Episode 7: Rumors & Revelations

The morning began with sunlight cutting through the blinds like thin knives, slicing across the tangle of sheets on Ji-yoo’s bed. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, glinting like ghosts.

Her phone buzzed again, rattling weakly against the wooden bedside table.

She groaned, pulling a pillow over her head.“Who even calls this early…”

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

With a sigh, she reached over and squinted at the cracked screen.

3 missed calls. 5 new messages.All from unknown numbers.

Her half-asleep mind didn’t catch it at first. Then she saw the preview line of the first message: a link.The second: a blurry image.The third: “You’re trending again.”

Her breath caught.

She sat up slowly, pulse rising, and tapped the first message.

The browser loaded sluggishly, the bar inching forward like it was dragging her fate with it.Then the headline appeared—bold, sharp, and cruelly familiar.


“Former K-idol Kim Ji-yoo spotted performing in Manila?”


Her thumb trembled as she scrolled down. There she was — frozen mid-song, eyes closed, mic in hand under the rooftop lights of the jam night. The photo was grainy, probably taken from someone’s phone, but it didn’t matter. The internet didn’t care about resolution—only recognition.

A familiar tension gripped her stomach. Her throat tightened.

“…No. No, no, no…”


She opened the comments section, hoping, stupidly, that it would be empty.

It wasn’t.

 “진짜 김지유야?” (Is that really Kim Ji-yoo?)

“대박, 그녀 아직 노래하네?” (No way, she’s still singing?)

“그녀는 도망친 아이돌이잖아.” (Isn’t she the runaway idol?)

“업계에서 사라진 줄 알았는데.” (I thought she disappeared from the industry.)

“솔직히 이런 음악이 더 진짜 같아.” (Honestly, this kind of music feels more real.)
“노래 듣고 싶다… 링크 없나?” (I want to hear her song… is there a link?)


Each line hit like a pin to her ribs—shallow, sharp, unrelenting.

She tossed the phone onto the bed, then immediately picked it back up, like she couldn’t stop herself from checking again.The notifications kept coming, the Korean alphabet flooding her screen in a blur of digital noise.

She pressed the power button until the screen went black.

For a few seconds, she just sat there—motionless.

The sound of the city outside was too alive for what she was feeling. Vendors shouting in Tagalog. Jeepneys honking down the street. A dog barking somewhere nearby. All of it sounded like static in her ears.

She got up, walked to the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. The mirror was fogged, her reflection fractured.Her hair was messy, eyes ringed with exhaustion. A faint bruise-colored shadow under her jaw reminded her she’d fallen asleep working again.

“Great,” she muttered. “Exactly what I needed—press coverage.”

Her voice came out smaller than she expected.

She grabbed her hoodie from the chair and slipped it on, tugging the hood low. The shop was only a few blocks away, but every face on the street now felt like a potential camera.

As she stepped outside, the sunlight hit too hard. Every reflection—from car windows, from shop signs—seemed to glare at her, whispering.

She kept her eyes down.

Her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She didn’t check it.



By the time she reached the corner near the record shop, she’d convinced herself it was just noise. Just another rumor that would die out by next week.

Then her phone buzzed once more—one last notification before she went in.

It was from an old contact. A Korean number she hadn’t seen in years.

 “봤어. 그게 정말 너야?” (I saw it. Is that really you?)


She stopped cold on the sidewalk.

For a moment, she thought about deleting the message, pretending it never came.But her thumb hovered over the screen too long, trembling. She typed back.

“그냥 노래했을 뿐이야.” (I was just singing.)


 “지유야… 조심해. 그 사람들도 이미 알아.” (Ji-yoo… be careful. They already know.)


Her heart dropped.

The world tilted just slightly. She looked up at the cloudy Manila sky and whispered,“Of course they do.”


The bell over the shop door jingled faintly as Ji-yoo stepped inside.The familiar scent hit her first—coffee grounds, vinyl, and the faint metallic hum of warm speakers.

Marco was hunched behind the counter, half-asleep, nodding along to the new mix. His hoodie was inside-out again, and a pencil was tucked behind his ear.

“Morning,” he said without looking up. “You look like you fought the Wi-Fi and lost.”

“Funny,” she muttered, dropping her bag. “You could say that.”

He finally glanced up—and froze when he saw her face. The faint flush in her cheeks, the red in her eyes.

“What happened?”

Ji-yoo didn’t answer. She just handed him her phone.

