The announcement from Langley Press landed at precisely 9 a.m.—not a second early, not a breath late. As if fate had whispered the moment into being.
One hundred chosen candidates received an invitation, a single line that stole the air from their lungs: "You are one of the chosen. Los Angeles awaits you."
And in that instant—across the tangled wires of the world, a phrase bloomed quietly like dawn breaking through mist:
The World Sees You: Your potential now transcends borders.
—
That evening, the lights at Langley HQ burned long into the night.
Each floor flickered like a pulse. Footsteps moved with tension, voices softened with focus.
The low thrum of copiers, the whisper of messenger pings, the lingering trace of strong coffee—all layered beneath a hush of purposeful silence.
At its center: Daniel.
In place of the chairman, he lived as if time had splintered—each hour carved in halves, each breath pressed between ledgers and strategic briefings. Fatigue hung on his forearms, but his mind remained knife-sharp, slicing through numbers and names like silk through air.
Jinwoo, meanwhile, had lost himself in the final phase of filming. Take after take, he surrendered to the moment—sweating, breathing, unraveling lines that no longer belonged to him but to the character who wore his face.
And Noah, hours earlier, had returned to the 20th floor. Crutches beneath his arms, shadows beneath his eyes.
"One day on crutches and I feel like I ran a marathon. I'm crashing."
Short words, offered without demand. He disappeared into his room with the hush of someone trying not to leave a trace.
Celeste assumed he'd fallen asleep quickly.
It was late.
Officially, she was still on leave. Unofficially, her fingers remained buried in paperwork, shoulders pressed into the sofa.
The only sound was the soft rustling of turning pages.
Until—
A sound like a breath caught in the frame of the world. At first, she thought it was the wind.
But it wasn't.
It was broken. Like a heartbeat turned inward. Like a cry that hadn't found a voice yet.
Somewhere in the dark, tears fell—one by one, each one clear as glass.
Celeste rose without thinking.
She stopped before Noah's door.
"Noah… are you okay?"
He lay facing the wall. Sweat beaded his forehead. His hands trembled atop the blanket, grasping at something only he could see.
"No… please… don't… help me…"
His voice was fractured, thin. His breath, ragged.
And then—the pain broke free. Not a cry, but something far older.
A sorrow dragged from the depths of memory, like a soul returning to the place it had been lost.
She sat at the edge of the bed. Carefully. As if the silence between them might shatter.
She placed her hand gently on his shoulder.
He flinched—then exhaled. Long, like someone who had forgotten how to breathe.
Facing his back, she spoke softly.
"Sometimes… I dream too. Like yours."
It wasn't a comfort. It was an offering—peeled from the oldest part of herself.
"I remember… my past life."
Her voice was wind—light, but unshakable.
"I had siblings. Children, really. We were bruised by the world, but we held on to each other."
Her eyes were no longer here. They saw something distant—a time, a place, too old for this room to contain.
"I wasn't afraid when it came. Dying felt like release. But the children…I kept holding on, because someone had to protect them."
She swallowed gently.
"Sometimes I wonder if, after I was gone…someone hurt them. If they cried out and no one answered."
Guilt pooled beneath her voice like ink in water.
She touched his shoulder again—slowly this time, as if anchoring herself to the present.
"Strange, isn't it? I thought I'd let it go. But when I look at you…the memories come back."
Noah didn't answer.
But under her hand, his eyes opened.
No light. No words. But her voice had struck the deepest part of him.
He turned, slowly. Carefully.
She met his gaze—wide, startled. So many words gathered in her eyes, and yet none of them made it past her lips.
The silence broke first with a breath. Dry. Short. Almost a laugh.
"…So, first it was mind control, now reincarnation? What's next—talking to ghosts?"
He pulled the blanket up to his chin, turning slightly more toward her.
"It shouldn't make sense. But when I see you…it does. And that's the part I can't explain."
Then—in the voice that was only his, half-sarcasm, half-affection—
"If I didn't know better, I'd swear we're in some tragic indie film. Working title? The Celeste Chronicles."
Celeste laughed. Soft, unguarded.
Something long held inside her finally began to melt.
With him—even sorrow took shape.
Even her past, fractured and buried, began to shimmer again—like starlight spilling quietly across the walls of a darkened room.