Chapter 68 — The One Who Replied
1:47 AM
The dorm was still, but not silent.
The livestream cameras were off for the night. The producers called it a "rest window." The fans were shown a muted time-lapse of the sky above the AUREUS rooftop. Stars slowly wheeled through darkness. A full moon passed in and out of cloud.
Inside, everyone slept.
Everyone but Jaeheon.
His Room Was Dimly Lit
He sat at his desk.
No music played.
No lights except for the soft amber glow of a desk lamp that illuminated the edge of his notebook and the pale blue of his phone screen.
He had typed a new message.
But he hadn't sent it yet.
He was staring at the previous one.
"I saw your message."
Four words.
They had collapsed time.
They had made the air feel different.
He Hadn't Slept. He Couldn't.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard. Then dropped.
He picked up a pen instead.
And began to write.
The Letter
He didn't call it that.
Not out loud.
But that's what it was.
The ink bled slightly onto the expensive paper.
His handwriting was fast—delicate in form, brutal in pacing. He wrote like someone who had waited too long.
Lines spilled onto the page like a confession no one would read.
You replied.
I thought I'd imagined it.
I thought I was dreaming.I thought… I don't know what I thought.But it was real. And it was you.
I still remember how you looked when you walked into that ballroom.Not the dress. Not the jewelry.You.
The silence around you. The way the light seemed to follow you like it knew who mattered.
Six months. I sent messages like prayers.I didn't ask for anything. I never expected a reply.But you gave me one.
And that changed everything.
He stopped.
Then tore the page out.
Folded it.
Set it inside his drawer.
He'd never send it.
She didn't need to see it.
Because He Knew She'd Read Every Message He Sent.
That one reply wasn't a slip. It was a choice.
He didn't need more.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Elsewhere — Her POV
2:08 AM
Somewhere far from the city. Cold, clean air brushing against tall windows.
Anastasia Celeste Volkov stood before a glass screen displaying projected messages. Thousands.
But only one thread was open.
His.
She scrolled upward—fast, precise, quiet.
Her AI assistant stood silently beside her, watching her with mechanical patience.
"Shall I archive the reply?" it asked.
She didn't look at it.
She read the next line he'd sent just hours ago.
I watered the balcony violets today. They're still not as stubborn as you.
Her lips didn't move.
Her face didn't change.
But her hand tightened slightly against the console.
A pause.
Then she replied—
One word.
Continue.
Back in the Dorm
Jaeheon's phone buzzed once.
He didn't look at it right away.
He didn't need to.
He already knew.