Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The orchard air, usually crisp and clean in the morning, carried a sour edge of tension. Beyond the gates of the Jeju orchard café set, the small knot of protestors had doubled since dawn. They weren't just holding signs anymore. Their chants came in angry bursts that the microphones occasionally picked up, loud enough to bleed into the sound system.

"NO VIOLENCE ON TV!""DO-JIN OUT!""BOYCOTT THIS SHOOT!"

At first, it was noise, a background hum to the crew's last-minute adjustments. But then the first egg flew. It splattered against the wall beside the entrance with a wet smack, yolk dripping down pale stone. A plastic water bottle arced next, narrowly missing a cameraman as he bent over to adjust his rig. He froze, startled, before continuing his work with stiff movements.

Inside the café, a few of the guests turned their heads. Parents shifted uneasily. Children peered toward the sound, eyes wide.

PD Kang Jin-ho stood near the monitors, jaw tight. His assistant hovered beside him, clutching a clipboard.

"If this escalates further, we'll have to stop," the assistant whispered, glancing nervously toward the windows.

Kang's hand clenched at his side. He looked at the live feed, then at the crew who were trying to keep their rhythm steady despite the noise. "No," he said, voice clipped. "Keep rolling. If we stop now, we give them the victory. Just adjust the shots—focus inside. Tighten the angles. Let the orchard sunlight carry the mood."

The assistant hesitated, then nodded, rushing off to relay the orders.

Joon-ho had been plating sandwiches behind the counter, but he noticed the small boy at the family's table clutching his mother's sleeve, eyes filling with tears. The girl beside him buried her face in her father's chest.

He didn't hesitate. Setting down his knife, he slipped through the kitchen doors and returned minutes later carrying two small dessert plates. The dishes looked delicate against his broad hands—slices of citrus sponge cake glazed with orchard honey, a dollop of whipped cream on the side, and cups of mandarin-flavored pudding that glowed softly under the café lights.

He crouched by the children's table so he was eye-level with them, his voice calm but warm. "Special treat," he said with a faint smile. "On the house. You like cake?"

The boy blinked, then nodded hesitantly. The girl peeked from her father's chest and reached shyly for the spoon. Within moments, their attention shifted from the muffled chanting outside to the bright sweetness before them.

Still crouched, Joon-ho slid another box onto the table. Crayons rattled inside when he opened it, spreading out colored pencils and a stack of thick coloring paper. "Here," he said. "Draw me something while you eat. How about mandarins? Or shrimp with big funny eyes?"

The boy giggled, the earlier fear forgotten as he grabbed a pencil and started sketching circles. The girl leaned closer, her spoon clinking as she balanced pudding and coloring.

Their parents exhaled in visible relief. One father, still holding his son's chair steady, gave Joon-ho a grateful nod. "You must have children of your own," he murmured.

Joon-ho's smile was faint, but his eyes softened. "Not yet. But I've taken care of plenty."

The man chuckled quietly, and some of the tension bled away.

Mirae had been watching from across the café, her lips parted as if surprised by how naturally he eased into the moment. Something about the sight of Joon-ho crouched among crayons and cake, sleeves rolled, shoulders broad yet gentle, made her chest ache in an unfamiliar way. She forced herself to move, turning to the elderly couple seated near the window.

"Ah, it's a little bright, isn't it?" she said gently, angling their chairs so their backs were to the protest outside. "Here, this way. You'll see more of the orchard trees."

The couple smiled, gratitude softening their wrinkles. Mirae fussed lightly over their napkins before stepping back.

At another table, Seul-gi noticed a young woman anxiously checking her phone, shoulders hunched. She leaned down, stage-whispering just loud enough for the cameras: "Don't worry, if they throw tomatoes next, I'll make a salad on the spot. Free entertainment."

The guests burst into laughter. Even the young woman grinned despite herself, phone sliding back into her purse.

Ji-hwan moved with quiet steadiness, slipping a baby chair into place for the family, refilling glasses without being asked, steady as a metronome. His presence was like a steady drumbeat underneath the café's renewed energy—subtle, reassuring.

