The van pulled up in the 5-minute parking zone outside the photography studio affiliated with SM Entertainment. He grabbed his backpack and rummaged in it for a pair of sunglasses. It only took about 10 seconds to get from the curb to the safety of the building, but he knew from experience that 10 seconds was all an over-zealous fan might need.

Sunglasses on, Kibum slid open the sliding door and manuvered his crutches out onto the street. Daejung would park the van around the back of the building and join him in a few minutes inside the studio.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he was swamped by an assortment of smells and sounds and colours. There were the physical smells of the busy street - car exhaust mostly, mixed with the spicy scent of the grilled chicken place across the street and an unpleasant waft of rotting food from the rubbish bin at the street corner. On top of those smells were the essence smells of passers-by. Kibum was hit by the scent of basil, of old books and of methylated spirits. Each scent was mercifully brief as its owner passed by, but that didn't make them any less intense. Kibum realized he had stopped dead on the edge of the pavement. It was with some difficulty that he managed to force himself to move. He made his way dazedly towards the door, feeling the sun beating down on his head. Though it was a typically cool late-October day, the rays seemed to sear through his hair and burn his scalp and the back of his neck, and the yellow logo of the photography studio glared out at him.

Awkward on his crutches, he struggled through the glass studio door, noticing the cool smoothness of the glass tickle his fingertips. Inside was blessedly quiet and dim. He took in a breath that trembled slightly and adjusted his grip on his crutches to hide his confusion. He noticed a pot plant up on the counter - dark green leaves with a single white flower on a long stem. A peace lily. Usually they didn't have much of a scent, but now Kibum could clearly detect the fragrance coming from the flower. He inhaled carefully and tried to let the plant live up to its name and infuse his shattered senses with some kind of peace.

"Welcome." He was brought abruptly back from his absorption in the flower by the sound of a female voice. An assistant had come down the corridor and was smiling at him politely, but Kibum smelled the bitter fluctuations in her green tea essence and knew she was wondering, in a not-too-kind way, why he was just standing there gaping at the pot plant like an idiot.

"It's nice to see you again, Kibum," she said when his head turned towards her. "You're in studio five today. I'll walk you there -"

"No need," Kibum broke in abruptly. "I know the way." He noticed how she blinked, taken aback at his tone, before covering her confusion with a nod, and realised he had reacted to the unkind thoughts he had read in her essence rather than her words. Outwardly the girl had been perfectly polite, and he was the one who came off as rude.

This could get complicated, he thought to himself ruefully as he walked down the corridor towards studio five. He couldn't go around being rude to people because he could detect their hidden emotions. But it was hard not to react when he could sense it as clearly as if it was being shouted down his ear.

Remembering how the transitions between van and street, and street and foyer had hit him, he hesitated in front of the studio door. It was nerve-wracking not knowing what kind of sensory assault might await him on the other side of that door. Studios were often brightly lit and stuffed with people. He imagined everyone turning to look at him as the door opened, imagined the glare of their combined attention beating at him like a hundred jackhammers, and bit his lip.

Gathering his courage, he tentatively pushed open the door, slipped inside, and quietly shut it behind him, all while keeping his head down and his gaze lowered with the hopes of not attracting anyone's attention. The studio was full of the sounds of people moving and adjusting equipment, and again he smelled a variety of different essence smells like he had on the street - but after a moment he realised that none of those smells were directed at him, and so they weren't overwhelming. He counted nine different essence smells, which meant nine people were in the studio, and knew that nobody had noticed him come in. It was safe to look up.

Everything looked so normal that for a moment Kibum felt rather silly. He'd been worrying about nothing after all. There was the familiar large, white plastic back-sheet up at the other end of the studio, edged with polystyrene light boards and a variety of specialised lamps. Some assistants were busy setting up the cameras and tripods, and another couple were moving some strangely-shaped metallic set pieces onto the photography stage. Kibum eyed the props curiously. They looked kind of futuristic - all smooth, curved monochrome edges. They must be something to do with the repackage concept. At this, Kibum realised he didn't even know what the concept was.

Unobtrusively, he made his way further into the studio. The polite thing to do would be to speak up, greeting the staff and making them aware of his arrival, but the thought of doing so filled him with anxiety. He didn’t want to attract attention to himself, not until he'd worked out some way of processing it. Instead, he slipped up behind the woman who was flicking through previously taken photographs on a laptop and peered over her shoulder. The photographs flicking across the screen were of Taemin, taken among the same futuristic props that were being rearranged now. Most of the photographs were in black and white with a very high definition, and Taemin struck a series of angular poses, his eyes heavily made up, and his expression blank and brooding. Kibum nodded to himself, impressed. The effect was eye-catching, and very different to the youthful, playful concepts they'd done before. Even with his face held blank, Taemin's presence and force of personality was such that he seemed to pop out of the photographs.

He watched with interest as the photographer flicked on through the reel, and suddenly it was Minho in the photographs. The flickering of the photographs slowed, then stopped. Kibum felt the change in the photographer's olive oil scent move from approval to dissatisfaction. He bit his lip worriedly. He understood the change in the photographer's scent. Minho's photographs were set in the same way as Taemin's, but they completely lacked the vibrancy Taemin had projected through the camera. There was nothing actually wrong with his poses or expression - nothing you could put your finger on - but Kibum stared into Minho's