The Principal

The file lands on my desk at 0700.

Thin. Black folder. No label.

The high-profile ones always come unmarked. Anonymous until you crack the seal.

I crack it.

Jin Kang stares back at me from a glossy headshot. Dark eyes, perfect bone structure, the kind of face that's been optimized for cameras since adolescence. He's striking in that deliberate way celebrities are, the kind of face that's been optimized for cameras since adolescence.

I've protected politicians who shaped foreign policy. A CEO whose net worth exceeded some countries' GDP. Three members of the British royal family.

A pop star should be simple.

The second page kills that theory.

Three weeks ago, someone broke into Jin Kang's hotel room at 2 AM. Security footage shows a figure in black entering through a service corridor. The intruder disabled two locks, bypassed an alarm system, and stood over Jin's bed for approximately forty-seven seconds before Jin woke up.

The next image is from the hotel's emergency stairwell. Jin, barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and boxers, eyes wide with terror.

He got away. The intruder didn't.

No arrest was made. The figure disappeared into the night. Three days later, a letter arrived at Jin's management company.

I was so close. You looked peaceful when you sleep. Next time I won't leave.

I close the folder.

"When do I meet him?"

Sarah, my handler at Aegis Security, taps her pen against the desk. "Thirty minutes. He's in conference room B with his management team."

"Background on the management?"

"David Chen, his primary manager. Forty-three, divorced, lives for the job. Built Jin's American career from the ground up. Very protective of the investment." She hands me a second folder. "You'll also meet James Park, Jin's stylist and closest confidant. Late nights, shared secrets, that type of relationship. And various handlers who rotate based on the tour schedule."

"Tour?"

"Starts in five days. Sixteen cities over eight weeks. Then international dates through the fall."

I do the math. Eight weeks minimum. Potentially months. Close quarters. Constant travel.

"Why me specifically?"

Sarah's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Chen requested the best. Your reputation is... comprehensive."

There's something she's not saying. There always is with the high-profile assignments.

I stand. "Anything else I should know?"

"Jin Kang has had six security details in the past two years. He's fired all of them."

"For what?"

"Various reasons. Incompetence. Indiscretion." She pauses. "One of them sold a story to a tabloid. Another got too close."

"Define 'too close.'"

"Mr. Chen's words were 'inappropriate attachment.' The bodyguard was convinced Jin had feelings for him. Jin did not."

I've seen it before. The proximity effect. You spend every waking hour with someone, learn their patterns, their vulnerabilities, their midnight habits. Lines blur. People forget what they're there for.

I don't forget.

"Understood." My phone buzzes as I leave Sarah's office. Hannah.

New client? You always go quiet when it's a big one.

My sister. Twenty-eight, therapist, the only family member I haven't managed to push away yet. She has an uncanny ability to text at exactly the wrong moment.

Big one. Talk later.

Be careful. Love you.

I pocket the phone.

"Reid." Sarah's voice stops me at the door. "This is a high-value client. The agency's reputation is attached. Whatever it takes to keep him alive, and keep us out of the tabloids."

"Has anyone threatened my ability to do my job?"

"Just keep him safe and stay professional. That's all anyone's asking."

It's not an answer. I file that away and head for conference room B.

Conference room B is glass walls and nervous energy.

I clock the occupants before I enter. David Chen at the head of the table, phone in hand, frown lines deep. A younger man with silver-streaked hair, James Park, the stylist, based on the folder description, sits beside an empty chair. Two assistants huddle over tablets in the corner.

The empty chair is positioned away from the windows. Good instincts, or someone briefed them on basic security protocols.

Jin Kang is not in the room.

I enter. Every head turns.

"Mr. Vaughn." David Chen rises, extending a hand. His grip is firm but distracted, eyes already moving past me. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We're expecting Jin any moment, he had a vocal session that ran long."

"Standard for high-profile clients. I prefer to assess the environment before the principal arrives."

"The principal?"

"Your client. In protective services, we call them the principal."

Something flickers in Chen's expression. Approval, maybe. "Jin isn't used to... formality. His previous security teams tended toward casual."

"His previous security teams aren't here anymore."

James Park snorts from his seat. Chen shoots him a look.

"My methods aren't casual, Mr. Chen. They're effective. That's why you called Aegis."

Before he can respond, the door swings open.

Jin Kang enters like he owns every room he's ever walked into. The photos didn't capture it, the way he holds himself, the performer's awareness of space and attention. He's dressed down compared to the headshot: ripped jeans, an oversized black hoodie, sneakers that looked like they'd never touched an actual sidewalk.

