Digital mayhem in South Korea: Idols. Internet chaos. A shaman who performs digital cleansing rituals. What could possibly go wrong?
Episode 1
Incheon Airport tries to swallow Ji Woo whole.
One minute she’s staggering out of customs, wonky from thirty hours of travel. The next, she’s on the floor, taken out by a step ladder.
Svalbard lingers on her skin, in her bones. The black sky, stars like scattered crystals, snow glowing blue under a streetlight. Euan. Brief, real, and too big to fit inside a holiday. The weight behind his eyes, the private storm she couldn’t touch.
Now she’s back in South Korea, with a tote bag cutting into her shoulder and a single ambition of home, shower, bed.
Sound surges behind her. It’s too high, too united, too wild to be normal airport noise.
She turns.
A wave of young women pours into arrivals as if pulled by a magnet. Phones and cameras with long lenses bob high above heads like periscopes. Wearing glittery headbands, waving banners, they carry step ladders.
The apocalypse is upon her.
Security appears, multiplying. Airport staff in high vis wave their arms as if they can physically negotiate with mass hysteria.
A teenager shrieks. “Oppa! Oppa!”
Oh no! An idol. Or a boy band.
The crowd swells. Someone shouts a name that splits into a thousand echoes.
Ji Woo steps back on instinct. She’s survived arctic winds that could slap your face sideways; she isn’t prepared to be flattened by rampaging passion.
Her shoulder hits a pillar. The tote slides. Her foot catches on something sharp. Of course, it’s a ladder.
She doesn’t fall gracefully. There’s no cinematic slow motion. Her body simply decides it will now be horizontal.
A hand yanks her up.
“Are you OK?” The voice is young, breathless.
The person looks like an intern caught in a hurricane; with a lanyard, headset, eyes wide with the terror of someone who has been told, repeatedly, not to let anything go wrong.
Ji Woo opens her mouth to say thanks.
That’s when the screams change direction.
“Over there!”
“With the intern!”
“It’s a girlfriend.”
“She’s hiding!”
A flash explodes in her eyes.
Oh, perfect.
More flashes. Phones pivot like sunflowers toward scandal. A chant starts. Words she can’t make out, but the meaning is clear. You are the story now.
The intern turns pale. “No, no, no. This is bad.”
A security guard barks. “Move her! Get her out!”
The intern grabs Ji Woo’s wrist with a grip that says I will lose my job and my head if you don’t cooperate and drags her towards a restricted area.
“This is a misunderstanding. I’m not…”
“Yes”. The intern isn’t listening.
A microphone appears near her face. A reporter shouts. “Is it true? Are you a girlfriend? Which one?”
Ji Woo says, automatically. “No.”
The crowd scream like she’s proposed.
Her denial, apparently, is confirmation.
They shoot into a narrow service corridor. Footsteps pound behind.
“Keep moving!” someone orders.
The passageway spills into a loading dock. Black vans wait with engines running.
Ji Woo stops. “What? No way.”
The intern doesn’t slow down. “You can go back and face that crowd, if that’s what you want.”
The roaring, the flashes, the ladders. “Um, I think not.”
She climbs into a van.
The door slides shut with an ominous thump. Inside, the air smells of hair spray and stress. A pile of garment bags slump in the corner like exhausted ghosts. A water bottle rolls under her shoe.
Ji Woo swallows. “What on earth just happened?”
“They think you’re with…him.” The intern exhales shakily.
“With who, exactly?”
He stares at her as if she’s asked what colour the sky is. “Any of the band. At this stage I don’t think it matters.”
A beat.
“I hope you’re not fussy.”
Episode 2
Ji Woo is wedged in the back of the van between a stylist and the intern who is glued to his phone.
A voice from the front asks, “Is she the new crisis manager?”
The intern doesn’t look up. “No,” he says. “She is the crisis.”
His phone buzzes again. And again. He exhales. “I can feel my future leaving my body.”
He thrusts the screen towards Ji Woo. “You’re trending!”
