The morning light over Jeju's orchard was soft, golden, and forgiving. Inside the café set, steam curled from cups, bread still carried its warm fragrance, and shrimp hissed in cast-iron pans. On camera, it all looked natural — guests laughing, cast smiling, Joon-ho's calm hands working with unhurried precision.
But outside the orchard walls, another show had already begun.
On SNS, timelines and feeds were alive, hashtags glowing like fire. What started as a trickle of reposted clips from the café's livestream had become a flood, then a tide.
Screenshots of crusty bread sliced open, jam glistening amber-orange, gambas still bubbling in garlic oil. Netizens commented in near unison:
"Finally, food variety that isn't staged to death.""Looks so good I could smell it through the screen.""That pork sandwich? Give me the recipe immediately."
But within minutes, the conversation shifted — as it always did when someone unexpected appeared on screen.
The lens had lingered too long on one man.
"Who's the guy behind the counter?""He moves like he's been doing this for years — not like a guest.""That coffee pour… someone sign him up for a CF right now.""Wait, is he an actor? He's not on the cast list.""Staff? Or… someone's boyfriend?"
Clipped moments were spreading. One especially popular one showed him standing at the counter, sleeves rolled, as he poured water over a V60 hand-drip. His movements deliberate, steady, graceful without intending to be. The girls at the counter had watched him like he was a scene in a romance drama, their phones already catching every frame.
One netizen joked:
"This man makes coffee like he's brewing heartbreak."
Another replied instantly:
"More like brewing marriage."
The thread exploded.
Someone uploaded the earlier moment: the three girls at the counter teasing him.
"Oppa, are you an actor? Do you have a fan page?"
His calm reply: "No. Just helping for today."
The girls' laughter. His slight shrug. Mirae stepping in at that exact second to take the coffee tray from him.
The clip hit feeds with lightning speed.
Netizens, never needing permission, declared:
"Since he won't make one, we will.""Voting for fan page name starts now.""#MakeFanPage #CoffeePrince"
Polls sprang up. Jokes flew. "Kitchen King," "Latte Oppa," "Chef Daddy."
But the clear winner, gathering votes like wildfire: Coffee Prince.
A sleek banner — his silhouette pouring coffee, steam curling upward. The handle simple and bold: @CoffeePrince_official.
Followers shot up instantly. Within minutes: ten thousand. Within the hour: triple that.
Posts filled the feed:
Clip 1: him slicing bread, steam rising. Caption: "Hands that know both strength and gentleness."
Clip 2: the slow-motion pour of coffee, light catching in the stream. Caption: "Even water looks better when he touches it."
Clip 3: candid of him standing beside Mirae at RAZA, weeks ago. Caption: "She glows brighter near him. Don't deny it."
Clip 4: grainy old snap from a BBQ restaurant with Ji-hye, dug up by netizen detectives. Caption: "He eats, he laughs, he's real. That's why we like him."
Comments stacked:
"A man who cooks and looks like that? Unreal.""Not an idol, not an actor, but more charming than both.""Who IS he?? Someone give me answers."
It didn't take long for savvy netizens to recognize the style of captions.
Witty. Sharp. Clever wordplay, with an edge that cut.
"Isn't this the same admin from the old Lunar Boyz fandom?""Wait—THE admin? The one who exposed Min-jae's gambling scandal?""Omg it IS them. They're legendary."
The admin had once rallied massive support for a boy group idol, only to flip and help expose his crimes when the truth came out. Feared and respected, known for devotion that lasted until the line of morality was crossed.
If they had chosen to run Coffee Prince, the fandom wasn't just playful — it was bound to be fiercely protective.
The control tent was filled with chatter, monitors glowing with livestream feeds, live comments scrolling like rain. One monitor showed the trending page; hashtags climbing into national rank.
Kang leaned back in his chair, arms folded. His eyes narrowed, then glimmered.
For the first time in weeks, his lips curved into a grin.
"This," he muttered, "is good."
His AD glanced up, uncertain. "The… fan page?"
"The man. The story," Kang said, tapping the screen with a knuckle. "People love this — a mysterious man who doesn't belong, but fits better than anyone. He's real. And they can feel it."
He waved briskly. "Make sure cameras catch him more. Give me close-ups. Him with Mirae too — no, especially with her. Netizens will eat it up."
The AD scribbled notes, signaling to camera crew.
Kang took a sip of his coffee, smirk deepening.
"For the first time, this show might not just survive…" he murmured. "…It might soar."
The Coffee Prince fan page posted another update — a still of Joon-ho wiping down the counter beside Mirae, her head tipped slightly toward him, smile soft and unguarded.
Caption: "She smiles differently with him. Don't lie, you see it too."
The comments exploded, half joking, half dead serious:
"So they're dating?? Please say yes.""That's not acting. That's real affection.""Protect them at all costs."
By the time the livestream clock ticked toward late morning, the page had surpassed a hundred thousand followers.
And in the orchard café, the man himself was simply rinsing pans, refilling water kettles, and asking Mirae softly if she wanted more bread set aside for the family with children.
Completely unaware — or perhaps entirely indifferent — to the storm of fascination building in the digital world outside.
