WGD Ch 17

“A successful marriage is falling in love many times, always with the same person.”

— Mignon McLaughlin

＊＊＊＊＊

Director Yoo Yeonoh stood up from his seat. He cleared away the cooled teacup, took out another, and boiled water in a nearby coffee pot. Siheon only then realized there was tea in front of him and Cha Wonwoo, so distracted was he. Perhaps to give him time to collect his thoughts, Director Yoo Yeonoh didn’t rush.

From the beginning… It was from the very beginning?

His mind was racing, but his heart was sinking heavier and heavier. As Siheon endured in silence, Director Yoo Yeonoh, bringing fresh tea, placed warm cups in front of them and spoke.

“So far, we’ve discussed your current states. Now, let’s talk about imprinting. Earlier, Cha Wonwoo, you asked about the basis for determining it was imprinting.”

“…Yes.”

A reluctant answer slipped from Cha Wonwoo. His nerves were entirely focused on Siheon. Unfazed, Director Yoo Yeonoh continued skillfully.

“I assume you’re familiar with pheromone resonance. The deeper the bond between an alpha and an omega, the more their pheromones blend, showing similar patterns.”

Pheromone resonance was a symbol of a strong relationship. The resonance between two people peaked when they conceived a child. Its side effects were well-known. A prime example was “nesting syndrome,” which primarily affected omegas when the two were separated for long periods after resonance.

“No matter how much resonance occurs, alphas and omegas have fundamentally different traits, so their pheromones can never fully merge. There are numerical limits as well. Even if the pheromones show similar patterns, there are clear differences. However—”

Director Yoo Yeonoh turned the large monitor so both could see. The screen displayed a long, horizontal graph resembling an electrocardiogram. It was data recording the pheromone levels of Siheon and Cha Wonwoo.

The labeled numbers indicated the passage of dates and times. Cha Wonwoo had also had a temporary chip inserted and removed during a thorough examination, and the data covered that period. It recorded everything from ordinary daily life to the moment they collected semen together, but there was no time to feel embarrassed.

Because there should have been two lines, but there was only one. Or rather, they looked like one, distinguished only by color.

“As you can see, your graphs are identical. Not just similar—your pheromones show perfectly matching patterns. This means your pheromone glands are functioning as one. The reason this is possible is this.”

With a click of the mouse, Director Yoo Yeonoh changed the screen. This time, it wasn’t a line graph but a different type.

“Your pheromone compositions are completely identical.”

He explained that the data came from analyzing pheromones collected by swabbing the pheromone gland and from semen. At the bottom of the screen were tiny text and circular graphs, likely the analysis results.

“The exact cause of onset is unknown, but the signs are clear. While medication can alleviate painful symptoms, a complete cure is impossible. That’s why, after extensive testing, when pheromone levels show identical patterns and compositions are completely the same, we diagnose it as mutual imprinting.”

Siheon scrutinized the screen meticulously, almost obsessively. In the face of data presented by modern science, he could no longer deny it. It was time to start accepting reality.

But his throat felt blocked, as if stuffed with cotton, and no words came out. Siheon picked up the teacup in front of him. Unable to drink, feeling it wouldn’t go down, he blew on it aimlessly before setting it back down.

Then, a voice came from beside him.

“So that’s why.”

It was a small murmur, but enough to make him turn his head.

“Your pheromone scent changed slightly, but it wasn’t something else—it was because of the imprinting.”

Even in this moment, Cha Wonwoo was avoiding the word “pregnancy.” Siheon had brushed it off last time, not wanting to engage with someone he thought was mistaken, but now he decided to ask something he was curious about.

“My pheromone scent changed?”

“Yeah, it’s not a drastic change, but it’s subtly… like my scent.”

“Like when you marked me?”

“No, it’s different. After marking, it feels like my scent just covers yours, but now it’s more… closer to a scent mixed with mine.”

Since neither of them was a medical professional, the only one who could answer was Director Yoo Yeonoh. When Siheon looked at him, the director, who had been jotting something down while listening, stopped his pen and explained.

“Mutual imprinting means your pheromones are completely blended, creating a new pheromone, so to speak. Usually, they mix equally, but dominant and recessive traits differ slightly.”

Worried it might be bad for the body, Cha Wonwoo frowned.

“What does ‘differ’ mean?”

“It’s because of the difference in pheromone volume. The dominant one, with its overwhelming pheromone volume, complements the recessive one. If similar traits were mixed 50:50, in your case, Cha Wonwoo’s dominant alpha pheromones make up a slightly higher proportion. Thanks to that, Kang Siheon’s chronically low pheromone levels have been steadily increasing. Your levels are now almost at those of a typical omega.”

With a click of the mouse, Director Yoo Yeonoh’s calm voice followed.

“At this rate, the chances of pregnancy will increase.”

Pregnancy. An awkward and disconcerting topic.

“The reason pregnancy is difficult for recessive omegas is often due to insufficient pheromones. But with imprinting with a dominant alpha, the pheromones—”

“Wait a second.”

Siheon had to stop Director Yoo Yeonoh, who was about to dive into a topic he’d even avoided with Cha Wonwoo. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, having cut in abruptly without knowing what to say.

Then, Cha Wonwoo, gently tightening his grip on Siheon’s hand, changed the subject.

“If both our pheromones are being restructured, shouldn’t my scent change too? But it seems only your pheromone scent has changed.”

It was an apt question. Siheon nodded repeatedly. Watching quietly, Director Yoo Yeonoh cleared his throat and played along.

“Ahem, as I mentioned, it’s due to the difference in pheromone volume. Kang Siheon’s body, lacking pheromones, undergoes changes quickly, while Cha Wonwoo’s, full of pheromones, takes longer.”

He asked if there were any more questions. At this point, when imprinting still didn’t feel real, it seemed they’d asked all they could. Siheon was about to say they were done and would schedule a private consultation for the rest when—

“You said there’s no cure for imprinting, but there must be some method.”

The cold, detached voice was Cha Wonwoo’s. Shocked by both his tone and words, Siheon could only stare silently. Unlike the warmth from their joined hands, his expression was as cold as a mask.

Siheon watched him intently, as if searching for a missing puzzle piece. The forced tension in his eyebrows and lips, his stiff shoulders, his averted gaze, the slightly quickened pulse transmitted through their hands, the tone suggesting he didn’t want the imprinting, the fleeting cracks in his emotionless facade revealing lies. Siheon knew why without being told. How could he not see that Cha Wonwoo was pretending not to want the imprinting out of consideration for him? Siheon swallowed a deep sigh inwardly.

Meanwhile, Director Yoo Yeonoh, unable to read this, widened his eyes in surprise before returning to normal.

“Are you saying you want to remove the imprinting?”

Cha Wonwoo, looking like someone forced into an unwanted action, nodded slowly and said,

“I’ve heard there’s something called imprinting removal surgery.”

“Imprinting removal surgery…”

Pausing to collect himself, Director Yoo Yeonoh’s expression turned stern.

“It’s called imprinting removal surgery, but it essentially involves removing the pheromone gland. It’s a highly experimental procedure with poor outcomes.”

Removing a perfectly healthy organ was no small feat. But the issue wasn’t just the difficulty. Unpredictable side effects were the least of it. The biggest problem was that survival wasn’t guaranteed. Even if a patient requested it, a doctor wouldn’t recommend it. Director Yoo Yeonoh shot a look that said not to even consider it, but Cha Wonwoo, unsatisfied with the response, simply closed his mouth.

