After connecting my mp3’s Bluetooth to the speakers, I stood in the center of the shiny, wooden floor while the boys waited to the side. They were eager to see what I had come up with.

“Mr. Manager, can you press play?”

“Ah, yes. Wait a moment.” He went over and hovered his finger above the play button before saying, “And… start”

The intro’s instrumentals flowed through the air. It began slowly, giving the impression that it was a ballad. When I first heard “Bondage,” I was disappointed it was a slow song since it wasn’t my type of music. Plus, ballad title tracks were mainly reserved for Christmas albums.

I’m surprised the director chose me for this, I had thought while listening back then.

But I shouldn’t have made assumptions.

My body matched the orchestra’s melody. The cello hummed. I put my emotions—particularly the frustration of my impending doom—into the choreo. It was somewhat more angsty than I meant it to be, but I’d smooth that out when teaching the section count by count.

I lay on the ground and closed my eyes at twelve seconds in, holding the position. On stage, I imagined the lights dimming to give a sense of mystery. Fifteen seconds in was when the fun really began. The lights would flash back on, silhouetting SATURN from the back.

My eyes quickly opened. I craned my neck back with my hand. My spine arched up as if I was gasping for air.

Once the vocals were added, the tempo accelerated. Low beats pounded the stereo, shaking the fuzzy screen protecting their insides from dust. I did arm movements that would form into a shape if there had been more people other than me. It would be visible for the drone cameras above and perfect for their live stages. It was flawless how I spun up to stand, letting my limbs quake with the tuba and trumpet sounds. Who doesn’t like a good brass line, right?

The first chorus would begin soon. The song built up and up until… I turned around so SATURN could see only my back and landed on my knees with my chin against my chest, pretending to breathe deeply so my shoulders heaved. Defeated. Broken. That was the vibe I was going for.

I hastily took out a pair of black leather handcuffs from my pocket. I found a pair that had an easy-access button instead of a key. How the stylist would incorporate them into their outfits wasn’t my problem as long as the thick accessories weren’t obvious at the beginning.

The cuffs snapped around my wrists. Then at the drop, I lost myself. I smoothly used my bound hands and stiff fingers to express the song’s message. The low notes from the underrated rapper started the next verse. I felt all eyes glued to me when I sensually slid across the ground. My shirt stuck to my sweaty back as I rolled into the next complicated steps.

The end was near. I pressed the small button on the handcuffs to release my wrists. During the actual concert, there would be background dancers to pass the naughty props to, but for the time being I tossed them aside. My sneakers squeaked against the polished floor all through the ending. My hair loosened since the gel I applied that morning couldn’t hold it in place anymore. Strands fell over my face.

The song returned to a ballad-like rhythm identical to the beginning. I pivoted into the position meant for the member who would remain in the center on his knees. The others would hold his wrists in the air. Despite being released from the cuffs, he metaphorically could not be free from the poisonous relationship.

I was still undecided if I wanted that member’s cuffs to stay on or off. At the time, I kept them off so SATURN wouldn’t be even more overwhelmed than they already were.

The song faded out.

I stood up and adjusted my sweatpants. They had slipped dangerously low on my hips during the performance to reveal my V line. It was hard to hold in my laughter as I observed their reactions. The boys’ faces were cherry red, including Yejun’s. I had to admit that the song was hot, so boundaries were going to be pushed.

Mr. Manager had his eyes hidden in his hands while saying to himself, “Can we even show this on public television without getting censored?”

Live television programs were extra strict with what could be broadcast. I would push the line, but I was sure it’d be fine.

“Before we get started, I need to assign your positions. I’m going to play the song. When it’s your voice, raise your hand so I know who is who.”

I replayed “Bondage.” Each member raised their hand when it was their part. Imagine my utter surprise when Yejun was the deep-voiced rapper. Of course he was. The one guy who captivated me with those rare vocals was him.

This day’s just getting better and better, isn’t it?

I kept my cool for the rest of practice as we meticulously learned parts of “Bondage.” It was a wreck, but they slowly improved. The only one I was concerned about was Yejun. I analyzed his movements and saw strengths and weaknesses. He did well in the slower parts, but when the tempo picked up… Clearly, my choreography wasn’t his forte, but at least he was trying.

“Yejun,” I called him out suddenly. Everyone stopped and looked at him as I said, “I’m not worried about you hitting the movements perfectly right now, but you’re behind one count. Sometimes two. Try to loosen up a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” he said with a troubled face and bowed his head. “I’ll work harder.”

“You mentioned earlier that you’re the main dancer. What’s your style?”

“My specialty is classical ballet. I also studied tap and some contemporary.”

That was unexpected. No wonder the kid was so rigid. Ballet was known for its demanding techniques to make it look effortless and elegant. Hip-hop was on the opposite side of the dance spectrum.

“Can you show me a triple pirouette and a jumping split?”

Yejun positioned his feet and arms. He transitioned into three spins, followed by a perfect split in the air. If his shoes were off, we would’ve been able to see his pointed toes. Everyone wowed and clapped. The forms he made were nice. The problem was that his tightness wasn’t going to translate well to “Bondage.”

I looked at the clock. We were right on time to end practice. I wanted to keep going because they had a deadline to learn that and the other dances, but their manager told me beforehand that they had an interview afterwards.

“It seems our session is done for today. I know it’s not easy, but I feel confident you’ll ace this by the end of next week. After you cool down, you’re dismissed.”

The boys thanked me and stretched their tired muscles before leaving. One of them complained he was ready for bed.