Marco unlocked the screen with a tap. His face went from puzzled to blank to something close to dread.“Ah, hell…”

“Yeah,” she said flatly.

He scrolled. “They really ran with it, huh? ‘Former K-idol Kim Ji-yoo spotted performing in Manila.’ That’s… insane.”

Her lips tightened. “It’s the internet. They’ll run with anything.”

Marco sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You want to… I don’t know, lie low for a while?”

She gave a humorless laugh. “I was lying low. I literally vanished for years. Changed my number. Dyed my hair. Learned to cook sinigang. But apparently, that’s not enough.”

“Hey—”

“No, really.” Her voice cracked. “I was doing fine, Marco. Nobody knew me here. I could walk into a café without someone whispering. I could sing without anyone dissecting every word.”

He leaned against the counter, watching her carefully. “You’re scared.”

She scoffed. “Wouldn’t you be?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” he said finally. “But sometimes… being seen isn’t a curse.”

She shot him a glare. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Try me.”

Ji-yoo pressed her palms against the counter, her voice low. “You don’t wake up every day wondering if someone’s edited your face onto something disgusting. You don’t have strangers calling you a liar, a slut, a failure—all because they feel like it.”

The air between them thickened. Marco looked down, guilt flickering behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “I know. It’s just…” Her voice softened. “They don’t care about me. They care about my image. The perfect little idol who broke the rules.”

Marco hesitated. “You know, that’s not who I see.”

Ji-yoo blinked. “…What?”

“I see someone who sings because it hurts not to. Someone who doesn’t fake it.”

Her breath hitched slightly, caught between disbelief and something else—something warm and unfamiliar.

Then the bell over the door jingled.

Both of them turned.

A young Korean man stood in the doorway, camera hanging around his neck, eyes wide with disbelief. His voice trembled slightly when he spoke.“저기… 혹시 김지유 씨 맞아요?” (Um… are you Kim Ji-yoo?)

Ji-yoo froze.“아니요, 잘못 보셨어요.” (No, you’re mistaken.)

But he stepped closer, smiling awkwardly. “진짜 반가워요. 기사 봤어요. 옛날에 팬이었거든요.” (I’m really glad to see you. I saw the article. I used to be a fan, you know.)

She stiffened. “팬…?” (A fan…?)

He nodded quickly. “네. 진짜요. 예전엔 좀 어렸는데, 지금 보니까… 와, 진짜 멋지네요. 이렇게 직접 음악하는 거.” (Yeah. Really. I was a kid back then, but now—wow, this is amazing. Doing real music like this.)

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “진짜 그렇게 생각해요?” (You really think that?)

“네. 완전 펑크락 같아요. 업계에서 도망쳐서 자기 음악 하는 거. 멋지잖아요.” (Yeah. It’s kinda punk rock, right? Running from the industry to make your own sound. That’s brave.)

She didn’t know what to say. His tone wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t pity. It was—genuine.

Her throat tightened. “고마워요…” (Thank you…)

He smiled shyly. “사진 찍어도 돼요?” (Can I take a photo?)

Ji-yoo tensed again. Marco immediately stepped forward. “She’s… uh, not really doing pictures right now, man.”

The guy raised both hands, laughing softly. “괜찮아요. 이해해요. 그냥 인사하고 싶었어요.” (It’s okay. I understand. I just wanted to say hi.)

He gave a small bow before heading toward the door.“노래 멋졌어요. 계속 하세요.” (Your singing was amazing. Keep going.)

The bell chimed as he left.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Marco let out a long breath. “Well… that went better than I expected.”

Ji-yoo stayed quiet for a long moment, staring at the door as if expecting him to come back.

“He didn’t ask for a selfie,” she finally said.

Marco grinned faintly. “Guess not all fans are monsters.”

She gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t understand. That’s the first time someone called themselves my fan and didn’t make me want to run.”

Marco’s grin softened. “So maybe it’s not all bad.”

She tilted her head, thinking. “Maybe,” she said slowly, “this isn’t the worst thing.”

He nodded, still watching her. “Yeah. Maybe it’s the start of something better.”

She didn’t answer, but the way her shoulders eased—just slightly—was enough.

Outside, the Manila sun had already begun to set, streaking the record shop windows in orange and gold. For the first time in years, Ji-yoo didn’t feel like she was disappearing.

She felt seen. And somehow, it didn’t hurt.

