Chapter Text
October 28, 2025 — Tuesday, 8:04 a.m.
Soompi Korea Office, Seoul
For the last two weeks, the DIFANDER Department had been running on something dangerously close to hope.
Hope that maybe, for once, their boss would finally get recognized for the work he’d been doing since the dawn of Soompi’s digital age. Hope that the late nights, the last-minute rewrites, and the caffeine-dependency would amount to more than just another cycle of content planning. Hope that when the inevitable shakeup came, it wouldn’t hit too hard.
Because lately, things actually looked… good.
The department’s analytics were up. Two feature articles had trended internationally—Mark’s interview with a rookie band that no one expected to go viral, and Ryujin’s deep-dive on the evolution of idol self-branding in the post-pandemic era. Their interns weren’t crying (yet), the printer had behaved for a full week, and even the office plants looked alive.
It was, as one editor described it, “a suspiciously peaceful time.”
Of course, peace never lasted long in DIFANDER.
Rumors had been circling since early October that Bang Chan—known affectionately, and sometimes fearfully, as Chris—was being considered for an upper management position in Soompi Korea’s Content Strategy Division. It was the kind of rumor that didn’t even need confirmation; the evidence was all around. Meetings that ran longer than usual. More corporate visitors. A sudden, recurring presence of executives in tailored suits lurking near the break room with too-friendly smiles.
And then there was the talk of succession.
If Chris moved up, someone would have to step into his shoes as department head. And according to the office grapevine, the candidates had already been quietly chosen: Mark Lee, Karina Yoo, and Ryujin Shin.
Mark was everyone’s favorite for all the wrong reasons. The department adored him—his energy, his empathy, his absurd ability to make bad days slightly better. But that was exactly why no one wanted him to take the job. DIFANDER ran on Mark’s sunshine; promoting him would be like dimming the one steady light in the chaos.
Karina, meanwhile, was a rising star. She had joined two years after Ryujin but was already managing some of the site’s highest-performing features. A perfectionist, strategic and impossibly composed—Karina was the kind of editor who could turn a celebrity Q&A into a viral think piece. But her ambitions, though sharp, were still marinating. She wanted growth, not a title—at least, not yet.
Which left Ryujin Shin.
To most people in DIFANDER, she seemed like the obvious choice. The natural successor. Chan’s golden child. The one who always delivered, always showed up, always found a way to do the impossible with a coffee-stained outline and sheer stubbornness.
But to Ryujin, the idea of leading a department was… heavy.
She’d already spent months politely declining small promotions, staying comfortably in the middle—close enough to the top to matter, but far enough to breathe. Responsibility, after all, came with visibility. And visibility came with pressure.
So when, at precisely 8:04 a.m., the early birds of DIFANDER saw a crisp white paper pinned on the main bulletin board—
> 📢 Department Meeting — 11:00 a.m.
All staff attendance required.
—they knew something was up.
By 8:07 a.m., whispers had already spread like smoke through the rows of cubicles.
By 8:09, someone had already started a betting pool.
By 8:12, an intern had sent an internal chat message that read:
> [difander-group]
okay but if this is ryujin-sunbae’s promotion meeting i’m buying the good coffee later
And then, at 8:15 sharp, Ryujin Shin walked in.
Her ID card beeped at the scanner. She looked almost the same as usual—hair tied neatly, black blazer over a white top, coffee in hand—but there was a subtle shift in her expression that morning. Determined, maybe. Or resigned.
She didn’t even stop by her desk.
Not even to set her tote bag down between Mark’s neatly stacked notes and Hendery’s controlled chaos of snack wrappers and Post-Its.
Instead, she beelined straight across the office, her heels soft but sure against the linoleum floor, until she reached Bang Chan’s glass-walled office. The blinds were half-drawn, as always. She knocked twice.
Inside, Chan looked up from his laptop.
And just like that, the entire department’s chatter fell to a hush.
Mark leaned back slightly in his chair, half a bagel still in hand, watching as the door closed behind her. He met Hendery’s eyes across the divider, who raised an eyebrow in silent question. Mark just gave a small shrug—the kind that said, maybe it’s time.
Because everyone, from interns to senior editors, could tell: whatever was about to happen at 11 a.m., it started right there.
Behind that door.
Behind a conversation that would probably change the way DIFANDER worked—again.
And as Mark finally tore off a piece of bagel, chewing thoughtfully, the newsroom buzzed back to life. Keyboard clicks, murmurs, the faint hum of printers, and the quiet pulse of anticipation beneath it all.
By the time the clock struck nine, three things were clear:
- DIFANDER was about to change.
- Ryujin Shin was walking straight into the eye of it.
- And everyone else would be watching—whether they meant to or not.
Nothing ever prepared anyone for what was about to come—until it came.
When Ryujin Shin walked straight into Bang Chan’s office that morning, DIFANDER collectively forgot how to breathe.
Every click of the keyboard, every shuffle of paper, every slurp of coffee—stopped. The newsroom fell into that thick, suspended kind of silence that only existed in two places: funerals and open offices during gossip-worthy events. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew: this was it. Ryujin Shin was being promoted.
It was the only explanation that made sense. The timing, the secrecy, the way Chan’s face had been unreadable all week. The way Ryujin hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat before entering.
So they waited. At first, it was tense anticipation—half of them pretending to work while glancing at the frosted glass of Chan’s office. Then it turned into that restless energy that usually came before major news: tapping pens, whispered guesses, muted messages flying across their group chat.
