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# Chapter 41: A Trap Called Promise
“Let go of my hand.”
When Seo-ah spoke, something flickered across Kang Ri-u’s face. The border between hurt and anger. She couldn’t tell which one it was. Maybe both. The deepest wounds always come paired with rage.
Kang Ri-u didn’t release her hand. Instead, he gripped it tighter. Warmth transformed into pressure. What felt like love revealed itself as possession. Seo-ah felt her hand trapped in his. How many people are trapped like this? In the name of warmth. In the name of protection. In the name of promises.
“Please.”
She said it again.
Kang Ri-u slowly let go. But his eyes didn’t release her. That gaze was more powerful than any physical grip. Eyes cannot be escaped. They follow you everywhere.
“What are you doing right now, Seo-ah?”
Kang Ri-u asked. His voice was calm, but something flowed beneath it. Something uncontrollable. Seo-ah sensed it.
“I want to be alone.”
Seo-ah said.
“Alone? What are you going to do alone? Wait for that fluorescent light to go out again, then light a lighter? Bring your fingers close to the flame?”
Kang Ri-u spoke. His voice had risen. It was the first time. The first time Kang Ri-u had raised his voice. It terrified her more. Uncontrolled anger is scarier than rage on the verge of explosion.
“What were you doing in the break room?”
“What do you mean?”
“A lighter. You had a lighter. Why?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She didn’t even know why herself. Just that her fingers trembled. Just that she wanted to hurt someone. Just that she wanted to hurt herself.
Kang Ri-u stepped back from the register. His hand went into his pocket. He pulled out his phone. The screen lit up. He manipulated something. Seo-ah watched his movements. It was deliberate. Meant to show her that he was doing something.
“What are you doing?”
Seo-ah asked.
“Watch Park So-jin’s video.”
Kang Ri-u said. And showed her his phone screen. On it was a woman. Early twenties. Brown hair. A face like an idol. Park So-jin. The woman he said he’d protect.
The video was a music video. Elaborate set. Sophisticated lighting. And at its center, Park So-jin. She was singing. Beautifully. Perfectly. As if this was her true life.
“Who wrote this?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
“The music video?”
Seo-ah asked back.
“The song. Who wrote the song?”
Kang Ri-u asked again. His voice remained low, but what lay beneath it was deepening.
Seo-ah looked closely at the screen. She found the song credits. Composer: Park So-jin. That’s what it said.
“It says Park So-jin wrote it.”
Seo-ah said.
“But who really wrote this song?”
Kang Ri-u asked again.
Seo-ah’s face went pale. That song. She knew that song. She had written it. More precisely, her song had gone somewhere, and it came out under Park So-jin’s name. But Seo-ah had signed the contract. The contract that transferred everything.
“I…”
Seo-ah began.
“You. You wrote this song. But what happened? JYA took it. And Park So-jin is singing it. Your song. Your voice.”
Kang Ri-u spoke. His voice had become calm now. It was more terrifying. The explosion was over, leaving only a desolate landscape.
“Why are you showing me this?”
Seo-ah asked.
“To show you reality. What are you doing right now? Holding a lighter in a convenience store, bringing your fingers close to flame? Meanwhile, your song is circulating under someone else’s name. And you? What are you doing? Nothing.”
Kang Ri-u said. There was desperation in his voice, not anger. The desperation of wanting to save someone while that person refuses to be saved.
Seo-ah looked at Kang Ri-u’s face. For the first time, she saw something in it. A wound. An old wound. A very deep one. She didn’t know when it got there, but it was certain. Kang Ri-u had been wronged too. Kang Ri-u had been robbed too. That’s why he tries to control others so he won’t be robbed himself.
“I said I’d protect you. I meant it. So why are you turning away from me?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
“Because you don’t know the difference between protection and prison.”
Seo-ah said. She was surprised at herself. That the words came from her mouth. That they were so precise. As if someone had placed their hand on her throat and made her speak.
Kang Ri-u lowered his phone. The screen went dark. Park So-jin’s face disappeared into darkness. In that darkness, Kang Ri-u saw Seo-ah. His eyes seemed to be filled with water. Tears held back for so long. But tears that never fell.
“Then what should I do? Just let you go? You slowly disappear, and I just watch?”
Kang Ri-u asked. His voice was now a plea. Not a command or a declaration, but pure supplication.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Instead, she looked into his eyes. Saw the wound in them. And realized that wound was the same as hers. They’d both been abandoned by someone. They’d both tried to protect someone. And at some point, that protection became a wound.
The convenience store’s fluorescent light buzzed. 2:15 AM. Fifteen minutes until Manager Kim Young-hee arrived. What would happen in those fifteen minutes.
Kang Ri-u stepped back further from the register. His hand came out of his pocket. He picked something up. Papers. Several sheets of paper.
“What is that?”
Seo-ah asked.
“A contract.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“What kind of contract?”
“Did you ever read your contract again? The third page?”
Kang Ri-u asked.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. She hadn’t read the contract again. She thought that once you signed, it was done.
“The contract with JYA has a clause: ‘All copyrights related to music production belong to the company.’ But that clause is actually illegal. Under Korean copyright law, a composer’s rights cannot be completely transferred by contract. A creator must always retain basic rights to their own work.”
Kang Ri-u spoke. Like a lawyer. Like he’d said this a hundred times before.
“So?”
Seo-ah asked.
“So the contract is void. It was void from the start. But JYA either didn’t know or ignored it. And you didn’t know. Maybe Haneul doesn’t either.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“If it’s void… what can I do?”
Seo-ah asked.
“This.”
Kang Ri-u placed the documents on the register. Several sheets. Seo-ah looked at them. The top document had a title: “Copyright Restoration Lawsuit.”