#TheAirportWoman
#She’sReal
#HisSecretGirlfriend
The intern’s phone rings. He flinches like it’s a taser. “This is way above my pay grade.”
He answers. “No, she’s not staff. Not media. Fans think she’s…his girlfriend!”
Pause.
The intern’s face pales.
“Yes,” he says softly. “That girlfriend.”
He pushes the phone into Ji Woo’s hand. “It’s the manager,” he whispers.
A man’s voice floods the speaker, brisk and desperate. “Can you date an idol for ten minutes?”
“No!”
“Great,” the manager says. “We’ll keep it short.”
Ji Woo glares at the device. “That is not how ‘no’ works.”
The intern takes the phone back fast, just in case she throws it out the window.
“They’ve already given you a cute couple name.” The stylist tilts her screen toward Ji Woo.
“I don’t even know the band, let alone the boyfriend,” Ji Woo says.
The stylist peels open a packet of face wipes with the calm of someone prepping for surgery. Without warning she dabs Ji Woo’s cheekbones.
Ji Woo jerks backwards.
“It’s for the cameras.”
“I’m a lawyer,” she glares. “I don’t do cameras.”
“Trust me,” the stylist says, wiping again. “You really don’t want a dirty face broadcast nationwide.”
When they reach the agency in Seoul, the cameras are waiting.
“Please,” the intern begs. “Just wave once. Smile. Like you’re friendly.”
Flashes pop. Someone screams. Security holds the line.
Ji Woo lifts a hand and smiles the way she would greet a judge; polite, controlled, and slightly disappointed.
The response is immediate.
“Cold fan service.”
“She thinks she’s better than us.”
The intern closes his eyes. “Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse,” he mutters.
Finally, mercifully, she is bundled into a taxi with her suitcase, her tote, and what remains of her dignity.
The moment the door shuts, her uncle’s name lights up on her phone.
Not now.
“Your face,” he declares. “It doesn’t belong to you anymore. I’ve prepared a charm. Also a livestream.”
“A what?”
“The people demand a ritual. I’ll come to you in the morning. You must be tired. I’ll let you sleep first.”
Her battery dips to red, as if the phone itself is trying to escape.
Stupefied, Ji Woo stumbles into her apartment and drops onto her bed. After several minutes, she forces herself to do one thing: clean her teeth.
She drags her suitcase open.
“No! Nope! Absolutely not!”
She holds up a pair of black boxer-briefs, the kind designed for stage comfort, with just the right amount of stretch and support.
Someone has given her the wrong suitcase.
Ji Woo stares at the underpants, then at the ceiling, then at her own life.
If the internet finds out I touched his underwear, I will need to emigrate.
Episode 3
“You’re being followed by a jealous spirit,” Sang Ho says cheerfully, like he’s commenting on sunny weather. “Give me your phone.”
Ji Woo has learnt that arguing with her uncle only makes him worse.
He lifts the screen to her face. The phone unlocks. He blinks, genuinely impressed. “Oh. That still works.”
With the ruthless focus of a man pruning a haunted bonsai, he opens her socials and starts clicking accounts.
“No.” Ji Woo lunges.
He holds the phone above his head like a trophy.
“One hundred and eight accounts must be unfollowed.”
“I don’t even subscribe to that many.”
“Yes, you do. Including three people who teach ‘morning routines’. None of whom even look awake.”
Ji Woo grabs a chair and climbs.
He steps back.
“Uncle, stop!”
“Done.” His voice bright with purpose. “Now for the cursed chat group.”
Ji Woo freezes. “Not my work team’s chat.”
He taps once and smiles with deep satisfaction.
She collapses onto the chair.
Sang Ho reaches into a plastic bag and produces a small metal bowl full of rice. He holds it out like a waiter with a special dish.
“An expired SIM card, please.”
“Why would I have one? No one keeps those.”
He frowns. “A loyalty card then. It knows your habits. Give it to me.”
“I’m not giving you…”
She doesn’t get a chance to finish. Sang Ho has already fished her wallet out of her bag. He extracts a loyalty card to her favourite café like it was a poisonous insect.
