"So she's Wasian, just like us?" Bryan pointed out in astonishment.
Eugene nodded and smiled amusingly at his reaction.
"Damn... She's half-half and that's so rare. I wish I was, but I'm an American white girl," Ava muttered impressively.
"Oh my gosh," Bryan facepalmed and shook his head, which made Eugene and Sally stifle their laughter.
"And you are...?" Eugene raised his eyebrow curiously at Sally, who looked at him surprisingly.
"I'm half Vietnamese and half Australian," she grinned.
"Wow... That's cool," Eugene blinked in surprise and smiled wholeheartedly.
"Yeah, but it would've been much more interesting if I speak multiple languages," Sally stated.
"Like what?"
"Malay, Turkish, Telugu, Danish."
"Girl, what?" Ava furrowed her eyebrows strangely at her friend, whereas Eugene continued to chuckle and shook his head with an amused grin.
"Man, I just feel so awful about what happened to her," Bryan muttered.
"Don't be. Whatever happened to her in the past, it's not something you can control. No need to carry that guilt and I'm sure she will understand. Her death was merely a hoax, yes, but that was the only way for her to escape from the public view and to keep herself safe. Other than that, it is someone else and the others who should be paying for their crimes. Whoever is against Valerie is also against us too," Eugene explained.
"And who may that be, specifically?" Bryan wondered even further.
Eugene opened his eyes with a subtle gaze, but more stern. "Do you guys really want to know?"
"Yes..." the three of them replied in unison.
Eugene slowly leaned forward and waited for one minute to respond to them. His eyes become very pensive as soon as he opens his mouth to enunciate the names of the suspect and enemies that are against their dearest friend. "Bong Si-woo and his assistant, Chul Duri, including the other subordinates."
Bryan, Ava, and Sally blink their eyes in perturbation and confusion. More likely, they were all stunned to know them coming from Eugene himself.
"H-how?" Ava stammered.
"Are you sure it was their CEO, Chairman?" Sally asked for confirmation.
"So it was him the entire time... But why? Why did he target Valerie?" Bryan questioned.
"No idea. Perhaps, he felt threatened after seeing her potential."
"Potential in what way?"
"I can't really say because it's up to her to explain everything."
"I see..."
"I knew I had this weird gut in my stomach that Si-woo was behind all this mess..." Bryan said.
"So how come you haven't told us?" Sally asked.
"Well, because I'm not one-hundred percent sure, but it actually turns out that he was. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, until my suspicions just ended up being right about him," he explained.
Eugene exhaled deeply with his fingers laced together as he leaned his elbows on his knees. "Valerie had always been under surveillance long before she knew it. Bong Si-woo operates with layers of manipulation—publicly he's a respected corporate tycoon, but underneath that facade, he's ruthless. Valerie was one of his top protégés. She was brilliant—too brilliant. She discovered financial records that pointed to embezzlement, and even worse—illegal experimentation tied to one of his biotech subsidiaries. She confronted him, and that's when things began to spiral."
The room fell into a weighted silence. Ava's mouth parted slightly, absorbing the gravity of Eugene's words, while Sally's jaw clenched in disbelief.
"He threatened her?" Bryan asked slowly.
Eugene nodded. "Worse. He tried to buy her silence at first. Lavish gifts, promotions, fake apologies. But Valerie refused. The next thing she knew, she was being followed. Her phone bugged. Emails intercepted. She even found out her apartment had been broken into—nothing stolen, just things... moved, disturbed, like a warning. She went to the police, but the case never made it anywhere. Turns out, Bong has people everywhere—officials, lawyers, even within the force."
"Holy crap," Ava whispered.
"That's when she faked her death," Eugene continued. "With the help of a few trusted friends from abroad, she staged the whole thing. A car crash, a burned body double, forged autopsy reports. It was extreme, but it was the only way she could truly disappear. She needed time, space—and safety."
"But what is Si-woo's endgame?" Sally asked, now visibly angry.
"He's not just trying to silence her. He's trying to erase her. Valerie knows too much, and she was planning to go public. The man's power isn't built on success alone—it's rooted in fear, manipulation, and control. Anyone who threatens that structure becomes expendable. That's who Bong Si-woo is."
