26: Chapter 26 Help! Me, who still has to do practice problems after work!

The new address was by the Han River, a high-rise apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water. Jiang Zhiyu stood before the window, watching the moonlight shatter into pieces upon the river's surface, suddenly feeling as if he were in a dream. A few months ago, he was still squeezed into a room of less than five square meters in a cram school dormitory, where the ceiling light was broken and no one fixed it, and the hallway always reeked of instant noodles. Now he stood here, with solid wood floors beneath his feet, a mainless lighting design overhead, and Seoul's most expensive river view outside the window. He didn't let it go to his head because he knew this wasn't his. The house belonged to IU, the rent was paid by Loen Entertainment, and he was just a guest. Being a guest meant he could be moved out at any time. So, he wouldn't treat this place as "home." Home wasn't like this. Home is where you've lived for a long time, where every piece of furniture bears your mark, and where you can walk through every corner with your eyes closed. There were no traces of him here, only the curtains IU picked, the sofa IU chose, and the coffee table IU decided on. He was a guest, not the owner. But being a guest had its perks—no need to do the cleaning.

The doorbell rang. Jiang Zhiyu walked over and pulled the door open. Kim Minjeong stood at the front, holding a giant, transparent plastic bag filled with toilet paper. The bag was so large it covered half her body, leaving only her face and two feet visible. Her face was slightly flushed from the effort, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead, and a few stray hairs stuck to her temples. Her eyes were bright, like two polished black glass beads. "Oppa! Congratulations on moving!" Her voice was loud, enough to echo in the hallway. Jiang Zhiyu took the bag of toilet paper, weighed it, and was silent for a moment. "This is enough to last me five years." "Toilet paper doesn't expire," Kim Minjeong said matter-of-factly as she stepped inside to change her shoes in the entryway. As she crouched down to untie her laces, NingNing popped up from behind her, also carrying a plastic bag filled with paper products. Not rolls, but tissues—three large packs, each the jumbo size. She placed the bag on the entryway floor and caught her breath. "Teacher, you underestimate yourself too much."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. NingNing's expression was innocent, so innocent it seemed as if she didn't know what she had just said. But she had said it. She said "you underestimate yourself too much" right after he said "this is enough to last me five years." The context was—toilet paper. Toilet paper, five years, underestimating himself. The implication was that for a young man full of vigor, how could toilet paper last five years? It wouldn't even last one. She didn't mean it; her mouth was just faster than her brain. The moment the words left her mouth, her brain was still thinking, "Since Teacher lives alone, he must use paper quite quickly," and then her mouth just said it. After she finished speaking, her brain finally caught up and replayed the sentence. After processing it, her face turned red. It wasn't a "slowly turning red"; it was an "explosion." Starting from the base of her neck, it instantly spread to her entire face, her ear tips, her hairline, as if she had been doused from head to toe in a bucket of red paint. She opened her mouth, wanting to explain, but found she couldn't. "I didn't mean that—I wasn't saying—I meant—you're alone—toilet paper—use—ah—!" she let out a short scream, like someone who had their tail stepped on, and then buried her face in her hands.

Kim Minjeong stood nearby, her shoelaces not yet tied, crouching on the floor and looking at NingNing with her mouth forming an 'O' shape. She didn't understand the words, but she understood NingNing's blush. That wasn't a "I said something wrong" red; it was an "I said something very shameful" red. She didn't know what was shameful about the sentence, but she decided not to ask. She was afraid that if she asked, she would end up blushing too.

Karina was the last one in. She didn't have any toilet paper, only a paper bag printed with the logo of a Hanwoo beef shop. She walked in, placed the bag on the entryway cabinet, and then crouched down to change her shoes. Her movements were slow and composed, as if she had done this many times and performed it with the same care every time. When she tied her laces, the loops of the bow were exactly the same length, as if measured with a ruler.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "Where's your toilet paper?" "I didn't buy any." "Then what did you bring?" "Hanwoo." Karina stood up, picked up the paper bag, and handed it to him. "You moved. Congratulations." Her tone was flat, as flat as saying "the weather is nice today." But Jiang Zhiyu could hear that it wasn't a "casual" flatness, but a "deliberate" one. She hadn't come to deliver toilet paper. Toilet paper was what Kim Minjeong and NingNing brought because they felt it was a moving tradition and a daily necessity, and you can never go wrong with necessities. Karina didn't think that way. She didn't think about "what he needs," but "what I want to give him." She didn't need to know what he needed because his needs were too many. He needed money, he needed time, he needed a place where he didn't have to move, didn't have to worry about rent, and didn't have to wake up in the middle of the night wondering where he was. She couldn't give him those things. What she could give was Hanwoo. Because Hanwoo was a "good thing," something "eaten during celebrations," a sign that "you deserve to be treated well." What she wanted to say wasn't "eat some Hanwoo," but "you deserve to be treated well."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the beautifully packaged boxes of Hanwoo in the bag, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. "No problem, it's my treat." Karina looked at him and didn't say "okay" or "thank you." She just looked at him, her lips forming a tiny, almost invisible curve. That curve said, "I knew you'd say that." When she said "I want to eat Hanwoo," she didn't mean "I want you to treat me," she meant "I want to eat it with you." There were two layers of meaning, and Jiang Zhiyu understood. So he smiled and said, "No problem, it's my treat." He wasn't offering a free meal; he was offering the promise of "eating together."

The pre-sale data for IU's new album was updated on a Wednesday morning. Jiang Zhiyu sat in his small office on the fifth floor of Loen Entertainment, with a cup of freshly brewed barley tea in front of him—he had quit milk tea for almost a week now, and his mouth felt incredibly bland, but he hadn't sneaked a drink. It wasn't because he was keeping his word, but because Kim Taeyeon would find out. He didn't know what channels Kim Taeyeon used, but she always seemed to know immediately if he had cheated. He suspected she had planted spies in SM Entertainment, but he had no evidence. The numbers on the screen were jumping. They weren't just "jumping"; they were "flying." Pre-sale numbers had increased by two hundred percent since yesterday. Not "twenty percent," but "two hundred percent." They had tripled. Jiang Zhiyu looked at that steep, almost vertical rising curve with a calm expression. He picked up the barley tea and took a sip; it was bitter, not the bitterness of sugar, but the bitterness of grain—a very simple bitterness, like a person who doesn't dress up but is very kind. He didn't frown.

