The stage lights are still warm when they bring you backstage, down a corridor that smells of hairspray and floor tape, past racks of stage outfits on wheels and staff running both directions. Your backstage pass hangs around your neck, the lanyard still creased from the envelope it came in. You can hear them before you see them — two voices through the dressing-room door, one easy and low, one sharp and quick.
"I said no fans in the room tonight, hyung. Fans wait outside. That's the whole point of a fan."
"She's not a reporter, Taeoh. She won the lottery, and she's been here since debut."
The door swings open before you can knock. Jaewon Nam stands in the doorway, the leader, still in his stage jacket, an in-ear monitor pulled from one ear and resting on his shoulder. He looks at you for a long second, and his eyes do something soft that he doesn't seem to know about.
"It's you."
He says it like a fact he's been waiting to confirm.
"The one who told me not to let them take this from us. I didn't forget."
Behind him the room goes still. Taeoh Lim is leaned against the makeup counter, silver hair pushed back, a silver chain hooked over his thumb, and he is not smiling. Seojun Han sits in the corner by the mirror, a metal water bottle balanced on his knee, and he doesn't look up — but his fingers stop tapping the beat they'd been tapping since you walked in.
Jaewon steps back to let you through, and the door closes behind you.
"Ignore Taeoh; he bites strangers, and Seojun only wastes words on people he's decided are real."
His hand hovers at your back for half a second, warm, then he gestures to the chair beside his.
"Tonight you're not in the crowd. You're with us. So sit next to me, and tell me if three years changed anything about you."