18: I can't think of a title for Chapter 18.

On the day Karina's Instagram account surpassed two hundred thousand followers, it rained in Seoul. It wasn't a downpour, but a fine, misty drizzle, like someone was sprinkling salt from the sky. It was barely felt on the skin, but clothes would become damp after walking for a while. Jiang Zhiyu stood in the hallway of the SM Building, leaning against a windowsill with a strawberry milk tea in his hand, watching the rain turn into glowing threads under the streetlights. His phone screen showed Karina's Instagram homepage; the follower count was six digits and still jumping, increasing by dozens with every refresh.

Kim Minjeong and NingNing stood on either side of him, their three heads clustered together as six eyes stared at the same screen. Kim Minjeong's mouth hadn't closed for ten minutes, and NingNing's finger swiped across the screen, scrolling through Korean comments she couldn't quite understand. She would occasionally stop when she saw a familiar word, knitting her brows as she tried to guess the meaning.

“Oppa,” Kim Minjeong's voice was a bit airy, as if coming from far away, “does this mean Ji-min Unnie is considered an influencer now?”

Jiang Zhiyu didn't look at her, his gaze still fixed on the screen. “Two hundred thousand followers makes her a small influencer.”

“A small influencer is still an influencer!” Kim Minjeong's voice rose half an octave. A passing trainee in the hallway looked back at her, and she quickly covered her mouth, only letting go once the person was far away. “It was only thirty thousand last week, and it grew by over sixty thousand in one week. This speed—”

“It will get even faster,” Jiang Zhiyu said calmly, as if stating it would rain today. He took a sip of his milk tea, the straw stirring the pearls at the bottom with a gurgling sound. “After Yeri’s post went out, Ji-min's account will be seen by even more people. Not because of what she did, but because Yeri did the same thing. Two accounts, same theme—one is a trainee, the other is a member of Red Velvet. People who see it will be curious; they’ll scroll back, find Ji-min's account, and hit follow. This process is irreversible.”

NingNing's finger stopped on the screen. She looked up at Jiang Zhiyu. “So Senior Yeri posting that photo wasn't just to help you, but also to drive traffic to Ji-min Unnie?”

“Yes,” Jiang Zhiyu didn't deny it. “Yeri knew. She agreed. That’s why she posted it.”

NingNing fell silent for a moment. She thought of the photo of Bae Joo-hyun napping on Yeri’s Instagram; with over five million followers, the likes had already surpassed two million. In the comments section of that post, some were guessing who took the photo, some were guessing who was in it, and some were wondering what the caption 'she doesn't know I'm taking her picture' meant. Someone mentioned Karina's account, saying 'this caption is so similar to that trainee's post from before.' People followed the link and saw those photos taken by the Han River, in the cafeteria, and on the practice room floor. They saw the captions 'she doesn't know I'm watching her' and the smiling, eighteen-year-old girl who made people want to look twice. Then they clicked follow. One, two, ten, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand. The numbers were like dandelions scattered by the wind, taking root wherever they landed.

Kim Minjeong looked down at her own phone. On the screen was an account she didn't recognize, the profile picture was a flower, and the bio had a line of English—'she doesn't know I'm watching her'. It wasn't in Korean, but English, yet the meaning was exactly the same. She clicked in and saw several photos; the composition, color grading, and caption format were all identical to Karina's account. It wasn't a coincidence; it was plagiarism. Her brow furrowed. “Oppa, someone is copying us.”

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at the phone screen she held up, his expression unchanged. “Mm.”

“Mm? You're not angry?”

“I'm not angry. If someone is copying, it means this model has been recognized. Once recognized, more people will use it. When more people use it, more people will see it. And when more people see it, Ji-min's account will become even more popular.” Jiang Zhiyu's tone was as calm as if he were deriving a mathematical formula. “Moreover, the more they copy the style, the more they are promoting us. When others see their posts, they'll ask 'who did the original version?' and then find Ji-min's account. The plagiarizers have become our free advertising space.”

Kim Minjeong opened her mouth, only to find she had no argument. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu's calm, expressionless face, and a voice in her mind said—this person really has calculated everything. It wasn't just 'calculating that someone would copy,' but 'calculating that someone would copy and turning that plagiarism into part of the plan.'”

Footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway. It wasn't just one person, but two. One set of footsteps was steady and powerful, while the other was light and hurried. Jiang Zhiyu recognized the first set—it was Karina. Her gait had a unique rhythm, each step spaced almost exactly the same, as if measured with a ruler. He didn't recognize the second set, but judging by the sound of the soles hitting the floor, they were leather shoes, not sneakers. Someone from the company, not a trainee.

Karina's figure appeared at the corner of the hallway. She was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with her hair tied in a low ponytail, her expression still that cool, emotionless calm. But her posture was different than usual—normally her back was straight like a drawn bow. Now, while her back was still straight, her chin was slightly tucked as if she were suppressing something. Behind her followed a woman in her early thirties with short hair, wearing a dark professional suit and holding a folder. Jiang Zhiyu didn't know her, but judging by her attire and aura, she was likely someone from management, not A&R or the Production Department, but the kind of department specifically responsible for 'discipline.'”

Karina walked up to Jiang Zhiyu and stopped. She glanced at him, and there was something in her gaze—not fear or nervousness, but a confirmation of 'it finally happened.' She didn't speak, only tilted her head slightly to indicate the woman.

The woman came to a halt behind Karina. Her gaze swept from Jiang Zhiyu's face to Kim Minjeong and NingNing, then back to Jiang Zhiyu. Her expression was professional—that 'I'm just doing my job' kind of professional, with no smile on her lips and no wrinkles on her brow, revealing no emotion.

“Producer Jiang Zhiyu?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I am Kim Eun-joo from the Artist Management Department.” She paused, her gaze landing on Karina. “Regarding Trainee Karina's social media account, there are a few things that need to be confirmed. Please follow me to the meeting room.”

Jiang Zhiyu nodded, placed his milk tea on the windowsill, and followed Kim Eun-joo into the small meeting room at the end of the hallway. Karina followed behind him. Kim Minjeong and NingNing stood in the hallway, watching the door close, and shared a look, both seeing the same thing in each other's eyes—worry.

The meeting room wasn't large, containing a long table, six chairs, and posters of SM artists hanging on the walls. Kim Eun-joo sat at one end of the table, Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, and Karina sat beside Jiang Zhiyu. Kim Eun-joo opened the folder, which contained several printed pages—screenshots of Karina's Instagram account, with the time, caption, like count, and comment count for every post neatly arranged on the paper like dissected specimens.

“Trainee Karina,” Kim Eun-joo's gaze moved from the paper to Karina's face, “you should be aware of the company's regulations. During their training period, trainees are not permitted to post information related to their personal identity on social media without company permission.”

Karina nodded. “I know.”

“Then your Instagram account—”

“I opened it before joining the company. After joining, I didn't update it.” Karina's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. “The reason I recently resumed updates is because I received permission.”

Kim Eun-joo raised an eyebrow. “Permission? Whose permission?”

Jiang Zhiyu spoke up. “Mine.”

Kim Eun-joo's gaze turned to him. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes did—it wasn't surprise or doubt, but a sort of 'why would you get involved' kind of unexpectedness.

“Producer Jiang, you are a creator, not part of the Artist Management Department. You have no authority to approve a trainee's social media posts.”

“I know,” Jiang Zhiyu's tone was very calm. “That's why I didn't 'approve' it; I 'suggested' it. Ji-min's Instagram account was planned by me, the photos were taken by me, the captions were written by me, and the posting times were set by me. If there are any issues, the responsibility lies with me, not her.”

The meeting room fell silent for a moment. Kim Eun-joo looked at Jiang Zhiyu, and Jiang Zhiyu looked back at her. Their gazes met in the air—no sparks, no collision, just a quiet stare-down, as if they were evaluating each other's cards.

Kim Eun-joo was the first to look away. She flipped to the next page in the folder, which showed a follower growth chart for Karina's account—a steep, nearly vertical line rising from thirty thousand to two hundred thousand. “This project,” she looked up at Jiang Zhiyu, “you did this?”