By the thirty-minute mark, the excitement had mellowed into quiet assurance. By the one-hour mark, people had gone back to their screens, calm in the certainty that their beloved boss was moving up, and their dependable Ryujin was taking his place. They were ready to mourn and celebrate all at once.
But no one—not a single person in that office—was ready for what happened next.
The door to Bang Chan’s office opened with a soft click. And Ryujin stepped out.
Her face was unreadable. Her steps were even, her expression blank in a way that made it impossible to tell if she’d just been promoted, rejected, or hit with divine revelation. Then she lifted something into view—a large, empty brown box. And without saying a word to anyone, she walked straight to her desk. The sight was like a glitch in reality. For a split second, no one moved. Then, slowly, the disbelief began to spread.
She’s packing. Why is she packing? When Chris became head of DIFANDER, he didn’t pack. He just moved two desks over and started drinking stronger coffee. Promotions didn’t require cardboard boxes. They required group photos and awkward speeches and congratulatory lattes from the team café downstairs.
So then—is she transferring? That made even less sense. They're talking about Ryujin, the Ryujin that had turned down offers from at least three other departments. Everyone knew she was loyal to DIFANDER—to them. She’d once joked that she’d rather ghost an ex than ghost a deadline here.
So… why the box? And why—why was there another brown box inside Chan’s office, now being filled by the man himself?
That was the moment everyone collectively lost it.
The interns looked ready to cry. Karina froze mid-scroll. Hendery dropped his pen. Sion whispered, “No way,” to no one in particular.
And the room felt like there's a huge storm happening only inside their floor. No light, no sunshine, that's what they felt when they saw Mark stood up.
He didn’t storm. He didn’t shout. Not at first. He just walked up to her desk quietly, the way you do when you’re trying very, very hard to believe you’re misunderstanding something.
“...What are you doing?”
The words came out rough, raw in a way that didn’t belong to the Mark they knew.
Ryujin stilled, mid-motion, a framed photo halfway wrapped in paper. She didn’t look up, but she didn't move back either.
He took another step closer, voice shaking now. “You’re not deaf, Ryujin. What are you doing?”
Every pair of eyes in the department was on them, but no one dared move. It wasn’t just that Mark Lee rarely got angry. It was that he never got angry at her. And yet there it was—his voice, frayed at the edges, the faint tremor of someone trying to hold something together that had already begun to fall apart.
Ryujin swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the cardboard box. “I’m not deaf, yes,” she said softly. “But you’re not blind either.” She exhaled, barely above a whisper. “You know what I’m doing.” She didn’t look at him—couldn’t. Because if she did, she might break the one promise she’d made in that office earlier: Don’t cry. Don’t stay.
Mark stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching too thin. Then he turned—slowly, sharply—and looked at Chan through the glass wall. Then at the box beside the man. Then back at the man. Bang Chan met his eyes for a fleeting second before looking away. Regret written in the slump of his shoulders. And that was it. The confirmation. The final crack.
Mark stepped back like he’d been hit. And then, before anyone could process it, he walked off. Brisk, angry, the kind of upset that filled the air with static. He reached the door, shoved it open, and left.
The sound of it slamming echoed through the floor like thunder. No one spoke. The only sound that remained was the faint hum of computers and the shallow tremor of Ryujin’s breathing as she gripped the edge of her desk, eyes shut tight, until the first tear slipped down her cheek.
And quietly—silently—she cried.
Flashback: January to September 2025
Ryujin knew since the start of the year that she wanted out of Soompi.
It wasn’t an impulsive thought — more of a slow, gnawing realization that had been simmering under her skin for months. She loved her team, truly. She liked her boss, even admired him in a way that surprised her. Comparing work gossip with her friends in other companies only made her more aware of how lucky she was to have Bang Chan as a department head. “He’s one of a kind,” she’d often say — and she meant it.
But that was only the thirty percent of goodness.
The other seventy was… exhausting. Stifling. A kind of exhaustion that went beyond long hours and endless revisions. It was the quiet kind — the one that came from feeling small in a job that once made her feel capable.
The work itself had changed.
Short-form content. Clickbait headlines. Algorithm-driven metrics. The constant chase for engagement over substance. It felt like Soompi was slowly turning into BuzzFeed — and Ryujin couldn’t stomach it. She didn’t join this field to count clicks; she joined to tell stories. Real ones. Thoughtful ones. Articles that lingered, not disappeared into the scroll.
And yet, every time she tried to pitch something deeper — a long-form profile, a cultural feature, even an essay on the evolution of idol branding — it was met with the same polite, clipped rejection: “We don’t have space for that right now.”
Space.
They always said that as if journalism was something you could measure by inches.
Still, she kept her head down. Wrote what she was assigned. Edited what was given. Pushed through. Because that’s what you did when you were young and trying to survive in a competitive newsroom.
But by April, she was done.
After her birthday, she’d had enough of swallowing the words she wanted to write. So she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went to talk to Bang Chan — not HR, not her division manager — him.
It wasn’t even supposed to be that dramatic. She just wanted to tell him in advance, as a professional courtesy. Her resignation wouldn’t be immediate, she explained. She wanted to give him time.
Still, she feared his reaction.
Because in all the years Bang Chan had led the DIFANDER Department, no one had ever voluntarily quit under his leadership. Transfers happened, sure — sometimes upper management would reassign people to other divisions. Some got poached by partner media companies. But no one ever walked away by choice.
