chase

“Is everyone enjoying themselves tonight?”

The crowd roars back its appreciation thunderously, deafeningly. Tonight’s two hour set is just about done, and you’re at that part of the concert again, the highlight of every single show: you’re scanning the thousands in attendance, searching for the one—

And you find her: she’s right at the corner of the barricade, modestly dressed compared to the rest in band merch and simple tee shirts.

“You! Lady in the corner!” you call out through the mic, trying to grab their attention. It’s not even intentional, but she’s acting like those performative folk who claim they’re ‘not like other girls’ by reading a book during these shows. She isn’t even reading at all; if anything, she seems lost—like she shouldn’t belong here, or anywhere close.

Her angelic face doesn’t help case one bit.

But you try anyway. And she does notice. Her eyes catch you, sparkling, and—

Your stutter almost catches on the mic, only to go overlooked by the raucous noise. Even when her eyes widen in surprise and her gaze locks onto you, you never lose your full grip on being professional. You’ve done this dozens of times on the tour alone, but none of your chosen audience has ever caught your breath away—until now.

Reluctantly, she points a finger to herself, just to make sure. You repeat the invitation.

“Yeah you! Would you like to come on and sing this next song with us?”

The crowd echoes its support through another round of deafening cheers. After a moment’s hesitation, the young woman reluctantly agrees, being guided by security past the barricade before walking herself up the steps and onto center stage.

As the woman reveals herself to the thousands strong, the thunderous roar feels louder than usual, with some even calling her out specifically— Yuri —as if she’s someone you’re supposed to know. Given the general anonymity of your guests, comprised entirely of teenage fangirls and the occasional fanboy, she’s not far off from the former.

But nevermind that; now she’s standing right in front of you, your eyes meeting directly once more.

“What’s the pretty girl’s name?” you ask, holding up the mic in her face.

Someone in the crowd echoes out “Yuri,” drawing another round of resounding cheers. The woman covers her face out of sheer embarrassment. Doesn’t seem to be a partner or accompanied by anyone; it’s just her, but the way everyone calls out her name makes it now clear she’s more than ordinary in an otherwise faceless room.

As you draw the mic back, trying to ease her into it, she utters her own name, modest and low: "Jo Yuri."

And the patrons roar out their approval again. This unprecedented level of support for an invited fan is something else, something foreign.

"You seem to be quite the popular one here!” you remark, pointing out how everyone’s been on her side. Her cheeks are flushed; she keeps her hands close together, head lowered for the most part, trying to look unassuming when the spotlight’s on her.

But you’re committed to the part, so you keep it pushing: “So—for this part,” you start again, breaking the tension, “You know the lyrics to our next song, yeah?”

The guitarist begins strumming to the tune of a familiar song, one that’s deemed difficult, if not impossible to cover, but the lyrics convey the ironic relationship you have with your general fanbase.

Yuri nods along as you hand her your mic and grab a second one from nearby. The crowd relaxes into solemn silence as the stage lights fade, shrinking down to just you and your invited guest as the rest of the instrumental kicks in.

Even after the show’s long over, the frenzy’s still there.

Emerging from the exit doors, the crowd make themselves loud and clear, standing just outside from a distance, with security posted up at the barricades, coming alive as if you’re starting the night all over again. Patient, obsessive hundreds of fangirls lined up in rows willing to die for more, another round, a glimpse, a chance.

A simple glance and wave of acknowledgement in their general direction is more than enough to get them going again, screaming their lungs out, cameras flashing, phones held high, the lot of them.

It’s a sight you’ve gotten used to, the same thing day in, day out. It never gets old, but it does become tiresome at points. They should be going home, not waiting in the freezing cold.

Fuck it, the tour is almost over. You’ll oblige.

As security tries to dissuade you from approaching the rabid throng, you assure them it’ll be quick. Pulling a pen from your shirt pocket, the guards form a makeshift wall as you step towards the crowd, taking pictures, signing random shit they throw your way (mostly tour merch and albums), ignoring that some of them are down horrendous. You feel the desperation when they pull on your arm, on your shirt, and when they refuse to budge whenever you move away from them.

It’s a lot. It’s dangerous. It’s why you’ve stopped doing these public backstage walks, mostly. But the fans have also adapted, through bribery or knowledge of the surroundings, any means to get close to you.

Front row gets majority of the interactions before security decides enough is enough and whisks you away and to the cars. You don’t get through to them all. That’s to be expected, but it is what it is.

The other bandmates have already left while you stayed behind, meaning it’s just you back to your hotel.

And when you return to your room, the adrenaline crashes all at once. The couch has never felt more comfy when you slump back on it. The weight of the world finally seems to ease up, and the deep sigh feels like heavenly relief: no more obsessive crowds, no more nailing songs, just some much needed peace and quiet.

As you pull your phone from your shirt pocket, you notice a thin sheet of paper caught on the phone case. Tearing it away reveals a number and a familiar name:

> +82 10-XXXX-YYYY

> thanks for inviting me, twas a lotta fun. here’s my number if you wanna talk

> jy

If the initials didn’t give it away, the note itself is a dead giveaway.

'Jy’ was the very same girl you had picked out of the crowd. Yuri. You recall her soft, innocent smile and timid, demure nature before she belted her ass off during the cover. Admittedly, for those four minutes she shared the stage, she overshadowed you. And it wasn’t remotely close.

It’s a strange new feeling. And to think she’s supposed to be just another fan.

“Yuri,” you mutter, trying to connect the dots. There’s more to her than just a pretty face: the way the crowd roared as her presence was reflected on the cameras, how they erupted once she said her name—how they already knew—she’s something more.

Against your better judgment, you dial the number. A few tense moments later, an answer:

“Hello?”

“Yuri?”

Her soft, airy laugh fills your ears. “I—I didn’t think you’d entertain my number. Thanks again for letting me join you on stage. It was a huge honor.”

“Um—I know this might seem sudden but—” You’re swallowing your throat, ruminating about the consequences. It’s been a while since the last hookup, the last blind bender. One fueled by drugs and alcohol to cope with the stress of touring. Clean ever since, but this—this is a voluntary choice. “Do you have time tonight?”

“Of course.” The answer comes out almost immediate, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this opportunity. “Why? Do you wanna talk?”

“Sorry I don’t really have much,” you say to your guest, pouring a glass of alcohol on her cup. It was already half empty from the night before.

Yuri’s got the whole act pat down like muscle memory: quiet, reserved, shy. The smile’s constantly modest, barely touching her eyes as she sits on the edge of your hotel couch. Her posture is deliberately straight, shoulders slightly hunched inward as if trying to make herself look smaller than she already is. She keeps her gaze low most of the time, only occasionally stealing glances at you through thick lashes that flutter against her porcelain skin.

Even the way she takes the tiniest sip from the glass seems rehearsed: delicate and measured, as if afraid to disturb the shoddily crafted atmosphere between you with something as mundane as thirst.

“I gotta say it one more time,” you start, trying to ease her into conversation, “You were fucking amazing. That voice is—something else.”

“Thanks,” she hushes, deliberately suppressing herself. So maybe it’s just Yuri being—Yuri.

“I mean,” You’re drinking up the last of your own glass, setting it down with a loud clasp, “You got some of the loudest cheers of any invited fan. At points, I thought you were the one inviting me to perform.”

She doesn’t say a word; she just smiles. Her blush turns a slight rosy red, hands clasped together, cheeks puffing a little at the flattering comment.