Gangnam, Jihoon's apartment.
Two girls sat stiffly across from each other on the living room sofa, staring with wide, blinking eyes.
Every time one blinked, the other blinked right back—like they were having a full-on Morse code conversation made entirely of awkward smiles and confused eye contact, trying to decode each other's message.
Inside the bedroom, Jihoon was knee-deep in negotiation—one call with Lee Sooman, another with Sulli's mother.
And while one conversation was surprisingly smooth, the other was anything but.
Sulli's mother, for all her worries, wasn't difficult for Jihoon to reassure.
As a single mother who had done everything she could to keep her family afloat, she had long carried the hope that Sulli's success might give the family some much-needed breathing room.
She had never been blind to her daughter's real passion—acting, not idol training.
But when Sulli began gaining attention from drama work, and SM offered a structured path through their idol program, it had seemed like a golden opportunity.
Security. Reputation. A way out.
But now, with Jihoon—an established director with rising influence—personally vouching for Sulli's future as an actress, it felt like fate had tossed them a lifeline.
At first, of course, there was hesitation.
Jihoon was five years older, and the idea of her young daughter leaving the SM system to follow a male mentor might have raised a few red flags.
But Jihoon didn't pressure her.
He called. He explained everything clearly—his intentions, his vision, and most importantly, his respect for Sulli as a person, not a product.
Unlike SM, where strict rules governed every part of a trainee's life—limited outside contact, restricted use of personal phones, and tight schedules designed to sculpt a public image—Jihoon promised a different path.
At SM, trainees were only allowed to use their phones during short windows in the day, a policy meant to avoid scandals and maintain control.
It was a system built to polish idols into perfection, especially after past cases where former trainees' missteps had resurfaced post-debut, damaging the company's image and trust with fans.
But Jihoon's approach was grounded in trust and growth.
He promised that Sulli could visit Busan anytime she wished.
That there would be no bans on contact.
That she would have space to breathe, to be a teenager, to figure out who she really wanted to be.
It wasn't flowery promises that moved her mother—it was the steady, sincere tone in Jihoon's voice.
He didn't offer guarantees of fame or fortune.
He offered something more precious: respect, freedom, and care.
And for a mother who had spent years worrying about her daughter's happiness behind those tightly controlled walls, that was more than enough.
With a grateful smile and a tone of relief, she agreed to Jihoon's plan.
But if the conversation with Sulli's mother had felt like a gentle breeze, the one with Lee Sooman was a full-blown storm.
SM wasn't just an entertainment company—it was an idol-making machine.
Trainees weren't just hopeful kids; they were investments.
Once someone signed onto the program, a number—an unspoken value—was placed on their head.
Jihoon understood that well.
He also knew that even though Sulli hadn't been locked into a debut lineup yet, she wasn't someone SM would let go for free.
In the showbiz world, trainee transfers happened quietly all the time—like NBA players during a trade window.
Trainees, too, were often traded or transferred from one agency to another.
Most fans didn't know that G-Dragon once trained at SM before moving to YG, or that Park Soyeon was nearly a member of SNSD before she left and debuted with T-ara.
These weren't exceptions—they were part of the hidden machinery behind the polished debut stages.
Trainees were talent pools shuffled between agencies to maximize each company's lineup potential.
And Lee Sooman?
He wasn't about to hand over a promising trainee without naming a price.
Their relationship had cooled over the past month—ever since that tense confrontation in his office.
Whatever mutual respect had once existed, it no longer translated into favors.
Sooman saw Jihoon clearly—principled, maybe stubborn, but most of all, someone who took responsibility seriously.
And in the business world, this kind of man, in business terms, was easy to leverage.
So he gave Jihoon a number.
A high number.
Possibly more than what Sulli was worth on paper.
And Jihoon didn't flinch.
Not because he was reckless—but because he wasn't careless with people.
Sooman was asking for a 50% stake in Jihoon's next film project—significantly more than anything they had previously. It was a bold ask, almost greedy, considering Jihoon's track record.
Just from projected numbers alone, that kind of share could easily net Sooman over a quarter of a million in profit.
But Sooman wasn't done.
He brought up another favor—something unspoken but heavy. It wasn't written into any contract, but Sooman trusted that Jihoon would honor it. The kind of thing that simply meant: You owe me.
But Jihoon didn't hesitate.
Because this wasn't about profit.
Not when it came to a thirteen-year-old girl who had spent more time surviving in an adult world than living her childhood.
If it meant Sulli could breathe again—if it gave her a real chance to smile, to live the life she truly wanted—then it wasn't a price.
It was a decision.
And Jihoon made it.
Finalizing the deal with Lee Sooman felt like releasing a long-held breath. The weight in Jihoon's chest, the one that had been sitting there ever since he first glimpsed Sulli's future, finally eased.
