Chapter Text
March 26, 2018
When Bobby, or Jeong Babi, first got the call from Sunlight Entertainment, it stung more than he wanted to admit. A childhood dedicated to music, eight years as a trainee, years spent sacrificing both his social life and his body, and the first time a company showed real interest in him . . . was as an assistant to the VP of Engagement and Support’s assistant.
It was more than a little insulting.
But it was also exactly the kind of thing Bobby had come to expect from the industry.
Music and dance had been his passion for as long as he could remember.
At ten, his parents took him to the first Sunlight Sisters concert. He left the venue absolutely certain that he would one day marry Mi-yeong. Nothing his parents said afterward could convince him otherwise.
After H.O.T.’s television debut the following year, Babi became a changed soul. Eleven years old, he was convinced that baggy overalls and aggressively bright colors were essential to his entire existence.
When he was twelve, he realized Eugene and Shoo from S.E.S. were only four years older than him. That was it. No more slacking. He began training in earnest. His parents enrolled him in even more dance and music lessons. He began taking foreign languages more seriously (Japanese and Mandarin were easy, but whoever designed English clearly held a personal grudge against him). He was driven. He had goals. And he was going to make it.
So while other kids were watching g.o.d.’s Baby Diaries, fourteen-year-old Babi was busy auditioning for SM, YG, anyone who would give him a shot.
At fifteen, he mourned the loss of both his younger self’s future wife and the Sunlight Sisters as a group.
Eventually, after eight years with SM, three failed groups, two years of military service, and one sexual identity crisis later, Babi had had enough. He had stopped growing as a teen, and though he compensated for what he lacked in height with relentless likability, he knew when it was time to let the dream go.
His family had always supported his passion, but they were quietly relieved when twenty four year old Babi, these days going by Bobby, came home and finished his degree in entertainment management.
He had seen exactly what passed for management in the industry and resolved quietly that he would do better.
His first job was not as a manager, and he knew it wouldn’t be. So he took that first offer with determination, resolved to be the best assistant’s assistant, to master engagement, to become the kind of supporter idols could rely on. It did not take long for him to earn a reputation as a problem solver, a steady leader, and a compassionate colleague. He worked his way up to assistant to the VP and allowed himself, privately, to aspire to the role someday if a manager position never came his way.
Lately, he had begun to suspect it never would.
He had asked his director to recommend him with each new group, but every time Director Lee told him, not yet. This group was not the right one. Hold on just a few more years.
By his eighth year at Sunlight, Bobby had become very good at waiting.
______________________________________
Director Lee’s office was quiet in the way expensive spaces often were, the hum of the building softened by thick carpet and immaculate taste. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the restless Seoul traffic below, though from this height even the congestion looked orderly.
It was a Monday, just before lunch, when Director Lee summoned him.
Bobby distinctly remembered reading somewhere that the best day to fire someone was Monday. Efficient. Contained. No chance for the panic to spread.
His stomach dropped.
He immediately pulled up his calendar, scanning the week in growing alarm. Had he forgotten someone’s birthday? Missed an anniversary? Failed to confirm a booking?
Nothing.
Which, of course, was worse.
Director Lee gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Bobby, thank you for meeting on such short notice. I know you’re busy.”
He exhaled heavily, the sound weighted with regret.
Bobby sat.
His posture was perfect. Hands folded. Ankles crossed.
Inside, however, was chaos.
Had there been a complaint? No, Minho would have warned him. Was there a scandal he’d missed? Did he misfile something? Delete the wrong email? Double book an executive? He reviewed the last forty eight hours of his life at lightning speed, searching desperately for the mistake that had finally caught up to him.
“I really hate to do this, Bobby, after all of your years of hard work in our department . . .” Director Lee slid a leather folio across the polished surface of his desk.
Oh god.
This was it.
Bobby stared at the folio.
If he did not open it, perhaps this moment could be postponed indefinitely. Unfortunately, professionalism demanded otherwise. He inhaled slowly, reached forward with hands that were only slightly shaking, and opened it.
A contract.
He blinked.
