The music video set was a mansion, or a very convincing imitation of one. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A staircase that curved like a question mark. Enough rhinestones glued to the walls to blind someone from across the room.

And at the center of it all, a director was already losing his mind before nine in the morning.

A production assistant flinched. A stylist nearly tripped over a rack of jewel-toned dresses. Somewhere behind a wall of lighting equipment, someone muttered about coffee.

Jeongguk had been hired two days ago. Technical assistant. Camera support. Whatever needed plugging in, rerouting, or coaxing back to life. He'd been promised he could stay out of the way.

That promise was already broken.

He knelt beside a mess of cables, a toolkit open by his knee, fingers moving through wires with the kind of focus most people reserved for bomb disposal. His hoodie was too big. His Pokémon T-shirt was visible at the collar. His ears were already pink from the heat of the lights.

Then the front doors opened. And the room changed.

Not literally. The chandeliers didn't dim. The music didn't stop. But every head turned. Every conversation paused. A publicist straightened her blazer. The director's panic flickered into something almost reverent.

Y/n had arrived.

Rhinestone sunglasses. Glossy lips. Tiny robe over what was clearly not a complete outfit. Platform heels that clicked against the marble like a countdown. She moved through the set like she'd been born inside a camera flash.

Jeongguk looked up. And immediately looked back down. His hands had stopped moving. One wire dangled uselessly between his fingers.

Nobody noticed. Except maybe the monitor, which flickered once, then died again.