20: I cried in Chapter 20.

After the meeting at Loen Entertainment ended, Jiang Zhiyu walked out of that low-profile grey building and stood on the street. He looked up at the overcast sky and let out a long breath. It wasn't a sigh of relief, but rather the kind of exhale that said, "It's finally over." He shifted his briefcase to his left hand, shoved his right hand into his trouser pocket, and walked slowly along the sidewalk. His pace wasn't fast; it was even a bit lazy, like a cat that had just eaten its fill, squinting its eyes in the sunlight, not wanting to go anywhere or do anything.

He reached the subway station, swiped his card to enter, waited for the train, boarded, and sat down. There weren't many people in the carriage. Opposite him sat a high school student wearing headphones, looking down and scrolling through a phone. Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the back of the seat, watching the tunnel walls flash by outside the window—black, grey, with the occasional light flickering past, leaving a brief trail of light on the glass. He wasn't thinking about anything. It wasn't an intentional emptying of his mind; there really was just nothing to think about. The Loen meeting was over, the proposal had been submitted, everything that needed to be said had been said, and everything that needed to be proven had been proven. The result was beyond his control; he had done everything he could. All that remained was to wait.

Waiting. It was the thing he was best at, and also the thing he hated most.

Over the next few days, Jiang Zhiyu entered a "lying flat" period of his life. It wasn't the decadent kind of lying flat—he didn't stay in bed scrolling through his phone until dawn, he didn't binge eat, and he didn't lock himself in his room and refuse to see anyone. It was the "so idle he was bored" kind of lying flat. He would sleep until he woke up naturally in the morning, get up to cook a bowl of ramen, and after eating, sit by the window in a daze, watching the pigeons walk back and forth on the roof of the building opposite. At noon, he would go to the company, sit in the recording studio for a while, play a few chords, and write a few lyrics. Halfway through, he'd find it uninteresting, delete it, turn off the computer, and stare at the ceiling while leaning back in his chair. In the afternoon, he'd go to the practice room to watch the three girls practice dancing. After watching for a bit and feeling bored, he'd walk to the back door steps and sit there, drinking milk tea and watching ants move house. In the evening, he'd return to the gosiwon, shower, lie down, close his eyes, and fall asleep. Day after day, like a machine with its pause button pressed, not moving forward, not moving backward, just staying right there.

Kim Minjeong was the first to notice his abnormality. "Oppa, are you sick lately?" She squatted on the practice room floor, leaning in close to his face, her eyes wide like a puppy checking if its owner was still alive. Her face was very close to his, close enough that he could see the tiny, tiny mole on the bridge of her nose.

"No."

"Then why do you look like a dried-up octopus?"

"...Where did that metaphor come from?"

"NingNing said it. She said you've looked like a dried-up octopus lately—limp and lifeless."

Jiang Zhiyu turned his head to look at NingNing. NingNing was stretching, her leg propped up on the barre, leaning her body forward. Hearing her name mentioned, she didn't even look up, saying matter-of-factly, "Teacher, I'm just stating facts. These past few days, you've even been drinking your milk tea slowly. Before, you'd finish a cup in ten minutes; now, one cup lasts you an hour. What does that mean? It means you're even too lazy to suck on the straw."

Jiang Zhiyu looked down at the strawberry milk tea in his hand. The straw was still in his mouth, but he indeed wasn't drinking. He placed the milk tea on the floor, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. "I'm waiting for the results."

"What results?" Kim Minjeong asked.

"Loen's reply."

The three of them fell silent at the same time. They all knew about that proposal, knew how many nights Jiang Zhiyu had stayed up for those materials, and knew what he had said to the seven executives in that meeting room. What they didn't know was the result. Jiang Zhiyu didn't know either. He was waiting. Waiting for a phone call, an email, a message. Any form of reply, with any content, even if it was just "we'll consider it further." But there was nothing. It was as quiet as a pebble thrown into deep water, without even a ripple.

NingNing lowered her leg from the barre, walked over, and sat down beside him. She didn't speak; she just sat there, quietly keeping him company. Kim Minjeong sat down too, on his other side. Karina turned away from the mirror, glanced at him, then walked over and sat directly opposite him, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knees like a little Buddha statue.

