27: Chapter 27 is terrible, hundreds of thousands of words! How many more chapters do I need to copy?!

Starting the day after the meeting ended, Jiang Zhiyu's desk changed. It wasn't just 'changed'; it was 'buried.' When he left the previous evening, the desktop was empty and clean, with only a laptop, a cup of milk tea, and a USB drive. When he pushed the door open the next morning, he saw three stacks of documents piled on the desk, each so high they almost touched the desk lamp. It wasn't three documents; it was three stacks. One stack was project proposals, one was contracts, and one was reports. The proposals were the comeback plans for all of SM's girl and boy groups for the next six months—they weren't for him to 'look at,' but for him to 'do.' The contracts were cooperation agreements with external production companies—they weren't for him to 'sign,' but for him to 'review.' The reports were financial data from the past three years—they weren't for him to 'understand,' but for him to 'analyze.' The three stacks of documents were like three mountain ranges, stretching from one end of the desk to the other, leaving no room even for a cup of milk tea.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the door, holding a strawberry milk tea, and stared at those three small mountains in silence for a moment. He didn't sigh, he didn't frown, and he didn't say 'shibal.' He simply walked over, placed the milk tea on the windowsill, pulled out his chair, sat down, opened the top proposal, and began to read. His reading speed was very fast—not the superficial speed of 'skimming ten lines at a glance,' but the speed of 'understanding every single line.' The proposal was written by the A&R Department regarding the debut plan for a new girl group. The concept was fresh, but the execution plan was cliché, the budget allocation was unreasonable, and the promotional rhythm was chaotic. He drew a few circles on the paper and wrote down suggestions for revisions in messy handwriting, but every sentence hit the mark. It wasn't just 'this is wrong,' it was 'this is wrong and should be changed to this, because...' He wrote four pages of notes and then moved on to the next document.

This wasn't SM suddenly discovering he was a genius and deciding to give him more responsibility. This was revenge. Not the 'beating' kind of revenge, but the 'over-promotion' kind. Give you work, let you make money, keep you busy, and leave you no time for anything else. Didn't you write songs for IU? Didn't you do promotional planning for IU? Didn't you help IU sell 1.2 million albums? Aren't you short on money? Fine, SM will give you work and let you earn money. Endless money to earn, endless things to do, endless meetings to attend, and endless plans to revise. The moment you stop, someone will be there to push you. If you don't do it, someone else will do it for you. If they do it and do it poorly, you'll be blamed. If they do it well, you'll be envied. Either way, you won't have a good time. This was Kim Young-min's tactic. Jiang Zhiyu had used similar tactics in the past to deal with people he disliked. It wasn't 'suppression,' it was 'killing with praise.' Give him resources, let him make money, make it so he can't stop, and keep him working constantly. Because as soon as he stops, too many interests are affected. Too many related employees are involved; if he doesn't work, these people have nothing to do. If they have nothing to do, they don't get paid. If they don't get paid, they'll cause trouble. If they cause trouble, it affects the operation of the entire department. If the whole department's operation is affected, the higher-ups will hold you accountable. When the higher-ups hold you accountable—you must work, work until you die. This is the gentlest punishment. No hitting, no cursing, no docking your pay. Give you money, give you power, give you status. Let you stand at the highest point, only to fall the hardest.

Jiang Zhiyu sat there from nine in the morning until noon, processing seven proposals, four contracts, and two reports. He stood up and stretched his neck, his cervical spine making a 'cracking' sound. He picked up the milk tea from the windowsill and took a sip; it was cold, but the sweetness remained. He put the milk tea back, walked out of the office, and went to the cafeteria for lunch. His tray was piled high like a small mountain again; the rice was peaked, the side dishes were overflowing, and the soup was filled to the brim. The cafeteria auntie gave him an extra fried egg today; the yolk was runny, ready to flow out at the poke of a chopstick. He punctured the yolk, let the liquid flow into the rice, mixed it, and took a large bite. It was delicious. Not because the fried egg was particularly good, but because he was hungry. He had consumed a lot of energy working all morning. Energy needed to be replenished, and rice was the best way to do it. It wasn't about 'tasting good'; it was about 'necessity.' Things that are necessary don't need to taste good.

When he returned to the office in the afternoon, another stack of documents had appeared on his desk. It wasn't just 'another stack'; it was 'another mountain.' This time it wasn't proposals, but meeting notices. There were three meetings to attend next week: Monday was the debut proposal report for the new girl group, Wednesday was a negotiation meeting with a production company, and Friday was the comeback project kickoff for Red Velvet. He had to attend every meeting, prepare materials for every meeting, and speak at every meeting. It wasn't that he 'could' speak, but that he 'must' speak. Because he was the person in charge, and if the person in charge didn't speak, who would? Jiang Zhiyu looked at those meeting notices and fell silent for a moment. Then he opened his notebook and began writing meeting outlines. It wasn't 'writing'; it was 'listing.' He listed the core issues for each meeting, key decision points, materials needed, departments to coordinate with, and people to communicate with in advance. He wrote two pages, then picked up the phone and started calling. He called the A&R Department to confirm the conceptual direction for the new girl group. He called the Legal Department to confirm the terms of the cooperation contract. He called the Finance Department to confirm the budget allocation. He called the Artist Management Department to confirm Red Velvet's schedule. He spent the entire afternoon on the phone, his mobile phone becoming as hot as a sweet potato fresh out of the oven. He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the voices on the other end, the sound of keyboards clicking, and the distant sound of someone shouting 'wait a minute.' He listened, answered, hung up, and dialed the next one. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a machine programmed with a sequence: input, output, input, output. He wouldn't get tired, because machines don't get tired. But he wasn't a machine. He was human. Humans get tired. He just didn't allow himself to feel the fatigue. Because once he felt it, he would want to stop. If he stopped, someone would push him. If he was pushed, he would feel even more tired. So, he didn't feel. He locked 'tiredness' in a tiny room, locked the door, and threw away the key. He pretended that room didn't exist.

On Wednesday evening, Jiang Zhiyu had plans to eat with Kim Taeyeon and Yeri. It wasn't his idea; Yeri had invited them. Yeri had sent a message in the group chat—'A new American BBQ place just opened, I heard it's really good, anyone want to go?' Kim Taeyeon replied with a 'Sure.' Jiang Zhiyu replied with a 'Sure.' Im Yoona didn't reply because she was recently interviewing for a new script. She sent Jiang Zhiyu a private message—'The character I'm playing this time is very thin. The director said I need to get down to forty-five kilograms. I'm at fifty now, so I'm still five kilograms away. I won't go, you guys enjoy.' Jiang Zhiyu looked at the message and tried to imagine Im Yoona at fifty kilograms. She was 168cm tall; at fifty kilograms, she was already very thin. Losing another five kilograms would mean forty-five kilograms. 168cm, forty-five kilograms. He remembered back on the Tianxuan Continent, Wang Shuyun had also lost weight. When she got down to forty-five kilograms, her whole body was like a bamboo pole, swaying whenever the wind blew. He had said, 'You're too thin,' and she replied, 'It looks good on camera.' He said, 'What's the use of looking good on camera if your health is poor?' and she said, 'Health can be nurtured, but if I don't look good on camera, no one will watch me.' He didn't try to persuade her further because he knew she was right. Being on camera really does make a person look wider; at the same weight, a person on screen looks ten pounds heavier than in reality. So celebrities had to be thin—thin enough to look like bamboo poles in real life just to look right on camera. Im Yoona knew this logic, so she dieted. It wasn't that she 'wanted to be thin,' it was that she 'must be thin.' Things that must be done don't need to be discouraged.

