CHAPTER 131: CHAPTER 131: RIPPLE EFFECT

Evening settled softly over the café, long after the cameras had gone dark. The lights were dimmed to a warm glow, crew voices fading one by one as equipment cases shut and wheels rolled across the floor. Mirae had changed into casual clothes, hair loose around her shoulders. She sat curled on the sofa beside Joon-ho, her head half-hidden behind her phone.

The peace was deceptive.

Because Joon-ho’s phone hadn’t stopped vibrating for twenty minutes straight.

He sighed, unlocking it. The screen lit up like a warning flare — KakaoTalk (112 unread messages).The group chat name glared at him from the top: "The Trouble Committee 💋."Harin’s doing. Obviously.

He opened it.

Harin:COFFEE PRINCE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Yura:You actually said "I have women" on live TV?? Are you TRYING to kill the internet??

Min-Kyung:That smirk after??? Unfair. Pure PR-level seduction.

Ji-hye:Even my mom texted me asking if you’re a player 😂.

Harin:You basically confessed to ALL of us in one sentence.

Mirae:...I wasn’t ready for that.

Joon-ho exhaled through a laugh. "Trouble committee indeed."

He set the phone down on his thigh. It buzzed again before he could even take a sip of his coffee.

Mirae peeked at his screen and groaned. "Please tell me they’re not still talking about it."

"They are," he said flatly.

The message count jumped again.

Yura:You should’ve seen Mirae’s face on stream! Bright red! She gave it away, sweetheart 😏

Harin:Yeah, everyone’s already shipping you two. There are compilation videos!

Ji-hye:You trended under #CoffeePrinceGirlfriend overnight.

Mirae:UNNIE!! STOP!! 😳😳😳

Mirae buried her face in a cushion. "I can’t believe this."

"They seem to be enjoying themselves," Joon-ho murmured.

"They’re evil."

He smirked and started typing, thumbs slow but deliberate:You all sound jealous.

The response came instantly — the screen exploded with emojis and chaotic typing notifications.

Harin:JEALOUS?? 😡😡😡 YOU WISH.

Yura:

Jealous? Maybe. But I’m proud. You handled it like a king.

Min-Kyung:I second that. Just don’t forget the fitting schedule next week, "Celebrity Therapist."

Ji-hye:Please tell me you didn’t just make "I have women" the line of the year.

Mirae peeked out from behind the cushion, voice muffled. "Did you have to say it like that?"

He didn’t look up from his phone. "It was accurate."

She made a strangled sound between a laugh and a protest. "You make it sound like—like—"

"Like what?" he asked, lips twitching.

"Like you’re running a... franchise," she whispered, scandalized.

He chuckled quietly, scrolling through the onslaught of memes that had already started circulating — his face edited onto a coffee commercial, a Netflix poster, even a manga panel with glowing text: "I have women."

The phone buzzed again — a private message this time.

Mirae (Private):You really didn’t have to say it that way.

He paused, fingers hovering over the keys, then typed slowly.I said what I meant. They can guess all they want.

A few seconds later, her reply appeared.A heart emoji. ❤️

He smiled to himself.

Then, right on cue — Harin struck again.

Harin:Breaking news: Joon-ho to debut as new CF model for RAZA Coffee ☕💋

Yura:Trademarking Coffee Prince™ immediately. Royalties split 90/10 in my favor.

Ji-hye:Mirae’s face when he said it — someone needs to frame that!

Min-Kyung:Too late, already sent the clip to my designer group chat. We’re making it next season’s runway theme.

Mirae groaned so loud the sound practically echoed. "I’m never showing my face again."

"Too late," Joon-ho murmured, leaning back against the sofa. His eyes flicked toward her with a teasing warmth. "You already belong on every screen."

Her cheeks went even redder. "Don’t say things like that..."

The chat continued to explode beside them — stickers, laughing emojis, screenshots of trending hashtags.

Harin:There’s even a fan edit of all your scenes in slow motion.

Yura:And one of you pouring coffee in black and white with a saxophone soundtrack.

Ji-hye:I’m sending that one to my trainer. He’ll die laughing.

Min-Kyung:Or crying. Hard to tell.

Mirae curled up tighter against the sofa, hiding behind her knees now. "They’re never going to let this go."

Joon-ho’s phone buzzed again. This time, it was a flood of screenshots — articles, reaction threads, memes captioned "Find yourself someone who looks at you like Mirae looks at Coffee Prince."

He chuckled quietly, scrolling through the chaos.

"They’re not wrong," he said.

Mirae blinked. "What?"

"That you looked at me like that."

She hit his shoulder with the cushion, flustered. "Stop teasing me!"

