The newsstorm showed no sign of stopping. It crashed over social media like a relentless hailstorm against tin roofs—each notification another shattering blow. Every time Film opened her phone, a new wave hit: screaming headlines, venomous comments, intricately fabricated “sources.” Inside their small apartment, the hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, steady and tired, like a heartbeat running out of breath.

On the couch, Namtan sat close beside her, fingers intertwined with Film’s. Her thumb brushed slow, soothing circles against the back of Film’s hand, wordless comfort flowing through the touch. She didn’t speak much. Her silence was a roof in the rain—absorbing every drop, shielding Film beneath it.

Across the city, Bonnie sat curled up on her own sofa. The room was dim; she had forgotten to turn on the lamp. The pale glow of her phone cast harsh blue shadows across her face. Comment after comment scrolled upward like a swarm of hornets—each word a sting that left her nerves raw. Her thumb moved almost automatically, unable to stop, like scratching a wound still healing.

From the kitchen, Emi stepped out with a cup of steaming water. The moment she saw Bonnie’s trembling shoulders and glassy eyes fixed on the screen, she stopped mid-step. The sound of the cup hitting the table—a sharp clack—snapped the air. Emi took the phone, switched off the screen, tossed it aside, and gathered Bonnie into her arms.

She leaned close, her voice low and firm, yet gentle as a lullaby.
“Don’t read it anymore.”

Bonnie froze, breath hitching. The scent of Emi’s soap—soft, familiar—hit her like a memory of safety. Her composure broke; tears welled up and spilled fast. She buried her face against Emi’s shoulder, voice breaking between gasps.
“They’re calling me shameless… saying I’m using connections, cutting corners. They write like I’ve done something unforgivable.”

Emi tightened her embrace, her heart twisting. She knew—the words themselves weren’t what hurt most. It was the public tearing apart one’s dignity like paper in a marketplace.

Slowly, she stroked Bonnie’s back, letting her breathing steady before pressing a light kiss to her temple.
“Listen to me,” she murmured. “You didn’t steal anyone. The past is over—it ended long before any of this began. You don’t have to carry the weight of lies they invent. You’re you. You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve earned. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bonnie’s eyes fluttered shut. Emi’s words sank deep, like warm water into cold porcelain. She nodded faintly, though tears still clung to her lashes. Resting her chin on Emi’s shoulder, she whispered between sobs,
“I’m scared… that they’ll hate Film because of me. That they’ll say we’re pretending, acting out some twisted show. I’m scared everyone will start looking at me differently.”

Emi drew back just enough to meet her eyes. She took Bonnie’s trembling hands, lacing their fingers together.
“Look at me. You can’t carry the whole world, Bonnie. Your job is to live with kindness and to love without guilt. The rest—leave it to me, to Namtan, to the team. Don’t punish yourself just because they want to see you fall.”

Bonnie bit her lip and nodded. For a brief moment, peace—fragile as dust—settled over the room, finally coming to rest on the edge of the coffee table.

-----------

That evening, the group gathered hastily at Film’s apartment. The warm golden light of the ceiling lamps did little to ease the chill. Each person sat in a different corner, like notes waiting for harmony that refused to come.

Film leaned against Namtan, her hand still clinging to her sister’s like an anchor line. Milk sat opposite, posture straight, hair neatly tied back; her calm looked like control—but it was the kind of stillness that came from holding everything in. Beside her, Love’s fingers twisted together, nails digging into her palms. Her tension was almost audible, like the frantic wings of a caged bird.

June occupied the seat next to Milk, legs crossed, back reclined. Her expression was smooth, composed, maybe even curious—as though this were merely an interesting rehearsal, not a crisis. At the end of the table, Emi and Bonnie sat together. Bonnie had drawn her knees close, her head bowed. Emi’s arm rested behind her, a hand rhythmically patting her shoulder in quiet reassurance.

The meeting began in silence. No one knew how to start. Finally, Love spoke—her tone flat, clipped.
“We need to figure out why this came out now.”

The air stilled. Film lowered her gaze; Namtan gave her hand a soft squeeze, a silent I’m here.

Love looked around the room, her eyes briefly landing on June before turning back. Her voice sharpened.
“This has been buried for ten years. Someone wanted it out. That’s not a coincidence.”

