[Next Day – University Courtyard, Midday]
Ara sat at the edge of the courtyard, beneath a wide tree that gave more shadow than comfort. Her lunchbox was unopened beside her, untouched. She watched students buzz past — colorful, loud, alive — like background noise in a life that didn't quite include her.
Then, without a word, someone sat beside her.
She didn't need to look.
> "You're late."
> "I brought coffee. Does that make up for it?"
Taehyun slid a small takeaway cup toward her. The lid was slightly stained, still warm.
Ara eyed it suspiciously.
> "You guessed my order?"
> "I watched you order it once. You said oat milk was the only thing keeping your stomach from staging a rebellion."
Her lips twitched — barely.
> "Creepy."
> "Thoughtful," he corrected, sipping from his own.
They sat in silence for a moment.
The breeze picked up, rustling the pages of Ara's sketchbook.
> "So," Taehyun said, glancing sideways, "art partner?"
Ara sighed.
> "Still think you're qualified?"
> "No," he admitted. "But you're interesting. And maybe I want an excuse to understand you better."
She shook her head.
> "You don't get it. People don't get close to me without a reason. Usually a bad one."
> "Maybe I'm just bad at staying away."
He said it so casually — as if it wasn't the most dangerous thing to say to a girl still haunted by what closeness used to mean.
Ara turned to him, eyes serious.
> "If you keep doing this…"
> "Doing what?"
> "Being kind. Saying things like that. You're going to make me think you mean it."
Taehyun didn't flinch.
> "I do."
Her heartbeat stuttered, and she hated that it did.
But she said nothing. Just picked up the coffee, took a sip — and let the warmth spread through her chest like something unfamiliar.
Something almost safe.
[Later That Week – Art Department Studio, Late Afternoon]
The studio smelled like turpentine and cheap coffee. Brushes clattered, paint splattered, students murmured in corners — but for once, Ara didn't mind the noise.
She stood in front of the easel, charcoal dust smudging the side of her hand, sketching rough strokes over the canvas. Across from her, Taehyun sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchpad in his lap. He looked absolutely out of place — pristine white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a small streak of blue paint marking his cheek like a badge of rebellion.
> "You know that's not how you shade fabric folds," Ara muttered, eyeing his drawing without looking directly at him.
Taehyun held up the sketchpad like a child showing off finger paint.
> "I call it artistic despair."
> "I call it lazy."
He grinned.
> "Same difference."
Ara tried not to smile. She really did.
She bent over her own work, eyes narrowed in concentration — but her focus faltered. She could feel him watching her, not in a way that burned, but in a way that… lingered. Like he was learning her without asking.
> "Stop staring."
> "You're hard not to look at when you're in your zone."
> "That's—"
> "A compliment. Don't panic."
She clicked her tongue and dipped her brush in paint, but her hand froze mid-air.
> "Taehyun…"
He looked up.
> "Yeah?"
> "Why are you really doing this?"
His brows furrowed, but he stayed still.
> "This… project?"
> "No. This… whatever this is." She waved a hand vaguely between them. "Showing up. Staying. Acting like I matter."
A pause. The studio noise faded into background static.
> "Because you do," he said simply.
Ara stared at him. Her walls threatened to rise again — fast, defensive, habitual.
> "You don't know that. You don't know me."
> "Then let me," he said, voice low. "Even just a little."
She opened her mouth — to argue, to scoff, to push him away like she always did.
But instead… she said nothing.
Because something about the way he said it didn't feel like a trick.
It didn't feel like Arianna. Or betrayal. Or the past bleeding back into her skin.
It felt like…
Maybe.
Not a yes. Not trust. But maybe.
---
[Later That Night – Ara's Room]
The moonlight washed over her desk, pale and cold. Ara sat with her knees pulled to her chest, sketchpad resting against her thighs. She was supposed to be working on their joint project. Instead, her pencil hovered, frozen mid-thought.
A doodle of Taehyun's profile had formed near the edge of the page — unintentional, soft-lined, almost gentle.
She stared at it, then flipped the page sharply, hiding it.
No.
This couldn't happen.
He was getting too close.
She couldn't afford close.
But then why did she feel that warmth in her chest again? That stupid, dangerous warmth — like something inside her wanted to believe him?