The four of them sat on the practice room floor, forming an irregular circle. No one spoke, no one played with their phone, and no one did anything. They just sat. There was a long silence.

Jiang Zhiyu opened his eyes and looked at the three girls in front of him. Kim Minjeong's eyes were filled with the anxiety of "I want to help but don't know how," NingNing's eyes were filled with the comfort of "Teacher, don't worry, it'll come," and Karina's eyes—they held nothing. It wasn't indifference, but a quietness that said, "I know you're waiting, so I'll wait with you." There was no need to speak, no need to do anything; just sitting there was enough.

He suddenly felt that the act of waiting for the results wasn't so agonizing anymore. It wasn't because the outcome would improve, but because someone was waiting with him. He sat up straight and cleared his throat. The three of them looked at him simultaneously.

"Since we're idle anyway," he said, "let's play a game."

Kim Minjeong's eyes lit up. "What game?"

Jiang Zhiyu didn't answer immediately. He reached out, paused in the air for a second, and then snapped his fingers. The sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally crisp in the quiet practice room. A card appeared out of thin air between his fingertips—colorful, a bit larger than a standard playing card, with a crowned joker printed on the front. Its mouth was curled up in a cryptic smile, one eye was blue and the other green, as if looking at a riddle you could never solve.

Kim Minjeong's eyes widened. NingNing's mouth fell open. Karina's eyebrows twitched slightly—this was her expression when surprised; it was subtle, but it was there.

"This is the kings card." Jiang Zhiyu held the card between his index and middle fingers, flipping it over to show them the back. The back was solid black without any pattern, except for a line of small gold-stamped words—'The King’s Command.' He paused, his gaze sweeping across the three faces, and his lips slowly curled upward. That smile was very gentle, but beneath the gentleness hid an indescribable 'wickedness' that made all three of them feel a chill down their spines simultaneously.

"The rules of the game are very simple." His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear. "Win any small competition with a stake. The winner gets this the kings card. In the blank space on the card, write the names of all the losers present. From then on, the card owner will have the right to pull out this card anytime, anywhere. As long as the losers whose names are written on the card are present, no matter what requirement the card owner states, the designated loser on the card must fulfill it unconditionally."

The practice room fell silent for a moment.

"For example," Jiang Zhiyu's gaze landed on Kim Minjeong, "suppose we're having a group dinner, and you, Minjeong, are grabbing pork belly to eat. I take out the kings card and say, 'Kim Minjeong cannot eat meat today.' Then, Minjeong, you wouldn't be able to eat a single piece of meat."

Kim Minjeong's expression changed. It didn't turn red or white; it was a daze of "what did I just hear." Her mouth opened and closed, then closed and opened several times before she finally squeezed out a very quiet sentence, as if from the depths of her throat. "Oppa, this game is so mean..."

NingNing's reaction was much more direct than Kim Minjeong's. She bounced up from the floor like a cat that had its tail stepped on, jumping back half a meter. "What a perverted game!" Her voice echoed in the practice room, startling the fluorescent light on the ceiling into a flicker. "What kind of anti-human setting is this? Unconditional fulfillment? I have to do whatever you say? What if you say 'NingNing isn't allowed to eat starting today'? What if you say 'NingNing go sing on the street'? What if you say 'NingNing—'"

"NingNing," Jiang Zhiyu interrupted her, "calm down."

"I can't calm down!" NingNing's voice rose even higher. "This game is too scary! Who came up with this?!"

Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. But the smile on his lips grew a bit wider. NingNing looked at that smile, her pupils contracting slightly. "Teacher, did you come up with it?"

"I was idle, so I just thought of it randomly." Jiang Zhiyu's tone was as nonchalant as if he were saying "the weather is nice today."

NingNing opened her mouth to say something but found she didn't know what to say. She turned to look at Kim Minjeong, who was also looking at her. Both saw the same thing in each other's eyes—fear. Not the "I'm afraid you'll hit me" kind of fear, but the "I know this person is capable of anything" kind of fear.

