Yeji's Discovery

The waiting room smelled of hairspray, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of a dozen different energy drinks. I was re-taping my ankles, the crisp white KT tape a familiar ritual, when the whisper cut through the low hum of pre-show chatter.

“…no, I’m serious. At The Veil. You have to request him specifically. They call him the Special Concierge.”

The voice was young, girlish, from behind a rack of sequined jackets two rows over. I didn’t look up, but my hands stilled. The Veil. That name carried weight. A different kind of green room.

A second voice, hushed and eager. “Is it true what Somi sunbaenim said? That he… you know. Has a magic dick?”

A stifled giggle. “That’s what she called it. But my manager’s friend said it’s not magic, it’s drugs. They say he slips something into the champagne, makes you suggestible. That’s why so many of them go back.”

I rolled my eyes, resuming my taping with a sharp rip of the Velcro. Idol gossip. The same ecosystem that claimed certain diets could change your bone structure or that a producer’s favorite got an extra high note in the mix. Ninety percent fabricated, ten percent distorted beyond recognition. I’d been to The Veil’s rooftop club once, after a particularly grueling award season. It had been exactly what I needed: anonymity, a stunning view, a cocktail that didn’t taste like battery acid. No mysterious concierges. Just expensive quiet.

“His name is Andrew,” the first whisperer confided, as if sharing state secrets. “Apparently he’s Canadian or something. But he looks… normal. Cute, but normal. That’s how he gets you.”

I stood up, testing the support on my ankle. The whispers ceased instantly. As I walked past the clothing rack, I caught a glimpse of two very young, very wide-eyed faces from a rookie group I didn’t recognize. They bowed deeply, panic in their eyes. I gave a curt, professional nod and left for the stage, the word “Andrew” sticking in my brain like a stray piece of lint. Unimportant, but irritating.

The dorm was unusually peaceful that evening. Lia was composing at the keyboard in her room, the soft chords drifting down the hall. Yuna was glued to a drama on the living room TV, and Chaeryeong was giving herself a meticulous facial at the kitchen table. It was Ryujin’s behavior that caught my attention.

She emerged from her room not in her usual oversized hoodie and sweats, but in a sleek, black off-shoulder top and tailored jeans that hugged her dancer’s legs. Her makeup was subtle but perfect, her hair falling in soft waves. She looked incredible. She’d been cultivating this look more and more frequently over the past few weeks.

“Going out?” I asked casually from the sofa, pretending to scroll through my phone.

“Mm,” she said, slipping her feet into a pair of chic ankle boots. “Just meeting some friends.”

“New friends?” I kept my tone light, curious. “You’ve been a social butterfly lately.”

She flashed me a grin, the one that crinkled her eyes. “Something like that. People outside the bubble. It’s… refreshing.”

“Must be a special friend,” I teased, nudging her foot with mine. “Got a secret boyfriend you’re not telling your leader about, Joanne-ah?”

Ryujin laughed, a full, genuine sound. “Yah, unnie. No boyfriend. I promise. Just… good company.” She grabbed her small leather bag. “Don’t wait up!”

I watched her go, the door clicking shut behind her. I believed her. Ryujin was many things—fierce, stubborn, effortlessly cool—but she wasn’t a liar. To us. And her work hadn’t suffered; if anything, there was a new looseness to her dancing, a confidence in her expressions that hadn’t been there before. She seemed… lighter. I pushed the worries out of my head.

Sleep wouldn’t come. The digital clock on my bedside table glowed 2:17 AM. I got up for a glass of water, padding barefoot across the cool floor.

As I passed Ryujin’s door, I heard it. The low, melodic murmur of her voice. She was on the phone. I paused, not meaning to eavesdrop, but held by the tone. It was soft, intimate, suffused with a happiness so pure it was almost foreign. This wasn’t her talking to a company staffer or a family member.

“…I know, I can’t wait either… Mm, tomorrow? I’ll try… You make it sound so easy, Andrew.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

Andrew.

The name from the whispers. The supposed “Special Concierge.” The one with the magic dick or the drugged champagne.

My hand flew to my mouth. Every protective instinct I possessed, forged from years of leading, of shielding my girls from managers’ tempers, from creepy fans, from the endless, hungry gaze of the industry, roared to life. Dongsaeng-ah, what have you gotten into?

Back in my own bed, the darkness pressed in on me. I wrestled with the duvet and my own conscience. Ryujin was an adult. She was sharp, arguably the most street-smart among us. Invading her privacy was a line I’d never crossed.

