Chapter Text
“How do you like the present?”
Her father’s voice on the line sounded as though he’d been drinking—or was faking enthusiasm. Over the phone, there was no telling the difference; both came out with the same loose, slightly sluggish drawl.
“I’m seventeen now, Dad. I grew out of things like that ages ago.”
She was leaning over the kitchen counter, one hand holding the phone to her ear while the other—stretched far in front of her—gently nudged the star projector until the mechanism clicked back into place. Tiny constellations flared across the ceiling, sliding over the plaster in slow, artificial arcs. Blue pinpricks of light wandered over the walls, turning the cramped kitchen into something almost boundless. She watched them, transfixed. After a day as rotten as this one, it was this cheap little illusion that finally brought her a sliver of relief.
Pathetic, really — how much she needed it.
“Ji-woo, you’ll always be Daddy’s little girl.”
He laughed too loudly, then immediately coughed. That settled it—he’d been drinking. More than a glass or two, by the sound of it.
“When are you coming back?”
She tried to make the question sound casual, light—like she was asking about the weather, not quietly begging him to be there on her birthday. Lame. She wasn’t a child anymore.
“Just a little patience. Things will settle down soon, I’ll come home, and then… we’ll do something together. Maybe take a trip?”
The projector began to slow; with a small turn of her fingers, she wound it back up. The stars traced their orbits again, a fake night gliding across the ceiling.
“Sure. Right.”
She poured every drop of indifference she had into those words—though indifference was the last thing she actually felt.
“Cheer up, Ji-woo. Eat something nice. Aren’t you going out with your friends tonight?”
His cheerfulness was impenetrable. As if nothing—absolutely nothing—could dent it. She realized there was no point fighting it. She was old enough now to carry the weight of her own disappointments.
“Yeah, I’ve got plans. The movies. I’m going to the movies.”
He whistled so loudly she pulled the phone away. If he knew the truth, he’d start comforting her—and pity was worse than being alone.
“In that case, I’ll let you go. Take care of yourself.”
“You too. Bye.”
“Have fun. And again—happy birthday.”
The silence after the call pressed harder than his voice ever did.
Ji-woo let out a long breath and tapped her forehead against the counter. Once. Twice. A third time. The stars kept spinning overhead, indifferent.
For a fleeting second, she considered actually going to the movies—just to soften the lie she’d fed her father. But her whole body felt heavier than usual; even the thought of getting up was too much. The real problem was that she didn’t know how to do things for herself. Most days she simply lay there, turning the volume up until every thought flattened out.
“It’s all because of those idiots on the police force,” she muttered to the drifting stars.
They were the reason kids at school had slapped the label gangster’s daughter on her. But was she, really? Was her father actually mixed up in anything illegal?
The man never talked about his work. Lately he barely existed in the apartment at all—appearing fleetingly, once every few weeks. Sometimes he came home looking like some meeting had ended badly, but every bruise, every split in the skin vanished behind a grin stretched so wide the darkest crevices between his nicotine-stained teeth glistened under the light.
“Grown-up matters. Nothing you need to worry about. Focus on your studies,” he’d say whenever a new crack opened across his bushy brow.
Focusing on anything was nearly impossible when half the school seemed to hate you. Teachers included.
Warm palms pressed against her face as today replayed in sharp flashes: the ID badge arcing through the air toward the principal, the slammed door, the stomp down the hallway somewhere between second and third period. They’d definitely tried calling him. He would have known—if he ever picked up his phone. At least his inconsistency was consistent.
The doorbell sliced through the fog in her mind.
Her head jerked up, half convinced the sound had been imagined.
The clock above the table read a little past ten. An odd hour: too late for a visit, too late for a chat, even too late for someone to have mixed up the floors. Especially here. If her father were home, the key would’ve met the lock without hesitation—no matter how drunk he was. The doorbell wasn’t part of his repertoire.
A handful of neat, dry possibilities spun through Ji-woo’s mind: wrong apartment. Neighbors. Police. None of them sat right.
The bell rang again—shorter, firmer.
