Kpop Sickfics and Hurtfics Part 2

Behind the Curtain (Key)

The world tour was in full swing, and Key was thriving onstage. Every night, he stood in the center of the stage, his charisma and energy radiating out to thousands of fans. His performances were impeccable, and the audience loved every second of it. But what no one could see was the growing unease that followed him backstage, something that had been creeping up on him for days.

It started subtly—little things he brushed off. A note left on his dressing room mirror. A small, anonymous gift sitting on his chair, a single white rose. He thought it was just a fan who had found a way past security, an innocent gesture at best, but the notes were increasingly unsettling. They weren't just about admiring him as an artist—they were deeply personal, referencing details of his private life that only someone close to him would know.

The first time he found a note tucked into the collar of his jacket, he had dismissed it as a coincidence. But when the notes began to come more frequently, and the content grew stranger, Key's sense of unease started to settle in his stomach like a stone. The security team couldn't find anything unusual, and he didn't want to worry his members, so he kept it to himself. He didn't want to create unnecessary concern. Besides, he had been through worse in the past; this was nothing he couldn't handle. At least, that's what he told himself.

He didn't even tell Onew, Minho, or Taemin about the notes. He knew they'd worry, and Key wasn't one to burden others with his problems. They had enough on their plate with the tour itself. They were already juggling hectic schedules, rehearsals, and performances. The last thing he wanted to do was add to their stress with something he felt he could deal with alone.

But as the days went by, the sense of dread only deepened. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Every time he stepped into his dressing room, there was an unease that followed him. The gifts, the notes, they were always there—always waiting for him, even though he had no idea how the person had gotten so close. There were times when he would see a shadow move in the corner of his eye as he entered or exited the room, and for a brief moment, he felt as though he wasn't alone. He tried to convince himself it was nothing—just paranoia—but deep down, something felt wrong.

The turning point came after a particularly electrifying performance. It had been one of those nights where everything fell into place perfectly. The crowd was louder than usual, and the energy backstage was palpable. As Key walked off the stage, wiping the sweat from his brow, a sense of relief washed over him. Another concert down, and everything had gone perfectly.

He was about to head to the dressing room to freshen up when he heard footsteps behind him. They were too fast, too heavy to be one of the other members. Key turned, his heart immediately racing. But all he saw was a figure darting toward him from the shadows of the parking lot.

Before he could react, he felt something sharp at his side. The air was filled with the sound of his breath catching in his throat as the figure lunged at him, their hands grabbing at him in a wild frenzy. His instinct kicked in, and he tried to defend himself, his body spinning away from the assailant as he brought his arms up to shield himself.

The figure, a woman, was erratic and unpredictable. Her grip on him was strong, and her eyes gleamed with something wild and unhinged. She spoke in hurried, incoherent sentences, each word more disturbing than the last.

"Not so perfect anymore, are you, Key?" she spat, her voice shaking with emotion. "You think you can hide from me? You can't. I know everything."

Key's heart pounded in his chest. He could barely understand what she was saying, but the tone was unmistakable. This was no fan. This was something far darker.

With one arm, he tried to push her away, but the force she was using was too strong. She swung wildly, and before he could dodge, he felt the sharp sting of something slicing across his arm. Pain flared through him instantly, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins kept him from fully registering the injury. He staggered backward, but his foot caught on something—maybe the uneven pavement or a discarded object—and he twisted his ankle. The sharp pain shot up his leg like a bolt of electricity.