Chapter 8b Everything Going Under
Everything Going Under
The next few weeks pass in a strange, suspended reality. I lived out of the single bag I packed, constantly feeling like a guest who had drastically overstayed her welcome.
We fall into a rhythm that isn’t quite a relationship but is more than just a fling. It’s the same situationship we’ve always been in—a holding pattern. We’re two planes circling a storm, waiting for clearance to either land or crash.
Some mornings, I wake up alone. He’s already gone—off to set before sunrise. The apartment feels bigger without him, quieter in a weird, artificial way. Too clean. Too still.
I wander through the rooms like I’m not sure if I actually live here or just misplaced myself temporarily. I make coffee and forget to drink it. I stare out at a city I can’t step into without making headlines.
Mostly, I just wait.
But on the mornings he’s home, it’s different. I’ll wake up and find him at the kitchen counter, already working. Coffee in hand, laptop open, wearing that expression that probably gets him cast as the emotionally unavailable lead in every drama he does.
It’s a quiet, domestic scene that feels both deeply comforting and, for that exact reason, profoundly dangerous. Like I’m playing house in a life that doesn’t belong to me, and the eviction notice could come at any second.
One morning, my curiosity gets the better of me. I pad over to the kitchen island, peering over his shoulder. “What are you doing? Deciding which multi-million-dollar project to grace with your presence next?”
He doesn’t look up—just scrolls through a hospital website with too many tabs open and absolutely zero idea what he’s doing.
“Just checking transfer options,” he says, way too casually. “Seoul National’s private wing has better liver specialists. I think. Probably.”
I blink. “Why are you—?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “The nurse said long-term care might come up. Figured if things get worse, we should have a plan.”
We.
I just stare at him. Not because it’s a bad idea, but because Suho’s the last person on earth I’d expect to wake up and deep-dive into hospital logistics. And yet, here he is. No PR angle. Just a wildly unqualified man throwing himself at a problem like he can out-stubborn liver failure.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, slower this time, trying to catch up to him.
He finally glances at me. “I know,” he says. Then, without missing a beat: “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
He says it like this is normal. Like we’re normal. Like this isn’t him quietly trying to make the world a little less terrible for me, one unasked-for hospital transfer at a time.
I wrap my hands around the mug, grounding myself in its warmth—just as my phone begins to scream on the counter, buzzing multiple times in rapid succession.
I get exactly one microsecond of Yikes, what now? before my soul leaves my body.
My name—again—is clickable and lethal.
I tap the screen before my stomach can even unclench.
[EXCLUSIVE] Yoon Min-hee’s Family in Tears: “She Has Abandoned Her Dying Father.”
The piece is pure tabloidcraft: a “concerned family source” (read: my brother) spinning the story into a martyrdom farce. He’s turned my father into a headline and me into the villain.
Rage sparks behind my eyes. Footsteps echo behind me, and I freeze. Suho leans against the counter, watching me tremble, the phone shaking in my hands.
“Your brother,” he says flatly. “What does he want now?”
I swallow, bitterness coiling like iron in my chest. “Apparently, nothing is private. Ever. And of course, I’m the bad daughter-villain.”
I shove the phone across the counter toward him, my hand trembling so violently it feels like my heart is vibrating along with it. He reads the headline, and his composure cracks.
Instead of calming me, he curses—low, sharp—and vanishes into his home office. Moments later, his voice carries back: “I don’t care what it costs. I want it buried. Find the source.”
My phone begins to buzz relentlessly—notifications from news sites, a flood of DMs from strangers calling me a monster. The article is already trending.
The agency, however, is silent. And in this business, silence is never a good sign. It’s the sound of a guillotine being polished.
***
The call I’ve been dreading comes two days later. It’s Shin. His voice is stripped of warmth—flat, professional. The voice of a man delivering a death sentence.
“The board held a final meeting this morning,” he says without preamble. “The new article was the final straw. Min-hee… they’re terminating your contract.”
The words don’t land right away. “What?”
“The damage is too significant. Sponsors have pulled out. They see you as too much of a liability.” He exhales. “They’re letting you go.”
My breath catches. I sink down onto the edge of Suho’s bed. “And… and you?” I whisper, already knowing the answer.
A long, painful pause. “I’ve been reassigned,” he says. His voice is flat—colder than I’ve ever heard it. “Effective immediately. They’re giving me a new rookie group to manage.”
Relief that he wasn’t collateral damage flickers for a heartbeat, only to be crushed by the sharper truth: I was the sinking ship he’d been ordered to evacuate. This wasn’t just my contract ending; it was our eight-year partnership being severed in real time.
“They’ll send a formal letter,” he adds, his professional composure finally cracking. “As your former manager, I have to tell you to prepare for the worst. Get a lawyer. Stay silent.”
Then his voice drops, the manager gone, only the man left.
“Min-hee… for eight years, I watched you. Every win, every fall, every time you needed someone to cover your blind side. That part of me—” his voice wavers “—that part isn’t going anywhere.
Please be safe. That’s all that matters to me now. ”
He hangs up before I can answer.
And just like that, the world I’d built since I was a teenager collapses.
The numbness gives way to a pain so sharp it rips a sound from my throat—raw, animal. I slide from the bed to the floor, curling in on myself, sobs tearing through me.
It’s over. All of it. The training, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. I’m not an actress anymore. Not an idol. Just a disgrace.
The sobs fade into a hollow, aching exhaustion heavier than sleep. I stay on the floor, cheek pressed to the cool wood, as the world outside shifts from late-afternoon gold to a deep, bruised purple.
The city lights come on one by one, glittering in a world I can no longer touch. Minutes bleed into hours. The sharp edges of grief dull into a gray numbness that feels like its own kind of death.
The sound of the door opening barely registers.
“Okay,” Suho says into the silence, his voice tight with exasperation. “So, we’re doing the ‘catatonic on the floor’ thing. Got it.”
He disappears, then returns, nudging my shoulder with a bottle of water. “Hydration is important during a mental breakdown.”
A small, watery laugh escapes me. Trust Suho to say something idiotic even when I’m falling apart. Hearing me laugh, he gives a soft, crooked smile, then helps me to my feet and steers me to the couch. He settles at the far end, pulling out his phone in silence.
I watch him. His thumb moves in slow, methodical swipes, over and over. He’s not scrolling idly—I recognize the motion, the same rabbit hole I’ve fallen into one too many times. He’s reading the articles. The comments.
He looks up, startled, as if he’d been caught doing something shameful.
“You’re going to make yourself sick reading that,” I whisper.
He snaps the phone shut, staring into the dark. When he finally speaks, his words are clipped and cold, tight with suppressed fury. “I want to burn it all down. For what they’re doing to you.”
Then he rises and steps in front of me. He doesn’t reach out—he just watches me, his gaze careful, intense.
“It’s all gone, Suho,” I whisper, a fresh wave of grief. “Everything.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then a strange, reckless glint lights his eyes. He doesn’t offer a hug, protection, comforting words, or tea. He offers chaos.
“Get dressed,” he says, his voice low and certain. “We’re going out.”
“Out where? To my own public execution?”
“No,” he says, a sly twitch at the corner of his mouth. “We’re going to the agency.”
I blink at him. Did my ears just betray me? “What?”
“It’s midnight. The building will be empty.” He reaches out, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You built your career in that building. You’re not going to let them take it from you with a phone call. We’re going to say a proper goodbye.”
It’s an absurd, insane idea. And somehow… it feels exactly like what I need.
A flicker of defiance—a pure, reckless surge—cuts through the numbness. A real smile breaks through my tears for the first time.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”