The suite lights were warm and dim, the glow softened by curtains that shielded Jeju's night skyline. The television murmured in the background, a steady rhythm of anchors and stock tickers.

Mirae lay curled against Joon-ho's shoulder on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, pajama hem brushing the edge of his thigh. She had showered, hair damp and loose, face bare of makeup. Without the gloss of stage or camera, she looked younger, softer—almost fragile.

Joon-ho sat in casual wear, one arm draped around her shoulders, his thumb brushing her sleeve absently. In his other hand, the remote clicked through channels until he stopped on the news. Mirae's eyes were closed, her breathing even, though her fingers toyed lightly with the fabric of his shirt as if tethering herself there.

The scene felt almost domestic. As though they were not in a hotel suite under contract, not caught in a storm of online speculation, but simply a couple winding down after a long day. The kind of quiet that could almost fool the heart into thinking it might last forever.

On-screen, the anchor's voice sharpened:

"Breaking tonight—Bitcoin has reached a new all-time high, crossing the ninety-thousand-dollar mark for the first time. Major inflows continue into U.S. Bitcoin ETFs, fueling speculation of another bull cycle."

Charts flashed, the red-and-green candlesticks climbing in dizzying increments. Joon-ho barely reacted, only a flick of his eyes betraying his interest before his hand stilled on the remote again.

Mirae hummed faintly, roused by the cadence of the anchor's voice. Her lashes fluttered as she shifted, tilting her chin up.

The report changed:

"And in Seoul—final preparations are underway for Fashion Week. Venues across Dongdaemun are being outfitted for the showcase, with several of Korea's most renowned designers slated to premiere their latest lines. Among them, Min-kyung unveiled teasers for her new collection today."

Footage rolled: racks of elegant gowns, seamstresses bent over final stitches, Min-kyung herself smiling in a brief interview, praising her team's hard work.

Then the camera panned over the official model lineup: headshots neatly arranged, names scrolling underneath. Mirae straightened suddenly, her drowsiness forgotten.

Her eyes scanned the list. No trace of her name. No trace of Joon-ho either.

Her lips parted, a tiny intake of breath. "Oppa… wasn't that supposed to be…" She faltered, almost not wanting to say it aloud. "…our spot?"

Joon-ho's gaze remained steady on the screen. "It was."

Silence pressed in. Mirae's shoulders slumped, her hands folding in her lap.

"I knew it," she whispered. "The agency would never approve it. They've locked every hour of my schedule already. Even if Min-kyung wanted me, they'd find an excuse to keep me away."

Her voice carried a trace of bitterness, but more than that, resignation. The same kind that had been growing, line by line, clause by clause in her contract.

Joon-ho didn't argue, didn't try to dismiss her frustration. Instead, he reached over, sliding his arm tighter around her, drawing her closer until her temple rested once more on his shoulder. His warmth was steady, wordless reassurance against the quiet sting of lost opportunity.

For a moment, Mirae closed her eyes again, letting herself sink into that silence, into the comfort of not needing to fight—just for a few breaths.

The suite door clicked open.

"Mirae-ah, Joon-ho-ssi—I'm back."

Seo Hye-jin stepped inside, balancing two bulging takeaway bags in her arms. The smell of fried chicken drifted immediately through the air, golden and savory.

Mirae's head popped up, her gloom softening into a smile. "Unnie, you're a lifesaver."

She hopped up to help, padding barefoot across the carpet. Together they unpacked the bags onto the dining table: boxes of crispy chicken, side dishes, dipping sauces, and cans of beer still chilled from the convenience store fridge.

Hye-jin shook her head at Mirae's eager hands. "You'd think you hadn't eaten all day."

"Food always tastes better when it's with people," Mirae replied, grinning. She darted back to the sofa, tugging Joon-ho's hand until he rose. "Come on, oppa."

Soon, the three of them sat around the small table, cans lifted.

"Cheers," Mirae said brightly, her earlier heaviness tucked away behind her smile.

"Cheers," Hye-jin echoed.

Joon-ho clinked his can lightly against theirs, his voice even. "Cheers."

Foam hissed as they drank, and the sound of tearing boxes filled the air. Mirae tore into a drumstick, cheeks puffed as she chewed. Her hair framed her face messily, and for once she looked like any young woman eating late-night chicken with friends, not a star bound by cameras and contracts.

Conversation began naturally.

"Tomorrow's shooting," Mirae said between bites, "I'm guessing it'll be similar to last time. Guests seated, we serve, chat, keep the energy light. The crew helps with prep behind the scenes."

Hye-jin nodded, wiping her fingers. "Most likely. But let's arrive early. That way, Joon-ho-ssi can familiarize himself with the set and talk with the crew about their flow. You'll adapt faster if you've seen the rhythm once before."

Joon-ho listened quietly, nodding. "That makes sense. I'll do that."

Mirae glanced at him, her lips curling into a smile she couldn't quite hide. Pride shimmered in her eyes. She imagined him there already, standing under the lights, speaking with calm confidence. It fit him somehow, as though the stage had been waiting.

