IKRRR
The Silent War of the Elevator
The aftermath of Music Bank felt like a fever dream. The trophy sat on the center console of the H2H van, its polished surface reflecting the neon lights of Seoul as they sped toward their dorm. Stella leaned her head against the cool window, her pulse still thumping a frantic rhythm against her neck. She could still feel the phantom pressure of Martin’s hand on her hip, a branding iron that marked her even through layers of stage fabric.
Her phone buzzed in her lap. She didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. The notification displayed a private number, a string of digits she hadn't saved but had memorized with the obsessive precision of a spy.
*Don't get too used to that trophy, Princess. You're just keeping it warm for me.*
Stella’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Her heart hammered. *Focus on your own rap verses, Cortis. You’re starting to sound desperate.*
The reply was instantaneous. *I’m not the one who was screaming for ‘Daddy’ in a room full of equipment cases. See you at the recording studio tomorrow. Try not to trip over your own ego.*
Stella locked the phone and shoved it deep into her bag, her face flushing a deep crimson. The audacity of the man was staggering. He was a predator, a chaotic force of nature that threatened to pull her under every time they crossed paths. And yet, the thought of the recording studio the next day—a joint collaboration project for the upcoming year-end special—made her blood sing.
The next morning, the atmosphere at the HYBE building was electric. H2H and Getty were scheduled for a three-hour vocal tracking session. The groups were civil, the managers were watchful, and the air was thick with a tension that the staff mistook for professional competitiveness.
Stella was in the booth, her headphones pressed tight against her ears. She was laying down a high-register ad-lib, her voice soaring over the heavy bass track. Through the glass, she saw him. Martin was sitting on the leather sofa in the control room, his long legs spread wide, his eyes fixed on her with a terrifying focus. He wasn't looking at her as a colleague; he was looking at her like she was a meal he hadn't finished.
"That’s a wrap for Stella," the producer announced over the talkback. "Martin, you’re up for the second verse. Stella, you can take a break or head to the lounge."
Stella stepped out of the booth, her skin prickling as she passed Martin. He didn't say a word, but as their shoulders brushed, he leaned in just enough for her to catch the scent of his sandalwood cologne.
"The elevator at the end of the hall," he muttered, so low only she could hear. "Thirty seconds."
Stella’s breath hitched. She didn't look back. she walked out of the control room, her heart racing so hard she was sure the producer could hear it on the monitors. She made a beeline for the service elevator, the one used for moving heavy instruments. It was secluded, tucked away in a corridor that was currently empty of staff.
She stepped inside and pressed the button for the basement. Just as the doors began to slide shut, a large hand blocked them. Martin stepped inside, his presence immediately shrinking the space until it felt microscopic. He hit the emergency stop button, and the lift jolted to a halt with a mechanical groan.
"You're going to get us fired," Stella whispered, though she was already reaching for the hem of his oversized hoodie.
"I'm the one who brings in the revenue, Stella. They’ll survive a ten-minute delay," Martin said, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that turned her bones to liquid.
He didn't waste time with words. He grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up, pinning her against the mirrored back wall of the elevator. The sight of them in the reflection was jarring—the "Nation's Little Sister" wrapped around the industry's most notorious bad boy.
"You were staring at me in the booth," he growled, his mouth hovering inches from hers. "You wanted everyone to see how much you want me, didn't you?"
"I wanted everyone to see how much I out-sang you," she countered, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down.
Martin’s response was a kiss that tasted of lightning. He swallowed her moan, his tongue invading her mouth with a possessive hunger that left her lightheaded. He broke the kiss to trail his lips down her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above her collarbone.
"You're so loud, Stella," he whispered against her skin. "Let's see if you can keep it down in a moving box."
He reached down and made quick work of her skirt, his hands sliding underneath the fabric to find her already soaked lace. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against her chest. "Look at you. You've been thinking about this since the van ride home."
"Shut up and put it in," she pleaded, her head thumping back against the mirror.
Martin unzipped his trousers, his thick, heavy length springing free. He didn't use any finesse. He gripped her thighs, spreading them as wide as the small space allowed, and drove into her in one singular, devastating thrust.
Stella’s eyes rolled back. She let out a choked cry, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He was massive, a blunt instrument of pleasure that filled every corner of her being. The sensation of him inside her was overwhelming, a blunt force that seemed to reach all the way to her heart.
"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his voice a rough command. He began to move, his hips slamming into hers with a rhythmic, punishing force.
"You," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Daddy, please... faster."
Martin didn't need to be told twice. He began to deliver heavy, bone-deep back shots, his body a blur of motion. The elevator car swayed slightly with the force of his thrusts, the metal creaking in protest. Stella was a mess of sensation, her heavy breasts bouncing with every strike, her nipples dragging against the fabric of her top until they were raw and sensitive.
