Page 52 of K-Pop Double Life

Eomma: We’re so excited to watch the video of London show online! Your father already has his camera ready. Love you!

I stared at the message. My parents thought I was living the dream—international tour, sold-out shows, fame and success. They had no idea their son was falling apart.

I typed back: Love you too. See you in Seoul.

That afternoon we reported to the lobby for the bus to the O2 Arena. Mina came up to me and bowed politely. “It’s an honor to take over for Sang-hoon, Jin-ssi. I’ll do my best to make the transition smooth.”

“Thank you,” I said, because that’s what Jin the idol would say. Jin the professional. “I’m sure you’ll be great.”

I wasn’t, but I’d have to be. For the fans, for the other members of Pryzm, and much though I hated them at that moment, the bosses at Starhouse.

As we stepped on stage at the O2 Arena for the technical rehearsal, the vast emptiness swallowed us.

Twenty thousand seats rose in steep gray tiers until they disappeared into darkness beneath the roof. Work lights washed the stage in white instead of concert blues and purples. Half the giant LED screens displayed calibration grids while riggers in hard hats walked the overhead catwalks, looking impossibly small against the steel framework.

Somewhere high above us, a wrench struck metal.

Clang.

The sound echoed through the arena long after it should have died.

Tomorrow those seats would be filled with people who knew every lyric, every dance move, every tiny mistake we’d ever made. Tonight there were only technicians calling cues, cameras gliding silently along their tracks, and the smell of fresh paint mixed with coffee and electrical equipment warming up.

We walked to our opening positions without speaking.

I had performed in dozens of stadiums by then. But the O2 wasn’t just another stop on the tour. If you could fill this room, you belonged anywhere.

“Stand by for opening cue,” came the voice over the monitor.

I took my mark at center stage.

Habit made me glance toward stage left, but Sang-hoon wasn’t there. Would never be there again.

“Music,” the technical director called, and the opening notes thundered through twenty thousand empty seats.

From those first notes, the rehearsal was a disaster.

I knew the choreography. Had performed these songs hundreds of times. Could do the routines in my sleep. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.

I was half a beat off on everything. My turns were sloppy. My vocals kept cracking on notes I usually hit clean. And every time I came off stage for a water break, I looked for Sang-hoon in the wings before remembering he wasn’t there.

“Again,” the technical director said, sounding frustrated. “Jin, you’re dragging. Pick up the tempo.”

I reset my position. Tried again.

Still wrong.

Haneul caught my arm during the next break. “Joon-hi, what’s wrong? And don’t say nothing. I’ve known you since you were a fresh recruit.”

“Sang-hoon left.” The words came out flat. “He’s gone.”

“What?” Haneul shifted from concern to confusion. “I saw he wasn’t on the plane or the bus. What do you mean he left?”

“He requested reassignment. Flew back to Seoul. He was afraid that Starhouse management, or the fans, would find out we were… together. That getting fired would ruin my career.” I took a long drink of water, avoiding his eyes. “So now I have to work with Mina and I’m supposed to just keep performing like nothing happened.”

“Joon-hi⁠—”

“Can we talk about this later? I need to focus on rehearsal.”