31: Chapter 31: I have no suggestions!

When Red Velvet walked into the cafeteria, they didn't attract anyone's attention.

This in itself was very unusual.

They were Red Velvet, SM's flagship girl group, the Red Velvet who would be surrounded by crowds when walking on the street, who would have dozens of cameras pointed at them when appearing at the airport, and whose selfies could garner hundreds of thousands of likes within hours.

Whenever they walked into any place, it should have caused a commotion.

But today, it didn't.

Everyone in the cafeteria was looking in the same direction—that table in the corner.

No one turned their heads, no one looked up, and no one noticed they had entered.

Yeri stood at the entrance, holding her tray, and scanned the room.

Her gaze shifted from one table to another, from one person's face to another, but not a single person looked at her.

She turned her head and looked at Wendy. "Unnie, I think we aren't popular anymore."

Wendy twitched the corner of her mouth.

That arc wasn't a smile; it was the helplessness of "what kind of nonsense are you saying."

She held her tray, stood next to Yeri, and looked at the people in the cafeteria with their backs to them. A voice in her heart said—it's not that we aren't popular; it's that over there, it's too popular.

That corner, that table, that person. Jiang Zhiyu.

He sat there, holding a pen, drawing something on a piece of paper.

Sitting opposite him was a little girl, eight or nine years old, wearing a white dress with her hair in pigtails.

The two were talking, speaking very fast—so fast it sounded like they were arguing, or perhaps discussing something very important.

Everyone in the cafeteria was listening, mesmerized, forgetting to eat, forgetting that Red Velvet would come.

Wendy didn't know what they were talking about, but she knew it must be something impressive.

Because Jiang Zhiyu wouldn't do anything that wasn't impressive.

Every single thing he did was impressive.

Writing songs was impressive, planning projects was impressive; even eating in the cafeteria could attract a crowd.

She didn't know how he did it; she only knew that he had done it.

Seulgi and Joy walked behind, both holding their trays, their pace neither fast nor slow.

Joy's gaze swept past that table, paused on Jiang Zhiyu for a moment, and then shifted away.

Seulgi's gaze also paused on Jiang Zhiyu, but it didn't shift away.

She was looking at the little girl.

The little girl was very small, so small that her feet couldn't reach the ground while sitting in the chair; her leather shoes hung in the air, swaying gently.

When she spoke, her hands would move, gesturing as if drawing something.

Her expressions were very expressive—frowning one moment, widening her eyes the next, then smiling.

Seulgi watched her and thought she was very cute.

Not just "cute," but "interesting."

She hadn't met many interesting children.

This one, she wanted to know.

Bae Joo-hyun walked at the very back.

She held her tray, her pace very slow, so slow it was like she was taking a stroll.

Her gaze swept from the door to the window, from the window to the tables, and from the tables to the corner.

Then she saw him. Jiang Zhiyu.

He sat there, wearing a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top button of his collar unfastened.

His hair had grown a bit longer, his bangs hanging down to cover half his forehead.

He was talking to that little girl, his expression very serious—so serious it was like he was doing something very important.

His fingers were drawing on the paper, creating one circle after another.

Her gaze paused on him for a moment, then shifted away.

Her expression didn't change, calm to the point where no emotion could be seen.

Her heart didn't change either.

She had simply seen a person, someone she knew, someone she had collaborated with, someone she hadn't seen in a long time.

A long time—how long? She didn't know.

She only knew that she didn't feel there was any problem.

In her eyes, Jiang Zhiyu was just a minor, a young boy who wrote great songs and was very handsome.

He was the person in charge of their group's upcoming album.

That was all.

Not "that was all," but "that's just how it is."

That's just how it is, so she didn't need to overthink it.

If she didn't overthink, she wouldn't have wild thoughts.

If she didn't have wild thoughts, she wouldn't—she wouldn't.

She was just here to eat.

Yeri was the first to finish getting her food.

Her tray was piled into a small mountain; the rice was heaped into a peak, the vegetables were overflowing, and even the soup was filled to the brim of the bowl.

She carried her tray, walked around the cafeteria, and then stopped in front of a table.

That table wasn't far from Jiang Zhiyu's side—not too far, not too close—just right to hear the sounds of their conversation without making people think she was eavesdropping.

She chose this spot because she wanted to know what Jiang Zhiyu was talking about with that little girl.

