[Interior – Hospital Room – Day 64 – Morning]

It was raining.

And then—

Haneul moved.

First a twitch.

Then a full gasp.

His eyes opened. Unfocused.

The ceiling was white. The air is sterile.

Minjae jolted awake in the chair.

“Haneul,” he whispered, standing. His voice cracked. “You’re awake.”

Haneul blinked. His throat burned. His neck ached.

But he saw Minjae.

Saw the worry lines. The weight loss.

And the way he looked at him like he was afraid to breathe.

“…Why are you crying?” Haneul rasped.

Minjae didn’t realize he was.

Tears streamed freely.

“Because,” he whispered, stepping closer, “I didn’t think I’d get to hear your voice again.”

[Interior – Press Room – Two Weeks Later]

The flashbulbs were blinding.

Cameras rolled. Journalists shifted.

Minjae sat beside Haneul on stage, a hand over the mic.

Behind them, the agency’s logo gleamed.

And Haneul… looked numb.

Pale makeup. Turtleneck hiding the bruises. His hands were clasped in his lap like he was trying not to disappear.

He bowed.

“I want to apologize to everyone who believed in me,” he said, voice trembling. “To my fans, my team, and my family.”

A camera clicked.

“I didn’t try to die because I was ungrateful. I did it because I felt like… like I wasn’t real anymore. Like my life was being lived for me.”

The room was silent.

Minjae didn’t look at him. But his jaw tightened.

“I’m getting help now,” Haneul added. “And I’m not perfect. But I’m trying. I promise I’m trying.”

He bowed again, lower this time.

Haneul didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The ache in his throat said it all—

He’d survived. But he didn’t know who he was anymore.

[Interior – Car – Later That Night]

The city was quiet again.

Haneul leaned back in the seat, eyes closed.

“Was that enough?” he asked. “Did I make them believe it?”

Minjae didn’t answer right away.

Just glanced at him, then back at the road.

“No,” he said. “But they don’t need to believe it.”

He paused.

“I just need you to.”

[Interior – Agency Hallway – Late Afternoon]

Click. Click. Click.

Phone cameras.

Whispers.

The world watched him through screens again.

Haneul stepped out of the van in a black hoodie and sunglasses, head low. Minjae walked beside him, silent, unreadable.

The front door of the agency opened.

Someone inside whispered, “He doesn’t look sorry at all.”

[Online – Comments Section of a News Article]

“Han Haneul’s Apology: Too Little, Too Late?”

“미친 거 아냐? 목매는 척으로 동정심 사려는 거지.”

(“Is he crazy? Pretending to hang himself just for sympathy.”)

“저딴 게 배우라고? 퇴출시켜라.”

(“That thing is an actor? Kick him out.”)

“기회 몇 번을 줬는데 또 사고냐. 쉴드 불가.”

(“How many chances does he get? Another scandal. No defense this time.”)

“엄마한테 그렇게 배우랬냐?”

(“Did your mom teach you to act like that?”)

[Interior – Agency Dorm – 5:03 P.M.]

Haneul sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at his phone.

New headline:

“Agency Releases Statement: Haneul's Mental Health ‘Fragile But Recovering’”

He laughed once—dry, empty.

The phone rang.

엄마 (Mom).

He hesitated.

Answered.

엄마: “한하늘. 너 지금 뭐하는 짓이야?”

(“Han Haneul. What the hell are you doing?”)

Haneul: “엄마…”

(“Mom…”)

엄마: “우릴 또 망신줬어. 가족이란 게 부끄러워 죽겠어.”

(“You embarrassed us again. I’m ashamed to even call you family.”)

In the background, he heard his brother scoff.

형 (Older brother): “저 놈은 태어났을 때부터 문제였어.”

(“He’s been a problem since the day he was born.”)

누나 (Older sister): “이젠 네가 뭘 하든 아무도 놀라지 않아. 항상 똑같아.”

(“No one’s surprised anymore, whatever you do. It’s always the same.”)

엄마: “너 때문에 우리가 어떻게 살아가냐. 돈이 다가 아니야, 하늘아. 넌 쓰레기야.”

(“How are we supposed to live with this? Money isn’t everything, Haneul. You’re trash.”)

Click.

The call ended.

Haneul didn’t cry.

He just stared.

[FLASHBACK – 12 Years Ago – One-Room Apartment – Winter]

A young Haneul sat at a scratched-up table. His mom yelled at his dad in the kitchen. His older siblings sat on the couch, homework in their laps, warm jackets donated by a church.

Haneul didn’t have one.

Just a worn sweater with holes in the sleeves.

His sister got scouted for a dance company.

His brother tested into a science school.

He got caught stealing a snack from the corner store.

“You’re the only useless one,” his mom had snapped back then. “Always needing more. Always causing more.”

He remembered the exact sound her spoon made hitting the metal sink.

It echoed.

[Present – Agency Dorm – 5:14 P.M.]

He turned the phone screen off.

Minjae stood by the doorway, arms crossed. He’d heard enough.

But Haneul didn’t want comfort.

He wanted silence.

And maybe, if it got quiet enough—

He’d remember what it felt like to be worth something.