Jiang Zhiyu replied—'Next time I'll write a script for you with a glutton character, so you can eat your fill.' Im Yoona sent an eye-roll emoji, then sent another message—'I'll be waiting then. You go ahead and eat; help me eat my share too.' Looking at the words 'help me eat my share too,' the corners of Jiang Zhiyu's mouth curled up slightly. He replied—'Okay.' Then he headed out.

The American BBQ place was located in an alley in Itaewon. The storefront wasn't large, but business was booming. The line of people stretched from the entrance to the mouth of the alley. By the time Jiang Zhiyu arrived, Yeri had already been waiting for twenty minutes. She was standing in the middle of the line, standing on her tiptoes and peering toward the street corner. Seeing him walk over, she raised her hand and waved. 'Zhiyu-ah, over here!' She was wearing a white T-shirt and light blue jeans, her hair tied in a low ponytail, face bare of makeup, and wearing round-framed glasses. There was a red mark on her face from her mask, likely because she had been running too many schedules today and had worn the mask for too long. Jiang Zhiyu walked over and stood beside her. 'Where's Taeyeon Noona?' 'Not here yet. She said there's traffic.' 'She always has traffic.' 'She really is stuck in traffic.' Yeri's tone was very serious, as if she were defending Kim Taeyeon. Jiang Zhiyu didn't argue because he knew Kim Taeyeon really did get stuck in traffic. She lived outside the city, and coming in required passing through an intersection that was perpetually congested. That intersection had no traffic lights, no police, and no pedestrian bridge. Cars and people crowded together, no one yielding to anyone, jammed like a pot of porridge. Every time she came into the city, she would be stuck there for at least twenty minutes—enough time for her to listen to three songs. She had told Jiang Zhiyu about it, and he had said, 'You could leave earlier,' to which she replied, 'Leaving early is also congested, because many people leave early.' Jiang Zhiyu said, 'Then you could leave later,' and she said, 'Leaving late is also congested, because many people leave late too.' Jiang Zhiyu fell silent because he knew she was right. In Seoul, whether you leave early or late, there will be traffic. Traffic isn't a time problem; it's a city problem. Unless the city changes, the traffic won't disappear. Kim Taeyeon couldn't change the city, so she could only endure the traffic. After a while, she got used to it—so used to it that she would download the songs she wanted to hear in advance and listen to them while stuck. By the time the traffic cleared and the songs were finished, she would arrive exactly on time.

After waiting for half an hour, it was finally their turn. Yeri chose a window seat because she liked watching the pedestrians on the street. Jiang Zhiyu sat opposite her, with a large platter of BBQ set before him. It wasn't Hanwoo beef, but American BBQ. Beef brisket, pork ribs, pulled pork, grilled sausage, and cornbread—a massive platter steaming with heat. The meat was brushed with a thick layer of BBQ sauce; the sauce was sweet with a smoky flavor, completely different from the salty-spicy taste of Korean BBQ. Yeri put on disposable gloves, grabbed a pork rib, and took a big bite. The corners of her mouth were stained with sauce, red and glistening under the lights. She chewed a few times and then closed her eyes. 'Delicious,' she said.

Kim Taeyeon arrived twenty minutes later. When she pushed the door open, she brought in a gust of wind that blew the napkins on the table onto the floor. Jiang Zhiyu leaned over to pick them up and placed them back on the table. Kim Taeyeon sat down beside him, hung her bag on the back of the chair, and took a sip from the water glass on the table. Her face was a bit flushed, though it was unclear if it was from running or the cold. She was wearing a gray hoodie with the hood down; her hair was loose, the ends a bit dry and split. Her lips were somewhat dry and peeling; she licked them, but it didn't help. Jiang Zhiyu pushed the water glass toward her. 'Drink some water first.' 'Mm.' Kim Taeyeon picked up the glass and took another sip. This time she drank more slowly, feeling the coolness spread from her chest to her stomach as the water went down. She set the glass down and looked at the platter of BBQ, half of which had already been finished by Yeri. 'You guys didn't wait for me.' 'Couldn't wait. Yeri was hungry.' 'Are you hungry?' 'I am,' Jiang Zhiyu said. Kim Taeyeon looked at him, the corner of her mouth twitching into a tiny curve. It wasn't a smile, but a sort of 'fair enough' acknowledgment.

Yeri finished gnawing on a rib, placed the bone on the edge of the plate, and grabbed another. Her speed in eating ribs was very fast, as if she were in some kind of competition. Watching her speed, Jiang Zhiyu also grabbed a rib and started eating. The two of them seemed to be competing—you take a bite, I take a bite; you spit out a bone, I spit out a bone. The bones hit the plate with a 'clack-clack' sound, as if keeping a rhythm. Kim Taeyeon held her water glass, watching silently. She didn't join in; she preferred to watch. She watched Yeri with sauce on the corners of her mouth and eyes narrowed into slits as she chewed, and she watched Jiang Zhiyu with fingers glistening with oil and bits of meat stuck to his chin. Yeri was a junior she liked very much; she had liked her since Red Velvet's debut. It wasn't the 'crush' kind of like, but a 'professional appreciation' kind of like. Yeri had talent, an aura, and that 'something' that made people want to look at her more. she was dazzling on stage and very authentic off stage. No faking, no acting, no pretension. When she laughed, she laughed; when she cried, she cried; and when she was angry, she was angry. Kim Taeyeon liked people like that because you didn't have to guess what they were thinking. If she was happy, you could be happy with her. If she was sad, you could comfort her. If she was angry, you just waited for her to cool off. Simple, direct, and not exhausting.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Jiang Zhiyu is also this kind of person. No, he isn't. He isn't a "simple and direct" person; he is a person who "makes you think he is simple and direct." His simplicity is designed, and his directness is calculated. He knows when he should smile and when he shouldn't, when he should speak and when he should keep his mouth shut. He hides all the "design" and "calculation" behind that calm face that betrays no emotion. What you see is what he wants you to see. What you don't see is what he doesn't want you to see. But Kim Taeyeon likes watching him. Not the "like" that implies affection, but the "want to watch" kind of watching. Watching him turn the meat, watching him drink milk tea, watching him sit in the recording studio with his eyes closed listening to music, watching his hair blow in the wind as he walks down the street. She likes watching his every movement, every expression, every breath. She doesn't know why. She only knows that when she watches him, her heart feels very quiet. Not "calm," but "quiet." It's like a room that hasn't been lived in for a long time; suddenly someone pushes open the window, the wind blows in, blowing away the dust and dispersing the musty smell. The room is still the same room, but the air is different.

Jiang Zhiyu's phone lit up. It was placed screen-up on the table, next to Yeri's plate. Yeri was gnawing on a rib; by the third one, the sauce at the corner of her mouth had smeared all the way to her chin. Her peripheral vision swept over the phone screen, and she saw the message. It wasn't "snooping," it was "accidentally seeing." The message was sent by Group Leader Kim from the A&R department, and the content was only one line: "You are in charge of Red Velvet's comeback project. It starts next Monday; get ready." Yeri's mouth stopped. The rib was still in her mouth, but the meat had been gnawed off, leaving only the bone. Her eyes were wide, and the light from the phone screen reflected in her pupils. She spat out the bone, wiped the sauce from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and let out a garbled exclamation that sounded like she was choking on something. "Zhiyu! You're going to be in charge of our comeback!" Her voice was loud, so loud that a guest at the next table turned to look at her. She didn't care; her attention was entirely on Jiang Zhiyu's face. Her eyes were as bright as two stars, and the curve of her mouth was wide enough to reveal two rows of teeth. She was smiling, smiling very happily, because she was a member of Red Velvet, Red Velvet was having a comeback, and the comeback project was being handled by Jiang Zhiyu. Jiang Zhiyu was the most amazing, most reliable, and most reassuring producer she knew. If he was in charge, she wouldn't have to worry. No need to worry about the song not being good, no need to worry about the album not selling well, no need to worry about the fans not liking it. He could do everything well; she trusted him.

