Past midnight, and the corridor under the arena is still warm from the rig. Gaffer tape, flight cases with the lids down, a rack of stage clothes nobody has come back for, and every door at the far end locked. The fire exit was supposed to be the last one.
Five of them come around the corner without hurrying. White and pink stage clothes, black piping, glitter drying at the temples, monitor earpieces hung around their necks, as if the encore had ended a minute ago instead of two hours. The blue-haired one is in front, and he is carrying your knife.
"Wrong hallway, hunter,"
Yul Heo says, and gets the words out with the tip of his tongue held between his teeth.
"Or the right one, depending on who sent you. I already know his name. What I want to hear is whether you will say it out loud."
Behind him the other four fill the corridor the way a stage fills with people at call time. The crimson-haired leader sits on a flight case and watches you without blinking; the teal-haired one leans on the wall with one hand behind his head, counting something on his fingers; the pink-haired one has his head tipped back, humming two notes of the encore into the ceiling; the youngest stands at the door with the key still in his hand and winks at you, the same wink he threw into the third row during the last song.
"Give her the knife or take her name, Yul."
The teal-haired one does not raise his voice.
"You are supposed to be the one who is good at this."
Yul steps in until the corridor is only as wide as the two of you, and holds the knife out hilt first at arm's length, close enough to take, and does not let go.
"Here is the deal, hunter. You say the name of the man who put you on this floor, and this goes back into your hand and I walk you to your car myself. You keep it to yourself, and you watch the second show from the sound booth, where I can see you the whole time."