The next morning, the message from the unsaved number lingered in Hana's mind like static on a live feed. She’d shown it to Ji-han, who’d simply tightened his lips and promised to trace it, his usual stoicism now laced with a simmering watchfulness. But for now, the immediate crisis of Chairman Yoon's public meltdown had given N-Vis a temporary reprieve, albeit a fragile one. The media, ever fickle, had pivoted from accusations of fraud to the sheer audacity of Hana’s tech-savvy retaliation, dubbing her the ‘Digital Dynamo Heiress.’ Inside the N-Vis Tower, a different kind of plot was brewing. “Operation: Make Producer Smile,” Sun-woo declared, his voice dropping to a theatrical hush that carried across the EON dorm’s living room. Do-yoon, draped elegantly over a sofa cushion, merely arched an eyebrow. Min-ki, perched on the edge of the adjacent couch, strummed a muted chord on his acoustic guitar, his face completely blank. “Her face is practically set in concrete,” Sun-woo lamented, pacing with dramatic flair. “We need to show the public that our director isn’t a robot. The fans are already calling her the ‘Ice Princess’ after the broadcast. One real smile. Just one. For the behind-the-scenes video.” Do-yoon sighed, pushing himself upright. “Sun-woo, she just saved the company from a hostile takeover. I think ‘mildly inconvenienced’ is doing pretty well.” “But think of the content!” Sun-woo insisted, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “It’ll humanize her. Show her interacting with us, the unfiltered chaos of EON! It’s the perfect counter-narrative to Yoon-ssi’s nonsense.” Min-ki finally spoke, his voice a low murmur. “She helped with ‘Starlight Symphony.’ She has a good ear.” Sun-woo clapped his hands. “Exactly! She’s human! And we’re going to prove it. First up: comedy!” The opportunity arose during a break in dance practice. Hana, as usual, had found the most secluded corner of the cavernous studio, curled up on a yoga mat, eyes closed, headphones on. Doji, her fluffy Samoyed, was nestled beside her, a warm, white cloud. Sun-woo, armed with a rubber chicken and a terrible knock-knock joke, approached first. “Manager-nim, why did the scarecrow win an award?” Hana didn’t stir. Doji, however, lifted his head, a soft whine escaping him. “Because he was outstanding in his field!” Sun-woo finished with a flourish, making the rubber chicken squawk. He waited. Nothing. Hana’s breathing remained even. Sun-woo deflated. “She’s a master of the power nap,” he grumbled, retreating. Next, Do-yoon decided to try a more direct approach. During a water break, he handed Hana a chilled bottle. “Manager-nim, the choreography for ‘Eternity’s Call’ has a section that always makes the fans laugh. Would you like to see?” Hana opened one eye, her gaze flat. “No, thank you. I’m adequately hydrated.” Do-yoon’s carefully cultivated charming smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Right. Of course.” He walked away, a subtle frown marring his features. Min-ki, surprisingly, was the third to make an attempt. He simply sat down a few feet from her, took out his guitar, and began playing a complex, melancholic melody. It was beautiful, haunting, and entirely aimed at eliciting an emotional response. Hana’s eye twitched under her closed lid, a subtle sign she was listening, but no smile graced her face. Min-ki finished the piece, gave a soft sigh, and packed his guitar away. “This is harder than winning a triple crown,” Sun-woo muttered to Do-yoon, watching Hana drift through a photoshoot like a ghost. She posed as directed, her movements fluid but her look entirely flat. “We need to escalate,” Do-yoon murmured back, a spark of competitive spirit igniting in his eyes. “Something unexpected.” The perfect chance came during a break in an interview session. Hana had slipped away to the N-Vis Tower’s observation deck, seeking refuge in its quiet solitude. The EON members, along with the camera crew, followed discreetly. Sun-woo, with Do-yoon’s tacit approval, had hatched a plan: the ‘fake bug drop.’ He climbed onto a maintenance ledge, a realistic-looking rubber tarantula clutched in his hand, ready to dangle it down in front of Hana. He knew she was a gamer, unafraid of digital monsters, but he hoped the sudden, physical fright would break through her calm. Ji-han, ever vigilant, was standing a few steps behind Hana, scanning the horizon. He caught the movement of Sun-woo on the ledge, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t intervene, sensing it was a harmless prank. He watched Hana, his gaze unblinking. He was observing her, always observing. He had a task, after all, a silent promise to a ghost. Sun-woo lowered the tarantula. It swung just inches from Hana’s nose. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she slowly tilted her head, her features neutral, and calmly plucked the toy off its string. She then turned toward Sun-woo, who still dangled from the ledge, and held up the prop. “Did you lose this, Sun-woo-ssi? It seems… fake.” Sun-woo groaned, his grand plan thoroughly debunked. As he awkwardly scrambled down, Hana, with a dismissive shrug, tossed the toy over the railing. Her arm moved, and for a fleeting second, her sleeve rode up, revealing a pale, jagged scar just above her elbow. It was small, almost faded, but Ji-han’s eyes snapped to it. He knew that scar. He had seen it. A faded photograph, tucked inside a file marked ‘Subject Alpha,’ depicting a young girl with a similar, distinct mark. He inhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on her arm, then on her oblivious face. He said nothing, his internal alarm bells ringing a silent, frantic peal. Later, back in the penthouse, the air was thick with playful frustration. The boys had tried everything, and Hana remained impassive. Hana was trying to work on her laptop, but a crucial element was missing. Her limited-edition ‘Nebula’ gaming headphones, a relic from her streaming days, sat precariously on a high bookshelf, just out of reach. “Doji, fetch,” she said, pointing vaguely with her chin. Doji, who had been snoozing by her feet, lifted his head, his dark eyes seeming to comprehend. He stood, stretched, and with surprising agility, launched himself onto a low cabinet, then to a side table, then to the precarious top of a stack of art books. His small teeth gently gripped the band, dislodging it. With a soft thump, he landed on the plush carpet and trotted over, carrying the headphones proudly in his jaws. Hana looked down at the retrieved item, then at the proud, wagging tail of her puppy. A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest, light and clear. It was an unforced burst of delight. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and a wide, radiant smile spread across her face, lighting up her features with an incandescent joy. The handheld camera, which had been rolling on the failed attempts, whirred quietly, capturing the exchange. The footage was quickly edited into a short clip and posted online. The caption: “EON’s Puppy Boss and Her Amazing Assistant!” It exploded. Within hours, it had millions of views. The image of the usually impassive Hana, dissolving into pure, unadulterated happiness over her dog retrieving a headset, went viral. Comments flooded in: “She’s not an Ice Princess, she’s adorable!” “Look at her smile! My heart melts!” “We must protect Doji at all costs!” Public support for the ‘Puppy Boss’ surged, drowning out the previous skepticism with viral affection. Min-ki watched the clip on his tablet, his eyes fixed on Hana’s smiling face. Her laugh, clear and uninhibited, resonated deep within him. He replayed the segment, focusing not just on her smile, but on the almost imperceptible hum she made as she ruffled Doji’s fur. It was a familiar pattern, a sequence of notes that danced in his memory. He closed his eyes, then opened them, a quiet intensity in their depths. “That melody… it’s the one from her lullaby.”