By night, the city was a sea of light and moving glass, neon reflected on rain-slicked avenues. Mirae stood at the window of their apartment, arms folded tight, gazing out at Seoul's restless shimmer. The table behind her was scattered with contracts, highlighters, Harin's battered legal pad, and three cellphones—each buzzing in a separate, anxious rhythm.
Harin was bent over her laptop, shoulders taut, cross-checking the most recent revisions. She'd barely spoken in an hour except to murmur a sharp "No, that clause is too soft" or "Highlight this for tomorrow." Yura, always the calmest when things were fraying, moved through the kitchen, assembling snacks Mirae would never be able to eat but found soothing to look at: fruit, rice balls, a single bar of dark chocolate. Joon-ho, freshly showered and half-dressed in a dark shirt, leaned in the doorway with a mug of tea, watching Harin work with a mix of awe and worry.