Kim Taeyeon also saw the message. The corners of her mouth had just curled up, but then they pulled back. It wasn't "not smiling," it was "stopping halfway through a smile." Because she saw Jiang Zhiyu's expression. His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. But his eyes were not calm. His eyes were saying—I don't want to. Not "don't want to do it," but "don't want to face it." Face Red Velvet, face the people he had to be responsible for, face—her. Bae Joo-hyun. Kim Taeyeon had known Bae Joo-hyun for many years. She had known her since she debuted; back then, Bae Joo-hyun was still a trainee, and she was quite old, old enough that people around her said, "She probably won't be able to debut." But she did debut; it was late, but she did it. She became the leader of Red Velvet, became the "Goddess of the 4th Generation," and became an "All-Rounder Idol" in the eyes of countless people. Kim Taeyeon had always thought Bae Joo-hyun was beautiful, not the "exquisitely featured" kind of beautiful, but the "just standing there makes people want to look at her" kind of beautiful. That kind of beauty didn't need any embellishment, didn't need lighting, angles, or filters. She was there, and she was beautiful. But Kim Taeyeon also knew that between Jiang Zhiyu and Bae Joo-hyun, there was something indescribable. Not "ambiguity," not "liking," but a more subtle distance, like "wanting to get close but not daring to." They had collaborated, but they were strangers. Did they have each other's contact information? No. Had they spoken? Yes, in the recording studio, in the hallway, during company dinners. But those words were "work," "politeness," "small talk between a senior and a junior." Not a single sentence was superfluous, not a single sentence was "something I want to say to you." The distance between them was not "far," it was "just right." Just right enough not to be gossiped about, just right enough not to cause misunderstandings, just right enough for both of them to be safe. But that "just right" made Kim Taeyeon feel heartbroken. Not heartbroken that "they can't be together," but heartbroken that "they could have become good friends, but didn't."

Kim Taeyeon picked up her water glass and took a sip. The water was cold, and the chill spread from her throat to her chest. She put the glass down, shifted her gaze from Jiang Zhiyu's face, and landed on Yeri. Yeri was messaging furiously; on her phone screen was a group chat window, the Red Velvet group chat. She saw Wendy's profile picture, a white kitten wearing a bow tie. Joy's profile picture, a selfie, making a heart shape at the camera. Seulgi's profile picture, a landscape photo, Mount Fuji she took when she went to Japan. And Bae Joo-hyun's profile picture, a rabbit holding a carrot. The rabbit was white, the carrot was orange, and the rabbit's eyes were red, very bright, as if looking at something interesting. Yeri sent a message in the group: "Family! Our comeback project is being handled by Jiang Zhiyu! The same Jiang Zhiyu who wrote 'prince ruperts drop'! The super amazing one!" Wendy replied in a second with a "Wow," Joy sent a "That's great," and Seulgi sent an "Looking forward to it." Bae Joo-hyun didn't send text; she sent a sticker. A kitten giving a thumbs up, two little paws raised, thumbs sticking up, with a satisfied smile on its face, like it had just eaten a dried fish. Below the sticker, she typed two words: "Looking forward to it."

Yeri grinned and held up her phone, turning the screen toward Jiang Zhiyu. "Look, Joohyun Unnie sent this." Her tone was light, so light it was as if she were saying "the weather is nice today." She didn't know what was between Jiang Zhiyu and Bae Joo-hyun; she only knew they were both good people, and good people should become good friends. So she was playing matchmaker for them—not "matchmaking," but "creating opportunities." She didn't know that this "opportunity" she created was, for Jiang Zhiyu, a knife.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the words "Looking forward to it" on the screen, looked at the kitten giving a thumbs up sticker. His fingers curled under the table. Not "curled," but "clenched." Clenched into a fist, his nails digging into his palms, it hurt a little. He let go, his fingers slowly stretching out, straightening one by one, like tender shoots emerging from the soil in spring. He raised his head, looked at Yeri, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "Yeah, I saw it." His voice was calm, so calm it was as if he were saying "the weather is nice today." But his heartbeat was not calm. From the moment he saw those two words "Looking forward to it," his heart had not been calm. Not because of nervousness, but because he imagined Bae Joo-hyun's expression when she typed those two words. She would be looking down, the corners of her mouth turned up slightly, her fingers tapping lightly on the screen, typing "Looking forward to it," then hesitating, deleting it, typing it again, and not deleting it. She would look at those two words and think—should I add a sticker? Which sticker should I add? The kitten thumbs up? The rabbit heart? Or add nothing at all? She hesitated, then added the kitten thumbs up. Because the kitten thumbs up wouldn't be too enthusiastic, nor too cold. Just right. She was that kind of person, doing everything "just right." Just right enough not to cause misunderstandings, just right enough not to make people overthink, just right enough that even she herself thought, "I'm just being polite." She didn't know that her "politeness" had made Jiang Zhiyu's heart race.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up his water glass and took a sip. The water was cold, and the chill spread from his throat to his chest. He put the glass down, lowered his head, and pretended to look at the grilled meat on the table. His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. But at the corners of his mouth, there was a tiny, almost invisible curve. Not a smile, but the suppression of "I want to smile but I can't." Kim Taeyeon watched that curve, withdrew her gaze, picked up her water glass, and took another sip. Her expression was also very calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. But her heart was not calm. She was thinking about one thing—would Jiang Zhiyu and Bae Joo-hyun become closer because of this collaboration? Not "being together," but "closer." Close enough to chat, close enough to go out for meals, close enough to send "goodnight" to each other. She didn't know why she cared about this. She only knew that she did.

Yeri finished the fourth rib, took off her gloves, and threw them into the trash can. She leaned back in her chair, rubbed her belly, and let out a satisfied "Hmm—" that sounded like a kitten being scratched under the chin. "Zhiyu, we're going to be seeing a lot of each other starting next week. You need to be mentally prepared; we Red Velvet are quite difficult to deal with." Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "How are you difficult to deal with?" "Wendy has many demands, Joy talks a lot, Seulgi is too serious, and Joohyun Unnie—" She paused, thought for a moment, "Joohyun Unnie looks cold and aloof, but she actually loves to talk. She's just shy about speaking, so you have to take the initiative to ask her. If she doesn't ask, you still have to speak. If you don't speak, she won't speak. If she doesn't speak, you won't know what she wants. If you don't know what she wants, she'll think you don't understand her. If she thinks you don't understand her, she'll ignore you." Jiang Zhiyu listened without speaking. He silently memorized it in his heart—Bae Joo-hyun, doesn't love to talk, needs to be asked proactively. If you don't ask, she won't talk. If you don't talk, you won't know what she wants. If you don't know what she wants, she'll think you don't understand her. If she thinks you don't understand her, she'll ignore you. This was what Yeri said. Yeri wouldn't lie to him. Yeri was Bae Joo-hyun's teammate, and teammates know teammates best. What teammates say is always true. Jiang Zhiyu engraved every word Yeri said into his heart. Not "memorized," but "carved." Carved into his brain, carved into his heart, carved into his bones. He didn't want to forget, because he didn't want her to think, "You don't understand me."

