Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 274 - 275: Crisis Protocol

Phones vibrated on every surface before sunrise. In the darkness, Yura rolled over, squinting at the screen—half a dozen notifications, all from different group chats, some using her name, others just a blizzard of "Did you see this?" and screenshot links. She blinked, sat up, and felt the baby stirring beside her. Mirae’s door was already open; a thin wedge of light spilled down the hallway. Harin was nowhere to be seen, but the kettle was boiling in the kitchen, its low rumble the only sound that felt normal.

Joon-ho padded out of the nursery, eyes puffy. "Something happen?" he mumbled, rubbing his face.

Yura showed him her phone. On the screen, a gossip forum post—already over two hundred comments—speculated about a top actress "living secretly with a man and a newborn." Names weren’t stated, but the guesses in the comments left no doubt. One photo, blurry and grainy, showed a woman in a mask entering their building, a baby carrier visible. A few usernames posted side-by-side paparazzi shots of Mirae from last year, and someone had already started a thread speculating on the "identity of the father."

Joon-ho let out a low, tired breath. "Great. That’s just what we needed."

In the living room, Mirae was pacing, phone in hand, her face pinched with worry and anger. She looked up as Yura entered. "Did you see it?"

Yura nodded. Mirae thrust her phone forward. "This is bullshit. I want to post, right now. Just say it’s all lies. End it before it spreads."

Harin strode in from the balcony, coffee in one hand, her own phone in the other. Her voice was calm but hard as steel. "No statements. Not a word. Not now."

Mirae whirled. "Why not? I’m not ashamed of anything. I didn’t do anything wrong—why let them say whatever they want?"

Harin set her coffee down and raised a hand. "Because if you answer, it’s never enough. If you fight, they just change the story. Right now, this is noise. If we ignore it, it’s yesterday’s rumor by tonight."

Mirae shook her head, frustration plain. "So I’m supposed to just sit here and watch them tear me apart?"

Yura said nothing, settling the baby into a rocker and heading to the kitchen to heat up a bottle. She kept her back to the conversation, but listened closely, biting her tongue.

Harin was already moving. She called Sena, voice low but clipped: "Get everyone monitoring socials. No responses. Anyone asks for comment, send them to me. Legal too—I want them checking if any posts cross the line. Quietly." She ended the call, then checked in with Kyung-min and the rest of the team: Containment, not confrontation. No one responds. No one corrects, no one denies. We don’t feed the beast.

A chorus of message pings confirmed the instructions. Still, in the group chat, people vented their own worries:

Kyung-min: Isn’t silence a bit too suspicious?

Sena: If we fight it, we look desperate. If we ignore it, it looks like nothing.

Harin replied, voice of calm command: You can’t win against rumors in their own arena. We don’t play their game.

Back in the apartment, Mirae sagged onto the couch, anger leaking into hurt. "If I just sit here and let them trash me, what’s left? My whole career’s about being seen, being open."

Yura finished prepping the bottle, then turned. "Your name is yours, Mirae. But your life is ours, here. If you open the door now, you’ll never close it again. You answer today, and tomorrow they’ll want a picture. The day after, maybe a look at the baby. Or our home."

Mirae winced, the words cutting deep. She swallowed, voice softening. "I don’t want to drag you into this."

"We’re already in it," Yura said, sitting beside her. "But we don’t have to give them more."

The conversation drifted, tension fraying around the edges, each person hiding their exhaustion in the minutiae of childcare, work emails, halfhearted attempts at breakfast. Joon-ho hovered in the kitchen, making coffee, cleaning up, not sure if he was in the way or simply invisible.

By nine, LUNE’s office was a hive of barely controlled anxiety. Everyone had seen the post, and now every inbox was full of sponsor queries and production side-checks. Harin gathered the core team on a quick call.

"No one is to respond," she repeated. "No off-the-records, no leaks, no explanations. If you get a request for comment, send it to me or legal. This is not a crisis. This is static."

Kyung-min spoke up, anxiety coloring every syllable: "But what if Morninglight or J2MOON pull out? This is exactly the kind of thing sponsors hate."

