Chapter 5:

Ghosts Part 2

Later that day, the LMC members gathered in their usual meeting room, sunlight slanting through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. V took a seat at the far end of the table. His shoulders stiffened, every muscle alert, his grip on the pen turning it into a lifeline. When Kaimin glanced at him briefly, V felt his stomach knot. He forced a casual smile, pretending to study the agenda, adjusting the pen in his hand like a shield. But every subtle shift in Kaimin’s posture, leaning slightly forward, fingers brushing the edge of the table, pulled him back to the memories.

Han noticed him fidgeting. “V? You okay?”

V blinked, forcing his attention to the present. “Yeah. Just… thinking about the setup for the event.” His voice was careful. But even he knew it was brittle.

Suhyun tilted her head, observing him quietly. There was curiosity in her gaze but she let it slide, returning to her notes. V exhaled slowly, praying no one would probe further. The room’s chatter, the discussion of logistics, even the clack of Hana’s camera lens, everything felt distant, like he was watching through a haze, separated by layers of anxiety and memory.

He pressed his lips thin, forcing a faint smile as Soojin summarized the discussion. “Next event logistics. Suhyun’s notes are perfect, Hana’s media plan solid. V, your role will be—”

V nodded mechanically.

After the discussions, Han muttered as he leaned back in his chair with a small smirk. “By the way, the Aurora Magazine feature. Huge success. Social media’s blown up. Engagement numbers are insane. People are really responding to LMC as a whole.”

Soojin muttered, smiling. “Right. People might be focusing on the things that don’t matter, but in the bigger picture, the engagement helps the cause.”

Hana had her tablet out, scrolling through with a laugh. “You guys, look at this,” she said, holding it up for Han to see. “They’re dissecting everything, the poses, the postures, the dynamics. Some fans are losing it over V and Kaimin.”

V’s chest tightened. He shifted, trying to sink lower. He forced a small, dry laugh. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.

The LMC meeting carried on, but the Aurora buzz lingered like static. Hana scrolled through comments again, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean, come on. You and Kaimin in Japan, just casually? Eating dinner? Touring the city? I can’t even picture it. What would you talk about?” She laughed, corners of her eyes crinkling.

V laughed too, tilting his head to avoid Kaimin’s gaze. “God, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Probably arguing about who got the window seat,” he said, forcing humor over the panic bubbling beneath.

Kaimin’s gaze shifted, and his tone cut through the room like a fine blade. “Right.”

Suhyun leaned back, arms folded neatly. “People really do let their imaginations run wild. I mean, it’s not like they’ve seen anything concrete.”

Han smirked, scrolling through his own phone. “It’s the internet. Let them spin their novels. Honestly, you two look fine. They just like making up drama where there isn’t any.”

Hana leaned back, smirking at Han. “Hey, why have you mellowed down on teasing V and Kaimin? You were the ultimate shipper before. Every chance you got.”

Han laughed, glancing between Hana and V. “I’ve just outgrown it,” he said easily, but there was a flicker in his eyes V noticed, the slightest hesitation. It wasn’t fooling anyone who had been around him long enough.

Soojin sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes flicked toward Han, a subtle raise of her brow, a glance that said more than words. Han caught it, smirking faintly in response, then returned to his phone as if nothing had passed between them. The exchange was so slight that no one else would have noticed, but to V it felt like an undercurrent he couldn’t read.

Hana shook her head, still grinning. “Outgrown it? Come on. Really?”

V felt a small pang. Maybe Han had noticed more than he let on. Maybe he knew. V glanced toward Kaimin, sharp grey eyes catching his every movement. It was enough to make V stiffen. Every word from Hana or Suhyun felt like a trigger, every dismissive tone from Han a small reassurance he wasn’t sure he wanted.

The following week, inside the dressing room, amidst the bustle of stylists and racks of clothing, a photograph caught V’s eye. Pinned to the corkboard, it seemed innocuous at first, a snapshot, yellowed slightly at the edges, casual and unassuming.

V froze. His heart thudded.

The image had been taken more than two years ago. They were outside a small café, the windows fogged from the warmth inside, the streets outside dusted in snow. V’s coat was buttoned crookedly, hair falling across his forehead, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. And though the taller figure’s face was not facing the camera, V exactly knew who it was. Kaimin’s hand, long and precise, looped the scarf around V’s neck, tucking the ends with a care that shouldn’t have meant anything… but did.

V’s fingers trembled despite himself. He snatched the photo off the board before anyone else could notice, curling it in his hand. He could feel the print’s texture, slightly rough, like something old and too real to be casual. His thumb brushed across the curve of the scarf, and the memory of that day flashed behind his eyes: the muted hum of the café, the clink of spoons against mugs, the quiet way Kaimin had waited for him to pull his coat straight, his touch deliberate but never intimate in public.

He pressed the photo to his chest for a second, inhaling sharply, letting the edges of panic creep in. It wasn’t just the image. It was everything it represented, a past he thought was safely tucked away, a presence he had convinced himself no longer belonged in his present.

V’s fingers curled tighter, crumpling the paper slightly in his grip. He glanced around. The other casts chatting, stylists adjusting collars and jewelry, none aware of what he held. He had to hide it. Because if anyone saw, if anyone realized… he wasn’t sure he could stand the weight of the memory made tangible.

He had seen that picture before and seeing it again made his stomach lurched. It was a warning that he was a moth dancing too close to the lamp once again. As if someone was whispering, “Come any closer and you’ll burn. Fizzled out like nothing. Like you never existed.”

He slipped it into his pocket, close to his heart, and straightened, forcing his hands to calm, forcing his breath to even out. The world continued around him, buzzing and bright, but the photograph burned in his palm, and with it, a quiet, insistent reminder. Some parts of the past never leave