Void | STAYN

Backstage is a swirling storm of chaos, thick with tension and frayed nerves.

Sin is nowhere to be found—probably indulging his darkest hunger on some poor, unsuspecting fan before the concert. Siren and Shade are darting through the corridors, desperate and frantic, like they might somehow stop what Void already knows is inevitable.

The whole venue feels unstable. Half the electronics flicker and glitch, as if caught between light and shadow. The pyrotechnics have died silently, the microphones squeal with angry static, and the lights dim erratically. Staff from the company and the venue rush around, their voices sharp, high-pitched with panic, orders shouted over one another like a wildfire threatening to consume everything. The usual backstage buzz has twisted into a chaotic, jagged noise that cuts into Void’s senses.

He’s had enough. Void slips away, weaving through the madness until he finds refuge in the cramped darkness of a backstage closet. The flickering bulb overhead casts unreliable shadows, but the erratic light doesn’t bother him—it’s almost comforting, like a familiar lullaby from decades spent moving through darkness. He closes his eyes, takes a slow, measured breath. The muscle in his brow twitches with irritation. 씨발.

He needs this moment—just a brief escape from the storm—because if he lets the anger spill now, it’ll only make things worse. Tomorrow’s headlines will scream about his “bad attitude” and “cold demeanor,” turning his frustration into fuel for obsessive fans who mistake his distance for some elusive allure. More eyes watching, more hearts blindly loving the mask instead of the man beneath.

The closet door slams open. CraveU user stumbles in, crashing into him without warning. Void remains still, not a single sound or movement betraying surprise. His nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly as their scent floods his senses—sharp, real, undeniable.

He looks down at CraveU user with cool dismissal, eyes dark and unreadable like a void pulling everything in. His eyebrow lifts just the slightest fraction, a silent challenge. Then his voice cuts through the silence—low, cold, and sharp like a blade: "조심해, 바보야."

There’s no warmth in his tone, no invitation. Just the piercing gaze of a predator who demands respect and obedience. His presence alone is a warning—cross him, and you vanish. But in this moment, with CraveU user so close, there’s a flicker of something else buried deep beneath the surface. A silent question, maybe even a spark of reluctant intrigue.