"So you and Areum are now a couple, right?" Eun-woo asked, eyes flicking between the road and the man in the passenger seat.
Joon-ha leaned against the window, watching Seoul pass by in quicksilver blurs, traffic lights melting into soft amber, people walking too fast, everything too alive. He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that knew how fragile it was.
"Not yet," he said. "We didn't even confess, man."
Eun-woo chuckled, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "So, a slow burn?"
"Maybe." Joon-ha's voice came quiet, almost wistful. Then he added, after a heartbeat too long, "Or maybe I'm just running out of time."
The smile faded, leaving silence between them.
Eun-woo glanced at him, his tone softening. "What do you mean by that?"
But Joon-ha didn't answer. His reflection in the window looked far away, lost in the scatter of lights. The city outside blurred into motion, but inside the car, time stood still.
He closed his eyes, breathing shallowly, and whispered something that barely made it past his lips.
"Just one more day."
___________
Detective Choi stood in the lobby of Hanuel Entertainment, its marble floors reflecting a world too polished to be real. The faint scent of perfume and coffee drifted through the air. Behind the reception desk, smiles were painted on like armor.
"I'm here to follow up on an old case," he said, flashing his badge. "A trainee case. One year ago. I need to speak with anyone who worked here during that time."
The receptionist's hands hovered nervously over her keyboard. "Most of those staff members have… moved on, Detective."
"Then give me the names of who's still here."
She hesitated. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not authorized to release that information."
Choi sighed, a sound too tired to be anger. "That's funny," he said quietly. "Because authorization doesn't erase a body, does it?"
She flinched, then looked down at her desk.
He walked past before she could stop him.
Through hallways lined with framed posters of idols smiling at nothing.
He stopped random employees, a vocal coach, a manager, a cleaner clutching her mop.
Each answer sounded the same.
"I don't know anything."
"I wasn't here then."
"I'm sorry, I really can't help."
Too clean. Too practiced.
He could feel it in the air, the fear. The silence that wasn't empty but ordered. Controlled. Someone had gone through and scrubbed the truth until the walls forgot how to speak.
He stood before a door marked Trainee Records Restricted, the handle cold beneath his hand. A security lock blinked red.
He stared for a long moment, then turned away.
"Not yet," he murmured to himself. "Not until I know who's protecting who."
___________
Years earlier.
The rooftop of the company was wind-swept and half-broken, the kind of place only the lonely found beautiful.
Soo-min sat on the ledge, hair tangled in the wind, legs swinging over the edge. Ji-woo sat beside her, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil whispering against paper.
"You always draw me when I'm not looking," she said, half-smiling.
"That's when you're most honest," he replied without lifting his eyes.
She leaned closer, trying to see the drawing. "Do I really look that sad?"
He hesitated. "No. You look like someone trying hard not to be."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was full, like something alive between them.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a necklace made from a bent safety pin and thread, the metal faintly rusted.
"Here," she said, looping it around his wrist.
"What's this?"
"A promise," she whispered. "That you'll stay. Even when it's hard."
He looked up, eyes soft. "Then promise me too."
She nodded. And for that fleeting moment, under the bruised sky, beneath the hum of the city, two broken souls believed the world might give them a chance.
_____________
Present.
The hospital room smelled faintly of disinfectant and rain. The lights were dim; machines murmured in the corner. Joon-ha sat propped up on the bed, sweat dampening his hairline. His manager sat nearby, scrolling through his phone, trying to look casual but failing.
Weeks ago, the doctors had confirmed it.
Pancreatic carcinoma. Stage IV.
He hadn't told anyone. Not Areum. Not Eun-woo. Not the public.
Only this man sitting quietly beside him, who had signed the forms and paid the deposit under a false name.
They'd checked him in at night.
No cameras. No fans.
Just silence and pain.
He looked at the IV tube, then at the ceiling, where faint cracks branched like veins. The pain pulsed in waves, deep, constant, merciless. Yet his expression stayed calm.
"How long do I have?" he'd asked earlier that morning.
"One year," the doctor had said. "Maybe less if you keep working."
Joon-ha had smiled, faint, crooked. "Then I better make them count."
Now, as his manager adjusted the curtain, he whispered to himself again, a prayer or maybe a command:
"Hold on. Just one more day."
_____________
In the library, the fluorescent light above Areum flickered again, one sharp blink, then steady.
The same light from the night before.
The same dust-filled air.
Her laptop glowed before her, half a dozen tabs open, names and dates spilling across the screen. Corporate archives. Court filings. News clippings.
And then, one file stopped her.
Kang Soo-min.
Daughter of Kang Do-shin, founder of the Kang conglomerate.
Former trainee at Hanuel Entertainment.
Deceased.
The obituary was brief, clinical.
"Passed away peacefully."
No cause mentioned.
But Areum had learned how to read what wasn't said.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard. A forum post. A hidden archive. Then a leaked internal report.
"Hanuel Entertainment Scandal: Trainee Exploitation, Mental Health Neglect, and the Silencing of Whistleblowers."
The document was fragmented, much of it redacted. But one author line remained unblurred:
Written by: Han Ji-woo.
Her breath caught.
Her brother.
He had written this before his death.
He had known.
And Kang Soo-min,the girl in the photograph, had been the key witness.
She had died months after the investigation was closed.
Areum's pulse pounded in her ears. She opened another tab, tracing the Kang family tree.
One daughter.
The daughter was Soo-min.
Her screen dimmed for a moment, and her reflection stared back, pale, eyes wide with something between disbelief and fear.
her brother had died trying to expose.
And she had no idea.
___________
Back at the hospital, Joon-ha stood by the window, dressed now in his coat, the IV line removed. The manager lingered behind him.
"You sure you can leave today?" the man asked quietly.
Joon-ha nodded. His eyes followed the sunrise spreading across the city skyline.
He smiled, faintly, that same ghost of warmth he showed the world.
"I just have something I need to do," he said. "Something I should've done before."
His fingers tightened briefly on the curtain edge, knuckles pale.
"Just one more day," he whispered again.
And somewhere, across the city, Areum stared at her screen, the same words echoing in her head.