144: Chapter 144 Does the club president live here too?

Park So-yeon's efficiency was always high. Less than three hours after receiving a call from Song Tianhao, Han Hyo-joo received a notice to move.

Sky Entertainment sent a car and two female staff members to help her load her sparse luggage from the hotel into a black business van.

When the car drove into a quiet, high-end apartment complex in the middle of Gangnam District, Han Hyo-joo felt a bit dazed.

The environment here was completely different from the business hotel she had been staying in; it was shaded by lush trees, the roads were clean, and several modern-looking buildings were arranged in a staggered, well-spaced manner, offering excellent privacy.

The security guard at the entrance stood straight. Seeing the vehicle approach, he first glanced vigilantly at the license plate, then seemingly recognized it as a Sky Entertainment car, stood at attention, saluted, and the electric gate slid open silently.

"This is an apartment complex prepared by the company for important artists or long-term partners. Security is at the highest level, with twenty-four-hour patrols. Without a resident's permission or company registration, outsiders cannot enter."

The accompanying staff member was a capable woman in her thirties, surnamed Kim, a clerk from the Artist Management Department. While guiding the car into the underground garage, she explained to Han Hyo-joo in the passenger seat, "Actress Han, your room is on the twelfth floor of Building B. It has already been cleaned, and basic daily necessities are all prepared."

Building B? Han Hyo-joo's heart stirred. She remembered the building directory she had glimpsed at the entrance—Buildings A, B, and C. Building A seemed to have the most floors.

"Does President Song live here too?" she asked softly.

Staff member Kim smiled and did not answer directly, only saying, "President Song attaches great importance to the safety of his artists. Actress Han, please rest assured living here; it is very safe."

The elevator went straight to the twelfth floor. The hallway was covered with thick carpet, completely absorbing the sound of footsteps. For Room 1203, staff member Kim swiped a card to open the door.

The apartment had a standard single-person layout, but it was quite spacious, estimated to be seventy or eighty square meters.

The living room was connected to an open kitchen. The decor was modern and minimalist, with beige and light gray as the main color tones. There wasn't much furniture, but it was well-designed. Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows was the landscaped garden in the center of the complex, offering a wide view.

The bedroom, bathroom, and small study were all fully equipped. The bedding was brand new and exuded a fresh scent as if it had been dried in the sun. The refrigerator in the kitchen was even packed with fresh ingredients, fruits, and drinks.

"These were prepared at the instruction of Soyeon. She said that since you just moved in, you might not have time to go grocery shopping."

Staff member Kim pointed to the refrigerator and a paper bag with the Sky Entertainment logo on the living room coffee table, "In the bag are some toiletries and emergency medicine. The internet has been set up, and the password is on the router. Here are the access card and keys; please keep them safe."

Han Hyo-joo took the cold access card and keys. Holding them in her hand, her fingertips could feel the chill of the metal, but a warm current welled up in her heart. She hadn't experienced this feeling of being meticulously cared for in a long time.

At CJ, she was more like a replaceable part at any time; no one cared where she lived, what she ate, or if she was safe.

"Thank you, thank you so much." She bowed deeply.

"You are too kind. If you need anything, feel free to call me or contact Manager Soyeon directly. I won't disturb you while you unpack your luggage." Staff member Kim politely said goodbye and left.

The door closed, and Han Hyo-joo was left alone in the apartment. It was very quiet; she could only hear the faint sound of the central air conditioning vent and the distant, indistinct city background noise filtered by distance and glass from outside the window.

She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked at the meticulously maintained garden below. The fountain refracted fragmented light under the afternoon sun. A few people in sportswear were jogging on the path, and in the distance, an elderly person walking a dog was strolling leisurely. Everything appeared peaceful, orderly, and safe.

It was a world of difference from the tense feeling she had experienced in the hotel over the past few days, where she felt like needles were pricking her back and always felt someone was watching her.

She exhaled softly, and her shoulders, which had been held taut, relaxed slightly. She walked over to the sofa and sat down; the soft leather sofa gently enveloped her. On the coffee table, besides the Sky Entertainment bag, there was a small potted plant—a succulent with chubby, healthy, blue-green leaves.

