Chapter Text
It begins, as most bad decisions do, with Director Ho smiling like this is a gift; the kind of smile that suggests inevitability dressed up as opportunity.
“You’ll be embedded with the Disaster Management Bureau,” he says, tone light, as if he’s assigning her a feature piece and not asking her to disappear into another organization. “One of the Black Tortoise teams.”
Eun Haje stands there with her expression set to something professionally neutral, and thinks—not for the first time—why did I agree to this, the answer arriving with equal predictability.
Right. Because dying on paper is easier than doing it any other way.
“Understood,” she says.
Director Ho beams, which is deeply irritating in a way that feels almost deliberate. “I knew you’d be the right fit.”
Eun Haje leaves before she says something that would require a lawsuit, or at the very least, a very inconvenient follow-up meeting.
The Bureau is efficient; not warm, not particularly welcoming, but structured in a way that suggests it believes in its own necessity. Eun Haje moves through it with ease, posture adjusted, expression calibrated, slipping into the role with the same precision she’s always applied to her work.
What she does not expect is the atmosphere surrounding Kim Soleum.
It’s immediate, almost comical in its consistency; the way conversations derail when his name is introduced, the way people lose their rhythm mid-sentence, like they’ve collectively forgotten how to function.
Eun Haje pauses mid-step, watching a conversation unravel in real time.
“So then Kim Soleum-ssi just—” one agent begins, hands gesturing vaguely, already flustered.
“—he cleared it in, like, half the time,” another cuts in, too quickly, voice edged with an eagerness that borders on embarrassing.
“Right, right, and the way he—” the first tries again, only to falter, words tangling into nothing.
Eun Haje blinks once, slow and deliberate, as if that might reset the scene into something more reasonable.
It does not.
It is not subtle. It is not even particularly well-disguised. These are, ostensibly, professionals—trained, vetted, entrusted with disaster response—and yet the mere mention of Kim Soleum reduces them to something approximating a middle school crush.
She watches one of them physically look away from a hallway when Kim Soleum passes, only to glance back immediately, like they’re testing the limits of their own self-control.
Eun Haje feels a very specific, very familiar irritation settle in her chest.
He has always been like this; not deliberately, not in any way he could be blamed for, but there is something about him that invites attention, collects it, holds it there until people forget how to behave normally around him. At Daydream, it had been contained—manageable, even, under the right supervision.
Here, it is worse; less disciplined, more open, and frankly, borderline embarrassing.
She makes a note of it—not for the report, but for herself, which is arguably more important.
They add her to the group chat within the hour.
It’s labeled, simply, Bureau Rookies!!!, which should have been her first warning.
Eun Haje scrolls through the backlog with the detached focus of a reporter skimming source material, her eyes moving quickly over messages, timestamps, usernames she has not yet attached to faces; it begins normally enough—coordination, scheduling, the expected complaints about assignments—and then, gradually, the pattern emerges.
< did you see today’s report
< he cleared it solo again
< that’s actually ridiculous
Eun Haje pauses. Continues.
< i swear he doesn’t even look tired after
< liar he looked exhausted today
< still cute tho
She exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before she keeps reading, because stopping here would be a mistake.
< does anyone have pics from the debrief room
< asking for a friend
< stfu
< no seriously
There is a brief exchange of reactions, the conversational equivalent of a collective intake of breath, and then—
< i can sell some
< /serious
There is a pause in the chat.
Then:
< ???
< are you serious
< how much
Her grip tightens on the phone, just slightly.
This is insane.
Not in the dramatic sense. In the literal, operationally concerning sense.
As a reporter, she has taken photographs before; she understands the value of documentation, the ethics that are supposed to govern it. This—this is not that. This is something else entirely.
And as Kim Soleum’s former sunbae—
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
She does not like this. She does not like this at all.
(What she does not know, and would perhaps find less surprising than she should, is that Daydream had its own version of this ecosystem; that Kang Yihak, among others, had quietly recognized the economic potential of Kim Soleum’s existence and acted accordingly, grateful in a way that was both pragmatic and deeply opportunistic.)
Eun Haje exhales, slow and controlled.
She will deal with this. Not immediately. But soon.
Agent Haegeum meets her in person that afternoon.
“Eun Haje-ssi,” she says, voice warm, extending a hand with the easy confidence of someone who has been doing this long enough to make it look effortless. “Welcome to the team, rookie.”
Eun Haje takes her hand, grip firm. “Thank you.”
Agent Haegeum is—striking, in a way that doesn’t rely on youth; there are lines at the corners of her eyes, faint but visible, the kind earned rather than inherited, and they do nothing to diminish her. If anything, they sharpen her, give her a kind of quiet authority that does not need to be asserted..
She smiles, and then—winks.
It’s subtle. Quick. Deliberate.
Eun Haje notes it, files it away under personality traits; possible informal leadership style.
“If you ever have any trouble,” Agent Haegeum says, voice dropping just enough to be private, leaning in a fraction closer than strictly necessary, “you know where to find me.”
There is a beat.
Eun Haje nods, because that is the appropriate response. “Understood.”
Agent Haegeum’s gaze lingers for a second longer than required, assessing in a way that feels intentional, before she steps back and lets her expression settle into something more neutral, more public-facing.
“Let’s get you settled,” she says.
Eun Haje follows, her mind already moving three steps ahead, mapping the structure, the people, the points of friction; the Bureau is manageable, the mission clear enough to execute without unnecessary complication.
Kim Soleum, and everything orbiting him—
That, she suspects, will be far more complicated.