Until her.
So when she stood in front of his desk, rehearsed explanation ready and resignation email drafted but unsent, she expected surprise. Maybe disappointment. Possibly guilt-tripping.
What she didn’t expect was his reaction.
He blinked once, leaned back in his chair, and after a moment said quietly, “You too?” and that — that floored her.
It was the first time Ryujin realized she wasn’t the only one. That beneath Bang Chan’s easy smile and team pep talks, beneath his calm leadership and constant reassurance, he was tired too. Maybe even more than she was.
He looked at her then — not as her boss, but as someone who understood.
And Ryujin, in that instant, felt a strange mix of guilt and relief.
Guilt for leaving him to hold things together, and relief because someone finally got it.
When she left his office that day, she sat back at her desk, opened her laptop, and just stared at the blank screen for a while. Then she muttered to herself, barely loud enough to hear —“Fuck. I hope the team survives this.”
Ryujin never really meant to hide it from her workplace friends.
Acquaintances? Team? She wasn’t sure what to call them anymore. The line between camaraderie and casual work friendships blurred somewhere between endless editing nights and group take-out dinners on Fridays. Either way, she knew she owed them the truth.
Especially her tablemates.
Hendery and Mark.
At the very least, they deserved to hear it from her before anyone else did.
But somehow, the right moment never came. Every time she thought of mentioning it — that she planned to resign by year’s end — something always came up. Someone called her name, deadlines popped out of nowhere, or she got dragged into a new project. By the time she remembered again, it felt like it was too late to bring up casually.
And maybe, a small part of her admitted, she didn’t want to see Mark’s face when she said it.
Because if there was anyone in the office who made her days bearable, it was him.
She still remembered her week-long vacation that May — the first one she took in years. She told no one except Bang Chan. She wanted to disappear without fanfare, just some quiet time to think, to breathe. But when she came back…
Let’s just say, she was not prepared for the stories that awaited her.
Apparently, Mark Lee had spent the entire week looking like a kicked puppy. Hendery was the one who told her, showing photographic evidence with the same gleeful tone one would use to expose a friend’s crush.
The photos were ridiculous.
Mark sitting at his desk, eyes glued to her empty chair. Mark staring out the window mid-afternoon, still facing her direction. Mark guarding her desk when an intern needed an extra chair — literally refusing to let anyone take hers.
If it weren’t for Hendery’s presence, she was sure her workstation would’ve ended up looking like a shrine.
He even sent her messages during her trip:
“He misses you. If he's a magpie, I’m boring to him, you're the shiny one”
“Do you think if I try to sit on your chair, we’ll finally witness Mark Lee getting angry?”
“The poor fella’s about to cry a river when Boss Chris joked you extended the vacation another week.”
She laughed so hard when she read those that her mom thought she was losing it.
But when she returned to the office the following Monday, she realized Hendery wasn’t exaggerating.
Mark’s reaction was instant and visceral — pure, unfiltered relief. He practically bounded toward her the second she walked in. From that day on, she couldn’t go anywhere without him. He hovered beside her desk, followed her to meetings, and even synced their lunch breaks. The only time he left her alone was when either of them needed the bathroom.
It was adorable… and slightly concerning.
Then came the hotel outfield meeting later that week — a cross-department collaboration with a big-name idol group. They were on the second day of what was supposed to be a 48-hour marathon of brainstorming and planning. The team had ordered some last-minute materials for the presentation, but no one could remember whether they’d shipped it to the hotel or Soompi’s headquarters.
So, naturally, Ryujin volunteered. “I’ll go check HQ,” she said, already halfway out of her seat.
Except she didn’t make it far.
Because Mark Lee — sweet, usually composed Mark Lee — immediately grabbed her wrist and yanked her gently but firmly back down into her chair.
Everyone froze.
Across the long conference table sat people from another department, a few managers, and two members of the idol group they were working with. All of them witnessed it.
Mark, looking pale and panic-stricken, whispered hoarsely, “no, no, no. I need you here. We need you here. You are not allowed to leave me.”
The words came out in a rush — panicked, desperate, genuine.
Ryujin could only blink at him, half-embarrassed, half-amused.
It wasn’t just that his voice cracked mid-sentence. It was that he looked utterly horrified at the thought of her leaving, like her absence might derail his entire sense of equilibrium.
And for a fleeting moment, she thought: If this is how he reacts when I leave for five minutes, how’s he going to take it when I’m gone for good?
But she smiled anyway, quietly tugging her hand free unsuccessfully. “Relax, Lee,” she murmured, trying to play it off. “I’m just checking a parcel, not emigrating.”
He didn’t laugh.
That night, back at the hotel, she lay awake in her room — thinking about how easily she kept pushing her resignation talk away.
Maybe it wasn’t just timing after all. Maybe it was because leaving meant leaving this. Leaving him.
And for reasons she didn’t want to unpack yet… that was harder than she thought.
It all started with a closed-door meeting.
June was warm, humid, and unbearably loud with gossip — both in the media and within Soompi’s DIFANDER Department. Promotion rumors were running wild. Someone swore they overheard the HR floor talking about “editorial restructuring.” Another claimed to have seen Bang Chan carrying new position drafts for senior editors.
But for Ryujin, it was less about rumors and more about the truth she already knew.
That morning, Chris had called her in.
It was short, straightforward, and somehow still suffocating.