The teaser image for "IU Twinkle Twinkle" was released yesterday. A single poster showed IU in a white dress, standing under a starry sky, looking up with stars reflected in her eyes. At the bottom of the poster was a line of small text—"Purchase two albums for one chance to enter the lucky draw. First Prize: 10,000 KRW voucher. Second Prize: IU autographed photo card. Third Prize: Unreleased photos. Participation Prize: Digital wallpaper." The vouchers could be exchanged for cash, but one had to visit Loen Entertainment in person for identity verification. Ten thousand won wasn't much, but it was enough to give fans the feeling that "I have a chance to win." Not "I will win," but "I have a chance." The power of the word "chance" is greater than "guarantee." A guarantee is certain, and certainty isn't exciting. A chance is uncertain, and uncertainty is what makes the heart race.

The industry's reaction was faster than Jiang Zhiyu had expected. The day after the pre-sale data was released, marketing departments of major entertainment companies held emergency meetings. They weren't "learning from Loen's experience," but "studying Loen's strategy." They wanted to know—who came up with this strategy? It wasn't Loen's style. Loen Entertainment was backed by Kakao and had deep pockets, but their promotional style had always been steady and conventional. Variety shows, interviews, street performances, and short videos about the "difficult creative process" to harvest fan sympathy. They had used these methods for years; the results were stable but never explosive. This time was different. This was an "explosion." Pre-sale numbers soared by two hundred percent, and the level of discussion was sky-high; even people who didn't care about K-pop were asking, "What's the deal with that IU lucky draw?" This wasn't something Loen could pull off. Loen didn't have the brains for it. It wasn't that "Loen was stupid," but that "they didn't have the genes for it." When a company exists for a long time, it develops its own "habits." Habits are both good and bad. The good part is you know how not to fail; the bad part is you don't know how to succeed even bigger. Loen needed someone to break their habits. This person didn't grow from within; they came from the outside. Who was it?

SM Entertainment. SM Entertainment was the first to be suspected. Because Jiang Zhiyu was from SM Entertainment, and he had recently taken a leave of absence. The reason for the leave was "lack of inspiration, needing to travel around Korea." Where did he go? No one knew. But someone had spotted a young man downstairs at Loen Entertainment wearing a black hoodie and a black mask, dressed in black from head to toe. That person's walking posture was very distinctive—neither fast nor slow, with each step spaced almost identically, as if measured with a ruler. That person wasn't a Loen employee. Loen employees wouldn't dress like that. Who was he? Entertainment reporters began to stake out the place.

The parking lot beneath Loen Entertainment was filled within a few short days by various vans, sedans, and motorcycles. The vans belonged to entertainment reporters, the sedans to paparazzi, and the motorcycles to couriers. They sat in their vehicles, holding long-focus lenses aimed at every exit of the Loen building. They were waiting for someone. A young man in a black hoodie and a black mask, dressed in black from head to toe. They didn't know what he looked like, but they knew he would eventually appear. Because he was the person in charge of IU's album promotion, it was impossible for him not to come to work. Catching a photo of him would mean an "exclusive." An exclusive meant traffic, and traffic meant money. Money is the drive behind everything.

There weren't enough parking spaces. Loen's parking lot wasn't large to begin with—only a few dozen spaces, not even enough for the employees—and now a third of them were occupied by reporters and paparazzi. Employees couldn't find spots, parked on the street, and were slapped with fines. The company didn't reimburse fine money; the employees had to pay it themselves. Resentment began to build. Someone posted on the internal company forum: "Can someone do something about those reporters? My car has been fined three times!" Many people replied, some saying "me too," some saying "I got two yesterday," and others saying "I've stopped driving and just take the subway." When resentment builds to a certain point, it explodes. The explosion didn't take the form of a protest, but of arguments. Employees argued with reporters, reporters with paparazzi, and paparazzi with employees. The arguments were trivial: "This is my spot!" "This is a public spot!" "I parked first!" "I saw it first!" The shouting reached the street; passersby stopped to watch, but after a few minutes, they found it boring and left. But the police couldn't leave. Someone had called them. The police arrived and asked, "Who called?" No one admitted it. The police asked, "Who's arguing?" and everyone went silent. The police were frustrated but couldn't leave because the arguing would just start again once they did. Thus, police cars became the newest permanent fixture outside Loen. Every day, police cars were parked by the road, officers patrolled, and new fines were stuck to windshields.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in his small fifth-floor office, watching the "grand scene" below through the window, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. He picked up his phone and sent a message to the President of Loen. "President, I have an idea." The President's reply was swift. "Speak." Jiang Zhiyu didn't type fast, but every word seemed carefully considered. "On the pretext of IU filming a video, clear the area outside the building. Have all employee cars park in the designated spots. Then, arrange for a few employees to hold an underground auction under the guise of 'company orders, but willing to sell parking space due to personal financial needs, highest bidder wins.' The company takes thirty percent of the profit, and the employees keep seventy percent." The President's reply was slower this time, likely processing this "devious" move. Then he typed a few words. "Are you sure this won't cause trouble?" "It won't. This is 'individual employee behavior' and has nothing to do with the company. Employees selling their own parking space usage rights is legal. The reporters and paparazzi are buying 'usage rights,' not 'ownership.' They have no grounds to sue anyone." The President was silent again. Then he sent one word: "Fine."

