“Boarding for Kwon Jiyong from Incheon to LAX, pull around in two minutes.”

 

Here we go again. After a quick costume change, resulting in him dressed in a comfortable hoodie, a beanie to cover up his hair, and a new pair of sunglasses, he was just around the corner of pulling into the airport. Getting there was only half the battle; there would be a whole new process after they got inside. He would have to be escorted to check luggage, board it onto the plane and then walk to the passenger boarding gates… At least he’d be flying first class.

 

“About a thousand people are surrounding the area.”

 

Jiyong glanced at his manager, who had his ear pressed against a headset that was buzzing with the small announcements. The man was chewing on his lip, clearly nervous. It was normal for fans to show up whenever he traveled from place to place, but now that his world tour was a bustling news headline, the fans went from a hundred per airport to a thousand. Jiyong’s expression fell. He wanted to get out of there as much as everyone else wanted him out of there. “What’s going on?”

 

“Everything’s fine. You’re going to follow me.” That was normal. He always did. “We’re relying on airport security, so things are slower.” Great.

 

All he wanted to do was shut his eyes and go to sleep. After the press conference, he didn’t want any other reminders of his celebrity-ism to the general public. Of course, it was impossible since the airport was probably the first change on his “what-happens-when-you-stop-being-a-normal-person” list. But was he ever really normal? He was a television sweetheart at a very young age, and was signed over to an entertainment agency right after. Jiyong remembered the times where he wasn’t immediately recognized or fawned over like that, and especially when he didn’t need a full on security team to get him from one place to another.

 

The headsets, the black suits, the black cars, the blank faces—it was all too professional for him. He always thought about how it seemed like they were transporting a criminal or an alien. The thoughts usually turned into how he felt like a prisoner, but he didn’t want to get into that. After all, things were looking up for ‘G-Dragon’. He was about to have the time of his life and he couldn’t wait for it. He just sometimes wished he could skip a few parts of the process; this being one of them.

 

The colors were always the same in this airport. He grew to memorize some of the sights and Korean signs, even some of the advertisements. His luggage was being pulled by a staff member, and his manager was nearly tugging on his arm the entire time he was walking. Jiyong didn’t so much as glance at the row of fans, their separation only being a rope and the airport security intimidating them out of pushing through. They were still awfully close, people handing him treats and letters from every direction. He took the ones that were being thrown in front of his face, just barely holding them in between his fingers along with his passport and cellphone.

 

“Let’s go, carry on,” he heard from somewhere, his vision pointed only to the ground, obstructed with camera flashes every couple of seconds.  The yells were incredibly incoherent; he wished he could switch some music on, but things were far too crazy for him to be allowed to tune out. By this time, he was farther from the barricade, but still close enough to see every face as clear as day. It was hard not to look at them, but the annoying flashes of light was what kept his head turned. His manager told him to stop, and he swore he heard a curse slip out of the male’s lips. He sighed. “What?”

 

“It looks like they have to put a guy in custody.”

 

The idol looked past the ropes and people, standing on the tips of his custom-crafted sneakers to get a look at the commotion behind his commotion. A man with greased black hair patted down by sweat to his forehead in a dirty gray hood stood tall against one of the airport security guards. Anger contorted his face, his pointed nose and thick brows furrowing with the obsceneties he spat. The guard was fighting back, pulling a mysterious suitcase from the other’s battered hands for examination. What was the guy thinking? Dressed like that, holding a “professional” suitcase? It was like he wasn’t even trying. Jiyong watched as the man reached under his hoodie to retrieve something that appeared to be in the waistline of his jeans.

 

The last Jiyong saw was a glint of metal before his manager tugged him forward. It was forced, more desperate than the ones he was used to. Blaring through his manager’s headpiece was a hoarse shout. Jiyong made out the words, “He’s armed! Code A-66!” Whatever that meant put everyone at high alert. He expected to be tugged forward again, but instead, he felt his manager’s hand slip away from his wrist. From the headset, another call was clamored. “Repeat, code A-66!”

 

The security guards that were keeping the fans at bay then reacted to the statement, them rushing from their position to chase after the man to avoid anyone getting hurt or killed (ironically). Jiyong’s jaw clenched up, eyes wide behind tinted glasses as he watched his security take their leave, rendering him completely unprotected. A daring fan slipped under the rope soon after, her eyes wide and crazed with excitement. Jiyong saw her coming, and he felt his breath get caught in his throat. Normally, he wasn’t afraid of his fans, but he knew that no one was going to stop the woman charging at him full-speed. More people followed her lead, and before he knew it, he was completely swarmed.

 

His sunglasses were taken right off his face; so many light flashes were hitting his eyes that he was starting to see stars. With every attempt he took to move forward, he was thrown back. He felt hands gripping and grabbing at different parts of him. It was uncomfortable, no—it was terrifying.

