Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The Meridian Café on the 38th floor was a place designed for powerful secrets and delicate negotiations, and today the air at their semi-private booth was thick with both. Morning sun flooded through wraparound windows, catching on fine china and the glint of gold cutlery. The noise of Seoul—bustling, frantic, anonymous—seemed miles below.

Joon-ho, Harin, Mirae, and Hye-jin had claimed a corner booth with a view, tucked away just enough that even the staff deferred to their privacy. Their table was already a fortress: Harin and Mirae on one side, Hye-jin directly across, Joon-ho anchoring the group, every detail quietly controlled.

The manager himself took their orders—respectful but a touch starstruck, promising the famous "tiramisu tower" and extra care. There was the usual shuffle of designer handbags and sunglasses, and a few curious looks from other diners: was that really the Coffee Prince from TV? Wasn't that the viral "runaway idol" and her manager? But the hush of privilege—and the gravity at the table—kept the intrusions at bay.

With the orders taken, the manager retreated. For a moment, the conversation stuck to safe ground: Harin ribbing Joon-ho about the girls sneaking photos ("Should I get you a shock collar?"), Mirae quietly deflecting questions about her latest viral fancam, Hye-jin keeping her manager's calm but glancing often at the door as if EON's eyes could breach even this fortress.

But when the first coffee arrived, Harin steered them straight to the heart of it.

"Let's talk about the next chapter." She looked first at Mirae, then Hye-jin. "We're here for more than dessert. What do you need to feel safe this time?"

The tone shifted. Mirae's hand shook as she lifted her cup. She set it down with a soft click, eyes finding Harin's, then Joon-ho's. The mask of "idol composure" she'd worn since entering the lobby slipped, if only for a second.

"I… I still can't believe you're doing this," she whispered. "I spent so long thinking there was no way out—like the whole system was built to keep us trapped. That no matter how hard I worked, I'd always be…" She trailed off, biting her lip, knuckles white on her napkin.

Hye-jin placed her hand gently over Mirae's, her own manager's shell cracking with a tired tenderness. "You're not alone now, Mirae. We're all here. And you're not going back—not while I'm with you."

Joon-ho, voice steady and low: "You're not trapped anymore. Park Jae-hyun is handling the legal side. If all goes as planned, EON's hold on you ends next week."

The words settled over the table like a sunrise after storm. Mirae blinked, her breath catching—shock and hope and something like terror colliding in her chest. "So… just like that? I can leave?"

Joon-ho's gaze softened. "Not just like that. EON will fight. CEO Choi will demand compensation, maybe try to ruin you in the press. But I've seen the contract, I've got the receipts from Hye-jin. We're ready. And you're not fighting alone."

A tear slid down Mirae's cheek before she could stop it. Harin passed her a tissue, squeezing her shoulder, her own eyes bright. "Let yourself feel it, Mirae. You've carried this alone long enough."

Mirae laughed wetly, the sound halfway between relief and disbelief. "I really thought I'd have to keep pretending. Smiling, singing, being whoever they wanted…"

Hye-jin pulled her into a side hug, voice fierce. "No more pretending. No more sacrificing yourself for their profits."

Joon-ho leaned forward, hands clasped on the table. "This agency—what we're building—it's for you, and for anyone like you who needs a real second chance. Not a charity, not a PR shield. A real home."

Harin's tone shifted, pragmatic but warm. "And we want you two—Mirae, Hye-jin—not just as clients, but as partners. We can't do this if it's just us rescuing you. We need your trust, your input, your networks."

Hye-jin straightened, glancing at Mirae. "I'm ready. I'm done with EON. There are others too—people I trust. We can bring them over."

Mirae wiped her face, voice trembling with gratitude and a spark of determination. "If this is real, I'll give it everything. And… I know two people—Jina and Rina. Jina was in my old group, she's fighting alone after EON trashed her name. Rina's a freelancer, but she's tired of being alone."

Joon-ho smiled, relief in his eyes. "That's the start we need. And we'll protect them too."

The food arrived—artfully plated, aromatic, momentarily anchoring them back to the ordinary world. They dug in, laughter and appetite returning as the tension eased.

But something fundamental had shifted: their alliance was no longer just about saving Mirae. It was about building—for her, for others like her, and for themselves. Trust, ambition, and new beginnings, forged over coffee and tears and sunlight high above the city.

As the four of them shared the meal, the world's gaze felt less daunting. They had drawn their line in the sand. The future was uncertain, but for the first time, it felt like theirs to claim.