As Director Yoo Yeonoh opened his mouth again, saying, “Cha Wonwoo,” to persuade him, Siheon cut in to shut down the nonsense and take control.

“Please pretend you didn’t hear anything about imprinting removal surgery. Neither of us will be undergoing that procedure.”

“That’s a relief. As I said, imprinting is a psychogenic mental condition. Contact with the imprinted partner is important, but consistent counseling is also necessary.”

As he had done before, Director Yoo Yeonoh emphasized this strongly. Then, with a warning look, he gazed at the two men. A couple who seemed precarious, with unresolved issues still ahead.

＊＊＊＊＊

Upon leaving the hospital, Siheon first informed Kangsan and Representative Heo about his physical condition. Being Betas, they did not add much to the fact of his imprinting. They only mentioned that he should let them know if he needed anything.

It would have been ideal to sit down with Cha Wonwoo for a conversation right after the consultation, but their schedules did not allow for it. The guy, who had barely squeezed in time for a thorough medical checkup, was relentlessly pushing through a grueling schedule, and Siheon himself had a script reading for Director Pyo Wookjun’s film looming just ahead.

Even though Secretary Yang and Kangsan exchanged messages to try to arrange a meeting for the two, it was no easy task.

One thing that remained unchanged was that, no matter how briefly he stopped by, Cha Wonwoo always made sure to come home. It had always been that way, but ever since learning about the imprinting, he made it a point to return home no matter what, showering Siheon with pheromones before leaving again.

Today was no different.

When Siheon, who had been tossing and turning before falling asleep, woke up from a deep slumber, Cha Wonwoo was by his side. To be precise, he was leaning against the headboard, eyes closed, dressed only in his jacket. A tablet PC on his lap, set to night mode, emitted a soft glow, suggesting he had fallen asleep while working.

Wanting to cover him with a blanket, Siheon moved cautiously. Despite his utmost care not to wake him, Cha Wonwoo, who hadn’t been deeply asleep, soon lifted his heavy eyelids. His voice, hoarse from exhaustion, slipped out between his lips, betraying how worn out he had been.

“…Hyung?”

“Oh, I was just trying to put a blanket over you. Sorry. Why are you sleeping so uncomfortably? If you’re home, you should rest properly.”

“I had some things to look at. Did you wake up because of me, hyung?”

“No, I’ve slept enough. When do you have to leave again?”

Rubbing his eyes to shake off sleep, Cha Wonwoo checked the time and answered.

“Two hours from now.”

Even if he hurried through a shower, he’d only have about an hour and a half to rest. There were many topics Siheon had intentionally put off discussing. But time was too short to delve into them now. Seeing the guy struggling with his drooping eyes tugged at Siheon’s heart.

Let’s get him to sleep first. Siheon stretched out his arm.

“Lie down, I’ll wake you up. I know it’s a hassle, but don’t bother changing into pajamas—just take your clothes off. It’s fine.”

After going through a rut together and even imprinting, it felt absurd to keep distance under the pretense of their divorce. Cha Wonwoo, staring at the wide space Siheon had made for him, got off the bed and began undressing, piece by piece.

As he took off his dress shirt, the well-defined muscles of his arms and back flexed vividly with each movement. Clad only in tight briefs that accentuated the heavy weight of his groin, his sturdy, bare body slipped under the covers.

“Hyung.”

The way he called Siheon carried a hint of playful whining. It wasn’t a crisp “Hyung” but more of a drawn-out “Hyuuung.”

“Sleep already.”

As Siheon patted the bulging mound of blankets, Cha Wonwoo burrowed into his embrace, hugging him so tightly it felt like their bodies might crumble.

“I’ll just sleep a little and get up.”

His words, almost mumbled, soon gave way to calmer, steadier breaths. The sensation of his breath grazing Siheon’s skin tickled, making the fine hairs on his body stand on end. Siheon waited to get used to the feeling while carefully studying the face he hadn’t seen in a while.

For a long time, Siheon’s warm gaze caressed every part of Cha Wonwoo’s serene face, far removed from nightmares.

He said he’d only sleep a little, but true to his word, Cha Wonwoo woke up even before Siheon could rouse him. After about an hour of sleep and a 30-minute shower, he returned to the bedside in a robe.

Of the two men sitting side by side, leaning against the headboard, Siheon was the first to speak.

“You must’ve showered with ice-cold water. I can feel the chill coming off you.”

“I did it to wake up. Is it too cold? Should I move away a bit?”

“No, it’s not that bad.”

Even though Siheon said it was fine, Cha Wonwoo started to shift away, but Siheon grabbed his hand firmly and pulled him back, quietly chiding him.

“Why torture yourself with cold water when you could just sleep more? You still have 30 minutes before you need to leave.”

“I wanted to spend those 30 minutes with you, hyung.”

Curling his large frame, Cha Wonwoo gently rested his head on Siheon’s shoulder. He fidgeted with Siheon’s fingers, gazing at them. Siheon watched him quietly before asking.

“How do you want to spend it with me?”

Perhaps because it was early morning, his voice came out soft and hushed. The guy leaning on his shoulder let out a light sigh.

“Just… like this. I like it just like this.”

“Just like this.” He had a knack for picking the hardest promises to keep. For some reason, Siheon let out a soft chuckle.

“Hyung?”

At the sound of his laughter, Cha Wonwoo lifted his face and straightened up. Siheon could feel his gaze fully fixed on him. A subtle fragrance tickled his nose—Cha Wonwoo’s pheromones. Immediately, a warm, tingling sensation spread through his chest. When Siheon didn’t say anything, Cha Wonwoo rubbed his face against his shoulder again.

As the 30 minutes neared its end, Cha Wonwoo spoke up in the peaceful atmosphere.

“I’m thinking about revising the speech I showed you last time.”

When Siheon glanced over, their eyes met. In the dim bedroom, Cha Wonwoo was staring at him intently, his brows slightly furrowed. It was as if he was carefully examining something of interest or simply checking Siheon’s expression. Siheon raised an eyebrow, signaling him to continue.

“We shouldn’t mention the imprinting, right?”

He seemed to have something he wanted to say, and his tone was cautious. When Siheon slipped his hand out of Cha Wonwoo’s grasp and held it palm-up, Cha Wonwoo immediately understood and interlaced their fingers.

Unlike Siheon, who had told Representative Heo and Kangsan about the imprinting, Cha Wonwoo hadn’t shared it with anyone yet. The public, influenced by media, often romanticized imprinting, but strictly speaking, it was a mental condition. Of course, it wasn’t a crime, and anyone could face mental struggles at any time…

Still, celebrities could sell the image of being swept up in such a fateful narrative, but for someone running a company, it would undoubtedly be a weakness. If Cha Wonwoo made decisions others didn’t like, they’d label him emotional, and his business acumen would always be tied to his status as an imprinter, subject to misrepresentation. Siheon knew Cha Wonwoo was already aware of this but had brought it up out of concern for his feelings.

So, Siheon had to respond with Cha Wonwoo’s position and circumstances in mind. Tightening their interlaced fingers, Siheon firmly refused.

“No.”

“…I figured as much.”

“You’re so strange sometimes. If you already know the answer, why bother asking?”

Siheon couldn’t understand the need to ask and get hurt. Not hiding his puzzlement, Cha Wonwoo let out a soft chuckle this time.

“Because you told me to ask, hyung.”