He caught the cushion mid-swing and tugged her closer, his voice dropping low. "If I stop, they’ll just start again."

She blinked up at him, caught off guard by how soft his smile was — the kind that made her forget the whole world was watching.

The phone buzzed again — a perfect interruption.

Harin:Okay, last thing — when are we meeting for dinner? We need a full debrief.

Yura:I call hosting rights. My penthouse, wine ready.

Ji-hye:Count me in. I’ll bring snacks.

Min-Kyung:And a portable projector so we can replay the "I have women" scene in 4K.

Mirae:NO!! 😭😭😭

Joon-ho typed lazily,I’ll check my schedule.

Immediately, a reply from Yura:We already checked. You’re free.

He exhaled through a laugh. "They planned that before even asking."

"That’s how they are," Mirae said softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "They tease because they care."

"Then they must care a lot."

She smiled faintly. "They do."

The group chat continued pinging in the background — Harin sending gifs, Yura threatening to trademark the phrase, Ji-hye making a mock "fan chant," Min-Kyung posting runway sketches inspired by coffee.

But the world around them had gone quiet again.

Mirae’s phone slipped from her hand as she leaned into him, her laughter fading into a content sigh.

Joon-ho watched her eyes grow heavy with sleep, her expression finally peaceful again after days of chaos.

He glanced once more at the group chat — still flashing unread messages — before locking the screen and setting it aside.

For the first time that day, silence felt earned.

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and whispered, almost to himself, "Sleep. You’ve trended enough for one day."

Her lips curved faintly, as if she heard him even half-dreaming.

Outside, the Jeju night hummed with the rhythm of distant waves and the faint chime of notifications — a steady, familiar reminder that the world was still watching.

But for now, the Trouble Committee could talk all they wanted.

Inside that quiet café, the Coffee Prince and his blushing co-star were already their own story.

The lights in the suite were dim, tinted red by the glow of Jeju’s distant city lights bleeding through the curtains. Half-empty bottles cluttered the low glass table, some toppled, others forming a crooked line like trophies from a night of defeat. The air reeked of stale alcohol and frustration.

On the television, the replay of the café livestream was running on loop. Joon-ho’s voice came through, calm and steady — the kind of composure that made every sentence sound like fact.

"I have women who are important to me."

The audience had screamed then — laughter, cheers, a cascade of virtual hearts.

Do-jin stared at the screen, his expression twisting. His shirt was wrinkled, collar half-open, wine stains marking the fabric like bruises.

"That was supposed to be me," he muttered, his voice slurred but sharp with resentment.

He reached for the remote, turned the volume up instead of off. Joon-ho’s composed smile filled the screen again, and Do-jin laughed — low and humorless. "That’s my spotlight. My show. And now it’s his."

Behind him, his manager shifted uneasily near the door. The man was in his forties, sharp-eyed but tired — the kind of exhaustion that comes from cleaning up disasters that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

"You should turn that off," the manager said softly. "It’s not helping."

Do-jin’s grin widened, unhinged. "Helping? You think I need help? I am the show. I was the show. Everything they’re eating up now was supposed to be mine."

He reached for another bottle, poured without looking, spilling wine across the table. The sound of liquid hitting glass mixed with the faint murmur of the TV.

"The network called me their golden ticket," Do-jin went on, almost whispering. "Every episode — trending. Every smile — viral. And now they’re cheering for some doctor?"

The manager sighed, keeping his voice low and calm, the way one speaks to a wounded animal. "You punched a guest on live TV. The agency’s doing everything they can to contain it. You’re lucky Mr. Choi didn’t press charges."

Do-jin’s eyes snapped to him. "That old fool deserved it! Always lecturing me like I was his student — like I needed his approval!"

"He’s the reason your career isn’t over," the manager said firmly. "You think you’d still be here if he’d sued? You’d be banned from every network in Korea."

Do-jin slammed the bottle down so hard it cracked at the neck. Red wine bled across his fingers like a cut. "I’m already banned," he spat. "You think I don’t know how this ends? They’ll replace me with that fake-smile therapist, and the world will eat it up."

He gestured wildly toward the TV, where Joon-ho’s image lingered — sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand, exuding the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need the spotlight to command it.

"That bastard doctor stole my life."

The manager looked at him for a long moment — not with anger, but pity. "Do-jin," he said quietly, "the director called. You’re flying back to Seoul tomorrow morning. Quietly. While everyone’s focused on the finale shoot."

Do-jin’s expression darkened, his voice dropping into something dangerous. "You’re pushing me out."

The manager didn’t flinch. "They’re protecting what’s left of your image."