Did one sign a contract to be fired?
His gaze dropped to the second document tucked neatly into the left pocket.
A letter.
He read the first line once. Then again.
Manager?
For a moment, he wondered if he had misread it.
“A special group,” Director Lee said, watching him carefully. “Separately trained. Scheduled to debut this year.”
Bobby looked up, stunned. “HUNTR/X?”
“I told you,” Director Lee replied, leaning back in his chair, satisfaction warming his voice. “You only needed to wait for the right group. It has been rumored for years that the Director was training her ward, Mi-yeong’s daughter, to become an idol. About two years ago she pulled two trainees from the program and whisked them away to train with her protege. She’s hardly been here since.”
Bobby wouldn’t have known. He had only encountered the formidable woman a handful of times, and once very memorably, when he had nearly dropped a scalding coffee all over her in the hallway. He was fairly certain he had bowed three times in under five seconds and apologized so profusely that she had simply walked around him.
He had been positive he left the impression of a deeply incompetent fool.
Which begged the question.
“Why?” he asked, then immediately straightened. “I mean, Director Lee, thank you. Truly. But . . . how?”
“You give yourself too little credit, Bobby,” Director Lee said. “Your reputation precedes you. When I recommended you, I handed her a flash drive filled with commendations I have been collecting from clients and colleagues. She did not even request an interview. She only asked if you were ‘the energetic one with the coffee,’ and told me she would send the contract. You’re to sign it only when you’re confident you’re the right manager for this group.”
Bobby stared down at the document again.
Energetic. He would take it.
And so, on that deeply surprising Monday, Bobby Jeong was sent home to pack for a three night trip and placed on a flight to Jeju Island to meet his new group and see for himself what was so special about this group.
He had no way of knowing, as the plane lifted into the afternoon sky, that this assignment would alter the course of his life.
______________________________________
“Annyeonghaseyo, Jeong seonsaengnim.”
A private car met Bobby at the airport. By the time they left the edges of Jeju City behind, the sky had begun its slow descent toward evening, the pale blue deepening into the lavender tones of a cool spring dusk. Rain earlier in the day had left the air damp and fragrant, the sharp scent of cedar and wet earth drifting in through the cracked window.
They drove west toward Hallasan, the road narrowing as stone walls and dense trees closed in around them. Civilization thinned quickly. No streetlamps. No neighboring homes. Just long stretches of moss darkened by rain and the quiet suggestion of mist gathering between the trunks.
Beautiful, but deeply isolating.
As the driver turned onto a private lane and rolled to a stop before a cluster of traditional stone buildings, Bobby found himself sitting a little straighter.
House felt too small a word. Resort? No, compound seemed . . . closest.
For one fleeting, deeply unhelpful moment, he wondered if this was how people were lured into murder documentaries. He really hoped his family wouldn’t soon be sharing his story on a podcast.
Before he could reconsider that thought, the passenger door opened.
A teenage girl with long purple hair stood waiting.
She was striking in the way idols often were even off stage, posture perfect, expression composed, dressed in brand name athleisure that somehow looked intentional rather than casual. Something about her tugged at his memory.
He stepped out quickly and bowed.
“I’m Ryu Rumi,” she said politely. “Please follow me, Manager-nim. Celine is finishing dinner, and the other members are cleaning up after training. I’ll show you to your room.”
Oh! Mi-yeong’s daughter.
Bobby nearly tripped over his own luggage before recovering.
He followed her into the main house, warmth immediately wrapping around him as the door slid shut behind them. The interior balanced old stone and polished wood with discreet modern lighting. It felt lived in, yet oddly impersonal, save for the abundance of thriving plants arranged with careful intention.
“Thank you, Rumi-ssi,” he said. “Do you live here, or is this primarily your training space? It’s beautiful.”
“This compound has been in the family for a long time,” she replied. “It belongs to Celine now. I grew up here, and she allows us to live here while we train. Mira and Zoey joined us about two years ago.”
Allows.
An interesting choice of word.
He tucked the observation away.
