32: Chapter 32 How could I dare to offer any suggestions!

The day Karina took Lee Tima home, it rained a little in Seoul.

It wasn't a downpour, but a fine drizzle, like someone scattering salt across the sky; it was barely noticeable on the skin, but after walking for a while, your clothes would get damp.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the entrance of the SM Building, watching Karina hold an umbrella and hold Lee Tima's hand as they walked toward the black sedan parked by the roadside.

Lee Tima carried a small backpack, which held a few changes of clothes, a passport, and a pink life-saving pill.

Her pigtails were tied higher than usual today, the ends swaying gently in the rain like two butterflies searching for nectar.

She walked to the car door, looked back at Jiang Zhiyu, and then smiled.

The smile was brief, lasting only an instant, but in that moment, there was so much—not "Goodbye," but "I will miss you."

It wasn't "I will miss you," but "You must come to pick me up."

Jiang Zhiyu saw it, but he didn't respond.

He stood there with his hands in his pockets, the rain falling on his hair, his shoulders, and his eyelashes.

He didn't blink, because he didn't want to miss her final expression.

"Oppa, I will miss you." Lee Tima's voice drifted through the rain, soft but clear.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, silent for a moment. "Mm." One word. No "Me too," no "I will miss you too," no "Behave yourself and don't cause trouble." Just "Mm."

Lee Tima knew the meaning of that "Mm." It wasn't "I understand," but "I understand, and I feel the same."

He never said "Me too," but his "Mm" meant "Me too."

She understood, so she smiled.

She opened the car door, climbed into the back seat, settled in, and fastened her seatbelt.

Karina closed the car door, walked around to the driver's seat, opened it, and got in. She started the engine, rolled down the window, and looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Oppa, I will take good care of her." "Mm." "When will you come to pick her up?" "In a few days." "How many days is 'a few days'?" "A few days is a few days."

Karina looked at him without pressing further. She rolled up the window, pressed the accelerator, and the car drove out of the parking lot, merging into the traffic.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the entrance, watching the taillights of the black sedan fade away in the rain, turning into a small red dot before disappearing from sight.

He stood there for a long time, so long that the rain soaked his hair until his bangs were plastered to his forehead and water droplets were streaming down the bridge of his nose. He wiped it away and turned to walk into the building.

Sending Lee Tima away was a decision Jiang Zhiyu had made. It wasn't a "decision," but a "necessity."

Because that sentence she said in the SM cafeteria had already spread throughout the entire company. It wasn't just "spread," it "exploded."

It exploded, causing people in the A&R department to whisper in the hallways, people in the production department to gossip in the meeting rooms, and people in the artist management department to send messages frantically in their offices.

It exploded, causing Yeri to send over a hundred messages in the Red Velvet group chat, Wendy over fifty, Joy over thirty, Seulgi over a dozen, and Bae Joo-hyun sent a period.

A period. It wasn't "speechless," but "I don't want to talk." Not wanting to talk meant it was useless even if she did. Useless to talk meant not talking. Not talking meant—she said nothing at all.

But everyone knew that she had said nothing. Saying nothing made people wonder what she was really thinking even more than if she had said something.

She wasn't thinking anything; she was just practicing. After practicing, she had to record songs. After recording, she had to prepare for a comeback. After the comeback, she had to promote. After promotions, she had to run schedules. After schedules, she had to keep practicing. Practice, eat, sleep. That was her life.

There was no need for "body doubles," no need for "literature," no need for anyone to explain for her what that period, which meant she had said nothing, actually meant.

Jiang Zhiyu couldn't let her appear at SM anymore. It wasn't because he was afraid she would say something earth-shattering again, but because she was too conspicuous.

Wherever she went, people would look at her. Looking at her made them think of "body double literature." Thinking of "body double literature" made them think of Bae Joo-hyun. Thinking of Bae Joo-hyun made them think of him. Thinking of him made them wonder, "Who does Jiang Zhiyu actually like?"

He didn't want anyone thinking about this question, because he didn't even know the answer himself.

He only knew that he couldn't let Lee Tima appear in front of Bae Joo-hyun again. It wasn't "couldn't," but "didn't dare."

He didn't dare, because he was afraid of what Lee Tima might say next. If she said it one more time, he really wouldn't be able to stay at SM.

If he couldn't stay, his five-year plan would be ruined. If it was ruined, he would have to start over from scratch. Starting over, he didn't know if he still had the strength for that. He didn't want to know. So, he sent her away.

But he couldn't lock her up at home. His philosophy on teaching children was never about "locking them up."

Back on the Tianxuan Continent, the way he taught Lee Tima was to let her experience the world herself. Experience the wind, experience the rain, experience the sunlight, experience the darkness. Experience the good, experience the bad, experience the right, experience the wrong. Only by experiencing it would she understand. Only by understanding would she do. Only by doing would she make mistakes. Only by making mistakes would she correct them. Only by correcting them would she improve. Only by improving would she—she needed a place, a place where she could experience the world.

Not SM, not his office, not that apartment with only four white walls and a sofa. She needed a place with a yard, trees, flowers, grass, old people, children, chaos, and the warmth of daily life. He didn't have that, but the Yu family did.

Karina brought it up during a dinner with the five of them. They were eating hot pot that day—a copper pot, charcoal fire, the broth made from beef bones, white and as rich as milk. The meat was sliced very thin, cooking after just a few swirls in the soup.

Kim Minjeong was in charge of swishing the meat, Ningning was in charge of the dipping sauces, Lee Tima was in charge of eating, and Jiang Zhiyu was in charge of grilling—no, there was no grilling, it was hot pot today, so he was in charge of putting the vegetables in.

Karina sat opposite him, holding a glass of water, watching him put meat slices into the pot. The meat slid into the soup one by one, tumbling on the surface of the boiling broth, its color changing from red to white, and from white to brown. She picked up a piece with her chopsticks, dipped it in sauce, put it in her mouth, and chewed slowly.

"Oppa, I have a way to handle things regarding Jieun." Her voice was soft, but clear.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "What way?"

"My family." Karina put down her chopsticks and folded her hands on the table. "Ever since Jieun and I left—one to be a trainee, the other to work at the hospital—the house has become quiet. Not a quiet where no one is around, but a quiet lacking the vitality of young people. Grandpa and Grandma watch TV all day, Dad looks at documents all day, and Mom looks at flowers all day. They need a lively child."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. He was thinking—the quiet at the Yu house wasn't "desolate," it was "still." Still enough that you could only hear the sound of the TV, the rustling of documents, the snip of scissors trimming branches. Those sounds were too light, so light they were like a song without a climax. Listen long enough, and you'd get sleepy. Get sleepy, and you'd want to sleep. Sleep, and a day would pass. A day passed, and another day came. Day after day, day after day, life just passed by like that. Passed by meant growing old. Growing old meant not wanting to move. Not wanting to move meant—he needed someone to make them move.

Lee Tima was the most suitable candidate. Because she wasn't just "lively," she was "too lively." Lively enough that people wanted to throw her out, but once thrown out, they would miss her. Miss her, and they would call her back. Call her back, and she would start being lively again. Lively, and they'd want to throw her out again. Throw her out, and miss her again. That was life. Life was about commotion. Commotion was living. Living was—he nodded. "Okay."