Her chest swelled with a mix of anticipation and something deeper she didn't dare put into words.

They ate, the table growing messier with bones and empty wrappers. Beer cans clinked, laughter spilled between bites, and for a brief hour, the weight of contracts and scandals seemed far away.

It was fragile, this peace—like glass held between uncertain hands. But in that moment, within the walls of the suite, it was real.

Outside, Jeju's streets buzzed with nightlife and online storms brewed across social feeds. But inside, three people shared chicken and beer, their laughter soft against the hum of the television, their bonds quietly weaving tighter in the warmth of a simple meal.

The table was a battlefield of chicken bones and crumpled napkins, beer cans tipped onto their sides, their silver skins glinting faintly under the suite's warm lights. The smell of fried food lingered in the air, savory but heavy.

Mirae sat slumped forward, her cheek pressed against her folded arms. Her long lashes fluttered once, then stilled. A faint smile played at her lips as her breathing slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.

"Mirae-ah," Joon-ho murmured, leaning close. His hand touched her shoulder, thumb brushing in a gentle circle. "You should lie down properly."

No response. Only a small sigh as she shifted slightly, nestling further into the crook of her arms.

Across the table, Hye-jin chuckled softly, her sharp voice uncharacteristically tender. "She's gone. Poor thing must be exhausted. It's not just the filming—she let out so much earlier, with the crying. When she breaks, she really breaks."

Joon-ho's expression softened. He stood, moved around the table, and carefully slid his arms under Mirae. She stirred faintly, murmuring something incomprehensible, but when he lifted her into his arms she instinctively looped one hand around his shirtfront, clutching as though she knew even in sleep who carried her.

He cradled her with steady strength, carrying her across the suite to the bedroom. The curtains there were drawn, the bed turned down. He laid her gently against the cool sheets, taking a moment to pull the blanket up over her shoulders.

For a heartbeat, she stirred again, her cheek brushing against his chest as if unwilling to let go. A soft sigh escaped her lips, then she stilled once more, sinking deeper into sleep.

Joon-ho lingered, fingers brushing the strands of hair away from her face. The vulnerability there struck him—the girl who stood so tall before cameras was, at her core, unbearably human.

He straightened at last, exhaling quietly, and returned to the dining table. Hye-jin was already clearing away cans into the trash bag, her eyes sharp and watchful as he sat opposite her.

For a moment, the only sound was the rustle of wrappers, the faint buzz of the air conditioning. Then Hye-jin folded her hands on the table, her face serious.

"I've already gathered Mirae's contract details," she said, voice low. "And the related documents. Endorsements, agency agreements, penalty clauses. Everything I could get my hands on."

She paused, narrowing her eyes slightly. "But before I send them to you, I need to know… what exactly do you plan to do with them?"

Joon-ho didn't flinch, didn't even blink. His voice was steady, every word deliberate.

"I'm going to break her free. Whatever it costs."

The words dropped between them like stones into water.

Hye-jin leaned back slowly, her lips twisting. "You say it so simply. But do you realize how dangerous that is? Not just the money—though that alone could ruin most people. The agency will fight back. They'll smear her. Smear you. They'll drag her name through every tabloid they can find."

Joon-ho's gaze held hers, calm as steel. "She deserves her freedom. I won't let them chain her for five more years just because of a clause written to exploit her. I don't care what they try."

For once, Hye-jin was at a loss. She had seen idols ruined, actors cast aside, reputations shredded beyond repair—all because they dared to resist the hands that fed them. And yet this man spoke as though none of it frightened him.

"…You're serious," she murmured finally, searching his expression.

"I've never been more serious," he replied.

Silence stretched, taut but not hostile. Then, unexpectedly, Hye-jin's shoulders slumped, the fight easing out of her. She looked down at her clasped hands.

"You know," she said softly, almost to herself, "I've been tired for a long time. The agency… it eats people. Not just talents. Managers, too. We're all tools, replaceable. Some of us have been thinking of quitting. Starting over somewhere else."

Her voice cracked slightly, though she caught it quickly. "But I never had the courage to imagine more for Mirae. She's too bright. Too valuable. They'd never let her go. I just… kept trying to protect her within the cage."

Joon-ho's expression gentled, though his eyes stayed firm. "You've done more than most would. But she shouldn't have to live in a cage at all."

Hye-jin met his gaze again, searching. "And if she does get out? What then? Do you really think she can survive without an agency? Without that machine behind her?"

Joon-ho didn't hesitate. "That's for Mirae to decide. If she wants to keep working, I'll support her. If she wants to walk away from the spotlight forever, I'll support that too. It's her choice—not theirs."

For a long moment, Hye-jin studied him. She had known many men around Mirae—sponsors, executives, colleagues. All had looked at the girl as an investment, an opportunity, a trophy. But Joon-ho's words carried no hint of possession, no calculation. Only conviction.

Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, incredulous laugh. "You talk like you're some knight out of a storybook."

He smiled faintly. "I'm just a man who doesn't want to see her broken."

That simple answer hit her harder than any elaborate speech. She reached for her phone, tapped quickly, and then slid it across the table.

