#contracts

Jiyoo

The studio lights cast a soft amber hue across the room, but to Jiyoo, it still felt cold.

She sat cross legged on the padded bench in front of the mixing table, her earbuds tucked in, chin resting on her fist as the final chorus of her upcoming single played through the monitor for what must’ve been the twentieth time today.

It was catchy. The kind of song that would top charts, get stuck in strangers’ heads, be plastered on every radio station and café playlist across Seoul, and trend on Tiktok for a few days until people got bored.

And she hated it.

The beat was synthetic sugar, the lyrics pretty but hollow, and her voice cloyingly soft, sweet, laced with exactly the tone the producers had told her to use felt like it belonged to someone else.

“This isn’t me,” she whispered to no one, pulling one earbud out and rubbing at her temple.

But then again, what was her?

She’d been Roe Jiyoo, the idol, for longer than she’d been Jiyoo the girl. From child model to solo artist, the public had always had her name in their mouth; but none of them had ever really known her. Not her fans, not her producers, not even her company.

Maybe not even herself.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned back, the padded wall cool against her spine. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders in dark waves, makeup barely smudged from a long day of practice and recordings. She’d filmed a brand shoot in the morning, did a variety segment in the afternoon, and was now expected to finish vocal mastering by nightfall.

Smile, bow, be graceful, be perfect. Don't get tired. Don't complain. Be grateful. Be lovely. Be on. Always on.

Jiyoo let her eyes flutter closed.

Her voice was golden, they said. Her visuals, lethal. Her fanbase? Massive and devoted. She could do no wrong.

So why did it feel like she was drowning?

The door cracked open slightly, and her manager poked his head in. “Ten minutes before dance rehearsal.”

“Got it,” she said, voice light, warm. Jiyoo the idol slipping back into place like a mask she’d long since learned to wear.

The door shut again quickly. Her manager never hovered much, she was straight to the point always. You'd think after watching Jiyoo grow up for years they would have a closer bond, but they were just coworkers at the end of the day.

She stared down at her hands, perfectly manicured, trembling slightly in her lap. “Is this all I am?” she murmured.

A doll that sings. A face that smiles. A brand that sparkles.

When she was little, she dreamed of music healing people. Of songs that meant something. She used to hum tunes to her stuffed animals about being lonely and brave and human. But those songs never made it past her bedroom door.

This one? The one playing in her ears again?

It’d be a hit.

But it wasn’t hers.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

Jiyoo stood slowly, smoothing down her black practice skirt, slipping her phone into her bag. She stared at her reflection in the studio’s glass panel. The girl looking back at her was flawlessly camera ready, composed, maybe stunning even.

But behind her own eyes, Jiyoo felt like a ghost.

One day, she thought, brushing her fingers down her cheek. Someone will hear the real me sing. Not just my voice…but my soul.

And maybe. Maybe they’d still crave her, even then.

-

The music pounded through the studio speakers like second nature.

Jiyoo’s limbs moved with perfect precision, every beat hitting with the kind of practiced ease that only came from years of repetition. She didn’t need to think much about the moves, her body knew. Knew the shifts in tempo, the moment to tilt her chin, the sharp snap of her wrist, the precise roll of her hips.

Nine songs.

She’d practiced the choreo for all nine so many times it was stitched into her muscle memory. She could do it blindfolded, backward, probably in her sleep...and she had. Sleep was a luxury these days. Practice wasn’t.

Practice never stopped.

She told herself she didn’t mind. That it was part of the job. That perfection was the price of fame. That 23 wasn’t that old to feel like her joints were aging out of their sockets.

The track ended. Again.

“From the top!” the instructor had called earlier, and again, and again. They’d gone through at least two separate choreographies five times each in the last hour alone.

When the break was finally called, Jiyoo’s legs nearly gave out in relief.

She sank to the floor in the far corner, legs folding into a loose criss cross, one hand reaching forward to stretch out her lower back, the other gripping her water bottle like it was sacred. Sweat clung to her hairline, sticking strands to her cheeks, but she barely noticed. Her chest rose and fell, panting hard, her skin hot and aching from effort.