“Me?”

“You said in New York that you hold back for my sake, and I don’t ask for your sake. So, from now on, I’m going to ask about everything, diligently.”

“Even when you know the answer will be negative? You know I’ll say no. It puts me in an awkward spot, and it upsets you.”

“Even if it upsets me, I’m going to ask and hear it directly from now on.”

“Even if it’s a bad answer?”

“Yeah, even if it’s a bad answer.”

Cha Wonwoo, who had been gently rubbing the back of Siheon’s hand with his thumb, leaned closer and whispered.

“I’ll revise the speech without mentioning the imprinting.”

Then, using mucosal contact as an excuse, his tongue invaded. Holding the back of Siheon’s head with his other hand, Cha Wonwoo pulled him close, as always, burning with heat. Never once had he been lukewarm.

Their lips parted and met again several times. The wet friction of lips and tongues created a slick sound. Meanwhile, pheromones warmed Siheon’s body. His body temperature rose, and a slow heat pooled below. Blinking slowly with hazy eyes, Siheon closed them completely.

The pheromones flowed down his throat along with the tongue exploring his mouth, entering without resistance. The formless pheromones filled his body, akin to the sensation of warmth spreading through his veins.

The kiss, which brought a sense of fullness, ended with the sound of a phone.

“Ha…”

Cha Wonwoo, pulling away, was slightly out of breath. His broad chest heaved up and down. Hiding a strange sense of reluctance, Siheon gently pushed against that solid chest. Cha Wonwoo, pushed back obediently, furrowed his brows in irritation as he answered the phone.

“I’m heading out now.”

Cha Wonwoo curtly informed the caller and hung up. Despite the many thoughts swirling inside, he acted so nonchalantly on the surface that Siheon thought he must be tough to work with. Still, it was better to be called a jerk than to be ignored behind his back. It might be lonely, though.

When Siheon beckoned, Cha Wonwoo quickly leaned forward. Siheon smoothed out his raised eyebrows with his index finger. As he confirmed the relaxed expression and started to pull his hand away, Cha Wonwoo, never missing an opportunity, grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

Flipping Siheon’s palm, Cha Wonwoo rubbed his cheek against it and answered.

“Getting some encouragement. Ha… I don’t want to go to work.”

“But you’re the boss. The vice chairman, acting CEO.”

Excluding Chairman Cha Hyunchul, the current top decision-maker of the CH Group whining like this made Siheon let out a wry laugh. Tapping his cheek a few times to urge him to get going, Siheon pulled his hand back, and Cha Wonwoo’s eyebrows twitched upward again. Pretending not to notice, Siheon watched as Cha Wonwoo, resigned, got out of bed.

“You’re meeting Director Pyo today, right, hyung?”

Knowing Siheon’s schedule as well as his manager Kangsan, Cha Wonwoo asked while changing. It was less a question and more a confirmation.

“Yeah, script reading today.”

“Have a good time.”

After adjusting his appearance, Cha Wonwoo bent down and planted a quick peck on Siheon’s cheek. For a moment, Siheon felt like they were back in their newlywed days. Before he could react, Cha Wonwoo pushed him back onto the bed, telling him not to see him out, and quickly left the room.

Siheon covered his face with his hand and let out a deep sigh. If things kept going like this, he’d end up living aimlessly. That couldn’t happen. They’d gone through a rut together, and their relationship had become ambiguous, but his resolve for a divorce remained firm. The problem was the unexpected variable of imprinting.

This is driving me crazy. Deep sighs kept escaping him. The gap between his buried feelings and the decisions he had to make tormented him endlessly.

Tick-tock, tick-tock—the sound of a clock echoed like a hallucination, urging him to quickly submit the answers to the problems he’d been given.

＊＊＊＊＊

“How’s things with President Cha Eunsik?”

As the car speeding through the city stopped at a traffic light, Cha Wonwoo spoke. Sitting in the back seat, he had his eyes closed, trying to catch up on sleep. Secretary Yang, in the front passenger seat, turned slightly to ensure his words carried clearly.

“He’s been meeting frequently with media executives lately. He’s been working hard to suppress coverage of the divorce lawsuit between the vice president and his wife, reaching out to ten major daily newspapers and broadcasters.”

“And Cha Iryeong?”

“She’s personally meeting with media executives. The support team assisting President Cha Eunsik’s family has reportedly gathered all sorts of juicy information, from celebrity scandals to anything that might pique interest, likely to use as leverage for a deal.”

So, they plan to throw the media and public some juicy bait to slip away themselves. Letting out a low scoff, Cha Wonwoo opened his heavy eyes. Outside the window, the sun, pushing away the dawn, was rising through the dense forest of buildings.

“Instead of just placing ads, we should’ve bought a broadcaster or a newspaper.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. TBN is under Hansan Media, right? Set up a lunch meeting with their CEO. And how far along are we with the materials on Cha Ijun’s drug issue?”

“In terms of evidence alone, we could report or leak it right now.”

Secretary Yang’s response was confident. The evidence they’d meticulously collected was undoubtedly airtight. However, since President Cha Eunsik had heavily cultivated connections with law enforcement through his construction business, it was likely the matter would be quietly resolved internally.

The sunlight reflecting off the building windows illuminated Cha Wonwoo’s cautious face.

“Let’s wait a bit longer. Cha Ijun’s card is more useful to us for defense than offense.”

It was a defense card, nicely packaged, but really meant for blackmail. As long as they didn’t touch Siheon, there was no need to drag their sordid, chaotic private lives into the public eye and smear them. Cha Ijun, the drug addict, would end up in a hospital or prison for his own sake, but still.

“Understood.”

Silence settled in the car again as it cruised down the road, eventually entering the CH Group headquarters.

Accompanied by Secretary Yang, Cha Wonwoo boarded the executive elevator and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. Lately, every outfit he wore went through the strategic planning team’s approval, which was quite a hassle, but thankfully, the coat he had on today was his own choice.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Shifting his gaze from the mirror, he walked into the president’s office, greeted by the secretarial staff. It was called the president’s office, but it was really just the old director’s office with a new nameplate. It held some memories with Siheon, so he saw no need to move to a new space.

As soon as he sat down, Secretary Yang neatly placed something on the desk.

“The personnel appointment documents you requested.”

Cha Wonwoo opened the unnecessarily heavy folder. Inside were just a few light sheets of paper. As he carefully reviewed the familiar names, Secretary Yang’s concerned voice came from above.

“President, are you really going through with this…?”

“What’s wrong? Upset you didn’t make the promotion list? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of during next year’s regular appointments, so just hold on a bit.”

Without looking up from the documents, he responded casually, and Secretary Yang let out a soft sigh, as if to say that wasn’t the issue.

“That’s not it. I’m just curious about your intentions, promoting Lawyer Park Jio, who we should be kicking out, instead.”

Was it to keep an enemy close for surveillance since Park was Chairman Cha’s man and couldn’t be fired outright? That was the question. Secretary Yang’s words carried both understanding and worry. He recalled the moment he heard the blackmail file his boss had received.

—Then let us make our proposal. We want to sell the actor.

Hearing that voice, his heart sank, sensing something big was about to go down. He’d seen his boss, always calm and composed, become emotional and make exceptions whenever it came to actor Kang Siheon, which made him even more anxious.

If the entire secretarial office, unaware of the situation, got swept out, they could endure it as a temporary exile. But if his boss, in a moment of anger, tore down the tower he’d painstakingly built, that would be a major problem.