I cleaned the floor with a broom. My shift would be finished once SATURN left. The boss wanted my full attention on SATURN since they were the company’s next golden child. I didn’t mind. Just a few hours there was equal to a few days’ pay working at a factory.

Speaking of, where can I even work after being in prison? No one would hire me.

Eventually, they gathered their belongings to return to their dorms and change. Their interview was in two hours. I understood the manager’s anxiety for them to hurry. When I was a background dancer, I was astonished by how long it took the stylists and makeup artists to get the idols camera-ready.

I grabbed my backpack and put it on while sensing someone hovering around me like a fly on poop.

“Can I help you, Yejun?”

We were alone. Yejun approached me. I hoped—no. I pleaded inwardly that he wasn’t going to mention the flash mob.

“I want to join SCORPIO.”

My soul escaped and flew away to the heavens above. Upon second thought, it would’ve been better to have the police come get me instead. I’d raise the white flag and surrender too. I felt my eyebrow twitch at the ridiculous request to join my crew.

Just play along.

“I’m not sure what you mean, little hoobae.”

Take the bait. Please! Be clueless!

Yejun’s eyes narrowed at my avoidance to admit my role in the party-crashing gang.

“I’m not stupid. I saw you there in Gangnam. I followed you. We met after you got your backpack from the plant. You wore the drama mask. Now I know your name and I’ve seen the videos of your group on ViewCube.”

The cheeky kid was getting on my nerves. I grabbed his shirt collar in my fist and brought him closer to my face. I didn’t care if I was being rough or if he was an idol.

“What do you want exactly?” I spat. “Money? Recognition that you accomplished something the police couldn’t? A participation ribbon?”

Yejun wasn’t fazed and just answered, “I already said what I wanted. Let me join.”

I laughed a joyless laugh then said, “Like hell. Each person was chosen specifically by me. You don’t have what it takes, Twinkle-toes.”

But he refused to give up.

“If you don’t, I’ll go live on my Nowgram and say what I saw. I’ll reveal your identity.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

He was silent, which clearly indicated he was doing just that. The brat.

“Why? Why do you want to join? I’m assuming you’re financially loaded based on your clothes and ballet training. That’s not a cheap style to study. My world is not the same as yours.”

“I. Want. To. Join,” he sounded out each syllable.

He was going to keep fighting, and I was dying to know why this posh guy wanted to get his hands dirty by going against the law. If he was so adamant about getting a taste of it…

Fine.

I let go of his shirt and said through my hard-clenched teeth, “Let’s make a deal. If you don’t spill the beans about me, I’ll let you come to the next battle this Friday night. You can watch, not participate. If you still think it’s for you, maybe you can practice with SCORPIO.”

Yejun held out his hand without a second thought as he blurted, “Deal.”

I shook it to confirm our agreement. Before releasing, I tightened my grip until his fingertips whitened and pulled him closer.

“But not before I wear you out,” I whispered in his ear. “Be ready for me.”

He gulped. It was a good thing he was my type. If he wasn’t, I would’ve socked him in the eye as soon as the name SCORPIO left his lips.

“Yejun?” Tae called for him outside. “What are you doing?”

Pinkie yanked his arm away and sprinted out of there. The door slammed shut. I leaned against the broomstick and groaned. I couldn’t believe I was getting pushed around like that. To prevent my crew from freaking out, I’d have to hide Pinkie’s identity.

How the hell do you hide a rising star whose face appears on billboards and packs of gum?

He was bright enough to blaze in the sky that early in his career. The dude had millions of followers on Nowgram, so his face was well-known.

Dang.

Involving Yejun was going to be risky.

What was I thinking? Maybe he should wear a mask.

We’d have to do something about his crazy hair color too. It was tradition to change up their look every comeback, so the stylists should be dying his hair a different shade for the upcoming release. Inconveniently, that wasn’t going to happen by that weekend. That conundrum gave me a headache to go with my throbbing neck.

I tried to be optimistic and told myself, My job is safe until this is all done.

I needed a distraction, so I grabbed my phone and started a live stream. When the little red light blinked on, I greeted my followers.

“Annyeong, Blueberries.” (“Hello,” Blueberries.)

My loyal fans had dubbed themselves “Blueberries.” During my first world tour as a background dancer, my electric-blue hair grabbed their attention, so photos of me next to their favorite idols went viral until my following increased tenfold. Even though I didn’t have blue hair anymore, the fandom name stuck. And whenever I changed it to red, it would temporarily become “Strawberries.” My Blueberries were cute like that.

My followers immediately tuned into my stream. Hundreds were joining every second with their comments and questions flooding my screen.

How are you?

Say my name.

Hi.

What are you doing?

“What do you guys think about yellow hair?” I asked them.

Yellow?

Are we supposed to be called “Bananas” then?

“This week has been hard. I can’t wait for you to see what I’m working on.”

What is it?

Tell us, oppa (“big bro”)!

We want to know what you’re doing.

“Ah, it’s a secret,” I said before putting my finger to my lips. “I’ll freestyle to make up for it, though.”

I leaned my phone on top of the speaker so they could get a full view of me. I shuffled my Nowgram-safe playlist. The first rap song started strong. I became immersed in the quick beat, trying to resuscitate myself from the anxiety I was drowning in. There was no memorized routine to follow. My body went rogue and did its own thing.

By the end, I was panting for air. I felt better. My live stream was overflowing with heart and fire emojis.

You’re so sexy!

Daddy.

Do some more.

“I hope my Blueberries enjoyed the show. I’ll see you next time. Peace out.”