Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The world, for a few heartbeats, had been nothing but panic and noise. Now, as the last echoes of sirens faded down the orchard road, the café was left in uneasy quiet. The sunlight, so cheerful a few hours before, seemed to pool in anxious corners between overturned chairs and the spilled crumbs of an interrupted meal.

Mirae sat hunched on the low bench near the kitchen, hands fisted in the hem of her skirt. Her breath was shallow, her eyes too wide, unable to focus on any one thing for long. When Hye-jin found her—her manager's hair in disarray, her own eyes rimmed red—she barely spoke. Instead, Hye-jin knelt, wrapping a blanket over Mirae's shoulders with gentle, practiced hands, and set a steaming cup of tea between Mirae's cold fingers.

"Small sips," Hye-jin whispered, voice barely above the hush. "You're safe, sweetheart. It's over."

Across the café, the other survivors of the chaos tried to stitch their composure back together. Seul-gi slumped against the window with her own manager hovering, thumb flying over her phone as she texted back a string of friends: I'm fine, I swear, just… shaken. Ji-hwan, always the steady one, held his phone in both hands, knuckles white, murmuring reassurances to his mother on the other end. "No, omma. No, I didn't get hurt. Yes, I'll come home soon."

PD Kang Jin-ho stood like a man newly aged, his usual iron posture bent under the invisible weight. His shirt was wrinkled, his earpiece askew. He watched the room, lips drawn tight, and finally crossed the space to Joon-ho, who stood by the back counter, quietly helping right a table.

"You sure you're okay?" Kang's voice was hoarse, his gaze sharp with worry.

Joon-ho nodded, flexing his right hand and feeling the dull throb in his knuckles—a small price. "Just a sore knuckle, PD-nim. Nothing more."

Kang let out a shaky sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Whatever happens to Do-jin now… he's finished. But his manager—nobody's seen him. Security says he never came with Do-jin. His phone's off."

Joon-ho's reply was thoughtful. "He was probably wise to disappear." His eyes drifted across the room, taking in the shivering cast, the pale faces of the crew, and the uncertain guests who had yet to leave.

Kang nodded grimly, eyes glassy. "We'll figure it out. We have to. Right now, let's just… keep everyone calm."

It was then that Joon-ho's phone started to vibrate—a persistent tremor in his pocket, message after message piling in. He slipped it out and saw the endless notifications—KakaoTalk group chat, private messages, missed calls, a flurry of concern.

A quick scroll revealed names: Harin, her profile picture the same silly selfie as always, typing in all caps—OPPA ARE YOU OKAY?!

Ji-hye, less dramatic but just as worried—Saw the livestream. Please tell me you're alright.

Seo Yura's message—sharp, efficient—Call me when you can. We'll handle PR if you need.

Min-Kyung—If you're not in the hospital right now, answer!

He took a breath and sent a single group text, meant to calm them all: I'm fine. Everyone's safe. Don't worry.

Before he could tuck the phone away, another call buzzed through, this one from Dong-wook. The screen flashed his junior's name, and Joon-ho answered, stepping toward the storeroom for a bit of privacy.

"Hyung! Hyung, are you okay?" Dong-wook's voice was ragged, frantic with leftover adrenaline. "We saw everything on the stream—the punch, the police, all of it!"

From somewhere in the background, Soo-jin's voice chimed in, slightly muffled: "Put him on speaker! Let me hear him!"

Joon-ho managed a faint smile, shaking his head. "I'm fine, really. Just a little chaos, that's all."

Dong-wook tried to joke, his laugh shaky. "You knocked him out cold! Never knew you could move like that. I guess all that massage therapy comes with side effects?"

Joon-ho snorted. "Don't make it a meme."

But Soo-jin, not to be outdone, quickly shifted the mood. "Hyung, listen—something serious. We found out Do-jin's manager is in the hospital. Head trauma from a bottle. Ambulance brought him in last night. They say… well, they say it was Do-jin who hit him."

There was a heavy pause as that settled between them.

Dong-wook spoke again, quieter. "Hyung… Director Kim is questioning Kang Min-seok right now. About the leaked video, the hospital records. Looks like he's in deep trouble, too."

Joon-ho let out a long breath, grateful for the update even as it made the day feel heavier. "Thanks for telling me. Let me know if anything changes. I'll call you later."

He heard both his juniors agree, relief in their voices. "Don't scare us like that again, hyung," Soo-jin added, softer.

