10. Unauthorized
UNAUTHORIZED
SANG-HOON — PARIS
Aidan rose from his vantage point in the audience and came over to me. “He trusts you.”
“I’ve given him reason to.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” He tilted his head toward the dressing room corridor. “I’m doing a backstage sweep. Want to come? I could use your eye for anything that looks out of place.”
I followed him down the narrow hallway that connected the stage to the dressing rooms. The Accor Arena felt like a machine built for spectacle, with concrete service halls, exposed pipes and cable trays overhead, bright LED lighting, and enough loading docks, freight elevators, and hidden passageways to move an army without the audience ever noticing.
“Each member has their own room?” Aidan asked.
“Jin does. The others usually share—Tae and Woo prefer it, and Haneul and Min-kyu don’t mind. It’s more efficient for the styling team too.”
We stopped at Jin’s door. His name was printed on a card slipped into a brass holder—JIN / PRYZM—in that universal font of temporary occupancy.
Aidan tried the handle. Locked. He pulled out a key card. “Jason gave me access to all the rooms. Hope you don’t mind me checking.”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t.”
The door swung open on a space that was small but private.
A counter with a lighted mirror, a clothing rack, a small sofa, and a door to a private bathroom.
Jin’s performance outfit hung on the rack, already steamed and prepared.
My backup kit sat on the counter next to bottles of water and throat lozenges.
Everything exactly as I’d left it two hours ago.
Except.
On the small table beside the sofa sat a box I didn’t recognize.
White cardboard, maybe thirty centimeters square, tied with silver ribbon. No card visible. No label.
My stomach dropped.
“That wasn’t here before,” I said quietly.
Aidan was already moving, pulling out his phone, photographing the box from multiple angles. “Don’t touch it. When did you last check this room?”
“Right before rehearsal started. Two hours ago. The room was locked.”
“And you’re certain this wasn’t here?”
“Positive.” I would have noticed. I noticed everything when it came to Jin’s spaces.
“Who normally has access to dressing rooms?” Aidan asked.
“Arena staff, our security team, tour management.”
Aidan crouched beside the box without touching it, examining the ribbon, the edges. “Does Jin usually receive gifts in his dressing room?”
“Never. Everything goes through the stage door collection, gets screened, cataloged. Nothing comes directly to the dressing rooms.” My hands were shaking. I shoved them in my pockets. “This shouldn’t be here.”
Aidan was already texting—rapid-fire messages to someone, probably Liam or Jason. His face was carefully neutral, but I’d seen that expression in Cannes. Controlled alarm.
“The ribbon is hand-tied,” he said, still studying the box. “Expensive paper stock. Whoever left this wanted it to look like a high-end gift.”
“What if it’s—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Bomb. Poison. Threat.
“Then we handle it carefully.” Aidan stood, positioning himself between me and the box. “I need you to do something for me. Go back to the stage, find Jin, and keep him there. Don’t mention this. Just keep him occupied until I give you the all-clear.”
“You think it’s dangerous.”
“I think it’s unauthorized, which makes it a security breach regardless of contents.” His voice was calm, professional. “Could be innocent. Maybe a fan who bribed a staff member, who thought the giver was being romantic. But until we know for sure, Jin doesn’t come back to this room.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Should I get Jason?”
“Already texted him. He’s bringing the arena’s portable X-ray scanner.” Aidan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it. “Liam’s securing the corridor. Go. Now. And Sang-hoon?”
I paused at the door.
“Don’t let Jin see you’re scared. He’ll know something’s wrong.”
Too late for that. Jin could read me like sheet music.
But I headed back toward the stage, my pulse hammering in my ears, trying to figure out how to keep my face neutral when every instinct was screaming at me to grab Jin and run.
The stage lights were bright enough to make me squint after the dim corridor. The group was back in formation, running through the final set of songs.
I scanned for Jin and found him stage left, conferring with Min-kyu about something. Their heads were close together, Min-kyu’s hand on Jin’s shoulder in that casual way the members touched each other. Years of proximity made physical contact as natural as breathing.
I walked up as casually as I could manage. “Joon-hi-ah.”
He turned, and his smile faltered immediately. “What’s wrong?”
Damn it. Aidan was right—I wasn’t able to hide anything from him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, keeping my voice low. “But Aidan wants to double-check some security protocols before the show. Can you stay out here for a bit? Run through the encore staging maybe?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What kind of protocols?”
“Just routine.” The lie tasted metallic. “New venue, new procedures. You know how bodyguards are.”
Haneul was watching me now too, his leader instincts picking up on the tension. “Is there a problem, Sang-hoon-ssi?”
“No problem. Just being thorough.” I forced a smile. “After Cannes, everyone’s a little more careful.”
Haneul studied my face for a long moment, and I saw him calculating, reading the micro-expressions I couldn’t control, weighing what I was saying against what I wasn’t.
