Chapter 4a My Manager, Kang Shin
My Manager, Kang Shin
The phone in my hand might as well be a live grenade.
I’m still staring at the message from Suho—a text that isn’t a request but a summons.
I know, with the kind of bone-deep certainty that only comes from making the same mistake on a loop, that replying will be catastrophic.
If we get caught, Dispatch—that awful celebrity gossip site—will have a field day.
Across the room, Shin is quietly stirring a cup of instant misugaru in the small kitchen area of my temporary safe-house apartment, like it slotted neatly into the everyday rhythm.
The grainy, comforting scent of roasted barley drifts over—a smell from a life I barely remember.
A life before scandals started showing up like clockwork.
His eyes flick over to me, then to the phone in my hand. “Who’s that?”
He asks calmly. Not accusing, not prying. Just… observing. He reads me like a script and knows a line is missing.
“Nobody,” I lie again, the words tasting flimsy and thin.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the cushion beside me, screen-down. Out of sight, out of mind. A total lie, but a necessary one.
He holds my gaze for a beat too long, silent analysis running behind his glasses. But he doesn’t press. Shin never pushes; he just waits for the inevitable implosion. He turns back to the counter, gives the mug one last stir, and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. Warm. Stable.
Everything Suho isn’t.
We sit side by side on the sofa, silence humming with what we’re not saying.
Shin mindlessly flips through TV channels, his thumb skipping past anything resembling news or entertainment. He lands on an old historical drama and hits mute.
We sip our drinks, neither of us watching the ridiculously attractive leads—a king in the Joseon era falling for a peasant without a PR team in sight.
After a few minutes that stretch into an eternity, Shin gets up.
“Going to take a shower,” he announces.
I nod, my mind drifting back to the grenade on the cushion. The bathroom door clicks shut.
The second he leaves, my self-control evaporates. I snatch up my phone. No new messages. No follow-up. Did Suho leave? Is he waiting in his car in the basement parking lot, growing impatient? The thought sends a familiar spike of anxiety through me.
Steam curls out from under the bathroom door. A few minutes later, when it opens, my head snaps up instinctively.
And my brain short-circuits.
Shin steps out, barefoot, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He’s wearing nothing but a single white towel wrapped loosely around his hips.
His glasses are off. He starts scrubbing his hair with a smaller towel, completely oblivious to the fact that my entire worldview is tilting on its axis.
This is Shin. My manager. The man who schedules my dental appointments and vets every social media draft. He’s not supposed to have… that. That V-shaped torso. That subtle, intriguing scar just below his ribs. Or biceps that look strong enough to snap a paparazzo’s camera.
When does he even have time to work out??
Between managing my chaotic schedule and preventing my latest self-sabotage?
He finishes with his hair, tosses the towel aside, and catches my stare. He raises a single, perfect eyebrow. “What?”
My mouth is dry. I whip my head back to the muted TV, cheeks burning. “I—Nothing.”
He shrugs and disappears back into the bathroom, emerging a minute later in a plain gray T-shirt and sweats. Normal Shin is back.
Except the image of Not-Normal Shin is permanently seared into my mind.
I try to force the thought away as he sits beside me again, pulling a thick folder onto his lap like a shield.
“Okay,” he says, voice all business. “Let’s talk about what’s next.”
And just like that, the spell is broken. Reality—with its ugly hashtags and impending legal doom—crashes back in. My chest tightens.
“First, you’re off social media,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t want to take your phone, Min-hee. Can I trust you to stay off it? It’ll be better for your mental health.”
I manage a numb nod.
Then, after a beat, “Shin,” I say, my voice a traitorous squeak. “What if I actually get arrested?”
He shakes his head, expression firm. “I spoke to the lawyer. You haven’t been charged. The police will likely call you for questioning in the next few days.”
Another nod. I feel like a bobblehead of despair.
“You’ll be tested. We can voluntarily submit a hair sample,” he continues calmly. “Being proactive helps. The test typically only detects habitual use, so the risk for you is low. This might be the fastest way to clear your name.”
“And the video?” I whisper.
“The team’s trying to get it taken down, but…” He trails off. I finish for him.
“Once it’s out there, it’s out there forever.”