Not "wanted to know," but "curiosity."

Curiosity was her nature, something she couldn't change.

And she didn't want to change it.

If she changed it, she wouldn't be Yeri anymore.

If she weren't Yeri, she would be someone else.

Someone else wouldn't be here, wouldn't be holding this tray, wouldn't choose this spot.

She would. So she chose it.

Wendy sat down opposite her. Seulgi sat down next to her. Joy sat down next to Seulgi. Bae Joo-hyun sat down next to Wendy.

The five of them sat around a table, with five trays in front of them.

Yeri picked up her spoon, scooped up a mouthful of soup, drank it, and then frowned. "This soup is so bland."

"It's supposed to be bland. SM's soup is always bland."

Wendy picked up a piece of kimchi, put it in her mouth, chewed it, and swallowed.

Her expression didn't change because she was already used to it.

Once used to it, it didn't taste bad.

If it didn't taste bad, it was edible.

If it was edible, that was enough.

It didn't need to be delicious.

People who needed it to be delicious wouldn't come to the cafeteria.

People who came to the cafeteria didn't need it to be delicious.

Yeri didn't need it to be delicious; what she needed was—intelligence.

Her ears perked up.

Not "perked," but "pricked."

Pricked up like two antennas, aimed in the direction of Jiang Zhiyu.

The sounds from over there drifted over intermittently; some words could be heard clearly, others could not.

She heard "shattered city mirror," heard "cyberpunk," heard "Pinocchio," and heard "dark fairy tale."

She didn't quite understand, but she felt it was impressive.

Not "felt," but "knew."

She knew that the words Jiang Zhiyu spoke must be impressive.

Because he was Jiang Zhiyu.

He was the Jiang Zhiyu who wrote "prince ruperts drop," the Jiang Zhiyu who made IU's album sell 1.2 million copies, and the most impressive person she knew.

The words he spoke couldn't be anything but impressive.

So she listened.

Seulgi was also listening.

She wasn't listening to the "concept," but the "voice."

Jiang Zhiyu's voice was very low and steady, like the bass section of a cello.

The little girl's voice was very high and sharp, like the treble section of a violin.

The two voices intertwined, as if playing a piece of music she had never heard before.

The piece had no name, no lyrics, only a melody.

The melody was very fast, so fast that her ears couldn't keep up.

But she liked it.

She liked fast things, because fast meant not dragging, not dragging meant not wasting time, and not wasting time meant—she was listening.

Joy was also listening.

She wasn't listening to the "concept," not the "voice," but the "atmosphere."

The atmosphere around that table was very hot.

Not "hot," but "scalding."

So scalding that the air was trembling, so scalding that the people around were unconsciously drawn closer, so scalding that she also wanted to get closer.

She didn't get closer, because she knew that was Jiang Zhiyu's atmosphere.

His atmosphere wasn't something just anyone could enter.

The people who could enter were all at that table.

She wasn't at that table, so she didn't enter.

Not entering meant being distant.

Being distant meant—she lowered her head and ate.

Bae Joo-hyun was also listening.

She wasn't listening on purpose; the sounds just drifted over.

Drifted into her ears, burrowed into her brain, swirled in her heart, and then went out.

She heard it, but she didn't remember it.

Because she didn't want to remember.

If she didn't want to remember, she wouldn't remember.

If she wouldn't remember, it was like she hadn't heard it.

If she hadn't heard it, it was—she lowered her head and ate.

She ate very slowly, chewing every bite for a long time.

Her expression was very calm, calm to the point where no emotion could be seen.

But her chopsticks paused for a moment while picking up food.

Not "stopped," but "slowed."

It slowed for a moment, then continued.

That moment was very short, so short that no one noticed.

But she herself knew.

She knew her chopsticks had slowed because her ears had heard a word— "Pinocchio."

She liked Pinocchio.

Not "liked," but "had read/watched."

She had read it when she was young, read it many times, until she could recite it.

If she could recite it, she wouldn't forget it.

If she wouldn't forget, it meant she remembered.

If she remembered, it was—she didn't want to remember.

So she didn't want to listen. But she had heard it.

Yeri's intelligence network was very fast.

Back in the practice room, she already knew Jiang Zhiyu's sister had arrived.

