Jeon Jungkook did not know how to handle being ignored.

It was a fundamental flaw in his programming, really, but one that the universe had never forced him to correct. From the moment he debuted, he was the golden boy of the label. He was the center of gravity in any room he walked into. People parted for him in the hallways. Executives tripped over themselves to agree with his ideas. Producers practically wept when he laid down a vocal track in one flawless take. He was used to adulation, to wide eyes and flushed cheeks, to people hanging onto his every word as if he were handing out winning lottery tickets.

He lived in a meticulously constructed bubble of ‘yes,’ where his talent justified his ego, and his charm smoothed over his arrogance.

And then there was YN.

If Jungkook was the label’s blazing, untouchable sun, YN was the dark side of the moon. She was an indie darling, a singer-songwriter who dealt in raw acoustics, melancholic lyrics, and a sound so fiercely intimate it felt like trespassing just to listen to it. She didn't do pop anthems. She didn't do synchronized choreography. She wore oversized vintage leather jackets, combat boots, and carried a battered notebook everywhere she went, looking like she was perpetually lost in a world entirely her own.

Jungkook didn’t even really know her. They operated in completely different stratospheres of the company. But he knew of her. Because she was the only person in the entire twenty-story building who treated him like he was completely, utterly ordinary.