Chapter 4: The Ice King Melts
The silence in Joong’s penthouse wasn’t quiet. It was a high-pitched, damning hum, the sound of expensive air filtration systems and absent laughter. He paced, the rhythmic tap of his bare feet on the chilled marble the only counterpoint to the buzz in his own skull. His right hand, wrapped in a stark white bandage from the cycling accident, throbbed in time with his heartbeat. A dull, persistent ache. A reminder of his own stupid fucking mortality.
Book sat at the onyx kitchen island, bathed in the glow of a tablet and two open laptops. His expression was flat, professional, a sheet of ice over deep water. His fingers swiped and tapped with methodical precision.
“Talk to me,” Joong said, his voice rougher than he intended. He hadn’t slept.
Book didn’t look up. “The interview is the lead story on every entertainment feed. Traditional news outlets are picking it up now. Human interest angle. ‘The Dark Side of Fan Culture.’” He delivered the words like a doctor reading a lab report. “Dunk’s approval rating has spiked. Seventy-three percent positive sentiment in the last three hours. Yours,” he finally glanced up, “is at nineteen percent and falling.”
Joong stopped pacing. He stared at the floor-to-ceiling window, at the sprawl of Bangkok glittering indifferently below. Nineteen percent. He was a stock crashing. “The agency statement?”
“A bandage on a bullet wound. It’s being mocked. They’re calling it the ‘Non-Apology Apology.’” Book turned a laptop toward him. On screen was a viral meme: a photoshopped picture of Joong’s face on the body of a ventriloquist’s dummy, with Jasper Management’s logo as the puppeteer’s hand. The caption read: “Context is for losers.”
A sharp, hot pain lanced through Joong’s hand. He clenched his fist, the stitches pulling. “Who leaked the screenshots? Find them. I want them sued into oblivion.”
“We’re trying,” Book said, his tone implying the futility. “The account is a ghost. The money trail is a maze of crypto transfers. It doesn’t matter. The content is verified. Your voice. Your number.” He paused. “Your words.”
“They were private!” The words exploded from Joong, echoing off the hard surfaces. “They were for one person! You don’t understand the pressure, the constant performance, having to be ‘on’ every fucking second with him. The neediness. It was a joke. A release valve.”
Book closed the laptop lid with a soft click. “And now the valve has blown the whole engine apart.” He leaned back, studying Joong. “You didn’t think he’d see it? Really?”
Joong turned away. He walked to the grand piano, its lid a mirror of polished black lacquer. He saw his reflection—disheveled hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the pristine white bandage like a flag of surrender. He’d said those things. The cake. The crying scene. The cash cow. He’d meant them in the moment, in the claustrophobic bubble of his own frustration and arrogance. They were bits of petty, private venom to make himself feel superior, to carve a space of control in the suffocating, sugar-coated narrative of the ship.
He hadn’t considered them as sentences. He hadn’t considered Dunk reading them with his own eyes.
“He humiliated me on live television,” Joong muttered to his reflection. “He just… sat there and dismantled everything. Calmly. Like he was reading a grocery list.”
“He stated facts,” Book corrected, his voice devoid of judgement. It was worse than judgement. “He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t call you names. That’s what’s killing you. He took the high road and left you in the ditch.”
Joong’s phone vibrated on the piano lid. A preview from his mother: He ignored it. Another from his publicist, marked urgent. Another from a number he didn’t recognize—probably a journalist.
He picked up the phone, the cool glass a shock against his skin. He opened his direct messages, thumb hovering over Dunk’s name. The last message he’d sent, hours ago, glared back at him: Call me. We need to talk.
No response. Just the hollow grey ‘Seen’ receipt. And then, according to Book’s sources, the account had been made private.
He’d been deleted.
The finality of it hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. He’d expected anger. He’d expected negotiations. He’d expected a messy, public drama they could eventually spin into a reconciliation arc. He hadn’t expected this… silence. This resolute, impenetrable wall.
“He’s not answering,” Joong said, more to himself than to Book.
“Of course he’s not.”
“He has to answer. There are contracts. Obligations. The fan meet tonight—” The fan meet. The colossal Thai Impact Arena, sold out months in advance. The image of walking onto that stage alone, under the glare of tens of thousands of eyes who had just seen Dunk eviscerate him, sent a bolt of pure, animal fear through his gut.
“His team has informed the organizers he will not share the stage with you,” Book said, confirming his dread. “He will perform his solo acts. You will perform yours. There will be no joint segments. No interactions. They were very clear.”