Karina hadn't made a sound from start to finish. She sat opposite Jiang Zhiyu, legs crossed, hands on her knees, looking at that the kings card and the joker with the cryptic smile on it. Her expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be seen. But her eyes were shining—not with the light of fear or excitement, but a calculating light of "I'm thinking about what happens if I win."

"This game," she finally spoke, her voice not loud but very clear, "who came up with it?" She looked at Jiang Zhiyu. "Oppa, have you ever won?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. Karina didn't dodge his gaze, looking straight into his eyes as if waiting for an honest answer. His lips curled up slightly into a "hehe" laugh—not a hearty, sunny laugh, but the kind of "I have a secret but I'm not telling you" laugh, tinged with a bit of smugness and a bit of cunning.

Looking at that smile, a voice inside Karina said: He has won. And he's won many times. His "hehe" wasn't answering "have you won," it was saying "are you prepared to lose."

Jiang Zhiyu spun the the kings card around his fingertips. The card flipped, face up, and the joker's smile seemed even more eerie under the fluorescent lights. "Let's take this chance to play a round. Who knows, we might even use it during dinner tonight," he said casually, as if saying "it might rain tonight, remember to bring an umbrella." But Kim Minjeong and NingNing both shuddered at the same time.

Kim Minjeong put on a bitter face, clasping her hands together in a pious, prayer-like gesture. "Oppa, I want to eat meat..."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her watery, deer-like eyes, the curve of his lips unchanging. "Then you'll have to win."

Kim Minjeong's mouth pouted. She lowered her hands from their prayer position and clenched them into fists on her knees. She looked like a puppy whose bone had been stolen, aggrieved and pitiful, but a fire of "I won't admit defeat" burned in her eyes.

Jiang Zhiyu extended his right hand and gave a light flick in the air. Without a sound or warning, the the kings card vanished from his fingertips. A second later, another card appeared between his thumb and index finger—not the the kings card, but a Joker card. It was colorful and a bit smaller than the the kings card. The joker on the front wasn't wearing a crown, and its smile was even more exaggerated, with its mouth split to its ears as if mocking something.

Kim Minjeong's eyes grew even wider. "Is this magic?"

"I suppose so." Jiang Zhiyu flipped the Joker card back and forth between his fingers like a casino veteran practicing fancy card cuts.

"What do you mean 'I suppose so'?"

"True magic requires props, techniques, and practice. This doesn't." He put away the Joker card and made the the kings card reappear, held between his fingertips. "This is just—playing around."

NingNing watched from the side, her lip twitching. "Teacher, this 'playing around' level of yours is already good enough to perform on TV."

"Not interested." Jiang Zhiyu placed the the kings card on the floor, pressed it with his index finger, and pushed it into the center of the circle. "Come on, I'll say the rules once more. Rock-paper-scissors, split into two groups. The winner of each group will then have a final showdown. The ultimate winner writes the names of all the losers present on the the kings card. From then on, the winner is the King. The losers must unconditionally obey any request from the winner—as long as the the kings card exists and the losers are present."

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Kim Minjeong and NingNing exchanged a glance.

Neither of them spoke, but a silent, intense discussion was taking place in their eyes.

Kim Minjeong's eyes said, "Let's team up," while NingNing's eyes replied, "How?" Kim Minjeong's eyes countered, "We eliminate Unnie Ji-min first, then Oppa," to which NingNing's eyes asked, "Are you sure we can eliminate Unnie Ji-min?" Kim Minjeong's eyes replied, "...Not sure."

Karina sat opposite them, watching the two communicate with their eyes, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up.

It wasn't a smile, but a composure that said, "I know exactly what you're plotting."

"I choose Minjeong." Jiang Zhiyu's voice broke the silence.

Kim Minjeong sprang up from the floor as if she had been electrocuted.

"No way!" Her voice was loud enough to be a cry for "help," but there was a smile on her face—not a fearful one, but the kind of irrepressible smile that said, "I was picked, but I'm actually really happy about it."

"I choose Ningning!" She pointed at Ningning, her finger trembling in the air like a witness identifying a criminal in court.

NingNing looked at that finger, her expression as calm as stagnant water.

"Unnie Minjeong, do I look like an easy target?"

Before Kim Minjeong could answer, Karina reached out and pinched NingNing's cheek.

