The dishes had barely been set down before Joon-ho spoke, his voice calm but direct."Mr. Choi is recovering. He'll be discharged today."

The words cut through the quiet like a blade. For a moment, even the faint clatter of the server's footsteps outside seemed to stop.

Across the table, PD Kang Jin-ho's eyes narrowed, the disbelief sharp in his face. He leaned forward, elbows on the wood. "Is that true? Don't toy with me, Kang-ssi. If that isn't accurate, I'll be the one left in ruins."

Joon-ho met his stare without hesitation. "I don't joke about patients. The fall after Do-jin hit him aggravated an old hiking injury. But the therapy worked. Massage, acupuncture. Circulation restored. Unless something unexpected happens, he'll walk out today."

Silence pressed in, heavy and taut. Mirae's fingers clutched the hem of her skirt under the table. Hye-jin, for once, didn't fire back — her gaze flicked between them, weighing every word.

Then Joon-ho's phone buzzed. The vibration against the lacquered wood felt almost too loud. He lifted it, thumb sliding across the screen, and a faint smile touched his lips. He turned the phone so the others could see.

A photo filled the screen. Mr. Choi, standing straight in front of the discharge desk, papers in one hand, his granddaughter holding the other. His smile was faint but unmistakably genuine. Behind him, Dong-wook had angled the camera just right, capturing the small triumph.

PD Kang exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for days. His hand pressed briefly to his brow, dragging down his face as if the relief itself was exhausting. "Finally… something." The man who moments ago had been all iron edges looked suddenly, startlingly human.

"If Mr. Choi is willing to appear again," the PD said quickly, almost hungrily, "or even give a statement — we can turn this. Right now, netizens are organizing boycotts, planning to storm the filming site. His word could stop them."

Hye-jin's lips twisted, her skepticism sharp. "You think he'll stand beside you after being assaulted on your set? After being left alone while your precious golden boy threw a punch?"

The PD flinched but didn't argue. His gaze shifted to Joon-ho instead.

"He's already agreed," Joon-ho said evenly. "I confirmed it with him yesterday. He'll appear at the next live shoot — but only if Do-jin isn't there."

The PD froze, stunned. "…You arranged this already?"

"Yes."

The single word landed with the weight of stone. Mirae and Hye-jin exchanged a brief glance, but neither spoke — they had known this. What struck them now was the sight of the usually stoic PD, caught off balance for the first time.

For a long moment, PD Kang only stared. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders bled away. He let out a low chuckle, short and tired, but real. "You're wasted outside this industry."

The server slid the door open again, carrying in steaming plates of jjampong, glossy dongpo pork, golden-brown tangsuyuk, and bowls of rice that sent up thin curls of steam. The air filled with garlic and spice, grounding them back in the ordinary. As the food was placed, the mood shifted. The PD, moments ago all stone and suspicion, leaned back slightly, chopsticks in hand, and even managed a wry smile.

"Eat," he said, as though granting permission. "For once, maybe I can taste my meal without acid in my throat."

The three across from him exchanged quick, startled glances. Mirae had never seen him this way — lighter, almost approachable. Hye-jin shook her head faintly, as if the sight was absurd.

But the reprieve didn't last long. Between bites of pork, the PD leaned forward again, his eyes sharpening. "If there's anything you want for Mirae, say it now. More screentime. Center focus. I can shape the edit around her."

Mirae's chopsticks nearly slipped from her fingers. Her pulse jumped, a sharp flutter in her chest. Across from her, Hye-jin actually choked on her tea, coughing once, twice, before regaining her composure.

Joon-ho only shook his head. "That's not for me to decide. You're the PD. I won't interfere with your direction. What I want is simple — the crew kept safe. And fairness. Especially when it comes to Do-jin."

The firmness in his refusal landed heavier than any demand might have. PD Kang studied him, silent for a long beat, then sighed, rubbing his temple. "Do-jin…" His voice carried exhaustion. "He's holed up in the hotel. We wanted him back in Seoul already, but his sponsor is insisting he stay. Pressuring me to reinstate him. It's…" He broke off, shaking his head. "A disaster."