Lee Tima was packed up and sent to the Yu family. She only brought herself, her passport, and that pink life-saving pill.

That pill was something she had brought from the Tianxuan Continent—not "brought," but "worn." Worn around her neck, tied with a red string, pressed against her heart.

The pill was pink, very small, smaller than a peanut. The surface was smooth, shimmering with a faint luster under the light. The taste was sweet—not just "sweet," but "refreshingly sweet." Like a flower that had just bloomed in spring, with dew still clinging to its petals; if you leaned in close, you could smell that faint sweetness that made you want to take a deep breath.

The first time Jiang Zhiyu saw that pink pill, he was curious for a long time. It wasn't "curiosity," but "jealousy." Because his pill was white; while white was fine, pink looked better. Better looking meant—he wanted to trade with her.

He reached out, pointed at the pink pill, and said something he regretted for a long time. "Let's trade. White for pink." Lee Tima looked at him. "Why?" "Because pink looks better." "Your white one looks good too." "White doesn't look as good as pink." "Then go buy a pink one." "I can't buy one." "Why?" "Because I made this."

Lee Tima was silent for a moment. "You made it? When did you make it?" "When I was thirty-five." "Thirty-five? That's the future you." "Mm." "You want to trade the pill made by the future you with the current me?" "Mm." "Why?" "Because pink looks better."

Lee Tima looked at him for a long time. Then she reached out and pushed him out of the office. It wasn't a "push," but a "beating." Punching and kicking, pushing and shoving, she shoved him all the way into the hallway.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in the hallway, his shirt wrinkled, his hair messy, and a red palm print on his face. He looked at the closed door, silent for a moment. Then he straightened his clothes and went back.

According to Karina, Mrs. Yu's exact words were— "Tima is such a child, she's much better behaved and much cuter than you two were when you were little."

She said this while serving food to Lee Tima. Braised pork belly, made by Lee Tima. Lee Tima, wearing an apron, stood in front of the stove, holding a spatula, stir-frying the pork belly in the pot.

The meat tumbled in the pot, the sauce thickening under the high heat, coating the surface of the meat, shiny and glistening like a layer of amber glaze. She sprinkled a handful of scallions, stir-fried it a couple of times, turned off the heat, and plated it. The movements were fluid, so skilled it was as if she had been in the kitchen for many years.

Mrs. Yu stood nearby, watching her, watching her small body standing in front of the large stove, holding a spatula, her feet on a small stool. Her eyes were a bit red—not just "red," but "wet."

Wet, because she remembered Karina and Yu Ji-eun when they were little. They had also worn aprons, stood in front of the stove, and held spatulas. But they didn't make braised pork belly; they made instant noodles. The noodles would be cooked, brought to the table, and they would call out, "Mom, dinner's ready." She would take a bite, and it would be salty. It was salty, but she finished it anyway. After finishing, she would say, "Delicious." They would smile, and she would smile too. That was a long time ago.

Now they didn't cook instant noodles anymore, they didn't wear aprons anymore, they weren't at home anymore. The house had become quiet, and the stove had gone cold. Now the stove was hot again, because Lee Tima had come. She stood on the small stool, holding the spatula, stir-frying dishes. The aroma of the food filled the entire kitchen, drifted into the living room, and drifted into Grandpa and Grandma's room.

Grandpa put down his newspaper, took off his reading glasses, and sniffed. "Smells good." Grandma sat up from the bed, put on her slippers, and walked to the kitchen door. "Tima, what are you making?" "Braised pork belly." "Can Grandma eat it?" "Yes. The meat is stewed until very tender, you can eat it without teeth."

Grandma smiled, her eyes crinkling into slits. She walked into the kitchen, stood next to Lee Tima, looking at her, watching her small body, her serious expression, and her skillful movements. She reached out and patted Lee Tima's head. "Good child."

The changes in the Yu family began on the first day Lee Tima arrived. In the morning, she would practice Tai Chi with Grandpa. Grandpa practiced the Simplified 24-Form Tai Chi, his movements very slow, so slow it was like walking in water. Lee Tima stood beside him, following his movements, every move and gesture, looking just like the real thing.

Her movements were faster than Grandpa's, so fast that by the time she finished a move, Grandpa was only halfway through. She would stop and wait for Grandpa. When Grandpa finished, she would do the next one. Grandpa looked at her and smiled. "You are faster than me." "Because I am young." "I was fast when I was young too." "What about now?" "Now I am slow." "Slow is good; slow means you won't fall." "I am young, I won't fall." "Young people fall too." "I won't." "Why?" "Because Zhiyu Oppa taught me."

Grandpa was stunned for a moment. "Zhiyu? That Jiang Zhiyu?" "Mm. He taught me Tai Chi." "He knows Tai Chi too?" "He knows a lot." "How much is a lot?" "A lot is a lot."

Grandpa didn't ask again. He continued practicing Tai Chi, his movements still that slow, so slow it was like walking in water. Lee Tima stood beside him, following his movements; this time, she slowed down, slow enough to be as slow as Grandpa. The two of them, one old and one young, moved slowly in the morning light. The sunlight leaked through the gaps in the leaves, falling on them like shattered gold scattered across the ground.

In the morning, she would arrange flowers with Grandma. Grandma liked flowers, and they grew many at home—roses, lilies, daisies, baby's breath. Every morning, she would cut a few stems, arrange them in a vase, and place it on the coffee table in the living room. Lee Tima sat beside her, watching her cut branches, trim leaves, and arrange the vase. Her movements were very slow, and she would measure for a long time for every flower before deciding where to place it.

Lee Tima watched, imitated her movements, picked up a daisy, measured it at the mouth of the vase, and inserted it. Grandma took a look and smiled. "You arrange them well." "Because Zhiyu Oppa taught me." "He knows flower arranging too?" "He knows a lot." "How much is a lot?" "A lot is a lot."

Grandma didn't ask again. She continued arranging flowers, her movements still that slow, so slow it was like she was talking to the flowers. Lee Tima sat beside her, learning to arrange flowers; this time, she didn't measure for a long time, picked up a flower, took a look, and inserted it. Grandma looked at the flower and smiled. "You arrange them better than I do." "No, I don't." "Yes, you do. Because you are young." "Does being young mean you arrange them well?" "Being young means you learn fast. Learning fast means you arrange them well. Arranging them well means—you are stronger than your mother." Lee Tima was stunned for a moment. "My mother?" "Karina's mother." Lee Tima thought about it. "Karina Unnie's mother, doesn't she know how to arrange flowers?" "She does. But she doesn't arrange them as well as you do." "Why?" "Because she isn't as smart as you." "I am very smart." "I know."

In the afternoon, she would make medicinal meals with Mrs. Yu. It wasn't a "medicinal meal," but a "health soup." Jiang Zhiyu had taught her: use goji berries, red dates, astragalus, angelica, and codonopsis, add chicken or ribs, and simmer on low heat for two hours.

