The girl was still clinging to me, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who looked like she weighed as much as a guitar case. She leaned in, her voice husky and suggestive.
"Oppa... do you want to go eat ramyeon?"
My brain, usually slow on the uptake with Korean nuance, unfortunately understood this one perfectly. I'd watched enough dramas. Eating ramyeon at this hour didn't involve noodles. It involved... well, things that would definitely get me in trouble.
I gently peeled her fingers off my neck.
"I'm not your Oppa," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm seventeen. And I prefer varenyky."
Her face dropped. Before she could process the fact that she'd just groped a minor, I performed a tactical retreat, vanishing into the sweaty, heaving crowd.
I needed a sanctuary. I saw the sign for the restroom and shoved my way toward it.
On the wall next to the men's room door, a peeling poster caught my eye. It featured a stylized, moody photo of a band in silhouette.
TONIGHT: YOUTHFUL MEMOIRS (청춘기록)
"Youthful Memoirs," I muttered. "What a romantic name."
There was a block of dense, small Korean text underneath—probably warnings about age restrictions or liability waivers—but I did what I always did with large blocks of text: I ignored them completely.
I pushed into the men's room. It was a sensory nightmare. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, despite the "No Smoking" signs. From the stalls came a chorus of retching sounds and shady, hushed deals being made.
"Nope," I whispered.
I quickly washed my face with freezing cold water, staring at my pale reflection in the grime-streaked mirror. Water dripped from my nose.
"You are an idiot, Motuzenko," I told myself. "Go home."
I exited the bathroom and drifted back toward the dance floor, finding a darker corner with a few empty stools near the back. I collapsed onto one, the adrenaline from the "tongue fencing" incident finally fading, leaving me bone-tired.
Why was I even here?
My curiosity wasn't just a personality quirk anymore; it was a deportation warrant. What was the plan, exactly? Wait for Jun-seo to finish, then jump out and say, "Surprise! I stalked you to a club!"?
This was absurd. I should just leave.
Suddenly, the chaotic lights on stage dimmed to a single, soft blue spotlight. The DJ cut the bass.
Jun-seo stepped up to the mic again. He looked different now—less like a rock star, more like a kid carrying a heavy weight.
"This next song," he said, his voice echoing in the sudden hush. "Is for a friend. A friend who... isn't here anymore."
The rowdy club quieted down. He signaled the band. A slow, melancholic guitar intro began.
It was a ballad. And Jun-seo... he didn't just sing it. He poured his soul into it. It was raw and painful, a stark contrast to the hard rock he'd been screaming earlier. Couples on the floor stopped jumping and started swaying, holding each other close.
I watched from my stool, mesmerized. I saw Jun-seo's eyes glisten under the spotlight. He looked like he was about to cry.
Friend? I thought. Seems like he's singing about some break-up story.
The song ended on a whisper. The crowd erupted, not with wild cheers, but with warm, supportive applause. Jun-seo wiped his eyes quickly, the "cool guy" mask slipping back into place.
"Thank you," he said, clearing his throat. "That's the end of our set list. But... we have one last tradition here. 'Sing with a Star'."
The crowd cheered again, louder this time.
"We pick one person from the audience," Jun-seo explained, forcing a smile. "We sing a duet. Any song the crowd wants. Do we have any volunteers?"
My brain, exhausted and running on pure chaotic impulse, suddenly snapped.
This is it.
This wasn't stalking. This was a performance.
I looked around. On the empty bar counter next to me, someone had left a black baseball cap. I reached into my own pocket and pulled out the black face mask I'd bought at the convenience store yesterday—because apparently, everyone in Seoul wore them, and I wanted to blend in.
"Any volunteers?" Jun-seo asked, scanning the dark room. "Don't be shy."
Silence. The crowd was hesitating.
I jammed the cap onto my head, pulling the brim low. I looped the black mask over my ears, covering everything but my eyes.
I stood up on the rail of the stool and shot my hand into the air.
"Me!" I didn't yell it. I projected it.
The spotlight swung wildly, searching the darkness, until it hit me.
"We have one!" Jun-seo called out, shielding his eyes. "Come on up!"
Staff members materialized out of nowhere, ushering me toward the stage. My heart was hammering a rhythm faster than any thrash metal song. I walked up the stairs, the lights blinding me.
I stepped onto the stage.
I was face-to-face with Park Jun-seo. Up close, he looked exhausted, sweat dripping down his neck, his cut lip stark under the harsh lights.
He looked at me—a tall guy in a hoodie, cap low, face masked. He squinted.
I smiled. Not with my mouth, but with my eyes—the "eye-smile" I'd practiced in the mirror.
He didn't recognize me. To him, I was just another anonymous fan in a mask.
A staff member handed me a wireless mic.
"Alright," Jun-seo said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the stage. You have a deep vibe. What are we feeling tonight? Another ballad? Something acoustic?"
The crowd murmured, waiting.
I brought the mic to my masked lips. I thought about the sad ballad he just sang. I thought about the heavy atmosphere.
I thought about blowing it all to hell.
I pitched my voice as low as it could go, adding a gravelly, unrecognizable texture.
"BIGBANG," I growled into the mic.
Jun-seo blinked. "BIGBANG?"
I looked dead into the camera that was projecting our faces onto the screen behind us.
"BANG BANG BANG."