Behind the cameras, PD Kang saw what was happening and seized it. He pointed to his operators. "Stay close on them. The cast. Capture that laughter, those smiles. Don't give the protestors oxygen."

The monitors adjusted. Outside chaos blurred into a dull hum. Inside, the café looked like a warm pocket of morning life: children coloring with sticky fingers, Mirae leaning in to listen to an old woman's story, Seul-gi's laughter ringing like a bell, Ji-hwan steady with his quiet grace.

And in the middle of it, Joon-ho crouched low, sleeves dusted with flour, watching a child proudly show off a crooked mandarin doodle. He chuckled softly, ruffling the boy's hair.

One of the cameramen murmured under his breath, "That's the shot."

Minutes passed. Slowly, the nervous murmurs among the guests faded into conversation. The children's giggles grew louder, drawing smiles from neighboring tables. A little girl from the counter even left her seat to peek over at the coloring papers, asking shyly if she could join. Joon-ho nodded, pulling over another chair. Soon the table was crowded with kids scribbling bright shapes, the sound of crayons scratching louder than the distant chanting.

Mirae glanced toward the window again. The protestors' voices still echoed faintly, the occasional thud of an egg against stone punctuating the morning. But when she looked back, all she saw was Joon-ho among the children, their joy radiating outward until it touched every corner of the café.

Something loosened in her chest. Her lips curved into a smile before she realized it, small but unshakable.

PD Kang exhaled for the first time in half an hour. His assistant returned from a call with security, whispering: "Local police will be here within the hour."

Kang nodded, eyes never leaving the monitors. "Good. But look at this." He gestured to the screen. "This is what we need. Keep rolling."

The assistant followed his gaze, eyes widening as he saw the image: children scribbling in bright crayon colors, cake crumbs on their cheeks, and Joon-ho's large frame bent among them, calm and unflinching in the storm.

By the time the first round of food orders were served, the café felt almost insulated from the chaos outside. The family thanked Mirae and Seul-gi warmly, complimenting the bread tasting platter. The elderly couple chatted quietly, sipping lattes with steady hands.

Seul-gi leaned toward Ji-hwan as she passed him with a tray. "Honestly," she whispered with a grin, "if this were a drama script, no one would believe it. Too perfect."

Ji-hwan's lips curved faintly, eyes on Joon-ho. "Sometimes reality outpaces scripts."

As the crew shifted cameras to catch wider shots, Mirae found herself standing near the counter, gaze drawn back again and again. Joon-ho was still crouched, but now a little girl was holding her drawing up proudly. A misshapen mandarin with a smiling face stared back at him.

"It's perfect," Joon-ho said with quiet sincerity, and the girl beamed as though he'd given her the world.

Mirae pressed her lips together, trying to will her cheeks cooler, but it didn't work. She caught the faint glint of a camera lens aimed her way and quickly lifted a tray to shield herself, muttering under her breath.

Still, she couldn't hide the smile.

By the time PD Kang called for a short reset, the café was humming with warmth again. Guests were relaxed, children scribbled oranges and shrimp with crayons, and laughter drifted like the scent of bread from the ovens.

But outside, the chants hadn't ceased. They pressed like a distant tide against the orchard walls, voices still clashing with the morning air.

Inside and outside. Warmth and storm.

And between the two, the cameras captured a fragile truth: sometimes one act of quiet care could hold back the weight of chaos—if only for a while.

The café's interior hummed with warmth—bread aroma, children's laughter, cups clinking—but outside, the storm had taken another form. Not just voices and signs at the gate. Online, a fire was spreading faster than any chant could travel.

Before the café had even fully opened, clips of the protest were already circulating. A few shaky videos of the chanting crowd, another of the egg splattering against the wall, another of a security guard shielding a cameraman.

But stitched into those clips, again and again, was the same poisoned fragment: the old edited video.

"Look," one user sneered, reposting it alongside protest footage. "This is the guy they're protecting? The one who hurt Mr. Choi?"

The clip replayed the fabricated sound—Joon-ho's voice twisted, Mr. Choi groaning.