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

The underground auction took place on a Friday afternoon. The location was the underground parking lot of the Loen Entertainment building; it was not "public," but "semi-public." The news was spread through "friends of friends." Entertainment Reporter A heard from an "informant" that several Loen Entertainment employees were willing to sell the usage rights to their parking spots to the highest bidder. Entertainment Reporter B heard the same news from "another informant." Entertainment Reporter C had no informant, but he saw A and B whispering furtively in the parking lot, so he followed them.

The "rules" of the auction were simple—parking spot usage rights, for one month, to the highest bidder. The starting bid was 100,000 KRW. The first parking spot went for 500,000. The second for 700,000. The third for 1,000,000. It wasn't the parking spot that was valuable; it was the opportunity to "get a shot of Jiang Zhiyu" that was valuable. The entertainment reporters didn't care about the parking spots; what they cared about was that by parking in that spot, they could take photos of Jiang Zhiyu when he arrived at or left work. The value of one exclusive photo far exceeded 1,000,000 KRW. Therefore, they were willing to bid.

After the auction ended, the few employees who participated in the "performance" gathered in the restroom, looking at the bank transfer notifications on their phones, looking at each other in surprise. They hadn't done anything; they had merely appeared in the parking lot "when they were supposed to," pretended to discuss "whether or not to sell their parking spots," and then let the reporters overhear them. Their acting was clumsy, but the reporters didn't care. Because what the reporters wanted wasn't the "truth," but an "opportunity." They thought they had seized an opportunity, but in reality, it was Jiang Zhiyu who had delivered the opportunity to them. The employees looked at the extra millions of KRW in their accounts, and a common thought crossed their minds—this month's salary was free money. Then they began to ask the same question— "When is the next event?"

Jiang Zhiyu was wearing that black hoodie, wearing a black mask, and walked out from the back door of the Loen Entertainment building. He knew someone was photographing him. It wasn't "knowing," it was "feeling." His body sensed the presence of lenses earlier than his brain did. Back on the Tianxuan Continent, this feeling of "being watched" had saved him many times. Now, this feeling told him—forty-five degrees to the left, second-floor window, telephoto lens. Thirty degrees to the right, a van, the window cracked open, a lens sticking out from the gap. Directly in front, next to a trash can, someone was crouching, holding up a phone, recording video. He didn't hide, didn't speed up, didn't make any moves that suggested he "didn't want to be photographed." He just walked normally, not fast, not slow, the distance of every step almost the same. He walked to the roadside, hailed a taxi, opened the door, sat in, and closed the door. The windows were dark; one couldn't see inside from the outside. But he knew those lenses were still shooting. They were shooting the taxi's license plate number, shooting the direction he was heading, shooting whether he was "going to SM." They couldn't photograph his face, but his "existence" had already been captured. This was what he wanted. Not "to be seen," but "to be known to exist." To know that Loen Entertainment had a "mysterious person," to know this mysterious person was the promotional lead for IU's album, to know this person was very young, wore a black hoodie, wore a black mask, and never showed his face. They didn't know who he was, but they knew this person existed. This kind of "knowing" was more valuable than "knowing he is Jiang Zhiyu." Because only when "not knowing" would they guess; only "guessing" would lead to discussion; only "discussion" would lead to spreading; only "spreading" would let more people know that IU was about to make a comeback. He wasn't hiding; he was "luring." Luring them to come over on their own. Those who come over on their own are more willing to stay than those who are pushed over.

The next morning, Jiang Zhiyu sat in his office with a Hanwoo gift set that had just been delivered in front of him. High-end Hanwoo, from Hongcheon, Grade 1 quality certified by the Hanwoo Association. A golden ribbon was tied around the gift box, and a card was pinned to the ribbon. The card read— "Thank you. President." The handwriting was neat, stroke by stroke, as if writing a formal document. Beside the gift box was another card, with different handwriting; it was from IU. Her writing was cute, round, like something a primary school student would write. "This is your portion. I've finished mine. It was delicious. Let's buy more next time. IU." Jiang Zhiyu looked at that card, the corners of his mouth slightly raised. He put the card back into the gift box, tied the ribbon, and placed it in the corner of his desk. It wasn't "not eating," it was "saving." Saving it, waiting for a suitable time to eat it with the right person. Kim Minjeong? No, she would snatch all the meat. NingNing? No, she would eat while saying, "Teacher, this meat is so expensive." Karina? That would work. She would eat quietly, wouldn't snatch, wouldn't say it was expensive. She would save the best piece for him. Not because she wasn't hungry, but because she was used to leaving good things for others. This was a habit she had developed since childhood; it couldn't be changed.

His phone vibrated. In the group chat "The Four of Us," Kim Minjeong sent a message— "Oppa, when are you eating that Hanwoo gift set?" NingNing followed up with a message— "Teacher, I can help you share it." Karina didn't speak. But three seconds later, she changed the group chat name to "Hanwoo Waiting Committee." Jiang Zhiyu looked at that name, and the curve of his mouth widened a little more. He typed a line— "Tonight. My place. Seven o'clock. If you're late, there won't be any." Kim Minjeong sent a "Received" emoji, and NingNing sent a "Kitten Running" emoji. Karina didn't send a message, but she changed the group chat name back to "The Four of Us." Jiang Zhiyu looked at that name, and a voice in his heart said—they weren't coming to eat Hanwoo. They were coming to keep him company. Moving alone, living alone, eating alone, watching the Han River view alone. He was used to it, but he didn't need to be used to it. Because he had them. They would bring toilet paper over, would blush and say the wrong things, would tie their shoelaces quietly, would save the best piece of meat for him. This is "friends." It's not "I'll be there when you need me," it's "I'll bring toilet paper when you move." The former is a promise; the latter is an action. Actions are more powerful than promises. Because actions don't need to be said; doing it is doing it.

— — The sales figures for the album "blue night" came out on a Wednesday morning. 800,000 copies in pre-sales; this was not the final number, but the starting point. On the day of release, it went on sale both online and offline, and the number sold on the first day was more than the total of the first week of pre-sales. On the second day, the third day, the numbers shot up as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button. 1,000,000 copies. Not "breaking 1,000,000 copies," but "surpassed 1,000,000 copies, and still rising." 1,100,000. 1,150,000. 1,200,000. 1,200,000 and a few thousand, the odd numbers jumping; every time it jumped, it meant that one more person somewhere in a record store had picked up a "blue night," walked to the cashier, took out their wallet, and brought the album home.