They passed through the main hall and stepped into an open courtyard where the last light of day pooled softly against dark volcanic stone. Several smaller buildings framed the space, their tiled roofs still glistening from the afternoon rain. Somewhere nearby, water dripped steadily from an eave.
Quiet. Private. Secure.
Rumi guided him to one of the smaller structures.
“You should have everything you need here aside from a kitchen. I’ll show you ours next. Please take a moment to refresh. I’ll wait outside.”
His room was simple but elegant. Warm wood floors. A neatly prepared futon. Sliding doors that opened to a view of a carefully kept garden, every leaf still jeweled with rain. The bathroom, by contrast, was sleek and modern.
Someone had thought about comfort here.
He set down his bag and allowed himself one steadying breath before stepping back outside.
Rumi straightened instantly when he appeared.
“Is it to your liking? Was there anything else you need?”
“No, thank you, Rumi-ssi. It’s perfect. If I need anything, I’ll let you know.”
She nodded once and led him back toward the largest building.
Now he could smell dinner. Soy, garlic, something meaty simmering. Voices carried faintly from the kitchen.
Rumi stopped at the entrance to a living room.
“Please wait here. I’ll bring Celine so you can connect before dinner.”
She bowed and slipped away.
Bobby remained standing, unsure whether sitting without invitation would be presumptuous. The room balanced formality with surprising touches of youth. A mix of clean lines, sparse décor and yet a Nintendo Switch rested discreetly beside the credenza, and the enormous television suggested rare but enthusiastic downtime.
The U-shaped sofa looked dangerously comfortable. Before he could decide, measured, unhurried footsteps approached.
Bobby straightened immediately.
Though the faint aroma of cooking lingered in the air, there was nothing domestic about Kim Celine’s appearance. She was dressed with the precision of someone prepared for a board meeting, every line deliberate, every movement economical. She did not soften simply because she stood inside her own home.
Bobby understood at once that this was not where she relaxed, but merely another space that she controlled.
“Annyeonghaseyo, Kim hwejangnim,” Bobby said, bowing deeply enough that he was grateful she could not see the anxiety in his expression.
“Manager Jeong,” she replied. “Thank you for arriving on such short notice. I am aware this process has been . . . unconventional.”
She gestured toward the sofa and took her seat first. Bobby followed a beat later.
“I have heard very positive things about your performance over the years,” she continued. “Your organizational skills. Your discretion. Your ability to anticipate needs before they are voiced.”
She paused, and Bobby felt for a moment like she was looking into his very soul.
“I believe you will be an excellent asset to this project.”
“Thank you for the opportunity, hwejangnim,” Bobby said carefully. “I will work hard to justify your confidence.”
“Good.”
He folded his hands loosely to keep them still.
“May I ask for more context?” he said. “It is clear this is a very special project, and that you have been personally involved.”
Celine tapped her nails on the armrest as she thought, staring off into the distance.
“I have known since she was old enough to sing that Rumi would follow in her mother’s footsteps. It was equally clear she would require exceptional partners. I observed trainees for years, not only ours but those across the industry.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Three member groups are rare. I understand that better than most. But there were only two trainees I believed capable of matching her musically and professionally. Once I found them, this became . . . a passion project.”
Bobby strongly suspected they had different definitions of passion. There was no sentiment in her statement, only strategy.
“These members were talented before training began,” she continued. “Between them they command multiple languages, possess choreography experience, songwriting ability, and formal combat training.”
Combat? Bobby fought to keep his expression neutral.
“They will not resemble any group Sunlight has managed before,” she said. “I require someone I can trust to manage that distinction.”
Her eyes settled on him fully now.
“Do you believe you are that person, Manager Jeong?”
The correct answer was yes, but Bobby had learned long ago that blind agreement was rarely the mark of a competent manager.
He inclined his head respectfully.
“I believe I have the skills necessary to support exceptional artists,” he said. “However, before I give you a definitive answer, I would be grateful for the opportunity to observe the members in training. Understanding their dynamics will allow me to serve them more effectively.”
A quiet beat passed.
Then, almost imperceptibly, Celine nodded.