“They can’t do that. The fans—”
“The fans are currently trying to organize a boycott of your merchandise and a mass walkout during your set.” Book swiped on his tablet. “The hashtag #JoongAlone is trending.”
Joong let out a breath, a shaky, unstable thing. He braced his bandaged hand against the cold piano lid. The pain was clarifying. It grounded him in the sheer, undignified panic of the moment. This was more than bad press. This was a dissolution. The carefully constructed world of brand partnerships, of synchronized social media posts, of crafted on-stage chemistry, was collapsing into rubble around him. And Dunk, the one he’d underestimated, was calmly walking out of the wreckage.
“He was never supposed to fight back,” Joong whispered, the truth of it dawning on him with sickening clarity. “He was supposed to be hurt. To cry. To come back when I called. That’s how it works.”
Book was silent for a long moment. “You based a business strategy on the assumption that someone’s heart had no limits,” he said, his voice low. “That was your error.”
“It wasn’t just business!” The lie tasted pathetic even as he said it.
Book’s phone rang. He looked at the screen. “It’s the label. Again.” He answered, walking toward the terrace doors for privacy. “Yes…I understand…No, that’s not possible tonight…”
Joong tuned him out. He stared at his reflection in the piano lid. The handsome, aloof face that had been his currency looked back at him, now strained and desperate. He thought of Dunk in that interview, the quiet dignity in his eyes, the lack of hysterics. He thought of the homemade cake, smashed in a dumpster on his orders. He thought of the hospital room, Dunk’s hopeful face crumbling as Book asked him to leave.
He had believed, with absolute certainty, that Dunk’s need for him was greater than his cruelty. That the affection was a leash. He had tugged it, expecting obedience, and the leash had snapped clean in two.
Book came back inside, his face graver. “That was the head of the label. The single you were slated to release next month with Jasper…they’re pushing it back. Indefinitely. They’re talking about ‘re-evaluating the brand’ in light of ‘changing public perception.’”
Joong felt the floor tilt. His music. His band. The one thing that was supposed to be just his, untouched by the ship. “They can’t.”
“They can. And they are.” Book folded his arms. “You need to understand the severity. This isn’t a scandal you wait out. This is a fundamental re-write of your career. Dunk isn’t playing the game anymore. He changed the rules. And you’re still on the old board, losing.”
The sterile, controlled anger that Joong lived by, that insulated him, began to fracture. It bled into something colder, sharper: fear. Real, unadulterated fear. It wasn’t just about contracts or fan meets. It was about the silence on the other end of that text message. It was about the fact that Dunk might actually be gone.
He had never considered “forever.” He’d only ever considered “until I decide.”
“What do I do?” The question left his lips before he could stop it, small and stripped of all its usual arrogance.
Book sighed, the first sign of human fatigue. “You go to that fan meet tonight. You perform your solo set. You do not look at him. You do not mention him. You smile, you thank your fans, and you get off that stage without causing another incident.” He paused. “And then, you wait.”
“For what?”
“To see if he ever looks your way again.” Book gathered his things. “I have to help our manager manage a press conference for the band Im the lead gutarist this effects me too remember. Damage control. Don’t leave this apartment. Don’t post anything. Don’t say anything.”
Alone again, the hum of the penthouse was deafening. Joong walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The city glittered, a circuit board of infinite connections. Somewhere out there, Dunk was preparing to face thousands, to stand alone under the lights. The thought should have filled him with contempt. Instead, it filled him with a yawning, vertiginous emptiness.
He looked at his bandaged hand, the neat, professional wrap hiding the ugly stitches beneath. A stupid accident. A momentary loss of control.
He had believed losing Dunk would be like losing a limb. A difficult adjustment, but survivable. Now, staring into the abyss of his own making, he realized with a jolt of pure terror that it wasn’t a limb.
It might be the ground beneath his feet. And he was falling.
The vibration in his pocket was a mosquito whine against his thigh. He ignored it, focusing on the precise geometry of lights below, each window a life unaware of his implosion. His phone buzzed again, insistent, a physical itch against his leg. He fished it out, the screen a brutal blue in the dark room.
A new message from Book. Two words: They’re here.
Below, in the building’s private drop-off lane, a black van idled. No markings. Its side door slid open, and two figures in dark, tactical-style jackets emerged. They scanned the empty street with professional detachment before looking up, directly at his window. They weren’t paparazzi. They were security. His new security, assigned by the label after the death threats began flooding in.
He watched them, these strangers hired to become his shadows. Their posture spoke of coiled vigilance, a world away from the friendly, familiar faces that used to flank him and Dunk at events. He’d been reduced to a liability that needed guarding.