By nightfall, the record shop was a pool of low light and quiet sound.Outside, the rain had started again—thin and restless, tapping against the windowpane like impatient fingers.

Marco adjusted the mic stand while Ji-yoo sat cross-legged on the floor, scribbling lyrics into a battered notebook. The faint blue glow of the laptop lit her face, her eyes sharper now—alive in a way Marco hadn’t seen in a long time.

“You sure about this?” he asked, tightening the cable jack.She looked up. “About recording?”

He shook his head. “About posting it.”

A pause. Then, firmly—“Yes.”

Her voice didn’t waver this time.

Marco watched her for a second longer, then nodded. “All right. Let’s make some noise, then.”



The beat started slow—just a thrum of bass and an echo of her own hum looping back through the monitors. She stepped closer to the mic, closed her eyes, and let the first line fall from her lips.

There was no stage light. No backup dancers. No crowd.Just the soft glow of a desk lamp and Marco’s quiet breathing in the corner.

The first take was shaky. Her voice cracked midway through the chorus, raw and unpolished.

She pulled the headphones off, frustrated. “It’s off. I can’t—”

Marco cut in gently. “No, that’s the take.”

She blinked. “What?”

“That crack,” he said, smiling faintly. “That’s real. That’s the sound of someone who stopped pretending.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then put the headphones back on.“Fine. But if this sucks, it’s your fault.”

“Deal.”


They worked until the coffee went cold and the air turned heavy with heat and rain.Between takes, they talked—really talked.

“You know,” Marco said, adjusting levels on the mix, “you’re kind of terrifying when you sing.”

“Terrifying?” she laughed.

“Yeah. It’s like you’re burning through the mic. Like you’ve got something you want the world to feel.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I do.”

He smiled. “Then let it out.”

She took a deep breath, and this time—she did.

The next take had a bite. Her voice tore through the chorus like lightning, her words half-spoken, half-screamed:“Let them talk. I’ll sing louder.”

Even Marco stopped what he was doing, caught off guard by the weight of it.

When the track ended, the silence felt sacred.She leaned on the counter, breathless, sweat clinging to her skin.

Marco let the playback loop softly in the background.He grinned. “We’re calling it ‘Rumors.’”

She looked up. “Of course you are.”

He shrugged. “Fitting, right? You turned it into your anthem.”


An hour later, she posted it.No filters. No label. No persona.Just:
 Ji-yoo // Rumors‘Let them talk. I’ll sing louder.’


The upload bar crawled to 100%.She stared at the screen for a moment, then locked the phone and set it aside.

It was out there now.The world could do whatever it wanted.



Marco handed her a glass of cold water, still watching her with that half-smile of his.

“You’re not hiding anymore,” he said quietly.

She met his gaze. “No.”

“Feels scary?”

“Terrifying,” she admitted.

He leaned back, taking a sip from his mug. “Good. That means it’s real.”



The shop had gone quiet, save for the hum of the old fridge and the low buzz of rain outside. Ji-yoo sat on the floor, legs stretched out, listening to their track on loop. Every note carried something—anger, freedom, grief, relief.

Marco was shutting down the setup when she noticed him wince. His right hand trembled slightly as he reached for the power switch.

“You okay?” she asked.

He froze.For a heartbeat, it looked like he might lie. Then he sighed.

“Not really.”

She frowned. “Your shoulder again?”

He nodded, rubbing it absently. “Been worse. Guess I shouldn’t have carried the speakers by myself.”

“Marco,” she said softly. “You don’t have to act tough.”

He smiled without humor. “Old habits.”

She stood, crossed the room, and placed her hand lightly on his arm. “You helped me face my ghosts tonight. The least I can do is make you admit you’re not a robot.”

He chuckled, low and tired. “Guess we’re both bad at hiding things now.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” she said, smiling faintly. “No more hiding.”

For a moment, the rain outside softened, the sound blending with the faint echo of her voice still looping through the speakers.

Marco looked at her—really looked—and said quietly,“You’re different tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just stopped running.”


When they finally shut down the lights, the world outside was washed clean by rain.Ji-yoo paused at the door, glancing back at the dim shop—the coffee mugs, the tangled cables, the faint glow of the laptop screen.

Her voice was soft but steady.“Tomorrow, people are going to talk.”

Marco smiled. “Let them.”

She grinned back. “I will.”

And together, they stepped out into the rain—two tired souls, two stubborn artists, and a song that finally belonged to them.

End of Episode 7—”Rumors & Revelations”