It wasn't a light, symbolic pinch, but a firm one that squeezed the flesh of her cheeks from both sides toward the center, causing NingNing's mouth to pout involuntarily.

NingNing already had some baby fat on her cheeks, and with this pinch, her whole face turned into a crumpled piece of paper; her eyes narrowed into slits, her mouth pursed into an 'O' shape, and she let out a muffled "Mmm—"

"NingNing is just easy to bully."

Karina's tone was as calm as if she were stating a law of physics; she didn't let go, continuing to pinch Ningning's cheek, her fingertips gently rubbing against the soft flesh as if kneading dough.

"I choose NingNing."

Kim Minjeong's eyes widened.

"Unnie, you can't fight me for NingNing!"

Karina finally released Ningning's face and turned to look at Kim Minjeong.

Her expression remained the same cool, emotionless calm, but her eyes had changed—it wasn't "I'm discussing this with you," it was "I'm telling you a fact that has already been decided."

"Kim Minjeong, I am the Unnie. You are the junior. Are you going to disobey my order?"

Kim Minjeong opened her mouth to say something, but when she saw Karina's calm, ripple-free eyes, the words in her throat were as if choked off, and she couldn't utter a single syllable.

She turned to look at Jiang Zhiyu, her eyes full of "Oppa, do something about her."

That look was complex—it held a plea for help, a sense of grievance, and the expectation that "you are the only one who can handle her."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Kim Minjeong's wet, doe-like eyes and smiled.

"Noona Ji-min makes a good point."

Kim Minjeong's mouth opened even wider.

NingNing, standing to the side, covered her pinched-red cheek and let out a gloating "Hehe."

Karina's face—blushed.

It wasn't the blush of being "shy from a compliment," but the blush of "he called me Noona."

The three words "Noona Ji-min," when spoken by Jiang Zhiyu, had a completely different flavor.

He had never called her "Noona" before.

He called her "Ji-min-ah," called her "Karina," or at most, "Ji-min-xi."

Honorifics, casual speech, an intimacy that still maintained a polite distance.

"Noona" was different.

It was a term used by males to address older females, carrying a kind of intimacy where one actively lowered their stance, saying, "I am your younger brother in front of you."

But coming from Jiang Zhiyu, that feeling of "lowering one's stance" didn't exist.

There was no humility of a "younger brother" in his tone; instead, it carried a teasing, mocking quality that was both embarrassing and annoying.

Karina glared at him.

It wasn't the glare of "I'm angry," but the kind that warned, "Try calling me that again," though the threat was ineffective.

Her cheeks turned from pink to deep red, as if someone had lit a lamp beneath her skin, the light shining through from within and illuminating her entire face.

She didn't speak, but her lips were pressed into a line, pressed so tightly that the corners of her mouth curved slightly downward—not out of unhappiness, but because "I am holding back a smile."

"Come on, NingNing." Karina turned her head, looking at NingNing, her expression returning to that cool, emotionless calm.

But the tips of her ears were still red.

NingNing covered her pinched-red cheek, looking at everyone present with an expression that asked, "Has anyone asked for my opinion?"

"Has no one asked for my opinion?"

Her voice wasn't loud, but her tone held a protest, a hint of grievance that said, "I'm the maknae, but I'm still a person."

Kim Minjeong, Karina, and Jiang Zhiyu all looked at her at the same time.

Then all three spoke at once.

Kim Minjeong said, "What does maknae mean?" Karina said, "The maknae must listen to Unnie," and Jiang Zhiyu said, "The maknae is just there to be chosen."

Their voices overlapped, like a trio singing without rehearsal.

NingNing pouted, then resignedly held out her hand.

"Come on then."

The rock-paper-scissors game between Karina and NingNing had no suspense.

NingNing played paper; Karina played scissors.

Scissors cut paper, and the paper was shredded.

NingNing looked at her hand with its five fingers spread, fell silent for a moment, then retracted her hand and placed it on her knee.

"I hate this world."

Karina didn't speak, but there was a tiny arc at the corner of her mouth.

It wasn't big, but it was genuine, like the quiet satisfaction of someone confirming, "I won after all."

On the other side, the duel between Jiang Zhiyu and Kim Minjeong was underway.