A heavy silence hangs between us.
“I’m scared,” I admit, the words barely audible.
Shin doesn’t answer right away. He sets the folder aside, turning his whole body toward me. “I know,” he says, voice impossibly gentle. “But you’re not finished. This isn’t how it ends for you.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I just do.”
I pull my knees to my chest, a useless barrier. “You’re always like this.”
“Like what?”
“Too calm. Too… normal.” Suddenly, I want to scream. His unflappable competence feels less like comfort than accusation—a spotlight on my own spiraling chaos.
He’s a lighthouse, and I’m the storm. For a split second, I want to drag him into the waves with me. Shake him. Make him feel even a fraction of the chaos I’m drowning in.
“Why do you even bother?” My voice sharpens. “Why don’t you just manage another actress and leave me alone?”
Shin blinks, startled. “I couldn’t.”
“Why not? Is it in your contract? I’m a lost cause. Just save yourself.”
“No.” He shakes his head, gaze unwavering. “I will never give up on you.”
I blink. “What?”
He sighs dramatically, scratching his chin. A slow, infuriating grin spreads across his face. “I mean… maybe I should. When you get really mad like now, you puff out your cheeks and widen your eyes—it’s kind of like a frog.”
I blink. “A—a what?”
“You know… all puffed and wide-eyed. Very… expressive.” He smirks. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to look serious when you do that.”
I hurl a cushion at him. He catches it, laughing.
“And you talk in your sleep,” he adds, undeterred.
“I do not.”
“You do. Listing all the foods you want—bibimbap, kimbap, bulgogi. Like a starving ghost from a horror movie.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going.
“You always have to wear socks to sleep, even when it’s hot, because you’re scared a ghost will grab your feet.
And when you get excited, you switch dialect—like that time you saw that puppy on set.
You went full Jeolla satoori, saying, ‘Aigoo, look at you! So fluffy I could die!’”
I just stare, mouth slightly open. Another cushion forgotten in my lap. Heart doing an unsteady flutter. “You notice all that?”
His smile fades into something softer. “Eight years is a long time, Min-hee.”
The silence that follows feels different. Something in my chest loosens, like a knot I didn’t know was there.
“Tell me something about you,” I say. “I don’t even know where you’re from.”
He seems taken aback. “Me?”
“Yeah. You know all my weird ghost superstitions. I know nothing about you.”
Shin shifts. For a second, I think he’ll deflect.
But then he speaks. “My parents live in Yangsan. They run a small convenience store. My dad’s Korean.
My mom’s Japanese—that’s why I’m Shin. She wanted Shinichi, but Dad vetoed it.
” A soft chuckle. “She calls herself a runaway. Doesn’t talk to her family. ”
“Oh,” I say, eyes wide. “I didn’t know.”
He smiles faintly. “I also have a younger sister. She’s fifteen.”
“That’s a big age gap.”
He nods, gaze distant. “She’s on the autistic spectrum. Loves books. When she was little, I read The Little Mermaid to her every night. She had it memorized.”
His voice softens, laced with tenderness. I see it in his face, a vulnerability cracking his perfect manager facade.
“I didn’t know any of that,” I whisper.
“You never ask,” he says. Two words landing like a ten-ton truck. He’s right. I’ve been the sun in our orbit for eight years, never once asking about his planets. Shame burns hot.
He clears his throat. “Anyway. That’s me.”
We sit in silence, no longer heavy but gentle. Outside, the pre-dawn sky stretches pale blue. Time feels suspended.
Part of me wants to stay like this.
Part of me wants to run.
Part of me is still thinking about Suho.
My phone buzzes on the cushion—a missed call, then a text. I glance at Shin. He isn’t looking. I angle my body, shielding the screen out of pure guilt.
Still here. Five more minutes, then I’m gone.
Suho has been waiting the whole time.
But while Suho demands, Shin adapts. He gives me a small, unreadable smile, quietly unfolding a blanket to set up his sofa bed, ready to stand guard over my disastrous life for one more night.
What do I do?
? Stay here with Shin.
Turn to page 58
? Sneak out to meet Suho before he leaves.
Turn to page 40
? Clear my head and go for a walk. Alone.
Turn to page 48