She stared at the succulent for a while, dazed, before getting up to start organizing her simple luggage. Actually, there wasn't much to organize: clothes hung in the closet, toiletries placed in the bathroom, a few books put on the nightstand, and her laptop connected to the Wi-Fi. It was done in less than half an hour.

The sky gradually darkened, and the city lights turned on one by one.

She didn't turn on the main light, only the floor lamp beside the sofa, casting a warm yellow halo over the corner of the sofa. She was a bit hungry, but she was too lazy to move and didn't really want to order takeout, even though staff member Kim said takeout could be delivered downstairs, where security would check it before property staff brought it up.

She just sat there, watching the deepening night outside the window, her mind repeatedly replaying the conversation in the President's office during the day, as well as herself from that USB drive.

That version of herself with hollow eyes, a twisted smile, and a cold voice.

"Actress Han Hyo-joo, you have captured the soul of 'dark light'."

The President's voice echoed in her mind, clear and affirmative.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

The crisp electronic sound seemed somewhat abrupt in the quiet apartment. Han Hyo-joo was startled, her heart skipping a beat. Who could it be so late? Staff member Kim? Soyeon? Or...

She subconsciously looked at the clock on the wall: 8:40 PM.

Taking a deep breath, she walked to the door, stood on tiptoe, and looked through the peephole.

The person standing outside the door made her breath hitch—it was actually Song Tianhao.

He had changed out of his formal suit from the day and was wearing a dark gray casual knit sweater and black trousers. He was holding a white insulated bag with a convenience store logo on it, standing outside the door with a calm expression.

Han Hyo-joo quickly tidied her hair and clothes and opened the door.

"Pr-President?" She was a bit flustered, not expecting him to visit suddenly at this time.

"I'm not disturbing your rest, am I?" Song Tianhao's tone was normal. He lifted the bag in his hand, "Housewarming gift. Bought it at the convenience store downstairs—kimbap and fish cake soup, just to make do for a late-night snack." He paused, then raised a tablet in his other hand, "By the way, let's talk about that video of yours from today."

Han Hyo-joo quickly stepped aside, "You're not disturbing me! Please come in, President!"

Song Tianhao walked in, naturally changed into the guest slippers prepared at the entrance, and looked around the living room, "Are you getting used to it?"

"Yes, it's good, really good. Thank you, President." Han Hyo-joo closed the door, her heart still beating a little fast. The President came to deliver a late-night snack in person? This treatment... She didn't dare to imagine it.

"That's good." Song Tianhao walked over to the sofa and sat down, placed the insulated bag on the coffee table, and opened it. The aroma of the food immediately wafted out—the characteristic smell of sesame oil from the kimbap and the savory scent of the fish cake soup.

He took out two boxes of kimbap, two bowls of steaming fish cake soup in eco-friendly containers, and even two small boxes of pickled radish.

"I didn't know if you had eaten, so I just bought a little something." Song Tianhao pushed one portion in front of her and opened the other for himself, "Let's eat while we talk."

Han Hyo-joo sat down in a daze, looking at the simple yet steaming food in front of her. The kimbap was the most common tuna mayonnaise flavor, cut into neat pieces.

The fish cake soup had a few slices of fish cake, a piece of white radish, and a few green onion segments floating in it, the soup clear and bright. It was very ordinary convenience store food, even a bit humble.

But she remembered that a long time ago, when she wasn't famous yet and was just a small actress auditioning everywhere, she once went on a late-night radio show, and the host asked her what she would eat as a late-night snack if she was busy until very late.

She was so tired and hungry at the time that she subconsciously said, "Probably tuna mayonnaise kimbap and fish cake soup from a convenience store; it's hot, and after eating it, I'll feel very warm and have the strength to keep going."

How long ago was that? Even she had almost forgotten.

She picked up her chopsticks, picked up a piece of kimbap, and put it into her mouth. The rice was still warm, and the taste of the tuna and mayonnaise mixture melted in her mouth—simple, yet inexplicably making her nose feel a bit sore.