"There. You have the documents. Contracts, scanned agreements, even the unofficial notes I've been keeping. I'll warn you now—it's worse than you think. They've wrung every drop of profit out of her image. Breaking this won't just be about money. It'll be war."

Joon-ho took the phone, eyes scanning briefly before setting it down again. "Then we'll prepare for war."

Something in his tone made Hye-jin believe him. For the first time, she allowed herself to imagine Mirae walking freely, without the weight of a contract dictating her life.

Her lips curved faintly, a tired but genuine smile. "Alright. I'll trust you. Just… don't let her get hurt in the crossfire."

"I won't," he promised.

The promise was so simple, so steady, that it silenced every lingering doubt she might have voiced.

She rose at last, gathering her bag. "I'll leave you to rest. Big day tomorrow. Don't stay up too late with those papers."

Joon-ho inclined his head. "Good night, Hye-jin-ssi."

As she slipped out the door, the suite grew quiet again. Mirae slept soundly in the next room, unaware of the choices being set in motion for her sake.

Joon-ho sat at the table a while longer, the glow of the documents on the phone screen reflecting in his eyes. His hand clenched once, then released.

No matter the cost, he would see it through.

The suite was quiet now, heavy with the scent of fried chicken that still lingered in the air. The clatter of cans and the echo of Mirae's laughter earlier had faded into memory. In the bedroom, she slept soundly, cocooned in blankets, her breathing even and untroubled.

Joon-ho sat alone at the dining table, a single lamp casting a pool of warm light over the papers and his phone. He scrolled through the files Hye-jin had sent him — pages of clauses, hidden traps, and penalties masked by fine print. His eyes moved steadily, but his expression hardened, each paragraph only sharpening his resolve.

Finally, he set the phone down, thumb hovering over his contacts. One name stood out. He tapped it.

The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered, soft and teasing.

"Joon-ho-ya," Yura drawled, her warmth spilling through the speaker like velvet. "How's Jeju treating you? Or should I say — how's our rising star?"

The corners of his lips twitched faintly. "Busy," he replied. "But the fire's under control for now."

"Mm. So I heard about the Choi incident." Her voice carried curiosity, edged with amusement. "You solved it, didn't you? The networks are quieter than I expected."

"I treated him myself," Joon-ho said evenly. "He'll appear at the next shoot. That's enough to steady the crew."

A small, pleased hum came through the line. "You never disappoint."

For a moment, silence stretched between them — comfortable, familiar. Then Yura shifted gears, her tone sharper, more curious.

"I thought as much," she continued smoothly. "Min-kyung's already buzzing about her dresses. But listen…" Her voice lowered, conspiratorial. "You haven't seen the full Fashion Week lineup yet, have you? That's because we left two names off. Yours. And Mirae's. Min-kyung and I agreed to keep the announcement quiet until the timing was right."

Joon-ho leaned back in his chair, absorbing her words. He wasn't surprised. "So the space is waiting."

"Exactly. But if Mirae's chained to that agency, they'll never approve it. They'll sell her to the highest bidder before letting her walk for us." Yura's voice softened, almost coaxing. "That's why I asked. You're serious about freeing her, aren't you?"

Joon-ho's eyes drifted to the bedroom door where Mirae slept, her fragile silhouette barely visible through the gap. "I'm certain," he said quietly. "Her contract's rotten. I need your help with the best entertainment lawyer in Seoul. Someone who can burn the clauses down to ash."

For once, Yura didn't tease. Her tone turned all business. "You know this isn't a skirmish, Joon-ho-ya. You'll be dragging her agency into a war. Ten million, maybe more. They won't just take the money — they'll fight to smear her name."

"I'll handle the cost," he replied steadily. "Whatever it is."

There was a pause, long enough that he almost heard her smile on the other end. "Do you want me to share the cost with you? You know I can if needed. We'll cover it together."

"No," he said firmly. "Not yet. I can shoulder it. What I need is your lawyer. And your silence, until the timing is right."

Yura chuckled softly, though it carried a note of exasperation. "Always so stubborn. But fine — I'll set the meeting. Tomorrow I'll call Park Jae-hyun. He's the one who tore that idol group's agency apart last year. If anyone can break Mirae free, it's him."

Her words were practical, sharp — but when she spoke again, her tone slipped back into something personal. "You know, you don't hide it well. The way you're protecting her. Makes me a little jealous."

Joon-ho allowed himself a faint smile. "You know me, Yura. I'll take care of all my women. I don't divide my promises."

On the other end, she gave a small sigh, half-amused, half-surrendering. "That's the only reason I forgive you. Still… don't make me wait too long. I miss you."

Her voice dropped to a playful murmur, ending with a soft kiss sound against the receiver.

"Rest well, Joon-ho-ya."

The line clicked off.

Joon-ho set the phone down slowly, his expression unreadable. His mind was already turning — not just about tomorrow's shoot, but about lawyers, lawsuits, and the storm about to break.

In the bedroom, Mirae stirred faintly in her sleep, curling deeper into the blankets, unaware that her future was already being pulled from the shadows into the light.

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