The address from the three-year-old file led Han Yoo-jin to a gritty, working-class neighborhood in Seoul's Gwanak District, a world away from the shimmering glass towers and luxury boutiques of Gangnam. Here, the streets were narrower, lined with aging brick buildings, noisy barbecue restaurants, and the ubiquitous, brightly-lit convenience stores that served as the social hubs for the community. It was a place of survival, not aspiration.
Yoo-jin stood across the street from a 24-hour convenience store, the address from the file matching the apartment building directly above it. He felt deeply out of place in his office attire, a stark contrast to the neighborhood's comfortable, lived-in atmosphere. He checked his watch. It was just past ten in the evening. He had no real plan, only a desperate hope that she still lived here.
He waited for nearly an hour, the crisp autumn air chilling him to the bone. Just as he was about to convince himself this was a wild goose chase, the automatic door of the convenience store slid open. A young woman in the store's drab blue uniform stepped out, pulling off her work vest. Her hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, and her face was a mask of weary indifference. But Yoo-jin recognized her instantly. It was Ahn Da-eun.
She was nineteen now, her features sharper and more defined than in the old video, but the eyes were the same. They were sharp, intelligent, and held a defiant spark that seemed at odds with her exhausted posture. He watched as she bought a can of beer from the store she had just finished her shift in, a small, sad act of rebellion.
Yoo-jin discreetly followed as she walked a few doors down to the entrance of the apartment building. He watched her punch in a code and disappear inside. He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. What was he even going to say? An idea, risky and impulsive, took hold. He noticed the building directory listed rooftop access. He slipped inside the door before it could lock, the smell of dust and old kimchi assaulting his senses. He bypassed the rickety elevator and took the stairs, climbing the five flights to the top.
The rooftop was a cluttered, concrete expanse, offering a stunning, lonely view of Seoul's glittering skyline. The glamour felt distant, like a different planet. The space was filled with laundry lines hung with clothes, abandoned kimchi pots, and old discarded furniture. It was a raw, private space. He found a spot in the shadows and waited.
A few minutes later, the heavy metal door creaked open, and Ahn Da-eun stepped out. She walked to the edge of the roof, leaning against the railing and cracking open her can of beer. She took a long swallow, her back to him. Then she froze. She must have sensed his presence, a foreign element in her sanctuary. She spun around, her body instantly tensing, her eyes narrowing into hostile slits.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice low and rough, completely devoid of fear. She held the beer can like a potential weapon. "Are you from the collection agency? I told them on the phone, I'll have the money for my father's loan next week. Now get lost."
"I'm not a debt collector," Yoo-jin said, stepping out of the shadows with his hands held up in a placating gesture.
Her eyes scanned his face, his clothes. A flicker of something—recognition, dread, anger—crossed her features. Her posture became even more rigid. "...Stellar?" she spat the name like a curse. "Did that damned company send you? What do you want? I don't have anything to do with you people anymore. The contract was terminated. We're done. Finished."
Yoo-jin took a careful step forward. He had to play this perfectly. He tried the standard, professional approach first, the one he'd used a hundred times. "My name is Han Yoo-jin. I'm a manager at Stellar Entertainment. I was reviewing some old archive files, and I came across yours. I listened to your evaluation tapes. I think your talent was… seriously overlooked. I believe you have the potential to be a star."
Da-eun stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short, bitter laugh. It was a hollow, ugly sound that held no humor at all.
"A star? Oh, wow," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Save it. I've heard that exact speech before, from a man who looked just like you in a suit that was probably just as expensive. Let me guess the rest of the story. You'll 'invest' in me. You'll make me practice eighteen hours a day until my joints ache. You'll weigh me every single morning and tell me to lose another two kilograms. You'll have a consultation about how my nose isn't quite right for the camera. And then, when it all falls apart, you'll toss me aside with a termination notice and a bill for five years of 'training expenses.' No, thank you. I'll stick to selling ramen and beer. It's more honest."
The words were a volley of verbal shrapnel, each one sharpened by past pain. As she spoke, his Producer's Eye confirmed her state of mind, her thoughts flashing in his vision.
[Current Thoughts: Another liar. They're all the same. He doesn't see anything. He just wants a product he can sell. A doll he can dress up. He'll break me just like the others did.]
He realized his mistake. The conventional pitch was an insult to her trauma. It proved he was exactly who she thought he was. He had to tear up the script. He had to cut through the years of scar tissue and speak directly to the wound underneath. He had to use what only he could know.
He dropped the gentle, professional facade. His expression grew serious, his voice quiet but intense. "You're wrong."
She blinked, startled by the abrupt shift in his tone. "What?"
"It's not that you lack motivation. You're not lazy. You never were," he said, taking another deliberate step closer. Her hostile glare wavered, replaced by a flicker of confusion.
"You're terrified," he stated, not as an accusation, but as a simple fact. The word hung in the cold air between them. "You're so scared of failing, so petrified that you won't be good enough, that you build this wall of indifference and attitude around yourself. You pretend you don't care. Because it's so much easier to fail because you 'didn't try,' isn't it? It hurts less than giving it your absolute all… and still not being enough. That's the real fear, isn't it? The one that's been eating you alive for the last three years."
The impact of his words was immediate and devastating. Ahn Da-eun's entire hostile defense mechanism shattered like glass. Her jaw went slack, the beer can hung limply in her hand. The cynical nineteen-year-old vanished, and for a brief, vulnerable moment, he saw the scared sixteen-year-old girl she used to be. She took an involuntary step back, her eyes wide with shock and a dawning terror.
Her thoughts, which had been a defiant wall of text, were now a chaotic swirl in his vision. [How…? How could he know that? That's not in a file. No one knows that. Who is this man? What is he?]
Yoo-jin didn't press his advantage. He didn't want to break her; he wanted to reach her. He stopped his advance and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a simple, plain white business card. It had no company logo, no fancy title. Just his name, Han Yoo-jin, and his personal phone number.
"I'm not really with Stellar anymore," he said softly, his voice returning to a gentler register. "Not for much longer, anyway. I'm starting something new. Something different."
He stepped forward and placed the small card on the dusty concrete ledge of the railing, a safe distance from her.
"I'm not going to give you another speech about being a star," he said, looking her directly in the eye. "But when you get tired of running from the one thing you were born to do, call me. I know exactly how good you can be, Ahn Da-eun. Even if you've decided to forget."
He gave her a final nod, turned around, and walked toward the rooftop door, not looking back. He left her alone on the rooftop, a solitary figure under the vast, starless Seoul sky, the glittering city lights like a promise she had long since given up on. He could feel her eyes on his back the entire way. He stepped through the door and started down the stairs, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and fear.
On the rooftop, Ahn Da-eun remained frozen, staring at the spot where the strange man had stood. Her mind was reeling. He had seen right through her, past the walls she had spent years building, and identified the secret, shameful fear that was at the very core of her being. After a long moment, her eyes drifted down to the small, white business card sitting on the ledge. Her hand, trembling almost imperceptibly, reached out and picked it up.