“You will observe tomorrow,” she said. “For now, you will join us for dinner.”
Not an invitation.
A directive.
______________________________________
Celine had not been exaggerating.
If anything, she had understated just how . . . unusual HUNTR/X would be.
The previous evening, she had led Bobby into the dining room, where he met two more exceptional teenagers.
Mira, no last name, thank you, was tall and sharp featured, her pink hair pulled into a severe tie that did little to soften the impression that formality was something she tolerated rather than embraced. She greeted him properly, but there had been a restraint to it, as if she were performing etiquette rather than accepting it.
Choi Jo-i, but please call me Zoey, was shorter (though Bobby had privately realized with some despair that he was shorter than all three of them) dark haired and vibrant. She seemed less resistant to formality than unfamiliar with it. A faint American lilt touched her Korean, suggesting years spent abroad. Bobby found himself immediately curious.
Though the three had clearly trained together for years, he sensed a subtle distance between Rumi and the other two. Not tension exactly. If he were being honest, the strain likely had less to do with leadership and more to do with quiet pressure of Rumi’s exacting guardian seated at the head of the table. The three teens frequently deferred to her.
Dinner itself had been structured, almost ceremonial. Conversation flowed politely but rarely wandered. When Bobby posed questions, the members answered with the composed precision of veteran idols long accustomed to media training.
He learned the essentials.
Mira would serve as lead dancer and primary choreographer. She spoke about technique with confidence but deflected every attempt to discuss her background, offering only that she had “trained extensively.”
Zoey, it turned out, had grown up primarily in the United States but spent significant time in Korea. She was, Bobby gathered, something close to a prodigy lyricist. Though she downplayed her ability, both Mira and Rumi praised her with such unguarded certainty that Zoey flushed crimson beneath the attention, ducking her head in a way Bobby had seen countless maknaes do when overwhelmed by affection.
And Rumi? Leader, of course. And the voice of HUNTR/X as main vocalist and spokesperson.
On paper, it was an impeccable structure. Yet even then, Bobby had sensed something deeper than a group assembled to satisfy industry expectations.
Not once during dinner had anyone mentioned combat training.
Afterward, Celine dismissed the members with calm efficiency, encouraging them to relax and retire early. Tomorrow would be demanding.
Bobby was instructed to meet them at six in the training yard behind the compound.
Which was how he now found himself standing in the chill of a damp spring morning, faint mist clinging low to the volcanic stone walls. Dew jeweled the packed earth beneath his shoes, already soaking through the edges of leather that had never been intended for outdoor use.
He felt conspicuously overdressed in his coat and slacks.
In front of him, three teenage girls were attempting to beat each other senseless with wooden swords.
The strikes came fast. Faster than he would have believed possible.
“We begin at five,” Celine said from behind him.
He started despite himself.
She stepped beside him, immaculate as ever in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt, as if early morning cold simply did not apply to her.
“I assumed you would not find much value in watching them run.”
“No,” Bobby said automatically. She nodded.
“Most mornings I join them,” she continued. “Today, Rumi leads.”
His eyes tracked the movement before them.
The girls circled across the yard, footwork precise despite the slick ground. Their practice swords cracked together with startling force, the sound sharp in the morning stillness.
“This is what you meant by combat training?” he asked carefully.
“Yes. During my time as a Sunlight Sister, we trained similarly. Physical conditioning is expected. Preparedness is preferable.”
Preparedness for what, Bobby did not ask.
He was not here to question methodology.
Still, he added the thought to a growing list of incongruencies.
Zoey lunged first, her strike clean but cautious. Mira pivoted smoothly, deflecting and countering with a sweep that forced Zoey back two paces. Rumi advanced without hesitation, pressing Mira with a controlled aggression that suggested long familiarity with both weapon and opponent.
Nearly half an hour passed before the dynamic shifted.
Zoey darted left, Mira right, their movements wordless but coordinated. For a brief moment they aligned against Rumi, driving her backward with a flurry of strikes.
Rumi blocked two, three, four blows, but her footing slipped slightly on the damp ground.
It was enough. Mira seized the opening instantly.