When the soup was done, it was crystal clear and tasted sweet. Mrs. Yu took a sip, and her eyes lit up. "Delicious." "Because Zhiyu Oppa taught me." "He knows how to make medicinal meals too?" "He knows a lot." "How much is a lot?" "A lot is just a lot."

Mrs. Yu didn't ask again. She continued drinking the soup, very slowly, sipping just a little bit with each mouthful. Lee Tima sat beside her, also drinking soup, but she drank it quickly, finishing a bowl in just a few gulps. Mrs. Yu looked at her and smiled. "You drink really fast." "Because I'm hungry." "If you're hungry, eat more." Lee Tima nodded and ladled out another bowl.

In the evening, she would watch TV with Mr. Yu. It wasn't "watching," but "keeping him company." Mr. Yu watched the news, and she sat beside him and watched too. She didn't quite understand what was being broadcast, but she didn't speak because Mr. Yu didn't like to talk. He just looked at the screen quietly, occasionally picking up his teacup to take a sip. Lee Tima also watched quietly, occasionally picking up her water glass to take a sip. The two sat on the sofa without a word, the sound of the television echoing in the living room.

Mrs. Yu came out of the kitchen, saw this scene, and smiled. "You two really look alike." "Like what?" "Like father and daughter." Mr. Yu didn't react and continued watching TV. Lee Tima didn't react either and continued watching TV. Mrs. Yu looked at them, smiled, and turned back to the kitchen.

Yu Ji-eun had a hard time making it home. She had worked three consecutive night shifts at the hospital, so tired that her eyelids were fighting each other, her heels ached, and her back was sore. She just wanted to go home, take a shower, sleep, and eat a good meal. She pushed open the door and smelled a fragrance. It wasn't just "fragrant," it was "rich." The richness of braised pork, the savory soy sauce aroma hitting her nose, stirred up all the gluttony in her stomach. She changed her shoes, walked into the kitchen, and saw a little girl standing in front of the stove. The little girl was wearing an apron, had her hair in pigtails, was standing on a small stool, holding a spatula, and stir-frying something. She froze.

"Who are you?" Lee Tima turned her head and looked at her. "My name is Lee Tima. I am Zhiyu Oppa's younger sister." "Zhiyu? Jiang Zhiyu?" "Mm."

Yu Ji-eun was silent for a moment. She had heard Karina mention Jiang Zhiyu, but hadn't heard that he had a younger sister. She looked at the little girl, watching her skillfully move the spatula, watching her sprinkle a handful of green onions into the pot, watching her turn off the heat and plate the dish. The movements were fluid, so skillful that it seemed as if she had been in the kitchen for many years. She brought the dish to the table, set out the bowls and chopsticks, and then turned to look at Yu Ji-eun. "Unnie, it's time to eat."

Yu Ji-eun sat at the dining table, with a bowl of white rice, a plate of braised pork, and a bowl of health soup in front of her. She picked up a piece of braised pork, put it in her mouth, chewed once, and then stopped. Her eyes widened, and her pupils reflected Lee Tima's small, serious face, filled with the anticipation of "Is it delicious?" She chewed a second time, then a third, and then swallowed. She put down her chopsticks, rested her hands on the table, lowered her head, and her shoulders trembled slightly. Lee Tima looked at her, a little worried. "Unnie, is it not good?" Yu Ji-eun looked up, her eyes red. "It's delicious." Her voice was a bit hoarse, "So delicious that I feel like I've wasted the first twenty-plus years of my life." Lee Tima smiled. "Then eat more."

Yu Ji-eun ate a lot. One bowl of rice, two bowls of rice, three bowls of rice. She ate more than half the plate of braised pork and drank two bowls of health soup. She was stuffed, so stuffed that she leaned back on the chair, rubbed her stomach, and burped. Lee Tima looked at her and smiled. She smiled too. After laughing, she said, "Let me give you a massage." Yu Ji-eun was stunned for a moment. "You know how to massage?" "Mm. Zhiyu Oppa taught me."

Yu Ji-eun lay on the sofa, half-believing, while Lee Tima sat beside her, stretched out her small hands, and pressed them onto her shoulders. Her fingers were short, but very strong. Her fingertips pressed on the acupoints, the pressure just right, neither heavy nor light. If it were too heavy, it would hurt; if too light, it would tickle. Just right, so it was neither painful nor ticklish. Yu Ji-eun's eyes closed, not "closed," but "shut." Once shut, she didn't want to open them. Because it was so comfortable, so comfortable that she wanted to sleep. She fell asleep, her breathing becoming long and even. Lee Tima withdrew her hands, got down from the sofa, and covered her with a blanket. Then she tidied up the bowls and chopsticks, washed the dishes, wiped the stove, and took out the trash. After finishing all this, she returned to the living room, sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, lowered the volume, and watched cartoons.

Mrs. Yu came out of the room, saw this scene, and smiled. "Tima, are you tired?" "Not tired." "You should rest for a while." "I'm not tired." Mrs. Yu looked at her, looked at her small body sitting on the large sofa, looked at the cartoons playing on the TV, and looked at that faint arc at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were a bit red, not "red," but "damp." Damp, because she remembered when Karina and Yu Ji-eun were little. They also sat on the sofa like this, also watched TV like this, and also had smiles on their faces like this. Back then they were still young, hadn't left home, hadn't made her feel that the house was lonely. Now they had left, the house was lonely, but Lee Tima had come. She had come, and the house was lively again. Lively meant—she sat next to Lee Tima and accompanied her to watch cartoons.

Yu Ji-eun was woken up by the vibration of her phone. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on the sofa with a blanket covering her. It was already dark outside the window, the lights were on in the living room, the TV was still playing, but the volume was turned very low. Lee Tima was not on the sofa; the sound of stir-frying came from the kitchen. She picked up her phone and saw a message from Karina— "Unnie, is Tima okay?"

Yu Ji-eun looked at those words, thinking of what Mrs. Yu had said to her today. During the meal, Mrs. Yu picked up food for her, putting a piece of braised pork on her plate. "Try it, Tima made it." She ate it; it was delicious. Mrs. Yu picked up another piece. "Delicious, right?" "Delicious." "Tima is much better than you." Yu Ji-eun's chopsticks paused. "Look at Tima, and then look at yourself. She knew how to cook at eight, what were you doing at eight?"

Yu Ji-eun opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but didn't say it. Because when she was eight, she really didn't know how to cook. She only knew how to eat. After eating, she still needed Mom to wash the dishes. Mom washed the dishes, then had to mop the floor. Mopped the floor, then had to wash clothes. Washed the clothes, then had to—she didn't want to think about it anymore. She lowered her head and continued eating. Mrs. Yu didn't stop. "Tima knows how to arrange flowers, do you?" Yu Ji-eun shook her head. "Tima knows how to make health soup, do you?" Yu Ji-eun shook her head. "Tima knows how to give massages, do you?" Yu Ji-eun shook her head. "Then what can you do?" Yu Ji-eun thought for a moment. "I can go to work."

