The flowerbed - Aespa's Giselle x M!Reader

The fragile body

The company car felt foreign somehow, like everything else that used to be familiar. Red light from the dashboard cast shadows across my hands on the steering wheel - hands that this morning had held her close, had made coffee in quiet dawn moments, had belonged to a different life entirely.

Seoul's night skyline mocked me through the windshield. Every building held memories now tainted by today's reality: the café where we'd shared secret smiles, the practice rooms where I'd fallen for her, the quiet streets we'd walked together thinking we were safe from prying eyes. None of it belonged to me anymore.

My phone sat dark on the passenger seat, silenced after hours of constant notifications. I couldn't bear to turn it on, to see more headlines screaming accusations, more hate flooding every platform. More threats against her that I couldn't protect her from.

Traffic thinned as night deepened, other drivers heading home to lives untouched by scandal. The emptier streets felt appropriate somehow - like the city itself was withdrawing from me, leaving space for the hollow ache in my chest to expand.

A photo tucked into my visor caught my eye at a red light - the group after their daesang win, pure joy radiating from every face. My fingers traced her smile in the image before I could stop myself. The light turned green but I sat there, lost in the memory of that night, until a horn behind me shattered the moment.

Hunger hit suddenly as I passed familiar restaurants, reminding me I hadn't eaten since morning. Since everything was normal. Since she'd stolen bites of my breakfast while Winter pretended not to document every moment.

The convenience store's harsh fluorescent lights made everything feel surreal, casting stark shadows that emphasized how wrong everything felt. I grabbed ramyeon without really seeing it, moving on autopilot through aisles that felt too bright, too exposed. The store owner watched me warily - maybe he'd seen the news, or maybe I just looked as broken as I felt.

"That's him."

The whisper carried clearly in the quiet store. I looked up to find three young men watching me, the kind of angry fan energy I'd learned to recognize over years in the industry. They couldn't have been more than twenty, but their eyes held that dangerous fanaticism that made sasaengs so unpredictable.

"You ruined them," one said, stepping forward. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You ruined her."

"I'm not looking for trouble," I said quietly, already moving toward the exit. But they had positioned themselves strategically - one by the door, two flanking me. Years of handling security had taught me to recognize coordinated movements.

The first punch caught me in the ribs, driving the air from my lungs. I could have fought back - security training had prepared me for situations like this. But I just... didn't. Maybe some part of me felt I deserved it.

"Should have stayed away from her," one growled, landing another hit that split my lip. "Should have known your place."

Their rage felt personal, like I'd betrayed them specifically. Maybe in their minds, I had. Idol culture created these parasocial relationships, these feelings of ownership over artists' lives. Now I was experiencing the dark side of that devotion firsthand.

The beating was messy, uncoordinated. I took it silently, tasting blood and regret. Each hit carried the weight of comments I'd seen online, threats made against her, the way her family was being harassed.

One of them grabbed my collar, slamming me against the store shelves. Products clattered to the floor as he spat words that blurred together - accusations about taking advantage, about ruining careers, about destroying something they thought belonged to them.