Fortunately, it was a false alarm. Cha Wonwoo had perfectly controlled his emotions, as if extreme anger had frozen even his heart.

“Secretary Yang, I can’t just fire someone because I don’t like them. We’d get sued for unfair dismissal.”

Since taking over as president, he’d decided to avoid organizational restructuring as much as possible. Why flip a well-functioning organization just to make a splash as a new leader? It would lower efficiency, weaken employee cohesion, and stir resentment. The cons clearly outweighed the pros, and Chairman Cha would never allow his carefully built organization to be touched.

But when he heard the blatant blackmail aimed at Siheon, he decided to change one plan. That intention was now in his hands, under the name of “personnel appointments.”

Cha Wonwoo looked down at the papers with an impassive face. The document proposed expanding the existing “legal team” into a “legal department” under the pretext of strengthening legal functions, appointing Lawyer Park Jio as standing legal counsel and head of the legal department with president-level treatment. Park, Chairman Cha’s lackey, who had dared to blackmail none other than Kang Siheon.

“But looking at the appointment documents…”

Secretary Yang cautiously began, choosing his words.

“You’re sending almost all of the chairman’s legal team to affiliates or subsidiaries, but keeping only Lawyer Park at headquarters—and promoting him, no less. Wouldn’t it be better to take this chance to get rid of Park as well?”

“We will, eventually.”

Having just finished reviewing the last line of the document, Cha Wonwoo looked up and met his gaze at the reasonable suggestion.

“But I think it’d feel worse for him to be abandoned by the master he served loyally than to be fired by me. Don’t you think?”

His eyes were resolute.

“You mean… you’ll make Chairman Cha personally cast out Lawyer Park.”

At Secretary Yang’s words, Cha Wonwoo nodded. He didn’t expect Chairman Cha to approve the document. That old man wouldn’t stand by and watch his handpicked people scattered. It didn’t matter if the appointments weren’t approved. That wasn’t the goal anyway.

“Secretary Yang, do you know this? Guys who do good deeds together are less loyal than those who commit bad deeds together.”

“Because they’re all complicit in the bad deeds… none of them can pretend to be innocent alone. They hold each other’s weaknesses.”

“Exactly. It’s a kind of trust forged through misdeeds. And do you know what breaks that trust the fastest?”

Cha Wonwoo gave a light smile, at odds with the heavy topic.

“The fear that the guy might be doing bad deeds with someone else. The suspicion that those bad deeds might be aimed at you.”

He tapped the folder with his long fingers.

“If I clear out most of the chairman’s line but keep just Park, what do you think Chairman Cha will think?”

For someone like Park, skilled in maneuvering and quick with cost-benefit calculations, even the smallest things could spark doubts about their loyalty. He’d probably think Park’s allegiance had shifted or that he was at least playing both sides.

“What I want to give Chairman Cha with this document is distrust. To make him doubt and double-doubt every word and action of Park’s.”

A worried crease formed on Secretary Yang’s brow.

“But he’s not someone to underestimate. He’ll likely figure out your intentions.”

“Doesn’t matter. Suspicion grows, it doesn’t get stopped.”

Cha Wonwoo’s eyes shifted past Secretary Yang’s shoulder to the wall, where a framed still from a bank ad hung. The man smiling brightly inside was Siheon.

“It’d be easy to blackmail and use Park with the evidence hyung provided. Or rather, it’d be lucky if it ended with just blackmail.”

If he had his way, he’d want to do even worse. The smile faded, and Cha Wonwoo’s eyes grew darker.

“But that would make me no different from that guy. So, I’m taking the long way.”

If he, raised under Chairman Cha’s wing, was walking a righteous path, it was because Siheon was on that path. Even if it took longer, he wanted to handle things within the bounds of the law, without becoming like them. He couldn’t dare touch Siheon with hands stained by filth.

If a day came when he broke that resolve, it would be for Siheon’s sake. Or perhaps he’d already crossed that line a bit. He’d been receiving reports on Siheon’s consultations under the excuse of concern. To think this irrational obsession was due to imprinting…

Lost in thoughts sinking into a sticky swamp, Cha Wonwoo’s eyes met the brightly smiling Siheon in the frame. Like a cautious beast stepping from darkness into sunlight, he followed Siheon’s smile and looked at Secretary Yang.

“Let’s stop the worrying here. By the way, Secretary Yang.”

“Yes, President.”

Pulling out his phone from his pocket, Cha Wonwoo handed it over and said.

“Take a picture for me.”

“What? What kind of photo are you talking about all of a sudden…?”

Secretary Yang’s puzzled gaze followed. Cha Wonwoo stood up from his seat, pointing with his chin at the clothes he was wearing. He still hadn’t taken off the formal black Chesterfield coat.

If he sent a photo, Siheon would probably be surprised at first, wondering when he wore that, but in the end, he’d laugh. That alone made it worth skipping out on seeing his brother off and staying holed up in his room.

＊＊＊＊＊

Cha Wonwoo

(photo.jpg)

Siheon, upon seeing the text message that had just arrived on his phone, was momentarily shocked before letting out a soft chuckle. Looking at the full-body shot of the guy standing tall against the familiar backdrop of the office, the muscles around his mouth couldn’t help but relax.

But when did this guy get that coat? The shock of seeing him wear it so boldly to a baseball game was no small matter, but with everything going on, Siheon had forgotten to ask the man himself.

“Alright, five minutes until the reading room closes. Everyone, please be seated before then!”

The assistant director’s booming voice echoed through the hallway, and when their eyes met Siheon’s, they gave a playful wink. It was a cheeky gesture, urging the actor to hurry inside. Siheon nodded in acknowledgment, then stood up from the chair by the vending machine. His hands quickly typed out a reply.

Thanks for the snacks, I’ll enjoy them ^^

“Oh, wait.”

The winking emoticon tacked onto the end of the message annoyed him, and he went to delete it, but his thumb had already hit the send button. Oh well. Without waiting for a reply, he switched his phone to airplane mode and stuffed it into his pocket.

Kangsan, peeking out from the door, scanned the surroundings and, spotting Siheon, hurriedly gestured for him to come over.

Movie

<Counterfeit>

Reading Site

—No Entry Except Authorized Personnel—

Goodnight Film. The door, adorned with a sheet of paper printed with the film company’s logo, opened to reveal the intense atmosphere of a packed, large reading room.

At the center of the room was the main table for the director and actors, surrounded by another row of tables in a circular arrangement. Every chair scattered throughout the reading room was occupied.

Being the first reading, where they’d go through from the opening scene to the final one to align their performances, it was bound to take a long time. Perhaps because of this, the walls were lined with a generous spread of drinks and snacks available for everyone to enjoy.

These days, film companies pay close attention to such details, but today’s quality was particularly impressive. To avoid disturbing the reading, the desserts were all bite-sized, ranging from cakes to rice cakes, arranged by type, color, and flavor like a color palette. The snack table alone made it feel less like a film reading and more like a hotel reception. In fact, some of it had been sourced from a hotel.

“Siheon, I’ll enjoy the snacks.”

Jinseok, whom he hadn’t seen in a while, passed by holding a fruit-topped cake and whispered to Siheon. The reason Siheon was being thanked for snacks typically prepared by the film company was simple: the spread included signature desserts from a Korean hotel. That hotel was run by CEO Cha Dong-hyun, Cha Wonwoo’s uncle. If that were all, it would just be a case of the film company splurging a bit, but every cup in the hands of actors and staff alike was labeled “Kang Siheon Supporters.”