“There’s no backing out now,” he told her gently. “I’ve processed it. The higher-ups know you’re intent on leaving before the end of the year. You said maybe October or November?”
She nodded, fingers laced together on her lap. “Yes. Preferably before things get too hectic for year-end reporting.”
He nodded back. “You’ve been here long enough to earn the right to time your exit. Just… don’t vanish on me without a proper goodbye, alright?”
She laughed softly at that, even if it didn’t reach her eyes.
But by the time she walked out of Chris’s office, determined and oddly lighter, the storm had already begun brewing outside.
Because apparently, just being seen entering that office with a serious face was enough to set the entire floor ablaze.
By lunch, everyone had a theory. By 3 p.m., Karina and Hendery were whispering near the coffee machine. By 5 p.m., someone had confidently declared that “Chris is moving up, and Ryujin’s replacing him.”
The math made sense to them — Ryujin was the most consistent, the most capable, the one who always handled the hard assignments. And, sure, she had just come from a private meeting with the boss.
No one thought for a second that she might’ve been plotting her exit.
And as the rumors grew, Ryujin realized something painfully clear: she couldn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Maybe not until the last possible moment.
Because one afternoon that same month, while she was quietly editing at her desk, Mark leaned toward her — voice low, casual, like they were sharing a secret.
“So… hypothetically,” he began, spinning his pen between his fingers, “if you ever got promoted, would they backfill your position? Or like—” he gestured toward Chris’s office “—would you move in there right away?”
Ryujin froze mid-scroll on her monitor. She knew about the rumors. Everyone did. But hearing him bring it up — the soft curiosity in his tone, the slight nervousness underneath — it twisted something in her chest.
She could’ve deflected. Could’ve joked. But instead, she answered hypothetically too. “Well, no. I’d still be doing everything I do now. Just… with a better title and more pay, if ever.”
Mark nodded seriously, absorbing every word like a gospel truth.
“It’s not like I’d transfer departments if I got promoted,” she added lightly. “And no, I don’t think I’d have to move away from this table instantly. Besides, where would Chris go? It’s not like he’s leaving. If ever, our titles would just differ. If ever.”
Mark exhaled, relief flooding his features. “Thank God.”
She looked up from her screen, amused. “What? Why?”
“I thought you were abandoning me, us.” He groaned dramatically, tipping his head back. “I was about to pull the waterworks. You have no idea. My productivity would’ve tanked. Hendery would’ve quit just to avoid me.”
She laughed, but it didn’t last long. Because the more she thought about it — the sincerity behind his relief, the way he said “me” before “us” — the heavier it felt. He wasn’t joking.
And in that moment, Ryujin realized something awful.
If Mark Lee could look that devastated just at the thought of her moving a few desks away, then what the hell was going to happen when she told him she was leaving Soompi altogether?
Well, damn.
If Ryujin thought June was devastating, then what was July?
July was the quiet kind of heartbreak — the one that comes not from something ending, but from realizing that it’s already ending, piece by piece, and you’re the only one who knows.
Because by July, she was no longer just thinking about leaving. She was preparing to.
No one knew except Chris, and somehow, that made every small, mundane moment feel weighted — sacred, even. She lingered more with the team. She made time to eat lunch with Hendery even when she didn’t feel like it. She stopped snapping at Mark for his constant chatter, his clinginess, his habit of leaning against her cubicle wall just to ramble about whatever new song he was looping that week.
She even found herself helping Karina and Sion train the new interns, something she never had the patience for before. She cleared her backlog, filed things properly, scheduled follow-ups in neat little folders — all the while pretending this was just her getting more “organized,” not her slowly cleaning up her traces.
For the first time since joining Soompi, she was sleeping properly. Less caffeine, more routine, fewer nights spent glaring at screens at 2 a.m.
It was the healthiest she’d ever been — and somehow, that terrified her.
Because it meant she was already letting go.
She wasn’t detached, not really, but she could feel the emotional distance creeping in. That subtle gap between “I’m part of this” and “I’ll be leaving this.”
And yet, every time Mark did something stupid — some spontaneous, golden-retriever nonsense — she was yanked right back in.
When Bang Chan’s official hybrid policy change email went out for both divisions — Digital Featuring and Entertainment Reporting — the office chat exploded. It was a long, dry memo about alternating workdays, reduced in-person hours, and “enhancing workplace flexibility,” but of course Mark had to make it dramatic.
He read the email out loud, like a preacher giving Sunday sermon, and grinned straight at her when he reached the last line. “We are gonna get to know each other so well, I am so excited!”
Ryujin didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Lee, we’re in different divisions, yes, but we’re already well past how much I want to know about you.”
Hendery, from the next cubicle, almost choked on his water laughing.
Mark pouted immediately. “But dude, I wanna know more about YOUUUU!”
She just sighed, saving her draft as Hendery wheezed in the background. Typical.
Then there was that one afternoon in mid-July, the kind that felt too still, too bright. Ryujin had hit an editor’s block, staring out the big window by her desk while the world outside blurred in afternoon heat.
And that’s when she noticed it — Mark, sitting beside her, suddenly perking up like a dog hearing a doorbell the moment Hendery stood from his chair.
“Hendery,” Mark called, eyes wide, tone eager. “Can I walk with you?”
Hendery blinked, bemused. “Uh, sure, buddy. Wanna hold hands?” he teased, stretching out a palm like he was talking to a toddler.
