Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 295 - 296: On Screen

Morning on set was never quiet, but today it was loud in the wrong way.

Not the normal chaos—carts clattering, assistants shouting times, the director's voice cracking like a whip. This was the soft noise underneath: the whispering that stopped when Mirae looked over, the micro-pauses in conversation when Seo-yeon walked past, the phones that lifted and dipped like people were trying to breathe through glass.

Joon-ho kept his face neutral anyway. Public protocol. Boredom as armor.

He stood near the gear tent with a paper cup of coffee he hadn't tasted, watching the crew reset a dolly track while Mirae adjusted her costume with the wardrobe lead. She laughed at something small, bright and practiced, her smile as sharp as a blade. Seo-yeon hovered a step behind her, clutching her script like a shield, but she wasn't crumbling. She was trying. That mattered.

Su-bin drifted into view at the edge of the tent, blending into the flow like she'd been hired as part of production. No dramatic entrance. No waving. She just existed in the right place, eyes scanning like a camera.

She didn't approach Joon-ho immediately. She watched first. Then she moved when it looked natural—when two PAs crossed paths, when the assistant director turned away, when the set's attention shifted to the director's call.

Su-bin arrived at Joon-ho's shoulder without breaking stride. "Don't look at me," she murmured, voice barely louder than the rustle of fabric.

"Morning," he replied, equally low.

"Morning. I hate this place."

He almost smiled. "You hate all places."

"I hate places with amateur leakers," she corrected. "They're messy."

"Any suspects yet?"

Su-bin's gaze slid over the tent and landed on a cluster near the equipment cases: a young woman with a lanyard and a tote bag, hair tied too tight, posture eager. She was speaking quickly to a runner, pointing at a drive case like she owned it.

"Her," Su-bin said.

Joon-ho didn't turn his head. He let his eyes follow Su-bin's line of sight casually, as if he was watching for his cue. The woman—early twenties, maybe mid—kept smiling too much, nodding too hard. The kind of helpful that didn't come from confidence. It came from trying to be indispensable.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"Lee Min," Su-bin replied. "PR team attached to production. Officially."

Joon-ho filed it away. "She looks like she drinks anxiety."

"She does," Su-bin said. "And she's always near devices."

Lee Min took the drive case from the runner with both hands—too reverent—and clutched it to her chest. She turned as if to head toward the production office, but her eyes flicked toward the talent zone first. Toward Mirae and Seo-yeon. Then she corrected her path, face smoothing into a smile, and walked on.

Joon-ho felt a faint spark behind his ribs—anger, protective, controlled.

Su-bin breathed, "Stay normal."

"I am normal."

"You're normal like a tiger in a suit," she said. "Normal for you."

Joon-ho kept his hands loose at his sides and watched without watching. The trick was to make his attention look like boredom. He'd learned that in the industry: everyone could smell desperation. Desperation invited teeth.

The assistant director called for talent to standby. Mirae glanced his way and lifted her brows. Joon-ho gave her a small nod—just enough. She understood: don't engage, don't react, don't ask questions in the open.

Seo-yeon's fingers curled around her script until her knuckles went pale. Mirae leaned in and murmured something to her. Seo-yeon nodded, shoulders lowering a fraction. They moved toward their mark.

Joon-ho didn't follow. If he hovered, it would become a clip. If Lee Min was feeding the rumor machine, she'd be waiting for anything that looked like guilt.

He and Su-bin drifted toward catering instead, two people "just getting coffee."

Catering was where the set breathed. People talked too much when they ate. People forgot they were being watched. And it was always full of phones—screens glowing like little altars.

Su-bin leaned on the edge of the table and opened her notes app. "Circle list," she said, quiet. "We put names next to access."

"Data wrangler," Joon-ho murmured.

"On it. Editor bay. BTS unit. PR assistant. Runners." Su-bin's thumb moved fast. "And then we put behavior next to names."

Joon-ho watched the flow of crew. A runner laughed too loudly. Someone whispered, glancing toward talent zone. A stylist rolled her eyes like she was tired of the whole circus.

Then Lee Min appeared at catering with the drive case still in her hands like a baby.

She smiled at the catering auntie, bowed slightly, took a bottled water. Then—without any obvious reason—she veered closer to the talent side of catering, where Mirae's table usually was.

Joon-ho felt it immediately.

Not because she was doing something illegal. Because she was doing something unnecessary.

Mirae wasn't here right now. Seo-yeon wasn't here. There was no reason for Lee Min to be near that table except to be near the place where talent existed.

Lee Min lingered for three seconds too long, eyes flicking over the chairs, the trash bin, the table surface—like she was checking for something.

Then she adjusted the drive case against her chest and walked away.

Su-bin didn't move her head. She didn't change expression. But her eyes narrowed by a millimeter.

"Helpful," Su-bin murmured. "Too helpful."

Joon-ho pretended to check his phone. "What's her function, officially?"

"PR support," Su-bin said. "She's supposed to coordinate—what can be photographed, what can be posted, what gets cleared. On this set, PR doesn't touch drives."

"But she carries them," Joon-ho said.

Su-bin's mouth curved in a humorless smile. "That's why she chose to carry them. It looks like she's being useful."

Joon-ho's jaw flexed. "We don't confront."

"We don't confront," Su-bin agreed. "We observe."

They stayed at catering just long enough to look like they were having an ordinary morning. Joon-ho drank half his coffee. Su-bin didn't touch hers.

Then they drifted toward the corridor between the production office trailer and the gear tent—the artery of the set. People passed constantly. People handed things off constantly. If a leaker needed to move files, they needed a corridor.

As they approached, Joon-ho spotted Lee Min again.

