Chapter Text
A few months pass after the Kiss Your Enemy or Die incident.
Oddly enough, you don't remember much of what happens after leaving the rooftop. Your brain, perhaps out of mercy, buries the entire experience beneath several layers of psychological self-defense.
Somewhere deep inside your mind, there's probably a dusty file labeled DO NOT OPEN: TRAUMATIC LIP CONTACT, and you're perfectly content leaving it there.
What you do remember is sprinting into your apartment like a woman possessed. The front door barely survives the force with which you fling it open. You don't even bother taking off your shoes before making a beeline for the bathroom. The faucet is turned on so violently it squeaks in protest.
You snatch your toothbrush, squeeze an alarming amount of toothpaste onto it, gargle enough mouthwash to disinfect an operating room, and begin scrubbing your mouth with the determination of someone trying to erase a crime scene.
“Come off,” you mutter between furious strokes. “Come off.”
You scrub until your gums ache. You brush once. Then twice. Then a third time because apparently your dignity is measured in layers of mint flavor. At some point, you stare at the bottle of mouthwash with such intensity that the absurd thought of using rubbing alcohol crosses your mind before your remaining common sense tackles it to the ground.
When you finally straighten, you're greeted by your reflection in the mirror. Your lips are swollen.
Not slightly swollen.
Not noticeably swollen.
Catastrophically swollen.
You look like you challenged a particularly territorial bee to a fistfight and lost.
“Huh. Worth it!” you decide after a minute of contemplation.
Unfortunately, fate has never once been on your side.
At exactly six in the morning, your phone erupts with your manager's ringtone.
You answer with the enthusiasm of a corpse. “Yes... Hello...?”
“[Name], emergency schedule. Company meeting. Be here within the hour.”
You look at the mirror. Then at your mouth. Then back at the mirror, as if checking whether your reflection is seeing the same disaster.
“You've got to be kidding me...”
There isn't enough concealer, contour, or divine intervention in South Korea to disguise this.
You arrive at the company building wearing a mask pulled suspiciously high over your face. Every stylist who passes you gives you a second glance. One makeup artist asks if you're having an allergic reaction. Another quietly offers to call a dermatologist.
You simply smile beneath the mask. “I've experienced something much worse.”
Nobody presses further.
They probably shouldn't.
The only person shameless enough to react differently is Park Moondae.
He looks up from his phone the moment you enter the practice room. His eyes linger on your face for exactly one second as realization dawns.
The corners of his lips twitch almost imperceptibly.
“Pfft.”
It isn't even a proper laugh.
It's somehow worse.
You hear it anyway.
Your eye twitches. The audacity of this bitch—
He makes the fatal mistake of meeting your gaze.
Oh, Park Moondae. You smile at him.
Not kindly.
Not warmly.
Moondae studies your expression, silently reassesses his life choices, and decides survival is, in fact, a priority. Without saying a word, he calmly turns around and walks away.
You point after him with murderous sincerity. “I'll end you.”
He doesn't even look back. “I heard that.”
“I wanted you to.”
From that day onward, your relationship evolves into something so astonishingly petty that even the staff eventually stop questioning it.
Neither of you greets the other.
If you happen to enter the same hallway, one of you immediately turns around and finds another route. When there's only one elevator available, someone quietly chooses the stairs instead. If he arrives first in a waiting room, you wait outside until he's gone. If you arrive first, he suddenly discovers an urgent reason to stand in the corridor.
Then came KakaoTalk.
One evening, after staring at Moondae's profile picture for a full thirty seconds with nothing but resentment in your heart, you press the block button.
Three minutes later...
He blocks you back.
Neither of you ever acknowledges it.
Somehow, that makes it even funnier.
By the time TeSTAR approaches its seventh anniversary, the company decides it's the perfect excuse to organize a dinner gathering for every artist under the label. Officially, it's meant to discuss future activities and strengthen relationships between labelmates.
Unofficially, it's several hours of forced socialization disguised as corporate bonding.
