Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 288 - 289: Bully Edit

The set woke up wrong.

Joon-ho felt it before he saw it—like the air had taken on a thin, metallic edge. Usually, basecamp in the morning was noisy in a familiar way: walkie chatter, coffee orders, someone laughing too loud because they were still half-asleep. Today the sound was softer, but heavier. The kind of quiet that wasn't calm, just careful.

He stepped off the van and rolled his shoulders, scanning instinctively for the usual landmarks: the catering tent, the wardrobe truck, the director's folding table with the clipboard kingdom. People were in the same places, doing the same things.

But their eyes kept dipping down to their phones.

Then back up.

Then sideways.

Like they were checking whether he'd noticed them checking.

He caught a grip's gaze for half a second—friendly guy, always offered him a lighter even though Joon-ho didn't smoke. The grip's face twitched into a polite smile, then he looked away too quickly, thumb sliding over his screen.

Whispered laughter—short, guilty.

A muffled, "No way…" followed by, "I told you she was like that."

Joon-ho's jaw tightened on reflex. He didn't even know what "that" was yet, and his body already wanted to put itself between it and Mirae.

He walked through basecamp like he belonged there, like he couldn't feel eyes following him. He'd learned that trick early—on sets, confidence was camouflage. But today the camouflage didn't work. The whispers moved with him, a ripple in water.

Near the monitor tents, someone's phone screen flashed a familiar face.

Mirae.

He slowed, not stopping, just letting his pace drop long enough for his eyes to catch what the screen showed.

A post. Bold title. A cropped photo.

And Mirae's face caught at the worst possible angle—mouth half-open, brows drawn, body angled toward someone smaller. The smaller someone was Seo-yeon, head tilted down, shoulders hunched like she was shrinking. There was a blur at the edge that looked like a hand.

Mirae's hand.

Grabbing.

Joon-ho's stomach dropped.

He turned his head sharply. The crew member holding the phone jolted like he'd been caught stealing.

"Morning," Joon-ho said lightly, forcing his voice to stay even.

"Y-yeah. Morning," the guy answered, smile too stiff, eyes darting away.

Joon-ho kept walking, but now he could feel the heat under his skin. He followed the current of glances to the source, like tracking smoke to fire.

Mirae's trailer door was open.

She wasn't inside.

She was outside, standing with her arms folded, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail like she'd done it with one hand while her other held back irritation. Her face was calm in that way only someone used to cameras could manage—blank enough to give nothing away, composed enough to look innocent, but her eyes were sharp.

She'd already seen it.

Seo-yeon stood a few feet away, flanked by her manager and a stylist who kept touching her elbow like a protective charm. Seo-yeon's face was pale, lips pressed tight, eyes shiny with the kind of panic that made you breathe too shallow.

Between them, invisible and loud, was the thing everyone was watching.

Joon-ho moved without thinking. He cut across the open space like he was crossing a stage.

Mirae's gaze flicked to him, just once, and he saw the crack behind her calm. Anger, yes—but something colder too.

Calculation.

"Hey," he said quietly when he reached her, keeping his body angled so he blocked some of the sightlines from the crew.

"Morning," Mirae replied. Her tone was too smooth.

He didn't ask if she was okay. Not out here. Not with phones pointed like weapons.

Instead, he nodded toward Seo-yeon. "She looks like she's about to pass out."

Mirae's eyes slid to Seo-yeon. For a moment, her expression softened—almost imperceptible. Then she built the mask back up.

"She's not the problem," Mirae said. "Not the main one."

Joon-ho's throat tightened. "Show me."

Mirae didn't pull out her phone. She didn't have to. One of the assistants—someone Joon-ho didn't recognize, wearing a production lanyard—hovered too close with their own device, screen tilted just enough for Mirae to see. Like they were "helpfully" informing her.

Mirae glanced at the screen, then looked away as if she refused to give it the satisfaction of her attention.

Joon-ho leaned in a fraction, caught the headline again from the angle.

It wasn't just a photo.

It was a "bully edit." A short clip stitched together—cuts made to turn any moment into a narrative. He could already imagine the rhythm: a hard cut to Mirae's face, a zoom, a caption. A cut to Seo-yeon looking down. Another cut to Mirae's hand moving. Another cut to Seo-yeon flinching.

No audio.

Or worse—audio from something else layered over it.

Joon-ho felt his teeth grind. "This is from yesterday."

Mirae's nostril flared. "Mm."

"What actually happened?"

Mirae's eyes narrowed, as if replaying it through the lens of how it could be twisted.

"We were in that corridor," she said, voice clipped. "She missed the mark twice. The camera couldn't catch her face because she kept stepping out of light. Director was already annoyed because we were losing time."

Joon-ho remembered. Seo-yeon had been shaking. Mirae had stepped in—firm, but not cruel.

Mirae continued, "I pulled her aside. I told her where to stand. I took her shoulders like this—" She made a small motion, hands hovering in air, not touching him. "Just to place her. And I said, 'Look at me. Breathe. Don't apologize to the air. Apologize by doing it right.'"

That sounded like Mirae. Direct, cutting through panic.

"That's it?" Joon-ho asked.

Mirae's mouth quirked without humor. "Then I fixed her collar because it was twisted, and she was crying because she thought she was ruining everything. I told her she wasn't. I told her to stop crying because the makeup team would murder her."

Joon-ho exhaled slowly.

Behind them, a snicker. Another whisper.

"See? She's angry again."

"Top stars always like that."

"She's probably making her cry right now too."

Joon-ho's head snapped toward the voices. Two younger staffers stood near a cart, shoulders hunched, phones held low like contraband. When they realized he'd heard, they went rigid, eyes wide. One of them half-bowed in instinctive apology.

