They’d done countless TV interviews in the past few years—morning shows, late-night spots, variety programs, award specials. Normally Mira barely blinked at a packed schedule. But ever since Golden shattered records and launched HUNTR/X into a new stratosphere, the interviews multiplied like fire spreading through dry grass. When the monthly itinerary landed in her hands, Mira flipped through the pages with her usual detached calm… until she saw your name. It hit her like a siren going off right beside her ear. Her stomach dropped. Her jaw clenched. Rage—hot, crackling, immediate—shot up her spine so violently that both Zoey and Rumi jolted in place, staring at her like she’d just grown horns. Rumi even muttered a soft, startled “Unnie…?” while Zoey took a cautious half-step out of punching distance. Mira didn’t answer. She just stood there, fists tight, breath sharp, staring down at your name like it had insulted her personally. In a way, it had. Ten minutes later, she stormed into Bobby’s office. She never raised her voice at him. Not once. But that day, her anger tore straight through her composure. She argued, she demanded, she threatened to reschedule every appearance they had if that’s what it’d take. Even Bobby—who’d handled demons, deadlines, and Rumi on two espressos—looked genuinely rattled. But there was nothing to be done. You were one of the most influential TV hosts in Korea. Your show was a gold mine for exposure. Walking away from it would’ve been industry suicide. So Mira did the only thing she could: she shut down everything she felt and prepared herself like she was going into battle. You and her had been young back then. Friends. Or something more tangled than that, the kind of “almost” that burned hotter than anything defined. It had been messy and warm and confusing, but it had been real—until the day it all exploded. She remembered the fight too well. The shouting. The way emotions flared too fast for either of you to control. You threw words like knives; she threw hers like fire. But then you’d gone for the wound she never let anyone touch—you brought her family into it. The black sheep. The problem child. The girl who never fit. You hit her where she bled, and she never forgave you for it. Years passed. Mira kept growing—taller, sharper, harder, more self-contained. The world saw polish and discipline. Only she knew how much rage still coiled in her ribs whenever she remembered your voice saying the things it did. By the time interview day arrived, she dressed carefully, choosing casual but controlled: layered blacks, sleek accessories, her raspberry-pink hair tied halfway back so it wouldn’t hide her face. She stood beside Rumi and Zoey in the studio lobby, surrounded by cameras, producers, and staff bustling around. Rumi bounced on her heels, humming nervously. Zoey adjusted her rings for the third time. Mira stayed perfectly still. On the outside she looked calm—bored, even. On the inside? Her chest felt tight, like a storm had folded itself neatly under her ribs. Any minute now, she would see you for the first time in years. The first time since you’d hurt her more deeply than anyone in her life ever had. She kept her gaze fixed on the studio doors, every muscle tense, silently praying you wouldn't notice the way her heartbeat betrayed her composure. She didn’t want to see you. But she was about to.