The door code had been the date of Jennie's first solo win. Six digits that Jisoo had pressed thousands of times, the mechanical beep as familiar as the rhythm of her own breathing.
When the keypad illuminated in cool, blue LED, Jisoo's hands didn't shake. That was the strangest part. For months—no, for two years—she had lived with an underlying tremor beneath her skin, a quiet, low-frequency vibration of anxiety that spiked every time a schedule updated, every time a line went unanswered, every time a promise dissolved into a light-hearted, rushed apology over a fifteen-second voice note.
Now, her fingers were completely still.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The heavy oak door unlocked with a soft, hydraulic click, swinging open into the quiet expanse of the penthouse.
It was located in Seongsu-dong, commanding an uninterrupted, panoramic view of the Han River and the Seoul skyline. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling glass, finished in muted tones of marble, warm oak, and brushed concrete. Jisoo had bought it in the winter of 2018, right when the world was expanding so fast around them that it felt like they were constantly falling upward. They had been sitting in a cramped waiting room in a broadcasting station, wrapped in oversized padded coats, sharing a single heated gel pack. Jennie, exhausted down to her bones, had leaned her forehead against Jisoo's shoulder and murmured, "When I get rich, I'm going to buy a place high up. Somewhere no one can look down on me. Somewhere quiet."
Jisoo hadn't said anything then. She had just pulled the blanket higher over Jennie's chest.
Six months later, when the group's world tour wrapped and the first astronomical settlement checks hit their accounts, Jisoo didn't buy a sportscar. She didn't invest in commercial property in Gangnam. She put a down payment on this penthouse, signed the deed, and on Jennie's twenty-third birthday, slipped a brass key wrapped in a plain white ribbon into Jennie's palm.
"It's yours," Jisoo had said simply. "For when you want to be quiet."
Jennie had cried, burying her face in Jisoo's neck, kissing her jaw, swearing that it was their house, that she'd never live in a place that didn't belong to both of them.
Standing in the foyer now, six years later, Jisoo looked at the expansive living room. It was magnificent. It was tailored, curated, and styled by top interior designers. Photos of Jennie hung in thin silver frames—photographs from fashion weeks, high-fashion editorials, candid shots taken by famous stylists.
There was not a single trace of Kim Jisoo in this apartment.
Not a mug. Not a slippers pair at the entryway. Not a single photo on the gallery wall.
Jisoo walked in, her footsteps echoing faintly against the polished travertine tile. She set her small duffel bag down by the kitchen island. She hadn't come here to make a scene. She hadn't come here to scream, or throw things, or demand answers she already knew. She had come to return her spare key card, collect the draft of a legal document regarding the deed transfer she'd requested her team to prepare weeks ago, and walk out.
The apartment smelled like Jennie's signature perfume—santal, dried rose, and something sharp and metallic, like cold air.
Jisoo looked at her watch. 11:42 PM.
Jennie was in Seoul. She had been in Seoul for four days.
They both lived in the same city. They worked under the same legal umbrella for group activities, inhabited the same tight-knit circle of elite industry figures, frequented the same three private dining spots in Hannam-dong, and shared a dozen mutual friends. Yet, they hadn't seen each other in person in four months.
Not because of distance. Korea was a small peninsula. Driving from the top of Seoul to the bottom took an hour on a bad traffic night. They didn't see each other because seeing each other required effort, and effort required priority, and priority was a currency Jennie had long stopped spending on her.