The morning at the orchard café set should have been perfect. Inside, guests were laughing softly, dipping bread into jams, savoring the new menu. The live cameras captured every warm smile, the scent of food filling the air with a sense of simple comfort. But online, everything shifted in an instant.
A video surfaced on SNS. Grainy, shaky, shot under dim hospital lighting. The camera focused on the back of a man with broad shoulders, standing near a bed. The audio was broken, distorted—but a scream of pain tore through the clip, raw and chilling. The caption struck hard: "Exposing #Joon-ho #Scam #JejuHospital."
Comments poured in like a flood.
"That's him, right? The Coffee Prince guy.""He's not a chef, he's a fake doctor!""That patient—wasn't Mr. Choi hospitalized last week? This proves it.""All staged. A scam."
The hashtags exploded within minutes: #ScamDoctor, #FraudOnTV, #BoycottCoffeePrince.
Outside the orchard, protestors who had gathered earlier with their signs found new strength. Their chants grew louder, more aggressive. "No fraud on TV!" "Expose the fake doctor!" Their voices echoed through the orchard as security scrambled to hold the line, forming a barrier without provoking violence. Families arriving to visit cast uneasy glances, children tugging at their parents' sleeves as they skirted around the commotion.
Inside the control tent, PD Kang Jin-ho's face hardened as he stared at the monitor looping the clip. "Where the hell did this come from?" he demanded. The assistant director shook his head nervously. "Uploaded less than twenty minutes ago. It's spreading everywhere. People are buying it."
Kang snapped his fingers sharply. "Call him. Get Joon-ho here now." Orders moved quickly through the crew, voices low and tight with tension. The atmosphere that had been buoyant only an hour earlier was suddenly suffocating.
In the café tent, Mirae noticed the change in the crew. Whispers rippled, eyes darted toward the control station, and assistants avoided her gaze. She turned to Joon-ho, who was calmly plating sandwiches at the counter, his expression unchanged. Before she could ask, the AD hurried in, clutching a tablet. "Joon-ho-ssi," they whispered urgently, "please, outside. We need to talk."
Mirae's brows drew together in worry, but Joon-ho only gave her a small look of reassurance before following the AD to the side.
The tablet was thrust into his hands. The video played again: the blurred ward, the scream, the broad back that could easily be mistaken for his own. The AD's voice trembled. "It looks like you. People online are saying it's proof you harmed a patient. PD's panicking."
Joon-ho watched without a flinch, eyes steady as stone. When the video ended, he handed the tablet back calmly. "How long before Mr. Choi arrives?"
The AD blinked. "What?"
"Mr. Choi. His granddaughter. How long?"
The AD checked quickly. "They're ten minutes out. They confirmed—they're on the way."
"Good," Joon-ho said simply. His voice was calm, but iron underpinned every syllable.
He stepped aside and pulled out his phone. The line barely rang before his junior answered. "Hyung, I know," Dong-wook's voice came tight. "The video. We've already seen it."
"Status," Joon-ho said curtly.
"It's fake," Dong-wook replied. "Director Kim reviewed it. The audio was spliced from an old emergency drill recording, not a real patient. And the video—hyung, it was Kang Min-seok. He filmed you from behind at the hospital last week when you visited. He edited it to look like you were causing pain."
The muscles in Joon-ho's jaw tightened slightly, but his voice didn't waver. "Min-seok…"
"He's trying to bury you," Dong-wook continued. "We're tracking the account that uploaded it. Director Kim is preparing a statement to expose it as fabricated. But it'll take time before people believe it."
"Find proof. Nail him down. When you do, send me everything," Joon-ho ordered.
"Yes, hyung. But until then—"
"Until then," Joon-ho cut in, "Mr. Choi will speak louder than any video. Keep Jeju Hospital steady. I'll hold the line here."
He ended the call and returned to the control tent. PD Kang looked up, eyes burning with agitation. "So? What the hell am I supposed to do? Protestors are out there screaming fraud, netizens are sharpening knives, and if this gets bigger—"
"It will," Joon-ho interrupted calmly. "But the video is fake. Director Kim will confirm it. And when Mr. Choi walks through that door on his own two legs, everyone will know the truth. That's reality. Noise doesn't outlast proof."
Kang stared at him for a long second, searching his face. Was this man reckless, or unshakably certain? Finally, he exhaled sharply and barked at the AD, "Fine. Keep rolling. Keep the shots tight on food and faces. Cut out the chanting outside. We hold position until Mr. Choi arrives."
Inside the café, the atmosphere remained deceptively normal. Guests laughed over their bread, children smeared jam across their cheeks, couples whispered as they shared bites. The cameras captured warmth while tension coiled beneath. Mirae glanced anxiously at Joon-ho when he returned, but his calm expression told her not to worry—not yet.
Outside, chants surged again, crashing against the orchard walls. Security shouted warnings, holding their ground. Inside, the cast exchanged nervous glances, but no one spoke; the cameras were still live, and silence was safer than rumor.
Joon-ho checked his watch. Ten minutes until Mr. Choi arrived. Ten minutes until truth walked in through the orchard gates. He stood firm at the counter, steady as the eye of the storm, waiting for the moment that would cut through the noise and decide everything.
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