Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 289 - 290: Netizen Court

Joon-ho shut the trailer door with his foot and slid the lock across like it was a weapon.

The sound was small—metal on metal—but it felt like the first clean breath he’d taken all morning.

Inside, the waiting room was too bright. Fluorescent light bounced off the white tabletop, off the mirror rimmed with bulbs, off the little paper cups stacked by the coffee machine. Everything looked sterile, as if the space had been designed to keep mess out.

Outside, the mess was crawling up the walls.

Seo-yeon sat on the edge of the couch, knees pressed together, hands clasped so tight her knuckles had gone pale. Her phone hovered in her grip like a ticking device she didn’t know how to throw away.

Mirae stood near the mirror, arms folded, posture straight enough to pass for calm. Her jaw was set. The way her fingers tapped once—just once—against her elbow betrayed the pressure under her skin.

Joon-ho didn’t look at either of them right away. He held his phone at chest level and watched the screen like a medic watching a monitor.

The numbers changed faster than any heart rate.

Views. Shares. Comments.

A new hashtag climbed over the old one and cemented itself at the top of the trending list.

Netizen court didn’t need evidence.

It needed blood.

He scrolled without wanting to.

A clip—zoomed, sharpened, slowed—of Mirae in that corridor, her hand on Seo-yeon’s shoulders, Seo-yeon’s head ducked. Then a freeze-frame with a bright red circle around Mirae’s fingers like they were claws.

Captions appeared like verdicts.

"Look at her grip."

"That’s not coaching, that’s intimidation."

"I always knew she was two-faced."

Then the counterpunch, just as violent.

"Seo-yeon is playing victim."

"Rookie actresses always do this for clout."

"She’s trying to ride Mirae’s name."

And another thread, uglier, laughing at the idea of "bullying" like it was entertainment.

"If Mirae bullied me, I’d thank her."

"I’d pay to be bullied."

Joon-ho’s teeth clicked together. Not because of Mirae—because of them. The faceless swarm that could twist pain into a meme.

Seo-yeon made a small noise, barely more than a breath cracking. Her thumbs moved too fast, scrolling like she couldn’t stop herself.

"Seo-yeon," Joon-ho said, soft but firm.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t look up. Her eyes were wide, shining, stuck on the screen like it was hypnotizing her into collapse.

Mirae turned her head, a sharp glance. "Give it to me."

Seo-yeon’s hands tightened around her phone as if Mirae had asked for her oxygen.

Mirae’s voice gentled, and the shift was so quick Joon-ho felt it like a warm hand in the middle of cold. "Hey. Give it here."

Seo-yeon swallowed. "Unnie... they’re right. They’re... they’re saying I ruined the set. That I’m... that I’m—"

"Stop." Mirae took a step closer. "Don’t repeat it."

Seo-yeon laughed once, broken, like her throat didn’t know whether to cry or cough. "I didn’t do anything and it’s still my fault."

Her nails bit into the phone case. "They’re calling my mom. They found my—my old school photos. They’re posting my address from an old fan cafe. How can they—how can they—"

She lost the sentence. Her breath came shallow, jagged. Panic rose in her voice like water.

Joon-ho moved before it crested. He crouched in front of her, low enough that she had to angle her gaze down to meet his.

"Seo-yeon," he said again, slower. "Look at me."

Her eyes flicked up for half a second, then darted away.

He kept his tone steady, the way you held a skittish animal with your voice. "You’re spiraling. That phone is pulling you under. Put it down."

"I need to see what they’re saying," she whispered, like she was confessing to an addiction. "If I don’t know, it’s worse. If I don’t know, I’ll—"

"If you do know," Joon-ho cut in, gently, "you’ll drown in it."

Mirae reached out, palm open. A simple gesture. Not demanding. Just offering.

Seo-yeon stared at Mirae’s hand like it was a test she would fail. "Unnie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I—"

Mirae’s eyes sharpened. "No. You don’t apologize to me."

"But you’re getting hate because of me."