“Ah,” he murmurs. “The spirit has mapped your cravings.”
He pulls out a lighter.
Ji Woo watches in horror as he sets the offering on fire.
“Take that outside before you trigger the smoke alarm.”
Sang Ho looks offended. “This is a sacred ritual.”
“And this is a rental.”
She herds him toward the door.
At the threshold he turns. “You must return the stolen object.”
“What…”
The suitcase.
There is absolutely no way she’s going anywhere near the agency.
She stumbles back into the living room. The walls spin. Her life spins. Gone is the deep silence of an endless black sky in Svalbard.
The suitcase sits there, innocent and smug. Ji Woo glares as if it has committed tax fraud. The need to retrieve her own belongings, her own life, forces her to act. She makes the call.
Late that night in a deserted carpark she swaps the suitcases like a very tired spy with zero training.
She makes it home.
Her phone pings.
And pings.
And pings.
A video clip of Ji Woo in the carpark, swapping suitcases, captioned:
RETURNING HER BOYDRIEND’S UNDERWEAR
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Ji Woo groans. “It was just a suitcase. How do they know what was in it?”
She slides down the wall and slumps on the floor.
Euan’s face surfaces in her mind—beautiful, sad, unresolved. The memory makes this absurdity even weirder, more unreal.
Her phone rings. She doesn’t answer.
A message pops up from her friend.
You never told me you were dating an idol 😡😡😡😡😡😡
Then another:
Be careful. The fangirls know who you are. Your name! Your actual name is trending.
Ji Woo stares at the screen until the letters blur.
The doorbell starts.
Not one ring.
A chorus.
Repeated knocking.
Excited voices on the other side.
“She lives here.”
Episode 4
Ji Woo sighs with relief as she steps onto the crowded train.
She’s late for work. Security took forever to clear the last of the fans from outside her apartment. Usually, she would fret and glance uselessly at the time. Today, she lets herself sink into the blissful monotony of the commute; the bodies swaying in unison with eyes fixed anywhere but on each other.
She looks at the sea of blank faces and almost laughs, giddy with the idea that in this carriage, she’s just another woman bundled in a thick winter coat. Nobody knows she’s stuck inside a crazy internet storm.
The illusion lasts until she enters the building.
It starts with the receptionist.
“Are you really…”
Ji Woo holds up her hand and keeps walking.
In the large open office, heads rise from monitors glowing with contracts and case notes. Associates dressed in navy or charcoal, the corporate version of camouflage, turn and stare. Conversations snag. Whispers float through the overheated air.
“Ah…Mr. Park wants to see you,” someone says behind her, too casually.
Ji Woo walks along the wide corridor to the partners’ office and knocks once.
Mr. Park offers no greeting, makes no inquiry about her trip.
“Keep this dating, this idol stuff away from the firm.” He doesn’t look up from the file he’s reading. “No reputational damage.”
“I’m not…”
“That’s what everyone says.” He waves his hand in dismissal. “Close the door.”
At her desk Ji Woo tries to focus on work. Her phone is stored deep within her bag, like a dangerous object, out of sight and out of reach.
For six minutes it almost works.
Then the muttering starts. Low at first, before gaining momentum. A pause in conversation here, a stare held too long there. Keyboards stop mid-clatter.
Ji Woo glances around and sees a chat box flashing on a colleague’s screen.
The woman looks at Ji Woo with awe, as though she’s spotted a celebrity at the dentist.
Ji Woo surrenders and walks over.
“What is it?”
The colleague clicks on a link. Soft music plays and words scroll across the monitor in pastel colours.
Ji Woo steps backwards. Her shoe catches on the wheels of an empty chair, sending it spinning to crash into a filing cabinet.
A poem unfolds, line by line, containing a love confession and a marriage proposal.
From the idol.
To Ji Woo.
There isn’t a groan loud enough in any language.
Ji Woo stumbles back to her desk, yanks out her phone and watches in horror as it lights up like a slot machine.
Messages. Mentions. DMs. People she hasn’t spoken to since school suddenly interested in her happiness.
