Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 297 - 298: Red-Handed

The dead zone wasn't officially a place.

It was the gap between set walls and storage—two temporary corridors that didn't belong to any department, which meant everyone used it when they didn't want to be seen. No cameras pointed there because it wasn't "clean." Wi-Fi flickered because the signal didn't like the metal racks and stacked props. The light was always a little wrong, like it had been forgotten.

Perfect.

Joon-ho walked past it twice without looking in.

Public protocol didn't end when the camera stopped rolling. It ended when the leaker stopped believing you were watching.

Su-bin had texted him one line earlier: Lee Min moving. Two minutes.

So he moved too—just not like a hunter.

He carried a garment bag from wardrobe to production like he actually had a job there. He stopped to thank a PA like he was polite. He paused to listen to the assistant director complain about the next setup like he was bored and helpful.

Then he drifted toward storage.

The moment he hit the corner, he saw Su-bin's signal: her cap brim angled low, her body turned half away from the corridor like she was checking something on her phone. Normal. Invisible. And right beside that invisibility, tucked into the shadow of the set walls, was Lee Min.

Lee Min had her tote bag on one shoulder and her phone in both hands. Her thumb moved fast—too fast. She kept glancing down the corridor as if expecting someone to shout her name.

She didn't see Su-bin in her periphery.

That was the thing about amateurs. They didn't understand what watching really looked like.

Joon-ho didn't step in yet. If he appeared first, Lee Min would bolt. If she bolted, she'd throw the phone or smash it or swallow the SIM like she'd seen in dramas.

Su-bin handled this kind of thing for a living.

Lee Min's screen lit brighter in the dim corridor. She raised the phone closer to her face, lips moving silently as she read.

Then she tapped.

A progress ring appeared. A thin line of text beneath it: Uploading…

Su-bin moved.

One second she was leaning, bored, on the set wall. The next, she was on Lee Min like a shadow that had decided to become a person.

No shout. No dramatic grab.

Su-bin's hand slid over Lee Min's wrists and pinned them gently—but completely—against the wall. Her other hand hooked the phone out of Lee Min's grip with a clean, practiced motion.

Lee Min froze for half a breath. Then her body jolted as reality caught up.

"Ah—! What—what are you doing—" Her voice shot up, cracking in panic.

Su-bin didn't raise hers. "Quiet," she said, calm as a nurse. "If you scream, you'll make this a scene. Do you want a scene?"

Lee Min's eyes went wide, wet instantly. She swallowed hard, mouth opening and closing like her throat couldn't decide between a sob and a lie.

Su-bin angled the phone away from Lee Min's reach and tapped the screen once to keep it awake. The upload ring was still turning.

Joon-ho stepped into view then—slow, controlled—closing the distance without rushing.

Lee Min's gaze snapped to him, and the panic doubled. "No—no, please—oppa, I—"

"Not here," Joon-ho said, voice low.

He didn't say her name. Names turned into shouting. Shouting turned into recordings. Recordings turned into posts.

He stood on Lee Min's other side, blocking the corridor with his body without looking like he was blocking anything. To anyone passing, it would look like three staff members discussing something boring.

Su-bin's eyes flicked to him. A small nod. She was in control.

Lee Min's chest heaved. "I wasn't— I didn't—"

Su-bin brought the phone closer to her own face and took a screenshot. Then another. She didn't fumble. She didn't hesitate. She captured the upload screen, the file name, the destination app, the timestamp at the top of the screen.

Joon-ho caught the filename in the corner of the display: the PR clearance variant—exactly as Su-bin had predicted.

Lee Min saw his eyes shift and started shaking harder.

Su-bin hit airplane mode.

The upload froze.

Lee Min made a broken sound—half gasp, half sob—as if something had been cut off inside her.

Su-bin turned the phone screen away from Lee Min and locked it. Then, without changing her tone, she said, "Bag."

Lee Min blinked. "W-what?"

"Your tote," Su-bin repeated, still calm. "Put it down."

Lee Min clutched it tighter. "No—there's nothing—"

Joon-ho stepped closer. Not threatening. Just present. "If you don't, this becomes harder for you."

Her eyes darted between them like a trapped animal. "Please, I didn't— I'm not—"

Su-bin's voice stayed even. "You were uploading a file. That's not nothing."

Lee Min's hands trembled so badly the tote strap slid off her shoulder by itself. It dropped with a soft thud to the floor.

Su-bin crouched and opened it with one hand while keeping the phone in the other. She did it neatly, like a police search in miniature—no dumping, no drama. She photographed the inside first: a mess of makeup wipes, a cheap wallet, a charger, two pens, a small notebook, and—there—an external drive in a padded sleeve.

