Page 18 of Tell Me Where It Ends

And then, Shin’s hand finds mine.

It isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t look at me. Just a quiet, grounding hold that keeps me from falling apart. I grip back—probably harder than I should.

Inside the station, the world goes cold and quiet. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The air smells of disinfectant and burnt coffee. We are led into an interrogation room that feels designed to make you confess.

“Ms. Yoon,” the lead detective begins, his voice neutral. “A formal report was filed regarding suspected marijuana use at a location you visited. The report included a video…”

The words hit me like a physical blow. A formal report. This isn’t just online gossip anymore. This is real. The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet.

The questions start—a relentless, professional chipping away at my story. They ask about the party, the video, the people. Mr. Roh interrupts occasionally with a dry legal point.

Through it all, Shin sits nearby, his focus absolute. Whenever I falter, I glance at him, and he meets my eyes with a quiet, steadying nod. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Just leans forward an inch—a solid presence in my peripheral vision—and it’s enough.

Then comes the part I’ve been dreading: the sampling. An officer hands me a small plastic cup and gestures toward the women’s restroom.

My eyes find Shin instinctively, a flare of pure, childish panic in my chest. He can’t follow me, of course, but he gives me a single, firm nod.You’ve got this.

There are few things more humbling than handing a cup of your own warm urine to a stranger in uniform. A new low, even for me. All my years of media training—learning how to sit and smile perfectly—culminate in this.

Next, they take a nail clipping, the sharp little snip of the clippers echoing in the quiet room.

When it’s finally over, I feel hollowed out, scraped raw.

We are led out a side entrance. A few reporters are still there, flashes exploding again, but this time, I don’t flinch. I just feel Shin beside me, radiating calm, his warmth pressing softly through his coat.

The second the car door closes, sealing us in silence, the adrenaline drains away, leaving me shaky.

“You did well,” Shin says softly.

A breath I didn’t know I’m holding escapes me in a ragged gasp. Tears prick my eyes, hot and sudden. Before they can fall, Shin reaches across the console and takes my hand again, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“Let’s get your favoritejjamppongfor dinner,” he says, a small, tired grin on his face. “My treat.”

The tears retreat. Does this count as a date? The question pops into my head, uninvited and entirely unprofessional. I shove it down immediately, but a real smile—my first in days—breaks through.

It’s a small victory, a single bright spot in the wreckage. And for now, it’s enough. All we can do is wait for the test results.

6a

Uninvited Guest

I’m in my favorite pajamas—the ridiculously soft ones with the faint, mysterious yellow stain on the sleeve. This is it. The glamorous finale of Yoon Min-hee: Idol-Turned-Actress Edition, brought to you by existential dread and a total depletion of fucks to give.

I burrow under a blanket on the sofa. It’s warm and cozy, but my thoughts are still spinning from yesterday’s chaos at the police station.

Shin moves around the living room with quiet, military-level efficiency, a one-man force field keeping the world’s problems at bay.

I watch him hit the power button on the TV just as my face flashes across the screen. Theheadline underneath is subtle, subtle as a neon sign screaming,Scandal!

Sweet. Futile. Gesture.

He can kill the TV, but the phone in my pocket is untouchable. That’s a direct line to a hundred strangers analyzing my ruin like it’s a group assignment.

He perches on the edge of the coffee table. “I spoke to the agency,” he says. “They’re on standby. They’ll prep a press release once the results come in.”

Of course they would. They’re just waiting to see if I’m still a profitable disaster. I keep that thought tucked away, murmuring, “Okay.”

As usual, he doesn’t press. He starts shoving his stuff into a backpack, a clear sign the immediate crisis has passed. A weird little pang of disappointment hits me. I’m going to miss this. Our quiet ritual:misugaruon the sofa at night, pretending to care about whatever crap is on TV.