You don’t remember exactly when it all began.

Maybe it was the first time you saw him on screen.

Maybe it was the first time you heard his voice.

Or perhaps it was the moment you saw his name appear alongside four others in a group that is now known to almost everyone.

5wirl.

An idol group consisting of Venti, Xiao, Kazuha, Heizou, and Scaramouche.

Five people, five faces, five stars.

But for you, only one truly mattered.

Scaramouche.

While others chose their favorite members, bought albums for the whole group, or switched biases every few months, you never experienced that kind of indecision.

From the very beginning, the answer was always the same.

Scaramouche. Only Scaramouche.

Year after year passed, and 5wirl’s career soared to new heights.

Concerts, world tours, award shows, photoshoots, interviews.

And amidst it all, you always kept track of Scaramouche.

Not the group, not the other members. But him—only him.

You knew his favorite color, his favorite food, and the little habits that most fans never even noticed.

Your bedroom walls were covered with his face.

Your phone gallery was filled with his photos.

His name was the last thing you saw before sleep and the first thing you looked for when you woke up.

Sometimes you felt your life was divided into two parts.

Before Scaramouche, and after Scaramouche.

The first part felt like a blur.

The second part felt so vivid it was painful.

You tried to stop once.

Deleting his photos, avoiding news about him.

Convincing yourself that your life shouldn't revolve around someone who didn't even know your name—who didn't even know you existed.

But it always ended the same way.

You came back—always came back.

Like a planet unable to break free from its own orbit.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, even as it burned its wings.

Like metal drawn to a magnet. Like an ant dying in sugar water.

Like a compass needle always pointing north.

You always end up gravitating toward him.

What hurts the most is seeing someone else close to him.

A fellow group member, a colleague, a rumored partner.

Anyone. You hate them all.

Not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because they have something you never did.

Closeness.

And every night, before sleep takes you, your mind does the same thing.

It spins stories.

Stories about Scaramouche choosing someone else.

About Scaramouche loving someone else.

About Scaramouche forgetting you.

Even though he never even knew you to begin with.

Yet, the sense of loss feels real.

So real that tears fall in the dead of night.

As if you are grieving something that was never yours.

Then, one day.. everything changes.

Because for the first time since 5wirl’s debut, Scaramouche announces his own solo tour.

Not a group tour. Not a concert with the other members. Not a festival.

Just him.

The Balladeer Solo Tour.

And amidst that long list of cities.. there is yours.

You read the name of the city over and over again.

Again, and again, and again.

As if afraid the words might vanish if you blinked for too long.

But the words remain—real.

Scaramouche is coming to your city.

For the first time in years, he doesn't feel like someone living behind a screen.

He feels close. So close that your chest aches.

So close that you cannot sleep that night.

Because after years of gazing at a star from afar.. for the first time, that star looks close enough to touch.

And perhaps that is where it all begins.

Because from the day the announcement drops.. you stop counting the days left until the concert.

You start counting the time until you can finally see Scaramouche with your own eyes.

Real—not through a screen, not in a photo, not in a dream.

But real.

And for the first time in a long while.. you even begin to fear the way your heart races at the mere thought of his name.

Your mind goes to work, seeking a way to reach him.

And if there is no path.. then you will forge one; even if Lady Luck isn't on your side, you will make it happen anyway.

And that night, after the concert ended and he stepped off the stage—while his manager, bodyguards, and other staff were distracted by the fans—

After spiking his drink, you spirited him away unnoticed, blending into the crowd still swept up in the euphoria.

You know this city better than anyone; you know every back alley, shortcut, and CCTV blind spots, so taking Scaramouche to your place undetected was far from impossible.

You would do anything for Scaramouche—for your world, for what was yours.

After years of only being able to imagine him from behind the scenes, you could finally touch him, hold him, and bind him to you.

It felt like a dream, and if it was one, you never wanted to wake up.

Your heart pounded wildly, straining against your chest, and your breathing grew heavy, as if the oxygen were being forcibly torn from your lungs.

You don't know when this will end—when the authorities will finally find you, or when the world will come to tear Scaramouche away from you again.

But what is certain right now is that he is here, in your space—real.

Yours.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Those beautiful indigo eyes finally fluttered open, gazing around in a daze.

His head throbbed; he had no idea how long the sleeping drug had kept him under.

All Scaramouche remembered was that his concert had gone smoothly—a magnificent spectacle from start to finish.

He had stepped off stage to rest, and then—darkness.

And now, here he was: in an unfamiliar place, yet one filled with photos of himself covering every inch of the room—like a shrine built solely to worship him.

He lay bound to a bed that certainly wasn't his own.

It had never crossed his mind—not in his entire career, nor even in his wildest dreams—that something like this would happen to him.

His gaze finally settled on the only other figure in the room: you. You were looking at him with an expression that bordered on madness.

"Who the hell are you?"

He asked the question with raw aggression and defensiveness—like a wild creature, a lover of freedom, suddenly captured.

His eyes regarded you with wariness—a stark contrast to the way you looked at him, filled with adoration.

Perhaps it would take only a little molding to make him depend on you—to ensure he never wanted to leave, to guarantee he would never walk away from you.