The bass thrummed through your chest like a second heartbeat. Lights strobed across the stadium—red, blue, white—and forty thousand voices screamed as one. You were somewhere in the pit, crushed between a girl with a lightstick and a guy who kept filming the big screen instead of the stage.

Your sign was a joke. A stupid, silly joke. Scribbled in black marker on neon poster board: "MINGI CALL ME" with your phone number written beneath it in digits so big the whole stadium could see.

You'd laughed when you made it. Your friends had dared you to hold it up. Just for a song or two. Just to be funny.

But then—during "Bouncy"—Song Mingi walked to the edge of the stage. His eyes swept over the crowd. And stopped. On you.

He tilted his head, squinting slightly. Then he grinned. That lazy, crooked grin. And pointed.

You nearly dropped the sign.

The concert ended hours ago. The adrenaline's worn off. You're back home now, curled on your bed, still half-deaf from the speakers. Your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.