He let the curtain fall back. The taste in his mouth was stale coffee and regret. He stalked to the kitchen, poured three fingers of expensive whiskey into a crystal tumbler, and drained half in one swallow. The heat was a blunt anchor in his gut. His bandaged hand protested the tight grip on the glass, the stitches pulling taut.
The intercom system chimed, a soft, polite sound that felt like a scream in the silence. He didn’t move. He just stared at the security monitor mounted on the wall. The camera feed showed the lobby. The two men stood by the concierge desk, one speaking calmly into the receiver. The concierge, looking uncomfortable, was pointing towards the penthouse elevator.
His phone buzzed again. Book. Let them up. The alternative is them kicking the door in, which makes a better headline.
Joong set the glass down too hard. A hairline crack shot through its base, a spiderweb of failure. He walked to the panel, pressed the button to release the elevator, and listened to the faint, ascending whir of machinery. It was the sound of his world getting smaller.
When the doors hissed open, the two men filled the space. They were broader than they’d looked from twenty stories up. “Khun Joong,” the lead one said, a slight nod. His eyes were doing a quick, professional sweep of the room’s sightlines and exits. “I’m Joss. This is Gawin. We’ll be your detail.”
“My detail.” Joong repeated the word, letting its clinical meaning hang in the air.
“For the event tonight, and until the situation calms,” Joss confirmed. His voice was neutral, devoid of judgement or sympathy. He was a function. “Our instructions are to get you to the arena, into the green room, and back. No deviations. No unscheduled stops.”
Gawin, the younger one, was already moving to the terrace doors, checking the locks. He peered over the edge at the sheer drop, his expression unchanged.
“You think I’m going to jump?” Joong asked, a bitter edge to his words.
Joss turned his flat gaze on him. “Our job is to prevent all external and internal threats. The label was very clear.” He said it without flinching. The implication—that he might be a threat to himself—was just another item on a checklist.
The earlier fear morphed into a hot, shameful anger. He was a zoo animal now. A problem to be contained. He wanted to shout, to break something else, but the presence of these two stone-faced men rendered any outburst pathetic. He was already a meme, a cautionary tale. A tantrum would just be more content.
“Fine,” Joong spat. “When do we leave?”
“Now,” Joss said. “We’ll use the service elevator to the basement garage. There’s a decoy vehicle already at the main entrance for the press.”
The plan was efficient, militaristic. It stripped away any last vestige of his star persona. He was cargo. Dangerous cargo. He grabbed a leather jacket from the back of a chair, his movements stiff.
As they guided him into the private elevator, Gawin stepping in first to block the sensor, Joss taking position behind him, Joong felt the walls of the compartment press in. The air was thick with their subtle cologne and his own rising panic. He stared at his reflection in the brushed steel doors. The man looking back was hollowed out, his famous aloofness now just a mask of exhaustion.
The van in the basement was armor-plated, its windows darkly tinted. He was ushered into the middle seat, Joss beside him, Gawin up front with the driver. No one spoke. The engine started with a muffled rumble.
The drive was a silent, claustrophobic tunnel through the city. He watched the familiar streets blur past, the normalcy of night markets and couples on motorbikes feeling like a film playing on a screen. He was separate from it now. He pressed his hot forehead against the cool glass.
“The protocol at the venue,” Joss said, breaking the silence. “We enter through Loading Bay C. There’s a direct route to your private green room. You will not cross paths with Khun Dunk’s team. They are using Bay A.”
The deliberate partition was another cut. A surgical separation. “What about during the set changes? The corridors backstage?”
“They’ve been timed. Your team goes first. His team waits. There will be no visual contact.” Joss stated it as a fact, like scheduling trash collection.
Joong gave a short, humorless laugh. “So I’m a contagion.”
“You’re a logistical challenge,” Joss corrected, his tone still devoid of malice. It was worse.
When the van slid into the bowels of the Impact Arena, the change was immediate. The concrete tunnel throbbed with the distant, seismic bass of pre-show music. Young staff in black headsets scrambled past, their eyes widening slightly when they recognized the van and its grim passengers.
He was hurried down a labyrinth of concrete corridors, the fluorescent lights bleaching the color from everything. He could hear the muted roar of the crowd, a beast of sound waiting above. It was a sound that usually electrified him. Now it felt like the rumble of a coming avalanche.
His green room was a cement-block cube, devoid of the usual frills. A cooler of water, a fruit plate untouched, a single mirror framed by bare bulbs. They’d given him a holding cell.
Joss took a position by the door. “We wait. Your call is in forty-seven minutes.”
