Chapter 9: The Dance
Ju‑hyuk texted her on a Thursday afternoon: "Tonight. 8 PM. Wear something you don't mind getting sweaty in."
She met him at a dance studio in Mapo, a place with mirrored walls and a polished floor. It was empty except for the two of them and a Bluetooth speaker.
"I'm not dancing alone," Seo‑ah said.
"You're not dancing alone." He set his bag down and pulled off his jacket. Underneath, he was wearing a simple black t‑shirt and sweatpants. It was the most casual she had ever seen him.
"You dance?"
"I used to. In college." He connected his phone to the speaker. "It's been a while."
The music started—something slow, with a steady beat. Ju‑hyuk held out his hand.
Seo‑ah stared at it. "I don't know how."
"Neither do I. Not anymore." He didn't lower his hand. "That's the point."
She took his hand.
He led her to the center of the floor. His grip was warm, steady, nothing like the cold efficiency she had come to expect from him.
"Just move," he said. "Don't think."
"That's impossible."
"Then think about this."
He pulled her closer—not close enough to be romantic, but close enough that she could feel his body heat. His hand settled on her waist. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
They moved.
It was awkward at first. Seo‑ah kept looking at their feet, counting steps, trying to anticipate. But Ju‑hyuk didn't correct her. He didn't give instructions. He just held her and moved, letting her find her own rhythm.
Slowly, she stopped thinking.
The music changed—faster now, a Latin beat. Ju‑hyuk's grip tightened, and he spun her, and she stumbled, and he caught her, and she laughed. A real laugh, the kind she had almost forgotten she was capable of.
"Again," she said.
He spun her again. This time she didn't stumble.
They danced for an hour. When the music finally stopped, Seo‑ah was breathless, her hair escaping from its pins, her cheeks flushed.
"Well?" Ju‑hyuk asked. He was breathing hard too, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.
"I think," she said, "that was the most fun I've ever had."
He smiled—a real smile, not the cold boardroom version. "Good."
She looked at the viewership counter. 94%.
"You're watching," she said.
He tilted his head. "What?"
She almost told him. The words were on her lips—the afterlife, the producers, the counter, the deal—but she stopped herself.
"Nothing," she said. "Thank you."
They stood in the empty studio, the silence settling around them. Something had shifted between them—she could feel it, a tension that hadn't been there before.
"Seo‑ah," Ju‑hyuk said. His voice was different. Softer.
"Yes?"
He stepped closer. "There's something I need to tell you."
Her heart beat faster. "What?"
"The third arc," he said. "The moment of happiness. I think I know what it is."
"What?"
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her cheek, and she felt it like electricity.
"You," he said. "Being seen. Not as a contract worker. Not as someone's doormat. Not as a cautionary tale." His hand cupped her face. "As yourself. Exactly as you are."
Seo‑ah's eyes burned. No one had ever said that to her. No one had ever looked at her like this—like she was worth looking at.
"Ju‑hyuk—"
His phone rang.
The moment shattered. Ju‑hyuk stepped back, his expression shifting back to something more controlled. He answered the call, listened for a moment, and his face went pale.
"I understand," he said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
He hung up and looked at Seo‑ah. His jaw was tight.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Director Cha," he said. "He was released on bail this morning. And now he's gone missing.