The apartment felt strangely peaceful after so many days of tension and chaos, as if the city outside was catching its breath just for them. Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, dust motes tumbling lazily in the glow. Somewhere in the distance, a siren faded, replaced by the hum of traffic and a pigeon cooing from the balcony rail. But inside, all was calm—except, perhaps, for the small storm of laughter and gossip brewing at the breakfast table.

Yura woke to emptiness—cool sheets beside her, the faint scent of Joon-ho on the pillow, but no warmth. It took a moment for her to orient herself, her body pleasantly sore, her mind hovering in that delicate haze that lingered after a night spent giving in to everything she'd denied herself for weeks. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed: 10:15 AM. Late, by her standards.

She stretched, rolling onto her back and letting the sunlight spill over her bare skin. In the next room, she could hear clinking plates, bursts of giggles, the low hum of women who felt at home even when the world was uncertain. With a soft smile, Yura slipped out of bed, pausing just long enough to tug on a translucent kimono—a gossamer wrap that did nothing to hide the lines of her body but made her feel elegant, untouchable, slightly dangerous. Her hair was a wild tumble, but she left it as it was. Today, she didn't care about appearances.

She padded barefoot down the hall, following the smell of strong coffee and grilled mackerel.

At the dining table, Harin and Min-Kyung were already halfway through their breakfast, plates scattered with the remains of kimchi fried rice, a few bright cubes of fruit, and the last scraps of golden fish. Both women wore mismatched pajamas: Harin's were candy-striped and loose at the cuffs, Min-Kyung's a faded university tee shirt and pink shorts. Their phones were never far away, propped on coffee mugs or clutched in hand as they scrolled through SNS, snorting at memes and viral comments that had sprung up overnight.

Harin was the first to spot Yura, grinning over her shoulder with wicked glee. "Unnie, should I reheat your rice? You look like you barely slept." There was a twinkle of something conspiratorial in her gaze—one that Min-Kyung immediately caught.

Min-Kyung set down her chopsticks, feigning innocence. "We, ah, heard everything, you know. The walls in this place are not soundproof, just FYI. Next time, maybe a warning? Or… maybe don't warn us. It was like the opening of a drama."

Yura, unbothered, slid into her chair, crossing her legs with a practiced flick. She poured herself coffee, letting the heat and bitterness ground her. "Yes, please. I need rice. And coffee. Maybe both together." She smiled back, eyes glinting, utterly unapologetic. "I'd apologize, but honestly? I'm not sorry at all."

Min-Kyung cackled. "Fair. But, for real, Yura—if you ever put out a sex tape, at least let us edit the soundtrack. You were basically singing."

Yura just lifted her mug in salute, hiding the beginnings of a blush behind the rim. "I'll add it to my future media empire. 'Madam Seo: The Director's Cut.'"

Harin giggled, sliding out of her chair to reheat a bowl for Yura. She returned a minute later, steam rising from the ceramic, and set it down with a flourish. "Your breakfast, your highness."

Yura blew her a kiss, then immediately devoured a few mouthfuls, only pausing to make a face at her friends. The warmth in her stomach was almost as good as the company.

"Where's Joon-ho?" she asked, glancing around the empty kitchen. "I expected him to at least hover and fuss over everyone's vitamins this morning."

Harin waved her phone. "He left before eight, said something about meeting Park Jae-hyun—the contract lawyer. Didn't want to wake you, so he just snuck out after packing up breakfast for us."

Min-Kyung's brows rose. "So it's really happening? He's going to break Mirae's contract?"

The energy at the table shifted, quiet but heavy, the kind of silence that followed big decisions and whispered secrets. Harin, always the one to fill the gap, sighed dramatically, only half-joking: "Why does he only go to war for Mirae? If he ever feels like saving a tragic fashion PR girl, I'll volunteer as tribute."

Yura's mouth curved, the affection in her voice real. "That's the kind of man he is. When he loves, he fights for you. Whether it's you or Mirae or even me, in his own strange way." She reached for more coffee, feeling a flicker of pride at the steadiness in her words.