Wendy had told her; Wendy had heard it from the Manager; the Manager had heard it from the A&R department; the production department had heard it from Lee Soo-man's secretary.

The news spread very fast, so fast that she knew about it before she had even finished breakfast.

She knew the little girl was named Lee Ji-eun, shared the same name as IU, was Jiang Zhiyu's sister, was eight or nine years old, and could sing extremely well—not just "well," but "extremely well."

So well that Lee Soo-man's secretary had gone to the practice room in person, stood at the door, and listened to her sing a song.

After listening, the secretary didn't say "good," nor did he say "not good"; he just turned and walked away.

Walking away was the answer.

Yeri knew this answer, so she came.

She came to the cafeteria, not to eat, but to see.

To see that little girl, to see Jiang Zhiyu's sister, to see that genius who sang extremely well.

She saw her.

That little girl was sitting opposite Jiang Zhiyu, wearing a white dress with her hair in pigtails, her feet unable to reach the ground, her leather shoes hanging in the air, swaying gently.

When she spoke, her hands would move, gesturing as if drawing something.

Her expressions were very expressive—frowning one moment, widening her eyes the next, then smiling.

Yeri watched her and thought she didn't look like Jiang Zhiyu.

Not "didn't look like," but "didn't look like siblings."

Jiang Zhiyu was quiet; she was lively.

Jiang Zhiyu was steady; she was bubbly.

Jiang Zhiyu sat motionless, with only his fingers moving; she was moving all over, with only her mouth moving even faster.

The two sitting together were like an iced Americano and a cup of full-sugar milk tea.

The iced Americano was bitter; the full-sugar milk tea was sweet.

Bitter and sweet, put together, was life.

Life, was—she was watching.

Wendy was also watching.

She was looking at the little girl's hands.

Those hands were very small, the fingers very short, with nails trimmed very neatly.

When she spoke, those hands would gesture in the air, drawing one circle after another.

Wendy watched those circles and thought they were very round.

So round they looked like they were drawn with a compass, so round they looked like they were perfectly framed by something.

She didn't know what the little girl was gesturing about, but she knew it must be something very important.

Because her expression was very serious, so serious it didn't look like she was gesturing, but like she was creating.

Creating was doing something others hadn't done before.

Doing something others hadn't done before was being a genius.

A genius, was her.

Seulgi put down her spoon.

She wasn't eating anymore because she wanted to hear more clearly.

She leaned her body forward, her ears aimed at that table.

She heard "the tragedy of the Red Queen," heard "the problem of family education," and heard "the price behind beauty."

Her heart skipped a beat.

Not "skipped," but "was struck."

Struck by "the problem of family education."

Because she also had problems with family education.

Not "problems," but "regrets."

Regrets of not being understood, accepted, and acknowledged earlier.

She didn't know if she would have become a different person if she had been understood, accepted, and acknowledged back then.

She only knew that she hadn't become a different person; she had become her current self.

Her current self, sitting here, listening.

Listening to an eight or nine-year-old girl talk about "the problem of family education."

She didn't know what that little girl had experienced, but she knew she must have experienced it.

Only by experiencing it could she understand.

Only by understanding could she speak.

Only by speaking would someone listen.

She was listening.

[part:deepseek-chat]

Joy wasn't looking at the little girl. She was looking at Jiang Zhiyu. At the curve of his lips when he spoke. At the movement of his fingers as he flipped the paper. At the bob of his Adam's apple when he picked up the milk tea to drink. She was looking at him, not because she liked him, but because she was curious. Curious how he could chat with that little girl, sketch on paper, drink milk tea, and notice who had entered the cafeteria, all at the same time. Had he noticed? She didn't know. All she knew was, he never looked up. Not looking up meant he wasn't looking at them. Not looking at them meant—she wasn't important. Unimportant, so she didn't need to be looked at. Not needing to be looked at meant—she lowered her head to eat.