Mark nodded so fast it was almost comical — bright grin, eyes sparkling, actually bouncing on his feet.
And just like that, they walked out of the office hand in hand, leaving Ryujin staring at the scene like a spectator at the world’s most ridiculous sitcom.
She snorted, shook her head, and went back to typing. The office felt lighter after that.
Then came August 1st, the day before Mark’s birthday.
Everyone had assumed he’d leave early — celebrate with his friends, sleep in, whatever. But at 4:57 p.m., Ryujin looked up from a last-minute article to see him still standing by his desk, bag slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the office clock like he was watching it out of spite.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The second hand moved; he didn’t.
Finally, she gave in and asked, “Are you… waiting for the clock to reach three minutes so you can leave?”
He turned to her, serious as ever — then beamed. “Yes.” She stared at him, dumbfounded. “You know you could just go now, right?”
“But it’s not five yet,” he said, grinning wider. She groaned, laughing despite herself. “You’re impossible.” “And punctual,” he added proudly.
The clock hit 5:00. He waved cheerfully, “Bye, Ryujin!” and practically skipped out the door.
That night, as Ryujin packed up her things in the now-quiet office, she smiled to herself.
For all the exhaustion and routine, she knew one thing with absolute certainty — she’d miss this.
The noise, the chaos, the laughter.
But most of all, she’d miss Mark’s ridiculous, bright, unfiltered energy — the one that somehow made even her worst days feel a little bit less gray.
Ryujin’s visits to Bang Chan’s office during September became so frequent that Hendery started jokingly asking if she had transferred divisions. By then, everyone in the DIFANDER Department had their own theories — they’re planning restructuring, they’re getting ready for an expansion, maybe they’re creating a new project together. The whispers filled the coffee machine corners, the elevator rides, and even the group chats that pretended not to exist.
But Ryujin knew the truth — they were close. Close enough that she could sit across from Bang Chan, both of them nursing empty mugs of coffee gone cold, talking about contingency plans like they weren’t talking about themselves.
Because when — not if — she leaves, and when he leaves… two seats will go empty. Two heavy, defining, irreplaceable seats.
And both of them, by sheer coincidence or cruel irony, were leaving on the same day: October 29th.
It wasn’t planned. Not exactly. Their resignations had just happened to align in timing, in process, in reason. And yet somehow, it felt right. It was as if the universe looked at both of them and said, it’s time.
Bang Chan sighed during one of their longer meetings. “You know they’re not going to work that day, right?”
Ryujin gave a tired laugh. “Yeah. No one’s going to work. Not when the both of us are gone.”
There was a silence that sat between them — heavy, honest, but peaceful.
Because they both knew no one in DIFANDER had this outcome in their bingo cards. Not a single person would’ve guessed that by the end of October, Bang Chan — the department’s beloved, calm, hybrid-friendly Director — and Ryujin Shin — the sharp-edged, quietly dependable Editor — would be gone.
And yet here they were, making the list. Planning for what happens after them.
Names scattered across the table in sticky notes and printouts, ink circled and crossed out. “Karina Yoo,” Ryujin murmured, reading from one of the notes, “Head of DIFANDER Department. You’re really sure about that?”
Bang Chan nodded slowly. “She has the initiative. And she’s the only one I’ve seen who can handle both the business and the chaos.”
Ryujin smiled faintly. “That’s one way to describe DIFANDER — chaos.”
He laughed, quiet and knowing.
“Sion Oh,” she continued, tapping another note, “Division Manager for Digital Featuring.”
“And Hendery Wong for Entertainment Reporting,” Chan replied. “Even though…”
“Even though you’re planning to merge them,” Ryujin finished for him.
He tilted his head, smiling a little. “You remember everything.”
She shrugged, but her eyes softened. “I listen.”
They worked like that — hours stretched between them, sometimes filled with discussions, sometimes just the soft hum of computers and the scratch of pens. The kind of silence that existed only between people who understood the weight of goodbyes.
By the time the final list was settled, Ryujin read it one last time.
Karina Yoo — Head of DIFANDER
Sion Oh — Division Manager, Digital Featuring
Hendery Wong — Division Manager, Entertainment Reporting
Kyujin Jang — to be promoted from intern to permanent staff
Haewon Oh — new Content Stage Liaison for Digital Featuring
Julie Han — to be transferred out
She stared at the last name longer than she meant to. “Are you sure about Julie?”
Bang Chan leaned back, rubbing his temples. “She’s… lost her spark. She’s good, but lately, she’s been dragging the team down more than helping it. And you know I don't care about rumors but when... things get out of hand and she's still wearing the office ID, well...”
Ryujin sighed. “Yeah. I noticed.”
He looked at her, the kind of look that lingered just long enough to say what words couldn’t. “You’ve done well, you know. Not everyone leaves behind a system that can run without them.”
Ryujin smiled — small, real. “I just don’t want it to break the moment I step out.”
“It won’t.”
She wanted to believe him.
As she left his office that afternoon, holding the finalized printout of the internal promotion notice they’d soon draft into an email, she passed by the familiar buzz of the office — Karina at the far table, gesturing passionately at her screen, not noticing Sion is laughing with Haewon as they watch her; Hendery balancing a mug and three folders; and Mark, in his corner, grinning at nothing in particular as he typed away.
For a moment, Ryujin stood there and took it all in. The light filtering through the blinds, the sound of fingers hitting keyboards, the faint scent of roasted coffee from the pantry.
