The set woke up wrong.
Joon-ho felt it before he saw it—like the air had taken on a thin, metallic edge. Usually, basecamp in the morning was noisy in a familiar way: walkie chatter, coffee orders, someone laughing too loud because they were still half-asleep. Today the sound was softer, but heavier. The kind of quiet that wasn't calm, just careful.
He stepped off the van and rolled his shoulders, scanning instinctively for the usual landmarks: the catering tent, the wardrobe truck, the director's folding table with the clipboard kingdom. People were in the same places, doing the same things.
But their eyes kept dipping down to their phones.
Then back up.
Then sideways.
Like they were checking whether he'd noticed them checking.
He caught a grip's gaze for half a second—friendly guy, always offered him a lighter even though Joon-ho didn't smoke. The grip's face twitched into a polite smile, then he looked away too quickly, thumb sliding over his screen.