This time she had the drive case open in her hands and was speaking to the data wrangler. Her smile was big, her tone eager. She nodded too much while he talked, then laughed when he didn't tell a joke.

The wrangler looked tired. He didn't look guilty. Just irritated, like he wanted to be left alone.

Lee Min leaned closer than necessary.

When the wrangler finished speaking, Lee Min bowed slightly and backed away, still smiling. Then she turned and walked—again—not straight to the production office, but toward the talent corridor first.

Joon-ho kept walking at the same pace, letting his path cross a few meters behind hers. Su-bin moved on the opposite side, mirroring him like a net tightening without showing.

Lee Min paused at the corner where the corridor forked—one path toward the production office, one toward the talent trailers. She hesitated, eyes flicking between them like she couldn't decide which version of herself she needed to be.

Then she took two steps toward talent.

Joon-ho's pulse sharpened.

Lee Min didn't reach the trailers. She stopped near a stack of folded reflectors and rummaged in her tote bag, acting like she was looking for a pen. Her hand came out with a phone, screen already awake.

She angled her body slightly away from the flow of people. Thumb moving. A quick glance toward the trailers. Another quick glance toward the hallway behind her—checking if anyone was watching.

Su-bin didn't react outwardly. But Joon-ho saw it in the way she shifted her weight, the way her gaze pinned Lee Min without pinning her.

Lee Min's phone screen dimmed. She slid it away and forced her smile back on, turning to offer a cheerful greeting to a passing PA.

Then she walked toward the production office as if that had been the plan all along.

Su-bin murmured, "Told you. Devices."

Joon-ho kept his voice flat. "She's sloppy."

"She's scared," Su-bin corrected. "Sloppy comes from scared."

They let Lee Min go. If they tailed her too openly, she'd feel it and shut down. The objective wasn't to spook her. It was to understand her pattern well enough to catch her in the act later—cleanly.

Mirae and Seo-yeon appeared at the far end of the corridor, escorted by a stylist. Mirae's eyes flicked over the crew, bright and sharp, then landed on Joon-ho. He gave her the smallest nod.

Mirae drifted toward him like it was natural—like she just happened to need to walk past.

Seo-yeon stayed close, posture straighter than yesterday. She didn't look panicked. She looked determined to survive.

Mirae stopped beside Joon-ho, voice light. "You're hiding back here like you're avoiding me."

He didn't smile. Not too much. "I'm working."

Su-bin slid half a step away, giving them space without leaving. Mirae's eyes flicked to Su-bin—recognition, then amusement.

"Oh," Mirae said, as if noticing her for the first time. "Security auntie is really here."

Su-bin's face remained blank. "Call me auntie again and I'll leak your morning breath."

Mirae laughed—real, quick. It disarmed the tension. Seo-yeon's lips twitched too.

Joon-ho used the moment to check Seo-yeon's state. Her hands were steady on her script. Her breathing wasn't high. Good.

"Are you okay?" he asked her quietly.

Seo-yeon nodded. "I'm… trying."

"That's enough," he told her. "For today, trying is enough."

Mirae leaned closer, voice dropping. "Someone's been hovering," she murmured. "A girl. Always 'helping.'"

Joon-ho didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Su-bin said, as if to no one, "Lee Min."

Seo-yeon blinked. "Who?"

"A person you should not talk to alone," Su-bin replied. "If she approaches, you smile and say, 'Please go through our agency.'"

Mirae's eyes narrowed. "You think it's her."

"I think it's her or she's a courier," Su-bin said. "Either way she's a thread."

Joon-ho felt Mirae's anger spike—he could see it in her jaw, in the way her hand flexed as if she wanted to grab someone. He touched her elbow—signal.

Don't.

Mirae's gaze flicked to his hand. She exhaled through her nose, the anger compressing into control.

"Fine," she said sweetly. "We trap."

Seo-yeon swallowed. "What if—what if she asks me something?"

Joon-ho stepped closer, just enough to be felt. "Then you answer with one sentence. 'I don't know. Please go through the agency.' And you walk toward us. Always toward us."

Seo-yeon nodded again, small and quick.

The assistant director called for talent to set. Mirae smiled like the sun had never set on her life and turned to go. Seo-yeon followed, shoulders squared.

Joon-ho watched them walk away, then shifted his attention back to the flow of the corridor.

He didn't have to wait long.

He spotted Lee Min again near the gear tent, lanyard swinging, eyes bright. She was talking to a BTS camera operator now, leaning in with that same eager helpfulness. She pointed at his camera bag, offering to carry it. The operator laughed politely and waved her off.

Lee Min didn't look offended. She looked… relieved.

Then she checked her phone again—fast, hidden—and disappeared around the corner.

Su-bin's gaze tracked her. Her expression didn't change, but her voice sharpened to a thin edge. "There," she murmured.

Joon-ho didn't turn his head. "Where is she going?"

Su-bin watched the corner for two seconds, then said, "Dead zone."

"What dead zone?"

Su-bin's eyes flicked to the corridor between two stacked set walls—an awkward gap where the Wi-Fi dropped and the cameras didn't point because it wasn't "pretty." People used it to smoke, to take calls, to pass things quietly. And if you wanted to upload without being seen, it was perfect.

"She always disappears there," Su-bin said. "And she does it right before the leak windows."

Joon-ho felt his blood cool into focus. "You're sure."

Su-bin finally looked at him directly. "I don't guess. I clock."

He stared at the dead zone gap, watching crew pass like it was nothing, like it wasn't a mouth waiting to swallow secrets.

Then his phone buzzed once—an incoming notification he didn't open, because he didn't need to.

He could already feel the shape of the trap tightening.

Su-bin leaned in, voice low, lethal with certainty. "Give me one more cycle," she said. "One more disappear-and-drop. Then we catch her with her hands on it."