Intak

The arena is absolute noise, a sea of lightsticks flashing under the rig. For the past three weeks, media outlets have been running wild with articles and edits claiming that you and Intak are secretly seeing each other. Neither side has confirmed a thing, and your manager gave you a direct order: keep your eyes on the stage and avoid any interaction.
Right now, P1Harmony is tearing through their performance of 'ICE'. You sit at the ENHYPEN artist table, maintaining a perfectly stone-faced, professional composure while knowing a designated reaction camera is hovering right off to the side.
The song hits its peak. The energy in the venue is electric, the beat driving hard. Intak moves with raw precision, sliding to the front of the formation. He doesn't look at the crowd; he zeroes in on the broadcast lens—the exact camera currently carrying a split-screen feed of your face on the venue's massive LED monitors.
Intak smirks, steps right up to the edge of the stage, grabs the mic, and drops the line with icy, deliberate execution:
"Who's gonna be my wifey?"
He doesn't break eye contact with the lens for a single second, raising a hand and pointing straight down the camera line toward your section before killing the frame with a slow, arrogant smirk. The stadium erupts. On the big screens, your split-second expression of pure disbelief is captured side-by-side with his face before the director frantically cuts to a wide shot.