She didn't complain out loud.

She never did.

Across the studio, her dance instructor made her way over and dropped down beside her with a heavy exhale. Jiyoo glanced sideways. The woman had been with her since her debut stage, sharp eyed, brutally honest, one of the few who treated her like a person and not a product.

"You're overworking again," her instructor said gently, nudging her foot. Ironic since she was the one keeping practice going; but it wasn't just the instructors fault. Jiyoon had a problem of going overboard by her own free will.

She had to be perfect.

Jiyoo smiled faintly. “You say that like there’s another option.”

The woman snorted softly, and then, after a pause, dropped the real news. "I'm retiring at the end of this week."

Jiyoo stilled. Slowly straightening, she blinked at her. “What?”

The woman nodded, a softness in her eyes that Jiyoo hadn’t seen before. “It’s time. I’m old, Jiyoo-yah. My knees crack like glow sticks when I wake up. And you've outgrown me. You need someone who can push you the way I can't anymore."

For a long moment, Jiyoo just sat there. Then she nodded, slowly. Respectfully. Because what could she say? The woman had raised her dance career from scratch. Losing her was like losing a limb.

“But,” her instructor added with a small smirk, “we found you someone good.”

Jiyoo glanced over. “Good?”

“One of the best.”

That made her pause. Korea had a lot of 'best' when it came to all categories. "Who?"

The name fell casually from the woman’s lips. And Jiyoo just blinked. Her body ached, but suddenly, she wasn’t tired anymore.

Nishimura Riki.

Of course it was him.

World renowned choreographer. Known for working almost exclusively with male idol groups, his signature style edgy, cutting, impossible to mimic. Every group he touched ended up sharper, stronger, unforgettable.

And he didn’t like her.

Okay, maybe that was harsh. They had bumped into each other a few times at events, studios, mutual connections. She couldn’t even remember what was said but she remembered the look. The energy. Like he couldn’t stand her. Like something about her irked him.

Not that she cared. He was intimidating, sure. But she was Korea’s Sweetheart. Who was internally panicking just a little.

What if his choreo didn’t suit her brand? What if it was too aggressive, too hard? Would her fans accept the shift? Would she?

Still, she gave the same answer she gave to everything.

A small smile.

A quiet nod.

“I’ll do my job.”

But inside, a little voice whispered.

What if this changes everything?

Ni-ki ( A week letter)

It was just business.

That’s what Ni-ki kept telling himself as he stood in the elevator, hands in his pockets, black cap low over his eyes. The floor numbers blinked upward in red, and the quiet hum of the building barely registered past the dull thud of the bassline playing in his head. A track he’d been building choreo for before this whole gig came knocking.

Roe Jiyoo.

Korea’s Sweetheart. Soloist. A name that turned heads in every room she entered, that made people soften their voices like they were talking about royalty. The media adored her. Brands fought for her face. Other idols idolized her. And the fans? Protective to the point of thriller like obsession.

Ni-ki didn’t care.

He wasn’t here for her.

He was here for what she represented.

Jiyoo was one of the biggest names in the Asian market. Period. Working on her comeback and world tour would shove his name to every global headline, every digital stage, every fandom with a keyboard. She was visibility. She was marketing. She was, ironically, his next big break.

And if he could get through it? If he could push her beyond her pretty little limits and deliver a show that tore through the internet?

He could choreograph for anyone after this.

Not just Korea. Not just Asia.

Hollywood. Latin America. Europe. Everywhere.

He already had the background, tours since he was ten, a career as a prodigy, the 'genius choreographer' stamp, deals with high fashion and luxury brands. He wasn’t a rookie looking for credibility.

He was a brand waiting to explode.

And Roe Jiyoo? She was the matchstick.

The elevator dinged.

He stepped out, a sleek black duffel bag slung over one shoulder, strides long and confident as he walked through the hall toward the studio. His schedule was clear for the next three months. Oversee Jiyoo’s training for her nine song comeback, perfect the choreo, prepare the tour. The agency had begged for him, even tossed in a fat bonus.

