Daehyun leaned close, voice dropping to a whisper. "Ignore the negative energy. Bring only positivity. Chances are he didn't hear you anyway."
Soorin wasn't convinced.
Not even a little.
She approached Haejin with careful steps, kit in hand.
He sat in the chair like a king on a throne. Back straight. Jaw set. Eyes focused on nothing.
"Excuse me," she murmured, arranging her brushes.
He didn't reply.
She dipped a sponge into foundation, leaned forward.
Just as she touched it to his jawline, he jerked his chin away.
"Too heavy," he snapped.
Her hand froze mid-air.
"It's standard coverage—"
"Do I look like I need 'standard'?" His voice was sharp enough to cut.
She inhaled slowly. Forced herself to stay calm.
'Okay. Breathe. Just… breathe.'
"I'll adjust."
She tried again, blending carefully this time.
His eyes flicked to the mirror. Then to her reflection.
"Your hands are shaky. Amateur."
Her jaw clenched.
Behind them, a few staff members exchanged nervous glances. Daehyun shifted like he was ready to step in, but Soorin shook her head—barely, just enough for him to see.
'I can handle this. I can.'
Haejin's lips curved. Faint. Cruel.
"Pig suits you," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "You put out too much. Talk too much. Now you smear too much."
Soorin's breath caught.
He 'had' heard her conversation.
Anger flared hot in her chest, but she swallowed it down.
'This is my dream job. I can't throw it away on day one. I can't.'
"My apologies," she muttered through gritted teeth.
She finished blending. Moved to his brows.
That's when he struck again—louder this time, so the whole room could hear.
"Your posture's off. You bow wrong, you sound clumsy, and you touch up wrong. Stylists should know how to speak properly to idols." His gaze stayed locked on hers in the mirror. "Didn't they teach you basic manners in America?"
A few nearby stylists snickered.
Something inside her snapped.
Her hand paused mid-air. She straightened, eyes locking with his in the mirror.
When she spoke, her voice was smooth. Laced with sarcasm.
"Ah, forgive me, Leader Jung. Next time I'll practice bowing in front of my mirror while chanting your name three times. That should make me worthy to touch your royal cheek, right?"
The room went dead silent.
Every pair of eyes widened.
Daehyun choked on a laugh he quickly disguised as a cough.
Doyun's jaw dropped, delighted shock written all over his face.
Minjae pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering softly, "Oh no…"
Jisoo's eyes sparkled like he'd just watched the best drama twist of his life.
Even Taekyung finally lowered his phone, smirking. "Now 'this,'" he drawled, "is interesting."
Soorin stood her ground. Heart hammering. Refusing to look away from Haejin's reflection.
Silence stretched.
Then—slowly, dangerously—Haejin's lips curved.
Not kindly. Not amused.
Like a predator spotting prey that had just bared its teeth.
"Interesting," he murmured, voice dripping with threat. He turned his head just enough to catch her gaze directly. His smirk was sharp as a blade. "Let's see how long that mouth lasts."
Soorin's fingers tightened around her brush.
Her pulse skipped, but she forced her expression to stay neutral. Professional.
'I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.'
The other stylists hovered in silence, like spectators waiting for the next blow.
Before anyone could say anything, Doyun slid into the space like a spark of chaos.
He leaned against the vanity, arms crossed loosely. "Hyung, you're really gonna bully the new stylist already? What happened to giving people a grace period?" His tone was mischievous. Mocking. But there was a flicker of protectiveness underneath.
Soorin's lips twitched. She bit back a smile.
Haejin didn't even spare Doyun a glance. "Grace periods are for rookies," he said flatly.
Minjae stepped forward, voice smooth as honey—complete contrast to Haejin's ice.
"Please don't mind him," he said directly to Soorin, gaze soft and apologetic. "He's harsh to everyone. We're really glad you're here."
The warmth in his tone made her chest loosen. Just a little.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Don't let him scare you," Minjae added, shooting Haejin a look—sharp enough to warn, soft enough not to provoke.
Taekyung let out a low chuckle, finally putting his phone down. "Scare? I'd say entertain. This is better than TV." His smirk was cutting, but there was amusement glinting in his eyes. Like he thrived on chaos.
Soorin rolled her eyes internally.
'Great. One's a tyrant. Another's a prankster. One's sarcastic. And only one seems remotely sane.'
Then Jisoo bounded over, wide grin on his face. Energy radiating like pure sunshine.
"Noona!" His voice was bright. Innocent. Like a little brother meeting his favorite sibling. "Don't be scared, okay? Hyung is scary, but we all survive." He flashed a toothy smile. "You're pretty, by the way. Can I call you pretty noona?"
Heat crept up her cheeks.
"You already did," she said, trying not to laugh.
"Perfect!" Jisoo beamed.
He reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out a candy bar. "Here. Stylists always give me snacks, but today I'll give one to you first."
The sweetness—so unexpected—nearly cracked her composure.
She accepted it with a bow. "Thank you, Jisoo."
Behind him, Haejin's glare hardened.
His eyes narrowed. Unreadable.
But the tension in the air thickened.
Manager Park clapped his hands, voice cutting through the moment. "Move, move. Enough playing around. Rehearsal in five. Everyone to the hall!"
The boys rose in unison. Chairs scraping the floor.
Haejin stood last, adjusting his shirt with practiced ease.
His cold gaze brushed over her once more before he turned his back—picture of untouchable arrogance.
Soorin exhaled shakily, gathering her kit.
Her pulse still hammered in her ears.
'One day in and he already hates me. Perfect.'
★☆★☆★☆
The rehearsal hall was massive.
Walls lined with mirrors. Floor polished smooth from years of dance shoes grinding into it.
A faint smell of sweat and disinfectant clung to the air, mixing with the bass thrumming from the speakers.
Soorin set her kit on a side table, pretending to busy herself.
The members of LUMEN took their positions.
Their reflections stared back at them in the wall-length mirrors—five young men sculpted by fame, pressure, and discipline.
The choreographer clapped. "From the top. Let's go."