Hongdae, December Night — In Front of a Cozy Italian Restaurant
The cab pulled up along a quiet stretch of Hongdae, where winter had already draped the city in a soft chill.
Streetlamps glowed against the cold mist, casting long shadows on the glistening pavement.
The breath that left Jihoon's lips fogged immediately in the air as he stepped out, wrapping his coat tighter around him.
Beside him, Jieun hopped down from the other side, bundled in a thick scarf that almost swallowed half her face.
She hadn't been invited to tonight's dinner—not by Yejin, anyway—but Jihoon had brought her along all the same.
Mostly out of guilt.
He'd promised her kimchi fried rice that night.
A small promise, yes—but to Jieun, promises weren't measured by scale. They were sacred.
And when work got in the way again, she'd pouted and grumbled all through the ride until Jihoon, ever the peacekeeper, sighed and said, "Fine. Come with me. You like pasta, don't you?"
So here they were.
He pushed open the glass doors to the restaurant, and warm air swept over them, carrying the scent of rosemary and baked tomatoes.
The place was unexpectedly quiet—no clinking cutlery, no chatter of other diners.
Just one table at the back.
A table filled with women.
Familiar women.
Jihoon's eyes immediately found Yejin, seated with easy grace, her laughter carrying across the empty room like the soft ring of a wine glass.
Around her were several others Jihoon recognized instantly—faces he'd once only seen on magazine covers and movie posters in his previous life.
As he and Jieun approached the table, Jihoon subtly scanned the group.
His past life memories immediately began matching each of their names to futures.
Seated to Yejin's left was Gong Hyojin—still modeling for now, just beginning to test the waters of acting.
She looked casual, even a bit shy compared to the others, but Jihoon knew the storm quietly building inside her.
In time, it wouldn't be her beauty that earned the spotlight—though she had it—it was her uncanny ability to make fiction feel startlingly real.
Her acting didn't demand attention.
It invited you in. Grounded, unpolished, deeply human.
She'd become the kind of actress who didn't so much act as live on screen, reflecting people's flaws and tenderness like a mirror held up to everyday life.
Across from her sat Uhm Jiwon. the oldest among they all. Elegant. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what she could do, even if the world hadn't caught up yet.
Jihoon remembered her breakout in The Scarlet Letter—a performance raw, vulnerable, and unforgettable.
But in an industry obsessed with timing, packaging, and connections, even brilliance could be sidelined.
He had watched her walk the tightrope between critical acclaim and commercial neglect, a name always murmured, never shouted.
Then there was Lee Minjung—graceful, poised, and signed under the same agency as Yejin.
At the time, her name wasn't widely known, not among the general public.
But in Jihoon's past life, her future would take a dramatic turn when she married Lee Byunghun—the same Korean superstar who would go on to play Storm Shadow in G.I. Joe.
On the surface, it seemed like a dream pairing: the elegant rising star and the already established screen legend.
But beneath the polished photos and red carpet appearances, Jihoon remembered the truth behind the headlines.
Scandal came knocking—loud and ugly.
Byunghun was exposed for having affairs with not one, but two young idol trainees while Minjung was carrying their child.
The nation was stunned. Public outrage surged.
But what happened next was classic showbiz survival.
Lee Byunghun didn't just deny responsibility—he weaponized his image.
As a "Chungmuro-listed" actor, a name practically etched into Korea's film royalty, he shifted the narrative.
He claimed the trainees had seduced him, painting himself as the victim—manipulated, tempted, tricked.
The blame landed squarely on the shoulders of two young women barely out of their teens.
And somehow, it worked.
His reputation took a hit, but it wasn't fatal.
The industry closed ranks around him. Films kept casting him. Brands quietly returned.
In the end, he walked through the storm relatively unscathed, while the girls were blacklisted, their names dragged through the mud.
That was the reality Jihoon had come to understand too well—marriage in showbiz wasn't always about love.
Sometimes it was damage control. A strategic move. A PR play.
In an industry where image was currency, relationships could be just another deal inked behind closed doors.
And so, watching Minjung now—so young, so unaware of the storm to come—Jihoon couldn't help but wonder if she truly had a choice… or if the script had already been written for her or by her.
And then came the rest—Oh Yoonah, Lee Junghyun, Song Yoonah.
Talented, no question. Each of them had the fire, the screen presence, the hunger.
