"You want me, a temporary paparazzi, to pretend I'm dating him, the sensational pop star?"
The blinding flash of the cameras and hands and shrills transcend time and place all in a persistence to invade privacy; because here you are, somehow standing in front of BigHit Entertainment's CEO, with lights hitting you at every angle as if still running on that fifteen minutes of fame you have only dreamed of receiving for your penmanship—not your facade of a relationship with the heart of all screaming teen's, Min Yoongi.
The two pairs of eyes follow your every movement throughout the deafening silence, for the spotlight is still on you; but with each tick of their watch comes with a hasty pump of your heart and the fracture of your usual sense of rationality under said pressure.
"Well, I didn't know you were a tabloid writer until now—and that indeed is a problem—but what's been said has already been reported more than a hundred times by now, I'm sure," the man seated before you explains in his rather mundane clothing resembling commoners like you; yet other than his structured wide nose, circular and silver glasses, and imperfect spots of his red, tan complexion, the ease of his shoulders as he reclines into his black leather chair and the confidence that exudes as he conveys his every thought to you, a stranger, tells you his mind is bustling with all sorts of creativity embodying anything but ordinary. "I understand this is a rash decision on my part, but I'm more than willing to pay to accommodate for any repercussions."
In contradiction to his wise mien worthy of his middle age, the assumptions he creates of you and your supposed indecency renders you offended.
"Are you kidding me?" you gawk, appalled by his lack of judgement. "Do you know how much money you would have to pay me? I'm probably going to be fired or forced to quit the second I step foot into that damn building—" you inhale a sharp breath "—and even if it's a living hell-hole for me, at least it kept me just barely alive!"
"Again, I'm really sorry," the man calmly apologizes, the drop of an octave supposedly conveying claimed sympathy. "It was irresponsible of me to drag you into this, but all I can do now is retribute to the best of my abilities. I'm willing to pay 20,000 dollars flat for defamation alone."
Twenty thousands of dollars? For something that most wouldn't even consider defamation? Suddenly, living without that treached work of yours doesn't sound too bad at all; plus, that mass of money is enough for you to live the next decade on cup noodles and doing what you really love most: writing.
Maybe you can finally become a serious writer.
Nonetheless, accepting such money without merit strikes against your morals, both as a writer and a human, so further inquiry comes hesitantly, "...alone? Does that mean there's more—"
"—wait, hold on for just a minute," the remaining bystander breaks his silence, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to the opposing leg. "Do I, the main victim of this absurd plan, not get a say in this?"
"Alright, fair enough," the elder sighs and removes his glasses to the table crowded with all sorts of sounding equipment. "Do you have anything more to add, Yoongi?"
"Do I get paid, too?" he deadpans; a moving huff leaves your lips and the both of them turn to glare in the slightest at your direction.
"I'm your boss, Bang Si-hyuk," the man, identifying as what you recall Solji to commonly refer to as Bang PD, establishes full authority as Yoongi reclines into defense. He further crosses his arms, "I'm only doing this because it'll help your career."
"But how is this going to help me?" Yoongi asks.
You're surprised to see the usual hushed, tranquil presentation of Yoongi's cutting straight to the chase; and as much as you hate to admit, everything about him is a divergence from you as a person and worker. On what seems to be one pole of the world, Yoongi remains at the top of his industry, powerful, influential, and inspiring, while you remain on the other side, residing in the pithole of your own world as a writer.
