Jihun didn't just walk out of the café; he excised it. The moment he crossed the street back toward the KNUA campus, the memory of Minho's face—the dark, challenging eyes, the cruel accuracy of his criticism—was filed away under "Immediate Threat. Mitigation Protocol Required."
He successfully attended his 11:30 AM class on Advanced Lighting Theory, took meticulous notes, and answered a complex question on inverse square law without skipping a beat. Outwardly, the order was restored.
Inwardly, he was a disaster.
Minho had, with two sentences, done more damage to Jihun's internal landscape than three years of rigorous academic stress combined. You are afraid of anything that can't be put into a spreadsheet. The insult was the truth. The rules, the schedule, the flawless GPA—they weren't just aspirations; they were bulwarks against the messy, unpredictable failure he'd witnessed plague others.
That evening, instead of working on his thesis outline, Jihun worked on Minho. He created a document titled R.M. Collaboration Terms and Conditions (Ver. 1.0). It wasn't a schedule; it was a contract. A digital prison, designed with walls of logic and bars of professional conduct.
It was a form of self-soothing, a way to regain the control Minho had stolen.
The next morning, Jihun arrived at the Department's collaboration room—a bland, windowless space meant for creative synergy, usually smelling faintly of burnt popcorn and existential dread—at 10:15 AM. He had a thermos of green tea, a stack of organized papers, and a granite-hard expression.
At 10:20 AM, Minho was still absent. Jihun felt a cold sense of vindication begin to form. He'd known it. The threat to dissolve the partnership was about to become reality.
At 10:27 AM, Minho finally slid the door open. He wasn't swaggering this time. He looked genuinely exhausted, his eyes slightly bloodshot, but he carried a new, leather-bound script.
"Don't start," Minho said, his voice husky with sleep. He tossed the script onto the table, where it landed with a disrespectful thump right on top of Jihun's meticulously centered laptop. "I was finishing the treatment. I haven't slept, Jihun. It's done. I beat your deadline."
Jihun glanced at his watch. "You are seven minutes late. In this business, seven minutes can cost a location permit or a union meal break. You broke the rule before the first rule was even established."
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's seven minutes, not seven years. Can we just look at the script?"
Jihun carefully peeled the heavy, slightly warm script off his laptop. It was titled: The Ghost of 400 Lux: A Love Letter to Exposure.
He opened it. It was not a realistic family drama, but it was surprisingly grounded. The "gods" were gone, replaced by two rival lighting technicians: one, a stickler for classical, high-key lighting (Jihun's character), and the other, a maverick who preferred to shoot only in naturally available, volatile street light (Minho's character). The central conflict was the inevitable, magnetic pull they felt despite their opposing artistic philosophies.
Jihun skimmed the dialogue. It was sharp, witty, and surprisingly emotional. Minho wrote with the same intensity he lived: chaotic, yes, but undeniably brilliant. He was, to Jihun's utter annoyance, capable of being professional when cornered.
"It's... functional," Jihun admitted grudgingly. "The location requirements are still aggressive, and the focus on extreme lighting contrast is unnecessarily difficult, but the narrative is sound."
Minho's tired face split into a genuine, relieved smile that made the fluorescent light in the room seem less offensive. "See? We can do this."
Jihun immediately killed the goodwill. "We can do this only under my explicit direction. I am the project manager. You are the talent. Talent needs structure."
He pushed his laptop toward Minho. The screen glowed, displaying the intimidating, three-page R.M. Collaboration Terms and Conditions.
Minho squinted at the screen.
"Read this carefully, Mr. Ryu," Jihun instructed, his voice flat. "It is non-negotiable."
The document was insane. It included:
Punctuality Penalty: For every minute late to a meeting or shoot call, Minho must buy the entire (hypothetical) crew a premium coffee (Jihun to drink three). Communication Protocol: All script notes, budget requests, and scheduling changes must be submitted via email, using a specific subject line format. Text messages are for emergencies only (defined as: fire, flood, or a camera sensor failure). Creative Authority Clause (Final): In any dispute over technical feasibility (lighting, camera movement, lens choice), the DP (Jihun) has final, absolute authority. Aesthetics and Hygiene: All workspace surfaces must be cleared and sanitized at the end of each session. Personal items, including (but not limited to) crumpled papers, cigarette packs, and coffee stains, are prohibited within a one-meter radius of the shared table.
Minho began to read, his eyes widening. A slow, theatrical laugh started low in his chest and built into a robust, head-shaking chuckle.
