The Twelfth

One Summer

The vacation house sat nestled in the mountains outside Seoul, isolated enough for privacy, spacious enough for twelve women and one overwhelmed man. You’d rented it for the long weekend, knowing this conversation would take time.

LOOSSEMBLE was over.

The company had tried—God knows they’d tried—but creative differences, financial struggles, and an industry that didn’t care about second chances had killed it. The contracts were expiring in two weeks. No renewal. No future.

The five members—Hyunjin, Yeojin, Vivi, Gowon, Hyeju—had to decide what came next.

And you’d invited ARTMS too. Heejin, Haseul, Kim Lip, Jinsoul, Choerry. Plus Chuu and Yves, who’d both cleared their schedules specifically for this weekend. Because after everything these twelve women had been through together—the lawsuits, the injunctions, the freedom they’d fought for—they were family. Didn’t matter which company they worked for, which group they were in, whose solo career had taken off.

All twelve. Together one more time.

You arrived early Friday evening, the sun just starting to set behind the mountains. The house was beautiful—open floor plan with a massive living area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, multiple bedrooms branching off a central hallway. A large deck wrapped around the back, offering views of endless green peaks fading to blue in the distance.

You set down your bag and just stood there for a moment, taking it in.

Two and a half years since that celebration in your old apartment. Since Gowon, Hyeju, and Yeojin had shown up with their Nintendo Switch party games and changed everything.

You walked through the house, opening windows to let the mountain air in. The silence felt heavy.

The last time you’d been in a room big enough for all of them was the old Blockberry building. Not the offices—the practice room on the third floor, the one with the cracked mirror they’d never gotten around to replacing. You’d gone there once to drop off paperwork, late, past midnight. Found all twelve of them still there. Not practicing. Just existing in the same space—Chuu asleep on Yves’s shoulder against the wall, Haseul cross-legged on the floor sorting through a binder of schedules, Heejin and Hyunjin arguing about choreography while Jinsoul mediated from a folding chair. Kim Lip had her headphones in, eyes closed, mouthing lyrics to something only she could hear. Yeojin was showing Choerry something on her phone, both of them trying not to laugh loud enough to wake Chuu. Gowon sat in the corner with her knees drawn up, watching all of it with an expression you couldn’t read.

Hyeju had been the one to notice you in the doorway. She’d looked up from her phone, met your eyes, and gone back to whatever she was doing without a word. But she’d shifted over slightly. Made space.

The fluorescent lights hummed. Someone’s phone played a ballad on low volume—you never found out whose. The practice room smelled like sweat and cheap floor cleaner and the tangerines Vivi was peeling on a paper towel, their citrus cutting through everything else.

Vivi was the one who’d actually spoken. “You should sit down,” she’d said, not looking up from her work. “You look tired.”

You’d sat. She’d handed you a tangerine segment without being asked. You’d eaten it, and then another, and stayed until 2 AM—doing nothing, saying almost nothing, just breathing the same air as twelve women who didn’t need you there but didn’t mind that you were. Gowon had fallen asleep against the mirror at some point, her reflection curled behind her like a second self. Nobody woke her. Haseul had draped a jacket over her shoulders without pausing her schedule review.

That was the room you were trying to rebuild this weekend. You just didn’t know if the architecture still held.

Four months since you’d seen any of them properly.

That was the irony, wasn’t it? You’d built your agency to support them, to give them the freedom the old company never had. And you’d succeeded—spectacularly. ARTMS had thrived under your management. Chuu’s solo career had exploded. Yves had established herself as a legitimate solo artist. The remaining LOOSSEMBLE members had found their footing, even as their company crumbled around them.

But success had a cost. You’d hired a team, then a bigger team. Taken on more clients. Built something that didn’t need you present every day to function. Six months ago, you’d finally stepped back from day-to-day operations, appointed a COO, delegated the things that used to consume you. Your CFO handled the finances now. Your operations team ran the day-to-day. You’d built an empire and then handed over the keys so you could finally breathe.

But breathing had turned into distance. And distance had turned into absence.

You’d told yourself it was sustainable. That the penthouse with its extra bedrooms was proof you hadn’t forgotten them. That Vivi living there—her own room now, not just the guest suite—was proof the arrangement still worked.

But Vivi had her own place again as of three months ago. Haseul still kept her apartment. The visits had become less frequent. The group chat was still active, but you lurked more than you participated.

You’d been building wealth. They’d been living their lives. And somewhere in between, you’d lost something.

Your phone buzzed.

Vivi

I’m close. 15 min maybe.

Do you need anything from the store?

You started to type “no” and then stopped. She’d always done this. Not the grand gestures—the quiet, practical ones. Showing up with exactly what was needed before you knew you needed it.

You

Just you.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Vivi

That was cheesy.

I’ll bring tangerines.

She arrived twenty minutes later, alone, carrying two canvas bags and wearing an oversized linen shirt you were pretty sure used to be yours. She set the bags on the kitchen counter without ceremony and started unpacking—tangerines, sparkling water, the specific brand of gochujang Haseul preferred for her cooking.

“You stocked the wrong soy sauce,” she said, checking the fridge.

“There’s a wrong soy sauce?”

“For Haseul’s galbi-jjim, yes.” She held up the bottle she’d brought. “This one.”

You leaned against the counter and watched her move through the kitchen. She opened cabinets like she knew where everything was, even though she’d never been in this house before. That was Vivi—she oriented to spaces the way water found its level. Quietly, inevitably.

“How are you?” you asked.

She paused, a bag of rice in her hands. Considered the question the way she considered everything—carefully, without rushing to fill silence.

“I’m good. My apartment is good. Work is steady.” She put the rice away. “I don’t regret moving out.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“You were going to.” She turned to face you, leaning against the opposite counter. The kitchen suddenly felt very small. “Moving out wasn’t about you. It was about me needing to know I could.”

“And?”

“And I could.” A pause. “But the penthouse was quiet last time I visited. Not just empty. Quiet. Like no one had cooked there in weeks.”

You didn’t have a response to that. She wasn’t wrong.

“The fridge was full this time,” she said. “When I checked just now. So either you’ve started eating again, or you stocked it for this weekend.”

“Does it matter?”