22: Chapter 22 Ouch (⇀‸↼‶)

The delivery arrived on a Wednesday afternoon. When Karina received the call, she was stretching in the practice room. Her legs were propped up on the barre, her body leaning forward, her forehead almost touching her knees. The phone vibrated three times in her bag before she answered because her ligaments were stretched so far that she couldn't pull back immediately.

“Hello, you have a delivery that requires a signature in person.” Karina paused. She hadn't done any online shopping recently, nor did she have fans sending her things—although her DMs were open, company policy forbade accepting packages from unknown sources, and she never paid attention to messages saying, “I want to send you a gift.” She asked what it was, and the courier said it was a document sent from Loen Entertainment. Karina tapped her finger lightly on her phone case and said, “Leave it at the security office by the entrance; I'll pick it up tonight.” After hanging up, she continued stretching, but her mind was no longer on her ligaments. Loen Entertainment, a document, signing in person. She remembered what Jiang Zhiyu had said in the practice room a few days ago—“Once the contract is signed, it will be sent to your home. Not to the company, but to your home. We can't let SM know I'm working for Loen; there's a risk of being accused of fraud.” His tone had been calm, so calm it was as if he were saying, “The weather is nice today.” But Karina read something else in his eyes—not fear, but caution. He didn't care about the risk itself; he cared about whether the risk would affect his plans. His five-year plan was calculated at every step; he couldn't let any variable disrupt the rhythm. And “letting SM know he was working for another company simultaneously” was a variable significant enough to disrupt everything.

That evening, on her way to the security office, Karina called Jiang Zhiyu. “The delivery is here,” she said. There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Where was it sent?” “Home.” “Are your parents home?” “My dad is away on business, but my mom is here.” “How long has it been since you went home?” Karina thought for a moment. “Three weeks.” “Perfect, go back and see your mom. Take Minjeong and Ningning with you—the four of us together. With more people, it won't seem too intentional.” As Karina listened to him arrange these details, his speaking pace was neither fast nor slow; every word sounded as if it had been processed in his mind several times before being spoken. She didn't ask “why bring Minjeong and Ningning” because she knew the answer. With the four of them together, it wasn't “Karina bringing a boy home,” but “Karina bringing friends home as guests.” The focus of the former was the “boy,” while the focus of the latter was “friends.” A difference of a few words would determine where Mrs. Yu's gaze fell.

When Kim Minjeong heard they were going to Karina's house together, her first reaction was, “Should we bring gifts?” NingNing's second reaction was, “Should we dress up nicely?” Karina watched the two of them tossing clothes around in the practice room, turning their wardrobes into a mess, and silently muttered, “It's not like we're going on a blind date.” Kim Minjeong and NingNing turned their heads to look at her simultaneously, then simultaneously turned back to continue rummaging. Looking at their backs, Karina suddenly felt like she hadn't been home in a long time. Three weeks wasn't actually that long; in the past, it was common for her not to go home for a month. But today, she really wanted to go back. Not because she was homesick, but because she wanted to personally hand that contract to Jiang Zhiyu. She knew what that contract meant to him. It wasn't about money or fame; it was “proof.” Proof that he could do it, proof that he wasn't crazy, proof that his five-year plan wasn't a fantasy. She wanted to see his expression the moment he opened the package, flipped through the contract, and confirmed the signature. It wasn't “curiosity”; it was “wanting to be there with him.”

Jiang Zhiyu was waiting for them at the entrance of the gosiwon. He was wearing a white shirt with the top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His pants were black, his shoes were black, and his bag was black. His whole appearance was as crisp and clean as a piece of paper cut with a knife. Kim Minjeong froze for a moment when she first saw him, then said, “Oppa, you look especially handsome today.” NingNing added from the side, “He's like this every day, okay?” Kim Minjeong spoke again, “Today is different; today it's like he's going to meet the parents.” Jiang Zhiyu glanced at her without speaking, but there was a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth.

Karina's home was in Seongbuk-dong, in the northeast of Seoul. It wasn't on the most expensive street, but it wasn't far. Taking a car from SM, it would take over forty minutes if there was no traffic. Kim Minjeong spent the whole ride looking at the houses outside the window, watching them change from apartments to detached houses, then to detached houses with yards, and finally to detached houses with yards and gates. Her mouth hung wider and wider until she couldn't close it. “Karina Unnie, is your home a villa?” “It's not a villa, it's a residence.” “A residence with a yard.” “Mhm.” “There's a lawn in the yard.” “Mhm.” “Someone is mowing the lawn on the grass.” Karina took a look; someone was indeed mowing the lawn. Not a gardener from a service, but staff. Mrs. Yu didn't like hiring outside landscaping companies; she had her own team of four people specifically responsible for the yard's flowers, plants, and trees. Kim Minjeong went silent. NingNing went silent too. Both of them simultaneously did the math in their heads—how much would it cost to hire four full-time gardening staff for a year? They couldn't calculate it because they didn't know a gardener's salary. But they knew that a family that could afford four full-time gardening staff wouldn't care how much they spent on the lawn in a year.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't look out the window. He leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed, looking as if he were sleeping, or perhaps thinking. His fingers tapped lightly on his thigh—no rhythm, not music, but thought. Karina watched him, watching the rhythm of his finger tapping, and suddenly asked, “Are you nervous?” Jiang Zhiyu opened his eyes to look at her. “I'm not nervous.” “Then why are you tapping your fingers?” “It's a habit.”

The car stopped in front of Karina's house. There was an iron gate, black, neither too high nor too low, just enough to block the view inside. There was no house number at the entrance, only a small bronze plaque engraved with two characters: “Liu Residence.” Hanja, not Hangul. Kim Minjeong looked at the bronze plaque and then at Karina. Karina didn't explain. She pressed the doorbell and waited a moment before the gate opened. The yard was even larger than what they had seen from the car window. The lawn was neatly trimmed, the green grass glowing softly in the sunlight like a piece of ironed velvet. A pebble path meandered from the entrance to the main house, with shrubbery trimmed into spheres lining both sides. Every single one was the same size and spaced identically, as if measured with a ruler.