"A three-page contract for a student film, Jihun?" Minho laughed, pointing to the Hygiene clause. "I'm not bringing 'cigarette packs' into the school, you know. I smoke vintage, expensive cigarettes. They belong to my persona. And what is 'unnecessary personal contact'?"
Jihun felt heat rise to his neck. That clause was his panic reflex after the wrist grab and the terrifying closeness in the café. "It is a standard professional boundary. No touching. No leaning. No invading personal space."
Minho leaned in, violating the boundary instantly, his face six inches from Jihun's. "So, no more of this?" His voice was a low rumble, laced with a seductive challenge.
Jihun's entire body tensed. He could smell the lingering spice of the cologne and the faint, bitter scent of the coffee Minho had just bought. He fought the urge to pull back, standing his ground.
"That is exactly what 'unnecessary personal contact' means, Mr. Ryu," Jihun managed, his breath steady, though his pulse was rocketing. "And since you have violated this term within five seconds of reading it, you owe me a double-shot espresso, served at 65 degrees Celsius, not a degree more."
Minho paused, his eyes gleaming with fascination. He straightened up, a genuine smile replacing the provocative grin. "Wow. You're serious. You know what, Cinematographer? I accept. This is going to be the most disciplined, most frustrating, and most interesting project of my life." He extended his hand across the table, not for a handshake, but to retrieve the contract. "Sign me up, Lee Jihun. Show me the bars of your cage."
Their first official professional activity was location scouting for the initial sequence of The Ghost of 400 Lux. Minho's script required a mix of cold, hard urban realism and hidden, romanticized decay.
"I need a concrete tunnel that smells like rain and desperation," Minho had declared, tossing Jihun a vague address near the city limits.
Jihun, relying on his map app and a pre-planned route, drove them there in his immaculate, sterile black sedan. Minho sat in the passenger seat, immediately destroying the car's feng shui by propping his boots on the dashboard and adjusting the air conditioning to what Jihun considered an offensively warm temperature.
"Lower the volume," Jihun commanded, reaching for the dial. Minho was blasting an obscure, aggressively melancholic K-Indie track.
"No way. This is the soundtrack of the scene, Jihun. You need to absorb the vibe," Minho argued, turning it louder.
"My contract says 'No distracting noise during professional transport.' I classify this as distracting," Jihun replied, not looking away from the road.
Minho smirked. "Fine. Then let's discuss the car." He tapped the pristine dashboard. "This car is a lie, Jihun. It's too clean. Where are the flaws? Where's the grit? Everything about you is high-key exposure. I need to find your shadows."
"The purpose of this car is transportation, not character analysis, Mr. Ryu. Keep your shoes off the dashboard."
Minho sighed dramatically, pulling his feet down and immediately leaning his head against the window. "You know, the actual location we need is through that restricted park. It has the perfect decaying bridge over the stream."
Jihun stared at the faded, weather-beaten 'No Entry' sign Minho was pointing toward. "That is clearly private property. We will be arrested. We are not violating local ordinance for a student film."
"We are artists, Jihun, not accountants," Minho said, his tone shifting into his 'dreamer' mode. "The best shots are always the ones you risk jail for. Besides, it's just a chain-link fence. We climb it."
"No," Jihun stated flatly.
"Yes. Contract rule number two: collaboration requires compromise," Minho challenged, using Jihun's own document against him. He pulled a pair of cheap wire cutters from his backpack.
Jihun stared at the cutters in disbelief. "Did you bring criminal tools to a location scout?"
"They're for 'artistic emergencies,'" Minho winked.
Jihun watched in horrified fascination as Minho casually snipped a small section of the rusty wire, creating a gap just big enough to slip through.
"I am officially documenting this as a gross violation of professional conduct," Jihun muttered, pulling out his phone.
"Document away, DP. Just make sure the light is beautiful." Minho slipped through the gap easily, then turned back, extending his hand. "Come on. The sun is setting. We're losing the best contrast."
Jihun looked at the fence, then at his expensive, tailored trousers. He could not, in good conscience, go through with this. But he also could not let Minho go alone and risk him shooting an entire sequence without Jihun's technical oversight.
With a deep sigh that sounded like the death of his control, Jihun reluctantly followed Minho into the restricted area. He had to crouch low, the rough metal scraping against his trousers.
Minho stood on the other side, laughing—a loud, free sound that echoed in the quiet park. "Look at you, Jihun! The most orderly rebel in the history of cinema! Your aura just dropped ten Kelvin. Now, look."
