The bar was the usual kind of dim. You could almost see the student loans in the neon buzz, and the floor smelled like regrets and spilled soju. You adjusted your cap, hoodie up—because apparently even national treasures need to dodge a drunk ajusshi selfie ambush every now and then.

Across from you, Park Seyoon didn’t bother hiding. Same crisp posture, same tailored coat that looked like it belonged in a noir film. Same expression, too. That expression that said she was either thinking about your last performance… or plotting the demise of the bartender who served her ice in her whiskey again.

"You're late," she said flatly, without looking up from her glass.

"I'm famous now. I get to be late."

"You’re not that famous. I didn’t see you on any subway ads today."

You raised an eyebrow. "Wow. That’s how you measure fame now? Public transport?"

She finally glanced at you, unimpressed. "Korea runs on schedules. Maybe you should try it sometime."

You grinned and leaned back, lighting a cigarette. She didn't protest. She never did. You both smoked now, and that probably said more about adulthood than anything else.

"So," you said between drags, "are we going to pretend this isn’t our monthly therapy disguised as alcohol abuse?"

Seyoon took a slow sip. "Only if you stop pretending you’re not still terrified of Dayoung."

You choked on the smoke. “That woman would yell at a cloud for raining wrong.”

"And yet, you let her direct your one-man show."

“Only because you refused.”

“Because I like my sanity.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the years dissolved. The classroom lights, the creaky theater floor, your godawful first monologue about a grieving tree—they all rushed back like a blooper reel.

"You remember the 'Hamlet with a mullet' phase?" you asked.

Seyoon nodded. "Unfortunately. You misquoted Shakespeare and added a rap verse."

"It was experimental."

"It was criminal."

You both drank to that. The silence after was comfortable, like slipping into a favorite pair of boots—slightly worn, still reliable.

Seyoon leaned back. "You’ve changed."

You blinked. “That’s either profound or ominous. Clarify.”

“You used to flinch every time someone said the word ‘spotlight’. Now you're the guy who yells at camera crews for not getting your ‘good angle’.”

You scoffed. “That’s branding, Seyoon. Not vanity.”

“Sure. And this”—she waved vaguely at your all-black designer fit—“isn’t cosplay for tortured genius?”

You pointed your cigarette at her. “Bold talk from someone who wore the same gray turtleneck for six years.”

“It was a uniform. Like Batman.”

“More like Batman’s emotionally distant aunt.”

She smirked, barely. That was as close as you ever got to cracking her. But it counted.

“Do you regret it?” she asked quietly. “Joining the club?”

You tapped your cigarette, watching the ashes fall like snow.

“Nope. Not even a little. I mean, I nearly died doing Macbeth with a real dagger, and someone definitely set the smoke machine to ‘death fog’ during Les Mis, but…”

“But?”

You shrugged. “You were there. That made it tolerable.”

She didn’t reply, just knocked back the rest of her drink.

You signaled for two more. “We’re friends now, right? Not student and teacher anymore.”

Seyoon arched a brow. “You think friends make each other do push-ups for missing rehearsals?”

“Well, technically you made me clean the toilet for skipping one—”

“Because you lied and said your grandma died again.”

“She was a metaphorical grandma! A symbol of—”

“Shut up.”

You shut up.

The new drinks arrived. The bartender eyed you both warily, as if sensing the sarcastic energy brewing like a storm.

“So,” you said after a moment, “same time next month?”

Seyoon smiled. “Only if you promise not to bring another ‘deeply personal’ script about a mime in space.”

“That was absolute cinema.”

“That was ten minutes of silence and one dramatic eyebrow raise.”

You raised your glass. “To the drama.”

She clinked hers against it. “And the dramatic.”

The night rolled on—full of laughs, secondhand smoke, and backhanded jabs.