He had intervened—not out of pity, but out of conviction. Knowing what was destined to happen to her and choosing to change it... it gave him peace.
For once, he felt he'd done something right not just for the timeline, but for the person.
With that rare calm settling over him, Jihoon made his way back to the living room, expecting to find silence or maybe casual conversation between the two girls.
But what he walked into made him stop in his tracks.
There, seated on opposite ends of the couch, were Jieun and Sulli—staring at each other with wide, unblinking eyes.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't move.
It was as if some invisible current passed between them, like they were communicating through telepathy rather than words.
Jihoon blinked. Then blinked again.
From where he stood, it was equal parts ridiculous and hilarious.
Two small girls, both barely teens, locked in some kind of unspoken standoff—like they were trying to decode each other with sheer willpower and blinking frequency.
"…Should I leave you two alone, or are we waiting for one of you to summon your Wynaut?" Jihoon said finally, amusement clear in his voice.
Jieun blinked once. Sulli blinked twice.
He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, that's the code for SOS, right?"
At that, both girls broke into giggles—light, unrestrained, and absolutely age-appropriate.
The awkward tension evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of laughter only kids could share so easily.
Smiling to himself, Jihoon walked over and gently ruffled their hair. "Alright, alright. Jieun, this is Sulli. She's going to be staying with us for a while."
He turned to Sulli, "And Sulli, this is Jieun my sister—you two are about the same age, so I'm counting on you to look after each other."
They both nodded with wide eyes, polite and shy at first.
Jihoon briefly explained Sulli's situation—not all the heavy parts, just enough to make sense of her being there.
Jieun didn't ask many questions. She didn't need to.
As the older one by a year, Jieun sat beside her. With a small nod and a bright smile, she scooted closer to Sulli and offered her a piece of candy from the bowl on the coffee table.
And just like that, the ice melted.
Within minutes, the living room filled with soft chatter—first shy, then more open, like old friends catching up.
They traded stories about school, favorite snacks, TV shows, and silly little secrets.
Laughter echoed off the walls, and Jihoon found himself standing quietly near the doorway, watching the scene with a warmth blooming in his chest.
No drama. No pretense.
Just two young girls, exactly where they needed to be—safe, smiling, and no longer alone.
And that's how the night ended.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
But quietly beautiful.
For all the noise life had been throwing at them—grief, responsibility, longing—that small moment of warmth and laughter in Jihoon's apartment felt like a pause button on the chaos.
Three people, different in background but connected by timing, found peace in each other's presence.
But of course, the quiet never lasted long.
By the next morning, things were already starting to stir.
Jihoon, ever the professional, sent off the final versions of the two OSTs to MBC.
Within hours, the television station's official website dropped the news:
"MBC's upcoming drama Beethoven Virus to feature new OST 'Can You Hear Me,' created by genius director and composer Lee Jihoon and SNSD's leader Kim Taeyeon!"
The internet lit up almost instantly.
Fans of both Jihoon and Taeyeon flooded MBC's site and social media platforms with excitement, anticipation, and wild speculation.
The last time these two had collaborated—on the song 'If'—it had been hailed as the OST that "rescued an entire drama air time."
It had gone viral, resonating far beyond the scope of its original series.
Naturally, expectations this time were even higher.
Althoughn SNSD had recently seen their public image take a hit due to a string of controversies and increasing backlash from antis, Taeyeon remained widely respected.
Her talent was undeniable.
Whatever criticism hovered around the group didn't seem to affect how the public felt about her voice.
But that wasn't the only bombshell of the day.
Later that evening, SBS's long-running variety program Family Outing aired its latest episode—and right at the end, the teaser for next week's guests rolled.
There they were.
Jihoon and Taeyeon.
The screen barely flashed their names before the internet exploded again.
Jihoon—who had largely remained a behind-the-scenes figure since his breakout film—had never appeared on a variety show before.
Despite his rising fame, he'd kept his public profile low, never courting the spotlight.
Fans had always joked that supporting Jihoon felt like following a ghost: you loved his work, but barely saw the man himself.
So his first real appearance—especially alongside their favorite singer Taeyeon—was huge news for fans.
Search engines across the country registered a spike.
Both "Jihoon" and "Taeyeon" dominated trending topics.
Fan communities went into overdrive, exchanging theories, replaying old interviews, and dissecting every frame of the teaser for clues about their chemistry on screen.
Taeyeon's supporters were thrilled.
The exposure, paired with the OST buzz, offered a chance for her to reframe her group's image after recent months of negativity.
As for Jihoon—well, he hadn't planned any of this.
He never chased popularity. But somehow, through music, film, and now a variety show, he found himself becoming part of the spotlight he always tried to avoid.
And whether he liked it or not, the people was watching now.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, BigBoobs and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]