Just from reading the opening lines, I could tell why Nam Jooah called me “unnie”.

“I was so surprised to hear that someone in Dad’s department likes Spark. I heard you’ve been a fan since their debut, like me, is that true?”

“Just hearing the story was amazing, but hearing you like running a fan account made me think you must be an incredible ‘golden hands’. (In my heart, unnie is the best golden hands. There’s no Sparkler who edits as well as unnie!)”

“He made up whatever was convenient.”

The Kim Iwol grasped through the letter was a woman in her 20s with a unique way of fan activity, who liked fangirling over Spark but was busy with real life, so she wanted Nam Jooah to upload things for her or manage the account.

Manager Nam wouldn’t have known about commissions or fan accounts. At home, he probably just nodded along to his daughter’s chatter, boasting “Dad can ask around for you”, responding to anything she said. He was the kind of man who prided himself on being friends with his daughter.

I could picture him boasting that he knew someone who liked the same idol and did this kind of thing as a hobby, and that he’d ask them a favor.

Whether Nam Jooah misunderstood because Manager Nam didn’t reveal the gender, or he lied, thinking it would be weird for a male employee to be a fan of a boy group from their unknown debut days, my identity also changed in the process of their conversation.

It only took a little thought to realize how nonsensical this setup was, but Nam Jooah seemed to believe it firmly.

Who would edit one video a week and make dozens of GIFs for an idol they didn’t even care about, for a total stranger? It was only natural to think that such things were possible because “the other person must be a fan too”.

This must also be why Manager Nam didn’t give Nam Jooah my email address directly. Because he would have deleted the personal chat Nam Jooah wrote to Kim Iwol in the email before forwarding it.

“I thought he was worried about his daughter and let it pass.”

How long had Manager Nam planned to keep fooling Nam Jooah? Trying to escape the situation with immediate lies was both laughable and pathetic. And I, who rolled under that sloppy scheme, felt beyond pathetic, insignificant.

“Dad said he always makes sure to compensate unnie properly, but people his age sometimes try to gloss over things like expenses... And honestly, the work you put in is way too much to be just for money. So I wanted to thank unnie properly myself.”

She wrote that she bought two boxes so I wouldn’t feel awkward taking it alone, one to share if needed, and one I should take home and enjoy by myself.

How displeased he must have been. To Manager Nam, Assistant Manager Kim was just a young worker who did a few extra things on the side while working, nothing special enough to deserve special treatment.

If he found out his kind, innocent daughter had bought such an expensive snack—too pricey for a middle schooler—he couldn’t have laughed it off so easily.

“Everyone says I’m blessed. They ask how I managed to have a benefactor like unnie around~. I think so too. So whenever unnie gives me new pics, I go around bragging everywhereㅋㅋㅋ”

“Unnie, have you ever thought about making a separate account? People are just waiting for you to open one!”

To me, both Manager Nam and Nam Jooah were just people who made my life harder, but Nam Jooah called me her benefactor.

It would have been better if she were immature. If she’d been rude and bossy like her dad, I could’ve brushed it off with, “I just hope she grows up into a decent adult”. Then I wouldn’t have felt so hurt.

“Still unnie, take care of your health while working!”

How could I bring myself to hate a kid who believed my actions were pure kindness? She was like that because she didn’t know the situation. And I knew this was her only breathing space in life.

If you know who’s really at fault, you should aim your anger at them alone. That’s what being an adult means. Even if your heart is too tangled to actually do it.

“Why are you blocking the way?”

Manager Nam asked. His gaze landed on the letter I was holding.

“It was in the shopping bag. I was just checking if it was something I shouldn’t throw away—”

“You think there’s personal info in there and people just rummage through others’ trash? Hand it over!”

Manager Nam snatched the letter. Pushing past me with his shoulder, the Manager muttered.

“Can’t even throw away a piece of trash properly. What am I even doing with a useless worker like this, honestly.”

A father and daughter could have such completely opposite views of the same person. I couldn’t think of anything more absurd.

Lying on the bed, I quietly chewed over the memories so far.

“Am I projecting Nam Jooah on Mr. Han Gawoon?”

Neither Mr. Han Gawoon nor Nam Jooah did anything wrong themselves. If anything, they were good-natured.

But somehow, the world around them made others look at them with unkind eyes. Even when I tried not to hate them, I worried I might end up harboring bad feelings.

“I don’t want to resent innocent people.”

Hating someone takes energy. If the other person isn’t truly bad, you can’t ignore the guilt either. Because my head would keep saying “That person is innocent”. I was not brazen enough to ignore that voice.

If I could decide how to treat Mr. Han Gawoon, maybe I could finally sort out my unresolved feelings toward Nam Jooah, too.

The hug I shared with Mr. Han Gawoon ahead of the end of “Act on” filming came to mind. And Mr. Han Gawoon’s trembling body.

I closed my eyes.

