The flashbulbs were blinding.
Not as a momentary flicker, not as something that came and went—but as something constant. Relentless. A barrage of white light that erased shadows and flattened everything into a version of reality that felt cleaner than truth.
The red carpet stretched wide across the entrance of the Grand Seoul Arts Hall, layered over cold marble steps that had carried decades of celebrities, scandals, and triumphs. Velvet barricades formed neat boundaries, holding back the crowd of fans and reporters whose voices merged into a continuous hum of excitement, urgency, and competition.
Assistants moved quickly along the edges, murmuring into headsets. Stylists hovered near their assigned celebrities, fixing collars, brushing invisible dust, adjusting hair with surgical precision. Security stood in calculated positions, scanning faces, controlling movement without ever appearing intrusive.
And at the center of it all—
Choi Do-Yun stood still.
He wasn't rigid, nor was he relaxed. It was something in between—something practiced. Every inch of his posture carried intention. The midnight-blue velvet tuxedo he wore fit him perfectly, the fabric catching light in soft gradients, giving him a presence that seemed almost sculpted rather than dressed.
"Do-Yun-ssi! This side, please!"
"Just one look here!"
"Global press—over here!"
He turned.
Not quickly. Not slowly.
Precisely.
His chin tilted at the right angle, his gaze softening just enough, his lips forming the faintest curve. It was an expression he no longer thought about—the one the public had named, analyzed, and admired countless times.
The "Distant Prince."
He looked like a man untouched by ordinary concerns. A man who belonged somewhere higher, somewhere quieter, somewhere unreachable.
Around him, other actors laughed too loudly, greeted reporters with eager smiles, or adjusted their outfits under pressure. Their movements carried traces of nervous energy.
Do-Yun had none of that.
He stood apart—not by distance, but by presence.
To the world, he was perfection.
To himself—
His feet hurt.
The polished leather shoes, flawless to the eye, pressed painfully against his heels. The lights were too bright, the air slightly too warm under the layers of fabric, and the constant attention, though familiar, was never truly comfortable.
More importantly—
His mind wasn't here.
A faint vibration against his thigh reminded him.
His phone.
He didn't need to check it again. He had already read the message—more than once.
[Sister 🍎]:
If you don't bring seasoned chicken from the shop near the venue, don't bother coming home. Geon is crying.
For a fraction of a second, something real surfaced in his expression.
Then it was gone—replaced seamlessly by the practiced smile as another camera flashed.
Geon is sixteen, he thought, his eyes reflecting the lights without truly seeing them.
He's not crying because he's hungry.
A pause.
He's crying because he's dramatic.
Beyond the barricades, fans raised banners bearing his name in multiple languages. Some called out to him, others simply watched in silent awe, as if seeing him in person confirmed something they had only ever experienced through screens.
The "Diamond of the East."
His face was everywhere—on luxury watch advertisements that promised precision, on skincare campaigns that promised perfection, on towering digital billboards in Myeongdong that turned his image into something larger than life.
At thirty-two, Choi Do-Yun was no longer just an actor.
He was a standard.
And standards did not come with origin stories.
They did not come with struggle.
They simply… existed.
But he remembered.
Even if no one else did.
The noise of the red carpet began to fade—not physically, but in his mind, as memory slowly pulled him away from the present.
Sixteen years ago—
The building didn't look like a place where dreams began.
It looked like a place where they struggled to survive.
A narrow hallway led to a single room, the faint smell of dust and cheap disinfectant lingering in the air. The sign outside read Fixstar Agency, though it felt more like a hopeful label than a reality.
Inside, there was barely enough space to move comfortably.
One desk.
Two mismatched chairs.
Stacks of paper that seemed to exist more out of necessity than organization.
And behind that desk—
CEO Park.
She stood there with the quiet stubbornness of someone who refused to give up, even when everything suggested she should.
Do-Yun stood across from her.
Seventeen.
A trainee with no group, no clear future, and no guarantees.
SYNTHIA had collapsed before it even began. The members had been taken by larger agencies, leaving behind nothing but a name that no longer meant anything.
And then—
Life had collapsed with it.
On the very day his younger brother was born—
Their father disappeared.
No explanation. No farewell. No attempt to return.
Just absence.
