Chapter 150: Chapter 150: Gym
Joon-ho could still hear Harin’s laughter echoing in his ears as he left the Grand ridian’s lobby. The mory was barely minutes old, yet it already felt like another life—Harin, arms folded, giving him that mock-stern look, standing between him and Mirae like a guard at a velvet rope.
"Go find sothing useful to do, oppa," she’d teased, eyes glinting with mischief. "We’ll return Mirae in one piece tomorrow, promise. But tonight, she’s ours."
He’d played along, adopting a wounded pout, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "Should I be worried? Or are you going to try to steal her for your agency instead?"
Harin had just rolled her eyes and shooed him away, turning all her focus to Mirae—her energy impossible to resist, a whirlwind of jokes and conspiratorial whispers. Mirae’s nervous smile had beco genuine laughter, her voice fading as the two won vanished into the lobby’s tide. For a mont, Joon-ho had simply stood there, watching, a half-smile on his lips and sothing warr, deeper, stirring in his chest.
Now, he drove back to his apartnt in silence. The city outside the window was washed in early evening gold, streets slowly thickening with after-work crowds. He listened to the hum of traffic, the faint whine of his engine, and tried not to notice the shape of absence where Mirae’s voice would have been. She had grown so quickly into his world, first as a responsibility, then as a friend, finally as sothing precious he struggled to na. Letting her go—even for a night—felt like a test he hadn’t studied for.
His building’s lobby was almost unnaturally calm after the chaos of the Grand ridian. The doorman greeted him by na, as always; the elevator doors slid open with a gentle chi. Everything glead: marble floors, glass walls, a small water feature whispering beside the mailroom. It was the kind of place he had once dread of living—a asure of success, of arriving in Seoul’s ruthless, shimring hierarchy. But as he stepped into his apartnt, all that polished luxury seed to echo, not embrace.
He dropped his bag by the door, toed off his shoes, and padded quietly into the living room. The city stretched beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Han River glinting in the distance, towers rising like teeth into a sky tinged lavender and rose. Joon-ho paused, savoring the view. Sowhere out there, Mirae and Harin were making their way to Seo Yura’s house, preparing for a night of laughter and secrets that would not include him.
He found himself reaching for his phone almost unconsciously. The ho screen lit up with a flood of notifications—group chats, emails, a reminder to check contract andnts for the new agency, a string of missed calls from a persistent reporter. And above all, the chat thread with Mirae: their conversation from earlier in the day, full of nervous energy and hidden hope.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could send sothing—just a quick check-in, a bit of encouragent, maybe even a silly . She’d reply with her usual politeness, maybe an emoji or two. But he stopped himself, thumb dropping away. He rembered the look in Harin’s eyes as she’d swept Mirae away: trust us. Let her have this. Let her build sothing of her own.
He dropped the phone onto the kitchen counter and moved to his bedroom. The silence pressed in around him—thick, but not entirely unpleasant. There was a kind of peace in solitude, a stillness that let his thoughts run unhurried. He changed into black track pants and a faded gym t-shirt, tied back his hair, and stretched out the knots in his shoulders. In the mirror, he caught sight of himself: older than the college kid he still felt like sotis, a little leaner, a little more tired, but not unhappy.
He grabbed a water bottle and his wireless earbuds, then made his way down to the gym on the fifteenth floor. The elevator ride was smooth, soundless, the walls reflecting his silhouette in triplicate. When he stepped out, the air was cool and faintly scented with eucalyptus, the gym lights casting long shadows across rows of treadmills and weight racks. At this hour, the place was never empty—tonight, three or four other residents jogged or stretched or scrolled their phones by the mirrored walls.
He nodded to a couple he recognized—a young doctor, a lawyer from the twenty-first floor—then found an open treadmill by the window. He set the speed, slipped in his earbuds, and tapped open the news on his phone. The familiar rhythm of his footsteps was grounding, the steady pulse of movent setting his mind at ease.
On the screen, the world spun on, heedless of his little dramas. The top headline was already a scandal—Actor Do-jin, golden boy of television, caught up in a storm of accusations. Drug possession, violence against won, even rumors of hush money paid to keep victims silent. Clips played on a loop: Do-jin entering a police station in dark glasses, his fans sobbing outside the courthouse, entertainnt panels debating whether his career was truly over this ti.
Joon-ho grimaced. He knew the type—talented, charming, utterly unprepared for the devouring appetite of fa. He rembered his own days at EON, watching idols chewed up and spit out, scandals engineered and covered up with the sa ruthless efficiency. He wondered, briefly, if he would ever beco calloused to it, or if he was simply growing weary.
