Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 275 - 276: The Pitch Room

The city was just waking as LUNE’s team gathered outside the production house, the sky bruised pink and silver over glass towers. Harin was first out of the car, a stack of folders under one arm and a steel-cold focus in her eyes. She barely glanced at the reflective pool in the courtyard or the clean, minimalist lobby—her mind already racing through her mental script, step by step.

Mirae stepped beside her, hair done in a soft wave, suit sharp, make-up flawless. She looked every inch the lead actress, but her knuckles were pale where she gripped her phone, thumb flicking over messages from Yura and Sena. Joon-ho’s name popped up, a little encouragement: Knock them out, noona.

Sena arrived with the OST producer, a quiet, well-dressed man who cradled a tablet like a shield. Two junior staffers hovered behind, wearing neutral faces but giving each other sidelong, nervous glances. Down the hall, Mirae caught a glimpse of Hae-ri, the co-lead candidate, surrounded by her own agency’s people, already rehearsing lines under her breath.

The waiting area hummed with subtle tension. Rival teams watched each other from over coffee cups, measuring and second-guessing. Mirae caught the eyes of an older actor from another agency—a polite nod, but wary. Harin was unbothered, organizing handouts, checking the time.

"We own the room," she murmured to Mirae, just loud enough for her to hear. "Let them chase us."

Mirae nodded, straightening her shoulders. "You lead, I’ll light the fire."

The receptionist’s voice called them in. The boardroom was pure modernity—glass walls, high ceiling, sunlight gleaming off polished wood. At one end of the long table sat the streamer’s core team and Morninglight’s producers, legal counsel and marketing director at their flanks. Screens glowed with the LUNE logo. Bottled water, untouched.

Introductions were made, business card ballet. Harin’s smile was bright but precise, eyes taking in every face, every nuance of body language. She placed her folders down with a quiet confidence, clicked her pen, and began.

"Thank you for having us. LUNE isn’t just an agency—we’re a full-stack creative machine. We bring not just talent, but story, sound, and audience. What you see here today is a product of real synergy: Mirae’s reach, our in-house OST team, our content marketing network. We deliver stars, but we also deliver spectacle. That’s what this show deserves."

She moved briskly through slides—cast bios, fan engagement stats, key art and promo timelines. The OST producer cued up a demo, letting the music fill the sleek, sunlit room—modern, emotional, catchy. Heads nodded. One of the streamer reps scribbled a note, impressed.

A production house exec leaned forward. "We’ve seen the rumors. We’ve read the blogs. Can you speak to any concerns about... outside distractions?"

Harin didn’t blink. "LUNE’s policy is privacy-first. Our lead’s personal life isn’t a commodity. We measure value by what’s on screen, not what’s online. We’re happy to provide legal clarity if needed, but we don’t participate in rumor cycles. Our team is focused and prepared. If you need further assurances, we’re ready to provide documentation."

She passed it off to Sena, who projected quiet authority, fielding social engagement numbers and case studies—fan events, viral hashtags, evidence of an audience hungry for both drama and the cast themselves.

Now Mirae’s turn. She rose, voice even and sure. "Thank you for your time. This project matters to me. It’s not just a job, it’s a story I want to tell. I know what it’s like to lose control of your own narrative—and I know what it takes to earn trust back."

A gentle, competitive banter sparked between her and Hae-ri, who was called up as her potential co-lead. Hae-ri grinned, eyes dancing. "You know, sunbae, you might have to let me steal a few scenes. I’ve got some moves."

Mirae laughed, picking up the thread. "You can try, dongsaeng, but you’ll have to work for it."

The room lightened. Someone asked for a short improvisation. Mirae and Hae-ri stepped together, taking a beat to read the scenario. They launched into a scene—two rivals at a cafe, the lines improvised, chemistry electric. Mirae’s eyes flashed, Hae-ri’s laughter bubbling over at a well-timed jab. The producers sat forward, caught by the spark between them.

As they finished, Mirae dropped the character with a wink, earning a ripple of genuine applause. Harin gave her a subtle nod—mission accomplished.

Sena closed with a recap: "We offer not just a product, but a partnership. LUNE brings everyone to the table. You’re not hiring actors—you’re getting a whole engine working for your show."

