred by years of use, covered with the detritus of creativity.
My computer setup takes up another section—dual monitors, keyboard, mixing board.
Bookshelves line one wall, stuffed with references and inspiration.
In the corner by the window, my worn leather couch, positioned to catch the afternoon light and the view of the small park below. That's where I do my best thinking, curled up with my notebook and a cup of coffee, watching the world go by.
I drop my bag onto my desk and power up my computer, settling into the familiar routine.
Work. This is what I know. This is what I can control.
Music has always been my escape from everything I couldn't face—my mother's illness, my father's absence, the loneliness that's been my constant companion since I was twelve years old.
Today, it will be my escape from the five gray flowers that feel like chains waiting to tighten.
The familiar hum of the studio settles my nerves slightly. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the equipment. I can do this. I can sit here, write my songs, live my life, and pretend that nothing has changed.
The mark on my neck pulses gently, a reminder that everything has changed.
I ignore it and open my email.
A soft chime from my computer signals a new message, and I lean forward to read it, grateful for the distraction. It's from Mina, my manager—a woman whose sharp efficiency has guided my career for the past three years.
Mina: Need you at HQ. Potential high-profile project. NDA level.
My brows lift. High-profile? In my world, that usually means one of two things: a comeback for an A-list artist or a debut project for a rising group the company is betting everything on.
Either way, it means pressure—the kind that leads to late nights and early mornings, to scrapped drafts and last-minute rewrites.
The NDA mention is intriguing. Non-disclosure agreements are common in the industry, but mentioning it specifically suggests something bigger than usual.
Something the company is particularly invested in keeping secret.
A project like this would be good for my career.
Good for my bank account. Good for the carefully constructed professional identity I've built over the years.
Good for distracting me from the five flowers now adorning my skin.
I grab my bag, slipping my notebook back inside, and head out.
The transition from my studio to the main entertainment building is familiar—down three flights of stairs, out into the bustling street, a ten-minute walk through the heart of the district.
I weave through the late-morning crowd, trainees in matching workout clothes, stylists lugging racks of costumes, managers barking into phones. The industry in all its chaotic glory.
I keep my head down, my scarf high, and try not to make eye contact with anyone. The less I see, the less chance that one of those five gray flowers will suddenly bloom into color.
Narvi Entertainment's headquarters is a towering structure of glass and steel, designed to project power and success.
The lobby is vast and imposing, all marble floors and soaring ceilings, with a massive digital display showcasing the company's current roster of artists.
Their faces smile down at me as I cross toward the security desk—idols I've written for, groups whose songs I've helped shape, solo artists whose emotions I've translated into lyrics.
I check in at security, receive a visitor badge, and make my way to the elevators. The conference room on the third floor is already occupied when I arrive, Mina waiting with her tablet, alongside Jihoon, one of the company's senior producers.
"Keira," Mina greets, her sharp gaze assessing me as I slide into a chair. "Busy morning?"
"Always," I reply, keeping my tone neutral. "What's the project?"
Jihoon clears his throat. "We need a title track for SIREN's upcoming album. Fast turnaround. The concept is dark, emotional—something that grips the audience instantly."
For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
SIREN.
One of the biggest K-pop groups in the world.
Five members, all alphas, all devastatingly talented, all shrouded in the kind of mystery that makes fans obsessive and media outlets desperate.
They debuted six years ago and have been dominating charts and breaking records ever since.
Their music isn't typical K-pop fare, it's darker, deeper, layered with complexity and emotional nuance that sets them apart from every other group in the industry.
They're known for something else, too. Something that makes my stomach tighten and my mark pulse beneath my collar.
SIREN's soulmark is public knowledge. All five members share the same mark—a branch with a single teal flower, marking them as bonded to one another and to a sixth person who hasn't yet been found. Their shared soulmate. The one who will complete their bond and become the center of their pack.
The industry has been speculating about that sixth person for years. Who are they? Where are they? Why haven't they been found yet?
Five members.
Five flowers on my mark.
No. No, it's impossible. The coincidence is too perfect, too cruel. The universe couldn't be that sadistic.
Could it?
"You think I'm the right fit for them?" I manage, my voice steady despite the hurricane of panic building in my chest.
Mina smirks. "You've written half the industry's most gut-wrenching love songs. SIREN needs something unforgettable. You're the best choice."
I should refuse. Make an excuse. Walk out of this room and never look back.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "Tell me more about the concept."
The meeting stretches on as Jihoon breaks down the expectations. SIREN's comeback. A full-length album, their first in two years. The label wants something legendary—raw, soulful, dangerous.
“They want something that lingers," Jihoon explains. "Something haunting. A song that makes people feel like they're being pulled under and don't want to come back up."
The challenge sparks something in me despite my fear. I know SIREN's sound, I've studied their discography, admired their artistry. They're not typical idols. Their music has depth, complexity, emotional honesty that most groups never achieve.
Writing for them would be the opportunity of a lifetime. Writing for them might also bring me face-to-face with five alphas who could be…I shut the thought down before it can fully form.
"They sent references?" I ask, pulling out my notebook.
Jihoon nods and casts a file onto the conference room screen. Clips of performances flicker to life—SIREN's last title track, dark and sensual, laced with tension. The choreography is sharp, the visuals cinematic. Even through the screen, their presence is undeniable.
Then I feel it.
A strange pull. Familiar yet foreign. A whisper of something I can't quite place, tugging at my chest like an invisible thread. My mark tingles beneath my collar. All five flowers, simultaneously, as if responding to something in the images on the screen.
I keep my expression neutral, but my pulse betrays me, beating too fast against my throat.
It's nothing, I tell myself. Just nerves. Just the excitement of a challenging project.
My mother's voice echoes in my memory: "The bond knows, Keira. Even before you do. It knows, and it reaches for what it wants."
"I'll need a few days," I say, clearing my throat. "To get the concept right."
Mina nods. "We'll give you the studio. Work your magic."
As I gather my things, Jihoon adds, almost offhandedly, "Oh, and you might be meeting them down the road. Just a heads-up."
My fingers tighten around my pen. Meeting them.
Five members. Five flowers. Five potential bonds waiting to drag me under.
I nod, feigning indifference. "Looking forward to it." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. I walk out of the room on steady legs, but inside, I'm screaming. The mark pulses against my neck, five gray flowers aching for something I don't yet understand.
My mother broke one bond and it killed her. If I'm right—if SIREN are my soulmates—I won't have that option. I'll have to choose: complete the bonds and risk being consumed, or run until soul sickness takes me anyway.
Either way, love wins.
Either way, I lose.
That's tomorrow's problem. Today, I just have to survive.
I pull my scarf higher, covering the mark that feels like a death sentence, and step back out into the Seoul morning. Somewhere in this city, five alphas are living their lives, unaware that their missing soulmate is doing everything she can to never be found.
I intend to keep it that way.