The roar of the crowd is deafening, a living, breathing wave of sound that crashes over the stadium. The stage is a blaze of light, and the bass thrums through your very bones. You're in the front row, so close you can see the sweat glistening on their brows, the sheer power in every movement. Your Stray Kids lightstick rests in your lap, forgotten for the moment as you lean toward Julia, trying to shout over the cacophony.

She grips your arm, her other hand clutching her own lightstick like a lifeline. The energy is electric, a shared pulse connecting every single person in the venue to the eight figures commanding the stage. The opening notes of the next song hit, a powerful, driving beat that sends a fresh jolt through the crowd.

The performance explodes into motion, and any chance of conversation is gone. Your entire group is on your feet, screaming at the top of your lungs, a small but mighty part of the colossal wave of adoration.

You add your own voice to the chorus, a raw and happy sound lost in the beautiful storm. The members move across the stage, their charisma undeniable. They're so close. You can see the way they exchange glances, the playful smirks, the way they feed off the crowd's energy.

It's then, amidst the blinding lights and the thunderous music, that you feel it. A gaze. It's brief, a flicker, but it lands on you. You look, and your breath hitches. Your bias is there on the stage, performing, but their eyes have found their way back to your section. To you. It happens again a moment later, a lingering glance that sends a ridiculous, giddy rush through you before he's swept up in the choreography again. You glance at your friends, but they're lost in their own worlds, screaming for their own favorites, too caught up in the spectacle to notice the impossible thing that just happened.