The sharp notes of coffee and truffle oil mingled in the air as lunch arrived: artful plates set down with a reverence that was almost comic, given the gravity of the conversation. For a few minutes, the four simply breathed—Mirae daubing her eyes, Harin slicing into her salad, Hye-jin methodically arranging her notes beside a slice of mille-feuille. Joon-ho watched them, the hum of the city below now muted by possibility.

It was Hye-jin, always the professional, who shifted them back to business. "So," she began, dabbing her mouth, "if this is more than a rescue mission—what are we really building, Joon-ho? Is this just a shelter for Mirae, or do you mean to compete?"

Joon-ho leaned in, his tone more CEO than ever before. "It starts with Mirae. But it can't end there. Park Jae-hyun believes we can set a new standard. I'm not naive—it's not charity, and it's not just a rebellion. We'll run a real agency. Auditions, branding, contracts—ethics first, but still with strategy and ambition. No more 'family' slogans hiding exploitation, but not a free-for-all either. We take the best, and we fight for them."

Harin, always pragmatic, nodded. "And the rest? The managers, the stylists, the staff? If we want to survive, we need a machine—not just a mission."

Joon-ho met Hye-jin's eyes. "That's why I want you, Hye-jin—not just as Mirae's anchor, but as a partner. Someone who knows every trick the old system plays."

For a long moment, Hye-jin looked at him. She was pale, tired, but the fire in her expression was unmistakable. "I'm in," she said, voice low but unshakable. "EON made me lie awake every night, thinking I was complicit in what they did to girls like Mirae. I've had enough. I'll walk through fire to build something honest—even if it means burning bridges."

There was a ripple of relief and anticipation around the table—something shifting, growing. Mirae, watching them, looked both hopeful and daunted. "If you're really serious… there are others like me. Jina. She was my housemate—solo now, blacklisted because she refused to… to sleep with a TV producer. Her career's on life support, but she's got more talent in her little finger than half of EON's stable."

Hye-jin chimed in, "And Rina. You remember her, Mirae? She's freelancing, getting chewed up by agencies every contract. She's in Fashion Week—no protection, no support, just talent and grit."

Joon-ho's gaze sharpened. "Bring them in. We don't need a hundred names—we need the right ones. People who want to build, not just be saved."

Hye-jin's eyes darted over her phone, then back to Joon-ho. "And it's not just artists. I know three junior managers and two stylists—good people, sick of the backroom deals. If you can promise them a place to grow, not just hide, they'll jump tomorrow."

They paused as the waiter arrived with mains: perfectly grilled fish, a jewel-bright salad, wagyu steak. A beat of awkward normalcy returned—Mirae making a face at her "idol portion," Harin rolling her eyes and sneaking her extra fries.

For a few minutes, the group slipped into an easier rhythm—Mirae recounting the worst "idol house" dinner she'd ever had ("They called it 'nutrition stew'—I'm still not sure it was food"), laughter bubbling over as Hye-jin mimed her old boss's infamous "training pep talk."

But even as they ate, the conversation kept returning to purpose. Harin, brushing crumbs from her skirt, said, "We can't just be a shelter, you know. If we don't go after real projects, the other agencies will eat us alive."

Joon-ho agreed. "That's why we'll launch right—press, socials, everything. And I want Harin as CEO. She's the only one who scares me more than EON's legal team."

Mirae snorted, finding her courage in the warmth of the group. "I feel like I'm watching a K-drama—except this time, the good guys have a plan."

As the plates emptied and the conversation wound down, there was a shared sense of crossing a threshold. This wasn't just a lunch, or even the beginning of a business—it was the declaration of a new kind of family. One built not by blood, but by risk and choice.

Joon-ho checked his phone—the day was already half-gone, but for once, he wasn't counting minutes. "Let's finish Fashion Week," he said, voice firm but gentle. "After that, we meet again. You bring Jina, Rina, anyone else ready to jump. Park Jae-hyun will have the paperwork ready. Harin, Hye-jin, you'll lead the management team. We start as soon as the ink is dry."

There was a pause, all eyes on Mirae. She met their gaze—Joon-ho, who had pulled her from the fire; Harin, sharp and maternal; Hye-jin, her tireless shield. For the first time, she saw not just a rescue, but a future. Something they could build together.

Her voice shook, but it was clear: "Thank you. All of you. For not letting me be alone. For giving me… this chance."

Harin reached across, squeezed her hand. "We're not letting go, okay? This time, we decide what comes next."

The sun poured in through the windows, lighting up the table, the city, and the unspoken promise that together, they'd be more than what the world made them.

As they stood to leave, the manager reappeared, offering discreet thanks and a reminder: "If you need anything, call me directly. We take care of our own here."

And as the four left the Meridian Café—still uncertain, still afraid, but now, finally, free to hope—they carried with them the first real taste of agency, both in business and in life.