[Interior – Bedroom – 7:16 A.M.]
Minjae turned away like he couldn’t stand to look at Haneul.
“You’re unbelievable,” Haneul repeated, voice quieter this time. “After everything, you still want to pretend this was nothing?”
Minjae turned back. Cold. Controlled. Something bitter in his eyes.
“I’ve said this before,” he said, voice low and sharp. “I don’t do this love bullshit.”
Haneul flinched—but Minjae didn’t stop.
“I don’t hold hands. I don’t make promises. I fix things. I don’t fall in love with them.”
He stepped closer.
“So get that in your head.”
Haneul blinked, stunned. But Minjae kept going—voice rising, mask cracking.
“You think one night erases the fact that you’re a mess? That I should just forget the bruises, the drugs, the motel, the way you spiral every damn time someone doesn’t catch you fast enough?”
Each word hit like a slap. Haneul’s throat tightened.
“What do you think I’m supposed to do with that?” Minjae demanded. “Tell the world I fell for the broken boy with the tragic past and the pretty face? You want that headline?”
Silence.
Haneul looked away, breathing hard. The wound was wide open now.
“I never asked you to love me,” he whispered. “I just didn’t want to be disposable.”
Minjae’s lips parted—but no sound came out.
Because that was it.
That was the line.
And it landed like a blade.
“I see,” Haneul said, quietly, like he finally understood. “I was only ever something you needed to control.”
He reached for his clothes. Started dressing in silence.
Minjae watched. Said nothing.
Because the moment he opened his mouth, he knew it wouldn’t be cold anymore.
It would be real.
And he wasn’t ready for that.
[Interior – Bedroom – 7:29 A.M.]
The door shut behind Haneul.
The apartment was quiet again.
Too quiet.
Minjae stood frozen in the middle of the room, still half-dressed, the sheets still messy from the night before. He didn’t sit. Didn’t call after him. Didn’t move.
Just stared at the spot Haneul had been standing.
And then—
the past hit him like a sucker punch.
[FLASHBACK – 10 Years Ago – University Dorm Rooftop – 2:11 A.M.]
The city spread out like a graveyard of lights.
Minjae sat cross-legged on the roof, hoodie pulled over his head, camera resting beside him. Silent. Waiting.
Then footsteps.
Sungho.
He dropped down beside him without a word, offering a pack of convenience store strawberry milk. Minjae took it and unscrewed the cap. Didn’t drink.
“You okay?” Sungho asked, not looking at him.
Minjae shrugged.
“The film got cut,” he muttered. “Too raw, they said. Not marketable enough.”
Sungho smiled a little. “You mean it made them feel something.”
Minjae finally looked at him.
“You think that matters?”
Sungho turned. Eyes kind. Fierce.
“It’s the only thing that does.”
A pause.
Then Minjae whispered, “They want me to change everything. Make it cleaner. Pretend the story didn’t happen that way.”
“Don’t,” Sungho said immediately. “Don’t cut yourself out of your truth.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Minjae asked it—the thing he never asked anyone else.
“Do you ever feel like… if you showed someone the real version of you… they’d just leave?”
Sungho looked at him for a long time.
Then leaned in. Forehead pressed to Minjae’s. Quiet. Warm.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “Not ever.”
[Interior – Bedroom – Present – 7:31 A.M.]
Minjae blinked hard.
But the tears still burned.
He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands—the same position as that night in the ER.
Only now there was no nurse. No Sungho.
No one to stop him from breaking again.
Just the echo of a voice that had once promised not to leave…
And the footsteps of another that just did.
[Interior – Apartment Hallway – 7:32 A.M.]
The door slammed behind him.
And for a second — Haneul didn’t move.
His hand still gripped the doorknob, knuckles white, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.
Or crashed.
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t text anyone.
He just stood there — towel gone, dressed in the same jeans from last night, hoodie thrown over bare skin — and felt the heat of Minjae’s words still stinging under his skin.
“I don’t do love bullshit.”
“Get that in your head.”
