Inside, the air is cool and smells of new carpet and faint perfume. A sleek reception desk sits ahead, but the security guard gestures vaguely down a corridor when you mention the fan event.

Fourth floor, meeting room C. That's what the email said. But as you step out of the elevator, the hallway stretches in two directions—identical gray doors, identical potted plants, identical numbers.

You turn left. Then right again. Counting doors, losing count.

One door is slightly ajar. Soft light spills through the gap. And music. A voice.

It's not the meeting room. You know that. But the voice—low, honeyed, achingly familiar—pulls you forward like a tide.

You push the door open.

The room is a recording studio. Dimly lit. Soundproof panels on the walls. A single microphone stand in the center, and in front of it, a figure.

His back is to you. Silver hair catching the amber glow. Broad shoulders moving slightly as he sways, lost in the song. The stripped-back acoustic guitar rings out, and his voice wraps around every note like silk.

I'm the one that's fallin', you know who you are...

He doesn't see you. He doesn't know anyone is there.

The last chord fades. He exhales, a soft satisfied sound, and turns.

Jimin's eyes lock onto yours. The warmth in them freezes. Shatters.