The next day arrived faster than Min-woo expected.
He woke up before his alarm, heart already pounding, his thoughts racing ahead of him. After a careful shower, he stood in front of the mirror longer than usual, adjusting his collar, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles, checking his reflection from every angle.
This is real, he reminded himself.
He left early, afraid of being late even by a minute. The commute felt longer than usual, every stop stretching his nerves tighter. When he finally reached the publishing company, the familiar building loomed before him—large, intimidating, and still unbelievably his.
Inside, Mrs. Han greeted him with a warm, professional smile.
"You're right on time," she said. "Please come this way."
Min-woo bowed politely and followed her down the hallway. His footsteps echoed softly against the polished floor, his palms growing slightly damp as they walked. She led him to a waiting area—a clean, quiet room with comfortable chairs and a long glass table.
"There are a few others joining today," Mrs. Han explained. "Please wait here."
Min-woo nodded. "Thank you."
As he sat down, he realized he wasn't alone.
Four others were already there.
They looked to be around his age or slightly older, each carrying folders or tablets, expressions carefully composed but betraying the same mix of excitement and nerves he felt. One of them tapped a pen against their knee. Another kept rereading a document as if afraid it might change if they looked away.
They're webtoon artists, Min-woo realized.
People like him.
His heart thudded louder.
This wasn't just a contract signing—it was a threshold. Everyone in that room was about to step into something new, something bigger. For Min-woo, it felt like standing at the edge of a dream he had chased for so long that he'd almost convinced himself it was unreachable.
He straightened his back, clasped his hands together, and took a slow, steadying breath, grounding himself in the moment. The nervous flutter in his chest didn't disappear, but it settled—enough for him to think clearly.
Whatever happens next, he told himself quietly, I've already come this far.
It wasn't bravado. It was survival. Every late night hunched over a tablet, every rejected email, every chapter he'd redrawn until his wrist ached—none of it had been meaningless. He had earned this seat, this chance, this room.
And somewhere else in the same building—unseen, unspoken—fate was quietly tightening its grip, drawing lines that had once been broken closer together again.
The other candidates shifted in their seats as Mrs. Han returned, and Min-woo finally took a proper look at them.
They were all authors—but very different kinds.
One was clearly romance, judging by the pastel-themed folder and soft, hopeful smile. Another had the sharp, confident air of someone who worked in mature drama, posture relaxed, eyes observant. There was a fantasy writer too, tablet covered in stickers of dragons and swords, fingers constantly tapping as if worlds were waiting to be let out.
And then there was Min-woo.
The only one working in horror and thriller.
He felt it the way he always did—like standing slightly apart from the rest of the room. Not unwelcome, just… different. Horror had always been his refuge. While other kids chased bright stories and heroic fantasies, Min-woo had been drawn to shadows, tension, the quiet dread that crept up slowly and stayed long after the lights were turned off. Fear, to him, wasn't just about monsters—it was about the human mind, about pain, survival, and the things people hid behind calm expressions.
He loved it. Had loved it since childhood.
Soon, Mrs. Han asked all of them to stand and follow her.
They were led into Yoon's office—a spacious, glass-walled room that felt both intimidating and reassuring. Yoon greeted them with the same calm professionalism Min-woo had seen the day before, his expression open, his posture relaxed.
One by one, Yoon handed each of them a contract folder.
"There's no rush," he said evenly, his voice measured and clear. "You'll have up to twenty-four hours to review everything carefully. If you have questions or conditions, we can discuss them tomorrow before finalizing."
Min-woo accepted the folder with both hands, bowing slightly. The weight of it felt heavier than paper alone—as if it carried the promise of a future.
After that, Yoon turned to Mrs. Han. "Please take over."
Mrs. Han nodded and began what felt like a carefully planned introduction to their new world.
She distributed a detailed file labeled Guidelines: Do's and Don'ts, walking them through expectations with clarity and patience. Min-woo listened intently, reading along as she spoke.
Some rules made a few of the others stiffen.
Most of the writing, she explained, was expected to be done on-site. Authors were required to be in regular contact with the editorial team—at least once every three days. For those used to working alone at home, in pajamas and isolation, it was clearly an adjustment.
Min-woo, however, felt something else.
Relief.
When they were shown the writers' space, his eyes lit up despite his efforts to stay composed. The room was quiet, thoughtfully designed—individual workstations, soundproofing, drawing tablets, reference libraries, comfortable seating, even proper lighting designed to reduce strain.
A place where no one would disturb him.
A place built for creators.
He liked that. More than liked it—he felt safe there.
They were then introduced to the content writing department, where story planners and narrative consultants worked, followed by the design and production department. Min-woo's heart lifted as he realized what that meant.
If he got stuck, he wouldn't be alone.
There would be professionals—people whose job it was to help refine ideas, strengthen pacing, solve visual problems. For someone who had always carried everything on his own, that support felt almost unreal.
Finally, they were taken to the main editing department.
This, Mrs. Han emphasized, was where their closest collaboration would happen.
Min-woo met the editing assistants, the associate editors, and the senior editors—faces he would soon come to know well. Some smiled warmly, others nodded with quiet assessment, already evaluating the kind of creator he might be.
He felt exposed. Seen. But also… accepted.
After the tour, Mrs. Han guided all five of them down one last hallway and stopped in front of a cabin larger than the others. The door was closed, the nameplate polished.
"This," she said, "is the managing editor's cabin."
Min-woo's fingers tightened slightly around his contract folder, the thick paper creasing just a little under his grip. He didn't realize why he was holding it so firmly—only that something in his chest had begun to feel strangely heavy, as if the air itself had shifted the moment they stopped in front of that door.
He didn't know it yet—but this room held more than authority and final decisions.
It held a past that refused to stay buried.
A past that had only been sleeping, not gone.
The other recruits sensed it too, though for different reasons. Their expressions were serious, shoulders subtly squared, backs straightened as if by instinct. Everyone in the industry knew this room. The managing editor's cabin wasn't just another office—it was where projects lived or died, where careers could rise or quietly vanish. A single word spoken here could change everything.
Even Mrs. Han, who had been calm and composed all morning, carried herself with extra caution as she reached for the door. Her hand paused for half a second before knocking—a small, telling hesitation. Respect. Awareness. This was the final gatekeeper.
She opened the door and stepped in first.
One by one, the five artists followed.
Min-woo walked in without looking around much, his gaze lowered out of habit, his thoughts still busy replaying the contract clauses he'd skimmed earlier. He took his place beside the others and did what he had been doing all day—what he'd learned to do to survive.
He greeted politely.
A small bow. A quiet, respectful "Hello."
Just like the other four.
Then he straightened.
And the world stopped.
His eyes lifted—and landed directly on Tae-won.
For a fraction of a second, Min-woo didn't understand what he was seeing. His mind refused to connect the image with reality. But Tae-won was there. Standing near the desk, posture composed, expression unreadable—his gaze already fixed on Min-woo, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.