Mrs. Yu stood on the steps at the entrance of the main house. She wore a light gray knit cardigan over a white silk shirt, with a small brooch pinned to the collar—silver and shaped like a leaf. Her hair was pinned up with a wooden hairpin. Her posture was very straight, not the kind of straightness that was forced, but the kind that was trained since childhood, etched into her bones, and maintained without effort. She held a cup of tea in her hand, with fine droplets of condensation on the glass, likely iced. She watched the children walk over from the pebble path. The sunlight slanted in from the west, falling on them and gilding their silhouettes with a golden-red light. She narrowed her eyes, not because of the glare, but because she was observing. Observing Jiang Zhiyu.

Walking at the very front was Karina. Her pace was a bit faster than usual, but steady, without the urgency of “I'm back” or the nervousness of “I brought someone with me.” She simply walked at the front as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Jiang Zhiyu followed about two steps behind her. His pace was neither fast nor slow, each step roughly the same distance apart, as if measured with a ruler. His back was very straight, but not in a “I'm faking it” way, more like a “this is how I naturally am” way. His gaze fell on Mrs. Yu, neither dodging nor scrutinizing, just quietly looking, as if looking at a painting hanging on a wall. Mrs. Yu was very familiar with that feeling of “being watched.” She came from a good background and married well; she had been watched her whole life. But Jiang Zhiyu's gaze was different. It wasn't “I'm looking to see what kind of person you are,” or “I'm looking to see what value you have,” or “I'm looking to see if you can help me.” It was just “I'm looking at you.” That was all. That “purposeless” gaze actually made her look at him a few more times.

The four of them reached the steps and stopped. The sunlight shone from behind them, casting their shadows onto the steps and at Mrs. Yu's feet. Kim Minjeong and NingNing stood on either side of Jiang Zhiyu like two little guards, neither too far forward nor too far back, just right. Karina stood at the very front, stepping aside so Mrs. Yu could see Jiang Zhiyu. She didn't introduce him because she knew Jiang Zhiyu would speak for himself.

Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly. The angle was neither too large nor too small, neither humble nor arrogant. He straightened up, looked at Mrs. Yu, and spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear, every word like a leaf blown by the wind, vibrating slightly in the air. “Hello, my name is Jiang Zhiyu. I am seventeen years old, and I am a good friend of Karina's at the company.”

Kim Minjeong couldn't help but look up at him. Not because he said something wrong, but because what he said was “too right.” He didn't say “I'm a producer at SM,” he didn't say “I'm the person who wrote songs for Kim Taeyeon,” and he didn't say “I'm the planner for the recent ‘She doesn't know I'm watching her’ project.” Any one of those titles would have been enough for Mrs. Yu to see him in a different light. But he didn't use them. He used—“good friend.” Two words, light as a feather. But when a feather lands on the water's surface, it still creates ripples. Because “good friend” isn't “classmate,” it isn't “colleague,” it isn't “senior,” and it isn't “junior.” It's “friend.” It's the kind of relationship that doesn't need any titles, resumes, or achievements to prove itself. I am your daughter's friend. It's not about “who I am,” it's about “what my relationship with your daughter is.” The former introduces oneself, while the latter acknowledges Karina. Jiang Zhiyu chose the latter.

NingNing also looked up at him. She noticed a detail—when he said “Karina,” he used her full name, not “Ji-min,” not “Ji-min-ssi,” but “Liu Zhimin.” Three syllables, clear and distinct, as if reciting a name. Not “someone I know,” but “I know who she is.” That “knowing” wasn't something heard from others; it was personal. He knew Karina, not as “whose daughter Karina is,” but as “Karina the person.” Her personality, her temper, her strengths, her flaws, her laughter, her silence. He knew it all.

Karina's gaze moved from Mrs. Yu to Jiang Zhiyu's profile. His profile was very clear in the sunlight—the curve of his jawline, the height of his nose, the fan-shaped shadows cast by his eyelashes under his eyes. When he spoke, the curve at the corner of his mouth was just right, not like a forced smile, nor like expressionless indifference; it was the kind of “I am speaking to you seriously” curve, carrying a bit of solemnity and a bit of ease. She secretly bit her lower lip. Compared to the glory and titles Jiang Zhiyu had earned, being “Karina's friend” actually didn't count for much. At SM, he was a contracted producer; in the Korean music industry, he was a rising star; on forums, he was the “genius youth” discussed by countless people. Every one of his identities was louder, more dazzling, and more capable of making someone interested in him in a second. But he didn't use those. He used “friend.” Not because he was humble, but because he cared. He cared about her, her feelings, and her status in front of her mother. It wasn't “Karina brought back someone remarkable,” it was “Karina brought back a friend.” The former would make Mrs. Yu feel like “my daughter is social climbing,” while the latter would make Mrs. Yu feel like “my daughter has her own social circle.” A difference of a few words, a world of difference.

Mrs. Yu's gaze lingered on Jiang Zhiyu's face for a few seconds. It wasn't the kind of scrutiny that said “I'm sizing you up,” but the kind of observation that said “I'm seeing what kind of person you are.” A few seconds were enough for her to see many things. His clothes weren't expensive; the collar of his shirt was a bit wrinkled, and the buttons on his sleeves weren't metal, but plastic. But the way he wore those clothes didn't look like he was wearing something cheap. It looked like he was wearing something he was used to, something whose price he didn't need to care about. That “not caring” wasn't “I don't understand,” it was “I know, but I don't care.” His posture was very straight, but not the “I'm standing at attention” straightness of a soldier, nor the “I'm receiving a guest” straightness of a waiter. It was the kind of “I'm used to standing straight” straightness that required no effort or intention; just by standing there, his back was straight. His gaze was steady; he didn't dodge or stare intensely when looking at people. It wasn't “I'm seeing through you” or “I'm trying to please you,” it was just “I'm looking at you.” That “look” reminded her of her husband. Not that they looked alike, but that “I don't need to prove anything” aura. Her husband was like that when he was young; standing in a crowd, he wouldn't speak much or steal the spotlight, but you would just notice him. Not because he was tall or handsome, but because when he stood there, you felt like “this person is not ordinary.”

“Jiang Zhiyu,” Mrs. Yu repeated his name, her voice not loud, but every syllable enunciated clearly, “That's a very nice name.” She paused, her gaze moving from his face to Kim Minjeong and NingNing, then back. “Come in and sit. The tea has just been brewed.”