Down the hallway she went, the projected stars drifting across the walls behind her as if trying to keep up or whisper a warning.
The peephole warped the figure: a compressed torso, a head too large for the frame, all encased in a black, glossy helmet. One of those delivery types she sometimes passed on garbage runs. Except no bag hung from his shoulders.
The stranger waited. Motionless. Nothing more.
A third ring confirmed he had no intention of leaving.
The chain slid aside with a quiet rattle. Fingers checked the metal—still firm. The door opened only as wide as her hand.
Cold, damp air from the stairwell rushed in, thick with the smell of wet concrete and carrying the raw scent of the November rain that had pounded the city all morning.
One look at the visitor ruled out neighbors, cops, or delivery drivers. The leather jacket belonged to another world entirely—thick, expensive, out of place in a building like this. One hand remained shoved deep inside a pocket, an idle gesture that suggested boredom rather than menace. Her own startled reflection curved across the polished helmet.
He didn’t speak. Simply stood there, as though whatever reason had brought him had momentarily slipped his mind.
“Yes?” The word snapped out before she could stop it.
“I’m here for Dong-hoon.”
The visor flattened the voice into something muffled and distant.
Her mouth twisted. Perfect. Exactly what the night needed: some shady type showing up on her birthday like he was collecting a parcel.
“Dad’s not here,” came the growl.
The stranger went still. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted a hand and removed the helmet. Her guess had been right—roughly her father’s age, though the first glance had suggested someone younger. Fingers raked through his hair in a practiced, careless sweep. Something about the neat cut, the smooth jaw, clashed with the heavy gear. Definitely not a biker. Not someone who should’ve been anywhere near her father’s orbit.
Yet the look he leveled at her—heavy, deliberate—sent her gaze skittering to the chain again. A quick check. Still secure.
He shifted his weight, eyes sliding toward the railing and the rain-soaked city beyond. A low, weary sigh drifted out, as though exhaustion had finally caught up to him.
“I can see that.” His voice echoed up the stairwell.
A fractional tilt of the head, a brief study of the chain between them.
“Dong-hoon was supposed to be home by ten,” he went on, tone maddeningly polite. “He knew I was coming.”
Her heart kicked hard, abrupt and sharp.
“He set a meeting… here? Today?”
The question tumbled out too fast, too bright. That foolish, soft little hope—the hope her father had actually planned something for her—flared before she could smother it.
The man tilted his head, taking in her reaction—far too carefully.
“Yes. I’m supposed to pick something up from him.” The words sounded like he was speaking to himself more than to her. “Well… I’ll wait downstairs. I’ll catch him in the parking lot.”
The brief spark of excitement died on the spot. What followed was colder: fear that a meeting downstairs meant no meeting up here at all. He might come home, see darkness behind the windows, assume Ji-woo really had gone out—just like she’d claimed—and slip away again.
“Wait.”
She pulled the door; the chain caught with a low, warning creak. The stranger stepped back half a pace.
“You work with him?” The question escaped before she could shut the door and pretend none of this existed.
His movement halted mid-step. Everything about him seemed to slow. First the smile—measured, deliberate. Then his attention drifted to the helmet in his hands as though its reflection carried an answer.
“More than ten years. Let’s say I’m his supervisor. He’s never mentioned me?”
Her father never mentioned anything, but admitting that felt like falling into a trap.
A single, curt nod from him.
“Didn’t think I was intruding. I’ll go.”
Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it wasn’t. But over his shoulder, only one thing mattered: a pair of taillights drifting out of the lot.
“You could… wait inside.” The words came dry, stripped of hesitation. Her fingers moved toward the chain.
His gaze followed every inch of her hand’s path, as though calculating possibilities behind the door.
“It’s cold,” she added, not bothering with warmth. “He’ll be here soon.”
The door widened; pale stairwell light spilled across the floor. He glanced inside with lazy indifference.
Ji-woo stepped back, making space. Only then did he move — entering without breaking eye contact, as if waiting to see if she’d change her mind.