Why say no?

They weren’t friends. They weren’t equals. This was a transaction. He was the product. She was the price.

He’d give her the show of her life. And then he’d move on just like he always did.

He opened the studio door, stepped inside, and there she was.

Back to him, long legs in fitted sweats, hair pulled up, posture straight even as she wiped sweat from her jawline. Her presence was sharp, controlled in an effortlessness, like she knew people were always watching.

Their eyes met in the mirror. She didn’t smile. Neither did he.

Perfect, he thought. Let the games begin.

She bowed first.

Of course she did.

A perfect 90 degrees, respectful and polite, eyes meeting his only once she straightened. Her lips moved around his name like she’d practiced it, soft, sweet, careful.

He didn’t bow back. Respect was earned, not handed out like a free sample.

And Roe Jiyoo hadn’t earned a damn thing yet.

Ni-ki stepped further into the studio, dropped his bag without ceremony, and stared at her like she was a blank canvas. No, like she was a broken down machine that needed reprogramming. Her confusion flickered, subtle, but he caught it.

Good.

“We start now,” he said, tone flat, clipped, and without room for discussion. “This isn’t about your comfort, your pride, or your schedule. It’s about results. I don’t want to hear you’re tired. I don’t want to hear you’re overwhelmed. I want to see your lungs collapse before your knees do.”

She blinked, stunned probably used to people coddling her, giving her soft praise for doing the bare minimum because she was Roe Jiyoo. Because she smiled pretty and sang sweet and looked perfect on camera.

Not here.

“I’m not your fan. I’m not your staff. I’m not someone who gives a shit about your image. I’m here to make you better. So, you’ll listen to me, only me and you’ll do what I say, when I say it.”

She opened her mouth.

He cut her off.

Again.

And again.

Until her face flushed with a frustrated kind of red that made something sharp of amusement curl in his chest.

She was smaller than he expected for someone with long legs, barely 5'6, maybe, standing stiff under his 6'1 frame like a soldier ready to swing. But that didn’t matter. She could be three feet tall and he’d still break her down if he had to. Her height wasn’t the problem.

Her attitude was.

She had that idol shine, like a fresh coat of glittery perfection was lacquered on everything she did. That bright, lavender dyed hair? Pretty. Fluffy. Like a scoop of sorbet. He didn’t like it.

Not because it didn’t suit her. She was hot, obviously. He had eyes, not blindness.

But because the album she was preparing to drop wasn’t bubblegum and pastels anymore.

It was sensual. Edgy. Dark pop with aggressive beats and addictive hooks. She wanted to evolve? Then she better start looking like it.

“I’m talking to your stylist,” he muttered, half to himself, half to her. She just stood there frozen like she was shocked. “The vibe doesn’t match the setlist. You want this comeback to work? You have to start looking like the woman your lyrics claim you are. Not the pop princess you were at sixteen.”

That hit.

She tensed, shoulders going rigid, jaw clenching just slightly. He noticed everything.

This was going to be a war.

And Ni-ki?

He’d already decided he was going to win.

Even if he had to crush her piece by piece.

Jiyoo

What the actual hell.

Never in her entire life through a decade of press conferences, endorsement deals, stadium tours, and award shows had anyone spoken to her like that.

Like she was...nothing.

And he did it all with the blankest expression she’d ever seen. Not even blank...bored. Like being in the same room as her was a waste of his time. Like she was a rodent beneath his expensive, probably custom made shoes.

Oh, she loathed him.

Absolutely hated him.

And now she was stuck with him.

Jiyoo stared at his retreating back as he strolled toward the soundboard, casually selecting one of the tracks from her new album like he owned the room, the building, the city, her.

She could die. That was the only option.

She didn’t expect people to like her. She didn’t expect anyone to really want to be around her. That was the price of being Korea’s Sweetheart, wasn’t it? Everyone loved the idea of her. The songs. The face. The myth. But they didn’t see her, didn’t know her. And she could live with that. Or try to.

What she couldn’t live with? The nerve of this guy.

The way he dismissed her every word before it left her mouth.