"I watched the video carefully twice." Song Tianhao ate a piece of kimbap, picked up the tablet, and opened the video file Han Hyo-joo had sent, "The strengths are very prominent, and the emotional intensity is very high, especially the transition between that hollow numbness in the first half and the pathological awakening in the second half—it's very natural and convincing."

"You captured the sense of distortion when 'dark light' is pushed to the brink, her mental world collapsing and then rebuilding. This isn't technique; it's empathy."

His evaluation was very professional, his tone calm, like he was analyzing a business report. Han Hyo-joo ate slowly, listening intently, and the nervousness in her heart was gradually replaced by focus.

"However, there are also problems. Here, your facial control is a bit excessive."

Song Tianhao turned the tablet toward her and paused it, the image freezing on the scene where she leaned close to the camera with demonic eyes, "'dark light's' state at that time is a 'rebirth' after her self-perception has been completely shattered. She feels that she is clean and powerful, but this power is illusory and built upon destruction."

"In your eyes, there is too much self-appreciation and sense of control, which instead weakens the 'emptiness' at her core. You can pull it back a bit, add a bit more confusion, a bit more uncertainty. Amidst the madness, you must retain a trace of the fear and sadness that belongs to 'Yoon Soo-ah,' which even she herself hasn't noticed."

Han Hyo-joo stared at herself on the screen, her chewing stopping. The problem the President pointed out was spot on. At the time, she was only thinking about showing the awakening and power of 'dark light,' but she had ignored the fragility and distorted foundation of this "power" itself.

"And here," Song Tianhao pulled it back a bit, to the action of her touching her cheek, "The trembling of your fingers is good, but the arc can be smaller, more subtle."

"'dark light' is unfamiliar with, and even disgusted by, her own body at this moment. The touch should be tentative, filled with uncertainty, rather than this... almost affectionate touch."

As he spoke, he used his fingertips to gesture the subtle range of motion on the tablet. Han Hyo-joo leaned in closer, watching his slender fingers slide across the screen and listening to his low, clear explanation. The awkwardness and shyness in her heart completely dissipated, leaving only focus on and absorption of the performance.

"I understand, President. It's that my understanding wasn't deep enough." She put down her chopsticks and said earnestly.

"It's already very good." Song Tianhao also put down his chopsticks and pulled out a tissue to wipe his mouth, "Director Lee Chang-dong wants exactly this kind of raw, rough, but vibrant thing. There is a kind of 'ferocity' in your performance that many mature actors actually lose. Technique can be practiced, but the feeling is rare."

He turned off the video, picked up the fish cake soup, took a sip, and then continued, "Starting tomorrow, the acting coach arranged by the company will come to your place to give you lessons, three times a week, mainly to help you polish your techniques and sort out the deeper logic of the character. I have already sent the class schedule to your email.

Also, you can use the gym and the heated Swimming pool in the complex. The password is the last six digits of your birthday. Exercise more; it's good for both your body and your mood."

Han Hyo-joo was stunned. An acting coach coming to her place for lessons? Access to the gym and Swimming pool? Even the password was set to her birthday?

This feeling of being so clearly taken care of, yet filled with such meticulous concern everywhere, made a certain place in her heart feel both soft and swollen.

"President Song... why are you being so good to me?" She heard herself ask in a low voice, and she regretted it the moment the words left her mouth; it was too abrupt.

Song Tianhao looked at her, his eyes calm and waveless: "You are an actor of Sky Entertainment and an important character in 'dark light'. Being good to you is being responsible for the project, and also being responsible for my own judgment."

This answer was very official and very rational. Han Hyo-joo gave an "Oh," lowered her head, and stirred the fish cake soup in the bowl with a spoon.

The living room quieted down, with only the faint, muffled sound of a news broadcast coming from a neighbor's television through the walls. It seemed to be playing the clarification report from Sky Entertainment earlier that day, and the anchor's articulate voice came through intermittently: "Decisive action... protecting artists... conclusive evidence..."

This faint background noise formed a subtle contrast with the two people sitting quietly opposite each other eating a late-night snack in the living room.