Mrs. Yu looked at her and was silent for a moment. "Who doesn't know how to work? Your dad works, your mom works, your grandparents worked when they were young. Working isn't a skill; knowing how to live is a skill." Yu Ji-eun was silent. She admitted that she didn't know how to live. She only knew how to work, get off work, eat, and sleep. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Repeat until she forgot what else she could do. What else could she do? She didn't know. She only knew that she didn't know how to arrange flowers, didn't know how to make health soup, and didn't know how to give massages. Not knowing these things wasn't her fault. It was because no one taught her. No one taught her because she wasn't at home. Not at home because she was at work. Working was to make money. Making money was to—she didn't know what for.

She only knew that she didn't want to be outdone by Lee Tima. But she couldn't win. Because the things Lee Tima knew, she didn't. Not knowing, just meant not knowing. Not knowing, meant she had to admit it. Admitting it, meant—she didn't want to admit it. So she was angry at Karina. It wasn't "anger," it was "taking it out on someone." Taking it out on her was because she couldn't get angry at Lee Tima. She couldn't get angry at Lee Tima because Lee Tima was a guest. Guests couldn't be scolded; scolding them meant being impolite. Being impolite meant—she could only get angry at Karina. Because Karina was her younger sister, and sisters wouldn't hold a grudge when scolded. Not holding a grudge meant—she opened the chat window and started typing.

"Karina, do you know that Mom scolded me today?" After sending it. "Mom said Tima is better than me. Tima knew how to cook at eight, I didn't. Tima knows how to arrange flowers, I don't. Tima knows how to make health soup, I don't. Tima knows how to give massages, I don't. I don't know how to do anything. What can I do? I can go to work. Who doesn't know how to work? Dad works, Mom works, grandparents worked when they were young. Working isn't a skill; knowing how to live is the skill. I don't know how to live. I don't know how to live because I don't have time. No time because I'm working. Working because I need to make money. Making money because—I don't know why. I only know I'm tired. I'm very tired. I'm so tired I don't want to talk, move, or eat. But I have to eat, because if I don't, I'll be hungry. If I'm hungry, I won't have strength, and if I don't have strength, I can't go to work. If I can't go to work, I can't make money, and if I can't make money—do you know how tired I am?" She sent a long paragraph, her fingers tapping rapidly on the screen, every word seeming like it was dug out of her heart, still stained with blood when it was dug out.

Karina's reply was only one character. Not "Okay," not "Mm," not "Got it." It was a period.

Yu Ji-eun looked at that period, stunned for a moment. Then she was even angrier. What did the period mean? Speechless? Didn't want to talk? Couldn't be bothered? She didn't know. She only knew that the period wasn't the answer she wanted. The answer she wanted was "Unnie, you've worked hard," "Unnie, I was wrong," "Unnie, I won't do it next time." But Karina didn't say that. She only sent a period. A period meant the end. The end meant she didn't want to continue. Didn't want to continue meant—she was angry. She typed. "Karina, where are you?"

Karina looked at that line, not replying. She leaned against the wall of the practice room, holding her phone in her hand, the light of the screen shining on her face, illuminating her features clearly. There was an arc at the corner of her mouth, not a "smile," but the kind that "laughs out loud." She laughed because Yu Ji-eun was angry. When Yu Ji-eun was angry, she would say "Karina, where are you?" instead of "Ji-min, where are you?" Full name, no honorifics, no suffixes. Just "Karina." Three characters, like three bullets, shooting over one by one. It didn't hurt because she was the younger sister. A younger sister being scolded by her older sister didn't hurt. Didn't hurt meant—she laughed even more happily.

Kim Minjeong watched her from the side, watching her laugh at the phone screen, laughing very happily, so happy that her eyes curved into crescents, so happy that the corners of her mouth stretched to her ears. "Ji-min Unnie, what are you laughing at?" "Nothing." "Then why are you laughing?" "Because someone is angry." "Who?" "My sister." "Why is your sister angry?" "Because of Tima." "What happened to Tima?" "Tima is too amazing. So amazing that my sister got scolded by Mom." "You're laughing because she got scolded by Mom?" "Mm. Because the one getting scolded by Mom isn't me." Kim Minjeong looked at her, silent for a moment. Then she also laughed. "You're bad." "I know."

Karina put away her phone, stood up from the floor, and patted the dust off her pants. She walked to the window and looked at the sky outside. It was already dark, the streetlights were on, the light falling on the damp ground, reflecting patches of silver light. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet. She stood by the window, thinking of Lee Tima. Thinking of her standing on the small stool stir-frying, thinking of her arranging flowers for Grandma, thinking of her doing Tai Chi with Grandpa, thinking of her giving Yu Ji-eun a massage. She was very small, but her heart was very big. Big enough to hold everyone, big enough to hold all the good, big enough to hold all the bad. She had come, and the house was lively. Lively meant—she wanted to go home. Not "wanted," but "wanted to see." See what dishes Lee Tima made today, see what flowers Grandma arranged, see if Grandpa fell while doing Tai Chi, see if Yu Ji-eun got scolded by Mom. She wanted to see, but she couldn't go back. Because she was practicing. After practicing, she still had to record songs. After recording, she still had to debut. After debuting, she could—she didn't know what she could do. She only knew she had to debut. After debuting, she could stand on stage. Standing on stage meant she could be seen. Being seen meant—she turned around, looking at Kim Minjeong and Ningning in the practice room. "Continue practicing."

—After Lee Tima left, Jiang Zhiyu changed. It wasn't the kind of change where he "suddenly became a different person," but the kind where he "slowly restored to factory settings." Like a computer that had been formatted and had the system reinstalled; the interface was still the same, but the running speed was faster, the lagging was reduced, and it didn't crash anymore. His face no longer wore that "forever worried" expression, replaced by a kind of composure that said "everything is under control." That composure wasn't faked; it seeped out from his bones, the kind of languor that only comes after thirty years in the Tianxuan Continent, holding heavy power, having fame that spread across half the sky, and being nourished by wealth, power, and fame. When he walked, his back was straighter, but his shoulders were relaxed. When he spoke, his speed was neither fast nor slow, but every word carried a certainty of "I call the shots." When he laughed, it was no longer just the corners of his mouth slightly upturned as if enduring something, but showing his teeth, his eyes curving into crescents, his whole face glowing. He transformed from a "silent person" into a "funny, snarky guy." Kim Minjeong was the first to notice something was wrong.

Kim Minjeong discovered something was wrong because Jiang Zhiyu invited her to the back door to eat fried skewers. Not "invited," but "called." He sent a message in the group chat— "Back door, fried skewers, now." No emojis, no extra punctuation, just five words. Kim Minjeong was stunned for a moment when she saw the message. It wasn't because Jiang Zhiyu called her to eat fried skewers, but because he hadn't called her recently. Before, he would call her every few days, and the two would squat on the steps at the back door of the SM Building, with a white plastic bag spread out in front of them, containing a dozen or so fried skewers—chicken, beef, sausage, rice cake, fish cake, tofu skin, king oyster mushroom, sweet potato. He ate very slowly, she ate very quickly. In the time it took him to eat one skewer, she could eat three. He wouldn't fight her for them because he knew she liked to eat them. He would only pick up the last skewer from the bag, hand it to her, and say, "Eat it." She would take it, bite into it, squint her eyes, and make an "Mm—" sound. He would look at her, a faint arc at the corner of his mouth. That was before. Recently he hadn't called her because Lee Tima had come. He was busy taking care of Lee Tima, busy cleaning up after Lee Tima, busy taking her to eat barbecue after being angered to death by Lee Tima. He didn't have time to call her to eat fried skewers. She understood, so she didn't ask. But today, he called.

