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Film’s apartment was drenched in the pale light of late afternoon. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting faint golden streaks across her haggard face. A week without sleep had left dark shadows under her eyes, her cheeks sunken, her skin drained of color. On the table, newspapers were stacked high beside bouquets from fans, now wilted and shedding petals across the surface. She no longer had the mind to rearrange or clean them; everything around her seemed to fade into a dull, gray backdrop for her exhaustion.

A knock sounded—soft, but firm. Film moved toward the door slowly, each step heavy, as though every time she lifted her foot, another crack formed inside her. The door opened, and standing before her was June, holding a clear pitcher of juice, its orange hue glimmering under the evening light.

“Hey, sis,” June’s voice was sweet, her lips curved in a gentle smile, her eyes glinting with concern. “I made some fruit juice. All fresh, good for your health. You must be exhausted these days.”

Film blinked, surprised. For a fleeting moment, she caught something in June’s gaze—something soft yet shadowed, tender but tinged with something unreadable. Still, she only gave a faint nod, lips pressed together as she murmured,
“...Thanks.”

June set the glass down on the table, her fingertips brushing lightly over Film’s shoulder, the touch gentle but intentional.
“Make sure you finish it, okay? You need your strength if you’re going to take care of Namtan.”

With that, June turned and left. Her slender figure slipped behind the doorway, leaving behind a silence thick as fog. Film sat down again, her eyes fixed on the glass of orange juice on the table. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted it; the liquid quivered in the glass, reflecting the unrest churning inside her.

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At the same time, in the dormitory, Bonnie was rummaging through the handbag June had forgotten after their meeting. She had only meant to look for a script to return, but from a small pocket, a blister pack of pills slid out and clattered onto the tile floor.

Bonnie bent down to pick it up—and her heart clenched tight.

“High-dose sedatives… antipsychotics?”

The bold print on the packaging sent a chill surging down her spine. Her breath hitched, mind spinning. A violent instinctive fear surged through her, driving her body into motion before thought could catch up. She shoved the pills into her own bag, grabbed her coat, and bolted from the room.

Heart pounding wildly, Bonnie sprinted down the long corridor, her vision blurring with unspilled tears. Only one thought echoed in her head: Film was in danger.

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Inside the apartment, Film raised the glass of orange juice to her lips. The sweet scent rose gently, but in that very moment, a memory flashed—June’s eyes at the hospital that day. A gaze both anxious and chilling, like a blade concealed beneath silk.

Her hand paused midair.

Right then, the door burst open.

“Don’t drink that!” Bonnie shouted, rushing in and striking Film’s wrist.

The glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor, exploding into countless shards. The orange liquid spread across the carpet, glinting coldly beneath the light.

Film froze, eyes widened as she stared at her sister. Bonnie, breathless and shaking, grabbed her shoulders, her voice trembling uncontrollably:

“Sis… June put something in it. I’m sure!”

Silence congealed around them. Every word Bonnie spoke struck Film’s mind like a blade. Scattered memories—an overly sweet smile, perfectly timed appearances, fleeting looks whenever Film was worn out—suddenly pieced together into something terrifying.

“No… that can’t be…” Film whispered, but her cold hands betrayed the denial in her voice.

Bonnie pulled her into a tight embrace, tears spilling over:

“Please, from now on, you have to be careful. Don’t trust her anymore—please!”

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That same night, after days of inner conflict, Love finally confessed everything she had suspected to Milk. When she finished, Milk stood silent for a moment, then gave a firm nod.

“Let’s go. We’re going to June’s place.”

June’s apartment was eerily quiet. The lock was barely latched, as though whoever lived there didn’t bother with precautions. Love and Milk exchanged a look, then gently pushed the door open.

What they saw stopped them cold.

The walls were plastered with photos of Film. Some were slashed over with streaks of red ink, others stabbed through with rough scribbles. Twisted sentences sprawled across the images:

“Don’t let her escape.”
“She has to lose everything.”

On the desk in the corner lay a thick, open diary. Love’s hands trembled as she turned the pages. The writing was heavy, jagged, gouging into the paper.

March 14th, 2012
Today father made me quit acting classes again. He said Film needs space to grow, and I don’t. But why? I want to be on stage too. I want to shine too. Why does he always choose her while I’m left behind?

June 20th, 2013
Bonnie cried. Father hugged her, comforted her. And me? I cried too, but he only said: “Don’t be selfish.” Don’t be selfish… the words cut into me like a knife. I hate them. I hate all of them. But I’ll remember, I’ll write down every time they leave me behind, so I’ll never forget.

July 14th, 2015
Film’s birthday. They threw a big party, laughter filled the whole house. I stood outside the door. Father saw me and said, “Come in.” But his eyes weren’t real. He didn’t want me there. He never wanted me at all.

July 3rd, 2017
I applied to acting school, but father forced me to switch majors. “Be realistic, stop dreaming,” he said. Be realistic? Or is he afraid I’ll take Film’s place—or Bonnie’s? They all get to chase their dreams. What about me?