Kim Minjeong's eyes were wide open, Jiang Zhiyu's hand reflected in her pupils.

Her lips were pressed tight, her whole face taut like a drawn bow.

Her right hand was hidden behind her back, her fist clenched tight, knuckles turning white.

She was thinking—what did he play last time? What does he like to play? Can he read minds? Would he lose on purpose?

Her brain was spinning at high speed, so fast that she could hear something buzzing in her head.

"Rock, paper, scissors."

Kim Minjeong played paper. Jiang Zhiyu played rock.

Kim Minjeong was stunned. She won? She won. She won!

A moment of ecstasy appeared on her face—eyes wide, mouth open, hands raised above her head, like a player who had just scored the winning goal in a World Cup final.

But her ecstasy lasted less than a second, because Jiang Zhiyu said, "Best of three."

Kim Minjeong's ecstasy froze on her face.

"What?"

"Best of three. That round doesn't count."

"Why doesn't it count?"

"Because I said it doesn't."

Kim Minjeong looked at him, at his calm, expressionless face, and a voice in her heart said—he's cheating.

Not the cheating of "breaking the rules," but the cheating of "he is the rules."

the kings card was in his hand, the game was set by him, and the rules were spoken by him.

If he said best of three, it was best of three.

She had no right to refute, because she hadn't yet won the card that would give her that right.

Second round. Kim Minjeong played rock, Jiang Zhiyu played paper. Paper wrapped rock, and the rock was shattered.

Kim Minjeong's hand hung in mid-air, fingers curled into a fist, as if someone had pressed the pause button on her.

She looked up at Jiang Zhiyu; Jiang Zhiyu's expression hadn't changed at all.

He played paper, not because he calculated she would play rock, but because he wanted to win. It was that simple.

Third round. Kim Minjeong played scissors, Jiang Zhiyu played rock. Rock smashed scissors, and the scissors broke.

Kim Minjeong looked at her hand with two fingers extended, silent for a long time.

Then she curled her fingers back one by one, formed a fist, and placed it back on her knee.

She didn't speak. But she seemed to deflate, like a balloon that had been let out, collapsing limply against the wall, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Oppa," her voice seemed to drift from far away, "You did that on purpose."

"Did what on purpose?"

"You let me win one round first, making me think I had a chance. Then you won two in a row, making me completely despair. You did that on purpose."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't deny it.

He picked up the kings card from the floor, holding it between his thumb and index finger, and flipped it over so the blank side faced up.

Then he took a black fountain pen from his pocket—not just any pen, but one that looked very expensive, with a dark wooden barrel, a fine nib, and the kind that wrote very smoothly.

Kim Minjeong watched the movement of him taking out the pen, her pupils contracting slightly.

"You even prepared a pen?"

"You need a pen to write a name."

"Didn't you say you were just 'bored and playing around'?"

"Yeah. I just happened to prepare a pen."

Kim Minjeong looked at him, at his calm, expressionless face, and a voice in her heart said—he wasn't "bored" at all.

He had planned to play this game from the very beginning. He even had the pen ready.

From the moment he snapped his fingers to conjure the kings card, he had been directing this play.

They weren't "participants," they were "actors."

He was the director. The script was in his head, the lines in his heart, and everyone's reactions were within his calculations.

She lost, not because of bad luck, but because from the first step she took into this game, there was no possibility of winning.

Jiang Zhiyu uncapped the pen and placed the nib on the card.

He didn't write in Korean. He wrote in Chinese.

The first character was "Liu".

There weren't many strokes, but his nib moved very slowly across the paper, as if he were carving characters, not writing them.

Every stroke had a beginning, a middle, and an end; the start was subtle, the movement steady, and the finish retracted.

Horizontal lines were level, vertical lines straight, and the slanted strokes were expansive.

It wasn't the kind of writing done casually; it was the writing of someone who had practiced, who had a foundation, the kind of writing that made one know at a glance, "this character is beautiful."

Kim Minjeong leaned in to look. She couldn't read Chinese, but she could tell the characters were beautiful.

It wasn't just "good-looking" beautiful, it was "like a painting" beautiful.

