Rain battered the tower's skin, running in serpentine rivulets down the length of EON's headquarters. The city below was muted, gray, and distant—a world CEO Choi Sung-woo controlled from on high. Inside, the boardroom's long table gleamed under recessed lights, its surface littered with the debris of an unexpectedly bad morning.

With a snap that cracked the tension, Choi hurled a folder across the glass. Pages fanned across the polished table, contracts and schedules fluttering like birds startled from a branch.

"She hasn't earned her keep. Not even close," he hissed, each word clipped as a blade. "After all I invested in Kwon Mirae, she thinks she can walk out because her fans are loud?"

Nobody met his gaze. The secretary, a slip of a woman, stared at her trembling notepad. Legal counsel—sweaty, awkward—fidgeted with a capped pen. Only Director Han matched Choi's icy rage, the older man's hands folded in calculated calm.

"It's Park Jae-hyun, sir," the secretary managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's found a way to challenge the performance clause—the metrics are vague, open to interpretation. He's already filed a notice for negotiation."

Choi stalked along the window, his own reflection a flickering shadow beside the bruised sky. "Of course it's Park. Did you know he's made a career on blowing up contracts like these? That little bastard destroyed White Prism last year."

Director Han leaned in, voice grave. "If we try to play this as a routine exit, he'll force discovery. We'd better assume he has the media on speed dial. And he wants no NDA. If she leaves, she talks."

Choi's jaw twitched. "So we fight dirty." He jerked his chin at the legal team. "Calculate the max penalty. Demand every penny. Shift endorsement fallout to her. If she loses a deal, she pays. If sponsors drop her, she pays. Drag her through every clause."

Legal counsel hesitated, glancing at the secretary, who'd started typing notes with trembling fingers. "There are limits to how much we can pin on her, sir. If it goes public—"

Director Han interrupted, a cold glint in his eyes. "Then we go public first. Start seeding stories—her arrogance, missed shoots, rumors of contract violations, whatever we have. Send tips to the reporters who owe us. Get the bot accounts ready to flood SNS."

Choi stilled, listening to the rain. In the hush, the sound was almost soothing—almost. "If Mirae makes noise, we drown her out. Remind every trainee and rookie under contract what happens when you bite the hand."

A murmur of agreement—some genuine, most fearful. The company's culture was legend: loyalty enforced by whispered threats, exile, and ruined reputations. More than one ex-idol had vanished after crossing EON.

The secretary's pen hovered. "About Park, sir…?"

Choi's gaze was lethal. "He's too bold. Hire private surveillance. Tap his calls if you can. Find a weakness—debt, affairs, anything. If we can't win in court, we win in the gutter."

Director Han nodded, his approval silent but absolute. "This is how we keep the stable. If one asset escapes, they'll all try."

Thunder rattled the window. The meeting's tension was animal, hungry.

Choi's phone buzzed—urgent, the screen awash with SNS notifications. Mirae's fan cafe had exploded: #FreeMirae, #CoffeePrince, #JusticeForMirae. Photos from her latest café shoot—her eyes shining, her smile warm—were everywhere.

For a heartbeat, Choi's confidence faltered. The world was changing, fans now more powerful than ever.

But he hid his doubt. "Let them have their hashtags. When the rumors break, those same fans will turn. We'll give them a scandal they'll never forget."

Director Han smiled thinly, the expression of a man who'd crushed dreams for a living. "If she fights, we make her regret it."

The secretary's hands shook as she recorded the final orders—her own dreams of show business now nothing but shadow.

And in the echoing boardroom, with the city rain pounding a steady war drum, EON's leaders declared their intent: to destroy Kwon Mirae if she dared walk free.

The mood at Lumina's headquarters was a heady mix of anticipation and exhaustion, with Fashion Week now only days away. On the top floor, daylight slanted through walls of glass, striking the marble reception and pools of silk, chiffon, and sparkling sequins. Models, assistants, and designers darted between racks of couture and boards plastered with models' headshots, casting calls, and frantic schedules.

Near the entrance, Harin and Yura orchestrated the chaos like generals on a battlefield. Harin was balancing her phone, a clipboard, and a half-eaten rice ball, all while corralling a pack of nervous new models.

"Unnie, why does every sponsor want their girl to close the show?" she groaned, flipping through emails as an assistant handed her another press release to sign. "And since when are we supposed to provide gluten-free, vegan, carbon-neutral catering for two hundred people?"

Yura, her hair twisted up in a no-nonsense chignon, scanned a spreadsheet on her laptop, tapping her pen in frustration. "Since money started talking louder than common sense. Keep the focus on Min-Kyung's dresses and Mirae if we get her. That's our show."