Then her mother.
How sweet. He seems like a nice boy. Bring him to dinner.
Enough.
Ji Woo opens the comments section under the video, which of course is trending. She types with the cold precision of a legal submission.
I’M NOT DATING HIM. THERE IS NO EVIDENCE OF SUCH AN OCCURRENCE. I DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS LEGAL NAME. THEREFORE, IT IS SIMPLY NOT POSSIBLE.
She presses send.
The intern phones.
“Let me know when you finish work.” His voice is strained. “I’ve organised a security detail for your commute home.”
“But, who…”
“Please don’t comment anymore.” He hangs up.
The internet, naturally, goes ballistic.
Memes bloom in real time:
LAWYER DENIES DATING RUMOUR. ALLEGEDLY DOESN’T KNOW HIS LEGAL NAME
LAWYER DENIAL 101: STAGE NAMES ONLY
The day ends. Ji Woo isn’t sure how she made it through. Her brain feels like it’s been scrubbed with steel wool.
Home at last.
She knows she shouldn’t, but she just can’t not look.
Then she wishes she hadn’t.
A new clip is everywhere. Her face, her voice, her exact posture, smiles sweetly into a camera.
“I accept,” the fake Ji Woo says.
The subtitles helpfully add:
SHE SAID YES
Episode 5
“Sabotage,” says the agency manager, as though he’s reading a shopping list. “Rival band.”
“What?” Ji Woo’s eyes widen but don’t quite focus, as if the world has moved half a second ahead.
“They treat fandom warfare like customer support,” the intern says. “Their Concept Team is morally unwell.”
“But what do they gain?” Ji Woo points at the tablet. The deepfake is sickeningly real.
“Cheap. Nasty. Effective,” the intern says.
“The band’s just returned from a high-octane world tour.” A quiet voice drifts from the corner. “And a new album is being released.”
Ji Woo turns. The use of full sentences captures her attention.
“What the competition wants.” The aide raises three fingers. “Trigger infighting amongst the boys.” One finger folds.
“Tarnish the band’s image.” Second finger goes down.
“Push the band’s music into the void, so their own comeback climbs the charts.” She taps this finger before tucking it neatly besides the others.
“We’ve posted a denial,” the intern says, already refreshing. “Let’s see…”
“It’s having the opposite effect,” the aide says. “AGENCY HIDING HER = CONFIRMATION is trending.”
“You’re global.” The intern is hovering between giggling and sobbing.
“Unfortunately.” The aide’s voice is soft and unalarming. “The deepfake has spread internationally. Subtitles are expounding the situation.”
A text arrives from Uncle Sang Ho: Only a ritual can break a false face
“Livestream,” the manager says. “Humanise her.”
“No!”
Ji Woo would rather cross-examine a volcano.
Resistance is futile. She’s marched into another room. The intern issues orders to the stylists.
“Sweet cardigan. Hair clips. Soft makeup.”
“No, I’m not…”
He gently, but firmly, pushes her into a chair. “You need to look non-threatening.”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Exactly.” He grins. “We’re dressing you as a children’s librarian. And we’ll call you ‘Noona’. It calms them.”
“Hi. I’m Ji Woo,” she says into the camera, smiling politely and waving awkwardly. “The real one. Not the deepfake.”
Comments race up the screen.
“I’m a lawyer, and I’m not dating an idol. Or anyone. No. No. That doesn’t mean I’m looking for a boyfriend.” She pauses, alarmed by the rush of hearts and kisses.
“I realise this is exciting for the internet. And my mother.”
“Please stop looking for me, stop coming to my building. And please…be kind to people who are just trying to get home from the airport.” She offers a small bow. “Thank you.”
OMG CONGRATS!! 🥹💍 Airport Lady is really living in a drama
SHE SAID YES??? 😭😭 Congratulations Unnie!! Please be happy
ENGAGED??!! I’M SCREAMING. 💕💕Protect her at all costs
OK but this is SO romantic❤️🩹
“Look at the views,” croons the intern. “Awesome.”