You slide the door to the private restaurant room open.
The very first person you see is Moondae.
Naturally, he looks up at the worst possible time. Your eyes meet.
Your expression immediately sours.
His face goes completely blank.
Neither of you says a word.
Instead, you both look away at precisely the same time. No greeting. No nod. No acknowledgment whatsoever.
You choose the seat farthest away from him with the conviction of someone avoiding both the plague and an unwanted conversation.
Moondae appears visibly relieved by that decision.
Good. The feeling is mutual.
The dinner proceeds surprisingly peacefully. Plates of grilled meat, seafood, and side dishes gradually fill the table while conversations overlap from every direction.
You find yourself chatting comfortably with Ahyeon and Eugene, occasionally stealing pieces of meat whenever Eugene gets distracted by another conversation. Across from you, Moondae is equally occupied speaking with Chungwoo and Raebin.
For an hour, everything remains blissfully normal.
Then KeunSe smiles.
It's the kind of smile that has historically preceded disasters.
“You guys know what I found out recently?” he asks, already biting back laughter.
Eugene looks up with his cheeks stuffed full of beef. “Hm? What is it?”
KeunSe slaps the table dramatically. “Our Moondae here blocked [Name] on KakaoTalk!”
Silence crashes over the room.
Every head slowly turns.
First toward Moondae.
Toward you.
Without exchanging a single glance beforehand, both of you simultaneously swivel your heads toward KeunSe.
The synchronized death glare is so perfectly timed that it almost deserves applause.
This lunatic...
Chungwoo blinks several times, “Moondae... did what?”
“I only found out because [Name] and I had a joint schedule!” he wheezes between breaths. “I borrowed Moondae's phone to message her, and it suddenly said she'd been blocked!”
He pounds the table with one hand, laughing even harder.
“I thought his phone was broken!”
BaeSe raises an eyebrow. “That's unexpected. I've never actually seen the two of you interact.”
Ahyeon nods in agreement. “M-me neither...”
You let out a weary sigh. “I blocked him too.”
Another silence follows.
Longer this time.
Everyone around the table wears nearly the exact same expression.
You... blocked each other?
Mutually?
On purpose?
Moondae continues eating as though nothing happened, clearly hoping the conversation will die a natural death.
It doesn't.
Chungwoo looks between the two of you, visibly fascinated. “What exactly happened?”
You shrug. “We just don't vibe with each other.” Your tone is astonishingly casual. “It's normal, no big deal.”
Moondae nods without looking up from his meal. “That's right.”
“They even agree...”
“They're agreeing about disliking each other,” Raebin points out.
“I don't know if that's better or worse,” Eugene mutters.
“It's definitely worse.”
Meanwhile, KeunSe is still laughing so hard tears have begun forming in the corners of his eyes. “This is the funniest thing I've learned all year.”
“It really isn't,” Moondae says flatly.
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
Chungwoo chuckles as he watches the exchange unfold. “Well.... isn't this exactly why company dinners exist? To help everyone become closer?”
Every survival instinct in your body immediately activates. Don't tell me...
“So why don't you both use tonight as an opportunity to—”
“No, thank you.”
“No, thank you.”
The refusal comes out in perfect unison.
Silence falls over the table once more.
You raise your head. Moondae does the same. Your eyes meet.
Neither of you blinks.
Neither of you looks away.
The atmosphere becomes so painfully awkward that Eugene stops chewing mid-bite. Ahyeon awkwardly looks down at his plate. Raebin instinctively reaches for his water. Even BaeSe pinches the bridge of his nose.
KeunSe, however, shamelessly reaches for his phone. “Oh, this is definitely going in my memories!”
Without taking your eyes off Moondae, you say matter-of-factly, “If you record this, I'll block you too.”
KeunSe immediately lowers the phone. “...Understood.”
Haaah. You excuse yourself from the company dinner under the pretense of needing some fresh air, ignoring the curious glances that follow as you slip out of the private room.
The muffled laughter and overlapping conversations gradually fade behind the closing door, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights stretching across the empty hallway.