Min-Kyung made a thoughtful sound, stirring her empty mug with a spoon. "He's not like other men. Most would hide, or compromise. He… just does what's right, even if it's messy."

There was an unspoken undercurrent to their words—a blend of admiration and envy, longing and protectiveness, all the tangled feelings that came from being both friends and rivals in a world that never offered enough for everyone. They all knew what it meant to be wanted, and to want more, and to live with the choices you made when the world was watching.

Harin, eyes twinkling, leaned in, elbows on the table. "If you ever get bored, Yura unnie, send him my way for a weekend. I'll make him pancakes. Or… whatever he wants."

Yura just laughed, a flicker of possessiveness in her smile. "You'll have to get in line. Besides, he'd probably wear you out before you even made it to the pancakes."

They all burst out laughing. The apartment, for a moment, felt like a sanctuary from the outside world—a bubble where their stories, desires, and alliances were free to shift and grow without fear of judgment.

Eventually, the conversation wound down to softer topics—plans for Fashion Week, gossip about the agencies vying for Min-Kyung's attention, the latest rumors from the entertainment world, and their own dreams for the months ahead. They lingered over food, sharing bites, stealing each other's fruit, talking about love and work and the future. Occasionally, they circled back to Mirae and Joon-ho—how their story had become something bigger than any of them had expected.

"I just hope Mirae's ready for what comes next," Min-Kyung mused, her tone gentler now. "The agency isn't going to let go quietly. There will be drama."

Yura nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. "She's stronger than she knows. And with us behind her, and Joon-ho… She'll be fine. We'll all be fine."

The three women exchanged looks—equal parts determination and affection. They were a found family, as strange and messy as any, but bound by something real.

Harin scooped the last spoonful of fruit into her mouth, dusted her hands, and sighed. "Okay. Group selfie, or it didn't happen."

Min-Kyung groaned, but didn't protest as Harin grabbed her phone, leaning in close. Yura rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, her heart a little lighter as the camera flashed.

The morning outside was already sliding toward afternoon, the world turning as it always did, but inside Joon-ho's apartment, the girls of the Trouble Committee lingered—a trio of women on the cusp of something new, ready for the next battle, whatever it might bring.

Gangnam's upscale cafés always hummed with energy—a certain golden, humming luxury that made the city feel endless and full of possibility. The air was fragrant with espresso and anticipation. Rows of suited men and women talked in low, intent voices, heads bent over contracts and phones. Sunlight slanted across lacquered tables, warming the deep brown of old wood and polished brass. For a moment, Kim Joon-ho felt the weight of all the lives being negotiated here—deals struck, dreams broken, people's futures decided in the space between two sips of coffee.

Today, his was one of them.

He arrived ten minutes early, as was his habit. Even here, surrounded by expensive suits and quiet status, he cut an unusual figure: tall, broad-shouldered, still carrying a kind of athlete's confidence despite his quiet manner. He wore a charcoal button-down and simple slacks, a look calculated to project seriousness but not arrogance. Still, a few patrons glanced up from their laptops, recognizing his face from yesterday's trending clips: the "Coffee Prince," the man who'd defused violence, charmed a nation, and now—according to rumor—was about to declare war on one of Korea's most notorious talent agencies.

Park Jae-hyun spotted him first. The lawyer's reputation had grown over the past year—first for defending exploited idols, then for destroying the contracts of a certain top-5 agency with the surgical precision of a master. Today, he looked every inch the legal assassin: sharp suit, glasses glinting, hair swept back to reveal a scar above his eyebrow—a reminder, perhaps, that even lawyers sometimes fought with more than words.

Joon-ho rose and bowed politely. "Hyung, thank you for making time on such short notice."

Park waved off the formality, voice brisk but not unkind. "I always have time for trouble. And you—" he gestured to the chair across from him, "—seem determined to find as much as possible."