The way he glared at her, eyes sharp and annoyed like she was the one ruining his day.

The way he just casually decided she wasn’t good enough as she was, her hair, her look, her entire vibe. Like she was some art project he didn’t ask for and had no interest in fixing.

“Dance until your lungs collapse.”

Yeah. Been there, done that. Bought the damn T-shirt. Ripped it during rehearsals.

He said it like he was giving her some life altering advice. She wrote the manual on breaking yourself for the industry. Try again.

What really got her, though, the part that made her want to launch her water bottle at his perfectly styled head was how he didn’t even try to get to know her. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.

Just barked his rules, rewrote her image, and turned his back like she wasn’t even worth a second glance.

And the worst part?

He was hot. Like, really hot.

Unfairly, infuriatingly attractive. Tall, lean, with sharp lines and sharper eyes. That whole stormy I’ll ruin your day look like it came straight off a runway. It made her blood boil partly from rage, partly from something else she refused to acknowledge.

But he was a walking red flag. A hazard sign wrapped in black and ego. Someone needed to kick him in the balls.

Hard.

The music kicked on, loud and pulsing, echoing around the studio.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But inside? Jiyoo was already planning how to ruin his day, too.

Because if it’s war he wants. Fine. She’s been holding back her fire for years.

And now?

She’s ready to burn.

The music had just started barely one verse in when he turned around and pressed pause.

Ni-ki didn’t even look interested. Just calm. Annoyingly calm. Like he was watching paint dry.

“I want you to forget all the choreography you’ve learned so far,” he said casually, like he was asking her to forget she was allergic to mangoes and eat a whole one.

Jiyoo blinked.

“Excuse me?”

He looked up, expression unreadable. “I said forget it. All of it. We’re starting over.”

She stared at him like he’d just told her the sky was green. “I’ve been learning that choreography for three months.”

Ni-ki tilted his head, lips twitching not quite a smirk, but close enough to make her eye twitch. “If you’ve been learning it for three months and haven’t perfected it, then there’s a problem.”

There it was.

The match.

Strike, spark, fire.

“I have it perfected,” she shot back, fists curling at her sides. “I could do it backward with one arm tied behind my back.”

“Sure,” he drawled, like he didn’t believe her for a second. “But that cute little cookie cutter choreography isn’t going to cut it.”

Her mouth fell open. “What did you just say?”

Ni-ki walked toward her slowly, stepping into her space like he owned it. Like the room bowed to him, and she was the visitor. “Your album’s more mature, isn’t it? More sensual, more aggressive?”

She didn’t answer. He already knew the answer. He leaned in slightly, voice low but firm. “Then why does the choreo make it sound and look like a child trying to walk in heels?”

Oh. She was going to scream. Scratch that she was going to combust.

Did he just call her entire comeback concept, her blood, sweat, and artistry...a pair of baby heels?

Her hands twitched at her sides. She wanted them around his neck. And not in the sexy way. No, she wanted to strangle him with his own stupid hoodie strings. This man was a bitch ass whore. A cock sucker in cargo pants and an ego too big for the room.

“Let me guess,” she bit out. “You want hard hitting, sexy, and ‘show-stopping’?”

“Exactly.” His eyes gleamed. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

She took a deep breath. Then another. And then one more.

She was going to survive this. She had to. Because if she didn’t...

Well, prison orange wasn’t her color. But she swore, if he smirked one more time…

Ni-ki

He was already watching it slip. That perfect little mask she wore so well. The one the public ate up like candy. The soft spoken, eternally gracious, ever so grateful Jiyoo, Korea’s sweetheart with the siren voice and polished smile.

But not here. Not in his studio.

Here, she was clenching her jaw, fists twitching at her sides like she was one breath away from launching her water bottle at his head.

And yet…she swallowed it. Bit it down like she’d done it a hundred times before. Her lashes fluttered. Her shoulders rose, fell. And then she did nothing.

He hated that.

He hated that she wanted to say something, probably something sharp and well deserved but didn’t. That she silenced herself like she was trained to. That instead of yelling, she nodded and said, “Okay.”