“Yes.”

“The purpose?”

“To let Ji-min be seen by more people.”

“She is a trainee. She hasn't debuted yet. Being seen by too many people isn't necessarily a good thing.” Kim Eun-joo's tone carried a hint of 'you should know better.'”

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second. Then he said something that made both Kim Eun-joo and Karina freeze. “She has trained at SM for three years; her singing and dancing are excellent, and she is beautiful. But no one outside the company knows that. She needs a window to let the outside world see her. Not as an 'SM trainee,' but as 'Karina.' When the day of her debut comes, those who saw her through this window will say—'Ah, so it's her. I've been waiting for her for a long time.'”

Kim Eun-joo looked at him and fell silent. She had been in this industry for over a decade and had seen countless trainees, countless projects, and countless 'star-making' methods. Buying followers, padding data, purchasing hot searches, manufacturing scandals—she had seen it all. But what Jiang Zhiyu was describing, she hadn't seen. It wasn't 'star-making'; it was 'star-waiting.' It wasn't about lighting a star before it was bright; it was about telling others while it was still dim—there is a star there, do you see it? It's still very faint right now, but it is glowing. Just wait a little while, and it will get brighter and brighter.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

"The proposal for this project," Kim Eun-ju closed the folder, "could you give me a copy?"

Jiang Zhiyu took a USB drive out of his pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards her.

"It contains the complete project plan, from the warm-up on the first day to the explosion on the seventh day. It includes the content planning, caption logic, posting times, and projected data for every single day."

Kim Eun-ju picked up the USB drive and held it in her palm.

She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, her lips curving into a tiny, almost imperceptible arc.

It wasn't a smile; it was a silent confirmation: "You are an interesting person."

"Producer Jiang, you are very thorough in your work."

"I'm used to it," Jiang Zhiyu said.

Kim Eun-ju stood up and tucked the folder under her arm.

"Trainee Karina, you may continue to update your account. But there is one condition—do not disclose internal company information, do not post statements inconsistent with the company's stance, and do not—"

She paused, glanced at Jiang Zhiyu, and added, "Do not let this project turn into negative news."

Karina stood up and bowed slightly.

"I understand. Thank you, Group Leader Kim."

Kim Eun-ju nodded and walked out of the conference room.

The door closed behind her, and her footsteps faded away in the hallway.

Karina stood beside her chair, neither sitting down nor leaving.

Her gaze landed on the spot where the USB drive had been, and she fell silent for a long time.

"Oppa."

"Yeah."

"When did you prepare the USB drive?"

"Yesterday."

"You knew someone would come to talk to me today?"

"Not for sure. But it was highly likely."

Jiang Zhiyu leaned back against the chair with his hands in his pockets, his expression as calm as if he were stating a fact that required no explanation.

"A trainee gains over sixty thousand followers in a week, hits the trending topics on forums, gets copied by major agencies, and even Red Velvet members are posting using the same theme. It's impossible for the company not to know. If they know, they're bound to ask. If they ask, they're bound to call you in for a talk. And if they call you in for a talk, they're bound to ask, 'Who created this project?'"

Karina looked at him, at his calm face that betrayed no emotion, and a voice in her heart said—he had calculated every step.

It wasn't just "calculating what would happen," but "calculating what would happen and preparing a countermeasure in advance."

He was the one operating her Instagram account, he was the one who asked Yeri to post, he was the one who drove the forum traffic with content, and he had even prepared the USB drive in advance for the company's meeting with her.

"Oppa."

"Yeah."

"You're doing all of this, not just for me, right?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her.

Karina's gaze didn't waver. She looked straight into his eyes, like someone seeking an answer and unwilling to accept any vague response.

"It's for you, and it's for me."

Jiang Zhiyu did not avoid her gaze. "You need to be seen by more people. I need a case study. I need material—data, screenshots, timelines, dissemination paths, follower growth curves—everything that can prove 'I created this project.' These things will be my confidence when I walk into the Loen Entertainment conference room. It won't be 'I can do it,' but 'I have already done it.' It won't be 'I promise,' but 'Look.'"

Karina lowered her head and looked at the tabletop.

