POV: Kang Ji-eun
I didn't know silence could hum like this.
Yoon Jae had gone quiet—completely, terribly quiet. He hadn't yelled. Hadn't thrown anything. He just looked at me like he didn't know my face anymore.
Then he walked out of the room.
And left the door open.
So now I was standing in the middle of his apartment, barefoot, with that stupid blanket still around my shoulders like a safety net. The air smelled like stale coffee and something citrusy—probably his shampoo. I shouldn't have noticed that.
But I notice everything now.
That's what survival turns you into. A noticer. A strategist. A liar.
The video is still burned into my eyes.
Us. In the apartment. Not kissing. Not touching. Just close.
Too close.
Close enough to be weaponized.
I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed he hadn't offered me, trying to remember what version of myself I was supposed to be right now. The calm one? The sharp one? The ice queen? The victim?
Maybe all of them.
Maybe none.
I've spent so long building versions of myself that now, stripped bare, I'm not sure which one is real. Maybe they're all fake. Maybe I'm a walking press release in lipstick and lashes.
But he saw through that.
Too fast. Too deep.
That's what scared me.
Not the leak.
Not Jun-woo.
Him.
How much of me Yoon Jae saw without even trying.
That's why I didn't want him to hear that recording.
Not because it wasn't true—but because it was. I said those words. I meant them, then. But everything changed the moment he said yes. The moment he didn't flinch at the chaos I dragged him into. The moment he stayed.
And now?
Now I don't know if I want to keep lying.
I used to think the truth was dangerous. That telling it meant handing someone the knife to cut you open with. But silence is worse. Silence is a blade you hold against your own throat.
The speaker is still on the table.
A simple, gray, factory-made little traitor.
I want to smash it. I want to scream at it. I want to laugh because this is what I get, isn't it?
I wrote a story I thought I could control.
And then the story started writing me.
I hear his footsteps in the hall.
I brace for the sound of the front door.
But it doesn't come.
He's still here.
That shouldn't matter as much as it does.
My phone buzzes again.
I don't pick it up.
I know it's from him.
Jun-woo doesn't text like a stalker. He texts like an ex who thinks he's still owed closure. The worst kind. The kind who still remembers the passwords. Still knows what makes you cry, even if he doesn't care anymore.
I open the music app instead.
Not to play anything. Just to stare at the playlists I used to make. Practice beats. Vocal warm-ups. Playlists for moods I no longer have names for.
One of them is titled: "SLEEPING NEXT TO SHADOWS."
I don't remember making it.
But it feels right.
I shut the phone.
I don't cry.
I haven't in months.
But I want to.
Just once.
Not because I'm afraid.
Because for the first time in years… I want someone to stay.
And I'm scared that I've already made him leave.
POV: Yoon Jae
I didn't leave the apartment.
I wanted to.
I wanted to slam the door and disappear, go walk the Han River until I forgot my name or hers or the sound of her voice on that damn recording.
But I didn't.
Because that would mean she won.
Or worse—that he did.
So instead, I paced.
I walked the length of my apartment seventeen times. I unplugged the speaker. Threw it into a drawer I hadn't opened in months. I opened my laptop, closed it. Made coffee. Poured it out.
And somewhere between steps fourteen and fifteen, I realized I wasn't angry.
I was hurt.
Which was worse.
Because hurt meant I'd let my guard down.
Hurt meant I'd started to believe.
I sat down at the kitchen table, palms flat against the surface, and stared at the front door like it owed me answers.
And then…
A soft click.
The knob turned.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My spine straightened.
I hadn't buzzed anyone up.
The door opened three inches before I found my voice.
"Who the hell—?"
The door opened wider.
And Park Do-yoon stepped inside like he owned the place.
Wearing sunglasses indoors, carrying a manila folder under one arm, and smiling like someone who'd just solved the murder mystery at a dinner party.
"Hyung," he said. "You really should change your locks."
I stood, all at once. "How do you—what the hell are you doing here?"
"Relax," he said, shutting the door behind him. "I didn't bring a photographer."
I didn't move.
He walked past me, straight to the table, and dropped the folder between us.
It thudded like it was heavier than it looked.
He didn't sit.
He didn't need to.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not here to write about you."
"Could've fooled me."
He tapped the folder. "I'm here because someone's already writing about you. And Ji-eun. And what's more… someone wants me to help publish it."
I stared at the folder like it was a snake coiled in yellow paper.
"What's in it?"
"Proof," he said. "Or something like it."
He flipped it open.
And I saw the first page.
A printed screenshot of the leaked script.
The one I'd just read.
"She wrote this," I said, mostly to myself.
"She did," Do-yoon said. "But she didn't leak it."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"Not directly, anyway," he said, tapping the top corner of the document. "Whoever sent this to me didn't use her IP. Didn't route it through any known device she owns. It was bounced through six servers and dropped anonymously through an old press contact of mine. But it wasn't a blind submission."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a single photo.
Printed.
Glossy.
High-res.
He slid it across the table.
It was Ji-eun.
On a street corner at night.
Talking to a man in a ball cap and mask.
His face barely visible—but the build was familiar.
So was the tilt of the head.
"Jun-woo," I said.
"Bingo," Do-yoon said. "The original source of the leak. He's trying to tank her. Maybe both of you. But here's the kicker—he's not doing it for money."
"Then what?"
"Something worse."
"Revenge?"