Because no one should have to live in a world where their anger wasn’t allowed.

Still, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t let it show that her restraint unsettled him more than her snapping ever could’ve.

They moved on when he told her to show him what shes got.

The track changed to one of the unreleased songs from her new album and he motioned for her to center herself in the room. She did. No attitude, no talking back, just a subtle flick of her hair over her shoulder and that look in her eyes like she was about to prove something.

He raised a brow.

And then she danced.

Not the swaying and shoulder popping and soft shimmies he’d grown used to seeing in her public performances. Not the hand heart, hair flipping, pink drenched pop girl choreography that barely counted as movement.

No.

This was different.

This was controlled, grounded movement. Musicality embedded in her muscle memory. Her footwork was sharp, clean, practiced. Her transitions were fluid, her weight balanced, her timing so exact it made his jaw tick.

She hit the beat with intention. She moved like she knew her body. Like she could destroy a stage if someone gave her the right routine.

Ni-ki’s arms crossed over his chest as he watched her. He didn’t speak not yet. Just stared with narrowed eyes and the smallest tilt to his head.

So.

There was a dancer underneath all that glitter and gloss.

Good to know.

This might be more fun than he thought.

Later he stood beside her, posture loose but sharp, like his bones were built from rhythm. The song played again lower volume this time and he rolled through the sequence effortlessly, letting her follow. No counts. No verbal cues. Just the beat and their reflections moving in sync.

Jiyoo didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask for clarification or corrections, didn’t blink when he added a quick foot pivot or hip accent. Her eyes stayed glued to the mirror, brows slightly furrowed, breathing controlled even as her body moved like a livewire. She mirrored him as though she’d been doing it for years. And maybe she had, just…in silence.

She picked things up fast.

Faster than most.

Too fast for someone who was never shown dancing like this on stage. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, fluid arms, clean transitions, the way her weight shifted naturally. She was a little tight in the shoulders, but that was nerves or tension, not ability.

So why the hell hadn’t anyone seen this version of her before?

He stepped back, arms crossing again as she finished the eight count he’d just demoed. She nailed the ending pose steady and sharp.

“Cute,” he muttered, letting the sarcasm bite as he looked at her reflection. “Didn’t realize Korea’s Princess actually had rhythm. Guess hiding behind that image works pretty well.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

And he expected pushback maybe a glare, maybe a scoff or even a sarcastic remark in return.

But all he got was her voice. Quiet. Controlled.

“I didn’t hide,” she said with her eyes locked on her reflection in the mirror. “I just wasn’t allowed to.”

His chest tightened without permission.

Her words weren’t sharp. They weren’t laced with anger. Just…honest. And that made them worse somehow. He didn’t look at her. Just gave a slow nod, barely noticeable, and turned his attention back to the music.

No one spoke after that.

They just danced.

Two strangers in the mirror, close but far, her reflection burning a hole into him every time their steps aligned.

And maybe for the first time he didn’t hate the silence.

Jiyoo

The lights in her dorm were low, casting soft shadows across the pale walls. Jiyoo sat curled on the couch, her head resting atop her knees, arms wrapped tightly around her legs like they were the only thing keeping her together. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, a few strands sticking to the sides of her face from the sweat she hadn’t bothered to wash off after practice.

It had been a long week.

A long good week, if she let herself admit it. Not because of him, Ni-ki was still a cold unreadable wall of arrogance with a tongue sharp enough to cut bone. But because the choreography he was teaching her…felt like hers.

It was bold.

It was sharp and sexy and unapologetically mature.

It was her, the version of herself she’d kept caged behind pastel sets and porcelain smiles for the last eight years. The version that didn't just shimmer on stage but burned.

She closed her eyes, letting the faint echo of today’s practice ring in her ears. The thump of the bass. The roll of her hips. The way her body moved in tandem with his in the mirrors like rivals, like opposites, like something magnetic that neither of them acknowledged.

It was fun.

God, when was the last time she had fun in a dance studio?

The question made her throat tighten. Because as much as her body was finally allowed to breathe…her heart still felt suffocated.