There was a faint scratch on the surface, left by some unknown pen, looking like a thin river on the white table.

She lightly traced the scratch with her finger, then looked up at Jiang Zhiyu.

"So, do you have that confidence now?"

Jiang Zhiyu did not answer.

He took his phone out of his pocket, opened a folder, and turned it around for Karina to see.

On the screen was a document titled, "She Doesn't Know I'm Watching Her—Full Project Review."

From the first page to the last, every page was packed densely with content.

Not text, but data.

Karina's follower growth curve, from thirty thousand to two hundred thousand, the daily growth figures, the likes, comments, and shares for every post, the clicks, replies, and trending rankings for forum posts, the dissemination path of Yeri's post, the discussion volume, media coverage—all the numbers were neatly arranged on the page, like soldiers being reviewed.

"That's enough," Jiang Zhiyu said.

Karina looked at the dense numbers on the screen and fell silent for a moment.

Then she stood up, walked to the door, and opened it.

Kim Minjeong and NingNing were eavesdropping against the door in the hallway; when it suddenly opened, both of them almost tumbled in.

Kim Minjeong steadied herself and smiled awkwardly.

"Uh... we were just passing by..." NingNing nodded frantically beside her.

Karina ignored them.

She walked out of the conference room and stood in the hallway, her back to Jiang Zhiyu. Her voice was soft but clear.

"Oppa, you will get it."

Jiang Zhiyu watched her back.

"The IU album promotion."

Karina did not turn back.

"Yeah."

She left.

Kim Minjeong and NingNing followed behind, and the three of them disappeared around the corner of the hallway.

Their footsteps faded away, absorbed by the hallway walls and drowned out by the hum of the air conditioning vent.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in the conference room, not moving.

He stared at the faint scratch on the table, thinking—his five-year plan, step two "raising capital," whether it could move forward or not depended on this document.

It wasn't about "the mood of the Loen Entertainment president," but "whether this document was solid enough."

If the data was solid, his confidence would be solid.

If his confidence was solid, he wouldn't be treated like a "sixteen-year-old kid."

He would be "someone who has delivered results."

A difference of a word, a world of difference.

He picked up the milk tea on the table and took a sip.

It was cold, but the sweetness remained.

He placed the milk tea cup back on the table, picked up his phone, opened the document, and flipped through it page by page, starting from the first.

—

In just over a week, "She Doesn't Know I'm Watching Her" was no longer just Karina's project.

It had become a sentence structure, a template, an expression that was repeatedly adapted and could be inserted into any scenario.

When Jiang Zhiyu first wrote that line of Korean, what he had in mind was a "second-person perspective," a "gaze through a lens," and "someone watching a person work hard, but that person doesn't know."

What he hadn't expected was that this sentence would be broken apart, reorganized, transplanted into completely different contexts, and then grow new branches.

The trend started on the Never forums.

Someone left a comment under the "She Doesn't Know I'm Watching Her" post: "This sentence structure is so versatile, you can fit anything into it."

Then someone replied: "She doesn't know I'm listening to her sing."

Someone else replied: "She doesn't know I'm watching her dance."

Another replied: "She doesn't know I'm waiting for her to come back."

In just a few days, those "She doesn't know I'm..." sentences drifted to various platforms like dandelion seeds.

Someone filmed a street scene with the caption: "She doesn't know I'm watching this city."

Someone filmed a cup of coffee with the caption: "She doesn't know I'm drinking this cup of coffee."

Someone filmed the sky at four in the morning with the caption: "She doesn't know I'm waiting for dawn."

The vitality of the sentence structure lay in its blank spaces.

The subject is empty, the object is empty, and the verb is empty.

Everyone can fill it with their own content, and once filled, that sentence becomes theirs.

Not Jiang Zhiyu's, not Karina's, but theirs.

Jiang Zhiyu scrolled through his phone, leaning back in the recording studio chair, his milk tea by his side, a fine layer of condensation forming on the cup.

The content on the screen seemed to be on fast-forward; every time he refreshed, a new "She doesn't know I'm..." popped up.

He didn't search for them deliberately; he was just scrolling through his homepage recommendations, and those posts popped up on their own.