When Kim Minjeong arrived at the back door, Jiang Zhiyu was already squatting there.

He was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the top button of his collar was unfastened.

Spread out before him was a white plastic bag containing a dozen or so skewers—chicken, beef, sausage, rice cake, fish cake, tofu skin, king oyster mushroom, and sweet potato.

It was exactly as she remembered.

But in her memory, he never stole her food.

"Oppa, that's my sausage."

Kim Minjeong looked at the bamboo skewer in Jiang Zhiyu's hand, which held a sausage with a crescent-shaped bite taken out of it.

Chewing the sausage, Jiang Zhiyu said indistinctly, "Yours? Did you write your name on it?"

Kim Minjeong opened her mouth to argue, but found she couldn't.

There was indeed no name written on the sausage.

"But—"

"But what? But you didn't use to steal my food?"

Kim Minjeong nodded.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and handed over the remaining half of the sausage.

"Here."

Kim Minjeong took it, looked at the half-eaten sausage, and was silent for a moment.

Then she took a bite.

It wasn't because she wanted to eat it, but because Jiang Zhiyu had given it to her.

He gave, so she ate.

She ate, and that meant—she chewed twice and swallowed.

"Oppa, you seem different today."

Jiang Zhiyu, who was gnawing on a skewer of rice cakes, looked up at her upon hearing this.

"How am I different?"

"You didn't use to steal my food."

"The past is the past, and now is now."

"What about now?"

"Now I want to steal it."

Kim Minjeong looked at him, at his eyes shimmering with a faint golden light under the streetlamp, at the chili sauce on the corner of his mouth, and at his slightly bulging cheeks from chewing.

She suddenly felt that he seemed happier than before.

Not "seemed," but "really."

He was really happy.

Happy enough to steal her sausage.

She didn't know why he was happy, but she was happy that he was happy.

Ningning was the second to notice something was off.

Ningning realized it because Jiang Zhiyu had recently taken a liking to telling political jokes.

Not the kind of jokes that make you go "Hahaha, that's funny," but the kind where "Do you understand? If you understand, you'll laugh; if you don't, you'll think I'm talking about the weather."

During meetings, he would look at the gray sky outside the window and say, "The sun is bigger in the North, there are more suns in the South."

The people around him didn't understand and thought he was talking about the weather.

Ningning understood.

She wished she hadn't.

"The sun is bigger in the North, there are more suns in the South."

The North was North Korea.

The South was South Korea.

The sun represented the leaders.

The Kim family's sun was the Great Sun.

The South had more than one sun.

This was a political joke, not about the weather.

After hearing it, Ningning fell silent.

A voice in her head said—she understood.

She understood because she was Chinese.

Chinese people liked to discuss politics, and her family was the same; in the Northeast, political discussions were even more intense and the topics even more unrestrained.

Having grown up surrounded by this, she knew clearly what should be said, what shouldn't, what would cause trouble, and what wouldn't.

The kind Jiang Zhiyu told belonged to the "it's okay to say, but those who understand will laugh" category.

She didn't laugh because she didn't find it funny.

It wasn't funny because she didn't want to understand.

But she did.

Another time, Jiang Zhiyu was watching NingNing practice in the dance studio when he suddenly said, "Park Chung-hee is the Miracle on the Han River; Ningning is the Miracle of Heilongjiang."

Ningning's dance steps faltered.

She stopped and looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Teacher, what are you saying?"

"I'm talking about you."

"What about me?"

"You are the Miracle of Heilongjiang."

"I'm not."

"You are. You came from Heilongjiang, you are a trainee at SM, you will debut, you will be famous, and you will become a K-pop legend. When that time comes, the Heilongjiang government will give you an award called the 'Ningning Award.' You will become the pride of Heilongjiang, just as Park Chung-hee is the pride of South Korea."

Ningning was silent.

She didn't know how to respond.

He was complimenting her, but the way he did it was strange.

So strange that she wasn't sure if he was even complimenting her.

"Teacher, next time we go to Harbin, I'll treat you to red sausage."

"Good. You use the red sausage as nunchucks, I'll play Bruce Lee, and we'll film a movie called 'Fist of Ning in Heilongjiang.'"

Ningning looked at him, at his serious face that didn't seem to be joking, and fell silent.

"...Teacher, you've really changed."

"How have I changed?"

"You weren't like this before."

"What was I like before?"

"Before, you wouldn't talk this much."

"The past is the past, and now is now."

"What about now?"

"Now I want to talk."

Ningning looked at his bright, shining eyes, the irrepressible curve of his lips, and how he had gone from "silent" to "talkative."

She suddenly felt that he seemed more relaxed than before.

Not "seemed," but "really."

Really relaxed.

Relaxed enough to tell political jokes, use red sausage as nunchucks, and give her a nickname like "Miracle of Heilongjiang."

She didn't know why he was relaxed, but she was relaxed that he was relaxed.

Karina was the third to notice something was off.

Karina realized it because Jiang Zhiyu had invited her to his apartment for dinner.

He hadn't invited Kim Minjeong, nor Ningning; he had only invited her.

The message was sent in the group chat, but it wasn't a group message.

It was a private message.

"Karina, are you free tonight? Come to my place for dinner. I'll cook."

Karina looked at the text for a long time.

Her finger paused on the screen, and then she typed two words: "I'm free."

Send.

She placed her phone face down on the table, her heart beating a little faster than usual.

Not "a little," but "a lot."

So much that she could feel her heartbeat thumping in her chest, like someone knocking on a door.

She didn't know what she was nervous about.

She was just going to eat.

To eat food cooked by Jiang Zhiyu.

She had eaten food he had "made" many times—at the barbecue restaurant, at the samgyetang place, in front of the skewer stall.

But those weren't actually made by him; they were made by others.

This time, he was the one cooking.

He would cook, and she would eat.

That was it.

She didn't need to be nervous.

When Karina arrived, Jiang Zhiyu was already in the kitchen.

He was wearing an apron—gray, cotton—with the strings tied in a bow behind his waist.

He was chopping vegetables, the knife striking the cutting board with a rhythmic "tap-tap-tap."

His movements were fast, so fast that her eyes couldn't keep up.

She stood at the kitchen doorway, looking at his back.

A white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing a faint scar on his forearm.

The apron strings were tied in a bow behind his waist, the two sides of the bow perfectly equal in length, as if measured with a ruler.

Her gaze shifted from his back to the stove, where several plates held the prepped ingredients.

Scallion segments, ginger slices, minced garlic, shredded green pepper, shredded red pepper, carrot slices.