Joon-ho slid into his seat, letting a slow, wry smile answer for him. "Maybe. But this time, it's worth it."

They exchanged the usual pleasantries—coffee orders, a joke about the weather, the kind of surface talk that let both men size each other up anew. Then Park got down to business, reaching into his leather briefcase and pulling out a file so thick it could have doubled as a doorstop.

"This is everything we have on Kwon Mirae's contract," Park said, tapping the cover. "I read it three times last night. You're set on this? You know Mirae's agency—if you poke the beast, it bites back."

Joon-ho's reply was steady, low. "I'm not afraid of bites. I'm afraid of cages. She's suffered enough. I want her out—clean, public, no NDAs if possible."

Park's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but approval. "No NDA… bold. I'll ask, but they'll fight it. Still, you have leverage now. Her popularity is a double-edged sword—enough people care about her, and public pressure can do things that even money can't."

He flipped open the file, laying out pages with neat, annotated tabs. "Here. Clause 6.3. 'Extension for exceptional performance'—no clear definition of 'exceptional,' so they can move the goalposts whenever they like. Clause 8.1. 'Penalty for early termination'—multiplies with each major endorsement, and can be calculated retroactively. Clause 10.2. 'Exclusive rights to image and likeness'—even after contract ends, if they decide to enforce it."

Joon-ho frowned, tracing the lines with his eyes. "It's a prison. How do we break it?"

Park pointed out the cracks. "Here, and here—loopholes. They wrote it sloppily in the rush for market share. Some of their 'training compensation' clauses are legally unenforceable under new labor law revisions. And this—" he tapped a highlighted paragraph, "—could be challenged if we can prove they coerced her, threatened her, or failed in their duty of care."

He sat back, sipping his Americano, gaze sharp. "We can do this two ways. The quiet route: we pay, we negotiate, they let her go quietly. Or… we fight it out in public. Use the press, her fan base, the threat of a mass exodus if their abuses come to light. It'll get ugly, but we might actually scare them into running."

Joon-ho shook his head. "No more secrets. If they want to play dirty, we fight in the open. But it needs to happen fast—Fashion Week is coming, and Mirae needs to be free by then."

Park considered this, a glint in his eye. "They'll try everything. Leaked rumors. Slander. Bots on SNS. Manufactured 'scandals.' They might even come after you. Are you ready for that?"

Joon-ho met his gaze, calm as stone. "Let them. I'm not the one who's hiding. Mirae's already lived through hell. I can take the heat if it means she gets out clean."

There was a pause. Park studied him for a long moment—measuring, weighing, as if trying to see if the man in front of him was really willing to set himself on fire for a woman he loved. He must have liked what he saw, because he nodded, then stood, offering his hand.

"I'll set up a meeting with the agency for this afternoon," Park said. "If you have any witnesses—managers, staff, anyone who saw them threaten or pressure Mirae, or manipulate the contract—bring statements. Anything helps."

"I'll bring everything I have." Joon-ho stood, gripping the lawyer's hand hard. "Thank you, hyung."

Park squeezed back, then released him, his tone both wry and proud. "You're about to make a lot of enemies, Joon-ho. You know that?"

Joon-ho just smiled, his jaw set with resolve. "Enemies I can handle. If Mirae is free, it's worth all of them."

A few tables over, a young woman paused mid-espresso, snapping a quick photo of Joon-ho on her phone. Someone at the counter whispered, "That's the Coffee Prince, isn't it?"—but today, he didn't hear, or didn't care.

He stepped out into the winter sunlight, the weight of the city settling on his shoulders. He could feel the stakes—how everything he did now would shape not just Mirae's future, but the fate of everyone who'd ever been exploited by a system that saw them as products, not people. And yet, as he walked away from the café, he felt no fear, only a clear, burning certainty.

Let them come. He was ready for war.

And in some high-rise conference room, as Park Jae-hyun gathered his notes and prepared to make the call that would set everything in motion, a different kind of storm was already brewing—one that would test the limits of love, loyalty, and the power of a single honest fight.

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