The city was not merely buzzing; it was vibrating with a feverish, synthetic energy that afternoon. A thin, miserable rain, the kind that never commits to a downpour but leaves everything slick and wretched, had coated the pavement.
Neon signs in bright red, sharp blue, and harsh yellow flashed under the dark gray sky. Their lights hit the wet ground, making everything look messy and hard to look at.
The air smelled old and metallic-like truck fumes, wet concrete, and a mix of cheap perfume and strong cologne from the crowd.
Fans started gathering in the plaza, growing in number quickly after one leaked photo spread the rumor. The crowd felt like a single, restless creature, breathing heavily into the cold air, every pair of eyes locked on the small, frightened spot where Kirk stood.
"Kyaaa! Kirk-oppa! Over here!" voices screamed in high, piercing Korean, a sound that grated directly on the back of Kirk's skull. It wasn't praise; it felt like a demand. Hundreds of hands shot up, creating a vertical thicket of metal and light-waving posters, blinding camera flashes, and phones held impossibly high in the air, each lens a tiny, impersonal eye focused solely on consumption.
"Kirk! Paparito siya! Ang gwapo niya, grabe!" a frantic, thrilled voice in Tagalog suddenly shrieked, slicing through the Korean din right next to his ear. The unexpected mix of languages, his native tongue blending with the familiar sound of his current home, usually brought comfort, but today it only amplified the terror. He was nowhere safe.
Kirk adjusted the filtering mask - a custom-made, expensive barrier that now felt less like protection and more like a tight, suffocating cage- and pulled the brim of his cap lower. The gestures were useless, pathetic attempts at invisibility. His heart wasn't just thundering; it was rattling painfully against his ribs like a terrified, trapped bird battering itself against wire mesh.
He had permitted himself a desperate, foolhardy ten-minute break for a quick, normal coffee run. He'd craved the simple, momentary ritual of holding a steaming cup, a fleeting attempt to reclaim a shred of anonymity. Now, it was clear: that simple desire had backfired catastrophically. The wave of noise, light, and demanding energy that had rushed in was too much.
His four bodyguards, solid, broad men, pressed in close, their massive shoulders acting as firm, temporary dams against the flood of people. They tried to carve a narrow path toward the mouth of the street, their faces grim and focused.
Kirk could hear their breaths over the shrieks, the deep thud of their movement contrasted with the frantic shuffle of the fans.
But the swarm was relentless. It pressed closer, pushing against the human barrier until the pressure became a literal, physical weight - suffocating, inevitable. He felt the cloth of his jacket strain, the heat of hundreds of bodies closing in. For a moment, the sensory overload caused the world to tilt and blur. His limbs felt disconnected, like a puppet's being manipulated by unseen strings.
Every hurried, clumsy step he took felt less like his own choice and more like a mechanical reaction. He was no longer Kirk, the person; he was entirely the image of "Kirk the Star," the headline, the commodity - a piece of public property being dragged by forces he couldn't control. The air was being physically squeezed out of the small space around him. This is how I disappear, he thought, the panic a cold, sharp point in his gut.
And then...
The chaos fractured.
"Excuse me."
The voice was utterly calm, astonishingly steady, and perfectly clear. It was low-toned, utterly devoid of urgency or awe, and it cut through the high-pitched screaming and the booming static of the crowd like a single, clear bell chime in a storm. It was not a shout of fandom or a bodyguard's command, just a simple, almost polite request for space.
A hand-not the rough, urgent push of a professional, nor the clawing, desperate grasp of a fan-found his sleeve. It didn't seize or pull; it tugged gently but firmly, applying a specific, confident pressure to guide him sideways, out of the main current. The touch was warm and real, a momentary, solid anchor amidst the synthetic, terrifying panic.
Kirk's head snapped toward the source, his adrenaline-sharpened senses trying to classify the threat. He saw a stranger: tall, slightly built, wearing a simple, nondescript gray hoodie that seemed designed to disappear into any background. His hair was slightly disheveled, perhaps from running a frustrated hand through it.