Not relevant. Moving on.

He's smaller than I expected. Lean but not fragile. His hair is down, falling into his eyes, and he pushes it back with a practiced motion that probably makes fans swoon.

"Sorry I'm late." His voice is warm, media-trained. "The vocal coach wanted one more run-through of the bridge." He stops when he sees me. "You're not from the label."

"Reid Vaughn. Your new security."

His expression shutters so fast I almost miss it. One moment open, the next completely closed. It's impressive, actually. Most people telegraph their emotions. Jin erases his.

"Already?"

"It's been three weeks since the incident, Jin." Chen's tone is careful. "We discussed this."

"You discussed this. I said I'd think about it."

"You need protection."

"I've had protection. It doesn't work."

I step forward. "Mr. Kang."

His attention snaps to me. Up close, I can see the exhaustion beneath the careful makeup. The shadows under his eyes that no amount of concealer quite hides. He hasn't been sleeping well.

Neither have I, since I saw the file. But he doesn't need to know that.

"I'm not here to be your friend," I tell him. "I'm not here to get close, to share secrets, to become part of your entourage. I'm here to identify threats and neutralize them. I'm here to create a safe perimeter around you and maintain it. I'm here to make sure no one gets close enough to hurt you ever again."

He folds his arms. "And if I don't want that?"

"Then I can't protect you."

The words hang between us. James Park watches with undisguised interest. Chen's grip tightens on his phone.

Jin doesn't blink.

"The last guy who said something like that ended up on TMZ within a month. Said I was 'difficult.' Said I had 'attitude problems.' Said he'd never worked with anyone so demanding."

"Was any of it true?"

That surprises him. I see it in the slight widening of his eyes. "What?"

"Were you difficult? Did you have attitude problems? Were you demanding?"

Silence. Then, incredibly, a hint of a smile. Not the performer's smile, something smaller. Realer.

"Probably."

"Good. I don't work with easy people. Easy people don't need protection; they need babysitters. You've survived ten years in an industry that eats people alive. You escaped a home invasion with no training and minimal panic. You're not easy. You're smart."

I don't blink. "Stay close. Follow my lead. Don't argue with my protocols when we're in active threat environments. In exchange, I'll keep you alive. That's the deal."

He takes his time looking me over. I let him.

I've been assessed by generals, interrogated by intelligence officers, stared down by men who've killed more people than I want to count. A twenty-seven-year-old pop star shouldn't register.

He does. Which is... annoying.

"And if I don't?" he asks finally. "If I argue? If I push back? If I don't follow your lead?"

"Then I can't protect you. And I'll request reassignment."

"You'd walk away?"

"My job is keeping people alive, Mr. Kang. If you won't let me do that job, there's no point in me being here. I don't work with clients who actively undermine their own safety."

Another long pause. The room holds its breath.

Then Jin Kang's smile shifts. Still small, but genuine. Almost approving.

"Call me Jin. 'Mr. Kang' makes me feel like my father."

A knot I hadn't noticed loosens between my ribs. "Jin, then."

"And I can't promise I won't argue. I've been told I have a problem with authority."

"I can work with arguments. I can't work with recklessness."

"Fair enough." He glances at Chen, then back at me. "Fine. We'll try it. But I have conditions."

"Name them."

"You report to me, not just to David. If there's a threat, I know about it. I don't find out from my manager three days later that someone sent a suspicious package."

"Agreed."

"You don't talk to the press. Ever. About anything. Not even to say 'no comment.' If someone with a camera or a recorder approaches you, you walk away."

"Standard protocol."

"And you don't..." He stops. His expression closes off again. That rehearsed blankness. "You don't get invested. This is a job. I'm a job. The moment it becomes anything else, we're done."

The emphasis is strange. Pointed.

I think about what Sarah said. Inappropriate attachment.

"Understood."

He nods once, sharp. "Then we have a deal."

Chen exhales audibly. "Excellent. We have a lot to go over, tour schedules, venue layouts, emergency protocols..."

"Tomorrow." Jin cuts him off, already moving toward the door. "I've been in that vocal booth for four hours and I need a shower. Mr. Vaughn, Reid, can come with me to review my apartment security."

He says it casually. Like it's nothing.

But when he catches my eye, I read the dare in it.

Let's see what you're made of.

I pick up my bag. "Lead the way."

Jin Kang smiles.

It's not the practiced camera smile. It's sharper. More real. And as he walks out of the conference room with me half a step behind, one thought lands and stays.

This assignment is going to be trouble.

The inconvenient kind.