“You’re a mess.”
“What do you think this is?”
He stepped back.
Then walked.
Down the hallway. Past the elevator. Down the stairs. One floor. Two. Didn’t stop.
Didn’t know where he was going.
He just needed out.
[Exterior – City Streets – 7:51 A.M.]
The sun had risen, but the city still felt cold.
Haneul’s hoodie wasn’t enough.
The bruises on his ribs throbbed with every step, and he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten since the club. Or the hospital. Or at all.
He crossed a street without looking.
A car honked.
He didn’t flinch.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it.
He was numb. Not drunk. Not high. Just empty.
He stopped at a crosswalk.
And all at once — the nausea hit.
Not physical.
Emotional.
The kind that makes your throat tighten. Your stomach clenches. Like shame is crawling up your spine and taking root behind your eyes.
He thought about how he looked last night. Towel. Whiskey. Desperate hands. Messy kisses. The way he whispered “I’m real, right?” was like some broken child asking for proof he existed.
He had handed himself to Minjae like an apology. Like a bribe.
And Minjae took it.
Then threw it back in his face with perfect, polished cruelty.
“I fix things. I don’t fall in love.”
[Interior – Café Bathroom – 8:04 A.M.]
He locked the door.
Turned on the faucet.
And stared at himself in the mirror.
His eyes were bloodshot. Lips cracked. A faint smear of last night’s eyeliner still clung to his lashes. He looked like a parody of someone who used to matter.
He splashed water on his face. It didn’t help.
He gripped the edge of the sink. Hard.
You’re not real to him.
You were just the scene he needed to fix.
Not the story he wanted to keep.
[Interior – Same Café – 8:15 A.M.]
He sat in the back, hoodie up, headphones in. A cup of coffee untouched in front of him. A blank page opens on his phone.
He didn’t know what he was writing.
But his fingers started typing anyway.
To survive is not the same as being saved.
To exist is not the same as being wanted.
And to love a man who only edits pain...
It is to become a scene he cuts when the clapping ends.
[Interior – Café – 8:34 A.M.]
The coffee had gone cold.
Haneul hadn’t touched it.
His phone screen dimmed, the unsent words still glowing faintly before they faded to black. He stared at his reflection on the screen.
Didn’t recognize himself.
His fingers twitched — like they wanted to delete the draft. Or send it to someone.
To Minjae.
He locked the phone instead.
Just like always — say nothing. Feel everything. Pretend it’s fine.
A group of students walked past his table, laughing, alive in a way that made his teeth clench. Their world didn’t feel like his anymore.
Maybe it never had.
He tugged his hood down lower and stood up.
[Exterior – City Side Street – 9:01 A.M.]
The streets were awake now. People rushing to work. Honking. Talking.
The noise made it easier to think.
Or harder.
He wasn’t sure.
He walked for blocks. No plan. No destination. Just movement.
He passed a window—mirrored—and paused.
The bruises along his neck were barely visible now. Just shadows. But he saw them. Felt them. They weren’t from Minjae. But they lived there now, in that space between pain and memory.
He thought of Jiho.
He thought of motel sheets.
He thought of Minjae, saying “I don’t do love.”
And for a moment, Haneul wanted to vanish. Not die. Not spiral.
Just… disappear.
[Interior – Studio Rooftop – 9:37 A.M.]
He found himself standing at the top of the agency building.
How he got past the locks, he didn’t remember. The roof access was supposed to be restricted.
But he was here.
Alone.
High above everything.
The city below looked almost beautiful from this height. Almost.
He walked to the edge.
Didn’t step over.
Didn’t want to.
But something inside him needed the wind, the space, the proof that he was still grounded.
That if he leaned forward, something—someone—would pull him back.
But no one was there.
And maybe that was the point.
He sat down. Legs folded. Arms around his knees.
And let the silence sit beside him.
[Interior – Studio Rooftop – 10:12 A.M.]
A single buzz from his phone.
A message.
From an unknown number.