"Worse."
He leaned in.
"Legacy."
That word hit like cold water.
"He doesn't want to just ruin her," Do-yoon said. "He wants to own her narrative. That script? It's a weapon. And he wants credit for lighting the match."
I didn't speak.
I couldn't.
Do-yoon leaned back, tone shifting.
"You need to get ahead of this."
"We're already buried."
"No. Not yet. But soon."
He straightened his glasses.
Then looked toward the hallway where Ji-eun's door sat, closed.
"Is she okay?"
"She's breathing."
"That bad?"
"You tell me."
He paused.
Then said: "I knew about him. Years ago. I tried to warn her. She told me to stay out of it."
I stared at him.
"You didn't."
"No," he said. "Because I still believed she'd figure it out on her own. Maybe I was wrong."
"Maybe we all were."
He picked up the folder.
But didn't leave.
Instead, he pulled out one final photo.
Smaller. Candid.
It showed Ji-eun and I from a few days ago—walking in Apgujeong. Me in a hoodie. Her in sunglasses.
No security.
No fans.
Just… us.
"I didn't take this," he said. "But I found it in an envelope at my desk this morning. No note. Just the photo. Like someone wanted to remind me that the story's already writing itself."
I reached for the photo.
Held it between my fingers like it might tell me something I didn't already know.
He moved to the door.
"You have twelve hours," he said. "Before this hits the press."
"What does?"
"All of it," he said. "The photos. The recordings. The marriage."
He opened the door.
"Figure out your headline, hyung," he said. "Or someone else will write it for you."
And then he was gone.
Leaving behind a table full of truth, a hallway full of silence—
—and a story I never wanted to star in.
She stepped out of the bedroom like the floor might collapse under her feet.
Hair still damp. Shirt borrowed. Her eyes shadowed with something heavier than lack of sleep.
I didn't know how long she'd been listening behind that door.
I didn't ask.
She looked at the table.
At the photo Do-yoon left behind.
At me.
Her voice didn't crack when she said, "We need to leave."
Not go.
Not hide.
Leave.
"Leave where?" I asked.
"Seoul. Tonight."
"You're serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
I studied her.
She wasn't just scared.
She was resigned.
That was worse.
"Ji-eun—"
"No more debates," she said. "No more clever banter. No more plans that involve staying one step ahead. We're not ahead of anything anymore."
I sat down slowly.
Because standing felt too unstable.
"Tell me what you're not saying," I said.
She didn't sit.
She just stood there, arms wrapped tight across her body like the truth might spill out if she wasn't holding herself together.
"I met Jun-woo before the agency did," she said quietly. "Before I debuted."
That caught me.
She'd never talked about before.
Before the music. Before the spotlight. Before JI.EUN.
"He wasn't in entertainment yet. He was a student assistant on a campus documentary project. He followed me around with a camera for two months. Called it 'a study in rising stars.' I thought it was weird, but harmless."
"And?"
"And then he asked me to read a script."
I frowned. "He wrote?"
She nodded.
"I told him I didn't think it was ready. He asked me to help revise it. I did. A little."
She paused.
And then: "That script is the one I turned in six months later. The one that got me my first writing credit."
Everything stopped in my chest.
"You're telling me—"
"I rewrote eighty percent of it. I changed the ending. The characters. The dialogue. I didn't think he'd recognize it."
She looked up, eyes shining with something she didn't want me to name.
"But he did."
She walked to the window.
Didn't open it.
Just stared.
"That's why he's doing this," she said. "It's not just revenge. It's ownership. He thinks I stole something from him. And now he wants to destroy everything I've made since."
The silence after that was long and hollow.
Finally, I spoke.
"And this marriage?"
She looked at me. Eyes glassy. But firm.
"I thought it would protect me. Legally. Emotionally. I thought if I had someone standing next to me, I wouldn't look so vulnerable. I wouldn't look like prey."
"And now?"
"Now I'm starting to think I just gave him a better target."
She turned.
Sat across from me.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"I don't want to be famous anymore."
I blinked.
"What?"
"I mean it," she said. "If this leaks—and it will—it'll destroy you faster than it destroys me. You're not built for this world. You still believe in good scripts and bad coffee and the idea that a lie is only as dangerous as the person telling it."
I didn't respond.
She leaned in, elbows on her knees.
"You think you can outwrite this story, but you can't."
"So what, we run?"
"Yes."
"We disappear?"
"Not forever. Just long enough to make him lose control."
"And then?"
"Then we decide what story we want to tell."
I stared at her.
She wasn't panicking.
She was planning.
Even now.
I should've expected that.
But I didn't expect the way she looked at me next.
Like she was asking something without saying it.
Like she was begging me not to leave, but couldn't stand to say the words.
So I said them for her.
"I'm not going anywhere without you."
Her eyes widened.
And then softened.
Like she couldn't believe I meant it.
But she wanted to.
Badly.
She stood.
Moved toward the bedroom.
"I'll pack what I can."
I nodded.
Watched her go.
And just as the door clicked shut—
My phone buzzed again.
No number.
No message.
Just a link.
I tapped it.
A video popped open.
And this time…
It wasn't me.
It was her.
Ji-eun.
On a talk show from three years ago.
Smiling.
Laughing.
The host asked: "So what's the most ridiculous lie you've ever told?"
And she answered—voice sweet, face innocent:
"That I could ever fall in love without ruining it."