That same night, while Ara and Taehyun's footsteps faded into the quiet of a residential street, another corner of the city buzzed with a different kind of tension.
Location: Luxure Club, Seoul – VIP Lounge
The neon lights bathed the walls in seductive reds and purples. Laughter echoed from velvet-draped rooms, mixing with the low throb of bass-heavy music and the occasional clink of high-end liquor bottles.
The velvet curtains swayed as the bass trembled beneath their feet. Low golden light filtered through the haze, kissing her bare shoulder as she leaned closer to Jinwoo, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.
> "You're trouble," she whispered.
> "So are you," Jinwoo replied, voice thick with smoke and something darker. "That's why you're here."
She straddled his lap, his designer jacket sliding off, pooling behind him like discarded silk. Her fingers found the undone buttons of his shirt, revealing skin flushed with heat and hunger. He didn't stop her—he never did. Power was an aphrodisiac to men like him, and he wore it like a second skin.
Her red heels pressed into the armrest as they sank deeper into the leather couch. The hum of music outside faded into nothing. Their silhouettes tangled in the dim light—bodies moving in rhythm, heated whispers blending with shallow gasps.
Clothes shifted. Skin met skin.
It wasn't love. It wasn't even desire.
It was indulgence. A transaction of ego and escape.
Later, as the room cooled and their bodies parted, Jinwoo sat shirtless, cigarette dangling between his lips, eyes already detached. The girl murmured something behind him, still breathless, reaching for him.
> "Don't," he said lazily. "That was fun. Nothing more."
He exhaled, smoke curling around him like a crown of decay.
Across his lap, a young woman laughed breathlessly, her lipstick smeared, dress askew. She wasn't his girlfriend. Not even close. Just another club girl with pretty eyes and no questions.
Moments ago, their silhouettes danced against the tinted glass—entwined in a passionate haze of intoxication and lust. His hands had roamed freely, possessively, like a man who thought the world was his playground. He whispered empty promises in her ear, words as shallow as the glass of vodka in his hand.
He was still buttoning his wrinkled shirt as he stepped out of the lounge, hair tousled, looking more amused than ashamed.
> "Tch... Damn clingy girl," Jinwoo muttered, running a hand through his damp hair as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. His expensive watch glinted under the corridor lights as he checked the time. "She better not think this means anything."
Behind him, the door clicked shut, and the music swallowed any remnants of what happened inside.
But he wasn't alone.
Two pairs of eyes were watching.
From the shadows across the street, Junior Officer Minjun Han sat in the passenger seat of an inconspicuous black car, camera lens focused through a cracked-open window.
Next to him, Eunji, composed and sharp-eyed, chewed gum absentmindedly, fingers tapping rhythmically against her notepad.
> "He's out," Minjun murmured, adjusting the focus. "Still no sign of the girlfriend. That's the third night he's cheating."
> "With a new girl every time," Eunji said dryly. "Classy guy."
> "He's not even trying to hide it. He thinks he's untouchable."
> "He might be… his father's Kang Dae-hyun."
> "Even kings bleed," Minjun muttered, snapping another photo as Jinwoo passed under a streetlight.
The club door opened behind Jinwoo. Another man exited, whispering something in his ear. Jinwoo laughed—one of those hollow, spoiled-rich-laughs that echoed entitlement.
> "You think he knows we're tailing him?" Eunji asked.
> "Doubt it. He's too busy burying himself in ego and ecstasy."
Minjun lowered the camera, eyes narrowing.
> "We need to find the girlfriend. If she was at that party in 2014 in a red dress and red shoes…"
> "She might be our link to Ara Jeon's assault case," Eunji finished, suddenly more focused.
Minjun nodded grimly.
> "We just need proof. One slip. One confession. Anything that ties her to that night."
Eunji's fingers tightened on her pen.
> "Or someone who saw her. Someone who still remembers."
As Jinwoo slid into his sleek imported car—half-drunk, still smirking—Minjun's jaw clenched.
> "Keep following. Don't lose him."
Eunji started the engine.
And in the rearview mirror, the red haze of the club faded as they slipped into the shadows—relentless, watching, waiting.
The truth was closing in.