As the meeting ended, the tension in the waiting room had shifted. Rival teams eyed Mirae and Hae-ri, whispering among themselves. Some looked resigned, others more competitive. Mirae smiled politely, but inside her pulse thundered. She followed Harin and Sena down the hall, adrenaline making her steps float.

Outside, the light was sharper, the air carrying a sense of new possibility. Mirae checked her phone. Yura had sent a simple message: Proud of you. Joon-ho’s was more playful: Don’t forget us normal people at home.

But home felt worlds away. Yura had spent the morning alone, the baby on her hip, bouncing between video calls with Lumina clients and moments of exhaustion so deep she found herself standing in the kitchen, staring at the clock, not knowing what time it was. She’d managed to feed the baby, get laundry halfway done, answer five urgent emails, and still felt like she’d accomplished nothing. The apartment was a mess: bottles on the counter, Mirae’s dress shoes by the door, a script half-hidden beneath a pile of towels. Joon-ho helped, but even his constant presence couldn’t erase the fatigue that clung to her skin.

By the time Mirae returned, the sky was darkening and the baby had finally drifted off to sleep. Mirae burst in, face flushed, excitement humming in her bones. "We killed it," she said, flopping onto the couch. "They loved the OST. Hae-ri and I—instant chemistry. Harin was a machine. I think they really saw what we could do."

Yura smiled, pride and envy mixing in her chest. "That’s great. You should rest. I’m not sure when the last time you slept was."

Mirae shook her head, already scrolling through her phone, replying to group messages, sending voice notes to Sena and Harin. "Sleep can wait. This is our shot, Yura. I feel alive again."

Joon-ho emerged from the bedroom, hair askew, shirt rumpled. He gave Mirae a tired thumbs up. "Superstar," he said. "We’ll get your autograph later. Now eat before you pass out."

He retreated, and Yura caught the edge in his voice—a note of fatigue, a longing to reclaim the quiet they once shared.

Mirae didn’t notice. She was already off to her room, laptop balanced on one knee, replying to Harin’s latest message: Don’t celebrate yet. This isn’t over. Call me when you’re settled.

Late that night, after the city had dimmed and the apartment finally quieted, Yura sat alone in the living room, the baby sleeping in her arms. She watched the city lights flicker, wondered when she’d last felt rested. She scrolled through her own messages, friends asking about the rumors, a few clients quietly withdrawing from Lumina, worried about "family image." She ignored them all, focusing on the steady rhythm of the baby’s breath, the warmth of the little body against her.

In her room, Mirae stared at the ceiling, the pitch still replaying in her mind. She replayed the scene with Hae-ri, the laughter in the boardroom, the sense of power in her own voice. She knew the high wouldn’t last, but for now, it was enough.

At LUNE’s office, Harin sat with Sena and the OST producer, debriefing in hushed tones. The call from the production house was due any moment. The air was taut with anticipation.

A little after midnight, Harin’s phone rang. She listened, face unmoving, then hung up and turned to the team. "We’re shortlisted. Us and Star Entertainment. One more round, legal review on both leads. If Mirae clears, we’re in."

The news hit Mirae’s phone seconds later. She read the message twice, heart pounding, then rushed to Yura’s room.

"They picked us," she whispered, half-disbelieving. "We’re in the final two."

Yura smiled, exhaustion softening just a little. "I knew you would."

Joon-ho appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. "What’s next?"

Mirae’s smile faded, replaced by nerves. "They want legal paperwork. Clearance. Proof I’m not still tied up with EON. If there’s a loose thread, they’ll pull it."

Harin’s voice came through on group chat: Don’t relax. This is just the next battle.

Sena added: We’re almost there. One more wall.

Mirae walked back to her room, the city glowing beneath her window. On the bed was the thick envelope from LUNE’s lawyers—contracts, clearances, every line of her past waiting to be scrutinized. She sat on the edge, envelope unopened, staring at the city’s endless lights.

Yura lay in the darkness, the baby a warm weight on her chest, listening to the faint hum of Mirae’s excitement in the other room. She closed her eyes, letting the chaos settle for a moment, wondering what peace might look like when this was all over.

Harin, back at her apartment, stared out at the empty street, calculating every risk, every possible EON move, mind already racing ahead to tomorrow. The win was real, but so was the cost.

In the stillness, Mirae ran her thumb along the legal envelope, heart in her throat. The spotlight was brighter than ever, but the shadows were close behind.