For a moment, there was silence — a fragile, stretching thing. Then Do-jin laughed again, low and broken. "My image," he said, tasting the word. "That’s all they ever cared about. As long as I smiled, they clapped. When I bled, they hid the stains. And now, what? I’m disposable?"

He poured again — shaking hands, red spilling over the rim, dripping onto the carpet.

"You know what’s funny?" he said. "Those fans — those idiots — they’ll forget me in a week. They’ll forget everything I did for them."

The manager stepped forward carefully. "Do-jin, listen to me. You can come back from this. But you have to stop drinking. We’ll figure out a statement, maybe a charity—"

"Stop?" Do-jin turned, eyes bloodshot, smile razor-thin. "You want me to stop? Watch this."

He hurled the glass across the room. It shattered near the manager’s feet, wine splattering like blood across the floor tiles.

The manager froze.

"Get out," Do-jin said, his voice eerily calm now. "Before I throw the next one at your face."

"Do-jin—"

"GET OUT!"

The roar cracked through the suite. For a second, the manager almost obeyed. But then he took a step forward, desperation outweighing fear. "You’re going to destroy everything left. Is that what you want? You’re already on thin ice—"

The next bottle flew before he finished the sentence. It hit him square on the temple with a dull, wet sound.

There was a beat of silence.

The manager staggered back, hand flying to his head. Blood seeped between his fingers, running down his wrist. His eyes widened — a mix of disbelief and heartbreak.

"You’re done, Do-jin," he said, voice trembling. "You’ve gone too far."

Do-jin didn’t reply. He just stood there, breathing hard, the madness simmering just behind his empty gaze.

The manager turned, clutching his bleeding head, and left — slamming the door behind him.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of Do-jin’s ragged breathing. Then he started laughing again. The kind of laughter that didn’t sound human anymore.

He stumbled toward the minibar, knocking aside empty glasses and grabbing a small black vial — his last stash of party drugs. The label had long worn off, but he didn’t care. He popped it open with his thumb and poured the powder into his drink, swirling it lazily.

"They think they can replace me," he muttered, voice slurring. "That doctor, those fake smiles, that washed-up PD... They’ll remember me. I’ll make them remember."

He downed the drink in one swallow, the taste bitter on his tongue. His hand twitched once, twice, then stilled.

On the television, Joon-ho’s face filled the frame again — serene, untouchable. The edited clip replayed one last time:

"I have women who are important to me."

The crowd’s laughter echoed through the speakers.

Do-jin’s grin stretched too wide. "Women, huh?" he said softly, voice shaking with something dark. "Let’s see how long they stay when the spotlight turns."

He staggered to the sofa, collapsing back onto the cushions. The room tilted around him, the world blurring at the edges.

The sound of applause from the broadcast mixed with the pounding in his skull. He pressed his palms against his temples, teeth gritted, but the noise only grew louder — the crowd’s cheer bleeding into jeers, into whispers that sounded like mockery.

He looked around wildly, as if expecting someone there — but there was no one left. Not the fans. Not the agency. Not the crew. Only the walls, the bottles, the fading smell of alcohol and regret.

His breathing grew erratic. He clutched at his chest, then laughed again, hoarse and uneven.

"They’ll see me again," he whispered, eyes glassy. "I’ll come back bigger. Louder. They’ll all remember who the real star is."

The TV light flickered against his face — half-illumined, half-swallowed in shadow.

Outside, wind rustled against the hotel windows, carrying faint sounds of Jeju’s nightlife — laughter spilling from bars, clinking glasses, the hum of engines heading back toward the city.Sounds of a world that had already moved on without him.

Do-jin slumped lower into the couch, his fingers trembling as he fished a small silver case from his jacket pocket. Inside, neatly folded packets of powder glimmered under the low light — his real comfort. His real control.

He tapped one open, poured the contents into what was left of his drink, and stirred lazily with his finger. The scent of the drug — sharp, chemical, and sweet — mixed with the heavy aroma of spilled wine and sweat.

He raised the glass to his lips and drank deep.

Warm numbness slid down his throat, crawling through his veins like a slow fire. His pupils widened, the edges of his vision blurring. The room pulsed faintly, as though it were breathing with him.

The last thing he saw before his eyes fluttered closed was Joon-ho’s frozen expression on the screen — perfect, steady, everything he’d lost.

A faint smile ghosted across Do-jin’s lips, manic and almost tender.

The silver case slipped from his lap, landing next to the empty glass with a dull clink.

And in that dim suite, surrounded by broken bottles, scattered powder, and the echo of applause from the television, the fallen star whispered to no one at all —

"I’m not done yet."