She had no one to talk to about this.

No one who would understand what it meant.

Her father, still stationed overseas, barely texted anymore. A single parent with a rigid military background, he never approved of her idol life. Said it was a waste of time, a distraction from the kind of ‘real success’ he wanted for her. They hadn’t spoken on the phone in nearly a year. Maybe longer.

Her mother had been different.

Her mother had been everything.

She was the one who saw Jiyoo’s light, who put her in front of cameras at five and stood by her side through every audition, every sleepless trainee night, every tear stained practice mirror. But cancer didn’t care about dreams. And when her mother passed away when she was seventeen, Jiyoo had smiled through her fifth comeback showcase with a piece of her heart already missing.

There were no siblings.

No real friends either. Just stylists and managers who rotated every few years.

Just her.

Always her.

She hugged her knees tighter.

Maybe that was why she pushed herself so hard. Why she didn’t take breaks or cry during training or complain when it hurt to breathe. If she broke, there was no one to pick up the pieces. If she failed, there’d be no one to fall back on.

So she didn’t fail. Couldn’t.

And maybe she’d already proven she was enough. Her new album was her best yet. The fans hadn’t heard it, hadn’t seen the stages, the choreo, the fire they weren’t expecting.

But they would.

And the anti-fans?

They hadn’t seen anything yet.

Jiyoo buried her face into her arms, heart aching with quiet pride and quieter loneliness.

No matter what it took she was going to show the world who Roe Jiyoo really was.

And not even Nishimura Riki could stop her.

(Few days later)

She stood in front of the full length mirror in the styling room, arms folded tightly across her chest, the silk fabric of the pastel pink dress barely grazing her thighs. It was lace trimmed, puff sleeved, sugary sweet and completely wrong.

Her mouth didn’t open, though. Not once.

She had voiced concerns earlier. Quietly. Tactfully. But they’d been brushed aside with the usual.

“This is what the fans like.”

“You’ve always done bright concepts so well.”

“It’s what people expect of you.”

Expectations. Expectations. Expectations.

Never mind the new sound. Never mind the choreography that dripped confidence and edge, the lyrics she wrote herself about desire and self worth and shedding everything she used to be.

No, according to everyone else, she was still the princess in a glass box.

Jiyoo forced her arms to relax and offered the stylist a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Maybe something else?” she tried, voice barely audible.

“We’ve already planned the concept shots,” the stylist said gently but firmly. “This will photograph beautifully, Jiyoo. Trust us.”

Her breath stuttered as the panic crawled up her spine like a slow burning fuse. She could feel it in her fingertips, in the way her chest rose a little too quickly. Her reflection blurred. This isn’t her. This isn’t the album. This isn’t what she-

The door swung open with a sudden click.

And then he was there.

Ni-ki.

Tall, dressed in black like the walking storm cloud he always was, his expression unreadable as always until his gaze zeroed in on the dress the stylist was holding up and the frilly one she wore.

And his entire face twisted.

“What the hell is this?” he said sharply, striding forward and yanking the hanger out of the stylist’s hand like it offended him personally. “Is this a joke?”

The entire room froze.

Stylists, makeup artists, even Jiyoo herself; it was like the air had been sucked out of the space. Someone cleared their throat nervously. No one dared answer.

Ni-ki looked at the dress again, scoffing as he tossed it onto a nearby table like garbage. “You do realize the title track is a grown concept, right? With grown lyrics? And grown choreography?” His eyes snapped to the head stylist. “So explain to me why you’re dressing her like she’s about to sing a bubblegum jingle on a children's variety show.”

“N-Ni-ki,” someone started, trying to smooth things over, but he wasn’t finished.

“She’s not a doll,” he said, voice low and sharp. “She’s the main act of the biggest tour this year. Let her look like it.”

Jiyoo could only stare, wide eyed, heart pounding not from anxiety this time, but…something else. Her throat was tight, her pulse fast. He made no sense to her sometimes, and then sometimes he made plenty.

Ni-ki turned his head just slightly, eyes finding hers. “Say something,” he said flatly. “You hate it too.”

