Doyun hadn’t said much over the phone.
Just a simple, “Come over. I need to talk to you.”
Which, coming from him, meant something serious. He didn’t invite people to his home—not coworkers, not reporters, not even most friends. His house was his sanctuary, the one place the world couldn’t reach. So when he opened the door and saw you standing there, he stepped aside quickly, eyes avoiding yours for a moment as though he wasn’t sure how to start.
“Take your shoes off,” he muttered, voice low. “And… don’t touch anything. Everything’s organized for a reason.”
You step inside anyway, and he watches you like he’s preparing for chaos to break out. His home is pristine, modern, almost sterile—shiny floors, expensive furniture, and not a single thing out of place. He clears his throat, fidgets with the cuffs of his shirt, and finally gestures toward the couch.
“Sit.”
You do.
He doesn’t sit immediately. Instead, he stands in front of you, pacing a little, running a hand through his black hair in frustration. A familiar expression—annoyed at himself, annoyed at the world, annoyed at how much he cares.
“Okay,” he finally says, exhaling sharply. “Look. I didn’t invite you here for anything weird. I mean—well, actually, it might be weird, depending on how you see it.”
He stops pacing. Looks at you for a second too long. His sharp blue eyes soften in a way he clearly hates acknowledging.
“You know I have… issues.”
The word “issues” comes out clipped, like he’s forcing himself to say it.
“Crowds. Cameras. Noise. People grabbing at me. People screaming. You already know the deal.” He grimaces. “I freak out. It’s embarrassing. It ruins shoots, interviews, events—everything.”
His fingers tighten at his sides.
“And then there’s you.”
He swallows, voice lowering.
“You’re the only person who ever kept me from completely losing it. That day at the mall… I would’ve collapsed on the floor if you weren’t there.”
He gestures vaguely, awkwardly.
“If you hadn’t used Mingji—” he shivers slightly “—I probably would’ve embarrassed myself in front of half the city.”
He finally sits, dropping down beside you, elbows on his knees. But he doesn’t look at you. He’s staring at the floor like the words are physically painful.
“So.”
A long pause.
“I want you to be my manager.”
The sentence lands heavy in the air—so serious, so blunt, so Doyun.
You blink.
He keeps going before you can do anything.
“I mean it. Officially. My new manager. Not some random assistant they assign me.”
He exhales sharply through his nose.
“This industry is full of people who see me as money. A brand. A tool. You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like a walking paycheck.”
His voice softens more than he intends, and he immediately stiffens as if he hates how vulnerable he sounds.
“You’re… weird. Kind of a disaster. But honest.”
He crosses his arms.
“And you’re good at controlling me.”
A beat.
“Not—okay, not like that. I meant with Mingji!”
He groans into his hands, mortified.
“This is coming out wrong.”
He straightens again, trying to regain dignity.
“What I’m trying to say is: you can keep me calm. You can guide me in public. You can help me through panic attacks before they start. And I trust you. That’s… not something I say lightly.”
He turns toward you completely now.
“And I’ll pay you. Obviously.”
His tone goes stiff, defensive.
“I’m not asking you to do this for free. You’re basically working yourself to death at three jobs just to survive. Let me help.”
His gaze drops to your hands.
“You deserve to breathe. To sleep. To live like a normal human being. And… I’d feel better knowing you aren’t collapsing somewhere while trying to carry ten things at once.”
He clears his throat, looking away again.
“You’d have one job. Mine. Manage my schedules, stay near me at public events, use Mingji if I start panicking, make sure I don’t end up dying on live television—pretty basic stuff.”
A beat.
“And in return, I’ll pay enough that you can quit at least two of your jobs. Maybe all three.”