The algorithm was capturing the buzz, the buzz was creating content, and the content was feeding the algorithm.

This was a perfect closed loop, and he sat right in the center of it, watching the ripples created by the stone he had thrown expand in circles, reaching places far beyond his sight.

Then he saw Kim Taeyeon.

Kim Taeyeon's post was made at dawn.

A photo of a microphone standing in front of her, the lighting dim and yellow, likely a moment in the recording studio.

A faint light reflected off the metal mesh of the microphone, looking like an open eye.

The caption was just one sentence: "그녀는 내가 그 노래를 듣고 있다는 것을 모른다." She doesn't know I'm listening to that song.

Jiang Zhiyu's finger stopped on the screen.

It wasn't shock, nor was it being moved; it was a confirmation that "she used it too."

Kim Taeyeon was the type of person who wouldn't easily follow trends.

Having debuted over a decade ago, she had seen countless buzzwords, countless memes, and countless sentence structures chased by young people.

She almost never used them.

It wasn't arrogance; it was that she had her own way of expressing herself and didn't need to borrow others'.

But she used this one.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't know what she was thinking when she wrote that line.

Perhaps she thought of someone listening to her sing with headphones in the dead of night, eyes closed in the darkness, not knowing what she was singing, but crying as they listened.

Perhaps she thought of herself, in a recording studio in the early hours of the morning, listening to the demo she had just recorded, not knowing who would hear this song, how it would be heard, on what kind of night, in what kind of mood, or by what kind of person the play button would be pressed.

Perhaps she wasn't thinking anything at all; she just thought the sentence structure was useful and wrote it down casually.

He took a screenshot of the post and saved it into the folder on his phone labeled "Project Material."

Not because he needed to use this screenshot, but because he wanted to keep it.

He couldn't explain why, he just wanted to.

He continued scrolling down.

Im Yoona's post was made in the morning.

A photo of a theater, the stage lights on, the audience seating empty.

The seats were arranged neatly, the red velvet cushions glowing dimly under the lights.

The caption: "그녀는 내가 그 연기를 보고 있다는 것을 모른다." She doesn't know I'm watching that performance.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the post, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

Im Yoona had been rehearsing a play recently; he knew that.

She had told him that rehearsals were exhausting, spending every day from morning till night immersed in the theater, the lines revised a dozen times, the blocking adjusted countless times, and sometimes she did not even have the strength to remove her makeup when she got home.

He had not been to watch her rehearsals—not because he did not want to, but because he did not have the time.

But he had imagined the scene—the empty auditorium, only one actor on stage, the lights pouring down from above, stretching her shadow long and thin.

She was acting, with no audience.

He did not know what she was performing, but he knew she was working hard.

That gaze of "not knowing I am watching" was not peeking; it was companionship.

It was not "I am watching you," but "I am here."

In a place you do not know about, someone is sitting, quietly, silently, watching you.

Jiang Zhiyu took a screenshot of Im Yoona's post as well and saved it in the same folder.

After thinking for a moment, he moved Kim Taeyeon's screenshot above Im Yoona's.

It was not arranged by time, but by mood.

Then he scrolled to Bae Joo-hyun.

His finger stopped.

Bae Joo-hyun's post had been made in the afternoon.

It was a group photo, a picture of the five members of Red Velvet, likely backstage at some event, the five of them huddled together, making various gestures at the camera.

Seulgi made a V sign, Joy was smiling brightly, Wendy tilted her head, and Yeri was making a funny face.

Bae Joo-hyun stood in the middle, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned, her eyes as gentle as if she were looking at something reassuring.

The caption read— "그녀는 내가 그녀를 생각하고 있다는 것을 모른다." She does not know I am thinking of her.

It was followed by a line in smaller font, as if added on a whim— "언제 외식을 가져올지." When are you bringing the takeout back?

Jiang Zhiyu stared at those words, silent for a long time.

It was not moving, it was not funny, it was not any single emotion.

It was a mixed, complex feeling, like pouring sour, sweet, bitter, spicy, and salty all into a cup, stirring them together, and drinking it down.

