He must’ve fallen asleep in the car.
The last thing he remembered was staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror—fingers numb around the steering wheel. Too exhausted to cry. Too wired to move.
The rest was a blur.
Maybe he drove to the hotel without realizing it.
Maybe Minjae found him.
He didn’t know.
All he knew was he wasn’t in the car anymore.
Same silence.
Same weight.
Different bed.

The morning light was merciless.
It streamed through the blinds like punishment, highlighting every bruise, every smear of leftover makeup, every fine line under his eyes that concealer couldn’t erase.
The hotel suite smelled like silence and regret.
He sat up slowly, muscles stiff like he’d slept with his fists clenched. The sheets were twisted around his legs, half on the floor—like he’d been fighting something in his sleep.
His mouth was dry. His chest felt hollow.
And for a second, he didn’t know where he was.
Until he saw the curtains. The untouched glass of water. The silence wasn’t silent — just heavy, thick, waiting.
He rubbed his face. Makeup smeared on his fingertips like dirt.
How had he gotten here?
The parking lot. The cigarette.
The ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
Then —
Nothing.
Just this room. This bed. This morning.
And the pressure of something he couldn’t name pushing against his ribs from the inside.

His phone buzzed.
MINJAE: 9 AM. Rehearsal room. Don’t be late. Don’t make me find you.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Minjae would know he saw it. He always knew.

By the time Haneul got to the rehearsal hall, Minjae was already there — clipboard in hand, talking to the stage director like he hadn’t pressed Haneul down into a mattress less than twelve hours ago.
“You’re late,” Minjae said.
“Three minutes.”
“Three too many.”
He tossed a script toward him.
“Page 14. Let’s see if you can still be someone else.”

The mask slid on effortlessly.
Lines flowed. Emotions snapped into place. He cried on cue, smiled through heartbreak, bled make-believe tears, and shattered fake hearts.
The staff whispered about his brilliance.
Only Minjae didn’t clap.
He just said, “Again.”
So Haneul did it. Again.
And again.
Until his voice cracked and his knees buckled on the final fall.
Minjae’s voice: “You’re improving.”
Then, quieter: “Pain becomes you.”
Haneul dropped the script and went to grab some water.
Minjae came up to him and said, “Conference room in 5 minutes.”

[Conference Room – 10:14 A.M.]
The lights were too bright. Again.
Minjae sat at the head of the table, folders stacked neatly, a pen between his fingers. His suit was sharp, but the look on his face was sharper.
Haneul took the seat across from him.
Minjae didn’t look up. “How’s your throat?”
“Fine,” Haneul muttered.
“I could hear the strain by Take Six. You need vocal rest.”
“I need a break.”
Minjae raised an eyebrow. “You don’t get breaks. You get directives.”
He opened a folder and slid a thick, formal document stamped with the agency seal toward Haneul.
Haneul’s chest tightened. “What is this?”
Minjae leaned back. “Your new contract.”
Silence.
Haneul stared at the cover page but didn’t open it. “I already have a contract.”
“That one protects your career,” Minjae said. “This one protects you.”
A pause.
Then Haneul’s voice — flat, bitter: “Or just you.”
Minjae didn’t deny it. “You’re spiraling. Too many scandals. Too many distractions. You want to stay at the top? Let me clean the house.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
Minjae finally looked at him, steady, unreadable. “You didn’t have to.”
Haneul flipped through the pages. Cold fingers. Tight chest.
Then he stopped.

PRIVATE COMPLIANCE — lines 32, 33, and 34.
Each line was more invasive than the last. More intimate.
A leash dressed in legal terms.
“You’re serious,” Haneul said.
“I always am.”
“This is insane.”
“It’s effective.”
“You’re trying to own me.”
“No,” Minjae said, voice like ice. “I’m making you unbreakable.”
Haneul let the contract drop onto the table with a dull thud.
“And if I refuse?”
Minjae stood. Walked behind him. Leaned in.
“You won’t.”
That voice. That breath. That certainty.
“You’ll read every page,” Minjae said, low. “You’ll sign it. Because somewhere between the red carpet and the mirror this morning, you realized something.”
Haneul’s jaw clenched. “What?”
Minjae opened the door and looked back.
“That you’ve never been safer than when I’m the one pulling your strings.”
He left.
And this time, the silence stayed behind with Haneul.

