Chapter 3: 

Breathless

Two months had passed since V came back to Korea. The party was effulgent. The golden light from chandeliers refracted against glass and silk until the entire hall seemed to shimmer, and the steady hum of conversation rose and fell like a tide. V felt almost light-headed in the midst of it. Not just because of the alcohol. Here, he was all smiles and laughter, brimming with enthusiasm and energy. Once again, he was being V, the actor, the figure the media noted as one of the most gorgeous of his era.

At least, that was the image.

People rarely looked past the image. They saw the medium-length hair that fell softly, half silver and half dark due to his poliosis, a rare trait the tabloids called a “genetic blessing.” His brows were white, his lashes pale, framing hazel eyes that seemed almost unreal beneath the light. His features were deemed too balanced, lips curved in ways sculptors would envy, cheekbones catching shadows just enough to sharpen his prettiness.

“Not human,” one magazine had called him. “A face painted by a god bored with symmetry.”

“Beauty that seduces without asking permission,” another claimed. Fans debated endlessly. Was he more angel or trickster, more prince or fox? Women and men alike admitted to being caught off guard by him, drawn in not by masculinity or softness alone, but by the way he blurred the line between the two until it became irrelevant.

Crowds followed him in airports not for scandal but simply to stare. Reporters were accused of editing his photos to look surreal until fans began digging up pictures from his theater days. Even then, his features stood out. Those early photos only fueled the fascination: proof that he had always looked otherworldly, even in the dim lights of a small stage.

But the same qualities that made the public adore him also made critics suspicious. More than once, they had dismissed his work in serious dramas, writing him off as a face too distracting to be believable, a beauty too fragile for depth. That he only got roles because audience want to stare at his face. It wasn’t until Ashes of the Road that the tide began to turn. For once, critics admitted that the pretty face could house a storm.

Of course, he didn’t think poorly of himself. His confidence in his craft was absolute, and if those closest to him teased that he leaned toward narcissism, he would only argue that he had earned it. He had carved himself from rags to riches with no hand guiding him but his own. And if looks could kill, then surely, he would have perished long ago from the lethal reflection in his mirror.

Now, he had promised himself he would not wish for anything that might disrupt the status quo. He moved through the party with the practiced ease, his perfected business smile never faltering. Talking to people steadied him; it filled the hollowness with assurance, gave him a kind of fleeting fulfillment. This was all he needed. This was how he should live for.

The event itself had been planned while he was still in Hong Kong, but the rest of the LMC insisted that he should be there. Now that he was back in Korea, he would resume his place in the organization just like before.

The roles within the LMC were as clear as they were essential. Han was in charge of cybersecurity, making sure that the identities and personal data of the guests were protected. It was necessary when politicians, businessmen, leading figures in the entertainment industry, as well as representatives from orphanages and hospitals, were all in attendance.

Suhyun was responsible for accounting, keeping a meticulous record of every donation and pledge made. Hana handled photography and public relations, capturing moments that would later become carefully curated releases for the press. Soojin was the planner, the one who carried the party from blueprint to reality with tireless efficiency.

Kaimin oversaw physical security, drawing from the Haneul Group’s agency to ensure that every corner of the venue was guarded. More than that, he was also a sponsor, his funds helping sustain both the parties the LMC hosted and the causes they supported.

And V was the face. The greeter, the effortless draw, the one who made guests linger longer, open their checkbooks faster, and walk away feeling they had not only supported a cause but brushed close to something bright. His presence brought publicity, his words lent persuasion, his mere smile could nudge a wavering guest into generosity.

They even joked that if he wished, he could replace the reception desk entirely.

“Look at him,” Soojin said loudly enough for the others to hear as V returned from another circle of introductions, his whisky glass glinting in his hand. “The guests don’t even need champagne when they’ve got V. He opens his mouth, and donations pour like water.”

“That’s because he’s practically a siren,” Hana added, grinning as she adjusted the strap of her camera. “People don’t even realize they’re drifting closer until they’re too far gone.”

Laughter rippled through the small circle.

Suhyun, raised her brows at V. “It isn’t just charm,” she said. “You make people believe in the cause. That’s a rare gift.”

V tipped his glass at her, his smile half-sincere, half-playful. “Or maybe you’ve all just been bewitched for too long.”

The laughter lingered, but Suhyun’s gaze did not waver. It dipped briefly to the glass in his hand, then back to his face. A pause, so slight it might have gone unnoticed by the others.

“V,” she said softly, almost as if testing the weight of his name. “You’ve been drinking more than usual tonight.”

The words slipped through the hum of the party, quiet but not dismissible. He opened his mouth, searching for the easy retort, but Soojin's voice cut in first, light and sharp. “Don’t scold him here, Suhyun,” she said, though there was little humor in the glance she threw at V. “You’ll ruin the illusion.”

“I’m not scolding,” Suhyun murmured, but she didn’t look away.

V let out a short laugh, too quick, too smooth, raising his glass as though in a toast. “It’s just whisky, not poison. Besides, doesn’t the night call for celebration?”

Before anyone could answer, Hana slung her camera forward, snapping a candid shot of him mid-smile. “See? Still shining,” she said brightly. “That’s what matters.”

Suhyun cleared her throat. “I’m just worried. Please don’t drive home after the party.”

Before V could respond, Han heads suddenly popped out from behind Suhyun’s shoulder. Suhyun’s lips twitched, her closest approximation of a smile, but Han was far from satisfied, vowing that one day he would make her react properly by his standards.