Bae Joo-hyun wasn't looking at the little girl either. She was looking at her own tray. Half the rice remained, half the side dishes remained, the soup was already finished. She picked up her water glass and took a sip. The water was cold, the chill spreading from her throat to her chest. She put the glass down, picked up her chopsticks, picked up a piece of kimchi, and put it in her mouth. The kimchi was sour, so sour it made her teeth feel weak. She didn't frown, because she was used to it. Used to it, so it didn't feel sour. Not feeling sour meant—her gaze shifted away from her tray. Not on purpose, but unconsciously. Unconsciously, meaning she couldn't control it. Couldn't control it, meaning—she glanced at him. Just one glance, very brief, so brief no one noticed. But she herself knew. She knew she had glanced at him. Saw him talking to that little girl, saw his finger drawing circles on the paper, saw him pick up the milk tea and take a sip. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, then shifted away. Shifting away meant she wasn't looking. Not looking meant—she was listening. Listening to him say "shattered city mirror," listening to him say "cyberpunk," listening to him say "The Adventures of Pinocchio." She took it in. Not just "took it in," but "remembered." Remembered "The Adventures of Pinocchio." Because she liked it. She didn't want to like it, but she did.

Yeri finished the last bite of her food, put down her spoon, and leaned back in her chair. She looked at that table, at the little girl, at Jiang Zhiyu. A voice in her heart was saying—that little girl is not ordinary. Not just "not ordinary," but "extraordinary." Extraordinary means impressive. Impressive means—she wanted to know how impressive she was. So she decided, after finishing her meal, to go meet her. Not just "meet," but "strike up a conversation." Strike up a conversation means walking over and saying, "Hello, my name is Yeri." She walked over and stood beside that table.

"Hello, my name is Yeri."

Lee Tima looked up at the girl in front of her wearing a black hoodie, with brown-dyed hair and big eyes. Her expression was calm, so calm it betrayed no emotion. But her heart was not calm. She was thinking—Red Velvet's Yeri. She knew of her. Not "knew" as in acquainted, but "knew of." Knew she was Red Velvet's maknae, knew she was Jiang Zhiyu's friend, knew she was a very interesting person. She didn't know what "interesting" meant, she only knew she liked interesting people. Interesting people aren't boring. Not boring means—she smiled.

"Hello, my name is Lee Ji-eun."

Yeri's eyes lit up. "You're Zhiyu's sister?" "Mhm." "How old are you?" "Nine." "Nine? You sing really well?" "Mhm." "Can you sing for me?" "Now?" "Now." Lee Tima looked at her, silent for a moment. Then she stood up, jumped down from the chair, and stood in front of Yeri. She was small, so small she only came up to Yeri's waist. She tilted her face up, looked at Yeri, opened her mouth, and sang a line. Not a whole song, just a line. One high note, a very high note, so high the fluorescent lights in the cafeteria trembled. So high the trainees at the distant table covered their ears, so high the auntie behind the serving window stuck her head out to look, so high Jiang Zhiyu's pen drew a long line across the paper.

Yeri's mouth fell open and wouldn't close. She looked at Lee Tima, at those sparkling, burning-bright eyes, at that face flushed red with effort like an apple, at that small, thin body in a white dress. A voice in her heart was saying—she's a genius. Not just "is," but "really is." Really a genius. Really Jiang Zhiyu's sister. Really—she smiled. "You're amazing. You're better than your brother." Lee Tima also smiled. "I know."

Bae Joo-hyun sat not far away and heard that high note. Her chopsticks paused for a moment, then continued picking up food. Her expression didn't change, calm to the point of showing no emotion. But her heart had changed. She was thinking—that little girl sings very well. Not just "well," but "too well." Too well, so well she wanted to hear it again. But she wouldn't say it. She just lowered her head and continued eating. The rice was cold, the soup was cold, the kimchi wasn't crispy anymore. She didn't care. What she cared about was that little girl's voice. That voice circled in her mind once, then stopped. Stopped there, wouldn't leave. She couldn't drive it away, and didn't want to.

——

Lee Tima is a brat. That was the only thought in Jiang Zhiyu's mind as he clamped her under his arm and fled the cafeteria. Not "she's a kid so let it go," not "she doesn't know better so forgive her," just "brat." Two words, clean and simple, unadorned. A brat doesn't need to be forgiven, a brat just needs to be clamped under an arm and taken out of the cafeteria.

How did it happen? Looking back, Jiang Zhiyu still felt it was like a nightmare on fast-forward. One moment, Lee Tima was standing in front of Yeri, singing a high note that made the cafeteria lights tremble. The next moment, Yeri was holding her hand, pointing at the table not far away, saying, "Those Unnies are my members." Lee Tima followed her pointing finger and saw Wendy, saw Seulgi, saw Joy, saw Bae Joo-hyun. Her gaze stopped on Bae Joo-hyun. Not "stopped," but "nailed." Like a nail hammered into a plank of wood, impossible to pull out.