[Minutes Later – Dressing Room]
The contract sat in his lap. Heavy.
He flipped through the pages again.
His name was printed at the top. The signature line at the bottom. A space he wasn’t ready to fill.
But he didn’t throw it away.
Didn’t tear it. Didn’t hide it.
He just stared at it.
Like it was a mirror.
Like he already knew how the story ended.
Then the knock came.
Minjae’s clipped voice: “Change of plans. Paparazzi out front. You’re going through the lobby.”
Haneul looked up. “Why?”
“You need to be seen.”
“I’m not your puppet.”
“No,” Minjae said through the door. “You’re the performance.”

[Lobby – 11:12 A.M.]
The doors opened.
The flashes were blinding.
Shouts. Screams. Questions flung like daggers.
“Haneul! Over here!”
“Is it true you fought your ex in public?”
“Who’s the man managing you now? Is it romantic?”
“Who was the man with you last week?”

He smiled.
Picture-perfect.
But then—
A voice sliced through the noise.
“아직도 피해자인 척 하고 있네?”
(Ajikdo pihaejain cheok hago inne?)
"Still pretending you’re the victim?"
Jiho.
Smirking. Loud enough for every mic to catch it.
“내가 다 가르쳐줬는데, 이게 네 보답이야?”
(Naega da gareuchyeojwonneunde, ige ne bodapiya?)
“I taught you everything, and this is how you repay me?”
Jiho leaned in.
“새 매니저한텐 말했어? 아니면 내가 직접 보여줄까?”
(Sae maenijeohanten malhaesseo? Animyeon naega jikjeop boyeojulkka?)
“Did you tell your new manager about the videos? Or should I remind him?”
Haneul didn’t respond; he just clenched his fist.
Then, a hand grabbed Haneul’s arm.
Minjae. Ice-cold fury.
“This conversation is over.”
Jiho scoffed. “매니저 겸 남자친구? 웃기네.”
(Maenijeo gyeom namjachingu? Utgine.)
“Manager-slash-boyfriend? Cute.”
“One more word,” Minjae said in Korean, low and lethal, “and I’ll leak your contract.”
“그 NDA랑 합의서 다 공개할까?”
(Geu NDArang habwiseo da gonggaehalkka?)
“The NDA. The hush money. Should I make them public?”
Jiho paled.
He walked away.

[Back in the Dressing Room – 1:11 P.M.]
Haneul sat with his back against the mirror, knees drawn up, the contract abandoned beside him. Jiho’s voice still echoed in his ears like poison.
The door opened.
He didn’t look.
Minjae stepped in and locked it behind him.
Silence stretched.
Then, quietly:
“괜찮아?”
(Gwaenchana?)
"Are you okay?"
Haneul let out a dry laugh. Bitter. Small. “네가 왜 물어?”
(Nega wae mureo?)
"Why do you care?"
Minjae didn’t move. Just stood there, like he was waiting for something to shatter.
“그 자식 다시는 안 건드릴 거야.”
(Geu jasik dasineun an geondeuril geoya.)
"He won’t touch you again."
Haneul looked up sharply. “넌 그걸 어떻게 알아?”
(Neon geugeol eotteoke ara?)
"How do you know?"
Minjae crouched, meeting him at eye level.
“왜냐하면… 내가 지켜보고 있었거든.”
(Waenyahamyeon... naega jikyeobogo isseotgeodeun.)
"Because I’ve been watching."
Haneul’s chest tightened. “언제부터?”
(Eonjebuteo?)
"Since when?"
Minjae didn’t hesitate. “네가 나를 처음 무시했을 때부터.”
(Nega nareul cheoeum musihayeosseul ttaebuteo.)
"Since the first time you ignored me."
The air between them thickened.
“넌 미쳤어.”
(Neon michyeosseo.)
"You’re insane."
Minjae leaned in slightly.
“너도.”
(Neo do.)
"So are you."
A long pause.
Then, almost too soft:
“근데 넌 나한테 올 거야.”
(Geunde neon nahante ol geoya.)
"But you’ll come to me."
Haneul’s throat tightened. His eyes burned.
“왜?”
(Wae?)
"Why?"
Minjae rose to his feet slowly, looking down at him, not cruel, not smug. Just sure.
“왜냐면… 아무도 너를 이렇게 알아주지 않으니까.”
(Waenyamyeon… amudo neoreul ireohke arajwoji anheunikka.)
"Because no one else sees you like I do."
He turned. Walked to the door.
The lock clicked shut behind him.