In short, someone claiming to be Siheon’s fan had flexed their wealth with exorbitantly priced Korean hotel desserts and drinks.

If the cups had been decorated with colorful prints of Siheon’s face, like at an idol’s birthday café, he wouldn’t have suspected anything. But for the amount of money spent, the plain text on the cups seemed suspicious, so he probed Kangsan.

“So why did Wonwoo only put text on them? Usually, at birthday cafés, they put photos on the cups or holders.”

Sipping his coffee with a casual expression, Kangsan took the bait easily. Mistaking that Siheon already knew everything and was only curious about the lack of photos, he spilled the truth without hesitation.

“Come on, the cups handed out at birthday cafés are keepsakes, not for actual use. But here, other people are using them, and he said it’d be uncomfortable. He doesn’t want lips touching them, and how could he stand seeing his face end up in the trash? The supporters said they don’t want even a single strand of his hair—whether it’s a drawing or a photo—carelessly thrown away in the trash.”

Oh, Kangsan… Siheon gave a reassuring pat to the broad, Pacific-like shoulders of this innocent young man.

Anyway, he’d been a bit worried that having such support show up at a reading, not even a filming set, might draw some critical glances, but thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Of course, the behind-the-scenes cameras scattered around might have contributed to the positive vibe, but overall, the atmosphere was good.

Director Pyo Wook-joon, who was also the producer, was someone who cared deeply about improving staff salaries and working conditions. Despite his long career, he was gentlemanly enough not to speak informally to actors he was meeting for the first time. Naturally, the film company employees and staff working with him were also amicable and without sharp edges, and the cast consisted of actors free from any character controversies.

Everyone greeted him with bright smiles, thanking him for the snacks. They had no idea that the “Kang Siheon Supporters” were actually Cha Wonwoo of the CH Group.

Siheon grabbed a glass of water and settled into the seat marked with his nameplate. He placed his well-worn script and writing tools on the desk.

Once the room settled, it was time for the customary introductions before the reading began.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Director Pyo Wook-joon, in charge of directing <Counterfeit>. I’ve been in this industry for years, but every time I do a first reading like this, I feel as excited as I did when I shot my first film. Back then, I poured my heart into every scene, every cut, with a 16mm film in hand, and I’ll approach this with that same passion. I hope you’ll all join me with the same heart and stay with <Counterfeit> until the end. Thank you.”

His sincere voice resonated even with seasoned professionals, and thunderous applause followed. Starting with Director Pyo’s greeting, the tension and excitement of the first reading spread through the room like wildfire.

Siheon had a good feeling about this.

It started when he received the revised script.

The original script was already captivating, but to appeal to a broader audience, the protagonist was changed from an alpha to a beta. The final version, stripped of convoluted subplots and heightened with suspense, was undeniably more commercially appealing and entertaining.

Moreover, the director was Pyo Wook-joon, who had swept international film festivals and even won a director’s award at Cannes. With him at the helm, there were no worries about the film’s artistic quality.

Before getting married, Siheon’s name was always in the credits of tentpole films, so participating in an arthouse film like this was both a risk and a challenge.

The timing wasn’t ideal either. It wasn’t his prime, when everything he touched turned to gold, but rather a comeback project after several incidents, which added pressure. Still, he was certain that pulling it off would mark a significant turning point in his acting career.

“Hello, I’m Kang Siheon, playing the identical twin brothers, Taewook and Seonwook, in <Counterfeit>. Please pray for our poor Taewook’s soul, and give Seonwook lots of love. I’ll do my best to act with the same passion as the director.”

In the revised script, Taewook and Seonwook are adopted into different families. Though Taewook’s adoptive parents passed away early, he grew up in a warm environment. Unable to bear his loneliness, he seeks out Seonwook, his only blood relative.

But Seonwook’s life is bleak, where even feeling loneliness is a luxury. Feeling pity for him, Taewook plans a short vacation to take him away. However, on the way to their destination, a major accident occurs, and Taewook, unable to escape the car, burns to death at the scene.

In that moment, Seonwook makes a decision: to live Taewook’s life instead.

Dumping the debts and burdens inherited from his adoptive parents onto his deceased brother, Seonwook begins living a counterfeit life as Taewook.

“Hello, I’m actor Lee Jinseok, playing Yeon Jihoon, the man who’s head over heels for Seonwook.”

Yeon Jihoon is a character who approaches Seonwook, claiming to be Taewook’s lover. Seonwook, unaware of the details of Taewook’s private life, is suspicious but finds himself swayed by Jihoon’s love and affection.

However, in the middle of Act 2, a truth is revealed: Jihoon isn’t Taewook’s lover but someone who noticed irregularities at the accident scene and is investigating Seonwook. Realizing this, Seonwook pretends to be oblivious, biding his time before making a run for it. But Jihoon relentlessly pursues him.

Like a hunt, the chase gradually tightens around Seonwook, and as more truths come to light, the story veers in an unexpected direction.

At the climax, Seonwook gets a chance to kill Jihoon, and Jihoon gets a chance to apprehend Seonwook—both opportunities arrive equally. But in that fleeting moment, both hesitate. While acting out their counterfeit love, genuine feelings have developed, whether it’s loneliness or mutual pity.

Unlike the initial script, the romance elements were emphasized a bit more.

If Cha Wonwoo found out, he’d probably mope around like a sulky puppy for a while. Twirling the pen between his fingers, Siheon let out a quiet, deflated laugh. Then, hearing a sound, he straightened up and focused. It was time for him to become Seonwook.

“Let’s begin the reading for <Counterfeit>! Scene 1…”

The assistant director’s energetic voice kicked off the reading in earnest.

The reading, which started after lunch, continued smoothly into the afternoon. The two-hour script was divided into three acts, with Director Pyo Wook-joon providing feedback at each breakpoint, focusing on immediately fixable aspects like pronunciation or emphasis.

The reading finally reached its conclusion. The assistant director, whose voice was hoarse from passionately reading the script, delivered the final stage direction.

“…Seonwook’s silhouette slowly fades out, buried in the darkness. It’s unclear whether he’s walking into it willingly or being swallowed by it. As the screen goes black, a heavy clank echoes, and the movie <Counterfeit> ends.”

After a few seconds of silence, applause erupted from all corners.

“That was great!”

Some raised their voices or let out short whistles to liven the mood. Siheon, tearing his eyes away from the script, took a deep breath—a habit after readings. Then, he slipped out of character, quickly absorbing the room’s atmosphere and joining the applause.

As the applause naturally died down, all eyes turned to Director Pyo Wook-joon, seated at the head of the room. Having completed the first full reading, it was time for more detailed feedback. Fortunately, the director’s expression wasn’t grim.

“Overall, it was excellent. I could feel how thoroughly everyone analyzed the script and how deeply you thought about it. I’m truly grateful for how well you expressed it.”

Leaving a concise overall comment, Director Pyo praised generously where deserved but framed shortcomings as areas for improvement. At times, he respectfully asked actors about their character interpretations.

The focus in the room was as intense as during the reading itself. As the director and actors discussed different scenes, the sound of pages turning rang out like a symphony.

“…And actor Lee Jinseok’s portrayal of Yeon Jihoon was absolutely satisfying. The character changes significantly from the first half to the second, and he balanced it remarkably well.”