Then he nodded slowly. “Okay. We’ll run the encore blocking.”
“Thank you.”
I started to turn away, but Jin caught my wrist—brief, light, almost accidental. “Sang-hoon.”
I looked back.
“Tell me if I need to worry.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a request for honesty, the kind that only worked between people who’d spent a long time learning each other’s tells.
“I will,” I promised. “I’ll tell you everything once Aidan’s finished.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He released my wrist and turned back to Haneul, who was already shifting into leader mode. “Let’s work on the blocking when we all go down the runway and reach down to the fans. Woo keeps drifting too far stage right.”
I walked back to the wings, my heart still racing, and nearly collided with Liam in the corridor.
“Aidan’s got Jason with him,” Liam said quietly. “The arena keeps a portable X-ray scanner on hand for this kind of thing. Should know what’s in the box in about five minutes.”
“And if it’s dangerous?”
“Then we evacuate the arena and call the bomb squad.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like this was just another day at work. Maybe for him it was. “You did good, keeping Jin occupied.”
“He knows something’s wrong.”
“Of course he does. He’s not stupid.” Liam glanced toward the stage where Jin was demonstrating something to Woo, his movements precise even in explanation. “But he trusts you. That’s what matters.”
My phone buzzed. Text from Aidan: Clear. Not a bomb. But you need to see this.
I looked at Liam. He’d gotten the same message.
“Stay with the group,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“No.” The word came out harder than I intended. “If it’s about Jin, I need to see it. If I can’t tell him everything, he’ll fight against your security.”
Liam studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Come on.”
Jin’s dressing room looked the same as before. Small, temporarily his, smelling of fabric steamer and the lavender room spray I always brought to make unfamiliar spaces feel more like home.
The white box sat on the table, ribbon untied, lid removed.
Aidan stood beside it, his face composed, his jaw set. Jason wore a pair of bright blue rubber gloves and was photographing the contents with a professional camera, his jaw tight.
“What is it?” I asked.
Aidan stepped aside so I could see.
Inside the box, nestled in white tissue paper, was a silver picture frame. The kind you’d give as a romantic gift, ornate and expensive.
The photograph inside showed Jin on stage. It wasn’t a professional photo, but a candid shot taken from close range. Very close range. Backstage close.
He was mid-costume change, shirt off, caught in that vulnerable moment between performances when the armor came down.
Someone had drawn on the photograph. Red marker, careful lines.
A heart around Jin’s face.
Across the bottom, someone had written in Korean, each character formed with meticulous care: You wanted our devotion. Now you’ll learn what it costs.
My hands went cold.
“When was this taken?” I asked, though I already knew. It had to have been the Cannes show, because we’d debuted new costumes for that performance. The lighting and the background all screamed backstage at the concert venue.
“Two days ago,” Jason said. “During the performance in Cannes.”
“So someone was backstage there.” Liam’s voice was flat. “Close enough to photograph him during a costume change.”
“And now they’ve managed to get into his locked dressing room in Paris.” Jason pulled out an evidence bag and began carefully lifting the frame. “That’s not fan devotion. That’s access.”
I stared at the photograph, at Jin’s face circled in red, at the possessive words, at the violation of privacy packaged like a love letter.
“We need to tell him,” I said.
“Not yet.” Jason sealed the evidence bag. “First we need to figure out who had access to both venues. That’s a very short list.”
“We’ve already vetted your touring staff,” Aidan said.
“It could be someone who’s traveling parallel to us.” Liam was already pulling up something on his tablet. “Following the tour schedule, buying access from local crews.”
“Or someone Starhouse hired locally,” I said, the words bitter in my mouth. “Someone who seemed legitimate but isn’t.”
Aidan looked at me. “You work with the styling team. Anyone new? Anyone behaving oddly?”
I thought about the choreographer, musical engineer, content producer, and physical therapist, who were all Starhouse employees but who had only joined us for the tour.
Melissa, the choreographer, had been with Starhouse for six months.
Ji-ho, who generated social media content, had been with Starhouse about the same length of time.
All of them had been screened by the company, and were professional and competent.
And all of them had access to backstage.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Everyone seems normal. But then...” I gestured at the photograph. “Whoever did this seems normal. That’s the whole point.”
My phone buzzed. Text from Jin: Rehearsal’s wrapping up. Coming back to change. Five minutes.
“He can’t see this,” I said immediately. “He’ll spiral.”
Aidan nodded. “Agreed. We remove the box, sweep the room again, and brief him later. He needs to focus on staying safe, not on being scared.”
“He has a right to know—”
“And he will know.” Aidan’s voice was firm but not unkind. “When he’s off stage and secure and can process it without having to perform in front of twenty thousand people. Right now, our job is to keep him calm and protected.”