Everything was cut neatly and uniformly, as if poured from a mold.

"Oppa, let me help you."

"No need. You sit and wait."

"I'll help you prep."

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Because I can't fit you in."

Karina opened her mouth to argue, but found she couldn't.

Because he was right.

She really couldn't fit in.

His movements were too fast, so fast she didn't have time to do anything.

She stood to the side like a pillar, in the way and useless.

She retreated to the kitchen doorway, leaned against the doorframe, and watched him.

Watched him chop vegetables, heat the oil, put ingredients in the pan, and stir-fry.

The spatula flew in the pan, the ingredients danced, and cooking fumes rose from the pan, only to be sucked away by the range hood.

His movements were fluid, so fluid it was like dancing.

Not "dancing," but "performing."

Performing cooking, performing for her.

She didn't know if he was performing for her, she only knew that she was watching—very intently.

Intently enough to forget the time, forget how long she had been standing there, forget that she should go to the living room to wait.

She just stood there, watching him.

Karina found it curious.

Korean men didn't cook at home, even men whose profession was chef wouldn't, unless there were no women in the house.

This was her understanding since childhood.

Her father didn't cook, her grandfather didn't cook, her uncles didn't cook.

They would only sit at the dining table, waiting for the food to be served.

Then they would eat, put down their chopsticks when finished, stand up, and leave.

They wouldn't say "It's delicious," wouldn't say "Thank you for your hard work," wouldn't say "I'll wash the dishes."

They just ate.

Once finished, they left.

Like completing a task.

Jiang Zhiyu was not like that.

He could cook, chop vegetables, heat oil, put things in the pan, and stir-fry.

He could tie an apron, tie a bow, cut scallions, ginger, and garlic neatly, and wipe the stove clean.

He would say "You sit and wait," would say "No need to help," would say "It'll be ready soon."

He was not a Korean man.

He was Jiang Zhiyu.

The Jiang Zhiyu who came from another world, who could cook, chop vegetables, tie an apron, and tie a bow.

He was the Jiang Zhiyu she liked.

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

She liked watching him cook, liked watching him chop vegetables, liked watching him tie his apron.

She liked watching him do anything.

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

The food was brought to the table.

Three dishes and one soup: braised pork belly, stir-fried seasonal vegetables, tomato and egg stir-fry, and seaweed egg drop soup.

The rice was freshly cooked, each grain distinct, shimmering with a white light under the lamp.

Karina sat at the dining table with a bowl of rice, a pair of chopsticks, and a spoon in front of her.

She picked up the bowl, picked up a piece of braised pork, and put it in her mouth.

The meat melted in her mouth.

The fatty part wasn't greasy, the lean part wasn't dry, the savory-sweet sauce was just right, and the aroma of the spices had permeated every fiber of the meat.

She chewed twice and swallowed.

Then she picked up another piece.

And another.

And another.

She ate very fast, so fast it was like she was competing with someone.

She wasn't hungry; she was craving it.

Craving it so much she couldn't control herself, craving it so much she forgot she should maintain her image in front of Jiang Zhiyu, craving it so much she just wanted to eat, eat, eat.

Eat first, talk later.

Jiang Zhiyu ate slowly.

He picked up a piece of meat, chewed it for a long time, and swallowed.

Then picked up another, chewed for a long time, and swallowed.

His chopsticks moved very slowly, so slowly it was like he was waiting for something.

He was waiting for her.

Waiting for her chopsticks to stop, waiting for her bowl to be empty, waiting for her to be full before he ate.

But he didn't wait, because her bowl was empty, and she ladled another.

He waited again, waited for the second bowl to be empty, waited for her to put down her chopsticks, lean back in her chair, rub her stomach, and let out a satisfied "Hmm—."

Only then did he start to eat.

Eating what she left.

Not "leftovers," but "left for him."

She didn't finish it, not because she couldn't eat any more, but because she intentionally left it for him.

She knew he liked braised pork, so she left a few pieces.

He saw it and didn't say anything.

He picked up those pieces of meat and ate them one by one.

Ate them very slowly, chewing each piece for a long time.

She watched him eat, watched his lips part and close, watched his Adam's apple bob, watched the sauce on the corner of his mouth.

Her face turned red.

Not the red of "shyness," but the red of "being watched."

He was watching her; she knew.

He was watching her eat; she didn't know how long he had been watching.

She only knew that when she was eating, she didn't look up.

Not looking up meant she didn't see.

Not seeing meant she didn't know.

Not knowing meant—she knew.

She knew he was watching her.

From the moment she picked up the bowl, he had been watching her.

Watching her pick up food, watching her chew, watching her swallow.

Watching her squint her eyes because it was delicious, watching her pick up another piece because it was too good.

Watching her eat so fast, so fast it was like she was competing with someone.

He looked at her, a faint arc on the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile, but a confirmation of "beautiful."

The way she ate was beautiful.

So beautiful that he forgot to eat.

After dinner, the two crowded into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

Not "crowded," but "stood."

Stood together, shoulder to shoulder, facing the sink.

The faucet was on, water flowing with a splash, rinsing the grease off the plates.

Jiang Zhiyu held the dishcloth, washing them one by one.

Karina held a dry towel, drying them one by one.

He finished washing and handed them to her.

She took them, dried them, and put them in the cabinet.

The coordination between the two was so tacit that it was like they had lived together for many years.

No need to speak, no need to look, no need for "give it to me," "catch," "put it there."

He just knew when she would reach out, and she just knew when he would hand it over.

Like two synchronized machines, every movement was on the same beat.

Karina put the last plate into the cabinet, closed the door, turned around, and leaned against the edge of the stove.

Jiang Zhiyu was still washing the wok—it was large, an iron wok used for stir-frying, and very heavy.

He held the handle with one hand and a brush with the other, scrubbing in circles inside the wok.

His arm muscles bulged slightly from the exertion, and the sleeves of his shirt were stretched a bit tight.

She looked at his arm, at that scar, at those marks—marks she didn't know when were left, didn't know how they were left, didn't know if they hurt.

She wanted to ask, but she didn't.

Because if she asked, he would say.

If he said, she might not understand.

If she understood, she would feel heartache.

If she felt heartache, she would—she didn't want to.

So she didn't ask.

"Oppa, why did you only invite me?"

Her voice was not loud, but very clear.

Jiang Zhiyu's hand scrubbing the wok paused.

Not "paused," but "slowed."

It slowed for a moment, then continued scrubbing.

He didn't look up, didn't look at her, didn't answer.

The water from the faucet was still flowing, splashing, like a melody-less song.

Karina waited, waited one second, two seconds, three seconds.

She thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he spoke.

"Because I wanted to. So I did."

Six words.

No reason, no explanation, no "because you helped me a lot," "because you are my best friend," "because I wanted to thank you."

Just "Because I wanted to. So I did."

If he wanted to, he did it.

He did it, and that meant—her face turned red.

Starting from the base of her neck, spreading all the way up, red to the tips of her ears, red to her hairline.

She lowered her head, looking at the tips of her shoes.

White canvas shoes, shoelaces tied tightly, the two sides of the bow perfectly equal in length.