The entries continued, page after page—crowded with resentment, jealousy, and the steady rot of long-nurtured hatred…

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Film sank to the floor, her back against the wall, still dazed from the shock. The glass of juice was now just a cold puddle on the carpet, shards of glass glinting weakly under the dim light. Her fingers trembled as she touched the droplets scattered along her skin.

Bonnie held her, voice raw from crying and running:
“I saw the pills… really strong ones… in June’s bag. I don’t know what she planned, but… you can’t drink anything she gives you ever again.”

Film bit down on her lip, her face colorless. In her mind, memories flickered in rapid succession—June’s eyes at the hospital, her soft but hollow voice, the way she always appeared at just the right moment. All of it wove together into a cord tightening around her thoughts.

“June… really wants to hurt me?” Film whispered, eyes shimmering with disbelief at her own words.

Bonnie pressed her cheek to Film’s shoulder, shaking her head but speaking with certainty:
“Whatever the reason… I won’t let you blindly trust her ever again.”

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Meanwhile, in June’s apartment.

Love turned another page, the ink still blotched with old tear marks. Her voice was hoarse as she read aloud to Milk in the suffocating silence:

February 12th, 2018
Film won the Rising Young Actress Award. Father hugged her, proudly called her “my pride.” And me? He said, “You’re good at math, focus on that.” But I was never good at math. I just wanted him to look at me the way he looks at her.

August 30th, 2019
Bonnie got sick. The whole family hovered over her. I had a fever too, lying alone in my room. Father opened the door, looked at me, and only said: “You can take care of yourself.” Take care of myself… I’ve been doing that all my life. I have nothing left but silence crushing me.

May 4th, 2020
I secretly filmed myself acting and sent it to father. He didn’t even watch it, just texted back: “Stop wasting time.” Wasting time? To him, my dreams are just a waste. Fine then. He’ll see. They’ll all see.

Milk stood motionless, fists clenched so tightly the veins rose on her skin. Her eyes hardened, burning with a mix of anger and pity.

Love lifted her gaze, voice trembling:
“Do you see? This isn’t just jealousy anymore. It’s a wound festering since childhood… and now it’s become pure hatred.”

She closed the diary, exhaling shakily, as if she could barely hold together after witnessing the truth laid bare.

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In the pitch-dark apartment, with only a yellow desk lamp casting its dull glow, June sat silently at a wooden table buried in papers. Photos were trimmed and plastered across the wall—Film walking out of a film set, Film smiling behind the scenes with colleagues, even Film at the hospital holding Namtan’s hand.

On the table lay a mapped-out schedule, marked with arrows and symbols. Sticky notes surrounded it, the writing crooked yet razor sharp:

“No one’s protecting you this time.”
“Everything you have always should’ve been mine.”

June picked up a photo where Film was laughing brightly at the camera. She slid a finger along that face, her eyes glinting with something deranged.

“Sis…” she murmured, voice low and threaded with venom, “you always had everything. Love, career, fans. And me… just a shadow. Father never once looked at me, not really.”

Her hand trembled briefly. Then suddenly, a smile curved her lips—warped and icy.
“But soon, you’ll learn what it’s like to lose everything. I’ll make you taste abandonment, make your light die out.”

A photo slipped from the wall, landing face down. On the back, scribbled in pen:

“Namtan won’t shield you forever.”

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Back at Film’s apartment, Bonnie was forcing her to sip water, wiping the sweat from her sister’s forehead. Film seemed hollowed out, yet in her eyes flickered a fragile, unfamiliar resolve.

“Bonnie…” her voice was hoarse, “I… won’t let you or anyone else get dragged into this. No matter how much June hates me… I have to find a way to end this.”

Bonnie shook her head, voice breaking:
“No, you’re not facing this alone. Me, Emi, Love, Milk… we’re all here. You’re not carrying this by yourself anymore.”

Film looked at her, eyes filled with fear, pain, and guilt. But beneath it all, something had begun to burn—a will refusing to collapse.

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Back in June’s apartment, Love closed the thick diary, her pulse pounding. She drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady the trembling spreading through her. Milk stood beside her, face darkened with dread.

“Love…” Milk said quietly, “do you realize it now? Everything… she’s planned it all. The day she came back—it was probably the start of it.”

Love pressed her lips together and nodded faintly. In her mind, every horrifying fragment lined up into a complete picture. Every coincidence, every perfectly timed appearance, every tender word from June—they were all part of the script.

“Film…” Love whispered, her eyes reddening, “she’s standing in the middle of a nightmare.”

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Outside, the night wind howled through the cracks, carrying a creeping chill. The city glowed with lights yet brimmed with invisible darkness.

June sat there, head tilted toward the collage of photographs. Once more, she whispered, her voice like an echo rising from the abyss:

“It’s time, Film. No one can save you now.”