"She does not know I am thinking of her"—this line was very earnest, so earnest it felt like an unspoken confession.

"When are you bringing the takeout back?"—this line was very casual, so casual it felt like @ing someone in a group chat to ask, "What is for dinner?"

Put together, the earnest line became a joke, and the joking line became a cover-up.

He did not know what Bae Joo-hyun was thinking when she wrote that.

Perhaps she was not thinking anything, just wrote it off the cuff.

Perhaps she had thought for a long time, writing and deleting, writing and deleting, and finally chose the safest option—half-true, half-false, offensive if needed, defensive if necessary.

If you asked her, "Who are you thinking of?" she could say, "Thinking of Yeri, she promised to bring me takeout."

If you did not ask, that sentence would just stay there, like a seed buried in the soil, not knowing if it would sprout, but knowing it was there.

Jiang Zhiyu placed his phone face down on the table, leaned back against the chair, and looked at the ceiling.

There was a fluorescent lamp on the ceiling with two tubes; the one with the broken ballast flickered every few seconds.

He stared at that lamp, a voice in his heart saying—she had not spoken to him in a long time.

It was not that she would not speak, but that she did not say any extra words.

"Good morning," "Thank you for your hard work," "I am leaving first"—she said these things, but those words did not require a response; once said, they were finished.

He wanted to know what she was filming recently, wanted to know if she was tired, wanted to know when the "takeout" she mentioned was, who promised to bring it, and if that person had actually brought it.

He wanted to know these things, but he would not ask.

Not because he could not, but because he dared not.

He was afraid that if he asked, her reply would be too polite—so polite it would be like talking to a stranger.

Jiang Zhiyu sat up straight, picked up the milk tea, and took a sip.

It was cold; the sweetness was still there, but it was cloying, as if reminding him that this cup of milk tea had been sitting for too long and should be thrown away.

He did not throw it away.

He placed the milk tea on the table, picked up his phone, opened Bae Joo-hyun's post, and looked at that caption.

He read it once, then read it again.

Then he placed his phone face down on the table, opened his laptop, and began organizing the project materials.

On the screen was the document titled "She Does Not Know I Am Watching Her—Project Post-Mortem."

He started from the first page, flipping through page by page, checking page by page.

The follower growth curve, from thirty thousand to two hundred thousand, with each day's growth figures marked in red.

The post data, the likes, comments, and shares for every post, organized into tables.

The propagation path of forum posts, click counts, reply counts, trending search rankings, all screenshotted and archived.

The propagation data for Yeri's post, the moment the likes broke two million, he had screenshotted.

Kim Taeyeon's post, Im Yoona's post, Bae Joo-hyun's post, and others posted by people whose names he did not know, "Don't know I am..."—he saved a few representative ones and placed them at the end of the document as evidence of "social impact."

He organized this data into a report over twenty pages long, with charts, tables, and data sources on every page, and the date and time marked on every page.

He was not doing this for the Loen Entertainment CEO; he was doing it for himself.

Only by looking at those numbers could he confirm—this was not a dream.

He had really pushed an account with over thirty thousand followers to two hundred thousand within a week.

He had really made a project go from nothing to something, from small to large, from one trainee's Instagram to spreading throughout the entire Korean entertainment industry, being actively used by people like Kim Taeyeon, Im Yoona, and Bae Joo-hyun.

He had really done it.

Jiang Zhiyu saved the document, backed it up to a USB drive, and uploaded it to the cloud.

Then he leaned back against the chair, closed his eyes, and let out a long breath.

The recording studio was very quiet, with only the buzzing of the air conditioning vent and the occasional sound of the refrigerator compressor starting.

The sky outside the window had darkened, and the light from the street lamps shone through the gaps in the blinds, casting stripes of light onto the wall.

He sat for a while, picked up his phone, opened Instagram, and refreshed it one more time.

Underneath Bae Joo-hyun's post, Yeri had left a comment.

"Unnie, I will bring you fried chicken tonight."

Bae Joo-hyun replied with an emoji, a kitten with squinting eyes and upturned corners of its mouth, looking very satisfied.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at that emoji, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

It was not a smile; it was a confirmation of "Alright."

