Yura led her parents back through the quiet, marbled hallways of the Grand Meridian, the hush of carpet and gold light a world away from the cameras and flashbulbs that had hounded her all week. She'd insisted on a suite for them both, not just for Fashion Week convenience but to ensure the main Seo family elders couldn't pop in unannounced, couldn't meddle or guilt-trip or cast their long shadows over this rare patch of peace. As the suite door closed behind them, Yura's shoulders finally dropped, tension leaking away with every step further from the world outside.

Her father shrugged off his jacket, eyes softening as he surveyed the elegant room. "You always pick good places," he said, a little gruff but secretly delighted.

Her mother wasted no time, padding to the minibar in her stocking feet, and opening the bottle of wine Joon-ho had brought. "For the occasion," she said, pouring three glasses. "Tonight, we are not businesspeople. We are just family."

They sank into the couch together. The city glittered beyond the windows—distant, beautiful, irrelevant. Yura curled against her mother's side, glass in hand. Her father, always the more sentimental of the two when wine was involved, raised his glass and nodded at the bottle. "That young man—Joon-ho—he brought this? I recognized him tonight. I never thanked him properly for what he did that day."

Yura smiled. "The BboBbo scalper incident?"

He nodded, remembering, face going pale at the memory. "The crowd was wild, and then the pain started in my chest—next thing I know, that boy's beside me, keeping everyone back, getting me to breathe, calling the medics. If he hadn't done that, who knows how long I would've lain there?"

Yura took a slow sip, the taste of gratitude on her tongue. "He texted me, you know. That's why I made it to the hospital so fast." She set her glass down. "He's good at noticing things, and even better at taking care of people he cares about."

Her mother fixed her with a sly look. "And how long, exactly, have you two been taking care of each other?"

Yura rolled her eyes, blushing in spite of herself. "It's not like that—at least, not back then."

Her mother pressed, "You think I believe that for a second? I know how my daughter's voice changes when she talks about someone she likes."

Her father grinned. "She's always had a tell. You should've heard her talk about her first puppy."

Yura covered her face, groaning. "This is why I don't bring men home."

Her mother's laughter filled the room, light and sharp as crystal. "You think you're the only one who ever hid something from her parents? Let me tell you—your father once drove all the way to Busan in the middle of the night for my birthday, just to leave a note in my locker. I didn't tell my mother for two years."

The family's laughter turned the suite warm. For a while, they reminisced—childhood holidays, Yura's disastrous violin lessons, her father's failed ventures and quiet recoveries, the hard days when Seoul felt like it might eat them alive. Each story, each shared memory, eased something tight inside all three.

Wine ran low. Yura's mother leaned back, eyes soft. "We never wanted you to marry Baek. We let the elders push us because we thought it would protect you—keep the business alive, give you a future." She looked away, shame flickering. "I'm sorry for that."

Yura squeezed her hand. "You did what you thought was right. But look at us now. You're free, father's business is safe, and I'm not someone's bargaining chip."

Her father exhaled, relief in every line. "We're proud of you, Yura. Proud you fought, proud you walked away."

Yura rested her head on her father's shoulder, feeling for the first time in years like the world outside couldn't touch them. "Let's not talk about the past anymore. Let's just… enjoy being together."

They did, for another hour, the city humming outside, until drowsiness overtook them. Her parents retired to their bedroom, and Yura lingered by the window, watching the neon waves of Seoul and feeling, quietly, unbreakable.

Cloud 9 pulsed with a different energy—music pounding, lights flashing, bodies pressed together in gleaming, sweaty euphoria. Joon-ho arrived at the club's velvet-rope entrance, name already on the list. The doorman let him through with a nod; inside, the noise washed over him, washing away the last stiffness from dinner.

He made his way to the VIP room, following the sound of Min-Kyung's raucous laughter and Mirae's excited shrieks. Harin sat sprawled on a sofa, one heel kicked off, swirling a gin and tonic. Hye-jin was perched at the edge of the booth, scanning the crowd with the alertness of a manager always half-on duty.

Min-Kyung spotted Joon-ho first. "Look who finally showed! The man of the hour!" She grabbed him, pulling him into the center of the circle. "Now it's a party!"