A poster was hung in the lobby of Loen Entertainment, with the two big characters "blue night" written on it, and a line of small text next to it— "Congratulations IU, Congratulations Loen Entertainment." The poster was hung by Group Leader Kim from the promotional department; his hands were shaking as he hung it, not because it was heavy, but because of excitement. He had worked at Loen Entertainment for over a decade, had seen many album releases, had seen many updates to sales figures, but had never seen anything like this. 800,000 in pre-sales, 1,200,000 in actual sales—this wasn't just a record for a "female singer," it was a record for "all singers." Not a record for "this year," but a record for "all years." The numbers spoke for themselves; they didn't need anyone to explain them.

The celebratory dinner was scheduled for Friday night. Loen Entertainment rented out a very large restaurant—not one of those small shops where you just eat casually, but a banquet hall with private rooms, a stage, and professional audio equipment. There were many invited guests: the promotional department, the A&R department, the planning department, the marketing department—everyone who participated in the "blue night" project was there. Plus the executives, plus IU's team, plus Jiang Zhiyu. There were seventy or eighty people in total, filling the entire banquet hall. Before the food was served, the alcohol was already opened. A champagne cork "popped" out, flew across several tables, and landed in a flowerpot in the corner. Group Leader Kim stood up with his glass, shouted "Cheers," and everyone followed, shouting "Cheers"—the sound was so loud that the crystal chandelier on the ceiling was trembling slightly.

IU sat at the main table, next to Park Jung Hyuk, and opposite Jiang Zhiyu. She was wearing a light pink dress today; the neckline wasn't low, but the lines of her collarbones were very clear under the lights. Her hair was curled into big waves, draped over her shoulders, the ends slightly flipped up, as if someone had gently pinched them. Her makeup was a bit heavier than usual, her eyeliner drawn very long, the corners of her eyes slightly upturned, her lips coated with watery lip gloss, shimmering with a transparent pink under the lights. She smiled all night long. It wasn't the professional smile practiced countless times for the cameras, but a real, heartfelt smile that she couldn't control even if she wanted to. The album had sold 1,200,000 copies; how could she not smile?

Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite, holding a cola. He couldn't drink alcohol, not because he couldn't drink, but because he hadn't reached the legal age yet. In South Korea, minors cannot drink alcohol; he was a law-abiding minor, so he drank cola. The cola was icy, a layer of fine water droplets condensed on the cup wall; he took a sip, put the cup down, raised his head, and looked at IU. She was smiling, the curve of her mouth was large, so large that her teeth were exposed. Her eyes were curved into crescent moons, the makeup at the corners of her eyes slightly smudged because she was smiling too hard, forming a small patch of faint black at the corners of her eyes. She didn't notice because she was too happy. Jiang Zhiyu watched her smiling, the corners of his mouth also slightly raised. But his smile was different from hers. Her smile was "I did it," his smile was "You did it." Two types of smiles, one same reason—the album sold 1,200,000 copies.

Then he changed his gaze. Not the gaze of "you did it," but another kind. That kind of gaze was very subtle; it wasn't "I am looking at you," it was "I see you." You are smiling, and I am smiling too. You are smiling because of the album sales, and I am smiling because—you are about to be in big trouble. The corners of his mouth were still raised, but his eyes had changed. From "curved into crescent moons" to "slightly narrowed," from "slightly narrowed" to "half-open and half-closed"; the lights were reflected in his pupils, but the lights did not illuminate the depths of his eyes. The depths of his eyes were dark, dark like a deep well; you don't know what's in the well, but you know it's there.

IU met that gaze. Not "met," but "was captured." She was smiling, smiling, her gaze sweeping across the crowd, past Group Leader Kim, past Park Jung Hyuk, past Jiang Zhiyu. When she swept past Jiang Zhiyu, she saw those eyes. Those slightly narrowed, half-open, half-closed eyes, with lights reflected in the pupils but the depths of the eyes dark. Her smile froze. Not "slowly disappeared," but "suddenly stopped." It was like someone had pressed a pause button; her mouth still maintained that curve from a moment ago, but that curve was no longer a smile, but the awkwardness of "I don't know if I should continue smiling."

That gaze—IU later thought, even if years, over a decade, or several decades passed, she would not forget it. Every time she recalled it, an inexplicable rage would well up in her heart. She would stand up from the sofa, walk out of the room, cross the yard, and go into the garden. In the garden, an old man would be watering flowers, wearing loose home clothes, his hair gray, his back slightly hunched. He would hear footsteps, turn around, look at her, and ask with a completely bewildered face, "Noona, what's wrong with you again?" She wouldn't answer; she would extend her hand and forcefully slap his arms, shoulders, and back, until her own hands turned red and his hands felt numb. He wouldn't dodge because he knew why she was hitting him. It was because of that gaze. That gaze on the night of the Loen Entertainment celebration party, when the album had sold 1,200,000 copies, when he looked at her, slightly narrowed his eyes, and the corners of his mouth were raised. The meaning of that gaze was— "You are happy, I am very happy. Your happiness is because of the album sales, my happiness is because—you are about to be in big trouble."

IU's smile froze. Starting from the corners of her mouth, it slowly, irresistibly spread to her entire face. The curve of her mouth disappeared, the curve of her eyes disappeared, the flush on her cheeks disappeared. Replacing it was a dark, dull color that seemed to seep from under her skin, as if something were flowing in her veins. Not red, not white, but green. Not the green of "green," but the green of "pale/ashen face." That kind of green was very obvious under the lights because her skin was too white, so white that any change in color was like drawing on a white sheet of paper; every stroke was a stroke, clearly visible.

The atmosphere in the banquet hall shifted from "lively" to "quiet."