Kim Taeyeon put down her water glass and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. Her gaze was very quiet, so quiet it was like a pool of stagnant water. But beneath the stagnant water were undercurrents, undercurrents surging, churning, pushing her in a direction she didn't want to go. She didn't want to go, because if she went, she would see some things she didn't want to see. For example—the way Jiang Zhiyu looked at Bae Joo-hyun. She didn't know what that look was like, but she knew it wouldn't be what she wanted to see. So she didn't go. She picked up her water glass and took another sip. The water was finished; the glass was empty. She placed the glass on the table, looked at the small circle of undried water at the bottom, and said to herself in her heart—You are Kim Taeyeon. You are the leader of Girls Generation. You are the top female singer in South Korea. You shouldn't care about these things. She did care. She cared, but she wouldn't let anyone know. She locked that "caring" into that very small room, locked the door, and threw away the key. Then she raised her head, looked at Jiang Zhiyu, and smiled. That smile was very short, so short it lasted only an instant. But in that instant, there was too much—not jealousy, not sadness, but a confirmation of "I know." Once known, there's no need to ask again. Even if asked, it wouldn't change. If it won't change, one can only accept it. Once accepted, it won't hurt. Once it doesn't hurt, it's in the past.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't see Kim Taeyeon's smile. He was looking at his phone, looking at the Red Velvet group chat. Yeri had pulled him into the group. Not "pulled," but "added." She didn't ask him before adding him, because Yeri thought he didn't need to be asked. He was the person in charge of Red Velvet's comeback project; of course, he had to join the group. If he didn't join the group, how could they communicate? If they didn't communicate, how could they work? If they didn't work, how could they release an album? If they didn't release an album, how could they have a comeback? If there was no comeback, how could he make money? He needed to make money, so he needed to join the group. Yeri's logic was correct; Jiang Zhiyu couldn't refute it. He joined the group, and the messages in the group were scrolling rapidly. Wendy sent a "Welcome," Joy sent a GIF of flowers being thrown, and Seulgi sent a "Producer Jiang, please take care of us." Bae Joo-hyun didn't send a message. Her profile picture was still there, that rabbit holding a carrot, eyes red and bright, as if looking at something interesting. Jiang Zhiyu looked at that rabbit, his finger pausing on the screen. He didn't send a message, didn't say "Hello everyone," didn't say "Please take care of me." He put his phone away, put it in his pocket, then raised his head and looked at Yeri. "See you next week." "See you next week." Yeri smiled. She smiled very happily, because she felt she had done a good deed. Pulling Jiang Zhiyu into the group, letting him be in the same group as Bae Joo-hyun, letting him see her messages, and letting her see his messages. They could chat now—not "private chat," but "group chat." Group chat is still chatting; if they chat, they will get familiar; if they get familiar, they will get close; if they get close, they will—she didn't know what would happen, but she felt it would be very good.

Kim Taeyeon stood up and picked up her bag. "I'm leaving. Enjoy your meal."

"Noona, I'll walk you out."

"No need. I'll call a taxi myself."

Kim Taeyeon's tone brooked no refusal, so Jiang Zhiyu did not insist further.

He watched her put on her coat, zip it up, sling her bag over her shoulder, walk to the door, and push it open.

The night breeze blew in, lifting her hair and leaving a few strands clinging to her cheeks.

She didn't reach up to brush them away, just stood there like a reed bent by the wind that had sprung back on its own.

The door closed, and her retreating figure vanished behind the glass.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the door, silent for a moment.

Then he lowered his head and continued eating the barbecue.

The meat had gone cold, and the fat had solidified, forming a thin, white film on the plate.

He didn't reheat it, just picked up a piece and put it in his mouth.

It was cold and didn't taste good.

But he didn't spit it out; he chewed it and swallowed.

Because this was food, and food must not be wasted.

This was a principle he had learned on the Tianxuan Continent—not from books, but from life.

From those days when he couldn't afford to eat, from those days when he had to split a single bowl of instant noodles into two meals, from those times when he had only a few ten thousand won in his pocket and didn't know where his next meal was coming from.

Those days had taught him one truth: food must not be wasted.

People who waste food have never known hunger.

He had known hunger, so he would not waste it.

Yeri watched him eat the cold meat, saying nothing.

She also picked up a piece and put it in her mouth.

It was cold and didn't taste good.

But she didn't spit it out either; she chewed it and swallowed.

It wasn't because she had known hunger, but because she didn't want to waste the meat Jiang Zhiyu had grilled.

The meat he grilled was delicious even when cold.

Not because the meat was good, but because he was the one who grilled it.

The two of them finished the remaining meat on the plate.

Yeri wiped her mouth and stood up. "Let's go. I'll take you back."

"No need. I'll take the subway myself."

"It's so late, it's not safe."

"I know kung fu."

Yeri looked at him, silent for a moment.

Then she smiled. "Then you take me."

"Okay."

They walked out of the barbecue restaurant, and the night breeze blew over, carrying the unique scent of early autumn, a mix of fallen leaves and barbecue smoke.

Yeri turned up the collar of her coat and hunched her neck.

She walked beside Jiang Zhiyu with a light step, like a kitten that had just eaten its fill.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket; she took it out, glanced at it, and smiled.

"Joohyun Unnie sent a message."

She held the phone up in front of Jiang Zhiyu.

On the screen, Bae Joo-hyun had sent a message—not text, but a sticker.

A kitten hiding in a corner, poking out half its head, its eyes round, as if peeking at something.

Below the sticker, she had typed a line: "Producer Jiang joined the group? How come I didn't see him speak?"

Yeri typed back with a smile: "He doesn't like to talk. You should take the initiative and talk to him."

"Me talk to him? I'm his senior."

"Seniors can take the initiative with juniors too. Didn't you say you were looking forward to it? If you're looking forward to it, you have to be proactive."

Bae Joo-hyun didn't reply.

She sent a sticker: a kitten burying its face in its paws, as if shy.

Yeri looked at the sticker and laughed out loud.

"Zhiyu, Joohyun Unnie is shy."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak.

He walked beside Yeri, his pace neither fast nor slow, the distance of each step consistent.

Streetlights passed overhead one by one, stretching their shadows from behind them to in front, then casting them back behind again.

He looked at the two shadows on the ground, one long and one short, and thought—Bae Joo-hyun is shy.

Because he was in the group, but she hadn't seen him speak.

She wanted to see him speak, wanted to see him send a message, wanted to see his name appear on the screen.

She hadn't seen it, so she asked him, "How come I didn't see him speak?"

She wanted to know if he was there, wanted to know if he would send a message, wanted to know what he would say.

She didn't know anything, so she asked.

Asking "How come I didn't see him speak" wasn't about "he didn't speak," it was about "I want to see him speak."

Jiang Zhiyu took his phone out of his pocket and opened the Red Velvet group chat.

He typed a line in the input box: "Hello everyone, I am Jiang Zhiyu. Starting next week, I will be in charge of Red Velvet's comeback project. Please take care of me."

He looked at the line, read it again, and then pressed send.

The message flew out from his phone, traveled through Seoul's network, and landed on the screens of every group member.

Wendy instantly replied with a "Welcome," Joy sent a confetti animation, and Seulgi sent a "Producer Jiang nim, please take care of me."

Bae Joo-hyun didn't send a message.

But under her profile picture, a small line of text appeared: "Read."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the "Read" text, silent for a moment.

Then he put his phone away and back into his pocket.

Yeri watched from the side, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up.

She didn't speak, but a voice inside her said—he sent it. He sent a message. Joohyun Unnie saw it.

She saw it, but she didn't reply.

Why didn't she reply? Because she didn't know what to reply.

She wanted to reply, but she didn't know what to say.

She was afraid of replying wrongly, afraid of being too enthusiastic, afraid of being too cold, afraid he would misunderstand.

She was afraid of everything, so she didn't reply at all.

If she didn't reply, she wouldn't be wrong.

But she didn't know that not replying was also wrong.

It was wrong because it made him wait.

