Page 17 of Spotlight Hearts

I drop into the chair. She works fast—eyeliner first, thick black wings that sharpen my gaze. Glitter along the cheekbones, a dusting of iridescent silver that catches the light. A touch of cream blush to warm the skin, then lip stain—deep natural red that makes my mouth look bitten, wet, inviting. She runs product through my hair and blow-dries it into that effortless tousled wave that falls just right.

“Done,” she says, stepping back. “You look dangerous.”

I check the mirror. Yeah. I look like trouble. The mesh top stretches tight across my chest when I stand. Chains glint low on my hips. Necklace cool against heated skin. Hair perfect—platinum strands falling into my eyes, just enough to look planned.

I went commando again, because why not—and the chains settle against my thighs. The outfit’s designed to move, to tease, to make every hip roll and chest pop feel like foreplay.

I catch my reflection one last time.

This is the version of me the fans want. The one who doesn’t miss cues. Who shows up early. Who sells the fantasy without apology. And tonight, when I grab Kai’s chain on stage, when I lean in to suck the sucker from between his teeth, when the crowd screams Kuca like it’s gospel—I’m going to make sure it looks effortless.

Even if my pulse is anything but.

I head for the door.

Time to go to work.

Backstage is controlled chaos—monitors blaring the opening act’s final chorus, crew shouting cues, the low thrum of the crowd vibrating through the concrete walls. Vector’s killing it out there; the screams are already feral, the kind that makes your blood buzz before you even step foot on stage.

I’m leaning against a flight case, arms crossed, mesh top already clinging from the pre-show heat. I haven’t put on the jacket yet, but I know I have to for a little, at least. Crystal’s glitter still catches the overhead lights like I’m wearing stardust. My leather pants feel like a second skin, chains cool against my thighs. Hair perfect. I’m ready as I’m ever going to be.

The rest of Eclipse filters in one by one. Michael first—already hyped, bouncing on his toes, cracking his neck. Min-ho next—quiet, focused, giving me a small nod of approval when he sees I’m actually early. Tasha’s barking last-minute notes into her headset.

Then Kai.

He walks in from the opposite hallway, and the air shifts.

Black leather pants—same cut as mine, tight enough to show every line of muscle when he moves. Matching. Intentional. His top is sleeveless black, cut low on the sides to expose the ink running along his ribs: elegant Korean script curling down his side like poetry carved into skin. Thorn vines climb from his chest, twisting up his neck in sharp, delicate lines—reaching toward his throat like they’re trying to choke the control right out of him. The tattoo disappears under his collarbone, but the suggestion is there. Dangerous. Beautiful.

His skin is pale, almost luminous under the stage lights—flawless in a way that makes me wonder if it’s makeup or just him. His dark eyes are rimmed in thick black liner, shadows smudged at the corners, making them look deeper, sharper, like they could cut through the dark. And his lips—stained the same deep, bruised red as mine. Crystal’s work, probably. But on him, it looks less like art and more sinful.

He stops when he sees me looking. Doesn’t say anything. Just holds my gaze for a beat too long.

I push off the case, step closer, trying for casualness as I close the distance. The chains on my pants jangle softly.

“Damn, Jung,” I drawl, letting my eyes drag down his body and back up. “Did wardrobe decide we’re matching tonight, or are you finally admitting you want to coordinate with me?”

Kai rolls his eyes—hard, dramatic, the way he does when he’s trying not to react. But I catch the faint flush creeping up his neck, right where those thorn vines end.

“Save the lines for the fans,” he mutters, brushing past me toward the stage wings. His shoulder grazes mine—barely a touch, but enough to send a spark up my arm.

I smirk, falling into step beside him. “Oh, I will. But you’re making it real easy to sell tonight. All that ink on display? The vines around your throat? Looks like you’re begging to be grabbed.”

He shoots me a sidelong glare, lips pressing into a thin line. “Keep talking and I’ll make sure the throat hold ends with my fist.”

“Promises, promises.”

Michael laughs from behind us. “You two are worse than Vector’s drama. Save it for the stage.”

Tasha appears, clapping her hands. “Thirty seconds. Positions. Vector’s wrapping—crowd’s primed. Let’s go.”

I shrug into my jacket as we line up at the wings. Michael and Min-ho first, then Kai and I side-by-side. The opening act’s final note crashes into fans' screams. Lights dim out there, then flare back up-blinding white, waiting for us.

Kai’s breathing is steady, controlled. Mine isn’t. Not quite.

I lean in just enough for only him to hear, voice low. “Try not to blush when I put my hand on your throat this time, princess.”

He doesn’t look at me. Just rolls his eyes again—slower this time, almost amused despite himself.