Seo-ah’s hands trembled. Again. Neither the warm hand nor Kang Ri-u’s words could stop that trembling.
“You can file suit. Against JYA. To reclaim your copyright. And I can provide you with a lawyer. The best lawyer.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“That means I have to fight JYA?”
Seo-ah said. It wasn’t a question. It was realization. And the fear that comes with it.
“Yes. And you can do it. You’re strong enough. You are strong.”
Kang Ri-u said.
Seo-ah looked at Kang Ri-u’s face again. His eyes. She thought she understood now what was in them. It wasn’t a wound. It wasn’t desperation. It was obsession. The obsession of wanting someone else to do what he couldn’t.
“Ri-u.”
Seo-ah said.
“What are you doing? Are you trying to transfer your war to me?”
Kang Ri-u didn’t move. Not moving was his answer.
“I’m not your proxy. I’m the one who needs to reclaim my voice. But you’re trying to give me yours. What is this?”
Seo-ah continued. She was surprised at herself. That she could keep speaking like this. Words she didn’t know she had were coming out.
The convenience store’s fluorescent light flickered again. Once, twice. Like it was sending a signal. Like it was speaking to Seo-ah. “Run. Now. Run now.”
Kang Ri-u opened his mouth. He was about to say something. But at that moment, the convenience store door opened. It was Manager Kim Young-hee. 2:15 AM. Right on time.
The manager looked at Kang Ri-u. Then at Seo-ah. The distance between them. Their expressions. Seeing that, the manager understood something.
“Seo-ah, give me the lighter.”
The manager said. It was a command.
Seo-ah pulled the lighter from her pocket. She didn’t know how the manager knew, but she did.
“Who is this person?”
The manager asked Kang Ri-u.
“Someone involved.”
Kang Ri-u said.
“Involved in what?”
The manager asked again.
Kang Ri-u didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up the documents. The copyright restoration lawsuit. He put it back in his pocket.
“Seo-ah. Don’t listen to this person. This is your life.”
The manager said.
Seo-ah looked at the manager. Really looked at her for the first time. This woman had tried to protect her. Why? She was just a part-time worker.
Kang Ri-u left the convenience store. He returned to his black BMW. His retreating figure slowly disappeared into the darkness.
The manager approached Seo-ah.
“Do you know who that person is?”
Seo-ah shook her head.
“He’s the son of the JYA Entertainment CEO. Kang Ri-u. You made your contract with that company, right?”
Seo-ah nodded.
“What did that son say to you?”
The manager asked.
“That the contract is void. And that I should sue.”
Seo-ah said.
The manager sighed. A long, deep sigh.
“What did you answer?”
“Nothing.”
Seo-ah said.
“Good. Don’t do anything. If you listen to that person, things only get more complicated. And…”
The manager stopped.
“And?”
Seo-ah asked.
“That person doesn’t like you. He likes himself. You’re just something he can project himself onto.”
The manager said.
Seo-ah heard those words. And she knew they were true. What was in Kang Ri-u’s eyes wasn’t love for her. It was a desire for her to do what he couldn’t.
The convenience store’s fluorescent light came back on. Bright light. Light that reveals everything.
Under that light, Seo-ah looked at her own hands. They were no longer trembling. But they were heavier. Hands carrying the weight of choice.
“What are you going to do now?”
The manager asked.
“I don’t know.”
Seo-ah said. That was the truth. She really didn’t know. What to do next. Whether to trust Kang Ri-u or reject him. Whether to fight JYA or accept it.
Her phone rang. A text message. It was Haneul.
“Hey, what are you doing? Did you see the text from Ri-u? Something’s weird…”
Seo-ah didn’t reply. Instead, she called Haneul.
“Where are you right now?”
“What? Right now?”
“Yeah. Come now.”
Seo-ah said.
“The convenience store? It’s 2 AM…”
Haneul asked.
“Yeah. Come. Please.”
There was something in Seo-ah’s voice. Haneul sensed it.
“Okay. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
Haneul said.
Seo-ah hung up. She looked at the manager.
“Can I go to the break room for 20 minutes?”
“Go ahead.”
The manager said.
Seo-ah went into the break room. The fluorescent light was on. Bright light. A stranger, a man in his forties, had fixed it. That man wanted nothing. He just fixed it.
Seo-ah sat in the chair. She picked up her phone. She read Kang Ri-u’s message again.
“I’ll protect you. I promise.”
Promise. That word terrified her. Because a promise is a debt. A promise is a shackle. A promise is a beautiful prison.
Seo-ah didn’t delete the message. But she didn’t reply either. Instead, she texted Do-hyun.
“You’re sleeping well, right? Remember when you asked me what I was doing?”
Do-hyun’s reply came quickly.
“Yeah. Why? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just… I think I’ve only been living for you. And I think it’s killing me.”
Seo-ah replied.
Do-hyun didn’t answer for a long time. Then a text came.
“Unnie. You don’t have to do that because of me. Really. I don’t want to live for you. I want you to be happy.”
Seo-ah read that message. Over and over. Multiple times. She heard Do-hyun’s voice. It was music. Not her music, but Do-hyun’s music. Not the music of wanting to protect someone, but the music of wanting to set someone free.
In the break room of the convenience store, at 2:35 AM, Seo-ah cried.
Her fingers didn’t tremble. Instead, her eyes flowed.
What was in those tears? Despair? Hope? Or were they mixed so you couldn’t tell the difference?
Seo-ah didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that her fingers were no longer trembling. That those fingers were now hers. Not anyone else’s hands. Her own.
The convenience store’s fluorescent light buzzed. Bright light. It would continue. Until someone fixed it again.