When he stepped out, the mood in the café was still bruised but beginning, finally, to recover. Someone was sweeping up the last of the broken glass. The security guard who'd taken a blow was being treated by paramedics, the rest of the staff standing nearby with nervous energy.

Mirae sat propped against Hye-jin, eyes red but no longer wild. Her hands shook as she sipped the now-cool tea. When she saw Joon-ho, she gave a watery, fragile smile—a thread of gratitude and trust stretching quietly between them.

He moved to her side, kneeling, and took her free hand in his, steady and warm. "You did great," he murmured, just for her. "It's over now."

For a long moment, neither said a word. The only sound was the soft murmur of survivors, the scuff of broom bristles, and, somewhere outside, the hush of the orchard wind.

It would take time for the fear to fade, for the shakes to stop. But here, in the battered aftermath, with her hand in his and the warmth of friends and colleagues nearby, Mirae allowed herself to believe: the worst had truly passed.

And though none of them knew what would happen next, or what chaos the headlines and social feeds would bring, at least for tonight, they were safe, together, and—slowly, gently—beginning to hope again.

The energy in the orchard café had shifted from terror to a fragile, exhausted quiet. The air still vibrated with aftershocks—broken furniture, streaks of spilled soup, a torn banner left abandoned on the grass outside. The only constant was the low murmur of anxious conversation as the cast and crew tried to process what had just happened.

PD Kang stood in the back, phone pressed to his ear, pacing near the storeroom. His voice was a mixture of apology and outrage. "Yes, director. No, I can't just… Yes, I understand, but it was live. We can't… I know the advertisers are watching. Yes. Yes. Of course. I'll… I'll handle it."

He hung up with a heavy sigh and nearly flung the phone onto the prep counter. For a moment, he simply stood there, knuckles white, jaw clenched. It was the first time anyone had seen him look defeated.

Joon-ho approached quietly, voice low and steady. "PD-nim, Do-jin's manager is in the hospital. Head trauma. Ambulance brought him in last night—he's lucky to be alive."

PD Kang's eyes widened, and the lines around his mouth deepened. "God. I should've seen that coming. That poor bastard. Is he—will he be okay?"

Joon-ho nodded slightly. "Sounds like he'll recover, but it's a mess. He wasn't here—Do-jin came alone."

A weary silence fell. The studio lights above flickered, then steadied.

Kang slumped onto a folding chair and scrubbed at his face. "They just called from the network. They want me to 'minimize fallout.' They're asking for a public apology, for edits, for—" He shook his head in disbelief. "How do you spin a live attack? We're already trending for the worst reason."

He glanced around at the cast. Mirae sat slumped, eyes rimmed red, shoulders trembling beneath her blanket. Seul-gi stared at her phone as if hoping a distraction would come through the screen. Ji-hwan, usually so calm, rubbed his forehead, barely responding as his manager murmured reassurances.

Kang exhaled slowly, then pushed himself to his feet and crossed to Joon-ho, voice lowered to a hoarse plea. "Listen. You're the only one the public trusts right now. You kept your head. You protected everyone. The viewers saw it—they're already calling you a hero."

He gestured at the makeshift set, now a patchwork of disarray. "They want me to end on a positive note. Something to give people hope. Frankly, I don't think the cast can face the cameras tonight. I… I hate to ask you, but—could you do it? The closing segment. Alone. Speak for all of us."

Joon-ho hesitated, eyes flicking to Mirae and the others. The burden was obvious—a public statement that would be dissected and replayed a thousand times, by fans and haters and network execs alike. But someone had to step up.

He straightened his posture, the exhaustion in his bones hardening into resolve. "I'll do it," he said simply. "If it helps them—if it helps everyone move forward—I'll do it."

Kang's relief was palpable. He gripped Joon-ho's shoulder, his voice shaky with gratitude. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means. Say what you need to say. I'll have the crew reset. We'll keep it simple, just you and the lens."

A ripple of movement spread as Kang relayed the order. Cameras were hastily repositioned. The lights were softened, making the battered café look less like a crime scene and more like a place where stories might still end in hope.

Joon-ho took a moment to himself, steadying his breath as he watched the crew sweep broken glass, replace chairs, and wipe down the counter. Across the café, Mirae looked up and met his eyes, her lips trembling with the memory of her tears. He gave her a small, reassuring nod, and she managed to nod back.

The weight was immense, but he knew exactly what to do. After all, wasn't this what he'd always done—step into the breach, heal what he could, and try to make people whole again?