Su-bin took another photo.

Then she pulled the drive out and held it up between two fingers, as if it might be contaminated.

Lee Min's face drained. "That's not— it's not mine—"

Su-bin didn't argue. She just photographed the drive again from a different angle, catching the brand label and the faint scratch on the casing. Then she reached into her pocket and produced a small clear evidence bag—plain plastic, no markings—and slid the drive inside.

Joon-ho's stomach tightened. This wasn't improvisation. Su-bin had come prepared to end someone's life with paperwork.

Lee Min stared at the bag like it was a coffin.

Su-bin stood and looked at Lee Min for the first time with something approaching expression—cold curiosity. "Who told you to carry drives?"

"I—" Lee Min swallowed, throat bobbing. "It's—just helping—"

Su-bin angled the phone toward Joon-ho without giving Lee Min the screen. "Take a look. Confirm."

Joon-ho unlocked it with Su-bin's prompt and scanned the notifications, the app, the upload destination. Then the filename again—Variant B. The time stamp matched the window. The account handle wasn't a personal one; it looked like a burner, a content relay.

He locked it again and handed it back to Su-bin. "Confirmed."

Lee Min flinched at the word like it had hit her physically. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

Su-bin pocketed the phone and the bagged drive. Then she stepped back, releasing the pressure on Lee Min's wrists as casually as if she'd never touched her.

Lee Min's arms dropped limply to her sides. She looked like she'd forgotten how to stand.

Joon-ho kept his voice low. "We're going to move somewhere quieter. You're going to walk. You're not going to run."

"I can't— I can't—" Lee Min's breath came in short bursts. Her eyes flicked toward the corridor opening like she was calculating escape.

Su-bin spoke before Joon-ho could. "If you run, I call security and this becomes public. Your face becomes tomorrow's post. You want that?"

Lee Min shook her head violently, tears spilling. "No—no—please—please—"

"Then walk," Su-bin said.

Joon-ho nodded toward the storage room door—slightly ajar, dim inside, stacked with props and folded reflectors. No one went in there unless they had a reason. That made it perfect.

They moved in a small triangle: Su-bin in front, Joon-ho behind and to the side, Lee Min between them. Not escorted. Not dragged. Just guided.

Inside, the storage air was cooler. Dusty. The hum of a small fan. They shut the door until only a sliver of hallway light leaked in.

Su-bin didn't sit. She kept standing, body relaxed, the way a predator looked relaxed.

Joon-ho leaned against a shelf of prop boxes and watched Lee Min carefully. Panic made people stupid. Panic also made them honest.

Lee Min was shaking so hard her teeth clicked. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't—don't ruin me—"

Su-bin's voice stayed neutral. "You ruined yourself when you pressed upload."

Lee Min made a strangled sound. "I didn't want to— I swear— I didn't want to—"

Joon-ho spoke softly, not kind, not cruel. "Then tell us why you did it."

Lee Min squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head like she could shake the truth out of her skull.

Su-bin pulled her phone back out—Lee Min's phone—and held it, screen down. She didn't wave it like a weapon. She just let its weight exist in her hand. "We already have the evidence. You don't get to pretend it didn't happen."

Lee Min's eyes snapped open. "I— I was told—"

"Told by who?" Su-bin asked.

Lee Min's lips trembled. "I can't say—"

"You can," Joon-ho cut in quietly. "Or you can be the only name the public remembers when this is done."

That landed. Lee Min's face crumpled.

"It's not— it's not like that," she choked. "I didn't start it. I didn't write the captions. I just— I just—"

Su-bin tilted her head. "You just delivered."

Lee Min nodded frantically, crying now, wiping her face with the back of her hand like a child. "I just— I just send what they ask. They tell me when. They tell me where. They tell me what angle is 'good.'"

Joon-ho's voice stayed steady. "Who is 'they'?"

Lee Min shook her head again. "I don't know the real— I don't know names. I swear. It's just… instructions."

Su-bin's eyes narrowed. "Instructions from where?"

Lee Min's breath hitched. "Kakao chat. Sometimes… sometimes email. Sometimes just— a call." She fumbled in her pocket like she'd forgotten she was being watched, then froze. "I have another phone."

Su-bin's gaze sharpened. "Where."

Lee Min's hands hovered, trembling. "Locker. In the production office—under the… under the paper boxes. I hide it."

Joon-ho felt a cold satisfaction slide through him. Burner phone. Good. Physical evidence.