The outside world was still buzzing with discussion about the day's turmoil, while the two people at the center of the storm were in this safe little space, discussing acting and eating late-night snacks from the convenience store.

"President Song," Han Hyo-joo suddenly looked up again, her gaze holding something else this time, as if she had gathered her courage, "May I ask you a question? It might... be a bit presumptuous."

"Ask."

"Is the way you treat Son Ye-jin sunbae..." She paused, her fingers unconsciously gripping the spoon, "...and the way you treat me, the same?"

This question was very direct, even a bit sharp. She stared intently at Song Tianhao's face, not wanting to miss any slight change in his expression.

Song Tianhao did not answer immediately. He picked up his water glass and took a sip, his movements unhurried. Then, he put down the glass and looked at Han Hyo-joo. His gaze was very calm, showing no signs of being offended by her slightly boundary-crossing question, nor did he evade it.

"It's not the same." He answered just as directly.

Han Hyo-joo's heart sank slightly.

"Son Ye-jin is a mature, powerful, top-tier actor with sufficient capital and experience. She is very clear about what she wants, what she can handle, and what she needs."

Song Tianhao's tone was calm, as if stating an objective fact, "Being good to her is about respect, appreciation, and support between equal partners. It is giving her a good enough script, a character worth investing in, and a clean creative environment. She deserves these, and she has the ability to handle them."

He paused, his gaze landing on Han Hyo-joo's face; that gaze was not sharp, yet it seemed as if it could look into one's heart.

"But you," his voice lowered slightly, "Han Hyo-joo, you are currently more like a tree pressed down by a stone, yet struggling desperately to bloom in the crevices. I see the stone, and I also see your drive to bloom. So, being good to you is about wanting to move that stone away, to make space for you, to give you sunlight and water, so that you can grow properly following your own drive."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together: "Tell me, can a gardener treat a lush, full-grown tree and a small sapling still pressed by a stone the same way? The ratio of watering and fertilizing, the intensity of pruning branches and leaves, the degree of providing shade and wind protection—they must be different. But the heart—the desire for them both to grow well and become strong and flourishing—is the same."

He leaned back against the sofa, picked up the tablet, swiped a few times, brought up a document, and turned it toward Han Hyo-joo: "This is some analysis of the character Yoon Soo-ah that Son Ye-jin sent me earlier. She agreed to share it with you. You can take a look at her thought process."

Han Hyo-joo took the tablet. On the screen was a scanned copy of handwritten notes. The handwriting was elegant yet powerful, and the organization was clear. From character biographies to psychological motive analysis for key scenes, it progressed layer by layer with rigorous logic. It was completely in the style of the academic, methodological school.

"Your performance has the advantage of strong emotional impact, with raw explosive power that can move people. Her advantage is rigorous logic, deep understanding, and the ability to construct a complete character skeleton."

Song Tianhao pointed at the screen, "I need the 'difference' between you two. I need your 'shadow' to use the most extreme emotions to impact, contrast, and tear apart her logically rigorous, seemingly perfect 'light'. I also need her 'light' to use her rationality and order to reflect, attempt to understand, and eventually be swallowed and contaminated by your 'shadow'. You are completely different, but it is precisely this difference that allows you to complete the story of 'dark light' together."

He took the tablet back and turned it off: "So, there's no need to compare. You are both unique. To me, and to this movie, you are indispensable and completely different existences. Do you understand?"

Han Hyo-joo stared at him blankly, her heart beating fast, her throat feeling a bit dry.

She understood. President Song did not brush her off; he didn't use "you're both the same" to fob her off. Instead, he clearly pointed out the differences between her and Son Ye-jin, and clearly expressed his recognition of their respective values, as well as the different ways he treated them based on that recognition.

He didn't belittle anyone, nor did he elevate anyone. He just stated things objectively, then gave corresponding support and expectations.

This feeling of being clearly "seen" and accurately "positioned" made her feel more grounded and felt that she was being taken seriously, compared to a vague "I am good to both of you."