He was waiting for her message.

She didn't know.

——

Karina hadn't originally wanted to come. It wasn't "didn't want to come," but "didn't know if she should come."

Kim Minjeong sent a message in the group: "Oppa is so busy lately, let's go see him."

Ningning instantly replied with a "Sure," then sent a "kitten peeking" sticker.

Karina looked at the two messages, her finger hovering over the input box for a long time; she typed "Sure," then deleted it.

It wasn't that she didn't care about Jiang Zhiyu; she understood him.

She understood that someone like him, when busy, didn't want to be disturbed.

It wasn't "didn't like," it was "didn't need."

He didn't need comfort, didn't need company, didn't need anyone to appear before him and say, "You've worked hard."

Because the three words "You've worked hard" meant nothing to him.

He knew he was working hard; he didn't need others to tell him.

If others told him, he wouldn't feel like he was working any harder.

If others didn't tell him, he wouldn't feel like he wasn't working hard.

"You've worked hard" was nonsense, and he knew it.

So he didn't need it. If he didn't need it, they shouldn't go.

If they went, it would be an intrusion.

But she couldn't say no to Kim Minjeong and Ningning.

They wanted to find Jiang Zhiyu, and if they wanted to go, they would go.

If they went and she didn't, it might not matter.

Perhaps they wouldn't think anything of it, perhaps they would think "Karina Unnie is busy," or perhaps they wouldn't even notice she hadn't gone.

But Karina noticed.

She noticed that she hadn't gone, but they had.

They went, and she didn't.

What would they talk about? They would talk about Jiang Zhiyu, talk about his work, talk about how messy his desk was, talk about whether he had lost weight again.

If she didn't go, she wouldn't hear it.

If she didn't hear it, she wouldn't know.

If she didn't know, she would feel a rift forming.

A rift isn't built in a day; it accumulates day by day.

Not going today, not going tomorrow, not going the day after.

Day by day, day by day, the rift would turn from a thin crack into a wall.

Once the wall was built, it couldn't be torn down.

She didn't want that wall to be built.

So she went.

Not because she "wanted to go," but because she "should go."

She should go, so she went.

If she went, there wouldn't be a rift.

If there wasn't a rift, they would still be themselves. A whole. A whole of four people. If one was missing, it wouldn't be a whole.

Plus, she really did want to meet Jiang Zhiyu.

Not because she "wanted to meet," but because she "wanted to see him."

To see if he had lost weight again, to see if he had been staying up late again, to see if he was drinking milk tea again.

Kim Taeyeon's "one-week ban" had long expired, so he must have started drinking it again.

Full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans.

The pink liquid was so sweet it made one's throat feel cloying.

She didn't like drinking milk tea, but she liked watching him drink it.

When watching him drink milk tea, his eyes would crinkle, the corners of his mouth would slightly lift, and he would transform from "Producer Jiang" into "Jiang Zhiyu."

Not "Producer," but "Zhiyu."

It was the Zhiyu who had taken down four thugs alone by the Han River, the Zhiyu who had silenced everyone in the recording studio with a single song, the Zhiyu who had carried a mountain-high tray in the cafeteria and finished every scrap of food.

It was the Zhiyu she liked.

Not the "like" of liking, but the "like" of "liking to watch."

Liking to watch him drink milk tea, liking to watch him flip meat, liking to watch him ruffle Kim Minjeong's hair, liking to watch him send "Got it" in the group and then leave it on read.

Liking to watch him do anything.

Not because of what he did, but because he was him.

At the end of the corridor on the fourth floor of the SM Building, the storage room that had been temporarily converted into an office had its door closed.

Kim Minjeong stood at the door, raised her hand, and knocked three times. "Knock, knock, knock."

The force wasn't heavy, but it was rhythmic, as if she were signaling some secret code.

A voice came from inside, not loud, but very clear. "Please come in."

Ningning's hand was faster than Kim Minjeong's; before the doorknob was fully turned, her hand had already slipped under Kim Minjeong's arm.

Not "slipped," but "dove."

Like a snake, she dove through the gap, grabbed the doorknob, turned it, pushed it open, and squeezed inside sideways.

The entire process took less than two seconds, so fast that before Kim Minjeong could react, the door was already open and Ningning was already inside.

"Hey!" Kim Minjeong's voice echoed in the corridor. "You beat me to it again!"

Ningning stood inside the door, turned around, and looked at Kim Minjeong, her lips curling into a smug smile that seemed to say, "I won."

"Unnie, you're too slow."

"It's that you're too cunning! Diving under my arm—that's cheating!"

"No cheating. The door rules don't say you can't dive under an arm."

"What door rules? Who made these door rules?"

"I did. Just now."

Kim Minjeong was so angry she couldn't speak; she glared at Ningning, and Ningning glared back.

The two were like fighting cocks, feathers ruffled, necks stretched long, neither willing to yield.

Karina walked at the back, watching the two of them blocking the doorway, neither giving way, and was silent for a moment.

Then she reached out, passed through the gap between the two, gave a gentle push, and the door opened.

She walked in, her pace neither fast nor slow, as if walking a path she had walked many times before.

Kim Minjeong and Ningning turned their heads simultaneously, watched her back, closed their mouths at the same time, and followed her inside.

Then they saw the mountain.

Not a mountain, but documents. Piled on the desk, stacked like a mountain.

Not one, but several. Rolling and undulating, like a mountain range.

The highest one was in the middle, nearly touching the desk lamp.

The lamp was white, with a round shade, and the light was a warm yellow, shining on the documents and turning the white paper a pale beige.

Sitting behind the documents was a person.

A white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the top button of the collar unfastened, revealing a small section of his collarbone.

His hair had grown a bit long, his bangs hanging down and covering half his forehead.

His eyes were fixed on the documents on the desk, and he didn't look up.

He held a pen in his hand, the tip moving across the paper, making a faint rustling sound.

His expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned.

But his gaze was not calm.

His gaze was focused, so focused that it was as if he were doing something that required intense concentration.

Not "writing documents," but "defusing a bomb."

Every stroke could not be wrong; if it were wrong, it would explode.

If it exploded, he would be finished. Not "he was finished," but "his plan was finished."

If the plan was finished, five years would be wasted. If five years were wasted, he would have to start all over again.

To start all over again, he didn't know if he still had the strength.

So he could not be wrong. Every stroke could not be wrong.

Sunlight shone in from the window, landing on his face.

Half of his face was in the sunlight, the other half in the shadows.

The half in the sunlight had very fair skin, so fair that one could see the thin, blue vein beneath his temple.

His eyebrows were thick, the tails slightly arched, like a bow pulled halfway back.

His eyes were bright, his pupils a deep brown, shimmering with a faint gold in the sunlight.

His lips were thin, looking like a fine line when pursed.

The half in the shadow had deeper contours, the curve of his jawline more distinct, the shadow on his nose bridge heavier.

That half of his face looked more mature, more silent, more like an adult.

Not "like," but "is."

He was an adult to begin with, just trapped in a sixteen-year-old body.

But that face, that face cut in two by the sunlight, reminded Karina of the family banquet at the beginning of the month.

That day was a weekend, and Mrs. Yu had asked Karina to go to the study to call Mr. Yu for dinner.

She walked to the study door; it was open.

Mr. Yu was sitting behind the desk, with several documents spread out in front of him.

He was wearing reading glasses, the lenses silver, reflecting light under the lamp.

He held a pen in his hand, the tip moving across the paper, making a faint rustling sound.

His expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned.

Sunlight shone in from the window, landing on his face; half of his face was in the sunlight, the other half in the shadows.

Karina stood at the door, watching him for a few seconds.

Then she said, "Dad, it's time to eat."