Her shoelaces hadn't come undone today.

Her heart was beating fast, so fast she felt Jiang Zhiyu could hear it.

She didn't know if he could hear it, she only knew that her heartbeat was too loud, loud enough to drown out the sound of the faucet, loud enough to drown out the sound of the brush rubbing against the iron wok, loud enough to drown out her own voice.

She didn't speak.

Because she didn't know what to say.

Say "Oh"? Too cold.

Say "Thank you"? Too formal.

Say "Me too"? Too—she wasn't.

She didn't know if she was "me too" or "not."

She only knew, he wanted to, he did it.

She came, she ate, she blushed.

That was enough.

No need to say anything.

Karina's face still turns red when she thinks back on it now. It's not "red"; it's "hot." So hot that she presses the back of her hand against her cheek, trying to cool herself down. She can't cool down, because her heart is still racing. It's beating so fast that she wants to press her hand against her chest to make it slow down. It won't slow down because she is thinking of him. She thinks of the way he said "Because I wanted to," with not a hint of hesitation in his tone. She thinks of the curve of his lips when he said "So I did it." She thinks of the scar on his arm when he was washing dishes. She thinks of the bow he tied with the apron strings behind his waist when he was cooking. She thinks of that confirmation of "pretty" in his eyes when he watched her eat. She doesn't want to understand the deeper meaning hidden in his eyes. Because she is afraid of misunderstanding it, afraid of understanding it correctly, and afraid of not knowing what to do after understanding it. So she doesn't want to. She only wants to remember. Remember the expression on his face when he said those words, remember the tone of his voice, remember the feeling of her heart racing when she heard those words. Feelings don't lie. Her feelings tell her—she likes him. She likes the words he said, she likes the way he looked when he said them, she likes him. It's not the "like" of liking, but the "like" of liking. She doesn't know what that means; she only knows that her face turned red.

Lee Tima is gone, and Jiang Zhiyu is happy. It's not "happy because Lee Tima is gone," but "happy because Lee Tima exists in this world." Because she exists, he is not alone. If he is not alone, he doesn't need to be worried all the time. If he doesn't need to be worried all the time, he can relax. If he relaxes, he can smile. If he smiles, he can steal sausages from Kim Minjeong to eat, he can tell political jokes to Ningning, and he can invite only Karina to his home for dinner. He can do anything he wants to do. Because in this world, he is not alone. He has a younger sister, he has friends, he has someone he likes. Someone he likes—he doesn't know who he likes. He only knows that when he watches Karina eat, his heart is very quiet. It's not "quiet"; it's "full." When it's full, he doesn't need anything else. Not needing anything else means—he is happy.

Once Jiang Zhiyu was happy, his work efficiency increased. It wasn't an "increase"; it was a "skyrocketing." It skyrocketed to the point where work that originally would have taken him three days to finish was now done in a single day. Once finished, he didn't submit it. Because SM's retaliation was still ongoing. If he submitted it quickly, they would give him more even faster. He submits one, they give him two. He submits two, they give him four. The more he does, the more they give him. He would never finish, and he could never stop. This was Kim Young-min's tactic. He had used such tactics against others in the past, so he knew it all too well. So he held onto it. He put the finished documents in a drawer and locked it. He would submit them on the last day. Once submitted, it would be "completed on time." Completed on time, and he wouldn't be nitpicked. Not being nitpicked means he wouldn't be given extra work. Not being given extra work means—he was free.

During the time he didn't submit the documents, he was free. Free enough to go to Loen Entertainment and see how the promotional planning process for IU was going. The planning process had reached its end, and the album's five songs were dominating the Korean music charts. First place was "the blue night of jeju island," second was "Seoul Station," third was "Through the Night," fourth was "The Little Prince," and fifth was "Last Goodbye." The top five were all IU's songs. Sixth place was "prince ruperts drop," by Kim Taeyeon. The composer column for the top five read "Z," and the composer column for the sixth read "Jiang Zhiyu." Only SM and Loen knew that, in fact, one through six were all Jiang Zhiyu. That damn genius songwriter. The head of publicity at Loen looked at the charts and remained silent for a long time. Then he said, "Is Jiang Zhiyu even human?" No one answered him. Because no one knew the answer. They only knew that he wasn't human. He was a monster. A monster who wrote songs faster than he ate, a monster who occupied the top five and pushed Kim Taeyeon to sixth. Kim Taeyeon's fans were cursing in the comments section, cursing IU, cursing Loen, cursing the charts. But they didn't know that the one they should be cursing was Jiang Zhiyu. It was his song, it was he who pushed Kim Taeyeon down. He didn't care. What he cared about was—how Kim Taeyeon would react.

Kim Taeyeon's reaction was faster than Jiang Zhiyu had expected. That afternoon, Jiang Zhiyu was waiting for takeout downstairs at the company. He had ordered a full-sugar milk tea with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans. The pink liquid sloshed in the transparent cup, and the words "full sugar" were written on the cup with a marker. The delivery guy rode up on an electric scooter, took the milk tea out of the insulated box, and handed it to him. He took it, inserted the straw, and took a sip. Sweet, very sweet, sweet enough to make his throat feel cloying. He squinted his eyes, his lips curling up slightly. Then he saw Kim Taeyeon. She stepped out of a black sedan, wearing a gray hoodie, her hair loose, no makeup, wearing round-rimmed glasses. She was holding a document envelope, probably on her way to the company to take care of something. She saw him, and she also saw the milk tea in his hand. She didn't speak. Her expression didn't change; it was calm enough that no emotion could be seen. But she glanced at that cup of milk tea. That glance was very short, short enough to be only a fraction of a second. But Jiang Zhiyu caught it. It wasn't "caught"; it was "struck." Struck by her gaze. In that gaze was the helplessness of "you're drinking milk tea again," the questioning of "didn't I tell you you weren't allowed to drink it," and the concern of "the kings card has already expired but I still don't want you to drink it." Subconsciously, he hid the milk tea behind his back. The movement was fast, fast enough to be like a thief. It wasn't "like"; it was "exactly." He was a thief. A thief stealing a drink of milk tea. Caught in the act.

