Harin kept her voice level as the car moved through early city haze, hands folded in her lap, eyes never leaving the road. Mirae sat beside her, back straight, jaw tight, watching Seoul slide by in streaks of pale gray. They'd barely spoken that morning, the space between them filled by unasked questions. Only after the car door thumped shut behind them did Harin finally speak, quietly enough that even the driver couldn't overhear.
"EON will never say your name in public," she said. "That's not how they play. They use reputation, not direct attack. They'll drop hints—'unstable image,' 'hard to manage,' 'lifestyle risks'—enough to make partners nervous. Then they weaponize old contracts. Little clauses you forgot about, the kind designed to scare off anyone who gets close."
Mirae's mouth was dry. She remembered pages of paper, fine print she never fully understood, and the pressure to just sign, sign, sign. "But they don't win in court, do they?"