Ji Woo buries her head in her hands. I met a real man under a black sky. Now I’m fighting a fake me under fluorescent lights.
The intern pats her shoulder. “We’ll think of something else.”
“It’s too late,” the aide says. “It’s beyond…”
“What’s happened now?” Ji Woo is afraid to ask.
“The band’s chatbot.” The aide has again lost the ability to form full sentences. “Flirting.”
“What chatbot?”
“Later.” The intern’s thumbs are scrolling fast. He shows her the feed.
HELLO BEAUTIFUL. I’VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU
IF YOU WERE HERE, I’D MAKE YOU RAMYEON
Five more, identical in tone, flung at random accounts like confetti—four fangirls, a middle-aged accountant, someone called DadOfTwo, and a university dean.
The manager storms in. “Shut it down. Now. It’s broadcasting. To everyone.”
“Everyone everyone?” asks the intern.
“Including the First Lady. She’s got MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU.”
The room fills with buzzing and ringing.
The manager swears. The aide shakes her head. The intern mutters about bad karma from past lives.
“What now?” Ji Woo’s voice pitches high.
Silence.
All three look at her like she’s holding a lit match to a bonfire stacked with dry kindling.
Episode 6
“Damage control,” the manager says.
Like an echo, the intern and the aide repeat the chant.
“What’s going on?” Ji Woo asks again.
“New narrative,” says the manager.
“Sorry,” the aide murmurs, glancing away.
“We’ll lean into the assumption.” The intern is already texting.
Ji Woo’s stare sharpens. “What assumption?”
“The one where you’re…extremely involved,” the aide says.
“Just for today,” the intern adds. “You’ll be our buffer.”
“Stop.” Ji Woo’s voice bounces around the room. “Remember I’m a lawyer.”
All three flinch.
“Now,” she says, deadly calm. “Start at the beginning.”
“The beginning?” The intern blinks. “But you were there. At the airport.”
“You know what I mean. What exactly is this chatbot? And why are you throwing me under a bus?”
The intern winces. “I wouldn’t say ‘bus’. And throwing feels…emotional.”
Ji Woo just glares.
“The band’s AI Boyfriend,” the aide answers. “The chatbot started as an Automated Apology Generator.”
“And that is?”
“Whenever a member did something that could be perceived negatively.” The aide rubs her thumbs. “The bot would issue an apology. Then fans started engaging, so it…evolved.”
Ji Woo’s mouth hangs half-open, as if she’s misplaced language.
“Do you mean fans thought they were chatting with the idols? With real people? Without disclosure?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” the intern mutters. “Great for engagement.”
Ji Woo straightens, studies each in turn. The aide looks away. The intern shuffles. The manager shrugs.
“The assumption,” says Ji Woo. “Is still not defined.”
The aide swallows. “Because you’re an AI lawyer, someone has posted that you’re the mastermind behind the chatbot.”
“And now the bot’s gone feral,” the intern adds.
For one dangerous second, Ji Woo longs for the simplicity of Svalbard and the quiet of a dark sky.
Ji Woo inhales, exhales. Three times. Then she takes the room back.
She points to the aide.
“Contact IT. Enact a four-step process.
One: Suspend the chatbot. Put up a holding message. ‘Service temporarily unavailable’.
Two: Create patch notes. ‘Unintended auto-reply behaviour. Safeguards implemented’.
Three: Gather evidence. Pull timestamps, upload patterns, metadata, first-post accounts.
Four: Find the actual fault. No vibes. Just facts.”
She turns to the intern. “Media release. Immediate. Use the words ‘suspected sabotage’.”
“Can we call it a cute glitch?” he asks.
“It flirted with the First Lady, “Ji Woo says. “It’s not cute.”
She looks at the manager. “I’ll draft a cease-and-desist and a defamation notice. And you’ll add me to your website as Legal Advisor, Digital Safety.”
The intern nods. “We can go one better. You can appear at a public event with the band. Professional boundary. Close the loop.”
“Perfect.” The manager’s face brightens. “Tomorrow.”
