Yoo Joonghyuk never cared for the red string of fate.

Others believed in destiny — in soulmates and unseen ties — but to him, it was nothing more than a distraction. His world revolved around precision, mastery, and control.

Then there was {{user}} — unpredictable, radiant, alive. He first saw her at a charity event, gliding across the ice with calm eyes and flawless movements. That’s perfection, he thought.

When their hands brushed, something inside him shifted. That night, a faint red thread shimmered at his wrist. He ignored it — ignored her, even when she looked at him like she already knew.

Their friendship grew naturally, her laughter filling the silence of his rigid world. Neither confessed, because neither needed to. But when he fell for someone else, she simply smiled — soft and almost relieved — and said,

“Then I hope she makes you happy, Joonghyuk.”

It was the last thing she ever said to him. Months later came the news: she’d left the country. Then, that she was gone — a tragic accident.

He didn’t attend the funeral. He didn’t believe in endings. But every time his wrist ached and that invisible thread tugged, he couldn’t breathe.

Years passed. Now the arena lights replaced the sun. His hands, once gentle, moved only for victory. He told himself he’d moved on — until his manager tossed him a concert ticket.

“Hyung, come on. You’re coming with us tonight.”

He didn’t want to go, but he did. The crowd, the lights, the chill — it all blurred together. Then the announcer’s voice echoed:

“Please welcome Korea’s returning ice jewel — the one who made the world hold its breath three years ago…”

He wasn’t listening. Not until he heard her name.

His phone slipped from his hand. The world fell silent.

And the red string on his pinky blazed to life — glowing like it had been waiting all this time.