A young woman, likely in her early thirties with a pleasant, round face, finally opened the door. She offered me a warm, welcoming smile.

"Park Hana," she said, extending her hand across the threshold. Her grip was firm and confident.

"Choi Minjae," I replied, shaking her hand, finding my voice surprisingly steady.

"I'm truly glad you eventually came to visit me," she said, gesturing me inside. "Have you decided? Will you accept my offer?"

"I appreciate that," I said, stepping into the office, which was surprisingly minimalist-a clean slate against the city chaos visible through the massive window. "But I'd like to hear more details about the job first. What exactly is it about? What, specifically, am I supposed to do?"

"Please take a seat," she instructed, walking around the immense, dark wood desk. "This might take a little time."

I settled into the comfortable chair opposite her. The leather was cool and soft beneath my hands. She sighed deeply, her expression instantly turning serious, the warmth in her eyes replaced by a focused intensity.

"We've been hearing whispers-rumors, initially-about the chairman and other important investors and higher-ups at SDR Entertainment," she began, leaning forward slightly. "But at some point, the rumors metastasized into genuine suspicions. We had more and more people coming forward about what's truly happening within that corporation. Allegedly, Kim Inyoung, the CEO, along with others like the vice chairman and the marketing director, have been involved in drug trading, human trafficking, the sexual exploitation of minors, and perhaps even murder."

She paused, letting the silence in the high-rise office absorb the gravity of her words. Outside, the distant clamor of Seoul was muffled, but the air in the room felt suddenly charged.

"These are monumentally serious allegations," she continued, her voice low and firm. "And we do not take them lightly. Victims who had the courage to report these activities to the police were routinely dismissed and ignored by the officials. They came to us then, but the truth is, nobody had solid, undeniable evidence. If we build a case and publish an article based only on words and allegations, the victims will never see justice. SDR retains the best legal attorneys in the country. They would sue us for defamation. And although Apex Weekly is a strong, reputable paper, we could be crushed by a corporate giant like SDR, like insects under a boot."

I felt myself physically sinking into the chair, the sheer scope of the information laid out before me flooring me completely. The horrific reality of the claims was a punch to the gut. Words had completely lodged in my throat. Park Hana must have recognized my shock, as she gave me a moment to collect my thoughts, her gaze resting on me with a measured, empathetic intensity.

"I don't just want to expose a case like this for our own success," she said, her determination unwavering. "If we are able to gather the necessary evidence, the police wouldn't be able to dismiss us. They would be forced to investigate and take down SDR for good. They can't ignore us any longer if we have concrete evidence in our hands that we can leak directly to the public. SDR might be strong, but they are not strong enough to withstand the resulting public outrage."

"I heard rumors, too, when I was a trainee," I said eventually, my voice sounding distant and strained in the quiet office. "But I was also one of those people who dismissed them. I didn't believe. I didn't care." The realization of my past self's selfishness hit me with the force of a physical blow, a sour taste rising in my throat.

Park Hana leaned back in her chair, the light from the huge window glinting softly off the surface of her immaculate desk. "You were just a kid, Minjae," she said gently, her tone measured. "Don't blame yourself for the cruelty of adults. It wasn't your responsibility or your place to make a change back then. But now, perhaps, is the time for you to make a change. What do you think?"

A suffocating wave of guilt washed over me. I remembered several trainees who had arrived from abroad-from Southeast Asia and China most of the time. They barely spoke Korean and were exceptionally young. They had vanished within a few weeks. My peers and I had casually assumed the pressure was too immense for them to handle, or that the language barrier had simply discouraged them. It had never, not once, crossed my privileged mind that SDR might have purposefully scouted kids from abroad just to exploit and harm them.

The company took pride in its culturally diverse lineup, boasting that it was the first Korean entertainment company to debut a girl group with no Korean members that still achieved massive success domestically. I felt sick to my stomach. I had met so many of those kids. We trained and played together for weeks in the stifling, fluorescent-lit practice rooms. We slept in the same crowded dorms during training camps. Although they hadn't stayed for long, I had considered many of them my friends at the time.

The urge to vomit right there, onto the sleek, expensive carpet, was powerful. But suddenly, a ferocious urge for justice for those vanished children took fierce hold, displacing my state of repulsion.

"What exactly do I have to do?" I asked, my voice now firm and entirely devoid of hesitation.

Park Hana offered a slight, almost triumphant grin at my newfound firmness. She was visibly excited, her enthusiasm infectious, fueled by the prospect of finally gaining an upper hand against the powerful corporation.

"You will go back as an idol trainee," she stated, her voice dropping to a confidential pitch across the wide expanse of her desk. "You were immensely popular at SDR. Many people in the industry spoke highly of you-your name still carries weight. We have some inner connections and informants, and they are confident that if you approach SDR, they will take you back immediately. Even after you left, many choreographers and vocal coaches used you as a prime example for other trainees. Your place is, for all intents and purposes, guaranteed."

She paused, allowing that significant fact to sink in.

"The company wasn't able to debut a new boy group successfully since you left. The whole debut concept they had finalized at the time of your accident was built entirely around you and your fellow trainee, Renji, according to our informants. The group was designed to have a Korean sub-unit and a global sub-unit. The first boy group with two co-leaders. That was the concept, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's right," I confirmed, the details of the old plan dredging up a host of complicated feelings. "So I just have to go back and do... What exactly?"

