The second-floor hallway of the company building was unusually quiet today. Fluorescent tubes on the ceiling cast a pale, sickly glow, reflecting off the polished tiles that mirrored the few shadows drifting by. The familiar sounds of photocopiers, clattering keyboards, and low conversations—normally the heartbeat of this floor—had vanished, leaving behind a silence strung taut like a violin string.

From below, the noise rose clearer—reporters shouting someone’s name, their voices urgent; cameras flashing in bursts like fireworks; the crowd’s murmurs swelling and breaking in restless waves. The sharp sweetness of perfume lingered in the air, mixing with the cold metallic scent from the stainless-steel railing.

Mim leaned against that railing, her fingers resting lightly on the icy bar. Strands of black hair slipped across half her cheek as her sharp gaze pierced downward, to the ground floor where a swarm of cameras and flashing lights had closed in on one figure.

Down there, in the center of the chaos, a woman blazed in a scarlet dress—an abrupt slash of color across the monochrome space. Her wavy hair fell loose, lips painted the same shade as her gown, each word she spoke measured, deliberate. She held up her phone high, live-streaming, her voice ringing clear through the mic:

"Believe me—Namtan is an actress through and through."

One sentence was enough. No further explanation needed. The crowd erupted. Cameras snapped in rapid fire, reporters elbowed forward for a closer shot, curious onlookers raised their phones to record, and the tide of gossip surged like an unstoppable wave.

The click of heels echoed from the end of the hallway—steady, measured, stark against the silence. Emi appeared, striding directly toward Mim. She didn’t lean or sit, just stood tall, tilting her head to follow Mim’s line of sight.

“Was this… your doing?” Emi asked, her voice calm, yet strung with suspicion.

Mim didn’t deny it. A thin smile touched her lips, sharp as a blade’s edge.
“Yes. She’s mine.”

Emi turned fully, her clear eyes darkened by the hallway lights.
“Why? Why target Namtan again and again? What do you think you’ll gain?”

Mim shrugged into the railing, one elbow hooked casually as her gaze locked on Emi’s like it could strip away every defense.
“Do you really not know the reason?” she drawled, leaning closer, her tone dropping low—“It all begins with you.”

Emi’s eyes faltered. Her reply came short, clipped.
“Me?”

“Yes. Without you, none of this would’ve started. And you know that better than anyone.”

Without waiting for a response, Mim pushed off the railing and walked away. Each step struck the tile deliberately hard, echoing sharp and dry against the walls, until she disappeared around the corner.

Emi remained, her hand gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles blanched, veins standing stark beneath her skin. She shut her eyes briefly, and memories crashed in unbidden:
A dim room, yellow light spilling weakly onto tiled floors, the acrid mix of smoke and liquor in the air. A harsh voice, objects shattering. Amid the chaos, Namtan stood frozen at the doorway, her gaze torn between pain and helplessness, one hand braced against the frame as if holding herself back from crossing that threshold.

“…Ten years…” Emi whispered, but her voice dissolved into the draft that swept the corridor.

---

Down in the lobby, tension burned hotter. The woman in red—the “old flame”—kept flinging her barbed words, each one tossed like a match. She lifted her chin, eyes darting between cameras and reporters, every expression captured in merciless detail.

Just as a journalist stepped forward with a mic, a new voice cut through the noise—cold, sharp, and unwavering:
“You should stop before you cross the line.”

Milk. She strode forward, unflinching beneath the flashbulbs. Her face was carved in ice, devoid of excess expression.

“This has nothing to do with you,” the woman sneered, lips curling in crimson challenge.

“It does,” Milk shot back, her low voice carrying clearly over the din. “Because you’re disrupting my crew.”

With a curt nod, she signaled. Security moved in at once, pushing back the crowd. Curious onlookers scattered, and the “old flame” was escorted out of the building. At last, Namtan, who had been trapped at the center of the storm, broke free.

The moment she stepped out of the frenzy, she pulled out her phone and dialed Film. Her breath still uneven, voice urgent:
“Film, it’s me… What happened just now—it’s not what it looked like.”

On the other end, silence stretched a beat, then Film’s voice came soft, warm:
“I never thought badly of you. I still trust you.”

Namtan froze, lips curving into a faint smile though her eyes wavered slightly.
“…Thank you.”

---

That evening, Film received a video call from Bonnie and June. The screen lit up with a small kitchen, cluttered yet glowing warm.

“Film unnie!” Bonnie waved wildly, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from cooking. “June and I finished classes early today, so we tried making Thai food.”

June popped into view, holding up a steaming plate, the spicy aroma wafting straight through the camera.
“No promises it’s edible, but… we missed home food.”

Film laughed, her eyes catching the soft glow of the screen.
“Send me pictures later, okay?”

Bonnie leaned on her hand, suddenly serious.
“By the way, I’ve been reading the news there. Please… be careful. Don’t let yourself get dragged into trouble.”

Film nodded, voice gentle yet firm.
“I know. Don’t worry. Just focus on studying, alright?”

---

The next day, the design studio thrummed with its usual rhythm—the hum of sewing machines, the clatter of keyboards, the rustle of paper. Bolts of fabric lay unfurled across tables, the scent of fresh cloth mingling with coffee drifting from the corner.

Love twirled her chair toward Milk, tapping a pencil against the desk.
“Hey… those rumors about Namtan. Are they true?”

Milk lifted her eyes from her sketch, tilting her head as if weighing her response.
“No. I’ve known Namtan long enough. People say she dates around, but it’s always short—never more than a month. And she’s the one who ends it… because she doesn’t feel anything.”

Love stayed quiet, eyes flickering, before exhaling softly.
“…That makes me feel better.”

Milk leaned on her hand, half-smiling, half-teasing.
“Feel better for what? You planning to confess to someone?”

Love turned away, though her lips curved faintly.
“…Yes. I’m going to confess to Film tomorrow.”

Milk blinked, then broke into outright laughter.
“Bold, aren’t you? Need my help?”

Love nodded slightly, her voice slower, steadier.
“I’d like that. Nothing big—just… a chance.”

Milk folded her arms, intrigued.
“Fine. But remember this—once you confess, don’t regret it. Play it all the way.”

Love pressed her lips together, determination flickering beneath her nerves.
“I know. It’s just… I’ve never been this serious before.”

Milk studied her, voice dropping lower, tinged with curiosity.
“How long have you liked Film?”

Love hesitated, then answered slowly:
“I don’t even know. I just… the closer I am to her, the stronger I want to protect her.”

Milk’s smile softened, but her gaze drifted distant, touched with memory.
“Mm. Sounds familiar. Like something I once saw.”

“Who?” Love asked, surprised.

Milk only shrugged, her tone indifferent though her eyes glimmered with something unreadable.
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is—if you confess tomorrow, don’t let fear ruin it.”

Love nodded. Sunlight slanted through the window, casting a warm glow across her face, sharpening her resolve—yet deep in her eyes, a shadow of unease lingered.