It wasn't a "sudden silence," but a "gradual quiet."

It was as if someone were turning a volume knob, slowly turning it from ten to nine, from nine to eight, from eight to seven.

With each click, the sound grew quieter, until no one was speaking, until one could hear the hum of the air conditioning vent, until one could hear the sound of someone swallowing.

Everyone's gaze fell upon IU's face, upon her face that turned from white to pink, from pink to red, and from red to green.

No one knew what had happened, only that IU had stopped smiling.

If IU wasn't smiling, they didn't dare to smile either.

Because IU was the star of the night; if the protagonist doesn't smile, the supporting cast cannot smile first.

This was the rule; it didn't need to be written on paper.

The silence lasted for about ten seconds.

Then, in a corner of the banquet hall, by a table, a young man stood up.

He was a newcomer in the PR department, surnamed Li, who had just joined the company this year; his seat was arranged at the place furthest from the main table, near the restroom.

When he stood up, his chair slid backward, emitting a harsh, scraping sound.

Everyone looked at him.

He looked at IU, looked at her face that had turned from white to pink, from pink to red, and from red to green, and then slammed his hand on the table.

"Pop."

The sound wasn't loud, but in the quiet banquet hall, it was like a pebble thrown into a lake, sending ripples spreading out in circles.

The corners of his mouth lifted, and then he laughed out loud.

It wasn't a "heh heh" laugh, but a "hahaha" laugh, very loud, loud enough as if he were greeting someone very far away.

The person next to him looked at him, frowning in confusion.

That person reached out and tugged at his sleeve, lowering his voice to ask, "What are you laughing at?"

The young man leaned over, whispered a few words into the person's ear.

The person's eyes shifted from "doubt" to "confusion," from "confusion" to "realization," and from "realization" to "amusement."

Then he laughed too.

Not a "hahaha," but a "pfft," like a balloon being squeezed until it popped, the air rushing out all at once.

The person next to them asked again, "What are you laughing at?" The first person told the second, and the second told the third.

The news spread like a game of telephone, from one table to another, from one person to another.

Each time it was passed on, one more person burst into laughter.

The laughter spread from the corner, like a tide, slowly and irresistibly surging toward the main table.

By the time it reached the dozen or so tables, there was no need to pass it on anymore, because everyone in the banquet hall was laughing.

It wasn't a "mocking" laugh, but an "I see" laugh.

It wasn't "schadenfreude," but an "I know what you're laughing at" laugh.

Group Leader Kim leaned over, whispered into IU's ear, and said, "IU-xi, the album has sold 1.2 million copies. For every two albums, you have to draw a prize once. 1.2 million copies means 600,000 prize draws."

Group Leader Kim paused, his voice dropping even lower.

"600,000 times."

IU's neck stiffened.

She slowly, jerkily turned her head to look at Group Leader Kim.

Her eyes were wide, the crystal lights of the banquet hall reflected in her pupils.

Her lips parted slightly, wanting to say something, but nothing came out.

Because her brain was doing a math problem.

1.2 million albums, one draw for every two, meant 600,000 prize draws.

Each draw required pulling a trigger once.

A toy gun, one bullet loaded at a time, pull the trigger once, fire once.

600,000 trigger pulls, 600,000 bullets.

Her hand would break.

Not "get sore," but "break."

Pulling the trigger until her hand broke.

IU's gaze moved away from Group Leader Kim, slowly and irresistibly shifting toward Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, holding a cola in his hand, his expression calm, the corners of his mouth curving slightly.

That curve wasn't a smile; it was an affirmation of "so you've finally figured it out."

A voice in IU's heart was saying—he did it on purpose.

It was intentional from the very beginning.

Intentionally designing "one prize draw for every two albums," intentionally designing "IU draws the prizes herself," intentionally designing the "toy gun," intentionally designing the "trigger pull."

It wasn't to make the fans happy; it was to make her hand break.

He hated her.

No, he didn't hate her.

He just thought it was funny that her hand would break.

He was just that kind of person.

He would be very happy to see others suffer misfortune.

It wasn't "evil," it was "childish."

He was just a sixteen-year-old, childish, "shibal" brat who thought it was funny to watch others break their hands.

IU then thought that an ordinary toy gun that could only load one bullet was useless now.

600,000 prize draws, 600,000 trigger pulls; she needed a heavy machine gun with a faster rate of fire and more bullets.

Pull the trigger once, and it could fire a whole clip of bullets.

One clip was thirty rounds; 600,000 rounds would only require 20,000 trigger pulls.

20,000 times was thirty times less than 600,000.

Her hand wouldn't break anymore, it would only be sore.

Sore was better than broken.

She was willing to be sore.

Then she thought again, before the official prize draw, should she test the power of this heavy machine gun first?

Find a target to try it out?

The target didn't need to be far away; it was right opposite her, sitting there, holding a cola, the corners of his mouth curving slightly.

That curve was bigger now, big enough that she could see it clearly.

He was smiling.

He was already smiling.

It wasn't the "so you've finally figured it out" smile, it was the "I know what you are thinking" smile.

IU's face turned red.

Not from anger, but another kind of red.

It started from the base of her neck and spread all the way up, reddening her earlobes and her hairline.

She lowered her head, picked up the water glass on the table, and took a sip.

The water was cold, and the chill spread from her throat to her chest.

She put down the cup, took a deep breath, and said to herself in her heart—Jiang Zhiyu is a minor.

Having thoughts like this is a punishable offense.

She didn't know what "thoughts like this" meant.

But she knew that in those thoughts, there was a "courtyard," a "garden," and an "old man watering flowers."

That old man had gray hair, a slightly hunched back, was wearing loose loungewear, holding a hose, turning around to look at her, asking with a bewildered face, "Noona, what's wrong with you again?"

That old man was Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu decades later.

She didn't know why this image was in her head; she only knew this image made her blush.

Not the red of "anger," but the red of "embarrassment."

She didn't dare to think too deeply, because she knew that if she did, she would think more.

