A woman in a wedding dress was running through the forest, her heart pounding wildly. Branches tore at her face, her legs stumbled under the weight of the gown. A muffled cry escaped her lips as she collapsed to the ground.
For a few seconds, she lay still, gasping for breath, then tore off her heels and started running barefoot. Her eyes darted through the darkness, wide with panic, chasing every sound.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out.
She froze. Her trembling hands slowly moved to her stomach. Her breath caught when she felt the warm blood seeping between her fingers. Her eyes dimmed. She staggered, then crumpled to the cold ground, her fists unclenching as she let go.
— Cut! Cut! shouted a man's voice.
The woman in the wedding dress stayed on the floor for a moment, breathing heavily, before slowly lifting her head. With a discreet motion, she brushed her hair back into place.
A man stepped forward, a broad smile lighting up his face.
— Perfect, Yuri-ssi! he exclaimed. That was incredible… you really looked like you were dying. Truly outstanding work—bravo.
The crew burst into applause, faces glowing with pride and admiration.
Han Yuri slowly removed her veil and handed it to the director without responding to his praise.
— I have an interview in an hour, she said calmly. If we're done here, I'll be leaving.
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and walked toward her dressing room.
An hour later, cleansed of the fake blood and dressed in an elegant gown that sharply contrasted her earlier costume, she prepared for the interview.
Interview Room — MNK Broadcasting Studio
— …and tonight, we have the great honor of welcoming one of the most talented and admired actresses of her generation, the star of Love in the City — Han Yuri! Welcome! announced the host, her warm and enthusiastic voice filling the studio.
Amid the crowd's applause, Han Yuri stepped onto the stage. Smiling, she waved, bowed politely, and walked gracefully toward the host. Once beside her, she bowed again before turning toward the audience, her flawless smile still in place.
— Thank you so much for having me, she said, inclining her head slightly, her voice poised and gentle. It's a pleasure to be here.
They sat facing each other. The host, still smiling, neatly adjusted her stack of cue cards with practiced ease.
— So, Yuri-ssi, she began, rumors are flying about your next project with the famous director Kim Min-ho… can you tell us more?
Yuri was about to answer in her composed, measured tone when her smile froze. Her gaze, which should have stayed on the host, was drawn to a movement backstage.
An assistant was rushing toward the show's director, holding a phone. He whispered something into his ear. The director's previously neutral expression stiffened. Slowly—almost unwillingly—his eyes turned toward Yuri, filled with a mix of shock and unease.
Then the sound engineer glanced down at his phone. His eyes widened. He nudged the cameraman beside him and showed him the screen. Another quick, nervous glance was cast toward Yuri. A strange silence began to fall over the set.
Yuri frowned slightly, unsettled by the sudden shift and the furtive looks. Even the host, visibly aware of the tension, forced her smile and continued:
— Yuri-ssi? she asked warmly, though her tone trembled ever so slightly.
— Yes… murmured Han Yuri, her voice soft but taut.
The host redoubled her efforts to smile, her professionalism acting as a shield.
— It seems our actress is still a little distracted… maybe because of the flight? I heard you barely landed before heading straight to set today.
She followed with a few lighthearted lines, small jokes meant to ease the mood.
But the unease lingered — invisible, heavy.
Yuri gathered herself. Her gaze returned to the host and, as if nothing had happened, she continued the interview — her perfect smile never wavering.
Thirty minutes later, as soon as the cameras were off, her smile vanished.
The host thanked her one last time, but the show wasn't quite over yet — there was still a round of promotional photos to take. Sitting side by side, they let the makeup artists do a few final touch-ups.
Yuri suddenly noticed two staff members standing a little farther away, leaning toward each other. They were whispering, eyes darting in her direction. She couldn't hear the words, but their looks alone sent a chill down her spine.
Without waiting to find out more, she stood abruptly, startling the makeup artist, who instinctively stepped back. Ignoring the heavy stares and her team's anxious questions, Yuri strode away from her chair.
She disappeared down the hallway, pushed open the studio restroom door, and locked it behind her.
With trembling fingers, Yuri pulled out her phone. The screen lit up — dozens of notifications, messages from her agent, from her father… and ten missed calls from Kim Min Hee.
She dialed the number, her heartbeat quickening.
— Yuri! came Min Hee's trembling, panicked voice. Finally! Did you see the article? It's everywhere — all over the internet!
— What article? sighed Han Yuri, exasperated. Let me guess… another dating rumor with Lee Jae Hyun?
— No… it's… much worse, Min Hee hesitated.
A heavy silence filled the line. An anonymous post was published. It says that… that you killed someone.
Yuri froze, her eyes empty. Then, sharply:
— What…?! What did you just say?! she cried, her voice shaking.
The silence on the line turned ice-cold. Yuri's breath came short. She felt the ground slip beneath her feet. Her hands gripped the sink desperately, as if clinging to the only thing keeping her upright.
— For now… Min Hee's voice trembled. Cancel everything. Take the first flight to Seoul. We'll talk when you're here.
The call ended.
Han Yuri stood motionless, staring at her pale, terrified reflection in the mirror. Her trembling hand was still gripping the sink. A few heavy, suffocating seconds passed. Then, slowly, she straightened. Her breathing steadied, her shoulders lifted — as if she were reclaiming control.
— It's nothing, she whispered to herself, staring into her own eyes with quiet resolve while fixing her hair. I'm Han Yuri. There's no way a stupid rumor is going to destroy my career. I've worked too hard to get here.
She paced across the room, hands clenched, before adding — firmer this time, almost like a vow:
— No. I won't let it happen. I'll do whatever it takes to protect what I've built.
Incheon Airport — Arrival Hall, fifteen hours later
The moment the automatic doors slid open, a storm of camera flashes erupted.
Paparazzi surged toward her, microphones outstretched, nearly shoving people aside.
— Han Yuri-ssi, have you seen the accusations?!
— Is it true you were involved in an accident?!
— Any comment on the murder rumor?!
Yuri, hidden behind dark sunglasses, her face unreadable, said nothing. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor — steady, determined. Two bodyguards flanked her, clearing a path as best they could. The flashes kept coming, relentless, every step heavier than the last.
Yuri tightened her grip on her bag strap, eyes fixed straight ahead, as if nothing could touch her.
Without a word, she passed through the exit, leaving behind the chaos of voices and blinding lights. The black van was waiting. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise outside. She sank back into the seat, her chest still rising and falling from the forced march.
The van eased forward. Yuri unlocked her phone, scrolling through endless online articles, cruel comments flooding her screen. Then, suddenly — the phone vibrated in her hand.
A private number.
Her finger hovered above the screen for a moment. After a brief hesitation, she answered.
— …Hello? she murmured, her voice tense.
Silence.
Only a faint breathing — low, almost imperceptible — on the other end.
She frowned.
— Hello? I can hear you. Say something.
Nothing. Just that heavy, oppressive breathing.
Irritation overtook her fear.
— Listen, I don't have time for this. If you need someone to talk to, get a therapist, she snapped, her tone sharp.
She was about to hang up when a muffled chuckle echoed through the line. Her blood ran cold.
Quickly, she brought the phone back to her ear.
And then — a distorted voice, metallic, impossible to place — neither man nor woman — whispered:
"I know what you did…"
The voice dropped lower, turning into a chilling murmur.
A muffled laugh followed.
"Murderer."
To be continued…