But what stopped Kirk, what forced his racing thoughts to stutter, were the stranger's eyes.
There was no screaming hunger, no professional indifference, no begging for a selfie, no starstruck glaze. The stranger's eyes, a dark, ordinary brown, held no judgment. They looked at Kirk not like he was a headline or a project, but like he was a person who had accidentally dropped his wallet and needed help finding it. The expression was one of pure, practical concern, tinged with a mild annoyance at the situation, not at him.
"This way, human, before they notice," the stranger whispered in Korean, leaning in close so the words were intimate and clear only to Kirk over the deafening din. His mouth quirked into a soft, easy smile, one that seemed wholly unconcerned by the absolute mayhem unfolding three feet away. It was a private joke shared between two people who were not yet friends.
Before Kirk could process the order, before his logical, management-trained brain could even form a protest, the stranger's hand rose. He smoothly slipped a plain black knit cap-the kind you could buy at any street market for five dollars-onto Kirk's head, pulling the brim low over his eyes and the mask. The unexpected physical proximity was jarring, yet strangely comforting in its efficiency.
"Here. Mas makikilala ka nila without this," the stranger added, a genuinely teasing lightness in his tone as he mixed Tagalog and English. They'll recognize you without this. He was mocking Kirk's high-fashion gear, his attempt at glamour, and the irony of the low-tech disguise was profound. It felt less like a tense, high-stakes rescue and more like two friends playing a quick, shared, mischievous prank on the oblivious world.
A completely alien feeling bubbled up in Kirk: amusement. It was a small, involuntary twitch of the cheek muscles, a faint expulsion of air that was the first genuine feeling he'd been permitted to experience, outside of panic, in weeks. The sudden lift was like a drop of cool water on a scorched tongue.
Together, they didn't run; they moved with a disciplined urgency. They ducked swiftly through a narrow, unnoticed gap between a parked delivery van and a perpetually overflowing dumpster. The stranger moved with a surprising, practiced ease, his body language confident and economical.
They slipped into a grimy, shadowed side alley, the heavy brick wall instantly muting the overwhelming noise. It didn't vanish, but it transformed-the shrieks faded to a dull, distant roar, a faraway wave breaking on a shore.
Kirk stumbled slightly, his muscles finally releasing the tension they'd been holding. He leaned his back hard against the rough, cool brick. His chest rose and fell in uncontrolled, ragged gasps, pulling in lungfuls of the cooler, calmer, exhaust-tinged air. The metallic taste of adrenaline was slowly receding.
The stranger, by powerful contrast, stood perfectly still, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his gray hoodie. He was gazing back toward the mouth of the alley, his shoulders relaxed, as if saving a celebrity from a near-riot was just another Tuesday errand, like dropping off dry cleaning. The sudden, profound silence was deafening, a palpable weight lifted from Kirk's shoulders. He spent a long moment just focusing on the sound of his own breath evening out.
"...Who are you?" Kirk finally managed, his voice a hoarse, shaky whisper, the Korean words feeling unfamiliar after his long silence.
The stranger tilted his head, the simple black cap shadowing his eyes. He paused, letting the quiet settle around them.
"Just someone passing by," he replied simply. The answer was deliberately vague, maddeningly smooth. Then, with a wider, almost secretive grin, he added in Tagalog, a language that felt suddenly intimate and conspiratorial: "Hindi mo naman ako kilala, di ba? - You don't know me, right?"
For the first time that day, Kirk felt the corners of his eyes crinkle in a genuine, if hidden, smile behind his mask. The rattling in his chest finally settled, replaced by a strange, humming curiosity that was far more potent than his earlier panic.
The stranger looked utterly disposable, yet utterly reliable. He wanted nothing, asked for nothing. That, Kirk knew, made him the most valuable person he had met in years.
His heart whispered a thought he didn't dare say out loud, a thought fueled by relief, confusion, and a sudden, sharp jolt of hope:
Maybe I want to know you.
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