Chapter 7b A House of Cards
A House of Cards
Shin’s car glides to a stop outside Suho’s apartment building. The space between us feels like a canyon. I grip my backpack strap as if it’s a lifeline.
“I’ll walk you up,” Shin says. It isn’t a suggestion; it’s an Agency Mandate delivered with the granite-like conviction that has kept me on time for every schedule, even when I was hungover, for the last eight years.
We ride the elevator in silence. The floor numbers click like a countdown.
When the doors open, Suho is already leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, a picture of insufferable casualness in sweatpants and a black T-shirt. He looks exactly like someone who knows he has the upper hand.
“Well,” Suho says, his eyes flicking from me to Shin, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “I didn’t realize you offer door-to-door service.”
Shin’s jaw tightens. “I take my responsibilities seriously, Kim Suho. It’s a concept you might want to look into.”
The air drops ten degrees. I feel less like a person and more like territory they’re fighting over.
“She’s safe with me,” Suho says, the smirk gone, replaced by a cool, infuriating confidence. “I don’t need a lecture from her… handler.”
Shin takes an inch, his presence suddenly imposing. “Manager,” he corrects, his voice like ice. “And her safety isn’t just about what happens inside these walls.”
“Good thing you delivered her to the only person who actually understands that, then,” Suho counters. “I’ll take it from here.”
I finally find my voice, a small, steady thing in the hurricane of their testosterone. “Thank you, Shin,” I murmur, looking down at the marble floor. “For everything.”
I’m afraid to look up, because I know exactly what I’ll see in his eyes, and I don’t think I can survive it. But when I finally do, he just shakes his head, a slow, deliberate motion.
“Don’t thank me,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “Don’t forget what happened when you were twenty-four. Some old habits never die. Just… stay safe.”
He turns and leaves without looking back.
Suho’s gaze follows him down the hall. “He’s protective,” he says, a calculating glint in his eye as he finally steps aside to let me in. “Don’t worry,” he adds, his smirk returning. “I’ll try not to be as terrifying.”
I ignore him, letting my backpack thud to the floor. Before the weight of Shin’s departure can crush me, Suho’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“Jjang!” He dangles a plastic bag in front of me with the flourish of a magician. “Told you I’d get you food.”
He starts unpacking containers onto the dining table, and I can’t help but remember exactly what we did on it less than twelve hours ago. He catches my look and laughs. “I cleaned it, I promise.”
I smile softly. It’s gopchang bokkeum—spicy stir-fried intestines. Our old go-to comfort food from when we were rookie idols, sneaking out, daring each other to handle the spiciest bites. The heat blooms on my tongue, savory and familiar.
He watches me eat, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re going to finish all the rice,” he teases, nudging the extra bowl toward me.
I shake my head, the weight of dieting since my adolescence tightening my chest.
Because in this industry, there are rules. And if, by some miracle, you get a second chance after a career-ending scandal, the one thing they’ll never forgive is showing up to your comeback five pounds heavier.
***
The next few days drift by. Saturday arrives, a rare day off for Suho.
I’m making coffee while he shuffles around the kitchen in just his shorts, a casual, infuriating display of six-pack that is completely undercut by the fact that his entire attention is already captive to the small, glowing screen in his hand.
He smirks at something on his screen, and my eyes, against my better judgment, flick to his phone just as a new notification lights up. I catch the name on the banner: Da-hye.
“Your co-star, checking in again?” I ask, aiming for light and breezy, but the words come out with a sharp, brittle edge.
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “Just… people. You know how it is.”
“‘People’,” I repeat, the word tasting like acid. I set my mug down on the counter with a sharp clatter, the sound a small, accusing bell in the quiet kitchen.
He finally looks up, sighing dramatically as if I’m the one being difficult. “Min-hee, don’t. We’re not teenagers anymore.”
“Don’t what?” I arch an eyebrow.
“This,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Turning everything into a fight.” A weary resignation settles over his features, and I can practically see the emotional drawbridge being pulled up. “We’re a mess, Min-hee. You’re in the middle of a huge scandal. We’re just trying to survive right now.”
His words hang in the air, a bitter counterpoint to the rich aroma of coffee. It’s not an apology. It’s not a reassurance. It’s a damage report. A flimsy attempt to keep our fragile situation from collapsing.
