Devil’s Music

Fantagio, having rented out the Lincoln Center for the press conference, was in constant communication with Byungjun, checking the movement lines. Journalists, numbering over six hundred, waited at the entrance of the press conference with cameras and microphones, glancing at the Fantagio staff.

Among the journalists who came to capture Geon's entrance on camera, only the ones tasked with writing articles remained in the conference hall, while the rest waited outside, anxiously scanning their surroundings, indicating Geon's imminent arrival.

“Ah! Stop pushing!”

“Did you reserve this spot or something? Whoever grabs it owns it!”

“What? Mind your manners, which newspaper are you from?”

“From Paris Eclaire! And you?”

“CNV. You should at least maintain manners when covering in another country!”

“Gee, Kay isn't even an American citizen, where's this treatment coming from?”

“What? Are you done talking?”

As the journalists began to quarrel, about twenty security personnel rushed out of the hall and started marking a red line.

As the security pushed the journalists back, Son Lin walked through the middle path that was cleared for him.

With Son Lin’s confident stride to the curb, the journalists' heads also turned in one direction, holding their breath for a few seconds.

A black Cadillac making a U-turn in front of Lincoln Center after turning from West 63rd Street onto Columbus Avenue stopped right where Son Lin was standing.

Journalists, holding their cameras, tensed up and flashed at the person stepping out of the car, only to shout out in confusion shortly after.

“What’s going on, who is that!”

“Move! What a waste of film! Our newspaper only uses film!”

“Who’s that dark figure? Where’s Kay?”

Byungjun, looking bewildered at the flashes aimed at him, awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

As Byungjun stepped aside, Geon extended his leg out of the car, recognized by the journalists who incessantly flashed their cameras at him.

Geon, smiling but slightly furrowing his brow due to the intense flashing, waved his hand in greeting.

“Hello, everyone!”

As soon as Geon greeted, microphones were extended towards him from outside the line, with dozens appearing to be pushed towards him. Son Lin whispered in Geon's ear, advising him not to say anything and just keep waving since the same questions would be asked inside the conference hall anyway.

Nodding slightly, Geon pretended not to see the microphones extended towards him and waved his hand. The journalists, undeterred, shouted his name.

“Kay! Just a word, please!”

“Kay! Kay! Your digital single hit 11th on the Billboard in its first week, how do you feel! Kay! Kay!”

“It’s expected to break into the top 10 next week! What are your thoughts?”

“Kay! A journalist from Korea here! A word for your Korean fans, please!!”

At the sound of familiar Korean, Geon, known to be gentle and considerate, flinched, but Lin quickly took his arm, whispering urgently.

“They'll swarm if you respond now. Let's go inside quickly.”

Despite wanting to look back, Geon nodded at Lin’s words and entered the conference hall, leaving the shouting journalists behind. When the journalists finally dispersed, a sky-blue Cadillac stopped opposite Lincoln Center.

An Albanian man at the wheel looked sternly at the journalists and commented.

“What’s with that car? It definitely came out of Red Castle, huh? Russians taking a fancy to celebrities now? Judging by the number of journalists, he must be quite famous.”

Aurel, watching the journalists through a Glock 19 pointed out the window, scoffed.

“Drop the pointless interest and check who's left in the car.”

As the men in the car all looked out the left window towards the Cadillac, they soon saw a man stepping out of the driver’s seat.

“That guy. Definitely one of Gregory’s men, but he’s a nobody; just a foot soldier who drives around.”

Aurel, annoyed, tapped the window with his pistol, expressing frustration.

“Damn, a wasted trip. Can’t just start shooting among these journalists; let’s head back.”

“Yes, boss. Oh?”

As the man was about to turn the car, he noticed something odd.

“What the...? A kid in the trunk… Oh! What?!”

“What’s up? What is it?”

Aurel, following the man’s gaze, spotted a pretty little girl opening the trunk cautiously and peering around, then hiding behind the car before slipping among the journalists.

“Is this how celebrities travel now, with kids in their trunks? Weird hobby.”

The driver, pointing out the window, shouted.

“Ki, Kiska! Kiska Miocic!! That's Gregory's daughter, boss!”

“What, what?!”

