After that hotpot night, though everyone’s schedules were still buried under filming, photoshoots, and media events, something had shifted—quietly, but unmistakably.

Before, they had texted each other, but only in scattered, single lines:
“Have you eaten yet?” — sent to Namtan.
“See you on set tomorrow.” — sent to Bonnie.
Sometimes an entire week would pass without a reply arriving at the same time.

But after that evening, a group chat began to take shape. Not by any formal decision—no one said “let’s make a group.” It simply happened when Film dropped a line into the newly created chat:
“Has everyone eaten yet?”

And in seven seconds, all six phones buzzed. No one absent. No one read without answering.

It felt like… they had stepped into a new circle. Not one person standing in front with the others behind, but six people standing back-to-back, each facing a different direction.

And for the first time, Film realized: sometimes, safety begins with something as simple as “Have you eaten?”

---

Three days passed since the hotpot.

Bonnie had the day off—no film shoots yet. She spent the morning cleaning out an old file cabinet. She found things she had forgotten she’d even kept: her first-year course schedule, her graduation thesis outline, an old analysis paper on social media trends.

At the very bottom was a faded cardboard folder. Bonnie was about to throw it out when her hand froze.

On the cover, faint pencil marks read:
“Analysis of Rumor Diffusion among Communication Students.”

She flipped through the pages. Back then, they had traced IDs, tracked reposts, tried to map who had pushed the scandal the hardest.

On the last sheet, a scribbled note in smeared graphite:
“@MIMcandie → reposted 29 times / suspected origin.”

Bonnie’s hands trembled. Her throat dried, coated in dust and memory. She sat frozen on the floor for three whole minutes, staring at the name—as if it might step off the page.

---

That evening, Film messaged the group:
“Can everyone get on Zoom right now? Bonnie says there’s something.”

Within a minute—all six faces filled the screen.

Bonnie held up the folder, her voice low but steady.
“I just found an old analysis from university. The account that reposted and amplified the rumor the most was @MIMcandie… I think that’s Mim. And if it’s her, then maybe all the recent leaks came from her too.”

The group fell silent.

So silent that Film could hear her own air conditioner click. No one spoke—but something in the air tightened, like an invisible rope pulling taut.

At last, Emi lifted her gaze. She no longer avoided.
“I’ve suspected it too. Mim was my junior in college. Back then… she had feelings for me.”

The words were soft, but they detonated like a bomb across the call.

“When I started dating Namtan, she began avoiding me. And when the rumor spread… she was the very first to share the original post. I didn’t pay much attention then… but now, it all makes sense.”

On screen, Milk frowned.
“So you’re saying… every scandal all this time—just one person? I still think we should keep an eye on View. We can’t rule out the possibility that the two of them are working together.”

Emi’s fingers tightened into fists.

Namtan said nothing for a long moment. When she finally raised her head, her eyes were colder than usual.
“…So she targeted me—just because I once dated you?”

Bonnie hesitated, then nodded.
“It’s possible.”

Film looked around at each face, then spoke softly, decisively:
“From now on… we deal with this as a group. No one stands alone anymore.”

Milk turned on her mic and nodded firmly.
Love followed with a nod of his own.
Bonnie dropped a sword emoji into the chat.
Emi said nothing—but for the first time, her eyes carried a steady resolve.

Right after the call, a new group was created, titled:
“Six of Us.”

The very first message came from Namtan:
“From now on, if anyone notices anything unusual, report it to the group immediately.”

---

Night.

Rain began to fall lightly on the studio roof—the kind of rain that wasn’t heavy, but long and cold. The staff had all gone home. Hallway lights flicked off one by one, leaving only a ribbon of yellow glow by the parking lot.

Namtan was the last to leave the building. She opened her umbrella and walked slowly, steadily. No more rushing. No more avoidance.

Click.

She opened her car door, slid into the driver’s seat, about to shut it—when, at the far end of the lot, she saw a figure.

A lone silhouette, standing motionless in the dark.

The headlights from her car brushed just enough light across the space to reveal the curve of a smile.

Mim.

She stood there, in the rain, a jagged shadow against the wet pavement. Not moving closer. Not saying a word. Just staring at the car as the engine turned over.

Her lips curved higher—forming a whisper almost too faint to hear. But if anyone had been standing near, they would have caught it clearly:
“…This time, I won’t let you get away, Namtan.”

The headlights flared.

Rain split into shards of white light.

The car rolled forward, into the darkness ahead—unaware that the storm was already behind it, no longer cloaked in clouds, but fully revealed.