Each stroke was like a willow branch bent by the wind, flexible and powerful, stopping where it should stop, finishing at the moment it should finish.

NingNing also leaned in. She could read it.

She watched Jiang Zhiyu write the character "Liu" stroke by stroke, and the corners of her mouth slowly curled up.

"Teacher, your handwriting is really beautiful."

"Thank you."

"Have you practiced calligraphy?"

"I practiced for a few years when I was a kid."

"A few years?"

"More than a decade."

NingNing's smile paused for a second. More than a decade. He had said "practiced for a few years when I was a kid," but there was an order of magnitude difference between "a few years" and "more than a decade."

She didn't press him. She lowered her head, watching Jiang Zhiyu write the second character—"Zhi".

The character "Zhi" had more strokes than "Liu," but he wrote it faster.

The nib slid smoothly across the paper, like someone ice skating on ice, without a single pause.

"Ji-min-ah," Jiang Zhiyu said without looking up, his nib still traveling across the paper, his voice very soft, as if talking to himself, "I am writing your name now. Look, this is the character 'Liu', this one is 'Zhi', and finally, 'Min'."

Karina watched him. Not looking at his face, but at his hands.

His fingers were slender, his knuckles distinct, and his grip on the pen was standard—not the "three-finger pinch" standard taught by school teachers, but the natural posture of someone who had practiced for a long time, ingrained in muscle memory.

His nib traveled across the paper, leaving behind black ink.

Those ink marks formed her name. "Liu Zhimin".

Not "Karina," not those three characters transliterated over, with only pronunciation and no meaning.

It was her real name, the name on her ID card, the name her parents gave her, the name she wrote on various official documents herself.

Standard, official; not "like," but "is."

"Liu Zhimin".

She watched those three characters, watched those strokes appear one by one before her, as if someone were lightly tracing over her heart with a pen nib.

It didn't hurt, but it tickled. It tickled so much that she wanted to reach out and press her chest, but she was afraid that if she moved too much, someone would notice.

Her face flushed. It was not the kind of red that spread from her cheeks to her earlobes when she was called "Noona" earlier; it was a flush that surged up from the base of her neck, as if something were racing through her veins.

She lowered her head, pretending to look at the words on the card, pretending that her blush was just blood rushing to her head from bending over, not because of the way Jiang Zhiyu was writing her name stroke by stroke.

NingNing watched Karina's bowed head and flushed earlobes, the curve of her lips widening slightly.

She did not speak, just quietly watched Jiang Zhiyu write down one name after another.

After finishing "Liu Zhimin," he started a new line and began the second name. "Kim." The strokes were few, but the structure was complex.

He wrote very slowly, as if using the tip of his pen to construct a miniature building on the paper. Horizontal, vertical, horizontal, horizontal, vertical, left-falling, right-falling—every stroke was precise, every turn clean and sharp.

Kim Minjeong leaned in closer, her head almost touching Jiang Zhiyu's shoulder. She could not read Chinese, but she could see the characters taking shape under Jiang Zhiyu's pen, like someone leaving a trail of footprints on a blank snowy field.

She did not know where those footprints led, but she knew it was her name. Her heart was beating faster than usual. It was not nervousness; it was the confirmation that "he is writing my name."

Not "Jiang Zhiyu is writing Kim Minjeong's name," but "he is writing." He is writing. He was using that beautiful Chinese script—one she could not read, but knew must look very good—to write her name stroke by stroke.

After Jiang Zhiyu finished the character "Kim," his pen paused for a moment before continuing. "Min." The king radical on the left, the "wen" character on the right—not many strokes, but he wrote it very seriously, so seriously it was as if he were writing an important letter.

"Jeong." The wide radical on top, with "ting" inside. He dragged out the final right-falling stroke for a long time, as if he were reluctant to finish the character.

Kim Minjeong watched that long stroke, and a voice in her heart said—when he wrote my name, he took two seconds longer than when he wrote Ji-min Unnie's name.

It was not because he was unskilled; it was because he wanted to write more slowly. She did not know where this voice came from, nor did she know if it was true. She only knew that she hoped it was.