“You’re still more or less a robot like Kaimin,” Han quipped.

At the mention of the name, V stiffened. His grip tightened on his glass, and he immediately busied himself studying the rim as though it was the most fascinating thing in the room. The whisky swirled at the halfway mark, half-empty, like him. He needed a refill.

He was already preparing an excuse to slip away when movement caught the corner of his vision. A tall figure had joined the group, standing beside Hana. V looked up and nearly choked on air.

Kaimin was close enough to touch, his sharp eyes fixed on V with unnerving precision. How had he approached without notice? Maybe V really had drowned himself in too much beer and whisky, dulled his instincts. Still, he would rather sink in alcohol than in that gaze.

Being part of the same charity organization meant their paths inevitably crossed at these events. V had braced himself for it, rehearsed his armor, but standing under Kaimin’s scrutiny was a different battlefield altogether. He wanted to punch himself for the internal flinch and pat himself on the back for keeping his surface unbothered.

“I’m not a robot, and that’s obvious, Han,” Kaimin replied evenly. This time, his eyes left V as if he was done inspecting a jewel for flaws.

V let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, though his chest remained tight. He shifted uncomfortably and sipped at his drink.

“How unusual. V’s quiet now,” Han remarked.

V cursed inwardly. Han really had to comment on everything.

“Just tired,” he muttered. Not a lie. Exhaustion clung to him suddenly, heavier than the alcohol. Every syllable of Kaimin’s voice drained him more than a week-long shoot. And still, he stayed rooted there, subjecting himself to it.

Kaimin’s gaze flicked back, brief but cutting. “Let him be. I deserve a peaceful evening.”

The words struck sharper than intended, making V’s chest clench. He wanted to fire back, to maintain their usual façade of mutual disdain. That was the script everyone knew. But the line blurred now, messy and dangerous.

He snapped anyway, clinging to appearances. “Your comment is unnecessary, jerk. I don’t want my perfect night ruined by conversing with you as well.”

And before anyone could respond, he strode off. Hana whistled low, Han chuckled, but V ignored them. His neck itched to glance back, to see Kaimin’s expression but he resisted. He convinced himself that even a stone wall would be more rewarding to look at.

Later, as the hall emptied and the crew began cleaning, Han, Hana, and Soojin had already gone. Suhyun lingered, giving a few last instructions before finally approaching V. He was slouched at a corner table, cheek pressed to his arm, the picture of defeat disguised as idleness.

“V, you’re too drunk. Why don’t you let Kaimin drop you off?”

At her words, V jerked upright, shaking his head far too quickly for it to be casual. “That’s a bad idea. Very bad. Either I or he will be found dead tomorrow if we share a car.” He mimed strangling someone, earning a laugh from her.

Her laughter softened into something closer to a sigh. “I thought the two of you were getting along before you went to Hong Kong. Guess you're back to square one now? Kaimin can be unbearable, yes, but… he does care. Especially when it comes to LMC.”

V’s lips pressed thin. He gave no answer. He had glimpsed that side of Kaimin before, the man beneath the armor, but to acknowledge it would be to open a door he had sworn shut. Some truths were safer left unspoken, even to himself.

He reached for his glass, hoping the familiar burn would blur out the weight of her words but it was suddenly lifted from his hand. He was about to glare at whom he thought was Suhyun but…

“Do you even know how drunk you look?”

The voice froze him.

The glass dangled carelessly from Kaimin's hand, his expression unreadable.

“It’s none of your business,” V muttered, his tone flat enough to sound convincing, at least to anyone but Kaimin.

Kaimin’s reply came quiet, almost weary. “Right. It isn’t. The message was clear. You made sure of it.”

The words cut deeper for their lack of bite. Not anger, not sharpness. Just resignation. As if Kaimin had already accepted the distance V had carved between them a long time ago.

V blinked hard as the edges of the world were tilting. He pushed himself upright, though his body disagreed, lurching under the weight of drink and memory. He couldn’t even decide what he was trying to do, fight, flee, or just stand far enough to escape those grey eyes. Being under those was like standing beneath icy rain, each drop slicing through until it hit bone. They made him feel small, transparent. Exposed.

And yet, beneath that coldness, there was something else. Something faint. Pain? Or was V only seeing his own reflected back at him?

And the haze was cruel. It spun him in endless circles, the hall tilting like a ship adrift, until the present bled into the past. The warmth of the hand on his back steadied him as he stumbled, yet it carried the echo of another time. The unguarded laughter, the tangled fingers like pieces of a puzzle, the solid heat pressed against him. Images scattered in his mind like broken glass across stone, catching the light in cruel glints, disappearing just before he got a hold of them.

He clung harder, as though holding Kaimin now might let him grasp the past as well, but the shards only cut deeper.

It wasn’t real. None of it was. Just the alcohol, just the haze, just his treacherous mind weaving warmth where there had only ever been cold. Tomorrow he would forget. He would make himself forget. And if some part of him resisted, if it whispered that he didn’t want to, he would silence it with every ounce of scorn he could muster. Because admitting otherwise would mean confessing he still wanted something from Kaimin. That he was making a fool of himself.

The room spun. The whispers of others seemed far away, as if happening in another world. A gasp cut through. Then warmth, startling and disorienting, pressed against his lips. It could have been the haze, a cruel trick of alcohol and exhaustion. Or it could have been real. For one fractured second, he wanted it to be.

But all V knew for certain was this: he was drowning.