Generations Expectation's | 8th member of BTS

55

Ae Cha POV

"There's no way this is going to work." Kyong whispered beside me, her voice low and tight with anxiety. Her grip on my wrist was firm, grounding herself through me, but not enough to hurt. "Be confident" I said, striving to project calm even as my own nerves threatened to betray me. My strides were deliberate, my head held high. "We've rehearsed this a hundred times. Just stay calm and cool."

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced around, clearly unconvinced. "And if calm and cool fail?"

"Then we find a new plan." I muttered, my voice barely above a growl. I wasn't sure who I was trying to convince more—her or myself.

We slipped through the back door meant for idols at Bighit's company building, entering a world that hummed with controlled chaos. The headquarters had always been a beacon of power and prestige in Seoul's entertainment scene, but the recent meteoric rise of 90210 and the slow-burning fame of BTS had turned the place into a hive of constant activity.

The newly renovated lobby gleamed under fluorescent lights, a polished showroom of the company's dominance. Display cases lined the walls, filled with trophies and awards that seemed to glimmer with their own pride. Plaques and framed albums celebrated the milestones of past and current artists, while the occasional monitor played a loop of performances, interviews, and promotional videos. Staff moved with purpose, their polished efficiency turning chaos into a symphony of productivity. Idols and trainees shuffled between rooms under the watchful eyes of managers, their postures rigid with professionalism. The building thrummed with ambition, and we were just another thread in its tapestry—for now.

But as we walked through the space, I saw the telltale flicker of recognition in people's eyes. Their gazes darted to Kyong, quickly averting again, as if afraid to linger too long. Even with her sunglasses obscuring the swelling and bruises of her eyes, and her hoodie hiding the rest, Kyong's presence was undeniable. She had a magnetism that was impossible to ignore, no matter how much she tried to shrink into herself.

There was no mistaking her. The way their movements faltered ever so slightly, the tightening of their expressions—these were the signs of people starstruck but trying desperately not to show it. She was a pop star, one of the industry's golden faces, even now. And then there was me. No one spared me a second glance, and why would they? I wasn't there yet—not a name they'd whisper about or a face they'd try to capture in passing. Not yet. But maybe one day.

Kyong's grip tightened again as if she could sense my wandering thoughts. I kept my focus forward, shoulders squared. We had a mission, and this was no time to falter.

Ahead of us, Hobeom walked briskly, his phone glued to his ear as he barked orders. He was completely unaware of what we were really doing here, believing the carefully spun story we'd fed him. To him, it was just another chaotic day—another fire to put out.

"You better fix this before the next stage performance." he growled into the receiver, his voice sharp with irritation. Whoever was on the other end was likely sweating bullets.
We reached the elevator, and as the doors slid open, I caught sight of others waiting to board. They hesitated, their eyes flickering to Kyong. Whether it was out of respect or wariness, no one dared step in with us. The doors closed, sealing us in. Hobeom pressed the button for the executive floor, his attention still fixed on his call. The elevator began its ascent, the hum of the machinery filling the silence between us. My stomach dropped, the weight of what lay ahead pressing heavier with every passing floor.

Kyong was quiet beside me, but I could feel her tension radiating like heat. Her fingers twitched slightly, but she didn't let go.

I took a deep breath, my words from earlier circling back in my mind. Calm and cool. We'd rehearsed this. We had to pull it off. There wasn't room for failure—not with so much at stake.