Jiang Zhiyu finished the three characters "Kim Minjeong," switched lines, and began the third name. "Ning." The simplified character is "Ning," but he wrote it in traditional. "Ning." The roof radical on top, a "heart" below that, then a "vessel" below that, and a "nail" at the very bottom.

There were many strokes, so many that Kim Minjeong could not count them. But he wrote it very fluidly, as if painting a picture he had painted countless times before, every stroke landing exactly where it should, without hesitation, without pause.

NingNing looked at that "Ning" character and was silent for a moment. Then she said something very softly in Chinese. "Teacher, you wrote it in traditional."

"Mm."

"Why write it in traditional?"

"Because your name looks better in traditional."

NingNing lowered her head, looking at the "Ning" character, looking at the "heart" under the roof radical, looking at the "vessel" under the "heart," looking at the "nail" under the "vessel." Every component was in its proper place, every stroke maintaining just the right distance from the ones next to it. Like a miniature palace, solemn, complete, and unshakeable.

"Thank you." She said. The voice was very small, so small it was like she was talking to herself.

Jiang Zhiyu finished the last character, capped the pen, picked up the card, held it up to his eyes, and examined it carefully. On the blank space of the card, three lines of Chinese names were arranged neatly—"Liu Zhimin," "Kim Minjeong," "NingNing."

Each line had three characters, and every character was the same size, font, and spacing. Like a carefully typeset piece of calligraphy, every character was in its place; no one was more prominent than the other, and no one was more overlooked.

He flipped the card over and glanced at the clown wearing a crown on the front. The clown's smile was the same, corners of the mouth turned up, one eye blue and one green, as if saying, "The show has only just begun."

He placed the card into his left breast pocket seriously, carefully, as if putting away a fragile object. The pocket was close to his heart, and the fabric of his shirt was thin; he could feel the edges of the card pressing against his chest, a little hard, a little cool.

He patted his pocket to confirm the card would not fall out. Then he looked up at the three people in front of him.

In Kim Minjeong's eyes, there still lingered a trace of that daze from the "he took two seconds longer to write my name" thought; NingNing's eyes were a little red, and Karina's face was still flushed. He slowly curled the corners of his mouth, revealing a gentle smile that always made people feel like something was hidden underneath.

"Tonight," he said, his voice not loud, but every word sounding like a verdict, "you must serve me well. Otherwise—"

He did not finish. His gaze shifted from Kim Minjeong's face to NingNing's, then to Karina's, and finally back to Kim Minjeong's. That "hehe" laugh spilled from his throat, not loud, but enough to send a chill up all three of their spines at the same time.

Kim Minjeong swallowed. "Oppa, what do you mean by 'serve'?"

"Exactly what you think it means."

"What do we think it means?"

"Exactly what it says."

Kim Minjeong opened her mouth, wanting to ask more, but realized that asking would only plunge her into deeper uncertainty. She shut her mouth.

NingNing muttered to herself on the side, "Can I quit this game?" The voice was so small it was like she was talking to herself, but everyone heard it.

Karina did not speak, but her fingers curled slightly on her knees. It was not nervousness; it was an instinctive bodily pre-response to an unknown threat, a "I am preparing" reaction.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up, patted the dust off his pants, took his phone out of his pocket, and checked the time. "Let's go, it's time to eat."

Kim Minjeong climbed up from the floor and followed behind Jiang Zhiyu. When she reached the door, she suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at NingNing and Karina, who were still sitting on the floor.

Her expression was complex, as if there were a thousand things she wanted to say, but every sentence was stuck in her throat, and she could not squeeze out a single word. Finally, she only said one thing: "Tonight, no one is allowed to order pork belly."

NingNing looked at her and was silent for a moment. "Minjeong Unnie, do you think you can decide what to eat tonight?"

Kim Minjeong froze for a moment. Then she slowly, with difficulty, as if someone were pulling a tooth from her mouth, turned her head and looked at Jiang Zhiyu's back.

Jiang Zhiyu was standing in the corridor, facing away from them, looking at his phone. His back was very quiet, so quiet it was as if he were not thinking about anything.

But Kim Minjeong knew he was thinking. He was thinking about what to eat tonight, thinking about how to use that the kings card, thinking about how to make them "serve him well." His mind was always churning, always calculating, always planning the next move.