His chopsticks tapped the table once, twice, before he went on. "That leaves Mirae, Seul-gi, and Ji-hwan. Three cast members worth trusting. I'll have to rebuild the show around them. Unless…"

His eyes lifted, locking on Joon-ho with sudden intensity. "Unless you step in."

Mirae's head snapped up. Her breath caught.

"You don't look like a chaebol's pampered son," the PD continued, voice measured, testing. "You feel grounded. Experienced. The audience would believe you. You'd give the show weight."

The words hung in the air. Hye-jin's chopsticks clattered to the table with a sharp clink. "You can't be serious," she muttered.

But Mirae wasn't looking at Hye-jin. Her gaze fixed on Joon-ho, wide and searching, as if the whole room had narrowed to this moment. The idea of him beside her — not just behind the curtain, not in the quiet spaces, but under the lights, facing the same world that both sustained and suffocated her — made her heart lurch. Pride, fear, longing tangled in her chest.

Joon-ho noticed her gaze, saw the quiet plea tucked beneath her hesitation. He looked back at PD Kang, his silence deliberate, the weight of his decision filling the air. Finally, he nodded once. "If it helps stabilize the show, I'll do it."

The PD's mouth curved into something rare — a smile, thin but real. "Good. You won't regret it. You might even steal the spotlight from the rest."

Mirae's cheeks flushed, her lips parting as if to speak, though no words came. Hye-jin let out a low groan, muttering under her breath, "…Unbelievable. The world's turned upside down."

The conversation drifted back to food, to logistics, to stray remarks about sponsors and schedules. The heavy weight in the room eased, laughter even breaking once when the PD admitted his first pilot episode years ago had nearly ended in flames — literally.

But Mirae barely tasted the jjampong before her. Beneath the table, her fingers found Joon-ho's, curling tightly around his hand. His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles, steady as ever. She smiled faintly, proud of him, warmed by him — but the knot in her chest only grew. Because with every step he took deeper into her world, she feared she was pulling him closer to the same chaos that had nearly broken her more than once.

The suite should have felt like luxury — marble floors, velvet drapes, the hum of Jeju's nightlife muted by soundproof glass — but it looked more like a den of ruin. Half-empty wine bottles littered the low table. A blazer lay crumpled on the floor like shed skin. The curtains had been drawn tight hours ago, shutting out the sea, the city, everything except the suffocating dim of yellow lamplight.

Do-jin paced barefoot across the rug, his shirt untucked, his jaw tight with rage. Each step felt like it should leave a dent.

"All because of that noisy old man," he muttered, voice slurred with drink. "Whining like some saint, preaching about manners. He should've kept his mouth shut." His hand snapped out, seizing the nearest glass, draining it in one swallow. "And now I'm the villain?"

The stem cracked faintly under his grip. He tossed the glass aside. It rolled under the sofa with a dull thud.

Across from him, his manager sat rigidly in an armchair. The man was in his forties, lined with the kind of fatigue only years in this industry carved. His suit was neat, but his tie was tugged loose, collar damp with sweat. He had the look of someone who had repeated the same warning a hundred times and already knew this time would be no different.

"The CEO said to keep your head down," the manager said at last, tone even but tired. "You're already on thin ice. Don't make it worse."

Do-jin barked a laugh, harsh and ugly. "Thin ice? Without me, this show wouldn't even exist. Without me, you'd still be fetching coffee for nobodies. Don't talk to me about ice." He jabbed a finger at him, eyes narrowing. "You're just jealous. Jealous that I'm the one who makes headlines. Jealous that it's my face they talk about, even if they curse it."

The manager didn't flinch. He'd heard worse. "What they're talking about now is how you hit a man old enough to be your father. What they're talking about is sponsors pulling out, one after another. You think you're untouchable, but every empire falls. Drink less. Shut up. Wait it out."