Jiang Zhiyu saw her expression. Not "saw," but "caught." His peripheral vision had been observing Lee Tima from the moment she entered the cafeteria. Not because he had foresight, but because he knew her too well. Knew every expression, every movement, every tiny, imperceptible signal that was enough to foretell what would happen next. Her head was turning, from Bae Joo-hyun to Jiang Zhiyu, from Jiang Zhiyu to Bae Joo-hyun. Turned one circle, then another. Another circle. Very fast, fast like an engine with the gas pedal floored, the tachometer needle pushing towards the redline. Her expression was changing, from shock to amusement, from amusement to mischief. That kind of "mischief," Jiang Zhiyu had seen it before. On the Tianxuan Continent, in the TG Entertainment practice room, when she thought of some prank and was about to mess with someone. That expression meant—"I've got you."

Then she opened her mouth.

"Jiang Zhiyu, you're something else!"

Her voice was loud, so loud everyone in the cafeteria stopped chewing. So loud the chopsticks in the hands of the trainees at the distant table clattered onto the table. So loud the auntie behind the serving window stuck her head out, mouth agape, forgetting the spoon in her hand.

"I was wondering why you came to a company like SM with such a perverted name!"

Her finger pointed at Bae Joo-hyun, the tip trembling slightly in the air. Her head turned to Jiang Zhiyu, eyes wide and round, pupils reflecting the cafeteria's fluorescent lights.

"So it's because she's here!"

She turned back again, looking at Bae Joo-hyun.

"What is this? Body double literature?"

The cafeteria fell quiet. Not just "quiet," but "dead silent." Like someone hit pause, time, air, sound, everything stopped in that instant. Chopsticks hung in mid-air, soup spoons paused at lips, rice held in mouths forgotten to swallow. Everyone looked at Bae Joo-hyun, then at Jiang Zhiyu, then at Bae Joo-hyun, then at Jiang Zhiyu. Gazes moved back and forth between the two, like a ping-pong ball, back and forth, back and forth.

Jiang Zhiyu's face stiffened. Not just "stiffened," but "froze." Like someone had poured a bucket of liquid nitrogen inside him, freezing everything from bones to skin, heart to expression. The curve of his lips remained from before, but his eyes couldn't move anymore. His pupils fixed there, looking at Lee Tima, looking at this brat, looking at this person he personally picked up from the ASB entrance, taught to sing, watched grow up, thought would at least save him some face in public—brat.

Bae Joo-hyun frowned. That "frown" was brief, less than a second. Her brows moved slightly, then returned to normal. Her expression was still the same, calm to the point of showing no emotion. But her chopsticks paused. Not "paused," but "slowed." Slowed for a moment, then continued picking up food. She picked up a piece of kimchi, put it in her mouth, chewed, swallowed. She didn't look at Jiang Zhiyu, didn't look at Lee Tima, didn't look at anyone. She was just eating. As if everything that just happened didn't exist.

But Jiang Zhiyu knew it existed. It existed there, in everyone's ears, in everyone's minds, in everyone's gazes. Those gazes pricked him like needles, on his back, on his neck, on his face. He didn't know what those gazes meant—surprise? Sympathy? Curiosity? Mockery? He didn't want to know. He just wanted to leave.

He reached out and covered Lee Tima's mouth. Not "covered," but "smothered." Like putting a lid on a pot, covering her entire face. His hand was big, so big her nose and mouth were covered, only her eyes showing. Those eyes were still smiling, curved into crescents, as if saying "I did a good thing." Jiang Zhiyu didn't look at her. He stood up, his chair sliding back with a screech. Then he started apologizing.

"Mianhae. Mianhae. Mianhae."

The "sorry"s spilled from his mouth like they were free. Not "spilled," but "dumped." Like dumping garbage, bucket after bucket, dumped fast and many, so many he lost count, so many the people around couldn't make out what he was saying, only hearing "mianhaemianhaemianhae" machine-gunning the cafeteria air. He apologized while bending down, one hand covering Lee Tima's mouth, the other lifting her from the chair. Not "carrying," but "hoisting." Like hoisting a chick, like hoisting a bag of trash, like hoisting a brat he wished he could throw into the Han River right now. Lee Tima's body dangled in mid-air, her legs kicking twice, not reaching the ground. Her hands grabbed Jiang Zhiyu's arm, nails digging into his flesh, but he didn't feel it. Because his brain was completely occupied by the command "leave," no room left to process "pain."