She did not know what he was thinking, but she knew she did not want to be his opponent.

"Let's go." Jiang Zhiyu's voice drifted over from the corridor, light and airy, like a leaf caught in the wind.

The three of them followed him out of the practice room. The corridor was long, the lights bright, casting the shadows of the four people onto the floor, stretching them long and thin.

Kim Minjeong walked behind Jiang Zhiyu, looking at his back, looking at the small bulge in his left breast pocket—that was the outline of the the kings card.

Her gaze lingered on that bulging outline for a moment, then shifted away. She did not dare look for too long. She was afraid of Karina seeing, and even more afraid of Jiang Zhiyu seeing.

The elevator was very quiet. The four of them stood in a row, no one speaking. The elevator walls were stainless steel, reflecting blurry images.

Kim Minjeong looked at Jiang Zhiyu in the reflection—he was standing on the far left, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed above the elevator door, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth. It was not a smile; it was a kind of quiet confirmation of "I am very satisfied."

She saw her own face in the reflection. Her face was red, her eyes were bright, and her lips were pursed. She did not know why she was blushing, did not know why her eyes were bright, did not know why her lips were pursed.

She only knew that tonight's dinner would definitely be "spectacular." Not the kind of spectacular she was looking forward to, but the kind designed by Jiang Zhiyu. The script was in his hand, the lines in his heart, and everyone's reactions were within his calculations. She was not watching a play; she was a part of it.

The elevator reached the first floor, and the doors opened. Jiang Zhiyu walked out, with the three following behind him. The night wind of Seoul rushed to meet them, carrying the chill of early autumn and the smoky scent of a barbecue stand in the distance.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the building entrance, looking up at the gray sky. The clouds were low, pressing down heavily; she could not see the stars, could not see the moon, only the orange-red halo reflected by the city lights.

"Where are we going to eat?" NingNing asked.

Jiang Zhiyu turned his head and looked at her. His expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. But there was a curve at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but a curve that made one's heart crawl, a kind of "I have an answer, but I don't want to say it now." "You'll know when we get there."

NingNing's mouth twitched. She did not like this answer. But she did not ask further, because asking was useless. When he did not want to say something, no one could get it out of him.

The four of them walked forward along the street. Jiang Zhiyu walked at the very front, his pace unhurried, as if he were taking a stroll, not rushing.

Kim Minjeong walked behind him, her gaze falling from time to time on the pocket on his left chest. The bulging outline appeared and disappeared under the streetlights, as if reminding her—you lost.

Your name is on that card. From now on, whatever he says, you have to do. She did not know when it started, but her heart had been beating faster than usual. It was not fear; it was anticipation.

She did not know what she was anticipating. She only knew she did not want to quit this game. Not because she could not, but because she did not want to.

— — Fan-girling hard! ~~~

(21:50) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Just finished extra practice! When dancing to the last run of "Dreams Come True," I secretly mouthed to the mirror, "Oppa, the dream really came true"~ (Sends a selfie with sweat-drenched bangs but bright, smiling eyes)]

(21:53) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Bought a hot sugar pancake on the way back to the dorm. When I bit into it, the honey flowed out, and I scrambled to catch it... Suddenly remembered Oppa saying, "Our Minjeong is cute even when she's a mess." This sentence is sweeter than the pancake, warming my heart.]

(21:56) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Took a goodnight photo for "Winter." The three leaves are folded together like little palms under the light. I said to it, "Daddy made you proud today too, right?" It seemed to gently shake its youngest leaf.]

(21:59) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Folded the scarf Oppa gave me into a small pillow to lean on for a while before sleeping. Although I've washed it several times, I always feel like it still has the scent of Oppa from when he was close... Am I being too greedy?]

(22:02) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Stared at a piano for a long time when passing by a music store today. If one day I can play "Moonlight" for Oppa, the first movement must be named "Adagio of First Snow and Honey."]

(22:05) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The moon has risen to the window again, as round as yesterday, but today's moonlight has the scent of sugar pancakes, the veins of ginkgo leaves, and the strokes of Oppa's name. Goodnight, my poem of all things. (Sends a silhouette of fingertips gently holding the moonlight)]