The Purple Box Everyone Received

—Hey!!! Come on, read me the address!

“Hmm… the address?”

And two days later, what arrived was a treatment box with Yeo-reum's photo on it.

The purple boxes weren't sent to Myeong Je-ha alone.

“…Honestly, me. Of course it's me.”

“Junseo, where should we put these? Like usual, keep a few and—”

“No. Absolutely not. I'm taking all of them. None of that 'keep a few' nonsense. Don't give any to anyone else. I'm counting them. Every single one is mine.”

Ju Jun-seo claimed his,

“Kyaaa~~~ Han Yeo-reum~~~ This came out SO good!”

So Da-mi claimed hers.

“Not as good as what I shoot, of course. Photos, I mean. Though this isn't bad either. Mm-hm. It's got a feel to it. But I'm a genius, so I could shoot a hundred times better than this.”

Dokgo Min received the same box, and so did Director Jjang and the writer of Pachehi.

“Director~! Where should we put these?”

“Darling, bring a few of those over for me first, would you?”

Dokgo Gyeol had been sent one too, naturally. She raised her phone and snapped a photo of the treatment.

Click!

Several shutter sounds later, Dokgo Gyeol tagged the product brand and uploaded the shot to her SNS story.

Dokgo Gyeol had over a hundred thousand followers. The view count climbed fast.

“Director, did you get paid for that ad?”

“Ad fee? I didn't take any.”

“But then you're just… advertising it for free?”

It was truly hard to believe. Dokgo Gyeol, the notorious money-maniac, was behaving strangely. Dokgo Gyeol spoke as if it were obvious.

“She's going to be our face, darling. You have to lock in the advertising effect from day one.”

“Oh, come on, Director. We've got Eun Baek-hap at our shop too. Han Yeo-reum may be cute, but she's hardly—”

“Darling. You still don't know me?”

Korea's number-one makeup artist, the one whose name everyone in Cheongdam knew.

“I am Dokgo Gyeol.”

Dokgo Gyeol's endorsement brought in new customers at a breakneck pace, as was only natural.

Talk of ALAB products began popping up across SNS, one post at a time. This wasn't viral marketing. It meant that people with a sharp eye for trends were gathering of their own accord. Han Yeo-reum's influence was quietly growing.

“Yeo-reum!!!”

Ae-ta-mi wept openly as she saved photo after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠photo of Yeo-reum.

“Even the dyed hair suits her too well…. Sob, sob….”

Ae-ta-mi had used the ALAB treatment this very morning before leaving the house, too. She swept a hand through her own freshly swinging hair as she checked the market's response to ALAB. It was the occupational habit of an agency employee — running the numbers on Yeo-reum's performance.

This has to be good. It has to!

And sure enough, SNS was flooded with Yeo-reum. The InTube video, too, had drawn far more views and comments than your average commercial. It was proof that she was pulling real weight as an ad model.

She opened the Olive0 app and found ALAB's products had clawed their way into the top ranks.

“They used to be all the way down there, at the very bottom.”

The ad campaign, sure enough, was running under the banner Pi Chae-won's Pick.

“Not Pi Chae-won. Han Yeo-reum.”

When would the whole world finally know Yeo-reum by her own name? She was thinking exactly that when—

“Huh…? Hold on. Isn't that a script?”

In the sighting photo, you could make out the script Yeo-reum was hugging to her chest. Her arm covered most of it, so the text was illegible, but the title seemed faintly visible here and there.

Ding—.

And right on cue, a call came in for Wi Jae-hwi of Daily Media — better known online as DukDuk.B.

I held a crimson phalaenopsis orchid and faced the camera.

The shutter kept clicking open and shut like a blinking eye — click, click. Dokgo Min had seen the ALAB shoot and immediately called, insisting we had to work together right this second.

A personal shoot? Suits me fine.

I didn't belong to an agency at the moment, and my next project was a film whose release date was still up in the air. Nothing spread a portfolio better than SNS.

The ALAB campaign did let me leave an impression alongside the product ads, sure.

But it was far from enough. I needed something that would carve me into people's memories.

I lost myself in the shoot like that for a long while, and only then did it finally wrap.

“I really am a genius. Mm-hm. At this lighting angle the orchid and her hair color look exactly the same. They blend together like one single bloom, honestly—”

Dokgo Min was just reaching for her memory card when—

Ding-dong—.

The studio ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

Dokgo Min scowled and tried to ignore the bell, but when it rang again and again, she stomped toward the door with irritated thuds.

“Hello.”

There are people you recognize even without seeing their face, from their voice alone.

“Yeo-reum told me to come by. May I come in?”

It was Myeong Je-ha.

He'd arrived with a donut in one hand and coffee in the other, holding them out to Dokgo Min like bait to lure an animal.

Dokgo Min, a helpless slave to beautiful things, smoothed her scowl the instant she saw Myeong Je-ha's face.

“Fine! Mm-hm. Come in.”

Myeong Je-ha stepped into the studio like he owned the place and settled onto the sofa. Dokgo Min circled around him in loops, studying his face.

“It's Myeong Je-ha, isn't it? Get your photo taken before you go.”

“Of course.”

“Mm-hm! Then wait right there.”

What was that conversation? That was Dokgo Min, fine — she lived for her own words and nothing else. But what was with Myeong Je-ha? Meanwhile Dokgo Min already had a donut between her teeth and was scrolling through the photos she'd just taken.

“Excuse me, elder. I have more than one or two questions for you.”

“Like what?”

“For starters, how did you know about Dokgo Min's studio?”

“Wouldn't it be stranger if I didn't know…?”

Only then did my pre-regression memories surface.

The work Myeong Je-ha and Dokgo Min had made together. Every photo they'd shot as a pair had carried the word legendary attached to it, churning up the internet every time.

“Then how did you know I'd be here?”

“Dokgo Min's routine is easy to figure out. And it's been a week since your ad photos dropped — waiting much longer than that would be patience beyond reason. You'd never turn down work, so I figured you'd be here. Haha.”

Myeong Je-ha held out a coffee to me and shifted into a more comfortable position, utterly unhurried.

This impossible, practiced smoothness filled me with something close to reverence. Only his face was twenty years old; there was no telling how many years he'd actually lived.

“So why did you come?”

“To see you.”

“…Liar.”

“Haha. Didn't work, huh.”

Myeong Je-ha laughed with his eyes curving shut. It showed — he was clearly the type whose face had smoothed over every crisis he'd ever faced.

“I'll tell you in a bit.”

Just then Dokgo Min finished checking the last photo and whipped her head around with enough force to make a sound.

“You! Stand over there! Mm-hm. Thank goodness today's prop flower is a phalaenopsis — it suits you too, Myeong Je-ha. Mm. Yes, it does.”

“Wait until I'm done with all of them.”

Leaving those words behind, Myeong Je-ha went to stand before the horizon light. The phalaenopsis I'd been holding moments ago now rested in his hand.

“Wow….”

The admiration escaped me before I could stop it. With every press of the shutter, the gaze looking back through the lens changed. Myeong Je-ha was, in the truest sense of the word, Myeong Je-ha.

Delivery and Artistry glittered like polished jewels. The sheer gap in dimension between him and ordinary celebrities hit me all at once.

“So. Why did you come?”

The moment Myeong Je-ha returned to the sofa, I went straight back to the point. Dokgo Min was absorbed in retouching.

“I've been thinking it's about time I started helping you properly, Yeo-reum.”

Myeong Je-ha sat down beside me. Far, far too close.

It was a gentle voice — and yet, somehow, it felt like a threat.