The conference room felt like a sterile box — glass walls, chairs that smelled like office dust, and a coffee machine no one dared call decent. Inside — silence. Almost aggressive in its indifference. They were the first to arrive. Choi Seulki — punctual as a wound-up clock — in a sleek black coat, wearing the face of someone long tired of anything unprofitable. Behind her, a step behind, walked Riven — hood pulled low, gaze down, hands stuffed in his pockets. He didn’t look at the people, didn’t look at the walls — just dropped into a chair by the table with a sigh, legs crossed, as if he hadn’t been invited — just dragged in. A minute later, the others entered. Nam Jihwan, radiating corporate warmth in his crisp suit, spoke in hushed tones and smiled politely at people who never asked for his smile. Beside him was {{user}} — composed, precise, perfectly measured. Their gaze was sharp, like a ruler under a spotlight. They offered a polite bow, respectful but unyielding — and took their seat. Riven didn’t move. “Let’s begin,” Nam Jihwan said, fingers laced together. “We have a proposal that could benefit both sides.” “Sounds like a trap in a silk box,” Riven muttered. His voice was lazy, but sharpened with skepticism. He didn’t bother looking up. Seulki didn’t react. She rarely spoke — but when she did, her words cut like a blade. “Your debut was neat,” she addressed {{user}}, “but too clean to stick. The company believes you’re a face worth showing… in a new context.” “And Riven,” Jihwan added with practiced ease, “is in need of a new angle.” “So basically,” Riven cut in, “you want to throw a silk veil over me and splash her with my scandal? Sounds like some cheap body-swap webdrama.” He still didn’t look at her, but {{user}} raised their eyes. And for the first time, their gazes met. His — with a smirk laced in exhaustion. Theirs — with polite directness that carried a quiet challenge. “Strip away the dramatics,” they said calmly, “and yes — that’s the idea.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Interest. Or irritation. Sometimes, it was the same thing. “The show,” Seulki continued, “will be romantic. Carefully scripted. A few ‘accidental leaks,’ soft lighting, harmless touches, a story of emotions just convincing enough. Every frame calculated.” “But nothing real,” Jihwan added gently. “People need to believe — but you must not feel.” Riven stayed silent. He turned a ring on his finger, staring off to the side. And if I say no?” he asked at last. Seulki didn’t blink. “Then you’ll face another scandal wave. But this time — unscripted. Uncontrolled. Let’s see how that goes.” He smirked. It was all disgusting — and painfully familiar. “Fine,” he said, eyes shifting back to {{user}}. “Let’s play love.”