"You must try to gather evidence against the higher-ups," Park Hana said, her gaze steady. "If you manage to debut, which is more than likely given the circumstances, you will be able to attend certain industry events-exclusive parties and gatherings. These are the events all those greasy old bastards attend as well. They might be secretive and professional in the boardroom, but powerful men love to talk shit when they drink booze and they think nobody is listening. But you will listen. And powerful men love to do questionable things under the influence when they think nobody sees. But you will see. We will provide you with cutting-edge recording devices to safely document their actions."

The plan was audacious, terrifying, and deeply appealing all at once. "So, all I have to do is watch, listen, and sneak evidence of whatever they're up to?"

"Exactly. But you also have to put your whole effort into your idol career. On the surface, you must maintain the image of a young man who is still desperate and driven to succeed in the industry. If you don't pour your soul into that aspect, the company might decide to simply get rid of you, or worse, they might become suspicious. That is too dangerous to risk. So what do you think, Minjae? Are you in?"

I took the job.

The contracts were signed on the mahogany table that felt heavy with importance. My tuition would be paid by Apex Weekly, even if the entire ambitious plan failed, and they guaranteed me a staff position once I finished my studies. I re-read the contracts multiple times in the cold, clear light of the office, searching for a catch, but the clauses were simple and straightforward. Crucially, they also agreed to ensure the safety of my family-meaning Minsung-if anything goes terribly wrong. This last promise terrified me, a stark acknowledgment of the danger, yet the solid connection with a powerful journalistic agency offered a safety net I hadn't even realized I desperately needed.

The job was undeniably risky, and the prospect of the mental, emotional, and physical toll it would take was daunting. However, the potential rewards were too great to ignore. Beyond the tempting personal benefits, I was now consumed by a simmering fury over those kids SDR might have exploited, or worse. Even if the prize hadn't been so significant, my own conscience would no longer allow me to refuse. I needed to help.

The mere thought of how many families had experienced the same blinding, searing pain as I had when they lost a loved one due to the greed of SDR made me want to double over and vomit. I was too afraid to truly imagine the reality: countless parents, siblings, friends, and relatives crying out in their sleep because a child they loved dearly, went missing. I felt repulsed and furiously angry simultaneously. If something like that were to happen to Minsung, I knew, unequivocally, I would tear through the walls of Hell just to bring him home safely. What happened to my parents, though painful and tragic, was an accident. It was not born of ill intent or malicious planning. What SDR did to those kids and their families was utterly indescribable.

On my way home, I stopped by a brightly lit local market near our apartment to buy some fresh ingredients for dinner. I needed to sit down with Minsung and tell him how the meeting went, including the fact that I had accepted the risky offer.

"So, you'll be back shaking your hips in those shiny, tight clothes and throwing finger hearts at girls, all while wearing a full face of makeup, huh?" his voice muffled around a mouthful of rice.

"Hey, know your level, brat," I countered, threatening him with my middle finger raised over his forehead.

"I'm just teasing," he said, holding up his hands defensively. "You know how obsessed I am with Y4M; they're so pretty and perfect and stunning and hot and sexy and..."

"Stop right there, I can see your drool about to spill over the food when you think about them. I don't want to listen to your sick fantasies about those idol girls."

"You know... if you debut, people will have even sicker fantasies about you. I'm pretty tame, Hyung."

"Whatever," I muttered, trying to ignore the implication.

I had decided not to tell Minsung all the grim details about SDR, specifically omitting the criminal activities involved. I didn't want him to worry about the actual danger. Instead, I told him Apex Weekly simply wanted "juicy celebrity drama" and "insider stories."

Then, Minsung's voice cut through my attempts at normalcy. "Hyung, will you meet Renji Hyung again?"

"Huh?" The question caught me completely off guard.

Renji. My conscious mind had been desperately trying to keep him buried for the past two years. After the accident, I hadn't just left SDR; I had completely vanished. I couldn't handle the crushing pain or the impossibility of explaining what had happened to my friends. It was simply too difficult. At the time, I changed my phone number, deleted all my social media accounts, and even made a new email address. We had moved to a smaller apartment with Minsung. For the entire entertainment industry and everyone who had known me before, I had practically disappeared from the face of the earth. I ghosted him.

But regardless of how hard I tried to keep Renji Miyata out of my conscious thoughts, he was definitively the main character of my unconscious world.

We had trained together for five years. He auditioned at the same time I did, and we got in together. We had similar skill sets, were the same height and weight class, and shared a similar, intense dedication toward our goal of debuting. Yet, instead of becoming rivals, we worked together through every challenge.

And although we had similarities in some things, Renji was fundamentally different from me back then. I was bubbly, energetic, and extroverted; I loved being loved and accepted. Renji, on the other hand, was stoic and nonchalant. He put all his efforts into his goals and genuinely seemed not to care what anyone else thought of him. He wore a hard, external shell, a wall that seemed impossible to break.

But he had let me in. He let me in under that seemingly unbreakable shell, and the closer I was, the warmer I felt. Renji, behind that rough exterior, was the most caring person I had ever met. I felt incredibly privileged that he trusted me and offered me his support. He made me feel special. He made me feel like wherever he was, I would find comfort and validation from him.

But after the accident, I had broken his trust with my sudden, unexplained disappearance.

"Go wash your teeth and shower after you finish dinner," I told Minsung, forcing my mind back to the immediate reality of our small kitchen and the pile of dirty plates.