At three in the afternoon, the office air was thick with an indescribable fatigue—and the quiet anxiety that comes right before work begins again.

The air conditioning hummed steadily.
The curtains were half drawn, letting daylight seep in and scatter across the desk, over loose sticky notes and open notebooks.

After yesterday’s explosive meeting, today’s atmosphere was unnervingly calm.

Everyone seemed to be deliberately keeping their voices low, as if afraid of brushing against nerves that hadn’t quite settled yet.

The scrape of a chair against the floor broke the silence. The screenwriter sat down first, adjusted his glasses, and scanned the room—then paused.

Someone was missing.

“Where’s the boss?”

The moment the words left their mouth, the room froze for a second.

The director shifted in their chair, absently scratching their cheek.
His gaze drifted, tinged with resignation.

“He said he didn’t want any spoilers,” he replied.
“Wants to be a hundred percent immersed in the story… so he’s not coming in today.”

The room fell silent.
Then everyone exchanged a glance, the same thought surfacing at once:
…Yeah. That was actually understandable.

“Right. Okay. Pretend I didn’t ask.”

The screenwriter acted as if they hadn’t just posed the question at all, switching topics with practiced efficiency.

“Let’s move straight into today’s agenda.”

He pulled the whiteboard closer, twirling the marker once in their hand.

“Today’s main discussion is how to integrate interactive design into The Hidden Moon and the Sea of Dawn.”

“This story already leans toward emotional, slice-of-life territory. My suggestion is to embed interaction points directly into the characters’ everyday lives—so the audience can participate in living alongside them.”

“For example?” the art lead asked.

“Things like what gift to give, where to go, what to do together.”

“Choices that seem trivial on the surface, but slowly accumulate into the characters’ memories.”

“That’s the only way we can make the later, choice-driven interactions carry real emotional weight.”

The art lead nodded, her tone noticeably softer than usual.

“I agree.”

“Especially since this one is a GL. Most of the audience will be women—this kind of slow-burn, everyday participation really fits.”

The manager flipped through his notebook, summarizing as he went.

“So we can think of this as— a model of co-creating emotional memory with the audience?”

“Exactly.”

The screenwriter nodded, his voice firm.

“Rather than calling it voting, it’s about letting the audience take part in the characters’ lives.”

A file dropped into the group chat.
Phone screens lit up one after another, the soft sounds of scrolling fingers overlapping.

“This is the overall script structure. The first fourteen episodes focus on laying the groundwork—the character relationships are already mostly in place.”

“Starting with episode fifteen, I’ll formally embed the first wave of interaction.”

After a brief silence, the art lead set her phone down and folded her hands together.

“I… I don’t even know what to say,” she murmured.
“How can it be this broken—and still this beautiful…”

The manager let out a soft laugh, as if he’d expected exactly this reaction.

“I can already picture the boss binge-watching this.”

The director didn’t speak.
He only looked over at the screenwriter with an expression of pure, unfiltered admiration.

“This script is incredibly delicate,” he said at last. “You’ve done a remarkable job.”

The screenwriter simply smiled, as though none of this came as a surprise.

The director continued, his voice calm but threaded with quiet anticipation.

“The pacing works. The content doesn’t disrupt the original structure at all. We can move straight into filming.”

The manager closed his notebook, brisk and decisive.

“Then I’ll contact the cast. We resume shooting tomorrow.”

The director nodded. “Much appreciated.”

Just as everyone was getting ready to wrap up the meeting, the art lead suddenly spoke.

“So—which platforms are we running the interaction on? And how are the votes counted?”

“Penana, CxC, and Vocus. All three,” the manager replied.
“We’ll aggregate the totals across platforms and go with the option that scores highest.”

“Hah—sounds exhausting,” the director said with a soft laugh.
“But suddenly, I’m kind of excited to see what the audience chooses.”

“Starting tomorrow,” he added,
“we’re heading into a hard fight.”

No one responded out loud.
But in every pair of eyes, a familiar spark flared—
the look of people ready to step back into that story once more.