Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg

The chaos at the booth had thinned into uneasy silence by the time the man in the tailored suit arrived. He was slightly out of breath, his tie loosened, a slim document case clutched in one hand. Clearly he had rushed here straight from an office, unaware of what awaited him.

The secretary froze when his eyes landed on the frail figure lying against Joon-ho's knees.

"Chairman!" His voice cracked, sharp enough to draw heads in the crowd. He nearly dropped his case as he hurried forward, stumbling once before regaining his composure. His normally neat hair was mussed, sweat glistening at his temple.

Joon-ho glanced up briefly but didn't let his hands falter. His fingers pressed steadily at the old man's temples, coaxing circulation. His other palm anchored against the Chairman's chest, guiding his shallow breaths into something steadier.

"Don't crowd him," Joon-ho said evenly. His tone wasn't loud, but it carried an authority that made the secretary freeze mid-step.

The secretary swallowed hard, bowing quickly as if in apology. "Y-yes. Of course." He crouched nearby, keeping his hands folded tight against his knees, eyes darting between Joon-ho and his employer.

The Chairman's chest rose and fell raggedly, but there was a pattern now, not the jagged gasps from before. His lips had regained a faint flush of color.

The secretary exhaled in visible relief. "Thank you… thank you so much. Please, just—please stay with him until the ambulance arrives. I beg you."

Joon-ho gave a single nod. "I'll keep him stable."

The seconds stretched. The crowd that had once been loud and restless was now subdued, whispers flickering at the edges. Someone at the booth had fetched bottled water and tissues; others huddled together, shaken by how quickly celebration had twisted into emergency.

Beside Joon-ho, Harin crouched low, gently motioning onlookers further back. "Give him space, everyone. The ambulance is coming."

The distant wail of sirens bled into the atrium. A ripple of relief coursed through the gathered shoppers. Moments later, two EMTs in bright orange uniforms rushed in with a stretcher, a third lugging a medical kit.

"We'll take over from here," one announced briskly.

But when they knelt by the old man and laid hands on him, their expressions shifted.

"His pulse is steady," one murmured, checking the monitor. "Breathing's irregular but improving. Did someone perform first aid already?"

The secretary pointed instantly. "He did. This man—he saved the Chairman."

The EMT looked up at Joon-ho, eyebrows raised. "You did muscle relaxation? Pressure work?"

"Yes," Joon-ho replied calmly, easing his hands away at last. "His circulation was collapsing. I stabilized it with acupressure."

The EMT gave a low whistle of respect. "That was the right call. If his chest had seized any tighter, it could've triggered something worse. You kept him out of shock."

They quickly fitted a mask over the Chairman's face, checking vitals with practiced efficiency. The stretcher was unfolded, straps loosened. Carefully, they shifted the old man onto it.

As they lifted him, the Chairman's eyes fluttered open again. For an instant, his gaze locked on Joon-ho.

Clouded by age, glassy from the faint, yet there was weight in that stare—recognition, maybe, or something else entirely. His lips parted, as if to speak, but only a breath escaped.

Joon-ho adjusted the mask gently over his nose and whispered, low enough that only the old man could hear. "Save your strength. Breathe steady."

The Chairman blinked once, then let his eyes close.

They wheeled him swiftly toward the waiting ambulance. The crowd parted, silent, as if the gravity of the moment commanded reverence.

The secretary scrambled to his feet, bowing frantically to Joon-ho and Harin. "Truly, I don't know how to thank you. Without your intervention, I…" His voice shook, uncharacteristically raw. He pressed his lips together, then bent low again.

"It was nothing," Joon-ho said simply. "Focus on him."

But the secretary wasn't satisfied. He straightened and glanced around urgently. "Do you have a card? A way I can reach you? The Chairman—our company—we must express our gratitude properly."

Harin stepped in smoothly, producing a sleek card case from her bag. She slipped out one of Joon-ho's business cards and handed it over. "Here," she said with a small smile. "This has all his contact information."

The secretary accepted it with both hands, scanning the text quickly. His eyebrows twitched faintly. "Massage therapist…?"

Harin's chin lifted a little proudly. "The best."

Joon-ho gave her a look that was half amused, half resigned.

