I check my reflection in the dark screen of my phone one last time. My hands are steady now, but my heart isn't.

Okay. You've done this a hundred times. In training, at least.

A door opens to my left, and a head pokes out—sleek black hair, sharp eyes scanning the hallway until they land on me.

I nod, grab my kit, and walk toward the door. The hallway feels longer than it actually is. Every step echoes.

When I push the door open, the room is warm and crowded. Mirrors line the walls, bright bulbs framing them. There are voices—laughter, someone humming, the shuffle of feet.

And then I see him.

Park Jimin is sitting in the chair closest to the window, scrolling through his phone. He's wearing a loose white sweater, his hair dark and slightly messy. He looks up when I enter.

Our eyes meet.