Mr. Yu looked up, took off his reading glasses, looked at her, and smiled slightly. "Okay."

[part:gemini-3.0-flash]

Back then, she didn't think much of it, only that "Dad has grown old." Not "old" in the sense of being elderly, but "old" in the way he looked when he was working seriously. That kind of "old" wasn't about wrinkles or white hair; it was a weariness of "I'm supporting this family." He wouldn't say "I'm tired," he wouldn't say "it's hard," he wouldn't say anything. He just sat there, reading documents, signing, reading documents, signing. Day after day, year after year. Karina watched his back as she grew up, from seeing "Dad is very tall" to "Dad seems to have gotten shorter." It wasn't that he had gotten shorter, it was that she had grown taller. She had grown taller and could see the top of his head. There was a lot of white in his hair—not just "a lot," but "quite a bit." She hadn't noticed before, but she did that day. Because she was standing at the study door, the sunlight was shining on his head, and the white hair was blindingly bright in the sun.

Back then, she thought, Dad has grown old. In the future, she wanted to find someone like him. Not "old like Dad," but "serious like Dad." Serious about work, serious about life, and serious about family. Someone who wouldn't say "I love you," but would have a warm meal ready when you came home. Someone who wouldn't say "I miss you," but would ask "When are you coming back?" when you called. Someone who wouldn't say "I'm tired," but would sit in the study while you were away, reading documents, signing, reading documents, signing. Day after day, year after year.

At the dining table, Mrs. Yu placed a piece of pork rib in Yu Ji-eun's bowl. "When are you going to find a boyfriend?" Yu Ji-eun was gnawing on the rib and nearly choked on a bone when she heard this. She coughed twice, took a sip of water, then looked up at Mrs. Yu. "Mom, you're pushing for marriage way too early. I'm only twenty-five." "Twenty-five isn't early. When I was twenty-five, I had already given birth to you." "You are you, and I am me." "You're my daughter; you should be like your mother." Yu Ji-eun put down her chopsticks, leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and looked at Mrs. Yu. "Fine. Then tell me, what kind of man should I look for?"

Mrs. Yu smiled. It was a subtle smile, not the casual "Sure, I'll introduce someone to you," but the smug "I've been waiting for you to say that for a long time." She put down her chopsticks, folded her hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly. Her gaze moved from Yu Ji-eun to Mr. Yu, then from Mr. Yu to Karina, and finally back to Yu Ji-eun.

"A suitable man—" Her voice was very soft, as if she were talking about something unimportant. But her eyes weren't saying "unimportant"; they were saying "very important." "A man like your father." Mr. Yu was drinking soup, and upon hearing this, his spoon clinked against the rim of the bowl with a crisp "ting." He didn't look up and continued drinking his soup. But his ears turned red—not the red of "shyness," but the red of "being praised." He and Mrs. Yu had been married for nearly thirty years, and Mrs. Yu rarely praised him to his face. It wasn't that she didn't want to, but that she was embarrassed. Today she did, in front of their daughters, and she did so very generously—so generously that it didn't seem like she was praising her husband, but rather setting a standard for her daughters: "A man like your father is a good man. If you're going to look, look for someone like this." Yu Ji-eun glanced at Mr. Yu, then at Mrs. Yu, and laughed. "Mom, are you praising Dad?" "I'm setting a standard for you." "Dad's standard is too high. I can't find someone like that." "If you can't find one, then take your time. No rush." Mrs. Yu's tone was still soft, as if she were talking about something unimportant. But her eyes weren't saying "no rush"; they were saying "I'm anxious, but I won't push."

"Or—" She paused, the curve of her lips widening, "someone like the friend Ji-min brought home."

The air at the dining table froze. Not "quiet," but "frozen." Time, sound, breath—everything stopped at that moment. Mr. Yu's spoon hung in mid-air, soup dripping from the edge into the bowl, creating a small splash. He didn't wipe it away because he had heard what Mrs. Yu said—"the friend Ji-min brought home." Jiang Zhiyu. That seventeen-year-old boy wearing a white shirt, sitting on his sofa, saying "I'm just a friend." Mr. Yu had never met Jiang Zhiyu; he had been on a business trip that day and wasn't home. He only knew his wife had called to tell him "a guest had come over," "brought by Ji-min," "a boy," and "very much like you when you were young." He was in a meeting at the time and hadn't asked for details. Now he heard the name "Jiang Zhiyu"—though Mrs. Yu hadn't actually said the name, he knew who she was talking about. Because Karina had never brought any friend home before, never. He was the first. And the first would always be remembered.

Karina's face turned red. Starting from the base of her neck, it spread all the way up to the tips of her ears and her hairline. She lowered her head, pretending to eat, but her chopsticks were only grabbing air, which she brought to her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. She didn't know what she was swallowing; she only knew she couldn't let anyone see her face. Her face was too red, red as if she had a fever, red as if she had done something wrong. She hadn't done anything wrong; she had just brought a friend home. The friend was a boy, and the boy was Jiang Zhiyu. A boy a year younger than her had sat on her sofa and said, "I'm just a friend." When she heard "just a friend," her heart felt a sudden void. That feeling of a void was like trying to catch a cloud; when you reach out, the cloud is still there, but when you pull your hand back, there's nothing in your palm. It's not that the cloud is gone, but that you can't catch it. She had never told anyone about this feeling because she didn't know what to call it. She only knew that this feeling reappeared when she heard her mother say "someone like the friend Ji-min brought home." This time, it wasn't in her heart, but on her face. Her face was red, her heart was racing, and she didn't know where to put her hands. She lowered her head and pretended to eat.

Yu Ji-eun saw it. Her older sister's eyes were sharp—sharp enough to read things Karina didn't want anyone to read from the angle of her head, the speed of her chopsticks, and the frequency of her chewing. "Oh—" Yu Ji-eun's voice trailed off, like she was singing a song without lyrics. "Ji-min is blushing." Karina's chopsticks paused for a moment before she continued picking up food. She picked up a piece of kimchi, put it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "I am not." "You are. It started from the base of your neck and went all the way behind your ears. You can't see it, but I can." Karina didn't speak because she knew Yu Ji-eun was right. The back of her ears really was burning, as if they had been toasted by a radiator all day in winter. She didn't know how to explain this heat, so she chose not to. If she didn't explain, she wouldn't make things worse by trying to cover it up. If she didn't make things worse, she wouldn't be questioned further. If she wasn't questioned further, she could finish this meal safely. She quickly finished eating, put down her bowl and chopsticks, and said, "I'm going upstairs." Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Without waiting for a response, she stood up, turned, and headed for the stairs. Her pace was fast, almost as if she were running away. It wasn't "running away," but "not wanting to be seen." She didn't want her face to be seen, nor her ears, nor her neck. All those places were very red, so red that even she felt "this isn't a reaction a normal friend would have." But she and Jiang Zhiyu were just normal friends. Just friends, she told herself.

At the corner of the stairs, she stopped. Not "stopped," but "hid." She hid there, listening to the dining table without her. She could hear the clinking of dishes, the sound of the spoon scooping soup, and the sound of someone chewing food. Those sounds were faint, but in the quiet dining room, they were very clear. Then she heard Mr. Yu's voice.

"Who is that boy Ji-min brought home?"

Mr. Yu's voice wasn't loud, but it was deep—so deep it sounded like he was speaking underwater. Karina stood at the corner of the stairs, her back against the wall, her fingers gripping the railing of the banister so hard her knuckles turned white. She heard something in her father's voice. It wasn't "curiosity"; it was "wariness." Her father wasn't a naturally curious person; he wouldn't press for details like "Who is he?", "What does he do?", or "Where does he live?" just because his daughter brought a friend home. He wasn't the type to ask those questions because he didn't need to. He had his own channels to find out; he knew many people, many of whom would do things for him when needed. He asked "Who is he?" not because he wanted to know, but because he wanted to confirm. To confirm if that person was someone he needed to investigate.

