The rumors erupted on a gloomy morning, when mist still clung to the rooftops and pale gray light filtered through thick clouds. The city was as noisy as ever, yet to Milk, every sound seemed thick and heavy, as if foretelling a day of misfortune.

It started with a few cryptic posts from View — a young designer who had once collaborated with her — accompanied by a blurred photo of a woman at a work desk. The picture was too hazy to identify clearly, yet the long hair and tilted posture were enough for the online crowd to spin countless theories.

By the next morning, Milk’s name had flooded every corner of social media. Each line of text cut like an icy blade:

“Three years ago, a young designer was dropped from a project after losing her sketches. And who replaced her? Milk.”
“This isn’t the first time she’s been accused of stealing ideas.”
“Everyone in the industry knows.”

Hashtags #MilkScandal and #FashionDrama shot to the top of the trending list. With every refresh, the number of posts multiplied. “Archive hunters” dug out old stories one after another, as if the entire world had been waiting for this moment to bring her down.

And inevitably, Love — her current collaborator — was dragged into the mess, showered with merciless accusations: “Accomplice,” “protecting a fraud,” “they’re no different.”

That morning, Milk arrived at her agency, her black umbrella dripping raindrops onto the lobby floor. The sharp click of her heels echoed against the marble — each step a declaration that she would still hold her head high, even as the world turned its back on her.

Fifth floor — PR department. The air inside was so thick it was hard to breathe, filled with frantic keyboard clatter and hushed whispers. A few eyes darted toward her before quickly looking away.

The door shut behind her. The head of PR, a stern woman in her forties, spoke without preamble:
“At the moment, the company has no official course of action. You are not to make a statement on any platform. Not a single word.”

“But if I stay silent…” Milk’s voice was calm but strained. “…isn’t that the same as admitting guilt?”

The woman’s gaze was sharp, cold as a blade.
“Silence still leaves you a chance. One wrong word, and every chance will vanish.”

Milk pressed her lips together and nodded. “I understand.”
But inside, it felt as if a rope were tightening around her throat.

Leaving PR, she walked down the sterile corridor, the fluorescent lights casting long, pale shadows. At the corner, she found Namtan, standing with a massive cup of bubble tea, straw a blinding shade of pink.

“Heard the news,” Namtan said bluntly.
“I don’t believe you’d ever do something that vile.”

Milk gave a tired laugh. “I didn’t even get the chance to ask if you trusted me.”

“I’ve known you for years. You might be sharp-tongued sometimes, but cruel? Never.” Namtan shrugged, her eyes bright with a teasing sort of sincerity.

Arms folded, Milk leaned back against the wall. “That almost sounds comforting.”

“It’s the truth. And besides, if you ever stole someone’s design, at least pick a dress I actually like.”

Milk shook her head, a small chuckle slipping out. Namtan’s effortless humor lightened the air for a moment, though deep inside, the weight of judgment still gnawed at her.
“Thanks. I just hope it won’t take too long for others to see me the way you do.”

“Anyone who knows you well enough will. The rest? Let them believe what they want.”

For the first time that day, Milk laughed out loud.

---

Meanwhile, at a small café near the company, Love sat in a shadowed corner, cap pulled low. Her cappuccino had long gone cold.

She wanted to be there for Milk. But she was a target herself, and she knew appearing at Milk’s side would only make things worse.

Her phone buzzed. Film.

“Love, I just saw the news… are you okay?”

Film’s voice carried urgency, tinged with worry.
“I’m… fine. Or at least, pretending to be.”

“Can I do something? Or at least, let me listen.”

Love gave a faint laugh, her voice a whisper through a crack in the door:
“Just the fact you’re asking makes me feel better already.”

“Love. Don’t carry this alone, okay? I’m terrible at handling scandals, but… I can make ginger tea. That always helps.”

Love burst out laughing. The image of Film earnestly brewing tea flickered in her mind, warming her chest.
“Alright. I’ll take you up on that one day.”

---

That afternoon, Milk retreated to a quiet café on the city’s outskirts, escaping the stares and murmurs. The scent of roasted beans filled the air, though it couldn’t quite mask the damp chill left by the morning rain.

She didn’t expect Emi to walk in.

“I heard about you.” Emi sat across from her, placing an americano on the table. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. “I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

Milk frowned slightly. “Emi… this isn’t small. It’s risky, and beyond your control.”

“I don’t care.” Emi’s reply was immediate, her eyes locked on Milk. “If you’re not guilty, I’ll find a way to prove it.”

Milk leaned forward, meeting her gaze. “Then… thank you. But know this — if you step in, you’ll be dragged into the same storm.”

“I’ve been dragged into storms before. Worse ones. And I’m still here.” Emi’s words fell heavy, each one steady as stone.

“You’re… certain?” Milk’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Certain. Either you let me help, or you let me handle it. No third option.”

Milk exhaled, caught between helplessness and gratitude. “Then… I apologize in advance. This could pull you down with me.”

“Don’t be so formal. We’ve been friends for years.”

Word of Emi’s support spread quickly — not through tabloids, but whispered from one colleague to another. Love heard it from someone in the industry and immediately sent a message:
“Thank you. Truly. For standing by Milk right now.”

Minutes later, Emi replied:
“It’s nothing. I’m only standing by the truth.”

Love stared at the screen, her grip tightening around her phone. For the first time, she felt an odd, fragile thread connecting people who’d never been close before.

---

Late at night, Milk returned to the café to meet Emi again. She set a packet of mint candies on the table.
“For you. To keep you awake when you work late. And… thank you. Whatever happens, I’ll never forget what you did today.”

Emi accepted it with a faint smile. “I don’t need thanks. I only need the truth to be respected.”

Milk nodded and rose to leave. As she pushed open the door, the night wind rushed in, sharp with cold.

From a shadowed corner of the café, a man in a cap set his cup down, eyes tracking her until she disappeared from sight. His face gave nothing away, but the focus in his gaze was that of a hunter studying prey.

The door shut, leaving behind only the clink of a spoon against glass. Somewhere in the dark, another plan was already unfolding.