Mirae bounced up next to him, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. "Joon-ho! This place is amazing! How have I never done this before?"

He smiled, grabbing a whiskey. "We'll make sure it's a night you remember. Or don't, depending on how much you drink."

Harin raised her glass. "To nights we'll barely remember but never regret!"

They all toasted, glasses clinking in the glow of neon. Mirae leaned close. "Come dance with us!"

He let her pull him into the tide of bodies on the dance floor. The music throbbed—deep, relentless. Mirae laughed as she spun, Harin swayed with effortless confidence, Min-Kyung showed off moves that got cheers even from strangers. Hye-jin, at first resisting, finally let herself be dragged into the crowd.

Soon, Min-Kyung paused, checking her phone. "Alina, Yumi, and Natty just messaged—they're heading up. Model party must be winding down." She winked. "Club's about to get a lot prettier."

A cheer rose from the main dance floor as the DJ shouted out the model arrivals. Strobes flickered, casting wild shadows that danced over the walls and shimmered on bare skin. The entrance was pure theater—waves of beautiful women flooding through the velvet ropes, laughter pealing above the music, camera phones flashing as if this was the real show of the night. Alina, statuesque in a silver dress that clung to every curve and caught the lights with every step, led the charge. She moved like she owned the room, a sultry queen surrounded by her court.

Behind her, Yumi slipped through in a sharp-cut blazer over just a whisper of lacy lingerie, the hem of her jacket flirting with each thigh-high stride. Natty followed, a riot of energy in a glittering halter and micro shorts, every move radiating confidence and "fuck you, watch me" freedom. Their arrival was a shot of adrenaline straight into the heart of the club—heads turned, guys and girls alike craning for a look, the vibe shifting to something wilder, more electric.

Trailing them came a constellation of models—tall, tattooed Japanese girls with neon hair, willowy Thai beauties, even a few Parisian faces fresh from the last Fashion Week circuit. There was Rina, already with LUNE, laughing with a ring of local idols in tow. Another group of up-and-coming influencers clustered near the bar, snapping selfies, lips shining with gloss and ambition.

"Sorry we're late!" Alina called, her voice sailing over the music as she swept Mirae and Min-Kyung into a hug, the four of them spinning in a whirl of perfume and giggles. She pressed a kiss to Harin's cheek, leaving a glittering print. "Models everywhere—everyone wanted to gossip about LUNE and Fashion Week. You should've heard the stories—half the girls want to defect, the rest are terrified of missing out."

Min-Kyung leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Maybe you should've just brought the whole afterparty up here."

Alina grinned wickedly. "Who says I didn't?"

Yumi, still catching her breath, collapsed next to Joon-ho, fanning herself with a cocktail menu. "Your friends are wild, you know. I love it here. I almost had to wrestle two girls for an elevator just now."

Natty dropped herself onto the booth's armrest, crossing endless legs. "This is the real reason I do runway. For nights like this, not magazine covers."

Mirae's eyes were wide with delight. "I feel like I'm dreaming—like, this is what freedom looks like, isn't it?"

The VIP area grew louder, more crowded by the minute as friends and rivals drifted in and out, trading hugs, kisses, and not-so-subtle side-eyes. Models balanced martinis on the edge of the sofa, toasting each other in half a dozen languages. A Brazilian girl in a barely-there dress looped arms with an idol from Busan, both shrieking when their favorite song came on. Near the railing, a pair of French twins danced together, sending a ripple through the mostly-Korean crowd—every so often, a phone went up, a snapshot for proof: look who we're partying with tonight.

Drinks began arriving in waves—champagne, cocktails in neon colors, shots lined up like ammunition. Alina commandeered a bottle, filling glasses with one hand and texting with the other, wrangling both her circle and half the room's attention. Natty dared a shot contest with two Japanese models, ending with laughter and Natty, predictably, winning. Yumi stretched her legs across Joon-ho's lap, teasing him, "You're our prince for the night. If you can survive all of us, you deserve a medal."

Harin, not to be outdone, ordered another round and climbed onto the sofa, leading a half-drunk karaoke of pop hooks and dirty anthems, every girl shouting the chorus and wagging their fingers in time with the beat. Min-Kyung disappeared into a knot of influencers, returning with half of them trailing behind, already begging for "insider tips" and connections.

