Chapter Two: The Broken Frame
The first time the public cried for Kang Sae-jin was not when she died.
It was when her mother appeared on national TV, her face swollen, clutching a framed photo of her daughter—one that had clearly been printed that same day. The photo was slightly pixelated, the frame still had its store sticker on it. But no one noticed.
They only saw a grieving mother, trembling hands, and an open wound.
> "She was only twenty-five," the woman whispered into the camera. "She was beautiful… and innocent… until he came along."
No name was said. It didn't need to be.
The broadcast cut to clips of Sae-jin as a child actress—laughing on set, holding her little sister's hand at an award show, bowing shyly beside major celebrities. Soft piano music played underneath. The screen faded to black.
> "A Star Destroyed: Special Broadcast on Kang Sae-jin"
Sponsored by Hera Cosmeceuticals.
Meanwhile, deep in the basement editing rooms of Yu Seul's YouTube channel, a very different kind of mourning was taking place—one filled with caffeine, cameras, and click counts.
Seul didn't cry for Sae-jin. She didn't know her. But she knew a good story when she saw one.
And this? This was gold.
> "Add subtitles. Make the music louder at the part where the mother says 'innocent.'"
"Zoom in on the funeral photo. Blur the others."
"Don't mention the DUI. Or the 2022 club assault case. We're painting her as a victim now."
Her assistant nodded obediently. Neither of them mentioned that the funeral itself had been suspiciously private, with no official cremation notice filed through the government registry. Nor that several relatives reported not being invited.
But the most troubling detail?
Sae-jin's younger sister, Soeun, who had once followed her everywhere like a shadow, posted nothing. Not even a black square. No photo. No "Rest in peace."
Just silence.
---
In Seoul, Ji-hoon sat in a conference room with his legal team. The air was heavy. Not with fear—but disbelief.
"Here," said Attorney Jang, dropping a folder on the table. "Look at this. The suicide note Sae-jin's family released? It's typed. The font isn't even consistent across lines. And get this—"
He flipped to another page.
"—the timestamp on the digital file says it was created two days after she supposedly died."
Min-kyu let out a bitter laugh. "So they're faking evidence now?"
"Or someone else is," Jang said. "But here's the issue—emotion beats evidence every time. No one wants the truth. They want tragedy."
Ji-hoon closed his eyes.
He remembered the moment he first met Sae-jin. It was a commercial shoot. He was already an award-winning actor, and she was still that awkward teenage girl with too much makeup and a hundred expectations on her shoulders.
She had asked for a photo. Just like everyone else that day.
He smiled. She smiled. Click.
That was it.
Years passed. He forgot the moment. Moved on with his life. She didn't.
---
Back in Nigeria, Eunha was now six days into what her roommate called her "obsession."
She didn't mind.
The inconsistencies were piling up:
A tweet from a friend of Sae-jin's claimed she'd died on a Tuesday. News reports said Wednesday.
The hospital where she was "rushed" had no record of her being admitted.
And strangest of all, a fan account—@yu._.0121—had posted a cryptic message three days before her death:
> "He'll pay. The world will see what you did."
The same account that now led the hate campaign against Ji-hoon.
Eunha had a theory: someone was using Sae-jin's death—or faked death—to settle old grudges. And Ji-hoon, the biggest name linked to her by a single photo, had become the perfect scapegoat.
She uploaded her spreadsheet to an online forum under a pseudonym:
> "TruthBeforeTears19"
She didn't know it yet, but it would go viral in 72 hours.
---