But the rumors… Drugs. Brainwashing. They were absurd, the stuff of tabloid headlines and malicious online forums. Yet, they existed for a reason. Where there was smoke, there was so often a terrible, burning fire. What if it wasn’t coercion? What if it was something else, something she was willingly walking into but couldn’t see the danger of? The image of her happy, smiling face as she left the dorm clashed violently with the sinister picture painted by those junior idols.

I couldn’t accuse her. Not without proof. Not without breaking the trust we’d built.

But I could look. I could watch. As her leader, and as her unnie, it wasn’t just my right—it was my duty.

I stared at the ceiling, my jaw set. Decision solidified, cold and hard in my gut.

I would investigate.

The following night, when Ryujin announced she was going out again, I was ready. I’d already changed into all black—a high-neck top, wide-legged trousers, a cap pulled low, a disposable mask. I looked like any other tired young person in Seoul trying to avoid attention.

I gave her a ten-minute head start before I slipped out, hailing a separate taxi. “Follow that grey Kia, please. Not too close.”

My driver, an older ajusshi, merely grunted, used to stranger requests in this city. Ryujin’s taxi wound through Gangnam, finally stopping at a sleek, unmarked building I recognized. The Veil. Its entrance was a simple, frosted glass door nestled between a bespoke tailor and a silent art gallery, identifiable only by the small, stylized ‘V’ etched into the stone step.

I paid my driver and lingered across the street, watching as Ryujin was greeted by a bowing doorman who ushered her inside. No cameras flashed. No one pointed. It was a vacuum of celebrity.

I took a deep breath and crossed the street. The doorman gave me a polite, appraising look as I approached. I didn’t break stride, projecting the aura of someone who belonged. He opened the door without a word.

Inside, the atmosphere shifted. It was cool, quiet, smelling of sandalwood and money. The lobby was all shadows and pools of low light. I knew the layout. To the right, a discreet hallway led to the private elevators for the suites. Straight ahead, through an archway, was the bar.

I chose the bar. It was dimly lit, all dark wood and deep emerald velvet. I spotted an empty booth tucked into a corner, partially obscured by a large potted fern, with a direct sightline to the entrance. Perfect. I slid in, ordered a sparkling water with lime, and waited.

It didn’t take long. Ryujin appeared, not heading for the elevators, but making her way to a circular booth in the center of the room. And already seated there were…

My breath hitched.

Jeon Somi. Im Nayeon. Kim Jisoo.

My mind stuttered. These weren’t just sunbaenims; they were institutions. Somi, the radiant solo powerhouse. Nayeon, the nation’s center. Jisoo, the elegant, untouchable visual of BLACKPINK. They represented tiers of success Ryujin was still ascending toward.

And they were waving her over with warm, familiar smiles.

Ryujin slid into the booth beside Jisoo, accepting a glass of red wine from Somi. They began talking, their heads leaning close. There was laughter—Somi’s bright giggle, Nayeon’s snort, Ryujin’s low chuckle. They looked like any group of friends sharing secrets. Nothing looked forced. Nothing looked dangerous. My protective anxiety began to curdle into something else—a profound, bewildering confusion.

I watched for nearly an hour, sipping my water until the ice melted. Then, he appeared.

He moved through the bar not like staff, but like a host. Confident, unhurried. Andrew. He was tall, with the lean-muscular build of a swimmer or a climber. His face was, as the rumors said, average-cute—pleasant, with kind eyes that seemed to take in the whole room. He wore a simple, well-tailored concierge uniform, dark navy. Nothing about him screamed “predator.” He looked… calm. Capable.

He approached the table. The women didn’t startle or tense up. Somi grinned, waving him closer. He bent down, saying something that made Nayeon cover her mouth as she laughed. Then his gaze turned to Ryujin.

Andrew’s eyes met Ryujin’s, and a subtle, private smile touched his lips. “Ready?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that carried just to the table.

Ryujin’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. The fierce, charismatic performer was gone, replaced by a girl with a shy, hopeful glow. She nodded, biting her lower lip. She stood up, and without a hint of hesitation, slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers, a gesture that was both possessive and reassuring.

What happened next was what truly unmoored me. Somi, Nayeon, and Jisoo didn’t look concerned or jealous. They beamed. Nayeon gave a little fist-pump. Jisoo leaned over and whispered something in Ryujin’s ear that made her blush deepen, then she waved them off with an elegant flick of her wrist. They looked like sisters sending the youngest off on a cherished date.

Andrew led Ryujin away from the bar, toward the hallway of private elevators. He never looked back, his focus entirely on the woman beside him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.