Chapter 39:
The following weeks were a blur of adrenaline and creative fulfillment. The set of Gyeongseong High had become Haru's sanctuary, a place where the ache in his soul finally began to subside. Every time the red light flickered on and he stepped into his character's skin, a wave of profound happiness overwhelmed him. He was a craftsman back at his bench.
The food trucks from his growing fanbase continued to arrive with baffling regularity. He often stood by the banners, wondering at the sheer scale of modern devotion. To them, he was a rising star and he wanted to prove himself. Both to this new era and to himself that he could overcome any travesty.
Despite the professional high, a gap remained in his personal life. Raiven was fully submerged in grueling world tour rehearsals, and Haru was buried in scripts. Their connection had been relegated to late-night phone calls - conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning, filled with the low, tired hum of Raiven's voice and Haru's excited retellings of the day's filming.
He had found a true friend in his co-star, Deul-hwa. Despite the industry rumors painting her as cold and unapproachable, Haru found her to be remarkably kind and fiercely hardworking. They spent hours dissecting scenes, and when Director Han praised her recent emotional breakthroughs, she beamed at Haru, promising to treat him to the best meal in Seoul as a thank-you.
"The more successful you are, the louder the lies get," Se-hee had warned him one evening over takeout. "If people aren't making up rumors about you, you aren't famous enough yet."
One humid evening, after a particularly long shoot involving a rain sequence, Alice received an urgent call. Another trainee at the agency had landed in trouble, and she needed to head to head out immediately.
"Don't worry about it, Alice," Haru reassured her, peeling off his damp costume. "Go. I'll just take a taxi. I'm an adult; I can navigate a three-mile drive."
As the taxi wound through the neon-lit streets of Seoul, Haru pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. Raiven answered on the second ring.
Lately, raivens persona seemed to be melting whenever Haru was on the line. Suho had even messaged Haru privately, thanking him because Raiven seemed "less like a gloomy" during dance practice. Suho had even asked Haru for a favor - to help bridge the growing tension between the Re-draft members - but when Haru pressed for details on why the group was so fractured, Suho had politely retreated, citing it as a private matter and he couldn't tell him anything unless raiven himself told him.
"So, I told the Director that the character wouldn't look away there," Haru said into the phone, leaning his head against the taxi window. He loved sharing these technical victories with Raiven, who offered surprisingly astute advice on navigating the egos of veteran staff. "He actually listened. I think I'm finally breaking through his crusty exterior."
The taxi pulled up to the curb outside his apartment complex. Haru stepped out, still chatting away, his heart light.
"Yeah, so that's what happened. It was a complete—" Haru stopped mid-sentence.
In front of his gate, a group of men stood in a loose semi-circle. They were dressed in sharp, identical black suits, their silhouettes jagged against the dim streetlights. The air around them felt heavy, static with a predatory intent.
A cold stone of dread dropped into the pit of Haru's stomach.
"Haru...?" Raiven's voice came through the speaker, instantly alert. "Haru, what's wrong?"
"Who are you?" Haru asked, his voice steady but his hand tightening on the phone.
He tried to take a step back, to move toward the light of a nearby gate , but he wasn't fast enough. Before he could scream, a rough hand clamped over his mouth, and a cloth smelling of sharp, chemical was pressed against his face.
He fought, his instincts screaming at his limbs to strike out, but the drug was efficient. His body turned to jelly, his knees buckling as the world blurred into a smear of black and grey.
"Hello? Haru! Answer me!" Raiven's voice was a frantic tinny shriek from the phone as it hit the pavement with a sickening crack.
The line went dead.
The men worked with clinical silence. They hoisted Haru's limp body into the back of a nondescript black van. Within seconds, the tail lights vanished around the corner.
Haru woke to a world made of pain. A splitting headache throbbed behind his eyes, timed to the frantic beat of his heart. He groaned, trying to lift his head, but his body felt like it was lead-lined.
As the haze began to lift, he realized his wrists were pulled tight behind his back, the coarse bite of zip-ties digging into his skin. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his system. He was in a dark, industrial room - the kind of place where things go to be forgotten.
He pulled at the restraints, his breath coming in ragged hitches as his eyes darted around the shadows.
"It won't work," a voice said.
It was a cold, meticulous sound, devoid of empathy. Haru twisted his torso, looking toward the corner of the room. A man sat there in a folding chair, his face partially obscured by shadow. He looked to be in his late fifties, his eyes dead and boring into Haru with a terrifying lack of emotion.
Haru's mind raced.
"I don't know who you think I am," Haru rasped, his throat feeling like it was filled with glass. "But you're making a mistake."
The man leaned forward, the light catching the harsh lines of a face that had seen decades of violence.
"There's no mistake, Haru," the man said, his voice dropping an octave. "Your father owes me a great deal of money. And since he's nowhere to be found... it seems the son will have to settle the debt."
Haru froze. The "original" Haru's father. The one person he hadn't accounted for.