The days that followed at the hotel blurred into routine. Front desk duties, the constant stream of guests checking in and out—it all had a rhythm, and I had learned how to vanish within it. Polite. Composed. Efficient. No one looked twice while I stayed in motion, always inching closer to my goal. Until one morning, I checked the shift plan—and everything changed.
A red cross was drawn next to a colleague's name. Beneath it: "Unavailable – schedule adjusted."And beside it, hastily scribbled in blue ink—my name.In a section I was never supposed to touch: VIP service. Conference floor.My heart dropped.This wasn't my department. My role was meant to keep me far from that area. That was the plan—my plan.Getting too close to him was dangerous. Unnecessary. Reckless.But fate didn't care.
I headed straight to the supervisor, catching her near the elevators.
"There's a mistake in the shift plan," I said.
"Mistake?" Her tone was clipped.
She pulled out her phone. Scrolled. Looked up.
"I don't see a mistake. I need someone adaptable. Discreet. Your supervisor spoke highly of you. So tell me—can you do it?"
It wasn't a question. Not really. Her voice was pleasant, but behind it was a warning: say no, and you're out. I had no room to slip up—not after only a few weeks this close to him. A "no" would raise questions. Questions I couldn't afford. So I just nodded, slow and silent, while alarms screamed inside me. This was bad. Very bad.
I was given a quick briefing by the floor lead. The job was simple: serve drinks, keep the room immaculate. No talking. No contact. Just silent presence. I could do that, I told myself. But the truth was, my mask had grown thin. And the closer the conference loomed, the more brittle it felt.
At the appointed hour, I entered the conference floor with a silver tray balanced in my hands and a carefully neutral expression fixed on my face. My heart pounded in my chest as I stepped through the double doors.
The tray suddenly felt heavier.
The room itself was sleek and cold, despite the tall windows that softened the sunlight into a pale blur. It bounced off the glass and steel, reflecting onto expensive watches and manicured hands scribbling on cream paper. Conversations floated low—more suggestion than sound.
I kept to the edge, moving quietly. My gaze found him instantly.
At the head of the table.
He didn't move, didn't speak—but he ruled the space.
His suit was black, flawless. One hand rested on the table's edge, the other held a glass of untouched water. His eyes were locked on the man currently speaking. And then—
He looked at me.
Right into me.
I dropped my gaze. My steps faltered in my mind, even though my body didn't. I set the tray down with surgical precision, careful not to let the glasses clink. My hands were steady, but they felt like stone.
He didn't need to speak.
They all did it for him.
As I stepped back, tray now tucked under one arm, I bowed slightly. His gaze was still on me. I felt it. Longer this time. I didn't dare look up. Panic simmered just beneath my skin.
"Thank you," someone said—a man with silver at his temples. I nodded and turned toward the exit.
Jhio's voice followed me.
"Fact is, the greatest weakness of people is believing they see everything with their eyes. But the truly important things… are rarely visible at all."
My blood ran cold.
Had he recognized me?
I paused in the hallway, heart pounding. His words clung to me like smoke.
Was it a message?
Or was it just me, hearing ghosts in everything he said?
Back in the service area, I placed the tray down, my fingers trembling.
Fact is, the greatest weakness of people is believing they see everything with their eyes.
The sentence echoed over and over again, chiseled into my mind.
Through the glass slit in the meeting room door, I let myself steal one more glance. He sat, head tilted slightly, speaking now. The others around him faded. His presence filled the space.
And I… wanted to keep watching.
But I didn't.
Later that night, I was at home, laptop open, the screen casting blue shadows across the room. My notes lay beside me, each page filled with tiny details I'd gathered about him. I added today's findings—names, overheard plans, hints of the band's next tour dates.
Japan. They were leaving soon. A week.
Annoying—but expected.
They were coming back, though. That mattered.
I smiled, opened my closet, and pinned the new pieces to my board. My secret shrine. He looked back at me a hundred times over. Jhio. Always Jhio.
The next day passed uneventfully—at least until I left the hotel through the back entrance that evening. The sky above the city glowed in a soft orange. The rear courtyard was deserted, save for a few containers stacked beside the scaffolding used for facade maintenance.
My gaze drifted upward. Lights burned in some of the rooms. I knew the layout of the hotel by heart—had memorized it the moment I started working here—and I was certain the band's suite was somewhere up there where the glow poured through the windows.
A faint rustle pulled me back into the present. I wasn't alone.
Two quick steps, and I ducked beside the containers, pressing into the shadows cast along the building. Not deep enough to hide me completely, but it would have to do.
Footsteps tapped lightly against the pavement, accompanied by muffled giggles.
At first, I thought it was just other staff members—maybe someone on a smoke break—but when I looked closer, I saw two girls I didn't recognize. No uniforms. Just everyday clothes. I'd peg them at barely eighteen.
I started watching.