The music surged, each drop rattling glasses and sending bodies into motion. The LUNE crew spilled from the booth to the dance floor, a parade of glitter, sweat, and designer perfume. Mirae pulled Alina and Rina into the center, their laughter impossible to miss. Alina twirled Mirae around, the two of them practically glowing under the lights, while Yumi spun with Natty, the pair drawing every eye in the room.

By now, it was impossible to tell where one group ended and another began. Rival agencies mingled, gossip spread, alliances shifted in real-time. Some girls danced on tables, others slipped away to secret corners, trading kisses or business cards, depending on the mood. A tall model from Shanghai started an impromptu catwalk across the top of the sofa, the crowd egging her on, everyone cheering when she nailed a dramatic pose and bowed.

Even the staff looked starstruck, whispering behind the bar, eyes wide as they watched the spectacle unfold. The DJ, sensing the momentum, dropped a remix of a song every model in Korea knew by heart, and suddenly everyone was singing, arms flung over each other's shoulders, the air thick with sweat, perfume, and champagne spray.

Back at the booth, Joon-ho found himself surrounded—Min-Kyung with an arm draped around his shoulders, Mirae curled against his chest, Alina close enough for their laughter to vibrate through him. For a moment, the lights flashed across their faces and he felt, truly, like the center of a universe spun from beauty, ambition, and the wild joy of being very much alive.

And as the night thundered on, more models kept arriving—drawn by the rumors, the laughter, the promise that tonight, Cloud 9 belonged to them. The real world faded at the edge of the music, and all that mattered was the beat, the bodies, and the unspoken sense that this, right now, was what freedom looked like.

Later, Harin caught Joon-ho by the bar, breathless and giddy. "We spotted some idols and influencers downstairs—prime LUNE recruiting territory. Come, Hye-jin, let's make connections." She winked, all business even in a cocktail dress.

Hye-jin rolled her eyes but followed, her professional edge making her instantly recognizable to the ambitious young stars on the prowl. They worked the floor, trading cards, promising meetings, leveraging the allure of LUNE's freedom and creative control. Some idols flirted back, eager, competitive—some cautious, but all hungry for opportunity. Harin played queenmaker, Hye-jin the cool-eyed gatekeeper.

Meanwhile, Mirae and Min-Kyung took over the dance floor, turning heads and drawing attention. Min-Kyung thrived on the attention, teasing men and women alike, delighting in every glance and whispered rumor. Mirae, glowing, let herself get swept up, her laughter lighting up the whole club.

Back at the booth, Alina and Yumi caught up with Joon-ho, pressing close. Alina's fingers traced his jaw, her voice low. "So, are you going to dance with us or just hide in your whiskey?"

He grinned, setting down his glass. "If I must."

They pulled him onto the floor, Alina's arms around his neck, Yumi laughing beside them. Natty, never one to miss a party, sandwiched herself in, the four of them moving as one. Stares followed—envy, curiosity, sometimes a flash of open desire.

Somewhere near midnight, Harin and Hye-jin returned, smug and triumphant. "We've got three idols on the hook," Harin announced, "and one influencer who thinks Mirae is the second coming of K-pop."

"Just don't get too famous before Fashion Week," Min-Kyung teased.

Joon-ho, sweaty and breathless, took a moment to stand at the edge of the balcony, watching the crowd writhe and shimmer below. He saw the whole crew together, laughing and tangled, more at home with each other than anywhere else in the world.

He felt, in that instant, the wild possibility of the night—that for all the chaos outside, for all the enemies still lurking in the city, here they were untouchable, their own little empire of secrets, ambition, and joy.

Inside, the music rose again, Alina grabbing his hand, pulling him back into the fray. The drinks kept coming. Jokes got louder, secrets slurred into ears, barriers breaking down with every new round. Mirae grabbed a selfie, everyone crowding into the shot—drunk, beautiful, fiercely alive.

As the night burned on, Cloud 9 belonged to them—if only for a few golden hours. And as Joon-ho looked around, surrounded by friends, rivals, lovers, he knew whatever came next—conflict, scandal, or ecstasy—they'd face it together, with teeth bared and hearts wide open.

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