Mirae leaned down until they were close enough that her voice turned private, intimate, dangerous in its certainty. "Listen. I’ve been hated for breathing wrong. I’ve been loved for smiling at the right time. None of it is real. Do you understand?"

Seo-yeon’s lashes trembled.

Mirae held her gaze. "The only real thing is what happened. And what happened is you were scared and I coached you. That’s it."

Seo-yeon’s mouth opened. Closed. Then she made a sound like she’d been holding in a scream.

Her fingers finally loosened.

The phone slid into Mirae’s palm.

Mirae didn’t look at the screen. She turned it face-down on the table like she was pinning a snake.

"You’re not reading anymore," she said. "Not today."

Seo-yeon’s hands hovered helplessly, as if she didn’t know what to do without the device. Her breathing still shook.

Joon-ho stayed crouched. "In through your nose," he said, calm. "Out through your mouth. Count with me."

Seo-yeon tried. Her inhale hitched.

"Again."

This time she got it halfway.

Mirae glanced at the mirror, at their reflections. Her face was controlled, but her eyes were hard. She was thinking about the door, the set, the cameras.

The moment Seo-yeon stepped out, someone would be waiting to catch her tears.

Joon-ho stood and crossed to the tiny window that looked out onto the narrow walkway between trailers. He moved the curtain a fraction, just enough to see.

Two staffers lingered nearby, pretending to smoke. A third stood with a phone angled low, as if checking messages, but the lens was pointed exactly at the trailer door.

Joon-ho’s stomach tightened.

He let the curtain fall back into place.

"They’re camped outside," he said quietly.

Mirae’s shoulders rose a millimeter. "Of course they are."

Seo-yeon’s eyes widened again. "They’re... waiting?"

Joon-ho nodded once. "Because if they get you crying, it becomes proof. If they get Mirae snapping, it becomes proof. Anything emotional becomes evidence."

Seo-yeon’s breath stuttered.

Mirae’s voice cut in, sharper than before. "Then we don’t give them anything."

Seo-yeon’s gaze dropped to her lap, shame curling her shoulders inward. "I shouldn’t have come. I should leave. If I leave, maybe it—"

"No," Mirae said, immediate. "You don’t run."

"But the director—"

"The director is scared of sponsors," Mirae snapped, then reined it back. She exhaled once, controlled. "He’s not going to throw you to wolves. Not if we don’t make it easy."

Seo-yeon’s eyes filled again. "I’m making it easy just by existing."

Mirae’s expression softened, then hardened. Like she was furious at the world for making the girl say that.

Joon-ho stepped between them—subtle, not blocking Mirae from Seo-yeon, just aligning himself so he could hold both.

"We’re going to do this in steps," he said. "First, we stabilize you. Water. Food if you can. Second, we get you from this trailer to makeup without cameras. Third, no statements, no apologies. PR will handle that."

Seo-yeon’s voice trembled. "But shouldn’t I... shouldn’t I say something? Like... ’Mirae unnie didn’t bully me’?"

Mirae’s laugh was a single sharp breath. "And then they’ll say you’re lying because she threatened you."

Seo-yeon flinched.

"That’s how it works," Mirae continued, quieter. "If you defend me, you’re forced. If you don’t, you’re guilty. The game is rigged."

Joon-ho nodded. "So we don’t play their version."

Seo-yeon looked at him, desperate. "Then what do we do?"

He didn’t sugarcoat it. "We endure. And we gather facts."

Mirae’s eyes narrowed. "Facts don’t trend."

"No," Joon-ho agreed. "But they hold in court."

He saw Seo-yeon swallow hard at that word—court. Netizen court had already sentenced them.

A knock hit the door. Too sharp. Too urgent.

All three of them froze.

Joon-ho moved first, because someone had to. He went to the door but didn’t open it immediately. "Who is it?"

A female voice, breathless. "It’s the assistant director. We need Seo-yeon on set in ten. Director wants to keep schedule."

Seo-yeon’s face drained. "Ten? I—"

Mirae’s voice went flat. "Tell him she’s not leaving until the hallway is cleared."