A tense quiet enveloped them all again. Bryan finally broke it with a low, furious mutter, "Then he messed with the wrong people."
Eugene's eyes met his. "Exactly. And now that Valerie's alive and recovering in secret, we have one mission: to protect her and expose him for everything he's done."
The living room fell into a heavy, contemplative silence. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound that filled the space, underscoring the weight of what Eugene had just revealed. Bryan stared blankly at the floor, his fingers twitching as if itching for action. Ava sat back on the couch, arms folded tightly across her chest, her eyes narrowed in thought. Sally leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, eyes scanning the room as if searching for a spark of clarity. No one spoke for a long moment—they were all reeling, not just from the shock of Valerie's deception for survival, but from the cruel depth of Bong Si-woo's betrayal. The fire of anger and purpose slowly began to kindle behind their silence, each of them feeling it in their own way. It wasn't just about Valerie anymore. It was about justice. About standing up to a monster who had gone unchallenged for too long.
Deep beneath the city streets, far from prying eyes and digital surveillance, the underground training facility echoed with the sharp sound of combat boots pounding on reinforced floors. The room was dimly lit with strips of industrial lighting running along the ceiling, casting a cold, steely glow across the concrete walls. The Narrow Squad—an elite unit formed in secrecy—was undergoing one of their most intense training sessions yet. At the center of it all stood Jason, their co-leader, commanding the group with a presence that demanded focus and respect.
"Keep your stances tight!" Jason barked, pacing along the sidelines as two squad members sparred in the center ring. "Don't wait for the attack—anticipate it. Watch the hips, not the hands. That's where the movement begins!"
Sweat glistened on the foreheads of the fighters as they followed his commands, their movements sharp and disciplined. Jason's training was brutal but effective—every session designed to push their bodies to the limit and sharpen their instincts. He was a man of few words outside the mission, but during training, his voice rang like steel against stone.
"Luke, step in closer when you parry—don't give your opponent room to reset!" he called out. "And Max, drop your shoulder. You're telegraphing that hook from a mile away."
Jason folded his arms as he watched them correct their forms, his keen eyes scanning for weaknesses. He wasn't just training soldiers—he was shaping weapons.
As the sparring ended, the squad regrouped around him, breathing heavily, muscles taut and aching.
"Again?" Luke asked, wiping sweat from his brow but already stepping back into stance.
Jason gave him a nod of approval. "That's the spirit. But no more drills tonight. We switch to strategy. Combat isn't just fists and reflexes—it's timing, position, and knowing your enemy better than they know themselves."
He walked to a steel table nearby and tapped a touchscreen tablet, causing a large digital projection to appear on the far wall. A floor plan of an unknown facility glowed in front of them.
"This," he said, turning to face the squad, "is one of Bong Si-woo's secondary sites—deep in the industrial district. It's heavily guarded, off-grid, and likely hiding something he doesn't want seen. We will strike here in five days."
The squad fell into silence, the adrenaline from training now mixing with a deep, focused determination.
"Intel says there's a tunnel system underneath it," Jason continued. "We'll use that to infiltrate. But this is high-risk. No mistakes. We're not just breaking in—we're sending a message."
Sunghoon cracked his knuckles and asked. "What if Valerie's files are in there?"
"Then we bring them out," Jason said, his voice calm but fierce. "And we make sure Bong Si-woo knows his empire is starting to crack."
With that, the squad nodded in unison. The air in the room thickened—not with fear, but with resolve. Narrow Squad wasn't just training for war. They were preparing to end one.
Joon-woo sat alone on the studio floor long after rehearsals had ended, his reflection staring back at him from the darkened mirror—exhausted, distant, and haunted by a past he rarely spoke about.
As the faint thrum of old stage lights buzzed above him, memories crept in like an unwelcome tide. He was sixteen again, standing outside his family's apartment, duffel bag in hand, while his father's voice rang in his ears—sharp, final.
"You think dancing is the future? Grow up, Joon-woo. You're wasting your life."