The nearest restroom is thankfully deserted.
The door clicks shut behind you and the composure you've been forcing yourself to maintain all evening finally fractures. You plant both hands against the sink so hard your knuckles turn white, your fingers curling around the edge of the porcelain as though it's the only thing keeping you upright.
Your breathing comes out uneven, each inhale shallow enough to sting your lungs. Cold water rushes from the faucet, but you don't bother reaching for it.
“I want to get this over with,” you murmur. A humorless laugh escapes your lips. “I just want to go home...”
Something flickers.
“Huh?”
A familiar translucent red window materializes before your eyes.
Your entire body freezes.
The blood drains from your face as glowing letters settle into place with horrifying clarity.
[Status Abnormality: Fall in Love with Your Enemy or Die!]
[You will die unless you fall in love with your enemy within the allotted time.]
[Days Remaining: 365]
Silence envelops the restroom.
Utter, suffocating silence.
Every nerve in your body seems to stop functioning all at once. Your hands grow ice-cold, and the heartbeat that had been pounding only moments ago suddenly feels distant, as though it's coming from someone else's body.
“What?”
Surely you're imagining things.
Stress. Overwork. Sleep deprivation.
Anything.
Any explanation is better than this.
You squeeze your eyes shut and rub them so aggressively that stars burst behind your eyelids.
“Come on...”
You force yourself to look again.
The status window hasn't moved.
It simply hangs there, unmoved, patient, waiting.
“...Shit.”
Your voice trembles.
“...Shit.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it. It sounds wrong—thin, hollow, balanced precariously on the edge of hysteria.
“No.”
You shake your head.
“No... no, no...”
Your feet instinctively stumble backward until your lower back collides with the restroom door. The impact jolts through your spine, but you barely register it.
“This isn't funny.”
Your gaze darts frantically around the empty restroom, searching for hidden cameras, staff members, anyone waiting to jump out and reveal this as some elaborate prank.
There's no one.
Only your reflection.
Only the glowing red window.
Only the sentence quietly informing you that your continued existence now depends on falling in love with the one person you'd sooner throw into the Han River.
“You've got to be kidding me...” Your breathing turns ragged.
Then instinct takes over.
You shove the restroom door open hard enough for it to slam against the wall and practically bolt into the hallway.
You don't remember leaving the company.
You don't remember getting into your car.
You don't remember driving home.
The only thing you remember is that status window following you wherever you go, hovering calmly at the edge of your vision like a patient executioner counting down the days.
For the next three weeks, you disappear.
Your phone remains switched off. Messages pile up. Missed calls multiply by the hour until your voicemail eventually reaches its limit. Your manager calls so often that you've memorized the vibration pattern by heart without ever answering. The company sends emails. Staff members knock on your apartment door. Friends stop by carrying takeout, hoping you'll answer even once.
You never do.
The curtains remain drawn, leaving the apartment shrouded in darkness regardless of the time of day. Meals become optional. Sleep becomes impossible. Most days, you simply sit on the floor with your back against the couch, staring blankly into space while your thoughts chase one another in endless circles.
Fall in love.
With Park Moondae.
The very idea feels like some cosmic joke that refuses to end.
Love isn't something people switch on because they're told to. It isn't homework. It isn't choreography. It isn't another monthly evaluation. And it certainly isn't something that can be forced by a floating blue screen with the emotional sensitivity of a microwave instruction manual.
You try reasoning with it.
Nothing happens.
You ignore it.
Nothing happens.
You spend an entire afternoon glaring at the status window, hoping spite alone will make it disappear.
It doesn't.
It continues floating there, perfectly indifferent to your growing resentment.
Eventually, the panic gives way to exhaustion.
Exhaustion gives way to resignation.
And resignation quietly transforms into a decision.
A terrible one.
But a decision nonetheless.
“You'll quit being an idol?” Your manager's voice rises nearly an octave, the words echoing through the meeting room as stunned silence follows.
