Page 51 of Tell Me Where It Ends

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

9b

Ghost Ship

This is, objectively, the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. And I—a woman whose recent life choices include “getting framed in a drug scandal” and “hiding out at my chaotic on-again, off-again favorite mistake’s apartment”—am an expert on stupid ideas.

And yet, here we are, at 12:47 a.m. on a Tuesday, pulling up to the curb a block away from the monolithic glass-and-steel tower that houses my (former) agency.

“You’re sure about this?” I whisper, pulling the strings of my hoodie so tight only my eyes are visible.

“It’s a Tuesday,” Suho says, as if that explains everything. He kills the engine, and the sudden stillnessin the car makes me tense. “The night guard, Mr. Park, falls asleep watching historical dramas in the main lobby by 12:30. Every Tuesday.”

I just stare at him. “How do you possibly know that?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up—a quick, knowing smile in the dim streetlight.

“I’ve been breaking curfew here since I was a teenager, Min-hee. I know this building’s secrets.” He pulls on his mask and hood. “Think you can keep up with me like the old days?”

I answer with nothing but a smirk. The building that once felt like a second home now feels like nothing more than cold concrete and glass—impersonal, unwelcoming.

We slip through a side entrance. Suho doesn’t use his own card, but a generic, untraceable one tucked in a hidden fold of his wallet.

Smart, I think, a flicker of grudging admiration cutting through my anxiety.No name on the entry log. He’s clearly done this before.

The air inside is cold and still, smelling of industrial-strength floor wax and the faint, lingeringscent of ambition. Our soft-soled shoes are unnervingly loud against the polished marble.

We bypass the main lobby, sticking to the shadows. Just as Suho predicted, a lone security guard is fast asleep in front of a bank of monitors, his head lolled back, the faint sound of clashing swords from his tablet echoing in the cavernous space. We slip past him and into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft, conspiratorialwhoosh.

“Which floor?” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

“Practice rooms,” I say without hesitation. “Third floor.”

The elevator ride is tense. We’re two ghosts returning to the scene of the crime—the place where we were created, and the place that ultimately broke us.

The doors open onto a long, dark hallway lined with identical doors, each with a small, rectangular window. This was our whole world for years. The scuffed floors, the faint, lingering smell of sweat and desperation, the way the sound seemed to be swallowed by the soundproofed walls.

We walk slowly down the hall, our footsteps echoing. I run my fingers along the cool metal ofthe door handles. So many hours spent in these rooms, dancing until my feet bled, singing until my throat was raw. So many dreams, born and broken right here.

We move instinctively, avoiding the main line of sight of the ceiling cameras. Even now, years later, we remember exactly where they are—and how to slip past them.

We stop in front of Practice Room 7—our room. The one we used to sneak into late at night, after official training was over. It’s the only room known to have a camera blind spot, where a trainee could check their phone—or even catch a few minutes of sleep—without being noticed.

Suho stops, turning to face me in the dim, emergency-lit hallway. A playful glint sparks in his eyes. He clears his throat, his voice a low, theatrical whisper. “Excuse me,” he says, eyes dancing.

“I’m looking for a debut idol. Goes by the name Yoon Min-hee. Kind of tall, sharp-tongued sometimes, and has a terrible habit of stealing the last banana milk from the vending machine.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it—real this time. I play along, raising my voice a little higher, a little more innocent. “Depends. Who’s asking?”

“Kim Suho,” he says, extending a hand with dramatic flourish. “I was told to find her so we could prepare for our duet dance for the Busan Tourism ad.”

“Oh,” I say, grinning. “Then you’re definitely in the right place.”

The memory hits before I can stop it—sharp and sudden, like a movie snapping into focus.

Me, seventeen, exhausted and sweaty, holding back tears after face-planting in the middle of freestyle practice.

Him, also seventeen. Absurdly handsome. Annoyingly good at everything—including dancing. Smiling at me like he already knew how the story would end, and I hadn’t even figured out the plot.