Joon-ho could still hear Harin's laughter echoing in his ears as he left the Grand Meridian's lobby. The memory was barely minutes old, yet it already felt like another life—Harin, arms folded, giving him that mock-stern look, standing between him and Mirae like a guard at a velvet rope.

"Go find something useful to do, oppa," she'd teased, eyes glinting with mischief. "We'll return Mirae in one piece tomorrow, promise. But tonight, she's ours."

He'd played along, adopting a wounded pout, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "Should I be worried? Or are you going to try to steal her for your agency instead?"

Harin had just rolled her eyes and shooed him away, turning all her focus to Mirae—her energy impossible to resist, a whirlwind of jokes and conspiratorial whispers. Mirae's nervous smile had become genuine laughter, her voice fading as the two women vanished into the lobby's tide. For a moment, Joon-ho had simply stood there, watching, a half-smile on his lips and something warmer, deeper, stirring in his chest.

Now, he drove back to his apartment in silence. The city outside the window was washed in early evening gold, streets slowly thickening with after-work crowds. He listened to the hum of traffic, the faint whine of his engine, and tried not to notice the shape of absence where Mirae's voice would have been. She had grown so quickly into his world, first as a responsibility, then as a friend, finally as something precious he struggled to name. Letting her go—even for a night—felt like a test he hadn't studied for.

His building's lobby was almost unnaturally calm after the chaos of the Grand Meridian. The doorman greeted him by name, as always; the elevator doors slid open with a gentle chime. Everything gleamed: marble floors, glass walls, a small water feature whispering beside the mailroom. It was the kind of place he had once dreamed of living—a measure of success, of arriving in Seoul's ruthless, shimmering hierarchy. But as he stepped into his apartment, all that polished luxury seemed to echo, not embrace.

He dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes, and padded quietly into the living room. The city stretched beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Han River glinting in the distance, towers rising like teeth into a sky tinged lavender and rose. Joon-ho paused, savoring the view. Somewhere out there, Mirae and Harin were making their way to Seo Yura's house, preparing for a night of laughter and secrets that would not include him.

He found himself reaching for his phone almost unconsciously. The home screen lit up with a flood of notifications—group chats, emails, a reminder to check contract amendments for the new agency, a string of missed calls from a persistent reporter. And above all, the chat thread with Mirae: their conversation from earlier in the day, full of nervous energy and hidden hope.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could send something—just a quick check-in, a bit of encouragement, maybe even a silly meme. She'd reply with her usual politeness, maybe an emoji or two. But he stopped himself, thumb dropping away. He remembered the look in Harin's eyes as she'd swept Mirae away: trust us. Let her have this. Let her build something of her own.

He dropped the phone onto the kitchen counter and moved to his bedroom. The silence pressed in around him—thick, but not entirely unpleasant. There was a kind of peace in solitude, a stillness that let his thoughts run unhurried. He changed into black track pants and a faded gym t-shirt, tied back his hair, and stretched out the knots in his shoulders. In the mirror, he caught sight of himself: older than the college kid he still felt like sometimes, a little leaner, a little more tired, but not unhappy.

He grabbed a water bottle and his wireless earbuds, then made his way down to the gym on the fifteenth floor. The elevator ride was smooth, soundless, the walls reflecting his silhouette in triplicate. When he stepped out, the air was cool and faintly scented with eucalyptus, the gym lights casting long shadows across rows of treadmills and weight racks. At this hour, the place was never empty—tonight, three or four other residents jogged or stretched or scrolled their phones by the mirrored walls.

He nodded to a couple he recognized—a young doctor, a lawyer from the twenty-first floor—then found an open treadmill by the window. He set the speed, slipped in his earbuds, and tapped open the news on his phone. The familiar rhythm of his footsteps was grounding, the steady pulse of movement setting his mind at ease.

On the screen, the world spun on, heedless of his little dramas. The top headline was already a scandal—Actor Do-jin, golden boy of television, caught up in a storm of accusations. Drug possession, violence against women, even rumors of hush money paid to keep victims silent. Clips played on a loop: Do-jin entering a police station in dark glasses, his fans sobbing outside the courthouse, entertainment panels debating whether his career was truly over this time.

Joon-ho grimaced. He knew the type—talented, charming, utterly unprepared for the devouring appetite of fame. He remembered his own days at EON, watching idols chewed up and spit out, scandals engineered and covered up with the same ruthless efficiency. He wondered, briefly, if he would ever become calloused to it, or if he was simply growing weary.

