Chapter 9b Ghost Ship
Ghost Ship
This is, objectively, the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. And I—a woman whose recent life choices include “getting framed in a drug scandal” and “hiding out at my chaotic on-again, off-again favorite mistake’s apartment”—am an expert on stupid ideas.
“You’re sure about this?” I whisper, pulling the strings of my hoodie so tight only my eyes are visible.
I just stare at him. “How do you possibly know that?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up—a quick, knowing smile in the dim streetlight.
“I’ve been breaking curfew here since I was a teenager, Min-hee. I know this building’s secrets.” He pulls on his mask and hood. “Think you can keep up with me like the old days?”
I answer with nothing but a smirk. The building that once felt like a second home now feels like nothing more than cold concrete and glass—impersonal, unwelcoming.
We slip through a side entrance. Suho doesn’t use his own card, but a generic, untraceable one tucked in a hidden fold of his wallet.
Smart, I think, a flicker of grudging admiration cutting through my anxiety. No name on the entry log. He’s clearly done this before.
The air inside is cold and still, smelling of industrial-strength floor wax and the faint, lingering scent of ambition. Our soft-soled shoes are unnervingly loud against the polished marble.
We bypass the main lobby, sticking to the shadows.
Just as Suho predicted, a lone security guard is fast asleep in front of a bank of monitors, his head lolled back, the faint sound of clashing swords from his tablet echoing in the cavernous space.
We slip past him and into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, conspiratorial whoosh.
“Which floor?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.
“Practice rooms,” I say without hesitation. “Third floor.”
The elevator ride is tense. We’re two ghosts returning to the scene of the crime—the place where we were created, and the place that ultimately broke us.
The doors open onto a long, dark hallway lined with identical doors, each with a small, rectangular window. This was our whole world for years. The scuffed floors, the faint, lingering smell of sweat and desperation, the way the sound seemed to be swallowed by the soundproofed walls.
We walk slowly down the hall, our footsteps echoing. I run my fingers along the cool metal of the door handles. So many hours spent in these rooms, dancing until my feet bled, singing until my throat was raw. So many dreams, born and broken right here.
We move instinctively, avoiding the main line of sight of the ceiling cameras. Even now, years later, we remember exactly where they are—and how to slip past them.
We stop in front of Practice Room 7—our room. The one we used to sneak into late at night, after official training was over. It’s the only room known to have a camera blind spot, where a trainee could check their phone—or even catch a few minutes of sleep—without being noticed.
Suho stops, turning to face me in the dim, emergency-lit hallway. A playful glint sparks in his eyes. He clears his throat, his voice a low, theatrical whisper. “Excuse me,” he says, eyes dancing.
“I’m looking for a debut idol. Goes by the name Yoon Min-hee. Kind of tall, sharp-tongued sometimes, and has a terrible habit of stealing the last banana milk from the vending machine.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it—real this time. I play along, raising my voice a little higher, a little more innocent. “Depends. Who’s asking?”
“Kim Suho,” he says, extending a hand with dramatic flourish. “I was told to find her so we could prepare for our duet dance for the Busan Tourism ad.”
“Oh,” I say, grinning. “Then you’re definitely in the right place.”
The memory hits before I can stop it—sharp and sudden, like a movie snapping into focus.
Me, seventeen, exhausted and sweaty, holding back tears after face-planting in the middle of freestyle practice.
Him, also seventeen. Absurdly handsome. Annoyingly good at everything—including dancing. Smiling at me like he already knew how the story would end, and I hadn’t even figured out the plot.
And just like that, I remember the feeling: my burning cheeks, my pounding heart, and the stupidly electric air in the room.
The very first spark of the wildfire that would eventually burn us both down.
“Well, you found her,” I say, softer now. “The dancing disaster.”
I take his hand. His fingers are steady, a little rough around the edges, and they slip into mine like no time has passed at all. My chest aches.
He chuckles. “You had the looks of a star and the rhythm of a malfunctioning robot.”
I snort. “Good thing I switched to acting.”
The playful moment lingers—but something shifts. Just for a second. A flicker.
Not just the memory of being seventeen and carefree. But everything after: stolen hallway moments, clumsy teenage dates, broken promises. It all hums between us, right there in our joined hands.
He reaches up, brushes my cheek with his thumb. “I missed this,” he says quietly. And I know he doesn’t mean the place. He means us. Before the headlines. Before the mess.
“Me too,” I whisper.
