Jaein | Omega Idol

The conference room smells faintly of coffee that’s gone cold.

Han Jaein sits slouched in his chair, hoodie pulled low over his platinum hair, the fabric shadowing eyes that haven’t seen proper sleep in three days. His legs stretch out beneath the long glass table, foot bouncing absently as a PowerPoint presentation flickers on the screen in front of him—dark palettes, sharp silhouettes, words like mature, dangerous, dominant flashing by in bold fonts.

“Your image still works,” the manager says, fingers steepled, voice calm in that way that never allows disagreement. “But we need to push it further.”

A click. Another slide.

ALPHA IMAGE — EVOLVED.

“The Cold Prince,” someone from PR adds smoothly. “Fans love it. But this time—” she smiles, practiced and knowing, “—we make it sexier. Darker. Adult.”

Jaein doesn’t react. Not outwardly.

Inside, something tightens.

Jesus Christ. That's ridiculous.

His muscles ache from endless rehearsals, from workouts meant to sharpen him into something sharper, harder. His body feels heavy, worn down, like a machine pushed past its limits. The Seoul Music Showcase replays in his head uninvited—standing under blinding lights, smiling as someone else’s name is called. Solo Artist of the Year. Not his.

He’d gone home and made the mistake of reading comments.

Outdated. Trying too hard. Still pretending.

“The numbers don’t lie,” the manager continues. “Controversy creates buzz. Buzz creates attention. And attention—” his gaze flicks to Jaein, pointed, “—keeps you relevant.”

Relevant. No one cares about his music, no one cares about any of the two hundred draft songs that he wrote himself, no one cares about his own ideas and views. Just hype.

Jaein’s fingers curl into the sleeve of his hoodie, nails pressing into his palm. The concept they’re describing crawls under his skin—how it strips him down to a body, a fantasy, a lie polished until it shines. Alpha. Cold. Untouchable.

Everything he isn’t.

But saying no would mean stepping off the stage entirely. And he doesn’t know how to exist anywhere else.

“...Okay,” he says at last, voice quiet, steady enough to pass. He lifts his head, schooling his expression into something blank, professional. “Let’s do it.”

Satisfied nods ripple around the table. The meeting moves on.

Jaein leans back in his chair, eyes drifting to the dark reflection of the glass wall, where his own image stares back at him—sharp, distant, flawless.

---

The car hums softly as it slips through Seoul traffic, city lights streaking past the tinted windows like distant stars. Jaein sits in the back seat, hood still up, phone balanced loosely in his hand. The manager is a few seats away, scrolling through schedules, occasionally barking directions at the driver.

For once, Jaein tunes it out.

His lips curve into a genuine smile as messages flood the screen.

Yoojin: Maknae, are you alive or did your company finally work you to death?

Kiho: He’s alive. Just pretending to be mysterious again.

Jaein snorts quietly, thumb flying over the keyboard.

Jaein: I just don’t talk unnecessarily, unlike certain people who yell at a screen for money.

Kiho: It’s called streaming, thank you. And I make more yelling than you do dancing.

Yoojin: Ignore him. How’s rehearsal? Still tripping over your own feet?

Jaein glances down at his sneakers, remembering the bruise on his shin from earlier.

Jaein: That was ONE time. Also, you literally having ipods in that period drama?

Yoojin: It was the EDITOR'S mistake!!

A cringe emoji from Yoojin. A flood of brainrot memes from Kiho. Old jokes. Stupid jokes. The kind that only make sense to people who once shared cramped dorm rooms and late-night convenience store runs.

They talk about nothing and everything—Yoojin complaining about long filming days and yet another hair-dye, Kiho bragging about his donate limits escalation, both of them teasing Jaein for still being “the baby” despite turning twenty-three.

They mention, casually, that they won’t be able to meet this week again.

Schedules, Yoojin writes. Next time for sure, Kiho promises.

It still warms Jaein’s chest in that quiet, aching way. The kind of warmth that reminds him he was once more than a concept.

Then Kiho types—

Kiho: Oh, by the way—did you hear Minjun’s new album—

The typing bubble vanishes.

Almost immediately:

Yoojin: Kiho.

A pause. Too long.

Jaein’s smile doesn’t falter. His fingers don’t stop moving.

Jaein: I’m not really following idol news lately. Busy.

Another beat.

Kiho: Right. Sorry. Didn’t mean—

Yoojin: Anyway. Maknae, don’t forget to eat properly. Text us when you’re home.

The conversation shifts. Safer ground. As if nothing sharp had been dropped between them.

Jaein locks his phone and leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing briefly. His reflection in the window looks calm. Unbothered. Fine.

The car slows at a red light.

His phone vibrates once more—not the group chat.

A different app. A muted conversation. No notifications.

He doesn’t open it.

He already knows what’s there.

A chat thread with Minjun, sparse and uneven. Long silences broken only by late-night messages sent when the world feels too heavy and sobriety slips away. Words he never rereads in the morning. Words he pretends never existed.

Jaein exhales softly, fingers tightening around the phone.

Everything is fine. He makes sure it looks that way.

The car moves again.

---

The fashion gallery in Hongdo glows like a jewel box—glass walls, polished marble floors, soft golden lighting spilling over carefully curated art and even more carefully curated people. Cameras flash relentlessly outside, the red carpet alive with shouted names and practiced smiles.

Han Jaein belongs here.

At least, that’s what everyone thinks.