What’s the worst that could happen? the thought lighting up in her mind, bright and stupid. If he tries anything, I’ll scream the whole building down.
A soft click sealed the moment.
Instantly, the apartment she knew as well as the lines on her palm felt altered. Light caught the room differently—harsher, revealing every stain, every crooked corner, every flaw as if the bulb had changed while she wasn’t looking.
Dust on the baseboards. A stain on the rug. The lamp angled wrong for two years. Her idea of tidy suddenly looked like a collection of failures.
The hoodie on the couch went into her hands; she clenched it until her fingers numbed. No idea where to put it or why she even cared—only that she didn’t want this man surveying her life like it was something pitiful.
Silence held him in place. One hand in a pocket, planted like a post. His head turned slowly as he took in the walls, the furniture, the curtains, the two pairs of shoes by the door—every detail absorbed with sharp, patient focus.
When his attention landed on the photographs along the sideboard, tension raced up her neck. He studied each frame. The first photo stopped him: Ji-woo in a pink hat, her parents behind her. Their last moment together.
“Alone?” he asked.
Calm tone. Neutral delivery. Her body reacted before she could think — a sharp, instinctive jolt. Not fear—just exhaustion. Exhaustion with people, questions, and being held accountable for choices that had never been hers.
“I live with my dad. My mom died when I was little.” A bitter whisper inside her added: you’re still little.
His face didn’t flicker. Every unnecessary emotion seemed trimmed away. His gaze drifted down the hallway, noting each imperfection in turn: the uneven light, the scuffed floor, the half-open door to her room where stale dusk clung stubbornly to the corners.
“I see,” he said, offering nothing of what he truly thought.
She slipped sideways, peeling herself away from that strange stalemate, and headed into the kitchen. The room held a thin suggestion of normalcy, even if it smelled faintly of canned meat.
Footsteps followed—steady, unhurried, keeping a respectful distance.
Then a halt. His attention settled on the burnt-out candle stuck in the middle of her refrigerated instant meal.
Heat flooded her cheeks. That sad little plate felt like her entire life exposed—every bit of her half-heartedness distilled into a single, pathetic tableau.
Nothing happened for a moment. Only him. Only her held breath.
Finally, he turned toward her, expectant, almost as though waiting for her to decide what kind of version of herself she wanted to present.
She stepped forward without fully realizing it and swept the candle, the food, the wrappers—everything that threatened to speak for her—into her hands. They trembled as she dumped it all into the trash. His gaze followed the movement, sharp enough to feel solid.
“Please sit,” she muttered, politeness nowhere in sight.
He obeyed.
“Something to drink?” The offer slipped out, though she wasn’t sure she had anything worth serving.
Fingertips traced the rim of a vase filled with half-heartedly trimmed flowers—her father’s gift, arranged with more haste than care. A small nudge from his hand aligned the vase with the exact center of the table.
“Tea is fine.”
She turned to the cupboards, hunting for a mug she wouldn’t be embarrassed to hand him. Guests were foreign territory; the whole situation felt unreal enough to make even simple tasks uncertain. The tea waited in a metal tin. She couldn’t remember when she’d bought it, so she sniffed it first, checking for staleness.
“How old are you?” he asked.
The kettle finished its soft hiss. Her hand trembled as water streamed into the mug. Warm steam touched her cheek; inside, she remained ice.
“The flowers, the candle… it’s your birthday,” he said lightly.
“Seventeen.”
When she set the mug in front of him, the clock struck 10:40 p.m. The seconds crawled.
“A courier brought the flowers,” she muttered. “And the candle… it was a joke. I don’t need things like that.”
He motioned toward the chair with his chin—a minimal gesture.
“Was the joke a good one?”
A grimace tugged at her mouth; her eyes avoided his. Nothing in her life counted as good. She sank into the seat across from him, fingers tightening around her own cup.
“Maybe I should message him,” she said. “Tell him you’re already here.”
The smile that came in response held no warmth—lazy, cynical. It rubbed her the wrong way instantly.
“No need. If he’s late, he has a reason.”