The final feedback was for the two leads. Unlike their casual off-set interactions, the feedback was as polite as it was for the other actors.

Now, only Siheon remained. Everyone’s eyes, including Kangsan’s, darted between the director and the actor. Siheon, too, looked at the director’s seat, ready to accept any critique during the reading.

“Hmm…”

But Director Pyo Wook-joon only stroked his chin while looking at the script, saying nothing.

The relaxed atmosphere in the reading room tensed up in an instant.

It’s true everywhere, but directors especially have distinct styles. Some barely give notes during readings, believing actors perform better on set, while others meticulously refine everything from the reading stage.

Yet, there’s a common thread: when a director doesn’t provide feedback on an actor’s performance, it’s either because it was flawless and needs no comment or because it’s an issue words can’t fix.

Which was it for Director Pyo right now?

Seasoned actors and industry veterans maintained poker faces, but a quiet murmur spread among the less experienced.

Sensing the mood dipping, Director Pyo quickly flashed a smile.

“Actor Kang Siheon’s Seonwook was also intriguing.”

…Is that it?

Not “great” but “intriguing.”

With no feedback or direction, Siheon was left confused about how to interpret this. The quick-witted assistant director stood up, clapping to diffuse the situation.

“Alright, everyone’s throats must be sore and stomachs empty from all that reading, right? So, what’s next? That’s right—we need to grease those throats! The <Counterfeit> team’s first wrap party will be at the top-rated beef restaurant chosen by Goodnight Film staff. Great job on the first reading, everyone! Let’s head to the party!”

Following the assistant director’s lead, Kangsan, knowing exactly what a manager for actor Kang Siheon should do in this moment, was the first to stand and shout, “Great job!” The other staff and actors followed, exchanging thanks and congratulations.

“Hyung, hyung. Your expression—watch it. Cameras are rolling.”

Kangsan, with his good-natured smile, approached and gave Siheon’s arm a gentle tap. It had been a long time since Siheon felt this way after a reading—outside of his first adult role—so he snapped out of his daze, stood up, and naturally greeted a nearby actor with a handshake.

“When I shout ‘Counterfeit!’ you all shout ‘Fighting!’ Counterfeit!”

“Fighting!”

With so many people rarely gathered, official events like this always ended with a boozy wrap party disguised as a team dinner. Whether in TV or film, it was as if they were possessed by spirits who died without drinking. Everyone guzzled alcohol like water, ignoring the sizzling meat on the grill.

Thankfully, the table with the director and actors was still conversation-focused.

“That clank at the end—is that handcuffs?”

“There’s that huge prison gate, right? I thought it was that slamming shut.”

The actors debated the script’s ambiguous ending, each offering their take—open-ended, sad, or happy—continuing the lingering excitement of the first reading. Siheon, who didn’t drink, kept his presence low to avoid the liquor, focusing on grilling the meat.

“Happy or sad depends on the person, doesn’t it? Some say it’s happy as long as the protagonist doesn’t die.”

“Wow, Jinseok, that’s a scary way to put it. It’s only happy if it’s completely, undeniably happy.”

“Haha, I think how you view Seonwook’s future shapes how you interpret the ending. It’s not about happy or sad but whether you see it with hope or not.”

While flipping the meat and listening to the chatter, Siheon felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He set down the tongs and checked the message.

Cha Wonwoo

Still at the first round?

Yeah, why?

It’s nothing.

See you later.

What’s with this bland text? “See you later” probably means at home, right? Whenever Cha Wonwoo says “it’s nothing,” it’s never actually nothing. And he was using formal language.

A creeping unease made Siheon look up at the table where the managers were gathered. Hoping for a hint, he saw Kangsan engrossed in eating protein and fiber, ignoring rice and soup.

Should he go probe again?

As he considered standing up, his phone buzzed again. Siheon sat back down and checked the message first.

I was just super cool

＊＊＊＊＊

“Oh…”

A low sigh escaped. Cha Wonwoo frowned at the message that had already been sent against his will.

It happened sometimes. When he had something he desperately wanted to say, he’d type it out. But instead of sending, he’d delete it to let the overwhelming feelings dissipate.

Occasionally, he’d slip up—like now.

Staring at the message cut off at an odd point, he clicked his tongue briefly, closed the messaging app, and checked SNS.

The corner of Cha Wonwoo’s mouth twitched as he looked at his phone. The screen was filled with photos of Siheon—not illegally obtained, but posted on SNS by staff at the wrap party.

Judging by his complexion, he hadn’t drunk much, which was a relief. It wasn’t long ago that he’d gone drinking with Minjae and ended up looking for Yeppi. Such a disaster must never happen again.

Save to photo app.

Even if he was busy, he had to do what needed doing.

Knock, knock, knock.

A polite knock on the office door erased the unguarded smile from Cha Wonwoo’s face.

“Come in.”

Setting down his phone, he spoke, and the noiseless door opened to reveal Secretary Yang.

“Sir, preparations for your departure are complete. Would you like to leave now?”

“Let’s do that.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Cha Wonwoo stood, put on the coat hanging nearby, and left the office.

Security escorted him to the building’s entrance, where the car was waiting. Since this wasn’t official business and the destination was what it was, he planned to travel lightly with just Driver Kim and Secretary Yang.

Cha Wonwoo gave a brief nod to the security guard who opened the car door and climbed into the back seat. Secretary Yang took the front passenger seat and closed the door.

“We’ll head to the wrap party venue.”

With Secretary Yang’s announcement, the car set off.

Serious…?

It was while Siheon was looking at a text message that had been cut off in a strange place.

“Why are you smiling like that? Did Siheon see something cute?”

Since they had rented out an entire spacious barbecue restaurant for the company dinner, the place was filled with the film crew scattered here and there. Thanks to that, they could make as much noise as they wanted without worrying about disturbing others, but it also meant Siheon had to focus hard to catch what Jinseok, sitting right across from him, was saying.

“No, it’s nothing. Oh, the meat’s going to burn.”

Siheon gave a casual smile to change the subject and quickly reached for the tongs. But Jinseok smoothly intercepted, taking the tongs from him and flipping the meat himself. Not stopping there, he even picked up some cooked meat from the grill next to them and placed it on Siheon’s plate.

“If you’re not practicing to open a barbecue restaurant, stop grilling and eat some yourself, Siheon.”

He’s so kind like this, no wonder the juniors go crazy and flock to him every time. Siheon thought this while thoroughly chewing and swallowing a piece of meat, feeling an inexplicable itch in his ears. If Cha Wonwoo were here, he’d probably nag, saying Jinseok’s the one like that.

Jinseok, who hadn’t been in touch for a while, apologized, saying he’d been busy with personal matters. Since Siheon had also contacted him to apologize for something that happened at the gym, they decided to call it even.

The other actors, perhaps because of the alcohol, kept repeating the same stories and were still debating the film’s ending.

“What does our Actor Kang think?”

Director Pyo Wookjoon, who had been listening to the actors’ arguments with a hearty laugh until now, suddenly called out to Siheon.

Curious gazes gathered on him. Siheon, who had been keeping a low profile while grilling meat like a staff member, put down his chopsticks, feeling the sudden spotlight.

“Hmm… I thought Seonwook was locking himself away.”

Sounds of “Oh~” rippled around the table. Everyone’s reactions were exaggerated due to their tipsiness. Siheon added an explanation.

“Whether it’s a literal prison or physical shackles, in Seonwook’s mind, there’s no future.”