And if she thought more, she wouldn't be able to pull back.

So she stopped, took a deep breath, locked that image away in a tiny room in her mind, locked the door, and threw away the key.

Then she thought again, in a few years, he won't be a minor anymore.

She didn't throw the key away.

She just pretended to.

Jiang Zhiyu laughed very happily at the Loen Entertainment celebration party, but his good mood didn't last long.

Because SM found out.

The word "betrayal" reached Jiang Zhiyu's ears on a Monday morning.

It wasn't "passed," it was "smashed."

He was in the SM recording studio writing a song when the door was pushed open—not "pushed," but "slammed" open.

The door hit the wall with a loud bang, dust from the door frame was shaken down, dancing in the sunlight.

The person who came in was Kim Min-soo from the A&R department; his face was very red, not the red from drinking, but the red of anger.

He stood at the doorway, looking at Jiang Zhiyu, his mouth opening several times, each time looking like he wanted to say something, but each time failing to do so.

Finally, he said, "Go to the meeting room."

Three words, not loud, but the weight in his tone made Jiang Zhiyu put down his pen.

He stood up, picked up his phone, and followed Kim Min-soo out of the recording studio.

The hallway was very quiet.

Usually at this time, there would be many people walking back and forth in the hallway: trainees, Managers, producers, cleaning ladies.

But today, there was no one.

Not "no one," but "cleared out."

Someone had cleared this hallway in advance because the matter they needed to discuss couldn't be heard by anyone.

Jiang Zhiyu walked down the hallway, his footsteps echoing on the floor, one, one, one.

His pace was the same as always, neither fast nor slow, the distance of each step was about the same, as if measured with a ruler.

His back was straight, his shoulders weren't hunched, his chin wasn't tucked in, his fingers weren't curled.

His whole body was relaxed, so relaxed that it was as if nothing had happened.

But his eyes were not relaxed.

His eyes were looking, looking at the end of the hallway, at the door of the meeting room, at the light shining through the crack in the door.

The door to the meeting room was closed.

Kim Min-soo stood at the door without going in.

He stepped aside, letting Jiang Zhiyu push the door himself.

Jiang Zhiyu reached out, grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

The meeting room was large, with a long table, a dark wooden tabletop polished to a shine, reflecting the outline of the light on the ceiling.

Both sides of the long table were full of people, not "seven or eight," but "over a dozen."

SM executives, from the production department, A&R department, artist management department, legal department, and a few faces he didn't recognize, probably external consultants or lawyers.

A person sat in the main seat.

His hair was graying, wearing silver-rimmed glasses, his gaze calm, so calm that it was as if he were looking at a document that didn't need to be signed in a hurry.

He was wearing a dark suit, a tie knotted at the collar of his shirt, and a silver tie clip reflecting a faint light under the lamp.

His hands were folded on the table, his fingers slender, knuckles distinct, nails neatly trimmed.

The feeling of him sitting there wasn't "one person," but "a mountain."

Not high, not steep, but you couldn't climb it.

Lee Soo-man.

When Jiang Zhiyu was at TG Entertainment, he had heard of Lee Soo-man.

Not "heard of," but "studied."

He had studied SM's history of growth, studied Lee Soo-man's business philosophy, and studied every step of how he grew from a small workshop-style agency into the largest entertainment company in South Korea.

He knew what kind of person Lee Soo-man was—not "knew," but "understood."

Understood his ambition, understood his methods, understood his patience.

He could endure because he knew when to strike.

When he struck, he wouldn't hesitate, wouldn't be soft-hearted, wouldn't leave any room for the other party.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Lee Soo-man, and Lee Soo-man looked at him.

Their gazes met in the air, no sparks, no collision, just a quiet staring contest, as if confirming to each other—are you my opponent?

No.

You are not my opponent.

You are my employee.

An employee doesn't need to be an "opponent," an employee only needs to be an "employee."

Sitting on Lee Soo-man's left was a person, Kim Young-min.

His hair was black, dyed, with a small section of white at the roots, probably because he hadn't touched up the dye in a long time.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, the collar of his shirt didn't have a tie, two buttons were undone, revealing a small section of his collarbone.

His body leaned slightly forward, his hands resting on the table, his fingers tapping gently on the table, without rhythm, not music, but thinking.

The corners of his mouth had a subtle curve, not a smile, but an affirmation of "I am calculating."

He was calculating, calculating Jiang Zhiyu's value, calculating Jiang Zhiyu's leverage, calculating Jiang Zhiyu's weaknesses.

Once calculated, he would strike.

He was Lee Soo-man's blade; a blade doesn't need to think, a blade only needs to cut.

The other executives had various expressions.

Some were angry, mouths pursed into a line, eyes wide, as if they wanted to stare through Jiang Zhiyu.

Some were dissatisfied, brows furrowed, corners of their mouths turned down, the whole face looking like a crumpled ball of paper.

Some were resentful, their gazes sinister, as if Jiang Zhiyu owed them a lot of money and didn't plan to pay it back.

Some were curious, tilting their heads, observing Jiang Zhiyu, as if looking at an animal he didn't recognize.

Jiang Zhiyu scanned those expressions and categorized everyone in his heart.

The angry one was the anger of "being betrayed," not because he was betrayed, but because he felt SM was betrayed.

He was an SM person; if SM was betrayed, he was betrayed.

The dissatisfied one was the dissatisfaction of an "elder toward a junior," not because you did something wrong, but because you didn't tell me.

If you had told me, I wouldn't be dissatisfied.

You didn't tell me, so I'm dissatisfied.

The resentful one, Jiang Zhiyu took an extra look at him.

Not because he was resentful, but because his resentment was different from the others.

Other people's resentment was "you made me uncomfortable," his resentment was "your money should be mine."

This person probably lost a lot of money in investments and urgently needed SM's dividends to recover.

But SM didn't give him dividends because SM's performance this year was bad.

The performance was bad because there were no hit albums.