From across the room, Min-Kyung shouted: "No one's wearing my orange silk! It photographs like hospital scrubs. Swap it for the mint." Her hands were a blur as she pinned hems and checked zippers, her focus absolute.

Harin rolled her eyes but relayed the order to a frazzled assistant. "And tell catering: no onions anywhere near backstage. Last time, half the models refused to walk."

The controlled chaos was briefly interrupted as Joon-ho appeared at the glass entrance, drawing more than a few admiring glances from the staff. He wore a slate blue shirt, sleeves rolled, face calm amid the storm.

"Over here, oppa!" Min-Kyung called. She handed him a hanger with a crisp tuxedo. "Try this. If you ruin my fit with one bicep curl, you're dead."

Joon-ho laughed, slipping into the dressing alcove. As he emerged, buttoning the jacket, a hush fell. Even some of the usually unflappable design assistants paused to look.

Harin, pretending to swoon, said, "Min-Kyung, are you sure he's not a model? We could auction backstage passes for charity."

Min-Kyung checked the fit with a practiced eye, tugging on the cuffs and adjusting his lapel. "Perfect—don't gain a millimeter. And don't go lifting Mirae in front of the press, or I'll have to redo the seams."

Joon-ho grinned, "No promises," and took a mock-catwalk lap to applause and a few camera-phone clicks.

The humor faded a bit as Harin glanced toward the frosted glass of the adjoining office. "Yura's still fighting with her husband and that sponsor. She's been on calls since dawn."

Min-Kyung scowled. "He's still trying to push his new girlfriend as the show's face. Yura said no, but he's threatening to yank support for her dad's company. As if we care anymore. Lumina's solvent, thanks to her."

Joon-ho's brow furrowed. "Is she alright?"

Harin shrugged, but worry flickered in her eyes. "She will be. But she's stretched so thin, oppa. Between the show, her family, and that bastard—" Harin cut herself off, noticing Min-Kyung's sharp look. "Sorry. But it's true."

Just then, Yura stepped out, rubbing her temples. The whole room seemed to hush for a moment, the underlying respect for her palpable. She glanced at the models, the piles of paperwork, and then at Joon-ho, relief softening her features.

"Coffee?" he offered, already pouring her a mug. He placed it gently in her hands, and she held it like a lifeline.

For a moment, she just breathed, the color returning to her cheeks. "You're a lifesaver, Joon-ho. Remind me again why I'm not allowed to clone you?"

He smiled. "Labor laws, probably. Plus, I think the world can only handle one of me."

As Min-Kyung busied herself with an assistant over fabric samples, Joon-ho leaned closer to Yura, voice pitched low. "You don't have to carry all of this. We're here. Whatever you need."

Yura met his gaze, her mask slipping just enough to let real gratitude show. "Thank you. I forget, sometimes, that I'm not in this alone. You make it easier to remember."

She sipped her coffee, visibly relaxing, and the two sat quietly for a moment as the bustle surged around them.

Elsewhere, Min-Kyung noticed a junior model fussing with her shoes and barked a quick command, "Change those out—no blisters on my runway." Harin, now fielding texts from Mirae ("Agency still stalling. Might go nuclear soon."), muttered, "Joon-ho's going to end up in every fan's fantasy, you watch."

Min-Kyung, not looking up, quipped, "And yours, apparently."

"Shut up, unnie," Harin shot back, but with a smile.

The conversation shifted as the girls and Joon-ho compared the looming contract battle to Fashion Week's own pressures.

"Are you really going to war with EON, oppa?" Harin asked, eyes wide.

"If that's what it takes to free Mirae, yes," he replied simply.

Min-Kyung nodded approval. "We're with you. If there's anything we can do—contacts, press, whatever—say the word."

Yura's voice, now stronger, joined them. "They'll play dirty, but they won't see us coming. Not this time."

As the day wore on, the team found small moments to laugh—a spilled box of hairpins, a model caught in a gown half-on, coffee splashing on a pattern book. Min-Kyung scolded a junior designer for eating bulgogi with white gloves, Harin orchestrated a five-minute "stretch break," and Yura, coffee finished, was back on her feet, organizing chaos with a new clarity in her eyes.

Joon-ho, for all his quiet charisma, felt the strength of the found family around him. Whatever EON threw at them next, it wouldn't be a fight he faced alone.

And as the shadows stretched and the city skyline glittered, the Lumina office buzzed on—a storm gathering outside, but within these walls, the calm before the battle.

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