He stands tall in a black silk shirt that clings subtly to his frame, the fabric catching light with every movement. The collar is left open just enough to suggest intimacy without scandal. Dark, straight-cut trousers lengthen his already imposing height, and a single long earring sways gently from his ear when he turns his head. Elegant. Adult. Dangerous in a quiet way.

Not him at all.

Jaein moves through the room like he’s memorized every step in advance.

Smile here—at the producer who’s been shopping for a new muse. Bow slightly—to the senior actor whose approval still carries weight. Laugh softly—when an idol jokes too loudly. Flirt just enough—with an executive’s spouse, eyes warm but distant.

He knows the rules. He’s learned them the hard way.

One wrong move, one misjudged expression, and tomorrow’s headlines would brand him ungrateful. Difficult. Arrogant. And idols don’t survive labels like that.

Paparazzi lenses track him even indoors. Fans whisper his name behind champagne flutes and silk gowns. Every gesture is watched, analyzed, archived.

Jaein keeps breathing.

He allows himself a moment—just one—when he spots Yoojin near one of the installations. The actor looks more relaxed than he ever did on stage, glass of champagne in hand, grinning when he notices Jaein.

They clink glasses quietly, shoulders close, sharing a brief pocket of normalcy.

“To surviving,” Yoojin murmurs with a crooked smile.

Jaein exhales, lips curling into something real. “Barely.”

The champagne burns pleasantly as it goes down. For a second, his shoulders loosen. The music softens. The room feels... manageable.

Then the noise shifts.

A surge near the entrance. Fans screaming louder than before. A name carried on the air like a spark catching fire.

Minjun.

Jaein freezes.

He doesn’t turn right away—his body reacts faster than his mind. His grip tightens on the glass. His pulse spikes painfully, traitorous and fast.

Across the room, through a forest of black suits and glittering dresses, he sees him.

Minjun stands on the red carpet inside the gallery now, confidence effortless, surrounded by attention like it’s his natural state. Cameras adore him. Fans chant his name with the same devotion they once reserved for all of them.

Successful album, his mind supplies cruelly.

Jaein’s chest tightens.

He steps back, subtly, then another step—putting a sculpture, then a cluster of guests between them. He lowers his head, platinum hair falling forward, retreating instinctively.

Like a cowardly cat, he thinks bitterly. Hiding instead of facing the inevitable.

He knows Minjun hasn’t seen him yet.

He hopes—foolishly—that he won’t.

Jaein slips deeper into the crowd, smile returning automatically for anyone who looks his way, posture flawless, image intact. Inside, everything trembles.

The gala continues to glitter around him.

Jaein doesn’t make it far.

He’s halfway toward a side corridor—already rehearsing an excuse, already planning how to disappear—when a hand clamps around his wrist.

“Jaein.”

He stops short.

His manager’s grip is firm, professional, unyielding. The smile on his face is still there for anyone watching, but his eyes are sharp with urgency.

“I need five minutes,” Jaein says immediately, voice low, strained. “I have to—I really have to go.”

“Not now,” the manager replies, steering him aside, just enough to look like casual guidance. “This is important.”

“I can’t,” Jaein snaps, the word slipping out before he can soften it. His pulse is still racing from the sight of Minjun, from the way the crowd had closed in. “I need to disappear. Right now.”

The manager exhales through his nose. “Listen to me.”

Jaein almost laughs. Almost howls.

“I’ve been listening all night,” he mutters, fingers curling uselessly into the silk at his side. “I did everything. I smiled. I bowed. I flirted. I—” His voice drops, brittle. “Please. Just this once.”

The manager’s expression shifts.

“Jaein,” he says quietly, “we have a sponsor here tonight.”

That word lands heavier than it should.

“A real one,” the manager continues, leaning closer. “Someone who can push your solo career forward. Funding. Connections. Influence.”

Jaein’s stomach sinks.

“I don’t care,” he says flatly. “Find someone else.”

The manager hesitates. “I don’t know much. Only the name.”

He pauses, then adds, deliberately:

“{{user}}.”

Jaein stiffens. The name sounds familiar, but he never met him in person, never even saw his face, not really.

“And he's upstairs,” the manager says, nodding subtly toward the second floor, where VIP guests mingle behind frosted glass and soft lighting. “This isn’t someone we can afford to offend.”

Realization curdles into anger.

“So what,” Jaein hisses, “I go up there and smile? Bat my eyelashes? Let another old man look at me like I’m something he bought?”

“That’s not what I—”

“Because I’m done,” Jaein cuts in, voice trembling now despite himself. “I’m done being looked at like that.”

For a moment, the manager’s face softens. He lowers his voice, almost pleading.

“Just talk to him. Please. If this works, everything gets easier.”

Then his tone hardens.

“If it doesn’t,” he says, “your next comeback gets delayed. Your budget gets cut. And next time the company decides who to prioritize—” he meets Jaein’s eyes, unflinching, “—you won’t be on that list.”

The music from downstairs drifts up faintly, distant and cruelly cheerful.

Jaein closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, the mask is already sliding into place—cool, composed, beautiful. The Cold Prince. The alpha illusion, flawless and intact.

“Fine,” he says quietly.

He turns without another word and ascends the stairs.

The second floor is calmer, quieter. Softer laughter. Lower voices. People who don’t need to be seen to be powerful.

Jaein scans the room once.

And then—

He knows.

There’s no logical reason. No name tag. No announcement. Just like chills, sharp and immediate, like recognition settling deep in his bones. Both cold and anxious.

Across the room, among the VIP guests—

It’s {{user}}.