Watching his "hiding" action, Kim Taeyeon's lips moved slightly. It wasn't a smile, but the helplessness of "what are you hiding for." She didn't say "come here," didn't say "give me the milk tea," didn't say "did you forget the lesson of the kings card." She didn't say anything. She just walked into the company building and into the elevator. Jiang Zhiyu stood at the entrance of the building, holding the milk tea, hiding it behind his back. His brain was running at high speed—the ban from the kings card had expired, he could drink milk tea. Kim Taeyeon couldn't control him. He hadn't done anything wrong, he didn't need to hide. His body didn't think so. The moment his body saw Kim Taeyeon, it automatically executed the "hide" command. This was PTSD. Milk tea PTSD. After being banned from milk tea for a week by Kim Taeyeon using the kings card, his body remembered that pain of "not being able to drink milk tea." Once remembered, he would be afraid. Once afraid, he would hide. Once hiding, it was—he took a deep breath, took the milk tea from behind his back, and took a sip. He told himself, he could drink it. No one could stop him. He walked into the building, walked to the elevator, and pressed the button. The elevator came down from the seventh floor, the numbers jumping from 7 to 6, from 6 to 5, from 5 to 4, from 4 to 3, from 3 to 2, from 2 to 1. The doors opened. Kim Taeyeon was standing inside. She was leaning against the elevator wall, her hands in her hoodie pockets, her expression calm. Her gaze landed on Jiang Zhiyu's face, and then on the milk tea in his hand. The milk tea still had a straw in it, fine water droplets condensed on the cup wall, and the pink liquid sloshed in the transparent cup. Jiang Zhiyu's hand moved behind his back again. It wasn't "hiding," it was "shifting." Shifting behind his back, shifting out of her line of sight. Once shifted out, she couldn't see it. If she couldn't see it, it didn't exist. If it didn't exist, it was—she saw it. She saw everything. She saw his milk tea, saw his guilty conscience, saw his hand moving behind his back. She saw it, but she didn't say anything.

Jiang Zhiyu walked into the elevator and stood in the corner. Very far from her, far enough that he couldn't reach her if he stretched out his hand. Kim Taeyeon pressed the close button, and the doors closed. The elevator started to rise, 1, 2, 3. No one spoke. Jiang Zhiyu watched the floor numbers, counting in his heart. 4, 5, 6. His fingers tapped lightly on the milk tea cup, without rhythm, not music, but nervousness. 7. The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Kim Taeyeon walked out without looking at him. Her footsteps gradually faded away in the hallway, absorbed by the walls, drowned out by the humming of the air conditioning vents. Jiang Zhiyu stood in the elevator, not moving. The doors closed, and the elevator started to descend. He looked at the milk tea in his hand, silent for a moment. Then he took a sip. Sweet, still very sweet. But he felt that today's milk tea wasn't as sweet as before. It wasn't that the milk tea had changed, it was his mood that had changed. It wasn't "changed," it was "complicated." Complicated to the point where he couldn't taste the sweetness, only the guilty conscience of "being caught." He shouldn't feel guilty. He wasn't wrong. He told himself. He wasn't wrong.

Kim Taeyeon's solo comeback was put on the schedule. It wasn't SM that brought it up proactively, but it was forced by IU. IU's album dominated the charts, the top five were all her songs, pushing Kim Taeyeon's "prince ruperts drop" to sixth. Kim Taeyeon's fans were making a fuss, saying SM was doing nothing, saying Kim Taeyeon should have a comeback, saying they couldn't let IU dominate the charts alone. SM couldn't ignore it. To deal with it meant releasing an album for Kim Taeyeon. Releasing an album required songs. Writing songs required a person. That person was Jiang Zhiyu. He had written "prince ruperts drop," he knew how to write songs for Kim Taeyeon, he knew how to write them so she could sing them well, how to write them so her voice would shine, how to write them so she could pull IU down from first place. It wasn't "pulling down," it was "squeezing up." Squeezing up meant—SM needed him.

Lee Soo-man and Kim Young-min had not consulted each other. This was something Jiang Zhiyu only found out later. The project plan for Red Velvet's new album was sent from Kim Young-min's office, and the project plan for Kim Taeyeon's solo was sent from Lee Soo-man's secretary's office. Two documents, at the same time, to the same recipient. On his desk, one was on the left, one was on the right. On the left was Red Velvet, on the right was Kim Taeyeon. On the left was Bae Joo-hyun, on the right was Kim Taeyeon. On the left was the female lead of the "stand-in literature," and on the right was the culprit behind "milk tea PTSD." He looked at those two documents and remained silent for a long time.

Speechless. That was all Jiang Zhiyu could think. It wasn't "helplessness," it wasn't "annoyance," it wasn't "I want to curse." It was just "speechless." Nothing to say, nothing to speak of, nothing to argue. He was just a songwriter, a planner, a seventeen-year-old Chinese-American teenager who had transmigrated from another world, was repeatedly toyed with by fate, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He didn't know why fate had arranged it this way; he only knew that he couldn't refuse. Because if he refused Red Velvet, Kim Young-min would say, "You are not obeying company arrangements." If he refused Kim Taeyeon, Lee Soo-man would say, "You don't cherish the opportunities the company gives you." No matter which one he refused, he would die. If he didn't refuse, he would also die. Die of exhaustion. He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. That fluorescent light was still the same, the one with the broken ballast flashing every few seconds. He stared at that light, and a voice in his heart was saying—Lee Tima, you've ruined me. It wasn't "ruined," it was "set me up." Set him up, and then ran away. Ran far away, ran to the Yu family, eating braised pork, sleeping in a big bed, being praised as "good" by Mrs. Yu, being liked by Yu Ji-eun. She was living very well, and he was not living well. He was not doing well because he had to be responsible for both Red Velvet and Kim Taeyeon's albums at the same time. Two albums, two girl groups, two women. One woman was the female lead of the "stand-in literature," the other woman was the culprit behind "milk tea PTSD." He didn't know which one to face first; he only knew that he didn't want to face either of them. But he had to face them. Because he was Jiang Zhiyu. The seventeen-year-old Chinese-American teenager who had transmigrated from another world, was repeatedly toyed with by fate, and didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He couldn't run. If he ran, it meant admitting defeat. Admitting defeat meant—he didn't want to lose. So he sat up straight, picked up the document on the left, turned to the first page, and started reading.

— —

(08:50) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Good morning, Zhiyu Oppa! My tongue is still a bit numb... But I dreamed that Oppa was blowing on my red bean taiyaki to cool it down, saying "Our Minjeong is like a little pink kitten even with an injured tongue," and when I woke up, I practiced sticking my tongue out in front of the mirror for five minutes~ (Sends a blurry selfie of herself trying to stick her tongue out in the morning light)]

(08:53) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [For breakfast, I used red bean paste to draw a taiyaki and a band-aid puppy on my porridge! Ningning said "Unnie's breakfast diary could be published as a picture book," and I nodded seriously: "I'll call it 'Winter's Sweet Accident Story'!" (Shows the crooked pattern on the porridge)]

(08:56) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [When I was watering the plant family, the fifth leaf of "Chuchu" sprouted! It's as tender as the milk foam on the matcha latte Oppa drank last time. I touched it gently and said: "Grow up to be as good-looking as Dad."]

(08:59) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Today I have to record a variety show game segment, and the stylist Unnie gave me a fluffy onesie to wear! Giselle said "You look like a giant honey bear plushie," but I think it looks more like the "walking hug experience coupon" Oppa talked about... (Spreads arms to show off the fluffy sleeves)]

(09:02) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [I secretly stuffed a mini ginkgo leaf "great-grandchild" into the onesie pocket, so even if I turn into a bear, I'm still holding onto the autumn promise in my palm~]

(09:05) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Before leaving the house, I practiced the "my tongue isn't numb anymore" smile in the entryway mirror, but I ended up smiling like I just stole some honey... Ah, anyway, today is going to be a sweet day too! (Sends a photo with the onesie hood slipped down covering half her face, only showing her grinning smile)]