Chapter Text
"Move your ass, Euijoo—we're gonna miss soundcheck!" Nicholas hissed, shoving his bandmate toward the service elevator. Backstage at the Tokyo Dome was always a maze of narrow corridors and harried staff, but tonight the usual chaos felt sharper, charged. K brought up the rear, humming absently to himself as he scrolled through his phone.
The overhead lights flickered once. Then again. A distant clang echoed from somewhere deeper in the stadium's underbelly. Euijoo paused mid-step, his sneaker squeaking against the concrete. "Did you hear that?"
Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Hear what? Your paranoia?" But then the service elevator doors shuddered open—too fast, too silent. Three figures in black masks lunged out.
K's phone clattered to the floor. The first masked man grabbed Nicholas by the collar, yanking him forward. The second went for Euijoo, who twisted away with a startled yelp. K reacted on instinct, tackling the third assailant into the wall. Someone's elbow caught him in the ribs. A grunt. A scuffle. Then—
—then the lights went out completely. In the sudden blackness, K felt the air rush past his face as someone swung at him blindly. He ducked, shoulder-checking his attacker into what he hoped was the same wall he'd slammed them into moments ago. A pained gasp confirmed his aim. Nearby, Euijoo's sneakers skidded against concrete, followed by Nicholas cursing in Mandarin—always a bad sign.
The emergency lights flickered on just as a fourth figure rounded the corner, moving faster than anyone had a right to in dress shoes. The man—broad-shouldered, jaw set—grabbed the nearest assailant by the back of the neck and yanked him off Nicholas with terrifying ease. Something metallic glinted in his other hand. A gun? No—a badge.
"Security," the stranger barked in japanese, voice cutting through the scuffle like a blade. The masked men hesitated, glancing at each other. Then, as suddenly as they'd appeared, they bolted down the corridor, their footsteps fading into the stadium's labyrinth.
K straightened up, ribs throbbing, and got his first proper look at their rescuer. The man was older than them by maybe five years, his crisp white shirt stretched tight across shoulders that suggested either military training or an unhealthy relationship with pull-ups. His hair was tousled from the altercation, one lock falling artfully over a brow furrowed in concentration as he checked Nicholas for injuries.
The overhead lights buzzed back to life, casting the narrow corridor in a sickly fluorescent glow. K pressed a hand to his ribs, watching as their rescuer—Fuma, according to the badge clipped to his belt—methodically swept the area with sharp, practiced movements. Euijoo was leaning against the wall, breathing hard, while Nicholas kept rubbing his throat where the collar of his shirt had dug in. The air smelled like adrenaline and the faint metallic tang of blood—probably from K's split lip.
Fuma's phone was already at his ear, his voice low and urgent as he spoke to security. "Incident at sector B7. Three assailants, black masks, headed toward the east exits." He paused, listening, then added, "No, the idols are unharmed." His eyes flicked to K's lip, and he amended, "Mostly." The corner of his mouth twitched, just once, before he schooled his expression back into professionalism.
K couldn't stop staring. There was something about the way Fuma moved—like every motion had been drilled into him until it was second nature, until his body knew violence better than breathing. It shouldn't have been attractive. It *wasn't* attractive, K told himself firmly. Except Fuma's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows now, revealing forearms corded with muscle, and—oh no.
Nicholas cleared his throat. "So. That happened."
The silence that followed Nicholas’s understatement was thick enough to carve. Somewhere down the hall, a distant PA system crackled to life, announcing the delay of their soundcheck in polite, apologetic Japanese. K wiped his split lip with the back of his hand, watching the smear of red against his skin with detached fascination. The metallic taste lingered—proof this wasn’t some adrenaline-dream before a concert.
Fuma lowered his phone, his gaze sweeping over them like a scanner. "You three need to move. Now." His voice left no room for debate. "They knew your route. Knew the timing. That’s not a coincidence."
Euijoo pushed off the wall, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for Nicholas but thought better of it. "Who the hell were they?"
Fuma’s jaw tightened. "Professionals. Amateurs wouldn’t have cut the lights." He stepped closer, his presence somehow both protective and imposing. "Did anyone approach you recently? Fans, staff, anyone acting off?"
The overhead fluorescents buzzed like trapped wasps, flickering in time with K's pulse. He'd been in enough backstage scuffles to know this wasn't some overzealous fan—the way those men moved, the precision of their ambush. Professionals, like Fuma said. Which meant someone had paid good money to get at them. The thought slithered down his spine.