He flicked past the scandal to the sports section. Here, the headlines were cleaner, almost hopeful: Korean women's volleyball team storming the Dubai Cup, undefeated so far. He paused at a highlight reel—Ji-hye, his friend and former client, spiking the ball with impossible force, her teammates hugging her at the final whistle. She looked vibrant, alive, every inch the athlete she had fought so hard to become.

Below that, another story caught his eye: Yoon Hye-jin, the archery prodigy, taking silver at the European Grand Prix. The newscaster's voice-over spoke of her comeback, how she'd recovered from a shoulder injury that threatened her career. Joon-ho watched her slow-motion release—a perfect, fluid arc—and felt a pang of admiration. The cost of that perfection was always higher than outsiders guessed.

A few minutes in, he switched to his music app, scrolling through playlists until he found what he needed: a mix of old-school R&B and late 2000s K-pop, a few instrumental tracks for focus. The beat was steady, familiar, like muscle memory. He increased the treadmill's speed, feeling the sweat begin to rise on his skin, the tension in his jaw and chest start to melt.

After twenty minutes, he slowed, heart hammering, and moved to the weight section. The gym had filled up—a pair of women in matching yoga sets stretched in front of the mirrors, a wiry college kid worked the bench press, a yoga instructor he recognized from weekend classes adjusted her students' posture with patient, careful hands. Even here, in this private space, Joon-ho felt the distant hum of recognition—a nod, a smile, the unmistakable flicker of curiosity when someone realized who he was.

He set up at the squat rack. Halfway through his sets, one of the yoga women—tall, ponytail, bright pink shoes—approached, phone in hand, a hopeful look on her face.

"Excuse me, are you Kim Joon-ho?"

He smiled, wiped his brow. "I am. Want a photo?"

She nodded, flustered, her friend giggling behind her. He posed with them, made small talk—"Are you training for something, or just for fun?"—then wished them luck with their yoga class. The instructor, overhearing, offered him a spot in the next group session. He laughed, declining as politely as he could.

As he returned to his workout, the small interactions left a faint warmth, but also an emptiness—a reminder of how many people recognized his name, his face, but not the core of who he was. They saw the surface: success, confidence, the stories written about him in magazines and blogs. Very few saw the cracks, the doubts, the nights spent staring at a city that seemed both endlessly full and infinitely lonely.

He finished his routine, toweling off in front of the wall-length mirrors. His reflection gazed back—sweat-soaked, muscles humming, eyes a little distant. He filled his water bottle, nodded to the last of the gym-goers, and made his way back to his apartment as dusk thickened outside.

Inside, the silence felt softer, easier. He dropped his gym bag by the door and wandered to the living room, letting the city's lights spill in. The sky had deepened to indigo, streaked with the last red of sunset. Car horns echoed faintly from below, and somewhere a siren wailed, quickly swallowed by the night.

He poured himself a glass of cold water and stood by the window, towel around his neck, watching the city breathe. He could picture the scene at Yura's house—Mirae sandwiched on a too-small sofa, Min-kyung cracking jokes, Harin probably instigating some wild game or challenge. He wondered if Mirae was laughing, if her nerves had faded, if she felt at home with these women who had once been strangers and were slowly becoming something more.

A gentle ache pressed against his chest—not quite jealousy, not quite longing, but the sense of something shifting beneath the surface. Mirae had been so alone when he first met her; he had poured energy into protecting her, guiding her, building a future where she would not have to be afraid. Now, watching her step into new friendships, new circles, he felt both proud and strangely out of place, as if he'd built a bridge only to find himself on the opposite shore.

He scrolled through his phone again, thumbing idly through photos—some work, some candid: Mirae making faces in a cafe, Harin at a crowded music show, Ji-hye in her volleyball uniform, eyes bright with triumph. He could send a message—something funny, a question about dinner, a reminder to get enough sleep—but he let the urge pass. Tonight, Mirae deserved a world of her own.

The city outside shimmered, windows lighting up one by one as night settled over Seoul. Joon-ho let his thoughts drift, imagining what the future might hold: a new agency built from scratch, the battles ahead with EON, the uncertain joy of watching someone you care about grow beyond your reach. He felt a flicker of resolve—loneliness was real, but it would not define him. He would build, not just for Mirae, but for everyone in his orbit who had been cast aside, overlooked, or left behind.

For now, though, he watched the city, letting its pulse steady his own. Somewhere across the river, Mirae was laughing with friends, and that, he decided, was enough.

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