The day started with poison. It crawled in through every phone in the agency, a dozen notifications at once—a new leak, this one uglier than the last. Screenshots of a so-called "private" group chat began circulating, the account that posted them clearly a burner but already retweeted by hundreds, then thousands. The conversation was pure venom: EON idols sniping about LUNE's "scrapheap," Rika slinging filth with her signature smugness.

Mirae was "secondhand goods," her comeback ridiculed as charity work for the desperate. Jina was mocked for her breakdown on live TV last year, her mental health reduced to punchlines. And Rina—Rina was the headline. "Cheap pussy with a contract," Rika wrote. "She'll spread for anyone if it means staying on the runway." The EON girls piled on, calling her "LUNE's open secret," laughing at how easily she'd switched agencies.

It took less than an hour for the thread to trend. LUNE, LUNERIA, even Joon-ho's name shot up the charts, side-by-side with the word "stable." Fandoms went rabid—some leapt to defend the girls, others licked blood from the water, trolls and bot accounts fanning the flames.

By midmorning, the building was a warzone. Mirae locked herself in the break room, phone off, hands trembling. Jina slumped in a corner of the main lounge, eyes swollen, clutching her knees. Her manager tried to comfort her, but Jina could only whisper, "It's over. They'll never forgive me for this. I'm done."

Rina's reaction was the opposite—fury so controlled it was ice. She slid onto the couch next to Jina, wrapped her arms around her, and whispered, "They're just scared of you, babe. They can't hurt you unless you let them. We don't break. Not for them." Her voice was quiet, lethal as a blade.

The only one who wanted to fight was Min-ji. She stalked into Harin's office, fists balled, cheeks flaming red. "Let me post. Let me fucking burn them to the ground. I'll say it all—how EON treats their girls, what they did to Mirae and Jina, everything."

Joon-ho was already there, jaw set. "You post, you lose. That's what they want. The second you lash out, they'll spin it, call us hysterical, bullies, worse. Harin—"

Harin stood at the window, her reflection hard as steel. "No one posts. No one responds. That's an order. I know it hurts, but we don't show our throats. Not now. Not ever." She turned, eyes flicking to each face in the room—defiant, desperate, lost. "They want to see us crack. Let's make them sweat instead."

There was a long silence. Min-ji looked ready to spit fire but swallowed it, shoulders tense. Jina sniffed, nodding as Rina stroked her hair. Even Mirae, red-eyed and shaking, gave a single, numb nod.

That was when Su-bin arrived—dark clothes, unruffled, a cold efficiency in every movement. She bowed lightly, gaze sweeping the room until she landed on Harin and Joon-ho. "Madam Ha-eun asked me to report. May I request a private word?"

Harin glanced at Joon-ho, who nodded. The others filed out, Min-ji muttering curses, Rina throwing one last glare at the now-locked phone.

Inside the conference room, Su-bin connected her tablet to the big monitor. "We've reviewed all recent building security footage after the sabotage. There are anomalies." She tapped through freeze-frames—two men in maintenance uniforms, faces half-obscured, entering restricted areas at odd times, never on the official log.

"I saw them," Mirae blurted, voice raw. "I heard them talking—something about the boss upstairs, a bonus if the elevator stayed stuck, and a warning not to go near the owner's suite."

Su-bin's gaze sharpened. "You're sure?"

Mirae nodded, fingers clenching her thigh. "I hid behind the sound panels. I recognized one voice—he had a lisp, local accent. They said nobody checked wiring until morning shift."

Su-bin flipped to another video: one of the saboteurs exiting near the practice rooms, glancing nervously at every camera. "We have enough to prove malicious intent," she said. "But Madam Ha-eun wishes to handle it internally. No police, not unless we absolutely must."

Joon-ho ran a hand through his hair. "Do we know who's behind this? Can you tie it to anyone?"

Su-bin's expression stayed neutral, unreadable. "There are connections, but nothing clean. One of the men has a history as a contractor—he's worked for outfits with ties to both the entertainment industry and… some finance interests. Too many middlemen, too many shadows. Could be EON, could be someone with more money and a longer grudge."

She clicked to the next frame. "What's clear is this wasn't random. They'll be back tonight to 'clean up' their mess—remove any trace of what they did. I'll intercept them. If you want, I'll stream it so you see it all live."

Harin, arms crossed, nodded. "Do it. No press. No police—yet. I want them to sweat in our hands before we decide what comes next."

Su-bin paused, then added, "There's one more thing. Mirae's car was attacked last night—slashed tires, windows broken. I'm still trying to track down the perpetrator. They left little evidence, but I've got the footage and I'm running it through our system."

Joon-ho's jaw tightened. "Why didn't you tell us immediately?"

Su-bin's eyes flicked toward Mirae. "She insisted she could handle it. Said she didn't want to cause more trouble."

Mirae, cheeks flushed but determined, straightened in her seat. "I want to help. I need to be strong, too. If they're trying to scare us, it won't work on me."

For a moment, there was only the soft hum of the air conditioning, the tension in the room shifting from anger to something softer. Harin's expression thawed—just a fraction. She stepped forward, putting a hand on Mirae's shoulder. Joon-ho moved in close, wrapping an arm around them both. Mirae let herself lean in, just for a moment, comfort and courage mixing with the promise that this fight, for once, didn't have to be hers alone.

The wall between Harin and Mirae, built from competition and suspicion, eased a little—replaced by the solidarity of being under attack, and the shared resolve to endure.

The rest of the day was an agony of waiting. No one could focus. LUNERIA kept up a defense on social media, but the hate kept coming, fueled by bot accounts and rival fans. Staff whispered in corners, wondering if the agency would survive another week. Artists hovered in practice rooms, refusing to be seen on their own.

By nightfall, the building emptied out except for those with a reason to stay—Joon-ho pacing the office, Harin in her chair staring at unread emails, Su-bin down in the lobby with her phone and a small, silent security team.

The maintenance crew arrived late, both men shuffling in with toolkits, casual, practiced. Su-bin watched from the shadows, one earbud in, the other in a guard's ear. She waited as they started toward the server room, their hands sure, their conversation nervous.

She stepped into their path without a word. The shorter man flinched, almost dropping his case. "Can we help you?"

"You can help by explaining why you're here after hours," Su-bin replied, her tone mild as poison.

"We have authorization—"

"I have your faces on tape. Both of you. All week." She held up her phone, streaming live to Ha-eun, Harin, and Joon-ho. "You want to explain now, or after building security gets here?"

The taller man tried to bluff. "You're not police. You don't—"

Su-bin nodded at her guards. "I don't need a badge. I have something better—your boss's attention."

It only took a moment for the façade to crack. The shorter man bolted for the exit, but the guards were faster—he barely made it two steps before he was slammed against the wall and cuffed.

The taller one didn't run. Instead, he lunged at Su-bin, swinging his heavy flashlight at her head. She sidestepped, caught his wrist, and twisted with brutal efficiency. The man dropped to his knees, gasping, then grunted as her knee drove into his gut. He crumpled, and the guards closed in, pinning his arms behind his back.

Both saboteurs were dragged—struggling, cursing, breathless—down the hallway and into a stark, windowless room on the ground floor. Su-bin followed, composure unbroken, only pausing to wipe her hands clean. Joon-ho was already waiting there, eyes hard, arms folded as the guards forced the men into chairs opposite them.

Su-bin closed the door behind her, the lock clicking loud in the silence. She didn't bother sitting. "We're going to have a conversation," she said, voice icy and precise. "And if you're smart, you'll make it easy."

Joon-ho watched, silent but watchful—the real interrogation just beginning.

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