Nicholas rubbed his throat again, his usual bravado dulled. "That one guy—he kept saying 'the package.' Like we were fucking FedEx." His voice rasped from the chokehold, and Euijoo's fingers twitched again, this time landing on Nicholas's elbow with feather-light concern. Fuma noticed; K saw his eyes track the contact before he deliberately looked away.
"The lights," K blurted, remembering. "They cut them right when the elevator opened." He mimed the timing with his hands, wincing as his ribs protested. "Like they'd rehearsed it."
Fuma's expression darkened. "They had inside help. Stadium blueprints, your schedule." He pulled a slim tablet from his inner jacket pocket, swiping through what looked like security feeds. "We're diverting you to the north VIP exit. My team's securing the route now."
The north VIP exit was quieter than K expected—no stampede of security, no flashing lights—just the hum of a single black van idling by the loading dock. Fuma moved ahead of them, his posture taut as he scanned the dimly lit alleyway, one hand resting near his waist where the outline of a gun holster pressed against his tailored slacks. K tried not to stare. Tried and failed.
Nicholas nudged Euijoo’s shoulder as they approached the van, his voice a low murmur. "You good?" Euijoo nodded, but his fingers curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. K had seen that look before—after their first concert, when the adrenaline crash hit and everything felt too bright, too loud. Except now, the threat wasn’t over. It was coiled somewhere in the shadows, waiting.
Fuma opened the van’s sliding door with a sharp jerk of his wrist. "In. Now." The command brooked no argument, but K hesitated just long enough to catch the way Fuma’s eyes darted to the rooftop above them—calculating, assessing. A shiver prickled down K’s spine.
The van’s interior smelled like leather and antiseptic, the seats pristine as if it had been scrubbed down for this exact moment. K slid in beside Nicholas, their knees bumping in the cramped space. Euijoo hesitated at the threshold, his gaze flicking past Fuma’s shoulder to the alleyway. "What if they’re waiting for us out there?"
Fuma didn't answer Euijoo's question—just gripped his shoulder and practically lifted him into the van with one smooth motion. The door slammed shut behind them with a sound like a vault sealing. K's pulse jumped as darkness swallowed them whole for a split second before the van's interior lights flickered on, revealing Fuma already tapping commands into a dashboard-mounted tablet. The screen cast jagged blue shadows across his sharp profile. "Seatbelts," he ordered, without looking up.
The engine roared to life beneath them, a vibration K felt through his bones before the van lurched forward. Fuma braced himself effortlessly against the movement, one hand still flying across the tablet's screen. K watched the tendons in his wrist flex with each swipe—too distracted to notice Nicholas elbowing him sharply in the side until pain flared through his ribs again. "Ow, what the—?"
Nicholas smirked, mouthing *stop staring* with exaggerated clarity. K flipped him off, but heat crawled up his neck anyway. Across from them, Euijoo had his knees pulled up to his chest, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against his shins. "Where are we going?" he asked, voice barely audible over the hum of tires on pavement.
The van took a sharp left, throwing K against Nicholas's shoulder before he could brace himself. Fuma didn't even sway, his grip on the overhead handle effortless as he finally looked up from the tablet. "We're looping through Shibuya to lose any tails," he said, voice clipped. His eyes flicked to Euijoo's hunched form. "Then to your managers. They're waiting at a safehouse in Roppongi."
Nicholas whistled lowly, rubbing his elbow where K had collided with him. "Safehouse? The hell kinda James Bond shit—"
"Standard protocol." Fuma cut him off with a glance that could've frozen lava. "Your CEO hired me two weeks ago after intel suggested a credible threat. Tonight confirmed it." The van swerved again, this time onto a quieter side street, and K caught a glimpse of neon reflections sliding like liquid over Fuma's jawline—pink, then blue, then gone.
Euijoo uncurled slightly, his sneakers squeaking against the van's floor. "You've been... watching us?" The question came out smaller than K had ever heard him, and something in Fuma's posture shifted—just a fraction—before he schooled it back to neutrality.
The van’s tires hissed against wet pavement as Fuma tapped one final command into the tablet before locking the screen. The blue glow faded, leaving only the dim amber of the van’s interior lights to trace the sharp lines of his face. "Your managers are already secured," he said, voice low but carrying effortlessly over the hum of the engine. "Protocol dictates we don’t disclose locations until arrival, but given the circumstances—" His gaze flicked to Euijoo’s tense posture, then away. "—it’s a penthouse in Roppongi Hills. Private elevator, no staff. You’ll stay there until we neutralize the threat."
