The orchard still clung to dawn when they arrived. Dew beaded on mandarin leaves, glittering under the soft orange glow of floodlights strung across the café set. Crew members shuffled between the café tent and the outdoor tables, adjusting cameras, polishing glasses, wiping down counters. Their voices were hushed, brisk, purposeful. Everyone knew the stakes.
The scandal hadn't died down. It had merely shifted its weight.
From beyond the low orchard fence came the faint murmur of voices. At first it was just background noise, like wind through leaves. Then the words sharpened, rising and falling with rhythmic chants:
"No violence on TV!""Boycott until Do-jin is gone!"
A small cluster of protestors had gathered at the entrance path. They held placards that caught the rising sun, their letters bold and angry. Some of them were young fans, faces half-covered with masks. Others looked older, parents perhaps, here to stand against what they saw as a failure of responsibility.