 

“Stop! Stop!” Jiyong cried, though he gained the mercy of no one. His now unshielded eyes searched desperately for his staff, who he noticed were in the mix of fans. There were people trying to pull others away from him, people grabbing at him, and people pulling at his hoodie and pants. It was all happening so fast that he couldn’t put any pieces together. His ears were ringing from the shouting; people felt the need to scream at him, even if they were practically on top of him. He wanted to be humble, to understand, to be respectful. They’re excited; it’s not their fault—

 

His body was jerked forward. He put his hands out in front of him to catch himself on the ground, but even the floor under him had a person covering it. The woman didn’t look like she was entirely aware of what was happening. In fact, she looked just as panicked as he felt. He tried his best to not put his weight on her, although he was jerked back up before he could steady himself. Someone, or maybe a few people, grabbed at the end of his hoodie. The sudden tug made him choke, his adrenaline finally starting to pump through him. They’re so happy to see me; they don’t understand what they’re doing. His heart was beating rapidly, his eyes were as wide as they could be and he was questioning himself desperately as to why he wouldn’t just fight back. The truth of it was, his body was starting to react to the situation as if he were being attacked. Hands were traveling to every part of his body, and it was getting to the point where it was hard to breathe.

 

He was an idol. He couldn’t put his hands on any of the people here. He’s been in situations like this before. He was a professional.

 

“Please stop!” He was begging now, grabbing a few arms and pushing them away from him. He heard yelps and giggles—yes, laughter. “GD! G-Dragon!” A woman, a fan, was calling to him. He turned his head to her. It looked like she was just in a brawl. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were teary, and her makeup was smudged. “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

 

It didn’t take the others long to push her back. It had become hard to distinguish who was trying to help him and who was trying to bury him under. There was a consistent tugging on his legs, and a strong hold on his hood. The beanie was ripped off his head, revealing his bright blonde hair. There was a sensation of hands on his head and one on his face, and he could feel the concealer he was wearing back at the conference disappearing between all the sweat and touch. Please stop this. Please, God, help me.

 

There was a camera flash right in his eyes, his vision blacking out for a second before returning in blotches. He blinked a few times to recover while ripping at his hood so he could put it over his head. Jiyong, despite all the attention he’s gotten in the past, was far too panicked to think rationally. He kept remembering the time he was in concert and he was protecting that young boy from the fans. The security guard kept trying to get him out even though he was shouting to get the boy out first. It was like no one else mattered but the idol (until someone pulled out a gun). His security guards would throw each one of these women to the ground without a second thought, but they would never touch him, even if he lashed out. To them, he was a diamond and the world was dirt. And they wondered why he had an ego.

 

But it was clear that the security of the airport didn’t feel the same way, which, to others, made a lot of sense. To him, it was ridiculous. Why did they all have to leave? Didn’t they know him? No - he guessed not.

 

Jiyong didn’t know how long he was under the horde, but it felt like forever until there was a successful attempt to get him out. A strong hand ripped him through the fans, nearly dragging him across a few people in the process, leaving him to land ungracefully on the floor when he was finally out of the ‘pit’. “Get up! Move!” He heard, just barely getting a glimpse of the burly man before he heaved him to his feet. Jiyong did just as he was told, though his movements were clumsy, him tripping over himself a few times before finally getting back his balance. He glanced back more than once, the only thing stopping him from going into a full-on sprint being that some security guards were finally taking control of the situation. After realizing he wasn’t going to be touched or chased again, he forced himself into a more comfortable stride, pointing his gaze down to his feet.

 

… He only had one shoe on.

 

The observation was almost bizarre. He patted his pockets, feeling nothing inside. His shaky fingers slid into them afterward, his teeth gritting in anger and embarrassment. Not only did he lose all the materialistic garbage, he lost a piece of his dignity.

 

“Jiyong-ssi, Jiyong-ssi, are you alright?!” A woman was by his side immediately. He wanted to shoo her away, but that would probably lead to the assumption that he wasn’t alright. He didn’t want to look at her. He knew that she was a staff member - there was no way they’d let a fan get any closer at this point. Even still, he didn’t want anything to do with her. His eyes were drooping, his body was shaking. He needed to go to sleep.

 

“I dropped my passport back there, Noona,” he mumbled. The woman responded quickly. “We’re gathering your things. They’ve taken that man into custody before he could hurt anyone. Are you hurt?”

 

“No.” A lie. The blonde felt the sting of scratches on his arms and the back of his neck. It was like they wanted to get a piece of his skin off him; but of course, their intentions were probably a lot simpler than that. There were no bruises, but they were sure to come. There was no point in saying he was hurt and causing a bigger deal out of this fiasco. The fans would be upset, and he’d probably lose show time. Whether he liked it or not, fame was a business. He had to perform, he had to go through these crowds, and he had to get over it.

 

He’d argue that this was unfair. That he didn’t know what he signed up for when he was twelve years old. But it was far too late for that, wasn’t it?…