It hit her, then —
That this was the calm before everything changed.
And she was the one who decided to leave first.
But she also knew… she was the one who made sure everyone else could stay.
Flashback End
Ryujin didn’t know how long it took before she finally sealed the last flap of her box. Time had lost its shape somewhere between Mark walking out and the deafening quiet that followed.
The only things she could register were fragments — Bang Chan’s familiar voice announcing, “Lunch break. Meeting’s at two,” the soft ding of the lunch bell echoing through the floor, the hum of the office lights above her. But no one moved.
No one reached for their wallets, no one laughed or stretched or shuffled toward the cafeteria. The DIFANDER Department — always noisy, always alive — felt frozen in amber.
Hendery was still sitting to her left, elbows on his knees, eyes gentle but wordless. On her right — the chair was still empty. Mark hadn’t come back.
Ryujin pressed the tape down firmly over the top of the box and exhaled. It was supposed to feel like relief. It didn’t.
She looked up, finally, and instantly regretted it.
Dozens of eyes met hers — some wet, some confused, some angry in their own quiet ways. Disappointment. Sadness. Disbelief. It was all there, reflected in people she’d worked with, led, and occasionally bickered with for the last two years.
Before Hendery could say anything — before anyone could — Ryujin stood. She grabbed her wallet and phone, left the packed box sitting neatly on her desk, and walked out.
No words. No apologies. Just the steady sound of her own footsteps against the polished floor.
She didn’t head for the cafeteria. She didn’t even consider food.
Because she already knew where he was.
Soompi’s headquarters lobby, tucked behind the glass elevators and the vending machines, had one of those odd luxuries only big companies could afford — a small, soundproof karaoke bar for employees. Three cubicles, cheap microphones, bad lighting, and old songs that refused to fade from memory.
That was where Mark always went when he needed to “decompress.” Or, as he’d once called it: “vocally ventilate.”
She’d laughed at the phrase then. Now, she could barely breathe thinking about it.
When she reached the lobby, she didn’t hesitate. She paid the staff at the counter, ignoring their confused look as she headed straight to the third cubicle — the only one with the red “OCCUPIED” light glowing above it.
She didn’t knock.
She yanked the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click.
The music hit her first — loud, messy, heart-wrenching. The kind of off-key belting only heartbreak or anger could produce.
Then she saw him.
Mark Lee, standing by the karaoke machine, fists clenched, punching the poor record book between sobs. His knuckles were red. His shoulders were shaking.
He didn’t even notice her at first. Didn’t register the door opening, didn’t hear her footsteps over the noise.
He just stood there, crying — not quietly, not prettily — but the kind of crying that cracks through every layer of a person who’s been holding it all in for too long.
Ryujin froze. For all the years she’d known him, through every goofy grin, every pout, every ridiculous coffee joke — she had never seen this. And it hit her, bone-deep and brutal, that she was the reason.
Her throat tightened. The guilt that had been simmering all day finally surged like a wave.
Because she’d thought she could leave cleanly. Gracefully. Without breaking anything. But looking at him now — she realized she’d already broken something irreplaceable.
“Please… stop crying.”
The words came out small, trembling — not like Ryujin Shin, the team’s calm and grounded editor. It was a whisper she didn’t even know she’d said until her arms were already wrapping around him from behind, pulling him into a shaky hug.
Mark froze mid-motion, his hand still raised over the abused karaoke songbook. His body stiffened instantly — not because of the hug itself, but because of who it came from.
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything for a long beat. And then, his voice broke, low and unsteady — something between a plea and a quiet accusation.
“You don’t get to beg like that,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “You don’t have any right. I should be the one begging. Begging for you to stay. Why are you leaving? Why would you leave me?”
The words struck deeper than she expected. She loosened her arms instinctively, her hands hovering helplessly at his sides.
She’d prepared herself for tears, anger, even guilt-tripping. But not this — not him saying it that way.
Because she knew. God, she knew.
He wasn’t angry about her resignation. He wasn’t even thinking about Soompi.
He was talking about them.
Whatever undefined, inexplicable, too-close bond they’d built over two years of shared desks, shared lunches, shared late nights, shared looks — it was that he was afraid to lose.
And she hated that she understood it perfectly.
Because if it were anyone else — any other coworker, any other teammate — she wouldn’t have tolerated half the things Mark did. His little habits, the way he hovered, how he always saved her an extra pack of banana milk, the quiet waiting whenever she was stressed.
If it were anyone but him, she would’ve drawn a line a long time ago.
But it was him. And she let him stay close.
So instead of saying anything, she just hugged him tighter. She buried her face into the back of his shoulder, her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt as the music looped aimlessly in the background.
He didn’t move at first. Then slowly, painfully, his hand came up to clutch hers, fingers trembling as if he were holding on for dear life.
“I’m not going away so far that you won’t see me ever,” she said after a while, voice muffled, breaking into a small, forced laugh. “We’re neighbors, Lee. We just won’t see each other daily.”
Mark gave a short, wet laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it.”
She pulled back slightly, her brows furrowed. “Is there an us, Mark? Or are you mistaking dependence for partnership brokering beyond business?”
He turned then — finally turned — his eyes red and glassy but fierce in the way only he could be when he’d decided to be honest.
“Ryujin Shin,” he said, voice cracking but steady enough to hit her square in the chest. “Even the blind sees I’ve been courting you for two years now.”
It was like someone had slapped her.