And vowed. Not to forcibly avoid someone who felt sorry.

I chose to believe that if Nam Jooah knew the truth, she’d react the same way as Mr. Han Gawoon.

As time passed like that, the dragging memories would also fade little by little.

Thinking back on recent events, I realized I tend to fall into deep thought whenever I was nearing the end of a job. Like there was a “worry zone” in the middle of my thought process.

How did I come to this deduction?

“Mr. Iwol, how’s your condition?”

“The best!”

Because today was the last filming day of “Exclusive Report”. My sudden unease over Han Gawoon and Nam Jooah probably had something to do with that too.

More precisely, it was the day Cheon Yoonsung would exit. Cheon Yoonsung, who had relentlessly interfered with the protagonists, got himself caught because he was too deeply entangled with them.

A final order came down to Cheon Yoonsung, who dared to harbor different intentions regarding the group. It was time for the mid-boss to exit.

Perhaps because impact was important for the scene, all attention on set was focused on me. Well, considering a villain was dying, showing a lackluster appearance would result in me becoming the center of mocking GIFs across every community.

So, though you could hardly call it preparation, I watched the memory data again before sleeping last night. The data containing the moment I died.

The shock wasn’t as big as the first time I saw it. The emotions came, but they didn’t drown me. I observed myself quietly, like watching someone else, and thought about why I’d had those thoughts. I woke up not feeling depressed.

Maybe I really was getting better. Like when I thought I could endure until I found my sister. I hoped that was the case.

“Mr. Iwol, tell us when you’re ready.”

Warmer consideration than usual poured on the actor facing a death scene. It was undeserved treatment for me, who didn’t perform acting great enough not to escape emotions.

But with this much encouragement, I couldn’t help but do my best.

“I’m going in!”

Not knowing how many NGs might occur, I should film diligently.

Without hesitation, I put the script down on the waiting chair.

My steps weren’t heavy. If anything, my heels felt light, as if I were looking forward to something.

Cheon Yoonsung walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city’s nightscape.

On the massive glass window without a single fingerprint, the spacious and flashy penthouse and the silhouette of this house’s young master, Cheon Yoonsung, were reflected like a mirror.

Standing in a robe with his arms crossed, gazing at the night view, Cheon Yoonsung heard a small alert sound near his ear.

A visitor’s vehicle arrived at the building parking lot of the house where no one should come since Chief Ko left work. Cheon Yoonsung’s face darkened.

Cheon Yoonsung slowly walked to the dress room. Then he dressed in his usual suit and came out to the living room.

After typing a short message on his phone, Cheon Yoonsung sat cross-legged on the large sofa. Wine brought out from the wine cellar filled the wine glass placed on the table.

The sound of the door lock password being unlocked was /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ heard. Two pairs of black shining shoes walked toward Cheon Yoonsung with distinct steps.

Cheon Yoonsung slowly raised his head. Towards the guests who came without notice, he asked with a relaxed expression.

“Did Chief Ko go first?”

He wasn’t really asking about someone who had already gone home.

He was asking whether they had gone to Chief Ko first. Chairman Cheon’s men understood at once.

“He was worried about the Young Master.”

“As he should be. What secretary leaves without even stopping by on his superior’s way? There must’ve been a reason.”

Cheon Yoonsung swirled the glass and took a sip of wine.

It wasn’t nearly enough to get him drunk. The wine glass was filled repeatedly, twice, thrice.

After emptying the bottle on the spot, Cheon Yoonsung headed to the bedroom. The unfamiliar men followed.

Removing the painting hanging above the bed head, a long hunting gun revealed itself. Cheon Yoonsung loaded the ammunition with calm movements.

Father.

Where else would you find a son who understands his father’s will this well?

On a game board, what piece is more useful than one that willingly moves itself off?

Cheon Yoonsung laughed. The men stood straight, hands clasped in front.

“The safe password is 37915981. You brought the double lock key from Chief Ko’s house, right?”

“Yes, preparation is complete.”

“The will is inside the nightstand.”

“Thank you.”

Cheon Yoonsung, who had been focused only on his tasks, stared at the uninvited guests.

He wondered what his father’s last words might have been.

But there were probably none. Not a shred of regret left behind.

The end of the muzzle touched under the chin. Cheon Yoonsung put his finger on the trigger.

Looking up, orange lighting brightened before his eyes.

Trying to live well, even a life like this, now felt ridiculous. There wasn’t even emptiness, just hollowness. But he had no confidence he could live better, so being satisfied here felt almost refreshing. The fact that he felt nothing even in the face of sudden death meant he had no regrets.

It had been a long, meaningless life, but now that he’d seen the end, there was nothing left to wish for.

Cheon Yoonsung closed his eyes. Beyond the shadow of Cheon Yoonsung’s face reflected in the window, the city lights that never go out twinkled like embers.

Blood droplets scattered over the wall where a white mark remained, hidden by the painting for a long time.