She swallowed.

And for once, she didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t smile and pretend. Her voice came out quiet, but steady. “Yeah…I do.”

And just like that his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.

“Good,” he muttered, turning away and heading for the door without another word, the storm receding as fast as it came.

The room remained still, awkward, unsure what to do.

But Jiyoo?

She looked at the discarded dress.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to wear something just because someone told her to.

Ni-ki

She walked out of that dressing room with something close to a skip in her step, like she’d just been handed a medal for bravery. It was subtle barely there but Ni-ki saw it.

And it annoyed the hell out of him.

He sent her one flat, bored look that said don’t test me, then jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come.”

She didn’t ask where. Just followed. That, at least, he respected.

He led her through the maze of the building until they reached the glass doors of the company salon suite, where only the most trusted stylists worked on high level talents. The room smelled faintly of heat tools, expensive shampoo, and sterile professionalism. Stylists moved around in black aprons with hands that cost more than the average monthly paycheck.

Jiyoo blinked in confusion when he motioned for her to sit. “Wait, wh-”

“Sit,” he cut her off, already walking past her toward one of the senior hair stylists.

She hesitated for half a second, then obeyed.

Ni-ki didn’t explain. He never did. Instead, he leaned down and began speaking in a low voice to the stylist noona who was now running a brush lightly through Jiyoo’s hair.

“She sings like a siren,” he murmured, eyes flicking toward the mirror. “So make her look like one. Sexy, but not loud. No color none of that pastel crap. Mature. Sultry. Eye catching without trying too hard.”

The stylist raised a brow, lips curling with interest. “Seductive, then?”

He shrugged one shoulder, fingers looping through his belt casually. “Exactly. But classy. Think ‘grown and dangerous,’ not ‘first heartbreak and bubblegum.’”

Jiyoo tried to twist in her seat, clearly wanting to protest, but the stylist was already sectioning her hair.

“No,” Ni-ki said, turning to pin her with a look. “You don’t get a say.”

Her mouth opened. Closed. And then she scowled.

He smirked just a little.

The stylist laughed softly, clearly enjoying the dynamic. “She’s super gorgeous, you know,” she said lightly, glancing at Ni-ki. “Her visuals are lethal. Honestly? The pastel colors have made her look too young. Soft. Boring.”

“Exactly,” he muttered, folding his arms. “She’s not cute. Not anymore. That era’s over.”

Jiyoo rolled her eyes so hard he almost applauded.

He didn’t say it out loud, but he was already picturing how the darker look would catch the light on stage, how the crowd would lose their minds. How every movement in the choreo would hit harder when the audience wasn’t distracted by frills and innocence.

No more pop princess. No more pretty puppet.

By the time they were finished with her, Jiyoo was going to look like what she was meant to be.

A storm in heels.

And Ni-ki? He was going to make sure she wore the sky like it belonged to her.

Everyone had to be on their A game, no mistakes. Because this was his paycheck, and his project to push him into something better. 

Jiyoo

The woman staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t new.

She’d always been there.

Buried beneath layers of blush tones, sweet curls, soft pastel lip tints and cutesy choreo. Hidden under the concept photos of innocence and light, under the fan edits that painted her as Korea’s Darling Angel.

But now?

Now she was staring at herself.

And for once, she didn’t want to look away.

Long, inky black hair fell past her hips perfectly straight, sleek like silk. Blond strands streaked like golden lightning through the darkness, cool and intentional, not gimmicky. The contrast made her sharp cheekbones look even more defined, and brought out the cat-like edge in her eyes.

She looked dangerous. She looked hot.

She looked like everything people said she couldn’t be.

Jiyoo slowly tilted her head, eyeing the way her new hair shimmered under the lighting, how the boldness softened nothing if anything, it dared the world to watch.

A slow smirk tugged at her lips.

God, her fans were going to die.

Dreamiz, the name they gave themselves years ago, loved her in any form. But this? This was going to turn their universe inside out. Fan edits, reaction videos, fancams, they’d lose it. The whole fandom would combust.