They snuck toward the scaffolding. One had long dark hair and climbed with the clumsy confidence of someone who had no idea what they were doing. The other paused to glance around nervously, her hair tucked under a beanie, before following.
My breath quickened.
The look in their eyes—I recognized it. Hunger. That desperate, aching thirst for proximity. I'd seen it before—in my own reflection. But theirs was messy. Reckless. They didn't know what they were stepping into.
The first girl reached the second level, clutching a horizontal bar that wasn't built to hold her weight. A slight gust of wind made the entire scaffold shudder.
My hands clenched.
Idiots. They had no idea how dangerous this was.
But a darker part of me… wanted to see them fall. Not out of cruelty—out of fury. Because they dared to reach for a world they didn't understand. My world.
A loud clack—one of their phones hit the glass.
I snapped back. The girls were at a window now, faces pressed to the glass in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of Jhio—or maybe just anyone from the band.
"Hey!"
The voice rang through the night like a thunderclap.
It belonged to a security guard, stepping from the shadows. His voice was gravel and fire, sharp with authority.
The girls froze like deer in headlights—then bolted.
The one above stumbled backward, her foot catching on the narrow platform. The other scrambled down far too fast.
The whole scaffold trembled beneath their panic.
I watched, unmoving, as one of them lost her balance. She fell—maybe two or three meters—before hitting the ground with a dull, wet thud.
Her cry of pain was shrill, cracked, pathetic.
And I smiled.
Not out of joy. But because they didn't belong.
Her friend kept climbing, panicked and clumsy.
More security rushed in. One caught the second girl by the arm, barking orders. They lifted the injured one and hauled them both away.
It was like watching a scene from a bad movie. One I didn't care to watch again.
When they were gone, the night settled back into its rhythm. I stepped from the shadows.
My eyes lifted again. The light in Jhio's room was off.
They'd chosen the wrong path. The wrong approach. All for a moment. A selfie. A fleeting glimpse.
I pulled my hood lower, shoved my hands in my pockets. As I slipped away into the darkness, one truth burned beneath my skin:
I wasn't like them.
I had patience.
I understood that it would take more than boldness to enter his world.
My steps echoed faintly across the near-empty parking lot. The hotel was already behind me, and the cool night air brushed against my flushed skin as my thoughts lingered on the chaos I'd just witnessed.
Ridiculous.
I was staring at the ground when I collided with someone. Not hard—but enough to unsteady me.
Strong hands caught my hips. Instinctively. Gently.
"Sorry," I mumbled, raising my head.
He was standing right in front of me.
Tall. Dressed in black. Shoulders relaxed, yet his presence coiled like a predator waiting to strike.
The streetlight behind him left part of his face in shadow. But his eyes… those eyes were locked on me.
I couldn't breathe.
It took my brain too long to recognize who he was.
Jhio.
For a moment, the world stopped.
My first thought was that he couldn't see me. Not like this.
But then—why not?
I was just a hotel employee. Leaving work. Nothing to hide.
"You alright?"
His voice was calm. Casual. His eyes never left my face.
It was only then I noticed his hands were still on my hips. I smelled his cologne. Warm, heavy, expensive.
Dizziness crept in.
I stepped back. Bowed slightly.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. One hand slipped into his pocket, the other hung loose at his side.
The silence stretched—dense, almost tactile.
It wasn't just silence. It was assessment.
"Yes… of course."
I forced my voice steady, though my heart pounded so violently it hurt.
He stepped aside. Gave me room.
"You should be more careful."
A flicker of a smile. Barely there. But sharp enough to cut.
I nodded.
Speechless.
He let me pass.
As I walked by, I felt his gaze trail me. I kept moving.
Only when I reached the edge of the street, beneath the safety of a lamppost, did I glance back.
He was still there.
Still watching.
The next days passed slowly. Excruciatingly slow.Routine held me captive—each shift blurring into the next, the sterile corridors and the endless rhythm of guests and emails and phone calls all melting into a background hum I no longer heard.
The click of my heels on the polished floors.The faint hiss of the heating vents.The constant ping of notifications.
I moved through it all like a ghost. Watching. Waiting.
Every time someone passed the front desk wearing a tailored suit, dark hair falling just so, I held my breath—only to exhale moments later, disappointment settling into my chest like dust.
And then the day came.The day of departure.
It was cold and windy.
I stood on the lot outside the hotel, my gaze locked on the horizon. Somewhere beyond those buildings, beyond the skyline, lay the airport.
Final arrangements were being made. Cars ready. Luggage tagged. It was all happening—his world packing itself into black SUVs and tinted windows.
I got in my car.Started the engine.
I would be there first.Not to speak.Not to be seen.
Just to watch.Just to breathe the same air. One more time.
Before he vanished again—across borders, into another city, another stage.
But he'd be back. That much, I knew.
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Well—this is the path we chose, isn't it? Thank you for staying close. We continue tomorrow. 🖤