Chapter 1: E
The steam in Yuna’s bathroom was thick enough to taste, scented with jasmine and vindication. She practiced her speech in the mirror, her reflection a blurred impression of platinum bob and sharp, red-lined eyes.
“And so, when C4 walks onto that stage tonight, you’re not just seeing four girls. You’re seeing a statement. A symphony of satin and defiance, curated by—”
The light above the mirror died with a soft, definitive pop.
The humid darkness swallowed her whole. The distant, ever-present K-pop playlist gurgled into silence. For a second, there was only the drip of the showerhead and the sound of her own breathing. Then, a voice, muffled by walls but crystal clear in its frustration, cut through the apartment.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? A CRITICAL FAILURE? ON A FIVE PERCENT OVERCLOCK? THAT’S BOGUS! THAT’S ILLEGAL!”
Yuna stood perfectly still, a statue in the dark. Water traced a cold path down her spine. She didn’t need to see. She knew. The labyrinth of cables, the pulsing neon, the tower of empty Bang Energy cans teetering by his desk. Her brother, the god of gaming, had once again tried to force his machine to achieve divinity, and had instead achieved a household blackout.
Her phone, resting on the sink, lit up with a notification, its glow painting her furious expression in sterile blue. It was a text from Mika, C4’s manager. Then another. Then the phone started to ring.
She fumbled for a towel, wrapping it tightly around herself as she stepped into the dark hallway. The only light now came from the streetlamps of Shibuya below, casting long, distorted shadows of her mannequin and her racks of designer samples. She picked up the phone.
“Yuna. Talk to me.”
Mika’s voice was a tense, high-pitched wire. “It’s Hana. Full-blown panic attack. She’s locked herself in a stall in the venue bathroom. She’s hyperventilating. She says she can’t go on. The curtains go up in ninety minutes.”
Yuna’s mind, usually a whirlwind of mood boards and fabric swatches, went cold and tactical. “Sedation? A stiff drink? A metaphorical slap?”
“We’ve tried calming her! She’s not hearing it. The show is sold out. We have three idols. You can’t perform a four-part harmony with three voices, Yuna. The choreography is built for four. The costumes are built for four.”
“So rebuild it for three. Alter the choreo. Have Aiko take Hana’s center solo.”
“In ninety minutes? It’s impossible. The investors are here. The streaming deal is contingent on the full group debut.” Mika’s voice cracked. “This is catastrophic.”
Yuna’s gaze, sharp and calculating, sliced through the gloom of the hallway. It traveled past the sleek lines of her modern furniture, down the hall to the single stripe of faint, flickering light emanating from under a door. A door plastered with glossy idol posters. The hum of a UPS battery backup whined softly. He had a backup. Of course he did. His shrine to digital decadence had more fail-safes than a nuclear reactor.
The trash-talking continued, a solo performance of grievance. “Oh, you think that’s funny, ‘PwnMaster69’? You think just because my power’s out I’m done? I’m running on battery, you peasant! I will hunt you through this dungeon with the last volt in this system! I am a GOD of ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES!”
A god.
An absurd, unemployed, eternally lounging god with hair like a spilled inkwell and eyes that could stop a conversation. A canvas she had threatened to paint for years.
Her bare feet were silent on the cool flooring as she moved to his door. She didn’t knock. She pushed it open.
The scene was a diorama of delinquent dedication. The room was a cave of dormant screens, save for one monitor, glowing with the lurid colors of a fantasy game. It cast everything in a sickly, pulsating light. Ren was framed in the glow, his silhouette lean and tense. His long black hair had slipped loose from its tie, cascading over the shoulders of his oversized hoodie. His features, sharp and delicate, were set in a mask of profound concentration, his green eyes reflecting the pixelated battle on screen. Empty cans glittered around his throne-like gaming chair like fallen stars.
He didn’t look away from the screen. “Sis, if you’re here to yell about the power, I’m busy administering divine justice. The circuit breaker’s in the hall. Flip it back. You have thumbs.”
Yuna didn’t move. She just watched him. She saw the precise, fluid movements of his fingers on the keyboard, a dancer’s grace applied to violence. She heard the quick, witty ripostes he muttered to his teammates, a natural, effortless charisma wasted on a void. She saw the way the game’s light sculpted his cheekbones, the androgynous beauty that had caused cashiers to call him “miss” since he was fourteen.
Hana was weeping in a bathroom stall. Three identical, sequined costumes hung, waiting, at the venue. A fourth hung empty.
A terrible, brilliant, utterly ridiculous idea clicked into place in Yuna’s mind with the finality of a lock turning.
“Ren,” she said, her voice not a yell, but a calm, clear statement in the dark.
“What?”
“Log out.”
He finally tore his eyes from the screen, glancing over his shoulder with pure annoyance. “Are you insane? I’m in a ranked—”
“Now.”
The absolute steel in her tone made him pause. His character on screen died a sudden, spectacular death. He winced, but turned fully, peering at her in the backlight. He saw the towel, the damp hair, the phone clenched in her hand. He saw the look in her eyes. It was the look she got when she found a perfect, impossible shade of fabric.
It was the look of a creator who had just found her masterpiece.
“What’s going on?” he asked, suspicion flattening his voice.