The suite had settled into stillness after Mirae's question, the faint hum of the air conditioner filling the silence. Joon-ho rested his elbows on his knees, his gaze steady on the woman beside him. Her question hung there between them — not just curiosity, but something heavier, fragile.

He drew a slow breath before answering. "Mr. Choi's recovery was slowed by more than just age. When Do-jin punched him, the fall aggravated an old injury. Years ago, he hurt himself hiking, and the scar tissue never fully healed. That weakness made the strain worse, and that's why he wasn't bouncing back quickly."

Mirae's lips parted, the memory of that terrible day flashing bright: the sound of impact, the sight of Mr. Choi hitting the ground, staff scrambling too late. Even now, shame prickled under her skin for sharing a stage with the man who caused it.

Joon-ho's voice softened, yet carried a quiet assurance. "I treated him with massage and acupuncture. Released the tension, helped circulation return to normal. If nothing unexpected comes up overnight, he can be discharged as soon as tomorrow."

The words landed like stones in still water — ripples of surprise spreading across the room.

"Tomorrow?" Hye-jin leaned forward, disbelief sharp in her tone. "That's impossible. The crew told us it could take weeks, maybe longer. They said his age and history made it inevitable."

"That was before," Joon-ho said simply, his tone matter-of-fact, not boastful.

Hye-jin leaned back into the sofa, tapping her nail against her tablet as though trying to rearrange the puzzle in her head. "If he really can leave tomorrow… it changes everything. If we can persuade him to show his face again, even briefly, it could cool the backlash against the show. But—" Her expression twisted with doubt. "After being assaulted? Humiliated on camera? Why would he forgive us that quickly?"

Mirae pressed her lips tight. The thought of going to Mr. Choi, bowing low, asking him to stand before cameras again — it made her stomach knot. He had already suffered for their entertainment. What right did they have to ask for more?

Joon-ho broke the silence before it could fester. "I already spoke with him."

Both women turned sharply toward him.

"He agreed to return for the next live shoot. His only condition is that Do-jin not be there."

Mirae blinked. The words felt unreal, as though she had misheard. Relief flooded so fast it stung her eyes. She reached for him instinctively, arms wrapping around his torso. Her cheek pressed against his chest, and the solid rhythm of his heartbeat calmed the tremors inside her.

"Oppa…" Her voice was small, shaky, muffled against his shirt. "You really… fixed it?"

His hand rose, brushing lightly through her hair, a steadying touch. He didn't answer right away, letting her cling as long as she needed.

Inside her, the feelings tangled messily. Relief, yes — the weight of uncertainty lifting at last. Gratitude too, so fierce it left her breathless. But behind it, something darker stirred. Fear. Fear that he was stepping too deep into her world, a world of scandals and half-truths and hungry networks ready to use anyone. He was not part of this chaos, and yet here he was, steady as stone, pulling solutions from disaster.

Was she selfish for letting him? For leaning on him like this, when every step he took closer meant more risk of being caught in her industry's endless web?

Her fingers curled tighter against his back, as if holding him longer could shield him — or keep him from drifting away.

Hye-jin broke the moment with a scoff that was more admiration than annoyance. "Unbelievable. We've spent days tearing our hair out, and you handle it in a single afternoon. Heal the patient, fix the scandal, deliver a solution on a silver tray. If you weren't a therapist, you'd put half the crisis managers in this industry out of work."

Joon-ho chuckled softly at that, finally easing Mirae back enough to look at her flushed face. Her cheeks glowed pink, her lashes lowered, and she refused to meet his gaze. He turned his attention to Hye-jin instead, his calm focus undisturbed.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I want to meet PD Kang Jin-ho. I need to hear his plan for the next shoot, to decide if intervention is necessary."

Hye-jin tilted her head, still staring at him as though he'd grown two extra heads. Then she exhaled slowly, conceding. "Fine. I'll set it up. If you can turn Mr. Choi around in a day, maybe you can work some sense into the PD too."

The room settled again, though Mirae's heart refused to quiet. She shifted closer, slipping her hand into his. Their fingers twined, her palm warm against his. She squeezed lightly, grounding herself in the contact.

"Just…" Her voice wavered. She looked down at their joined hands, then up at him. "Don't let them drag you down with this mess. Promise me that, oppa."

His gaze softened, and he squeezed back gently. "I'll be fine."

Mirae smiled, but it was thin, stretched over the knot inside her chest. She was proud of him — of his strength, his clarity, the way he could step into chaos and somehow make it quiet. But pride didn't erase fear. And as she leaned into his side once more, she knew she would carry both: the relief of today, and the dread of what tomorrow might cost.

The coffee on the table had long gone cold, forgotten. What lingered instead was the warmth of his hand in hers, and the fragile hope that somehow, he could stay untouched by the storm her world never seemed to stop stirring.

