We didn't sleep that night.
Not because we were afraid.
But because we knew what came next.
---
He told me everything.
How they pulled him into a room without cameras.
How they showed him edited clips — of me yelling in rehearsals, crying in studio corners.
Twisting pain into instability.
They said I was "a liability."
Then they handed him the contract.
> "Sign this, and disappear.
Or watch her disappear instead."
He signed.
Not because he believed them —
but because he couldn't take the risk.
---
As the sun crept through the blinds,
I watched him from across the room.
Same eyes.
Same voice.
But there was a weight on him that hadn't been there before.
Not guilt.
Burden.
He carried the silence like a war wound —
not bleeding anymore,
but never fully healed.
---
By noon, I had made my decision.
No more whispered songs.
No more stage-ready smiles.
> "We tell the truth," I said.
He hesitated.
> "You'll lose everything."
> "Then I rebuild it.
But this time, without chains."
---
We contacted a small journalist — one who had been blacklisted after exposing a scandal last year.
Her name was Seo Min, and she didn't flinch when we told her what we had.
> "They buried artists before," she said.
"But never two lovers with matching scars."
She agreed to help us.
But first, she needed proof.
---
That's when Joon came back into the story.
I hadn't told him about the reunion.
About the note.
About the kiss.
When I did, he didn't yell.
Didn't accuse.
He just stared at the floor.
> "I knew," he finally said.
My breath caught.
> "What?"
> "Not everything. But enough.
I saw him outside the studio once.
He looked like a ghost.
I didn't ask questions.
I thought… if he came back, you'd break again."
---
It took me a minute to respond.
> "I didn't need protecting from pain.
I needed protecting from the lie."
---
Still, Joon handed us what we needed:
Old recordings.
Email threads.
Clips of meetings with voices you could trace to the agency.
All suppressed.
All dangerous.
All truth.
---
We sent the files to Seo Min.
She said she needed 72 hours.
Three days.
Three days where anything could happen.
---
The first threat came that night.
An anonymous call.
A single sentence.
> "You won't survive this industry twice."
I didn't tell him.
Not yet.
Instead, I leaned on the piano,
and began writing something I never thought I'd say in a song:
> "You took my voice
But not my echo."
---
Day two was worse.
The agency issued a soft press statement.
"Certain artists have violated confidentiality terms.
We regret to inform our partners of our intention to pursue legal remedy."
It didn't mention our names.
But everyone knew.
Joon got pulled from a project.
Miyeon was warned by her label to "distance herself."
Even my apartment mailbox was broken into.
But none of that hurt as much as seeing fear creep back into his eyes.
> "We can stop," he said.
> "Then they win," I replied.
---
On the third night, Seo Min called.
No greeting.
Just urgency.
> "They know I'm publishing.
They offered me money. A lot."
> "Did you take it?" I asked.
Silence.
Then she laughed.
> "No.
But it means they're scared."
---
The article dropped the next morning.
Headline:
> "The Silence Industry: How a Label Broke Two Artists to Protect Its Profits."
Within hours, hashtags trended.
Clips resurfaced.
An old fanbase reawakened like fire under ash.
---
But with fire… comes heat.
---
Later that night, as we were leaving the café we used to love,
a car pulled up.
No license plate.
No lights.
Two men stepped out.
Not media.
Not fans.
I grabbed his hand.
They didn't speak.
They just placed an envelope on the ground.
And left.
Inside:
A restraining order.
Filed against me.
Signed by someone I once called my mentor.
And a photo of us kissing.
Crossed out in red marker.