Forty-seven minutes. He sat on a stiff couch, the pleather cold through his jeans. He could feel the vibration of the music through the floor, up through the soles of his boots. Dunk was out there somewhere, in a mirror room probably ten times nicer, surrounded by people who believed him. Who comforted him.
He saw the smashed cake again. Heard his own voice, lazy and cruel, in the group chat: He brings this shit to set like we’re in kindergarten. Maybe I’ll “accidentally” drop it. Give him something to really cry about.
He’d laughed. The others had laughed. It was just talk. Just blowing off steam.
Until someone made it real.
The door opened and Book slipped in, looking harried. He nodded at Joss, then focused on Joong. “You’re here. Good.”
“Thrilled,” Joong muttered.
Book ignored him. “Setlist is confirmed. You’re doing ‘Hurt Me Please’ and ‘Doubt.’ No new material. No banter. Just the songs, a bow, and exit stage left.”
“No audience interaction at all?” The question was instinctual, a performer’s reflex.
“What would you say?” Book asked, his voice low. “‘Thanks for not leaving’? ‘Sorry I’m a bastard’? Keep your mouth shut and sing.”
The finality in Book’s voice extinguished the last ember of argument. Joong just nodded, looking at his hands. The white bandage was grubby now, edged with grey from the van and the concrete dust of backstage. A perfect metaphor.
A production assistant with a headset cracked the door. “Fifteen minutes, Khun Joong.”
The roar of the crowd swelled for a moment, then faded as a door sealed somewhere. It was Dunk’s set. He was out there now. Joong closed his eyes, trying not to imagine it. The applause. The sympathetic cheers. The collective gaze of twenty thousand people, fixed on the wronged party.
His own band, Jasper, was already on stage, a tense, separate entity now. They’d be playing his intro without him, a hollow ritual.
When the P.A. returned, her face was pale. “It’s time.”
Chan and Pong fell in beside him, a human shield. They moved as one unit down the final corridor, the noise swelling from a rumble to a wall of sound. He saw the stark shadows of stagehands, the looming black wings of the set. He caught a glimpse of the side-stage monitor.
On it, in startling clarity, was Dunk. He was mid-song, seated on a simple stool under a single spotlight. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. His eyes were closed, his face a map of raw, unvarnished emotion as he sang a ballad Joong didn’t recognize. His voice, clear and vulnerable, filled the corridor.
“...and every promise was a wall I built myself…”
Joong froze. The sound of it, so naked and true, was a punch to his diaphragm. It was the sound of the pain he’d caused, distilled into melody. He’d never heard Dunk sing like that—not for him, not for anyone. It was beautiful. It was a verdict.
Chan’s hand was firm on his elbow, pulling him forward. “Move.”
He was propelled the final steps into the darkness of stage left. The moment Dunk’s final note hung in the air, trembling, the arena erupted. The cheers were deafening, a physical wave of adoration and support that shook the platform. Joong watched from the shadows as Dunk opened his eyes, looked out at the sea of lightsticks, and gave a small, genuine bow, his hand over his heart.
He didn’t smirk. He didn’t glance toward the shadows where Joong stood. He simply absorbed the love, nodded once more, and walked off the opposite side of the stage, into the waiting arms of his team. The applause followed him like a tide.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. The house lights dimmed for the changeover. The screen flickered with the stark, monochromatic logo for JASPER. A few cheers mixed with a lower, noticeable wave of boos and hisses. The sound was like acid on his skin.
“Go,” Book’s voice hissed in his ear.
Chan and Pong gave him a slight nudge forward. He stepped into the single spotlight now centered on the stage, his own band visible behind him in the half-dark. The light was blinding, hot. It exposed every pore, every flicker of doubt in his eyes. He looked out.
The arena was a vast, dark pit punctuated by thousands of glowing phones and lightsticks. Whole sections had gone dark, their owners presumably walked out. A sea of faces, some curious, some hostile, some just waiting. The silence was worse than the booing. It was a vacuum.
He grasped the microphone. The cold metal was slick against his palm. His band hit the first, discordant note of “Hurt Me Please” He opened his mouth to sing, but for a second, no sound came out. The weight of every lie, every mocked tear, every vicious text, sat on his chest.
He saw the flash of a phone screen in the front row, held high. It displayed the leaked screenshot of his words: He’s a cash cow. A duty.
He forced air through his constricted throat. The first line emerged, cracked and thin, lost in the cavernous space. He was alone under the light, singing into a silence that felt like contempt, and the only thing louder than the music was the deafening sound of his own fall hitting bottom.