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

She turned and walked into the house, her pace not fast, but steady. Her high heels clicked against the wooden floor, making a crisp, rhythmic sound. Jiang Zhiyu watched her back, giving her a score in his heart—not for "appearance," but for "aura." She and Karina were very similar; not in looks, but in that aura of "I don't need to speak loudly for you to listen." Karina had likely learned it from her.

Kim Minjeong leaned into Jiang Zhiyu's ear, lowering her voice. "Oppa, why didn't you mention you're a creator at SM just now?" "Why should I?" "Because it would make you look really impressive." Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. "What use is it for me to look impressive in front of your mother? I'm not here to talk business with her." Kim Minjeong froze for a moment, then blushed. Not out of shyness, but because she felt she had asked a very stupid question. She lowered her head and stopped talking.

NingNing watched this scene from the side, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up. She remembered when she was in Harbin, her mother had also asked her, "What kind of person is that Jiang Zhiyu?" She thought for a long time, finally saying, "He is the smartest person I know." Her mother asked again, "Where is he smart?" She said, "He knows what to say and what to do at the right time." Her mother was silent for a moment, then said, "That's called emotional intelligence, not intelligence." She now felt that her mother was right. This wasn't intelligence; it was emotional intelligence. Intelligence is knowing "I can say this," while emotional intelligence is knowing "I shouldn't say this." Jiang Zhiyu knew.

The package was sent from Loen Entertainment, with the recipient written as "Liu Zhimin," not "Karina." When Mrs. Yu received it, she glanced at the sender, then at the recipient, and placed the package on the entryway cabinet without opening it. It wasn't a lack of curiosity, but respect. Her daughter had grown up and had her own affairs; if she didn't want to talk about them, she wouldn't ask. But not wanting to ask didn't mean she didn't want to know.

Karina's home was in a quiet alley in Seongbuk-dong, unassuming from the outside. The iron gate wasn't high, nor was the perimeter wall. A few wisteria vines climbed the grayish-white walls; their blooming season had just passed, leaving only dense green leaves. Once inside, one realized it was much larger than it appeared from the outside. The courtyard wasn't a European-style garden paved with marble and filled with Roman sculptures; it was Korean-style, with trees, grass, a gravel path, and a few clusters of nandina planted in the corner, their leaves beginning to turn red in the autumn. The main house was a two-story building with gray tiles and white walls, clean lines, and no superfluous decorations.

When Jiang Zhiyu walked into the living room, the first thing he saw was the window. It was large, floor-to-ceiling, extending from the ceiling all the way to the floor. Sunlight poured in from outside, illuminating the entire room with transparency and brightness. The curtains were white cotton-linen, patternless, with a good drape. The wind snuck in through the gaps in the window, causing the curtains to sway gently. The sofa was light gray, fabric-upholstered, with cushions of moderate firmness, and the backrest height was just right for resting one's head. The coffee table was solid wood, dark brown, with an unpainted surface where one could feel the wood grain. On the coffee table sat a tea set—white porcelain, simple in design, with no gold tracing or colorful paintings, just plain white.

Karina's grandparents were sitting by the window in two rattan chairs, with a small square table in between, holding a teapot and two pairs of reading glasses. The grandfather wore a dark blue knit sweater, the neckline slightly loose, revealing the collar of the white undershirt beneath. The grandmother wore a deep purple cardigan; her hair was completely white but combed very neatly and tied into a bun at the back of her head. Both of them had thin blankets covering their legs; even though it was early autumn, elderly joints were sensitive to the cold. They faced the window, the sunlight falling on them, looking very warm. But their gazes were not on the view outside, but inside the room—on Jiang Zhiyu.

Kim Minjeong and NingNing sat on the other side of the sofa, squeezed together like two small animals placed in an unfamiliar environment, shoulder to shoulder, knees pressed together. Kim Minjeong held a cup of tea in her hands, not drinking it, just holding it because the cup was hot, and holding it could warm her hands. In front of NingNing was a plate of macarons—pink, green, yellow, purple—neatly arranged on a white porcelain plate like a row of colorful little buttons. She had already eaten three and was hesitating whether to take a fourth.

Jiang Zhiyu sat on the single sofa, his back straight, but not the kind of straight that says "I'm putting on an act," but the kind that says "I'm used to sitting like this." His hands rested on the armrests, fingers naturally curved, not tapping, not flicking, just resting. His gaze moved from the grandfather to the grandmother, from the grandmother to the tea set on the coffee table, and then from the tea set to the sunlight outside the window. He didn't deliberately look at anyone, nor did he deliberately avoid looking at anyone. He was in this room, simply being in this room, needing to prove nothing, and needing to hide nothing.

After the maid brought out the tea and refreshments, she retreated, her footsteps gradually fading away in the hallway, and the creaking of the wooden floor also gradually disappeared. The living room was quiet for a moment, with only the rustling of leaves in the wind outside the window and the faint sound of paper friction as the grandfather turned the newspaper.

Mrs. Yu sat in the middle of the long sofa, with Kim Minjeong and NingNing on her left, and a large empty space on her right—that was the spot reserved for Karina, but Karina didn't sit; she stood by the coffee table, holding the remote control, adjusting the air conditioning temperature. Actually, the temperature was just right; it didn't need adjusting. She was just finding something to do.

Mrs. Yu's gaze moved from Karina to Jiang Zhiyu. She was observing. Not the kind of observation that says "I'm sizing you up," but the kind that says "I'm seeing what kind of person you are." She had married into the Liu family for over twenty years and had seen too many people. Business, politics, entertainment, all walks of life—she had seen it all. Some people, the moment they entered, started examining the house's renovation, the brand of furniture, whether the painting on the wall was an original. That kind of person, she knew their background with one glance. Some people, the moment they entered, started complimenting—praising the house, the large courtyard, the grandparents' health, her youth. That kind of person, she also knew their purpose with one glance. Jiang Zhiyu was different. When he entered, he didn't look at the house, the renovation, the furniture, or whether the ink painting on the wall was an original. He looked at the grandparents, bowed slightly, and then sat on the sofa. The moment he sat down, his body relaxed. Not the kind of relaxation that is "slumping," but the kind that is "I know I can relax." It was as if he had returned to his own home.