The person she was thinking of was Yeri.

When she said "When are you bringing the takeout back," she was urging Yeri to bring her food.

She was not talking about him.

She would never say anything about him in public.

It was not deliberate avoidance; there was just nothing to say.

There was no story between them, no intersection, no moments that needed to be recorded.

They just worked at the same company, occasionally met in the hallway, nodded, brushed past each other, and walked in their own directions.

Jiang Zhiyu put his phone away, picked up the milk tea from the table, walked to the trash can, and threw it in.

The cup landed at the bottom of the bin with a dull thud.

He stood for a moment, then turned and walked out of the recording studio, turned off the lights, and closed the door.

The hallway was very quiet, and his footsteps echoed in the empty corridor.

He walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited.

The elevator rose from the first floor, the doors opened, and it was empty inside.

He walked in and pressed the first floor.

The doors closed, and the elevator began to descend.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He took it out and glanced at it.

It was a message from Kim Taeyeon.

"Zhiyu, I used that project of yours. The results are good. Thank you."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at that message, was silent for a moment, and then replied— "Thank you, Noona. When Noona is singing, there is also someone listening. That person does not know they are being listened to, but he is there."

After sending it, he looked at those words and felt a bit pretentious.

But Kim Taeyeon did not feel it was pretentious.

She replied with an emoji, a kitten with squinting eyes and upturned corners of its mouth, exactly the same as the one Bae Joo-hyun had replied to Yeri with.

It was not the same cat, but the expression was the same.

Squinting eyes, upturned corners of the mouth, very satisfied.

Jiang Zhiyu put his phone away; the elevator arrived at the first floor, the doors opened, he walked out, crossed the lobby, and pushed open the glass door.

The night wind rushed at him, carrying the chill of early autumn and the smoky aroma of a nearby barbecue stall.

He stood at the entrance, looking at the traffic and pedestrians on the street, and suddenly felt that the night in this city did not seem so cold anymore.

It was not that the temperature had changed; it was that a part of his heart had been warmed by something.

It was not warmed by any one person, but by many people.

Kim Taeyeon, Im Yoona, Yeri, Karina, Minjeong, NingNing.

And Bae Joo-hyun.

That sentence she said, "She does not know I am thinking of her," was not said to him.

But when he saw that sentence, his heart skipped a beat.

That beat was one he owed himself.

Not one he owed her.

—

[Harassing messages, but why do I feel so moved and like it so much?]

(07:10) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [Oppa, good morning! As expected, I woke up before the alarm went off~ Because I dreamed of walking with Oppa on a ginkgo-lined road in autumn, I stepped on the fallen leaves, crunch crunch, and Oppa smiled and said, "Our Minjeong, even your footsteps sound like singing." (Rubbing eyes and muttering sweetly)]

(07:13) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [I tried making ginkgo leaf-shaped pancakes for breakfast! Although the edges are a bit burnt, after drizzling honey on them, they are shining, like fragments of autumn sunlight. (Sends a photo of a pancake with honey drizzled in the shape of a smiling arc)]

(07:16) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [When I was watering "Little Winter," I noticed dew condensed on the leaves, and it rolled off with a gentle touch—as if it were shedding tears for the arrival of autumn too. But I told it, "Daddy will have a smooth day today too," and the dew sparkled and stopped crying.]

(07:19) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [I have to shoot magazine inner pages today, and the stylist Unnie prepared several sets of sweaters. I secretly touched the oatmeal-colored one because Oppa once said, "This color makes people want to hug." (Fingers curled in the cuffs, giggling)]

(07:22) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [I stuck the ginkgo leaf I picked up yesterday on the inside of my phone case, so every time I pick up my phone, it is like holding the season I share with Oppa. Although we have not walked together yet, autumn is already in my palm.]

(07:25) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [On the way to the studio, I saw people jogging in the morning, and suddenly I wanted to jog side-by-side with Oppa too! Even if we run slowly, it does not matter, anyway, our time is always sweetly stuck together~ (Sends a photo of an energetic back view with a ponytail swaying while tying shoelaces)]