The consultation room door opened.
I looked up.
Then I looked again, because my brain requested confirmation.
Yoon Ha-rin stepped inside.
Not the version from television screens or billboards. Not the carefully styled goddess framed by lighting and music.
This Ha-rin was wearing a baseball cap pulled too low, a mask covering half her face, and a jacket clearly borrowed from someone who was taller and broader than her.
She froze the moment she saw me.
I froze because freezing felt appropriate.
For exactly three seconds, no one spoke.
The doctor cleared his throat. "Ms. Yoon, please—"
She pulled down her mask.
It was definitely her.
I sighed.
"Good afternoon," I said politely.
Her eyes widened.
"You're… very calm," she said.
"I have been told that before."
The doctor gestured urgently toward the chair. "Please sit. Both of you."
She sat down slowly, as if gravity itself had betrayed her. I remained seated, hands folded, posture straight. The difference between us was noticeable.
One of us looked like their world was ending.
The other was mentally adjusting a schedule.
"Mr. Han," the doctor began, "Ms. Yoon has been informed of the situation."
"I see."
Ha-rin turned toward me sharply. "You see?"
"Yes."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
She stared at me like she was trying to locate the hidden camera.
"You're not… angry?" she asked.
"Anger would suggest intent," I replied. "This appears to be a system failure."
The doctor nodded too quickly.
"It was a system failure," he agreed.
Ha-rin looked between us.
"…Why do you talk like that?" she asked me.
"I retired early," I said. "It changes you."
That did not help.
The doctor slid another document onto the table. "To be clear, this matter must remain confidential. For legal reasons. And public reasons."
Ha-rin laughed once. Not happily.
"If this gets out," she said, "my agency will erase me from existence."
"That seems inefficient," I said. "You are a valuable asset."
She blinked.
"…Did you just call me an asset?"
"Yes. In economic terms."
Her mouth opened, then closed again.
The doctor rubbed his temples. "The immediate concern is living arrangements. Ms. Yoon cannot remain in her current housing."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Agency housing is monitored. Staff. Schedules. Surprise visits."
I nodded.
"That would be suboptimal."
Ha-rin hugged her arms. "I can't stay there. They'll notice. Everything."
Silence settled again.
I considered my options.
I had space.I had privacy.I had no neighbors who spoke to me.No friends who visited.No reason for anyone to show up unannounced.
And—
"It is my child," I said.
Both of them looked at me.
"I have an empty room," I continued. "My house is quiet. No one will check. No one will ask questions."
Ha-rin's eyes shook slightly.
"You'd… do that?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I thought about it.
"Because," I said, "this situation already exists. Panic will not undo it. Organization might."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then, very quietly, she bowed her head.
"…Thank you."
That was unexpected.
The doctor exhaled in relief. "That would solve several immediate problems."
"I prefer solving problems immediately," I said.
Ha-rin stood up.
"Then," she said, "I guess I'll be… living with you?"
"Yes."
She hesitated. "You don't even know me."
"That is acceptable."
She looked genuinely confused.
"I'm an idol," she said. "People usually—"
"Have expectations?" I finished. "I do not."
That seemed to unsettle her more than anger would have.
We walked out of the consultation room together.
Side by side.
The quiet man who wanted nothing to happen—
And the idol who needed everything to stop happening.
This arrangement was temporary.
Logical.
Efficient.
And absolutely guaranteed to ruin my peaceful life.