He flicked past the scandal to the sports section. Here, the headlines were cleaner, almost hopeful: Korean won’s volleyball team storming the Dubai Cup, undefeated so far. He paused at a highlight reel—Ji-hye, his friend and forr client, spiking the ball with impossible force, her teammates hugging her at the final whistle. She looked vibrant, alive, every inch the athlete she had fought so hard to beco.
Below that, another story caught his eye: Yoon Hye-jin, the archery prodigy, taking silver at the European Grand Prix. The newscaster’s voice-over spoke of her coback, how she’d recovered from a shoulder injury that threatened her career. Joon-ho watched her slow-motion release—a perfect, fluid arc—and felt a pang of admiration. The cost of that perfection was always higher than outsiders guessed.
A few minutes in, he switched to his music app, scrolling through playlists until he found what he needed: a mix of old-school R&B and late 2000s K-pop, a few instruntal tracks for focus. The beat was steady, familiar, like muscle mory. He increased the treadmill’s speed, feeling the sweat begin to rise on his skin, the tension in his jaw and chest start to lt.
After twenty minutes, he slowed, heart hamring, and moved to the weight section. The gym had filled up—a pair of won in matching yoga sets stretched in front of the mirrors, a wiry college kid worked the bench press, a yoga instructor he recognized from weekend classes adjusted her students’ posture with patient, careful hands. Even here, in this private space, Joon-ho felt the distant hum of recognition—a nod, a smile, the unmistakable flicker of curiosity when soone realized who he was.
He set up at the squat rack. Halfway through his sets, one of the yoga won—tall, ponytail, bright pink shoes—approached, phone in hand, a hopeful look on her face.
"Excuse , are you Kim Joon-ho?"
He smiled, wiped his brow. "I am. Want a photo?"
She nodded, flustered, her friend giggling behind her. He posed with them, made small talk—"Are you training for sothing, or just for fun?"—then wished them luck with their yoga class. The instructor, overhearing, offered him a spot in the next group session. He laughed, declining as politely as he could.
As he returned to his workout, the small interactions left a faint warmth, but also an emptiness—a reminder of how many people recognized his na, his face, but not the core of who he was. They saw the surface: success, confidence, the stories written about him in magazines and blogs. Very few saw the cracks, the doubts, the nights spent staring at a city that seed both endlessly full and infinitely lonely.
He finished his routine, toweling off in front of the wall-length mirrors. His reflection gazed back—sweat-soaked, muscles humming, eyes a little distant. He filled his water bottle, nodded to the last of the gym-goers, and made his way back to his apartnt as dusk thickened outside.
Inside, the silence felt softer, easier. He dropped his gym bag by the door and wandered to the living room, letting the city’s lights spill in. The sky had deepened to indigo, streaked with the last red of sunset. Car horns echoed faintly from below, and sowhere a siren wailed, quickly swallowed by the night.
He poured himself a glass of cold water and stood by the window, towel around his neck, watching the city breathe. He could picture the scene at Yura’s house—Mirae sandwiched on a too-small sofa, Min-kyung cracking jokes, Harin probably instigating so wild ga or challenge. He wondered if Mirae was laughing, if her nerves had faded, if she felt at ho with these won who had once been strangers and were slowly becoming sothing more.
A gentle ache pressed against his chest—not quite jealousy, not quite longing, but the sense of sothing shifting beneath the surface. Mirae had been so alone when he first t her; he had poured energy into protecting her, guiding her, building a future where she would not have to be afraid. Now, watching her step into new friendships, new circles, he felt both proud and strangely out of place, as if he’d built a bridge only to find himself on the opposite shore.
He scrolled through his phone again, thumbing idly through photos—so work, so candid: Mirae making faces in a cafe, Harin at a crowded music show, Ji-hye in her volleyball uniform, eyes bright with triumph. He could send a ssage—sothing funny, a question about dinner, a reminder to get enough sleep—but he let the urge pass. Tonight, Mirae deserved a world of her own.
The city outside shimred, windows lighting up one by one as night settled over Seoul. Joon-ho let his thoughts drift, imagining what the future might hold: a new agency built from scratch, the battles ahead with EON, the uncertain joy of watching soone you care about grow beyond your reach. He felt a flicker of resolve—loneliness was real, but it would not define him. He would build, not just for Mirae, but for everyone in his orbit who had been cast aside, overlooked, or left behind.
For now, though, he watched the city, letting its pulse steady his own. Sowhere across the river, Mirae was laughing with friends, and that, he decided, was enough.
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