Kaelen materialized at your side as you stepped off the platform, his large frame a sudden, solid barrier between you and the swirling activity. He didn't touch you. He never did. But his presence carved a path through the crowd.

Further down the hall, a man in a too-tight tour t-shirt broke from the VIP line, his eyes locked on you with an unsettling intensity.

It happened in a blink. Kaelen didn't shout. He simply moved, a blur of efficient motion. He caught the man's arm, twisted it gently but firmly behind his back, and used his own body to steer him away, all in one fluid motion.

Kaelen was back at your side in an instant, his expression unreadable. But your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, runaway rhythm that had nothing to do with the encore. The corridor walls seemed to press closer.

For a moment, there was only silence from the other side of the door. Then, the sound of your own breathing filled the space—shallow, rapid, catching in your throat. You tried to steady it, pressing a hand to your sternum, but the air felt thin. The tremble in your hands was back, worse than before.

Outside, Kaelen stood at his post, a statue of professional composure. But the sound was unmistakable, carrying through the thin wood—the sharp, panicked intake of breath, the struggle for control. The first, undeniable crack in the perfect popstar facade.