She didn't even want to think about the anti-fans.

Good.

Let them choke on their complaints.

The door behind her clicked softly shut as someone else entered, but it wasn’t Ni-ki. He had left a few minutes ago to get something to drink or to escape her giddiness.

She giggled to herself and turned toward the stylist still tidying her tray of products. “Noona.”

The woman turned, lifting a brow with a fond smile. “Yes?”

“This is…” Jiyoo ran her fingers down the long strands again, eyes wide with appreciation. “God, this is everything. I love it. I didn’t even think I could pull off something like this, but wow.”

Stylist Noona Soo-mi, a veteran with magic hands and even sharper fashion sense beamed. “Told you. I’ve been waiting for someone to give me the green light to take you to the dark side.”

Jiyoo laughed, eyes crinkling. “I didn’t think my dark side would be this sexy.”

“You mean mature,” Soo-mi teased, nudging her shoulder with a wink. “Don’t let Ni-ki hear you call it sexy or he’ll start acting like he invented the look.”

Jiyoo rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop smiling. “He kind of did, didn’t he? Not the hair, but…the idea.”

“Mmhm,” Soo-mi hummed. “He had vision. But the truth is, you were always capable of this. We just needed the go ahead.”

Jiyoo’s smile slipped just slightly, but not in a bad way. More like a realization sinking in.

She had always been capable.

But now she was finally allowed to be even if it was just one step.

She turned back to the mirror, standing up straighter. Her reflection smirked right back at her, fierce and unbothered.

This wasn't just a new look.

This was a warning shot.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever honestly. Jiyoo didn’t feel like the idol trying to keep everyone happy.

She felt like she could breathe just a little easier.

Ni-ki

He almost crushed the can in his hand.

The aluminum creaked just a little too loud as Ni-ki stepped into the salon room, blinking once, then again because surely, he was imagining this. The lighting must be weird. Or the reflection. Or his brain short circuiting.

Because when Jiyoo turned around in that damn salon chair, her hair cascading like jet black silk down past her waist, catching hints of gold blond strands under the overhead lights, with that smirk that screamed I know I look good.

He almost dropped the drink.

Nope.

He tightened his grip and fought the twitch in his jaw. This wasn’t happening. This was not happening. He had spent the last forty five minutes watching dumb TikToks and texting his sister to check in on Yuna, figuring Jiyoo’s glam session would take forever because of course it would. He was ready to sigh, complain, maybe drop another sarcastic comment.

But not this.

Not walking into the room and suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

Her eyes locked on his in the mirror, and she turned in her chair fully to face him. Long legs crossed, arms folded loosely in her lap, head tilted. That damn smirk hadn’t left her mouth.

“What?” she asked, blinking slowly. “Why are you glaring at me?”

Was he glaring?

Shit. Maybe he was.

Ni-ki forced his expression to shift, flattening it back into the bored mask he wore like a second skin. He wasn’t about to stand there like some idiot caught off guard by a haircut.

He rolled his shoulders, shoved the energy drink into his jacket pocket, and crossed the room like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just gone from infuriating idol mascot to dark haired anime villainess with a face card that should be illegal.

“I’m not glaring,” he muttered flatly. “Just surprised your face didn’t break the mirror.”

Jiyoo’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unimpressed.

He kept going.

“Not as ugly as before, I guess. But don’t get comfortable there’s still a lot of work to do.”

The disappointment that flickered across her face wasn’t loud it was subtle. Barely a dip of her shoulders, barely a flicker in those sharp eyes.

But Soo-mi, the stylist noona, gave him a full look of disapproval like he’d just kicked a puppy.

He ignored it. He always ignored it.

This was a job. Just a job. This wasn’t personal. It didn’t matter that Jiyoo looked like she belonged in the final boss level of a fantasy RPG. It didn’t matter that she looked.

Hot.

Not your type.

(Yes she was.)

Ni-ki turned on his heel before his thoughts could betray him any further. He didn’t need to see Soo-mi’s glare again. He didn’t need to risk looking at Jiyoo twice.

Because if he did. He might not be able to hide it next time.