You sit across from him with your hands neatly folded in your lap. Your posture is composed. Your expression is calm enough that it almost looks rehearsed.
“Yes.”
He stares at you in disbelief. “...Wait.” His brows knit together as though he's convinced he misheard. “No, hold on.” A disbelieving laugh escapes him. “This... this is too sudden.”
You remain silent.
“You can't just wake up one morning and decide you're retiring.”
“I can.”
“No, you can't!” His chair scrapes loudly across the floor as he stands. “You've worked years for this! Your schedules are booked months in advance. Advertisements, albums, concerts—”
“I know.”
“You don't know!” His voice cracks with frustration. “If something happened, tell me.”
You say nothing.
“If someone threatened you, we'll handle it.”
Silence.
“If you're burned out, we'll postpone your schedules.”
Your fingers tighten beneath the table.
“It's not that.”
“Then what is it?”
He waits.
You lower your gaze.
How are you supposed to explain this?
Sorry. I have exactly one year to fall in love with Park Moondae or I'll die.
Even thinking it sounds ridiculous.
No one would believe you.
You barely believe yourself.
Your manager exhales shakily before crouching until he's closer to your eye level.
“[Name].”
His voice softens.
“Talk to me.”
For the briefest moment, you almost do.
You almost tell him everything.
About the status windows.
About the rooftop.
About the impossible conditions that continue dictating your life.
Instead, your lips part only to close again. “I'm sorry... I've already decided.”
His shoulders slowly sag. “Don't do this.”
You stand.
“[Name], wait—”
You don't.
Your legs carry you toward the door. The hallway outside feels strangely quiet. Your vision swims as your thoughts blur together into meaningless noise.
Only one sentence continues repeating itself, relentless as a countdown.
Days Remaining: 344
You press a trembling hand against your forehead.
“I just...”
Your voice disappears into the empty corridor.
“...I just want this to end.”
You've got no idea how this creature—this menace to your blood pressure known as Park Moondae—is currently sitting at your dining table as though he pays rent.
The apartment is silent except for the ticking wall clock and the sound of your sanity cracking into microscopic pieces.
He sits perfectly upright, hands folded on the table, his expression so painfully serious it looks like he's attending a board meeting instead of trespassing into someone else's home. Meanwhile, you remain rooted near the entrance, one shoe still half-off because your brain has yet to process how you unlocked your front door only to discover Moondae already waiting inside.
You blink. “You..! How did you even get in here?”
Moondae doesn't answer. Not even a glance.
He simply stares at the tabletop with the intensity of someone trying to solve world hunger through sheer concentration.
Your eyebrow twitches. “Hey.”
Nothing.
“Park Moondae.”
A long sigh escapes him. “It should've disappeared...” he mutters under his breath. “Why is it back again?”
He clicks his tongue in visible irritation.
Your entire body stills. “What? You know something about this?”
A beat passes before he nods.
Then, in the driest tone imaginable, he begins recounting everything.
About the status windows.
About impossible missions.
About the penalties.
About another person who'd been dragged into the same absurd nightmare long before either of you.
You listen in complete silence.
Your face remains perfectly blank.
“You mean that friendless psycho also dealt with something like this before?”
“.....”
“No wonder you two get along.”
Moondae pinches the bridge of his nose. “We're not friends.”
“Oh, even worse. Trauma buddies.”
“We're not trauma buddies, idiot.”
“You've got matching supernatural curses. That's practically friendship.”
“It isn't.”
“It is spiritually.”
A vein on his forehead twitches. “You're insufferable.”
“And yet you're the one who broke into my apartment.”
“I used the spare key your manager gave me.”
Your mouth falls open. “He WHAT?”
“He said you haven't answered your phone in three weeks.”
“.....”
“.....”
“I'm changing the locks.”
“I expected you to.”
He exhales heavily before letting his forehead drop onto the table with a dull thunk. “This is fucking annoying.”
You stare at him.
Then laugh.
Not because anything is funny.
Because your brain has officially abandoned higher reasoning.
