“Erm,” she eloquently manages, hands itching to flip to the page on the red thread in her notebook. “Er…” Her mind whirls. First silver, then green. It can’t be a fluke. Emotional transference? She has decided that yes, the red thread is some sort of conduit—a conduit through which thoughts—and now emotions—can be shared. Does this new development mean that the red thread is growing stronger?

The thread itself quivers, and Kisa gasps as it twists itself into scarlet letters—WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW—but smooths itself out so quickly that by the time Kisa has kicked Seokga under the table in alarm it’s a perfectly normal Red Thread of Fate. Figures.

Seokga frowns at her, reaching down under the table to rub his shin.

—why—kick me—

Perhaps she imagined it. Kisa clears her throat. “Can you get the phone now?” she manages to ask Seokga.

“It will have disintegrated with the body,” the trickster seethes. “Blinked out of existence. But, yes, I can call Hwanung on my own. Although he’ll undoubtedly be suspicious. The last time I called him, it was to read him an entire Godly Gossip article about how his fashion sense has diminished in recent years.”

Hajun winces. “I think Godly Gossip is distributed down here, too,” he says, and Kisa is quite sure that Somi is playing footsie with him underneath the table (judging by his half-pleased, half-frightened expression that so often pops out around her…and the suspicious thumps on the table’s underside). “It’s a magazine, right?”

“Hwanin’s ti—I mean, Hwanung’s tits.” Seokga scowls. “It’s down here, too? Is there no escape?”

“It actually reminds me of…” Alarm rises in Kisa when she sees Hajun’s face fall as he trails off. The footsie abruptly stops, and Somi’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly with concern.

“Did I kick you too hard?” the gumiho asks nervously, but Kisa knows it’s not that.

“Hajun…” Kisa reaches across the table for her friend. His fingers are trembling slightly as they wrap around hers.

Every so often this will happen—her kind, sweet friend will be dragged down by his demons. In the weeks after Kim Hajun arrived, bits and pieces of his story trickled out. During the last years of his life, Hajun had been hounded by paparazzi. His name was everywhere in the tabloids, vicious rumors swirling after he met a girl he liked for lunch at a small ramyeon shop. That was all she was—a girl he really, really liked—but she happened to be in the public eye as well, and their innocent, hopeful meeting started off a chain reaction that ended, ultimately, in a torrent of malice surrounding both idols. Hajun’s agency hadn’t let him leave the complex in which he and the other members lived until the storm died down. But for Hajun, the storm had begun a long, long while ago.