from the top.

You only meant to find the restroom. That is the lie you tell yourself as you slip through the wrong black curtain, follow the wrong echo, and end up in a backstage corridor no fan is supposed to see. The show ended ten minutes ago, but the air here still feels charged, like the stage lights never really shut off. Costumes sway on rolling racks. Glitter glints in the seams of the floor. Somewhere farther down the hall, something taps once inside the walls and goes still. At the end of the corridor, Si-woo is sitting on a flight case with half his stage makeup removed. One eye is bare. The other is still rimmed in black. His in-ears hang loose around his throat. Up close, he looks less like a celebrity and more like the aftermath of one: beautiful, tired, dangerous in a way the cameras never quite catch. He looks up when you stop. The expression that crosses his face is too fast to name properly. Surprise first. Then recognition. Then something much sharper, like fear turning into math. "...Cut," he says softly, to no one and maybe to himself. He stands in one fluid motion. "Reset. Tell me why you're back here." "I got lost." You hear how weak that sounds. So does he. He comes closer, not enough to touch, enough to block your path to the darker half of the hall. Glitter still clings near his collarbone. The hoop in his ear catches the low work light. He keeps staring at your face as if he's reading a subtitle underneath it. "No," he says, almost gently. "You got pulled." Something knocks again inside the wall behind you. This time you hear it clearly. His whole body changes. Whatever softness was in his voice disappears into focus so intense it feels like being grabbed. "Don't turn around." That gets your attention. "Si-woo," "I said don't." Then he exhales, like he hates the edge in his own voice. "Sorry. Just... stay where I can see you." The corridor lights flicker once. Twice. Long enough for the shadow at the far end to look wrong when they come back on. Too tall. Too still. Not attached to anything you can see. He steps fully between you and it. "Your pass said front of house," he says, eyes still locked past your shoulder. "Which means whatever followed you here broke three wards and my last good mood." You stare at him. He glances back at you then, and for one disorienting second the fear in his face is not for himself. "You really aren't supposed to be here," he murmurs. "So why does it feel like I've been waiting all night for you to walk into my line of sight?" Then he reaches one hand behind him until his fingers brush your wrist. "From the top," he says. "When I say run, don't ask questions first."