Chapter Text
The café was quiet—too quiet. It was the kind of stillness that made every scrape of a chair, every clink of a spoon, feel painfully sharp, echoing off the walls like tiny alarms. The air was heavy with the faint scent of coffee grounds and sugar syrup, but beneath it lingered an uneasy hush, as though the world outside had paused and the city itself was holding its breath.
Jisung moved slowly among the tables, wiping down surfaces with meticulous care, ears straining for any hint of movement beyond the locked doors. Shadows pooled in the corners, twisted shapes of chairs and stools in the dim lighting, and he flinched at each one, his pulse quickening with every imagined threat.
"Han Jisung?"
The voice cut through the silence like a knife.
He froze, wiping his hands on his apron, eyes darting to the source. A tall man stood in the middle of the café, calm, composed, radiating authority. His dark eyes were sharp, assessing, and Jisung's stomach dropped.
"Yes?" he managed, voice low, flat, betraying none of the tremor curling in his chest.
"I found him, sir," the man murmured, a faint press of fingers against a hidden earpiece, his words clipped, professional.
Jisung tilted his head in confusion. Found who?
Before he could speak, the café door slammed open. Another figure stormed in, aura cold and dangerous, eyes cutting straight through Jisung. The newcomer's gaze locked on the first man, fury radiating off him in sharp, dangerous lines.
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
The two men began exchanging rapid, heated words, voices low but charged, each syllable laced with unspoken threats. The tension snapped tight as a bowstring.
Metal gleamed suddenly under the dim café light. Guns.
Both men drew with terrifying ease, polished steel catching the faint glow as their hands remained steady, expressions unreadable.
Jisung's chest tightened. His throat went dry. He didn't wait. Panic propelled him forward—he slipped into the kitchen, shoving the swinging door open with shaking hands, and bolted for the back exit.
The alley outside was narrow, suffocating, lined with dumpsters and shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly. Jisung shoved the door closed behind him, chest heaving, only to stumble to a halt.
Someone was already there.
A tall figure leaned casually against the brick wall, a thin trail of smoke curling upward from the cigarette between his fingers. The glow of the burning tip flared with each slow inhale, briefly illuminating sharp features beneath his black hair. He didn't move. He didn't speak. But the air around him carried a weight so heavy it made Jisung's knees weak.
A dead end.
Behind him: two armed men. Ahead: this stranger cloaked in danger. His pulse roared in his ears. Panic clawed at his throat. He bowed quickly, stammering without thinking.
"I—I'm sorry, sir—"
The man's brow arched ever so slightly, faint amusement flickering in his eyes as he exhaled a long stream of smoke. He remained still, calm, unnervingly composed.
Jisung started pacing, tugging at his apron strings with trembling fingers, muttering under his breath. "Shit, shit... how am I supposed to close? What do I do—what do I do..."
Finally, the stranger's voice cut through the suffocating silence. Low. Controlled. Unshakably calm. "Having some trouble in there?"
Jisung froze, looking up. His eyes were wide, desperate. "There are men inside—with guns. They're after me. I-I think they want to kidnap me, but—" His words tumbled over themselves. "But I can't just leave. I need to lock up before I go home. If I don't—" He pressed a hand to his forehead, voice cracking. "God, I sound insane."
The stranger let out a soft sound—half chuckle, half exhale of smoke. Not mocking, not warm, just unreadable. His gaze lingered on Jisung, intense and weighing, as though he were silently deciding something important.
Jisung shifted, chest tightening. Who is he? Friend? Foe? Why isn't he moving?
Then, without warning, the man flicked the last bit of ash to the ground, crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, and pushed off the wall. His steps were deliberate, unhurried, turning toward the café door.
"Eh? W-wait!" Jisung yelped, stumbling forward.
The man glanced back, eyes catching the flickering street lamp. "It's dangerous to walk alone when people are hunting you," he said evenly. "Stay here. I'll handle this. Then I'll make sure you get home."
And with that, he slipped inside, leaving Jisung alone with nothing but his racing pulse, the faint scent of smoke in the alley, and a thousand unanswered questions.
Minutes stretched endlessly. Jisung hugged himself, rocking slightly as he imagined every possible scenario inside the café—what if the man lied? What if he was working with them? What if he never came back? Every creak of the floor, every muffled thud, every whisper of movement made his stomach lurch.
Finally, the café door opened again. The man stepped out, calm, composed, not a wrinkle on his clothes, not a trace of blood. His expression hadn't changed.
Jisung's voice cracked. "W-what did you do?"
"Don't worry about it." His tone was clipped, decisive. "Close your shop. Then tell me where you live."
Suspicion warred with relief. "W-why should I trust you? You could be lying... you could be one of them—"
The stranger smirked faintly and turned away. "Then stay here. Let them find you."
Panic surged. Jisung's hand shot out, clutching the stranger's wrist. "N-no—wait! I-I'll come!"
Back at the café, Jisung's hands shook as he locked the doors. The stranger followed silently, eyes scanning every shadow, the air around him tense and quiet, protective in a way Jisung couldn't understand.
The walk home was suffocating. Every dark corner, every distant sound of the city set Jisung on edge. He followed blindly, trusting the man despite every alarm ringing in his head.
At last, they reached his apartment. "Thank you..." he whispered, voice trembling, before slipping inside.
The clock read 10:35.
Safety didn't wait.
From the bedroom, Tae-il emerged like a shadow, eyes cold and unblinking.
"You know you're late, don't you?"
Jisung froze, throat tight. He nodded.
"Good. Then tell me why."
"I-I had s-some problems at work..."
"You work in a café," Tae-il snapped, stepping closer. "What kind of problems could you possibly have?"
"I... uh—I—"
"I-u-uh I-I hm" Tae-il's lips curled in a cruel smile, mocking Jisung's stutter. "If you can't answer, strip and get on the bed." He said Indifferently.
"C-can you p-please let it go this time? O-only once, please..."
"Did I allow you to protest? I won't repeat myself. Strip and on the bed. Now."
Jisung lowered his gaze, trembling. He didn't argue. He couldn't.
Later that night, when the apartment was silent, Jisung slipped into the bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light revealed the bruises that marred his skin, purples and yellows blooming across collarbone, arms, ribs and thighs.
He leaned closer to the mirror, fingertips brushing over the darker spots. "At least he didn't leave that many this time..." he whispered.
The shower hissed, hot water stinging his skin as he pressed his forehead to the tile. It washed away sweat and grime, but never the ache inside him.
Stepping out, he pulled on an oversized white hoodie and matching sweatpants, wrapping himself in fabric as if it could shield him.
Back in bed, he lay still, the room dark and silent, city lights flickering through the blinds. Eyes wide open, he tried to force sleep, but the adrenaline, fear, and uncertainty made it impossible. The night stretched endlessly before him, full of questions with no answers, and a quiet dread that tomorrow would bring more.