[Late Afternoon, Private Dorm Hallway]
Haneul stayed seated on the dressing room floor long after Minjae left.
He didn’t cry.
He didn’t speak.
He just stared at the contract on the floor, open to the signature line, as if it might blink first.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.
Eventually, he stood and drifted through the agency halls like a ghost.
No one stopped him. No one looked.
He passed idols rehearsing, assistants typing, fans crowding outside the glass.
None of it touched him.
Not anymore.

[Interior – Haneul’s Apartment – Evening]
The key stuck in the lock like it always did. The hallway behind him was silent.
He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving. No schedule. No press. No Minjae.
He stepped inside. Too clean. Too still.
Dropped his bag. Kicked off his shoes. Didn’t bother with the lights.
The city lights poured through the window—red, white, neon blue—washing the room in a cold artificial glow.
He moved like someone underwater, heavy and numb. Halfway to the kitchen when—
“You’re finally home.”

That voice. That fucking voice.
Haneul froze mid-step.
Jiho leaned against the window frame like nothing had changed — like he hadn’t just humiliated him in front of the world. Like he belonged here. Like this was his.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Haneul growled.

Jiho smiled, soft and smug. “You haven’t answered me in weeks. I got worried.”

“Bullshit,” Haneul snapped, slamming his keys onto the counter. “You’re not worried. You’re obsessed.”

“I missed you.”

“You missed control.”

Jiho’s eyes narrowed — just a flicker — but Haneul didn’t stop.

“You show up at my job, ambush me in front of paparazzi, humiliate me in front of Minjae, and then break into my apartment like we’re still—” His voice cracked with fury. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You still keep your spare key under the fire extinguisher,” Jiho said coolly. “That told me everything I needed to know.”

“It told you I forgot to erase you.” Haneul stormed closer, chest heaving. “You think because I’m tired, because I’m unraveling, you can just slide back in and own me again?”

Jiho didn’t flinch. “I never stopped owning you.”

Something snapped.

Haneul shoved him. Hard.

Jiho hit the wall with a dull thud but just laughed — low and breathy — like this was foreplay.

“Still got fire,” he said, licking his lip where it split. “Good.”

“Get out,” Haneul growled.

“Make me.”

Haneul didn’t think.

He moved.

Grabbed Jiho by the collar and slammed him against the wall again, harder this time, breathing wildly. Jiho’s hands found his waist like muscle memory.

“You think this means you win?” Haneul hissed, voice shaking with rage. “You think you can say one sorry little line and I’ll fall into your lap again?”

“No,” Jiho whispered. “I think you’re already there.”

Their mouths crashed together.

Violent. Breathless. Raw.

It wasn’t a kiss — it was a war. Teeth, heat, punishment. Haneul bit Jiho’s lip until he tasted blood. Jiho dragged his nails down Haneul’s back hard enough to leave marks.

They stumbled down the hall, knocking into walls, not caring. Clothes ripped, buttons scattered like confetti, hands desperate and furious.

They collapsed onto the bed like a car crash—nothing gentle, nothing soft.