Mrs. Yu picked up her teacup, took a sip, and set it down. The bottom of the cup touched the saucer, making a slight, crisp "ding." This sound was very clear in the quiet living room, like a signal—I'm going to speak now.

"Minjeong is from Yangsan, right?" She looked at Kim Minjeong, the corners of her mouth carrying a gentle, relaxing curve.

Kim Minjeong didn't expect to be the first one asked. The teacup in her hand wobbled, and a few drops of tea spilled onto her fingers. "Ah, yes, that's right. Yangsan City." Her voice was a bit tight, as if someone were gripping her throat.

"Yangsan is a good place. Lots of seafood. I've been there once; I stayed near Tongdosa Temple for a night, the air was very good."

Kim Minjeong nodded, not knowing how to respond. Her brain was running at high speed—'Karina's mother has been to Yangsan? And she knows about Tongdosa Temple? Is she just being polite to me? Should I be polite back? Is what she said about "the air being good" implying something?' She couldn't think of anything, so she just nodded and nodded again.

Mrs. Yu didn't press further, shifting her gaze to NingNing. "NingNing is Chinese?"

NingNing was holding the fourth macaron in her hand. Hearing her name called, the macaron hovered by her mouth, pausing for a moment. "Yes, I'm from Harbin."

"Harbin, it must be very cold in winter?"

"Very cold. Negative twenty or thirty degrees."

"Then can you adapt to the Korean winter?"

"Yes. The Korean winter is much warmer than Harbin's."

Mrs. Yu nodded, the curve of her mouth widening slightly. "That's good. Remember to dress warmly when it gets cold in winter. Trainees can't afford to get sick; once you fall behind, it's very hard to catch up."

NingNing stuffed the macaron into her mouth, chewed twice, swallowed, and then nodded vigorously. A voice in her heart was saying—Karina's mother is so gentle. Not the kind of gentleness that is "put on," but the kind that is "I'm just like this." Like Karina. Karina's gentleness is also like this; it's not "I'm being nice to you," but "I am this kind of person."

Mrs. Yu's gaze finally fell on Jiang Zhiyu.

She didn't speak immediately. She first looked at him—not just a glance, but a look. Her gaze moved from his face to his shoulders, from his shoulders to his hands, and from his hands to his sitting posture. Then she picked up her teacup and took another sip. This time she didn't put it down, but held the cup, the side of the cup pressed against her palm, as if borrowing that bit of warmth.

Jiang Zhiyu sat there, his gaze calm, his whole body relaxed. His hands were still on the armrests, fingers still naturally curved, his back still straight, his shoulders still open. He didn't adjust his sitting posture because of Mrs. Yu's gaze, nor did he take the initiative to speak because of her silence. He was just there, in front of her, in her home, on this afternoon her daughter brought him back, quietly, calmly, needing no preparation, just there.

Mrs. Yu put down the teacup. The bottom of the cup touched the saucer, another "ding," but this time it was lighter than before, so light it was almost inaudible. She spoke.

"Zhiyu-xi, you work at SM?"

"Yes," Jiang Zhiyu said, "I write songs at SM."

"Are you a singer-songwriter?" Mrs. Yu's gaze lingered on his face for a moment.

Jiang Zhiyu smiled. It wasn't the embarrassed smile of "being complimented," nor the awkward smile of "you misunderstood." It was a smile of "I know why you're asking," carrying a bit of understanding and a bit of helplessness. "No. I'm not an artist. I'm a creator; I only write songs, I don't go on stage."

Mrs. Yu nodded. "Is your work stable?"

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second. He was thinking about how to answer this question. The word "stable," to him, had a complex meaning. He had a formal contract at SM and a fixed monthly income; from that perspective, it counted as stable. But most of his income was deposited into that account called the "Five-Year Plan," and the money he got in hand each month was only enough for food, rent, and subway fare. He had no savings, no assets, nothing "stable" that he could bring up to talk about. But he didn't feel bitter, nor did he feel ashamed. This was the path he had chosen, and he was walking it well.

"Tight," he said, "but I won't starve." His tone was calm, so calm it was as if he were saying "The weather is nice today." He paused, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. "Ji-min often treats me to meals."

Karina was adjusting the air conditioning temperature; hearing this, her finger paused on the remote. She didn't turn her head, but her ear tips turned red. She remembered the first meal she treated Jiang Zhiyu to, at the fried chicken shop downstairs from the company. He ate a lot; she thought he had a good appetite, only to find out later that he hadn't eaten anything all day that day. She didn't know why he hadn't told her. She only knew that from then on, every time they ate, she would order a bit more, then say, "I can't finish this," and push the extra portion in front of him.

Mrs. Yu's gaze moved from Jiang Zhiyu's face to Karina's face. Karina's ear tips were very red, almost transparent under the light. She held the remote, standing in front of the air conditioner, the cold air from the vent blowing her hair, a few strands drifting across her forehead. She wasn't looking at anyone, but standing there, it was as if she were saying—I do indeed often treat him to meals. Mrs. Yu didn't press further. She withdrew her gaze and let it fall back onto Jiang Zhiyu.

"What does your family do, Zhiyu-xi?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. This question, he had been asked many times. When he was on the Tianxuan Continent, people had asked him; in this world, people had also asked him. Every time, his answer was the same.

"Some small business."

When he said this, his tone was very calm. Some people, when saying "small business," carry a morbid sense of satisfaction—a "humility that is actually waiting for the other person to discover they are actually very rich"—with an expectation hidden in their tone like "Keep asking me, and once you do, I can tell you it's actually not a small business." Jiang Zhiyu didn't. He was just stating a very normal thing. His family did indeed do business, but it wasn't "small business"; it was very big business. Big enough to affect a country's economic lifeline, big enough to decide the rise and fall of an industry, big enough that when he was on the Tianxuan Continent, he could accomplish anything he wanted without anyone's help. But none of that mattered anymore. That world, he couldn't go back to. Those things, he no longer had. His current "business" was himself. His talent, his time, his efforts. He was selling these things; the price wasn't high, but he was selling them well.

Mrs. Yu looked into his eyes. In those eyes, there was no guilt, no evasion, no "panic of being seen through." Only a clean, calm, composed look that seemed to say, "What I'm saying is what I can say." She didn't know what he was thinking, but she knew he wasn't lying. He was just telling a part of the truth.

