The light in the meeting room had begun its late-afternoon slide, slanting across the table and catching the edges of laptops and notepads in a golden flare. Seo-jin sat with her team along one side, posture composed, pen aligned with her notebook. She’d been steady all day, structured, efficient, focused, in ready for now.

The director stood at the head of the table, smile already prepared as the door opened and Jang Min-su stepped in. Everyone rose.

Min-su entered, his smile warm. He extended a hand toward the director with a bow just slight enough to show respect but not ritual. He was perhaps in his mid-fifties. A few shocks of grey in his hairline at his temple. Stylish in an understated way, clearly in tailored clothing, but nothing that shouted at you.

“Mr. Jang,” the director greeted. “Please, have a seat.”

“Min-su is fine, please,” he replied. “You’re making me feel old.”

Polite laughter rippled. He took his seat gracefully, the sort of man who always left a chair exactly as he found it.

“Something to drink, perhaps? Coffee? Tea?” the director offered.

“Water will be perfect, thank you.”

Seo-jin reached across and poured it before the intern could move. She placed the glass carefully onto the coaster before him. Min-su offered her a nod, gentle, familiar. “Thank you.”

The director cleared his throat lightly. “I thought your team might be joining you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. They should be just behind me,” Min-su replied. “Needed to put out a few design fires first. It happens.”

As if summoned, there was a knock. Min-su leaned slightly back in his chair, arching a look over his shoulder, more for display than an actual need to see who was there. “That should be them.”

The door opened. The room stood again to greet the new arrivals.

Hyun-woo entered first. Helmet in one hand, courier bag looped over the opposite shoulder. He scanned the room in a single sweep. When his eyes landed on Seo-jin, they didn’t leave immediately. She felt it. Just before the bow, he dropped his gaze and turned toward the director. Respectful. Perfectly timed.

She responded a beat too late. Out of rhythm. Do-yeon’s subtle shift beside her said she noticed. So did Sang-wook’s side glance.

Soo-hyun followed, his posture loose, grin already loaded. Min-su gestured with a hint of pride. “Here they are. Don’t let their entrances fool you, they’re brilliant, just sometimes a handful to corral.”

There was a light laughter.

“Gentlemen.” the director said, “Please, join us.” He gestured to the chairs on either side of Min-su. They sat, Hyun-woo across from Seo-jin, meeting her gaze with a composure that felt too studied to be casual.

“Good to meet you all,” he said, polite and low. “Looking forward to the collaboration.”

Soo-hyun leaned forward on one elbow, already smirking. “Seo-jin. What a surprise.”

She nodded, neutral, heart loud in her chest. The director glanced between them, eyebrows raised. “You two know each other?” She opened her mouth, but Soo-hyun beat her there.

“Oh, she knows Hyun-woo alright.” A beat. “The real question is, did she recognise him last night?”

The air pinched. Do-yeon choked softly on her coffee. Seo-jin kept still. No reaction. No correction. But her fingers curled tighter against the edge of her notebook.

“Soo-hyun.” Min-su said calmly, voice soft, but weighty. Like a rope gently pulled taut.

Seo-jin exhaled. “We crossed paths. That’s all.” Hyun-woo didn’t shift. Didn’t smile. His stillness said enough.

“Well,” the director said, oblivious but delighted, “familiarity makes teamwork smoother.”

Soo-hyun grinned wider. “Absolutely. I’m sure Seo-jin is thrilled to work side by side again.”

“Soo-hyun,” Min-su repeated. This time firmer. The tone of a man who rarely used reprimands, and so didn’t need to repeat them often. Hyun-woo finally stepped in.

“Let’s focus on the project,” he said evenly, not defensive, not evasive. Just unshakeable.

Min-su offered the room a small smile. “Forgive them. I keep them for their minds, not their subtlety.”

The director chuckled. “Which one of them?”

A ripple of laughter followed, except from Seo-jin and Hyun-woo. Their silence was audible. The moment fractured. The room shuffled forward. As if to break the silence, the director clapped his hands softly. “Let’s crack on then, shall we?”

Seo-jin reached for her pen. It slipped from her hand. Clicked against the edge of the table. Fell. Bounced once. Before she could move, Hyun-woo leaned forward and retrieved it. Placed it back onto the table in front of her with familiar, deliberate precision. Exactly like before.

Her fingers didn’t move toward it right away. She just looked at it for too long. Do-yeon noticed.

Soo-hyun leaned back again, murmuring under his breath, just enough to carry: “Well. That’s nostalgic.”