He reached around, his large hand cupping one of her breasts, squeezing the soft, pale flesh with a possessive grip. His thumb found her nipple, flicking it in time with his thrusts. The double assault was too much. Stella felt the orgasm beginning to coil in her lower belly, a white-hot tension that demanded release.
"Look at yourself, Stella," Martin commanded, forcing her to look into the mirror.
She saw herself—her face flushed, her eyes blown wide with lust, her body draped over the man she was supposed to hate. She saw the way his muscles corded in his back as he hammered into her, the raw, animalistic power of his movements. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing she had ever seen.
"You're mine," he hissed, his pace becoming frantic. "Every hit, every chart, every breath. You're mine."
"Yes," she cried out, the word turning into a scream as she shattered. Her internal muscles clamped down on him in a rhythmic, agonizing pulse.
Martin let out a roar of triumph, his movements becoming a frantic blur as he chased his own release. He thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt, and stayed there as he came, his forehead resting against hers, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the hum of the elevator’s ventilation. Martin didn't pull away immediately. He kept her pinned against the mirror, his weight a comforting pressure.
"We have to go back," Stella whispered, though she made no move to let go of him.
"In a minute," Martin replied, his voice returning to its usual arrogant calm. He withdrew slowly, the loss of his heat making her shiver. He helped her adjust her clothes, his hands lingering on her hips with a tenderness that he would never admit to in public.
He reached over and hit the emergency reset button. The elevator jolted back to life, the floor indicator beginning to climb.
"Stella," he said as the doors began to open on the lounge floor.
She turned to look at him, her hand on the doorframe.
"Nice ad-libs today," he said, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face. "But I prefer your vocals in here."
Stella rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Go to hell, Martin."
"Already there, Princess," he called out as she stepped into the hallway. "And it’s a lot of fun."
Stella walked back to the control room, her stride confident, her head held high. She felt a dull ache in her core, a secret reminder of what had just happened. When she walked back into the lounge, her members were busy on their phones.
"You were gone a long time," Hana said, looking up from her screen. "Find the vending machine?"
"The elevator was acting up," Stella said smoothly, picking up a bottle of water. "I got stuck for a bit."
"That sounds stressful," Hana said, returning to her phone.
Stella took a long sip of water, her eyes drifting to the monitor where Martin was now standing in the booth. He looked composed, professional, and utterly untouchable. He caught the camera’s eye for a split second, and Stella knew, with a certainty that frightened her, that he was looking directly at her.
The rivalry wasn't dead. If anything, it was more alive than ever. But the battlefield had shifted. It was no longer just about who had the most fans or the best digital sales. It was about the moments in between—the stolen breaths in elevators, the bruises hidden under silk, and the way her name sounded when he growled it into her skin.
As Martin began his rap verse, his voice low and commanding, Stella felt a shiver run down her spine. She sat back on the sofa, crossing her legs, and watched him.
He was her enemy. He was her rival. And he was the only person in the world who truly knew who she was.
The recording session finished two hours later. As the groups prepared to leave, Martin passed her in the hallway. He didn't stop, he didn't look at her, and he didn't say a word. But as he walked by, he dropped a small, folded piece of paper into her hand.
Stella waited until she was in the privacy of the van before opening it.
*MAMA Afterparty. My hotel. Room 402. Don't be late, or I'll have to come find you.*
Stella crumpled the note and tossed it into her bag, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. The MAMA awards were next week. It was the biggest night of the year, the culmination of all their hard work and their bitter competition.
She looked out the window at the city lights, her heart full of a dark, soaring anticipation.
Martin Cortis thought he was the one in control. He thought he was the predator and she was the prey. But as she felt the lingering heat of him in her body, Stella realized that in this game, there were no winners or losers. There was only the fire.
And she was more than happy to let it burn them both to the ground.
"Stella? You okay?" one of her members asked, noticing her distant expression.
"I'm perfect," Stella replied, her voice steady and clear. "I've never been better."
She closed her eyes, imagining the look on Martin’s face when she showed up at his door. She would wear the tightest dress she owned. She would make him wait. And then, she would make him regret every arrogant word he had ever spoken to her.
The war was far from over. In fact, the real battle hadn't even begun. And Stella was going to make sure she was the last one standing.
As the van pulled into the dorm driveway, Stella looked at her phone one last time. There was a new message from the private number.
*Sleep well, Princess. You're going to need your rest.*
Stella deleted the message, her smile widening. She didn't need rest. She needed more. And she knew exactly where to get it.