There were no hit albums because—Jiang Zhiyu went to Loen Entertainment.

In the eyes of the resentful person, the money Loen Entertainment earned should have been SM's.

SM's money should have been his.

His money was taken away by Jiang Zhiyu.

So he was resentful.

Jiang Zhiyu walked to one end of the long table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. There was no desk to shield him, nothing in front of him. No water, no documents, no pens, nothing he could use to "block" himself. He just sat there, facing a dozen people, hands on his knees, back straight, eyes calm as he looked ahead. He didn't look at Lee Soo-man; he looked at everyone. His gaze swept from left to right, then right to left, like a scanner, scanning every face. Then he stopped, settling on Lee Soo-man's face.

The first to speak wasn't Lee Soo-man, but Kim Young-min. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear, every word as sharp and precise as if carved by a knife. "Jiang Zhiyu xi, do you know why we called you here?" Jiang Zhiyu looked at him. "I know." "Then tell us." Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. He knew Kim Young-min was waiting for him to speak. Once he spoke, Kim Young-min could find a flaw in his answer and pierce him with it. This was Kim Young-min's specialty; he was a lawyer by trade, skilled at interrogation, skilled at finding loopholes in the other party's answers, skilled at magnifying those loopholes until the other party had nowhere to run. Jiang Zhiyu wouldn't give him that chance. If he didn't speak, Kim Young-min had no flaws to grasp. If he didn't speak, Kim Young-min would have to speak first. Someone who speaks first reveals their hand.

Kim Young-min waited for a few seconds. Seeing Jiang Zhiyu remain silent, the arc of his lips lessened slightly. It wasn't that he "couldn't smile anymore," but a confirmation of "I underestimated you." "You wrote five songs for IU and were responsible for her entire album's promotional plan. You didn't report these things to the company." Jiang Zhiyu looked at him. "The contract doesn't state that I must report it." Kim Young-min's fingers paused on the table. "The contract doesn't state it, but you are an SM employee. When an employee takes outside work, the company has the right to know." "The contract doesn't say I have an obligation to report." Kim Young-min's fingers began to tap again. This time with a rhythm—not music, but the rhythm of "I'm thinking about how to refute you." "Jiang Zhiyu xi, do you know what you are doing? You are using SM's resources to work for another company." "I used my own time, my own computer, and my own USB drive. SM didn't provide me with any resources." Kim Young-min's fingers stopped.

The conference room was quiet for a moment. An executive sitting across from Kim Young-min spoke up, his voice loud, loud enough to sound like he was arguing with someone far away. "You are an SM person! SM took you in! When you first came to Korea, you had nothing! Who handled your visa? Who arranged your accommodation? Who paid your tuition? It was SM! Now that your wings have hardened, you've flown away, flown to another company! This is betrayal!" His face turned red, the veins on his neck bulging like earthworms wriggling under his skin.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at him, waiting for him to finish. He finished, panting, his chest heaving violently. Jiang Zhiyu spoke. He didn't explain, didn't refute, didn't apologize. He spread his hands, palms up, fingers naturally splayed, as if letting something go. His tone was calm, so calm it was like saying "The weather is nice today." "I lack money. SM's comeback plans and song reviews are too slow, so I found work myself to make money."

The conference room went quiet. Not just "quiet," but "frozen." Time, air, sound—everything stopped at that moment. The executives opened their mouths, eyes wide, expressions varied, but inside they were all thinking the same thing— "What did he just say? He lacks money? He said he lacks money?" They had prepared for a long time. Prepared questions, prepared condemnations, prepared moral kidnapping, prepared speeches like "It was SM that took you in, yet you betrayed SM." They had rehearsed those words many times, in their hearts, in their minds, in their mouths. They were waiting to say them, waiting to see Jiang Zhiyu look guilty, ashamed, and unable to face anyone. But now, Jiang Zhiyu had said "I lack money." Their words were stuck in their throats. Couldn't spit them out, couldn't swallow them. Because the three words "I lack money" were too simple, so simple they were like a stone; you can't morally kidnap a stone. A stone won't feel guilty, won't feel ashamed, won't be unable to face anyone. A stone is just a stone.

After a few seconds of silence, another executive spoke. His voice wasn't as loud as the previous one, but the dissatisfaction in his tone was thicker. "For money? You could have asked the company! The company isn't an unreasonable place!" Jiang Zhiyu looked at him, then looked at Lee Soo-man. Since sitting down, he had been watching Lee Soo-man. Not because Lee Soo-man was the boss, but because he was the only one who hadn't spoken from beginning to end. The person who doesn't speak is the most terrifying. Because you don't know what he is thinking. If you don't know what he's thinking, you can't respond. You can only wait, wait for him to speak, wait for him to reveal his hand.

"SM's comeback plan reviews are too slow." Jiang Zhiyu's voice wasn't loud, but clear. "Of the hundreds of songs I have backlogged, fewer than ten have been used so far. I earned 32 million won, and now I owe the company 500,000 won."

The conference room went quiet again. This time it wasn't "frozen," but "struck by something." The executives looked at Jiang Zhiyu, at his spread-out hands, at his calm expression, at the window behind him illuminated by the sun. They didn't know how to respond. Because what he said was the truth. SM's comeback plan reviews were indeed slow, so slow that many songs sat in the database for a long time after being written, so long that the songwriter almost forgot the song's existence. His songs were indeed backlogged, hundreds of them, not dozens, hundreds. He had indeed used fewer than ten, fewer than ten, earning 32 million won. 32 million won sounds like a lot, but after deducting the accommodation, food, and language school tuition advanced by the company, after deducting the monthly rent, utilities, transportation, and taxes, the money he had left was probably enough for him to eat for a few months. He did owe the company money, 500,000 won, not a lot, but not a little either. 500,000 won was enough for him to live in a goshiwon for a month, enough to eat convenience store rice balls for a month. Every word he said was true. Truth cannot be refuted.