“Of course you’d pull this shit now. You always wanted the spotlight. Next time, do it in private.” — J.H
Haneul stared at it.
Then blocked the number.
Tossed the phone across the rooftop.
It didn’t break. Just clattered. Rolled.
He buried his face in his arms.
And whispered to no one:
“I don’t want to be edited anymore.”
[Interior – Haneul’s Apartment – 6:17 P.M.]
Golden hour filtered through the windows, warm and cruel.
The kind of light that made everything look like it mattered.
But Haneul sat on the floor of his bedroom, knees drawn to his chest, staring at his phone.
His last post was still up:
“If life is supposed to feel like this, maybe I’m not meant to stay.”
No emojis. No filters. Just text.
Simple. Final.
His fingers had hovered over delete, but he didn’t press it.
Let them worry. Let them think. Maybe someone would finally ask what was wrong.
The silence screamed.
His gaze flicked to the dresser. A tie lay curled on top—navy, silk, one of Minjae’s.
Haneul stood.
I picked it up.
Walked into the closet.
The air was still.
Too still.
[Cut to – Minjae’s Office – 6:19 P.M.]
Phone in hand. DMs are flooding in.
“Minjae-hyung, is this true?”
“Did Haneul just…”
“Check his Instagram, please—this isn’t normal.”
His chest went tight before he even opened the app.
And when he saw the post, something inside him cracked.
No caption. Just that one sentence.
But it was the light in the photo. That hour. That glow.
Minjae didn’t think.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t grab his coat.
He just ran.
[Interior – Haneul’s Apartment Building – 6:32 P.M.]
The elevator was slow. Too slow.
So Minjae took the stairs—three at a time, lungs burning, heart ricocheting in his ribs.
Sungho’s name pounded through his skull.
Don’t let it happen again.
Not this time.
Not again.
[Interior – Haneul’s Apartment – 6:35 P.M.]
He didn’t knock.
He used the manager’s spare key.
Burst inside.
“Haneul!”
Silence.
Then—
A creak from the bedroom.
Minjae sprinted.
And there—
Inside the closet—
Haneul’s feet barely touched the ground.
The tie was wrapped tight.
Eyes dazed.
Face turning pale blue.
Minjae didn’t scream.
Didn’t freeze.
He grabbed the shoulders.
Held him up.
Fingers fumbled at the knot.
Tore it open with raw desperation.
“Haneul—breathe—breathe, damn it!”
Haneul coughed. Choked. Air came in like fire.
His body collapsed forward into Minjae’s arms.
The tie hit the floor.
So did Minjae.
Cradling him.
Shaking.
Silent.
Because eleven years ago, Sungho had jumped.
And all Minjae could do was watch.
But this time…
This time, he held on.
[Interior – Hospital Room – 7:09 P.M.]
Beeping monitors. Sterile air.
Minjae sat in the dark, his suit jacket balled under his head.
Haneul was still.
Pale. Tubes taped to his arms. Bruising around his throat.
His chest rose. Fell.
Minjae hadn’t moved in hours. He couldn’t.
Because if he moved, it meant the moment was real. And that Haneul had meant it.
He whispered, hoarse, “You almost left.”
And beneath that:
So did he. And I couldn’t stop him.
[Montage – The Next Two Months]
Day 4. The press found out.
Headlines flooded the internet:
“Rising Actor Haneul Hospitalized After Alleged Suicide Attempt”
“Agency Declines to Comment—Minjae-ssi Nowhere to Be Seen”Day 6. Fans lit up Twitter. Some blamed drugs. Others blamed Jiho.
The conspiracy threads spread like wildfire.Day 12. Minjae issued a single statement:
“Haneul is alive. He is recovering. That is all that matters.”
And vanished again.Day 21. Hospital cameras caught him leaving at 4 A.M., face gaunt, stubble along his jaw.
Uncharacteristically undone.
It went viral.Day 38. He stopped wearing tailored suits.
No more gel in his hair.
Just sweatshirts and quiet rage.
He still showed up to the agency—but never smiled.
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