Flashback
The rooftop was quiet, the city below glowing like a constellation of forgotten dreams. Soo-min leaned against the railing, her sketchbook open, the wind tugging at the pages.
Ji-woo stood beside her, arms folded, watching her draw.
"You always make me look softer than I am," he said, a smile tugging at his lips.
She didn't look up. "That's because I draw how I see you. Not how the world does."
He chuckled, low and warm. "You're the only one who ever said that."
She finally turned to him, eyes searching. "Why do you let them treat you like you're disposable?"
"Because I know how to disappear," he said simply. "And sometimes, that's safer than being seen."
She reached for his hand, fingers lacing through his.
"You're not disposable to me."
He kissed her then, not with urgency, but with the quiet desperation of someone who knew time was running out.
They never told anyone.
Not because they were ashamed.
But because some loves are too fragile for the world.
__________
The archive room smelled of dust and forgotten truths. Detective Choi flipped through boxes of old case files, most of them yellowed and brittle.
Then he found it.
A folder misfiled under a different name. No barcode. No digital record.
Inside: a journalist's notes, clippings, and a half-finished article.
The headline read:
"The Price of Perfection: Inside the Idol Industry's Darkest Corners"
The journalist had uncovered widespread abuse, illegal trainee contracts, mental health neglect, and cover-ups of suicide attempts inside top agencies.
One name kept appearing: Hanuel Entertainment.
And behind it, in the shadows, a silent investor: President Kang Do-shin, former Minister of Culture, current political kingmaker.
The article had never been published.
Instead, the journalist was discredited, doxxed, and harassed until he vanished from the public eye.
A final note was paperclipped to the back:
"If this story dies, I die with it."
Choi closed the file slowly, his jaw tightening.
He knew now: this wasn't just about two suicides.
It was about a system built on silence.
___________
The cemetery was empty, save for the wind and the sound of his footsteps on gravel.
Joon-ha stood before a modest headstone, hands buried in his coat pockets.
Han Ji-woo.
He didn't speak at first.
Just stared.
Then, quietly:
"I don't know why I'm here."
The wind answered for him.
"I don't know what I saw. Or what I did. Or what I forgot."
He knelt, fingers brushing the edge of the stone.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't know if it was enough.
He didn't know if it ever could be.
Later, he walked to another grave, one he hadn't visited in months.
Kang Soo-min.
His sister.
He stood there for a long time, the silence between them louder than any scream.
Then he whispered,
"What really happened?"
No answer came.
Only the rustle of leaves and the ache in his chest.
________________
The study door slammed shut.
President Kang stood behind his desk, eyes cold, jaw clenched.
Eun-woo stood across from him, hands at his sides, expression unreadable.
"You were supposed to handle it," President Kang said, voice low and sharp.
"I did," Eun-woo replied.
"Then why ?"
A pause.
Then, without warning, the slap.
It echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Eun-woo didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
Just stood there, cheek red, eyes steady.
President Kang's voice dropped to a whisper.
"You forget who made you."
Eun-woo's lips parted slightly, but whatever he was about to say, he swallowed it.
The silence between them was thick with history.
But the truth of their connection?
Still hidden.
Still waiting.
The knock on her door came just after sunset.
Areum opened it to find Joon-ha standing there, dressed in all black coat, shirt, even the laces of his shoes. His hair was slightly damp from the mist outside, and his eyes looked like they hadn't slept in days.
She tilted her head. "Why are you in all black?"
He hesitated, then offered a small, practiced smile.
"Nothing," he said. "I just visited a friend's grave."
A lie. But one he wore gently.
She didn't press. Just stepped aside and said, "Let me make you some tea."
"Thanks."
He followed her in, the warmth of her apartment wrapping around him like a blanket. It smelled faintly of lavender and paint, her scent, her world.
From the kitchen, she moved with quiet ease, filling the kettle, reaching for mugs. Her sleeves were rolled up, hair tied loosely, a smudge of charcoal on her wrist from whatever she'd been sketching before he arrived.
He watched her.
How could he tell her?
That he'd fallen for her the moment he saw her across the café, head bent over a book, sunlight catching the curve of her cheek.
That her silence was the first thing that made him feel heard.
That every time she looked at him, he felt less like a ghost.
But what if he ruined her?
What if his love was a curse, not a gift?
What if everything broke?
He stared at her and smiled, not the smile he gave cameras, or fans, or even his manager.
This one was real.
His first genuine smile in months.
Later, they sat on the floor with a movie playing in the background, the volume low, the lights dim. Neither of them really watched it. The comfort was in the nearness, the shared space, the quiet.
She handed him a brush and a small canvas.
"Paint something," she said.
"I don't know how."
"Doesn't matter."
So they painted together, messy, abstract, laughing at their own lack of skill. His strokes were hesitant, hers bold. At one point, their fingers touched, smudged with blue and gold.
He looked at her, and for a second, the world stilled.
Afterward, he stood and looked around.
"Your house is so messy," he said, teasing.
She rolled her eyes. "It's organized chaos."
He didn't argue.
He just rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning.
He picked up scattered brushes, folded blankets, wiped down the table. Then he grabbed the mop and began moving across the floor with quiet purpose.
Areum watched him, stunned.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
There was no performance in it. No need to impress. Just a man who saw a space that needed care and offered his hands.
He moved with ease, sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes. He looked like someone who belonged there. Like someone who had always belonged.
And in that moment, he wasn't the idol, or the broken boy, or the son of a powerful man.
He was just Joon-ha.
The man who showed up in black, carrying grief he wouldn't name.
The man who smiled for the first time in her kitchen.
The man who cleaned her floor like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Areum, watching him, felt something shift.
Not a confession.
Not yet.
But something close.
Something real.