She didn't decide it all at once.
The answer came in pieces—between breakfast and silence, between unanswered messages and the sound of the clock ticking too loudly in the afternoon.
Ha-rin sat on the sofa, phone in her hand, screen dark.
"…They sent an outline," she said.
"Of what," I asked.
"…What they want me to do in the next two weeks," she replied. "…Appearances. A short interview. A photo."
"That is exposure," I said.
"…They called it reassurance."
"That is branding."
She unlocked the phone and scrolled.
"…They want me to post," she added. "Just one photo. Something casual."
"Casual is rarely casual," I replied.
She nodded.
"…They even suggested captions."
"That is expected."
She set the phone down.
Didn't look angry.Didn't look scared.
Just… tired.
"…I could do it," she said quietly. "…Smile. Write something vague. Pretend nothing's changed."
"Yes."
"…And it would buy time."
"Yes."
"…But it would also lock me in."
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Her hand rested against her stomach, fingers splayed slightly, as if anchoring herself.
"…I don't want to lie like that," she said.
"That is understandable."
"…It wouldn't even be a lie," she added. "…Just not the truth."
"That is still a lie," I replied.
She exhaled slowly.
"…I hate that you're right."
She picked up the phone again.
Scrolled to the message.
Paused.
"…If I say no," she said, "…they'll push harder."
"Yes."
"…They'll ask why."
"Yes."
"…They might get suspicious."
"That is possible."
She nodded.
"…So this is the bad choice."
"No," I replied. "This is the first honest one."
She looked at me.
"…You're not worried."
"I am," I said. "But worry does not change correctness."
She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.
"…You really don't soften things."
"It would not help."
She stared at the screen again.
Her thumb hovered.
"…Okay," she said quietly.
Then she typed.
Not fast.Not hesitating either.
Just deliberate.
She read it once.
Didn't edit.
Sent.
The phone went still.
"…I said I'm not doing the post," she said. "…Not now."
"That is a refusal," I said.
"…I didn't explain."
"That is appropriate."
"…I just said I need time."
"Yes."
She leaned back against the sofa, eyes closing for a moment.
Her shoulders dropped.
Not relief.
Release.
"…That felt bigger than it should have," she admitted.
"First refusals often do," I replied.
She opened her eyes.
"…What happens now."
"They respond," I said. "And adjust their approach."
"…Which means."
"More pressure," I replied. "Different shape."
She nodded.
"…Okay."
Her hand pressed lightly where it had been resting.
"…I don't feel guilty," she said. "…Is that bad."
"No," I replied. "That is alignment."
She smiled faintly.
"…You make it sound like something clicked."
"It did," I said. "Even if you do not see it yet."
The phone buzzed once.
She didn't reach for it.
"…I already said no," she said. "…They can wait."
"Yes."
For the first time since the meeting, she looked steady.
Not calm.
Steady.
Outside, the pressure hadn't eased.
Inside, a line had been crossed.
And she hadn't looked back.