Replies stacked beneath.

"Stop spreading lies, that audio doesn't even sync.""Wake up, fangirls. He's obviously guilty.""Compare it to today's livestream. The timing is completely off."

The comment sections were a warzone. Insults slung like weapons. Accusations hurled against anyone who defended him. For every voice of reason, three more shouted him down.

And yet, reason had begun to find its footing.

The largest unofficial fan page, one that had only sprung up after the SNS photo of Joon-ho at RAZA, posted a carefully worded message.

"We ask fans to restrain yourselves. Don't get dragged into arguments. Don't spread hate. Just watch. The truth will surface on its own."

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't emotional. But its steadiness struck a chord.

Neutral users, even skeptics, reposted it."Respect. Wish more fandoms acted like this.""At least they're not going feral like others."

The narrative had shifted slightly—not just about whether Joon-ho was guilty, but about how his supporters were behaving. Calm, measured, waiting. That contrast began to matter.

Clips from the ongoing livestream started flooding feeds. Not protest footage, not edited smears—just what was happening inside.

Joon-ho crouching by the family table, offering honey-glazed sponge cake. Children laughing with pudding-stained mouths. Crayons scratching bright colors across paper as he bent low to admire their drawings.

One clip showed the boy holding up his crooked mandarin doodle, and Joon-ho saying warmly: "It's perfect."

That thirty-second moment spread like wildfire.

Comments surged beneath:

"If he can care for kids like that, there's no way he hurt an old man.""Looks staged. He knows the cameras are on him.""Even staged, you can't fake kids' reactions. Look at their body language—they're relaxed.""My niece's doctor is like this too. You can tell who's genuine."

Every repost carried new debates, but more and more, the tide was leaning toward sympathy.

Then, just before noon, an official press release dropped.

Director Kim Tae-hwan of Jeju Hospital appeared on camera, his expression grave but steady.

"This is Director Kim Tae-hwan. I wish to clarify recent misinformation circulating regarding Mr. Kim Joon-ho and our patient, Mr. Choi."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle.

"The viral video suggesting Mr. Kim assaulted a patient was fabricated. It was recorded by one of our staff members and subsequently edited. We are currently investigating who was responsible for the edit and its upload. Let me be clear: Mr. Choi was not injured by Mr. Kim. In fact, thanks to his treatment, Mr. Choi has been discharged and is recovering well."

Within minutes, the clip was everywhere. News portals, trending hashtags, retweets cascading like falling dominoes.

The comment tide shifted almost instantly.

"Wait… so the hospital itself says it's fake?""Then who the hell tried to frame him?""Apologies should be louder than accusations.""We need to SEE Mr. Choi though. Statements aren't enough."

Skepticism lingered, but the balance of noise tilted. Where earlier the smear dominated, now the counter-voices grew stronger. Threads filled with people comparing the fake audio to today's broadcast, dissecting the mismatched tones, the cut edits, the impossibility of it being real.

Even casual onlookers admitted: something wasn't adding up, and not in the way the protestors claimed.

Outside the café gates, the chants softened. The younger, hot-headed ones still muttered, but the fervor had cooled. A few lowered their signs, scrolling through phones, showing one another the Director's statement.

Security guards watched closely as the crowd wavered. Some protestors dispersed quietly, shame flickering across their faces. Others stayed, stubborn, muttering about "proof" and "real victims."

But the edge of chaos had dulled.

Inside the café, laughter rose again as guests bit into sandwiches, as children proudly showed Mirae their crayon drawings. The cameras caught it all, feeding the livestream that was already changing the narrative outside.

The calm was fragile, hanging by a thread.

That was when the sleek black sedan rolled up near the café gate. Its engine purred low, windows tinted, polished surface gleaming under Jeju's noon sun.

The protestors stirred, confusion spreading among them. Security guards stepped forward, tense. Cameramen, almost by instinct, swung their rigs toward the new arrival.

Inside, Mirae's gaze drifted to the window. She froze, lips parting softly.

Joon-ho followed her eyes, his expression hardening just slightly.

The car door opened.