He rolled his shoulders back, walked onto the set, and waited for the red light to blink on.

Outside, police and ambulance lights flashed in the fading day, but inside, for just a few minutes more, the café would be a place for healing—one last time.

The hours after chaos pass in a strange hush—like the moment after a typhoon, when the world holds its breath to see what's left standing. The café, battered and battered, is still upright. The lights overhead are gentle now, the clatter of sweeping brooms and murmured instructions from PD Kang filling the spaces between. Outside, sirens fade; the last ambulance vanishes behind the orchard, taking Do-jin and the violence of the morning with it.

Inside, a different energy grows—purposeful, determined. Crew members move quickly but quietly, righting chairs, mopping up spilt drinks, taping over broken glass on the windows. A boom mic swings into place. At the edge of the set, the streaming admin—known online as @UnholyNuna—checks her laptop, the livestream chat window open, scrolling so quickly it blurs.

PD Kang surveys the work, then signals with a quiet, "Let's go." His eyes are red, his voice raw, but he looks grateful for the chance to make things right.

Joon-ho stands at the center, watching the room. Mirae, wrapped in a blanket, tries to rise—her hair still damp where tears dried on her cheeks.

She whispers, "Let me join you—"

But he gently places a hand on her shoulder. "Rest," he says, voice low but unyielding. "Let me handle it." He squeezes her hand just once, and she sits back, fighting a fresh wave of tears. There's no protest in her now—only relief.

He walks onto the makeshift stage alone, beneath the repaired lights. The battered tables and patched banners behind him are proof of what the world saw, and he does not try to hide them.

A hush falls as the red tally light blinks on. For a moment, there is only the quiet hum of the camera. The crew stands just out of frame, the cast watching with bated breath. Out in the digital ether, thousands—maybe millions—wait.

The chat explodes instantly.

"Are you safe?"

"Is Mirae okay?"

"What happened to the guard?"

"Thank you for protecting everyone!"

Hearts, crying faces, angry emojis, pleas for reassurance—so fast the moderator can barely keep up.

@UnholyNuna, in her role as admin, throws the chat into slow mode, pins the poll: "Are you all safe? Is everyone okay?"

Joon-ho looks into the lens, his face unreadable at first—then softens, a gentle steadiness radiating.

"We're all safe," he says, voice even, calm. "It was a hard day, but everyone here—every guest, every cast member, every crew—is together, cared for, and unharmed."

A second wave of messages floods the screen:

"Thank God!"

"Protect Mirae!"

"Thank you, Coffee Prince!"

He fields a handful of filtered, gentle questions—each one chosen for healing, not sensationalism.

"How is Mirae?" He glances offscreen. "She's resting, but she's strong. She'll be back when she's ready. Thank you for worrying about her."

"Will the café reopen next season?" A faint smile. "Who knows? If you keep supporting us, maybe. This place means a lot to all of us."

"What did you learn from today?" He grows quieter, the words carefully chosen. "That no matter what happens—people matter most. Community matters. We come together, even after something terrible, and find a way to take care of each other."

"Is the cast really as close as they seem?" He laughs softly, genuine. "Closer. You only see what the cameras catch. There's so much more behind the scenes—friendship, hard work, even tears. We're a family now."

He looks down for a moment, then straight at the lens, and something in his eyes says he isn't just talking to fans—he's talking to anyone who ever needed reassurance that the world could be kind.

"Thank you for watching, for supporting, for believing in us—even when things got hard. Thank you for caring about the people here—not just the story. I hope this café brought you a little warmth, wherever you are. Please keep looking out for each other. In the end, that's what really matters."

He bows slightly, then straightens, letting the silence linger a moment before the admin closes the stream.

As the red light fades, there's a collective exhale. The crew crowd around, some with shaky smiles, others with tears. The cast gather near, clinging to each other—not just for the cameras, but because they need it.

The livestream replay window fills with floating hearts, comments from strangers and fans alike. Many apologize for doubting, for gossiping, for ever thinking badly of Mirae, Joon-ho, or any of them. Others simply write, "Thank you," over and over again.

Mirae shuffles forward, blanket trailing, and puts her hand in Joon-ho's. No words needed; her gratitude is in her touch.

PD Kang's voice cracks as he says, "That's a wrap." He's not just ending a shoot—he's closing a wound.

And outside, the winter sunlight catches on the now-empty gravel, and it feels—for a moment, at least—like peace.