K exhaled through his nose, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing ribs. Neutralize. The word slithered through him, clinical and heavy. "So we’re just supposed to sit there while you... what, hunt them down?"
Fuma’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "While my *team* handles it." He adjusted his grip on the wheel as the van wove through traffic, his other hand resting loosely near his hip—close to the holster K had spotted earlier. "Your only job is to stay safe."
Nicholas barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Great pep talk." He stretched his legs out, bumping K’s knee deliberately. "What if they find us first?"
The van hit a pothole, jolting them all sideways as Fuma braced a forearm against the ceiling without breaking eye contact. "Your managers were extracted fifteen minutes before the ambush," he said, voice steady despite the vehicle's violent sway. Neon lights from passing storefronts striped his face in fleeting bursts of color—green, then gold—casting his sharp features in something almost theatrical. "Protocol required immediate isolation once the threat was confirmed. They're currently secured with my second-in-command, who has counter-surveillance training and a twelve-kilometer sniper record."
Euijoo's fingers froze mid-drum against his shins. "Jesus," he breathed.
K watched Fuma's thumb tap once, twice against the tablet's edge—a tiny crack in that military precision. "Standard procedure for high-value assets," Fuma continued, though his voice had gone fractionally softer. The van swerved onto a quieter street, the engine dropping to a murmur. "You'll be reunited within the hour. Until then—" His gaze flicked to Nicholas's skeptical expression. "—I suggest you trust that I'm significantly more dangerous than whoever just tried to grab you."
Nicholas opened his mouth, probably to make another quip, but Euijoo's hand closed around his wrist—a silent plea. The touch lingered a second too long before Euijoo seemed to realize and jerked his hand away, cheeks flushing. K bit the inside of his already split lip to keep from grinning.
The van lurched to a stop so abruptly that K's seatbelt locked against his collarbone. Through the tinted windows, the neon glow of Roppongi's skyline pulsed like a living thing—blues and pinks reflecting off rain-slicked pavement. Fuma was already unbuckled, his hand resting on the door handle before the engine fully cut. "Stay here," he murmured, though his eyes were scanning the deserted street with predatory focus. K watched his throat work as he swallowed—just once—before slipping out into the night with the silence of a shadow.
Nicholas exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against his knee. "Dude's got more red flags than a matador convention," he muttered, but the joke fell flat when Euijoo flinched at a distant car horn. K reached over without thinking, squeezing Euijoo's wrist where it trembled against the seat. The skin was cold.
Fuma reappeared at the passenger window moments later, rapping twice on the glass with knuckles that looked bruised in the low light. "Clear," he said as the door slid open, though his shoulders stayed tense. "Move fast." K barely had time to register the warmth of Fuma's palm against his lower back—guiding, shielding—before they were hustled through a service entrance so discreet it blended into the building's marble facade.
The private elevator smelled like lemon disinfectant and something faintly metallic. Fuma positioned himself between them and the doors, his reflection fractured in the polished steel. "Your managers are on the 42nd floor," he said, voice measured. The elevator began its ascent with a nearly imperceptible hum. "They've been briefed. You're not to leave this building until I say otherwise."
Nicholas snorted, rubbing at the red mark circling his throat. "So what, we're just supposed to sit around eating room service while you play action hero?"
Fuma's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "While my team secures the perimeter and traces the breach," he corrected, just as the elevator chimed. The doors slid open to reveal a dimly lit foyer that smelled of jasmine and expensive leather. "Your managers have the full briefing. They'll explain the—"
The penthouse doors swung open before Fuma could finish his sentence, revealing their manager—Harua, usually unflappable, now pale beneath his carefully styled bangs—holding a tablet like a shield. "Inside. Now." His voice cracked on the last word, eyes darting past them to the empty hallway as if expecting masked figures to materialize from the wallpaper. The scent of jasmine intensified as K stepped across the threshold, his sneakers sinking into carpet so plush it muffled sound entirely.
The penthouse living room was all sharp angles and low lighting—modern furniture arranged like a stage set for a thriller K hadn’t auditioned for. Harua herded them toward the sprawling sectional with the frantic energy of a man counting seconds, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the tablet’s edge. "Sit. Please." He kept glancing at Fuma, who lingered by the entrance with his back to the wall, gaze sweeping the room’s sightlines like he was mentally mapping sniper positions.