Mrs. Yu's voice drifted over from the dining room, soft and gentle, as if she were coaxing a sulking child. "That boy's name is Jiang Zhiyu; he's a producer at SM."

Yu Ji-eun's voice followed immediately, louder than Mrs. Yu's, carrying a smugness of "I know more." "He's also a year younger than Ji-min."

Karina stood at the corner of the stairs and bit her lower lip. Not just "bit," but "bit hard." Her teeth sank into the skin of her lip; it hurt, but she didn't let go. She really wanted to run down, go to the dining table, and cover her sister's mouth. Not just "cover," but "shut it." Shut out the words she didn't want her father to hear. "A year younger than Ji-min"—the phrase itself wasn't wrong; Jiang Zhiyu really was a year younger than her. But in Mr. Yu's ears, it wasn't a matter of "age difference," but a matter of "he's younger than my daughter." Why would a boy a year younger come home with his daughter? What was his motive? Did he know the family's status? Was he after money? Mr. Yu wouldn't ask these questions, but he would think them. And if he thought too much, he would investigate. If he investigated, he would find out that Jiang Zhiyu lived in a gosiwon, that Jiang Zhiyu had no money, that Jiang Zhiyu wrote songs at SM, that Jiang Zhiyu had written five songs for IU, and that Jiang Zhiyu had helped IU sell 1.2 million albums. The more he knew, the more questions there would be. The more questions, the less at ease he would be. If he wasn't at ease, he would—Karina didn't dare think further. She let go of her lip, leaving a deep, white tooth mark on her lower lip, though it didn't bleed. She licked it with the tip of her tongue; it stung, but she could bear it.

Mr. Yu didn't speak immediately. He was silent for a moment, and in that moment, Karina heard her own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. Each beat was like someone hitting a drum; the drumhead was tight, and the sound of the strike was muffled but vibrated until her chest ached. She didn't know what her father was thinking; she only knew he was thinking. When he was thinking, he wouldn't speak. When he didn't speak, you couldn't guess what was on his mind. When you couldn't guess, you became afraid. She was afraid. Not afraid of what her father would do, but afraid he would investigate Jiang Zhiyu. If he did, he would find out he lived in a gosiwon, that he was alone, that he had no family, and that he had no money. Knowing these things, how would her father see him? Would he think he was some "ill-intentioned" poor kid? Would he think he was a "gold-digger" clinging to the powerful? Would he think he was a "con artist" using Ji-min? She didn't know. She only knew he wasn't. He wasn't ill-intentioned, he wasn't a gold-digger, and he wasn't using her. He was just her friend. Just a friend. But that phrase, in her father's ears, might not be so "just."

Mr. Yu finally spoke. His voice was the same as before—not loud, but very deep. "Mm." Just one syllable. Not "I see," not "Okay," not "I'll remember." Just "Mm." This "Mm" could have countless interpretations. It could mean "I understand, I won't ask more," or it could mean "I understand, I'll look into it." Karina didn't know which one it was, but she knew that given her father's personality, it was the latter. He wouldn't ask, but he would investigate. Once he found out, he would know. Once he knew, he would be at ease. If he wasn't at ease, he would continue to investigate until he was. This was her father's way—not "control," but "protection." Protecting his daughter from harm. He didn't know that his protection made his daughter want to rush down from the corner of the stairs, run to the dining table, and say, "Dad, he's not the kind of person you think he is." She didn't rush down. Because she knew if she said that, her father would ask, "What kind of person is he?" She wouldn't be able to answer. Because she didn't know what "kind of person" Jiang Zhiyu was. She only knew he was Jiang Zhiyu. He was the Jiang Zhiyu who beat up four thugs alone by the Han River, the Jiang Zhiyu who made everyone fall silent with a single song in the recording studio, and the Jiang Zhiyu who carried a mountain of food on his tray in the cafeteria and finished every bit of it. He was a person who deserved to be treated well. She didn't know how to describe these things in words, so she chose not to speak. The price of silence was that her father would investigate on his own. And what he found might not be what she wanted him to see.

Karina stood at the corner of the stairs for a long time. Long enough for the clinking of dishes in the dining room to stop, long enough for the sound of a chair being pushed back to drift up from downstairs, and long enough for someone to walk up the stairs. The footsteps were light; it was Mrs. Yu. She reached the corner of the stairs, saw Karina standing there, and was momentarily stunned. "Why are you still here? Didn't you say you were going upstairs?" Karina opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Mrs. Yu looked at her, noting her crimson earlobes, flushed cheeks, and her lower lip bitten white. She didn't ask "What's wrong?" because she already knew the answer. She simply reached out and gently patted Karina's shoulder. "Go on. Go back to your room and rest." Karina nodded and turned to go upstairs. Her pace was slow, and every step felt like treading on cotton—soft and devoid of strength. She reached the door to her room, pushed it open, walked in, and closed it. Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes. Her mind was filled with her father's "Mhm" and her mother's words: "A boy just like your father, like that good friend Ji-min brought home."

Karina pulled herself out of her memories. She stood at the doorway of Producer Jiang's office, leaning against the frame, watching his profile behind the desk, bisected by the sunlight. Half of his face glowed brilliantly in the sun, while the other half revealed his seriousness in the shadows. She remembered how her father looked sitting in his study; it was just like this. Sunlight would stream through the window, falling on his profile. Half of his face in the light, half in the shadow. His expression was always calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned. His fingers would slide slowly across the pages, reading line by line—slowly, but very earnestly. When her father was serious, a tiny curve would appear at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but a confirmation of "I am doing something important." Jiang Zhiyu had that same curve. Watching that curve, Karina suddenly thought—her father had gone to check. What did he find? Did he find that he wrote songs at SM, that he did planning at Loen, that he sold 1.2 million copies of IU's album, that he lived in a luxury apartment by the Han River, and that it took him less than a year to move there from a gosiwon? Finding these things, how would her father view him? Would he see him as a "capable young man"? Or as a "young man who is too capable and needs to be guarded against"? Karina didn't know. She only knew that she wanted her father to like him. Not just "like," but "approve." Approve of him as a good person, approve of him as a friend worth associating with, and approve that he wasn't after money. She wanted her father's approval because she cared about her father's opinion. And she cared about him, too.

Kim Minjeong's voice pulled Karina out of her reverie. "Oppa, have you eaten?" She was standing in front of the desk, hands propped on the surface, leaning forward with her neck stretched out like a giraffe waiting to be fed. Her gaze fell on Jiang Zhiyu's face, moving from his eyes to his lips, from his lips to his chin, and from his chin to his collarbone visible through his open collar. Her face flushed slightly—not out of shyness, but because she saw a small patch of sunlight dancing on his collarbone, rising and falling slightly with his breath like a resting butterfly.

Jiang Zhiyu's fingers lifted from the keyboard and rested on the desk. He looked up at Kim Minjeong. His eyes were a bit red—not from crying, but from looking at the screen for too long, causing the capillaries on the surface of his eyeballs to dilate, making them as red as a rabbit's. "I ate. At the cafeteria." "What did you have at the cafeteria?" "Bibimbap." "Was it good?" "It was good." Kim Minjeong looked at his red eyes and pursed her lips, wanting to say "You should rest," but she didn't. She knew it would be useless. He wouldn't rest because he couldn't. If he stopped, those documents wouldn't disappear on their own. Those meetings wouldn't cancel themselves, and those projects wouldn't complete themselves. He had to do it, and keep doing it until it was finished. She could only watch from the side, unable to do anything. She didn't like this feeling, but she knew this was the nature of their relationship. It wasn't "her taking care of him," but "him taking care of her." He took care of her training, her dreams, and her future. All she could do was occasionally come to see him to confirm he was still alive, still breathing, still sitting in that office, and hadn't been crushed by that mountain of work.