Ryujin stepped back, air knocked out of her lungs. “Say what now?”
Mark blinked once, twice — as if realizing what he’d just said — but then lifted his chin stubbornly, like there was no taking it back.
“You heard me,” he said, his voice trembling. “Two years. I thought you knew.”
She half-laughed, half-sobbed, shaking her head like she was trying to wake up from a dream. “You can’t just drop a confession like that after I resign, Mark!”
“Then when was I supposed to say it?” His voice rose — not in anger, but desperation. “When you’re already gone? When I don’t get to see you every day anymore?”
The room fell silent except for the soft static hum of the karaoke speaker.
Her breath hitched. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t even angry anymore.
He was breaking.
He took a step forward but stopped midway, as if even the act of moving closer would make her shatter too.
“I knew you’d leave eventually,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Everyone leaves, Ryujin. But I thought… maybe if I just stayed close enough, you’d have a reason to stay.”
Her throat burned. Her heart ached with something she refused to name.
Because she wanted to tell him the truth — that he was the reason she stayed. That the only reason she pushed her resignation this far back was because of the people who made the long hours bearable — because of him.
But to say that now would only wound him deeper.
So instead, she took a small, shuddering breath and forced the words out as softly as she could.
“You’re not the reason I’m leaving, Mark,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You were one of the few reasons I stayed as long as I did.”
And that — that was the breaking point.
Mark’s face crumpled like paper. His hands covered his face as a sob tore through him, raw and unguarded, all pretense gone.
Ryujin’s knees went weak at the sight, but she crossed the distance anyway, pulling him into a hug that was no longer about comfort — it was about holding something that was already slipping away.
They stayed like that for what felt like forever — just two people who had no idea how to be colleagues, friends, or anything else anymore without hurting.
The jukebox switched songs quietly in the background — some old ballad about farewells, a cliché they’d usually laugh at.
But neither of them laughed now.
Because for the first time, Ryujin understood something cruel and simple:
Some goodbyes don’t end in slammed doors or closure. Some just end with two people crying quietly in a room — still holding on, but knowing it’s already over.
The music had long faded, but the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy, thick with things neither of them could bring themselves to say.
Mark’s breathing had evened out, quiet and shaky against Ryujin’s shoulder. The warmth of him—too close, too real—made it hard to remember that this was goodbye, not a reconciliation.
Ryujin finally loosened her hold, hands sliding down his arms until her palms rested against his wrists. “Mark.”
He didn’t answer, eyes trained on the floor.
“I have to go back,” she said, softly. “Bang Chan’s waiting. They’re probably—”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice hoarse. He swallowed, forcing his gaze upward, forcing a smile that was anything but steady. “You should go. You’ve got people to face. You’ve got… goodbyes to say.”
“You’re coming with me.”
It wasn’t a question. Ryujin said it in the same firm tone she used during morning briefings—the tone that left no room for negotiation.
Mark blinked at her, confused. “Ryujin—”
She cut him off. “You think I’m gonna let you hide here and sulk while I walk in like nothing happened? Forget it.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a small breath—half disbelief, half reluctant admiration. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
She reached out, and after a hesitant pause, he took her hand. His palm was warm, trembling faintly as she pulled him toward the door.
They didn’t talk as they walked through the hallway, past the vending machines and the framed photographs of Soompi’s early days. Everything looked familiar, and yet, to Ryujin, everything felt slightly out of focus—as if her mind was already detaching itself, archiving these final hours as memories in motion.
She noticed the faint tremor in Mark’s hand the closer they got to the elevator. The realization hit her: he was still crying silently, eyes glassy but no tears falling anymore. Just that hollow stillness of someone who’d run out of grief to express.
When the elevator doors opened, she gave his hand a squeeze. “We’re not done,” she said quietly.
He looked at her, confusion flickering again.
“We’re just changing scenes.”
The corners of his lips twitched, a ghost of the smile she’d grown used to seeing every morning across their desks. “Yeah,” he murmured. “New script. Same cast.”
The elevator ride up to the DIFANDER Department felt endless. Ryujin could already imagine the atmosphere upstairs—stifled, tense, brittle like glass. When the doors slid open, she wasn’t wrong.
Every head turned. Bang Chan stood near his desk, expression unreadable but posture straight. He looked like someone who’d already mourned and was just going through the final motions.
“Ryujin. Mark.” His voice was calm, steady, practiced. “Glad you both didn't decide to run away impulsively for the time being. We have a lot to discuss.”
Mark immediately dropped his gaze to the floor, sliding quietly toward his desk. Ryujin, however, squared her shoulders and stepped closer to Bang Chan.
She could feel the tension around her, the weight of curiosity and disbelief. She had spent months preparing for this moment, but no amount of emotional rehearsal could really prepare you for the finality of it all.
Bang Chan waited until she stopped beside him. Then, he reached for the mic connected to the floor speakers—an odd but familiar relic of the office, mostly used for emergency announcements or team celebrations.
The sound feedbacked briefly before stabilizing.
“Everyone,” he began, tone low but clear. “I know this isn’t what you expected today. But it’s time we officially make the announcements.”
He glanced at Ryujin once, then continued.
“As of today, Ryujin Shin is officially stepping down as Division Manager for Digital Featuring. Her resignation has been in process for months now, and while she tried to make this transition smooth, I know this still comes as a shock to most of you, even when you've already grasped some of the situation earlier.”
