The morning sun that had filtered in so brightly through the bedroom curtains seemed to turn cold and gray the moment it hit the pavement outside the rehearsal hall where Seoul Philharmonic Symphony practised.
Jaemin and Do-hyun made their entrance side-by-side. There was no touching, no overt displays of the renewed, fragile bond they had forged in the dark, but still they moved as a unit, a silent front bracing for impact.
But the impact didn't come in the form of shouting or chaos. It came as a suffocating, heavy silence.
The rehearsal hall, usually a cacophony of warming-up scales and chatting musicians by this hour, was dead quiet. The musicians were there, gathered in tight, anxious knots around the hall, but the moment the double doors opened, every head turned.
Dozens of eyes fixed on them. They lingered on Jaemin's pale face, then drifted to Do-hyun's right hand, where the bandages were starkly visible. The memory of the violence from two days ago hung in the air like smoke.
Jaemin straightened, forcing himself to walk toward the podium, but he didn't make it three steps before Manager Park Sangho materialized from the side corridor.
His face was drawn, his usual impeccably pressed suit looking rumpled, as if he hadn't slept in days.
"Not in there," he said, his voice low and urgent, gesturing away from the watching eyes of the orchestra. "My office, please. Now."
…
The manager's office felt like a bunker. Park Sangho closed the blinds, plunging the room into a dim, fluorescent twilight. He didn't sit behind his desk, but leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest, looking at the two men with a mixture of pity and exhaustion.
"I'll give it to you straight," he said. "It's bad."
Do-hyun stood rigid, his shoulder brushing Jaemin's. "Did Choi Seungcheol file charges?"
"Civil, not criminal. Yet." Manager Park rubbed his temples. "He's suing you for assault, obviously. But he's also naming the SPS in a suit for 'failure to provide a safe environment' and 'professional negligence.' He's trying to take us all down."
"I'll take care of the legal defense," Do-hyun said immediately. "The orchestra won't spend a won."
"We couldn't even if we wanted to. Our accounts are going to be frozen, if they aren't already." The older man sighed. "But that's not our only problem."
He turned to Jaemin. "Your pitch to start the season early was a good one, Conductor-nim. All the major venues had scheduling conflicts, but you found the Chamber Music Theatre. And we could have made it work, selling it as an 'intimate, return-to-roots' experience or something like that."
"We already knew about the venues." Do-hyun folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not seeing the problem here."
"We can play the small hall and still blow them away with the music," Jaemin added. "There will be a lot of rushed costs, but we still have our sponsors, I'm sure we can find a workaround for the frozen account."
By way of response, Manager Park simply picked up a letter from the desk and held it out to them.
"As of this morning, our three biggest sponsors have suspended their funding of the SPS."
Do-hyun snatched the letter, his eyes scanning the text. "Why?"
"'Instability in leadership,'" Manager Park quoted, his voice flat. "'Concerns regarding the public image of the executive staff.' It's not stated explicitly, but they're referring to all the scandals we've been embroiled in over the recent months. And this lawsuit does not help our case at all."
He paused, staring hard at Do-hyun's bruised hand, then at Jaemin.
"It doesn't matter that we've refuted the rumours," he muttered. "Choi Seungcheol didn't just block us from booking the venues. He went straight to the money, attacked our funds. He whispered in the right ears that the SPS is a sinking ship led by a volatile alpha and a... a compromised conductor. And, unfortunately, they listened to him."
The silence in the office was too loud. Do-hyun, lost for words, turned to Jaemin, and found that his mate had gone white.
"Conductor-nim?"
'Come back to me now, Jaemin, if you don't want to ruin your precious SPS.'
"He planned this." Jaemin's voice trembled. "He hinted at it when he came in the other day."
'You don't want to leave all of these people out of jobs and starving, just because of your stubborn, foolish little tantrum, do you, my little conductor?'
It was the kill shot. Jaemin realized with a sudden, sickening clarity that they had been playing a losing game against an opponent who would stoop to any trick to win. They had thought they could fight with music, with passion, with grit. But Choi Seungcheol had simply bought the board.
All to get to me…
"So that's it?" Do-hyun asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "We're dead in the water?"
"Without the funding, we can't launch the season," Manager Park admitted. "We can't pay the musicians for the extra rehearsals we've been running." He blew out a heavy, regretful breath. "I'm sorry. Until we can sort this out, the season can't begin."
…
The walk back into the rehearsal hall felt like a funeral procession. When Jaemin stepped onto the podium, it was not to conduct, but to concede.
He looked out at the faces of the musicians—people who had stuck by him, who had worked their fingers almost literally to the bone, who had believed in the revival he had painted in their minds.
Now he would have to tear it all down.
"Every—" Jaemin's voice caught, and he had to clear his throat and begin again. "Everyone. I have difficult news."
He laid it out. The venues. The funding. The suspension of the season. He didn't sugarcoat it; he owed them the truth.
As he spoke, the atmosphere in the room shifted from restless anxiety to a cold, hard reality. Shoulders slumped. Eyes dropped to the floor. The fire that had fueled them through the recent rehearsals flickered and died.
"So... we're not playing?" Jung Eunji asked, her voice small. "What about our contracts?"
"Manager Park is working on a severance package for the season if we can't—"
"If?"
The voice cut through the room, sharp and sneering.
Han Min-woo stood up in the first violin section. His face was pale, his expression pinched with a mixture of fear and long-held resentment.
"Let's be honest, Conductor-nim," Han Min-woo said. "It's not an 'if.' The sponsors didn't pull out because of the economy. They pulled out because of you."
He gestured vaguely at the podium, encompassing both Jaemin and Do-hyun.
"Han Min-woo-ssi," Do-hyun warned, stepping forward. "Watch your words."
"Don't silence me!" Min-woo snapped, looking at Do-hyun with a mixture of fear and defiance. He pointed a trembling finger at Do-hyun.
"Look at your hand. You assaulted a conductor in this very hall, again, and this time not just some beat-up old man, but someone with a name in the industry. You lost control. And you..." He turned to Jaemin.
"You're the one who brought that man here. His obsession with you is what's destroying us!"