“You should be the one complaining?” you scoff, pointing at yourself so aggressively you nearly poke yourself in the eye. “I should be the one cursing! My life expectancy is currently being held hostage by romantic feelings!”
“What's your plan?”
You fold your arms.
He waits.
You continue glaring. “Do I look like I have one?”
“I was hoping.”
“I've spent three weeks talking to my ceiling.”
“Understandable.”
“I lost an argument to my microwave yesterday.”
“.....”
“It beeped at me.”
“.....”
“I apologized.”
Moondae decides not to ask.
Instead, after several painfully awkward seconds, he reaches across the table.
Tentatively.
Carefully.
His hand comes to rest over yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Every hair on your body immediately stands upright.
Goosebumps ripple violently down your arms.
Your soul exits your body.
“Eugh!”
You rip your hand away with enough force to nearly knock over the table.
“What are you doing?!”
Moondae watches your reaction for a long second.
Then nods once.
“Yeah.”
His voice remains completely devoid of emotion.
“You're definitely going to die.”
Silence.
The words hang in the air.
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
“.....”
“.....”
“WHAT?!”
You leap to your feet. “What kind of diagnosis is that?!”
“I was testing something.”
“WITHOUT MY CONSENT?!”
“You reacted exactly how I expected.”
“Because you TOUCHED me!”
“I know.”
“WITH YOUR HAND!”
“I was there.”
“You contaminated the atmosphere!”
“You'll live.”
“I DON'T WANT TO!”
Your voice echoes throughout the apartment.
Somewhere outside, a dog starts barking.
Unable to contain yourself any longer, you jab an accusing finger directly at his face.
“This is your fault, Park Moondae!”
His eyebrows knit together. “I didn't do anything.”
“Exactly!” You throw both hands into the air. “That's the problem!”
“What?”
“You irritate me so much that seeing your face automatically ruins my mood!”
“.....”
“I've trained my body to reject your existence on a biological level!”
“.....”
“And now the universe expects me to FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU?!”
You laugh.
It sounds deeply concerning.
“What kind of defective matchmaking algorithm looked at us and thought, ‘Yes. Perfect compatibility.’”
Moondae's eye twitches. “I didn't make the system.”
“But it clearly has poor judgment!”
“I agree.”
“So fix it!”
“I can't.”
“Then apologize for existing!”
“No.”
“You didn't even hesitate!”
“Because that's unreasonable.”
“You existing is unreasonable!”
He stares at you for a long moment before rubbing his temple. “Calm down.” His voice remains infuriatingly level. “You're going insane.”
“I'M GOING INSANE?” You point wildly between the two of you. “I HAVE A MAGIC POP-UP WINDOW TELLING ME TO FALL IN LOVE WITH MY NATURAL PREDATOR!”
“I'm not your predator.”
“You emotionally photosynthesize off my suffering!”
“I don't.”
“You do!”
“I objectively don't.”
“You absolutely do!”
“I objectively—”
“I SAID GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
Before he can finish speaking, you march over, grab him firmly by both shoulders, and attempt to drag him toward the front door.
Nothing happens.
You frown.
You pull harder.
Still nothing.
Moondae doesn't resist. He doesn't push you away. He doesn't even tense up.
He simply remains seated with impeccable posture, as immovable as a marble statue installed by the government.
“.....”
You plant one foot against the floor for leverage.
You pull with both hands.
Nothing.
The chair doesn't budge.
Moondae doesn't budge.
Your dignity, however, begins quietly packing its bags. “Are you serious?”
“I'm helping.”
“HOW?”
“If I stand up, you'll throw something.”
“I'll throw something anyway!”
“I know.”
“You're impossible!”
“So I've been told.”
Your breathing grows heavier
His expression remains exactly the same.
Somewhere between your third failed attempt to evict him and your fourth existential crisis of the afternoon, a horrifying realization settles over you.
The status window isn't the worst part of this entire ordeal.
The worst part...
...is that Park Moondae has apparently decided he's not leaving.