Only need.

Only noise.

Only sex.

[Time Skip – Later That Night – Bedroom]
The bed was cold again.
Even with Jiho beside him.
Haneul lay on his side, facing away. His breathing had slowed, but the fire in his chest hadn’t gone out.
Jiho lit a cigarette, naked under the covers, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like it meant something.
“You still let people fuck you like you’re trying to disappear,” he said.
No warmth. No guilt.
Just a fact.
Haneul didn’t answer.
Because Jiho was right.
Because he hated that Jiho was right.
Because it hurt too much to speak.

[Minjae’s Office – Same Time]
The room was dark, save for the glow of his laptop screen.
The footage had no sound — it didn’t need it.
Minjae watched in silence as the security camera replayed the same ten seconds over and over:
Jiho is entering Haneul’s apartment building.
7:42 p.m.
Hands in his pockets. Sunglasses on, even after sunset. Smiling like he’d already won.
Minjae didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t even exhale.
Click. The camera switched angles.
Jiho leaving.
10:36 p.m.
Shirt inside out. The collar wrinkled. Hair fucked beyond repair.
Still smiling.
Like Haneul had let him back in — not just into the apartment.
But into him.
Minjae closed the laptop slowly. Deliberately.
Leaning back in his chair, one hand pressed to his temple like he could force the tension out. But he couldn’t.
Because he knew.
Haneul had disobeyed.
He’d broken the unspoken rule.
He’d gone back to the very thing Minjae had promised to erase.
Minjae stared at the wall for a long time, eyes unfocused.
Then whispered, barely audible:
“You let him mark you.”
His jaw clenched. The emotion wasn’t jealousy. Not quite.
It was a betrayal.
But not the kind that hurt.
The kind that clarified.
Minjae opened the drawer to his right.
Pulled out a folder — black, leather-bound, labeled COMPLIANCE in embossed gold.
Inside was a second version of the contract. Stricter. Sharper. Less suggestion, more command.
He slid it onto the desk.
Beside it, a flash drive.
Inside that drive? Footage. Screenshots. Witness accounts.
Enough to crush Jiho’s image, bury his legacy, erase him.
But Minjae hadn’t moved yet.
He just stared at both objects.
Then, without breaking eye contact with the folder, he picked up his phone and sent one message:

MINJAE → HANEUL:
"My office. Tomorrow. 6 a.m. Don’t make me come get you."

He put the phone down.
Smiled.
Cold. Patient. Ruthless.
“You disobeyed,” he said again.
“So now you’ll learn what it means to be mine.”

[Haneul’s Apartment – Next Morning, 5:37 AM]
The sheets were cold.
Haneul woke up to silence—real silence this time. The kind that came after a mistake.
He sat up slowly, blinking at the dull light bleeding through the windows. His body ached. His heart felt worse.
He reached for his phone, expecting nothing.
But there it was.
A single notification from Minjae.

11:03 PM — MINJAE:
"My office. Tomorrow. 6 a.m. Don’t make me come get you."

Haneul stared at it for a second, pulse kicking up.

[ Agency Hallway – 5:58 A.M. ]
The building was half asleep. Lights dim. Staff not yet in.
Only one office glowed with life.

Haneul stood in front of Minjae’s door, chest heaving, heart in his throat.
He knocked once.
The door opened without a word.

Then he looked at the time.
5:37 AM.
“Shit.”
He threw off the blanket, scrambling to his feet. His apartment was a mess. His mind worsened.
He dashed into the bathroom—splashed water on his face, scrubbed at bruises, tried to erase the night from his skin.
Toothbrush. Mouthwash. Concealer. Cologne.
Every motion rushed, jittery, desperate.
He caught his reflection in the mirror—eyes hollow, lips swollen, shame painted like makeup.
There wasn’t time to think.
He grabbed the contract from the counter, shoved it into his bag, and ran out the door.

[Minjae’s Office – 6:02 A.M. ]