"How old are you this year, Zhiyu?" Mrs. Yu's voice was a bit lighter than before, as if asking a question that didn't need to be too formal.

"Seventeen. One year younger than Ji-min."

Mrs. Yu glanced at Karina. The look was brief, so fast that neither Kim Minjeong nor NingNing noticed. But Karina did. She read the meaning in her mother's eyes — "He's actually younger than you?" Then the second meaning — "Didn't you used to say you didn't like boys younger than you?"

Karina's face turned red. Not just her earlobes, but her entire face. Starting from the base of her neck, it spread upwards, crossing her jaw, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, all the way to her forehead. She remembered what she had told her mother before — "I don't like boys younger than me, they're too childish." That was when she was fifteen, at the dinner table, because her mother had made a joke about "It wouldn't be bad if you found a boyfriend younger than you in the future." She had said quite seriously back then, "No, anyone younger than me is too childish."

Now she was seventeen, and Jiang Zhiyu was sixteen — no, he said he was seventeen today, by Korean age. He was a year younger than her. He wasn't childish. He was more mature than any boy she knew. So mature that sometimes she would forget he was younger than her. So mature that sometimes she felt he was much older than her. So mature that — she looked at him sitting on the sofa, his back straight, hands on the armrests, looking at her mother with a calm gaze, and a voice in her heart said — he was more like an adult than many thirty-year-old men.

Mrs. Yu looked at her daughter's flushed face, a tiny, almost invisible curve at the corner of her mouth. She didn't say "Didn't you say you didn't like anyone younger than you," she didn't say anything at all. But she glanced at Karina, and that look said it all. Then she turned her head and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. Her expression changed, from "I'm getting to know you" to "I want to ask you a more serious question." The change was subtle; it wasn't a frown, not a pursing of lips, but in her eyes. Her gaze shifted from "observing" to "questioning," and from "questioning" to "deciding to ask."

"Zhiyu," her voice was a bit lower than before, "do you mind if I ask a rather personal question?"

Jiang Zhiyu sat up a bit straighter. Not the kind of straightening up that said "I'm nervous," but the kind that said "I know what you're going to ask." His back was already straight, but at that moment, his shoulders opened slightly, his chin tucked in a little, and his whole person seemed to be gently lifted by something.

Mrs. Yu smiled. That smile wasn't "I'm being polite," but a gentle confirmation of "I know you're ready." Her tone became serious, each word spoken slowly.

"Are you and our Ji-min... just friends?"

The living room went quiet. Kim Minjeong's hand stopped on the teacup, not daring to move. NingNing's hand stopped on a macaron, not daring to pick it up. The sound of the grandfather turning the newspaper stopped, the grandmother's breathing softened, and even the wind outside the window stopped blowing. Everything was waiting for Jiang Zhiyu's answer.

Jiang Zhiyu revealed a smile. Not the kind of awkward smile of "being found out," not the surprised smile of "how could you think that," but a gentle smile that carried a bit of understanding and a bit of helplessness, as if to say "I know why you would ask this question."

"Yes, just friends."

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Each word was like a leaf blown by the wind, trembling slightly in the air, but not a single leaf fell. His gaze met Mrs. Yu's. He didn't dodge, didn't blink, didn't look away. He just looked at her like that, with light in his eyes — not the light of "I'm lying," not the light of "I'm telling the truth," but a quieter light, like "I'm saying what I can say."

Mrs. Yu looked straight into his eyes. There was no guilty conscience, no dodging, no "panic of being seen through." Only cleanliness. Not the cleanliness of "we have nothing," but the cleanliness of "we have a story but don't need to hide it." That kind of cleanliness is not something someone who hasn't experienced things can have. It is the cleanliness of someone who, after experiencing many things, making many choices, and bearing many consequences, can still look someone in the eye and say "just friends."

Mrs. Yu picked up the teacup. She didn't say "I believe you" or "I don't believe you," didn't say "That's good" or "What a pity." She just picked up the teacup and took a sip. The rim of the cup pressed against her lips, warm liquid flowed into her mouth, the bitterness of the tea spread on the tip of her tongue, then left an aftertaste. She set the cup down and moved her gaze away from Jiang Zhiyu's face.

Karina lowered her head. She didn't know why she had to look down. Perhaps it was because she didn't want to meet her mother's eyes, because there was too much in her mother's gaze just now that she understood but didn't want to understand. Perhaps it was because Jiang Zhiyu's words "just friends" made her expression feel somewhat disappointed. But — disappointed? Why should she be disappointed? Jiang Zhiyu was right, they were just friends. She had known him for almost a year; they had eaten many meals together, spent many nights in the recording studio, fought by the Han River, and chatted on the dance studio floor. He taught her how to sing, took pictures for her, helped her with projects, and stood in front of her when she was called in for talks by the company. They were friends. Very good friends. She had no reason to think it was wrong, because it was the truth.

It was just that her heart felt a bit empty for some reason. Like a hand reaching out, wanting to grab something, fingertips touching it, but unable to grasp it. It wasn't the emptiness of "loss," but the emptiness of "wanting to get close but not knowing how."

NingNing watched the side of Karina's face as she looked down. She was still holding the macaron, but didn't eat it because she saw Karina's expression. She had seen that expression before. Back in Harbin, when her best friend talked about the boy she liked, it was this expression. Not happy, not sad, but a look of "I don't know what to do," with a bit of confusion and a bit of expectation, like someone standing at a crossroads not knowing which way to go. NingNing put the macaron down.

Mrs. Yu's voice broke the silence. "Zhiyu-xi, a package arrived here yesterday. It was sent from Loen Entertainment, and the recipient is Liu Zhimin." She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, her gaze calm, but there was something in her tone. Not questioning, not testing, but a kind of calm that carried a bit of pressure, as if to say "I need you to give me an explanation."

Jiang Zhiyu nodded. He didn't hesitate, didn't pause, didn't think about "how to answer." He said it directly. "That's my contract."

Mrs. Yu set down the teacup. Her hand moved from the rim of the cup and rested on her lap, crossed. Her body leaned forward slightly, not by much, but enough to change her aura from "gentle" to "oppressive." Her voice was still soft, but every word spoken seemed to be pressed — not heavy, but very dense.