The secretary tucked the card carefully into his breast pocket. "I will be in contact. Once the Chairman is stable, I'll arrange a proper meeting. Please expect it."

"There's no need for formality," Joon-ho replied, voice steady. "Your Chairman's health is more important."

"Even so," the secretary insisted. He bowed again, then turned sharply toward the booth staff, barking quick orders: secure the area, file incident reports, ensure the scalper in custody was transferred directly to police. His voice had regained its corporate edge, decisive and controlled.

Within moments, the secretary was striding after the stretcher, his document case forgotten in the hands of a flustered junior staffer.

The wail of sirens swelled again as the ambulance pulled away, disappearing into traffic.

And then, slowly, the atrium exhaled. The noise of the mall began to creep back in—muted chatter, the clatter of footsteps, the buzz of escalators. But the weight of what had just happened lingered, a tension that wouldn't quite fade.

Joon-ho stood, rolling his shoulders once, shaking the stiffness from his fingers. His face was calm, but his pulse still carried the echo of adrenaline.

Harin touched his arm lightly. "Oppa… you were amazing."

He shook his head. "I did what anyone would."

Her eyes softened. "No. Most people would've panicked. You didn't."

He glanced at the booth again, where sales staff were still in shock, huddling in clusters. The rope line sagged, abandoned. A handful of fans lingered uncertainly, clutching their bags as though ashamed to have been part of the crowd that spiraled into chaos.

For Joon-ho, the image of the old man's faint yet intent stare lingered most. There had been something in those eyes—something that felt like more than coincidence.

But he pushed the thought aside. For now, the immediate crisis was over.

He let out a slow breath, steadying himself, as the day moved forward once more.

The atmosphere at the atrium had finally calmed, though an odd hush still lingered where the chaos had erupted. Security guards formed a protective wall around the booth, gently redirecting stragglers. A few people snapped photos from a distance, but most had drifted away, muttering about the incident with uneasy faces.

For Joon-ho, the adrenaline was fading. His shoulders loosened, his breaths steadier now. Harin stayed glued to his side, her hand laced through his arm as though unwilling to let him stray even a step away.

The salesgirl from earlier—the one who'd first spoken to them before lunch—approached tentatively. Her apron was crumpled, hair disheveled, but she bowed low the moment she reached them.

"Sir, miss… thank you. For helping the Chairman." Her voice trembled, caught between exhaustion and relief. "If you hadn't been here—"

Joon-ho lifted a hand gently. "He'll be fine. Focus on yourselves. That was a lot to handle."

The girl bit her lip, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. She bowed again, deeper this time. "The Chairman… he's always been so kind to us. He visits every branch when he can. He insists on speaking with even the part-timers. We were so afraid when he collapsed."

Another man in a blazer—clearly the booth's floor manager—stepped forward next. His face was pale, but he managed a small smile of gratitude. "You saved him. Please, accept our thanks."

Harin tilted her head. "It was oppa who saved him. I just… yelled at people to move."

The manager chuckled weakly, then bent down, opening one of the large cartons stacked behind the counter. He carefully lifted two glossy boxes from inside—each decorated with the wide-eyed cartoon figure that had caused so much frenzy.

"Please. A small token of thanks."

Harin's eyes widened instantly. "For us?!"

"Yes," the manager said firmly. "For you. You deserve at least this much."

Harin snatched them eagerly before Joon-ho could protest, hugging the boxes against her chest like treasure. "Kyaaa! Thank you so much!"

Joon-ho sighed, half-amused. "You'll take advantage of any excuse, won't you?"

She shot him a look that said, don't ruin this for me.

The salesgirl smiled faintly, as though Harin's enthusiasm was a balm against the day's stress. "Would you like to open them now? Sometimes the first customers get special editions. There's a chance you might find a pendant or even a Korea-exclusive collaboration."

Harin froze mid-bounce, her eyes sparkling. "Special editions?!" She immediately dropped cross-legged on the floor like a child at Christmas. "I have to check right now."

Joon-ho rubbed his forehead, but the sight of her excitement tugged the corner of his mouth into a reluctant smile.