Her glance cut sideways again—toward June.

The temperature seemed to drop. June’s lips curved slightly, but she didn’t reply. Milk intervened quickly, voice calm but taut.
“Love, don’t jump to conclusions. It could be a random fan or an old thread that went viral. Let’s not accuse anyone without proof.”

Love turned toward her, hurt flashing in her eyes. For her, safety meant being on the same side as Milk—and now, that foundation was cracking.
“You always defend her. Don’t you see? Ever since June joined, everything’s been falling apart.”

June smiled faintly, gaze drifting lazily across the room—touching each face in turn before pausing, almost imperceptibly, on Film, then sliding back to Milk. The motion was so subtle, so deliberate, that Love’s skin prickled. It felt as if June were silently recording everything, cataloguing their weaknesses in invisible ink.

“Love, that’s enough,” Milk said quietly. Her calm was brittle, like glass stretched thin. “We need to fix this, not turn on each other.”

She looked to June, voice measured.
“June, if you have any suggestions for PR or communication, please share.”

June raised both hands slightly, as if disclaiming any authority. A small, composed smile touched her lips.
“I just think the group should release one unified statement—short, simple: ‘The past doesn’t define the present.’ That’s all.”

In her mind, the thought formed swiftly: The fewer the words, the harder they are to twist. But she didn’t say it aloud. A good strategist never needed to.

Namtan set down her glass, her tone low but firm, each word steady as brickwork.
“Whoever did this wants to divide us. If we start doubting one another now, they’ve already won.”

For a moment, Film lifted her head. Her eyes still shone with tears, but they carried a spark of certainty. To her, Namtan’s voice was the still point in a storm—the sound that made chaos pause.

Silence thickened again. The air conditioner hummed softly, filling the space between breaths. Then Love stood. Her lips were pressed tight, her shoulders tense as if holding back a flood.

“If anyone here isn’t sincere,” she said quietly, “this will all collapse anyway.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

A flicker of pain crossed Milk’s face—brief, fleeting—but Film saw it. Milk didn’t chase after her. She knew some fires burned out only when left alone.

June leaned back further in her chair, eyes half-closed, a faint, unreadable smile brushing her lips before disappearing.

-----------

The next morning, Namtan and Emi sat across from the company directors. The meeting room was white, sterile, the fluorescent lights stripping warmth from everything. Neat stacks of papers lined the table—orderly, suffocating.

The director’s voice was calm but carried the weight of authority.
“We need a clear answer. Was there, or was there not, a past relationship between you two?”

Emi drew a slow breath. She glanced at Namtan for permission; Namtan gave a slight nod. Straightening her back, Emi placed her hands on her knees.
“Yes. But it ended years ago—long before Namtan and Film ever reconnected.”

The room fell still. The faint rustle of paper sounded unnaturally loud.

Namtan leaned forward, her voice firm and resonant.
“My present is with Film. I take full responsibility for who I choose today—not for what ended long ago. Please don’t let the past destroy what exists now.”

The manager nodded; the director’s hands folded together. Nothing more needed to be said. By evening, the official statement was drafted—concise, factual, and unyielding. Alongside it, the PR team released behind-the-scenes photos of the group laughing together—unfiltered moments that said more than any denial could.

When the post went live, public opinion split in two. Some believed, some doubted. But the raging flood had begun to ebb. And within the calm at its center, the six of them learned how to hold closer, how to keep breathing together even when the current fought to pull them apart.

-----------

That night, they gathered again—this time at Milk’s apartment. The air was softer, though tension still lingered beneath the quiet chatter. Bonnie sat close to Emi, worry flickering in her eyes. Film leaned into Namtan, her smile faint but real. Milk cracked a few jokes; June laughed lightly. Love said nothing.

When the evening ended and everyone began to leave, Bonnie suddenly stopped in the hallway. A chill ran through her spine. She looked around—empty corridor, flickering fluorescent light.

“Bonnie? What is it?” Emi asked, reaching for her hand.

Bonnie hesitated, shaking her head.
“It’s nothing… I just felt a bit cold.”

She didn’t know why her heart was pounding so fast—only that something unseen was stirring, a shadow brushing the edge of her awareness.

For the first time, she felt the faint, unmistakable tremor of a new storm waiting in the dark.