Jinseok immediately countered.

“Yoon Jihoon is alive. There’s someone waiting for Seonwook outside, so he should return.”

“Even if he does return, can the two of them really live happily? They’re already too broken.”

Jinseok put down the tongs and looked into Siheon’s eyes earnestly before asking.

“If someone’s broken, does that mean they’re no longer themselves? If they lock themselves away and don’t return to that person, will they be happy?”

Siheon fell silent. Somehow, he couldn’t answer. It was because Seonwook’s situation and the question posed to him kept overlapping with his own reality. Jinseok probably said it without knowing anything, but Siheon felt oddly guilty on his own.

Director Pyo Wookjoon, observing Siheon, who had sealed his lips like they were glued with honey and refused to speak, tilted his head toward the outside.

“Actor Kang, want to have a quick chat with me outside?”

As they stepped outside, the staff members smoking in the temporary smoking area set up by the restaurant stood up in unison to greet Director Pyo. Some also greeted Siheon, and he responded with a bow.

“There’s a convenience store up ahead.”

Director Pyo used the excuse of buying ice cream to drag Siheon along.

“The convenience store is in the other direction.”

“I’m old, you know. My digestion’s not great. Bear with me, Actor Kang. Let’s take the long way.”

Whether the digestion comment was true or not, Director Pyo focused solely on walking at the start of their stroll. As they walked, Siheon felt his mind gradually calming down.

He knew that sometimes, walking aimlessly like this without thinking could help relieve stress, but actually putting it into practice was never easy.

“Actor Kang, during the table read… were you perhaps disappointed?”

Director Pyo’s voice was playful as he subtly broached the topic, as if he didn’t want to sound too heavy. Siheon matched his tone, mixing in just the right amount of sincerity.

“No, what would I be disappointed about? I was just worried that maybe you didn’t say anything because I couldn’t handle your direction… I did have all sorts of thoughts for a moment.”

He had never been told he was a bad actor, but since this project was quite different from the works he’d done before, he lacked confidence in himself.

“I didn’t say anything because your acting was lacking or because I didn’t like it.”

Director Pyo spoke as if he could see right through Siheon’s thoughts.

“I felt that the Seonwook you prepared was completely different from the Seonwook I wrote.”

“So that’s why you asked me earlier what I thought about the ending.”

“Exactly. That’s when I realized. The Seonwook you prepared was, how should I put it… Resignation. That’s the word. He was a character grounded in resignation.”

There were already too many stories about imitating or stealing someone else’s life. And most of them ended in ruin. Because they stole someone else’s life, they could never be happy.

At its simplest, it was a tale of good triumphing over evil. It made the audience root for the pitiful soul who had no choice but to throw away their own life, while also teaching the lesson that you shouldn’t live like this.

Counterfeit has a relatively open ending, but Siheon naturally imagined an ending similar to other films.

“Actor Kang, I don’t really like explaining my own films. What director would?”

One of the joys of watching a film is the audience guessing and interpreting it in their own way, Director Pyo said, stretching his arms. The smell of grilled meat embedded in his clothes dispersed in the breeze.

“I don’t usually talk to actors about this and that, but I called you out because it feels like we’re heading toward very different destinations. Is that okay?”

Then he brought up something Siheon hadn’t even imagined.

“When I wrote the final scene, I thought Seonwook had finally been ‘liberated.’”

“…What?”

Normally, Siheon would have let it slide, but he was so shocked that he forgot his manners and asked again. No, there’s the sound of clanking chains in the darkness—how could that be liberation?

Director Pyo glanced at Siheon’s face and burst into hearty laughter, clutching his stomach. It was loud enough to make a few drunk passersby turn their heads. After laughing to his heart’s content, he wiped the tears from his eyes and cleared his throat.

“Ahem, it could sound like what you and others might assume. But what if, on the contrary, it’s the sound of the chains binding Seonwook finally breaking free, or him undoing them himself?”

Siheon’s lips moved silently. For some reason, he was too shocked to speak. It was probably for the best. He might have ended up saying something cheeky like, “Isn’t that a scam of a direction?”

“When Taewook was trapped in the car, Seonwook hesitated to call 119. He blamed himself, thinking Taewook died because he hesitated, wanting to take that life for himself. But in reality, Taewook was destined to die there. Calling a few seconds earlier wouldn’t have stopped Taewook from burning to death.”

The gambling debts of his adoptive parents, Taewook’s death, and the sins Seonwook carried—among them, the only one he truly committed was trying to live as the deceased Taewook. So, the moment he decided to pay for that crime, perhaps Seonwook had truly become free.

As a criminal, his life ahead would be tough. That was the natural consequence. Finding a job would be hard, he’d face judgment, and living an ordinary life might be something he couldn’t even dream of. Or maybe something he shouldn’t dream of.

Yet, if there was even one person waiting for the broken Seonwook, wouldn’t that be its own kind of happy ending?

“The Seonwook you prepared felt like a character orbiting a fixed trajectory. Always coexisting with a certain level of unhappiness, and in the end, quietly fading away in despair.”

Siheon nodded cautiously. Though he had never committed a crime, it was true that he had projected his own life of hiding the truth onto Seonwook, identifying with him.

“But ‘acceptance’ and ‘resignation’ are very different concepts. The future of someone who has resigned themselves doesn’t change, but the future of someone who accepts and embraces it will change in some way. The Seonwook I wrote is the latter, Actor Kang.”

Director Pyo grinned.

“And if you’re going to fade away, wouldn’t it be better to go out with a bang, like a supernova explosion, rather than quietly? It’s more visually striking too.”

He had said he loved typical Hollywood action blockbusters filled with explosions when watching as an audience member. As the conversation turned to explosive topics, Director Pyo’s face lit up brightly.

By the time the convenience store came back into view, the topic had somehow shifted to fishing in the blink of an eye. Siheon, who had almost been dragged into a fishing trip, snapped back to reality and pointed at the convenience store.

“You’re going to buy ice cream, right?”

“No, now that I think about it, I think I saw an ice cream machine at the barbecue restaurant.”

Director Pyo shrugged.

＊＊＊＊＊

When he returned after talking with the director, the drinking party was in full swing. However, since the barbecue restaurant had limited side dishes, it seemed like it was time to move to a new location.

If the film company or production team covered the first round, the lead actors would take turns paying for the second round—that was the unspoken rule in this industry. Kangsan stood up and shouted cheerfully.

“Alright, the second round is on Sori Entertainment! I’ve reserved a spot at a trendy casual whiskey bar. Let’s move!”

The staff cheered at the prospect of a pricier second location. Even someone who had been drunkenly clinging to Siheon, begging to drink together, hurriedly got up.

People poured out in droves. Siheon, finally able to catch his breath, furrowed his brow and approached Kangsan.

“A whiskey bar? Are you trying to bankrupt the company?”

A whiskey bar for the second round, when most people, except those with other commitments, would join? Wasn’t that a bit much?

“No, it’s not like that. Representative Heo told me to use this for the second round.”

Kangsan waved a card held between his fingers. Siheon squinted.

“That looks familiar.”

The front was metal, the back plastic. It was a credit card issued exclusively to 99 invited individuals in South Korea to commemorate the founding of CH Financial.

Siheon took the card from Kangsan’s hand and checked the numbering.

CH. 001

The prestigious number one greeted him. A number only the head of CH Financial could possess.

I see. It’s not Representative Heo who’s going bankrupt today—it’s Cha Wonwoo.