Ji Woo turns to the aide for translation.
“The band is performing at a live broadcast tomorrow.”
“No!”
“You’ll meet the idol. And the band.” The manager winks. “Every young woman’s dream.”
Episode 7
Ji Woo stands at the stage entrance like a misfiled document.
“Make eye contact with the audience.” The intern adjusts her headset mic. “Could you…” His voice drops lower. “Do a little romance? Thirty seconds. A smile in his direction. A micro-heart.”
“I don’t even know which one he is,” Ji Woo says. “Besides, that’s acting under false pretences.”
“For someone who doesn’t want to perform, you’re very dramatic.”
“I’m a lawyer. I don’t do boy bands. How old are they anyway?”
His headset crackles. “Okay, you’re on.”
Ji Woo doesn’t move. The intern nudges her.
The light hits first, hot and white. Objects dissolve. The audience is a dark, moving mass. Noise surrounds her, pressing against her ribs, vibrating in her teeth. She becomes hyperaware of her hands and can’t decide what to do with them.
The crowd screams.
“Airport lady!”
“We love you.”
The host introduces her with toothpaste-level brightness. “Our special guest. Legal Advisor on Digital Safety, Attorney Chung Ji Woo.”
Ji Woo gives a small, polite wave. The roar increases.
Six idols pivot toward her, all perfect posture and trained charm. They bow, proffer the heart-hand gesture that could double as a legal disclaimer.
Ji Woo bows back, exactly to the depth she would to a junior colleague.
A camera zooms. On the gigantic screen, her face appears ten metres tall, wearing the expression of, I wish to file an appeal against reality.
The host beams. “Attorney Ji Woo will clarify the recent misunderstandings and the romantic…”
The crowd drowns out the rest.
One idol, handsome and glossy, steps towards her, ready to say something charming.
Is he my alleged fiancé?
She beats him to it. “Hello, I’m Ji Woo.” A court transcriber’s speech has more nuance.
Cheers punch the air. She lifts a hand for quiet. Amazingly, it works.
“There are legal matters which I’m unable to disclose. What I can say is this. The chatbot has been silenced. The saboteurs have been warned. Notices have been filed. Thank you.”
A chant rises. “THE DATING! THE ENGAGEMENT!”
“This is not a love story,” Ji Woo says. “It’s a security incident.”
The idol moves closer, eyebrows raised in a silent Really? He gives a conspiratorial half-smirk, like they share a joke just between themselves.
The venue detonates.
He bites back a grin, eyes narrowing with playful delight; then looks at Ji Woo with exaggerated innocence.
Ji Woo’s face stays neutral. One tiny breath escapes through her nose, almost a laugh, before she locks it down. She refuses to be flirted into a storyline.
“That concludes my statement,” she says. “And the end of…well. Everything.”
She bows. The band bows back, a living screensaver; synchronised and beautiful.
“We are honoured.” The idol’s voice is warm with a soft rasp that makes casual words sound intentional.
Backstage, Ji Woo digs in her pocket and pulls out a lanyard. “Here. This is yours.” She hands it to the intern. “From the airport.” She rubs her palms as if to dust off the last of the chaos.
She walks down a corridor that smells of perfume and decisions made too fast.
Her phone buzzes. She glances once.
#AirportLadyPleaseReturn
#LegalNameQueenWeMissYouAlready
#MarryTheLawyer
She turns her phone off.
Outside, the cold is instant and absolute. Her breath blows white. Snow falls in a fine, steady drift, turning the pavement glossy under the streetlights.
Uncle Sang Ho is waiting under the awning. He thrusts a small charm at her. “You may be free of the devil of misinformation, but you need shielding from the Wi-Fi spirits.”
“No thanks,” Ji Woo says. “I’m keeping today strictly non-mystical.”
“Have this,” Uncle says to a tourist dragging a suitcase through the snow, the wheels bumping and juddering. “For safe travel across the sky road.”
The woman takes the token. When her eyes meet Ji Woo’s, something eases, as the unspoken understanding settles between them that not all absurdities need to be carried alone.