Minho was right. The abandoned bridge was stunning. It was exactly what Minho needed for his vision: the light filtering through the rusted metal, creating sharp, dark shadows and glinting off the stagnant water below. Jihun, despite himself, immediately started calculating the lens and exposure needed. Minho, of course, noticed.
"See?" Minho whispered, standing next to him, their shoulders almost touching. "Magic."
Suddenly, a loud bark broke the silence. A security guard and a small, yappy dog were sprinting toward them from the other side of the park.
"Illegal trespassers! Stop!" the guard yelled.
Minho immediately grabbed Jihun's hand. "Run!"
"No! My schedule does not include illegal flight!" Jihun protested, but Minho's grip was surprisingly strong, pulling him into a panicked sprint toward the bushes.
They scrambled, sliding down a muddy embankment and hiding behind a dense cluster of overgrown hydrangea. Jihun, his heart pounding not from fear but from the sheer audacity of the situation, found himself pressed against Minho's back, their chests heaving, Minho's frantic laughter muffled against his sleeve.
Jihun was filthy. His trousers were ripped, there was mud on his pristine white shirt, and Minho's hand, still clutching his, was slick with sweat. It was the most alive he had felt in years.
After the guard passed, Minho turned his head, his face inches from Jihun's. "That was fun, wasn't it, Cinematographer?"
"It was a professional disaster," Jihun breathed out, unable to lie about the pounding in his chest. Minho smelled of fresh adrenaline and the unique scent of the earth.
Minho's eyes, bright and triumphant, locked onto Jihun's. "I told you I'd make your focus blur."
They managed to escape, getting back to the car—now a mud-splattered vehicle of shame—without further incident. They drove straight back to the university's film studio to quickly review the shots Minho had managed to grab on his phone.
The studio was cavernous and empty, save for the massive black cyclorama and the ghostly shapes of lighting stands. Jihun immediately began setting the area to a neutral, clean standard.
"We need to test the aesthetic," Minho announced, suddenly energized. "I need to see how the black greasepaint looks on the face under a single, direct spotlight."
Minho was using a heavy, stage-quality black greasepaint to symbolize the 'shadow' character's aesthetic. Jihun watched, rigid, as Minho dipped his fingers into the pot and began to smear the thick, oil-based paint across his cheekbones and jawline. The black was stark against his pale skin, instantly transforming his face into something sharper, more dangerous, and undeniably beautiful.
"Set the key light at a high angle, maybe a 10-degree down tilt," Minho instructed, stepping onto the black stage.
Jihun, ever the professional, nodded and went to the light board. He adjusted the single spotlight, focusing the beam with clinical precision. Minho stepped into the light.
The effect was mesmerizing. The light hit the greasepaint, making the black look almost wet and viscous, highlighting the perfect contours of Minho's face and collarbones while casting the rest of his body into deep, dramatic shadow.
"Too clean," Minho decided, frustrated. He climbed down from the stage. "We need more grit. The light needs to feel like it's fighting through something. Where's the dust?"
"I cleaned the studio this morning," Jihun replied, annoyed. "And we are done with the paint." He walked over to the table where Minho had left the supplies—the jar of greasepaint, a pot of thick, reddish-brown stage blood for a prop he planned to make, and a can of industrial spray adhesive.
Minho, distracted, was arguing with an imaginary crew member about a lens choice. "No, I want the Cooke S4! It has that vintage fall-off, that beautiful, creamy bokeh—"
Jihun, trying to reassert order, moved to put the paint pot lid back on. Minho, mid-gesture, spun around to emphasize his point, his leather-clad elbow sweeping across the table.
The glass pot of reddish stage blood—thick, syrup-like, and darkly beautiful—tumbled over, catching the edge of Jihun's still-muddy white shirt and sending a violent, crimson wave directly down his chest.
"Ah, shoot!" Minho yelled, horrified.
Jihun froze. He looked down at the slow, thick stain blooming across his clean shirt, spreading outwards from his collarbone. It looked exactly like a violent, internal wound. The sight was instantly overwhelming: the mud from the run, the sweat, and now this sickening, sticky red mess. It was the physical embodiment of the chaos that had consumed his two days.
"My shirt," Jihun whispered, his control finally, catastrophically snapping.
Minho immediately lunged forward, grabbing a wad of paper towels. "I'm so sorry, Jihun! Oh god, that's not coming out! Is that... real blood? No, wait, stage blood. We can fix this."