But Jihoon knew how the story went. They'd hover in that unforgiving gray space—too skilled to disappear, yet never quite given the stage they deserved.
Supporting roles, cameos, forgotten subplots.
Sometimes in major films, sometimes in cable dramas buried in late-night slots.
And yet, they'd endure. Not for fame, but for the love of the craft.
Still, tonight, none of that mattered.
They weren't stars or second leads, not rising names or forgotten talents. They were just women—laughing, sharing wine, letting the cold December night pause outside the glass.
Some would rise. Some wouldn't.
The world would later call them The Seven Cinderellas—a name that sounded charming on headlines, but to Jihoon, it always carried a quiet ache.
It wasn't just about magic—it was about waiting.
Waiting for a door to open.
Waiting for someone to see them.
Waiting for the clock to strike, not midnight—but recognition.
He'd seen it before—how long the waiting could last. How quietly dreams could fade if no one came calling. And yet, tonight, they weren't waiting. They were simply here.
And that felt just as rare.
With Jieun's hand tucked into his left, small and soft in his palm, Jihoon finally stepped forward toward the table. The moment they entered, their arrival gently disrupted the warmth of the gathering. Seven heads turned in unison, curious eyes blinking at the unexpected pair.
Jihoon smiled.
Then, without proper context—and without a hint of embarrassment—he said something that made all seven women blink in mild confusion.
"It must be true," he said casually, voice light.
Yejin tilted her head. "Huh? What's true?" she asked, momentarily forgetting to invite them to sit.
Jihoon grinned, eyes glancing around the table. "That only good looking people can be friends with other good looking people."
There was a brief pause—a collective beat as they processed the unexpected compliment.
Then laughter broke like a spark—bright and sincere.
"HAHAA! What was that!?"
They weren't used to hearing that kind of cheeky charm from someone like Jihoon. At least, not the Jihoon Yejin remembered from a year ago.
Jieun, still too young to catch the nuance of his teasing, looked around in confusion, her wide eyes blinking as if asking what's so funny? Her brows furrowed, lips puffing in a quiet pout.
Yejin wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and leaned forward with a laugh. "Jihoon-ah, you weren't like this when we filmed Secret. You used to barely speak unless it was about camera angles."
Jihoon shrugged, playing along. "Things happen, noona. Growth, maybe. Or hunger."
Yejin chuckled, then waved him over. "Quit standing there. Come sit."
As Jihoon pulled out a chair, he gestured toward Jieun beside him. "Oh, right. Before I forget—this is my sister, Lee Jieun."
He gave her a small pat on the back. "She's only here because I broke a promise to make her kimchi fried rice. I figured if you were already treating me, I might as well bring someone to balance the bill."
That earned another round of laughter, this one lighter, friendlier.
"You've really changed since last year," Yejin giggled, eyes sparkling. She turned to Jieun. "Hello, Jieun. You can just call me Yejin noona."
Jieun smiled politely, bowing to her. "Nice to meet you, Yejin unnie."
Yejin returned the smile, warm and amused by the girl's innocent energy, before gesturing toward the women at the table. "Jihoon-ah, these are my friends. Since you came unannounced, I guess it's only fair you meet them properly."
One by one, they offered polite introductions.
"Hello, Director Lee. I'm Gong Hyojin."
"Nice to meet you Director-nim. I'm Uhm Jiwon."
"Lee Minjung. It's nice to meet you Director Lee."
"Song Yoonah."
"Oh Yoonah. I'm a big fan of your work Director Lee."
"I'm Lee Junghyun. Thank you for joining us."
Despite their smiles, there was a quiet undercurrent in the way they addressed him—with careful tone, respectful distance.
Not because of ego, but because of the game. Jihoon was young, yes.
But he was also a director. Not just in Korea, but Hollywood-bound. For actresses still fighting for screen time and name recognition, that title meant something.
In this business, you didn't speak casually to a gatekeeper—no matter how charming he might appear.
But Jihoon didn't let that formality hang in the air too long. He raised his glass of water and said,
"Just call me Jihoon. Don't worry—I'm not here to audition anyone over dinner. I'm just here for good food… and to make up for a broken promise involving kimchi fried rice."
That broke the tension again. Laughter rolled back across the table, this time even warmer.
And just like that, the winter night felt a little less cold.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to JiangXiu, OS_PARCEIROS, BigBoobs, Daoist098135 and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]