Ningning stood beside Kim Minjeong, holding a cloth bag. The bag was white, printed with a convenience store logo, and tied at the top; oil stains had seeped through the bottom, forming a dark circle on the white fabric. She placed the bag on the only small empty space on the desk, at the foot of the mountain of documents. "Teacher, I brought this for you." "What is it?" "Samgyetang. From that shop downstairs. The one you said was good." Jiang Zhiyu looked at the bag and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up at Ningning. "Thank you." "You're welcome." Ningning's tone was flat, as if she were saying "The weather is nice today." But as she set the bag down, her finger pressed lightly on the opening, as if confirming the soup hadn't spilled. The soup hadn't spilled, but a bit of oil got on her finger; she wiped it with a tissue, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the trash can.

Karina walked in from the doorway. She didn't prop her hands on the desk like Kim Minjeong, nor did she carry a cloth bag like Ningning. She simply walked over and stood by the desk, looking at Jiang Zhiyu. She wasn't standing directly in front of him, but at an angle—the position closest to him. From this spot, she could see his profile, the fan-shaped shadows his eyelashes cast under his eyes, and the line of his nose bridge illuminated by the sun. She didn't speak, because she didn't need to. She just stood there, quietly watching him. Her gaze was still, like a pool of stagnant water. But beneath the stagnant water were undercurrents, surging and churning, pushing her in a direction she didn't want to go. She didn't want to go there, because if she did, she would see things she didn't want to see. For instance—whenever she saw him, her heart would race. She didn't know why; she just knew her heart was racing. From the moment she stood at the door and saw his profile, it had accelerated. It wasn't just "accelerating"; it was "skipping a beat." It skipped, then caught up. Caught up, then skipped again. Like an old engine—the ignition wasn't smooth and starting was difficult, but once it started, it could keep turning forever without stopping.

Jiang Zhiyu felt her gaze. He looked up at her. His eyes were still red, but his gaze was clear—as clear as a mountain spring where one could see the bottom, and the bottom was clean. "Ji-min, what's wrong?" "Nothing." "Then why are you looking at me?" Karina was silent for a moment. "Because you're good-looking." Kim Minjeong and Ningning turned their heads at the same time to look at Karina. Both of their mouths hung open, but neither made a sound. Karina's expression was calm, as if she were saying "The weather is nice today." But the tips of her ears were red, starting from the lobes and spreading all the way up to the rims and the tips. They were red and hot—so hot she felt her ears were about to catch fire. She didn't reach out to cover them, because she knew that would only make it more obvious. If she didn't cover them, maybe they wouldn't be noticed. But Kim Minjeong and Ningning had already seen. Their gazes moved from Karina's ears to her face, from her face to her eyes, and from her eyes to Jiang Zhiyu's face. Jiang Zhiyu's expression was also calm, as if he were saying "The weather is nice today." But there was a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but a confirmation of "being complimented."

He lowered his head and continued typing. His fingers hit the keyboard, making crisp, rhythmic sounds. Da, da, da-da-da. Da, da, da-da-da. It was like a tune only he could understand—the melody was simple, but the rhythm was complex. Repeat, repeat, repeat. He wouldn't get tired because he was already used to it. Karina stood beside him, watching him type. Her gaze moved from his fingers to his wrist, and from his wrist to the faint scar on his forearm. She had seen that scar many times—in the recording studio, in the practice room, in the barbecue restaurant. Every time she saw it, she would wonder—how did that scar get there? He had never said. She had never asked. She didn't ask because she didn't want him to remember things "not meant to be remembered." He didn't say because he didn't want her to worry. They were both protecting each other in their own ways.

Kim Minjeong pulled up a chair and sat at the side of the desk. She didn't speak because she didn't want to disturb Jiang Zhiyu's work. She just sat there quietly watching him, occasionally checking her phone or taking a sip of water. Ningning also pulled up a chair and sat next to Kim Minjeong. She took the Samgyetang out of the cloth bag, placed it on the table, opened the lid, and set the spoon by the bowl. She didn't rush him to drink it because she knew he would finish it before the soup got cold. He wouldn't waste food; that was something she knew.

The office was very quiet, with only the click-clack of the keyboard and the hum of the air conditioning vent. Sunlight streamed through the window, falling on the four of them and casting their shadows on the floor—one long and three short. The long one was Jiang Zhiyu's, and the short ones belonged to Kim Minjeong, Ningning, and Karina. The three shadows were close together, as if huddling for warmth. Jiang Zhiyu's shadow was a bit further from them—not "far," but "just right." Just right so as not to touch them, just right so they wouldn't feel encroached upon, and just right for him to feel that "this is fine."

Karina looked at that shadow and suddenly remembered her father's "Mhm." That "Mhm" was still spinning in her head, and had been for a long time, spinning until she didn't know when it would stop. But she knew she didn't want it to stop. Because if it stopped, she wouldn't be able to hear her father's voice anymore. Her father's voice was her anchor; as long as the anchor was there, the ship wouldn't drift far. She didn't want to drift far because she still had a home. Home was her father, her mother, her sister, and that house in Seongbuk-dong with a yard and a sofa older than she was. That home held all her memories from childhood. She didn't want to forget those memories, so she didn't want that "Mhm" to stop. But she also didn't want that "Mhm" to keep spinning, because when it did, she would think—her father went to check. What did he find? She didn't know. She only knew that no matter what he found, she wouldn't change her opinion of Jiang Zhiyu. He was her friend. Just a friend. But the word "just" was becoming lighter and lighter in her heart. So light it was like a feather that would drift away with a single puff of wind. She didn't know when it would drift away; she only knew it was still there.

—

Me, updating like crazy~

(09:12) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Oppa, good morning! My fingers finally aren't sticky anymore, but they still have a honey scent... even the toothpaste tasted sweet when I brushed my teeth this morning! Ningning said, "Unnie, even your breath is radiating romantic 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: [For breakfast, I used a mold to make puppy-shaped fried eggs! Although the tail broke off during frying, I used seaweed to make the eyes nice and round~ Look, don't I look like me waiting for Oppa to feed me? (Sends a side-by-side comparison of a head-tilting puppy egg and herself mimicking the tilt)]

(09:15) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The temperature dropped again today, so I wore a sweater inside my down jacket. I ended up bulging like a glutinous rice ball! Manager Unnie poked my stomach and said, "Winter, are you going into hibernation?"... I was clearly practicing the "layers of warmth" Oppa talked about! (Effortfully sucking in stomach)]

(09:21) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The fourth leaf of "Little Winter" has grown a tiny bit! I gave it the nickname "Chuchu," because it's the first new leaf that grew after I met Oppa during the first snow~ (Gently touching the tip of the leaf with a fingertip)]

(09:24) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The little stars I drew on the practice room mirror last night are still there. Today, every time I turned while dancing, I winked at them~ Karina Unnie asked, "Is your eye twitching?" and I answered loudly, "This is a secret agent code!"... Then I was laughed at by all the members for five whole minutes.]

(09:27) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Even after wrapping my scarf three times before leaving, the wind still gets in. Suddenly, I really miss the warmth of Oppa's fingers when you helped me adjust my scarf last time... Today, Oppa must also wrap up into a warm glutinous rice Oppa! (Sends a photo of herself looking round, wrapped in a scarf with only her eyes showing)]