With barely a moment's pause, she pivoted away from Rumi and, in the same fluid motion, hooked Zoey’s ankle with her practice blade. Zoey hit the earth with a breathless laugh that turned into a startled gasp as Mira’s sword came to rest lightly against her throat.
Silence fell.
Then Celine clapped once. The sound cut cleanly through the yard.
“Nicely done, Mira. Excellent awareness.”
Her gaze shifted. “Zoey, never surrender visual contact with your opponent. Even in alliance.”
Zoey nodded, breath still uneven.
Then Celine turned to Rumi and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
“Disappointing.”
Rumi straightened but did not speak.
“You have nearly a decade more training than either of them,” Celine continued evenly. “Two intermediate opponents should not destabilize you.”
Rumi bowed her head. “Yes, Celine.”
“You will run the perimeter trail twice again before breakfast,” Celine said. “Afterward, you will repeat today’s drills independently.”
A pause.
“You will also forgo team time this evening. Fatigue encourages carelessness. Carelessness breeds weakness.”
Bobby felt something tighten quietly in his chest. The punishment was not unreasonable, not technically. Yet he could not ignore the sheen of exhaustion already visible along Rumi’s temples.
“Yes, Celine.” she said again without protesting.
Celine nodded once, the matter already closed in her mind.
“Reset,” she instructed the group.
As the members resumed their positions, Bobby found himself watching Rumi more closely than before.
And for the first time since his arrival, he wondered not whether this project would succeed . . . but what it might cost the people involved.
______________________________________
The morning continued at a relentless pace. Sparring gave way to language practice while Rumi repeated the workout she had been assigned earlier. Bobby found himself quietly impressed.
Zoey’s fluency in English and Korean had not surprised him, but discovering she also spoke Spanish had been an unexpected treat.
Mira, however, left him deeply curious about her past. She moved between Korean, English, Mandarin, and Japanese with effortless precision. French lessons occupied her breaks, with a private tutor already arranged for when they relocated to Seoul.
Either she possessed an extraordinary gift for languages . . .
. . . or she had been trained extensively from a very young age.
Bobby suspected the latter.
He was not sure when Rumi intended to make up her own language work, but he could imagine the answer well enough. Celine mentioned in passing that Rumi was fluent in Korean, Mandarin, and Japanese, though still struggling with English.
On that point, Bobby sympathized completely.
After lunch, they relocated to a newer structure set slightly apart from the older stone residences. Where the living compound carried the quiet gravity of history, the training hall was unmistakably modern. Steel supports framed wide mirrored walls, and the polished wood floors reflected the cool afternoon light streaming through high windows.
The earlier rain had burned away, leaving the world outside washed clean. Sunlight filtered in pale and silver, and the faint scent of citrus cleanser lingered in the air.
Celine stood near the mirrors, tablet in hand.
“Show Manager Jeong what you have prepared.”
The girls moved into position with quiet efficiency. No chatter, no nervous shifting, just focus.
Bobby had expected them to be talented. He had not expected this.
Rumi began.
Her voice filled the hall, rich and resonant, carrying with a strength that seemed almost too large for the space. Mira joined half a beat later, her harmony precise and grounding, while Zoey threaded a softer counterline beneath them.
Recognition hit instantly . . . Sunlight Sisters.
Bobby blinked hard, unexpectedly moved.
Yet this was no imitation. Their arrangement sharpened the original, modernizing it without sacrificing emotional clarity. Where the first version had shimmered brightly, theirs carried depth.
They followed with another, equally assured.
When they transitioned into an original piece, Bobby felt his posture straighten in excitement.
Zoey stepped forward as the lyrics unfolded, playful but edged with something clever and biting. Mira’s choreography was controlled yet inventive, guiding the eye without overwhelming the vocals. Rumi commanded attention without ever appearing to ask for it.
By the final note, the room felt charged.
Celine nodded once. “Again. The bridge lacked cohesion.”
The girls reset immediately without complaint.
They performed their original song two more times before Celine dismissed them to continue dance practice.
