Page 95 of K-Pop Double Life

My pulse kicked up.

“Liam,” I said into the comm unit Aidan had given me before the show. “Stage left corridor. Woman in crew blacks, equipment case. Something’s wrong.”

“On it. Don’t engage.”

But she was already at the corridor entrance, ten meters from where Jin would exit in less than two minutes. And her hand was inside the case now, pulling something out.

I moved without thinking.

Crossed the backstage area in seconds, dodged around a rack of backup costumes, closed the distance before she saw me coming.

“Excuse me,” I said in English, keeping my voice professional. “Can I see your credentials?”

She turned, startled, and I saw her face clearly for the first time. European, blonde, late twenties.

And in her hand, half-pulled from the equipment case, was a knife.

Not a big knife. Maybe fifteen centimeters, the kind of blade that would fit in a pocket or a bag and not set off metal detectors if it was ceramic.

But big enough to kill someone if you knew where to put it.

“I’m with catering,” she said, her English accented. German, maybe. “Just delivering⁠—”

“Catering doesn’t use this corridor.” I stepped closer, positioning myself between her and the stage entrance. “And they don’t carry knives to delivery.”

The pleasant professionalism dropped away, replaced by something cold and calculating.

“Move,” she said quietly.

“No.”

On stage, Jin’s solo was building toward its climax. Thirty seconds, maybe forty, before he’d walk off stage directly into this corridor.

“I said move.” The knife came up, no longer hidden. “Or I’ll go through you to get to him.”

Security was coming. I heard movement behind me, Liam’s voice in my ear telling me to stand down, let the professionals handle it.

But Jin was thirty seconds away, and this woman had a knife, and I’d spent years loving him from a distance and so many days terrified that someone would take him away before I got to really have him.

So I did the stupidest thing I’d ever done. I lunged for her wrist.

Not because I knew how to fight. Because a career of managing quick changes and dodging dancers backstage had taught me how bodies moved under pressure. Timing. Balance. Momentum.

I caught her forearm with both hands and twisted sideways, the same pivot Pryzm used in the bridge of “Fireline.”

For one second it worked. The hand holding the knife jerked upward.

Then she adapted, fast.

She drove her elbow into my ribs hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs and ripped her arm free with trained precision. I saw the blade flash toward me and tried to block it the way I’d seen on YouTube videos.

But I was too slow, and pain tore across my forearm, hot and immediate.

I stumbled backward, hitting a rolling costume rack hard enough to send hangers clattering across the floor.

Hands closed around her from behind and Liam slammed her into the corridor beside us, his face twisted with an anger I’d never seen before. Jason’s two officers pulled her away, forcing the knife from her hand and driving her to the ground with professional efficiency.

I stood there in shock, clutching my arm, feeling blood seep between my fingers. Behind me, I heard the music stop, and thunderous applause. I was confused. Was the show over, or was this just a scene change?