"I understand, President Song." She lowered her head, her voice a little hoarse, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Song Tianhao stood up, "Thank yourself. It was you who seized the opportunity, and it was you who performed that kind of power. Get some rest early; the teacher will come at nine tomorrow, don't be late."

"Yes! Take care, President Song!" Han Hyo-joo quickly stood up to see him off.

Walking to the door, Song Tianhao changed into his shoes, turned back, and looked at her again: "Lock the door well. If anything happens, call me."

"Mhm!" Han Hyo-joo nodded heavily.

The door closed gently. Han Hyo-joo leaned against the door panel and stood for quite a while before slowly walking back to the living room. The half-eaten late-night snack was still on the coffee table, and the air seemed to still retain the faint, crisp scent of President Song.

She walked to the window and looked downstairs. The night was deep, and the streetlights in the complex emitted soft halos of light.

After a while, she saw that familiar figure walk out of the unit door of Building B. He didn't take a car, nor did he bring an assistant, just alone, walking along the path illuminated by lights, unhurriedly heading toward another taller building in the distance. That was Building A.

His silhouette was stretched very long under the streetlights, his pace steady, his shoulders and back straight, slowly blending into the night and the shadows of the trees until he could no longer be seen.

Han Hyo-joo stood by the window for a long time until the night breeze brought a hint of chill, and then she returned to the sofa and sat down. Her gaze fell on the white insulated bag with the convenience store logo printed on it. She reached out, slowly smoothed it out, folded it, and then treasured it away into the drawer of the TV cabinet.

She picked up her tablet and reopened the self-recorded video. In front of the dim hotel wall, that pale, hollow, yet faintly crazy, vital self appeared again.

This time, she watched more carefully and understood more clearly.

After the video finished, the black screen reflected her face at this moment. She had no makeup on, with faint dark circles under her eyes, but her gaze was clear and bright, and there was something different in it.

She looked at herself on the screen and said in a low voice, word by word: "Han Hyo-joo, you have to work hard."

"You must grow well."

"You must grow into a tree... that is worthy of this patch of sunlight."

She clenched her fists, her fingertips digging into her palms, bringing a slight stinging pain, but also bringing an incomparably real sense of power.

Almost at the same time, Song Tianhao, who had returned to the top-floor apartment of Building A, had just taken off his coat when his phone vibrated slightly. He picked it up and took a look; it was a text message from an unknown number, the content containing only a few words and some punctuation: [Watched the video. Good material, has a fierce drive. Polish it well. Lee Chang-dong], which was a message from Director Lee Chang-dong.

Song Tianhao had also sent a copy of Han Hyo-joo's video to him.

Song Tianhao smiled and replied with two words: [Understood.]

He walked to the desk and opened his computer; his inbox was already piled with many work emails. He quickly browsed and processed them, one of which was from Director Lee Chang-dong's work email, with the subject " 'dark light' Script Third Draft".

Opening the email, the body was very simple: "President Song, the script has been revised according to our last discussion, especially the scenes between the two female leads, strengthening the mutual erosion and transformation of 'light' and 'shadow'. Attached is the final version of the script in PDF. Also, regarding the actors for 'light' and 'shadow', are they ready to ignite for each other, and also to shield each other? Looking forward to their chemistry on camera. Lee Chang-dong."

Song Tianhao downloaded the attachment but did not open it immediately. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. From this angle, he could see the silhouette of Building B in the distance, where one of the windows still had a warm light shining.

In his mind, several lines of system prompt information flashed: [Son Ye-jin (Actor): Current favorability: 75, trusted partner → appreciated member of the opposite sex] [Han Hyo-joo (Actor): Current loyalty: 85, help in a desperate situation → reliable support; Current sense of security: 90; Potential willingness to expose CJ: + 50%]

He took a look and closed the system interface.

Replying to Director Lee Chang-dong's email, he typed quickly: "Director Lee, script received. The actors are in place, both 'light' and 'shadow' are ready. Just waiting to start filming."

Click, send.

He closed his email and cast his gaze back to the lights outside the window. The city night will never truly be silent, just like this circle, always surging with undercurrents.