No matter how much he swiped, that guy’s bank balance would probably remain filled with endless zeros, but what kind of money-wasting nonsense was this?

“Why use this instead of the corporate card…?”

Siheon couldn’t even finish his sentence. Swallowing a sigh, Kangsan defended on his behalf.

“President Cha probably wants to boost your reputation.”

“Really?”

The tone of his question shifted subtly. Sensing danger, Kangsan politely clasped his hands and asked for the card back. But Siheon didn’t return it, instead pocketing Cha Wonwoo’s card.

“Hyung…”

Fortunately, another card was placed on Kangsan’s trembling hands.

“I don’t know what kind of reputation needs to be boosted with a company dinner bill.”

It was a card Kangsan was familiar with.

“If my reputation needs boosting, I’ll do it myself, with my own card.”

The name engraved on the card was Kang Siheon.

“Charge the second round to mine.”

Siheon, about to walk away, paused. Did I overdo the cool act? It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but it sounded too much like a drama line, giving him chills. Turning back, he added playfully, as usual.

“Of course, it’d be even better if you used Sori Entertainment’s corporate card.”

＊＊＊＊＊

The car carrying Cha Wonwoo left the CH Group headquarters and headed toward Siheon’s second company dinner location.

With a packed schedule, it had been tough to make time, but he’d managed. If he could see his hyung’s face even a little longer, skipping meals to work was more than worth it.

Of course, this was personal, and he couldn’t force his staff to follow his unreasonable schedule, so he was the only one skipping meals.

At first, his secretaries were cautious, but now they were used to it and took care of their own meals.

The car was quiet as it drove along the Han River, the night view settling in. Secretary Yang, checking the schedule on a tablet, noticed a newly shared appointment and reported immediately.

“President, regarding the lunch meeting with Hansan Media’s representative. How about this Thursday at noon?”

Thursday was the day of hyung’s hospital consultation. He wanted to take him there himself if possible.

“Any other days?”

When he asked just in case, Secretary Yang looked troubled. It was a busy time for them with reorganizations and all, so it wasn’t surprising. Plus, it was rare for Cha Wonwoo to be the one in need, so he had to accommodate.

“It’s fine. Keep it for Thursday noon as planned.”

“Yes, I’ll confirm the schedule.”

The car fell silent again. Cha Wonwoo leaned his arm against the door trim and looked out the window. The shimmering lights on the dark canvas of the night were breathtakingly beautiful. Was it his good mood making the scenery look even prettier?

Imprinting.

It wasn’t just him. His hyung too—it was mutual imprinting. Just thinking about it made his heart swell uncontrollably at random moments.

“Ah…”

Driver Kim’s low, startled groan broke the silence in the car. Secretary Yang, tense at the rare occurrence, asked what was wrong. Driver Kim glanced at the rearview mirror and answered calmly.

“I might be mistaken, but the vehicle following us seems a bit suspicious.”

He wasn’t the president, so there was no need for 24/7 escort vehicles for personal matters like this. There had never been an issue before. So why now, of all times…?

Secretary Yang turned toward the back seat.

“President, please put on your seatbelt for now.”

It wasn’t an ordinary car—it was bulletproof and could withstand most impacts—but you never know. Secretary Yang contacted the dedicated security team just in case.

“We’ll check if they’re really following us. I’ll head toward a quieter route.”

Driver Kim, gripping the steering wheel, heightened his alertness to the front and rear and turned into a side road with less traffic. Two cars back. The vehicle two cars behind, with a regular car in between, turned in the same direction.

It wasn’t Driver Kim’s imagination.

＊＊＊＊＊

The second company dinner venue for the Counterfeit film team was far too authentic to be called a casual whiskey bar.

The basement had a storage cellar, the first floor had a shop where you could buy liquor, the second and third floors were bars where you could enjoy wine, whiskey, and other drinks with simple food, and the rooftop was a dedicated bar that could accommodate over 100 people.

The second and third floors were the same bar but had different vibes. The third floor had a date-night feel, while the second floor was closer to a lively pub. A large screen was installed on one wall for watching sports, and the ceiling above the main bar, where the bartender worked, had monitors visible from all directions.

But today, both the second and third floors belonged to the Counterfeit team. With the entire place reserved and Sori Entertainment’s generous budget allowing everyone to eat and drink freely, everyone couldn’t help but give a thumbs-up.

“I should say I’m joining Sori Entertainment for my next contract renewal.”

Siheon gave an awkward smile at someone’s passing comment and poked Kangsan, who had just walked up, in the side.

“Who booked this place? Representative Heo, right? A casual whiskey bar? What’s casual about this?”

Kangsan raised both hands in surrender under the barrage of questions.

“If you’re regretting it, give me President Cha’s card now. I’ll return your card.”

“Who said I’m regretting it? Just charge it to mine.”

It was for the film crew they worked with—how could he feel reluctant? He was just momentarily annoyed that Representative Heo was sitting back and taking all the praise.

Not long after, cheese platters were served to every table on the second and third floors. Siheon went all out, ordering raw oysters with lemon juice and Tabasco and baked oysters with herb butter and Grana Padano cheese, tailored to the number of people at each table. He also instructed that BBQ platters be provided for those who couldn’t eat seafood.

Someone’s cheer sparked a chant of Siheon’s name, ringing out like a victory song across the venue. Siheon waved his hands, embarrassed, as Kangsan whispered.

“At this rate, aren’t you the one going bankrupt, hyung?”

A bit later, perhaps overwhelmed by the upscale venue, the assistant director came over, teary-eyed, and clung to Siheon.

“Actor, what are you hoping for from our film to do all this…?”

“You’re pretty drunk.”

“Hyung, I’ll take him back to the directing team.”

Kangsan supported the assistant director and walked away. The atmosphere was noticeably more intoxicated than the first round, and Siheon felt his energy draining in real-time. But since he’d decided to cover the second round, he had no choice but to stick it out.

Perhaps feeling sorry for Siheon, Jinseok, who had been dealing with people left and right, approached with a glass of iced water.

“You okay?”

“No, I feel like even my brain’s going to smell like alcohol. You okay, sunbae?”

“You know how dominant Alphas handle alcohol. Times like this are nice.”

As the two sat together, others seemed to assume the lead actors had something to discuss, and no one approached. Kangsan, who had taken the assistant director, seemed to have gone to the restroom and was momentarily absent.

“I was going to make a separate appointment to talk to you about some worries, Siheon. But this kind of atmosphere might actually be better.”

“You want to talk to me about your worries, sunbae?”

“Yeah.”

Siheon’s gaze drifted to the ring mark on Jinseok’s fourth finger. A relationship issue, maybe? If it’s about that, he wouldn’t be much help.

“Well…”

As Jinseok hesitated before speaking, a breaking news ticker suddenly flashed across the large screen behind him.

[Breaking News] Cha Wonwoo, transported to hospital after traffic accident…

Seeing Siheon’s face turn pale, Jinseok hurriedly turned around, asking what was wrong. The ticker had already updated with new information.

[Breaking News] CH Group President Cha Wonwoo, attacked by unidentified vehicle

In that moment, Siheon wanted nothing more than to faint. The ticker changed once more.

[Breaking News] Cha Wonwoo, transported to hospital… “No threat to life.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Siheon summoned all his strength and stood up.

Just then, Kangsan, who had been missing, rushed in, his face ashen, with a phone pressed to his ear.