He left. His steps were fast, so fast the people in the cafeteria only saw a white-shirted back disappearing through the door. Footsteps echoed in the hallway, *tap tap tap tap*, getting farther, fainter, until they couldn't be heard.

The cafeteria was still quiet. So quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning vent, someone swallowing, the sound of chopsticks rolling on a plate. Everyone's gaze was still on Bae Joo-hyun. She was eating. She picked up a piece of fried egg, the edges a bit burnt, used her chopsticks to pick off the burnt part, placed it on the side of her plate, then put the remaining egg white in her mouth, chewing slowly. Her expression was calm, so calm it was like eating breakfast at home, not eating lunch under the gaze of a crowd.

Yeri's mouth was still open. From the moment Lee Tima said "body double literature," her mouth hadn't closed. Her mind was racing at high speed, like a computer just turned on, the screen still loading, but the hard drive already spinning. Body double literature. Body double. Literature. Jiang Zhiyu. Bae Joo-hyun. She strung these words together into a line, one end Jiang Zhiyu, the other end Bae Joo-hyun. She didn't know what was in the middle, but she knew that line existed. Existed there, where she couldn't see it, where no one could see it. But Lee Tima saw it, and said it. She said it, so that line was exposed. Exposed before everyone, under the cafeteria lights, before Bae Joo-hyun's calm expression.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Wendy put down her chopsticks. She watched Bae Joo-hyun—watching her side profile, the angle of her wrist as she picked up food, the curve of her jawline as she chewed.

She wanted to say something, but she didn't know what. Saying "Joohyun Unnie, are you okay?" felt too fake; she looked fine. Saying "Joohyun Unnie, that kid was talking nonsense"? What if it was true? She didn't know, so she said nothing. She just watched, watching Bae Joo-hyun finish that piece of fried egg and pick up a piece of kimchi.

Seulgi was watching too. Her gaze was quiet, so quiet it was like stagnant water. But there were undercurrents beneath the stagnant water, surging, 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—what was the relationship between Jiang Zhiyu and Bae Joo-hyun? She didn't know. She only knew they weren't close. Not close enough to do anything more than nod when they met at the company. Not close enough to ever eat alone together, chat alone, or be in the same space alone. Not close enough to—she had thought they really weren't close.

But Lee Tima said "Substitute Literature." A substitute needs an "original." Who was the original? She didn't know. She only knew Bae Joo-hyun wasn't the original. The original was someone else, someone who looked like Bae Joo-hyun, someone Jiang Zhiyu couldn't forget, someone who came to mind whenever Jiang Zhiyu saw Bae Joo-hyun. She didn't know who that person was, but she knew that person existed. Existed there, in Jiang Zhiyu's heart, in the place he never spoke of but everyone could feel.

Joy kept her head down, looking at her tray. The rice was finished, the side dishes were gone, the soup was drunk. She scraped the bottom of the tray with her spoon, scraping up the last bit of broth, and put it in her mouth. The broth was salty, so salty her tongue felt a bit numb. She didn't frown, because she needed this "numbness." Once numb, she wouldn't think. If she didn't think, she wouldn't care. Not caring meant—she did care. She cared about what kind of relationship Jiang Zhiyu and Bae Joo-hyun had. It wasn't "caring," it was "curiosity." Curious about who he was looking at when he looked at Bae Joo-hyun. Was he looking at Bae Joo-hyun, or looking at someone else? She didn't know. She only knew his gaze when he looked at Bae Joo-hyun was different from his gaze when he looked at others. She couldn't say how it was different. She only knew it was different.

Kim Minjeong raised her hand. Her movement was very slow, so slow it was like answering a question in class, afraid that raising her hand too quickly would get her called on.

"What does 'Substitute Literature' mean?"

Ningning and Karina's gazes shifted to Kim Minjeong's face instantly. Not "shifted," but "shot." Like two arrows, precise, swift, carrying the shock of "How dare you ask that question," they shot onto Kim Minjeong's face.