That night, he left without looking back, sleeping on a friend's floor for weeks before scraping his way through auditions. The day he got accepted into the K-East trainee program, he didn't cry—he laughed. Bitterly. Almost disbelieving.
"I told you I'd prove it," he muttered to himself that day, gripping the contract with trembling hands. The early debut wasn't luck. It was desperation—an urgent hunger to become someone before the world forgot he existed. In the dorms, he hid the truth with jokes and quiet charisma, but when the lights went off, he'd lie awake, gripping his phone tightly, even though no one from home ever called. He debuted first not because he was the most talented, but because he refused to be the most forgotten. "If I don't make it now, I'm nothing," he had whispered to the mirror on the eve of his debut, his eyes red with sleep deprivation and fear. And now, years later, even as fame found him, that same fire—born from rejection, from loneliness—still burned behind his eyes, propelling him forward when everything else threatened to fall apart.
Joon-woo had never fit the mold his family carved out for him. His father, a decorated military officer, was the embodiment of discipline and tradition. His mother, soft-spoken but complicit, stood silently beside every harsh word. From a young age, Joon-woo learned that emotions were weaknesses and dreams were distractions. He remembered sitting at the dinner table, fidgeting with chopsticks in his hand, trying to find the courage to say he wanted to pursue music.
His father barely looked up from the newspaper. "You'll get over it. Everyone wants to be famous at your age. Focus on something real."
But Joon-woo never got over it.
He spent late nights sneaking into internet cafés to watch dance covers and performance videos, copying every move until his feet were blistered and bleeding. Music was the only thing that made him feel like he existed beyond the suffocating silence of his home. The final blow came when he was seventeen, after getting into an elite trainee program. He came home holding the acceptance letter like a lifeline. His father stared at it for a long moment, then tore it in half without a word.
That night, Joon-woo left.
He stayed in a rundown apartment with three other trainees, all scraping by on instant noodles and cold showers. He slept on the floor with his duffel bag as a pillow and trained like his life depended on it—because, to him, it did. He didn't have a family to fall back on. No safety net. No comfort.
Only grit. And guilt.
There were nights when he would sit outside the practice studio at 2 a.m., his body too sore to move, his eyes locked on an old message he'd never deleted:
Mom: Don't come home until you're ready to be serious.
She never sent another one again.
"Is this serious enough for you?" He had once mumbled under his breath after his first music show performance, still sweating under the stage lights, standing behind the curtain where no one could see his tears.
His debut with K-East was supposed to feel like redemption—but instead, it only deepened the ache. He smiled for cameras and danced flawlessly, but behind the fame, he was still that boy at the dinner table, still craving approval he knew would never come.
Meanwhile, Min-Jun's apartment was modest, clean, and strangely quiet—a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the training compound. Sally had stopped by to return some documents, but somehow the visit stretched into tea, then silence, then something heavier lingering in the air.
They sat across from each other on the floor by the low table, steam curling from their mugs.
Min-Jun seemed distant, his eyes fixed on the dark surface of his drink. Then, almost out of nowhere, he spoke.
"Do you ever feel like your whole life, you've just been... surviving someone else's expectations?" he asked, his voice quiet and low.
Sally looked up, surprised by the shift. "Sometimes," she said softly. "Why?"
Min-Jun didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if the memories were playing there.
"I grew up in Daegu," he began, his tone flat, like he was reading a report. "My mom worked two jobs. My father... he wasn't really in the picture, except when he wanted to remind me I'd never be enough. He used to come home drunk, yelling about how music was for losers. Artists and rappers were 'weak,' and men didn't 'waste time dreaming.'" He let out a hollow laugh. "Once, when I was thirteen, I got caught skipping after-school hagwon to practice piano at a friend's studio. My dad smashed the keyboard with a wrench. Told me if I ever did it again, he'd break my fingers instead."
Sally's eyes widened. She reached for her mug, more for grounding than anything else. "Min-Juni... that's—"
"It's fine," he cut in, not harshly, but with the detached clarity of someone who'd rehearsed this story alone for years. "Eventually, he left. I don't even remember the last thing he said to me. My mom tried her best, but she never understood why I wanted to make music. She just wanted me to be safe. Not happy. Just... safe."