As the music resumed, Bobby realized he had been holding his breath.
“They are exceptional,” he said quietly.
“They will need to be,” Celine replied. “I have meetings this afternoon. Continue your observations. We will speak after dinner.”
He bowed as she departed, the quiet authority of her exit lingering behind her.
When he turned back, the girls were doing a remarkably poor job of pretending they had not been listening. Three sets of eyes met his.
For the first time that day, Bobby felt faintly outmatched.
“Please don’t mind me,” he said, gesturing toward a chair near the wall. “I’ll be over here taking notes.”
They nodded politely, though he could have sworn Mira muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dirty spy.
“Mira,” Rumi said softly. “Be kind.”
He allowed the comment to pass without acknowledgment. Trust, he knew, was not granted on the first day.
An hour passed with Mira leading them in practice. At the next break, Bobby interrupted. “If you are comfortable,” he said, “I would appreciate the opportunity to meet with each of you privately, and then together as a group. I would like to understand your individual goals, as well as what you hope for HUNTR/X. That will help me determine whether I am the right person to support you.”
Rumi bowed immediately. “Of course, Manager Jeong.”
Mira stepped forward at once, but Rumi stopped her with the smallest shake of her head.
“I’ll go first.”
______________________________________
In hindsight, Celine had probably known. She had known he would speak with them, observe them, and realize long before the second day ended that there would be no real decision to make.
These girls did not simply need a competent manager. They needed an exceptional one.
He could be that.
Because if the first day had taught him anything, it was that these three would not prioritize their own well being. Someone would have to.
Rumi led them to a small recording studio with comfortable chairs. She remained standing until he gestured for her to sit. Even then, her posture stayed perfectly straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Always professional.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Manager Jeong,” she said.
Her tone was calm, polished. Not stiff exactly, but carefully controlled.
“I would like to understand what you hope for,” Bobby said. “Not only for the group, but for yourself.”
She considered the question seriously.
“I want HUNTR/X to succeed,” she replied. “Whatever that requires.”
He studied her a moment. “And what will that require of you?”
“Everything,” she said simply.
The answer unsettled him more than it should have. It was the standard response for an idol but the delivery?
No hesitation. He believed her.
“You are aware this industry demands endurance,” he said carefully. “But longevity depends on balance.”
“I understand.”
There was something else beneath it. Not ambition alone. Something sharper. Older. He didn’t want to dig, not so early, but he needed to understand.
“You carry a great weight already,” he said.
“It is my responsibility.”
The words came quickly, almost reflexive. After a brief pause, she added, quieter, “My mother worked very hard. I intend to honor that.”
Honor? Not Follow? The distinction lingered.
For the first time, Bobby wondered if success, to Rumi, was less about achievement and more about correction. As if somewhere in her mind there existed a story that had ended improperly, and she alone had been tasked with rewriting it.
He chose not to press further.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly. “Leadership is rarely about standing apart. Allow your members to support you as well.”
A faint smile touched her expression. “I will try.”
He was almost certain she would not. Still, she bowed and promised to send Zoey in next.
Zoey entered with a small, nervous brightness that reminded him immediately of younger trainees he had worked with.
Hopeful, alert, so eager to do well. The picture of a perfect maknae.
She sat perched at the edge of the chair. “Are we doing alright?” she asked before he could begin.
The question was so earnest that he couldn’t help but smile. “You are doing more than alright.”
She exhaled visibly.
“I just want us to succeed,” she said. “Rumi has worked so hard for this. We all have.”
He noticed the order immediately. Rumi first, always.
“And you?” he asked gently. “What do you want from this?”
She hesitated. It was the first unrehearsed moment he had seen from her.
“I want . . . to belong somewhere,” she admitted. “And I want to be worthy of the chance we’ve been given.”
Not fame or recognition, worthiness. Bobby found that telling.
“You already contribute greatly,” he said. “Your members made that clear.”
Color rose faintly to her cheeks. “They’re biased.”
“They are observant.”
She ducked her head with a shy laugh, then grew more serious.
After a moment, she asked, quieter, “Manager Jeong . . . will you help us take care of Rumi?”