Harin’s reply was steady: "If they want to bail over a rumor, they’re not the partners we want. We stand on our work, not speculation. This is about professionalism, not personality."

Sena jumped in, steadying the mood. "Focus on the pitch. Every hour we spend on rumors is an hour lost. Harin’s right. We let the work speak for itself."

Kyung-min muttered, "If the work even gets seen."

Back in the apartment, Mirae watched Yura feed the baby, feeling restless, useless. "I’m not saying I want a reality show. I just—if I could say one thing, maybe it would shut them up."

Yura’s answer was gentle but firm. "It wouldn’t. There’s always another rumor. You don’t have to hide, but you do have to choose what’s sacred."

Mirae ran a hand through her hair. "What if the project falls apart over this? What if I never get out from under EON’s shadow?"

Yura met her gaze, steady as a stone. "Then we start over. But we don’t sell this—us, the baby, this home—for any job."

Joon-ho, listening from the hallway, felt something ease inside him. He wasn’t sure if he fit into this operation, but he knew he was still part of the line that held against the outside.

Later, Harin called a quick meeting in the apartment before her afternoon return to LUNE. Mirae, Yura, and Joon-ho sat at the table, a rare moment of quiet.

Harin laid it out. "Here’s the rule going forward: no baby, no home content, no ’cute’ posts. Nothing for PR, not even on private accounts. Not even jokes. If anyone asks about our home, we don’t answer. If anyone asks about family, we say ’no comment.’ Understood?"

Mirae hesitated, but nodded. "Even if it might help?"

Harin’s answer was decisive. "If they want your work, they get you. Nothing else."

Yura nodded. "That’s what I want too."

Joon-ho murmured, "Finally, a rule that makes sense."

Mirae smiled, tension fading a little. "Okay. No baby, no home. No problem."

The air in the apartment felt lighter. For the first time all day, Yura let herself relax, baby sleeping on her shoulder.

At LUNE, the staff’s nerves still rattled. Sena made rounds, coaxing people back to work, reminding them that rumors came and went, but scripts and schedules had deadlines. Kyung-min lingered by the break room, voice low with doubt: "I still think they’re going to ask for a statement. Maybe we should just get ahead of it."

Sena shrugged. "If they do, Harin will handle it. That’s her job. Ours is to make this the best pitch they’ll see all year."

Afternoon bled into evening, the city outside turning gold then gray. In the apartment, Mirae tried to focus on the pitch, but her eyes kept drifting to her phone, waiting for another blow. Instead, an official email arrived—not a tabloid, not a sponsor, but the streamer’s rep: Formal request for clarification on recent rumors. Is there any truth to reports of "morality or lifestyle risks" that could impact family-friendly programming? Please confirm no legal or social liabilities exist for lead cast.

Mirae’s heart sank. "They want a statement. They want me to deny everything, sign my name to a piece of paper that says I’m not a risk."

Harin took the laptop, reading the email twice. Her face gave nothing away. "They want protection. They don’t care about truth—they care about brand."

She drafted a response, measured and precise:

LUNE upholds the highest standards of professional conduct for all cast and crew. We do not comment on private lives or online speculation. No legal actions, liabilities, or breaches exist regarding our lead. We prioritize privacy, and our commitment to professional excellence remains unchanged. For further questions, direct all inquiries to LUNE’s legal team.

She read it aloud, voice steady. Mirae nodded slowly. "That’s... cold."

"That’s safe," Harin said. "Anything warmer is a door opening we can’t ever close."

Mirae watched her hit send, realization settling in like a stone: there was no fighting a shadow that changed shape every hour. The battle was about surviving, not winning.

Yura stood in the doorway, watching the street lights flicker on. The baby slept, the apartment was quiet, but outside, the storm kept swirling. She reached for Joon-ho’s hand as he passed, holding tight.

In the LUNE office, Sena leaned back in her chair, watching the group chat finally slow, tension ebbing as everyone refocused on the work ahead.

Mirae lay on her bed, phone turned face-down, eyes open to the darkness. Harin packed her bag, ready for another night of contingency planning. In the living room, Yura watched the city and, for the first time all day, felt like the walls of their home were holding.

But the fight wasn’t over. The battle lines had simply been redrawn.