Sang-wook let out a short, sharp breath, caught between incredulity and amusement. Min-su’s gaze swept toward Soo-hyun, a third warning, the stare much firmer than the spoken ones. Now, the grin dropped. Soo-hyun leaned forward, back into the posture of someone pretending to focus.

Seo-jin picked up the pen. Straightened. Said nothing.

The meeting continued. On paper, it was productive. In posture, it was a war fought with stillness.

The meeting ended with polite handshakes and reassurances that follow-up material would be shared before the end of the day. But something still clung to the room, just beneath the surface.

Now, outside the meeting room, the teams faced one another in the hall. Formalities resumed. Min-su stepped forward first, bowing. “Thank you again for hosting us,” he said, voice low and warm. “We’re excited for what’s ahead.”

The director returned the bow, dipping slightly lower. “Likewise. It’s a privilege to work alongside you.” Seo-jin followed her team’s lead, bowing at the same time as the others, shoulders level, eyes down. It was the kind of practised gesture she’d performed a hundred times. But this time, it felt... slower.

Across from her, Hyun-woo’s form mirrored hers. Perfect angle. Unshaken stillness. Soo-hyun offered a more casual bow, his grin still hovering, though softer now. Maybe even a touch thoughtful.

Min-su clapped Hyun-woo once on the shoulder in passing, a quiet gesture of camaraderie. To the team as a whole, he said, “I’m glad we’re in good hands.”

The Mirage group moved down the hall, footsteps measured, voices low. They watched them leave until the soft click of the door closed behind them. Seo-jin stood a moment longer then turned back to the room, exhaling through her nose, her expression smoothing back into order.

She left the others and walked back into the office. Fast. Too fast. Past the soft click of keyboards and polite chatter, her heels struck the office floor like a staccato rattle. Her shoulders carved a straight line through the air, expression so composed it almost looked sculpted.

Then, without pause, she deviated from her line to pass the bin and flung the pen. It clattered against the wall and skidded onto the carpet. She didn't break her stride, didn’t look back.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door clicked shut behind her. Seo-jin stepped into the far stall, locked it, and leaned against the cool steel door like it might hold her up. She pressed her palms into the door, breath caught between control and collapse. Her heart was trying to outrun her ribcage. The ceiling tiles above were new and bleach white. She stared up and past their glare.

Do-yeon was close behind Seo-jin. She had walked in and seen her enter the last stall. She walked up to the locked door and stood in front. “Alright,” Do-yeon's voice floated into the stall, soft and unshaken. “You’re either stress vomiting or hiding. Either way, not ideal.”

A gentle tap on the stall door. Then silence. Then her name. “Seo-jin?”

Seo-jin closed her eyes. Her mouth said, “I’m fine.” But the words landed flat. Toneless. 

Do-yeon, ever patient. “Want to try again?”

Seo-jin exhaled slowly. Made a show of steadiness. “It’s just the project. Fast turnaround. High stakes. Nothing unusual.”

Another pause. Do-yeon, gently. “Right. Because you’ve never handled a high-stakes project before.”

Seo-jin said nothing.

“Look,” Do-yeon added, voice softening further. “Whatever this is, it’s clearly more than just work. I’m not prying. I’m just saying. You don’t have to white-knuckle it alone.”

Inside the stall, Seo-jin’s hand found the lock, slid it open with a click. Do-yeon waited, then eased the door open. There was a beat of silence before she reached out, offering the pen, held between thumb and forefinger, like it still carried weight.

“You dropped this,” she said.

Seo-jin took it, closing her eyes as she did, snatched more than received. Her voice barely held shape.

“I didn’t drop it.”

Do-yeon’s reply came quickly, without hesitation.

“I know.”

The hum of the underground car park swallowed them whole as they stepped out of the lift, a cavernous space filled with the silent promises of escape. The outside street noises found their way into the carpark through the opening at the top of the ramp. 

Min-su, usually bustling, was already halfway to his car when he stopped dead, his shoes squeaking on the polished concrete. He turned, a sudden spark of recognition igniting his features as he looked at Hyun-woo and Soo-hyun.

"Wait a minute," Min-su mused, his voice carrying in the echoing space. "Seo-jin... Lee Seo-jin?"

Hyun-woo, already moving to organise his courier bag for his motorbike, barely reacted. His gaze remained unwavering, fixed on the task. But Soo-hyun, ever the instigator, vibrated with glee. A wide grin spread across his face even before the words tumbled out.

"Aha," Soo-hyun crowed, "You remember now. Took you long enough, didn't it?"

