Page 94 of K-Pop Double Life

“We have the members secured, the venue locked down, and eyes on every identified asset. That’s not nothing.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “Aidan, I know you’re worried. I am too. But we’re doing everything right. Sara Yoon’s invisible because she’s scared—she knows we’re onto her. That makes her dangerous, but it also makes her reactive instead of proactive.”

“Unless she’s better at this than we are.”

“She’s not,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “She’s smart, but she’s made mistakes. We’ll find her.”

“Before or after she hurts someone?”

“Before. Because we’re not going to let her win.”

Aidan held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Okay. We stay sharp, watch for patterns, and trust the protocols.”

“Exactly.”

We went down to the talent level, which was controlled chaos. Final costume checks, last-minute vocal warm-ups, the members gathering near the stage entrance for their pre-show ritual. I watched from a distance, giving them space but staying alert.

Jin looked focused, the fear from earlier buried beneath professional discipline. Sang-hoon stood just off to the side, close enough to be available but far enough to maintain the fiction that they were just colleagues.

But I caught the moment their eyes met. The brief, silent communication that said I love you and be safe and I’ll see you after.

Forty-three thousand people started filing into the stadium. The sound built—conversations, laughter, the growing excitement of a crowd that had been waiting months for this moment.

Aidan joined me near the security station, and we watched the monitors. Crowd shots, entrance checkpoints, backstage corridors. Everything normal. Everything routine.

“Why do I feel like we’re missing something?” Aidan said quietly.

“Because we probably are. We always are.” I squeezed his hand briefly. “But we catch it before it matters. That’s the job.”

The lights dropped. The crowd roared. And Pryzm took the stage.

38

IN HER PATH

SANG-HOON — SÃO PAULO

The roar of the crowd was physical, a wall of sound that vibrated through the floor and made my chest tight. Forty-three thousand Brazilian fans screaming in Portuguese, waving light sticks, holding signs I couldn’t read.

I stood in my usual position in the wings, makeup kit at my feet, eyes scanning not the stage but the backstage area. Looking for anything out of place. Anyone who didn’t belong.

The show had been running for ninety minutes. Jin was in the middle of a solo ballad that showcased his vocals, just him and a spotlight and thousands of phone cameras recording every moment.

He was beautiful. Vulnerable and powerful at the same time, his voice carrying emotion that made even the security guards stop and listen.

I should have been watching him. Should have been tracking his performance, ready to fix his makeup during the next costume change.

Instead, I was watching the shadows.

That’s when I saw her.

A woman, maybe thirty, wearing crew blacks with a laminated badge clipped to her belt. She was moving through the backstage area with purpose, carrying what looked like a padded equipment bag.

Nothing unusual about that. Crew moved equipment all the time during shows.

Except her badge was clipped upside down—a small detail, but crew who worked these venues every day knew how to wear their credentials. She was moving toward the stage entrance, the narrow corridor that led from backstage to the wings where Jin would exit after his solo.

Her hand kept going to the equipment bag, opening it slightly, checking something inside.