The First Box

She ripped open the first box with trembling fingers, tossing the lid aside. Nestled inside was the plump little BboBbo doll, its fur bright and soft. But what drew the gasp from Harin wasn't the doll itself—it was the tiny pendant hanging from its neck.

"Oh my god…" She held it up reverently. The pendant glimmered silver, etched with the Korean volleyball team's emblem. The doll itself wore a miniature sport uniform—jersey, shorts, knee pads, the works.

"Athlete BboBbo," the salesgirl breathed, her eyes widening. "That's one of the rarest variants! Congratulations, miss—you're really lucky."

Harin squealed, clutching it to her chest before spinning toward Joon-ho. "Oppa, look! It's sporty! It's so cute! Aaaah!"

She bounced to her feet and practically shoved it against his face. He leaned back slightly, arching a brow.

"It's wearing more clothing than you usually do," he deadpanned.

She pouted, then laughed, unable to contain her joy. "You're just jealous it's cuter than you."

The Second Box

"Open the other one!" the salesgirl urged, her own excitement contagious. The manager even leaned closer, curious.

Harin didn't need encouragement. She clawed the tape away, ripping the second box open with dramatic flair. For a heartbeat, she simply stared.

Inside was a doll dressed in a delicate one-piece summer dress, complete with a wide straw hat. The clothing was detailed down to tiny embroidery at the hem. A small tag pinned inside the box bore the logo of Eclipse Entertainment.

"No way…" Harin whispered.

"That's the Korea-exclusive," the salesgirl gasped. "A collaboration with Kwon Mirae's new movie. Only a handful were made for the Seoul pop-up launch. You—you actually got one!"

Harin screamed this time, the sound ringing through the atrium. Heads turned, startled, but she didn't care. She hugged the box tight, spinning in a circle like she'd just won the lottery.

"I'm going to die—this is too much luck—I can't breathe—" She staggered dramatically before collapsing against Joon-ho's chest.

He caught her easily, his arms wrapping around her shoulders. "Calm down before you faint. You'll scare people again."

But there was warmth in his voice, amusement tugging at his lips.

SNS Frenzy

Within minutes, Harin had pulled out her phone. She arranged both dolls side by side on the booth's counter, snapping pictures from every angle. Then she dragged Joon-ho into a selfie, the two of them grinning awkwardly with the dolls raised like trophies.

The sales staff clapped politely, clearly glad to see joy replacing panic.

Not satisfied, Harin suddenly snatched Joon-ho's phone.

"What are you doing?" he asked, eyeing her.

"Sending proof." Her fingers flew across the screen, snapping a photo of him holding one doll in each hand like a bemused prizefighter. She typed rapidly, then hit send.

"To Ji-hye and Mirae," she declared triumphantly.

Joon-ho blinked. "Why."

"Because they deserve to suffer from jealousy like I almost did," Harin said smugly.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're insufferable."

She only beamed wider. "And lucky."

Moving Forward

By the time the last of the photos were posted to Harin's SNS—complete with captions like #BboBbo #RarePull #JealousMuch—the booth had begun to settle. The manager and security staff huddled in low conversation, debating whether to reopen sales or postpone.

"We'll issue a statement," the manager murmured when Harin asked curiously. "We need to address the scalper issue properly. For now, safety comes first. The dolls will wait."

Harin hugged her boxes tighter. "Not mine. Mine are safe forever."

The salesgirl laughed softly, bowing once more. "We're just glad someone kind got the lucky ones. Thank you again—for everything."

Joon-ho inclined his head politely, while Harin chirped another round of thanks.

As they finally left the atrium, the crowd dispersing behind them, Harin's steps practically skipped. She kept glancing at the dolls in her bag, her grin never fading.

Beside her, Joon-ho walked steadily, his thoughts quieter. The Chairman's faint stare still lingered at the edges of his mind, though he said nothing of it.

Instead, he reached over and tugged Harin's hood up over her head when she nearly bumped into a pillar while distracted by her phone.

"Watch where you're going," he muttered.

She stuck her tongue out at him but grabbed his hand anyway, swinging it between them as they walked back toward the parking lot.

For now, the day was closing not with chaos, but with the simple rhythm of two people heading home—unaware of how the threads they'd stumbled into were weaving something much larger behind the scenes.