Chapter 1

The bass from the Seoul Millennium Dome thumped against my chest like a second heart, vibrating the sequins on my corset. I had exactly one hundred and eighty seconds.

"Clear the hall!" a production assistant screamed into a headset.

I shoved past a camera crew, my breathing controlled, my sweat glistening—but not dripping. The visual director would kill me if I dripped. I slammed into my private dressing room, kicked the door shut, and reached for the zipper of my stage outfit.

"Quick change, let’s go," I barked, eyes on the digital clock mounting the wall. *2:55 remaining.*

But the hands reaching for me weren't holding the leather jacket for the finale. They were holding a dagger.

I froze, the zipper half-down.

The man standing by the rolling rack wasn't my usual stylist. He was tall, dressed in nondescript black, and he smelled like ozone and hate. The blade in his hand wasn't steel; it was celestial bronze, glowing with a faint, sickly light. The kind of metal that burns through Lycan flesh like acid.

"Fenrir," he sneered, locking the deadbolt behind him. "The visual of the generation. A commercialized mutt."

"I prefer 'Main Rapper,'" I said, my voice steady. "And you’re interrupting my flow."

He lunged.

If I were fully human, I’d be dead. But I was the Alpha of the Gangnam sector, and I had the reflexes to match. I dropped into a split, the bronze blade slicing the air where my throat had been a microsecond before.

"Cute," I muttered.

I couldn't shift. If I shifted, I’d shred a custom-made Balmain bodysuit, ruin two hours of hair and makeup, and breach paragraph 4, clause B of my contract with StarDust Entertainment. *No fur on the furniture.*

I had to fight human.

The hunter swung again, a horizontal slash aimed at my ribs. I pivoted on my heel—a move from the choreography of our second single—and used the momentum to launch myself backward. I landed on the vanity table, scattering brushes and expensive serums.

"You think you can hide behind the glitter?" he shouted, kicking a chair at me.

I dodged the chair with a backflip, landing softly on the plush carpet. I caught a glimpse of myself in the lighted mirror. My eyeliner was still symmetrical. Thank god for setting spray.

"I’m not hiding," I growled, feeling the wolf scratching at the back of my throat. "I’m working."

He charged. He was fast, I’ll give him that. A Mythic Hunter trained in the old ways. He pinned me against the costume rack, the bronze dagger descending toward my heart.

He expected fear. He expected the "fragile visual" the tabloids loved to write about.

I reached up and caught the blade.

My bare palm wrapped around the glowing metal. It sizzled, smoke curling up from my skin, but I didn't flinch. My eyes flashed gold, the contact lenses burning away to reveal the predator underneath.

The hunter’s eyes widened. "But... it’s bronze."

"I drink protein shakes and bench press 200," I snarled, my voice dropping an octave, distorting with the growl. "And I don't lip-sync."

I squeezed.

My claws extended just enough to punch through my silk gloves. With a sharp *crack*, the celestial bronze shattered in my grip.

Before he could process the loss of his weapon, I chambered my leg and delivered a high kick straight to his jaw. It was perfect form—toes pointed, hips aligned.

He flew backward, crashing through a rack of sequined jackets and hitting the wall with a satisfying thud. He slid down, unconscious.

*0:30 remaining.*

The adrenaline was spiking, my inner wolf howling for a kill, but I shoved it down.

"Fenrir! Thirty seconds!" the stage manager pounded on the door.

I looked at the unconscious hunter, then at my torn glove.

"Damn it," I hissed.

I grabbed the oversized leather jacket from the rack—the one meant for the encore—and threw it on. It covered the torn glove perfectly. I checked the mirror one last time. A little blood on the lip? No, just a smudge of tint. I wiped it away.

I unlocked the door and stepped out, stepping right over the assassin’s legs.

The stage manager looked past me, eyes widening at the wreck of the room. "What happened in there?"

"Creative differences," I said, flashing my idol smile—bright, polished, and sharp enough to cut glass. "Is my mic on?"

"Uh, yes. You're green."

The platform beneath me began to rise, lifting me toward the blinding lights and the deafening roar of fifty thousand fans. The pain in my hand was a dull throb, a reminder that I was alive, dangerous, and at the top of the food chain.

I brought the mic to my lips as the beat dropped.

"Showtime."