The hospital room had been filled with a silence that didn't belong there. Machines hummed steadily, curtains hung half-drawn, and in the center of it all, his mother lay on the bed—exhausted, pale, and yet somehow still smiling.
Do-Yun had stood beside her, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
He had already seen it.
The multiple jobs she worked.
The late nights she thought he didn't notice.
The exhaustion she hid behind gentle reassurances.
"…I'll quit," he had said.
His voice had been quiet, but firm enough to carry weight.
She turned her head toward him.
"You'll what?"
"I'll quit," he repeated. "I'll work instead. You don't have to keep doing all this."
He meant it.
"I can earn something. Anything."
For a moment, she said nothing.
She simply looked at him—really looked, as if trying to understand how much of a child he still was, and how much he had already stopped being.
Then, slowly, she reached out.
Her hand rested on his head.
Warm.
Steady.
"No."
It wasn't loud.
But it didn't need to be.
"You don't work."
"…but—"
"You act."
His chest tightened.
"That doesn't make money right now."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I didn't bring you here to survive."
The words settled heavily between them.
"I brought you here to become something."
Her voice softened, but her resolve didn't.
"That's your future."
He didn't argue again.
Not because he fully understood—
But because he trusted her.
Because she believed in something he couldn't yet see.
And that belief didn't let him walk away.
A few days later, he stood in front of CEO Park.
"I'm not leaving."
She watched him carefully.
"If we can't sing…"
He took a breath.
"I'll act."
A pause.
"Just give me a script."
That was how it began.
Not with certainty.
Not with success.
But with refusal.
The years that followed did not change him all at once.
They shaped him gradually.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Responsibility didn't arrive with an announcement. It settled into his life piece by piece until it became impossible to separate from who he was.
From that point on, Choi Do-Yun stopped being just a son.
He became the foundation.
And foundations don't get the luxury of rest.
He took everything that came his way—every role, every commercial, every exhausting project others avoided. Scripts that demanded too much, schedules that gave too little, work that blurred the line between effort and endurance.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
It was never about fame.
It was about survival.
Every earning he made went back into Fixstar. Slowly, carefully, he ensured CEO Park never had to face collapse again. Piece by piece, he rebuilt what had once been broken.
And eventually—
It worked.
Years later, SYNTHIA debuted again.
This time, they didn't fail.
They didn't disappear.
They rose.
Fixstar became the largest agency in the country. The group grew into a global phenomenon, crossing borders, languages, and expectations.
And Do-Yun—
He became something more.
A star across Northeast Asia.
A growing presence in the West.
A name that no longer needed introduction.
To CEO Park, he was more than success.
He was family.
And she wanted to give something back.
So she built a plan.
A five-year roadmap.
Carefully structured. Precisely calculated.
Bigger films.
Global collaborations.
A path that would carry him beyond Korea, beyond Asia, into something permanent.
A legacy.
A name that would stand beside legends.
To her—
This was a gift.
But like everything that demanded greatness—
It came with a cost.
Absolute focus.
No scandals.
No distractions.
No life outside the spotlight.
And that—
Was exactly what his siblings refused to accept.
Ha-Niel.
Nineteen. Sharp, observant, and relentless when she decided something mattered.
Geon.
Sixteen. Loud, chaotic, and far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for.
They didn't care about Hollywood.
They cared about something far more immediate.
The silence in their home.
The absence no one talked about.
The "Mother Void."
They didn't want a legend.
They wanted their brother back.
And if the world refused to give him a life—
They would.
And so, quietly, without announcement—
The war began.
On one side stood CEO Park's vision, protected by her son, Park Min-Ho.
On the other stood the Choi siblings.
Launching—
"Project: New Mom."
No one knew.
But both paths had already been set in motion.
And both would take five years to collide.
The noise returned.
The lights.
The voices.
The cameras.
Do-Yun stood on the red carpet again.
Perfect.
Untouchable.
Because right now—
He wasn't thinking about legacy.
Or the future.
Or the war being built around him.
He was thinking about something far simpler.
The chicken shop closes in thirty minutes.
His phone vibrated again.
He didn't check it.
He didn't need to.
He already knew—
He was running out of time.
[STATUS: MISSION ACTIVE]
[TIME REMAINING: 1,825 DAYS]