The atmosphere on set, after that long, stormy string of scandals, felt like the aftermath of a hurricane. The winds had stilled, but the sky was still smeared gray with clouds. For days, everyone had spoken in hushed tones, avoiding jokes that might reopen old wounds. Some even walked softer, heels barely touching the floor as if afraid to trigger the fragile nerves of the crew.

Today, laughter finally returned—tentative, restrained. Like the first bird daring to sing after a storm, cautious yet hopeful.

“Our production should get a Guinness record,” one staff member teased. “Most cursed film set ever—more drama offscreen than on.”

A few chuckles rippled through the air, light as foam on the tide.

Film only smiled faintly. She stood apart from the chatter, tucked into a quiet corner of the set, her head bent over the script. The stage lights cast her hair in shades of warm brown; a few loose strands fell against her cheek, tracing soft arcs across her fine features. She brushed them back, only to bow her head again—as though the gesture was merely an excuse to avoid curious stares.

A hand landed gently on her shoulder. So light it felt like nothing more than a passing breeze, yet enough to still her. She looked up—and found Namtan standing there. A smile lingered at the corners of her lips, subtle but warm enough to chase away the last of the lingering chill.

“Good morning,” Namtan said, her voice low and slightly husky, the ending note drawn out, as if unwilling to let the moment pass too quickly.

Film’s lips curved in reply. Yet beneath the smile, a question rose unbidden: Why does a single touch, a single glance from her, feel like this? Her smile felt as fragile as glass—ready to shatter at the slightest breath. Still, she held it, kept it intact. For a fleeting moment, their eyes seemed to brush against each other, and Film swore her heart skipped a beat.

---

Over by the photo studio, Love was balancing an armful of props when a staffer pulled her aside.
“Love, the head photographer called in sick today. Go give Milk a hand!”

“What—?” Love barely had time to react before being dragged onto the set.

Milk was bent over the lighting rig, checking the angle. Her posture tilted slightly, hair tied neatly but with a few loose strands catching the gold of the lamps. When she spotted Love, she pointed briskly.
“Stand there—the light hits better. Oh, and take this stack of scarves.”

Love frowned, irritation seeping into her voice. “So you’re just going to use me as your errand girl?”

“Exactly,” Milk replied smoothly, then tossed her a mischievous look. “But you’ll be the prettiest, most reliable errand girl anyone could hope for. Who wouldn’t want that?”

Love exhaled sharply, but obeyed. As she bent to arrange the props, Milk stepped closer. The faint scent of her perfume floated between them, tugging at Love’s focus. A hand brushed her wrist, adjusting her angle.
“Don’t lean so far—your hair’s blocking your face.”

The words weren’t loud, but the closeness carried her steady breath, threading into Love’s awareness. For an instant, the air thickened—dense, charged, as though an invisible string had pulled them too near.

“Don’t worry, I won’t overwork you,” Milk added, retreating with a half-smile. “It’s just… easier when you’re close by.”

Love froze. When she turned, she caught only Milk’s profile—calm, intent on her camera lens, as if she’d said nothing unusual. But her heartbeat betrayed her, quickening in spite of reason.

---

That afternoon, the set grew solemn as Namtan and Film prepared for a heated confrontation scene. The lights dimmed, narrowing their world to a single spotlight where the two stood.

“Rolling,” the director called.

Namtan strode forward, her gaze sharp enough to cut the air between them.
“You’re always running away. When will you finally say it?”

Film swallowed hard, delivering her line. “Because… I don’t want things to get worse.”

“It’s your running away that makes everything worse!” Namtan closed the distance, her voice dropping low—each word pressed down like a weight.

Only half a meter separated them now. Film could smell the faint woodsy notes of Namtan’s perfume, feel her breath warm against her cheek. Her skin prickled with heat, her chest tightening under the intensity of that gaze.

“Unnie…” The word slipped out—not in the script. Just one syllable, but enough to crack the air. She rushed to correct herself, but Namtan had already caught the falter. Her eyes darkened, digging deeper, peeling back layers Film hadn’t meant to expose.

“Cut!” the director barked.

Still, Film stood frozen, nails biting crescents into her palms. Namtan touched her shoulder gently, the earlier ferocity gone. “You okay? You… blanked out for a second.”

Film turned away, shielding her eyes. “I’m… fine.”

Namtan said nothing more. But her gaze lingered long after, searching for the truth behind those words.

---

That evening, the four of them—Namtan, Milk, Film, and Love—sat around a steaming hotpot in a small restaurant. Golden light pooled across their table, mingling with the rising scent of broth and spices.

At first, the air was awkward. But soon Namtan and Milk filled the silence with easy banter.

“Remember that rain scene?” Milk laughed. “The moment they called cut, you sneezed eight times in a row.”

“Ten times,” Namtan corrected instantly. “The director said to jot it in the production log for luck.”

Film laughed, unable to help herself. Without thinking, she reached to drop vegetables into Namtan’s bowl. The gesture was so natural she didn’t realize it until Love, seated across from her, glanced over with a flicker of discomfort. Film’s hand paused, but she didn’t pull back.

“Don’t overthink it,” Milk leaned toward Love, voice low and soothing. “They get along, sure—but that doesn’t always mean…”

“I know,” Love cut in, though her eyes stayed fixed across the table. “But… it still bothers me.”

Milk didn’t argue. She simply poured water into Love’s glass, her movements unhurried, as if offering calm through her silence.

Love’s phone buzzed suddenly, breaking the warmth of steam and chatter. She put it on speaker.

“Unnie Love!” Bonnie’s voice rang out, bright with excitement. “I’m about to graduate! But you have to keep it secret, okay? I want to surprise Film-unnie.”

The table went still for half a beat, then all eyes shifted toward Film.

“A secret? For me?” Film asked, half amused, half startled.

Love scratched at her temple, mumbling. “Uh… yeah. Something like that.”

Bonnie carried on, oblivious, chattering about thesis work and rushed canteen lunches, her voice bubbling with energy. The others tried to stifle their smiles, though Namtan’s gaze lingered longer on Film, and Milk quietly studied Love’s reaction.

---

That night, Film lay in her hotel bed, the room swallowed in darkness save for the pale glow of her phone. A new message appeared from an unknown number:

Be careful with Namtan. A red flag never changes its color.

She read it once. Twice. Each repetition seemed to weigh heavier. Her finger hovered over the screen but sent no reply.

Memories surged unbidden—Namtan adjusting her mic before the event, squeezing her hand on stage, her warm eyes after a scene, her easy laughter over dinner.

Nothing about those moments resembled the warning in the message. Yet unease crept in, like a drop of ink falling into clear water, sending ripples across the surface.

Film set her phone down, pulled the blanket higher. But her eyes stayed open. Her heartbeat was steady but heavy, each thud echoing through her chest.

Something inside her had stirred again—and this time, she knew with absolute clarity who it was because of.