Joon-ho didn't scold them. That would make it worse, feed the narrative. Instead, he held their gaze for one beat, letting the weight of his displeasure land, then turned away.

Mirae's hand touched his forearm lightly, grounding him.

"Don't," she murmured. "They want a reaction."

Joon-ho's pulse thudded. "Who posted it?"

Mirae's eyes flicked toward the crowd, scanning faces with the precision of someone who'd survived scandals before. "Someone who had the clip. Someone close enough."

"Crew."

"Or someone on set with access," Mirae said, voice flat.

Joon-ho's mind snapped into that familiar, unpleasant place—where every smile could be a knife.

A commotion near the director's tent pulled their attention. The director was walking fast, cigarette unlit between his fingers because he didn't have time to smoke it. His expression wasn't angry yet. It was worse.

It was terrified of losing control of his production.

He waved his assistant director over, then spotted Mirae and Joon-ho.

"Both of you," he called, sharp. "Now."

Mirae's shoulders squared. Seo-yeon flinched at the sound of his voice, then made herself step forward too, like she was forcing her legs to work.

The director's assistant tried to herd people back. "Phones away, phones away—let's keep it professional—"

No one listened. Phones dipped, but lenses still pointed. People pretended to check call sheets while filming through slits of space.

Joon-ho's stomach turned.

They gathered at the director's table. The director stabbed a finger at his own phone screen like it had betrayed him.

"Do you know how fast this is spreading?" he hissed. "Top searches. 'Kwon Mirae bully.' 'Rookie actress crying on set.' It's everywhere."

Mirae didn't blink. "It's edited."

"I know it's edited," the director snapped, then caught himself. His voice lowered, but it was still harsh. "But the public doesn't care. They care about a story."

Seo-yeon's lips trembled. "Director… I—I can explain—"

The director's gaze hit her and softened a fraction, like he remembered she was twenty-something and still new and breakable. "Seo-yeon, you don't say anything. Not here. Not to anyone. Understand?"

She nodded quickly, eyes watering.

Mirae's voice cut through, controlled. "This will blow over if we handle it properly."

The director barked a laugh with no humor. "Properly? This production is on a schedule. Investors don't care about 'properly.' They care about whether we finish. If the sponsors pull because they don't want their brand next to 'bullying scandal,' we're dead."

Joon-ho spoke for the first time, voice steady. "We should lock down set access. No filming unless authorized. Find the original footage source."

The director's eyes flicked to him, then narrowed, thinking. "You."

Joon-ho didn't flinch. "Yes, sir."

"You're close to her," the director said bluntly, meaning Mirae. "Keep her calm. Keep her away from anyone who might provoke her. If she says one wrong thing in front of a camera, it becomes the headline."

Mirae's mouth tightened. "So I'm a bomb now."

The director looked at her, exhausted. "You're a star. Stars don't get the benefit of the doubt."

Seo-yeon made a small, broken sound. "Unnie… I didn't—"

Mirae turned to her, the mask slipping just enough for something human to show through. "I know," she said quietly. "I know you didn't."

Seo-yeon's breath hitched, relief and fear tangled together. "They're going to hate me too. They'll say I'm using you. They'll say I'm… I'm—"

"Listen," Mirae said, stepping closer. Her voice stayed low, firm, not harsh. "You don't talk to reporters. You don't post. You don't reply. You don't apologize for something you didn't do."

Seo-yeon nodded frantically, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand like she was ashamed of the tears.

Joon-ho watched Mirae's hand hover, then settle lightly on Seo-yeon's shoulder in what was obviously meant to be comfort.

And he saw it again, through the lens of strangers.

A senior actress placing a hand on a rookie.

Control. Power. Threat. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

If someone took a picture right now, it could be twisted too.

Joon-ho stepped in smoothly, shifting his position so his body blocked the angle, making it harder for anyone to capture the contact. Mirae's eyes flicked to him again, understanding passing between them without words.

The director's assistant returned, face tight. "Director, PR is calling. They want a statement. They're asking if Mirae will sit out today's shoot until—"

"Sit out?" Mirae repeated, her tone sharp now, the first real crack of emotion.

The director held up a hand. "No decisions yet."

Joon-ho's phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look to know what it was. Someone sending him the link. Someone asking, is this true? Someone fishing.

He forced himself to take it out anyway, thumb unlocking the screen.

A message from an unknown number, no name saved.

Oppa, don't panic. It's just a misunderstanding. If you want, I can help clean it up. Call me.

Joon-ho stared at it.

The wording was too casual. Too confident. Like whoever sent it already knew how messy it could get—and how to "fix" it.

He lifted his gaze slowly, scanning the nearby crew.

People looked away.

Too many people looked away.

Mirae leaned in, voice barely audible. "What is it?"

Joon-ho didn't show her the screen yet. His thumb hovered, then he locked it and slipped the phone away, forcing his face to stay calm.

"Someone offering help," he murmured. "Too fast."

Mirae's eyes went colder.

The director was still arguing quietly with the assistant director, but the set around them had shifted into something else entirely—work continuing under a layer of tension like plastic wrap, everyone pretending to focus while the scandal hovered overhead.

Joon-ho looked at Mirae. Looked at Seo-yeon trembling behind her manager. Looked at the direction of the camera rigs and the crew and the people who should've been teammates.

And realized, with a sick certainty, that this wasn't just gossip.

It was a move.

He leaned closer to Mirae, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"From now on," he said, calm like he wasn't furious, "assume someone on this set wants you to explode."

Mirae's lips curved into something that wasn't a smile. "Then we don't give them the pleasure."

Joon-ho's phone buzzed again—another notification, another post, another edit—

And somewhere behind them, someone laughed softly, like they couldn't help it.

The bully edit wasn't slowing down.

It was just getting started.