A pause. "They’re... trying. But—"

Joon-ho cut in, controlled. "We’ll come out when it’s safe. Not before."

Another pause. Then, reluctantly, "Okay. I’ll... I’ll talk to him."

Footsteps retreated.

Seo-yeon hugged herself, shoulders shaking. "I can’t do this. Unnie, I’m going to ruin you."

Mirae’s eyes flashed. "You’re not ruining me."

Seo-yeon’s voice cracked. "Everyone hates you now."

Mirae’s mouth twisted. "They don’t hate me now. They hate the version of me someone edited."

Seo-yeon looked down, tears spilling. "They’re saying I cried because you threatened me. They’re saying I’m weak. They’re saying I should quit. I thought... I thought I was finally—"

The sentence collapsed. She covered her mouth with both hands, trying to swallow the sob back down like it was poison.

Mirae moved fast, too fast for the mask. She knelt, grabbed Seo-yeon’s wrists gently, pulled her hands down.

"Don’t hide," she said, fierce. "Breathe. Look at me. You’re not weak."

Seo-yeon shook her head, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. "I am. I’m—"

Mirae cut her off, voice low, fierce with something that almost sounded like affection. "You’re scared. That’s not weakness. That’s being human."

Joon-ho watched Mirae’s grip—careful, supportive, exactly what it had been in that corridor.

And he imagined how it would look if someone caught it through the crack of the door.

He stepped forward and pulled a small towel from the counter, pressed it into Seo-yeon’s hands. "Wipe," he said gently. "Not because you should be ashamed. Because cameras are cruel."

Seo-yeon laughed again, thin and bitter. "Everything is cameras."

"Not in here," Joon-ho said. "Not right now."

Mirae’s voice softened, surprising even herself. "You’re not alone. Do you hear me? You’re not alone."

Seo-yeon nodded, but the nod didn’t look convinced.

Joon-ho’s phone buzzed again.

He glanced at the screen and felt his stomach drop for the second time today.

A new clip—posted minutes ago.

The title was worse.

"More proof: Mirae’s ’bullying’ pattern."

Under it, a collage of old interview moments stitched into a narrative: Mirae’s blunt words to a host, a clip of her walking past fans without smiling, a slow-motion shot of her expression when a rookie bumped her in an awards hallway.

None of it was bullying.

But the edit made it feel like a history.

A pattern.

A character assassination.

Joon-ho locked the screen immediately, pulse pounding.

Mirae’s eyes were on him. "What?"

He hesitated for half a heartbeat—then chose the truth, because hiding it would only make the crash worse.

"They escalated," he said quietly. "They’re building a ’pattern’ story."

Seo-yeon’s face crumpled. "Because of me."

Mirae’s jaw tightened. "Because someone wants it."

Joon-ho forced his voice to stay even. "And because outrage sells."

Mirae’s gaze sharpened, the fury in her eyes turning precise. "Then we find who’s feeding them."

Joon-ho nodded once. "We will."

Outside, another burst of laughter drifted past the trailer wall—too close, too casual, like the world was just having fun.

Joon-ho looked at the locked door, then at the two women in front of him—one famous enough to be a target, one new enough to be crushed—and felt something in him settle.

Not panic.

Resolve.

"Seo-yeon," he said, steady. "You’re going to drink water. You’re going to eat two bites of something. You’re going to keep your face neutral when we walk. Mirae will lead. I’ll block. And if anyone shoves a camera at you—"

He leaned in, voice low, firm.

"—you don’t flinch. You look through them like they’re air."

Seo-yeon’s eyes trembled. "I don’t know if I can."

Mirae squeezed her shoulder. "Then borrow my spine until you grow your own."

Joon-ho reached for the door lock, fingers closing around the metal.

Another buzz hit his phone—this one from that same unknown number.

You’re still trying to endure? Cute. Next upload in 5 minutes. Tell Mirae to behave.

Joon-ho’s blood went cold.

He didn’t show them. Not yet.

He slid the lock open anyway.

Because the netizen court was screaming outside.

And someone, somewhere, was timing the next knife.