I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe both of us.
His lips find mine—soft, searching.
Not desperate. Not rushed.
A kiss that remembers. That forgives.
That still wants.
A faint sound down the hall—metal on tile. Cleaning crew.
We freeze.
Panic jolts through me, but he doesn’t even blink. He grabs my hand, pulls me along, and yanks open the nearest door.
It’s not a practice room. It’s a small, forgotten vocal booth, no bigger than a closet, smelling of dust and ozone from old audio equipment.
He pulls me inside, and the heavy, soundproofed door clicks shut behind us, plunging us into near-total darkness.
My back is pressed against the wall. He’s in front of me, his body a solid wall of heat, caging me in. We can hear the squeak of the cleaning cart’s wheels, the low murmur of voices getting closer, muffled by the thick door.
The risk, the danger, the sheer, stupid recklessness of it all, is a potent, intoxicating aphrodisiac.
My hands find their way under his sweatshirt, my fingers splaying across the warm, hard planes of his back. He groans, the sound a low, guttural vibration against my mouth as he deepens the kiss.
The cleaning cart squeaks past our door, the voices fading. But we don’t stop. The moment of danger has broken something open between us.
A thin, judgmental sliver of cold hallway light cuts through the small, square window in the door, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air—a tiny, private spotlight on our terrible, beautiful secret.
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breathing ragged. “Min-hee…” he breathes, his voice wrecked.
“Don’t talk,” I whisper, my fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans.
This is a reclamation. An exorcism. We are taking back this building, this space that made us and broke us, and we are making it ours again, if only for a few stolen, reckless minutes.
My hands are on his belt, his are at the hem of my skirt, pushing the fabric up over my hips. There’s no time to fully undress. One ridiculously practical thought flashes through my mind: thank god I wore a skirt.
He lifts me, my back immediately slamming against the scratchy foam of the wall, my legs locking around his waist. The rough denim of his jeans is an abrasive friction against my bare thighs.
He doesn’t pause. He pushes inside me, entering me fully, finding me hot and slick—a deep, unwavering pressure that rips the breath from my lungs. I can feel every thrust in my guts like it’s a rebellion.
The wall muffles the primal rhythm of his hips. I watch his face—the lazy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is completely gone. In its place is a raw, unguarded hunger, a look that validates the same desperate, clawing need deep in my own core.
He silences any sound I might make with his mouth, his hands clamped firmly on my hips, holding me pinned against him as I cling to his broad shoulders for balance.
He breaks the kiss, his mouth crashing down on the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, biting down just hard enough to make me see stars.
A sharp gasp is swallowed before it can become a sound, my hips bucking against his in a silent, desperate plea.
His other hand slips between our bodies. He knows my body like a map he memorized years ago; his thumb finding the swollen, hypersensitive nub of my clit and pressing down, a single, perfect point of pressure that strums a high-tension wire deep in my own gut until it snaps.
A white-hot flood of pleasure rips through me, my inner muscles clenching around him in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms. I come with a muffled, choked sob against his lips, my body convulsing.
He follows a moment later, a harsh, ragged exhalation vibrating from his chest into mine as he empties himself inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, tangled together in the dark, our bodies slick with sweat, the only sound our ragged, gasping breaths. He gently lowers me to my feet, my legs so shaky I have to lean against the wall to stay upright.
He’s tucking his shirt back in when he stops, his back to me. “This is insane,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Hiding in closets. Sneaking around. We’re thirty-one years old, Min-hee.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He finally turns to face me, and the haunted, exhausted look is back in his eyes. “I can’t do this anymore. Not here. Not in this city, in this industry that almost killed us both.” He takes a breath, and the words that come out next are quiet, but they land with the force of a tectonic shift.
“Come with me to LA.”
I just stare at him, the words not quite computing. “What?”
“I’m serious,” he says, stepping so close I can see the raw, pleading hope in his eyes.
“My drama wraps next week. My contract is up in two months, and I’m not re-signing.
I’m done, Min-hee.” He takes a shaky breath, the words spilling out now in a torrent.
“I already have a place there—a small house near my dad’s.
We could live there. Just… figure things out. ”
He tightens his grip on my hands, his desperation tangible between us. “We can disappear. Start over. Somewhere new, where our names are just names, not headlines.” His voice drops to a raw, hopeful whisper. “Remember? The house with the cherry tree.”
I just stare at him, too stunned to find my words.
But the most terrifying part is I’m actually considering it.