"Why didn't you use your own address?"

Kim Minjeong's breathing stopped for a beat. NingNing's fingers curled on the macaron. The grandfather turned a page of the newspaper, turning it very slowly, as if to say with this action, "I am listening." The grandmother's eyes closed, but she wasn't asleep; her eyelids were trembling slightly.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Mrs. Yu. He wasn't suppressed by that question, nor was he forced back by her aura. He sat there, his back still straight, hands still on the armrests, his gaze still calm. He was silent for a second, then spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but very clear.

"Because I don't want SM to know that I am collaborating with other companies." He paused, as if confirming that every word he said was what he wanted to say. "I don't have time to deal with unnecessary trouble."

Mrs. Yu looked at him. She heard it. Not "I don't want SM to know," but "I don't have time to deal with." The former is evasion, the latter is a choice. He chose to spend his time on more important things — writing songs, making plans, completing his five-year plan. Those "unnecessary troubles," it wasn't that he couldn't solve them, it was that he didn't want to waste time solving them. She knew this way of thinking. Her husband was this kind of person. Not "I'm afraid of trouble," but "trouble isn't worth my time."

Mrs. Yu examined him carefully. Seventeen years old, Chinese-American, SM creator, Loen Entertainment contract, someone her daughter trusts. If she had a son — she only had two daughters — if she had a son, she would hope he was like Jiang Zhiyu. Not rich, not famous, but responsible. Knowing what he wants to do, knowing what consequences he will bear, not pushing blame, not evading, not making excuses. He said "just friends," and she believed it. Not because he said it sincerely, but because he didn't need to use "friends" to cover up anything. He had the ability to bear the consequences of "not friends," but he chose "just friends." That choice itself was more convincing than any answer.

"Have you read the contract yourself?" Mrs. Yu's voice returned to its previous softness, as if the question "Why didn't you use your own address" had never been asked.

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head. "I plan to let Ji-min read it first. She has the right to know."

Mrs. Yu smiled when she heard the term "right to know." Not the mocking smile of "what big principles are you talking about," but a smile of appreciation, as if to say "you are an interesting person." She had met many people who, when talking about contracts, cooperation, and profit distribution, would use the words "right to know." But when they said it, their tone carried a condescending "I'm doing you a favor." Jiang Zhiyu was different. When he said "She has the right to know," his tone was very flat, as if saying "She should know." Not "I am giving her the right to know," but "she already has the right to know." The former is charity, the latter is respect.

Mrs. Yu stood up. Her movement wasn't fast, but it was smooth, like water flowing down from a high place, without needing force. Her hands lifted from her knees and supported the armrests of the sofa, using the strength to stand up; her knees didn't bend much, her waist didn't arch. Kim Minjeong watched from the side, a voice in her heart saying — even her way of standing up is beautiful.

"I'll go see if dinner is ready." Mrs. Yu said, turned, and left. Her pace wasn't fast, but light; her high heels clicked on the wooden floor, making a crisp, rhythmic sound. That sound extended from the living room to the hallway, from the hallway to the kitchen, and then was cut off by the kitchen door.

Kim Minjeong let out a long breath. Her shoulders went from "tensed" to "relaxed," and she leaned back on the sofa like a deflated balloon. "Oppa, were you nervous?" She leaned toward Jiang Zhiyu, her voice lowered, so low that only two people could hear.

Jiang Zhiyu reached out and rubbed her head. His fingers slid from the top of her head to the back of her head, his fingertips gently pressing and kneading her scalp — not deliberately, but a physical instinct; the Medicine King Valley "Head and Face Eight Acupuncture Points" massage technique triggered automatically the moment he touched her hair. Kim Minjeong's eyes narrowed, and her whole person seemed to be melted from the inside, leaning on the sofa, making a muffled sound like a kitten purring.

"Nervousness only reveals weakness." Jiang Zhiyu's voice wasn't loud, but clear. "Besides, I came to visit, not to ask for favors, why should I be nervous."

NingNing listened from the side, picked up the macaron that had been set aside for a long time, put it in her mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. She thought, he is right. Not asking for favors, but visiting. Visiting a friend's home, no need to be nervous. But she couldn't say why, she was very nervous just now too. Maybe it was because Karina's mother had too much aura, maybe because that living room was too big, maybe because Karina's grandparents kept looking at them, maybe because she didn't know where she should sit, where her hands should be, where her eyes should look. But Jiang Zhiyu knew. He knew everything.

Karina stood up. "I'll go get the delivery." She walked toward the entrance, her pace not fast, but every step was steady. Her back gradually moved away in the hallway, turned the corner, and disappeared.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Yu leaned against the door frame, holding her phone, with a video call screen on it. Karina's sister — Yu Ji-eun, was on the other end of the screen. She was wearing a nurse's uniform, light blue, with a small name tag pinned to the collar. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, her bangs were pinned to her forehead with a clip, revealing a smooth forehead. Her face was very similar to Karina's, but a bit larger, not "fat," but "larger bone structure." Her features were softer than Karina's, the curve of her mouth was larger than Karina's, and when she smiled, her eyes would curve into two crescent moons.

"Mom, what did you say?" Yu Ji-eun's voice came from the phone, with a bit of urgency as if "I didn't hear clearly."

"I said," Mrs. Yu's voice was very low, so low that only the phone microphone could pick it up, "your sister brought a boy home."

Yu Ji-eun's eyes widened. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again, like a fish pulled out of the water. "... A boy?"

"Hmm. A boy."

"What kind of boy?"

"A very good-looking boy."

Yu Ji-eun's eyebrows rose. "Mom, when did you start evaluating boys as 'good-looking'? Didn't you say 'a man's value is not in his face'?"

"I'm stating a fact. He is indeed good-looking." Mrs. Yu's mouth had a tiny curve. "And not just good-looking. He is very similar to your dad when he was young."

Yu Ji-eun's expression changed. From "gossip" to "serious." "Like Dad? In what way?"

"Demeanor. Composure. Sitting there, without speaking, you know this person is not ordinary."