The question caught him off guard. “Why do you ask?”
Zoey fidgeted slightly with the seam of her sleeve.
“She forgets to rest. Or pretends she doesn’t need it. Like, she hardly sleeps at all. And if she slows down, the rest of us do too. So she doesn’t.”
He thought back to the morning’s punishment. “I will take care of all of you,” he said.
Zoey’s shoulders relaxed. “Good,” she murmured, then stepped out to send in Mira for his final private meeting.
Mira did not wait for an invitation before sitting. She leaned back slightly, arms folded, studying him with open skepticism.
“So,” she said. “Are you going to ask why I didn’t give you my last name?”
“If you wished me to know it, you would have told me.”
A flicker of approval crossed her face before she could hide it.
She didn’t volunteer anything further, so Bobby continued, “this industry is unforgiving. You seem aware of that.”
“I am.”
Silence stretched, then, unexpectedly to even himself, he offered, “I trained for eight years.”
Mira’s gaze sharpened. “What happened?”
“I lacked certain advantages.”
Her eyes dropped briefly, assessing. “ . . . height?” she guessed.
He allowed himself a small smile. “Among other things.”
The corner of her mouth lifted.
“Still,” he continued, “I understand what it costs to pursue this path. Which is why I intend to support you properly, if you will allow it.”
She studied him for several seconds. “You can say that now,” she said. “Men in suits usually do.”
There it was. He had suspected . . .
“You are not wrong to be cautious,” he replied evenly. “Trust should be earned.”
Another pause. Then, quieter, she said, “Just don’t stand by if something’s wrong.”
“I don’t,” he said.
She nodded once, not quite accepting, but Bobby hoped it was a beginning.
______________________________________
The conversations left Bobby thoughtful in a way he had not anticipated. Each girl carried something different into the room. Determination. Gratitude. Vigilance. And beneath it all, a shared willingness to endure whatever was asked of them.
As he stepped outside for air, the late afternoon had softened toward evening. The compound glowed faintly gold beneath the lowering sun, long shadows stretching across the stone paths.
Voices drifted from the courtyard.
“ . . . we’re going to miss you,” Zoey was saying.
Bobby slowed instinctively.
“You’ll see me tomorrow,” Rumi replied.
“That’s not the same,” Mira said. “Just sneak over after she goes to sleep.”
A pause followed. Even from a distance, he sensed Rumi’s hesitation.
Zoey caught it immediately. “Hey, forget it,” she said quickly. “We’ll be boring tonight anyway. Mira’s roots are tragic, and I refuse to debut next to depressing hair.”
“My hair is not depressing.”
“I can hear it crying for help, begging me to save it.”
Mira scoffed.
Zoey softened. “We’ll fix her hair, watch something ridiculous, maybe try that face mask you said you hated. You won’t miss anything.”
Rumi laughed quietly.
The sound stayed with him.
So did the way Zoey watched Rumi afterward, as if measuring something unspoken.
Bobby stepped forward deliberately, gravel shifting beneath his shoes to announce his presence.
Three professional smiles appeared almost instantly. They were so well trained already.
Yet as he approached, a thought settled quietly into place. Whatever this demanded of them, he would make certain they did not face it alone.
He was still turning that vow over in his mind when the sliding door behind him opened.
“Manager Jeong.”
Celine’s voice carried without effort, commanding as always.
“Your thoughts,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Bobby bowed on instinct. “They are extraordinary, hwejangnim.”
“And?”
He kept his expression steady. “If you are willing to have me, I believe I can support them well.”
Celine regarded him for a moment, as if measuring the weight of his answer.
“Good,” she said, and something like satisfaction flickered briefly across her face before it vanished again. “Dinner is in ten minutes. We will finalize everything tomorrow.”
As she turned away, Bobby remained where he was, the courtyard air cool against his skin.
Everything. He thought back to his conversation with Rumi. Bobby understood what Celine meant. The contract, the schedule, the staff. He’d be stepping into a life under her rules.
He would do it. And then he would learn how to protect his girls within them.