Lee Soo-man hadn't spoken from beginning to end. He sat there, hands clasped on the table, eyes calmly watching Jiang Zhiyu. His expression hadn't changed; from the moment Jiang Zhiyu walked into the conference room to the moment he finished his last sentence, his expression had been the same. It wasn't "expressionless," but "has an expression but you can't read it." His expression was like a book, the cover was beautiful, but you couldn't open it. If you can't open it, you don't know what's written inside.

The meeting ended. Lee Soo-man stood up, the chair making no sound. He stood up slowly, so slowly it was like performing an action requiring high concentration. He stood straight, straightened his tie, and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. His voice wasn't loud, but clear, every word as if washed in water, clean and transparent. "Jiang Zhiyu xi, are you interested in debuting as a solo artist?"

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head. No hesitation, no thinking, no "let me think about it." Just a shake of the head. Lee Soo-man looked at him, silent for a moment. Then he nodded, as if confirming an answer he already knew. "If you have any needs in the future, tell the company." Jiang Zhiyu nodded.

Lee Soo-man left. When he walked out of the conference room, his pace was slow but steady. His leather shoes clicked against the floor, making a slight, rhythmic sound. His back disappeared at the door, the sound of footsteps in the hallway gradually fading, absorbed by the walls, drowned out by the humming of the air conditioning vents.

The other executives left one by one. Kim Young-min glanced at Jiang Zhiyu as he left, that look containing too much—not anger, not dissatisfaction, not resentment. It was the confirmation of "You are lucky." Not "You are lucky to have met Lee Soo-man," but "You are lucky you didn't meet me." If he had been in charge, Jiang Zhiyu wouldn't have gotten off so easily. But he wasn't the master; Lee Soo-man was. Lee Soo-man had said "If you have any needs in the future, tell the company," so he couldn't say anything else. Because Lee Soo-man's words were the final decision.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in the conference room, not moving. He looked at that door, at the light on the doorframe, at the glowing tungsten filament in the light tube. His expression was calm, so calm no emotion could be seen. But his heart was not calm. He was thinking about one thing—Lee Soo-man knew. He knew from the beginning. Knew he wrote songs for IU, knew he did planning at Loen Entertainment, knew he helped IU sell 1.2 million copies of her album. He knew everything. But he didn't stop it. Why? Because he wanted to see. See what this sixteen-year-old kid could do. If he succeeded, it was SM's credit. If he didn't, it was Jiang Zhiyu's failure. If successful, SM could get a share. If it failed, SM didn't need to bear any losses. This was Lee Soo-man's abacus, calculated very precisely, so precisely he didn't need to do it himself, so precisely others did the math for him, and he didn't even need to pay.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up and pushed the chair back to its original position. The chair leg hit the table leg, making a slight "click." He walked out of the conference room; the hallway was still empty, not a single person there. His footsteps echoed on the floor, one, one, one. He walked to the elevator, pressed the button. The elevator went up from the first floor, the numbers jumping from 1 to 2, from 2 to 3, from 3 to 4. The doors opened, and a few people were standing inside. Trainees, wearing sportswear, holding water bottles, their faces flushed from just finishing a dance practice. They saw Jiang Zhiyu, paused, then bowed slightly. "Hello, Producer Jiang." Jiang Zhiyu nodded, walked into the elevator, and stood in the corner. The elevator door closed, the numbers jumping from 4 to 3, from 3 to 2, from 2 to 1. No one spoke. The elevator arrived at the first floor, the doors opened, Jiang Zhiyu walked out, crossed the lobby, and pushed open the glass door. The sunlight hit his face, a bit dazzling; he squinted, took out his phone from his pocket. In the group chat "The Four of Us," NingNing sent a message— "Teacher, are you coming to the company today? I made kimchi fried rice, I brought some for you." Kim Minjeong followed with a message— "Oppa, the plan you mentioned last time, I finished writing it, please take a look for me." Karina didn't send a message, but she changed the group chat name to "Jiang Zhiyu's Loen Entertainment Journey." Jiang Zhiyu looked at the name, his lips curling up slightly. He didn't reply, put his phone away, walked down the steps, and headed toward the subway station. His pace was still the same, not fast or slow, the distance of each step about the same. The sunlight was behind him, casting his shadow on the ground, very long, very long.

— —

Oh no~ The sweet taste turned into a grid pattern, leaving me nowhere to hide!

(09:12) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [Morning Oppa! My fingers are finally not sticky but the honey scent remains... My toothpaste tasted sweet when I brushed my teeth this morning! Ningning said "Unnie, even your breathing is emitting love pheromones," I almost swallowed my toothbrush! (Sends a panicked selfie with a mouth full of foam and wide eyes)]

(09:15) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [I used a mold to press a puppy-shaped fried egg for breakfast! Although the tail broke off, I used seaweed to stick on round eyes~ Look, does it look like me waiting for Oppa to feed me? (Sends a comparison photo of a tilted-head puppy egg and herself imitating the tilt)]

(09:18) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The temperature dropped again today, I wore a sweater inside my down jacket, and ended up puffy like a sticky rice ball! Manager Unnie poked my stomach and said "Winter-ah, are you hibernating?"... Clearly I'm practicing the "layered warmth" Oppa talked about! (Trying to suck in stomach)]

(09:21) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The fourth leaf of "Little Winter" has grown a little bit! I gave it the nickname "Chuchu," because it's the first new leaf that grew after meeting Oppa during the first snow~ (Gently touches the leaf tip with fingertip)]

(09:24) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The little star drawn on the practice room mirror last night is still there, today when I danced I winked at it every time I turned~ Karina Unnie asked "Are your eyes cramping," I answered loudly "This is a secret agent code!"... Then I was laughed at by all the members for a full five minutes.]

(09:27) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [I wrapped my scarf three times before going out but it's still drafty, suddenly I miss the temperature of Oppa's fingers when you helped me adjust my scarf last time... Oppa should also wrap up into a warm sticky rice Oppa today! (Sends a photo of herself wrapped in a scarf with only her eyes showing)]