Aurel, suddenly alert, leaned

closer to the window. The adorable little girl, wearing a white dress and a black duffle coat, stealthily moved from the trunk to the back of the car and then headed towards the journalists, slipping into the conference hall.

Seeing the girl making her way to the conference hall, Aurel grinned, revealing gold teeth, and cocked his gun.

“This is a bigger catch than taking out a mid-level boss. That girl is Kiska, the one Gregory dotes on? Good, we’re kidnapping her.”

The driver, turning his head quickly, protested.

“What? With so many journalists around?”

Aurel struck the man's head with the magazine part of his Glock 19, scolding him.

“Idiot, think a bit. How are we supposed to kidnap her here? We’ll have to follow and grab her on the way back. What's the use of having a brain if you don't use it? Inform the guys in the car behind and get ready.”

The man, rubbing his reddened forehead, got out of the car to check on his colleagues as Aurel watched Kiska disappear into the conference hall, flicking the safety of his Glock 19 on and off.

‘Gregory Miocic. There’s no place for Red Mafia in New York!’

Meanwhile, on West 65th Street, to the left of Lincoln Center, black sedans began to converge, parking along one side of the street.

What started as just two or three cars quickly exceeded twenty within ten minutes. Despite the growing number of vehicles, no one got out. A black man in a suit inside the lead car, parked at the turn towards Lincoln Center, checked the rearview mirror and picked up a walkie-talkie.

“Chzzt, Cars 6 and 7, head to the underground parking. Cars 8, 9, and 10, circle Lincoln Center and report back. Move out one at a time, every two minutes. Stay sharp, we’re up against an Albanian Mafia boss.”

After putting down the walkie-talkie, the tense man reached for a vibrating phone.

“Yes, this is Robert. Director Mitchell.”

“Is the area secured?”

“Yes, it's secured.”

“How many are they?”

“Three vehicles, a maximum of ten people.”

“Any arms?”

“No machine guns observed, but it's not confirmed. Only handguns were seen.”

“If necessary, call for S.W.A.T support.”

“Understood.”

“It’s the President’s order. Not even a scratch on Kay is permitted. It's best if he remains unaware of the operation.”

“But, Director. They’re currently hidden among hundreds of journalists. It’s not easy to take action in advance.”

“Then seize the opportunity as they move later.”

“Understood. I’ll report back.”

Robert put down the phone and picked up the walkie-talkie again.

“Cars 14, 15, 16, 17, lie in ambush on the way back to Red Castle.”

Watching four of the parked cars quickly maneuver past him, Robert sighed.

“To handle this without Kay knowing… Hmm.”

* * *

About 15 minutes into the conference, questions about Geon’s debut at 11th place on Billboard and breaking YouTube records in the shortest time were asked, and Geon calmly expressed his joy.

Despite the flurry of questions, journalists still clamored for a chance to speak. A journalist, given the floor by Lin, extended his head from his seat and loudly asked.

“In your recent song ‘If I could change the world,’ the lyricist wasn’t listed as Kay. Who is Kiska Miocic?”

Lin, foreseeing the question, nodded at Geon, who then took a breath and softly responded into the microphone.

“She’s the inspiration for this song, a sad person, and also a lovely person.”

The vague answer caused the journalists to frown. Another journalist, seizing the opportunity, followed up.

“Kiska Miocic sounds like a Russian name. Is she a woman?”

“Yes, she is.”

The journalists erupted into noise, sensing that Geon’s description of the lyricist as a “lovely person” could make for a sensational story.

After a few more unanswered questions about Kiska, the journalists checked the remaining time and moved on to the next topic.

Throughout the nearly 50-minute conference, Geon remained composed, smiling at the journalists. He glanced at Byungjun and tilted his head as Byungjun trembled, looking at something behind the seated journalists.

Following Byungjun’s gaze, Geon’s eyes widened, and he involuntarily raised his voice.

“Ki, Kiska? How did you…”

As soon as Geon mentioned Kiska, the hundred journalists turned their heads towards the back.

There, an adorably cute little girl was smiling widely, waving her arms. Suddenly, the entire conference hall went quiet, with all eyes focused on the cheerful Kiska.

>

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