And it was indeed. Even when the room registered the signs earlier, it was still a shock. Ryujin bowed slightly, a small, formal gesture that didn’t even begin to express the mess of feelings beneath.
Bang Chan’s voice softened. “Ryujin has been one of the core pillars of this department since she joined. Her professionalism, her precision, her patience—” He smiled faintly. “—and yes, her sarcasm and straightforwardness—have kept DIFANDER functioning even when I was ready to tear my hair out.”
A few chuckles broke the tension. Even Mark managed a quiet laugh behind his sleeve. Bang Chan continued, “She’s leaving on good terms, and I’m proud to say she’s the best kind of colleague anyone could ask for. And because of her, we’re confident that DIFANDER will continue to thrive.”
He shifted papers on the desk—though everyone knew he didn’t need them. “Now, for the next chapter.”
Ryujin folded her hands in front of her, a calm facade masking the bittersweet tug in her chest as he read the list they’d gone through so many times in private.
“Effective immediately: Karina Yoo will be stepping up as the new Head of DIFANDER Department.” Karina froze. Her eyes widened, and Ryujin caught the exact moment disbelief melted into pride.
“Sion Oh,” Bang Chan continued, “will serve as Division Manager for Digital Featuring. Hendery Wong will lead Entertainment Reporting. Both will work together to bridge the two divisions moving forward.”
Sion looked stunned, mouth slightly open. Hendery blinked once, twice, then gave Ryujin a small, grateful nod—the kind that said I’ll take care of it.
Bang Chan smiled faintly at the younger ones next. “Kyujin Jang will be promoted from intern to full-time staff. Haewon Oh will move up as Content Stage Liaison for Digital Featuring.”
Haewon squealed, half-crying, half-smiling. Kyujin looked like she didn’t know whether to bow, jump or do everything all at once.
“And finally,” Bang Chan said with a pause that made the room tense again, “Julie Han will be transferred to another department for reassignment. Failure to comply will result in penalties, but that's Karina’s job now. As for why that's her job now, I think you all saw it earlier as well. As for why you are getting demoted, you also already know the situations the department has been getting roped up because of your brand and reputation. Please think wise in the future; you have a lot of potential.”
Julie stiffened but didn’t say anything to contradict or complain. With that being said, Bang Chan exhaled, lowering the mic slightly. “These changes come with both excitement and weight. I trust that you’ll support your new leaders and continue the legacy we’ve built here.”
Then, he turned to Ryujin again, voice quiet but heavy with meaning. “And with that… I’ll be stepping down, too.”
The words rippled through the room. For a moment, no one breathed. They saw it earlier, they had a feeling but it was still different when the words finally came to fruition.
“What?” Hendery’s voice cracked through the silence. “Boss, you too?”
Bang Chan chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s been a long time coming. Ryujin and I made this decision months ago. We wanted to ensure the department was stable before we left.”
Karina shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes. “Sir, this—this is too much for one day.”
“Yeah,” Sion muttered faintly, “you two could’ve spaced it out, you know. For our emotional health.”
A sob of a giggle and then real, wet-eyed laughter that broke the heaviness for a heartbeat.
Bang Chan smiled, fond and bittersweet. “You’ll all survive. You’re better than you think.”
He handed the mic to Ryujin. “Say something before they mutiny.”
She blinked, startled. “Oh, I—”
He nodded encouragingly.
Ryujin turned toward her team—her team, for just a few more hours—and took a deep breath.
“I don’t really have a speech,” she began, tone dry, eliciting a few nervous chuckles. “And even if I did, you’d all tune me out halfway through.”
A few laughs. The kind that helped.
“I just want to say… thank you. For making this place more than just work. For being patient, for being funny, for being chaotic in a way that somehow worked. I’ll miss all of it.”
Her gaze flickered to Mark, who was staring at her like he was memorizing every word. “Especially the people who made my mornings worth showing up for.”
She didn’t look away as she said it.
Mark’s eyes glistened, and he looked down quickly, pretending to fix something on his keyboard.
Ryujin smiled faintly, feeling the tears threaten again. “That’s it. No dramatic goodbye, no exit monologue. I’m still around. You know where to find me, I’m one call away if it's an emergency.”
Bang Chan took the mic back, grinning. “Alright, team. That’s enough crying for one day. No work for the rest of the afternoon. Call it… emotional recovery leave. For those who wants to clock out for the day, it's alright. I'll cover your penalties as my last act of being your boss.”
A chorus of cheers erupted. Laughter filled the room again, thin but genuine.
As everyone gathered around to hug, joke, and take photos, Ryujin stood by her desk for the last time, running a hand over the edge, over the faint scratch marks, the coffee ring stains, the little sticky notes she’d left as reminders.
She looked up to find Mark watching her quietly from his seat. When their eyes met, he didn’t look away this time.
He stood, walked over, and without a word, took the box from her hands.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go home.”
Her lips quirked, faint but real. “Yeah. Home.”
They stepped out of the department together, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
The chatter and laughter inside continued, muffled through the hallway, and for the first time all day, Ryujin didn’t feel like she was walking away from something—she was walking toward something new.
The elevator doors slid shut, and as the numbers ticked down, she exhaled slowly, a weight lifting.
The end, she realized, isn’t always final. It’s just another beginning waiting for courage to light it up.
The end is always a beginning, just waiting for warmth to reignite it.
Like a cold cup of coffee reheated — familiar, imperfect, but still sweet.
For Ryujin, that warmth had always been Mark.