Yu Ji-eun fell silent for a moment. Then she raised her phone higher, shifting the camera from her face to what was behind her—the hospital corridor, white walls, white lights, and a computer sitting on the nurse station counter next to a bouquet of flowers that had already begun to wilt. She probably wanted her mother to see her surroundings, reminding her, "I'm at work, what are you talking to me about?"

"Mom, you aren't lying to me, are you?"

"When have I ever lied to you?"

Yu Ji-eun thought about it, but realized she couldn't find a single instance where her mother had lied to her. She fell silent for a moment, then turned the phone back around, aiming the camera at her face again. "What's his name?"

"Jiang Zhiyu."

"What does he do?"

"He writes songs at SM."

Yu Ji-eun's eyebrows rose again. "SM? Writing songs? He's a songwriter?"

"Mm-hmm. Loen Entertainment even sent him a contract."

Yu Ji-eun's mouth fell open again. This time she didn't close it; she just left it hanging, as if trying to digest information that was hard to swallow. An SM songwriter, a Loen Entertainment contract, the boy her sister brought home, good-looking, looking very much like her father in his youth. Her brain was whirring, piecing all the information together, trying to form a complete picture. But she couldn't.

"Mom," her voice was a little raspy, "What is the relationship between Karina and him?"

"He says they're friends."

"Do you believe him?"

Mrs. Yu was silent for a second. Then she smiled. It wasn't the kind of smile that said "I don't believe it," nor was it the kind that said "I believe it." It was a smile that seemed to say "I'm thinking about how to answer," with a hint of hesitation and tenderness, as if she were choosing the right words. "I believe it. What he says, I believe."

Yu Ji-eun watched the curve of her mother's lips, and a voice in her heart said—her mother had been won over by this boy. Not the kind of "won over by flattery," but the kind of "won over by approval." What had he done? He hadn't done anything. He just sat there, said a few words, and her mother believed him. Yu Ji-eun thought, this person is either genuinely impressive or really good at pretending. She didn't know which one it was, but she wanted to find out.

"Mom," she lowered her voice, "Take a secret photo of him and show me."

Mrs. Yu glanced at her. There was so much in that look—not "How could you ask me to take a secret photo," not "What kind of request is this," but rather a "Fine, I want to see too" kind of look, with a hint of embarrassment and a touch of "don't tell anyone" guilt. She didn't answer, but she took the phone away from her ear, turned her body slightly, and looked out through the crack in the kitchen door.

In the living room, Jiang Zhiyu was talking to Minjeong. His profile was turned toward the kitchen, his jawline clear under the light, the bridge of his nose like a small ridge. There was a faint, natural smile on his lips, as if he were listening to something funny that Minjeong was saying. Minjeong was sitting next to him, leaning in very close, almost touching his arm, her mouth opening and closing as she talked incessantly. NingNing was sitting opposite, chewing on her fifth macaron.

Mrs. Yu pressed the shutter. She got it. Jiang Zhiyu's profile, the top of Minjeong's head, NingNing's cheeks—puffed out, stuffed with a macaron. She looked at the photo, thinking the composition wasn't great, the lighting wasn't good, and the angle was even worse. But she didn't delete it. She sent the photo to Yu Ji-eun.

Yu Ji-eun was drinking water at the nurse station when she received the photo. She tapped on the image, zoomed in on Jiang Zhiyu's face, and looked at it for a few seconds. Then she set down her water cup, picked up her phone, and typed.

"Mom, he's really handsome."

Mrs. Yu looked at the message, the curve of her lips widening a little. She typed a reply.

"I told you. He's good-looking."

"Not just good-looking. It's the kind of… handsome that makes you want to look a few more times."

Mrs. Yu looked at her daughter's message and was silent for a moment. Then she typed a few words.

"When will you bring one home too?"

Yu Ji-eun's reply came almost instantly.

"Mom! Why are you nagging me about marriage again!"

"I'm not nagging you about marriage. I'm urging you to bring someone home for me to see."

"Bring who?"

"Anyone. A guy will do."

"Mom!!"

Mrs. Yu smiled, put her phone in her pocket, turned around, opened the fridge, took out some strawberries, and washed them in the sink. The faucet water flowed noisily, her fingers turning the strawberries in the stream, the red fruits looking like polished rubies. She moved gently, afraid of bruising them. She was thinking about something—the "just friends" that Jiang Zhiyu had said. She believed it. But she was also thinking that at seventeen, between "just friends" and "not just friends," what separated them wasn't a wall, but a sheet of paper. The paper was very thin, so thin that a gust of wind would break it. She didn't know when the wind would blow, she only knew that the paper was there.

Karina walked back from the entryway with a package. A kraft paper envelope, not big, not thick, with a red Loen Entertainment logo sticker on the seal. She placed the envelope on the coffee table and pushed it toward Jiang Zhiyu.

"Your contract," she said.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the envelope but didn't pick it up immediately. He looked at the three characters "Liu Zhimin" on the envelope, looked at the Loen Entertainment logo, and looked at the red sticker on the seal. He knew what was inside. It wasn't a "contract"; it was his future. It wasn't "a Loen Entertainment contract"; it was the second step of his five-year plan. The first step was "rising to fame," and he had achieved it. The second step was "gathering capital," and this was the first brick.

"You read it first," Jiang Zhiyu pushed the envelope back to Karina.

Karina looked at him. "This is your contract."

"You have the right to know."

Karina looked at him, silent for a moment. Then she picked up the envelope, tore open the seal, and pulled out the documents inside. The paper was thick, high quality, not the kind of cheap copy paper. The first page was a cover, printed with the Loen Entertainment logo and the words "Album Promotion Project Cooperation Agreement." She flipped to the second page, saw Jiang Zhiyu's name, saw the signature of Loen Entertainment's Vice President Park Jung Hyuk, and saw the company's official seal. Red, circular, stamped on the paper like a tiny sun. She continued flipping through, seeing the core terms of the contract—General Manager of Promotion Planning, Jiang Zhiyu. Scope of authority: album concept, visual direction, promotion strategy, media scheduling, fan management, MV shooting supervision, music show coordination. Term: From the date of signing until the end of the album promotion period. Compensation: Base salary plus commission.

Karina's finger paused on the words "commission." She didn't ask "how much money," because she knew that no matter how much it was, for Jiang Zhiyu, it wasn't just money. It was proof. Proof that he could do it, proof that he wasn't crazy, proof that his five-year plan wasn't just a pipe dream.