There was a pause, heavy with things unspoken.
"I joined the academy in Seoul when I was seventeen. Lied about everything—said I had support back home, said I was ready. I wasn't. I nearly quit a dozen times. But I stayed because I thought if I didn't, I'd just disappear."
He looked at his girlfriend then, and for once, the ever-calm, composed Min-Jun looked tired.
Sally spoke carefully. "And now? Do you still feel like you're surviving... or living?"
Min-Jun gave a faint smile with sad but sincere eyes. "Some days I don't know the difference. But when I'm on stage... When the music hits just right, and I hear people singing back the words I helped write for a few minutes, it feels like maybe I am living. Maybe it was worth it."
Sally didn't reply immediately. Instead, she reached across the table and touched his hand gently. "You're more than what they tried to break. And you're not disappearing, Min-Jun. Not anymore. You don't always have to be strong around me. You don't have to hold everything in."
He opened his mouth to speak, to deflect, but she leaned forward before he could. Her lips met his—soft, deliberate, and full of warmth. Not a desperate kiss, but a quiet offering of comfort, of closeness, of presence.
For a brief second, he stiffened, shocked—but then his eyes closed, and he kissed her back, gently, as though afraid he might break the moment if he moved too fast.
When they parted, Sally didn't pull away. She rose slightly and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, holding him tightly—like she was anchoring him to something real. He hesitated, then melted into the embrace, his arms circling her waist as if he'd been waiting for this kind of safety all his life. No words were needed. In that moment, the silence between them was no longer heavy—it was sacred. A fragile truth shared between two people who had carried their pain alone for too long.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. In the quiet, a fragile trust formed between them—two people who had learned how to wear armor, now slowly learning how to set it down.
In the interim, Valerie's fists struck the punching bag with mechanical precision, but her breaths were shallow and uneven, sweat dripping down her spine like cold reminders of everything she was trying to bury. The dim underground gym echoed with the rhythmic thud of her blows, but inside, her mind was a storm.
Every jab brought back the cruel laughter of Jiyoo—his voice from high school like a ghost in her ears, mocking her in front of the others, reducing her to a punchline for attention. The memory burned hotter than any bruise on her knuckles. Then, the impact of a different memory struck her harder than her fists ever could: the blinding headlights, the screech of tires, her body hitting pavement—glass, metal, blood.
The hit-and-run wasn't an accident. She knew that now. Si-woo's voice, cold and dismissive, had echoed in her hospital room before she escaped: "She's a liability."
His henchmen had come for her more than once, relentless, precise. No amount of training could erase the fear that rooted itself deep in her bones. As she threw another punch, her vision blurred—not from sweat, but from tears. Her body trembled, her breathing ragged, and she stumbled back, clutching her chest as if trying to hold herself together.
That night, alone in her room, the silence became a weapon. Curled in bed with her back to the door, Valerie's trauma spilled out like poison—memories crashing against her like waves in the dark.
"How am I supposed to face them?" She thought, her body shaking with quiet sobs. "What if I fall apart the second I see their faces? What if I'm not strong enough?"
Her fingers dug into the blanket as if it could anchor her to the present. But the past—relentless and brutal—was already inside her, and she didn't know how to survive it a second time.
Miles apart, Valerie and Jiyoo were trapped in the same memory at the same moment—two hearts haunted by the same echoes.
She stood on the rooftop of the safe house as the cold wind brushed her face as she gripped the rusted railing and her eyes were locked on the distant horizon.
Meanwhile, Jiyoo sat inside a dark rehearsal studio across the city, alone, the only light coming from the street lamps outside the high windows. He leaned forward on the piano bench, fingers resting over keys he didn't press.
His mind was locked on that same night, that same moment—but from where he had stood, paralyzed by fear, guilt, and torn between the boy he was and the man he wanted to be.
Though separated by distance, they were both tethered by their memory, each replaying a scene that they wished they could rewrite, not knowing that the other was doing the exact same thing beneath the same sky.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUOk7kt5KfQ