Lee Min sobbed again. "I didn't have a choice, okay? I— I have debt. Real debt. Not like 'credit card' debt. Real—" Her voice cracked. "They said they could make it disappear."

Su-bin's expression didn't soften. "Who said."

Lee Min's throat worked. "A man. Not on set. He doesn't come on set. He's… he's like a— like a middle person. Paper. Contracts. He talks like he's doing me a favor."

"A fixer," Joon-ho murmured.

Lee Min nodded hard. "Yes—yes. He—he said I could get placed here. That I'd earn, that I'd pay. And then… he said I could do extra. Just small things. 'Just send.' 'Just don't ask.'"

Su-bin's voice stayed flat. "Placed by who."

Lee Min's eyes flicked up, terrified. "EON."

The name sat in the storage room like smoke.

Joon-ho didn't react outwardly. Inside, something tightened into certainty.

Lee Min saw his stillness and took it as a chance to keep talking, words spilling now that the dam had cracked. "They put me here—PR support—but I'm not… I'm not really PR. I was a trainee before. They—" She swallowed hard. "They kept my contract. They kept my debt. They said if I didn't do it, they'd… they'd ruin me. Or worse."

Su-bin's eyes narrowed. "What instructions. Exactly."

Lee Min hugged herself, shivering. "Timing. Always timing. They tell me: after lunch. After dailies. After wrap. They tell me: go to the dead zone because the cameras don't see. They tell me: don't upload from the same account twice. They give me the account. They give me the caption. Sometimes they send a template like—like 'netizens, what do you think'—and I just—"

Her voice broke into a sob.

Joon-ho let her cry for two seconds. Then he said, "And today? Who told you to upload Variant B?"

Lee Min's eyes went wide. "I—I didn't know it was different—"

"But you knew where it came from," Su-bin said.

Lee Min nodded weakly. "PR folder. Clearance folder. They told me: take the 'approved' version because it looks official. It makes people believe."

Su-bin's mouth tightened. "Who handed you the link."

Lee Min shook her head helplessly. "It's in the group chat. The PR coordinator. Han—sunbae. She always posts the links and says 'don't share outside.'"

Joon-ho's gaze flicked to Su-bin.

One other access point.

Su-bin exhaled once, slow and controlled, as if she was filing the name into a drawer labeled Next.

Lee Min wiped her face, eyes swollen. "Please," she whispered again. "I'll do whatever. I'll give you everything. Just—just don't tell them I talked. Please. He said if I ever—if I ever—"

"He?" Joon-ho asked.

Lee Min swallowed, voice a rasp. "The fixer. He said… if I mess up, he'll send people to my mother. He knows where she lives."

That was the real fear. Not being fired. Not being shamed online.

Family.

Su-bin's face didn't change, but her voice got sharper. "Do you have proof of that threat."

Lee Min nodded frantically. "Messages. Voice note. On the burner."

Joon-ho pushed off the shelf, stepping closer—still calm, still quiet. "Then you cooperate," he said. "Fully. Burner phone. Chats. Everything. And you do exactly what Su-bin tells you."

Lee Min's shoulders shook. "Okay—okay—"

Su-bin glanced at the door, listening for footsteps. Then she looked back at Lee Min with cold precision. "You're going to walk out of here like nothing happened," she said. "You're going to keep your face normal. You're going to stay on schedule. If anyone asks why you're pale, you say you're dehydrated."

Lee Min nodded, tears dripping off her chin.

"And," Su-bin added, "you're going to lead us to that burner."

Lee Min's breath hitched. "If they see—"

"They won't," Su-bin said. "Because you're not running. You're just being helpful."

Lee Min blinked, confused through panic.

Su-bin's smile was thin. "You wanted to be useful, right? Be useful now."

Lee Min nodded again, harder, like she could hammer her fear into obedience.

Joon-ho opened the storage door first and scanned the corridor. Clear. He stepped out, then gestured for Lee Min to follow, Su-bin sliding in behind her like a silent blade.

As they moved back toward the production office, Lee Min's voice cracked in a whisper, almost too low to hear.

"I didn't want to ruin her," she said, and the "her" didn't need a name. "They just— they just said Mirae deserves it. They said—" She swallowed. "They said she's not allowed to be happy."

Joon-ho kept walking, face bored, posture relaxed.

But inside, the net tightened so hard it felt like a wire singing.

Because now they had the courier.

And now the courier had given them a handler shape: debt, placement, threats, instructions.

And somewhere nearby—in a hidden locker under paper boxes—was a burner phone full of the truth.