Do-jin sneered, the corner of his mouth curling with contempt. He grabbed the bottle of red sitting half-empty on the table and shoved it toward him. "Then pour me another, since you're so good at waiting."

The manager didn't move.

For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Do-jin's face darkened, voice spitting with venom. "What, you think you're my keeper? My babysitter? Don't stand there pretending you're better than me. You're nothing without me." He shoved the bottle harder, the glass clinking against the manager's knee. "Pour. The damn. Drink."

Still, the manager refused.

That was enough. With a snarl, Do-jin yanked the bottle back, sloshing crimson across the rug, and hurled it toward the bar cart. It shattered with a sharp crack, shards scattering across polished wood.

"Get out!" he roared, chest heaving. "If you're going to nag me, then get the hell out!"

The manager sat there a heartbeat longer, lips pressed in a thin, grim line. Then, with the weariness of a man who had fought and lost the same battle too many times, he stood. Without another word, he left, the soft click of the door closing behind him the only answer.

Do-jin stood in the wreckage of glass and silence, smirking faintly to himself. "Finally."

He staggered back to the sofa, collapsed onto it, and reached for his phone. His thumbs jabbed at the screen with the impatience of someone who believed the world owed him immediate attention.

They're treating me like a criminal, he typed. Stuck here, no respect. I want out.

The reply came quickly.

Don't worry, my darling. This will pass. I'll make sure of it.

His sugar mama. Older, wealthy, clinging to him with desperation that amused him as much as it disgusted him.

Another message followed, long and careful: The network and the crew are to blame, not you. They mishandled the situation, failed to protect you from provocation. When the scandal blows, they'll be the villains. They'll beg you to return, you'll see.

His lips curled as he read. A sick thrill sparked in his chest.

And the sponsors? Forget them. They're cowards. I can support you myself. You don't need them. Soon, they'll regret ever leaving you.

Do-jin let out a sharp laugh, loud enough to bounce off the walls. "That's right," he muttered. "They'll crawl back. Every one of them."

He typed a quick reply — dripping with flattery, false sweetness — then tossed the phone onto the bed. It bounced once, screen still glowing with her adoring words.

"Stupid woman," he muttered, pouring the last of the wine into his glass. "She thinks I love her? I'll bleed her dry, every last won, and dump her like trash when I'm done." He drained the glass in one pull, the red staining his lips like blood.

The knock at the door came just as he slammed the empty glass down.

Do-jin rose unsteadily, shoulders rolling, a crooked grin already spreading across his face. He yanked the door open.

A young woman stood there — heavily made up, her dress short, her perfume already curling into the air. Her smile was practiced, professional, promising exactly what he wanted.

"You're late," he slurred, but stepped aside all the same. "Come in."

She slipped past him, her heels clicking against the floor as she entered. He shut the door behind them, the lock snapping into place.

Do-jin moved to the counter, pulling open a drawer. A small packet slid into view — little pills and powdered wraps, the kind whispered about in late-night clubs but never meant to see the light of day. He grinned, shaking them lightly in his palm as if they were candy.

The woman's smile didn't flicker; she'd seen this before. He poured a few into her hand, tossing one into his own mouth and chasing it down with a swallow of wine.

"Let's make the night interesting," he muttered, voice thick with arrogance.

The music swelled from the speaker, bass thudding like a second heartbeat. Laughter, sharper now, filled the suite. Clothes fell carelessly to the floor, joining the empty bottles and broken glass.

What followed blurred into heat and noise — bodies colliding, muffled gasps against the sheets, his voice rising in messy triumph.

On the nightstand, the packet of drugs lay open, evidence scattered as recklessly as his pride.

The phone on the bed buzzed again, screen flashing with another unread message from his sponsor. He didn't notice, too lost in the spiral he thought was pleasure but already looked like ruin.

By the table, the crimson stain spread wider across the linen, seeping deeper — a perfect metaphor for the scandal waiting to break.

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