They had originally thought she was doing it on purpose—intentionally asking this question, intentionally embarrassing Bae Joo-hyun, intentionally emphasizing those four words, "Substitute Literature."

But when they looked closely, they realized she really didn't know. Her eyes were clear, so clear they were like a spring of water; there was no calculation inside, no malice, no "intentional" element at all.

She just didn't know.

She didn't know what "Substitute Literature" meant, didn't know how explosive that sentence was just now, didn't know what kind of consequences asking this question would bring. She was just curious. Curious, so she asked. Asked, so she wanted the answer. Once she knew, she would understand. Once she understood, she wouldn't ask again. This was her logic. Simple, direct, without any excess. Ningning looked at those clear eyes and was silent for a moment. She was thinking—how to explain it so Kim Minjeong would understand the weight of the four words "Substitute Literature." If she explained it too lightly, she wouldn't understand. If she explained it too heavily, she would be even more curious.

She needed an explanation that was just right, not a fraction more or less.

"It's when one person likes another person." Ningning's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Then the other person is gone, and that person finds someone who looks a lot like them. Then they project the feelings they had for the person who is gone onto the person in front of them now."

Kim Minjeong's mouth opened wide. "Isn't that a novel?"

Karina looked around. People in the cafeteria were still looking this way, looking at Bae Joo-hyun, looking at Red Velvet, looking at them. Those gazes pierced her like needles, making her uncomfortable. She lowered her voice, her tone severe as if she were giving an order.

"Yah! Keep your voice down!"

Kim Minjeong immediately closed her mouth. When her mouth shut, it made a slight "click" sound, as if her jawbone had finally reset. Her eyes were still wide, round, reflecting Karina's serious expression, which carried the look of "Do you know you've caused trouble?" She didn't know she had caused trouble. She had just asked a question. The question itself wasn't wrong; what was wrong was the timing, the location, and the people present. The timing was wrong, the location was wrong, the people were wrong. Everything was wrong. But she didn't know. She just wanted to know what "Substitute Literature" meant. Now she knew. She regretted knowing.

Jiang Zhiyu clamped onto Lee Tima and ran to the office. He pushed the door open and put her down—not "put," but "threw." Threw her onto the sofa, the sofa cushion bounced, and Lee Tima's body bounced with it. She lay on the sofa, looking at the ceiling, looking at that fluorescent light, watching that broken tube flicker every few seconds. Her stomach was churning because when she was being carried, her stomach had been pressed against his arm, pressed so tightly her stomach had been squeezed into a flat shape. She wanted to vomit. Not "wanted to," but "about to." About to vomit, but she held it back. Because she felt that vomiting wouldn't be a big deal anyway. In any case, it was the food from the SM cafeteria; that kind of stuff, it wouldn't be a pity to vomit it, it was only a pity it was made in the first place. She took a deep breath and suppressed that surging nausea.

Jiang Zhiyu stood behind the office desk, his hands pressed on the table, head lowered. His breathing was heavy, so heavy it was like he had stopped to catch his breath after running a marathon. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, as if he were trying to hold onto something, afraid he would collapse. He didn't speak. He knew it was useless to speak. Lee Tima wouldn't apologize because she didn't think she had done anything wrong. She felt she had done a good deed, a good deed that exposed the truth, a good deed that let everyone see the facts clearly. She wouldn't apologize because she wasn't wrong. Not wrong, so no need to apologize. No need to apologize, so she wouldn't say "I'm sorry." Wouldn't say "I'm sorry," meant—he took a deep breath, straightened up, turned around, and looked at Lee Tima.

Lee Tima lay on the sofa, also looking at him. The two looked at each other for a moment. Jiang Zhiyu looked away first. He walked to the window, looking at the gray sky outside. The sky in Seoul was still the same, gray, like it was covered in a veil. He looked at that gray sky, and a voice in his heart said—he couldn't get angry. Getting angry was useless. Lee Tima wouldn't change because of his anger; she would only think he was "irresponsible." Irresponsible meant not daring to face things. Not daring to face things meant avoiding them. Avoiding them meant cowardice. Cowardice meant—he didn't want to be seen as a coward by her. So he endured it.