Euijoo collapsed onto the couch first, knees folding under him like a marionette with cut strings. Nicholas followed, close enough that their shoulders brushed—deliberate, K noted. Their manager exhaled sharply, swiping open the tablet to reveal a security feed split into quadrants. "We’ve scrubbed all schedules from the servers," Harua said, voice steadier now. "No outside staff, no deliveries. Fuma’s team is handling perimeter sweeps every thirty minutes."
K perched on the armrest, ribs protesting as he leaned forward. "So we’re just—what, locked in here indefinitely?" The words came out sharper than intended, but Fuma didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, watching K with that unnerving focus that made his pulse stutter.
"Until we identify the leak," Fuma said. "They knew your route. Knew the timing. That means someone inside the company is compromised."
The penthouse air conditioning hummed just a decibel too loud, making K's split lipth twitch where it had begun to scab over. Nicholas was fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie—one of Harua’s emergency spares from the penthouse closet, still smelling vaguely of cedar and panic. Euijoo had gone preternaturally still beside him, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the leather couch.
Fuma hadn’t moved from his post by the door, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the floor-to-ceiling windows framing Tokyo’s skyline. K watched the city lights refract across his profile—neon blues catching the ridge of his cheekbone, the stubborn set of his jaw. It was stupid, really, how his pulse skipped when Fuma shifted his weight, the fabric of his slacks pulling taut over his thighs as he adjusted his stance.
Harua cleared his throat, tapping the tablet screen to life. "Security’s reviewing all backstage access logs from the past month. We’ve flagged twelve temporary staff with expired clearances." His voice was steadier now, though his fingers betrayed him, trembling slightly as he zoomed in on a grainy CCTV still. K leaned closer, wincing as his ribs protested—then froze. The timestamp read 19:03. Seven minutes before the ambush.
"That’s the catering supervisor," Nicholas said suddenly, jabbing a finger at the blurry figure in the corner of the frame. "The one who kept ‘forgetting’ my damn meals." His laugh was hollow. "Guess he wasn’t just an asshole."
The tablet screen flickered as Harua zoomed in further, the pixels dissolving into meaningless static where the caterer's face should have been. Euijoo made a small, frustrated noise in the back of his throat—halfway between a sigh and a whimper—and K realized with a start how young he looked in the dim light, the shadows under his eyes suddenly pronounced. Nicholas's knee jostled against Euijoo's under the coffee table, a silent anchor.
Fuma's phone buzzed—once, twice—before he silenced it without breaking visual contact with the hallway. "We'll need a list of everyone who interacted with catering today," he said, voice low enough that K had to strain to hear it over the hum of the air conditioning. "Particularly anyone who asked about your schedules."
Harua nodded sharply, fingers flying across the tablet. "Already compiling it with HR." He hesitated, then added, "There's... something else." The screen changed to show a series of financial statements, columns of numbers that meant nothing to K until Harua tapped a highlighted transaction. "This wire transfer hit the catering supervisor's personal account yesterday. Untraceable offshore account."
K's stomach dropped. Someone had paid for this. Paid *well*. The realization settled over the room like a physical weight, pressing the air from his lungs. Across from him, Fuma's expression didn't change, but his fingers flexed once at his sides—knuckles blanching white before relaxing.
Euijoo's voice cut through the penthouse's sterile silence, small and brittle. "We're just—" His fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie, knuckles white. "We sing. We dance. Who does this over *idols*?" The question hung in the air, sharp as broken glass. Across the room, Fuma's jaw tightened, but he said nothing—just watched Euijoo with that same unnerving focus that made K's pulse stutter.
Fuma shifted his weight against the doorframe. "It's not personal." His voice was low, measured—the kind of tone reserved for briefing rooms and bomb defusals. "You're high-visibility assets with a dedicated fanbase. That makes you leverage."
Euijoo's head snapped up. "Leverage for *what*?" The words cracked mid-sentence, raw at the edges. K saw the exact moment Fuma clocked it—the slight twitch of his fingers before he schooled them back to stillness.
Harua tapped the tablet, zooming in on the wire transfer details. "Hostage situations," he murmured. "Or—" His fingers hesitated over the screen. "—corporate sabotage. Your comeback is projected to outsell... never mind." He caught himself, shaking his head. "Point is, you're not just targets. You're *currency*."