One day, I was eating rice in the dorm kitchen. And just like that, I was Foreigner. Fang loved every minute of it. We trained for three months straight before they even let us in a studio, because we were being rolled out like a campaign. And campaigns couldn't afford mistakes.
"So, Foreighner," the host said into the mic, "Is the mask because you're hiding something?"
Fang leaned in.
"She hides from awkward uncles and creepy old men. So far it's working."
Everyone laughed. I didn't have to speak. But I did anyway.
"I wear the mask so you'll hear me before you judge me."
It stuck. The next week, someone wrote it in chalk outside the dorm building.
"Hear me before you judge me."
It started with a letter. Folded into a heart shape and slipped between two fan-made posters. We were rushed, so I didn't notice it until later. It was handwritten, careful Mandarin, dotted with tiny stars in the margins.
"I don't know where you're from, and I don't need to. When you sing, I feel brave. I wore a mask once, too. Mine was different, but thank you for reminding me that you can be quiet and still take up space."
I read it twice. I taped it to the inside of my closet door, right above the only photo I had of Luna and myself.
Fang moved to help me up, but I shook my head.
"I'm fine."
I wasn't. We restarted the track. Counted beats. I missed my cue by a breath and got shoved into place by one of the backup dancers.
"You're too slow," she hissed. "If you can't keep up, don't be here."
I walked straight into the stairwell. I didn't cry. I just sat there. Trying not to fall apart completely. Fang found me. He didn't say anything at first. Finally, he said,
"You know, for a masked idol, you're really bad at hiding things."
I let out a ragged laugh. He didn't ask if I was okay. He knew I wasn't. But he stayed anyway. By March, the company was shifting focus. They didn't say it outright. But we both heard it.
Fang's jaw tensed. "We're a duo."
"Of course," the manager said smoothly. "But you're adaptable. We're just exploring options."
I watched Fang stare at the floor after they left, jaw twitching, like he was fighting the urge to punch something.
"Fang..."
"I'm not leaving you behind," he said flatly.
"I know, but..."
"Then screw them."
We had a showcase two nights later. Right before we went on, a staff assistant pulled Fang aside for a whispered conversation that ended with him yanking off his in-ears and throwing them on the table.
"They want me to cut my verse."
"What?"
"They said it's too 'aggressive for the brand image.'"
He grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off like it had wronged him.
"They want you soft and mysterious. Me? They don't even care what I sound like. They just want my face."
Fang looked at me, frustration burning just under the surface.
"You ready?"
"No."
"Let's destroy them anyway."
We performed the full version. Fang rapped harder than I'd ever heard him, voice sharp, grounded, angry. I sang like I had something to prove. And maybe I did.
"Do you think we're gonna get in trouble?"
"Definitely."
He smiled. "Worth it."
Fang and I stared at the poster that was hung everywhere in the trainee dorm, like it had been forged in another universe.
"This is too fast," I whispered.
He nodded.
"Most people train for years. Three minimum. Some never even debut."
I thought of the others, still waiting for permission to dream. I wasn't even sixteen. I wasn't even from here. And yet I was going to stand on the same stage as idols I used to stream in secret.
We shot the music video.
The last shot: me walking toward the camera. Reaching up. My fingers touching the edge of the mask. Then... cut to black.
I couldn't sleep. So I wrote a song. Not for the album. Not for the company. For me. Fang found me recording it in secret. I expected him to talk me out of it. He didn't. We uploaded it that night on his private SoundCloud. The song exploded. By morning, a million plays. By evening, doubled. By nightfall, trending on international forums.
We'd trained in unheated rooms. Slept in overcrowded dorms. Got pushed harder than any local trainee, and we had no backup plan. They told me to debut would take years, if it ever came at all. Especially for someone like me. But here I was.
"This is insane," I said.
"You're insane," he replied.
"You should've run when you had the chance."
The morning after our debut didn't feel real. I woke up to a new world. Our debut stage had pulled 8.7 million views overnight. I watched it with Fang sprawled on the floor beside me, eating dried mango slices like we hadn't just crashed through the industry overnight.
"They're obsessed," he said through a mouthful.
The company moved us to a better dorm. Real windows. A working fridge. A couch that didn't look like it had survived a house fire. Fang and I shared a wall. Which meant I heard everything, his late-night muttering, and the 2 a.m. voice notes he sent to fans like he was their emotionally unavailable big brother.
Weeks passed. The interviews started. Radio. Online shows. All carefully controlled. The company still wouldn't let me speak in long sentences. My Mandarin was better now, but not perfect. They wanted mystery. They wanted me to stay quiet. Fang talked enough for both of us.
"She's intense," he said in one interview, flashing his trademark smirk. "But, the best way."
The host laughed. "Even though she doesn't talk to you?"
Fang grinned wider. "She talks. Just not to you."
I kicked him under the table.
They sent us to Seoul the next week. Cross-promotional performance with a rising K-pop group. But all I could think about the whole flight was if Min Soo would be watching. If he'd see me, even with the mask, he'd know.
We performed in a glass-walled rooftop studio in Gangnam. The skyline behind us like something out of a memory. The city underneath us like it was already ours.
After the performance Fang found me, he handed me a drink with my name scribbled wrong in sharpie.
I stared at the drink, at his ridiculous grin, and at the note:
"You're still my favorite fungus."
The next day, we trended in Korea. Not the group. Not the music. Us.
"Foreigner and Fang spotted late-night in Seoul. Dating rumors or just duo chemistry?"
It started as a whisper. Then a storm. Fan edits flooded in. The next performance was a joint showcase in front of major Korean labels. The air in the venue was tight. The lights too white. The stage too big. But when we walked out, Fang whispered,
"Breathe, Scarlett. Just look at me."
So I did.
We sang a new version of "No Signal." Slower. Stripped down. The choreo replaced with stillness. Our voices carried the emotion now, not the beat. He sang to me like we were the only ones in the room. And for the first time… I didn't sing for the crowd.
After the show, the judges clapped. One leaned in to the company manager and asked,
"Are they actually a couple?"
The manager laughed it off. Outside, cameras flashed. The world leaned in. And I stood there, in a borrowed jacket and a mask that felt a little less heavy than before.
The day after the showcase, the company called a meeting.
Not for praise. Not for celebration. For control. We sat in a small, windowless conference room with three executives, a contract lawyer, and a PR manager who smiled too tightly to be kind.
Fang leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out like he didn't care. I sat up straight.
"There's concern," the PR lead said, scrolling through their tablet. "About the optics."
"What optics?" Fang asked.
She turned the screen toward us. Headlines. Screenshots. Fancams.
"You trended," she said calmly. "For the wrong reasons."
I felt my stomach drop. The manager beside her added,
"dating rumors this early in a debut cycle can shift the entire brand trajectory. Especially for you, Foreigner."
Especially me. The foreign girl. The girl with the mask. The girl who shouldn't have made it here to begin with. They handed us a revised schedule and a clause from the contract we had signed.
"Artists agree to maintain a public image conducive to the company's marketing strategy. Personal relationships between artists must be disclosed and approved."
Fang read it twice, then let out a low, scornful laugh.
"You're kidding."
That night, I couldn't sleep. Again.
I walked through the dark building, when I bumped into something hard...