"You're eating instant noodles tonight." His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Lee Tima sat up from the sofa. "Why?" "Because I'm going out for barbecue tonight." "Take me." "Not taking you." "Why?" "Because you're a jerk." "I'm not a jerk." "You are." "I'm not." Jiang Zhiyu turned around and looked at her. "Then what are you?" "I'm your sister." Jiang Zhiyu was silent. He looked at Lee Tima's face—earnest, righteous, as if the four words "I'm your sister" could cancel out all sins. He remembered back on the Tianxuan Continent, she had said similar things. Back then, she had done something wrong, he had scolded her until she cried, and she had cried and said "I'm your sister." He said "A sister can't just act recklessly." She said "A sister is exactly who can act recklessly." He asked her "Who said that?" She said "You did." He asked "When did I say that?" She said "When you picked me up from the entrance of the ASB." He was silent because he had indeed said it. Back then he said "From now on you are my sister; a sister can act recklessly, but can't go too far." She asked "What do you mean by too far?" He said "Too far means—you'll know later." Now he knew. Too far meant—in the SM cafeteria, pointing at Bae Joo-hyun and saying "Substitute Literature."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and was silent for a long time. Then he sighed. "...Go change your clothes. The barbecue restaurant doesn't allow skirts." "You're lying. The barbecue restaurant doesn't have a dress code." "It does." "It doesn't." "I say it does, so it does." Lee Tima looked at him and gritted her teeth. "...You're ruthless."

She jumped off the sofa, walked to the door, and opened it. Before walking out, she turned back to look at Jiang Zhiyu. "Oppa." "Yeah." "You know I'm right." Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. The door closed. The sound of footsteps faded away in the hallway.

He stood by the window, looking at the sky outside. Gray, so gray it made people want to sleep. But he couldn't sleep because his mind was full of what Lee Tima had said. Substitute Literature. She pointed at Bae Joo-hyun and said "Substitute Literature." She was right. Not "right," but "too right." So right that he couldn't refute it, so right that he could only run away, so right that he could only use "Mianhae" to cover up his own guilty conscience. Guilty conscience, because he knew she was right. When he looked at Bae Joo-hyun, he wasn't looking at Bae Joo-hyun. It was Baek Ji-xin. It was Baek Ji-xin from the Tianxuan Continent, who looked seventy or eighty percent like Bae Joo-hyun but was a different height. He didn't know if Bae Joo-hyun knew. Maybe she knew, maybe she didn't. Maybe she didn't care, maybe she cared but didn't say. Not saying meant not knowing. Not knowing meant—he didn't want to know. He only knew Lee Tima was a jerk. The jerk said jerk things and did jerk things, but he couldn't do anything to her. Because she was his sister.

A sister is exactly who can act recklessly. He had said it.

(21:20) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Radio finished! The host really asked about warm moments, I answered as I had planned... Turns out the control room was holding back laughter! After getting off stage, the writer Unnie handed me a pack of honey candy and said "Good luck with your romance"... Woo, the whole world is teasing me! (Sends a photo of fingers twisting the radio script, earlobes bright red)]

(21:23) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Bought hot red bean taiyaki on the way back to the dorm, burned my tongue when I bit into it! But I insisted on finishing it, because I remembered Oppa saying "Our Minjeong looks like she's filming a food commercial even when she's being messy"... Now my tongue is numb, but my heart is sweet~ (Sticks out a small tip of her tongue to show "evidence of injury")]

(21:26) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Told "Chuchu" and its mom (the recovered ginkgo leaf) about tonight's radio blunder, they gently touched leaves in the breeze, as if high-fiving and saying "Mom/Grandma did a great job"! Ah, has the plant family also picked sides?]

(21:29) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Found a bruise on my elbow while showering, must be a medal from falling yesterday! I used a waterproof band-aid to make it into a puppy shape, so every time I see it I'll remember the Bubble puppy's comfort~ (Shows the crookedly applied puppy band-aid)]

(21:32) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Took the puffer jacket bread elf back inside, it smells like sunshine. I hugged it and fell onto the bed, like falling into a cloud. If clouds have a scent, it must be the cedarwood scent on Oppa's coat mixed with my honey body wash...]

(21:35) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The stars are very quiet tonight, the moon is round like a sticky rice ball. Really want to take a bite and see if it's red bean filling... If it is, I'll save the sweetest piece of filling for Oppa. Goodnight, my taiyaki accomplice. (Sends a goodnight photo with eyes covered by the puppy band-aid)]