The private dining room had been prepared with quiet precision: lacquered wood walls, frosted glass doors, a low arrangement of orchids in the center of the round table. It was meant to soothe, but Mirae's fingers still twisted nervously in her lap as she sat beside Joon-ho. Across from them, Hye-jin scrolled her phone with the restless energy of someone who disliked waiting.

The clink of porcelain teacups being set down by the server gave Mirae something to focus on. She glanced sideways at Joon-ho, who looked entirely at ease — one arm resting lightly on the table, his posture straight, his gaze steady. It made her wonder again how he could step into spaces like this, carrying none of the tension she carried, as if storms couldn't touch him.

Her voice broke the hush. "Oppa… what are you planning to say to the PD?"

Joon-ho turned his head slightly, meeting her eyes with that calm steadiness that always unraveled her. "I need to know what his plan is for the show. If I need to intervene, I will."

Mirae bit her lip. Part of her swelled with pride — the way he spoke so simply, as if solutions were within reach. Another part trembled with unease. The entertainment industry devoured people, chewed them up with politics and greed. Could even he withstand that?

The sound of hurried footsteps outside pulled her from her thoughts. The sliding door opened, and PD Kang Jin-ho stepped inside.

He looked like a man carrying a mountain. His suit jacket was slightly rumpled, his tie loosened, and deep shadows clung under his eyes. Stress clung to him like a second skin.

"PD-nim," Hye-jin greeted, standing briefly. "Thank you for coming. This is Joon-ho." She gave the introduction smoothly, almost casually, though the title she used carried weight. "Mirae's stakeholder."

The PD's eyes shifted toward Joon-ho, assessing. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze before he inclined his head stiffly and took the seat directly opposite.

The server reentered with trays of side dishes, filling the silence with the rustle of plates and the faint aroma of garlic and sesame oil. When the door closed again, the quiet returned, heavy as stone.

PD Kang cleared his throat. "So. What can I help you with?" His voice was even, but the edge of weariness gave every word a brittle undertone.

Joon-ho didn't hesitate. "Will filming continue as scheduled?"

The bluntness made Mirae's shoulders tighten. She glanced between the two men, sensing the clash of currents before it even began.

The PD exhaled sharply through his nose. "Of course it will. I don't have a choice. The higher-ups want cameras rolling no matter what. Sponsors are already pulling their hair out — I've had three calls this morning alone, demanding answers. If we pause now, it's not just a scandal, it's a collapse." His hands, clenched loosely on the table, betrayed the strain.

Hye-jin arched a brow. "And pushing Mirae forward as the face of the show? That was your brilliant solution?"

The PD shot her a look but didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed on Joon-ho, measuring, guarded.

Joon-ho's tone didn't shift, calm as ever. "I'm not here about the network. Or the sponsors. I don't care about their panic. What matters is whether the show itself can survive — and whether the people on it can."

The words landed like stones on still water. Mirae felt her breath catch.

Across the table, PD Kang stiffened. His pride bristled at the calm intrusion, the implication that someone outside his world could judge its survival. He leaned back, crossing his arms. "You sound like every other meddler who thinks throwing money or influence can fix things. Is that what this is? Another chaebol playing savior because he doesn't like what he sees on TV?"

Mirae's heart thudded painfully. She wanted to speak, to defend him, to say Joon-ho had nothing to do with chaebols or empty meddling. But she forced herself still. If she interrupted now, she would only weaken his voice.

Joon-ho, unshaken, held the PD's stare. "I don't have time for games like that. I'm asking you a simple question: can this show continue without collapsing under its own mess? If the answer is yes, then we find a way. If the answer is no, then dragging it forward only destroys the people inside it."

The room went silent, the orchids in the center seeming to absorb the weight of the words.

The PD's jaw tightened. His pride told him to push back harder, to throw this outsider out of the room. But something in Joon-ho's steady voice made him hesitate. It wasn't the voice of a meddler. It was the voice of someone used to pulling people back from the edge — not for profit, not for image, but because collapse wasn't an option.

Mirae's gaze darted to Joon-ho, then back to the PD. Her chest tightened. Watching them was like watching tectonic plates grind against each other — steady strength pressing against brittle pressure. She didn't know which would crack first.

Hye-jin sipped her tea slowly, her sharp eyes flicking between them. For once, even she stayed quiet, sensing the delicate balance in the air.

The tension stretched, the silence filling with things unsaid. Finally, the PD leaned forward slightly, his voice lower, more strained. "If you're serious about this, then don't talk to me about collapse. Help me keep it standing."

Mirae's breath caught again. The shift was small, but it was there — a crack in the wall of defensiveness. Yet the unease inside her only deepened.

Because every step Joon-ho took into this world, he risked being caught by it. And she didn't know if even his steady hands could carry both her and the storm that was coming.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.