"Oppa." She looked up.

"Hm."

"Have you signed it?"

"Not yet. Waiting for you to read it first."

Karina looked at him, looked at those calm eyes that betrayed no emotion, as if saying "I'm not in a hurry." She knew he was in a hurry. He was very anxious. He urgently needed this money, urgently needed this opportunity, urgently needed to take the second step. But he was here, sitting on her sofa, pushing the contract to her, saying "You read it first." Not because he wasn't in a hurry, but because he cared. Cared about her feelings, cared about her right to know, cared about whether she would feel used.

"I've finished reading it." Karina put the contract back in the envelope and pushed it back to Jiang Zhiyu. "You can sign it."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. Karina's gaze didn't waver. She looked into his eyes, looked at those calm eyes that betrayed no emotion, as if saying "Thank you." She didn't say "You're welcome," didn't say "Congratulations," didn't say anything. She just looked at him, saying with her gaze—I will always be here.

Jiang Zhiyu took a pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and signed his name on the last page of the contract. The three characters "Jiang Zhiyu," stroke by stroke, written very slowly, as if carving the letters. Not because he was hesitating, but because he was confirming. Confirming that he had really reached this step, confirming that this contract wasn't a dream, confirming that his life was moving forward step by step according to his plan. He finished signing, capped the pen, put the contract back in the envelope, sealed it, and put it in his pocket. Together with his passport, the photo, and the kings card. That pocket, closest to his heart.

Minjeong, watching from the side, suddenly said something that made everyone go quiet. "Oppa, does this mean you're a Loen Entertainment person now?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, silent for a second. "Not exactly. I'm still an SM person. I'm just helping Loen Entertainment make an album."

"Then aren't you working for two companies at the same time?"

"Mm."

"Does SM know?"

"No."

Minjeong's mouth opened, closed, and opened again. She wanted to say "Isn't this just a part-time job," but she didn't say it. Because she suddenly realized that what Jiang Zhiyu was doing wasn't a "part-time job." It was a "career." He was building a building; every brick was carried by himself, every beam was laid by himself. SM was one brick, Loen Entertainment was another. He needed many bricks to get that building up.

NingNing wiped the crumbs of the macaron from the corner of her mouth, looked at Jiang Zhiyu, and said a very soft sentence. "Teacher, you will succeed."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, the corners of his mouth slightly rising. "I know."

Mrs. Yu walked out of the kitchen, stood at the entrance of the living room, carrying a plate of cut fruit. Strawberries, kiwis, oranges, cut into small pieces, neatly arranged on a white porcelain plate, like a colorful painting. Her eyes swept over the coffee table—the envelope was gone. She knew Jiang Zhiyu had already signed it and put it away.

"The fruit is ready, come and eat." She placed the plate on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. Her posture was still the same, back straight, hands folded on her knees, a faint, unreadable curve at the corners of her mouth. But her eyes had changed—from "I am observing you" to "I am accepting you." The change was subtle; she hadn't become gentler, she had become more relaxed. Her shoulders were a little lower than before, her breathing was deeper than before, and she seemed to have switched from "guest mode" to "daily mode."

Jiang Zhiyu picked up a strawberry and took a bite. Sweet. He thought, the strawberries at Karina's house were sweeter than the ones at the convenience store. Not because the variety was different, but because the mood of sitting here eating strawberries was different. It wasn't "I'm mooching a meal," it was "I'm a guest at a friend's house."

Mrs. Yu watched the way he ate the strawberry, the curve of her lips widening a little more. "Jiang Zhiyu-xi, stay for dinner tonight. I had the auntie cook a few extra dishes."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and nodded. "Okay. Thank you, Auntie."

Mrs. Yu paused when she heard the word "Auntie." It wasn't surprise; it was the confirmation of "He called me Auntie." Not "Madam," not "Mrs.," but "Auntie." Like an ordinary child visiting a friend's house, speaking to the friend's mother. That ordinariness made her feel warm.

Minjeong, watching this scene from the side, had a voice in her heart saying—Jiang Zhiyu had won again. Not the "won the game" kind of win, but the "won over hearts" kind of win. He hadn't done anything; he just sat there, ate a strawberry, called her "Auntie," and Mrs. Yu's expression changed. She thought, this person is truly poisonous. Not the "makes you poisoned" kind of poison, but the "makes you want to get closer" kind of poison. The closer you get to him, the more you want to get even closer.

——

This Winter Isn't Too Cold

(20:08) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [Oppa Oppa! Today I was teased by Karina Unnie for spinning around in the rain. She said "Winter, aren't you being too romantic?" I immediately retorted, "It's because Oppa taught me well!"... As a result, I was besieged by all the members with pillows! T T (Sends a pouty selfie with messy hair and cheeks puffed out like a bun)]

(20:11) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The star-shaped sausages in the dinner army stew were stolen and eaten by Giselle! I clearly made five, and she didn't leave a single one for me... She said, "This is the punishment for those allergic to romance." Oppa, look at her! (Sends a photo of an empty pot, with the caption "Crime Scene")]

(20:14) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [When taking a bath after getting caught in the rain, I secretly used the citron bath salts Oppa recommended. As a result, Ningning burst in and said, "Unnie, you look like a rice cake soaked in honey." Before I could refute, she reached out and poked my cheek, saying, "It looks so chewy"... Woo, the maknae is rebelling! (Buries half her face in the Bubbles)]

(20:17) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [Now I'm wrapped in a blanket, huddled in the corner of the sofa, my hair still soaking wet. Oppa, if you could come over right now and use a hair dryer to blow it dry, I promise not to eat any hotteok all day tomorrow! (Holds up three fingers to swear, but eyes peek at the phone waiting for a response)]

(20:20) Minjeong who doesn't reply: ["Winter Jr." seems to have grown by 1mm today. I measured it three times with a ruler! It must have grown so hard because it heard Daddy's name, right? Just like me~ (Sends a photo of a serious measurement with a ruler pressed against the succulent leaf)]

(20:23) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The rainbow after the rain today looks especially like the color of Oppa's tie from last time... Ah, I really want to become that tie, sticking to Oppa's heart every day. (After saying this, immediately covers her hair with a blanket and makes shy humming sounds)]