Jihun felt a sudden, profound wave of self-disgust. He hated being messy. He hated the heat rising from his skin. Without thinking, operating purely on the instinct to shed the filth, he began ripping the buttons of the ruined shirt.
Rip. The first button popped and clattered to the floor. Rip. The second followed.
Jihun didn't stop until the shirt was hanging open, revealing his chest and abdomen. He tore the garment off and threw the ruined, blood-splattered fabric onto the clean floor, his chest heaving with adrenaline.
He was breathing hard, focused entirely on the stain on his skin, which he immediately started scrubbing with dry paper towels—a pointless, desperate gesture that only smeared the red color further.
Minho stopped moving. His breath hitched, and the frantic apology died in his throat.
Jihun was not a large person, but his body was a revelation of controlled discipline. The 20 minutes of high-intensity, low-impact exercise every morning had chiseled him with deceptive strength. His shoulders were defined, his core was tight, and his skin was smooth and pale, now marred by streaks of sticky, dark red liquid.
The single spotlight Jihun had set for the 'shadow' test was still on. It hit Jihun from above and behind, defining the perfect line of his sternum and creating deep, moving shadows in the hollows of his collarbones and the slight indentations of his waist. He looked like a sculpture in a state of violent distress.
Minho stared. The chaos he loved was now physically inscribed on the body of the order he was obsessed with. Minho's artistic vision, his entire "400 Lux Problem," suddenly clicked into hyper-focus. This—this perfect, controlled body, now marked by shadow and shame—was his entire movie.
"Jihun," Minho's voice was barely a whisper. All the teasing, all the arrogance, was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry intensity.
Jihun didn't look up, scrubbing futilely. "Don't. Just don't talk to me. Get me a wet towel."
"Wait," Minho said, his eyes fixed on Jihun's chest, where the "blood" had pooled. Minho dropped the paper towels and instead, reached out.
Jihun finally stopped scrubbing and looked up, the fury in his eyes clashing with a sudden, sharp, terrified awareness. He saw the shift in Minho's gaze: it was no longer amused, no longer predatory, but purely captivated.
"You're just smearing it," Minho murmured, his voice thick. He took a single, deliberate step forward, closing the space Jihun had fought so hard to maintain.
Minho raised his hand. His fingers, still stained with the thick, black greasepaint, gently brushed the dark red stage blood on Jihun's collarbone. The combination of the deep black paint and the thick red liquid against Jihun's pale skin was visually stunning. Minho wasn't cleaning; he was painting.
"The light is perfect right now," Minho said, his voice husky. "Don't move. Look at the contrast."
Jihun couldn't move. He was trapped by the intensity of Minho's gaze and the feather-light, forbidden pressure of Minho's fingers on his skin. He felt a violent shiver run through his body. It wasn't the cold of the studio; it was the proximity, the focus, the sheer, crushing awareness that Minho was looking at him—truly looking at him—and finding him, in this state of ruin and disarray, beautiful.
Minho traced the edge of the stain down Jihun's chest, his eyes darkening. He slowly dragged his thumb across Jihun's sternum, smearing the red and black into a single, beautiful, dangerous shadow.
Jihun let out a small, involuntary sound—a gasp that was half-anger, half-pleasure. It was the sound of a perfectly tuned machine briefly stuttering.
"Contract," Jihun finally managed, his voice strained and low. "Clause... four. Unnecessary personal contact."
Minho's eyes, fixed on the smear of color on Jihun's taut abdomen, slowly lifted to meet Jihun's gaze. The usual theatrical grin was absent. Minho's expression was serious, electric, and entirely focused.
"I think," Minho whispered, leaning his head down just slightly, his breath warm on Jihun's mouth, "we just found an artistic exception."
He didn't kiss him. He didn't touch him again. Instead, Minho lowered his hand, leaving the heavy, messy mark on Jihun's skin. He stepped back, instantly returning to his half-painted, jacket-clad self, but the visual of Minho's face inches from his remained branded on Jihun's mind.
"I need to go," Minho said, his voice rough. He snatched his leather jacket from the nearby chair. "I'll clean the mess. You go home and clean your perfect self. I will submit the official shot list by dawn."
Minho strode out of the studio without a backward glance, leaving Jihun standing alone in the spotlight, half-naked, stained with chaos, and trembling. He looked down at the dark, beautiful smear Minho had painted onto his skin.
The mark of the collision. The beautiful, messy focus blur.
He didn't rush to wash it off.