“And no matter what we do, we’re still trapped in this same fucking fishbowl,” he continues, his voice flat. “People remember our history. Everything we do gets twisted into a headline. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
He’s not wrong. But hearing him frame our relationship as a liability, a problem to be managed, is a punch to the gut.
“So I’m a liability?” My voice is sharp now, and I don’t rein it in.
“Is that why you’re so close to your co-star?
Because she’s easier? Because the agency wants a nice, marketable showmance for your drama?
” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Funny how that’s a love story, but when it was us, it was career suicide. ”
The words are about the agency, but the real poison is the image of the stupid panda plush she gave him, sitting on his leather sofa, an eyesore of décor that doesn’t belong.
Suho’s jaw tightens. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it in a rare sign of agitation. “You’re twisting this. There’s nothing going on with Da-hye. She’s part of the job.”
“‘Part of the job?’” I fire back. “Is that what you call it when she texts you at eight in the morning on your day off?”
He sighs, the sound heavy. “Min-hee, I can’t do this right now. My manager just messaged. There’s an emergency meeting at the agency. I have to go.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks out, leaving me alone with the lukewarm coffee and a knotted twist in my stomach.
The front door clicks shut, cutting off the argument like a switch. The hollow ache is instantly familiar. He went to the agency for an “emergency meeting,” and I know, with a gut-deep certainty, that I am the emergency.
I pace in tight circles across his spotless living room, chewing on the edge of my thumbnail like it owes me money.
Just when I was about to throw my phone against the door out of frustration, it buzzes.
I glance at the screen. It’s my older brother, Yeong-gi. My thumb hesitates. I already know it’s not good. My brother doesn’t text unless something’s gone wrong or he’s trying to guilt me into pretending we’re still a family.
Dad’s in the hospital.
The message sucker punches the air out of me. I stare at it, blinking hard, as if the words might rearrange into something less awful.
He had a coughing fit and passed out. I’m with him.
The shaking starts instantly. The cold, crawling tremor takes me back to being sixteen, holding the phone with sweaty palms while I begged emergency services to come save my drunk, unresponsive father off the kitchen floor.
That memory always leads to the next one: finding the letter on my bed one morning not long after, from my mom, explaining that she couldn’t take it anymore and hoping I could forgive her one day.
The two traumas are sewn together: the loud, drowning chaos of the addict, and the final silence of the abandoned.
I’m sick of this family script. But I still call anyway. Because I always do.
“Oppa? What happened?”
“He’s stable,” my brother answers, his voice low and ragged. “They’re doing tests. His liver’s worse, but he’s already being difficult. Refusing to stay.”
Of course he is.
“You’re with him?”
“Someone has to be,” he says. Then the line goes quiet. Just for a second. But it’s the loaded kind of quiet, and I know what’s coming before he says it. “He’s asking for you.”
My stomach turns. “Really?” I say, my voice sharp. “Now I’m the one he wants? He hasn’t called me in months.”
“He’s sick, Min-hee. This could be—”
“Don’t. Don’t do the ‘this could be our last chance’ speech. I’ve heard it. Every time.”
He sighs, heavy with a disappointment he didn’t earn. “You should come.”
“I’m a little busy, in case you forgot. National scandal. Media death watch. Ring any bells?”
“Right,” he snaps. “The scandal. It’s always about you, isn’t it? Too busy with your career to care about your dying father?”
He uses the word ‘dying’ like a weapon, a casual little hand grenade he likes to toss into the conversation just to watch me flinch.
“Stop it!” I hiss, my voice cracking. “And what have you done to help? Besides gamble away the money I sent you?”
“Show some respect,” he curses. “Now is not the time to fight.”
I didn’t have an energy to reply. I stab the ‘end call’ button, the screen buzzing in protest. The room sways for a second, and I grab the back of the couch to steady myself.
Suho’s stupidly perfect apartment feels like it’s closing in on me.
I don’t know what’s worse—my family bleeding me dry with guilt, or the sick feeling that I’m still responsible for them.
I drop my phone onto the cushion and sink beside it, hugging my knees as a few angry tears finally escape. I wipe them away impatiently.
Unable to stand the quiet of my own head, I grab the remote. My hands move on a masochistic autopilot and turn on the TV. YouTube opens. I type in a name I haven’t searched in years.
Jellypop – Inkigayo – 2015.
There we were: twenty-one, glowing with stage lights and delusion. Five girls in neon tutus, all synchronized joy and sweat.
Where are they now?