Chapter 1

Ashes

Hong Kong had become a strange kind of refuge. The city never stopped moving, lights chasing each other across glass towers, the clamor of ferries and trams filling every hour, but somehow, in that chaos, V had found the space to breathe. He had walked its streets as if they belonged to someone else, watched the sun rise from Victoria Peak and sink behind the harbor, and let the world move on without him.

He had promised himself he would not disappear. He had also promised himself he would survive.

To the best of the LMC’s knowledge, that was exactly what he had done. When he met with Soojin and Han before leaving, he told them what they needed to hear, that he was going abroad to shoot, a long-term overseas project. He begged them not to ask for more. And they hadn’t. He was grateful for that silence, more than he could ever say. Perhaps they had seen something in his face, something too raw, too close to breaking. Perhaps they understood that pressing him would only make him run further away. So they carried that silence for him. Passed it along dutifully to the rest.

The film, Ashes of the Road, was released a month ago. A drama with thriller and action undertones. It followed three central characters whose lives had been shattered by a single accident years before.

V’s character was one of the three leads—an anchor to the story’s tension, his arc running parallel to the protagonist’s. He began as the devoted friend, warm and unwavering, the one who carried light into the bleakness of the film. But that brightness only existed to conceal the fracture beneath. When he was ten, a car accident had killed his parents, and for years he believed it was the protagonist’s fault. His friendship was a mask, his loyalty a slow-burning fuse toward betrayal.

The revelation struck the audience like a blade. The betrayal was chilling, but it was his final act that lingered. In the climax, it was revealed that the accident had never been the protagonist’s fault, but the work of the antagonist. V’s character, realizing the weight of his mistakes, sacrificed his life to protect the very friend he had once sought to destroy.

It was meant to be a shared spotlight, but critics and viewers alike left theaters talking about him. Reviews called his performance magnetic, a masterclass in restraint and raw emotion. Online forums echoed with praise, noting the way he carried entire scenes with silence, the way his eyes seemed to hold the story’s grief. His name appeared alongside the protagonist’s, often above it.

And for V, the role had been more than a performance. Every scene, every line, every wound written for the character had offered him a place to bury pieces of himself: the guilt, the silence, the need for redemption. On-screen, it was art. Off-screen, it was survival.

Audiences filled theaters. Nominations followed. He had already stood on international stages, smiling beneath heavy lights, bowing to applause he could not quite absorb. He had spoken in smooth English and rehearsed Cantonese while cameras flashed, describing a process he could barely remember living through. All of it had felt detached, like he was watching someone else perform the role of V the actor.

But Korea was different. Korea was home. And now, with the film’s success, his agency had made it clear: he could not avoid this part. Promotions in Seoul, interviews, talk shows, red carpets here too. His face plastered across posters, across subway walls. He had to come back to where he belonged. Supposedly.

So here he was.

The flight was uneventful. V kept his headphones in most of the way, half-listening to music, half-listening to nothing. But when the cabin began its descent and the captain announced they were arriving at Incheon, his chest tightened with a dull, yet undeniable ache.

Seoul spread beneath him as the plane broke through the clouds, a sprawl of silver-gray high-rises and endless veins of roads, all glittering faintly under the twilight sky. The city looked both exactly the same and completely foreign, like a place he had dreamed for so long. Like a memory he preserved at the far reaches of his mind.

Still, he told himself he was ready. Time was supposed to heal wounds. That was what everyone said. Two years was enough to soften edges, enough to clear his chest of the weight he carried. He believed it when he boarded the plane. He had to.

The moment he stepped past the arrival gates, the sound hit him.

It was a wall of noise. Shouts, cries, the metallic shriek of camera shutters firing in rapid bursts. Fans had gathered, clustered tight against the railings, holding up placards with his name, his face, words of welcome back. Some had flowers, others just phones raised high, recording every second of his arrival.

And threaded through the chaos were voices that cut straight into him.

“Your performance was brilliant.”

“They said you carried the whole film.”

“Actor of the year, V.”

V froze for a moment, caught in the storm of screaming voices. The airport’s bright lights burned hot against his eyes, and for an instant he thought he might not move at all. For two years he had been silent, no projects in Korea or anywhere else, and yet they had waited. He had imagined this countless of times. Him being finally recognized for his art. It took a lot of doubts and compromises. He'd come so far. He should be proud. He should be happy. And yet…

The staff stepped forward, forming a shield around him as they guided him through.

He walked quickly, head lowered, a practiced smile tugging at his mouth. The voices tangled in his ears.

Outside, the van was already waiting, black-tinted and discreet. The agency had not left anything to chance. The door opened the second he approached, and he ducked in without hesitation.

The moment it shut behind him, silence fell.

He leaned back against the seat, pressing his palms into his thighs to ground himself. The driver glanced at him once in the mirror but said nothing. The city rolled by outside the windows, neon lights streaking against the darkening sky.

Only when the skyline grew familiar, streets threading into ones he had once walked every day, did he let out a long, careful breath.

The van finally pulled into the narrow lot of his apartment building. Of course he did not sell it. Despite the ghosts on the walls and corners, this place was still his anchor. It was the first door he had unlocked on his own terms.

He carried his bag inside alone. The driver did not follow.

And when the door clicked shut, leaving him in that still, stale air, it felt like the first real moment of peace since he had landed.

The quiet stretched, heavy and oddly fragile. He set his suitcase by the door and ran a hand along the counter, dust clinging to his fingers. It was the same space he had left behind, the sofa with its worn cushions, the stack of notebooks on the low table, the tiny kitchen that hummed faintly with the old refrigerator. His chest loosened, just a little.

But then his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Again. Until the sound filled the silence.

V pulled it from his pocket, thumb hovering before he unlocked the screen. Notifications bloomed across it like weeds, messages from the agency group chat, reminders from his manager, calls he had not answered while in transit.

The day after tomorrow: press conference.

Next week: three major interviews lined back-to-back.

The following days: variety appearances, photo shoots, a magazine spread already confirmed.

Attached schedules, time slots, names of programs. All of it color-coded.

His throat tightened as he scrolled. He could already see his face in those glossy photos, plastered across headlines.

He dropped the phone onto the couch and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Two years of breathing, and within an hour, the city had closed its grip around him again.

The phone buzzed again. This time, not with a manager’s notification. The name on the screen made his breath catch.

He hesitated before answering. Soojin’s voice came through warm, the same as it had always been.

“Yah, you didn’t even tell us you landed,” she scolded lightly. “Do you know how many times I had to convince the others not to storm the airport?”

V let out a small, tired laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I figured… the crowd was enough.”

“Mm, I saw,” Soojin replied. He could hear the faint noise of traffic behind her, the rhythm of the city moving around her. “We missed you.”

We. For a brief moment, his mind flickered with a question, who were included in the we? He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, long and deep.

There was a beat of quiet before Soojin’s tone shifted softer. “Listen. If you have time, before the agency locks you away, let’s do something. A welcome party. Just the LMC. Nothing big, I promise. Just us.”

V closed his eyes. For a moment, he could almost see it. The old crew together again, their laughter filling the room, the comfort of voices that had carried him through more than they ever realized.

His throat felt tight. “Soojin…”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she said quickly, sensing the weight in his silence. “Just think about it, okay? We’ll make it easy for you. No pressure.”

When Soojin hung up, V sat in the quiet for a long while, her words echoing in the stillness of the apartment.