Her gaze slid back to the clock. It lingered there a heartbeat too long. He noticed.
“It’s late,” he murmured. “You’re in school. Second year?”
Her spine straightened at once, shoulders stiff, hands locked around the mug.
“Third. But I have tomorrow off.”
Brows lifted, assessing her with the same cool interest he’d shown the room.
“Off?”
Heat gathered beneath her fingertips as the ceramic burned against her skin.
“Some things got… complicated,” she said finally, “and I don’t want my dad to know. I don’t want to give him anything else to worry about.”
The mug drew his attention next—the only object in the kitchen he seemed willing to acknowledge. Steam curled upward; he inhaled it with a short pause. The first sip earned a fleeting grimace, gone almost before it appeared. Whatever passed across his face afterward was sharp, probing, uncomfortably assured.
“What kind of complications?”
The air thickened. She sat straighter, tension betraying her before any words could.
“Maybe I hit someone,” she said softly. “A few people. And I threw my badge at the principal.”
He reacted the way someone might register a coming storm—quietly, without surprise.
“What do seventeen-year-olds fight over these days?”
For a moment she held his gaze, as if she could squeeze something out of it—understanding, maybe.
“They say I’m a gangster’s daughter,” she said. Her voice trembled, though her stare didn’t. “I’ve had enough.”
He looked away—not dismissively, but with a slow deliberation, arranging thoughts like files before choosing one.
“You think you’d be more popular if he did something else?” he murmured. “Is that what you do here alone? Rewrite his life? A hero, a cop maybe? A hunter of men like him?”
The mockery was blatant. An adult who didn’t bother with softness.
“I don’t want to be popular,” she said. “I’d settle for him being home more often.”
He leaned back, expression flat as an unlit screen.
“He wasn’t working tonight. Staying away was his choice.”
A short, exhausted scoff slipped out.
“Bullshit.”
No reaction. Not a blink.
“If it makes you feel superior, be my guest.” Her shoulders rose in a slow, painful shrug. “Must be satisfying—putting a seventeen-year-old in her place.”
The silence that followed was brief.
“Watch your tone,” he said. Not a threat. Not advice. A door closing.
She snorted under her breath and turned toward the sink, ready to dump the tea she couldn't drink anyway. She hardly moved before his voice cut through the air:
“Sit.”
Barely above a whisper, yet strong enough to drain the strength from her knees.
She froze.
The anger pulsing under her ribs dimmed by degrees, leaving behind the familiar emptiness that followed any clash—verbal or otherwise.
The clock above the stove ticked louder than it should have.
22:58
22:59
23:00
A steady look met her.
“What’s your name?”
A short, bitter laugh escaped her.
“No need to pretend you care.”
“Your name,” he repeated—flat, drained of anything human.
Only a moment of hesitation, but it stretched thin, fragile as thread.
“Ji-woo.”
A single nod. Nothing more than acknowledgment.
„You can keep your mouth shut when you have to, right, Ji-woo?„
She didn’t look up from the mug. “Yes.”
He let the silence settle, as if weighing her reaction, then spoke again—lightly, almost idly:
“People who talk too much don’t last long around me.”
She only nodded this time, a small, automatic response.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he said, pushing the chair back.
He adjusted the cuff of his jacket with the precision of someone closing a formal meeting, not a kitchen-table conversation.
“Keep this between us and we’re fine. I’ll handle the school issue.”
Her eyes lifted, wary.
“Why would you do that?”
The smile he gave her was the same as before—thin, unpleasant, something practiced rather than felt.
“We’ll circle back to it.”
No script in her mind covered this moment. No rulebook told her what the offer meant.
He stepped away from the table and crossed to the door. His hand closed around the handle, then paused—just long enough to resemble someone recalling the last line of a note.
“In the future… letting strangers into your home is a bad idea.”
The door opened. Cold, wet air struck her face like a slap. The warmth of the kitchen suddenly felt childish, fragile.
“You have no idea how many meetings like this end badly.”
It eased shut, soft but certain—closing over a moment no one else would ever hear about.