The transition from the high-voltage energy of the screening room to the hushed corridors of the LUNE executive wing always felt like descending from a mountain peak. For Mirae, the walk back to her private quarters was a blur of lingering adrenaline and the soft, rhythmic click of her heels against the polished marble. She could still feel the ghost of the script's tension clinging to her skin, the psychic residue of a performance that had pushed her to her absolute limit.
When she pushed open the heavy oak door to her room, the atmosphere shifted. The room was dimly lit, the air smelling of expensive sandalwood and the familiar, comforting scent of Joon-ho's cologne.
