Part I: Evacuating the Disaster
The sight of Jiang Chenxu, the nation's darling, being escorted out of a luxury hotel, still dripping pond water and loudly quoting existential philosophy, was an event that would haunt Mr. Kim for the rest of his career.
Meiyu, surprisingly, was the calm anchor in the storm. The little glowing crane in her pocket, the Shadow, was an active, if highly sarcastic, advisor.
"If he starts talking about the societal implications of silk taffeta, hit him with a fact about the rising cost of petrol. It's grounding," the Shadow whispered, the tiny voice surprisingly sharp over the din of shouting reporters.
Meiyu followed the advice, elbowing past Mr. Kim as Chenxu paused dramatically under the marquee lights, preparing a speech on the phoniness of haute couture.
"Mr. Chenxu," she said, her voice low and firm, using the tone she normally reserved for telling a vendor their fabric shipment was delayed. "The market value of your production company just dropped six percent. They are currently discussing a stock sell-off."
The effect was instantaneous. Chenxu's eyes, which had been wild with unfiltered passion, blinked rapidly. The word "stock" hit his capitalist core. He recoiled slightly, the theatricality draining away.
"A six percent drop?" he muttered, looking strangely disoriented, like a lighthouse whose beam had suddenly been redirected toward a spreadsheet.
"Six point two, actually," Meiyu confirmed, leading him firmly by the elbow.
The Shadow sighed happily in her pocket. "Ah, the sweet music of fiscal responsibility. It's like a lullaby to the inner tyrant."
They were hustled into a waiting black van, Chenxu's wetness steaming up the leather interior. Mr. Kim, hyperventilating in the front seat, waved a stack of legal papers.
"Ms. Lin, your contract. Non-disclosure agreements. Three months minimum. You are now his full-time personal assistant and stylist. You live at his penthouse. No exceptions. We need a twenty-four-hour muzzle. His mother is already demanding a DNA test."
Meiyu took the pen, the smell of expensive paper mixing with the damp scent of celebrity despair. She signed, the practicality of a new, well-paid job overriding the sheer impossibility of the situation. At least the beige blouses are gone.
Part II: The Golden Cage
Chenxu's penthouse was less an apartment and more an aggressively curated museum dedicated to the art of being famous. It was located in the tallest residential tower, a sleek monolith of glass and white marble.
As they stepped inside, Chenxu, now stripped of the immediate excitement of confrontation, began exhibiting a terrifying vulnerability.
"It's too quiet here," he announced, wandering into the cavernous, double-height living room. His voice, usually so controlled, was shaky. He kicked off his soaking shoes and, to Meiyu's horror, promptly burst into tears.
"I hate this floor plan!" he sobbed, pointing a distressed finger at a minimalist chaise lounge. "It feels so… judgmental! Where is the clutter? Where is the humanity? I just want to sit on something that doesn't cost more than a small hospital!"
Meiyu froze. This was not the theatrical rage from the gala. This was raw, untethered emotional distress.
"He's crashing," the Shadow warned, the tiny voice tight with worry. "Lack of filtration is exhausting. He needs an anchor. A very specific anchor. The kind that smells like home."
"What kind of anchor?" Meiyu whispered desperately, trying to calculate the cost of cleaning celebrity tears off white marble.
"Food, obviously! Get him his late-night sustenance! The one thing his mother forbids him to eat because of his 'image'!"
"What is it?"
"Jajangmyeon! Black bean noodles! But it has to be from 'Old Man Park's Wok,' six blocks over. Tell them: 'Extra pork, no onions, and please, only one drop of oil.' It's a very sensitive dish."
Meiyu felt her eye twitch. "One drop of oil? Are you serious?"
"He's an international celebrity, Meiyu. His cravings are bespoke! Now go, before he starts reviewing his childhood traumas in high-D minor!"
Meiyu glanced at Chenxu, who was now hugging a $10,000 Italian throw pillow, mumbling about his first lost tooth. This was clearly an emergency.
She grabbed his car keys and fled the golden cage.
Part III: The Bespoke Noodle Mission
The drive to Old Man Park's Wok was Meiyu's first chance to breathe. She pulled the Shadow out of her pocket and held the glowing paper crane up to the dashboard light.
"You are infuriating," she told the little figure. "Why couldn't he crave a simple cup of ramen? Or a sandwich?"
The Shadow pulsed in her palm. "Because my Master is complex! A masterpiece of contradictory desires! This jajangmyeon is his comfort. It's the last thing he ate before his mother essentially sold him to his first agency. It's nostalgia disguised as a carb binge."
Meiyu drove the impossibly expensive sports car through the quiet Seoul streets. When she reached the small, steaming noodle shop, the scent of sesame and fermented bean paste was thick and wonderful.
She gave the old man her elaborate, strangely specific order.
"Extra pork, no onions, and… only one drop of oil."
The old man, who looked like he had seen everything the city could throw at him, raised one eyebrow. "One drop of oil? Is this an apology or a threat?"
"It's a celebrity order," Meiyu sighed, pointing to the Shadow resting on her wrist. "His secret personality is a very demanding perfectionist."
The Shadow nudged her wrist. "Tell him the broth must achieve the perfect balance of umami and quiet resignation."
Meiyu ignored the Shadow. The old man, seeing her exhausted sincerity, merely chuckled and started working.
When the container was finally handed to her, perfectly sealed, Meiyu felt a strange sense of accomplishment. She had navigated the celebrity meltdown, signed a terrifying contract, and successfully executed a bespoke noodle mission.
"You did well, Meiyu," the Shadow complimented grudgingly as they drove back. "You're pragmatic, yet competent. A useful blend of boring and capable."
"Thank you, I think," she muttered.
Part IV: The Truth and the Comfort
When Meiyu returned, she found Chenxu exactly where she had left him—still crying softly into the pillow.
"I feel like my brain is disconnected from my mouth," he whimpered. "I keep thinking about the time my hamster ran away, and then I want to tell everyone about it."
Meiyu placed the takeaway box on the pristine marble coffee table. The rich, savory aroma immediately filled the air. Chenxu sniffed, his crying halting instantly.
He looked at the humble black plastic container with wide, shining eyes. "Is that… is that Old Man Park's?"
"The one with the highly regulated oil content," Meiyu confirmed, finding a pair of chopsticks and handing them to him.
Chenxu didn't hesitate. He tore into the noodles, forgetting his shame, his career, and his judgment-filled furniture. The sounds he made were entirely non-celebrity—sucking, slurping, and deeply satisfied moans.
Meiyu watched him, the raw honesty of the moment disarming her. This was the real man, the one the Shadow protected—a traumatized boy who just wanted comfort food and a moment of silence. He was messy, unpolished, and intensely human.
"It tastes like… like not being famous," he murmured between mouthfuls, looking up at her with gratitude that was utterly sincere. "Thank you. I didn't know I needed this until I had it."
"See? I told you," the Shadow whispered from her pocket, now radiating smug satisfaction. "Noodles solve everything. Now, go unpack. You have to be up at 4 AM for his mandatory sunrise jog—which he secretly despises."
Meiyu nodded slowly. She looked at the gorgeous, famous man who had just revealed his deepest cravings to her. She looked at the simple food, a small, tangible comfort in a life of overwhelming superficiality.
The Shadow wasn't just his secrets; it was his needs. And for three months, it seemed, those needs were her responsibility.
She walked toward the guest room, the absurd situation settling over her like a heavy velvet cloak. In her pocket, the Shadow pulsed, a beacon of truth in the heart of a spectacular lie.