Min-su shook his head with a chuckle. "Come on. It was dark in that bar last night. But it's her right?" His eyes flicked between Hyun-woo, who was now slinging his bag behind him in preparation for his ride, and the clearly amused Soo-hyun.

Hyun-woo remained silent, his gaze fixed on some point beyond them, a controlled indifference. Soo-hyun, however, was enjoying the moment far too much. He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper.

"Not just last night," he began, relishing every syllable. "Years. History. A full, tragic tale, one for the books..."

Before Soo-hyun could elaborate, Hyun-woo turned, his movement precise and deliberate. His eyes locked onto Soo-hyun's. It wasn't a glare, it was something far more potent: a quiet, unwavering stare that stripped away the humour. Soo-hyun's words died in his throat. He shifted slightly, but Hyun-woo didn't move, didn't blink. The silence stretched for a long beat. Then, Soo-hyun broke, clearing his throat again, a nervous cough. "Right. Moving on."

Min-su, not so oblivious to the deeper undercurrent, let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Wow. Hit a nerve there."

Hyun-woo finally spoke, his voice calm, measured, devoid of any discernible emotion. "We should focus on the collaboration."

"Right as ever, Hyun-woo. Focus!" Min-su declared, slapping his thigh with a laugh that felt a touch too loud and awkward in the sudden tension.

Hyun-woo didn't respond. He pulled his helmet over his head, clicked the visor into place like a final seal. He pulled on his gloves, the leather moulding to his hands. Then, without another word, he strode to his BMW R80 cafe racer, a classic machine that looked timeless and dangerous. 

Hyun-woo hit the start button. The engine coughed, a dry, grating sound, then died. He exhaled slowly through his nose, a single, controlled puff of air, before hitting the button again. This time, the engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that filled the underground space. Without another word, Hyun-woo slammed it into gear, twisted the throttle and sped out of the garage, the sharp rev of the bike echoing through the air. Faster than necessary.

Min-su and Soo-hyun watched him go. Soo-hyun shook his head slightly, muttering under his breath, a soft, almost wistful sound. "One day. One day, this wall he’s built is gonna crack. There's no foundation!"

Min-su raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as he watched the tail lights vanish up the ramp. "Interesting."

Soo-hyun’s smile, though still present, seemed to hold a new layer of knowing. He spoke louder now and to Min-su "Either too much control, or none at all."

Min-su turned and walked towards his car, leaving Soo-hyun standing alone in the parking lot. He watched Min-su open the door, get in and start the car. As the car pulled away Soo-hyun pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, tossing it lightly in the air. On the third release, he threw it a little higher. He made to catch it, then, with a sudden, whimsical change of heart, drew his hands away quickly, letting it drop to the concrete with a soft clatter. A faint smile played on his lips as he headed towards his own car.

Hyun-woo's motorbike cut through the city, the roar of the engine a controlled, steady hum beneath him. He wove effortlessly between the late-night traffic, a dark blur against the neon glow of Seoul's sprawling avenues. His speed wasn't reckless; it was deliberate, a way to outrun the echoes of a past he’d carefully sealed away.

He pulled into his underground parking garage, the familiar concrete expanse swallowing the roar of his engine as he killed it. Silence rushed in, thick and immediate, a stark contrast to the city's symphony he'd just left behind.

He removed his helmet, running a hand through his hair, the gesture slow, almost weary. A long exhale escaped him, held too long before he finally released it, as if letting go of something he'd been carrying.

His apartment offered a panoramic Seoul skyline view, a glittering expanse of light and steel. It housed exactly what he needed. Open plan living that held his kitchen, dining and living areas. To either side of this space was a bedroom and home office. Each space defined by its functional requirement. Nothing more, nothing less. No object lingered with meaning. Everything served a function. Nothing invoked a memory. There was no warmth, no scattered clutter, no presence beyond himself. It was a space designed for function, not for living.

As he entered, he slipped his boots from his feet, placed them into a shoe rack, put on his slippers, and as he walked through the tiny hallway, placed his keys on the counter, the small clink echoing in the quiet. 

He walked to the fridge and opened it. Empty shelves, save for bottled water, a few protein shakes. Nothing personal, no half-eaten leftovers, no condiments hinting at a meal cooked with care. He stood for a moment, staring into the cold glow, his focus drawn to a single bottle of Soju tucked away on a lower shelf. He reached out, his fingers hovering, but then, slowly, deliberately, he removed a bottle of water instead. He closed the door, the click final, definitive.